Charred Aspirations by Ben Packer

Winter’s grim persona began to engulf the small town of Ashville, Ohio. Everyone knew each other and the family name still reigned in the minds of the townsfolk. The Bishop family, in particular, held little regard for their shared social values and thus they posed as an embarrassing mar upon the community. Brisk winds whipped the walls of the school, while a consistent warmth permeated its halls. There in the school, Nick, the young prodigy from the Moore family of prominent English ancestry, assured his dominance over the school. Teachers and administrators spent no effort in pursuing the affairs conducted by the boy, and neither would his utterly naive parents. A long time was poured into verbally and physically abusing the inferior Adam Bishop. On top of his economic troubles, Adam struggled with obesity and often found his thoughts drifting towards anguish. After years of abuse, Adam was driven to the point of revenge; Nick’s actions became the kindling for the fire burning within him. Adam’s animosity brought him to Nick. “Someday, I’m gonna kill you,” threatened Adam. His threat was met with a shrug, a smirk, and a dismissive wave of hand. Years had passed since those school days, yet Adam’s torment persisted. On a much more pleasant summer afternoon, the old town was alive with villagers clustered around the community’s hub, Oak Avenue, which was dotted with small cafes and restaurants. It provided the setting for that year’s townwide parade to pay tribute to the most influential and valued members of their small society. Adam sat down in his favorite restaurant, Terry’s Burger Shack and Grill, at a

56 table with a view of the coming parade. The children gleefully pranced out in front of the vehicles primed to begin the parade, and the crowds began to approach. Adam angled his wooden chair for a view of the decorated trucks and wagons, adorned with festive colors and brilliant posters of messages full of town pride. As the marching band trotted down the street to their own whimsical tune and the cheering townspeople, Adam caught a brief glance of Nick atop the local fire engine. Nick’s years of abuse had shredded any remnants of self-confidence years ago but left behind anger and frustration at Nick, who was attired in the glistening firefighter gear Adam had so long yearned to wear. Adam’s gaze refused to leave the adored and somewhat angelic figure headed for the stage. Helplessly, his stare would only singe Adam’s own individual importance as Nick was named Distinguished Citizen of the Year. In 1944, Adam continued his search for the everelusive career that would offer his soul the true fulfillment of courageous acts of prestige. His search led him to the Ashville Fire Department; he believed if he continued to work hard they would offer him a spot at the brigade. However, Adam’s short-lived aspirations to become a firefighter were just that. The memory of that day would further stir the turmoil plaguing Adam’s soul. Nothing would lead him in the right direction; Adam felt his goal of a life of virtue could not be fulfilled due to his perpetual failure. Adam squeezed himself into his beat-up Ford Country Squire station wagon and headed home. The home in question, more of a hovel than a house, was left to him and his older brother Luke by their long-deceased parents. The shithole on the outskirts of town was so flimsy that it looked as if even the weakest wind could bring it down. It consisted of a bedroom, a small living room, a kitchenette, and a nearly empty dining

57 room where there appeared to be remnants of a mattress and pieces of a quilt. The attempt at a home, nearly 30 minutes from town, was laden with dirt and clutter. A skinny stairwell led up to an attic on the second floor. Adam and Luke lived together in this minuscule hovel for years, nearly a 30-minute drive from town. Luke worked as a janitor at the local school the brothers attended as boys. Luke, with his reputation as the town drunk, in fact, only further perpetuated the idea of the Bishops as degenerates who corrupt the town. “Nick pisses me off. How can somebody have everything? A huge house, perfect kids, a hot wife, everything, and he’s still such a dick. It gets on my nerves.” Luke, replied, slurring, “Maybe you oughta take this guy out? Sounds like a real piece a shit; I say you get that rat bastard. Damn dirty...” Luke began to trail off. Adam had merely mentioned toying with that idea, but nothing more. He never gave it any serious thought. “Seriously though,” Luke continued, “how else we doin’ this?” Adam replied skeptically, “I don’t know, Luke,” knowing Luke was drunk and that he most likely did not want to kill Nick. As the evening progressed, Luke made his way to their small unkempt room of the decaying old house and settled down and fell asleep much faster than Adam, who stayed awake a while longer; the thought of killing another man danced around in his head as he sat upright in his rickety bed. The once horrible thought of murder became much more reasonable as time went on. His thoughts brought him to all the times Nick had beat him, bullied him, bested him. He couldn’t seem to get Nick’s smug smile out of his head as he held the Distinguished Citizen of the Year award in his hands . The next day Adam dressed for work and got into his car. His job, manager at the Ashville Sewage Treatment

58 Plant, was one of humility and inglorious necessity. The work involved monotonous tasks in the repulsive plant, but as a manager, Adam would escape as frequently as he could to his office to save his nostrils from the soul-crushing stench. The long workday proved a serviceable distraction for Adam, as he walked about the plant, pleased to check in on workers. He had worked in this field of work for several years, and remarkably climbed the ladder from within, starting as a lowly manual laborer, with overtime gaining him a promotion to manager. As desperate as Adam was to find worthwhile accomplishment in his career, he found simple pleasure in having a stable job. As fate would have it, on this day Adam would lose his job, as the plant was ceasing all operations. Adam was devastated to receive this news. He had no place anymore, no value, no way to prove any worth to himself. Adam ached for his job, his soul begging to emerge from his house and live his life. Adam ventured to the supermarket, only to quickly return home on the verge of tears. The Moore family had been there, pointing and laughing at him. Overwhelmingly embarrassed, thoughts of the past tormented him. No teacher ever stood in the way to prevent Nick from viciously attacking Adam. Adam knew something needed to change, but what? He informed Luke about the events of the day. Luke, surprisingly sober, feigned appalment and shock at the news, but in reality, Luke had heard this story far too many times. Luke muttered two words, “Take action.” Adam thought about the previous night’s events, and the two discussed the topic of action for a short while. What is too far? The conversation eventually made its way to murder, as the light from the sun faded. Adam indulged himself with food, imbibing himself as he ate, a habit intentionally avoided by Adam as he saw the effect on Luke. Nothing seemed to

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matter anymore. The next morning Adam awoke startled. Looking around the small living room, Adam caught sight of Luke’s detailed plans. He shuffled over towards the table, quietly hoping to be wrong about their contents. He reads them over quickly, terrified of the thought of murder. Sprawled out across the table and cheap carpet laid the fire department schedules, names, and addresses of the 12 local firemen and information on how to control a fire. The smell of gasoline was extremely potent from inside the house, as outside by the car stood 20 full gas cans. Adam was surrounded by bottles of hard alcohol. With the events of the previous night a blur, Adam read through his notes. The plan read: 8:00 p.m. - Luke uses the car to travel around to each fireman’s home, except for Nick Moore’s, and douse them in gasoline, then lighting them on fire. The fires Luke set would divert the fire department’s attention. 9:30 p.m. - Luke comes back home. Adam makes a call for the fire department to get Nick to come to their house alone. Luke will then light a small and controllable fire in the kitchen to make it realistic enough to get Nick to come in. Then when Nick enters, pour the last of the gas onto the fire, escape out of one of the only windows, and trap Nick inside with the fire. The day went on and the broken mind left inside Adam’s head would go through with the plan. Finally, 9:30 p.m. came around with the plan running smoothly. Luke had successfully set fire to multiple firemen’s houses and Nick would be coming to their home soon. Adam, still on the second floor, was on the lookout for Nick while Luke prepared the fire below. However, Nick stopped 25 yards short of the house. The fire downstairs grew out of control. It swept through the living room, Luke failing to put it out. The fire blocked the door and

60 burned up the entire first floor. Adam heard cries of pain from downstairs as Luke was burnt alive. Adam opened the window and screamed out for Nick’s help. As the heat rose quickly within the home the cool air from the window hit Adam’s face, a welcome, however temporary, relief. “My brother is dying in the fire! Come save us!” screams Adam. And in this moment of complete devastation, Nick’s only response was a shrug, a smirk, and a dismissive wave of a hand.

A Walk in New York by Carlos Flores

A crisp autumn air dances through the labyrinth of the city, A bittersweet reminder of the summer’s end. The sun is almost blinding as it reflects off of the skyscrapers of the city, Each one seemingly competing to outreach the others, Each of them frozen, In an everlasting race to the sky. Deep below, under neon lights, Past the hums of ancient air conditioners and the failed Broadway auditioners, What feels like millions of people pack against one another shuffling one way then the other. Two steps forward then one step back, A cut off here, A glance at the clock there. All seemingly knowing their numbered track. Dancing their two-step in time, Throwing the usual jazz musician a dime. Some crave the swiftness of the train, Others, the warmth of the sun and the cool wind on their face. As they climb the dirty steps back through to the city, They crave the portal-like effect the blinding light of sun reflecting off of skyscrapers. The crisp autumn air, Dancing a moment on their face, Before changing to a faster pace.

62 Dashes on the Wall by Peter Kapp

The front of the house looks the same. The flower boxes below each front window remain, the pink flowers just beginning to bloom. The beige façade offers no evidence of any change, much to my relief. The light hanging from the front porch is still surrounded by countless cobwebs, the lightbulb out as usual. I unlatch the door and stand in the doorway where the welcome mat used to be, my mouth slightly ajar and my hands fumbling with the coin in my pocket as I compare this house to the home I once knew and loved. The canary walls that used to be so inviting are stripped of the paintings that once adorned them, leaving behind only an ugly yellow color coating the walls of the entryway. The sound of my footsteps echoes throughout the house, the carpet that muffled them now lies rolled up somewhere, leaving the floor below it barren and desolate. Downstairs, the hooks that held the coats hang empty, the cubbies below hold only a thin layer of dust. The chalkboard in the playroom that served as the home for simple math and poor drawings is empty, the sketches erased but the memories will hopefully live on. The door frame that marked my growth for almost a decade is once again white. All ten lines, the first one only as high as my knees, are gone. I can no longer hear the ticking of the clock that hung next to the door. The small closet sits empty, my clothes in a location unbeknownst to me. The bed upon which I slept left several irreparable dents on the wall behind it, much more evident in its absence. As I close the door to my room on the way out, I try not to consider that I’ll never again see the yellow and white striped wallpaper

63 or listen to the clock ticking as I fall asleep. I’ll never again squirrel away Halloween candy in the little nook behind my desk or lie in bed reading by whatever light I could discreetly find. Never again will I stand in front of the mirror on the back of the door, my dad tying my tie behind me in preparation for a special occasion. My head hangs low as I cross the threshold back out into the hallway and slowly shut the door behind me. I traipse down the stairs among the dust hanging in the air, illuminated by the sun pouring through the large window as it always does at this time of day. The kitchen looks mostly the same, except for a few things missing from the countertops. There’s still a faint bloodstain on the floor from when I fell off of the countertop onto my head. The swinging door into the dining room creaks as I open it, revealing the green walls, the dining table at which so many meals had been shared now only a memory. I just put my hands in my pockets and look down at the scratched wooden floor below me, my fingers twirling the coin in my pocket as I reluctantly recall every family reunion and birthday party, every Christmas morning and Thanksgiving dinner. Because it’s these moments of joy that turned it into a home. Meandering towards the front door one final time, I remove the coin and examine it, the penny dated 2015. Taking one last look at the entry hall, I shut the front door behind me and stumble down the front steps one by one, a tear marking its path down my face. I take the penny and place it on the small ledge above the door frame where we kept the spare key and walk away.

64 I am From by Caleb Boateng

I am from the songs not of mumble Chance won 3 Grammys but he still stay humble Raised in the Bronx A- Boogie made known as the Jungle Not really an old timer but I still know what they about I grew up by Lil Tjay and he’s known for pop-out

I am Bronx- African bred, Jollof, Watchi, and Fufu is what I’ve been fed But when I’m in Greenwich I’m fine with steak and bread Don’t ask me if I eat Popeyes I’ll take Chinese food Nor KFC because I am never in the mood.

I am from “ Back to Square One” A borough full of hardships nothing is “One and Done” Where most friends don’t get to say “ Until the Day is done” Live in my neighborhood you’ll see “ The Playing Field Is Not equal” If that were the case everyone would “ soaring like eagles”

I am a Bronx breed Everything I’ve received never fell from trees Hear where I’m from it makes them unease God gave me two eyes so I’ll never be deceived A story is usually told from a boy through his color Race, Location, Life, is no different than the name Muller So I grabbed all the foods so I could be fuller

I am a boy walking on tightrope

65 Up, down, left, right living in many different worlds is hard to cope Raised as an African, if you don’t become a doctor there is no hope Not raised Catholic but Christian, don’t ask me if I know the pope Gye Nyame, I wear on my neck of a reminder where I’m from As my personality unwinds, I lose little pieces of where I’m from.

66 Two Hour Journey by Zach Murray

We laughed together We cried together. We embarked on a journey, anxious for the voyage, consoling each other at the loss of our friends we were all on one cohesive journey Never was there a place we’d rather be, but in the end, we will be forever separated, brought together only by the experience, because we were, are, and always will be, simply moviegoers.

Regret by Tyler Wilson

I stand here waiting Stricken, unable to breathe Until the day comes.

Regret, a lost chance, Displaced opportunity. Where has the hope gone?

Alone With Myself by Tyler Wilson

People don’t appreciate human interaction enough. I mean, I certainly took it for granted. Looking back, I realize how good I had it. I don’t talk to people anymore. They won’t talk to me. When there is no recipient for your ramblings, you go insane. I have so much to discuss: regrets, opinions, hopes, and dreams. People seem to forget I’m capable of such feelings. Some days, I worry I’ll forget how to speak. No one gives me a chance, that’s the problem. Everyone but him treats me like a monster. He comes around every once and awhile, emerging from deep within me. He’s the only person that will talk with me and listen to what I have to say. I listen to Him too. He says terrible things to me. He is evil, I can’t spin it any other way. The things He’s done, we’ve done, I suppose, will damn a man for eternity. Hellfire for Him, or the system’s just broken. But He hides away most of the time, so it’s just me, by myself, all alone. No amount of physical torture is comparable to solitude, as I can attest, having seen my fair share of both. I’m restrained to a concrete box, decomposing, slowly and consciously. I’m living in a coffin, waiting for it to finally serve its purpose. Little things, like the occasional choice, have become such a novelty. I haven’t been presented with an option in ages, but they let me choose something today. It was just a little thing, really. They asked me what I wanted to eat. I can’t remember the last time I chose what to eat. I was dumbfounded, at a complete loss for words. He said something ridiculous, “flesh and suckling marrow” or one of His old, bizarre favorites. It embarrassed me, quite frankly,

68 but luckily I curved him back. I chose something simple, something I would have considered rather boring a few years ago: two over-easy eggs, home fries, crispy bacon, and buttered white toast. I was in a good mood. For the first time in too long, someone had talked to me like a human. They brought me my food, and God was I happy. The guards were there to watch me (company is company, after all), I had a full stomach, and I had been heard. After years of solitude, such a small extension of kindness seemed to go on for miles. When I had finished all my food, and they had taken my tray from me, they said it was time to go. He had been quiet throughout the whole meal. He was anxious, sulking, things I’d never really witnessed from Him before. Something was building up inside of Him, I knew at some point He was going to snap, I just hoped He wouldn’t be too aggressive. He was. It happened when the guards grabbed us. Three of them entered our cell, approaching us with caution. One grabbed our wrists and began to cuff them together. Another was holding an iron muzzle to restrain our jaw. I think it was the muzzle that ticked Him off. He lunged at the one holding the muzzle, biting him in the neck. He’s always gone for the neck. I for one hate the taste of blood, but when He’s in control, there’s not much I can do. He ravages one of them and then moves us to another. We were two minds crammed into one body, the killer and me. Strangely, we never really shared thoughts, but at that moment, as more and more bodies pinned us down, I understood why He was so afraid. He was a bringer of death, never hesitating to take the lives of others, but for the first time, He sat on the other side, helpless and afraid. As they cuffed us up, restrained our jaw, strapped us down, and laid

69 us out on the table, He began to recede, leaving me behind, alone. As I came back into control and the three needles broke through my skin, I felt their liquids in my veins as the world faded from me.

70 Cries of Relief by Aidan Marks

I can scarcely remember what the sky looks like. After all these months, I’m left with only hazy memories of the sun’s magnificent colors embracing the vast skyline at dawn. I try in vain to imagine the lazy streaks of color across the sky as I stare at the cold steel of the bunker’s ceiling. “Hey,” says John, “slow down, you already ate your rations for the day.” Of course, I already knew this, but I was hoping that he wouldn’t notice. “What does it matter to you?” I grunt. “It doesn’t. Just don’t be surprised when I don’t share mine with you.” I respond with only a glare. In the weeks since our supplies began to dwindle, time has slowed down as tempers grew shorter. The days have become longer, and I no longer possess enough energy to maintain a constant stream of thoughts to fill the silence that never fails to accompany a day in the shelter. To say I understood why exactly John invited me into his shelter would be a lie. John and I were never close before the bombs. As neighbors, we were friendly, but I distanced myself in an attempt to avoid his antics as the town’s oddball. Prepared for every outcome in any given scenario, it came as no surprise that John had a bunker filled with supplies. Six months is long enough to change a man. The lack of entertainment in the bunker has turned John into a raving professor, spewing lectures of pure nonsense. These monologues remain tiresome and tortuous for those subjected to them as he only praises the bunker and contemplates our durability. Avidly against investigating the outside world, John

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has forced us both to remain content with our shelter. A byproduct of our prioritization of survival over prosperity, the sanctuary deteriorated into a shabby prison littered with scraps. We managed to remain mentally sane, living vicariously in remembrance of our world. A world in which we can only assume everyone we knew and loved was wasted away in an instant, no time to escape their inevitable doom and certainly no time for goodbyes. We only survived because we immediately sought shelter as the early warning sirens started blaring. Rather than lay in the streets, no more than evidence of humanity’s demise, stiff in the streets of a dead civilization like our brothers and sisters, we reached the bunker without waiting for the bombs to hit. The only thing standing between us and certain death is the thick steel walls of the bunker, crammed twelve feet underground. We are not the lucky few, oh no, we are the ones chosen by some higher power in a display of god-forsaken irony, left to suffocate in this box until one of us is brave enough to venture above ground, away from the relative safety of the bunker. This may be surviving, but it is certainly not living so I will not fall victim to this cruel act of the universe. Breaking out from this abominable dungeon is the only escape. The walls are shrinking, gliding inwards, compressing the room into nothing more than the cramped pocket of air that it is. I choke on the air around me as my breath escapes me. The idea of freedom consumes me, manipulating my every instinct, influencing my thoughts and shaping me into someone other than myself, or at least the version I thought I was. I crave liberation from this prison, held from suicide only by the vague hope of life aboveground once again. John lays stiff on our cot. This bunker was stocked for a single hermit, and although it may have been John’s originally,

72 survival means quickly adapting to the conditions. Society is dead, no more than a fleeting memory, leaving me no reason to succumb to its expectations. I pick up one of the loose pipes scattered across the floor. Too heavy to properly wield, it drags over the ground, clinking loudly as it stutters over the cracks in the concrete floor. As I hesitantly peer over his body, John’s eyes flicker open, evolving from a mix of fear and confusion to complete realization of the situation’s gravity. His eyes narrow as his face conversely softens. “I knew it,” he whispers faintly. His foot jabs into the side of my knee, and I crumble to the ground alongside the pipe, embarrassed to finally succumb to the evil that confinement brings its inmates. Hunching on my knees, I take hold of his decrepit clothes and pull him down beside me. I clamber over him, reaching for the pipe I dropped. A yank to the back of my shirt pulls me backward as John restrains me, leaving me at the mercy of my would-be victim. Struggling to breathe, I maneuver myself toward one of the walls. A short, pointed piece of wood lies on the concrete next to me. All the suffering I endured over the past months led me to this moment. The thought of the pain flows through me as the wood drives through his eye. He’s enveloped in a pool of blood, the wood still protruding from his eye. John’s blood stains my shirt, dripping onto the floor of the bunker we had just denounced as our home. Moving toward the exit, I reach for the hatch. Stiff and rusty from lack of use, I barely manage to pry open the door. I enter the escape tunnel and clamber up the dark and moldy ladder in the escape shaft until I reach the final trapdoor, the one obstacle between me and my salvation. As I open the trapdoor, I observe the absence of a fiery wasteland or crumbled remains of houses. Instead, a sprinkler rotates,

73 watering a lush green yard. Children play within the confines of a white picket fence. My stomach churns at this scene of normalcy. A little girl skips rope over the spot where she should have been charred on the ground. A boy rides his bicycle over smoothly paved roads silhouetted by the sunset behind him. And below them all lies John, lifeless and unknowing. Already underground, we never heard the cries of relief.

74 A Little Piece of Heaven by Tommy Sandford

She was walking with her friend, school had just started and both of them would have rather been at the beach, staring at the boys they wouldn’t ever have the courage to talk to in calculus. Of course, they weren’t in my calculus class, no, I make sure that there can be no such connections. I wondered what these pretty girls were thinking about. I certainly knew what they were talking about, I think that the whole fucking street knew what they were talking about. My main curiosity lay with whether or not they were using their heads as something other than a goddamn hat rack, as my grandfather would say. They had some mindless chatter floating between them. Corey was the one I was pursuing, her friend Taylor was nice too, but she was in my Euro class that year. “Omigod! I can’t believe Mr. Sanchez gave a reading quiz on our second day back,” Corey complained. “I know right!” Taylor responded, before prattling on, “What did she really think that we were going to read that stupid book about poetry? That is the dumbest shit, I haven’t read any poetry since Dr. Seuss. Like actually what the fuck?!” Ok, so I wasn’t following MENSA hopefuls, but c’mon, she was hot. Her backpack keeps sliding across her shoulder blades. Turns out being slender doesn’t have as many perks as she hoped it would. Sure, she looks good in a sundress, but that doesn’t really help her carry her books for the walk home. I don’t know why she brings books to school in the first place, she clearly doesn’t read them. Was I dumb for following her home? Maybe. It was wildly out of my way, but she was definitely worth it. There are just some girls who will make

75 you walk an extra 0.73 miles out of your way. Or around that number. Probably. Who’s keeping track? Not me. The girls continued their banter, chattering as I tried to close the gap between us. If I could just get her alone, maybe I’d have a chance. I jog a little to catch up to them. What to say, what to say. I’ve never been much good at talking to girls, getting them alone is something I’d scarcely consider myself an expert at. But I had to start somewhere, I had to. “Hey,”I said nervously, clutching my hammer necklace. “Ah, what the fuck was that?!” Cool, cool, I was killing it. “Hey, so, um, how’s it going, ladies?” Taylor had gotten over her fright and was now just staring at me in disgust. Like I said, I was killing it. At least Corey was being a little nicer, or trying to be. “Hey, what’s up,” “Oh, well, I was just walking, and I saw you guys walking and I was wondering if you wanted to walk with me so we can walk together...or something like that” “Um, sure, I guess. That’s fine, right Taylor?” Taylor flipped me off, but whatever. She wasn’t who I wanted to walk with anyway so fuck her too. I stepped over to Corey’s side and started walking with them. Was I a little obvious, maybe. Was I walking with her after following them for almost a mile, yes. So that was a win. I didn’t say much, which wasn’t too bright, in hindsight, but I didn’t know what to talk about. Taylor clearly didn’t like me, so she was doing everything to keep Corey away from me, distracting her with questions about makeup and prom dresses. Clever girl. Not clever enough, though, because it turns out that her house was well before Corey’s. I waved at her as she walked up to her door and she flipped me off again. Real classy gal.

76 “So you go to Custer High too, right?” Corey asked me, once we were alone. “Yeah I’m in your grade” “What, no way, I don’t think we’ve been in any classes together” I’m well aware. “Yeah, I don’t think that we have. You don’t take any AP’s do you?” Shit, not a great talking point to bring up. What was I saying? That I think I’m smarter than her? That I’m better than her? Shit, shit shit. She bristled slightly, of course she did, I’m an asshole, “No, I don’t. Do you” Well, now I have to hype myself up. I don’t know much about talking to girls, but I do know that you’re not supposed to spend the whole time bragging “Hahah, yeah AP Chem and Physics this year” “Cool” Then came the awkward silence. I was almost out of time. I was almost out of tricks; my cutsey banter had failed, and I couldn’t switch personas now without giving too much away. Then it occured to me, I’ve got all the time in the world. It’s not like she’s going to be doing homework anyway. Or eating dinner. “Hey, Corey, did you know that the only Sequoias east of the Mississippi are right here in town?” “OMG no way! I love California!! Where are they?” Well, well, well, look who should’ve taken Environmental Science. Her loss. “They’re actually not that far from here, I can show you if you want” “That’d be so cool!”

77 I grabbed her arm and steered her toward where I wanted to take her. I was finally alone with her. I had gone through the charade of unexceptionalism, stuttering and stammering as I guided her farther and farther away from friendly eyes. Now I was Keyser Soze, my limp disappearing as I strode beside her. Thankfully she didn’t notice the change, but then again, why would she? As far as she was concerned, I was still the little science geek nervously shuffling next to her. But it was getting harder to find sweatshirts that were loose on me. For this to be successful, I needed to be strong, so I had bought a weight set a little while back. I was up to three plates on the bench, and I knew she wasn’t. It was dark enough for me to make my move. I pretended to stumble, pushing her into a root that she tripped on. Down she went, like clockwork. She had a nasty little scratch on her forehead, dripping her sweet blood into her eyes. She looked up at me, confused, imploring me to help her up with those doey eyes. Such a shame, I was almost feeling human around her. Method acting is so taxing. “Are you ok,” I said, feigning concern as I grabbed her arm. “Idunno,” she whined, “My ankle really really hurts”. “Can you walk?” She took a tentative step forward before collapsing. Turns out she can’t. “Can I take a look at your ankle? I’m an EMT,” I lied. “Th-thank you,” she whimpered. I bent down so that my head was just touching her knee. I gently grabbed her ankle, massaging it as if I knew how to treat it. From the recesses of my sleeves, I take out Sweeny. Holding her ankle with my left hand, I slash Sweeny down across her Achilles Tendon, severing it immediately. She screams, but

78 we’re far enough away from the town that no one has to hear her wailing. I take out Sweeny’s twin and bring Todd down upon her other ankle. Now that she is properly immobilized, I can begin my work. I only have about four hours, so I need to be efficient. I’ve already risked enough blood spillage. I did deliver on my promise though, there was red wood all around her now. I tie her to the tree, propping her up so that the blood from her ankles can drip into the bowls I put beneath her. Her crying is getting annoying, my hands keep slipping from her throat because her tears make it so slick. “Why? Why?” she sobs. “Why me? What did I ever do to you?” It’s easier to not answer her. It keeps her in suspense. I could just knock her out but I’m not allowed to touch her face. Fucking rules. She finally stops crying, just hangs limply from the tree. The blood loss has finally gotten to her, but she wasn’t dead. Now it was finally time. I unlocked my jaw and howled at the new moon. Seven piercing screeches, just as I had been instructed. Out of the darkness emerged the scraping of claws on the jagged stone. She didn’t even blink, this girl should’ve had her picture in the dictionary right next to the word “defeated”. A lone lupine form stood beside me, his fur bristling as he stared at the prize that I had caught for him. Garwulf barely acknowledged me. Whatever, I wasn’t expecting gratitude. He walked up to the bowl at her feet and began to lap at the blood, like a dog drinking water. As he drank, his ribs disappeared beneath the flesh as he began to fill out his form. He stood back on his hind legs and cracked his bones, rearranging them so that he assumes a more human form. He brought one clawed finger under her chin, lifting it up so that she was looking into his amber eyes, hellfire embalmed in an ocular lense. He growled

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into her mouth, as if clearing his throat and then he spoke. “The life that you think is thine will soon be mine. Your life, your strife, you shall be my wife. A queen of the dark, where the sun resembles a spark. Join me below and away we shall go” He released her head and it fell limply down, which I guess he took to be her nodding yes. I don’t make the rules, I just benefit from them. He pushed her head back up till it was leaning against the tree and traced his finger around his face: starting at her left temple, going down past her chin, up to her right temple and finally across- her hairline. Once he had finished his bloody circle, he bent forward as if to kiss her and bit her nose. Then he pulled her face off. I’d never seen this ritual done before, only read it in the grimoire. I was not prepared to see this girl’s face get eaten. This was straight up New 52 Joker type shit. The blood that was on her face was drawn to him in some bastardized hydrokinesis, going into his pores and finishing the work that her ankles had started. “Blood and bone hath help me grown, meat and marrow shall make you less narrow” That was my cue, I took the twins out and started carving chunks out of her arms and legs, making myself a nice little dinner. The meat was kinda dry, but she had a hydroflask nearby, so I was able to wash it down well enough. The hammer around my neck started to feel warm, filling my entire body with a sense of relaxation, as if I had just come from the spa. I felt her fear, her anger, and her hopelessness, but those were quickly overrun by the sense of potency that I felt. It wasn’t quite a bearskin, but the adoption of another’s life granted me such strength. I felt that I could even take on Garwulf, this shadowy creature I had summoned from Hel. The twins felt like they were humming in my hands, byproducts of a previous

80 demonic exchange that I had made. I wondered whether they could cut through his thick hide. I stepped towards him, Todd and his brother at my side ready to aid me in my attempt. I never got the chance. The last thing I remember seeing was him pulling his claw out of my chest, my blood mixing in with Corey’s. Together at last.

The Weight by Ryan Heinzerling

It was heavy, much heavier than I thought. Not to mention claustrophobic. My seven friends and I were shuffling our feet from the hearse to the church. Someone nearly tripped, the whole casket jiggled, and I could feel the body inside. The sudden jolt, accompanied by the weight of the body rolling, was just enough to be felt. I hated it, hated it so much. My brain kept forcing me to imagine what would happen if my hand were to suddenly slip, and he’d come spilling out, mangled like a butchered rag doll. Luckily, it was raining too, which completed the picturesque funeral day. What made the whole affair even more terrible, besides the rain and how well you could feel the body move, was the line of onlookers. They nearly blended in with the background, wearing nothing but that soot black clothing. I only really noticed them because of the stifled cries of his mother. Chris and Chet were there, actually wearing suits for once. We have a dress code at school, you get it. They’re always out of it, kind of bugs me really, especially because I’m particular about the way I dress. I prefer to look neat as opposed to messy, so I usually go for a jacket and tie. Chris’s got long hair, looks like a deranged hippy. He had it tied back in a ponytail, his attempt at formality or something, I guess. No sunglasses on him today, his usual crutch. Chet looked a little more formal. He’s got real glasses on top of a high nose that makes him look a little bit more academic. But it’s all superficial, doesn’t really stand for much if you ask me. They both smiled at me, trying to make me laugh while holding the casket, but I glared back. Would’ve sucked to embarrass myself

82 then. At least, it wouldn’t have been very funny. The burden was a little easier once we got inside the church, you know, and dumped the casket on its gurney thing, if that’s the right word. It was a quaint place, and I think it had to be my favorite part of the proceedings. The altar carried a simple demeanor, with a caring priest overlooking the pews. The sweet scent of the candles, coupled with the rainbows of light coming from the stained glass windows. Nothing matches the ambiance of a simple church, and I had to hide my smile, remembering that I wasn’t at my normal Sunday Mass. Hm, I guess I should give some background about Barry, right? You know, the deceased guy. Not much to say really. Loved football, loved lacrosse. Seemed a bit like a simple guy to me. But, a kind of appreciable simple, like a simple that made being around him easy. Popular guy, real handsome guy. Broad shoulder, chiseled chin. Being near Barry lacked a sort of baggage that came with other people. I remember one time, he’d just made an outstanding catch in the endzone. Everyone went berserk on the sidelines, and when he came off the field, his response to everyone saying it was an amazing catch was “really?” I like to think it was that sort of humble ignorance that made him easy to be around. He certainly was, in the words of his coaches, an outstanding athlete. Shame he died really, because supposedly offers had come in from just about every major university. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m sure glad it wasn’t an open casket affair. He’d been hit by a bus, wasn’t looking while crossing the street, I guess. So when I say mangled, I mean mangled. To be honest, call me an asshole, but sometimes during the various eulogies, it took some effort to keep a straight face whenever someone said a bus hit him. I guess it’s

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the dark humor in it, hard to tell. Quite honestly, the funeral wasn’t very interesting, not like normal mass anyways. My friends harp on me for being Catholic, which I take seriously. But unlike my heathen friends, church never failed to be interesting for me. My parents took me every Sunday, and aside from maybe two or three, I’ve been every Sunday my whole life. I even became an altar boy when I was about thirteen. People make fun of me for it, something about being the priest’s boy. I don’t really get it that much, since, you know, it’s called being an altar boy. But yeah, I’m decently into it, I guess you could say. But funerals? Not my speed. They’re just . . . a little too sad. I’m more into the sort of church where the priest actually gives you something to think about, the homily, as opposed to the funeral standard “sucks he’s dead, but at least he’s in God’s hands.” To pass the time, Chris, Chet, and I would make stupid little hand gestures at each other, you know, to see who’d crack first. I won, it wasn’t my first funeral. I digress. So, I’ve made my case: funerals aren’t for me. But, I think the real experience worth anything is the burial. Creepy, actually seeing whoever it is lowered into the Earth and all, but I think there’s something more real about it. A little more tangible that actually makes you say goodbye, with touching the casket and all. Maybe, I don’t know. Anyways, it was pouring rain, still that disgusting day, so the casket looked real shiny, like that freshly washed gleam. Everyone seemed real somber now, the funeral was child’s play compared to the real thing. Now was when we really thought about who Barry was. The closest I ever got to Barry, aside from normal classes together, was a night after a big game. At the time, I worked for the school paper, and, being the new guy, they made me

84 cover the sports section. Naturally, the locker room seemed like the place to be after the game, so I quietly snuck in there. It was loud, deafening. The coach was going on and on about how important the game was, yada yada yada, and I wrote some of it down so the school could feel inspired or whatever. The coach finished, so, with nothing else to do really, I started interviewing players, Barry in particular since he’d had an outstanding game. Usual for him. “How’re you feeling, champ?” I started. “Sore. But good game, played well, team played well. Do, uh, do you mind doing me a favor?” “Sure?” “God, my right shoulder is killing me right now. Would you mind-?” “Yeah, uh, sure.” I kind of gave his shoulder, like, this little massage, of sorts? I’ve never done something like that, but he seemed kind of into it, so I gave it my best shot. Well, some other guys on the team saw, laughed at me a bit, which I was used to since, you know, I’m so Catholic and all. Gives me a target on my back or something I guess. “Guys, knock it off. I’m a little sore, alright?” “Yeah sure. Real sore, huh?” they laughed. They walked away to another part of the locker room. “God, sorry about them,” Barry said. “Uh, no worries.” “Yeah, they’re a little, hm, how do I say this? Insensitive, that’s the word.” I looked at my feet. “Yeah don’t write this down please. I’d hate to give people the wrong idea in school.” “What do you mean?”

85 “You giving me a massage? Gives people the wrong idea if you ask me.” “Um, okay.” “Now, I have to ask. Didya like it?” “Like what?” “The massage, duh?” “Why would I like that? I was just doing you a favor.” “Mhm, okay. Well, I thought maybe you’d like it since you’re, you know.” “What do you mean?” “Come on, everyone knows it. You have that funny, peculiar way about you.” “What are you talking about?” “You don’t have to play dumb. It’s okay, Trevor. I’m in the same boat, just don’t tell anyone. Fun fact, all of us can tell, just so you know.” He put his hand on my leg, and winked at me, with a big grin covering his face. His attempt at some sort of comforting, I suppose. I jumped up. “Don’t you dare touch me,” I said. My hand clutched the cross pendant that I wore everyday around my neck. “Hey man, listen. I’m just trying to-” “I don’t give a damn. You . . . you stay away from me,” I shouted. I ran out the door, and that was the last I saw up close of Barry, until somebody posted a picture of him after the bus hit him. Always real glad he burdened me with that little tidbit. Chet and Chris helped quite a bit with forgetting that incident. We’re real close, real close. Being with them lets me forget a lot of garbage like that. Good friends, those two. Going to Dorado, too, in the city, that helped a ton, even though it’s

86 illegal and all, and it’s probably a pretty sizable sin. But the bar helped, the bar definitely helped. I digress. So, I guess that’s really my strongest memory of Barry. Kind of weird, but, like I said, ignorant guy, I guess. That’s what I thought about, putting my hand on the casket, saying goodbye for the last time. I watched them lower it six feet under. Stood right next to Chris and Chet. I tried my best, but I couldn’t really totally hide it. The smallest imaginable smile came across my lips, but I don’t think anyone saw. Watching them lower the casket, I know it’s terrible, but I felt better. I mean, if the story weren’t clear enough, Barry was just an ignorant, mistaken guy. Me? God no. I’m Catholic, not like that. So, truth be told, seeing him go down, it felt a little better, like life was back to normal. Yeah, that was it. Normal, and normal felt just that much better, I guess.

Lost Man by Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan

The tale of this man is one best not pondered by those who have felt true pain before; his unsavory end has been known to lodge itself in the hearts of the best of men and compel them to follow his darkened path. Those without the proper strength of will, those of a heart so anemic as to be incapable of protection from even the most treacherous seduction, hearken not to this story. Return instead to the ordinary. Be grateful for life, love, and what remains. But for those enticed enough to become willing to throw away that joy in their quest for pain, carry on. His gait seems not to follow a direct path but instead twists through itself; he staggers uncertainly to the left only to overcompensate and fall to the right, teetering at the edge of the cliff--an outlet to the vast and unforgiving Atlantic--, almost as if to let the bitter scent of death revalue life. As he ambles inconsistently, he speaks in the quietest of tones, as if addressing a companion who exists solely in a realm beyond the physical--but who exists without question. His inhuman presence leads bystanders to confusion and to the perverse questioning of his true existence with the result of the assumption of illusion conjured by an unsteady mind; a wandering shadow more tethered to dreams of an intangible world than to anything truly corporeal. His eyes are glazed over; he transcends this physical plane, writhing in his inescapable despair. With every minute, the world’s cruel knife digs deeper into his barely-beating heart, cutting out more and more, leaving him hollow. The wind bites viciously, but its hateful onslaught fails to faze

88 him--the ruthless essence of the world is no revelation. He has learned in his pain that the only true remedy is to forget, and so he lets his eyes rest closed in a solitary moment of stillness and tranquility. Then her smiling eyes flash across his mind, only for the memory to dissipate as soon as it came, leaving behind only ruin and pain. “Where are you?” he bellows into the cosmos, tortured by that familiar feeling of loss. It is in this call, however, as he stares out into the open world, that he notices her--a beautiful bluebird, small and fragile, and with a visage feminine and caring. As the man stares at the creature, longing, she remains settled in the treetops, unperturbed and wise in expression. She locks gaze and begins to sing a melody of untold beauty, an illustration of Nature’s unreplicable genius. The man is caught, his sweet anguish blown away by the graceful flaps of wings as the bird flies closer to him. “Eliza” he whispers. Those loving eyes reanimate as that gentle hand touches down on his shoulder. The man seems a different person entirely now; within him could be found a disposition both loving and purposeful--a soul finally recalling a previous life. He stretches his arm across his body and dances the soft tips of his fingers across the tender plumes that seem to almost extend from his shoulder. Eliza, dressed in the most splendid blue, soft dress, is by his side, as She had always been. She smiles and dances happily, placing each foot perfectly as She pirouettes, glides, stretches towards the horizon, with her beloved husband staring on in devotion. Eventually, Eliza stops, staring out at the dusking sun. She walks towards it, eclipsing the distance between herself and the edge. It is only as She approaches the cliff that the

89 man is broken from his trance; he fearfully rushes towards Her, each menacing crash of the ocean spurring him faster against the freezing wind. Eliza disappears. The man runs quicker, desperately scouring for her presence, for Her beautiful dress. But all he sees is a crow settled on the ground, in the same place where Eliza had been, darker even than the sky around it. Eyes of unbreakable obsidian stare back at him. And then it opens its horrid mouth, letting out a mangled, terrible cry, a profound laugh. It flies away, disappearing into the bleak sky, its voice still echoed in the ruffling of wind-swept leaves. The sun retreats below the Earth and a gale blows violently. But the man is disinterested. His eyes are glazed and inscrutable, fixed on the horizon. The intrinsic knife stabs into his heart over and over with sadist intent, and the wind whistles a tune of joy. The last vestiges of humanity leave him. He walks to the end, his stride steady. And then, he falls. The waves continue to smash against the rock face, eroding it on a scale too drawn out for human comprehension. The trees grow and the clouds float across the sky. Even the people who see the man step over the edge soon forget in favor of the perpetuation of their routines, their meaningless, endless cycles. And Nature continues.

90 Ascent by Maron Salame

*Part of a series (Randolphine Poems) inspired by the wilderness of Brunswick’s Vermont campus

Toiling through the ivory crust of snow and ice which tightly coats the protrusions of the mountain, Callously steep, I trace its ledges and rims. Supplicating the great mass for the basest soil, trees cling to its jagged outcrops, a deluded effort. Looking at the rays of the waning sun, Light refracts and recombines in brilliant magentas, blues and greens--fitting pageantry for a dwindling land succumbing to brumal night. Forcing their limbs to bow to an implacable influence, Snow thickens my steps as a primordial whisper Thins my breath, drawing my soul, repelling my body. Receding into themselves over the pitched plain of white only the muted conifers endure, interlocked and weaved together like a sparse textile, whose threads become more bare and sparse as I near the top. And there I finally stand, and I close my eyes.

Psithur * by Maron Salame

In the vastness of time we are impermanent fixtures, Which cling to the living landscape like trees; Our bread their soil, our mind their sun, our soul their wind. Leopold said that at long last only the hills will remember what men have forgotten. I guess that’s why they say that the hills have eyes. But without a crown of pine A hill can’t drink from the turquoise sky Or feast on tender bristlecones So if the trees have ears as Bosch said, let me wander up the hill To find myself.