Temper Literary Review 2016

TEMPER Literary review 2016

T

Temper 2016

Temper is a literary arts magazine produced annually by undergraduate and graduate students of 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. Temper also showcases several beautiful works of visual art in our Gallery section. We hope our contributors’ imaginative efforts will foster appreciation in both literary and visual arts, while inspiring others to continue in their creative endeavors.

Happy reading!

Managing Editor: Melanie Martin Graphic Designer: Daniel Simcock Content Evaluators: Katie Brooks Gabrielle LaFavre Jessica Weiner Ashley Wojtunik Matthew King Jonathan Moniz Alex Solari Samantha Wahl Lauren Medeiros Emma Sylvia

Faculty Advisors: Professor Lucas Mann, M.F.A. Professor Caitlin O’Neil-Amaral, M.F.A.

Table of

CONTENTS 1

Refugee Tabish Nawaz

3

This boy

5

January 2nd

MDA

L. Catania

6

The Interview Cassandra Raposo

10 I Am Not a Murderer Anonymous

The Fortune 11 Teller’s Manifesto Gabrielle Lafavre

13 Pay Attention Matthew Medeiros

17 Keeping History Alive BJ

Up 19 F*cked Fairytales ENL 505 Class

20 Gallery

Tyler Steff Toni Chambers

25 Grandmother Willow Melanie Martin

That 25 Scratch Ticket Melanie Martin

26 Silence Gabrielle Lafavre

27 A Glass of Milk for Dinner Dan Simcock

27 fix Dan Simcock

27 stained glass Dan Simcock

27 tabula rasa Dan Simcock

28 Back to Shore Alex Solari

29 Art?

Aubrie Brault

Star-Crossed 30 Tannins Katie Brooks

31 Road Rage BJ

31 How Twitter Ruined My Life Kathleen Landers

of a 32 Memories Parched Land Tabish Nawaz

of 32 Years Slowness Tabish Nawaz

33 The Mountain Christopher Whippen

on the 34 Brains Brain Melanie Martin

REF

By Tabish Nawaz

S

he is fleeing her homeland. Not out of desire, but to survive. She is not nameless, yet a name robs her of a unique identity. It is a name she shares with many, who had previously fled, or are fleeing, and will flee until the very end of time. Refugees are a race of their own.

1  Temper Literary Review  Spring 2016

FUGEE Moving in space, settling in time.

Acting on her desire, for a refugee’s actions are not entirely shorn of inner desires (and we must not, in She is packing her baggage for the journey and sympathizing, strip of whatever free will is left in hard times awaiting her. She has acquired a sudden her) she makes the selection, and swiftly moves on. adeptness at judging the usefulness of her belongings.

This one goes there. That one is left scattered. She She now divides her jewelry into two parts. The more occasionally stops, and holds some of her belongings valuable ones, she carefully seals in a piece of dirty in her hands for too long; given the pace of events cloth, as if conferring on them a cloak of invisibility surrounding her, even a couple of seconds is too against the prying eyes of bandits and office clerks, long. She spares only the briefest of moments with whom she expects to meet in her journey ahead. She nostalgia, to relive the memories stuck within her knows her trick to be old, and would be exposed by belongings. discerning eyes that know where and what to search.

Yet, she goes ahead with it, acting on a slim hope, Then she moves on, but not without sighing, which which for her, a refugee, is a reason enough to act. she does to suck out the past trapped within those The purity of a refugee’s hope is unmatched. physical objects. She has less understanding of time; she already is a pit, where each passing moment falls She hides the sealed jewelry in one of her bags, the one past, burying her, making her a mound of time. she would put under her head, as a pillow, for a restful sleep. An object that would provide, by virtue of its The increasing weight of memories is compromising form, and deny, by quality of its content, her sleep at her movement. She looks for one special object to the same time. If the content of the bag is not enough condense all that weight, the metaphorical spade to make her attentive during her somnolent hours, to dig the mound of time, that with each dig would she would loop the straps of the bag around her neck disturb the contours of time, and thus the past itself. and armpit, almost making it a noose, which would tighten, if the bag is covetously pulled, hurling her Given her dire present and uncertain future, the past, to awareness in an instant. A refugee has to foresee though ordinary, has seduced her into believing in its the direst of consequences. glory and immutability. However, no sooner would she get back to her usual ordinary life somewhere, than She is now putting on all her less expensive jewelry, she would find herself too credulous to believe in past’s not out of aesthetics or sense of fashion, but to be promises, recounting which, she would involuntarily noticeable to the greedy eyes of some officials, and to resort to story-telling and myth-making, changing offer them, when need be, in return of some favors, her past with each revisit and recollection. for favors would be few and seekers many. And, when she would reach her destination, if any such thing Past, with time, would then change. But that is a would ever exist for her, she would deck herself and matter for future. Presently, while searching for other members of her family, with all her jewelry- for that one magical object, she is beholden by a sudden she cannot afford to put them in some hotel rooms or desire to return at the same precise place where she whatever. And, then she would sleep, with an actual already is, and which she would soon forsake. But, pillow, adorning all her jewelry, and not the other that is how nostalgia, an implacable child born out of way round. Should anyone rouse her and ask, “Where wedlock between time, space and individual, works. are you?” she would always name her hometown, in It preserves the past, sheen and pristine, making it one way or another, for she, a refugee, never rests, a home in time, to which a traveler forever travels to travelling even in her sleep. return and take refuge.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 2

This boy

By M.D.A.

Who is this boy?

This hulking, nearly six-foot-tall, manchild who we’ve known for 15 years. We know him so well; but really, do we know him at all? He sits beside us at the dinner table and expresses himself in ways that are new to us, with ideas that come from some place we’ve never been. His face is growing into something other than the sweet combination of his father’s and my features. His opinions are raw, newly formed and so deeply held. He is shaped by the world he lives in, which increasingly excludes us.

As a baby this boy was perfect. Perfectly natured, perfectly formed, and perfectly suited to live in our somewhat unconventional household comprised of two artists, a ramshackle old house, and a fourseater outhouse. We were both self employed, and employed a different vision of the American Dream of homeownership, a dog, 2.2 children and a biannual trip to Disney when this boy arrived. He fit right in.

He happily ate the tofu, edamame and hard boiled eggs he found in the lunches we packed for him to tear into at preschool (though he often arrived home and asked about the “Lunchables”, baloney sandwiches and tube yogurts that other kids produced from their lunchboxes). He spent evenings in the studio painting his sneakers, his face, seemingly anything but the paper we placed in front of him. He happily hung out with other kids at gallery openings or museum excursions and played “beehive soccer” at the local YMCA on Saturday mornings.

and the edges were thinning. This sweet endearing boy, ever eager to please, who until now had interacted with loving adults who focused solely on him, was now thrust into a competitive learning environment, where conformity was the ideal. While at home this boy was encouraged to create, move, run around to get his ya-yas out, school was stifling, sedentary, with periods of quiet concentration, taunting the ya-yas that were begging to be let out. The bubble was thinning. This boy was being pulled away by his expanding world.

This boy began to speed up his slow break from childhood into young adulthood in Junior High School. In elementary school, the pulling had been external. Teachers, coaches, his peers were all pressing in on him, exerting influence and pulling him out of the bubble and into their worlds. Now this boy was pressing back, exerting his own influence on the world. This boy discovered computers, gaming, This boy’s world was a carefully constructed bubble girls, and music. He built worlds in Minecraft, made of influence consisting of parents, immediate family, YouTube videos with friends, and went to Friday night trusted friends, and Rebecca. Rebecca with the big dances with girls. His formerly sweet demeanor was brown eyes that turned orange when she wore her now trying on different attitudes to see where they cream colored sweater. Rebecca who arrived five would take him. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes mornings a week in her electric blue pickup truck, we’re frustrated, but mostly we’re delighted when we with a big smile and a plan to make this boy happy step back to see where this boy is heading. for eight hours a day while we worked. Rebecca who was studying early education and was excited to have A year-and-a-half into high school and this boy is a hand in this real-life case study. This boy grew. And becoming this young man. He questions everything Rebecca graduated and got a job as a kindergarten from world politics to how and why we choose which teacher. breakfast cereal to buy. He knows with a teenager’s confidence how the world should be. He grows taller Pre-school turned into elementary school. After school than his mother, and approaches his father’s height. became a time to hang out at the YMCA, get some Who is this young man with the large, elegant hands homework help and play flag football with the older and the know-it-all swagger? We know this boy. We’re boys. The carefully constructed bubble was expanding beginning to know this young man.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 4

J A N U A R Y 2 n d

By L. Catania This realist-who-was-not-a-realist upset the lawyer’s mastery of his emotions in the strictest sense of the word. Her gelid piano notes, learned by rote, induced him to retreat hastily every time. His limbs went wheeling, and his synapses protested.

He was not equal to her ideas, especially when she started discussing power users and the space race. She even harbored theories about The Letter Tav and Upper Case Bs. And she yelled NAIL(ed) IT when she thought she’d made her point. He was certainly no eleve, though her acerb wit (and eyeliner-clad eyes) often pervaded his dreams.

The panoply of razors, toy chests, framed sestets and miniature alehouses (with their recorded HIC noises) in her annex were enough to deter any rational being, but they were no match for the onset of odors that greeted him at the door: bread loaves (pumpkin and banana), herb gardens (in windows and doorways) and hot scones (apple and peach). Don’t forget to grab your appetite before you arrive.

No siree, he was certainly no eleve. And yet, despite (perhaps in spite of) the deterrents to all rational beings, he always returns.

The piano notes start when she hears him coming up the stairs, just another perk of his visits. She calls him her sponsor.

Sometimes her taxer. (Occasionally he lets her pretend he is her Dark Lady.) They eat the bread, the scones, the herbs. They talk about becoming island hops.

Her only real flaw is her continual superstition about the ides of each month. (She denies they met on the 15th of July.) (inspired by the Jan 2nd 2016 edition of the LA Times Crossword)

5 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

The

INTERVIEW

By Cassandra Raposo

T

he bass boomed through the speakers in Carter’s ears, while the stabbing of the synth made his heartbeat jump in time.

The worksheet Carter’s math teacher handed out to his class that day for homework was left untouched; he was too lost in the music to even think about Pre-Calculus.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 6

Somewhere underneath the noise that was more than likely killing his eardrums, Carter heard a muffled voice calling out. “Aaargh-tuh!” it exclaimed. With an exasperated sigh, Carter pulled the headphones from his ears and this time heard it more clearly. “CARTER!” the voice yelled from down the hallway.

“What, Mom?” he responded. He paused the music on his cell phone and reached for his bedroom door, then pushed it open just a crack. “I’m trying to do homework.”

The door swung open then, wider, revealing the thin frame of his best friend in the doorway. She stepped into his room and said, “You listening to that dubstep crap again?”

“

He’d seen her doo before, but this – t ensure that she w get that scholarshi And he wouldn’t.

“Emily,” he greeted her and rolled his eyes. “For the last time, it’s not dubstep. Or crap.” He pushed his chair out so he could see her, and suddenly he could feel something turn over in his stomach. Seeing her reminded him of tomorrow.

“We’re best friends.” Emily stood and grabbed her backpack from his desk, where she had dumped it She ignored his protest and leaned over his desk to when she came in the room. “I brought my portfolio. see what he was working on. “Oh, Pre-Calc,” she said. I want your honest opinion on it.” She took a black “Ms. Thompson will be so proud to see how well you’re presentation portfolio out and opened it on his desk. doing. How long you been working on number 1?”

The refusal was on his tongue. He hated the thought of Carter was used to Emily’s unannounced visits – after winning the scholarship over his best friend. Without living across the hall from each other for six years, the scholarship, she wouldn’t be going to college at even his mother was used to just letting her in, no all. Her parents couldn’t afford to send her anywhere explanation necessary. The door to their apartment on their own. Maybe if he didn’t look at her portfolio, was always open to Emily. But, still, he asked, “Why he wouldn’t have felt as bad. Maybe if they didn’t didn’t you text me before you came?” talk about it, he could pretend that it wasn’t going to happen.

She pursed her lips and Carter was half-expecting her to chew him out, but she shook her head. Instead, she As Emily was sifting through her artwork, choosing sat down across from him on his bed, pushing aside a what to show Carter first, he noticed that her hands pile of dirty clothes. Her thick, curly hair fell into her were shaking just a little bit. It was enough to shake face before she flicked it away. “I thought we could the picture she was holding up to him: a charcoal help each other out, trade some tips and advice for portrait of his own mother. tomorrow. Maybe we could even practice answering Carter’s mouth fell open. He knew that the sketch interview questions,” she said. was of his mother, but she looked so youthful and Carter scratched the back of his head while she waited bright, that he almost thought that he was looking for his answer. She raised her eyebrows and said, at a picture of his mother in her teenage years. In the “Hmm? Do you want to?” picture, she wore her hair as it naturally is: bold, big, and pointing every which way. She was looking slightly Looking at the wall behind her, he answered, “I don’t to the left and the corners of her mouth were tweaked know if that’s a good idea.” up into a small smile, as if Emily had instructed her to think of a bittersweet memory. The bags under “Why not? Come on, I know you’re just as nervous her eyes were still there, but the way the light hit her as I am,” she said. “I think it’ll calm our nerves if we face made it seem as if they were a beautiful piece of help each other prepare for our interviews.” her – a testament to her hard work, something to be proud of, instead of something to conceal.

She knew him too well. “I am so nervous, Em. But we’re interviewing for the same scholarship, remember?” he “You drew my mom?” he asked, looking up at his replied. “‘Only one of us is gonna get that scholarship.” friend.

7 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

”

odles and sketches this was going to would ip.

”

“Nothing,” he said, holding the door open for her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Her eyes begged him to explain, but Carter couldn’t meet hers. She tossed her backpack over one shoulder and left without saying goodbye.

Carter slipped the headphones back into his ears and climbed onto his bed. He didn’t have to hear the front door slam to know that Emily was mad at him.

After Emily had gone, Carter’s mother appeared in his doorway.

“What the hell happened there?” she asked.

Carter took one headphone out of his ear and turned to his mother from where he was lying on the bed.

She stood, one hand on one hip, with curlers in her hair and a concerned look on her face. Before he could give a vague answer, she walked over to his desk and saw the math worksheet there, still bare.

“Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was afraid you would think it would be weird,” she said, smiling. She pointed to his mother’s smile. “But I really wanted to “This the homework you were working on before? depict her in a moment like this. What do you think?” How are you gonna do it all the way from that bed?” she asked.

Carter searched for the words to say what he was thinking. Of course he loved it. As he glanced through “I’ll do it later.” the rest of her artwork that she had spread out all over his desk in her clumsy search for the portrait, “What’re you doin’ now?” she asked, nudging his leg. he was blown away by Emily’s talent. He’d seen her “You alright?” doodles and sketches before, but this – this was going to ensure that she would get that scholarship.

His stomach flipped over again. “It’s that interview I have tomorrow. What I didn’t tell you is that Emily And he wouldn’t. and I are both interviewing, but only one of us is getting that money. She was just here to prepare for “I think you should go,” he said tersely, refusing to our interviews together.” look into her eyes.

“Hmm. But you didn’t want to?”

“What? Y-you don’t like it?” she stammered. He could hear the hurt in her voice, almost as loud as He nodded. “I didn’t think it would be a good idea. the heartbeat in his chest.

We’re competing for money that’s going to decide which one of us is going to college.”

“Emily, I can’t see anymore of your stuff. We need to prepare for our interviews alone, okay?”

“You mean it’s gonna decide whether or not she goes to college.”

“But I don’t understand why we can’t --” “But it’s my dream school --” Carter began helping her put all of her artwork back in the portfolio while he thought about his own, “I told you I would pay for tuition to a community lackluster portfolio of amateur photography. Emily’s college if you didn’t get this scholarship.” portrait, watercolor paintings, pencil drawings, and landscapes were going to blow his pictures of bridges “I don’t want your money, Mom,” he said, now sitting and city streets out of the water. up. “Save that money to get yourself out of this apartment.”

Emily took her now closed portfolio from him and shoved it into her backpack. “You’re acting so weird “What’re you gonna do if you don’t get that right now, Carter. Tell me what’s wrong.” scholarship?”

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 8

“I don’t know. I’ll take on more hours at work,” he pay for your art school yourself. You’re gonna be in decided. “I’ll pay for it all myself.” that job for years, and other jobs, wishing you could just be doing your photography instead.”

His mother let out a humorless laugh. “Your spunk is admirable, but I think it’ll take more than a few more She gave him a pat on the cheek. “Heat up the leftovers hours at the Stop Mart down the street.” when you’re ready to eat,” she said, right before leaving him to think about what she just revealed to him.

“Then I just need to nail that interview.”

Carter slipped his headphones back into his ears and “And you’re gonna do that by refusing help from your thought about taking the easy way out. If he ruined best friend?”

Emily’s chance at going to his dream school, he would be able to go, but Emily would be devastated. And, as “I can’t look at her or her artwork and do what I’m his mother pointed out, she would never forgive him. gonna do tomorrow!” Carter exclaimed.

He imagined Emily knocking on his apartment door His mother stared at him, her eyebrows furrowing. when he wasn’t home, his mother answering it and “What do you mean, Carter?” Then, a light hit her letting her know that Carter was at work. Emily most eyes and she put both hands on her hips. “Are you likely assured his mother that she wasn’t here for him planning on screwing up your best friend’s chance and asked her if she would be comfortable with posing at going to college?” for her. He pictured his mother asking, “Where d’you want me to go?”

She stared at him again, this time squinting her eyes, daring him to say yes. Carter looked to the floor and “Emily, what should I do? Smile with all my teeth, said, “Uh, maybe.” like this?”

“CARTER!”

“Can I go put my nice shirt on, Em, real quick?”

“I said maybe!” he exclaimed. “She showed me her stuff, Mom, and it’s so, so good. I can’t win that scholarship on my own.”

Then, he imagined his mother moving towards the kitchen window, probably with the intention of closing it or shutting the blinds, but Emily telling her to stop there.

Her eyes softened then and she said his name again, this time with a sad smile. “Carter,” she moved to the window, and the light of the setting sun began to change her features. “I’ve doubted myself one too many times. When I was your age, I had to choose between going to school or becoming a stay-at-home mom. At 17 years old. And I was scared, so I did the easy thing. I chose to stay home while your father went off to work everyday.”

“Right here, honey? You sure?” she would’ve asked.

From there, Emily must have gotten his mother to open up about her past, let her natural hair free, and that’s how she got the stunning portrait of his mother that left him speechless. She was super talented, not only in an artistic way, but also in how well she knew people. She was able to get the best out of his mother, just like she was always able to bring out the best in Carter suddenly saw what Emily wanted to capture: him. this moment, this expression on his mother’s face. She looked out the window, and Carter saw the bittersweet So he jumped off of his bed, found the camera he got smile of a woman remembering her youth. for his birthday, and set out to take better pictures of city streets and bridges with a different, more exciting She continued, “I’m always thinking about what feeling churning his stomach. would’ve happened if I went to school. What’s gonna happen if you destroy all of Emily’s hard work?”

He grabbed his cell phone and shot a text to Emily.

“I --” “You’re gonna lose your best friend, that’s what. And maybe even your scholarship, too,” she said, turning back to him. “Then you won’t take my money and you’ll be stuck working a dead-end job just like me, while you wait until you’ve saved enough money to 9 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

Hey. Want to help me out with something?

I am not a

MURDERER

By Anonymous

I I

woke up the next morning, thinking of how my mother would react if she knew. She made my breakfast, she kissed me good morning—not knowing what I had done. Not knowing that I had made an astronomical decision yesterday morning. am not a murderer. I am not going to let Hell agitate this place I call home because of my actions, my doing, my allowance. I believe I can be strong woman. But I have acted weakly. I chose to turn away from my conscience, and to fall back on modern beliefs about a person’s right to live, and their right to choose for themselves. I should not be able to wield this Godly power of life and death, and yet I chose this weapon without hesitation.

I

am not a murderer. But I paid almost the same amount as my college tuition to remove a soul from this world, and to will it into another. I feel the physical toll on myself, yet at the same time I can feel nothing at all. I am able to speak and bleed in the same breath.

I am able to comprehend and cringe in the same moment. I do not care what becomes of this life form, only what would have happened if I released it from these practiced assassins.

I

am not a murderer. But I tell myself this repeatedly because I kissed Death on the lips, admitting my own unborn child into the realms of Heaven, hoping to see him or her one day on God’s account, and not my own.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 10

The Fortune Teller’s Manifesto

By Gabrielle Lafavre

S

pectral eyes, silver moons, spiritual glow; my fingers twitch, nail scraping nail. I feel my chakras heat with an inner fire as I descend from my loft, treading each rung lightly. In the chamber, I become a heightened amalgam of myself. The preparation must begin before the crowd catches sight of my ankle’s descent.

11 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

I glare about the circular chamber, challenging the nonbelievers of my world. I tousle my mane of tangled hair, jostling the silver bangles on my wrist. I channel the high priestesses, aligning with my celestial sisterhood. The universe is mine; my knowledge is the universe.

I slither into my gilded armchair as a newly-dead wraith queen emerges from her sepulcher—supercilious fire eyes, full of disdain. The air suspended in metallic expectation. The heavy garnet curtains lush with bated breath. I am come. I have arrived.

As I scrutinize the crowd, I see eyes close and mouths drop open. A towheaded girl in scarlet dress hides her face behind ten fingers and trembles visibly. I am pleased; my aura reveals my contempt. I am pleased with these silent moments of tension, before I speak and before I command. They have not yet heard my melodic incantations—they are not under my spell. I am yet a leopardess, a secret goddess of the night, a haughty Cleopatra.

Revealing a cloudy, charcoal globe from beneath my robes, pausing for showmanship, I commence the show. The crowd’s sigh a small welp in my ears—intensifying my pleasure. They are scared of my orb, my darling crystal ball. They do not understand us, though we can divine their inner spirt and their concealed, moonless desires.

I speak.

Come forth, most valiant volunteer, for the hour has arrived to uncover your life’s path, through the supernatural bond between my crystal ball—Oh! Sybil! Gift to you on your most momentous day—and myself, I can unveil the message you yearn to hear, whether you are consumed by your fears or obsessed with your successes. This I offer to you in the palm of my hand, from the depths of my soul. Tonight, before the day’s final bell chimes, I will part the curtain between this world and the heavens, offering you a glimpse of the beyond.

Limbs shift position and fingers tap a steady rhythm upon crossed forearms. My words weave strings between each person, tying us together in an intricate Gordian knot. They try not to look, but cannot look away—looking and searching and seeking my orb, for they cannot meet my blazing eyes. A figure steps through the human barrier, courageous enough to test my prowess. This man approaches with head down, still taller than most around him, and raises to meet my glare. When he raises his head, I look into two azure eyes—twin water signs.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 12

Pay

ATTENTION

By Matthew Medeiros

W

e were shopping (but it’s not important what store we were at); it’s what happened at checkout that matters. I was with my fiancé, Hilary, and her daughter Kaley who was five years old at the time, just beginning kindergarten.

anything more than Just Matt.

“Well aren’t you a pretty princess!” the cashier complimented Kaley.

I had to learn that a child isn’t just going to like you because of a paycheck. They don’t understand the concepts of bills and utilities, so why should they appreciate someone for something they don’t understand? This is where Hilary came in: she constantly reminded me - to give Kaley my time, not just my paycheck.

I’ve always wanted a child of my own—I still do—but I didn’t intentionally seek out Hilary as a partner because she already had one However, I chose Hilary and Kaley, and my entire life was altered. No longer was I be able to stay out late with friends or to do what I want when I wanted.” Not because Hilary wouldn’t let me, but because I made a commitment to marry Hilary, and with that promise came Kaley. I wasn’t just asking for a wife, but also for a daughter. Regardless of the fact that I thought I was doing a good job, it was much more than I ever expected.

I worked full time during the week and Hilary was a part-time waitress on weekends. We split our bills Kaley is an outgoing kid and she is usually showing off. pretty much 70-30. I know money can’t buy love or For Kaley, showing off includes singing, talking silly, happiness, but I thought that I deserved a certain or flailing about to look cute. On this particular day, approval for being a provider. A breadwinner couldn’t her attempts for attention caught our cashier’s eye. be Just Matt, could he?

“Thanks”, Kaley replied shyly.

“Well have a nice day with mommy and daddy now”, the cashier said.

“He’s not my daddy! He’s just Matt!” Kaley exclaimed as we walked out the store.

Just Matt, I thought to myself. Is that all I am?

Just Matt. I’m Matt Medeiros, former little league baseball star, well-liked by most, and working full time to provide support for Kaley and her mother.

Never have I been just anything.

In that moment, Kaley had managed to humble my ego and, at the same time, earn my undivided attention.

In no way was Kaley wrong to say that. I’m not her biological father; but in that moment it became glaringly obvious that I was going to have to prove myself as a capable fillin, more than I already had, in order to be considered

“I’m leaving for work babe, pay attention to Kaley.”

Pay attention, not pay the rent or pay the gas bill, pay attention. This became my most important bill.

At first, I had very little experience spending time with Kaley alone. I fondly remember, when Kaley was about three, the first time I tried to put her down for a nap. She was on the floor kicking her heels and banging her fists into the hardwood.

“Kaley please just calm down and get into bed, like mommy wants you to!” I would plead.

“Aaaargh. I want daddy! I want daddy! I want my daddy!” Kaley screamed. I wasn’t enough then—she just wanted her daddy.

Needless to say, I got a little better at watching her.

She’d play in her room or watch television without any tantrums, and I would play on my phone, clean the house, and make lunch. No crying, no problems, and I was on my way to step-dad of the year.

However, Kaley and I still weren’t connecting. The Just Matt moments kept happening. I tried buying her toys. How about a pet? I bought her a hamster and a kitten. I tried to win her love. While these Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 14

things helped me earn some of Kaley’s favor, I was Saturday morning until Sunday morning. Her father still missing the point. Pay attention. was now living with his new girlfriend and her two kids. These kids bullied Kaley, called her “stupid” and When Hilary’s advice finally clicked, so did my “ugly”. It broke my heart to see her come home in relationship with Kaley. Instead of just buying her tears and disappointment. The silver lining was, at a hamster, I’d also involve her in cleaning the cage. least for me, that my relationship with Kaley took on Our cage had numerous tunnels and colorful add-on more meaning and importance. She was happier with parts. Kaley loved to be included, and we bonded mommy and her Matt than with her father. when we spent a great deal of time washing dried urine from the corners of that cage. We played board Her father ceased to make any contact with Kaley games; her favorite involves collecting acorns with now. Her grandmother recently told her that her halfa squirrel shaped tool. Instead of cooking lunch or brother’s birthday party is coming up. With that new dinner, I would have Kaley help mix a bowl or add knowledge, Kaley went to Hilary with some questions. an ingredient. What I enjoyed most was guiding her through her homework. She asked a lot of questions “Mommy, Vava invited me to Jackson’s party, will and I was happy to answer them. I finally felt like a daddy be there?” dad, albeit a part-time one because she spent two days a week with her biological father. I hoped she “Yes, honey, I would think he would be.” felt more love toward me than she did before.

I think she started to appreciate me more. I was now a graduate of Just Matt. I had a new title. Whenever someone publicly referred to me as Kaley’s “dad” or “daddy,” she made a reply that I was finally content with.

“He’s not daddy, He’s my Matt.”

My Matt.

Instead of being just something, now I was someone.

That meant a lot to me, and more importantly I was becoming an important figure in the life of a child who would see less and less of her real father as the years went on. e I often think about how her parents’ divorce, and my presence, affects Kaley. Is Kaley worried? My answer to this question would be yes. Recently, Kaley’s biological father had a son with his new girlfriend and soon after he suddenly decided not to communicate with her any longer.

Once Hilary and myself created our blended family, we made arrangements for Kaley’s father to have her from Friday afternoons until Sunday afternoons. This understanding worked fine for about a year. Then he joined the Marines and was gone for seven months straight. Hilary and I were concerned that this would greatly hurt Kaley emotionally, but she dealt with it surprisingly well. Skype calls to her dad became a daily norm and helped Kaley cope during the days without her dad.

“

He’s not daddy, He’s my Matt.”

My Matt.

”

“Mommy, why didn’t daddy invite me? Why doesn’t he want me?”

This is a young girl who is worried. Worried that she has lost her father. It’s my duty to help Kaley not worry. I too, came from a broken home. My father left my mother for another women when I was a child. I hated his new girlfriend for breaking up my family. Visiting my dad became an awkward occasion.

I couldn’t imagine if I had to live with them instead of being raised by my mother. I’ve grown up and come to terms with my father’s girlfriend; she even ends goodbyes with an “I love you”. I respond with the same out of respect, but I don’t mean it -I never will. I will accept her but she will never be part of my family or have my love.

In this sense I was worried too; just as Kaley was. Will Upon his return, Kaley just stayed with her dad from she ever love me? Does she blame me for breaking 15 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

up her family? Am I responsible for her father’s I remember our last night of the trip. We had just disappearance? finished watching the fireworks at the Magic Kingdom and we headed down Main Street to leave the park.

Other than being worried, Kaley is an accomplished Behind us, a special light show was being projected child. She is thriving at school. Her grades improve on Cinderella’s castle. Kaley didn’t notice so I had to every quarter and she’s a proud and dutiful member stop her and get her attention. of the chorus. She makes friends easily and shows excitement when doing her homework. She doesn’t “Kaley, hold on, look at the castle. Pay attention.” get angry-annoyed maybe-but not angry. She’s a loving pet owner and an admired older cousin to her e auntie’s children.

The past five plus years have been a blessing for me in Statistics would tell you that children in families many ways. I have a wonderful blended family, a good with two biological parents “do better”. I say that’s job, and an even better future upon my completion of a bullshit statement. If I had to pick one thing any college. I’ve grown tremendously as a person and my and all parents should be required to do, it would be maturing is in part because of Hilary and Kaley. I this: want her to learn from me, to follow in the footsteps of the man who pays attention; not the one who Pay attention. stopped.

And that’s what I do.

I take great pride that, now, at just eight years-old, I have been the dominant male figure in Kaley’s life. I’ve e been there for the birthday parties, and homework, and weekend fun. I look forward to watching her “Ok everyone, just move a little more to the right, and grow up into a young woman. I’ll be there this Sunday princess put your hand out like this.” the photographer when she sings with her chorus at a Providence Bruins at Disney World said. “Perfect.” Snap. “Just let me scan game. I’ll be there when she graduates grade school your magic band honey and you will have this great and middle school and high school. Because, I want picture with mommy and daddy.” The photographer to pay attention. continued.

It’s me who she says “I love you” to when I tuck her “He’s not my daddy. He’s Matty Daddy.”, Kaley said, into bed at night, and I’ll always remember my favorite correcting the Disney employee. time I did.

This was the first time that Kaley regarded me as a father figure. It made sense that it happened during our first family vacation. She was more comfortable with me by this time and she trusted me to protect her. Disney World was new and large and exciting, and Kaley needed me to guide her. I was there among characters like Buzz Lightyear, Mr. Incredible, and Merida the brave princess -me, Matty Daddy.

Kaley was jumping on her bed as if it were a trampoline.

I play-slammed her down a couple of times and then got her under the sheets. I kissed her on the cheek and said, “Goodnight Kaley, I love you.”

She replied, “I love you too, ‘night Daddy”. She made a surprised face realizing her error but chose not to correct it.

This included a lot of firsts for our blended family. I kissed her again on the forehead and went to bed Kaley’s first time flying on a real airplane. Her with a smile. first stay in a hotel. Her first theme park. Her first safari and boat ride. Never had Kaley seen amazing performances every night for a week. She ate dinner with all of her favorite princesses from her favorite movies. She saw her first musical, Finding Nemo. She rode her first roller coaster and then did it again. She traveled the world at Epcot and rode in a flying boat with Peter Pan. Kaley made memories that will last her for her lifetime and she made them with me. I was with her, making father-daughter memories.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 16

KEEPING

HISTORY

ALIVE

by BJ

17 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

“Absolutely!”

“Bring it!”

“Count us in!”

“Doing it right now!”

Everyone seemed to be on board.

Forgetting, of course, the task’s impossibility.

Generally though, enthusiasm counts for a lot.

Her condition though would require more than enthusiasm.

Incremental decay had compounded into a completely rotted hull.

Joints so carefully crafted over two centuries ago looked amateurish.

Knotfree, perfect planks looked like wood left on the forest floor.

Like nautical Don Quixotes, this crew saw windmills in this wounded ship.

More than anything, they knew that doing nothing would bury her history forever.

Now, even if they failed in making her shipworthy, her story would stay afloat.

On the first Saturday in April, restoration volunteers began work despite the unseasonably cold weather.

Plank by plank, pole by pole, pieces were painstakingly removed and restored or replaced, using period tools.

Quizzical school children and locals stopped by regularly, with restorers welcoming their questions rather than turning them away.

Restoring the ship was more than just a physical event the community’s awakened curiosity was helping bring her alive.

So much was accomplished after one year that their initial false bravado was replaced with a sense of real optimism.

The team was nearly done accomplishing the nearly impossible, with most of the hull rebuilt and the decking and masts underway.

Unfortunately, the same hurricane weather that took her out of commission during the War of 1812 threatened to at least delay launch.

Valuable lessons from the increased power and frequency of hurricanes and tropical storms in recent years motivated the team to push launch back.

Waiting until fall not only gained them safety from the storm but also provided additional opportunities to showcase the historical vessel with school groups.

Young people in the community gained a new sense of pride from the restoration, with many schools and classrooms holding fundraisers to help with costs.

Zooming ahead with the rest of the restoration despite the delayed launch, the team had even more time to test her seaworthiness before the official launch.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 18

F*CKED UP FAIRYTALES

The two stories you’ll read below, are a collaborative exercise in cohesion from ENL 505: Stylistics. The challenge is as follows: 1.) Sit in a circle of 3 or more writers. 2.) Each writer crafts the first sentence to a story in under a minute. 3.) Each writer then passes their story to the person on the left, who writes the next sentence in the story, with the goal of continued cohesion and coherence. The process continues until the story has returned to its original owner. Try it out for yourself! You might get a good laugh out of it.

LITTLE RED RABID Once upon a time,

a young girl spent her days whistling to the birds by the river near her cottage. While she was whistling to the birds, it began to rain. Saddened when the birds flew away to seek coverage in the trees, she stood up to leave. The sun had almost set behind the hills as she walked along the lonely path, but from the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow following her. She turned her head, pushing her red hair out of her eyes, to spot a small baby fox hiding behind a white birch tree.

Her first thought was, “Aww, what a cute baby fox!” but then she saw its foaming mouth and cloudy eyes. Her reaction, however, was too slow in addressing this realization, and had she known the word “rabies” she would have thought she now had it. Her bird watching days were over, so it seemed. Sun setting, and arm badly bleeding, she was just about to sit on the side of the road (to regain some strength) when a mysterious horse carriage rolled up and ordered her in. The commandant was a regal gent, dressed to the nines in a tomato red jacket with jaunty gold brocade. Now she understood the fox’s own rage, and bit the hunter herself.

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DANIEL’S HAND He woke up in a cold sweat,

breathing heavily, relieved the nightmare was over; but when he went to wipe the dampness from his brow, he found his left hand missing. It wasn’t the first time this happened, but that didn’t make it any less horrifying.

Whenever the wooden hand went amiss, he knew he was going to be haunted for the next week. Haunted by a wooden hand for a week – why couldn’t it be a nice strawberry shortcake haunting him? But Grandma was a much better whittler than a baker, so this was his cross to bear.

She had thought she was helping, gifting him this hand, little did she know the problems it brought him. The problem of how to keep a wooden hand attached so it couldn’t haunt him any longer. The truly strange thing about this wooden hand was the way it insisted on coming to life every time it fell off, making a mess of his entire house and his sleep schedule. Not to mention the dentist it murdered last Tuesday- Granma was really unhappy with Daniel.

But it wasn’t Daniel’s fault that he had a wandering, murderous, demonic wooden hand! He would be in a normal, public place like the movies and, all of a sudden, he would feel his wood tremble, and then it would begin.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 20

GALLERY 1

1-4: Tyler Steff: “Portraits.” Watercolor.

5: Tyler Steff: “Mona Lisa.” Charcoal.

2

33

4

5

6

23 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

7

6. Toni Chambers: “Call Us By Our Names.” Digital Collage, Photoshop.

7. Toni Chambers: “Ribcage.” Digital Illustration, Photoshop.

9

8

8. Toni Chamgers: “Shaunia.” Digital Oil Painting, Photoshop.

9. Tyler Steff: “Robot.” Graphite Drawing.

GRANDMOTHER Willow

By Melanie Martin Her roots ran deep, held her upright even when some had rotted.

Her knuckles were gnarled with arthritis and age and the wisdom of sewing things back together from holey pants to soggy hearts.

Laugh lines creased the tough bark of her smiles; Crow’s feet landed gently at the sound of a laughing baby or a dirty joke Sheltering branches reached out to me and over me, giving shelter from the rain, but allowing me to hear the sound of it And when the man in the moon shone down upon her, I could see the light through her leaves like fireflies, like a kind of magic, because even in darkness, you see the love in her.

My arrow is spinning and I am lost. You would tell me to listen to my heart, but I cannot hear it. It is silent as the grave.

Scratch that Ticket

by Melanie Martin A man of forty-something has eyes that glaze over at the Keno machine in the variety store down on the Ave. It’s his lover, his hunger, his aspiration, his nation, his occupation to play that lotto to smoke those butts to scratch that ticket. Scratch the winning ticket. His lungs rattle like bones in a voodoo cage. He thinks he’s a sage just because he’s lived longer than you – but he knows nothing. Knows nothing about wisdom, about love, about being human he knows nothing nothing about art nothing about everything except - his gambling. So gamble and ramble Jimmy Foster. Waste your breath, waste your life. Waste your money, kill your wife. Drink that liquor to kill her quicker. Get your kicks, forget your kids. To hell with it! Just stay occupied and keep on keeping on.

Just go on and scratch that ticket Jimmy Foster. One day, you might win.

SILENCE * A Stylistic Review of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Song of Silence”

By Gabrielle Lafavre Listening is like a balm.

In your mind a storm it calms.

Because its peaceful melody’s creeping / Into your dreams while you’re sleeping.

And the quiet that it instills in your soul, will pervade. Through the noise of your day.

You hear this tune before the sun. When the day’s not yet begun.

Its a song of being sad / For things you have and haven’t had.

When the snow stung your face with the force of an icy scratch On that empty road, Where you walked alone.

When you walked, the street was bare.

Just Simon and Garfunkel in your ear.

The song so quiet And at times defiant.

The song written about voices that can’t connect And lack respect For life, most simple.

“Fools,” you thought, “You mock the melody and word.”

But this song still rings true, Disconnect will haunt you.

Its noble anthem of pain / And silence Will remain.

And the people pledge to rap and pop, They’ve forgotten how to stop.

On that long white curving road, A complex simple song from a simple complex time.

“The words of prophets are spoken in daily thoughts,” said the sign.

Don’t forget to listen, In the words a distant glisten, And the sound of Silence.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 26

A Glass of Milk For Dinner

by Dan Simcock A glass of milk for dinner -For appetites should never spoil -Makes for pretty girls, only thinner.

Though she is but a beginner, To her plan, she will stay loyal: A glass of milk for dinner.

A scale, her throne, she feels like a winner For a victor made from toil Makes for pretty girls, only thinner.

But her mirror had always been her Ruined visage that would foil A glass of milk for dinner.

For in her face, she sees a sinner, And she wonders if her turmoil Makes for pretty girls, only thinner.

But she’ll find the will within her For her beauty, she dares not soil: A glass of milk for dinner Makes for pretty girls, only thinner.

27 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

fix

by Dan Simcock love these lungs learned to inspire of crystalline ash clouds of desire turns rust the blood, corrodes the heart, snuffs out the engine, makes pain of art.

stained glass

by Dan Simcock Her windows were different -Older, worn thin by cruel winters.

A piecemeal of splintered dreams soldered carefully back together.

Only a rainbow of fettered truth would shine through -I had hoped, one day, they’d open for me.

tabula rasa

by Dan Simcock Before I knew what I know now I did not know what I should know But if I did, I think I should Forget the things I knew before The curse becomes forevermore!

Back to Shore

by Alex Solari

Through the fog, your light shone bright But you are no longer in my dreams The demons that keep you up at night Do not concern me Does she love me? Does she not?

The thought once made my insides rot Am I holding on to shattered glass?

So apathetic, I would not ask Tied to you, an anchor Brought me to the ocean floor And when you let me go I never made it back to shore Years passed, and I was drowning Still, but you were free at last Free to follow your own path Free from my own soul so crass I have purpose. I have meaning.

I am a person, just as whole.

I will never let another Drag me in the undertow

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 28

Art?

by Aubrie Brault Artifacts. Beauty attempted. Complexity and simplicity. Daring to imitate life. Everything purposefully and perfectly placed. First drafts to masterpieces, all included. Glorious oils of portraits and battle scenes. Heavy tapestries, antique furniture, bizarre statues, original texts. It was good fortune that Isabella received her inheritance. Judging it worthy, she acquired a unique and worldly collection. Kingdom-like and grand, she wanted more than to have the art. Looking to celebrate each individual item, Isabella Gardner designed an elaborate approach. Mainly brick and stone, she built a small, stately “mansion” of four floors. Not however, to be mistaken for any sort of typical “home” just having art. Ostentatious or not, the art was made the focus, not herself or her belongings. Placement was key, so she made the first three floors solely dedicated to hosting the art. Queenly orchestrated, entrances, hallways, and rooms were carefully tailored to the specific pieces Isabella chose for them.

Rare Mediterranean statues line the halls of the first floor, luring guests into the medley of genre-oriented rooms. Serious marble staircases carry one from floor to floor, where the rooms are bigger than one could have imagined. Tactfully, tasteful antique furniture is strewn throughout each room as though Isabella herself is asking you to stay a while. Unusually, outdated, mundane objects appear intentionally placed to juxtapose more traditional forms of art, begging to be recorded as history too. Vividly reminiscent of histories and herstories that could have long been hoarded, forgotten and ruined, these artifacts were kept alive through Isabella. Where else is there such an experience in which we are not asked to be the more passive, modern observer of today’s MFA’s? Xenodochial this museum is, in that the relationship the art has to the building provides literal space for individuals to have a contextualized experience. Yearly do I visit The Gardner museum for this very reason, but, perhaps such a point is best proved by what lay at its center. Zealous in its fruitfully green sprawl, a serene fountain-laden garden asks to be the purest form of art in a building so dedicated to the cause. *Compose a 26 sentence piece. Each sentence must begin with a different letter of the alphabet, follow in order (i.e., A, B, C, D...), and cannot start with a proper noun. In addition, each sentence must consist of the number of words the letter’s position occupies in the alphabet.

29 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

Star-Crossed Tannins

by Katie Brooks A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Dancing tannins and full-bodied ephemeral beauty.

A cross-pollination of fermented grapes: Cabernet Franc, Sauvignon Blanc.

Gregor Mendel goes grape.

A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Dancing tannins and full-bodied ephemeral beauty.

A cross-pollination of fermented grapes: Cabernet Franc, Sauvignon Blanc.

Gregor Mendel goes grape.

The Jeckyll and Hyde of dry, barrel aged wines.

Notes of indecorous cherry, twisted tobacco, and percolated pepper hint at jovial spirits, of plum stained lips and lipstick smeared rims.

Kismet—like the universe with all its stars, planets, black-holes, and limitlessness bottled into a dive plan.

A liquid fortune cookie, where there might be an answer at the bottom of your glass, or within accompanying cigar smoke; a screen between the taste of reality and earthy, woody tobacco.

Opaque judgment that you swirl around your mouth, and it coats your tongue with more promises.

The acidity of the cabernet burns through the bitterness of the tobacco leaves, and you quit considering the repercussions of your saturation, because at the bottom of that bottle might be where reconciliation lies.

Between puffs and swigs you bounce between beliefs, concluding that grapes and the world are round, so salvation is wine and therefore you are saved.

Or so the corked logic leads you to believe.

And the next day you wake up to purple sipped lips, smoky clothes and an ash-covered rug, and along the counter uncorked soldiers line the table turned into an internal arena. And like the beginnings of cabernet sauvignon, a mistake between vines, you are caught up in your personal Jekyll and Hyde.

The taste of cherry, pepper and tobacco turned into a rancid wonder of a night that still sticks to your tongue like lipstick residue stained glass.

A kaleidoscope turning, tantalizing, torturing in continuous loop.

You are muddled plumbs, and burning burgundies, murky ruby, and mulled mauves, with distorted coppers, and grainy garnet rolled and wrapped up tight into accordion layers.

Zealous introspection swathed in hues of your imperfect wild soul that believes in fate but also evolution and tirelessly spins, reels, and negotiates between the wreckage.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 30

Road Rage

by BJ Crazed car speed demons/What burns you to get there now/Abide behind us/Be on the road here/Let our perfect drive records/Be your Zen moment

How Twitter Ruined My Life

by Kathleen Landers

*Twitterku = Haiku for Twitter ( 2 5/7/5 stanzas in 140 characters (including forward slashes)

31 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

Connectivity. Is it public or private?

Public and private?

Private is public.

Is there a line between these two spheres anymore?

Blurriness, destroying what it means to connect and socialize.

Talking to friends, exchanging gossip, showing holiday pictures, scribbling notes, checking on a friend’s well-being, watching a neighbor’s home video.

Once casual, shared only with selected individuals.

Content reaches users beyond the intended audience sphere.

Connectivity is no longer in the hands of the individual user.

Offhanded utterances released into a public domain.

Far-reaching and long-lasting effects.

Intention for followers only.

170 of them.

Unrealistic.

Out of the private sphere and into the public.

We do not connect with our chosen few.

One tweet.

Changed life forever.

One tweet!

How Twitter ruined my life.

Memories of a Parched Land

by Tabish Nawaz Memories of a parched land I saw you, for the first time, Yet you looked like An old, loving memory.

As if by your absence You lived By my side, all along.

Then you moved on, As clouds move past, Without rain, over a parched land.

Yet, some other time, When I may see you, I would be drenched, In memories Of times, I wished But could never spend.

Years of Slowness

by Tabish Nawaz Soul is a slow creature, distastes things done in haste.

It loves tiny moments, seeks each of them, to sniff, kiss and embrace.

Mother says to work slow for Soul to come out on the surface, or else it sinks back.

And, it then takes years of slowness to bring forth the creature exiled in one’s inner recess.

Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 32

The Mountain

by Christopher Whippen I hear them laughing.

High on a jagged mountain.

Its angular montage pieces the sky.

Demon’s hand from below. Nothing escapes the piercing white clutches.

You want this, come and get it.

Forgetting the climb, the fall, the scars.

New bloods have no scars.

I see their smirks.

Wordless speech to the valley below.

Eager faces clamor under treetop. Canopies of gold are impossible to bear.

Never enough. Never enough.

You want this, come and get it.

Impenetrable chasm denies all crossing.

What use is gold in the hands of a fool?

I smell the rain.

Deluge of boundless prosperity.

Futile ascenders nourished below. Dry screaming echoes above.

Cease climbing. Rest wary climber.

Are you sure you want this?

Summit of corpses.

For where your treasure is, your heart will be also.

I taste sweet honey.

Songs of joy to the crest up above.

Alchemists forget the curtain call. Gold cannot stay.

You have enough. You are enough.

I don’t need this.

Labor is riches.

For I am rich in the things they don’t understand.

33 Temper Literary Review Spring 2016

Brains on the Brain

by Melanie Martin Amygdala.

Brainstem boullion.

Cerebrum souflee Don’t think I’m joking.

Eating hasn’t been so easyForaging through the morgue for brains.

Grotequse, yet exquisitely delicious; I prepare lunch.

Hippocampus Hot Pockets have become my new favorite.

I have these sick little ways of retaining humanity.

Just sawing through the skulls of grannies makes me sick.

Killing outright, though, would be a sin I could not bear.

Lusting after my boyfriend’s pituitary gland wasn’t exactly a healthy relationship either.

Mindful of this precarious future, I ended our relationship after I was bitten.

Nothing could have hurt me more than breaking his heart, except, obviously, eating it.

Once I consume a brain, I see the memories of how that person was murdered.

Psychic intuition is how I justify my visions of these violent crimes, and insider knowledge about suspects.

Questions from the detectives, and from my friends and family would send me into a horrible panic.

Ravenously munching brains in full-on zombie mode, or delicately stir-frying them are equally terrifying to walk in on.

So, I’ve carefully found my place in this after life; serving the living while serving myself the already dead.

The hardest part of my façade isn’t the monotonous meal options, nor is it the visions of murder while digesting.

Under no circumstances, can I ever truly have real relationships with other human beings, because my secrets are of the deadly kind.

Vertebrae in my soup is a huge pain - I’d assume after years of medical school I would be able to properly dissever them.

When I properly establish myself in the zombie community, I will use my ability as a medical examiner to find a cure.

Xenotypes, that’s the key to genetic reconstruction, but the problem is gaining access to test subjects and the funding for a massive medical experiment.

Yes, I am a monster who eats delicate synapses and succulent white matter to survive, and I hate myself for the creature I have become.

Zombie life is hard and hollow, but in the shadow of the grave, I’ve somehow adapted to this new role of hero, and it taste good. *Alphabet Story inspired by I, Zombie Spring 2016 Temper Literary Review 34

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