The April Perennial 2022

T h e APRIL

PERENNIAL

2022

The Journal of Arts & Letters for North Central Texas College Number 42 | Spring 2022

The April Perennial Number 42

Spring 2022

Published by the Department of English & Creative Writing Committee

The April Perennial is an annual publication of North Central Texas College 1525 West California Street Gainesville, Texas 76240

The journal showcases aspiring writers whose works are considered to be of special merit in the college’s annual Creative Writing Awards contests.

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CONTENTS Andy and Emily Klement Short Story..................................................................................... pages 3-10 Aspiring Poet...........................................................................................................................pages 11-17 Brad Dill Memorial Short Story ............................................................................................pages 18-31 Garland Ray Wallace Poetry.................................................................................................. pages 32-37 Gifted Pen Poetry................................................................................................................... pages 38-41 Keith King Memorial ............................................................................................................pages 42-45 NCTC Creative Non-Fiction Essay........................................................................................pages 46-50 NCTC Creative Nonfiction......................................................................................................pages 51-52 NCTC Expository Writing..................................................................................................... pages 53-72 Vivian Thomlinson Short Story..............................................................................................pages 73-91

CONTEST JUDGES We gratefully acknowledge the kind assistance provided by the following readers for the 2021-22 Creative Writing Contest: Rochelle Gregory Robert Burton Kristen Weinzapfel Danielle Wagner Amy Ott Erica Thompson Jill Swarner Alisha Dietz Kevin Eubanks Marcia Little Lauren Sullivan Jacob Arnold

THANK YOU TO ALL OF OUR DONORS!

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ANDY AND EMILY KLEMNT SHORT STORY

FIRST PLACE

The Survival Challenge Mattison Townsend

“I think you’re ready Kate.” Said Kate’s dad. “ You are 19 and I think you are ready to live off grid on your own.” “You do want to live off grid like your mom and I right?”asked Kate’s dad.” Yes I always have, I want to live in the Grey Forest.”said Kate pointing out the window. “Ok then, that’s where the challenge will take place”said Kate’s dad. “What challenge?”asked Kate, confused. “That’s what the challenge is, I need to see if you can survive out there before you go off on your own.” exclaimed Kate’s dad. “Ok sure! , I know I can survive on my own for a few days with everything you’ve taught me over the years.” “That’s my girl.” Said Kate’s dad. “ I’ll make sure I have everything in my backpack before I go.” “Knife for cutting wood, rifle for hunting , and a water purifier.”Said Kate,checking everything off.” Don’t forget the map!”Yelled dad,as he handed it to her.”Be careful out there honey.” Kate’s mom reminded her. “I will.” “ Bye!” Shouted Kate as she bursted out the door. After 15 minutes of walking, Kate finally got to the Grey forest. “Well, I think I found my campsite!”Said Kate, looking at a huge flat space, with little to no rocks which was next to a river. “It’s perfect!” Kate was getting hungry though so she pulled her rifle out and went looking. Before long, she found a female deer and pointed the gun at it. Kate got spooked when a flash of brown dashed next to the deer. It was a baby! Kate felt bad.”I can’t kill a mother deer, I just can’t. She put the gun down and walked back to her camp. “I’m still hungry, but I guess I’ll just eat some berries off of that Bowzer berry bush, I know those are safe to eat. Even after eating the berries, Kate was still starving but they were enough to hold her over until the next day. Daylight was quickly running out, so she built a quick fire to keep warm and for light. She used her water purifier to make a quick glass before she went to sleep.The next day,Kate was starving,she didn’t see any other animals around to hunt or eat.She was determined to finish the challenge though.She used the rest of her energy to build a little shack to relax in the shade for the rest of the day. When the two days were officially over, she walked back to her house. “How’d it go?” said her dad as she walked into the door. “ It didn’t go great at all,” said Kate with a disappointed look on her face. “What? You finished the challenge.” exclaimed Kate’s dad, confused. “I was starving the whole time because I couldn’t kill a mother deer with her baby,” Kate said while making herself a sandwich. “ How pathetic is that?” said Kate, sitting back down on the couch. “Just because you didn’t kill a deer for food, doesn’t mean there’s not another way.” Said Kate’s dad, sitting down beside her. “What other way? I didn’t have the heart to kill the animals I needed for food, and the only thing I ate was berries,which wasn’t enough.” Said Kate.” Hold on let me show you” , said Kate’s dad as he led her out the backdoor to the garden. “ Wow, that’s a lot of potatoes.” Kate said as she stared at the potato section of the garden. “ Yes, this garden had held us over for up to 3 months in the winter when we couldn’t find any deer,” said Kate’s dad pointing to all of the produce in a basket, which needed to be washed. “ Yeah, I remember that, but where did we get the protein from?”, asked Kate. “The rivers.” replied Kate’s dad almost immediately. “ The fish! Right, catching fish was so fun as a kid” Kate said, excitement in her eyes. “ Yes, but since then they’ve made fishing nets where the fish just get 3 The April Perennial

caught, but the babies are able to get through the net.To make sure the river can still be populated with tons of fish to eat. “ That’s such a great idea!” Said Kate. “ Ok, then let’s get to work!” Kate’s dad said excitedly. Kate found the site she wanted to build on, not too deep into the Grey forest. It was right next to the river, so she could put her fishnet up to catch fish. Her dad helped her build her home with the same techniques he built their house with many years ago. When they were finally done, it was months later.Kate was now 20! Kate was ready to live in the beautiful Grey forest. There was just one more thing, the farm. “ It’s so pretty out here, I’m so glad I live here now.” Said Kate. “ It’s so great out here, but there’s one more thing.” said Kate’s dad. “ The farm!”

Kate and her dad said in sync. Kate and her dad plowed out a small field next to her house. Kate’s dad came back with many seeds. “ There’s potato, carrot, lettuce ,tomatoes , and beetroot.” Kate’s dad said.” Will you help me plant them?” Kate asked with a grin on her face.” Of course,”said Kate’s dad.After 2 hours of work Kate’s dad said, “ Now, don’t forget to water them with the hose consistently, Ok? Wouldn’t want all this hard work to go to waste.” Said Kate’s dad with sweat dripping down his face. “Definitely”, said Kate giggling. They then went to the river and put two large fishnets up for the final touch. “ It’s so perfect.” exclaimed Kate. Kate’s dad hugged her. “ I knew you would enjoy living out here, and always remember, we’re always here if you ever need anything” “ Thanks Dad.”Kate said. As she sat on her couch she thought, what a wonderful place to call home.

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ANDY AND EMILY KLEMNT SHORT STORY

SECOND PLACE

It Was Just A Prank I Swear Alexia Blaschke

The light reflected off of the dagger and blinded me for a split second, I squinted and tried not to recoil when I felt the sharp stab in my abdomen. A strangled scream escaped my mouth but it was muffled by the cloth that served as a gag. I tried to move my hands and legs, but the ropes were too tight and just dug deeper into my skin. The latin chants from the cult surrounding me grew faint, and I could tell I was losing a lot of blood. I let out an inaudible sigh, He is definitely going to make fun of me…

You’re probably confused, so let’s backtrack. I’m Stella, an immortal, celestial being with power over the stars. But I’m also a complete chaotic idiot, so I guess it balances out, right? A couple hundred years ago, my friend Cosmo and I pulled a prank on an early human civilization, which resulted in this cult trying to sacrifice me. They didn’t know I was one of the deities they worshiped, so I guess I can’t be too mad at them, I’m just kinda weirded out that this is how they worship Cosmo and I. Like, come on guys, this is a bit excessive.

Back in the present, my vision had begun to fade to white, I closed my eyes and everything cut out, like someone had pulled the plug on a game. When I opened my eyes, I was laying down in a small, dank cave that was littered with corpses. I left the cave and stepped into the open, lush forest, pinching my nose and fanning the air around me. “Yuck, do dead bodies always smell so bad? Those cult guys should really clean that up.”

I heard a familiar laugh and grumbled, my face falling, “Shut up Cosmo.” The black haired immortal laughed even harder and answered me in between wheezes, “I’m sorry, it’s just- you- you actually got sacrificed by your own cult?!” He bursted into another fit of laughter and I gave him a nasty look, “Okay, okay-! I’ll stop.” I cross my arms and stick up my nose, “I get that it’s funny, but it is a little degrading. To be sacrificed by your own cult, I mean.” He pats me on the back, “Yeah, I know. Remember when that cult in the 1500’s tried to sacrifice both of us? That was degrading. It was still kind of fun though.” I glanced at him, a confused look painting my face, “What do you mean fun? They chased us through the woods with ugly potato sacks on their heads. I nearly lost my family’s sacred grimoire! I don’t exactly consider that fun.” He shrugs and I think back to that day.

“Don’t let them escape! Those two are the last sacrifices we need to summon our saviours Lady Selene and Lord Cosmo!” My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I run away from the cult, a strand of my brown hair got caught in my mouth and I tried to get it out, I failed and almost dropped my book.

I stopped running and held out an arm towards the potato sack people, “Stop! Stop! Stop! I have a hair in my mouth.” Their confused and angered yelling fell upon deaf ears as I got myself situated. “Okay, I’m good.”

I started to run again, Cosmo cackling beside me, we came upon a cliff and stopped just in time.

The ugly cult leader stepped forward, he was the only one without a potato sack, and honestly, I think he’s 5 The April Perennial

the only one who needs one. Like this guy was so ugly he made gods cringe.

“Looks like you’ve ran out of room to run. Surrender now or we’ll take you by fo-” Cosmo and I jumped, cutting off the grotesque looking cult leader, he called after us as we fell, “Wha- hey!”

I felt the grimoire slip from my grasp as we landed in the freezing water below.

The moment we woke up again I had started searching for my family’s grimoire, “Where is it?!” I yelled, frantically shuffling around through the surrounding grass. Cosmo popped his head out of the tall grass, blades of the grass sticking out of his curly hair. “Found it Stella!” I ran to him and snatched my grimoire back. “Oh I thought I lost you!” I squeal, relieved to have the important book in my possession again. “You’re talking to it like it’s alive…” Cosmo says, looking at me weirdly. I turn to him with a glare, “Don’t test me. You were the one who provoked them in the first place. I wouldn’t have nearly lost this if you had just minded your own business.” He chuckled awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. “I guess I could’ve lived without insulting the leader, but you saw what he looked like! How could I not?!” I sighed and chuckled a little, “Yeah, that’s true..”

“Stella. Stella. Stella!” I snapped back out of the memory and moved Cosmo’s hand out of my face, “Would you stop snapping in my face? What is it?” He pointed to the glowing figure in front of us and I turned to them. The figure gave me a disapproving look and I sighed, “Hi Dad.” “Hi Stella. Can you explain to me why you just got out of a cave full of corpses?” I gave him a guilty smile and he continued, “Or maybe you could explain why you haven’t told me about almost losing the grimoire? Or why you have a cult that revolves around both you and Cosmo?” I chuckled awkwardly, “Well you see Dad...Cosmo and I might have, sort of...dropped a copy of our family’s grimoire way back when as a prank and it kind of spiraled from there…”

He gave me a disbelieving look, “YOU TWO DID WHAT?!” “WE WERE BORED!! IT WAS JUST A PRANK I SWEAR-!!”

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ANDY AND EMILY KLEMNT SHORT STORY

THIRD PLACE

His Book Samantha Owen

Okay, so there were red flags. There always are - I mean we’re human, being flawed is like our whole thing. But I should have known Matt’s red flags weren’t the kind I could just turn a blind eye to.

Don’t worry I’m not going to bore you by listing all the ways he failed. Like how he wouldn’t hold my hand in public. Or like how he refused to let me meet his parents. Or like how he wouldn’t look me in the eyes unless I told him exactly what he wanted to hear. I wouldn’t do that; it would take days, and I understand how boring me ranting about the supposed love of my life would be to you.

Okay, so, get this, the first time he said he loved me he didn’t even say it. He wrote it. In a book. In a foriegn language. Right before he left for a three month long trip. A three month long trip which he didn’t think to call me once.

Look, I get some of y’all would be like how romantic, he confessed to her in a book, but no, it’s really not. It’s medieval. It’s cruel. And frankly, it’s a true sign of a coward.

What’s the point of us developing our technology if we aren’t going to use it? Maybe he loved me so much that talking to me would make him miss me even more and hurt him? Well, tough. When you tell someone something of such weight, you at the very least give them a chance to react.

I’m not bitter about it. He wasn’t the one made for me. That’s fine. People move on.

How do you move on from realizing the light of your life is a spineless jellyfish more interested in saving face than looking out for you? You get rid of the evidence. You erase the proof that you were vulnerable with someone who did not deserve you.

Giving away the necklaces, pictures, and everything else was surprisingly easy, but the notes? For some reason it’s so much harder to let go of his words, of the poetry that was only ever meant for me.

I had to do it though, if I kept them, I would read them, and if I read them I would cling to them, and if I clung to them, I would cling to the hope that everything would work out for us. And I just couldn’t have that. I mean it’s hard to quit things that feel good in the moment even when we realize how bad they are for us in the long run. Look at the facts: smoking, drinking, loving.

But I, unlike Matt, was able to do the right thing despite not wanting to. So I gave away his book.

The one where he told me he loved me. The one where the first boy ever told me he could feel that way for me. The one where the only boy who mattered told me I mattered to him. The one where some punk started messing with my head.

I know it seems foolish to give away something that was so important to me, but it would hold me back. Stop me from becoming me instead of just being his. I didn’t want to be his anymore. I didn’t want to be the girl ready at his beck and call whenever it was at his convenience, but never when the timing was right for me.

Now my first thought was to burn it. Seemed symbolic and stoic and well, all the empowered 7 The April Perennial

women do it. Taylor swift in her picture to burn songs. Eliza in her song in Hamilton. I thought that if it was good enough for my idols, it was good enough for me. Who knows it might even be a healing experience.

But then I looked back at his book’s cover. Before it was his book, it was mine. My favorite. It fascinated me. It comforted me. It surprised me. It wasn’t its fault that he ruined it for me. Also, what an actual punk to ruin a book for me. It’s enough to be my villain origin story. Anyway, back to the point, I couldn’t take out my frustration on something that had been so kind to me. So, I gave it to the bookstore on the square. Someone might read it and have no idea that the real story wouldn’t be found in its pages but rather unfolding in the life of its readers.

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ANDY AND EMILY KLEMNT SHORT STORY

HONRABLE MENTION

The Rocking Chair Chloe Stokes

I could die pulling that thing. I don’t want to. They weigh about 2,000 lbs, those wagons. Just because I physically can pull it, doesn’t mean I have the mental capacity.

Oh dear! How rude of me. My name is Boss. I gave myself that name because I like to think I am the ruler of others. Now, let me explain my situation. I was chosen to be a mule for this family moving westward. Wherever they think they’re going though, can’t be far. Why, they’ve barely got anything! All they brought were some clothes, seeds, pots and pans and weird trinkets for cooking (can’t they just eat grass??) and a small black book called the . . . um . . . Bihble. My point is, they can’t travel anywhere with that little, so it won’t be too much walking . . . will it?

Over the years, I’ve learned a ton of English. Well, like little simple commands. “Go, stop, halt . . .” blah, blah. This family though wasn’t speaking any form of English I’d heard. So, when they hooked me up to the wagon, and screamed something at me, I didn’t move a hoof.

Finally we began on our way. Turns out, they were trying to tell me to ‘go.’ We began walking and man, the wagon was heavy. The eldest lady had insisted on taking this giant rocking chair. It must’ve weighed about a whole ton. Well, that’s what it felt like to me at least. We had to walk on and on with it, me and my fellow mule companion. We walked around 20 miles and then our family began to set up camp.

The next day we walked again, only 20 miles. Every day we went only this small distance and we barely got anywhere! I guess many people didn’t want to walk for longer than that.

As I was walking one day, there was a large item in my path. I couldn’t identify it so I went on walking. I stepped right through it. I backed up to examine what I’d just stepped on when I saw a face. DID I STEP ON A FACE? But as I backed up more I took a sigh of relief as I noticed it was just a painting. But why in the world is there a painting lying here on the trail?? Later on in the path I noticed more and more items along the way. They all looked pretty heavy . . . and that, ladies and gentlemen, is when I came up with my amazing realization. Families must’ve gotten rid of these heavy items because the mules couldn’t carry them.

So if I got rid of the rocking chair . . .

We were resting one day, the sun being very hot and frying us like we were potatoes, when I noticed the youngest boy in the bunch was crying. When I walked over to see what was happening, I nearly fell into this gigantic hole. Were they trying to kill me? The hole wasn’t for me.

We buried the old woman right there on the trail. The trail! We were sitting in silence and I began to think how horrible it is that she can’t have a proper burial. How horrible it is that no one will know she’s here. That her family will never be able to visit her grave. Horrible that all these grandparents have to walk this whole way and take this perilous journey just for a new opportunity for their family.

Suddenly, I was proud to pull that rocking chair, the only thing they had left of their grandmother.

I’d pull it over mountains, in valleys, over oceans. I would make sure that it reached its destination. I would 9 The April Perennial

make sure that family always had the rocking chair.

After resting for 3 days, we had to head on our way. Winter was around the corner and we had no time to lose. My companion and I were hooked up to the wagon and we started walking. Then I noticed something different. The wagon was awfully light. As I looked behind us, trying to figure out what had happened, I saw, sitting where they had buried the old woman, the rocking chair.

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APSIRNG POET CONTEST

FIRST PLACE

These Things Are Serious, By The Way Kallista Stamenov

I just want to go to sleep, but a wasp has managed to sneak in a window a door a portal (at this point I can only wonder) I once found a sunflower with multiple faces a mutated maiden with that part in the center almost completing a full circle different she may be but maybe that makes her all the more beautiful I have a cat who likes to hunt.

There are coyotes in our neighborhood so we keep the cats inside, but still he goes on the prowl running down the stairs chasing a mouse filled with catnip I’ve had a backyard light post that I just installed it didn’t need direct power, only solar for years it has patiently sat tucked away in a garage corner because I have no electrician skills I like to separate my aloe vera plants, putting them in multiple pots so they don’t get crowded. Now I probably have 80 aloe vera plants.

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APSIRNG POET CONTEST

SECOND PLACE

Broken Danielle Clark

It started out playful Something like a friendship We had no idea How it could have ended Your touch sent me soaring Something like a wake-up Under the influence It wasn’t about love And it was so twisted.

Now I’m kind of missing you.

Come what may I thought that we could be together You and I I thought that we would last forever But I was wrong.

Once again.

Now here I am, broken.

Picking up the pieces I was so in love But my love would never be enough So here I sit.

Alone again.

Hoping that you’re broken.

It was like a wild ride I had to close my eyes But it was just the cold breeze Underneath a dark sky The April Perennial 12

The feeling left me breathless I was just so weightless You left me confused Your kiss lingered on my lips And it was so twisted.

Now I’m kind of missing you.

But here I sit.

Alone again.

Hoping that you’re broken.

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APSIRNG POET CONTEST

THIRD PLACE

Consumption Chimara Okeke

Synopsis Humans often desire to tweak one aspect of their lives or the other. Be it in a physical sense or personalitywise, we delve into ourselves and find flaws. That is an innate, inevitable, and normal phenomenon undeserving of shame. But at times, we let this tendency subsume our thoughts, rendering ourselves timid and ever-wondering whether these projected flaws do indeed hold. Never was I one to ponder past and current social interactions. Perhaps this disposition stemmed from my juvenile naivete towards body language, mannerisms, and micro expressions. After all, a fifteen-year-old me hardly knew that there were several meanings behind an action as crude as a glance. From my numerous encounters with people, I have noticed a trend that irks me so incessantly. Unless alone, everyone I interact with directs all their attention to the other party accompanying me. This situation knowns no deviation. As such, I have since abandoned my former conviction of indifference towards socialization. It began as a simple query of whether my introversion warded people off. But now, this daunting thought dictates my every move in the social sphere. This worry has consumed me.

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I am an introvert with my moments of shine, Who comes alive when the moment is right.

When people I cherish surround my table, I am glad as chinks begin traversing my mundane mask.

It is easy to socialize.

Right?

Or did I miss the crash course?

I do know this; I possess warm yet fleeting memories of high school pals.

They were blunt but never shunned me in the face of others.

Their body language, I understood.

Their mannerisms held no pretense.

Today, I encounter an entirely new experience.

Before people, with an acquaintance by my side, I seek counsel on personal matters.

Yet these people remain obliged.

Obliged to devout their undivided attention to the said acquaintance.

I have taken note of this as a recurring experience.

Yet I wonder, Why is it so?

Maybe it is my approachability or lack thereof.

Whatever the reason, this phenomenon controls me without consent.

I now have a looming fear that I roam this earth unperceived.

It is a given that I will go on to meet many other people in my lifetime.

Whether I eventually untether myself from this paranoid mentality, That much is unbeknownst to me.

I can merely wish and wait, one day, For this consumption to take its leave.

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APSIRNG POET CONTEST

HONRABLE MENTION

Dreaming a Little Dream Remi Jenkins

Dreaming is believing I feel at peace at the circus Fun has begun, it is time to explore Games, giggles, and gooey snacks Animals wearing tights and tiny tutu’s I take a trip to the circus Smells, sights, and screams I don’t want to wake up I stay asleep and set to sea My friends and I spend more time in pretend Excitement fills throughout my body Smells of buttery popcorn and sweet cotton candy Fills through my nose and brings a smile on my face with it Such smells and sights to see Such little time...

We get to our final destination It is almost time to wake up and shape up I want to stay forever, however I must dream another I feel at peace at the circus Floating aimlessly and steady at sea See you later my friends, this has been fun I will cherish the good times forever See you again in my next adventure As you’re invited whenever

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APSIRNG POET CONTEST

HONRABLE MENTION

Muse of Narcissism Abigail J. Bartley

Don’t look any ol’ gift horse in the mouth, they said to me eons ago, don’t bring your youthful, pallid face near it’s teeth.

But when the thing handed to me my very own human weakness, beheaded on a platter, it’s soundless, toothless grin implored me oh-so sweetly.

By the time I’d grasped enough, to bear a verse or two, the beast’s offerings had done away with my human inhibitions.

My patron- a mute, edentulous thing- carried me through the valley.

But now it feasts on my own turn of phrase from the palms of my hands.

We, it and I, haunt their cracked steps and old paper mills, where the air is still crushing, nourishing us, breathably acrid.

Grieving the old ink-and-quill days, the days of unchecked waste, when we had reign over all.

We’re a ghastly sight, don’t think we’ve forgotten.

But rightful, for a pair that’s still somehow thriving.

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BRAD DIL MEORIAL SHORT STORY

FIRST PLACE

The Gears Krystal Aguirre

“Another day, another dime!,” there went Sarah’s boss again, always giving his daily speech. His unremitting voice had grown tiresome to Sarah. Everyday, it was the same thing: she woke up, ate, and went straight to work. Her only job was to make sure the gears of the ship were in pristine shape. Sarah’s boss, “Mr. Moneyman” she called him, never seemed to give her a break about them. “Are they oiled Sarah?

There’s no rust, right Sarah? Mind the gears, Sarah!,” on and on all the time he went, she hoped one day he may as well trip in the gears. One less annoyance wouldn’t make a difference, ay? Ah, well, it’s not like there was much she could do; she couldn’t leave. Where exactly would you go on an airship, plummet to the Earth maybe? Ha! She’d rather slug gasoline before forfeiting her life to the ship!

Ker-Klunk! “Damn…,”Sarah cursed under her breath. “The pumps…” Sarah carefully slipped through the cracks of the machinery to reach the pumps. Her thin physique was the sole reason why she was given this job; unlike her coworker, Sarah was able to move easily around the sector. She was still careful around the gears though. Everyone knew of the men who were once caught in them, to be grinded away and dragged into the darkness never to be seen again… hat a tale of misfortune. Sometimes, she swears she can still hear their screaming. Sarah tried her best to avoid such thoughts; it’s better to keep your mind out of the gutter than to drown in it.

Tsk-tssss! “There.” Sarah huffed. She’d finished changing the filters in the pumps. Now it was time to get out. Everytime Sarah came back this far she got a little claustrophobic, a bad combination for someone who works in tight spaces.

As Sarah tried to squeeze her way through the tubing, she heard an unfamiliar noise behind her.

Ticka-tacka, ticka-tacka. A persistent ticking noise, seemingly from behind the pumps, “Odd…” She’d rather not go further than the pumps but, if something were wrong with the gears, she’d never hear the end of it from “Mr. Moneyman.”

As uncomfortable as it was for Sarah, she’d rather die than be lectured by the man she distastes.

Reluctantly, she began to move further in the darkness behind the pumps. The regular facility lights didn’t go back behind the pumps. At least the strap light on her head was good for something besides keeping the hair out of her face.

With a flick, her light turned on with a soft haze.

It was clear the place hadn’t been touched in years, a thick layer of dust coating the entire area.

Shuffling across the pipes as carefully as she could, she followed the ticking noises.

Ticka-tacka, ticka-tacka it continued. How annoying, she wondered if it could be heard throughout the factory.

Ticka-tacka, ticka-tacka. It started to become louder, she was getting close. She ducked under some pipe into a clearing.

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Finally, she saw the problem, there appeared to be something stuck between two of the smaller gears. Upon inspection, it appeared to be some sort of cloth. She gave it a good yank; it didn’t budge. She tried again, and it still wouldn’t move. At last, she pulled with all her might.

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BRAD DIL MEORIAL SHORT STORY

SECOND PLACE

Orange Factory Worker Lena Nguyen

Robert

I sat at my desk with only my attention on the clock and started to count down slowly, “1:19, 1:20, and 1:23!!” **Bell rings** I wave a quick goodbye to my teacher, while being pulled by the eagerness of my feet that lead me to the sound of voices and open doors in the hallway.

“It’s time for lunch!” I tell myself grabbing onto my backpack following into the giant jam pack crowd that was beginning to form down in the cafeteria.

“What is for lunch?” The question that wanders in my head and echoes throughout the cafeteria.

I then proceed to intersect to the nearest available lunch line , but not being the average height like the others I got caught into the huge mess of a “mob”.

Unfortunately, the huge “mob” would then lead me empty handed, again. I rubbed my head in frustration only viewing the backs of people’s heads and the tiny, unreadable , size 10 font text from the lunch menu. ”It’s alright I totally didn’t want those nachos,” I incorrectly told myself , as my belly growled at the truth of how I actually felt.

“Am I actually alright?,” I told myself, holding onto the growl of my stomach.

I ended up sitting at the same table I usually sit at holding through my phone hoping I will be given another chance to head back to the line. “Only 30 minutes, ‘’ I sigh to myself as I wasn’t surprised If it meant I didn’t get a meal after waiting.

But the temptation was irresistible: the smell of the hot, cheesy sauce on top of perfectly crispy nachos linger in my nose as trays of its kind pass by me.

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Joney

I take a huge gulp internally facing the new school environment I haven’t visited in years. I spot many unknown faces and find myself getting lost every second. This wasn’t my first time here, but it’s been awhile since I’ve been here. When I get to the cafeteria, I tell myself, “don’t worry, just go in.”

Of course, it is easier to say than attempted when I enter the jammed packed cafeteria filled with hungry students that over-pack the lunch lines. Luckily , I came prepared when I packed my leftover dinner for lunch.

The next challenge for me is to find where to sit. It seemed impossible to find where to sit as I worried no one wanted me to sit with them.More specifically, I looked a little older than everyone else .

Eventually, I sat at the little table with one person sitting there. When I got to the table, the person didn’t look like they hadn’t eaten. Because they were constantly looking back at the never ending line and glancing back at my lunch.

Robert

I see something interesting, not my chances of getting nachos , but a generous smile. This smile was a person. They then gently pushed a mandarin fruit cup towards me . They didn’t tell me anything, but their generosity spoke for them . “Thanks,” I told them across the table. I grabbed a cup of beautifully sliced mandarin oranges and opened the container. Before eating I made sure their kindness was noticed as I told them again, “Thank you.”

The person seems to look new, which is my way of saying I never saw them in the hallways or any classes, but I was in highschool I couldn’t possibly know or see everyone. The tension between me and them seemed to stay calm as they weren’t bothered or nervous about sitting in front of me and watching me just eat. I thought I needed a proper introduction to myself to break the silence between us strangers, “Hi, my name is Robert.”

I said, stretching my hands towards them.

Their firm hand then touches mine and we shake hands like we were business people. They don’t respond with words, but with their gentle laugh and smile.

Joney

I feel much better after helping Robert as I could give him my family’ mandarin orange fruit cup and feel more comfortable in the school environment.

“Hi, I’m Joney ,” I said in the bit of confidence I gained, “I’m an orange worker.”

“Hi Joney, I’m a sophomore and I’m guessing you’re new,” Robert said, “ Interesting, how does it feel like working as an orange worker?”

“How does it feel?..” The sentence that clings in my head. I want words to escape, but they can’t.

21 The April Perennial

“Well I can’t say how I feel.. , but I can show you.” I nervously responded.

“Now I know this is weird, but I need you to close your eyes . I promise you, you’ll just have to believe me,” I said slowly.

Robert

I just met Joney, but I don’t know if she is the person I can fully trust. However, after their generosity I feel like it’s a way of returning her favor. I don’t immediately close my eyes, but after Joney starts to close their eyes I mirror their same actions. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Robert, Robert,” Joney whispered swiftly, “ Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” I was confused after the noise of the cafeteria was shut out.

Everything but Joney went blurry around me. The colors weren’t bright but dark. And figures started forming in my sight. This Joney I was looking at wasn’t the one I saw earlier but a younger Joney. The figures slowly form when I see a young Joney free of lines on their forehead and their soft hands sorting through piles of over ripe mandarin orange.

“This is me when I just turned sixteen,” Joney narrates from above, “ I remember the first touch of those mandarin oranges that filled me with innocence and eagerness.”

Two more figures across Joney appear. The two figures seem tired or stressed as their eyes sag down so much they appear like black tea bags. They sit next to each other separated by a wooden carved table and scattered paper.

“This is when papa and ma told me about the ongoing problem in our family’s business, and the moment I took a huge risk in my life…” Joney said a bit stronger.

My heart sinks with sympathy when I see young Joney always facing up like they didn’t need to be told ,but simply was aware what they had to do when their parents’ faces paced a concerned look to them. My mind wonders if there was any other way young Joney could help her parents’ failing business when I ask, “ May I ask what was that huge risk of yours?”

“This was gonna be my reality so I lied ,” Joney said as their voices weakened,” I- lied about everything.”

Joney’s emotions bleed through the images when I see parts of Joney’s life pass through so fast I can’t catch up. All I see are days when Joney could’ve been having regular “teenager” life be replaced with their softness hands peeling away from the acidity of the mandarin oranges. I see moments where they could’ve been sitting in a classroom learning turn into late hours of reading any books they could get their hands on.

The April Perennial 22

“ I lied how I felt and that I was still attending school,” Joney blurted out, “I didn’t want my family to worry about me. I just wanted to help as much as I could.”

The last thing I wanted to do was grab Joney up as I see moments where was Joney working endlessly for years doing the same thing over. “ First I washed the oranges then I peeled the oranges’ skin all out and inside every piece until they were skinless. Lastly I dunked the oranges in the sugary syrup where they sit to be reborn and turned into fruit cups. Repeat.” Joney said, reminiscing the steps she would never forget.

Lights start flashing as I see a unidentify figure give Joney the keys. The color of darkness turns back to normal and the sound of the cafeteria syncs back in too my ears. I look back and appreciate the last bite of my mandarin oranges, but when I look up to ask another question for Joney they aren’t there. **Bell rings

23 The April Perennial

BRAD DIL MEORIAL SHORT STORY

THIRD PLACE

Happy Birthday To Me Kerrigan Ferland

“So how old are you turning again, Dear? You know I lose count in the closet.”

“I’ll be eighteen, Mrs. Pots.”

A gasp came from every chair around the table. Had they all forgotten? It had been a while since I had seen them, sure, but I had been dreading this day all my life. Didn’t they remember?

Here I was, at my eighteenth birthday party. It was being held around my childhood home’s kitchen table, hosted by my childhood friends. It was a complete surprise, with a rainbow party hat promptly strapped to my head, and my being ushered to sit at the head of the table. Now, after exchanging pleasantries, awkward silence filled the darkness that extended beyond my chair. That and the faint sound of ticking.

“Well, eighteen... “ Purpy started, “That’s quite momentous.”

“I’m getting old,” I chuckled softly, not feeling humorous at all.

With age came change; I, being on the brink of adulthood, would be experiencing the greatest change possible. I would be leaving behind familiarity—everything I had known would become a faint trickle in the back of my mind.

As though guessing my thoughts, my guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats. I took inventory on who was here: Mrs Pots, Purpy, Lamby, Heart Bear, Pooh, and Billy. My eyes danced over all of them and as they did, I realized that these six would never fade from my memory.

“Is that your choice to make?”

A cool whisper spoke into my ear and I quickly whipped my head around to see where it had come from. Darkness stared back at me yielding nothing, yet the ticking grew louder.

“Don’t look out there sweetheart, you won’t like what you see.”

It was Mrs. Pots voice that brought my attention back. Yet, who was that who had spoken? It wasn’t a voice I’d heard before. And it was right. Was it my choice to make, saying things would never be forgotten?

It seemed as though time took everything eventually, if not in life then in death.

“So, where’s my cake?” I joked to break the ice.

“Oh yes! I will be right back with that,” cheered Mrs. Pots.

“Alright, since the birthday girl is eighteen, everyone should say their favorite memory of her from when she was a child,” said Lamby.

Each friend of mine began to tick off various memories, each one more dramatic than the first.

“Wow, I must have forgotten those minor inconveniences which had once seemed so drastic,” I muttered after some time, my cheeks turning bright red.

“See? You’re already forgetting… You’ve already forgotten so much.”

The April Perennial 24

My eyes grew wide at that response. “Who said that?”

“Said what Huny, no one said a thing,” drawled Pooh.

“You said that I’m forgetting, that I’ve forgotten…”

My friends glanced sidelong at each other upon hearing that.

“It was only in your head,” said Heart Bear quietly. “Now I should probably check on Mrs. Pots, I have no idea why that cake is taking so long.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe, my thoughts were closing in. How much could I not remember? How many laughs had faded, how many cuts already turned to scars, some already healed, most gone? The shadows seemed to creep closer as I tried to remember the last time I cried, the last time I yelled, the last time IThe thoughts no longer stayed away as the others spoke of more and more memories, all including a version of myself that I no longer knew. Who was that brazen girl with such attitude, such spark? Where had she gone, when I needed her the most?

“She was stolen by me,” buzzed the voice.

“Well, give her back!” I yelled, jumping from my chair and spinning around to confront it. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes and my head began to pound from the loud ticking that swallowed the room.

“Give what back, you’re beginning to scare us sweetheart!” spoke Lamby. “There is nothing out there, nothing! If you try to go see you will never come back and I know you’re scared of the dark, you were when you were little, so stay in this light and please stop-” “The cake is heeere!” sang Mrs. Pots as she waltzed back to the kitchen table, Heart Bear in tow.

“I don’t want cake, I don’t want to eat, please,” I whispered, turning back around. I glanced at Mrs. Pots and noted hints of stuffing on her face. Had she been crying? I looked over to Heart Bear and there was the same. I had never seen my friends cry before. They were always happy, always. Weren’t they?

“I don’t want to celebrate, not anymore.” My voice cracked on the last syllable.

“Well, whyever not?” exclaimed Mrs. Pots.

“Because I’m afraid! Can’t you see how scared I am? I have no idea what to do without you all. I don’t know where I will end up, and I hate getting older, and I hate forgetting, and I hate it, I hate it!”

I choked back sobs, wanting nothing but to be back in a time where I didn’t constantly worry about the forthcoming day.

“Oh but Dear, for eighteen wonderful years we have prepared you for this,” sighed Purpy.

“I didn’t know that things would change, though,” I whispered. “I didn’t know that getting older would make everything different. I don’t want to have to live out there all alone, I don’t want to have to leave my home. I don’t want to have to leave you.”

They all began to cry at that last statement, white fuzzy pieces sticking to the tabletop. The ticking joined the chorus of cries, and the darkness grew closer as though drawn in by all of the pain.

“Oh she’s leaving, she’s leaving!” wailed Billy. “What about Christmas? Who will I give candy to?”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered in pain. “Can’t you see I don’t want this?”

They seemed to ignore me.

“Who will hug me? Who will need me? Who will love me?” sobbed Purpy.

“I’m sorry, please stop crying.”

“Who will hold my hand, my cold, cold hand?” cried Lamby.

“Who will I love, who will need my love,” bawled Heart Bear.

25 The April Perennial

“Please please, I am begging you to stop crying! I will come to visit every chance I can!”

“Memories that are revisited are hardly ever the same,” the voice called as the room shook with cries and ticks. Shadows began absorbing the tears, growing larger as they gorged themselves.

“Even if they were the same, they would fade,” it cried gleefully.

“No they wouldn’t, I wouldn’t let them,” I cried. “I will cling to them, and I will not let go, you cannot make me-” “YOU HAVE NO CHOICE!” The voice bellowed, shattering the will I still had left.

I cried and cried, watching as the shadows began to unfurl from the walls and curl around all of my friends, soaking into their fur and soiling their stuffing. Already they were fading, right in front of my eyes.

Already I struggled to remember them all. Those thoughts crawled into my head as I tried to shake them out.

“Please don’t go,” I sobbed and sobbed. Who would I be? Who would I turn into? I knew nothing, and that was the most horrifying thought of all.

The shadows were almost done chewing their way through my friends, translucent figures filling the sobbing space.

“Mrs. Pots, please! Please stop them!”

I had to scream to be heard over the screeching of a bell, an alarm, signifying that my time was up.

“It’s alright, Dear,” Mrs. Pots said as the shadows reached for her fading eyes and lips.

“But wait, you forgot to sing! You all forgot to sing me happy birthday,” I sobbed, saying anything that could make them stay. “Please come back and sing with me, just come back!”

Everyone else was already gone, their cries still echoing around the room, mixing with the cackles of Time. It was Time; he was there, taunting me. I knew now it was him and that made me cry even harder, knowing that he was here waiting, even at the young age of eighteen, to wrap his cold grip around my throat and drag me away with him.

“I’ll sing, I’ll sing!” He shouted gleefully. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” “Please,” I whispered. The bell had begun to fade away, its last ring coming out as more of a croak, taking with it the cries of all my loved ones, my only ones. Even my sobs had begun to turn into more of a choke, a breath that I tried to use to anchor the last of my childhood as it was consumed by Time right in front of my eyes.

“Don’t leave me.”

A sympathetic smile disappeared into the darkness.

“Happy Birthday, Darling. Blow out your candles and make a wish.”

The April Perennial 26

BRAD DIL MEORIAL SHORT STORY

HONRABLE MENTION

As Daylight Dies Arabela Costulis

We walk along the twisting road, rough and ragged from disuse. The sparse chatter of our comrades sounding all around us, disturbing the peace of the forest through which we walk. The rebellion had certainly changed things, but not enough. The English are still in Ireland, where they have no business being, and they certainly do not seem like they plan on leaving anytime soon. Even the trees of the forest we walk through have a sad look about them. I gaze around me, my eyes drifting up to the sun setting behind the trees. It is getting late, and we have been walking all day. Everyone is tired, and it is evident in how much our pace has slowed.

“Hey Conner,” I say, turning to my friend, who had been dragging a couple paces behind me until now. “Do you know if we’ll be stopping soon? Everyone looks tired, and it’s getting late.”

He gives me an exasperated look, much like the ones he used to give his mother and elder sisters back home. “You’re asking me this?” he says, just as clueless as I am. He sighs, posture sagging as he considers my question. “I have no idea, Killian. I wish I did, though. It seems that the commander would forget to stop and have lunch if he wasn’t reminded.”

His impudent remark earns a small smile from me. No matter how much things changed, I don’t think he ever will. To me, at least, he’ll always be the little boy trailing after me in the village, even though now he is older; sixteen to my eighteen. “Don’t let him catch you say that. He might skip lunch on purpose.”

I say, a hint of caution making its way into my otherwise playful tone.

“I don’t think he’d ever hear the end of it, to be honest with you,” he smiles, his lopsided grin lighting up his face as he added, “besides, I bet I could sneak us something regardless. Remember that time I stole that sweet role from Mrs. Cleary? If I can get away with that, I can get away with anything!”

I laugh, and open my mouth to reply, but my words are cut short as the serenity of the forest is shattered by the echoing sound of gunfire. The once orderly procession of union soldiers broken by the prospect of an impending threat. I look around in an attempt to spot the shooter, but the impenetrable shadows behind the tree line hide any potential assailants. The aftermath of the shot, however, is plain to everyone in the company. The commander topples from his horse, the life draining out of his body as it crumples to the ground. Then they are everywhere. English soldiers come at us from all directions, the stench of gunpowder and blood filling the air as my comrades and friends fall around me.

“Connor!” I shout, attempting to be heard above all the confusion, “We need to get out of here!”

He nods, seeming to be going into a state of shock. It’s not his fault we never got to see active duty before the rebellion was crushed. It is only then that I notice the small stain of scarlet blooming on his chest, right over his heart. For a moment, all I can do is stare at that spot, my thoughts stopping altogether in disbelief. He seems to notice it just as soon as I do, swaying on his feet not a second after. I catch him just before he hits the ground, his breaths coming in shuddering gasps that seem to take all his will.

27 The April Perennial

“I can’t,” he says, panic grasping his voice as tears begin to form in his eyes. “I can’t die!” his words are now coming in short shaking sobs. “I promised my mom that I’d be back in time for Leanna’s birthday.”

“It’s okay,” I say, although I feel as though I am trying to convince my self rather than the dying boy before me. “It’ll all be alright. You’ll get to be there, and she’ll welcome you and tell you how brave you’ve been.”

“Stop,” he gasps out, his voice sounding more strained than ever. “Please don’t try to make me feel better. I know I won’t be here much longer anyway.”

“No,” I say, taking a handkerchief out of my pocket and pressing it against his wound to try and stop the bleeding, only for it to be soaked through in seconds. “Don’t say that.”

“Hey, Killian?” he says, not seeming to hear my previous statement. His eyes are clouded and unfocused, gazing toward the sky. “Are you still there? I can’t see you.” His once clear and loud voice has faded to nothing but a gentle whisper, and it is evident that he no longer has the strength to speak at a normal volume.

“I’m here,” I say, my silent tears turning into grieving sobs. The battle seems to slow around us, as if we’re on another plane of existence entirely. “I’m here,” I continue, not bothering to hide my apparent woe.

“Good,” he says, before the life fades from his still boyish face and his soul no longer lingers in his body.

I sit there for what seems like days but could not have been more than a few seconds at most. He was still innocent. He had never even seen a skirmish before today, and they killed him without a second thought. He wasn’t even a proper soldier, and they slaughtered him just as they would have any trained fighter.

I glance around at the skirmish still raging around me and turn to the corpse of a man clad in a red uniform. I pull the musket from his already cold fingers and rush out into the carnage. I shoot aimlessly at anything moving, not caring if they were friend or foe. All of them are murderers, just as I am about to be. I fire and fire and fire, unconcerned about what my bullets are hitting.

I am just about to fire again as I feel a flash of pain in my leg, and two more in my back. My adrenaline rush ends as the life runs out of me in streams of crimson, and the last thing I see before fading into the darkness are the stars beginning to show as the moon rises and night takes hold of the world and the daylight dies, just as I do.

The April Perennial 28

BRAD DIL MEORIAL SHORT STORY

HONRABLE MENTION

The Doorbell Daniela Cantu

I sat against the bottom of our grey, moth-bitten sofa. The fire flickered dimly in its place, its warmth bathing the front of my face, chest, and legs. The clean, fluffy mess at the top of my head was being combed through by Ashley’s thin, knobby fingers, her nails catching the rebel knots of dirty blond hair that had strayed her path along the way.

I tilted my shaggy head up from her palm half-heartedly and glanced towards the indent she had made on the couch. Her raven-stranded hair was pulled back behind her ears, frizzy strands of wispy hair sitting curly on her forehead.

Her eyes weren’t focused on mine. Instead, they concentrated on the book in her hand, flipped pages mimicking the sound of the fire. Discontent with not keeping her focus, I rested my jaw on her knee, rolling my chin over the cap.

Her eyes flickered towards mine and narrowed in a smug glee, and she moved her thumb to brush it over my cheekbone. “What’s wrong?” She asked softly, half of a laugh thriving in her voice.

I could only return a smile. Reciprocating, she gave my hair another ferocious shake.

A doorbell rang in the distance, and Ashley’s eyes shifted to follow. I turned my head towards the noise and let out a slight muttery noise of stroke turmoil. Ashley rested her hand on my head for a delicate moment before standing up and walking towards the front door of the spacious apartment. I quickly stood from my position and tailed her, occasionally brushing against her side.

She opened the door, and I waited behind her, keeping my head leaning towards the door.

I eyed her thumb brushing against the peephole’s slot and attempted to slot my hand against hers, something that she quickly brushed away. As unsurprising as the motion was, it frustrated me enough to press further against her, which still didn’t seem like enough to shake her from squinting into the outlook of our apartment.

I frowned, a soft noise of confusion sprouting from my lower throat. There stood a man who looked to be about eight feet tall. His posture was lanky and unnatural underneath his bulky black trenchcoat. His skin was wrinkled and leathery, a dark, whole black. I could see throbbing veins from underneath his thin skin like they were screaming to be removed. My eyes panned up to his face. His head was completely bald but as leathery and veiny as the rest of his coated body. His lips were spread from ear-to-ear in a twisted smile, the indentions in his mouth chapped and split, his charred lips beaten and burnt to a crisp. Its eyes were wide and white, almost as if a thick filmy fog had been cast over it, showering its glare over white pupils. It also had no nose. Instead, a slight dip rested where it should be as if it had been carved out. Just looking at the thing made a spine-tingling chill run down my spine.

29 The April Perennial

I tilted my head up to Ashley’s, wanting to know how she reacted to this thing, searching for a crevice I could fill to protect her. I was used to seeing reactions created by a similar cause. Her responses would be taut and nimble, tiny yelps in surprise and anguish falling from her mouth without delay or hesitation.

She would squeeze me close as I struggled to break free from her tenacious grip. I guess a way to describe that look and stressed movements would be fear, and based on the face of the thing, that should be her reaction, right?

Incorrect. Ashley passed me a confused and uninterpretable expression, and it looked as if it were passing through the beast. ‘Can she not see it?’ I pondered internally, and I watched Ashley tilt her head towards me from the thing. She chuckled lowly, shaking her head; strands of stray, rebel black hair fell onto her shoulders from the motion of the loose bun.

“Shy, I think we’ve been ding-dong ditched.” She hummed, leaning downwards to make eye contact with me.

“Maybe you could search for the kids and track them down.” She joked.

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Can you not see it?” I whispered, staring over towards Ashley. She looked down at me, confused, before laughing.

“There’s nothing there, Shy. Let’s go back.” Ashley stated, gently tugging on my shoulder. I stood still, unmoving, completely dumbfounded. “Can you not see it? Look.” I exclaimed, frustrated.

Our next-door neighbor gently pushed their door open, tiredly stepping out to glance over. Christ, I didn’t think that I had been that loud. Ashley dragged me back into the house, swearing underneath frustrated huffs of air. “What’s gotten into you?”

Before she could close the door, I looked back towards the thing, falling silent. I swear I saw the thing’s cracked, ashy, split lips split into a bloodcurdling, horrific grin. My stomach twisted into knots.

We were back in the same position we were a few minutes ago, her hand threading rows in my shaggy hair. My eyes weren’t transfixed on her; they were on the wall next to the crackling fire; the spots of flicking flame engulfed into nothing along the border. The thing had consumed the fire flickering, its presence overwhelming that of the fires.

I stared at it, my heart thumping frantically in my chest, mimicking that of a frantic hummingbird’s wings. It stared back, its eyes wide and unmoving, unnerving above its twisted, horrific grin. It sat there, just staring. The only thing that seemed to be moving was its pulsing veins, sickening to watch. I noticed Ashley’s hand shift in my hair, doubling back towards her leg in a resting manner, and I flinched, snapping my shagged head towards her.

She looked down, her eyebrows jumping a hurdle of surprise. Then, she tilted her head towards where I was staring, creases of confusion forming between her hurdled brows.

“Do you see it? Please, tell me, give me some sort of a sign that you can!” I frantically spoke, my voice shaking in my raw throat. She gave me another confused look. I knew she was surprised at my frantic babbling because she shot me a look of concern.

“What’s there? What do you see?” She asked softly, reaching her hand down to reassure me. I snapped my gaze towards her, and she flinched her hand back, eyes widening in disbelief.

The April Perennial 30

“Stop trying to reassure me! I’m not crazy!” I barked at her, frustration filling my body.

I scampered from her, racing towards the throbbing figure, growling out threats that were weak in my mind from fear.

“Leave us alone, I can see you!” I screamed, throwing myself at the being, which disappeared, and I ultimately passed through it, smashing a vase that rested on the fireplace’s outer rim.

“Oh my god, Shiloh.” Ashley groaned loudly, her stare flickering towards my quivering body. I looked down at my hand; it was bleeding.

She grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and started to tug me away as I continued to howl furiously, fighting and clawing at the thing, furious. Why wouldn’t she let me protect her? It was dangerous. It was coming closer!

“I have no idea what’s gotten into you, Shiloh.” She huffed. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of it. It was approaching, its twisted limbs contorting as it crept. My disgust towards it only seemed to increase with every bit of movement made and abnormal bodily function. Despite this, I couldn’t help but stare into it further. Its veins throbbed rapidly and exceptionally, bones threatening to tear through leathery skin. Its lips spread into a wicked grin, hundreds of bloodstained, needle-thin teeth showing through its split lips. A thick velocity of horror escaped me.

I was dragged off into my room, a shin gently shoving me further inside. The door shut before I could turn back around. I clawed at the door, my nails digging into the wooden mold. I was screaming, my hoarse yells quieting as my throat cracked and burned. Ashley’s footsteps began to grow faint.

Then, everything went quiet.

Then, it wasn’t.

I heard a loud, thick scream that cut through the suffocating silence, and I started weeping, clawing at the door. The screams never seemed to end but crescendo. Finally, I collapsed on the ground, screaming in chorus with Ashley. My shaken vision twitched down towards my tiny, clawed, hairy legs, screaming even louder until the only thing that filled the air was my own hollering.

As I stared at my small, furry limbs, my barking growing faint into whimpers, I began to wish that I had hands.

31 The April Perennial

GARLAND RAY WALACE POETRY

FIRST PLACE

Recognition Trent Jaurez

Thighs on this chair plush like wood.

As do all trees, I sit and bow around my center with solemnity, the hidden solidity of breath-full bodies.

Stubborn puddles of sight burst before, no, within where mind meets mine— nothing that I am.

Beginning again, standing and taken up by space, I shudder with wind-blown grass while the ground underfoot recognizes her departed and beloved blade.

The April Perennial 32

GARLAND RAY WALACE POETRY

SECOND PLACE

Drained is an Understatement Trent Jaurez

Drained is an understatement Giving every ounce of essence Carving out every inch of fight Squeezing every strand of life Pumping away every heartbeat Leaving a corn husk of a person Sunken eyes that have solidified to grey Mindless obedience to a ruthless schedule Life ceases to have any appeal Essence smothered to an unrecognizable shade of begging Shame’s knocks are silenced with a numbing infection Imbedded with darkened echo rippling off of generosity Leading to an incurable, raging loneliness With a pressure time imposes on the lacking help Numb is stitching to mask the desireless The never desirable Having loneliness tack up a hefty number of wins Out willed by devious feelings Out numbered by truth Out desired by giving Life ceases to have any appeal The grieved stricken nails in desperate haste claw at an emptiness That seeps into every pore Exhaustion settles for a lockout of joy Days blur with a hazy repetition Entrapment on the hands passing numbers Settling in unchangeable outcome Settling in heartbreak Setting in incurable self loathing Life ceases to have any appeal 33 The April Perennial

GARLAND RAY WALACE POETRY

THIRD PLACE

Pages Left Molly Jessup

I can’t put a book down before its end It’s someone’s child, right?

Someone’s darling aching frustration work distraction, back of the eyes far-away look all-night worrier, caffeine addiction Don’t give up when the going gets rough Someone loved this so don’t end it yet, not yet Listen to what they have to say I’m the hand that never stops feeding and it was okay that you didn’t try when we started because we were a first edition and the prologue’s never as good as the first chapter so forgive the prose and wait for the narrative to kick in Spinning dials on clocks slow like molasses, like a beetle on skin like the heat in July like the minutes I’m counting waiting waiting breaking with the pages turned into years of where were you and please forgive me and your mother’s shaking voice like tender branches in winter and the ice on your lips So we change again flip the mattress, rinse without scrubbing, dress in a nicer jacket settle with time The April Perennial 34

And I wear you like a blanket so I can’t see the door you slip through probably nervous probably excited the way we did when we were kids but now it’s just you and I can’t put the book down And after it’s done and the days crack like eggs spilling yellow on this fine print I’m still reading and re-reading looking for the lost passage to justify the purchase You were a boy who never grew into a man and I was the hand that never stopped feeding because I can’t put the book down

35 The April Perennial

GARLAND RAY WALACE POETRY

HONRABLE MENTION

Dad’s Poem Lynn Peters

He loves music, any and all kinds, His favorite, barbershop quartets, That’s four singing at one time.

I was told once you must love children, animals and flowers Or something was wrong!

He does that and more His joy of life and love of family is very strong.

He is Ward, Dad and Poppa To those who love him the most.

He is Friend to many Always giving, too gracious to boast.

I sometimes wonder, why me To be so lucky To have a dad As wonderful as he.

He soon will have to leave us Many will weep, he would tell us not to cry.

For he will always be with us In our hearts and minds, wipe the tear from your eye.

As time passes and the memories dull the pain Look to the stars in the sky, he is the one The one shining brightest And smile again and again and again.

The April Perennial 36

GARLAND RAY WALACE POETRY

HONRABLE MENTION

Moisturize Andrea de Freitas

One moisturizer for face Another each for lips and eyes A third one for neck and chest A fourth for belly and thighs A thicker one for legs To help prevent in-growns Only if they’re smooth and shaved Will they ever be shown A separate one for nails Cuticles to be precise And then one more Just for smelling nice Yet another I only use at night Each one deployed in this relentless Anti-aging fight

37 The April Perennial

GIFTED PEN POETRY

FIRST PLACE

Questions for an Eraser Grace Curran

Rubbery and soft Like a therapist for small mistakes You live everywhere In the soft scratching of student’s pencils To the angry scrawl of a snappy lawyer You sacrifice yourself To remedy other’s fumbles Do you hate pencils?

Do you feel like they are wobbly and stupid Not responding fast enough to the hand Do you hate the fact / that humans make them sharp / When it only makes mistakes harder for you to erase?

Do you feel like a slave?

Do you try to inch away and be lost?

Or so you accept your fate of being used?

Are you like a hero?

Gracing the world one valiant act at a time?

Tell me your mental state.

The April Perennial 38

GIFTED PEN POETRY

SECOND PLACE

Faded Vivianne Smith

He broke it He promised The trust The bond Covered in dust Nearly fading Almost gone The fog too thick to see through I’m almost blind Scared to see the other side Nearly Faded Almost gone As I sit on the sidewalk sad and betrayed From me he’s probably already strayed On to another he’s dwindling away Nearly Faded Almost gone Cold and frozen I lie awake Waiting for him but he never came Even though I still hold him deep inside I need to let go of the memories I hide Now when I think my mind is clear Of regrettable dreams and wasted years Fully faded Now he’s gone

39 The April Perennial

GIFTED PEN POETRY

THIRD PLACE

A Key Will Always Be a Key Teagan Lindsey.

The key will always be a key, not a bee, a tree, not a banshee.

The key shall not be destroyed, it will not avoid the meaning of its purpose, never being worthless.

A key always has a use with no excuse, whether to be a key or not you could always be an astronaut, who floats freely in space, with a spirit full of grace.

A key could open a door, which could lead to your core, which is always fun to explore what’s yours?

A key can also be more than just a key, a key could fly free like a bird that’s absurd.

Knowing your worth even on your own turf, Acting like a cow that meows, or maybe a horse of course.

Trying to become something that’s not you, which could maybe be true.

A color like baby blue could be for you, or maybe green could be seen.

But you would think a key could never change, but there is always hope, looking through a telescope.

A key will always try its best nevertheless, for it is a key that can soar unlike a boar that is fat like ya granny’s cat.

A key can be a toy, which if played with will annoy others around the ground, they cannot smile so they will frown.

You can read a book that will not be took from captain hook, but i have a key so i can fly free, and soar for more like a nobel prize, if that happens my mother will arise. In the end a key will always be a key hanging out on a tree.

The April Perennial 40

GIFTED PEN POETRY

HONRABLE MENTION

The Past Present and Future Skyler Layco.

At 1 you are free, no care in the world but me At 3 you are growing all of your cares you are throwing At 5 you are alive meeting new friends is the way you thrive At 9 you feeling devine devastatingly you find out your allergic to pine At 7 you are in heaven you are at recess then all of the sudden your 11 What fun! Being the oldest and getting stuff done!

Then at 13 you have power flourishing and growing by the hour At 15 things go down, highschool has made you drown 17 you are miserable college applications have made you want to be invisible At 19 you have settled down and seen new people and places with friends all around.

41 The April Perennial

KEITH KING MEORIAL POETRY

FIRST PLACE

The Stars Were Enough Cassidy Wong

A meteor shower tonight, said my dad It was late Late enough that the fluorescent of my room Long replaced the light between my blinds Casting odd shadows onto the clutter A pandemic left in its wake Leaving it behind, I pad out to the driveway Only in t-shirt and shorts December winds breezing past Toes shivering against biting gravel First, I look Nothing looks back Above is expectedly black But then a dot of light flickers Saturn Her ringlets glistening A primadonna Another and another and another flit into view Not waiting expectantly for a finale The troupes of constellations are content with their own show Debuting on unusually clear night, perfect for staring Standing on the driveway, in a jacket this time Bouncing from one foot to another A frenzied dance halted only by the view Stars multiply two fold Five fold Ten fold I am reminded that it’s been ages, years even that I’ve looked at them like this The April Perennial 42

All the tiny pieces coming to make a mosaic of holes in the darkness, light out pouring “Are they always like this?” I asked.

“Probably, but we’re never out here to see it.”

We waited for till our toes turned ice in the night air Soon, in the wake of starry multitudes Prospects of a meteor shower were left Forgotten Taking a step back I realize each moment, each day only snapshots of the world’s biggest collage.

Stars dotting our night sky as Millions of single instances that dot out landscape Not a prelude to some grand shower of light For the presence of the parts themselves serve as the culmination A metaphor both all encompassing but small enough to be held in a sentence.

Like the meteor shower though, It will never come and it doesn’t have to For there are a million little ones In friendly glances in the halls In the zoom calls, hearts connected through laughter In masks we wear, and try to smile through In the space we give others, not out of disgust, but respect In the little buds, Growing persistent In spite of the December winds that threaten to flatten them In every star, helping us realize that we are part of something bigger In the realization that through it all, The world will come to heal.

That night I learned the solace in the present That though this world isn’t a poem There is beauty in its raw and indisputable Reality Built of a thousand moments Upon a thousand metaphors not captured by prose Anyways, there was no meteor shower after all But the stars were enough.

43 The April Perennial

KEITH KING MEORIAL POETRY

SECOND PLACE

an open letter to the bees Kate-Yeonjae Joeng

please tell the bumble-buzzers my apologies / but in the meantime, i shall / strum a harmonica and summon the slow elven dancers, prune shrubs / intertwined in wild figs and winery, indulge in the sting / of beetle-bee and twang. when the dust bunnies lilt / from sundown’s shadows and lolly-snails slip into sepia, i’ll caress / empty air. when the sniffling mice / teeter on bare branches, i’ll fall through thunder. when the star-facing flowers wilt in curvature and butterflies flutter like / wisps, i’ll strike / the hollow earth in an epiphany all whilst rushing / amidst scattered eggshells of / a weeping robin.

The April Perennial 44

KEITH KING MEORIAL POETRY

THIRD PLACE

My Mothers Magnolia Maryam Anwar

My mother once told me That with the bloom of every flower Comes passion Purity, ¨much like you, my magnolia.¨ I just wish she had told me That life isn’t kind to pure souls.

Purity is seen as a flaw.

My head swirls with burdening and self destructive thoughts Too many to oversee, as much as I wish to repress.

So I write them down Obsessively.

Others praise those words in black ink, As if they are worth something, anything.

But I know I will never see it the way they do Because I’m just a girl with a pen, paper, And a desperate mind eating itself from the inside out.

People view me as a painting, They admire, they criticize.

With that, My mother´s precious magnolia withers Bringing fragility As the last petal falls.

45 The April Perennial

NCTC CREATIVE NOFICTION

FIRST PLACE

On the Broken Self Wanizhah Zahra

Alexa, play “Fix You” by Coldplay To you who’s broken… brace yourself.

I’ve been around for 23 years now. 5 of which were lonesome. 12 of which defined the harsh reality of this world. And the remaining 6 of which came truth. **** The first 5 years of my life, I was an only child. I spent most of my days playing with my dolls, watching Caillou, and talking to my only friends–my fingers.

I’ve never felt a connection with my parents. Not in thoughts, not in feelings, not in anything that a 5-yearold would want to connect their parents with. So, when I did talk to my “friends,” I’d talk about things that I never got to talk to my parents about. Like how my first day at kindergarten was, or how I made an A on that terribly difficult sight word test, or how I wanted a bike.

A bike to help me escape. Escape from the pitiful world that I built with my finger friends. An escape from the pain lingering inside me.

The three words my parents never said to me. “I love you.” **** Growing up, I was constantly reminded of my loneliness. Whether it came from seeing other kids and their siblings, other kids and their connection with their parents, or other kids with the one thing I wanted– a friend.

What is a friend? **** The next 12 years of my life, I was blessed with three younger siblings. It felt good for a while, but they were too young to understand my pain. Yes, I could’ve called them my friends, but sometimes siblings can’t understand what a friend can and vice versa. I was more than grateful for having them in my life— The April Perennial 46

but in my life, it seemed that all the good things that happened to me were balanced with cursed events that followed after.

I spent facing the torment of my teenage years– middle school and high school. I was always considered an outcast in middle school, mostly because of the way I looked. I was given the nickname “Chewbacca”, for my body was hairy, which was exposed when I wore my uniform in middle school– a blue, half-sleeved polo and navy/khaki pants. I spent my lunch break in the girl’s bathroom, as tears dripped into my sandwich. What did I do to deserve this? I stayed there and ended up skipping my 7th and 8th periods.

Days like that were ordinary for me. Pathetic, right?

In high school, I started wearing makeup. And was soon acknowledged, by people I’ve never been acknowledged by. I actually had… friends.

I was a naïve 15-year-old, swayed easily by the compliments I got for my appearance. It felt good, I finally felt accepted. I finally felt like I belonged. But all good things come to an end and the pain of some endings isn’t worth the good things.

It was good, for a while.

Looks weren’t the only thing that changed, though.

During my sophomore year, I had this teacher. He was skinny, height average. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a long time. He always wore either brown, blue, or black slacks, and lacked a sense of fashion. The only thing that stood out to me, were his olive, green eyes.

That longing look of his… I finally understood.

I’ll never forget the New York Yankee’s sticker on the back of his car, appearing when I walked home, or to a friend’s house, I hoped that it was all my imagination.

He was my teacher, but now my stalker.

That longing look of his, was like a lion looking at its prey. He wanted something from me.

Something that a teacher and student shouldn’t exchange. Something that I STILL can’t get off my mind.

What he wanted was to quench his lust, just like a lion quenching its hunger by eating its prey.

What he wanted wasn’t me, but my body.

The word love or to be loved seemed like such a trivial thing.

What is love? **** 47 The April Perennial

The 6 years after that, was where I learned the truth– about myself and about friends.

Friends are people that you can trust, confide in, friends are people that stay by your side.

July 25th, 2013. The night before I would come back from a week-long conference at Columbia University.

There was a party that took place the night before I came home, and present re-occurring flashes of me in another person’s room, hands unbuttoning my shirt, a face that I couldn’t recognize, a voice telling me to break the rules. Something had happened that night before I came home, something I till this day couldn’t figure out, something that had altered my overly- extroverted personality completely to its opposite, something that happened before my mind went black… and suffered later on.

I tried, so hard to figure out what had happened that night. I asked everyone that was at the conference. I asked the people I considered my friends, only for them to turn me down.

I didn’t have a friend, not then, not now, not when I learned I had schizoaffective disorder, when I realized, just how broken I really was.

I was 17 when I found out. It all made sense. I would always hear voices shouting at me in my head, they sounded so real, like they were people talking to me, but only in my head. I would see things… people.

I would see him, everywhere I went. I felt like I was being followed by him, when he was actually almost 1,800 miles away– in New York. I would talk to myself, not my finger friends, so much that my throat would hurt. I would say things that didn’t make sense. I would utter the name of one person— my roommate from that conference. She had some sort of connection to what really happened, or at least that’s what my therapist said. I’ve never felt more alone than I had then. I spent each night curled up in a ball crying in a corner of my bedroom. I cried for help, but no words ever came out. I was in a constant battle, with myself.

To feel a deep affection for someone is what is considered to be love. I desperately wanted someone—anyone, to feel that way about me. I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to be free of my cursed mind. I wanted a friend, a companion to share these thoughts and feelings with.

A broken mind, and a broken self. I stood on the edge of the roof of my high school, awaiting my painful ending, when I felt someone yank be back.

And that’s when my parents first said, “I love you.”

The April Perennial 48

NCTC CREATIVE NOFICTION

SECOND PLACE

Please Pay at Next Window Jacquelyn Savannah

I wanna tell you about my mom. Yes, my mom. When COVID hit and high school’s Senior year sent us home and goin’ to college started lookin’ pretty bleak, she’s the one who encouraged me when we couldn’t afford it. She’s the one who’s inspired me to pursue my dreams; to fight. She’s an ex-firefighter/ paramedic and fights harder than anyone I know. Twenty-one years and two months ago, she graduated NCTC’s paramedic program; made a whole career outta helping others. And I’m the culmination of her, the hero who’s raised me.

Her story began at age 22, working six-days-a-week at the local ER as a medic tech. September night, just off a busy shift, she stopped at Taco Bueno starvin’ to death. Minutes after 11:00pm, she told me her sad little 12-year-old Corsica, the lil’-car-that-could, sputtered to a stop never to rise again under the glow of that fast-food ordering sign. Restaurant’d only just minutes before closed. Couldn’t rouse the guy moppin’ to open the window; he just waived and pointed, ‘Duh, at the “Closed” sign. Her car dead; engine wouldn’t click over. 100 degrees still, scrubs soaked through, clinging to her back. No cellphone back in those days; she walked over to the closed 7-11 payphone after scouring her car floorboards and the drive thru lane for coins. My father and her in a fight earlier and he wasn’t picking up. Couldn’t find any more change to call anyone else. So, she walked back to the drive thru in the dark, sat on the car’s hood, eight months pregnant with me. Put her head on her knees and cried.

Car pulls up behind sometime later. Guy she couldn’t see, hidden by his headlights asks if she’s okay; is Taco Bueno still open? Is something wrong with her car? He gets out. She shouted at him to Go Away! He stepped closer; she grabs her keys, ready to shank him. ‘Guess he saw too ‘cause she said he changed his tone, started talking like she was this frightened deer; offers to sit behind until the tow comes.

She yells again at the poor dude, telling him she had no freakin’ money for a tow; please sir, kindly GTFO. And said she started crying again (ugh, hormones!) He ignored her threats, sloooowly inched over, gently sat down on the curb below her. She was all W…T…H… are you doing? Sits there, head bowed a minute, pickin’ and flickin’ gravel along the pavement. And quietly, softly, said he recognized her from the ER. ‘Cause she was pregnant too. AND ‘cause of her black eye. And in that moment, it clicked. And she recognized him right back; treated his wife three nights ago having her miscarriage; they said her third one in five years.

Offered to help her with her car. Uh yeah, that’s a big “No”-there, freaky stranger! Thanked him kindly for his offer, said she dismissed him stiffly, politely as she could.

Said he couldn’t leave her there, young lady, middle of the night, dark area. Promised he wouldn’t hurt her; so of course, she broke down crying again (ugh, pregnancy tears have gotta suck!). Said in the headlights she could see HE started tearin’ up too (yuck, even worse!) Okay, fine. So, she slid off her hood, 49 The April Perennial

let him push her car in neutral through the drive thru lane into a spot straight across in the parking lot. And he used his cell phone to call her a cab. Waited ‘til it arrived; paid the driver with two tens and refused to write down his info so she could pay him back. She made it home safe, back to my father who caused her black eye, who couldn’t be bothered to answer the phone. And then she left him for good tha’morning… ‘day I was born.

19 years later, mom and I sittin’, waiting, in the Dairy Queen drive thru. Suddenly, car in front of us brakes hard, tires squeal. Drivers’ door flings open, dude reaches behind, starts grabbin’ something. Fumbles his cellphone; in haste it tumbles under the car. Mom jerks the gear shift puttin’ our SUV in park, yells for me to call 9-1-1. She rushes over, yelling, What’s wrong? Dude’s shaking something in the backseat; panic-screaming somethin’ unintelligible over and over. Kid in the backseat; his face turning black, eye vessels popping red. My mom reaches in, fumbles with the straps. Under his arms, flips him around, squeezes him to her chest a couple thrusts before the nickel he’s choking on pops out, clicking on the concrete. Ambulance whines close as she hands the now screaming toddler back to dad, pats his back, and collapsed on the curb panting. We wait there ‘til the Medics clear, little boy’s just fine. Dad gets him back in his car seat; comes over to us before moving his car out of the drive thru. And in that split second my mom and him recognize each other. Same guy from that night all those years ago. All breath, all speech, sucked from my mom’s mouth. He remembered her too. They both stood there, neither knowing quite what to say. He offers to hug her (yeah-no, she declined). So instead, he clumsily grabbed and hugged me, over my shoulder thankin’ my mom a zillion times for saving his kid. She makes this squinty face, waived it off; aww, no big deal. Minutes stretch out. Cars behind start honking. So, he gives me one more quick squeezy hug, making wide eye contact with my mom, nodding his head. And turns back to his car. And as he’s walking away, she calls out to his back quietly, not sure if he heard (but I know I did), and she says, “Thank you for saving mine.”

Not everyone gets to be raised by their heroes. I’m only a 20-year-old broke college student and may not be worth knowing yet. But because of my mom, someday, I promise you… I will.

The April Perennial 50

NCTC EXPOSITORY WRITING

FIRST PLACE

How Social Media Allowed the Rise of QAnon Addison Smith

On January 6, 2021, my family and I buzzed around the house all day with our eyes glued to our screens. I remember on that day checking and refreshing news feeds and social media accounts to see if there was any more news about the mob on the Capitol. In the hours afterward, we began seeing photos and videos of the mob breaching the capitol and posing in senators’ seats. Many of the protestors at the Capitol had shirts or flags emblazoned with a large “Q,” the symbol for QAnon, a conspiracy theory that began circulating the internet in 2016. How did we get here? QAnon is a conspiracy born and raised in the depths of the internet, and it spread through message boards and social media. The core belief of QAnon is that elite Democrats and other people in high-power positions run a satanic pedophilic and cannibalistic cabal, and former president Donald Trump was secretly fighting to take down the sextrafficking ring. Conspiracy theories about child abuse are nothing new, according to journalist Adrienne LaFrance in an interview with NPR’s Dave Davies. LaFrance says “QAnon really borrows from earlier conspiracy theories and kind of eats lesser conspiracy theories as it goes” (Davies and LaFrance). Another fundamental belief of QAnon is that the media cannot be trusted. The combination of these beliefs led to rampant, unchecked misinformation on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube, which led to the violent insurrection on January 6. QAnon was allowed to spread and become truly dangerous because of lenient social media moderation and has shown how dangerous unchecked spread of misinformation on social media can be; the platforms that allowed those conversations to take place need to be held responsible for not intervening.

To understand how an outlandish conspiracy theory resulted in a mob on the Capitol trying to disrupt the results of the 2020 presidential election, it is important to understand how QAnon became so popular and widespread. The insurrection on January 6 was not a sudden outlash from an angry political party, it was a culmination of years of online misinformation and distrust that had been simmering on the back burner of American politics. QAnon had been recruiting followers since late 2017 and manipulating them into seeing the “truth.” QAnon was unique in the fact that it encouraged believers to do their own research to find the truth behind hints left by Q, the leader of the conspiracy. These hints were posted on the message board website 8Kun and became known as “Q drops” to believers. Game designer Reed Berkowitz explains how QAnon is so alluring to believers because of how it is designed in “QAnon Resembles the Games I Design. But for Believers, there is No Winning.” According to Berkowitz, “The QAnon call to “do the research” breaks down resistance to new ideas. Guiding people to arrive at conclusions themselves is a perfect way to get them to accept a new and conflicting ideology as their own … [and] instills a distrust for society and the competence of others” (Berkowitz). In other words, because Q encourages people to come to their own conclusions instead of telling them what to believe, followers of Q are more certain of their beliefs and the “truths” that they found. Avi Selk and Abby Ohlheiser go further to explain how QAnon spread in their article “How QAnon, the Conspiracy Theory Spawned by a Trump 51 The April Perennial

Quip, Got so Big and Scary.” In the article, Selk and Ohlheiser argue that “Q’s messages were so vague that fans could easily graft their preferred fantasy villains onto its cabal of Democrat-led globalists” (Selk and Ohlheiser). The problem with QAnon is that the conspiracy theory fed on real fears. Child abuse and sex trafficking are real problems that society deals with, and once it was established to believers that there was a secret pedophile ring, anyone could be transformed into a Satan-worshipping pedophile. QAnon is a unique conspiracy theory because instead of telling its followers what to believe, they are encouraged to learn the “truth” themselves and to find hidden clues and secrets like in a game. The core belief of QAnon, that there is a secret, satanic pedophile ring among high-ranking people, allowed followers to paint anyone distrusted as a villain. The empowerment given to followers by doing their own research, and the belief in a great evil in the form of a satanic pedophile ring posed were just two of the warning signs that social media platforms should have been aware of before the insurrection on January 6.

While QAnon started on message boards, it would not have had as much of a far-reaching affect if it were not for social media sites and news channels. Once QAnon was established and gained followers, it had to spread to major social media platforms in order to have any real impact. Social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube gave QAnon the power it needed to become dangerous. Matt Gertz explains in the article “From Pizzagate to the Capitol Riot: How Rightwing Media Extremism Led to the January 6 Insurrection” that prior to the 2016 presidential election, “conservative leaders spent decades telling their supporters not to believe reporting from mainstream news sources and building an elaborate partisan media infrastructure and for them to use instead” (Gertz). Years before Trump became president the conservative media world had been trained to distrust any media that did not come from rightwing sources. This primed conservatives to not only reject evidence that conspiracy theories were circulating with rapid speed, but to also readily accept anything Trump says as truth. Trump was the savior in QAnon, but he also may have been the most important figure in spreading and legitimizing the conspiracy. According to Gertz, “[Trump] personally consumed hours of rightwing media content each day, turning its particular obsessions into federal policy,” he goes on to add “Trump retweeted QAnon adherents more than 300 times” (Gertz). To QAnon believers, Trump’s open support of the conspiracy not only legitimized their ideas but gave them power and a platform to spread more content, and ideas from Trump’s social media feed influenced his federal policy decisions. QAnon came into its power on social media platforms. Conservative Republicans had been primed to believe any ideas that came from rightwing sources long before Trump became president.

The combination of conservatives rejecting non-conservative news and Trump’s open support for QAnon on Twitter made the perfect storm that allowed QAnon to flourish.

When thinking of the damage that QAnon has done, violent images from January 6 come to mind.

However, QAnon has shaken the trust in U.S. government in ways that may last for decades. QAnon’s core belief is that there is a secret ring of pedophiles and cannibals that many political figures and social elite are a part of, and the government has covered it up. While many people may not believe this idea word for word, the far reach of a conspiracy theory built on this idea breaks down confidence in government and elected figures in subtle ways. One of the major ways that QAnon has impacted the public’s confidence in the U.S. government is with uncertainty about the 2020 election. Marc-André Argentino mentioned in “QAnon and the Storm of the U.S. Capitol: The Offline Effect of Online Conspiracy Theories” how in October of 2019 he had warned “if there were delays or other complications in the final result of the presidential contest, it would likely feed into a pre-existing belief in the invalidity of the election- and foster a chaotic environment that could lead to violence” (Argentino). The 2020 presidential election was a point of contempt to QAnon believers. Many were thoroughly convinced that the election had been rigged, and that Trump had really The April Perennial 52

won. These ideas were further spread by Trump, who took to social media and local news to repeat the sentiment. QAnon contributed to the uncertainty over the election and set the stage for a violent encounter.

The impact of QAnon seeps deeper than public confidence. LaFrance explains that “the number of congressional candidates who follow Q, or, in some cases, have even made Q part of their policy [is] in the dozens” (Davies and LaFrance). When congressional candidates like Marjorie Taylor Greene believe in Q, QAnon-supported policy and legislation will inevitably make it into congressional conversation. The danger in this comes when people who believe in government cover-ups and stolen elections become the authors of new laws, facts and accountability no longer matter when laws are being made. While January 6 is the most obvious impact of QAnon, the long-term effects are much more far reaching. The legitimacy that QAnon has been granted by former president Donald Trump gives credibility to the concern that government processes like elections are rigged. These fears undermine confidence in the government and are magnified by the presence of QAnon believers running for congress. Censoring QAnon on social media and preventing its spread could have prevented this weakened confidence in government and public officials.

Many social media users will argue that restricting certain ideas to prevent the spread of conspiracy theories will go against the free speech principles that social media platforms are built on. Their concern that limiting ideas on social media restricts free speech and makes open-minded discussion difficult is valid; however, unmonitored spread of dangerous ideas and misinformation is what allowed QAnon to flourish and grow into the threat that it became, and because QAnon was not censored until the movement became violent, it is too late to prevent QAnon and other conspiracy theories from spreading on social media. Alex Shephard explains in the essay “YouTube’s Fake News Problem Isn’t Going Away” how curbing fake news on YouTube is impossible with how the site is currently run. “One of the “deeper, subconscious needs” YouTube is built to fulfill leads people to insane conspiracy theories,” Shephard argues, “[and] part of the problem is that the social concept of “trending” is inherently broken” (Shephard). YouTube’s algorithm is designed to highlight videos that are gaining attention, and the most popular videos get put on a “trending” list. The fundamental problem with trending videos is that they are selected on views and popularity only, with no regard to if the video is misleading, has misinformation, or is downright dangerous. When videos containing misinformation are given a spotlight on a site’s front page, it can expose more people to fake news and conspiracies without them knowing the video is fake. This problem is not self-contained to YouTube, fake news and censorship loopholes are becoming an increasing problem in podcasts. In the article “Extremists Use Podcasts to Exploit Social Media Moderation Loophole,” Tali Arbel says “podcasts suffer from the same misinformation problem as other platforms, [but] it’s harder to analyze information from video and audio than text” (Arbel). While people continue to make content for QAnon, it is increasingly important for social media platforms to step up and prevent that content from getting onto people’s feeds. The added difficulty that podcasts present of analyzing audio makes it even easier to spread misinformation and conspiracy rhetoric. Social media platforms have made attempts following the January 6 insurrection to curb the spread of QAnon content. However, popular media forms like podcasts and videos prove that there are far too many loopholes for QAnon believers to get around and spread their content on social media.

QAnon came into the public eye on January 6, 2021, when a mob stormed the Capitol to disrupt the results of the 2020 presidential election. However, QAnon did not become a problem in January. The insurrection was a result of years of unchecked spread of misinformation and conspiracy theories.

Republican and rightwing leaders had conditioned their supporters for years to not listen to any bipartisan

53 The April Perennial

news, which primed the Republican party to willingly accept QAnon when it broke into the mainstream.

Outlandish and bizarre ideas of secret satanic pedophile rings were allowed to flourish under lax social media moderation. All these components formed to create a dangerous conspiracy that simmered under the surface until the violent insurrection on January 6. QAnon also effectively made long-term impacts on the U.S. political scene by creating distrust and breaking the public’s confidence in their political systems, and while social media platforms have tried to restrict the spread of conspiracy theories on their sites, it is too late to restrain QAnon, and social media platforms need to be held responsible for the damage done over the last four years.

The April Perennial 54

Works Cited Arbel, Tali. “Extremists Use Podcasts to Exploit Loophole in Social-Media Moderation.” Globe & Mail

[Toronto, Canada], 16 Jan. 2021, p. A14. Gale In Context: Opposing Viewpoints, link.gale.com/apps/doc/

A648589395/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=bookmark-OVIC&xid=c52edde9. Accessed 30 June

2021.

Argentino, Marc-André. “QAnon and the Storm of the U.S. Capitol: The Offline Effect of Online Conspiracy

Theories.” The Conversation, 7 Janary 2021, https:/theconversation.com/qanon-and-the-storm-of-theu-s-capitol-the-offline-effect-of-online-conspiracy-theories-152815. Accessed 30 June 2021.

Berkowitz, Reed. “QAnon Resembles the Games I Design. But for Believers, There is No Winning.”

Washington Post, 11 May 2021, p. NA. Gale In Context: Opposing Viewpoints, link.gale.com/apps/doc/

A661433423/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=bookmark-OVIC&xid=cfed699f. Accessed 19 June 2021.

Davies, Dave, and Adrienne LaFrance. “Journalist Enters the World of QAnon: ‘It’s Almost Like a Bad Spy

Novel’.” NPR, NPR, 20 Aug. 2020, www.npr.org/2020/08/20/904237192/journalist-enters-the-world-of-

qanon-it-s-almost-like-a-bad-spy-novel. Accessed 24 June 2021.

Gertz, Matt. “From Pizzagate to the Capitol Riot: How Rightwing Media Extremism Led to the January 6 I

Insurrection.” The Progressive, vol. 85, no. 2, Apr.-May 2021, p. 35+. Gale In Context: Opposing View points, link.gale.com/apps/doc/A663176026/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=bookmark-OVIC&xid =4f006369. Accessed 21 June 2021.

Selk, Avi, and Abby Ohlheiser. “How QAnon, the Conspiracy Theory Spawned by a Trump Quip, Got so Big

and Scary.” Washingtonpost.com, 1 Aug. 2018. Gale In Context: Opposing Viewpoints, linkg

ale.com/apps/doc/A548539827/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=bookmark-OVIC&xid=7af04935.

Acessed 19 June 2021.

Shephard, Alex. “YouTube’s Fake News Problem Isn’t Going Away.” Gale Opposing Viewpoints Online

Collection, Gale, 2021. Gale In Context: Opposing Viewpoints, link.gale.com/apps/doc/GKF

GVF752713647/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=bookmark-OVIC&xid=358a3239. Accessed 23

June 2021. Originally published as “YouTube’s Fake News Problem Isn’t Going Away,” The New

Republic, 23 Feb. 2018.

55 The April Perennial

NCTC EXPOSITORY WRITING

SECOND PLACE

Proliferated Addiction to Social Media and its Detrimental Effects on the Younger Generation Shirley McCulloug

In this rapidly developing digital society, we are being subjected to the imminent future of social media irrevocably evolving into the destroyer of its creator. Social media initiates an addiction to a platform that is incessantly distributing an immeasurable amount of propaganda. The fabrication of this all-inclusive addiction to unfiltered media in itself should be a catalyst to implicate restrictions on these social sites, however, it also induces symptoms comparable to drug-related withdrawals. Adolescents with inordinately impressionable minds are being introduced to this explicit content at a crucial developmental age. When we examine the data of life unaccompanied by social media versus the present day we develop a coherent comprehension that a digital world results in inflation in affairs such as anxiety, depression, self-harm, and a decline in communication skills, motivation, and relationships. What does the future hold if we prolong social media usage in this unethical manner? How can we utilize the beneficial attributes of social media to modify these platforms to effectuate a more positive impact? How can we eradicate the addiction and manufacture a constructive tool to further promote our quality of life?

The evolution of social media has formed a dependency for countless individuals. While we may postulate that these ramifications are inadvertent, Hannah Schwär, of dailyinsider.com, stated that “several ex-employees of Apple, Google, and Facebook have warned that large tech companies deliberately design apps to be addictive.” Additionally, there is a documentary on Netflix called The Social Dilemma that delivers statements from these former employees reciting the same allegations. This confirms that the addiction to social media is a premeditated response. This fixation can be pernicious because the negative effects are usually undetected, which insinuates that social media is hardly ever correlated with the symptoms we endure, and it is by no means held accountable for its adverse effects. The way your body responds to these meticulously designed sites is often misinterpreted or overlooked for issues that have become normalized amongst numerous individuals like fatigue or anxiety.

To further elaborate on the discussion of why it is incredibly difficult to disengage from our devices, an article by Trevor Haynes, for Harvard.edu, provides a more in-depth educational interpretation on the internal mechanisms of the body, and what is inducing this consuming quality. Trevor begins by defining dopamine and when it is released.

Dopamine is a chemical produced by our brains that plays a starring role in motivating behavior.

It gets released when we take a bite of delicious food, when we have sex, after we exercise, and, importantly, when we have successful social interactions. In an evolutionary context, it rewards us for beneficial behaviors and motivates us to repeat them (Trevor).

He then clarifies how dopamine directly correlates to social media by stating that The April Perennial 56

Although not as intense as a hit of cocaine, positive social stimuli will similarly result in a release of dopamine, reinforcing whatever behavior preceded it. Cognitive neuroscientists have shown that rewarding social stimuli— laughing faces, positive recognition by our peers, messages from loved ones—activate the same dopaminergic reward pathways. Smartphones have provided us with a virtually unlimited supply of social stimuli, both positive and negative. Every notification, whether it’s a text message, a “like” on Instagram, or a Facebook notification, has the potential to be a positive social stimulus and dopamine influx (Trevor).

This external validation has constructed a continuous cycle of instant gratification. The combination of social media and dopamine can also incite a dependency based on external factors such as the lack of social interactions amongst our peers, or the emotions one experiences in their daily routine. Let us take into consideration an individual who is enduring feelings of depression and factor in this release of dopamine. These men and women are capable of instantly accessing media that administers that release.

These individuals will then begin to configure attachments to virtual artifacts such as people, games, or the apps providing these videos.

Everyone longs for devoted relationships and to be included. Social media offers an environment where anyone may find a place where they belong, it is a world of limitless possibilities. For example, if we experience loneliness we have an immediate connection to someone in the palm of our hands. To further support this claim a scholarly journal article published by Alpha Psychiatry did a study that focused on individuals clinically diagnosed with a mental disorder, and their susceptibility to social media addiction.

The results showed that Patients with anxiety disorders (PAD) and patients with depression (PD) were more addicted to social media than healthy controls (HC) despite similar frequencies of social media use.

Dependent, histrionic, narcissistic, obsessive-compulsive, borderline, and paranoid personality features in HC increased the susceptibility to SMA. Borderline and dependent personality features comorbid with PAD increased the susceptibility to SMA study done” (Şentürk E, Geniş B, Coşar B. Social media addiction in young adult patients with anxiety disorders and depression. Alpha Psychiatry. 2021;22(5):257-262).

This provisional gratification results in social media being an emotional escape for many individuals. This is where the issue emerges. Social media does not target a particular group. There are numerous components that can formulate a fixation. Anyone who has ever felt a sense of desolation can find solace in a world fabricated for perfection. We have seen that the tech industry purposely modifies platforms to assure our incessant involvement by targeting and manipulating our emotions. On the opposite side of the spectrum is a constant void that is trying to be filled by a temporary solution. How do we make a temporary solution permanent? We repeatedly use the substance to provide an everlasting feeling, but is it everlasting if the void returns when we refrain from the substance. On the surface level, this idea may appear to be an efficacious solution for all the above-mentioned misfortunes, but it is resulting in the collective gravitation to existing predominantly in this virtual artificial world, which in turn causes a decline in communication skills, relationships, and a dissociation from the real world. Social media is creating more problems than it is solving. It is an easy ephemeral solution that we are beginning to pay the price for.

The addiction to this digital society is just the commencement of our pivotal destruction.

We now have insight into the inner workings of the brain and how it provokes an addiction to social media, 57 The April Perennial

more specifically how employers of these large tech companies are meticulously designing algorithms to exploit our human psychology. I will provide an elaborate exposition on how social media is affecting our quality of life, to illustrate how detrimental an addiction to social media can be. In a scholarly article published by Vladlena Bensona, Chris Handb, and Richard Hartshorne for Behavior and Technology information they provide the example that In their research of social media use by students, LaRose et al. (2011) concluded that compulsive use of web applications has negative academic, personal, and professional consequences, with compulsive use potentially resulting in diminished self-regulation, loss of self-control, and increased dysphoria. Further, compulsive use negatively impacted adjustments to University life, with both academic adjustment and expectations and psychological well-being, negatively influenced by compulsive use (LaRose et al. 2011). Masur et al. (2014) found that social media addiction often resulted in wasting time, diminishing social relations, decreased work and schoolperformance, loss of control, and withdrawal syndrome” (Vladlena Bensona, Chris Handb, and Richard Hartshorne).

In the documentary I have previously mentioned, The Social Dilemma, they included a segment providing some statistics on the increased rates of self-harm and suicide in adolescent girls. The data showed that self-harm for girls aged 15 to 19, has increased by 62% since 2009, and for pre-teens aged 10 to 14 there is an increase of 189%. There were similar results for suicide with an increase of 70% in older teenage girls and 151% in pre-teen girls compared with the first decade of the century. This is not only affecting girls, the entire generation is exhibiting a decline in romantic relationships, getting a driver’s license, and going on dates. They are the first generation to develop in a world of social media, furthermore the generation that has exogenous hindrances, such as anxiety, depression, and overall fragility. Social media has noticeably negatively affected our life satisfaction. This is not a theory, this is concrete evidence that correlates the use of social media to poor quality of life.

It is imperative to recognize that these effects are not commonly associated with the use of social media. We all postulate that the rising generation is collectively deteriorating, and we have yet to affiliate that these affairs materialized when social media was introduced. In an article published by Caroline Miller for childmindinstitute.org, she mentions extensive justifications of social media’s association with depression and anxiety. Some examples supported by numerous doctors and psychologists include that they spend much less time connecting with their peers in person and more time connecting electronically, principally through social media. Some experts see the rise in depression as e vidence that the connections social media users form electronically are less emotionally satisfying, leaving them feeling socially isolated. Another theory about the increase in depression is the loss of self-esteem, especially in teenage girls, when they compare themselves negatively with artfully curated images of those who appear to be prettier, thinner, more popular, and richer (Caroline Miller).

Dr. Hamlet provided an example of a stress-inducing factor by stating that “Basically, multitasking isn’t possible. What you end up doing is really just switching back and forth between two tasks rather quickly.

There is a cost to the brain.” What ends up occurring is that an individual will spend more time than needed on said task, which can then additionally lead to procrastination. This culminates in the individual having increased levels of stress due to less free time, less time to complete tasks, or completing tasks last minute.

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Now that we have an articulate understanding of how social media is a detriment to the evolution of life, I will shift the focus to how it is inordinately impacting the younger generation, and how critical it is that we implement urgent changes before the ramifications are irrevocable. The age of adolescents engaging in the use of social media is rapidly decreasing. I have outlined a few of the deplorable outcomes social media brought forth, and the affiliation it has with several concerns. We are enabling 10-year-old children whose frontal lobe has not fully developed to engage in this setting with access to all this uncensored content that consists of erotic media, exposure to bullying, and unrealistic standards. According to healthline.com, the frontal lobe is responsible for reasoning and judgment, organization and planning, problem-solving, regulation of emotions and mood, motivation, including evaluating rewards, pleasure, and happiness, impulse control controlling social behaviors. The frontal lobe is one of the last regions of your brain to fully develop. Kids are not able to think logically until about the ages of 7-11.

They are being introduced to social media in the most fundamental stage of their life. Children are undeniably incapable of handling the adversities social media presents, and this has been proven with the statistics we supplied on adolescent girls and increased rates of self-harm and suicide. Girls tend to use social media for the validation of their peers or virtual social communications, whereas boys generally use these platforms for entertainment or gaming. Gaming may appear harmless on the spectrum of being exposed to damaging content, but with the advancement in technology, we have seen an increase in gaming with live chats, and even the ability to talk with anonymous participants. Younger children are playing with older teenagers and even adults who are exposing them to unfamiliar mature information, which commences curiosity and exploration. They then use unrestricted platforms that are easy to navigate, even for first-time users, and saturated with false information, to do additional research or to feed into their newly established addiction. They are being placed alone in a room, with no supervision, filled with predators.

Countless grown individuals have the opportunity to pose as a young child and manipulate kids, whether that be persuading them to send explicit photos and personal information, or convincing them to meet in person. Another principal issue not specifically regarding young children, but the younger generation (Gen Z) is that they are the first generation to grow up in the age of social media. Gen Z was raised with these addicting platforms, so it may be hard to discern the exponential changes. All of these components combined with an undeveloped frontal lobe is irrefutably a faulty combination.

Many adults and parents have become absent-minded while children are simultaneously developing a loss of respect. Older generations can effectuate reform by taking responsibility and regulating the amount of time their children spend on social media. To any child, this will appear as an i nvasion of privacy, and possible feelings of being “treated like a child”, but we have explained the symptoms they encounter when you take their drug-like substance away. They will not be able to view the situation from your perspective, therefore it will presumably result in some form of irritability. I have noticed, however, that the older half of Gen Z who experienced a few vague years of life in the absence of social media are growing more aware that there has been a shift in humanity. It is a collective struggle. A legion of younger individuals are cognizant of this fixation and want out, but they are lost and undirected after years of oppression. Like a drug addict making an effort to be abstinent. The accustom to the instant release of dopamine has caused the real world to lack excitement and appear monotonous, or even appear frightening and intimidating. We need to illustrate that there is more to life than endless scrolling by actively involving them in tech-free activities. Everything has amounted to insignificance. We need to turn back the clock and embed meaning back into life. Once they begin to progressively disconnect from social media and engage 59 The April Perennial

more in interests that bring them true enjoyment they will feel these desires gradually subside, and eventually recognize social media for what it truly is.

We exist in an era where life before social media and technology has ceased to exist. This has transpired into the new normal, and it is essential that we do not form a reliance on these platforms compared to previous developments. This is unlike electricity, cars, or modern medicine. These are tools we have utilized to our utmost advantage. They haven’t evolved into a form of manipulation, and with these other creations, we have only seen increased beneficial statistics. They may not be flawless, but the negative consequences are inadvertent. If we continue down the path of not implementing restrictions we will create a bigger issue of normality, and eventually result in being destroyed by a tool we created. Given that life without social media is an unprecedented occurrence for a majority of Gen Z they are not conscious of how carelessly they are utilizing it. These are the future leaders. How can they be in a position to pave a path for the future, and make logical decisions if they are nurtured in an overstimulated environment? The evolution of social media and its effects will continue to develop until the individuals aware of a world previous to social media will become extinct.

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Works Cited Schwär, Hannah. “How Instagram and Facebook Are Intentionally Designed to Mimic Addictive Painkill ers.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 11 Aug. 2021, https://www.businessinsider.com/facebookhas-been-deliberately-designed-to-mimic-addictive-painkillers-2018-12. says:, Stephen Hartley, et al. “Dopamine, Smartphones & You: A Battle for Your Time.”

Science in the News, 4 Feb. 2021, https://sitn.hms.harvard.edu/flash/2018/dopamine-smartphonesbattle-time/. Şentürk E, Geniş B,Coşar B. Social media addiction in young adult patients with anxiety disorders and de pression. Alpha Psychiatry. 2021;22(5):257-262.

Vladlena Benson, Chris Hand & Richard Hartshorne (2019) How compulsive use of social media affects performance: insights from the UK by purpose of use, Behaviour & Information Technology, 38:6, 549-563, DOI: 10.1080/0144929X.2018.1539518 “Does Social Media Use Cause Depression?” Child Mind Institute, 17 Nov. 2021, https://childmind.org/article/is-social-media-use-causing-depres sion/

61 The April Perennial

NCTC EXPOSITORY WRITING

THIRD PLACE

Pirates of the Caribbean Colton Dillard

“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me. We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot, Drink up, me ‘earties, yo ho” (TripSavvy). Singing this iconic tune throughout the classic Pirates of the Caribbean at Disneyland, life-like animatronics create an impressive display of thrilling pirate adventures. After Walt Disney established a universal legacy for himself with the revolutionary production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, he continued to build his entertainment empire. Transforming the industry of animation, Disney desired to do the same to the amusement park. So, he built Disneyland. Behind the scenes of a child’s dream park, Disney put together a playground for the creative people of the world. These people who came to work on Disney’s magnificent wonder were named “Imagineers”. Constantly working with this imaginative team, Walt Disney encouraged his creative crew to design for the future. Reaching back to an old concept of Walt’s, Imagineers brought forth an ambitious pirate voyage. Sadly, this original design would be the last attraction in which Walt Disney was involved. Over thirty years after the Pirates of the Caribbean came to Disneyland, his company, Disney, would produce a film honoring the classic ride. Because he possessed a natural vision for what his innovations could lead to in the future, Disney was always a step ahead.

Pirate Attraction After waiting in line for forty-five minutes, the anticipation for amusement has piled up until finally it is your turn to become a pirate in the Caribbean. The boat begins to move. Slowly, you float through a mysterious swamp, which has an eerie lighting, while a haunting melody of a banjo twangs in your ear. Your vessel keeps drifting along in the water while passing through multiple scenes when suddenly... “BOOM!” A blinding light flashes, resembling cannon fire. When this rioting ride released to the public, people found it so enjoyable that they claimed Pirates of the Caribbean as a Disney must-see. Actually, crowds wanted the ride so much that after Disney World opened without “Pirates”, people were confused and would ask park faculty, “Where is the Pirates of the Caribbean?” In 1973, a slightly shorter version of the attraction opened to the waiting audience in Orlando. Now, throughout the six Disney “castle parks” five versions of the ride may be seen. Although this wonderful Pirates of the Caribbean attraction is quite harmless, one can become so immersed in the story that he or she jumps at a gunshot or starts singing, “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!” Spreading the amusement of Disneyland attractions to a larger audience, Pirates of the Caribbean was a perfect design of the fantastical age of piracy. Although the attraction was loved by the public, the ride still had to be altered due to certain controversial scenes.

The Pirates of the Caribbean attraction is known as a dark boat ride, which passengers get to enjoy for an eventful fourteen and a half minutes. Adding to the excitement of the ride, two splashing drops quickly rush the guests deeper into the golden age of a pirate’s life. When the boat begins its voyage, passengers may be confused at passing a Southern plantation and swampy house boats. The reason for this Louisiana setting is due to the attraction’s opening in 1967 on New Orleans Square. Consequently, creators The April Perennial 62

matched the ride with the land to which it resided. After floating through the plantation, guests sail under a talking skull, which cruelly warns: Psst! Avast there! It be too late to alter course, mateys. And there be plundering pirates lurking in every cove, waiting to board. Sit closer together and keep your ruddy hands in board. That be the best way to repel boarders. And mark well me words, mateys: Dead men tell no tales! Ye come seeking adventure with salty old pirates, eh? Sure you’ve come to the proper place. But keep a weather eye open mates, and hold on tight. With both hands, if you please. Thar be squalls ahead, and Davy Jones waiting for them what don’t obey (Fandom).

Because of the slow movement and lengthy beginning of the attraction, anticipation builds for worried passengers. This effect causes the first drop to become more threatening than it truly is. At the splash, one screams. Transitioning from a wanderer at Disneyland to a 1600’s pirate adventurer, guests are then immersed into excellent storytelling of pirate raids, sea battles, shimmering treasure, dark caves, rum, and catchy songs.

When trying to maintain interest in the relatively new amusement park, Disneyland, Imagineers, who had designed other rides such as “Jungle Cruise”, decided on a concept for an attraction paying tribute to the golden age of piracy. Actually, the design of this “Yo-ho” adventure was originally intended to be a wax museum through which people could walk. After the success of a Disney boat ride from the World Fair, the Imagineers quickly redesigned the pirate museum to a pirate voyage. Now, the viewer would become the pirate; not a student being educated on pillagers. Bringing in Xavier Atencio, former animator, to design the ride, Disney told the movie veteran, “Think of it as a cocktail party. You hear pieces over here and pieces over there, but you never get the whole thing. So what? You have to go back (and ride it again)” (Orange County Register). Masterfully planning the angles at which visitors observe the ranging actions of the animatronics, Imagineers provided a way for onlookers to have the opportunity to thoroughly enjoy each scene. Atencio completed his cocktail party. Besides the well-written story, the attraction also consists of enchanting effects. One of the exciting rooms which guests pass closer to the end of the ride is the glorious cavern of treasure, which Imagineers filled with forty thousand shimmering gold coins. Because the Pirates of the Caribbean is a boat ride and has a long duration, 430,000 gallons of water must be used to fill the deep path. Accomplishing the task to amuse both children and adults, Imagineers invented a ride that not only brings charming effects and a brilliant story but also possesses a historic aspect.

Since the opening of the classic Pirates of the Caribbean ride in 1967, alterations were made because of changes in society. Consisting of multiple controversial scenes such as lusty pirates desperately chasing frantic women, the ride was viewed to be glorifying offending abominations. The scene with the men chasing the women was changed to the women carrying goods, implying that the men were after the valuables instead of the women. Eventually, the act transitioned to the women chasing the men with rolling pins and other objects. Another part of the attraction fitted to the cries of culture was the notorious “auction” scene. Throughout the town there are many comical pirates completing mischievous deeds, but one which lost laughs as time sailed on was a gag in which foolish pirates cheering, “We wants the red-head!” (Disney Dose) auction off stricken women for brides. Not only did Disney modify the auction to the selling of chickens, but also changed “the red-head” to a new pirate character. Although the concept for the due change seemed needed, the response was mixed when park creators announced an alteration to the Disney attraction. Because this ride was so nostalgic, diehard Disney fans believed the company to be 63 The April Perennial

needlessly giving in to public pressure. Others, however, were relieved. More modifications had been added in 2006, not because of the social changes, but due to an unexpectedly successful film from 2003 which was based on the ride.

Throughout the Pirates of the Caribbean attraction many viewers are amazed at the intricate detail.

Designing props from complex animatronics to thousands of gold coins, Imagineers tirelessly worked to add an older, adventurous side to Disneyland. Fortunately, the effort paid off, and Disney was miles ahead in the amusement game. Imagineers set a new standard. As a cherished suit must be altered to fit the body as time passes, so must a pirate-themed ride. Although certain scenes were relatively offensive, should Disney have “fitted” history to its liking? Xavier Atencio, creator of the ride, pointed out, “The ride was called ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’, not ‘Boy Scouts of the Caribbean’” (Fandom). When faced with the tough decision in which two parties were strongly split on the idea of changing a classic, which was such the case with the Pirates of the Caribbean, Disney stayed consistent with its imaginative theme by adding or creating new characters to fit the story. The most significant thing about the history of this pirate attraction is it proves that Disney is thinking about the next thing, staying ahead of its time.

Pirate Movie Production is on its way while the large crew aids in preparing the actors and actresses for the next shot. Finally, the cave is complete. Wondering if the film will make its way to theaters or if Disney will cut the process, director Gore Verbinski continues forming the props, cast, and special effects to match his vision. Progressively, producers almost stop production until shown concept art for the Pirates of the Caribbean film. Although pirate movies, which Disney has attempted to produce multiple times, have not recently been successful, filming continues. After many close calls, the movie is released nationwide on June 28, 2003. Bringing in $305.4 million domestically, the Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl went on to become a record-breaking franchise consisting of five films as of 2017. Later fans enthusiastically claimed, “The Pirates of the Caribbean movies have become a staple in our pop culture” (Factinate). After being nominated for an Oscar as Jack Sparrow, Johnny Depp continued acting throughout the franchise.

Since the film has already been released it is easy to observe its success, but prior to the premiere, Pirates of the Caribbean was not a predictable winner.

Paying tribute to the classic Disneyland ride and old pirate movies, the Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl revived the interest in the imaginatively “glorious” golden age of the rambunctious scallywags who tormented the seas for centuries. When released, critics praised the movie stating, “Filmmakers draw upon the entire legend and lore of pirate life— of high-seas ambushes, mountains of gold, cruel captains, lusty rogues, feisty damsels, drunken sailors, barroom brawls, ancient curses and furious sword fights” (The Hollywood Reporter). The film begins with Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) stepping onto Port Royal while his boat sinks just before the dock. This comedic introduction immediately captures audience’s attention. Throughout the story the audience realizes that Captain Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush) exiled Sparrow to a small island taking his precious ship, The Black Pearl, just prior to the beginning scene. But wait, a curse! As the title implies, there is a curse on the ship that dooms the crew of the Pearl as undead, which is only revealed in moonlight. Excitingly, Sparrow teams up with other main characters to retrieve a valuable medallion. Tensions rise between British sailors and pirate skeletons. Finally, the audience gets to witness the iconic cave scene where an epic sword fight unfurls and the movie reaches its climax.

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Although the idea of an attraction-based movie was bound to fail, filmmakers pushed through and produced a classic film which eventually developed into a multi-movie franchise.

Casting a perfect crew of actors and actresses is an essential ingredient in any movie recipe and certainly was for this character-heavy film. Although everyone knows Johnny Depp as playing the perfect Jack Sparrow, there were other preferences for the role at first such as Matthew McConaughey and Jim Carrey. Fortunately, Depp was picked for the part and was later able to contract $90 million for Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales. Reviewers of Captain Jack Sparrow describe the character as such, “Depp plays his charming rascal in the lightheaded manner of a man who has either been in the sun too long or knows something no one else does” (The Hollywood Reporter). Interestingly, Depp based his portrayal of the captain on famous musician Keith Richards, who actually played Sparrow’s father in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End. After his performance Depp was nominated for an Oscar. Playing the other lead pirate, Captain Barbossa, Geoffrey Rush became so passionate in the Caribbean environment that he never wished to take off his captain’s hat. Keira Knightley, who acted as Elizabeth Swann, was only seventeen years old when Curse of the Black Pearl was filmed. Because Knightley was a minor, her mother had to be on set throughout production. The part for Will Turner, a young man with pirate blood who hates pirates, was narrowed down to Heath Ledger and Orlando Bloom. Because of the recent success of Bloom as Legolas in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Bloom was given the role. Adding to these perfect casting choices, the group of side characters consists of a comedic crew with a man who always chases his glass eyeball and another who owns a parrot that speaks for him.

When creating the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, filmmakers needed to capture the audience with intriguing storytelling, incredible special effects, and nostalgic tie-ins to the classic ride which started it all. With a clever touch of creativity, writers included the iconic attraction scenes: the hopeful inmates coaxing a mischievous dog, which has keys to the cell dangling from its jaw; a tavern full of wenches; and, some believe “the smartest borrowing” (The Hollywood Reporter), the bone-chilling living skeletons.

Actually, producers at first entitled the movie Pirates of the Caribbean but then later added Curse of the Black Pearl just in case the film succeeded and there would be sequels. That was a clever call! Searching far and wide for the best locations for filming, directors sometimes picked extremely remote locations to achieve the authentic eighteenth century pirate feel. The locations were sometimes so remote that for the production of Dead Men’s Chest, which was the sequel to Curse of the Black Pearl, Disney was forced to pave roads for transportation on the island. When filming On Stranger Tides became wet and stormy, Johnny Depp spent $60,000 on waterproof jackets for the five hundred man crew. Not only was the scenery impressive, but the special effects required true craftsmanship. Stellan Skarsgard, actor of the cursed pirate Bootstrap, had to stay still for four hours daily while his barnacle appearance was applied. After the Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl was released, the film met audiences’ hopes of amazing special effects, exceptional storytelling, and beautiful allusions to the original amusement park attraction.

Filming a pirate adventure based on a beloved attraction, Disney felt skeptical due to relevant box office flops such as Treasure Planet and Country Bears. After the surprising success of the “Pirate” movies, some viewers pointed out, “Honestly, it seems pretty amazing that this movie ever got made at all” (Factinate). However, the success of the film was not achieved by pure luck. It took lots of work. Casting the right people for the right roles is difficult. The choice of Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow may be one of the best casting calls in movie history. Although the Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl was released in 2003, the film’s special effects, which are a combination of physical and digital, are still impressive.

Consequently, one appreciates the interesting story, the thrilling action, the mesmerizing scenery, the 65 The April Perennial

captivating romance, and, at its best, the perfect twist of pirate myths and mystery. Not only should the audience appreciate the well created film, but they should also recognize the long history of production. For although Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl premiered in 2003, Walt Disney was pondering the idea of a pirate attraction long before the movie’s release. Again, he was ahead of his time.

When creating the Pirates of the Caribbean attraction, Walt Disney was not only adding to his fantastical park for the people of his day, but also for the generations to come. He reminded Imagineers and all alike, “Disneyland will never be completed. It will continue to grow as long as there is imagination left in the world” (Goodreads). The creation of the Pirates of the Caribbean revealed Disney’s belief that to laugh like a child was especially important in adult life. Amazingly, this idea would be accepted in the future.

After Walt Disney passed away Imagineers found that he had always been a step ahead. Being a futuristic in technology, story, and theme, Disney had built a beloved attraction with historic origins, which inspired a pirate blockbuster film franchise to be produced. These two projects reveal Disney’s “step ahead.” As he had a talent for revolutionizing theme park environments and film concepts, so he continued with Pirates of the Caribbean. The most significant aspect about the Pirates of the Caribbean is the parallel its history has with Disney’s hopes, dreams, and imagination.

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Bibliography “42 Swashbuckling Facts About The Pirates of The Caribbean Movies.” Factinate, 2018, www.factinate.com/ things/42-swashbuckling-facts-pirates-caribbean-movies/ Brookshier, Lindsay. “Pirates of the Caribbean: A 50 Year History of Reflecting Modern Culture.” Disney Dose, 2018, disneydose.com/pirates-of-the-caribbean-history/ “Disney Legend, whose work is heard every day in ‘Pirates,’ ‘Haunted Mansion’ songs, dies at 98” Orange County Register, 2017, www.ocregister.com/2017/09/11/disney-legend-whose-work-is-heard- every-day-in-pirates-haunted-mansion-songs-dies-at-98/ “Pirates of the Caribbean (attraction).” Fandom, disney.fandom.com/wiki/Pirates_of_the_Caribbean_ (attraction) “‘Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl’ THR’s 2003 Review.” The Hollywood Reporter, 2017, https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/heat-vision/pirates-caribbean-curse-black-pearl-thrs2003- review-1005193 Sheetz, Janelle. “Everything You Need to Know About Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean Ride!” the disney food blog, 2020,https://www.disneyfoodblog.com/2020/06/11/everything-you-need-to-knowabout-disneys-pirates-of-the-caribbean-ride/“Walt Disney Quotes.” Goodreads, https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/tag/walt-disney Malloy, Betsy. “Disneyland Pirates of the Caribbean: What to Know.” TripSavvy, 2019, https://www.tripsavvy. com/pirates-of-the-caribbean-4086546

67 The April Perennial

NCTC EXPOSITORY WRITING

HONRABLE MENTION

IMF: No Strings Attached?

Aleeha Chaudhry

Introduction International Monetary Fund is an organization working with 189 countries to ensure economic stability, facilitate international trade, and reduce poverty. International Monetary Fund completes its mission by keeping a track of global economies, by lending money and by ensuring practical assistance to its members that suffer from balance of payment’s difficulties. After the Bretton Woods conference (1970s), it appeared that some of these aims had been outmoded. Economic stability is not only linked to the financial problems which a country faces, but this aspect is also well connected to issues including unemployment, inflation and political instability. To assist countries to implement feasible economic plans, the key functions of investigation and lending are taken up by the IMF. This is the explanation given by the IMF for the conditions that underlay it’s lending procedures. Despite being the only source of funds for several countries, IMF is viewed as an organization with not an entirely positive objectives directed towards its debtors. It is reported through an article by ‘Business Standard’ that 86% of the loan is owed to IMF by its top ten recipients which include Ukraine, Portugal, Greece, Ireland, and Pakistan. This article was published in 2015, which implies that it is based on recent events that make this source reliable. Puneet Wadhwa, the author of this article, is a senior associate editor at the Business Standard and is a news reporter with a history of working in news platforms. Therefore, I believe that this source is reliable. Many developing countries are highly dependent on the loans that are given to them by the IMF but along with this assistance, they face an increased risk of a debt crisis as they are unable to payback their loans. According to an article of the Financial Times which is based on a recent research of IMF, since 2013, the median ratio of public debt to the gross domestic product in low-income countries has risen 13% points to hit 47% in 2017. This source is reliable as the author, Kate Allen, is a specialist in sovereign debt and the article was published very recently. Due to the strings attached to IMF’s funding, I chose this topic for my research report. The two issues that this research report will address are how the IMF forces countries to adopt policies of its interest and the dominance of the United States of America in the Bank.

Inappropriate policies of the IMF Evidence suggests that the IMF bailouts cause an economic crisis as the debtor governments are forced to implement hostile policies which cause further dependency on IMF. ‘The Guardian’ states that Latvia missed a 200-million-euro payment of funds from the IMF for not compromising on its budget.

(Weisbrot,2009). This source is reliable because the author received his Ph.D. in economics from the University of Michigan. The government of Latvia wanted to run an economical deficit of 7% of GDP, had already cut its budget down by 40% and had also planned to shut down several educational institutes to The April Perennial 68

meet the IMF’s goal which was to run a budget deficit of 5% of the GDP. This action by the government gave birth to protests and Latvia’s GDP declined by 18%. This decline in GDP makes it evident that IMF’s conditions are a threat to its borrowers. When IMF saw the Pakistani economy in decline, it agreed to increase Pakistan’s fiscal deficit to 4.6% of GDP but still held an uncompromising attitude against the reduction of interest rates. By implementing their blanket policies, IMF has been unsuccessful in recognizing the dynamics of the countries that they have worked with. This argument can be linked to the 1990s when IMF made the Central Banks of Kenya independent of the control over country’s capital, after intervening it (in 1990), as an excuse to end money laundering and corruption. Joseph Stiglitz, who completed his PhD in economics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, criticizes IMF policies by saying, “IMF was not participating in a conspiracy, but it was reflecting the interests and ideology of the Western financial community.” The achievements of Joseph in economics make this information reliable.

This quotation was published in 2016 in an article of the ‘Economics Help’, written by Tejvan Pettinger who studied Philosophy, Politics, and Economics at Oxford University. Adding on, IMF is criticized due to a lack of transparency. According to Financial Times, Jeffrey Sachs, the head of the Harvard Institute for International Development, states that the IMF only addresses the issues related to transparency orally as it provides no public documentation of its decisions, except for brief press speeches. Sachs completed his Ph.D. in economics from the Harvard University, this source is reliable.

I believe that to solve these problems which unfairly burden countries, it is pertinent for the IMF to release annual reports for all its missions and programs, thereby, ensuring transparency. This will further help to draw a comparison between the situation before IMF’s funding and after it. Moreover, rather than just laying focus on securing the macroeconomic policies, it should equally focus on the causes that could cause a similar crisis in the future. In addition to this, IMF should implement policies that are targeting long term as well as short term solutions. This will help the aim to be achieved in a faster and more efficient manner.

Domination of the United States of America on the IMF The United States is the most influential of the IMF’s members which results in it getting the most voting rights. It comprises around a fifth of all votes as it is the largest investor, but this also has a hand in the policies that IMF implements. North American environmentalist, Bruce Rich, says in his book on the World Bank that the U.S.A joysticks almost all the policies of the World Bank and even the negotiations with the main capitalist countries under its leadership. Rich is an American writer, and a lawyer who writes about the environment of developing countries, therefore, this information is reliable. There are certain examples that further support Bruce’s statements. Firstly, Fund was pressurized by the United States to extend credits to Argentina in the 1990s (Killick, 1998). Since Anthony Killick studied Philosophy, Politics, and Economics from the Oxford University and served as a member of Royal Economic Society, this source can be relied upon. Adding on, during the presidency of President Ronald Reagan, IMF was forced to extend a 3.9 billion credit to Mexico (Cohen,1985) and during 1995, the government of Bill Clinton forced the Fund to aid Mexico. This is reliable as Daniel Cohn is a French economist and a senior advisor at The Bank Lazard. The top management of the IMF also spends a large amount of time consulting with the U.S.A than with any other country. The US involvement in the Bank’s affairs can be traced back to the Bretton Woods 69 The April Perennial

conference when the location of the headquarters was to be decided. John Maynard Keynes (a well-known English economist) openly urged IMF and the Bank’s headquarters to be situated away from Congress and the US embassies. Keynes initially tried to encourage the participants to choose London as the final location.

Realizing the situation of London at that time, he avoided Washington by proposing New York as another option. Henry Morgenthau, the secretary of the US Treasury, responded that it was essential to shift the head office from London to the US Treasury because at the end of World War II the British Empire was still prominent in London. Bank was initially created to ensure reconstruction of the countries affected by World War II. For this, the US preferred to launch the Marshall Plan for its own benefits because in this way it could totally control processes and make donations to whomever they liked (Toussaint, 2014). Eric Toussaint completed his Ph.D. in Political science from the Paris VIII and Lièg University, thereby, making this source reliable. Since the start of operations, the policies of the World Bank were determined by the context of the Cold war and US interests in this regard. Moving on, since its origin, the President of the World Bank has always been an American citizen that is proposed by the US government itself. Another great example of US’ dominance in the World Bank is the right of veto. Catherine Gwin (the author of US relations with the World Bank 1945-92) says, “The United States is also the dominant member of the Bank’s board - but only in part, it is the lead shareholder. Formally, most Bank decisions, including those affecting lending levels and loan allocations, require a simple majority vote of the board.” The author continues, “Decisions are, however, often worked out between the United States and Bank management before they ever get to the board, or among members of the board before they get to a vote. And most board decisions are taken by consensus. It is the weight of its voice, therefore, more than the exercise of its vote that gives the United States effective power on the board.” This shows that despite that possibility of countering the high voting shares of USA, it is unlikely to happen because most of the decisions are made beforehand. Increasing influence on IMF causes the significance of dollar to increase all over the world. Since the past ten years, two-thirds of foreign exchange reserves of countries have been in US dollars. It is also labeled as “reserve currency status”.

This further causes the United States to run higher trade deficits which leaves a long-term financial impact and results into a currency crisis.

I believe that to counter the influence of the United States, IMF should ensure that all the decisions are carried out in the presence of all its member states. It should be ensured that the voting rights have minimal, or no say in how its policies are drafted. This will give an equal chance to all its members in consultation and will not only benefit the countries such as the USA and the UK which are its main investors. However, certain incentives such as more voting rights for more investing countries should be given as these countries are the sole reason why IMF does not go bankrupt.

Conclusion To conclude, it can be said that the IMF and the World Bank have certain problematic policies that are prevalent in some of the developing countries. The problem with these policies is this that they burden countries with more than they can repay and in return ask for policies to be implemented in their own favor.

Funds justifies the allocation of loans on purely financial grounds but as mentioned earlier, the policies of lending capital are firstly determined by the involvement of the US government in the businesses of the IMF, mainly due to its political objectives. Catherine Gwin, who supports the US influence on the IMF, from the The April Perennial 70

Washington standpoint, says, “Although one need not dispute the Bank’s economic policy assessments of Allende’s Chile, Vietnam, and Nicaragua under the Sandinistas, it is worth noting that equally harsh assessments could have been made, but were not, of Somoza’s Nicaragua, Marcos’s Philippines, and Mobutu’s Zaire, regimes that were all important cold war allies of the United States.” However, I believe that Catherine’s claims are biased as she has worked at the World Bank from 2001 – 2007. This information can be relied upon as this was mentioned in an interview with Catherine in 2010. I believe that to some extent, the highest contributors are bound to have influence over the IMF because they invest the money which keeps the funding cycle continuous but at the same time, IMF’s policies should not completely be directed towards the US’, or any other countries’, interest as the main goal of the Fund is to promote stability and not to increase the influence of some affluent countries over the developing countries.

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Bibliography “CAPACITY DEVELOPMENT.” IMF, www.imf.org/en/Capacity-Development/what-we-do. Wadhwa, Puneet. “Top 10 Debtor Countries Owe 86% of Total IMF Loans.” Business Standard, Business Standard, 6 July 2015, www.business-standard.com/article/economy-policy/top-10-debtor-coun tries-owe-86-of-total-imf-loans-115070600274_1.html.

Allen, Kate. “IMF Warns of Mounting Debt Crisis Risk in Poor Countries.” Financial Times, Financial Times, 22 Mar. 2018, www.ft.com/content/0b875b52-2d26-11e8-9b4b-bc4b9f08f381.

Weisbrot, Mark. “Latvia’s EU Handcuffs | Mark Weisbrot.” The Guardian, Guardian News and Media, 15 Jan. 2010, www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/cifamerica/2010/jan/15/latvia-economy-eu-imf.

Pettinger, Tejvan. “Criticisms of IMF.” Economics Help, 28 Nov. 2016, www.economicshelp.org/ blog/glossary/imf-criticism/.

Bruce. “Foreclosing the Future: The World Bank and the Politics of Environmental Destruction.” Bibliovault. org, 2013 www.bibliovault.org/BV.book.epl?ISBN=9781610911849.

Oatley, Thomas. “American Interests and IMF Lending.” Wiki Leaks, Wiki Leaks, 2004, wikileaks.org/gifiles/ attach/101/101571_oatley_yackee.pdf.

Press, Associated. “Reagan Calls for ‘Global Economy’: $12-Billion Rescue Plan for Mexico Takes Shape at IMF.” Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Times, 30 Sept. 1986, articles.latimes.com/1986-09-30/news/ mn-10327_1_global-economy.

Toussaint, Eric. “Domination of the United States on the World Bank.” CADTM, 1 Sept. 2014, www.cadtm. org/spip.php?page=imprimer&id_article=2194.

“Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” The Economist, The Economist Newspaper, 16 Aug. 2014, www. economist.com/books-and-arts/2014/08/16/everybody-wants-to-rule-the-world.

Lagna, Andrea. “The IMF and American Power.” E-International Relations, www.e-ir.info/2012/08/09/the- imf-and-american-power/.

The April Perennial 72

VIAN THOMLINS SHORT STOR

FIRST PLACE

The Fall Alissa Blalock

Sunlight shimmered through the treetops, splashing a warm green light upon Kate as she rode easily along the travel-worn lane. Several lengths behind, an armed escort rode at a reserved pace, keeping her within sight. She cast a glance over her shoulder, bringing her silver mare to an extended jog as she shifted in the saddle.

“I’m going to ride ahead!” she called back, and Ardis lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “I’ll meet you at the spring!”

“Yes, Majesty!”

Grinning, the young queen spurred Diamond to a gallop. Muscles rippled beneath the mare’s smooth sterling coat. They hurdled around a bend in the road, iron-shod hooves thundering upon the solid earth as they vanished from the guards’ view. The wind was cool against Kate’s face, and her golden braid streamed behind her as she gave Diamond her head.

They tore through the forest on hurricane wings, moving as one creature. Suddenly, a hare darted from the underbrush; with a snort, the mare violently spooked. Kate cried in alarm as she was flung from the saddle.

The world went dark. *** “What do you mean ‘The Queen is missing’?”

King Connor’s voice was cold and hard as he faced the Captain.

“Her Majesty wanted to ride ahead to the spring,” Ardis reported grimly. “We were less than a mile away, and the trail was open, so I allowed it. But when we arrived at the spring, she was not there. We found Diamond another half-mile up the road. There was no sign of the Queen.”

Terror squeezed Connor’s heart in a death grip; his breathing became shallow and rapid.

“Do you have any idea what may have happened?” he asked hoarsely. Ardis shook his head.

“No, Your Majesty. Diamond showed no sign of injury, and we found no indication of an abduction.” He paused, then pressed forward. “Your Majesty, I take full responsibility. I never should have let the Queen ride ahead without me. This is my fault.”

Connor released a tight breath.

“Assemble the King’s Guard and saddle my horse. We leave within the half-hour.” *** Icy raindrops dappled Kate’s face, drawing her into the present as a pounding headache pierced the thick haze of unconsciousness. The roar of encroaching thunder drew an involuntary shudder from her slim frame.

Slowly, she eased herself upright, wincing at the pressure in her skull, and peered upward at the darkening skies. Smoldering clouds overcast the forest in a heavy gloom, blotting out the sun which had only hours before cast a warm amber light.

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“Diamond,” she whispered hoarsely. She prayed her mare had escaped the storm. Quashing the rising nausea, Kate struggled to recount her final moments in the saddle. Diamond was not a nervous horse; whatever had charged from the brushwood must have been utterly terrifying to send the mare into such a panic.

The air was cold as it funneled through the valley, bending the towering trees to its will. Another rumble shook the earth, and Kate flinched as nameless terror gripped her in a stronghold. Her eyes filled with tears, and she huddled against the damp earth, slowly rocking back and forth in a desperate attempt to recreate Connor’s comforting embrace while the storm closed its iron fist around her. *** “Your Majesty, please! I beg of you – return to the castle! We will continue the search!” Ardis shouted over the howling winds, pivoting his horse in a tight circle. Connor shook his head doggedly, dark hair plastered by the drenching rain.

“No!” he objected. “I must find her, Ardis! I will find her!”

He put his spurs to Eclipse’s ribs, and set the horse to a gallop. *** The storm worsened.

Kate sobbed silently, unable to control her frayed emotions. Her entire body ached, and though her earlier fog of confusion had cleared, she still felt completely lost. She knew the road was somewhere overhead; in the darkness, it was nearly impossible to determine how far into the ravine she had fallen. Beneath her, the waters of the Whitestorm River raged and foamed against bordering boulders, driven by the chaos in the skies.

Lightning split the shadows, accompanied by a deafening roar, and Kate cried out in terror. *** “Ardis!”

The Captain reined his mare to a standstill, her iron-shod hooves slipping in the sludge.

“Aye, Sir?” he called, peering at Connor through the blinding rainfall.

“Where did you say you found Diamond?”

“Here on the road, a half-mile past the spring.”

Connor frowned, mulling the information. He nodded.

“Divide your men. Keep searching near the spring and where Diamond was discovered; I’m going to double back.”

“Your Majesty –” “Ardis, I know you are trying to amend what has happened and protect me. But we have a lot of ground to cover, and every man must do his part – even me. Especially me! Kate may be your queen, but she is my wife.”

Ardis hesitated, then nodded. He himself was not married, but he had watched as Kate and Connor evolved from two frightened children married as strangers into a powerful couple who ruled their kingdom with grace and benevolence. He knew Connor would do anything to protect his young queen.

“Very well,” he said, turning his mare away and shouting instructions to the Guard.

“Ardis.”

“Sire?”

“Do not blame yourself for something you could not have foreseen.”

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A weight lifted from the Captain’s shoulders. The guilt was not gone, but as he saluted his response and watched Connor gallop back the way they’d come, he felt a surge of determination.

I failed my king once today … I will not fail him again. *** “Kate! Kate!”

Wearily, she lifted her head against the icy downpour as she huddled at the foot of the embankment. Her ankle throbbed, and a numbness had settled into her very bones. With a shaky breath, she curled her hands into the damp earth and attempted to rise; the sharp pain in her ankle sent her tumbling back into the mud and moss, a branch tearing harshly at her face as she fell. Groaning, Kate dragged herself upright, lifting a hand to touch at the fresh gash across her right temple. Blood and sludge smeared her fingertips.

“Kate?” Connor’s shout was desperate as he searched blindly through the darkness. “Kate, if you can hear me, please answer, Love!”

“Connor!” she cried hoarsely, exhausted voice ripping at her aching throat.

He checked his horse to a sharp standstill, rising in the stirrups. Rain drenched him through the heavy wetness of his cloak; beneath him, Eclipse was steaming in the deepening night.

“Kate?”

“Down – down here! In the ravine!”

Connor swung from the saddle, dropping the reins as he raced toward the edge of the road, heavy muck sucking greedily at his boots.

“Kate!” Among the shadows, he saw movement. Breathing a long sigh of relief, he dropped to his knees at the edge of the precipice, headless of the cold, wet earth. “I’m going to get a rope from the saddle.”

“Alright.” Kate’s voice was distant; she was losing her battle against pain and the elements.

Connor rose, and raced back to Eclipse’s side. From his sodden saddle bag, he grabbed the coil of rope.

Returning to the ravine, he looped the rope around the base of a massive tree, and with quick hands secured it in a knot.

“I’m dropping a line,” he cautioned before sending the rope tumbling into the darkness. “I’m coming down now!”

Taking hold of the coarse cording, Connor began working his way downward. Each step was slow and cumbersome as he struggled to keep from sending a mudslide onto the girl huddled below. Finally, his feet touched solid ground, and he knelt beside Kate’s vulnerable form, gently touching her shoulder.

With a sob, she flung herself into his arms. Her hot tears penetrated his already-soaked tunic as he held her tightly, inhaling the faint scent of the lilac water she had used in her hair that morning. Several long moments passed before Connor finally dared lift his dark head to shout upward.

“I’ve found her!”

The cry echoed through the forest as his men relayed the message. Connor gently cradled Kate’s battered face in his rough hand as he studied her exhausted features in the gloom.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she protested hoarsely, but Connor was already using the hem of his cloak to clean away the blood and filth. “W-where is Diamond?”

“Diamond is home, warm and safe in her stall.”

“Is she injured?”

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“No, Love; she is frightened, but unharmed.”

Connor tied the end of the rope around Kate’s waist and rose, only for her to shake her blond head in protest when he attempted to help her stand.

“My ankle. I-I think I wrenched it in the fall.”

Connor ran his hands down her lower leg, pausing when he reached the swollen joint. With a hiss, Kate jerked away. He bit his lip, then began to untie the rope and tether it around himself, scooping her into his arms and standing. Kate clung to him, ankle throbbing, and buried her face in Connor’s shoulder. There was a flicker of torchlight above, and a moment later, a shadow appeared from the overhang.

“Your Majesties!” Ardis cried, dark eyes widening as he saw the small figure cradled in Connor’s arms. “Is the Queen hurt?”

“Her ankle is sprained. Are there more with you?”

“Aye, Sir; Brandon and Giles are here.”

“I have tied one end of a rope round a tree, and the other round myself. You’ll have to take up the slack and pull us; I cannot climb and hold her.”

“Aye, Sir! Giles – hold the torch; Brandon, you and I shall draw them up. Steady now; the Queen is injured.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The rope went taut, and soon, strong hands were helping Connor to scrabble awkwardly up over the precipice, his feet on solid ground once more. Kate was shuddering violently in his embrace, her teeth chattering from the numbing cold, and the remainder of the King’s Guard had joined them, forming a protective huddle around the young monarchs.

“Someone find her something dry,” Connor commanded, and a moment later a spare cloak was produced from a saddlebag and wrapped around the trembling queen. He transferred her to his Captain’s arms and remounted Eclipse, shifting in the saddle before Ardis lifted her up into her husband’s protective embrace.

“John, Brandon – ride ahead and ensure that everything is ready for our return. I want the healers present to examine Kate’s ankle, and a hot bath drawn in our quarters for her.”

“And Diamond,” Kate called out in a trembling voice. “Be certain that Diamond is blanketed and has been fed a hot bran mash.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” John saluted, and they pivoted their horses, spurring them to a gallop.

Connor rearranged the cloak cocooning Kate, then gathered up the reins and turned Eclipse for home as the King’s Guard fell into formation around them, Ardis and Giles in the lead as their torches pierced the heavy darkness. *** “Are you certain you should be doing this?” Concern filled Connor’s voice as Kate clung to his arm, hobbling awkwardly down the stairs. “It will be no trouble having breakfast brought to our chambers again.”

“It is only a sprain,” Kate reminded him, gingerly descending to the next tread. “And it has been two days; one can only sit and sew and read for so long before their mind goes numb from boredom. I must get out or I shall explode.”

Connor set his jaw, but resolved to nodding agreement. He escorted Kate slowly to the Great Hall, and waited for her to catch her breath – and regain her balance – before helping her cross the massive room to the breakfast table. After settling her at her seat, Connor slid into his own chair and reached for a slice of fresh The April Perennial 76

bread. They ate in silence; during the summer season, many of the lords and ladies who shared the daily meals retreated to rustic residences out in the countryside to escape the heat of the Capitol until cooling temperatures and the lure of the Autumn Hunt drew them back to urban dwelling.

“Since you’ve had your fill of sewing and reading,” Connor gently teased as he set his cup aside, “how are you intending to entertain yourself today?”

“I was hoping to sit in the rose garden for a time,” Kate replied. “I’ve been wanting to do some sketching as well.”

“That sounds quite pleasant.”

“What is on your docket?”

“I’ve a meeting of the Counsel at near-noon, and then eventually I shall need to review the ledgers and then be fitted for a new suit of chain mail.”

“That sounds … entertaining,” Kate attempted to sound encouraging.

“I would be more than happy to trade schedules.”

Kate giggled, choking on her ale.

“I’m afraid I must decline your offer, Good Sir,” she laughed.

Suddenly, the doors to the antechamber opened, and Ardis entered the hall, crossing the flagstone floor with quick, even strides before coming abreast of the table.

“Your Majesties,” he nodded respectfully to Kate, then saluted Connor. “We believe we found the creature that caused the Queen’s accident. The men have brought it to the courtyard.”

“Why all this fuss for a hare?” Kate questioned, taking a bite of cheese.

“We discovered a set of tracks near the ravine, Your Majesty. But they were not those of a common hare,” Ardis replied.

“What do you mean?” Connor asked, frowning. “What is it?”

“We don’t know.”

“I’ll come at once,” “May I come, too?” Kate asked. “This creature has caused so much grief; I must see what they have discovered.”

Connor hesitated, then nodded and took her into his arms. Carrying Kate, he followed Ardis from the Great Hall and into the morning sunlight, descending the steps and crossing the courtyard to where a squadron of the King’s Guard stood encircling a shapeless huddle upon the cobblestones. Connor eased Kate to stand beside him, and Ardis nodded for his men to withdrew.

The creature was massive – nearly as large as the hounds sitting proudly at their handlers’ sides.

Gleaming fangs protruded from lips drawn back in a snarl. The paws were adorned with long, curving claws.

Eyes, lifelessly wide, glowed a hideous hue of blood-red. Coarse fur was matted and missing in patches from its scrape with the hounds. Foam still dripped from the gaping mouth, pooling upon the stones.

“What is this monster?”

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VIAN THOMLINS SHORT STOR

SECOND PLACE

The Peanut Farm Stephen C. Dahlbo

Rufus knew that God’s greatest gifts and mankind’s most brutal sins lay buried hidden side by side just below the earth’s surface. He’d been digging in the dirt and praying for seventy years. Rufus also knew why the population of our small town had doubled with the arrival of a large funeral procession. It was a twenty car caravan ushered into the cemetery dutifully following behind an angelic white Hurst.

Whether the occupant in the shiny silver casket was God’s servant or the Devils disciple was debatable.

Half the crowd had come to watch retired Sheriff Arthur Miller peacefully laid to rest. Everyone else was there to make certain that he became an everlasting and permanent slave of the grave.

“A Lot of fuss about nothing.” Rufus took off his tattered straw hat and frowned at me. “The man’s dead-that be an end to it.”

July meant that the heat in north Texas was in full bloom. The city crowd had listened to the longwinded eulogy and the legendary tall tales portraying Sheriff Miller as a modern day hero while comfortably sequestered inside an air-conditioned church. Now they were standing outside and wilting like delicate spring flowers under a hot and unforgiving summer sun.

“So if that’s an end to it why are we still here?”

“To see which of those wannabe’s be the new sheriff.”

“Is that some kind of a riddle, Rufus?”

“No riddle. Look at da hats. First one puts his back on he be the honcho.”

Sometimes I wondered how Rufus survived in a world that so often seemed to pass him by. “Miller’s successor will be decided by a special election, Rufus.”

“May be an election the votes they be counted already.”

And then there were the times that I wondered why I bothered to doubt his wisdom. Something that even those who disliked him rarely did.

Rufus Cox had been called numerous names in his lifetime mostly the ‘N’ word but no one had ever called him dumb. He had an uncanny way of seeing things that others would not and always to their detriment. The locals had a few choice names for me too. How a fourteen year old white boy had ever come to be adopted by a sixty year old black peanut farmer whom I called ‘grandfather’ had them all puzzled. The answer was simple. No one else in town had offered shelter to a dead widow’s unruly son.

“This here gravesite mumbo-jumbo it be the worst part of it all, Kevin.”

I had heard the same criticism after every funeral regardless of race, creed, or color. Rufus would always explain that most folks are tricked into believing that ashes to ashes and dust to dust was literal scripture and not just some paraphrased explanation served-up for an impatient society looking for a simplified explanation of life and death.

“People be ignorant, Kevin. Don’t know the difference between a cultivated rose and a prickly pear The April Perennial 78

flower. A dirty daisy or a dandelion. Damn sure don’t know the difference twix a good soul and a bad one.

Mother Nature and Mankind they both be devilish tricksters.”

Cotton, like most small towns, had reinvented itself more times than a born again Christian and like the children’s nursey rhyme, the locals were intertwined as tightly as the people in a church symbolized by the interlocking fingers of a child’s small hand. There had always been a mixture of red and white, black and brown, and in the beginning they had simply called the whole of it Texas in 1860.

Of course when the quite noise of a lonely wind was inevitably replaced by the shrill sound of a train whistle what some people called progress others would label The Dawn of White Supremacy. One-hundred and sixty years later Cotton was probably no better or worse off than most rural communities. The great racial divide lived mostly in the big cities.

The young women approaching us from the other side of the cemetery was certainly no local and she was made even stranger by the microphone and recording devises that she was carried. When Rufus saw her cameraman following closely behind he caught on quickly smiled broadly and put his gold teeth on full display.

“It must be a proud day for you and your community?”

“How that be Missy?” The smile never left his face even when he spoke.

“A native son one who served with both pride and dignity as the first black sheriff ever elected in this County will soon become the first African American laid to rest in the City Cemetery. A great day for the community.”

“Sometimes it be better to choke on the truth than swallow the lie.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What Rufus is explaining is that Sheriff Miller hoodwinked or outright stole from most black folks in this County and spent the rest of his time hiding behind his badge. For the record the first black man buried in Cotton is resting peacefully just on the other side of that barbed wire fence.”

The smile was now gone. Rufus frowned at me tipped his hat to the Lady and walked away.

In late summer despite the sweltering heat the appearance of thousands of snowy white fiber plants in the fields around the city of Cotton created the illusion of snow with the noticeable exception of our small peanut farm. The dirty green-brown vegetation visible above ground is admittedly an eyesore. The peanuts actually hide their true identity by growing underground alongside many of the Cox family secrets. I hurried to catch up with Rufus as he left for home “You stepped in it now, boy. No reason for you to talk to that woman about cemeteries and such, Kevin.”

“Maybe people should know about the peanut farm?”

“Gossip get you in trouble every time. Silence-it be golden.”

It was almost dusk when Rufus finally broke his own silence and joined me on the front porch of our mobile home but the peace between us was shortlived. Our solitude was interrupted with the arrival of a large white van emblazoned with ‘Channel 8 News’ in bold red letters on the side panel. It was followed by a sinister looking black SUV. “You’re a hard man to find Mr. Rufus Cox. No mail box and no sign on the gate. Lucky for you investigative reporters don’t give up that easily.” There was something disturbing about her smile.

“I checked and you own the property adjacent to the City Cemetery. I’d like to know more about why the first black man buried in Cotton is on your side of the fence. Care to explain?”

79 The April Perennial

“Nope.”

Our inquisitive reporter was soon joined by several people exiting the SUV one of whom immediately took ownership of his surroundings. He ignored me completely and began speaking directly to Rufus.

“Mr. Cox, my name is Raymond James and I am your local Black Lives Matter representative. We’d like to offer our assistance in helping you to maintain and protect what we suspect may be a black historical site.”

“Nope” “And may I ask why not? Surely you understand that now more than ever black history is important. We need to raise awareness especially in communities where prejudice and neglect still exist.

“Nope” I knew that after three no’s from Rufus Cox you’re out. He made no additional allowances for anyone or any subject. In this instance Rufus simply smiled and walked back inside the trailer leaving me to deal with our uninvited visitors.

“Sorry but Rufus is not interested in history except for the kind he reads about in his Bible.”

“Then he surely lacks vision. He must learn that we are all either part of the solution or part of the problem.”

I was happy to watch as Raymond James and his entourage left but disappointed to see that the Channel 8 news crew had not budged.

“Pardon the pun but for me and mine we won’t stop digging until we find out who’s buried in that field.”

Her smile was even more menacing than before.

“Try reading the Bible.”

“I was joking-I’m not really a religious kind of a person.”

I thought first about turning the dogs loose and just joining Rufus inside but I was curious to know how she might react to the truth. “I’ll loan you one. You’ll find some of the dates and the personal comments interesting.”

The Bible that I handed her and the tattered notes slipped between the pages told a 160 year old story.

A chronical of life and death in and around Cotton for several generations. Maybe it was time that someone knew -maybe not.

Rufus likened the treasure that we called the peanut farm to one of God’s tender mercies. A place where people of color all colors could wait for safe passage. Some eventually moved on but others remained here without need or want for a marble marker or an ornate ceremony. Names and no-names alike rested beneath the soil covered by the same vegetation that had warmed and nurtured them while on this side of the divide.

They were most certainly not all a perfect people.

May ‘1867’ murdered wrong peoples soldiers planted deep.

October‘1920’ corn brew catch’d fire regulators planted deep.

December ‘42’ fancy woman (white) found dead planted deep.

June ‘1968’ pill pusher hung planted deep.

August ‘88’ aborted baby planted deep.

I had watched as the horizon changed from blue to orange and then dim from pink to purple before fading into darkness then I turned my attention to our inquisitive guest. Her face was illuminated by the porch light and she looked confused.

“Why all the secrecy?”

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“Not secrecy -more like sanctity. What would we accomplish by digging up the past? In this case literally.”

“Don’t these people at least deserve a monument or something?”

“Maybe-but a lot of those get knocked or torn down.”

“It’s not the same thing. The BLM doesn’t terrorize or organize riots.”

“Rufus likens peaceful protests to sowing weeds and expecting everything to come up roses. After thirty nights of burning and looting I think that a lot of people would agree.”

“So we just sit back and ignore injustice?”

I’m not sure how long my grandfather had been standing in the shadows but evidently long enough for him to have formed an opinion.

“More slavery now than before, Missy. Mostly in places where people be sorrier than we be.”

“That may well be, Mr. Cox, but perhaps we should solve our own problems at home first.”

“The Bible says a kingdom divided against itself be laid to waste and a home divided against itself will surely fall.”

“And so what’s your solution?”

“The lord is most decidedly color blind. Me too.”

Part Two

81 The April Perennial

VIAN THOMLINS SHORT STOR

THIRD PLACE

The Desire for Help Mason Marshall

The slick London cobble reverberated with the sound of Mrs. Pemberly’s anxious footfalls. They carried with them an air of urgency in their wake. If only her corset allowed her the freedom to quicken her already hurried stride, for the clacking of her boots had gained her the attention of many prying eyes, the commoners who so envied her family’s wealth and prestige. Her sister, Elena, likened them to starving vultures waiting to swoop down from their perch ofself-righteousness, talons ready to rip and rend until there was nothing left of their reputations.Mrs. Pemberly, however, was more inclined to see the good in people, but it became increasingly harder to see any light in those around her. She was an outcast, a pariah forced to deal with her problems and those of her husband’s, alone. Gossip did as gossip does and spread like a virulent plague infecting the minds of those she thought were in her corner until there was no one left but Elena, who would rather spend her time engrossed in her studies rather than consoling her sister.

“Off to find another doctor for that loony husband of hers, think this one will be any different”?

“The lass is ‘ell-bent on finding one that won’t recommend a bedlam, but I’ll bet you athruppence ‘ell be just like all the others.”

The Idle prattle of the older women passed Mrs. Pemberly’s ear like a sickening symphony and nearly stopped her in her tracks. “No,” she said under her breath, “let it go, Ida, let them talk; it doesn’t bother me, it doesn’t.” The older women were adept at weaving threads of lies and gossip, their fickle lives brought them no joy so they had to adapt new skills in order to satiate the monotony of their daily routines. Ida Pemberly should’ve been accustomed to the kind of pointless drivel spouted off by those venomous black widows looking to trap her in a web of falsehoods. Yet still it stung deep in her heart and made her body ache with guilt and frustration. The droning chime of the Elizabeth Tower resounded throughout Mrs. Pemberly’s body forcing her out of her thoughts. “The time, what was the time?” She frantically looked up to see that it was half-past 12 meaning she was officially late to her appointment with the enigmatic Dr. Engels. “Curse this constrictive corset.” She hiked up the hem of her finely tailored midnight blue dress; throwing away all shame and dignity as she dexterously wound and wove herself through the busy cobble pathway searching for 1510 Tarrant Street. “1507”, “1508”, “1509”, “1510!”

The boxy building was no bigger than a small flat and had been made from a warm and inviting smooth red brick that brightened up the row of dreary grey that it was crammed between, giving Mrs. Pemberly a sense of affability with the unfamiliar structure. However, upon entering the deceptively genial apothecary, all feelings of warmth and welcome were abandoned as soon as the bell above the door resonated throughout the cramped pharmacy. The dull beige wallpaper was peeling away in a desperate attempt to escape the accursed fate to which it was bound. And behind the long wood counter; which appeared to be just two large crates pushed together. There stood a towering wall of shelves and small drawers that stretched into the exposed paneling of the decaying ceiling. The drawers themselves were haphazardly placed into The April Perennial 82

their cubbies which seemed to be two sizes too big for the drawers themselves. The awful odour that filled the air, like a noxious miasma, was enough to make a sinner pray for mercy. It reeked of sulphur, so much so that Ida reached for her handkerchief bringing it close to her nose hoping to drown out the unpleasant smell with that of the lemon-scented rag, but to no avail. The thought of leaving crossed Mrs. Pemberly’s mind, that air of cordiality the red brick evoked from the outside was nothing like this bleak and rotting interior. Was this Dr. Engels worth his salt if he was working in a place like this? Mrs. Pemberly queried to herself as she waited for any signs of human life to make themselves known to her.

Just when she was about to reach for the handle of the tarnished oak door a pair of glassy eyes peeked around the corner of the precarious shelf. “What can I do ya for ma’am”, the man only spared her a mere glance before continuing to mix up a remedy of some sort with the multitude of herbs strewn about the front counter.

He deftly crushed and ground them with his mortar and pestle, patiently waiting for her response.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Engels, I was told this is where he works out of, do you happen to know if he’s in or not?”.

The man behind the counter once again spared her only a sliver of his undivided attention, “You don’t look all that ill to me” “Oh, I’m afraid you’re mistaken, the appointment is for my husband not for me.”

“And where might this elusive ‘usband of yours be then madam”, his interest was finally piqued and his inquisitive glare set fire to her ivory complexion.

Ida could only stand there agape and aghast at the sheer audacity of the man standing behind the counter.

How dare he insinuate that I’m some delinquent, some, some ruffian thug looking to pilfer a horde of drugs for my own personal use. Does he even know who I am? The vicious thought surged through Mrs. Pemberly’s mind like a tidal wave that threatened to break her normally calm demeanor.

That dam of politeness could only withstand so much beratement and it was on the verge of crumbling, bringing with it all of the nasty thoughts she kept under lock and key.

“Due to the circumstances of my husband’s condition, he is currently housebound and could not make it here himself.”

“Engels does house calls ya know lass?” he responded with a tone most demeaning. Another crack forms.

“My husband, unfortunately, is in no state to see anyone, he’s even turned me away from our bedchamber.”

“Perhaps he’s grown tired of ya lass, ‘appens all the time, what’d you do, not provide him an heir in time?”

The frothing waters of the dam grow murky and dark, it’s only a matter of time before the stone walls are torn asunder by the fiery rage that Ida is trying so desperately to hold back.

“If Doctor Engels is not here simply tell me that and I will be on my way, I’ve no need to waste any more time here if he is not in,” Mrs. Pemberly says politely trying to regain her footing in this arduous conversation.

“He should be in the back lass, first door on the left.”

“Sincerest thanks for wasting what little time I already had with him when you could’ve just told me that originally”, she said in response exuding a most facetious tone in her voice. She hurriedly storms past the now dumbstricken man and in one swift motion she opens the door to Dr. Engel’s office and plops herself down in one of the crudely upholstered chairs, smoothing out the back of her dress as she does.

“Apologies for the sudden intrusion Dr. Engels but I’ve just had a rather unpleasant interaction with your apothecary and I’d very much like to get down to what it is I came here for.”

83 The April Perennial

“Frau Pemberly I presume? Apologies for Everett, he is quite inquisitive but he’s a fine enough apothecary at least.” his German accent sounded muffled behind the thick grey beard that grew very full around his face.

“But at least you’re here now and you can go into further detail about what exactly is ailing Herr Pemberley. Tell me, when exactly did he start showing these signs of isolation and not acting himself?” He pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen as he patiently waited for Mrs. Pemberly to recount the events that led up to this moment.

Ida took a deep breath in, she had told this story many times before but no one seemed to listen, no one seemed to care, everyone thought her husband to be mad. Would Dr. Engels be the same? She pondered on that thought for a moment before she finally exhaled in an attempt to release all the worries swirling around in her head.

“It all began shortly after the funeral of my father-in-law, my husband was quiet throughout the whole thing, didn’t talk, didn’t cry, he just sat there in solemn silence. I’ll never know what he was thinking that day but I let him have his space, we all have different ways of mourning and I just assumed this was his way of honoring his father’s memory.”

“Was Herr Willaim very close to his father?” Dr. Engels interjected scraping his pen across the parchment.

“From what I’ve heard from his brothers and him, their relationship was a tenuous one, to say the least.” “ How so?”

“Well being the youngest of six boys who are all vying for their tycoon father’s love and attention can be quite hard. Especially when you’re constantly comparing yourself to the others in your family who seem so much more successful than you.”

“He’s also the only son who renounced himself from the family business, essentially cutting all ties to the Pemberly name, and that included his stake in his father’s last will and testament.”

“It seems like Pemberly manor was quite a competitive household growing up, the boys always wanting to one-up another to prove themselves to their father, who only cared which one was best suited to lead the illustrious Pemberley Shoes.”

Mrs. Pemberly quietly watched as Dr. Engels scribbled something down on his piece of parchment.

“Please continue on. I’d like to go more in-depth about the symptoms that William has been exhibiting, other than the isolation and loss of appetite you had mentioned in your letter” Dr. Engels motioned politely for her to continue her story.

“Well,” she took a sharp inhale through her teeth “He claims that he sees a vision of his father, harassing him, berating him, saying just the most awful things, but of course I see no such specter so it’s very hard for anyone else to believe, most doctors just label him mad and move on with their day.”

“Interesting, very interesting” Dr, Engels pondered to himself as though he only needed to reach out and grasp the solution to Herr Pemberly’s madness.

“Had any of the doctors you’d been to before mentioned an affliction by the name of melancholia?”

Mrs. Pemberly sported a puzzled look on her face as she tried to remember if any such affliction was mentioned.

“I don’t believe so, no, is this melancholia what you believe to be the source of my husband’s suffering?”

Dr. Engels nodded his head somberly, “It is my belief that William’s harsh upbringing caused him to be The April Perennial 84

very hard on himself as a child and that transferred into adulthood. After the death of his father, to try and deal with his grief, his mind manifested all of those terrible thoughts of unworthiness and it ended up forming into the visage of the one who instilled them in him, thus his sighting of his dead father berating him.”

Mrs. Pemberly looked at the man in front of her in utter bewilderment, “Is the human mind capable of such things?”

“It is capable of much more than that Mrs. Pemberly, I’ve worked with patients who claim they hear voices from angels and demons, those who cannot control what they say and end up blurting out obscenities against their will. The human brain is a fascinating machine, one that I am intent on discovering more about. Her look of bewilderment turned into one of silent contentment “And what is the best treatment for melancholia, in your professional opinion, and don’t even think about saying the asylum.”

“I wouldn’t dare mein Frau melancholia is actually one of the more treatable afflictions that I specialize in. In previous cases I’ve prescribed a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Plenty of sunlight, gentle singing, and or humming, like a lullaby for example. Most importantly though he needs your encouragement and support, let him know that you’re there for him and that what I doing is good enough, and usually, in about 2-4 weeks they start feeling like their old selves again” Mrs. Pemberly was dumbfounded, was this disease that had plagued her husband so easily fixed?

“I know it sounds a rudimentary cure at best but trust me, you will see improvements in your husband’s mood if you follow my instructions.”

Was this it? Mrs. Pemberly thought to herself, was this really the cure that I’ve been searching for for so long? She didn’t know but what she did know is that Dr. Engels was the first doctor who truly listened to her story. The first doctor to talk to her, not at her, the first one to not recommend an asylum to “cure” her husbands ailment. She felt she could trust him as if he were a dear friend, and trust him she would.

“Ok” she said nodding her head tears welling in her viridian eyes, “I would like to begin treatment of my husband according to your prescribed method” “Wonderful choice my dear, come I’ll walk you out and get Everett to bag some chamomile for you” Dr. Engels pushed himself off his worn leather chair and opened the door for Ida to the apothecary counter.

“Everett please grab Mrs. Pemberly two sachets of chamomile please.” Everett responded with a swish of his hand as he climbed a ladder to one of the higher cubbys. Whether it was the tears in her eyes or the happiness held in her heart Mrs. Pemberly now viewed the apothecary in a different light. She could see the beautiful blooming roses hidden in the dingy beige wallpaper. The room flooded with the warm afternoon sun bringing with it a calming serenity. The smell of sulfur that so bothered only moments ago was replaced with that of the fresh chamomile that Everett scooped into the sachets. Her mind was finally at ease she could rest assured that the one she loved was to get the help he’d been so desperately pining for all along.

85 The April Perennial

VIAN THOMLINS SHORT STOR

HONRABLE MENTION

Christmas Eve on Planet Earth Carla Hardin

Your reclamation, then. Take heed!”

Ghost of Christmas Past The sleek hovercraft with blinking lights silently glided above the floor of the mountain valley piloted by a man whose thick white hair and clear blue eyes could be distinguished clearly through the cockpit windows.

The craft sped along, guided through the narrow places by the deft handling of its operator. Forests of young firs swept down steep mountainsides, and small patches beneath the trees exhibited blackened undergrowth.

It was midafternoon, but in less than an hour the winter sun would fall behind the peaks and bring shadowy forms to the valley.

When the pilot caught sight of a log house, he lightly touched the brakes of the vehicle, and the hovercraft slowed for the approach. A listing chimney made of rock and mortar rose from one end of the house and two venting pipes near it jutted through the pitched roof. The cabin yard was surrounded by a linked fence, and the enclosed area was spacious enough to include a storage shed, a latrine, and a hangar for the hovercraft.

The man pressed a button on the control panel of the craft, and the gate of the enclosure swung open. He steered the craft through the wide entrance, zipped across the yard, and set the vehicle on the ground with precision inside the hangar. He reached for a computer case on the passenger seat before climbing out.

Removing a cable stored in a compartment under the seat, he plugged one end into a port located on an exterior panel of the hovercraft. He stretched the cable to its full length before plugging the other end into a solar battery mounted on a pole.

He picked up the case and strode toward the cabin. A maze of solar panels stood in the yard, their faces upturned toward the sky. Before entering the little cabin, he stomped his boots and eyed the now-closed gate to be assured that it had latched correctly.

Once indoors, he removed the insulating outer layer of his clothing. The coffee maker sat on the wooden counter, clean and ready to brew a fresh pot. In the corner reserved for personal hygiene, he held a urinal while he emptied his bladder. He set the container on the floor and with the ice-cold water stored in an indoor cistern, he washed his hands and face. The ragged towel, though dry, smelled sour. He tossed it into the wicker basket of items to be laundered.

While scooping coffee into the brewing basket, the man argued with himself that making a second pot in one day was justified even in view of the dwindling supply of the bracing beverage.

“Well, it is a holiday,” he reasoned aloud.

While the coffee was percolating, he shoveled ashes from the fireplace into a wooden bucket and laid kindling for a new fire. He split the fir logs with a hatchet and added the splintered pieces to the growing The April Perennial 86

flame. The now-crackling fire was already sending out waves of warmth.

The man stood with his back to the fireplace and looked approvingly at the cabin’s interior. The totality of furnishings consisted of a rustic table with two chairs, a recliner with faded upholstery and a broken handle, and a wooden platform with a mattress and disheveled blankets. In all aspects, the interior of the cabin was exactly how deer hunters of any era might have imagined it.

In all aspects but one.

On a table pushed against the wall, a computer and monitor had been set up. A cable plugged into a port on the computer’s side was connected to a solar battery stashed beneath the table. An adjoining table held a microscope and a box of glass slides at one end; the remaining space was taken up with drives, headphones, two printers, a cellular phone, a camera, a two-way radio, binoculars, and a few folders stuffed with dog-eared papers. A shelf cut from a fir log hung unevenly on the wall above the tables; atop it a few books were propped while others were stacked. Parked before the computer was a wheeled office chair featuring an ergonomic back and arm rests. A green jacket lay balled up on the seat.

Sipping steaming hot coffee from a plain mug, he walked over to the table. Not unexpectedly he noted that he had an unopened message. Setting the mug on the table, he donned the jacket; the perimeters of the cabin were still bone-chilling.

Sitting down before the monitor, he stared a few seconds at the familiar heading: To Eben Scruggs, Planet Earth Reclamation Station 1523, from Jacob Martin, Humanity Rescue Mission HRM: A Peaceful Christmas Eve, Eb, and a brighter outlook for the coming new year!

Eben smiled and began typing a reply.

PERS: Same to you, Jake, though I should say a peaceful “designated” Christmas Eve. HRM: Yep. PERS: How are things?

HRM: We’re having a few celebrations, but they’re muted and decorations are few—no trees or holly. Because the hab neighborhoods are integrated—believers, non-believers, Muslims, Jews, Hindu, whatever--everyone is careful not to step on toes. Mutual survival has trumped politics and religion. You get the picture.

PERS: Yes, too bad this level of cooperation could not have been achieved on Earth.

HRM: Indeed. The interminably long trip and the lifelessness of this place have forced all of us evacuees to strengthen our common bonds and cast aside crippling prejudices. Ironically, wearing pressure suits outside the habitats disguises much of what we used to hold against each other.

PERS: And it looks as if you’ll be wearing them for the duration now.

HRM: Pretty much. Despite the intermittent release of greenhouse gases, the atmosphere is still not livable. Scientists’ predictions a century ago were overly optimistic. Most are now saying a hundred years, maybe even a thousand, before the atmosphere and pressure equal that of Earth. The botanists and growers work diligently fertilizing the soil and planting seeds. Terraforming works, but it’s slow.

The only thing keeping us alive is the regular supply missions between here and Earth.

PERS: Right.

HRM: So, what’s happening on your end? I’ve been getting some encouraging data.

PERS: Yes, many of the biogeographic indicators and meteorological forecasts all point to a quicker recovery than expected. It’s been barely ten years since the evacuation, but the planet seems 87 The April Perennial

to be bouncing back robustly. Even simple observations confirm this—an explosive growth in vegetation and forests and, thank God, the wild animal population. And here in the heart of the Pacific Northwest, fir forests are growing up where runaway wild fires once charred the ground, leaving it blackened and bare. Are you ready for this? Local meteorological data—moisture at the upper levels, very cold air on the surface--are forecasting snow for the higher elevations of the Cascades starting tonight. If it follows through as forecast, it will be only the third snowfall since the evacuation.

HRM: Joe Franken at the NP station is reporting that permafrost is spreading on the tundra although we both understand that it will require another ice age to bring back the bergs and glaciers.

Hey, more good news. Celia James at the San Diego station took a boat ride up and down the streets of the once submerged city. She said there’s been a dramatic drop in ocean levels along the Pacific coast though the east coast cities--Miami, Atlanta and New York—remain under water. The station managers and their work forces in the Midwest and High Plains are farming highly arable land and harvesting bumper crops. The canning factory at Mexico City operates 24/7 to keep a supply of food in constant transit to us here. The station managers in Asia are all saying the same thing—the earth can once again sustain life.

PERS: Of course, this brings up the inevitable question, namely, when will evacuees be returning?

You know I have very mixed feelings about this.

HRM: I’m well acquainted with your views on the subject; we’ve had a few chats about the return.

And I can appreciate your apprehension that Earth will again be ravaged by plunderers and politicians who willfully ignore scientific data. But Eb, I gotta say it. The human remnant here on Mars is merely existing day-to-day with only the hope and expectation of returning home keeping us going. This planet is inhospitable and alien. We, and I include myself, are merely waiting for the day that we can board that ship and return home to a planet with tall green trees and blue oceans. I know, I know—the water is not really blue, but you know what I mean. We are sick to death of dry, lifeless, red soil. I may have to eat my words later, but living marginally on this wind-blasted planet has chastened us and has created an urgent awareness that we all must be better stewards of Earth’s resources.

PERS: You make a persuasive argument. I remain, unfortunately, unconvinced.

HRM: Understandable.

PERS: I fear that the GP turned me into an unforgiving cynic. After losing Chris and the girls, I just gave up wanting to live. And then the bitterness and self-loathing set in. I have to fight it every single day.

HRM: You survived the pandemic. Perhaps that is where the guilt comes in.

PERS: I was so busy with my work that I failed to get them moved out of the city to a quarantine camp. By the time I woke up to the threat, it was too late. Yes, I survived, but I am plagued by chronic fatigue.

HRM: I lost my mom and dad, and they were sheltering at a camp. No one was safe, even in the camps. It truly was a global scourge. I was extraordinarily lucky not to be stricken.

PERS: The Freestone vaccine saved the human race. Period. We were headed for the door marked “extinction.”

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HRM: Perhaps.

PERS: I’m smiling as I type this. I know you’re thinking your god had a hand in saving us from annihilation. I suppose that I respect your belief, Jake, for I was once a believer myself.

HRM: Nor am I embarrassed to proclaim, even in the presence of cold-eyed scientists, that I believe the Almighty intervened to save mankind. But I’m also remembering your dad, a man of great faith with many followers. He was one of a mere handful of clerics to warn of the impending climate crisis and its threat to our existence.

PERS: That was his last crusade, and he died thinking he was a failure in convincing believers that everyone was complicit in plundering the fragile ecosystem, that God expected humanity to care for his creation with wonder and respect. In a rare burst of sarcasm, I once heard him tell a crowd that the earth was not just another Disney World.

HRM: Perhaps he would take some satisfaction in knowing that both Disneyland and Disney World are under water.

PERS: Not very likely. He wasn’t as cynical as his son. That was his saving grace.

HRM: Indeed, he was a genuinely good man. Changing the subject—what about that big white stag you told me about last time?

PERS: He’s still wandering about the area. I used to see him only when I was out in the craft. Now he is coming up closer to the compound; he seems curious about my activities. I’ve studied him through binoculars. He is an unusually large specimen, completely white. I have yet to see a herd of deer or fawns. Perhaps he is keeping them away until he is sure that I am merely a benign forest creature.

HRM: You a benign anything! I’m rolling on the floor! Merry Christmas, Eben, and a more promising new year for all of us. I’m like Santa—I have a lot of calls to make before morning.

PERS: Then you better get on it, Jake. Take care, buddy.

After the screen went black, Eben leaned back in the chair with his elbows on the arm rests. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.

“So they’re coming back early,” he admitted sardonically. “Swell.”

He stood and stretched. The coffee was doing its work—he felt a strong urge to urinate. After doing so, he placed the vessel on the floor. It would have to be emptied before he retired. He stuck his arms through the sleeves of the insulated coat and put on the gloves and woolen cap he had retrieved from a pocket. He bent to pick up the urinal and made his way to the front of the cabin. He flipped a wall switch before opening the door.

The flood lamp illuminated large snowflakes peppering the compound in a virtual white-out condition.

Eben was momentarily stupefied as he stood in the doorway.

“Whoa,” he exclaimed at last. “I gotta get pictures of this!”

He walked swiftly through the flurries, his eyes blinking away the flakes that fell across his face. When he reached the perimeter, he poured the contents of the vessel under the fence.

“Once again, staking out my territory!” he announced to unseen wild animals.

Eben jogged across the snow, his mind absorbed with the prospect of getting some photos featuring a rare wintry backdrop. As he neared the cabin, he became aware of a movement at the edge of the darkness, just beyond the brightly lit area. He stopped and waited, his scientifically-trained senses alert to a possible revelation.

89 The April Perennial

The white stag stepped into the light.

Eben inhaled and quietly blew the air through his mouth. The stag remained completely still and stared at the worried man before him. Eben, too, stood unmoving and pondered his situation. He had been correct in his estimation of the stag’s size, an estimation made at a safe distance he now reflected. A tall beast with an impressive eight points, its long, powerful legs would have had no trouble clearing the compound fence. Eben looked toward the cabin door, now an unattainable option, and quickly formed an alternate plan: He would remain still and wait for the stag to withdraw or, if it charged, he would drop to his knees and fall prostrate on the ground in a posture of submission.

Man and beast eyed one another as the snow fell in large, wet flakes. The forest was impossibly still and silent, like the tense drama unfolding in the yard. Eben shifted his weight to the other foot and straightened his aching back. Though the stag was some thirty feet away, he was relieved to note that its unblinking gaze was benevolent. “Just like Boots,” he reflected.

The remembrance of his children’s beloved beagle had crept unexpectedly into his benumbed heart. Momentarily ignoring his predicament, he squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and resumed his immobile stance. Curiously, the stag nodded its regal head before turning and disappearing noiselessly into the darkness.

Eben took several deep breaths before he made his way on shaky legs to the door. Once inside, he became urgently aware that the tense encounter was necessitating a trip to the latrine. He reached for the illuminator that hung on a nail and ventured outside. He hurried across the snow-covered yard to the crudely constructed outhouse, the illuminator lighting his path. He carried no weapon to defend himself—he could only hope the beast had run away.

When he returned to the cabin, he paused outside the door and stomped the snow off his boots.

Staring into the blackness beyond the flood-lit yard, he felt a torrent of bittersweet memories surging through his muddled senses and realized too late that he was powerless to block it. Slumping his shoulders, he surrendered to the pain. Anguished sobs racked his tall frame, shattering the primeval silence of the forest.

Marshalling the remnants of his will, he subdued the runaway emotions, and the outburst ceased. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

“My dearest ones,” he murmured and opened the cabin door. He paused and then pulled it shut.

He grabbed the axe propped against the wood pile and headed toward the gate. Outside the compound, he climbed the nearby hillside where young fir trees were thriving in the blackened ground. A few minutes later, when he passed through the gate, he was clutching the illuminator in one hand and was dragging a fir tree with the other. Once indoors, he filled a bucket with water from the cistern and set it on the floor. He lifted the tree and placed it in the bucket, allowing it to lean against the wall. Pushing the desk chair aside, he rebooted the computer and searched the online files.

He smiled when he found the never-opened folder.

Standing at the counter, he poured the last bit of coffee into the mug. He fed the dying fire a few sticks of splintered wood, waited for it to blaze, and fed it larger limbs. When it began crackling, he switched off the overhead light and pushed the recliner near the fire, positioning it in view of the tree. The decrepit chair could no longer recline, so he sat looking straight ahead. The computer, equipped with cutting-edge technology, was spinning seasonal carols in symphonic tones. He took another sip of coffee and set the mug on the floor, laid his head against the stained cushion, and closed his eyes. In time, his weariness and the warmth from the The April Perennial 90

fire lulled him into reverie where he felt himself tumbling through time to embrace a dark-haired beauty and two giggling sprites with clear blue eyes.

When Eben awoke, he breathed deeply the chilled air. His knees and feet were stiff, and he struggled to stand. He poked the burnt wood in the fireplace with a stick and laid in a fresh split log. It would take some time before the renewed blaze pushed back against the cold. He swallowed a couple of analgesic tablets with a few sips of tepid coffee. The fir tree propped against the wall was barely visible in the low light of the fireplace.

The music file had long since closed.

For the second time that day, tears rose in his eyes and spilled onto his face.

“Peace on Earth,” escaped his lips in a barely audible whisper.

The snow showers were ending, and moonlight was breaking through the parting clouds. Miles away in a clearing, the white stag stood motionless, its head tilted and its ears erect. At last knowing, it bounded over the snowy field and fled into the sheltering evergreens.

91 The April Perennial

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The April Perennial is a publication of the Department of English at North Central Texas College and managed by the Creative Writing Committee.

Dr. G. Brent Wallace, Chancellor Dr. Bruce King, Provost Dr. Rochelle Gregory, English Division Chair & Interim Dean of Communications, Language and Performing Arts Thank you to all professors, teachers, parents, guardians, and friends who encouraged writers to create and submit.

Thank you to Rachel West for design and layout of publication and Marylyn Dowling for printing.

Visit us online for more information and details for NCTC Creative Writing Contests

www.creativewriting.nctc.edu