Temper Literary Review 2019

Temper is a literary arts magazine produced annually by undergraduate and graduate students at UMass Dartmouth. All members of our school community are encouraged to submit their original work. This year’s edition includes many unique pieces of prose and poetry that reveal the world within, and explore the world without. We hope our contributors’ imaginative efforts will foster appreciation in literary arts, while inspiring others to continue in their creative endeavors.

Happy reading!

Editorial and Media Manager Daniel Simcock Faculty Advisors Professor Lucas Mann, M.F.A. Professor Caitlyn O’Neil-Amaral, M.F.A. Special Thanks to Erin Fay Amber Shimkus Alyse Peak Ron Vallierre Cover Design Amber Shimkus

contents

Yannick Almeida 1 Elementary Fundamentals 1 Cinderella 2 Reassurance 2 Her 2 Warmth

Cassandra Bigelow 3 Drowning

Matthew Bilodeau 4

The Path Within

Samantha Bittenbender 13 Native 14 Perspective 14 The Savior’s Daughter 15 Sweet & Sinful Memories

Chelsea Cabral 17

Cities & Deceit

Timothy Costa 19

The Unconvincing Grin

Amond Hawes-Khalifa

Mary Rudd

33 43

65 First Communion 67 Performance 68 Signs 69 New Leaves 71 The Way Things Should Be 72 Ghost Forest

To Kill a Monster The Sound

Jessika Lazala 51

Apology Accepted

Tabish Nawaz

Natreysha Thornhiil

53 Vibration 53 Find the Truth Inside 54 Words are Mere Stains 55 Make Rainbows 56 We are Our Own Weapons 57 Beauty

73

Amanda Rioux 58 Wildflowers

Destiny Rodriguez 62 One 63 My Love is Like 64 The United States

It’s Not You, It’s Me

Wesley W. Williams 73 79

The Recidivist MBTA Tokens

Jared Worth 80 Confessions

Rebeckah Zora 84

The Great Unknown

Yannick Almeida Yannick Almeida is an undergraduate student from the class of 2022. He is enrolled in the College of Engineering and his major is Computer Science.

Dedication: I want to thank my family for always pushing me to accomplish my dreams and goals even when they always seem impossible.

Elementary Fundamentals I’m like the 3rd grade teacher and you’re the caterpillar For weeks, you’re in my care For weeks, I give you my love For weeks, we touch I help you grow and form You turn into this majestic piece of art Symmetrical beauty that cannot be repeated But sadly, I always let you go

Cinderella My heart is like the fairy tale we all know Made of glass, always shining because of your glow But It breaks so easily, realized that a while ago

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Reassurance I can call you many names, But my favorite one is “mine”

Her As I penetrate your mind so vividly, I see your true intentions so wickedly You would think that a woman’s thoughts like yours would have such imagery, But I didn’t see anything, It was a gray room And it didn’t make sense to me

Warmth Do you ever get that feeling That wiggles in your toes Makes you feel warm inside and reaches up your nose Or have you ever been lost for words For the commonality of illustrious beauty in her is absurd Things that you are afraid of in a relationship is not what she prefers Or every time she speaks, it sounds similar to a musical piece by the birds I have

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Cassandra Bigelow Cassandra Bigelow is a Psychology and English major who will tentatively graduate in 2022.

Dedication: This poem was written for the love of my life and sent to him in one of the many letters I wrote to him while he was in Air Force basic training. This poem is dedicated to Tommy, my dearest love and my home forever and always.

Drowning Your eyes are the ocean And I always thought I knew how to swim But in your eyes I drowned And I refuse to resurface.

I dont need saving, I am quite happy at the bottom of the sea Where I’ve found a new home, Just you and me.

Where the songs of your heart beat like a drum And I am safe from the world up above Deep in the ocean of your eyes.

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Matthew Bilodeau Matthew Bilodeau is an Engineering student in the Class of 2022 at UMass Dartmouth. This piece is just the first installment of a series he is working on. Matthew believes in second chances and hopes that through reading this, we can always honor people not by their mistakes but by the path they choose to correct their mistakes.

The Path Within Book One: The Choice PROLOGUE Have you ever pondered the thought that your actions can hurt the people around you? Have you ever done something so detrimental and inhumane that you couldn’t even recognize yourself in the mirror? Have you ever watched someone that was dealing with a lot of shit and did nothing? Have you ever done something that contradicts who you are?

Have you ever seen a blazing carriage being pulled by horses that was destined to scorch your city and realized that you were the one holding the reins?

If you were given the chance to right your wrongs, to dissolve away every mistake you have ever made, and to break away from the evil part of you that acted like a parasite, consuming the very good from your body until you’re nothing more than a dehumanized zombie, would you? Would you take the chance to change who you are and change the lives of the people around you, the people whom you have hurt, even if the task jeopardized your life?

Most people in the world would not be able to take that opportunity, either out of fear of what may happen to them if they did it, or rather, fear of what may happen if they refused. Either way, most people are

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immune to change, or at least they assume they are. But if you are one of those rare, gifted people that is given the opportunity at a second chance at life, what would you do?

I had that opportunity. I had the chance to fix everything I have ever done, to heal everyone whom I hurt, and to protect the people that mattered to me. I had the chance to change who I was and for once, not be a selfish brat. I had the chance to save my world and the people in it.

Too bad I didn’t have that opportunity when I was alive.

CHAPTER ONE My name is Nathan and my story can only begin with the people that gave me life; my parents. Now, I never really had that superb family that always ate dinner together and did so many fun things and went on vacations. My family was broken for a long time, and it all started when I was just three when my father walked out on us. Growing up without a dad is hard, and between school, football, and friends, I never really spent much time with my mother. Did I love my parents? Love is a strong word, but yes, I did love my mom. However, I despised my dad.

I despised him for leaving us and not being there for me when I needed him most...Things got really bad about a month ago when my mom was diagnosed with cancer and was given a one percent chance to live. I was distraught. I didn’t know how to handle myself, and luckily my friend Tyler was there for me. But I could not handle my emotions. I refused to look at my mother, and even as she was on her deathbed, moments from leaving this world, I could not be there with her. Of course, now, I regret it. I regret letting my mom, my only mother, to die alone.

When she died about two weeks ago, my father moved back and attempted to take care of me. I remember how he pushed for us to have a big family dinner one night when he invited some of our cousins and other family members, all people who never got along with me. See, I’m not much of a family kind of guy, and sitting at the dinner table listening to my father talk about his life as if everything was normal was too much for me to bare. But at least he cared enough to try, and I realize that now…. But at the time, all I knew was that he was pretending that things were good, and that he was this loving dad that was there for his family even through the tough times, but he wasn’t. Never. He abandoned us, he abandoned me, and for that, I could not forgive him. So, I walked out.

And right before I left, I said one of the worst things I have ever said…I said, “I wish it was you that died, and not mom.” The look on his face

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was absolute sorrow, but I felt like he, of all people, deserved it. But he did not.

I feel nothing but guilt as I stand here in this mist, looking back at my life. One good thing that came out of my life was my one true friend, Tyler. Tyler wasn’t a very popular guy. In fact, he was often bullied and laughed at by other kids. It got really bad sometimes to the point where he would run home crying, feeling as if nothing in life was worth the struggle. I wanted to be there for him. He was there for me when I lost my mother. He was there for me when I wanted to end it all. But when the time came when he needed me the most, I wasn’t there. All I remember about that tragic day was getting a late text from his asking me to come over. I replied with “Sorry, busy” because I knew I couldn’t get out...And then I heard the news the following morning. That Tyler hung himself last night. He tried to stand up to the world, he tried to be brave and to be strong, and when he failed, he came to me, ME, because he knew that I was the only person that cared about him. Not even his family. He came to me for help, and I said no. His death is on my hands, and I struggled to live with that weight on my shoulders. He trusted me because he thought I cared, but he was wrong. I was wrong.

I thought I was a good person, a good friend, but all I’ve managed to do was push everyone I’ve ever loved out of my life…. Everything that has happened in my life spun in my head. Everything, from the moment I let my mother die alone in a hospital to the moment I ruined my family and pushed away my father up to the very moment where my best friend committed suicide because I was not able to save him. Because I did not care enough to fight for him.

What am I? I am nothing. I am a coward. I am a disaster. I am a monster waiting to explode. Or at least, I was. I wanted it to just end, I needed it to end. I wanted to wake up in Heaven some morning and not have to worry about the pain, or the guilt, or the struggles of life. I wanted to die.

And at that moment, I wish it were me that died, me that chose to end my life for everyone else.

And then I woke up. I didn’t know where I was, or exactly what was happening. I was standing in what appeared to be a giant field, except the ground felt like a cloud of swirling mist. The sky, oh the sky was so bright, it pierced my eyes to near blindness. Where was I? I had no idea.

All I knew, was that this was the best dream that I ever had.

Then, from the other end of the field, the air shimmered and a human figure started to approach me. It was hard to make out who, or what,

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But right now, I didn’t need anybody’s help. I needed to get my answers myself. I needed to know...So I took another couple steps and peered inside the coffin… it was because of the strong light but as he got closer, I realized that the figure was a man. Presumably well aged. He looked at me, and his eyes were shining, as if he were blind or rather, as if they were about to explode. But as we bore into each other’s eyes, he no longer felt like an older man, but rather as if he was merely a child. It was as if it were a child inside the body of a fifty-year-old man. The man spoke, and when he spoke, it was as if the very air froze and echoed his voice across the sky.

“I have come to collect you, Nathan Orlin.” How did he know my name?

“Why? Who are you?” I asked, two of the many questions that I was dying to ask.

“My name is Goncalo, and I have come to collect you.” He repeated.

“Collect me for what? Where are we?”

Goncalo seemed to frown. “There is too much to tell and too little time to spare. You need to make a quick decision. I can spend a long time trying to explain everything to you that will just get you even more confused, or I can show you…”

This dude was crazy, I thought. “Show me what?”

He shook his head. “Make a decision. Right now.”

“Fine,” I decided. I figured it would be better for me to get a visual, so I

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said, “Show me.”

The scene changed almost instantly. The mist rose to the sky and the entire surrounding area shimmered and all of a sudden, I was standing on grass again, but this grass was different. It was shorter and dry and patchy everywhere, as if the grass was only able to grow in certain locations. The ground was very hilly and although I remained on both of my feet, I felt like I was high and that I was going to fall through the space at any moment. Even though I noticed Goncalo standing next to me, I noticed that there were other people too. All of them were dressed up formally and everyone was wearing black. I even recognized some of the people. I spotted my dad and a bunch of relatives amongst the group. They were all standing in front of something, and with a second look at the object, everything began to make sense. I was standing in a cemetery, and this was someone’s funeral. Why would he take me to Tyler’s funeral? And why in the world is my father here? I repeated my questions out loud.

Goncalo shook his head. “No, no, no. Look closer.”

I wasn’t sure what he was expecting me to do. The people were all staring at the coffin in a traumatizing way, as if the world were about to end.

People were moving around, the air felt very thick, with the feeling of dread filling the cemetery. As if pushed by some invisible force, I started forward, inching step by step closer and closer to my destination, the coffin that was near closure. I needed to see Tyler one last time before this became another poor decision on my behalf. Goncalo followed me, but he made sure to keep his distance for some reason, as if I were a pile of rotting trash. I stopped when I was within a couple feet from my father.

He was crying, tears streaming down his face. But why? He never knew Tyler. Hell, he barely knew me. “Dad” I started. He made no indication that he had heard me, so i repeated it and waited. Still no answer. “Dad!” I yelled. I yelled as loud as I could, probably louder than when I snapped at him at that dinner. Naturally, everyone should’ve looked at me in horror, as if I was some evil monster that had cursed the entire world.

But instead, no one appeared to hear me. Not a single person looked my way. What was going on? Had I lost my voice, or was something very odd happening? Was this still a dream? I felt real, too real.

I made up my mind. I needed to see for myself, I needed to see the person who I let down, the person that trusted me with his life, the person who I could not help, the person who I killed. I needed answers.

All my life, I have been striving for answers, for a purpose. No one could give me the answers I needed. Why wasn’t I loved? Why did my father

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hate me? Why did my mom have to die? Why couldn’t I have been in her place? Why does life suck so bad? Why am I here? No matter how many questions I needed answered, I got nothing. Nobody cared enough to help me. But right now, I didn’t need anybody’s help. I needed to get my answers myself. I needed to know...So I took another couple steps and peered inside the coffin…

I nearly threw up. Laying in the coffin, eyes closed, looking very much alive as he was dead, looking as real as ever, was NOT Tyler. Laying in the coffin was me.

CHAPTER TWO I could not describe what I was feeling. Anger? Sorrow? Regret? I think the best word was confusion. What was I looking at? What was the meaning of this? In my search for answers, all I got was more questions.

Goncalo was standing beside me. He looked at me with dreary eyes, as if he was deciding whether he should cry or laugh. Or yell at me. But all he said was, “I know this must be a bit of a shock for you. It usually is.”

I looked him dead in the eyes with nothing but frustration. “Why are you showing me this? Stop it! I want to go home.”

Goncalo shook his head. “You are home.”

“What is that supposed to mean. Why did you show me that? I didn’t need to see it...who cares if I’m going to die. No one likes me. No one loves me. My death will mean nothing. So why did you show me this?”

“You needed to know the truth. Yet you still do not understand.”

“Understand what?” I asked in a rude manner.

Goncalo scratched his head. “What do you think this is.”

“Clearly this is a dream. And it is pretty fucked up if you ask me.”

“This is not a dream…...Life is hard, and sometimes knowing the truth is harder than not knowing anything. Because the truth hurts...This is no dream, Nathan. I am not showing you your future. I am showing you the real world. Watch.” He snapped his finger, and suddenly, everything froze. Time itself stopped, and everyone remained still, as if this were

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one of those wax cosplays or something like that. I was utterly confused.

Goncalo began to laugh. “Your old world is a life that simply opens the door to a plethora of more opportunities. Life never ends...Not really, that is.”

“What happened?”

“Nathan, what do you think you are right now?”

I tried to comprehend what was actually happening right now. “I am in bed right now, having the craziest dream I have ever had in my life.”

“Stop it!” Goncalo yelled. “This is not a dream. Don’t you get it? You are dead! Dead, I tell you. This is the real world. You are standing in your own funeral that is happening right now because you died. And if you didn’t look and see, you would not believe me. This is how life is, Nathan.

You can try to run from it, but it will catch up to you. You cannot escape it. You died, and here you are, stuck in the middle between your world and mine. The spiritual world.”

“What?”

“Most people that die spend a long time still thinking they are alive.

Many never learn the truth, that is unless someone is able to help them find their way. Many are lost within themselves and living in a state of denial. But death is inevitable. Unavoidable. Invincible. Right now, you are a spirit. You have a choice...a choice of many. You had a pretty shitty life, Nathan. I know. We all know. But I just froze time in your world, and I have to give you this ultimatum...Would you like to have a second chance at life? Would you like to right all of your wrongs? Would you like to save everyone you ever hurt?”

I could not formulate a response. I just stood there, as if I had been frozen along with the people around me. Dead? But how? I wanted to ask as many questions as felt necessary, but standing there face to face with Goncalo, and how mysterious he was and how his voice echoed and sounded so stern, as if he has rehearsed for thousands of years, I just knew that he was telling me the truth. I did not want to accept it.

I thought about everything I’ve done, about how I had abandoned my mom and left her die. How I pushed away my father and hated him and wished for his death. How I neglected my family and skipped school and gave up on life. How I had no friends. How I let the one person that was close enough for me to call a friend kill himself. How I turned my back

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on everything that once mattered to me. The pain was too much, it was too surreal. I felt like shit, like a monster, like something I could only dream of. And for the first time in my life, I lost it. I let the tears fall. I let everything out, everything that I held within, everything that consumed me, everything that deranged me. I let it out, every single ounce of pain within me. I wanted to kill Goncalo. I wanted to kill him for showing me this, for giving me the answers I’ve always wanted. And yet, I also despised him too. Why now? What had I done to deserve this? But then what Goncalo said struck me. How could I change this? How could I turn my life around?

“How would I do that?”

“There is no time to explain. All your life, you have made choices, and you consistently made the wrong ones. You chose to neglect school and have poor grades. You chose to let your mother die alone. You chose to hurt your father. You chose to let your friend kill himself. You also chose to die...All those decisions were reckless, and stupid. But you have a good heart and you mean well. So, I have come to give you this one opportunity to make one decision, to fix everything you’ve ever done, to fix everything you will do, to save everyone you’ve ever hurt, and to save everyone you will hurt. You have the chance to change your life, Nathan.

It most certainly will not be easy. There is a lot you do not understand, and especially in your current state, you are in danger. But you have to make a choice. Right now, before it is too late.”

I scratched my head. What was he talking about? How am I in danger if I am already dead? Without knowing it, I asked that last question out loud.

“You will know soon enough, and sooner than you think if you don’t move your ass and make a damn decision.” Goncalo was definitely on edge. He seemed almost scared, as if something terrible was about to happen. As if I could stop it with one decision. But maybe I could. “Will you take this opportunity and right all of your wrongs?”

I didn’t know what to say. All I knew was I had to do something. If not for me, then for everyone else. I could not live with myself knowing that I had a chance to do something important and chose not to. So, without any further thinking, I said one word, the word that was key to the fate of the world.

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CHAPTER THREE You are raised your whole life believing one thing; that everyone dies.

No matter what you do or how well you try to live your life, death is inescapable. Death is eternal. Come to think of it, Death sounds like a person of flesh and blood. But no one can escape their own death. That’s the problem. People think that if they knew their own destiny, that they would be able to deal with it, but the reality is that most people would do everything in their power to change their destiny and messing with time has always been a bad idea. Or at least, I thought so. What is my destiny? One could say that my destiny is over, and I fulfilled it by being the cruel, selfish bastard I had been my whole life and ending the way I did. But if what Goncalo was saying is true, then that means that maybe, just maybe, my destiny is not done yet. And that there was a way to go back and change my life. But what exactly was he saying? That I could go back in time, make better decisions, and change the future? Or is he saying that I can have a second life and go back to “my world” and try to be better? Or is there somehow a third option? Goncalo said that I was in danger. But how? Maybe everything that was a myth as a child is real. Maybe Death is real, and maybe he is after me. But for what reason?

What did I do to deserve this life? Never mind...I know what I did. And that is precisely why I decided to say yes, why I chose to do something good for once in my life...But will it be worth it? At what cost will it be for me to right my wrongs? Will it come by the world’s destruction? Or my own?

I wasn’t sure what to do, or exactly what happened next. But I knew that the end was near. I knew that soon, I would be faced with the greatest challenge of my life. And I wasn’t sure if I was going to be strong enough to face it.

Life is a journey, and sometimes it takes you on paths that you’d least expect. But I am not alone, and I have a chance to make things right. I will stop at nothing to make sure that that dream becomes a reality, even if it costs me my soul.

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Samantha Bittenbender Samantha Bittenbender is a freshman English major at UMass Dartmouth. Along with being an author, she is also a dedicated athlete and plays field hockey at the university.

Dedication: The poem “Sweet and Sinful Memories” is specially dedicated to my Mom for helping me through my darkest times. For all the rest of my works, current and future, I hope they brings joy, solace and creativity to my readers lives!

Native I am white.

That is what every checkbox on every legal document I’ve ever signed has taught me to say.

I am white.

There is no variation.

No blank lines to explain how my blood runs deeper than the dominant pigment of my skin.

My apparently dispensable heritage, has no voice in my race.

Little do they know I’m the first daughter to a history of german travelers for a century, That I am bloody Welsh, Or the member of an Irish caravan deep knit to the roots.

And my quantum is not significant enough to shed light on the royal native blood in my veins.

There is nowhere for me to identify where I come from. Just my shade.

No. I must remember the lesson the paper has taught.

I am white.

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Samantha Bittenbender

Perspective Heaven is down.

Resist the daffy temptation of silky clouds shading you from space, And Angels darting between breezes to hook your soul before it disperses at its own liberty.

We are grounded creatures, formed from this nativity of the Lord.

Have faith in the phrase, don’t go towards the light, sink to the welcoming warmth of the dark.

Settle into the heart of the existent Earth, And entrust your soul to the riches of her glamour.

Do not fall folly to the Devil’s illusion of everlasting light and prosperity in the kingdom above.

For that luminous light approaching is ever burning flames of the sun, Up in the endless cold silence of space.

In this impenetrable frozen tundra of stars your weeps will be lost among constellations, So please have faith, in the dark, your Lord’s embrace is near.

The Savior’s Daughter I hurt everyone around me, Because I’m too afraid.

But still I fight, yet my hope and spirit frayed.

I don’t know why the foolish come to aid, A useless soul filled with rage.

I’m a broken girl tattered and torn.

Persistent still though my spirit is worn.

Through all the pain hope seems lost.

I still look to you hanging off the cross.

And still you ignore my pleading cry, While I myself refuse to die.

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Sweet & Sinful Memories Note: This piece deals with issues of self harm.

The wonderful morning air in early spring Rings of puddles littering the potholes in the parking lot Ought to annoy a person with all the bumps but I smile While I tug on Mom’s sweater pulling fuzz from Some of the sleeve which is the same shade of green Hiding colored eggs in the grass some white as well Bells chiming from the tower over our heads above Doves flying this Easter morning Straps pressing against my shoulder Hold my chest in place the first adult bra I’ve gotten Often the first you buy for yourself but mine was a gift Which now I’m having to take off and give away Today because the underwire is a danger to me See I’ve been hurting myself recently so No I can’t wear my first bra anymore until I’m home.

At dusk I walk down to the river embarrassed Cherished pearls around my neck I blush Rush before my neighbors see the garment I savour Flavour of the darkness which hides the black of my dress Test the waters with my toe and hold up the skirt Hurt replaced with the feeling of freedom and beauty Truly feeling mysterious and exquisite for once Paint faded on worn out shoes New stories after all the dances and late nights Fights and mistakes that are splattered against each lace Trace my mind for reasons and lessons Questions the pain as I danced through the fear Here wasn’t the safest place to go Though I would do anything to numb the pain

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And lastly, a plain grey sweatshirt Hurt every time I end up wearing it Swearing it brings me comfort more than Vans or bras or any hip shirt put together Whether it’s I need your motherly embrace Chase the memories of lost childhood Should I just sit and play with the broken zipper Bicker with my decisions and memories

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Chelsea Cabral Chelsea is a senior English and Political Science major. Beginning in August 2019, she will spend one year working with inner city youth in Providence, RI as a City Year AmeriCorps member, before returning to school to pursue graduate study in English.

Drawing upon Ronald Reagan’s farewell address, in which he refers to America as the “shining city upon a hill,” this work takes a meditative and provocative look at that very claim, challenging readers to probe the mere value of authenticity and to ask questions such as: “where is that city now?” or “did that city ever even exist?”

Cities & Deceit The truth is a dangerous thing; it can burn, pierce, and whisper. Elise, the illustrious city on a hill, knows truth, its meaning, and what it can do. “Truth can approach you,” Elise says, “with its back turned, in a dim alleyway, or more often, late at night in the comfort of your own sheets.”

Surrounding cities have always venerated Elise through eyes fashioned with esteem and glory, the same eyes Elise herself uses to gaze at the stars, forging an eternal bind to the heavens above.

Elise’s blueprint contains what most seek—the golden core, the beacon that shines mighty and bright—the light leading the seafarer home. Yet she is stranger to herself, and knows not what others believe to be sincere; however, the city on the hill is no stranger to truth.

Elise has borne witness to common good, but she has also seen truth, disguising itself as madness.

The city on the hill, even in all its glory, can dare you, push your limits. Its inhabitants have beheld the same truth, the one terrorizing the terrain, and taking Elise and her occupants hostage. Truth lies all around the city, hiding in plain sight for all of those who dare face it.

It can even kill, given the right opportunity—approaching you like the unforeseen executioner.

Elise cries, not because she thinks truth’s greatest danger is death, but that truth, in its expansive seizure of the city, may be permanent and may have become an impermeable part of her blueprint.

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Though, it’s too late. The city on a hill has succumbed to erosion— weathered by the elements of chaos, fear, and trickery. Elise will soon lie in the dirt, fearful of its inhabitants, disdain seeping through its remnants, and completely disempowered—her blueprint crumbled, and her ability to bridge together earth and heavens ceasing to exist.

If the famed city on a hill could tell you anything, it is that the truth is enduring—concrete and unmoving. Always remember that the city of Elise can take back a lie, but it can never take back the truth.

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Timothy Costa Timothy Costa is a recent graduate of UMass Dartmouth with a Bachelors of Arts in Philosophy.

He hasn’t written many short stories, but he hopes this experience leads to further writing. He hopes to someday be a filmmaker or at least spend the rest of his existence writing about films he loves.

The Unconvincing Grin 11:30 seemed late for Lydia’s father to be coming home, considering he rarely let her stay up so late. The flash of his headlights startled her into motion, picking up the snacks she’d stranded throughout the living room and tossing them into the nearest open bag she found. She flipped through the television channels in a mad rush, trying to find something kid-friendly. She finally landed on what she theorized was a nature channel, and opened up her science textbook to the bookmarked page.

She feigned studiousness as well as she could, furrowing her brow in mock academia.

Her father entered the house mid-conversation, laughing as though he was on a first date. It seemed like the first time he’d been laughing in months. “What are you doing up, young lady?” asked Lydia’s father. He smiled widely, his eyes so open that they threatened to fall right out of his skull, which seemed to be doing an inadequate job containing them.

“You know, equations. There’s so much ground to cover before the big test tomorrow.”

There was no test tomorrow.

Lydia’s father shuffled into the house, inching in with a large wooden box, like a square coffin.

“What’s that?” Lydia asked.

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“Just something I picked up from that Caldor’s liquidation sale. I thought it’d be a neat decoration.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a surprise. You can see him in the morning. Now get to bed!” her father said.

“Right. Goodnight.” Lydia made her way upstairs, glancing back suspiciously at the box. Maybe it was a coffin. All she knew was that there was a “him” in it. Halloween was three weeks away, and her family had rarely been preoccupied with non-seasonal decoration, saving up stock for holidays only. The walls of their home were adorned minimally with framed pictures, some of which had to be taken down, as not to incite another of father’s “episodes.” She had wondered over the past two months whether or not they’d still decorate after all that had happened the past year. Her younger brother, Jimmy, had loved to decorate, to see all the witches and pumpkins lining the walls and glossing up the exterior. It was the first halloween without him.

It wasn’t hard to recall that long, dark period. Lydia had lost a brother, and a friend, but a casual friend, truly, as sad and strange as that reality was. Their connective tissue was primarily biological, and their moments of bonding primarily consisted of stray glances of shared disdain when their father would passive aggressively overreact to their minor transgressions, harping on Lydia for leaving dishes in the sink halfwashed. Jimmy would always say to him, “At least she half-washed them instead of not at all!” And they’d laugh. And there were still phantom pains that persisted, even six months removed, when she’d pass his bedroom and remember inside jokes, moments only he witnessed. The currency wasn’t overly heavy, but it was valuable, and she did carry it in her pocket. On some occasions, she longed for a reenactment of their reluctant hugs, when her private pain would be too much to contain and Jimmy offered what he could: a pair of arms and a pair of ears. But for Lydia’s father, the loss was so much more.

He wore grief like a suit, but a tight one, one that pinched him to the point that life, zest, and joy seeped out and spilled onto the floor, abandoned as the desolate grayness came to fill in the blanks. It was hard to explain the change in his complexion, his skin tone, as he lost a grip on his vocabulary, uttering small, mumbled messages before a sob grasped at whatever thought he had and tossed it deep into the

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The Unconvincing Grin

recesses of his mind, summoning up a hearty cry and an aversion of the eyes instead. He would address Jimmy with a familiar sternness only to stop mid-statement and drift off, realizing what he’d done and quietly withdrawing again. He tossed tennis balls at the wall in a poor mimic of a game of catch. It was almost as though he were acting out a familiar cliche of grief, acknowledging his ghost and attempting to engage with it, only to be met with radio silence. And the months following, April to September, didn’t dull the pain, so much as dilute it into bizarre hobbies, clear attempts to cover up cracked surfaces with wood glue and model airplanes. Jimmy’s room become a strange airport, but the shapes the planes took were stilted, awkward, abnormal: wings dealt out in uneven increments, forced to share space in clumsy, cramped shapes that would surely puncture and decimate any passengers aboard, exteriors adorned with unmatched patterns from fuselage to rudder, stripes crawling over the surfaces only to abruptly switch to solid colors. Several models seemed to be in the middle of metamorphosis from one model to another, the face of one plane transfixed in a rush of agony as a different body was fixed to its end, stubbornly and defiantly, a hideous amalgam so bizarre in its configuration that it had to be biological, containing a set of pained and weakened organs within that heaved with the dying breaths typically reserved for deer victimized by a hunter’s bullet or poisoned rats witnessing the seams of reality vanishing as a void opened before their small, unprepared eyes.

And now her father, that same mad scientist of grief and flight, was grinning, and giggling, linking his movements together with bits of dance, small waltzes to no song in particular.

When Lydia finally crept into bed, she dreamt her family threw a fancy party, all upscale dresses and delicately handled cocktails. Even Lydia, despite being fifteen, had a cocktail in one hand, her other on her hip as though she was perpetually making a point. The crowd was alive with chatter, inane and intellectual, with words Lydia didn’t truly understand but knew were of value. She was deep in conversation but couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering, wondering where her father was, who he was speaking to. If he was okay. But the crowd hushed when the rattling began, like a prisoner pounding on a wooden door to be freed, and something began shaking, shifting its weight in loud frantic knocks.

Everyone’s eyes darted over to the corner and there it was: the box, rattling away, the contents within seemingly alive and eager to get out.

The dense oak casing could hardly contain the groans pouring out from within, groans from deep in a body, groans with texture like sandpaper, groans stuck in the murky purgatory between pleasure and pain.

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Lydia woke up in a panic, trying as quickly as she could to catch her breath. There was noise downstairs; not the nightmarish rattling she’d encountered in that dream world, but a soft rustling, akin to something being dragged along the carpet slowly and deliberately.

Lydia snuck downstairs as best she could, all tip toes and held breath, surveying the scene more clearly with each step. Every step only seemed to give her another glimpse into a landscape most familiar, though the corner of her eye seemed to catch a flicker, an unintelligible flash of movement, stiff and unnatural but movement nonetheless. But, as the full room came into view, no unexpected entities jumped out at her: no ghosts, no ghouls, no zombies, no demons. Just her sedate living room, tranquil as suburban life could be. But the carpet seemed to have trails in it; not quite footsteps, but something had moved through it. She more closely analyzed them, searching the tracks for any sign of their creator.

There were two paths, with about a foot in between, both moving in the exact same pattern and direction; perfect parallels. She thought she heard breathing, a sort of gasping and timid exhale, like a child playing hide and seek. It seemed like it was coming from behind her, near the liquor cabinet against the stairwell wall. She turned around slowly and crept toward it, following the trails towards the breathing. The noise seemed to be growing closer, each time a new texture coming through: there was desperation in there, anxiety. This was nervous breathing.

“Lydia?”

Lydia’s heart leaped through her ribcage in a fit of anxiety. She turned towards the stairs to see her father, standing at the top of the stairs, eyes wide, the familiar, strained smile gracing his face. It looked as though whatever sleep he got had left no discernible mark, as lively as though he’d been awake for hours.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked.

“I thought I heard something.”

“Honey, it’s late. You’ve got to be going to bed.”

“What are these trails in the carpet?”

He hesitated for a moment, analyzing the markings with the sort of tight lip and furrowed brow that was associated with inquisitive detectives.

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“Must’ve been the wind. Get to bed.”

The wind? The wind? How does wind make a path in the carpet? Lydia’s immediate thought was that her dad was simply, in this instance, too tired to come up with a sensible answer, or at least unwilling to entertain her inquiries. Still, he had seemed ready to answer. Rehearsed. Must’ve been the wind. He wasn’t remotely curious as to why his carpet had any strange patterns. He merely flashed that familiar grin, showing too much of his bottom teeth, as though it were a joyous display of their existence, in all their too-perfect straightness.

“Goodnight!” he said, each syllable delivered as though it was a special gift he couldn’t wait to give.

Upon arriving again in her bed, Lydia remembered Christmas. It had the same routine every year, as easy to anticipate as the day itself. She’d wake up at 6 AM, sure that she’d be the first downstairs, sure that she’d set her alarm ten minutes earlier than Jimmy. But, as she walked down the stairs, she’d see two paths in the carpet, one firm solid footsteps and the other bearing the marks of dragged feet. And she’d see her father, watching over Jimmy, smiling warmly and naturally, as he tore apart his gifts with the finesse of a starved lion. And she’d join them, fight jokingly with her brother, pose for pictures, replicate the reactions her father hadn’t been able to photograph, and they’d all drink in the glow of each other’s presence. They were together.

When morning came, Lydia made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

Walking in, she saw her father leaning on the counter with his back towards her, already dressed for work. He seemed alarming still.

“Hey dad,” she said, approaching him to give him a morning kiss on the cheek. As she did, her lips were met not with the unpleasant prick of stubble that she’d grown to detest, but instead with the smooth hard veneer of plastic. She jumped back with a shriek, her heart suddenly racing.

“You like it?” her father asked, standing in the doorway, dressed in a nearly identical suit, smiling and bouncing ever so slightly in place, eager for approval. Lydia looked over the being and realized it was a mannequin, its false grin painted in an unconvincing approximation of humanity.

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Timothy Costa

The next few days seemed normal, but as the dark came, so did the nightmares.

The rattling always came, the people always stared.

Sometimes they weren’t people.

“What is it?”

“They had to get rid of everything at Caldor’s, including the mannequins, I thought maybe we could put a mask on it and put it out front. Creep the neighbors out.”

“This is what was in the box? Why’s it wearing your suit?”

“I certainly don’t fit into it anymore, so I thought it’d be good for him!

We’ll change it into something creepier soon. Bloody coveralls, or something. If he’s alright with that, of course.” He put a loving hand on the mannequin’s shoulder as he spoke, giving it a glance filled with pride, respect, and admiration.

“Great,” Lydia said. Until decorating time came, this strange simulation of reluctant humanity would be sharing the house with her. And why did her dad seem almost enamored with it? He hadn’t so much as hugged her since Jimmy had gone, and she missed those moments, but there was always a creeping suspicion that whatever affection he might be showing was misplaced, aimed at his remaining child instead of the one he intended it for. She wanted him to ask about her day, to offer some casual advice, the sort of advice that was light in genuine wisdom but earnest in delivery. And even though he could hardly contain whatever joy he was feeling now, it was a manic joy, a joy that shot out like fireworks in

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The Unconvincing Grin

uncontrolled bursts, his body an inadequate vessel for the outpouring of emotion he was feeling.

The day at school was a study in mundanity, with algebra attempting a fusion with 19th Century literature in the soup of Lydia’s mind, a surprisingly successful combination that added strange numerical textures to the comedy-of-manners held within the pages of Jane Austen. But Lydia stayed diligent, forcing her eyes to focus instead of drifting to Dylan Cox’s empty seat, a seat that was invariably filled, day after day, with the sort of over-eager student who raised his hands at the mere implication that the teacher may be asking a question. But today the seat just existed as an empty vessel, the teacher’s challenges met with dead air and the reluctant hand raise of lesser students, like Michael Sartre, who was almost certainly wrong each time he answered but still committed with the sort of stoned enthusiasm that only exists in high schoolers who discovered marijuana and its effects just shy of the appropriate age.

At lunch, Janet Noons, Lydia’s friend, neighbor, confidante, and, often, biggest nuisance, came nudging next to her with the sort of sugar-fueled enthusiasm that had become Janet’s specialty.

“Why’s your dad park so weird?”

“Janet, the nuance of conversation is so frequently lost on you.”

“It’s a simple question. Your dodging it only shows the kernel of truth swelling to greater size.”

“Admittedly, that metaphor was pretty nuanced. But he doesn’t park weird. He parks like a regular human guy, as far as I know. You don’t even drive, who are you to say what’s weird?”

Janet gave a shrug and tried to close her eyes in a feign of uncertainty, though the energy coursing through her body didn’t allow such an allusion to linger for long. “Just a concerned neighbor doing her duty.

It’s our society, Lydia, and I, for one, won’t allow it to crumble when the solution is so clear and so simple.”

“I wish I could just knock your head off your body,” Lydia said, rehearsing the eventual punch in the air.

The next few days seemed normal, but as the dark came, so did the nightmares. The rattling always came, the people always stared.

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Sometimes they weren’t people. The room would be lined with mannequins, frozen in their false expressions of politeness and joy. When the rattling would start, sometimes she’d hear the mannequins cheering, clapping and chattering away with delight at what was in the box. But their bodies stayed fixed in their positions, their hands stuck even as applause filled the room. She could feel their eyes on her always.

At night she’d hear her father talking. He’d talked in his sleep before, so it certainly wasn’t unusual, but this sounded more deliberate. She heard strange phrases in between waking life and the nightmares. They sounded familiar, like memories, drifting by as though they were merely sighs, gasps of aged dust finally escaping from the crevices of the walls after months of captivity.

“That should work just fine, sport.”

“Maybe after you finish your work we can play for awhile.”

“Now, you know not to act that way, unless you don’t want any treats.”

Each phrase was delivered in a tone of voice she had grown to know well: fatherly affection, gentle care, warmth. But he sounded detached, like he was rehearsing.

Lydia’s father had relocated the mannequin to the garage, which he had begun spending more time in. Lydia was thankful. The garage was mostly out of Lydia’s jurisdiction. Her infrequent visits were mostly to grab old tapes from one of the many storage containers lining the interior, filled to the brim with fixations and obsessions of her youth that had to be put aside as her interests grew. She wondered, every time he drifted down their driveway and into the confines of the garage, what sort of conversation he might be making with the mannequin. If he had found the confidence to share the feelings he kept hidden from Lydia. She wondered if he was comfortable, sitting in front of it, explaining the distinct shapes and sounds of his grief, able to express what had so long come out in jagged, sharp displays of vicious feeling. She wished he’d tell her, let her know, not the false figure that had only recently come into their lives.

She tried her best to dive into her schoolwork. It was the best cure she had for her paranoia. School was her solace, a zone detached from the silent figure who resided so close to her and visited her so frequently in the night.

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October 14th was as ordinary a school day as any, as she spent her study period zoning in on math problems she’d previously be satisfied leaving partially correct, attempting to deduce patterns from amongst the stew that her prior disinterest had made. Today she had no objections to obsessively checking and rechecking her work, consulting calculators like an accountant trying to prove themself. Janet came into her spot at lunch right on cue, her tray adorned with the sort of universally stale foods that only public school cafeterias can provide.

“Henderson’s homework isn’t that hard. Same examples from the book, and she goes over them in class, if only you’d bother to listen,” Janet said.

“You can never be too careful.”

“I can’t believe Dylan didn’t show up again today. He owes me lunch.”

“Maybe he and his parents went on vacation or something. He hasn’t shown up to algebra in at least three days.”

“I guess, just wish he would’ve told me. I want my free lunch. There’s a sublime pleasure in getting these sorts of amenities at a discounted rate.

Hey, what’s your dad been up to lately? Has he reignited his passion for late night rustling?”

Lydia stopped, looking up from the assignment. “What do you mean?

He’s married to his routine. Goes to work, eats dinner, goes to sleep.”

“He’s doing something at night. I always hear him moving around your garage, real late.”

“No way, he’s always asleep by nine. Insists on it. If he’s not in bed by then, he starts to stiffen.”

“Well, something’s in your garage. Maybe you need an exterminator. It could be rats, and they’re moving your stuff, which, in my opinion, is even worse! Rats who want to decorate!”

Lydia attempted to maintain discretion in her thoughts, but it was too easy for the presence in the garage to simply be further indication that her nightmares might be more than just dreams. Was her father adding to his evening visits in the nighttime? Or was this beyond him? Were her dreams less illusions, a fake of reality as unconvincing as the mannequins’

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attempts at humanity, or were they premonitions? Had a strange guest arrived?

Her father wore a forced smile at dinner that night, clearly straining his facial muscles in a show of unnatural delight. He asked Lydia questions about her day, before his gaze would shift to the seat next to her, which had been set as though they were expecting company. Sometimes he’d let out a hearty laugh at nothing at all. When Lydia looked to inquire further, he’d be taking a large gulp of his drink, motioning for her to wait a moment for him to explain. He never did, though, as Lydia turned her attention back to her food and toyed with it.

“Great to have the family together!” he shouted, to no reply whatsoever.

Still, he kept grinning.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said, getting up from the table. As he moved into the living room, Lydia tried her best to glance through the doorway and watch his activities. He had a large travel suitcase that she saw him dragging. He seemed to be shushing it.

Despite the fact that it was eight in the evening, Lydia couldn’t shake the restlessness motivating her limbs, the persistent nibble of curiosity and anxiety coming down on the folds of her brain. It was like wearing a helmet, compressing the strands of worry even closer to her mind, giving them little space to breathe. She grabbed the telephone, assuring her father, or whoever, wasn’t on the other end, and quickly dialed the number to Dylan Cox’s house. It was the best plot she had, an amateur investigation but an investigation nonetheless.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Lydia did her best to bear the pain that accompanied the waiting, the chasm of anxiety that formed in the eternity between rings tearing the comfort of reality from beneath her feet. But here she was, five rings and only the greeting of an answering machine responding to her. The Cox’s wouldn’t leave a phone ringing; if they were anything like their insufferable son, they’d spring up immediately and greet the caller in a chirped, high-pitched wheeze, ready to supply any bit of information requested with an unparalleled enthusiasm.

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The Unconvincing Grin

Everything seemed still for a while, neither Lydia nor the mannequin moving. It seemed aware of her presence though, its eyes focused and intent, mocking the humanity they were modeled after.

Lydia was in bed by 10:30 but, despite her best efforts, couldn’t sleep.

She kept thinking about what Janet had said. Something was happening in the garage at night. She’d have to go see exactly what. Arming herself with the only sensible weapon she could find (a twirling baton), she crept down the hall, checking into her father’s room quietly to ensure he would not disturb her. He was asleep, but still smiling, although it wasn’t as wide a smile as she had become accustomed to recently. She moved down the stairs as quietly as possible and out the front door. She scaled along the side of her house, avoiding thorns or any other such prickly surprise, carefully moving down their driveway towards the garage that lay at the bottom. She knew opening the huge doors would cause unnecessary ruckus, so she went to the side of the structure, avoiding puddles of mud that might ensnare her in their grasp, until she made her way to the side door and found her way in. She glanced across the garage, filled mostly with stored away junk, except for that familiar still figure in the opposite corner as Lydia. The mannequin’s face stayed as it always had: still, lifeless, but nonetheless overjoyed. She crept into the corner diagonal to the mannequin and crouched down, moving a few storage containers to give her adequate coverage, and throwing a stray tarp over the structure. She got down close to the floor and peaked through the tiny space between the tarp’s end and the floor. Everything seemed still for a while, neither Lydia nor the mannequin moving. It seemed aware of her presence though, its eyes focused and intent, mocking the humanity they

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were modeled after. He, no, it, seemed ready to let out a hardy laugh, or even run a victory lap. It had fooled them all, but not her. Still, she was there, in its nest, in a self-made cocoon, and what could she do if she was right? She’d painted herself into a corner.

After half an hour, the large garage door opened suddenly, sending a wave of metallic clattering noise through the small structure. There was a silhouette standing in the doorway.. As the silhouette glanced backward to survey that the coast was clear, light danced across their face in strange nighttime patterns and Lydia could see that it was her father, in his suit, the suitcase from earlier by his side. He made his way in, dragging the suitcase. “Be quiet, now! Don’t want to wake up your new friend!” There were strange, muted, and muffled pleading whimpers emanating from within the case’s fabric walls, struggling to break through the confines.

Her father made his way to the corner, greeting the mannequin with a kiss on the forehead. “And how’s my best boy doing today? I know, I know. You’re hungry. Don’t worry, daddy’s got a treat!” Leaping up excitedly, her father made his way to the suitcase, unzipping it and picking up something- someone- from within. It was Dylan, shoved uncomfortably into the confines of the case, mouth duct taped shut and hands bound. Trying desperately to talk through the tape, his eyes were alert with terror and tears as Lydia’s father neared the mannequin, placing the boy at its feet. He stood back, surveying the mannequin with a sense of delight, a smug smile on his face.

“Hopefully he’ll be easier than his parents were. You made quite a mess, my boy!”

The mannequin remained silent, but Lydia heard something hard to define, like the sound a rubber glove makes as a too-big hand attempts to squeeze in. Then a groan, almost a yawn but with more pain, more uncertainty, behind it.

The tarp limited Lydia’s view, but she saw the mannequin start lurching awkwardly towards the boy, the movements stiff and far removed from humanity: there were no joints bending, no muscles flexing, but just the awkward shuffling of wooden limbs pushing forward one at a time.

She heard Dylan pleading as intently as he could through the muffled tape. It wasn’t enough, though, as she heard what sounded like biting and tearing and muted screams, the sounds of an animal feasting, its viciousness hardly contained, any elegance overcome by the sheer need to feed, with a flash of blood coming towards Lydia, the tarp shielding her.

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She sat up and covered her mouth, trying not to vomit from the intense combination of disgust and terror. The wounds were only partly visible, but they were jagged; the flesh looked more blasted than cut, resembling the asymmetry of a shotgun blast, the middle section looking as though something erupted outward, blasting its way out of the insufficient confines of the teenage body.

“You’re so beautiful when you eat!” shouted her father, jumping in the spot with a sense of pride belonging more to an overeager child than their father. “You’re gonna be big and strong, aren’t you? Just like your dad!”

“Just like dad,” a voice responded. A flat, nothing-sort of voice. It was it.

The voice was enough to freeze Lydia in place, as a sense of awe came over her. The feeling puzzled her, but she couldn’t help but feel dazzled, caught up in the sheer impossibility. It was fear, to be sure, but it was a textured fear, like looking over the edge of a mountain, the sense of anticipating the fall, imagining the breath escaping you. She was stunned and fixated, hardly noticing as blood started to pool near her the ground in front of her and finally come over the hand still planted on the garage floor. She squirmed and yelped. Her father shifted. She was found out.

“A guest! Oh, Jimmy, how wonderful! We’ve an audience!” Her father began hopping over to the tarp, before unveiling Lydia to her new housemate. “Lydia!” her father shouted, ecstasy in his voice. He helped her to her feet and hugged her warmly, too tightly. “Jimmy, say hello!

How long has it been? Six months?”

“Hello Lydia.”

The mouth didn’t move as he, it, whatever, spoke. Even the shameful approximation of movement she saw earlier wasn’t repeated. He remained perfectly still. Her father had moved next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder and copying his grin, the two looking more alike than Lydia believed possible. Her father’s skin had grown waxy, it seemed, and his eyes seemed flattened to his face. He was a cut-out of himself, the features right but their surfaces unreliable, their contours unformed.

“Dad, this is not Jimmy. Jimmy..died. That’s reality. That’s the truth. This isn’t truth. We lost him.”

“But it is reality.” It was the voice again. His voice. In its lack of adornment, it couldn’t be anything but certain. This was reality. The voice came, even if its source remained still, and that was reality.

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And how could Lydia confront this reality? A reality impossible, overwhelming. These surfaces were reliable, these contours were formed.

This was the world as it had always been, and as it would always be.

And even as her father came to seem more like an impersonation of himself, his eyes were bright, luminous, beaming forth with love. His hands shook, stained with blood, still dripping to the ground where their masterpiece, their work as father and son, sat, torn apart. But the hands shook not with the anxiety that came with being outed, but with glee.

Glee had generated tears in her father’s eyes. They were his children, together again, and his love refused to be contained, radiating to the ends of each of his extremities and the corners of his now-twitching smile.

Lydia, trying not to drag her feet in the mess on the ground, made her way over to her father, and to her brother, her head falling into her father’s chest, where it was welcomed with a warm hug, a vibrant, comforting one. She wept, and he wept, and it wept too, the wood scraping against the cold garage floor as it joined in their embrace. Even as the horror of the prior moment lingered in her body, pushed the tears out of her eyes, she felt comfortable. They were family. They were together again.

32

Amond Hawes-Khalifa Amond Hawes-Khalifa is currently a freshman at Umass Dartmouth with an undeclared major.

He loves to write all forms of fiction, as much as he loves creating musical pieces of various genres, from classical, to epic orchestral, to EDM. He also loves practicing the sports Tricking & Freerunning (parkour with flips). His dream is to become either a screenwriter, director, or musical score producer for movies.

To Kill A Monster The boy stood in the no man’s land, waiting. The short field between his own dwindling plot of paradise and the endless expanse of void beyond sat like a ribbon between the two. It was a small, yet simultaneously vast expanse of space that hummed with a grey aura of uncertainty. It was only in the boy’s mind that such a place could exist. It was only in the boy’s mind that He could exist. He, the leach, the brutal thief that had stolen so much of this place from the boy. It seemed that with each meeting, the boy’s plot of land grew smaller and smaller. To make matters worse, the meetings were expanding, both in frequency, as well as in length.

It was that time again now. Time to face Him once more. Slowly but surely, whether the boy was ready or not, He was closing in. No matter how hard the boy tried, he could not bar his body from shaking with fear.

Mr. Ression was always punctual, never once tardy to a meeting. As expected, He rose from the ground at the exact time of day He always did. The enemy’s appearance was as unnerving as ever to the terrified boy. That is not to say that His face was disturbing in any way, of course.

To say such would simply be an insult upon the boy. No, His appearance was disturbing because his complexion uncannily resembled the boy’s own. Identical facial features on a taller, stronger body, muscles rippling in the pale light. His chin was slightly broader than the boy’s, and his face looked as if it were chiseled of marble.

Their first session was easily the worst experience the boy had ever known. The poor little fool was so weak back then. He was torn apart

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like a paper doll. Then, just as suddenly as He arrived, He left, taking a large chunk of the boy’s land with Him. It had been more than five years since that day. The boy had grown stronger since then… but not much.

On top of all of this, the boy’s cumulative losses, came at a heavy cost.

Not only was he robbed of most of his land. He was also stripped of a good portion of his own sanity. The nightmares the boy experienced each night had become a comforting escape from the horrors of his waking world.

Mr. Ression gave the boy one look, and his face cracked into a broad smirk.

“Ah, child, so wonderful of you to join me!” He said in a close facsimile of cordiality, “How’ve you been boy?”

Mr. Ression always began the meeting with those words. The first time the boy heard the greeting, he thought he had found a friend. A further testament to his former naivety. The look of horror upon his face when Mr. Ression had first transformed into the true monster that He was, was one of the most utter confusion and terror imaginable. This boy had eventually grown to face the beast, albeit with the loss of much he held dear. However, while it is no small feat to face down a demon, it is another feat altogether to be able to defeat it.

“Evening Mr. Ression,” The boy said softly, “I’d imagine you already know how I’ve been. Our last meeting was only yesterday, was it not?”

Instantly, His face took on a wearied look.

“How many times have I told you, you may call me Deep?” He said, going so far as to fake a sob, ”Do you enjoy hurting my feelings?”.

“You… y-you have no feelings.” the boy stammered, feebly. At this, Mr. Ression’s demeanor changed in a blink of an eye, and He burst into laughter.

“Ha ha! Cat got your tongue? What a foolish boy you are! I have all the feelings a person could ever want or need! Pleasure and pain, yin and yang, light and dark! I have nothing, and yet I have everything! There is nothing in this world I could ever want or need!” The boy said nothing.

Mr. Ression grinned. “Well, I suppose we’d better get on with it!” He said, cracking His neck, “We’re not going to tear into ourselves now are we?”

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To Kill a Monster

“Of course we are,” the boy stated, “That’s the whole point of your game, isn’t it?”

“I suppose you have a point!”. With that, Mr. Ression began to chuckle.

It always began with that chuckle. The chuckle grew louder and louder, evolving into a booming laughter. Then He began to change. From His back grew a layer of jagged spikes. Sickening cracking and crunching sounds of His bones morphing into different shapes permeated the air around them. His legs and arms grew longer. Mr. Ression’s jaw, once a picture of perfection, split down the middle, separating like insect mandibles and sprouting a set of horrific fangs. His eyes changed from dark brown, to a glittering crimson. From His head burst a pair of horns that jutted from His skull like tusks. In His right hand, emerged a fist full of six inch claws, sharp as razor blades. In His left, a five foot sword, as black as night.

“Now then,” He said in a deep, layered voice, “Where were we?”

As he had expected, the sword of the boy’s will appeared before him.

Originally nothing more than a tiny dagger, the blade grew alongside him, developing into a beautiful curved weapon as light as a feather and nearly as long as his body with each passing meeting. The boy snatched the sword from the air.

“We were almost at the part where I k-kill you,” he dared to utter at the monster, trying futilely to keep his voice from quivering.

“You’ve yet to manage the feat yet. What makes you think this time will be any different?”

The boy said nothing.

Mr. Ression grinned, (a horrendous sight given His new form), drew back His sword, and began to charge. The boy jumped, soaring unnaturally high through the air as always. Mr. Ression leapt high enough to match him. Their blades clashed, sparks flying off in all directions! They both flew backward from the force of the impact, landing back onto the shadowy floor of the no-man’s land.

Next, the boy fought with his mind. He summoned the happiest memories to aid him.

The kindness of a parent.

The love of a brother.

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The joy of friendship.

They all leapt from his mind like wolves and bolted for Mr. Ression.

He began conjuring His own allies.

The hatred of a fight.

The death of a loved one.

The pain of isolation.

They emerged like snakes and shot toward the wolves.

Their hearts did battle before them, hissing and barking into a frenzy.

When the dust settled, all that remained of the beasts was a smoldering pile of ashes.

“Enough games,” Mr. Ression sneered, “Show me what you’re truly made of!”. With this, He bolted forward and thrusted His blade toward the boy’s chest, claws reeling back for a second blow. The boy parried the strike and spun, aiming for Mr. Ression’s neck.

The claws would make contact before the sword did. They raked the boy’s arm, tearing deep gashes into the flesh of his wrist.

Deep leaned back, and the tip of the boy’s sword grazed the side of His face making a tiny cut. This is where the boy realized anew just how futile this fight was. The small cut he had made on Mr. Ression’s face was perfectly mirrored on the boy’s own. The boy had noticed this phenomenon the past few times they had quarreled, as well. While Deep could tear into the boy to His black heart’s content without punishment, any attack that the boy managed to land was inflicted upon himself as well. Such is a horrid consequence of fighting the darkness of one’s own consciousness.

“Do you see now, boy?” He said with a grin, vanishing into a wisp of smoke, “Why you can never defeat me?”. The boy spun around frantically, desperately trying to regain sight of his foe.

“You are nothing!” Deep cackled, “WEAK! WORTHLESS! PATHETIC!” The child fell to his knees. “Look around you boy! All have abandoned you. You are alone, and you are nothing.” The boy was sure He was right.

Deep Roared with laughter at the boy’s realization and swung the back of His hand at the child’s chest, sending him skidding across the landscape for several meters. His head collided with a small patch of stone, then

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everything went black... *** It was warm. The boy felt tingly. It was not a painful sensation. In fact, the boy found it almost pleasant.

He opened his eyes and found that he could see. He took a step forward and found that he could move. He was not asleep. He was not awake.

Where was he?

“Hey,” spoke a soft but melodic voice from behind him. The boy turned slowly, recognizing the sound.

Before him stood a beauty, no, an angel, a goddess. Her hair glittered like the last golden rays of sunset. In sharp contrast, her eyes sparkled a dazzling sapphire, as if they were carved of the crystal itself. On her back, jutted out two huge golden wings that burned like the afternoon sun and looked as if they were crafted of swan down. The girl was robed in a dress as white as the clouds. Her smile… Indescribable.

“Long time no see,” she said with a voice like silk, “do you recognize me?”. Did he recognize her?! ‘What man could behold such an honor as to have met a being such as herself twice?!’​ The boy thought to himself.

Yet, her voice… her smile… they brought out memories of such joy, of such happiness. He had no idea who this angel was, yet he felt as though he’d known her all his life. What was this sorcery? Never in a thousand years could he have forgotten someone like this.

The boy was completely and utterly perplexed by the situation. “...I’m not sure,” he said quietly. A look of disappointment passed over her features.

“Oh. That’s right…” she said softly, “You’ve forgotten it all, haven’t you?

He must’ve taken it by now.” She looked as though she had been stuck in the chest. Immediately, words began falling from the boy’s mouth as if his lips knew something that his brain did not.

“No! You misunderstand! It is true I know not your name, but I am sure to have known you my whole life! Whatever magic this may be, it cannot wipe away my love for you so easily!”

The boy suddenly realized what he had just said. His eyes widened in

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embarrassment, hand reflexively snapping to cover his mouth to prevent its further betrayal of his thoughts.

Her eyes glistened.

“You… You do remember,” she whispered, her voice quivering, “How?” The two stood there in silence, the warmth of one another’s gazes enough to last an eternity. Then she smiled bittersweet and raised her hand.

She reached behind her and drew from the air a blade, one even stronger and more beautiful than his own.

In one swift movement, she had thrust the blade through the left side of the boy’s chest. It did not hurt.

Rather, the boy felt comforted… as if he had found a friend that he hadn’t realized he had been missing. The boy’s heart began to beat. He was going back. The boy had to fight back regretful tears at the loss of this girl he had just met, whom he could already call friend. She opened her mouth to speak, but he was dragged away by the void before he could hear it.

“Wait!” he cried helplessly into the nothingness, “She wasn’t done! Let me go!” It was futile. The whole of the universe had him in its grasp, with only one goal in mind. Bringing him home.

A tear rolled down the boy’s cheek as he closed his eyes and accepted his fate.

He was going back… *** “You’re not alone… Remember, no matter what, I will always be with you.”

The boy’s eyes snapped open.

He turned his head to see Mr. Ression slowly retreating into the shadows, content with having defeated him once more.

“Get back here…” the boy growled. Mr. Ression stopped in His tracks.

“Did you say something little fool?”

“GET BACK HERE!” he shouted. Mr. Ression grinned, drawing His

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sword once more.

“I had no idea you wished so strongly for death! As a courteous man, I would never let a personal request go unnoticed! I’LL BE HAPPY TO OBLIGE YOU!”. With a howl of laughter, a dozen gigantic serpents sprang from the monster’s back and formed a circle around the boy.

“This is where it ends for you little whelp. Alone, afraid, and as weak as you were the first time we-” “I’m not weak!” he shouted, drawing an expression of surprise from Mr. Ression’s face, “I’m NOT afraid! And I AM NOT ALONE!!!” His voice had become a roar of defiance, shaking the very ground upon which they stood.

In that moment, a column of light fell from the heavens around the boy, searing the snakes and shattering them to pieces. The girl appeared in a blinding white flash, materializing behind Mr. Ression. The moment He turned to see exactly what it was that was behind him, she leapt. With a twirl, she struck the center of His chest with the heel of her foot, sending Him tumbling backwards.

“Get up!” she called out to the boy. The two knew in that instant, that their minds had set for themselves the exact same goal.

“Right!” he shouted, grabbing his weapon and jumping to his feet. The two charged from opposite directions, their footfalls landing like the beats of a hummingbird’s wings. They struck like thunder and lightning, each impact beautifully complementing the last! With a flap of her wings, the girl soared a hundred feet in the air! Then in an instant, she brought her blade down upon Mr. Ression with such force as to crack one of His horns. As the beast staggered backwards, she turned to the boy and threw her weapon. He turned, catching the sword in his right hand and bolted forward.

It was his turn.

The boy bore down upon the foe that had haunted him for so many years with fury. Blade in each hand, he whirled into a frenzy, dealing blow after crushing blow to the monster. His mind became a blur of movements. Spin. Dodge. Strike. Stab. The boy wasn’t entirely sure how he was doing what he was doing, but by sheer strength of will he continued to assail his foe.

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The girl twirled in from His blind spot, landing a devastating combo on His jaw, incredibly powerful even when unarmed. The boy passed back her weapon, and they struck as one.

He was ready for them. The girl’s blade was deflected off His own, while the boy’s was caught in His hand as if it were nothing more than a twig.

Deep roared with rage, launching himself upward, and spiraling down upon them. The boy leapt to intercept the attack, but his weapon, the blade that he had sacrificed so much to forge, shattered as if it were made of glass. The girl shoved him aside and blocked the attack, chancing the blow in a struggle of power. Their blades ground together, sparks screeching off of the metal like miniature fireworks. They were incredible; angel and demon locked in a struggle to the death. The two stood, unmoving… but not for long. She was losing. With the sharp snap of her ankle being broken, the struggle suddenly ended. She fell to her knees with a cry of pain. Grinning, Deep brought back His sword, preparing for the final blow. That’s when it happened.

Time seemed to stop altogether. The boy stared at this girl… this angel… whomever she was, staring down the blade that would surely end her life… for him. His thoughts suddenly became not of himself, but for the first time, of one he held so dear. How could he have let this happened after she had given so much for him?! That’s when the blade swung down and, while not quite cleaving all the way through, buried itself in the flesh of the young man’s bare hand.

The beast looked to the spot the boy had been not a moment before, then turned back to meet the young man’s deathly gaze, a look of genuine horror appearing on Mr Ression’s face. He began to back away.

The young man’s pupils shrank to pinpricks, eyes locked with the beast.

All of the sadness. The grief.

The pain. Everything the monster had given him over the years; all of it turned in an instant, to rage. Electricity crackled through the boy’s hair, surging down his arms. From his mouth erupted a thunderous battle cry, the likes of which had never been heard before.

Fueled by an unwavering resolve, and filled with the courage of a thousand lions, the young man lifted the girl’s blade from the ground and swung with all of his might for Mr. Ression’s neck. The Monster held up His blade and talons, trying with all of his power to deflect the impact, but the sword shattered to dust and His clawed fist was cleaved in two.

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To Kill a Monster

Finally, it had reached the neck…

Then it was done.

Mr. Ression’s head tumbled to the floor, followed shortly by the rest of his body, mortal after all. The young man turned to the girl. Her face was graced by the most beautiful expression, one so proud, so full of joy.

Her heart seemed to flow out in ribbons of light, wrapping themselves around him in embrace. He had never felt so happy.

“I knew you could do it!” she said with a broad smile. The young man shuddered and collapsed to his knees. His mouth twitched, quivered, cracked, and finally, broke into a hearty laughter, tears of relief streaming down his face.

“Do you recognize me now?” the girl asked. It was in that moment, the single instant after realizing that his foe was truly defeated, that he realized he did. In her face, the young man saw the faces of not just one, but hundreds, all friends, family and others who truly cared for the boy.

It was their hearts, the hearts of a thousand caring people that formed to create her. Love. It had been so long. Long enough that he had forgotten that she was even missing from his life.

The two embraced one another, never to part again, as the young man finally understood that to kill a monster such as Deep Ression, one didn’t just need strength, determination, courage, or willpower. One needed the strength of Love, and of those dearest to them as well.

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42

The Sound The grandfather clock stood at the end of the hall, just outside the room where the lamp stood. “Tick, tock… Tick, tock…” it would whisper to the lamp. The lamp was silent. It was always silent. The silence filled the clock with such hatred. Every night it would whisper to the lamp. Every night it was ignored. The clock would’ve wished nothing more than a slow, painful death upon the lamp. Still, it quietly continued to whisper, “Tick, tock… Tick, tock…”, every night.

Every night.

The lamp stood motionless in the corner of the room, the light it cast illuminating the small space in which it resided. Outside the four brightened walls lay naught but darkness. Pure, thick, endless darkness.

The clock struck twelve o’clock. A dozen booms shook the house. Then, came silence.

Nine year old Thomas sat alone in the living room, the TV running quietly in the background creating a comforting ambiance. The warm Summer breeze drifted in through the window, carrying the light scent of flowers and freshly cut grass. One half eaten bowl of popcorn rested on the floor beside the couch where he lay. He was just beginning to contemplate heading off to bed as his parents had, when he heard the sound.

It wasn’t very loud, nor was it particularly threatening. Just a single bump from the floor upstairs. Even so, it cast goosebumps up young Thomas’ spine. He rose to his feet, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Slowly, the boy tiptoed toward the stairwell. He was halfway there, when the ringing filled his ears. Panicked, he spun around frantically in search of the source of the sound. It took a moment for him to realize the sound was emanating from his pocket. Thomas’ new phone had begun ringing.

With a deep sigh of relief, the boy pulled out his phone to read the first text message that he had received on the device.

“I see you.” Was all that it read. Thomas’ blood turned to ice. Eyes widening, he looked for the caller ID. “Thomas Grace”, it read. His

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breath came in short raspy bursts. Just to be sure, he checked the number.

It was his.

A million thoughts raced through his mind, but none could properly explain his situation. Thomas looked up from the screen and screamed.

He froze in place. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. He was staring at an image of himself. After a few moments, he realized that he was looking at the window. He laughed with temporary solace, momentarily forgetting the message.

Thomas grinned at the reflection. His reflection grinned back. Thomas stuck out his tongue. His reflection did not. The boy raised an eyebrow as something slowly began to dawn on him. The warm breeze was still wafting into the room. The window was open.

It took a few moments for him to fully register the situation. Once he did, his mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out. The Thomas standing outside the window raised a hand to cover his still grinning face. When he moved it away, all that remained were two identical black sockets above a crooked smile.

And then it was gone. As suddenly as it had appeared, the doppelganger had vanished into the night. Thomas, regaining some control over his body, rushed forward and slammed the window shut. Another thump came from the top of the stairs. Still too afraid to scream, the boy carefully peered around the corner and up the dark stairwell. The thumping continued. Every two seconds or so, it bumped, growing louder each time. Soon, Thomas noticed something rolling out of the darkness. Rolling slowly down the stairs was his favorite baseball, the one his father had bought for his birthday three years ago. With a shaking hand, he bent down to lift the ball. It felt rougher than he remembered.

Thomas, stepping back into the living room, held the small object up to the light. The words, “Tag, you’re it” were scratched into the thin leather.

Suddenly, he felt something. There was something behind him, he was sure of it.

“Tick, tock... Tick, tock...” Whispered the clock. The lamp flickered.

Before Thomas could muster the courage to turn around, there was the faintest chuckle in his right ear. He whirled around to face the eyeless doppelganger once more, only this time, it was much closer. The grin it wore upon its face grew wider and wider, exposing far too many teeth.

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The Sound

Choking back a sob, Thomas took his first steps into the dark abyss.

It was dark of course, that part was not the problem.

The true terror that filled the halls were the sounds.

Then, in a sickening crack, it tore open into a gaping wound of a mouth.

What followed was the loudest sound Thomas had ever heard. It was as if a hundred lions’ roars had combined into one terrible, earth-shaking sound.

The boy clasped his ears as tightly as he could, but as for how effective it was he may as well have been trying to hide beneath a sheet. When it finally ended, the creature disappeared once more in the blink of an eye.

Thomas fell to his knees and screamed. Once his breath had run out, he fell over onto the carpet and began to sob. He did not know what was happening, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he was afraid.

Nothing else mattered.

There was something warm in his ear. Thomas reached up to feel it, then examined his hand. It was red. With a small whimper, he wiped the blood from his ears with his sleeve.

He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, quietly sobbing. The silence was nearly absolute.

“Tick, tock... Tick, tock...”. The lamp shook.

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Amond Hawes-Khalifa

After some time, Thomas managed to regain a tiny shred of his composure. The only thing that comforted him was the knowledge that his parents were only a few rooms away. If he could just make it there…

Thomas stood, half blind from the sound. Everything was quiet. The comforting murmur of the television was replaced with a loud ringing in his ears.

Tears streamed down his face as Thomas took step after shaky step toward the dark hall that lead to the room where his parents slept. Cautiously, ever so cautiously, he approached the entrance with a whimper. Thomas stared up with large tearful eyes at the black rectangle that was the doorway. A droplet of sweat rolled off his chin, splashing against the ground nearly inaudibly. The tiny sound echoed down the cavernous hall as if it were a distant clap of thunder.

Choking back a sob, little Thomas took his first steps into the dark abyss.

It was dark of course, that part was not the problem. The true terror that filled the hall were the sounds. At first, it was silent. Naught but the quiet, living metronome that was his heart could be heard. However, as his ears slowly recovered from the previous trauma, he began to hear more and more of the terrible noises that surrounded him. The gentle creaking of the doors as he passed them. The strange, almost inaudible footsteps that seemed to be following close behind, slightly off-beat from his own. Even the subtle tick-tock of the grandfather clock as he reached the corner of the hall. Thomas stopped. Something about the blackstained surface of the maple captivated him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. For that matter, he couldn’t hear any of the other noises anymore.

All he could hear was the clock… Tick-tock… Tick-tock… The sound tugged at something inside him. With a tentative hand, Thomas reached to touch the surface of the wooden clock.

“STOP!” shouted a voice from down the hall. The little boy let out a yelp and spun around to face this new voice.

“You’ve never spoken a day in your life and yet you choose now to break your silence?”

Whispered another, “Don’t listen to him. Keep going…”

Again, the boy was transfixed. He turned once more to the grandfather clock reaching out to feel the shimmering wood.

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The Sound

“DON’T!” “Do it…”

“HE’LL KILL YOU!” “Go on…“ The strange words began to whirl around inside Thomas’ head. He couldn’t think straight any more. All he could think about was the clock and the lamp.

Tick-tock… Tick-tock…

The lamp shook violently.

“Ru… RUN!” Cried a raspy voice. It sounded desperate. For whatever reason, these are the words that reached him. Thomas came to his senses and took to his feet. In a moment he had made it halfway to his parents’ bedroom.

“Get back here…” whispered the clock, but the boy would have none of it. He would not let his mind be seduced again.

“I said, GET BACK HERE!!!” The clock roared, shaking the foundation of the house.

Tears began to leak from Thomas’ eyes as he approached the bedroom.

“Mommy! Daddy!” He wailed, bursting into the doorway, “Save me!”

Thomas’ mother was the first to awake.

“Ugh… Hunnie? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Grace asked groggily. Thomas’ father yawned and lazily rolled out of bed, stepping over to Thomas and turning on the lights. Mr. Grace knelt down to his son and pulled him into embrace.

“It was just a dream, sport,” he said comfortingly, “Everything’s alright.”

Thomas sniffled.

“I love you daddy…” He said, pressing his face into his father’s shoulder.

“I love you too buddy.”

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Thomas’ mother yawned.

“I love you both. Even though you’re all crazy!”

“I hate you all!” said a voice from under the bed.

Tick-tock… Tick-tock…

The lamp fell to the floor and shattered to pieces.

The doppelganger appeared once more, now behind his father. Thomas’ eyes widened as he stared into the black pits of the creature’s eye sockets.

His father, noticing the expression of horror, turned to see what was behind him.

“Tag!” Whispered a small voice, “You’re it!” At this, His father’s grip around him was broken, as Mr. Grace was lifted five feet off of the ground.

Thomas and his mother could do nothing but watch in horror as the man was dragged via his neck by the creature and tossed into the corner of the kitchen. Quite suddenly, the creature vanished. For a brief moment, it seemed as though it was over. However, as the man went to stand up, two sickening cracks broke the momentary silence. Thomas’ father screamed as he collapsed once more to the ground, one leg bent sharply to the right. Gradually, the screaming stopped.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the man turned to look at his family. His eyes were wide and pitch black. On his face was plastered a mad grin that sent chills up Thomas’ spine. The man chuckled.

“Watch this!” Said a voice that was definitely not his father’s. In abject terror, they watched as the man’s body was broken in front of them.

His arms snapped at the forearms and hung limply by his elbows. His remaining good leg shattered and with a loud crunch, bent upward at the knee. All the while, the grin remained motionless on his face.

“STOP IT!” shouted his mother at last. In a manic frenzy, she leapt off of the bed and charged forward toward her husband. In an instant, the man’s eyes turned back to normal, then rolled back into his head. The pain was too much for him to remain conscious.

Just before she could reach him, the doppelgänger reappeared, lifted her

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The Sound

off of the ground and pinned her against the wall. With a final raspy breath, it was all she could do to make the tiniest whisper.

“Thomas… Ru… un…” was all she could get out before the air was cut off from her lungs.

Tick-tock… Tick-tock… The lamp flickered.

Something strange began to happen in Thomas. He stopped whimpering.

The creature still had his mother against the wall, and the broken figure that was his father lay slumped in the corner. Thomas stopped crying.

The boy’s eyes grew wide, but no longer with fear. All of his emotions suddenly boiled down into rage.

Thomas rose to his feet. Turning around, Thomas spied the largest chef knife resting on the counter behind him. Almost in a daze, he lifted the blade and turned toward the creature. Tick-tock… Tick-tock… The clock shook.

Thomas charged forward at an incredible speed for his size. The creature reached back with its second hand and caught Thomas by the neck, hoisting him off the ground. Thomas, screaming with rage, shoving the knife into the shadowy arm of the beast. The creature howled in pain and released the two humans.

“GET AWAY FROM MY MOMMY!” Thomas cried at the top of his lungs, stabbing the creature again and again and again… Tick-tock…

Tick-tock…

The clock fell to the floor and shattered.

Thomas brought the knife down one final time and plunged it hilt-deep into the beast’s skull.

Tick-tock… Tick… The clock stopped.

The lamp turned on. *** None of the family members could explain what happened that day.

It was obvious to the police that an intruder had entered the domicile armed with a baseball bat. The father had taken several blows from by

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the weapon, shattering all of his limbs. The intruder also destroyed an antique clock and toppled a stained-glass lamp, though the light bulb remained intact. The wife was quite shaken and bruised around her neck, having been held against a wall for some time. Apparently, the nine year old child of the family had somehow managed to ward off the robber with a knife before anything could be looted. The only thing the police couldn’t explain, was the steaming puddle of black sludge that was found in the kitchen.

The family moved the very next day to a cozy little house in the suburbs, never looking back to the horror they had witnessed. However, some nights, when the silence was deafening and the darkness smothering, Thomas could swear he still heard it…

Tick-Tock… Tick-Tock…

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Jessika Lazala Jessika Lazala (Operations Management ’18) is a teacher and writer from Springfield, MA. After graduating from UMass Dartmouth she started teaching at Nativity Prep in New Bedford. The need to share her stories of trauma, love and loss motivate her to continue writing. You can find more of Jessika’s writing on her portfolio website, thesethoughts.us.

Dedication: This poem is dedicated to the strong women in my family that raised me to persevere.

Apology Accepted Note: This poem deals with issues of emotional and physical abuse.

She searched the world for him, the muse to her art.

When hopes were broken he swept up the shards.

A leech with flesh, he latched to her spirit.

Small things she does wages war on his ego like hanging with friends or not kissing goodbye.

She swears that she loves him but doesn’t know why She thinks “patience is key, small hiccups are fine”.

Ignoring gut feelings that something is wrong, she ventures to his place, bra and panties off.

With the desire to do just one thing right the girl stays over a couple of nights.

Curtains of her abuse were disturbingly sheer but cries for help fell on deaf ears.

Their talk became an argument, later a fight.

She took a punch to the face & a knife to the thigh.

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Apology Accepted

He dressed her wounds, handled her bills To try to prove he “loves” her still.

Seven nights later, soundly she dreamt as a friendly intruder loaded his instrument.

He stroked her hair and whispered softly, “You will not live without me”.

One shot, two, then number three Now she’s mourned by family.

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Tabish Nawaz Tabish Nawaz graduated from UMass Dartmouth as a doctoral candidate in January 2018 with major in Engineering & Applied Sciences. He completed his dissertation on silver recovery from laundry wash water under the guidance of Dr. Sukalyan Sengupta. He has earlier published as a student with Temper in 2016 edition. His poetry, short stories and articles have appeared in The Conversation, The Bangalore Review, Indian Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, eFiction India and Financial Express among others.

Dedication: I want to dedicate these poems to the city of New Bedford.

Vibration The humming sound of the city growing and fading like the ocean waves moving back and forth, The sound of cooking food as if outside the rain falls Thoughts moving inside the head the throb within the soul The vibration as if ants move inside an ant – hill

Find the Truth Inside Find the truth inside If you seek the truth At the tip of your nose You’d never find it Forget the nose Find the truth inside Our times have turned us all away From the sweet plums Growing in our courtyards We have all rushed To the mountain Picking up sour pears growing there.

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Tabish Nawaz

Words are Mere Stains Words are mere stains Some stay Most are washed away Mother says bad words Do not stick

The head jerks Up and down An empty piggy-bank makes noise nevertheless The child believing In its noise a worth shakes to make words fall out

A tower flashing Calling out for existence A thing imbued with humanity seeks existence

Staining the reality

A fruit – fly walks on the window pane The raindrops look on The reflection in the puddle trembling

Some poets are scrap dealers They know the worth of overused, frayed words Renewing them Every time they speak

The windmill lost among twigs The sun on leave The clouds marching to the beats of the pattering rain

Images flickering in the puddle like meanings in words The raindrops enjoying A lone man walks Birds chase him The forgotten footsteps awaiting their makers

The struggle of forgetting and remembering A hut in the wilderness The brook running silently Never asking the way Riding on the back of its path flows into the morass

The sun hid behind the clouds preparing a rainbow stealing some raindrops and itself

Flow purifies the dead

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Selected Works

Make Rainbows A boat upturned Dreams jostling Over one another The sea saturated refuses to take more Returns dreams to its shores Dreams dressed as toddlers Sleeping silently Kiss whoever accepts it Birds struggling against the wind Rise higher Like smoke, the clouds expanding No two raindrops fall at the same point They seek each other out After their fall Memories sitting too long on The permeable surface of time Like a rusting car in the backyard Living on the fringe Of civilization and Nature Of existence and inexistence Some raindrops break On meeting the earth Some sob through trees Some float in the air For the impatient sun to Make rainbows

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Tabish Nawaz

We are our own Weapons Lost meanings seeking words a kiss left in the air suspended as mist the wind rips open a cloud hiding in its belly the sun a solar system within me, the sea itself, all drowning dreams emerging as eyelids smash wakefulness we are all labeled at birth stamped in youth marked as we grow up engraved in death cast in afterlife we are our own weapons we’ll perish by our own selves

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Tabish Nawaz

Beauty Beauty first appeared on oakgrovians.com. Tabish dedicates this poem to Oak Grove School, Mussoorie, India A sprawling Oak An ode to visibility Distinct from distance Despite trees, giant, surround it Its roots spread around the trunk Like a number of fleshy thighs Resting upon the earth The Oak sits While the rest around it, Stand with respect Bent and tilting, As if before their king, In a courtly proceeding When wind ventures amidst them A conversation ensues As much of words As of gestures.

The Oak only nods The wind watchful around this elegance Is too uncaring with A sapling sitting between The Oak’s two fleshy thighs As if a child plays within The lap of its mother Before the Oak now motherly A kingdom fades into Nature An image of beauty, earthly Brings a radical change of order.

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Amanda Rioux Amanda Rioux (‘20) is currently pursuing a degree n English, with a focus on Literature and Criticism. She has had several stories published in magazines such as The Literary Hatchet, as well as in blogs and newspapers. In addition to writing, she also runs a “Bookstagram” account and is active in the book blogging community. You can follow her on Instagram @MyLoveAffairWithTheWrittenWord.

Wildflowers “There are wildflowers in my head,” she said. “They’re wrapped around my memories, and their roots are buried deep. I’m trying to think, I really am. But the thoughts can’t get through.”

The look of sheer hopelessness on my elderly grandmother’s face, her furrowed brow crinkled in a desperate attempt to recollect her old memories, squeezed my heart. I tried to keep my expression neutral. I didn’t want her to see how upset I was that my own grandmother couldn’t remember my name.

“It’s okay,” I tenderly offered with the soft, encouraging voice I used with my young students. “You tried, and that’s all that matters.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice shook with a tearful vibrato. “If not but for these wildflowers, I could recall.”

“Don’t worry about it, honestly. Visiting hours are over now, and I need to be leaving. I’ll come back again tomorrow.” I leaned over her small, frail body dwarfed by the fluffy white pillows and comforter the nursing home provided for her. I placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she replied. “You’re such a sweet girl. It was nice to meet you.”

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Wildflowers

“It was nice to meet you, too.” As much as it pained me, sometimes it was easier to play along. The nursing home staff encouraged it, saying it was the best way to keep the patients calm, to avoid unnecessarily upsetting them.

Despite the brave face I wore just moments before, once I returned to my car the dam walling up my emotions burst. A staffer, approaching their own car, stopped in front of mine and gave me an understanding look.

I’m sure mine was a sight they were all too used to seeing. Collecting myself as best as I could, I dried my eyes with a fast food napkin I dug out from my glovebox. Tomorrow was the last day of school vacation. I would try again.

My grandmother and I had always been exceptionally close; I suppose that comes with the territory of being the first grandchild. All my fondest childhood memories were of her. Baking cookies together afterschool— oatmeal raisin, our favorite; late night games of Scrabble when I’d sleep over; pretending my cup of apple juice was tea, so I could be grown up and sophisticated like her.

The diagnosis was hard to take. Alzheimer’s. Such an ugly word. It’s a thief that invades the minds of those we love, taking them further and further away. Watching them suffer is unbearable. When my grandmother first began to trip up on her words, or absentmindedly leave the stove on, it was somewhat easier to deal with. But the day she forgot my name was the day my heart shattered, its pieces incapable of repair.

The intruders—the wildflowers, she called them—had invaded her brain, tangling themselves in her brain, erasing one memory at a time. The memories only remained alive in my own mind. It was like losing a part of myself.

I stayed up most of the night, brainstorming ways to help her remember me. I baked two dozen of our famous oatmeal raisin cookies. I found my old Scrabble board. I found my favorite, chipped porcelain teacup with the bunnies painted on it. I dug out an old photo album, choosing the most memorable photos I could find: my tenth birthday party with the magician. Standing outside the church, in my brand new coral dress, about to make my Confirmation. The photos from our trip to Europe that was my high school graduation gift. All these moments, forever preserved in photographs. Surely there’d be something in them that would trigger her memory.

59

Amanda Rioux

Alzheimer’s. Such an ugly word. It’s a thief that invades the minds of those we love, taking them further and further away. Watching them suffer is unbearable.

I brought these souvenirs of the past with me on that final visit to the nursing home. In her room, with her sitting upright in the bed, I displayed each object, attempting to pull those memories—which I knew were in there somewhere—to the forefront of her mind.

“Remember my Confirmation? The dress you bought for me?” I handed her the photograph.

“What a lovely dress!” she replied, gently tracing the photo with her fingertip, not acknowledging my question.

“What about my teacup? Remember our Scrabble games?” I laid each object before her. She marveled at them like ancient relics.

“This is a nice teacup, but it’s broken.” She fingered the small chip in the porcelain. “What a pity.”

“It is a pity.” Sighing, but trying to conceal my disappointment, I retrieved the cup from her frail hands.

“What’s in there?” She motioned to the tin.

“Oatmeal raisin,” I began, removing a cookie from the container. “We used to make them all the time.” I was sure this would help the most: nothing ties more powerfully to memory than taste and smell. Anytime I make the cookies now, the aroma of them baking instantly transports

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Wildflowers

me back in time and I am once again a small girl in an oversized apron helping my grandmother mix and form the dough.

I handed her the cookie, and she took a bite.

For a moment a glimpse of recognition crept across her face. Her eyes alternately lit up with a sudden epiphany. She was remembering; I could feel it! But almost immediately the confusion returned. Her forehead wrinkled, a desperate attempt to hold onto the fleeting memories that her brain would not let her grasp. A war between remembrance and memory slowly being ripped away waged in her eyes. Then, for a moment, she sat upright. I let a small pang of hope into my heart, but it was all futile. The brief light in her eyes had gone. Her body, now just a hollow, empty shell of the person she used to be, sunk back into the over-stuffed pillow. The grandmother I had known, who tucked me in at night, told me bedtime stories, ran my baths for me and bandaged my scrapes, was gone. “There are wildflowers in my head,� she said.

61

Destiny Rodriguez Destiny Rodriguez is a rising junior who cannot wait for graduate school. Between a full class schedule, and many hours of working spread between four jobs, she is left with very little me time.

However, in her spare time, she likes to read, enjoy the seasons, and write. She has even begun to write pieces in the multiple languages she is learning.

One The naked dandelion is merely a stem, It’s floaties now scattered across the country.

Living vicariously through it’s departed pieces It feels alone, mostly, but hopeful That its pieces will not forget their start Waiting, aloofly patient, for Its new beginning.

The awareness of singularity is frightening, And being alone is not something I can tell you you’ll never be Because sometimes you will be, and Others you need to be But recognizing the size of one will Help you appreciate the mass of many.

We are all roots to the same tree Connected at its base, Our leaves shifting with Winds commanded by No man Producing the viability of precious life Together, we are almost complete, And this way we wait, more or less than Patiently, for our new Beginning.

62

Selected Works

My Love is Like My love is like a really comfy pair of shoes, worn out But feels like home.

My love is like a warm day in October, you thought we were past this, But hey, no complaints here.

My love is like a cinnamon roll baked upside down, still just as yummy after it’s been frosted, But only an idiot would bake a cinnamon roll upside down.

My love is like week three of owning a new puppy, it’s cute but that’s not enough to mask The exhaustion from responsibility.

My love is like a car ride with your favorite sibling, fun and then quickly not fun.

My love is like tickets to an artist you like, If you had spent a little more maybe You wouldn’t be sitting behind girls blocking your view with Their tablet-sized phones.

My love is like a secret handshake with a friend, Must you do this every single time you see each other?

You limit it to once a day.

My love is like asking for a chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream for your birthday, But your mom switched the flavors.

Thanks, mom.

My love is like receiving a C+ on a test you didn’t study for, you’ll take what you can get.

My love is like pouring a bowl of cereal to only realize there’s no milk.

My love is like a bunch of random things all in one, but my love is like my love, And that is that.

63

Destiny Rodriguez

The United States I have never felt so misplaced Than in a country I Call my own.

I am witnessing history Work itself in reverse and I Feel stuck in this Backwards timeline.

My awareness of my actions has Peaked, always scared I will d o Something that may progress this Movement. I try to do nothing.

But neutrality is something.

I try to stay quiet but that only Lasts so long.

When I speak I may say something wrong.. I Don’t mean to offend anyone but If you are offended by my Carefully planned out, humanitarian Views then maybe I am fine with Offending.

I whisper when I mean To shout but if I get louder Nothing comes out. I believe We can do better. That we ought to Be. What if things were up to me, I think of this often.

I would hope things would be different.

64

Mary Rudd Mary Rudd is a Psychology major graduating in the spring of 2020. She has been writing stories and poetry for over eleven years, having officially decided at ten years old that she wanted to be a writer. In her free time, she enjoys reading, hanging out with friends, playing her ukulele, learning Krav Maga, and making truly terrible puns.

First Communion The day after her grandma from Florida brought her to church for the first time, Jainie dragged me over to her house after school and showed me how to take communion in her backyard. She knelt in the patchy grass, carrying an armload of objects she’d smuggled from the kitchen, and started laying them out on a grubby plastic lawn chair. I helped her open a package of Saltine crackers, which she arranged on a paper plate; “This is for the first part,” she explained. “Then there’s grape juice, all in little cups like this, but even smaller.” She showed me two shot glasses, one with a faded palm tree on the side, the other displaying a pair of dice.

She balanced them on the seat of the chair and carefully filled them with grape Kool-Aid, the bright purple liquid glowing in the afternoon sun.

She picked up one of the Saltines with her dirt-smudged fingers and straightened, clearing her throat. “This is Jesus’s body,” she said, “broken for you,” and snapped the cracker in half. She handed one piece to me.

“And this is his blood.” She nudged one of the shot glasses closer to me.

When I didn’t take it right away, she whispered, “Now you eat them.”

The Kool-Aid didn’t look like blood, but I still inspected the glass before I gulped it down. The sugary grape flavor coated my tongue. I followed it with the cracker, letting it slowly soften inside my mouth.

“There!” Jainie said. “Now we gotta pray.” She showed me how to fold my hands and bow my head low. “Our father, way up in heaven, Halloween your name. Amen.” She shook her hair out of her eyes. “I can always remember that part ‘cause it means that God is like a dad. Except he never leaves, and he doesn’t hit us when he gets mad.”

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Mary Rudd

I wanted to tell her that my dad had never hit me, but my voice wouldn’t work for some reason, so instead I just picked up another cracker and nibbled on it, taking the smallest bites in the world.

I had to go home soon after that. Mom didn’t like me spending too much time at Jainie’s house; I guess she didn’t like how high the weeds grew in the front yard, or maybe the boarded-up window on the side, even though Jainie said that was just to keep the heat in until they could manage to fix the hole. I walked all the way to the top of the street until I got to my house, tidy and freshly painted white. The bare patch near the front where Dad’s car used to be was already starting to sprout grass from the seeds Mom spread out.

When I got inside, Mom was at the kitchen table with a scattered pile of envelopes and bills, a glass of something dark red nearby. Leaning on my own chair, I asked her why people went to church. She combed her platinum blonde hair back with her shiny red nails and said that some people felt that it brought them comfort when things were hard.

I asked, “So how come we don’t go, then?”

She turned back to the checkbook, her fingers tightening on her pen, and told me that religion was for people who couldn’t figure things out for themselves.

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Selected Works

Performance The duck is the easiest— Everyone knows how to open their hand And close it, wak-wak, fingers as the chatty bill While the flashlight throws the shadow Huge on the wall.

This is the one that makes people laugh.

Next is the dog, other hand assisting To form the ears, the tiny yapping mouth As the silhouette races across the wall Full of energy and stupid joy.

This is the one that never slows down.

Next is the elephant, wise and dependable Index finger swinging down for the trunk As he plods steadily on Never bothered, never worried.

This is the one everyone can count on.

I transform my hands again and again Audience’s eyes on the flickering shadows No one turning around to see how they’re made.

I spread my fingers into a bird Confident, free, flapping in the light When all I really want Is to set the flashlight to the side And let my hand curl and rest inside of yours Allowed, for a moment, just to be.

67

Mary Rudd

Signs I’ve always been bad at reading signs.

I’m constantly missing my exit, Trespassing on property I didn’t know was private, Failing to notice when you’ve ceased to be amused.

I’ve almost died several times Because I didn’t see the warnings: “Falling Rocks,” “Dangerous Cliff,” “No Swimming—Alligators.”

I slip on wet floors in grocery stores, Forget to watch my step, And obliviously stroll through beautiful lawns Unaware that they wanted me to stay off the grass.

When you left me, everyone was kind, But they said it shouldn’t have been such a shock— “The signs were all there,” they said.

But I never noticed. Now I just keep driving, Passing every exit without you there to point them out to me, Squinting at landmarks, hoping things Will start to look familiar.

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Selected Works

New Leaves Funny how Just last Monday, I felt as if Everything was horrible, I hated myself, that life Rested heavy on my shoulders (For no actual reason—perhaps that made it worse) And now that time feels so long ago Like a distant memory, something experienced By a person who is no longer me.

It’s Friday now.

I sit, staring out One of the huge, sectioned windows of the library Quietly marveling at the beauty Of the tree outside, the Intricate branches, the sprays of green leaves Just fine enough To see the sky through the gaps. A hawk Slowly circles, disappearing from one window To re-appear in the next.

I saw my old neighbor today, after years and years.

She didn’t even look like the same person.

(I think of the fortune cookie my brother opened last week— “You will soon meet somebody from your past” “But everyone we know is in our past,” we said, “Anyone you aren’t looking at Right now”) We talked about school and colleges And about how things have changed And it’s funny how the people who share Pieces of your childhood Can leave and grow up without you We carry the same memories, but we’re different people now I knew her once, but now I don’t.

69

Mary Rudd

I turn over a quiet melancholy And stare through the glass at the fluttering leaves Until the windows themselves seem to become a poem, wordless, Etched into my mind.

Only a few months ago The branches of that tree were bare. Now each leaf Is new, but the tree Is still the same. I hated myself last Monday And I know I’ll hate myself again But I don’t hate myself today. The leaves shimmer, And the sky is so bright That when I close my eyes, I see colors, changed.

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Selected Works

The Way Things Should Be Somewhere, in another universe, the three of us are on a road trip, cruising down the highway in one of those yellow hippie vans. The sky is blindingly blue, and we roll down all the windows, sticking our arms outside to feel the air rush through our fingers. The playlist I made for us blares through the speakers. Whoa-oh, we’re halfway there! Cornfield.

Cornfield. Crazy Joe’s Fireworks. We stop at rest stops and buy armloads of snacks, bright colors crinkling as we sweep them off the shelves. No traffic. No potholes. We laugh at how far we have to adjust the seat when we switch drivers, the distance between short legs and long. The sun pulls up mirages from the endless open road, shimmering, always just out of reach, and we talk about what it would be like to drive through one of them— if, if we go fast enough, it would take us somewhere else—but we don’t try. Here we all still talk to each other. Here there is no distance, no drifting away. Sam dozing in the backseat, your hands on the steering wheel. Laughing, eyes hidden behind aviator shades. Somewhere, we are surrounded by light, and the music never stops playing.

71

Mary Rudd

Ghost Forest A ghost forest grows in the middle of the city Silhouetted trees in the midst of skyscrapers Translucent leaves fluttering in the shifting lights It all fades away in the daylight hours But when the sun dips down below the skyline Lost, forgotten things can reemerge And a child, turning over in her bed Can look outside her streaked apartment window And see the branches, pearly in the clouded moonlight See them sway, flickering, in and out Through the bricks, through the steady streetlamps Blown by a wind that has long since passed Their ancient whispers blending with the hum of night traffic And the wailing cry of distant sirens Calling, calling

72

Natreysha Thornhill Natreysha Thornhill is an 18-year-old English major who will graduate in 2022.

Dedication: This poem is dedicated to the women who reside on the back burner while keeping themselves aflame. Never let your light diminish. Stay lit.

It’s Not You, It’s Me Note: This piece includes mild explicit language.

I’ve worked too hard to let the needs of a man overturn my selfsatisfaction Those days are over, And although my pride sits high my standards sit higher I put myself on this pedestal to escape from the fire It’s not you it’s me.

I know better, and refuse to grow backwards I was naive to your lies but I refuse to guess passwords After forcing you out my life I had to realign my chakras because You’re too hazardous. I believe in black girl magic and shit I just did a magic trick Abracadabra, it’s not you it’s me.

Your negativity don’t live here So I forced you to flee

73

Natreysha Thornhill

That’ll be the last time I let a nigga disturb my peace And to have my time now you gotta pay a fee Because time ain’t cheap and neither is my heart I know I’m coming off strong but I’ve been hurt a lot I got love down to a science, better yet a tee And before you start to fall again remember it’s not you it’s me.

74

Wesley W. Williams Wesley Williams’s passion for writing was first ignited in the third grade. Since then, he has cultivated it with a variety of influences ranging from other literature to video games to his own life experiences. His interests include sociology, psychology, ancient cultures, social justice, and public transit. He hopes to incorporate these themes into his writing to reach out to others with the same experiences as him.

The Recidivist It had become something of a holiday tradition for Nicholas. For the past ten winters, some business in town would be burglarized by him, with no intent to steal anything (save for that first invasion of an art store, where Nicholas copped a set of high-end markers). This year, the victim was the proprietor of a toy store, who stormed out of his damaged place of livelihood red-faced to confront the vagrant.

Nicholas, right around the corner from the shattered storefront, had been caught in flagrante delicto.

“Why do you people always choose this business to do this to?!” the storeowner bellowed at a practically catatonic Nicholas.

“Do you think I wanna deal with this, and have to wrap everyone’s fuckin’ gifts too? My gift wrap helper just quit! There’s glass shards all over the Teddy Ruxpin display!”

Nicholas ignored the storeowner’s rantings. By the looks of things, his master plan of getting “three hots and a cot” this season was underway, as the cops were already en route. Nicholas resented this arrangement, but he had grown accustomed to it. It sure beat the alternative…

The frigid air manifested in Nicholas’ breath as the rookie officer slammed him against the rear or the police cruiser. “You got any ID on you?” he snarled, snickering over the cackle of the squad car’s radio banter.

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Wesley W. Williams

“No,” a gruff feminine voice called out, “I know him; this is Nicholas. It’s the third time he’s pulled a stunt like this in the last three years. In fact, we got him in for a B and E three years back at the Par-Tee-Freeze.” The female officer got in between the rookie and Nicholas.

“Where’s your partner in crime?”

“H-he froze to death last winter.”

“Sean?”

“His real name is Paul, his full name is Shaughnessy.”

“Mmph. We’re gonna have to take in again you in.”

Nicholas nodded in the affirmative. To recite his Miranda rights seemed redundant at this point, but the rookie officer did so anyway as Nicholas was loaded into the back of the cruiser.

The processing officer filled out Nicholas’ paperwork without speaking before escorting him to his cell. The vagrant reclined on the cold, stone bed and groaned, turning his attention up to the cop. “Make yourself at home,” he snickered vilely down at Nicholas as he slid the bar door closed with a resonant clang. He shut his eyes and saw his father’s figure once again.

“Make yourself at home,” screeched Nicholas’ father, one day many years ago, stumbling in a drunken stupor along the front porch. All Nicholas’ tangible accomplishments, those drawings he poured hours into, were scattered across the lawn like the trash of some ancient civilization. They were drawings of cozy interior scenes – a fireplace was a common theme among them. He could still recall the scent of whisky on his father’s breath. This would be the last time Nicholas saw the man.

The bailiff roused Nicholas from his slumber, escorting him from the holding cell to the van, to the van to the courthouse without speaking.

Nicholas immediately recognized the face of the arresting officer amidst the group of people seated in the courtroom. Nicholas hung his head as the jovial clerk of the court recited off the charges: “Nicholas Pollitt: vagrancy and destruction of property, third offense.”

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The Recidivist

“That’s beautiful,” she said, pointing toward the drawing that was visible through the plastic. Nicholas turned the bag so she could see it better, and presented it proudly.

“Mr. Pollitt, I see that you’ve come before this court on this very same matter before – one on Christmas Eve four years ago, and the last time was just before the blizzard. Is that correct?”

Nicholas stared at the floor and murmured. “Could you speak up, Mr. Pollitt? I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Help me out here, is there something wrong with the local homeless shelter? We can’t have someone smashing a window every time they need a place to stay!”

The arresting officer stood and addressed the court: “Your Honor, if I may… Mr. Pollitt is well-known in the community, and is a good man.

I spoke personally with the proprietor of the establishment where the window was broken and he agrees to drop all charges as long as Nicholas agrees to stay away from his shop.”

As the cop continued, Nicholas felt the flush of shame come over him as he realized that he would not meet his goal. “…Your Honor, it’s gonna be below zero tonight. We’re willing to drop Nicholas off at Pastor Jeremy’s New Leaf Center on Braithwaite street when we pass by.”

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Wesley W. Williams

The tap of the gavel resounded and a lady bailiff handed Nicholas forms that he signed without looking, then handed him is belongings in a clear plastic bag. “You’re lucky,” she said to him, “they usually give you probation, especially when you have no home address... that’s beautiful,” she said, pointing toward the drawing that was visible through the plastic.

Nicholas turned the bag so she could see it better, and presented it proudly.

The drawing, scrawled in swoops of color on oaktag, depicted a bedroom: its walls were encased in wood grain paneling, and it bore a great wooden desk and a four-poster bed on which a smiling dog sat. Also in the room was an easel with a blank canvas on it next to the open window, which showed a miniature rendition of van Gogh’s “Starry Night”. And finally, in the lower-left corner of the piece, was a common detail to Nicholas’ artwork was a fireplace, roaring and orange, illuminating the drawing with light and warmth.

The next morning, the arresting officer looped around the drivethru at the Doughnut King, tossing her cell phone on the passenger side when she noticed two sneakered feet protruding from behind a dumpster outside. She gasped and cursed as she recognized those feet as belonging to Nicholas, the man she had arrested just the night before.

Quickly, she pulled into an adjoining parking space and hopped out, rounding the corner behind a fence to Nicholas’ body waged between it and the dumpster. His still-bluish face gazed with a blank expression of contentment. In his frozen hands, he still clutched the bundle of drawings of his elusive home.

78

Wesley W. Williams

MBTA Tokens My father and I used to ride the train With no real destination in our minds From end to end, each line our domain Beneath the streets the Red Line subway winds Quincy Center, to Harvard Square and back And on a bridge that goes across the river The Red Line train’s wheels squealing on the track And on the car, the floorboards slant and quiver A homeless man sings “My Wild Irish Rose” To commuters who pretend that they’re deaf They stand crammed in the car bumping elbows For them their destinations were all set.

The memories are the tokens I possess The destination was togetherness.

79

Jared Worth Jared Worth is an English major with a Writing focus who will graduate in the Spring of 2021.

His story follows a man confessing to the murder of his wife, and takes a look at his mental state during said confession.

Dedication: I’d like to dedicate this story to my late grandfather, Ed Worth, who passed away in July of 2016.

Confessions Note: This piece includes mild explicit language and frank discussions of violence.

Four plain white walls surrounded me, a bare lightbulb hanging from the stucco ceiling. The investigators had just left the room through the door behind me, leaving behind only a camera sitting on a short tripod, recording my every move. Not that I was able to move much, sitting in a chair with my hands cuffed behind my back.

The chair itself was bolted to the floor. “I guess they’re afraid I’ll try and kill myself, too.” My hair hung in front of my eyes, the normally blonde locks caked with dirt and blood. I was being treated like some psychotic, murderous freak, but I knew I did nothing truly wrong. I was only trying to save myself.

I stared into the camera a while, a burning hatred building inside of me. “These bastards wouldn’t even listen to what I had to say when they first took me in, why the fuck would they listen to a recording?” It felt useless to try and defend myself. The entire system was against me.

Men who’ve killed their wives don’t get second chances. Why would I be any different in their eyes?

“I didn’t want to do it,” I spit at the camera. “Why would I ever want to kill her? She was everything to me.” I continued to fix my gaze on the lens of the camera, unwilling to show any form of weakness. It stared back at me, an unblinking eye which would ultimately decide my fate. The walls of the room felt as though they were melting away, slowly shifting out of focus. The cool sensation

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Confessions

of the metal chair against my bare back even became less noticeable, my body almost feeling like it was floating.

“She didn’t believe me, never understood just how much danger we were in. Our every move was being watched, recorded, analyzed. I told her day in and day out just how careful we had to be, but she never believed a word of it. Always told me I was just ‘being too paranoid’ or ‘working myself up again’. Everything I did to try and protect us she just dismissed or undid, putting us in even more danger.

“Sure, it got frustrating. But it didn’t make my decision any easier. She was still my wife, the person I was supposed to spend my whole life with.

No way in hell did I want to do what I did, but I was forced to. They would’ve caught on had I not. And that would’ve been the end for both of us, not just her. I was protecting her. I couldn’t let her deal with all that bullshit. What kinda man would that make me?

“So yeah, I smothered her. Kissed her goodnight like I always did, and after she drifted to sleep smothered the life from her. It was what I had to do, there was no way around it. I’m not the fucking criminal here, it’s those people that have been stalking me! It’s all their fucking fault that this happened!”

My wrists ached against the handcuffs, but I didn’t care. I had to get someone, anyone to believe me. Even the fucking camera would do the trick at this point. But something had changed while I was telling my story. The camera seemed angry, unsatisfied with what I was telling it. I could no longer make eye contact with the lens, instead focusing on the legs of the tripod. Guilt swam through me, followed by anger, building up like water behind a dam. Why was I so stupid to trust a fucking camera? Especially their camera. Of course, it would just judge me and think me an awful person, same as everyone else. “Or maybe it thinks I’m lying.”

“Is that it? You think I’m fucking lying? Why would I? I’m going to be killed anyway, that’s just how it works. They condemned me to death the moment they found me. I have no reason to lie.” My voice raised slightly, and I felt my anger turning to rage. It still didn’t believe me.

Finally, the dam bursts.

“Fuck you!” I screamed. “You have no right to think I’m lying! You’re just like the rest of them! You’re probably working with them, trying to

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Jared Worth

Wires and circuitry spilled out from various spots on the camera. No longer could I feel its judgement. It knew what it needed to know. I dropped to the ground, exhausted. get me locked up so you don’t have to deal with my bullshit. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re sick of me. You don’t love me anymore.” I could barely see, my head spinning round and my ears pounding. I stood, the handcuffs having disappeared from my wrists, granting me some small amount of freedom. I grabbed the metal chair, no longer bolted down. It felt strange, lighter than I would expect. I threw it at the camera, knocking it over and shattering the lens. I lurched over to it, determined to make it regret doubting me. I grabbed it in both hands, a cage locking it in place, strangling it.

“You stupid bitch! This is all your fault! If you just believed me this wouldn’t be a fucking problem!” Tears ran down my face, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. I lifted the camera and smashed it against the ground once, twice, three times. Wires and circuitry spilled out from various spots on the camera. No longer could I feel its judgement. It knew what it needed to know. I dropped to the ground, exhausted.

At some point I lost consciousness and awoke back in the chair. The camera was no longer smashed to pieces, and sat atop the tripod, still recording me. I looked around to see the rest of the room back to its original state. My wrists ached, and I could feel a sick wetness coming from them. After a short time, the man and woman came back. They took the camera, and without saying a word left again. I heard the door behind me close, and with it a light breeze brushed up against my back.

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Confessions

I’m placed in a new chair, this time made of splintery wood and in front of a small crowd. I feel nodes attached to various parts of my body, ready to deliver their fatal strike. I look into the eyes of friends and family of both Jen and myself. They’ve come to watch me be killed. Like the camera, I can feel each of them judging me, hating me. I want to tell them it wasn’t my choice, that Jen was too much of a risk and what I did was out of mercy. But I know they won’t believe me. No one else has, not even the fucking camera. I just wait for the statement from the judge, who ironically is also my executioner. “Probably was part of the jury too,” I think to myself, holding back a chuckle. She reads some statement of my crimes, condemning me for the murder of my wife through battery and strangulation. I try to block it out. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of getting any reaction from me.

She asks me if I have any words for those in attendance. I stare them all down, wondering if I should try and make one last effort to convince them I’m not in the wrong. Before I can decide, the judge declares that it’s time for the execution. I take one last look at the crowd, knowing they all think nothing of me and are probably happy with my death. “They were probably part of it from the beginning. Must have been them to tell the investigators I was dangerous, accused me of murdering her out of spite.” The judge walks over to a circuit board with a lone switch ready to be flipped, no doubt turning the chair on and shocking me to death. She looks at me one last time with disgust before flipping the switch.

83

Rebeckah Zora Rebeckah Zora majors English with a focus of Writing, Rhetoric and Communications and a minor in Drawing. Currently, she is a sophomore and should be graduating in May 2021.

The Great Unknown is the fateful moment of an encounter between Death himself and a demon who has been stealing souls from him on Satan’s behalf. This demon however is not like most, as he was once a human boy who felt forgotten by the world.

The Great Unknown Real monsters walk among us every day. Humans. But these monsters are not the real source of fear, instead you should fear what created them. Perhaps it was a dark childhood or irresponsible parents. It could be words or deeds, ideals or lashes that transformed them into the heartless, damaged creatures they are now. Regardless of the reasons, they desire power to fill the void and make them the ones in control. Little do they realize that this power will not ever cure them of their madness. *** “I understand that you are simply following orders, but I need to rescue those souls.” The Angel of Death stated clearly, his voice free of malice or ill-intent.

“Ha. You think Satan will give them up? Who knew that the Grim Reaper would be so naive.” The demon cackled. His tail flicked about him protectively.

“You must keep them somewhere before you deliver them.”

“Now you’re thinking! Of course, but I’m not just going to give them to you.” He answered, materializing a whip. He cracked it at the foot of The Reaper’s robe.

“I do not wish to fight you.” Grim replied in an even tone. “I only desire to fulfill my purpose by collecting and guiding those souls

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back to where they belong.”

“Well, isn’t that too bad?” Abaddon, the demon, replied stalking away.

Grim watched him go, unsure what he should do. His dutiful nature told him that he needed to retrieve the souls at all costs. However, his peaceful nature told him that he should not engage in combat. This made it extremely difficult to make a decision.

“You don’t have to do this. He does not deserve such loyalty.” Grim called after him, desperately trying to reason with the demon.

“Hmph. He deserves it more than your God. When I was in the dark, it was Satan who aided me. Your sick God made my life a living Hell without mercy, Satan gave me a chance to live for myself, free of the bondage of mortality.” Abaddon scoffed, holding out his golden-skinned hand. “Don’t believe me? See for yourself. That’s what you do, right?”

Grim was caught off guard by both the speech and the gesture that followed. Grim could feel the anger building inside of him after hearing this man speak so poorly of his Father. However, being a reasonable person, he would humor him by finding out exactly what events transpired to make him so bitter.

“Okay. I’ll hear you out.” Grim breathed, gently grasping Abaddon’s outstretched hand. Grim, as the Angel of Death had the ability to see a person’s life through their own eyes by touching their hand. Upon taking hold of Abaddon’s hand, he was transported into the hospital room of the human child Abaddon had been in life. *** Every day I saw the same thing. It was ingrained into my memory, and I hated it. What a pitiful life this was. The white walls that surrounded me on all sides were suffocating. They seemed so perfect, yet they were anything but. The ceiling was a white checkerboard, far too peaceful for a place such as this. Even when I shut my eyes, I could not forget. The stench of sanitation was everywhere. There was a single tile missing from the ceiling, whether someone removed it to fix something or whether it had simply fallen out and no one cared to replace it, it made no difference to me. It was the most interesting part of this stark place of confinement. The dark void it created in the space comforted me more than any kind word or bowl of soup. It was real and raw, much unlike the rest of this surreal building. Everything else looked the same and made my flesh crawl. The white sheets, white curtain, white walls, white floor

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and white ceiling filled my vision with emptiness and unfulfillment. They made me restless, driving me into madness. The doctors couldn’t figure it out, eventually being forced to give me a sedative. When I woke from my false sleep, my eyes darted around in a frenzy. Then my eyes locked onto this wonderful darkness. A smile came to my face for the first time in years, tears pouring from my eyes.

Later on that day, a nurse came in. I glanced at her briefly before averting my eyes.

“Feeling any better, honey?” She asked sweetly. As if she cared. Everyone here was so fake, I hated them all.

“It’s this place. I’ll never be better as long as I’m here.” I muttered before breaking into a coughing fit. The rest was a blur, lots of doctors and machines. When I awoke, it felt like an elephant had taken up residence on my chest. Groaning, I sat up and looked out the window. Losing myself in a daydream, I imagined playing outside, happy and free, with colors all around me. Smiling, I stretched to reach my notebook and crayons, drawing this dreamy scene. Just then, the wind blew through the room, violently turning the pages of the notebook. It stopped on a drawing of my family. I felt tears well up in my eyes, against my will. As much as I did not want to admit it, I missed them. I especially despised how much I wanted them to come visit me again, but knew they never would. For a month after their last visit, I just waited and kept asking the nurses when I would see them again. Getting desperate, I wrote letters to my sister, mom and dad, pleading for them to come see me. Giving these letters to my nurse, I waited and waited for something to happen. For a while, I was in denial. I kept telling myself it was her fault. She must not have delivered them, right? My family loves me! Of course they want to see me, right?

Now I knew better. They forgot about me. They were happier without me in their lives. So why couldn’t I forget about them too? Slamming my notebook shut, I threw it as far away as I could manage. I cuddled up with my horsie, the only friend I had left in this world, and cried myself to sleep. That night, I had a horribly beautiful dream. I dreamt that I had been cured of my illness and went on a picnic with my family. They loved me again, saying they were so glad I was home. But it was just a dream. I would never see my family again.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe. I wheezed, without much effect. My eyes were heavy, I could barely keep them open and stared

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“Several centuries ago, I encountered a boy without a soul. I came to collect it on the day he was fated to die, knowing that he would not be given a proper funeral, only to find no one inside.

It was an empty shell.” The Angel answered with a distant expression.

“And you didn’t question it?” Abaddon inquired reproachfully.

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straight into the cavernous space created by the missing tile. I managed a small smile. This was it. I was dying. A single tear rolled down my face. What an unfair and dull life I had been dealt. Was this just some kind of sick joke for Him? Despite knowing my fate for a long time, this frail boy was still greedily taking breaths, hoping to survive somehow.

What a horrible and cruel person the God of the universe must be, to end a life in such a way. I never got to do anything I wanted to do. I lost everything. And everyone calls Satan the villain. Ha! Eyes snapping open, I found myself encompassed in darkness. I glanced around in confusion, before realizing that the pain in my chest was completely gone. Is this death?

“I can give you a real life.” A loud but somehow whispering voice told me. “All you have to do is be my knight, and you’ll receive a life worth living.” the voice continued, easily persuasive in my darkest hour.

“Yes! Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it!” I shouted back immediately, voice cracking.

“Excellent. From now on, you will be known as Abaddon.” The strange voice replied, clearly pleased with my answer. In an instant, I was changed. My orange hair darkened to red. My once dark eyes were amber.

Two small black horns grew out of my skull. A whip-like, pointed tail waved behind me. Even the color of my skin darkened to a golden hue.

“Welcome to my army of dark angels, dearest Abaddon.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” I cheered, still admiring my new look with wonder.

“Of course, child. Together, we’ll bring chaos to His order.” The voice proclaimed with a sinister laugh. “Your main objective shall be to steal souls for me. Intercept them before The Reaper comes to claim them and bring them to me.”

“Surely sir, just point me in the right direction.” I agreed obediently. That began my life as the demon Abaddon. *** The vision of Abaddon’s life dissipated now from Grim’s consciousness, the current moment repainted in front of him, from the weeping willow above them to the dying grass underfoot. The graves stretched neatly into

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the distance, a familiar scene indeed. It had started to rain while he was reliving the other man’s past. It was just a mist, and he welcomed it like an old friend.

“So you were the one from all those years ago…” He concluded wistfully, more to himself than anyone else.

“What do you mean?” Abaddon asked, crossing his arms and raising a brow. It was about him and therefore he had a right to know.

“Several centuries ago, I encountered a boy without a soul. I came to collect it on the day he was fated to die, knowing that he would not be given a proper funeral, only to find no one inside. It was an empty shell.”

The Angel answered with a distant expression.

“And you didn’t question it?” Abaddon inquired reproachfully.

“I did. He said I would receive my answer when the time was right. Thus, here we are,” came Grim’s response, he spoke with a frank satisfaction.

This irritated Abaddon, his amber eyes with slitted pupils analyzed the other man’s face with disgust.

“You’re all so placid! You feel nothing, yet you are worshipped like heroes.”

“That is not true in any way. I feel very deeply the sorrow of the human race. My heart aches for unbelievers such as you.” Grim replied, sincerity clear in his quiet voice. His yellow eyes dimmed, as if he might weep at any moment. Watching people turn away from God was his least favorite part of his job. He was unable to comprehend it and could only hope they would find their way back before their time came.

“Keep your pity! I do not need your God to save me anymore. I am reborn into an immortal creature with an important mission, and better – a life where I am free to do as I like.” He told the angel with a grin, though still harboring anger for him.

“That’s how he catches them… he makes them comfortable in the cage… and then shuts the door, locking them in.” Grim lamented with a tired voice, as if he had heard this a thousand times before.

“I’m sick of your worthless talk! I am not trapped. Fight me or I will leave you.” Abaddon spat, whip held out to strike.

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“Your family did not forget you. Let me illustrate for you what really came to pass.” Grim offered, his scythe transforming into a heavy, wellworn book which he opened. There was no bookmark, but somehow, he opened to the exact page he wanted. Abaddon was too curious to deny him, especially knowing that the angel could not lie.

“Go on. I’m listening.” Abaddon told him, hiding all emotion from his voice. The truth was, as much as he wanted to forget his family and how they abandoned him, he never could. Even after all these centuries, he found himself missing his happy life with them, and wishing things had stayed that way. Then, like always, he would curse giving them so much of his energy and thoughts. All the same, he wanted to know the truth.

Grim began to read.

“On May 11th, 1888 – a month after you were hospitalized, if I recall, there was a fire that broke out at your family’s place of residence. No one in the house lived. Thus, your family did not visit you after that, as they had already departed for the afterlife.” He informed him. That wistful look returned to Grim’s face. “Your mother was hysterical. She begged me to give her one more day to make arrangements for you. To say goodbye.

But I had to tell her that your end is the final end. She cannot return to the earthly plane.” He added, despair coloring his voice. Abaddon felt his heart drop. His family did care. His mother wanted to be with him, even after death. He dropped to his knees, it was all sinking in. Tears streamed down his face, though he smiled. All these years he had thought his family forgot him. Thriving on his bitterness had driven him through his immortal life. Without it, he did not know what to do.

“Could I… see them?” Abaddon asked, voice breaking.

“I’m sorry to say it, but selling your soul to the Devil has a price. You’re a demon now.” He replied clearly, thinking deeply about this. “However, if you truly wish to repent and be redeemed, I will go to Our Father and ask Him if it is still possible for you.” Since Abaddon’s soul was transferred to a different body when it should have been reaped, his fate of being either dead or alive was a gray area. Abaddon tore the choker from his neck.

“Please.” Was all he said, offering the choker to the angel. Grim took it carefully, now understanding the gesture. This was where the stolen souls were being held. He placed it in the pocket of his pants, turning to leave.

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“I will find you once I have His answer.” Grim said, glancing over his shoulder to look at him. The angel exited the graveyard and strolled into the nearby forest. As soon as he was amongst the cover of trees, his skeletal wings sprouted, white feathers filling them out row by row.

Grim took flight, eventually reaching the heavenly plane far above the human realm. Opening the pearly gate gently, he now approached His magnificent palace. It too appeared to be made of pearl, with ruby inlay decorating its pillars. Respectfully knocking, he awaited a response. The door was opened in front of him almost instantly.

“Michael, you needn’t knock you know. Come in, my son.” God greeted him, holding the door open. Grim smiled warmly. Nothing was better than being in His presence, as it made all the darkness in the world melt away, as if it had never been there at all. The two men sat down on the plush white couch inside, facing one another.

“Father, as I’m sure you are aware, I have just met the demon who has been sabotaging the soul collection process.” He began.

“And?” The Lord prompted patiently.

“I enlightened him that his family did not forget him like he thought.”

Grim finished explaining. God nodded knowingly.

“Yes. The boy with no soul. I told you that one day you would find your answer.” He replied, eyes shining with supernatural light.

“His perspective has been opened to the error of his ways in giving his soul to the Devil. He wishes to repent. I come before you to ask if he may still be redeemed for the sins of his immortal life.” Grim announced, looking into those sparkling eyes, as if they would give him the verdict.

After all, God probably knew what He would reply to this plea long before it had been made.

“Bring him here, and I shall bestow upon him my judgement.” The Lord answered with a booming voice. Grim nodded slowly.

“Of course.” Grim replied. While he was well aware of the demon’s evil deeds, he hoped for his salvation all the same. After all, under that demonic form he was truly a tragically sad child who followed the wrong path. Like many others of his kind, he was tempted with false promises and blindly staggered after them. Instead of recognizing the darkness in his life as Satan’s work, he pinned the blame on God. Humans of

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this path always made Grim mournful. The Lord offers salvation and guidance to all, even these broken, bitter souls, but they choose to ignore His outstretched hand and rely on the King of Lies. These were the thoughts which weighed on his mind as he descended back into the forest. Grim walked back to the graveyard, here he found Abaddon next to his family’s plot. His human name was with theirs on the mediumsized slab of stone. He touched it with the most delicate of touches, tears streaming down his face which was turned downward toward the ground beneath him.

“They were here the whole time… why didn’t I bother to check?” The demon choked out through his tears. Grim’s gaze dimmed, his frown deepening.

“Sometimes humans allow their vision to be clouded by pain, perhaps you didn’t want to see them… after what happened.” Grim offered, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder. “The Father wishes to see you, in order to tell you your fate.” Abaddon roughly wiped his tears, standing straight and facing the angel.

“Right. Let’s go.” Abaddon said, a determined expression set on his face.

His amber eyes held a new fire of hope, but fear was there too. Grim’s face lightened, a smile appearing.

“He is a just father. Speak honestly and surely He will have mercy on your soul.” The Angel told him, happiness creeping into his voice. His eyes were brighter than usual. Abaddon looked down, not so sure.

“I doubt even a just god would deal with someone calling him a villain and doing everything to spite him.” Abaddon muttered. Grim’s smile grew as he shook his head, letting out a chuckle.

“Ah, but you do not know the God you speak of. He loves His children so deeply that He has gone to great lengths to assure their salvation. Even if they should reject Him, His arms remain open wide for all.” Grim explained, gesturing with his own arms to reflect this.

“If you say so. It’s probably best not to keep Him waiting at any rate.”

The demon concluded, taking Grim’s now outstretched hand.

“Hold on and trust me. I will not let you fall.” Grim instructed firmly before taking flight towards the vast sky. Abaddon gripped his hand tighter, shutting his eyes as he felt his own feet leave the ground. “Trust

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me.” Grim repeated urgently, glancing down at the other man.

“Yeah, okay, I’m trying!” Abaddon shouted back. “It’s not exactly something I’m used to, it’s not every day that I’m flying through the sky at the mercy of an angel.”

“I understand. I just don’t want you to let go and fall.” Grim replied gently. Abaddon clenched his teeth.

“Okay, okay.” He grumbled in hesitant agreement as he held on tighter.

“We’re here, you can open your eyes.” Grim told him softly. Abaddon slowly glanced around, taking a step back from the pearly gates. It was all so much. So beautiful and pure… He released Grim’s hand hastily as he turned his back on the gates.

“I… don’t think this is a good idea.” Abaddon said shakily.

“Why is that?” Grim questioned, worry appearing clearly in his face.

“I don’t know...I just have a sinking feeling… like I don’t belong here.”

He rushed through his words, tripping on his own thoughts and fumbling to communicate them. Grim embraced him warmly, somehow bringing Abaddon peace and alleviating some of his anxiety.

“Slow down. You think He will torture you with your sins, but those are not His ways, that is just what Satan wants you to think. Rather, God will make everything clear and lift you from your guilt.” Grim reassured him. “You have experienced a mere fraction of His love and peace through my presence, but His is enough to make you a new man, free of the sins of your past.” Abaddon listened to this and nodded. He let out a heavy sigh, turning around.

“Alright, let’s go before I lose my nerve again.” The demon suggested.

Grim opened the gate and led him in. This time, he did not knock.

“Father, I have brought him just as you requested. He has come willingly and seeks forgiveness.” The Angel announced with a voice of even justice.

The Lord smiled at them both, His presence filling them with the warmth of a sunny day.

“Yes indeed. Hello, Issac.” The Father greeted him without spite.

Abaddon felt his eyes water, having not heard that name in centuries.

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God edged closer to him and continued. “Yes, child. I know you beneath that mask he gave you to wear. I can see through his lies to your heart.”

With that, Abaddon’s current form melted away, revealing the human trapped beneath it. He had grown of course, but his pale skin, bright orange hair and dark eyes were the same. Abaddon looked down at himself in disbelief, his freckle dotted arms held close to his face.

“How… did you do that?” The man wondered, staring at his pale skin and thinner frame. He even touched his head to find the horns too had vanished. A smile of true awe spread across his face as he now directed his attention back to the being that stood before him. God only let out a wholesome, booming laugh.

“Silly child, I can easily undo his illusions. Similarly, I could have used the hardships of your life to grow and prosper you. However, you allowed your bitterness to consume you, thus falling prey to his trap of darkness.”

The Lord described, caressing Issac’s cheek lovingly. “But that was then and this is now. I have decided to give you a fresh start, from now on you will be called Raphael. Live a new life guided by my light and I will show you how much joy you can find in a life lived by my side.” Raphael was stunned.

“What about---” “You will no longer be afflicted by your former illnesses.” God told him before he finished speaking, giving him a knowing smile. Emotions rushed over Raphael, causing him to fall to his knees. The Lord sat with him, stroking his head. Raphael glanced up at The Father, emotions shining in his dark eyes and suddenly he was in His arms, squeezing Him tightly. It had been such a long time since he had felt safe and loved. He didn’t want it to end. “Fear not, child. I will be with you in spirit. You will not see me, but I will be all around you. You may call upon me for counsel, and I will guide your footsteps. If you follow this path which I have set forth, we will soon be reunited forever in my New Kingdom.”

Raphael stood slowly and held The Lord’s fiery gaze. A smile that spoke more than a million words spread across his face.

“Right, thank you. I’m ready. We will meet again.” He promised, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he found himself in a bustling city, standing in front of a homeless shelter. His new life had begun.

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