Miscellany XLII

Miscellany XLII Fall 2021

The Literary and Art Journal at the College of Charleston Cover art by Anne Davis

Letter from the Editors For us, and hopefully for you, Fall 2021 has seen the return of some sort of routine, as we are close to the end of a semester, and the beginning of a new year. The weather is getting colder here—though we can’t promise anything day-to-day in Charleston—and what better way is there to spend a cool winter day than celebrating the release of a new issue of Miscellany, and the work of talented artists and writers from the College of Charleston and beyond that fills its pages. This issue traverses from photography and fiction to painting and poetry, and we hope that we have captured even a fraction of the wonderful art and writing being produced this year. Thank you for all of your support, and we look forward to being back for more in the Spring!

E. Mallory Berry Patrick Wohlschied

Miscellany Staff Editor in Chief E. Mallory Berry

Managing Editor Patrick Wohlschied Submissions Coordinator Cora Schipa

Table of Contents Poetry Costa Rica 2009 Ode to my Body Swine Untitled Weightless What to the Black Cosmonaut is a Constellation

Cora Schipa Taylor McElwain Casey Allen

Anna Albright Carson Peaden Malachi Jones

page 23 page 5 page 13 page 6 page 14 page 7

Mollie Pate Meg Carroll Mollie Bowman Mosiah Asad Mosiah Asad

page 1 page 11 page 25 page 2 page 17

Prose Shrimp Scampi for your First Love

The Patriarchy Pitches a Tent Returning Home Troubled Waters Untitled

Table of Contents Visual Art 6 Sara Hart Homemaker Catherine Quarles Interdimensional Angel Chloe Hogan Marion Dylan Walker

Runaway Chloe Hogan Sanity Sara Hart Takeout Catherine Quarles Tradition Dylan Walker Untitled Kerrigan Von Carlowitz Untitled Kerrigan Von Carlowitz

page 22 page 9 page 32 page 4 page 31 page 21 page 10 page 3 page 15 page 16

Shrimp Scampi for Your First Love

Mollie Pate

1

In a large pot of salted boiling water, cook linguine according to the package directions until al dente. Drain, reserving ½ cup pasta water, and return to pot.

You are with your first girlfriend. You are eighteen, and madly in love. You spend your evenings writing her lustful poetry and tracing her name into your skin with your finger, tasting each let ter on your lips, speaking it into the fall air. Tonight, your parents are out of town, and you are cooking her dinner.

2.

In a large skillet over medium heat, heat oil. Add shrimp and season with salt and pep per. Cook until shrimp is pink and cooked through, 4 minutes. Remove from skillet and reserve on a plate.

She is sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, watching you. You smile at her from where you stand at the stove, pushing the pale pink shrimp around the skillet with a wooden spoon. You pretend that you are married, that the girl sitting across from you is now your wife, that you will be able to cook her dinner again tomorrow night, and every night after that. She extends her arm to you, and you cross the kitchen floor to come sit in her lap, resting your forehead against her shoulder, breathing in her scent. Baby powder. Roses. Tonight, you are going to steal a bottle of chardonnay from your father’s wine closet and share it with her, and in an hour you will both be drunk and giddy and utterly undone.

3.

Add butter to skillet, then add garlic and red pepper flakes and cook until fragrant, 1 minute.

Add tomatoes to skillet and cook until beginning to soften, 3 minutes. Season with salt and pep per. Add wine and cook until mostly reduced, 5 minutes.

You burned the garlic. You turned the heat up too high and stepped away for too long. The noodles are overcooked too, and they stick together in one large, gooey clump. Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, you say, unsure of why you’re so upset. She appears behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder and whispering reassurances into your ear. You never get this kind of time with her.

You are undercover, the both of you, terrified of being found out. In this moment, you remember again that you are children on borrowed time.

4.

Add heavy cream, lemon juice, and Parmesan. Let simmer until sauce is thickened, 5 minutes.

Add pasta, shrimp, and kale and toss to coat. If sauce is too thick, add additional pasta water.

You divide the meal into two bowls, and she makes her way to the table with you trailing behind her. You watch her as she takes her first bite, and then you do the same. You both chew quietly.

It’s good, she says, it’s really good. Silence, then rapturous laughter. You can hardly breathe, and s he is nearly crying. This is perhaps the worst pasta ever made. You throw it all in the garbage and order Chinese food. Tonight, you will sleep in the same bed, tangled up in each other’s limbs, utterly indifferent to the rest of the world and breathing in perfect unison.

1

Troubled Water // A Walk Inside the Beast

Mosiah Asad

never been difficult ​for me​to see my home is a smoking gun / a dilapidated plantation turned tourist treat. Coates was right. Charleston is the belly of the beast. what white folks call the Holy City is a shameless parade of gothic charm and broken geechie bonds and sure there are palmetto trees that neighbor oak trees’ whose branches hang low, twisting and curving, trying to touch the ground, trying to tap root and a sweet older black man in a straw hats who wave at me as if they raised me and black men younger than t, but older than I, who lean against tinted Hondas playing dirty south drums, who nod as well, but there are always carriages pulled by panting horses with shit pampers tied below them riding around downtown, with white men giving lectures of revisionist history to tourists from the Midwest and Northeast. And we can’t stand the fucking carriages that pass us by like our rich white neighbors, directing tourists’ attention to the ruins (next to the projects).

A white woman approaching me pushes a double stroller and her children grab at the bushes in front of an old lady’s apartment yard we are destined to pass. one baby raises its hand, opens and closes it (a baby wave), and says, “Ba,” and I wave back, and say, “Hi,” and their mama briefly looks up from her phone to give a tight lipped smile as if we do not speak the same language, as if she is not a visitor to streets I grew up gawking at, unspokenly barred from, streets where old black men at food lion would reminisce tell me where they went to talk to white girls. it has never been difficult ​for me​to question these gated ​communities​still named for plantations or the hallowed homes raised on ​black​bodies silenced beneath. this is an American story. there are sentinel oaks, who know of more, but like tour guides, they tell nothing. but they know of the enslaved, those who wrought the iron and laid the cobblestones, those taken from their enslavers by the City, and equipped with wooden shovels to dig the swamps still named for Native peoples miles long, to mimic serpent, Wadmalaw to Savannah, decades of Charleston sun cemented to the skin with mud and hundreds of Sabbaths spent digging pluff-mud so that with tide and row of enslaved men, white church-goers can boat home, canaling so that Charleston can move its chattel through the chained, canaling so that the palmetto prison is leaked to the southern frontier where t​ heir​captors were being slaughtered by the Spanish, their homes set ablaze by the Natives, a dream secured it has never been difficult ​for me to see this is a piece of the Gullah heritage colored by smoked tobacco, pocketed by salted breezes, and the refined, gilded bitterness of syrupy teas, and Urban Renewal and red summers, and sweetgrass baskets made by grannies and sweetgrass roses made by grandsons, and clotheslines draped with headwraps and Cowboys jerseys, and yards where shucked oysters, perloo, and fried fish maw the air. we split the brackish ourselves, troubling the water. few things comfort like this.

2

Tradition

3

Dylan Walker

Marion

Dylan Walker

4

Ode to my Body

Taylor McElwain

Since childhood, i’ve been obsessed with the concept of one true love, soulmate, The One, capital t and o.

19 years in and I realize it’s you-Rather, it’s me.

This body that I’ve thought of as a vessel for so long, as a tool and a means to an end it is the means and the end.

It, she, is the only one who will always be here with me, no matter who else comes and goes and breaks my heart and heals it back again. My mind is not a queen bee sending orders to worker-bee hands/feet/mouth incapable of free will.

This body I’ve harangued and harmed, the scars and the cellulite and the shitty tattoos and the healed-over piercings, hurt and hated to the point of committing irreversible damage, is inseparable from my mind, the one that was sure my body was something to be given away and forced into contortions until others accepted it, Hoping that then I would accept it.

Why did it take me so long to realize?

Why did I ever put myself through days of starving and 5 empty consenting and betrayals, as if I could mold my physical self into being someone my mental, what I thought was my ‘real,’ self would love.

Why did I sacrifice this indelible, inextricable part of myself at the altar of an ideal I could never achieve, because it is designed to be unachievable? (i know why-- a world that takes sadistic pleasure in watching women kill ourselves, bruise our bodies, create pointless competitions among each other in order to feel even a modicum of confidence, makes it hard not to offer our physical selves up as the price to pay for beauty/love/happiness/etc/etc/).

But I can’t continue like that, hating the soft flesh of myself that has always carried me, these legs that let me dance, these hands that let me write, this mouth that lets me eat and drink and scream and sing and kiss. I think loving myself, my physical self with all the scrapes and hair and calluses, is the first step to liberation.

5

Untitled

Anna Albright

when the sky begins to turn pink around 7:02 pm the nostalgia starts to bloom but the death of the green brings the masked red, a change of days reminiscing of the chilly air whipping around while walking to the bus stop with neighborhood kids autumn leaves crunching underfoot gasping cold breaths while bouncing on the trampoline at dusk laughing so hard inhaling seems almost impossible dark mornings driving to school 90.5 playing music on the radio the solemn stare out of the window the decay of the light in the world even saying goodbye, can be beautiful

6

What to the Black Cosmonaut is a Constellation Malachi Jones for Blind Willie Johnson Me and Papa share the air. we tear into a joke. the way kids go in the nighttime, fingers affixed up tearing thru across wind and weight at whitehot stars. little thimble’d rebels, how they stitch their strings to streak to streak to streak of light.

The road to heaven is paved in the gruff of a blind man burned by lye water lying in the ash of his homestead. steady gospel goes to god and a black man chews his gristle. no eclipse’s been seen here since 1905—much less a star, much less a blues man. name’s light enough to phase through a dusk jacket; pulse a note to Voyager I and ping back home; a golden sim card flung spaceward like skipping stones coils with the voice of a ghost. mr Johnson sang in and about Dark and each day the earth is becoming a smaller watch face.

Red blinks help track late-night aviators who trace wildly in my skybox, skewing the new Dippers and lit-by-digit lines. what respect do 7

I have for flight paths?

There are no upper corner suns. please night-trace like no trajectory need be terminal.

8

Homemaker

9

Catherine Quarles

Takeout

Catherine Quarles

10

The Patriarchy Pitches a Tent

Meg Carroll

Liam has: black hair. Small eyes that make him look like he’s always staring into the sun. A buttchin. One dark freckle on his nose. A gap between his two front teeth, big enough for a cocktail straw, but not for much else. A square jaw. A height of five-foot-nine, but usually he tells people he’s five-ten.

As for clothes, Liam has: one flannel shirt from L.L. Bean. A ski jacket from the 80’s he inherited from his dad. Two pairs of jeans. One pair of sweatpants, one pair of suit pants. Two pairs of shoes; some hiking boots and a pair of penny loafers from Brooks Brothers. And a $600 wool jacket his mom bought him on a trip to New York. He brought the jacket along in case he and Emma decide to go to a nice dinner on their trip. He’s had the jacket for over a year and has never worn it.

Emma has: short, blonde hair. Giant blue eyes; the color is visible even in the dark. Perfect teeth, due to braces, but perfect nonetheless. A nose that a flea could ski down. Thin legs, small ankles. Good posture. A height of five-foot-five. A tiny face that makes you want to cup her cheeks in your hands.

For clothes, Emma has: three flannel shirts from the thrift store. Two college sweatshirts, one being her mom’s from the 90s. A pair of jeans, a pair of sweatpants. A corduroy jacket. A pair of hiking boots, and a pair of Doc Martens. And a red dress, with long sleeves and a babydoll cut, which she also wore on her first date with Liam. Liam had to do a lot of insisting for this first date, which took place at a brew pub. He ordered a Black Widow cider to drink, and Emma ordered a water because she is only 20. They shared a basket of fries.

Now they’re on their tenth date, which is a camping trip to Seven Devils in North Carolina. Liam had to do a lot of insisting for this date as well. Emma loves camping, just not in January. But Liam is hard to sway once he has an idea for an excursion. To set up camp, they have: one tent. Two sleeping bags, two sleeping pads, two flashlights for when it gets dark. A tarp in case it rains. Five packs of hand warmers. Extra-long matches, and an extra-long lighter. They picked up firewood at a dingy gas station on the road right before the campsite. You can’t transport firewood over state borders, Liam says. Emma already knows this.

Liam was an Eagle Scout. He reminds Emma of this like he’ll forget if he doesn’t say it aloud. He’s good at camping, he says; Emma would be lost without him. Unsafe. The campsite at the Seven Devils is quaint; big enough for a fire and their tent. An Eagle Scout could set up a tent all by himself if he really wanted. Liam doesn’t need Emma’s help. In fact, he secretly expects her to be quite useless. And Emma secretly suspects Liam’s secret thought. She tries not to act bothered. Secretly she is.

Liam pulls out the tent pack. It has: eight stakes, two expandable rods. One two-person tent. A tarp. Liam is surprised when Emma moves to spread out the tent with the rods on top, in all the right places. He knows that — for an Eagle Scout — setting up a tent is easy. But Emma isn’t an Eagle Scout, only a girl. You know what you’re doing? he says. Emma almost fakes a smile, but her lips are halted by the annoyance rushing through her neck, flooding into her cheeks. Her eyebrows raise and crinkle in the middle. Yes, she says. She moves to thread the rod through the tent, but Liam thinks she should have started by putting the stakes in the ground. He moves to take over. The tarp rips under his foot — rips magnificently under his foot, a size nine, but usually he tells people he’s a size ten. No tarp tonight. Now the annoyance is in Emma’s eyes, ringing in her ears.

You better hope it doesn’t rain tonight, Liam says.

To eat, they have: one pack of hot dogs. A bottle of mustard, and a bottle of ketchup. A bag of hot dog buns. One pack of marshmallows. A bar of Hershey’s chocolate, and a box of graham crackers. Two giant jugs of water. The basics. They forgot the metal pokers, and each blames the other for this. Liam blames Emma for not reminding him when he ran into the gas station for firewood, and Emma blames Liam for forgetting in the first place. Liam is more vocal about it, more obviously agitated. Quite useless, he thinks, secretly. Emma is still thinking about the tarp.

After dinner and the fire, they huddle together in the tent. It’s cold; the coldest day of winter so 11

far. Liam might have picked a better weekend to go camping if he’d thought about it. But they have hand warmers, he thinks. He steals an extra out of the packet for himself. Emma shivers beside him, and he pulls her close. Not really because he wants her close — he’s been sensing her radiating anger ever since the tarp broke — but because he could use the extra warmth. They both could. An Eagle Scout knows best.

First they hear a pitter, then a patter. A steady tapping. Then the sound crescendos into brutal nicks, slaps, and beatings on the outside of the tent. It’s a rainstorm, a real drencher. No tarp. No tarp. So the flooding starts. Water seeps in through the bottom tent flap and the sleeping pads turn soggy. Without thinking, Emma and Liam grab the valuables: two wallets, two cell-phones, a camera, a flashlight.

Hurry up, Liam says. The rain feels like knives on Emma’s skin as they run for the car. It’s only a short distance away from the campsite, but it’s dark. The flashlight hardly cuts through the raindrops. It takes them too long. Emma’s clothes are soaked through every thread, every layer, her blond hair is stuck down flat to her head. It’s cold, so cold. Roughly 16 degrees outside, in fact. Emma wants to go home. To go home right now and put on her Mom’s college sweatshirt from the 90’s, fresh out of the dryer. She wants to ingest the beady hand warmers. She wants to blast a hair dryer on her skin until she is hot and dry to the bone.

By next week, Emma has: a low-grade fever. Body aches, chills. A cough. An inhaler, but only just in case. Phlegm. A regret. She does not have: a boyfriend.

12

Swine It was an impossible idea That you would ever adore me.

For even I acknowledge now, That I would have had to make You do so in the first place.

It was a chore, a heavy burden For you to love me.

There was no amount of effort That would have resulted In your affection.

You were like a pig Who, due to anatomical factors, Could never see the stars.

And even if I lifted you At the most precise angle To view the spectacular sight Of the constellations, You needed me to force you To take in the scene.

And who’s to say if you would have Appreciated it?

Perhaps we were written in the stars.

But that doesn’t matter, If you could never see them to begin with.

13

Casey Allen

Weightless

Carson Peaden

When my aunt travels during the summers, I watch over her home. I cook dinners in the big-bellied kitchen and pour wine in long-stemmed glasses.

The days ripen and slice away, wedge by wedge.

Now, I am on the edge of the pool. The horizon is consuming the sun. It leaks from its lips across the sky, orange and pink like the insides of grapefruits.

I strip naked and jump into the depths.

The water is heavy and warm from day.

I swim sloppy laps and float on my back. The clouds feather above all wispy and thin, a sign of change to come.

The marsh wakens in the distance. Crickets and frogs buzz drunkenly with heat.

Boats hum along the curves of the creek, filled with laughing boys headed for islands to drink and fish and wish away their summers.

Usually, I do not exist in the current time. Memories pull me forward and back again. But the pool washes away the weight, the sky scoops it from my chest. My lungs expand.

I am not left wanting more

14

Untitled

15

Kerrigan Von Carlowitz

Untitled

Kerrigan Von Carlowitz

16

Untitled

Mosiah Asad

Jahbodi put the glasses on the dishwasher belt with a harmless, loud clash and reached for the remaining stack. If there was color in the suds, he wouldn’t be able to see because the kitchen was lit by sterile, dimmed white lights. The sink hose he used attached to the sink and blew clumps of customers’ food into the air no matter how Jahbodi held it, splattering hearty leftovers up his brown arms, sometimes flying onto his upper lip or eyelid. He swiped the scum off with a rag. Above him the clock read eight, and although the restaurant stopped serving food an hour ago, through the wall of one-way glass between the seating area and the kitchen, he saw the last table sat still eating. The wall behind him was a mirror for who came to eat, and a window for those who came to wash or cook. The effect, decided by management, was initiated every night before closing so the guest would not feel ‘uncomfortable’ as they finished their meal, Jahbodi was told. He watched silent words move from their lips. The boy working as a server was called to the table by a man whose voice periodically penetrated the glass into kitchen.

“What do you mean y’all only serving wine at this hour,” his voice cut through the glass again. Jahbodi glanced up.

“That don’t make no damn sense. You telling me we can only drink some weak damn wine after being here for this long. I know you young, you don’t know nothing about this, but the later in the night the stronger I want my spirits.”

Wine sauntered out of the boy-man’s mouth like a lose door. Jahbodi looked at the clock. He needed to get his night classes at the community college and wanted to change clothes before, so he wouldn’t smell like rotten, rich folk food.

Another voice tore through the server’s defensive motions. Jahbodi couldn’t remember his name, though he thought he was cute, the boy’s afro made him look like someone from Jahbodi’s mama’s old school portraits, but this was Jahbodi’s third job in two months, and he couldn’t remember names. And he wasn’t bringing anyone back home, to his sedan, to fuck.

Jahbodi could see and hear the customers arguing amongst themselves now. He continued to clean so he could close up, and keep his job, when whatever was on their table jumped and he saw chairs reel back and hit the ground. He dropped the mop and went out front. Under the fake chandelier were four boys and two girls wearing apparel with the town university logo. They boys all wore khakis with pastel collar shirts. The restaurant had leather single-chairs with backs that raised beyond most of the customers head, making them all appear like little rulers. The chairs behind three of the boys and one of the girls lay on the ground, and the last pair sat watching their friends scream at each other over the table, chuckling. It sounded like they may have began arguing over leaving, but now were stretching their voices over one another for many half-reasons.

Please leave.

Two of the guys went around the table to get closer, now poking at the air around the other. The server boy scooted away and now stood with his back turned to turn, holding a phone at the hostess stand.

A push and one student crashed into the table and spilled some wine onto the sitting boy’s lap.

Leave Now. Leave.

If Jahbodi was speaking, he was not heard. Still behind the glass, he had to reach out, to move physically. Jahbodi placed his hand on the shoulder of the guy who pushed. He swung around and knocked Jahbodi in the chin as red, white, and blue lights replaced the warm caramel streaming from the fake chandeliers. Two police entered calmly with their flashlights scanning the very visible room and their other hand on their holster. As they walked pass the hostess stand, one stopped, pointed a 17

flashlight in Don’s face, making his teeth seem fake white against his black gums, interrogating something undiscernible to Jahbodi. Yes, Don. That was his name. Don, the boy with the afro who served and bussed. The other cop walked over to the table with a flashlight aimed at Jahbodi. The two brown haired boys tried to continue their spar, while their standing friends gently tried to stop them, and the sitting couple bent their faces over half-filled plates of food, shielding their laughter with napkins. Jahbodi froze. Their arguing began again as the police neared, and this drew his attention from the young black man in the dishwasher’s apron.

“Alright alright now fellas. What’s going on, woah, woah there buddy keep it together” He fixed his badge on his uniform and helped one of the young men stand straight. The couple that stayed seated was now standing, and laughed at something the cop said, which made the whole group erupt into grins and friendly jabs. Jahbodi stood where the boy’s swing put him, watching the cop joke with the students.

He looked over at the other, whose flashlight, still on but now leveled with the gun at his waist, pointed up at Don, making a shadow dress his face in a mask that seem to wrapped from his black nonslip shoes to his black uniform, forming shadow fingers from the curves of his lips, eyes and nose and reaching for his fro. Don looked above and around the cops unearthly outline, so the light wouldn’t shine in his eyes, giving the impression that he was holding back a flinch, or petrified, unable to meet the cop’s eyes.

The one by Jahbodi led the group of students outside. The young woman couldn’t stop laughing was the last to wave goodbye. The cop then came back around and questioned Jahbodi.

“So what happen here tonight, man. “ “He punched me.”

The cop smiled, “Damn kids.”

The other cop and Don started their way over to the table.

“Just let me get your name and address and we’ll let y’all close up.”

Jahbodi looked for Don, who he knew could see the holes in his shirt from the mirror wall behind them.

“I’on have one,” said Jahbodi. The cop squinted and pursed his lips, and Jahbodi knew he would lose this job for the same reason he lost his last. “I mean my name Jahbodi, but I don’t have an address.

Right now.” The cops thin lips relaxed into a frown.

“You an alien, boy?”

“No sir.”

“Why you don’t got no address then. You a felon?” The cop looked him up and down, “Na too young. A delinquent. How old? Where you be nesting up at when you get off? I’m not try’na clean up no more regulars out there on Main.” The cop nodded outside.

“I’m 22. I sleep in my car. Out back.’

“22, with a job but a no home, and a car but no last name. Get me your license, boy.” The cop turned around to Don, “He work here?” shining his quickly unholstered flashlight up and down the boy wearing a dishwasher’s apron.

“Yes.” Jahbodi looked at Don’s feet, to avoid the light.

“My wallet is in my car.”

Jahbodi goes into the kitchen to grab his keys and leads a cop outside behind the restaurant to where he parked. There is a woman sitting on the ground beside the door. Behind the restaurant, Jahbodi’s backseat is overfilled with unclasped suitcases, loose clothes, plastic bowls and lids, a lamp, a broken printer, trash and books. He digs out his wallet for the cop, who says he will give him a warning for parking in an unpermitted space, promising, “AND, I won’t let your boss know you’re living outside his business. Don’t wind up like one of these bums, keep on working hard.”

When Jahbodi returned inside, the other cop had gone, and he hears Don on the phone with 18

a manager. A knot had rosed on Jahbodi’s chin. He disappears across the seating area to the kitchen, feeling Don’s eyes from the mirror. He has lost this job, he thinks. He laughs. This was like last time, only then it was his boss who caught him asleep in his car, late for his shift. He opens the supply closet and gets a roll of industrial toilet paper, removing the carboard and folding it into his pockets. He grabs two forks, two spoons, a knife and would’ve grabbed more had he bigger pockets. In the wine cellar, he picks a bottle, wrapping it in his jacket, breathing deeply, once, then turning to clean. Damn weak ass wine.

When he is done, he takes off the apron, his shirt and pants, then drains the water from the sink, and refills it.

As Jahbodi bathes, Don finishes cleaning out front and dims the lights, removing the effect of the mirror wall, so where he once saw himself, he now sees Jahbodi. And he was cute.

The night outside sits still and alive. Few college kids are this far from their university campus tonight.

When Jahbodi leaves the restaurant, Don is waiting outside.

“All good in there?”

“Yeah.”

“You ok?”

Don walks to Jahbodi, who shuffles to let him slouch down to lock the door. The boys watch each other through the storefront of their dark workplace.

“I’m a’ight,” he lies.

Don straightens and looks down at Jahbodi. He unsheathes a wine bottle from his jacket and smiles and shrugs, “I guess me too.”

Their wine was warm and the little pieces of cork floating around in it looked like un-shining gold but it didn’t bother them. They walked around down main and saw two black boys playing in a fountain in front of one those new apartments with the video surveillance doorbells that record you before you push the button. They sit and watch. Some more kids show up on their bikes and they all take off from the fountain like birds. Carrying each other on the handlebars, lifting the front wheels and dancing on the pedals, and flapping their arms.

19

20

Sanity

21

Sara Hart

6

Sara Hart

22

Costa Rica 2009

Miss her. Angry blue eyes, cruelly cut bangs, freckles tumbling from the bridge of an upturned nose.

Yet that profound softness in her voice, the way her tan peeled away in delicate strips, canines so tiny and sharp I leaned up-close to see. The heat of sweet breath.

So immensely a child. Thinking now of the way salt clung to the soft white fur on our legs and glimmered-- I could cry.

Those legs taking us anywhere we wanted to go, hot to the touch, identically sunburned, tangled on a bright hammock.

Jutting out from our father’s scratchy polo shirts, all knees.

We wore only bathing suits, taking showers together in them, pulling at our loose tops to get the black sand stuck there, revealing my whiteness bright as the tiles, her Argentinian skin just a shade darker: we’re all girls here. We’re just girls.

We were just girls.

Miss her. Miss us both. Miss those few days dinner was called, laid out on lacquered wood, mothers drinking in that vacation way that edges on frightening but it’s all fun. There’s howler monkeys in the trees, mama is kissing dad and all the adults laugh in another world as easy childhood sleep pulls me under, fresh sheets crunching against hot skin. Hard knot of bathing suit leaving an imprint on my spine I wouldn’t notice the next morning, hair in briny bunches I sucked on as we collapse on the blue-painted porch in childhood boredom.

We didn’t think about it. The minutes dense as earth.

Time belonged to us until it didn’t. The night before we had to leave we sat knees-to-knees in our room and promised not to forget each other, ever, and we believed it the way little girls believe things with such fury, such fervor, hands clasped tight, vigorous nodding.

I had a sense, even then, that memory was the only thing that mattered.

Our time capsule: tiny pinkish clam shell, licked on both sides, tacky with spit.

The morning seared bright across stuffed suitcases.

I wasn’t sad when we drove away. I knew, somehow, we’d be lost to each other forever.

Meeting again would be two strangers grasping for ways to relate and not finding much to hold onto.

It’s okay knowing we existed somewhere, sometime, someplace, without having to exist here, together, now.

Driving away, I didn’t look in the rearview. I held the shell against my cheek; 23

Cora Schipa

thirteen years later, I open my jewelry box and it’s there. Real.

Miss her. Miss us. Haven’t forgotten.

Remember.

24

Returning Home

Mollie Bowman

Lydia Johnson was not quite sure how she ended up at the one hundred and sixty-fourth annual Woodcrest Farmer’s Market, but she knew that she was ready to leave. She was standing at the entrance, directly under a yellow banner with cartoon flowers and red text that read, “Woodcrest Farmer’s Market: Welcome Back Home!” In front of her, two rows of stands, tents, and tables were facing each other, stretching out for miles along a wide dirt path. Both rows seemed to be drawn to each other, like they were trying to overcome whatever force was keeping them apart. As her eyes looked farther out, the rows slowly shrunk down, getting closer and closer until they were finally able to conquer the distance between them, spilling into each other on the horizon.

The sun was beating down, causing her to sweat for the first time in years. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck and she slowly peeled her damp, too-tight shirt from her skin. The seams dug into her armpits, the collar constrained her neck, and the hem exposed too much of her stomach for her liking.

She figured that she would just have to deal with it.

Lydia looked out at the path swarming with people who had emerged from a dirt cloud. She was almost able to recognize each and every one of them, or perhaps she had seen them before in a dream.

Their faces blurred and smeared into one another, melting in the blistering heat, like ice cream dripping down a cone into a small child’s sticky hand. They didn’t seem to be concerned with the fact that their faces were slowly dripping down their necks; they each just went about their day, moving through the Farmers’ Market. Not one of them stopped to say anything to her, but they each saw her; their eyes were clear, their eyes were there, and they were looking at her. Did they know her? Why wouldn’t they speak to her? Maybe they could help her figure out how she got here so she could find her way back home.

Home –– where was home? She couldn’t seem to remember. How did she even get here? Was there a car? That’s right, she drove here, didn’t she? But where did she park? She turned around to see if there was a parking lot behind her, kicking up a cloud of dirt at her feet, and held in a gasp as she discovered that the never-ending rows only continued further out towards the horizon behind her. Wasn’t she at the entrance though? She tilted her head up towards the sky, momentarily blinded by the glaring sun. She squinted her eyes, hoping to find the welcome banner hanging above her, but it was gone. As she was staring up, one of the melted-faced men stumbled into her. She jolted her head back down and stared into his frozen eyes. She shivered. His eyelids had melted off, exposing his eyeballs in their entirety; the white was too white, his irises too blue, his pupils too dark.

“Excuse me,” she said, pulling down on her shirt. Her sweat oozed out of the fabric, slipping between her fingers. “Do you know where the parking lot is? I think I’m lost.”

He said nothing and stood still, staring at her. His face was dripping further and further down his neck, but his eyes wouldn’t move. Lydia let out a breathy laugh and felt her shirt sticking to her, getting tighter and tighter. She kept pulling at it, but it wouldn’t give.

“Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, I just… I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a smile. As she started to walk away from him, he stood as still as a statue, but his icy eyes strained themselves to ensure that they followed her every step. Oh God, she knew those eyes, but from where? Step after step, they followed her, like there was a string connecting his pupils to her own. He couldn’t look away, but neither could she.

Once she had completely walked out of his eyesight, he began to move again. She let out a shaky breath and turned her head back towards the path in front of her. With sweat dripping down her forehead, Lydia walked further down the dirt path, passing by more stands, tents, tables, and melted faces.

“Hey, girl! I got whatcha need!” a voice called out. Lydia looked around, unsure if that voice was speaking to her. “Yeah, you! You there!” Her eyes landed on a man whose face had not started melting yet. He was sitting to her left, behind a folding table covered in stacks of vintage suitcases, frantically waving her over to his stand. With a sigh of relief she began to walk over to him, dodging the bustling melted-faced people who all stared at her, yet made no effort to move out of her way. As she got clos25

er, she realized that this man was wearing a heavy knit sweater, but was somehow not affected by the heat; there wasn’t a drop of sweat on his chiseled face. He stood up once she finally arrived at his stand, revealing that the sweater was the length of a ballgown, extending all the way down to his feet.

“Aren’t you feelin’ a bit warm?” Lydia asked, while wiping the sweat off her own forehead with the back of her hand.

“No,” the man said, flashing her a perfect smile. “I’m feeling just fine, Lydia.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. The heat’s really getting to me,” she forced out a chuckle in an attempt to sound polite. Once again, she tried to pull her shirt down and cover her slightly exposed midriff. “I actually can’t seem to remember where I parked my car. Do you––wait, how’d you know my na––”

“Now, I’ve got something I want to show you,” he said, cutting her off. He started to push the stacks of suitcases off of his table and onto the ground in front of Lydia. She winced as the corner of a coral blue suitcase slammed on her foot and stumbled into the crowd of melted faces swarming behind her.

“No, no, no, come back here,” the dry man in the sweater said, his hands once again waving her back over. The ground by his table was now covered in different suitcases, but he had left one on his table. It was boxy and looked like it was at least fifty years old; the leather exterior was scratched and worn, covered in faded stickers that had once told all who saw it where in the world it had been. There was a combination lock placed above the handle that kept it shut tight. It pulled her in. She wanted to touch it, to see it, to decipher its history. Whose was it? Why did they leave it behind? Was there something in it?

As she took her first step back towards his table, the melted-faced people around her suddenly stopped moving. Lydia froze as they all turned their heads toward her, their cold eyes bulging out in the deafening silence. Those standing between her and the sticker-covered suitcase slowly parted like the Red Sea, forming a walkway. With a hesitant step, she resumed her trek back to the man’s table, the eyes of each person following her as she walked through the path they created. Once she arrived in front of the table, they all began to move again, swarming like bees, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

“Listen, I just wanna know where the parking lot is,” she said, though her eyes were glued to the suitcase on the table. The man in the sweater chuckled and pushed the suitcase towards her.

“I knew you’d like it. Go on, you can touch it.”

She tried to suppress a smile as she reached her hand out and ran it across the top of the suitcase.

Her fingers bumped along the hoarse surface and elevated slightly as they encountered the smooth, faded stickers. The stickers were worn beyond any recognition, but she lingered her hand on each one, trying to feel what they had once displayed. She closed her eyes as she rubbed the oblong sticker placed in the right corner of the suitcase. She felt a breeze against her face; it smelled of freshly cut grass and springtime. The buzzing sounds faded out. The sun beating down on her was no longer unpleasant, but offered a comforting warmth. The sweat on her body was dissipating and her shirt began to loosen up.

She took a deep breath, feeling at peace for the first time since she found herself at the Woodcrest Market.

“Okay, okay, do you want it or not?” the man asked. The breeze was gone, her shirt started to tighten, and she once again started to sweat. She looked up at him, noticing that beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her hand still resting on the case. “I just––I really need to find my car.”

“Come on, it’s one-of-a-kind,” he said, pressing his hands onto the table and leaning over it. The buzzing noise was back. His sweat began to drip off his face and form a puddle on the plastic surface.

She grasped the handle of the suitcase and pulled it closer to her.

“Okay, sure. How much?”

26

“What’d ya got?”

Lydia instinctively reached for her purse at her side, but encountered only air. Oh God, it wasn’t there, she hadn’t had it this whole time. How did she not realize? Her wallet, her phone, her keys were in there. Frantically, she began to pat her pockets, hoping to discover that she had placed the contents of her purse in them. Nothing. She felt nothing. Her pockets were empty.

“I–I don’t have my wallet,” she said, with quick, shallow breaths. “I don’t have anything.” She clenched her fists by her sides, digging her nails into her palms. She couldn’t cry, not now. The collar of her shirt was so tight, it felt like it was going to choke her.

“Hey, that’s okay, I can take something else.” His face was starting to droop.

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t have anything to give you.” Her eyes stung and her nails dug down deeper and deeper into her palm.

“Yes you do,” he said, moving his hand up to his face to hold his putty-like cheek in place. Then, he reached his other hand out towards her, causing her to jerk her head back. “Do you really want the case?” he asked, his hand lingering in the still air between them.

She stared into his eyes and felt that same coldness she saw in the melted-faced man’s icy blue eyes. Her palms were bleeding now. He still had one hand holding up his cheek as he reached out for her again; she didn’t move this time. She studied his hand as it got closer to her face. She knew the shape of his fingers, the patterns in his palm, the freckle on his wrist. This hand had nurtured her, fed her, loved her––it was her father’s hand, or perhaps her mother’s, but this man was not either of them, he couldn’t be. His fingers touched down on her slippery cheek and began to dig, breaking through her skin. She let out a pathetic whimper, but held her ground. Tears were evaporating off her face as he struggled to disconnect her cheek. She saw white and felt a chill run down her spine. With a flash of red, he pulled back, her cheek now in his hand. He held it up, his hand and the sleeve of his sweater now bloodied. She felt bile creeping up her throat. Buzzing filled her ears. He ripped off his own melting cheek with the hand that was keeping it in place and replaced it with her own, with such ease that made it seem like he had done this before.

“The suitcase is yours.”

She could feel the blood pumping through her entire body; through her arms, her legs, out of her face, out of her trembling hands. She grabbed the handle of the suitcase and slowly pulled it off the table, her eyes never leaving those of the man wearing her cheek. As her arm bore the weight of the suitcase, she realized that it was heavier than she imagined it would be. He smiled at her; there was no longer any sweat on his body and his face was perfectly solid.

“Thank you, Lydia. I’m afraid I don’t know the code for the lock, you’ll have to figure that one out on your own.” The man in the floor-length sweater sat back down in his chair and flicked his red hand towards her, as if he were swatting away a bug. “Move along.”

With one trembling hand pressed against her bleeding face and the other holding onto the suitcase at her side, she stumbled back into the swarm of melted faces overpowering the path behind her.

Unsure of what to do with herself, she began to walk back down the path, hoping to find her way out.

The swelling eyes no longer looked at her. Why wouldn’t they look at her? Didn’t they recognize her? She knew them, she had to know them. They were all walking in the opposite direction, eyes down, dripping, buzzing, but stayed at least one foot away from her, like there was now some barrier surrounding her that none of them could cross. She moved through them, her face dripping with a concoction of tears, sweat, and blood, her suitcase weighing heavier and heavier with each step she took. The case was too heavy, her shirt was too tight, the sun was too hot. Her arm was stretched and pulled closer to the ground, until finally the suitcase slammed into the dirt. She turned to look at it, her hand still pressed against her cheek, the melted faces still buzzing around her. It was all she had.

27

“Two for the price of one! That’s right, I’ll give you two for the price of one,” a voice yelled out.

Lydia did not look around to see said this, but kept her eyes on the case. She squatted down and grabbed the handle of the suitcase with both of her hands, exposing her bloodied chunk of a cheek to the world.

She began to walk backwards, slowly dragging the case through the dirt with all her might. Her entire body ached. The buzzing was getting louder.

“I got every book you ever read, come on over and pick one out.”

She kept moving, eyes on the case and its faded stickers. She remembered the pleasant breeze and the smell of springtime.

“If you want a ring, head on over this way. I have the gold one your mother always wore. Don’t you want it?”

Everything and everyone was blurring around her, but her worn case was clear. She was gripping onto the handle tighter than she had ever held anything in her life, her feet digging into the ground as she tried to pull it down the path. All around her there was buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

“Hey, you over here. Doesn’t everyone wanna feel loved? I can make sure you do for just a small price.”

Her shirt had merged with her sweaty skin; it was never coming off now.

“Do you need to sit down? I have just the chair for you! Carved it myself.”

The harder she pulled, the heavier the suitcase got. It was too heavy now, stuck in place. The buzzing, the yelling, the people, the swarming, the pain––she couldn’t take it anymore. It had to stop.

She slammed her eyes shut, and finally everything was quiet. She stood there with her eyes shut for hours or a minute, grasping her suitcase, afraid to open them and be forced back into that hectic world.

She didn’t want to see the melted faces, she just wanted to go back home.

“Lydia,” said a voice that filled her veins with sunlight. “Lydia, it’s okay. You can open your eyes.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The stands and tables were still there, but everyone was gone. Everyone but the kind-looking old woman standing in front of her, wearing a pink sundress.

“I think it’s time you went home,” said the woman, with a sad smile on her face. Lydia let out a gasp of relief.

“You know where my purse is? Or my car?” she asked, finally letting go of the suitcase and standing up straight. “Can you help me carry this?” She motioned to the case between them.

“Oh no, no. I don’t know where your car is.”

“Well––how am I… I have to get home. Please, just help me.”

“I’ll help you,” she said. “Open that up.”

“The suitcase?” The old woman nodded. “There’s a lock, it needs a code. I don’t know it.”

“Yes you do.”

“What?”

“Of course you know it. Just open it. Go home.”

Lydia dropped to her knees and reached out for the suitcase laying flat on the ground. She gripped the sides and pulled herself towards it, her knees scraping in the dirt. The combination lock was placed right above the handle. There were three number dials, all set at zero. She took her still-bloodied hand and moved the first dial to the number one, the second to six, and the third to four. Something in the case clicked. Lydia laughed and smiled wide, moving her hands to the latches keeping the suitcase shut. She popped them open and pushed the top of the case up, revealing what was inside. Her smile fell.

The suitcase was filled with dirt. The soil was flowing out of it, into the Earth.

Lydia looked up to face the old woman, but she was gone. On the ground where she had stood was her pink sundress, covered in melted flesh. Lydia’s heart was pounding. Her breaths were short, shallow. Was she going to melt too? She shoved her hands into the suitcase’s soil and began to dig. She 28

couldn’t melt, not her. She dug and dug and dug and dug, feeling the dirt lodge under her nails and seep into her bloodstream. It was past her shoulders now. She kept digging, further down into the darkness.

Her head was covered; the soil filled in her missing cheek. She dug past her torso, her legs. She dug until she was completely burrowed inside the soil of her suitcase. She was safe here. The gentle breeze was on her face, the scent of springtime in the air. The darkness of the soil surrounded her, held her; was this home? It could be for now.

29

30

Runaway

31

Chloe Hogan

Interdimensional Angel

Chloe Hogan

32

Road Trip Sunset Musings peachy golden sun oozing across south carolina cotton fields; miles and miles of glowing puff balls dotting along our path. trees dripping the evening’s paint gracefully, from branch down to branch. above them, the moon waits its turn to glimmer in the sun’s gaze; it’s stoic posture urging patience. peach soon turns to rose— the paint peels up. before i mourn the loss of gold, a silver giant steals my affections. i am grateful for all of it.

33

Katie Hopewell