A New Color

ABOUT US

Here at A New Color we are a collection of artists, writers, and out-of-the-box thinkers—original, inspiring, creative.

We publish work like us. We provoke new thoughts and perspectives. Like our authors, the work we publish demonstrates a variety of genres and styles and many backgrounds. Words take readers on adventures and we are your travel agents. More than a collection of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, A New Color embodies philosophy, science, art, and diversity. We’re all about fostering a community of thought leaders.

OH BROTHER

—Leah Breiss

We were sitting in the pair of blue leather lazy boy

inclined than Canaan was. He was always good with language,

chairs in my grandparents room and fighting. He kept hum-

and could talk circles around me, who hadn't learned to speak

ming and I would glare at him. He knew I wanted him to stop

until I was two. When we were younger and were fighting all

humming but he continued anyway, a slight smile spreading

the time he would just string these long words together be-

over his lips. We sat there for what seemed like forever, him

cause he knew they would antagonize me, and I, not knowing

whistling and me pestering him, “Canaan, stop it! Canaan,

how else to retaliate, would walk over and kick him in the

shut up!” My harassment never worked. He would simply imply

shins, an act that I still believe today to be far more satisfying

that I couldn't tell him what to do and keep whistling, far too

that words. I certainly didn't know how to be a little sister to

calm, in my opinion, for someone in the midst of an argument.

him and I can only imagine he didn't know how to be an older

Even when I would get upset and start yelling he would keep

brother to me. Our relationship started with little things, inside

his cool, which only me more angry. He was two and a half

jokes or discussions of America's Next Top Model. Slowly we

years older than me and had the superior attitude to show for

warmed up to each other. Having an older brother turned out

his superior age. He infuriated me.

to be pretty great. After my last performance of the production

I was in seventh, maybe eighth grade when we called an unspoken truce. Our mutual agreement to be civil towards each other didn't happen over night, we still had our spats here and there, still argued about who got to sit in the front seat of the car or who cleared the table last, but ever so slowly we began to tolerate each others existence. I can't call up a specific instance of when I decided that I didn't want to fight with him

of Les Miserables I performed in eighth grade, I came out from back stage to find him waiting for me. I was giddy with relief and exhaustion and my hair was still teased from the show, my face speared with 'dirt' and my mouth spread in what I could only assume was a very goofy grin. Canaan took one look at me, smiled his chagrined smile, and told me I looked like a hot mess before he hugged me.

anymore, my motive was more a general exhaustion; I had too

My relationship with Canaan was different than any

many other things to worry about to be fighting with my broth-

other in my life, different from my relationships with my friends

er. We had to start from scratch since we had both been too

and with our extended family. Canaan and I were equals of

busy ignoring one another – on a good day - to spend much

course, but I came to realize, after he said he'd go after any boy

time figuring each other out. On top of these years of animosity

that hurt me, or always made sure I had my seat belt on, that

we had to overcome, we were also very different people. I

he was looking out for me. I love him for that. I'm not saying

wouldn't say I was out going, but I was definitely more socially

our relationship was perfect

– all sunlit days and perfect

smiles – I don't think such things exist, but it was damn good

ing about one more cookie or a last piece of pie, I hear Ca-

enough. I will never forget New Year's Eve 2012 when brotherly

naan's voice telling me that “it's just extra so you don't rip”.

protection took on a whole new form. I was getting ready to leave for dinner with family friends and then to a party with my class when Canaan asked me to “come upstairs for a second”.

Unsure of what to expect, I followed him up to his room. He rummaged for a second in a small bag, finally turning around with something clenched in his hand. He hesitated, not quite knowing what to say, which in and of itself was a small miracle.

Shifting his feet and looking anywhere but at me he finally said “I don't want to know, just be safe and have fun.” As he said this he handed me a single condom.

I have a very different relationship with Canaan than I do with my mom or my dad. Like any child I had the occasional spat with my parents, but I was never worried that these arguments would turn into anything serious. It was difficult to hear Canaan when he was fighting with one of our parents, when he would complain to me about how mom did this or dad never did that. I didn't want to know, didn't want his experiences to effect my relationship with our parents. We could talk about anything else: music, boys, future plans, just not about our parents, that was one thing we could never agree on. For a

We never spoke about that night, but I will remember it

while I didn't say anything to Canaan when he would talk abut

for all its awkwardness and affection and brotherly love for as

our parents, but eventually I had to for my own sake. I had

long as I can remember anything. I always felt lucky, like I was

boundaries that I needed to keep in place for my own sanity,

he reserved all of his tenderness for me; I felt like his confidant.

and him talking to me about my parents was crossing a line I

He had friends just like I did, but he revealed to me a different

kept in place for my own well being. Since our parents di-

side of himself, a side that I felt like no one else was ever per-

vorced, I have had very clear borders about how my individual

mitted to see. I was a chubby twelve year old, and at that point

relationships interact with each other. I couldn't have Canaan

just reaching the age when I was beginning to be concerned

hashing out his arguments with our dad to me and still have

about such thing as weight and appearance. Once – somewhere

an honest relationship with my father, it was just impossible.

in my twelfth year - Canaan, my dad, and I were at an Italian restaurant, the food was amazing. I had finished eating but was eying a delicious looking piece of pizza left lying on its try.

When dad asked if I wanted it I said no, and made some comment about not wanting to get fat. To this Canaan, with no hesitation whatsoever, said, “You're not fat, it's just extra so you don't rip when you bend over.” I reached over and grabbed the pizza, grinning at my brother. To this day, every time I'm think-

Just like our childhood fights, we got through our boundary problem intact. I really needn't have worried. I greatly appreciated that I could go to him about something that delicate and have him respond with honesty and understanding.

When I breached the subject to him, not quite knowing how to say what I wanted to, he replied something like, “I understand, I shouldn't have put you in that situation in the first place.” It wasn't a long conversation, but it was perfect, he had said ex-

actly what I needed to hear. I knew he understood what I had meant and would respect my boundaries from there on out. He has been as good as his word up til now, and I have no doubt that he will continue to keep his promise. He's just that kind of person.

My love for my brother snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking. I turned around and all of a sudden it hit me, not like a ton of bricks -it didn't hurt - more like a sack of candied hearts. Sometimes I forget how much I love him, but then something happens, I get a text from him asking about some detail of my life I didn't expect him to remember - inquiring about my first day of writing camp or remembering to ask how I was doing with our parent's divorce - and once again I'm hit with that sack of candied hearts.

Poems by Leah Breiss ALLIES

You are my weakness, My strength.

You are my hate And my forgiveness.

Your are my enemy, My friend.

You are my logic And my insanity.

You are the voice in my head, My unconscious.

You are my trust And my loyalty.

You are my everything, You are my conscience.

UNTITLED

just a little bit out of the ordinary, only slightly twisted some people might call it quirky some people call it rebellious i call it me.

UNTITLED

At the age of seven, I left Jamaica for America. That is

—Shantana Blake was also, in every sense of the word, a smug smartass. When-

where I met my next-door-neighbor and best friend Ayub. At

ever we went on summer vacation with our families, we would

the time I met him, I was sad because I had just left my dad. I

bring gifts back for each other. One time he got me these really

was the biggest daddy’s girl and, in addition to missing him, I

cute earrings from Pakistan, the place he was born. Whenever

had also left the majority of my family behind. The day I met

we were together we played soccer or we just hung out in either

Ayub was the happiest I had ever been since I had left home. In

of our houses, but mostly in his house, because they had bet-

Jamaica, my home was small, but I was happy anyway. I could

ter food.

go to the beach and have seafood whenever I liked, and I could visit my family because they were so close.

Ayub and I became friends quickly; he always did what I

He loved Pokemon, so he had a giant deck of the cards that he didn't ever want to share with anyone, even Jack, but he gave me one. He told me I could pick the one I thought was

told him to do even when I dared him to make out with a tree.

the cutest. Ayub isn't stupid, lazy, or easily depressed, and he

We were first introduced by our parents. It was difficult speak-

definitely isn't mean. I talked to him about life, which I would

ing to Ayub because I didn't know certain English words be-

never even talk about with my family or other friends and he

cause they were different back home: for example, the word

would tell me things in return. I can't tell you what those

“nice,” which has two meanings. Ayub tried his best to under-

things are because it’s a secret and I pinky promised. A turning

stand me and teach me the word in proper English. When

point in our relationship was when I wasn't allowed to over to

spring came and it was caterpillar season, I was terrified be-

his house as much, because we were both just growing up and

cause I never saw caterpillars in Jamaica. The way they wiggled

we kinda drifted apart for a while but we never stopped being

and crawled and looked freaked me out. Since Ayub knew I

best friends. The fact that our separate friends didn't like each

was scared whenever he came to get me to play, he would hold

other made our relationship weird.

my hand. I think the reason we became friends so fast was that we both played soccer and we both loved to read.

The people around Ayub were his adoptive parents, who later divorced, and Jack, his guy best friend whom I hated because I felt like he was trying to steal what was mine and he

I remember when we were walking to the bus together, even though he was a faster walker because he was taller than me, he would always stop and look back when he was in front to see if I was ok.

Poems by Annika Kushner CIRCLES

Circles are excruciating.

The circular moon Circles the circular earth, Which circles the circular sun.

The circular sun is surrounded By several other circular suns – Called stars.

And the circular sun-stars share space With circular black holes Birth-Life-Death Carnivore eats Omnivore eats Herbivore eats Plant Sunrise-Day-Sunset-Night All the circular cycles we can’t escape The cold, wet, ever-present ring Left by the beer on the wooden coffee table The small, white, circular pills that follow you As you follow the cycle of your daily routine The stunning, sick, cyclical pain Suffered by this year’s one million victims of suicide The The The The The The

symbol of love between two people? circular ring. basis of our civilization? circular wheel. window to the soul? circular eye.

We are utterly trapped in circles The circles of a thousand different-sized stones thrown in a pool Their ripples bumping and clumping and competing for attention We create our own circles, And get caught in the circles of others Circles of different colors and different magnitudes But irrevocably inescapable, bound together An interlocking mess of curls Impossible to comb through or make sense of Circles within circles within circles

RAINBOW

The sky is anxious Twirling his mustache Grey eyes swimming with tears That fall slowly at first, then faster The sun is hiding Clutching her face in her hands Her brilliant orange-yellow hair Cloaked by the hood of her sweatshirt The tension is brittle, cold Thin blades of grass shivering The desperate people crying, “Let the rain the stop!”

And weeks later, through the dark, ominous clouds of distress Comes a kiss of colors—a rainbow. At long last—forgiveness

TO NANA

When I was just ten years old We were walking up a flight of grey, stone steps on a sunny day The whole family was there Everybody laughing and chit-chatting and bonding over ice cream

For though your body grew old, your spirit was always fresh and strong and new Your willfulness and determination unceasing Never losing faith, never losing self

You needed help getting to the top of the stairs.

So I held your wrinkled, white hand in my small, brown one

Just as you stayed strong, so you helped teach me to be myself— Regardless of anything

As we made it up—together And you told me that I was strong.

And you loved all of us—your friends, family—unconditionally. always excited to know what we were up to

Yes. I remember.

always pleased to hear that we were doing well always ready to tell us that we were beautiful

I remember, and now I begin to understand.

I understand the most wonderful kind of strength The strength that lies not in moving mountains In fighting for a lost cause or in dying a heroic death

When we got out our cases, and rosin-ed our bows And played a few tunes in our make-shift quartet No matter how badly out-of-tune No matter how out-of-sync

But instead, the kind of strength that lies in simply keeping up your own little corner of the world In looking after those you care about And in maintaining a sense of self in a life that is perpetually changing The kind of strength that is always over-looked and underappreciated Caught between two sticky pages of a history book

You smiled and applauded, telling us that we were wonderful and talented— That our music was a gift from God I hope it brought you joy.

I also hope you realize—this is not goodbye.

As the sound of our laughter and tears floats up to the heavens

Unmarked by plaques or trophies

Know that every one of us sitting here today is remembering you—

But cherished by those whom you loved, and who loved you.

And that we will always, always carry part of you inside.

THE PRINCE AND PEPPER That day I walked carrying an umbrella, though there was no sign of rain. I walked many days before that, and many days after, but that day I carried an umbrella.

The umbrella wasn’t mine, not really. Maybe it was by now, but originally the umbrella belonged to Pepper Walsh, a certain someone I hadn’t seen since they still grew poppies next to that wall on the south side, and the mailman had both his legs.

It’s funny what you remember about someone from your youth. Like I know that Pepper once sprinted through town butt-naked, screeching at the top of her lungs, because I did that too. And I know that she had flowers braided in her hair, because I braided them so carefully.

And I know that on the day they took her away she didn’t cry, because I did.

Pepper Walsh loved the small things; the “profoundly simple things” she called them. She could spend hours talking at me about the particular way Geoffrey Gatt looked at Marlene May and how when Marlene twirled her hair on her little pinky and blushed, Pepper just knew Marlene liked him back. “They’re smitten!” she would laugh, and then swear on her cat’s grave that a marriage proposal could not come fast enough.

I would listen apathetically, the specifics of Marlene and Geoffrey’s relationship status not really interesting me, and bounce a rubber ball on the wall before catching it lightly in my hand over and over.

Unlike me, Pepper stood out: a queen among the lowly people in dreary Parselton, one bright splotch on a canvas of grey. And her umbrella was her scepter. Even on the brightest days I would look out my dusty window and see that bright yellow circle wandering up the lane, and I

—Aurora Allen

would run down the stairs, tripping and stumbling, to meet her by the gate.

We played all sorts of games. Pepper was insistent that I was a lost prince from a far away kingdom, sent to Parselton to escape invaders in my land. Though I told her I’d always been born in colorless Parselton to a drunkard father and whore of a mother, she still called me Prince James and paraded me downtown in a crown made from moss and beer bottle shards.

In a ten year-old’s dream, I was Prince James and she was Lady Pepper, and we traveled to the ends of the world, barely escaping the evil clutches of The Enemy. We trekked through the wild jungles of Mrs. Peter’s green house, squealing in terror when The Enemy’s monstrous rottweiler chased us off. We trudged through the mighty sand dunes of the Sahara and whispered ancient mantras into the wind. We were sailors on high seas wrought with devilish pirates and we were pilots flying through the air high above our little grey town. But then it would all end too soon, and I would be back behind that dusty window.

Pepper didn’t mind being alone; she had me, and together we were whatever we could possibly imagine.

I think that’s why she wouldn’t cry when they took her. I was Pepper’s and Pepper was mine. I cried though, mostly out of frustration. They didn’t deserve Pepper. She was fine by herself; she was perfect. They scolded me when I jumped in between their grabby fingers and Pepper’s flowery braids. They said Pepper would be better off with others like her, those without parents to take care of them. I said I would take care of her, because I was Prince James and she was Pepper.

THE ZERO HERO

—Amanda St. Clair

CAT POEM I am a cat

I sometimes wear a silly hat When I get tired I fuck your bitch then you get mad and I go outside

Signora Luciano definitely does not know a lot of things. One is definitely my name. She keeps calling me Michelle for some reason. She also doesn't know that 90% of my time is spent on online shopping.

When she teaches the lesson on perfect tense, I look up Italian shoes in perfect condition. I figure that at least the shoes are Italian. Signora passes out our graded quizzes with an unsatisfied look spread across her face. I wonder whether my mom will let me buy the shoes. She makes a tssssk sound as she passes me. I nostalgically think back to the days when irregular verbs interested me.

"X." The entire paper was covered in one big, fat, red X. "Did I just get a zero on this test?"

The answer is yes, I just got a zero on this test. Every single thing is wrong. Well, it's Signora's fault for putting the directions in Italian.

Who even does that? It's not AP yet. Well, regardless, I still got a zero.

"Signora, why and how did I get every single question wrong?"

"Because you didn't read the directions."

This one time I had a friend named Nermal Secret is, he is a cat too Double secret, I am a cat too, boo We are friends and we go outside together we smell the pie and try and find mice When we do, we play with dice Truth is I am actually not a cat I don't wear a silly hat.

Except when it's cold

"Well, can you read me the directions?"

"Michelle, you should be able to read la direzione."

(Read for a little) "I don't know what any of that means."

"Signorina, it means present tense."

"What is that?"

"Signorina Michelle, I won't put a zero in the grade book, because that's only for bad kids, but I'll give you a 40."

"WOW SIGNORA, so generous."

I resign from my position as chief questionnaire of the unhelpful teacher, and return to my desk, a creature with no dignity, as a 40 is obviously not that generous. I decide that a zero deserves some online shopping.

IAN

Sitting with Ian in a new friend's brand-new BMW until

—Amanda St. Clair and laugh and tell stories, too drunk or too tired to filter. I'm

3 AM, parked in my driveway after the graduation party with no

thinking about his eventual departure to college on August

intentions of leaving, we talk. We talk about the night and the

20th, and dreading the day he goes. He knows what I'm think-

way the absence of light enhances our emotions. We talk about

ing, and he says it first.

past relationships, and new ones, discussing the good, the bad,

"I'm going to miss you and Kyla-cat when I go to college,"

and the future. I tell Ian something I planned on never telling him, but I know now is the time. I thought he'd figure it out eventually. I remind myself of the limited spectrum of time left that I'll ever be able to talk to Ian in person and not through the screen of a phone. I tell him what happened and he is shocked, but he does not judge. He does not say the words I planned on him saying, he does not break eye contact the way I

That will probably be the worst day of my life, when my brother goes to college, but I don't say anything because it's too sad and my throat is choked up with tears. But he smiles and says, "You can come to all my frat parties though, just don't let anyone come near you."

That's my brother in a nutshell. Except he's much fun-

knew I would. I looked down, and he stared, appalled but not

nier than I'm making him sound. He's Senior President, smart,

judging. This was the context in which I realized I would re-

protective, a future billionaire, and completely oblivious as to

member my brother forever. It didn't matter that a total

how girls look at him. The night before I left for camp at Ithaca,

stranger was in the car, it was Ian and Amanda, and nothing

my dad and I had to convince him for twenty minutes that the

else mattered. It was the last real conversation we had before I

reason Cayla Lacosta kept coming over was not to join in the

came here. I told him I was glad he knew, and I was, I had nev-

conversation, but to get Ian to notice her. We were at another

er been so relieved in my life. He knew everything, and it wasn't

graduation party and girls were staring at Ian again, and again,

the small amount of pressed time that made me tell him. My

he didn't notice. Cayla Lacosta came over, stayed for a while,

ability to share with him was based on unfaltering trust. That

laughed a little too loudly, touched Ian's arm, then, bored and

trust is the defining feature in the relationship I share with my

unnoticed, she left. Even though he's almost nineteen, very

best friend, my brother.

good looking, and smart and a future success, he still acts like

Ian and I sit on the soft olive green couch that makes your legs itch and makes my mom wonder whether the cat brought in fleas or not. We face each other in the semi-darkness at 3

a self-conscious thirteen-year-old sometimes. I'm not sure if I'm a little protective of Ian too.

Some nights he comes in my room after he showers and

AM again, waiting for the intoxication to wear off and talking

lifts up his shirt in the full-length mirror to see if his abdominal

about life. That's what we do, we talk about life and make jokes

muscles are still there.

"Look Amanda! I have a six pack! It's there!

relationship was the night one of my friends had a get-together,

Huuuuhhhhhhhhh!" he says in between flexing and rotating to

and I decided it would be more fun for everyone if my brother

see his other muscles. He lifts up his arm and flexes, in the

and his friends were there. I texted Ian saying:

hopes of seeing another muscle that he already knows is there, and says to me, "I bet I could destroy Dad in an arm wrestle."

This is totally true, but Ian already knows that, he just

"YO IAN! This party is sicccckkk!!!! You have to get over here and bring the rave kit!"

The rave kit is a very sim-

ple bag that sounds a lot cooler than it actually is. The rave kit

likes to hear it, so again, I don't say anything for a while, but

consists of a strobe light, and a pair of speakers, and nothing

then I tell him that the results of his workouts are definitely

else. It's kind of crappy, actually, but Ian said he used the kit

noticeable and he flops down on the end of my bed, and we

at Prom Weekend and had a lot of fun, so now the acid green

delve into a conversation that lasts until midnight. We do this

Nike bag filled with "party necessities" has an epic title. The

practically every night, and now it's summer so it really doesn't

party was definitely NOT sick, and probably wasn't even a par-

even matter. I'd stay awake all night if it meant talking to my

ty, but regardless, I wanted Ian to be there so he and his

brother longer, temporarily halting the countdown of how much

friends could make the get-together fun. Once Ian and compa-

time I have left with him before he goes to college forever, only

ny arrived at the non-party, the first thing he said was, "Is this

returning on holidays and the rare weekends. One part of me

even fun?"

secretly hopes he will never go to college, that he'll somehow find a way to extend his time and stay longer here with me and the cat, Kyla. But the other part of me, the morally right part,

With an unpromising glance around, I replied with a casual, "Absolutely not, but I think we could probably have a rave."

tells me that it's better for him to go to college so he can become a little more conceited, and learn that girls really do like him, and make new friends that don't smoke pot. Or maybe they do, but regardless, new friends are new friends.

At birth we were opposites, I was outgoing and an extro-

"How many people are here anyway?"

"Uhhhhh, idk maybe 15?"

Long story short, it ended up just being me and Ian laughing hysterically at the lack of people there and the crappi-

vert, where as he was slightly more introverted and shy. As life

ness of what was supposed to be a rave, while playing Elton

progressed, we learned from one another. He learned how to

John's "Rocket Man" with strobe lights. I'll just leave it at that,

communicate with people and come out of his shell, and I

because I feel like it's funnier to me than it is to anyone else.

learned not to trust absolutely everyone. We have always been

Regardless, I still need to sometimes listen to that particular

complements to one another's personalities, and that's probably

song of Elton John’s.

why we get along so well. One specific highlight of our sibling

My brother and I find the same things funny, the same people enjoyable to be around, the same things aggravating. He's different than I am, but that's what keeps us fun and interesting. The differences complement each other and make for a sibling relationship that's not too threatening or competitive, but relaxing and enjoyable instead. There are sayings about siblings and sibling rivalry, like the limited Mommy and Daddy resources and limited income and toys, but Ian and I stopped caring about those limitations at the ages of 5 and 7. We have non-biased parents who don't pick favorites, and a cat who only sometimes wants attention. But Kyla has always made herself a limited resource, so no one worries too much about that. We don't need to compete for love from parents or the cat or anything or anyone, because the love was established long ago. All men and women and cats in the St. Clair house will be treated equal, receiving an equivalent amount of love.

REFLECTION

A flash blinds my sight.

Not knowing where I am, I start walking along the sidewalk.

I notice a coffin being carried by six men into a funeral home.

Strangely enough, one of the men is my own father.

He must be helping a friend or a neighbor, as always.

I decide to join to get in the gossip.

I see my mother weeping but she doesn’t seem to notice me.

In fact, no one is paying attention to me.

They must be busy trying to comfort each other.

As I step closer to the open casket, the atmosphere becomes lighter.

Staring down at the girl inside, she looks young and pretty her long, black hair, her beautiful, white dress, and her gorgeous, pale skin.

It’s as if I’m looking at my own reflection.

-Arelis Arellano

PURPOSES he never believed in ghosts.

Terrors and shades were only Mists and Haze— (but even children know that when you go Into fog you walk with the fingers of the Missing and Gone tracing over your lips)

ODE TO SWEETNESS

There’s always been some part of you that make my lungs skip breaths;

He briefly considered believing in love (and he did, for a moment) Before deciding that only judgment and reason— (florid words for claiming love insipid) Could be trusted.

No one ever told him that was the point.

the smooth taste of your dark surface,

He wasn’t very good with friends.

People didn’t look at him the way (he thought) They should. Instead, They scared him— They scared him a lot…

And so he stayed away and learned the way the fog moved (danced) and he became familiar with a presence he didn’t believe in.

the nerve endings of every limb,

thick and saccharine against my tongue.

I glide into you with soft fingers, stimulating

(Of course, The specters didn’t believe in him either, Because the hot red metal that trickled down his veins Was only Liquid and Iron)

of each cheek, making my flesh tingle.

When you edge into my mouth, my knees go weak.

The secret joy that simmers on my lips from your pulsing touch; the aching near the bottom of my stomach when you move away; Don’t ever stop granting me your sweetness.

he couldn’t become new.

He tried (sometimes.)

He taught himself how to read people.

How to enjoy Himself: smile and joke and laugh at Himself, because no one else was there to help But doing that just made him feel alone So he stopped.

No one ever told him that was the point.

I could never imagine a life without my devotion to you, Nutella, sweet Nutella.

Poems by Ana Anaya

TWO ME

Most people I know only have one name and one identi-

—Angela Yuqing Zhu guage learner. Nevertheless, I expected to do as well in school

ty. The exceptional few people who have two identities are

as I had in China, and when I saw my first grades I was up-

mostly fictional such as Spider man. While I do not have super

set. A “ 9 out of 15. ” was not the kind of grade that Yuqing

powers of Spider-Strength, Spider-Speed, Spider- Grip and Spi-

would earn. In fact, as Yuqing, my class rank was number 1

der-Sense, I have two identities for real: Yuqing and Angela.

out of the 700 students in my grade! And I hardly studied.

Yuqing and Angela. Yuqing is me in China. She is an extrovert.

Even though I studied three hours the day before the quiz, the

She is easy-going, energetic and optimistic. She speaks fluent

questions on the quiz are like the arduous tasks given to Tom

Chinese and knows millions of Chinese characters. She is a

Cruise in the Movie Mission Impossible. How could I possibly

city girl, lives in Shanghai -- a metropolis with lots of skyscrap-

remember all these vocabulary words such as Gall Bladder,

ers, shopping centers, complicated but convenient public

Esophagus, Pharynx and match them with the pictures? How

transportation system and a population of 24 million people.

could I possibly know the digestive system when I don’t even

Angela is me in America. She is an introvert. She is depressed,

know how to name the organs and systems in Chinese?!

depleted and taciturn. She speaks crappy English and knows a limited amount of English words. She is a country girl, living in Albany -- a so-called city but actually really suburban area with not many shopping choices except chain stores like Forever 21 or JcPenney and an extremely unfavorable transportation system that makes people heavily rely on driving. Despite living a dual life, I am not a spy that works for the FBI or CIA, accepts special training, knows several languages (though I do know several) or has superhero fighting skills. I am the same as everyone and that’s the way I like it. However, it’s harder to live like everyone else since I became Angela when I moved to America just two years ago.

My inability to fit in and keep up with everyone else was

Compared to the feeling of loneliness and helplessness I had when I first came to America, failing the biology quiz was nothing. At that time, I was also going through the stage of adolescence, a stage in which I was easily embarrassed by parents. Before the new school year started, there was an orientation to welcome all the newcomers to the high school. It was the first time I took a school bus in America. My mom was as protective as other Asian parents and insisted escorting me to the bus stop. When I got on the bus, my mom shouted to the bus driver with a strong accent, “It’s her first time taking the bus! ” I froze for couple seconds. My face was burning. My brain totally blanked out. I avoided any eye contact with anyone on the bus. I found the nearest seat and quickly sat down.

made clear to me in school. It didn’t take long before I realized

At that moment, I wished I just could have the superpower to

that getting good grades was not that easy for a second lan-

erase everyone’s memories. Or the very least, shut my ears. I

I heard people from the back of the bus imitate my mom’s

minutes, I finally had the courage to introduce myself to him

words in a silly and weird way, and then I heard laughter. I was

and said, “Hi. I am new here. And my name is Angela.” He

irritated. I hated being the target of derision. The anger I felt

stared at me for a second and said, “ What? ” And since then,

quickly turned to an endless sadness due to homesickness

my desire to find a friend almost died out.

when I thought of my old days as Yuqing. No one had ever made fun of me when I was in China - not even once, according to my memory. I could do nothing but comfort myself that I had already experienced the worst situation and everything from now on would be better.

However, my misfortune didn’t just end with being em-

I never knew finding a friend could be so challenging. As Yuqing, my obliging and accommodating personality enabled me to have a lot of friends. For a summer, I went to different shopping center about 30 times, theater 8 times, karaoke 5 times, videogame room 3 times, parties 3 times, amusement park 2 times, café 2 times, room escape (a popular group activi-

barrassed by my mom on the school bus. When I got off the

ty game that a group of people, usually 4 to 6 lock in a room,

bus, I followed the crowd into the main lobby. All the people

and you have to find clues to get yourselves out of there) 2

were in groups with their friends. And there was me alone. I

times, different kinds of museums, and a lot of other fun activi-

watched them laughing, joking around, introducing themselves

ties such as clay sculpturing. I ate every lunch and dinner out.

to one another and hugging each other. Not being able to fit in

From 7 o’clock in the morning until 11 o’clock in the evening,

just turned me into the existence of pure awkwardness. I

you couldn’t find me at home. And I saw about 70 friends in

watched them laughing, joking around, introducing themselves

total.

to one another and hugging each other. ‘One day, I will find myself a group.’ I whispered to myself in an extremely low voice so that no one else could hear it except me, but I had never been that determined.

It is as my mom always says: Even the longest journey

Here I had none. What’s worse was that my shyness and my insufficient English added to my isolation. Even eating lunch stumped me. My experience looked nothing like every American Teenage show I had watched before I came to America, like Hannah Montana and High School Musical, wherein

begins with a single step. So I decided to start my group with

people sit together around a long rectangle table, laughing,

one single friend. Finally, I found a Chinese boy. (Don’t ask me

chitchatting and enjoying delicious food. Now I was standing in

how I knew for sure he was Chinese, not Korean or Japanese. I

the line for a not-so-delicious wrap in the small cafeteria in my

just do. All the Asians can tell the difference. And I am Asian! )

school.

I felt like a drowning person who finally found a rope or something to hold on and to keep myself from drowning. But still I was as timid as a mouse. After struggling mentally for five more

“What kind of dressing you want? ” A little small Indian women asked me with an accent.

n’t know any of the names of the dressing.

My feelings of solitude and loneliness surged. And my fear for people became exaggerated day by day and I started to think of any excuse for me to skip school. When I was on the edge of despair, two girls Thalia and Vanessa broke the “Berlin Wall” that had kept me from others. The first time we met was in gym class. All the sophomores and freshmen awaited in the lines for picture taking. Thalia and Vanessa with another Korean girl stood right in front of me, chatting, laughing and joking around. Their happiness and fun just made me more sad. Sud-

class, we spontaneously became friends. They invited me to their birthday parties, they asked me to hang out with them and they prepared presents for me on my birthday and important holidays. We met at our lockers everyday morning and after school, sharing the kpop music and news about kpop stars. We went to library to study together: I tutored them in math and science while they helped me with English. We also planned that after graduating from high school, we would travel to Korea together.

After one year, my academic achievements improved as

denly, they smiled at me. They were the warmest and prettiest

well as my social skills. I finally achieved my goal and had sev-

smiles I have ever seen. And of course, I returned a smile with

eral circles of friends.Thanks to Thalia and Vanessa, I found

prudency and surprise, which in my opinion was the worst

my confidence back. Angela and Yuqing also combined as a

smile I ever had. Then they told me their names and asked me

whole to form a complete me-- a me that can fit in the two dif-

for mine. I said ‘Angela’, the English name that was given by

ferent worlds I live.

my mom when we were travelling in Britain in my childhood instead of my real Chinese name --Yuqing Zhu because most people always mispronounced my name as “Yo queen Zoo”. I remember once in a history class, the substitution teacher almost marked me absent because I didn’t reply at all. She repeated my name three times but I was so not used to the pronunciation and didn’t realize that she was actually calling my name. I was happy to be invited to sit with them, for I really hated sitting alone and receiving attention and looks from others. Because they didn’t mind my nonstandard English expressions, I was no longer timid to present myself. We started to talk about a lot of things and luckily found out that we actually had a lot of interests and hobbies in common. After that gym

HAND

I found a photo of your hand that Susan saved when you were three, back when I was tan and my car still ran and her surly father still liked me.

CHAMPION LIGHTWEIGHT OF THE WORLD

the broken boy on the bathroom floor fed up with his family’s fussin downs a dose of robitussin and crawls his way to lock the door.

In a parking lot we thrived and thought and strived and sought a silly answer.

We took off the clothes that tend to rot in the eye of the average romancer.

he’s landlocked and bloodshot tormented with tattoos too feckless to afford a foe too friendly to ignore you

he bathes in bourbon and he breathes if he offers you a favor thin gin please tell him not to bother but he’ll take a shot he would make a great uncle of whatever you’ve got but a terrible father cause it don’t matter to him religion is reckless at a table for two taken by one redemption is murder his dad is relentless he likes to keep the devil far for patient repentance and God even further and the return of his prodigal son when he learns he’s not a prophet but the broken boy needs no one else he’ll find a man much better his street-lamp meetings and parking lot preaching keep him content all by himself you should see him when he’s helpless you should see him when he’s lonely he’ll gladly take a bump of coke and tell you that it’s ok

We bought a bottle of bad decisions with a label on the side that claimed: "Pre-determined for poor intentions.

Guaranteed to get you laid."

Holy girl, Holy Ghost, holy maybe just maybe Holy hell that sure was close.

Holy shit we made a baby.

Poems by Henry Rogers

PILLS

—Rowan Cech

Are you ready to head out?" I heard Amanda ask while I

moment of standing there I saw that it was still breathing. I

was looking at my figure in the mirror. Maybe I needed to lose a

dropped everything that was in my hands and picked it up off

little weight. Amanda was starting to sound somewhat compas-

the molten pavement and placed it in a cool grassy area in the

sionate, and I'm still trying to decide if having her be nice to me

shade. I stayed with it, slowly giving it water. That night, I took

is a good idea.

it home and over time we became friends.

"Yes I am," I said with a smile on my face.

"Um, okay, follow me," she said, obviously confused by my cheerfulness. I mean really, what's the point in being sad all the time when you can be happy? I can't help it—I'm just a happy person.

"I don't need to follow you. Remember, I've been here for way longer than you." I said as she took the lead in the way down to the visiting lounge.

The hallways were always the worst part of getting anywhere in this building. Most of them were lit with bright fluorescent lights, like the kind in hospitals, and white tiles everywhere, except the walls. When I first came here I used to run my hand along the tiles as we walked down the long hallway that connected the dorms and the facility. I loved the way that the tiles felt on my fingers - soft and smooth, but at the same time broken, like me.

But that, like most other things, was taken away from me. They said that it was damaging to whatever "soul" I had left. I also used to have a pet mouse. I found it one day, taking its last breaths on burning-hot pavement. At first, I thought that it had died because it was so young and little, but after a

But when I arrived here, they said that I was too unstable to keep a pet and put my mouse to sleep. For months they told me that they had taken it to a better home, but I knew what they had done.

"Anna! Apparently you do need to follow me because we were going to the medical room? Why Anna? Why on earth would we want to go there?" Amanda started asking me.

"I-I'm so sorry. Go ahead. Lead the way, please." I couldn't believe that I had messed up again. What was wrong with me today?

"Thank you," Amanda stubbornly declared back to me.

When we got to the lounge it was almost lunch and everyone was sitting down at the long table in the dining hall. We like to call it “The King Table” because it was like one of those tables where there is one important chair at one end. We usually all took turns sitting at it, but today someone that I don’t know is sitting there.

"Hi everyone! I don't know if you know me, but I am a good old friend of Anna's. I know everything about her, and she is just so cool." I don't know who this girl is but she is messing with the wrong person. "Anna, hon, come here. Did you guys

know that Anna helped me get rid of someone who was bothering me? Yeah, we even planned things out and used our little secret language.”

I was starting to recognize that voice and those things that I only ever did with one person, Claire.

"Claire, you bitch! Get the hell out of here! What the fuck do you want so badly that you had to come here and taunt me for it? Get the hell out!" I screamed at her, tears streaming down my face. "You got... you got everything! You even got my mother to believe that you were completely innocent and had nothing to do with the murder. It was your fucking idea. Look at what I have to live with every day while you get charities made in your name. Some kid in Nigeria will say thank you Claire, but curse at my name. We were in this together. Remember, for Slender Man? We were there together!" At this point I was being restrained and dragged out of the room, but I didn't let that stop me. "Fuck you Claire, fuck you!"

"Bye bye sweetie, it's nighty night time." And that's when the sedative started to kick in.

LIES I’VE TOLD

—Rowan Cech

Definitely a seven out of ten. I like you. No, I can live with it. I'm sorry. I’m too

busy. I just can't make it. I'm going into DC with my brother. I forgot my lunch. I am too full. My phone wasn't working. I forgot. I'm busy. I was with Lucy. I couldn't sleep. He kissed me first. I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again. I couldn't sleep. It was my fault. I'm going into DC with my brother. I forgot my lunch. I had a big lunch. I’m too full. No one came over. He had to leave early for the game. She knows. He cares. He loves me. I'm busy. I didn't watch four or five hours of Netflix. No. Yes. No. I didn't hear you. I understand. I can get over it. I am over it. He was a jerk anyway. I don't still care about him too much. I'm not still texting him. I want to relax. I don't like rainy days. It's okay. I'm fine.

JANE

—Aurora Allen

My name is Jane. I was a bad child. I was disobedient; I ran in the rain and played in the dirt. My lacy nightgown would stain

with the green and brown slashes that came from stargazing at night, and I said thank you to the maid who dressed me and to the butler who brought me my crème brulee with a silver spoon. Momma would scold me as I came home sopping, a bright smile shining on my face because the baby ducklings hatched by the river, and they were just so cute. I hung fine braided ribbons out my window and into the alley below for the kittens that lived there to bat and mew at. Then I would slide down the brass railing of the foyer stairs, balancing a porcelain bowl of milk on my head, and run into the alley where hungry balls of fluff awaited me. The kittens would squirm and tumble in the folds of my dress and the curls of my hair and I would giggle as their whiskers nuzzled my cheeks. The milk would quickly disappear but I always left the bowl. Sometimes I even would leave a piece of silver or some violet ribbons, because I knew for a fact that a boy from town came every day at 3:00 to find his new treasures with a beaming smile. I would watch quietly from my window high above, as he would gasp in wonder at the intricate gold details. I didn’t mind giving him wonder; after all, we had plenty more in the kitchen.

When I was five, Daddy told a beggar at our faceted crystal door to go fuck himself back in the crap hole he came from. Then, though he stood inches from the brass doorknob, unceremoniously motioned with his piano-playing fingers for the butler to shut the door and proceeded to drink his sugary tea. He always drank rose tea with nearly a gallon of sugar cubes, so that the amber liquid became cool and goopy. He then told me, his young daughter; “Jane, there is more filth in this world then you know. As a Lady, you must learn that you have a duty to rise above this filth. You are highborn!” he said this word with a particular reverence, “You are a Lady Jane, you deserve only the most beautiful.”

Daddy was unconventionally and immorally in love with our wealth, our status, and our public image. When I was found playing in the trimmed rose bushes, he would grimace, curl his lips in disgust and say, “Jane, dear, you are a Lord’s daughter, a Lady. A Lady does not play in the greenery. It is unmentionable.” So I left the fanciful playtime of dragons and knights in shining armor to the poor kids, while I was brought up as a Lady. I wore billowing satin skirts and long white sashes to teas with the Duchess where I learned the “ins” and “outs” of high society. I did not play with the alley cats anymore, and I obediently chased beggars from the front gates, my nose in the air, just like Daddy, with a graceful hand on my skirts. Poised and dainty, I was paraded through the town as an angel from heaven; back straight, gloved fingers folded, look at Momma, look how regal she is.

Momma taught me to never let our lovely eyes meet those of one inferior to us, to twirl at dances in complex patterns so my tresses stayed tight but my dress swirled, to drink tea as daintily as if I were picking a rose in our blossoming gardens, and to never let our careful image slip; head up, no fidgeting, legs crossed, hair pinned, bows tied, pearls buttoned, heels shinned, eyes forward, look lovely. Always lovely.

THE MINIATURE EDEN The hot sun beat down on Walter as he was working in his

garden, he spent countless hours trimming, watering and fertilizing his plants. Walter did not really get out much as he worked in his garden almost religiously, which caused his neighbors to call the police based on the suspicion that Walter was growing drugs.

Even though the police turned out no sign of drugs the neighbors continued to ridicule Walter for being a shutout to everyone else.

Even when he did go outside, he was given the stink eye by everyone and nobody even bothered to talk to him. But Walter did not mind, he believed that as long as he minded his own business within reason, everyone else would leave him alone.

The kids of the neighborhood would make fun of Walter calling him a freak and a weirdo, but one boy named Adam knew better than to take place in such affairs. One day a group of kids were outside of Walter’s house throwing taunts, along with eggs at his house, Walter did not come out because he did not want to get involved. When Adam saw this, he told off the kids and they ran away, then looked at the mess they had made. He rang Walter’s doorbell, something Walter had not heard in a long time, and Walter answered. Adam had told Walter about the eggs and offered to clean up his house with Walter. Walter smiled slowly and agreed to it. The cleaning took a few hours, but when they were done, Adam went inside Walter’s house, but Adam began sneezing constantly. “I’m sorry Mr. Walter, but my allergies have been catching up on me this season” said Adam. “Here, I’ve got something that will help you with your allergies. Please take a seat at my table” said Walter. Adam took a seat at the table and a few minutes lat-

—Travis Bederka

later, Walter came in with a cup of tea. Adam drank the tea and began to feel better instantly. “What is this?” Adam asked. Walter looked in every direction then motioned Adam to follow him.

Walter took Adam into his garden and proceeded to show Adam around it. Adam looked at the plants and he saw names that he had never heard before such as Agoborrah, Cumerin and Jurgenis to name a few. Adam asked Walter what kinds of plants they are and Walter replied “These are no ordinary plants, these are very special kinds of plants that can be used to cure disease and help heal wounds. These kinds of plants have hidden powers to heal people, and that’s what I do with them.” Adam found out that Walter ships his plants all around the world to prevent sickness and starvation and needless to say, Adam was very impressed. When Adam told Walter that he needed to go home, Walter gave Adam a mysterious plant, and Adam headed home.

When Adam got home, his mother inquired as to where he was, Adam said that he was over at Walter’s house and his mother was not happy to hear this.

“You were over at that strange man’s house, what have I told you about interfering in strange people’s business.” When Adam’s mother was done yelling at him, she noticed the strange plant that Adam was holding. “And he gave you drugs as well, what have we told you about taking drugs from strangers. Give me that and go to your room and I never want to see you with that freak again.” Adam resentfully did so and went to bed, thinking about how she called Walter a freak.

The next day, Adam went over to Walter’s house telling him about what his mother said. “I don’t really care what people say about me, all I ask is that I just be left in peace.” Walter said. But Adam wanted to take Walter outside of his house and expose him to the world more often. Adam asked Walter if he wanted to go out for a bite to eat and Walter agreed. When Walter and Adam went to the restaurant everyone was looking at them suspiciously, but neither of them cared and continued their meal and conversation. Adam asked Walter why he does what he does

and Walter replied “Plants have always interested me; it’s just so fascinating that they can be used to help people. Besides these plants are special plants passed down through the generations of my family.” Adam was stunned when he heard this and never knew Walter had this side to him.

Meanwhile, Adam’s mother was suspicious of the plant Walter gave him and decided to call up the other parents in the town to tell him about it. “Yes, that strange man gave Adam some kind of drug, I don’t know what it is, but coming from him it can’t be good.” Adam’s mother said as she was calling the other parents. She told them to meet up with her in front of her house for a special meeting. When the parents got there Adam’s mother had told them that this man was a drug dealer no matter what the police said, and that they had no place like him in their neighborhood. Everyone at the meeting was filled with blind rage at the thought of Walter doing this and went over to his house to talk to him.

When they found out he wasn’t home, they saw the garden through his window and assumed that it was the drugs he was growing. The parents were furious at this and barged their way into his house, breaking down his door, they made their way into the garden and destroyed it. They smashed pots, uprooted plants and when they were done they collected all the plants and lit them on fire. When the fire was done, there were no more plants in Walter’s garden and all of the parents quickly made their way out of his house.

After Adam and Walter came back from dinner, they found Walter’s garden burned and completely destroyed. “This is horrible, who could’ve done such a thing?” Adam asked. Walter looked over to Adam with tears in his eyes and said “People did this, people guided by hatred and navigated by prejudice.” Adam looked at the damage and told Walter that they could regrow their plants and sweep up the garden. Walter said “Of course we can regrow the plants, but people can’t regrow their trust, if I fix up the garden they will only do it again and again, because I’m different.” The word different rang through Adam’s ear as he realized that this is what caused the destruction. “Adam, I must leave now” Walter said in a hushed tone. “No please don’t leave, this is my entire fault” Adam said. “No, this isn’t your fault, you’ve proven to me that some people can be trusted, and I will never forget you.” Walter replied as he gathered up his seeds from the plants. Walter stood with a bag over his shoulder containing the seeds from his plants as he gave one final goodbye to Adam and walked off into the sunset of the evening.

EMILY

—Rowan Cech So what? Yeah, my life

deadly? Well, I have got to have a

was as good as dead, and yeah,

bite of that!” A smile curled around

my savior had just left me here

his mouth as he walked out into

alone with nothing so that she

the clearing.

could save her little brother.

But

you

know

what,

who

cares?! Right?!

“Okay, okay, my turn. How long since food, ‘cause if you’re really hungry I don’t want to get all

“Go ahead, life! You can

scratched up again. Oh and if you

screw me over, take everything

don’t mind my side hurts, so be

from me, really, I will manage.

nice please,” I said back taunting-

But why did you have to take

ly. I could see his face now and

anything from Chase or Laura?

knew exactly who he was. He was

They need what they have,” I

the Head of Society. I guess he got

shouted into the air.

sick of having his minions do all

“You know, sometimes

the work for him.

when people are being haunted,

“Ahh, I see you recognize

they should calm their little

me, so nice. This’ll be fun,” Chase’s

pesky voices down,” a hidden

father said as if he were a snake.

voice said so sweetly that my

Then I felt my body tense and

body wanted to melt away, but I

brace for a hit, before a stinging

couldn’t let it. I had to stay

pain on my jaw started to sink in.

strong.

He had made the first move. I saw

“What should I call you? A vampire or a siren? Because vampires are feisty, but a siren sounds sweet and deadly. Isn’t that what you are, sweet and

something metal flash out of his jacket and didn’t realize what it was until a shot was fired. Suddenly, my arm lost all feeling and everything started to spin around

me. That sick bastard!

Next thing I knew, the gun was in my hands and loaded.

Ready to take the next shot, I stood there with the Head of the Society on his knees pleading for his life. I stood perfectly still, one foot in front of the other, hands not even trembling, just staring at him. I always thought in these moments I would be thinking something, but I didn’t. I just looked him in the eye and pulled back the trigger. At that moment, the world slowed and I saw every bit of emotion that went through him. His surprise as he saw me pull the trigger, then the sadness that followed. How, in that split second, everything that he had ever done was pointless, cruel, and evil. And that he was sorry. Then there was agony as the bullet ripped through his well-ironed suit and dug deep into his chest. I will never be able to forget the look on his face as he finally realized that this was the end. Then he died, his eyes slowly moved back into his head, and he slumped onto the tree behind him. He looked so innocent and ordinary, all alone, with no one here for him to say goodbyes to. But he deserved every single bit of pain that ran through his nerves. The only thing that left my lips was, “I’m sorry.” 〜 “Emily! Emily where are you!” I heard someone shouting my name. It sounded a lot like Laura. “Oh thank god! You are okay. Who is that? Do you know what? It doesn’t matter. I need you to listen to me very closely and do exactly what I say, please!”

“Yeah, of course, what’s wrong?” I asked.

Only one word came out of her mouth: "Run."

THE CRASH

—Kailey Walters Kate was listening to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” on her twoyear old cracked iPod; her eyes closed and her left foot gently tapped to the beat when she felt the first unusual tremor. It wasn’t enough to make her open her eyes, but her foot stopped tapping for about five seconds. Then she started up again, thinking nothing of that tremor save a single fleeting notion that it was just turbulence.

The second time she felt the jolt, two things happened at once.

The first thing was that the song blared extra loudly in her ears, accompanied by random bursts of static: “Didn’t - chhhh - mean to make you - hissss - cry. If I’m not back - chhhh - again this time tomorrow...”

The second thing was that the flight attendant, pushing a cart well-stocked with complimentary airplane food, suddenly lost her bal-

ance and stumbled forward. The cart rolled ahead of her. Its impact against the far wall, accompanied by a great deal of rattling, caught everyone’s attention. That was when Kate finally looked up, although she did not remove her earbuds.

Then a third thing happened.

The overhead intercom crackled to life, and an authoritative voice riddled occasionally with anxiety came on. “Attention all passengers,” the captain announced. “There has been a slight ...difficulty with the amount of fuel still remaining in this aircraft.”

Kate yanked the headphones from her ears.

“The tank is running dangerously low on fuel,” the captain continued, “My crew and I are attempting to find a secure landing area within the next fifteen to twenty minutes. Please do not panic. It is our job to ensure the safety of our passengers. Thank you.”

The intercom switched off, replaced with the steadily rising sound of panicked passengers debating what was happening.

Kate only sat in stupefied silence, her arms and legs going numb.

It’s a bad dream, she thought fiercely. As if proving a point to herself, she forcefully stuffed the headphones back into her ears and let Queen’s next song, “Another One Bites the Dust” wash over her.

But all too soon, any pretenses of normalcy failed Kate. Before she could react, she was violently slammed into the back of

her seat so hard that she immediately

It's like I'm there again. The

spun and all she could think of were

felt the sharp pain along her spine. Hys-

thought registered dimly as Kate sucked

Cheerios in a bowl overflowing with

terical screams reverberated around her

in huge lungfuls of air. She blindly fum-

milk. And where was her bed?

as people slammed into one another and

bled for the oxygen mask beneath her

other objects; one man, who must have

seat while the captain's frantic instruc-

fallen on his face, sported a streak of

tions were shouted in the background.

blood running from his nose. Nauseat-

Just as she strapped on the mask, not

ed, Kate looked away just when the

entirely sure if she was wearing it cor-

plane spiraled rapidly downward.

rectly, she felt the plane make contact

And at that moment, though she wasn’t sure why, a memory struck her.

She visualized the Tower of Terror at

with a large body of water. Her vision turned black as an impenetrable coldness encased her like ice.

Disney World, where she had vacationed once after her parents begrudgingly relented. The tall, imposing tower that could be seen from across the entire park loomed high in her memory, like something that could swallow her

But it's not my favorite ride any-

out of the darkness and towards the af-

Kate's blurry vision.

Blinking rapidly,

she pushed herself up on her elbows and felt ...

Sand.

The fine grains felt numb beneath her fingers as she let out a gasp

all she remembered the thrill, that dev-

and immediately started gagging on her

astating drop from the peak of the tower

own air. Something was strapped over

to the bottom that left her stomach

her mouth . . . What was it?

aching for air. She'd barely had enough oxygen to scream. It was her favorite ride.

failed attempt because of her parched throat. She swiveled around frantically to locate a source of water, but was fruitless: her surroundings were bathed in an impenetrable inky blackness.

Practically hyperventilating, Kate pushed up from the ground and let out when her palm suddenly made contact

A bowl of Cheerios swam before

ternoon sunlight at the top. But most of

jumping up to her throat and her lungs

"Oh no," she tried to whisper, a

a high-pitched, voice-cracking screech

more.

whole. She remembered being strapped into the seat, rising slowly up, up, up

Then it all came flooding back.

Kate carefully felt around her face and tugged off the mask, hurling it onto the sand beside her. Her head

with something soft and squishy and alien, and which was definitely not sand. All her energy was spent. She collapsed back onto the ground, trembling from something more than fatigue as her thoughts suddenly turned to the movies she used to watch not very long ago. Her favorites had always been the scary ones: the kinds that sent you diving back into your fortress of pillows and blankets and forced bloodcurdling, horrified screams from your already raw throat. Kate had always enjoyed the horrific thrill of those movies, but ulti-

ately she knew that those blood-dripping, flesh-eating characters were not real. If she really wanted them to disappear, she could simply pick up the remote and turn off the TV. Kate never really got scared, not really.

But then she wondered how she had gotten here, made it to this point. She thought about the plane and the possibility of its fiery ruins full of screaming, hysterical people sinking to the bottom of the ocean, or at least well below the surface, smoldering in mysterious territory.

I COULDN’T STOP WATCHING

—Molly Gorelick

My family celebrated the day my brother, Rusty, finally weighed 100 pounds. He’s always been tall and skinny, which causes him to be pushed around on athletic fields. When Rusty got a concussion at age 11 from playing football with boys 50 pounds heavier than he was and who had facial hair, I figured the only sports that he’d play from then on were the ones on his Xbox console.

But Rusty finally grew when he turned 14. Along with his deeper voice and desire to use Axe body spray came an awareness of his new size and strength. One day after school he grabbed his stick and a ball and went to the backyard, as he often did, and threw off of his rebounder, a specialty lacrosse contraption that looks like an upright trampoline. For whatever reason, something on this day was different. Rusty didn’t simply walk to the backyard to practice—he marched as if it were his civic duty to play lacrosse.

Rusty had his headphones in, probably listening to rappers whose names begin with “Yung” and “Lil,” so he couldn’t hear the thumping of the ball against the rebounder. But we all heard the thumping. I heard it, my parents heard it, my dog heard it, the neighbors heard it.

I moved from my bedroom to the kitchen table, where there’s a view of the backyard. There was my younger brother, slingshotting himself forward, rhythmically, to and fro, thump after thump, to the beat of the music from his headphones—a sort of modern dance. Rusty had something to prove. If the ball dropped, the music would stop and the dance routine would end.

When Rusty returned to the house, I picked up a newspaper and pretended that I hadn’t been watching. There was sweat on his brow and his hair was damp. Sure, the sweat made him glisten, but there was a different type of glistening in his eye. However, his “too -cool-for-you” teenage body language tried to play it off as if to say, “Just another day on the job.”

NEVER SEND A BOY TO DO A MAN’S JOB

Never send a boy to do a man’s job; they will only end up as corrupted youth. And you might think it doesn’t matter when war is involved, that somehow the situation makes it different, but you’re wrong. The age of eighteen might make someone a legal adult but even then I still find it hard to see how you can barely be an adult for one day and shipped off to South Vietnam. And I know that was 1967 and now it is 2014 and “things were different back then,” but it still doesn’t seem right. From Yreka, California Robin P. Milovich barely served a year in the US army. In that time now, an 18-year-old boy from California might have graduated high school, gotten into college, and completed his first year. He might have even become a major entertainer or entrepreneur.

Robin did none of that. He went straight to Vietnam, fought in a war and didn’t know why. But he did it. And on the eleventh of June 1967, he was killed in action.

Poems by Kelly Bohall

WAYWARD

—Kailey Walters

Wearing a tank top in the supermarket is always a mistake. The temperature creeps a few degrees cooler than you would expect as the refrigerator section leaks chilled air to the rest of the store. Goosebumps bump into each other, giggling like teenage girls with crushes all along Anne’s arms and shoulders. She tries to pick up the pace of her steps to go faster, get out of here faster, retreat back into the blankets of her bed faster.

Supermarkets make her nervous. Most things make her nervous.

The contents of her shopping cart are kind of pathetic with a bushel of kale, a Betty Crocker mix for yellow cake, and the chocolate syrup that eventually hardens into a shell. She feels like she needs to fill it up more to justify her visit here, but she’s really, seriously cold, and she doesn’t really have money for more anyway. Her roommate keeps promising to pay her back without ever doing so.

If she didn’t somehow manage to pay her share of the rent - Anne suspects that it’s by “borrowing” money from other naïve friends Margot would have been long gone by now. But she does and Anne can’t pay the rent alone and the process of finding a roommate is long, hard, tedious, and other unpleasant adjectives, so Margot gets to stay.

The line is long. It’s early morning so there’s only one lane open. She maneuvers her way to the end, eyeing the six pack of diet Coke and wondering if she has enough cash to get that too.

The man in front of her is tall and in the midst of being eaten alive by his double covering of sweatshirt under baggy jacket. She draws back as far as she can without losing her space in line. As much as the tank top was a mistake, Anne doesn’t know how this man could stand being trapped, stifled, suffocated under his layers on a perfectly reasonable spring day. He is hunched over his cart, and she can see his wrists, jutting out bones, skin about to split from the effort of keeping his skeleton inside. When he rubs his buzzed haircut, she watches the tapered fingers folding like broken bird bones.

Her goosebumps have travelled to the back of her neck.

They move up a length as the old lady at the front teeters her way out of the automatic door. She accidentally bumps her cart against his heels, and an apology is bursting out of her mouth as he turns his head back.

It is caught like gunk in the back of her throat. She coughs to unclog it, but by then it has transformed its structure. “Jacob.”

The corners of his mouth twitch in discomfort. His arms come up crossed and grasping at his sides where his ribs would be as if he is trying to keep himself altogether. He rolls his neck to crack it. She flinches. “’Sup, A. Been awhile.”

The nickname is uncomfortable because it’s too familiar. She is aware of the contents of her shopping cart even more than before, catching his eyes moving across the items without expression before they return to her. Jacob has bags of fruit in his, various bot-

tles of over-the-counter medicines, a box of cheap beer. Normal, too close to home, even though he’s the one who looks more breakable, and she’s nearly as curvy as always. She hasn’t been eating as much lately. She wonders if her cheeks have begun to approach his gauntness because he is staring at the rise of her cheekbone instead of meeting her gaze. His jaw pops and his leg jangles like loose keys. It is he who speaks again, hastily and sloppily like he’s always lived. “How you been, A? Still got ‘cho roomie?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’m still living with Margot. How about you?”

They move another length forward, and he starts cracking his fingers one at a time as he answers. “Naw, I got my own place now. Picked up another job to afford it.”

Again, she nods. She doesn’t know what to say next. A man leaves the line in impatience, setting down his basket of Vaseline at the foot of the register. There’s two people in front of her now, plus Jacob, and she silently prays for the check-out guy to move faster.

“You baking today?” he asks suddenly, and she jerks back at the phrase. The mistake hovers between them, and he’s rubbing the back of his buzzed head. “I mean...”

She finally connects the question to the cake mix in her cart. “Yeah.”

“Somebody got a birthday?”

“No,” she says. He crosses his arms again, and she mirrors his stance, wishing she had just grabbed that jacket on the way out the door. Her bones, her lungs, her heart are all shivering, and she can’t talk them into stopping. “Just, I’ve had the urge to bake something lately.”

“Well. That’s neat, A,” he says, and she wonders if he’s also remembering what she’s remembering, about that time in the yellow kitchen, both of them covered in flour, him standing over her with half-way outstretched hands as she sobbed and screamed, and the cake batter sitting useless in the bowl next to the foreign bag of white powder. She would throw both in the garbage later, after he had gone, gone forever she thought.

He stares down at his feet. She does too. One of his shoelaces is untied.

“Listen, A,” he bursts out. The line has moved again, but he’s standing fast. There’s a feeling of nausea writhing its way up from her stomach to her chest and to her throat. “I’m sorry, okay? I been working on it. I know I said it before, but I’m clean, A. I’m clean now. I am. I swear, A. I haven’t had a snuff for three months now, that’s true.”

He is trembling as much as her, and she doesn’t know what the goosebumps are from anymore. Her nails dig into her skin. They are long. She could be bleeding.

“Okay,” she says, because nothing else will come out. His hands had been moving so forcefully, but now they come to a standstill.

She raises her gaze and she see the shadows under his eyes still, but she can make herself think that they are lighter than she recalls them.

“I ain’t going to do it again,” he says fiercely. She can see, hear, the burning of his soul. “I won’t.”

“Okay,” she says.

He comes around her cart - someone has cut in front of them now - and throws his brittle arms around her, her head resting on the pillowed softness of his sweatshirt. His heart is beating fast and light, and she’s keeping her arms at her sides because she doesn’t want to know the circumference of his waist. The goosebumps are still there, but they are silent now, so she closes her eyes and leans in because she has never known what else she was supposed to do.

She doesn’t end up buying anything.

DONE WRONG

Things You Have Done Wrong Drinking that night. Telling him you loved him. Not graduating. Not choosing an epidural. Naming me “Aphrodite.” Telling him you loved him again. Letting me sleep in your bed. Getting a dog. Smoking while you changed me. Moving to San Diego. Getting a Mustang. Driving it. Taking me with you. Blowing through a red light. Taking me to Grandma’s. Losing me at the department store. Leaving the department store. Lying to the police. Taking me to Uncle Greg’s. Moving to Kansas. Calling me “Aphrobear”. Sending me to school with a Jetson’s lunchbox. Not going to parent-teacher conferences. Not checking my homework. Telling me to go play outside. Not watching me. Finding Carl. Telling him you loved him. Marrying Carl. Taking me to Aunt Jean’s. Divorcing Carl. Moving to Florida. Taking me to Disney World. Losing me at Disney World. Not checking my homework. Not going to parent-teacher conferences. Not asking. Leaving me alone. Letting me go. Smoking in the kitchen. Letting me smoke in the kitchen. Falling asleep with the T.V. on. Getting a car for me. Not getting it inspected. Finding Carl again. Forgetting me at practice. Dating Carl. Finding Harry. Forgetting me. Taking me to Harry’s. Not checking my homework. Not asking. Not asking. Not asking. Not being there.

Things I Have Done Wrong Drinking that night. Telling him I loved him. Not graduating. Not choosing an epidural. Not running away when I had the chance…

—Emily Tworek

SAVE THE DATE

—Emily Tworek

Cora straightened her veil in the bureau mirror, the glass perfectly shined just as she wished it to be. Still, the comb wasn’t right: it sat just a little off to the side, perched on her updo like a fragile bird in the nest that her stylist had taken nearly an hour and a half sculpting.

“What am I going to do about this? I’ll be taking pictures soon, and this damn veil won’t go on straight!” Cora screamed. Her breath grew more and more rapid, as did her fingers, fidgeting with the pearl-dotted hairpiece.

“Just don’t wear it.” Maggie said from across the room. Dressed in a blue satin frock, she reclined in one of the fat armchairs that seemed to enclose this bridal suite, just like the walls, closing in. She ate Cora’s strawberries, throwing the tops on the glass coffee table next to her.

“Could you please throw those out?” Cora said. She couldn’t bear to look at the sight of the unsightly berry ends.

“Why?” Maggie said, her mouth full of teeth-staining fruit.

“The juice might get on my dress.”

“It won’t get on your dress, Cor.” “Yes it will.” She dabbed on a little more shiny lip gloss, trying to distract herself.

“No it won’t.”

“Yes, it will.” Christine said, finally done with her friend’s ignorance. “Throw them out.” she glared at Maggie, whose curls cascaded down her back in loose, messy ringlets, even though Cora had demanded her hair be pinned up. Maggie rolled her eyes and did what she was told, exiting the room and going down the hall to the bathroom to wash her hands, Cora hoped, but in reality it was to get a few moments of peace away from the Bridezilla.

“Mags?” Cora called as she meticulously inspected the beading on the bust of her $3,000 dream dress. “Go outside and check how many people are here, won’t you?” Everything seemed to be in working order with the dress, though she had yet to check her shoes. Things always went wrong with the shoes: a heel snapped, rhinestones fell off in little cascades...it was always the shoes. Made a bride crumble at her foundation.

Maggie slid back into the room, nearly silent. “Anything for you, Princess,” she said, in a mocking tone that affirmed that Maggie was done with her best friend’s pre-wedding antics. Whatever, today is my day.

Cora took a step back from the mirror to admire herself in a full view. She gasped a little bit, just as she had when she had first tried on the dress in a New York bridal salon. She looked like a bride, like one of those models who looked impossibly perfect in impossibly perfect places with impossibly perfect weather, marrying impossibly perfect, handsome men who they had most likely never met. Even so, Cora looked like a bride.

With a full turn, the six foot train of the dress draped beautifully behind her. She was a statue, the Venus de Milo, a vision in white...but her hairdo was falling out; the bobby pins were losing their grip.

“Cora.” she heard Maggie’s voice from the doorway, and she turned toward her single bridesmaid.

“Well, how many?” she inquired.

Maggie’s face had turned a dark and ashy grey.

“Ten.” she said. Impossible, Cora thought...it was all impossibly...wrong.

“Ten? Ten?” she screamed, face growing red.

“Your parents, Tommy’s parents, and your Aunt Jennie’s family.” Cora nearly fainted. The wedding was in fifteen minutes, and no one seemed to remember….remember…

“Maggie, find Tommy.” she stared down at the floor, her eyes chasing the whorls in the wood, running through all the things that could have possibly gone wrong. Invitations, engagement photos, check, check. Maybe it was a freak snowstorm, Cora thought, that kept everyone from attending. Then she remembered that the date was August 4th. Remember the date...save the dates. Those had been Tommy’s job.

“Shit.” she said, only loud enough for the ten people attending her 250 person wedding to hear.

With a single knock on the door, Cora’s fiance, Tommy, burst into the room, out of breath.

“Wha...what...what happened?” he said in between heaving sighs.

“Honey,” Cora said the words as cordially as she could, “did you ever send out the save-the-dates like I asked you to?”

The image flashed back into Tommy’s mind, a paper box filled to the brim with green stationery envelopes...sitting in his office. Shit. Oh God, I’m dead.

Cora could see from his look of surprise that her suspicions had been confirmed. Without warning, she burst into tears.

“Oh Gawdddddd!” she cried. She was not a pretty crier, and she never had been.

Her makeup ran down the sides of her face, making her look like a cheetah in search of an antelope to murder. Her incipient husband looked tasty enough. Depression manifested itself into anger, and she stood, cursing her husband using every word in the dictionary kept at the bottom of the junk drawer until she was nearly blue in the face. A vein on the side of her neck throbbed with the strain. And again, she collapsed, crying. Her fiance rushed to her side as he always did, and he took her in his arms. rocking her.

“Cor...Cora, it’s okay…”

“It’s not okay!” she whined in a way reminiscent of a seven-year-old. Tommy cradled her head and shushed her.

“Yes, it is. Look, we’re all dressed up, everything is ready, let’s just have a small ceremony. Those assholes won’t even know what they were missing.” He said it in such a way that Cora could not do anything but believe him. “Okay?” he asked. She nodded like a small child.

“Okay,” she said, straightening herself. The two embraced, and Tommy kissed his bride on the forehead. She smiled, but then, realizing something, her eyes bulged.

“Oh my God, Tommy, you weren’t supposed to see me in my dress! Get out!”

He exited the suite, hands raised in silent apology, and Cora returned to powdering her nose.

HITCHCOCK WAS RIGHT

-The Poetry Wizards

SHIT LOT

Months afterwards, I could still see her blood stained onto the weathered concrete of shit lot. Other kids buzzed around Coldwater Creek Preparatory School in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, ignoring the sectioned-off piece of blacktop.

They continued to drink on weekends, and sneak joints in the communal bathrooms, running the shower so the steam

—Lauren Sanfilippo would erase the smell of pot.

But the God’s honest truth is no one even remembered her name.

It happened in winter and, like the demise of most tragic heroes, everyone saw it coming but no one tried to help.

I am no exception. Actually, I’m the biggest bastard of them all.

When she was alive, everyone knew who Lila Lancaster was. It was hard not to. She was beautiful. Not in a bottleblonde, cake-face, booty shorts type of way. She was a classic beauty; curling strawberry hair, long legs and sharp cheekbones smattered with freckles.

She was crazy and wild, but she was smart. There was no lie in her fire, only bright vivid flames that you could almost touch, but not quite. You see, no one could own her.

She was irrevocably self-possessed. You just knew by the sway of her hips and the bite of her voice.

The sun blazed above all our heads and it seemed like a joke. God’s latest and greatest fuck you.

I loved her. Well, I thought I loved her. I guess not enough. Because in the end, she still jumped. Right off the top of Eastman hall, where she roomed her freshman year.

The news report, the police report, and the school report all said that she was trying to land in the Creek.

The Creek was a particular nuisance. Long, and wide, it snaked its way through our small campus, connecting two distant towns.

And though the four-story drop into the frozen water may have been survivable, she missed the Creek by a foot, maybe two.

She landed in Shit Lot, the parking lot behind the freshman dorms, away from all other human life. Juniors had to park in S-lot if they wanted to bring a car (which administration obviously didn’t want them to do).

If I had only known. Took the time out of my day, ignored my anger, my rejection, maybe I could have saved her. Or I could have helped her, at least.

The consensus after her death is that she wanted the attention. That she was desperate. She left no note, left no explanation.

I mean, why else would she do it?

Why? People loved her. She had a family. She wasn’t alone.

Was she unhappy? Did she hide behind the drugs and alcohol?

I loved her. I was sure of it.

I mean, I wasn’t much. But I was something.

I might not have been ripped and handsome like the other guys she dated, but I loved her. How many people can say that?

That they were loved, completely and truly? I loved her for all of her faults.

I never got to see the body.

I was told that she splattered, like a tomato being thrown at a wall. Body parts haphazardly thrown around like garbage.

I was also told that she just landed, in one piece, pooled by blood, limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

Her parents never came to get her body. They sent a driver to Minnesota, and had the body flown to Miami. There was no wake, no funeral. She was there, and then she wasn’t.

There has to be something that we weren’t seeing. That she chose to hide, or left out in plain sight for everyone to see, but no one did. Something that pushed her over the edge. And I really couldn’t blame her.

She hung out with the wrong crowd. That was a given. She dated the jocks and got drunk with the stoners.

A week after the event, there was a memorial in her honor.

Right near that blocked off slab of concrete. I went. So did two other people.

It was a shitty memorial. Pictures printed off Facebook haphazardly thrown around, a couple already melted candles and a beat up radio playing music I have never even heard.

It was tragic. No one even cried. The teachers didn’t like her because she never attended class. The kids she called her friends were pissed at her because now the rules were stricter than

any had seen before. Her boyfriend had already been cheating on her.

We all saw the endless bracelets. The long-sleeved sweaters on the rare warm days.

She didn’t eat much. Never, really. She was still beautiful.

I met Lila my freshman year, when she was a sophomore and my older brother, Chris, was still a senior.

I stared, awestruck, at the girl in front of me. She was sunshine and rain all at once. She was thin – a little too thin – but radiated youth and light.

The Chucks that were on her feet were heavily drawn on, bright slashes of pen on the once pure white. She wore a white long-sleeved shirt and a sundress over it.

My brother pulled me out of my daze, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “Bad idea.”

His voice was like a bucket of cold water over my skin.

“Why?” His eyes softened a bit, but not enough to be comforting.

“You would be good for a girl like that. But she wouldn’t be good for you.”

Chris then shook his head and ambled away from me.

I looked back at the roaring groups of kids and, after standing still in the middle of the masses, I started to move again.

I was going to be late for Physics.

Maybe one of these days it would dawn on me why she did it. But I was just a teenager. I wasn’t going to waste my time chasing ghosts. She did this to herself. She didn’t ask for help.

I made my way to classroom 103, and sat in the seat farthest to the right, all the way in the back. My tolerance for people had been crippled since the event.

Maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. I can count on one hand the amount of times I had actually spoken to Lila Lancaster.

That may make me crazy, but I swear, I loved her.

My Physics teacher was a mess of a woman. Matted grey hair and cheap red lipstick smudged onto her frontal incisors.

“Brian, do you have anything to say?”

“No.”

ABECEDARIAN ON EMBARASSMENT

-Emma Grant After a few seconds, I entered the door. Before I knew what was happening, all eyes were on me. Crowds have never really been my thing, you know, and I could already feel the sweat

dampening my clothes. Don’t look like an idiot, I reminded myself as I tried to confidently walk to the podium. Every eye in the room followed me like one of those super creepy paintings and I had to remind myself to breathe.

Finally, I reached the stage, where at least I could clutch the podium in front of me to remain steady. Getting ready to speak, I cleared my throat, patted at my tie, and stared at the wall directly in front of me. Hardly hearing my own voice through the rush of blood pounding in my ears, I began the speech. In my mind, I was doing awesome and everyone was in awe at my magnificent prose. Judging by the faces in the crowd, however, this was not the case. Knowing I had only a paragraph left, I rushed through my words. Lifting my hand, I waved goodbye.

My hand shook as I held it up and I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead.

Now was the moment of truth- just walk out and it’s over with.

Of course, it’s never really that easy. People have since told me that, in that moment, I looked like a deer in headlights. Quite possibly, they say, my eyes widened so much that I could see in all directions. Right as I stepped down from the small stage, you see, I tripped over a rogue electrical wire.

Some moments are burned into our brains forever and this is one that continues to haunt me. Time has dulled the pain, but the humiliation still stings.

Under my skin, it is always there. “Very funny,” I laugh it off when “Remember that one time..?” enters the conversation. Wishing they’d just forgive and forget, I pretend it doesn’t bother me. X-ray my body, though, and you’d probably find that moment right there inside, still mocking me after all this time.

Yes, I tripped that one time. Zip your lips and shut up about it!

AFRAID OF THE DARK The lingering aftertaste of bitter dreams danced tauntingly on the covers as my eyes opened to dark sheets. Despite the urge to get up, the illusion of the hour had already infected me, and a healthy distrust of reality kept me still and subdued underneath the covers. The spring air that blew up through my cotton cocoon felt strange against the skin of my toes and was warped with that magic that only the night can bring. I found myself, as I often did, at war with the idea of what might be waiting to stare back at me if I were to take down my guard. I always had an acute talent for fantasy. Back then every shadow seemed to fester, an amorphous forge from which anything could step forward out of the smoke. Every dark corner and space held unlimted, terrifying possibility for my mind to take advantage of. You might say that I was scared of things that didn’t exist, but the mind tends to wander when you are alone and the flick of a switch leaves you blind to the encroaching nocturnal world.

On a typical night, I’d spend hours alone, hiding from what creature might’ve crawled out of the deep, cavernous recesses of my brain. Once it’d been stained on the window of my consciousness, it could follow me anywhere and I’d carefully dart past it at every unlighted hallway. I’d lay, and try to distract myself, to trick my train of thought somehow, but of course, the images would always come bubbling back up to the surface, rising like the hairs on my neck and my arms. I’d do anything to stop it. Even breathing through the fibers, I remember the anticipation of feeling those bloodless, gnarled hands, on those nights where my sweat would wet my skin just like a doctor does be-

-Joe Steele

fore jabbing you with one of those dripping fangs and “drawing blood.” Sometimes my dread would be so great that I’d even shallow my own breaths so that my chest wouldn’t rise and fall so much. It wasn’t so much that I feared death, but that if “it” was there, that there would be nothing I could do. Nothing was worse than the monsters in my head.

As I lay hidden, confidence in my tactics was ever-waning and it became ever more apparent that fabric was not the best defense against the forces of evil, and after all, laying still in the dark wasn’t going to fool anything. In the pent up heat, air was running thin, and the cold outside air was tempting relief. Droplets off icy sweat clung to my burning body like the kind of condensation that I might’ve once drawn smiley faces in on a car window in December, except for I wasn’t going anywhere. With each pulse pounding moment, the foreboding choice of the horizon neared ever closer, a threat, a dare. Well what if I did? Well what would the difference be? I mean hey, all I’d be leaving behind would be a false sense of security from something that doesn’t exist. In a moment, I chose. Ripping my sheets from over my head as quickly as I could, my anticipation of nothing had betrayed me.

I came face to face with what had been lurking in the dark. It came in a dark-hooded cloak that billowed in the wind and was only matched in contrast by the near-blinding, surreal light that came from something in its hand. Something about the light was paralyzing. When I screamed for help, no matter how hard I forced out my jugular-draining cries, out came nothing

every muscle in my body were about to give out. It took all my strength to try and pinch myself, but no matter how hard I dug or how badly I tried, I couldn’t feel a thing. Desperate for someone, anyone to save me, I started to bang on the walls, but it was like I could only barely make an impact, or if I did, no one noticed it. My arms collapsed and it became clear as I stared right into its empty gaze, that it wasn’t a matter of time that it would leave me, it was whether I was willing to go down there.

And so, I made the climb, stepping slowly down my bunk bed stairs.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Bunk bed? You weren’t the only kid who thought he was tripping balls? Well you see, I got the bunk bed from my two sisters after they’d outgrown it. I thought it was cool, cause you could feel all high up, and you could make forts and stuff, but also because secretly… I liked

pretending someone was down there; a brother, a friend, someone. I know it’s strange but I’d even sometimes tell him or her about the kids at school and how I didn’t know where to sit at lunch, and they all thought I was weird, and how they were probably right, you know, now that I was actually talking to an imaginary friend of sorts. I had only just at this point; the age of 7, managed to sleep without someone else being in the room. I always had to know someone was there, watching over. Otherwise, at some point in the night, you could be sure to find me tiptoeing furtively across the upstairs hallway, doing it in that silent way that I still know how, to keep the floor from creaking with each step. Then I’d pick the lock into someone else’s room, drag in my pillow and some blankets, and sleep right there on the ground. Once I even opted to sleep in my sister’s closet since everyone else shut me out that night. Needless to say, that didn’t end well when she saw two tiny blue eyes peeking out the next morning.

There was a point when we tried putting a TV in my room. I loved the movies that I watched those nights, and my love of the classic stories and characters helped spark my passion for the arts. However, they couldn’t always distract me enough and drop by drop that ooze would seep into the black background. No matter wow long I spent lying there trying to trick myself, in a way it just made me feel even more... remote (HAHAHAHA PUN). I practically collapsed on each leg as I continued one step at a time until the next step was the bottom. Then, for a whole other minute, I looked, and it confused me. Why am I still alive? It had just been watching me this whole time, and with it standing between me and my escape route, there wasn’t

much stopping it. It could kill me right now or it could have killed me when I was snug tight in my bed. Is it here just to scare the shit out of me? I took my exit. Without thinking, and resisting every notion to go back up, I ran away from that place, and somehow, I passed through my silhouetted visitor. It let me leave. I slammed the door shut behind me, and taking one last look back to my room, the dark figure stayed motionless, soundless. Then I ran downstairs, and woke up my father off the couch, and he came with me back up the stairs, and he opened the door, and of course it was gone by then. I assumed as much.

I slept downstairs that night and it took a good week to get me back in my room, and I’d always stare into that space near my door and my closet before I went to sleep. “See? Nothing here. Whatever it is it’s gone. Must’ve saw how big and strong you are and figured it wasn’t worth the risk.” my dad said as he searched through my room that night as he would countless nights after. “Now come on kiddo, get to sleep, it’s way past your bedtime”. As he left I remember tugging at his pant-leg in a panic. “No, please, can’t you please just stay here until I fall asleep?” and he’d turn and say “You’re getting a little old for that you know… alright, fine I’ll stay, but you know I’m gonna have to turn out the light when I go.”. I turned it back on when he left and ended up sleeping on the couch. Man, I remember feeling so ready to grow up, cause I mean, when you’re all grown up, you aren’t scared of monsters anymore. Just recently, I’ve started sleeping with the lights off, but I still lay awake in bed at night, not because I’m afraid monsters might exist, but because I know they do, and they’re worse, and while we keep on getting older, some things never quite change.

You just outgrow your bedsheets.

Photo credits to: Rae Noelle, Gin Wang, Zuqing Zu, Rowan Cech, Isadora Herold, Emma Grant, Annika Kushner, Kelly Bohall, Leah Breiss, Ana Anaya, and Eleanor Henderson Special thanks to: Nick Kowalczyk, Garen Whitmore, Isadora Herold, and Kelson Goldfine