The Colton Review: Volume 17 by The Colton Review

CO LT ON A Journal of Art & Literature

Meredith College | Volume 17

C O L T O N

R E V I E W

2021

The Colton Review is Meredith College’s art and literary

journal. It is an annual publication that features literature and

art from students, faculty, and staff. It is produced for and

by the students of Meredith College. The contents are copy-

the individual writers and artists upon publication. Contents

may not be reproduced without the written permission of the

writer or the artist. A special thank you to Jane Williamson Teague for her generous support of The Colton Review. t

CO LT ON A Journal of Art & Literature

Meredith College | Volume 15

C O L T O N

R E V I E W

2021

Letter From the Editors “In solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass and the waters and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring in the blue air there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart.” — Percy Bysshe Shelley

n a year full of darkness and isolation, art and literature have played an increasingly important role in people’s lives. Creating art provides an escape, it gives one a voice, and it serves as a way to connect with others. The world needs more opportunities to create and more art to cherish. To help fulfill those needs is our calling as an editorial staff. We hope that The Colton Review: Volume 17 inspires you and provides you the creative outlet you need. For our staff, production meetings served as weekly high points; despite never meeting in person, we grew as a team and came to treasure the virtual time we spent together. We rejoiced over each writing submission we received from students and faculty, and we deliberated more than ever over

which to include in the publication. To all who submitted your creative works, we thank you for your contributions. It is always an honor to be entrusted with the Meredith community’s creative works and to see what common threads emerge. This year, students and faculty have shared with us their thoughts about loss, love, family, as well as the coronavirus pandemic itself. We are grateful for the honesty, vulnerability, and personality in each of the stories and poems in this publication. A love and appreciation for nature also shines through in many authors’ works. During a time where much of one’s day is consumed by technology, many writers chose to reflect on the natural magic of forests, the delicate details of a willow, or even the fear of harming the natural world. We imagine that the collective

longing for nature, for family, and for friendships that unites this year’s journal will resonate with our readers. Without Meredith writers and artists willing to share their creations and readers eager to enjoy them, The Colton Review would not exist, so we thank you. As an editorial staff, we hope that the art and writing in these pages reminds you that there is beauty in this world and that you are capable of creating it. Sincerely, The Colton Review Staff

ART 08

Caroline Haw

Bailey Birtchet

Deb Laube

Caroline Haw

Untitled

May Her Memory Be a Revolution: Ruth Bader Ginsburg

MIL (Detail)

Untitled

23 Kasey Vandenboom

Jordyn Quarandillo

Candice Lillard

Leah Jensen

The Anatomy of a Woman — 2ND RUNNER-UP —

In the Garden

Water Droplets

Winterscape

Lydia Gunn

Rachel Stewart

Anayeli Collazo Lopez

Roots

Monster Mosaic

Ground-Creeping Ivy

Bouquet

Kasey Vandenboom

Caroline Haw

Rachel Stewart

Anayeli Collazo Lopez

The Silenced

Aging Coils

Lost Connection

Black Fire

Hannah Schneider

Karen Spangler

Isabel Ruiz

Destiny Eudy

007 Museum Website Redesign

Beyond the Selfie: Scars From History — BEST IN SHOW —

Woman

Steeple Through the Trees

—

Anayeli Collazo Lopez

Hannah Schneider

Watch Me While I Bloom

Illuminated Letter

—

102

105

Leah Jensen

Cameron Simpson

Fensalir — HONORABLE MENTION —

Under the Sun

107

111

Kamara Taylor

Isabel Ruiz

Portrait

Complementary

116

119

Bailey Birtchet

Kristin Morin

Fish Taco — 1ST RUNNER-UP —

Self-Portrait

121

124

Leah Jensen

Isabel Ruiz

Sword, Shield, Ceremony

Rainy Garden

LITERATURE 09

Claire Heins

Caroline E. Bell

Kate Polaski

Kali Ranke

Life on Forest Time

Strength

The Boy Who Made Me Laugh

Toothpaste

Julia Brent

Krista Wiese

Shelly Whitmire

Olivia Slack

Dear Debi — HONORABLE MENTION POETRY —

The Party Scene

Hapless Decoration — 1ST PLACE POETRY —

Heritage

Kate Niemi

Virginia Ewing Hudson

Alexandria Rosenzweig

Layne H.

Silver Eyes

Unbridled

Gumbo

Cheers

Erin Wendorf

Tamara Bomparte

Mia Shelton

Ashley Hogan

The eBay-Order Boyfriend

Falling to Pieces

Play Dead — 2ND PLACE PROSE —

The Only Time

Erin Wendorf

Angelina Morin

Cameron Garcia

Sarah Page

A Letter to Uncle Derek — HONORABLE MENTION POETRY —

Grandpa — 1ST PLACE PROSE —

How to Save a Life — HONORABLE MENTION PROSE —

This Empty Road

Olivia Slack

Claire Heins

Shrinking Skies — 2ND PLACE POETRY —

Love in a Lavender Field

106

Krista Wiese

Caroline E. Bell

Poems in Lockers

Priceless

108

112

M.J. Solorzano Ariza

Katelyn Wiszowaty

Black and Purple

Heat

120

122

Kate Polaski

Hannah Groover

Troy

Green Thumb, Dirty Fingernails

125 Virginia Ewing Hudson Ever

U NTI TLED | figure dawing by Caroline Haw

Life on Forest Time b y C l a i r e H ei n s

he wild forest waits for us beyond where shadows lie. Near rolling streams, by soft green leaves, it’s here where the summers died.

“Don’t lose yourselves in memories. Don’t dream what might have been. Your youth lives on in both of you! Just trust me, look within.

We leaped and splashed and raced around til the warm, sweet days were spent. The only place to be was there where the rules of time were bent.

You still have time, don’t waste it, come see me anytime! Life’s a gift, don’t wait and sit, You’ve got big hills to climb.”

You and I in the sun-dappled hours gave no thought to what lay ahead. Skipping rocks and choosing flowers, hearts filled with school-time dread.

The wild forest is our guard. Our safe place and our friend. Perhaps I’ll one day see you there— until we meet again. t

The years roll on but the forest stays, a witness to our youth. Reminders of our better days, for it’s here we learned the truth. Still now, the forest calls to us. It seems we have no choice. Within our hearts, she whispers, “Hear me, I have a voice.”

MAY H ER MEMO RY B E A R EVO LU TI O N: RUTH BADER G INS BURG | poster design by Bailey Birtchet

Strength b y C a ro l i n e E . Bel l

lue, with a hint of green, once engulfed by brown, like honey.

She isn’t to let a brown eyed boy control her, for her eyes are oceans, blue, with a hint of green; limitless.

She should assert her dominance with a glance; a flutter of the lashes.

She should be emphatic. She should be self-satisfied. Honey is sticky, but she will not be caught. t

His sweltering grasp crushed down only to unleash her true force. She shouldn’t crave control; she should gain it and keep it. She shouldn’t put her head down. Shoulders back, chin up, and face forward. She should make room for herself in a world that tries to put her into boxes. Don’t ask to be invited when you are the guest of honor.

The Boy Who Made Me Laugh b y K at e Po l a sk i

Trigger warning: mentions of abusive behaviors

“

My friend Zoe can do it better,” I said, secretly hoping that he’d do it again. He looked me straight in the eyes and grabbed my arm, pausing slightly before yanking two sections of my skin in different directions. I clenched my teeth so that I wouldn’t flinch. I stared back at him, an attempt at a smirk on my face, trying to pretend that I hadn’t felt a thing. Really, it hurt like hell, and my friend Zoe hadn’t ever laid a hand on me, let alone given me a powerful “Indian sunburn.” But at this moment, I didn’t care about the pain because all of his energy was focused on me. I was being paid attention to. And at the tender age of 11, the fact that he chose to spend time with me only when he wanted to hurt me did not invalidate the idea that attention was indicative of affection.

-Isaac Grant was a stocky, blond, headstrong boy. We’d known each other since we were four years old because we went to the same small Baptist church.

From the day we first met until the second grade, we saw each other twice a week, on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. When we were still too young to be quiet for a whole hour in church, we spent that time playing in the children’s room with the two other kids our age, Sam Wilson and Mackenzie Lewis. I distinctly remember this one Sunday in particular. It was Mackenzie’s birthday and our teacher had brought her a small vanilla cupcake, one of the ones with a pile of overly sugary icing and colorful sprinkles, with a little candle on the top. When she blew the flame out and made a wish, Isaac blew some of the smoke into my face. “I wish all this smoke would go away!” he whispered to me, and I laughed. He could always make me laugh.

The summer that we were both eight years old, his family moved to New Zealand. And I missed Isaac. It seemed strange to me that I could miss someone so much when I knew so little about him. What did I really know? I knew his name. I knew

“

Not a minute after giving me my newest bruise, he could say some silly thing about our music minister’s new haircut to make me collapse in a fit of giggles. He could always make me laugh. what he looked like. I knew his parents, Ms. Carol and Mr. Robert, and his older siblings Meghan and Jeremy. I knew that he liked Cheez-Its. I knew that if he could only bring two things on a road trip he would take ketchup and mustard, but that one was probably something he’d only said to make me laugh. To a younger me, trying to write a “We Miss You!” card because that’s what I had been told to do by my Sunday school teacher, that seemed like an insubstantial amount of information on which to base a friendship. So I settled for drawing a picture of the large yellow plastic ball that we had liked to play with on the days we went outside and wrote “The ball misses you!” because it seemed more genuine than saying that I did. Then I went outside to see if anyone would give me a piggyback ride. I don’t remember what it felt like seeing Isaac for the first time after he came back. That would have been the spring before we started middle school, a time when I was enraptured by my own cynicism and faked a strong disdain for every boy I’d ever met. I imagine that our conversation would have gone something like this: “So you’re back now, huh?” “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Isaac was now a very different person from the young boy I remembered, but we spent more time

together than ever. Sometimes for fun, we did things like filling T.J. Count’s car air conditioner with goldfish, and sometimes for fun, he would push me into the prickly holly bushes that lined the garden around the sanctuary. Sometimes we would play hide and seek around the chapel, and sometimes he stole my shoes and put them in high places where I couldn’t reach. Sometimes we took turns pushing each other on a tire swing, making each other laugh with dumb jokes, and sometimes he did everything in his power to make me feel uncomfortable with sexual innuendos. I liked it when we talked and watched funny videos on long bus rides, and he liked pinching me and giving me the aforementioned “Indian sunburns.” And I loved him for every second of it all. Not a minute after giving me my newest bruise, he could say some silly thing about our music minister’s new haircut to make me collapse in a fit of giggles. He could always make me laugh.

There was a point where I got jealous if he was mean to other girls the same way he was to me. One day we were playing foosball, Sam Wilson and I against him and Mackenzie Lewis, and every time Mackenzie let us score a point, Isaac would wrap his arms around her in a tight hug, pressing her thin face up against his chest because he knew it made her uncomfortable. She would shrink into herself whenever he touched her, as though she was trying to decrease the amount of her body that he had access to. I clenched my fingernails into the palms of my fists so hard that they stung with pain, and red blood stained the pale plastic foosball stick handles when I grabbed them. But I still laughed at the pained expression on her face, the same way she would laugh at mine when Isaac hit me with a sharp shot to my back in Sting Pong, as if we were

engaged in some sort of silent competition to see who could care less about the other’s suffering.

she still loves Isaac. She’s told me as much. She says he makes her laugh.

When we were juniors in high school, he dated a girl named Kayla, who was different than me in every way but one. While they were together, he did horrible things. One Sunday she told me that he had refused to talk to her because she hadn’t wanted to give him a blowjob. She gave in after a week of his radio silence. I remember riding in a car with the two of them home from a bakery after he had just taken Adderall. She told him that he was being a reckless driver, and he refused to stop speeding up until she apologized, bellowing from the front seat the whole time, “Take it back, bitch!” I clamped my eyes shut in fear, sure that we were going to hit something. She took it back.

There’s a scene from the summer before our senior year that I replay often in my head. He and I sit in silence under a tree, leaning our backs against the trunk. Other members of our youth group mill about on the grounds. The mood is somber. Our youth minister is making us apologize to each other because he’s noticed how mean we’ve been getting. “Do you remember when we were kids and we’d pretend to be dogs and eat our Cheez-Its without using our hands?” I ask. He nods. A pause. “You know I love you, right, Jess?” he asks. I nod. A pause. I look at him, remembering the little boy he used to be. “I love you too.”

And the next time I saw Isaac, I still smiled. I chuckled at his joke about Lady Gaga’s Super Bowl performance and continued to stare at him appraisingly when he wasn’t looking. When Kayla showed me the bruises on her back from being whipped with a towel, I found myself wishing for the first time that he wasn’t able to make me laugh.

I lay in my bed at night, my thoughts keeping me awake. I think back to the second grade and wonder if I really know anything more about him now than I did then. He plays rugby for his high school, his favorite television show is The Office, he hates cornbread, and he thinks apple juice is the best drink ever made. But I’m still not sure what any of those things really mean. I don’t understand how I can know someone for 14 years and still only have a shallow understanding of them. And as for how I feel about him, well, I have even fewer answers to that question. He was the first boy that I ever really wanted to want me. And part of me will always love him like a brother. Reconciling my love for him with the layers of pain he’s caused me, and Kayla, who I care deeply about, bores a deep chasm between my mind and heart. I have to decide whether I can consider

Isaac broke up with Kayla on her birthday. She still smokes and does drugs and drinks too much too fast for her fragile bruised body, but now she does it alone. She doesn’t play softball anymore, and she doesn’t come to church. She makes out with nameless boys at parties, hoping that something will come from it, but then tells them to leave because she doesn’t believe they’ll want to stay. And

myself a moral person when, even though I know everything he’s done, I still feel those butterflies whenever I see him on Sundays and think that I could live forever in one of his hugs.

He finds his way into a lot of my thoughts, no matter what I’m trying to do. I remember how we would hide eggs together for Easter Sunday instead of focusing on my teacher’s explanation of the Irish rebellions in AP Euro, even though I should have been paying attention and history is my favorite subject. Sometimes, on my worst days, I remember the punches and the kicks and the basketballs thrown at heads, and I slam my hands into my pillow, pretending that it’s his face. While I should be focusing on a movement rehearsal for my play, I think about the night he taught me how to do a Scottish line dance. I remember how we stood on a soccer field, both soaking wet and covered in water balloon pieces and astroturf beads, but we didn’t care, and he held my hands and spun me around, and I laughed like a giddy bride. During church sometimes I look down the pew and stare at him absentmindedly. I watch him and I bitterly wonder: how much of what he did to me was my fault? How much did I let him get away with, even encourage him to do? What if I somehow made him think that girls like that stuff and all of the pain he’s caused different people is because of me? How am I supposed to smile serenely for our baccalaureate Sunday photos when all those thoughts have been rushing through my head for years, never addressed nor expressed?

my mother to take because I had wanted, I don’t know, something to hold onto) from that Sunday when we wore our graduation robes to church to be recognized by the congregation. We have our arms around each other’s shoulders and we’re both giving the camera large “we-did-it” smiles. I’m sure that if you held this photo and one from when we were six side-by-side you would see four identically mischievous, gleeful grins, even though now I’m at least a half foot shorter than him and my black robe draped with honor cords is decidedly more elegant than his bright red and plain one. It’s a cute picture from a distance, but looking at it closely, I can see that my smile doesn’t reach my eyes, and I’m pulling away slightly from him as if I’m afraid of his touch.

My old bruises have finally faded, but one scar remains on my left shoulder from a well-aimed dart. A framed picture of our youth group sits on my desk, and around the edge everyone has signed their names and written me good wishes for college. His signature, in a sloppy chicken scratch that hasn’t changed since the second grade, reads, “Jess. Our love/hate has lasted since the beginning. Isaac.” It makes me want to laugh. I cry instead. t

But we graduate, and I do it somehow. I look at the picture of me and Isaac (which I had asked

MI L (detail ) | weaving by Deb Laube

Toothpaste b y K a l i R a n ke

e went to the store because I was out of toothpaste. You said I should buy the same one that you used so it would remind me of you whenever I used it. It was a green gel, spearmint flavored. And it did remind me of you. You were the first and last thing that crossed my mind, every morning and every night. A month after I bought that toothpaste, the kindest of your scummy friends sent me a video of you, in your boxers, with another girl. I sobbed that night when I brushed my teeth. When I talked to you the next day, you told me you were drunk, and she was just a friend. But so were all the other girls. My gut told me to end it, end us. So I did; I broke off my first relationship, but I still had your toothpaste. I cried for three weeks, every morning and every night.

I ended up brushing my teeth three or four times a day to try to use it all up. But it seemed like it would never run out. I tried to throw it away, but my dad said it was crazy of me, to throw out a perfectly good tube of toothpaste. It took eight months to finish that toothpaste. But after the third month, it wasn’t really yours anymore. It was the first big kid toothpaste my brother used when he was nine years old. It was the toothpaste I packed when I flew to Hawaii to visit my aunts and uncles. It was the toothpaste my mom always borrowed when hers ran out, and she kept forgetting to go to the store. It was my green gel, spearmint toothpaste. The one I used every morning and every night. t

U NTI TLED | figure drawing by Caroline Haw

Dear Debi b y J u l i a Br en t H o n o r a b l e M e n t i on Poe t r y

here is much less karaoke in my life now. Much less wandering in the bitter cold and sitting on freezing metal benches as we talked about all life’s problems. Now that I have moved away, I drive a lot more. Everywhere I go, every place to be. There are seldom places reasonably reachable on foot. I finally have a skin care routine but still haven’t made a habit of eating breakfast. I stay up too late and snooze the alarm too many times. I still overthink too much, my mind stuck in the plans of tomorrow. I still drink way too little water and way too much coffee.

Every Sunday night we gather. I always drink from the same mug, the bird tit mug. You would like them, oh how you would like my new people, well, most of them at least. They are thoughtful and sometimes too optimistic and loud, but they are genuine, real. Though we’ve grown, each in our way, I love you just the same and think fondly of those days on metal benches and cobblestone steps. t

I miss cobblestone steps and long bus rides. I sit in new friends’ apartments and have long conversations about purpose, about God, about who we are, as the candles flicker and tea grows colder.

The Party Scene b y Kr i st a W i ese

t’s the party scene. That’s what is wrong with my novel. I curl up in the corner chair of the coffee shop where I’ve hunkered down for the day and grip the edges of my laptop tightly. My characters are great—wonderful, really. Marina is spunky, lifelike, and relatable. Daryl is an absolute douche, exactly how I intended. The first sentence is attention-grabbing, and the last sentence almost made me tear up when I reread it. The book is full of unforgettable scenes, some that will remain like scars in readers’ minds and some that readers will hold close to their hearts, right beside their own cherished memories. In my opinion, the novel is quite excellent and very nearly complete. But that stupid party scene will be the death of me. It’s unrealistic, flat, boring. That’s what The Editor says. I don’t have an actual editor. Or a publisher. In fact, no eyes have graced the pages of my book other than my own. But I have this little voice that lives inside my head—not in a crazy way, but in a way that I know is common among writers. I call that voice The Editor because it’s always telling me what I can improve in my writing and what needs to be fixed. It’s quite helpful, really, and I welcome

the guidance. Every once in a while, though, I get frustrated because it seems The Editor will never be satisfied. Today is one of those days where I wish I could just silence that voice and be satisfied with my writing the way it is. I read the party scene for the tenth time today and hold back a groan. It truly is lacking, and I know why. The truth is that I’ve never been to a party before. I was homeschooled for most of high school, and I spent the other fraction of high school avoiding interaction by reading books in the bathroom stalls during breaks. I was bullied a little, teased, left out of groups, pranked. People spread stupid rumors about me, whispering behind my back that I was mentally challenged. Somehow, my elementary school reputation as President of the Imaginary Horse Club traveled with me to high school, resulting in a student-led diagnosis of schizophrenia. It was my imagination that was my downfall, but I used that very imagination to escape the terrible situation that was high school. I exaggerated the bullying to my parents enough that they finally let me drop out to be homeschooled. College is definitely better than high school was. I don’t have to hide

in the bathroom in between classes anymore—I can hide in my dorm room. In all seriousness, I am aware of the fact that I’m not cool, and I don’t care. One day it won’t matter that my bookshelf is void of friend group photos; my shelves will be lined by books that I wrote, and that’s far grander a future, in my opinion. This future is, of course, dependent on me actually writing something good enough to be published. So far, that hasn’t exactly been going according to plan. I read the party scene again, stopping before I even reach the end. The Editor is right—it’s flat, unrealistic, boring. I gloss over details because I don’t know enough to add details. I’ve tried research, but using the facts I’ve found feels like plagiarism of a sort, as though my readers will see right through my sentences to the ignorant recluse that I am. Then an idea pops into my head. Instead of going to the internet for research, I could do my own research. I happen to know someone who knows a lot about attending parties. I pull my phone out of the front pocket of my backpack where I store it when I’m writing and scroll through my recent messages to find my roommate’s name. Our recent string of messages ends with a text from her saying, “The room is mine for the next two hours,” as if our room is something she can just claim. But claim it she does, several times a week, leaving me to sulk in the common area of the fourth floor until I hear a door click down the hall and watch some sketchy male figure slink past the doorway of the lobby. This is not a routine that I chose, but I am stuck with it nonetheless. My only option is to file a complaint to our RA, which I know would only lead to an unhelpful intervention and a very pissed off roommate. I avoid pissing Chloe off at all costs, both because I am not fond of having graffiti drawn on my bed sheets with mascara and because some part of me still clings to my dream of having a roommate who doesn’t hate me intensely.

Chloe may not be a good roommate, but for the first time, I feel lucky to have her in my life. The Editor cheers me on as I type out a message to her. “Hey,” I type, “I’m working on a writing project, and I need to know some details about college parties. Do you have time to answer a few quick questions for me?” I hit send before I overthink the message. Then I sit hopefully, my fingers resting on my laptop keyboard, ready to transcribe the gems of information I am sure to receive. After a few minutes, my phone buzzes against my jeans and the screen lights up. I see my roommate’s name flash across the screen and I scramble to open the message. But when I read the three words so carefully drafted for me by my wonderful roommate, my hope and inspiration sink to the bottom of my stomach like popped balloons. “Fuck off weirdo,” the message reads. The least she could have done was include a comma. I sigh and close my laptop in defeat. The Editor’s disappointment radiates inside of me, but for the time being, I’m tired of trying. I’m beginning to think the party scene will never be complete.

Chloe is the last person I want to see after my colossally disappointing virtual interview with her, but the common area of the dorm building, formally known as the parlor, gets chilly after dark, especially on days as cold as this one. I consider braving the cold, but the longer I stand in the doorway of the parlor, the more my goosebumps protest the idea. It’s hard to tell from all the way across the room, but I think the half-empty water bottle abandoned beside the couch shimmers in the way that only frozen things do. I shiver and trudge to my dorm room. I have to take a deep breath before I open the door. It’s stupid how worked up I am. There was

no reason to expect that she would help me out. I learned that lesson early on in the semester. For the first few weeks of living on campus, I put my all into being involved on campus; I was not the kind of person to disobey my advisers or my parents. Before realizing such effort was a waste of time for a socially awkward person like me, I went to every social, every hall meeting, and a great array of info sessions. More often than not, the socials involved making something for your dorm room or for your roommate. I remember at one social, I painted a mason jar with purple and gray, colors I knew to be Chloe’s favorites, and filled the jar with coordinating lavender and snapdragons selected from the huge spread of flowers provided. Following the instructions of the RA leading the activity, I wrote some stupidly sappy note expressing my excitement to get to know Chloe during the upcoming year and tied it to the jar with a burlap string. The reason I remember the details of this craft so vividly is because, two and a half months later, the jar still sits underneath my bed where she put it after discovering it on her desk. A ring of shriveled purple petals surrounds the jar, mixing with the dust bunnies that drift beneath my bed due to my hatred of vacuuming. “I’d prefer if we just minded our own business,” Chloe had said, gesturing towards the flowers. “We’re very different people.” What she had said was true, and I don’t know why I haven’t thrown the jar away yet. It’s just one of those things that is easier to ignore. Acknowledging the discarded craft would make it a bigger deal than it is, and really, it’s not that big of a deal. She and I are very different people, and I don’t need her to like me. So I leave the flowers to shrivel to dust beneath my bed as a sign that I don’t care. I know full well by now not to expect any kindness from Chloe, but still I avoid eye contact with her when I enter our room. My eyes are tired from

writing earlier, and tired eyes water up all too easily. I set my backpack down beside my desk and flop onto my unmade bed. It’s a Friday night, the day and hour during which I usually get the most writing done. But I’m currently in no place to face the failure of the party scene yet again. For the time being, I am useless, and that’s a feeling I hate. I start to pull out my British Literature anthology just to feel busy when Chloe says something remarkably out-of-character. “Hey,” she says, not bothering to turn away from her computer to face me. “I wanna say that I’m sorry I was so rude earlier. My ex had just pissed me off, so it was a bad time to text me.” An apology from my roommate is not something I know how to accept. I fumble with it, unsure whether to hold it or drop it. “Oh, um, it’s no worries,” I say, cringing at my lack of eloquence. “I’ve been thinking,” Chloe says, finally spinning her chair around to face me. Her makeup is done as always, eyelids forever glittering as though God made them that way. The glitter fades into a dark, soft shade of brown at the corner of her eyelid. The upturned point of her eyeliner looks sharp enough to break skin, and I wonder how she can draw such a straight line when her handwriting is practically illegible. If I was another girl, a girl more like her, she’d probably show me how. Her red lips part. “Would you want to come with me to a party tonight?” “What?” I say, my voice loud with shock. I think I see her grimace, but maybe not. “I said I’m going to a party tonight, and you can come if you want. It’s just a casual party at this girl’s house so I’m not sure how helpful it’ll be for your, uh, poetry stuff?” “It’s a novel,” I say. “Right. So if you want to come, I’m leaving here around nine.” I want to say no, but The Editor screams at me to Continued on page 24

T H E A NAT O MY O F A WO MAN | ceramic bust withonwatercolor & collage by Kasey Vandenboom, 2nd Runner-Up Continued Page 27

say yes. The Editor says that if I go to the party, my novel will finally be what I want it to be. The party scene will be perfect, complete, acceptable. I can’t argue with that, so I push down my anxiety. “Sure,” I say, and nod at Chloe, as though I hadn’t needed a full minute to formulate my response. “I’ll come.” I’m suspicious and she knows it. “Relax,” she says. “I’m not trying to prank you or something. All my friends flaked on tonight last minute and showing up to the party alone would be lame. Don’t make me regret inviting you.” That sounds more like the Chloe I know. She stands with her hands on her hips in front of my closet. It can’t be like the movies where I borrow the perfect outfit from her because we are nowhere near the same size, so thankfully tonight’s outfit will come from my own closet. I can’t see her face from where I’m lying on my bed, but I imagine she’s scrunching those glittery eyes of hers as she analyzes my sparse selection. She pulls some clothes off hangers and tosses them backwards towards me. “You’re wearing those,” she says. I barely hear her. My brain is spinning, trying to formulate a plan for tonight the way I formulate plots for my stories. I’ll be invisible. No one will even see me. I’ll stand in a corner with a cup of water and mentally record every detail of the party. Maybe I should bring a notebook. No, a notebook will ruin my invisibility, and anyways, I’m sure I’ll remember everything. No one will talk to me—I’m not worried about that. I’ll leave the party undetected with a head full of details for my story and praise from The Editor. I like my plan. My thoughts go still, but my stomach continues to spin. I take the clothes my roommate threw at me and trudge to the bathroom that we share with two suitemates. I pull my hoodie and my favorite pair of jeans off their hangers and slip into the black t-shirt that she had handed me. As I tug on the black jeans she selected, I remember why I haven’t worn these

“

I want to say no, but The Editor screams at me to say yes. The Editor says that if I go to the party, my novel will finally be what I want it to be. The party scene will be perfect, complete, acceptable. jeans since the day my mom bought them for me. I struggle to pull the denim over my knees and struggle even more to get the jeans past my thighs. I breathe a sigh of relief once the button is safely fastened. There’s no full length mirror in our bathroom, so I can only hope the jeans don’t look as bad as they feel. As long as Chloe approves and they don’t rip before I get to the party, I can survive in this outfit. Plus, black is the color to wear to be invisible. Or so I’ve read. “Do these jeans look okay?” I ask, stepping just slightly out of the bathroom. “Of course they do,” Chloe replies, barely looking up from her phone. “You’re like, super thin, so you can wear whatever.” I don’t think about my body very much. I’m aware that I’m tall—five feet, eleven inches—and I’m aware that I’m thin. Sometimes my height bothers me, like when I’m trying to blend in to a room but end up towering above everyone, and sometimes my weight bothers me, like when my aunt calls me a scarecrow or when I can’t find any jeans that fit, but for the most part, my appearance doesn’t concern me. I always devote one paragraph to my characters’ appearances and the rest of the story to their personality, and I suppose my mind has been trained to do the same for real people. For this reason, I’m surprised that my roommate’s compliment feels so good. Chloe approves of the red Converse sneakers

I pull from my closet. She lends me a thin black necklace, and once the necklace and shoes are on, deems the outfit complete. “Not bad,” she says. “You can pull off grunge. Mostly.” We leave our dorm a little bit before nine o’clock, and in my “not bad” outfit, I feel a tiny bit less anxious about the party. Being invisible is nice, but fitting in is always preferable, and I’m starting to think I might be able to fit in at this party, just a little, as long as I have Chloe by my side and my jeans don’t rip.

I start taking mental notes as soon as Chloe’s GPS tells us we have arrived at our destination. A bit of sunlight lingers at the edges of the night sky, leaving me just enough light to observe my surroundings. We’re in one of those neighborhoods where all the houses look depressed. Each yard features some sort of faded swing set or crumpled tricycle as proof that the neighborhood had life once upon a time. The houses are varying shades of brown or dingy white, and overgrown shrubbery decorates the lawns of many. We park on the side of the street behind a row of seven or eight other cars. The property we’ve stopped in front of is surrounded by a tall brown fence, so I can’t see the actual house until we step onto the gravel driveway. I immediately conclude that this house feels different than the others on the street. The white of its sideboard looks freshly painted and the shrubbery below the wide windows of the house is neatly trimmed. There’s a stone pathway leading from the driveway to the front door, and beside the front door, there’s a little frog statue and a pot of flowers. I’m a little disappointed. This house would be a better setting for a scene involving a grandma teaching her granddaughter to bake cookies or a father helping his kids with their

math homework. I prefer the house I chose for my party scene: it’s three stories tall with large glass windows and an elaborate cactus garden decorating the front yard. This bland little box of a house does not feel like the kind of place where a party belongs. But there certainly is a party happening. As soon as Chloe opens the front door, a wave of sound comes crashing over me: pounding music, loud voices, clinking, cheering, and laughter. Descriptive adjectives spin in my head as I scramble to untangle the noise flooding my ears. Chloe stands at the doorway, seeming to scope out the situation for a minute, and I stand with her. She nods at a few people, and I hear someone shout her name. I try to absorb the details of the scene around me, but I’m distracted by the tightness of my jaw, the sudden beads of sweat appearing on my forehead, the flopping of my stomach. “Chill for a second. I’ll go find us drinks,” Chloe says. I open my mouth, but my voice decides it’s safer inside me, so only silence comes out. She leaves, and I suddenly feel like I’m standing naked in a crowd. I cross my arms over my chest and dart toward a vacant corner of the room. From this corner, I can watch events unfold without being trampled. I don’t expect my roommate to come back, but she surprises me. She finds me in my vacant corner and offers me a red plastic cup. “Is it water?” I ask, feeling hopeful. “No, it’s better,” she replies. “It’ll help you relax.” She smirks a little and her eyes dart sideways. I follow her line of sight to a group of three girls who look vaguely familiar. I get the feeling that they’re watching us, but they look away in an instant. I chide my imagination. “I’m gonna go say hi to a few people,” Chloe says. “You can come find me if you want. There’s also snacks around here somewhere. Eat something. Drink something. You’ll have more fun.” After this semi-poetic string of commands, she pats me on

my shoulder and leaves me. I don’t know how long I stand in the corner battling my nausea with no success before The Editor comes to my aid. Focus, The Editor says. You can’t leave this party until you have the details you need, it reminds me. Then, The Editor asks me a surprising question: Why don’t you drink a little? In my party scene, the main character drinks. I mention it in the scene but don’t go into detail because I obviously don’t know what it’s like to drink; I’m 18 and antisocial. Maybe that’s one of the weaknesses of the scene. Maybe that’s why the scene feels so unrealistic. Maybe The Editor and Chloe are right and my problems will be solved by drinking a little. I glance down at the sparkling liquid in my cup and bring it towards my face. My better judgment screams no, but I tell myself that I have to. This is what my novel needs. I don’t expect the alcohol to hurt so bad when I swallow it, but I gasp from the intense burning in my throat and chest and choke on the remaining liquid in my mouth. It occurs to me that I should have asked Chloe what was in the cup. I tasted my uncle’s beer when I was 12, and this is not beer. There’s also not much left in the cup, which concerns me.

A few minutes pass or maybe an hour, and finally I begin to feel calmer. I watch a group of guys and a girl in a stretchy red skirt play a game involving ping pong and alcohol across the room from me. I watch the game long enough to understand the rules. Then I gather some statistics. I count the number of couples and the number of single people, the number of people openly making out, the number of people drinking, the number of people dancing, the number of couples that disappear up the stairs over the course of 30 minutes. I day-

dream a little about my novel. After tonight, it’ll be complete. Finally it’ll be good enough to show the world, and won’t that feel amazing? At some point, a strange feeling floats into me. It’s a little like bravery but stronger. I have the urge to wander, and so I do. I wander through the kitchen where I grab a handful of Chex Mix, and then I wander outside. There are actually more people outside than inside. The music is just as loud out here, and there’s more room to dance. The small brick patio seems to be the designated outdoor dance floor, while the lawn is the place to circle up with your friends and laugh loudly. I step away from the swarm of dancing bodies onto an empty patch of lawn and scan the clumps of friend groups scattered around the yard. Is there a circle I could fit into? I recognize faces, but the faces belong to people who are not my friends, faces that ignore me at school. But I’m not here to fit into a circle, I remind myself. I’m here to observe circles so I can finish my novel, because once my novel is complete, I’ll never feel bad about not fitting into circles. In fact, I’ll never feel bad about myself again. That fact is worthy of celebration, I think, and I take another sip of the liquid in my cup. I cough and regret it a little less than last time. The cup is empty.

People-watching becomes tricky as groups spill outside, flooding the backyard. In my quest for a better vantage point, one in which I can maintain some personal space, I discover a trampoline perched at the edge of the lawn. “An excellent vantage point!” someone says. I glance around me, but no one is there. I laugh at myself and march forward. I climb onto the trampoline, falling only once in the process. With disappointment, I realize that Continued on page 28

I N THE GAR D E N | ceramics by Jordyn Quarandillo

from up here, I can only see the tops of heads. I should go back to the crowd. I need more details for my scene, but I can’t resist the urge to jump on the trampoline, at least once. Stay focused, says The Editor but in such a quiet voice. The voice telling me to jump is much louder, and I like the sound of it much better. It sounds like my own voice. The voice asks all sorts of questions as I jump. Remember being a kid? Remember jumping? Remember when jumping was all you had to do to feel on top of the world? Yes, I answer. I remember, but so vaguely. I should jump on a trampoline more often. It’s so easy. It’s like writing once was. At least I think there was a time when writing was this easy, when words flowed from my fingers as easily as my feet leave the trampoline, when the words I wrote made my heart feel floaty the way it does right now as my body soars towards the stars. It’s quiet up here in the stars with everyone’s thoughts and noise so far away. I wish I could stay up here forever. I bet I could write some beautiful things. But, unfortunately, gravity pulls me down. I land on the stretchy black surface of the trampoline and not at all in the way I intended. Suddenly I’m flying again, not towards the stars, but towards the rocky, dead lawn. I land hard and gravity envelopes me in heaviness. I feel so very low. “Pull yourself together. You’re an embarrassment, and you’ve forgotten why you’re here.” “Who said that?” I ask, realizing a second later that I’m alone. I vaguely remember drinking something, and I blame the voices in my head on the alcohol. Then a different voice, a deeper voice, enters my head. “Are you okay?” I prop myself up on my elbows and realize there’s a boy standing a few feet in front of me. Even in the dark, I can tell that he has green eyes. My first inclination is to describe his eyes as piercing, but only villains and lovers have piercing green eyes, and at

“

I land on the stretchy black surface of the trampoline and not at all in the way I intended. Suddenly I’m flying again, not towards the stars, but towards the rocky, dead lawn. I land hard and gravity envelopes me in heaviness. I feel so very low. the moment, he is neither. Maybe sensitive is a better word. The way the green softens and disappears beneath his dark lashes when he furrows his brow makes me feel as though his eyes are absorbing all the thoughts and feeling inside me. But I don’t know this boy—not yet—and the green of his eyes will only tell me so much about what sort of character he is. I look away from the boy’s face and scramble to my feet, wavering a little once upright. “I’ve been better,” I reply finally as I frantically brush dirt from my hair and jeans. “We’ve all been better at one point or another,” the boy says. I realize how true a sentence that is at the same time I realize there’s a trail of blood running down my forearm from a cut on my elbow. The boy sees it, too. “Let’s go inside and find a Band-Aid or something for you,” he says. This is the stuff of books and movies, I think as we traipse back to the house and away from the trampoline. The boy takes my hand as we weave through the dancing crowd that blocks the backdoor. I fight back a smile because I know this boy is just being helpful, but I’ve never had my hand held by a boy before, and it feels good. We pass Chloe at one point and my eyes catch hers. I wave stupidly, and she actually smiles back. I think it’s a smile of approval that I’m not alone. This feels good, too. “This is my cousin’s house,” the boy says once

we’re inside. “She keeps some Band-Aids in the upstairs bathroom. I’ll show you,” he says. I feel the slightest pang of fear in my heart when he says this. In my party scene, upstairs is where couples go to do one thing and one thing only. But your party scene is unrealistic, The Editor reminds me. You don’t know what happens at real parties. That’s true, so I quiet my fear and let the boy lead me by the hand up the stairs. There are indeed Band-Aids in the upstairs bathroom. The boy steps into the tiny hallway bathroom and opens the drawer beneath the sink. “Come here, and I’ll help you,” he says. His smile radiates warmth, and I realize his eyes are indeed sensitive green, not piercing green. Part of me wonders if he’s flirting with me. My imagination wants to believe the answer is yes. I step into the bathroom. The door drifts shut behind me but doesn’t latch closed, so I leave it. As the boy opens a box of Band-Aids, I wet a paper towel and wash off the blood that has dried all around the cut. The situation is gross, but the boy doesn’t seem bothered. He smiles a little at me as he places the Band-Aid over the cut. His hand lingers on my arm a few seconds longer than necessary, and I think he steps closer. He’s going to kiss me, I realize too late. In my book, my main character panics when the boy kisses her. But it’s not pure panic that courses up my arms and legs and through my chest. There is a little bit of panic, I don’t deny it, a slight sinking of my stomach, a shortening of breath, a small swarm of buzzing thoughts telling me that I’m in danger. But there is also a fizziness, an excited tingling in my toes and fingertips. I have spent so much time stressing about my first kiss, that I wouldn’t do it right, but it turns out kissing is kind of easy. The boy presses against me. I step backwards, running into the bathroom wall behind me so that there is no space between me and the wall and me and the boy. His hands are at my waist, and as he

kisses me, he slips them beneath the hem of my shirt. He never seems to stop to breathe. It’s as though he no longer needs to breathe, no longer wants air. It is only me that he wants. This thought gives me butterflies in my stomach, and it’s the oddest sensation. I always reserve butterflies in my stories for gentle, romantic moments: first meetings with true loves, snuck glances at crushes from across cafés, shared smiles during first dates. Butterflies do not belong in the dead of night when the air smells like alcohol and sickly sweet smoke, and yet I feel their powdery wings now, stirring in my stomach as the boy’s hands climb up my ribcage. A little voice in my head tells me to stop being stupid—it’s not me he wants, it’s any girl with a body. But the voice is so quiet, just a whisper compared to the pounding of my heart and the encouragement of The Editor. Really getting into character, I see, the Editor says, drowning out the whispers of worry. Think about how much this will help your scene, The Editor says. Your novel will finally be good enough. Good enough? The Editor has never said that. My writing has never been good enough. I’ve never been good enough. I can’t stop myself from smiling. The boy feels my smile against his lips and pulls away so that there is space between our faces. We make eye contact for the first time in what feels like an eternity. His eyes are piercing green after all. “Why are you smiling?” he asks. I don’t know how to answer his question, so in my typical fashion, I remain silent. I stand there, toning my smile down to a smirk which seems more fitting for the moment. But I’m speaking a language I don’t understand, and the boy reads into my smile words that I didn’t know were there. He leans forward so that his lips brush my ear when he speaks. “Lock the door,” he whispers and with those few words, panic explodes inside of me, singeing the wings of the butterflies. This is too far.

Even I know that. I shake my head no. The fizziness in my stomach fades to queasiness. But The Editor says, Go with it. It’s the only way. It’s not worth it. If giving myself away like this is the only way to be good enough for The Editor, then it’s not worth it. Just as I decide this, the bathroom door swings open and the shocked face of Chloe appears. Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the boy pressed against me. “What the fuck, Noah. Is no one off limits?” she says in that frustratingly monotone voice of hers. The boy whose name I just learned steps backwards, looking mildly ashamed and massively annoyed. “I didn’t know she was your friend,” he says. “She’s not,” Chloe replies. “But she’s clearly drunk and very inexperienced, so have some decency.” My face floods with heat, and every breath I take is shaky. Alcohol doesn’t mix well with hurt and anger. I want to vomit, but what I want even more is to leave this party. I push the boy away from me and shove past Chloe. “I’ll be in the car,” I manage to say. I get the feeling that someone is chasing me, but no one follows me out of the house.

I sit in Chloe’s car for 15 minutes, savoring the silence. But when my roommate shows up, I don’t wait to ask my question. She opens her car door and plops down into the seat in a way that indicates she should not be driving. It’s clear she plans to ignore me, but for once, I don’t allow it. “If you didn’t bring me as your friend, why’d you bring me?” I ask, hating how childish the question sounds. She shrugs and struggles to insert her key into the ignition. “I thought going to the party with you would be better than going alone.”

I know I shouldn’t ask, but two small, shaky words escape me: “Was it?” Chloe turns to face me, smirking as though she’s amused by my question. “Not really,” she replies and then starts the car. The villains in my stories say many cruel things. They threaten to cut off limbs, to kill family members, to defame reputations. My villains are terrifying, I used to think. I used to think creating villains was one of my strengths. But now I realize my villains are unrealistic. Having your self-worth threatened is a far scarier thing than empty threats of violence. Chloe’s words leave me feeling as though I’ve been stabbed, as though I was pinned to a dart board and a target placed right over my heart. Unlike the heroes in my stories, I don’t respond boldly and confidently. My only defense is to turn towards the window so she can’t see me cry. I cry because reality hurts, and tonight I learned a lot about reality. I learned that boys who kiss drunk girls in bathrooms don’t want the girl, they want the body. And cruel girls who find their worth in their body and their popularity don’t want friends who are content to wear a t-shirt and jeans every single day. And I learned that The Editor doesn’t want a story that is good enough. The Editor wants perfection, and I will never achieve that. The Editor wanted me to see reality, and I have seen it, and what it showed me was the hard impossibility of my goals. But perfection is not my goal anymore. My new goal is this: to be a writer. That means I put words on paper, I pay attention to details around me, I research facts I don’t know, and I trust my imagination. I write, and I rewrite, and then I send my book out into the world where people will either like it or they won’t. I think, at long last, the party scene is complete. t

WATER D R O PLETS | digital photography by Candice Lillard

Hapless Decoration b y S h el l y W h i t m i r e 1 s t P l a c e Poe t r y

n those old days Upon that ceramic floor I stared into her back Where she was resting on her knees And staring in the water

She rests in that frame Bathed in clinical light Mirrored by the one Dripping onto the floor Into the vast sea below t

As if she was finely brushed With ocean blue tears Devoid of salt Teasing at the seam Of her existence She harkens to the girl Wet from chlorine On a holy afternoon Staring at the flesh Of her youthful thighs Who could imagine A being so small So fragile and fair As to wonder why And for what purpose

WI NTER SC APE | fiber art by Leah Jensen

Heritage by Olivia Slack

hen I set out, I hoped that the worst thing that would happen was maybe the cops would find me. I didn’t want to be found. Driving along the parkway at night, it wasn’t busy, so I thought I would be able to get out undetected. There were places to turn off that led to other places that led to nowhere. That’s exactly where I wanted to be—somewhere I couldn’t be found. My fingers tapped on the steering wheel to the tune of the banjo on the CD. Out of the corner of my eye, I double-checked that the car doors were locked. They were. It was the fifth time I’d checked in the last half hour. The road curved ahead of me and disappeared into the shadows. The shadow was too thick for my headlights to pierce, so I turned on my brights. Little eyes blinked at me, then vanished. Probably a deer—about tall enough for one. And pretty quick; I hadn’t even seen it run away. Around the corner, I kept my brights on. It wouldn’t go well if I hit one. A badly placed deer can total a car or kill a person. I wanted to be nowhere, but not like that. On the next stretch of straight road, there was an overlook to the left. The view was probably pretty.

Everyone who’s from here knows that at night on the parkway, the views are gorgeous and should not be looked at. If you look at them, funny things happen that you don’t want to repeat in the daylight. I turned up the heat in the car and switched to the next song. My skin itched a little. When the next right turn came up, I slowed down and took it. I had no idea where it went, but it didn’t really matter. It would do, because no matter where the road led, everything would be the same anyway. There would be trees on all sides, the wind whistling, and nobody to be found. A light flickered on in the dash of my car. Low gas. I had a full tank when I set out. Had I been on the road for that long? I was in luck, somehow. Up ahead there were the lights of a little town and there had to be a gas station. I don’t know how it happened that I found a town. Usually, my luck wasn’t so good. I pulled up to the first pump at the gas station and looked out both sides of my windows before I unlocked my door and stepped out of my car. The wind picked up my hair and pulled it. “Stop it,” I chastised, and it didn’t. It never did

“

When I started up the car and inched back onto the two-lane road, the little eyes were back, and I knew this time they didn’t belong to deer—they never had, probably. listen. I looked at the pump and saw there was no option to pay. I’d have to pay inside. As I walked toward the gas station building, I tried to stamp down the uneasy feeling in me. Everything was a little quieter once I was inside. The young man standing behind the register looked at me. His face was emotionless. His eyes glistened. “20 dollars on pump two, please.” I pointed to my car, visible beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Do you take card?” His expression stayed the same except for his pupils. They changed a little, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. Card’s fine.” I handed over my credit card and watched as he swiped it, so slowly I thought maybe I was imagining things. To pass the time, I said, “Do you live here?” He dragged his eyes back up to me. “Yes. Do you?” “No. Just passing through.” I offered a small smile to appease him. “Card declined.” He held it out to me. “No, it didn’t.” “Yes, it did.” We had a staring match. He won because his pupils had become slits, and I took out my cash. “How much to get out of here safely?” “I don’t have the power to guarantee you anything.” “Why did I run out of gas?”

“Not my problem.” “I started with a full tank not an hour ago.” “Maybe you should drive a little better.” “Tell me what’s going on.” His pupils went back to normal. “You’ve driven a lot farther than you think.” I slowly dished out 20 dollars. Outside, the wind had picked up. The cashier took the money. I walked back outside and held onto my ponytail as the wind tore at it. Once my car had taken 20 dollars’ worth of gas, I replaced the pump and screwed the cap back on, got in my car, and locked the doors again. I had gone too far. My wish to go nowhere had been granted in the worst way possible. When I started up the car and inched back onto the two-lane road, the little eyes were back, and I knew this time they didn’t belong to deer—they never had, probably. They blinked at me from the sides of the road while I drove back the way I came. Instead of ending up at the turn back onto the parkway, the road kept going straight. Of course it did. I drove on, accelerating until I was going far too fast for this little road. More lights shone up ahead, glowing golden and artificial. Maybe I could drive right through this place, back to where I came from. Even as I thought it, I knew it was a fruitless daydream. I decided to turn around and go back to the gas station. Maybe the cashier there could be persuaded to help me since he hadn’t immediately attacked me. But when the station came into sight, I saw that I was mistaken. A whole horde of them was standing there, in front of the doors, exuding anti-light that hissed and warped and reached out toward me, making the lights flicker as it slowly absorbed their essence. My car stopped of its own accord. I knew it wouldn’t start back up again, so I left the keys in the ignition and opened the door. One foot hit the

pavement before the anti-light wrapped around my waist and pulled me to them. To my surprise, it released me in front of them and I was gently dropped onto the pavement, firmly planted on both my feet. The tallest of them, draped all in cloth apart from two wispy, curling horns atop its head, stepped forward. It spoke in a light voice that would have been feminine if it was human. “You came home.” “Not by choice.” I dug my fingernails into my palms, to remind me that I was not like them. I had become more. “I left to protect the humans. I knew you would come for them, but I thought I could hide. But I was led here.” The cloaked figure’s clothes rustled. “This is your home. Your family. We missed you.” Another of them spoke up. This one could not be seen among the anti-light, except for two glowing purple eyes. “We sent the wind to fetch you. It did not do its job well, but you came anyway.” A quaking breath left my mouth. “I told you, I did not intend to come here. I took a wrong turn.” “You took all the right turns,” the cloaked figure countered. “We never meant for you to stay there so long, in the human world. It was never part of the plan. We were done with your counterpart many years ago.” Done with her. That meant they’d killed her, no doubt, the one who I had replaced. A small, small girl with fur all over her body came to the very front of the pack. She spoke in a deep, echoing voice that made my ears hum and my mouth tickle. “Changelings are not meant to stay for long. This is your home.” She directed her next words to the general atmosphere. “Take her.” The anti-light curled around me again, lifting me off my feet and swarming around my head. My eyes closed without my permission and all feeling left my body, leaving me with only the thoughts in my mind to keep me company while I was trans-

ported to wherever they wanted me. I was floating, weightless. I wondered if the gas station cashier had told the rest of them about me, or if it was just a coincidence that I had talked with him at all and this would have happened anyway. Maybe I had only been delaying the inevitable all these years. It didn’t really matter because where I’d come from was probably unreachable now, even if my car, parked forever at the gas station, would ever start up again. They would almost certainly destroy it before I could find out. Or eat it. Who could say? My eyelids opened and my eyes refocused on the dark woods ahead of me just as hands landed on my shoulders. It was the purple-eyed one. It pushed me forward, through a hole in a tree trunk. On the other side, two of them were standing. They looked just like I did, when I did not look like a human. Their dark hair cascaded across their shoulders and blended in with the anti-light. Their skin was webbed with dark veins. Their fingers were too long and too slender, and their white eyes were pricks of light in the darkness. They extended their arms to me, waiting for me to greet them. As I stared at them, I felt my skin leaving me, and when it was gone, I knew that I was the same as them. The dark and the cold and the forest had reclaimed me, and already I could barely remember where I had been, why I had gone, and that I hadn’t wanted to come back here. My head bowed in greeting to my family, and their voices whispered in my head. We knew your heritage would bring you back, they said. Where had I come back from? t

R O O TS | gel press monoprint & linocut by Lydia Gunn

Silver Eyes b y K at e N i em i

ill I walk unwinding ways down to see the willow grow? It unfurls tendrils to coax me there; I grasp each vine to feel its knots. Silver leaves shed in cries; I clasp another quivering limb. Weeping willow, knowing all tragedies of this wasted land, tell me a sadness I anticipate will stalk me through my flight away from broken barns and empty friends. My silver eyes plead to escape. Would you redeem me from my solitude? I may find nothing to reclaim besides the dusted heaps I fled. Weeping willow, grow. Give me a piece of you to sate my weakened soul; let me wear your crest of silver crown to show how far I go this night: a real existing mind that found a path into the strangers’ hearts, a place of welcome where my life begins. t

Unbridled b y V i r gi n i a E w i n g H u dso n

’m nobody’s haven But I may be the celebration If you’re brave and willing to be afraid with me But there are no rules on the board And we can’t see ahead The twists and turns that await us Or whether or for how long Our paths may merge But if they do, be ready To feel the spark, the lightning strike, And ride waves of shimmering river Cresting rough seas as long as our craft holds Then willingly let go, hands open In hale and hearty farewell Releasing ourselves into the matrix Of change and possibility that is life t

Gumbo b y Al ex a n dr i a R o sen z wei g

Trigger warning: graphic descriptions of violence

oday feels like it’s never going to end. Work was exhausting, as usual, but it comes with its own comforts. It’s crazy to think how I have the opportunity to take a glance at the beginning of humanity. Studying the social, cultural, and philosophical norms and values of these ancient human societies is breathtaking. I find my lips pursed into a slight smile every time I recall how my wife jokingly remarks that I am trapped in the past—but aren’t all anthropologists? Before leaving for the museum, she teasingly remarked, “Don’t get too touchy with Sana, no matter how flirtatious she can be!” Sana was the new Narmada Human fossil that had recently been excavated from the banks of Narmada in South Asia. I love my job because it reveals the origins of humanity, which are still so unknown. How could the first breeds of Homo sapiens have predicted that their descendants would spread across the planet, creating complex communities and technological innovations? Looking at the time we are in, it’s incredible to think of how much we have grown, developed,

and overcome. I roll into my driveway, gripping the gravel as it leads me inside the garage. The sun has just begun to set, and within the hour, it will be engulfed by the horizon. My head slowly falls back on the headrest of my seat as my eyelids gradually close shut. I never realized how heavy they felt. It’s dead silent except for the collective chirping of the cicadas who have come out to welcome me with their orchestra of the night. After a couple of minutes, I launch my eyes open as I jerk myself up and walk out of the car. Normally, I enter the house through the garage door, which my wife leaves unlocked in the afternoon. Upon reaching the door, I struggle to open it, quickly realizing it is locked. I can only imagine the hell my wife will give me for coming home so late. She works full time and hates it when I leave her home to prepare dinner. I take out the key from my pocket and jiggle it in the lock until the door swings open. “Cher, I’m home! I missed ya’ at work today!” The house is silent, which causes an uncomfortable sensation of emotions to rise within me. “Cher, where y’at?” I grew up in Louisiana where shouting was

“

I approach the room and swing open the French doors. “Who’s gonna serve Daddy a plate of Mama’s delicious gum—” I’m cut short before I am able to finish as I peer at my family sitting around the dining table, gagged and tied to the chairs. not only a language of communication but an expression of love and unity. It is the only way you can hear one another through the constant chaos that makes up our cohabitation lifestyle; it is a sign of life and community, but tonight the house is serene and silent. I step into the kitchen; the lights are still on and I see my wife’s famous shrimp gumbo simmering away on the stove. Maybe it’s because I have this uncontrollable hunger or maybe it’s the incredible smell that is filling the house, but I can’t stop myself from sneaking a little taste. I notice that she has slightly altered the recipe, adding what seems to be some new spices and some soft pieces of beef to enhance the flavor. I pray that she won’t walk in the kitchen as I sample her cooking, knowing she would not hesitate to slap me across the head with one of the wooden spoons—but I wouldn’t love her any less. Esmerelda is the most gorgeous woman on the planet, having been kissed by the goddess of the night sky herself. I fell in love with this queen the moment I laid my eyes on her 14 years ago. Cher is the little nickname I call her, which translates to expensive in Creole French. She definitely fits the title with her fine tastes and ridiculous spending habits, but she’s worth every penny. “Cher, listen, I know I said no more late nights this week, but I promise I will make it up to you.” Footsteps echo in the corridor behind me. I see the

lights on in the dining room and hear the muffled sounds of my children’s voices pouring from underneath the door. I approach the room and swing open the French doors. “Who’s gonna serve Daddy a plate of Mama’s delicious gum—” I’m cut short before I am able to finish as I peer at my family sitting around the dining table, gagged and tied to the chairs. My ears perk up as the metal click of a loaded gun roars from behind my head. My jaw tightens, and my gaze becomes fixed on my wife’s fear-stricken cocoa eyes, her pupils dilating as she glances behind me. The head of the gun aggressively pokes the back of my scalp, causing my head to involuntarily bobble. Instinctually, I raise my hands in a passive gesture, implying I will submit to his demands. I feel his breath close to my ear as he mocks me with the words, “Missed ya’ at work today.” A small chuckle escapes his lips following his whispered taunt. “Why don’t you take a seat? We were just about to serve dinner.” I move in the direction his gun suggests, as he motions for me to sit down. As I am seated, I am finally able to look up to see the face of my kidnapper. It isn’t surprising to see the face of a jester staring back at me. It is Mardi Gras season, and masks like these are a dime a dozen. He gestures towards the zip ties on the plate in front of me and orders me to tie them around my feet, binding me to the legs of the chair. Next, he motions for me to loop the ties around my wrists and pull the handles closed. I can’t help my disgusted stare as he leans forward and further tightens them for me. I glance around the table to be greeted by the panic-stricken expressions of my wife, daughter, and son. If I was in a more opportune position and a braver man, I would choke the life out of this nauseating jester. I examine my wife, searching for any injuries he could have inflicted upon her, but I only see the tears she is fighting to hold back. Even in a hostage situation with her life on the line, only

my wife would put on a brave face for our children. Looking at her further, I notice her eyes repeatedly dart to her right, where the children were sitting. I follow her gaze to the children. Terror instantly crosses my mind. Where’s Elijah? Elijah is my eldest child—only 13 years old. A year ago, he had an accident that put him in a wheelchair, having been paralyzed from the waist down. Since then, his health has been quite fragile, spurring a rejuvenation of the panic and anxiety attacks that he had as a child. I turn to my wife and telepathically communicate that I will handle this. She gives me a slight understanding nod. I jolt my head left to right, confirming that my son isn’t with us. “My son. Where’s Elijah?” I ask in a low tone which clearly unveils my anger and worry. “P-please. He has anxiety attacks and needs medication.” I can’t control the crack of fear that escapes my voice. The Jester’s head shoots up in my direction from his seat at the head of the table. The chilling smile plastered upon his mask gives no indication of his thoughts, but his demeanor reveals that he was prepared for my question. He walks behind me and straps a cloth strip around my mouth to keep me from speaking further. After he finishes the knot, he taps me on the head like an obedient dog. “Given his fragile state, I decided it would be best if he stayed in his room until supper was ready.” Although he has a mask on, I can sense the delight through his voice. What feels like hours pass as we all sit in silence at the table. We exchange hesitant looks across the room. Our captor sits at the table, staring straight ahead with his gun in the place where his fork would lie. He remains so still, it’s statuesque. I turn to my right to see my daughter Charlotte’s box braids slowly bounce up and down, which is when I notice that she is trembling. Lord, I hate seeing her like this! I extend my leg out from underneath the table and tap my foot on her calf in a comforting

manner that inexplicably tells her we are going to be okay. She turns to me and her dilated pupils recede as her breathing slows down. Not even I believe that we are going to be “okay,” but that’s why I envy the mind of a child. They naturally believe that the world is good and beautiful; therefore, they believe the ramblings of a broken man such as myself. All adults are broken people; it’s the only way we can transition from childhood to adulthood. We have to voluntarily break our innocent perception by accepting the truth of the evil and chaos that fuels the planet. Yet, no matter how much I know this to be true, I have to lie—to myself in order to find happiness in life, and to my children to preserve their innocence for as long as possible. I escape my thoughts and come back to reality, where my heart is so rapidly thumping in my chest that it just might rip out of me. However, as a father and as a husband, I can’t show my family how petrified I am. I realize that the five of us are just a blip in human history, but this small family I’ve created is my entire universe. I peer at my children and begin to deeply breathe in and out, gesturing for them to follow along with me. Their chests expand as they intake air and slowly fall back down once released. The piercing ding of the timer from the kitchen startles all of us, and we slightly jump from our seats. “Gumbo’s ready!” The Jester declares with an excited tone as he rubs his palms together. Hurrying into the kitchen, he returns with bowls filled with the gumbo. After he places the bowls on the table in front of each one of us, I peek inside to see the hot, red gumbo with celery, bell peppers, and onions emerging from the thick liquid. After he finishes, he sits back down at the head of the table. He looks at us before chuckling to himself in a forgetful manner. Walking around the table, he removes the gags around our mouths, then returns to his seated position and gestures for us to eat. None of us dare

move. His attitude turns agitated as he bangs his fist on the table in a threatening manner. I nod to my family, and we start eating. Cautiously picking up their spoons, with their hands still bound together by the zip ties, they raise the warm liquid to their lips. I am glad to see the faces of my children lighten up with a small sense of peace as they fill their aching bellies. The Jester turns to face me, waiting for me to take a taste. Although I am starving, I can’t focus on the food. In the calmest tone I can muster, I ask, “What about Elijah?” He makes an ahh sound as he races out of the room and down the hall. “Louis!” my wife whisper-yells from across the table. Our eyes lock as the overwhelming fear once again fills my chest, but I keep an emotionless face. “Do you have your phone?” I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. “Can you grab it?” I try to grab it as carefully as possible but due to the zip ties binding my wrists and the duct tape keeping me to the chair, I can’t reach it. “Hurry!” she commands impatiently. “I-I can’t,” I stutter out, as I feel the shame of how I have failed as a husband and a father flood my soul. Esmerelda isn’t ready to give up. “Charlotte? Baby? Can you reach Papa’s phone?” I look to my right and see tears beginning to stream down Charlotte’s face. “Charlotte, are you listening to me? “She can’t, Cher,” I interrupt. “The phone is in my left pocket.” Lord, why couldn’t I be right-handed! For the first time all night, a tear falls from Esmerelda’s eyes as the reality sets in that we aren’t making it out of here. Almost immediately, the Jester reappears with Elijah in his wheelchair. “Oh! No need to cry. See! Safe and sound,” he announces while placing his hands on my son’s shoulders in a protective manner. It sickens me to see him touch Elijah, but at least

he is fine, or at least alive. Elijah remains quiet and keeps his gaze fixed on his hands which are placed on his lap. The Jester then waves his hand, telling all of us to continue eating. Grabbing the spoon, I take a scoop and slurp the contents down. I can’t help but release the tension I built up in my shoulders as the delicious, warm gumbo slides down my throat, along with a piece of beef and bell pepper. I hate to admit it, but my mood perks up as I hungrily finish my bowl. The Jester removes his mask and proceeds to eat with the rest of us. At least it’s not poisoned, I think to myself. He’s a scrawny white male in his early- to mid-30s. His blond head of hair nearly camouflages into his pale skin. Without the mask, he has a much more awkward and unsettling demeanor, yet the gun on the table is enough to keep me from making a move. We sit there in silence until we are scraping the edges of our bowls. “Did you enjoy it, buddy?” the Jester asks my youngest, Herbert. Herbert gives a curt nod as he stares at his empty bowl. Looking across the table, I fix my attention on Elijah. His bowl is still full, and it is only then that I notice that he hasn’t moved for the entire meal. His lips are blue with a slight tint of pink at the center. He has a blank, sick expression and looks near death. The only indication that he is alive is when he periodically blinks his eyes. Something is wrong, I think. “What’d you do to him?” I practically shout while aggressively motioning my head towards Elijah. The Jester has a nonchalant attitude as he continues to drink his soup and responds by saying, “Oh he’s fine. Probably just a little bit tired from the surgery.” My heart drops as I digest the words that came from his mouth. “Surgery?” Esmerelda meekly asks with a tone of terror in her voice. The Jester is silent, until he finishes his last gulp Continued on page 45

MO NSTER MO S AI C | ceramic low-fire clay by Rachel Stewart

of gumbo and grabs a napkin, patting the sides of his mouth. Pushing his chair back, the legs drag across the floor, creating a discomforting screeching. He steps behind Elijah and pulls him out in front of the table, so we all have a clear view of him. Elijah’s face remains unchanged. I wish I could punch this guy in the face and run over to comfort my son. It is then that I notice the crimson blanket splayed across Elijah’s legs. The edges of the Jester’s mouth reveal an arrogant smirk. Suddenly, he yanks the blanket off Elijah’s legs, as if he is some sort of twisted magician, eager to reveal his secret. The realization of what has just happened instantly dawns upon me as I peer at my son—who now only has one leg. Charlotte and Herbert scream in horror upon looking at their brother and Esmerelda begins to gag. My mind takes off faster than a rocket to Mars. What the hell is happening? Why is his leg gone? How is Elijah? Was he in pain? Did he scream? How did my family not hear his screams? Why did he do it? What could this pathetic tèt zozo (“dickhead” in Creole French) want with a crippled boy’s leg? I want to scream. No, I want to rip off these binds and cut off the Jester’s own leg. I will show him how it feels to be the weak and defenseless one! And I won’t stop there! I might even cut off some more sensitive appendages, because God knows he deserves it. This is no man. This is a weak, cowardly jackass who feels no remorse for the pain he is inflicting! Why in God’s name would he cut off his leg? For what purpose? He has already tortured us. He has broken the innocent perception of my children, torn open the heart of a mother, and shamed my name as a father, a husband, and a man. What else could he do? Suddenly it occurrs to me to wonder, where the hell is his leg? The smell of a rotten leg would fill the house. He cut it off for a reason. But why? An unsettling thought comes to my mind that makes me taste bile in my mouth. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. It’s not possible. Lord, please tell me it’s not where I think it is!

I stare at my empty bowl, which once had the beef gumbo I had quickly consumed—the Elijah gumbo, I should say. Ughhh! Why the hell would I call it that! As the thought settles in my mind, I begin hyperventilating. Like the plague, my conclusion spreads and infects the mind of my wife as she begins to understand the situation he has put us in. Fortunately, my children are too shocked by Elijah’s amputated leg to put together that their brother is an ingredient in the stew they just ate. It doesn’t matter, though; their minds are now permanently scarred, and I only hope that they can recover from this. As the Jester happily observes our reactions, he begins to maniacally laugh. My brain is undergoing a hurricane of thoughts. I can hardly see. I hear him saying words, but I can’t make them out. All my senses have been scrambling, and I am struggling to regain my gage on reality. A deafening bang charges through my ear, as I am left hearing a sharp ringing. I don’t understand what is happening around me, but I can sense the chaos and despair. I feel a cold sensation on my forehead as I look up to see the all too familiar Jester mask and the barrel of a gun resting on my temple. Black. All I see is black darkness.

My eyes burst open, and I begin squinting as I am greeted by a bright white light hanging overhead. As my pupils adjust to the light, I look around to see myself in a white room dressed in pale clothes. I can’t move my arms or legs. A nurse walks in and adjusts the bag of liquid, which has a tube connecting to my arm. “Where am I?” I feel hoarse. She looks at me so scornfully before calling out, “He’s awake!” Did she hear me? As she begins walking towards the door, I call out as loud as I can, “Where am I?

My family?” I feel a sharp headache, causing me to hiss in pain. A man in a white doctor’s coat walks into the room, flipping through a clipboard with some charts and notes attached to it. I read the name embroidered on his coat: Dr. Leo Cerebro. Underneath which reads, Chief Neurologist. Without turning to look at me, he greets me, “Welcome back to the land of the living!” I try lifting my arms, but I am only able to jiggle them slightly. “Oh! Sorry about the restraints, but these are for your safety as much as ours.” Their safety? What does he think I am going to do to him? I can hardly move my limbs as it is. I mumble some incoherent words as I struggle to form sentences. “I would take it slow if I were you. You have been out for a while.” “My wife and kids? Are they okay?” Ignoring my question, he asks, “Do you remember who you are?” I nod. “Could you tell me your name, your age, where you work, and the names of your children?” Why is he asking so many questions? I guess it’s not completely out of the ordinary. In the movies, the doctors always ask the patient a lot of questions after they have come out of an accident. The only difference was that what had been done to me was no accident. “Yes. My name is Louis Kendall, I am 36 years old, and I work at the Louisiana Museum of Natural Sciences as the leading anthropologist.” “And the names of your children?” My childrens’ names? What are their names? “Elijah, Charlotte, and Rubert. I think.” Dr. Cerebro gives me a wary look. “I mean Herbert. My son’s name is Herbert,” I correct myself. Dr. Cerebro jots some notes on his clipboard and asks, “What do you remember happening before you woke up?” “There was a man in my house. He—he tied us up. My son is hurt. He needs medical attention.” “Yes, but before you arrived home. Do you

“

“Stop ignoring me, you bastard!” I reach out to grab his neck, but the restraints hold me back. I am out of breath, but Dr. Cerebro didn’t even flinch. Why was I just about to

strangle him? What the hell is wrong with me and why isn’t he answering me? remember anything before that night? Before you walked into the house? In fact, before you even pulled up into the driveway?” “How is that important?” He gives me a look which tells me to answer. “No.” I can’t remember anything before then, just last night. Do I have amnesia? Maybe. But usually in the movies, it’s the exact opposite, where the patient isn’t able to remember the events of the night of the incident; yet, that is all I can remember. The doctor cringes and releases a defeated sigh as he continues writing. It must be the stress of this all. “When can I see my family?” He doesn’t look up from his clipboard. “Where’s my family? My wife and kids? Are they okay?” He doesn’t respond. “Answer me, you piece of...” I stop yelling before I can finish that thought, and Dr. Cerebro’s head shoots up. “I-I am sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what came over me. I never speak that way.” His scribbling becomes more rapid and intense. “Please. My family?” Ignoring me, he continues to question me. “Could you tell me the names of your parents? What about the place where you were born?” “Stop ignoring me, you bastard!” I reach out to grab his neck, but the restraints hold me back. I am out of breath, but Dr. Cerebro doesn’t even flinch. Why was I just about to strangle him? What the hell is wrong with me and why isn’t he answering me? Some-

thing is wrong. “I don’t remember anything else... Are they dead? Are they?” “Yes.” I feel as if I was just stabbed through the heart. Is this what it’s like to have a heart attack? I am alone. I lost everything I cared about. “What’s your wife’s name?” My head shoots up, and I make eye contact. What is her name? Elaine? Emelia? Estella? Stella? Miranda? “I-I don’t know. I mean I can’t remember.” “How many children do you have?” “Can’t you tell I have no goddamn idea!” Anger is boiling in my stomach. What is happening to me? Suddenly my anger vanishes, and I become as calm as a still pond. “I am going to need you to calm down. Slow your mind. Process. What’s your name?” “Louis Kendall.” The doctor questions my answer, “Do you believe that?” “No.” I only said the first name that came into my mind, but I know it’s not mine. “Did you know that cerebro translates to brain in Spanish? It’s quite ironic how you are a neurologist with a name like that.” I chuckle at the irony, but the doctor sighs, placing his clipboard on the table and taking a step closer. “So I have heard.” Hesitantly, Dr. Cerebro asks, “Do you know who Jordan Johnson is?” My ears perk up at the name, which doesn’t go unnoticed. “On July 17th, 2020, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Louis Kendall underwent a home invasion in which he was held at gunpoint and forced to participate in cannibalistic activities as he and his family were fed the leg of their eldest son, Elijah Kendall.” This all sounds familiar but also vague like a dream I can’t quite piece together. I wonder why he is talking about me in the third person, though? I really wish I had a whiskey. This isn’t right. “How do you feel about what you just heard?” Dr. Cerebro stares at me intently, awaiting my next words.

“I feel as if I am supposed to feel sad, but I don’t—not really.” The doctor picks up the clipboard and flips the page as he begins taking notes. All of a sudden, an instinctual sense overcomes me that doesn’t quite make sense. “My name is not Louis Kendall, is it?” He stops writing and looks me straight in the eyes as he says, “No.” “My name is Jordan Johnson.” This conclusion comes immediately and without any evidence, but I know in my gut that this is my name. “Yes. What else do you remember?” I remain silent. This is as far as I had gotten in my memories, but the more that I remember, the more I can feel myself change—behaviorally and psychologically. “Mr. Johnson, you are participating in an experimental treatment which is testing the capabilities of memory transfer. You have currently just experienced the memories of Mr. Louis Kendall, who was shot in the head at the time of the incident.” There is more he isn’t telling me, like where I am and why I am here. “You are holding back. What aren’t you telling me?” I raise my eyebrow as I await his response. The doctor takes a deep breath before explaining, “Mr. Johnson, you are currently serving a life sentence at the Sathin Corrections and Detention Facility on Sathin Island off the coast of North Carolina. This prison serves as an experimental laboratory with some of America’s most horrendous criminals.” He pauses as if gauging my reaction to what he just said. Prison? Criminal? I should be angry and confused, but oddly enough these are some of the clearest words I have understood since waking up. I want to ask more, but I know he will answer my questions without even asking. “The memories you have just experienced were those of Mr. Kendall, one of your victims. After feeding Elijah Kendall to the Kendall family, you proceeded to shoot Louis Kendall in the head. Following which

you shot his wife, Esmerelda Kendall, and his two children, Charlotte Kendall and Herbert Kendall, killing them instantly.” He is leaving someone out. “And the other? The son?” I am not necessarily worried, but just curious. “After the surgery you performed on Elijah, you failed to properly sew him up and without the necessary medical treatment, he died bleeding out in the dining room.” “They all died?” My voice comes out slightly cheerful as an uncontrollable smirk spreads on my face. Why am I happy? Who am I? “Mr. Kendall had what I can only describe as a miracle. The bullet didn’t kill him but lodged itself in his mind. He slipped into a two-month coma. Afterward, he was left slightly mentally incapacitated, which is another miracle all in itself. That man was a survivor. He was a man on a mission of revenge. In fact, he was able to identify you to the FBI, and after 37 murders across the U.S., God knows they wanted you,” he states in a monotone voice. “However, even though Mr. Kendall survived, you killed him long before when you left him without a family.” I can tell the doctor is trying to elicit some response from me, but I can’t tell what he wants to see. I am careful not to give him what he wants—whatever it is. After closely examining my expressionless face, he continues, “That is, when Mr. Kendall so graciously donated his cerebral consciousness to this experiment...unfortunately, Mr. Kendall didn’t survive the procedure, but he knew the risks and, well, science lives on.” He perks up his tone with those last few words. He stares at me for a while waiting for a response. “For the last four years, we have been replaying the loop of Mr. Kendall’s memories from that night—it’s a form of punishment but also experimentation. You might have been a monster out there in the world, but here you are helping us achieve great strides within the industry of neurological science and cognitive

psychology,” he says. He smiles at me as if that is supposed to make me feel better. He gives me a questioning look. We remain in a comfortable silence for a long while, before he says, “Well? What do you think?” “What do you mean?” “How are you feeling? Did you understand what I just told you?” A wave of details from my past finds its way into the forefront of my mind. “My name is Jordan Johnson. I am 37 years old, from Henderson, Nevada. I have a Ph.D. in psychology and human behavioral sciences from UC Berkeley.” I pause before continuing, “I know who I am, and I couldn’t be happier. On September 24th, 2020, I was arrested in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where I lived for about two months after killing the Kendall family.” I killed them? I killed them. Why? Because I needed to. I wanted to. “How do you feel?” I give him an inquisitive look, prompting him to explain further. “Do you feel any remorse for what you did? You just lived in Louis Kendall’s memories. You felt what he felt. You loved who he loved. You tortured them. You killed them. You killed all of them. Do you feel any regret?” I try to keep back the smile that is stretching across my face, but it prevails against my better judgment. “I knew what I was doing. I thought about it. I planned it.” “But don’t you regret it? Do you wish you could go and undo the pain you caused?” “You can’t regret what you don’t care about. I lived his memories, but that’s all they were, the memories of a dead man. I am not that man.” The doctor takes another deep, defeated sigh and calls in the nurse. “Nurse Neupane, record this as another failed trial. Mr. Kendall’s memories are limited to the night of the incident. No other memories have been retained by the subject. There has been an improvement and personality adaptation

as Subject J shared similar personal and linguistic characteristics as Mr. Kendall. As well, the patient more slowly retained memory of his identity within six minutes and 27 seconds after waking up. Again, he shows no signs of remorse or regret.” With the nurse, he begins walking towards the door, as he explains to her, “The human brain is a quite complex organ and requires constant testing. We are going to need to change the—” “You know the most common reason that they say serial killers don’t feel remorse is because they lack sanity. I beg to differ. Here I sit—one of the sanest men in this hospital. If anything I would say that I am beyond perfectly sane”—Dr. Cerebro turns his complete attention to me as we stare directly into one another’s souls, daring the other to look away—“but you aren’t searching for my sanity. You are looking to change me. To change my personality, make it similar to that of Mr. Kendall. A man who was so weak that he couldn’t even protect his own family. I watched that family for two weeks and he never suspected a thing. I even asked him for help jumping my car right in front of his house. He was too meek and timid to make a move. He could have grabbed his phone to call the police, but he was so afraid that I would walk in that he convinced himself that it was better to submit than fight for the life of his family. That’s the personality you want to give me. The mindset of a coward. At least he isn’t a killer, right?” Dr. Cerebro turns and slowly approaches me on the bed. “Mr. Johnson, you are a psychologist. What do you think about my experiment here?” “I don’t believe people can change. At least, not key mental capabilities such as their ability to commit homicide. Yet, some studies prove otherwise, having shown that personality seems to change most between the ages of 20 and 40 years old. Which is why I am sure you saw me as the perfect candidate. One possible explanation for this

involves the self-exploration process common in early adulthood, which may promote self-directed change. While your traits aren’t set in stone, some characteristics are more easily adaptable than others, I must admit.” I pause for a moment, allowing for my explanation to sink in. “Here is the issue with the theory that you are using on me: there is no self-directed change because I don’t see a need or a want to change my fundamental being. I am happy with who I am, unlike most people in the world. In fact, I believe the world would be much better if more people held my perspectives. The point is that you might be able to change my favorite color from red to green, but you can’t alter the psychological methodologies that affect the lifestyles and behaviors that shape my life and that of others.” I enunciate each of those last words as I make the finality of my point. Dr. Cerebro’s face drops as his jaw twitches. He holds his hands in fists so tight that I can see his knuckles turning white, which brings a smile to my face. I love to see how much I am affecting him. No matter how misled this doctor is, I like him. These four years with him have been quite entertaining. “Nurse Neupane, I have changed my mind. Let’s run the simulation once more for today. Prepare the anesthesia.” The nurse runs to my side and begins messing with my tubes and the machine that I just now noticed has wires connected to pads attached to my head. “You can’t change who I am, Doctor. To the disappointment of many brokenhearted women, who would like to believe otherwise. People. Don’t. Change.” “We’ll see about that.” My eyes slowly begin to close as I can no longer hold up the weight of my eyelids.

Today feels like it’s never going to end. t

GR O U ND -CR EEPI NG I V Y | photography by Anayeli Collazo Lopez

Cheers b y L ay n e H .

et me make a toast.

Here’s to the one of the first innocent interactions: a first dance that felt like it was on the stars, a first kiss I wish I could forget, a two-week “relationship.” Sweet and caring but we weren’t ready for anything. Here’s to the one who gave me his time— in empty halls or late at night. Student body president who called it dating, but only to me, years later. Here’s to the one who asked me to senior prom, but turned to his ex across the room after I left. Asked for forgiveness for years until I finally agreed, having experienced much worse.

Here’s to the one who took from me what I shouldn’t have given him. Wanting to be wanted left me saying yes, but wishing I hadn’t after all. Here’s to the one who scarred me the most. Telling me something he’d done that I will never forget, leaving me with pain I will never lose. Here’s to the one who took my self-esteem in one crippling phrase. I knew I shouldn’t have worn that golden yellow tank top with those bell bottom jeans— it showed too much of my stomach fat. Here’s to the one I gave a chance after all I’d gone through. First time I felt like something could be real, only to realize I made up that feeling

in my head. At least I got a friend. Here’s to the one who gave me hope in being happy with someone. Talking of futures, visiting the sandy coast. About heartbeat-skipping-feelings. Ending us as easily as the ones before. Here’s to the one who broke my heart— over and over. The one I’ve known the longest and will regret even longer. The one I think of when I get in my car and drive, wondering at every corner if I’ll see him. The one who knew what he was doing: the waves of wanting and ignoring me. Yet I always caved. The one who knew how I felt, and completely shattered me anyway. The one people don’t bring up around me. The one who pokes and creeps his way into my dreams and nightmares. The one who makes all the others seem like angels. The one who won’t get out of my head. Here’s to all of you. Thanks for all you’ve done for me. Because of you, I’m able to be happy with me. Without you. Cheers. t

The eBay-Order Boyfriend b y E r i n Wen do r f

oday was not a good day for cleaning.

Normally, Bob Guy loved housekeeping, but today his heart was overcast with a slight drizzle. Bob knew that his bad mood would only worsen if he tried to clean, so he just stood in the middle of his cherry-pink living room, surrounded by boxes of stuff his now-ex-girlfriend, Kristen, had left behind. Bob grimaced realizing that everything in that room had some remnant of Kristen in it: she had chosen the color for the walls, much to the annoyance of Bob’s elderly mother; she had thrown up on the white plush carpet after getting drunk one night, and the stain had never come out fully so they had moved the mahogany coffee table over it. And those boxes, those damn boxes she had stuffed full of her things and neglected to take back with her under the reasoning that she “couldn’t stand the sight of them anymore” and “had gotten much nicer stuff from her new man anyway.” Honestly, Bob couldn’t blame her; if he had found a man that handsome, he would gladly forgo all of his prized possessions. Just a mere two hours earlier, they were not exes, and the living room had been empty, save for the

usual furnishings. Bob had been planning to propose to her with a ruby-studded heirloom necklace his great-grandmother had owned because he knew Kristen admired it on its diamond stand every time she came over. Just thinking of how happy she would be brought a smile to his face, and it gave him a boost of confidence while practicing his proposal. While he was trying to figure out a way to work in a comment about how the necklace brought out her hazel eyes, the doorbell rang, and Kristen unexpectedly showed up with her boxes, the boxes she filled with things she didn’t even care enough about to bring back to her apartment. Bob sighed and plopped down on the couch. He didn’t want to go through Kristen’s things, even if they did contain their happiest memories. Honestly, it would just remind him that she had found someone better, someone younger and thinner and hotter without male-pattern baldness setting in at the age of 35. Sticking out of one of the boxes was a souvenir picture of them at Wrigley Field designed in the style of a baseball card. They were both smiling in the picture, but Kristen’s smile was wider, and Bob remembered that she had told him during her

breakup speech that that was around the time she had started cheating on him. What made it worse was that it wasn’t even someone Bob knew; it would have been understandable if she had slept with one of his friends because he knew “the guys,” as he called them, were all more attractive than him, but a complete stranger? It made no sense. Bob looked to his left, then his right, hoping to see that Kristen had snuck in somehow to tell him he had just been pranked, but to no avail. He sighed again. “Well, I might as well check my credit score,” he said aloud to himself. He loved the mundane aspects of being an adult, and because cleaning and sorting were out of the question and it was far from any sort of mealtime, checking his monetary situation was the next best thing. Bob scrolled through the home screen of his phone, looking for his Credit Karma app, when a white flash caught his eye. He scrolled back to see what it was that had diverted his attention and was surprised to learn that it was an eBay app. “Huh,” he said aloud. “I don’t remember downloading this.” He tapped the logo, immediately unlocking the app. This would be a great means of getting rid of Kristen’s unwanted stuff, he thought. Especially me. He created an account right away, then got to work on setting up a profile for his first item: himself. He uploaded a picture of himself that Kristen had taken on their one month anniversary, of him standing in front of a trellis dotted with white flowers. In the item description box, he typed out a few details about himself: Name: Robert Marcellus Guy Occupation: Housekeeper for hire with a side job of being a momma’s boy Age: 35 years young Appearance: Chunky with male-patterned baldness Sexuality: Open to any gender as long as you’re not malicious Personality: Kind, optimistic, and personable.

“

A full week had passed since Bob had initially created his page on eBay. Nobody had interested him enough to inspire a first date except for one woman, Moira.

If you want a friendly guy as your boyfriend, hit me up! Bob stopped typing for a second, considering his wording, then resumed with a new fervor: Actually, don’t hit me up, he typed. The last time I said that I got punched in the face. He titled the page with his name and sat back, sinking into the plush black couch. Now all he had to do was wait. It took three days for Bob to get any bids on his offer. While he was at the grocery store, he got a plethora of notifications telling him about the women, men, and nonbinary folk who were interested. He scrolled through his phone while perusing the aisles, but the boxes of cereal he passed were more interesting than the people popping up on his phone. He sighed and slipped his phone back into his pocket, turning his full attention back to shopping. A full week had passed since Bob had initially created his page on eBay. Nobody had interested him enough to inspire a first date except for one woman, Moira. She was okay at first, but the more Bob conversed with her, the more he realized he merely liked the idea of her. She was the opposite of Kristen in every way, which he thought was kind of interesting: Moira had raven-black hair, a disregard for social rules, and a collage of tattoos on her arms. She had demanded that their date be at a nice restaurant downtown, to which Bob had timidly agreed. That night, Bob spent an hour getting ready, most of which was occupied by deciding wheth-

er or not to wear cologne. It seemed like an easy choice in theory because he only had two different types of cologne, one of which Kristen was allergic to, and there was always the option to go without. However, he wanted to make a good first impression for Moira, and he didn’t know anything about her other than what she looked like. It wasn’t until he heard the doorbell ring that he made a snap decision to spritz his go-to scent on his neck and rush downstairs. He opened the door to see Moira tapping her foot impatiently. She looked familiar yet different at the same time; in comparison to her picture, she had age lines on her face, blonde roots disrupting the dyed black of her hair, and more tattoos than Bob had expected. The slinky black dress she was wearing betrayed her scarily skinny figure, and her legs were thin and bony. Bob stared at her in mild surprise for a minute before she snapped, “Well, are you gonna say something?” “Oh, right, sorry,” Bob replied raspily. He cleared his throat before continuing. “You must be Moira, age 45.” “In the flesh, sugar cookie,” Moira replied with a smirk. And bones, Bob thought, giving her another once-over. “You look…different from your profile picture.” Moira pulled a squashed cigarette out of her bra and popped it into her mouth. “That little thing was taken way back in the MySpace days, honey. The early 2000s were a wild time.” She whipped a lighter out of her purse, but her thumb slipped mid-flick as the scent of Bob’s cologne hit her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What is that awful stench?” Bob blushed and looked down at his feet in embarrassment. “That’s, um, Sea Breeze by Marc Jacobs.” Moira pinched her nose with one hand and

fanned the air with the other, still holding the lighter. “Well, it smells like a pigsty. How long have you had it?” Bob wiggled his fingers, pretending to count. How long did I date Kristen? He looked back up meekly at Moira. “A while.” She sighed in annoyance, sliding her cig into her purse along with the lighter. “Fine, let’s just go on this stupid date; the sooner this is over, the sooner I can get that smell out of my nose.” Fortunately, she didn’t have to put up with Bob’s cologne for long; he left the restaurant before they even got their food because Moira kept ranting about some old lady staring at her tattoos in a Target bathroom earlier that day and proceeded to berate the waiter for their food not being served in a timely manner. It wasn’t until he was halfway home that he started receiving endless texts from Moira. He put his phone on do not disturb until he got home, when he finally picked up her call and faced her wrath. “Where the hell did you go?!” Moira yelled directly into the speaker, causing a startled Bob to recoil in shock. “I looked all over the restaurant for you! I had to ask the host where you had gone, and he said he saw you go out the back door. You have some nerve, telling me you’re gonna use the restroom and then cutting through the kitchen just to sneak out. I’m returning you to sender, young man! I’m rating you one star on eBay! I’ll make sure you never have a girlfriend for the rest of your li—” Once again, Bob ignored her. He hung up before she could finish her sentence. Bob plopped down on the living room couch, neglecting to take off his suit. He was on the verge of giving up hope completely; not even the slightest glimmer of possibility was in sight. He sank deeper into the soft black cushions. Maybe I’ll just accept that I’ll be a bachelor forever, he thought with a sigh. Just then, his phone rang again. He sighed and looked at the caller ID, reluctantly sliding the unContinued on page 58

B O U Q U ET | photographic series by Anayeli Collazo Lopez

lock tab to answer. “Hi, Mother.” “Oh, sweetie! I saw your ad on eBay; how’s the girlfriend hunt coming along?” his mom asked perkily. “It’s coming, Mother,” Bob groaned. Ever since he was old enough to know what dating was, Bob’s mother constantly prodded him about finding a girlfriend, mostly for her benefit because she wanted a biological grandchild. “Well, I’m glad. I just hope you don’t find another one like that Kristen girl. I knew she was trouble.” Bob rolled his eyes. Kristen had never gotten along with his mother so their breakup was probably music to her ears. “Mom, if I wanted another Kristen, I would go on Tinder.” “What’s Tinder?” his mother asked with genuine confusion. “Isn’t that a kind of really small firewood?” “You know what? It’s whatever. I don’t even need a girlfriend,” Bob replied defiantly, completely ignoring her question. “Oh, sweetie, don’t give up so soon; there are plenty of nice women out there,” she assured him. “Yeah, nice women who would go behind my back and sleep with a stranger,” Bob muttered. His mother sighed. “Robert, if I were with you right now, I would give you a big momma bear hug and tell you everything is alright, but because I’m not, I’ll just tell you this: things will start looking up sooner rather than later, I promise.” “Thanks, Mom,” Bob croaked, the insides of his eyes burning with the threat of tears. “No problem, sweetie. I only want the best for you,” she replied softly. After a quick exchange of goodbyes and ending the call, Bob burst into tears. His ugly, racking sobs echoed throughout the house for two straight minutes until he had to stop for air. He highly doubted anyone, male, female, or otherwise, would want to go out with him after the threat Moira had made. If

“

He highly doubted anyone, male, female, or otherwise, would want to go out with him after the threat Moira had made. If she truly was going to post a one-star review of him, his love life would be over. she truly was going to post a one-star review of him, his love life would be over. Just then, he got a notification from eBay about a profile similar to his. He tapped the bubble and signed in with fingerprint ID, sending him straight to the app. When he finished wiping the stray tears from his face, what he saw made him practically flip off of the couch: Name: Michael Evans, AKA Queen Victoria Occupation: To lift you up when life is a drag. Simply put, I’m a professional party princess, but in life I’m a QUEEN. Age: Old enough for you, big boy. Appearance: Think RuPaul, but the Walmart version. That’s me. Sexuality: You seriously can’t tell? I’m gay. Personality: Sassy, but not rude, sarcastic, but not self-deprecating, and confident, but not cocky. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m both cocky AND confident. I guess it’s a thing now to sell yourself on eBay when you’re single. It’s been nobody but my dog and I for five years. My parents kicked me out of the house because I’m “too old to be living with them” and “too much of a slob to deal with.” Maybe if that friendly guy who started this whole situation helped me clean my place I’d feel a lot less like a disappointment. Although he was still a bit hesitant because the drag queen hadn’t stated his age or posted a picture, Bob dove headfirst into the chatroom and sent him a DM: Hey, I heard you needed a housekeeper.

30 seconds later, he received a reply: Who told you? Bob was shaken for a second at the sharpness of the reply before he got another message: I’m kiddin’. You must be the guy who likes cleaning. Bob smiled to himself. You must be the queen who doesn’t. That’s because I had servants for that, momma’s boy. Not anymore, Bob retorted with equal sassiness. Unless, of course, I could be of any assistance. That would be splendid, Michael replied. By the way, do you have any qualms against small dogs? I just realized I never addressed the breed. Bob thought for a second. Not that I know of. Okay, good. She’s a chihuahua and her name is Sharpay. Y’know, like the character from High School Musical? Bob felt his face light up. Yes! I love that movie! My ex and I used to watch it all the time. Before we, you know, broke up, obviously. He paused for a moment, then decided that he might as well tell the truth: She’s the reason I decided to sell myself on eBay. I guess I have her to thank then, Michael replied, then added a second later, For leading you to me, I mean. Yeah, if Kristen hadn’t broken up with me, I would’ve never met you. Bob felt the weight in his chest lighten; the more he mentioned Kristen, the less he missed her. Speaking of meeting, how about we set up a time to chat IRL? We could go to a little coffee shop or somewhere that allows dogs, Michael suggested. I’ll bring Sharpay. :) That would be fantastic. Bob glanced at the digital clock sitting on top of the refrigerator. He always made sure it was facing the living room so he could simply look over and check the time. Right now, it was a few minutes shy of midnight. Alright, your highness, I may be an old man, but I still need my beauty sleep.

Same here, Michael agreed. Sharpay has been yawning for the past hour. She doesn’t go to sleep until I do. Alright, Mike, you and your dog can go get some rest. I’ll see you…? Monday, Michael replied almost instantaneously. I mean, if that’s okay with you. ‘Course it’s okay, I’ve got nothing better to do than stare at the wall. And occasionally get groceries, of course. Okay, goodnight, Guy. Goodnight, Queen. Bob clicked his phone off, and within seconds, he was shrouded in darkness. However, this darkness didn’t feel threatening; it felt peaceful, and it made Bob feel more at ease than he had been that whole week. t

Falling to Pieces b y Ta m a r a Bo m pa r t e

y heart beats fast as I rummage through the basket of outgoing letters, fingers skimming over addresses as I search for my own. It’s close to 1:00 AM on a chilly Thursday night, and I’m in the administration building of my lavish boarding school. In reality, this institution is no more than an overpriced cage for children whose parents have had enough of them. My dad didn’t seem to get the memo when he remarried and my stepmother suggested sending me here. I might be mad over his lapse in judgment, but the last thing I need is for this letter, detailing my recent streak of bad behavior, to reach his doorstep before I have a chance to spin the story in my favor. I used to do volunteer work with the administration office, back when I thought playing the innocent angel would persuade my dad to bring me back home. I quickly found out that the act wasn’t working and dropped it. At least it paid off for something; because of it, I knew exactly how to get into the office tonight and where to find the incriminating document. Hence the whole reason I’m here, after curfew, getting more paranoid with each second it takes me to find—the letter! I snatch up the creamy envelope, relief flooding my body

at the thought of shredding it once I get back to my room. I turn on my heel and towards the exit, silently thanking the maintenance crew for always leaving a side door unlocked, when I hear someone. Or rather, two someones. I freak out; I can only imagine the kind of trouble I’ll be in if I get caught. I dart into the nearest room, just one door down from the main lobby where I can hear the pair. I allow myself a couple seconds to get my heart rate down and make my way to the glass window covered by blinds. My fingers twitch toward the window, planning to lift one slat of the blinds at eye level to see who’s in the building so late. Depending on who it is, I might be able to bribe them into silence if they catch me. I shift the window covering a couple of centimeters before realizing that the pair is too close not to notice the movement. Crouching to the bottom of the window with the hope that they’ll be too preoccupied to look down, I peek through a gap in the blinds. This far down, I can only see women’s shoes, one a pair of trendy sneakers and the other a vaguely familiar pair of marked up Converse. The moonlight filtering through the glass doors of the lobby is just enough for me to make out red and blue scribbles

“

As she tumbles through the air, I recognize her as the student worker from the help desk in the library. It takes less than two seconds for the girl’s body to hit the ground, but standing there, watching with the knowledge that I can’t do anything to help, makes it feel like an eternity. covering the canvas of the shoe. Before I can see much else, they move away from the window, toward the big staircase in the main lobby. They seem familiar enough with one another, and I briefly wonder if I’m about to witness a clandestine hookup. Then suddenly, the tone of their voices, angry and belligerent, reaches my ears. They aren’t loud enough for me to make out their words, but the sound of their footsteps going up two sets of stairs echoes loudly in the cavernous lobby. With the girls out of sight, I’m about to sneak out through the side door at the end of the hallway when the screaming starts. Jumping up from my crouch, I almost give myself away when my sudden movement jostles the potted plant next to the window. I grab it quickly and begin to pay attention to the heated exchange in the stairwell. It’s not hard, considering how their shouts echo through the building and reach my ears, even behind the closed office door. Evidently, they’re more confident than I am that no one will be around to catch us. “I told you to stay away from him,” one girl screeches angrily. “You know he’s mine! Don’t delude yourself by thinking he would ever be with someone like you.” “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal

out of this,” the other says in a significantly calmer tone. Her anger seems to be brought on by annoyance, nowhere near the simmering rage of her aggressor. “You didn’t need to drag me out here over one single interaction. We only spoke for five minutes. He noticed the book I was reading in the library and asked me about it. I haven’t thought about it since it happened, and I never even knew his name, let alone who he was dating.” “No, it must have been more than that! It’s your fault everything is messed up.” “Don’t blame me for your problems. Maybe he just realized you’re a psycho! Now get out of my face,” the second girl bites out. Coming to the conclusion that these are definitely students, not faculty, fighting over a guy of all things, I inch the door open and prepare to sneak down the hallway while the sound of fighting escalates behind me. I’m halfway to the exit when I hear a struggle. Even though the thought of watching a cat fight holds no real interest for me, I’m more curious now to find out who these girls are. I turn back and walk closer to the lobby, arriving just in time to see it. Hair being pulled, two pairs of arms grappling. A blonde girl in joggers and a school sweatshirt being pushed over the railing of the third floor. As she tumbles through the air, I recognize her as the student worker from the help desk in the library. It takes less than two seconds for the girl’s body to hit the ground, but standing there, watching with the knowledge that I can’t do anything to help, makes it feel like an eternity. The sound of her head hitting the floor reverberates in my skull, pinning me to the ground in shock. From where I stand, I can’t see the girl, the killer who pushed her, only a pair of marked up Converse walking closer to the edge of the railing to peer down at what she had done. For a moment, everything is silent, but any thoughts that this could have been an accident flee from my mind at the breathy

laugh that comes from the third floor, followed by a shaky whisper. “Problem solved.” It takes everything in me to uproot my feet from where they’re frozen halfway between the lobby and the side door. I walk as quickly and quietly as I can to the exit. I want to run to the girl now splayed on the floor, but the thud as her head hit the ground and the glimpse of her wide open, lifeless eyes dissuades me from any futile attempts at resuscitation in favor of my own safety. I make it to the door but fumble in my frantic efforts to open it. My hands are trembling, and I notice one darkly painted fingernail scratch the wall next to the door, leaving behind a swatch of pigment. Finally, I manage to open it and race out into the bitter air of the night. My ears strain to detect if I am being followed, but I hear only silence and my own racing breath. My quivering limbs barely bring me back to my dorm building, though the thought of a killer on my trail is motivating enough. As far as I know, the murderess hadn’t seen me or even known that I was there, silently watching her crime in horror. All I have to do is make it to my room and call the police, I tell myself. Then I can freak out and break down, but first I have to let someone know what I just witnessed. My keys rattle in my hands as I try to fit them in the lock, making a jingling sound as they strike against each other and the strand of acrylic beads hanging on my chain. I’m grateful that my roommate is never in the dorm, preferring to stay with her boyfriend who lives nearby. Technically it’s not allowed, but tonight, I thank the people in charge who never seem to mind as long as she makes it to class. I open the door and bolt it behind me, glad to feel a semblance of safety now that it’s locked. I pace in front of my closet once, twice, before running to my adjoining bathroom and giving up the contents of my stomach. I rest my forehead on my arms for a moment before deciding that I

“

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I press the first two digits before I realize that I’m no longer alone in my room. Feeling eyes on my face, I lift my head and meet the gaze of my ever-absent roommate

can’t delay anymore. Someone needs to know what happened tonight. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I press the first two digits before I realize that I’m no longer alone in my room. Feeling eyes on my face, I lift my head and meet the gaze of my ever-absent roommate. Relief floods my body as I lower my eyes back to my phone, only to stop short. There are two suitcases on the ground next to her, but that’s not what makes me hesitate. Her feet are covered by a ratty pair of marked up Converse, the light now bright enough for me to make out “C+E” written inside blue and red hearts covering the white material. My mind is frozen for a second, and then it shoots off in a thousand different directions. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything. Practically everyone has a pair of these shoes; she can’t be the only one who thought to write on hers. And since when does the quiet girl I occasionally share a room with have the nerve to kill someone in cold blood? In all our interactions, she’s seemed like a sweet girl. A little obsessed with her boyfriend, maybe, but nothing unlike the girls from my old school, and nowhere near the unhinged murderer I thought I was running from. I rack my brain over all our past interactions, searching for some sign to support my fears. I find myself lingering on one memory…but no, that can’t mean anything, can it? I drive myself Continued on page 64

THE SI LENCED | acrylic painting & collage on wood panel by Kasey Vandenboom

crazy trying to rationalize, trying to process what I’m seeing, but I force myself to stop. There was a reason I felt that vague familiarity in the administration building, and this is it. I hate myself for not realizing sooner where I had seen those shoes before, right here in this room. Now they stand firmly planted in front of the only exit. I never recognized her voice because the only words we’ve ever exchanged were a quick “hi” and “bye” on the rare occasions she came over. And we’ve certainly never conversed in a way that resulted in the screeching, contorted tone of rage I heard in the lobby. I meet her gaze now and slip my phone into my jacket pocket, trying to act with as much indifference and as little suspicion as I can muster. I just hope she doesn’t see right through me. “Hey, roomie,” she says in a forced casual tone, her eyes glancing around the room before she looks toward me. I avert my eyes to hide the fear that must be in them, then stiffen as I see the stolen letter on my desk next to my keychain, where I dropped them so carelessly when I entered my room. “Hey,” I say quickly, hoping to distract her, but there’s something off in my tone that has her looking up at me with more scrutiny than I can handle. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while,” I try again, after turning my back on her and toward my desk. Pretending to clear away my textbooks, I grab the letter and my keychain in one hand to shove them in a drawer. But when I pick up my keys, they make that distinctive jingling sound. I can only pray that she doesn’t notice the way I cringe, or recognize the sound that could give me away. I realize my mistake as soon as her hand clamps down on my shoulder. Why would I turn my back on a killer? She turns me around roughly, and now I can see that her eyes are wild, wide, and slightly unfocused. They fall to stare right at my darkly painted fingers clamped around the letter and my

keychain, admin’s return address clearly on display, and the keychain chiming once more with the force of her movement. She lets go of me abruptly and walks to the door. I almost breathe a sigh of relief, as if her strange reaction is some fluke that I can ignore, but then I realize what she’s looking at. A scratch of pigment by the light switch, just like the one I left next to the exit tonight. I sink to my bed, my shaking knees no longer able to support me. From the way she stiffens and glances back at me and the objects now spilling across my bed, there’s no pretending anymore. She knows and I have no idea what to expect. “What are you going to do to me?” I ask in a weak, trembling voice that fully conveys my outright panic. I think of yelling, screaming for help until someone nearby hears me, but I know it would be no use. Our rooms are effectively soundproofed, a fact that is always quoted to parents on campus tours. “No noise to interfere with hours of studying,” admissions counselors would say in a cheery, promotional voice. Now it doesn’t seem like such a great idea. She doesn’t acknowledge my question, but her downcast eyes dart back and forth as if trying to come up with a reality where this ends well. As she’s distracted, I slide my hand into my jacket pocket. The puffer jacket is padded enough that I don’t think she recognizes my minute movements as I press the final digit, then dial, after turning my volume as low as it can go. “I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?” she says under her breath, half to herself and half in answer to my question. Despite the low volume at which she spoke, something in the tone of her frantic, fractured voice pulls me back to a memory of the first week I moved in, of a moment she doesn’t even know I witnessed. It’s the memory that was plaguing me before, and now, looking back at the

events of tonight, and the suitcases that could spell a breakup, everything makes sense.

It was a Wednesday morning, and I was in the bathroom with the shower running. I hadn’t gotten in yet; I still wasn’t used to how long it took for the water to heat up here. Over the sound of water hitting the tile floor, I heard the faint scrape of a lock turning, and then the slam of my bedroom door. Before I had a chance to freak out over who was in my room, I realized that it must be my roommate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she exclaimed. There was a pause, but I heard no answer, so I assumed she was talking on the phone. “I’m not being clingy, Eric, I’m just being a good girlfriend!” she said, sounding frantic as she tried to placate the person on the other end of the line. There was another pause as she listened to Eric, and then an explosion of sound. “A break?” she screeched, and I jumped at how much closer she sounded. “ You can’t do that to me! I need you right now. You know that! After what my family did, sending me here, you’re the only one from back home who will still talk to me. You said you would stand by me! You said—” her voice crescendoed as she went on, but she fell silent as Eric presumably broke in. I imagined he must have said something to calm her down, because the next time she spoke, it was at a much lower volume. I had to strain to hear her now, but I was too interested to stop listening. “I’m sorry babe. You know I’m trying to get better. Yes, I know what the therapist said, but I—” another pause as he interrupted. “ Yeah, of course I’m still taking the meds,” she insisted, but I’d known her for a week, and even I could tell that she sounded indignant, so I guessed she was lying. My suspicions were confirmed as I heard the faint rattle of a pill bottle. I wondered what they were for, but I didn’t get any additional insight from my roommate. The conversation must have been

over, because the last thing she said was a quick “I love you, see you soon.” I listened closely to see if she would say anything else, but the next thing I heard was the bedroom door closing and the faint sound of her locking it behind her. Steam was filling the bathroom now, but I had forgotten my shower. All I could think about were the snippets of the conversation I’d heard. An uncommitted boyfriend, absent friends and family, a therapist, meds; all I could think about was how my roommate’s life seemed to be falling to pieces.

She turns to me now and scrutinizes my face. I rise to my feet as a new resolve seems to grip her, hardening her features, and I realize that I’ve never really known fear before this moment. “Well…” she starts slowly. “I suppose I can’t have you running around and telling anyone what you saw.” She takes a menacing step towards me. I shrink back, but it’s no use. She grabs my arms, and though she has no athletic build to boast of, I’ve always been small for my age, and she easily overpowers me. She backs me up to our window, which overlooks the courtyard from the second floor of our dorm building. When she moves to unlatch the lock, I duck under her arm and rush to the door. I barely make it two feet before she has a fistfull of my hair in one hand and the lamp from my desk in the other. She brings it down on my skull and I fall. Pain explodes in my head, causing any rational thought I had of escape to go out the window. My body follows soon after. I hit the ground hard and feel something in me break. I open my mouth to scream from the pain radiating through my body, but the breath has been knocked out of me. I look up at the window where my roommate is looking down at a broken body for

the second time in one night. She wears a blank expression, and I can’t help but think of what happened to make her this way. My mind lingers on the flighty boyfriend, the family and friends who abandoned her, the therapist, and the meds. Has she been taking them? I wonder if she can even grasp what she’s done tonight or if this is some sort of mental break. All I can do is gaze up at her twisted face, silent in my excruciating pain. She’s not there for long before she vanishes, and as much as I fear her, I’m devastated to see her go. How long will it take for someone to find me if she doesn’t clue them in? My breath finally returns in gasps, and in a croaking voice I rasp out, “Celia Oakley did this.” I can only hope that the phone in my pocket didn’t break in the fall, and that someone on the other side is still listening. t

AGI NG CO I LS | ceramic slab-built vessels by Caroline Haw

Play Dead b y Mi a S h el t o n 2 n d Pl a c e Pr os e

y only fear is of losing the souls that I cherish.

They are rare and fleeting, few and far between. One must search through overgrown hedges and wait for these souls to reveal themselves among the unrestrained overgrowth of leaves and wiry branches that obstruct the eyes and pierce the skin. And they never give warning as to when their souls are beginning to part from their bodies. Even when they do, I shut my eyes and ears and pray that my intuition is deceiving me. I have seen them disappear in twos and threes; they always vanish too soon, too unexpectedly, and too young. They are here with me, then the light slowly flickers out of their eyes. They languish and become cold, all in less than a moment’s time. I clasp their paperweight hands—heavy when I lift them and falling with a forceful velocity when I let go. I try to capture their souls as they dissipate quickly as rainbows do in thick, damp, post-rain mist, but my efforts are in vain. They leave in haste; they never wait for others to catch up. They caper play-

fully in the wind like balloons drifting further and further away until they are gone forever. I’ll never know if they reached the stars or if they melted from the heat of the sun. I wait for weeks following each departure, hoping every time it was a figment of some nightmarish fever dream from which I would soon awaken, sweaty and lucid. But the weekly drudgery continues: stubbing toes, scribbling lists, spilling coffee, and staring into space, hoping to find them there. Life does not take a moment of silence for them. When my world had been shattered and decimated, I was still an instrument in the world of everyone else. One is given a week at most to be alone, then it’s back to business as usual. I endured this pattern repeatedly. The instant the lesions in my heart started to fill in with tender, wispy, frail strands of hope, the center would be sliced out again and buried with the body. When I retired, I thought I broke free from this cycle. But it happened again. And this time, it was the soul I cherished most in this world who was being taken away from me forever. So, I shut my

doors and windows; I took down all my paintings. I tore up my books and smashed my records. I hid myself in bulky, black sweaters under layers upon layers of flannel sheets, not leaving for days. I could only bring myself to eat sunflower seeds and raisins. My hair became so saturated with oil that it hurt, and my skin was cracked and dry from the stale air in my apartment. I made sure to never let myself feel settled in another place or connected to another person—I could not betray you by moving on and finding someone or somewhere else to call home. I felt guilty and shameful and wrong when I felt blissful; I felt guilty for feeling alive. Why did I have to be the one who was spared all these times? But I did not realize at the time that what was disappointing for you to watch would not have been for me to continue living, but for me to play dead all those years when I was alive and able to experience everything you no longer could. So I painted you, wrote about you, and sang about you. I went outside and felt the sun shimmer on my skin, and when I gazed at the stars at night, I could feel your smile and warmth envelop me. I shared your love, and I told your story. And you and I were alive again. t

LO ST CO NNECTI O N | charcoal drawing on toned paper by Rachel Stewart

The Only Time b y A sh l ey H o ga n

Trigger warning: pregnancy loss

e talked about it only once, when I was seven. We were waiting at the stoplight on Palomino Road, on the ride home from school, and it was September, still hot enough that the vinyl seats in the Buick stuck to the backs of my thighs. I knew better than to raise the subject—nothing laid a hush over a room more quickly—but my mother had just told me that Mrs. Dunby, my first grade teacher, would be leaving school when her baby was born. So it came up. I asked her, “Will we ever have another baby?” In the long moment of silence that followed, my mother reached up, arm curved like a ballerina’s, and scratched the top of her head, right on the little bald spot in the center of her scalp. When she did this at home, while watching TV or reading, my father would gently pull her arm down and remind her, “You’re making it worse.” She’d stop, but sometimes I caught a look on her face, her eyes gone dark and hard. Like maybe he was the one making it worse. I always let her scratch, pretended I didn’t notice. She even drove like that sometimes,

one hand perched on the top of her head, the other working the steering wheel. That day on Palomino Road, she sat in the same position for so long, hand on her head, eyes fixed on the stoplight, I wondered if she was stuck, if my question had frozen her. I studied her face in the rear-view mirror, waiting for her to stitch her eyebrows together or press her lips into a pale line, but her expression never changed. So I scooched forward to remind her I was there, crossing my arms on the back of her seat and leaning my head close enough to smell her coconut shampoo. Finally, she dropped her hand, breathed out a sigh, and answered me. “No.” She said this in the same voice she used to say “no” to chips before dinner or candy in the grocery store, a voice that meant no explanation or argument would follow. It was the voice she used for almost everything that fall, but back in the spring, when her belly was a hard, round ball, inflating and inflating until she couldn’t wear her favorite sundress, she’d said “yes” all the time. “Yes” to signing me up for dance class.

“Yes” to a sleepover at my friend Lily’s house. And on the day she told me she was pregnant, she even said “yes” to McDonald’s, a treat usually reserved for birthdays or the last day of school. We went through the drive-thru, and just as I had finished arranging my Happy Meal on my lap, she turned around in her seat and said, “Guess what…” Back then she didn’t have the bald spot, and her dark hair had grown longer and thicker. She’d even started wearing it in braids sometimes, like a little girl, and her skin turned so translucent I could trace her veins as they sprouted like tiny tributaries all the way up her arms. It startled me every day, the way her body was changing, how she could use her belly to balance a bowl of cereal as she ate breakfast in front of Good Morning America. How her breasts had grown so round they strained against her t-shirts. But it unnerved me, too. I didn’t like that her lap was disappearing, that she couldn’t stoop to tie my shoes or bend down to sweep crumbs into the dustpan. I felt separate from her for the first time, sitting at her feet instead of on her lap when she read to me, no longer allowed to hang on her legs or hop on her back for a ride. Banished from the warmth of her breath and body. Our time together was vanishing, too, a little more each day. She’d sleep late in the morning, leaving my father to get me off to school, then spend afternoons sewing or cleaning out the guest room or sorting through boxes of my baby clothes instead of playing paper dolls or Candy Land. One morning, just a few weeks before the baby was due, my mother set a bowl of Raisin Bran in front of me for breakfast without fishing all the raisins out first. It was an unbearable insult. I hated raisins, and she knew it. I couldn’t stand even to touch them. Their size and shape reminded me of little black bugs, and I despised the way they crunched a bit in my teeth. I stirred the cereal around with my spoon, uncovering raisin after raisin, until my face

“

I stirred the cereal around with my spoon, uncovering raisin after raisin, until my face went hot, and I burst into furious, gasping tears. I couldn’t bear to look at the bowl in front of me, at those raisin-bugs ruining my breakfast, and before I could stop myself, I had swept my arm across the table, sending the cereal flying. went hot, and I burst into furious, gasping tears. I

couldn’t bear to look at the bowl in front of me, at those raisin-bugs ruining my breakfast, and before I could stop myself, I had swept my arm across the table, sending the cereal flying. “I don’t want a baby sister!” I screeched. “Make her go away!” Silently, my mother crossed the kitchen and, with a strength and will I hadn’t seen for months, pulled me up by my arm and dragged me, still wailing, to my room. I crumpled to the floor, and she turned and left, shutting the door crisply behind her. I stared at the doorknob for half an hour, hoping it would turn, willing her to come back in and forgive me. Finally, I fell asleep, waiting. The very next day, she and my father left in the night with her hospital bag, and I woke up to find my Aunt Margo in the kitchen, sipping Folgers and smiling at me. My sister was going to be born, she told me, and my mother and father would be home with her before I knew it. Aunt Margo spent those awkward few days trying to keep me occupied. She meant well, but she didn’t know anything about children, so she was always suggesting activities I wasn’t at all interest-

ed in, like birdwatching or macramé. Finally, she gave up, and I chipped away at the hours by reading or watching TV in the living room, where I could monitor the driveway out the front window. Then, finally, they came home. But when they walked in, their arms were empty, and my mother went straight up to her room. As she disappeared behind her bedroom door, I turned to find my father and Aunt Margo in a tight hug, and I knew something horrible had happened. I wanted my mother. I didn’t see her again for days.

When she finally emerged, she was smaller, and not just her belly. Her whole body had contracted, her shoulders slumped forward, her eyes sucked deep into their sockets. Over the next few weeks, she shrank and shrank, until her pajamas hung limply from her frame and her favorite sundress billowed around the waist. As I watched her disappear, I thought about the raisin-bugs. I thought about the cereal scattered across the kitchen floor and the way I’d kicked and cried. But most of all, I thought about the curse I’d laid, and I wondered what I’d done to my baby sister.

By September, when I asked the question on Palomino Drive, my mother had come back a little. That afternoon she’d been chatty, asking me about my social studies project and telling me the news about my teacher. Her good mood gave me the courage to ask the question, but then, at the stoplight, when she told me “no,” her expression slid into the same one she’d worn when she first came home from the hospital, and I imagined her shrinking all over again, sinking into the front seat, sliding lower and lower until she vanished altogether. I had

accidentally disappeared my sister, after all. Perhaps I could disappear my mother, too. Then, the light turned green, and I was thrown backwards into my seat as my mother hit the gas, hurtling us across the intersection. I cast around for something to say to break the silence that had settled around us, but my throat contracted so tightly I couldn’t swallow, let alone speak, so I studied the floor of the station wagon, cataloguing the objects I found there. Straw wrapper, broken pencil. Crushed potato chip, muddy napkin. Math worksheet, penny, nickel. A grocery store gumball rolling under the front seat and back out again. The humming floorboard. The station wagon lumbered on, turning off of Palomino, then winding past the drug store and the school, until I could see our house, crouched at the top of Appaloosa Drive. It looked alarmingly off balance, as if it might detach itself from the yard and tumble down the hill, ready to break apart when it hit the road. I said, “Mommy…” This time, in the mirror, her eyes found mine. For a moment they were her old eyes, soft and searching, and I wondered if she was forgiving me. “It’s not your fault,” her eyes said. “I still love you.” Then she looked away, and I leaned across the seat to crank my window down, letting the outside air rush in to cool my skin and blow the bangs off my forehead. To carry away all the things I couldn’t say. t

B L ACK FI R E | advertising design by Anayeli Collazo Lopez

A Letter to Uncle Derek b y E r i n Wen do r f Ho n or a b l e M e n t i on Poe t r y

here do I begin? I never knew you, not truly. I never took the time to get to know you while you were alive; my young mind was so focused on leaping from the trampoline with my cousins, and dancing around in front of the Wii. I was so young when you passed, only seven or eight. Now, fourteen years later, all I can think about is how happy you would be with your family. Mom says you were kind— that you would put others first. She says you wanted equality and worked at the ACLU. She has also told me you had a good sense of humor, and I have a feeling you would laugh at my jokes, even the worst of my puns. But that can’t happen. Your wife is remarried to a man much louder

and more outgoing than you. I like to think you two would be friends if the circumstances were different. Your kids have grown up: the twins are in college, and your youngest is graduating high school soon. Your siblings miss you; Mom and Brian get quiet and somber whenever you’re mentioned. Your nephew and nieces don’t remember you; we only wish we did. In a moment, everything changed, all because of one bullet. Sometimes, when I am overwhelmed and feel like it might be worth it to leave this life behind, I think of you and I wonder: is death an escape from life, or is it a knife, cutting off a bright future as easily as scissors through ribbon? I guess we’ll never know if you dodged a bullet with the bullet of another. t

Grandpa b y An gel i n a M o r i n 1 s t Pl a c e Pr os e

Jacob Goldberg

n the 1920s, somewhere in New York, a gunshot rang through a candy store and took the life of the man who owned it. His wife, now widowed, cared for five children, including Jacob. Jacob, who was five then, grew up only knowing his father through the memories of others. An immigrant, a tailor, a small business owner, a Jewish man in New York City, a murder victim, and a father. With no photos of Jacob as a boy, I imagine his brown hair curling at the tips, and him doe-eyed in the face of his family’s grief. He grows taller, colder, and becomes an Air Force engineer. Serves his country during World War II and sends his buddies out over the ocean to fight a war that will soon free Jews from a German genocide. He’ll wait anxiously for his planes to return to the field. The blue sky will turn into a veil of darkness, and the hopeful flash of plane lights, the heavy wind of plane propellers will never return. But the war will end. Hun His wife at the time called him Hun, and his youngest child, Arlene, believing that to be his name, called him that as well. There were nights that Hun did not appear to be himself, quite literally: his face more bearded than usual, or his clothes

not his own. He dressed up or dressed down for the days he spent inside New York’s Italian mob, and his most important accessory was something you could not see—the wire-taps. But when the disguise was off, Arlene would sit between her two parents at night, fighting the urge to sleep as children so often do. When she began to drift, Hun would lift her from her seat and her head would gently bounce against his chest as he carried her upstairs. “Nice Guy Jack Goldberg” You knew the man. He owns the property in Swan Lake, the bungalow colonies. You knew him and he knew you. His suspenders pulling his long pants into place and his chin darkened by his growing beard. He used to work in the city before things got sour with his wife. Sometimes his daughter Arlene runs away, catches a couple of buses to Brooklyn just to see her mother. He’s got the only color TV on the block, and his girl’s got a glossy photo with his old monkey Murphey in it. Yeah, that’s Nice Guy Jack Goldberg. Pop Jacob’s five children stood in a line as he addressed them. Their eyes down and feet quick to disperse when he dismissed them. He was never a man of loving words in those years. His children

never received birthday parties or gifts. But the town remembers him much differently than his children do. A giving and kind man. Even an experimental man. Jack The vibrant green grass swayed as the blue sky swirled around Jack. He laid in the front lawn of his bungalow colony face up, eyes wide, and unmoving. He was deaf to the sound of Arlene calling out for him as the clouds took on unknown shapes and the colors of the world began to breathe. He was so still Arlene believed he might be dead, splayed out midday on the lawn. Jack’s close friend was diagnosed with cancer and took quaaludes to ease the pains of treatment and to cope with the fate of his disease. He took his pills with a shot or two of vodka and told Jack about the world he saw during his high. “I would like to see those colors you’re always talking about,” said Jack, and so it appears he did. Grandpa A bent and yellowed pamphlet stuck to the fridge with a thin magnet held the prayers Jacob’s granddaughter Sandy would speak on Sabbath. The kitchen table creaked as they sat and read together. When reading the scripture aloud, his voice smoothed into the sound of a storyteller, an omniscient narrator who knew the prayers like a memory, and he spoke the history of his faith. Over many Sabbaths, he spoke of creation, of night, and of day. He light-heartedly draped his granddaughter’s coiled curls with a kitchen towel as she recited their prayers. Grandpa Jack Arlene’s second daughter Shannon, then just a little girl, stood on her tiptoes, her shoes creasing as she peered and reached into a dresser drawer holding dozens of packets of ramen noodle pow-

der. The orange, yellow, and red packets were organized according to flavor. Her small fingers traced the ridged edges of each packet as she pulled the chicken powder from the drawer, and her eyes lit up through her black bangs as she handed it to Grandpa Jack. These afternoons were for ramen noodles. Grampy On a stage walked Valerie with Grampy’s proud eyes watching as her shiny black shoes squeaked across the wooden floor. The shoes paired beautifully with her dress, which reached to her knees as the fabric followed with her every movement. As Valerie assumed her role in the school play, Grampy sat in the front row. It was the night of the play that Grampy purchased Valerie’s dress and shiny shoes. He treated her like his own grandchild: he never let her win at Rummy, he made her eat every last bite of dinner before she could have a drink, and he kept his pride and love in actions and gestures. Valerie’s mother, Susan, had moved in with Grampy weeks before she was born. Shortly after this, Susan was diagnosed with AIDS and was in and out of the hospital throughout Valerie’s life. As Valerie grew older, her relationship with her mother worsened as she got sicker, and her absence grew longer. But Grampy was there attempting to stitch the fragile bond between Valerie and her mom. Jacob Goldberg There is a picture of my mother, Shannon, Grandpa, and me. I stand nervously at the farthest end of this picture, frightened of my grandpa and his Alzheimer’s. He was never a scary man, but I feared him anyway. My mother, Arlene, was adored by Grandpa in his old age. He thought she was incredibly intelligent because she knew things that even he didn’t know about himself. In fact, he’d ask her out on a date, and when my mother denied him,

he’d smile and say, “If you’d like to be just friends that’s fine.” Years before his death, Mom saw him cry at her wedding. It was in his earliest stages of Alzheimer’s that he danced with her cheek to cheek as her white gown glowed in the night. And it was years before his Alzheimer’s that my mother exclaimed to him that he never said I love you, or hugged her, or celebrated her. Maybe on that day, something in him shifted. The love he gave to his grandchildren is more obvious than the tough love he bestowed on his children. Before he forgot his mistakes, he attempted to never make them again. And oh, how he tried to show his love to the grandchildren he knew. When I was born, Grandpa was too deep into his Alzheimer’s to know me. Grandpa? I imagine him now standing tall in pants that hang tight to his hips and loose on his legs, with a belly that pushes at his shirt buttons. He’s a bothhis-hands-in-his-pocket-but-his-thumbs-are-out kinda guy. His face became creased from years of policing in the city, but here, he is relaxed, the wrinkles resting around his eyes like soft ripples in a river. The willow trees of upstate New York wave in the wind and his greying hairs move with it. He has a bushy mustache below his hooked nose and a smile that pulls more to one side than the other. Maybe he’s smoking, either a cigarette or cigar, but whichever it is it fits comfortably between his finger and thumb. As I approach him, I can see the speckled age marks and hair up his arms. His smile sticks, his eyes fall onto me as I tilt my chin to meet his gaze. Him like a skyscraper, and me a mere ant from below as I reach to touch him. Then the air turns to a chill and I draw blanks about who he is or ever was. t

0 07 MU SEU M WEB SI TE R EDES IGN | graphic design by Hannah Schneider

How to Save a Life b y C a m ero n G a r c i a H o n o r a b l e M e n t i on Pr os e

tep 1. Allow the earth to crumble beneath your worn sneakers with a crunch, snap, and pop as you make your way into work on a crisp autumn afternoon. Then be sure to just barely stop yourself from tripping over your frayed shoelaces as you crawl through the front door. Step 2. Ignore the way goosebumps crawl up your skin as you change into your sickly orange uniform in a damp changing hut that smells like dirty diapers. Step 3. Allow the piercing aroma of chlorine to mercilessly invade your nostrils in an unforgiving rampage as you slide onto the pool deck. Step 4. Greet your coworkers with an impish grin as you begin to set up for swim lessons. Remember to remark how beautiful everyone looks so you can marvel at the way they beam at your allegation. Step 5. Attempt to gracefully dive into the water in hopes that you’ll get your cute coworkers’ attention. Note that you’ve failed miserably and stalk off in utter embarrassment. Step 6. Stroke your chemically damaged curls between your fingers during the pre-shift meeting. Curse the pool’s rancid aquatic hygiene concoction under your breath. Swallow the lump in your throat

as your boss reminds you that your job saves lives and that you are responsible for the safety of your students. Step 7. Shake off the nagging awareness of newfound responsibility bestowed upon you by your boss and skip to your lane. Step 8. Cower at the shrill resonance of your manager’s whistle to signal the incoming students. Step 9. Give big smiles and use silly voices as you see your four little swimmers nervously shuffle their way to your lane with Cheeto crusted fingers twiddling with anxiety. Step 10. Gently grasp each pair of squishy hands and lead them into the pool, reminding them of how much fun they’re gonna have. Further prove your point by giving them a wee squirt with bath toys. Step 11. Once everyone is comfortable that you won’t screw up and kill the kids, grab a buoyant barbell and practice big kicks and pulls. Grit your teeth as they splash highly chlorinated water into your eyes with a giggle. Step 12. Then obnoxiously belt out Moana lyrics as you scoop imaginary bowls of chocolate chunk ice cream littered with gummy bears as you teach

them how to do big pulls. Step 13. Waste about six minutes convincing them that their three second dip under the water isn’t going to kill them. Be sure to distract them with tickles and words of affirmation as you clasp their hips and tenderly immerse them in the pool. Step 14. Stifle a laugh after the terror is over as they go on about how it wasn’t even that bad. Give extra big high fives and big hugs while you move from class to class, teaching your students how to dive, float, and appreciate your childhood safe haven. Step 15. Waddle to your last class in total exhaustion with the hope of a nap after your shift. Step 16. Get distracted from all the fun of your last lesson by glancing up at a mom frozen in terror, frantically banging on the glass window. Step 17. Watch her like an absolute idiot for about a minute until you finally decide to follow her eyes. Step 18. See a silhouette of strawberry blonde encased in a pink and yellow bikini under the water. Step 19. Leap over to the next lane on auto pilot and leave your kids unattended with no back up plan. Step 20. Attempt to grasp at her submerged being with your slippery hands. Step 21. Caress her tangled hair as she sobs in your arms. Whisper that she’s safe now. Step 22. Gently place her in her mother’s arms as the two let out a heartfelt cry of anguish and relief. Step 23. Slip back into your original lane and finish the swim lesson like nothing happened. Step 24. Ignore the way your hands slightly shake as the whistle once again perforates your eardrums to signal the end of lessons. Step 25. Watch the parents shuffle onto the pool deck in droves as you eagerly await the chance to return your kids to their rightful homes and process what just happened.

Step 26. Wave your arms excitedly and puff up your chest with pride as you explain to mommy and daddy how well their student did today in class. Feel your frigid soul melt a little as your student says that coming to class made it the best day ever. Step 27. Take a deep breath as you sit with your last student in an attempt to calm your delirious mind that is bursting at the seams. Have that breath knocked right out of you again as your brain finally takes the opportunity to remind you that the girl you saved was the younger sibling of this last student. Step 28. Clumsily accept the mother’s heartfelt gratitude for you saving her child’s life while you awkwardly attempt to tell her about her other daughter’s progress. Rush out of the pool to the shower and attempt to keep yourself from crying at post shift while your boss yells at everyone for their incompetence. Step 29. Pray to God that He’ll watch over your kids and they’ll remember everything you taught them. You’ll certainly never forget. t

B E YO ND THE SELFI E: SCAR S FR O M HI STORY | photographic series by Karen Spangler, Best in Show

This Empty Road b y S a r a h Pa ge

didn’t remember it taking so long to drive out here. The station wagon’s engine sent strange vibrations up the steering wheel and into my hands, reminding me that it was still overdue for a trip to the mechanic. I relaxed my grip and the tremors lessened. Today all I had to focus on was getting up to Goldenrod Hollow before dark, otherwise we’d miss what we came for. And Stan the Station Wagon would get us there, just like he did every year. A sigh rose from the backseat of the car, reminding me that I wasn’t the only person in the vehicle. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I could see Leah staring out the window, a large butterfly sticker adhered to the side of her face. That was new. Her earbuds had also fallen out of her ears and she wasn’t bothering to pick them back up. “How’s it going back there?” I asked, my eyes following the turns in the road. Leah sighed again louder, “My iPod died.” That’s easily solved. “Oh…well pass it up to Caden and he can plug it in for you.” “I didn’t bring a charger,” she replied drearily. Ah. “Guess you’re hosed then,” Caden commented,

pulling off his headphones. “Can’t you lend her a charger?” “I don’t have one for her iPod.” He pulled his headphones back on and turned away to look out the window. This was fine. “Here, let me put on the radio.” I reached down and the car’s old speakers crackled to life for the first time in a while. Caden sighed and pulled off his headphones again but didn’t complain about the interruption. The music filled the car but was a poor substitute for conversation. The first song ended, and I sighed into the silence it left behind. The last time we’d driven up here, the car had been full of bickering, spilled snacks, and exasperated parents. Now it was empty. I gripped the wheel tighter. I can do this. Taking your two kid siblings to camp out and stargaze over a weekend was not a big deal. Mom and Dad managed it just fine last year, and this year I would do the same. Everything is going to be fine. My phone buzzed a text alert, a specified chirp that meant my Aunt Evelyn was checking in… again. It could be ignored. I could only take so many inquiries about health, progress, and state of affairs.

“

We fell quiet again. I didn’t remember talking being this hard. I took the next right a little fast, my insides sloshing sideways. I had insisted to her that I could do this, I didn’t need her breathing down my neck via text. Caden shifted in his seat, “Hey, can you text Auntie back? She’s bugging me now.” I huffed. “Just tell her everything is fine and that I’m driving.” “Fine,” he grunted. We fell quiet again. I didn’t remember talking being this hard. I took the next right a little too fast, my insides sloshing sideways. “So…uh…how’s life?” I asked, cringing internally. Caden had just finished his freshman year of high school, and he and I hadn’t really had a chance to talk since I spent all my time at college. Caden picked up his phone, turning it sideways. “Fine.” Okay, he isn’t going to make things easy for me, is he? “Whatcha doing?” “Game.” Damn. “Sorry for asking.” I scowled at the road and took another turn too sharply, the unsteady whir of the engine wavering before returning to its usual timbre. “Don’t worry about it.” He picked up his headphones from his lap. “How’s your art stuff going?” I tried a third time. He stopped moving. “It’s fine,” he said at last. “He doesn’t do that anymore,” Leah piped up. I had forgotten she was here. “Why not?” I asked. Since when had she gotten so quiet anyways? Caden shrugged. “Guess it’s not my thing any-

more.” He pulled his headphones back up onto his head and slouched down in his seat. Caden loved drawing. The last time I’d stayed at home, his room had been filled with unfinished projects. I realized with a pang that I hadn’t stayed home since last summer because I’d spent winter break with some friends from school. Caden and I hadn’t talked since then. I suddenly felt guilty; I hadn’t bothered to check on him much. Since the kids had moved in with Aunt Evelyn, I had received constant updates about how they were doing, but this was our first time together in months. “How are you doing, Leah?” I asked, shoving my guilt aside. I’d been so busy with school, and keeping track of siblings was hard. “Good, I still like bugs.” “Oh really?” Leah had been obsessed with tigers last summer, but maybe she’d just assumed I would have known about her change in interests. Maybe Evelyn had mentioned something? I couldn’t be sure. To be honest, I just sort of skimmed her texts without paying much attention. Wow, I’m terrible at this. “Are you excited about tonight?” “Yes!” Leah bounced up and down. Good, at least someone is. Last summer’s trip was so much fun. We’d all sat around the campfire that Leah and Dad had built, listening to his portable cassette player before telling stories until it got dark. Once the crickets had finished chirping and the owls had started hooting, Mom would pull out her astronomy charts and consult them by flashlight. We’d all lie back on our sleeping bags. As the fire died, she’d switch off her flashlight and start narrating what the different constellations were. She hadn’t needed the charts, those were for theatrical effect. My mom could have named any constellation pointed out to her. She’d wanted to be an astronaut one day, but a heart condition and children

had stopped her from applying to the program. “There’s something magic about stars, Alexandria.”, she’d once told me years ago while poking at dying embers. Seven-year-old me hadn’t been impressed. “Magic isn’t real,” I’d told her with a scowl. My mom had chuckled. “They’re little balls of gas going through fusion, what’s more magical than that?” I hadn’t known what fusion was then. I hadn’t paid attention when she explained it to me either. Right now, I’d have given anything to hear her explain something to me. I’d never cared much about stars, but Mom did, so once a year I would care about them too. My mom and I hadn’t had a whole lot in common, but camping together along with Dad had always been special. But this year, we were alone. It was fine, though. We’d make it to Goldenrod Hollow. Leah and I would make a campfire while listening to Dad’s handheld cassette player, which I’d stashed in the backseat. I’d prepared several stories to tell them while it got dark, and then I would consult Mom’s charts and talk about the stars. I’d listened to Mom talk about them enough over the years to fake it. Everything would be fine. “Who wants to get ice cream when we pass through town?” We had always gotten ice cream on the way to Goldenrod. “Me!” Leah squeaked again. Caden silently shifted in his seat. The town came into sight. It was comfortingly familiar, with little antique shops, a weird apothecary shop, an escape room, and a General Store, along with some empty buildings with signs that said “Space Available.” The majority of the town could be found on Main Street. The atmosphere was barren; only a couple of cars were trickling through past us and the sidewalks were empty except for ancient advertisements stapled to phone

“

“Out of business?” I exclaimed angrily, abandoning my siblings and walking up the steps. The sign was muddy, with the edges feathered, as if to say that it had been on the door for several months now. That it was gone because we hadn’t been there for it. poles. It was nothing like last year. We parked outside in front of the antique shop and walked up the sidewalk. Maybe we can stop at the candy store. It was on the way, after all. As we got closer, my stomach churned to see a sign that read, “Closed for Renovations.” Caden peered through the dingy window. “Guess they needed a change,” he said, falling into step next to me. I shoved down a rising worry that was building inside me. We kept going. No one was sitting outside the ice cream parlor as we came up alongside it. The benches were empty, the lights off. We stopped in front of the establishment. “Out of business?” I exclaimed angrily, abandoning my siblings and walking up the steps. The sign was muddy, with the edges feathered, as if to say that it had been on the door for several months now. That it was gone because we hadn’t been there for it. A ridiculous thought, I know, but I couldn’t help it. I sighed and looked up and down the brick sidewalk, as dead and empty as this ice cream shop, and I trudged back to the others, who watched me silently. “Sorry, guess there’s no ice cream for us.” I passed them and started back down the street, climbing back into the car, turning the key twice to get the engine going. These days, it always took a couple tries to get started.

Caden and Leah climbed back in. Leah started rummaging around in the back before pulling out a Tupperware container. “It’s okay, Aunt Evelyn sent us brownies to eat,” Leah said. For some reason that stung, as if she knew it would be closed and had made sure we’d be taken care of regardless. Like I couldn’t manage without her. “You want some?” Caden asked, munching away at his own massive square. “I’ll pass, thanks,” I gritted out, backing the car up. “More for us then,” Leah said excitedly. “Don’t eat too much,” I tossed over my shoulder absently. “I know, I know,” she brushed off my words. I watched out of the corner of my eye as my eightyear-old sister bolted a massive piece in one go with no difficulty whatsoever. I opened my mouth to comment, but then the radio started playing one of my dad’s favorite songs. I couldn’t remember the name, but I hummed the tune as I pulled the station wagon out and started back down the road. Trees lined the small country lane as it began to climb upward, away from the dreary town. Everything would be fine. I bobbed my head side to side with the music and the trees skipped by in time with the rhythm. The further up we got, the more the road started to wind, gradually becoming more of a zigzag. I hated driving roads like this. They always made me feel a little queasy. I wasn’t sure how long we’d been driving before I heard Leah groan. “Uh oh.” “Pull over!” Caden exclaimed. I forgot about the zigzag roads I was concentrating on and almost looked over at him. “Why?” “She’s about to barf!” I scanned the road ahead, looking for a place to

stop. There wasn’t exactly what I’d call a shoulder up ahead; there was barely enough room for a car to pull over into the grass. It would have to do. I swung us off the road and slammed the car to a halt, which definitely made it worse for poor Leah, who scrambled over the bags piled in the back in between seats and grabbed for the back door latch in a desperate bid for escape. Caden and I sprang out of the car and ran to the back to rescue our sister. As we opened the back she tumbled out and landed between us before losing the many squares of brownies she’d consumed. We jumped back to avoid being splattered. “Gross,” muttered Caden, not impressed. I watched Leah, feeling useless. “I’m sorry,” I said because I couldn’t think of anything helpful to say. “We told you not to eat too much,” was Caden’s toneless contribution, but he followed it up with giving her a bottle of water, so maybe not totally useless. We sat in the grass on the side of the road, out of view from the brownie sludge. Caden and I ate the sandwiches I’d made this morning. Leah opted for more water and wandered into the roadside underbrush searching for insects. “When did she get so into bugs?” I asked Caden, who shrugged and finished the last bite of his sandwich before responding. “I don’t know, a couple of weeks ago? She took a break from animals after tigers and got really into Greek myths, but then she watched a movie about bugs and now that’s all she wants to read about.” “I don’t know why,” I said, and shuddered. I wasn’t a fan of bugs. When I was six, a bumblebee got caught in my hair and I never emotionally recovered from the experience. “She’ll lose interest by next month, anyway,” Caden swigged the last of his drink. “She always does.” Now that the barf crisis was averted, I wanted to Continued on page 89

WO MAN | charcoal drawing on paper by Isabel Ruiz

get back on the road. We needed to get there before nightfall. After making Leah dispose of the grasshopper and two beetles she had caught in her water bottle, we loaded back up and continued down the road, with the brownies in Caden’s lap for safekeeping. The road straightened out again and Caden went back to playing his game. Apparently, vomiting had been just what Leah needed because she started chattering enthusiastically. I tried to pay attention, but it was sometimes hard to follow her train of thought. She talked about her friend Stephanie’s dead dog, Ferdinand, who’d been Stephanie’s best friend. “But now that Ferdinand’s dead, I need to be her best friend,” Leah explained. My forehead creased; I wasn’t sure what to say about my sister landing after a dog on a friendship hierarchy. “I just don’t want Stephanie to feel lonely,” Leah continued, not noticing my confusion. Caden snorted next to me. “It’s just a dog, you know.” “He was a loyal and true friend, don’t sully his good name!” Caden thumped his head against his headrest. “Why do you insist on throwing that phrase around?” “Someone on Aunt Evelyn’s TV said it.” “Weirdo.” “Knave.” Things were beginning to look up. We’d get to our destination on time, and Caden removed his headphones to talk to Leah, mostly to wind her up. They reminded me of the endless back and forth they’d exchanged a year ago. I tuned them out and thought about the tents we’d need to pitch, recalling a time two years ago when Caden had tripped on and collapsed one of the tents while sleepwalking. I wondered if he’d grown out of that? Regardless, my mood was lifting and I started humming

with the soft radio music. Everything would be fine. This time, it was the station wagon that decided to prove me wrong. The vehicle’s hum changed and white steam started to plume out from under the hood. Without checking behind me, I pulled over off the road and hit the brakes. I vaguely heard my siblings shouting in surprise, but I wasn’t paying attention to them. I took a deep breath and fought the urge to pound the steering wheel. This was not how I had pictured this trip going. “Well, there goes old Stan the Station Wagon,” Caden muttered, straightening in his seat. Wordlessly, I climbed out of the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and stormed round to the front of the car. This had happened once when Dad and I had been driving together and he’d told me what to look for. The problem was, I was only 12 and hadn’t paid attention, and now he wasn’t here to tell me what I should know, and he never would be ever again. I stared at the hood of the car. Stupid, stupid car that couldn’t be bothered to drive, the one job it had. It didn’t have to plan a camping trip without parents or be responsible. My foot itched to kick something, and my teeth ground together, crunching against one another. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, turned around, and dropped down onto the hood, not wanting to face my siblings. My eyes stung and I fought back tears. We weren’t going to get there in time. I didn’t know how to fix this, and Dad had always come to the rescue. All I wanted was the same comfortable feeling that I’d had a year ago today, and with each passing obstacle, I felt it slipping away. A door slammed and the hood bounced and then lowered when Caden sat down beside me. That’s weird—a year ago if he’d done that, he’d be a whole shoulder below me. Now we were about the same

height. “Sorry,” I said after a minute. “It’s no big deal, it’s just a camping trip.” He didn’t sound bothered at all. “I’ll have to call for a tow truck,” I mumbled. He kicked at a pebble. I watched it skip away. The area we were in wasn’t that woody, perhaps we could successfully stargaze from here. I turned to Caden, who was watching me intently. Mom had used to call him a mind reader; he always knew what was on your mind even if he didn’t say anything. He and Mom would spend hours together drawing. It had been something they had shared. Was that why he’d stopped? “Why don’t you draw anymore?” I asked impulsively. I had always felt slightly jealous of the fact that he and my mom had naturally shared interests. Caden shrugged and stood up again. “Not interested anymore.” “Is it because you did it with Mom?” I couldn’t help myself. Probably shouldn’t have said anything, but the car being broken down had cast the last shreds of my self-control to the winds. He stopped moving and stared after the pebble he’d kicked away earlier. “Does doing it remind you of her?” I pressed. Caden looked up and his brown eyes were now filled with resentment. “Honestly, that’s none of your business.” “I’m your big sister, I can ask whatever I want.” That was the wrong thing to say and my stomach tightened. My quiet, unassuming brother frowned, stepping forward to look me in the eyes. “Yeah, great big sister you are, dragging us to the middle of nowhere, forcing us to go on a camping trip just because you want things to be normal.” “What—” He didn’t stop to let me defend myself, instead stepping closer, finger pointed at me to drive home his words. “You go and disappear off to school for

“

“You go and disappear off to school for months, don’t talk to us, don’t even try to check on us. Then you show up and have the audacity to drag us away on a trip that Aunt Evelyn forced us to go along with because she’s worried about you.” months, don’t talk to us, don’t even try to check on us. Then you show up and have the audacity to drag us away on a trip that Aunt Evelyn forced us to go along with because she’s worried about you. An aunt, who I might add, loves you and you ignore at every turn. Every time she tries to help, you tell her to take a hike.” “I don’t—” “Listen, I don’t know what they teach at your college, but guess what I learned over the last year? Nothing will ever be the same. It can’t be.” His moving feet found a pinecone and he swung his foot, punting it to the side of the road. Without giving me a chance to respond, he stormed around to the car and climbed back in, slamming the door. The station wagon shook beneath me. I jumped up and wrenched the passenger door open, ignoring Leah’s shriek of fright. “That’s not what this is about,” I growled at him, my face feeling like it would burn anything it touched. “I want to carry on the tradition so you guys can still enjoy the stuff we did with Mom and Dad.” He stared at me. “Really? Is that it? Or is this about you? About how much you enjoyed these trips? Or maybe how much you think you enjoyed them? You don’t care about camping, or stars, you miss spending time with Mom and Dad, and you’ve tricked yourself into thinking that doing the exact

same stuff we do every year will give you that same happy feeling, but it won’t. Spending time with Mom and Dad gave you that feeling, not staring up at some stupid stars and listening to the Eagles on repeat.” “Please stop,” begged Leah. Neither of us listened. I backed away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snarled at Caden. “Are you sure about that?” His anger had fizzled away, and those serious eyes were boring into me again. “Screw you, at least I don’t want to forget about them.” I didn’t stop to see the damage I caused with my words. I slammed his door shut and walked back to the hood and sat down again. I clenched my right fist, knuckles aching. He didn’t know what he was talking about. I mean, he was only 14, how could he know what I was going through? A small voice in the back of my head piped up reminding me that he was going through the same thing as me. I wasn’t the only one who had lost parents. I thought back to that happy night a year ago. The campfire hadn’t started immediately, and it had been Dad’s cheerful attitude that had motivated him and Leah to find more wood and try again. Mom talking about the stars hadn’t been what made me happy; it had been her arm around my shoulder while she talked that filled me with contentment. Now my eyesight was getting blurry and my jaw ached. Shame, anger, and embarrassment flooded into my chest. I felt lower than dirt. Maybe I should give my aunt a call, maybe she would know how to fix this situation. I pulled out my phone, apology forming in my mouth…no signal. I put the phone down on the hood, afraid that if I held it in my hands a second longer, I would chuck it over into the tree line.

All I wanted was to be curled up by a campfire with my parents, and that was the one thing I couldn’t have. I’ll never get back what I had. The blurriness got worse and tears started to roll down my face as I slid off the car hood, wrapping my arms around my knee caps and pressing them into my eye sockets. I thought that if I could stay away, I would be able to hold on to how I felt last year before the accident. That spending time with my aunt and siblings would make me miss my parents more. That I could preserve them in my memories by recreating what we used to do together. But now, my brother’s words had stripped away my delusion. I wondered what my mom would say if she could see all this. I heard another door open and close. I swiped at my eyes and looked up. This time it was Leah who sat down next to me. I looked over at her. Her eyes looked a little red, but she wasn’t crying. As our eyes made contact, she reached out and wrapped her arms tightly around me. “Last summer Mom and I used to talk about tigers all the time, she helped me draw some for my room.” I wasn’t sure where this was going, but the last thing I wanted to do was redirect my anger at my sweet little sister. So I kept quiet. “But I lost interest in tigers, and I wanted to try out new stuff. But Mom wasn’t there to play with me, and she spent so much time talking about tigers with me that I thought she’d be upset if I started liking something else.” She produced a butterfly sticker and pressed it to my soaked kneecap. “Because she wasn’t there to share it with me anymore, I was really sad. I told Auntie Evelyn about it, and guess what she said?” I’d had enough of Aunt Evelyn, but I bit my lip and didn’t say anything. “She said that Mom didn’t talk to me about tigers because she loved them too, but because she wanted

to spend time with me, and to encourage me to do what I wanted. She wouldn’t want me to be stuck doing the same thing forever.” She took another sticker and pressed it against the hood of the station wagon. “So now I explore whatever I want, and it doesn’t matter what it is. Mom cared about whatever I cared about and so I feel close to her all the time, when I do anything,” her voice wavered and I realized she had started to cry, “like reading Greek myths, or studying bugs. It doesn’t matter, because I know she would have done all those things with me too.” She didn’t need tigers. I didn’t need this camping trip; I needed them, but that wasn’t possible. Leah rubbed her eyes, stood up, and looked at me. “They won’t be upset if you never camp again.” She solemnly added, “They’ll be sad if you’re unhappy, though.” I sniffed and pulled her down into a tight hug; she buried her face in my side. I stared at the butterfly sticker on my knee. She was right, I needed my parents, but I couldn’t have them. But I did have two siblings who were here, who I could spend time with. Make some new memories with. Right now we needed to get a signal and call for help. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stood up with Leah’s arm still wrapped around my waist. She must have known I still needed her. “Come on, we need to walk back to town,” I told her. We awkwardly made our way around to Caden’s side of the car, where he was scrunched up in his seat, eyes boring into the dashboard. I tapped the window to get his attention. He ignored me, so I tapped again. Leah reached out and pulled open the door. She let go of me to pull on our brother’s sleeve. “Come on Caden, we gotta go.” Caden ignored her. I cleared my throat, “We have to start walking, and I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

“

This silence was worse than the one from the drive. I knew I should apologize, but I wasn’t sure how to start. He saved me that difficulty for once. “I don’t want to forget them.” The words hung in the air, a potential olive branch. Leah reached out and hugged him. I was surprised to see that he didn’t shake her off. A year ago, he wouldn’t have stood for a hug. Without a word, he slid out of the car and started past us, walking back the way we had come. I grabbed my satchel and checked my phone was in my pocket. Then, after locking the car up, I took Leah’s hand, and we started after him. Caden wasn’t walking that fast, so it didn’t take us long to catch up with him. Leah let go and skipped ahead, running off the road to look at the bushes and underbrush and then running back onto the side of the road. I was glad that no one else seemed to be driving on this road today. Caden and I matched step unconsciously and we watched our younger sibling dart back and forth. This silence was worse than the one from the drive. I knew I should apologize, but I wasn’t sure how to start. He saved me that difficulty for once. “I don’t want to forget them.” The words hung in the air, a potential olive branch. “I know, I shouldn’t have said that,” I responded. He continued, ignoring my comment. “But I do need space from them. Drawing made me think about Mom, but not in a good way. It just reminded me that she’s gone.” He looked over at me. “And I didn’t want to go on this trip because I was afraid trying to make this trip the exact same

way as it was last year would do the same thing, remind me that they’re dead.” I hadn’t thought about it that way before. But it made sense. I’d been so focused on what I wanted I hadn’t checked about what he or Leah wanted. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask how you felt about this trip.” The words tumbled out of my mouth. “That’s okay, but I really need space right now, and doing this isn’t helping me feel close to Mom and Dad right now, it…kind of makes it worse.” Oh. That made so much sense. I’ve distanced myself so much from my brother that I haven’t even noticed how he was grieving. Guilt bubbled up inside of me. “I’m really sorry,” I whispered. “Me too. I should have told you how I felt, instead I said some pretty mean stuff.” He looked over at me, fidgeting with the headphones around his neck. “I needed to hear it. You were right, I was lying to myself, it’s just this was the one thing that I had in common with Mom and Dad.” He let go of the headphones and let his hands swing by his sides. “If you want, when it gets dark, we can chart some constellations.” “Won’t that make you feel worse?” “Actually, looking at them together would be fine.” He grinned shyly. “We can make some new memories.” A knot I hadn’t noticed in my chest loosened. “Sounds like a plan.” I wanted to give him a hug, but I thought that might be a bridge too far. We definitely wouldn’t be making it to Goldenrod Hollow, but I wasn’t upset about that now. My phone buzzed, letting us know we were back in service and I pulled it out. A string of texts from Aunt Evelyn, asking for updates, flitted across the screen. I swiped my thumb and typed a response to the last one.

Everything’s okay. Car broke down, going to call for a tow. Love you and call you later. Okay, love you. See you soon. Let me know if you need anything. Will do. I smiled. Everything would be fine. t

STEEPLE THR O U GH THE TREES | photography by Destiny Eudy

Shrinking Skies by Olivia Slack 2 n d Pl a c e Poe t r y

hey call it big sky country because the blue goes on and on until the mountains interrupt it, rising up out of the ground to stake their claim in the vast, empty air. The jagged peaks bursting through the earth and creating great gashes in the land have been witness to the catastrophes and joys of an entire planet, through ages of fire and snow. But we do not revere the strength held in their height, and instead

recreate it with pitiful imitations that we call city skylines. The mountains have a claim, but we disregard it, even though they are older and wiser than we, the creatures who dare to take their wildness and tame it, to take the big sky and fill it with clouds that are not clouds, but are formed from the labors of humans and the hot residue of our desires. It’s big sky country, but the big sky is getting smaller the bigger we believe we are. t

WATCH ME WHI LE I B LOOM | photography by Anayeli Collazo Lopez

Love in a Lavender Field b y C l a i r e H ei n s

lease don’t lose me in the purple haze of our lavender field and these long sweet days. When I see fresh streams running swiftly to infinity in those eyes so blue. When nothing else matters quite so much as the sight of you. Please don’t leave me here shaken in the long solid night among such pain and silence, I fear losing my sight. Where do we go from here? The question weighs me down, so stay with me through summer, safe on this firm and hallowed ground. When I question what to do I look within, then turn to you. You remind me to use my voice, so I take a breath and make a choice. I speak out my knotted secrets softly, and each one you keep until the good times and the bad have gone, and as the storm clouds pass, you come bearing flowers. I will rise and fall forward from each one of my hardest days. Alone but together today, you reach for my hand, leading me through the maze. Your steady trust makes me strong; this time we stand for good. And the greatest thing that gives me hope? Through the trials, we remain together like we should. t

I LLU MI NATED LET TER | digital collage by Hannah Schneider

Poems in Lockers b y K r i st a W i ese

hosts and skeletons come alive on Halloween, elves on Christmas, bunnies on Easter, and I, a poet, come alive on Valentine’s Day. It’s like this: no one wants to see a skeleton hobbling down the road on a warm summer evening, but on that single day in October, suddenly skeletons are normal, suddenly they’re greeted with friendly waves and children’s laughter and not with looks of horror and disgust. I’ve learned that it’s very much the same for poets. If I write a girl a poem on a normal day, it’s weird, nerdy, or worst of all, creepy. When my little notebook of haikus was discovered by my second grade classmates, I was declared a weirdo and dubbed The Poet, a title that has unfortunately stuck with me since then. I don’t mind being known as a poet, but every once in a while, I’d like people to address me as Lance—or even just address me. But on Valentine’s Day, writing poetry is okay. Poems become these beautiful, romantic things, worthy of admiration and powerful enough to inspire the strongest of all emotions: love. And that is why I have waited until today to give my poem to Sal. I wrote the poem the day I first saw her—the

first day of eleventh grade, during second period, which is history. It was seven months ago, but the moment feels like yesterday. She walked past my desk smelling a little like honey and looking like it too: all smooth and glowy and flowing, long hair sparkling in the autumn light pouring in from the open classroom windows. I’ve thought a lot about soul mates since that moment, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they exist and that Sal is mine. Whether or not soul mates are real, I sure do want Sal to be my girlfriend. I got to school early this morning to slip the poem into her locker. I wanted to be there before the halls were filled by people with their staring eyes and their judging minds. The triply folded notebook paper fit easily into the slots of Sal’s locker. I heard the paper flutter gently as it fell to the bottom of her locker, and it reminded me of the sound of bird wings. Sal didn’t stop by her locker before first or second period, but I know she will eventually, and I’m in no hurry.

Thinking about Sal discovering the poem is making me jittery, and I’m already jittery because today is speech day in history class. After two more people give their speeches, it’ll be my turn to talk about Napoleon. Even though I know a lot about Napoleon and could probably write a stellar paper on him, that won’t make a difference once I’m up in front of 20 sets of eyes. Dread knots itself tighter in my stomach as Mrs. Mason calls the name of the student before me on the roll. I distract myself by remembering the first time I heard Sal speak. I had lingered after class that first day of fall semester, pretending to finish up an assignment but really just feeling drawn to this new girl who looked like honey and who carried a brown paper bag too large to only be holding her lunch. As other students filtered out of the class, I watched her bring the brown bag up to Mrs. Mason’s desk. She introduced herself, explained that she was new to the school and that her mom owned a bakery, and pulled from the paper bag a bundle of chocolate chip cookies wrapped in plastic and tied with a ribbon. I wondered if she had cookies for all her teachers in that bag. I remember watching her talk to Mrs. Mason after class that day and realizing something about her: she was one of those golden people, those people whose words are like shimmery coins and when they speak, you feel richer. Mrs. Mason’s whole face lit up when she talked to Sal, and it stayed that way even after Sal walked away. Golden people are easy to spot. Sal is one of them and I am not. My words are barely bronze, clunky and generally ignored. “Lance Wilson, you’re next,” Mrs. Mason says in that stretched drawl of hers, and I begin the slow journey to the front of the room. I turn and face the class, knees knocking as though my skeleton is trying to escape my skin. If I could choose a superpower, it would be the ability to speak in social situations. But I don’t have that power, and no amount

100

“

She was one of those golden people, those people whose words are like shimmery coins and when they speak, you feel richer. Mrs. Mason’s whole face lit up when she talked to Sal, and it stayed that way even after Sal walked away. of meetings with the school counselor or pep talks from my family seem to help. I manage to stammer out the first line of my speech. “Napoleon may have been short,” I say, but then I’m out of air and my words are gone, replaced by a soliloquy of panic. Mrs. Mason nods encouragingly, but a snicker from Aaron Hill counters her support. I don’t know how much time passes. I start over. “Napoleon may have been short,” I say and take a shaky breath, “but he wasn’t, um, a coward.” I open my mouth to say my next sentence, but Mrs. Mason interrupts. “I’m going to have to stop you there, Lance. It seems you are not prepared, and your time is already halfway out. You’ll have to finish on Monday,” she huffs, annoyed but not surprised. On the way back to my seat, I pass by Sal’s desk, pausing for just a moment when I see she has a book propped open in front of her, half hidden by her desk. My eyes catch on the words “hope” and “feathers,” and my heart flutters. She’s reading Dickinson! Of course, she could be reading the poetry for a different class or simply because it’s Valentine’s Day, but the thing with feathers fills my chest as I consider the fact that Sal may actually like poetry. Then, Sal does something else to surprise me. She looks up at me as I pass by and says, “Speeches

are the worst, and who assigns speeches on Valentine’s Day anyways?” Her comment makes me smile, and I feel instantly better. I wish I had something to say in return to make Sal smile, but instead I take my seat behind her, blushing silently.

I didn’t sign the poem that I wrote for Sal. Signing it felt too pushy, and she would know I wrote it anyways. Everyone knows me as The Poet. Everyone knows about that stupid haiku I wrote in second grade. They know that I keep a notebook in my backpack full of lines of poetry I think of during the day because once in sixth grade, David Zimmer stole my notebook and read the poems aloud from the top of the rock-climbing wall during recess until I tattled like a wimp. Sal wasn’t around for those years, but she knows my nickname, and she’ll know I wrote the poem. I stand at my locker, a good distance away from Sal’s, waiting for her to turn away from her circle of friends towards her locker. Will she smile when she unfolds the paper? Or maybe she’ll think it’s creepy. Maybe she thinks poetry is stupid, something only old people like. Familiar panic darkens my mind, leaking like ink from a pen. Sal’s friends saunter away, arm in arm, and she turns towards her locker. Stop, I think. My thoughts don’t stop her from opening her locker but Ralph does. Out of nowhere, he comes bounding up to Sal, thick blond hair flopping around like a golden retriever’s ears. “Babe,” he says, his deep voice soaring over the noise of the hallway. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I watch him pull out a teddy bear from behind his back. There’s a rose attached to the teddy bear. The triteness of the gesture makes me raise my eyebrows, but Sal’s smile is bright and wide. I was the one who fell in love with Sal at first

sight, but Ralph is the one who had the courage to ask her out. I don’t blame Sal for saying yes. Like his girlfriend and unlike me, Ralph knows how to light up people’s faces. He does it when he’s on the field, racing towards that airborne ball, declaring himself faster than gravity and stronger than any interceptor. When Ralph’s hand reaches towards the illuminated night sky and meets with leather, people smile. They cheer, actually. And why wouldn’t they? Not everyone can defy gravity, run so fast their body turns to a blur, or plow through a jungle of muscle as though that jungle were made of twigs. Those are talents and worthy of applause. Or so I’ve been told. Ralph can also give speeches better than the president himself. And make people laugh as easy as he runs a mile. It would feel natural to write Ralph off as a dumb jock, but he also plays the clarinet in the school band and maintains straight A’s. I turn away from Sal as she leans forward to embrace this boy who is not me. Part of me had thought that Sal would read the poem I wrote her and realize that I had something to give her that Ralph didn’t. But who was I kidding? Even if she likes the poem upon first glance, Valentine’s Day is only a day and tomorrow my pretty words will wilt like all the roses forgotten in lockers. I slip my notebook out of my backpack and jot down this sad analogy because it sounds nice in my head. Then I head to my next class, praying desperately that the little piece of notebook paper in Sal’s locker will go unnoticed.

I have all but forgotten about the poem by Saturday morning. It helps that Jerry’s Books is busy this morning. My mind is kept occupied by customers with questions and coins, the ever-breaking cash register, and the self-serve coffee counter that continually runs low on supplies during cold days. Continued on page 103

101

FENS ALI R | digital painting by Leah Jensen, Honorable Mention

It’s the freezing rain that has pushed people into the shop today. All morning long people have been spilling through the door, dragging in slush from the street and an atmosphere of dreariness. Normally it’s pretty empty in here, just me and my Uncle Jerry and his cat Sunspot. I fill empty hours by reading or by imagining Sal walking into the shop and asking me to help her find a book that she’ll like. I don’t know what books Sal would like, but I’d take a guess and tell her that if she didn’t like the book, she could come back and return it. Then I’d guess again, and one day, I’d figure out which books Sal liked. The sound of a woman clearing her throat pulls me from my daydream. “Do you mind ringing this up for me?” she asks in a snarly voice, sliding a book about bird watching across the counter to me. I stammer out a response and scramble to gather the cash she’s piled onto the book. Halfway through counting back the woman’s change, I catch sight of a familiar face and familiar blond hair. What is Ralph doing here? A horrible thought occurs to me: he figured out that I wrote the poem, and he’s here to get revenge. I’ve never been in a fight before, but I don’t think I would fare well. According to my grandma, I’m a rack of bones, and according to anyone who has ever been on a kickball team with me in PE, I’m unathletic in every way. My heart starts pounding. I drop the customer’s change, and pennies go rolling off the desk in every direction. She mutters something as she leans down to gather the pennies and then snatches her receipt from my shaking hands before stalking away. Ralph swoops up to the empty counter before I can disappear on an impromptu lunch break. “Hey man,” he says, in an overly friendly voice, probably meant to disguise the fact that he doesn’t know my name. “Can I talk to you about something real quick?” I take a deep breath before speaking, the way my

mom always tells me to. “I’m a little, um, busy.” “It’s important and it’ll only take a minute,” he replies. When I work up the courage to glance upwards for a second, I realize that Ralph’s eyes are clouded with worry. This is not the face of someone ready to pummel me out of existence. I take another deep breath. “Okay,” I say. “But it has to be quick. The store’s busy today.” Ralph follows me to my uncle’s office. My uncle is home sick with a cold so his office is empty. I unlock the door, and we step inside. Ralph doesn’t bother to make small talk. “Look man, I need help,” he says, making himself comfortable in my uncle’s rolling office chair. “Lance. My name is Lance,” I say, louder than intended, and then hastily add, “In case you forgot.” Ralph stares for a second. “Right. And I’m Ralph. Anyways, I’m in a bit of a predicament.” He seems to take great pride in pronouncing such a large word. “What’s the problem?” I ask, fiddling with the door knob, willing this meeting to end. “Well you see,” he says, “my girlfriend is expecting me to write her a poem for her birthday, and I don’t know shit about poetry.” My breath catches in my throat and I start to cough. “Sorry,” I manage to choke out after a few seconds. After another brief pause during which time seems to stand still, I continue. “So why is your girlfriend expecting a poem if you’ve never written her one?” At this question, Ralph clenches his jaw and glances around the office. “Some idiot wrote her a poem for Valentine’s Day, and I told her it was me,” he says. “You lied?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “C’mon man,” he says, glaring at me. “She was so happy when she read that jerk’s poem. I wasn’t just going to tell her some rando wrote it for her. You would’ve done the same thing.”

103

It doesn’t even bother me that he referred to me as a jerk or questioned my moral fortitude. I’m distracted. “She was happy?” I ask, unable to stop myself. “Yeah,” Ralph huffs. “She was smiling like it was the best gift she ever got which it obviously wasn’t. It was just like, 30 stupid words on a piece of notebook paper. Anyone can do that.” “Then do it,” I say. Ralph looks up at me like a puppy that’s been caught in the act of stealing food off the kitchen counter. “Actually her birthday is really soon—” “February 18th.” “Right,” Ralph says, still focused entirely on his mission. “So I don’t really have time to write her a poem seeing as I’ve got a big game to practice for and writing poetry takes time, you know?” I nod because I do know, and Ralph rambles onward. “I was hoping you could help me out. They don’t call you The Poet for nothing, right?” He forces a laugh. “Actually they call me The Poet because they think it’s an insult,” I say, no longer stumbling over my words. “And no, I can’t help you.” Ralph sits there with his mouth hanging open, his face tinted red as though he’s just jogged a lap around a track. “Whatever,” he says, standing up from the chair abruptly. I move out of the office doorway and into the hallway. “Creep,” Ralph mumbles as he pushes past me, but I ignore it. I stand in the hallway and imagine Sal unfolding that piece of notebook paper and smiling. Ralph said she looked at my poem like it was the best gift she ever got. I imagine that. I imagine her looking at my poem like it was made of gold. And with these thoughts in my mind, I march out of the hallway, confidently, like a skeleton on Halloween. t

104

U ND ER THE S UN | ceramics by Cameron Simpson

Priceless b y Ca ro l i n e E . Bel l

turned 20 a month ago But I have yet to find the age where I become “Worthy” or “Respectable” As a young girl my mother would tell me “Don’t touch that” As we walked the aisles of stores I guess some men never got their hands swatted Or a finger pointed sternly towards them But I am not an item on a shelf I am not breakable by gentle touch Though sometimes I feel as fragile as glass I too have been touched by the wrong hands But I will not be purchased My price will not be marked down t

106

PO R TR AI T | digital painting by Kamara Taylor

Black and Purple b y M. J. S o l o r z a n o A r i z a

Trigger warning: mentions of abuse

“

When did it get like this?” I thought to myself as I began to take my makeup supplies out. It was the morning after and, like always, I had to conceal the bruises before he came back into the room. I could smell the chocolate chip pancakes topped with regret that he was making in the kitchen. It’s always the same thing. He brings me breakfast in bed with a rose, accompanied by a monologue and a promise, but I know better now; he’s never going to change. I remember when he was different. Back when we were 18, summers were full of love and excitement. The only things left full of love now are the memories hanging on the walls of trips that I wish we could take again. And the only thing full of excitement is him, right before his fist meets my skin, as if my pain arouses him. I don’t know why I’m still here. Do I still love him? Or am I only holding on to the man he used to be? The man who gave me everything. The man who first told me he loved me in the most romantic way possible.

108

We were headed to his childhood cabin in the mountains, a place the name of which I can’t remember now. About two hours in, we stopped at a gas station, and I got down to use the bathroom. As I walked back to the car, I could tell he wasn’t happy. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “The stupid machine isn’t working,” he replied as he kicked it. “Oh, do you want me to get the cashier?” “Why? So you can flirt with him?” “What? What are you talking about?” “I saw the way he looked at you when you went into the bathroom.” “I didn’t even notice him!” “Yeah, right,” he said as he rolled his eyes. Annoyed by his anger, I said nothing. I walked away, opened the car door and slammed it shut once I was inside. It took him 30 minutes to figure it out with the cashier, and once he did, he climbed back in and immediately began apologizing. “I’m sorry, Tina. I was frustrated, and I took it out on you.”

“

That’s when I realized that nothing bad was going to happen. His only intention was to share this with me. Out of all the people in the world, he was sharing this moment with

me. My heart felt complete. “It’s fine,” I said. “Just don’t do that again.” “I won’t,” he said firmly. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Even though he had apologized, the tension in the air was still prevalent. Neither of us said another word, but our hands remained intertwined. The road seemed to go on forever, and the soft hum of the engine began to lull me to sleep. My eyelids were slowly dropping, and as I was drifting off, I felt the car swerve. I opened my eyes and saw that we were on the side of the rainy road. It had begun to pour. “What happened?! Are you okay?” I asked anxiously. “Yeah, yeah! Just come outside!” he exclaimed as he unbuckled his seat and opened the door. When he noticed I wasn’t moving, he said, “C’mon, it’ll be cool, trust me!” So I too unbuckled my seatbelt and went out. “It’s raining! What are we doing?” I yelled out to him as he came closer to me. “Look! Follow me!” he yelled as he began to walk backward from the way we were headed. We walked for about three minutes, and I went over every possible way it could go wrong. I was so deep in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice when it had stopped raining. Suddenly, he stopped and turned back to face me. “Isn’t this cool?” he exclaimed. “What are you talking about?” I answered, still not understanding what was going on.

“Look!” he said as he turned me around to face toward the car. I was finally able to see what he was talking about. Although it wasn’t raining where we were anymore, it continued to pour on the other side. We could easily walk back into the rain or stay dry on this side. That’s when I realized that nothing bad was going to happen. His only intention was to share this with me. Out of all the people in the world, he was sharing this moment with me. My heart felt complete. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Isn’t it? Come!” he said as he grabbed my arm and led me to the other side. “I love you!” he yelled. “What?” I asked, unsure if I’d heard right. “This. This right here is how it’s going to be. We’ll sometimes annoy the hell out of each other, or we’ll be sad or mad, or whatever. But we’ll be on the rainy side. And it’s going to be hard, and hell, we may think about giving up, but neither of us will. You know why? Because all we have to do is cross.” He then proceeded to lead me back to the dry side. “But we have to cross together. I don’t want you to be alone in the rain, Tina. I love you.” Before I could say a word, he grabbed my face and kissed me so deeply I could barely breathe. “I love you too,” I responded as soon as we broke away. And in this moment, I was willing to give this man everything. Although we weren’t kissing anymore, we continued to hold each other. We must have looked like crazy people standing on the side of the road like that, but neither of us cared. All I could think about was how lucky I was to have found him. I wanted forever with him.

That night I gave myself completely to him for the first time. My body fit perfectly with his; we

109

were made for each other. I didn’t think it could get better, but it did. The universe seemed to love us too as its moon shone bright, and the stars became enhanced by the black and purple sky; we were both in awe. “I’ll keep bringing you here, and I bet that the sky will always be this color.” He said so with confidence. “And how can you be so sure of that?” I asked. “Well, I can make the sky do whatever I want. And besides, this is the world’s way of telling us that we’re perfect for each other.” “Is that so?” I replied mid-laugh. “For sure. The day I stop bringing you here is the day the world ends.” “Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” I said with a smile. We spent the rest of the night entangled in each other’s arms as we talked about growing old together. Eventually, we fell asleep beneath a tree with nothing but a blanket to cover us. I wish I knew then what I know now.

“Christina! Come on!” I am brought back to reality, and I quickly finish the last touches. As I’m heading for the door, I look back at the mirror one last time. My face is now back to perfection; it’s the way he says he likes me best. I guess the black and purple reminds him too much of the old days. t

110

CO MPLEMENTARY | acrylic paint & modeling paste by Isabel Ruiz

Heat b y K at el yn W i sz owat y

ven though it was plain to see there was a problem, no one had truly taken action to improve the conditions. It had been a few years since Paul Dart moved into the house on the corner of the street where passersby were forced to experience the awful anomaly that was his decaying home. It used to be a beautiful suburban home with white siding and green shutters on the windows. The house once had a porch with hanging plants and rocking chairs and a front yard decorated with thriving daisies and hydrangeas. The windows used to be clean and the grass green. It had been common to see bunny rabbits resting on the crisp wet lawn at daybreak and cardinals drinking at the bird bath, but now it was a wonder to even see a bumblebee nearby. Currently, weeds consumed the overgrown grass, and the shutters dangled. The porch was empty, and the birdbath dry. The siding had aged, becoming discolored and stained, and a lack of maintenance made the windows foggy and smudged. Shingles fell and tumbled down the roof on a daily basis, landing in the overflowing gutter. Why Paul had let his house become this monstrosity was unknown among his neighbors. There was so much that could have been done before the summer

112

heat wave, but Paul chose to ignore the rapid decay of his home. “He could at least admit it’s a problem,” Eliot Bowden complained to his wife, Elizabeth, as he studied Paul’s house from his front porch. He adjusted his glasses so they were perfectly aligned with his squinting brown eyes and he could get a good look across the street. He swirled around the ice cubes he’d slipped into his coffee to try to cool it down. Elizabeth cleared her throat and spoke in a gentle voice that matched her soft features and smooth gold curls. “He’s simply blind to it, dear, and it seems to me the only way things will improve is if he gets out, and someone else comes along who shows some care.” “Seems like the unfortunate truth, doesn’t it?” Eliot took a sip of his coffee, trying to remember what the house had looked like before Paul moved in; he’d really only heard about it. He turned around to say something further, but Elizabeth had gone inside. Eliot closed his mouth and looked across the street again just in time to see Mara Hoover fussing over her garden on the side of her house. A lock of her short gray hair flopped in her wrinkled face as

“

Ethan swerved onto the sidewalk to let it through, and, as it passed, its gray exhaust engulfed him. Letting out a little cough, he turned his head to watch the truck huff and puff down the street, leaving a hot trail of smoke. she crouched down and held one of the drooping plants in dismay. She then stood up, more swiftly than she usually did in her old age, and disappeared behind the house. She returned a moment later with her husband, Claud Hoover, who was insistent that he knew nothing about her plants. Eliot observed the couple as they seemed to shout at each other for a moment before disappearing behind their house. Still at his place on the porch, Eliot tilted his head curiously, waiting for them to return. Neither of them did. He frowned in boredom and looked away. If Mara was upset about her garden, he would surely hear about it tonight at his neighbor’s fish fry.

The wind blew little Ethan Darlington’s hair back, and the world around him became a beautiful blur of color as he zoomed down the street on his bicycle. His rosy cheeks were pushed into a smile that revealed his missing teeth, and his blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Ethan peddled full speed but began to slow down when he saw a familiar rusty pickup truck rounding the corner. The whole street could hear the truck’s metal parts clanking about and the heavy engine huffing and puffing as it pushed along. Ethan swerved onto the sidewalk

to let it through, and, as it passed, its gray exhaust engulfed him. Letting out a little cough, he turned his head to watch the truck huff and puff down the street, leaving a hot trail of smoke. The truck pulled over in front of the Bakers’ house as it always did. The driver, Thomas Baker, turned the engine off with a clunk and climbed out of the truck slowly and steadily, closing the door and swinging his keys around in a casual manner amid the exhaust. Claud watched it all play out from his window next door. “Now he knows that truck’s no good. It’s been a piece of junk for years, and he still hasn’t done anything with it.” Claud stood with his arms folded across his white t-shirt, aware Mara wasn’t really listening to him in her frustration about her garden, but that fact didn’t stop his complaints. “It puffs a whole tank of gasoline out its rear end every minute.” He turned to his wife in case she had heard him, but Mara was busy dialing the telephone with furious fingers.

Down the street, Ethan’s grandmother Clara Darlington put down her crossword puzzle and picked up the phone. She smoothed the creases in her lavender house dress and carefully brought the receiver to her ear. “Hello?” The voice on the other end spoke immediately. “Hello, Clara. This is Mara.” Grandma Clara set down her pencil next to the crossword, realizing the conversation would not be short. “Oh, hi, Mara. How are you? Is Claud complaining about Thomas’s truck again? I can hear its engine running from down the street.” “Can you believe my garden has been demolished?” Mara interrupted. Grandma Clara wrinkled her eyebrows. “Demolished?” She stroked her black cat, who lounged be-

113

side her on the couch. “Yes—those vegetables I was going to cook for everyone at the fish fry tonight. I went outside this morning, and they were all dried up!” “Oh my word. What happened?” Grandma Clara looked to the door as little Ethan scampered inside. “Well it’s certainly not my fault! Someone had to have done something to it,” Mara insisted. “Are you sure—” “I bet the Bakers let their kids run through my garden!” Even though Grandma Clara couldn’t see her, she was sure Mara was shaking her fist. “Maybe, but I haven’t seen them around the past few days.” Grandma Clara heard a knock at the door. “Mara, I’m gonna have to let you go. Someone’s at my door.” Grandma Clara hung up the phone without waiting for a response. She rose to her feet and hurried to the door. “Hello, Ms. Clara. Would you like to buy some of my Girl Scout cookies?” Eliot and Elizabeth’s daughter Mallory smiled up at Grandma Clara from the doorstep. Her sash rested across her shoulder, and her blonde hair bounced in curls. Grandma Clara beamed. “Of course I would, dear. Do you want to come in?” Mallory smiled again and stepped inside. “Let me just grab some cash for you.” She went across the room. “Hi, Mallory!” Ethan shouted as he ran towards her. “Do you wanna play?” “Mallory can play with you after she sells her cookies, Ethan,” Grandma Clara called from the other room. She returned with some cash. “I’ll take two boxes of those minty ones and three of the peanut butter.” Grandma Clara paid Mallory and took the boxes of cookies. “Do you wanna go around the block with me while I sell my cookies?” Mallory asked Ethan.

114

“

As they looked on, Mallory began to have ideas as to why her father didn’t like Paul. The dry, brown grass on the edge of the sidewalk looked like it would tickle your ankles when you walked by it. Besides that, the house didn’t seem friendly at all but actually a little bit scary. “Sure!” He followed her and her wagon of cookies out the door. As they approached the house next door, Ethan shuddered. “Have you ever met Mr. Dart?” he asked with a hint of fear in his curious voice. “Who’s Mr. Dart?” Mallory asked. “He lives here.” They stopped in front of Paul’s house, gazing up at it. “Oh, you must mean Paul. That’s what my daddy calls him. I don’t think he likes him. My daddy told me not to go to this house.” As they looked on, Mallory began to have ideas as to why her father didn’t like Paul. The dry, brown grass on the edge of the sidewalk looked like it would tickle your ankles when you walked by it. Besides that, the house didn’t seem friendly at all but actually a little bit scary. The blinds were shut, and the porch was dark. When the wind blew, they could hear the slight creaking and settling of the loose stairs and railing. Ethan winced, thinking about the haunted houses in his story books. “Maybe we should skip it then.” He gave Mallory an anxious nudge. As they passed by, the creaks and rattles followed them.

“Just because you couldn’t keep some plants alive doesn’t mean it’s my fault,” Mara’s next door neighbor Thomas told her sternly as they argued on his porch. “I know you’ve been letting your grandkids run around here on the loose, and they have no regard. They probably ran right through my garden.” “The kids haven’t been out here playing in a week! You think they’re running around in this heat?” He wiped a few droplets of sweat from his brow and leaned against the door frame, shaking his bald head. “You can’t be—” Thomas held out his hand to stop her. “Mara, I’ve got better things to do this weekend than stand here arguing with you.” He went inside, letting the screen door slam behind him. Mara stomped her foot on his porch, and then hurried down the steps with wrinkled eyebrows and a frown. As she turned onto the sidewalk and passed Thomas’s truck, she shouted, “And I’m tired of seeing this hunk of junk outside my house!” If Paul Dart had been outside, she would have commented on his property as well, but he was nowhere to be seen, as usual. Dallon Darlington exited his garage with a heap of fishing gear in his arms. Loading the gear into the trunk of his car, he noticed his son Ethan down the street with Mallory. Despite the heat, Dallon was his usual charming self. He flashed a smile and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. A highpitched whistle caught his son’s attention. “You should stay with Grandma Clara while we’re all fishing.” He waved for Ethan to come home. Before he headed out to the lake where he would meet his neighbors, Dallon waved to Claud, who was packing up with Thomas and Eliot down the street.

When the men arrived at the lake, they set up on the same pier they always used and began fishing. It was a small neighborhood lake where visitors could see the opposite shore, but it was large enough to use for fishing and some water sports. However, the lake seemed particularly quiet today, with the only sounds being those of animals rustling in the trees and bushes. After a while, under the scorching sun, beads of sweat trickled down each man’s forehead. “The water seems a little different today. A little darker,” Thomas commented. Claud shifted in his folding chair and adjusted his cap. “I haven’t seen any movement since we got here.” Eliot observed the empty shore all around the lake. There had been people picnicking near where they parked, but no one was at the lake. He grunted and checked his line. The lake was usually where people spent their time during these heat waves. A few hours must have gone by when a man approached their group. “Hey guys. You’re not having much luck, I suppose.” He was dressed in khaki with a visor propped on his head of shaggy dirty-blond hair. “How’d you know?” Thomas asked as the man stepped onto the pier. The man wiped his forehead. “There was some sort of toxic chemical spill here a couple days ago. Ya know there are some businesses that operate down at the other end of the lake that probably caused it. They said most of the fish just plopped right up to the surface, dead.” The neighbors looked around at each other surprised. “Really?” was all Eliot could say with a wrinkled forehead. “Yeah, they’re trying to help it over there.” The Continued on page 117

115

FI SH TACO | digital illustration by Bailey Birtchet, 1st Runner-Up

man pointed across the lake where a small group of people were moving around some sort of pumps. “You all are wasting your time out here, I suppose.” Thomas stared across the lake and reeled in his line. “Ah, thanks. I guess we’d better get going then.” Claud stood up and looked down into the water. He rubbed the whiskers on his chin as he thought. “So much for planning a fish fry.” The man chuckled. “People fish here so much I wouldn’t be surprised if there were no fish left anyhow.” The neighbors smiled politely at his remark and started to pack up.

Back at home, Elizabeth, Mara, and Grandma Clara were socializing as they waited for the men to return and begin the fish fry. Sitting on Mara’s front porch, the women expressed their disappointment that Mara’s vegetables would no longer be making an appearance at the fish fry. Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the men returning. Claud pulled up in front of his house. “Catch anything?” Mara called to her husband. Claud got out of the car and shook his head. “Not today.” “What about you?” Elizabeth asked Eliot as everyone met each other on the curb, Ethan and Mallory leading the way with excitement. He shook his head. “There was some kind of toxic chemical spill in the lake the other day.” “Oh my word.” Grandma Clara shook her head in despair. “So no fish?” “Nope.” “No fish and no fresh vegetables.” Mara placed her hands on her hips. “What should we do for dinner then?” Claud started unpacking the car. “I guess we

could order pizza?” “Pizza party!” Ethan jumped up and down. “Sounds like this fish fry has turned into a pizza party!” Dallon echoed. With everyone in agreement, the neighbors set up tables and chairs in the Hoovers’ backyard for the pizza party. Thomas volunteered to pick up the abundance of pizzas and left as the sun was begging to set. When he returned, there was chit chat and dancing among the neighbors despite the setbacks of the day. However, the fumes from his beat-up truck still made their presence known and practically suffocated Eliot as he helped Thomas carry the pizzas. “Gosh, Thomas. You’ve really got to get this thing looked at. Or junked,” Eliot told him, much more kindly than he really wanted to. There was no response from Thomas other than a cough as he followed Eliot into the backyard. They laid the pizzas out and began serving them. All seemed well until reactions to the pizza disrupted the harmony of the chit chat and dancing that had lifted Thomas’s spirits. “What did you do, dunk these in the gas tank?” Thomas’s wife, Tanya, asked sarcastically as she struggled through her first bite of pizza. Grandma Clara tried to put it a little more gently. “Thomas, I think the fumes from your old truck may have latched onto the pizza.” “Mommy, I don’t like this pizza.” Mallory shoved her plate into Elizabeth’s hands. The others agreed as they put down their pizza and searched for water. “Thomas, I told you. I told you.” Mara shook her head rapidly with arched eyebrows. “No one likes smelling those fumes from that old piece of junk! Or practically tasting them!” The puzzled look on Thomas’s face turned into defense. “We wouldn’t have had to order pizzas if you hadn’t killed your vegetables you promised to

117

feed us!” “Killed them!” Mara could’ve fallen backwards in her chair. “I bet my plants died because you let your grandkids run through my garden!” “Oh, no! Not with that again—” “The heat probably shriveled up the vegetables,” Elizabeth added, trying to mollify the tension. “Right. It’s not all Mara’s fault. You all didn’t get us any fish to fry either!” Grandma Clara interrupted. “We didn’t because of the chemical spill in the lake that killed all the fish,” Eliot added. Claud stood up. “Yeah, that’s right!” “We could’ve had the fish fry last weekend before the spill happened if Dallon hadn’t insisted that we wait to see if Paul could come. Which he didn’t because he never does anything!” Thomas exclaimed. Dallon looked surprised. “Hey, I was just trying to be inclusive. If that’s what I get for it, I guess I better just go.” He stood up to leave but instead jumped at the sudden blowout of the outdoor lights hanging above him. Some of the other neighbors gasped, but Dallon recovered quickly from the surprise. “Bye, everyone. Hope you enjoy your miserable pizza party in this heat wave without any power and any pizza!” They heard Dallon’s footsteps as he left. “Don’t tell me you forgot to unplug the sprinkler when you set up the lights, Claud. I told you that could blow a fuse,” Mara complained to her husband in frustration. She got up to go inside, and Claud followed her, arguing. “I think the whole block is out.” Elizabeth looked around at the other houses. Thomas threw down his pizza on the table. “So much for trying to have a good time with your neighbors. I guess someone will try to blame this on me too.” He stormed away. “Let’s all just go home.” Grandma Clara staggered away in the dark.

118

“Maybe we should’ve had the fish fry last weekend,” Elizabeth commented to Eliot. Eliot said something muffled in response as they exited the backyard. A gust of wind blew a used napkin onto Ethan’s lap as he sat on the grass next to Mallory. Even in the dark, they could see the trash that was dropped and spread out before them. Napkins, empty plates, uneaten pizza, cups; it was all starting to drift around now, getting close and closer to where they sat. They hadn’t understood all of what the grownups had said or what they had been fighting about, but they had a bad feeling. They wondered what was going to happen to all the trash and leftover pizza, if the power would be restored, and what was going to happen among the grownups in the morning. “Ethan!” he heard Grandma Clara call him from down the block. He jumped up in response and hurried after her. “Mallory!” Mallory rushed to catch up to her parents, wondering who was going to clean up the mess if her mommy and daddy didn’t do it. Maybe it would just stay there like Paul Dart’s house. t

SELF-PO R TR AI T | pastel drawing by Kristin Morin

Troy b y K at e Po l a sk i

t is already a scant few who tell our stories. Who speak our names. We are afterthoughts, obscure details, embellishments on a glorious tale of men’s war and conquest. There is not a child in your world who does not know the clever mind of Odysseus, the might of Achilles in battle. But find me one who can tell me of the pain of Hecuba seeing her 50 sons cut down on the field, the madness of Helen knowing she could never escape the reaching clutches of her crazed husband, the courage of Polyxena as she went nobly to the sacrificial altar. Who among you, when telling the story of Troy, chooses to speak of Andromache, seeing her infant son’s head bashed against the castle wall in front of her, and being forced to open her legs by the man who did so that self-same night? Who speaks of Cassandra, punished for life, and mocked still, because she had the nerve to tell a man no? Even fewer speak of the village women, the first to be taken. Held captive on their own shores for 10 years. Of those women who starved or died of disease when supply routes were cut and the city overcrowded with refugees. The thousands upon thousands of nameless women taken from their

120

land, their people, their culture. Forced to give over their lives, their service, their wombs, to the men that slaughtered their husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons. Forced to bear sons who they knew would grow up to fight more wars, and bring home more women, just like them. Perhaps people know that if they spoke our names, they would have to face the harsh reality of what happened at Troy. What is happening in places like Troy to this day. And then they would realize. And as much as they may mourn when they hear the stories of the Trojan women, they will not mourn the next day when they go out into the world and put on the masks of the Greeks once again. t

SWO R D, SHI ELD, CER EMO NY | museum & catalogue design by Leah Jensen

Green Thumb, Dirty Fingernails b y H a n n a h G ro over

lants, so many plants—short, tall, red, green with a touch of yellow if the leaves have stored too much water in them because I’ve loved them too hard. Lining my window, they hang from macramé vines that grow from the nails above my six foot tall windows overlooking the flush green woods in the summer, the parking lot of the ragtag apartments next door in the winter. Vines careen down to cradle the fragile loads of soil, rocks, water, leaves, to cradle those precious bits of earth that carry the plants—the plants I have collected from two to 34 (I counted) over the span of four months—over the span of a pandemic, a pandemic that’s not over, a pandemic where there is nothing to do, except collect plants. Is it an obsession? A compulsion? Maybe both. But it feels like a passion. It feels like a purpose on those days where the loneliness grows up in me, where the itching of my skin screams at me to get out! Those days where I go around my one bedroom apartment, sticking my fingers in the various pots of soil littering my windows and room, checking, asking the plants if they need more—more sun, more water, more room, more love. Tending to the plants in my indoor garden, manically rushing

122

around a 73 degree, 730 square foot confined space, tending to my plants. My dog often watches me, her sighs informing me that her mom is a mad woman, but I don’t mind. The plants are calling me, relying on me, feeding me that bit of hope that comes with a new bud, a new leaf, a new growth. I don’t remember exactly how it started when it crossed my mind that my window was bare, that it had the potential to bear. My friend eagerly suggested we go look at the farmer’s market—look at plants, and the looking would inevitably lead to buying, despite the dwindling savings from months away from work. The farmer’s market that is 16,368 feet (I counted) from my room, the room that was empty, the room that needed something to fill it. See, my friend had caught the plant bug, maybe a week before we went; she had the urge—the craving—the need to feed that root forming in her brain that begged for fertilizer, the fertilizer that comes with collecting green leaves that grow. Empty restaurants lined the streets of the once-bustling downtown, but the bustling had moved down the road to the farmer’s market. Food was a draw, but the main crowd of masked faces gathered around the stands devoted to plants.

These gatherings agreed on one thing—plants were a medical necessity. They fueled the brain with dopamine that was much lacking in the dark months of summer during the pandemic. People’s eyes glistened, reflecting the brilliance of living branches, smiling without reserve as they lifted various pots, speaking under double layers of fabric about how lovely their yard, window, patio would look with the new addition. Because beauty was necessary as the makeup became irrelevant and the sweatpants became a uniform with outings being scarce; home was a new venue able to display a freedom that was scarce in times of social distancing. The plants were everywhere, long green vines dangling from pots that were hanging from makeshift beams of rusting pipes, rusting from the water constantly being sprayed on them—water for the plants. There was an aisle that was almost inaccessible because of the plants—giant green leaves spattered with different shades: dark, light, pink. Shelves were holding up the smaller of the bunch, rows of green succulents forming infinite complexes, seeming mandalas perfectly guided by their DNA. The cacti were standing tall, even at minuscule heights, and I had to touch—I always have to touch cacti—I don’t know why. Shocks of vibrant reds, purples, yellows, all fanning out their leaves, beckoned the buyer—the buyer with the deep roots in their brain. I stayed away from the flowers because they die quickly, they shed endlessly, they beg for attention, but only the “right kind” of attention, ready to perish like Tinkerbell for the lack of it. Instead, I picked up a succulent—the plant with the guarantee of you can keep me alive. I didn’t believe the guarantee, but I couldn’t put it down, the gentle folds of its leaves plump with water that pumped out slowly, endlessly growing out of the center, folding back the older leaves, saying thank you for bringing us this far and we’ll take it from here. The deep green

leaves, shaped like geometric petals, whispered to me, coaxing me to carry it the 3.2 miles back home to my picture window. That was that. The root had formed. My brain latched onto the idea that this plant mattered to me, lifted me up, carried my spirit, and brought me joy in a time where I felt very little of joy, sadness, anger, and love—I did feel grief, though. This plant in its three inch wide pot made me whole. I didn’t question it, but I had more to fill in the hole inside me, a hole that could be filled with dirt, leaves, roots, earth. Today my plants grow: new growth, new leaves, new buds, new pots—so many pots. I tend to my plants with the delicate touch of a mother and the seasoned hands of a farmer. Month five has passed, the pandemic reigns high, doors stay closed, and mouths and noses must be covered. Friends keep space, but my plants don’t. They beg for my attention, then say they want to be ignored until they call me up again like a restaurant in France—did you know the waiters only come when you call? I do. My mood falters, my heart wanes, my soul aches until I care for my plants. I take inventory—who needs a new pot? Who has a new leaf? Who needs water? Who needs more sun? Who needs less sun? Who needs to be rearranged in the window to please my eyes? It’s easy now to tell if I’m having a good day. You simply have to look—see if my fingernails are full of dirt, and if they are, all is well. t

123

R AI NY GAR D EN | micron ink on paper by Isabel Ruiz

Ever b y V i r gi n i a E w i n g H u dso n

ver time sticky pearls drip from small wounds of oaks and piñons and every living tree, amber sap running from gashes, blood scents redolent of sun and earth, spiced with adventure, stirred by winds that rush through branches or breeze by, tantalizing, fermented by air that stills to lie stultifying, heavy along every limb and twig, coating, holding, until water comes, then ice, the sun, the seasons, all of it rich and lively so that in spring and summer, when buds burst and flower, and tender shoots leaf out, speaking the language of first life, of exuberance, it’s the same renewing for aged oaks and piñons as for fresh young sprouts, until at last weathered gray branches lie bleached and secretive as bones, minerals sneaking down into soil, seeking pathways back into the stream. t

125

LITERARY AWARDS Poetry Awards Juried by Joanna Cooper Joanna Penn Cooper is the author of The Itinerant Girl’s Guide to Self-Hypnosis, a book of lyrical prose vignettes, and What Is a Domicile, a book of poetry. Her recent chapbooks are When We Were Fearsome and Mud Woman, a collaboration with Rebecca Bratten Weiss. She holds a Ph.D. in English (American literature) from Temple University and an MFA in Poetry from New England College. She lives in Durham, North Carolina, and currently works as a freelance editor, an editor at Trio House Press, co-edits the literary zine Ethel, and teaches online workshops in flash memoir and lyric essay for the journal Creative Nonfiction.

1st Place HAPLE SS DECORATION | by Shelly Whitmire | page 32

2nd Place SHRINKING SKIES | by Olivia Slack | page 95

The original imagery and syntax of “Hapless Decoration” drew me into the poem, as did the mirroring between the speaker and the figure she describes. From the first stanza, we are led into the sense of a speaker peering into the mystery of Self: “I stared into her back/ Where she was resting on her knees/ And staring in the water.” The freshness of the language in places is engaging, as when the poet writes of tears “[t]easing at the seam/ Of her existence” and in the phrase “[b]athed in clinical light” in the last stanza. The poem welcomes us into mystery and leaves us there; in fact, it opens up to even more mystery in the last stanza, which comments explicitly on the “mirroring” between the gazer and the gazed-upon image and then leaves us with the ineffable image of “the vast sea below.”

“Shrinking Skies” is engaging in how it leads the reader through a series of short lines that create a sense of spareness and reverence. The reader has a visceral sense of the vast mountains “interrupt[ing]” the blue of the sky, as well as of the “pitiful” nature of the human-created urban skylines in contrast to what they imitate. The last two stanzas build to a compelling conclusion with some original language, such as the description of “clouds that/ are not clouds,/ but are formed from/ the labors of humans/ and the hot residue of our desires.” This poem takes on a large and important subject and does so with grace and authority.

126

Honorable Mention DEAR DEBI | by Julia Brent | page 19

Honorable Mention A LET TER TO UNCLE DEREK | by Erin Wendorf | page 75

This poem creates the sense of a distinctive living voice in the speaker’s words. The poet moves with ease between the everyday details of lived experience and the larger significance of having a friend who is a witness to one’s life and concerns. There is also a lovely and poignant tension between the present tense of the speaker’s current existence and the past connection that she reflects upon.

The direct, straightforward address here is affecting. The poet communicates the sense of remove and concomitant longing that occur when one loses a family member at a young age. The turn toward larger, existential questions toward the end is effective, as the poet reflects on whether a sudden death “cut[s] off a bright future/ as easily as scissors through ribbon.”

Prose Awards Juried by Juliet Escoria Juliet Escoria is the author of the novel Juliet the Maniac, the short story collection Black Cloud, and the poetry collection Witch Hunt. She was born in Australia, raised in San Diego, and currently lives in West Virginia with her husband, the writer Scott McClanahan. She received a BA in Creative Writing at the University of California in Riverside, and an MFA in Fiction Writing at CUNY Brooklyn College. She currently teaches at a community college in West Virginia. 1st Place GRANDPA | by Angelina Morin | page 76

Honorable Mention HOW TO S AVE A LIFE | by Cameron Garcia | page 80

“Grandpa” shows a writer who fully understands the complications of being a human—the pushpull between generations, the knots that form in a familial line. The writing is both economical and lyrical, imparting a subtle yet substantive emotional gravity. The story is tender, beautiful, savage, and sad all at once, lending specifics to things that normally feel so intangible.

“How to Save a Life” precisely captures the moment a life can change, that fuzzy space between adulthood and childhood, and how a person can feel both heroic and like a failure at the same time. The author has a keen knack for pacing, and an eye for the comical and strange details that become illuminated in the face of a near-tragedy.

2nd Place PL AY DEAD | by Mia Shelton | page 68 “Play Dead” feels both ghostly and human, with the eerie beauty of an incantation. The author has a surgical attention to detail and a poet’s ear for a turn of phrase, encapsulating the contradictions of grief.

127

ART AWARDS Juried by Victoria Mulcahey Ms. Mulcahey is a Meredith alum who double majored in studio art and graphic design. She recently came back to campus as an Artist-in-Residence, serving as a mentor and role model for our current undergraduates, and pursuing her own creative work in hand-built ceramic sculpture. Victoria finds inspiration for each of her works through the exploration of her emotions, treating each sculpture as a form of art therapy. Currently, Victoria is also working as a freelance graphic designer. Best in Show BEYOND THE SELFIE: SCARS FROM HISTORY | by Karen Spangler | page 82

2nd Runner-Up THE ANATOMY OF A WOMAN | by Kasey Vandenboom | page 23

Scars From History is a compelling photographic series composed of stark images that define the horror of our unspeakable history without being horrifying to look at. It is the eerie stillness that each photo captures that will cause anyone who happens to walk by, to stop and take notice. Ms. Spangler’s choices in composition and value throughout this series further captivate viewers and encourage them to reflect on the meaning of the images in front of them.

It was the powerful expression of emotions in Anatomy of a Woman that won me over when choosing this piece for 2nd runner-up. It truly is a work of dualities; the minimal details and color scheme work in harmony, while also contrasting with one another and bringing the message of this sculpture to life.

1st Runner-Up FISH TACO | by Bailey Birtchet | page 116

Fensalir is a beautifully rendered, narrative work filled with color and imagination. It is the astounding attention to detail that builds upon the narrative and keeps viewers engaged and wanting to know more. The drapery, rich color palette, and extensive detail bring to mind paintings from the Renaissance.

It is impossible not to smile when viewing Fish Taco. This creative design goes to show you that art can be witty and amusing, while still being technically accomplished and detail oriented. As an artist and designer, I chose this work because it demonstrates an understanding of the elements and principles of design beautifully, while also showcasing a whismical sense of humor.

128

Honorable Mention FENS ALIR | by Leah Jensen | page 102

Literary Staff

Design Staff

Co-Editors Krista Wiese Olivia Slack

Art Director Hannah Schneider

Poetry Editor Kate Polaski Prose Editor Devin Totherow Engagement Manager Kali Ranke

Graphic Designers Rachel Blay Crystal Hersey Rachel Jebaraj Katelyn Lombardo Carmen Schoolcraft Faculty Advisor Woody Holliman

Promotions Manager Corinne Zibell Social Media Manager Maria Solorzano Archivist Rachael Sampson, ‘20 Tamara Bomparte

Production Notes

Faculty Advisor Ashley Hogan

Printer PrintingCenterUSA

Writer-Editors Claire Heins Sarah Page Alexandria Rosenzweig Marie Saunders Charis Shelor Mia Shelton Gwyneth Thomas Erin Wendorf Constance Wesley Katelyn Wiszowaty

Copies 500 Type Families Adobe Caslon, Bodoni, Chalet Comprime, Normande

129

COLTON REVIEW | 2021