"Convalescence": Tributaries Fall 2021/Spring 2022

Special Thanks

The Tributaries team wishes to first and foremost thank our faculty advisor, Professor Michael Theune for his constant help and the wisdom he has provided us during such a complicated time. We are also, as always, thankful for our ever dedicated Editorial Board. Finally, Tributaries would not exist without funding from the Financial Advisory Board and Student Senate.

About Tributaries

Tributaries, Illinois Wesleyan University’s creative arts journal, celebrates the strongest and most original work created by IWU students and was established in 2001. The organization also hosts student readings and guest writers for the campus community. Each semester, IWU students may submit up to five pieces of writing and/or artwork to iwutributaries@gmail.com. Quality, originality, and purpose are key factors when considering a piece for the book. We value sub missions from all disciplines across campus, and pride ourselves on consistently showcasing the creative works from students of all majors and minors. Funded by Student Senate, Tributaries is free to all members of the IWU community. For more information, please contact iwutributaries@gmail.com.

About the Cover

"Walking through the stars" was taken by Mishwa Bhavsar.

Disclaimer

All pieces are fictional. Any likeness to an actual person is purely coincidental. Pieces that use names of famous individuals do so as commentary on the idea of celebrity, not on the actual person. Some pieces may contain sensitive subjects, and readers are encouraged to flip through with discretion.

Colophon

Tributaries is published in a 5.5" by 8.5" booklet.

"Convalescence" Tributaries Fall 2021/Spring 2022

Illinois Wesleyan University’s Creative Arts Journal

Lead Editors

KATIE FATA EMILE OTTINGER

GABRIELA BARNAS RACHEL WILLIAMS

MARIA HARMON - COPY EDITOR

DR. MICHAEL THEUNE

Assistant Lead Editors Faculty Advisor Graphic Designers

HAYLEY EARL MADELINE ROEVER

Editorial Board

WILLIAM BROWN CASSANDRA JONES PAIGE MCLAUGHLIN STEVEN LEE NINA DEBONI BARBARA KUZNETSOVA FARAH BASSYOUNI GILLIAN THOMSON ANTHONY ROMANELLI LEAH ROSEN HALLIE LITTON BRY FERGUS MJ SORIA

Letter from the Editors

Hello from your 2021-22 editors!

We are so excited to bring you the Fall 2021/Spring 2022 issue of Tributaries, which this year, we've aptly themed "Convalescence." A period of convalesence is a period of recovery; a time spent getting stronger, the phase of life in which something becomes new again. After doing a digital issue, and putting together our massive 20202021 issue, "What's Next?," we were ready to return anew.

The most wonderful thing about what we've got going here is that it's perennial; every year, we come back and we start working again, planting a new garden of poems, essays, and art, cultivated and tended to by a new, dedicated group of gardeners every year. It's never the same kind of bloom, and often represents the environment which it was planted. But it is always taken care of, by its contributors, the editorial board, and those who pick it up around campus. "Convalescence" is the harvest.

As always, we are so grateful for the continued opportunity to publish the work of so many incredible creators on campus. Every year, we're somehow surprised by the absurd, awe-inspiring talent that finds its way into our inbox. Thank you for wanting to be a part of this.

We also could never forget to thank our devoted, marvelous advisor Mike Theune. Somehow the busiest person on campus finds time to answer our emails, lend us knowledge, and guide us again and again. This book would not be what it is without Mike holding us up.

Finally, the lead editors would like to thank Gabriela Barnas and Rachel Williams. Creating this wonderful thing is no small feat, and we couldn't begin to do it without your consistently quick replies and support. There are no words for how incredible you are.

And to anyone who has picked this up, ready to flip through the pages, "Convalescence" is yours now.

Your 2021-2022 Editors,

Katie Fata '22, Emile Ottinger '23, Gabriela Barnas '23, and Rachel Williams '23

Table of Contents

Fall 2021

BLONDE AND GREY I LOVE YOU TOO BE THAT THE HEMINGWAY INSIDE ME BLOODSUCK MY PANIC ESSAY? ADULTING PACIENTE ABANDONADO PACIENTE ABANDONADO (TRANSLATED)

TOILET TROUBLES MAKE YOU PROUD FLOATING SHADES OF GREEN THINKING ABOUT WHY I'M NOT COMING OUT 10/12/21

UNTITLED PALACE OF FINE ARTS, SAN FRANCISCO BORN TO DIE VOICEMAILS ON THE BACKLOG

EYES ON YOU I AM THE WALRUS HORAS MUERTAS HORAS MUERTAS (TRANSLATED) THE BRAIN LIKES TO BLOCK OUT PERIODS OF TRAUMA TWO MONOLOGUES

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 23 25 27 29 30 31 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 47 49 57

Table of Contents

Fall 2021

REACHING

PHIONQ 1

PHIONQ 2 PETRA, JORDAN

OZESKIENES GATE NO. 21

MO(U)RNING NO LITTLE THIEF FORT JEFFERSON, DRY TORTUGAS NATIONAL PARK

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?. .

IN MEMORY OF AGAINST THE WIND CLINICALITY DELIVER US FROM EVIL SANTA MARIA, MADRE DE DIOS THE SABOTEUR

FANTASMA DE PRESSER HALL

FANTASMA DE PRESSER HALL (TRANSLATED)

ELEGY WRITTEN ON THE 200TH ANN. OF KEATS'S DEATH

THE BODIES BETWEEN US SANDGATE

NORMAL THEATER

THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME CONFESSIONS AT A CASKET.

DECAY SIX-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINE DAYS AWAY I DREAMED AGAIN WE WERE SCIENTISTS

60 61 62 63 64 65 67 75 76 77 78 79 82 93 94 95 96 97 101 105 106 107 108 109 110 118

Table of Contents

Fall 2021

INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO REACH FOR HOME OCEAN. EL ANATEMA EL ANATEMA (TRANSLATED)

OUTRAGE OF THE GNATS CRUSHED ADHDOODLES

GRACKLE

BY THE MOLE SALAMANDERS SUGBO 1 SUGBO 2 SUGBO 3 SUGBO 4 THE CITY WITH THE PERFECT VIEW A WASTE OF PAINT ORFILA

PORTRAIT OF A PRODIGAL DAUGHTER ZOMBIE

THE LOW, THE LONLEY, AND THE LOST ANXIETY

120 121 123 129 135 137 138 140 141 143 144 145 146 147 148 153 156 157 158 162

Table of Contents

Spring 2022

THERE'S A CAT NAMED SHELDON THE GOOD HALF SOUVENIR MUG AETHER. (10.13.2021)

MATCHING TATTOOS OF GOD KISS FROM A TRUTH STAR

MEDITATING ON CARDINALS THE MYSTICAL WORLD RIPTIDE CARRIE POOR SICK THING I STILL REMEMBER. HER LEGACY LONELIER WITH YOU PRINTS ACTO DE FE (SALAMANCA, SPAIN) OPAQUE HAUNTED BY PERFECTION

ODE TO THE ROMANTICS RAIDING SEASON

YOUR WORDS ARE NOTHING; DO SOMETHING MY BEDROOM AT 333 THANKSGIVING 2001 TAPS

MIKE TOLD ME THIS IS A TERRIBLE ANTI-POEM THE HOPE!

163 164 165 166 167 168 169 171 172 180 181 183 185 187 189 190 191 192 193 196 203 204 205 206 207 209

Table of Contents

Spring 2022

NO HABLO PORTUGUES (PORTO, PORTUGAL) PERMANENT INK TWISTER...STILL RIDING IT OUT HANNAH

FAVORITE THINGS AETHER (10.13.2021) LITTER THE NIGHTMARES OF CUTE WOODLAND CREATURES TO TALK ABOUT IT ALL AT CHRISTMAS SELF GO WITH THE FLOW! MARRY ME A LITTLE... (01.28.2022) 2084

WHAT'S NEW SUNDAY BEST THE INCONVENIENCE OF DEATH THE BODIES BEHIND US AFTER 'WALKING WITH BEASTS' THE BRIGHT SPHERE DELICATE LACE YOUTH (01.16.2022)

ANIMAL GUM CHOKING ON AIR LITTLE JOYS LIFE IS GOOD ON THE JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS

210 211 213 216 217 219 220 221 225 227 228 229 230 231 233 235 236 242 243 244 246 247 249 251 252 253

Table of Contents

Spring 2022

MOTHER NATURE IS WATCHING

THE RIVER'S HUNTER COMFORT (PORTO, PORTUGAL)

ADOLESCENT DIORAMA.

STRATOSPHERIC AEROSOL INJECTION

SUGBO 5

BIOGRAPHIES

254 255 256 257 259 264 266

"Convalescence" Tributaries Fall 2021/Spring 2022

HALLIE LITTON

Blonde and Grey

7/12/21

The candle burns low. Lingering apple and sage Clinging to the walls

No eyes of Judgement Between the storm and forest. Synchronized Heartbeats

Both Misunderstood, Hiding from society, But frightened of love

I Love You Too

I very much like you too

In the way that you look up at the night sky and feel so big and small at the same time

In the way that the light hits your face and you look like a sculpture to me

In the way that you look at me with such sadness and I don’t know why

In the way that I’ll bite into sour fruit and pucker but still eat it anyways

In the way that I always feel at home with you

In the way that we’ve never really been strangers

In the way that believers feel when they’ve been forgiven of their sins

In the way that the poets always meant

In the way that I’ve never been able to say but always meant to mean

I love you too

LIZ STEIN

Be That

The fear of being too much & yet not enough at the same time Is such a ridiculous dichotomy. This creeping feeling Stealing up the spine Wrapping tendrils around the lizard brain Whispers of “You don’t belong” “You’re only tolerated” “You’re failing” “You’re driving them away” Paralyzing the ethos. But true acceptance of one’s self Is telling those voices that you hope they choke on your greatness if you are too much. Is acknowledging that you cannot fulfill every need of everyone. Is sitting with those fears long enough to be able to release them

Instead of tamping them down into a box in the back of your mind. However Whatever Whoever you are Be that.

JESSICA BUTTELL

The Hemingway Inside Me

Give me, again, that treasure trove of a home with the banana-colored hurricane shutters. Let me sit a spell beneath the wraparound veranda scratching a cat or two. Perhaps the orange one with the thick, bushy tail and one too many white toes. Yes, we had to pay to get here and tourists overcrowd the grounds, but the Green Hills of Africa were born within the confines of these pale, plastered walls.

I want nothing more than to devote my nights to the sleek black typewriter on the worn circular desk facing out to the ocean. And my days to the pool Ernest hated so much that he dumped the remains of a urinal nearby in hopes of ruining its appeal. There a penny can be seen cemented by the poolside, the piece of copper taking in the sun’s rays.

I’ll journey back to the house upon stilts, just past the weathered lighthouse that no longer projects its light. Oh, Key West, I’ll make the trip just to write stories half as good as his. To lay my eyes upon the roosters screaming violently as they bob their heads. And the howling winds accompanying the rampant waves slapping the boats headed to Tortuga. Hemingway, you feed the starving with your words and heal the heart with your cats.

(an imitation of “The Barcelona Inside Me” by Robin Becker)

BRYNN MITORAJ

bloodsuck

go ahead and pour it all out for me. tell me everything i don’t know. tell me how your father cried bitter tears when you were born. tell me about the burn of the back of his hand and the scar on your back. tell me all of your stories whisper all your tragedies, and i will bottle them up and keep them in my hands. i am chemically dependant on your blood and your bleeding. i am a perpetual wound dresser who sucks the venom from your blood but doesn’t stop there. i want to see your insides, and i want to sew them back together. so give me all of it, your bruises and your wounds, and i’ll dress them for you while i bleed you dry and pray for you when i don’t pray for myself.

ABBY GJATA

my panic

why do my solutions mean self destruction? why do i need a painful grounding to function? it’s hard to breathe and i clench my chest, i thought i could do this, but now i second guess. every failure is a punishment, a cynical deduction. my head is swarming with fear like bees making honey the bees in my head nest in my brain and i find it funny— they never even cared to make my pain into honey. they sting at my brain as their stingers stain, i try to breathe but i cannot sustain— a stable motion. there is a chaotic structure the bees follow, as my brain used to be a flower, it is now a nest hollowed. the pollen was eaten and my flesh is gone. i look at the clock and it says my death will be at dawn

FARAH BASSYOUNI

Essay?

“No boy will ever marry you while your hands look like that” my mother scolded me. Onychophagia is the pathological habit of chronic, uncontrollable nail biting that destroys the fingernails and its surrounding tissue. It started in my childhood, prompting my mother to ridicule the appearance of my seven-year-old fingers.

I dismissed it and thought I’d have pretty painted nails by the time I was older. I bit my nails as I watched TV, or when my family was fighting, taking out all my frustration on those little skin cells around my nails. I scratched and gnawed until I’d bleed, with skin pulled so deep that my fingers lost their natural ridges and creases. Around middle school I realized I couldn't stop. I would tuck my thumbs into my palms and close my hands to conceal my humiliating, anxiety-induced scars.

This uncontrollable habit had become a way to sooth the storm in my ravening head. Through the ever-unstable dynamic of my life — the hospital trips, the staying at my aunt’s because my parents were getting divorced for the umpteenth time, the screaming, the harrowing comments, the expectation to be mediocre, the social anxiety of forming human connections — the only constant I had was the ruthless, grotesque picking at my skin. It was there for me during the parent-teacher conferences I attended alone, when I decided to pursue a controversial career in journalism, when I defied my parents’ wishes and joined the IB program, and when the pandemic happened. Sitting at home, with my mother out of the house again, I spent the next six months alone in my head.

By then, I was Editor-in-Chief of my school’s newspaper and transformed it into a literary magazine; it was my baby. My initiative to start a sexual harassment/female health club at school had suceeded. I even published an article in a local Egyptian platform discussing a rape that had failed to receive

the attention it deserved. I was academically succeeding, and balancing my many passions.

However, lockdown no longer allowed me to run from meeting to meeting, feeling satisfaction from fulfilling tasks and helping others. I chomped at my fingers to alleviate the voice in my head telling me I'm not enough to fill the rivers of dreams I had dug up.

My Onychophagia did a little snooping in my library and stumbled across Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar”, introducing neuroticism, a good friend of frantic nail-biting. With research, I realized it wasn't “just a bad habit”; it was a nervous disorder. Plath’s experience intervened and comforted my inner child.

I failed a few times trying to stop. My nails grew and grew, and I’d feed on them again like a starving dog. I was punishing myself for not wanting normal things from life, for choosing a career nobody but myself believed in, for challenging the expectations of Egyptian society, and for growing up too fast.

Once I was able to recognize my triggers, it was easier for me to stop. It took a really long time because when scars heal, they don't return to how they looked like before. They’re ugly, weird, visibly incorrect. Nevertheless, they're a reminder that the fear and doubt instilled in me was something I could “heal.” After all, I turned out daring and independent. I learned kindness and empathy. I boiled over with passion, and put my all into every little thing I did.

Over the summer, I painted my nails for the very first time. I could finally admire those “pretty painted nails.” When my mom saw them, she was proud and laughed bitterly when I said “Now will some Egyptian know-it-all want to marry me?”. She replied in Arabic, “Not with that indecent article you wrote”, and I think that’s the first time she ever said something I wanted to hear.

Adulting

Life as an Adult

I lug up the mini hill of the concrete sidewalk

One step, two steps, three steps closer and closer The sun stretches his arms and gets ready to roll out of his bed of clouds

Tulips dance with the back and forth of the gentle breeze The Thrushes sing to celebrate a new brand new day

Four steps, five steps, six steps more and through the revolving doors I lag Go straight to the back and take the elevators to floor six

As I step onto the sixth floor, Every step forward appears in slow motion “Good Morning, Wah” “Morning”

I drag myself past the Nurses’ station and enter the break room on the right 0630 clock in time but the lines “I wanna go home” is a horrible song stuck in my head

The day proceeds, a patient says “Hey, thank you for making me get out of bed. I really needed that” A nurse puts her hand out for a high-five A family member brings a thank you card with a box of chocolate

I see glimpses of the why It matters.

Sometimes the why weighs as much as a herd of elephants

Halfway through, a patient yells “I want you to GET OUT” My stomach is barking, my feet are pleading for a break Still more vitals to take, more call lights to answer, more baths

to be given

Sometimes the why weighs as much as feathers Sometimes I need to be reminded

The sun has set The Tulips are still The Thrushes are quiet I stroll down the sidewalk

Sometimes the why has no existence. Routine as an Adult

Sometimes what I do means nothing to me. Sometimes it has my entire heart.

Wake up, Drive to the hospital, Work, Go home, Shower, And go to bed

The routine is comforting yet too mundane Adulthood. It has barely begun.

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

Paciente Abandonado

Seranil se va del cuarto por última vez Contando peldaños ensuciados de la escalera Con cero, ocho y dieciséis Veinticuatro huellas frías de princesa Las mismas que dejaste un lunes al anochecer

El pasillo impecable yace sin almas estorbantes Imaginando sirenas en el vidrio de la pecera Con diamantes, vestidos y perlas No eres tu, que lamentable Tampoco es la enfermera Es la sombra delirante de un caminante

La sala de espera mantiene su dulzura Contemplando cuadros colgantes de las ciudades Con estanques, ríos y mares Tres pinturas lloran a oscuras Un recuerdo de mis caudales cuando te marchaste Seranil enfrenta dolores mentales Y te está buscando sin poder correr afuera Mi compadre, mi amigo contagiado Abandonó su cuarto con mucho cuidado Pero no encuentra tratamiento para su cabeza

Un loco se mira al espejo por largo rato Cerrando nuestros ojos nos besamos en el baño Con sangre, cariño y afecto No son tus manjares, esos secos Es Seranil respirando con aire artificial El reemplazo de los labios que no pudo saborear

La camisa de fuerza arde sin llamas anaranjadas Escuchando un "Te amo" de rechazo en tu sosiego. Con cuchillos, mensajes y ruborizamiento

Cuatro puertas suenan a lo lejos Seranil se ha muerto al borde de la cama

El paciente solitario acepta su eterna decadencia Rezando el Rosario se ríe en el manicomio Con microbios, demencia y abandono No soy yo, ya quisiera Es el novio decapitado con un anillo de matrimonio Un demonio se ha vuelto al desear un sueño de opio

Seranil se ha disculpado por sus sentimientos apasionados Y te tiene un poema preparado Mi terapeuta, mi musa bella Espero lo leas Para por fin estar curado

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

Paciente Abandonado (translated)

Seranil leaves the room for the last time Counting dirty stair rungs With zero, eight and sixteen Twenty-four cold princess footprints The same ones you left on a Monday at dusk

The spotless hallway lies without cluttering souls Imagining mermaids on the fishbowl's glass With diamonds, dresses and pearls It's not you, how sad Neither is the nurse It's the delirious shadow of a tramp

The waiting room maintains its sweetness Contemplating hanging pictures of cities With ponds, rivers and seas Three paintings cry in the dark A memory of my flows when you left me behind

Seranil faces mental pains And he's looking for you without running outside My matey, my infected friend He left the room with a lot of concern But he's unable to find treatment for his head

A distraught stares at the mirror for a long while Closing our eyes we kiss in the bath With blood, kindliness and warmth It's not your delicacies, those dry It's Seranil breathing with artificial air The replacement of the lips he was unable to taste

The straitjacket burns without orange flames Hearing an "I love you" of rebuff in your hush With knives, messages and flush

Four doors sound from far away Seranil has died on the edge of the bed

The lonely patient accepts his eternal decay Praying the Rosary he laughs in the Asylum With germs, dementia and neglect It's not me, I wish It's the bridegroom beheaded with a wedding's ring A demon has turned by wishing an opium dream

Seranil has apologized for his passionate feelings And has a poem prepared for you My therapist, my beautiful muse I hope you read it To finally be cured

NINA DEBONI

Toilet Troubles

Curse this too tiny bladder!

Curse it until my body is cold and dead, and I no longer feel that desperate need for relief. Curse it because of the pain it brings and the confusion clinging to its coattails as a fitful child to their mother, wailing: why go here?! Why now!?

For this confusion affects not only me. Yes, I see you staring with brows furrowed as you try to cut through the tangled vines of my androgyny. If I had simply stopped sipping I would have spared us both from this flagrantly awkward eye contact and the words blooming, caught between your garden shear lips.

“This is the women’s-” “Yeah, I know.”

I know I don’t belong within this lady lounge of porcelain thrones and rosy mirrors, but the man cave next door is not my home either. Mounds of flesh in wrong places dictate my plot, which, at this point in my green life, seems like total. . . shit.

My digestive tract leads to headaches, to flowerless trails of throat closing dysphoria that leave me gasping in a chronic state of dehydration. Trekking through a deadly dry desert sounds like Heaven compared to my full bladder and the sunless echo-chamber

of The Little Girl’s Room.

Yet, I merely pull my eyes away from your narrowed gaze to shuffle, with crossed legs, into a pale stall graffitied with a name that no longer feels like my own and “she” written on its walls.

“Toilet troubles should not lead to traumas,” a mantra in my head every time I debate whether the cramping in my torso is worse than the screaming in my brain.

So, I curse my organs, the ones I need and the ones I do not want. Hunched over, they are all hidden, seeds of some fruiting plant left buried.

Spreading roots wrap me in the safety of a fiber web before they begin to pull at the bathroom pipes and tear down the plumbing architects of my gender’s doom.

Maybe in blossom, between petals blue and rusted screws, I’ll find it in myself, the steel backbone-stem I need to live a life flush in my own truth.

LIZ STEIN

Make You Proud

Home feels strange now

When I turn to ask you if you need another blanket And your chair is empty

Except for the afghan I made for you last Christmas. I’m cooking more exciting things Papa commented that he’s had more seasoned food

In the last 3 months Than his entire life. I sit in your sewing room Surrounded by mountains of fabric Staring at unfinished quilts

Unfinished thoughts Thoughts about what we were going to do next. I wanted you to be here to see Ally & Sorren get big. I wanted you to be here to see me walk the stage as a graduate. I wanted you to be front & center when I get married.

Now I look at the ring you gave me

My Sweet 16 sapphire ring Remind myself that you are always with me Remind myself that you always will be Remind myself that you are proud of how far I’ve come. I’ll make you proud Nonnie.

Floating

MARYBETH THOMMES

Shades of Green

"Olive?"

The sound of someone saying my name stirs me out of my daze. "Would you like to go first?" I don't, but I do anyway. Continuing to stare at my Doc Martens instead of making eye contact with anyone, I stutter through my introduction: "Um, hi. My name is, uh, Olive Alisha Young, I'm 16, and I work at McDonald's."

I should probably clear something up: today is the first day of support group.

A few chairs to my right sits Avery, the group leader. Avery's black pixie cut, plain brown eyes, and average height would never suggest to anyone outside of this pathetic circle of teenagers and young adults slouching in plastic chairs that she leads group therapy sessions for this dozen or so messed up adolescents.

I don't pay much attention to everyone else's names, ages, or interesting facts about them, until the girl directly across from me.

"I'm Jade Amara Taylor. I'm 20 years old. I have a threeyear-old daughter, Angelica," she says, gesturing to the toddler fiddling with a Barbie doll at Jade's feet. For the first time in fifteen minutes, I lift my dark gray eyes to meet Jade's unusually bright emerald ones that stand out against her pale skin tone. I can practically feel them piercing my soul. A small smirk plays across her lips. I think she's mocking me for being the only one to say my full name, but I can't tell for sure.

Then, a spark of familiarity strikes me. I know I’ve seen those eyes before.

"Anyone want to share their story?" Avery asks, briefly glancing at each of us. Nothing. Of course. I don't think she actually expected any of us to volunteer, so without missing a beat, she says: "Fine then, I guess it's my turn. I'm 30 years old and I struggle with anxiety and depression. I went through a rough patch in my life about 15 years ago, but I'm proud to say that I've worked hard to escape that state of mind, so now I

spend my time trying to help others get to where I am."

As inspiring and motivational as Avery's story was, I would still much rather be at home cuddled up next to my cat and watching my favorite movie. Being here was exactly not my decision.

"Alright, who's next?" Avery asks again. To no surprise, Jade raises her hand.

"I was 17 when I gave birth to the love of my life, my Angel, right here." She motions to Angelica once more. "It was not necessarily the most enjoyable life experience of mine, but I’ve gotten better and now I'm on my way to...." she pauses for a second to scan the room dramatically, "getting to where I need to be."

Avery nods respectfully. "Good for you, Jade. So we have about 20 minutes left, does anyone have anything else they’d like to share with the group?"

From across the circle, Jade is staring me down, and it’s like she’s issuing me a challenge.

"Art," I say abruptly. I don't even raise my hand. I just blurt it out.

Avery seems surprised (rightfully so.) "That's awesome, Olive. Care to expand on that?"

I can feel my confidence dissipating quicker by the second. But I can't just leave it at that, especially with Jade refusing to take her startling eyes off of me.

"Yeah, well um, I like to sort of paint my emotions? That doesn't really make any sense, but whenever I feel something... just really strong, I get out a blank canvas and just start creating whatever. Eventually I don't even have to think about it anymore and it just flows out of me."

"Thank you so much for sharing, Olive." Avery's voice is smoother and gentler than what you would expect just by looking at her.

I don't say anything else, or pay much attention at all, to the last few minutes. Instead, I zone out and fiddle with a string hanging from my sweater. It's my favorite sweater I own, in fact. It's loose and baggy, and it would show my stomach if I wasn't wearing high-waisted mom jeans. The sweater is knit and an off-white color with a couple dark colored stripes of various widths. I wear it at least once a week, so I'm not at all surprised that it's fraying.

"Well, this was a great first session, thanks to everyone for coming. See you next week," Avery dismisses us. Some rush out faster than I can blink, while others slowly trudge into the hallway like they couldn't care less about whether or not they even make it out of the room. I, on the other hand, kind of impulsively head towards Jade with a hopefully determined look on my face.

"Do you have a problem with me or something?" The goal was to make my voice sound intimidating, but it comes out sort of squeaky instead.

Jade smirks again. "No. Not unless you have one with me. I just think you're interesting," she responds. "What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, bewildered by her answer. Me, interesting?

She gestures to the door. "Can we walk and talk? I need to take this one home for her nap." She points lazily to Angelica, who's smiling the most adorable smile I've ever seen.

"Sure..." I say hesitantly. Jade scoops up her daughter and we start toward the door. "So you think I'm interesting?"

"Yeah. I like your style." She bops the loose bun on top of my head playfully. A small smile creeps onto my face before I can stop it.

"And I-" I start, but Jade cuts me off.

"It's okay, you don't have to say the same about mine. I know I'm a mess."

I hate to admit it, but she's not necessarily wrong. Her outfit consists of incredibly faded and worn-out jeans. Under an oversized dark gray zip-up hoodie, she wears a plain black tank top with an odd-looking stain in the top right corner likely caused by Angelica.

"You know, I gotta say, I like how you're not, like, embarrassed or anything to show up wearing old clothes like those," I say. I know it's not the most flattering compliment, but it's the best I could do.

Jade, however, does not appreciate that and shoots me a stone-cold glare. "Well, it's not like I had much of a choice, is it?" Her tone is sharp. My oversensitivity compels me to stare at my shoes again, ashamed and struggling to keep the tears from spilling. Then Jade sighs. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to come out like that. I've just... it's been a rough couple of days." I nod, understanding how thinking that lashing out at someone might make you feel better.

In order to break free of this awkward and tense moment, I look at my phone and say: "My mom should be here by now. I wonder where she is."

"Need a ride?" Jade asks.

"Maybe. I'm gonna call her." I find the number and raise the iPhone X to my ear. Jade stares at it almost wistfully. When it occurs to me that Jade’s phone probably isn’t as nice as mine, I turn away from her slightly. Flaunting it directly in her face like that is rude. My mother answering the call prevents me from continuing to overthink the whole thing.

"Hey, where are you?" I hope I don't sound too impatient (even though I am), because that will get me absolutely nowhere with my mother.

"What do you mean where am I? I am at home. Where are you?" She demands. I sigh, disappointed. I live at least twenty minutes from here. "I'm at therapy, Mom. You were supposed to pick me up, remember?"

"No, no." I can just picture her shaking her head in that overly confident way she always does. "No, therapy is done at five o'clock. It is only...." She trails off and I assume she actually looked at a clock. Then she hangs up. Classic. My mother can never admit when she's wrong. I sigh again and angrily thrust my phone into my pocket. Jade glances sideways at me. "Need that ride?"

I smile gratefully. "Yes, please." She returns my grin and begins to head in the direction of her car. I follow and quickly text my mom on the way: I’m getting a ride home from someone at therapy. Yes, I’m sure I’m safe and she won’t kidnap me. See you soon :).

"So you're probably wondering why I was staring at your phone like I'm gonna steal it," Jade says.

"I mean, not really." I sound like I'm lying. Technically, I'm not. I didn't think that look was suspicious. I could tell she was longing for something, but not greedily. More like reminiscing on better times, when she called her own mother on her own phone.

"Don't lie. It's okay, I understand."

"Seriously! I swear, I'm not," I argue.

Jade just rolls her eyes and pulls a positively ancient BlackBerry out of her pocket. It takes all of my willpower not to burst out laughing. I haven't seen one of those since I was Angelica's age.

"Yeah, yeah. I know it's lame, but it works and it's all I've got. Well, it kinda works." Jade starts buckling Angelica into her car seat, which is in near perfect condition. The car itself, on the other hand.... It was originally a nice, navy blue shade, but I can barely tell because of how rusted, faded, and covered in grime it is. The side mirrors are barely clinging on with the help of some duct tape. When I slide into the passenger seat, I notice that each old, black leather chair has multiple rips in it. Also, in order to roll down the windows, you have to use a hand crank. A hand crank. I say nothing about any of this, though, because I've already made her feel bad enough.

"So where do you live?" she asks, breaking the tension once again.

"Um, here, let me pull it up on Google Maps," I say, still feeling kind of awkward. I bring out my phone again and open up the app. Once I find my address, I hold it up and realization dawns on Jade's face.

"Oh right, I totally forgot that app existed. You know, I have got to get me one of those," she laughs a little, tapping the edge of the phone, but then falls silent when she remembers that kind of wish is likely too far out of reach for her. Just like that, the tension has returned.

It takes Jade a few tries to get the car started, but eventually we're moving towards the highway. The silence between the two of us is disrupted only by Angelica’s cute toddler noises, for at least the first five minutes.

All of a sudden, it hits me. “Aha! I remember where I know you from,” I exclaim.

Jade glances at me briefly, and I can’t decide if she’s more annoyed or amused. “It took you that long to realize?”

My gaze remains trained on my shoes because I’m embarrassed for not recognizing Jade. Our shifts have rarely overlapped, so her face just kind of melted into my memory. The only thing that stood out was her bright eyes.

“You’re our newest hire at McDonald’s, right? You started about a week ago? I’m, uh, I’m really sorry for not recognizing you. I’m just not good at remembering faces, I guess,” I stumble through my weak apology.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s fine, I don’t blame you,” Jade brushes it off easily.

I nod sheepishly. Another long silence ensues, and even though this one is far more comfortable than the others,

apparently Jade just can’t handle not talking, because she says: “You said earlier that you’re sixteen, right? Why don’t you drive?”

I clear my throat anxiously before attempting to get out the words: “Um, I’m not really sure. I just hate driving, I guess.” “What do you mean you hate it? Finally getting your license after so many hours of hard work is the best feeling ever, and it’s so fun and relaxing-”

I interrupt her before she makes it any worse. “You know the entrance to my neighborhood here can be kind of confusing. We just shouldn’t talk until we get to my house so you don’t get lost.”

“Why’d you change the subject like that? I don’t understand-”

I cut her off again. “And you don’t need to. Nothing good happens in cars for me, okay?” That shuts her up, thankfully, until we pull into my driveway and I unbuckle my seatbelt.

"What's your number? Maybe we can coordinate shifts at McDonald’s," she asks me, and I’m surprised that she would want to after I just snapped at her like that. I rattle off the digits anyway as she enters them into her contacts. Then I thank her for driving me and wave goodbye to Angelica. After getting out and shutting the door, I take only a couple steps before I falter and turn back around. I motion for Jade to roll down the window. She reaches over to the passenger door and turns the crank.

"Yeah, what's up?" she asks when it's open far enough.

"Our names, Olive and Jade. They're both shades of green," I say. I don't really know why I do. But it feels necessary. Don't ask me the reason.

"Hmm. You know, I guess you're right.”

ANONYMOUS

Thinking about why I'm not coming out

Why should I? I have it easy. I’m a cis woman with a cis hetero man longtime boyfriend. I more than pass and know how simple that makes my, well our, life. Why cause trouble where it isn’t?

Why jump off a cliff into uncertain waters? How do you define bi? It feels exclusionary, like why not pan? I’ve studied the structural binaries that can rule our lives, how do I reconcile those and being bi?

How bad is it to be an outward ally instead of an active community member?

I told a handful of people with cotton in my mouth, felt the immediate need to defend myself each time. That I won’t

kiss another guy’s girlfriend for entertainment, that I’m not a cheater, that it doesn’t mean I want you, or him, or her, or them.

I’m not coming out. . . well, I guess in a way, I just did.

FIONA DORAN 10/12/21

Ac ademic elietism is stupid ‘you will not Speak unless spoken to. . .' (big words little words JARGON!) That’s crazy! I don’t Care! [IAMINESCAPABLE] domywordsnotfityourmouth? amitoowormyandweird? . . . .? ? ?? Then I Shall Be Stranger. EYE WILL ALWAYS BE HEARD SEEN OBSERVED. ... IT IS ON YOU TO LISTEN. VALIDATE ME, O GRADE BOOK. O WRITERS OF ACADEMIC TEXT...

FOR YOU TELL ME I AM “NO THING” WITHOUT YOU.

Untitled

EMILY CORTEZ

Palace of Fine Arts, San Francisco

JESSICA BUTTELL

Born to Die The Birth of Venus, the Musée d'Orsay

I don’t know when I developed the fear of dying. My recurring nightmare of drowning in my own demons under the waxen moonlight. On my own I recognized that to be born is to ensure death and the more I think of my demise, the further I sink— whilst Venus drapes her figure across the seafoam surface. Conch horns blare, celebrating the birth of the pale skinned woman with delicate curves and long golden locks. Yet I am alone and they cannot hear my screams over the roaring waves. I will likely be down here until I perish, as I have no one to teach me to swim.

SARAH BUCHMANN

voicemails on the backlog.

i smelled you the other day, for the first time in years. a stranger walked by and it got caught in my throat – i cannot tell you the essence of your cologne or the notes that hit, but it brought me back to high school and the future that i thought we had. and i didn’t stop inhaling and i didn’t let it go and if i had closed my eyes maybe i could keep this stranger, this piece of you, with me for just a little while longer. but just as quickly as i had been transported i was hurled back into reality like a ripcord and a bungee and the whiplash made my head spin – or maybe it was the perfume – but anyway i thought i would call and say hello and ask if perhaps you’d ever smelled me too.

Eyes on You

I Am the Walrus

CARLOS CH Á VEZ LINARES

Horas Muertas

Ocho y quince de la mañana Cereales lloran junto al vaso quebradizo A la naranja podrida le falta su mitad Eres tu, mariposa, que te la has comido Y volando lejos seguiste tu camino. Ya mis ojos cegados no te pueden divisar Igual a los de ella, te lo digo Que no me quisieron mirar

Doce y cinco es una tarde de hielo Partituras sufren en el piano descompuesto A las notas congeladas le desafinan los sonidos Eres tu, soprano, que callaste en silencio Y corriendo descalza abandonaste el concierto. Ya mi canto de bajo se ahogó en mis llantos masivos Contrario al de ella. . . Que era música para mis oídos

Las matutinas fueron horas deprimidas Canciones sepultadas, manchas derretidas Dulce y especial, aún lo eres, amiga Desde mi alma, días fríos escapan Desde la tumba, las horas muertas descansan Pero mi amor por ella. . . Mi amor por ella, te lo digo Aún me queda Un poquito

Cuatro y veinte cada semana Tarjetas gimen destrozadas en las cintas fantasmas Nuestras conversaciones secretas necesitan su esencia Eres tu, calabaza, que asustaste a la princesa Y cabalgando tenebrosa ultrajaste su casa. Ya mis cabellos alborotados son melenas de tigresa Igual a las de ella. . .

Que acariciaba con delicadeza

Siete y media es una noche sin sentido Frapuccinos gritan amargos en el libro aburrido Nuestros abrazos delicados ya no son los mismos Son ustedes, flores, que su aroma han perdido Y cayendo marchitas deterioraron su vestido. Ya mi encanto de ladino se murió en el pasto empobrecido Contrario al de ella. . .

Que aumentaba mis dolores clandestinos

Las nocturnas fueron horas deprimidas Entelequias y esperanzas arrepentidas Dulce y especial, aún lo eres, amiga Minutos fríos caen encadenados Segundos muertos descansan crucificados Pero lo que más extraño. . . Lo que más extraño, te lo digo Tú ya sabes Es estar contigo.

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

Horas Muertas (translated)

Eight-fifteen at dawn

Cereals cry beside the brittle glass Rotten orange is missing its half It's you, butterfly, who have eaten it And flying away you followed your path. My blinded eyes can't descry Same as hers, I tell you now That didn't want to look me back

Twelve and five is an ice afternoon Sheets of music suffer on the broken keys

Frozen notes are out of tune It's you, soprano, who fell mute And running barefoot you left the room. My bass chant already drowned in massive tears Contrary to hers. . . That was music to my ears

The morning hours were depressed Buried songs, melted taints Sweet and special, you still are, friend From my soul, cold days escape From the grave, dead hours rest But my love for her. . . My love for her, I tell you now I still have left A dash

Four-twenty every week

Shattered cards groan on ghost tapes Our secret talks need their sweetness It's you, pumpkin, who scared the princess And riding dark you outraged her house. My tousled hair is already a tigress's mane Same as hers. . .

That caressed with grace

Seven-thirty is a meaningless night Frappuccinos shout bitter on the boring page Our delicate hugs are no longer the same It's you, flowers, that lost your smell And falling withered spoiled their dress. My ladino charm already died in the impoverished grass Contrary to hers. . . That extended my clandestine pains

The nightimes were depressed Entelechies and repentant hopes Sweet and special, you still are, friend Cold minutes fall in chains Dead seconds rest on the cross But what I miss the most. . . What I miss the most, I tell you now You already know Is to be at your side

The Brain Likes To Block Out Periods of Trauma

I grew up with a Mr. Mom. My father was the chef of the house, the main caregiver. He made me laugh until I peed, wiped my tears when I scraped my knee, cleaned up my vomit when I was sick. He was the grown up, and I was the child. But on this specific day, our roles flipped. He was left vulnerable, and I had to deal with grown up things as a twelve year old, things no child should have to experience. Trying to dial three simple numbers with trembling hands, feeling a pulse in my throat, and tears in my eyes, I grew up in a matter of seconds. Although as life-changing as it is, I can’t remember large moments of this memory stained in my consciousness.

My father was diagnosed with kidney cancer in November, and in December, he had his first surgery. The cancer completely engulfed his right kidney and half of his lung, and after a painstaking operation, he came out with a smile and said his favorite movie quote to the surgeon, “You’re killin me smalls.” My sister and I knew that we had to be quiet around him once he got home from the hospital. My mom was working full-time, as well as trying to take care of my bedridden father. We had a little help from my grandma with post-op procedures. - - -

One day in particular, I got home from cheer practice early because Coach wanted us to rest up; we had our regional competition the next day. I had an afternoon snack and got to work on homework. My dad was flipping through channels complaining that there was nothing on. It was 4:30 on a Friday; of course there wasn't anything on. He wasn’t a big fan of Oprah or Jerry Springer, so he got bored easily. He and my grandma would play cards, and he would sleep in his recliner in the living room. We didn’t know that this was how he was goingto spend the rest of his short life.

My mom got home from work an hour later, and took my sister shopping for a Christmas outfit. Although early, I tried to go to bed. I had to be up at five in the morning to get to the

school for the competition. As the sun began to set, my mind began to drift off into a perfect dreamland.

I woke up to my grandmother screaming my name. I ignored her calls the first few times, thinking that she just wanted to change the channel on the TV, until they got louder and more frantic. She was quivering over my dad in his recliner. I turned the corner and he was staring off into space, grabbing his knee. His whole body was stiff, and he was trying to speak but could only make grunting sounds.

I was trying to ask him what was wrong, then his body went limp. White foam started pouring out of his mouth, and he started shaking uncontrollably. Was he dying? God help my dad! I need my dad! I froze. I watched my dad shake and rock in his chair. My grandma looked at me and shouted, “Call 911.” I reemerged from my fear-induced paralysis and ran back to my room to grab my cell phone. My hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t dial the correct numbers. I dropped it on the floor and ran to get to the landline. There was a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

I was fumbling over my words trying to explain to the woman on the other line what was happening behind me. Dad’s body went limp. She told me to unlock the front door and wait for the ambulance, while still being in sight of my dad, if possible. I shared my address and gave all of the right information. She told me to stay on the line. I had the operator in one ear, and my cell phone with my terrified mom in the other ear.

I felt helpless. The image of my limp-bodied dad is forever burned into my subconscious. The entire experience flew by in a matter of minutes, but I remember it dragging on for hours. - - -

My dad was quite the entertainer. He put together block parties and he was one of the friendliest people in my neighborhood. We were close with a bunch of our neighbors because of him. They all knew he was sick. They dropped off casseroles and desserts after his surgery. Our house smelled like flowers mixed with charred green beans; Mom wasn’t the best cook. - - -

I had a feeling that they all knew something went to shit when they saw the ambulance pull up to our house. Our neighbor, Jeremy, rushed over and helped the guys load him onto the stretcher. One parametric was talking to my grandma, another was talking to me, and the rest were trying to get responses from Dad. He couldn’t remember his name, but at least he was conscious.

“You are very brave for calling us. Not many kids your age would’ve known to do that”.

These words rang in my ears for hours. Mom got home and took me to the hospital with my sister. Grandma rode in the back of the ambulance with Dad. - - -

I remember my dad called me back to his bed, just me. In tears, he told me that I saved his life. He held my hand so tight. I cried. I had never seen Dad cry before. We sat there for a while, in silence.

Every day, after waking up, I would press my ear against my bedroom door to see if Mom and Dad were awake. After walking out to Mom crying, and Dad throwing up, I began this daily routine. Seeing him like that horrified me, and I wanted to refrain from the memories of him deteriorating before our eyes.

Today was different though. I heard muffled voices in the living room, but not those of my Mom and sister, Olivia. I looked down at my electric blue pajama set from Justice, took a deep breath and opened my door.

I knew instantly that this wasn’t going to be a normal and quiet morning. When I opened my door, I was greeted by twenty of my family members standing around the open floor plan to my house. A few of them were talking in the kitchen, others were standing over by the fireplace, but Mom’s sisters were sitting around the kitchen table, chatting away and drinking Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. I walked over to the kitchen table hesitantly because I was confused why there were so many people at my house on a Wednesday morning. Aunt Erin, Aunt Denise, and Aunt Robin all look up as I approach their conversation.

“Good morning honey. How are you doing?” Aunt Erin said softly.

“I’m good. Why is everyone here?” I said in a meer whisper. I glanced over towards the stone fireplace, where Dad

was sleeping in a hospice style bed. Over the past week, he was talking less and less, so I knew in the back of my mind that today wasn’t going to be a fun one.

“We just came to visit your dad, and to see if your mom needed help around the house” Aunt Denise chirped up. I guess this was her way of sugar coating the eventual. I just nodded at what she said, got up from the table, and made my way towards the fridge. Pushing past more aunts and uncles, I heard Aunt Robin say “Hey Hal, there are donuts in the garage,” so I changed courses and headed towards the front door.

The door was wide open, bringing in a warm July breeze throughout the house. I heard even more voices outside, and as I stepped through the threshold, twenty pairs of eyes darted my way. The rest of my family was outside, staring at me like I was a monkey at the zoo.

“Hi” I said bluntly, not knowing what else to do. They all sort of curled their eyebrows up and cocked their heads to the side to say “Oh hun, I’m so sorry,” but no one said anything.

As I’m making my way down the front steps and to the garage, I took a deep breath of clean air. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the leaves rustling in the wind, all of this brought a calm to me, a calm I didn’t know I needed.

My feet slapped the warm concrete as I made my way over to the garage. I could already smell the dingy stench of tobacco that was lingering from the garage. I didn’t even have to look to know that Aunt Denise had made her way to the garage to smoke a square with Uncle Joe. I made my way through the thick wall of smoke and to a table that was set up against the back wall.

There layed three boxes of donuts, each of them missing a few. I stood there for a moment looking at the glazed, vanilla frosted, peanut, coconut, jelly filled, sprinkled covered breakfast, when I finally decided that a sticky chocolate frosted one was the way to go. - - -

“Good morning” I said this about thirty-five times in the matter of thirty minutes. Each time it was met with “Aw, hi sweetie. How are you doing?” with a melancholy look, followed by “I’m good.” and then I’d walk away and move onto the next aunt, uncle, or cousin.

With all of the commotion going on, I realized that I never even said good morning to my mother. I walked back

inside and found Mom. She was standing by Dad’s bed, but I didn’t want to walk over there. I waved her over, and asked what was happening.

“Auntie Erin is going to take you and Liv back to her house for a bit, then you can come back and get ready for your softball game tonight.” She whispered between sniffles. I’m almost relieved that I didn’t have to stay there all day. There was so much love in the air, but that didn’t mask the heaviness of depression, death, and dread.

Knowing damn well this might be the last time I see him alive, I walked over to the bed with Mom and my sister, Olivia, and everyone else sort of herded their way outside. I wanted to cry, but I felt completely numb on the inside. His inflamed face and bald head made him look nothing like the man who raised me. Cancer turned him from my fun loving Dad, to an exhausted and pale looking ghost of what he once was. As much as I wanted to have one more conversation with him, his eyes remained shut, his body remained motionless, and his breath was becoming weaker.

“Bye Dad, I’ll see you later. I love you” I said and I went to kiss his hairless forehead. - - -

From the time I said goodbye to the time I got the phone call, I don’t remember a thing. The brain likes to block out periods of trauma to the conscious mind, and I am thankful for that. I was sitting on the black leather couch of my Aunt Erin’s basement, peeling away my neon pink nail polish and throwing it onto the floor. My cousins, Gianna and Niki, were playing a game of Uno with Liv.

I was so out of it, I didn’t realize that I was staring at the pile of cards and saying each move out loud so only I could hear. Red five, yellow five, yellow reverse, green reverse, green two, green five, green three, green three, green plus two, wild card, red seven, red nine. . .

I only snapped out of it when I heard Aunt Erin creep down the steps, holding her phone.

“Hey guys, your mom wants to talk to you” A golf ball sized lump in my throat formed. I knew what she was going to say. I didn’t want to hear it, but I couldn’t ignore her.

“Hey Hal,” She gasped for a breath, “Your Dad went up to heaven”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just looked straight ahead

of me, and handed the phone back to Aunt Erin. I didn’t feel sad or angry. Just numb. Paralysed. Frozen in my thoughts.

But, who’s going to walk me down the aisle, and he won’t teach me to drive like he promised. What about my graduation, or my first day of high school, and who is going to threaten the boys that I bring home. Remember when he would sit me on his lap in the car, and he would let me “drive” or when he would play “Swing, swing, swing” and hit the passenger seat of the car to the beat of the bass, or when we played tickle monster when we waited for mom to get home from work, or what about... - - -

I don’t remember the drive back, or the people in the garage, or the coroner’s truck parked outside. It was almost like a movie scene change. All the insignificant details of life. But nothing about today was insignificant. It was too much. I was met by numbness and pity from my family around me. All of these sobbing adults coming up to me and hugging me and saying one of the following: “I’m so sorry,” “He was so loved,” “I remember when he. . . ” “There was this one time that your dad and I. . .” “He did this. . . ,” and “He did that. . . ,” I was so fed up with everything. There were way too many people around me, touching me, crying to me. I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to get on my bike and drive to the park down the street and hang my feet over the edge of the pier and into the dirty pond water. I couldn’t though, I didn’t want people to think that I was heartless or that I didn’t care. Everyone was grieving except for me. I didn’t laugh at the memories. I didn’t cry at death. I didn’t think about the future. I just felt like an emotionless waste of space.

I just lost the closest person to me. The one who understood me, loved me beyond my faults, wiped my tears, cut my sandwiches into triangles, who knew I liked the lemon scented laundry detergent and not the rose one. I lost the Batman to my Robin and I didn’t even cry. Not a single tear. I just felt. . . lost. - - -

I remember sitting in the living room, and a song started playing. “Memory” from the Broadway show Cats. “Change the song,” I demanded, “Dad hated it.” Someone then proceeded to grab the remote, and turned on a different station of Music Choice. Mom sat down next to me

simultaneously.

“I will text Coach Jim and tell him you won’t make it tonight” She said with a sniffle. I knew that she was trying to be strong for me, but she didn’t have to. She watched the love of her life wither away into oblivion.

“No. I’m going” I looked at her, “I’m fine.” She couldn’t help but gawk at me when I said this.

“Honey, you don’t have to go. The team will understand if you miss one game”

“Mom. I want to go. Please.” I think she knew I needed to get my mind off of the situation. She took a deep breath.

“Okay. We will have to get someone to drive you, because I need to stay here for a little bit” I knew that this was going to be the case, so I walked up to my cousin, Raquel and asked if she would be willing to drive me.

“Yah, of course. Let me go ask your mom for directions.”

She then proceeded to walk away and go find my mess of a mother. I walked into my room and quietly shut the door. My room was dark. The hot pink walls looked faded, the stuffed animals laying on the floor were as lifeless as ever. I look out my window and notice that the sun was blocked by a canopy of light grey clouds. I slowly change out of my blue pajamas, and slip on neon green, knee high socks. One by one. Followed by a black tank top, a neon green and heather grey button up, and shorts to match. I go over to the mirror and just stare at my reflection. I adjusted my shorts so the lightning pattern on the front matched up with the pattern on my jersey. I just took a deep breath, and opened my bedroom door. - - -

I set my softball bag down on the bench, opened the zipper and grabbed my dusty black glove. The clouds were getting darker as I walked up to Coach Jim. The rest of the team were already on their warm-up jog.

“Hey Coach. I’m sorry I’m late.” I said. He looked at me like I just spoke Russian. I didn’t even want to hear his response, so I just started running. I smiled at the pack of lime green and black running past me. I touched the back fence, and started heading back. The girls were huddled around Coach, and I knew what he was saying. I was about five feet away when they turned around, half of them sobbing, the other half with their mouths open.

Dad had been an assistant coach for most of my

softball career, and many of these girls had been on a team with us. - - -

We ended up getting rained out, but Olivia had a game that was still happening. The rain must have barely missed their fields. Mom, Auntie Erin, and most of my family were sitting in the stands and cheering Olivia on when Raquel and I pulled up. Everyone in Liv’s dugout, and on our side of the fence was sporting an orange ribbon on their shirts. On a day of such sorrow, it was a great sight. All of these people, who loved my dad just as much as I did, supported his daughters the way he did.

WILLIAM BROWN

Two Monologues

After Czesław Miłosz

You whom I could not save, listen to me.

You played a part. I failed to cherish you

The world played a part. But what properly, as I should have. is it to you why After I discovered you chose to flee from us, the baseball,

I did what I did? the county fairs, the swim lessons, The McDonald’s we would eat

Perhaps for a time on the way to school, all of it fell

you failed me t hrough my mind like flour through the sieve

Perhaps that time you never used. was when you were three, when your brother All that

persisted of you was newly born. in my mind

Perhaps you fail me now, and this is for show, was the solitary

a vain attempt to prove how tortured Image of a spider your poet’s consciousness is. own web

But yes. Perhaps. and the sprightly Assurance

But you are trying that you had done this To write this poem to me, and that I with all that weights on your consciousness. had not done this

Now, you, you to you. whom I could not save, listen to me:

Mother, tell me how I was wrong. Tell me how I drove you to this.

You were seven. You bore no ill intent. But yes. You played a part, just like how the dew that did not glisten played a part.

Like how the moon That was new instead of full played a part.

Like how that speed bump On the way to work Played a part. Like how

Your brother played a part. But would you damn him?

Listen to me: he was four. You were seven. You played a part, but only just, and the world, all of it, did as well. And maybe you failed me, and maybe you still do me wrong, and maybe I forgive you. But this,

This is a poem. A poem you wrote. Forgiveness from beyond the void is beyond what this poem could possibly justify. Listen to me.

Reaching

PHIONQ 1

PHIONQ 2

JESSICA BUTTELL

Petra, Jordon

Through the narrow Siq, a mile long, exhausted by heat and exertion, we arrived at Al-Khazneh chiseled deep into the rock.

Under the watch of their gods, the Nabataeans carved their city. Hidden in the barren desert and protected by mountainous terrain.

Inside the Rose City, we wondered at its splendor, the past sealed in stone for over a thousand years.

How much time is in my possession? Days dissolve into weeks and weeks into months and months into years.

My life is a grain of sand. What will I leave behind? How will I leave my mark if dust blankets my footsteps?

KATIE VOGLER

Ožeškienės Gate No. 21

Mo(u)rning

For Timmy

The morning of your wake, I find the shirt I wore to your wedding hung in my closet. I think about wearing it, being a spot of blue amidst the black bruise gathered around your grave, sharing in the ache you left behind. I think about being the start of the rainbow send-off you deserve, like the colors drying on your paint palette, laid still in some newly empty room. Deserved. I think about how I struggle to think about you in the past tense. Each thought gets caught in my throat. A bitter pill

of knowing lodged in my jaw that cracks when I speak.

So, I stay quiet and bid my voice to stay whole while I look into the dark of my closet, at the shadowed blue of the shirt

I wore to your wedding. I leave it, let it sit in its own memory as you do in mine.

It is the only place you live now. I think about that on the way to cemetery. I think about you in the past tense: buried.

All at once, the pill is a shattered teardrop shape and I swallow the sob that makes it through the break.

No Little Thief

Flynn Dayton’s days of banditry were about to be over, or so he hoped. As he trudged forward, lantern held out, with frigid sewage seeping into his knee-high boots, there was nothing he wished more than a quiet retirement. Perhaps a placid vineyard in the countryside, or a secluded cottage on the coast? Anything was possible once this job paid off.

He waded through the sewers of Ternyth, his home city. It was where his career as a thief had begun; fittingly, it was now where it would end. The thieving days of his youth had been fun, but they were far behind him. Over time he had done every score he had set his mind to, and the thrill of the job no longer appealed to him. Maybe all those hours of sneaking through picturesque estates made him realize he wanted a home to call his own.

The sewers were ancient, from the days of the Empire, and to Flynn’s chagrin, were still very much in use. The horrible stink hung like a weighty cloud throughout the tunnel, making every breath a battle. As he pressed forward guided by the lantern’s soft light, he could hear the sound of rushing water just over the chattering of hundreds of rats, gathered in such a wriggling mass that a few unlucky ones were shunted off the thin ledge, forced to paddle further into the darkness to find some unoccupied space.

Flynn paid them no mind. As someone who had spent most of his life breaking into attics, cellars, basements, and ship hulls, he had seen countless rats of all shapes and some surprising sizes. He had grown quite fond of them, his partners in crime, or his “little thieves” as he called them.

Now, the little thieves were leading him right to his prize. At the end of the tunnel, where it branched off into two forks, was an island of raised earth, upon which sat a square foundation, and only one corner could be seen jutting out of the wall. It was not part of the sewers; the stone was lighter, and the bricks more uniform. This younger addition was Dwarven design, connected to the Mining Guild’s Guildhall. Flynn was

under the Dwarven Quarter now. There, miserly landlords discussed deeds and contracts with aristocratic clients, while fastidious clerks and registrars recorded every transaction and shipment. The irony, Flynn noted, was that the magistrates were far more prolific thieves than he.

Flynn set the lantern down on the sludge and retrieved the mattock slung on his back, feeling along the mortar for weaknesses. Noticing an irregularity, he drew his knife and cut deep. The master mason’s plans had been worth the price after all; a cellar door had been bricked over during the renovation. Flynn struck at the rough outline of the door with his mattock, each crack reverberating through the sewer tunnel like a thunderbolt, sending bits of stone flying as the facade crumbled. It mattered little; there was no one to hear, and the little thieves would not betray him.

Flynn’s boots squelched in the muck as he stepped back to survey his work. The narrow door, covered in granite dust and scuffed from the mattock’s glancing blows, was now unobstructed. Exhausted, Flynn searched in his pack and withdrew his canteen and a pair of hard biscuits. He had scarcely eaten half of the first when a small group of the chittering rats began to skirt the edge of the water, eyeing the crumbs at his feet. The runt of the pack was the most eager, squeaking excitedly as his ribs stretched and pulled against his mangy hide. Flynn took pity and tossed them the second biscuit, which they promptly dismembered. Some of the bigger ones ran off with their pieces, but the runt ate his share on the spot, probably to stop a bigger rat from taking it.

“You won’t go hungry tonight, little thief,” Flynn said quietly. He always remembered to respect Lady Luck’s favored creatures. It was something every thief learned; respect the rats, and they’ll lead you out of the tightest bind.

Flynn returned his canteen to his pack and hoisted the mattock over his back. If he had timed it correctly, it would be nighttime aboveground. He examined the door. It was in good condition, unexposed to the elements until now. He tried it and it swung outward with no issue. Evidently, no Guildsman had thought to lock a door that led to nowhere.

Seeing light within, he turned to set down his lantern when something large and solid crashed into the water farther down, into the chest-high waters of the main thoroughfare. Flynn nearly jumped out of his skin and swung the lantern out

in the noise’s direction, knife drawn. It was no use; the wall of darkness kept him from seeing anything. There was no one else down here, he was sure of that. Perhaps some local ruffians had disposed of a body through a latrine chute above; Flynn had never participated in such grisly work, but he had witnessed it done before. In any case, he resolved investigating it was of no use. He quickly gathered his things and shut the door softly behind him.

The first thing he felt was the crisp air further chill his soaked trousers. As he panned the lantern across the cellar, he observed that the door was hidden behind a row of huge oaken barrels as wide as Flynn was tall. No wine would be found here, as this was a Dwarven cellar; mead was king among their libations. As he made his way around the barrels he observed the Meadmaker’s Guild stamp on each head and the gold label plaques, with dates and meaderies written in neat Dwarvish futhark. Some of the older ones dated a hundred years back. The cellar itself was vast, the size of a lord’s great hall. Flynn wished he could swipe a swig of the Guild’s finest, but thought against it. He didn’t need any extra weight on top of what he was already taking.

The cellar stairs led up to a heavy door, bolted with a simple warded lock. Flynn opened his pack and withdrew his set of skeleton keys. By his third key, he had breached the wards, and the bolt clicked open. Flynn tested the hinges for a squeak, and when the metal groaned too loudly, slicked them with a vial of bacon grease he obtained from the butcher’s Silently he emerged, checking every corner for unsuspecting workers. The corridor was clear; now was his chance. He darted down the right side, following the plans he had memorized. Sure enough, the last corridor on his right ended at an elaborate iron door, short and squat, clearly intended only for the Dwarven officials and not their taller attendants. This would be no regular lock; Dwarven vaults, even a rudimentary storeroom conversion like this, were notoriously hard to crack. Hard, but not impossible. One just needed the right tools.

Flynn knelt down and slipped his torsion wrench into the lock to apply pressure, inserting his first pick. He tapped lightly on the first pin, until he heard the soft click of the tumbler. He moved on to the second, and heard a voice at the other end of the hall.

“If you want to lose yer kneecaps, go on ahead.”

“Well, yer inna flowery mood today, aint’ya?”

Flynn panicked, almost losing his place even as the second pin fell. He tried to focus on his place, but he knew it would be close. Typical Dwarven pin-locks had four tumblers. This one probably had six. Each extra tumbler was a larger risk of capture, at least imprisonment, and maybe even execution. He switched strategies, raking the pick back and forth in an effort to knock all the tumblers simultaneously.

“Quit yer whingin’, Dirk. We get better pay’n the city guard, and we don’t have to prance about in mail and plate in this heat. Yer just young and ungrateful.”

“Young? Me? Derral, yer only twenty-five!”

“And that’s five more’n you, so shut up!”

The voices were drawing closer. Flynn tuned them out and stopped himself from raking too quickly; that would only undo his progress. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard a louder click and turned the bolt open. He was in!

He seized the door and flung it open with all his strength, careful not to slam it into the wall, and swiftly shut it behind him with a dull thud. With his back to the door, he slid to the ground to catch a breath of relief. When he stood, he set his eyes on his quarry, and it was everything he could have hoped for.

Varnished, velvet-lined display cases lined the walls, replete with the local Guild chapter’s masterworks. Dwarven amulets of ruby and amethyst set in engraved silver hung on thick chains. Rings of iron and gold sat on mole-leather cushions. A miniature pickaxe, cast in solid gold and inlaid with emerald and mother-of-pearl, occupied a pedestal of its own. Carved gemstones found deep in the mountains completed the collection. Perhaps best of all was the lack of proper security; in their arrogance, the Guild thought no one could breach a Dwarven door, and simple latches were all that stood in Flynn’s way.

Quickly, and as silently as he could, Flynn unlatched the display cases and emptied their contents into his knapsack. As each trinket clinked into the bag, Flynn could picture his payday. He couldn’t appraise it all at the moment, but it was certainly enough to buy his own land. No more living in dingy

“Reckon the bosses would mind if we had some of that cheese there?”

inn backrooms, that was for sure.

The artifacts he would have to sell to a fence, preferably someone across the border. The Mining Guild would be furious once the theft was uncovered, and would send their black market contacts to endure the humiliation of buying back their own items for exorbitant sums, lest they be smelted down and sold abroad. The fence, for his role, would get a cut of the proceeds. As for the gemstones, those were Flynn’s to sell alone.

“Did you hear somethin’?” the voice Flynn identified as Derral questioned.

“No, what're you on about?”

“Shut up and listen. Hear that?”

Flynn froze, his now-full sack of loot swinging in his hand. The room was cleared out, but that would mean nothing if Flynn was spotted. He might be able to escape, but what then? Two more years of planning and small jobs, more living from inn to inn, always looking over his shoulder lest he take a dagger in the back. Two less years of life on a quiet farmstead, of being surrounded by good food and company, of being able to live like a man, instead of a stray mutt. It was possible, to be sure, but to Flynn, it wasn’t worth doing.

“There’s a rat around ‘ere, I can hear ‘im squeak,” Derral said, breaking the choking silence. “Come on, let’s tell ‘ousekeeping to set a new trap.”

Thank God for little thieves, Flynn thought as he listened for the two men’s footfalls to recede. The rats had returned the favor.

As quietly as he could, Flynn left the room and closed the door behind him, being sure to lock the door to maximize his time before discovery. The sewage in his boots was starting to ferment. If they couldn’t smell him coming, they could certainly do so now. Quickly he darted down the hall, taking cover in the door frames and wincing every time his loot jingled. At the other end, he saw one of the two guards, clad in a tunic bearing the scarlet and gold colors of the Mining Guild, leaning over a table as he searched for the elusive rodent, a thick wooden truncheon in hand. Flynn knew a scrap would alert the whole building to his presence. As he turned toward the cellar door he nearly collided with a servant girl. It was a small matter. A decade of thieving had taught Flynn that as long as you acted purposefully, few would question further,

least of all the servants.

“Morning, sir,” the girl said cheerfully. “Derral told me you’ve got a rat problem.”

Flynn straightened his posture and nodded assertively. “That’s right.”

The girl held up a small metal rat trap. “Don’t worry sir, I’ll take care of it. Where did you last see the little rascal?”

“I haven’t yet. Just heard the squeaks. I’d check the kitchen if I were you.”

“Ah, of course. Stay cool out there today, sir!”

“Certainly. Good day!”

The girl smiled cheerfully and headed to the kitchen, wherever that was. Stay cool out where? Flynn wondered. Then it dawned on him; the mattock! He still had it on his shoulder!

The girl must’ve assumed he worked at the quarry. Chuckling inwardly he quickly returned to the cellar and swiftly descended the steps. The cellar’s back door, his entrance and egress, was just ahead. He was finally home free!

“Oi!” Crack!

A club glanced off Flynn’s head, sending him to the ground in a cloud of spinning stars. Temporarily blinded and with a ringing din in his ears, he scrambled to get off the ground, but a swift kick from his assailant left him gasping for breath. As his vision cleared, he perceived a fuzzy red shape standing over him. A guard’s tunic, no doubt. Those close calls had all been for nothing.

“Well, well, what ‘ave we here?” the guard taunted. As he groped around the darkness for his knapsack, Flynn recognized the voice as Dirk, the junior of the two guards. He was well-kept and clean shaven per his occupation, but his dialect and the knife scars on his cheeks made clear he was little more than a thug in uniform.

Dirk grabbed Flynn by the collar and pinned him against some barrels. “Think you can sneak ‘round here and get away with it? What’s that?” Dirk snatched Flynn’s sack away and peeked inside. His eyes lit up with fiery greed as he observed the treasure. “Oh, ohohoho, yer dead!”

Dirk lunged at Flynn, but he was ready. He had drawn his knife while Dirk was distracted by the loot, and stabbed him in the arm for his trouble. Dirk grunted in pain and frustration, the distraction allowing Flynn to grab the end of his club and

pull him in. Flynn’s skull connected with the thug’s piggish nose and sent him sprawling. Flynn scrambled for his loot, tossing the mattock aside; it served its purpose and it would only weigh him down. He ran out the cellar door back into the sewer, but Dirk followed close behind. He swung Flynn’s mattock like a hatchet, but Flynn deftly avoided the blows. When Dirk swung downward and sunk the pick end into the mud, Flynn kept it down with his foot and struck Dirk again with the sack of loot. Flynn ran in a random direction, hoping to draw away the commotion. He hopped onto the ledge of the sewer tunnel and deftly slid along it, all the while ducking as Dirk swung the mattock, making sparks as the iron head struck the stone. They continued their deadly dance for at least twenty paces, likely more, until Dirk swept Flynn’s legs and sent him tumbling into the inky blackness. Dirk discarded the mattock and jumped in as well. The two men struggled, blinded by the dark and desperately fighting not only the other, but the chesthigh water of the deep sewer. Flynn fought tooth and nail, but Dirk was younger and stronger, even with his wound. Soon, he had the thief in a chokehold, while Flynn, with one hand still on the sack of loot, was powerless to stop him. He let the bag drop to the depths, along with any hope he had of leaving this life behind. He was back at square one, but no money in the world was worth it if you couldn’t live to see it spent. Flynn felt his grip on the world fade as the guard squeezed tighter.

“I’m... gonna snap yer ploughin’ neck,” Dirk threatened, breathlessly. “And then. . . I’m. . . gettin’... a promotion!”

Some... thing broke through the surface of the water, a black shape impossible to make out, causing Dirk to drop Flynn and turn around. Flynn heard Dirk shout, then a piercing high shriek. With a hiss, the great black form descended on Dirk. Flynn heard a loud, sickening crunch, and Dirk’s body went still. For a few moments nothing could be heard but the ripples caused by Flynn’s mortified trembling, and the slow, rumbling breathing of the thing that had killed Dirk. Flynn didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“This one, you gave him to us?” said a guttural voice, from at least a foot above Flynn. The thing was speaking to him. He felt its hot breath and smelled the fresh blood dripping from its mouth.

“Wh-what are you?”

“We watched you come, watched you feed us,” it rasped. “Now you have brought us more. Come, this is no place

for a man-thing.” A hairy, long-fingered hand grasped Flynn’s arm, causing him to jolt upright. The creature, who he still couldn’t see, swam back toward the island silently, pulling Flynn along like a dog would a stick. Flynn was paralyzed. Had he died in the sewer afterall, and was this his ferryman to the next life? If he was alive, he wasn’t going to struggle; that hadn’t worked for poor Dirk after all. When the water receded, the hand let go, and Flynn returned to his lantern by the door, turning around to catch a glimpse of the creature, but all he caught was a glimpse of its long, naked tail. That was no little thief.

“You are the first man-thing to feed us. They kill us, cage us, call us vermin. But you show us mercy. And you show us food.”Flynn noticed a rather large group of rats gathered on the shore, watching silently, listening to their speaker.

“Now go. We will remember. All of us.” Flynn stood there, dumbfounded, soaking wet and stinking of sewage, listening and nodding. He wasn’t dead after all. “Th- thank you. I am indebted to you.” He turned toward the exit, where a dim light guided him out of this horrible place. The rats on the shore parted to let him pass. An object sailed from the darkness onto the muddy shore. It was his sack of loot.

“We salute you, man-thing. From one thief to another.” The rats chittered in agreement. Flynn waved in the creature’s direction but it had already vanished with a splash. He departed and exited the sewer into the daylight, shaken but triumphant. A few months later, in a quaint seaside village a week’s ride from Ternyth, an older man bought himself a grand new house, stocked with the finest food and drink in the province, and furnished with luxuries that would make a baron blush. He was unknown to the locals, and suspiciously wealthy, but he was cordial and gregarious, and as a wealthy bachelor, a favorite with the village girls. The most peculiar thing about him, though, was his dining habits; after each of his parties, of which he had plenty, the man collected a few scraps of bread and meat and a bowl of milk, and would set them on the riverbank downstream, where the townsfolk would dump their refuse, to feed the local nest of rats. Most paid him no mind; his ritual kept the vermin away from their own larders, after all. When one did ask, however, he would only smile and chuckle; whatever his reason, it was between him and those little thieves.

Fort Jefforson, Dry Tortugas National Park

An imitation of “The Boatman” by Carolyn Forché

They travelled 200 miles, he said, to reach American soil in homemade motorboats with just enough space for twenty-one bodies and rough-hewn wooden oars. In the end it didn’t matter whether they floated atop the family truck, hulls crafted from tarps, or stolen fishing boats, all were at the mercy of the tides and great white sharks. They would float, he said, in hopes of political asylum. What lay waiting for them were seven tiny islands and what they left behind were the trials and tribulations of yesterday. Fort Jefferson, a tiny speck of white sand, welcomed them with open arms, orange juice, and hot soup. Only the chugs remain there now, he concludes, artifacts signifying a time of survival and great oppression. After his speech ended, my mother and I remained with the chug full of wood planks, gritty metal, and stories. They made it to freedom, yes, but where did they go? They lived through Castro, waves, wind, sickness, and trauma. I now find myself a passenger, laying witness to a journey that is not my own. But I promise, I will share your story, and stand on the shore to greet you.

What is your name?

Do you ever not use your real name when you place a carry out order at a restaurant, just to make it easier for other people?

Do you ever just spell your name instead of saying just to skip the blank stares?

Do you ever have people ask you what your English name is?

Do you ever feel uncomfortable telling someone what your name is because it’s just so different from others?

Do you ever have to come up with a lighthearted way for people to get your name right?

Do you ever have to say your name a handful of times just so others can get it?

Do you ever dread introducing yourself to others because you don’t know how to deal with the “wait what is your name?”

Lastly, do you ever feel like your name is a pretty simple name, so you get confused when people mispronounce or misspell it?

Hi! I am Wah, it is pronounced just like water but without the ter...

But sometimes, people call me Wu

I didn’t know some people drank “wuter”.

KATIE VOGLER

In Memory of

Against the Wind

Clinicality

The weights of the clouds above my head felt heavy on my thinly veiled eyelids Pressure was hidden behind them; unknowingly to the world, they were unaware.

Sunlight shimmered onto the hardened floor, tickling the whiskers of the cat! Blissful joy radiated off the animal, like an overflowing chocolate fountain.

I took my stressors and boxed them up in a thick plastic container. I took that box and burned it. Why would they tell me to burn it? They’re still there.

Tender arms with the weight of a thousand suns pushed me farther into the cushion of my bed. I wanted nothing more than to sleep away the crushing pain those tender arms caused.

Songs erupting from the concrete jungle outside like rhythmic incantations- they were happy. Incantations begged for an array of raw feelings: joy, anger, love, passion, even euphoria.

Stifled laughs echoed in the empty void. Nothing much was left in the shell of emotion.

Serious mood disorder characterized by loss of interest in activities and low motivation. Possible causes are altered activity of neural circuits in the brain.

Fervent passing of anxieties and stressors yanked my mind in every which way. It was impossible to focus on one sole thing, the world was spinning out of control.

You can get over it, it’s just a bad mood. Just get up and go outside. Just smile. Just smile. Just smile. It’ll make you happy.

More than 3 million cases every year, treated by medical professionals and resolves in months. Treatments usually consist of medication, therapy, or both.

Farther down the road, there was a small coffee shop; a familiar place that smelled of home. Sweet nothings and sugar-glazed strawberry danishes with cherries on top. Perfect.

There were smiles before me-- but they didn’t seem warm. They were cold. Judgemental masks smiled down on me, shaming me, judging me, why did I go outside.

Have you ever seen a trampled flower in a park and stopped to ponder the reality of life? Oh- that’s something my therapist told me to work on, changing my internal dialogue.

A fluffy cotton cloud masked the sun from above, leaving a warm glow to the city below. It was so warm, but yet so cold, cold clammy sweat dripping down my temples and into my eyes.

Spinning and spinning, it wouldn’t stop. Worries and fears becoming true before me. The cold worn wood of the chair under my hands offered no support for the weight of the fears.

“Get what you get and you don’t throw a fit” my mom would say to me time and time again. I never argued with her, mom was always right. Mom was never wrong. I’ll take what I get.

After years of what felt like being forced to open up like a flower being dissected They say it gets easier, but it never does, there are just days it seems less adamant.

The weights never left, Mom said I just got stronger and braver. Did I really get stronger or did I just learn how to live with the weights of the clouds?

Hold your head and count to four, take a deep breath, the thoughts are no more. They were still there. I just learned how to ground myself. I won’t spiral as I did before. . .

The sun was out, warming my face and kissing each forehead with tender love and hope. Flowers singing praises and affections to the fountain of youth, drinking in the rays.

Symptoms can develop at any age-- similar to panic disorder, OCD, and other types of anxiety. Chronic: can last for years or be lifelong; effects over 6.8 million adults (3.1% of US population).

I knew I should smile too, but moving my muscles seemed just too much. There was too much. What if they judged me for not smiling? I don’t want that. . . Even though it hurts, I’ll smile too.

Ink blots staring back at me. It looked like a wolf with two tiny caterpillars on its head. The caterpillars were fuzzy but the wolf was shaped by the two white spaces on the paper.

The land of sleep and every infinite wonder always calls for my return. There are days that I do. I follow its beckon and just sleep the days away; Constantly returning to that world of relief.

The strawberry and cherry danish bring a sense of joy as the flaky pastry melts in my mouth. It’s the simple things in life that you enjoy and takes happiness in. This was mine.

They say it’s okay to not be okay. But how can I believe that when I’m judged so much. Then again, maybe their judgment is like a paper cut, a temporary wound that can leave a scar.

I want to go out and see my friends; I’m too tired today to even think about it. I want to see my friends, but I just cant move from my blanketed prison.

When you mail a parcel to a friend and get the address wrong, it gets returned to the sender. Why did I have to be given something I can't return to sender?

Do you have any questions for the pharmacist? Thank you, we’ll see you again next month for your follow up appointment!

BARBARA KUZNETSOVA

Deliver Us From Evil

The monotonous bell rings across the yard, as Michael runs to the classroom. He is already late, but he couldn’t get out of bed. He missed the morning prayer even though he knew Priest Marcus would be furious. Cold raindrops touch his face, and he wipes them off with a sleeve of his black robe.

“What do you think you are doing, young man?”

The stern voice makes Michael immediately stop and lower his gaze, even though he doesn’t feel guilty. If he doesn’t pretend to look ashamed, the consequences might be much worse than a speech. He sees an old nun, hurrying to him with an indignant look on her face.

“How dare you run in God’s home?!” she says, her eyes flashing with resentment. “You are a future priest! Behave the way you should!”

“I am sorry,” Michael mumbles and tucks a strand of black hair behind his ear.

“And what is with your hair?” The nun suffocates with indignity. “How could you come out of your room looking like this? Your name, young man?”

“Michael Reid,” he answers reluctantly.

“I will report your behavior and appearance to Father Marcus. Young people are unbelievable these days!” He waits until the nun enters the church and starts running again. Gravel crunch under his shoes, and the wind robs him of his breath. When he reaches the classroom, there is chilled sweat on his forehead. Michael carefully opens the door and mumbles apologies to the nun that stands at the chalk desk, Elliot Damber. She smiles at him and waves to his desk. Other kids stare at him with cold gazes as he shuffles to his desk and sits down, breathing heavily. He looks at Sister Damber and immediately feels his cheeks turn red. She is the only person who is kind to him here. Michael silently promises himself not to be late again, even though he does it every time.

Michael takes out his notebook from under the desk, and his gaze drops at the empty seat near him. Julie hasn’t

shown again. It’s been a month now. Julie is a wonderful girl from whom Michael used to copy answers to tests, and Michael stood by her side. At first, it started as a mutually beneficial relationship–Michael protected Julie from other kids, and she let him copy her answers and notes–but later they became true friends who supported each other in any situation. She was his only friend here, apart from Sister Damber. Other seminary students whispered horrible things about her. Born from a prostitute without a father. Left on the doorstep of the church. Michael used to fight for Julie’s dignity with boys who called her the Antichrist and then spent long hours washing classrooms as a punishment. Sister Damber said kids can be cruel, even here, in “God’s home.” And now Julie is gone. And no one knows where.

Michael stares at the wide green board colored with white chalk but doesn’t understand anything written. His thoughts are far away from the stuffy, smelly room. He thinks about mountains and distant countries. Julie and Michael pinky swore that one day they would run away somewhere no one could find them. Could Julie have set off without him?

When the class is finished, Michael tucks his empty notebook under the table and gets up.

“Michael, can I speak with you?” He hears Sister Damber’s gentle voice.

He slowly nods and trudges to Sister Damber. “I noticed you are not looking well today, Michael.” She turns to him, her blue eyes full of empathy. “Has something happened?”

“I could not sleep,” Michael admits after long seconds of silence. “I was thinking.”

His gaze slips to the empty spot where Julie used to sit. Sister Damber looks in the same direction and sighs heavily.

“Police officers will find poor Julie. She must have run away.”

“She did not,” Michael replies. “She would not run away.”

“Michael,” Sister Damber looks directly into his eyes. “We all miss Julie. But the police claimed nothing was found in her room, which indicates she packed all her belongings. I just pray she will stay with God on her way to happiness.”

“She did not run away!” Michael shouts, his voice echoing from stone walls.

Sister Damber’s gaze becomes strict, and Michael knows he has crossed the line. He murmurs apologies until she stops frowning.

“You shall be hoping she will be found safe and unharmed. I will pray for her and you.”

Michael bites his lip and takes his leave. Even though he tries to resist it, anger rises in his chest, burning his esophagus and leaving a sour taste on his tongue. Julie did not run away! He knows it. They promised each other. She would not run away without him. Would she?

He passes other orphan kids, looking suspiciously at him with a frightened look on their faces, but he hardly even pays attention. The school shares the territory with two Catholic churches that have been an orphanage for kids for the past hundred years. The rules are strict: boys sleep at the male monastery, and girls at the female monastery, but all children share their space during the day in the classrooms. Even though the school is overcrowded with children, Michael still feels like he is the only person in the whole world. No one even looks at him, does not speak to him. With Julie, they explored almost every inch of this abbot, looking for mysteries and clues to support old legends. Now, when Julie is gone, it feels like an ordinary cold castle with winds rushing in the corridors.

Michael’s gaze stops in one corner, and he sees Julie and himself sitting on the ground. Tears run down her face as she hiccoughs, and Michael just sits beside her, rubbing his aching knuckles.

“Just one month,” he whispers to Julie. “Just one month, and we will run away. This nightmare will be over. We will not see them again. Ever.”

The illusion disappears in the thin fog, and Michael bites his lip and looks down. One month has passed, and everything is over. For Julie, at least.

When he hears a man’s voice behind the corner, his heart starts pacing. It is the detective’s voice, so low and mysterious that it sends goosebumps down his spine. Michael looks around and hides behind the wall as he hears Mother Superior’s voice too. He will be in trouble, but he cannot stop overhearing their conversation. He needs to know what they found out. He wants to know if they found Julie.

He strains his hearing, trying to catch words. Say anything about Julie. Please.

“Mother Superior, we have searched through the forest.” The detective’s voice is faint, and it costs Michael all his patience and strength to listen carefully. “And we found this near the Sugwas Pools in Northwest of Herefordshire.”

There is a long pause, and Michael even thinks about looking around the corner to see what the detective found.

“Is that... blood?” Mother Superior’s cold voice does not shake even for a second; it is as strict as it always is. Michael winces. He would not want to live under her supervision, though the abbot is hardly less stern: same empty walls, hollow rooms with two rigid beds. The atmosphere feels like a burden lying on the shoulders–maybe that is why all the students here always seem so sorrowful.

“Yes.” Another long pause follows this phrase. “We cannot be sure it is Miss More’s blood, but we also found a body in one of the lakes. The coroner is working on establishing the identity, but the prediction is that it is Miss Julie More.” Michael’s legs give out from beneath him, and he has to steady himself on the wall. Blood is pounding in his ears. He feels like the air is vibrating. His vision is blurry. It is not Julie. She cannot be dead. She cannot. Can she?

“What do you think you are doing?” Michael hears this question for the second time today.

He winces and turns around, and the nun that he saw this morning grabs his hand and drags him out. Michael’s eyes widen, and he tries to escape, but the nun clenches his arm even tighter. And what is the point? He would be found anyway. It would just be a postponement.

“Mother Superior, look at this wretch!” the nun says through her teeth tightly pressed together. “He was eavesdropping!”

“Is that true?” Mother Superior asks coldly.

“No,” Michael responds quickly.

“Liar!” The nun slaps him, and tears of offense crawl to his eyes. “God will punish you for your lie! Eternal agony and torment await liars!”

“Wait!” Michael hears Sister Damber’s kind voice. He almost cries out. She appears in front of them, her fingers playing with the rosary. “Mother Superior, Sister Miriam, detective.” She nods to everyone in order of power held inside the school. “I beg your forgiveness for Michael. His mind is poisoned with confusion and disbelief. He is grieving about

poor Julie missing. Please forgive him.”

Mother Superior looks at Michael, and he almost feels ice touching his skin.

“Apology accepted,” she replies after some time. “This time. The next time he shall be flogged.”

“Mother Superior!” The nun chokes with indignity. “Enough, Sister Miriam!” Mother Superior raises her voice.

“My apologies,” Sister Miriam says humbly. “Follow me, Michael,” Sister Damber whispers. Michael drags his feet, barely seeing anything because of a thick veil of tears covering his vision. Sister Damber leads him, firmly, but gently squeezing his shoulder. The gust of fresh air splashes him in the face, as they come out of the building and enter the yard. When wide trees swallow them, Sister Damber makes him sit on the bench. And Michael sobs, embarrassed of his weakness.

“She is dead, isn’t she?” Michael’s voice is trembling. “This cloth. . . it was her robe, wasn’t it?”

“Michael, we cannot be sure until officers identify the body,” Sister Damber whispers, and Michael starts shaking. “I will pray she finds peace.”

“Peace?” Michael turns to Sister Damber, his eyes shining with indignity. “You think Julie thinks about peace now? She is dead!”

“Our life does not end with our death, Michael.”

“So why do we have to go through life if it is that pointless?” Michael feels tears running down his cheeks. He would not be able to stop crying even if he tried.

“Michael, do not question God’s decisions!” Nun Damber says sternly, but then her eyes shine with gentleness again. “Is something bothering you?”

Michael’s shoulders lower, and he sits down on the ground, even though he knows Father Marcus will flog him for dirt on the robe.

“I know it was not an accident,” he whispers. “Someone has got to her. It is not an accident.”

“Michael, let the police deal with their job. You are just a scared soul trying to find reasons for tragic circumstances. I know you are grieving. We all are. Pray for God to guide you through this hard time.”

“There is no God in here!” Michael again feels anger rising inside him and he jumps to his legs. “Where was he when those awful kids called her the Antichrist? Where was he when someone murdered Julie? Where was he?”

“Do not question your God’s ways, Michael Reid.” Sister Damber’s voice turns strict and cold.

Silence falls on him like icy water, and chills spread over every inch of his skin. Sister Damber looks at him without blinking. She clenches her jaws, and her sight pierces his soul and leaves marks all over his body.

“I. . ." Michael looks apologetically at her and sits down. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize to me, Michael.” Sister Damber looks at him, but there is no kindness in her sight. Michael feels anxiety spreading in his chest. “You should apologize to God.”

Michael bites his lip and stares at the ground. How cruel is God if he has taken Julie? What if there is no God? What if Julie is gone forever? Tears touch his eyes again, and Michael blinks rapidly until they go away.

“I think I should confess,” Michael says after several minutes of complete silence.

“Do you want me to wait for you near the monastery?” Sister Damber helps him to get up.

“No, I am fine,” Michael mumbles and shakes the dirt off his robe.

He finds a rosary in the pocket of his robe and starts playing with it. Michael enjoys doing that, as others think he is praying and do not disturb him, leaving him time to think. It takes fifteen minutes for him to reach the monastery, and he stares at the limestone walls with ivy enveloping the monastery like a spider web. Heavy clouds cast dark shadows on the walls, and they creep to the ground, stretching out and trying to grab Michael. He winces and runs to the entrance.

The door opens with a loud, almost deafening creak, and Michael’s footsteps disrupt the silence. He enters the church and breathes in the musty smell of essential oils and candles. Michael swallows the sour saliva and enters a confessional. The smell of the old wood bypasses his lungs and punches him directly in the stomach. The darkness swallows him.

Michael clenches the rosary and takes a deep breath.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” he mumbles. “It

has been three days since my last confession.”

“What is torturing you, my son?” The priest’s voice is deep and stern.

“Julie and I wanted to run away from here. Is God punishing her for that? But why her? It was my idea. Why has God taken her, not me?”

“We do not have the wisdom to know the reason for God's decisions. You should not question God. There is a reason for everything.”

“Father, I am losing my faith.” Michael sighs deeply and clenches the rosary until his palms start aching. “The police have found Julie’s… body.” He closes his eyes. “She was so… innocent. Why would God take someone like her?”

“When you want to make a bouquet, you first collect the most beautiful flowers. It is a blessing that God has taken her when her soul was still pure. You should not cry over her, my son. She is with God now.”

Michael bites his lip, and the vivid taste of metallic fills his mouth.

“Everyone is going to be with God,” the priest continues. “Except for you, Michael.”

He winces and turns to the window covered with lattice. He can only see the silhouette. His eyes widen when he hears a loud crack, and the figure of the priest starts deforming. His head lengthens. Twisted horns grow through his forehead. Michael stares at the priest’s figure, screaming internally, but staying silent. Even if he wanted to, he could not move.

“You are going to Hell, Michael. You will rot and burn until Judgement Day.” Different voices simultaneously speak with him, causing Michael to cry out loud.

He jumps out of the confessional and opens the door to the priest’s booth without second thoughts. There is no one there. The seat is empty. - - -

“On this tragic day, we gathered to say goodbye to Julie More.” Mother Superior’s voice is cold; the tone of her voice is stern. “This girl was meek and humble, just as a Christian is supposed to be. May God rest her soul.”

“Amen,” the choir of different voices replies. Michael sits still, not raising his gaze. Now it is official. Julie is dead. She is not coming back.

A thick lump is stuck in Michael’s throat, preventing

him from taking deep breaths. He blinks rapidly and stares at the floor, clenching his fists so tightly that it leaves nail-shaped scars on his palms.

“Dark spirits are traveling through our school. Doubt is poisoning our minds,” Mother Superior continues. “The Beast is creeping into our minds, planting the seed of distrust. We all need to restore our faith in our Savior. The Vatican granted our school an opportunity to visit them to help restore our spirits. The visit will include the speech of the Pope. But now let’s pray for Julie More’s soul to find her peace.” - - -

Michael winces from the wind touching his robe, as he stands in the center of the gigantic square with other kids. They stare at the St. Peter’s Basilica with open mouths, and heavy, grey clouds run above their heads. Michael looks at the ground, not able to raise his head. He should not be here. He does not believe anymore.

Sister Miriam enthusiastically tells them the Vatican city’s history and mentions at least five dozen Popes. But Michael does not pay attention to her words. He is much busier with something else. Today he will run away. For himself. For Julie.

He stares at the church he has heard so much about and does not feel anything. Just sorrow that Julie cannot see it with him. Today they would become free, not having anything besides each other. But now he is alone, even without God guiding him. He is completely alone in this world.

When Sister Miriam invites them to enter the St. Peter’s Basilica, he pretends to tie his shoes, and his hand slides into some stranger’s purse. He grabs a wallet and quickly puts it under his robe. He will need money.

When he is ready to enter the church, he feels something holding him back. He cannot take a step. Or does not want to. He stares at the entrance and feels endless fear rising inside of him. There is no place for him in the church. He cannot enter. He watches everyone else effortlessly enter the St. Peter’s Basilica, fighting with the acute desire to turn back and run somewhere else, where no one can see him.

But then he sees cold red eyes staring at him from the darkness of the church. He sees fire and agony in this sight. All the tortures that wait for him deep down below. Unhuman eyes that possess no kindness, just cruelty and mercilessness.

It killed Julie, he feels it. He hears its voice inside his head. It laughs and tells him how exactly Julie died, how she suffered and screamed.

Michael feels tears running down his face when he turns away and runs as if someone is following him. And someone is; someone bodiless; someone merciless. Someone who has no God inside.

Passers-by look at him and dodge as he sprints down the street. He needs to find the train station. He needs to go somewhere to escape that gaze. He was right. The Devil was among them. He killed Julie. And now he is after Michael because he betrayed God. There is no one to protect him anymore. Cold sweat runs down his back, making the wind feel even colder. Those eyes will forever be with him, wherever he goes. Even now he feels them watching him, even though he is now far away from the St. Peter’s Basilica.

When he reaches the train station, he is completely out of his breath. With long pauses to breathe, he buys the cheapest ticket, not even looking at the destination. He needs to go somewhere, no matter where. Just somewhere.

The legs give out beneath Michael, and he falls on the ground, breathing heavily. People around step away, suspiciously looking at him. But Michael gasps, feeling his lungs burning. He needs some water, just a small swallow. Just a drop of water. Please. But no one steps closer than ten feet. Michaels stares at the station clock, counting minutes until the departure, and finally, a train arrives. He gives his ticket to the controller and almost falls inside, only walls supporting him. He finds an empty spot with torn pillows and falls. Finally, he is free. But he is no longer alone.

When the train departs, he sighs in relief and watches the station staying behind him. The lights stay long behind, and Michael sees the sky getting darker with every minute. But it should be like that. It is only three in the afternoon.

Michael leans on the window, but everything he sees is his reflection as if he is staring at a mirror. The horizon has already swallowed the sun, and the sky has turned black. Only a thin bright line in the West revives the memories of the past day.

Michael cannot sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Julie’s face and hears her cries for help. Michael wants to help her. He tries to grab Julie’s hand, but the distance between

them grows bigger. Every time Michael questions himself, trying to figure out if he could do something to save Julie. Nothing comes to his mind.

In the darkness, he sees bright-red eyes shining with cruelty and hatred. Those eyes. Michael momentarily turns away from the window, and his gaze drops to the old lady’s figure. He only sees deep wrinkles on her face and a book in her hands. The Bible. Michael has seen it so many times that he could tell it was the Bible with one look.

“Name a page, young man.” The old lady’s voice is deep and creaking.

Michael stares at her. She did not raise her gaze. How does she know he is here?

“One hundred and twenty,” he replies after a minute of silence.

The old lady flips pages and takes a deep breath.

“Therefore, I said to you that you will die in your sins; for unless you believe that I am He, you will die in your sins.” The old lady looks up, and Michael winces. Her eyes are milkywhite without pupils. In one second, she appears next to him. Michael recoils aside. She grabs his neck and squeezes.

“You shall die for all your sins!” She screeches, several voices coming out of her mouth. “He is already waiting for you. You shall burn until Judgement Day.”

Michael tries to unclench her fingers. His attempts are in vain. He can feel capillaries bursting in his eyes. His lips turn blue. He scratches her face and with all his strength hits her head on the window. And again. He repeats even when her arms let him go. Until he sees blood on the glass.

He falls on the floor and crawls away from the body. He cannot take his eyes away from the old lady and the wound on her head. His fingers caress his neck. He did not know the air was so fresh and vital until this moment.

“Michael, what have you done?” He hears Sister Damber’s voice.

Cold sweat drops from his forehead. No, it cannot be happening. They found him. They caught him.

Sister Damber stares at the old lady’s body with her mouth covered with her hand.

“Michael, what have you done?” she repeats louder this time.

“What are you doing here?” he asks with panicking

voice, waiting for other nuns to come in. But no one does.

“Michael!” Sister Damber gasps. “Have you killed this old lady?”

Michael stands up, still feeling his hands shaking. He sees her blind eyes and hears her screaming, even though her lips are now motionless forever.

“I know you will not believe me,” he says, not recognizing his voice. “She. . . tried to kill me. She was reading. And then. . . ”

“She was blind.”

Sister Damber faces the window, and her voice is cold and stern.

“How. . . How do you know?” Michael whispers.

“Therefore, I said to you that you will die in your sins; for unless you believe that I am He, you will die in your sins.”

She turns around. Michael lets go of a scream. Her eyes are bright-red.

Santa María, Madre de Dios

The archangel flies to the heavens and declares war on the restless the cathedrals burn from the hands of God Wax from the dying prayer candles weeps onto my fingers creating the aura of burning skin and all-time low’s Among the fire an angel is seen in stained glass watercolor with fire burning from its eyes

Sliding my fingers against the bumps on the engraved cement, each crack a delicate sculpture of faith Wax slowly sobbing onto the floor

You are Lucifer

The angels are moaning our names, hear them all in unison damning our sins

The angels will be left, weeping on the floor without a hand to hold

And God will have no rein

Elysian visions in the hopes of an afterlife

I digress, the angels from midsummer scream to the romans and declare the wrath of the fallen

Every time the castle burns, the morning sun hides in hell

The Holy Father’s wrath is praised as a holy sacrifice

The cathedral burns with submission from the pope

With angels in flames

The ghosts without wings Yet they praise God Singing his song, they cry

NINA DEBONI

The Saboteur

Her’s is a purse-sized habit hidden in her sleek pea-jacket, wedged between pocket and fabric.

Though out of sight, there is an itch, a small, wanting, and longing twitch that presses her to flip the switch, ditch the party’s pulling magnet.

The merry made then leaves with her, while she meets with the saboteur: the glowing stick, the purring spur held in a loved, cardboard packet.

Aunty Deb goes out for a smoke and someone makes a quiet joke about lungs and a breathing croak: gird another early casket.

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

Fantasma de Presser Hall

En el foso de la orquesta En la pared tu foto cuelga

La mía descansa en las teclas del piano En donde compongo tu sorpresa Y revivo con el paso del tiempo En la clase de canto Tu presencia ensopranada reina Mientras lees en Italiano Yo admiro tu cabello anaranjado Yo ya estoy muerto Y no puedes ver mi sufrimiento

Mi nombre escrito en un cartel

El tuyo regado en un laurel Dormitando en el cobertizo Escuchando tu dulce caminar Por los pasillos de Presser Hall En el conjunto de jazz Resplandeciente tu voz destaca La mía se esconde tras tu espalda delgada En donde solía poner mis brazos Pero ahora corres al verme llorar

En la oficina de arriba Tu figura incandescente ausente Mientras tocas clarinete Yo extraño besar tu rostro Soy un fantasma amistoso Pero no me has notado merodear

Mi corazón partido al anochecer

El tuyo no me quiso responder Sabiendo que te has ido Deseando verte regresar Por los pasillos de Presser Hall

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

Fantasma de Presser Hall (translated)

In the orchestra pit

On the wall your photo hangs Mine lays on the piano keys In where I compose your surprise And I revive as time goes by In choir class

Your soprano presence reigns While you read in Italian I admire your orange hair I'm already dead And you can't observe my pain

My name written on a poster Yours watered on a laurel Dozing in the barn Hearing your sweet prowl Down the corridors of Presser Hall

In jazz ensemble Shining bright your voice stands out Mine hides behind your skinny back In where I used to place my arms But now you run when you hear me cry

In the office upstairs

Your glowing soul is not there While you play clarinet I still miss kissing your face I'm a friendly ghost But you haven't noticed me across

My broken heart at dusk

Yours didn't want to answer my musk Knowing that you're gone Hoping to see you return Down the corridors of Presser Hall

WILLIAM BROWN

Elegy Written on the 200th Anniversary of Keats's Death

For Darlene

Unhappiness and sorrow, rouse the muse

In me: a friend is dead, and no excuse Can make me see that I am not the cause Of travesty. The thing that gave me pause

Last night was whether I should swallow pills, Enough that I would cease my worldly thrills To brave the undiscovered country. I Will say it plainly: I wanted to die,

But now, in place of me, a dear friend lies, And I am left to grapple with my vice Of melancholia. My own despair Has silenced my dear friend. What tangy air

Disintegrates her flesh? What unripe grave Must her unready, hasty corpse now brave In place of me? I grant that she was old, But my death, more than hers, has been foretold:

Since I discovered how my mother died, Her callous noose has traveled by my side And has awaited my return to her. Last night I thought that I could not endure

This desolation of my life much longer; Last night I thought that Keats had made me stronger, But now I know that poor Darlene had lent The life she had to me. I must repent

For what my mind has wrought: a graveyard now Possesses one more tombstone, with a bough Of one lone sycamore to grant it shade.

Oh, do not tempt me, ever-present noose! If I should perish, what would be the use Of Darlene’s sacrifice? If I am here And she is not, no matter my despair,

I must endure the sun’s imperial rays, And so, for Darlene’s sake, prolong my days, For when I wished to swallow all my pills, My body wracked with winter’s wicked chills,

Some force impelled me to retire to bed, As if Darlene had in my childhood said, As she had many times before, Now sleep. When I awoke I heard the news and wept

For Darlene’s final act of charity

After all the things she did for me: She watched my brother and I as we played, Our reckless youth through sanguine acts displayed:

The football we would play in our backyard, The fights we needed to be torn apart From. Most of all, though, she relaxed with us: She occupied our minds with dominoes,

And told us of her family as we Would place those ivory tiles in an array Of branches not unlike her family tree, Abundant and familiar in their way:

There is her granddaughter, who taught me how To write my stories, in fifth grade, about The goblins and adventurers that filled My mind, and taught me how to world-build;

There is her grandson, one of many, who Played football for Northwestern, and who knew The rules of chess, and played me when we met; There are three sons, whose stories I forget,

But who, when I decided I should call To ask about the wake and funeral,

Recalled my name, and told me that Darlene Had thought of me as one of her grandchildren;

And so, I guess, I too, in my lament Remain a broken kindred monument To her, and how I wasted her last days. I cannot offer anything but praise

For her. It isn’t right that she should give Her life for someone who struggles to live Beyond the confines of his mind’s lament. When I consider how my years were spent

I cannot help but think on how I was, Before this bitter morning, dangerous, And think on how my logical response Should be to give in now to what I want:

To sleep, perchance to dream. But no! My friend Has given life so I may comprehend How fleeting life is. I must live, for now I must tend to that lonely sycamore’s bough

And so preserve whatever of Darlene Remains, and make her sacrifice now seem As though it was worthwhile. I must live As long as my body has breath to give.

And you, Darlene, now dwell amongst the grass, Where you remain until all things shall pass. Know this: that you and Keats are now compact In our imagination, and in fact,

For what is Earth but one enormous tomb Where everything that perishes finds room Together for their bones to rest, as you And Adonais, for all time, now do.

I offer up this verse to you. It’s poor; I cannot make you Genius of the shore, But still, I offer this, in hopes that you May still persist, through this poor verse and through

The life I live that you have given me. I hope that in due time I’ll learn to see My life as meaningful, like yours. I’ll make This bargain worth it, for your memory’s sake.

I hope I have not somewhat loudly swept The string; I hope that I have fully wept And fully strummed as hard as I could play. Now muse, depart me. Leave me for today.

All is still disarrayed within my mind With you still here, and Darlene in the ground, For you bring melancholia, and I Must now, for Darlene’s sake, refuse to die.

The Bodies Between Us

There were too many bodies that had fallen to the floor bleeding because of the bow and arrows now flung across the inn’s bed sheets. Piala removed her mask and sat down in the obligatory uncomfortable chair that all shady inns seemed to possess, letting out a dramatic groan at finally being able to give her feet a break.

Although, as she stared down at the wound in her chest that was bleeding profusely over her dark, skin-tight outfit, she figured that maybe that might also have something to do with her discomfort. The life of a professional hitman on the continent of Neti was a dangerous trade for all the usual reasons one would expect, and one very specific reason one would not.

As of that day, Piala had finally killed all of her fellow assassins but one (and that was only because she owed Tamara a debt from a time now long past). The “hitman’s hitman” had become a boogeyman to be feared among the most dangerous profession there was, and Piala had become rather infamous among the common people as well, who only spread the rumors farther and farther.

It was no wonder those in the killing trade were becoming normal bodyguards or hired thugs to avoid her supposed wrath.

Piala had watched the wound in her chest go from immediate death sentence to large uncomfortable gash over the course of the last half hour, and not for the first time over the past two centuries, she cursed Death.

The only soul-carriers Piala saw anymore were normal reapers, always giving her the side-eye whenever she would wait for them to show up and take their newest charge away. The one who’d been saddled with her latest victim had given the dramatically pulsating wound in Piala’s chest a hard look before nodding and taking the soul to Death’s door and beyond.

“I did it,” Piala murmured to the room at large. “I killed them all, and Tamara and I aren’t gonna pull the there can be only one bullshit, so you can come yell at me whenever!” Her voice increased in volume dramatically over the course of the outburst,

and as it rang out in the silence, she still half expected to hear the voice of the calm mage who’d stolen her heart respond, even after two hundred years of nothing. She’d killed the ones who brought death to the continent, helped usher in a time of peace and prosperity, and given Death a chance to slack off a bit in the “dealing with murder” department.

Death had never liked when Piala tried to play God with his job.

When no one replied, Piala sank further into the chair. It had been a long night in far too long of a life, and there was no one to commiserate with but herself. Carefully, she shucked off her upper layers, and grabbed the last roll of bandages from her belt pouch before getting to work slowly patching herself up.

“You are still infuriating.” A female voice interrupted Piala’s meticulous process, but years of training had taught her better than to show surprise at the arrival of unexpected visitors. She finished securing the bandage to itself before leaning back in a display of nonchalance, raising an eyebrow at the tall figure who now stood in front of her.

The woman had to be at least six feet tall, with dirt brown eyes and hair as black as the cloak she was wearing over an admittedly practical outfit. It was the reaper from Piala’s most recent killing, but as she took a closer look, Piala noticed the hint of a purple glow emanating from the woman’s hands, the mark of someone (or something) with unbelievably powerful magic.

No reaper was able to use such magic.

On any other day, Piala would have grinned and made a smart-ass comment, but now? Now there was just a bonecrushing relief and happiness.

“I like the new look,” she said, more honest than she’d anticipated being. “It suits.”

Death’s eyes flickered up and down Piala’s form, and even though she was largely exposed, she couldn’t say she minded the cursory gesture after this long without any kind of attention. There were no words spoken, just silent assessment before Death looked back at Piala’s face (Death had always found it unnerving how close in shade their eyes were, but Piala had always enjoyed the resemblance).

“You just can’t quit, can you?” Death’s eyes flashed when their gazes met. “Even after a literal murder spree, you just keep going.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just. . . clean yourself up like nothing happened. Like none of it mattered. Like you could do it again tomorrow and feel no different.”

Piala’s eyes narrowed. “You’re one to talk. You left me here like it didn’t matter.”

“And whose fault is that?” There was too much tension and anger wrapped in those five words for someone who dealt with the emotions of the dying on the regular to be normally affected by, but Piala’s rage soared anyway.

“I stayed. Me. Not you. I would never have given you up.”

“I know.” Death’s face was only truth and. . . pain? What did she have to be sad about? Death had broken it off back when times were good, when living and dying existed in harmony in the best way. It had been the day after a particularly good hunt, and Piala had waited for Death with unrestrained glee in a job well done, only to have Death look her in the eyes and say we’re done.

“I watched you every day, Piala. You did your job, you got paid, repeat. I never thought it was more than that for you.” Death paused for a moment. “And then you enjoyed it.” Piala opened her mouth to argue, but Death went on: “You murdered people, sometimes people who were good, and you delivered them like no one mattered but me.”

“No one does matter to me but you.” Piala couldn’t believe Death could be this obtuse. “Who else is left after all these years anyway?”

“It just proves,” Death continued like Piala hadn’t spoken, “that I should never have meddled with humans. You killed with no remorse because you thought it made me happy. And now you kill the others who kill because you want to be the only one that can give me that ‘happiness.’ Tell me it’s not true.”

Piala had never lied to Death before, and she wouldn’t now. She remained silent, and Death nodded in confirmation.

“That’s what I thought.” Death sighed, bending down to press a kiss to Piala’s forehead. Piala’s hand reached out to clutch Death’s cloak, and Death’s lips remained; they were a steady, lingering presence, a familiar gesture that had been sorely missed. “I never wanted you to kill for me.”

“You don’t think I would have stopped?” Piala’s voice shook, the pain in her chest more than just the bleeding that was now starting to soak through the bandages a bit. “Not even for you?”

Death laughed, a small, humorless thing, and pulled away, even if Piala didn’t let her get far. “You did all of this just to get me to come back. I think you can answer your own question.”

“You always told me you were fine with my work,” Piala snarled. “You don’t get to act all high and mighty.”

“I didn’t expect you to take pleasure in killing innocents!” Death yelled, making the room shake. She closed her eyes, and when the rumbling died down, Piala saw the regret in them when they opened again. “That was my mistake. Now we both have to live with the consequences of our actions. You don’t get to join me in the afterlife, and I will not keep coming back to you.”

Death yanked away more ferociously this time, loosening Piala’s grip enough that she had to let go. Piala was stunned, almost unable to say anything as Death turned to leave, but she croaked out, “So should I still call you Kieran when I’m screaming into the void at you?”

Death peered back over her shoulder, and Piala swore she could see the hint of a sad smile there. “It’s been Kendra for about a century now. Take care of yourself, Piala.”

Death left through the door and vanished, and the room was silent in her wake.

SARAH BUCHMANN

Sandgate

Normal Theater

Thank You for Your Time

The butterfly on my wrist is always you “Drawn by my best friend,” the same words I still say You laughed that morning I couldn’t parallel park A story I still tell, even when the memory of your laugh has faded Showed me that coffee is supposed to be 3 creams, 2 sugars Ran away from assemblies because that’s what high school kids do

Went to college next to each other because life without each other was no life at all But then the leaves fell - a loss of life The butterfly on my wrist faded I learned how to park - even up a hill Realized I liked tea better than coffee You realized that the seasons change every year And maybe I wasn’t in this one I miss you. Thank you for the time.

SARAH BUCHMANN

confessions at a casket.

am i allowed to grieve you? we were not family, we were not married, we were not bound by brotherhood or bandmates or bonded at the hip like so many who waited to give you one last farewell. but we had moments together and i think back to when we laughed so hard that we cried, driving without keys, making margaritas at midnight and tripping over the tequila bottles and sticky puddles of lime and sugar.

am i allowed to stand at your side, notice that you hadn’t shaved in a while but maybe the blade you used for that was also your very own murder weapon? i know i saw you standing on a corner; i should have said hello but i was in such a hurry that it wasn’t my fault for not stopping and not stopping you.

your glasses are crooked and i want to fix them, but is it my place? i hear you laughing but your lips are curled and maybe you’ll jump up and tell us it was all a joke, we were punk’d, ashton kutcher is just behind this curtain over here. am i allowed to cry the way i do? is this too much? there are others who lost more so maybe my being here is unreasonable, unwelcome.

i am not your mother, your wife, your sister, your niece – i am barely an acquaintance to many of those here. so do i have this right to grieve?

Decay

The blurry and incoherent foundation of an old schoolhouse gave faithless instability. My footing was not guaranteed from the skeleton floorboards left from years before.

Dry fingers caressed the plexiglass of the sky, leaving streaks of damp, rotted fingerprints trailing

A shadow of a figure with no head blocked the illumination of the wet pavement--a figure, with no head.

Concrete plateaus caked in a dangerous haze. Giants in the sky looked down in disgust. Disfigured joints and buckled knees breaking through the mystery of the concrete garden. Between the waves of the lapping sea, a face looked out and onto me: a clown? A shark?

Either way, clinging to the vertical lines of the horizon: the power of the inky blue ocean. A figure sat on an old wooden bench, all alone in the park at night,

A smile caressing their face with glowing eyes: are you a real or my imagination?

The tender warmth of the oncoming day touched the fog in the sky with passionate indifference. Playful birds swooping through the sky, leave the primal land below untouched!

The desire for the small to be strong! Strength in numbers, like a colony of minions following blindly. The pull of sulfur from the burning embers beckons for them to follow, follow into the fire. There was truly no course for where the monster was headed, strictly eviscerating across the barren land, Leaving everything in its trail crushed and destroyed, its head up in the clouds.

PAIGE MCLAUGHLIN

Six-Hundred and Thirty-Nine Days Away

From the short story collection “The Bittersweet of a Soul,” a prequel to the “Radiation” series

June 7, 2177

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Dear Yellow, I’m writing this letter less than an hour since I last saw your face. If you see the remnants of old tears on the paper, that means I started crying again somewhere in the process. The only thing I’ve done for the army so far is sit on a train, and already I have to write [LOCATION ENCRYPTED] as a secret code so they know to send this letter home to you. Seems like they should come up with an alternative for written letters, huh?

I can still see Flux City if I look out the window. After being stuck in the slums forever, I sometimes forget why they call it “the city of lights,” but out here? I get it, Lucas. Aliens can probably see this shit from other planets.

I told you I’d write every day, and I meant it (you should know you’ll probably be privy to the occasional addled ramblings of a late-night brain, however). Even if it’s just a few words, you’ll get something.

Hopefully they send these to you within a reasonable time frame; I won’t forget about you out here, so don’t you dare think I will.

...We said everything else this morning, so I’ll end this one here. Take your meds, eat a sandwich, and don’t let dad push you around too much, okay? Three years from today I’ll be on my way home.

Maybe you’ll be taller than me by then, who knows? Just hang in there. You’re not allowed to up and vanish without me there to vanish with you.

Your favorite brother, Shane

November 10, 2177

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Yellow, Happy birthday! You can’t hear them, but a few of my buds here are wishing you a good one too. God, you’re fifteen already, how did you do that so fast? I remember when you were born. I was the first one to hold you, did you know that? I was just sitting in a chair outside the room, waiting to be told I could come in, and then the nurse just… brought you out to see me. I still remember how excited I was when she told me “he just couldn’t wait one more minute to see his big brother.”

I barely knew what gentle was back then, but I remember I was ridiculously gentle with you that day. I had those tiny, awkward hands that five-year-olds are cursed with, but Lucas, buddy, your hands were small. I felt like a giant for the first time ever (and then stayed a giant for the rest of our lives; have you hit a growth spurt yet? I’m still betting on 6’1” for you). I think the nurse was a little bit worried about how I would react, but when you made all those happy noises that babies make, she must have been fine because I sat there with you for ages.

I’m sorry mom never got to hold you. I think even if you wouldn’t remember it, some part of you would have known in your bones, even now, that she loved you desperately. She always wanted to have two kids, and even if dad only wanted to deal with one, he did it for her. I know I’ve probably never told you this, but as much as I want mom back, I would pick you over her every time. There’s no contest. You’re my favorite and always will be.

I wish I was there to hug you tight right now. First thing when I get back I’m gonna hold on and not let go for a long time. Nothing short of the most dramatic reunion for us.

I love you so much, Lucas. Have a slice of cake for me, okay?

Hopefully I’m still your favorite too, Shane

January 16, 2178

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION

ENCRYPTED]

Yellowest of the Yellows, Remember when I said winter was my favorite season?

I’m rescinding that. Fuck winter. The windchill is in the negative double digits today. Polar bears are probably sitting by fires to keep warm, that’s how ridiculous this is. I hope your lungs aren’t protesting the cold too much; are your meds still working okay? I know this is better on them than the humid summers, but I never know what’ll set your body off.

There’s no tree cover here. None. I’m sitting here huddled up against Tom’s back so he can be a wind buffer while I write this to you. The slums may be a shithole, but at least we had walls. And George outside somewhere no matter the weather with his hot sandwich truck. Has he been around the house lately? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to make our usual trek through the streets to find him in this weather. I got a craving for one of his ginormous, gooey hot ham n’ cheeses the other day and it hasn’t gone away. My stomach’s making whale noises just thinking about it.

I bet he’d give you one for free if you asked. You were always his favorite, getting the free fries and the old pre-made stuff that no one else wanted. Eat it on my behalf so I can enjoy it vicariously through you; I’ll eat my unspecified-meat jerky and pretend it’s an adequate substitute for the closest thing to comfort food I’ve ever had.

I’m gonna give Tom a chance to hide behind me for a while. I hope you’re doing okay and staying warm.

With shaky hands, Shane

April 2, 2178

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED] Yellow,

Y’know, I just thought of something today. I don’t think I’ve ever asked you your favorite shade of yellow. Are you more of a lemon-y yellow kind of guy? I think I’m on the goldenrod bandwagon myself, the duskier yellows have always appealed to me.

I bet you’re into the brighter ones, though. After all, I’ve never heard of any other soulcasters with a yellow soul (also, relax, I wouldn’t be mentioning your “other” status so cavalierly if they actually read our outgoing mail, no need to worry). How has that been going, by the way? I have exactly zero ideas on how one becomes… proficient at manifesting their soul, but you seemed to be getting a pretty good grasp on it when I left. I’ve

always wondered what it feels like for you. Sometimes it’s hard to believe the essence of you fits into that skinny body of yours. It’s always so potent when it comes out; I don’t know how it doesn’t burn or something.

Remember when we went out to the edges of the city because you wanted to show me what you could do? We hid in one of those run-down houses and you just went for it? Maybe it didn’t seem like much at the time, but I remember thinking that your yellow shone so bright that day, Lucas.

Even the sun dared not try and outdo your brilliance. I don’t think there was another day that I actually saw you scared of me; you were standing there, glowing, shaking like a leaf, like I could somehow hate you after practically raising you myself and loving all that you are.

I hope life hasn’t taken that spark away from you in my absence. Keep glowing; the world’s a dark enough place as-is without your light going out too.

I bet your favorite yellow is banana, Shane

June 1, 2178

To be de--deaatebeered: Lucas Caroway @ [LocatION ENYPteD]

Yelo, ‘M very drunk. We found a bar. Don’ rememmberr how. But isss greeeeeaaaaaat Hope yer also getin’ lit Butactually don do it I gotta get lit wih u Bigg broter privel-prevel-pri- rights an’ all that Y is teh room upsiddd own Shabe

June 2, 2178

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Yellow, ...I don’t know if you got a letter from me yesterday. I’m gonna go try to sleep off one hell of a hangover. Maybe the inevitability of doing pushups with a migraine here in two hours will keep me sober forever from now on. I hope you have more water on hand than I did.

I’ll never understand how dad drinks so much,

December 25, 2178

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Yellow, Happy holidays from the middle of nowhere! Seriously, I’ve lost track of where we are at this point. As much as I’m glad it’s not freezing wherever I’ve ended up, I’ll admit that I’m a tad bit nostalgic for a white Christmas that we never had. Grey Christmas was more like it, with all the slush and gross dampness.

Do you think the soulcasters in the city have like a secret light festival for the holidays that none of us normal folk are privileged to know about? If they’re all as lantern-like as you, it wouldn’t surprise me. You should definitely go if it’s real and not just a figment of my imagination.

It’s pretty quiet here today. Tom got a couple glasses of mulled cider from a town we passed through last night, and we’ve been savoring it throughout the morning. I think we’re all just missing home a little bit extra right now. I know I do. I miss the tiny room with a twin-sized bed for each of us, I miss hearing your raspy breathing while we sleep. I still listen for it sometimes; I wake up and instead of hearing you, I hear everything from ungodly snores to barely anything at all. Tom sleeps so quietly that it kind of freaks me out a bit. I miss listening to your grumpy rumbling in the mornings when you get ready for life. Late night and morning were the only “quiet times” in the house, but it was never quiet, you know? Sometimes out here it’s almost eerily silent, especially if we’re not walking somewhere. It’s almost like we’re just pod people, not really living anymore, just waiting until we go back to it and hoping we remember how to take up space in the world. Most days I barely even know what we’re looking for, just that I’ve been moving without really registering where I’ve been.

Sorry. I know this is kind of ending on a downer note, but this is stupid. I never should have signed up for this. I know we needed the money for your meds and to keep any semblance of warmth in the house, but God, I should have found another way to do it. I’m never alone out here, but it’s still always so damn lonely.

Maybe it’s just the homesickness talking, but I don’t

think so. I think I should have stayed with you. Maybe we could have been out of that tiny bedroom by now, had our own place away from dad. Maybe we could have started really saving to get you better treatment, maybe you could have gone to high school properly.

I hate being poor. I hate it even more because it makes the “what ifs” in life all the more plausible. I know this was our best option, I know it was. But I stand here every day, trying to get some semblance of riches just to keep living our poor existence and keep you somewhat healthy, and think about how it may never make a damn bit of difference.

I miss you. I wish I was drinking shitty mulled cider with you instead of Tom. I wish you could write back. Sometimes I think I’m starting to forget what your voice sounds like.

Shane

March 17, 2179

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Yellow, We’re within the orbit of Flux City right now! I can’t see the outline of the city from here, but I can see the light emanating from it when it gets dark! It’s so faint in the distance, but I know it’s there. I still have about a year and a quarter to go, but you know what? Seeing home that close just makes it seem like time’ll fly by. We’re moving quite a bit today, so I’ll stop here for now, but maybe in a few days I’ll be able to joke about seeing our house from here! Do you think George would be willing to drive his sandwich truck all the way here?

Shane

July 30, 2179

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Yellow, This might be the last time you get a decently-sized letter for a while. I’ll still write every day, but the higher-ups seem more anxious than usual. They’re keeping us on the move and we don’t stop for very long. I rolled my ankle pretty badly a couple of days back, and it’s stabilized enough, but all this walking’s really taking a toll on me. Tom’s been helping out where he can, but I’m doing my best to not be dead weight. I really wish we had horses, but only the medical staff get them. Cars would be better, but I guess they’re too conspicuous and gas-guzzling to

bring with us. I should probably ask more questions about why our dumb military is the way it is.

Do your shitty lungs ever make you feel like you can’t carry your body properly? With all the noise they make sometimes, it’s gotta hurt just to stand up. I can’t imagine. Even when you’re sleeping they sound pained. I don’t really want to imagine it, honestly. You’re definitely stronger than me if you’ve lived with that kind of hurt since you were old enough to know what hurt was. I’ve only had a bad ankle for two days and I can’t stop bitching about it. Maybe you should get a horse to carry you around. Just don’t tell dad. Or better yet, tell dad, ride away from our house triumphantly into the sunset, and change the “home” address where I have these sent so I can still talk to you. That’s the better plan.

See you on the flip side, Lucas. Hopefully the next long letter will have a shit-ton of stuff to tell you.

Name your horse something badass, Shane

September 2, 2179

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Lucas, I’ve never been scared out here before. Not really. ...But I am now. People are getting picked off and no one knows how it’s happening. I have never been more glad that you are far, far away from me. Shane

September 19, 2179

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ [LOCATION ENCRYPTED]

Lucas, I’m gonna come back to you, okay? I’m not sure if I needed to say that more for you or more for me. But I’m gonna come back. Please still be alive and glowing and yellow when I get home.

I love you, Shane

October 4, 2179

To be delivered to: Lucas Caroway @ 217 Shim St, Apt. 507, Southern Flux Slums Dear Lucas Caroway, On behalf of the Flux City Military Forces, it is with great

sorrow and remorse that we write to inform you that Corporal Shane Caroway has been killed in action as of October 2, 2179. Our recovery teams have not yet found the body, but his personal belongings and earnings will all be sent to your residence and bank account as soon as possible. Any update on the return of your brother’s body will be mailed to you immediately. If you have any questions or are in need of more information, please visit the FCMF Military offices in the Eastern Slums.

We are truly sorry for your loss.

Sincerely,

Major Mark Branag

EMILE OTTINGER

whatever those do.

Someone had scattered my things outside— suitcases of nonperishables-turned petals by the wayside, dried tangerines strewn in a yard—yet you signed me not to worry.

We had this house, with its four mush corners edging in. Here was our housewarming party, where the men in our field formed a procession just to explain in obscurer and obscurer language what we already knew:

we shouldn’t feel secure, and should challenge our ambition, check our egos before the wax-wings that some office had assigned us could melt under the heat of their downturned thumbs.

I couldn’t see you straight. I never can while sleeping, but I felt the roll of your eyes

once I snapped to in a stairwell awake, alive, in awe, and rising. I only stopped short when I felt new weight from above. Old Uncle Eli, who doesn’t exist, stretched down from higher vantage to touch my head. In one smooth, faux-careless sweep, he reduced me with the placement of a whiskey glass.

He said, “This is the way to drink it!” and I, bitterly relenting and thumbprint-hot, rolled my eyes while his stiff arm waited. My neck inched inward, taut with nerve. Until, never bowing, you appeared again, sunk half your height to reach my head, plucked the glass, quaffed most in a fell gorging, and placed

I dreamed again we were scientists

the rest in a palm: unrecognizable, turning ripe, my palm, so I should drink my way. It didn’t burn when I swallowed though I was very much on fire. Memory felt splendid recalling burnpile, like tapestry, a peacock love and shameless lore crisped to even more grit waschased up a thread and scorched.

My head snapped back forward. I rose a little more, liquefied in personhood. Half your height, by your side, I was sure I could knock the moon and still set my teeth on hors d’oeuvres, let them come easy. I thought I was asleep as that house burned. We left it for the city, built our names out of granite-sand gathered in reverse. Necessity was grand only upon its loss as we watched their language travel upward to the sky in smoke, and a stolen ice cream cone found my hands.

While one line dripped to my chin, I asked if you wanted the rest.

“Yes,” you said. “Badly.” If not for every time you’ve said my name, tangerine-sweet at your fingertips, vanilla spilling from your mouth, I would have sworn it was the first time I heard you speak out loud.

WILLIAM BROWN

Instructions on How to Reach For Home

I can’t get there, But I almost can. To try, go two hours north And fourteen years into the past.

I won’t get there, but I still can try. Go well past the hospital, Past the therapy and meds,

And take exit 25 off of I-90. I can almost get there, but I still fall short. Turn left and enter the mind of a seven-year-old.

Climb through my house’s door. Prepare for bedtime. Ascend the stairs. I can’t get there, but I almost can;

I know what’s coming, but I still need hope. Enter the door on the left After the lights turn off,

Where I greedily slumber (I can’t quite reach her, but I have to try) Above the laundry room from whose

Door frame my mother sways. My mother—I can’t—I tried— Mother—I almost can—forgive me—my mother—

SARAH BUCHMANN

ocean.

i am in love with the ocean he is great and vast and while i am scared, i know that he will protect me

i am in love with the ocean knowing i can dive as far as i want, i will never reach the bottom

i am in love with the ocean even when i learn about the monsters deep beneath his murky waters

i am in love with the ocean and every shade of blue and green and black he gives me colors to love

i am in love with the ocean it’s hard not to be, when he is everywhere encompassing my world

i am in love with the ocean how he can be calm one moment, and a hurricane the next. my love

i am in love with the ocean when he waves at me and brushes the sand my hands are bound and tide

i am in love with the ocean i can stand knee deep, and yet he still pulls me further into him

i am in love with the ocean i will never be free of this, will i? he is boundless, all around me

i am in love with the ocean but i have grown tired of swimming how long until i drown?

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

El Anatema

Son las cuatro de la mañana, y relato este testimonio sólo para recordar la peor noche que he tenido en mi vida. Me encuentro en mi habitación, a solas, y con la puerta trancada. El silencio yace en la sala, pero el terror reina alrededor de mi cama.

Hace unas horas, estuve con Seranil y Edsel conversando en el parque al lado de mi casa. Bebimos cervezas, y recordamos nuestros años en la academia, mientras que la oscuridad y la desolación cubrían nuestro ambiente. Pero, alrededor de medianoche, Edsel partió para una fiesta en el bar, y quedamos solos Seranil y yo. Entonces, ambos decidimos volver al apartamento y subimos a la terraza, en la azotea. Hace ya tres años que vivo por mi cuenta, pero igual visito a mis padres una vez a las quinientas. Yo tengo lo básico: una habitación, un baño, una cocina, y una sala. Seranil se está quedando conmigo por el fin de semana, en el sillón de la sala, pero esta va a ser la última vez que viene.

Los dos miramos sentados las estrellas consteladas, mientras comíamos jamonadas, y seguíamos hablando de nuestra infancia. Uno de nuestros temas de conversación fue nuestro amor por el arte dramático. Tanto era nuestra pasión que, cuando empezamos a hablar de Shakespeare, el famoso dramaturgo Inglés, Seranil se levantó de la silla y me dijo: “Compadre, sostén mi jamonada, que tengo que actuar”

Yo, confundido, le dije: "Oye aguanta, ¿Qué vas a actuar? Son un cuarto para la una, hombre. ¡No me vengas con vainas ahora!"

"No te preocupes, hermano" -me dijo- "Es uno de mis monólogos favoritos: El magnífico Hamlet. Tú quédate sentadito nomas, disfruta un poco de arte. La inspiración del momento debe ser aprovechada, y, sin duda, esta noche callada y misteriosa es el mejor escenario para la obra".

"Ah bueno, ¡Pero ojo que no me hagas mucha bulla! Dale, a ver", le dije.

Seranil comenzó su interpretación, lentamente, diciendo cosas como: “Ser o no ser, morir es dormir. La muerte es un sueño, y, la muerte es...¿Sabes que? ¡Clavarse una daga! Clavate una daga, en el corazón, y termina con tu vida. ¡Matate!”

Al principio pensé que todo era parte del guión, pero, en un momento, él se trepó al borde de la terraza, ¡Y casi se tira! ¡Puso su pierna para afuera! Si yo no lo hubiera evitado, se hubiera matado.

"¡Oye, huevón!!- Le decía - ¿Qué chucha estás haciendo?¡No seas loco! ¡¡Salte de ahí que te vas a suicidar!!". Seranil sólo me miraba, estático desde la baranda, y me decía:

"Ven conmigo, Chicho...Te estamos esperando. Acompáñame al otro lado, ya que esto es lo que has estado esperando. No tengas miedo, soy yo".

"Tú no eres Seranil...y no sé si seas Hamlet...¿Quién eres?", le decía "Jajaja ¿No lo sabes? Nos conocimos hace algunos meses...tú sabes bien quién soy yo. No te puedo decir mi nombre, porque claramente estaría mintiendo. ¿Por qué me preguntas? Tú sabes muy bien con quién estás hablando".

La voz de Seranil era muy aguda y chillona. Sus ojos me miraban fijamente, y su postura se alteraba a medida que caminaba. Lo que más recuerdo, era su sonrisa macabra. Tuve que darme cuenta que su teatro había ido muy lejos. Ya no sabía si Seranil estaba loco, o si se había metido demasiado en el personaje, o si algún espíritu había tomado ventaja de la situación.

Esa cosa no era Seranil. Sea lo que fuese, no puedo estar seguro porque me estoy olvidando, y no quiero olvidarme. Yo grabé un video en el instante que vi a Seranil poseído, pero el video desapareció de forma incomprensiva. Todo lo que pasó, sólo queda ahora en mi memoria. Seranil, cuando le empecé a rezar el Padre Nuestro, se arrodilló, y esta parte Seranil si la recuerda. Según él, no veía nada, como que le había dejado su cuerpo a otra persona, a otra cosa. Yo empecé a rezar, y sonó la voz de Seranil, que me decía: “¡Ayuda!”. Sin duda, él estaba sufriendo por dentro. ¡Hay Dios! Yo gritaba: “¡Padre Nuestro, Padre Nuestro!”, y, esa cosa, seguía diciendo que me matase. Cuando cogí mi celular para llamar a Edsel, porque Seranil me estaba poniendo nervioso (aunque no era Seranil), ese demonio me dijo: “Ustedes...se fijan en sus celulares. Se esconden en la tecnología, en las drogas, en la música....y creen

que todo eso los salvará. Te conozco, Chicho. Estás lleno de ira, tienes temor¿Pero sabes cual es la solución? ¡Clavarse una daga! Esta vez no fallarás. Sé que lo intentaste hacer, y fallaste, pero esta vez no lo harás.” Seranil nunca, y él es testigo, él no sabía que yo había tratado de matarme el año pasado.

“Yo lo sé todo, Chicho.” - me dijo con su voz maldita“¿Y por que le rezas a ese tal Dios? ¿en serio crees que él es el padre tuyo?” Si eres hijo de Dios, entonces, ¿por qué no te tiras al vacío conmigo, a ver si sus ángeles vienen y te salvan?” - (esta última frase la había escuchado antes, pero no me acordaba de dónde venía, ya que la adrenalina bloqueaba mi mente) - “Dime una cosa,” - seguía diciendo- “¿Sabes por qué las personas cada vez que están molestas empiezan a insultar a Dios, pero nunca maldicen a satanás? ¿Sabes por qué? Porque el diablo es tu padre, y tú nunca usarías su nombre en vano. Te gusta seguir su voluntad, y disfrutas su compañía. La humanidad es mi familia, y la muerte es el objetivo de todos mis hijos, para que así lleguen a unirse a mi por toda la eternidad”.

Al escuchar eso, lleno de terror, saqué de mi bolsillo un Rosario, y empecé a rezar con fuerza. Parecía un monje espantando a un vampiro con un crucifijo. Cada oración que hacía lo volvía a Seranil más loco, y empezaba a revolcarse por el suelo de forma anómala. Me da nauseas de solo estar pensado en ello en este momento. No pude dormir en toda la noche, ya que no tengo la suficiente seguridad de fe para creer que todo esto fue real. Seranil justo ahora está durmiendo en el sillón de la sala, y no quiero que venga para nada. La verdad, sólo quiero que sepan que esto, todo lo que pasó, es raro.

Cuando llamé a mi compadre Edsel, esa cosa ya se había ido de Seranil. Seranil estaba en el suelo, medio confundido, y muy cansado. Inmediatamente, lo cargue en mis hombros, y ambos bajamos a mi apartamento. No quería quedarme en esa azotea endemoniada. Al llegar, nos sentamos en el sillón en donde él ahora está durmiendo. Luego de que se calmase un poco, y después de arroparlo con la sábana y prepararle un té, empecé a interrogar a Seranil acerca de todo lo que había pasado.

"Seranil, escúchame, ¿Por qué empezaste a actuar así? ¿Por qué casi te tiras al vacío? ¿Cómo es que me ibas a matar? ¿Por qué decías que el diablo era nuestro padre? Me asustaste horrible, ¡pensé que estabas poseído!".

"¿Matarme? ¿Poseído? ¿Pero de qué estás hablando?

Acabamos de conversar y comer en la azotea, eso es todo. Recién bajamos. ¿No has tomado de más, verdad? ¿Esa jamonada donde la compraste? Oye, si es por los veinte soles que te debo, no te preocupes, que me pagan la próxima semana. Confianza Chicho, confianza en tu amigo".

Lo último que Seranil recuerda es que estuvimos hablando de la infancia, y no recuerda cuando me dijo lo de Hamlet. Me asusto, me puse nervioso, y no supe qué hacer. Lo peor es que sigo asustado.

Simplemente esa cosa no era Seranil. Estuve rezando toda la noche a Dios, pero mi mente y mis emociones me siguen torturando. Esa cosa quiso que me matase, e intentó matar a Seranil. ¡Casi se tira! Si no lo hubiera jalado, literalmente, se hubiera matado. Me empezó a corretear por la azotea, yo me alejé, y le tiré la silla. También me golpeó bien feo, y tenía una fuerza mayor a la normal. Me golpeó. Seranil jamás haría eso. Tengo miedo, pero no quiero olvidar. Edsel creyó que yo estaba loco, y pensó que me había dado un ataque de ira, o que estaba borracho. Aún recuerdo nuestra conversación:

"¡¡Edsel!! Ayuda, Seranil ha estado actuando muy raro. Me estuvo persiguiendo por la azotea, y me quería matar. Casi se suicida tirándose por el balcón. ¡Por favor, ven! Creo que los diantres se le han metido"

"¿Qué? ¿Qué hablas compai? Jajaja ese Seranil es un payaso, siempre está haciendo su show. Es un actor ambulante de la pichiri mitri, pero es inofensivo, no te preocupes. Yo lo conozco de años, así que déjalo que actúe nomas".

"¡¡Nooo Edsel!! No entiendes, le recé el Rosario. Primero empezó a gritar mientras se revolcaba en el suelo, luego se arrodilló, y ahora está medio desmayado. Estamos en la azotea, pero no quiero que vuelva. ¡¡Tengo a Lucifer en mi jato!!”

"Oye Chicho, ¡Ya vete a dormir! Pareces mi mamá con tanta huevada de demonios y Rosarios ¿Qué no te das cuenta que Seranil te está tomando el pelo? No exageres tampoco, ya me suena que el trago te ha caído mal. Capaz estás teniendo alucinaciones.

"Te juro que no, Edsel. Por favor, tú que conoces a Seranil de toda la vida, ¿Qué me recomiendas hacer?"

"A ver ...tú tienes que hablar con él nomás cuando esté consciente. Interrogarlo es lo mejor. Yo iría a ayudarte, pero ya es tarde, y estoy acá en el bar, con dos a la vez ...¿Si entiendes, verdad? Jajaja. Bueno compai, mañana en la mañana me haces

saber como se pone la situación. Tú tranquilo, y ahora me quito, que tengo trabajo que hacer ...jejeje. ¡Hasta mañana!"

Yo sé que no estaba borracho, casi no bebí, y Seranil y Edsel son testigos. Pero yo no sé ¡Yo lo vi todo eso! Juro que es verdad. Dios, por favor, que me ayude mi conciencia. No me puede ayudar mi conciencia que siempre me habla ¡No puede ser! No quiero creer que Seranil estaba poseído. De seguro Edsel me cree loco, y que todo esto no ha pasado, que todo esto es una broma. No puedo ni siquiera distinguir entre la realidad y la fantasía.

Ya es muy tarde, y soy el único despierto. Seranil sigue durmiendo profundamente, así que creo que la única forma de saber lo que pasó será esperar a que llegue la luz solar. Lo primero que haré es ir a la azotea, y, si veo que las cosas están en un estado diferente, eso significa que todo lo que pasó es verdad. Pero por ahora, luego de toda esta locura, solo puedo llegar a formular cuatro teorías en relación a lo que pudo haber pasado.

Mi primera teoría es que estuve muy borracho, y empecé a ilusionar situaciones irreales mientras conversaba con Seranil en la azotea. Capaz el si actuó de esa manera como parte del monólogo, pero ocurrió una distorsión de la realidad producto de mi embriaguez y cansancio. Mi segunda teoría es que tuve una pesadilla mientras dormía, y probablemente esa es la razón por la cual sigo despierto. Nada de esto pasó, y Seranil y Edsel están durmiendo tranquilos sin saber en lo absoluto mi situación. Capaz el alcohol y los temas de conversación también añadieron a este sueño.

Mi tercera teoría es que el demonio tomó oportunidad de la situación para mandarme un mensaje del más allá, y meterse en el cuerpo de Seranil mientras él actuaba. Hubo algún tipo de reencarnación o posesión por parte del espíritu misterioso, y un intento de exorcismo por parte mía. No sé si esto sea verdad, pero, igual voy a contactar a un sacerdote para que venga, y bendiga el apartamento. Mañana a primera hora llamaré al Padre Rogelez, que lo conozco de años, y capaz incluso también me ayuda a descubrir la verdad. Por último, mi cuarta teoría sería que Seranil estuvo actuando todo de manera tan profesional que me convenció. Fue una obra fuera del teatro, en la realidad. Cuando uno va a un teatro, con actores y escenas estructuradas, uno ya sabe de por sí que la obra es ficcional, y uno ya se espera que sea fantasía. Pero, ¿cómo nos percatamos de ello, si es

que la obra teatral está ocurriendo en la realidad? ¿De manera sorpresiva? Me cuesta creer que Seranil haya podido hacer un monólogo de ese calibre tomando como ventaja el contexto en el que estábamos, pero existe en mi memoria una anécdota suya que podría darle sentido a esta teoría:

“Creyendo que es realidad, pero sabiendo que es falso. Deseando que sea mentira, pero aceptando que es verdad. Acá está la diferencia entre un espectador de teatro promedio, y mi amigo Chicho”

- Seranil A. Zevach.

,

CARLO CHAVEZ LINARES

El Anatema (translated)

It is four in the morning, and I tell this testimony just to get to remember the worst night I ever had in my life. I find myself in my room, alone, and with the door locked. Silence lies in the launch, but terror reigns around my bed.

A couple of hours ago, I was with Seranil and Edsel talking at the park next to my house. We were drinking beers, and remembering our years at the academy, while darkness and isolation were covering our environment. But, around midnight, Edsel departed to a party at the bar, and Seranil and I remained alone. So, we both decided to return to the apartment, and climb to the terrace, located on the rooftop. I've been living on my own for three years now, but I still visit my parents every once in a while. I have the basic stuff: a room, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a lounge. Seranil is staying with me for this weekend, but this is the last time he comes over.

We both sat down and looked at the constellated stars while eating ham sandwiches, and continuing talking about our childhood. One of our conversation topics was our love for dramatic art. Our passion was so big that, when we started to talk about Shakespeare, the famous English playwright, Seranil rose from the chair and said:

“Matey, hold my sandwich, for I must act”

I, confused, said, “Yo, chill out, what are you going to do? It is almost one in the morning, man. Don't give me pods now!

“Do not worry, my brother”, he said, “This is one of my favorite monologues: The Great Hamlet. You just stay seated, and enjoy some art. This moment of inspiration must be tapped, and, without a doubt, this silent and mysterious night is the perfect scenario for the play”.

“Ah all right, but do not make too much noise! Go ahead, let me see”, I said to him.

Seranil began his performance, slowly, saying things like: “Be or not to be, dying is sleeping”. Death is a dream, and death is ... You know what? Stab a dagger! Stick a dagger in

your heart and end your life. Kill yourself!

At first, I thought that everything was part of the script, but, suddenly, he climbed to the edge of the terrace, and almost jumped! He put his leg out! If I hadn't prevented him, he would have killed himself.

“Hey, dick!!” I said, ''What the hell are you doing? Don't be crazy! Get out of there, you're going to commit suicide!! "

Seranil was just looking at me, static from the railing, and he told me: "Come with me, Chicho .... We are waiting for you. Come with me to the other side, since this is what you've been waiting for. Don't be afraid, it's me."

"You are not Seranil ... and I don't know if you are Hamlet ... Who are you?"

"Hahaha, don't you know? We met a few months ago... ..you know very well who I am. I can't tell you my name, since I would be lying if I do so. Why are you asking me? You know very well who you're talking to."

Seranil's voice was very high and shrill. His eyes were staring at me, and his posture altered as he walked. What I remember the most was his macabre smile. I had to realize that his theater had gone too far. I no longer knew if Seranil was crazy, or if he was just too immersed into his character, or if some spirit had taken advantage of the situation.

That thing wasn't Seranil. Whatever it was, I can't be sure because I'm forgetting, and I don't want to forget. I recorded a video the moment I saw Seranil possessed, but the video disappeared incomprehensibly. Everything that happened only now remains in my memory. When I began to pray the “Our Father” to him, Seranil knelt, and this part he does remember. According to him, he didn't see anything, like he had left his body to someone else, to something else. I started to pray, and Seranil's voice rang out, telling me: "Help!" Without a doubt, he was suffering inside. Oh, God! I would shout: “Our Father, Our Father!”, And that thing kept saying to kill me.

When I picked up my cell phone to call Edsel, because Seranil was making me nervous (even though it wasn't Seranil), that demon said to me: “You guys...you look at your cell phones. They hide in technology, in drugs, in music ... ... and you believe that all of it will save you. I know you, Chicho. You are full of anger, you are afraid. But do you know what the solution is? Stab a dagger! This time you will not fail. I know you tried to do it and failed, but this time you won't. " Seranil did not know that

I had tried to kill myself last year.

"I know everything, Chicho.", he told me with his cursed voice, “And why do you pray to that God? Do you think he's your father? " If you are a child of God, then why don't you jump into the void with me, to see if his angels come and save you?", (I had heard this last phrase before, but I didn't remember where it came from, since the adrenaline was blocking my mind), "Tell me something", he kept saying, "Do you know why people every time they are upset start to insult God but never curse Satan? Do you know why? Because the devil is your father, and you would never use his name in vain. You like to follow his will, and you enjoy his company. Humanity is my family, and death is the goal of all my children so that they come to join me for all eternity.”

Hearing that, full of terror, I took a Rosary out of my pocket and began to pray with force. I looked like a monk spooking a vampire with a crucifix. Every sentence I made drove Seranil crazier, and he began to roll on the floor abnormally. It makes me nauseous just thinking about it right now. I was unable to sleep through the night, as I am not confident enough to believe that all of this was real. Serail is sleeping on the couch in the living room right now, and I don't want him to come at all. The truth is, I just want you to know that this, everything that happened, is weird.

When I called my friend Edsel, that thing had already left Seranil. Seranil was on the ground, half confused, and very tired. Immediately, I carried him on my shoulders, and we both went down to my apartment. I didn't want to stay on that demonic rooftop. Upon arrival, we sat on the couch where he is now sleeping. After he calmed down a bit, and after wrapping the sheet around him and making him some tea, I started asking Seranil about everything that had happened.

"Seranil, listen to me, why did you start acting like this? Why did you almost jump into the void? How come you were going to kill me? Why did you say that the devil was our father? You scared me horribly, I thought you were possessed!".

"Kill me? Possessed? But what are you talking about? We just had a chat and dinner on the rooftop, that's all. We just got downstairs. You haven't had too much, right? Where did you buy that ham? Hey, yeah for the twenty Soles that I owe you, don't worry, they'll pay me next week. Trust Chicho, trust in your friend."

The last thing Seranil remembers is that we were talking about childhood, and he doesn't remember when he told me about Hamlet. I got scared, I got nervous, and I didn't know what to do. The worst thing is that I'm still scared. That thing just wasn't Seranil. I have been praying all night to God, but my mind and my emotions continue to torture me. That thing wanted to kill me, and it tried to kill Seranil. He almost threw himself! If I hadn't pulled him, he would have killed himself. He started running after me around the roof. I walked away, and I threw the chair at him. He also hit me badly and had greater than normal strength. He hit me. Seranil would never do that. I am afraid, but I don't want to forget anything. Edsel thought I was crazy, and he thought I had a fit of rage, or that I was drunk. I still remember our conversation: "Edsel!! Help, Seranil has been acting weird. He was chasing me around the roof, and he wanted to kill me. He almost committed suicide by jumping off the balcony. Please come! I think the hecks have gotten into him."

"What? What are you talking about, matey? Hahaha that Seranil is a clown, he's always doing his show. He's a walking actor of the holy cannoli, but he's harmless, don't worry. I've known him for years, so just let him act."

"No, Edsel! You don't understand, I prayed the Rosary to him. First, he started screaming as he rolled on the ground, then he knelt, and now he's half passed out. We're on the roof, but I don't want him to come back. Lucifer is in my house!!"

"Hey Chicho, go to sleep now! You sound like my mother with so much crap about demons and Rosaries. Don't you realize that Seranil is teasing you? Don't exaggerate either, it sounds to me that you have disliked the drink. Maybe you are just having hallucinations.

"I swear not, Edsel. Please, you who have known Seranil all your life, what do you recommend I do?"

"Let's see ... you just have to talk to him when he's conscious. Interrogating him is the best option. I'd go to help you, but it's late, and I'm here at the bar, with two at the same time ... You understand? Right?”, he laughed, “well mate, tomorrow morning you let me know how the situation gets. You calm down, and now I gotta take off, I have work to do. Until tomorrow!"

I know I was not drunk, I hardly drank, and Seranil and Edsel are witnesses. But I don't know. I saw all that! I swear it's

true.

God, please, let my conscience help me. The conscience that always talks to me can't help me. It can't be! I don't want to believe that Seranil was possessed. Surely Edsel thinks me crazy, and that all this has not happened, that this is all a joke. I can't even distinguish between reality and fantasy.

It's already too late, and I'm the only one awake. Seranil is still sleeping soundly, so I think the only way to know what happened is to wait for sunlight. The first thing I will do is go to the roof, and if I see that things are in a different state, that means that everything that happened is true. But for now, after all this madness, I can only come up with four theories regarding what could have happened.

My first theory is that I was very drunk, and I began to dream up unreal situations while chatting with Seranil on the roof. He may have acted that way as part of the monologue, but a distortion of reality occurred as a result of my drunkenness and fatigue.

My second theory is that I had a nightmare while I was sleeping, and that's probably why I'm still awake. None of this happened, and Seranil and Edsel are sleeping soundly without knowing my situation at all. Probably alcohol and our conversation topics added to this dream.

My third theory is that the devil took the opportunity of the situation to send me a message from beyond, and get into Seranil's body while he acted. There was some kind of reincarnation or possession on the part of the mysterious spirit, and an exorcism attempt on my behalf. I don't know if this is true, but I'm still going to contact a priest to come and bless the apartment.

Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I will call Father Rogelez. I have known him for years, and he can even help me to discover the truth.

Lastly, my fourth theory would be that Seranil was acting so professionally that he convinced me. It was a play outside the theater, in reality. When one goes to a theater, with actors and structured scenes, one already knows in itself that the play is fictional, and one already expects it to be fantasy.

But how do we know about it, if the play is taking place in reality? Surprisingly? I find it hard to believe that Seranil could have made a monologue of that caliber, by taking advantage of the context in which we were, but there is in my

memory an anecdote of him that could make sense of this theory:

“Believing that it is reality, but knowing that it is false. Wishing it was a lie, but accept that it is the truth. Here is the difference between an average theater spectator, and my friend Chicho''

(Seranil A. Zevach).

LIAM KILLIAN

Outrage of the Gnats

Oh look you benevolent gods. You benevolent ‘lords’. You ‘benevolent’ minds.

Criminals. Thieves. Pirates. Walking giants.

Whose aching limbs creak like the dead trees in a spring wind. Whose dragging feet dig canyons out of mountains... Whose sweat fills the rising sea... And whose greed steals the richness from both.

In beauty. In soul.

See you, you lofty ancients. Whose burning anger from eons ago scalds us now. Chokes us now. Blinds us now.

Look at yourself. Are you pleased? You once carried the world’s wishes on your back...

Tell me: Was the burden of Atlas too great? Or the indulgence of Icarus too seductive?

Look at yourself! Are you pleased? There is a smell of rot...and I can't tell if its you, or the carcass you've left behind.

The flies swarm. Maggots feast on your strips of flesh. You have done nothing but laid those eggs yourself.

And while you laugh at the gnats that bite you, We will flurry.

If it's true that we only have two weeks to live...then let it be known: We will remember you only as the carcass that birthed us.

Crushed KAYLEE PAOLELLA

ADHDoodles

Grackle

EMILE OTTINGER

By the Mole Salamanders

In any common bygone reservoir, there are reminders of all the skin I may never grow into. Any writhing thing or wedge-headed loverchild, with gills that make nothing of the sun but another deflection—they appear pleased, thrashing, and inseminate the water where water was only want on every side. Amphibious visions know a land and sea of thought alone. If there are limits, they will narrow them further by clouding this scope, where together they are catching the light only an angle at a time and throwing it back about as hard.

I had never before felt these two veins on the sides of my head until last night, breathing “Neoteny, neoteny.” And I mean feel them. I pressed a finger to either end and spanned the full circumference of these I would like to think meant well. Meant anything at all more than blood, and blood again to a brain that would sooner sleep than starve between two worlds that do not strive to relate.

If these filament branches could be feelers... or some filthy wreath, delivering another technicolor day that will not come to truth. Not here. While you’re pressing veins and wondering what’s what and I recognize again the terror of two minds. To be and to hear from. If they are stored in either vein, I’m not sure I’ve ever known it. This morning, there was no greater comfort than yearning for someone else to put the stress on my carotids. Call it the outside injection, a spoon-fed jab to my thyroid. What is dark in we, illumine—versus

Keep it in your pants, mud-puppy. You were never a canine deity. Although you have looked the part, your teeth are nothing to show for it. You grew up nursing a salt lick. Essential mineral, essential animal. Birth was proof that my parents’ first had not squealed on the rack in vain. The rest was up to me, and if my mind had been split by that salt lick of coming-to, I will surely never know it.

Good thing the feeling passes and bad thing the feeling passes while I am in no position to blame. All my own burgeoning rarely does good for this body. What’s good for any body lately is rarely agency’s concern, and here in a coverless glade, I know mole salamanders for their haste and glancing blows.

The trees, were there any... I would still think only of blood vessels, some binding, branching collective—a thicket with no intention but to replenish my given standards. I fear no part of the body so much as my own circuit, and I am terrified of its heartbeat. It carries pressure, driven by pressure, and I know nothing lonelier than its personalized wants. Water-shaped want does fine by me. Fingerprints press and speed the pulse. I do not worry that I find greater understanding in being grabbed by the throat, and that is the worry. If I am sleeping just to sleep on the issue, the creek bodies gather closer. I’m taught: nature is a reminder, while Nature is the pact. The terms are scribed in original cliché. Bones are a raw deal; even if I am cuter this way, I am certain that everytime one ear hurts, I have stopped fulfilling my end and an overtaking is to come. Only the mole salamanders get to ask,

“Have you stirred your wounds, too? Did it stunt you further? Or was it growth, awful and shimmering with the brilliance of a gash or gills?”

Sugbo 1

Sugbo 2

Sugbo 3

Sugbo 4

The City with the Perfect View

The skyscrapers are still but the water is flowing back and forth Like someone’s legs dangling on the edge of the chair The sun beams on the tall metallic skyscrapers The city glows. The sky is blue with clouds that are little cotton balls. The water flows effortlessly Everything seems so still. The view fills your veins with the desire to long for the city. The view mesmerizes you, this city is perfect, you think.

From across, the city is muted. “There was another hate crime against an Asian women at a subway station near Central Park”

Your dad updates the family Fear sits with the family as they ride the Manhattan bound train back to the hotel.

People filled the subway as the doors opened. The looks on the family appear to be like flavorless oatmeal.

From across, you see lots of tiny specks in motion You think, it could be people walking their dogs, going for a run around Pier 35, playing live music at Washington Square Park, taking pictures at the top of the Rockefeller Center, rushing to catch the next ferry to Brooklyn Bridge Park, exploring Times Square, heading into work

From across, the tiny specks can be whatever you envision them to be

This view is perfect, you think.

STEVEN LEE

A Waste of Paint

The lungs feel soft in his hand as he presses down, gently squeezing the air out of them. They sighed as the air flowed through them, pink grey cushions in the kitchen’s sterile light.

“How was last week with Valerie? Eiger asks, peering over the counter at him. He doesn’t need to look at her in order to tell that she has her knees on the stool, that her red hair is tied in a tight bun and that she’s expecting him to stare back at her.

“It went well”. Something in his mouth responds back. The sounds of the restaurant have long died off, the staff clambering over the preparations and cleaning. Some wander off to nearby windows and alleys in order to enjoy their smokes. Some of them stay in the kitchen, busying themselves as they think on what to do tomorrow.

He feels the lungs between his fingers, gauging the air left in them. He reaches over to his side, where he knows that the knife lies as he begins to carve the lungs. He never particularly liked lungs, but some of the staff joke that he’s only kept around because of how he cooks it. He knows how to cut it apart. He knows that Eiger prefers her portions a bit rawer with a lot of sauce on it. He knows that Jan likes onions but hates the peppers in the recipe. He knows that Sam isn’t willing to eat the end bits, but rather would want the larger parts in the middle. He knows that he himself doesn’t like how lungs feel on his tongue. Yet he goes through the motions, wrapping the rag around the cast iron’s handle and sauteing the ingredients.

It’s all just meat either ways.

“You two got drunk and fucked?” Eiger laughs. He wills himself to look up at her. He sees her eyes, peering back into his. He needs a second to read the face, almost like a map. To see that the way her lips curl are a smile, that her half lidded eyes are from exhaustion and not from anything he’s done. The way that she cocks her head, waiting for him to answer back. He reads all of these, and adds them all up.

He moves his lips into a smile, making sure he doesn’t curve it widely or tightly.

As he slouches his shoulders, he gestures something that could be interpreted as either a laugh or a smoker’s cough. “No, I guess we haven’t gotten there yet. We went to the art gallery.” Something given back, moving the exchange forward.

He feigns looking back at the lungs that have been covered in flour, sizzling on the pan. He knows that they’ll be done by the time he plates them and adds the garnishing. “And how did that go?” Eiger says as she begins to dig into the plate, speaking through a mouthful of food. He also starts eating, albeit at a slower pace, making sure to not outpace Eiger but to not lag behind either. He has to focus on the food for a second, making sure to divide the taste and texture and attach labels to them. Some garlic here, the soft squishiness of the lungs, the sweet saltiness of the soy sauce.

“It went alright, I liked the paintings.“ He makes sure to close his mouth as soon as he says that, to not give away the lie.

He remembers the paintings well, or at least what they looked like. Valerie called it “avant garde”, as if that would mean anything to him. She held his arm as they walked past the aisles, their steps echoing into the empty hallway. She’d stop them sometimes, looking at the paintings and making him look at them too. The different sizes of the canvas, the different names, the different brushes, but all the same paint. She’s telling him what the paintings are supposed to mean, and what they show. Sometimes it’s a still of an object, sometimes it’s depicting a landscape. Other times it’d be a person, drawn in the delicate splashes of oily paint placed on the canvas. And Valerie would love these and try to imitate their poses and their faces as he took photos. He’d nod as if he got it and they would compare the paint and the flesh, seeing if they were positioned alike. He then would raise his hackles and slightly open his lips into something resembling a smile as she then would start talking again about the art and the paint on the canvas.

“Huh, never took you for an art guy. Did you like any of them?” Eiger says, at this point she’s looking at the pieces of lung left in the plate instead of at him. He’s pretty sure he’s relieved by this. He takes a moment to think about it.

“Her favorite one was about a park. With some children looking at us, smiling and enjoying their day.” He’s chewing on

a piece of the meat, or maybe it’s the vegetable. The taste and texture of the food disappears from his grasp. It’s just things that he’s putting in his mouth, why? He’s not hungry anymore. He throws away the rest, making sure to package the rest for the other line cooks.

“Huh, sounds riveting”, she’s looking at him again. “But what’s yours? Didn’t ask about Valerie.” He talks with Eiger because he knows that she’s a good person and that she genuinely cares. He’s not sure what to do with that.

“Mine was, uh..." he trails off, the words seeming to limp away from him. He’s really trying right now, to conjure anything that comes to mind. “It was one about a dog, sitting beside a man.”

He hopes it’s enough and knows that it’s not. Eiger looks at him, eye to eye again. He takes a second, acting as if he’s thinking about the painting. She’s chewing on the food slowly, leaning forward as she rests her face on her hand, the elbow leaning on the table. He tries to associate the look. What is it? Her eyes are just like marbles staring ahead and she seems to be indicating something that should be unspoken but he doesn’t get it. It’s like another one of her jokes where he has to act as if he gets it and laugh and everyone’s laughing but he doesn't get itStop.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He-, he needs to stop and reassess. He quickly opens his eyes, muttering about something in them as he takes another look. Think about the context, about the situation. Apply it. He said something about art, about it being his favorite. She’s leaning forward so she’s interested in what he’s saying. That means he needs to respond, and he needs to respond about the art right?

“It’s this dog, staring at the man.” She doesn’t move from her positions, which means that he guessed correctly. “It’s about a dog staring at a man on a phone. I think I found it funny, you know?” Eiger raises an eyebrow to this and the man furrows his brow. Did he get that second part wrong?

“What was so funny about it?” she asks. At this point the food on the plate is getting cold but she’s not eating it anymore. Maybe she’s not hungry anymore, although the man is pretty sure that he got the portions correct. He does take a second to think about it, what about the picture was funny? “I mean, I guess it’s because the dog is looking at the man on the

phone, you know?” He says this as he gets up from the table. He reaches for all the pan, the plate, the silverware, the cutting board, and the knife. This comes easy to him, it’s all where he left it. He takes the three steps required in order to reach the countertop and starts washing the dishes. Soap on the left, sponge on the right, plates in the middle. He starts washing the dishes and he knows he’s got to keep elaborating. It’s just how it should be, right?

“The dog is staring at the man who’s on the phone. It’s a smartphone, one of those new ones and he’s in a suit so he’s some sort of businessman. I think I can tell because he’s in a suit and I think his face is impatient. He’s talking about something serious on the phone while the dog is looking at him.”

He soaps up the sponge, then cleans the cutting board. He lathers it, washes it, then puts it on the rack.

“And the dog is still looking at him throughout all of that. Which is supposed to be weird, right? It’s almost like you can’t understand why the dog sits around and looks at the businessman who keeps talking on the smartphone. That’s funny, right? Because it doesn’t really make sense for the dog to be there.”

He soaps up the sponge, then cleans the plate. He lathers it, washes it, then puts it on the rack.

“Then that’s when it hits me. That’s the joke on the canvas, the reason there’s paint there. Because the dog doesn’t get it, right? He clearly doesn’t get it because he’s a dog. Dog’s don’t understand phone calls, or the phones, or the businessmen? I mean, dogs don’t have a stock market right?”

Eiger opens her mouth and lets out a noise, it could be a laugh. He soaps up the sponge, then cleans the plate. He lathers it, washes it, then lathers it again, and puts it on the rack.

“It’s this fundamental difference between the dog and the businessman. The businessman understands what the phone is, what a conversation is, what a suit is, and what it’s supposed to mean, right? The funny thing is that the dog doesn’t get all of that and can’t, at some level. So he stares at the businessman, wondering what his whole deal is.”

He soaps up the sponge, then cleans the pan. He lathers it, washes it, then puts it on the rack. At this point Eiger is looking at him.

“It’s like when Valerie told me to go to the gallery, and I said that it would be fun. I’m like the dog, right? She’s showing me all of these things and I nod like I get it. But I don’t because she’s an artist, and I’m, well, me. I’m the dog.”

The sponge is in his hand.

"And then I’m supposed to look at these paintings and still nod like I understand, even though it’s just paint to me. She’s able to understand them, see what they are supposed to be right? But to me, it’s all just paint that’s been put on the canvas. And how am I supposed to know other than that? How does the do-”

The sponge isn’t in his hand anymore as he flinches as something slides across through his thumbprint. The knife clatters on the sink.

Eiger is by his side at once, holding something in his hand. Her brow is scrunched up, her lips are tight and she’s letting out a sigh. He’s not sure what that means at this point. She’s saying something as she places a plaster on the cut.

And he can’t stop thinking about the paints on the canvas. He thinks about them left and right, down and up and through the center. He knows that they’re supposed to mean something, that it’s supposed to be depicting something. But then the shapes get blurred and stop existing and then it’s just paint. And that the food should taste like something to him but it doesn’t it’s just things being put into a hole for reasons he doesn’t really get.

Eiger’s saying something and he turns around. He then stares at her, trying to see what is going on. There are noises coming out of her mouth, out of the bottomless speck of dark that seems to be compressed between their lips. He thinks about the dog and the businessman, about him and Valerie, about the lungs and the humans. About how the painter had once thought of something beautiful and real and had decided to share that with the rest of the world.

And now there was only paint and the gap in people’s faces.

Orfila

I dreamed again we were scientists, crossing match heads against tick bodies where they’d claimed our inner thighs. We watched their swollen, fluid forms stretch taut, then spit up, and spit again until the pressure forced our borrowed blood subcutaneous, and deeper. Deep as dynasty.

I don’t mess with lucid dreams. I don’t. The unconscious was always an invitation. If it’s my foot in the door, I have to face the consequences of my kinder boundaries. The ones that guided my sleeping mother to the knife drawer while I only hoped that she wouldn’t find her way back

but one comes to me anyway, as it did, as a child, the favorite image of myself: I am laying back, calm and beautiful for my autopsy, which I’m set to perform.

The unspoken promise is, if I do this right, I’ll be revived. But splendid, surgical me, delighted by this station, can’t spare a thumb to my cheek while making steeples of viscera, prying back sheaths, and stirring mesentery with an electrified hand. It is my autonomy, finally, to make this shambling, stitched, dedicated lover, though in my hands, I hold

a lung. Its every exhale is greater than the intake but with no air of finality. Sectioned as a carnation, to dignify each lobe, with neat shavings folded in. It seems to want to die. A steady, gasping rhythm of depletion in the palm of my hand, roused

by the “performance,” photosynthesizing worth.

The best medical colleges bought their cadavers from graverobbers. Those who couldn’t afford locks to preserve their open-ventricle selves turned “it.”

Rachel Rabbit White wrote, “If there’s anything more hedonistic / than a poem / I’ve yet to feel it” but

I was, I hope, a second ice pick’s weight in splendor.

I still don’t mess with lucid dreams. About as often as I used to, I yearned to feel the inside of a whale. I’m certain now, it must be the smooth inner-walls of any ill-intending malachite box.

“FOR ALL THE GIRLS / WHO GOT DICK FROM RRW”

Sex was nothing but a second ice pick. Fearing blood was how I learned to blackout, watching my inner circuit rerouted, surgical purity claiming my everything red. To be drained knowing they will call that noble.

It is noble. I gave it, I suppose I was always in control. No more,

no less, than when you gouged my lip and made the most of it. We found our way by thread, a violence always shared, never felt, a word half as cruelly formed as “teratogen” by the arms that could’ve throttled best and chose pillow sweat, anyways.

But god, to be biologically effective...

Let them know us for a hunting accident. A bite of calf that would’ve sooner flexed its gloried muscle to kick our teeth proper.

Our chance to be common and repulsive. I pray,

if I pray, to Rachel Carson. Silent Spring brilliance, they would have sooner broken your neck than measured your footclaws, taken you for proof better dead than alive. They preferred to see you flow, still river, and you could’ve pulled those boys apart at the sockets while I banked on the temptation

to let Orfila do a body shot, be the washed-up whore of the watershed, then give nothing but a stagnant truth.

He desecrated the mutagen with the honor of his book.

If I could take anything to remember you by, I’d pick unknowns, mostly, salvage the private, vicious interiority, knowing he took stomachs, first, before every burial.

BRYNN MITORAJ

portrait of a prodigal daughter

The flash of the camera captured Sweat dripping down her jaw And onto the sheets, Pooling around her face. There is a halo of dew irradiating from her hairline. And the sweat runs down into her mouth, But it isn’t enticing anymore. It is not from passion, And it’s not from love; It’s from running so she’s too tired to remember Digging up the same graves over and over again. It is bitter.

Look closely to see A bag packed, scuffed shoes, calloused hands, and bruised knees.

The camera has blurred the image of her reckless heavy breaths, In. Out. We can hear them scrape against her sore lungs. She is so sorry, and she is so breathless.

But don’t cry for her violent delights and their violent ends. Don’t cry because she has woken up in the bed she made.

ABBY GJATA

zombie

it’s a humorous disease the remedy is so simple! it is just human nature. this brings me to thinking... i must be a creature. perhaps i am simply a zombie a green ghoul who isn’t really alive limbs falling off, no matter how hard they strive striving to limp, to smile, to feel emotion, hiding the fact that they are truly broken. they hold deep scars in their skin from the decay their body’s are slowly fading away like a dandelion in the breeze which you can never catch. chasing and chasing to hold that fuzz of bright white… yet it turns into ash. their brains have shrunken perhaps you can tell by the way their eyes are sunken like a ship, which had too much on board. sinking down the deep, dark, and cold ocean - unexplored. their hair is frail and broken face is pale and lips stay unspoken their lips seem to be sewn shut with a needle and thread. a beautiful pink color of yarn, but with with a stain of blood and pain. yes, a zombie i must be. “just eat.” it is not that simple to me.

MJ SORIA

The Low, The Lonely, and the Lost

The world didn’t used to have so many people on it. Before there were civilizations and communities and families, there were three people. These three people did not have names – they were known as the Low, Lonely, and the Lost. They wandered the corners of the Earth alone, living solitary lives.

Low had a strong sense of self, they knew who they were and expressed themself with gusto and excitement. Everything was beautiful and the world was great, so why not appreciate all that it had to offer? But Low would often find themself sad or disenchanted with life. The beauty in the world was overshadowed by the darkness that lay within. They were one person, what could they do to fix the bad things when they outweighed the good?

Lonely felt that they had a purpose in life. They found their passions and desires and pursued those relentlessly. If they wanted to achieve great things, there was a path to follow. But Lonely felt solitary in the pursuit of greatness – they would find themself on a path and realize there was no one there. What was the purpose of success and happiness if there was no one to share it with?

Lost had a zest for life – there wasn’t enough time in one life to do everything the world had created for humanity. They wanted to live every moment possible and experience everything for themselves. But Lost had no direction in life. Outside of experiencing the world, they had no passion for the future. They were confused, waiting for the moment they would find guidance and have someone to tell them what to do. Why should one experience life if there is no direction?

Low, Lonely, and Lost did not know that the others existed. They were wayward souls wandering the world.

Low began to feel empty, as if they were moving through the world of someone else’s volition. It was useless and unending, so Low went for a walk. They walked farther than they had ever gone before, quietly hoping for something more.

As Low was walking, they came upon another person. It was surprising, Low had never seen anyone else before. This new person was quiet, shuffling along rhythmically to the tune of music in their head. Low purposely stepped on a leaf, hoping to grab their attention without being intimidating. The stranger turned around, eyes wide and staring.

“Who are you?” Low asked the stranger in front of them.

“I’m Lonely,” they answered, quite nervous to have met another person. They were timid, was this person going to leave them to wander the world by themself? Lonely twisted their hands.

Low decided that this is what they were searching for; a companion.

“Do you want to walk with me?”

Lonely nodded and they went for a walk.

At first, they didn’t know how to talk to each other –Low had a lot of things on their mind but was scared to make the first move. Lonely didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make Low leave them forever. After a few walks filled only with the silence of company, Lonely asked Low about their life, about the adventures they had had before they met each other, and the world seemed to crack open with a warm flood of light. Their stories were wild, adventurous, and even the mundane was exciting. Lonely learned there was more to life than the solitary path of success. Greatness wasn’t the only thing that mattered anymore, feeling connection and sharing world views – that was what gave life color.

One day, after sharing as many stories as Low could think of, they asked Lonely a question.

“What are you pursuing?”

“Greatness,” Lonely answered. They said this with confidence, with purpose.

“But that could mean so many things. Is it fame? What does it mean to be great?” Low asked, “Happiness could be the greatest success.”

Lonely thought for a moment, shuffling their feet as they walked. “You cannot actively pursue happiness, Low. You have to find something to pursue. And from that you get happiness as a byproduct.” They had said it so factually and emotionless that Low couldn’t help but feel a little sad.

“So you care more about achieving a goal than you do

about your own self worth?”

They were both quiet for a while. It was a big question, Lonely needed to think about it for a while, reflect on their own pursuit of success. Low and Lonely wandered on. It had been just the two of them for a while, and they enjoyed each other’s company. They rarely ran out of things to talk about, and when they did, the silence was just as comforting. Neither were keeping track of the days that passed, all they knew was that they had each other.

One day, the leaves rustled behind the pair on their walk. Low and Lonely turned, prepared for danger. Another person came into view – disheveled and out of breath. The two of them must have walked farther than ever before. Looking around, Lonely realized the terrain was different than anything they’d seen; it was rocky and hilly.

Low was nervous, but Lonely was happy to see another person in the world. They approached, carefully so they wouldn’t scare this new person, and put a hand on their shoulder.

“Who are you?” Lonely asked.

“I’m Lost.”

“Would you like to walk with us?” They gestured to Low, who gave a timid wave in greeting.

Lost nodded and joined the pair.

At first Lost did not talk, they only listened. Low told the stories they had told Lonely, and they told them with the same zest and excitement as the first time. Lost listened, entranced in the way Low spoke. Every word carried meaning; the beauty lay in both their voice and the story itself. They liked listening to Low and Lonely, taking in their perception of life. Lost had been wandering a long time, just to be surrounded by people was enough for them. But Low and Lonely wanted them to talk.

“Lost,” Lonely said, “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been walking, waiting for something to happen, wandering. I’m not searching for greatness like you, Lonely. Nor am I seeing the beauty in the world, Low. I just want to find a purpose instead of moving from one place to another. Does that make sense?”

“I think so.” Low put an arm around Lost as they continued forward. “But there doesn’t need to be a purpose for your life to be meaningful. There’s nothing wrong with moving between things that you find interesting. Do you need to have a

passion to give things value? Can things not just be?”

“Hm.” Lost considered this as the trio walked. It was silent for a time – Low felt at peace with Lonely and Lost, Lonely was comforted by the company, and Lost had someone leading them forward. They all began to lean on each other, finding solace in companionship. They didn’t apologize to each other when they bumped shoulders, stepped on each other’s shoes, little missteps weren’t the end of the world. Low, Lonely, and Lost talked more as they walked the world, traversing hills and plains and occasionally leading one another through the narrow and rocky parts.

Time seemed to have made an exception for them. Every moment felt more precious than the one before, they cherished each other’s company.

After a particularly rough day, Lonely turned to Low. “Low,” they said, “I have a question.”

“What’s your question?”

“You told me once that there are good times and bad. But why are you so disenchanted with everything?” They asked, “You showed Lost and I the beauty of the beauty of the world, you seem to appreciate the beauty without wanting to experience it. Does the good and beautiful in the world not outweigh the bad?”

Low was quiet and considerate, hands behind their back. They cracked their knuckles and looked down.

“I have no answer for you.” They looked back up at Lonely. “I care for you, I care for Lost, but you aren’t responsible for my sadness. You don’t need to heal me in order for us to care for each other.”

Low had a point. People don’t need to heal in order to have warmth in their hearts. Low, Lonely, and Lost found comfort in one another without changing who they were. They can grow as people without feeling the pressure to become perfect or find a place in the world – they can be low, lonely, and lost, yet still find meaning. There is a certain compassion between those that have not felt at peace in the world. They may not understand each other completely, but they have an empathy that one can only know from feeling out of place.

None of them knew the word for what they felt for each other, but what Low, Lonely, and Lost felt was love.

FARAH BASSYOUNI

anxiety

the ghost of anxiety, it follows you everywhere, like a shadow that constantly wonders if it’s worth following you around.

it’s a broken mirror that is put back together, bit by bit, purposely disorienting the pieces to make you believe you are disproportionate.

i once heard that an author’s job, when writing a novel is to make sure their main character doesn’t reach their goal, the author adds every possible outcome designed specifically for the character’s demise, but by god that character will survive.

after all, the universe never gives us more than we can handle, you get balanced by life, like a plate being balanced by a clumsy waiter, waiting for the drop.

and you strive to move forward and reach your goal, reach the end of the path, but your worst enemy becomes a vision of yourself.

the antagonist is your own ghost of anxiety, the author that sets all these obstacles, in order to test your very limits.

it’s a mosquito that battles your eardrums, every night screaming that it must be heard, it must be heard.

There's a Cat Named Sheldon

The box of chai tea on the Kroger shelf can send me into a spiral. Have you ever sat on someone’s lap in a stranger’s car on the way to a haunted bridge an hour away?

I argued with them about who was taller while the baby powder on my hands was a crack that I didn’t have to inhale.

Plastic fabric sunflowers are hidden underneath my bed, candy corn pumpkins are rotting in my stomach. An apology would only be for myself. Honey-sweet words that I can’t even remember Are haunting my dreams. I saw the cliffs of dover the first time they kissed me. One ghost holds another, mist on a piece of paper “How do you imagine music? I see the notes on the page, but I heard that dancers imagine music with their bodies.”

Both of the succulents died. July 28th 2020, Stargazing at Southwest Elementary School I don’t know how to express my emotions in a healthy way. After all the time I spent complaining about my mother, she was the first person I told after that phone call. Do you know what it feels like to stop being loved?

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

The Good Half

You make me question my heart I'm at war against my soul. Remember war? Know the enemy, but I don't know who am I A box of chocolates, a trip to my dreams Your hat, brown boots, your ripped jeans Shyly little gal with a lovely smile Which not even a mask can hide I burned a scarf, you drank the golden calf Mosaic tradition. Hard or light law? Soft like your hands, hard like my tears I would eat manna with you for 40 years Follow Kosher even if I throw up And starve on pork while getting lost in your hugs 100 pescatarian pounds of eternal blue blood I can't pretend to take away the good half My cross is heavy, but your star is bright Human rights, people get killed on the streets Your hair, eyes, and nose just shine Backstage queen from the promised land Who sooner or later will know his king In a matter of time, you beautiful little gal

Souvenir Mug

I am a mug, bought from a gift shop in Georgia. A new, unique item you say you love. An image of tranquility displayed. You hold me on the car ride home, Fill me with your warm love. But when we return, You open the cabinet to your old mugs. Each is familiar, while I am a stranger.

I become a mug, in the back of the cupboard. Used only by strangers. I am made to be a sidequest then put back, forever

SARAH BUCHMANN

Aether. (10.13.2021)

There are golden rims around the blackholes in your eyes – the supernovas in your galaxies explode, leaving freckles in your irises and spreading out to your cheeks, your nose, splashing around like stardust, sprinkling an aurora of sun-kissed dots along the lines of your jaw and cheekbones.

You are vast and infinite, enveloping me in your universe – your arms are the only thing connecting me to space and time, the here and now of our little moment, and the tether between me and this plane could snap at any moment, allowing me to float and drift in your boundless expanse.

Your heartbeat is the rhythm of the cosmos, keeping the two of us in line and breathing in sync – a tempo to dance to, a cadence lilting in your voice and marking your speech and inhalations, a throbbing in my chest to match the pulse of your lifeline, keeping us in harmony, in time.

Matching Tattoos of God

Live free or die, we say with fistfuls of cherry wine fire. A criminal fury, a face off for a vial of rare blood. A loser like me in the weak moment of faith that comes from the bluff of an ecstasy dream. Wake up for the rebel spirit, Stay up for the vibe. Watch her hypnotic eyes gloss over, this must be the life. It was nice while it lasted. Good thing everybody gets a second chance at that dirty chase of self love. For we must shove our minds off the deep end, think differently about our ethereal existence. Think of the price of power which manifests itself in the splitting of Our social groups. Always reunited at Madison Square garden. Listen-- even the planets are singing for our fiery revival. Among our flames is a faceless, nameless beauty queen. Deep insecurities even before the age of eighteen. She’s driving miles in the pouring rain, running red lights Just to be bound to this ornate disco on her birthday; an awful reminder of her time of dying. We end this honey sweet reunion in the empty abstract under the photo of the dead guy in room 4. Memorialized with an unsafe tattoo of a monkey inked in an adolescent cabaret. Under his imprinted carmel paw, each of our scripts read: “Squeeze the lonely milk of the gods from your body, Let it flow upon Lazarus’ neon tomb like a river.”

ETHAN HARE

Kiss from a Truth Star

A storm chases galleons while studying a white python, And phoenix fire weaves through skyscrapers like a wisp. The simplicity of a ferocious pigeon growls highly to a celestial universe, searching endlessly for the truth breathing star, as a rat gazes upon the lavished-over flower. Dark is near. Two wise women ride upon a bright horse figurine, talking prehistoric tales taught through the town consuming my Solitary dream of being a gothic painting. The computing of curses. How did the revival of a vulnerable deity impact the universe? Death rained down and flooded the valley, but then questions intruded, and the Loch Ness Monkey sprained His brain. The inter-dimensional seizure shook no more. But should this monkey have a migraine, toxicity will thunder to the ground. Shining back is the ash like snow. Hammer to a nail smithing a crack down the middle of Earth, Butterflies spewing from the openings of the burnt stove. Flames lit underneath the pot melt silver hues into the night. Mother nature in a crypt, mummified by poison gas wrappings. A love sick planet force fed cigarettes. Earth pants.

Meditating on Cardinals

All I ever wanted was a guardian angel. The blank walls of my childhood room starkly contacted the hot pink carpet littered with toys. It was too empty so I decided to take some creative liberty. Taking a nearby pencil I etched the drawing of an angel above my bed. The lines were shaky but the small figure rested above my bed on the wall sitting upon a small cloud. My faith as a child was much stronger than it is now before I had seen the way the church treated certain kinds of people. Worried I would be yelled at for the small guardian above my bed I intended to erase her. As I wiped away the token of protection it only smeared the led leaving a cloud of gray atop the design. A tainted angel. My parents weren't mad about the drawing since it was wellintended but it wasn't covered until years later when I finally got some paint on the walls. My first attempt at finding a guardian angel had failed miserably.

Years later, I found my angels in the trees. Figures that could not disappear by my anxious tendencies or by the back of a mere eraser.

I space out of the conversation at the dinner table as a small flicker of motion catches my eye in the corner of my field of vision. Through the sliding glass door I scan the patio to catch a glimmer of red in the small tree contrasting against the dark leaves of the plant. It’s a cardinal. He clasps to the branch with his small talons and shakes his feathers in small ruffles. He moves along the branch until he holds down to the wood chips below. He pecks at a few pieces looking for a snack but finding nothing flies across the yard to the crab apple tree.

I ponder why our small visitor has graced my presence. We don't see cardinals all too frequently. They're not uncommon but are only seen every so often within my neighborhood. There's something special about cardinals to me.

As a kid my mother once shared with me that cardinals are your loved ones who have passed visiting and watching

over you. Unlike the nameless icon of the muddled drawing on my wall, the cardinals felt more personal, more connected to my life. I wonder who that cardinal was. Papa? Granny? Karly? The thing about cardinals is you'll never know who's watching over you. You'll never know who's your guardian angel, but you can hope. And hope is a powerful thing.

I hope it's Papa most often. He reminds me the most of cardinals since I lost him first. I'd like to think he pops in every so often to see how I've grown or check in on my mother.

My mother loves when I share my cardinal sightings with her because it makes her sentimental. They always seem to come at the right time. Right when she needs it just like me and the rain.

I think of Papa especially when I see cardinals land in the tree at the far point of my yard. Hidden behind the fence in the back by the old swings hanging from light wooden posts scratched up from years of play the tree sits over the kid area.

After Papa passed the neighbors gathered together to buy us this tree in his memory. It grew with us kids. Once a sapling now the flourishing home of many birds. And, sometimes, a cardinal will grace it's presence, watching over us even now.

MISHWA BHAVSAR

The Mystical World!

MJ SORIA

Riptide

There was a price to be paid tonight, and it would be paid in blood.

As a well-dressed pair wove their way through the night market, the crowd of buyers parted out of their way. They knew these two, and what followed in their wake. Although none dared follow them through the market, eyes from every corner tracked their path.

“Is this going to take long?” the tall woman asked her companion. Her strides were long and languid, and though the market was crowded, she passed through like a river flowing around a rock. A large bag hung at her side.

“I thought you would enjoy a little parley tonight,” The woman’s companion answered. They walked with their hands in the pockets of their tailored pants, the picture of ease and lux ury. “Besides, what could you possibly have that’s more import ant than this deal?”

She laughed at that, deep and low, and her companion let out a soft chuckle.

“You know,” she said, popping their bubble of silence, “Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you get to boss me around.”

“I’m older than you, not old,” they answered, “and I boss you around because I’m your boss, Daia.”

Daia Ryu and Zephyr Yuen stop at the epicenter of the night market of Anatoka. Beside Daia stood her boss, Zephyr Yuen, taking in the stalls. Only a few streets separated the Night Market from the cargo docks. Vendors called out their wares from colorful stalls, Daia smelled roasting meat and the salty air, and people were bustling everywhere. A child approached Daia with a flower that cost two notes. Before she could refuse his offer, his mother dragged him away.

Even though they stare, Daia didn’t feel nervous. She should, she thought to herself, but only a placid calm coursed through her blood. Rolling up the sleeves of her black outfit, she surveyed the crowd the way she always did – all exits from

easiest to hardest, who was staring too long, who was trying too hard not to stare, and potential weapons. You must always have a backup plan, her father’s voice instructed.

“You know the drill, Riptide,” Zephyr told her, facing forward.

“Call me Riptide again and I’ll knock your teeth in.” Daia flexed her fingers and shifted her stance.

Laughing, Zephyr caught the eye of one of the vendors and moved into the crowd. Daia followed, half a step behind. In the crowded market, Zephyr and Daia blend in. Being dressed in fine clothes is not uncommon – many people from The Heights decided to slum it in the night market at least once a week – but anyone that recognized the towering woman and her one-eyed boss knew what was going to happen.

“Ah! The Serpent of Anatoka!” the vendor said. He turned his gaze on Daia. “And the riptide that follows in their wake, I see. Thank you for visiting my shop tonight, could I interest you in anything?” The man was short, and the bushy mustache made his face look smaller than it was. Daia watched him fidget as he pointed out to Zephyr the fine clothes he sewed and tailored and desperately tried to avoid Daia’s gaze. He wore common clothes, simple pants and a shirt, looking wildly out of place surrounded by his fine creations.

“Such fine stitching Wilders.” Zephyr fingered the embroidery of sea creatures on a jacket. “But I came here for a different matter today. My associate and I would like to have a word with you.”

From the light of the fires and candles, Daia could see the vendor’s blood drain from his face. Zephyr wasn’t shopping, this was a business meeting.

“Yes of course. Yes. How may I – how may I help you?” Wilders had a small but decadent awning set up in the mar ket; fine embroidered cloths hung from the beams and shirts, jackets, capes, dresses, and pants were displayed behind him. No prices were listed, those were bartered. The rest of the shop extended to the building attached to the awning.

“As you know, we have an agreement, yes?” Zephyr started.

“Yes.” Wilders shrunk back into himself, not unlike a tur tle. Daia could barely hear him over the noise of the rest of the market. The neighboring stalls began to quiet down to overhear the conversation.

“And with that agreement, I supply you with my goods in return for a cut of those profits and some of your fine clothes, yes?” Wilders nodded, but Zephyr raised their eyebrows at him.

“Yes! Yes, yes.” Wilders was shaking, unable to meet Zephyr’s gaze.

“Well, I heard from a little friend that you haven’t been running an honest business. Care to explain?” More people in the vicinity quieted down, catching their words and noticing the vendor’s panic. Daia took a menacing step forward, rolling her shoulders but Zephyr lifted a hand to stop her. “No, darling. Let the man explain himself.”

“Please!” Wilders practically yelled. “It’s not my fault, the girls came asking for work but I didn’t have any and when a customer saw them and got the wrong idea about my busi ness so I went with it.” Daia clenched her jaw and shot a look at Zephyr. This isn’t why we came. “I told him I could cut him a deal and he said he wanted the girls and then others heard and I couldn’t stop it. Please don’t hurt me, I have a reputation around here.”

Zephyr let out a surprised laugh. “I was talking about how you were skimming off the top of my profits, but this is a much more serious matter.” They turned to Daia. “He has been putting his hands on young girls, break his fingers.”

There were tears in Wilders’ eyes and he was shaking from fear. Daia was shaking from barely containing her rage. She took a calm step forward and looked down at Wilders. Seizing his wrist, she used her other hand to bend his fingers back with a satisfying crack. The man screamed and jerked, but Daia didn’t stop until his entire left hand was at an odd angle. In that small part of her soul where she thought she would feel remorse, there was nothing. This man would never stitch a shirt like he used to.

“Let me have a look inside, and I’ll decide what to do with you. Daia, darling, come with me.” Zephyr strolled past a crying Wilders and his stall towards the interior of his shop. Inside were extravagant displays of embroidery and tailoring. An expensive mannequin modeled a dress worth at least a thou sand notes, and Daia had to remind herself of their purpose in the shop to keep herself from touching the beautiful fabric. On the far side of the shop was a young man sewing at a table, a door behind him. Zephyr walked straight past the man and to the door, trying the handle. It didn’t budge

“I’m sorry sir but you can’t go in there,” the man said. Zephyr absentmindedly waved a hand to Daia, taking a step back from the man and the door. She slung her bag over her shoulder and neck so the strap was across her chest.

Daia gave a menacing smile and punched the man in the face.

“I’m not a man,” Zephyr said, “don’t call me sir. Now, open that door for me.” They straightened the sleeves on their jacket, as if this was the most mundane thing to happen tonight. Daia took a few steps back and let Zephyr take the lead.

“I said you can’t go in there.” The man straightened and pulled a pistol from his waistband and aimed it at Zephyr’s head. Zephyr didn’t flinch. He cocked the gun and looked back towards the door, ignoring the blood spilling out of his nose.

“Dad, why would you let them in?” Wilders didn’t say anything, just weeped from the front of the store. A few people crowded around the door, waiting to see what would happen next.

“We had a deal,” Zephyr said. Wilders’ son aimed the pistol at Zephyr’s chest. “Your father was not honoring that deal, and we’ve come to make sure that you run an honest business from now on. We also want you to release the girls from their contracts.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” the man said.

“It’s not me you should be afraid of.” Zephyr nodded their head to Daia. “It’s her.”

Daia ducked and rolled before Wilders’ son could turn to aim the gun at her. She was under his guard and lunged for ward to tackle him to the ground in a flash. She grabbed both of his wrists and pinned him to the ground, squeezing his arm un til he dropped the gun. Zephyr kicked it under the sewing table, out of anyone’s reach. Wilders’ son spit in Daia’s face. Daia just smiled and stood, waiting for the man to make his next move. He tried to scramble to his feet, but Daia kicked him in the face with her steel-toed boots. He crumpled to the ground, moaning in pain.

“The key. It’s around his neck.” Zephyr waited for her to grab it off him, palm flat and open. She grabbed the gun from under the table first, putting it in her bag. Then she pulled Wilders’ son up by his shirt and ripped the key from the thin twine around his neck. “Here.”

The wall three inches from Zephyr’s face exploded into wood chips. Daia shoved them down and whirled to face the direction of the gunshot. Wilders was standing at the front with a pistol in his shaking hand.

“I’ll deal with him,” Daia tells Zephyr.

“That’s what I pay you to do!” Zephyr jammed the key into the locked door, still kneeling on the ground.

Slowly, Daia reached behind her to grab the stolen gun out of her bag. Wilders took another shot at them, but his hand was too shaky to hit her or Zephyr. Daia cocked the pistol in her left hand and pulled out a dagger with her right. Hearing the door shut behind her with Zephyr safely on the other side, Daia made her move.

She fired a shot as she moved forward, and Wilders dropped the gun and grabbed his right shoulder with the broken hand. Disarmed, Daia checked off her first box. She ran after Wilders as he dashed into the crowd, clutching his shoul der.

My favorite part, Daia thought to herself as she dashed out, the hunt. She felt the shouts of the throng of people more than heard it. Tracked the shift and sway of the crowd ahead of her to find Wilders. She slowed to a fast walk, moving with the flow of the market.

The smell of food started to dissipate as she followed Wilders to the “Debauchery Quarter” – still crowded but with a much less savory crowd. Some people donned masks to avoid detection here, others didn’t care if they’re seen, and Daia pulled one from her bag. She tucked the gun into the back of her waistband and tied a black mask that left her mouth ex posed. Daia stalked forward, a predator following its prey.

She stuck to the shadows, darting between doorways and crowds. People cursed when she bumped through groups, unable to see the towering shadow clad in black until it passed through them. Daia held back a smile when she heard someone mutter about a ghost haunting the Trench.

Ahead, the sounds of running footsteps echoed, but it was too dark for Daia to see. The city maintenance didn’t light the footlamps in this part of the Trench, only the moonlight exposed the dark side of Anatoka.

Daia’s gut dropped as her foot slid out from under her. A small puddle shone in the night, but when she brought her boot up to smell, it was not the tepid water of rain – but blood.

I’m on the right track, as always. Spotting more blood leading into the alleyway behind a popular pleasure house, Daia readied herself. Sliding out a dagger from her sleeve so that there’s one in each hand, Daia stalked into the alleyway.

“Ryu,” a voice from the street called.

Daia froze. She would know that voice anywhere. Turning around and raising her daggers above her head, Daia walked back out of the alley.

“Officer Kavan, how wonderful to see you.”

Standing in the street was a sturdy woman, built as if she was cut from stone. Although it was too dark to see her clothes, Daia knew she wore the close fitting black shirt and pants with yellow stitching of a serpent across the high neck. Standard-issue law enforcement.

“Put down the knives, Ryu,” the officer said. The eastern wind blew a salty breeze through the street, gently pushing the twin staves at her back.

“You know I can’t do that,” Daia answered, her tone familiar and casual. “I have orders.”

“From an urchin.”

“You don’t know what business I’m in these days.” Fatigue started to pull at Daia’s upheld arms, but she refused to put her hands down or drop the daggers. She stopped her gentle walk ten paces from the officer, letting her face catch the moonlight. “But I know yours.” Daia kept her voice even, conver sational, refusing to give Kavan the satisfaction of her fear.

“By order of the Anatokan police, I command you to put down the knives, Ryu.” Officer Kavan started to reach for the pistol slung at her hip – also law enforcement-issued. Daia didn’t move as she released the weapon from the holster, bringing it to aim straight at Daia’s chest. Officer Kavan cocked the pistol. Holy shit, she’s really going to shoot me this time.

“I would really prefer if you didn’t arrest my sec ond-in-command,” Zephyr said, walking up the cobblestone street, not a care in the world.

The officer whirled around to face Zephyr and Daia dropped her arms. Zephyr was the image of calm, their hands in their pockets as if they happened upon a slight inconvenience –not a patroller in the middle of arresting their number two.

“She was caught chasing a bleeding man through the streets with knives in her hands,” Officer Kavan stated. Daia

kept her daggers trained on her, but she was too far to do any damage. Kavan had the advantage: she’s an officer, she had larger weapons, and a reliable pistol.

“You were following me?” Daia asks, “How kind. Al though I do have somewhere I have to be tonight, so I can’t be arrested.”

“Cancel your plans.” The officer took a step back in order to face both Zephyr and Daia at the same time, her stance light despite her height and build.

“We could shoot you and leave you here to die,” Zephyr said as if they were describing what they had for lunch. “No one in this area of the Trench would miss a patroller.”

“You wouldn’t.” Her voice was calm as ever, but her stance stiffened and betrayed her hesitation. Zephyr nodded. “Oh I wouldn’t be the one to do it, it would be her.” They gestured to Daia, but Daia didn’t pull out her gun.

“You know,” Daia said, “you could arrest me on the off chance that I shot that man and chased him through the streets.” She slid her knives back into their holsters in her sleeves and readjusted the cuffs. “But I will send one runner to the Grand Palais and it will all disappear, you will lose what little ground you’ve gained in that joke of a law enforcement center, and I will go back to doing as I please.” She stepped within the reach of Kavan, unafraid. This woman wouldn’t hurt her, at least not where it mattered.

The officer hesitated. Daia took another step towards her, almost a breath away. She looked down at the officer, the moonlight shining on her face.

Daia always hated admitting it, but Officer Kavan was beautiful. Not in a soft and elegant way, but harsh. As if she would do anything to make the world bend to her will. Her dark skin seemed to glow, sharp and strong features accented by her thick brows and almond-shaped eyes. Daia thought that her soul must’ve been made of the things on the bottom of the ocean, the nightmares children told their parents about. Kavan’s eyes were hard, but Daia saw the hesitation in them. Her jaw set and she looked away from Daia.

“Go.” She took a step back and gestured to Zephyr. “Take them with you, and next time I’m not letting it slide.”

The officer started to walk away, back down the street, while Daia and Zephyr went the opposite way.

“Enjoy the beautiful night, Amra,” Daia called after her.

The silhouette of the officer flinched but kept stride. Daia jogged to catch back up to Zephyr. Even though her strides were long, Zephyr was fast. Looking around, she noted the dead quiet of the street. The only noises around them are the rowdy gambling halls and bars and pleasure houses, and the distant crash of the sea. Everyone must have cleared out when they saw the standoff.

“That was badass,” Zephyr said as the two of them walked back north to the night market. Slowly, the sounds of Anatoka at night could be heard again.

“I know. But seriously, I do have to get going. I’m already late.” Daia started jogging toward a side street, heading to the western end of the city. “And maybe lay off calling me ‘darling’, I don’t want the Trench of Anatoka thinking I put out for just any arms dealer.”

They shout after her, “Would it make you feel any better if I told you it makes me sound cool?”

Daia laughed. “I’ll let you keep saying it as long as I get a bigger apartment from you.”

“I’m the one that pays you!”

“I can’t hear you, I’m late.”

“Iron of the Earth!” They called. “Salt of the Sea,” she answered, running into the night.

Carrie

LIZ STEIN

Poor Sick Thing

When you see my cane

I’m an object of pity

But the second you see an anxiety attack I’m the butt of your jokes and your ridicule

If you witness me living a psychotic break I’m a fucking monster hide your kids tell me to go away I’m sick of this

You pray your kid doesn’t have any of what’s wrong with me

The glasses

The fucked up teeth

The need for help walking

The inability to bring new life to the world

The exhaustion that makes me seem disinterested I am just so sick of this

But you don’t know

If their mind is a prison

You don’t know

Until it’s swallowing your precious baby whole You won’t know Especially if they know that you think they’re a monster too I am so goddamn sick of this Every time you tell me I’m an inspiration for fighting I want to puke

I am not an inspiration today

I am angry and in pain today

I am barely holding it together today But I’ll put on a damn good show today

Please I’m tired of being sick like this So go ahead Be honest with yourself

Be honest with the world

I’m your monster

I’m your nightmare

I’m that separate other you hope No shit nobody wants to be sick like this Tell me to my face that you wish

The world didn’t have people like me in it Roll your eyes when you hear me complaining about How unsafe it is to walk

Halfway around a building to find the handicap entrance Forget that I was healthy like you once I wish I wasn’t sick like this There are days I pray to be invisible Because the brain monster is crawling out of my mouth And turning the volume up in my ears Making everything above a whisper feel like knives to the mind Injecting my heart with adrenaline Hands shaking eyes darting What if you were sick like this Then there are days that I wish I glowed like neon The days that when I fall hard on the ice My knees bend wrong My hands can’t grip a pen Make you see that society wants to pretend That people like me don’t exist How loud would you be if you were sick like this I want to prove that my soul is not that of a monster But I feel like I have to roar To stand up for those that have been beaten down Told to be quiet because they are nothing but a nuisance I am my own demon You can’t make me feel worse than I do to myself Would you scream too if you were sick like this I am not your piteous saint I am not your slobbering contagion-oozing monster either I am not your inspiration because it could be worse I am not your diversity bingo disability token I am not your good deed when you hold the door that’s just common courtesy I am not your insert fear here But I am sick like this And I am the voice that’s going to alternate Between eloquent articulation and rageful screams And I am going to bear down Because this may not be fixed before I die And I am trying to be friends with the monster in my mind Because I am sick like this Because I simply am sick like this

BRYNN MITORAJ

I still remember.

I remember you in pieces.

I remember you through the weight of your head on my shoulder through your lips on my forehead and your arms, wrapped around me, shoulder to shoulder.

I never felt safe when I slept until I met you. I slept curled up on one side of the bed, like I didn’t deserve to take up space, but you had me spread out between your arms, like a twin sized bed was the perfect amount of room for two people who held each other that close on a Tuesday morning.

I remember packing your room, and you asking me to dance, and how I fell into your chest when I couldn't look into your eyes anymore. Saying goodbye to the pressure of being loved and greeting the sting of being missed.

I remember looking up at your window after you were gone. remembering how easy I had it when you were three stories away. How simple it felt to be loved by you.

I remember you when I bite my nails

because you used to grab my hands to make me stop.

I remember you through the white hot pain of a new tattoo right on the bone.

I remember you through the burn of waking up alone, and I remember you through the ache.

Her Legacy

I was six years old when my grandma died, and it was the first time my heart got broken. I was too young to really have detailed memories of her, but too old to not have her vanish completely from my memory. She had a tradition of creating painted canvases filled with collages and called them “valentines.” She’d give them to each of her closest friends, and they’d hang them in their houses to embellish their houses in Valentine's day decor.

Any friend of hers that was given a gift of a valentine knew that they were ever so lucky to receive such a gesture. No two valentines were ever the same-every single creation was unique and made special for each recipient.

After she died, my mom and her sisters endured the painful assignment of heading to my grandparent’s house in an attempt to go through some of her things. It was expected to take an entire evening, so they were sure to have their husbands watch the kids, and pick up sandwiches on the way.

My grandma had an entire craft room dedicated to art supplies, and going through it was the most daunting task of all. A couple decade’s worth of magazines, beads, feathers, paints, pencils, paper, and art books, all were contained in that spare bedroom-turned craft room.

Upon entering, one was greeted with an immaculate sight: tall bookshelves filled with home and fashion magazines waiting to be cut up and pasted in a collage and how-to books of every craft imaginable from making pottery to arranging the perfect bouquet. A small twin bed in the corner covered in new and used canvases of all shapes and bins containing too many accessories to name made it impossible to see the quilt covering the mattress. A closet in the corner was stacked with portable drawers stacked with jewelry organizers holding pearls, ribbons, coins, pins, buttons and stickers with a batch of wrapping paper for all occasions housed in the corner. It was essentially a vintage Michael’s or Hobby Lobby. So many antique treasures housed themselves in that room; it truly was

a sanctuary for an artist.

My grandma was also a writer. On these beloved valentines, she would write small poems, typing them out on cardstock and intricately gluing them in place. Surrounding such additions would be ribbons, doilies, gems, pearls that she arranged so specifically with her nimble fingers. She cut out angels and hearts from vintage valentine’s day cards, and spent hours arranging the contents of each valentine in an order that she found most aesthetically pleasing before even gluing them down.

These valentines are what her friends remember her by and convey the utmost consideration she has for the select few to which she gifted these beloved pieces of art to. They are her legacy.

BRY FERGUS

lonelier with you

the clamminess of my palms wondering what could be wrong i would ignore every little waking detail that we were not meant to prevail i was lonelier with you than i was with me anxious to ever cross your path and when i did, my heart would clash a ticking time bomb going towards the sun little did i know, you were the flame to run i was lonelier with you than i was with me i used to hate being alone but it is time to be grown instead of finding sweet refuge in some believable illusion i was lonelier with you than i was with me in the smallest of things there is joy on a string though it has never been easy i lose respect for those who leave me i was lonelier with you than i was with me scared to walk without training wheels or support when i am in my feels but like a brace for your back i need to keep myself on track i was lonelier with you than i was with me i have done a pretty damn good job of braving my heart, that you robbed picking myself up off the floor saying i do not deserve this anymore i was lonelier with you

than i was with me your abandoning ways didn’t lead me astray it only caused me to seek my inner love that was weak i was lonelier with you than i was with me i will no longer function as your lead on i have wise words to speak on i will spread to every human, love those who feel like they are not good enough i was lonelier with you than i was with me i never once deserted you therefore, i do not deserve you my heart of vibrant red sparks of yellow for desire sparks of orange for serene at least it hasn’t gone like old tv static and succumbed to black and white forever thankful you do not have the key your problems are on you and not on me i was lonelier with you than i was with me

OLIVIA MANGAN

Prints

GABRIELA BARNAS

Acto de fe (Salamanca, Spain)

Opaque

Tranquility ceases a cherry red heartbeat. It finds the dark age of women only found in a black hole and passionately enchants them with a devil-like midwestern violinist’s sweaty songs.

Elation shines light on the forgotten age of women trapped in a black hole. It phrases it as a transparent stranger painting a dream of A midwest violinist dripping in sweat leaving the audience only with the softest glow of a gawk.

Betrayal presents the most transparent stranger painting your dream. Your effervescent reaction is a crystallized wail coupled with a soft gawk at the glow of the strong drunk flame of distrust.

Anxiety is deafened by a clear crystallized wail. Swallowed up by a firework for a lightyear. Blazed down in a drunk flame of distrust. All in the pursuit of its own funky motion sickness.

Depression consumes you like swallowing a firework. Transforms into a preacher carving a lie into your mind about his pursuit of funky motion sickness And the thunderous bounce of the devil’s bullet.

Rage denotes the preacher carving a lie. His cherry red heart beating as he fires the thunderous bullet that bounces perfectly off of the passionate enchantment of the devil themself.

ABBY GJATA

Haunted by Perfection

i do not know if i will ever succeed, so i will bleed my hard work falls through my hands like grains of sand. nothing is guaranteed, so i will bleed.

if my palms keep shaking then I will nail them down with a damn hammer and nail decay is something i am very familiar with, so i will proceed, and i will bleed

nothing is guaranteed so i do not care if my efforts are fruitless to you because perfection is the only thing to me. red cloth takes the place of what was once a beautiful white dress, i will run with faster speed and out of my lungs i will bleed.

if my palms keep shaking then I will nail them down with a damn hammer and nail decay is something i am very familiar with, so i will proceed, and i will bleed

tears from my hollow eyes eternally pour down my sunken cheeks the necessity of perfection haunts my steps– i am exploding with greed, so i don't care if i bleed

i will keep running, dashing, and sprinting and i will keep fucking going on my journey of self-torment i'll eventually collapse onto a muddy ditch of weeds, and i will bleed

i am the forgotten barbie doll which exists lifeless in your childhood dollhouse plastic legs broken like glass and now a past-tense. i need to be freed. so, i bleed out.

NINA DEBONI

Ode to the Romantics

Shy as an early sunrise, a smile breaks gentle dawn on the slow sloping horizon of your lips.

Careful is the look you wear, with the light barely reaching, only kissing the sky bright of your eyes

as you brush the thick blanket of night away, shed it as skin with movements kind, gifts of your arms.

If allowed, I would continue to weave your being into every inch of this wider world. I would dare to find dandelion seeds and the perfume cast by fruit trees caught in the spider’s web of your hair; a tangled mess of wonder realized in the beehive buzz of your laughter. In the lake, I would see the depths of your hands cupped and holding a lily blossom promise, petals spread wide, a butterfly’s wings wedged between the windward curves of your knuckles; of your fingers,

cattails in the breeze that trace the slim caterpillars of your brows furrowed as you focus on the Wordsworth reading, rooted in reflection.

If the world is too much with us, then I am too much with you, taken and longing to know if upset the woodpecker beat of your heart or linger in the night sky of your mind like some stubborn star.

If allowed, would you weave my being into every inch of this wider world?

Would you dare to find my whistle in the cricket’s chorus or my thumbs in the green and roundness of a basil leaf?

Would you see downy feathers as my lashes, tickling the apple of your cheek?

If allowed, would you tell me in the warm dusk of your voice that you are too much with me, or would you find stones

have taken the shape of your tongue as they have mine? Would you shake the crown of your head as a stag would caught in branches and cast the Romantics aside, dive deeper into belly of "Tintern Abbey;" make a home in the forest of our silence?

Raiding Season

Spring had finally come to the Northlands, and young Katla Hjaltisdottir was back to work breaking the stiff earth for hardy crops to be sown. Like a wounded spider retreating to the den, the fingers of frost slowly shriveled away to give room for fresh flowers and vibrant green grass to claw their way out of the layers of mud. For those like Katla’s people, who tended the fields and fished on the rivers, spring was a season of love, of rebirth. It was a time to plant oats and barley, to raise the new lambs just finding their footing in these coming days. For such people, winter, that harsh oppressor, was finally on the run.

Of course, to the real oppressors, spring meant only one thing: raiding season.

She had heard them first; guttural snorting and bellowing and braying, the stamping of hooves, the clanking of mismatched plate and mail. She smelled them next. A rank odor of wet, oily hide, layered over scents of dried blood and day-old meat, followed them wherever they went. By the time Katla had put the two together, the first pair of horns had peaked over the hillside.

Katla dropped her hoe and ran screaming through the barley field, yelling to anyone who would listen, “Hercari! Hercari!! HERCARRRRRIIII!!!!!”

In the cluster of huts that made up her nameless village, the adults, elders, and the older children sprang into action, slamming all the doors shut and scooping the little ones off of the dirt road running through the hamlet. Some began hiding their possessions under their floorboards. Others were running towards the river. The men of the village emerged with hatchets and stout staves. None of them would make it in time. For creatures of their size and bulk, Hercari are deceptively fast. A sickening crunch behind Katla told her the beasts had made contact with the village defense. The men were shouting, but it was fear and confusion that animated their noise. They weren’t warriors, and they didn’t die like warriors either. While

the others ran headlong out of the village, to take refuge on the other end, Katla ducked into the nearest house. The first feverish thought in her mind was that they would overlook this first hovel on their way through, while they were distracted in the skirmish. In the absence of a better plan, she barged into old Ljot’s house.

The interior of the one-room hut was a simple hearth, dresser, table, chest and bed, which doubled as seating. Ljot was old, but still healthy, and was probably outside getting butchered with the ad hoc militia. Katla saw Ljot’s old wife Herkja frantically tearing up the floorboards to grab a box of silver, a lifetime’s worth of savings for the two farmers. The poor old woman had not heard her in the confusion. Katla ignored her and jumped into the dresser, bare except for the couple’s cloaks and some blankets. she settled in, held her breath, and became very still. The air was still thick with the roars of the Hercari and the dying screams of the villagers, interspersed with the wet thunk of an axehead or hoof crushing a skull or ribcage. They were finishing off the wounded.

There was a small space between the dresser doors that allowed for light to seep through and give Katla a limited view of the home. It was through this space she saw one of the Hercari come in, the first she had seen with her own eyes.

When she was younger, she thought the tales were just to frighten the other children. Now she knew there was no tale that could match the horror standing in the doorway. To the south they were called “beast-men”, and the descriptor was apt. The creature had the head of a goat, and long, straight horns, such that it had to hunch over inside. It was covered in shaggy blond hair soiled with grime and blood, both its own and the village’s, periodically interrupted by patches of raw skin where strange symbols were branded in ugly red marks.

It stood a head and a half over poor Herkja, and was broader and more muscled than any man Katla had seen. A layer of tarnished, patchwork armor carved with more of the same symbols was arrayed crudely over its torso, while its ungulate legs and hairy arms lay uncovered except for a hide loincloth. In its hand it bore a glaive, cut down for use in close quarters.

Herkja screamed and fell to her knees, flinging the small box of treasure at the goatman, a last desperate plea to an unhearing animal. With this, the goat bore his fangs, a row

of sharp sawteeth unnaturally set in the mouth of a grasseater.

The goat stabbed his glaive into the floor and seized Herkja by the neck, flinging her into the wall. The entire hut shuddered from the impact, and the old woman crumpled lifeless to the ground. Seizing the chest in one hand, the goat used the other to effortlessly fling boards and furniture around, smashing everything that could hide more silver. Within seconds, every floor board was overturned, leaving only a small depression where the chest had been stored away. For the briefest of moments, the creature met Katla’s eyes. She froze in terror in what she thought was her final moment; all she could think was that twisted deep in the thing’s face, sunken into its dark, rage-filled eyes, was something recognizably and unspeakably human.

Before the goat could move on the dresser, another creature lumbered in. This one was bull-headed, with a shaggy black hide and curved ivory horns. It was even larger and broader than the goat, and carried a cruel-looking axe. The bull spoke to the goat in their horrible tongue, a sound like coughing blood that civilized peoples can neither replicate nor understand. Though she had no idea what was being said, Katla parsed that the bull was clearly upset with the goat, shoving the latter and gesturing outside while pushing into the goat’s face. The goat sneered back with its awful snaggle-teeth, retorting in a higher, raspier pitch. She found some relief; the goat hadn’t seen her yet, or had forgotten at least. The smell was unbearable; the oily musk of the two herdbeast hides, mixed with the fresh metallic scent of poor Herkja’s blood, was an unbearable concoction, but the knot in Katla’s stomach kept her from retching.

After what felt like hours of tense waiting, the argument escalated. The goat spit in the bull’s face and hit him in the side with the butt of his glaive. Enraged, the bull bellowed and charged the goat, pushing him straight into Katla’s dresser! She braced herself to be crushed by the goat’s horns, but the entire wall gave way, caving in half of the thatch roof with it.

Katla tumbled head over heels in the dresser and rattled off the ground as it crashed into the dirt. She arose dazed and with a badly bruised leg, but was otherwise fine. She turned to her horror to see the bull rise from the thatch, boiling with anger and with a shocked look on his face. They both cried

out as Katla ran in the opposite direction, back into the road. The air had turned foul and grey, and the village was almost entirely ablaze. The smell of burning thatch had overtaken the blood and pelts. A dozen bodies lay strewn about between the houses. One hulk of mail and hide joined them; at least we killed one, Katla thought. She looked around, and saw more Hercari beastmen in their blackened armor, about a dozen in all, goat-heads and bull-heads and ram-heads, even one with the head of a boar. They had seized the village's ewes and lambs and slaughtered them all, gathering them in a great heap. Next to the sheep was the hacksilver, the jewelry, and the lamp oil; all of the valuables in the poor village were collected together. It was a meager collection, and that seemed to upset the Hercari. They had attacked too early and found little loot to spare. Perhaps they were regretting not sparing any potential slaves.

The bull who had broken the wall now came around, and it was clear he was the largest of the bunch, with the best armor, which among thugs like these made him the leader. The blond goat, with a fresh gash just below his eye, followed meekly, eyes downcast. The bull raised his scarred arm, causing the goat to recoil, but the bull merely gestured to Katla. Nodding, the goat hefted his short glaive. Katla scrambled away, back towards the fields she had come from, but tripped on an axe haft, still clung to by a corpse, and found herself sprawled on the ground. The goat quickly overcame her, and drew back his weapon to impale the girl.

From behind Katla, a pale light struck the goat in the jaw, causing him to yelp. The light stuck fast, and burned white hot like phosphorus, leaving a trail of fine smoke. The goat shrieked and howled in pain, clutching his head as he tried to rub the alchemical flame off on the muddy soil. The smoky air was cut by an acrid chemical odor, and gruesomely, the smell of cooking mutton. Katla grabbed the heavy glaive and shakily rose to her feet, not wanting to turn her back on her assailants. A figure stepped between Katla and the Hercari. It wore a short black cloak, hooded and trimmed white at the edges. The goat, now missing a sizable chunk of skin from its cheek, stumbled back to its fellows, who hoisted their weapons.

“Who are you?” Katla half-whispered to the hooded figure, glaive in her trembling hands.

The figure turned to face her. Beneath the hood was a

young man’s face, smooth and angular, and a set of iridescent green eyes.

“I’m Nero,” he said to her. “I’m here to help.” Turning to face his foes, Nero drew two black blades, a shortsword in his right hand and a long dagger in his left. The Hercari captain bellowed out a challenge, though the others seemed less certain. Some were still making nervous sideways glances at the goat Nero had hit with the white light.

He surprised them by running headlong towards an outstretched halberd, but slid under it on the slick muddy ground, flicking his sword into the exposed legs of the wielder. The hamstrung Hercari crumpled to the ground, braying in pain. In a single movement, he turned and slashed at the groin of the next raider, eliciting a similar response. He moved like water through the line, which collapsed as each beastman tried their luck swatting him, but none could keep their line of sight for more than a brief moment. One by one, each beast recoiled and clutched an armpit, a foot, a hand, or a cheek as Nero punished any exposed flesh he could find. Two of them were caught in the neck, and fell dead in pools of warm blood. Seeing his warriors drop, the Hercari captain let out a frustrated scream and charged in, bowling over several others in the process.

As the big bull swung his axe around his horned head, Nero slowed down long enough for Katla- and the captain- to see him, about twenty paces away, only his dagger drawn. As the captain closed the distance, Nero threw another ball of white light, this time at the captain’s hand. Without breaking stride the beast dropped the axe from his singed paw and lowered his horns to meet Nero’s chest. Katla tried to look away. Surely this hooded blade-dancer couldn’t outrun a charging bull?

Katla didn’t find out, because he never tried to. Instead, he ran forward and ducked sharply to the right, seizing the left horn of the captain. Remarkably, he used the horn as a springboard to boost himself up and clamber over the beastman’s shoulders! Before the captain could react, Nero drove his dagger between the beast’s shoulder blades, into its neck.

In a morbid sort of amusing way, Nero rode on the creature’s back as it collapsed face-first into the ground. He withdrew his weapon, allowing a stream of dark blood to pool

out into the already reddened mud. The other Hercari were dead silent. The bull had clearly been the pack leader, and none were willing to take his place for the moment.

Then Nero did something quite surprising. He spat out a few guttural phrases in the Hercari’s own language, his voice shaking with rage and contempt. The other Hercari seemed just as shocked as Katla to see a human talk back to them, but they seemed to understand, and backed away warily. That is, until the blonde goat, the one that had killed Herkja and had his face burned, turned and fully ran back to the forest he had come from. The others followed his lead as Nero righted himself and ran to Katla.

“I’m sorry they got away. I couldn’t take them all,” he said, wiping and then sheathing his weapons. “Are you hurt? What’s your name?”

“K-Katla, Hjaltisdottir,” she stammered, laboring for each word. “I’m okay, I think. Where...did you...”

“I was traveling through and saw smoke. I-I’m sorry, I was too late. We need to get you out of here.”

She turned to leave with him, but caught herself. “Wait! The river! There could be survivors there!”

In his luminous eyes there swirled sadness and doubt. Though it was clear he didn’t believe her, he nodded. “Okay, to the river then.”

As they walked to the other end of the village, Katla looked around for survivors. She saw her father, curled up in the dirt, his head caved in with a club or mace. Next to him was Sven, a boy her age who was sweet on her, and had promised her father he’d marry her one day. He had been pressed into the defense and lay disemboweled, almost cleaved in half, his eyes still open.

Solemnly, Katla accounted for her whole life as she passed. Gunno the miller, then Ljot, Gunno’s daughters, Erik the smith, Erik’s new wife from the next village, old Hilde who hated noisy children, old Birna who always gave those same children sweets. All of them had been dragged out and slaughtered. She passed her own home, a smoldering pile of sticks collapsed in on itself. For her entire life, Katla had never left her village. Now there was nothing to come back to.

They reached the mill on the river’s edge, where boats were kept for fishing. Not a single boat had been unmoored; no one had escaped. Not that Katla had any hopes; only a few

families lived in the village, and she had accounted for almost all of them. Her own mother had been bedridden, recovering from a winter fever when the attack began; for her own sanity, Katla did not hazard a search for her.

“I’m ready to go,” she finally managed to choke out, turning to Nero. His peculiar eyes were steeled as he surveyed the destruction, a grim countenance on his face. He turned to her and his expression softened as he lowered his hood. She noticed his hair was bright white, and his ears ended in Elven points.

He caught her eye and swiftly dismissed any curious question. “I know.” In the corner of his mouth Katla noticed a grimace of regret, a pang of guilt, but for what Katla didn’t know.

“Here,” he said brusquely, unfastening his cloak and draping it over her unceremoniously. “I made camp not far from here. You can rest and eat. Everything else can wait until tomorrow. Are you okay to walk there?”

Katla nodded wordlessly. She remained silent on the short walk to Nero’s camp. Only after she settled down at the camp, huddled by a small fire, wrapped in Nero’s cloak, did she finally allow herself to cry.

ALLISON JANOTTA

Your Words Are Nothing; Do Something

The emails overtake

As the hatred befalls; Another infographic calls for change Reposted by the preservers. They say; “We care for the community” As they send them into a battle As a drummer boy; Unguarded, used for amusement. A counterfeit image Of inclusivity and love.

HALLIE LITTON

My Bedroom at 333

If I think of one specific place where I could consider myself happy, it would be my childhood bedroom. I have a few different variations, but the one that stood at 333 Weymouth Ave was my favorite place and my worst.

When I close my eyes and picture myself back there, I see the hot pink walls only painted to the chair rail and decorated with zebra picture frames and metal cutouts of highheeled shoes. My grandmother’s oak dressers were painted eggshell white to match the decor. I remember the closet door off the track; I hung up a blanket along the edge and pretended it was a dressing room in my walk-in closet.

I can still remember playing Rich Girl by Gwen Stefani on my boombox and standing on my bed pretending to perform a concert. I remember the sleepless nights of “Explore the drawers,” where I would go snooping around my dresser drawers. The only issue is, I would pull out the bottom drawer and stand on it to see into the top drawer. I broke it once I got too big.

When I dream about being in my bedroom, I dream of that one. 333 Weymouth Ave. Not 212 Goldenrod, or 241 N Elroy, or even 7N469 Foxglove. I haven't lived at 333 since 2016, so it makes me wonder– why that house? Maybe it was the last house I lived in with Dad. Or perhaps it was because my midchildhood years were there. I was 6 when we moved in and 15 when we moved out. All of my milestones happened elsewhere; first boyfriend, driver's license, detention, graduation, drinking for the first time, smoking for the first time, sneaking out, having sex. None of the core memories of growing up happened at 333, so why is it so ingrained into my mind?

BRYNN MITORAJ

Thanksgiving 2001

ask her.

It comes every year, but she’s never ready for it. When the school closes down and all the doors lock, and her car and the diner down the road are the only places still open, still flickering fluorescent lights and table lamps. It’s thanksgiving, but her father is drinking, and her mother is high, and her sister and her brother both have families by now. Her best friends are home with their parents and their families, holding hands around a dining table. She can go too, but she sleeps on their floors and yoga mats and living room couches, and she says thank you every time.

“I like it because it means winter is almost here.”

I guess that’s the only thing that has ever returned to her faithfully.

“But why do you like thanksgiving?” I

ETHAN HARE

Taps

Each morning the father Sits down at his keys, White as ivory, black as coal.

A wooden chassis warms his heart As he plays dearly The horse of sound.

The father’s tune starts slowly-he quietly creeps his fingers along, Trying not to wake his son.

He plays the color blue, As his’s sorrow seeps through The notes spoken by the horse he tamed.

Awoke from his slumber, To the gallops of the melody, The boy can hear the wooden horse down the hall.

After he finishes, the father, picks up his briefcase, Another day for the working class.

The son comes down to play, But play in a different way, Sitting upon the steed’s teeth.

He found his rhythm and started to move, The boy can play with his ear, feeling a warmth he once knew.

It had been a long time since he felt this way, Since the sweet sound of his mother’s tap shoes, Tapping away at his memories of the past.

LIZ STEIN

Incense smoke

Skein upon skein upon skein of yarn Bolts of fabric stacked on shelves insulating cinder block walls

So many candles Dreamy watercolor tapestries Divination tools lining a shelf book-ended by a pair of guitars

King size bed Hiding behind a crimson red sofa A nest of comforters & pillows given up on making the bed

Repurposed department store clothing racks Full of clothes that may as well be for three different people Elegant femme elder soft punk nervous middle school guidance counselor

Hideous green upholstered 70’s party bar Covered in mugs tea coffee wine bottles whiskey missing only a single shot Mini fridge that exists solely for soda hard cider candy bars

The witch’s door Steel monstrosity covered in magnets & hooks with a purple leash hanging next to a bell Purple with a besom over the portal salt along the edges rosemary flanking

Plush sleepy eyed salmon jelly-puss puppy Memorial photo watching over a library of mental health and metaphysical The juxtaposition of reality faith mystery fact chiffon starched cotton noted

A promise of a toilet

Mike told me this is a TERRIBLE Anti-Poem

A year gone by Maybe in a few months

So much space with so much potential Maybe a hydroponic garden for salads & herbs Or shove it full of more craft supplies

Mundane sacred place Liminal retreating curious space Child’s memories of a cave of treasure being overwritten by exhausted adulthood

The Hope!

GABRIELA BARNAS

No hablo portugués (Porto, Portugal)

I promised myself I would never marry a man with a tattoo. When I was seven, my stepdad got one in memory of his grandma on his bicep. She was so real looking on his skin that everytime he flexed I swear she would wink. I was scared of her.

I wouldn’t give him a hug until he covered it up.

“An angel on my arm” he would tell people when they asked about it.

Though I fear she was the devil in disguise. Motorcycle accident got him. When I walked by his casket all I could see was the stupid grandma perfectly alive on his arm, smiling like she hadn’t just killed my dad. Tattoos were cursed.

In highschool I met Turner. He was a grade above me and the sort of person that isn’t actually popular, but gets along with everyone. I thought he was cute. Full on young love. He thought I was cuter. I’d never had a boyfriend before, but I thought that being with Turner was as good as it could get.

Until I found his tattoo. I was a virgin and he knew that. He wasn’t and I knew that. He was so sweet and nice and patient. We’d been together for almost a year and I was ready. We were getting naked and I caught a glimpse of something on his hip.

I jumped back, surprised. “What is that?”

“Oh, you like that? I got him on spring break last year.”

I sat there in my bra and underwear squinting at the bluejay no bigger than a quarter that perched on his hip bone.

I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t do this. I tried to push the little bird out of my mind, but he was flying circles around my head as Turner’s underwear came off and my bra was undone.

“Actually, I’m not ready,” I said to his tattoo. He didn’t seem upset at the time, but actually understanding. We cuddled with our clothes on, but I could feel the bird pecking away at me all the same.

A week later we broke up. Over nothing. Over everything. I

blame the tattoo.

I was drunk one night in my mid-twenties and decided I wanted a curse myself. Not much, just a smiley face on the inside of my middle finger. Don’t ask me why. I spent the next morning trying not to cut off my finger. It’s still there to this day, faded and hidden by rings. A reminder of all the unhappy memories, but the only thing it can do is smile.

NINA DEBONI

Twister...Still Riding It Out

Raw. Raw as in I could feel the meat of my throat stretching to accommodate my shrill screams as my panicked hands scrambled in search of anything solid. Hold on for your life was what the man on the screen told me, mere moments before the sirens started to screech. Mere moments before I was quiet, then the room we were in was painted in red flashes and we were herded into another that smelled of wet pavement. I recall clinging to my father’s arm as we walked, squeezing his flesh so tight that, when we reached our destination, he told me to grab the rails instead. He told me that the ride was about to begin, with a grin, and pointed to the stage.

The scene was set: seemingly some Podunk town in Kansas, smackdab in the center of Tornado Alley. It looked too familiar to my hometown for my liking. The single main drag, which I now know was painted on a terribly life-like, projected mural, fed only one side road, presumably leading to a neighborhood beyond the reaches of streetlight. Immediately before us was the facade of a gas station, with a farmer’s red truck pulled up to one of the two pumps, and a diner lit in blue neon. Or maybe it was a grocery store? Or a sweet corner shoppe run by someone’s Mom and Pop?

Either way, it looked lived in, like, on off-hours, this so-called ride housed a little town on its little stage. There were cracks in the sidewalk, cicadas buzzing in trees, and puddles that seemingly flowed into an unseen sewer. I could almost see the teenagers biking down Main Street towards the gas station, coins jingling in jean pockets that whispered of their hunt for candy bars. By could, I mean that I would have seen them, but the imitation rain fell heavily and the still ringing sirens scared the imaginary townsfolk to shelter. At least, that was what I hoped.

A moment of eerie calm passed with just that steady, shrieking sound and the murmurs of my father and I’s fellow ride-goers.

Then the rain stopped. My heart rose and, a millisecond

later, it fell back into my stomach in time with the first strike of pseudo-lightning. Wind, generated by two industrial fans on either side of the room, picked up with a breath-taking suddenness and another strike hit a lonely tree in the center of the scene. With thunder applause and gnashing sparks, the trunk split perfectly down the middle, almost like it was made by a machine. It was then the power cut, save for a drive-in theatre screen that snapped on in the facsimile of distance created by the projected mural. A grainy showing of some sort of storm-chaser flick. How convenient.

My chest began to heave and my suddenly sweaty hands slipped from the railing. I was too young to know about foreshadowing, but the pounding that filled my ears was enough to tell me something was about to go really, really wrong. All at once, the wind and sirens and shattering glass became one racing hum of a sound that outpaced the already rapid beating of my heart. It was too much and I needed to get out to get air, I needed to breathe. That was when the simulated tornado touched down and I started to scream, to feel the rawness. Lights flashed, adding to my fight or flight misery and revealing the wreckage that the storm unfolding before us would leave behind. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I saw the Mom and Pop shoppe destroyed, trees stripped of their leaves, and lonely, waywardblown toys. When the diner sign was seemingly torn asunder and my whole world began to rattle, I started screeching at my father. I begged him to take me home.

But home was more than a thousand miles away and my father wanted to make the most of this trip to Universal Studios. Even if it killed him, even if it killed me, which, to a seven-year-old stuck in Twister...Ride It Out, it sure felt like that was going to be the outcome. I would perish alongside the imaginary townsfolk and never see my family again. I would be dead. I would never see anything again and that thought paralyzed me.

“It’s okay! Look! Look at the cow!” My father shouted, his voice barely breaking through the sirens and the soaring cyclone of my own dread.

Needless to say, I did not look at the cow. From where I was tucked, my face turned into my father’s side, I only heard its wailing moo as it was swept up in the fake, but all-too-real, tornado. The thought of that innocent heifer being blown away

made everything worse. Its demise was added to the chorus of stomach-churning worries swirling about my mind. I started to cry harder, even as we made our way out of the dark room and back into the Florida sunshine. It was on the monorail ride back to the hotel when I finally dared to open my eyes. I was greeted by my father, clearly concerned but smiling. Smiling in that way parents often do when they are trying to bite back their laughter for the sake of their child. Though, when the lingering panic fed my nightmares and my fear of storms swelled like a tornadic front, all humor died.

For the next few years, I often woke up in tears and trembling. I would be worried sick about my mother, my siblings, and even my school whenever the weather in my dreams turned sour. In the real world, whenever there were too many grey clouds in the sky, my little hands would curl into fists around the curtains and pull them quickly closed. Object permanence be damned. If I could not see the storm, I could not think about the storm or spiral into the windy, winding depths of panic. This technique only lasted as long as the thunder stayed away.

After close encounters with lesser cyclones, not the cow-killing kind, that served as a sort of exposure therapy, my fear ebbed into a standard Midwestern disdain. The nightmares were starved and finally stopped. Yet, there were times when it returned. Just as it returned today, just as it will return tomorrow, and all the days after that.

There are times when the wind whips just so and my pulse spikes. There are times when my thoughts overload and my world starts to rattle again. There is always a calm before the storm, a semi-steadiness before a no longer dormant anxiety turns on the sirens in my brain. I begin to rattle too, and, on instinct, my throat tightens as if it remembers the rawness. As if it too is cringing at the memory of my first panic attack. When that happens, I take the fullest breath I can and hold on for my life.

Hannah

I remember my sister’s clasped hands holding so gently onto mine the last day I spoke a prayer.

Before our voices were angry before the stilted quiet we were soft. There was comfort.

The first victim to my anger

my first comfort after every death.

I want to pelt her window with rocks and hold me through the heartbreak.

Who else to criticize my every decision yet hold my soul when I was too tired myself?

My chest feels the absence more than the empty room down the hall.

Favorite Things

Her blonde hair grazes my cheek as she pulls the covers over my patterned pajama-clad body. “Love you honey,” she says, kissing my forehead after tucking a lock behind her ear. Little does she know as soon as she leaves the room. I’m kicking the blankets off to protest the early bedtime and rereading my favorite book with a flashlight.

Her hands have accomplished some amazing feats. Well, at least in my book.

They have gripped messy paint brushes for hours, covering canvases of all sizes that dress the walls of our house like fine jewelry. They have blended too many batches of pumpkin bread served on toile plates that were a wedding gift some years ago. They’ve braided my fine hair mornings before school and unwrapped Bandaids for skinned knees after failed bike rides to the park. They have put frozen peas on swollen cheeks after wisdom teeth surgery and wiped away tears after learning that a middle school crush likes someone else. Her soft green eyes are the same as grandma’s. After she died, they grew greener. They’ve seen ballet recitals, homemade birthday cards, and prom dresses in the reflection of mirrors in Bloomingdale’s dressing rooms. They close shut when a trailer for a horror movie plays at AMC, and open wide in wonder when a flock of birds fly in a “V” above our heads.

Her ears have witnessed the music of life. They have heard small footsteps running downstairs on Christmas morning and hours of “piano practice” that actually was composed of missed notes and off-tune originals. As many sounds that those ears have heard in our house, they will gladly continue to hear tear filled voices in exchange for highly treasured advice, and laughter filling the dining room over coffee and angel food cake.

Her voice is a rainbow, with a variety of frequencies equating to its vast color scale. It’s nearly always violet, but sometimes can reach deep red if her day hasn’t been kind to her. But her voice always comes back to some degree of that

violet with an apology and patient arms waiting to envelope anyone who witnessed that red voice. On all occasions, it upholds the same softness of her hands, giving gentle compliments to strangers that she feels may need it the most.

Her eyes are the guide for where those soft hands and her gold head of wisdom will go. I have the blonde hair, but only half of the green from her eyes and only a fraction of the softness of her hands. I’ll forever try to make these pieces of mine whole, but I don’t know if my hands could ever be as soft, or my eyes will ever be as green.

Aether. (10.13.21)

There are golden rims around the blackholes in your eyes – the supernovas in your galaxies explode, leaving freckles in your irises and spreading out to your cheeks, your nose, splashing around like stardust, sprinkling an aurora of sun-kissed dots along the lines of your jaw and cheekbones.

You are vast and infinite, enveloping me in your universe – your arms are the only thing connecting me to space and time, the here and now of our little moment, and the tether between me and this plane could snap at any moment, allowing me to float and drift in your boundless expanse.

Your heartbeat is the rhythm of the cosmos, keeping the two of us in line and breathing in sync – a tempo to dance to, a cadence lilting in your voice and marking your speech and inhalations, a throbbing in my chest to match the pulse of your lifeline, keeping us in harmony, in time.

Litter

The green and calm park makes me feel like my dog I don't have a leash around my neck But I still feel like a prisoner Of the long chains that abound in my brain My dog wags his tail because he's happy And I, I don't have a tail I already miss my smile I don't bark at strangers on the sidewalk But I bark at my children at the table My dog is not ashamed From shitting in the grass And I have screwed up so much But I am not ashamed to have sinned I don't walk on four feet But it would serve me well to avoid falling over and over again My dog can see but can't read And I know how to read, but I can't understand It seems that I'm not a dog after all A dog is more human More like a cat I have died several times I like fish and dolls I have sharp claws And soon I'll end up in a litter box

ETHAN HARE

The Nightmares of Cute Woodland Creatures

Mr. Squirrel awoke, startled by the branch persistently tapping his window. The wind howled and thunder cracked down like the snap of bones on the forest ground. Then, everything grew quiet, everything but the wind; it started to sting as it chilled his cheeks, like the ice cicles that hang from Mr. Bear’s cave in December. No one from Mr. Squirrel’s family was there, not even Little Johnny, his adopted chipmunk-son. Completely alone, Mr. Squirrel saw a figure out in the rain, staring up at his tree from the forest floor. The pitter patter of water droplets splashed and dashed off of the creature’s monstrous figure, as it began to creep toward the tree. The movement was similar to a sloth, but as quick as a jaguar, the forest-creeper carved its way up Mr. Squirrel’s tree. He could hear the gnarly gashes being made by the monster’s screeching claws. Mr. Squirrel hid, as fast as he could, behind his bed. All of a sudden, the faint light which had been kissing Mr. Squirrel’s abode, through the opening of the tree, was gone. His heart cranked fast, like the wheels of time in the eyes of a fly. Mr. Squirrel peeked around the corner of his bed, and to his dismay, all he could see was sharp teeth salivating...

Mr. Bear seemed to himself as smaller than usual. He peeked into the mirror and looked the same, but when he looked around at his body all he could see were human parts. Startled by this new development, Mr. Bear decided to run for the exit, except he fell flat on his face before realizing he has two legs instead of four...and where did the New Balances come from? Mr. Bear sat there puzzled, in his button up shirt and khakis. He felt less dangerous and intimidating, rocking back and forth in a chair, wondering what in the hell was going on. Then, he heard a giggle from the hallway, then two giggles, then three, when all of a sudden the door burst open. Flooding in were three little girls all screaming for their papa! “What in the world is

happening?!” Mr. Bear exclaimed. His worst nightmare, being a father! Mr. Bear screamed “THREE HUMAN GIRLS?!” as he awoke in his cozy one-bedroom apartment.

Mrs. Doe loves the meadow by the lake. She walks the perimeter of the lake every day before taking her son, Bambi, to the video game store. Although, on this particular day, the weather seemed funny. Mrs. Doe and her son went on the usual walk, smelling the sweet scent of goose droppings. Bambi pleaded that she take him to the store, as he had been saving up money for a new game. As they walk to the store, Mrs. Doe feels as though they should stay at the lake a little while longer, but her son is anxious. They reach the store and walk into an uncrowded gaming shop to begin browsing. While observing his options in the store, Bambi finally found the game he desired to purchase, and began making his way to the cashier. Mrs. Doe had a weird feeling all day, and for good reason, as she heard the jingle from the doorbell as a new customer entered the store. However, this suspicious customer was not a new customer at all, as he pulled out a rifle and pointed it at her son, Bambi! Mrs. Doe awoke in an intense sweat, howling in pain for her son. “Next time we’re taking an even longer walk” she said to herself, as she went to check on her sleeping son.

Mr. Turtle was moving too fast. How is this possible? He wondered, as he flew in a dark room past the sun and the moon, and next the stars. “Hold up, wait a minute...” thought Mr. Turtle "...it’s not a dark room, it’s fucking space!” he exclaimed, as he looked around and saw that he was utterly alone. Mr. Turtle is a family man, and loves spending time with his friends; such solitude in space quickly got to his head. Mr. Turtle still had no idea how he was moving so fast, but he felt no air resistance as he blasted forward endlessly in the vacuum of space until finally, he woke up.

Miss Kitty stared at her reflection in the mirror, contemplating which book she will read next. She loves staying inside and reading her books, not paying much attention to the outside world, but creating her own little world instead. She walked over to her

bookshelf and grabbed her favorite book, Where the Red Fern Grows. Miss Kitty loves reading about how much the boy loves his dogs. As she was enjoying her book, she smelled something funny, like paper burning. Before she could even try to locate the smell, she realized quickly that it was her book, as it burst into flames and dropped to the floor. Little Ann and Old Dan, the dogs from her book, slowly began to emerge from the crisp and charcoaled pages. However, these were not normal dogs, they were zombie dogs! Miss Kitty gasped in fright and ran straight for her front door, prepared to never return to her safe place of books and imagination. Miss Kitty awoke, now terrified of her books, the one thing she thought could never be ruined for her.

Mr. Bird was making his bed before heading to work before all of a sudden he noticed a dark cloud moving toward his home. It was clear as day to see through the window, but the result of it was dark as night. Mr. Bird was not afraid, but curious, as he stepped toward the view of the pending but inevitable pitchblack-dark that is coming to shroud his home. Mr. Bird never was very fond of the dark, especially as a child. His mother used to tell him stories about evil entities that lurked in the dark, and that Mr. Bird needed to be safe at home during the night. “But it’s broad daylight... or at least it was?” Mr. Bird thought to himself. “I will most certainly be late for work, blasted-darkness! Curse you for your evil gout of a shadow, go back to whence you came!” shouted Mr. Bird with a frightened tone in his voice. The darkness was growing even closer now as Mr. Bird did not know what to do, and the light began to trickle down, running away from Mr. Bird out the back of his house. He was alone. Utterly afraid, and having a hard time seeing, Mr. Bird began making his way toward the back door. Just as he began to reach for the door knob of the back door to chase after the light, he heard a creak behind him. It was unmistakably the hardwood flooring that’s been in his kitchen for decades, but who, or what could it be? He did not take the time to turn around, instead, Mr. Bird turned the door knob and ripped the door open to run after the light. Mr. Bird took his first step, and when he was beginning to exit the house, something grabbed him, and pulled him back into the abyssal blackness that was his home. He awoke, it was morning, and the sun

was shining, but none of the power was working in his home. Mr. Bird picked up his phone off the nightstand and saw in the news that there was a massive storm while he was asleep, which would explain his power being out. Next, Mr. Bird went to check the outage map and see how many are affected, but to Mr. Bird’s surprise, he was the only one still without power...

MARIA HARMON

To Talk About It All at Christmas

I do not know a road I can take to meet you anymore. Such roads are out of my reach. But I dream of meeting you in a wood. Some legendary path I can take. Led to you by a wil o’ the wisp on a charged afternoon. Sunlight beaming down. I miss you. More than I let myself feel most of the time. More than my heart knows to allow.

When I stood over you for the last time, I felt transported back to that day on the swing. Six- years-old, singing tura lura lura lura. Pump and kick. Tura lura ly. Did you ever watch the movie Arrival? Time is not a straight line. Time is a circle. A noose. I want you in the sun.

Is it selfish to think of my wedding and who will not be there. See I am crying for me then—not you. Though you would have wanted to see it. But you are not conscious anymore of what you are missing out on. So it is me I feel sorry for—that you will never see my dress, or meet the boy I marry.

I like to think that night I begged to meet Max at one in the morning and you let me go, you knew what trouble I was getting my heart into. You let me go anyway. Go. Be hurt and live.

The last thing I told you was that I’d see you soon. Sometimes I think maybe I was speaking my fate. I want so badly for the last thing I said to you to be truthful— for those words to be meaningful and big and wide. One of the last things we talked about was poetry. I mentioned “Someday I’ll love Ocean Vuong” —I hate to think that when you went you were worried that I didn’t love myself.

I want you to know that I had bought you your double chocolate cookies and sausage and cheese because you hadn’t eaten all day. Best $7.84 I ever spent. We threw it away after,

you know. Saint Adrienne Pray For Us. I am taking Grandpa Pozzi’s St. Christopher medal with me to Ireland, the one that hung in your car for all those years.

I am mad that we will never get to talk about the trip. I am really angry that I have lost you from my sight. And touch. And every avenue I knew to take to get to you. In dreams I will meet you out of the blue, turn a corner and you will be there. Appear to me like a vision and tell me what to do. How to think now that you are gone. What to do when the love is still there but the object is gone.

Forever. I want you to tell me how to be okay with never seeing you again. I want a vision of you happy again in my presence. Selfishly. To talk to you about Food Network or how the world should be like Hallmark movies. To promise you that I will be safe on my trip and that we will talk all about it at Christmas.

Self

Go With the Flow!

SARAH BUCHMANN

Marry Me a Little... (01.28.22)

Marry me a little, and take me in your arms as you slide a ring on my finger; pearl, not diamond and silver, not gold; a symbol of love for just the two of us to share.

Marry me a little, and introduce me to your parents as more than what we’ve been until now; I’ll be your forever if you’ll be mine and I’ll love you till the end of the universe.

Marry me a little, and sleep by my side until our eyes close for the last time; I never want to live a day without your laughter, your voice, your presence, your heart next to mine.

Marry me a little, and promise me that our lives will stay as intertwined as your legs are in mine, as tightly laced as our fingers, and as balanced as how you inhale on my exhale and we breathe in yin and yang.

Marry me a little, and I'll never change the way my eyes shine when I look at you; you are the Saturn to my moon, vast and expanding, uncharted but waiting for the right touch.

Marry me a little, and only ever love me; I will wake up every morning and choose you, over and over again, as long as your heart beats in sync with mine, I do.

Lie + Lie = Truth Truth + Truth = Lack of Balance Monkey - Cure = Real People

Accepted Truth + Internal Problems + Intelligent People = Death Lie - Happiness + Real People x Time = Normality Discovered Lie - Truth + Control + Backup Lie = Protection

Sheep + Sheep x True Race = Cleansing Strange × Ideologies + Culture = Contamination Male + Female - Rights - Love = Family Sex - Privacy + Control - Intimacy + Division = Perfect Marriage

Intelligent People - Freedom + Lie + War - Light = Paradise Depression - Identity + Hell + Anxiety - Creativity = You

Real People + External Problems + War = Victory

Forgotten Truth + Ignorance = Light Unity + War + Accepted Lie = Life Intelligent People + Killing + Torture = Secret Big Lie - Truth + Extermination x Happiness = Real World Big Brother + You + Hell + Intimacy x Perfect Love = Me

Truth + Lack of balance + Real People + Death - NormalityProtection + Cleansing + Contamination - Family - Perfect MarriageParadise + You + Victory + Light - Life + Secret + Real World + Me = 2084

LIZ STEIN

What's New

What’s new? He asks & I laugh because he asked it less than an hour ago & I tell him nothing because I’ve been sitting in the same spot for three hours & point out that he just asked a little while ago

The cloud cover over his eyes darkens slightly His chin drops just enough for me to realize that he’s struggling Can you tell me what was new a few hours ago? He asks & my heart breaks

Of course Papa The shower is still running because the cold water valve broke in the open position But the neighbor is coming to work on it this afternoon

Dad is still in Florida

Mom is cleaning at her house Kate & her husband & their baby are spending time with his family in Connecticut Alex & his wife & girls are getting ready to come visit

I have an online class soon, but if you need me, just yell Because I’ll have my microphone muted unless I’m talking & if you need me that is more important

He nods & shuffles back to his recliner To fall asleep with a nature documentary on

What’s new? Or what’s knew? What was he supposed to know that he couldn’t remember anymore?

Does he still remember that Kate is pregnant again, with another great-grandbaby?

Does he still remember that Alex lives in North Carolina because he’s stationed there? I know there are mornings he doesn’t remember Nonnie is

gone

Because he tries to be extra quiet so he doesn’t bother her getting out of bed.

What’s new is that I’m sad & hate that there is nothing I can do to make things better That he is afraid to tell me stories because he knows his mind is slipping & he’s afraid he’s already told me Too many times & I’ll be annoyed or bored

But I beg for the stories So I can record them So I can share them with his great-grandbabies So I can keep him around when not a lot of him is left & then he’s gone

Because what’s new is I don’t want to deal with what’s new

BRYNN MITORAJ

Sunday Best

after viewing Sunbath, by Jana Brike

She had posed in front of a fulllength mirror, one hand pulling at the elastic of the waistband, the other gripping a lilac cell phone. She had crossed, then uncrossed, her legs because it took a few tries to get them right. Then she took the photo without the flash and looked at it.

He’d like it. She sent it.

They’re still the same, only worn differently now, the white underwear with embroidered lilacs, the word “Sunday” written as if it could fit in with the words in the Bible.

She remembered she wore them for church. She used to wear them under tights, under shorts, then under a knee-length dress with a sweater. She used to feel pretty in them, and she liked the way her legs looked when she put them on early in the morning.

How they felt around her hips on the church’s pews.

She puts her phone down to await his word, dropping her hands at her sides, and staring forward at her body trying to wear something that no longer fits.

HALLIE LITTON

The Inconvenience of Death

I play the audio file over again to remind myself of the fading memory of your voice. Even though you died years ago, I still have the last voicemail you left on my phone.

Hey Jay, it’s me. I’m on my way over. Can’t wait to see you! Okay, love you. Bye!

It was as simple as that. Nothing more. The only thing I didn’t know is that that was the last thing you said to anyone, and I hate myself for not picking up the phone. It was charging on my bed, and I left for a few seconds to go pee. When I got back to my phone, I called you back but you didn’t answer. I figured you just had your phone on do not disturb you because you were driving. I never would have thought that you flipped your car six times, or that the semi that hit you lost control of his truck, or that you could have lost your focus for one second when the phone rang and that is why you didn’t see the semi coming right at you.

I can’t help but think that it is all my fault. But then again, it isn’t my fault at all. I have played that day out in my head over a hundred times. I was planning on proposing that night. I should have driven to you and picked you up from your house, but you are defiant and independent and you know that we were going to a fancy restaurant that was the opposite direction of your house. You had to drive to me because you didn’t want to be an inconvenience. You not being here is the most inconvenient thing of all.

I haven’t been on a date since I met you. Not one. Everyone tells me that you would want me to move on, but I don’t want to. I want to hold on to the memory of you for as long as I can because you are my person. You will always be my person, my future wife, the future mother of my children. I miss you.

I love you.

The Bodies Behind Us

Tamara was old.

For someone who had spent a fair few years of her life literally courting death, Piala was surprised to notice a small pang in her chest at the thought of her friend's inevitable passing coming upon them sooner rather than later. Tamara’s hair was now as grey as the morals she’d always lived by, her former steadiness traded for three knee replacements (one regular for each knee, and one prosthetic for the right after the whole leg needed replacing with it) and her bow and arrow swapped for the straight and narrow.

Yes, this would be the final Assassin’s Conclave for Tamara, no doubt about it.

There hadn’t been an official Conclave in almost a decade. Killing all of the assassins on the continent with the right to actually be called “assassins” would do that to such a gathering. However, there were enough people back in the business who were worth at least some of their salt, so when Tamara had sent the call for a meeting, Piala had been surprised to see a couple dozen new faces in a room they would probably have only ever dreamed of seeing back in the old days.

Being the “last” of the older generation, Tamara was the obvious choice for head of the new order, but she’d been out of the business for five years, finally settling down on a farm somewhere rural with that shady information broker who had been flirting with her for the better part of both of their criminal careers.

And that was where Piala came in.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Piala grumbled over her whiskey.

Tamara just laughed, more than a little tipsy by this point. “Well, I couldn’t exactly tell everyone that the new leader of the order is the same person who razed it to the ground, now could I?”

Piala hadn’t been called “Piala” by anyone other than Tamara in ten years; after the last of her victims had fallen victim

to her arrows, she’d vanished from the public eye like she’d never been there at all. The common people only knew her real name by reputation, and she could think of only a scant handful of individuals who might know her face out of a crowd. So now, she went by Kiera, and the rest of the order saw her as Tamara’s former apprentice, partner, and longtime friend. As far as the world was concerned, Piala the “Hitman’s Hitman” was dead. Besides, being two hundred and fifty-seven years old and still looking forty had its perks, so she’d take the slightest chance of recognition, seeing as she’d outlive anyone who might give her trouble anyway.

“You also could have let one of the amateurs take the role,” Piala pointed out, “or told them to figure it out among themselves and not put your life on hold for a formal Conclave. Why didn’t you?”

Tamara fiddled with her glass, prosthetic leg clicking clumsily as she shifted in her seat. “You’re stagnating,” she finally said, downing the rest of her drink and gesturing at the bartender for another. “And not in the slow ‘My life has reached its natural end and this is the time to let the waters finally be still’ kind of way.”

“My life’s not that sad,” Piala lied, because it was, but trying to fake happy to make happy had been working well enough, even if there was nothing really fulfilling in her life beyond her daily trip to the local bakery and the occasional bouts of hired thug work.

Tamara’s eyebrows raised as she accepted her new beverage. “I may not be as old or as experienced as you, but I can still tail you pretty well when I feel like it, and Piala? I’ve seen your apartment. Your life is not just sad, it’s fucking dismal.”

They sat there together for a moment in silence, and Piala looked around at the other faces gracing the small tavern. She’d grow to know them with time, but the idea of living here, in the mountain hideaway that had been long home to the order’s base of operations, knowing what jobs these fresh faces were taking at all times, was almost too much to process for how small and insular her mind and life had become.

“I’ve already had Impulse move your things here, so don’t even think about it,” Tamara added, catching on to Piala’s quiet anxieties. “I’ll sell your apartment myself if you go back now. Besides, you wouldn’t have taken me up on my offer if you didn’t-”

“Are you ever going to tell me your husband’s real name?” Piala interrupted, steering the subject in a direction she thought was safe. Tamara huffed a small laugh, the wicked grin that had once spelled no small amount of trouble for Piala making an unexpected appearance.

“Only if you tell me what name Death has been going by these days,”

Piala clenched her glass tighter in her fist; she’d never told Tamara why Death had cursed her, only that Death had, but clearly Tamara had connected some dots.

“You know,” Tamara continued, like she wasn’t the sole focus of the most dangerous person on the continent’s attention, “it took me way too long to figure it out, but reapers aren’t usually so particular about which assassins they follow around. I assumed after you told me you’d been cursed that Death had one specific person they’d always send to keep an eye on you, but that’s not it at all, is it? Whenever you were talking about ‘Kieran’ you were talking about- you fell in love with-”

“Keep your voice down,” Piala hissed, just barely saving her glass from clattering to the table, chancing a glance back at the room to see if anyone had been listening. Only the bartender was in range, but they were all sworn to silence in the presence of the assassins except in the most extreme cases, and he seemed more concerned with the brawl that was about to break out by the door anyway. When she looked back at Tamara, there was no real fear there, just the same grin, now lightly tinted with pity. Piala sighed in resignation, rubbing a hand down her face. “She still goes by Kendra these days, I assume. I haven’t seen her since I killed Lyra.”

That stole a piece of the smile from Tamara’s face; the other assassin hadn’t expected an actual answer, had thought she’d had it all figured out. “I thought you said Death wasn’t coming back for you at all?”

“She’s not,” Piala shrugged. “It was more of a visit to.. explain, I guess. I’m sure she’s been watching me at various points in time, but she’s not ever going to take me to the afterlife. Or take me back, for that matter.”

“Huh,” Tamara murmured, finally turning back to the bar. After a few seconds, her voice piped up again, more uncertain than Piala had ever heard it. “Is she...will it hurt when I go? All those years of killing...can’t believe I never thought about it.” Her leg clicked again, an unsubtle reminder of the time running out

on her personal clock, and Piala softened, if only slightly.

“No,” Piala braced her hand on Tamara’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Leaving your body doesn’t hurt. Hurting is what life is for.”

Tamara nodded, sinking further into her chair. “Sam,” she responded soberly, taking another swig of alcohol.

“I’m sorry?” Piala sputtered, a small laugh escaping her despite herself.

“My husband’s name. It’s Sam.”

“Well, tell Sam that he’d better not have lost any of my knives in transit, I paid good money for those,” Piala relaxed again, despite the fight behind them in full swing now. “Also that he’s got one Hell of a boring-ass name for someone I’ve been trying to find the identity of for ages.”

And so the night went on.

Piala collapsed into her new bed, groaning with something she could only call tired satisfaction. Impul-Sam had showed up to collect his wife after only a couple more drinks, citing “that time of the night where she gets fight-y if she’s wasted.” Piala had sent the other assassins on their way after collecting all of their contact information and knowledge of what jobs they were working. She still had more networking to do before the place would really be up and running again, but she hadn’t fallen asleep satisfied in what felt like years, and that was a good enough start for the moment.

“And all it took was an old woman with an assassin rolodex,” a voice muttered from the darkness, causing Piala to sit bolt upright in bed. The light flicked on, revealing Death leaning against the doorway, an awed look on her face. “I was wondering if you were going to sit in that hidey-hole of yours for the rest of eternity.”

“Only a decade this time? I guess I’m only getting more irresistible.” The words didn’t have the snark she would have liked, and Piala inwardly cursed herself. “What are you doing here?”

“The reapers like to talk,” Death admitted, strolling into the room, bemusedly looking over Piala’s few worldly possessions. “I hadn’t sent anyone to check on you in a few months, so imagine my surprise at finding you here of all places.”

“Didn’t think I’d take Tamara’s offer?”

“Surprised you didn’t take over after you killed them all

to begin with,” Death corrected. “The seat was ripe for the taking and there wouldn’t have been a damn soul to stop you. So when you left that ambition behind, I figured you’d never come back to it.” She paused at the closet door, where Piala’s bow and arrows were resting, looking them over like an old friend she’d forgotten the intricate details of over the years. “Figured you’d be alone for a long while after Tamara dies.”

“It’s never too late to start getting better.” It was a sentiment Piala wasn’t sure she fully believed, but felt right to say in the moment.

“Better is better.” Death mused, eyes flicking back to Piala.

“Kendra, I’ll never be good,” Piala sagged. “Better is all I can be.” She paused, trying her best to read the face she’d once been able to decipher as easily as a children’s book. “But that’s not enough, is it?”

“I don’t know, Piala,” Death admitted. “I’m not even sure it’s about you anymore. Maybe it never really was.”

“I’d like to think it was at least a little bit about me,” Piala joked, but judging from the still-distant expression, it didn’t land. “Look, I know we’re probably never going to be what we were again-”

“We will not.” Death confirmed, maybe a little too quickly to truly be believed.

“But,” Piala let the comment slide for the moment to unpack later, “whenever you’re hanging out here on Earth and aren’t just out in the universe being the concept of the end of all things...Come by for a drink sometime? I have my own tavern now and everything.”

“You want to be friends?” Death said, a little incredulously.

“Not really,” Piala admitted, finally rising from the bed. “But it’s like you said. Better is better. And my life was better when I actually saw your face on a semi-regular basis. You’ve set a boundary, and I’ve had no choice but to abide by it for hundreds of years. I’m just suggesting we set a new one instead.”

“This seems ill-advised.”

“Didn’t stop you last time,” Piala pointed out, not unkindly.

“But it should have, you hard-headed-” Death caught herself and took a breath before continuing, “that is the whole point, Piala. It damn well should have stopped me. Look at what my meddling has done. I ruined you before. I will not do it again.”

“Look on the bright side,” Piala said. “I can’t get much

more ruined. I’m an assassin with a Death wish who physically cannot be killed. This is a terribly unhealthy relationship we’ve got going on.”

“You’re not really selling yourself as friend material here.” Death shuffled back towards the door, ready to vanish.

“So let’s make ourselves friend material,” Piala persisted, doing her best to ignore the wariness on Death’s face. “Kendra, you of all beings should know we have an eternity to do it. Let’s make this better too. If you need a few years to think about it, whatever. It’ll suck, but whatever. I’ve got shit to do in the meantime.”

“You are still insufferable,” Death’s voice was strained, but her eyes were fond despite herself. “You are setting yourself up for failure.”

“Yes I am,” in another life, Piala might have laughed at the absurdity of it, bargaining with Death over something so seemingly trivial. But in this one...“Now get out and think about it. Leave me a letter or something if you decide this isn’t worth the effort.”

And so, in a move she never could have imagined herself making even five years prior, Piala pushed Death out the door and closed it gently in her face. If there was one thing she’d learned in all her years as an assassin, it was to always shut the door softly.

And if she woke up the next morning to a letter that just said “Okay” on her bedside table? Well, she could contain her joy until a more opportune moment. There was still work to be done, after all.

NINA DEBONI

After 'Walking with Beasts'

In youth, I feared not the smilodon’s saber-teeth, but the biting grin of a stark and sudden sleep.

Roars of beasts born long ago kept me safe in the TV’s glow before the timer set would switch, plunge me deep into the pitch

of night with scarce a friend to hold. Only foes would gather ‘round my bed frame, whistle with eerie dread. Eyes screwed shut, I’d beg for sunlight to creep a crown in, rest its shine snug upon my head. I’d wish a herd of terror birds to chase away the dark.

Feathered giants, violent, strike fear in the strongest, inky demon hearts. In youth, I feared not the dinosaur’s stomping trot

or the creatures of prehistory. I did so fear the dirt-packed tight and the passing time that brought their rot; the thought of bones in a funeral plot.

ALLISON

JANOTTA

The Bright Sphere

In a room full of people, I am just a person. Hiding in the corner, Yearning to be the Discoball

In a room full of people, You are the discoball. Shining on everyone, Hitting every Corner

Delicate Lace

Delicate lace lays itself across my shoulders

Elegant silk flows down out of my hips

Soft petals encapsulate the beauty of this day Shrouded in euphoria and memories Flashes of our first date, entranced in each other’s gaze Sweaty hands grasp each other for the first time

A giggle erupting as I plant the rudimentary kiss Deep in the nutritious soil of the rest of our lives I count your freckles in my muscle memory as I walk Down the illuminated aisle, warm eyes hugging me from the pews

My dad stabilizes my movement just as he had on his back when I was small enough to get a piggyback ride every night His warm strong hands rub mine as I watch one lone tear fall onto our clasp

My mother is a beautiful mess, I hear her loving sniffles Father sends her a kiss and she catches it, puts it in her pocket Reflecting on when they walked down this aisle, still as in love as that day My dad hands me off to you The room is an oblivious daydream as I take your hand

Then suddenly my lace is suffocating me Choking on the silk forced down my throat Im allergic to the petals, my skin breaking out in angsty red bumps

Encapsulated in despair and asphyxiated by commitment There is no strong warm hand on mine as I try to walk down the aisle

Only the ghost grasp of a cold hand at my waist from a wheelchair Because my dad is dying and I’ll be lucky if he even makes it to my college graduation

Let alone any thoughts of a wedding to someone I probably haven’t even met yet A wedding that I’m bold to assume I’ll have as there was no kiss

sent my mothers way

All that was sent her way was shattered rum bottles on crumpled divorce papers

My side of the church would be apocalyptically opposed anyway Split by the sides they took during the divorce Seperated by the stupid drunk fights every family gathering ends in

Most of them too deep in their grudges to dig themselves out for my wedding anyway

I am sanded down

My future feels like a punishment How could I ever bring a child into it? Innocence tainted by the same dull destiny

SARAH BUCHMANN

youth. (01.16.2022)

like a well-kept secret i tried to keep you tucked under my wing where i could protect you from the inner workings of my mind and as the daemon clawed its way from the deep, talons reaching and searching for your light, your candle almost snuffed before you turned thirteen and knew the world the way it longed to lure your innocence from your tenacious grip on my heart.

i know that look all too well, curious at first but shy like your true nature, just waiting for the answer to reveal itself in front of your very eyes, but my dear, you are far too young to yearn this hard and so small i could hold you in a pocket close to my chest, you fall asleep to the rhythm beating in sync with your heart, dreams lightyears away find their path to you the way they shone down on me.

CARLO CH Á VEZ LINARES

Animal Gum

The meat I shall not forget So juicy, so fresh Not even my flesh can compare The hen deserved to be killed And her words resound on top of the grill Eat me, she says, no piece shall remain Chicken and egg, who came first? Nobody cares As they both end up the same way

The meat I shall not forget So fried, so warm It makes me unable to follow Mosaic Law The pig is already impaled And burns into flames while he shouts Honor the dead, enjoy the smell! Bacon and ham, for breakfast are nice And it is hard to decide But I shall be gone by then

The meat I shall not forget So tasty, so red Like kissing the lips of a beautiful girl The cow awaits in my plate While gets cold and stares at my eyes What do you want? Take a bite! Milk and cheese, both were great Straight from the farm Lactose was such a luxury at the time

The meat I shall not forget So salty, so spicy The lamb gets nailed on a tree And bleeds while saying my name Take and eat, all of thee

Bread and wine, the spirit of life A magic trick Which is a challenge to us

ABBY GJATA

choking on air

i can feel it coming on morning coffee going up my stomach the warm drink goes up to my throat before i force myself to swallow it down so i don’t drown

they say take a deep breath and i am taking deep breaths but they do not feel like breaths at all i am taking deep breaths i am taking deep breaths

blurry black dots fill my eyes as i try to convince myself that my head is telling me lies

hands ice cold i’m taking deep breaths but they do not feel like breaths and i do not think i am breathing at all look up. look down. your brain needs to be stalled. but my demon stands 8 feet tall breaking down my walls pulling me apart so, let me try to be smart. i’ll limp to my pill bottle just one more Xanax will do undo my lungs that are covered in glue

but it doesn’t work so i take one more to make the demon go away i don’t believe in God, but now i pray i truly do not want to stay

my demon grows 5 feet taller and puts his hands on my lungs, i’m choking and coughing mommy, i’m going to need a coffin

i’m taking deep breaths i’m taking a deep breath i’m fucking taking deep breaths but they aren’t breaths they aren’t breaths i cannot breathe and i’m choking on the air around me

i am not made for this world, it must be because fish swim in water and humans thrive on land. but i, i choke on the water and even above water, my lungs still fill with sand

my demon finally punctures my chest, so, i’ll make one last prayer. god, in my next life, please don’t make me choke on air.

GILLIAN THOMSON

Little Joys

SARAH BUCHMANN

life is good

MISHWA BHAVSAR

On the Journey to the Mountains!

Mother Nature is Watching

NINA DEBONI

The River's Hunter

Stay back, foul fiend! Thou are no friend to me!

Bulbous eyes aglow with malice and greed, Singing a grim call at dusk, a banshee You are, hidden in the murky swamp weed. With such ease, you blend into the grim green To wait for spindly limbs so unwatchful As they land within your planned murder scene! A death not so quick, a killer hostile! Thou art the worst of your wartish order! So vile looking out of your home thicket! Run far from where water and land border, Far so I may not dare hear your ribbit. I say to you poetic lot, trusting, That I fucking hate frogs! Ugh! Disgusting!

GABRIELA BARNAS

Comfort (Porto, Portugal)

BRYNN MITORAJ

Adolescent Diorama.

I've never felt like I belonged anywhere. I’ve walked through the hallways of churches trying to find a piece of myself in the walls. My reflection in the stained glass. Listening closely for the creak of the floorboards as I stepped over them.

But I’m stepping too gently; too lightly because I’m afraid to wake something up. I can’t risk leaving anything behind. It’s not my house after all. I can’t do anything other than haunt it, and that’s exactly what I do.

I peel the paint off of the front steps while I wait outside in the cold, watching my hands go from white to blue. I love watching myself decay some days, but other times it stings more when a little girl and her father walk past, and he’s holding her up against his chest, and it looks like the warmest place in the world. She looks like she belongs there. like his chest was made to be concave so she could rest her head on him.

I think of her as I float back to my own house, and I can slip through the cracks of the door without it ever having to be opened for me. It’s empty, and it’s so quiet that it’s loud.

I want to feel at home, but the beds are made, and my father is in the hospital,

and my mother is out of town.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel at home in a house that leaves me behind, or a house that floats from place to place.

So I get in my car, and I blast the heat because even the flesh under my skin is cold. I drive through neighborhoods I’ve never been to, and I look through the windows. I slow my car down when I see the lights are still on somewhere, because they’re off everywhere else I’ve ever known. I watch people sitting at their dining room tables, and I wonder what they’re talking about. I wonder if I would be able to hold up my end of the conversation or if I would collapse in on myself the same way I have with everything else. I wonder if my voice alone would crack the glass of their windows. If my steps would be so heavy the floor would cave in and swallow me whole. I wonder if they’d like me or if they’d have a bed for me with a quilt that someone made because they loved me and for no other reason other than that.

I wonder if I'd still need to sleep with my light on, or if the house would feel occupied enough that I wouldn't be able to feel how alone I was anymore. I've never belonged anywhere. I've only ever faked it.

EMILE OTTINGER

Stratospheric aerosol injection

“a theoretical solar geoengineering proposal to spray large quantities of tiny reflective particles into [...] an upper layer of the Earth’s atmosphere, in order to cool the planet by reflecting sunlight back into space” (GEOEngineering Monitor 2021).

I am on a walk in Uptown Normal, thinking it’s all calcium carbonate. The stuff of pearls, limestone, eggshells, snail spirals–ammonites and nautili, both wretched with their segmented arms and buoyant chambers preserved below the same Chalk Pyramid plains

and the first silence I’d heard in years. In ranch Kansas, where rock faces that held epochs were compressed into grit to become and become again the souvenir of any child.

I remember these sediments. I was ten years younger, prairie-bold and kitschy in the first summer snow, wishing for the first time while young and breastless that I would grow into the man my father wanted to be, 6’4” and built like a lumberjack. Not his likeness–never, while he was still stooping to buy me fossils.

Well above, like cannonfire, a banner strikes a building’s brick face in an off-white never-surrender.

It reads, DILFS Drink 4 FREE!!!

and in my mind’s eye, I am transformed again, testing my footing, standing tall, trying to stand taller, a sandhill crane and the freeloader rabbit it carried to the moon. Red-handed, reaching, I’m walking nowhere

yet my toes catch the curb. My textbook falls and I do with it, looking up while headed down.

From the ground, they say it’ll appear like diamond-dust before tagging on every asthmatic ‘round as a resenting apology given in reverse,

Brutus orchestrated his Big 23, like an orchestra isn’t violence, in imitation of large volcanic eruptions.

The assigned page on Tambora reads, One survivor reported seeing “a body of liquid fire, extending itself in every direction [...] by the clouds of molten rock and searing vapor”

When we first learned the term stratospheric aerosol injection, our loudest advocate for sustainable energy on the grounds that we can sell it said, “Well, we didn’t go extinct, then.”

Hard to place a letdown from rock bottom.

From home, my captive audience winks, then raises a concerned thumbs-down.

“Went pacing,” I text back.

Last time I Went pacing, drank an unlabeled bottle, saw an abecedarian bible horror with two bobcat skulls for fists, set a table, then split it into pieces, balanced a dry erase board parallel to the poles and called it “family crest,” breathed heat off a VCR and cable box, tongued the dust from its filter knowing,

those antarctic krill are fucked. I knew,

when there was phantom tracing earlobe tracing neck, chasing cold sweat all the short way down a single stripe of my breast-haver thigh, down to the wintered earth, until I ran, retching.

From behind the bounds of a barred-off street two women my age call out, glossed silhouettes lamplit in glory as molten rock, total as Finality,

“WE LOVE YOUR SHORTS. WHAT’S YOUR SIGN?”

I shout “LEO!” and they cheer. “WITH A VIRGO CUSP!” I continue— they start running

for the same Uptown Circle I sought out blue sky through the cusp-orange leaves overhead, where on her last leg in late fall, an old lover consoled me, “They’ll be back. I’ll be back.” I wasn’t worried much. At least, it’s hard to imagine I was below the same clockarms that taught me

I am my father’s businesslike efficiency in love and my mother’s time-sensitive desire for things that are out of her control.

Someday, buoyant-chambered sweethearts will embrace at the bottom of the ocean a moment before their total acidification.

Sea level rise is essentially irreversible, Mx. handy dandy bastard bitch ass International Panel on Climate Change reads

to my inner-eyelids. I recall to recall, and maybe for a chance at forgetting, a short history of late fall infatuations:

I wore those same shorts as now, of herringbone, to summon bowerbird instinct. Together, last week, a new dear and I sat with a macchiato and a tiger’s eye between us. It was a few shared, strange sips, and then a clean rejection for me to cherish.

When I tilted my head to sip, I looked up again and thought every time, somehow suddenly, of the night my favorite person for miles put me in a fireman’s hold just to toss me in the bushes. God bless trash drunk white girl wasted. The stars above never looked better

than with blood bursting from my forehead, cider-hot, having headbutted my best friend in an argument over grass, the very moment I decided we should marry, for the hell of it.

Our ring would be the true Uptown Circle, we realized, washing ourselves of the other’s abraded scalp in the same circulatory stream she reminds me everytime is sustainably managed.

She spoke quickly then, imitating the tone, pitch, and half-frantic inflection of our favorite professor,

“I’m bisexual. Isn’t that goofy?”

said the same professional who stitched my hands to Rachel Carson’s likeness...Dear Dorothy written in a scrawl the whole world of self-respecting science tried to disgrace: silent, lavender-brilliant, died young when environmental health circumstances bore her downstream. The same stream, so it feels, where, while doting on the new, stinking koi, a stranger said he wanted anyone from a group of us as his wife, but me especially. He was impressed by my nodding, maybe, and commanded me to smile. I told him “No, but thanks for reaching out.”

What he said back was, like the koi, the cast of a line wasn’t what I needed, then showed us the scar on his ass.

Sitting in wait on the same shared bench, I wish I’d mentioned the Virgo cusp, I think,

when a text tone from between here and Locust Street rumbles at my thigh:

“I see your cigarette ass” stratospheric aerosol injection, Mx. IPCC reads.

The sky whispers down. A few straggler leaves, and I swear, before a hand claps my shoulder, my young god and brother.

for a moment, it’s diamond-dust and for a moment it’s diamond-dust

At least, we share a prostate, we say, in the fantasy of our own most masculine presenting gratification.

Today, he appears in herringbone trousers and trips on the curb. Of all few things which I am sure, I will miss this bastard cycle.

If we will be extended as such in every direction, taking what the aragonite lends before it gives, counting signs, and praying with tongue to the unlabeled, I hope it’s not just the DILFs that drink for free.

Sugbo 5 AMANDA BALABA

Biographies AUTHORS & ARTISTS

Gabriela Barnas is a Psychology and Spanish major from Belvidere, IL who studied abroad in Spain and likes to remind people that she studied abroad in Spain. She took some pretty pictures there, met some pretty people, and then left. She loved it, but she found that she loves it here too: there's always so much more to love about home.

Farah Bassyouni is a first-year international student from Egypt. She is an English-writing major with a minor in Journalism and New Media. She saw a rainbow for the first time a few days ago and she thought it was nice :)

Mishwar Bhavsar is originally from India, however, for the last three years, she was living in Helena, MT. Her major is Computer Science, and she is minoring in Math. She loves spending time appreciating and exploring nature.

Nicole Brennan is a bookaholic English Literature major that avoids work by baking brownies.

William Brown is an English Literature major from the general vicinity of Rockford, IL. William is proud to be on Tributaries' Editorial Board, and enjoys both poetry and rock music very much. William has consumed a considerable number of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in his time, and can often be found thinking on the shore of the wide world.

Sarah Buchmann is a senior English-Literature and Secondary Education double major from Wilmette, IL. When she's not acting as President of Touch of Class, bowling for the IWU wom en's, or supporting Kappa Delta, Sarah fosters dogs, makes quilts out of old t-shirts, and paints whatever comes to mind. She loves BDSM: books, dogs, sunshine, and music. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Melinda Burgin is a first-year Political Science and Art dou ble major from Chicago Illinois. Along with her artistic pursuits, she enjoys singing in IWU's University Choir and Silence In terrupted (an acapella group), and watching comedies such as New Girl and Schitt's Creek in her spare time.

Jessica Buttell is from Wheaton, IL and is majoring in both Secondary Education and English with a concentration in writ ing. She loves spending time with her dogs, watching superhe ro movies, and curled up reading a good book. It is her hope to publish at least one novel in her lifetime.

Carlo Antonio Chávez Linares is a senior Political Science ma jor with a minor in Advocacy. As a native Spanish speaker from Lima (Peru), Carlo has published several bilingual poems and short stories in previous editions. In this opportunity, Carlo has some poems produced during Mike Theune's "Introduction to Creative Writing" class and Chuck Springwood's "Anthropology of Food" class, and wants to thank both professors for helping him with the edition and revision of the pieces. Furthermore, he wants to thank all the people that inspire his daily work. It has been a great honor for Carlo to serve Tributaries during these last couple of years, and he only wishes other artists to let their light shine and their fruits to be seen through their wonderful work. Without further due, Carlo just aims everyone to enjoy his pieces, as always

Wah Chook is a nursing major with an advocacy and religious diversity minor. Something that matters to her is feeling and achieving connections with others. Wah hopes through a few pieces of her work you get a glimpse of some of her experienc es.

Emily Cortez is from the south side of Chicago. She studies psychology with a passion for working with children. Her first language is Spanish, so having to learn English made her de velop a growing passion for the language. She’s always loved to write but never really thought to share it with anyone. Emily taught herself to paint over quarantine and, recently, has been teaching herself how to sculpt clay.

Nina DeBoni has been writing poetry about love, gender, and their hometown of Eureka, Illinois since 2016. The dog-dad and chronic worry-wart currently attends Illinois Wesleyan Univer sity in pursuit of a degree in English-Writing. They hope to use their study of language to explore the many facets of gender expression and fight against anti-trans, anti-LGBTQIA+ senti ment.

Bry Fergus is a junior psychology major from Chicago, IL. Brain science and mental health fascinate her. A quote she would like to submit is “Victory is always possible for the person who re fuses to stop fighting” - Napoleon Hill.

Allison Ganther is from El Paso, Illinois and is a Psychology Major. She’s always respected and appreciated nature and the beauty it makes, along with the complexity it adds to life. She tends to embrace the raw feelings of the reality of nature and the human mind in her day to day life as well as her writing.

Abby Gjata is a first-year student. Her major is chemistry, for a chemical engineering path, with a minor in English. She lives 3.5 hours out in a town named Algonquin. She has always held literature very close to my heart. Abby believes that the only good outcome of dealing with darkness is the beauty of writing which it inspires. Making art out of your pain is very important to her. It is a reclamation of life-- twisting your traumas and demons into a poem to reach others.

Ethan Hare is currently a sophomore at Illinois Wesleyan Uni versity as of the beginning of 2022. He is from St. Louis, MO and will graduate from IWU in 2024. He plays on the IWU Men’s Lacrosse team and is majoring in Finance. During the first semester of sophomore year he took a creative writing class. What he had hoped to get out of that class was the ability to write creatively in a variety of styles and methods; writing out side the box. He believes he has done so, and his learnings of creative writing can be seen through the three pieces of writing that he is submitting for Tributaries.

Maria Harmon is from an unincorporated part of Sangamon County near Riverton, IL. She enjoys reading and analyzing classic literature. She loves her cat, Floyd, and her dog, Sunny. Maria’s work in this edition of Tributaries is dedicated to her grandma, Adrienne Pozzi.

Liam Killian is a first year student from Gibson City IL. Cur rently a History and Political Science double major, Liam is passionate about social issues, themes and commentary of which can often be seen in his work. Growing up having seen fellow students pulled out of class because their parents cooked meth, fellow students arrested for bomb threats, their community flood, the monetary division between families become more exasperated, and political tensions between the left and right reaching an almost breaking point within the town… Liam has found no absence of emotion from the vast well he pulls from. With a diagnosis of both Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety, quite the contrary.

Steven Lee is from Guadalajara, Jalisco, a state in the western part of Mexico, and is an English and Hispanic Studies Ma jor. He doesn't have many interests, rather, he simply fills his time with finding new things to complain about and form overly strong opinions without interacting enough with the source material. His favorite hobby is listening to Conor Oberst while perched above his bookshelf, preying on passing rodents and books.

Hallie Litton is from Elgin, IL. She has an Associate Degree in Arts from Elgin Community College, and is working toward an English Writing Major. This is her third year in college but herr first year at IWU. During her senior year of high school, I began creatively writing but dove into writing during her freshman year of college. She plans to be an editor or publisher and be an author, and plans to work at the Penguin Random House branch in London, England, sometime soon!

Paige McLaughlin is an English Writing Major, Theatre DT and Film Studies Minor from Sullivan, Illinois! The one and only Blanket Lord and the World’s Okayest Electrician , she’s a terminally suspicious individual who remembers the old days when you could just slap omni-gel on everything. An avid lover of fantasy and sci-fi, she likes to use these elements in her own stories as well. With obsessions ranging between true crime, Alice In Wonderland, the steampunk aesthetic, pirate ships, dragons, and more, she’s willing to nerd out about a ridiculous number of things.

Brynn Mitoraj is from the western suburbs of Chicago and is 20 years old. She used to be a political science major, but she switched to English last semester. She has an advocacy minor, and is planning on going to law school after she graduates. Her biggest inspirations when it comes to writing are Phoebe Bridgers and her friend Cici!

Molly Morrissey is a junior English-Writing major from Park Ridge, IL. She is a member of Alpha Gamma Delta and is the Opinions Editor for the Argus. She loves painting with her mom and spending time with her golden doodle, Gracie.

Emile Ottinger is an environmental studies/English writing major from Shawnee, KS. They write about medical trauma, environmental catastrophe, how the best sunsets grow out from crop dust, and falling in love with the proverbial milkman. They’ve been passionately gatekept from several Midwestern birding communities and still feel the sting in this very moment. Hold eye contact for too long and they might do a trick.

Kaylee Paolella is from Libertyville, IL and is a sophomore at IWU studying to be an art major. Her focus is in painting but she enjoys a wide variety of mediums along with subject matter.

Faith Patton is a history major and creative writing minor from Lexington, IL. She is more than glad to be graduating this Spring '22 semester, but less than excited to finally enter the "real world". In her future, she wishes to own a fair share of cats and dogs (maybe even a pig) and learn to eventually like eating salad.

Anthony Romanelli is a junior history major from Mount Pros pect, Illinois. He enjoys creating and reading creative writing, especially fantasy writing. He has also recently come to terms with the fact that he spends more time worldbuilding than ac tually writing anything.

MJ Soria is a first-year English major from Geneseo, IL who wanted to submit a few things to Tributaries this semester. MJ is really interested in fiction and poetry, and thanks the Tribu taries team for the opportunity to submit work!

Liz Stein is from Pekin, Illinois, a Secondary education & En glish double major who is apparently crazier than they initially thought, as they're thinking about making a career out of being a middle school English teacher. On campus, you can find them in the quad if it's nice out, offering their Basset mix Grace as free belly-rub therapy for anyone who wants to give the dog attention.

Maggie Stucko is a sophomore biology major from the Chicago suburbs! Maggie loves art, music and the beauty of the small things in life like writing and sharing poetry with the world!

MaryBeth Thommes is from Elgin, IL, and is majoring in His panic Studies with a double minor in Women & Gender Studies and Creative Writing. Some of her hobbies are dancing, playing the flute, and of course writing. She also loves watching Netflix all day, especially when she has essays to write and exams to study for.

Gillian Thomson is a senior English Writing major and enjoys various forms of art from glasswork to knitting to baking.

Lena Turlakova is from Russia, Novosibirsk, and is majoring in political science. Lena can't say that any of their works has a name or a meaning, but Lena really hopes at least one would be worth including.

Katie Vogler is a Biology major from Quincy, IL who likes to remind people she was born in Virginia. She likes petting cats, climbing roofs, and drinking hot tea no matter the weather. She is notorious for saying the hike will only take 3 hours knowing it will take at least 5. Currently her happy place is the forest behind her host family's house in Køge, Denmark.

Tributaries Fall

2021/ Spring 2022: "Convalesence" convalescence. / noun. the gradual return to health after illnessfocused on recuperation through rest. the period during which such recovery occurs.