Castings 2017 by Christian Brothers University

about Castings is an annual art and literary competition and journal funded by Christian Brothers University. There are four categories featured: fine art, photography, prose, and poetry. From each category, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place winners are chosen by blind judging from select members of CBU faculty. The staff is comprised of one or two undergrad students for editors to handle submissions, one undergrad graphic designer to design and set the layout, and advisors from both the creative writing and graphic design departments at CBU to oversee the creation of each volume. While the editor(s) and graphic designer are usually different every year, the advisors are set. Copyright@2017 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 the written permission from Castings. 1

submissions Submissions are open to any Christian Brothers University students. Submissions consist of poetry, prose, fine art, and photography. There is no limit on the submissions and Castings encourages students to submit as many pieces they want. Submissions should be sent to castings@cbu.edu. All work submitted should be original pieces. We are excited to receive all submissions and welcome the chance to showcase the artistic talent of the CBU student body.

judges poetry

prose

fine art & photgraphy

Vincent O’Neill

Kelly James

Ann Marie Wranovix

Seth Lee

Jana Travis

Kristian O’Hare

Karl Lieb

Nicholas Peña

staff editors

advisors

printing

Betty Armstrong

Karen B. Golightly

CB Printing

Alex Garry

Nicholas Peña

layout & design Luis Martinez 3

c o n t 22 - 23 - Mother by Olivia Betterton 24 - 25 - Red Eyes by Lauren Jeu 26 - Night Sky by Ethan Carpenter 27 - In the Eyes of the Lovable by Alex Swanson 28 - Medusozoa by Patrick Woody 29 - Water by Anna Polis 30 - Smokies by Erin McInnis 31 - Slightly Annoyed by Alex Swanson 32 - Wanderlust by Ethan Carpenter 33 - Fungi, Funtimes by Lauren Jeu 34 - Basque by Carlee Darnell 35 - Dusk Reflections by Lauren Jeu

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8 - Forgotten Fairytales by Alex Garry 9 - hunt by Mirissa Anderson 10 - Grandpa by Betty Armstrong 11 - Coat Closet by Savannah Smith 12 - Blackberry Wine by Betty Armstrong 13 - These Legs by Madyson Levy 14 - The View from the Docks in Brooklyn by Khadijah Green 15 - Simple Math by Lakeila Kennedy 16 - Our President by Bionca Smith 17 - Now Speak by Shelby Still 18 - Morning Coffee by Sarah Brasher 19 - Aging Fantasy by Alex Garry

6-19

photography

poetry

e n t s 52 - 61 - Caesura by Alex Garry 62 - 67 - What I Wanted by Alex Garry 68 - 72 - Such A Pretty Thing by Olivia Betterton 73 - 78 - Mr. Valentine and the Mop by Olivia Betterton

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5 38 - 39 - Bittersweet by Maritza Mena 40 - 41 - Prim and Proper by Lauren Jeu 42 - Birds of a Feather by Lauren Jeu 43 - Winter Sky by Maritza Mena 44 - Still Life 2 by Taylor Bing 45 - Sunny Daze by Taylor Bing 46 - Springtime Journey by Maritza Mena 47 - Fly Me To the Moon by Maritza Mena 48 - Still Life 1 by Taylor Bing 49 - Calendar by Taylor Bing

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prose

fine art

poetry 6

8 - Forgotten Fairytales by Alex Garry 9 - hunt by Mirissa Anderson 10 - Grandpa by Betty Armstrong 11 - Coat Closet by Savannah Smith 12 - Blackberry Wine by Betty Armstrong 13 - These Legs by Madyson Levy 14 - The View from the Docks in Brooklyn by Khadijah Green 15 - Simple Math by Lakeila Kennedy 16 - Our President by 7Bionca Smith 17 - Now Speak by Shelby Still 18 - Morning Coffee by Sarah Brasher 19 - Aging Fantasy by Alex Garry

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Forgotten Fairy Tales “Too loud,” I muttered, sneaking up the stairs to avoid another rant over unmade beds or forgotten toys. I tiptoed across the narrow boards of the attic, whose squeaks helped drown out my sister’s stubborn voice blending with my father’s in a chorus of chaos. I kept my focus, creeping even further, small feet feeling for the coarse beams, soft hands grazing the splintery boards above, hoping to keep their balance without tumbling into the itchy void of pink fluff below. At the end, I found my prize, a box of old books too cherished to throw away, but not important enough to be squeezed into the main bookshelf. Old fairy tales, stories my parents could once recite by heart, were now mine to memorize, tucked into the dark musk of my attic corner. I pulled out my flashlight, grabbed the first book my hands found and the world went quiet once again. by Alex Garry

hunt

the trick is to take steps on the tips of your toes listening, watching, waiting. when you walk like that— with your gun over your heart, chest, and lungs— everything slows down. leaves fall like slow rocking chairs, a steady crumble under your feet. but the leaves, like the ache in your knees and back. only matter ‘til you see it— then you do. white flash, hind legs startled to run. for a moment, as you reach for your rifle, you want to run and chase him through the trees, tackle him— wrestle like brothers. Then you shoot. by Mirissa Anderson

Grandpapa I have watched a man roll a cigarette, from a princely red canister. He opens the lid, and sweet smells of smoky wood and earth, of coffee with cream, and of maple syrup, swell up from the damp brown leaves. He unfurls a sheet of delicate paper, folds a crease halfway, and packs it with silent nights sitting on the porch, stargazing and chasing falling stars that turn into pebbles. He fills in along the crease and with three fingers, he spins a story, licks the edge, and lights the end, a moment of fiery light and smoke. Then gone. Nothing but ash and a small sliver of soft paper. by Betty Armstrong

Coat Closet Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a chameleon, In the bottom of my box. They never find me, Where I go when the walls collapse. A place where light is not invited, But neither are you. When the yelling settles, And my presence is missing, They search every corner, but to no avail. And here I sit, snuggled between long coats, Warming for the winter outside my door. Just a minute longer, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be ready. by Savannah Smith

Blackberry Wine I tasted it as it washed across my tongue, the remembered image of ebony jewels, held hostage in a crown of thorns that trapped their ambrosial nectar from unclean hands. I felt the pureness of flavor, pressed from the corpses of berries, fermented and strained many times, to make their consumption enjoyable to the masses. I smelled the turned sweetness the wine gave off in small hints that made my mouth pucker as I drank in cup after cup of the ebony sacrament, that burned absolution to the tip of my tongue. by Betty Armstrong

These Legs Short and strong No jiggle or ripples Bold and beautiful Skin hugs them tight Chocolate Creamy Sweet Pants coat them Wrapped tight from eyes That give bold stares This velvet pair Belong to me The woman who wears them well by Madyson Levy

The View from the Docks in Brooklyn The liquid army marches over stones and twigs snap under its weight. The platoon roars out like a battle cry, leaving deep footprints in its wake. Rhythmic, like a war drum, the fluid legion surges and swells as it charges to its destination. It is a single-minded mass, filing its way through narrow straits. One journey. One goal. Until suddenly, it breaks rank and by Khadijah Green

scatters.

Simple Math 1+1 makes 2. When you wrap your 2 arms around me, we become 1. 4 eyes wander, gazing upon our arithmetic, simple math sums up our companionship. Our 2 is divided, my exponential equation exposes our essence. You kiss what matters, filling our matrices matrimony. We survived algebra. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re basic arithmetic. The parentheses of your smile lead me near. You gaze upon these thighs. The height to your width, the girth of these thighs lies in the palm of your logarithm. 1+1=2 But together, we become 1. by Lakeila Kennedy

Our President Our faces were red covered with tears heavy breathing marching around the city shouting he is not a damn president. “I haven’t always had everything handed to me my father gave me a small loan of one million dollars” “Send those Negros back to Africa” “Build that wall” “I don’t support gays because it’s not my thing.” We don’t want him. Empty vans waiting to fill illegal wetbacks and monkeys who have to pass an undeveloped wall postponing the farewells of our loved ones who were not expecting the results to be so scandalous and life changing and yet we have to accept what has happened and what will happen as we wait for January and we will ride in silence hearing a repeated chant make AMERICA great again. by Bionca Smith

Now Speak My body is shaking and bitter. Face drenched with droplets racing just as my heart. My mind, a puzzle, one Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a mixture of letters, and I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find the words. As if I were standing upon the clouds, where I lean to look over and begin to fall to its endless depth. Breathe in for five. Breathe out for ten. I open my eyes and begin to speak. by Shelby Still

Morning Coffee Surrounded by a bright morning glow, and yet, Why is it liquid shadow that brings the new light?

Arousing from the daybreak klaxons with an exasperated sigh, Comes one such individual with no love of the sunrise. Wading through the kitchen with groggy, plodding steps Approaching the burnished pot with no drive or pep

As she fumbles with the soft, gritty grinds Bringing the hope that this familiar Flowing… Flowing… Flowing… Flowing… Stimulates the mind. Although its flavor is as biting as ever, Nothing is more bitter than arising from slumber. by Sarah Brasher

Aging Fantasy We grow up hearing stories of hobbits and a ring, and of galaxies far far away. We go in search of flowers that can sing and chase rabbits down their holes hoping to stay and find a hatter obsessed with tea. But eventually we stop waiting for magic to show us lands of impossibility where love is strong and life isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tragic. We stop checking wardrobes for the witch and hunting dragons in the daylight. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time for our priorities to switch because adults donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe in magic, right? But no. Instead, we trade our swords for pens, because we decide when this story ends and another begins by Alex Garry

photography 20

22 - 23 - Mother by Olivia Betterton 24 - 25 - Red Eyes by Lauren Jeu 26 - Night Sky by Ethan Carpenter 27 - In the Eyes of the Lovable by Alex Swanson 28 - Medusozoa by Patrick Woody 29 - Water by Anna Polis 30 - Smokies by Erin McInnis 31 - Slightly Annoyed by Alex Swanson 32 - Wanderlust by Ethan Carpenter 33 - Fungi, Funtimes by Lauren Jeu 34 - Basque by Carlee Darnell 35 - Dusk Reflections by Lauren Jeu

20-35

1 22

Mother by Olivia Betterton

Red Eyes 24

by Lauren Jeu

Night Sky by Ethan Carpenter 26

In the Eyes of the Lovable by Alex Swanson

Medusozoa by Patrick Woody

Water by Anna Polis

Smokies by Erin McInnis

Slightly Annoyed by Alex Swanson

Wanderlust by Ethan Carpenter

Fungi, Funtimes by Lauren Jeu

Basque by Carlee Darnell 34

Dusk Reflections by Lauren Jeu

fine art 36

38 - 39 - Bittersweet by Maritza Mena 40 - 41 - Prim and Proper by Lauren Jeu 42 - Birds of a Feather by Lauren Jeu 43 - Winter Sky by Maritza Mena 44 - Still Life 2 by Taylor Bing 45 - Sunny Daze by Taylor Bing 46 - Springtime Journey by Maritza Mena 47 - Fly Me To the Moon by Maritza Mena 48 - Still Life 1 by Taylor Bing 49 - Calendar by Taylor Bing

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Bittersweet 38

by Maritza Mena

2 40

Prim and Proper by Lauren Jeu

Birds of a Feather by Lauren Jeu

Winter Sky by Maritza Mena

Still Life 2 44

by Taylor Bing

Sunny Daze by Taylor Bing

Springtime Journey by Maritza Mena

Fly Me To the Moon by Maritza Mena

Still Life 1 by Taylor Bing

Calendar by Taylor Bing

prose 50

52 - 61 - Caesura by Alex Garry 62 - 67 - What I Wanted by Alex Garry 68 - 72 - Such A Pretty Thing by Olivia Betterton 73 - 78 - Mr. Valentine and the Mop by Olivia Betterton

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1 52

I had fourteen years of experience tuning out all of the noise. Nathan, on the other hand, only had a little over five years of practice. That wasn’t enough.

Caesura by Alex Garry

“Robin?” A small voice woke me from my dream as a light hit my face from the open door. “That you, buddy? What’s wrong?” I tried to blink some of the sleep out of my eyes. “I can’t sleep.” My little brother, Nathan, stood in my bedroom doorway in his footie pajamas, clinging to his Thomas the Train blanket for dear life. He looked like he was going to cry. I could hear our father yelling in the kitchen. I didn’t bother to question what had pissed him off this time; it was easy to do. It was no wonder Nathan couldn’t sleep. I had fourteen years of experience tuning out all of the noise. Nathan, on the other hand, only had a little over five years of practice. That wasn’t enough. “You want to come sleep with me?” I scooted toward the far side of my twin bed to give him room. The light disappeared as Nathan slipped in and closed the door. I could hear the tapping of his feet as he ran across the hardwood floor. Then the bed shook as he hopped up next to me. “Thanks, Robin.” He hugged me. “You’re the best big sister ever.” “How about remembering that the next time you decide to drink all my chocolate milk.” I ruffled his blond hair. “Now try to get some sleep.” We heard a plate break in the kitchen and he flinched. I tried to ignore it. “Why is Daddy always so angry?” “I don’t know, buddy. He just is, I guess.” “Is he going to hurt us?” “No.” I squeezed him tighter. “Mom won’t let him hurt us.” “But what if Mommy can’t protect us?” “Then I’ll protect you.” I couldn’t stop my jaw from clenching. “As long as I’m around, I won’t let him hurt you.” He looked up at me. “But who’s going to protect you?” “I don’t need any protection. I just need my music and my goober of a little brother.” I grabbed

his nose and pulled it a little. He giggled and shook his head away. “All right, but really now, get some sleep. You might have a day off tomorrow because of teacher conferences, but I don’t.” A couple minutes passed; each was noted by another piece of glass breaking or one of my parents raising their voices. I heard my father mention something about selling my piano, but Mom shot him down. Were they fighting about money again? Probably, it’s all they ever seemed to fight about nowadays. Ever since he lost his job about a year ago and couldn’t find another one, things had gotten tense. This was one of their usual arguments. They’d go back and forth for another thirty minutes or so until my father would storm off. Mom always seemed a little shaken afterwards, but she was able to fend him off. We’d all be safe, for the most part. Nathan shifted as Dad yelled again. I sighed. There was no way he’d fall asleep with all that noise. I pulled the blanket up and started humming the first tune that came to mind. Nothing loud or complex; just slow, soft notes that I knew would lull him to sleep. I did my best to drown out the remaining noise as my parents’ argument started to quiet. Nathan’s breathing slowed, though he didn’t let go of me. I knew he’d fallen asleep, and it didn’t take long for me to do the same. I woke up the next morning to the sound of Mom getting breakfast ready. I guess it’s time for me to get up. Thankfully, Nathan had rolled over at some point during the night and was no longer attached to me. Being as careful as possible, I stretched over him to reach the floor. I had all but made it over when my left foot bumped his side. I held my breath. When all he did was roll over with a slight groan, I sighed and went back to getting ready. I grabbed my jeans, a white t-shirt, and my purple jacket as I scurried into the bathroom connected to my room. After I brushed my teeth and tied my hair into a ponytail I made my way to the kitchen. “Morning, Mom.” I plopped down into my chair at the kitchen table. “Huh? Oh, morning, dear.” She turned her head from the sink to me as she finished washing some of last night’s dishes, at least the ones that made it through the night. Her brown hair shifted in its braid as she turned back to the sink. A minute later, she pulled a bowl down from the cabinet and handed it to me. She was wearing long sleeves again. It was eighty degrees outside. Did she get hurt again? She seemed to notice my stare as she placed the milk and Cheerios in front of me. She pulled her sleeves a little lower and smiled. It looked forced and fake, like one of those masks from drama class. She might’ve been able to fool Nathan with that, but not me. “So, you have any tests today?” she asked, trying her best to distract me from the question I really wanted to ask. “No, just a few worksheets and stuff.” I kept staring. People always said mom and I had the same blue eyes. I wondered if mine sometimes looked as scared and broken as hers did. “So,” I began, watching her tense up a little. “Was last night the same argument as usual?” “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s all fine now.”

“Is it really?” I almost regretted asking when I watched her pull at her sleeves again. She seemed to do that a lot recently. “Everything’s fine, sweetie.” She wouldn’t turn to face me. Silence fell and I tried to fill it by eating some of my cereal. But we both knew the conversation wasn’t over. She had to know that things would only get worse. The bruises she was probably hiding under those sleeves were proof of that. We couldn’t fix him. He was too far gone. Even if we somehow got him to therapy or any kind of help, he’d never listen to them. Things would stay exactly as they were now, only we’d be losing even more money. We’d lose everything we have trying to remind him how to act like a decent person again. Sometimes I wondered if that was what Mom wanted. “We could just leave.” I could’ve sworn I had only thought those words instead of spoken them until I watched her almost drop the coffee mug she was reaching for. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t move. It was true. We could leave. We could grab Nathan right now, hop on a bus, and get as far away from him as possible. He probably wouldn’t even look for us. Sure I’d have to leave my piano behind, but at least Nathan would be safe. All of us would be safe. Is that what mattered to her? Were we more important, or was he still her priority? “Why don’t we leave?” I asked again, this time actually wanting an answer. “Sweetie.” She set the mug down a little harder than she had intended. “We’ve been through this. Don’t bring it up again.” “But he’s not getting any better.” “But he will!” Her head whipped around. Anger flickered across her face before she pushed it down and straightened her back. “I’ve almost convinced him to go see someone. Once he gets his anger in control, it’ll be easier for him to get a job. We can have things back to the way they were. I just need more time.” “But what else will he ruin before you can get him help?” “Robin Marie, enough! That’s the last I want to hear about thi-” We both froze as my bedroom door clicked open. Our eyes locked before she turned back to the coffee mug and I to my now soggy cereal. She’d gotten her way, I suppose. Neither of us could bear finishing that conversation with Nathan in earshot. But it was far from over. “Good morning, Mommy.” Nathan yawned as he rubbed his eyes. “Good morning, sweetie.” Mom beamed. She could’ve been an actress with how fast she switched her attitude. “Are you excited for your day off?” “Yeah!” He climbed into the seat next to me and I poured his cereal and milk for him. “Are you staying home with me?” “Uh,” Mom flinched. “Actually, Daddy’s going to be staying home with you today.” I nearly

crushed the box of cereal in my hands. I locked eyes with her again. Hers begged me not to say anything. Mine threatened to set her on fire. She would just leave him home with that? Who would protect him? Had I known she was going to pull this, I would’ve faked being sick or something. How could she just leave Nathan with him? “You’ve stayed home with him before. I know it’s been a while, but you’ll be good for Daddy, won’t you?” “Yes ma’am.” The corners of Nathan’s mouth twitched, but he managed to keep a smile. I kept on glaring at her, even if she wouldn’t turn to face me. If she thinks this is over, she’s wrong. She better hope he doesn’t lay so much as a finger on Nathan. “Well,” Mom opened the cabinet and pulled out the trash bin from underneath the sink. “I’m going to go take out the trash and water the flowerbeds. Eat your cereal. I’ll be right back.” She patted Nathan on the head as he passed. She didn’t dare to make eye contact with me. As the front door closed behind her, I shook my head. Nathan’s smile faded as he stirred the cereal around in his bowl. “Hey, buddy.” I rubbed his back. “Want me to play you a song before I go?” “But what about Daddy? Isn’t he still sleeping?” “He’s probably out for interviews by now. Come on.” I grabbed his arm and he bounced along behind me.

She had to know that things would only get worse. The bruises she was probably hiding under those sleeves were proof of that. We couldn’t fix him. He was too far gone. We walked over to the upright piano sitting in the corner of the living room. The light from the open window caught the maple wood of the piano, giving it a reddish glow. At least there was one thing that Mom protected for me. If nothing else, she made sure I had a piano to play. I always wondered how much of her jewelry she pawned when I was little so she could buy it for me. Even if it was used, I knew the piano wasn’t cheap. I let my fingers glide over the fall that covered the keys before lifting it to reveal the ivory underneath. I sat down on the bench, trying to decide what to play. I didn’t have a book to look off of. The last time I had a songbook to accompany me was about a year ago, but that was before my father had ripped up the only book I had. It was one Thursday afternoon back when he had first lost his job. I remember him coming home from multiple unsuccessful interviews. It didn’t seem like anyone was looking for metal workers at the time. That was all he could do, really. Mom tried her best to cheer him up. She

tried to remind him of how talented he was and that if he was persistent enough, he’d find something. He didn’t seem too excited considering the bedroom door didn’t even budge. I sat at the kitchen table working on homework and pretending not to hear them. After a good five minutes of trying to coax him out of the bedroom, he yelled for her to leave. Her eyes widened in surprise. In the months prior to being laid off, he almost never raised his voice. We had all written it off as stress. We thought it would pass. We didn’t know. Mom eventually surrendered. She took Nathan to the store with her, and left me to finish my homework. Which, turned out to be much harder than expected without someone to keep me focused. With every stroke of my pencil on the paper, all I could think of was my piano. I knew it was waiting for me. Mom had told me to finish my homework before playing, but she had left, and it didn’t seem like my father was coming out anytime soon. With careful steps, I tiptoed across the living room floor, my eyes glued on my parents’ bedroom door as I did. He wouldn’t care if I just played a couple songs, right? He had always enjoyed my playing. Even if he was more concerned with me getting good grades, he still liked my music. I remembered playing some of the warm-up tunes in my song book when my parents’ bedroom door flew open. My father was standing in the doorway. I hardly recognized him with the bags under his eyes and the irritated frown that stretched over his usually cheerful face. He rubbed his eyes before looking at the kitchen table with my school books thrown across it. Then, he turned back to me. “Robin? Did you finish your homework?” Vague annoyance filled his voice. I must have woken him from a nap. “No, not yet.” I shook my head. “I just wanted to play a couple songs first.” “Your mother told you to finish your homework first. Now get back in the kitchen and finish your work.” He was massaging his temples as he turned back towards the bedroom. “But, I just want to play a little first. You’ve let me do it before.” If everything was like normal, he would frown like he wanted to tell me “no.” But in the end, he would always take a seat next to me and listen. “This isn’t up for debate. Go do your homework.” Something was different. Sure he would get annoyed with me whenever I talked back, but he knew I never meant anything bad by it. It was just our thing. We would always argue a little, but for fun. This seemed different. Should I try again? Things were just like normal, right? “But, Dad.” I might’ve sounded a little too whiny, because he turned around with his gray eyes were full of an anger and annoyance that I had never seen before. I scooted to the far side of the piano bench. “Don’t make me tell you again.” He pointed one of his large fingers at me. Working with metal for all those years had made his fingers more reminiscent of sausages than actual fingers. Despite their size, they always seemed so warm and comforting though. This time, however, that

was not the case. I think that was the first time I had felt afraid of his hands. He slammed the door behind him and left me sitting there, confused. What was that? He’s never been like this before. Was his day really that bad? I glanced down at the piano, my fingers trailing over the keys. Maybe I should play him something. I know he told me not to play, but the Dad I know always loved my music. If he’s had a bad day, what better way to cheer him up then with a song? How wrong I had been. Before I could even play the first few notes of my song, the bedroom door flew open once again. Instead of seeing my father standing with a smile on his face from me trying to cheer him up, his features were twisted into an awful glare. “What did I just tell you?” His brow furrowed in an almost painful looking way. “I just wanted to play you something. I thought that-” “I told you to do your homework.” He snapped, making me jump back in surprise. “Now get in the kitchen and do as I say.” That wasn’t my dad. He was something else. He turned on his heels and headed back for the bedroom again. My heart was pounding so loud that I could hear it in my head. To this day, I’m still not sure if it was fear or anger that made it race like that. “No.” The words slipped from my lips all too easily. The second he spun back around, I knew I had made a big mistake. He came flying towards me. There wasn’t enough room on the bench to get away from him. “Get in the kitchen. Now!” He raised a hand and I flinched. He hesitated for a second, his hand still hovering in the air. When it finally came back down, I gave a sigh of relief that it hadn’t hurt me. Then, saw what he was holding. It was my song book. I could remember the sound of tearing pages mixing with my sobs as piece by piece the torn pages of the book fell at my feet. I scrambled to collect the pieces and put it back together. I was stupid to believe that was even possible. I heard him say something about me needing to focus on my schoolwork anyway and to never disobey him again. That was the last time I had used a song book while playing. I’m sure he hoped that in taking away that book, he would separate me from my piano enough for me to obey him. He was wrong. He only made me love my piano more. It didn’t take long for me to realize I could make my own songs; there was no way he could take that from me. I shook my head. Why should I even think about him right now? This was going to be a time for me and Nathan to relax. I wouldn’t let the memory of him ruin this too. Nathan sat down on the floor to the left of my feet. For some strange reason, he was always fascinated by how I had to push the pedals underneath while playing. I never said anything though. It was best to just let him do what he wanted. I let my fingers drift over the keys, not yet sure what I wanted to play. But apparently they had

an idea; they fell onto what they had decided were the perfect starting keys, and I let them. The ivory felt so smooth and warm. I glanced out the window to see Mom by the flowerbeds. It looked like I’d have just enough time to play one song before she came back in. Maybe when she did, she’d hear how much better I’d gotten at playing. She might even smile for once, maybe even a real smile. I closed my eyes, letting the feel of the ivory keys beneath my fingertips ground me while everything else faded away. I played the first note. The song started light and soft. Small notes floated one by one into the quiet air. My fingers grazed the keys with each note, barely even playing them. What are we doing? I’ve never played this song before. Where’s the rhythm? What are you planning?

Before I could even play the first few notes of my song, the bedroom door flew open once again. Instead of seeing my father standing with a smile on his face from me trying to cheer him up, his features were twisted into an awful glare.

I felt the notes getting faster, louder. My fingers plucked harder at the keys with each passing note. The sweet sounds I’d started with grew more bold and confident by the second. I knew something was going to happen. A crescendo was on the way. I felt my heartbeat increase, and in turn, the song quickened its pace. Ah, so that’s your game. You want to use my heartbeat as your metronome? All right, let’s do it. Can you keep up? Going ever faster now, my fingers glided over the key with ease. Powerful but melodic notes flooded into the room from all sides. My heartbeat grew faster. The back of my head buzzed with anticipation. We were almost there. With the crescendo underway, it was almost time. I couldn’t have stopped my now-tingling fingers if I had wanted to. I had no more control over them than I did over my own heart. And then, a pause. Before I could wonder what was happening, the song came surging back into the air, harmony and melody colliding and mingling to create something new. The chorus billowed out of the piano, proudly asserting itself into the air as shivers ran down my spine. In that moment, everything felt right. It felt like nothing could touch me, like the song itself was lifting me up and letting me soar. Nothing could tear me down, the song was too strong for that. With fingers fluttering over the keys faster than I ever knew they could, I was sure that nothing could ruin that moment. As Mom came back through the front door, I opened my eyes to see her face. It was nothing like I had expected it to be.

“Robin, no.” Sweat already beaded on her forehead as she grimaced at one of the high notes I played. “You have to stop. You’re going to wake your-” And then, my parent’s bedroom door flew open and slammed into the wall with a bang. My fingers twitched in panic, and the room fell silent once again. The song that had held me up so high was gone in an instant. I found myself sitting in front of the piano once again, only now I had a pair of angry, gray eyes fixed on me. They were his eyes. He stood in the bedroom doorway, his blond hair disheveled and his white nightshirt was greasy and stained. It was a good thing he was standing a few yards away from me, otherwise I’m sure his morning breath would’ve knocked me out. He always had the worst morning breath. He was like that even before he changed. How many mornings had I climbed into bed with him and Mom when I was little? How many times had I jumped on his belly and he’d laugh while he hugged me? That was back when he acted how a father should act. That was back when I could still say I loved him without lying. Now whenever I looked at any part of him, be it his feet that always used to stomp around after me when we would play, his gray eyes, the same as Nathan’s, that used to be so kind, or even his broad shoulders that he used to prop Nathan and I up on when we were smaller, all I could feel toward him now was anger. Whenever I felt like that, something inside me would always say that I was acting just like him. That only made me feel worse. “Good morning, dear.” Mom braved the uneasy silence with a nervous smile. The only response she got was a glare. Nathan shuffled to the other side of me to hide behind my legs and I placed a hand on his head to calm him. “That damn piano woke me,” my father directed his glare back toward me. I didn’t flinch. “Play another note and I smash that piece of shit.” “Yes, sir.” I tried to sound as sweet as I could through gritted teeth. He turned back toward the kitchen where Mom was rushing to get his coffee ready. So much for her smiling this morning. I looked back down at the piano. There was still a good fifteen minutes before I had to go to school, why waste it? I let my hands graze over the keys once more. “What are you doing?” Nathan whispered from his spot of the floor. “Dad will kill you if you play something.” “No, he’ll only kill me if I play a note.” I corrected him. “I’m not going to make a sound.” I started to play another tune, my fingers only tapping the keys to insure no sound would come from them. It wasn’t the same as actually playing, but it would do. I’d been playing the piano since I was six, I didn’t need to play an A to know what it sounded like. I didn’t need to play any note or song, for that matter. I could always hear them, no matter what. All I had to do was move my fingers and the melody would ring through my head as crisp and clear as ever. Looks like you still can’t beat me. I grinned. No matter how hard you try, you can’t take this away from me.

I felt something tug at my leg and looked down to see Nathan, his hazel eyes wide with excitement. “I can still hear the music.” He whispered after he made sure our father wasn’t looking around the corner. I didn’t even know it was possible for him to smile that big. I pulled him into my lap and hugged him. “Yeah, I can too.”

The second my fingers grazed the front door I knew something was wrong. It had only been eight hours. What could’ve possibly happened in eight hours? I told Nathan to stay in his room. Our father wouldn’t be able to hurt him there. He should’ve been safe. No. He shouldn’t have been left with that. I opened the door to find a dark, quiet living room. Something was off. I wasn’t stupid. I assumed the worst, but I hoped for better. But, then I heard a choked sob come from the corner of the room and I felt my heart shatter. What had he done? Where was Nathan? I had to get to him. I could make it better. I could try. I threw my backpack down and ran toward where I thought the sob came from, but I stopped when something cracked under my foot. I knelt down to find a jagged, broken piece of ivory; then I looked up toward the piano. It had been attacked. The keys I had spent years practicing on and cleaning now laid scattered and broken on the floor. The bench that was always the most comfortable place for me in the house was thrown across the room. The lacquered wood of the once beautiful instrument was scratched and scraped almost beyond recognition. And, sitting off to the side was my father’s hammer. I felt my stomach churn with rage until another sob tore me out of my thoughts. Off in the opposite corner of the room I found Nathan. I ran to him, scattering pieces of broken wood across the floor as I did. I scooped him up before I could even think about it. My hands wiped the tears from his eyes as I looked him up and down. When I finally saw the bruises on his left arm and the scrapes on his legs, I had to wipe away tears of my own. “Robin!” He sobbed, clinging to me for dear life. “I-I’m sorry! He broke it! I-it’s my fault! I’m sorry!” I could feel my shirt getting soaked with his tears. But I didn’t care. I just held him as tight as I could, hoping my head would stop spinning if I we stayed there long enough. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Don’t cry. I’m here. I’m sorry I left you.” Those words became my mantra as I sat there, clinging to him. Maybe if I hugged him tight enough, things would go back to normal. I’d open my eyes again and everything would be just like it was when I left in the morning. I’d have a smiling, safe little brother sitting by a working piano. He would be waving to me as I closed the door. Everything would be okay. But, every sniff and sob that came from him reminded me that things were the exact opposite. A few minutes passed. We still sat there. I rocked him back and forth, hoping that the motion would calm everything down. I’m still not sure whether I was hoping to calm him or me. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” He had relaxed enough to speak with ease. “I know you didn’t, buddy.” I kissed the top of his head, blinking a few tears from my eyes.

“He was napping. I didn’t know. I-I wanted to practice Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I wanted to play it for you when you got home. I was going to surprise you. But- he woke up. He got mad- I’m sorry.” He started to shake and I held him a little tighter. “It’s all right. I’m not mad. It’s okay.” I ran my fingers through his hair; that always calmed him down. A silence fell. “Robin?” “Yeah, buddy?” “What are we going to do?” “About what?” “The piano, you can’t play it now.” He looked up at me. For all the joy I had seen in his eyes earlier that morning, I hadn’t known how easily it could be destroyed. I looked out at the scattered keys on the floor and then at the piano. Some of the keys were still in place. Most of them were the higher notes. Maybe they’d still play. “Yes, I can. I’ll show you.” I set him on the couch for a moment while I retrieved the bench from the other side of the room. I set it back in its usual place and gathered a handful of keys before grabbing Nathan and sitting on the bench with him in my lap. “Here, look.” I put some of the keys back into what I assumed were their original places; they were all snapped and broken. Some of them still fit, others didn’t. I grabbed his hands and helped him start plucking at the keys. A few of them still made noise as we started playing little tunes that I wracked my brain to come up with. But it wasn’t the same. The notes weren’t soft or melodic. They were strained and broken. Some keys wouldn’t make any sound when you pressed them. I would hum what I thought the correct note was when we got to those. I closed my eyes, hoping the piano would guide me. Hoping I’d feel the keys beneath my fingers and everything would fade away, just like before. But it didn’t happen. The keys didn’t feel the same. They were jagged and cold. It felt wrong. It sounded wrong. Everything was wrong. Everything was broken. “Robin?” Nathan looked up at me. “Yeah?” I tried to keep the tears from my eyes. “I can still hear the music.” He gave a weak smile. I hesitated for a moment, not sure what to say to him. “Yeah, I can too.” I lied.

2 62

It would all be over soon; one swig and that would be the end if it.

What I Wanted by Alex Garry

The single white pill sat in front of me on the kitchen table with a glass of water next to it. I’d already taken the pills for a six days. The doctors had told me that after one full round of them, seven pills, the medication would have a full and stable effect. It would all be over soon; one swig and that would be the end if it. I kept myself pressed against the back of my chair, fingers picking at the loose threads of my ripped, black jeans. I jumped as the grandfather clock in my living room chimed eight times. With a sigh, I sank back into my chair a little more with each chime. All right, I can do this. I sat up, brushed a wayward strand blonde hair behind my ear and reached out a shaky hand towards the pill. But I froze as I heard a faint crackling in my ears. No, it’s nothing. I’m just imagining it. I reached out again. The crackling got louder, accompanied by a slight tingling behind my forehead. No. Not now. I was almost there. Maybe if I take the pill right now, it’ll stop. But as my fingers brushed the white capsule exterior of the medication, I heard her voice with absolute clarity. “What are you doing?” she whispered with the smallest quiver strung through her voice. She knew exactly what I was doing. I kept my eyes locked on the pill, hoping that if I stayed perfectly still, she would go away. Everything had been quiet for the past few days. Of all the voices that had to slip through, it had to be hers. “You’re really going to take it? There’s already so much of it in you. Don’t you feel what it’s doing to you?” “The doctors are trying to help me, Rose.”

“Well, of course, that’s what they would say. Do you really believe them?” I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I opened my mouth to try and give some sort of response, but all that came out was nervous muttering. “So you’re just going to go along with what they say? You don’t even know for certain if this stuff will work, but you’re going through with it anyway? “That’s the plan.” I only whispered it, but I knew she heard me. She always had perfect hearing. “Really?” Rose began. “You would throw away everything you know, everything you are, just like that?” I continued to stare at the pill. “For God’s sake, Daisy, if you’re going to do this, at least look at me and tell me why.” I cringed, but my gaze lifted on instinct until I saw a flash of white across the room. I had moved her from her normal spot on the kitchen table to the windowsill above the stove a few days ago, hoping the extra distance would be enough to block her out. Of course, I was wrong. So she sat there, the only white rose in bloom atop the small bush in little ceramic pot I painted for her when I was ten. With her thorns recently trimmed and her leaves curling in their usual fashion, she was beautiful. She always was. “The doctors think it would be better for me if I took the meds.” “Oh, so you’re letting other people make decisions for you now?” “Why not? I’ve already let you make decisions for me for twenty years now.” One of her leaves twitched, but her composure held. “I wouldn’t have had to make decisions for you if weren’t so droopy and actually stood up for yourself.” “Well I’m standing up for myself now. Shouldn’t you be happy?” I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair. It was a good thing she didn’t have eyes, because I was certain she’d have tried to rip me apart with them. “Why would I be happy about this? You’re trying to throw us all away. Did you know I talked to Lily the other day after you had taken a few of those pills? She tried to say ‘good morning’ to you and you walked right past her like she wasn’t even there. You know how sensitive she is.” “She can’t be sensitive if she’s not real.” “Not real?” Rose’s stems shook with anger. “How can she not be real? She’s been living in your garden for three years now. How can you say she’s not real? Oh, so let me guess, Oak isn’t real either? What about Petunia? Or Birch? Or Maple? You take a few of those toxic things and suddenly none of us are real enough for you, is that it? “No, you exist but-” the words caught in my throat, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak. “You’re just plants.” “So?” “Plants don’t talk, Rose. The fact that I’m even talking to you right now is completely crazy.” “Is that what the doctors told you, or what you believe?” Her leaves twisted and curled. “Well?”

“Both? Neither? I don’t know. I just know I want it to stop.” I ran my hands through my hair, trying to push her voice out of my head, but she just kept going. “It’s not like this is the first time this has happened. Why did you chose this time for fall for their lies?” “Rose,” I sighed, “not this again.” “No. Don’t you ‘Rose’ me, honey. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if I hadn’t told you how to get out of it the first time. Did you forget? Because I haven’t.” Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I could still remember sitting on the stairway in my parents’ house when I was twelve, listening to them argue about what to do with me.

“Why is she so obsessed with plants?” my mother asked. “Don’t look at me. She gets it from your side of the family.” My father was quick to dodge the question. Both of them were oblivious to the fact that I was listening in from just outside, clutching Rose’s pot to my chest. “But it’s not normal, right? When I was her age, my room was filled with pictures of boybands and makeup, not potting soil and flowers.” “You don’t think there’s something wrong with her, do you? Could she have maybe inherited your father’s-” “No. I mean, she couldn’t have.” With how her voice shook, I knew she was starting to cry. “Should we get her tested?” “Do you think it’ll do any good?” “I don’t know. Maybe they can get her medicine or- something. I found her talking to the tulips the other day, Mark. I asked her why she was talking to them. She said, ‘they were her friends.’ That’s not normal, is it?” “Could it be some kind of phase?” “Yeah,” she laughed, but it was forced, “because talking to plants is a phase and it lasts for five years.” “At least it was kind of cute when she was eight.” “But she’s not eight anymore, is she? She’s not even thirteen and she’s acting more and more like my dad every day.” Neither of them said anything after that. All I heard was the shuffling on my father’s feet on the hardwood floor of the kitchen and then my mother’s sobbing being muffled by what I assumed was my father’s chest. I shifted on the stairs just outside the kitchen. A few quiet tears dripped from my face and into Rose’s pot. “Hey. It’s all right, sweet pea.” I remember Rose saying, “There’s nothing wrong with you. I’ve got an idea to get them to leave you alone. Do you trust me?” One of her petals brushed a tear from my cheek.

I nodded. “Do you remember who got you out of that mess, Daisy?” “You did.” I felt my chest tighten. “That’s right. I did. I suggested you move all the plants outside expect for me and to claim that you just like to think out loud. They left you alone after that, remember? You know why I did that? Because I care about you. We all do, and you just want to throw us away.” “I don’t want to throw you away, Rose. But I’m just-” “Just what? Just about to stab me in the stem after everything I’ve done for you? Just about to give up the best friend you’ve had since you were five? Just-” “I’m just tired of being different.” I slammed my hand on the table. The water in the glass turned into a small wave pool and the pill rolled across the hardwood surface. I stopped it with my hand before it got too far. “I’m tired of being ‘Crazy Daisy.’” “But, you used to love talking to us…When you were little-” “When I was little, I used to sit alone on the playground, because none of the kids wanted anything to do with the weird girl who talked to plants. I’d sit by the flowerbeds during recess and talk to flowers, because they were the only ones that would listen to me. I was alone, Rose.” “No, you weren’t, sweat pea. You had me and your grandpa. He could hear us too, remember?” “No he couldn’t, Rose.” Her leaves curled back in and I softened my voice. “He was crazy. They put him in a home and they’ll do the same with me someday if I stay like this.” “So all those times we spent with him in his garden didn’t mean anything to you?” Of course, she had to bring him into it.

Of course, I was wrong. So she sat there, the only white rose in bloom atop the small bush in little ceramic pot I painted for her when I was ten. With her thorns recently trimmed and her leaves curling their usual fashion she was beautiful. She always was. I remember walking out on the back porch of his house one day when I was eight during our usual weekend visits. The smell of honeysuckle filled the air of his backyard, sweet and inviting. I looked out and saw him kneeling in front of his favorite fig tree tending to the pansies underneath it with calloused, gentle hands. “There’s my little Daisy. Come here, I’ve got someone who wants to meet you.” He smiled, waving me over to him. I bounced down the steps of his porch and hiked up my green sundress so I could run over to him. I threw myself into him with a hug, and he wobbled before managing to regain his balance.

“Easy there, kiddo,” he laughed. “I’m getting too old for that.” “Sorry, Grandpa,” I giggled as he plopped me back down. “So who was it you wanted me to meet?” He smiled again before reaching behind his back and pulling out a small, potted rose bush with a single, white bud on top. “Meet Rose,” he beamed, holding the pot out to me. “But she’s just a plant,” I tilted my head to look at him on the other side of the pot. “Now Daisy, what have I told you about saying ‘just plants.’” “Plants have feelings too…” “That’s right. Now hold out your hands and say ‘hi.’ I’ve told Rose all about you and she’s so excited to meet you.” He placed the pot in my hands and gave me a reassuring nod. “All right then,” I sighed. “Hi, Rose. I’m Daisy.” I smiled as big as I could and hoped that was what Grandpa had expected. But then, I looked back down at the rose as the bud on top twitched and I heard a tiny voice whisper, “Hi, Daisy.” I nearly dropped the pot out of shock, but Grandpa’s hands shot up and held mine firm over the pot before it could fall. He stared at my hands for a second before looking up into my eyes. Mom had always said I had the same green eyes as him. “Did you hear her?” his voice barely above a whisper and dripping with disbelief. I nodded, and the biggest smile I had ever seen stretched across his face.

That had been the first time I had heard Rose, or any plant talk. Ever since then I began to hear more and more of them every day. First, they were whispers. Then, they started actually talking. And now, they spoke at whatever volumes they chose, which was normally loud. I remembered all the times I had visited Grandpa’s house after that. He was always so excited to introduce me to new plants, and garden with me. But, that was before Mom and Dad put him into that home. When I was younger, they had always told me it was because he couldn’t live by himself anymore. I never understood, because I told them he was never alone since he had his plants. It wasn’t until I was much older that I understood the real reason he was taken away. “Those times did mean something to me. That’s where I met you, after all,” I began sounding happy, but bitterness started to trickle into my voice. “But he couldn’t talk to plants any more than I can.” “You don’t really believe that.” Her voice caught for a moment, but she pushed it back down. “Is this what you really want? To never hear any of us again?” “There’s never any quiet, Rose. It used to bother me so much, but these past few days I was actually able to sit and just enjoy the silence. No laughing tulips, no arguing violets, no snoring oaks, or chatty sunflowers, it was just quiet and peaceful. I’m tired of all the voices. I’m tired of all

of it.” “But- what about your job? Wasn’t you being able to talk to us the only reason you got a job in that university lab?” “And what, studying botany for almost eight years had nothing to do with that?” “No, no, honey. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just-” her voice trailed off and I watched her leaves curl and uncurl as she tried to find the right words. “‘just’ what, Rose?” “Won’t you be lonely without us?” There it was. I knew it would come up eventually, I just hadn’t expected her to actually have the thorns to ask it. “I’d rather live in a lonely silence than in overwhelming noise.” She didn’t say anything. A few stray beams of moonlight glittered off her petals as my words sunk in. Moon or sun, it didn’t matter, her white was always the prettiest. “Is that how you really feel? About all of this? About me?” I picked up the white pill and held it tight between my fingers. “Well,” Rose began, her petals starting to droop. “If you’ve made up your mind, then I won’t stop you. Go ahead and do it. Take that pill and throw away everything you are. You’re a planttalker, Daisy. But if you want to call it by a different name and try to get rid of it, then fine. If that’s what will make you happy, sweet pea…” I placed the cool, smooth capsule on my tongue and took a sip of the water. I felt the pill slide down my throat until it dropped into my stomach like a rock. The next morning, I made my way downstairs and into the kitchen. I shuffled through the door, my pink slippers sliding on the floor as I tied the green robe around my waist. I let my eyes trail up to the potted rose sitting on the windowsill, her petals opening toward the first rays of the morning sun. Walking over to the window, I picked up the rose, and turned it around in my hands to examine it. I tapped its pot with my fingertip, poked its petals and pulled on its leaves. Not a peep out of it. With a deep breath, I walked out the back door and onto the back porch with the rose in my hands. I could remember a time when I was younger and I’d get up every morning the second the sun came up just to come outside. The plants were always happiest in the morning. I’d scurry out the door in my pajamas only to be greeted with a excited chorus of “good mornings” from every plant in the yard, from the biggest cedars to the smallest dandelions. Now I sat there on my porch clutching a white rose to my chest as I muttered a nervous “good morning” to the nature around me. But, there was only silence.

rd Such a Pretty Thing by Olivia Betterton

Mom said to come in when the streetlights come on. Watch for them. And you do. You do watch. You watch until the final light flickers on in the cove. Until the faulty, sputtering thing gains enough strength to stay on for more than a couple of minutes. Then you go home. Only then. But that night, you don’t watch. That night you stand under the back porch light of a friend’s house. The friend your mom calls “bad influence.” Bad influence isn’t your best friend. You don’t even like her very much. She doesn’t even like you. But she rides around the neighborhood on a rusty red bike with a small sunset-colored parakeet perched on her shoulder, named Sunny. And you love Sunny. So you go over to her house every now and again. She gets a kick out of the pretty girl wanting something she has and you get a kick out of Sunny’s tiny little feet scooting across your shoulder to peck at your ear.

I dare you to throw it lower. Kristin shows you how it’s done. The bat dives so close you meet its black, beady eyes. Kristin gets a kick out of your shriek. Like a baby. She keeps laughing.

That night, Sunny is perched on your shoulder. You’re focused on running a gentle finger over his silky wings. Watch this. The bad influence, Kristin, throws a rock into the air and out of the black comes a frenzied bat. They think they’re bugs. She throws another. And another. And then she hands you some. The both of you fool bats until your arms hurt and you’ve lost track of the sputtering streetlight waiting for you to notice it all lit up in the cove. I dare you to throw it lower. Kristin shows you how it’s done. The bat dives so close you meet its black, beady eyes. Kristin gets a kick out of your shriek. Like a baby. She keeps laughing. You do not play fearless well. With your round blue eyes and the way your blood pools beneath your snowy, still chubby, cheeks, you look cowardly at best. And Kristin loves it. This is

where she has you beat, and so this is where she likes to play. Never princesses, never dress up, never anything make believe. Because she can’t make believe her mousy brown bowl cut into your golden curls. She can’t make believe a face as sweet as yours. A green monster that gives recklessness virtue. As if climbing fences faster or ding dong ditching quicker were the markers of value. A nasty thing she was. That’s what mom always said. A nasty thing. But you tighten your eyes. A trick you see mom do with her own blue marbles when she’s trying to intimidate someone. The way she did with Kristin’s parents. Kristin had convinced you that your neighbor was murdering people and burying them in her garden. The both of you got caught peeking into her bedroom window for evidence. Mom had marched over to the bad influence’s house and had a word or two with that nasty thing’s parents. You had been instructed to cover your ears while you waited at the bottom of the steps. You had watched her mouth moving, trying to figure out the words. You had noticed how frightening her wide, sweet eyes were. You watched the way she hissed at them and could see the faint misting of her spit gleam in the porch light. You had forgotten to cover your ears for a moment. You need to keep your kid away from mine. My daughter is too good to be running around with that nasty girl of yours. If I’m remembering correctly, I do believe they were both caught looking into Shannon’s windows. Mom’s body had been poised forward, as though lunging at the parents. For a minute she straightened and leaned back. Keep her the fuck away from my daughter. You clapped your hands back over your ears as if you hadn’t heard a word. Mom skipped half of the porch steps, doing an awkward half-speed walk, half-jog home. As if running from the possibility of anyone else getting the last word. You had been scared when mom had said the bad word, so you try to scare Kristin now. You don’t know how to use it yet, but you give it a go. So your eyes are tight and you can’t do anything about the red rushing around your cheeks. You get a rock ready and as you’re about to toss it, a car door slams and you jump. Sunny chirps in your ear. Hey, be careful. I’m right here! You grab a hold of him to make sure he’s okay. Kristin is snorting like a pig. She reminds you that no one is home and no one is coming home. Her parents are at T.J.’s. You don’t know what that is yet, but you will when you’re older. Every Thursday they go out. Sometimes on Tuesdays too. Mom says they’re drinkers. You ask her if dad was a drinker, but she stops speaking to you for the day. But Kristin is proud of that. Being left home alone. She’s older than you by a few too many years, so you think she’s cool. You think she’s nearly an adult. She knows more than you do and you’re supposed to do what she tells you. You’re obedient. Mom always tells you how obedient you are. Such a good child. Always does what she’s told. Kristin wipes some slobber from her chin from her bout of laughter and gets you another rock.

Come on. Do it. Chicken. You take the rock and roll it around your small hand for a moment. Moving it between your fingers as if to get the best grip. You are a chicken and you want to go home. You realize how dark it’s gotten. A burning wave of ice washes over you. I have to get home. The streetlights are on. Mom is going to be furious. More so if she figures out where you’ve been. She’s probably roaming door to door at the usual spots. Trusting you not to be where you are. Just throw it. You’re such a baby. You can say no, but you don’t know that yet. You roll the rock a few more times around your palm. In the moment, you never could have guessed what would happen. At worst, a bat might hit your hand, diving for the rock. At worst. And that’s hardly any kind of worst case scenario. But you hesitated like you knew. Like you knew exactly what might happen if you threw the rock. But you throw it. Toss it. Barely. It goes about a foot above your head. Like a bat out of hell, the flying rat dives for the false supper. It misses the rock as it falls back to the ground and plows into your head where it promptly gets its tiny claws tangled into your hair.

Never princesses, never dress up, never anything make believe. Because she can’t make believe her mousy brown bowl cut into your golden curls. She can’t make believe a face as sweet as yours.

You panic in a way that scares Kristin into paralysis. You shriek your baby shriek loud enough that eight neighbors will be gathered around by the end of it all. You thrash about, clawing at your hair, ultimately wrapping the bat in a tighter nest of your golden locks. You can feel its tiny nails scraping against your scalp as it tries to free itself. You feel a shudder quiver up your spine with every pin prickle of its claws. When the thrashing in place seems to be failing, you thrash around at a full sprint. A plan was trying to form in your head. You need to get inside. You run for the sliding glass doors that you don’t realize are closed. The immediate feeling is shock as you hit the floor and the glass clinks against the hardwood around you. You try to hold onto it. You try not to process the warm, wet feeling on your cheek, on your arms, on your leg. You try to get a mental grip on the fuzzy, slow motion feeling that is parting like a thick fog in your head. You do not want to see what is beyond it. You don’t. But you do and it is such a sharp feeling of ice and fire. You scream and you scream and the bad influence is running around as wild as you had, not knowing what to do. As tough as you thought she was, she vomits at the sight of blood. It’s been about a minute and thirty seconds since you tossed the rock into the air. Your voice is already going. You have barely taken a break for breathing. Your screams are getting raspy. They snap every now and again and turn into squeaks.

The bad influence has disappeared. You hope that she is getting mom. And you kind of hope she isn’t. You haven’t moved from your place on the floor. You try screaming some more, but your throat is sore, aching. You can feel your heartbeat pushing against your neck. You can feel a dead weight in your hair. You count the heartbeats. It has been four minutes since you tossed the rock into the air. Someone is kneeling next to you. Someone is standing above you. Someone further away is dialing a cell phone. You see the glow of it in the backyard. You notice the small, flitting shapes of bats traipsing about above the light. Are you still awake? Ella? Look at me. It’s Mrs. Craven. Look at me, sweetie. You look up at the wrinkly old woman who was burying people in her garden. Let’s get you up. She reaches under your arms and helps you to your feet. Mrs. Craven holds you at arm’s length and looks you up and down. You pretend that you don’t notice the way she swallows and takes a deep inhale through her nose. What in God’s name… She reaches for your hair. The bat jerks at her touch. She yanks her hand away. “Tom! Come here! Hold her.” Another neighbor, Mr. Dale pauses a minute before finding an undamaged spot to hold you. He has a hand on your upper arm and one on your wrist. The bat is jerking and twitching and you want to run. He holds you tighter. Mrs. Craven comes out of the house holding kitchen scissors. You don’t process it before she has begun chopping away. The bat falls to the ground, wrapped in a pretty nest of yellow, still twitching. Mr. Dale pulls a knee up and slams his tennis shoe down. Certainly you imagine it, but you hear that teeny tiny skeleton crunching for many nights after. There are sirens very faintly and the brutal, lifesaving neighbors lead you to the front of the house. Up the street you see your mom barreling towards you. Kristin is at her heels. Oh my god! Ella! Baby! She is frantic as she stands in front of you. She waves her hands all up and down you, not able to touch, not able to not touch. Are you okay? You shake your head no. What happened? Mom stops for a minute and kneels down in front of you. She takes a strand of your hair between her fingers. What happened to your hair, baby? Who did this to your hair? You don’t need to answer. Mrs. Craven explains how they found you, bleeding with bat in hair, and how she decided to cut it out so it wouldn’t hurt you. You couldn’t have just … Your mom moves her hands around your head like a psychic with a crystal ball. As if it will explain to her why this happened. She lets out a deep breath and focuses on comforting you until the ambulance gets there. But she is doing it from behind you, looking down at your head. The men in the ambulance take all the glass out, and you find your voice again. You hold a continuous high shriek while they pluck out each piece. She’s going to need some stitches. Is she up to date on her tetanus shots? Didn’t you mention a bat? Both you and your mom know you aren’t. That the last time you went to the doctor, you ran out and hid in the parking lot until mom promised to take you home. Always a coward.

When you are finally sitting in a doctor’s office, trying not to move because the sound of the plastic on the vinyl chair makes your skin crawl, you feel okay. They are preparing the shot and you think to yourself that after all of that, after a bat in the hair, a dive through glass, the removal of said glass, and stitches on your face, arms, and leg, you’re not scared of a shot. One tiny prick after so many is nothing. Not a thing. But once a coward, always a coward. Two nurses have to hold you down, gingerly trying to avoid your fresh stitching, while the doctor jabs you with the needle. But then it’s over. And it’s only been an hour and a half since you tossed the rock into the air. Your mom sits with you in the hospital room. She gets up close to your face, taking your chin in her hand and rotating your head around to see the stitches in different light. I do not believe for a second that they didn’t have some kind of invisible stitching they could have used. I mean, for God’s sake, you look like Frankenstein. She moves around the exam table to stand behind you. I cannot believe that woman just chopped all of your hair off. Look at this. Mom reaches around with some of your hair in her hand and waggles it in front of your face. Couldn’t have at least thought to cut straight? You best believe next time we get your hair done, she’s paying for it. But you’re glad that Mrs. Craven cut the bat out of your hair. You can still feel it’s itty bitty nails in your scalp and a chill runs around your body. Are you cold? You want my sweater? She puts it around your shoulders and kisses the top of your head. You flinch in pain. She doesn’t notice. Her eyes, the ones that reminded you of early morning blue skies, look different now. They’re darker. They look like gray ice. Sunny. You’ve just remembered. Sunny. You say it louder so mom can hear you. She’s twisting your hair, trying to style the mess. What was that? Sit still. Sunny.” Kristin’s bird. “Is he okay? Your mom puts her hands on either side of your face and straightens your head. I don’t know about a bird, baby. Now be still. But you know now. You know it’s not okay.

Mr. Valentine and the Mop by Olivia Betterton Quinton Valentine sat on the new couch he had purchased from the Goodwill around the corner. He had walked there, thinking only about its convenient location, only to be struck with a dilemma once he had arrived: How was he going to get his new couch home without a car? Eventually he had begged the cashier to hold it for him while he ran home to get his truck. She had looked dramatically around the empty store and shrugged at him. “I don’t know, sir. I might not be able to hold off the hordes of interested buyers.” Quinton’s eyes had gotten wide, the sarcasm flying so far over his head it might as well have been a distant satellite. “I’ll hurry! I promise!” The woman had tried to call after him, but Quinton took off running from that very spot, banging his hip bone on a display of sweaters and knocking plastic teacups from a shelf. He sat on it now, so pleased with his purchase that he didn’t care anymore about the hole he had torn in his Crocs as he had run home. Quinton hopped to the other cushion, pausing for a moment to test its solidity. He bounced once, twice, three times and stood, stepping away from it like a painter from his easel. He had spent the last two and a half hours flipping the cushions over to find the side with the least amount of stains and/or tears. Finally, the fading floral print couch was displayed to his satisfaction. The two dingy green pillows, pulled in with missing buttons at their center, were positioned just so, not so obviously hiding large yellow stains Quinton had refused to think too much about. A large smile crinkled his face.

“I don’t know, sir. I might not be able to hold off the hordes of interested buyers.” Quinton’s eyes had gotten wide, the sarcasm flying so far over his head it might as well have been a distant satellite. “Perfection,” he said, kissing the tips of his fingers like an Italian chef. He checked the digital watch on his wrist and scurried off towards his kitchen. A few boxes still remained unpacked from his recent move. Up until the previous week, Quinton had been living with his sister. Prior to that, he had been with his brother. Before that, his parents had the patience to keep him until he was thirty. Now, at thirty-four, his family had chipped in to get him his very own house. They paid his rent, his electricity, his cable, but most importantly they paid for distance. They loved him, make no mistake. They were simply too collected for the amount of zealous glee he found in the everyday. He had the attention span of a toddler who never gets tired of

playing peek-a-boo, never guessing at the truth behind it all. The sister, Quinn, snapped when he spent an entire day measuring every item in her house. A seemingly quiet activity, until she realized he was going to come and find her to report every one of his measurements. He was particularly interested in the height of all of her dainty, glass figurines that were imprisoned in a delicate china cabinet. A two-fold calamity: they were small, generating reported measurements every few seconds and they were glass, resulting in Quinn’s most prized piece, a small blue jay, to end up wingless. Quinton still had the wing tucked away in his pocket. Quinton’s brother, Quincy, kicked him out after a month. Quincy worked from home, selling magic pills to help people lose weight. He himself was upwards of three hundred pounds. Quinton, having the perfect attention span for long tasks such as these, had perfectly Photshopped Quincy’s head onto a slender male model. Quincy had been delighted, having added the picture to his online profile and boosting sales by 20%. A few weeks later, the truth was revealed by a customer interested in connecting with Quincy via Facebook. Needless to say, they were surprised to find a few extra pounds. Having little to no experience directing his emotions towards something other than food, Quincy had thrown Quinton out. No one loved Quinton as much as his parents. For thirty years, they lived with a man who still demanded their attention at the window every time a hummingbird landed on their feeder, the hour of day notwithstanding. They told themselves they were happy, but one afternoon, an episode of Dr. Phil convinced Quinton’s mother that she was doing him a disservice by “babying” him. “We’ve clipped his wings! We never pushed him out of the nest! Never taught him to fly!” Shirley had cried to her husband. “I’m actually quite afraid of heights,” Quinton had said to his mother, trying to derail her conviction. “See what we’ve done! He doesn’t even know what it is to fly!”

Quinton stuck a bag of popcorn into the microwave and watched it as it rotated and popped. Just before the final second was up, he opened the door to avoid the beeping. He grabbed a can of soda from the fridge and then returned to the living room where he took a seat on the floor. He had no intention of messing up his new couch. Quinton stared at his digital watch. The moment it flashed 7:00, he clicked on the television to watch Survivor. As an avid watcher of reality television, Quinton had a specific schedule that he adhered to. This schedule was taped to the side of the television as well as posted on his fridge, held up by two new magnets he had purchased from the Goodwill. One was from Niagara Falls, the other from Las Vegas. Quinton himself had never been outside of Tennessee. Tomorrow night, he would watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Wednesday he would

tune into Little People, Big World. Thursday, Toddlers in Tiaras came on, his favorite. Not for the maddening mothers or bratty children, but for the detailed outfits. He was always impressed with the hand-placed rhinestones that adorned the hot pink dresses and tutus. Secretly, Quinton thought he would be good at that job, but assumed no one was interested in a thirty-four-year-old man gluing rhinestones to their daughters’ dresses. Once the final credits flashed across the screen, Quinton turned the television off and headed to bed. He set his alarm for exactly 8:03 a.m. He calculated that if he fell asleep at the same time each night, 8:03 a.m. was the perfect time for him to wake up having had three rounds of REM sleep. Quinton’s alarm began to play “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton, his parents’ wedding song. Having found a VHS of their first dance in their attic, he had quickly become obsessed with it. He sat up, stretched, and joined in with “Do I look all right?” He used the song as a schedule for his morning ritual. By the second verse, Quinton had his teeth brushed. By the next bridge, he would have flossed. By the final line, Quinton would be dressed and straightening his collar before the mirror.

Quinton paused for a moment. He was kneeling before the dog. He stared at the stringy fur where he thought his eyes were buried and he imagined the dog peeking back at him. “This is a dog of my very own.” He had curly brown hair that looked humorous growing from his pudgy head. He did not own a comb, instead relying on running a hand through it when first waking up. While he didn’t come close to his brother in size, Quinton was not thin. His round belly tried to push through the space between his shirt’s buttons. His wide green eyes were often described as shifty, always jumping from point to point on a person as though he were memorizing them. He paused the song, put in his earbuds and hit play. He walked out of his front door and then turned to lock it. He proceeded to twist the doorknob thirteen times to be sure. Quinton then skipped onto the sidewalk to have his thirty-minute walk around the neighborhood, all the while mouthing the words to the song. While he walked, someone tapped his shoulder, scaring Quinton so much he tripped over his own feet and fell to the sidewalk. “Holy shit. Sorry, Mr. Valentine. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Tony Brett said, reaching down to help Quinton to his feet. He was thirteen years old and notorious in the neighborhood for skipping school. His long blonde hair was always tucked up under a baseball cap. The first time he met someone, the first thing he said was that a famous baseball player gave him the hat, “Isn’t it cool?” Of course, he

found it in a box of his father’s things that he left behind when he moved out. Quinton pulled away from the kid and stood, furiously dusting off his khakis and white button down. “It’s all right. Just all right. Everything’s all right,” Quinton said, turning to continue his walk. “Wait a sec! Do you know whose dog this is?” Quinton turned and noticed for the first time the scruffy brown mop attached to a makeshift leash in Tony’s hand. “Nope, nope, nope. I’ve never seen him. Never,” Quinton said, shaking his head quickly. He needed prep time for social interactions and did not appreciate this unexpected bombardment. He was prepared for a single conversation today that he would have with Mr. Wilson when he passed his home on the corner. Mr. Wilson would be grabbing his paper and he would say “Hello, Mr. Valentine.” Quinton would nod and having cleared his throat and tested his voice at the driveway before would say, “Hello, Mr. Wilson,” in a cheerful tone. “Well, listen. I got to get to school and I don’t have a place to keep him. Could you maybe keep him for me until I get home?” Quinton looked at the tiny, brown mop that had made no movement during their conversation. He felt quite certain that dogs were supposed to move more and wondered if it was dead. “Do you have a dog?” Tony asked. “Me? Nope, nope, nope. Not me.” “Okay, well you don’t got to feed it or anything, just hold onto him for me,” Tony held the makeshift leash out to him, “I’ll come by right after school, three o’clock, and get him. I promise. My mom would kill me if I put it in my house.” Quinton checked his digital watch. He should be passing Ms. McNulty’s house with the flamingos out front right now. He was five minutes behind on his walk. “No, no. I don’t think I can. No.” Quinton raised his hands as if to defend himself from the offensive rope leash. “Look, Mr. Valentine. He’s not going to bite you. He’s real sweet.” Tony bent down and ruffled the dog’s fur. A tiny pink tongue shot out from the mop and lapped at Tony’s hand. “See! Real sweet. I really got to go. Can you please take him?” Tony shoved the rope into Quinton’s hand and took off. “Thanks! I’ll be back at three!” Quinton watched until Tony’s baseball cap disappeared beneath the hill. He and the mop stared at one another for a while before he decided he should cut his walk short and head home. “I guess we should go,” he half-asked, half-told the mop. The mop, seeming to understand, turned and led Quinton down the sidewalk. They walked in silence, every now and then Quinton looking down at the dog, and the dog glancing back at

Quinton. When they reached his house, the dog pranced forward as though it owned the place. Quinton led him to the kitchen and set him in one of his dining room chairs. He took a seat across from him and once again they stared at one another. The mop’s large marble eyes were all he could see over the table’s ledge. “Are you hungry?” Quinton asked. The mop tilted its head. “Okay. Dog food,” Quinton said, “Dog food, dog food, dog food.” He kept muttering it to himself as he stood and began to walk around the kitchen checking cabinets and drawers for dog friendly food. Finally, he came back into the dining room with a plate of shredded chicken he had been saving for tacos. “Enjoy, sir,” Quinton said, setting the plate on the table before him like a waiter. He laughed at his own joke. The mop put its paws on the table’s ledge and dug into the chicken. While the mop ate, Quinton tried to think of how to restructure his day. Surely he could not leave the dog home alone. It could climb on his new couch. So, therefore, he couldn’t go to the Goodwill again as he had planned. He was interested in purchasing a new dresser he saw there. It was missing a drawer, but he didn’t mind. And now he thought that he could make the space a small bed for the mop. His telephone rang and he checked his watch. It was already 10 a.m., time for his phone call with his mother. “Hi Quinton. How’s breakfast?” Quinton should be eating four eggs over easy and a piece of toast right now. “I’m not eating breakfast.” There was a pause. “What are you doing then?” “I have a mop- I mean a dog. I have a dog,” Quinton said. “A dog? What a wonderful idea! How did this come about?” Quinton launched into the story about the meddlesome boy and the small brown mop and the breakfast it was eating at his table as they spoke. He found himself feeling almost giddy as he retold the tale and watched the new addition to his dining room set. It felt unsettling and oddly exciting. “You sound really happy, sweetie.” “I suppose.” Quinton dove for the plate that the mop was licking so ferociously it had almost fallen to the floor. “So what are you going to do when the boy comes back? Go get a dog of your very own?” Quinton paused for a moment. He was kneeling before the dog. He stared at the stringy fur where he thought his eyes were buried and he imagined the dog peeking back at him.

“This is a dog of my very own.” Around six o’clock, almost three hours late Quinton noted with unease, the doorbell rang. “Mr. Valentine! It’s Tony.” Quinton stood in the living room looking down at the mop. “I suppose it’s time for you to go home now,” he told him. The mop’s tiny head lifted from his paws. Quinton didn’t move. The doorbell rang again. And again. And again. Then his tiny fist pounded the door. Quinton saw movement through his living room windows. Tony had come around the side of the house to peek inside. He hit the floor, landing beside the mop. His tiny tongue shot out and licked Quinton’s pinky. He held the germ-infested finger away from him as he army crawled towards the lamp and yanked the plug out. The house went dark. Quinton watched Tony’s menacing shadow looping around his house. The mop yawned. “Shhhhhh!” Finally, Tony gave up and disappeared across the street. Quinton kept the lights out and resumed his army crawl towards the kitchen where he only dared sit up on his knees to wash his hands in the sink. The mop padded along behind him. While Quinton was paying special attention to the licked pinky, the mop began to lick the skin between high socks and trousers that was exposed. Quinton gave up and slid back onto the kitchen floor where the mop resumed licking his ankle. He tried to silence his involuntary sounds of disgust, worried that Tony may still be sneaking around. “I cannot believe I’m missing Keeping Up with the Kardashians for you.” The mop climbed into his lap and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before curling into a ball and falling asleep.

2017