Central Review SPRING 2020

CENTRAL REVIEW The Reemerging Twenties

SPRING 2020

CENTRAL REVIEW • SPRING 2020

ABOUT US The Central Review is a literary arts journal publishing prose, poetry, and visual art by Central Michigan University undergraduate students. It is edited and produced during the fall and spring semesters under the auspices of the Student Media Department. The Central Review editing staff makes all final decisions.

Send all correspondence to:

CENTRAL REVIEW Attn: Editor-in-Chief Student Media, Moore Hall 436, Central Michigan University Mt. Pleasant, MI 48859 Copyright Š 2020 The Central Review by CMU Student Media First publication rights reserved Rights revert to author upon publication

CENTRAL REVIEW • SPRING 2020

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CENTRAL REVIEW • SPRING 2020

TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE

♦ Editor’s Note...............................................................................................1 ♦ Meet the Staff..........................................................................................2, 3 ♦ L’appel du vide ♦ Jeniya Dabish...............................................................4 ♦ Love Together ♦ Kayla Szymanski..........................................................7 ♦ Unknown Destinations ♦ Grace Long......................................................8 ♦ The Speed With Which You Jump Into The Water ♦ Sage Tischer.........10 ♦ The Last House on Main Street ♦ Luka Hidley.......................................13 ♦ Astray ♦ Anna Kuehne...........................................................................15 ♦ Artist Paints 2020 with Her Ear ♦ Liza Gutierrez ..................................17 ♦ summer solstice ♦ Madison Hren .........................................................18 ♦ Eat the Rich ♦ Madison Alexander........................................................19 ♦ I, TOO ♦ Emily Colby..............................................................................21 ♦ Close Encounters ♦ Avery Jackson.......................................................23 ♦ Friday Funerals for Strawberry-Kiwi Juice ♦ Samantha Shriber..........24 ♦ Praise to the Bud Light Bottle ♦ Alexx Delzer.......................................27 ♦ Dear ma, (you don’t have to reply) ♦ Thomas Graham........................28 ♦ Fine ♦ Alex Jackson...............................................................................30 ♦ How to Get a Dog ♦ Isabella Gross........................................................33 ♦ The Versatility of Please ♦ Jenna Keson...............................................37 ♦ Garden of Misery ♦ Kayla Szymanski....................................................39 ♦ to the men i(‘ve) love(d) ♦ Madison Hren.............................................40 ♦ 22 ♦ Emily Austin ..................................................................................41 ♦ Wind // Sea ♦ Brooke Westgate ............................................................42 ♦ Sunset Over Michigan in January ♦ Drew Patton.................................44 ♦ I Never Knew How Much I Loved ♦ Lance Crenno..................................46

CENTRAL REVIEW • SPRING 2020 • 1

editor’s note

Dear Readers,

Last semester, when my team and I sat down to choose the theme for the Spring 2020 issue, we thought The Reemerging Twenties would be perfect. We expected the turn of the decade to inspire creators with its possibilities for fresh hope, new starts, and unwritten chapters. We were thinking more flapper dresses and faux-fur stoles instead of face masks and plastic gloves, but I guess 2020 had a bit of a different idea.

We are currently living through the moments that will be written about in history books. While all the political strife and governmental highs and lows will definitely be recorded, studied, and dissected just like the AIDS pandemic, the flu pandemic, or any of the six Cholera pandemics, I can’t help but wonder how the feeling of this moment will be translated to future generations. Will they know how bored we were?

Will they know all that we missed out on? Will they know that we weren’t okay?

At Central Review, we pride ourselves on being an outlet for students during all times—good, bad, and quarantined—so the decision to extend our deadline was a no-brainer and I am so happy we did. I always knew how powerful the arts were but reading all the submissions solidified that fact in a new way. Art expresses things that can’t be materialized in a history book. Art can and will translate unspeakable feelings through time and space. If you don’t believe me, just read this issue.

This is my last year at CMU and my last semester with Central Review. Of all the ways I planned to celebrate my ending to such a beautiful time in my life, this was not even close to one of them. With tears in my eyes, I know I am leaving Central Review in the most capable and talented hands, even if this isn’t how I wanted to leave.

Though our expectations of 2020 didn’t go as planned, it’s important to remember that this is not wasted time. Use these months as an opportunity to explore your passions, practice self-care, and write, paint, sing, or dance to your heart’s content. Art will never be dictated by a space; it can happen anywhere. All that’s left to say is stay inspired, stay safe, and stay inside.

Sincerely, Editor-in-Chief

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Meet the Staff Caroline Carpenter EDITOR Caroline is an English major who is theoretically graduating in May. Since quarantine, she’s been napping with her dog and struggling to grow an avocado plant.

She hopes this issue of Central Review will inspire people to continue creating despite limitations.

Alyssa Elms

EDITOR Alyssa is a sophomore studying to be an English and History teacher. Alyssa loves reading, writing, theatre, riding horses, and hanging out with her new puppy, Pumpkin.

Kelsey Light

CENTRAL SHORTS EDITOR Kelsey Light is a junior majoring in English as well as getting a certificate in creative writing.

When she isn’t napping or watching Netflix, she is hanging out with her cat named Edgar Allen Poe. Other than her love for reading and listening to music, she enjoys puns which is why she has a lightbulb tattoo after her last name.

Brandan Stickland

EDITOR Brandan Strickland is a Junior English and Broadcasting student who now serves as member of the Central Review team. He was published in the previous issue with his short story “The Sin Eater,” one of his proudest achievements. He also plays DnD in his spare time, along with other games such as Hearthstone and The Witcher 3. He hopes to one day produce and write his own animated television series.

Ivory Fields • Editor-in-Chief

Ivory is a 5th year senior (virtually) graduating in May. Unless zombification is inevitable, Ivory plans to get a Masters in Book Publishing at Portland State University and one day open her own nonprofit publishing house for young authors. When she isn’t freelancing, Simming, or helping run the wonderful Central Review, you can find Ivory in her apartment still desperately trying to teach her dog to roll over.

Jahdiel Wingard

Paige Dombrowski

Kelly Frazier

Jenna Lesnich

WEBMASTER Jahdiel is a first-year student double majoring in English and Public Relations, with a minor in Broadcast Cinematic Arts. Jahdiel has a strong passion for all things creative. Outside of Central Review, Jahdiel goes on his own creative pursuits as an individual and as a part of a creative group named Kintsugi Cult.

EDITOR Kelly is a junior majoring in Elementary Education with a focus in language arts. Along with being an editor for Central Review, she is a mentor in the Lunch Buddies program and loves Disney more than your average six year old. While watching Disney movies, Kelly also loves to eat pasta, read and write.

DeJah Love

PODCAST PRODUCER Paige is a sophomore studying English Literatures, Language, and Writing with a concentration in Creative Writing. She lives in Metamora, Michigan with her mom, dad, younger sister, Mo, and sociopathic dog ,Ruby. Outside of class and working for Central Review, Paige enjoys drawing, painting, reading, kayaking, and hiking with Ruby. She hopes that you enjoy all of the amazing work Central Review has to offer!

EDITOR Jenna is a senior pursuing a degree in English Literature, Language, and Writing with a minor in History. She is from Saginaw, MI and graduated from Swan Valley High School. In her free time, she enjoys reading children’s literature, watching Netflix, listening to music, and hanging out with her friends.

Some of her favorite musicians are The Weeknd, The 1975, Mac Miller, and Lana Del Rey. Her favorite part of the day is coming home to see her one-year-old kitten, Fitz.

CENTRAL SHORTS EDITOR De’Jah Love, a third year student, spends her days curled up on her couch attempting to enjoy a good story, whether it be within a book or in a movie. She enjoys all things romantic, superhero, and supernatural related but has a secret love for movies based on true stories involving war.

If she could be stranded on a deserted island the three things she’d bring are; a notebook, a pen, and a raft to get off the island once she’s finished with her novel.

Tori Myers

Madison Topolinkski

Edwin Williamson

SOCIAL MEDIA EDITOR Madison is a first-year student majoring in Integrative Public Relations and minoring in Multimedia design, as well as American Sign Language. She is a copy editor and on the social media committee here at the Central Review, and a consultant at PR Central. When Maddy’s not drinking coffee, she can be found pondering her love for Disney, her Catholic faith, and creativity.

CENTRAL SHORTS EDITOR Tori Myers is a freshman pursuing an Integrative Public Relations major with a minor in journalism. She is on the social media committee and on the Central Shorts committee.

In the future, she hopes to work for nonprofits.

CENTRAL SHORTS EDITOR Edwin Williamson is a sophomore majoring in Anthropology and English Lit. with a minor in Art History. He regularly sleeps, draws, writes, and daydreams through life. During the quarantine he’s become nocturnal and solely communicates with his two cats, Simon and Franklin. He fell in love with every piece submitted this Spring but can’t stop raving over “Fine” and “Eat the Rich”!

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L’ appel du vide

by Jeniya Dabish Can you see it?

Us, standing among the corn pasture, wadding our heads to the sound of the wind and the taste of rain.

Swollen, our bodies fully enlightened between that of the burning blue sky and the sickening soil flattening beneath our feet.

It is here, among the corn, that we meet, Away, and lay against its grass and its hay, Looking to one another as if the satanic Never changing pixelated curtain of our lives Has been lifted, and we can finally see each other for who we are, what we are made of, And who we once were.

It is here, among the corn, between the shuddering stalks and pierced, bleeding fingertips

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That we are nothing more than children, Bare, pure, and completely oblivious to the filth Picking away at our toes, pulling up on our nightgowns, and unbuttoning our pants It is here, among the corn pasture, That together, naked, and innocent, that we allow our young to become fully submerged within the pixelated curtain, Never to be seen the same again.

It is here, among the corn pasture, That we lay willing, Mortified as to what has happened, But staggered as to what is yet to come.

For now, and all eternity.

Jeniya Dabish is a first-year student and has a real passion for all things literature. Jeniya is a triplet from Northville, MI. She has been writing since she was in elementary school and doesn’t plan to stop anytime soon. She is majoring in Family Studies and is double minoring in Child Development and English. Jeniya has been a part-time volunteer at Oakley Park Elementary School in Walled Lake, MI, since 2018 as a teaching assistant in the kindergarten classrooms. In her free time, Jeniya loves spending time with friends and family, Disney, The Sims, Animal Crossing, and expressing her creativity through poetry and fiction. In the future, she hopes to pursue an MFA.

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Kayla Szymanski is a sophomore Honors student majoring in Secondary English Education from New Lenox, IL. She is currently an editor for the Honors Platform and Great Lakes Platform. On campus, Kayla is the Larzelere Hall Vice President, a Front Desk Receptionist, and Honors 100 teaching assistant. She enjoys helping mentees, committee members, and high school students find meaningful ways to express their passions. In her free time, Kayla enjoys reading, dancing, playing badminton, cross-stitching, and writing.

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LOVE TOGETHER

by Kayla Szymanski

Love was four sets of footprints crossing paths on the sand. It was hands frantically forming signs to signal goodbye from afar.

It was steaming plates of favorite vegetables and movie marathons left on loop during three-day weekends.

Love was instinctual backrubs and twirls across the dance floor.

It was piles of magazines shoved underneath quarantined bedrooms adorned with stickers and smiley faces. It was lips smeared by mint chocolate ice cream and garden dirt playfully tossed against jeans and pristine fabric. Love was photographs pulled from scrapbooks and placed ceremoniously on coffee tables for everyone to see.

Love that grew, tore, challenged, pulsed, blinded encouraged, and tugged on you gently when it was most needed.

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Unknown Destinations

by Grace Long

Grace Long is a junior pursuing her degree in Integrative Public Relations. If you ever need to find her, she's probably somewhere drinking coffee.

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The Speed with which You Jump Into the Water

by Sage Tischer I fell in the water I’m drowning as we speak How quick will you jump in If it’s to save me?

I morph into your mother Does that speed up the rate?

Or if I’m your brother Help.

Before it’s too late How fast if I’m your neighbor Down the street?

What if I’m a man You never did meet

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What makes their life more valuable than mine?

How could you compare Something so divine?

But there was a different pace Each time you looked At a waterlogged face To live in a world where saving another isn’t a bother Increase the speed with which you jump into the water.

Sage is a junior studying Elementary Education. She has a passion for educating children, nature, and for writing. On an average day you can find her reading a book and writing poems that she hopes she can publish as a book one day.

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Luka Hidley is a graduating senior getting a degree in Youth Studies with a focus in Sociology, fearing the day they must finally abide to professional dress codes. Their future plans include surviving the global pandemic, going to grad school, and becoming an advocate for transgender youth.

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The Last House on Main Street

by Luka Hidley

Isn’t even a house, It used to be a gas station and Lawnmower repair shop My grandfather built for himself Where my mom wasn’t allowed.

Being named after a boy wasn’t enough She had to watch the phone: The perfect job for a lady.

I complained about the lack of grass In a junkyard of rust sprouting History from the ground In the form of railroad mile markers And was told I should be happy with The black walnut tree Dropping free protein.

Besides, no one was making me Shoot raccoons for my dinner.

I said I’d never shoot an animal, Especially one that washes its hands.

Grandpa said wait till you have Three hungry tummies And no welfare benefits Because “God does everything for a reason” Even when giving a track star polio.

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Anna Kuehne is a senior pursuing a degree in Secondary Education, English major with an ESL minor and the Creative Writing certificate. She lives in the tiny town of Auburn with her family and enjoys lounging by a bonfire with close friends. She also is a competitive swimmer who lives for the thrill of setting new personal times for the 50 and 100 breastroke and loves to hang out with her swim friends. She would like to thank the Swim and Dive Club members for their tremendous support both in and out of the water as she continues her journey towards becoming a teacher. She also wishes to extend her gratitude to her past and present creative writing professors Dr. Roberson, Dr. Fanning, and Dr. Bean for their feedback and continual encouragement in her creative writing.

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Astray

by Anna Kuehne

What do you see, father?

Do you see the demons swindle me with lurching arms, smothering me with poignant wisdoms?

Do they jest with grins stretched wide as they take turns chewing my bottom lip?

Are you anxious as their honeyed tongues scrape my flesh, or how their fingers riffle through my golden curls, taut the blessed threads into tangled nests?

Do your eyes search for the Virgin as they coax my thighs, cooing me to an unholy epiphany? Are you terrified that I moan instead of scream? Do the incessant recitations touted through beads and booklets catch me as I slip through God’s fingers?

Are the angels chanting my sins in your head?

Do they flay your failures on your back? Do they mock you with their soft chuckles, the phantom wings stinging your cheek as you beg God for my deliverance? Are you terrified that your lamb lost her way, or do you still lament your sorrows in litanies, impervious to the truth:

I do it in spite of you.

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Liza Gutierrez is a senior.

When she isn't writing, you can find her drawing elephants, painting, or (like an old lady) crocheting stuffed animals for her three younger siblings.

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Artist Paints 2020 with Her Ear

by Liza Gutierrez Tears the nub of flesh with her own nails, raises it to the air and watches the blood pool towards the surface.

She begins with splatters,

blobs of scarlet stains, then

flames like tongues entangled.

She scatters black lashes – creatures

burning. Shot.

She sketches bullet holes across the edges,

paints a flood with her bones –

white waves of femur and tibia dust,

rising like smoke off the canvas.

Black cities in the background,

structureless, tumbling.

She carves SICK with her fingernail

over

and over

and over.

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summer solstice

by Madison Hren

he never runs the a.c. you sit in a 7/11 parking lot -- windows down, sunroof open. the last cigarette from his pack of menthol newports dangles between your chipped nail-polish fingers. fleetwood mac blares out of the sound system he installed himself. and if you don’t love me now you will never love me again. the driver’s door opens. he’s smiling -so wide you can see where he’s missing a tooth -and when he looks at you, you don’t look away for once.

Maddie Hren is a fifth-year senior pursuing a B.S. in Journalism and a certificate in Creative Writing.

And, no, she has no clue what she’s going to do after graduation, so please stop asking her. Maddie is a self-proclaimed professional napper, the popcorn queen, and a lover of vegetarian chicken nuggets. She is also the proud mom of the sweetest kittens in the world, Rosemary and Sophie. In her spare time, Maddie enjoys collecting records, writing angsty poetry, and any other stereotypical hipster activity you can think of.

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Eat the Rich

by Madison Alexander we feast on the entrails of Their Armani suits and lies the blood spilling out and dribbling down our chins lapping it up like ravenous dogs with foaming mouths and bared teeth we spit on Their throbbing appendage of A5 Kobe Strip Steak and smile up at Them from between their legs, with a childish sparkle in our pornstar eyes, we rip it from their body and swallow them whole we shed our tattered robes of the American Dream and burn them with a fire lit by Their Gurkha Black Dragon cigars Sipping blood from gold chalices by the hearth lined with the bones of them

Madison Alexander is a sophomore studying Photojournalism, Women and Gender Studies, and Creative Writing. She is a member of Central Paws and will be on the e-board next semester. She can often be found playing Sims, playing with her cat, or spending time with friends and family. Her poetry is often centered around weight insecurity, politics, and other sensitive topics. This is her second submission to Central Review.

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Emily Colby is a junior studying English Literature and Creative Writing. She is an Honors Student and plans to continue her education with a graduate degree. Emily loves to write, though she is not great at dedicating time to do so, and has taken classes in both poetry and fiction writing. In her free time, Emily enjoys tending to her 12 plants, rereading Harry Potter, and listening to records.

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I, TOO

by Emily Colby How do I tell them that I

am the entire Pacific Ocean’s worth of waves

crashing against the California shore.

With me, I move plastic and pike, surfers and sharks

am Michelangelo’s right pinky. I carve

eyelids and nostrils from muscle memory, I guide

the peach-colored brushstrokes of naked skin

onto ceilings and walls blessed by God

am an antique. An oaken wood table standing chipped and wobbly and eighty years strong.

Memories live in me, I know what it is to have passed through time

How do I tell them that While I am a calf ’s timid, brave first steps, a candle dripping wax onto white linoleum, a steel-string guitar, and a photo of your mother in her youth I am also a daughter of religious parents, an amateur tie-dyer, a week-old vase of roses, a beggar, a wannabe, a scholar, a poet, a dreamer How do I tell them that I, too, am woman?

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Avery Jackson is a junior studying Integrative Public Relations.

She seeks to work in communications for a company that connects with her values.

Beyond work, her passion for writing began in a Hannah Montana notepad chalked with song lyrics and book ideas. Now, she has rekindled her love for prose and poetry and hopes this is only the start of her creative writing career. She also has a love for music, mysteries, and Animal Crossing.

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Close Encounters

by Avery Jackson

When I left the womb and welcomed the world, silent and purple. Sick.

The smack of a basketball to the face, the crack of concrete against the skull my mother breathing life back into my lungs on the wooden kitchen table Crossing fences and scaling rocks by Niagara Falls like mountain goats a shrill “Avery SUE!” snatches my ankles, bulges my eyes, and burns my face until an inward force pulls me off the edge toward safety When the car full of teenage boys, sweaty with summer heaviness, slows its roll and the strange elusive creatures stare with eyes on fire, lips curled and moistened with intention, they dribble out sticky salutations and questions of destinations I smile all the way home until she tells me my heart should thump, not flutter I am a timepiece, made with cogs that made the women before me I time myself as I giggle my way past signs that say Do Not Enter the clock stands still as I watch myself fall downstairs, run my toe under chairs the bells clang and the hands tick as I shrink into large crowds and dim rooms I am not what I expected, yet everything I hoped to be My surface, shining and scarred, shows what I’ve seen after all this time I am fractals of feminine fear, aged alongside an internal mechanism unshaken by decades of different villains, some with gnawing teeth, some with bills and scriptures and still I am bubbling with curious intrusiveness, trudging along the Earth’s body she reaches her arms past an extended belly, wrapping me in warmth until the only thing that smothers is the sickness within her

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Friday Funerals for Strawberry Kiwi Juice

by Samantha Shriber

A funeral was hosted on a Friday afternoon, It was one where dahlias budded from the casket’s corners, I lit an array of Dollar Tree candles and Enjoyed my mimosa too fast.

Did you know mimosas are the drink of resurrection now?

I’m not sure anymore though, Because each time someone cracks an egg open Burgundy comes streaming out in pandemonium.

A duo of tree trunk spiders follow fervently behind, Tiny tongues in shades of coral savor the blood, Desiring to acquire the taste of dead daydreams, With the saccharine of never feeling alone.

Let me consume another sip of blemished juice.

Did your invitation get lost in the mail?

I hand wrote your invitation, Ivory paper was hallooed by a downpour of lilac oil, A bit of my wrist was sliced open by raw amethyst as I prayed, Manifesting you’d come dressed in that striped jumpsuit, Your hair curled into a spiraling woodland of silk, Over and over again, I imagined your lips unfolding with concern,

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Like a memorial rose being wedged into sand.

You’d scuttle toward the coffin and force it open, Despite having fingers frailer than forget-me-not petals.

Inside there’d be polaroid photographs, each one stained, One-worded text messages and expired Bud Light, Accompanied by the dandelions we’d pick for each other, Kept warmed by the canopies of our forts.

I added the $5 pairs of sunglasses we needed for nearly every occasion In my invocation, Tears glimmering like moonstones would smirch your makeup, You’d be heaved back into my sophomore dorm room, Where we’d lounge imprudently on my bedding and drink strawberry-kiwi juice, Teeheeing over paltry men with deficient names, In the past and present you’d say you loved me, But your invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.

Samantha Shriber is an aspiring mermaid, a self-proclaimed dancing queen and glitter enthusiast. Shriber is a Saint Clair Shores native who is double-majoring in Journalism and Political Science and pursuing a certificate in Creative Writing. Her poetic constructions ultimately aspire to schlep readers into her psychedelic and viridescent daydreams. Her mind, which floats in voltaic cloudbursts, pines for luscious dialogue, flowy pants and road trips to the Atlantic Ocean. In the wilds of Metropolitan Detroit and Mount Pleasant, Shriber can be discovered riding around on borrowed bicycles, passing out kandi bracelets and advocating for reproductive justice. Along with poetry, she vivaciously loves house music, Gloria Steinem and flying tiger sushi rolls. For Summer 2020, she will be interning as a state capitol reporter and hopes to work on her first-ever podcast, the Feminist Futura.

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Alexx is a super senior studying Secondary Education with majors in English and School Health and a Creative Writing certificate. She is the president of CMU's chapter of PERIOD: The Menstrual Movement and a coordinator for Leadership Camp.

Alexx's most natural state of being is in a crop top with a thrifted flannel, toting her yellow backpack covered in buttons and pins, and sipping on an oat milk latte.

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Praise to the Bud Light Bottle

by Alexx Delzer Praise to the Bud Light bottle that feels your stubbly kisses more often than my cheeks.

The brown tinted beer bottle with the brown beer bubbles & the old wheat water scent drowning your fatherhood — borrowing your obligations.

When you & mom got divorced the brown bottle bathed you soaking you in a sour scent & broken glass shards as a scrub sliced skin, tiny cuts cascading on your body. Blood & beer mixing as the scabs formed, & you picked at them again until they bled & eventually left scars.

Praise to the Bud Light bottle for holding your hand when mine was too little & slipped from your fingers, lost & recycled.

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Dear ma,

( you don’t have to reply )

by Thomas Graham I know the house will be cold.

I know you told me a thousand times how to work the thermostat.

Set program. Select temp. Hold or something like that.

Regardless, I delight in the cold now.

It retells me of all the times you scolded me to make my bed.

I never liked how icy the sheets got whenever my bed was made but, I always apologized anyway.

Arriving at our outdated ranch house, I drift through the garage.

I avoid eye contact with our fishing gear, Neglected by a retrograde movement of time, reflecting the broken promise I made to always be your baby moose.

I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would be so hard to keep.

Memories begin to rise like trout as I slip inside, I refuse to catch any because we always fished together.

You taught me how to fish.

I step over the illiterate welcome mat I made for your 48th birthday, nine years ago.

You placed it without thought below the front door, right before the kitchen.

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It’s now seasoned with seasons a touch of mud, a hint of ocher leaves, and a snowflake or two to taste.

You taught me how to cook.

I pass by your bedroom.

Your bed is made and has been since you started using the hospital’s.

I want to jump in it and snuggle with your shadow, but I have to do something first.

With eyes overcast, I stagger into my bedroom and while I finish making my bed I cry out, “Hey Ma, have you forgiven me yet?”

Thomas is a junior studying Entrepreneurship with a minor in English and a Creative Writing certificate. He enjoys activities such as fly fishing, playing music, writing, climbing, and attending church at His House Christian Fellowship.

He likes writing poems, short stories, and songs.

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Fine

by Alex Jackson

A collection of fragments I’ve either read or heard about the COVID-19 Pandemic It’s just the flu, we’ll be fine.

Remember Swine Flu? Remember Ebola?

It’ll be just like that.

People weren’t washing their hands before this?

But I bought 20 packs of toilet paper, I’m good for whatever.

They can’t cancel class. They can’t take my life away from me like this. I can’t make this transition!

Classes have been cancelled. I just lost my job.

So many people are dead. And life as we know it has been cancelled indefinitely.

Are we taking this too seriously?

Are we not taking this seriously enough?

I’m young, I’ll be fine. But every time I cough, I wonder: Am I going to die? Surely enough if the virus doesn’t kill me, my mental health will.

I’ve been socially distant my whole life, so why is this so hard for people?

I need to go to work to stay alive, I need to see my friends to stay alive.

But we need to stay inside to stay alive.

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I will never take my friends for granted ever again.

I will never take seeing strangers in public for granted ever again.

I will never take my freedom for granted ever again.

They tell us we’ll be fine if we stay home, stay safe, but I’m going insane in here! Help!

How we’re going about things nowadays has changed.

We’re moving online! We have no choice.

Only leave your home for essentials.

What constitutes an essential?

Everything is closed, there’s nowhere to go anyway.

How long will this last?

Who knows? Who could know?

How long until things can go back to normal?

Things will never go back to “normal.”

Things will never be the same again.

But we’ll be fine.

Alex is a senior from Port Huron, MI. She’ll be graduating this May with a Bachelor's in Music, minors in Business Administration and English, and a certificate in Creative Writing. Alex has loved writing ever since she was young and knows that no matter what crazy path life takes her down, she'll always be a writer and hopes to publish at least one book someday. Aside from music and writing, Alex is also an avid fan of video games, board games, DnD, fantasy and sci-fi books/movies/TV shows, the outdoors, tea, her two birds Link and Tyrion, thinking about the world, and the smell of fresh laundry.

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This is the second time that Isabella Gross has been published in the Central Review, but the first time she has been published for a short story. She is a junior studying English and is looking to apply for graduate school for Creative Writing. Bella is so thankful to her friends and family for their continued support. (And for sometimes proofreading her work!) She spent her fall semester in Scotland where she learned to read in Scots, met incredible people, and climbed mountains (literally and spiritually). She came home with inspiration and an insatiable hankering for sticky toffee pudding. She adopted her sweet, energetic (which is a kind synonym for crazy), one-year-old chihuahua mix called Buttercup in February. She does not have a dog-park boyfriend.

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How to Get A Dog

by Isabella Gross

Imitation of Jennifer Howard’s “How to End Up” You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment leaning on the coffee table. Your roommate took the couch when she moved to Los Angeles last week. You asked her, what, are you gonna buy it a row on the plane?

She said it was her parents’ old couch and they were going to give it to her younger brother when he starts college. You tell her you’re glad that they’re so concerned about giving him a comfy place to get laid, and she didn’t text you back. And so you’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, scrolling through Instagram. You’ve fallen into a hole of dog videos, and you’ve found yourself double tapping on each wiggly corgi butt and singing husky. You look around your quiet kitchen and down the dark hallway, and a bright thought jumps into your head. You should really get a dog.

You imagine strolling down the aisles of PetSmart, filling a cart with a wonky front wheel that keeps swerving to the left with low-cal training treats and chew toys. You pick up a tiny puppy puffer jacket and wonder, will she need this? Yeah, yes, of course she will, and you’re imagining your Instagram full of stills of her running though the January snow and you toss in into the cart. And then you imagine your ex-boyfriend’s best friend who’s still following you for whatever reason commenting that you don’t need to put a coat on your dog, they used to be wolves for fuck’s sake and you take it back out. Then the employee at the end of the aisle in the ill-fitting blue vest smiles at you kindly and you throw it back in.

You imagine bringing her home in a tattered blanket and showing her to her baby pink bed for the first time. You think it would be so cute if she woke you up in the morning with happy kisses. You dream about the Hal-

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loween costumes, watching Modern Family on winter weeknights, chasing her down the hall to take back your missing sock. Yeah, a dog would be really good for you. You could be more active. Less lonely.

You’ll go to the dog park, meet people, be outside. Maybe a cute guy with wind-rustled hair will get his goofy mixed lab’s leash tangled up in yours. He will cutely apologize, and you will laugh and sweep the hair from your forehead with your finger. He will ask your name and you will tell him and he’ll say ah, how beautiful. When your dogs are untangled he’ll pull out his phone and ask you to put your info in it, you know, for play dates and stuff. And so you’ll see him there tomorrow. And the day after. And the next week. And the dogs, they’ll play so nicely together. Maybe they’ll play so well together that they won’t notice when you slip him behind a urinesoaked tree and let him feel you up. Then he’ll come over, and he’ll bring his lab mix, and your dogs will be so happy to see each other. And you’ll close the bedroom door quietly, and they won’t start scratching at it for twenty minutes, which is about all you can ask from them.

And so things are pretty good for a while until your dog-park boyfriend tells you that he has to go back home to Detroit to take care of his sick dad. You really don’t like that, ‘cause things are just getting good now.

He’s been leaving you sweet drawings of your dog on the kitchen counter when he has to go to work early and you guys had just started rewatching the old Power Rangers TV show that you grew up with. Who else did that with you since your brother died? You ask him, what, they don’t have nursing homes in Detroit? And his face gets all red and he closes his eyes for a long time and says he’s sorry, which makes it so much harder for you to watch him grab his coat and close the apartment door so gently that your dog doesn’t even wake up from her nap on the couch. You wished he would’ve started a big loud fight with you and slammed the door so hard that the pictures would fall off the wall, and your dog would wake up and bark her head off and you’d say that’s right, girl! What a dickhead! And then you sink down onto the couch that your ex-dog-park boyfriend helped you pick out next to your dog and you stroke her soft ears as the tears burn down your face. You ask her if she’s going to miss his mixed lab. She watches you with half-open eyelids.

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Jenna Keson is a third year student majoring in Secondary English Education with a minor in Physical Education and pursuing a certificate in Creative Writing. She enjoys reading, writing poetry, spending time with her puppy, and napping.

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The Versatility of Please

by Jenna Keson If I am the sail, rip through and guide me please.

If you are the captain, I will follow you wherever you please.

Tame your clenched fists and white knuckles, return your arms to your side, please.

He stands firm and tall when his wife begs but crumples whenever his mistress pouts “pretty please.”

Take my hand and run with me through the trees, branches stinging like the belt your father used. Please?

If you must leave, when you turn around don’t look back. If you must leave, forget me please.

Question: Why do melodies trickle out of finches at unexpected times?

Answer: Because they have no one to please.

Apple crumble cools on the worn windowsill.

“Oh darling, would you like a piece?” Yes, ma’am, please.

Engine stalled, door slammed, tow company called, no attention paid to the man with a cardboard sign, “Spare change please.”

Ombre brown leaves swirl beside cold, overgrown grass. Just one more day of summer, Mother Nature, please.

Tight hands tear a child, no more than four, from her mother’s limp embrace like generations before. “No, mommy, please!”

I’ve never liked the attitude of locks; their isolation and suffocation.

Quite frankly, I hold the Keys and do as I please.

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Kayla Szymanski is a sophomore Honors student majoring in Secondary English Education from New Lenox, IL. She is currently an editor for the Honors Platform and Great Lakes Platform. On campus, Kayla is the Larzelere Hall Vice President, a Front Desk Receptionist, and Honors 100 teaching assistant. She enjoys helping mentees, committee members, and high school students find meaningful ways to express their passions. In her free time, Kayla enjoys reading, dancing, playing badminton, cross-stitching, and writing.

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Garden of Misery

by Kayla Szymanski

Grass gushes through the forbidden valley rich with sensation.

Weeds are cracks of chaos that ebb and flow frantically to scuttle above the lush crust of life.

I watch a dim and disinterested light travel down a dusty path.

A lamp swings through darkness ablaze like a thousand fireworks and honeycombs the valves of magnetic shards scattered carelessly across the poisoned sky.

Moments sprout forward in fury to steal their purpose from the sterile dirt.

I am mesmerized as buds burst into bloom underneath the glow and rise to kiss the space above with gleaming faces.

Stamens graze against the flare like moths drawn to headlights.

Scorched leaves furl inward as the emerald pigments shift to a crusted and murky brown.

Stumps of once promising stems wither into barren stalks.

With its deed completed, the lamp recedes from the patch.

I survey the aftermath of crushed lotus petals and wrinkled dove feathers, waiting for the cycle to start anew.

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To the Men I ( ’ve ) Love ( d)

by Madison Hren

L.D.P. (age 11-12) i can hardly blame you we were just kids. looking back, i could’ve stopped you.

S.A.M. (age 17) you said i love you because you believed i would fuck you.

S.P.K. (age 21 - 22) when you said your past doesn’t define you i almost believed it.

E.R.S. (age 13-15) you repulse me. your clammy hands found leverage in my please, don’ts.

Z.T.D. (age 17-21) we were supposed to get married. every day, i thank god we didn’t.

D.J.D. (age 22 - ?) we’ve built a life together. when i look at you i see the future.

K.A.S. (age 15) i wonder: what would’ve happened if the timing was right?

N.A.P. (age 21) you introduced me to myself. thank you for that and for everything.

Maddie Hren is a fifth-year senior pursuing a B.S. in Journalism and a certificate in Creative Writing. And, no, she has no clue what she’s going to do after graduation, so please stop asking her. Maddie is a self-proclaimed professional napper, the popcorn queen, and a lover of vegetarian chicken nuggets. She is also the proud mom of the sweetest kittens in the world, Rosemary and Sophie. In her spare time, Maddie enjoys collecting records, writing angsty poetry, and any other stereotypical hipster activity you can think of.

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22

by Emily Austin

Cliché and overused “as seen on pinterest,” but how else to tidily remember a whole year gone by.

While being 21 I was: Depressed, recovering, fragile.

On academic probation, a constant bundle of nerves with no way to cope.

I was trying out meds – klonopin, celexa, propranolol, zoloft, hydroxyzine, prozac, trazodone.

I flew, tripped, and swam at midnight fully under the moon.

I moved apartments, shifted heart, and changed mindset.

I’ve tried to rebalance energy, cried when I failed, and here I am Again. 22, and beginning new.

Emily struggles describing herself and writing bios BUT, is very excited to be sharing another poem in Central Review! During COVID-19 quarantine she has been writing daily and hopes to share even more of her work with everyone soon. Stay safe and healthy!

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WIND // SEA

by Brooke Westgate

Maybe I’m the wind, And maybe you’re the sea.

Maybe, If I try hard enough, I can find myself at the very edge Of your being.

Maybe, if I somehow find the courage Within the pit of my bluster-stricken stomach, You’ll allow me to accompany the waves That constantly grow from within you.

Maybe, Do you think, When pieces of you curl from newfound height, It’s as close as we will ever feel to one another?

Maybe, The two of us can never inhabit the same space, Only touch on the border of you, And of I.

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Maybe, We could never collide in the way That my soul yearns to.

But maybe, Just maybe, The frivolous meeting of my cold air, To your ever-disappearing waves, is enough To never make us want to catch our breaths again.

So, maybe you’re the sea, And maybe I’m the wind.

And maybe that’s okay.

Brooke is a second-year student and will be graduating in 2021 with bachelors in Psychology and English Lit. She grew up in Grand Ledge, Michigan and has been writing for as long as she can remember. She spends most of her days either working or doing homework with her fur child, Fallon. She’s very excited and grateful to be a part of another Central Review release!

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Sunset Over Michigan in January

by Drew Patton We watch as the pale-yellow Sun dips towards the horizon,

a snow-covered, white hellscape that mocks the vibrance and viridescence this place once held.

The world falls beneath shadow as the Sun vanishes from view in a moment, almost apocalyptic,

The dying day’s light clinging to its final moments of life

on soft, wispy edges of ash-colored clouds.

And with the day gone, a calming, deep infinite takes dominion over the skies above, the first speckles of starlight peering through and our minds emptied as they begin to fill with the wonder and peace and warmth of night.

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Drew Patton is currently a Junior studying Political Science, and has been actively writing for over five years. Writing is an engrained part of who Drew is, and on any given day you're likely to find him holed up somewhere jotting in his notebook. He adores both short stories and poetry, but hopes to one day be a published novelist.

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I Never Knew How Much I Loved AFTER NAZIM HIKMET

by Lance Crenno It’s March 27th, 2019 I am walking through The campus of Central Michigan University.

As I pace down the sidewalk, I am captured by the golden Sunset plunging towards the horizon.

I never knew how much I loved sunsets.

The flickering energy of The day being sucked out like a magnetic force.

Returning to the mothership.

The picturesque colors that splatter nature’s Canvas. Seeing the beautiful Display washes away all Worries and stresses like A late spring rain sprinkling a freshly sprouted wildflower.

It taps into something deeper, A basic human hardwiring That absorbs the wonder of nature Like a sponge and uses it for nourishment.

I never knew how much I loved the trees.

Their massive trunks tower over me

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Like a guardian of the earth.

When a cool breeze blows through their Branches, its natures communication to man.

A primal portal that signals the collaboration Of the life on earth. Their sap, their bark A window into summer’s past, Laden with the smell of thick bonfires, And sticky heat.

I never knew how much I loved buildings.

The architecture, from the simplest shacks, To the most intricate modern marvels, All littered with the fingerprints of the history Of man. A testament to the innovation Of the human race. A shelter From the violent outbursts of nature.

A tower, a house, a home.

I never knew how much I loved the variety of life.

So many hues of freedom. Fashion, sports, Movies, education, career field, at every intersection Of life there are infinite choices, like an endless valley Lush with a rainbow of vegetation.

Occasionally a bad flower may be picked, There may be a desire to rescind the plant, Give it back. But it is final, permeant.

Unable to be reintegrated to the sea of flowers.

Time will eventually disintegrate the foul flower, And its dust will be lost in the sweet motion of the wind.

Lance is a senior from Muskegon, MI. He is double majoring in Environmental Science and English, and he is also completing a Creative Writing certificate as part of his English major. He is employed on campus by University Recreation as a fitness specialist. He is an outdoor enthusiast, who likes hunting, fishing, hiking, along with pretty much any other outdoor activity. Some of his other hobbies include weightlifting and traveling. He enjoys things that provide a creative outlet, such as film, literature, and music. Lance is a huge sports fan. However, when it comes to sports, his biggest Achilles heel may be his wish to see the Lions win a Super Bowl.

CENTRAL REVIEW SPRING 2020