Brushing 2019 by Brushing Literary Journal

brushing. art and literary journal 2018-2019

brushing art and literary journal 2018-2019

Contents Table of Contents

Editors’ Note

Designer’s Note

Sundials H.L.

What Do You Mean? A Rambling On Youth

RACHEL GOLDENBERG Photosynthesis HANNAH BUTCHER

The Stranger RYAN MURPHY

Tokophobia HANNAH BUTCHER

Bacteria ALLISON VAN TILBORGH

Just Another Day RYAN MURPHY

Mother Tongue NILLY KOHZAD

Roadtrips KALLI JOSLIN

Wonderland RYAN MURPHY

I Will Never Be A Surgeon ROBYN PERRY

Currency HANNAH BUTCHER

The Omens ELIZABETH TREPANIER

Orion’s Confessions HANNAH BUTCHER

I Am GRAE KIPPING

The Playhouse H.L.

Where GRAE KIPPING

Soldier of Liberty SHELBY PHILLIPS

Those Who Stay H.L.

When We Could Only Play Gin Rummy ANNIE BAUMM

His GRAE KIPPING

Safed HANNAH BUTCHER

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Credits Images

Expert Tailoring CLAIRE GLATTING

That Which is Unseen MARGIE SULLIVAN

Venice CLAIRE GLATTING

Under Construction CLAIRE GLATTING

For ‘Nasty Women’ EMILY ANNESS

Château de Versailles CLAIRE GLATTING

The Master’s Obedience RICHARD T. REEP

The Heart of the New Tomorrow RICHARD T. REEP

Untitled ISAAC GORRES

Blue Jungle CLAIRE GLATTING

Content Warnings: In order to make our content accessible to all readers without censorship, we have added asterisks (*) to the title of every poem and story with sensitive content. At the ends of these poems and stories, content warnings have been added. It is up to the reader to decide whether they wish to check the marked stories for sensitive topics, or read on without knowing the nature of the piece. Topics we deemed worthy of warnings were descriptions of war and violence, physical and domestic abuse, addiction, and suicide.

Editorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Note The 2018-2019 edition of Brushing is an amalgam of unique voices and perspectives. Despite their differences, they are all united as members of the Rollins community. The Rollins experience cannot be pigeonholed in any singular way; the stories, poems, and artwork displayed in Brushing reflect this diversity of experience. We believe that these pieces are stronger together than they are apart, representing the beautiful messiness that is the college experience. As any leaders, we would be nothing without the rest of our team. We wholeheartedly thank all of our Readers and Editors, as well as everyone who took the time to submit. Finally, we thank Greg Golden and Dr. Matthew Forsythe for their unwavering support and advice. Without all of you, Brushing would not exist. We hope that the honesty of the following creative works inspires our readers to be open and truthful in their own lives while considering perspectives that may differ from their own. Sincerely, Alex Candage & Siobhan Nolet Co-Editors-in-Chief

Designer’s Note The 2018-2019 edition of Brushing is designed to highlight the variety of expressive concepts detailed within. Due to the content’s variety, a singular overarching theme has not been applied, allowing the graphics to become the common ground unifying the publication. Although the graphics are inspired by each corresponding narrative, stylistically, the illustrations remain consistent throughout. Influenced by the poet and illustrator Shel Silverstein, I wanted the graphics to be animated, yet sophisticated. In mixing linear, geometric, and abstract qualities, I wanted to represent this diverse array of plots and tones. Each piece is strong and evocative, painting its own picture in the reader’s mind. Although the pieces do not require graphics, the illustrations create a visual break in the text that creates a consistent rhythm throughout Brushing. It has been an honor to collaborate with these talented writers. I hope my work drives thought and reflection, but I urge readers to allow the written content to have its impact independently first. Sincerely, Anastasia Rooke Head of Design

Sundials I used to know a girl who had kaleidoscopes for eyes. She’d tell people they changed with her emotions, and the kinder people of the world would humor her. As time went on, I began to believe her. I’d watch them turn like dials, each shade a color more captivating than the one that came before it. She locked them to mine and for years I swore I would hold her gaze until the moment my heart stopped beating. I watched as they would darken to a rich ebony, her frustration toward me hardening her stare, and then just as quickly, mellow to a warm amber, the sunlight softening her rage. In the winter they would fall grey as the absence of sun wasn’t something she was accustomed to, and I’d watch her turn cold along with the changing season. I found it curious that the spray of the ocean would bring a vibrant turquoise— the moments she felt most alive— yet stinging tears would bring an electrified green. She could have put the stars in the sky with those eyes of hers. I thought the light they held would illuminate my world for the rest of my life, 8

but she never understood the power they held, and she chose to burn me with them instead. It may not have been a celestial concept, this power she had over me. Her eyes were simply the word I expunged from my vocabulary the moment I swore I saw the entire universe inside them: Hazel. I read somewhere that poetry loses its grandeur when you realize there isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a single combination of words that will make someone love you back. by H.L.

What Do You Mean? A Rambling On Youth He asked me what I meant. What was I supposed to say? All I said was that sometimes I think about those days when everything goes wrong at once. Am I supposed to tell him that sometimes I close my eyes and I can see the whole world? Am I supposed to say that it happens to me sometimes but never on the days when everything goes wrong? Do I tell him that I wish they were the same days because that would help me a lot? Sometimes I think I’m crazy. But, really, I just want to be good. Sometimes I can’t post pictures of myself online because I start thinking about all of the children dying in Syria. And, yes, I know people are dying everywhere, everyday, so I really shouldn’t want to post pictures of myself ever because that’s futile. But some days it doesn’t affect me as much. But still, this is what I’m talking about—if I could wake up on days when everything goes wrong and think about the whole world like that, maybe I would stop feeling like something was eating me from the inside out. Because I would be thinking about poverty and death, and then maybe I would be better, because I’m not impoverished or dying. Then I would be good and not crazy. I’m cute, though. I think he’s noticed that already. Sometimes I just want to be touched—by anyone, I don’t care. I probably shouldn’t tell him that. When I’m at bars with my friends, guys will 10

come up to me, and after one drink I’ll think to myself something like, “Oh yeah he could touch me.” But instead of asking to touch me, he’ll ask me for something stupid like my number. I hate when guys ask me for my number because then they’ll text me or call me and then it will be weird and I’ll lose all interest and it just isn’t worth it. So I just say no. I think people give up on me pretty fast. They always say they’ll stay, that they won’t leave me. But I know that isn’t true. I’ve been “too much” for a long time, and no part of me has drained out. I actually think I’ve gotten heavier. I’ve become even more. How fucked up is that? You’d think that as you get older you’d learn how to be a better person, but the older I get the more lost I become. The last time a guy gave up on me he had nicer hair. He was the same though, asking questions he didn’t want to know the answers to. I remember I told that guy I was a writer and he asked me what I was writing and I said I wasn’t and he looked at me with this confused face that made my eyes dry out and I remember blinking at him a lot. I remember he told me that he knew what I should write about and I said, “oh really, what?” And he said, “You should write about a person who has a voice in their head that always makes their decisions for them.” I was still blinking a lot while he continued talking. “Like that voice gains the person’s trust, you know. In specific scenarios where the person has to make a risky decision—this voice will know if making the riskier choice will pay off. Should this person lie or tell the truth? Should they break up with their girlfriend or boyfriend? Should they turn right or 11

left? The voice will always know what is better. But the voice could betray that person at any time; it could tell them to befriend someone that would ultimately kill them. It could tell them to steal something and they get arrested. And the person doesn’t even know what or who the voice is—it could be their conscience or it could be the Holy Spirit or the devil even, anything. You could even reveal it at the end of the story. I don’t know, though. I’ve just always thought that would be a cool thing to write.” “Why don’t you write it?” I remember asking him. He replied,“I’m not a writer.” And I think about that statement all the time. And I think about that voice. Sometimes I feel like I have a voice like that. One time I actually fell in love with a guy that I talked to like this who asked me questions. It’s usually about 10:50 p.m. every night when I start thinking about him. When we first started hanging out, we’d sit on his bunk bed and he would tell me that he thought I was beautiful. There was always this odd light coming in through his window, and he would ask me to read him books he hadn’t read before. And sometimes he would interrupt me and kiss me in the middle of a sentence, and he would touch my cheek, other places too but specifically my cheek. His hand would burn into my skin, and the touch would go past it, further than my flesh, as though it existed in this space in the in-betweens of myself that I’ve never been able to reach on my own. One day he told me he just couldn’t put me at the top of his list. I should’ve seen it coming anyway. But you know, days go by and things get easier; life goes on. Days are just like that. One day 12

you move across the world, one day you study, another you write, another you sing in the streets and make eye contact with strangers, every minute different than the last. But the nights are different. The nights highlight everything that hasn’t changed. And I still wake up every morning with my hand on my cheek. I’m tired, you know? Of being when I don’t know how to be. Is this even important? How do people do important things? Is it supposed to be this confusing, this painful? I’ve never known how to explain myself but I’ve always felt the need to. To justify feeling how I feel or thinking how I think. Is that normal? I want to give explanations to questions without offering a defense, but I don’t know how.

How could my thoughts ever be important when I’m just me in a world with seven billion other “me’s,” and everyone is just everyone and everything is everything? I don’t want to be relatable; I want to be the only person who is like this—but goddamnit why is that so cliché? I feel like I push people away because I know that no matter what I do they’re not going to understand me, and if they do understand, they probably won’t even care. I don’t know why I feel so much all of the time. I wanted to have a plot in my life; I wanted something to happen that would make me think about things other than bunk beds and window light and guys asking me questions about myself in coffee shops. It was all supposed to be exciting and wonderful, wasn’t it? Being young? I thought these were supposed to be the best days of my life. I’ve heard that youth is wasted on the young, but I’ve always associated being old with wisdom and peace. I kind of think being old is wasted on the elderly. Because, honestly, I could use some wisdom right now, and I sure as hell could use some peace. “I don’t know what I meant,” I replied, blinking. by Rachel Goldenberg.

Photosynthesis i. Light The family across the street flips on every light; yellow peeks through the windows, through the blinds. It illuminates the driveway. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve discovered that the person inside me looks different from my skin. So now you hold me in the dark, in blackness, rain tapping against the car window; I imagine God saying, Turn on the lights, look at her soul, look into her eyes. Turn on the lights or she will wither away. I think I hear the click of the lights but it is just the rain. ii. H2O When the hurricane hit, my mother hid hundreds of water bottles in the night. To keep us alive, she said; but I never valued my body more than anyone elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bidding price. My mother says that I need to find someone who will satisfy my thirst, who will, like Jesus, spew blood and water. But when 15

I pierce your side, there is only black blood; I will myself to soak it up and shrivel in the mud. iii. CO2 The family across the street flips up every window; wind sways through the curtains, through the blinds. It flows inside the living room. You’ve discovered that you’ve sealed me in a box and now you panic: shovel in more sand. Turn on the lights, God says, but you don’t understand; you tap my glass, peel my petals, pluck my blades until I am unmade and I asphyxiate. by Hannah Butcher

The Stranger*

He emerged from the woods upon a black mare, following the narrow road that divided the trees from a field of wheat that stretched into the far distance. Two sheathed swords were strapped between his saddlebags and every step brought the faint scraping of metal. Slight bulges under his tattered green cloak hinted at armor beneath. Such an armed and armored man would have been suspicious on these roads in better days, but if any passersby had noticed his garb, they thought little of it. His type was common in times of war. The stranger came to a fork in the road marked with a signpost, the right fork leading back into the woods and the left farther into the endless grain, flanked on both sides by a low wooden fence. Both roads were narrower and rockier than their parent, though still large enough for three men to walk abreast. He studied the sign for a moment before nudging his horse to the left. She stepped gingerly, the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grip on her reins tight to better control her movements. Should she slip on the rough terrain and break an ankle, it could be fatal. Another mile onward, he came upon a small house. Wooden and aged with a thatched roof that was the same straw-yellow of the wheat that surrounded it, it would have looked comfortable had it not been gutted. The door hung loosely on its hinges, its center caved in by an axe. The pigpen along the side stood empty, something that might once have been a dog decaying in the slime. The stranger clicked at his horse to stop. He dismounted fluidly, despite the weight of his armor, and lightly patted the mareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s neck with a gloved hand, whispering something in her ear. She started to graze on a thick clump of brown weeds, snorting contently. Assured

she was too distracted to wander off, he set to work exploring the grounds. Finding nothing of use outside, the stranger looked in through an unshuttered window. Empty cupboards hung open and a fine layer of flour coated the floor, having spewed from slashes in a hemp bag that lay in a dusty pile. The remains of a down mattress lay shredded in the center of the room, the frame upon which it once sat upended and scorched, as though someone had tried to burn the place down before thinking better of it. Ducking through the ruined door for a better look, an odd stain under the window caught the strangerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye. Stepping over the mattress, he heard a resounding crunch: the remains of a hand mirror with a burnt wooden handle fitted for a small hand. The stain under the window was blood, streaked on the wall and pooled where it met the floor. Thoroughly looted as the house was, the stranger left, mounted his horse, and continued on. The path narrowed further, wheat stalks brushing against the mareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s legs, before opening again, the thickly-planted grain thinning to be replaced with bare earth. Here the ground was muddy from recent rainfall. No formal path was in sight. Groups of wooden structures dotted the landscape: solitary grain sheds, grist mills, or smokehouses, as well as a cluster of hovels like the one they had passed amid the fields. In several places, mounds of ash stood where there had once been buildings, skeletal forms visible among them, and the stranger grimaced under his hood. The war had taken its toll, one way or another, and the village was no longer inhabited. The sky darkened rapidly as the sun sank behind the fields, and he rode on. *** 18

Dark had fallen before the stranger began to see nightfires in the distance, bright against a backdrop of forest. He brought his mare to a canter as he approached the town he had ridden so far to find, slowing only as he drew alongside the first of the pyres, great flaming pyramids of wood built to keep at bay the creatures that lurked in the night. He rode between them and over a sturdy stone bridge, the brook beneath seeming to whisper at him as he passed. He stopped outside a large tavern at the edge of town. A scrawny man, young but nearly bald, leaned on the wall of the adjoining stable and suspiciously eyed the newcomer as he dismounted. The stranger tied his mare to the hitching post, whispering quietly to her and glancing about as he did so. Small groves of gooseberries grew along the river, which bent away in the darkness. An adjacent row of wood sheds was piled high with logs to keep the fires burning throughout the night. Boys scattered amongst them in play, every so often crossing the bridge to throw fresh logs into the infernos, making a game of their work. Looking toward town, he could see more wooden hovels. Their windows were dark and empty. Only the tavern felt alive, radiating from within with warm, flickering light. Leaving his horse tethered to the pole, the stranger entered the tavern, brushing aside a clinging child before she could make off with his coin purse. The tavern was divided into two rooms, kitchen and dining space, by a thick wooden barrier that served as a counter. More than half of the long tables were occupied, mostly by peasants of varying age and gender. A few men in scale mail lounged in the back corner, drinking and guffawing as one of their number made a series of loud and crude jokes. The table opposite them was taken by two weather-beaten field hands playing dice, who frequently 19

paused their game to throw annoyed looks at their drunk neighbors. It was noisy, warm, and comfortable. The stranger approached the counter and rapped his knuckles on the wood. The innkeeper shuffled over from the stove where he had been turning a plump pheasant. He was plump himself and much shorter than the stranger. His shirt hung open to reveal a series of swirling tattoos, dark on his flabby, pale skin. He asked the stranger if he wanted a beer, and the stranger nodded. It soon arrived, warm and frothy. It spilled over the sides of the mug as he took a long drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s good,” he said, his voice low but not unpleasant, and the innkeeper smiled. “But it’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for a woman.” The innkeeper interjected with a good-natured laugh. “Aye, ain’t we all?” He clapped the tall man on the shoulder, withdrawing with a wince when his hand met metal. The stranger stared at him, his expression neutral. “Damn, that’s solid. Well, I can’t say we offer services of that kind, lad. You’ll havta try your luck, same as anyone. Unless you’re looking for someone in particular?” The stranger nodded. “Well then, a man who knows what he’s after! She got a name, yer lass?” The stranger downed the remaining contents of his mug to stifle a dry chuckle. “She’s not mine, I’m afraid,” he said. “Her name is Elaine, and I have a message for her.” “A strong name!” the innkeeper declared, thumping the counter for emphasis. “We had one o’ them here in the kitchens once. Before my time. I ain’t that old, mind you.” “Is she still around?” 20

“Aye, I think so. That Elaine out the other side o’ town might be the woman you want. Lives by the stream. Not the one you crossed coming in, that’s Miller’s Creek. Can’t right say the other one has a name. She weaves now, Elaine does, and right well.” “Thank you.” The stranger rose, reached for his coin purse, and placed two coins on the countertop, which the innkeeper deftly swept into his palm. “Say,” the innkeeper said, his look suddenly cautious. “What would you be wanting with our old Elaine? She isn’t much one for visitors. Her son Roderick rode off to the war years ago. He never came back, and then her old man passed last winter. Her family was everythin’, and she’s got nothin’ left. Don’t go tryin’ to bother the poor woman.” The stranger offered a mock bow. “I can promise to do nothing of the sort. I bring good news.”

The innkeeper brightened. “Say, if you ever be needing a job out this way, come on in and let ol’ Jack Kegbelly here know you could use some work. You look strong enough. We don’t get many travelers out this way, but often as not we feed the town, and that more’n keeps us on our feet. People here don’t much like leavin’, ‘specially during these times.” The stranger nodded and turned to depart, only to find himself face to face with the scrawny man he had seen outside. “New in town, eh?” His voice was deliberate and dripping with malice, his rheumy eyes glinting dangerously in the firelight. He reminded the stranger of the carcass in the pigpen, decrepit and slimy. “I can’t say we much like your sort here, big fella. And there be a tax for travelers.” The stranger stopped and drew back his hood, allowing his challenger a good look at his visage. He was young but hard, face prematurely lined, his once flaxen hair darkened and cut short. His eyes shone with a similar danger, but the

scrawny man was brave, drawing a knife and pointing it at the other man’s throat. “I said there be a tax, stranger. Take that purse back outta your britches and pay up!” Silence fell in the tavern. Even the drunkards stopped their joking, their attention focused on the bloodletting that was sure to come. The stranger relented, making a show of rummaging for his coin purse. It was over in the space of two heartbeats. The stranger feinted quickly backwards, his free hand shoving the knife away while the hand with the purse lashed out, connecting under the scrawny man’s chin. He went down like a sack of flour, and the knife skittered away beneath one of the tables. With the violence ended, the patrons returned to their separate pursuits. Kegbelly let out a bellow of laughter. “Oi, you put ol’ Patty in his place, that you did. Yer next drink is on the house!” The stranger returned to the counter, where a second mug was already awaiting him. “You friends?” he asked. Kegbelly snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “Pat and his boys like extortin’ my customers too much for that. They showed up outta the blue one night to drink themselves stupid, and now I can’t get rid of ‘em! All o’ your type rode off to fight the usurpers, and not nearly enough came back. Those that did, well.” He nodded toward the armored drunks as one tottered and fell over, eliciting raucous laughter from his friends. “They ain’t exactly keepin’ the peace either. And there’s nothing I can do about pests of Patty’s ilk all on me own! They’re not like to give you more trouble, though. Dogs, but they’re all bark.” Patty crawled away, blubbering through bloody lips, while the stranger drank with Kegbel23

ly. He accepted pheasant when it was offered. It was warm and juicy, the best meal he had eaten in weeks. Kegbelly wouldn’t let him pay for it, try as he might to slip him an extra coin. His horse was stabled for the night, too, free of charge. Payment for services rendered, Kegbelly called it. Free from any debt, the stranger did the rounds that night: playing with the children, dicing with the field hands, even joking with the men in the corner. This dark newcomer became part of the party, yet he seemed distant, distracted, and none of the other patrons saw him smile. *** Exiting the tavern before sun-up, the stranger found himself surrounded. Two men stepped behind him from either side of the door, short swords strapped to their hips that the stranger recognized as his own. A hulking brute stood before him. They were all dressed in rags that may once have been the king’s colors. The brute leered down at his victim and snorted. “This him?” “Yeah, he’s the one.” Patty stood by the stable door with the stranger’s horse. His split lip was red and swollen. The horse’s saddlebags were ripped open at his feet. In lieu of his lost knife, he was brandishing a heavy club. “Caught me by surprise, you did, but you don’t look like much, and we got you outnumbered. Take ‘im, boys!” The stranger heard the grating of steel from behind him as swords left sheathes, and the brute swung a ham-sized fist intended for his head. He dodged and kicked at the brute’s knees. The larger man went down, toppling face-first into the mud behind the mare. Startled, she kicked backwards, hooves felling him again before he could rejoin the fight. Patty leapt forward, swinging his club wildly. “Wally, George, get ‘im! 24

One of the swords nicked the stranger’s shoulder, further shredding his old cloak and glancing off the armor beneath. Shrugging off the green rags to reveal chainmail, he ran a metal-plated elbow into his attacker’s chest, knocking him dazed to the ground. His remaining two opponents swung wildly, determined to keep him off balance. The club narrowly missed the stranger’s head, and the sword bit into the armor of his chest. He leapt back, chest stinging where the point of the sword had pushed through the rings of his mail. He gritted his teeth and wrenched a knife from his boot. This time he caught the sword on the flat of his knife, his other arm shooting out like a snake to grab his opponent’s wrist. He twisted and squeezed until the sword fell away, then scraped the point of his knife hard down exposed skin. The disarmed man screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his bloody wrist, and the victor let slip a smile. Patty, the last man standing, went on the defensive, holding his club like a sword to keep his face guarded. The stranger had picked up one of the fallen swords and was smiling in earnest now, lazily circling his opponent. The other men had fled. “You’re not making a very good impression for king’s men,” he said, twirling his sword as adrenaline coursed through him. “Did you ever see combat?” “In this rat hole?” Patty answered. “We got shipped off to the edge of the earth! Ain’t nobody come out here. We had to find other ways of entertaining ourselves.” Images of the burnt and raided homes flashed through the stranger’s head, the child’s mirror and the blood and the scorched bones peeking from ash. He struck. Knocking the club aside with a flick, his sword parted flesh, scraped bone, and 25

erupted between Patty’s shoulder blades in a scarlet fountain. The stranger let Patty’s corpse, heavy now in death, slip from the blade and collapse in a spreading puddle of blood. “I didn’t want to do this,” he said to himself, but he knew he was lying. The stranger wiped his sword clean on the dead man’s rags, moved the body into the stables, and collected the other weapons, strapping them to his mare’s saddle as he cooed at her gently. He had just mounted her again when he heard a sullen voice behind him. “People aren’t gonna like ya for that.” Kegbelly had appeared at the door and was eyeing the scene with distaste. “Patty was a swine, aye, but people don’t take kindly to butchery.” “They butchered. They robbed. They burnt down homes. They were bandits, nothing more.” “Aye lad, but these people don’t see their victims dead in the street,” Kegbelly said. “They don’t see anything but what’s in front of ‘em. Not what happened in some distant field, not what happened the next town over. An’ you enjoyed that, plain as day. I can’t say I have any work for ya now. Just ain’t civil.” He retreated back behind the door. *** The sky grew paler as the stranger rode on. The town was beginning to stir, women emerging to check their laundry and start cooking. Billowing smoke from the recently extinguished nightfires lent an eerie quality to the scene, and the women became ghosts lost in fog. The stranger felt like a ghost himself, out of place and time. The noise of Miller’s Creek was replaced by a quieter rippling from ahead. Another house took shape through the film of smoke, a small dock to one side. Slim poles protruded at odd angles, fishing lines dangling into the water. Rows of wildflowers, carefully cultivated, lined the road leading to the 26

house, their aroma homey and welcoming. The stranger tied his mare to a young tree and made for the front door, but was stopped by a shout before he could reach it. “I don’t know you! What do you want?” The new arrival was a short, wiry man with an angry face, his arms full of fish. “We don’t want no trouble, so how’s about you just leave? Back up on your horse and go!” “I’ve come to see Elaine.” The newcomer let his catch fall to the ground and advanced on the stranger. “Who the hell is she to you?” “Who the hell are you to her?” “Get back on your horse and leave or else I’ll—” “You’ll what, small man? Who are you to keep me from—” The door opened with a bang. “Enough!” Both men froze as Elaine emerged. Her hair was long, greyer than the stranger remembered it, violet bags under her eyes showing the count of years, but he recognized her still. The years fell away from her face, softening in his eyes, becoming smooth and soothing, taking him back to days spent frolicking in the creek, nights curled next to the fire with his— “Mum?” Elaine faced him, confusion on her face and pity in her eyes, taking in his hard features and the blood staining his mail. “Who are you? I don’t know you.” “Mum, it’s me. It’s Roderick.” Roderick’s eyes welled with unbidden tears, and he extended a hand, mentally urging her to take it, to pull him to her. “It’s your son.” Her head tilted like a dog’s, looking at the gloved hand but not going to him, not taking it. 27

Her eyes were wet but betrayed no recognition. “My son died. Years ago. His father, too. They smelled of home and you stink of death. I don’t know you.” “Mother.” Roderick started towards her. “I’ve come home now and—” “Mother?” She looked him up and down, her wet eyes turning cold. “No son of mine would look as you do. Roderick was proud. Fair. Weak. He died in the war.” “Mother, I lived. I’m here. You—” “No. You’re not him!” She advanced on him then, finally, but stopped short of an embrace, head turned sharply upward to lock eyes with him at last. When she spoke, it was an icy whisper. “I know your type. You’ve done things… unspeakable! I can see it in your eyes.” Roderick recoiled as though she had struck him. When he spoke, it was little more than a murmur. “All I did, I did so I could be here. I fought for you. I fought to come home!” “I don’t care! I don’t know you.” She turned, hiding her face, and spoke to the other man. “Pick up those fish and clean them, Gregor; we don’t live in a barn.” Roderick stood stock-still. “But Mum—” “No,” she said, still not facing him. Her voice was stern and hard as stone. “My son is dead. I don’t know you. Go back to where you came from, killer.” The years fell back into place as she departed. Gregor stooped to collect the fish, and the stranger returned to his horse and his weapons and his life. Roderick, it seemed, was dead, but the stranger remained. He came from nowhere now, born amidst the heat of battle to strike Elaine’s boy down and take his place in the world. To there he 28

was bid to return. The stranger left town the same way Roderick had years before: atop a black horse, short swords rubbing together where they hung from the mareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s saddle. Where Roderick had been proud and enthusiastic, newly forged armor gleaming in the sunlight, the stranger sat hunched in his saddle, face set, armor dinged and dirty. Blood still dripped slowly down his chest, but he paid it no mind. He passed the tavern, where a crowd of children had gathered. One of the braver boys had a long stick and was poking at a stiff form in the stables. A little girl was crying. The air smelled hot and metallic. The stranger knew he was welcome here no longer. He crossed the bridge over Millerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Creek, passed the scorched earth where the nightfires had stood. The king was dead, and the war was coming to a close: he was no longer needed as a soldier. But mercenaries always found good work protecting aristocrats or riding with caravans, even in the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Even riding from town to town, ridding the world of the likes of Patty, would earn him enough to make a living. But he would never again call a place home. He had seen too much for that, but he could survive. Fresh tracks marred the once-smooth mud outside of town: three sets, one much larger than the others, accompanied by a faint trickle of blood. They led away toward the distant deserted village. The stranger clicked at his mare and squeezed her with his thighs. She took off at a gallop, adding their own deep prints in the mud, rapidly overtaking those of the bandits. He had a horse, and they were on foot. They had no weapons. They wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get far. by Ryan Murphy *Content Warning: Descriptions of Violence

Tokophobia I’m afraid of birth— the clumsiness of a swollen belly, the fumbling sweat, the clanging gurney; I write the name G-d to leave room for the divine, but I’m afraid my baby will slip through the gap my elbow makes and I’m afraid I’ll mumble “I’m sorry” for each of my failures— oh G-d, G-d, G-d will you leave room for me? by Hannah Butcher

Bacteria What is it about our human brain chemistry That coerces us to move from one pain to another We buy value packs of waterproof band-aids To cover our chest layer after layer Creating a tapestry of sticky solutions As if our wounds would heal faster by depriving them of oxygen After thousands of years you’d think we’d learn by now That there is much more than the past and present That there is a becoming and to come That there is a light shining bright on all our bones And that we’re not as alone as our brain chemistry says we are Not all bacteria will hurt us by Allison van Tilborgh

Just Another Day* Martin Every time Martin Mills closes his eyes, he sees blood. The smell of it coating the insides of his nostrils, the thick, coppery scent strong enough to make him gag. The sight of it soaking into the sand, covering his hands like crimson gloves, dripping lazily off the left cheek of the man lying dead beside him. The sound of it spattering the desert floor with each new explosion or rattle of gunfire, followed closely by the sickening thumps of bodies or parts of bodies lifelessly collapsing. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always during one of those explosions, much closer and louder than any before, that Martin awakens, suddenly and all at once, drenched in sweat with the chalky taste of bile at the back of his throat. He turns in bed, shivering despite the thick comforter tangled around him, the fabric damp from his sweat, to peer out the window. The faint light of the rising sun reflecting off the ever-rippling surface of the Suwannee River assures him that he is no longer in Afghanistan. The rest of the morning plays out normally, devoid of further episodes. Martin gets up, showers off the fresh night of nervous sweats, and runs a razor absentmindedly over his face, his head. He canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t abide hair and has enough damn things to worry about without needing to ensure every strand is in place. Making toast and coffee to make it through the rest of the morning, he seats himself in his usual chair at the breakfast table and says good morning to his kids as they wake up. Tara, his eldest, is the first up, hurriedly running a brush through her tangled hair as she knocks on each of her siblingsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; doors. Chandler bursts out his door like a bullet, certain as always that he is the first one into 32

the bathroom (consistently oblivious in that thirteenyear-old way to the fact that Tara was always up before him and had beaten him a while ago). Maggie takes her time, emerging slowly and hesitantly from her dark bedroom, her closecropped hair plastered to her head from a night of fitful sleep. She’d never slept all that well, for any of her ten years, something she and her father have in common. She smiles at him and he smiles back, forgetting just for a moment about the horrors of his past night. The rest of the morning passes in a rush of school bags, sweaters, and sweet rolls, and after a hurried “goodbyeseeyoulaterstaysafe,” Tara, Chandler, and Maggie are out the door for another day of school. Martin can see out of the front window from the table. He watches as Tara slides into the driver’s seat, Chandler into the passenger’s, and Maggie behind him, the quick succession of slamming doors and the roar of the engine signaling their imminent departure. He settles back further into his chair as Tara backs the car out of the driveway and eases into the slow morning traffic of their quiet forest road, the sound of tires on gravel reminding him of the work day that would begin all too soon. Martin knew the garage would fall apart without his presence, but that knowledge didn’t make him enjoy the work any more. A quiet office job would suit him better, the quiet contemplation doing him more good than the heavy labor, but no firm is interested in hiring people like him. Still, he doesn’t enjoy the garage: messy and chaotic and hostile. The noise is oppressive, the work unrelenting, and the smell coats the inside of his nostrils, the thick, oily scent strong enough to make him gag. Inevitably, the blood returns. 33

Tara Tara wishes one of her siblings would say something, but they never do. Her own attempts at conversation fall on deaf ears. Maggie keeps to herself, reading in the backseat for the entirety of the twenty-minute ride to school. Chandler, never much of a reader, scrolls on his phone or watches videos. Both are content to be somewhere else as often as possible. Tara attempts to turn on the radio to give her something to do besides drive. Maggie lets out a soft sigh from the backseat and Chandler promptly turns it off, never taking his eyes off his phone screen. It’s a long twenty minutes. Tara pulls up in front of the school, unlocking the car doors with her left hand and waving her siblings out with her right, with the usual exclamation amounting to “Have fun, meet me at the car by 3:30.” She knows Chandler won’t, though; he rarely comes home before dark, staying out as long as possible with his friends. Unsurprisingly, he exits with a sullen look not much different than his usual sullen look. Maggie at least has the decency to smile and say goodbye before closing her door, far gentler than her brother’s slam. Tara’s been trying to coax the aggressive streak out of him since he learned to walk, to no avail. Nature wasn’t just crushing nurture, it was throwing it around and stepping on it a few times before slamming a door in Tara’s face. She worries for him. At least Tara had Mom for a few years, and even then some decent nannies after dad returned overseas. Chandler didn’t really have anybody but her, and she has never really known what to do. Tara pulls the car around to administrative parking and finds her usual spot beneath 34

the overhanging oak, the only part of the parking lot that won’t spend most of the day baking in the Florida sun. She had graduated from high school last year by some miracle, yet found herself at the joint elementary-middle school she had attended, just across the street. This was the product of maintaining a friendship with her 4th grade teacher, who had been more than happy to ask management if a former student could interview for a desk job while saving for college. While she has no intention of actually going to college, Tara had accepted the position anyway; a little extra money couldn’t hurt, and it keeps her close to her family. So here she is, answering calls from exasperated parents for a few dollars an hour so she can be nearby if Chandler gets into another fight or Maggie has another one of her “moments.” She puts the car in park, cuts the engine, and gets out, measuring each movement to take up as much time as possible. Eventually, she’s out of the car and seated behind her usual desk in the school’s main office, not likely to move much besides the occasional dash to the bathroom during slower hours. She does her best to maintain her outward smile, but isn’t anywhere close to ready for all the bullshit the day throws her way. After years of caring for her siblings, she understands why mom left. Nobody is ready to be a parent at nineteen, least of all her. Chandler Taking another triumphant drag of the stolen cigarette, Chandler smiles his first real smile of the day. That taste of victory, of forbidden pleasures made his own, was always so sweet, even when it was someone else’s success. As he exhales an acrid cloud, he silently thanks Noah’s dad’s smoking habit 35

for the umpteenth time, as well as Noah’s quick fingers. These little retreats behind the school’s cafeteria also give him some much-needed incentive to come to school besides escaping from his nosy older sister. These days even that doesn’t count for anything, with Tara so close by. She could be anywhere at any time, a fact that keeps Chandler constantly on edge. It feels like she watches his every move and could appear around any corner. Not that he has ever seen her outside of the office, but still. Only back here, in the ditch between the cafeteria and the neighboring high school’s football field, is he truly safe. Just him and Noah against everyone else, like his dad would always tell him about his time in the Army. “It feels like just you and your squad against the world, every day just another day. Being all you can be, just like they tell you. Once you find that, don’t ever lose it.” Maybe that’s why Dad’s so fucked up, Chandler reflects, as he flicks away the smoldering butt. He just doesn’t have anybody anymore. Maggie She sets her book down cover-up on the bed and sinks back into her pillows, defeated. Her usual methods aren’t working. Counting sheep does nothing. (They keep escaping in a way that’s keeping her engaged.) Reading until her eyelids begin to droop does nothing. (They refuse to droop.) Even a particularly busy day at school did nothing to exhaust her anxious mind, only her body. She knows Chandler doesn’t have this problem, due to his incessant snoring, and she doesn’t want to bother Tara with something as unimportant as insomnia; she already has enough on her plate making sure the four of them always have something to eat. So instead she 36

goes to Daddy; he knows a thing or two about not sleeping. When she enters, he is sitting on the bed with his back to her, gazing out over the river that serves as their backyard. At least that’s how Daddy refers to it, usually following up with some quip about not having to mow it. Doesn’t matter, Maggie thought. It’d be Tara who would end up mowing it most of the time anyway. She’s aware Daddy doesn’t do most of the things other daddies do, but she understands it. She knows he has the dreams, too. He notices her and gestures to the bed beside him, smoothing out a spot with his hand as though it’ll make a difference on a mattress. She goes over and sits with him, and he gently rests a hand on her shoulder as the pair look out over the dark water, its movement only faintly perceptible in the light of the halfmoon. They stay like that for some time, each enjoying the other’s presence on a lonely night. Maggie has always felt connected to Daddy as the one constant in her life. She knows something happened to her mom, and Tara, despite her best efforts, can’t fill that motherly gap. Maybe it just came from their being less than a decade apart in age. And she knows Chandler is “a pain in the ass,” as she’s often heard Tara refer to him under her breath, and not someone she can go to for support. He always came home smelling faintly of smoke, but she doesn’t think Tara ever notices. It must just be one of those things that happens when you turn thirteen. At least that’s what Daddy said after Chandler came back from school with scrapes and bruises he didn’t want to talk about. Maggie doesn’t want to turn thirteen; it looks horrible. Ten is such a nice, round number, and she never smells like smoke or comes home looking like she had been 37

in an accident. She does have dreams, though. Usually she just hears loud booms that startle her awake, but sometimes they’re really scary. One night she woke up screaming after seeing heads on sticks, like the ones she’d heard Daddy telling Chandler about when he had asked for war stories. Maggie has always been interested in his stories, too. They make her feel closer to him, and she likes that. He doesn’t usually let anyone very close, but she knows she is special. She doesn’t want to like the scary ones, but she does. They make her feel closest to Daddy, since he usually cries after, and then she hugs him, and he hugs her back and kisses the top of her head. He rests there atop her hair, cut short like his, until he stops crying. She can always smell the oil on his hands, even after a thorough scrub, and feel their calluses gently pressing into her back. In the morning he takes her for ice cream, which is definitely the best part of the routine. They don’t need any of that tonight, though. They just need to know that they are there for each other and that nightmares always end. Especially ones they don’t really understand. by Ryan Murphy *Content Warning: Descriptions of War

Mother Tongue she has roamed different lands â&#x20AC;&#x201D; foreign lands â&#x20AC;&#x201D; in search of the sound: a particular comfort. she has looked for it purposefully, heedlessly her ears widen and face turns, her cheeks rise and eyes glisten. she has lived many years waiting for this familiarity to reach her, to hug her, to wrap around her senses the sound that makes her feel at home even when she does not have one. by Nilly Kohzad

Road Trips i. taste like a cloudy black night and a breakfast sandwich chosen less for its nutritional value and more for its ability to fit perfectly in your hand ii. smell like a peachy pink dawn and a mist thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not quite cold enough to be pleasant iii. sound like a wispy blue sky and the stalks of corn that seem to reach out and almost graze your fingers outside the window iv. feel like a rainy grey fog and the puffs of smoke from your cigarette that like us are trapped v. look like home or at least, its approximation by Kalli Joslin

Wonderland* The slick stone of the cave wall against her back, Selina took a moment to rest and get her bearings. She braced her legs and peered up, back the way she had come. She could still see light and the shapes of trees, the shadows shifting as Loch continued his own descent. Below her, the dark shaft stretched into the earth. The tail end of her rope was lashed around the trunk of a young deciduous tree on the surface, the other end and its slack curled through her harness and around her arm, allowing her to control her speed. She reflected for a moment that a length of nylon and a ratty old harness were all that kept her from plummeting into the darkness below, but she was unfazed. “You okay, Seal?” Loch called down. “I’m fine,” she answered. “Just taking a breath.” She closed her eyes and breathed in the moist smell of the stone around her, hearing the steady patter of water on her helmet. If someone had told her three years ago that she would spend her mid-20s lowering herself into holes in the earth for the sheer joy of it, she wouldn’t have believed them. She’d never considered spelunking to be something she would enjoy: too wet, too cramped, and definitely too dangerous. Her usual pursuits tended toward the relaxing, painting especially, which she’d once thought to make a career of. But that had been before Loch. Only two months her senior and hailing from the same town in Michigan, it was a wonder the two had never crossed paths. As it happened, they met by happy accident on the streets of Atlanta, hundreds of miles from home. Selina was fascinated by the man, who projected an air of quiet 41

mystery, and the two got to talking. As they moved from the street to a park to a restaurant to her hotel room, the nature of their conversation changed. A tall, lean college dropout, he claimed to have left school to see the world, the urban sprawl of Atlanta merely a pit stop on the way to bigger, better things, (specifically caves), which he made a living documenting. He’d been a one-man crew up to this point, but was thinking of expanding his operation. “After all,” he’d said, smirking, “there’s safety in numbers.” Alone in a big city and with no career aspirations in sight, Selina asked if she could join him. She took to spelunking naturally, and it wasn’t long before she could keep steady pace with Loch, whether they were suspended over cliffs or crawling through dark tunnels. She hadn’t looked back. A drop of water landed on her eyelid, breaking her meditation, and she wiped it away. Loch was inching closer, so she started up again. Pushing off with her legs, she released a short length of nylon and allowed the force of gravity to drop her a few inches, gently catching the wall again with the toes of her boots. “Steady now, babe,” Loch said from above. “I don’t want to put too much strain on these harnesses.” “Oh stop, you’re making me blush.” Selina rolled her eyes and looked at the harness strapped around her hips and legs. The edges were frayed but the ancient thing was still capable of bearing her weight. Loch was experimental and a bit of a daredevil, renting equipment locally rather than keeping his own, just for the fun of it. Selina didn’t think the mock thrill he got out of this made any sense. While what they got was used, it was always still in excellent shape. She wouldn’t have started down an undocumented hole in the earth had she not trusted 42

the equipment with her life, whatever Loch’s inclinations. There was a groan of wood from above as the wind whipped through the trees, and a flurry of leaves found their way into the mouth of the pit, flailing hurriedly down like inelegant feathers. They brushed Selina’s face and settled in her hair. With them came the suffocating smell of a gathering storm. “Fine weather we’re having,” she called up to Loch. She blew off a leaf that had settled on her nose, letting it spin away into the darkness. “I thought you said we weren’t expecting rain.” “We shouldn’t be,” he replied, with a hint of concern. Brazilian storms had a reputation for catching people unprepared, or so Selina had heard. Something about the warm air at the equator and wind currents from the Andes Mountains not getting along. She hoped they weren’t about to be caught in one, suspended as they were. “Should we start back up? I don’t want to be down here if that thing hits.” Loch looked down at Selina, the worry gone from his face, replaced with a look that always relaxed her. “I don’t think it’ll hit us. The sky’s still blue, and the wind is pushing the clouds west. Steady on. We’ll be safe when we hit bottom.” “What if we hit an aquifer?” she asked, hesitantly continuing her descent. “Or a cave that floods when it rains?” “Then we’ll deal with that when we come to it.” Selina scowled. “You know I hate it when you get all cavalier.” Loch didn’t answer her. He was devoted to his work, an explorer through and through. Selina 43

liked that about him. She just didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like when that devotion put them in danger. But the damage had already been done. From above the pit came a great ripping sound and a shower of soil. Selina felt her rope giveâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and then, dreadfully, weightlessness. Her entire existence lay before her, making one second of suspension feel endless. There was her childhood, a brief blip. Shunted as she was from parent to parent, neither taking full responsibility for the product of their love affair, her early years were a confused blur of their alcoholism and self-pity. The rest Selina saw with intense clarity. There was the dog she would pass when biking to school, a great black beast with fierce eyes and a restless tail. There was her mother the last time she had seen her, with fury in her eyes and tears on her cheeks. There was her first day of college, alone and bewildered, looking at a dorm room far too big for her meager belongings. There was her 20th birthday when she had last seen her father. There was her trip to Rome, a failed attempt to escape to somewhere more magical than Michigan; the hostel had smelled of piss and the streets were little better. There was college graduation, none of the thousands of spectators there for her. And there was Loch. Their first date. Their first cave. And now. The weightless feeling ended, gravity was restored, and Selina began to fall. Too stunned to scream, she instinctively flung her arms out to brace against the walls, sliding against a layer of lichen. Trying with her legs proved little better; her boots skidded against the same growth, too slippery to cause much friction. Her fall continued, gain44

ing speed as the light was lost, falling deeper than sunlight dared to venture. Further attempts to brace against the walls were met with scraped palms, the lichen vanishing along with the sun and leaving only stone, rougher here than at the mouth of the cave. Just as Selina began to think that the fall would never end, she felt her leg collide with something solid. Her scream was cut short as she plunged headfirst into water, her helmet ripped from her head by the force of impact. She inhaled liquid and struggled to right herself, her sense of direction thrown by shock and crushing darkness. Waving her limbs frantically, she felt her hand break the surface. With a powerful thrust of both arms, she emerged, choking and sputtering, into cool air. Attempts to tread water were in vain, and she cried out as a blinding jolt shot through her leg. It was almost certainly broken and would do her no good. She floundered again and grabbed her rope for any support it could give her, kicking her one good leg to keep her head above water. Her arm brushed against something in the water and she flinched, her mind thick with thoughts of snakes and crocodiles and blind things that lurked in the dark. She nearly slipped back under in panic as it continued to bump against her. Grabbing a fistful of leaves, she realized it was the young tree, her tether, pulled down the shoot with her. She clung to the trunk, using it as a buoy as she vomited water. She floated like that for a while in the still water. At one point, she thought she heard Loch calling and tried to respond, her shout coming out more like a groan. Most likely heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d go for help, as one person suspended from a rope would have a hell of a time lugging an injured person from this deep underground. All assuming he thought she was still alive. Even then, the nearest town was well over a 45

dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hike away. For now, at least, she was alone. After a brief time, the tree hit land, dully thumping into a shelf of rock. Relieved, Selina slipped off the tree, grabbing the outcrop with bleeding hands and hoisting herself up. Her leg screamed in pain, but she did her best to ignore it until she was out of the water, collapsing on her back in a wet heap. Splayed out on the spur of rock, she was battered and waterlogged, but alive. She lay there a while, staring into the distance. She convinced herself she could see the ceiling, though more likely it was just endless darkness. As her eyes became accustomed, she realized she actually could see. The very air seemed to glow faintly, and Selina could make out the faint forms of thick pillars where stalagmites and stalactites met in the gloom. She couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t locate the source of the glow but found some relief in it all the same. Just then her adrenaline levels dropped, pain kicked back in, and she felt her leg light up like a firecracker. She yelped and her voice trailed off into a whimper. She sat up and tried to assess the damage, but could only make out the faintest outline of her legs, seemingly in the far distance. Great swells of heat radiated up her body. She reached down, gingerly groping her way along her leg to the source of the pain. Her hand scraped against bone, and it took all she had not to throw up again. She could feel it now as if it had nerves of its own: an inch of pale bone protruding at a harsh angle from her calf, snapped jaggedly in half by the force of her fall. Breathing deeply, she grit her teeth and made herself touch it again, her shoulders tight and back arched as she examined the wound. To either side of the fracture, she could feel that her skin had split, and blood oozed through her fingers. The rest of her leg seemed comparably undamaged. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Shit, 46

Seal,” she said between strained breaths. “I’m gonna… have to… put you back together.” Selina had no official medical training, though she had picked up some first aid basics from her father, Loch, and a particularly intense roommate. She’d only seen broken limbs popped back into place on television, but given the circumstances, that was going to have to do. Seizing her knee in one hand and her foot in the other, she pulled forward with what strength she had left. She cried out and collapsed backwards, tears streaming down her cheeks. She focused on breathing deeply to keep from passing out. Her leg felt like it was on fire, the exposed bone grating against her flesh. Once she gathered her energy, she grabbed the rope and rolled her upper body out over the water, tugging the nylon until leaves brushed her arm. The trunk of the tree was too bulky to pull onto the shelf in her condition, but she managed to yank its leafy end up beside her. She grabbed a skinny branch, feeling a satisfying pop as it snapped off into her hand. She stripped it of leaves and held it between her teeth, gnawing it to ensure it wouldn’t break when she bit down. “Okay,” she said, grimacing in anticipation. “Let’s try again.” Grasping her leg the same as before, Selina pulled hard. There was a fleshy squelch and a deep, unpleasant crunch, and darkness consumed her.

She dreamed about the black dog with the fierce eyes. Every morning on her commute to school it would bark at her, running alongside its fence as if she were an animal it was pursuing. Living on a little dead-end street, she had no choice but to pass it. It terrified her, and she would avert her gaze and sing to herself to try to block it out. This worked until the day it broke loose. She tried to flee the galloping hound but, in her haste, fell from her bike. She scrambled over the bike, now on its side with wheels spinning, and braced herself for an attack that never came. The dog merely approached, more slowly now, licked her face, and settled at her feet. The fierce eyes, she saw, had only ever been curious, and the violent tail had been wagging happily. But in the dream, its face melted and morphed into that of her mother, eyes ferocious again, mouth open in a wicked smile. Still on all fours, the mombeast barked hate at Selina, spouting things that terrified her, before going for her throat. She awoke shivering, her hand at her neck. The cave had been dank before, but night must have fallen since, and the water had cooled on her skin. In addition, she was sticky, drenched in sweat. She suspected she was running a fever. Her leg throbbed, but it appeared to be in one piece, caked in dried blood and swollen to twice its usual size. She was going to have to make a splint. Selina hauled herself up into a sitting position, leaving her wounded leg stretched out in front of her. Her center of gravity partially restored, she pulled the tree farther onto the rocky outcropping, only stopping to rest when she had stripped it of four branches. The roots of the tree looked intact. â&#x20AC;&#x153;You damn thing, you pulled yourself out of the ground,â&#x20AC;? she said. She gave the tree a look of disdain that it ignored. 48

Her hand found one of the caveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s walls, so she scooted closer, leaning her upper body against smooth stone once more. Rummaging in her pockets and pulling items off her harness, she was pleased to discover that she still had everything she fell with. A half-full bottle of water dangling from her harness, attached to a carabiner emblazoned with her name. Two wrapped protein bars, soggy but edible, on which she had written her initials, the same as Loch did on his out of some bizarre sense of good luck. One multi-tool, including pocketknife and miniature saw. An old harness, a length of strong rope, and a tree. She took a swig of water and unwrapped one of the protein bars. Holding one end of the bar in her mouth, she popped out the saw blade from the multi-tool and began sawing at the branches. She untied herself from the rope, laid the calf-length pieces of wood on either side of her leg, took off her drenched shirt, and set her food aside. Hoisting her wounded leg up a few inches, she quickly wound the shirt around her leg, following it with the rope. By the time she was done knotting the rope, her leg was successfully encased in a sheath of wood. Tears streaming down her cheeks again, she took a long moment to rest, out of breath but victorious. Hours passed as Selina lay there, shivering in the dark. Her leg still throbbed, but she tried to pay it little mind. There was nothing more she could do for herself in her present state, so she rested, chewing on her protein bar, and let her mind drift. Selina remembered her father vividly. He had never been a happy man, prone to dark moods and dark words. While her mother lashed out, her father bottled up as he drank away the day, making her time spent with each of her parents very different. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d enjoyed being with her father more. The 49

fact that he often wasn’t around, and didn’t beat her, greatly contributed to her enjoyment. He made sure she got to school on time, pushing her out the door at 7 a.m. sharp on the bike he bought, occasionally with a packed lunch. He started a savings account for her college education, which he only sometimes used to buy himself drinks. She loved him anyway, even if he found it hard to reciprocate her affection. He’d seemed so eternal, it shocked everyone when he died, though it didn’t shock anyone how. Selina’s 20th birthday had been a small affair, like all her birthdays. She invited a few friends over and they went out, like they had every year without fail, to the local skating rink. As children, it had been a favorite place to play, taking part with relish in activities throughout the day. As they grew older, the games they took part in changed, and it became a prime spot to flirt with boys. When they returned to her house, they’d huddle on the couch and watch a few movies, accompanied by a towering bucket of popcorn. That latter part ended unusually early that year. Selina had been feeling tired most of the day and bowed out of their evening traditions to go to bed early. After a round of hugs and “feel better”s, the other girls went home, and Selina was left to wonder where her father had gone. She didn’t have to wonder long, and the pink line he left around the edge of the bathtub never quite washed out. Happy Birthday, Selina. She was jolted back to her present predicament by a roaring sound. Bolting upright, she quickly found its source: water was pouring in from the ceiling, loudly splashing into the lagoon where she had fallen. “So much for that rain, huh, Loch?!” she shouted towards the flow. Wide awake and no longer blinded by pain, Selina started to get a sense of the cave’s geography. 50

The ceiling was about twenty feet up, a fraction of the length of the shaft she had fallen down, where the water was now pouring in. The light, she was fascinated to find, was emanating from clusters of mushrooms, kept alive by the moisture that ran down the cave walls. The same water had sculpted mesmerizing shapes in the rock, from towering pillars to delicate shards of stone that Selina could have snapped between two fingers. Bats wheeled in and out of the light cast by the fungus, chirping like birds as they caught insects she couldn’t see. “Now this would make quite a painting,” she said aloud. “I’ve fallen into Wonderland! Glowing shrooms and flying mice and God only knows what else. And my only friend is a tree.” She laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Hey, I’m waiting for that smoking caterpillar! He’d be fun!” The stone drank up her words with hardly an echo of “fun!” Alone in the dark and surrounded by unusual beauty, Selina thought about Loch. Their first dive together hadn’t been far from Atlanta. They hid their vehicle amongst some trees at the side of the highway; it was a scant five-minute hike to a gaping chasm in the earth, yawning wide like the maw of some beast. Selina had been afraid, but Loch coached her through it. It was a favorite little spot of his, he said, and quite safe. Tying off to some sturdy trees, the young couple harnessed up and lowered themselves into the hole. After some coaching, Selina was surprised by how fun she found it. What started as an escape from an aimless life quickly became something she actually enjoyed. She loved every aspect of the job: the discovery, the camping, the climbing, the documenting. And she liked Loch, and loved the escape he gave her. She just wasn’t sure, even after three years, if she loved him for him. 51

Long hours passed in this fashion. The low light never waxing or waning, sleep and consciousness started to blur together. Both were plagued by dreams which became steadily more horrible. Food and water alike were gone, attempts to ration defeated by the onward marching of time. Selina felt her skin growing clammier. White heat still pulsed deep in her leg. When rescue came, it came as a rustling from the hole above her, which Selina mistook for yet more rain until a pair of legs appeared. “Hey. Hey!” she shouted hoarsely, and was greeted by swift, rambling Portuguese. In a daze, she was gently moved back across the water by the combined efforts of three men and laid on a thin cloth stretcher lowered down into the hole on ropes. Warm daylight greeted her when she finally emerged, helped up from her prone position by two more men. She tested her splinted leg and was able to put a minimal amount of pressure on it, allowing them to walk-carry her away from the pit. “Seal! Baby!” Loch appeared from the direction of the cave, where he must have been directing the rescue attempt. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it! I came as soon as I could!” He was panting from exertion, eyes baggy, pants torn and muddied. He looked exhausted, but his face was lit up like the sun as he rambled his relief. “I called for you, and I thought I heard you, so I ran to town, I’m so—” “Hey, you.” She could feel the relief on her own face and would have latched onto him and squeezed had she been able to stand up straight. “No more tying off trees, okay? I really don’t want to do, you know, that, again.” Loch shook his head, promised to buy the sturdiest stakes available, and rushed elsewhere to get her a towel. She heard little of it. She was feel52

ing the sun on her face, a cool breeze whistling past her ears. It felt surreal, and tears rolled lightly down her cheeks as she soaked in the world. One of the men holding her spoke to Loch in rapid Portuguese, and Loch responded in kind, though a good deal slower. “He says he’ll take you side saddle, because of your leg.” When Selina cocked her head in confusion, he gestured behind him to the six horses grazing where they had made camp before the climb. She noticed that he had gotten her that towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, and was now offering her a protein bar, identical to those she had savored underground. His scrawled initials stood out on its unbroken wrapper. She looked at him, at the relief in his eyes. Not rage, like her mother. Not dispassion, like her father. He felt relief, and she felt something pass between them that might have been love. She grinned, despite the pain in her leg, as she was hoisted up onto one of the horses. “It was beautiful down there, Loch. I want to see it again. But next time, we’ll be more careful, okay?” “Of course. Anything. I don’t want to lose you again.” “Well I won’t be able to go anywhere for a while. I guess I’ll have lots of time to paint,” she said, looking at her leg. “So. How do you like my splint?” by Ryan Murphy *Content Warining: Implied Abuse, Addiction, and Suicide

i will never be a surgeon i know nothing of medicine except that it binds me to sanity it is a cure for today maybe tomorrow too but medicine is not surgery (this i do know) i know enough about pain to know it is a familiar sense of longing for puzzle pieces we wish we could recut and danger comes when familiarity paves way to comfort (this i’m still learning) we try to make the pain nostalgic so we do not have to worry about finding a new diagnosis “i’ve treated this before” haven’t i? (this i’m unsure of) maybe if i knew more about medicine i could find a path to the cure maybe if i was certain that the two were connected i could then proceed to surgery (i know nothing of surgery) 54

by Robyn Perry

Currency There’s a dollar in my pocket for someone to steal borrow perhaps admire Washington’s emerald eyes; the boy with the greasy fingernails asks me why I carry cash but he will never understand that I feel I’m worth more with a Bill weighing down my hip, damned by the debts I’ve yet to pay, that I feel safer with a man inside my pants, that masculinity is a virtue I must contemplate. by Hannah Butcher

The Omens Struggling up the mountain side, Eoghan paused to assess the remaining ascent. A little farther and he would reach the peak. A flash of darkness overcame him, and he clutched the rockside to allow the token to rush through his consciousness. Darkness clouded his sight once more, and he could discern the familiar faint glow at the precipice of the mountain. As if he were floating, Eoghan moved closer to the light, as he always did in the dreams, and it became a roaring fire. The flames rose high and filled the void of black, illuminating a flurry of snowflakes as they whirled toward the earth, and the same sculpted figure he had dreamed of for months stood motionless beside the blaze. Embers swirled in the air, too, winking out into nothing above the hooded statue. Shaking the remnants of the vision away, Eoghan labored across a sharp bank of rock as his breath roiled around him in the frigid air. The snow threatened to freeze his eyes shut, and he shuddered against the bitter cold. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop now, though. Not after what he had seen in the dreams. He continued to struggle up the narrow path, winding up the precarious cliffside until it dropped away without warning. The journey had seemed endless before now, his destination finally in sight. Eoghan had traveled from across the western Valley, far from the looming Lochrannoc range beyond the villages of the eastern Valley People. After weeks of the nightmarish dreams where death, destruction, and the great wasteland loomed, Eoghan told only his most trusted advisors of what he had seen and of the hooded sculpture atop a distant mountain. They agreed it was an omen; he must 56

find the idol and receive whatever message the gods wished to tell him so that they may prevail against Atylas and the Baolach Talamh. Eoghan left that night. They were slowly losing ground to the Baolach Talamh and their cancerous leader. The men could not continue in the same way for much longer. Once he decided to pursue this idol and determine the gods’ favor, Eoghan realized the visions became clearer as he journeyed through the villages, asking who may know where to find this statue. Eoghan grasped the final ledge, and with an anticlimactic heave, he rolled across the crag and grunted in satisfaction. Laying there to catch his breath, his ears caught the sound of wet wood hissing behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and a shiver ripped up his spine as he turned to look for the stone effigy of the gods. The snow beside the fire was unoccupied. The statue was gone. Scrambling to his feet, Eoghan frantically circled the fire in search of the idol. He fell to his knees where the statue should be, defeated, and closed his eyes. “What did I do wrong?” he whispered to the earth. Turning his face to the sky, Eoghan slumped back and asked, “Gods, I beg of you, tell me how I can stop him!” A solemn voice addressed him. “The gods are silent tonight, but I welcome you, King Eoghan.” Eoghan jumped to his feet and crouched low. The cloaked statue from his recurring dreams stood by the ledge, face shrouded in darkness. The figure took a step toward the blazing flames and her face came into view. A woman. By the gods... 57

Eoghan’s eyes narrowed as the pair assessed one another across the fire’s apex. Eoghan slowly stood straight, shocked to find the Great Mage he had heard so much about in recent months. From village to village he had traveled asking where the gods’ statue stood, hunting for the answer through the whispers and lore of the Valley People below. For generations, the Mage was feared, respected, and revered by the Valley People. She was a legend; she was the light. No matter what was said, it was known that the Mage protected them all. In each new place excitement and fear in their eyes, and they all said, “Ask the Elder, he will know.” “Ask the Elder, she will know.” “Ask the Elders, they will know.” Each time, the answer was the same: “Go to the mountain. She will help you.” The Elders honored the Great Mage and were grateful for her. Each told the story of how the Mage saved their ancestors from a pestilence that smothered the land and ruined the crops. A traveler wandered the paths and heard there was no food. The scourge had taken it all from them; they must leave or starve. One day, a great emerald dragon appeared and scared the valley people from their homes. They fled to the hills, praying the beast would spare their homes and livestock. The dragon circled the fields, burning the dying crops and razing the wasteland to nothing more than smoking earth. The dragon was gone as quickly as it came, and the valley people were distraught and confused. Why had the beast only burned their fields while sparing the livestock? Time went on, and the dragon was forgotten. The villagers worked the scorched earth, unwilling to leave their precious lands and determined to survive. Their crops thrived in the soil, and the 58

famine was over. The dragon had saved their ancestors by burning the pestilence from their fields, enriching the soil with ash, and their crops grew once more. Each Elder reverently looked to the sky over the Lochrannoc at the story’s end and closed their eyes. “The dragon lives in the mountains and returns from time to time. It circles the great sky, watching us work our fields, then glides away. It protects us because she protects us. She will protect you, too. Go to the mountain. She will help you.” The thought echoed in Eoghan’s mind as he watched the Mage with caution. The Elders had neglected to tell him the statue from his dream was, in fact, the Mage.

And she had been waiting. “I am no king,” Eoghan finally replied. “Hmm,” she mused, looking up at the milky sky. The curve of her chin was cast sharply in shades of black and copper from the shadowy flames. “I was promised a king… So, what could I offer the not-king instead?” He wasted no time. “Great Mage, I have only one request of the gods.” He knelt once more across the fire from her and bowed his head reverently. Laying his hands palms up on his thighs, he waited. The wind whipped at his hair, face, and hands, but he did not move. “You’ve come far for one request, not-king. What could weigh on your soul so terribly you must search for the gods to answer it?” She stood and crossed the distance between them, tracing a hand around the air of his head like a halo. As she drew his energy into her fingertips, she could feel his purpose. 60

“I have dreams, Mage. They plague me…” “What dreams, not-king?” she whispered. “I dream of many things: death, a great wasteland, and more, but only one repeats… a hooded figure by a blazing fire during the deepest snow. It is always just out of reach—I cannot see the face, but I feel the gods’ presence when I dream. Then there is war, and I see Death spread his sinister cloak across the land. I know I must find the statue and listen to the gods, but I am always searching, and the destruction looms over me so heavily I wake without breath.” Eoghan paused and made a decision. He must do whatever he could to stop Atylas and the Baolach Talamh. He raised his chin and pleaded with the Mage, “The visions will not cease… Please, will you help me? I must find the idol.” The Mage closed her eyes and felt the fire flare between them as Eoghan spoke. She saw what he dreamt: the coming wasteland, the carrion of death. She saw it in the skies, the fire, the seas… Death loomed across the valleys of the land, sparing none. She had known her fate for so long now and had given up her entire life for an entire lifetime of patience and watchful anticipation, unsure of when it would come to pass, yet always ready. Something older than time itself stirred in her chest and as the gods’ will had come to pass, the omens stirred. “You seek an idol, you say?” Her voice was soft, enticing. She had seen the war; she had seen this man face the Baolach Talamh. But she needed to know more. She knew he would come—and he had—but the auguries had shrouded his fate so deeply she could not tease even the edges of the inevitable to light. “The idol will connect me with the gods and protect my people. I wake from my dreams and feel 61

this figure will save my people from something terrible.” Eoghan’s voice was incredulous. Yet here he stood, humble and hopeful. She prayed he would not fail her. That he would not fail them all. He looked up at the Mage then, who was standing above him, and she saw the fear deep in his eyes. What man wants to die in the end? “There is much left for you in this life, notking. Come. See.” The Mage stretched out her hand in response slowly, calmly. Eoghan rose to one knee and rested his forehead in the soft curve of her palm. Her skin was warm, and it sent a molten wave of heat through his body as the snowflakes melted around them without a chance to land. He was standing above his body then, watching himself kneel. Eoghan could see through the Mage’s eyes. He knew her name to be Saoirse as clearly as he could feel her cloak grow heavy and sodden from the snow. He also sensed a hidden unease commingled with tense anticipation, and those feelings became his, too. The auguries came on strong, striking Saoirse and Eoghan’s connection with a sharp jolt of energy as she drew out the strands for him to see. The future stretched out in their mind’s eye: flashes of image, sensation, and sounds that led to a final scene with Saoirse by his side. The augury flickered as their ghostly hands reached for each other, and a heavy shadow thrust the land into darkness. A horrific, grating animal sound somewhere between a scream and iron striking against iron ripped through their mind and Saoirse felt Eoghan’s fear become her own. Another wave of heat coursed through the exhausted shell of Saoirse’s body and their connection as it was broken. He gasped, removing his head from Saoirse’s palm. Her palm hovered beside his face, unsure. 62

“Saoirse,” he breathed in wonder. She gave him a small smile of comfort. Eoghan sighed heavily, feeling weak from the relief. After countless days, weeks of struggle and searching, his dreams and his nightmares had pushed him here. Surviving on sheer will alone through the grueling climb, Eoghan had persevered, knowing he must find a way to defeat Atylas. His fate now lay at the eclipse of sleep and waking, a twilight of existence suspended as the sun cracked open the edge of the night sky across the horizon. The Mage’s magick enveloped them both in a warm womb of truth, and he was sure of his purpose. He shuddered and squeezed his eyes tightly, breathing in the sweet winter air and rich, loamy earth. “Now you need not ask, for you already know,” Saoirse whispered and slowly caressed his brow. His head remained bowed as she lowered her hood. His heart pounded with anticipation. “Saoirse,” he whispered again, hoarse. He looked up reverently. Her long dark hair rippled in the mountain winds, highlighting rounded cheeks and stoic eyes—eyes the color of the earth that spoke of time beyond her existence. Her lips parted briefly before a smile curled the corners of her mouth. “At last you have come,” she crooned. by Elizabeth Trepanier

Orion’s Confessions You, tiny specks on Gaea’s ground, squirming like ants, gaze up at me as if my vague outline enchants the Fates’ library of threads, and as if I steady the writhing worries in your heads. Each night, I aim my arrow at a woman in red curls who languishes in her car, clutching a baby girl: “Give us a life worth living,” she whispers to my face, and when she dozes in the passenger seat, I pace among the haze and heavens black— to Gemini and Cancer and Virgo and back. When her daughter cries, she jolts awake in fear, and when she looks up, I know she mistakes my tears for shooting stars; I cannot tell her that my belt cinches this body and obeys threads the Fates dealt; these stars are balls of fire that simply dance and spin— I am made of hay and straw, of urine and cheap gin. I feel I have deceived her trust instead of won it justly (she does not know I am a poor man’s son); you, woman with red hair and green eyes, who tosses her faith up to the sky and rocks the future in her arms, look at me as if I can charm the life you attempt to defend—

but the belt that wraps around my waist leaves only me protected and only me disgraced. by Hannah Butcher

Emily Anness For ‘Nasty Women’

Claire Glatting ChĂ˘teau de Versailles

Claire Glatting Venice

Claire Glatting Under Construction

Margie Sullivan That Which is Unseen

Claire Glatting Expert Tailoring

Richard T. Reep The Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Obedience

Richard T. Reep The Heart of the New Tomorrow

Isaac Gorres Untitled

Claire Glatting Blue Jungle

I Am Among my body you found everything you ever longed for fruitful divots and mounds acres of flesh ripe with passion vulnerability perceived invaluable now only misshapen simply a figure wilted from apathy hope exploited more than a body to experience and still not enough simply forgotten by Grae Kipping

The Playhouse I came across an old building today. I admired it for a while, and after some time, the building stood up, stepped across the street, leaned over, and spoke to me softly; He told me a good roof and a strong foundation are more important than new shutters and a fresh coat of paint. He said he was speaking from experience. He said the rain hurts him very much. He said he just wants someone to keep warm. I looked at him for a long time. I hesitated. Then I told him thank you and walked away. by H.L. 77

Where I am walking the ground we once did and I wore shoes this time, but the earth still hurts my feet I came searching for comfort in nostalgia yet all that greeted me was a wasteland, perfect rows of crop sown in, cashed out, scattered the unnamed graveyard of a massacred people the fighting never finished for my unsatisfied mind wandering a war-zone, floundering through an unknown land we thought we owned, frantically reaching for your hand, you said would be there— why wouldn’t you be there? Flat on my back, ears stunned in shrill silence from collision; I can feel the earth breathing in synchronization with my corrosion, chemicals once medicinal now habitual in the destruction of you, me, and the enemy we lumber through the minefields of no-man’s land, disguised as functional industry, waiting for artillery fire to be lit in lieu of candles, and though I’m pleading to escape the wreckage I turn to salt in the hopes you were still behind me

if only I could stop hearing what isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t there. Amid the aftermath the horizon burns quietly, the sun paints a delicate masterpiece in the sky, only meant for her love the moon to see, I corrode the image in jealousy, acid still seeping from my eyes soaking the soil beneath my aching feet, aging the wreckage; the sun waning, giving way to the nighttime nowâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; I am still afraid, but the moon keeps me warm as I wander the night sky Songs of torture faintly echo in the hollows of my chest Vibrating bones on bones of a cage they may never escape, their laments becoming only a whisper against the sound of me falling from the heavens as Adam fell a drunkard stumbling into the forest, fireflies stinging me like cigarette butts; in the distance someone calls for me. It appears I have lost my shoes by Grae Kipping

Soldier of Liberty* When Baldwin-Fairchild came for him, it was a warm May night, not a cloud in the sky—just the stars. The Chaplin ushered Mrs. Tyler and her daughter from the living-room and down the hallway. The boys in their clean black suits and pressed white shirts lifted Paul Tyler from his medical bed and onto the waiting gurney. Because he was a veteran, they draped the Stars and Stripes across his body. For the second time, stars were above him. In previous years they had danced around him in a wild rush of wind and fog. There are 20 men to a stick. All 19 are my boys. I’m in the back of the line to make sure they all jump. I’m their Second Lieutenant. Good boys all, brave boys all. The Jumpmaster has dug himself in at the door. “STAND UP!” “HOOK UP!” Our ride is a C-47 Skytrain. The pilots are fighting the coastal fog and storm clouds to try to gain visibility of our Drop Zone, the engines screaming as we climb higher and higher into the predawn sky. Pathfinders dropped in an hour ago to mark our drop zones with the Eureka’s paired with their Krypton lights and Aldis lamps. Those are some brave men. Braver than us to drop in first, alone, without backup into enemy territory—more guts than most. “Shuffle forward, check, and count off!” “One okay!” “Two okay!” “Three okay!” Because I’m in the back, the Jumpmaster’ll check my chute for me when it’s my turn to jump. 80

“Remember boys, take a deep breath and jump. If your chute don’t open by the time you count to four, pull your reserve!” The pilots are yellin’ and cursin’ about the fire we’re taking from the anti-aircraft guns below and the search lights blinding them. They’re flying blind, duckin’ and dodgin’. We stand in the door hooked up and ready to jump, all eyes glued on the darkened jump-light. The Jumpmaster looks over our heads once, twice, until the pilot flips the switch, and the light flares to life, splashing around the tiny bay, baptizing us for war. I watch from the back as the Jumpmaster grabs hold of the safety strap. The cold, damp air rushes in, bringing with it smells from outside the plane. I look around at my boys, then I look again. This feels familiar, like I’ve been here before. “GO! GO! GO!” I count ‘em off; 1, 2, 3, 4… 15 men between me and the door. 5, 6, 7, 8, 9... 10 men between me and the door. Mama cried when I enlisted in the Army. My sisters all looked like caught fish with their mouths hanging open. Elbert wasn’t surprised, but he helped me enlist; then he enlisted and sent Mama into a fit. 10, 11, 12... 7 men between me and the door. I try to keep my mind from focusing on the door. I think about Christmas, about how Jemma and Viola would pop the corn kernels, pick and dry berries and make long strings of ‘em to go on the tree and around the house. The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Many lost a son, a father, a brother, a husband, a friend. Good men died that day. American blood mixed 81

with the blue waters and the black oil rushing to the surface. People screamed, cried, and clung together in fear. They attacked my country and spilled the blood of my country-men. Germany declared war on us. I enlisted to save lives, to get this war over with so we could all go back to our lives as best we can. 15, 16, 17, 18... 1 man between me and the door. Charlie is shakin’ and wringin’ his hands. He’s thrown up twice. “Let’s go, boys!” Charlie’s bucking at the door like it’s a big damn gator snappin’ at him. If I don’t get him, the Jumpmaster will. Either way he’s going out that door—no place for fear of the door. Jumpmaster’s fixin’ to be all over him. “NOW! GO!” “C’mon, Charlie. the boys are waiting.” “JUMP! GO!” I grab Charlie by the shoulder and gun belt and throw his ass out the door, praying his chute opens. I hear him give a holler on the way down. I stand in the door while the Jumpmaster checks my chute. “Tyler, 20, GO!” “Goin’!” I take that deep breath and burst out the door after my boys. Hell rises up to meet me, the air exploding around me. The cold wind bites deep despite the layers of clothing. Wisps of cloud fly past me, fly above me, as I fall toward the dark earth below. I look down and I see the Devil’s handiwork as flames dance below me while black smoke curls and climbs higher. I watch one of our -47’s and its men break apart, the wings folding in on themselves like 82

one of my sisters’ paper dolls caught in the rain. I feel my eyes get warm and tears come running down; if three or four of those men escape, they’ll be damn lucky. I can imagine the chaos inside the bay as the men fight to stay on their feet, fight to get out the door, fight the tangled chute lines. I can hear the Jumpmaster yelling above the panic, screams and prayers of those who know they have seconds left to ask for forgiveness, ask for a quick death, and to aplogize to those waiting at home for them. I live through this—have lived through this—I’ll tell my granddaughter, or did I tell her— I’ll tell her the ones who didn’t come back, they’re the heroes. I watch the plane turn and spin in midair, head over tail. I smell the fumes and smoke off the plane and the used ammunition. I watch in helpless wonder and fear as the plane explodes, sending pieces of everything flying everywhere among the German fireworks. The force of the explosion engulfs me—I shut me eyes against the sensation. I feel the sound ripple through me. It shakes every bone in my body and causes my heart to skip a beat and jump back into action. One-one thousand: The farm in Starke, Florida was my daddy’s a’fore he died. I was three or four when the good Lord called him home. I used to get up in the mornings and build and light the fires in the fire places around the house, then wake up mama. I’d slop the pigs, feed the horses, muck the stables, feed and milk the cows, feed the chickens, and collect the eggs. I hope mama and my sisters can handle their chores plus mine and Elbert’s, and I don’t mind saying me and Elbert will have plenty to fix when we get back. Two-one thousand: Mama’s afraid I won’t come back. I’ll admit 83

there’s that chance. But I asked the good Lord to watch over me, told him I put myself in his hands, and whether he decides to see me through this or take me home will be up to him. I spent one year in the infantry, kept stateside shining shoes and running drills until a set of sergeants came clipin’ in asking for volunteers for a parachute regiment. I passed all my tests, did all my practice jumps, and earned my silver wings. Three-one thousand: I’m still dropping without the ground meeting my sight. I’m falling, rocketing down faster and faster. The pilots were supposed to drop us at 600 feet; I reckon they dropped us farther up. I can’t see the lights from the Pathfinders up this far, if those men got ‘em down at all. This place is crawling with German soldiers commanded by Rommel himself. We all knew what we were jumping into. Come hell or high water, we’re to take Normandy from the Krauts. We’re to take every inch of ground from them and never give it back. I reckon we can do that. Four-one thousand: RESERVE, RESERVE! I hear that reassuring crack as my chute pops open above my head. The ground still isn’t comin’ at me. Above the blaring rockets and gun fire, above the rush of the wind, above the roar of the plane engines and explosions, I can hear someone talking to me, something about “Paul” and “Daddy.” I grip my .38 a little tighter and clench my teeth. The wind is playing tricks on me. I look around and I can see the white parachutes of men for miles and miles, outlined and illuminated against the dark Normandy sky. Search lights from below swing in a wild motion catching some of the guys farther down. I can hear the gun 84

fire. And the return fire as the boys meet the ground. Might be some of my men. Down, and down, and down I fall and still no ground in sight. I take a deep breath. Inhaling the smells of burnt oil and gas and count again: One-one thousand . . . Two-one thousand . . . by Shelby Phillips

Note to my gentle readers: There are deliberate distortions of what Paul Tyler is seeing and experiencing; however, much of what the paratroopers, and what my Papa (granddad), saw and heard during this legendary jump is based on my Papaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brief accounts and my own readings about the 82nd Airborne Division during World War II. Paul Tyler passed away at home on the night of May 14th, 2015. He was 88 years old. *Content Warning: Descriptions of War 85

Those Who Stay I tried making a deal with my subconscious yesterday: three hours of uninterrupted study in exchange for a dreamless night; the will to put down the bottle in exchange for a sense of stillness— the moon and the stars— so long as the distant constellations wouldn’t form the letters of your name. Yet my skin still burns in all the places where you so delicately traced your fingers; my lips still tremble every time you pass by, carelessly reminding me of the void. I suppose my subconscious ignored me once again because— oh— there you are. I still find pieces of you in every blank canvas and every stained paintbrush that taunts my inconsistent creativity. And now I can’t tell if the piercing sound that resonates in my tired ears is the sigh of my bones crumbling under the weight of my own obsessiveness or the screaming of my fickle heart demanding I run after you. by H.L. 87

When We Could Only Play Gin Rummy* I remember the numbness in my knees as I walked down the hallway. It seemed to stretch on for miles. The floors, the walls, the doors—they all shined and glistened, tempting disease to invade, but there was little life to terrorize. This was the prison where death played. His room was straight ahead. The sounds hit me before the smells did. Machines whispered, growing louder with each hesitant step pulling me closer. There was a steadiness to the hum, a gradual, lifeless incline to its thumping rhythms. The smell crept closer. All too clean, all too inert. I followed my two older brothers into the room. They took a step and looked away. They moved to the side, heads turned and faces down. The bed became clear—he became clear. The machines that once whispered now begun to roar. I stared and stared and felt the unblemished skin on my face begin to crack. I couldn’t look away. We weren’t on the boat, breathing salty air and destroying the waves that dared to touch us. We weren’t on our bikes, pedaling through the windy streets. We were in the hospital, crumbling. His eyes were closed, and his body lay motionless. Tubes acted like tentacles sucking out the poison. They clung to every thumping and screaming machine in the room. They worked in a wicked synchronized fashion, pumping liquids into his veins, causing his skin to swell and bloat out of proportion. He wasn’t my father he was a blow up doll, lifeless and abused. He wasn’t recognizable. How could he be after a gallon of vodka, a bottle of sleeping pills, and nearly twenty-four hours of 88

unconsciousness? I don’t know how we got to that hospital room. With my parent’s divorce at the age of one, the back-and-forth lifestyle became the norm for me. School nights were with Mom (who remarried) and weekends were with Dad. That made Dad’s house the fun house, the one to look forward to. We used to make pizza in the kitchen. He would throw the dough in the air, speaking gibberish that he claimed was Italian. Then we’d go watch some silly movie that he would narrate. The next day, we were up early and out in the world: waterskiing, boating, tubing, snow skiing, cycling, hiking—anything that accompanied the word “adrenaline.” I could say the change had been gradual, but standing in that room, staring at my father’s bloated and broken body, I felt like the transformation had occurred in seconds. Maybe that’s why my eyes couldn’t look away—I couldn’t understand. I wasn’t in that room, I was everywhere that we used to be in all those years of our childhood and our memories. I was only fifteen years old, but my adolescence had been stripped away from me. I couldn’t understand, and I didn’t want to understand. All I wanted in those moments, and the hundreds of moments that followed, was a belief that we had had something. I was remembering not what I needed to remember—the depression and substances that had always consumed him—but what I wanted to grasp and feel. I chose not to remember his screaming episodes, breath hot with rum and coke. I chose not to remember the way my limbs would shrink as his rampage climaxed and then cooled with tears of apology. I didn’t want to remember the weekends when I didn’t hear from him, his body slack from sleeping pills. Those moments were silent, blurred, in that room on June 24th, 2013. Instead, I held on,

like those wicked screaming tentacles, to a hope of where we could be. Standing in that room, my feet were encased in concrete, and the numbness in my knees had slithered up to the red in my cheeks. I knew there were tears trickling down my face, and my features must have been compressed into some ugly resemblance of confusion, but I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel my reaction. I was mesmerized by his. The pain, even in his state of comatose, must have been incredible. His body had started to convulse, and his face would contort. His eyes would open for a wild second and shut back away in a soundless scream. It was too much to see. Maybe the doctor standing in the corner realized this, because he told us it was time to leave.

My brothers and I turned in an aching silence and allowed our feet to pull us from the scene. We started out of the hospital but were stopped by a social worker. We were brought into a closet-sized room in the back hallway of the Maine Medical Center. With my oldest brother being eighteen, a legal adult and the next of kin, the mass of papers and responsibilities appeared before us. The brownhaired old lady spat a bunch of words and numbers into our faces. She spoke with a tired voice; words pushing out of her lips like a script. Ultimately, she concluded, we had to pay for all of this. She gave us some more papers, her card, and promised sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be in touch. I wonder what kind of thoughts raced through her brain as she handed thousands of dollars of debt to three teenage kids. My dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s actions on that one day cost him, and us, four months in the intensive care unit, six

months in physical therapy, and, literally, an arm and a leg. The bills grew bigger, louder, redder. But I didn’t see any of that. I saw a stronger, better, happier Dad. I knew what we were striving for, what I was striving for. His therapy was an hour and a half from our town. I made the drive. I skipped school dances and parties to spend the weekends with him in Portland. We played cribbage and gin rummy. He still always won. It wasn’t like the races we used to have on our bikes or swimming in the ocean. He was sitting a wheelchair, with no function in the right side of his body—but I still looked at him as the father who drank freedom and bled adrenaline. His apartment was dark with cool tile floors, but I forced the resemblance of our past life into them, into him, into us. I believed with every blonde hair and brown freckle of my being that my dad would get better. Sometimes I would joke, “Life was too easy for you to conquer before, Dad. Now, God wants to see you do it as an amputee.” Maybe my dad could have gotten better. Maybe he would have tackled the world again, but he was never given the chance. Once he got strong enough to make it around by himself, he moved back to our hometown of Boothbay. He got an online job to try to help with the bills. The state found out and rejected his welfare. Now that my dad could “work,” we had to pay for everything. Medications, therapies, trips to the hospital, and the numerous doctors—it was enormous. The state threw him out and built a wall. My dad tried to climb it and couldn’t. It wasn’t just trying to walk again, or to use his arm again, or to write again—it was how to tackle a faceless, unwilling world again. Maybe he was tired of trying to overcome everything, or maybe he was scared. Either way, I never got to see who

my dad might have been. I remember his memorial service. I remember the way we talked about him. It was the same joyful, hyperbolized past that I had become obsessed with in the past two years. No one mentioned the second and final suicide. No one mentioned his struggle to overcome a physical and emotional pain. We spread his ashes in the very same ocean that we had braved in the years beforeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the very same ocean that we made our own. During those moments of joy and adrenaline, I knew he was happy. I knew I was happy. We were victorious in a callous world. by Annie Baumm *Content Warning: Addiction and Suicide 93

His* December 2017

It’s 1:07 pm and the room is entirely different, furniture shifted, new sheets and pillows color the air, poised perfectly to hide secrets the blank walls couldn’t Or won’t What is left of my things lament, to me, bundles in boxes begging to be rescued from the reality I thought I had escaped yet they will inevitably exist in forever. I find it hard to breathe under the weight of the pages of my childhood journal conferring secrets with the walls, whispering to a primitive form of my consciousness “ Dear Journal, Pound Pound Pound

July 2010

It’s 2:30 am and I awoke to the sound of a monster

the door to my mother’s bedroom slams open the light switch cracks under the weight of His hand He pulls her bed sheets violently to the floor

stumbling through the dark, grappling with horrors from his childhood he can only understand drowning in the fermentation of his own mind

Pound Huddled on the bathroom floor Pound clutching a tattered pink rabbit Pound I begged god to spare me his body overgrown, dense with malice malevolence lines his jaw, his vindictiveness venomous, the manifestation of maternal mishap festering for generations, its stench chokes me The screaming stopped. Predatory mutters stutter between scattered thoughts of accusations and threats and endless tales of dishonesty, the voices in his mind audible through the door as he pauses Dear stranger walking past,

October 2010

The baby’s wailing echoes through my chest as I run barefoot in my crumpled Sunday dress searching for anyoneto ask why my hair was so knotted I should’ve Why did you keep your head so low? Why didn’t I grab the baby You must have noticed the screaming, the sound of fists echoing against rib cage, of madness against madness tearing apart the bedroom, my entire universe I finally crouched behind a vending machine down the hall, acutely aware of how alone I was. I adopted the discord as only my reality Dear endless road stretched before me, 96

May 2012

We traveled in silence, a caravan painted with enough color to trick the world around us that we were traveling and not running It’s 12:13 am and I realize, as my mother’s wails echo across an empty church parking lot, that she too was drowning I plead with my mother not to turn back again,again my cries fell on deaf ears encompassed in the agonizing silence of survival we camouflage ourselves in as we tip-toe back into the house It’s 1:46 am and the monster’s agonizing has finally ceased, facedown in vomit he sleeps peacefully and, for a moment, leaves behind just a man to be pitied We all cram into my mother’s bed she clutched a baseball bat, and with my eyes open I dreamed of what could have been if I just It’s 4:08 am and the sounds of a monster echo the sounds of a man holding my ear to his head with my throat in His hand Pound Pound Pound

”

by Grae Kipping *Content Warning: Physical/Domestic Abuse

Safed What is this blue city that guides my eyes up to the sky? What is this ocean I feel of honey water in the midst of ash and rye? Even faced with fire, Tzfat cradles me closeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; I am an infant without a name, a song without a tune. From here, I can feel those unsolicited strokes of Jerusalem, the harsh pinch of Tel Aviv. I am perched atop the metzudah, legs crossed, eyes shut. Have peace, Safed says, For the rivers still flow and the clouds still roll and long ago, Abraham welcomed strangers into his home under the same skyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; have peace, for hospitality is written in history and you will watch the sun rise. by Hannah Butcher

Alex Candage, 2020 Co-Editor-in-Chief

Alex, 20, is a first-generation college student and English major in preparation for a career in publishing. Alex was Editor-in-Chief of The Independent for its Spring 2018 issue and has held leadership positions in several clubs, including co-founding Disability Alliance. Alex is honored to be spending zir senior year as Editor-in-Chief of Rollinsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; student newspaper, The Sandspur. As a demisexual, biromantic, nonbinary individual with disabilities, Alex is excited to promote diversity and accessibility in all that ze does. Alex would like to thank zir professors for their continued support and advice. Ze also thanks zir friends, who have become zir chosen family.

Siobhan Nolet, 2019

Co-Editor-in-Chief

Siobhan Nolet, 21, is a Senior and double major in English and American Studies. Aside from being Co-Editor-in-Chief of Brushing, she is also a Copy Editor for The Sandspur and a member of the Upsilon Beta chapter of Chi Omega at Rollins. After graduation in May of 2019, Siobhan will travel to Vietnam to participate in a three-week field study and then return home to northern New Jersey. She wants to practice law in the future, hopefully focusing on social justice and public interest. 100

Anastasia Rooke, 2019 Head of Design

Anastasia Rooke, 22, is a studio art major from Greenville, South Carolina. Brushing is the first publication that Anastasia has designed; however, working in a digital medium within her own practice, she often finds subject matter ranging from ethics, sustainabilty, and fashion. On campus, she is involved with The Sandspur as a page designer and graphic illustrator and a member the Upsilon Beta chapter of Chi Omega. When Anastasia is not in the studio, she enjoys playing with her border collie, Sylver, and attending local art events. Upon graduation, she will be moving to Washington D.C., continuing to work in graphic design.

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Editors

Ally Harbaugh Elizabeth Trepanier Emily Rossborough Kendall Clarke Siobhan Cooney

Readers

Alex Lictner Allison Wilson Ally Harbaugh Emily Rossborough Sarah Dossey Victoria Alvarez

Greg Golden

director of student media

Dr. Matthew Forsythe faculty advisor

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Brushing Art and Literary Journal is a publication of Rollins College, Winter Park, Florida.

Brushing 2019

Articles inside

Where GRAE KIPPING

His GRAE KIPPING

Those Who Stay H.L

Soldier of Liberty SHELBY PHILLIPS

Safed HANNAH BUTCHER

When We Could Only Play Gin Rummy

Credits

The Playhouse H.L