about Castings is the undergraduate journal of literature and fine arts at Christian Brothers University in Memphis, TN. We publish fiction, poetry, nonfiction essays, humor, photography, fine art, cartoons & comix by CBU students from across the university. We also host an annual Castings Awards competition and reading series. See our submission guidelines for details. Editorial internships are available to a limited number of creative writing and fine arts students each year by invitation from the faculty advisors. Students interested in working with Castings as editors or graphic designers are encouraged to reach out to Karyna McGlynn in Creative Writing, or Nick Peña in Art. ©2020 Castings is an in-house academic publication and does not claim first serial rights to the submissions. However, art, poetry, and prose may not be reproduced except for limited classroom use without the written permission of the contributor. Front matter and graphic designs are the property of Castings and may not be reproduced without written permission from Castings.
““You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.”” Maya Angelou
submissions Guidelines & castings awards We accept submissions from any current student of Christian Brothers University between September 1st & Feb 2nd each year. Students may submit up to six pieces in each genre to castings@cbu.edu. We are looking for poetry, short stories, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, humor writing, and visual art of all kinds—including painting, collage, photography, graphic narrative, and comix. We encourage students to submit in multiple genres. Please make sure that you include your name/ year/major and the title(s) & genre(s) of your submitted piece(s). We prefer to receive submissions in the following formats: .doc, .docx, .pdf, and (for art & photography) .jpg. We are excited to receive all submissions and welcome the chance to showcase the diverse artistic talent of the CBU student body. We make our decisions on a rolling basis, but you can usually expect to hear back from us by April. Castings Awards: All submissions in the following genres will be automatically be considered for the annual Castings Awards: poettry, fiction nonfiction, fine art & photography. From each genre, first, second, and third place winners are awarded cash prizes, publication, and features at the Vincent O’Neill Reading Series/Castings launch party. Judges are selected by the editorial team each year from both the CBU faculty and the wider Memphis arts community.
staff Prose Editor
Faculty Advisors
Jessica German
Karyna McGlynn & Nicholas Peña
Poetry Editor
Layout & Design
LeKe’la Jones
Erin McInnis
judges
Casting Awards 2020
Poetry
Fine Art
Photography
Fiction
Karyna McGlynn Nicholas Peña
Jana Travis
Daniel Hornsby
Nonfiction Alice Bolin
table of contents Poetry Josey Chumney...How to Appreciate Films...9
Antonio Fielding...Ode to Imaginary
Megan Morrison...Bed is a Sidepiece...10
Arguments in the Shower...17
Shamus Smisor...Daybreak...11
Andrea Garcia...United We Stand...18
Chris Wright...10 Things I Hate about Soup...12
Victor Alain Hernandez Barajas...The
LeKe’la Jones...My Love Isn’t Here Yet...13
Lonely Wave...20
Bria Dyer...Untold Truths...14
Terrell Lawson...2:00...21
Bria Dyer...Delusions within the Days...15
Anayanci Sanchez...Thunderstorms...22
Bria Dyer...Dear Father...16
Anayanci Sanchez...Remember Me...23
Photography Oscar Jauregui...Gas Station...25
Lesly Cruz...End of the Day...30
Mario Campos...Banshee...26
Alexis Mitchell...Cloudistic...31
Anayanci Sanchez...Alone...27
Samantha Lunsford...To My Greatest
Oscar Jauregui...Frisco, Colorado...28
Adventure Beside Me...32
Sydney Ritter...New Beginnings...29
Taylor Williams...One Day at a Time...33
Fine Art Marilyn Bedrossian...Lily...35 Mira Billings...Sweet Summer...36 Katherine Firrone...Snake Pot...37 Grace Guetschow...Finger Gun...38 Sianya Arredondo...Dia a Dia...39 Sianya Arrendondo...Donde el Alma Sonrie...40
Fiction Chelsea Panameño...On the Day the Angels Fell...45 Terrell Lawson...The Greatest Grave...47 Josey Chumney...Coffee Conversations...52 Josey Chumney...Breaking News...54 Megan Morrison...Rose Hips & Beef
Margaret Wright...Rose Covered Glasses...41
Chips...55
Derrick Rayford...You Have the Right to Stay
Reilly Johnson & Jessica German...Romps
Silent...42
and Regulations...57
Samhita Nair...Sleepless Nights...43
Chelsea Panameño...Fifteenth Sequence: Bad Ending...64
Nonfiction Logan Lurry...Not So Black Panther...67
Regan Hafer...Your Early 20s...80
Josey Chumney...Six People You Inevitably Meet
Logan Lurry...Recipies for Successful
at the Gym...70
Ventures into the Unknown...82
Reilly Johnson...Drunken Mistakes and a
Marlena Bradford...5 Things Gone Worng in
Lackluster Breakfast...73
My Life...86
Allison Black...A Quest to Live Forever...76
Jessica German...Types of People You Have
Logan Lurry...A Dim Light for Bright...78
in a Group Project...88
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A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. w.h. auden
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How To Appreciate Films Josey Chumney
Do not watch films only once or twice. Study them like that third trimester sonogram. Try to find the family nose. Watch film noir. Embrace the whodunits, the stationary car chases, mustached villains and shadows. Bathe in the shadows until your fingers are pruney and old. Do not watch a John Hughes. Especially the one with Long Duk Dong. Do not listen to your parents when they say they’re classics. Give musicals more than a chance. Julie Andrews is more than a queen. She is Thanksgiving dinner. Do not watch films with people who talk about the Redskins-Cowboys game. Avoid them like that kid with the Cheese Touch. Lie if you have to. Do not watch the film without reading the book first. Do not watch a horror film without three friends. Make sure two are extroverted and one is funny. Funnier than you. Always put salt and butter on the popcorn. Never add cheddar or M&Ms. Do not watch documentaries about Michael Jackson or R. Kelly on the same day. Space them out like that colonoscopy. Every five to ten years is just fine. Watch rom-coms. Do not believe rom-coms. They only try to sell a career in journalism and Ryan Gosling’s ass. Do not stay through the credits for every film. Marvel does that. Not everyone. Pretend you have better things to do. Do not watch films only once or twice. Appreciate them. 9
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Bed is a Sidepiece Megan Morrison
Bed was not assembled to hide your love affairs. Bed joins in on the action, creaking and moaning along with its passengers. Bed won’t listen to the broom handles ramming the ceiling from above. Bed is deaf anyways. Bed does cooperate sometimes, lets you kiss your lover crudely in the afternoon, not even a squeak. Bed sleeps with you. Bed sleeps with you through the nightmares, when lovers leave you. And when the memories leave your eyes, soaking Bed’s pillows, Bed coddles you. Bed coddles you through wasted month-aversaries and residual anger. Bed knows you don’t despise them, that lover lost. Bed has been there with you. Bed was built to hold you, And Bed will continue to hold you until another lover comes.
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Daybreak
Shamus Smisor Did we die? A storm blew through last night. The flowers are broken, The porch is wrecked, There are no more cigarettes. Maybe Kansas can’t be my home, Maybe Oz was waiting in my heart, But that tornado seems to last forever. Seven months have passed. It’s cold out. It’s cold inside, too. Winter whispers soft lies Across my chest. I was hoping for breeze and coffee Early in the morning When the sun hasn’t yet Peeked its face up to see me, Though I can see it, So now I’m out in the world But hiding from the day, Minutes away From bursting with sunlight. I hope I decide to stay outside, To feel the warmth come through In that sacred moment When the rays kiss the earth Good morning And truth comes pouring across the cold wind of winter, World breaking out in song, “We’re alive. We’re alive.”
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10 Things I Hate About Soup Chris Wright
I hate that I only have soup as an excuse to eat bread. I hate it that I should’ve gone and got a sandwich instead. I hate the way that I can’t decide if what I am doing is eating or drinking. I hate that soup always ends up staining my microwave’s ceiling. I hate how soup burned her tongue on our first date. I hate how you couldn’t comfort her and how you made me wait. I hate cold days and the way your warmness makes me feel. I hate it that it was you that was our last meal. I hate the fact that you are no longer balanced on my lap in your bowl, But mostly, I hate the fact that I don’t hate you, not even French onion you, not even miso you, not any soup at all.
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My Love Isn’t Here Yet Leke’la Jones
maybe God prefers me to create from a space of imagined lack.
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Untold Truths Bria Dyer
I’m stuck in the in between I’m either too nice or I’m way too mean I’m oh so dirty But let me come clean I wanna let off the pressure Let off the steam I’m not green with envy But I got some jealousy The love I got for you ain’t never no fallacy You’re everything I could want Baby you a fantasy But in the end you’ll probably get a man And I’ll be stuck with me, myself, and a pen. You got a happy ending and I got The End.
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Delusions Within the Days Bria Dyer
My days and nights have been mixing. So when I see the sun I think the day is done And when the moon is out I’m just ready to wake up. The stars greeting me with a kiss on the cheek And the clouds whispering bad memories. The mosquitos out so they can suck me dry And I got the grass on my feet wishing I would die. I slap the bushes back and clap back with thunder. I’m just trynna be free but I don’t wanna be run over. The wind tried to speak some sense into me but I’m not sensible. Pollen dust in my eyes and lilac tears falling down. I watched the sunrise and the moon show its crown, but when I set I hope everyone is around and I pray I never let myself down.
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Dear Father Bria Dyer
Home is where your hearts at but you ain’t got no home so where is yah heart at. You was driving so fast that you had demons riding shotgun and when you got angry you would pop one. Trying to keep them swallowed down but the liquor couldn’t stop them. I remember when you always use to be around. Now you’re just around the corner trying to see your daughters. When it was easy you made it harder. And now you’re more lost than when you lost your father. Can’t you see I’m trying to set you free? I’m not charging a fee. I was a part of you and the same for me. Now a burden. Now in pain constantly hurting. Driving me insane. Trying to pull you over but you in your own lane. This ain’t living basically sinning. Unforgiving. It’s always hard to mention. Hoping you become the man that you need to see.
Love, B
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Ode to Imaginary Arguments in the Shower Antonio Fielding
My Sanctum How I adore thee The domain of cheap candles ~fervent masturbation~, and boiling myself to perfection as I whine and whistle like a teakettle with the finest artisanal brew to be doused upon that bitch who cut me off during my commute As the scalding droplets imbued with God’s wrath inundate my flesh with arcane knowledge of how to belittle my enemies; my body becomes a channel. Funneling the headwaters into the inevitable cascade of cacophonous curses against different insults: like a snippy spritz of jealousy from a rando about how my kind of humor is a drag. The ecstasy I feel as I craft rebuttal after rebuttal to your now child-like remarks. The steam enveloping me in it’s loving embrace. The fan siphoning the pearls of rage away as they escape out into the night to hopefully drown them in some coincidental act of ultimate karmic justice. I feel my adoring fans, the apparitions I have created in my head to be my entourage of vengeance, offering their validating cries to pay recompence for the atrocities you cast upon me. As if I had deserved to be convinced that I needed to change myself for you. My victory lap begins as I conclude my argument with a deluge of vindications that will never be heard nor appreciated by them or anyone for that matter as I know that this same old story will continue. I will return to my shrine, heal my wounds, and tell you off once again. If only for a moment I could – speak my mind outside of this languid temple as free as a whirling tempest, but for now I will reside to soaking the sadness out of me in this sad puddle of tears. 17
United We Stand Andrea Garcia
Why is the world so different? Why always criticize? Why care of the color instead of each other? Why destroy a kid’s dream because of his ethnicity ? Do you have no empathy? Why destroy the hopes of a little girl in her face? Instead of cheering her on like it’s a big race? I’ll do what I want I’ll say what I want Know thee can never control me I’ll fight for them too Together united we stand in front of you Those that have fallen rise Together we’ll love instead of despise Just love no hate We’ll be treated equally no more gates No more hate No more violence No more criticizing We’ll be known as one which is the human race Then a little girl came to me and asked What does thee see in me? I answered I only see the sorrow that grows and the pain that does not go She looked at me with sadness in her eyes listen to her rhymes 18
Never fear what you cannot hear Never see what cannot be Do not hate what you cannot bait but only love the one that almighty and great From that point in I opened my eyes just to see the greatness of life What I cannot understand was how that little one knew that I despised what was not great and full of hate Because of her these words shall be heard I shall not rest until we fix this mess To communicate with one another To be united as one and to never just run Together we can do this Together we can overcome
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The Lonely Wave
Victor Alain Hernandez Barajas Just like a wave, I feel, moving alone, on a current of followers. One after the other but never together. Once in awhile, I see, I sense a partner coming my way. But then I look again and no one is there. Alone I may be but one day that will change. I will strike the shore and all my worries will go away.
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2:00
Terrell Lawson He promised to kill me at 2 AM. The demon in my room. I didn’t believe him and that made him mad, He growled and snarled “Soon.” I turned around and looked at the clock. It read 1:31. I looked back at the foot of my bed but now the demon was gone. I bundled up under the covers and tried to forget what I saw. Until I felt a hand on my shoulder; I turned and saw a claw. I jumped up out of my covers and stood on top of my bed. The claws were gone but shadows were screaming, “Dead, Dead, DEAD!” The walls began to spin around, my room became a blur. I almost screamed out for my mom but she would kill me first. My clothes were full of sweat, I couldn't take it anymore. I glanced back at the clock again, It read 1:44. My window opened up a bit, I felt a breeze of wind. Whispers, cries, thousands of eyes, I begged for it to end. The mind is such a scary thing; it felt so real to me. I said my prayers and watched the clock. Go from 1:59 to 3:00.
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Thunderstorms Anayanci Sanchez
I could never really describe the way thunderstorms made me feel It is a strange experience. At first, as the wind starts rising and getting stronger, I feel it inside me. Everything growing bigger and building up. Then the sirens, as a warning that soon, there will be an explosion. And it begins. Lightning strikes and thunder falls just a few seconds behind. All in the meanwhile, giant droplets fill the isolated streets of my skin. In the end all that is left, is the petrichor of the rain.
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Remember Me Anayanci Sanchez
When we grow old together, I want you to have every part of me memorized. The way I like my coffee How I wear my favorite sweater How I style my hair Know me like the palm of your hand Even if you don’t know it all too well. Because I don’t even know mine. But I want you to know every part of me. Because we will grow old together and I will forget. So listen when I tell you Memorize every part of me. The scent of my hair. They way I can’t sit still while watching t.v. Remember the constellation of freckles, sitting on the right side of my hips. Remember me.
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There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer. ansel adams
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Gas Station Oscar Zenteno
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Banshee Mario Campos
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Alone Anayanci Sanchez
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Frisco, Colorado Oscar Zenteno
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New Beginnings Sydney Ritter
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End of the Day Lesly Cruz
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Cloudistic Alexis Mitchell
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To My Greatest Adventure Beside Me Samantha Lunsford
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One Day at a Time Taylor Williams
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Where the spirit does not work with the hand, there is no art. Leonardo da vinci
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Lily Collins Marilyn Bedrossian
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Sweet Summer Mira Billings
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Snake Pot Katherine Firrone
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Finger Gun Grace Guetschow
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Día a Día Sianya Arrendondo
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Donde el Alma Sonríe Sianya Arrendondo
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Rose Covered Glasses Margaret Wright
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You Have the Right to Stay Silent Derrick Rayford
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Sleepless Nights Samhita Nair
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Ernest Hemingway
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It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write. Let them think you were born that way.
On the Day the Angels Fell
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Chelsea Panameño On the day the angels fell, there was nothing but ash-colored clouds and the after-scent of rain and rust, like the taste of blood when you bite your cheek, like a summer storm. The wind blew westward, and the trees shook with it. The workers kept the tunnels going, and the children harvested leftover rainwater in rubber boots and stained buckets. They would filter it out through buzzing, whirring machines, then give it back to the workers, who would then drink and drink and drink until the dryness of Sundays faded and the shaking hands of Fridays returned. There was always something in the water. But that’s why it worked. The first break in the clouds all day came in the form of their bodies. Two and four and six- winged forms, sharp claws and long toes and one or eight or sixteen eyes in places where eyes shouldn’t be. Mouths, too, and tongues that might as well be fire. As they fell, they shifted – feathers turned to hair (though many would never lose their ruffled touch), wings faded into skin or turned to extra limbs, eyes and mouths that shut so tight the lines were no longer visible. Their skin ranged paper-white and crinkled to bronzes sealed with a reddish glow, tamed by fires (did they come from them? They may never know). They fell in twos and threes. Some landed on the roofs of makeshift houses, though they did not break. Some landed in fields, in trees, some dropped into the ocean and were said to have drowned and became the fish-things that would come to bleed them dry in a later year to come. None came from tunnels, but then again nothing came from the tunnels except rock and soot. At least, not yet. The notangels came before the worm-people after all. Not a single was bruised or injured in the slightest way. Except for one. When they tried to speak, when the elders had been called and frayed whips and spears were dug up from the bottoms of family chests and the children held their buckets as if still waiting for the rain, they spoke in harsh sounds through cracked lips, none of the lilting musical voices from the stories. There were a few, black-eyed and almost trance-like in their recently fallen state. But it was off-key. They did not know where they came from. They did not know why they were there. The closest they came was the few who, for a time, could not speak a human tongue. Many
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would learn. Others would be kept in the dark to preserve what the humans perceived as their culture, their heritage, a lost history that no one knew the answers to. One of them, a tiny runt of a thing, practically a child in form and mind as they’d later find out, with dangling limbs and six wings and nails, not claws, tipped with the same reddish hue of their lips, the only one with a bruise the same color as the sky on the back of their right shoulder, spoke a single phrase before forgetting altogether: “Someone pushed me,” they said. They blinked at the whips before them. “He pushed me.” And that was that. And the not-angels stayed. And the world spun on, and the tunnels kept going, and the rain kept falling. Until the day it didn’t.
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The Greatest Grave Terrell Lawson I came back home because my father went mad. I never wanted to go back. I loved the city. My mother called and told me what dad had been doing, but she said none of my siblings had answered their calls. Of course they wouldn’t. Nobody wanted the responsibility. If I hadn’t been half asleep, if I had looked at the contact... I might’ve ignored it too. But that’s the past. Now it was time to get serious with them about a retirement home. I had a taxi drop me off at the ranch gate, my mother was standing there waiting to open up for me. “How long have you been out here?” I asked her. “It’s almost a hundred degrees out.” “Your father has been out here for days. Never stopping, never resting. He claims he was given a message from God. He’s lost his mind.” “Where is he?” I asked her. “In the goat pasture, behind the barn. I’m going to bring him something to drink, you want anything?” “No ma’am, I’m fine,” I said as I made my wait towards the barn. The barn was big and gray, with a tattered white roof that appeared to be decaying and falling apart. With every step I took the smell of manure and urine grew stronger, and I fondly remembered playing hide and seek with my siblings; my face five inches away from a sheep’s butt. “Dad?” I called out as I turned the corner. “Mom says you’ve been busy-” He was standing next to a massive rounded hole the size of a football field with three big digging machines nearby. “What the hell is this?!” He turned around and looked at me, drenched in sweat. His denim overalls were completely covered with dirt, and his red shirt looked nearly black from being soaking wet. “Douglas! The only one that answered the phone. I knew one of you boys would come through.” He tried to hug me and I stepped back. “Oh alright, don’t want to ruin your little button down.” He said and instead
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offered his hand. I reluctantly shook it and he smiled. “Living in the city got y’all scared of dirt now, I can tell. How you been?” “I’m fine but what about you? What is this?” “This, my dear boy,” he said as he motioned towards the pit, “is a grave.” There was a moment of silence as I stared at him, trying to figure out what to say next. “A grave… for what? You planning on slaughtering our entire livestock?” “No, son.” he put his dirty hand on my shoulder. “A grave for a greater being. One you simply can’t imagine.” “Okay… but how much did those machines cost? We can’t afford this, dad.” He shook his head. “Don’t matter. This is my purpose. This is why I was made.” “You boys alright?” asked my mother, walking towards us with two glasses of water. “We’re fine Darling, I’m just taking a small break before I get back into it. I’m nearly there.” He took a glass and chugged it like a frat boy at a college party. “I wish you’d stop!” she snapped at him. “Do you know how much debt you’re putting us in?! “Charlotte, I’m telling you, this is God’s will! I will not stop my mission for no mortal! Think of the blessings we will receive!” “What in this world would God want you to bury?” “NOTHING!” he spat, getting extremely close to her face. “Cuz it ain’t from here.” “Marital Issues, Donnie?” said a voice from behind them. “I’ve been there.” Everyone turned to look at Edward McFarlane, a neighboring farmer, and competitor. He wore a similar getup to my dad’s but cleaner, with a blue flannel instead of red. He took off his sunglasses and gazed at my father’s exhibition. “By god, Miller. You don’t have to kill all your animals. I’ll take them off your hands for a good price.” “Mind your damn business Ed. This ain’t got nothing to do with you.” “Oh, but it does Donnie. See, the bank called me about you, and you ain’t gonna like what they said.” Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go inside and let them talk.” We walked to the house and stood in the kitchen. “Why didn’t you call us sooner?” I asked her. “I called Franklin and Robert, but they didn’t answer. When I called Allison, she told me to let him do it.” “What?!” I demanded, stunned. “Why would she say that?’ “The farm is losing money too fast. I can’t do it by myself, and with him going off the wall like this… Allison’s picking me up tomorrow. We need you to take care of him.” 48
“Take care? I can’t run this farm!” I protested. “We’re not asking that. You’re going to sell the farm and put him in a retirement home.” “How am I supposed to get Dad to agree to that?” I asked her. “He doesn’t care about the farm anymore,” she told me. “Just stay until he finally completes whatever he’s trying to do. It shouldn’t take more than a day now. Then you can convince him to sell the farm.” I thought about it and grabbed the glass of water. “Let’s go check up on them,” I told her. As soon as we opened the door, we could hear shouting in the distance. I ran as fast as I could to the scene, where my dad and Edward were arguing and pushing each other awfully close to the huge pit. “STOP!” I shouted. “Get away from the edge!” Just as I got close enough to break up the fight, one of our sheep came out of nowhere and headbutted Edward’s leg, almost knocking him over the side. I quickly grabbed his overalls and pulled him back, his face as red as a tomato. Once he got his balance, he ungratefully pushed me away, his chest heaving. “You… you…” he looked from me to my father, to the sheep. “Son of a-” “Get off my land, Ed,” My dad demanded. “I ain’t gonna say it again.” They stared at each other intensely while I pulled back the sheep, whose name tag said Cleveland. “Just keep the noise down,” Ed replied as he dusted himself off. “It spooks my animals.” Later that night, I laid awake staring at the ceiling. My room was just as I had left it when I graduated high school: empty except for two beds, mine and Franklin’s. I suddenly regretted throwing away all of our childhood toys, because I had nothing to come back to. Just a vacant room with empty sheets. I wonder how it felt for them to lose all their children to the city. Mom seemed fine, but Dad… Every few hours I would go outside to check on him, and he would tell me the same thing; “Oh, I got it now boy. It’s almost done. This is my Ark. And I did it by myself. I’ll come to get you when it’s done.” I checked my watch. 2:58 am. I was used to staying up this late, but never for something so boring. Just as I began to drift off, I heard several animals running around outside, squeaking and bleating like they were being attacked. I looked out the window but it was clouded by a dense fog outside. I could just barely see the shapes of several moving animals. I slipped on my shoes and jacket and rushed outside to see a full stampede of dozens of animals running behind the barn, some as small as baby chicks, others as large as horses. Never in my entire life had I seen this many animals on our farm; there was no way these were ours. I quickly and carefully made my way through without stomping a chick to death and found my father in a fistfight with Edward, who was in his nightclothes. 49
“You stole my animals, you crazy hick!” Ed shouted, trying to wrestle my father to the ground. He pushed Ed off him with enough force to send him sprawling back, crashing into the excavator. “I ain’t steal nothing!” said my father, panting. He caught his breath as Edward got to his feet, rubbing his bald head. “God brought them here, so they could all bear witness-” All my breath left my body as Edward picked up and shovel and smacked my dad across his face, knocking him over the edge. ‘‘NO!” Edward looked at me in shock as all the animals went silent and gathered around the edges of the pit. He dropped the shovel and raised his hands, but I was already running. “He came at me first, you gotta understand-” No. “It was self-defense. I had no choice-” NO. “He had it coming, I swear! He’s lost his mind!” NO! I tackled him as hard as I could, knocking the air out his chest. I screamed like a maniac as I swung, left-right, left-right, until my fists were sore and aching, covered in his blood. I wiped my hands off in the dew from the grass and struggled to calm down. Looking at the sky, it was completely gray and lighter than it would be at this time. I looked at my watch. 3:02 am. I couldn’t wake my mom up and tell her what happened. I couldn’t go to sleep either. I didn’t know what to do. DUMP HIM. I held my breath and looked around, though I could still hear my heartbeat ringing in my ears. There’s no way I actually heard someone, some thing, call out to me. DUMP HIM. It said again. RIGHT NEXT TO YOUR FATHER. I looked towards the pit and was shocked to see the animals staring at me. All of them. Staring with such intensity that it felt like there was some sort of intelligence behind it, like they were waiting for me to make the next move. I stood up slowly and they parted, allowing me to reach the edge of the pit. I peered over and saw my father, sprawled on his back with his eyes wide open, a half-smile on his face. The ladder he used to get that low lay next to him, completely unreachable from where I stood. I grabbed Edward’s body and dragged him to the edge of the pit, positioning him carefully so he wouldn’t land on my dad. The moment I threw him over all the animals bleated, chirped, squawked, neighed and squealed in unison, and thunder boomed overhead as lightning streaked across the sky. 50
I knelt down as rain began to pour and said a few prayers for my father. The rain and my tears began to mix and before I knew it, I was completely soaked from head to toe. I glanced at my watch. 3:26 am. It was time to go inside. The rain stopped around me and I got to my feet, my surroundings much brighter now because of the storm. I took two steps forward and stopped. It was still raining. I could still hear it. I could still see it a few feet in front of me. But I wasn’t getting wet. I looked up to see a massive gray figure falling from a blinding light in the sky, something so huge and inconceivable I would’ve been crushed by its feet had a sheep not knocked me out of the way. The creature’s feet hit the edge of the pit but still slid down because of the mud. The rain returned to this area as I got a full look at the creature. Humanoid. Faceless. Nude. Its grayed skin looked smooth and its body took the fetal position as it covered up both my dad’s and Edward’s bodies. My father wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t insane. Tears came down my face and I smiled, picking up a shovel.
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Coffee Confessions Josey Chumney “I should’ve known. Should’ve listened to my mother when she said men were pigs.” Cynthia Morgan explained to her best friend over a cold brew. “She always said all men were bad but men with mustaches were the worst. Reminded her of Hitler, you know?” Was it a fern climbing or a swan swimming in my cup? I looked away from my cappuccino “art” to give the anticipated reply. She seemed appeased and continued with her rant. “But, seriously, how am I supposed to stay protected from men? It’s not like I’m gay. I’m a woman with needs. Needs only a beef cake can supply, you know? And Sean, he wasn’t even my typical hunky-monkey. This guy was a bean pole with a nice ass who listened to jazz. JAZZ, Mel.” While I gave the obligatory chuckle, Cynthia used this time to hastily take a swig from her brew and check her purple lipstick in the mirror across the room. “Anyway, I can’t believe this guy would ever cheat on me. I am waaaaay out of his league and everyone knows it. Sure, he’s sensitive and all but really, that’s about it. He’s got no fighting spirit. No fire. I feel sorry for that poor tramp who’s keeping his bed warm now.” This comment dragged me away from my cappuccino musings and brought my attention to Cynthia, annoyance rising. “Then why did you date him for seven months?” Cynthia’s eyebrows rose at the sound of my inquiry, surprised that I decided to offer something to the conversation. And furthermore, surprised that it was some sort of slight against her. “Why did I date him for seven months?” Her voice sounded breathy and unsure. “Yes.” “Well, that’s a silly question isn’t it?” Her light laugh filtered across the coffee shop, blending in with the chaotic sounds of the Monday rush. “Obviously, we were in love.” Cynthia took another swig of her liquid strength and began to tear her scone into bite size pieces.
“You know, you never asked how I knew Sean was cheating on me.” Her eyes were focused on her handiwork. Thankfully, not on me. “How did you know?” Eyes still averted, “I found some suspicious texts.” My heart began to quicken. “Suspicious?” “Yes.” Her fingers finished tearing the scone into pieces and began mashing the pieces into a crumby mess with more force than necessary. “Damnable, even.” Sweat began to form on my upper lip and I brought my cappuccino up to hide it. “Damnable? That’s a little dark, even for you, Cynth.” I tried to keep my laugh level but I don’t think she bought it. Cynthia’s eyes rose to mine. “Maybe so, but they were damnable, weren’t they Melanie?” “How – how would I know?” Cynthia rose with her half-finished cold brew and plate filled with crumbs in hand. “Mel, Mel, Mel.” She condescendingly smiled. “Sweetie, I thought you were the smart one.” And with that, Cynthia dumped her brew and crumbs onto my freshly flatironed tresses and strolled out of the shop.
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Breaking News Josey Chumney Man shot by wife while in bed with lover. Man insists innocence. Claims woman is sister. Is set to recover. Wife furious. Out on bail searching Dark Web for hitman. Requirements: good with guns and knives, likes to take his time. Suspects in carjacking case apprehended. 22-year-old, Davon Simpson. 19-year-old, Kraig Kirkland. Spotted in Bugatti leaving The Honey Hole, famed gentlemen’s club. Found on persons: empty wallets, condom wrappers, and one broken joint. Both remain optimistic. Waiting on Daddies to speak to sheriff. New footage uncovered in the Brenigan investigation. 16-year-old, Julia Brenigan, seen at Famous Footwear. Traveling with hooded captor. No confirmed ID. Neighbors suspect the man with lazy eye or Chad Billingsly. Billingsly has yet to comment. Black Friday shopping gone awry. 53-year-old, Beth Johnson, stabbed at local Walmart. X-Box on sale. Only $215. Status of Johnson is unknown. Assailant escaped with X-Box and sleeve of Mountain Dew.
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Rose Hips & Beef Chips Megan Morrison I watched my crying child, running her sippy cup along the bars of her crib like a begging criminal. I grabbed her pacifier off the floor and passed it through the bars before going to my wardrobe. As usual, the pacifier calmed her down and I continued getting ready for work in peace. I slipped on my navy, pleated mini skirt, matching navy crop top, and red and white sailor scarf. After eating my breakfast popsicle, I pulled on my white knee-high socks—the ones with the red ribbon laced at the top—my black Mary Jane shoes, and my red hair bows. The bows made me look fourteen; four years younger than I actually was. Oh well, it was all the better for my job. People have always loved doe-eyed girls selling things. I grabbed Sophie, my now peaceful 4-year-old, and made the trek to the subway. The walk itself was never bad—the rolling hills were always gorgeous—but the air tasted funny the majority of the time. Some days, sulfur seeped into my taste buds, making me gag. Other days were like cold beef chips, which also made me gag, but less so. I was always grateful to make it to the gorgeously scented subway system: old newspaper and ammonia. It reminded me of my grandfather, who took care of me while I was pregnant with Sophie. My nose had always been the most sensitive part of me, which was why I was so good at my job. Just like other days, I was stopped by strangers who recognized my uniform. Sea Spray was the top name in the fragrance business, and I was one of the top saleswomen. My scarf had three gold bars on it, signifying my successful training in all three of the nasal arts. There were only four other women in the entire United States that held all three gold bars. The first nasal art used basic sniffs to describe generic scents. The second focused on honing the nostrils to describe detailed scents and infer events from them. The most advanced nasal art, which was my specialty, used the tongue to analyze scent molecules. This was what most people stopped me for. They wanted to see my “magic”. Sometimes I entertained them, but today was not one of those days. I was a bit grumpy from being woken up. Despite the early cries of my alarm clock daughter, I was still late to drop her off to daycare. Her teacher, Mr. Winkler, was going to charge me a late fee, but decided to ask for a favor instead. He wanted to see my magic. Of course I showed him; it was better than paying a monetary fee. Plus, I wanted to show off for him. He was a nice man, in his early thirties, and sometimes I felt that he was also interested in me. I led him away from the children. They wouldn’t understand the process. 55
“While I’m working, you are to be completely silent,” I told him, unbuttoning his shirt. “Do you understand?” He nodded, already following my instructions. I rolled up one of his long sleeves and one of the cuffs of his slacks. I removed one shoe and its sock before standing back up, meeting his curious eyes. No doubt he’d heard of the process but never actually had it done to him. I rose up again, meeting his eyes. “I’ll begin now,” I told him, raising my hands to his face. To my surprise, they quivered just a little. I have always prided myself on my professionalism, but Mr. Winkler made me feel a little…unprofessional. I gathered myself and pretended he was a random girl on the subway. I bent his head toward me and licked his hair. Quickly, I transitioned to his jawline, grazing my tongue along his jugular. Next, the sternum, followed by the inside of the wrist. Here I began to put together the molecular information on my tongue. He’d been to the gym that morning. Must’ve done a decent amount of cardio because, despite the pine-scented shampoo he’d used afterwards, the saltiness of his skin was still present. I continued, licking his hip bone, then the back of the knee, and finally the ankle. I stood back up, pondering the new information. He slept with a woman last night. Her rosy Ecstasy scent lingered on his hip bone. “Well?” he asked, buttoning his shirt and un-cuffing his sleeve and trouser leg. I told him my insights, trying to hide my disappointment about the mysterious Ecstasy girl. “Well that’s not fair, that last bit,” he complained, folding his arms across his half-buttoned shirt. “You were there, so you already knew that.” I was taken aback. How could I have forgotten? Sophie peeked her head around the corner, her tiny fingers curling on the edge of the walls’ meeting point. “Remember Mommy,” she said. “You and Mr. Winkle sprayed Ecstasy everywhere, but you sprayed Amnesia only after Mr. Winkle left.” Mr. Winkle was hurt by that last part. He took out a small vial from his pocket and dabbed his wrist. Immediately he brightened—he must’ve used Forgiveness, the newest scent at Sea Spray—and said, “It’s okay that you did that. I still love you.” I beamed at him. How could I forget his kindness to me? I licked his cheek, unprofessionally, before leaving for Sea Spray.
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Romps and Regulations Jessica German & Reilly Johnson From: Richard Miller Date: Saturday February 1, 2020 8:30 PM To: Brelyn Jackson Subject: Noise Complaints Ms. Jackson, I’ve been receiving a lot of strange noise complaints from your neighbors. Normally, I’d chalk this up to nosy neighbors or people looking for something to complain about. However, these complaints have been constant for about two months now. So please do your best to keep it down from now on. Regards, Richard Miller Building Manager (501)764-4269 From: Brelyn Jackson Date: Saturday February 1, 2020 8:50 PM To: Richard Miller (Building Manager) Subject: Re: Noise Complaints Hey richard Sorry dude, I didn’t know I was being noisy. which neighbors were complaining because ms. Atkenson on the fifth floor just really doesn’t like me. She’s a jealous bitch who only gets love from her ferret. Peace and love Brelyn 57
From: Richard Miller Date: Saturday February 1, 2020 8:55 PM To: Brelyn Jackson Subject: Re: Re: Noise Complaints Ms.Jackson, It wasn’t just Ms. Atkenson. Almost all of the apartments surrounding yours have been filing, let’s just say, very specific noise complaints. I just don’t want anyone getting into fights about it, so please refrain from insulting the other tenants if at all possible. Regards, Richard Miller Building Manager (501)764-4269 From: Brelyn Jackson Date: Saturday February 1, 2020 9:17 PM To: Richard Miller Subject: Re: Re: Re: Noise Complaints Dude They just hating because they are blue balled from my sexy ass. hell you probably are too, i saw that shannon left you again. I wonder if it will stick this time? If so i could always set you up with one of my ugly friends, that I don’t want anymore. Also do I put in a maintenance request with you about a broken sink and drywall repair in the bedroom or is that under a different email form thingy ? Peace and love brelyn
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From: Richard Miller Date: Saturday February 1, 2020 9:20 PM To: Brelyn Jackson Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Noise Complaints Ms.Jackson, I don’t think that that kind of talk is appropriate. What happens between my wife and I is none of your business. There are lots of maintenance requests, I haven’t gotten to yours yet. Probably because of that monster you call a dog. Richard Miller Building Manager (501)764-4269 From: Brelyn Jackson Date: Saturday February 1, 2020 9:34 PM To: Richard Miller Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Noise Complaints Dick Tootsie boo is my emotional support animal so how dare you refer to her as a monster you are so racist against pitbulls and you let a rodent in the building so honestly I should call the health inspector on you And shannon can do much better. her affair was way hotter than yalls relationship could have ever been considering we never heard shit coming from y’alls tiny apartment Peace and love Brelyn
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From: Richard Miller Date: Saturday February 1, 2020 9:38 PM To: Brelyn Jackson Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Noise Complaints Listen, I just want you to quit being so loud on your romps . I didn’t ask for your opinion on my sex life. I’m a grown man. If I wanted your opinion, I’d go back to the Mesolithic era. And that thing is a monster, she almost took my leg off the last time that I came to fix up the drywall. Go ahead and call the health inspector. Your apartment under a black light would glow like those red lights you used to work under. RICHARD From: Brelyn Jackson Date: Sunday February 2, 2020 6:24 AM To: Richard Miller Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Noise Complaints Okay boomer, He was not trying to tear your leg off…..unfortunately. That’s just how she greats men with ugly Charlie Chaplin mustaches. The drywall keeps breaking because you’re too cheap and insecure to hire a real man to come fix it properly. My apartment is kept up just fine and better than the Merts’ down in 3D. I wanna complain about their apartment constantly smelling like rotting eggs and moth balls it seeps through the ventilation and chokes me while i shower….. and not in the way I like. Peace and Love Brelyn
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From: Richard Miller Date: Sunday February 2, 2020 7:00 AM To: Brelyn Jackson Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Noise Complaints Ms. Jackson, The other residents at Shady Grove Assisted Living are trying to live out their days in peace, and I just don’t see how they can do that with a party goblin like you roaming around and causing havoc everywhere you go. I have no choice but to strongly suggest to you that you should move. It’ll be better for me to have that disgusting creature out of my building. Oh, and take your dog with you too. --Richard From: Brelyn Jackson Date: Sunday February 2, 2020 7:34 AM To: Richard Miller Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Noise Complaints Richard You should really take such interest in all of your residents, not just myself. You are obviously becoming obsessed with me and I find it very disturbing. If you are not careful you’ll end up like the Murts’ all alone with no one to notice when your apartment is falling down around you and covered in a stench that reeks into the hallways. If i was a meaner person i would say if you don’t lay off soon your apartment will be smelling like mothballs, you cretin. P and L Brelyn
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From: Richard Miller Date: Sunday February 2, 2020 7:35 AM To: Brelyn Jackson Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Noise Complaints What does that mean? Is that a threat? What did you do to that nice couple? I knew that you were up to something shady. I’m calling the cops. From: Brelyn Jackson Date: Sunday February 2, 2020 8:00 AM To: Richard Miller Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Noise Complaints What for? I have done nothing wrong! How dare you. I was in the middle of drawing my bath when those young cops barge in here. Do you have ANY IDEA how humiliating that was. I was in my slip. That’s it I’ve had enough of you. My final straw has been spent. I am through with this harassment. You have been targeting me since the day I moved in here. You are praying on the residents here and filling our last chapter with agony and pain. And we all know you were behind the switch from chocolate pudding to rice and no one likes you for it. This isn’t over you milksop. I will make sure for the rest of my life you suffer. No P and L for you Brelyn From: Richard Miller Date: Sunday February 2, 2020 8:05 To: Brelyn Jackson Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Noise Complaints Good luck in jail, you dusty old biddie. -Richard 62
From: Makalyn Jackson Henry Date: Monday February 3, 2020 9:38 AM To: Richard Miller CC: Brelyn Jackson Subject: You’ll Be Hearing From Our Lawyer Mr. Miller I have spoken with my mother and we have come to the decision that this home is unfit for a free spirit such as herself. But is better suited for the mundane elderly who can’t shovel their own pudding into their mouths. I shall be relocating her at the end of the month to my basement in Fresno. I hope if you have children they stick you in a home that kills the fun in what little you have left of life. what kind of monster calls the cops and accuses murder on a 89 year old women who is wheel chair bound? For shame sir for shame. Our attorney will be contacting you shortly in regard to defamation of character, slander, as well as persecution on the basis of sex and age. Makalyn Jackson Henry
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Fifteenth Sequence: Bad Ending Chelsea Panamenoo You haven’t lost this game in so long, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Your breath hitches as the sword is yanked from your stomach, the blood pooling out around you and sinking into the already blackened soil. A bit like water, like the river from long ago. Perhaps there it would finally do some good. Gods know it never did much for you. You squint as he moves back, the midday sun fully hitting you. You’ve gotten pretty decent at telling the time without a proper clock, though it wasn’t like time mattered much these days. It’s summer; the sky is bright, blue, piercing. The sweat sticks to you more than the blood does; the smell of both makes you dizzy. A breeze would be nice, but gods usually aren’t. You try to smile at him - this isn’t the first time he’s won, after all, no, but if either of you were ever keeping track it was him and not you - though the effect is sadly ruined by the cracking of your lips, the color already beginning to drain. This body will disappear after you are gone, but it’s distasteful to exit without a bow. He doesn’t smile back. He always was a shit player. Of course, it isn’t really a game anymore. It just helps to call it that. “What?” you ask, even as the current body shakes and shudders. “Not even going to let me keep it?” “You’d ruin it,” he says, “and it’s a good sword, too.” He wipes off a bit of blood with his sleeve, the silver only a shade or two lighter than the blade itself. He’s much taller in this body, with broad shoulders and skin like the night. Ancient and unyielding. It suits him. “Plus, I’m fairly sure you stole this.” “No evidence,” you mumble. You were starting to feel hot. When did it get so hot? “Probably because of you.” “What?” he asks. Now it’s his turn, the same lines, a new role. How funny, how things repeat 64
themselves with every new set of skin. “Hey, are you...?” He trails off. You can just make out the shape of him, slowly moving out of sight, perhaps sitting before you. You close your eyes. You both know it is time. “See you in the next one,” he almost whispers. Just like the last time. “Pray for me,” you think, or say, or think you say, you don’t particularly care anymore, before the world fades out and the water takes hold of you once again. Of course, there are no prayers on the other side. Not until the next round, anyways, which shouldn’t be too long. He didn’t have a reputation for staying alive much longer than you did. Perhaps he was lonely. Perhaps he just liked breaking you. The body fades completely. You hear him laughing as you drown.
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‘‘
we tell ourselves stories in order to live.
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joan didion
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Not So Black Panther: Black America Needs Relatable Heroes Logan Lurry I’m going to say something that will probably make a lot of the black people reading this want to snatch my neck: BLACK PANTHER IS NOT FOR THE CULTURE! Don’t get me wrong, I was flocking to the movie theater in February of 2017 just as much as every other person to see the latest installment in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. (Funny how that’s Black History Month, right?) Which, up to this point, was very void of a leading individual that didn’t hail from the Caucasus mountains. However, I wasn’t showing up in dashikis and crying up to the Lord when T’Challa got thrown off the waterfall by Killmonger. Now I was refreshed to see a black man take center screen and be flanked by an assemble cast of some of the greatest African & African American men and women the world has blessed us with. I mean who didn’t get hyped when they found out Angela Basset was T’Challa’s mama. However, there was a message that kept getting spread around more than the vibranium in Wakanda: There was finally a hero on screen that was like “me.” Saying that sentence is supposed to be this impowering and freeing message that gives strength to the black community saying that we can be heroes. We want our sons and daughters to be able to dress up like T’Challa and Shuri on Halloween while Becky from down the street tries to be Harley Quinn. Here’s the problem, though: We are not all kings & queens from Africa. The superhero genre is trying it’s best to become the most diverse it can be possibly be. At least that’s what all the white people tell you whenever they’re asked the most inquisitive questions about adding people of color to their projects. Honestly, how many times have you seen someone like Christopher Nolan, a well renowned [white] director, tense up when they are asked about representing African Americans on the big and/or small screen. The guy even said that Zoe Kravitz was “too urban” to play Catwoman in his Batman Trilogy. Translation: She’s too black. Shocker, right? That’s before we even had the idea of a movie like Black Panther being a reality. I know a lot people were vibing with the film when it dropped, and I know we all have those days where we are just feeling ourselves, and we call ourselves royalty, goddammit. Here’s the thing though, we can’t realistically 67
tell our younger brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters that when they grow up, they can be the kings and queens of a fictional country in Africa. What we will tell them is you’ll be lucky to work and nine-to-five job with good pay, but that shouldn’t stop you from thriving, child. Representation is much more than seeing another black person, or just “anybody that looks like you” on the screen. What representation truly is, at its roots is a life experience that I go through – that you go through. When I hear people saying, “Why can’t they make James Bond black?” (Which, guess what… They are) I just want to sit them down ask them where they park their spy car or does their watch double as a dart blower. You want to know why these thoughts run through my mind? It’s rather simple, NONE OF US ARE SPYS. The closest thing to a spy mission I ever did was try to copy an answer key for a geography test in the 10th grade, and I’m pretty sure that stopping some methodical, British asshole from trying rule the world doesn’t equal that. Unless you somehow end up with a British geography teacher, which in that case, I’m very sorry. The thing is, I don’t want young people in the African American community to put a film like Black Panther on a pedestal before Malcolm X or even Straight Outta Compton. The later movies, even though they aren’t smattered in superhero spunk, are the type of characters Black America needs portrayed on the big screen. However, I realize that superhero media dominates the box office and streaming services across the globe. In that regard, there is one show that I think perfectly captures that vision that I’m want everyone to see. That show centers itself in the streets of Harlem instead of the lavish, fictional country of Wakanda. The supporting cast are street hustlers, barbers, and city workers instead of highly trained warriors, shaman, and royalty. More importantly, the central character’s reason to become a hero is much more centered in reality: He just wants to protect his community and the people of Harlem. This show is Luke Cage. In it, the title character, Luke Cage, is a working man who sweeps up a barber shop and cooks at a club to earn his living. Sure, he has bulletproof skin because you know, superhero spunk, but that’s not what defines him. People look up to Luke Cage in the show not because he is their king, but because he is one of them. He’s an average man despite his abilities, and he’s protecting his people, not his kingdom. (In my head Keenan Ivory Wayans just walked by saying “Message!” Is it bad to reference Don’t Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood?) Even the clothes that Cage wears in the show aren’t some over-the-top, CGI’ed skin suit. He wears a t-shirt, jeans, with the occasional hoodie. Now earlier I said that this whole discussion was not only tailored towards white Hollywood but Black America as well. This is the part where now I’m speaking only to Black America, so white people, it’s your turn to move to the back, but keep those ears open. 68
I need everyone in the African American community to understand this when dealing with the casting directors, the producers, and every other film industry figurehead. You can’t simply say that you want to see more people of color in your shows or movies. It’s that logic that led to the “one-black character” rule for a long time, and in the case of superhero films, it’s a tossup between being the sidekick or a one-off villain. What you need to push for is a better representation of the life that we live as African Americans. Start asking for more movies like Fruitvale Station or Hustle & Flow. These works of art reflect that life we live, not the life of an uber fictional character. Don’t settle for just having a black person and strive for capturing the black experience.
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Six People You Inevitably Meet at the Gym Josey Chumney LeAnn (The Snake in the Grass) “Excuse me hun, do you mind showing me how to turn on this machine? I keep hitting the play-pause button, but nothing is happening.” LeAnns are always in their mid-to-late 50s. Very perky, very vocal. They choose machines immediately next to other females so conversation can flow more easily. However, when desperate, males are sufficient enough. To initiate conversation, they employ clever sarcasms like “I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I am a little too young and pretty to be at the gym,” or “If only exercising my mind counted as exercise. Then I’d really be cooking with grease!” When these rousing topics go on deaf ears, LeAnns employ their secret weapon: asking for help. They know, once the eye contact is made and the help is given, they will be impossible to ignore. In order to survive an encounter with a LeAnn, it is best to smile, nod, and leave your machine as soon as there is a break in the conversation. If there seems to be no end to her desperate ramblings, pretend to be winded, hop off of your machine, and move to one that works out your biceps. She will be intimidated by this “macho” switch (her word, not mine) and focus her attention on a Stacey three treadmills down. Stacey (The Wannabe) “Some do good by researching the cure for cancer or going green. I tone my body for the ‘Gram. Everyone has their own part to play.” Staceys are young, but not too young, and look at least six years older than their actual age. They are never seen without their knock-off Hydro Flasks and coordinating athletic wear from last season (Nike and Lululemon are the acceptable brands). Staceys are only ever on treadmills, stair-steppers, or in the squatting zone. Even after exercising for an hour, Staceys always look photo ready. When asked about how they combat sweat, one Stacey replied, “Oh, I never sweat. I only glisten. It’s my natural highlighter.”
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Brian (The Ninja Turtle) “No, no, yeah, you’re right. Bros who skip leg day are definitely pussies.” Brians are men in their 30s who definitely skip leg day. Their shoulders have shoulders who have more shoulders. Brians are confident and proud of their bodies. They want you to notice them. They like to sprint on the treadmill directly in front of Staceys, but never LeAnns. Brians believe this masculine display of virility will cause Staceys to immediately strip their compression shorts and jump their bones. Brians also think they are crafty. They like to leisurely jog behind Staceys, but never LeAnns, to check out their asses. The Rachels all know what they are doing. The Staceys know but choose to ignore it in hopes the Brians will approach them and offer to bench press their body weight (#gymlove, #meetcute, #GOALs). Rachel (That Tired Girl) “…” Rachels vary in age. Some are in their 20s and feel peer-pressured into meeting society’s standard for beauty. Some are in their 30s, have a stable job, and feel peer-pressured into meeting society’s standard for beauty. Others are in their 40s, have had a divorce, have a stable job, and feel peerpressured into meeting society’s standard for beauty. All are very perceptive but sad. They don’t say much. Only the incessant gasping can be heard from their direction. LeAnns are a Rachel’s worst nightmare. The stress of speaking paralyzes them but the fear of being rude is stronger, so they try to carry on these meaningless conversations. Usually, they go something like this: “Hey, there! Don’t mind me, I’m just going to park my tush in the seat next to yours. Hope that’s fine. You must come here often. There’s no way I could pedal that fast. I can’t even ride a bike! Can you imagine, me, a woman of my age, (and don’t you try to coddle me, dear, and say I look 25 because that’s a lie and we both know it), riding a bicycle up and down a lane? That would be so silly! Did you learn when you were a child? Or are you as uncoordinated as me? It’s okay if you are. We can be uncoordinated and unwanted together! Well, thankfully, my husband wants me. Or at the very least my cooking! Are you married, hun? ” “…wh..ell…..uh.” 71
Cliff (The Mansplainer) “Sweetie, sweetie, let me help you with that. What you want to do is lift with your back, like this. See? Your back. Yes, that’s right. You want tension here. Mhmm. I know, I know, it hurts a little, but you’re a tough cookie, right?” Cliffs come in all ages. The way to spot a Cliff is to see if there is a man who hovers near equipment but never uses it. That is a Cliff ’s tell. He likes to be close to the weights so that he can help a woman who is “struggling”. He often has to defend his territory from other Cliffs or Brians when Staceys get lost in the weight section on their way to the squatting zone. Ways to ward off Cliffs include, but are not limited to, mention your hemorrhoid, mention Ellen, mention your affinity for witchcraft, mention drag queens, mention your collection of sock puppets (don’t forget to say their names), or mention any topic related to feminism or female empowerment. Jo (The Bitch) “Fuck everyone here. Fuck the gym.” Jos are badass women who see through the bullshit that is the gym. Jos use whatever machine they want with no regard to who is around them. When Cliffs swarm at the leg press to comment on their form, Jos send them backtracking with colorful phrases like “Who the fuck called you over, Ron Swanson lookin’ ass?” or “I’m sorry, did my headphones, lack of eye contact, and complete disinterest with your existence seem like a cry for help?” LeAnns sometimes try to engage with Jos but they quickly realize that they can’t be hooked like a Rachel or a Stacey. Jos simply drown out their chatter with the sound of their feet hitting the treadmill and Kendrick Lamar. When asked why she even goes to the gym, one Josey questioned, “Why do you?” and continued her way towards the elliptical. Jo (The Liar, The Author & The Rachel) “Sorry.”
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Drunken Mistakes and a Lackluster Breakfast Reilly Johnson Scene: a way too busy dinner on an abnormally loud Monday morning Characters: Myself- dying from my first real hangover, and uneasy from the night before. Little Brother- My best and first friend I made in college. He is in love with me. The R.A.- The boy I have a major crush on, who is also Little Brothers closest friend since high school. Purpose: Brunch with my two favorite guys in hopes of mending the rift that arose from the actions of the previous night To the outside perspective we were just three average college kids, obviously too hungover to talk from a night of debaucheries. Most likely skipping our morning classes. That’s only half right… well it’s all right, but only half of the story. Sure, as we chugged our coffee, and we wished for Tylenol. We were praying that the greasy hash browns were magic and would soak up the rest of the liquor in our stomachs. Each of us pleaded with our god for the miracle of sobriety. We were not talking; our heads were pounding but that was just a good excuse. If we broke our silence, it would shatter the illusion of last night didn’t really happen. It would thrust us into facing the shame head on, and that was out of the question. Our heads were going through enough right now. That was the whole reason we agreed to go get burnt coffee and bad eggs at the ungodly hour of ten thirty in the morning. It was meant to be a reset. Little brother is the only one of us who drinks regularly. The R.A and I tend to get our kicks from other vices. However, we will drink occasionally. Last night was one of those occasions (and boy were we all regretting it now). That breakfast was a lot like watching an old person falling in slow motion. It was the funniest thing if you didn’t know them, but if you knew the old person, you would (A) not be able to look away, (B) have a pit in your stomach the size of Cuba, and 73
(C) pray that everything will be okay even though you know it probably won’t be. Little brother and R.A. are both Catholic, so they were taught from a young age how to handle their liquor. I, being from New Orleans, am expected to do the same. I cannot. A fact I am not proud of and do everything in my power to avoid. I don’t know why I am ashamed of not being a super experienced drinker. As the daughter of an alcoholic, it should be a good thing that I saw the worst aspects of drinking and made a choice to not go overboard. But now as I attend dumb frat parties, -having never acquired a taste for beer-, I find myself lying. I say I “pre-gamed a little too hard” so that’s why they don’t see me with a red solo cup in hand. It is no secret that alcohol turns people into an emotional wreck. The last time I drank tequila, I ended up crying on a roof wondering why everyone I love leaves me. This is why I don’t drink very often. Also, children who have a parent who struggles with alcohol have a much higher risk of becoming an alcoholic themselves. My mother refuses to let my brother and I become a statistic. But every once in a while, the boys could convince me to let loose, celebrate the end of finals, (or just a really hard week) and party with them. My boys and I went too deep in a bottle and no one liked what they found there. The things that were said still hung in the air and stung worse than the Gin. I hurt my two closest friends and now were sitting across the table from each other, barely able to look them in the eye. I wasn’t only guilty party in this. Fingers had been pointed and drunken accusations rang far too true in the harsh sunshine on the new morning. I didn’t regret what had been said, just how it had been said. Little brother has had a crush on me since the first time I knocked on his door by mistake. I knew he did, but I did not pay any attention to it, which was my first mistake. My second, was falling for his best friend. Although I don’t see how I couldn’t have. It took a couple of shots of gin to get us, and a few friends, to play Truth or Dare. NEVER PLAY TRUTH OR DARE, nothing good ever comes out of it. The short list of events that night is stripping, crush telling, crush kissing, the boys promising to not go against bro-code by being interested in me, and finally me and the R.A. hooking up in a closet. (I know: Really Classy). Oh, and I almost forgot the best part: a boxing match for who got to finish the bottle of gin. (My freshman, Essence, won! I’m such a proud Big). Alcohol has a way of doing that to you: making you say things you want to say—your darker thoughts. Of course, it always comes out in the worst possible way. I sit across the table from my two favorite men. I know I’m going to have to pick a side. I stare at them desperate to catch a glance, but all I see is them glaring across the table from each other trying to stay on their best behavior to not fight again. I already had to stuff one bloody nose last night. They both used to be such great friends. Friends way before they ever meet me, and now I seem to be the thing that will drive them apart. I can’t let this happen. I won’t. I hope. 74
I got up from our deathly quiet table, threw twenty bucks down and left. I see both of them around campus every once in a while. We smile politely, wave at parties but that was the end of our run. I lost Little Brother and the R.A.They, as far as I know, don’t speak anymore either. Not only did I ruin my own relationships, I managed to take another down with me. I lost two of the people closest to me, and I drink more then I used to. *Four Months Later* After several weeks of avoidance, and awkward classes, the R.A. and I grew closer and eventually started dating. But our friendship with Little Brother has been severely damaged we can both still hang out with him, just not at the same time. I’ve decided its best to limit my interactions with him, and that breaks my heart, but I just don’t love him that way. I never will. I do love him, but I know that he will not be cool with that for a good while. I’m willing to wait I just hope he can forgive his best friends.
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A Quest to Live Forever Allison Black I need to start with the very clear statement that I love writing. I love writing in much the same way people love food: on top of just enjoying it, I also need it. Writing is my hobby, passion, calling, and every other word for “thing you do a lot.” It is everything to me. Last I counted a year ago, I have 200 word files on my laptop, and that’s not counting the numerous journals I own, or the ones I’ve lost. I have constantly been throwing sloppy words on pages, trying to define and compose myself in a more literary sense. The thing is, I’ve never actually had anything published. Frankly, I’ve only ever submitted a couple of things in the hopes of having them published, so it’s not so surprising that most of my stories haven’t seen the light of day. The best was a short horror story in seventh grade that my teacher read to the class that they all liked, but have probably forgotten all about by now. The important take away though, was that I loved the knowledge that everyone knew and liked this thing I’d created, and, by extension, me. I think the trouble comes from that classic fear and dream of every artist: being known. To receive recognition and praise for your work is the greatest sensation I know, and I’m constantly chasing it. Sharing my writing, the writing I really care about, is a very difficult thing though. A piece of me is in every character I create. Some flaw, passion, or just a quirk. It makes them more human, and it makes me understand why they are who they are. They become a proxy for working through problems I have, usually something mental or emotional. To publish one of my stories is to invite an audience to my personal therapy session. On top of my fear of being known, I also have the fear of being unknown. It started when my mom was showing us scrapbooks and photo albums of her childhood, and I came to the realization I didn’t have that. Whole years of my life with barely any physical evidence aside from my presence in the immediate moment. But I am not now who I was years ago. So, technically, I didn’t really exist as a whole person. Within a few seconds of looking at some pictures of my mom at the county fair, I came to the conclusion that when I die, I will cease to exist and I will be insignificant.
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In my World Lit class, we read the epic of Gilgamesh. Aside from being academically significant, it’s also a brilliant story about seeking immortality. He ultimately fails in the pursuit of literal immortality, but we had a whole class discussion on how ironic it was that he failed in the story, but we were still talking about him, centuries later, therefore making him immortal in a more abstract sense. That resonated with me a lot. Gave me a mild panic attack due to the existential dread, but most things do. I became obsessed with finding a way to stick around. If I can’t literally live forever, I would like a better piece of me than some staged family pictures to go on in my place. I have a personal photo album now, and I went on a feral hunt through loose pictures for anything containing me to put it together. But, as nice as those pictures are, can they really capture me? It’s a superstition that someone taking your picture can steal your soul, but I’ve never really seen myself in any picture. I half wish they really captured me, because then at least I’d exist on and on a little while longer. The fact of the matter is that I needed something more encompassing, but how does one capture and entire person, or at least their majority? Assuming you’re reading this now, you’re holding the answer. Writing is such a large part of me, I can think of no better way to preserve who I am. I don’t need to be important. I just need to be known. I can die happy in obscurity as long as I have the knowledge that somewhere, maybe in a dollar bin at a used book store, my words are laid bare for someone else, someone I will never meet, but who will know me.
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A Dim Light for Bright: Minorities Aren’t Monsters Logan Lurry Ever wondered what it would look like to see racism masked in mediocre fantasy? There is no need to look further than the horrid film directed by David Ayer that is Bright. This movie (if you can call it such) takes place in a fictional world where mystical creatures such as orcs and elves mingle with humans as if it were commonplace. You would think the set-up for a great story would be relatively easy. However, just like Ayer’s previous attempt with Suicide Squad, this film falls flat, mostly due to the sour portrayal of minorities in the film. There is no easy way to tackle fantasy when your name isn’t one of the following: J.K. Rowling, Peter Jackson, Guillermo del Toro, and Stephen King. There always seems to be the issue of making the characters within the film seem relatable despite their unhuman features. Filmmakers have found their way around that by giving them human like qualities, voices, and more specifically, smacking your favorite [white] actor behind the prosthetics. In Bright however, that way of humanizing the orcs and elves felt more like a white supremacist fever dream than anything else. Think that sounds a bit harsh, do you? Well please, allow me to enlighten you. Bright is essentially about an L.A. cop, played by Will Smith (I’ll talk about this casting later) who is forced to buddy up with an Orc cop, played by Joel Edgerton. Edgerton’s Orc character is the first cop of his kind to join the police force. I find that by placing the setting in Los Angeles, and making light of the police hostility, Ayer is attempting to echo that of the L.A. Riots of 1992, but in an oh-so terrible way. The L.A. Riots, as many know, is the explosion of years and years of racial injustice forced upon the black community by the almost completely white police force. Black officers got even more hate during the time and were seen as traitors by the black community for putting up, and even participating at times. It appears David Ayer wants to piggyback off that, but it just falls short with the rest of the movie. This is just the first inkling that establishes Orcs as not just the African American community, but the Hispanic community of Los Angeles as well. When we first see Will Smith’s character, Daryl Ward, he’s enjoying his life with his wife, whose white (go figure). Once he exits the house, we get a glimpse at the ONLY other black people of the film. In a very stereotypical fashion, we see them partying on the front yard of the house next door as if it were a hip-hop video from 2007. All drinking beer and partying, which you should know, it’s still the morning in this scene. Oh did I mention, Smith’s cop character is also trying to move out of this neighborhood. 78
As the film progresses, it seems as though the minorities of L.A. had been airlifted out and replaced with Orcs. Most notably the gang culture. Now this is a hard issue to tackle as is, but oh my God! Did anyone in costume design stop to think, “Hey, let’s not put these Orcs in jerseys and do-rags with gold chains because, you know, that’s racist.” After dealing with the ONLY Hispanics in the film, who were of course depicted as gang members, they deal with an Orc gang that takes ques from every gang stereotype. Whether that be the clothes, the blind violence, or the way they speak. The masking of racism doesn’t stop there either, let’s look at what they did with Will Smith’s character. On the surface, Daryl Ward is an average L.A. cop that has a family he is trying to provide for; however, he is completely racist towards the Orcs. Early on the movie, he even blatantly says how much he hates Orcs, to his Orc partner’s face almost as if he’s the fantasy version of a Jim Crow cop. Now how is this masking racism you may ask? It feels obvious once you explain it, but you must think about the context. When you watch a movie that displays racism, it’s going to be, 9.9 times out of 10, a white man. By putting a black man in that position, and making that black man Will Smith, it will go unnoticed. It’s part of the preconceived notion that only white people can be racist, and Bright attempts to play into it heavily. Reading up on the interviews Ayer par-took in leading up to the film’s release on Netflix of all places was just as dishearten as watching. In one interview, Ayer says that he’s trying to “redeem myself as a filmmaker.” This was following the shit-show that became Suicide Squad. Nice try, Ayer. Maybe you should stick to realism, because your attempts at fantasy are as cringe as the special FX in this film. From the thinly veiled racism to the poor storytelling, this film highlights a huge issue in films in general. The attempt to portray issues of race using other worldly or mystical characters. In doing so, you create a new image that other cultures are hideous creatures like Orcs, and there is just no room for this. If you’re interested in fantasy, Bright is not something you should have on your watch list, and for God’s sake, don’t be invested in a possible sequel.
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Your Early 20s: Written by Someone in the Midst of a Quarter-life Crisis Regan Hafer 20 You’re feeling pretty good. Probably in college. If that’s the case, you’re still far away enough from the reality of graduating that you’re not too worried…yet. You’re also so close to being but not quite there. Definitely old enough to drink, just not enough to do it “legally.” You think your fake ID is pretty convincing now that you’re not a nervous 18-year-old who may or may not have still have a curfew. On the other hand, maybe you recently lost your fake ID but are confident you can make it until you’re actually “of age.” I mean, it’s only a few more months, so what? Either way, you’re right on the cusp of “true” adulthood which is pretty exciting. I mean, so what you don’t have your life together yet but that’s okay because you’re 20 years-old and who expects a 20 year-old to have it all figured out? No, so go ahead, have a few too many drinks a few too many times a week. You’re good! Everything’s all good! 21 Yes! You made it. You’re 21 years-old and enjoying every minute. You probably had a birthday party and had wayyy too many people buying you drinks. But that’s like a rite of passage, so it’s totally acceptable that you got way too drunk and embarrassed yourself in front of total strangers at a bar. After that night however, things maybe get a little more real. You realize how expensive drinks are and are appalled at a $30 dinner bill. Who said that was okay? You vow never to pay for overpriced, sugary drinks ever again. Well, that is until marg night lines up with your paycheck coming through. But still, you cut back on overrated nights out and look forward to the day you have the money to drink and party like you want to. That said, you decide to pick up an unpaid internship and assure yourself that the experience you’re getting from it outweighs the cost of the paycheck you are no longer receiving. 22 Okay wow. 22. That’s kind of old. I mean 21 is definitely young. But 22? It doesn’t exactly 80
have the same feel. Also, you might be graduating from college this year. That’s terrifying. What are you going to do? You’ve spent the last four years focusing on the next party and whether or not you should skip class. Instead you should have been having a divine inspiration on what you should do with the rest of your life. I mean what were you thinking?! 23 Alright. Stay calm. That went by really fast. Why is everyone getting married? I mean who do these people think they are? Some are even younger than you! And you’re still young! You are. 23 is still young. It has to be. You thought 22 was old but it wasn’t. That was a joke because you’re 23 now and that’s still young. Also…this job. Nope. Not what you want to do for the rest of your life. You know that for sure. But what other options do you have. I mean, are you going to quit in pursuit of what you’re actually interested in? And risk failure? No thank you you’d rather sacrifice your happiness instead. Yes, you are much more comfortable with that. 24 Oh no…this is awkward…because, like…do you even belong on this list?
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Recipes for Successful Ventures into the Unusual Logan Lurry When I look back on my life, specifically when I was just seven years old, I can only say that I was the strangest kid you could ever come across. Now I don’t mean in a sense of the weird quirks that some people have, like the things that they say or do. No, I was weird because of the baffling foods that I had come to say were my favorite things in the world. I saw my weirdness grow with each food that I came across as well. It’s almost like I had a little cookbook, but each recipe was fit for creating an aurora of weirdness. It is only necessary that I give the recipes behind the food, and how they only add to the mystery that is me. #1: The Peanut Butter and Jelly AND Bologna Sandwich • You’ll need: • Two slices of wheat bread • One jar of Smucker’s peanut butter and jelly • Weird obession to be talked about and/or too My days as a Bobcat at Scenic Hills Elementary, as much as I can remember, was mostly filled with your run-of-the-mill moments. Things like my first kiss that the only girl swears didn’t happen because she was more popular, the awkward moment of being told to “make yourself pee” whenever you didn’t have too (I really do hope I’m not the only one who’s been told this.) I remember learning that the most important time of the day was lunch. I know you’re thinking it should be recess for kids at that level of education; however, when your classmates don’t know what their first step of good behavior entails, there is never recess. Looking past that, the absence of recess meant that the only time to show off anything you had was in the illustrious cafeteria. It was only fitting that my elementary school’s cafeteria also doubled as the auditorium, so showing off was almost common place. Kid’s would bring toys, hand-held gaming systems, and the occasional cellphone. Keep in mind that we were elementary age kids in 2007, having your own phone then was like having a stable job now, everyone was envious of you. I remember that I wanted something different though. There was nothing I had readily prepared that would gain the attention of my peers, so I turned to the only thing I knew best at the time, sweet delicious food. Before the 3rd grade, my dad prepared the same lunch for me every day, a simple lunchable. There’s nothing interesting in that. That is unless you came with one of those cool ones with a theme or a mini-pizza. I never had those. 82
I decided to change things up one day. I came home one day from a long & pressure inducing day of 3rd grade with a purpose. I stared at the kitchen for what felt like hours, but in reality, was probably five minutes before I knew what the food of the century would be: The Peanut-butter and Jelly and Bologna Sandwich. It’s capitalized because to this day it’s a proper creation that deserves the recognition. With all the foods we consume today, this might seem like child’s play (which is technically was). You have to remember, this is before the term “foodie” was thought about on a mass scale. I remember yanking the bread off the counter, then scrounging through the fridge for the jar of peanut-butter and jelly, and finally taking all the bologna that we had just in-case I didn’t get something right the first go-around. I remember pretending like I was Dexter sitting in his lab creating what was going to be the next big thing. I had a vivid imagination. There was no real finesse needed, but I felt like it was the first step to me becoming a legendary figure at Scenic Hills Elementary. Once it was done, I couldn’t hold back anticipation to eat this delectable creation. I took a solid bite and could taste a whole new world. The jelly and peanut-butter gave the bologna a new potent taste that nobody could ignore, or so I thought. I got up the next morning so prepared to be the talk of the cafeteria. I even made three sandwiches to give to anybody so that they could share in the amazing creation. As soon as lunch started and sat down at the table that my class was assigned too and waited for everybody to get out the lunch line before diving into my food. As soon as I took the sandwich out of the wrapper, everybody sitting around me had their faces turn askew like a dog hearing something unfamiliar. Some of them even let a the dreaded “what the—”. You can say what you want, you don’t want to hear that from a 3rd grader. I thought I would be proudly explaining what I was eating that day, but instead I was scrambling over my words to explain what I created. One of my friends at the time, Trasean, decided that he would try one of my sandwiches, and that only made more people feel disgusted. To my disbelief, his face curled up as soon as he got a good taste of what he was eating. “This crap tastes like crap, Logan.” That is exactly what he said, and I will never forget that as long as I am able to think. My creation had fallen on numb tongues in my book, but what I thought didn’t matter to everyone else. Looking back on it, it was a weird creation. Instead, it was the beginning of my weird food era.
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#2: Whip-Chocolate Milk • You’ll need: • One average spoon Chocolate Milk (preferably Prairie Farms Brand, but it’s up to you) • One can of Reddi Wip Original Cream • Very strong bowels
I can firmly recall a time in my life when lactose-based ingredients became my dietary obsession. Remember my friend Trasean from the sandwich debacle? Well I was friends with him up until the 5th grade, which is around the time this venture took place. He visited my house one day to play some video games and eat like there was no tomorrow that day. My dad had just bought some whip cream a few days before for some pies that he had baked and seeing as though I’m incredibly nosey when it comes to items I shouldn’t mess with. I figured why the hell would I not do something with this whip cream. I once again found myself looking through the fridge for something to pair with this creamy goodness. There it was, illuminated by the flickering light inside the fridge, the greatest creation in the history of lactose creations. Chocolate milk. My eyes started flickering in unison with the light in the fridge as I stretched out to grab it. It was at this moment that I remember my dad walking by to see what I was up too. He saw the whip cream sitting next to a fresh glass of chocolate milk, and he had only one response. “Boy, you’re going to be shitting all day if you drink that.” If we are being completely honest, he was right. We return to the moment though, and I just didn’t care for his warning. I turned the nose of the whip cream can over the glass, and I couldn’t hold back my excitement as I saw the cream sit atop on the milk. I took a spoon from the rack and began mixing together the one-way ticket to the toilet. I turned to Trasean almost looking for approval, and I misinterpreted his look for confusion for something else. I took it as, “it’s not enough, Logan!” At this point, I had the nose of the can dipped inside the milk to ensure it was filled with as much whip cream as possible. I don’t recommend doing that, unless of course, you have strong bowels. 84
Despite the prolonged trip to the bathroom later that night, the creation was absolutely divine. Some of the whip cream maintained its volume within the milk, even once I took a sip. It was like getting a surprise every other time I took a swig. It’s certainly something I would recommend be tried in every household. There are certainly more food creations that I have to add to this little cookbook I’ve created. These unusual recipes have lead to the changes in my character; they have shaped me. If you should happen to indulge in recreating these recipes, please mind the ingredients as they are extremely vital in truly enjoying what these foods have to offer.
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5 Things Gone Wrong in my Life Marlena Bradford 1. The Time I Walked Into Glass Door You know, I never thought that I was going to be blind for the rest of my life.But then again, how would I have known if I wasn’t born yet? Anyway, when I was in the 10th grade, we had so many glass doors in our school that I just couldn’t keep count, not that it was my job to keep count anyway. It was like a school full of mirrors and every door that I walked past, I had to see how fat I was. But, the point is that I just so happen to walk smack dab into one of those doors one day, on my way to get my fat ass some lunch. I guess now you understand why I have four eyes. 2. Locker to the Face I always hated having a locker because not all of my stuff could fit in there. I also seemed to always get a bottom locker which meant that I always had to bend over and have my big ass goodies in everyone’s face. Unfortunately for my convenience, I stood up one day and took a locker straight to the face. Let’s just say, I had no idea what was going on for the rest of the day. 3. Tumblina Me and stairs have never really had the greatest relationship. I have this philosophy where I will only walk down a set of stairs and never up because I’m just too fat to try to walk up multiple flights of stairs. And I know you’re probably wondering why I keep talking about the fact that I’m fat. Well, it’s because I am but I will stop talking about it but maybe not. Anyways, to say the least, I never knew that I could go tumbling “up” the stairs. 4. The Time I Thought I Was A Dog Whisperer I’d like to think that dogs are smart and I’m pretty sure that most people would agree. Unfortunately, I have been mistaken. I have a dog and although she is insanely cute, she’s just a tad bit slow. Anytime I meet a dog, it’s pretty easy to bond with them but for some odd reason, though it may not be that odd, my dog and I do not bond. I mean it’s like when I say something to her, I’m talking to myself. She literally proves to me everyday that I am not the dog whisperer that I thought I was. 86
5. Workaholic Gone Wrong To say that I hate my job would be kind of harsh, so I’ll just say that I Strongly dislike the place. It’s always insanely hot every time I walk in, but then again that could just be that I’m fat. The employees never clean up after themselves and unfortunately I get annoyed whenever I walk into the place. In any case, I thought that I was the hardest working person in there, and that I did everything right, but my thought was proven wrong when I dropped a roll of paper towels in the mop bucket, slipped on a piece of ice, and burst a can of beer all at once. Obviously, I was not doing everything right because literally everything had gone wrong.
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Types of Partners That You Have In a Group Project Jessica German 1. The One Whose Grandma Always Dies This group member’s grandma, who she calls Nana, has died on three separate occasions in three different classes spread across a two-year period, and you know this. However, if you call her out on it, everyone will think that you’re an insensitive asshole, and she will definitely use this against you. So, you end up in this weird, Cold War-esque standoff until the project is done and you can forget about Sarah, or whatever her name is. She sends you two links to Instagram posts that she thinks “will totally pull this presentation together.” Both links lead to quotes spoken by one of Kardashians. 2. The Stoner This guy doesn’t even exist in the same cosmic realm as you. His name is usually something like Greg or Eric. Trying to pin down his schedule is like trying to get a cat in a sweater, and then losing the cat underneath your bed. When you do finally see him, he smells like weed and a weird amalgamation of Chinese take-out and Taco Bell. Stoner is always CEO of snacks at group meetings and he does absolutely nothing else. 3.The Jock The Jock plays three sports, has games during all of your group meetings, and is definitely a misogynist. Any poor soul who has the misfortune to possess a uterus is automatically dubbed “Sweetheart” and becomes his personal secretary. This man’s entire life revolves around protein shakes and the dumb shit that his team members dare him to do during and after games. He contributes two sentences to your PowerPoint and flirts with group member number four. 4. The Pretty One The only thing that you need to know about her is that all of the males in your group are infatuated with her and if you ask her to do work of any sort, all the males in said group will 88
call you a bitch because “She’s working ten hours a week and she’s having a really hard time!” The Pretty One, normally Ashley or Tiffany, succeeds in doing nothing other than group member number three. And, last but not least… 5. The Leader (AKA The One With the Idea) This is the poor bastard who stupidly admitted to having any idea ever, and their punishment is the other group members who circle them like sharks and make their life a living hell (i.e. me). This is the group member who has spent seventeen net hours working on this project by themselves only to find out that their group members want to get together and eight o’clock the night before your project is due and finish the whole thing in one sitting. The Leader got everyone’s numbers, made the group chat, and subsequently abandoned the group chat after seven attempts at communication and three “Chill out, Bro’s” (two from Stoner and one from Dead Grandma). This group member created a working app, a website, finished a five-page reflection paper, and handled all of the pain, tears, and suffering that this project inflicted and has misplaced three years of their life in the process. Their project gets thrown out in favor of The Pretty One’s fifth grade assessment of the effects of depression on college students. If this is you, God have mercy on your weary soul.
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““ I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world. ”” Albert Einstein
2020
