Canyon Voices Issue 26

CANYON VOICES

PUBLISHER

Julie Amparano García

Editors-in-Chief

Katharine Colledge, Kristina Rasmussen, Sabrina Wall

From the Publisher

If not for two mighty students and one former student, this Fall 2022 issue of Canyon Voices would never have come to fruition. The Canyon Voices class that produced the magazine had been cancelled. But Sabrina Walls, Kathryn Colledge and Kristina Rasmussen wouldn’t have it. All three had been former editors and knew the importance of a literary and art magazine. Each piece of fiction, every poem and script and nonfiction story chronicles the times we live in. In this issue, you’ll find writers trying to make sense of the pandemic, another who tries to show us the power of the human spirit even as a wildfire destroys all people have ever known. The poets question what makes a home, what makes a father, what makes us. Then there is the artwork, which takes us on equally important journeys. Altogether, this issue stands at 173 pages, which were all curated, edited, designed and produced by three students.

Sabrina Walls your eye for design is impeccable. Just look at our front page and the genre covers. They are vibrant and unique. To Kathryn Colledge, you tackled our poetry section, which each semester receives nearly 300 poems, and curated a section with amazing diversity. To my former student, Kristina, you are our bedrock. With your talent for organization, you created schedules and systems to keep the magazine’s production on track. In addition to all this, these three students reviewed submissions submitted each week, copy edited and proofed the magazine. They reached out to artist and authors and produced an uplifting release party.

My gratitude has no words. I stand in awe.

Cover image: Dancing With the Holly King by Janice Blaine

Bubblicious by Tina Ross

The Germophobe

By Christina Hoag

ou’re a regular clean machine, aren’t you?”

Nigel stopped rubbing the desk with the disinfectant wipe and looked at the stranger standing in the doorway of his office. Must be new. Tall, well built, healthy head of nondescript brown hair. Brimming with confidence in his alleged cleverness.

He took an instant dislike to the newcomer but out of ingrained habit from the endless social skills lessons forced on him by his parents, he squeezed out a smile like the last bit of toothpaste.

“Did you need something?” he said, continuing his hourlong morning disinfection ritual with the phone handpiece.

“The copy machine jammed. I was told that you were the go-to guy for all things machinerelated. Nigel, right?”

“Correct,” Nigel said.

“Dwight Djokovic, people call me Jock. Started two weeks ago.” He extended his hand. Nigel gave it the minimal shake required one downward motion, then slid out his palm. He vaguely remembered a memo from HR about a new hire. He never paid much attention to emails. Nigel swiped his right hand with the disinfectant wipe, which he stuffed in his slacks pocket.

careful, huh?”

“We certainly cannot. Shall we see about that jam?”

“How long you been working at InsiteX, Nige?” Jock said as they walked down the corridor.

“Nigel. Twenty-three years and almost four months.”

Jock whistled. “You must know where all the bodies are buried.”

“We haven’t had any deaths here,” Nigel said.

Jock yelped a laugh. “Great delivery, dude!”

Nigel knew he’d said something “wrong” because he didn’t quite understand the rejoinder, but he’d learned to ignore these things.

They entered a vast room of cubicles filled with the purposeful buzz of employees talking into headsets and clacking on keyboards as they surveyed consumers about important aspects of daily life, such as how many bubbles they preferred in their soap lather.

Jock gave a side-mouthed smile. “Can’t be too

As they skirted the perimeter to the copy machine room, Candy twisted in her chair and twinkled her fingers at Jock. Hardly a surprise. She’d been between husbands for a full year now, an unusually long time. As Nigel passed, she dropped her smile like a hot frying pan and turned back to her computer. He felt a dart of irritation lodge in his back. There was no need

to bear a grudge just because their drinks night three months ago had not gone entirely well. As Jock waited outside, Nigel entered the small room overstuffed with the bulky machine that printed, copied, scanned, emailed, faxed, collated, bound, stapled, and calculated the expense of each employee’s printing habit and sent them invoices for excessive copies.

It took him two seconds to locate the paper jam. He turned to advise Jock to be more careful and saw that Candy had joined him near the doorway.

“You weren’t joking about this guy,” Jock was saying.

“I shook his hand, and he took it like it was a dead fish.”

Nigel bent back to the machine as a wave of heat flushed him from top to toe. He tried to focus on freeing the imprisoned paper, but their conversation drew him like a magnet. He found himself shuffling closer to the doorway.

“He wears the exact same outfit every day,” Candy said.

“I hope he washes it,” Jock said.

“I wouldn’t get too close to find out,” Candy said.

Jock chuckled.

Nigel looked down at his white Oxford shirt and dark blue slacks. Of course, he washed them. He owned five sets of work clothes. Wearing the same thing every day was practical. He could stay in bed for a full seven extra minutes every morning because he didn’t have to dither over

an outfit, not to mention the shopping time he saved.

“You know what we should do?” A mischievous tone crept into Jock’s voice.

“What?” Candy said.

Jock’s answer was lost in the sudden boom of “Nigel Birdsall!” The girth of Tanya Crossman appeared in the copy room. She cradled a sheaf of bulging manila folders against her shelf-like bosom. “Come into my office when you’re finished. Make it snappy. I have a meeting to get to.”

Tanya was the assistant deputy executive senior vice president, of what, Nigel wasn’t quite sure, but she kept a very orderly desk, which was more than you could say of most people, so he felt an affinity for her that bordered on like, which was also more than you could say of most people.

“Be right there,” he said.

She tottered off on her six-inch stilettos, which due to the weighty protrusions of her bust and watermelon-size midriff, made her pitch forward as she walked. Nigel always wondered how she didn’t fall flat on her face. He’d once suggested that he could research a diet and exercise program for her, but to his surprise she hadn’t accepted his offer.

He received a less than stellar performance review that year.

Nigel extracted the offending ink-smudged paper, smearing his fingertips. He whipped out the wipe from his pocket and gave them a vigorous scrub.

“Whoa, buddy. You’re going to take off your

fingerprints!” Jock said. Candy giggled. “Or maybe that’s the idea,” Jock barreled on, encouraged by his audience like a class clown. “You have a side hustle we don’t know about, a little bank robbing maybe?”

Candy upgraded her giggle into a chortle. “Jock, you’re too much!”

“That’s what all the gals say about me, Candy. Get used to it!”

They guffawed. Ah, the matins of mirth and merriment in the Chapel of Xerox, Nigel thought. He pressed “Resume Job,” and the machine clunked to life with its rhythmic spew of pages. He hurried on to Tanya’s office.

Her door was open, but she was absorbed by her computer screen. He cleared his throat instead of knocking.

No need to touch surfaces when not strictly necessary. He had just read in the Journal of Public Health & Hygiene that community transmission of COVID-19 had appeared.

“Shut the door and take a seat,” Tanya said.

He sat in the chair in front of her desk, spine like a steel rebar, and clasped his hands in his lap, wondering what this was about. He still had eighty-seven days until his annual review.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the coronavirus is turning into a bad situation.”

“It’s actually a novel coronavirus. The common cold is a coronavirus.”

been promoted to chief sanitation officer in charge of all anti-contagion measures company wide, effective immediately. I think you’ll agree you’re uniquely suited for the job.”

Nigel was stunned. He’d never been asked to do anything that didn’t involve fixing machines. He slumped against the chair back, then remembered that upholstery held a frightening amount of bacteria and erected himself. “But…who will do my regular duties?”

“You will. There’s no raise, so don’t bother asking. You need to get going on it ASAP. Feel free to purchase supplies, but don’t overdo it.”

He bobbed his head, feeling the heavy mantle of responsibility settle on his shoulders.

“I’ll send out the memo now. We’re counting on you.” Tanya’s fingers were already tapping the keyboard.

Tanya pursed her lips and carried on. “I just came from a meeting on the top floor. You’ve

Nigel walked back to his office in a trancelike state. To think how far he’d come from his inauspicious start as a part-time market research associate in his last year of high school. He’d taken the job at the urging of his guidance counselor, Mr. Mendoza, who thought it would help him develop his people skills, but Nigel thought market research was a colossal waste of time. Instead of asking people inane questions about trivial habits, researchers should educate them. In his first survey, which was for the state lottery commission, he informed Powerball players that they had a one in 13,983,816 chance of hitting the jackpot, and the cash they spent on scratch-offs would be better invested in cleaning products. He was given a second chance after Mr. Mendoza intervened with the manager, who then assigned him to a poll about anti-wrinkle moisturizer: How likely did users

believe that RidRinkl worked? Extremely likely, very likely, somewhat likely, more or less likely, just a bit likely, just a bit less than just a bit likely or no fucking way likely. The last option was the only correct one, he lectured consumers. “You’re better off saving your money and staying out of the sun. Do things like dust baseboards.”

The manager was about to fire Nigel when he found him repairing the phone switchboard. Upon further investigation, he discovered that Nigel could mend everything from the thirtydollar Mr. Coffee to the twelve-thousand-dollar Xerox. He was hired full-time after graduation and given a cleaning cupboard as his office. And now, Nigel had climbed the corporate ladder to chief sanitation officer. If only Mr. Mendoza could see his meteoric ascent!

Nigel barely registered Candy and Jock, who were still engaged in their tête-à-tête as he walked by.

“Nigel,” Jock called.

He halted. Jock threw an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “Thanks for fixing the copier, buddy.”

“You’re welcome.” Nigel wormed out of Jock’s embrace. “By the way, you’re standing too close together. Social distancing recommendations state you must remain six feet apart.”

Jock craned his neck and mockingly searched the air. “I hear a gnat buzzing.” Candy spluttered with laughter.

Tanya Crossman teetered up behind them. “No, you hear our chief sanitation officer. If you were at your desks as you should have been, you’d have received the memo. Nigel, carry on. I have a meeting.”

“Will do.” Nigel drew himself up and strode back to his office.

He rubbed his hands as he sat at his desk to issue his first edict. “Since COVID-19 is a zoonotic virus, Bring Your Pet to Work Day is heretofore cancelled.” He pressed send with a gleeful flourish. Thank God. He’d long wanted to eliminate that potential source of pestilence.

He then went down to the basement and lugged up boxes of hand sanitizer and disinfectant spray, distributing them to each workstation.

“Thanks,” said Wendy Nguyen, who sat next to Candy. “I have a question about your memo. Does it apply to goldfish? They live in the water, so they must be clean, right?”

“Send me a memo,” Nigel said. As he walked away, he felt a pleasant sense of satisfaction at his official-sounding response. He was born to lead.

He sent out another memo saying all employees must wear face masks and sanitize workstations in the morning and afternoon. He then toured each floor to diagram one-way traffic flow patterns.

Before he left for the day, he googled whether goldfish could harbor communicable disease and found that it was rare but possible. “Goldfish are indeed a source of infection. You cannot bring your fish to work,” he replied to Wendy’s memo.

He walked the six blocks home with a buoyant step. It had been the best day in his life, he reflected, really a remarkable reversal from the years he spent in every kind of therapy his parents could find cognitive behavioral, dialectal behavioral, psychodynamic,

interpersonal, gestalt, primal scream. It turned out he was perfectly fine as he was. It just took a pandemic to reveal his aptitude for management.

He arrived at his one-bedroom cottage, painted a sterile white inside and out, washed his hands and opened the fridge. All the foods were labelled with Post-It notes stating their expiration date and/or date of purchase. He prepared his “tasty triumvirate” (protein, carbohydrate, and fiber) meal of chicken, potato and cauliflower with prunes for dessert. As he wiped the plate and cutlery before use dust could accumulate in drawers, he wondered if he should order a jacket with his new title embroidered on the breast. He would pay for it himself since Tanya had warned him “not to overdo” expenses.

He chewed each mouthful the requisite thirtythree times, ordered the jacket online, then reclined in his armchair and clicked on his favorite movie Space Wars XXIII. He’d watched all thirty-one Space Wars movies sixty-eight times. He loved the depiction of Spartan life aboard spaceships, the ascetic whiteness, the lack of human clutter, not to mention the fact that spaceships never got dirty.

The characters were just like him always wearing the same outfits and imbued with a sense of serious mission. Nigel often rued that he’d been born too soon. He belonged in the future of space colonies. Not anymore though. He nestled his bottom into the cushy seat. When he changed into his pajamas at precisely 9:43 p.m., he noticed a long streak of black marker on the back of his shirt, extending from the shoulder blade to the waist. He reviewed the day and couldn’t think where he might’ve run into a marker. He tossed the shirt into the

garbage. Not to worry, he had a stack of replacements for such casualties. The next day, Nigel arrived early to work, masked and gloved, and stationed himself at the employee entrance with sanitizer. A line formed as he checked that each person’s mask was positioned correctly and ensured sanitizer was rubbed between fingers and under nails. Jock stepped up sans mask. Nigel plucked a paper one from a box beside him. “A facial covering must be worn on the premises starting today.”

“Nope. This is a free country. I have rights,” Jock stated.

“The company has the duty to protect employees during a public health emergency.”

“Move aside, buddy, I have work to do.”

“I am the chief sanitation officer.”

“Chief pain-in-the-ass officer, more like it.”

Tanya pushed her way to the head of the queue. “What’s going on? I have a meeting to get to.”

“This employee is refusing to wear a facial covering,” Nigel said.

“Everyone covers their face,” Tanya said and lurched to the lift

Nigel dangled the mask. Glowering at him, Jock swiped it and looped it around his ears.

“Snitch,” he muttered.

Once the morning rush had passed, Nigel returned to his office and printed up fifty-four social distancing signs and grabbed a roll of red duct tape to make arrows on the floor in accordance with his traffic diagrams. Shoes! he

thought suddenly. They were veritable petri dishes of germs. He found two plastic supermarket bags to encase his feet, fastening them with a rubber band around his ankle.

After pinning up the notices all around the building, he shuffled to the break room, a popular congregating spot. That had to end. He removed all the chairs and stored them in the basement. His eyes landed on the coffee pot. Everyone handled that. He stowed it in a cupboard and went to the nearby office supply store and bought a single-cup coffee maker. That afternoon, he wrote a lengthy memo detailing all the changes, then remembered Jock. Transgressors needed consequences. He had a brainwave and typed:

“Violators of sanitation rules will have their names placed on a blacklist, which will be posted on the employee refrigerator.”

He rocked back in his chair, feeling pleased. He looked at his bag-encased feet. Everyone should wear shoe coverings. He wrote an addendum to his memo.

At 7:30 the following morning Nigel took up sentry duty to ensure that everyone’s feet bore a covering. He’d brought bags and rubber bands, just in case.

Tanya was one of the first in. She appeared considerably shorter than usual.

Everyone complied with the shoe-covering requirement, except Jock and Candy. They arrived together, without face or foot covering. Nigel held out masks and bags.

“No.” Jock jutted his chin.

“No.” Candy tossed her newly platinum curls. They sailed past him.

“Nice shirt, Nige,” Jock said.

Trying to butter him up with a compliment wasn’t going to work, Nigel thought. He jotted their names and offenses on the blacklist, then stuck the paper to the fridge with a magnet. A little public pillorying would show them. After most employees had arrived, he decided to carry out a compliance check. Armed with his clipboard, he made the rounds from floor to floor, hovering over shoulders, peering into cubicles, spraying disinfectant on door handles and lift buttons.

“I’m very happy about this new rule, Nigel. It’s given me permission to wear flats. My feet are overjoyed!” She squealed with delight.

Nigel puffed with pride. “I thought since….”

Tanya cut him off. “I’ve got a meeting.”

Looking into the car park from a top floor window, he realized he’d forgotten about the gazebo. People used to sit in it for lunch, but it had been taken over by smokers. A cluster of people huddled there amid cancerous fumes. He power-walked to his office, banged out a memo “Smoking Area Closed Forthwith,” then fetched nylon cord from the basement and proceeded outside. He was aghast to find Candy puffing on a cigarette, accompanied by Jock, who was not smoking.

“You’re smoking,” Nigel said. Thank God, he’d dodged her kiss on that date.

“You’re a real Einstein, Nige,” Jock said. Before Nigel had a chance to reply that his IQ was actually twenty-two points lower than

Einstein’s, Candy exhaled a stream of smoke that caught his throat. “This area is now closed,” he said, coughing.

Nigel worked his way across the room, collecting Sharpies. Finally, he came to Jock and Candy.

The smokers stubbed out their cigarettes without protest. After they left, Nigel wound the rope around the gazebo to close off the entrances and as he tied the knot, he spotted Jock halfway across the car park, sucking cheek-hollowing breaths from an inhaler. He had asthma and he was in the smoking area? Did he not know it was doubly dangerous for him to inhale lung irritants?

The following morning, Nigel received an email notification that the printer’s ink levels were low, so he decided to forego the a.m. check. On his way to the Xerox, he glanced into the break room and halted. Jock and Candy’s names on the blacklist had been obliterated. By black marker. Did they think he was an idiot? That he wouldn’t know who was responsible? Nigel felt a bilious burst of anger. He took out a pen and rewrote their names. Forgetting about the printer, he scurried to his office to write a memo: “Due to defilement of company property, black markers are heretofore prohibited.”

He seized a Kleenex box from his desk, pulled out the tissues then went straight to Jock’s workstation where he was shocked to see Wendy Nguyen sitting. “Why are you sitting here?” he said.

“Jock wanted to swap desks. Does the Sharpie ban include highlighters?” Wendy asked. “Send me a memo,” he said. “Deposit markers in here please.” So, Jock now sat next to Candy.

“Sorry, I don’t have any,” Wendy said.

“Marker.” He deepened his voice and rattled the box at Jock’s back.

Jock turned and gave him a sly smile. He took a Sharpie off his desk and dropped it into the tissue box slot. Jock was finally respecting his authority, Nigel thought with relief.

“Tell me, Nige, have you ever kissed a girl?” Jock asked.

He heard a snort behind him and peeked. Candy was convulsing with laughter. She must’ve told him. His knees trembled and he latched onto the cubicle wall for support.

Nigel pivoted, returned to his office, and typed a new memo. “Workstation changes are suspended to ensure that virus droplets that may be embedded in a cubicle are not passed to another person.”

He sent it then went to the breakroom and added Jock’s name and new offense to the blacklist. By the time he returned to his office, an email from Wendy Nguyen had arrived. “Do you think I’m already infected with Jock’s germs?”

“Please return to your previous workstation,” he answered.

Ten minutes later: “Jock won’t move back.”

“Never mind.”

The following day at lunchtime, Nigel

discovered Jock and Candy eating sandwiches at the table in the breakroom. They were sitting on their desk chairs.

“You know something, Nige,” Jock said through a mouthful. “I was wrong about you. You’re a memo machine, not a cleaning machine.”

Candy dutifully chuckled.

Nigel wrote a memo banning the wheeling of desk chairs anywhere in the building.

That afternoon, he was finally refilling the ink in the printer when Tanya’s voice bellowed from the doorway. “Nigel Birdsall, in my office.”

“I’ll be done …”

“Now. I have a meeting in five minutes.” He traipsed behind her to her office where she closed the door. “I’ve had a disturbing complaint concerning your conduct. Candy says you’re using your authority to retaliate against her because she rejected your advances. She said you insisted on going out with her three months ago, so she agreed to quote shut him up once and for all end quote. When she rejected your physical advances, you pushed her off her chair. She said she felt ashamed and humiliated, so she didn’t report the incident, but she feels you’re targeting her now.”

“We did go on a date and I did push her off her chair, but …”

“I’ll have to take this to HR to investigate and meanwhile, you’ll be relieved of your position, effective immediately.”

“I’m taking over as CSO. I’ll send the memo now.” Tanya turned to her computer.

When he opened the door, Candy and Jock scooted into their cubicles on their chairs. He slunk by them with sunken shoulders and plonked down at his desk.

How could Candy have told such lies? The truth was that when Candy’s maiden name had appeared for the fifth time on her cubicle, she started coming to his office to chitchat when the most she’d ever talked about with him was paper jams.

“I bet you’re financially savvy, Nigel. What type of retirement account do you have? You don’t have to pay child support or alimony, right? Do you have any health conditions? Do you own your home?”

No one had ever shown such interest in him before. He felt flattered. That Friday, she mentioned that she and a girlfriend had planned to have a drink that evening, but her friend had backed out. “I have no one to go with,” she said, pouting.

“That’s too bad,” Nigel said.

An uncomfortable second passed in which Nigel wondered if he’d said the wrong thing although he’d expressed sympathy, which seemed to be the appropriate response, then she blurted, “Why don’t you go with me?”

“Ah …” He’d planned on composting.

“Awesome. I’ll meet you at the Barking Cat at seven.”

“But …”

He didn’t like to disappoint, so he’d gone. After three Moscow mules downed in quick succession, Candy was leaning on an arm at a very acute angle on Nigel’s side of the table. Then she’d sprung forward and stuck her tongue into his mouth. He recoiled.

“Whaaa?” Candy had lost her capacity to utter final consonants.

“A mouth-to-mouth kiss transfers eighty million bacteria,” Nigel said. “There was a study in the Journal of Public Health & Hygiene.”

Her face scrunched. “So, you doan like me because a some study?”

“It’s nothing personal. It was a study of five hundred couples with a three-point margin of error.”

“You’re really weir’, you know thaa? It’s kinda cute.” Candy darted for his lips again.

Disgusted, he pushed her away, and her chair toppled back onto the floor, leaving her legs sticking up and hiking up her skirt. Mumbling a stream of sorries, Nigel rushed to her aid. He couldn’t help but notice her rather strange underpants. They had no gusset, which seemed to render the wearing of undies somewhat useless, in his opinion. He had no time to mull this paradox as a crowd with a forest of cellphones gathered.

“You fucking asshole!” Candy seethed as she struggled to her feet. Gathering her purse, she reeled toward the ladies’ room.

Monday and placed a bouquet of lilies on Candy’s desk. She showed up at his office half an hour later and hurled the flowers in his face with the force of a major league baseball pitcher.

“For your information, videos from Friday night have been shared 1.2 million times. I am now a fucking laughingstock meme. Don’t you ever breathe a word about it to anyone!”

He hadn’t, but now it seemed Candy had, and she’d mixed lies in with the truth. He stayed in his office for the rest of the day, watching the clock. As soon as it ticked onto five, he bolted. When he arrived home, a box containing his embroidered jacket was waiting on the doormat. He tossed it down the basement steps.

The next day, Tanya was wearing her skyscraper heels, the chairs and Mr. Coffee had been reinstalled in the break room, the blacklist was a crumpled fist of paper in the trash, and the gazebo was engulfed in a cloud of smoke. The only remnants of his short reign were hand sanitizer and signs. He should never have accepted the promotion. He was only good for fixing machines.

The following week, he entered the break room to refill his water bottle and found Tanya tapping out ibuprofen from a bottle into her palm.

“Half the office has called in sick,” she said. “COVID. And I have a bad headache.”

After spending the weekend in considerable distress and based on an Internet article he’d found, “10 Surefire Ways to Smooth Over a Misunderstanding,” he arrived at work early

“That’s a COVID symptom. You should go home.”

“Good idea. I’ll leave after my meeting.”

He wanted to tell her that his other good ideas would’ve prevented this outbreak but what was the point?

Health & Hygiene but found it pompous. He sat on a bench in his back garden and stared at rabbits nibbling the lettuce.

Trudging back to his office, he heard a scream. He wheeled and saw Candy kneeling over Jock on the floor. “Ohmygod, ohmygod,” she said, hands over her mouth.

Nigel dropped his bottle and rushed over. Jock was wheezing heavily, his eyes wild with fright.

“He’s having an asthma attack,” Candy said. “He forgot his inhaler.”

“Call 911,” Nigel said. Jock’s lips were turning a ghostly blue. Nigel knew he couldn’t wait for the ambulance. Nigel dropped to his knees and pinched off Jock’s nose with one hand. He took a deep breath, sealed his mouth around Jock’s and blew as hard as he could. He rose for air, then blew again. He kept it up like a robot until he felt a tug on his shoulder.

“We’ll take over now. We have oxygen.” The woman’s voice sounded like it was in a tunnel.

He looked up bewildered. A paramedic was on the other side of Jock planting a plastic mask on his face. Nigel hauled himself up using the arm of a chair as the other paramedic moved into his place and took Jock’s vital signs. Feeling dizzy, Nigel returned to his office, where he shut the door and pressed his forehead against it. A huge gulping sob rose out of him, and he wept. For Jock, for Candy, for his failure in this wretched existence called life. Nothing he did was right.

He couldn’t go to work the next day. He slummed around the house in his bathrobe. He tried to watch Space Wars, but it suddenly seemed silly. He picked up the Journal of Public

The doorbell jolted him. He put on his mask and opened the door. Jock. Masked and standing back six feet.

“I know I’m the last person you want to see but I had to thank you for saving my life. The doctors told me that if you hadn’t acted, I’d be dead, and I was a total asshole to you. Wendy told me the truth about what happened with you and Candy this morning. It was quite a bit different than what Candy told me. She said you were obsessed with her, so I wanted to be her hero to impress her. She used me to get back at you, and I was dumb enough to fall for it. You’re a really good person, Nigel, weird but good.”

Nigel was dumbstruck.

“And if you don’t already hate me enough, I tested positive for COVID in the hospital. I figured you should know. Well, that’s all I came to say. Oh, I owe you this too.” He held out a bag. “Maybe we can get a beer sometime.” He turned and walked down the path.

Nigel opened the bag. It contained a white Oxford shirt.

“Wait. Jock. You want to come in and have a beer? Actually, I don’t have beer, but I have milk?”

“What about quarantine?”

Nigel shrugged. “If you have COVID, I have it.”

They entered the house. Nigel poured two

glasses of milk and they sat on the bench in the backyard.

“I admit I got carried away being CSO,” Nigel said. “I was never in charge of anything before.”

“You were doing your job. Where’d you learn mouth-to-mouth?”

“Journal of Public Health & Hygiene.”

Jock studied him. “You’d never done it before?

Nigel shook his head.

“That’s fucking amazing, dude.”

Nigel felt a chip of warmth in his belly. They sipped the milk.

“By the way, I saw that video of Candy. It was a riot,” Jock said.

Nigel looked at him. “It was funny?”

“Hell, yeah. Hilarious. I mean, crotchless panties on a date? She was looking to reel you in, dude.”

“She was looking to reel you in, too. Dude.”

Jock draped his arm around Nigel’s shoulders and held up his milk for a toast.

“To surviving Candy and COVID.”

Nigel clinked his glass. “Hell yes!”

“You need some work but you’re getting there, dude.”

Nigel smiled.

For more information on author Christina Hoag, please visit our Contributors Page.

Dawn Burning

By Nicole Collingwood

Each morning I woke to the growl of fighting dogs. A stray pack of them wandered between the rows of firs. I don’t know why they lingered, but when I stood at my window, looking to the glowing horizon, they were at the base of the trees; two at each other’s throats, and the rest looking on.

My daughter, Susanna, pressed their muzzles into her throat. I had caught her before. She knelt down to their level, stretched her fingers across the fur of their jowls, and pulled them close into her neck. I told her not to trust them, that their instincts were stronger than their own will, but she only pressed them closer.

I always thought we were too similar. Sometimes it feels unfair to think it. Our likeness repelled us from one another, but I wanted to know her. I wished that she would change, that she would weaken into something more like her mother so that I could find an easier way in. But every day she pressed harder and harder against me.

The day the fires started was the day I wished I had never known her. It was only for a moment, just one moment. I was tilling the soil when a breeze came through, thick with savory smoke of burning pines. Thin tendrils of grey rose up over the hills to the north. As I brought the tractor to a halt, I took note of the wind, blowing south toward the house, straight over the top of our crop.

Over dinner I explained to my wife that our trees were in danger.

“We can cut the ones closest to the forest line, make a gap if we even have the time, hope that the wind’s not too strong, but we could lose half the crop for the next four years worth of trees.”

Lorie put her hand on mine, meaning to be reassuring but it annoyed me as I thought of the seriousness of the situation, and I said “We won’t survive without those trees.”

Susanna sat on the end opposite of me, Lorie acting as a barrier between us. She stared at me, fiddling with the food on her plate, never looking down to see how she was moving the vegetables and diced meat, keeping her eyes on me.

“What is it Susanna?” I asked.

Lorie was looking at her too now, only Lorie could not see Susanna’s hidden smirk, something that only I could see because only I was similar enough to her to be able to. She leaned forward and stabbed her cut steak, brought it to her mouth, “Nothing.”

“Do you think this is a joke?” I asked, noticing I had a grip on the table ledge with my free hand.

“Of course not,” she said, “I’m just as scared as you are.”

But she did not look scared. She looked amused, pleased to see my fear. After Lorie cleared the table, and we sat watching television, Susanna went to the kitchen. I saw her through the doorway, in the reflection of the back window, moving back and forth from one end to the other, opening the fridge and shutting it, touching the plates in the sink, being careful not to make too much noise. There were several times when I thought she was looking back at me, through her own reflection, but when I turned to look straight at her she would be at work with something, too far for me to see, in an artificial way which meant she had been looking. And then she was gone.

Later, when I looked into Susanna’s room she was not there. I went to the backyard, and stood in the grass, looking out at the crop of trees that had been planted just beyond the yard. The smell of smoke was deepening and the lurid glow of fire lit up the horizon. Down through the trees, I saw her, sitting with the dogs around her like she was one of them. She lifted her hand, a piece of raw steak between her fingers, the dogs watched, and when she tossed it away, they went at it, growling and snapping.

“Susanna?” I asked once the dogs were smacking their chops, returning to her. They all looked at me.

“Where will they go when the fires come?” she called to me.

“Do not give those dogs any more of our food.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

She laughed, “Not a good enough reason.”

“I said don’t, Susanna,” I snapped as she tried to walk by me. I grabbed her arm, harder than I intended, but that couldn’t have been my fault. I pulled her back so she might see me and understand I was serious.

She smiled a little when she was stable again. Our similarities made it impossible for it to be easy. She shook her head at me, as if she knew every move I would ever make, as if I were pathetic, as if we were actually opposites. For a moment I feared that it might be true, that the one thing I thought allowed me to know her was a lie I told myself, that we weren’t the same after all, and she was even further away than I had originally thought. But that couldn’t be true, I hated her too much for it to be so.

My jaw tightened, “Where will we go?” She stood up, and the dogs moved away, looking frightened for a moment. I thought I saw her shrug, and asked, “Don’t you care at all?”

“About what?” She walked closer, looking at me.

The fires came closer. The farmhands and I spent all our time clearing giant stretches of land between the forests and the crops. Sometimes Susanna came to help, asking about which areas she could cut, and I would tell her, but always with uncertainty. Something told me to keep these responsibilities from her, that she might ruin something. I imagined her sitting at the base of the trees that were meant to be felled, picking at her nails until enough time had passed and she could return without raising any suspicion that the fields were still in danger. I imagined her smiling as she told me she was finished with her work, that we would be alright in the grand scheme of these fires, while

secretly wishing that the winds might carry the flames to the portions she was in charge of.

“Don’t you trust me?” she would ask when I showed my hesitation, and immediately I’d assign her an area to work on. I wanted to know her. I wanted to give her a chance despite what I knew of her, I wanted to know her better, know her as herself, not who she was to me. So I sent her off to cut the trees, out into the fields where the dogs roamed and nipped at each other.

“She’s not a bad worker, Ethan,” said Ralph, one of my field hands, as we watched her wander off into the smoke, chainsaw in hand. He leaned over on one thigh, holding a bandana up to his mouth.

“I know,” I responded, “I can never tell what she’s thinking.”

Ralph laughed, “Since when is that something any father can say about a daughter?”

I looked at him, thinking of my wife, knowing each thought that must have come through her head during the day, knowing each intention behind her movements, knowing the decisions she made before she could make them. Was it from love? Or was it from time? How much longer did I have to know Susanna before I could know her that way?

“I think Susanna is different than other kinds of daughters,” I told him, nearly afraid to.

He stood straight, tilting his head, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ralph shrugged, “I’m not sure that’s a unique experience, Ethan. She’s a teenager, it’s how it goes.”

As we continued working, sliding the saws through the trunks, I thought of Susanna as a child. She couldn’t have always made me feel this way, couldn’t have always been so far. Once we were close, I imagined. There was a time when I showed her everything she might need to know for when she could start to help with the trees, showed her how to cut them, how to mark which needed trimming before December came and it was time to start selling. We took trips up to the mountain peaks and I taught her to sled. Sometimes when I looked at the way she took Lorie’s hand first, or how she shifted whenever her mother left the two of us alone, I felt that twist in my gut that told me perhaps Susanna was just Lorie’s child. I guessed that every child had to have a favorite, and it made sense to me at the time that Susanna was a little girl and little girls loved their mothers. But it did not stop me from wondering what made Lorie more special than me.

I took a deep breath, “She’s just always out of reach. She doesn’t respect me.”

When Susanna grew older, she withdrew from us both, in a way that I’ve been told is typical of a teenage girl. She grew uncomfortable around each of us and I felt relieved that it was no longer only me. Susanna was a different kind of girl though, I could see it as she grew into herself. Each day she got closer to who she would be for the rest of her life, and she got closer to something I recognized in myself, something that was quietly spiteful, and calculating. She disappeared into the grounds, and I heard the dogs yowling far off in the distance, only to find that Susanna was wandering back, eyes hollowed and seemingly sunken into her skull as if her

thoughts had drawn them backward. The more I saw her as a ghoulish girl the more I wondered if it was truly what she looked like or if it was just a delusion I had created on my own.

“I wish she wouldn’t play with those dogs,” Lorie said, standing at the kitchen window looking out over the side yard before dinner.

I walked to her side. Susanna sat beside the dogs. They sniffed at each other, pawed around the trees closest to our yard, sticking their noses in the air each time they caught a whiff of the roast chicken in the oven.

“I tell her to stop all the time,” I said, taking a glass cup from the drying rack and filling it with water, “She won’t listen to me.”

“She’ll bring fleas into this house,” Lorie said, “Or get bitten, then what will she do?”

“Maybe then she’ll learn,” I said, taking a sip.

“Would you?” Lorie asked grinning.

“Of course I would,” I said, feeling a tightness in my chest.

“Maybe now, but not always,” she said.

I set the cup down. Something cracked from beneath my hand, and shards of glass fell out in every direction from between my fingers.

hand, then went on cleaning the broken glass from the counter.

“She scares me, Lor.”

Lorie swept the glass into the trash, “She scares you because she challenges you.”

I frowned, “No.”

Lorie looked at me, her eyes almost narrowed, and for a moment I could see Susanna draped over her, as if her spirit had walked in and stood right on top of Lorie’s.

“No.” I said it again to myself. Susanna might have been challenging for me, but that was not what scared me, it couldn’t be. I feared her because she came from me. I knew that it meant when she went to the dogs over and over, it was not because she loved them but because she spited me. She helped with the farm to make me worry over it.

“She’s not an enemy, Ethan,” Lorie said, touching the back of my head and kissing my cheek. “I’ll get you a bandage.”

I nodded, looking back out the window, Susanna was gone and the dogs were too. The sun was deep red and hung low in the sky behind the smoke. Everything was warm. And off in the distance an enormous plane flew over the hills.

“God dammit.” I lifted my hand, looking back out at Susanna, sitting in the yard. She had turned, looking back at us, and I wasn’t sure if she could see in through the windows or if we could only see out. Lorie brought me a towel, wrapping it around the superficial cuts on my

“The kids at school say we’re going to be evacuated within the week,” Susanna said from the door that led to the yard.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” I told her, stepping back.

She shrugged, came to the spot beside me, and looked out the window coughing a little. “I hope all the trees we cut will do the trick. It’ll be hard to leave.”

“Everyone’s been working hard,” I said. She looked over at my hand bleeding through the towel, and it hurt more with her eyes on it.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Broke a glass.”

She stepped closer, and I pulled back the towel for her to see. For a moment it felt like she was small again. She reached out, fingers going towards a piece of glass still in my skin. On her forearm there was a bruise, and I think she saw me looking at it, saw me sinking down in shame remembering when I grabbed her before. She plucked a slender piece of glass from the meat of my palm, twisting it as she pulled, stinging my already throbbing hand. She looked at it briefly before tossing it into the sink.

“You better feel around for others,” she said, “They might be beneath the skin.”

I nodded, watching her go from the room. My father had been distant, just out of reach, which made me wonder if perhaps that’s why I felt like I needed to reach Susanna. When I was nine, I had gone into the porcelain piggy bank grandma bought me to buy him a watch for Christmas. He opened it, giving me a cool nod before he slid it away from him on the table and left the room. I never saw him wear it, only saw it gathering dust on the dresser in his bedroom,

the bedroom that became mine and Lorie’s when we married. When he died, I planted the first lot of pine trees and soon I was planting them everywhere, forsaking the corn, and the hops, and wheat for Christmas trees.

The day the fires came, I awoke at dawn. The air in the house smelled of smoke. The fires were on the hill just north of the field of pines that we had planted seven years before, trees that would have been ready within the year to be harvested and sold. A fire truck was parked down the road near the neighboring house, lights flashing through the thick air. Another came our way.

“Lorie,” I said. She stirred and I said her name again. The truck turned onto our driveway as she pushed herself up. “Get the bags into the car, the winds picked up.”

I went to Susanna’s room, opening her door, expecting her to still be asleep in bed, but she stood at her window, turning back to look at me as I entered.

“I was having trouble breathing,” she said, “All the smoke.”

I nodded, “Get ready, you’ll have to take the truck.”

As Lorie packed the car, I watched the hills. Plumes of smoke and ash clouded the sky. I looked out across the fields of our trees. Behind me Susanna stepped out from the house, I heard her steps and turned to look at her. She was scanning the fields, eyes almost shut as though she were listening.

“Will the house be all right?” Lorie asked, and

Susanna began moving again, walking to the truck, tossing her back into the passenger seat.

“As long as the winds don’t blow too hard,” I said, hoping she didn’t remember that we were leaving because the winds were blowing hard. She climbed into the Subaru and looked back at Susanna, watching her get into the truck, turn it on, turn on the headlights which shone out through the thick air like two glowing tunnels.

“She’ll be right behind us,” I said. Lorie nodded and got in, leading us away from the fires, up through the valley. Our evacuation location was just out of the mountains in the grasslands to the south, where the fires might lose fodder if they ever reached so far. And as we drove down the dirt roads, to the highway ten miles out from home, I looked in my rear view and saw that the truck was gone, Susanna disappeared with it.

“Susanna,” I called, slamming on my breaks, believing that maybe she could hear me. I called Lorie, told her to keep going, that I’d go back and find Susanna.

“She must have gotten lost in the smoke somewhere,” Lorie said, her voice shaking. She begged to come with me, but I turned her down, already speeding back to the house before she could beg any more.

But she wasn’t sitting in the back of the pickup like I imagined, waiting calmly in the heat for someone to return for her. The truck was parked halfway up our driveway, the back hatch hanging open, two dogs panting inside, the others barking up at them. She stood with one arm covering her nose and mouth, the other held loosely at her side, with blood dripping from her palm.

“God damnit Susanna,” I said, pulling up beside her, and getting out, “Leave the damn dogs.” They dispersed when I came close, yelping and dodging away from me. I looked at the bite on her hand, reaching for it before she stepped away, bringing her hand up to her chest.

“I can’t,” she yelled back at me, “They’ll die.” She started coughing with her mouth uncovered.

“They’re animals, they know how to survive,” I told her.

“They don’t,” she cried back at me, her voice unsteady and her eyes watering. For a moment she stalled, her mouth snapped back into its hardened line, and she looked out behind me. I turned too, seeing the fires up on the hill. The acrid smell of burning pines came towards us. I imagined returning to empty fields and smoking stumps.

Susanna wasn’t lost. I knew it. She must have been back at the house, watching the flames come, watching the trees burn, imagining our terrified faces, testing our love, holding out her neck to our muzzles.

“It’ll be okay,” she said, covering her mouth again, stifling coughs, “We did what we could.”

I looked at her, “We won’t survive without those trees.”

Susanna only stared back at me, as if she were waiting for something. But time was short, and I didn’t have enough of it to guess what she wanted.

Her expression changed, “Please let me take the dogs. I’ll stay if you don’t.”

I knew she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t because I wouldn’t.

“Come on, get them up.” I walked towards the dog closest to me, quick, before it could cower and pulled it into my arms. “Get that one,” I said, dropping the one in my arms into the back of the truck, nodding my head to the one that still stood close to her.

She held her clean hand out to the dog, letting it sniff her, before grabbing it by its scruff and pulling it into her chest, her blood coating its fur.

“Give him to me,” I took him from her, before she went to get the last, carrying it with her to the front seat of the truck.

I made her drive in front, not only so I could be sure she would not disappear once again, but because I found it hard not to linger, not to

hover waiting to see what might come of our home, my home longer than anyone else alive, so close to its destruction. But as we rolled out of the canyon, and I took my final look down at our trees I decided I should listen to her, could listen.

“In school they told us that sometimes fires are necessary,” Susanna said. We were together in a room at a hotel that had been given over to evacuees for the night. “It’s like with volcanoes. The land around them is ten times more alive because of the ash. It creates better soil,” she explained, “And even when the volcano explodes, or the wildfires come, it helps whatever grows next grow stronger.”

“Is that right?” Lorie asked, sitting down, taking a deep breath.

I sat beside her, wanting to hold her hand, but unable to bring myself to do it. I looked at Susanna, who was in an armchair across the room from us, legs curled up into herself, picking at her fingernails. She looked small again, like we were taking a family vacation. I thought of my parents and if the fields might be empty when we returned next.

I nodded, “I think I learned that too.”

n n

For more information on author Nicole Collingwood, please visit our Contributors Page.

The Diary

By Beate Sigriddaughter

She blew out her eight candles, one for each decade, and all without setting her long white hair on fire. She still had good lungs. She couldn't, like some people her age, claim she had nothing to regret, though she envied that outlook. She regretted many things, among them the vast loneliness of being surrounded by people too busy to care but demanding attention from their end. Even her husband, who had, as far as she could tell, accepted being old. She hadn't. Not yet. Acceptance might come any moment. She'd be okay with that.

Among her regrets was the fact that she had stopped singing for...what was it, fifty years now? All because her husband said once after a concert in which she had a small soprano solo that her mouth looked ugly when she opened it wide to sing. But that wasn't on top of her list. Nor was the fact that her siblings had faded into polite distance after all the many plum cakes she had baked for them when their mother had left, and their father couldn't be bothered. No, the one thing she regretted most was a diary she had kept as a teenager. It was a square notebook with a squishy vinyl cover, oversized bold red roses and green leaves on a white background. It had a lock and one of those sets of two golden keys on red twine that unlocked just about any similar diary, though she didn't know that at the time. A screwdriver or a nail would probably have done the trick as well. She thought her secrets were safe. And they probably were. Even back then, who had the time to care?

She still loved roses to this day. Back then, she was in love with her Latin teacher, which had the distinct advantage that it raised her grades. Prior to him being hired, they had an elderly Latin teacher with yellow teeth who sometimes sprayed spittle when he got excited about Hannibal or Horace. The new teacher was handsome, young, and reassuringly shy, unlike some of the other male teachers swaggering around the hallways of her all-girls school. One day she left flowers for him at the door of his apartment in the suburbs, without a note so as not to embarrass him with too much direct infatuation. She noted in her diary that she planned to marry him one day and that her mother was aghast when she mentioned that plan. This at a time when she had no clue what marriage entailed, what sex was, or anything of that nature. In her fairy tales, children had always arrived when their parents, typically a king and a queen, wished for them, and so the wished-for children came. Sometimes there was a stork involved, but not necessarily. Anyway, she never did marry her Latin teacher, though he was a slightly better bet than the French movie star she also had her eyes on. For some reason in each case the daydream marriage scenario involved saving her intended husband from some kind of major calamity which then earned his undying gratitude.

In her fifties after her father died, she found the old diary in his garage. For a moment she was filled with happiness and longing for that teenage girl who had bravely stepped out into a largely mystifying world. Never mind the gaudy

cover. She was filled with expectation of finding her early fire again.

What she found instead was harsh like an unexpected slap, pages and pages of melancholy words of palpitating yearning. On occasion they even rhymed. By now she had long been indoctrinated in the duty to avoid the appearance of sentimentality at all cost. She judged her younger self with loathing. Sappy and uninspiring. Not good enough. Nothing as profound as the philosophical Anne Frank, that was for sure. She was merely constantly in love one way or another. And so, in disgust, or shame, or whatever it was, she pitched the diary in the rubbish chute. Even as it fell down the chute, clanking against the walls a few doleful times, she could hear the echo of routinely

discarding pieces of herself in order to be respectable. She wondered if respect and love, which was what she was really after, were fundamentally incompatible. Ultimately her essence had become so thin, she was surprised she still existed at all. Somewhere in some landfill outside of Denver, Colorado, her tender teenage words were rotting back into stardust.

A few songs from her teenage years reminded her from time to time of feelings she had back then. She missed those feelings too, despite them being unacceptable.

Over the years, she unfortunately never did manage to save any man from any calamity. Especially not in the context of marriage. Clearly, she hadn't even been able to save herself.

For more information on author Beate Sigriddaughter, please visit our Contributors Page.

Date Night

By Emmeline Wuest

You knew it was a bad idea, but he seemed sweet, and you wanted flowers. Mindlessly swiping right and already having finished a bottle of wine, you just couldn’t bring yourself to care enough to stop.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault-your fault-your fault-your fault-your fault.

Green light flashes through the window and the floor rumbles from the barely muffled roar of music coming from the street.

He isn’t coming. Thank you Jesus.

The knots being woven into your shoulders are loosened. The succinct handwritten note–see you at 11–was never a promise, it had never been confirmed. The minutes pass on the alarm clock on the nightstand, and your eyelids finally start to grow heavy. A sign that the threat was never real. It could have been so much worse. Maybe, this quiet Sunday night is a cosmic gift. Maybe you should start going to church again. You finally close your eyes, limbs relaxed, when the buzzer sounds, shrill enough to cut over the head pounding bass. Your heart begins racing. Oh God. Oh God.

You breathe in deeply, balling your hands against the duvet. It’s nothing. It has to be

nothing. It’s probably some drunk who forgot their key. What if it’s him? Shut up! Why is it so damn loud? This happened last week, and that had only lasted for fifteen minutes. It can’t be him. You roll over to face the clock on the cluttered nightstand. There are practically no breaks between the buzzing.

Three minutes. Still buzzing.

Your heart feels like it has been slathered in icy-hot. You want to get up, to crawl to the door to turn off the buzzer. Whisper in a soft voice,

Go away, no one’s home.

The sudden darkness in the dingy yellow light next to the label 6127 on the brick stoop–your label, your name–would only confirm what he–no, no, no–whoever is out there, that someone is home. To wait it out is your best option.

Eight minutes. Still buzzing.

You wish you had turned all the lights off before you went to bed.

Nine minutes. Still buzzing.

You wish you hadn’t left your phone in the living room to charge. Drawing the thin white drapes across the floor-length window only after growing bored of watching the festival below. Any silhouette was clearly visible from a street view. You really wish you could just look

at your phone right now. Delete that stupid app, that stupid message, this whole stupid, horrible night.

Ten minutes. Still buzzing.

You are sitting up now. Still only wearing a tshirt and underwear. Clutching a pillow to your chest, you lock your teeth around the stiff edge seam and watch the digital alarm clock. He said he wanted to send you flowers. Your jaw begins to ache. Stupid The green lights flash, go out. Sending you into darkness and raising goosebumps on your arms as screaming begins below.

Eleven minutes. Silence.

A muffled cry into the pillow as you fall face forward into the bed. Your face burns as you try to huff in a breath though the thick memory foam, lungs buckling around the musty air. Hands shaking, you push yourself back up and even manage a sharp laugh in the near darkness. The shadows press in, but you give a weak smile as you scoot to the edge of the bed, planting your sweaty feet to the floor. The chorus of screaming dies out as a soft red glow pushes against the window. You glance back to the clock.

Fifteen minutes. No buzzing.

You step into the hallway, the worn floor creaking beneath you.

That’s when the first knock sounds.

Your knees stiffen, and your feet stumble when the sharp, singular knock comes again from the front door.

Ice shoots through your bones, and you press your hands against the narrow walls. Cold, cold, cold. Your lips are numb, and the door is rapped again. Harder. When the sun was still sinking over the skyline, you had thrown the roses and its accompanying note into the trashcan before storming over to set every lock. The cheap, rusted chain is still fixed in its hold, but all three bolts turn into the doorframe.

A man’s low voice croons outside the thick wood, slightly muffled over the returning din. It becomes louder. Urging you. Speaking sweet words, making a simple request. Open the door.

Open the door baby. Didn’t you like the flowers I sent you? Baby, I’m here, open up. C’mon baby, it’s just me. Open the door. Open the door. I want you so bad, baby. I’ve missed you so much. I’m here now. You said you wanted me too. C’mon baby, let me in. Open the door.

Open the door. Open the fucking door!

It’s the sweetness that lingers in the stranger’s words, threats, and demands that have your eyes widened and muscles tensing. He bangs on the door, stopping only to swear at you or make more proclamations of love.

Bang-bang-bang–Open the door baby, you know you want me.

–bang-bang-bang-bang-BANG– C’mon baby, I sent you flowers.

-bang-bang-bang- Baby you don’t even know how badly I want you

No. No. No.

-bang-bang-bang-bang-Fuck! You playing hard to get is getting a little old. You know you fucking want me.

bang-bang-bang-bang- You fucking want me BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG- You fucking want me!

Your throat is closing up. No bra, no phone, still stuck in the hallway. Even without turning your head back to check the time, he has been banging on the door for a long time. Where the fuck are your obnoxiously snoopy neighbors when you need them? Fuck! Your feet are still frozen. Move and call for help. Move, and he knows you are home. Stay, and maybe he will go away. You can’t be sure if he heard the first two creaks. You can’t be sure. You wish Mom were here. The cold whoosh of the AC presses down onto your head, digging dead fingers into your breasts, stomach, and back. You press your fingertips into the chipped paint rather than shuddering. The banging has faded. Your ears and the tendons and bones in your neck strain. That’s when the tapping begins.

Soft brushing sounds on the wood and a sinister clicking sound that patters down the door.

Let me in, baby. I don’t want to fight, I just want to see you and talk. Maybe fuck a little.

A chuckle. Brushing of hands moving up and against the door–

I know you’re home. I watched you cook dinner.

–The clicking rush of nails wash down the door.

Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-FUCK. You sprint for the living room, for your phone. Everything feels too sharp, too bright as you fumble with the clear plastic case and stumble over a pile of laundry. Get to the bathroom, call the police. Get to the bathroom, call the police. Get to the bathroom–

Baby, I’m gonna count to three, and if you don’t open up this door like the good girl that I know you are, I’m coming in there.

You scramble back to your feet, phone clenched in both hands, and book it for the kitchen, hips slamming into the counter. You reach into the sink, tremoring fingers emerging wrapping around a greasy steak knife. You turn and run wordlessly for the bathroom. The stained, worn floorboards groan under your bloodless feet.

One.

You make it to your bedroom and slam the door, sweaty palms struggling with the lock.

Two.

Three more strides and you are in the bathroom.

Three.

You step back, and the floor creaks. Fuck.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANGBANG-BANG-BANG-BANG–

You turn the lock and sit down, back to the tub and feet pressed against the door. A faint line of red seeps through the bottom of the door. Shaking fingers dial 9-1-1. Metal jingles faintly like little bells and your stomach drops. The receiver clicks when you hear the familiar thwunk of a key turning a carbonated steel bolt.

No.

He has keys. Impossible. Apparently not. You begin to blubber as the second lock turns and the operator’s voice is like pins on your brain, asking what is happening and where are you. You keep repeating your address and that There is a man in my apartment.

You don’t stop until you hear the woman repeat both back perfectly.

The third lock turns. Your cry dies in your throat like a stunned bird when the door creaks open. You’re panting now, hair sweaty and armpits prickling despite how cold it has become. Your knuckles crack as you tighten your grip on the phone. Flesh slaps against the door and a metal clinking sounds. The chain. It clatters against the wood limply as the door creaks again and clicks shut.

You dig your nails into your palm, disturbed by how unreal it all feels. That he is in your apartment. That he had a key to all three locks. Oh my God. He’s inside the apartment. You hear a deep inhale and a satisfied sigh.

That wasn’t too bad, now was it baby? Now why don’t you just come out so we can talk? I really don’t like having to fight with you.

Heavy footsteps down the hall and a polite knock at the bedroom door. You hold your breath. The interior doors are so much thinner, made of cheaper synthetic pulp blend.

Baby? Can you come out please? I brought you more flowers.

breathing again, realizing that being lightheaded would put you at a disadvantage if, when, he reached the bathroom door. You only make it to five breaths before he bangs on the door twice, laughs. You uncurl your shaking hands as you hear the jingle of metal. Something slides into the lock, turns, clicks.

No. Dear God, please, not like this. Not like this. Mommy help me. Please. Mommy please, I need you. I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you told me to get a roommate. Mommy, make it all better, please.

She brushes the grains of sand away from your burning eyes and pulls the cracked green bucket away from the gray water that rushes past her calves.

No. Never. Purple and black sparks begin turning pirouettes across your vision. You start

No more numb disbelief, no more cold, shaking limbs. Your bare toes dig into the door, and you brace your hands on the floor. The AC has turned off and you are a little less cold. You are still sweating. There is a man in your apartment. You gave him your address. You were just looking for a rebound. What the fuck? He will likely rape and kill you. Too late to hate yourself and run over how you should have known better; you grit your teeth and listen. Footsteps sound softly around the room. Pausing at the vanity where you keep your earrings and perfume. The soft sigh of your mattress sinking, hands running over pillows. Your lips draw back in terror and rage and disgust. You imagine him sitting there, the disgusting fuck, just looking at the bathroom door. You are almost caught off guard when he takes a quick step to slam himself into the wood. You gasp. The phone clatters onto the tile you spent three hours picking out with Mark. You fucking hate that tile.

Your legs shake but brace the wood that warped a little. He slams into the door again and you scream, almost slipping onto your back from the tile. He slams into the door a third time and the hinges begin to creak. Your voice breaks into a shrill shriek as he slams into the door for a fourth time. You see a sliver of his furious face as the wood bends around the too-old, toocheap bathroom lock. No more words. That sickeningly plainly handsome face, half hidden in shadows is burned into your brain. Don’t stop breathing.

He slams into the door and the lock finally breaks. You gasp and push your legs, hard, on the door, your last barrier. Your voice sounds broken, raw, and so so loud as it bounces off the tile and mirrors. He pushes into the door and peeks through the crack, hand darting around to the knob.

NO-NO-NO-NO-NO

The bones of that meaty paw crack and blood begins to trickle as you kick back into the door, something snapping in your knee.

You’re a dead bitch.

You swipe a hand across your sweaty forehead, lower back beginning to cramp from pressure.

He slams a shoulder into the wood and pulled his mangled hand back. More sweat trickles down your face. He keeps slamming into the wood, and you keep kicking, but he gains another inch. You keep kicking despite how your legs, abdomen, burn. You can barely flex your left knee, never mind your feet feeling like they may be broken in a few places, but if you stop kicking, you will die. Mommy cannot help you. You stop expecting to feel those warm arms

around you, pulling you away from the ground and out of this bathroom. You keep screaming, hoping someone, anyone will hear and will help, or at least call someone who can. You kick hard, foot slightly twisted as he slams into the wood and something in your ankle cracks. You can’t help it, you even try to keep kicking, but your legs just freeze. He finally slams open the door, slamming into your body on the ground and crunching your phone into the wall. He leans down toward you with those eyes belonging to the devil and you think you are pissing yourself as your voice finally blows out into a hoarse mess. His hands are almost wrapped around your wrists when the blow comes. He stumbles forward, blood spraying onto you and he braces himself over the sink. The greasy steak knife sticks into his ribs and he wheezes. You throw yourself at him, twisting the knife before planting it into his left thigh. He grabs your wrists, squeezing tighter tighter and tighter, but you bite into his arm and pull. He stumbles back.

Your only chance.

You pull the knife out of his leg and begin sprinting stiffly for the door. Two heavy steps behind you, and then a heavy thud and you catch a glimpse of bloodied fingers reaching for your foot. Front door hanging open, you move into the narrow, empty hallway. Your heart thunders in your ears as you enter the stairway and begin dragging yourself down the long three flights. Oh God. You hear the slam of a metal door far above you when you finally reach the main level and break into the sidewalk, bones shaking from deafening music and eyes squinting from the harsh white lights flashing over the sides of the building on the block, jam packed with people. You freeze from the stares at your pineapple underwear and thin t-shirt.

Their gaze moves slightly beyond and above you and you see the long shadow on the sidewalk behind you.

No.

You fly into the crowd, slamming into arms and sweaty torsos. Heads turn and glare, become concerned, but you crane over their shoulders to look back at the sidewalk.

He’s gone.

Some quickly move away when they see the swollen knee and bloody knife in your hand, but one woman in a sequined top move closer. Asks if you need help. Hot tears moving down your face again, you nod.

Even in the temporary apartment with custom made locks, cameras installed into every room, that tightness in your chest never fades. The grace period and excuses no longer work on your old landlord. Asshole. You have to ride the subway alone to return the keys to the old apartment. It is difficult to breathe in the part of the stairwell that has a broken light. So many strangers. You pick the seat closest to the door and clench the mace in your purse tightly. Across you is an old man wearing a wrinkled,

blue button up shirt, arms full of groceries. You watch him with a wary eye, tapping your aching fingers over your throbbing knee. You have to return to work next week, even with the open case and ongoing meetings. When the subway finally makes it to your stop, you stiffly stride out, taking care of your knee and the hairline fracture in your foot, both held by simple braces. Walking up quickly to the street, your head keeps swiveling around at every sound. Only six blocks. It’s only six blocks. Summer sun beats overhead, and your mouth feels dry. Five blocks. A deep laugh sounds behind you and you freeze. You feel like a fish, pulled from the water, gills opening and closing uselessly. The man passes, too short and fat to be him.

You walk past your turn. Further down is an ice cream shop. You enter on a whim. Sitting on a brick stairwell, comfortable within the view of the parlor, you slowly pick away at the pink ice cream and chunks of strawberry in the white cup. Most of it melts in a fruity goop when you realize that you don’t feel that same spark of delight. Strawberry used to be your favorite. It’s getting late. You stand, wincing slightly from the pain in your legs. You throw away the paper cup as you leave the stoop.

Maybe tomorrow.

n n n

For more information on author Emmeline Wuest, please visit our Contributors Page.

In the Parlor

By David Larsen

Trevor Melby didn’t bother to set either of the two locks, the deadbolt or the less-than-secure lock on the doorknob. His room, on the second floor of an old, clean, but rundown boarding house in a questionable neighborhood near downtown El Paso, smelled faintly of unlaundered clothing. He set the two plastic bags of groceries on the table against the wall and caught his breath. Creaking up the flight of stairs at his age was a challenge, though not a hindrance. He prided himself on being somewhat fit for a seventy-six-year-old man.

There was no kitchen; his small room was far from an efficiency apartment; it was a room, nothing more. A single bed took up one quarter of the space. Stacks of books, waisthigh, two-deep, took up a wall on one side of the room and much of the space under his table. The one dusty upholstered chair beneath a floor lamp in the corner just inside the door, his only piece of real furniture, was threadbare, yet still serviceable. Several hours a day were spent in that chair, reading, thinking, snoozing.

He was troubled by the hint of his own body’s odor in the room; he had always been fussy about such things. If he could rustle up enough quarters, that very afternoon he would have to wash his few items of clothing at the laundromat three block down the street.

He forced open the only window. It was March. An early spring breeze freshened the room. He opened the transom above the door with the rod that dangled like a pendulum against the doorframe.

In the corner nearest the window, Trevor neatly placed the dozen cans of vegetables he had purchased at the Canales Grocery, a small neighborhood store. Its operator, Pete Canales, had become a friend over the years, someone Trevor could talk with about almost anything, politics, baseball, the weather. Canned foods, especially fruits and vegetables, were the staples of his diet; once or twice a week a can of soup might be heated up; he owned nothing more than a handcrank can opener and a microwave; there was no stove, no oven, not even a toaster.

Occasionally, a quart of milk, a bottle of cranberry juice, sometimes a few apples or oranges, and, on a good day, a loaf of day-old bread, went into the small dorm-size refrigerator he had bought for three dollars four years ago at a used furniture store on Alameda Street on the south side of town, the barrio. Much to his landlady’s, Mrs. Agnes Worthington’s, displeasure, Trevor left the refrigerator plugged in, even when it was empty. The woman harped about her electricity bill at every opportunity, far too often for the five tenants in the two-story building. For the past week his refrigerator

had been bare, and again today he couldn’t afford anything that needed refrigeration. He knew that he should unplug the appliance, conserve electricity and lessen Mrs. Worthington’s monthly burden, but Trevor worried the box might not restart.

For his lunch Trevor opened a can of green beans and a can of peas, mixed them together in a bowl, then heated the concoction in the microwave. There was no butter for the vegetables; even the store-brand margarine was too expensive. And salt was something Dr. Henshaw had advised Trevor to avoid. His blood pressure was often perilously high.

While he ate, he read a few pages of a novel that he’d checked out from the library, a twostory sandstone building with a basement one block away from the downtown plaza where Trevor spent afternoons swapping tales with other old-timers while they watched pigeons scurry about for whatever tidbits, popcorn, seeds, bread crumbs, the oldsters tossed for them to bicker over.

The book, by John Dos Passos, a compatriot of Hemingway not necessarily a good thing in Trevor’s opinion packed a more-thangentle wallop with its critique of the early decades of the last century. The librarian, a young black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks, gave Trevor a peculiar nod of affirmation when the old man placed the book on the checkout counter. How was it that Dos Passos and the merchant of machismo from Oak Park got along? That whole “Lost Generation” intrigued Trevor, Fitzgerald, Pound, Anderson, Faulkner, Miller, Steinbeck. He himself was mildly

shellshocked, but not from the trauma of battle, merely from a long life misspent.

When he finished his meal, he carried his silverware, an unmatched spoon and fork, and his bowl, a chipped piece from a fourpiece setting he had owned for years, to the bathroom at the end of the hall. He diligently washed the bowl and the utensils in the sink, dried them with a ragged kitchen towel, then placed them back onto the top shelf of the bookcase at the end of his bed. Trevor liked things clean, but not necessarily neat and tidy.

He sat in his chair, nibbled on saltine crackers, those with the unsalted tops, and read. He knew how much Mrs. Worthington frowned on his eating in his room, but Trevor couldn’t afford the unappetizing meals she fed the other boarders, two pensioners who shared the upstairs with him and two women downstairs, the frail Mrs. Carroll and a younger woman Trevor didn’t know, but had seen coming and going. He assumed the slimwaisted thirty-something worked in an office downtown.

Three light taps at his door startled him. “Mr. Melby,” called the landlady in her high, quavering voice, “I need to talk with you.”

Trevor opened the door and smiled. You never knew with the landlady sometimes her visits were almost cordial, other times mildly contentious. But mostly Mrs. Worthington wasn’t too difficult. Trevor often wished that he knew her better, but the wrinkled, pinched-faced woman was careful to maintain enough distance between herself and her

boarders, both physically and socially. She deliberately avoided any unnecessary entanglements, he assumed. Her life centered around the boarding house and the First Christian Church a half-mile away on Arizona Street.

“Mrs. Worthington,” said Trevor cheerfully, “how are you today?” He made it a point to be courteous to the woman; she wasn’t half-bad compared with other landlord’s he’d been in contact with. He’d been raised properly, to show respect. Pass the biscuits and praise the Lord. Say your prayers and walk humbly on the path of the righteous. Lead us not into temptation.

Every time he opened the door and found Mrs. Worthington, blanched and wheezing, in the narrow hallway, Trevor wondered how she had managed the stairs. She struggled valiantly just getting around downstairs.

The pale-skinned, stooped woman looked up into his face. “Miss Cartwright, in 2B, directly below you, has told me that she hears your television late at night, Mr. Melby. She asked me to ask you to keep it down a little.”

Trevor shook his head. “Mrs. Worthington, I’d like to oblige her, but as you can see, I don’t own a television.” He opened his door wide enough that she could get a better look. “I only watch television downstairs in your parlor, and only the news at five o’clock. My room is filled with books, and they don’t make much noise.”

up too high. He listens to those news programs day in and day out.”

Trevor waited for an apology, but he knew there was none coming. The woman leaned on her aluminum cane, the kind found near the register in Walgreens, and said nothing. Her eyes narrowed and didn’t stray from his.

“Is there anything else?” Trevor finally asked.

“Mr. Melby, you’ve always been a gentleman. A good Christian. You’ve lived here, what? Five years?” She didn’t wait for a reply. (It had been seven.) “My grandson, Brent, is coming to stay with me for three days…and what I was wondering is whether you’d be willing to spend a little time with him. He’s fifteen, and I’m afraid a bit of a problem according to his mother who was also a pill at that age.”

Trevor stuttered. Everyone stutters from time to time, so it didn’t bother him whenever he got words wrapped around each other. He stammered when he had to borrow a second or two to gather his thoughts. “Mrs. Worthington, I don’t know that I would be very good company for a teenager.” He paused. “I’m a seventy-six-year-old man. I would think he’d rather be around someone more exciting than me.”

The woman scowled. “She must be hearing Mr. Gregory’s set. Sometimes he does have it

“It would only be for an hour or two while I run my errands. He’s a good boy, I think. My daughter has warned me that he can be a handful, but I suspect she’s too impatient with him. I was hoping that someone like you could keep him company while I’m out of the

house. Just to make sure he doesn’t get into anything.” She repositioned her weight (what little there was of it) and shifted her cane to her other hand. “You read. I always see you with a book in your hand. Maybe you could talk about books.”

Trevor smiled. “Mrs. Worthington, I don’t think fifteen-year-olds read anymore. Everything’s online these days. But I could come down and sit in the parlor. We could watch television together. Maybe talk. If he feels like it.” He looked into her withered face, deeply-lined and sagging. Ten years younger than he was, she looked a decade older. She had issues. “I’ll try not to bore him. When will he come?”

Mrs. Worthington exhaled, deeply. Her breath was far from pleasant. Yes, she had issues. “He'll be here tonight, with his mother. She’s on her way to see her husband in Tucson. They’re having difficulties in their marriage. She hopes a few days together, away from home, and away from the boy, might help. Tomorrow afternoon, at onethirty I’m supposed to be at the church for no more than two hours…three tops. If you could come downstairs about one-fifteen it would be perfect. He’s a good boy, just a little confused.”

“Well, he is fifteen,” quipped Trevor.

Mrs. Worthington, perplexed, stared blankly into Trevor’s eyes. Her mouth open, her lower lip quivered. “Yes,” she mumbled, “that’s what I just said. He’s fifteen.” She paused. “Are you sure you’re up to this, Mr. Melby? If

it’s too much I could take Brent with me to the women’s meeting at church.”

Trevor chuckled. “I suspect he’d rather face a firing squad.”

Again, she looked at him without any indication that what he had just offered carried any relevance to the topic at hand. “I don’t think anyone would do anything like that,” she said crankily.

“No, ma’am. He’ll be just fine. And I’ll come downstairs a little after one.” *

The boy, Brent, tall and gangly, seemingly bright, played games on his electronic tablet. He had ear buds in his ears so Trevor wouldn’t be annoyed with the racket from the games, but the muffled sounds of battles and conquests, gunfire and explosions, shouts and dive-bombing airplanes, prevented Trevor from concentrating on the Dos Passos novel.

Not quite what Trevor had expected: Brent was quiet, though not awkward, not really as goofy as Trevor had been at fifteen, but goofy enough. When Mrs. Worthington introduced them to each other in the parlor, what was once the living room of the home before it was converted into a rooming house, the boy smiled uncertainly, then flopped onto a worn leather chair in the corner beside the fireplace. Trevor assured the landlady that everything would be fine, then took his place on the sofa where he often read when the weather was bad and he was unable to walk downtown.

After a long period of mutual avoidance, the boy pulled the earplugs from his ears, brittle, pinkish elephantine flaps that stuck out a little too far from his narrow head. Alfred E. Neuman, the boy was not, though he did remind Trevor of Alfalfa, in the Little Rascals’ films, even if his hair was curly, not plastered down, and not parted in the middle. No pronounced cowlick.

“Do you go to the same church my grandmother goes to?” Brent asked.

The adolescent’s lightly-pimpled face seemed eager, although, to Trevor, most young people seemed eager; they had for years, since he had lost personal contact with each new generation as they impatiently pushed his generation, baby boomers, out of their way.

“No, I don’t.” Trevor set his book onto his lap. “I don’t really go to any church.” He grinned at the boy. He genuinely wanted to win the boy over if they were to spend three afternoons together.

“Why don’t you go to church? My mom thinks everyone should go. So does my grandmother. My dad doesn’t care one way or the other.”

Trevor waited. He didn’t want to be smug, nor did he want to be dishonest. “I guess I don’t go because there’s no one to tell me that I have to go. Do you go to church?”

yours when I was your age. I wouldn’t want one now.”

The boy crinkled his nose, then, with one finger, pushed his heavily-framed, plastic glasses up onto the bridge of his long, narrow nose that hooked south at its end. “Don’t you like church? I know I don’t.”

Trevor smiled. “I’m just not all that comfortable sitting in a room with a symbol of torture hanging on the wall in front of me. Then singing those songs about how wonderful it had been for poor old Jesus.”

“What does that mean? A symbol of torture?”

“It means that I don’t like going to church.”

Trevor lifted his book and searched for his place.

Brent studied the screen of his device intently, then set the tablet on the arm of the chair.

“What do you mean when you say you don’t like a symbol of torture?” he asked.

Trevor again shrugged. “All it means is that I don’t go to church.”

“If I told my grandmother what you just said, she’d be really mad.”

“My mother makes me.”

“There you go…I don’t have a mother to make me go. So, I don’t go. I had a mother like

Trevor shrugged. “Then don’t tell her. I like your grandmother. There’s no need in getting her upset.”

The boy leaned forward in the chair. “Do you think I shouldn’t go to church?”

Trevor shook his head. “I think you should do what your mother tells you to do. When you get old like me, you can decide for yourself just what you should or shouldn’t do. Or when you’re away at college.”

Brent stood and stepped to a wooden chair beside the sofa. He sat down with a thump; his gangly legs splayed like a punch-drunk boxer’s in his corner between rounds. The boy’s sneakered right foot tapped on the carpet to a beat that only he heard.

“I don’t think I want to go to college.” He gazed into Trevor’s eyes. “My grandmother told me that you’re smart and that you didn’t go to college.”

“Your grandmother thinks I’m smart because I read books. Not everyone does, you know. I’m not that bright. I just like to read. I’ve got nothing better to do with my time.” Trevor paused. How far should he go with this? Finally, “I went to college. A long time ago. Going to college doesn’t make you any smarter, but it helps you to know where to find things that make you look smart. Like books. Like music. You can be smart without school, and you can be dumb with school.”

“My grandmother told me that you drove a cab,” challenged Brent. “You went to college for that?”

The boy shook his head. His tight curls bounced across his endless, lightly-blemished forehead. “So, should I go, or shouldn’t I?”

“To college? That’ll be your decision. But I’d say go. If you don’t like it, you can quit.” Trevor lifted his book. “The guy who wrote this book went to Harvard. His friend, Ernest Hemingway didn’t go to college. Hemingway won a Nobel Prize. Dos Passos, the author of this book, is pretty much forgotten. Like I said, college can make you smart, or you can be smart without it. It’s just easier to fake people out with a little education.”

Brent grinned. “Nobody reads books anymore. With Google you can find anything you need in seconds. Books are boring.”

“And your electronic games aren’t? Everything is boring if you make it so. Go to school. Raise a little ruckus. Have fun. Listen to your parents. Ignore your parents. Whatever. You don’t have to do everything they say, but you should give them the courtesy of listening.”

The boy scoffed. “I’m going to program computer games. You don’t need to go to school for that. And those programmers are millionaires.”

“I never drove a cab. I wasn’t talented enough. I was a dispatcher for a cab company. I took calls from customers and contacted the drivers. You don’t have to be too clever to do that.”

Trevor nodded. “That sounds reasonable to me. But you won’t have a clue about the world. Maybe you don’t need to understand anything about being human. Most people don’t.”

“If you went to college, why’d you work for some crummy cab company?”

The boy had been occupied with his games for the first forty-five minutes of their second afternoon together. Mrs. Worthington was again at the church. A committee meeting of some sort. Trevor suspected she was hedging her bet, do-gooding her way into a blissful eternity, while holding an unquestioning faith as her hole card.

“I needed a job,” quipped Trevor.

Brent tilted his head. Alfalfa, for sure, thought Trevor.

“You could have done something else,” said Brent, tauntingly. “You could’ve made a lot more money with a better job.”

Trevor stiffened. He harrumphed, then glared into the boy’s huge round eyes, dark stones magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. Trevor wanted to register his displeasure at this unwarranted interrogation, what seemed too much like an inquisition. But he was dealing with a kid, not the Grand Inquisitor.

“What happened?”

“I quit being a teacher. End of story.” Trevor looked down at his book. “Brent, John Dos Passos awaits me,” he said, with a forced smile. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to read while you do whatever it is you’re doing.”

He began, calmly, “I once worked in a bank. Then I worked at Walmart, selling tires.” He paused, and collected himself. “I was even a teacher, years ago.”

“What kind of teacher?”

“The kind that puts up with too many questions.” Trevor stopped. Took a deep breath. Then continued. “I taught history. In a high school.”

Trevor felt the boy’s eyes burning into the side of his head as he pretended to read. Trevor’s mind wasn’t on the novel. His thoughts were on a classroom, nearly fifty years earlier, in Port Arthur. A classroom he revisited nearly every night in the darkness and solitude of his room. The eyes of twentyfour students stared at him in disbelief and shock, not merely the eyes of one mixed-up fifteen-year-old in a rooming house on Maynard Street in El Paso, Texas. In shock, the students, Trevor’s nineth-grade history class, had witnessed their teacher strike Johnny Johnson, a slap to the side of Johnny’s head. In silence, in stunned disbelief, they watched their teacher, twentyseven-year-old Trevor, back slowly, in horror, away from the front-row desk of usually goodnatured Johnny. The teacher sat at his desk and put his hands over his face, but there was nowhere to hide, no rewind of the event that had just occurred.

Brent had reinserted his ear buds and was pressing on the keys on his device. Trevor looked at the kid and slowly shook his head. He wanted to say something. But what? Like Johnny Johnson, this boy was bright, and, like Johnny Johnson, he had a mouth on him. Also, like Johnny Johnson, he was a likeable kid, probably a favorite of his history teacher. But unlike Trevor, the boy’s teacher wouldn’t

one day snap over a student’s stubbornness, over a simple misinformed opinion about Reconstruction. What was nothing more than a student’s uninformed comment that needed correcting not blowing up over had touched a nerve in Trevor. The immense tragedy of enslaving human beings, of sixhundred-thousand dead in the Civil War, of the horrors of Jim Crow, of children walking to school in Little Rock, being yelled at, spit upon, of a preacher, perhaps a prophet, being gunned down outside a motel room. It all needed to be addressed, but not with a slap across the face of an innocent boy in the front row, a boy who was probably doing nothing more than parroting what he had heard at home.

“These things happen,” said Trevor. He set his book down and watched the boy.

“It’s because my mother is so busy at work. She sells real estate. My father’s a contractor. They’re never home together. I see one of them one day, the other the next. But they’re never together.”

“It sounds to me like they’re both busy,” Trevor said as profoundly as he could. “You can’t just blame your mother.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter to me if they get divorced. I’d rather live with her though. He gets too worked up over everything I do. If I get a bad grade, he has a fit. She just tells me to work harder.”

Trevor waited, then said, “I went through a divorce. Years ago. It’s tough.”

“My mother and father are going to get a divorce.” Brent didn’t look up from his game. His head down, he said, “My father already has another woman. In Tucson.”

Again, Mrs. Worthington was at church. What went on over there? Trevor had never noticed how much of the woman’s time was spent at the church. Disciples of Christ were supposed to be practitioners of good deeds more than adherents to the notion of salvation through faith alone; Trevor thought of them as fans of the writer of James, rather than Paul. Certainly, even a totally-blind deity could see what she was up to: working her way into His good graces. Until the past two days, Trevor hadn’t really paid that much attention to his landlady’s desperation. She must have issues.

Brent looked up. “My grandmother told me that you were a bachelor. That you’d never been married.”

Trevor shook his head. “I’ve only known your grandmother seven years. This was a long time ago, back when I quit teaching.”

“Did you leave your wife for another woman? That’s what my father’s doing.”

Trevor closed his eyes. The he confessed, “My wife left me.” He took a deep breath and shuddered. “When I was a teacher, Brent, I did something terrible. That’s why I quit. Then I drank. More than anyone should. It became a problem, so my wife couldn’t live

with me anymore. You mentioned getting a bad grade. I was really flunking out back then. In every way.”

“What did you do that was so terrible? When you were a teacher.”

Trevor sighed, looked into the boy’s eyes. “Brent, I hit a student, a boy about your age. A good kid. In fact, he was one of my favorites.”

The boy didn’t say anything. Trevor wasn’t sure that he was still breathing. Brent sat without blinking or moving.

“I can still see it. It’s like a film in slow motion. Like I’m watching it. I see my arm coming at the boy. My hand open. Then, smack. I slap him in the head. To this day I don’t know why I did it.”

“What did he do to piss you off?”

Trevor grinned. “That’s just it. He didn’t really do anything. We were talking about the Civil War and the fate of the freed slaves after the war. The boy, Johnny, raised his hand and told the class that the slaves were better off as slaves than they were being free. He said they weren’t smart enough to live without white supervision. Those were his exact words: ‘without white supervision’. I tried to explain that that wasn’t the case. But he told me that God intended white people to own black people. He wouldn’t let up. At that point, I hit him. I see it in my mind like it was someone else hitting him. It’s like I see it through the lens of a camera.”

I agreed to not fight my dismissal from the school district.”

“Man, that’s a lot to go through.” Their roles were reversed. Now Brent was the consoler, Trevor the consoled. “You haven’t done anything bad since then, have you?”

Trevor had to laugh. “You don’t get into much trouble as a dispatcher. What happened was back in the eastern part of the state, where I grew up. Back in what they call the Bible belt. I was pretty young. Now, I’m old. I read books. I live alone. But life isn’t bad. I have my moments, but I get by.”

The boy was pale. He was on the verge of tears. They stared at each other without a word.

“Does my grandmother know about this?” Brent asked, with a sob.

Trevor shrugged. “Not that I know of. But these days, with everyone online, who knows?”

Brent laughed, sniffed back another sob, then said, “She doesn’t know anything about the internet. She can’t even email me.”

* * * *

“And they fired you?”

“Not only did they fire me, but I was charged with assault.” Trevor cleared his throat. “It never went to trial. Charges were dropped once

Trevor found the copy of The Catcher in the Rye in a stack beneath his table. He leafed through the book then wearily ventured downstairs. More than gravity was at work as held onto the railing. It was past eight o’clock. He hoped Mrs. Worthington and the boy, and now, the mother, were still up.

When the mother, a handsome woman with ears that stuck out like her son’s, opened the door to Mrs. Worthington’s room, she eyed

Trevor suspiciously. On her, the ears looked good.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said timidly, “but I wanted Brent to have this book.”

The woman, surprisingly attractive, though worn out, after whatever had gone down in Tucson, stared at him for a second.

“And you are…?”

“I live upstairs,” he explained. “I’ve spent a few hours with your son and I wanted him to have this book.” He placed the book into her hands.

With a deep sigh, she took the book and studied the cover. “J. D. Salinger?”

At least she’d heard of the recluse. The brilliant egotist.

“I just thought the boy might find it interesting.”

She smiled, brightly. “Holden Caulfield. Do you think my son is anything like poor Holden?”

“No, not really. I used to teach students Brent’s age.” Trevor looked for some encouragement in her eyes, much smaller than her son’s. “I just think all teenagers have a little of Holden in them. Your son isn’t as mixed up as Salinger’s character, but I think there might be a little of Holden in all of us. I’m seventy-six years old and I’ve still got a little of Holden in me.”

She grinned. “I’m afraid he won’t read it. If it’s not assigned, kids see no reason to even look at a book.” She examined the book carefully, opened it, flipped through a few pages. “It’s kind of you. I’ll give it to him. Right now, he’s a little upset. His father and I are going through a rough period. Brent’s pretty shaken by it.”

Back in his room, embarrassed after making a fool of himself in front of Brent’s mother, Trevor sat in his chair. He held Manhattan Transfer in his hands, but didn’t open it. He wondered why it was that he was partial to the misfits, the cynics, the social outcasts. He would have given the boy the Dos Passos book, but it was from the library. Salinger would have to do. He wondered, “Whatever became of Holden, He’d be an old man by now. Quite possibly dead.”

Trevor looked around his room. Cluttered, but immaculately clean, the room was still empty. Books neatly piled everywhere. He’d given one of them away. And it wasn’t painful. All those years he had feared that it might be. It actually felt good to give something he cared about away, even if the kid might never read the book. Trevor realized that he had found the faith he had lost. He was guided by faith. Faith in a fifteen-year-old boy with thick glasses, a few pimples and big ears. He hadn’t believed in anything for years. He still rejected that East Texas certitude of his people back in Port Arthur. But tonight, he believed in a boy, and perhaps an entire generation.

For more information on author David Larsen, please visit our Contributors Page.

Redemption at Jefferson High

BY PARKER FENDLER

After spending an hour at the computer, Eddie saw only his reflection on the screen. He slumped in his chair. Screw this. It was early enough in the semester that he could drop the class and register for a different one. Who needed creative writing anyway? He closed his laptop and went to sleep. Story fragments burdened his dreams as the unconscious mind struggled to accept the surrender terms of its conscious counterpart. Finally, the flicker of an idea lit a space in his mind. He sprung out of bed. Draw from his own experience. He flipped the laptop open and transcribed the swirl of ideas into a story outline. So fast were his fingers they banished the delete key even as an ally against the common typo. Hours later, a screech startled him from his writing binge. The alarm clock. He had pulled an allnighter. The flurry of finger strokes subsided, and Eddie struck the final key. ***

Blaine was one of the cool kids. Past tense. Those pages had been turned and the dogeared folds faded. Now he was the new kid at Jefferson High. It wasn’t going well. As Blaine was removing his algebra book from his locker, Rick and one of his cronies approached.

“What’s up, Stain?” Rick said. On cue, Rick’s

friend erupted in laughter.

“That’s funny because it rhymes with my name, ” Blaine said. Then he turned to Rick’s friend. “Is it my imagination or did someone with the unfortunate name of Rick just start a name war with me?”

The other boy crinkled his brow in confusion, but Rick got it. “Good point, Stain. You’re clever.” He paused a moment as if a thought struck. “Shit Stain.”

The boys roared at that one, high fived, and marched off to their next class. Blaine had weathered the incident, but by the end of the day, a rumor had circulated that he shit his pants in class; hence, his new nickname, Shit Stain Blaine. He took the long route home to avoid the other kids. As he walked, he absently kicked a rock along a sidewalk fronting some run-down shops. Why had he been targeted? Why was anyone targeted? There seemed to be a natural pecking order, and kids like Rick did the pecking.

“Hey, boy ”

The voice startled him. He turned to see a woman hunched against a storefront under a neon sign that read hecks Cashed. She shared a blanket with a chihuahua.

“Hey,” Blaine said. No point ignoring her.

“You got a few dollars?” she said. A rash crept under the wisps of hair along her scalp like an army of fire ants through dead grass. Blaine opened his wallet and handed her a five. Tomorrow’s lunch money.

“God bless,” she said. “Mabel gonna eat good tonight.”

Blaine didn’t know if Mabel was the woman or the dog – hopefully the woman – but he was glad to help. When he got home, he retreated to his bedroom. He tried to summon an answer to his own problem, but his thoughts kept drifting to Mabel. He hoped she was okay.

understand your comments.”

She scanned the page. “Oh? Which part?”

“Everything after nice job,” Eddie said.

A gurgle escaped her mouth. Eddie wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a sigh. She motioned to a table, and they sat. “I’m sorry, I have lots of students. You are?”

“Eddie.”

“Right. Your outline’s just a tool, Eddie. Don’t let it stifle you. Ignore it if it suits you.”

Eddie’s all-nighter had paid off – sort of. He received full credit on his outline, but so did everyone else. Five points for participation. The handwritten comments from his teacher read like a back-handed compliment. Nice job. Don’t be afraid to stray from the path as your characters reveal themselves. Why would he need to stray from the path? The path was good. Class ended and the students were shuffling out. Eddie approached the podium as Professor Wilder stuffed her lecture notes into her briefcase. “Excuse me, professor. Do you have a minute?”

Professor Wilder unfolded her thin frame. Her smooth skin seemed to clash with her grey curls making her resemble a child wearing a wig. “Sure, what’s up?”

Eddie handed her the outline. “I didn’t

Her glasses were perched on the tip of her nose, and she peeked over them as if they too were a tool to be ignored.

“Do you think I need to change the outline?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It has potential. A bit heavy handed. Not every story has to shock the reader. That part will be up to your characters. Let them decide how it plays out.”

“Pretty sure I’m the one writing the story. The characters aren’t real.”

“Aren’t they?”

Eddie frowned. Eccentric English teacher thing. He got it. “Sure, okay.” He rose from the chair.

“Eddie, your characters are as real as you allow them to be,” she said. “They may even

surprise you.”

Sometimes Blaine felt like his life’s story had already been written, and he was just going through the motions. He hadn’t even thought to take a detour home, but there he was passing the spot where the homeless woman had been sitting the previous day. He turned to follow an alley. Beer bottles littered the sidewalk. Some were empty, some broken – just like people, Blaine supposed. He lobbed one over the lip of the dumpster and it clanged against the inside.

“Ow!” A woman’s voice yelled.

Blaine rushed over and peered inside. Nothing.

“Boo!” A figure jumped out from behind the dumpster startling Blaine and causing him to hit the pavement. He looked up squinting. The old woman stood over him cackling like a witch. “You should see your face.”

Blaine scrambled to his feet. “You’re one to talk.”

“Aw, come on. Can’t an old woman have a little fun? Ain’t nothing to do around here ‘cept eat, sleep, and shit. If I’m lucky, that is.”

me five dollars. She good. A bit gristly between my teeth, but better than what’s in there.” She motioned to the dumpster.

Blaine narrowed his eyes. “You’re messing with me again, right?”

“Boy, you not as dumb as you look. Be right back.” She skipped toward the dumpster, went behind it, and returned with a baby stroller. Garbage bags slung over the sides strained against their ties. Each looked heavy enough to topple the stroller had they not balanced like counterweights. In the middle rode the chihuahua like a queen in a carriage. Blaine reached in to pet her, and the little dog bared her teeth.

“I don’t s’pose you got another five-spot on you,” the woman said. “Mabel hungry again.”

The words were literal, and Blaine felt a stab of guilt. “Sorry. How’s your dog?”

“Oh yeah. You the boy from yesterday gave

Eddie rode the story like a raft on a river. He guided it effortlessly through the first two chapters as it surged through the boiling rapids. Every word leapt onto the screen untouched by the thesaurus. The story was approaching its climax. His protagonist had to endure three more sentences and then boom! Eddie was already thinking four, five, six sentences later. The raft teetered on the edge of the waterfall, its bow kissing the misty air. Then something happened. Somewhere in Eddie’s brain, a synapse fired and gave an instruction to his fingers. They rejected it. The directive didn’t make sense. As his typing ground to a halt, the waterfall froze and trapped the raft at the top. Eddie

stared at the screen in disbelief, his fingers still twitching from the muscle memory of the keystrokes. Eddie cornered his teacher after class, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand. Schedule time during office hours. A day later he faced her amid a sea of clutter. There must be a desk under the mishmash of books and fast-food wrappers.

“Nice office,” Eddie said. “Looks like my dorm room.”

“Then you have the makings of a fine writer,” she said. “Messy workstations are the sign of a right-brained person. The creative side. How’s the story coming along?”

“Okay.”

“I’m looking forward to reading it,’ she said.

“What brings you in today?”

“Remember when you said to let the characters decide what happens in the story, and that they may surprise me?”

“Sure.”

“What did you mean?”

She made the laugh/sigh noise again. Did she think something was funny or was she annoyed? He still didn’t know. “Think of it this way,” she said. “If you’ve developed your characters, each will have a unique voice. How they behave will be determined by who they are - their upbringing, their values, their mood.”

Eddie nodded.

“Humans are in-the-moment creatures. Today, I had planned to do three things: grade papers, eat Paleo, and tidy up my office. You can see how the third one went.”

“And the second one.” Eddie pointed to a Taco Bell wrapper.

“Zero for three,” she said. “In other words, humans don’t follow the outlines we create for ourselves. Neither should our characters unless we want them to be boring and predictable.”

“Then why do an outline?”

“Why, indeed?” she answered.

Then why did you assign the stupid outline? Eddie thought. He kept his mouth shut. He was starting to understand. “Do you think our characters have free will?”

“Most definitely,” she answered. “Want my advice? Your character knows more about himself than you do. If he does something unexpected, embrace it.”

Maybe the oddball English teacher was on to something. When Eddie left her office, he was already writing the next sentences in his mind.

For the last two months, Blaine had endured every form of psychological warfare. What had started as a periodic

event now pervaded every waking moment. Before, during, and after class, Rick’s taunts tortured him. Blaine tried everything to no avail. He had nearly reached a breaking point the previous week and had faked sick for three days so he could stay home. Having missed the lectures, he fell behind in his two hardest classes. His few friendships had deteriorated. Had he pushed them away or had they bolted out of self-preservation? As he spun the combination lock to his locker, a voice shattered the ambient noise.

“Oh, God. What’s that stench?”

Blaine knew there could be only one possible origination for the imaginary smell that infiltrated Rick’s sensitive nostrils. As Rick came closer, he sniffed everything and everyone in sight. Nasal whistles and snorts were exaggerated to ridiculousness. “It’s not the bench. Not you, Anne. Nope, nothing under here.” Some of the students in the breezeway laughed. A few, like Blaine, were not amused. They knew what was coming.

“I think I’m getting warmer. Warmer. Warmer. Goddamn! Shit Stain is that you? Did you shit your pants again?”

Blaine loaded a response from his arsenal. I think it’s your breath, Rick. Have you been eating shit sandwiches again? He wanted to say it, but he froze. He wanted to fight back, but the relentless barrage over the last several months had snuffed his ability to mount a counterattack. He just stood there. Rick kept going, but some instinctual defense mechanism triggered deep within Blaine’s psyche and filtered most of it out.

He caught something about a diaper, but the rest escaped him.

That night, Blaine’s room was dark, but his mind descended to a darker place. The next morning, he got dressed, ate his oatmeal, stowed his books in his backpack, and shoved his father’s pistol in the waistband of his cargo pants. There were two ways to stop the torment; the only difference between the two was who would be in front of the bullet when it exploded from the chamber. Since he’d survived the night, his choice had been made.

Blaine spotted Rick at the end of the hallway and walked toward him. Anger smoldered in his gut like a heap of burning coal. He summoned the memories, re-lived the pain, fueled the coals like a blacksmith’s bellows. He closed the distance. Rick looked up, the corners of his mouth pulling into the beginning of a grin. It faltered when he met Blaine’s eyes. Blaine’s fingers gripped the handle of the weapon still concealed under the folds of his untucked shirt. Strength and power radiated from the gun and surged through his veins.

The meeting with Professor Wilder had invigorated Eddie. She had said to let the characters decide their fate. He opened his laptop and scrolled to the last sentences he’d written. He read it again.

Blaine’s fingers gripped the handle of the weapon still concealed under the folds of his untucked shirt. Strength and power

radiated from the gun and surged through his veins.

Eddie considered it as he read his outline. The pages chronicled the events of a school shooting. Could the constant torment have led his character to pull the trigger? He thought so. There were times in Eddie’s childhood when he could almost envision himself pulling the trigger. Blaine, on the other hand, fiercely opposed it. Convinced his character had free will, Eddie wrote the next sentences.

Suddenly, Blaine let go. He released the gun and the anger that went along with it. The gun represented weakness not strength. He thought of Rick. If Blaine took the boy’s life, he would rob him of the chance to change. He thought of Mabel. The woman had confronted far worse than Blaine had. People like her needed help

from people like Blaine. He wouldn’t be of any use to them in prison. He found himself facing Rick. The gun was still hidden under his clothes. His breathing was as steady as a sniper’s trigger finger.

“You okay, Shit Stain?” Rick said. The comment lacked its usual bite. He seemed to be unsure of himself.

Blaine was okay. A mischievous grin spread across his face and a twinkle lit his eyes. “Never better, Dick.”

Blaine’s smile must’ve been contagious; Eddie had been infected. He scanned his outline, selected all text after chapter three, and struck the delete key. Who needs an outline anyway? The last thing he did was delete the title: Tragedy at Jefferson High. Maybe Blaine could help him come up with a new one.

For more information on author Parker Fendler, please visit our Contributors Page.

Nicole Collingwood

Nicole Collingwood graduated from Arizona State University’s undergraduate creative writing program in 2020. She has previously been published in The Paradise Review and Glass Mountain Magazine.

Parker Fendler

Parker has been conjuring up stories ever since he could dream. He recently began transcribing them after waking. He is a native Arizonan and graduate of ASU in the 90s with a degree in Finance. Whether working his day job at a bank (not as boring as it sounds) or at his home writing desk, he views life’s happenings through a kaleidoscope of story possibilities. ‘Hey, that would make a good story’ has become a catchphrase in his home during dinnertime. His stories usually start out as simple slice of life concepts. Somewhere along way a character invariably stumbles upon the unexpected or supernatural. His fiction has appeared in Sixfold, Across the Margin, Amarillo Bay, and Potato Soup Journal.

Christina Hoag

Christina Hoag is the author of novels Girl on the Brink, named to Suspense Magazine’s Best YA list, and Skin of Tattoos, Silver Falchion Award finalist. She also co-authored Peace in the Hood: Working with Gang Members to End the Violence (Turner, 2014). A former journalist, she reported from Latin America for Time, Business Week, Financial Times, New York Times, Sunday Times of London, Miami Herald, Houston Chronicle and others. She has won prizes for essay and short story in the International Human Rights Arts Festival Literary Awards and for journalism from the New Jersey Press Association. Her short fiction and creative nonfiction have been published in literary journals including Shooter (UK), San Antonio Review, Round Table Literary Journal and Lunch Ticket.

David Larsen

David Larsen is a singer/songwriter and writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. He has recorded twelve albums for El Viejo Records and his stories have appeared in various literary magazines and journals, including Canyon Voices.

Beate Sigriddaughter

Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, grew up in Nürnberg, Germany. Her playgrounds were a nearby castle and World War II bomb ruins. She lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017 to 2019. Her latest collections are short stories Dona Nobis Pacem (Unsolicited Press, December 2021) and poetry Wild Flowers (FutureCycle Press, February 2022).

Emmeline Wuest

Hailing from the Pacific Northwest, Emmie loves oat milk hot chocolate and getting lost in old bookshops. When she isn’t studying and juggling an unreasonable amount of hobbies, she devours classic horror flicks from the ‘80’s and will gladly talk anyone’s ear off about them. She is currently majoring in English and Anthropology and is also a student at the Barrett Honors College. Emmie is a creative writer, but also dabbles in research related to the critical race theory controversy in the US. She has loved working on CANYON VOICES and hopes to return next semester.

Girl of the Century

By Veronica Gonzales

The nurse’s Winnie the Pooh scrubs smiled at you sweetly as Mom talked to her about a new restaurant that’s opened up down the street. You were sitting on the examination table, the paper wrinkling beneath you. The walls of the pediatrician’s office were painted with flowers and butterflies, and you were only five, but you found the different themes in every room, in every hallway to be a bit much. Still, that didn’t stop you from looking around at the cotton swabs and blood pressure gauge and dreaming about having your own scrubs with Disney princesses and angels and fairies on them. Your eyes waltzed over the petals on the walls, thinking about what it would be like to wear your own cold stethoscope around your neck and choosing pink gloves instead of the blue ones that everyone in that office wore. Becoming a pediatrician not only satisfied the at the time, unknown expectations that came from an Asian-American family, but it appealed to your idea of what a grown-up job was, what a grown-up was.

The pediatrician dream didn’t last long, and when you were eight, you decided wholeheartedly, after watching The Wedding Planner with Mom and Cassie, that you wanted to be Jennifer Lopez, or rather Jennifer Lopez’s character. Of course, like many little girls, you dreamed of white dresses and flowers and rings, but that wasn’t what pushed you towards this ambition. You just liked to plan and organize things, that’s all. Even shorter than the last aspiration, the wedding planner was out of sight, out of mind five months later, when you

figured that planning was also part of figuring out the layout of an elementary school classroom. You pictured yourself, sometime in your twenties, aligning the small desks into a U, thinking that putting those clear three-drawer plastic storages was ingenious. In notebooks you begged Mom to buy you, you created what you thought were lesson plans for your favorite Judy Moody book and the history of the lost city of Atlantis. You would take your beloved stuffed dog, two teddy bears one from Circus Circus and the other from Seven Falls two plastic turtle eraser tops, a small heart-shaped whiteboard, and use what you thought was your “teacher voice.”

Being a teacher was appealing for exactly two years, and ever since then who you wanted to be when you grew up began to change as quickly as your hair grew. When you found out Mom went to college for psychology, being a psychologist was at the top of your list. When you found out Dad was going to be an architect, you told yourself you would be the one to actually follow through. When you and Cassie binged watched Criminal Minds one summer when you were thirteen, you made it your life goal to become whatever career within the BAU those characters had. You wanted to be an astrophysicist after a unit of astronomy in a ninth grade environmental science class. You wanted to be a book editor, a journalist, a lawyer, and Mom always told you to reach for the stars, so your dreams didn’t stop at career aspirations. You’re twelve, and you have your whole life planned out. First kiss at thirteen,

permit at fifteen, license at sixteen. You picked out your senior quote six years before you needed it after seeing it written in one of Cassie’s math notebooks. You didn’t know who Douglas Adams was, but he said, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.” You were going to go to a prestigious university in California or the East Coast and have a fancy loft that you shared with your friends. You imagined yourself being famous by the age of 21, a writer with two poetry collections and a novel, having influence and power. In your dreams, in your head, you were the girl of the century. You silly, silly girl.

I am unhappy to report that we did not abide by that timeline, that we are still stuck in this hot desert, and that that quote was not our senior quote. We are not who you wanted us to be.

I thought that we would have a world of chances, but I’ve since learned that although it feels like the universe should grant us a redo, this world owes us absolutely nothing. You, at twelve-years-old, had so many roads you could have gone down, but I have found that those roads remain and will remain endless; I have no postcard to send you from those destinations you always dreamed of. My progress reports show no progress at all either; you only ever wished to be great, but at best, we are merely average at everything we try to do. When we were a kid, we thought the world of ourselves. Maybe it’s because, at the end of the day, we are just selfish and self-centered. Maybe it’s because at least one person had to believe in us. Maybe it’s because we wanted so badly to run away from the home that held us back, held us down, the home where there was always yelling and fighting and tears and war. I would ask you

what you think about that, but you’re still eight years away from therapy, so I know you don’t have an answer yet. I like to think we know better now, but it was with the deepest of regrets that I inform you that our coming of age has come undone, our fall from grace was hardly with any grace, and there’s no villain in our story except for ourselves. I know you want to be more than what you are, I understand. After all, we are nothing but a product of our parents and all they wanted to be but couldn’t, and this yearning to be great is passed on from generation to generation like the nose you pinch to make it look more “Western.” I will say though, I applaud you for seeing the potential we could have had in each of those careers, in each of those lives because you were right, there was potential to be great. But there is also this potential to grieve for all the lives we would not could not live.

Your dreams have not come true because I’ve fallen short of them. We’re barely five feet tall, and we are not a 21-year-old with an abundance of accolades and accomplishments under our belt. We are 21, and we have won nothing except abandonment issues and self-doubt. And I wish I could tell you when and how we became this person, but I can’t seem to retrace my steps back to you. I’ve gone off the set trail, and I think I’m too far from you now. When if I ever reach you, I’m scared that you’ll already be like me. I want to be like you again, the wideeyed, optimistic twelve-year-old who thinks and knows she can be anything she wants (although I would forgo the glasses and eyeliner). I wish I could be as hopeful as you because I always feel like I’m on the brink of something better. I’m standing on the edge of this cliff, looking down and seeing everything that I might reach, but I cannot jump. My heart knows too much trouble

and pain, it keeps me tethered to the ground. I wish I could be as patient as you because I’m waiting for some sort of epiphany to hit me as I stare at blank pages and open air. I’ve been waiting for divine intervention even though I’m not really sure if there’s anything out there. I’ve been playing this waiting game, and I know how we never win at chess or Monopoly, but sometimes I think I could win this one. I wish I could be the planner you are, with the volunteering you want to do, the internships and scholarships you want to apply for because I look at my one-page resume and I know I don’t have much to offer. I’m sorry to say that our virtues are just our vices in a good disguise, and I promise you, I tried to be great, but I was never even good.

With my condolences, I messed up our sleeping schedule. You used to sleep just before midnight, and I don’t know when I started staying up past two in the morning. Though, I still lay in the dark, building my duvet up as a wall that shields me from the watchful eye of the coats hanging on the back of my door who look too similar to horror movie monsters. But I know now that what really haunts me is not outside of our body, it’s within.

I don’t have much to show you if you’re looking at me through a crystal ball except for this. We’ve never been to a real cemetery, but beneath our sternum, burial grounds rest heavy, shaking every time we exhale. I come to visit every night; it’s become a ritual that I don’t think we could ever abandon. You can enter whenever you want, and the gate creaks as you open it, but that’s not what will disturb the ground. Shine a flashlight on the gray headstones, and see that here lies the pediatrician, the wedding planner, the teacher,

the psychologist, the architect, the astrophysicist, the book editor, the journalist, the lawyer. Here lies all of our pain, our anger, our hurt, our sadness. Here lies the memories that were U-Hauled and auctioned away when our storage was lost. Here lies the childhood home we didn’t grow up in. Here is the childhood you should have lived. Here lies everything we should have done, everyone we should have been by now. Here lies what you wanted to be, what I could never be. Here lies everything you must have missed because I was too afraid, too quiet, too worried, too hesitant, too doubtful. Here lies all these near-life experiences, these unlived lives. Here lies you, the girl of the century.

I am no beloved griever; I don’t know how to teach you how to grieve because I myself cannot grieve properly. I offer no lessons in mourning except for a glimpse into how I cried more when our rabbit died instead of when Grandma died. I show you this space because it is all that I am, but I am no caretaker of these burial grounds, I am nothing but a grave robber. I shine the light on the headstones, but I am not lighting candles to honor the dead. I am stealing the possessions they were buried with, unearthing their bones without remorse. I’ve taken the stethoscope, the planner, the whiteboard, the books, the styrofoam planets. The dirt is everywhere except for on top of the coffins, and I’m sitting in the holes, waiting for the world to collapse on top of me.

These souls are not put to restful peace because of my sinful crimes. This is not self-care or selfpreservation; it is utter self-destruction, and there’s always been a loneliness in us, but these ghosts will keep me company. They haunt me from the inside out, and there are times when it

feels like I’m the ghost, and I’ve gotten so good at being a ghost, I hardly know who I am as a human. I cannot escape this grief; everything about them weighs us down. They’re standing by watching as I take small bites of my dinner, as I’m sipping water to quench my nerves. These parts of us did not make it out alive. I could not birth them properly, your dreams and hopes; I have failed as a woman, and they are angry. So maybe that’s why I am letting it haunt me. These ghosts are looking for a place to live, and I’ve offered them a home within us.

Would you believe me if I say that I’ve been trying to leave them six feet under, trying to swallow them and let them rest in my stomach instead? If I were you, I wouldn’t because all we have ever known is how to be left, not how to leave. In these burial grounds, there are remnants of who we could have been, who we should have been, all of our memories and hopes and dreams, all our tears and screams. In these burial grounds, you and everyone and everything lay, and I open the gate, shine the light, start digging, and I take it all out.

Veronica Gonzales (she/her) is a recent graduate from Arizona State University, where she earned her degrees in Political Science and English. She was previously the Interview Editor at Superstition Review and the Associate Literary Editor at Lux Creative Undergraduate Review. Her work can be seen in Superstition Review, Girls Right the World, and WhimsicalPoet.

Weird Fishes/Arpeggi

By Jadon Sarmiento

My transition into my early high school days was not how I expected it to be. From 8th and into 10th grade, I was in a pretty dark place. During this time of my life, I felt hollow. Everything I did felt the same and the days began to blend together. Nothing was fun anymore.

A multimedia essay

Jadon Sarmiento is a freshman at Arizona State University. This literary narrative explores how lyrics helped change his life.

Trials and Tribulations of Screenwriting

By Grady Beaulieu

t this point, why are you even trying?”

He has a good point. After all, I’ve been staring at this white screen for the better half of an hour now, and there’s not a glimpse of inspiration to show for it. Instead, I’ve been lured into a battle of wits with my closest writing confidant, the cursor. We’ve come to know each other over mutual hobbies, you see. I’m the writer and he’s the typer. For the most part, our relationship is simple and straightforward. I do my job, and he does his.

“Forty minutes on this one sentence? Spit it out!”

“I’m trying! But your tireless taunting isn’t helping. For once, could you stop blinking like that? It’s wildly distracting.”

It’s a difficult task to stay focused while writing. The cursor as it easy – all he has to do is follow and jot down what I think! But as I think, he blinks! As if he must constantly remind me of his existence and how slowly I’m writing! I’m not sure if it’s just me, but the longer I take to write, the faster and angrier he seems to blink!

“Okay!” I tell him. “How does this sound?”

I begin to type. He goes along. Finally, we’re on the same page. After a moment of feverish writing, I end up with:

INT. HOME OFFICE – DAY

In the dark, a man speaks. MAN

I believe in America. America has made my fortune. And I raised my daughter in the American fashion. I gave her freedom, but I taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a boyfriend...

Wait, that came far too easily. What am I thinking of? I’m certainly subconsciously writing something I’ve heard before.

“Are you attempting to re-write the opening scene to The Godfather?”

Well, that’s disappointing. For a moment there, I thought I had come up with something great. I suppose it’s back to the blank page once again.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The toughest part of writing is getting started. The cursor thrives in a fast-paced environment and dreams of momentum. Myself, on the other hand, performs sporadically and unevenly. We’re an odd pair, us too. He’s eager to get words on the page while I’m more inclined to sit and wait for inspiration to strike.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Enough out of you! I’ll write at my own pace."

“Your own pace? There is no pace – you’re still staring at a blank page!”

Well, that is true. But I say, “No great thing is made at a moment’s notice! It must be soaked and marinated in creativity! An idea bursts into scene as a seed, is buried beneath soil – and dependent upon the writer’s discipline for the craft – a flower is born. That flower can be fed, watered and nurtured into a great story, or it can be abandoned and left for dead!”

"Of course! But how can you nurture a story with no words!"

Touché, cursor. I fear my willingness to procrastinate has disguised itself as being patient! It's one thing to plan, outline, and brainstorm but it's blasphemy to sit, wait, and stare! So I begin to write once again -- this time something original:

POSTED FLYER

...depicting a man, MONTE (22), shaking hands with a fresh-faced student; smiling for a portrait; preaching to an envious crowd. Bolded letters read:

JOIN THE FREEDOM CLUB: YOUR PATHWAY TO SELF FULFILLMENT!

We reveal a young man reading the flyer: this will be CHARLIE (18). He snatches the paper.

INT. CHARLIE'S APARTMENT MIRROR DAY

Charlie styles himself.

CHARLIE (PRELAP)

Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to be someone else. I’ve always wanted to be better...

I stop writing. A brief flurry of words is all I can muster at the moment.

Blink. Blink. Blink. "Is that all you got? A brief flurry of work... and you're done?"

"Well, no. I'm certainly not done. Like I said earlier, ideas are planted then nurtured. Now that I have an idea on paper, I can improve on it!"

"Well then... let's get to work! I've had enough of you trying to justify your lack of productivity!"

"Fine! I'll keep my head down and power through."

With my rear still seated, I hoist my chair closer to the desk. I scootch in, ready for war. I continue with my story:

INT. COFFEE SHOP -- DAY

Seated amongst the buzzing breakfast rush, Charlie speaks to Monte.

MONTE

And that brought you to me?

CHARLIE

I suppose.

MONTE

You don’t sound certain... I’m curious, what is it that you think my club does?

CHARLIE

You’re the Freedom Club.

MONTE

Right... At least you know our name. Monte leans in closer.

MONTE

What is it that you want from me? Something to put on a resume? What is it?

CHARLIE

I want to change.

MONTE

I see... You want respect. Is that right?

CHARLIE

Something like that.

MONTE

Well, call it respect, envy for a better life, the wish for power over others; doesn’t matter. It all comes from the same place.

Monte takes a sip from his tea. He leans closer.

MONTE

Truth is, I want you to join. New voices are always welcomed. But if the reason you’re interested is to gain some outside respect... I’m afraid you’re entangled in a fool’s game.

CHARLIE

I’m not sure I follow.

MONTE

Respect is garnered through a great many qualities. Some you probably have! But the thing itself? It’s not given. It’s won! And the battle? It’s fought on your home turf: your mind. You got to respect yourself, kid. That’s where it all starts.

Charlie nods.

MONTE

Answer this question with the honest to God truth. I’m no bullshitter so I expect the same. Understood?

CHARLIE

Yes sir.

MONTE

Do you respect yourself?

Beat. Charlie freezes. He stammers. Monte holds up his index finger.

MONTE

Here’s what I’ll offer. You allow me to teach you, to groom you, and you’ll earn a spot in my club...

I collapse on my keyboard. There's no feeling quite like painting your thoughts onto a canvas. I feel proud! Accomplished, even! But as I sit upright, stretch my arms above my head, and indulge in a deep inhale, I'm reminded of my task...

Blink. Blink. Blink.

...then I drop my head down, scootch in closer, and begin to write once more.

Originally hailing from Bow, New Hampshire, Grady Beaulieu is a Film Production student at Arizona State University. Whether it be crafting short essays or feature length screenplays, he dedicates hours each day to his passion of writing. An avid student of filmmaking, he is pursuing a career in screenwriting and directing with a focus on Menippean satire. In addition to his artistic ventures, he is the current Vice President of Arizona State’s chapter of Phi Kappa Psi, an ardent weightlifter, and the Beach Boys’ biggest fan under 65.

I Didn’t Want it to be True

By Sarah Frey

A coffee shop filled with flowers, I always thought this was such an interesting concept. The elegant bouquets that lined the walls, and the smells of coffee and roses joined together to create this aroma that can only be described as safe. That's how I have always felt in my favorite coffee shop.

I suppose that is why I spend so much time there, why I brought so many friends there, why that was always the place I went to for an important conversation, or just to escape when my world fell too crazy to be in. I suppose that's why I brought Cami there. I often still think of the time my new friend Cami and I spent there together. I remember the way her face softened as we walked through the door. I had never seen her eyes light up like that, nor had I seen her shoulders drop the way they did as we sat down to drink our coffee.

It wasn't until then that I realized how tense she always had been. She had a constant kind of shield put up around her as if she was always at war, never really getting to rest but instead always in the midst of battle. I am glad I brought her to my safe place even though I did not know how much my friend needed safety till this day. I did not realize the hurt she had been caring about in her heart. I did not know how to help, so I just tried to listen.

silence I thought as I responded. “Yeah I am, why?”

“When were you adopted? '' Cami asked as she ignored my question as she often did when things started to bother her. She would simply ignore them like they were not there at all. I had always found it funny when she would do this with the boys who would hit on her or to teachers when she did not know the answer to a question. But this time it felt different, the normal charisma she exuded with this practice was gone and replaced with shame.

“I had a closed adoption that was already set up between my birth mom and adopted parents, so I was adopted the day I was born. Why?” I asked again calmly hoping for an answer.

“So you were never in foster care?” she asked as she tried to hide behind her coffee cup.

“No, but I could have been if my birth mom was less prepared. She was also adopted so my birth grandparents were familiar with the process and helped her find her way,” I said as I was expecting some kind of joke about how it would be breaking family tradition to not have a baby in high school and give them up for adoption. But no jokes were made. Her face just looked white and empty.

About two minutes into the defining silence between us Cami looked up at me and asked, “You're adopted right?”

Interesting ice breaker but it's better than

“Are you in foster care Cami?” I whispered to her, grabbing her hand from across the table.

“Yes,” she whispered back, clearly trying to hold back her tears.

“Did something happen, Cami?”

All she could do when I asked this was shake her head yes. I moved from my chair to sit in the booth next to her, put my arm over her shoulder, and used the only words I could think of

“It will be ok. We are gonna make it. Okay, Cami?”

She looked up at me with puppy dog tear-filled eyes and whispered, “Promise?”

“I promise I will try.”

A few moments went by and she told me what had been happening. Her foster father had been abusing her since she had been placed in that home. She had told her foster mom and was called a liar, she said her husband was not capable of such a thing. But he was very much capable. Cami had the bruises to prove it.

I froze when she told me her story, I did not want it to be true, I kept hoping this was one of her jokes that I did not understand but it wasn't. It was real, it was true, and I had to do something to help.

Cami slept over at my house that night, and the night after, and for a few weeks after till she got placed in a new foster home. Cami did not have a phone or social media or any way of contacting me after she got moved.

I do not know what happened to my friend. I know that Cami is just one of many kids who almost do not make it out of the system.

I hope that she is safe in her new home. I hope she still thinks of me the way I still think of her. I hope that she finds her forever home and is out of the system now with a family she knows and trusts. I hope she feels safe when she sees bouquets of flowers or smells coffee made just right.

Sarah Frey is a student at Arizona State University. She is pursuing a teaching degree focusing on special education.

Janelle Dimmett

Angel with Crucifix| mixed media - ink on bristol, procreate for editing

Winter Templar | mixed media - ink on bristol, procreate for editing

Majestic Lion | mixed media - ink on bristol, procreate for coloring

Flowers and Butterflies | mixed media - ink on bristol, procreate for coloring

Crow Among Pumpkins and Tombstones| mixed media - ink on bristol, procreate for editing

I'm an illustrator from Union, Missouri, who specializes in adult coloring books, children's books, textile design and jigsaw puzzle art. I earned my Bachelor of Fine Arts from the Kansas City Art Institute in 2013. I generally work in a traditional manner and, ultimately, consider myself a “marker artist.” My tools include artist grade markers, fine line pens, and typically Procreate for final editing.

I grew up in a rural part of the Midwest, so my work has always had heavy roots in nature. As a child, I would wait in anticipation for a thunderstorm because the dark atmosphere that accompanied it absolutely exhilarated me. I see much of that dark-toned, color palette in my greyscale work now, and it continues to be a large part of my identity as an illustrator. That being said, however, I’m also fond of using bright vibrant colors in my other pieces as well. I guess it sort of evens out!

In my free time, I enjoy reading manga with my fluffy cat named Pumpkin and going on long walks. But most of the time, I am just creating! You can follow me and see my daily creations on Instagram at janelle_dimmett_design and on my website at www.janelledimmett.com

Tara Spielman

Icarus Falling| acrylic paint on canvas

Tara Spielman has been drawing since she could hold a pencil, and she quickly developed a passion for art. That passion has evolved into a love of painting that now dominates the majority of her free time. She mostly works with acrylic paint and canvases, though occasionally will dabble in other forms of painting, such as watercolor.

Her art tends to gravitate towards the natural, consisting primarily of scenery or greenery and flowers. Recently, she has been attempting to branch out with the type of art that she creates, broadening her horizons and increasing her talent.

Decomposition | acrylic paint on canvas

Tomas Paulsson

Megaphone | digital media

Demo | pencil drawing, digital postwork

I used to work as a teacher in visual arts, but now I'm freelancing full time. I do a lot of animated music videos and advertising illustrations. I have had a couple of exhibitions in Sweden and hope for many to come.

Links to my work:

https://tjet72.wordpress.com

https://www.youtube.com/c/72Tjet/videos

https://www.deviantart.com/tjet72

https://www.instagram.com/tjet72

Female Portrait | pencil drawing

My name is Tomas Paulsson and I'm freelance illustrator and animator from Sweden.

Yeli George

Flowers in Autumn | watercolour on paper

Dali's Flowers | watercolour on paper

I started painting watercolours 3 years ago, having not really done any art since school. Until then watercolours felt otherworldly, possessing qualities that were awe inspiring and made them feel out of reach and impossible to conquer. The biggest lesson came in realising that you need not worry about the end result: focus on the process and techniques and realise that this is a lifelong task. A large deal of inspiration comes from within in thoughts that conjure pictures, or from conversations with others, that provoke reflections on humanity and existence. Nature is also a big inspiration, particularly the sky, sun, trees and flowers. Colours are important too: there's no such thing as too many and they should all sing in harmony. My current focus is on learning new techniques and trying new styles of painting, dabbling also in other mediums, and using inspiration from other artists and architecture.

https://www.instagram.com/drawing_with_thread https://www.deviantart.com/YeliG04

A Walk in the Hills | watercolour on paper

Spring | watercolour on paper

Elena Belova

Hooded crow on Transmission pylon| pencil on paper

Talking raven| pencil on paper

My name is Elena Belova, I am an artist from Russia. I have been studying art on my own for 5 years. I am inspired by wildlife, and it becomes the main theme of my drawings.

https://www.instagram.com/hicksiart/

https://www.deviantart.com/hicksiart

https://twitter.com/elenahicksi

Lying Moose | soft pastels on craft

Wearing Red to a Wedding | digital art, fractal art made in UltraFractal 5.03

Symphony in Watercolour | digital art, fractal art made in UltraFractal 5.03

CAUTION: WET PAINT | digital art, fractal art made in UltraFractal 6.03

At Peace| digital art, fractal art made in UltraFractal 6.03

My name is ████ █████████ ███ and I will be the host for today. You can just call me "Fate", if that's easier to pronounce! I am ██ years old and I make fractal art. That is all there is to it, really. I also do a lot of other assorted hobbies like keeping succulents, embroidery, papercrafting, sculpting, or whatever I get my hands on that tickles me at the time. I believe that fractal art is a medium with incredible potential for unique expression, and I've been trying my hardest to push it somewhere no one else has with my post-punk approach to abstract art. My main workhorse is a program called UltraFractal, which I picked up in 2006, and I use Photoshop CS5.5 for minor post-work like adding borders or sharpening. Bold colours, pop art, optical art, and small ambient feelings and snippets of music are my main sources for inspiration as an artist. In fact, it's almost embarrassing to admit how many thinly veiled references to music there are in my art. Try to see if you can catch them all! (The artist has requested that his personal information be blocked.)

DeviantART: https://www.deviantart.com/outsidefate

RedBubble print shop:

https://www.redbubble.com/people/OutsideFate/explore

Disassociating at the Pool | digital art, fractal art made in UltraFractal 6.03

Sara Millefoglie

Pink Jacket | Digital Media

Rainbow Maiden| Digital Media

"I'm an artist and illustrator from Italy.

The passion for drawing has been with me since childhood, when I preferred to express my emotions with shapes and colors rather than with words.

I always knew that art would have been an integral part of my life because it was the only way I give vent to my imagination in constant ferment, and art was the thing that make me feel good.

After my artistic studies with a focus on ceramic design and a degree in Fashion and Costume, I dedicated myself to the artisanal making of bijoux and small sculptures of animals for which I had publications in international magazines such as Flow Magazine and Frankie Magazine, while as a crafter I collaborated with the Italian magazine Donna Creativa.

Since 2019 I have dedicated myself exclusively to illustration and painting, always trying to improve my techniques.

Exploration is fundamental to me, I like to be multifaceted and try different media and styles, while maintaining some constants such as the use of bright colors and the subjects I prefer: I love painting animals dreamy

Balinese Dancer | Digital Media

Holger Pleus

Amoreiras | photography

Hunting season is over | photography

L'Empire des lumières II|photography

Spark Juggler |photography

My first steps with a camera I made at the age of about 12 years. At that time, it was an Agfa Box, a simple roll film camera. What left a lasting impression on me was the experience of developing the films with my father in the darkroom and then making enlargements on photographic paper. Later, I learned the profession of a film stripper, and there, too, photographic techniques again played a major role. My main motifs are landscapes, architecture and nature. I work in my one-man business as an independent graphic artist for various clients. My recommendation for all who start with photography is: Stay curious and do not unlearn to marvel. In the end, it's always your own way of seeing that sets your work apart from so many others.

You may find my work on:

https://www.deviantart.com/reinven

https://www.locationscout.net/@holger-pleus

Elevador da Glória at night|photography

Martyna Szczykutowicz

Stars Eel | digital art

Bear | digital art

I'm mostly a digital painter and shamanism practitioner from Poland. My artistic mission is to share with other people's my love and passion for nature and animals and inspire them to grow and see themselves in different light.

https://www.deviantart.com/sayrel https://www.instagram.com/moreravens/ https://www.facebook.com/MoreRavens/

Simbiosa | digital art

Douglas Castleman

Keeping an Eye on the Bear| oil on panel

B-17G Sentimental Journey| oil on panel

Gemini 8 - First Docking in Space| oil on panel

Yosemite Early Spring| transparent watercolor on Arches 300 lbs. paper

Half dome Afternoon| oil on canvas

Douglas Castleman is an award-winning watercolor and oil painter. He also works as a freelance illustrator and graphic designer. He specializes in landscape, aerospace and marine painting. Douglas is a Fellow of the American Society of Aviation Artists, an artist member of The International Astronautics Artists Association, the Los Angeles Society of Illustrators, as well as local art groups. He has won numerous awards for his art from the various associations, national and international art shows, and the City of Torrance, California, where he resides. Many of his paintings are in private and corporate collections, NASA, and the Pentagon. Douglas has had five solo exhibitions in the Los Angeles area. During the period 2000-2018, he taught watercolor painting for the Yosemite Association, and both oil and watercolor to many private clients. He has been invited to demonstrate both his oil and watercolor techniques at many local art groups. He has earned a Bachelor Degree in Art from California State University, Northridge and a computer graphics degree and another degree in multi-media from Platt College, Cerritos, California.

He maintains two websites:

www.douglas-castleman.pixels.com

www.douglascastleman.myportfolio.com

Facebook and Instagram: Douglas Castleman Art

Glacier Point Yosemite Morning| oil on panel

Tina Ross

Bubblicous | matt acrylic

Condolences | matt acrylic

My name is Tina, and I grew up as a child of eight on five acres of land in the country. My first experience as an artist was when I asked my parents to allow me to draw a mural on my bedroom wall at 10 years old. They agreed and it started from there. My paintings are a creativity of when I see more than one object, person, action and then paint them all as one. The feeling that I get when showing my art at an art show is the best feeling when someone says “Wow! Did you paint this” and I’m able to say, “yes” with a smile.

Janice Blaine

Called Forth From Wind and Water | acrylic on poplar wood

Chasing The Moon| watercolour

Dancing With the Holly King | and graphite

Terrarium | watercolour

My Art is my voice, revealing my tales to those who would listen. I am an award-winning illustrator with a love of literature. I've spent more than twenty years working in the animation industry and the publishing industry as a traditional animator, designer, layout artist, and illustrator. I explore by traditional and digital mediums, and often combine the two. My personal work is inspired by myth and folklore.

My portfolio my be viewed at:

https://janicecblaineartist.wordpress.com/

Mystic Sparkle Wings

The Blooming Well| Digital Media

MysticSparkleWings, or Mystic, is a 22-year-old, self-taught artist, writer, and cat-lover residing along the United States’ East Coast: Not in the Middle of Nowhere, but Just on the Edge. She dabbles in all sorts of creative things where you’ll see some of her more “unique” interests pop up from time to time: Digital & Traditional Illustration (both original pieces and fan art), card crafting, crochet, and of course Magnetic Poetry, which has earned her four “Daily Deviations” on DeviantArt.com and she self-published an entire book of in 2021 entitled, “Drawn like a Magnet."

Mystic and her work can be found on a multitude of social media by visiting linktr.ee/MysticSparkleWings

Fairy | alcohol inks and word magnets

The Uptime of Downtime

By John Grey

Some happiness needs no more than a park, the greenery and a breeze. Small moments can hinge on sunset, the glimmer of the city, the quiet bench, the surrounding scenery like a book in my hand.

I don’t even have to be loved. When it’s birds and small mammals, their awareness is enough. When it’s grass and wildflowers, their presence is reciprocated.

It’ll be dark soon and I’ll need to leave. But I can move on from happiness and still be happy.

On my way home, the street lamps will suddenly light up. They remind me of people who really do get it

IN ARIZONA DESERT COUNTRY

By John Grey

At dawn, the mountain range solidifies, the desert airs its cacti and its colors, the red and orange ripple of the sands.

It’s an old sea bottom, its weathered rocks, scattered story tellers of fish and shell to an audience of snakes and lizards.

The ground doesn’t bother with footprints. The air is as dry as the flesh of what dies here. And the sun picks clouds clean like a vulture.

I’m hot and parched by the roadside. Arizona land bears down hard on me and yet it gives the eyes pleasure.

FRANGIPANI

By John Grey

Floating silk lips, yellow heart exposed –a frangipani welcome home. More intense than any arms, colors operatic, sensual. Their hold - not mere nostalgia. Their fragrance - shortlisted for the senses. A rose in a vase pumps me for information. But a flower behind an ear already knows. Like old lovers - gentle in the garden, wild in the woods.

SANTA FE

By John Grey

Diana passed away from cancer in the bedroom of her small adobe-style home.

She always said that the bodies of the dead move up the roots of trees into the trunk and then the boughs beyond.

They’re out there in those tough green leaves, fluttering embryos on course for regeneration.

Mourners believe their loved ones wither in the grave or have crossed the boundaries into heaven.

They don’t notice how the vegetation perks up with each new death as it replenishes its psychic spheres, buffs up its creativity.

Diana died of cancer, was buried in the shade of a conifer where she most likely lives.

Strawberry Wine

By Emmeline Wuest

It’s like summer jam really, the kind you make after a day of squatting in the earth neck cooking under the sun. So sweet and bubbly, like a stolen kiss. Sports bra tan lines and eating poké bowls beside the Willamette. Bliss.

This Is It

By Ann Privateer

Space, time, and quadratic equations keep me from going insane some times when cramped quarters impinge my psyche and sand runs through the hour glass fast then my eye travel over the seas until wine empties into song.

Eldest “Daughter”

By Melody Yoon

Eldest Daughter: a jack-of-all-trades, therapist, parent, load-bearing pillar.

Eldest Daughter: a master of none, personal needs, wants, and dreams just filler.

Eldest Daughter: a stiff state of mind, sticking to those who surrender the title. Eldest daughter: a permanent skin, discarded, renewed every menstrual cycle.

Eldest…daughter: lifelong occupation, unpaid with unforgiving long hours.

Eldest daughter: vacation time pending, watched siblings escape from their towers.

Eldest offspring: not quite the same, the word doesn’t hold equal weight, like eldest daughter: the golden successor, slowly warped from “succeed” to “stagnate.”

eldest child

eldest kid

eldest daughter

eldest—

no longer a “girl,” no longer the “sister,” no longer the dear dutiful “daughter.”

“scapegoat” doesn’t sit right, coming up short when i lead myself up to the slaughter.

Home is where the heart is

By Melody Yoon

Home is where the heart is and my heart is in my room. She kisses me goodnight after we dance under the moon.

Home is where the heart is and my heart is in my room. My family doesn’t notice that she smells like my perfume.

Home is where the heart is and my heart is in my room. Once I cross the threshold I forget the lurking doom.

Home is where the heart is and my heart was in my room. I lock the door and walk away from love inside that tomb.

wishlist

By Melody Yoon

● taller

● thinner

● straighter teeth

● double eyelid surgery

● paler

● clear skin

● longer hair

● make my mother proud of me

● smarter

● softer

● tone down laugh

● purge all my anxiety

● gentler

● prudent

● find my peace

● accomplish or die trying

Home is where they hold me

By Dina Klarisse

Scratch that, you were my first American home in this land and the one before, the one waiting in the after. You who sweated with pamaypay over my infant body You who sat in nightshift-worn clothes at kitchen table,

humming through brownout night, needle and thread in calloused fingers:

One nursed strangers through midnights and mornings, One stitched metal parts through midnights and mornings,

came home to closed eyes came home to closed eyes

Four furrowed brows searching for peace in our sleep, twenty fingers holding us up against blinding California sunrise.

We were always home in you, arms and legs perched against rainstorm, feet wide on shaking ground.

And when we lost more than I could ever remember, you swallowed tears and tired and dug another foundation and another. Throw the coins from your shoulders and shake holy water from pores, each bad spirit scared and negotiated away from your terror and your tender.

(House blessings are infinite when my zipcode is our name)

I prayed a thousand rosaries and never spoke a single grace until I turned the corner and saw your lights, forever on and calling.

Editor’s Note: This poem was first published in Catchwater Magazine and is appearing in “Handspun Rosaries,” published by Sampaguita Press

THANKSGIVING LEFTOVERS

By Lenny Levy

Thanksgiving has now come and gone, But we’ve still got turkey by the pound, So the question now becomes, What leftover recipes can be found?

We can have turkey tetrazzini, Turkey chili with lots of beanies, Turkey chow mein, Turkey with whole grains, But we’re not thrilled by more turkey plain.

Turkey stacked on white bread, lots of mayonnaise, Turkey quite spicy doused with lots of Old Bay, Pasta with turkey spaghetti sauce, Turkey on a salad gently tossed, And let’s not forget some turkey jerky,

Ben Franklin pushed the turkey as our national bird, Cause turkey provided sustenance, that’s what he heard. But he didn’t face the problem that confronts us today, How do we make so much leftover turkey go away?

Turkey is quite versatile, Help us eat a pile, Eat the neck, munch the gizzard, So much white meat, it’s a turkey blizzard. And let’s not forget the turkey liver, That’s the part Grandma says to give her.

Our turkey didn’t fly the coop, That’s why we’ll enjoy turkey noodle soup Turkey in the straw, turkey cole slaw, Take my advice, try turkey fried rice, Turkey pot pie, Got to give it a try.

How many days can one turkey last, If we don’t’ get rid of these leftovers fast, Then we’ll have turkey coming out our ears, And we’ll eat turkey for a couple years,

Oh, no, I just remembered, Christmas is coming soon, We can’t eat another turkey or we’re gonna swoon. Guess instead we’ll serve a ham, leg of lamb with mint jam, a can of spam, A dozen clams, with a side of yams and crackers of graham. Anything but turkey!

Cucumber’s Lament

By LENNY LEVY

It’s ridiculous That you pickle us!

An Evolution

By Shontay Luna

The father I never known holds my hand. Watching over me past the eyes of Time. I am blessed in favor in the form of invisible kisses from my ancestors. Haters astounded, jealousy compounded. As they wonder which store I got my nerve from. But closed minds can never see what I’ve seen. My essence too genuine to steal and imitate. Yes, I am everything I imply and more. That reality, their greatest fear. A woman who knows her worth floats above the muddy tracks set by petty feet. She is a Goddess, her wisdom the crown to which all others must bow.

Dreamtime

By Shontay Luna

Whisper to me, for the words from your lips are the most beautiful sounds I can hear. You're the music that makes my body sing in Samba, Latin and Jazz fusions. The notes spilling from me, senses wrapped up in bliss. Touching me through immeasurable time, a kiss warms like fire while a touch spills upon like a waterfall. And the inferno commences. Haunting my dreams till they are perceived as reality. Carrying me through crests and valleys. Lulling me throughout the journey while I'm certain of three things - his smile, his voice and my longing. Constantly yearning for deliverance in dreamtime.

Under the Moon, the Stars

By Jack Galati

One step, two step, exploding; rain coming down like agua roja, the blood of Christ, overwhelming.

A charm on the dancefloor has me spinning along for hours with a woman I barely know. She was birthed, nacío en las montañas, los ríos; born of Botticelli, like a nymph, a lady of love.

I pass a poem to an eagle. He leaves it high up on the Mogollon where it turns to ash in a wildfire.

I’m considering cutting my hair, or letting it be shed by the windlike Jim, lying quietly in the grave bajo la luna, las estrellas. Perro viejo. He has taught me patience in the loneliest of nights.

From the Texas Harlot, Accursed

By Jack Galati

A peach lays orphaned at the foot of my bed. From the coast I hear the soft cry of gulls, the crashing of wind and waves. The pull of the gulf weighs heavy on my heart. I can hear my mother, far off, quietly restless as to not wake Dad. But I hear her, her footsteps in place on naked wood, her old soles too sensitive for sheepskin rugs. She is seven hundred miles away and I hear her. I wish now that I could not. She keeps me up. Someone next door has knocked a hanging photo to the floor, most likely a DeGrazia. I can almost see the Apache woman from the print. She is kissing the floorboards. I think that maybe I should do the same: join her in supplication while humbled winds pant outside. The winds cary songs from across the ocean, songs atop ships, of men and gold; ancient things. Perhaps I should

move to Rome, where ancient things are still alive. I’ll leave a dollar coin in the fountain tomorrow for Rome, one for Dad, and a final for the Apache woman who shook DeGrazia so greatly. The peach at my bed is beginning to stink. It will come to rot, as all things do.

Cats and Dogs

By Jack Galati

I came upon a lion in a zoo who was asleep in daylight. The way she lay, stretched out in the gilded mid-morning glow, reminded me of the dog I had as a kid, her thick lab fur illuminated in streaks from the blinds-bound sun rays as she lay by the window. This was her favorite spot. She’d spend whole days under that window and even longer as she grew older. When she was in her fourteenth year we moved her bed from the bedroom out under the window. I’d like to think she missed not sleeping by my side, but all gods know she needed this more. At a certain point, all of life, I’m sure, is reduced to streaks of light, and nothing more.

The Witch Takes Over

By Jack Galati

Copper cattle guards have blued to the patina of damascus and oil. They cover the tracts of southern Arizona. My dog does not walk across for the same reason the cows do not.

Mary-Beth lost her house in 2009. She’s spent this long summer in Nogales with me where I introduced her to Cortazar’s books. She washes her hair daily and it’s begun to silver in the sun. Coyotes howl like desert sirens, like a witch in Mayan folklore.

Mary-Beth sits up at night singing old songs in voices foreign to mine. Someone died last night across the border.

I heard ambulances burn down the streets into morning. I try hard not to look at Mary-Beth.

I can’t look her in the eyes. I fear the worst things.

I wait hastily for the dawn but Mary-Beth does not fear the dark. She says even small things bear light. She says the moon is an old friend, that she’s known this for a long time, and that she does not love me.

The Captain’s Box

By Jack Galati

I came upon a woman in a sunflower dress at the edge of the shoreline. She let me sit with her a while and we talked while watching waves come down on the shore, watched as they washed away the footprints of lovers on the beach come and gone, passing off into the horizon. I held at my breast a small cardboard box filled with something I could not remember. We came to a pass where the woman asked me about my box and I could not tell her what lay inside. She offered to open it for me. She offered to open it together. She placed her hand on mine and in her touch I felt the warmth of wood from an old oak tree I remember from long ago. Just then, she seemed ancient, and I, infantile and soft to the touch. She had skin like a thin sheet of memory and I thought for a moment I almost knew her. She saw the box as my open heart. She wanted to hold it, dance with it. The sunflowers on her dress spun in the daylight. And the waves came down on the shore, slowly at first, but ever present, drawing us out into the tide.

A stranger in every town

By Alec Gourly

The dirt roads without signposts are for the weary but curious. The same face that demands a razor, less sun, or someone to welcome it at the door Has made many choices, too many towns and just as many third gear turns With nobody watching.

Running away has become habitually routine. But the only thing they don’t miss would be the unexpected excursion itself.

Calvary is a filling station at a crossroads on an indifferent Friday. There is no tomb to leave empty on a Sunday. The riser rose, upped, and left, then turned right, Drank, ate, slept, rinsed, and repeated.

Thinking is just endless turn offs on roads unturned by Suburbia.

“Thinking is such a turn off”, she said a long time ago. So, you run and run until the timing belt finally gives out, The hearts give in Or the gas runs out.

An accident waiting to happen

By Alec Gourly

I remember you lying in sand dunes On warm afternoons

And before everything else happened.

I remember lying to myself.

I remember liking that you lied to me.

I forget that sometimes, Before all the real lies.

I walked onto that same beach today

Hoping that the tide had daily devoured memory And crushed it into small smooth coloured stones, To take with you Or to leave there.

I walked into the surf.

I said hello to the dry robes And waved goodbye to the small stones.

Atomic Collective

By Alec Gourly

The grand collectivist of all atoms

Will one day redesign mine

And yours,

Fashioning furtive new motifs

On a floating canvas that rests in pieces.

A tabula rasa of forgotten truth

And unremembered memories.

Age and youth at the end of the same brush.

My Son’s Whistling

By Miriam Manglani

My son is a beautiful whistler who is sometimes not aware he’s whistling, as if it was natural as breathing.

If we tell him to stop, he just starts up again minutes later, as if playing a record with a pause of silence.

Sometimes if I listen closely and close my eyes, I can hear my dead father whistling just the way he used to as if my son was blowing the same decades old air from his young lungs, kissing it warmly with his grandfather’s thin lips. In those moments I don’t ever want him to stop.

POETRY CONTRIBUTORS

Jack Galati

Jack Galati is a writer living in Arizona. He holds a BA in Creative Writing from Arizona State University. His work has appeared in a number of magazines and journals.

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

Alec Gourly

I have always enjoyed writing but it took the lockdown for me to start properly giving it some time and actually take that internal desire to express more seriously. It became a little addictive and a way of staying sane in this mad world. I write about a variety of things from politics and religion to childhood trauma and heartbreak. Sometimes, it's just a case of trying to make sense of the world, the people in it or even myself. I feel I am increasingly a constantly changing entity and often feel like an observer of my life than a part of it at times. I am only slowly starting to work up the courage to submit my work.

Dina Klarisse

Dina Klarisse (she/her) is a writer, poet, editor, and serial procrastinator. Poetry is her way of making sense of her experience as a queer Filipina American immigrant and recovering Catholic, as well as her interest in the intersections of history, language, culture, and identity. Her work has been published in ASU’s Canyon Voices, The Daily Drunk Mag, Chopsticks Alley, and Kalopsia Literary Journal, among others. She serves as Poetry & Issue Editor for the online literary magazine Marías at Sampaguitas, as well as Editorial Director for the indie micropress, Sampaguita Press. She lives near San Francisco with her partner and can usually be found on a nature walk, looking for whales, in a secondhand bookshop, or on her couch.

POETRY CONTRIBUTORS

Lenny Levy

By day, Lenny Levy began his time as a poet while he worked as a mild-mannered Federal employee. But as he left work each night, he slipped into the closest telephone booth, when he could find one, and morphed into a creative being who has written numerous poems covering a wide range of topics. He also writes plays, including several that have been performed and one that won a playwriting contest. To hone his skills as a creative force, Lenny has acted on stage, appeared in numerous local independent films, including lead roles in three, and performed as a standup comedian. His writing skills extend to also being a scriptwriter, script editor, and lyricist.

Shontay Luna

Shontay Luna is the author of ‘Reflections of a Project Girl’ (Pink Girl Ink Press), ‘Recollections & Dreams and To James & Sarah with Love: Poetry based on slang of 1920s through 1940s (Kindle Direct Publishing). Her writing has appeared in The Literary Nest, I Write Her/The Short of It and The Lucky Jefferson, among others. She majored in Poetry at Columbia College Chicago for two years. A Chicago native, she loves ethereal photography, #LeoNation memes and Juan Carlos 'Juice' Ortiz. You can visit her online at Twitter via @ShontayLuna & @Shontay_Luna

Miriam Manglani

Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Technical Training Manager. Her poetry has been published in Poetry Quarterly, Rushing Thru the Dark, Prospectus, Vita Brevis, Cerasus Magazine, Trouvaille Review, Sparks of Calliope, and Spry Lit.

Ann Privateer

Ann Privateer is a poet, artist, and photographer. She grew up in the Midwest and now resides in California. Some of her recent work has appeared in Third Wednesday, Voices 2013, 2018, and 2022 to name a few.

Emmeline Wuest

Hailing from the Pacific Northwest, Emmie loves oat milk hot chocolate and getting lost in old bookshops. When she isn’t studying and juggling an unreasonable amount of hobbies, she devours classic horror flicks from the ‘80’s and will gladly talk anyone’s ear off about them. She is currently majoring in English and Anthropology and is also a student at the Barrett Honors College. Emmie is a creative writer, but also dabbles in research related to the critical race theory controversy in the US. She has loved working on CANYON VOICES and hopes to return next semester.

Melody Yoon

An extrovert of extroverts, Melody Yoon carries her charismatic nature through life on the internet as well as the real world. She studied at Arizona State University, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English with a certification in secondary education. When she isn’t reading and writing for school, you can find her reading and writing about how disempowered people are shaping the landscape of online discourse. As a queer Korean-American, Melody is fascinated by the connections marginalized groups make in online spaces, in lieu of potentially antagonistic offline environments, and discussing universal themes in all forms of writing, including video games.

Such a Waste

By Rachel Feeny-Williams

Characters:

Claire: A young college girl, wearing glasses, jeans, long sleeved top, sleeveless puffer jacket and a beanie hat.

Jennifer: A young college girl, wearing skinny jeans and a tight long-sleeved jumper. She has long hair that is loose.

Brad: A College guy, wearing jeans and a t-shirt

Jamie: A college guy, wearing jeans and a t-shirt

Simon: A college guy, wearing jeans and a t-shirt

All of the characters have American accents. When Jennifer is ‘Playing Dumb’ she changes her accent slightly. It is up to the actress how she wishes to change it.

Setting: Busy college campus.

The play opens on a mostly empty stage. The sound effects of a busy college campus can be heard. Centre stage, Claire is stood behind a large metal table. The table is covered with images of animal cruelty with a banner in the centre that says, “Stop Animal Cruelty Now!” There are several piles of paper and leaflets on the table. As the lights come up, Claire is talking to passers-by, while holding out a clip board.

CLAIRE: Stop animal cruelty now... (Moving along the table and putting out the clipboard) Sign our petition to stop animal cruelty. (Shuffles back along the table as though following someone) Did you know that Each year, more than 100 million animals? Those include (looking down her clipboard and stopping to read) mice, rats, frogs, dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, guinea pigs, monkeys, fish, and.... (Looking up and realising the person she was talking to is gone) birds.

She sighs wearily before looking up again, as though noticing someone and quickly moving around the stage right side of the table and moving to walk backwards, as though in front of someone.

CLAIRE: (Holding up the clipboard) Sign our petition to stop animal cruelty sir? (Continuing to walk backwards)

Did you know, before their deaths, some are forced to inhale toxic fumes? How would you feel, being made to suck on an exhaust pipe all day?! (Claire misses her footing and falls backwards to the floor. She turns looking after the person she was talking to, shouting) DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY SNAKES DIED FOR YOUR BELT!!

Claire sighs wearily and gets to her feet, taking up her clipboard. At this point, Brad, Jamie and Simon enter from downstage left, laughing together. They take a few steps onto the stage before Brad notices Claire and stops them.

BRAD: Hold up guys.

JAMIE: What?

BRAD: (Indicating Claire) Clipboard Crazy!

SIMON: (Complaining) Aw man!

BRAD: Chill...we’ll just wait until she’s not looking and then we’ll make a run for it.

(Claire looks down over the pages in her clipboard.)

BRAD: Wait for it...

(Claire adjusts her glasses and dusts some dirt off her jeans.)

BRAD: Wait for it...

(Claire turns to go back to the table just as Jennifer walks in.)

BRAD: Ok N...

(Brad spots Jennifer and stops dead from where he was going to move, resulting in Jamie and Simon walking into the back of him.)

JAMIE: What are you doing man?

SIMON: Come on let’s go!

BRAD: Hold on a second fellas, this just got a whole lot more interesting.

(Jamie and Simon look perplexed before Brad indicates Jennifer with a jerk of his chin.)

JAMIE & SIMON: (Together in realization) Oh.

JAMIE: Alright! My man going to get his flirt on!

SIMON: (To Brad) What makes you think she’d be interested in you?

BRAD: Dude, please! I mean any girl in this place would . . . and has thrown themselves at my feet.

SIMON: (In disbelief) Really?

BRAD: You doubt me?

SIMON: Well...maybe you should prove it.

BRAD: Well I would but...

SIMON: But?

(The boys go still for a moment as Jennifer and Claire start speaking.)

JENNIFER: Hey, how’s it going?

CLAIRE: (Glumly) How do you think?

JENNIFER: Well...I’m sure we’ll get some more signatures soon.

CLAIRE: Whilst I admire your eternal optimism . . . I don’t think people care.

JENNIFER: Well . . . we’ll make them care.

CLAIRE: (Half laughing) Oh yea?

JENNIFER: Yea. (Indicating the group of boys) Starting with them.

(Claire glances over and grimaces.)

JENNIFER: What?

CLAIRE: You’re kidding right? I guarantee those frat boys only have one brain between them, and it’s not in their head.

JENNIFER: Well, you never know, they could surprise you.

CLAIRE: I’ll believe that when I see it.

(The boys start moving again.)

BRAD: But . . . I’d never stand a chance with the clipboard crazy there. I mean...I’m good but I’m not that good.

CLAIRE: (Handing Jennifer the clipboard) I’m going to grab a coffee, you want anything?

JENNIFER: No thanks...I’m fine.

(Claire turns and walks away.)

SIMON: (Nudging Brad) Well here’s your chance.

(Brad turns and notices Claire has gone before turning and smiling smugly at his friends.)

BRAD: Just watch the master at work boys.

(Brad takes a moment to fix his hair and pop in a breath mint before swaggering over towards the table. By the time he reaches the table, Jennifer is stood at the other end, sorting some leaflets with her back to him.)

BRAD: Well, hey there gorgeous.

(Jennifer pauses, glances up at the audience, rolls her eyes before plastering a fake smile on her face and giggling before she turns to face Brad, changing her accent.)

JENNIFER: Are you talking to me?

BRAD: (Moving down the table to her) Of course, as if I could see any other girl around here with someone so beautiful as you are around.

JENNIFER: (Giggling) Well aren’t you sweet?

BRAD: So (looking down at the table) what’s this?

JENNIFER: Oh . . . (holding the clipboard up towards him) We’re trying to stop those big bad people from hurting the animals. Do you wanna sign?

BRAD: (Ignoring the clipboard) Well isn’t that just the nicest thing to do for those poor . . . orphans.

JENNIFER: Animals.

BRAD: Right . . . (pushing the clipboard down from where she is holding it towards him) So I’ve not seen you around before.

JENNIFER: Oh, I’ve been around.

BRAD: Well now that just can’t be true, because I know I’d recognise those gorgeous eyes anywhere.

JENNIFER: (Giggling) You think my eyes are gorgeous?

BRAD: Without a doubt.

(Jennifer giggles again as Brad looks over his shoulder, smiling smugly at his friends.)

BRAD: So . . . what’s you’re name?

JENNIFER: Jennifer...Or Jenny.

BRAD: Well . . . Jenny. I’m Brad.

(Brad lifts Jennifer’s hand and kisses it. Jennifer giggles again.)

BRAD: So, tell me Jenny, a pretty thing like you has to have a boyfriend, right?

JENNIFER: (Nodding) Uh-huh.

(Brad stops in his tracks.)

BRAD: You do?

JENNIFER: Yep.

(Brad pauses for a moment, looking back at his friends slightly nervous before quickly recovering.)

BRAD: Well, I have to say that you have truly broken my heart.

JENNIFER: Oh? I have?

BRAD: (Going to move away) It’s such a waste too.

JENNIFER: It is?

BRAD: Oh, I know it is.

JENNIFER: (Reverting to her original accent) Why?

BRAD: (Startled) What?

JENNIFER: Why is my being in a relationship such a waste?

BRAD: Well I...

JENNIFER: Is it that you presume any person I could be with could never meet up to your physical prowess?

BRAD: Huh?

JENNIFER: Is that what you were hoping for from this little encounter? That you were going to have me go weak at the knees with your schoolboy charm?

BRAD: Erm...

JENNIFER: And that before I knew where I was, you’d be ploughing me like a field waiting for seed.

BRAD: I...

JENNIFER: Making me forget about every man I’d ever known so that all I could dream of was being with you?

BRAD: Look I...

JENNIFER: Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe you believe that this person in my life is never going to commit to me the way you could and will simply break my heart.

BRAD: Now wait...

JENNIFER: In saying how much of a waste it is you want me to know that, even though we’ve only known each other a short time, you are desperately in love with me.

BRAD: I didn’t...

JENNIFER: Is that it Brad? Do you want to sweep me off my feet into a life of marriage and a handful of kids, all set in idyllic suburbia?

BRAD: I...

JENNIFER: Not much of a conversationalist, are you Brad?

BRAD: (Going to turn away) I should...

JENNIFER: Oh no.

BRAD: (Looking at her) What?

JENNIFER: Well . . . I have made it very apparent that I can turn you into a gibbering wreck, is that something you really want your friends to see?

BRAD: (Glancing over at his friends) Well...

JENNIFER: So, here’s what’s going to happen.

(Jennifer takes up a piece of paper, scribbles on it for a moment, folds it and hands it to Brad.)

JENNIFER: So now your friends have just seen you successfully flirt and obtain the number of a girl, and in return you are going to get them to sign my petition.

BRAD: What?!

JENNIFER: That’s the deal Brad. Unless you want your friends to know just how badly you struck out just now?

(Brad pauses for a moment before turning and calling over his shoulder.)

BRAD: Hey guys, come here.

(Simon and Jamie start to walk over.)

JENNIFER: (In hushed tones) Best let me do the talking. We know it’s not what you’re good at.

(Brad turns angrily and opens his mouth to say something, just as Simon and Jamie arrive.)

JENNIFER: (Back in her fake accent) Well hey there.

SIMON & JAMIE: Hey.

JENNIFER: Brad, you’re friends are just too cute.

(Simon & Jamie mumble in an embarrassed fashion.)

JENNIFER: I was just telling Brad, I would love to invite you all to a little party I’m throwing tonight.

SIMON: A party?

JENNIFER: Yea, I’ll be there . . . and my friends.

JAMIE: Friends?

JENNIFER: Oh yea, we always find it so hard to get guys to come to these parties so it’s normally just us girls.

SIMON: Well . . . that sounds great.

JENNIFER: Great . . . oh, would you boys mind signing our petition . . . to help the animals?

JAMIE: Well...

(Jamie and Simon look at Brad, as does Jennifer. After a moment Brad picks up the clipboard.)

BRAD: Of course, we will.

(Brad signs the petition and offers it to his friends. They look unsure.)

BRAD: Come on guys...it’s for the animals.

(Simon and Jamie proceed to take the clipboard as Jennifer continues speaking.)

JENNIFER: (Taking up a metal money box) A donation would be nice too.

BRAD: Donation?

JENNIFER: Yea, all the people who are serious about the cause donate.

SIMON: I don’t know about a donation.

JENNIFER: (Disappointed) Oh, well I’m sure the other girls will understand.

JAMIE: The other girls?

JENNIFER: Yea . . . see that’s what the party is for . . . to support the cause ...

(There is a moment of silence as the boys look unsure at each other.)

JENNIFER: The girls are really into it.

SIMON: Really?

JENNIFER: Really.

(Simon and Jamie look at each other and shrug before opening their wallets.)

JENNIFER: $20 is the recommendation.

(The boys look up at her for a moment before taking the money out of their wallets and putting it in the pot. Jennifer then turns to Brad.)

JENNIFER: And yours?

BRAD: (Through gritted teeth) Oh yea, right, of course.

(Brad takes out his wallet and puts the money in the tin.)

JENNIFER: Oh wonderful, well we’ll see you tonight. Brad has my number to get the details. Right Brad?

BRAD: Yea, right.

SIMON: Great.

JAMIE: We’ll see you . . . and the girls then.

(Simon and Jamie turn and start to walk away, Brad remains for a moment. They look back at him.)

SIMON: Brad, you coming?

BRAD: One sec.

(Simon and Jamie nod before leaving downstage left.)

BRAD: So, do you actually have a boyfriend or was it all part of the act?

JENNIFER: Well given where your chances with me stood, it doesn’t really matter now does it.

(Brad goes to say something but decides better of it. He turns and walks away as Claire walks back in, carrying a coffee and a pastry in a bag. Over the next segment, Brad walks to the downstage left exit, stops and takes the piece of paper out of his pocket.)

CLAIRE: I thought we’d split something very bad for us. It’ll make me feel better if nothing else (noticing Brad walking away) What did he want?

JENNIFER: (Showing her the clipboard) Three signatures. (Handing her the tin) And $60 in donations.

CLAIRE: You’re kidding?! (Claire opens the tin and looks inside before looking up at Jennifer) How did you do it?

JENNIFER: I have my ways.

CLAIRE: Well, you are just . . . brilliant.

(Claire hugs Jennifer as Brad unfolds the piece of paper, looks at it shocked and turns back to look at Jennifer hugging Claire. Jennifer smiles and waves at Brad over Claire’s shoulder.)

JENNIFER: Oh, I know.

(Claire and Jennifer break the hug and kiss.)

CLAIRE: Well, I say we are entitled to a break. How about under (points off) that tree?

JENNIFER: Sounds good to me.

(Claire takes the cash tin and petition and walks off with Jennifer. Brad stares after them as the lights fade.)

The End.

For more information on author Rachel Feeny-Williams, please visit our Contributors Page.

Now That You Mention It

By Mikki Gillette

Characters:

TOBI: A trans woman in her mid 20s, she’s confident, funny, and not shy about sharing her opinions.

MARK: A cis man in his mid 20s, he’s kind and sincere, but his circumspection can lead to equivocation on his part.

Setting:

A restaurant in a mid-size U.S. city.

Time: Present day.

Punctuation Notes:

A stroke (/) marks the point of interruption in overlapping dialogue.

A dash (-) marks the halting of a thought.

Play opens with TOBI and MARK sitting at a restaurant.

MARK: I like your hair.

TOBI: Thanks.

MARK: Did it take a long time to dye it?

TOBI: Yeah, but it’s worth it.

MARK: Cool.

TOBI: It took even longer to get my “science vagina.”

MARK: What?

TOBI: My science vagina, you know?

MARK: You mean, like –

TOBI: My little road to nowhere.

MARK: Oh . . . you’re, um, / trans

TOBI: The advanced model. Yes.

MARK: Right, I guess I – that wasn’t on your profile, / was it

TOBI: No.

MARK: Okay, I thought I would have remembered.

TOBI: I got a little tired of being asked if I have a dick, so I decided to share the news in person.

MARK: Sure, that makes – um, it . . . might have been nice to know, though. For me, I / mean

TOBI: (subtly challenging) Why, is there some difference between trans women and cis women? It seemed like we were getting / along

MARK: Yeah, we – um . . .

TOBI: You like my hair, right?

MARK: It’s – never mind. Forget I said –

TOBI: Okay. Did you go to school around here?

MARK: Close. My family lives a few hours away. What about you?

TOBI: I came here for college, and decided to stay.

MARK: It’s pretty nice, huh? What did you study?

TOBI: Poli Sci, then law – (playful) I like talking – well, arguing, really . . . What about you?

MARK: Computer science.

TOBI: Are you a coder? Engineer?

MARK: Kind of, um . . . I wanted to teach – high school. But then a friend asked me to help with his business

TOBI: Got it.

MARK: Are you a – do you practice law?

TOBI: (nods) I’m a public defender.

MARK: Oh. Is that cool?

TOBI: “Cool”? . . . No. It’s – I’m too much of a do-gooder to be . . . I like it, you know?

MARK: Sure. (pause, hiding discomfort) Have you dated a lot?

TOBI: Like, in my life, / or

MARK: I meant . . . are guys mostly, like, okay / with

TOBI: “Okay” with what, Mark?

MARK: I just – because you’re, you know . . . “trans,” / so

TOBI: Really? . . . You want to know if men I’ve dated have / been “okay” with

MARK: Sorry.

Tobi theatrically searches through her purse.

TOBI: Just a second. I have a letter from a very old, important man giving you permission to be “okay” with / dating me

MARK: It was just a question.

TOBI: Right, and what do want me to say? “Men are magically not transphobic around me. It’s amazing. Just be like them, and / we’ll be fine”

MARK: I didn’t mean to offend you. (softly, looking down) I’ve never been on a date with . . . someone like you before, and I –

TOBI: Alright . . . I’m sorry I was sarcastic.

MARK: Do you know how – never mind.

TOBI: What were you going to ask?

MARK: It was dumb. We can talk about something / else

TOBI: Okay. Have “you” dated a lot, Mark?

MARK: Oh, not really. I had a girlfriend in college, and I was with someone last year for a while.

TOBI: You two split up?

MARK: She moved for work.

TOBI: Oh, that’s too bad.

MARK: Was your family supportive? . . . About your transition, / I mean

TOBI: Yeah.

MARK: Cool . . . and the people at / your school

TOBI: There were a few jerks, but mostly / yes

MARK: That’s good . . . and when you’ve dated, have the friends of the people you’ve been / with, um

TOBI: Oh, so you didn’t really care about how I was treated, you were just wondering how “you” were / going to

MARK: No – I mean, / well

TOBI: Here’s some advice. It comes from my experience: If there’s someone who doesn’t respect you because of a prejudice they hold – (gathers things to leave) You’re better off not having them in / your life

MARK: No, Tobi. Wait –

TOBI: What for, Mark?

MARK: I wasn’t trying to upset you. I’m enjoying our date.

TOBI: Really? Because it feels like you’re just trying to work out how much status you would lose if we were a / couple

MARK: That’s not true. I’m sorry it seemed / that way

TOBI: If it wasn’t true, then why did you / ask me

MARK: I guess . . . because I was scared.

TOBI: Scared of what your friends – I hate that men are so fragile about shit like this.

MARK: I was trying to be honest . . . How is that “fragile”?

TOBI: Seriously? You’re afraid if we dated and you told your friends I’m trans, they’d say, “That’s nearly the same as dating a man,” and / then you’d

MARK: Can we just forget I / said

TOBI: When we sat down did you think / I was trans

MARK: Maybe we can . . . just look at our / menus

TOBI: The answer is “no,” because you were surprised when I disclosed / to you

MARK: Tobi –

TOBI: But you find out I “am” trans, and you think your friends will abandon you. How do you think I felt when I / transitioned

MARK: That was different, wasn’t / it

TOBI: I thought people would reject me, and some people did. Do you know which ones? . . . The type of guys you’re afraid of.

Pause

MARK: (detached) I’m sorry that happened / to you

TOBI: I am, too. But I already told you what I learned from it, didn’t I?

MARK: Do you think I’m prejudiced?

TOBI: I don’t really know.

MARK: I’m not . . . I don’t think, um, differently about you because / you’re transgender

TOBI: If that was true, I don’t think we’d be having the conversation we’re / having

MARK: What I meant – I just . . . I guess my friends’ opinions shouldn’t influence me / so much

TOBI: This is why trans women of color get killed, you know? The people who date them, or are attracted to / them

MARK: I wouldn’t / ever

TOBI: I wasn’t saying you – I just meant, this stigma is really toxic, and it upsets me.

MARK: I understand.

TOBI: If your friends would be jerks about this, then they probably suck, you know? And if they’re cool about it, then we’re just arguing for no reason.

MARK: (hesitant) I guess that’s / true

TOBI: I’m starting to lose patience, Mark.

MARK: I wish you wouldn’t. This is just . . . unexpected. Maybe we can talk about something / else

TOBI: Okay . . . what are your hobbies?

MARK: I like to go on hikes / and

TOBI: “Hikes”? I don’t believe it.

MARK: What? Why don’t you / believe

TOBI: Every dating profile says, “I like hiking.” If it was true, there’d be no single people in the city. You’d all be / on trails somewhere

MARK: I do, though . . . honestly.

TOBI: Fine. I’ll take your word.

MARK: What about you? What are your hobbies?

TOBI: I volunteer at the queer youth center.

MARK: That’s nice.

TOBI: (pointed) Thanks. I try to convince them things will get better, despite ample evidence to the contrary.

MARK: Right – (vulnerable) I know I’ve been . . . kind of rude, or . . . maybe inadvertently offensive tonight, and I’m sorry about that . . . I am enjoying spending time with you.

TOBI: (guarded) You are?

MARK: Yeah . . . You’re smart, and funny, and extremely persuasive.

TOBI: (sheepish) I said I enjoy arguing – (vulnerable) I’m . . . enjoying our talk, too. You’re a good listener, and you’re honest. I mean, maybe not about the hiking, but in general.

MARK: (laughs) I’m glad.

TOBI: Well, we didn’t finish our talk about your “worries,” did we?

MARK: Oh. I guess we / didn’t

TOBI: Are they going to keep us from spending time together in the / future

MARK: I don’t think so.

TOBI: Really?

MARK: No . . . like you said, people who didn’t respect a person I care about wouldn’t be worth prioritizing in my life. And besides, there would be other people I could meet who would, right?

TOBI: Sure . . . Just so you know, though, they’re mostly furries who use neopronouns.

MARK: (concerned) What? . . . I’m not sure I / understand

TOBI: Sorry, it was just a joke.

MARK: (relieved) Oh, okay.

TOBI: I’m glad we had this talk.

MARK: So am I.

Both smile and pick up menus.

For more information on author Mikki Gillette, please visit our Contributors Page.

Redemption

By LIV

Characters:

Alise: A college student who’s visiting her mom and younger sister, Meghan for the weekend. She’s head-strong and won’t let others take advantage of her. She is very protective of her family.

Daniel: 53 years old who lives in California and is visiting Alise and her family. Daniel is in a place where he’s trying to make things right, for his sake and for the sake of the family.

Setting: Southern Florida

FADE IN:

It’s 3:45pm on a Sunday and the tension is as thick as the humidity in Southern Florida. After reluctantly giving in to her mother’s wishes, Alise gets in the car with her dad, Daniel who is quite nervous. He’s trying to keep a level head since they’re just getting groceries, what could go wrong? The two are sitting in the car with silence in the air. Daniel tries to spark a conversation)

DANIEL: So, there’s a shop on 43rd and Barrind right?

Turns to Alise sitting next to him who’s staring at her phone with a cold expression and doesn’t respond.

DANIEL CONT…

Alise?

ALISE: I don’t know (beat) just, look it up or something

Daniel sighs as he reaches for his phone. Alise watches as he unlocks his phone and searches for the store. There’s an unreadable expression on Alise’s face but it quickly disappears when Daniel looks over.

DANIEL: Do you have the list of things your mom wanted to get for dinner.

Alise waves a piece of paper in the air for Daniel to see, not even making eye contact with him and stares at her phone. Daniel turns on the radio and Wake Me Up by Avici is playing.

DANIEL CONT…

God, I haven’t heard this song in forever. What kind of music-(cut off)

ALISE: Please don’t make this more unbearable than it already is. I’m only with you in this car because mom told me to go. So let’s skip the small talk and just get on with it.

DANIEL: You can’t ignore me forever Alise, you and I both know that we need to talk.

ALISE: No, you want to talk. I don’t have anything to say to you.

DANIEL: I know that I screwed up, but I’ve changed. I know that I need to fix this Lisey-

ALISE: Don’t call me that! You lost that right 15 years ago.

Daniel’s speechless, but Alise keeps going

DANIEL: I know that.

ALISE: Do you? Cause it seems to me like everyone’s happy to move on! I get that Meghan was too young to remember but there’s no way that mom’s fine with this! Not after all the pain you caused her.

DANIEL: I talked with your mother! We made things right before I even entered the state! And that took God knows how long for the both of us. Look, let’s leave her out of this. Alright? This is between you and me. Now you may not agree with me but I’m still your dad-(cut off)

ALISE: Oh, I certainly do not agree, you’re not my dad, you’re Daniel. The guy who left. And there’s nothing that you can say that’ll make me change my mind.

Daniel parks the car on the side of the road

ALISE: What are you doing?

DANIEL: If we’re going to have this conversation, I can’t drive.

ALISE: We have nothing to say to each other.

DANIEL: Lise (pause) Alise, you have every right to feel the way you feel. But I think you’re holding back on me.

Daniel pulls out a small coin from his wallet and holds it out to Alise.

DANIEL CONT…

I still kept this from our last day together as a family. Do you remember that day?

ALISE: Why would I care that you have some stupid token from an arcade?

DANIEL: You’re right, you probably don’t. But I do.

He says softly, Alise is stunned with that unreadable expression again on her face.

DANIEL CONT…

That was the hardest day of my life, I wanted to give you and your sister one last happy memory before it all fell apart. (chuckles) What am I saying? It still turned out to be the worst moment of your life…But you gotta admit, we had so much fun! You and Meghan were battling it out with that game, what was it called? Dance rattle or Just Dan … (Gets cut off)

ALISE: It was Dance, Dance Revolution. (she says under her breath)

DANIEL: That’s it! And I think I played too, but I’m pretty sure I pulled something.

Alise smiles at the memory but looks out the window as Daniel chuckles

DANIEL CONT…

Look, I know I have no right to ask this but please, hear me out. If you don’t like what I have to say, then I’ll leave. I won’t even stay for dinner, just let me at least try Lisey. Please, just listen.

Daniel at this point holds the token out to Alise and she reluctantly takes the token

DANIEL CONT…

First off, not a day goes by that I wish I could’ve taken back what I did. How I hurt you, your mom, and your sister, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

ALISE: Then why did you leave?

DANIEL: (sigh) Because I wasn’t ready for any of it. I got married at 19 and had kids when I was 22. I didn’t go out into the world to figure out who the hell I was. Instead I became a stay at home dad who had nothing to offer in life, to my family or to myself. There were so many variables that I couldn’t have contemplated when I asked your mother to marry me.

ALISE: Variables? What does that even mean, variables like what?!

DANIEL: Like looking in the mirror and seeing someone else. As soon as I met your mother, I tried to fit into a mold that wasn’t me. The question of, ‘Who am I’ became a constant echo in the back of my mind. If I continued to live like that, I knew that I would’ve made this family miserable. So I did what I thought was best and(cut off)-

Alise gets out of the car and starts walking away with a new sense of fury in her eyes, Daniel abruptly gets out of the car and follows her

DANIEL: Alise! Alise wait!

He grabs her hand and she yanks away putting some distance between them

ALISE: That’s the best you can come up with? ‘I was trying to find myself?’ ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! It took you this long to try and fix what was left of your place in this family, and that’s all that you can say? I can’t accept that, I won’t!

DANIEL: I didn’t know what I was getting into! I-I didn’t recognize myself anymore!

ALISE: So you run in the opposite direction while we were left to deal with YOUR mess. You could’ve called, paid child support, sent Morse code-something to show that you actually gave a damn!

DANIEL: I did talk to her! I called your mother as soon as I stopped at a motel.

ALISE: What?

DANIEL: That’s besides the point, that is between me and your mother.

ALISE: No-no…she never told me that you called-(Cut off)

DANIEL: I told her not to.

ALISE: Why?

DANIEL: Because I wasn’t coming back! That’s why I called her in the first place, to tell her to move on! I couldn’t talk to you or your sister because…it would’ve made it harder to leave, I probably would’ve come back!

ALISE: Sacrificing your marriage, leaving your family. You chose them over us, OVER ME! And now I’m supposed to understand that, move on like it never happened!?

DANIEL: I never said that. And what do you mean by them-(cut off)

ALISE: Then what am I supposed to do with this?! This screwed up explanation that doesn’t give me an ounce of closure! And on top of that, you still haven’t mentioned the huge elephant in the room.

DANIEL: What are you talking about? I am being as honest as I can!

ALISE: Then who’s on your screensaver you moron?

Daniel’s face turns pale white

ALISE CONT...

Yeah, I saw. That’s a beautiful family you’ve got there. How old’s the kid? Thirteen? The twins look like they’re about eight. Funny that’s how old I was when you left. (Beat) And you must’ve married the blonde a couple years after you left. Did you “find yourself” when you found her?!

DANIEL: I’m sorry! I’m so sorry

ALISE: I’m not. I’m glad you finally got it right this time. And you know what? You should go back to them, because I know for a fact that they miss you. They’re so lucky. Those kids will never know what it’s like to have they’re dad miss their birthdays, Christmas’s, graduations-they’ll never have to experience their last day with dad just before he up and leaves!

DANIEL: Tell me what to do. I want to make it right!

ALISE: Well you can’t! Because your kids will never have to hold onto some stupid token (pulls it out) because it’s the only thing that reminds them of the last time they saw their father’s fucking face! Wondering why hold onto it, why you left. Well now I know why, and it all just hurts…

Alise slowly turns and takes a few steps before she stops but doesn’t turn around

ALISE CONT…

I think it’s about time you leave. Go back to them…And don’t even bother coming back.

DANIEL: Well that’s not an option.

ALISE: Says who!?

DANIEL: Says your mother.

Alise turns taking a few steps closer

ALISE: Oh-now we’re bringing her into this (She slowly walks closer to him) Well, I’ll start it off by saying she never talked shit about you. But I wish she would, because what you did broke-her! She deserved better then, and she deserves even more now!

DANIEL: She called me.

ALISE: Yah we’ve established… Wait, what do you mean?

DANIEL: About a month ago your mother called, and we talked for a while. After she explained some things to me, she asked if I could come back-try and reconnect with you and Meghan again. That way, if things turn out for the worst, you would have me around for support. Or whatever you needed me to be.

Alise slowly inches closer

ALISE: What things? What’s going on with my mom?

DANIEL: (Sigh) She was going to tell you when she was ready.

ALISE: Tell me what!?

Daniel takes one step closer

DANIEL: Alise, let's get back in the car.

ALISE: No! You’re lying to me!

DANIEL: Alise

ALISE: I’m not gonna fall for your sentimental-

DANIEL: Alise! She’s been diagnosed with second stage Parkinson’s disease.

ALISE: What? (She mumbled softly)

Daniel sighs, hanging his head in the silence until all he can say is

DANIEL: I’m so sorry

For more information on author LIV, please visit our Contributors Page.

Back There

By Maripat Allen

Characters: TYLER 1: A young man or woman

TYLER 2: A young man or woman

Place: An idyllic place

Time: The present

Setting: An idyllic place

At Rise: Two young people (late teens early twenties), are on stage. They can be any gender, but should be the same gender. Pronouns can be changed as appropriate. THEY are dressed exactly alike.

TYLER 1: I think we should go back, Tyler.

TYLER 2: Why? It’s perfect here!

TYLER 1: It’s boring.

TYLER 2: So peaceful. . . . the sun is so warm. . . .

TYLER 1: There’s nothing to do.

TYLER 2: But Tyler, we have everything we need here. Every time we dip our hands in the river we pull out a fish. And the garden grows every food we could ever want, all delicious. We never even have to water or weed!

TYLER 1: Come on! I’ll race you back!

TYLER 2: I’m going to take a nap.

TYLER 1: Seriously?

TYLER 2: Good night.

TYLER 1: You’re really going to . . . ? Man . . . you suck.

TYLER 2: No, you suck.

TYLER 1: You suck more. (beat) How long do you think we’ve been here?

TYLER 2: Who cares? Minutes, days, weeks? I’m trying to sleep!

TYLER 1: I think we should go back.

TYLER 2: Will you just chill?

TYLER 1: We may not be able to if we don’t go now!

TYLER 2: So what?

TYLER 1: Do you remember anything? . . . From back there?

TYLER 2: No. Why would I want to?

TYLER 1: Something’s coming back to me. . . . Something about a round thing . . .

TYLER 2: You’re imagining things.

TYLER 1: We would throw it and catch it.

TYLER 2: Go to sleep.

TYLER 1: There was another person we would throw and catch the round thing with.

TYLER 2: There was another person back there?

TYLER 1: I think we called him “Dad.” We were small then.

TYLER 2: (sitting up) “Dad” sounds familiar.

TYLER 1: “Catch” with “Dad.”

(THEY both smile.)

TYLER 2: Was there a person called “Mom” back there too?

TYLER 1: Yeah! And “Brother,” and “Friend.” It was good around them.

TYLER 2: Good . . . sometimes bad. . . .

TYLER 1: Remember how when we were bigger how we would throw and catch the round thing with other people?

TYLER 2: There were other people too?!

TYLER 1: Yeah! We called them “team.” And we would throw and catch the round thing with them. And hit it as hard as we could with this stick.

TYLER 2: Why?

TYLER 1: I don’t know, but it was very important that we throw it and hit it as hard as we could. We got so we could hit it really far.

TYLER 2: That sounds exhausting. I’m going to sleep.

TYLER 1: We liked it! It gave us a . . . feeling.

TYLER 2: “Feeling”? Is this another one of your weird ideas, Tyler?

TYLER 1: Our heart would go fast and our stomach something about butterflies in there.

TYLER 2: So our heart raced and there were insects in our stomach? Sounds terrible! We should avoid that place!

TYLER 1: No! Tyler, it was good!

TYLER 2: I remember something about “team” now . . . something about “losing.” It was bad, really bad. Let’s just rest.

TYLER 1: There were other people too . . .

TYLER 2: How many people were back there?!

TYLER 1: I don’t know. Seems like a lot. They came in different shapes and colors. They gave us “feelings” too. There was this one . . . when we were around her, it felt so good we felt like our heart would explode!

TYLER 2: That sounds dangerous! We can’t go back there!

TYLER 1: I want to!

TYLER 2: I remember something else about a heart. Something that happened to the person we called “Dad” . . . an “attack” . . . on his heart . . . and then he disappeared. And when that happened it crushed our heart.

TYLER 1: It healed though, right?

TYLER 2: And another thing. That person that made our heart want to explode? She went away and it felt the same. We waited for her but she never came back! I think our heart is still in pieces.

TYLER 1: We’ll recover.

TYLER 2: I just want to sleep!

TYLER 1: Stay awake!

TYLER 2: It’s so peaceful here, and the sun is so warm. . . .

TYLER 1: We have to go! It’s dangerous here!

TYLER 2: It’s dangerous there! This place is the opposite of dangerous! There are literally zero dangers here!

TYLER 1: But the sleeping

TYLER 2: Is great! In fact, I wish you’d let me do it!

TYLER 1: Listen, Tyler, if we go to sleep we’re not going to wake up!

TYLER 2: How do you know? And so what if we don’t’? A nice peaceful sleep what’s so bad about that?

TYLER 1: I want to get back to the people!

TYLER 2: The people who leave and don’t come back? The people who disappear?

TYLER 1: There’s “team.”

TYLER 2: And “losing.”

TYLER 1: And the feeling so good that our heart will explode!

TYLER 2: And the hurting heart! The crushed heart!

TYLER 1: And the butterflies! And the round thing!

TYLER 2: The round thing! There’s something else. . . . The last time . . . we didn’t catch it. . . . It came at our head. It hurt!

TYLER 1: There was blackness . . .

TYLER 2: And then we were here. So peaceful.

TYLER 1: We have to go! If we don’t go now we won’t find our way back!

TYLER 2: My head hurts. My heart hurts. I just want to sleep.

TYLER 1: Get up! GET UP!

TYLER 2: If you want to go, go! I don’t need you here! Go without me!

TYLER 1: I can’t!

TYLER 2: Why not?

TYLER 1: Don’t you see? We have to go back together! There’s just one of us here!

TYLER 2: One of us?

TYLER 1: Yeah!

(beat)

TYLER 2: It’s so peaceful. We should stay.

TYLER 1: Get up! Listen! Can you hear it?

TYLER 2: Let me sleep!

TYLER 1: I can hear someone! LISTEN!

(THEY stop and listen.)

OFFSTAGE FEMALE VOICE: Come back! Don’t go!

TYLER 2: It’s that “Mom” person. . . .

OFFSTAGE FEMALE VOICE: It’s not your time!

TYLER 2: It sounds like her heart is breaking. . . .

TYLER 1: We have to go back!

TYLER 2: I don’t want her heart to break! But it’s so warm here, so peaceful. . . .

TYLER 1: The sun is warm back there too!

TYLER 2: All the time?

TYLER 1: Some of the time.

TYLER 2: What about the peace?

TYLER 1: There’s not much of it back there, but

TYLER 2: I don’t want to leave the peace!

TYLER 1: But what there is back there

TYLER 2: I’m so tired.

TYLER 1: What there is back there, is . . .

(There are murmurings again, this time of multiple unintelligible voices which will become intelligible in the coming lines.)

TYLER 1 (Con’t.) Listen!

OFFSTAGE FEMALE VOICE: Please, come back! You’re too young.

OFFSTAGE MALE VOICE: The team’s not the same without you.

SECOND OFFSTSTAGE FEMALE VOICE: I miss you!

SECOND OFFSTAGE MALE VOICE: I’ve never had a friend like you.

THIRD OFFSTAGE MALE VOICE: You’re my only brother, man.

The offstage voices fade to murmurings. THEY listen carefully.

TYLER 1: What there is there is . . .

TYLER 2: What?

(The murmurings continue.)

TYLER 1: Love.

(TYLER 2 looks back and forth, between the “back there” off stage, and his present environs. Long pause as he deliberates while the pleading off stage voices continue faintly.)

TYLER 2: Love . . . Love. . . .

TYLER 1: Yeah, love. .Hurry!

TYLER 2: Love. (beat) OK.

(THEY put their arms around each other’s shoulders and exit together.)

THE END

For more information on author Maripat Allen, please visit our Contributors Page.

SCRIPTS CONTRIBUTORS

Maripat Allen

Maripat Allen came to playwriting through acting and has been writing plays for about fourteen years. She has had one acts, ten-minute plays, and a full-length comedy produced in Michigan, Indiana, Massachusetts, New York, Maryland, England (London), and Australia. She won the first place Community Theatre Association of Michigan award for a full length drama, We Gather Together, in 2014, and in 2021 for her full-length collection of shorts, Love Among Mortals. Maripat’s plays can be seen on the New Play Exchange at https://newplayexchange.org/users/51017/maripat-allen.

Mikki Gillette

Mikki Gillette is a trans woman playwright. Her play American Girl was featured in American Theatre. Her show The Queers enjoyed a sold out run at Fuse Theatre Ensemble this spring. Mikki’s play Mimetic Desire is scheduled for production by the Pittsburgh Classic Players in winter 2022. Mikki was a member of the Ashland New Plays Festival 2022 New Voices Cohort. Her work has been produced or developed at Artists Rep Theatre, Transformation Theatre, the OUTwright Theatre Festival, Profile Theatre and Post5 Theatre. Learn more at: www.mikkigillette com

Rachel Feeny- Williams

I am a thirty-five year old playwright based in Exeter, UK. I have been writing, selfproducing and selling plays for just over ten years, following the completion of my degree in Creative and Performing Arts at Liverpool Hope University. Over the past ten years my work has been produced many times in my local area of Devon, as well as nationally and internationally. In 2021, my piece Believe Me also won an award for Best Original Script in the Exmouth One Act Play Festival. As well as my own writing, I also run a group called The Literary and Discourse Society which meets every Sunday to read plays on Zoom exclusively written by members. The society has been running weekly since June 2020 and now has a following of writers from across the world. My main love of writing is to challenge myself and for that reason I have completed five “play a day” challenges since February 2021.

LIV

LIV is graduating with a bachelor's in Interdisciplinary Arts and Perfromances and is a aspiring singer-songwriter. Ultimately, LIV creates to share her experiences that expose her inner thoughts through her music and writing. LIV explores the psychological, spiritual, and physical experiences of life as a way to highlight our shared connections. Music has always been a place where LIV can make people understand and process which will be the statement in her songs and other forms of creativity. This script steams from a vulnerable time in her life while her parents were getting a divorce. While there's twists and turns, this script represents things she wanted to say back then, but never did.

ABOUT US

CANYON VOICES LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE is dedicated to shedding light on the works of emerging and established writers and artists. Founded in the spring of 2010 at Arizona State University’s West campus by one professor, Julie Amparano Garcia, and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, CANYON VOICES accepts writing and artwork from writers and artists from all corners of our planet and from all walks of life. The work of maintaining and producing this magazine is entirely student driven. Since its formation, CANYON VOICES has expanded into a full credit, hands-on class. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout, and publication. We strive to bring you an eclectic range of voices each semester.

OUR MISSION

At CANYON VOICES our mission is to provide an online environment to highlight emerging and established voices in the artistic community.

By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender.

CONTACT US

Questions, comments, feedback? We would love to hear from you.

Contact us via email at:

CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com

You can also visit our website or on Facebook:

www.canyonvoices.asu.edu

www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices

To submit your work, please send it to CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. Be sure to attach all the work you wish to submit to the email. Your submission must include an author biography and a photo, which will be included in the magazine should your work be chosen for publication. We are affiliated with Arizona State University, and we uphold academic standards. If your work is accepted, we reserve the right to make changes. You will be contacted should your work require more extensive edits. We accept simultaneous submissions.

All documents submitted should be double spaced with a 12 point font, in either Times New Roman or Arial. Poetry may be single spaced. All written documents must be submitted in (.doc) or (.rtf) format. Artwork may be in JPEG format. All work submitted must have a title.

FICTION

Up to two stories may be submitted per issue. Each story may be 20 pages or fewer.

POETRY

Up to six poems may be submitted (no longer than two pages each) per issue.

CNF

Up to four stories per issue. Two pieces may be 20 pages.

EXPLICIT MATERIALS

Because this is a university magazine, submissions containing sexually explicit material and explicit language will be reviewed and determined eligible for publishing depending on the context of the material in the work. Material deemed inappropriate or gratuitous will be rejected.

SCRIPTS

Up to two scripts may be submitted per issue. Script maximum 15 pages.

ART

Up to ten pieces, with at least 300 dpi or JPEG format (<1 MB). Include detail on medium.

READING PERIOD

Our editors read submissions in August, September, and through October 15th for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January, February, and through March 15th for the spring.

Julie Amparano García is the founder and publisher of CANYON VOICES literary andart magazine. Serving in the School of Humanity Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s NewCollege of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Amparano García oversees the school's Writing Certificate Program and teaches a variety of writing courses that include scriptwriting, cross-cultural writing, fiction, persuasive writing, and the Canyon Voices course. She received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles in 2006 and is working on a collection of shortstories and a play about children and war.

Katharine Colledge is a junior at ASU, working towards her BA in English. This is her first semester with CANYON VOICES. She has found a love for it and has plans to return for the Spring issue as well. Katharine is a transfer student who has finally found a passion pursuing English and learning about what it takes to create a literary magazine. Outside of the magazine, she pursues small side endeavors including acting, writing, and participating in research projects related to the arts. While uncertain of the exact life path she wants to pursue, she hopes to one day become a published novelist and travel the world to see all it has to offer.

Katharine Colledge Co-Editor-in-Chief

Julie Amparano García Publisher

Kristina Rasmussenis a graduate of ASU NewCollege Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences and holds a bachelor of arts in English and a writing certificate. Kristina has been an editor for multiple issues of Canyon Voices. She has worked on Issues 20 and 21. She has also worked on previous issues redesigns and converting the issues over tothe online publishingplatform, ISSUU. She was recruited this semester to be a volunteer editor because the class was cancelled and to help two other student editors. She enjoys the entire process of magazine production, including recruiting artists to feature. Most of the art in this issue was scouted outon deviantart.com,a vibrant online art gallery. Thank you, Julie for giving me so many opportunities to workwith you and the magazine

Sabrina Walls is an ASU student pursuing an English degree with a minor in Media Analysis. She also takes part at Sun Devil Fitness Complex at the Wellness Department. This is her second semester working on Canyon Voices In addition to reviewing submission, Sabrina also designed the magazine covers. In her free time, you can find her with a book at local coffee shop. Soon after graduation, she would like to purse a job within the publishing business

Co-Editor in Chief Kristina Rasmussen

Sabrina Walls

Co-Editor in Chief