SONDER: The Annual Review for North Central Texas College

SONDER

THE ANNUAL REVIEW FOR NORTH CENTRAL TEXAS COLLEGE

Copyright © 2023 by North Central Texas College

Sonder: The Annual Review from North Central Texas College

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Cover and Interior Design by Demi Bayer.

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SONDER

THE ANNUAL REVIEW FOR NORTH CENTRAL TEXAS COLLEGE

FICTION

ADULT • NCTC • HIGH SCHOOL

The Eastern Sector

Carla Hardin

Pete Grubbs was having a bad day, or at least a bad ending to a usually mundane shift in the security headquarters of the Arms Depot located in the Eastern Sector. His pounding heart and adrenalin-filled blood cried out for unfettered movement of arms and legs. If he could at least stand up! But standing was not necessary for his assigned duty and would attract notice from co-workers, and especially from the Big Eye rotating its lens from the vantage point of the ceiling. We have come so far, he mused, for the mission to be undone by his inability to control his nerves! But by focusing his attention on the screens in front of him, he was able at last to slow his racing heart and relax his taut muscles.

Cameras placed in far-reaching, out-of-the way positions throughout the grounds of the Depot perpetually fed the multiple monitors in Security with live action videos. A dozen disciplined, indoctrinated workers worked around the clock searching for any movement that might signal treachery against the Syndicate.

All save one.

Where is Blakely? Pete Grubbs asked himself for the umpteenth time. The escape route had changed; a deeply embedded agent had slipped an encrypted message into the pocket of his jacket while they rode a crowded elevator. The vaunted, impenetrable Natchez Trace near the Mississippi was no longer the designated rallying point for the Patria rebels. Instead, once their mission was successfully executed, the insurgents were to make their way north, cross the Red River into the Central District, and slog across open territory until they reached the Potomac and the Black Castle.

But where was Blakely? His shift was almost over, and hanging around after hours would create suspicion. She has to know…

“Grubbs!” a voice barked in the doorway.

Pete turned to see Harrington, a ramrod, no-nonsense Syndicate manager looking straight at him.

“Sir?” Pete managed to choke out.

“The Colonel needs to see you at the end of your shift. And don’t make him wait!” He seemed to relish punctuating the Colonel’s order.

“Yes, sir!”

Now what? Grubbs thought.

Just at that moment a woman with grey hair pulled back in a pony tail entered the room and headed for the break table. She was clad plainly in dark trousers and a similarly dark shirt. She carried an empty coffee mug. Grubbs grabbed a grease-stained cardboard bowl of French fries and began moving toward the break table.

“Blakely!” commanded Harrington. The woman stopped and turned toward the man who had shouted her name. “Sir?”

Harrington strode to where Blakely had stopped. At once he began an animated, one-sided dressing down of the plainly dressed woman who had no choice but to face her superior as he raged. Ignoring Harrington’s diatribe, Grubbs continued across the room and set the container of fries on the break table. There were two condiment bottles---one for mustard, one for ketchup. He picked up the bottle of ketchup and turned it upside down and squeezed. Making a show of frustration, Grubbs began pounding the tip of the ketchup dispenser against the table repeatedly.

“Hey you!” shouted Harrington.

When Grubbs turned around to face Harrington, the latter redirected his animus.

“You’re supposed to be in the Colonel’s office right now! What do you think you’re doing?”

He motioned toward the French fries. “Get rid of that crap! You’re not going on a picnic,” he sneered.

“Yes, sir!” answered Grubbs smartly and discarded the fries in the trash can. He walked past the couple and out the door.

Harrington, exhausted by the discharge of so much vitriol, had turned away from Blakely who was now filling the mug from the coffee urn.

“He could’ve at least wiped up the mess he made,” Harrington complained as he approached.

“That’s okay, sir, I’ll clean it up,” volunteered the woman who reached for a napkin. “There, all cleaned up.” She threw the ketchup-stained napkin in the trash.

“Look, Blakely, I’m sorry that I spoke to you so harshly earlier. I know you are not directly responsible for the chaos and mismanagement in the Colonel’s office. I’m not sure who is, and I suppose it could even be the Colonel himself!” Blakely was surprised by Harrington’s candor. She wondered what could have driven him to make such an unflattering assessment of the old man.

“I understand, sir.” She looked around. “If you will excuse me, the Colonel is waiting for his coffee….”

“Of course, please go ahead.” Harrington reached for a Styrofoam cup and filled it with coffee. He took a sip. “I hope this is the last night I have to work late,” he groused.

Blakely smiled and nodded.

Most likely, she thought grimly as she walked out of the break room.

Metzger was certain of one thing: McGee was setting a brutal pace. The two men had been slogging over uneven terrain for nearly three hours. McGee walked assuredly through the grassy clumps; Metzger stumbled frequently. They dared not use illumination but relied on intermittent moonlight and the distant glow from the urban skyline. Metzger peered into the darkness ahead and noted that the ground was rising, an indication that the fleeing men were crossing into the Eastern Sector. McGee paused not a moment to mark the achievement but continued up the slope ahead of Metzger who had halted. The younger man was breathing hard as he placed his hands on his thighs for support.

“Hey McGee!” he called out between gulps of air. “Can’t we stop here for a moment to rest?”

McGee turned to look back at the younger man who had fallen behind. He walked down the slope to where Metzger remained bent and gasping.

“Sure,” he agreed. Metzger had grown accustomed to McGee’s terse replies; he understood that his laconic companion might not wish to engage in strategic talk, especially with a former Syndicate worker.

Metzger took his cue from McGee and did not squat but stayed on his feet while he recovered his breath. Both men turned to look back at the city. From this vantage they could see the multi-storied skyscrapers of the vast metropolis outlined by millions of wireless lamps. Like most residents of the Habitation Sectors, Metzger had never ventured east, to the forbidden sector. Despite his growing apprehension, the younger man found himself awed by the spectacle of buildings outlined in shimmering white.

“You see that building at the north end, the one with the tall spire?” asked McGee.

“I see it,” said Metzger raising his arm to point.

“That’s the Court of Restitutions,” McGee said simply. “That’s how far we’ve walked.”

Metzger nodded and turned to stare at the now distant Court building. “I never knew there was a spire on top,” he admitted, “and I worked there for eight years.” He narrowed his eyes to focus on one point. “What’s that thing lit up at the tip of the spire?”

McGee took a swig of water from the canteen tied by a strip of fabric about his neck.

“That?” replied the older man as he wiped his mouth with his hand. “That’s a cross,” he said without comment.

“Oh,” replied Metzger quietly.

“We better get moving,” said McGee, beginning the ascent. “The patrol will be sweeping this area any time.” He turned to encourage his companion who seemed to have recovered his stamina.

“There’s a place nearby where we can get out of sight, even spend the night if we have to.”

In silence the two men walked side-by-side up the steep incline. Upon reaching a level area, McGee halted and squinted into the shadowy darkness.

“This way,” he directed and took long strides toward a dark shape about twenty yards ahead. Metzger scampered to keep up with his companion. As they drew nearer to McGee’s target, Metzger could make out that the dark shape was, in fact, a shelter made of crisscrossed tree limbs in the midst of a dozen or so scrub bushes scattered across the landscape.

“How clever,” mused Metzger. From the air, the leafy-looking shelter would attract no notice. “So, we’re staying in that for the night?

“Better not,” replied McGee who was turning in all directions, searching the shadowy landscape. “We ought to move on, at least until daylight, to get as far from Trinity as we can.” He faced the younger man. “I’m hoping that the Patriots will find us. We’re pretty much out in the open here. In fact, they may have already detected our presence. Best to keep walking.” He paused, then added, “What do you think?”

Metzger was surprised that McGee would even ask what he thought. “Let’s go,” Metzger affirmed.

The two fugitives set off up a hill steeper than the one they had just climbed. Physically, Metzger felt revived, but the reality of his rapidly unfolding fate seized his mind. By unlocking McGee’s cell, he had betrayed the Syndicate. He knew if he were captured, he would suffer an inhumane punishment inflicted by the merciless judges of the Court of Restitutions. And with condemnation from the Court a certainty, he also reckoned that condemnation from the Patria was almost as sure. Would he succeed in convincing the men hiding in the darkness that he had renounced the Syndicate? Would McGee step up to vouch for him? Had Grace and Joseph made it safely out of the Habitation Sector?

A sudden, powerful blast moved the ground under his feet. A blinding white light lit the eastern sky. Another blast and a surge in the white light. And then another blast and myriad lights exploded in the blackness.

“What the hell is that? Metzger screamed.

“That,” McGee loudly announced, “is the first blow against the Syndicate.”

Aware that Metzger had no knowledge of the mission of the Patria, McGee walked back down the hillside to where his companion was standing. “That is—that was—the Arms Depot,” he explained. “Undercover agents who have been in place for many, many months were obviously successful tonight in executing a plan that destroyed the Depot in a very spectacular way. And yes, lives were lost. And yes, we will soon be hunted by the brutal Syndicate police who will leave no stone unturned to bring the perpetrators to swift justice. And yes, my friend, that now includes you. Are you still with me?”

“What choice do I have?” Metzger protested lamely.

“You’ll be all right,” McGee said, patting Metzger’s arm. “Remember why you unlocked my cell door. Like the Patriots, in your soul you long for a return to democracy and an end to the authoritarian regime of the Syndicate.” Gesturing toward the bright light in the sky, McGee added, “The battle has only begun.”

Metzger took a deep breath and nodded.

McGee suddenly started. “Look, we gotta get out of here. There’s a hidden safe house up ahead about two miles. It should be stocked with rations and fresh water. We can hang out there during daylight and be on the move again tomorrow night. We will likely run across Patriots, and that’s a good thing. As they say, there is strength in numbers.” McGee paused. “Are you ready?”

“Let’s move,” Metzger replied.

The two fugitives resumed slogging up the hillside. Another blast from the burning Depot rocked the night.

A young, clean-shaven man wearing Army fatigues stood over a table where maps had been laid out. A single lantern that hung from a wire above the table illuminated the small room. Blackout paper covered the windows, and though the night was chilly, no fire had been laid in the grate. The guard knocked on the door before poking his head in. “Cappy, the rovers found two men wandering through this area. They claim to be Patriots.”

“All right, Garcia, bring ‘em in.”

Garcia pushed the door open to allow the men to enter. Cappy noted that one man was about his own age, slim with patchy stubble; the other man stocky and bearded with hair almost touching his shoulders. Cappy instantly brightened.

“McGee!” he cried as he rushed over to embrace the bearded man. “I thought you were a dead man!”

“Well, truth be told, so did I.” He turned to look at Metzger. “Cappy, I want to introduce you to the man who saved my life. “Captain Fein, West Point class of ’36, this is…Metzger.” Looking somewhat abashed, he turned to Metzger. “Sorry, I don’t know your first name.”

“Robert. Robert Metzger. Pleased to meet you, Captain,” Metzger supplied as the two men shook hands.

“I’m just so overwhelmed,” gushed Cappy. “Never in a million years did I expect to see you again! You know, the Patria has sorely missed your guidance all these months. So, what happened? How did you escape the clutches of the Syndicate?”

“It was relatively easy to escape prison. Metzger just unlocked my cell, and we both slipped out unnoticed through an emergency door whose alarm he had earlier disabled.” He looked approvingly at Metzger. “We’ve been on the move since.”

“I was ready to come over to the Patriots. I was just waiting for the right opportunity,” Metzger added. “I wanted my wife and son to escape with me, but I was just so afraid of putting them in danger. Through paper messages left for me under uneaten portions of his prison grub, McGee was able to direct me to the underground network in Trinity, and they offered to lead them out.” He paused. “I just

hope they made it,” he lamented.

“I have faith in the abilities of the Patriots,” McGee declared. “They never would’ve undertaken the mission of getting your family out of Trinity if they had harbored any reservations.” He smiled at Metzger. “They’ll make it.”

Cappy nodded affirmatively. “Speaking of getting out, Pete Grubbs and a whole slew of underground agents from the Eastern Sector made it in yesterday. Pete was our man in Security, throwing monkey wrenches in the video cameras from time to time and writing reports to the Colonel using false and misleading data. I understand he sometimes worked in tandem with the Colonel’s secretary who wreaked havoc by providing the old man with falsified inventories. Their audacious actions made it possible for Depot agents to siphon off rifles, ammo, and other firearms. We’ve built up quite an arsenal here made up of Eastern Sector weapons. By the way, I guess you heard about the explosion at the Depot?”

“Heard about it?” declared McGee. “We saw it! The ground literally moved under out feet. It was quite a show!”

“I’m sure it was,” observed Cappy. “Offensive attacks on Syndicate targets in other regions were carried out today as well. Radio silence will keep us in the dark about those outcomes for quite a few days.”

“So, did everyone make it out safely?” McGee asked.

“It looks that way except for one—the Colonel’s secretary,” Cappy explained. “Grubbs was Blakely’s contact in the chain of secret communiques, and he was worried that she would not be able to comprehend his cryptic message. I had ordered Blakely to remain at the Depot until she was certain the old man would stay busy in his office until late that night. Grubbs said he had wanted to stay and wait for her, but I had ordered him and the other agents to start on the trek to the Compound before dark. By the way, the men and women who had escaped with Grubbs made it known to me they were burned by the last-minute change. I explained to them that Intelligence had reported seeing Syndicate agents in the Trace area. Therefore, out of an abundance of caution, the Delta commander and I decided that the Red River, which had always been the alternative destination, would now become the primary retreat.”

There was a knock at the door, and Garcia stepped inside.

“Excuse me, sir, a courier just brought this.” He handed a piece of paper to Cappy.

“Good news, Metzger!” exclaimed Cappy reading the short message. “Your wife and son are here! The Patriots ferried them across the river earlier today, and they are lodging in a safe house for the night.”

“Thank God!” breathed Metzger crossing his arms on his chest.

“Gentlemen, I do believe this calls for a celebration! Let’s rustle up some grub,” declared Cappy. “Garcia, come with us.”

“With pleasure, sir,” replied Garcia.

Their hearty exchanges were interrupted by a knock at the door. A woman with grey hair pulled back in a pony tail stepped hesitantly into the cabin.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. My name is Gwen Blakely, and I am supposed to report to Captain Fein.”

“Yes, Miss Blakely! How do you do? I’m Captain Fein. Please come in. We’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

“Oh?”

“You know Pete Grubbs, don’t you? When I debriefed him earlier today, he expressed concern that you might not have been able to interpret his cryptic message---”

“Not able to interpret his message!” Blakely fumed, speaking in a bolder tone. “What kind of fool agent does he think I am? I know how to read body language and other visual signs. That’s part of our training. So, when Grubbs was putting on a show with that dispenser in front of Harrington and the whole department, I knew I should pay attention. And there it was…plain as day. A ribbon, or river, of ketchup on the table. The new plan? Rally at the Red River!” She brought her hand up in a salute.

“Message received, sir!”

The Maroon Foyer

Jessica M. DeMent

As she stepped through the doors, her head grew fuzzy. The surroundings were uncomfortably familiar to her. She’d entered those doors and into that maroon foyer on more than one sad occasion over the last two and a half decades of her life. It had been a good eight to ten years since she had to cross that threshold, but it all looked exactly like it had since the first time she entered it at the age of 13. Even back then the décor felt old and stuffy; the once gorgeous early-twentieth century house quite obviously hadn’t been redecorated since the early eighties, maybe longer. The hideous maroon and green floral wallpaper that she’d hated as a young girl still hung on the walls. The two maroon leather winged-back chairs that always beckoned to her as though they were offering a hug to her hurting soul still sat in the too small entry. She’d always thought those chairs deserved to be in a library or study instead of a house of grief. She longed to go directly to those chairs and feel their familiar comfort.

Instead, she forced her feet to keep walking; she knew the evening required more of her. She took a deep breath and entered the next equally hideous room. This one held forest green carpet, cream and gold striped wallpaper, a couple chesterfield couches with upholstery that was far too similar in pattern to the hated maroon wallpaper, and thick cream-colored curtains that looked as though they hadn’t been cleaned since before she was last here. The familiar musty smell finally registered in her nose, and she started to feel herself losing the battle brewing behind her eyes. She had to take another deep breath and steel herself before she turned and took the next step. The juxtaposition of the familiarity of her physical surroundings with the surrealness of the current circumstances made everything feel like a strange and vivid dream. It felt too similar to the dreams she had wherein everything would be so realistic that it seemed as though she were actually awake, and it wasn’t until a totally unrealistic element was introduced to the dream that she would be able to confirm it was not reality.

The pounding behind her breastbone echoed in her ears. She forced her feet to move her into the next familiar room and instantly lost the battle she knew she’d been fighting in vain. Her chest tightened and her throat closed as she tried to choke back the tears that were now freely destroying her makeup. Idiot. She chided herself. You knew you were going to cry tonight. You should have gotten waterproof mascara. Or not been so vain and insecure, and just skipped the mascara all together. Now you’ll just look like a dumb racoon all night. The tears stopped as she found comfort in her shame. The shame was an easier feeling to sit with and she wrapped herself tightly in it as she continued to force her feet forward.

The small room felt massive and each step she took made her legs feel heavy and weak. Everything inside of her wanted to turn around and run. Maybe if she ran hard enough and long enough, this would all somehow not be real. She knew that was magical thinking and kept putting all her might into moving forward. She knew when the destination was reached, all hope would be gone. The unrealistic element that was supposed to make this all a bad dream would instead be the thing that confirmed this horrible reality.

She always hated this moment in this building. This time was a million times harder than all the others combined. This was not an elderly friend of the family who’d died of old age or a friend of the family who’d passed from a terminal disease. No, this made those awful situations seem favorable. In that moment, her head rang with the words of her sister’s early morning phone call not quite a week ago.

Her chest was tight as she bolted up to answer her phone. It never rang that early and she knew it had to be bad news. She had no idea the depths of the bad news. Two words uttered through sobs changed life forever. Collin’s dead. She knew what the words meant, but she didn’t understand. She shook her head, trying to comprehend and asked her sister to repeat those words. Collin’s dead. He killed himself. Junie found him a little bit ago. She nearly dropped her phone and instantly crumbled into tears. It didn’t make sense to her in those predawn hours. She’d never in a million years expected Collin to be the reason for an early morning, bad news call. Especially for this reason. It didn’t make sense. She had just seen him a few weeks prior. They were laughing and joking together. When they parted ways, they’d hugged and she’d joked, Glad you got to see me. Those were the last words she would ever get to say to him. Glad you got to see me.

Collin’s dead. Collin’s dead. Collin’s dead. Her sister’s words spun over and over in her head as she looked down at Collin. Her eyes burned with tears again, but this time she didn’t care about looking like a vain raccoon. This time, her thoughts were filled with the sadness of knowing her little brother had been hurting so badly and she had never had the slightest idea. An overwhelming grief made her feel faint and she steadied herself against the casket and whispered that she was sorry to him. She was all too familiar with the depths of depression that will convince a person they are better off dead and she ached to know that her brother had known that pain. She was broken over the depths of his pain and wished she had somehow known what her brother had been hiding behind his infectious laughter and smile.

Suddenly, the desire to flee overtook her and she found herself bursting through the front door and gasping for the strange refreshment of the hot summer air. The humidity outside was less stifling than the grief inside and she collapsed on the stairs, leaning against the cool marble railing and trying to still her tears.

The “friends” part of the “Family and Friends Visitation” was beginning. She slid her cheap sunglasses over her eyes to both cover the ruined makeup and avoid having to make eye contact with the throngs of strangers coming to pay their respects. She wanted to get in her car and leave, but the duty of being with the family forced her to stay. She continued to sit on the stairs, like a sad gargoyle welcoming the many saddened souls whose lives had been touched by her little brother. Some faces she recognized, many she didn’t. The people kept coming. Filing inside to speak to the widow and the parents. Gathering in groups and offering comfort. Overcrowding that stupid maroon foyer.

Eventually, the cool of the marble stairs and the calming fountain that sat in front of them no longer brought her the comfort she first found. She forced herself up and made her way inside, heading to the bathroom in the back. The same Eighties brown paneling still hung there, adding to the sadness of the occasion. After slightly rinsing her face and trying to minimize her raccoon appearance, she steeled herself again and wandered back to the maroon foyer.

It had cleared out some and an empty winged-back chair beckoned her with the promise of a familiar hug. She quickly dropped into the chair and leaned into its comfort. The cool leather welcomed her, and she closed her eyes and tried to just breathe. When she opened her eyes again, she stared at the hideous maroon wallpaper and wondered why all she could focus on was all the things wrong with the décor.

The lines on the wallpaper didn’t line up properly. The stain on the crown molding had dripped onto the wallpaper and had not been cleaned when the job was finished. The electrical outlet was askew, and they had covered it in the same wallpaper as the walls, but the design didn’t align. The table against the wall had a significantly lighter stain on the wood than that on the crown molding, baseboards, staircase, and the winged back chairs. And when was the last time those dang curtains where cleaned?!?! These little things annoyed her. The fact that they annoyed her made her even more annoyed. She recognized this was a trauma response, but she still hated herself for it. She closed her eyes again and leaned deeper into the chair, aching for the night to end.

The crowd began to dissipate, and the staff started the tasks necessary to ending the Visitation. She forced herself back into the small room with the casket. She hugged the family that remained; then, walked to her brother’s casket, gently placing her hand on her brother’s still chest and whispering, I love you, Collin. I pray you found your peace.

She walked to the front door. Passing through the maroon foyer and gently grazing her hand across the back of her winged-back chair, whispering gratitude for the retreat it provided her. Thank you. This time, she found her legs heavy and weak with each step she took away from Collin. Eventually, she reached the door and opened it to the blast of heat and humidity that still lingered. The sun had gone down now, so her cheap sunglasses sat uselessly atop her head.

As she went to close the door behind her, she paused and turned around. Taking in once more the familiar maroon foyer she had been forced to enter too many times. She took one last deep breath, gently tugged the door across the maroon carpet and silently prayed to God that she would never again have to step foot across that threshold.

Freedom

Dru Richman

Bruce Lawrence Zebub, still in his sleeping shorts, stepped out on to the porch of his cabin. He was a huge blacksmith of a man—well tanned with broad shoulders that led down to a well-muscled stomach and impossibly narrow hips. He had mighty oaks for legs. And even though his hands were well callused from years of heavy labor, they were soft enough to be able to paint the spring flowers in watercolors when he wanted. He had the solemn good looks of a Roman senator and brushed his dark hair, thick as a horse’s mane, straight back from his temples.

He scanned the distant snow-capped mountains. It was late spring in the high Mountains and the flowers were beginning to bloom. The T’Nek River, named after a boyhood friend, a scant two miles from his cabin, had begun to flow more vigorously and was colder with the addition of the snows melting off the mountains. He looked toward the encroaching sunrise and sniffed the air. It’ll be hot later, he thought. Turing back to the cabin, he padded to his bedroom and stripped off the shorts and stepped into the shower.

Afterward, as he was drying himself, he mentally reviewed what chores he had assigned to himself for this day. With his day laid out, he donned work pants and shirt, cotton socks and heavy boots. He looked down at the empty bed. It had been a long time since he had had an opportunity to share it with anyone. Perhaps, if I asked the Rangers. Not bloody likely...no matter...he sighed.

“Half a dozen eggs sunny side up, hash browns, whole wheat toast, six buttermilk pancakes with butter and maple syrup, a six-ounce steak and a pot of coffee with cold milk. And a tall glass of OJ,” he said to no one in particular. And by the time he had adjusted his pants, rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, and tied his boots, his breakfast was ready and waiting on the table in the kitchen.

After he had finished his breakfast and disposed of the dishes, he left the cabin, grabbed his tools and began the hike up the mountain to start to mark trees to be felled later in the season. By midmorning, he had finished that task and started another. He decided to check the traps to see if there was any game. It had been a long time since he had had fresh meat. And while the Rangers would bring him any type and cut of meat he wanted, there was nothing like freshly harvested game.

He was amused, and somewhat disappointed, that there were no animals caught in his traps. Apparently, the Rangers didn’t share his affinity toward raw meat and prevented the game from being caught. He walked east for about an hour and came face-to-face with...nothing. It was a clear see-through barrier. He couldn’t see it, but he could smell the ozone coming off it. And as he had done countless times before, he reached out and touched it.

As his fingers brushed the barrier it felt as if there was a low voltage tingle coursing through his hand. He pushed. The barrier pushed back. He turned without looking back and began the trek back to his cabin. Over the past years he had walked the perimeter of this ‘little paradise’ many times. Exactly one hundred miles per side. And between him and the outside world stood the barrier. It was too deep to dig under and too tall to propel things (including himself) over. It was, seemingly impenetrable; designed with one thing in mind—to deny him his freedom.

Ranger Charles, a short, round-faced balding administrator of a man, sat at his monitoring display panel. He was in charge of monitoring more than seventy-five hundred confinement enclosures. Most of the work was, of course, automated. But he was still needed when there were the inevitable problems. As he peered at his displays he failed to hear or see the Chief Ranger approach his station. He turned just in time to see the Chief cross the last few steps to his display area.

“G-g-good morning, sir,” he stammered.

“Good morning, Charles,” he replied. “Could you punch up enclosure Able 14 Theo 1457 Delta for me?”

“Of course, sir.” Charles turned back to his console and entered the coordinates for that enclosure. He made a mental note to pay closer attention to this enclosure in the future while noting that the enclosure was one of the oldest in the system. And then he looked again, and gasped. It wasn’t just one of the oldest enclosures in the system, it was the oldest. The first one established at the very beginning. He was so lost in that thought that he almost missed the Chief Ranger’s question.

“What’s he been doing lately?” the Chief Ranger asked.

Charles scanned the logs and gave what he hoped would be an acceptable summary.

“For the past four hundred seasons he’s maintained a fairly simple lifestyle. He usually rises about sunrise, bathes, eats a large breakfast and then goes to one section of the enclosure to harvest trees or mark trees for harvesting. He then hauls them back to his cabin, chops them up, and piles them on the west side of the cottage. He keeps the internal temperature at approximately 125 degrees year round. In the spring and autumn he has taken to painting watercolor paintings. He’s quite good actually.”

A quick glance from the Chief told him that was not what he wanted to hear. Clearing his throat Charles continued, “He has walked the perimeter fourteen times so far. Each time he probes a different sector and uses a different method to try to escape. We have increased the barrier height and depth to one thousand meters as a precautionary measure. He constructed a wide array of devices to capture wild animals. But, as you well know, there are no other creatures in the enclosure. He has been asking for ‘fresh meat’ of late. And,” Charles hesitated for just a split second, “he has been asking for ‘companionship.’” That brought another visual rebuke from his boss.

“When is he scheduled to be resupplied?” ask the Chief Ranger.

“Anytime in the next six seasons,” replied Charles.

“Pack up all that he has requested and his usual supplies, put it in a knapsack, and I’ll take it to him personally. And, oh,” the Chief added, “no ‘companionship’ at this time. Note that in the log under my authority.” He turned and walked away before Charles could respond.

It was high summer several seasons later when the Chief Ranger stepped through the portal that led into the enclosure. He was dressed in tan shorts that came down almost to his knees, a short-sleeved shirt of the same hue, and tall hiking boots tied with leather strings and light green wool socks. And on his head, the requisite hat. He also wore a badge over his left breast pocket that displayed his rank and concealed a communication device that would immediately extract him if he got into trouble.

As he walked the several miles from the portal to the cabin, he noted the lushness of the enclosure. For as far as he could see, there was life here. He drew a large breath into his lungs as if to taste the air. It was absolutely clear and pure. He stopped occasionally to bend over and look at a particular flower or plant. He was truly amazed what groundskeeping had done with this enclosure.

Long before he saw Bruce Lawrence, he could hear the swinging of his ax and the sound of wood being split. He slowed his pace as he neared the cabin. And then he saw him. He was just as he remembered him. He picked up his pace again. When he was about four hundred yards away, Bruce Lawrence spotted him. With one last mighty blow he split the ten-inch diameter log on the block.

He laid his ax against the stump and slowly walked toward the Chief Ranger. When they were about two meters apart, they both stopped. It had been a long time since they had seen each other. A very long time. The Chief Ranger dropped the knapsack at his feet, and in a split moment, they embraced.

“How are you, brother? You’re looking well.”

“I’m fine, Bruce Lawrence,” replied the Chief Ranger. “And you?”

“I’m fine, Gabby. But why are you so damned formal? Nobody calls me Bruce Lawrence except for Dad, and even then, only when He’s angry. Tell you what, if you call me B.L., I won’t have to address you as Chief Ranger Gabriel.”

“Fair enough, B.L.,” Gabriel slowly turned a small circle looking at the trees, the forest, the hills. He could see the stream far down the mountainside. And he looked over at the cabin and the accompanying picnic table. He paused for a moment and said, “You’ve done pretty well for yourself,” as he reached for his knapsack, “and that deserves something special.” He pulled out a rather ordinary squarish bottle with a lime-green liquid inside and handed it to B.L.

B.L. took the bottle, broke the seal at the top, and cautiously sniffed the contents. Then his eyes flew open. “Where did you get this?” he asked incredulously. Taking a quick look over both shoulders and pointing to the bottle he said, “Not even you’re allowed to have this stuff. If Dad finds out, He’ll have your wings!”

“Hey,” shrugged Gabriel, “what are brothers for?”

B.L. motioned that they head into the cabin. “It’s always a bit chilly for me here. We could go into the cabin and warm up…”

“I’d better not,” said Gabriel. “Let’s just sit at the table.”

Gabriel reached into the knapsack and withdrew two glasses into which B.L. poured a generous slug of the green intoxicant. After a ‘salut’ and a clinking of glasses, they downed their drinks in one gulp and let the warmth of the liquid seep into their bones.

After a while B.L. asked, “So tell me, is Dad still pissed at me?”

“Pissed doesn’t describe it,” said Gabby. “He passed pissed about four thousand seasons ago!”

What’s passed pissed?” “Furious... Enraged... Infuriated?”

Gabriel shook his head ‘no’ after each question. “He’s,” Gabriel paused as if to search for the

proper word, “positively incandescent! Why do you think he stuck you way out here in the boonies?”

“Speaking of which,” asked B.L., “just where the hell am I anyway? The boonies?”

“The locals call it Earth. And if you’ve looked at the stars, you’ll see we’re a long, long way from home.”

After several hours of chitchat and the unpacking of the groceries from the knapsack, Gabriel prepared to take his leave. The sky was turning from twilight to early dusk and everything was drifting into ever-deepening shadows.

“You know,” said B.L. somberly, “you can’t keep me in here forever.”

And with a look of deep sadness and regret, and yes, even pain, Gabriel softly said, “Yes, brother...we can.”

With that, Gabriel picked up the now-empty knapsack and started the long trek back to the portal and to his life.

After a short distance, B.L. called after him, “I shall have my freedom. There’s nothing you or anyone else, even Dad, can do to prevent that. You know that! I…Will…Have… My...Freedom!”

Gabriel trudged onward to the portal and without turning back, waved.

B.L. watched his brother disappear into the intruding darkness. So, they think by sticking me out here in…what did Gabby call it? Oh yeah, the boonies, that they’ll stop me from eventually ruling this sector? he thought. He chuckled at the foolishness of it. Earth, he reckoned, might be just the place to continue his revolution.

B.L. Zebub, actually spelled Beelzebub, formerly of climes much warmer than Earth’s, picked up the bottle of green Organian whiskey and headed back into his cabin to plan for his eventual freedom and how to carry on his insurrection.

Saving You Up

Danyelle Schofield

Renata knew it all; she had heard it all before, but it felt different every time. Her days faded in too-fast zips, reminiscent of how she would fast forward on her mother’s old VHS tapes when she was younger; always wanting, too eager, too expectant. Now she lay in wait.

She was living, in a sense, but she was stagnant. Renata would never grow old, never mature, never regress; she simply existed, if only in this house, in this one neatly situated spot in time and space. Her days were bookended by the sun, a symbol of everything hopeful, of new starts and new beginnings, and a reminder she would never again be gifted the luxury.

Until she heard voices once again.

It was a group of girls, older than Renata was when she was reborn, and yet there was a cloying sense of youth surrounding them. They were wild, loud things, nearly unfamiliar to Renata and yet she couldn’t help but give them her silent blessing. She had missed the subtle warmth unadulterated happiness brought to a home.

Their arrival woke Renata up, and eventually she pieced together that it was summer break. She watched in the inbetween as they haphazardly built the house into a home, sweeping the thick layer of dust out of the kitchen and dining room and ripping down the curtains, finding potential even in the bathroom with its rusted and nearly unusable fixtures. Slowly, they made the house liveable.

Renata thought for a while on when she wanted to make herself known, if she even did. There was no manual to ghost-living because humans were inherently skeptical; there wasn’t a thing they could do that would “out” ghosts, and even if there was, Renata wasn’t sure it would matter. There was no getting rid of something that was already dead.

It happened suddenly. Renata hadn’t been corporeal in–well, she didn’t know how long. But suddenly she was no longer inert, omniscient, she could feel the cold and the sound of the air conditioner suddenly seemed so much more staggering, and she felt–not alive, but awake.

But just as quickly as she materialized, she began to lose those feelings. They slipped from her hands like sand until she was once again slotted into her neat spot within the inbetween, situated between past and future without any hope of moving forward. It was strange, feeling anything in this state, because it wasn’t as if she could cry or scream; she was indeterminately idle, incapable of expressing her emotions. And so she waited, consciously aware that she didn’t grasp time, it wasn’t hers to own or to manipulate; it was her coffin. Waiting was all it allowed her.

Renata met her when the loud voices faded from the halls and she was left alone with echoing silence. It gave her the focus she needed to become solid once again, and there Jules stood, earnest and vivid against everything Renata had grown comfortable in.

Jules was confused, at first. Anyone would be, seeing a person just appear in the corner of their bedroom. But she was seemingly unbothered by this newest development in her life and Renata found it easy to explain in succinct, reticent sentences who she was and where she was from. Jules accepted these details easily, pocketed them like change and welcomed Ren graciously into her (their?) home.

Jules was pearl-bright and unyielding; not quite insistent, rather yearning, reaching out for every little piece of Renata she could get and feigning contentment with whatever she managed to grasp in her hands. Yet Jules was also greedy, and Renata seemed impervious to it all, either pointedly ignoring or blissfully ignorant of Ren’s attempts to know her all, bone deep. It stung for a while, Ren’s lack of awareness, but over time Jules realized it wasn’t that she was inattentive; she was simply quieter, almost dissociated from the world around her, and Jules learned to appreciate the small glances and the too-short tone directed towards her every time.

They melded into one another in time, awkward side-stepping became a comfortable

routine, familiar. Renata became Ren in Jules’ mind, first, and then in their conversations by a slip of the tongue. When Ren accepted the nickname with near childlike wonder, Jules felt like this was all she had been waiting for.

Eventually, Jules dragged Ren, hand-in-hand, to the stream, even though Ren knew she shouldn’t have been able to. She never had before, some unseen force keeping her tethered within the exterior walls of the home, but somehow Jules was able to keep her safe, keep her whole. Ren made it a habit, walking the winding trail that dotted the land outside their home. Nature grew wild around them, in ordered disarray, and Jules enjoyed the time Ren spoke reverently of the wind that passed through the trees and the sound of cicadas she’d never even realized she missed.

Jules knew she would never experience these moments with anyone else, this raw, unedited fascination with life and its specificities. There was no one else quite like Ren, in every possible interpretation: Renata was individual, and Jules would soak up every word she spoke, every movement she would grace her with, because she was irrepressible, and Jules knew she was all there was for her.

It became obvious when graceless, biting autumn winds turned silent, implacable winter evenings, that Ren wasn’t supposed to be here. Jules supposed she’d always known this (she had known it all), but in the glow of summer euphoria it was easy to ignore the reality she was living.

Between shared smiles and midnight moments, Ren was a ghost. Jules was severed by the innocuous, acerbic significance of this truth: Ren would never be hers. Ren was stuck in her own unkind forever while Jules still had the gift of age, the ability to grow and change and develop, while Ren was a simple spectator, where time graced her lightly, but never consumed her.

“I don’t know how I died,” Ren explained one night, carding idle fingers through Jules’ hair. “I wasn’t awake for a long time, longer than I can explain because I don’t know. But this house has been my sanctuary since it happened. I’ve never been able to leave it.”

“Doesn’t that make you sad?” Jules asked, with genuine curiosity. She wondered if it got stifling, being stuck in one place, one plane for decades.

“Maybe, I guess. I think it’s more wistful, because I know even if I could it still wouldn’t make me alive.” The fingers stilled in Jules’ hair while Ren tried to find her words. “Nothing I do counts, because I’ve already run out of time. It’s like–like trying to fix a mistake, maybe. You can say all the right things, beg for a redo or another chance, but there’s nothing you can do to get that time back. It’s solidified, and all you can do is take it and learn.”

Jules didn’t know what to say to her confession. She wondered what there was for her to say, before resigning herself to the silence nestled between them.

“I used to want for something, Jules.” Ren continued easily, tenderly. “There’s nothing that could really explain the isolation, the indifference of that place, and yet I could still desire company. Family, even.

“It was all I could do. Yearn, helplessly, without end, for someone to talk to.” Jules imagined she was cutting open Ren’s words, in order to sit in them, as if by absorbing the nuances and gradation in her words Jules could somehow fully appreciate her experiences. But it only took moments for her to know that Ren’s time was hers alone, and she never wanted Jules to have to bear it. So they sat within the silence instead, and Jules let it speak for her.

They spent their days breathing with each other. Jules spent a long time watching Ren move for the first month or two, because she couldn’t help but notice a certain uncanniness to her movements, how Ren’s arms would almost trail behind her as she painted the walls in the living room or the fact that she would silently disappear when she thought Jules wasn’t looking.

Ren’s after-image bled into the house like watercolor and Jules had to catch herself from watching the place where she once moved, had to learn to keep up with Ren’s pace. It wasn’t quick, just simply otherworldly, and Jules wondered if it was normal to feel so at ease with the inexplicable.

The first time Jules said she loved Ren, it was methodically planned, from the day of the week to the exact sequence of events that had to occur to make it right. They would spend the day together doing anything but renovating the house; they made bread together, and when that failed disastrously, they laughed and laughed before settling on watching a movie. Jules wished they could go out together, not just to the stream but to the world beyond. She wanted to make memories outside of this home they had built; although she had known it was everything, she couldn’t help but yearn for more. She wished for enormity; she wanted Ren in her entirety, in every way, in every circumstance, outside of this house alone.

But she couldn’t argue. So instead, after their movie, Jules made a small dinner while they talked over it. Ren seemed to remember memories as she became more aware of herself. She told Jules about her mother’s old VHS tapes, and shared that she used to be in choir. She would absentmindedly hum melodies from her old pieces and, if she dug hard enough, lyrics and harmonies. Jules wanted to buy music books one day, just to discover these pieces that took residence in Ren’s mind so frequently.

It was after those three words lingered between them that there was a perceptible shift in the air. Jules felt it like an exhale, as if the house released a weight Jules had never realized it sustained. There was a barbed edge that crept into her body, layer by layer; this feeling wasn’t for her, that much was obvious, and yet it still impaled her bone-deep.

Renata grew more vague as days went on, surrounded by the walls of her home and bathed in clear sunlight. Jules could see it in the shadows, how the light started to pass through her, rather than around her; and yet still, there was an uncanny bend to the light. She likened it to the way light passed through water, and she was fascinated by the refraction. Jules would never understand the science of how Renata existed; she never needed to. All she needed was her.

Jules had known from the start Renata wasn’t hers to keep. They were intersecting lines, destined to meet once but never again, rather a moment than a forever. And yet there’s something suffocatingly devastating about being forced to mourn someone who had died long before she was ever even a thought in the universe, learning how to move and grow with someone who could never really do the same for her.

“It’s coming,” Ren said once, watching the stream through the window as it glittered and danced in the midafternoon sunlight.

“How do you know?” Jules didn’t ask what she meant, because she knew, implicitly. Ren didn’t answer.

The house was quiet, once again, as the days slipped out and away from them. Jules spent them studying in different places of the house, preparing for the new semester, glancing fleetingly at Ren. She had become more lethargic, and the refraction became more pronounced, more unsettling.

The last time Jules saw Renata, spring had sweet-talked herself in between the cracks in all the rooms, settling between the blinds and the couch cushions and bringing with her an obtrusive sense of doubt; diffidence. She wished she could ignore it, but like most everything, Jules had known it was fated.

There wasn’t a ceremony, as much as Jules wished she could have put on a grandiose event in her backyard with flowers and lights, a quiet little goodbye for the two of them. There was no clock, no signal to alert them it was the end; all Jules had was a decisive sentence from Ren that she was leaving.

It was the eve of the summer solstice, and Ren was adamant she needed to visit the stream at sunrise; she said she wanted to spend time breathing it in. Ren hadn’t left the house since last spring, and Jules distantly worried that it would be too much for her, fragile as she was, until she remembered that Ren wasn’t able to hurt, not anymore.

Jules felt it was just her perception, a reprieve from whatever kept Ren tethered to this plane, but she thought Ren seemed more lively, flourishing in the brilliant sunlight. She couldn’t stop smiling, twisting pale fingers between Jules’, and even once got up to skip rocks across the stream. But the sun wouldn’t stay, no matter how much Jules silently begged for just one more minute, another hour; she had yet to learn how indifferent time was to human matters.

Ren faded into the sunlight as easily as she had appeared in Jules’ room all those months ago. She almost didn’t catch it at first, how her fingers were dimming from between her own, but she looked up in time to see her eyes. Jules may never understand what made Ren stay, but she understood her.

Ren wasn’t fragile, a piece of art she could only view but not touch, and yet even now she found herself unable to graze her memory of Ren with anything other than the lightest touch, irreverent; she feared if she was too rough, too greedy, even Ren’s memories would leave her. She could never be too certain that they were her own, still, because Ren was never her’s.

The understanding fell together solidly days or weeks after she was gone; Ren wasn’t eternal, simply delayed, waiting for affection, intimacy. And Jules knew, then, that she was just a piece in the grand structure, a conduit in the universe’s greater plan. But she couldn’t bring herself to feel used, because Ren was lovely, and Jules knew that whatever they had–that was true.

Jules wouldn’t stop craving an eternity with Ren, but she would learn that little eternities exist within her (their) memories. They would change and fade with her mind and the grace of time, but she took stock of them as if they were a museum solely for them. It got easier to see Ren as a person, rather than something ephemeral, supernal; it got easier to quantify their time together as nothing more than an almost-year, if only to allow Jules the space to become more than the time they shared together. Because time stretched endlessly before her, and she didn’t wish to pass it by.

Liar

Amia Dhadda

“I don’t think your cat likes me,” the girl said, drawing her hand back to her side as her friend’s cat backed further into the corner. Her friend, Ben, comes back from the kitchen with drinks in his hands.

He passed one to her, “What makes you think that? Penny usually loves everyone.”

The girl frowned as she took the drink from him and they both turned their attention to the feline, “Look at the way she’s looking at me.”

He crouched down to look at the cat under the table. Penny had her ears flat against her head and bared her teeth. Ben had never seen her so afraid.

He let out a nervous chuckle, “I’m sure she’ll warm up to you eventually.” But deep down he knew he was lying to her; Penny had never acted that way to new people before.

As the day went on, the girl couldn’t help but notice that Penny never left that corner. She sighed and finally Ben addressed it.

“Oh, come on, Emily. So what if my cat doesn’t like you?”

“It’s not just your cat, it’s everyone’s cat. In fact, it’s all animals!” she said, sighing again. “What’s wrong with me?” Her tone was full of anger but inside she felt hurt. It seemed like ever since she moved to her new apartment, animals hated her.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with you,” Ben tried to reason.

Emily thought it over for a moment before she replied, “Maybe I should move back.”

“What are you talking about?” Ben asked, bewildered. “All of this over a cat?” But Emily wasn’t listening. Ben rolled his eyes and strode over to Penny. He looked at her before reaching a hand under to grab her.

“Ben what are you—” Emily started and sat up straight in her chair.

Penny quickly sprinted away with a yowl, but Ben soon followed her.

“Come on, Ben. Leave her alone,” Emily protested. “You’re scaring her more than she already is.” But this time it was Ben’s turn to stop listening, he was determined to prove to Emily that she didn’t need to go anywhere.

Despite Penny’s protesting yelps, Ben finally grabbed her by her hind legs and picked her up. As Penny tried to claw and wiggle her way out of Ben’s grasp, Emily began to feel worse.

When Ben reached Emily, he placed the cat in her lap, keeping a hand on Penny’s back so she couldn’t escape, “Here. It’s not so bad.” Sure, this was closest Emily had been to a cat in a while, but it felt wrong.

“Go ahead,” Ben urged. “Pet her.” Emily gave Ben a weird look before hesitantly reaching for Penny’s back. As Emily’s fingers brushed against the fur, she jerked back in fear of Penny’s wrath. But, to Emily’s surprise, nothing happened.

Ben smiled at her and Emily finally grinned back as she placed her full hand on Penny. However, when Penny turned to look at Emily, her eyes filled with terror and she shrank back. Emily’s smile quickly faded as the cat hissed and struck her in the face. The girl quickly stood up as Penny slide off her lap, running back for safety under the table.

There was silence and then there was rage.

“This is exactly what I was worried about!” Emily shouted as she wiped the blood that now ran down her face. “I think I need to go.”

“No, Emily, wait,” Ben said and reached a hand out to stop her but she brushed it away. Emily ignored the stinging from her new cut as she gathered her things and headed for the door.

As she placed her hand on the handle, she turned back and said, “Thanks for trying, I guess.” Without waiting for Ben’s response, Emily walked out with the feeling of defeat in the pit of her stomach.

Back in her own empty apartment, Emily decided to call her friend to let her know what had happened.

“I can’t believe it, Jen. I thought it was going to be a good night—and it was at first,” Emily said. “I just can’t believe he thought that was a good idea.”

The girl on the other end of the call paused before replying, “So, why did you care so much anyway?”

“Oh, don’t put the blame on me.”

“I’m not trying to!” Jennifer replied defensively. “But it does sound like you cared a lot more than you should have. Especially since you spent half the evening thinking about it.”

Emily carried the conversation from her bed to her bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror and examined the wound on her cheek in disgust, “I just don’t get it and I’m frustrated. Why don’t animals like me?”

“But animals do like you!” Jennifer exclaimed, trying her best to reassure her friend. “They love you; you literally had a cat when you were younger.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Emily said and shook her hand while frantically waving her hands in the air even thought Jennifer couldn’t see it. “Ever since…y’know, the incident…and me moving to New York, I’ve had awful experiences.”

“Maybe you have like…bad energy or something,” Jennifer said and laughed at the idea. But Emily didn’t think it was funny.

“No, you’re on to something. Cats have like a sixth sense or something, right? Maybe I do have bad energy.”

“Okay Emily, I was just joking. I doubt that you actually have bad energy.”

“Well, I think it’s worth a shot. It’s the only actual idea I’ve had since I got here.”

Jennifer sighed but felt bad for her friend, Emily needed closure, “I guess it is worth a try.”

In the next week, Emily booked an appointment with a psychic medium and prepared herself for the worst news while she racked her brain for anything that could have caused her misfortune.

The drive to the meeting location was quite long as she exited the city and entered the more scenic parts of the state. Throughout her travels, her mind was racing. And there was one thought that kept resurfacing despite how hard Emily tried to suppress it. Nevertheless, she would shake her head to erase it and continue driving.

The location was in the middle of nowhere, but Emily felt oddly calm. Through the thick, overgrown plants sat a small house. Vines wove in and out of the cracks in the stone walls displaying their age. Emily parked in the middle of the gravel path that led to the front door and sat in her cat while the dust she stirred settled. In the silence, she gathered herself for one final time before leaving her vehicle.

“Alright, how do I get rid of it?”

The medium looked at Emily, her eyes darting behind Emily’s head before moving back to her face. She licked her lips and opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

The walls in the room were cluttered with posters. Every table had crystals—bracelets, necklaces, and everything in between—scattered around. The sofa chairs they sat in were noticeably old; they were stained and torn and faded.

“What?” Emily asked. “You just said that I have bad energy following me around, right?”

“Correct.”

“So how do I get rid of it?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s going to be that easy…”

Emily went quiet, her eyebrows furrowed, “What do you mean? I’m willing to work on myself.”

“I don’t think you understand,” the medium replied and adjusted her glasses. She sighed, “Listen…I’ve seen a lot of things and met a lot people—some are just like you.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. Please. Explain it to me,” at this point, Emily felt like she was begging for a proper answer.

“I’m just going to be blunt.”

“That’s all I’m asking for.”

“You probably think you’re ready to hear what’s going to come out of my mouth but you’re not. No one ever is.”

Emily chuckled and shook her head; it all suddenly felt rather silly, “Maybe you can talk to the dead, but you are no mind reader. I’m the one who decides if I am ready or not.”

“And?”

“And I’m ready.”

The medium repeats herself, “It’s not going to be easy.”

“You already said that and—”

“He doesn’t look like he’ll be going anywhere anytime soon.”

Emily finally paused, more confused than ever as she looked around the room, “Who- what are you talking about? He?”

The medium didn’t meet Emily’s eyes, “The man.”

The room went silent for a while. Emily looked around again. “The…man?” she repeated for confirmation and suddenly she didn’t know if she could trust this woman.

The medium still didn’t meet Emily’s gaze, “I was trying to warn you—”

“Stop playing games with me,” Emily said sternly. “Tell me what you are talking about.”

“There’s a man behind you.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“He walked in with you.”

“I don’t think I believe you,” Emily said and felt sick to her stomach. She refused to look around the room anymore, afraid of what she might see.

“You just don’t want to,” the medium told her.

“This isn’t funny,” Emily said, breathlessly. She didn’t want to believe the medium. Quite frankly, she wanted to leave now more than anything. But what if she wasn’t lying? “Fine, then tell me what the man is doing right now.”

The medium finally looked back at Emily, “He’s looking over your shoulder.”

“Doing what?” Emily asked plainly, beginning to feel uneasy.

“Smiling,” the woman said. “He can hear us.”

For the first time since Emily walked into this house, her blood ran cold and she became as stiff as a board, “How do I get rid of…him?”

The medium sighed and looked down, “I…don’t know.” She was quiet, she felt like she had failed her client. “I can tell you about him.”

Emily wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it, she felt like it would make things worse, “Yeah?”

“He’s…mean,” the medium began, and Emily was already over it. “I can tell why animals don’t like him, I don’t either.”

“Please stop,” Emily said and gripped the cushion of the chair she sat on. “How is this helping?”

The medium quickly changed the subject, “Have you lost someone recently? A male figure?”

Emily scoured her brain for anyone that would hold a grudge against her, dead or alive. One person came to mind. “No,” she said. “And even if I did, how would that help?”

“Well, you could possibly make amends with that person,” she said. “He’s fixated on you for a reason, but I can’t tell if he’s protective or wants to make a fool out of you.”

Emily felt numb, “I think we’re done here.”

“Please think about it,” the medium said, standing up with Emily. “This is exactly what I thought was going to happen.”

“Thank you for your time.”

Emily made her way to the door, the medium followed closely behind, “Maybe you messed with an Ouija board recently? He seems rather attached but it’s a…possibility…” She trailed off. Emily took a deep breath before she turned around to face the woman one last time.

“I’m sorry, I truly am,” the medium told her.

“Do you think he has a name?” Emily whispered.

The medium looked up and Emily could tell the woman was not looking directly at her, “Aaron. His name is Aaron.”

“I’m really sorry about what happened last time.”

“It’s alright,” Emily said as she walked past Ben into his apartment. “Let’s just forget that it ever happened, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay,” he replied. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.” Emily decided to sit on the couch, the same place she sat last time.

After a few minutes of chatting, Ben stood up from his seat. “I’ll go get us some drinks,” he said and walked away to his kitchen area. The moment he was out of sight, Emily went to look for Penny.

“Hey, Penny,” she called out. “Where are you, sweetheart?” She heard the movement and looked down to see the table Penny hid under last time.

“No,” she quickly looked under to find Penny backed in the corner, hissing. “No, no, no. He should be gone. I got rid of him.” Emily let out a nervous laugh and tried to coax Penny out, but she bat her paw in response. “Hey, sweet girl, come on out. The scary man shouldn’t be there anymore.”

When nothing seemed to work, Emily, dejected, sat on the floor. She looked around the room and pleaded in a hushed voice, “Come on, Aaron. I’m sorry, okay? What more do you want from me?”

Suddenly, she felt cold fingers brush against her waist. Emily let out a scream and stood up, backing away until she bumped into Ben.

“Are you okay? Y-you screamed,” he asked frantically and then looked at the table. “Was it Penny again? I’m sorry, I knew I should have put her in a different room.”

“No. Uh, no, it’s okay. I think I just…need some air,” Emily gulped, her mouth feeling very dry and she hugged herself. Ben gave her a worried look but didn’t want to push her.

“Yeah, the door to the balcony is right over there.”

“Thanks,” Emily muttered quietly and opened the door to step outside. The cool breeze blew her hair around as she tried to calm herself, her hands still wrapped tightly around her body.

The door slammed shut with a thud which forced a yelp out of Emily as she flinched. She pressed her back against the balcony railing, trying to gain distance between her and the door. Nowhere felt safe.

“Aaron?” she called out again, twisting around, trying to look in every direction at once. She looked in the reflection of the glass door for anything behind her. “Aaron, are you listening?”

“I didn’t know you would do that,” she said to the reflection, a tear running down her face. “I didn’t know it would end like that. I swear, it wasn’t my fault.”

The wind blew hard in response. Emily put her arms up to cover her face, her hair whipping her in her eyes. Emily quickly became disoriented; her vision went blurry and it was to fill her lungs with much-needed air. She stumbled forward, the wind turning into whispers.

LIAR. LIAR.

Emily tried to tell herself that it was all in her head, that none of this was real. There was no man. What happened to Aaron was just an accident. But, no matter how hard she tried, the whispers in the wind grew louder.

LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.

Emily tried to scream but the sound from her lips could not be heard over the wind as she covered her ears. In her state of confusion and fear, she slipped and slammed her back into the railings behind her. The impact sent her flying over the edge as her screams filled the apartment complex.

The Miracle of New Year’s Eve

Jacqueline Causey

New Year’s Eve was a day for endings. For letting reservations from the past year melt away for new beginnings.

Therefore, Luke breaking up with his girlfriend of five years was totally okay, right? Definitely. At least, that’s what he told himself once they got back from dinner with her family.

The relationship was more or less fine before the meal; however, marriage was brought up halfway through.

Marriage… Which was totally unacceptable and not okay by his standards. He didn’t really like her anymore. The mention set off a series of flashing lights in his mind, both ones of dread and understanding.

Veronica wasn’t talking to him much anymore. She didn’t respond to most of his texts, and she avoided him.

Luke had thought she was drifting away because she needed to think.

Now he knew what it was about.

They didn’t talk on the way back, and they were now at the hotel. She was waiting for him on the balcony—he poured some drinks.

How couldn’t he have known she wanted to get married?

Five years, five years! His parents had only dated for two. And she was so in love with him, she was too overwhelmed to respond to his calls! He’d been dragging it on for too long.

New beginnings came from endings. He walked to the glass door and paused.

Luke strengthened his resolve and stepped out onto the balcony, tensing at the cold. It nipped at his face and seeped through his pores.

Veronica was already sitting. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, underneath a heavy coat. Her stare remained fixated on the city below—probably to avoid getting flustered by his face.

He chuckled and set two glasses on the table. They were full of cider he’d bought the day before. Alcoholic, of course.

“I forgot how cold it gets here.”

She gave a slight nod.

“Mhm.”

He sat in the chair beside her and shifted. The view was nice. Endless rows of buildings sprouted in every direction, roads carving through them in small lines. Lights scattered throughout the city— though they’d be dwarfed by fireworks in time.

The silence was too loud, and his attention span was too short, so he reached for more words,

“Every time we visit your parents, I tell myself to buy a new coat. Like, come on Luke, Pennsylvania weather can be brutal. You can’t constantly shiver around your in-laws every time you see them or you’ll look stupid.” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “But it’s too hard to remember, yeah?”

“...Yeah,” Veronica echoed.

Man, she was into him she couldn’t formulate a proper response. Luke almost swooned at the flattery.

This was going to be hard. Strengthen your resolve, man! Steer the conversation.

“I was thinking.”

“Mhm.”

“About our relationship.”

“Yeah, totally.”

Veronica’s face was lit up by her phone.

“I’ve been thinking about the future of our relationship. We’ve been dating for five years—we can’t do this anymore.”

Luke’s heart clenched. His jaw ached, and nausea pooled in his gut. Just say it!

“We should–” his fists clenched. “We should.”

Veronica raised an eyebrow, still staring at her phone.

“We should what?”

God, he couldn’t do it!

“We should get married!”

A moment of silence passed.

The first fireworks of the New Year started.

Veronica looked up from her phone with a snort.

“You know what? Sure.”

A Dozen Days Cora Stallings

Day 1:

I bought brand new, expensive white shoes today, and immediately stepped into a giant mud puddle.

Day 2:

I tripped over an almost nonexistent rock today, sprained my ankle, and fell straight into a guy’s arms.

Day 3:

My apartment’s roof has water damage. My bed is now soaking wet. The guy’s name is Chris and we are officially a couple now.

Day 4:

I got into a wreck today. My front bumper is dented and I have a minor concussion. Chris gave me a ride home and nursed me back to health.

Day 5:

I went outside to mow the lawn, and my mower broke into 6 different pieces, then it set on fire. Chris used his mower and finished the job.

Day 6:

I was ironing my hair and started daydreaming about Chris. Ten minutes later, I realized I’d lost that piece of hair for good. Chris still thinks I’m pretty.

Day 7:

I accidentally dropped my wallet and phone in the river canoeing with Chris. He kept me from falling out too.

Day 8:

I went on a date with Chris today. We went to the movie theater. I laughed really hard and my soda went up my nose, choking me. Someone called 9-1-1. Chris stayed in the ambulance with me on the way to the hospital and held my hand.

Day 9:

Chris and I went swimming and I almost drowned. Chris gave me CPR and saved my life.

Day 10:

I climbed a tree, fell out, and got thirty-four splinters in both of my hands. Chris drove me home and spent hours gently tweezing them out.

Day 11:

I lost my job at Pizza Hut because I accidentally blew up one of the ovens. Chris proclaimed his incredible love for me.

Day 12:

Chris texted me asking me to send him four hundred dollars. He left to go on a work trip to Mexico and spent all of his money. But it’s okay. I sent him the money because I trust him completely and he did say he’ll pay me back. I love him so much. I’m so lucky to have a man that loves me that much.

Sing for Me

Celia Miller-Pitt

The janitor dances down the hallway, keys jingling to the sound of Frank Sinatra, his mop bobbing at his waist as he twists and spins. The hallway is empty, the sound echoing hollowly off the locked doors, silvery rays of moonlight escaping from cracks in the windows. With a pause, he glances dramatically around the hallway, winking at the lone lunch lady who stares at him as she washes dishes next door. He takes a breath, and swings from a stair step neatly onto a broken linoleum tile, perfectly on beat.

He twirls, then skims down the hall, suddenly stumbles as he slides, trying to warble out a love song. His breath catches and he slides to the ground, still muttering the lyrics.

Footsteps quicken down the hallway as the lunch lady runs towards him, her brows knit in concern.

“Hello, beautiful,” he sings to her, breathless, gracing her with a look he thinks is charming. She swats him with her dish towel, then kisses his cheek, her soft sigh of relief brushing his ear.

“You’re not too bad yourself.”

He rests his head against her chest, their heartbeats mingling in the soundless hallway, and reaches up to press a kiss to her lips.

He strokes her face as they break away. “Should I flip the switch? Head somewhere a little more private?” he asks softly, playfully. Her dark hair falls out of her hairnet, teasing the corners of her lips.

She glances away, chewing a hangnail. “I don’t like it.”

“C’mon.” He grins, pulling himself to his knees. “Come into the quiet with me. Then you’ll hear how this heart beats for you.” He clutches his chest with a pathetic pout, and she swats him again. He lies laughing on the floor, watching her face.

“Beautiful,” he says, gazing breathlessly up at her, the silver light shining through the muddy window turning his eyes soft.

“Don’t try that,” she retorts.

He pushes himself to a sitting position, eyes wheedling. “Darling, Sugar, Sweetheart.”

She plugs her ears and turns away, refusing to face him.

“If you’re in the quiet room you won’t hear me talking,” he offers, grinning at the back of her head as he stretches lazily against the wall.

“If you’re in there with me I sure will.”

“Fair point.” He heaves a disappointed sigh, his arms dropping to his lap. “Linda?”

“Mm.”

“Come sing for me.” He gently takes her hand, trying to make her face him. She bites her lip, suppressing a laugh as he sticks out his tongue and crosses his eyes. “You’re all I wanna hear tonight. Sing for me.”

“You and Sinatra seemed to be doing pretty well earlier.”

“Aw, that guy’s got nothing on you. Linda, beautiful, apple of my eye-”

“Fine, fine, I’ll sing! I don’t know why-” She stops, crosses her arms and glares at him as he shoots to his feet, grinning ear to ear. “Stop that. You’ve heard me sing before.”

“Too rarely.”

“And this is why.” She gestures at his smile. “Maybe if you stop acting like you’re hearing a chorus of angels whenever I help the choir teacher out I’d sing more around you.”

She stalks off toward a supplies closet, the janitor trailing close behind. His keys clink as he opens the door for her, and after a moment of hesitation, she walks in and scoots close to the wall, leaving space for him. There is the flicking of a switch, a soft whirring as the door shuts. And then all is still.

The electric wires stop humming. No more songs pour from the loudspeakers, no more scratches from the rats who have nested in the art room, or soft hoots from the owls that live in the holes in the walls. The only sound is two heartbeats, beating in the dark, and a clear, sugar-sweet voice beginning to sing, slight pauses as the lady takes a breath, as they share soft kisses.

Minutes later, the voice breaks off, and the flick of a switch resounds throughout the building. They emerge, blinking into the moonlight like sleepy owls.

“Our secret?” says the janitor, who is holding her hand.

She doesn’t answer, twitches nervously as the sound from the loudspeakers abruptly crackles

to life. Her hands twist under her apron. “What setting is it on?”

“The switch is set on silence for the whole school. No one can hear us.” He strokes her hair. “You know that, Linda.”

“Still. You sure?”

In answer, he unlocks the door and hums a note. The sound travels briefly, then a flash of light bubbles outside, and the sound echoes back to them.

They are quiet, breathing in the sound.

Slowly, she turns to him.

“How’d you manage to convince the others not to show up this time?”

“Do you really think anyone protested getting a night off?”

“It’s been more than one night.”

“They just assume we want time alone. Which is true.”

“Someone will investigate.”

He rubs his hands together in the cool night air. “No one can hear us. Linda, we can be as loud as we want to, and they still wouldn’t hear anything. You know that. Even if they could, everyone’s asleep right now.”

“Still-”

“Linda.”

“What?”

“Our secret?” he asks again, quieter, stiller.

She is silent, her heartbeat resounding off the walls, until it seems like the school itself is alive, till the floor is vibrating silently, flickers of color visible from the windows.

“Ours,” she says, pauses, takes a breath.

She pulls him into a waltz, and sings, loud, sound rippling against the silent walls. He laughs. There are waves of music, and the soft humming of machines, clicking, tapping, footsteps.

Outside, there are fireworks of color and a noiseless night.

“Shouldn’t we tell someone?” she asks him, smiling.

“Mm. We made it; we get to keep it to ourselves. Finders keepers.” He shrugs as he spins her towards a classroom. “You know, if you squint a little, this makes a half-decent ballroom.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’d have to do more than squint to believe that. Maybe if I see some royalty around here.”

“I was Prom King in high school.”

“Pardon my mistake, your majesty.”

They dance in silence for a while.

“I don’t want to tell anyone,” she confesses as they dip low to the ground. “Is that selfish?”

He pushes her hair behind her ear. “Only that you’re hiding your brilliant mind from the world.”

“We both worked on this.”

“You did most of the work.”

“It was your idea.”

“You got it off the ground. Do you think I know how to convert sound waves to light?”

“I don’t even have a high school diploma.”

“And? You’re smart. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me that. Besides, you’re working on your GED.”

“Hm.” She frowns.

He gently strokes her hair. “Linda.”

“Stop.” She smiles up at him, suddenly, eyes bright. “No more worrying about me. Let’s just enjoy this night.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now.” She took his hand. “You owe me a dance.”

Yes

Jessica Brynn Cohen

Each day is the same as the last; repetitive, unexciting, and dull. We’re that suburban couple who to others seem to be not too happy, not too sad. That explains a lot of our relationship: nothingness. A whole lot of nothingness. No greetings, no goodbyes, no laughing over coffee cups on a lazy Saturday afternoon. No couples gatherings, no anniversary celebrations, no cheesy “I love you” coasters from Amazon. We exist as two wholly separate people, leading wholly separate lives, who just happen to share a house and a bed. I just happened to have said “yes” to his question 25 years ago.

This particular morning is the same as any other. He wakes up at 5 AM and does whatever he does: brushes teeth, takes a cold shower, makes a cup of decaf coffee, grabs his briefcase, and goes to work, all before I wake up at 6 and go through the same routine. I’m not sure whether this schedule is intentional or not, but there’s no reason for either of us to change. We go our separate ways to our separate jobs, him as a secretary at a paper company, me as secretary of the local zoo’s affairs. We do the same sorts of things, but never talk about our tasks. They’re so mundane. Even if we had the most exciting jobs in the world, we would still never talk about our careers. Pointless, awkward chatter would ensue.

Today I feel terrible and have taken off work. He knows––I was up coughing half the night, and there’s no way he’d stay asleep––but said nothing. He just put the pillow over his head. No gentle back-pattings, no reassuring words, nothing. I don’t exist to him, just as he doesn’t exist to me. Now I lie on the couch, a plastic bag of ice on my forehead, and close my eyes. Thoughts of a better life come rushing through my head. They’re always there, clammoring in my temples, ready to be turned into real-world action. Leave him, find someone who will make you feel as you’ve never felt before, it’s so simple. They both keep me afloat and drag me down. There’s a chance for me to be happy. To be wanted. Needed. But I’m 50 years old, and half my life has been spent with a man who hasn’t given me a change to practice love or passion, so how could I ask someone else to teach me what should already be obvious?

The word “yes” has ruined my life. Everything I’ve ever said yes to has been a mistake. Major in accounting, Father asks? Yes. Buy a house with a mortgage you’ll never be able to pay back, and forever have a cloud of debt hanging over you? Yes. But the worst yes was the one I said at 24.

“Marry me?”

“Yes.”

If I had just said no, everything would be different. Perhaps I would have found a man who wouldn’t want to marry me out of pure peer pressure, but a man who would have married me because of me. A man who would curl up with me every Sunday and do the crossword together. A man who surprised me with little gestures, such as a night out, a vacation once in a while, or a pottery class. Something special. Maybe even have a child.

“Mrs. Oldan, you are past the point of reproduction. Are you content to live your life childless?”

“Yes.”

Perhaps I would have found a man I’d like to have a child with before it was too late. I’d have someone I could mother and lecture about the ways of the world, someone to force me up out of bed each morning because there were playdates to schedule, school forms to be signed, graduations and birthday parties to attend. A purpose.

Who knows? Perhaps I would have ended up falling in love with a woman. It’s much more plausible than succesfully willing myself to fall in love with a man I have no connection with.

25 years is a lot of time, but it goes by quickly. The beginning there is at least effort. You want to do what your fellow couple friends are doing, so you smile in photos, laugh when told to, performatively squeeze his arm when people are watching. But time goes on and you drop the act until everyone in your life knows that your marriage is a sham, and that we haven’t kissed or touched each other in 15 years. The time just slips.

I come home every day at 4:30 PM and try to write a paragraph of a book I’ll never finish. He gets home at 5 PM, and we’re forced to nod cordially, because not doing so would confirm how absolutely broken our lives are, and we must keep some semblance of what couples do when one arrives home, even if it’s one percent of the normal interaction. He goes into his office and closes the door, and doesn’t emerge until 8, when he usually makes a sandwich or heats up old leftover spaghetti. Again we make eye

contact in the kitchen as I make my own dinner, usually the same as his. We eat together at the table in silence, both of us looking at our food or our phones. When he’s finished, he goes into our room and shuts the door, and that’s all I see of him for the day, besides for when I crawl into bed as far away from him as possible at 10 or 11, after checking the news or taking a nap or reading a chapter of some library book. That’s my day, and it repeats.

On weekends he’s usually in his office, and I’m usually in the living room. We cross paths whenever we’re in the kitchen.

Tonight, after he’s gone to bed, I ponder that doctor’s visit I had last week, remembering viscerally everything the doctor said.

“This is serious, Diane. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Immediate action must be taken.”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that this could kill you?” ***************

“Yes.”

“The complete results will be in next week, so come in. We’ll also talk about a treatment plan, what your limits are. Talk to your husband and make sure he comes along. Alright?”

“Yes.”

I never told him about the visit. Tomorrow is supposed to be the meeting, and he’s supposed to come with me. What would I even say? That I may be dying and he should be a sport and pretend he cares about me by accompanying me to this visit and every other one to come? That he should help me with my medication and tell me some jokes in each waiting room to make me feel better? Of course not.

If I die, he’d become a widow and remarry within the month. I’ve seen older women look at him temptatiously before glancing at me, sighing and muttering under their breath. I’ve also seen him reciprocate. He’d have no trouble finding a wife. I’d fleet from his memory, just a prologue in the true love story of his life.

I’m living in my epilogue.

I cough more and more tonight, and my head spins. Like always, he does nothing but inch as far as he can from me until he’s practically off the bed. I shiver and hold in sobs.

I have a childhood friend on Facebook I keep in touch with. She knows that I have a cold marriage, but doesn’t know the extent. But she’s kind, and happily single, and lives around two hours away, in Jersey City. I could muster my deteriorating strength, pack a bag, and call a taxi to take me there. I could tell her everything, everything. She’d come with me to my appointments, she’d help me find an apartment and a job, if I have the ability to work. We could laugh and cry together, two single women living their lives independently, contentedly.

It’s a fantasy. I couldn’t do that. She barely knows me, and I wouldn’t have the strength, physical or emotional, to go through with it. Dreaming is devastating, and it’s best to let it go.

I sob harder, and to my surprise he sits up and turns to me. I don’t recognize this stranger. He’s pale and small-eyed, his hair dry and coarse. He wears an expression of emptiness and indifference. He isn’t one to handle vulnerability, but I wail anyway. He hesitantly touches my shoulder with his index finger, and I flinch. I haven’t felt human touch in so long.

His voice is brittle and flat, but he asks something he’s never asked.

“Are you alright?”

I could tell the truth, let out everything I’ve ever felt, the impending doom of my undiagnosed illness, and my hundreds of regrets. But in this moment, I realize I will never be able to confide in him, this stranger who I’ve been living with for over half of my life.

“Yes.”

NONFICTION

NORTH CENTRAL TEXAS COLLEGE

In the Forest There Lived People

Jacob Duran

Once somewhere far on a small planet there lived people. A branch of life called hominins, forced to become bipedal. Generation upon generation these primates wondered far, Seeking any information about what, where and who they are. For eons, this tribe sought the savannah around but have never stepped foot in this forest they just found. Their imagination festered into monsters and ghouls, A vast maze littered with remains of unwary fools. The leader of the group asked, “Who shall we implore?”, because knowledge to them is worth dying for. They chose one of their younglings to blaze this trail for his kindness and curiosity would not let him fail. Days had gone by and the tribe started to worry if their new prospector had been sent off too early. Until one morning the courageous primate returned eager to tell the whole tribe what he had learned. The woods were not full of monsters with terrifying evil, But rather in the forest there lived people.

The Forest

As I entered the forest, I suddenly found I was lost. I did not know which direction to go so I left the choice to a toss. The coin chose left, and I hoped it was right, because during my contemplation day turned into night. I panicked to find shelter, and I rushed to make fire. But all my efforts dwindled, and I began to tire. I leaned up against a rock, shivering half to death. When suddenly an old man stormed out and nearly took my breath! The elders’ garb was worn accentuating his large grey beard. In spite of his stern and vagrant look, this man will soon be revered. He struck two rocks that sparked a fire, and with that magic pulls me out of the mire. I asked for his name, but he would not reply. He just stared at me silently with a fiery glare in his eye. He began to speak, but then suddenly stopped, as if he did not want to offend with the words he just thought. I thanked him fervently for helping when he did.

I sometimes get ahead of myself and realize I am still a kid. As the old man laughed in the middle of my speech, Then spoke… “The place you are looking for is within a day’s reach. We will head there later once the sun shows its face because only with the spectrum of light reveals the way to this place. These woods are dangerous, but only if you do not know the necessary precautions to take and the right way to go. The weather can change quickly if you do not take care, That is why you must always prepare with the proper wear. There are wolves and bears that travel these lands, not to mention spiders as big as my hands. But no need to fear because they just want to live too. Building shelters, making babies and catching their food. Being observant of your surroundings will only show you,

the world is less scary than you make it out to. Take note of the strange and peculiar things. Does it run on feet? Or does it fly with wings? Does it come back at different times of the year? Is it something you can’t see or touch but can only hear?”

As the night drew clear with brilliant stars ahead, the man looks towards the ground and nervously rubs his head.

“I will do my best in deciding where I should begin, It is difficult to answer questions which seem to have no end. Ask yourself, why does this needle always point one way, The planets magnetic field points north every day. But day and night are not the sun going up or down, It’s only our planet that’s continuously spinning around. We orbit our star, and our spin reasons, without a slight tilt and wobble we would not have our seasons. These are the cycles in nature from spring to fall, and once you look up you find we are not the center of it all. Look at those stars that seem fixed to the sky, always there at night but somehow passersby.

Our eyes cannot see this cosmos interlope, It required one person long ago to invent the telescope. And with this tool my people developed a universal method, To only accept theories with evidence no matter how much you are tempted. Once we looked the results were astounding. The age and size of the cosmos became confounding. Everything is moving in that dark black sky. Moons, comets, planets, stars – all spinning around their nuclei. Billions of stars belong to our spiral galaxy, which is that band of light at night you can barely see. But there’s even billions of galaxies not bound, all racing toward that Cosmic Microwave Background. And If you rewind the movements of this explosive reality, you will find that it all originates from a singularity. This universe has been around for an exceptionally long time, Taking fourteen billion years just to create your mind. I know we feel tiny existing in this large polarity, But consider that you are the universe contemplating its rarity. So, it is natural in a big universe to feel really small, until this method helps you become enlightened of it all.”

The Town

As dawn approached with its warmth on our face, we got up, snuffed the fire and walked to this place. The entire time the man did not say a word, he just checked his compass and listened for one type of bird. Like acquaintances of old just chatting around, only the birds were the ones making the sound. Then suddenly arose, like a mirage distilled clear, a citadel of people who appear to have no fear. I turned to thank him for the wisdom he offered to share, but the old man had vanished completely into thin air. I embarked to this town with timid but good graces, and became astounded of all the bright faces. Everyone was prestigious, quiet and collected, which curiously enough caused me to become affected. All kinds of people of every race, gender and creed, Trading stories, goods and ideas for all humans to succeed But then I noticed, I must have gotten turned around. I was lost in a canyon of buildings created from the ground.

The hustle and bustle were dizzying and distracting, Lost in an alley is when I felt my hope contracting. Suddenly I heard the bird the old man listened for, right in front of me there stood a small wooden store. I walked in to find that there was no one there, except a humble old woman with long, silky grey hair. She was surrounded by dozens of jars and scents, filled with flora that became her evidence. Stacked cages and tanks from the fauna of the forest. Birds, fish, mammals, insects and even a pet tortoise. She looked at me kindly and spoke ‘‘May I help you child? What makes you interested in learning about the wild?’’

“The birds!” I replied with eager and must, then she pointed to a cage saying, ‘‘There’s a female Song Thrush.’’ As I approached this creature it started to sing, I asked the lady “How does nature create such a thing?”

‘The birds descended from mighty creatures that stormed about, until suddenly in an instance they were all snuffed out. We call them dinosaurs because they are gone now, the ancient lizards evolved as birds, and I can tell you how. But I will have to start in a realm hard to fathom, because to understand evolution you must begin with the atom. Fourteen billion years ago the atom was not around to build. A huge explosion scattered immense energy in an ever-expanding field. After a while, that super-hot soup finally cooled down, into neutrons, protons and electrons that became electrically bound.

A star shines with a fight between gravity and pressure, The sun converts hydrogen into helium which we can measure. And it is this dance of particles that make up all forms of matter, colossal stellar explosions create an infinite pattern. From rocks to gases to sand or rust, Humans and everything you see is made of stardust. After the accretion, a special molecule remains, For organic compounds to exist it requires carbon chains. These are ribosomes and amino acids working together, Recreating polypeptides and matching each chemical letter. At transcription DNA learns, replicates and solves, with tremendous luck and mutation, the surviving species evolves. There are no bounds for what shape it prescribes to be, DNA is in all life whether it is a fish, bacteria or tree. The chemical machines learned the seas, lands and skies, always hunting and preying on the ones that run or disguise. Always absorbing energy, the other one has consumed, So that surviving species can live, procreate and commune. And if given more time and oxygen the planet features likely conditions to create such monstrous creatures. For millions of years the dinosaurs roamed and reigned, however, in our solar system some planetary fragments remained.

Like cosmic bullets this giant mountain fell, striking our globe and creating planetary hell. For hundreds of years our planet seemed bleak with gloom but deep in the oceans and under the mountains, life began to bloom. Life survived because the ocean makes a cocoon, But all life could not thrive without stabilization from the moon. When there’s extinction life does not start from scratch, There’s always DNA machinery capable to light the match. Our beginnings come from this pivotal nexus, and for the longest time this transformation perplexed us.

Birds and mammals are the prodigies with their novel code, adapting and synergizing with their newly stable abode. It was safe to be out during day with no ferocious beast, The trees were ours now with all the fruits, nuts and bugs to feast. This is how we as primates grew out of this earth through millions of years of death and birth. Our skin is like the reptiles, retaining water from the seas, Our bones transformed from swimming to climbing trees. Mammals are the only ones that mature their eggs inside, nurturing for their babies with milk to provide. Now we walk upright because that is what nature made us do, We needed use of our brains and hands to make it through.

Humans vary from hair type to color of skin, But we all descend from one ancestor and she was African. People have travelled this globe far and wide, Finding answers beyond the horizon furthering their stride. And that is why you have journeyed all the way here, searching for knowledge intrinsically drives back fear. Nature is not here for us to conquer and muse, Life is a symbiotic circle thus forever infused. Our senses can hide this beautiful and reveling fact, as if all life on this planet never made this pact. We were oblivious to the beauties of this mote, It required someone to invent the microscope. It is your birthright to learn about what you are. The cosmos condensed down from the dust of a star. Just do not forget you are still that big explosion, it’s only your perspective that leaves you in demotion.”

My Return

And that is when she sent me on my way even after I begged her, “Please, can I stay?” She said, “You now know the truth as to the best of our knowledge, through rigorous and gritty record keeping we had to salvage. Just do not take only my words as authority, Searching for facts with evidence should be your priority. Many smart women and men have contributed to this art. Questioning the universe in which we all have a part. And they were right about knowledge pushing back fear, because I was able to find my way back here. It was correct to take note of distant features, and learn migration patterns from certain creatures. It is wise to learn all the movements in the sky, and confirming the right way to go by the critters that fly. It is your environment that forces you to evolve, From the ground to the sky is the stuff you must solve.” Do not be afraid of something you do not understand, Take time in learning the vast unknown first-hand. The foresters used this method to discover what, where, and who we are. The latest species on a tiny planet orbiting a humongous star. The people have learned the ability to make tools, Helping us shape this place for better or worse if were fools. We can build on each other’s ideas of reality But it must undergo the most scrupulous plurality. To observe and record, guessing any correlation, and be able to predict the cosmos using that information. What was this method the foresters leaned on with such alliance? I asked for its name and they just called it Science.

Works Cited

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Millville

Jessica Clark

I lost the last place I called home when my grandfather died. It, and its inhabitants, had been the star our family orbited around for nearly sixty years. I experienced more than my fair share of upheaval in life, but Millville, New Jersey, had been the one place I could always come back to that had been a steady constant for as long as I could remember. Now everyone is gone, and there is no reason to go back and nowhere to rest our heads if we did. The last life lesson of many that Millville would impart upon me was that some loss is inevitable and permanent, even the gravity that once pulled generations to a small town in south Jersey. Entropy is inevitable. While it chokes me up every time I think about it, there is nothing sad about Millville or the indelible mark it left upon me.

At the crack of dawn, I burst from my bed and out of the hideously orange room with the towering, garish Gauguinesque paintings adorning its walls. I quietly toddled down the flight of stairs and passed the cherrywood Grandfather Clock, scampering towards the cozy family room of the grand house I was visiting for the first time. I had only lived in apartments, and my mom’s parents lived in a small split-level house. This four-bedroom, two-story home, located in a verdant shady neighborhood in Millville, New Jersey, was enormous and demanded immediate exploration! A naughty three-year-old with an untamable personality, I may have been the most curious (nosy) human being alive. The house was silent as a spider in its web, and I had free rein. As I rifled through the room’s contents, careful not to rouse an adult, I hit pay dirt! There, in a small drawer, was a black permanent marker. “What could I draw on?” I thought to myself, looking around at my options. A pristine canvas called to me from across the room. Elatedly, I beelined to it and started scribbling away with total abandon. Suddenly, I heard a shrill, furious voice calling my name, and I was dragged away from the snowy couch, now covered in great black slashes. Mommy was mad! It was clear that I was about to get a spanking. Then another voice, steady and tender, called out, stopping Mommy cold. I had never heard such a soft voice command attention like that. There stood my savior, a petite “old lady” with poofy golden hair, holding a lit cigarette. She took my hand, led me up two steps away from a livid Mommy, and sat me down on a chair at the kitchen table surrounded by sea-glass green and white checkered walls.

Mrs. Fisher was my Mommy’s boyfriend’s mother. Without an iota of judgment about my mom’s wrath, or my “artwork” on her brand-new sofa, Mrs. Fisher calmly assured Mommy everything was fine. After providing me with the distraction of glue, macaroni, and construction paper, she went to work with a bucket of sudsy water and a towel. Mrs. Fisher refurbished the furniture to its original glory after long hours of scrubbing and refused to let my mom or “Glenn” (what I called Dad back then) punish me. I played blissfully. Little did I know at such a precious age that this was the moment when I learned what it meant to be given unconditional, selfless love from someone who was not of my blood or that, as the years went on, I would be calling Mrs. Fisher, “Grandma.”

The windows were down on the Chevy Monza on a balmy summer day as we traveled down I-95 to our annual summer vacation in Millville. Mom tossed out her stinky Newport, opened the solid metal glove box, and pulled out snacks. Usually a welcome sight, I could care less; all I could think about was getting to south Jersey. I had been told in no uncertain terms that we would pull over if I asked, “When will we get there?” one more time. I crackled with anticipation, but even at the age of six, I knew when to pick my battles, and I kept my trap shut. After all, I knew I could get away with being mischievous when I got to Millville to visit the Fishers. Rubbing my hand against the claret fabric of the Monza’s interior, a self-soothing act I’d performed since I was a baby, I fell into sleep. I awoke from my nap, tasting the pungent scent of New Jersey – chemical plants and marshlands. We were finally close. I almost asked when we would get there again but caught myself just in time.

We parked on the crowded street by the Fisher home. As we lugged our bags out of the car, I saw the whole gang; Carol and John, Mark and Debbie, Lee, and of course, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher. Before we could step foot over the threshold, John, with his ubiquitous camera in hand, eagerly lined us up in front of the bay windows that ran the length of the front living room. I stood still, saying “cheese” repeatedly for the traditional yearly family picture. When that tiresome task was over, I darted away to gather the juicy wild blueberries from the bushes at the edge of the woods abutting the backyard.

Later, as Mr. Fisher fired up the grill, Glenn, John, and I went for a walk on rough trails carved into the undergrowth of the forest behind the house. As we moved deeper into the woods, there was a

crackling of brush and a flash of movement. Glenn was faster than lightning as he snatched up a sleek black four-foot-long rat snake by the back of the neck, beaming proudly as he proffered it to me. After a while, I let the beautiful creature go, and we carried on. We arrived at the inviting lake as the sun beat down upon us. Glenn stripped out of his clothing and dived under the crisp deep-indigo water. I was not going to miss out, so I followed his lead while Uncle John sat on a downed tree at the lake’s silty bank. When we had sufficiently cooled down, Glenn and I donned our sun-warmed clothing and headed back to the house to enjoy an early dinner.

It was critical to check for ticks because South Jersey had a big bloodsucker problem, but I did a half-hearted job and wolfed down my food so I could go back outside and play in Mr. Fisher’s rock garden. There was always something to catch, crawling or slithering under the boulders of varying sizes and shapes - some so heavy I had to strain until my face hurt before I could get them to budge. Knowing that I was fascinated with rocks and kept a crayon-cataloged collection of them at home, Mom called out as I left the house that I was not to remove stones that resided within the boundaries of Mr. Fisher’s Garden. The din of voices coming from inside faded as I skipped down the little walkway streaked with sparkling ribbons of slimy slug trails. Before I arrived at my destination, I saw a glint of coppery light coming from the grass beyond the rock garden. I scrapped my original plan and followed the metallic shimmer to the base of a colossal tree. There lay a rock about 6 inches long and two inches high, but it wasn’t just any rock – it was a fossilized-copper-rock! I squatted down to pick it up and was stunned by its excessive weight. It was a small rock compared to the ones in the garden; I wondered how it could be so heavy. Its craggy top looked like it had been rubbed with monarch butterfly wings and the sides flared out to form miniature mesas. The undersides of the flattened protrusions were stippled with what looked like honey-colored dewdrops flowing into a teeny-tiny cave system. “Technically, it’s not in the rock garden,” I thought as I staked my claim. I was ready to beg for it if necessary.

Mom didn’t buy that I had just found it at the base of a tree, so she asked Mr. Fisher to come and inspect my fossilized-copper-rock while I scratched at a persistent itch in the middle of my back. He was baffled. He had never seen it before and said he would have remembered something so exceptional. Mr. Fisher, seeing the unadulterated joy on my face, persuaded Mom to let me have it. That night, as Glenn tucked me into bed, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that life was full of simple wonders and limitless possibilities which should never be taken for granted. I fell sound asleep with my fossilized-copper-rock at my beside - and a tick burrowing into my back. Years later, we learned that the rock was neither fossil nor copper. It was 18-karat gold.

Our annual family pictures outside the bay window in Millville became increasingly crowded as the years passed, and the Fisher family – my family – flourished. So much had changed in the eleven years since I had struck gold. We lived in Houston, Texas, where we had moved when I was in the fourth grade. I had lived a lifetime here. It was difficult to fathom that I’d be walking across the stage at my high school graduation ceremony in three days and heading off to New York City in the fall. Mom, Dad, and my little brother were packed up and ready to move to the new house after my big day. Soon, I would never again set foot in the home I grew up in. The magnitude of the tectonic shift my life was about to take was overwhelming.

My thoughts turned to Grandma as I drove up to our freshly painted ranch-style house in “The Armadillo.” My 1985 Ford Escort had been lovingly named after its doppelganger, the armadillo groom’s cake in the movie Steel Magnolias. Grandma was always on my mind these days. The impetus for my parent’s move to Maryland, a mere two-hour drive to Millville, was her recent stage four ovarian cancer diagnosis. Grandma had been so busy taking care of everyone else that she never took care of herself until it was too late. I stepped out of the air-conditioned car and hustled inside. It was oppressively hot and so muggy that it only took a second to feel drenched. Our phone was ringing as I opened the door. A visceral feeling of dread came out of nowhere and hit me like a Mack Truck. An unwelcome thought flew into my head as I approached the phone, “it’s going to be Grandpa with grave news.” I sucked it up, took the phone from its cradle, and pressed “talk.”

Mom and Dad walked through the door not long after Grandpa told me that Grandma was dead and asked that I have Dad call him back. I felt hollowed out. As Dad talked to Grandpa, Mom handed me a wad of twenties and directed me to go to the mall to pick out a graduation dress - a dress that must also be suitable for a funeral. We made it to Jersey the following morning and went straight to the funeral home in Millville for the viewing. There was a pall of silence despite the crowd. I approached my grandmother for the last time through sheets of briny tears, touched her soft crepey hand, and said goodbye. I walked straight out the door, across the parking lot, and up a small hill. I sat in the grass and pulled out my pack of Camel Wides. I lit a cigarette and took a long soothing drag. I couldn’t go back in and see the most beneficent woman in the world lying stiffly in a coffin. How could someone so genuinely good be taken away from us? How could Millville ever be the same without her? A pandemonium of thoughts, feelings, and questions was flying through my head. Yet I sat there, alone on that hill, lighting one cigarette after

another with tear-soaked fingers. No one bothered me until it was time to bury her.

Of course, Millville was never the same without Grandma, but that didn’t make it bad or deficient. Life went on. Roles changed. A once-reserved Grandpa stepped up and filled the hole Grandma had left in our lives. He ensured Aunt Lee didn’t miss a Special Olympics or social event; he made the beds when his kids, grandkids, and eventually great-grandkids would visit. Sometimes we would swarm the house en masse; other times, it would be one family tree branch at a time. I forged a wholly unique bond with Grandpa. As the oldest grandkid, I had the luxury of having more time with him. I would drive to Millville several times a year, and Grandpa and I would sit for hours talking about life, past and present, while he had his Seagram’s seven with ginger ale, and I drank beer. He started telling me he loved me when I would visit, something even Dad had tried to get him to do without much success.

I married, moved back to Texas, and had my own kid. Every year I brought my family to my beloved Millville, and Grandpa was always waiting at the door when we arrived, just like he had been for decades. On my last day in Millville, I saw him buried next to Grandma. I didn’t need to sit on the hill alone; I stood with the family, accepting that death is a part of life. It may eviscerate me, but I would go on until I didn’t, and that’s okay. After his funeral, we took our last group photo together in Millville, this time just the grandkids and great-grandkids because there was no room in the frame for “the kids” anymore.

There’s a big two-story house with a dilapidated tree fort and a winding driveway in Maryland. Troves of creatures can be found in the surrounding woods. Grand mountains and majestic rivers are a stone’s throw away, and breathtaking beauty greets the family as we all converge there on holidays, special events, or just because. The doors are always open; the beds are made and waiting. Great big windows run the length of the long living room, where guests gather for photos outside. There, Momma dotes on the kids, and Dad is quick to say he loves everyone. Ijamsville is my daughter’s favorite place to visit. It feels like a steady constant in her life; it feels like home. And just like that, when a supernova takes out one solar system, it seeds the next. In time, I will take up the mantle and purposefully generate a gravitational force for my family, sharing the gifts bestowed upon me in a small Jersey town called Millville.

I Call Bull

Briley Davies

The experts say there are five stages of grief: Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

And Acceptance

I call bull.

Denial

As I watched the numbers on the screen drip down to zero and the heart rate on the monitor fall to a flatline, there was no denying that my dad was dead. I never blatantly denied the fact I was 16 and fatherless, but I would often forget, so perhaps forgetfulness is the more correct term for this so-called “stage” of grief. The lapses in my memory came with the little things, like when my car broke and it needed fixing Call Dad

When I saw a bucket hat covered with airplanes

Dad’ll love that

When I just wanted to talk or go for a drive

I’ll go get Dad

Dad

Dad

Dad is dead

These moments of carelessness wouldn’t last long before reality would hit me like a sledgehammer to a window

Shattering the delicate veil of ignorance my brain had so quickly developed to protect me from the truth. Denying his death was a luxury I could not afford, but the quiet calm of forgetting, even for just a moment, cost me only my own sanity.

Anger

I was never angry. I know my mom was. She was angry, angry at me, angry at God, angry at the world. Sometimes I think she still is. I don’t blame her though, I wanted to feel angry. I wanted to scream and hate and rear the ugly head of rage, but I couldn’t. I felt jealous. I felt robbed. I’m the youngest of six. Six older siblings. Six older siblings that got my Dad all to themselves much longer than I ever did. Six older siblings who got to have their Dad on their first day of senior year. Six older siblings who got to have their Dad at their graduation. Six older siblings who got to have their Dad when they went off to college, or bought a house, or got their first grown-up job, or when they just missed home and called to talk. Six older siblings who got to have a Dad.

I don’t get that.

I don’t get to have a Dad at my wedding

To walk me down the aisle

I don’t get to have a Dad to meet my first baby

Even if that child has his nose

Or his smile

Or those big blue eyes

I don’t get to have a Dad for the rest of my life

All the big moments and the small seconds and everything between I’m not angry or bitter, I’m jealous. I’ve been robbed, Because my Father got stolen from me much too soon.

Bargaining

I’ve always been told I should be a lawyer

But when it comes to negotiating with Mother Nature and the Will of God, I will always lose.

I didn’t try to offer an ultimatum while my Dad was dying

Save him and I’ll be better

Take me instead

If you take him at least take me too

It seemed like a waste of thought, a waste of prayer, to wish for God to bend his will to my own., to write a contract I knew he would never sign. So I didn’t. I didn’t bargain. Not once. I begged.

Please God make it go away

Take it from me

Take everything that I have I don’t want it

Not without him

Bargaining is what you do at garage sales. But Grief, grief makes you humble Grief makes you beg.

Depression

Now this one they almost got right, almost, but not quite. What they don’t tell you about depression after loss is that it’s not some chunk of time where you feel all sad and then suddenly you wake up and you’re ok. Time has healed all your wounds and made you brand new. No.

Depression is the forever cycle. The one that lingers for the rest of your life like the waves of the ocean, the sadness will come and go.

Hitting you

Hard

All at once

Pulling you under, and holding you there till you think

This is how I die, drowning in my own tears

And then

The tide falls, cowering back out to the sea of sorrow that you carry around with you in the deep crevices of your soul. And for a moment, you feel okay, like you just might make it through this. Until the moon rises from her slumber

And the riptide returns

Dragging you down to depths once more

And this continues on Forever

And ever

And ever

Depression entangles itself within you

You become the personification of misery.

Acceptance

Maybe there is a point where you can accept loss. When you can truly reminisce all the good times without a twinge of sadness or the guilt because you don’t feel sad enough. Maybe one day I’ll be able to look at a plane in the sky or that spot on the couch my Dad always used to take his naps and I won’t feel a dull ache in my chest or tears teasing the rim of my eyes.

However, I don’t think I’ll ever come to such a conclusion in this life

I think the last stage of grief is the most wrong of all

It simply ceases to exist

Because grief is not meant to be accepted like an invitation shoved in your mailbox

Grief is not meant to be tainted with the expectations of how experts think I should grieve

Grief is not meant to be understood or watered down to five measly stages because at the end of the day grief is like a thumbprint, it’s not the same for any two people who have been, are, or ever will be alive on this earth.

Grief is what makes us human, and to be human is to grieve

So I say to the experts, Grieve. Truly feel loss and until then, I call bullshit.

Art and Disability: A Symbiotic Relationship of Innovation and Expression

Liz Lemmon

The relationship between art and the artist is one of reciprocity. Artists use art as an expressive medium, used to convey feelings, perceptions, or their worldview. The beauty and mystery of artistic expression is in the ability to take deeply personal, often intangible, concepts like pain or love and turn it into a physical, consumable work, creating a conduit for sharing thoughts and feelings, fears or desires. Perhaps this is why many of our most famous artists throughout history struggled with physical disabilities, often in conjunction with or on top of deep trauma. To be able to express the pain or torment one is experiencing, to share that with others, to ease the yearning to be seen, heard, and understood, is one of the greatest gifts of art. Artistic expression can also provide an escape, a way to alter one’s reality and create a better world than the one given to them, such as in Mattise’s bright and colorful cutouts, invoking images of vivid gardens and exciting circuses while he was bedridden in dark and gloomy rooms during his physical decline (Spurling, Hilary).

Without question, art has given the power of expression and connection to people experiencing physical pain and disability, providing a window to their trauma and isolation. However, the relationship between disabled artists and the art world is one of mutual benefit, as the fierce desire and need to express themselves creatively has led many artists struggling with physical obstacles to pioneer innovative solutions that have pushed the boundaries of what art can be, as well as providing lasting benefit to not only the art world but all of society as well. There are endless examples of innovative and daring artistic expression from artists reaching new heights despite, and often inspired by, their disabilities and illnesses. To explore the relationship between art and disability, we will look to the past with Matisse and Chuck Close, and then look to the future and how modern technology is assisting disabled artists.

Henri Matisse was born in 1869 in La Cateau-Cambrésis, France. As a young man he suffered from appendicitis and while bed-ridden his mother gave him a set of paints to occupy his time. He was immediately enthralled and determined from that point on that his calling was to be an artist. He was a bold and passionate painter, often working himself to an exhaustion in an effort to reach perfection. He suffered several health issues due to stress and overwork including stress on his heart and pneumonia. However, it was his diagnosis of cancer, along with an operation that resulted in a pulmonary embolism, that caused him to be bed-ridden for several months and from that point forward he would paint or create art either from his bed or from a wheel-chair (Spurling, Hilary).

Matisse was no longer able to freely paint the large, sprawling paintings he loved and was at times physically too weak to reliably hold a paint brush. Unable to paint, he found himself still overwhelmed with the need to express himself through his art. Not only was he suffering physically, but also psychologically as he lived in France through German occupation in World War II. His daughter, Marguerite, was captured as part of the French resistance and was tortured, suffering terribly. The experience of living through the war shook him deeply, and struggling to find a way to express himself he used scissors and paper to create Icarus, a paper cut out depicting the fall of Icarus, which would later be included in his book Jazz (Gowing, Lawrence). A friend of Matisse’s, Luis Aragon, had this to say of the piece;

“It was the summer of 1943, the darkest point of that whole period, that he made an Icarus. . . .” wrote Aragon. “The Fall of Icarus. . . .between two bands of deepest blue, consists of a central shaft of black light with Icarus laid out against it in white like a corpse, and, from what Matisse said himself, it seems that the splashes of yellow - sun or stars if you want to be mythological - were exploding shells in 1943.” (Spurling, Hilary 418)

Henri Matisse. The Fall of Icarus. 1943, Private Collection.

From this point forward, Henri Matisse would lean into this medium, and towards the end of his life would exclusively use paper cut outs to create his art, what he called “drawing with scissors” (Gowing, Lawrence 185). He would use it to express pain or trauma, which can be seen in his book Jazz, but he would also use it as a mental escape from his physical confinement. While bound to his bleak bedroom, he recalled fond memories of seaside vacations and created Oceania, the Sky and Oceania, the Sea both elaborate and colorful cut-paper, cut by Matisse and then meticulously pinned and glued by his assistants until he was satisfied. When he was no longer able to physically tolerate going to an outdoor pool, he decided he would bring the pool to his apartment, and created paper cutouts of divers and swimmers spanning the entire length of his wall (Spurling, Hilary). When he was most physically restricted is when he became most free creatively, and pioneered a style and method of creating art that is still deeply impacting the art world today. This is a compelling example of the symbiotic relationship between a disabled artist and their art, as Matisse’s need to express his trauma and relieve his physical isolation inspired innovation in a new art form.

While Henri Matisse was creating The Fall of Icarus in 1943, Chuck Close was three years old living in Monroe, Washington. Even in his early years he was not a stranger to obstacles and disabilities, he suffered from a neuromuscular condition that excluded him from most sports as well as undiagnosed dyslexia that made schooling difficult. According to him, these setbacks merely narrowed his options and allowed him to focus on art at an early age. He also had prosopagnosia, or facial blindness, and had difficulty recognizing individual faces. It was ultimately inspiration from his facial blindness that made him a household name in the art world. Inspired by a lifetime of studying faces in an effort to remember them, his first notable painting was Big Self Portrait, an imposing 9-foot-tall photorealistic self portrait of Close (Finch, Christopher; Smith et al.).

Chuck Close. Big Self Portrait. 1967-1968, Art Center Acquisition Fund 1969.

He found rare success and recognition in the art world, and had enjoyed a notable career of 20 years when he suddenly experienced chest pain and later a seizure that paralyzed him from the neck down. He was diagnosed with a spinal artery collapse and would lose most of the function in his arms and legs. After extensive occupational therapy he was eventually able to paint with an adaptive device attached to his arm, though he had no function in his hands, and would sometimes paint with the paint brush in his mouth. His first painting after “the Event”, as he liked to call his medical emergency, was completed while still in the rehabilitation center. He had an assistant sit with him, he gave him extensive instructions on how to mix the colors and then the assistant would dip the paintbrush into the paint and place the brush into the adaptive device (Finch, Christopher). Using this method, he painted Alex II. In a later interview Chuck Close said of the process, “My recollection now is that I was thrilled from the very first moment. . . .The photograph itself was not particularly sad, but the resultant painting ended up expressing the kind of conflicting emotions that I was feeling myself.” (Close, Chuck et al. 97)

Chuck Close. Alex II. 1989, Private Collection New York.

These conflicting emotions would follow him for the rest of his life; in a 1997 interview with Robert Storr, Close recounts a visit to the Met where he viewed intricate oil paintings done by van Eyck and other artists known for their delicate paint strokes. He was struck with the realization that he would never be able to paint like that again and became deeply depressed from the experience. But despite his grief, he never considered retiring from the art world, instead he was driven to return to his studio and continued to find new ways to create his art. He said after this experience, “I was working on a painting, and I really liked what I was doing, and I was enjoying these paintings a great deal, so I found myself painting away happy as can be, whistling. I was having such a great time and simultaneously I had tears streaming down my cheeks. . . .I don’t have to squelch the sense of loss in order to feel good and I don’t have to stop enjoying . . .the kind of painting I am making now. It was really cathartic to realize that you could have both simultaneously and feel both.” (Close, Chuck et al 97). Chuck Close would go on to develop several different methods of completing his art, including several forms of printmaking such as woodblock prints, mezzotints, and watercolor prints. With his watercolor printmaking process, he and his assistants painted a series of squares in grayscale. These squares were scanned into a computer, where he was able to manipulate them more freely and apply color digitally. Then it would be printed with actual watercolor paints onto a large sheet of watercolor paper. This process is just one of many innovations Chuck Close utilized, using technology he continued to create and innovate new styles of art despite never again regaining full use of his hands (Artsy Editorial).

It must be acknowledged, there is a common theme in the success of both Henri Matisse and Chuck Close post-disability; assistants, wealth, and privilege. Both artists were considered successes in the art world before their physical disabilities, and both had amassed a comfortable amount of money to afford them the ability to continue with their artwork. But more than any other factor, the ability to attract talented assistants, along with being able to afford to pay them wages, is the overwhelming component in their continued contributions and innovations in the art world. This is not to detract from the talent, physical sacrifice, and sheer force of will both artists demonstrated in their lives. But there may have been countless other disabled artists, yearning to contribute, that were never afforded the opportunities to do so. While technological innovations can be expensive to create, there are examples that once the groundwork has been laid, it can make access to adaptive services less expensive and more accessible.

An example of this would be 3D printing, once exclusive and cost prohibitive, many public libraries now have 3D printers that are free to use to the public. Hopefully, with the assistance of improving technology, more opportunities will become available for artists with physical obstacles.

An example of modern technology making art more accessible is with artist Tony Quan,

known as “TEMPT ONE”. He was diagnosed with ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease, in 2003 and is completely paralyzed except for his eyes. A prominent graffiti artist known in Los Angeles, California, he is known for his distinct calligraphy and harmonizing Chinese and LA “cholo” styles together for his graffiti art (Cabral, Javier). After he lost the ability to use his arms, he began using a device called an eyewriter, the device has cameras attached to a set of glasses that track the movement of his eyes. He is able to continue to create new art, and collaborate with other artists to contribute to new exhibitions as well as advocating to make this technology available to all ALS patients (Eyewriter).

TEMPT ONE’s 3D graffiti sculpture in 2011 at the Pasadena Museum of California Art, a collaboration with ANGST, EYEONE, DEFER, PRIME and SLICK. Photo by Rojelio Cabral ArtWorking is a nonprofit based in Madison, Wisconsin that focuses on providing artists with disabilities with the tools and support they need to accomplish their creative visions. Many of their artists would never be able to create on their own, as adaptive tools are incredibly cost prohibitive, so ArtWorking helps them find solutions to their individual needs. They are funded through donations as well as a commission for the artwork sold by the disabled artists they assist (ArtWorking). In one case they had an artist, Jeanne Grosse, who has limited mobility and use of only one hand. She had a bigger vision for what she wanted to do artistically but was physically limited with the capabilities and tools available to her. They commissioned John Lash, a former metal sculptor, to create a more intuitive catapult that Jeanne could use to fling the paint on the canvas. With his innovations, she was able to control the force and angle of the paint as well alter the capacity of the paint in order to create her distinctive style of splatter paint art. John was so inspired by the project that he now assists people with disabilities to design technology to help them accomplish their goals. He often uses 3D printing to design specific adaptive tools that perfectly fit the needs of his clients. This is a personal project for him, he was diagnosed with degenerative neuromuscular disease that if it worsens can lead to him to lose function of his legs. He understands intimately how physical limitations can disadvantage individuals who, more than anything, desire to express themselves through their artwork (Yahr, Natalie et al.).

Jeanne Grosse, courtesy of ArtWorking. Artwork Jeanne Grosse created using the catapult designed by John Lash.

The relationship between art and disability are undeniable. It can be unbearably lonely to be physically restricted and for artists, using their art as a way to speak through their experiences and relate to the people around them can be a lifeline of hope. While I was able to find extensive interviews with Chuck Close, Jeanne Grosse is non-verbal, and cannot express her inner world and emotional state through traditional lines of communication. Tony Quan, being wholly paralyzed aside from eye movement, has obstacles as well to communicating in traditional long form interviews. Through their art they can express themselves and communicate to the world the complexities and depth of their thoughts and emotions. Art gives them a language in which they can finally speak to the world. And those same artists expand the minds and worlds of those who are able to view their artwork. To be able to experience a world beyond the one you know is a unique gift that art can provide, and many artists with disabilities give this gift when they create their art, pouring themselves and their experiences into their creative projects. To be able to persevere through countless obstacles is not an easy task but when you see the work of Henri Matisse and Chuck Close, you can feel the struggle and the triumph in their masterpieces. The art world is still incredibly exclusive and notoriously difficult to break through in a meaningful way. Gaining a platform and recognition is an arduous journey for any new artist, but the obstacles for disabled artists are nearly insurmountable. Now with modern technology and the impact of organizations like ArtWorking, we will hopefully expand the possibilities and open the art world to new insights and creative depths as the next generation of artists with disabilities are empowered to create and innovate.

Works Cited

Artsy Editorial. “Chuck Close's Radical Innovations in Printmaking.” Artsy, 15 Nov. 2013, https://www. artsy.net/article/editorial-chuck-closes-radical-innovations-in-printmaking Artworking. “What Is Artworking?” ArtWorking, https://www.artworking.org/who.

Bruno, Gilda. “The Disabled Artists Using Tech to Defy Their Bodies' Boundaries.” Dazed, 26 Feb. 2020, https://www.dazeddigital.com/art-photography/article/48044/1/the-disabledartists-using-tech-to-defy-their-bodies-boundaries-criptech.

Cabral, Javier. “How This Iconic L.A. Graffiti Writer Is Kicking ALS's Ass, 15 Years Later.” L.A. TACO, 15 Mar. 2018, https://www.lataco.com/how-this-iconic-l-a-graffiti-writer-is-kicking-alssass-15-years-later/. Close, Chuck, et al. Chuck Close. Museum of Modern Art, 1998.

Conaty, Siobhan M. “Matisse: Innovation in the Face of Physical Limitations.” Journal of Human ities in Rehabilitation, 29 Aug. 2019, https://www.jhrehab.org/2016/11/30/matisse-innova tion-in-the-face-of-physical-limitations/. Eyewriter, http://www.eyewriter.org/.

Finch, Christopher. Chuck Close Life. Prestel, 2010.

Gowing, Lawrence. Matisse. Thames & Hudson, 2003. Metmuseum.org, Henri Matisse, Icarus. https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/337069 MOMA. “Vincent Van Gogh. the Starry Night. Saint Rémy, June 1889: Moma.” The Museum of Modern Art, https://www.moma.org/collection/works/79802#:~:text=Van%20Gogh%20 was%20seeking%20respite,this%20view%20evoked%20in%20him

Smith, Jean Kennedy, and George Plimpton. “Chuck Close.” Chronicles of Courage: Very Special Art ists, Random House, New York, 1993.

Spurling, Hilary. Matisse: The Life. Penguin Books, 2009.

Spurling, Hilary, et al. Matisse the Master: A Life of Henri Matisse: The Conquest of Colour, 1909-1954. Alfred A. Knopf, 2007.

White, Tracie. “Eye Diseases Changed Great Painters' Vision of Their Work Later in Their Lives.” Stanford University, 11 Apr. 2007, https://news.stanford.edu/news/2007/april11/medoptart-041107.html. Yahr, Natalie, et al. “With a 3D Printer, He's Building Their Artistic Po tential and Quality of Life. ”The Cap Times, 28 Jan. 2020, https://captimes.com/news/local/ neighborhoods/with-a-3d-printer-he-s-building-their-artistic-potential-and-quality-oflife/article_b2439782-e691-5590-b4db- cf495e6478bf.html.

Protection for Young Citizens: The Evolution of Texas’ Judicial System

Rachel Seay

A leading debate in the state of Texas is the criminal prosecution of minors as adults. Texas’ traditionalistic style of government affects many policies and laws regarding capital punishment and prosecuting of those under the age of eighteen. With the changing environment surrounding Texas’ legislative system, the current policy on the criminal prosecution of minors as adults has been up for discussion. Because of the constant controversy surrounding juveniles imprisonment in Texas, the current state of the justice system needs to evaluate the necessities of juveniles in prisons and revisions should be considered by the Texas judiciary to provide stability for the next generation.

Texas’ legislation has introduced multiple bills relating to parole eligibility for convicted minors, as well as the release of young offenders. Senate Bill 55 suggests, “a parole panel shall assess the growth and maturity of the inmate, taking into consideration…the diminished culpability of juveniles as compared to that of adults” (Lucio 2022). This bill expands on the more basic law which, “states that once a child reaches the age of 17, he or she can now be tried as an adult” (Texas Penal Code Section 54.02). In Texas, minors are automatically treated as an adult in a court of law once they reached the age of 17. However, 17-year-olds are still considered to be minors in many other aspects until they reach the age of 18. Many Texas boards and commissions contribute to the research and alterations of the criminal justice system and specifically that of the prosecution of minors. The Criminal Justice Committee reviews current laws and sees if reform needs to be made. This committee makes up one part of a bigger organization of the Texas Judicial Council which oversees many laws and policies relating to Texas’ judiciary. The current policy on convicted minors being tried as adults has drastically evolved over many years. Before this policy as known by Texans now, juvenile jurisdiction has changed in the state of Texas throughout the twentieth century and continues to evolve in today’s time. This highly discussed topic has seen many changes since the independence of the state which originally had the law set when “A child under 14 years of age was presumed to be incapable of criminal responsibility” (Frey 2). Gradually this law began to change as the years went on flatting between the ages nine and thirteen but then changed again around the time of 1904 when a Texas seven-year-old was convicted of a rape charge. This also discusses that early on in Texas history, capital punishment for those younger than the age of 17 was eliminated under most circumstances. Juvenile court procedures and policies have undergone many changes to get to the point where they are now, but many are still in the works and have been debated in recent years.

In comparison to other states’ laws and federal laws, Texas has fewer restrictions on laws relating to minors being prosecuted as adults. Recent laws in the state of California have changed the age of prosecution of minors it was previously fourteen to seventeen and has since been raised to twenty-one. This drastic jump in age is primarily caused by California’s government wanting to, “put an end to the harsh measures, which led to overcrowded prisons and developmental issues for juvenile offenders” (Aron 2022). Texas also sees overcrowding of prison facilities and, “Texas has an incarceration rate of 840 per 100,000 people” (Prison Policy Initiative). Despite the different states’ policies on juvenile prosecution, the federal policies give the states free will to determine at what age a minor can be prosecuted as an adult. The convictions of minors vary based on states and the severity of the crime, “states have excluded certain offenses from juvenile court jurisdiction or added concurrent jurisdiction provisions to their existing waiver statutes” (Steiner & Wright 1451). Many states chose rehabilitation facilities to house juveniles who have committed crimes, while others like the state of Texas place minors in jails and prisons with a variety of age groups. In most states, the type of offense committed matters more than that of the offender themselves. The federal government does regulate the decision made by state courts when choosing to make reformations to existing law and new laws. State laws are almost untouched federally, “So long as their laws do not contradict national laws” (Elliott). In Texas, the age that a juvenile court case can be transferred to adult court depending on the crime that was committed but does not go lower than the age of 14 regardless of the severity of the crime. In states like Washington and Montana, the age at which a case can be transferred is twelve with no stipulations on the type of crime (Interstate Commission for Juveniles 2022). The differing laws between the states could impact the decisions made by juvenile citizens that inhabit that state.

The highest level of controversy in prosecuting minors occurs between political parties,

especially the republican and democratic parties. The Libertarian Party of Texas also has specific beliefs on the protection of juveniles aside from the two main parties. The Democratic Party Platform focuses its attention on crime prevention and supports keeping juveniles in school and out of alternative schooling programs. The principals for the Democratic Party Platform states that they believe, “unbiased and fair justice is an inalienable right” (Democratic Party Platform 3). The Republican Party Platform takes a different approach to the issue. The 5th principle in the Texas Republicans Party Platform is personal accountability and responsibility (Preamble Principles 3). This belief goes for the citizens of Texas regardless of age. The Republican Party Platform lists the responsibilities of parents in the state of Texas including custody, the care of the child, as well as proper education (Health and Human Services 19). The care given to a child during their upbringing can correlate to decisions they may make later in life including any crimes or illegal activities. They also believe justice should be sought for all involved and believe, regulations should be created to limit cases for which US Federal Court has jurisdiction (Courts, Prosecutions, Restitution 25). The Libertarian Party Platform opposes most governments’ involvement outside of the protection of individual rights and personal freedoms. They also oppose the death penalty entirely regardless of the age of and the type of crime (Capital Punishment 9). The Libertarian Party Platform does state that consenting adults should not be restricted in taking, purchasing, or marketing drugs. This policy could cause easier drugs to juveniles which could have potentially negative effects putting them at higher risk of commenting crimes and lowering attendance rates for schools. The differing policies put forth by the different party platforms in Texas could lead to policy reform for the juvenile justice system moving forward.

The current discussion on where juvenile courts should head has been brought up by many originations looking to improve the laws to better suffice for convicted minors facing “adult” prison time. Many groups like the Innocence Project have put forth arguments against wrongful convictions as well as Texas Appleseed which seeks justice for juveniles in prisons. The solution put forth by many of these groups consists of treatment centers and educational programs for youth claiming opposition to, “incarcerating youth in prison as counterproductive to rehabilitating lives and promoting public safety” (Texas Appleseed 2017). On the other hand, many feel that juveniles who commit heinous crimes should face full responsibility regardless of their age. The ConnectUsFund put forth many pros to trying children as adults stating that many severe crimes should be held to a higher account despite who commits them. They also see many statistics proving that, “It reduces the chance that a repeat offender will commit multiple severe crimes” (ConnectUsFund 2019). Making reform by providing juveniles with their own facilities and better education against crime would be costly to the state. This change would require building and staffing in the new facilities, and even then may not be accessible to all juveniles depending on location. As of now, it costs the state, “441.92 per youth per day to house juveniles in state lockups operated by the Texas Juvenile Justice Department” (Texas Public Policy Foundation 2020). Both positions on the prosecution of minors show the concern that many Texans have for the future generation and that this issue is serious and should not be overlooked by the state legislatures.

Given the basis of Texas’ laws and policies regarding the prosecution and conviction of minors as adults, many Texans can be directly affected by the current laws and future changes in policies. It can be observed that many juveniles who commit heinous crimes in the state of Texas suffer from mental health disorders and are not given proper education throughout their childhood. Access to drugs and having passed family violence could play a large role in one’s actions from a young age. Accountability for actions should be administered by the courts, but not without first giving a full evaluation of circumstances and reasonings. I believe that the future generation should have faith in the government’s protection of them so that they can move forward as a citizen of the state. I can see the difficulty that the state government faces when considering the youngest members of society, and how policies they create and laws enforced could affect them forever. The government may look into giving juveniles their own facilities gradually. These facilities could focus on better education and awareness of crimes through therapy and a level of punishment depending on the offender.

Throughout the transition of Texas policy affecting the juvenile justice system, the type of crime committed by the offender is considered before the conviction of a juvenile. The states have the ultimate say in laws they create in the prosecution of minors, but many citizens of Texas from various parties have expressed their concern towards the issue. Bills continue to be introduced to satisfy these concerns while also examining the needs and futures of young offenders.

Works Cited

Aron, William. “Can a Juvenile Be Tried in Adult Court in California?” Aron Law Firm, 19 June 2022, https:// www.aronlawfirm.com/when-can-a-juvenile-be-tried-in-adult-court/#:~:text=For%20 over%20a%20decade%2C%2014,to%20overcrowded%20prisons%20and%20developmental.

Chief, Editor in. “22 Should Juveniles Be Tried as Adults Pros and Cons.” ConnectUS, 26 Mar. 2019, https:// connectusfund.org/22-should-juveniles-be-tried-as-adults-pros-and-cons.

Elliott, Dr. Kimberly Kutz. “The Relationship between the States and the Federal Government (Article).” Khan Academy, Khan Academy, https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/us-govern ment-and-civics/us-gov-foundations/us-gov-relationship-between-the-states-and-thefederal-government/a/relationship-between-the-states-and-the-federal-government-article.

Equal Justice Initiative. “Children in Adult Prison.” Equal Justice Initiative, 25 Jan. 2022, https://eji.org /issues/children-in-prison/?utm_source=google_cpc&utm_medium=ad_grant&utm_cam paign=criminal_justice_reform&gclid=CjwKCAiA7IGcBhA8EiwAFfUDsX67z95-__KrJ0f9P peofkwAq5dOWIVvmR_4SWFzXR8fDHBrDhNRaxoC16oQAvD_BwE.

Findlaw. “Texas Penal Code - Penal § 8.07.” Findlaw, 14 Apr. 2021, https://codes.findlaw.com/tx/pe nal-code/penal-sect-8-07.html#:~:text=(c)%20No%20person%20may%2C,than%2010%20 years%20of%20age.

Frey, Martin. “The Evolution of Juvenile Court Jurisdiction and Procedure in Texas.” The Evolution of Juve nile Court Jurisdiction and Procedure in Texas, 1970, https://digitalcommons.law.utulsa.edu/ cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1274&context=fac_pub&httpsredir=1.

Fulgham Law Firm. “Can Juveniles Be Tried as Adults in Texas?” Fulgham Law Firm, 1 Oct. 2021, https:// www.criminalattorneyfortworth.com/can-juveniles-tried-adults-texas/#:~:text=Texas%20 law%20states%20that%20once,be%20tried%20as%20an%20adult.

Initiative, Prison Policy. “Texas Profile.” Texas Profile | Prison Policy Initiative, https://www.prisonpolicy.org/ profiles/TX.html.

Innocence Project. “Donate to the Innocence Project.” Innocence Project, 20 Oct. 2021, https://innoc enceproject.org/donate/?f_src=FY23_pmweb_x_gen_nmat_campgt-eoy-2022_gop_dd_gteoy-2022_all&gclid=Cj0KCQiA1ZGcBhCoARIsAGQ0kkpV3op77nNGf_ifeu3jmcFs0SLeFUQD pdpN_w7jmpa8lkVmfZmbFKEaAnvQEALw_wcB.

Interstate Commission for Juveniles. “Age Matrix.” Interstate Commission for Juveniles, 20 Feb. 2022, https://www.juvenilecompact.org/age-matrix.

“Juvenile Justice.” Texas Public Policy Foundation, 26 Oct. 2022, https://www.texaspolicy.com/legejuve nilejustice/.

Lucio. “87(3) SB 55 - Introduced Version.” 87(3) SB 55 - Introduced Version - Bill Text, 2022, https:// capitol.texas.gov/Search/DocViewer.aspx?ID=873SB000551B&QueryText=%22juve niles%22&DocType=B.“Our Platform.” Texas Democratic Party, https://www.texasdemo crats.org/platform.

“Platform.” Libertarian Party of Texas, 9 June 2022, https://lptexas.org/about/platform/.

“Platform.” Republican Party of Texas, 6 July 2022, https://texasgop.org/platform/.

Steiner, Benjamin, and Emily Wright. “Assessing the Relative Effects of State Direct File Waiver Laws on Violent Juvenile Crime: Deterrence or Irrelevance?” The Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology (1973-), vol. 96, no. 4, 2006, pp. 1451–77. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/40042813. Accessed 29 Nov. 2022.

Texas Appleseed. “Juvenile Justice.” Texas Appleseed, 11 Apr. 2017, https://www.texasappleseed.org /juvenile-justice?gclid=Cj0KCQiAsoycBhC6ARIsAPPbeLsNINr-06wPrxY5_yVDaxF-Uz FYT1QLG6MpOj4afZ7aPqBWf0Tg6uEaAowtEALw_wcB.

Texas Constitution and statutes. “Texas Penal Code.” Texas Constitution and Statutes - Home, https:// statutes.capitol.texas.gov/?link=PE.

Texas Judicial Council. “Texas Judicial Council.” Texas Judicial Branch Seal, 2022, https://www.txcourts. gov/tjc/committees/criminal-justice-committee/.

Texas Legislature Online - Text Search, https://capitol.texas.gov/Search/TextSearchResults.

aspx?CP=1&LegSess=873&House=true&Senate=true&TypeB=true&TypeR=false&Type JR=true&TypeCR=false&VerInt=true&VerHCR=true&VerEng=true&VerSCR=true&VerEn

r=true&DocTypeB=true&DocTypeFN=true&DocTypeBA=true&DocTypeAM=true&Srch=cus tom&Custom=juveniles&All=&Any=&Exact=&Exclude=.

Western Literature: Usage of Symbolism Toward a Common Theme

Rory Dulock

Symbolism prominence throughout literary history has ranged from the works of Homer to Shakespeare’s plays. These legendary authors utilize symbolism in similar ways and over the years historians, students, and scholars have found new and unique interpretations of these elements to illustrate contemporary issues and themes. Analyzing the historical and cultural time periods of various literary pieces in context to the symbols can reveal a wide range of themes. However, by specifically analyzing symbolism in western literature selections (Greek, French, Italian, Spanish, English, American), a reader can clearly see the way patriarchal power expresses how even through history and varied cultures, women continue to be degraded, controlled, and seen as second-class citizens.

Starting off for western literature it is The Odyssey by Homer representing Greek literature. This epic poem is filled with rich Greek culture and historical references. It has many symbols that follow Greek culture, the first one being Athena, the goddess of wisdom. Athena is mentioned frequently throughout the work, usually talking to Odysseus or vice versa. In this case, Athena not only represents wisdom in general, but when she leads Odysseus to the king and queen of Phaeacia she also symbolizes Odysseus’ path of choices he must make yet in his journey to finally reach his wife (Homer 224). Queen Arete symbolizes an important part of Greek culture, to accept all guests in need and to be gracious hosts. The ‘lovely gifts’ represent the wealth, class, and respect of Queen Arete, even among gods including Athena (Homer 226). In Greek culture, a female had to either be a goddess or a queen to be socially equal.

Some symbols mentioned in The Odyssey are obviously connect to historical events. This epic poem uses historical events during the time it was written. The most obvious connection to an historical event is the Trojan War, which is the war that Odysseus has come back from. While there is not a specific account of what Odysseus went through during the war, it is mentioned that he fought in the war. Wars at the time were only fought (for the most part) by men. So, throughout Odysseus’ journey, no mortal woman accompanies him and the story only tells of his poor wife Penelope stuck at home. Another historical reference is to the city of Phaeacia, often referred to among Greek scriptures. This city symbolizes the median between the ‘unreal’ world of The Odyssey and the ‘real world’ (“New Light”). It makes sense why Odysseus would stop there as it serves as a transfer from one world to another. Unfortunately for Odysseus that meant leaving the immortal Calypso to go back to his mortal wife.

There are a few symbols that share what the themes are for this poem. The first one is the character Calypso, who symbolizes manipulativeness. She in fact kept Odysseus on her island for seven years (Homer 229). At the time women were seen as disloyal, so naturally Homer would have manipulative women in his story. However, another theme deals with the role of women. While queens and goddesses were valued, most women were not. As stated in the text, the king and queen had at least fifty servant girls at the service, and notice how it is only females who are the servants (Homer 225). The theme of how women are looked upon in society has already started to appear pessimistic among western literature.

While Greek literature strongly degraded women, a French piece of literature called The Lais, specifically Bisclavret and Laustic by Marie de France symbolically demonstrates the treatment of women from a woman author’s perspective. One of them is the portrayal of the Bisclavret as a beast (de France 919). This symbolizes the wild side of a man when betrayed. For this instance, the Bisclavret was betrayed by his own wife, and it brought out the monster in him because of her disloyalty. The story also accurately presents the culture of how women were treated at the time, mostly seen as disloyal wives. In Brian Sutton’s article, he discusses how the poor treatment of women has been popular among many cultures, and that the modern author Susan Glaspell mimics a similar theme with her own take called Trifles (170).

This literary work lacks any historical or Biblical connections to either real-life or in other literature. While it is set during a time of knights, there is no other context to what historically this relates to or when it takes place in history. Historically, de France wrote in a time when her voice would have been controlled, which is why her works still demoralize a woman. It could be assumed she was forced to portray her women characters this way. So literary speaking, it was rare for someone like de France to even be allowed to write due to their male superiors.

It is obvious that de France’s themes for both sections of her work deal with man versus woman and the power stride that women were taking. In the Bisclavret, she made the man the victim from the woman, by saying that he turned into a beast because of his wife (de France 917). In Laustic,

the woman is the victim to her husband’s cruelty, and this is represented with the nightingale that is mentioned. The nightingale symbolizes purity, and when the husband kills the bird the woman’s purity is taken away (de France 924). Similarly, this is also represented with Bisclavret’s clothes, and when his clothes are taken away from him by his wife his purity is taken away (de France 917). de France carefully symbolizes the unfortunate, cultural behavior of men towards women during her time, even if it was controlled by a male.

Next, is Inferno by Dante Alighieri representing Italian literature. It provides the most symbols for presenting cultural symbols during that time. One example is the journey Dante takes as a whole, which symbolizes what Christians thought that the afterlife looked like at the time. The main character, Dante, slowly progresses through the levels of hell with the help of Beatrice. In an article on Study, it describes Beatice as “his deceased beloved who hears of his suffering and rushes to his aid” (Sonna). In fact, before Dante writes the Inferno, he sees Beatrice and awed by her beauty and virtue, saw it as a sign of renewal of his Christian faith, despite only meeting with her a few times in his lifetime. But when Beatrice says that Dante betrayed her in Inferno, it symbolized his waning faith. From heaven, Beatrice sees that Dante is lost, and sends Virgil to help him during his trip through Hell (Sonna). Beatrice is mostly represented as a savior, but her beauty is heavily focused on which socially degrades the struggles that Dante and herself had actually faced.

Inferno consists of symbols from Biblical events and Roman influencers. Starting off with the Biblical symbol, of Beatrice representing the Virgin Mary. She symbolizes the Virgin Mary because of her divine love. Despite Dante betraying her, she still stands by her friend’s side when he needed help the most (Sonna). With the goodness and truth that she abides by for the Christian faith, she mirrors the matriarchal figure, Mary. The Roman influencer’s example is when Dante describes Brutus and Cassius in Satan’s mouth (Alighieri 1081). They are in Satan’s mouth for the same reason as Judas, for betraying their master, which in this case was Julius Caesar. But Brutus is also indirectly responsible for his wife’s suicide, which could symbolize to Beatrice dying as well (Sonna). Alighieri cleverly combines Christianity and Roman connections to symbolize what his Inferno represents to himself.

The different Circles describe the themes of each level of hell. Circle One is for the virtuous pagans, Circle Two is for the lustful, Circle Three is for gluttons, Circle Four is for prodigal and miserly, Circle Five is for the wrathful, Circle Six is for the arch-heretics, Circle Seven is for violence, Circle Eight is for the fraudulent, and Circle Nine is for the treacherous (Alighieri 928). These Circles are self-explanatory, each one representing the different sins that come with them. For broader symbolism, the She-Wolf represents the incontinent, the Lion represents the violent, while the Leopard represents the fraudulent (Alighieri 928). While each circle is for a classification of a sinner, Dante himself applies to the circles due to his betrayal of Beatrice (Sonna). Inferno connects to Dante specifically due to the sins he had committed against her which is why he needed guidance to go through Hell. However, Beatrice is still a motivation for him in his spiritual journey towards God, only because she is seen as an object of beauty (Sonna). This is another instance where the theme of social degradation of women occurs.

Moving forward, the tale of Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes is representing Spanish literature. Rene Wellek in her article “The Term and Concept of Literary History” notes that symbolism is a vast definition, and could/should include culture (249). The only evidence of referencing a culture is to Spanish knighthood and how women were treated. The way Quixote talks to the lady in the coach, and says he is her ‘liberator’ and sets her free, symbolizes how women were looked upon during that time as weak and needed saving (Cervantes 1570). Quixote acting as a knight and Panza his squire, they both symbolize loyalty not only to each other but also loyal to the values of knighthood including chivalry. Throughout Chapter VII, Cervantes describes the actions that Quixote takes to act like a knight. Whether it was buying a horse or finding a squire, Quixote’s adventure mimics what life would have been like for a knight during that time, which included saving women (Cervantes 1565).

The activities of a knight that Quixote mimics are the most obvious connections to historical events. These are actions that actual knights would have done in this historical time, such as saving a dame or fighting an enemy. The knightly events described are the only historical events that are mentioned throughout. When talking Biblical, the closest match is to when Sancho prays to God for his wife that is of no worth in his eyes (Cervantes 1566). Otherwise, there is not much historically, Biblical allusions, or literary elements that stand out in this story.

As for symbolism that continues to support the theme of the mistreatment of women, there is not a lot of symbolism that applies for this. The closest symbol to this is the windmills that represent Don Quixote’s challenges of becoming a knight- the savior (Cervantes 1567). This highlights the theme that through such heroic actions by men do women even play a role in history: the prize for defeating foes! It also symbolizes that women were thought of as helpless beings and needed to be saved, which was socially degrading to women.

Now, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark by William Shakespeare represents English literature. He

uses a couple of different literary devices to represent cultural issues at the time. One example of this is “Frailty thy name is women!” (1.2.146). This quote demonstrates the misogynistic attitude Hamlet has towards the women in his life, which consists of his mother Gertrude and Ophelia. Later in the play, Hamlet approaches Ophelia and acts strangely around her, “He took me by the wrist and held me hard” (2.1.88). The way Hamlet messes with Ophelia to mess with Polonius, not only makes Ophelia think he is ‘crazy,’ but it shows the carelessness with women during that time (1.3.100). This demonstrates that anyone who was ‘crazy’ during this era got away with acting inappropriate towards women.

However, what this Shakespeare play excels in is all the historical connections that it makes. It prominently uses references to the Trojan War and people from the ancient Roman Empire. A fine example of relating to a historical event is when Hamlet says he does not want to be like the Roman emperor Nero (3.2.356). Not only is it a historical reference, but it also relates Hamlet and Nero, and the choice they were given whether to kill their mother (which of course Nero chose to kill his mother). Keep in mind that the reason Hamlet wanted to kill his mother is because he thinks she betrayed his father, so in his eyes she was an unloyal wife. The fact that Shakespeare decided to include Hamlet thinking that his mother deserved to be murdered like Nero’s mother, proves how women were thought of as disloyal.

Like the other literary works mentioned before this play, one of the themes deals with the mistreatment of women. The short and few lines that Ophelia and Gertrude both have symbolize the small role that women played in a man’s eyes during the Elizabethan era. Ophelia is reliant on the men in her life, which by the end of the play all her loved ones are gone so she commits suicide because of it (5.1.197). Gertrude is portrayed as an unloyal woman, like in The Lais, who betrays her husband. Another theme in Shakespeare’s play is revenge/violence. Symbolism of this is shown throughout the play by poison which is associated with physical harm, which ended up killing Hamlet’s mother, the woman who was accused of being unfaithful to her husband.

Finally, representing American literature, “The Devil and Tom Walker” by Washington Irving utilizes more cultural symbolism than Don Quixote. One is the symbolization of the ‘forlorn-looking house’ (Irving 43). It symbolizes Tom Walker’s weary marriage, and their miserable lives together. At the time it was frowned upon to get a divorce, so bad marriages usually stayed together, which is exactly what happened to Tom Walker and his wife. Except in this short story, the author puts the blame mostly on the wife for why their marriage was so terrible.

Another symbol is the ‘devil’ which is a Biblical reference. It is frequently mentioned throughout the text, and it symbolizes greed and sin in Tom Walker. Allegorical speaking, this is like the serpent from the Christian Bible, where it convinces Adam and Eve to eat the forbidden apple of God. In the Bible, it specifically states that Eve caused their banishment from the garden. This is another usage of symbolism that blames the woman for their actions. A historical reference is to the Salem witches who known for their wickedness, much like Tom Walker’s wife is seen as a wicked woman (Irving 45). This historical event happened just over twenty years before the story’s setting, and wants readers to believe that Tom Walker’s wife could be a leader of the Salem witches based off how she acts.

For symbolism that continues to build upon the theme of the mistreatment of women, this work provides descriptions of what the wife of Tom Walker was like, and characterized the woman much like the ‘devil’ for having these qualities: “tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm” (Irving 43). This is another literary work that demoralizes the woman in the story. While Don Quixote focuses on a woman who needs to be saved, “The Devil and Tom Walker” focuses on the qualities a woman should not have even though society praises these traits in men. Furthermore, even if not seen as “devilish,” society will then give women the attributes of witches involved in evil.

After analyzing each piece of literatures’ symbolism from around the western world, a common theme emerged. Western authors have enforced patriarchal control and oppression of women throughout the centuries and across a variety of cultures. This theme demonstrated how women were treated and regarded in society, ranging from seeing women as disloyal to being helpless. Although authors have continued to portray women negatively with symbolism, it is up to modern authors to break this literary cycle as cultures around the world are starting to be optimistic of women in literature.

Works Cited

Alighieri, Dante. “Canto I, II, III, XXXIV.” Inferno. Puchner, pp. 929-1084.

Homer. “Book 7 [A Magical Kingdom].” The Odyssey. Puchner, pp. 223-231.

Irving, Washington. “The Devil and Tom Walker.” Literature Anthology Supplement for Students, compiled by Gabrielle Fletcher, NCTC (North Central Texas College) Canvas Modules World Literature

ENGL 2332 0815, 2022, pp. 43-51.

Marie de France. The Lais. Puchner, pp. 914-924.

Miguel de Cervantes. “Chapter VII, VIII [Fighting the Windmills and a Choleric Biscayan].” Don Quixote Puchner, pp. 1565-1572.

“New Light on the Homeric Question: The Phaeacians Unmasked.” The Center for Hellenic Studies, Harvard University, 2 Nov. 2020. chs.harvard.edu/douglas-frame-new-light-on-the-homericquestion-the-phaeacians-unmasked/.

Puchner, Martin, et al. The Norton Anthology of World Literature (Shorter 4th Ed.). W. W. Norton & Company, 2019.

Shakespeare, William. The Prince of Denmark, Hamlet. Puchner, pp. 1712-1808.

Sonna, Ngainunmawi. “Dante and Beatrice in Dante’s Inferno.” Study, 28 March, 2022, study.com/learn/ lesson/dante-beatrice-dantes-inferno-story-characterization-quotes.html

Sutton, Brian. “‘A Different Kind of the Same Thing’: Marie de France’s Laüstic and Glaspell’s Trifles.” Explicator, vol. 66, no. 3, Spring 2008, pp. 170–74. Academic Search Complete, doi-org.north centtexascollegelibrary.idm.oclc.org/10.3200/EXPL.66.3.170-174.

Wellek, René. “The Term and Concept of Symbolism in Literary History.” New Literary History, vol. 1, no. 2, 1970, pp. 249–70. JSTOR, doi.org/10.2307/468631.

POETRY

ADULT • NCTC • HIGH SCHOOL • MIDDLE SCHOOL

A Day at the Rhine

Melissa Laussman

Carving out a little corner of this world for dreams This space where the Rhine sparkles and waves just like the little boats filled with tourists passing by with plastic bags of souvenirs.

The breeze feels so good wrapped around my shoulders A caress from an old friend whispering secrets once more City sounds and river sounds in harmony, intertwine, humming songs still unwritten Sky twirling ribbons of scarlet into summer dusk.

What is a sense of place? Here and now I am a piece of the almighty puzzle

A train rolls in saying it’s time to depart this twilight dream sky I look back at the sparrow at my spot and whistle while I walk.

Morning in Whidbey Molly

Jessup

Crows flock in the morning to your deck–they have come to eat the egg yolk you cooked and scattered across the sand-colored railing.

They jostle and chitter, black heads bobbing against dawning blue, beaks shining like gun metal, a flash to strike at soft yellow that hangs and swings before a sharp swallow–

then wings flap wide, and one by one they soar away low to green summer branches or the marsh below your house where harder-won victories will scrap and elude, until the crows return to your railing for tomorrow’s miracle kindness.

You Haven’t Lived Until...

Kristopher Cisneros

a gang of boys has beaten you up in an alley only a block or two from your house just for wearing cheap clothes.

You haven’t lived until...

You’ve seen the body of a neighborhood boy lying in a casket at the funeral parlor after he has shot himself due to unspecified family secrets.

You haven’t lived until...

Your girlfriend steps out on you with your best friend, whom she didn’t even know until you introduced them.

You haven’t lived until...

You’ve walked several miles on a cold and wet morning to a job that’s slowly draining your will to live because your junk car won’t start and you’ve no money.

You haven’t lived until...

You’ve had a gun pointed at you, and your life flashes before your eyes, and death stands beside you.

You haven’t lived until...

You’ve seen a pretty red bird perched outside the window of your ghetto apartment of which you are behind on the rent.

You haven’t lived until...

You’ve walked the streets at night conversing with the homeless, the forgotten, the ant-artists, the needlemen, and the other creatures of the night.

You haven’t lived until...

You have had a dinner of saltine crackers and ketchup for the third straight night, and just found out that the milk is spoiled.

You haven’t lived until...

You’ve been alone in a hospital room waiting on the doctor to walk in and let you if you are gonna live or die.

You haven’t lived until...

You’ve walked out of the hospital knowing that as far as that goes, you’ll be alright.

The car still won’t start, the job is still horrible, the saltine crackers plentiful, and the homeless still wandering, but the pretty red bird is back.

Healing

Danielle Clark

It’s strange, you know nerves repairing themselves

Numb on the surface while little connectors spark like lightning bolts jolting the body out of a daze and into repair mode

reminding it of how deeply they were wounded.

Each time moving forward in progress until the jolts stop and the nerves are healed.

I wonder, though does the soul heal just the same?

It’s liberation collapsing as the heart and the brain bolts abruptly ignite memories jolting the conscious into repair mode

reminding the soul of how deeply it was wounded.

Each time moving forward in progress until the memories fade and the soul is healed.

But that’s just it, you see so often the brain and the heart don’t agree and as the bolts dissipate, the soul forgets.

Until it’s reminded again.

And it’s strange, I wonder But that’s just it

The soul forgets. Until it’s reminded.

Until it’sUntilWhere were we?

Gone Jessie

Brauer

There is no moving forward. Only this lonely plateau. Silent moments of watching as the world around me moves on. But there is no moving forward for me. I pack our memories in my hard drive. I shove our music into playlists. I file our texts and our emails, so there is record of your thoughts. I tattoo my body with memories and tributes to your existence. Still, disarming silence. The silence that tells me that I am truly alone. The silence that speaks only to me. Tired and searching. Grasping at any small sign, any consolation to your sudden departure. But every sign can be unraveled, and every memory can be transformed. Photographs may hold you, yet what are these but useless replications of the body you once held. They are not you. They are not a substitution for your soul. For, you are that person no more. And so, in retiring my thoughts and my dignity, I relinquish myself from you. Far from night’s first star and further from the morn, I give rise to the world that took you from me. You drift slowly from my fingertips and fade into the discourse. Into the pockets of time. No more. You are no more. And my heart is quietly dormant, yearning for you to ignite once again.

Nothing But Yours

Ashleigh Tripp

if you are going to kill me shoot me in the heart and not the head drown me in your affections poison me with your lips and your beautiful words incinerate me with the flames of your passion tear me limb from limb until i am nothing but yours

if you are going to kill me start with my heart and not my head drown me in your eyes poison me with your touch and your careless whispers incinerate me with the heat of your body on mine tear me limb from limb until i am nothing but yours

I’m the cash cow for your peace of mind Get it done, get it right

And write me everything you feel inside Make me think, make think I’m

a savior with a pyrite heart, just looking to pass the time

Impulsive complexes making me senseless, someday I’ll regret these nights

A sadist with a caring part, or is it just man’s base mind?

Blade of comfort, contact calms my flesh

Would you just pull the knife?

The titanium trust you embedded when I forgot to dodge

But it’s so sickly sweet

Words are venomous to me

Perhaps necessity

Just gotta keep, keep, keep Every thought on a leash

It’s gotten me this far, why would I ever stop?

It’s only brought me this far, why wouldn’t I Hit the wall?

Make a turn?

Pull the knife?

Let it burn?

(I think I should stop talking)

Privilege oozes from my guts Put in yours and shut me up

“The complete lack of consistency in cadence and meter is actually a complex metaphor for how I have no idea what I’m doing” -Emily Dickinson, probably Loel Izzard

Girl & Boy

Ensley Carey

how can I comprehend this girl & boy on either side of me on cracked concrete?

the girl who loves dark eyes & deep voices & wants to play connect the dots on a freckled boy’s face. & the awestruck boy, too timid to speak to the girls who radiate like the sun, with bangs over lashed eyes. a silly game of monkey

in the middle, leaping to grab ahold of something solid but my boy & girl toss too high. I can’t reach it & I’m starting to hope we’ll quit the game so girl & I can

go to the swings & leave boy behind. but they stay & they won’t stop throwing

& won’t stop their chant, “boys & girls & girls & boys”. but they are no longer standing beside me, both girl & boy are inside, no longer casting reassuring solidity over my head, rather they hold still within me. we chant to a beat. the rhythm of my heart & who we are rings

louder & louder & louder until I finally know our hearts know no such boundaries.

Combat Sophia

Ramsey

Forgiveness is a tricky thing, I forgive you constantly. Your hurtful words always sting, You always apologize instantly.

And I forgive you, I will always forgive you. No matter what I go through, No matter what you do.

Sometimes you buy me things, When you feel bad. I like when you bring me rings, Whenever I get sad.

How do I always end up here? A routine I can’t escape. I wish I could disappear, Maybe take a different shape.

But at least you apologize, Not everyone does that.

You can see it in my solemn eyes, That I’m deeply tired of combat.

Guilt

Belicia Martinez

Guilty or not, everyone is a victim of it

It’s something even the most emotionless experience

Sometimes we feel guilty for no reason, Other times we will have done something outside of our own morals, Guilt will haunt you until your dying days if it’d like Guilt torments everyone until they break

No matter how much you plea, it stays

It laughs at your suffering, telling you that you’re more pathetic compared to any begging stray

Doesn’t matter if your a child or a full grown adult

Everybody will become captive by guilt

We cannot escape guilt, nobody can escape guilt

You can block out any emotion, happiness, sadness, anger, But not guilt

It comes in the form of bittersweet memories, Just ask any dying man

Most of their wishes are filled with regret and guilt of what they’ve done

Their lives were stolen by guilt without them ever realizing

It eats you alive like some blood sucking leeches, Or perhaps maggots preying at your decomposing body

It devours you until there’s nothing left

The only remains are an itchy horrible sensation

You can scratch at it all you want

But all you will be left with is your own blood under your fingertips, And the shell of the person you used to be

Surprised by Time Raleigh Rhodes

If eternity is a passing thing that topples endlessly through time then sweetly calling death would sing like sleep to the freezing or life to those who commit a crime. If eternity is a passing thing

And if a beggar could be king or life disguised as a faceless mime then sweetly calling death would sing

If life was wasted it would bring questions of management of time If eternity is a passing thing

Then why are we left dangling

Over the precipice of time

If eternity is a passing thing Then sweetly calling death would sing

What Lies Ahead

Tianna Galindo

What lies ahead? I really don’t know. Farther and farther, he pushes me away. Right out of his life like I’m some type of game. Nothing can be clear enough in his sight. Most of the time I am never right. I try day by day to please him I do. When do I ever get to fully be true? I’m hurting inside my heart’s even crying. Sometimes I feel like my insides are dying. I don’t want to be home; I don’t want to be here. I want to be in a place where people want me near.

I’m ghost like figure lurking in the shadows. I don’t know what I am not even my mom knows. Years pass by and I’m the same old me. Locked away in the darkness just waiting to be freed. I have nobody here, nobody at all. Someone please tell me why do I feel so small. Its like I’m not there I don’t exist in his mind. I continue to say sorry so it makes me feel blind. I know I do wrong, but not every day So I don’t understand why he pushes me away, but he does. The look in his eyes is never the same. So why should I be the one to blame? I am just a kid and I should not feel this way. I wonder if tomorrow will be like today.

HONORABLE MENTION

The Accidental Blind Date

Stephanie Pass

She scanned the coffee house looking for a red shirt. It was mostly empty, so there was only one person who seemed to fit the description Rebecca gave her. She spotted him easily. He was the cute blond guy wearing a red Henley in a booth towards the back. He was reading the menu. She took a deep breath and put on a big smile. She quickly walked over and said, “Hi! I’m so sorry!”

Without waiting for him to reply, she slid into the opposite side of the booth with a bashful smile. Her hair looked a little crazy and windswept after practically run walking from the university down the street. She pulled off her blue headband and gave her red curls a fluff in the back before sliding it back on. She could feel a blush spreading across her cheeks and looked away before glancing up at him again. “Sorry, I’m late. My car was seriously low on gas, so I decided to walk. I am so glad you’re still here.”

He was a little confused. He was just about to order when this curvy redhead sat down and started talking to him like she knew him. He certainly didn’t know her, and he was positive he would remember a girl like the one currently sitting in front of him right now. With those intense blue eyes and the way she smiled, she seemed like someone you would not forget.

He raised his eyebrows and gave a tiny head shake. “No worries,” not sure what else to say. Then, with a friendly smile and a quick glance at the menu he added, “I was just about to order.” Did she realize she had the wrong person? She was looking right at him, but maybe she was face blind and didn’t see that he wasn’t who she thought he was.

“Perfect! I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said with a nod of her head and shrug of her shoulders making her curls bounce like springs. He couldn’t help but be charmed by her. The waitress came over, and while ordering he kept glancing over the menu at the mystery girl. Her curls seemed to have a mind of their own, and her freckled cheeks were flushed. She had a little wrinkle between her eyebrows as she was searching her bag for something.

He took a chance and asked, “Everything okay?”

She looked up and smiled at him in a way he had never seen a woman smile before. She had this brightness about her. Her eyes sparkled, and she looked so hopeful and appreciative. She gave a little sigh and nodded “Just a little discombobulated. I forgot all about our date. I was studying for my finals, and then I got a text from Rebecca asking how our date was going. I felt so bad for missing it, so I literally ran out of my room as quickly as I could to get here.” She held her hand next to her mouth and whispered, “Truth be told, it was probably more of a fast walk. I think only zombies could force me to run.” Then, she chuckled and smiled at him. “Thank god I live just down the street. I hope you’re not mad at me. I feel terrible.”

“It’s really okay. Why would I be mad at you?” he asked. Even if he didn’t know who she was, or what she was talking about, their conversation was a breath of fresh air. She seemed so sincere and honest, not like any of the women he met on those ridiculous dating apps. He had nothing better to do this afternoon, so he might as well play along and enjoy whatever was happening.

“I don’t know many people that would wait around more than an hour for their blind date to show up! I don’t think I would have.” she said with a sheepish smile and emphasized it by shaking her head, widening her eyes, and lifting her eyebrows. She looked him over, and then she wrinkled her brow and narrowed her eyes, “Though, Rebecca did say you had a beard. She said you never shave it off?”

He gave a little chuckle and watched her while taking a drink of his coffee. He debated on telling her the truth, that he wasn’t really her blind date, and she had the wrong guy. But she was so captivating, and he could really enjoy this ‘accidental’ date. Somehow his mind went right to imagining spending the rest of his life with someone like her and how they would have an amazing story to tell their children one day.

He decided to keep playing along. He shrugged and put on a flirty smile, revealing his dimples. “Well, you know Rebecca. She told me that thing had to come off, or you would never date me.” He hoped that little bluff would go unnoticed.

She cocked one eyebrow and stared at him for a moment before bursting into a fit of contagious laughter. She tried and failed to stifle it with a hand over her mouth. Then, he started laughing with her. Through her laughs, she nodded and said, “Yep, that sounds exactly like Rebecca!”

After she got hold of herself, she held her hand across the table and said, “I’m Claire with an I. Your blind date for this afternoon.”

He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then, he gently rubbed his thumb against the top of her hand. It was a sweet and yet intimate gesture. “Hello, ‘Claire with an I.’ My name is Sonny, and I have a feeling I need to thank Rebecca for setting me up with you.” She blushed and her eyes widened.

He let go of her, and she slowly set her hand in her lap, still feeling his warmth. She couldn’t help but smile back at him. Then, she gave a little nod as she picked up her coffee to take another drink. She didn’t know it yet, but she was going to thoroughly enjoy her very first blind date. This charming man with the hazel eyes just had something about him, and she could not wait to get to know him better.

Bones

Casey Cloud

Trapped by the cages inside of my mind.

I start whole; in a world that does not seem so dark.

As I move through life on land, my clothes become torn, my body becomes skinner, slowly starting to feel as if I am disappearing. The sounds in my mind become deafening, controlling. I do not think that I can survive and am told that it will get better. That time can heal, and that I will feel complete again. Mental pain eats away at the creases of my brain.

What if I could breathe easier below the shadows of the sea?

What if the deep blue could clothe me in a protective hug?

What if I could float for a while, and turn my back on a life that is too much to bear?

To feel as though my body is as light as flakes of snow drifting through air without a planned destination. I dip my toes into a place that takes the chaos of the world away; it is cold, different. I comb through the water with curious hands, walking deeper within; neck just kissing the surface. Slowly, I am surrounded by the colossal blanket of the ocean. I move one arm, then another, move one leg, then another, moving; moving into a new place unknown. I am now floating. Floating through blue waves of silence. No more noise, no more pain. no more suffering.

That was many years ago when a decision was made to exist instead of live. I have not touched dry surfaces since.

I have heard the tales of those who have tried to stand up on land again. That some become whole, and others fall apart.

The what if saga is one, I know well.

What if I could rebuild myself?

What if there was more to see than just this?

What if I were no longer afraid to feel?

What if feelings could be felt, without the pain attached to the depths of what some claim is a heart?

I have withered away; my heart beat is faint.

I feel as though I am on the edge of despair, but a glimmer of hope pings within the confines of my soul. I should try to turn the glimmer into a flame. Try to hold onto hope that there are happier places beyond this cold blue sea.

For if I shall die, I die trying, if I am not already dead.

Drops of water start to rain onto my porcelain head. It comes every day, and is now leaking down my chiseled face.

If drops of water had a color, my face would be permanently stained. I look up and see the crying sky melting away.

Strikes of lightning are all around. Soft gray cotton-clouds swallow the light as it is replaced by dark. Thunder crashes through the atmosphere, rattling my body. I looked beyond the surface of the sea and

noticed…land.

For years it has been untouched by the bones of my feet. I decided to swim towards it, with as much courage and strength I could muster.

I reach the shore.

I look back with shock.

I am without the haven of water that became a constant cold companion. I move one foot in front of the other. Looking around at the environment around me, I decide to stand up. I feel the weight of my bones, of the weight of my past. I am suddenly aware that I am feeling.

Panic.

The sounds are too piercing, although they should sound beautiful. The smells are too fragrant, although they should be welcoming. Colors look too bright, although they should be inviting.

The dark passengers that once existed in the pockets of my mind awaken. They whisper that I should go back. They scream that I do not belong here. They have misguided me for so long, that I had forgotten how to silence them.

I look down at my fragile hands, and through my hands I see the sand. It is painfully fitting.

I am physically as hollow as the soul I possess. The weight of my body is too heavy without the water that once surrounded me.

I am falling.

Falling slowly.

Slowly becoming smaller.

Falling into a pile.

Into a pile of bones.

A Moment, Noticed Cole

Conley

Lloyd steps off the back porch, an unlit cigarette hangs limp between his lips. The overfull Hefty bag he holds at his side is leaking chicken fat onto his slippers. He fails to notice because it is Christmas Eve and he is pleasantly drunk as he takes the trash to the garbage can at the end of his driveway. Inside, Lloyd’s children have fallen asleep in front of the fireplace after unwrapping one gift each in anticipation of Christmas morning. His wife puts the last of the leftovers in the fridge before scraping the uneaten chicken from her son’s plate into the dog’s bowl. The dog wags his tail in a sign of gratitude and makes quick work of the dinner he inherited from a picky eater. Two empty bottles of merlot stand on the kitchen counter, gifts from the in-laws as a thanks for hosting them on Christmas Eve. Lloyd’s wife looks over the dining room and decides that the stacks of serving trays, dirty utensils, and the stained tablecloth can all wait for her attention until the morning. With a soft shake of their shoulders she stirs both of her children from their sleep and sends them to their beds. She turns off the lights in the kitchen and the living room, leaving the first floor of the house lit only by the green and red hues of the lights decorating the Christmas tree and the warm-glowing ashes smoldering in the fireplace. From the bedroom window upstairs, she watches her husband walk to the end of the driveway as a gentle snowfall descends on the neighborhood.

All down Julia Street twinkling lights wrap around the trunks and branches of trees, wireframe reindeers graze in manicured lawns, inflatable likenesses of Frosty the Snowman and Santa Claus stare blankly with wide smiles, LED displays of snowflakes and season’s greetings decorate the garages and broadsides of cookie-cutter homes. Flurries of snow are caught in the luminescence of streetlights and tumble through the air in enrapturing whorls of random grace that appear to Lloyd to be so beautiful that their ambling fates toward the asphalt must be divinely directed.

Lloyd waves to a neighbor across the street whose trash bag is filled with the same contents as his own. The neighbor waves back and wishes Lloyd a Merry Christmas before disappearing into the warm, dim glow of his home’s interior. A crisp gust of chilled wind brushes past Lloyd’s cheek. He wraps his robe around himself and walks into the alley between his house and the house next door. This is Lloyd’s most sacred space. The alley is a no-man’s-land mutually-agreed upon between Lloyd and his wife. It is the only place where Lloyd is permitted to smoke a cigarette, once a day, only after dinner, and only if he brushes his teeth and rinses with Listerine before he kisses his wife. These terms were purposely weighted against Lloyd and his vice, but maintained diligently by Lloyd out of love for his wife and out of his belief that some mild arguments must exist between a married couple if they hope for any sort of longevity.

Lloyd savors the quiet crackling of his first drag and grins to himself as he runs his thumb along the velvet surface of the small, black case hidden in the pocket of his robe. This case contains a belated engagement ring he plans to give to his wife once he gets back inside. Lloyd had proposed to his wife with an empty hand when they were too young and too poor to consider luxuries like wedding rings or ceremonies and never once in fifteen years of marriage had Lloyd’s wife even mentioned wanting a proper wedding ring, but Lloyd could not stand to see his wife’s ring finger unadorned for another year. It had cost him a summer’s worth of weekends spent in the office, but through his sacrifice, he was able to afford a delicate silver band which clasps a healthy, not-ostentatious, but not-unimpressive diamond. Lloyd takes the ring out of its red velvet bedding and pinches the ring between his thumb and forefinger, examining it in the unadulterated light of the full moon. Moonlight bends through every facet of the diamond, it is a magnificent display of shimmering prisms, each one as brilliant and unique as the snowflakes that fall past Lloyd’s face. It is the most beautiful thing Lloyd has seen since the first time he was shown the faces of his newborn children. The temperature of the world changes and Lloyd finds it impossible to move or breathe. Heart attack, Lloyd thinks. This must be a heart attack. Thirty-six is perhaps a little too young, but his father died at around the same age and in a similarly sudden fashion so Lloyd finds it only probable that his bad dietary choices, sedentary lifestyle, and poor genetics have all culminated in this unfair, premature departure. More shocking to Lloyd than the realization that he is moments away from his death is his resignation to his untimely end. He holds no hatred for any unseen, unjust creator, nor does he fear the prospect of shifting into an afterlife or lack thereof. Instead, he thinks only of his children and how their future Christmases will be tainted by their shared remembrance of finding their father clutching his chest in the frost-coated grass on Christmas Morning. He thinks of his wife and how she will find the ring in Lloyd’s clenched fist, a parting gift held close to the heart which loved her so. Lloyd anticipates the pain of cardiac arrest, the ultimate betrayal of the most trusted organ. He hopes that the worst of the pain will be short-lived, and that the release from consciousness will be filled with his most treasured memories.

Lloyd looks across the fractalized surface of the diamond, still held out in front of him, pinched

between his fingers. Lloyd wants to cry, but he is unable.

Lloyd is also unable to blink, or move his limbs, or speak, or avert his gaze from its current view. He cannot take a breath, but he doesn’t feel the need to. Behind the ring and in his periphery, he discovers something more alarming than his own paralysis--the trees have petrified mid-sway. The baroque swirls of smoke rising from the end of his cigarette have also frozen in their ascent. Lloyd realizes that it’s not only him, but the entire world has stopped as well.

Confusion gives way to panic then anger and sadness as the inescapable moment holds him captive. It doesn’t take long until he feels his definitions of time slipping through the small circle between his fingers. He strains all of his senses to detect anything--a heartbeat, the expanding of lungs, the flow of blood, the shrill crackling of synapses communicating, the slightest breeze weaving through grass, but there is nothing besides an exhaustive Limbo without end. He prays that his wife and children have somehow been spared from this inanimate suspension.

He imagines years which do not pass in any real sense. Recollections, examinations, interpretations of every life event Lloyd can remember start to muddle or twist into some facsimile of his personal history as he revisits them over and over and over again. Relatively soon, Lloyd’s own past becomes a strange amalgamation of memories that are as false as they are true. He meets his wife after accidently bumping his shoulder into hers in the hallways of their alma mater. He meets his wife when she punches him in the shoulder, mistaking him for someone else. He meets his wife after he punches one of her friends at a bar, mistaking him for someone else. He meets his wife after his front bumper pushes her sedan into the shoulder of a highway. He meets his wife when he taps her on her bare shoulder on a rooftop overlooking Paris as Allied tanks liberate the city below them. In so much time, Lloyd has been countless people and has experienced countless lives, all of them played out two feet in front of him within the silver perimeter of the engagement ring that has lost all of its sentiment and weight. The still swirls of cigarette smoke, the tree limbs frozen in their bends, the waning crescent moon shining in the northernmost regions of his sight, all of these things become a blank screen upon which Lloyd can project an endless stream of imagined histories. But in so much time, even imagination struggles to maintain its inertia. The conjured lifetimes become longer, more convoluted, other plot lines from other pasts begin to trickle in and overlap with the current. Settings become obscure dreamscapes of wreckage, ruins of monuments which never had foundations. It takes an eternity, but even words, images, and ideas begin to fall into the same all-devouring maelstrom of meaninglessness that has consumed the rest of Lloyd’s perception.

There is a darkness here. A darkness which envelops a being entirely. An absence of existence in its loosest definition. A waveless ocean of oil without an island. It is an abyss with no bottom. A lonely, desolate nowhere at the end.

Until something inexplicably shivers through the cold air and the non-entity whose field of view and sense of self had devolved into an expansive void is suddenly dropped back into the life of Lloyd-- its most distant, benign, and buried identity.

The senses come back slowly. The nervous system sends an impulse to the brain which jolts the body back to life and causes it to drop the small circle it was grasping for some unexplainable reason. The brain takes in its surroundings. It understands that it has been here before, but that it was a very long time ago. The limbs struggle to propel themselves forward. The body falls into the grass a few times before it is able to struggle and stagger on stunted legs like a newborn deer taking its first furtive steps into an unknown wilderness. The enigma known in this life as “Lloyd” hobbles his way through the backdoor of what he can only guess is a dwelling which belongs to him.

Time has become a much more meaningful force to Lloyd. The herculean task of ascending a staircase chisels half-an-hour off of Lloyd’s remaining lifetime. Once he reaches the second story of the home he follows the faint, guiding light pouring from beneath the frame of the door at the end of the hallway to a large room whose centerpiece is a bed. An unfamiliar woman greets her husband with a wide smile as she combs out her hair. Lloyd does not recognize this gesture of teeth-baring, nor does he recollect what it means to have another entity press its lips against your own. She rubs her tongue with her thumb after she pulls away.

“You’ve been smoking, haven’t you?” She asks, “You taste like cigarettes, hon.”

Unable to process which muscles are necessary to respond to this foreign noise, Lloyd continues to stare at the woman in the bed, soundlessly and wide-eyed.

“You look beat, why don’t you come to bed?” The strange woman pulls on Lloyd’s wrist which causes him to fall heavily into the bed.

She laughs, “God, you really did have a lot to drink. You better not be too hungover for presents in the morning. You know those kids will be in here the moment it’s light outside.”

Some instinctual knowledge, maybe a drive towards comfort or consolation, forces Lloyd to grip the pillow as the woman turns out the sole light source in the room, a blue lamp on the nightstand. She coos in his ear as she presses her lips to his cheek, “Goodnight, Santa.”

Scared, silent, and awake, Lloyd stares at the window on the other side of the room until white light begins to drip through the blinds. From down the hallway an alarming patter of feet storm towards Lloyd’s door, belonging to what, Lloyd can only dread to imagine.

As the sun rises, a crow adds a diamond ring to its nest within the hollow ribcage of a wireframe reindeer.

Biblical: A Dramatized Retelling of the Origin of Jesus Christ Superstar

James A. Hunter

On the 12th of October 1971, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar became the first stage production of its kind. It took the story of Jesus’s rise to fame in first century Judea and secularized it. Although met with controversy from many groups, the impact of the show on the theatre world and its monumental legacy are undeniable. The following is a dramatized take on the story of the conception of Jesus Christ Superstar featuring Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice as the central characters.

Biblical

It had been done. Joseph was officially released, and our first collaboration was finished. Tim had put his all into making the lyrics as exceptionally appropriate as he could, and the early performances were lauded by groups all the way over in The States. We had yet to go international with the piece, but this was far from discouraging. I had taken quite a shining to the album that had been released. What started as only twenty minutes of music had almost doubled in size. Productions were staging in some of London’s cathedrals.

If I am to be honest, I had not expected Joseph to get the attention it has. Tim and I had finished The Likes Of Us a few years ago and failed to garner anything from it. To put it shortly, it was a waste of time as of yet. We had not intended to give up on the path of music, and perhaps of theatre, but it was almost a more difficult task conceiving an idea for a story than to actually write the music and lyrics to go with it. Thankfully, for Joseph at least, the idea was handed to us. My friend, Alan Doggett, needed a new piece for his school choir to do. His ideal project was a Bible-based pop cantata.

Tim was happy to take up the mantle with me and Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat took off the following year. The fame of it grew and soon we were known throughout London. That was certainly a great start. Much greater than I fear I could have asked for alone.

However, work on Joseph would have to reach its peak eventually. London was a start, but it was not a career. Perhaps I sound greedy, but I very much doubted we would make it big enough to have a reliable standard based off this one album, which as I thought more and more, was not the groundbreaking singles that were globally renowned. Presently, I found myself depressed and staring at my piano playing senseless combinations of keys and hoping for some magic to take hold and pull a usable melody out. This was not my style, not my way.

The door to my small studio opened swiftly and in came Tim with a great look of hope in his eyes. “Andrew,” he said happily, “I have our next one.”

Andrew always loved the sound of music, from what I could tell. It was a passion of both of ours. However, and he would never admit this to anyone, he felt he had reached a dead end when St. Paul’s announced its final performance of Joseph. He avoided listening to music after that announcement, especially his own. He hoped the ability would come to him to create a new sheet of music in the pristine silence. He looked to different subjects ranging from the bustling streets of London to the open plains of Scotland but could not seem to find what he was looking for.

I know we each have our own strategies, but I never perceived avoiding the very thing you are working towards creating as a viable idea. Far be it from me to question the maestro. Personally, I enjoyed listening to other music. I hoped the diversity would inspire something.

For a good while, neither of us seemed to get anywhere. It was not until I was in my flat one day and listening to a Bob Dylan album that I was suddenly revisited by some thoughts I had not remembered having for quite some time. “Whether Judas Iscariot had God on his side,” quoth the song in question.

What an idea. Judas Iscariot, easily the world’s most famous traitor. I had always found a strange curiosity towards what his thoughts must have been. After all, there must not have been any true way for him to realize what the story of Jesus would become. He had only twelve close followers and a large score of buzzing admirers. For all Judas knew, Jesus would have been a flash in the proverbial pan and only been remembered, if he was at all, for being a rabble rouser and inciting controversial beliefs among the Jews.

Judas Iscariot would come to be remembered as the greatest traitor of all time, but what of Pilate? Pontius Pilate, The Christ Killer. Surely not a mantle any sensible soul would wish to wear in the twentieth century. But nearly two thousand years ago, what would it have meant? Especially if what was said in The Bible is true. Really, nothing was out of place for Pilate. Perhaps it was strange that the people he governed wanted to crucify a man that had not proven himself to be any true danger, but it really meant nothing to Pilate. He was Roman. Even if the Jews believed Christ was the second coming and wanted him alive, he would not have cared. To him, Jesus would just have been an innocent man with no real importance either way.

It was no secret that we never got a glimpse into the whole story from the point of view of either of these men. None of their thoughts had ever been expanded upon. There was no stone-cast truth, so there were all kinds of possibilities open to interpretation. I set to writing things down. Small bits of lyrics. Things I could imagine Judas saying to Jesus. “My admiration for you hasn’t died.” “You can’t control it like you did before.” “I only did what you wanted me to do!”

About a whole page of notes, not at all sensibly arranged, I took with me and left my flat along with my keys and a few other pieces of paper. I rushed through the streets and was nearly hit by a bus or two while making my way around. Eventually, I arrived at Andrew’s residence. When I told him I had a new idea, he seemed incredibly relieved. We agreed to talk over lunch.

At the restaurant, Tim was abuzz with thoughts and at times I found it hard to pin down exactly what our subject matter was. He presented to me a piece of paper with hastily written words on it. Some of them I could read clearly, others I could barely tell were written in English. He clarified, several times if I may add, that they were all based on thoughts he imagined Judas Iscariot would have had. Through that much I determined the subject was the story of Jesus Christ, to some degree. “Tim. Tim, hold on!” I finally managed to interrupt him. “What exactly are you implying we make?”

“A musical. Andrew, I think this is the idea we needed. It’s easily the most widely known story of all time with a new twist on it,” Tim said excitedly.

“What twist?”

“A doubter’s twist. Set anachronistically through the lens of someone we’ve never heard from.” I looked back at the notes he had scrawled and gave a pensive expression. “I don’t know how well it would go over. I can’t imagine it would be easy to dramatize it.”

Shaking his head, Tim pulled me back in. “How could it not be easy to dramatize? From Judas’s point of view, we don’t know anything. That’s what I’m saying, Andrew. This isn’t going to be The Gospel according to Saint John. This would be Judas’s story. Haven’t you ever thought he must have had a reason? I mean, some versions recount it as being that Judas was simply bribed. However, why would he simply take twenty pieces of silver to kill a man? Wasn’t he a devout follower, a disciple?”

“So, a deep dive into the psychology of Judas Iscariot?” I mused.

“Exactly. And while we’re at it? Why not tap into some other figures? Caiaphas? Pontius Pilate? Mary Magdalene? Perhaps even King Herod!” Tim began raising his voice with the excitement he had.

I motioned for him to calm down. “Tim, don’t shout,” I said in a hushing tone, “Now, I’m still not sure about this, but maybe it has some potential. Especially if we make Jesus a more neutral figure. Portray him as Judas would have seen him. A man, and only a man, who was teaching good things. Leave it ambiguous as to just how divine he may have been. If we are going to frame this as Judas’s story, we have to make it all from his light.”

Tim nodded affirmingly. “Yes! Yes! See? Now, you’re getting it! In this story, Jesus is not immortal. He’s just there, in the moment. Like a superstar!”

“Jesus Christ, superstar,” I echoed. “Superstar.” I tapped my finger against the table we were sitting at. One, two-three. One, two-three. One, two-three-four. One-two-three, four-five. “Tim, do you have a pen?” With what looked to be an almost fiendish grin, he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. Reaching for my napkin, I hastily scrawled a series of basic notes. Making a staff on a napkin was no easy task, but I managed it roughly. “Read this, Tim. What do you think?”

He looked it over once, twice, perhaps three times. His expression was not initially easy to read. As he took more to it, he seemed to brighten. “Jesus Christ, superstar,” he said in a half-singing voice, “How can you be what they say you are?” I gave him an impressed nod. Tim handed the napkin back to me and laughed triumphantly. “This is great, Andrew! I think we’ve got our principal melody. Let’s hurry and get home.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I think I can get some decent rhythm out of these ideas. Finish the lyrics, Tim. One main song at a time. We can arrange the music accordingly.”

Neither Tim nor I had been so excited since we were commissioned for Joseph. As we were finishing up and walking out the door, he turned to me one last time. “Trust me, Andrew. If we do this right, it will be,” he paused to chuckle, “biblical.”

Over the next few months, Andrew and I worked nearly nonstop to finish these lyrics and accompanying songs. “My admiration for you hasn’t died” evolved into “Heaven On Their Minds”. “I only did what you wanted me to” evolved into “Judas’s Death”. “You can’t control it like you did before” became “Damned For All Time”. A solo for Mary Magdalene was conceived in the form of “Everything’s Alright” per Andrew wanting to play with a 5/4-time signature. “King Herod’s Song” was developed from a song we had previously tried for Eurovision. Some of the lyrics may have sounded abrupt or unusual and some definitely were anachronistic, but we had become satisfied.

Over the months following the creation of our final draft, we tried and failed on several occasions to get someone to back our idea for a theatrical development. West End would not have us, and the more open-minded venturers had other projects on mind. Andrew was not happy. “Tim, this show may have to be put on the back burner. Perhaps we can try again in a few years, but I think we have squandered too much time on it right now.”

“Perhaps we are just going about it the wrong way. You have to remember we are trying to sell something here. This isn’t a commission the way Joseph was, Andrew,” I said as I sat back in my chair looking over the music we had written. “Maybe the concept is just too extravagant?”

Andrew shrugged. “After things like Gypsy and The Sound Of Music I would figure very little we could imagine would be too extravagant.”

“Even they are grounded in more recent stories, though. Maybe it’s the idea of changing perspective on one of the biggest things ever discussed. I mean, Gypsy Rose Lee and The Von Trapp family were well known, but they were actual celebrities. We’re trying to turn a religious centerpiece into a contemporary picture,” I reasoned.

“So, the question remains after all this time: How do we make God a celebrity?” Andrew questioned. “If only we could get it to be heard. Present it as just music instead of trying to go straight for West End.”

That brought an idea to me. “Hold on, Andrew, what do you mean present it as ‘just music?’ You mean like an album, right?”

He nodded in reply. “I suppose, yes.” Immediately, I reached for the phone line on the coffee table. Andrew gave me a puzzled look. “Tim, what are you doing?”

“I heard a man singing with his band not long ago while I was at EMI. I think he has the perfect voice we’re looking for.”

“For the voice of Jesus?” Andrew inquired.

I shook my head. “No, but perhaps for Judas. That’s the character we’re really trying to sell, after all.” I finished turning the dial to the last number and waited while the line rang. “I really hope he’s still at this address.”

When the phone line clicked open, I sighed with relief. “Hello?” Said a familiar man’s voice.

“Murray Head?” I asked.

“Uh, who is this?” He answered.

“Tim Rice from EMI.”

“Oh, I remember you. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. I wanted to propose something to you,” I said cautiously.

He did not answer for a moment, but when he did, he seemed interested. “Okay. What do you have?”

I opened the book I had to the page where the song “Superstar” began and smiled in satisfaction. “How would you like to be a leading vocalist for a new album Andrew and I are writing?”

WORK CITED

Kare, Jeffrey. “How It All Began? the Story of Jesus Christ Superstar.” BroadwayWorld.com, 1 Apr. 2018, https://www.broadwayworld.com/article/The-Story-of-JESUS-CHRIST-SUPER STAR-20180401.

Second Chance Pip

Chrustawka

Turning 18 is a very special milestone.

As the marked turn from teenagerdom to adulthood, those two digits establish the very beginning of what will either be growth or bitter, bitter stagnation. When those flowers are planted in the lungs of a fledgling thirteen year old, the resulting rosebuds are only just starting to wedge their way out of the dirt by the ripe age of eighteen. For dwindling daffodil René, he felt more like a deflated, overwatered mound of dirt as he sat kneeled by the collapsed corpse of the family bird.

“If Mum had just taken him to the vet when he first started wheezing, he would’ve been okay. He would’ve been fine,” he later on spoke with a sniffly nose to a friend on the phone. “She was just too stubborn about it. She pretended like it wasn’t even happening. It’s so… it’s just not fair. She’s always been like this.”

“ … Sorry it had to happen on your eighteenth birthday. Sucks, man.”

“Sucks,” René repeated bitterly.

As he put the phone down on his cabinet – exhausted of conversation and numb with shock – he leaned on the window, watching as rain streaked down the glass. Below him, his mom tussled her black hair until the rubber hand snapped against her thumb and forefinger, and proceeded to stare aimlessly at the big, round lump where mon petit oiseau was now buried six feet under. Against the glossy warbling of the window, she tossed a snide remark at a questioning neighbor, watched as he rolled his eyes and slammed the door to his house, then bowed her head into her hands and began to weep.

When René next awoke, he found himself facing a peculiar species of red fiery rebirth, orange beak fussing with a few stray feathers on his ashen wings.

“Before you ask – you are dreaming,” he said casually – something that, oddly enough, did not phase René as much as it should have. “Happy birthday, youngest Lachance. It is a very important thing in this family to turn eighteen – are you aware?”

He blinked, reached for some skin on his arm to pinch, and winced lightly. “Are you … who are you?” René felt a cold chill run down his back. “Where am I?”

“Perhaps I was a Lachance in the past – perhaps I was reborn to be the bringer of cathartic transformation,” the phoenix said with an exasperated sigh, tapping his claws on the rim of a half-full, half-empty glass. He clutched it between his talons – singing the glass and sending smoke up from the marks – before twirling it aside, wheeling it out of sight. “It does not matter who or what dies. Every single person in this family experiences a loss on their eighteenth birthday. Have you not noticed this before, René?”

“I just thought we were … cursed, or something.”

“Blessing, child, not a curse. Perhaps a more neutral term, but not a negative. It is the gift of grief.”

René, feeling more asleep than awake, furrowed his brows. “I wouldn’t call it a gift,” he spoke bitterly, mind clouded with thoughts of his dearly departed Luz, struck with a cough that had shuddered his feathered body for weeks before he passed. “It never did anything good for my Mum.”

“Do you know what your mother did when she turned eighteen?”

René gave him a quizzical look.

For as much as a phoenix could, he scowled deep and dark. “She was the one who killed me.”

“ … What?”

“Your mother killed me,” he repeated hollowly, lifting a foot to preen it. A few feathers sputtered down from the session. “What an observant one she was, the youngest daughter of three. She watched as her sisters lost the things they treasured the most, and the way they crumpled into pieces in the aftermath.”

René frowned as he faintly remembered talk of his Auntie Eléa, dead at nineteen almost a decade before he was born. “So, she … “

“She watched all of her sisters lose their loved ones upon eighteen, and decided she would be different. Alas, she took initiative.” His eyes flickered in the light. “On the night before her eighteenth birthday, she cornered me with a stolen pocket knife as I snuck through the window, tracking ash on the family floor. She told me she would kill me before I could touch anything she loved.”

“Did she?”

“She killed the family parakeet in retaliation,” he glowered. “She thought if she killed

something before I could arrive at the scene, it would stop the inevitable from unrolling. Unfortunately, bringing on your own destruction does nothing to control what bad things occur to you. It does not aid you with control. She woke up, and her most precious minou had passed overnight. When she awoke here once more, with me, all she could do was stare. Her eyes gleamed like the knife had in her hand.”

René’s skin prickled uncomfortably. Something shifted deep down inside of him, causing his insides to coil and twist like he had eaten a foul dinner. “That’s why she didn’t take Luz to the vet, isn’t it? She acted like it wasn’t even happening. She just let him suffer to, to pretend it wasn’t happening at all.”

“Has grief ever been talked about in your family, youngest Lachance?” the phoenix blinked his beady eyes. “Curses are not put on people by an uncaring universe, or by bad luck – some curses are brought on by people themselves.”

René gripped his sides tightly as if he felt he were falling apart at the seams. “When cousin Cerise came to the door crying with a cold baby wrapped in silk, Mum turned her away. She didn’t even look her in the eye.”

The phoenix facing him’s eyes were dull – not with sadness or even anger, but with a timeless frustration that seemed to prod the fiery coals keeping his feathery coat aflame.

“And, and, when I got so sick I could barely breathe, Mum made me sit inside my room for days on end. No medicine or anything. She didn’t even talk about it. And…”

Despite the nervous foresight that their time was limited, René looked up at the phoenix in front of him as if it had the meaning of life hidden between his beak.

“Does that mean … are you Luz?” his voice felt frail and meek, washed out by his own heartache. “I don’t understand. Wh-who are you? Are you like the Grim Reaper?”

“I am not the soul of your beloved bird, René – nor am I the departed spirit of your mother’s dear childhood cat. My only job is to be the moth to the flame, the phoenix who rises from the ashes of loss. That is all. In a family cursed by unfair grief, I am the pastor preaching at the funeral to their weeping faces … unwillingly. To a family line who refuses to listen!”

He made a bitter squawk as he rose up above René, showering little sparks with each flap of his wings.

“Does that make sense, youngest Lachance? Do you understand what you must do?” his voice echoed down, almost holy in its timber. With a wave of flame in his wake, particles of ash tumbled down from the very tips of his feathers before blowing away into the blank horizon surrounding them. “I am not here to punish you, nor am I here to consol you in your loss. I am here to help you rise from both the ashes left behind in tragedy, and the tragedy those who came before you have bestowed upon you. When the world entrenches you in horror, you must harness that emotion and shed your old skin so that you may be reborn. Dearest René, that is the only way to make the Lachance family name a truly lucky one.”

With his eyes as wide as dinnerplates, fractions of fire beamed off of the reflection in René’s glossy eyes. Sniffling, he messily wiped at his face, nonetheless transfixed by the being fluttering in front of him. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled, shoulders slumped, “I just want my friend back, I just want my Luz back. I don’t … I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

The phoenix quieted, the only audible sound being that of his beating wings, which crackled and crackled more with each passing second. For the first time since their short, fateful meeting, his beak seemed to twist as if biting his tongue.

“It is not fair,” he spoke again, “I never said it was. It is an undue, unfair burden to a pesky, stubborn family. But you will rise again, and the importance lies in that. I have grown tired of watching your family relish in their own destruction, and I have grown cynical seeing it happen time and time again. It is not fair to me either, you may say!”

As his vision blurred with tears, René pressed his sweaty palms against his face and shuddered. “Okay,” he sniveled, “okay. I just wish, I just wish you wouldn’t do this to me. I wish it could be different.” For once in the entire bitter conversation, the phoenix’s beak twitched with what almost seemed like a smirk.

“Did I ever say I was God, or only his messenger?” ***************

Grief was not a beast tamed nor talked about in the family of Lachance. In a family cursed by their own bad luck, Auntie Eléa lost her highschool sweetheart to-be husband at eighteen, and Auntie Louise lost her eldest sister Eléa to her own hands when she turned eighteen the very next year. Grandmother Eleanor had rammed her high expectations down the throat of every daughter she bore, and each carried their mother’s grief in their bones, just like she carried her mother’s and every parent down the line had carried theirs for centuries. To speak about it was to make it real.

Curled up on the edge of his mother’s bed, René folded his legs underneath his own weight and watched his mother’s wavering, forever distant face as she sat and stared into the distance. With a few words, he felt the world shift beneath him.

“Mum,” René spoke quietly, throat closing up and tightening with each word. “ … I miss Luz.”

And for the first time in his eighteen years of life, her wet eyes met his. “I miss Luz too, René.”

Say Goodbye ( I don’t want to) Reagan Cox

Everyone has their share of regrets, secrets they never shared, or people they wanted to talk to but never did. I, Grayson Dean Adler, never did anything I regretted except for one thing, saying goodbye to everything I wanted. The beginning of what I thought was the end was on September 9th, 2009, the date of my mother’s memorial. I was only nine then, speaking to my relatives who went to the service, claiming she was loved by everyone when she wasn’t. Nobody knew how she lived, or how she really died. I never believed that the police knew nothing,

From ages nine to eleven, I was told by two therapists, one named Ms. Bonnie and the other Mr. Johnson, that my emotions were valid. But there was no reason to “lash out” at others about something I could not control. I don’t think they knew how to help a child through the grieving process, no matter how hard they tried. I continued blaming everyone for what happened.

Nobody knew what happened to my mother; she could have been dead in a ditch or alive and well in a new country with a new life. Neither me nor law enforcement had answers; the only thing they knew for sure was that her son waited in the elementary school’s car line, watching everyone’s parents pick their kids up from school with laughter and smiles, while he was left in tears and a frown.

Middle school, like for every other kid, was rough. I found myself looking to higher powers, waiting and dreaming that my mother would show up at my Aunt’s doorstep waiting for me to answer the door. I thought that if I were to believe in something, they could magically bring her back from wherever she was. The majority of my thoughts back then were If prayed enough she would come back or I should have been a better son for her, then maybe she wouldn’t have left me alone.

At the end of my Junior year I was considered a “troubled” student. I wish I could pretend I had friends at school, went to parties, and had straight-a’s. The truth is, I had one friend, Kaia, who was my rock before she graduated early. I still resent her for leaving me alone when she was all I had, but everyone has to walk in and out of people’s lives at some point. What a shame too, I was doing about as well as I could have; refusing to get out of bed and shower, eat properly, and find a water bottle off the floor to drink out of. Every day from the middle of sophomore year on, she made a point to arrive an hour before school with coffee, breakfast, and a hand to drag my body out of the dirty bed sheets. I sound like your typical teenager the media warns parents of to make sure their child isn’t the same. My aunt was not a huge help during this time of my life, but she was kind enough to let me do what I pleased as long as I kept my grades passing and not getting into any trouble. She’s a kind woman, but she had too many priorities for me to be one of them, which I understand. The only person I have been a priority to was my mother. Luckily, I had Kaia to keep me afloat, but I was low on her list of priorities too.

I never truly understood why I could never heal from her death until one night. I fell asleep early on the 10th anniversary of her death, because I wanted the day to be over. I start dreaming about a luscious field of tall flowers, taller than skyscrapers in New York City, I walk through the flowers and approach a small home with a maroon colored door, almost like the door of the old apartment. I glance into the house and into the hallway, and it looks as if I had a time machine before she left. I walk into the kitchen, seeing my mother baking cookies, just like she was the night she went missing from my life. I stand there, motionless before she motions me over to the mixing bowl she was using. She sighs and takes a long look at me, whispering, “How could you fall apart like this?” I stand there, confused on how she knows how I’m doing. Before I could respond she’s walking down the hallway and stands in front of my old bedroom’s door and opens it. When she opens it, she sees my present day bedroom at my Aunt’s place with every piece of clothing I own sitting there on the floor, waiting to be worn again. She makes eye contact with me, with tears in her eyes she says to me, “You have to say goodbye, you can’t be living like I’ll come back any day now and make everything right, only you can do that for yourself.” I have never had a dream that has made me cry, this one was the first to do so. I stand there, processing what she says before murmuring, “I don’t want to.” She gives me a sad smile, “If you want to live a good life you have to.” And to that, she’s disappeared into thin air, and I wake up with a start. I sit in my bed for a few moments, comprehending what dream I had, and lift my hands to my face to feel my tear stained cheeks and wipe away any fresh tears. I look over at my alarm clock and get to work. It was my senior year after all, and she was right, I can’t live as a shell relying on others for everything when I can’t give anything back. I carefully get out of bed and pick up clothes to put into the washer, water bottles to throw away. I grab the homework that was due two days before and set it on my desk. I may have been engulfed in grief for the past ten years, but there’s no time like the present to turn life around and live a life I can look forward to waking up for. I never said goodbye, but I figured visiting where she’s buried would be a start to moving on with her not being there physically, but in my heart and soul.

The Fight

Aleeha Chaudhry

They walked away as if it was contagious, gazing at me with an amalgamation of fright and curiosity. With every seizure, my classmates, friends, and siblings began isolating me. The very teachers who once viewed me as the high achiever of their classes now focused on nothing but my “dullness” and my “diverted attention”.

Yet, this was merely the beginning of my three-year-long affair with neurological epilepsy.

Right after the first seizure - when my teeth started to chatter uncontrollably during my chemistry lesson and in a fraction of a second I fell right to the ground with muscles that I didn’t even know existed within my body starting to contract with agony, confusion, and terror blurred my vision until I fell unconscious - I understood that this disorder was, indeed, an immensely petrifying experience, not just for me, but for everyone around me.

As a 15-year-old, however, I expected much more from the classrooms where each individual spoke so highly of acceptance and advocated to target the stigma around mental health.

The notion of me having been “possessed by an evil spirit” spread throughout school like wildfire.

Two months into my constant trips to the hospital ward and daily doses of medicines that made me feeble to my bones, when I could barely walk let alone appear for my school examinations, Dr. Khan presented me with a solution. A solution to take two years off from my academic life to complete my course of medicines. “Take one thing at a time, you can catch up soon”, he said. Though he was right to prioritize my health, intimidating thoughts rushed through my mind. It felt as if every dream I had dared to uphold was shattering right in front of my eyes.

Why me?

From crying hysterically to refusing to take my doses, I did everything in my capacity to convince my parents to let me continue my school life. I knew that I did not choose this life for myself. I knew that my dreams extended beyond Dr. Khan’s clinic. Most importantly, I knew that I was not the one to give up. I was stronger than this and distracting myself through my textbooks- especially my canvases- served nothing less than a safe haven for me that I did not wish to lose.

When my thoughts overruled my ability to ponder, they overflowed through my paintbrush from canvas to canvas. Emotions that I could not express, feelings that no one seemed to understand, I painted to life. Abstract designs that seemed to have no storyline spoke a thousand words on my behalf. From providing instant relief to sticking with me throughout this journey like a best friend would, art helped me escape so well that these three years now feel like nothing more than a lucid dream.

Three years down the line, I have defeated every facet of my epilepsy. My journey has allowed me to discover a completely new version of myself. What I once regarded as nothing more than a curse has now taught me to channel rejection in all spheres of life into my own pillar of strength. As I found myself stuck and standing alone in midst of sheer hypocrisy, ignorance, and a dead end, my body learned to radiate positivity. I learned to embrace my uniqueness rather than focusing on altering it, trying to fit the mold of a perfect individual that the society had presented to me. It does not matter how many times I broke and fell; what matters is the amount of times I recollected my pieces and built a better version out of them - even when that was the least I thought I could do.

Greenhouse

Julie Potter

The drive to Greenhouse was full of deafening silence, and I was left to the loudness of my thoughts. Memories of the last few months replayed in my head, one after another. Most of them left me feeling nauseous. My dad barely looked over at me, and I remember the cold, empty look in his eyes. I could not blame him; I was just as angry at myself. This was my second arrival at the doors of Greenhouse Treatment Center, and I prayed things would turn out differently this time.

Dad left me at the front once we arrived, and James, the smiling receptionist, welcomed me. I took in my surroundings. The glistening white marble floor and the lofty ceilings were so fancy. I stood amid the lobby weighing in at 98 pounds with hollow cheekbones, brittle brown hair with fading vomit-green tips, and sweats I had been wearing for a week, and I looked embarrassingly out of place. I wanted to run away and hide in a dark hole. The admissions department rushed me in, drug-tested me, and had me complete surveys on what, how much, and how often I used. I could not help but feel so disgusted with myself. All I could do was hope this treatment would change me.

I was nauseous and sick physically, but I was much worse off mentally. When I first got to my room, the floodgates opened, and I could not stop the tears from coming. I prayed hard, almost shouting to God that He please free me from my addiction. I knew I was a true addict and could not stop this cycle alone. When nighttime came, I lay in that bed, which I had not had the luxury of in months, and the pillows were like clouds, and the sheets smelled of sweet laundry detergent. It did not occur to me to enjoy it, though. I could only focus on the darkness of the room. The shadows in the corner seemed to grow larger and larger until all I felt inside was the same black nothingness. I lay awake, and as the minutes passed, the shadows grew more prominent, and I shrunk underneath their weight. I had to leave my room, or I feared I would suffocate. I snuck into the communal area and hopped on the scratchy old couch. I finally felt safe, knowing the night staff was near me. The thoughts in my head quieted, and I let their hushed voices lure me to sleep.

The next day I went through the motions; like a zombie, I shuffled from group to group. All I heard around me were muffled voices or nothing at all. I felt so lost. I felt so numb. I did not know who Julie even was. When we ate lunch, the food had no taste. The smoothie I drank at 3 PM was nutritious, but my body rejected it as a foreign object it was not used to. Was I going crazy? My body only craved one thing: a toxic substance that had caused me to drop 30 pounds within a few months. As I went about my day, my mind replayed the past couple of weeks. It consumed me, and I found myself in a predicament. The pain I felt as I ruminated through my memories was like I had been stabbed, but somehow my mind managed to distort it once again. Cognitive dissonance, I loved what I also hated. As the day darkened, my thoughts grew louder, and again I lay awake.

A few days later, the fuzziness of my mind began to clear a bit. My nausea faded, and I let myself shyly welcome reality back. I was simply tired of being numb. The other residents swarmed around me. They took me in, told me they felt the same way I did their first few days here, and assured me that things would improve. As the days passed, I realized they were right. My senses slowly started to come alive. I noticed the constant chatter of the residents speaking loudly, laughing, and joking around, and it comforted me. In the cold mornings, I made my way to the cafeteria, a space with chairs on both sides of the indoor pool. I noticed the soaring ceilings let in the light of the sunrise. The acoustics in the room tingled in my ears. My lips then watered as I smelled the greasy sensation of sizzling hot bacon and the rich redolence of maple syrup I now doused my pancakes in. The chatter of my new, sleepy friends still dressed in pajamas and the rustic, soul-warming smell of coffee made me feel at home.

I went to groups, and I found myself hearing what we spoke about. Our counselors’ soothing, empathetic voices now gave me security, and I began to open up to them. It hurt to speak of my experiences, to bring up the things that made my stomach wrench and feel sick. Still, once I heard some related stories come from the people around me, there was a feeling of safety one could only experience once feeling utterly understood. The air in the room, I noticed, was peaceful and quiet. I let myself absorb what the counselors were telling me. I began to take heed of their words, sometimes compassionate, and sometimes exceedingly difficult to hear, and I compared them to my own life. Once I did, I could not deny the similarities. Once groups let out and we went to lunch, the savory smell of chicken filled our senses. Most of us had not eaten in weeks nonetheless anything nutritious, and I specifically felt my stomach rumble. Syrupy,

sweet fruits, savory vegetables, and heavenly fried potatoes filled my plate. I chowed them down and felt myself savor them. My body was finally positively responding to the change. Once our stomachs were sated, we would chat. We talked about anything and everything. After letting them in, I felt more human again.

On the streets, I was barbaric, the only thing on my mind was survival, and there was no room for weakness. I began to learn, though, that it is okay to feel complicated, even painful, feelings, and they taught me how to navigate through them. The women around me showed me how to laugh again. I thought my mistakes meant I deserved only misery, but they insisted I was doing the right thing now and that, despite my past, a deep belly-aching laugh was pure medicine. In the evenings, we took our smoke breaks outside on the dark and chilly nights. Goosebumps tickled my arms, and cigarette smoke wafted through the air around us. I noticed the garden just past the pool. I decided my favorite color was that exact shade of green, the color of the flowing grass and tall, towering trees. It made me laugh that something so simple as a favorite color gave me so much of my power back. I even pondered about spring, the season we were in. The beauty of budding plants and cheeky little animals mirrored the birth of who I was becoming. The bits of me I forgot about were coming together again. I started to sleep in my room at night, not so scared of the shadows anymore. Instead, I let myself relax. I let myself enjoy the Temper-Pedic mattress wrapped around my body like a hug. I breathed in the earthy smell of fresh lavender-scented sheets that reminded me of summer days. Then finally, I would lay my head on the refreshingly cool, and impossibly fluffy pillows and sleep peacefully.

When I say I had no dreams before Greenhouse, I mean it. I thought I would be a prisoner of my choices and this disease for the rest of my life. Today, yes, I am sober, but I am so much more than that. I am so much more than my past. I am intelligent, generous, and capable of becoming whoever I want to be someday, and Greenhouse is what put that into motion. This place is so important to me because it was the start of my rebirth. Every time I look back on my life, I realize that Greenhouse, and the people there, shaped a part of me. Aaron, one of the staff members, a big tough man with a teddy bear personality, was kind to me and did not want anything in return. James, the front desk receptionist, always gave me a big hug and reminded me why I was doing what I was doing. My counselor Maggie was the first person I felt saw and accepted me. These people showed me that I deserved sobriety, and so much more. It takes a village to raise a child, and it took all of Greenhouse to rebuild me.

The Missing Piece

Kanoelani Frisella

The echoes of instruments and clapping bounced throughout the air, not confined to the inside of the stadium. Occupying the space in the back parking lot of the stadium, flags of all colors and sizes flew in the wind, and crowds of people in different uniforms held instruments that glinted in the light. Some kids from each selection stood on podiums as they waved their arms, and the plethora of adults stalked between the rows of students like sharks hunting prey. The air held a massive competitive spirit as each individual had a determined glint in their eyes.

Inside the city of Indianapolis, Indiana, the Lucas Oil Stadium is the beacon to all American Marching bands. People from all over the nation arrive at the behemoth to perform in Grand Nationals. And as it happened, the grand pinnacle of my four-year marching band career was when I was a senior in Marcus High School going to Nationals. We would toil away in many environments to practice our art to prepare for this. The Marcus Band would perform shows at the Marcus stadium, the parking lot, football games, and competitions all over Texas to finally perform at Indiana in Grand Nationals. There were many times that I had to deal with things that I should not have done in the band and things that were more expected. When I stood on the field in Lucas Oil Stadium after our performance, I finally realized that practice is mandatory to proficiency in any craft, managing my emotions appropriately or at appropriate times, and music transcends language.

In 2021, the Marcus Band made it to Indiana through many hours of trials and tribulations to perform the show “The Missing Piece.” When we arrived at the end of the season to perform at Lucas Oil Stadium, there was a frigid breeze that would whisper the beginnings of winter. Once we warmed up as a band playing excerpts from our five pieces while doing step-outs, we were ushered off quickly by the staff to make room for another band. There would be an extensive line of about 200 high schoolers that walked in pairs dressed in sharpie gray pants and shoes, crisp white gloves, gauntlets, and jackets with a sparkly letter M on the chest. Each individual would wear a hat on their head that had a gradient from sharpie gray to snow white, a sharpie gray feather that pointed to the sky, and a tiny square mirror that the students would try to blind each other with. Hushed whispers are the only form of communication between the other members and me that would quickly be snuffed out with the presence of an adult. We would whisper about our nerves, the other bands, placement statistics, things we needed to work on, and the cold. The cold would cut through the many layers of our uniform as if it was nothing and make all our noses tickle with snot dripping down, leading to the aggressive wiping of the nose with our gloved hands, praying that they would stay pristine. The nervousness of licking my lips without realizing it only paid off with the salty taste of my cold sweat and watery snot stinging my tastebuds.

“Marcus Band,” Mr. Jones, our head director, bellowed. Everyone stilled immediately as the only movements were white-clad arms and hands that shot up like rockets as a form of acknowledgment. Mr. Jones had instructed us to keep our instruments warm by constantly blowing warm air into the instrument while following the four drum majors dressed in black into the stadium. With shaky legs, I followed the long line of my peers towards the opening, where we went through the winding hallways with dim lights. There was occasionally a spot where we could see the field where a band was performing, instantly striking hope quiet discussions on their abilities compared to ours. Other bands that finished performing before us said various forms of ‘Good Luck’ or ‘You Guys Will Do Great.’ The acrid smell of vomit wafted from one of the many trashcans that seemed to be stationed at every corner as we finally ceased moving at the lip of the hallway meeting the field. The nerves hit me then, but the acidic smell of vomit may have influenced it. I began to feel queasy. My stomach churned, my pulse began to beat like the metronome in my head, and my legs felt like an earthquake had hit them. Mr. Jones gave one last pep talk that was along the lines of:

“Marcus Band. We have made it to the last performance. You have done so well this season, and every one of you has grown tremendously. Remember that we have spent time and energy on the show. I know that you know your dots and the show. At the end of the day, the placement doesn’t matter. Any nerves or emotions, leave that off the field. Live in the moment. Let’s go kill it again.” It wasn’t uplifting as it was more of a demand with a hint of his true hoity-toity personality because of his so-called inspirational words. All the band kids gave a fist bump to the people next to them in the line, and then we streamed out onto the field as a line of white and gray cutting through the green field. The turf

was loose under my feet as I shifted my weight through my forward march towards set one at the show’s beginning.

Once we get on the field, we perform to the best of our ability at that moment. It may have been different, but it was in that moment for that moment. The stands had a mass of bodies, and the air seemed electrically charged. The lights were blinding, but they allowed our polished instruments to shine under the intense light. There was an object that glinted in the light and softly thudded on the turf. I did some choreography around that area and noticed it was a trumpet kick slide and left it there until the end of the show. There were certain parts of the show that I felt could hold more dynamic contrast, and occasionally I had to take a hidden gasp of air because I lost my air control for a moment.

In the big moment in part three and the lasting effects in part four, my eyes were gradually blinded by my tears. It registered that even if I were irritated by many things, I would miss playing and marching with my peers as this was my last time performing in the Marcus Band. I would also miss how I could express my deep love and admiration for music. It was a tribute to the people I had lost along the way, for the people I could lose at any moment, and to the people I wanted to prove my worth. It finally clicked that without practicing the show, I would have lost count and bumped into someone while panicking because I could not see defined objects; I could only see blurred colors and focus on the sweat running down my body. I was calm enough to understand that even with my temporary blindness, I could still play in time and march to my next dot. Then, I realized that I had to get through my emotions so that I could perform the show that everyone around me had also spent countless hours on to make this show work. I had to push past the tears to take this show to the very end. Once the last chord disappeared after it had vibrated throughout the field, there was a pause of silence. Then, the tremendous applause thundered as everyone in the stands actively stood, clapping and wiping away tears after crying from our show. Even though there were no words to our show, the audience could identify with the message.

Therefore, practicing any craft is the way to get better. Without it, you limit yourself as you cannot grow. The Marcus Band constantly practiced in multiple forms of weather to be able to ‘master’ the elements. We played when it was over one hundred degrees. We played when it felt like it was below forty due to the sprinkling rain in the darkness that hit us, along with the gusts of wind in October. We had played when there was the wind that almost threw us off balance and so much more. When it was hot, we would have to think about making sure the note was not extremely sharp, and when cold, we would have to ensure the note was not extremely flat. Not only to master our elements with the weather, but we also had to master the idea of different locations. Locations could have had no roof, so the noise would vanish into thin air if you were not playing with a full enough sound, or if there was a roof, the noise could be very aggressive, so you needed to relax your throat to soften the sound. The turf beneath our feet was also an essential detail. Sometimes it was just plain grass with many miniature potholes. We had to be able to keep our balance on the turf if it was too loose and not twist our ankles on uneven ground. Confidence grew as the band established practice.

There would also be a schedule to keep a consistent practice weekly. Without it, the band would not have been able to march a single dot of the show while playing and dancing. Besides, if you practice with the mindset to get better at a specific craft, it does not matter where you place in a competition. If anyone can tell that they grew in a craft, in this case, as a musician, they will be grateful for the journey. All in all, practice established confidence and memorization in my sets so I could march it while I was semi-blind.

Throughout the season, I have had to deal with life’s ups and downs while keeping up with school and the extracurricular activity of band. I have had to overcome nerves that have boiled in my veins before I step onto a field to perform. Any anger or regret that felt like volcanic sludge boiling up from my gut and into the back of my throat had to be put aside, so I do not overthink and mess up on a rep. I had to deal with that outside of school. Any tears or sadness that would body slam into me during a show had to be postponed until all the band left the field to avoid a time penalty. Without this, I would have been more of a trainwreck than I already was. During the season, I was a cynical hermit, so I did not have many friends in my grade but in the younger grades. I will mention with some pride that I had tainted the younger grades to be more cynical because the band directors and the kids in the higher band hierarchy participated in toxic positivity. Occasionally I would vent to my friends or family. In other instances, I would sometimes write in a journal to get my feelings out. Once I started writing, it was like a waterfall of words fell from my brain onto the crisp pages beneath my fingertips. In brief, finding a way to work through your emotions to prevent you from getting into a hazy funk or from lashing out at your peers and superiors is an essential detail in life that the education system does not necessarily teach.

Music has always been something that has been a core of who I am. It was something to pass the time, be entertained, calm me, study, perform, and express. It is something with which people can connect and communicate, even without words. The tone of the music is an important thing that can touch even the darkest hearts. The Missing Piece is a show with the idea of having a missing piece. It can

be the missing piece of the family, friends, and even social interactions now that we are still relatively fresh out of Covid. The parts reunite at the show’s end, and everything turns purple as they are now one. Whatever message you apply to the show is a unique one. Everyone has a different perception and experience that will translate differently, even to the most similar person to you. It is free to let you hear what you need most without words. Once the band finished our show, many people were crying. Not just the parents of the members of the Marcus Band were crying, but strangers who had no previous connection to our organization. Ultimately, that showed me the true power of music. Music- one who need not bother with words- and yet, speaks to us within.

By no means will everyone learn these exact lessons or gain lessons from experiences like this. However, it is possible to gain some semblance of understanding of these lessons from others. Therefore, anyone could potentially learn and understand these lessons from The Missing Piece. Overall, Grand Nationals in the Lucas Oil Stadium has impacted me through lessons that will define me for the rest of my life. Some things that we could all learn: Practice is mandatory to get better at any craft and to grow and evolve; learning to find a healthy way and time to express certain emotions are necessary for a healthy life; and experiencing how music can communicate to everyone on a deeper layer.

Distributive Justice and the COVID-19 Pandemic: Who Gets Treatment?

Addison Smith

The COVID-19 pandemic was an unprecedented global event that brought many ethical questions and debates to the forefront of social consciousness. Because of the number of casualties, the United States had to save failing industries and preserve public confidence while hospitals were filled with patients without enough staff to provide care. Faced with shortages in every sector of healthcare from personal protective equipment to intensive treatments, the question of rationing was one that came up immediately. Because of these shortages, people had to make the tough decisions about who would get resources, and in some cases, who would live and who would die. Rationing, also called “distributive justice,” is an ethical question that is endemic to scarcity of resources. Scholars have debated the most ethical way to prioritize people for care and what factors should work for or against a person. When there were shortages of intensive care unit (ICU) beds, ventilators, and extracorporeal membrane oxygenation (ECMO) treatments, two major ethical principles that guided prioritization were the moral desert theory, and utilitarianism.

First let’s examine the two main ethical principles that guided the decisions about prioritization during the pandemic. The first theory is that of the moral desert, an ethical principle that guides decisions based on what someone deserves. Fred Feldman and Brad Skow describe the principles and applications of the moral desert in the article “Desert.” According to Feldman and Skow, when there are no laws that dictate what someone is entitled to, a person’s actions or circumstances make them deserve a certain treatment. This way of thinking paves the way for medical care to be distributed based on subjective moral guidelines of whether or not someone’s circumstances make them deserve treatment..

Utilitarianism is the second principle that guided many of the priorities in the pandemic. Utilitarianism is the idea that a person should make their decisions based on what would bring not only the greatest good to society, but would also produce the most pleasure and reduce the most pain. John Stuart Mill writes in “Utilitarianism” that “pleasure, and freedom from pain, are the only things desirable as ends; and that all desirable things … are desirable either for the pleasure inherent in themselves, or as means to the promotion of pleasure and the prevention of pain” (1072). Using a utilitarianist point of view, people should not make decisions based on a moral desert, but instead, should make decisions based on what would produce the greatest good for society. In hospitals during the pandemic, both of these principles could be seen at work when patients had to be prioritized.

When considering the ethics of rationing and prioritization in a hospital, the first place to examine is the ICU. While the initial place where prioritization decisions were made regarding COVID-19 patients was the emergency room, those decisions were made based on factors in the ICU. In fact, the ICU capacity was one of the most crucial factors in determining the relative safety of relaxing social distancing guidelines at the height of the pandemic, so this is the key place to start. David Shaw examines the ethical decisions faced by physicians and governments in the COVID-19 pandemic, and how they specifically affect access to ICU beds in his article “Vaccination status and intensive care unit triage: Is it fair to give unvaccinated Covid-19 patients equal priority?” Shaw argues that vaccination status should be a determining factor when allocating ICU beds. Shaw’s main arguments come down to two points: 1. Unvaccinated individuals make the choice to refuse care (a vaccine) and should not be given equal priority as individuals who did not refuse care, and 2. COVID patients stay in the ICU approximately 7x longer than a patient who is recovering from surgery (Shaw). ICU beds could not be filled only by COVID patients. Pre-pandemic, the ICU was used much of the time for patients who needed critical care after surgery. These patients did not stop needing care during the pandemic, and so the choice had to be made whether to prioritize a surgical patient or a COVID patient. In the end, unvaccinated COVID patients filled the ICU, and many of these surgical patients had their treatments postponed because their treatments were not deemed as lifesaving. Shaw argues that people who made the decision to not receive the vaccine had refused the first step of comprehensive care, and because of this, they did not deserve equal priority to people needing surgery or people who accepted the first step of care and still had the misfortune of getting sick.

Once a COVID patient is in the ICU, there is still the question of access to resources. Ventilators

became a common treatment for COVID patients, but ventilators, like ICU beds, were in severely short supply during the pandemic. Eventually hospitals and governments attempted to qualitatively determine what factors would prioritize a person to receive a ventilator, and what factors would deprioritize a patient. The way that the U.S. approached these guidelines was scattered and loose at best, sometimes leaving individual hospitals and doctors to make the decisions for themselves. According to the New York Times (NYT) video, “Who Gets a Ventilator?” it was in the U.S. government’s best interest to leave prioritization decisions up to states and hospitals, to reduce public backlash from families of patients who did not receive a ventilator and died (Who Gets a Ventilator?). Despite the weak approach to policy, states and hospitals still tried to determine what factors should prioritize or deprioritize a person for a ventilator. Some common factors for consideration in many hospitals were age, pre-existing conditions, and likelihood of survival (Who Gets a Ventilator?). All these factors are related to what a person’s life will be like after COVID, and it all ties back to the principle of utilitarianism, and which decision would produce the most pleasure for individuals and society. Support for using these factors for consideration of prioritization were echoed in a public survey of British citizens in 2022. In the article “Which features of patients are morally relevant in ventilator triage? A survey of the UK public,” Chan, Lok, et al. discovered that the British public believed that factors that should count towards prioritization include “pregnancy, dying soon, and having waited for a long time” (Chan, Lok, et al.). Interestingly enough, they also discovered the respondents’ believed factors that should deprioritize a person should include “committed violent crimes in the past, having unnecessarily engaged in activities with a high risk of COVID-19 infection, and a low chance of survival” (Chan, Lok, et al.). All the factors for prioritization point to a belief in prioritization based on merit and quality of life after treatment. These beliefs are also reflected in the factors for deprioritization. Like the moral desert, the results of this survey show that while people want fairness in prioritization for medical treatment and for treatment to go to individuals who have made choices to deserve such treatment. They believe it is unfair for people who have made reckless decisions or previously denied care to receive equal priority to those who acted with caution during the pandemic.

In the most intense cases of COVID-19 in an ICU, a patient may require extracorporeal membrane oxygenation (ECMO) treatment. The problem with this is that this treatment was incredibly scarce before the pandemic, and even though a small percentage of people require ECMO, with the considerable amounts of daily infections at the height of the pandemic, the number of patients who needed ECMO added up. ECMO is a labor- and resource-intensive treatment that is given to patients with severe cardiac or respiratory failure. Essentially, patients are connected to a machine that partially pumps their blood for them. Because of its high resource requirements, it is a treatment saved for severe cases. During the pandemic, the demand for ECMO increased past the point of treatment capacity. Dao, et al. explore the results of an international survey of how ECMO clinicians’ decisions regarding when and who to give the treatment to were impacted during the pandemic in the article “Ethicalfactors determining ECMO allocation during the COVID-19 pandemic.” Dao, et al. discovered that much like ICU beds and ventilators, the factors clinicians considered when deciding to give treatment were “patient age, comorbidities and functional status, … [which] reduce overall morbidity and mortality.” The clinicians tended to prioritize people who had a higher likelihood of survival and a better quality of life post-treatment. Additionally, survey respondents indicated that their criteria for allocating treatment had changed during the pandemic. “Consideration of the benefit to the individual patient being referred versus the potential benefit to other patients when making decisions about starting ECMO [was taken into account] prior to versus during the pandemic” (Dao, et al.). Rather than prioritize an individual patient to receive treatment based on their individual benefit, clinicians deprioritized individual patients on the basis that other patients would benefit more. The focus for allocation shifted away from what the benefits towards an individual patient may be, and towards the benefits that other patients may have instead.

The COVID-19 pandemic was an unprecedented world event that strained hospital resources in every area of treatment. The most intensive forms of treatment were unfortunately the ones that felt the most strain, which inevitably led to state governments and hospital staff having to make the tough decisions of who would be treated, and who would be turned away. In the face of these decisions, hospitals and clinicians consistently prioritized patients who had the highest likelihood of survival, and would have the happiest lives after COVID. While a global pandemic is an extreme example of such decisions, the ethical guidelines for rationing ICU beds, ventilators, and ECMO treatments all come back to prioritizing and treating patients that would reduce the most harm and do the greatest good in society.

WORKS CITED

Chan, Lok, et al. "Which features of patients are morally relevant in ventilator triage? A survey of the UK public." BMC Medical Ethics, vol. 23, no. 1, 25 Mar. 2022, p. NA. Gale In Context: Opposing Viewpoints, link.gale.com/apps/doc/A698317337/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=book mark-OVIC&xid=ee08f6b4. Accessed 17 Oct. 2022.

Dao, Bernadine, et al. "Ethical factors determining ECMO allocation during the COVID-19 pandemic." BMC Medical Ethics, vol. 22, no. 1, 1 June 2021, p. NA. Gale In Context: Opposing Viewpoints, link.gale.com/apps/doc/A665461139/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=bookmark-OVIC&x id=b6c98539. Accessed 17 Oct. 2022.

Feldman, Fred and Brad Skow, "Desert", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2020 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2020/entries/desert/>. Mill, John. “Utilitarianism.” Classics of Moral and Political Theory, edited by Michael L. Morgan, 5th ed., Hackett, 2011, p. 1072.

Shaw, David. “Vaccination Status and Intensive Care Unit Triage: Is It Fair to Give Unvaccinated Covid‐19 Patients Equal Priority?” Bioethics, vol. 36, no. 8, Oct. 2022, pp. 883–90. EBSCOhost, https:// doi-org.northcenttexascollegelibrary.idm.oclc.org/10.1111/bioe.13069.

"Who Gets a Ventilator?" NYTimes.com Video Collection, 14 Apr. 2020. Gale In Context: Opposing View points,link.gale.com/apps/doc/CT621672447/OVIC?u=txshracd2531&sid=book mark-OVIC&xid=daf5aead. Accessed 17 Oct. 2022.

Virtual Free Speech and the Degradation of Discourse

Alyssa Tidmore

A red-faced man stands on a bustling and crowded corner near a train station and screams violence into the morning air. Briefcase in hand, tie flapping, he fills the already-noisy platform with threats, slurs, and radical calls to brutal action. It’s unclear why he’s using his time and voice this way: is he a bigot, or simply bored and looking for confrontation? At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. Anyone could tell you that using your voice this way is a bad thing; not only is it likely to land you in some sort of physical peril, but also could possibly get you in trouble with the law. The argument could be made that regulating this man’s freedom to express himself in this way would be an infringement of free speech, but would it be?

Freedom of speech can be defined as the “right to express opinions and ideas without interference, censorship, or punishment by the government.” It’s a right enumerated in the First Amendment Constitution of the United States, and is often regarded as the most important right given to the citizens of the United States. It means that individuals are free to express their beliefs and opinions without having to worry about coming under fire from the federal government, which means that people are allowed to identify theologically and philosophically in essentially whatever way they please. However, this individual right is not without its limits. Free speech doesn’t allow for defamation, either slander (verbal) or libel (written). It also doesn’t allow for incitement to criminal activity, including violence (“Freedom of Speech”).

Free speech on the internet is a slightly different affair. Expressing your opinion — no matter how controversial — is celebrated by the fact that everything has the option to add your own personal commentary. YouTube comment sections are often more wild than the content of the videos themselves, Twitter exists solely as a place to send text posts into the void, and Facebook is full of memes that express beliefs going in every theological discussion under the sun. To make matters even more messy, nearly none of it is regulated in any way that actually holds anyone accountable for the things that they say. Twitter in particular is notorious for racists, homophobes, and misogynists coming after the demographic they’re against, and often without any consequences. The man from the opening paragraph wouldn’t have been able to get away with screaming obscenities and hate at a train station, so why should he be able to get away with it online?

In this paper I will illustrate the way that unchecked free speech on the internet is contributing to the degradation of modern discourse by allowing people to get away with harassment and abuse without consequence and also by being conducive to the development of radical hate groups, and I will argue that efforts should be made accordingly to govern what is said and spread online.

Under normal circumstances, the man on the train platform would probably be stopped by someone else at the station from saying all of the things he was saying. After all, its an unspoken rule that if someone is disturbing the peace or violating some kind of social understanding of conduct, that someone else will intervene and stop it. Most social media relies on users to police the content they find online in the same way, by reporting posts or comments. Unfortunately, this doesn’t always happen, and even when it does, it doesn’t provide the same level of accountability that one would find in a real life confrontation.

The issue with free speech online is not that people are allowed to say whatever they want and have whatever opinion they want — that’s the nature of free speech in general — the issue is that they are not held accountable in the same way and they feel more comfortable confronting angry virtuals than they would people in real life. They’re emboldened by anonymity, and possibly by the fact that since their words only exist online, as “the conventional rules of conversation and human interaction are often modified online, with some users being more willing to resort to insult and abuse when they have the ability to appear anonymously.” This is exacerbated even more so by the fact that calling them out may result in backlash or further conflict, i.e., “feeding the trolls” (Clucas 49).

Online, people are also more comfortable attacking people for specific things they might not be bold enough to outside of the confines of the internet. If you take a look at any female politician’s Twitter profile, there are bound to be a great deal of comments belittling her for being a woman, calling her names, and making sexual jokes. In fact, compared to their male counterparts, female politicians are far more likely to face attacks on their identity, character, and sexuality, with 42% claiming that there had been images of them shared online that were humiliating or sexual in nature (Goldberg). Similarly, if

you look at the comment section of any LGBTQ+ YouTube creator, you are likely to find a whole string of homophobic comments; all of which may well be deleted later as they get reported, but all the same we have to ask if they would have been posted at all had the internet not made it a safe space to say those kinds of things? Admittedly, all of these behaviors are rather common in the real world, but especially so on the internet, where even the most timid person can make their jab without fear of retribution or tangible confrontation.

All of this is relatively common human behavior, the issue is that the backdrop of the internet for this kind of activity makes it a widespread, almost-universal issue. Most people these days have an internet presence, including children — 72% of American adults reported using social media (Pew Research Center) and other sources state that 38% of kids under the age of thirteen do as well (Moyer). All of them are being exposed to this kind of venom even if they themselves are not under attack or involved in any peripheral way, but even the exposure to it has negative consequences.

In a 2018 study focused on the relation between exposure to violence and ethical behavior, participants were hired to “copy edit” and were given seven sentences to edit for grammatical errors, with some of the participants receiving sentences that contained violent phrases, and some receiving neutral ones. There was found to be a strong correlation between the exposure to the violent sentences and a lapse in ethical decision making. Participants with violent sentences were significantly more likely to mark their sentences as being grammatically correct, which suggests that they were not committing their attention to the job they were given. The researchers take this to suggest that there is a correlation between exposure to violence and a decrease in ethics, and with this as well as their other findings in the study, they concluded that “exposure to human violence increases aggressive thoughts and feelings towards others, and that these thoughts and feelings motivate unethical decision making” (Gubler et al. 25-34). This is especially troubling when we again take into account the widespread nature of the internet and also the presence of children online. Children between the ages of 8 to 13 spend an average of over five hours online per day, and teens come into the picture at over eight hours per day (Moyer). If people — including and particularly, children — are being exposed to violence on a daily basis, what is this doing to their minds, and in turn, our society?

If being exposed to the violent speech that exists in virtual society is degrading our moral compass, it begs to question if people really should be allowed to say what they please online.

The democratic and unfettered nature of online communication can be a very positive thing. It has brought together people with similar struggles, highlighted the importance of not struggling alone, and made the outside world accessible to people who live in rural areas or places where they cannot interact with their peers. On the flip side of this, the internet has brought many people together that society might be better off had they stayed isolated — namely, hate groups.

Groups of people with similar hatreds and prejudices are, for the first time in history, very quickly and easily connected to others of the same ideology. They are well set up to be able to communicate and share ideas, introduce others to their forums and groups, and recruit yet more by sharing content publicly in hopes that it will resonate with any unaffiliated individuals and bring them into the fold. The culture that these groups have propagated and nurtured has been taken piecemeal from a great number of alt-right movements online over the years, leading to a culmination of hyper-conservative conspiracy enthusiasts who have a strong suspicion of anyone they view as “other,” anyone who isn’t white, heterosexual, and or affiliated with Protestantism in some way. Interestingly enough, this is also the ideology that took center stage during the nineteen-fifties when being anything outside of those standards made you “un-American” and suspect of having communist sympathies. Now, among the alt-right, the fear isn’t necessarily that you’re communist, it’s that you’re plotting the destruction of society by the promotion of a liberal or “anti-white” agenda.

The way that hate groups work online is very similar to how they work in person, the main difference being that the world-wide web provides a battleground where all of these individuals may unite against whatever or whoever they deem the enemy on any given day. They are radicalized in part by the fact that their views are completely out of line with what most of society is saying. The world is against them because they believe things that most feel are too extreme, and with a common enemy, these individuals feel like crusaders: “... the identification with extreme worldviews that are ‘maligned’ by mainstream society is an important factor in driving individuals towards political violence” (Ganesh 35). The internet gives these individuals a place to exchange these extreme views and organize themselves against society accordingly.

For example, on January 6th 2021, thousands of Trump supporters sieged the Capital in Washington D.C. after several weeks of discussing it on social media, organizing themselves, and raising funds. Though some will say that it was intended to be a peaceful protest, the leaders of the movement

called for war, (Trump himself told them to “fight like hell,”) at least one individual planted pipe bombs in the area, and two people died as a result of the conflict (Reeves et al.). This was in response to the election of Joe Biden to the presidency, and national security was aware of the growing tension online leading up to it. In spite of this, with the exception of a few barricades being put up prior to Trump’s speech that same day, few precautions against insurrection and rioting were made. This could be viewed as proof that the internet is an area of weakness in our government, in that it isn’t governed much at all, as the evidence of upcoming riots were clearly spelled out all across alt-right social media presences (Frenkel).

A great deal of the spread of extremism might be prevented with stronger checks on free speech online, and harsher consequences to exhibiting this kind of behavior. While there are definitely some guidelines on online platforms to limit extremist discourse, a great deal of coded language has been used to get around these checks and similarly, if barred from one site, many users will simply make a new account with a different username (Clucas 56). It’s not an effective strategy by the platforms, and moves should be made to further correct or punish those who promote extremist ideologies online. When one person’s free speech puts other people at risk, it isn’t a democratic principle anymore; it’s a matter that should be handled as a real issue with legislation and regulation. The same should be true online. ***************

The issue with the model of free speech that exists on the internet is that a virtual reality can be dismissed as not quite reality, making the things said and done within its domain seem less serious or significant than they actually are. Unfortunately, this perception is dangerous due to the fact that online communication can and often does lead to action taken in the real world and subconsciously does affect those who are involved or exposed to the venom that is common online. In addition, with the social aspects of the internet, “the distinction between what one would say and do in private and in public has become more porous” (Clucas 53). This means that people don’t conduct themselves with the same level of decency and restraint that they might if held to a higher level of accountability. That accountability must be provided if the internet is to become a place where democracy can actually exist, instead of the mob rule characterized by violence and intimidation that currently does. Some may argue that governing online discourse would restrict democracy and personal liberty, but “the strong model of free speech struggles to deal with the problem that one person’s unlimited free speech can effectively silence another’s” (Clucas 52). This means that the free speech that exists online can’t be free until it makes efforts to protect those who might have their own rights violated by individuals touting hate ideologies. Free speech is a right, but there has become a disconnect in our society. People increasingly believe that they can say whatever they wish without consequence or restraint, while in reality the freedom to say what one wishes comes with a great deal of responsibility, to one’s own conscience and also to society itself. The purposes of laws are to make sure that people are not degrading society with their conduct, and as the internet is playing an increasingly more centric role in daily life and individual development, it should be held to the same level of scrutiny.

Works Cited

Clucas, Tom. “Don’t Feed the Trolls: Social Media and the Limits of Free Speech.” Violence and Trolling on Social Media: History, Affect, and Effects of Online Vitriol. Ed. Sara Polak, Daniel Trottier. Amsterdam University Press, 2020, pp. 47-64. JSTOR. Accessed 7 April 2022.

"Freedom of Speech." Gale Opposing Viewpoints Online Collection, Gale, 2021. Gale In Context: Opposing Viewpoints. Accessed 19 April 2022.

Frenkel, Sheera. “The Storming of Capitol Hill Was Organized on Social Media.” The New York Times, 6 January 2021. www.nytimes.com/2021/01/06/us/politics/protesters-storm-capitol-hill-build ing.html. Accessed 6 May 2022.

Ganesh, Bharath. “The Ungovernability of Digital Hate Culture.” Journal of International Affairs, vol. 71, no. 2, 2018, pp. 30-49. JSTOR. Accessed 11 April 2022.

Goldberg, Emma. “Fake Nudes and Real Threats: How Online Abuse Holds Back Women in Politics.” The New York Times, 4 June 2021, www.nytimes.com/2021/06/03/us/disinformation-online-at tacks-female-politicians.html. Accessed 28 April 2022.

Gubler, Joshua R., Skye Herrick, Richard A. Price & David A. Wood. “Violence, Aggression, and Ethics: The Link Between Exposure to Human Violence and Unethical Behavior.” Journal of Business Ethics, vol. 147, no. 1, January 2018, pp. 25-34. JSTOR. Accessed 25 April 2022.

Moyer, Melinda Wenner. “Kids as Young as 8 Are Using Social Media More than Ever, Study Finds.” The New York Times, 24 Mar. 2022, www.nytimes.com/2022/03/24/well/family/child-social-mediause.html. Accessed 28 April 2022.

Pew Research Center. “Demographics of Social Media Users and Adoption in the United States.” Pew Research Center: Internet, Science & Tech, 7 April 2021. www.pewresearch.org/internet/factsheet/social-media/?menuItem=81867c91-92ad-45b8-a964-a2a894f873ef. Accessed 26 April 2022.

Reeves, Jay, Lisa Mascaro & Calvin Woodward. “Capitol Assault a More Sinister Attack Than First Ap peared.” AP News, 11 January 2021. https://apnews.com/article/us-capitol-attack-14c73ee 280c256ab4ec193ac0f49ad54. Accessed 25 April 2022.

Capital Punishment vs. Life Without Parole in Texas

Jessie Brauer

Texas has two means of punishment for adults who are convicted of Capital Murder: life in prison without parole or the death penalty. For juveniles, the only available option at this time is life in prison. (Texas Penal Code. Punishments) It is important to determine whether or not maintaining the option of the death penalty for capital felonies is the most beneficial option to meet the State of Texas’ public safety and fiscal needs, and whether or not the sentence is being handed down in an unbiased manner. Section 19.03 of the Texas Penal Code clearly defines what constitutes a capital felony in Texas. The following guidelines establish the State’s capital felony criteria: murder of an on-duty policeman or fireman (assailant must be aware the officer is on duty), murder while in the process of a crime, murder for hire, murder while attempting a prison escape, murder of any kind while incarcerated, murder if sentenced to 99 – life for violent crimes or kidnapping, murder of more than one person during, or in relation to, a criminal act –even if the secondary murder is committed at a later point in time, murdering a child under the age of 10 years old, and murder of a judge as retaliation. (Texas Penal Code)

The State of Texas has an extensive history of punishing capital felonies with the death penalty. The list of crimes provided above, considered worthy of death have long been prosecuted and have often resulted in the defendant’s demise.

The first death-row unit in Texas was established in Huntsville in 1928 and housed Texas death-row inmates until 1952. In 1923, The State of Texas cleared the use of electric chairs as the sole method of execution within the state. Prior to this time period, executions took place via hanging and were the responsibility of each individual county in which the crime was committed. Lethal injection became the sole mean of execution in Texas, in 1977, and Texas performed its first lethal-injection in 1982. (TDCJ)

In 1972, The United States Supreme Court ruled capital punishment as cruel and unusual, and at that time, Texas had 45 inmates on death row; all of which were required to be commuted to life sentences. Texas quickly re-butted with an amendment to the Texas Penal Code, in 1973, which allowed for Capital Punishment. (TDCJ)

The current death row unit for men is the Polunsky Unit, and women are taken to the Mountain View Unit. Of these Texas death-row inmates, there are only 6 females, but there are currently 187 males awaiting their execution. This population consists of 25.9 percent White, 46.1 percent African American/Black, 25.4 percent Hispanic, and 2.6 percent are listed as “Other.” (TDCJ) There is an alarmingly skewed number of African American/Black inmates on death-row based off of racial populations within the State of Texas, posing very real concerns. While 41.4 percent of the Texas population is white, only 11.8 percent of Texans are African American/Black, and 39.4 percent are Hispanic. (Data USA). These statistics suggest that an issue with racial profiling and bias is occurring, in Texas, when the death penalty is being considered.

In looking into the costs of Texas cases where the death penalty is on the table, it is found that the State spends far more in government funding and tax-payer’s money in order to seek the judgment of death. Grayson County recently spent $1,000,000, trying a death penalty case. This does not include the cost of appeals and the average waiting period for execution, which summates to 11.22 years of tax-payers funding the cost of these inmates sitting out their execution sentence. (TDCJ) The overall estimate of legal costs to the State of Texas, from indictment to execution, is estimated to be 1 – 1.2 million dollars. (COSTS)

In contrast, it is estimated that a case wherein only life in prison is sought for a capital felony, an average of $3,000 is spent by the government to try the case. This number is based on Lubbock County. If the costs of housing and caring for an inmate who is serving life in prison are broken down, they amount to approximately: $47.50 per day, $17,340 per year, and $693,500 for 40 years spent incarcerated, per inmate. (COSTS) This is a remarkable difference in cost, and poses the question of why the death penalty is sought, if it is so fiscally irresponsible. Twenty-seven states within America currently authorize capital punishment via the death penalty. Texas has the most number of executions since the death penalty was reinstated in 1976. In October 2020, there were 2,557 total inmates on death row within the United States. Within the U.S., there are 5 means to the end of a person on death-row: lethal injection, electrocution, lethal gas, hanging, and firing squad, (TDCJ), with Texas completing a death sentence solely by use of lethal injection. In 2020, a document was established, and again updated in 2022, by 56 elected prosecutors,

across the United States, who are calling to abolish the death penalty. The committee is quite diverse, with there being individuals who have always been against death as a sentence for capital felonies, and some who have actually participated in the sentencing of the death penalty. Additionally, the range of representatives is widely spread from states across the nation. Positions of those signing the document range from District Attorneys to Attorney Generals, with two of the representatives hailing from Texas. Both John Creuzot, District Attorney of Dallas, TX and Mark Gonzales, District Attorney of Corpus Christi signed the document, vehemently arguing against the death penalty as a source of punishment in our country, as a whole.

The main arguments given to abolish this form of punishment are: the U.S. is the only western country that still authorizes the use of the death penalty, often it is the underprivileged or mentally ill who are convicted, wrongful convictions happen too frequently, the punishment costs taxpayers approximately $1 million per inmate, the punishment does not help with the crime problem, and further, it is argued that the death penalty violates the U.S. Constitution, bestowing cruel and unusual punishment. (Death Penalty Info)

While the majority of Texans seem to be in approval of the death penalty (Texas Politics Report), there are representatives working to attempt to abolish the punishment, within the State. House Committees such as the House Committee of Criminal Jurisprudence, Senate Committee of Criminal Justice, and Juvenile Justice and Family Issues, all take part in the decision making process regarding the death-penalty sentence in Texas, and as of yet there has been no budge within these committees to abolish it. (Legislative Reference Library of Texas) During the 87R Session, Representative Lucio, proposed amendments to a current bill, that would eliminate the death penalty as an option for Texas, and rewrote the bill to mandate life without parole for all individuals convicted of a capital felony, and life with the possibility of parole for juvenile convictions. In essence, “death penalty,” is stricken from the current version of the bill. (S.B. 188) Considered a companion bill to Lucio’s, H.B. No. 215, authored by Moody, Beckley, and Howard, also calls to abolish the death penalty in Texas, making the only option available for the conviction of a capital felony for an adult, life in prison without the prospect of parole. For juvenile offenders, the only option available would be life in prison. (H.B. 215)

In spite of such powerful documents, requesting that the death penalty be abolished, it is reported that the majority of Texans still favor the death penalty. In a 2021 survey of the Texas population, 63 percent somewhat or strongly were in support of the death penalty and only 25 percent somewhat to strongly opposed the death penalty, with 12 percent having no opinion. (Texas Politics Report) When a 2012 sample of Texans was surveyed and given life in prison without parole as an option to capital felony cases, only 53 percent of the population desired the death penalty, and 37 percent preferred life in prison without parole. The same survey addressed the proper administration of the death penalty in Texas, and 51 percent of participants felt that the sentence was handed down justly, 28 percent did not feel that all judgements were fair, and 21 percent did not have an opinion. (Tribune)

In looking at political party’s viewpoints on the subject, The Republican Party’s stance on capital punishment is that it is viewed as being a legitimate and useful part of Texas Law Enforcement. It is noted that Republicans feel this sentence should be swift, but yet still adhere to all due process. (Law Enforcement Sec. 189) The sentence of the death penalty is often thought of as justice being served in relation to those close to the victim of the crime, bringing some form of closure to the loss of their loved one. The Republican Party believes that the death penalty is, in some cases, just and necessary and that punishments should be suited to the crime committed, with all laws being enforced uniformly. (GOP Platform Law Enforcement Sec. 196)

In contrast, The Democratic Party has an overall objective to put a stop to “tough on crime,” practices, and this includes abolishing the death penalty. (TDP Platform: Ending Tough on Crime Sentencing) The Libertarian Party is also against capital punishment, in the form of the death penalty. Libertarians do not support any unnecessary use of punishment for criminal acts. (9) In looking at sentencing of individuals, Libertarians support an amendment to the Oath of Jury, in order to reflect the right, and duty, to nullify.

While the Republican Party is in favor of capital punishment, they are not in favor of gun-free zones (GOP Platform Sec. 228) or the restriction of gun us. The Party finds all gun control to violate the Second Amendment, as well as Citizens God given rights. (GOP Platform Resolutions Sec. 2) Open-carry and free access to guns open the door for more violent crimes to occur, could possibly increase the occurrence of capital felonies and lead to more death penalty sentences.

Should an excess of capital felonies begin to occur in light of the loosening of gun laws in Texas, defendants facing the death penalty could potentially find themselves in a bind when searching for proper legal representation, as the Republican Party desires to do away with education thresholds, in order to apply for the State Bar Exam. Further, The Party argues that mandatory State Bar Membership should not be necessary for attorneys, at all. (GOP Platform Business, Commerce & Transportation Sec. 39). This proposal could directly affect the level of education and knowledge required of Texas’ attorneys, in turn affecting the quality of representation of defendants, including those being tried for a capital felony.

Democrats’ have key goals within their Platform to restrict gun access and end excessive sen-

tencing, as well as provide preventative programs in order to address issues that can lead to violence, pre-emptively. (TDP Platform Ending Sexual and Family Violence) Democrats fell that providing resources to those experiencing family and interpersonal violence could be an important step to lower the rate of crimes such as capital felonies from occurring.

In looking at sentencing of those accused of violent crimes, Democrats push for an improvement upon Texas’ criminal investigations and holding our DNA processing and testing up to higher standards that fall more in line with the guidelines and expectations of the scientific community. (TDP Platform Criminal Justice Reform) The improvements proposed by the Democratic Party upon Texas’ crime labs and testing, are meant to provide more accurate sentencing and clarity in cases involving violent crimes, leaving less room for biased and/or incorrect sentencing. (TDP Platform Ending Tough on Crime Sentencing)

The Libertarian Party’s stance on the subject is that it is vital that jurors in capital felony cases understand the consequences of handing down a guilty verdict, and consider both the facts, as well as the merit of the law itself during the sentencing process. (9) In summation, the death penalty is not a sentence to hand down lightly. Improved law practices, scientific testing of evidence, and preventative programs are reasonable proposals to work toward proper and just sentencing.

Fiscally speaking, Republicans, Democrats, and Libertarians all wish to keep the budget in order. However, each have a different way of approaching this topic. As discussed earlier, the cost of funding a capital felony, punished via the death penalty, is extensively more expensive than sentencing a defendant to life in prison. It bears repeating that a Texas trial, seeking the death penalty, alone, is reported to cost tax-payers around $1,000,000, whereas a capital felony trial, in which life in prison without parole is sought, only costs tax-payers an average of $3,000. (COSTS) This is an astronomical difference and one that seems hard to justify, as a person spending life behind bars without parole poses no more threat to the public than a person who has been executed.

As Democrats and Libertarians are both in favor of abolishing the death penalty in Texas, this aligns with the fiscal principles of their Platforms. Democrats push for more transparency and accountability to Texas’ citizens, regarding government spending, (TDP Platform Smart Government and Infrastructure), and Libertarians feel that Texas wastes its tax payer’s money due to mismanagement, negligence, fraud, and waste, and that spending should be cut. (10) Fiscally speaking, abolishing the death-penalty as an option in capital felony cases would result in a sizeable increase to the government budget and more importantly, provide a bit of relief to Texas’ taxpayers.

The Republican Party calls to freeze spending, until programs deemed wasteful have been eliminated, however, The Party feels that the monetary gains that should occur as a result of abolishing the death penalty, are not worth the cause. (GOP Platform Finance Sec. 76)

There is, of course, also the issue of morality. While Republicans feel that the punishment must fit the crime,, Democrats and Libertarians do not share the same moral viewpoint. In fact, the Democratic Platform clearly promotes restoring Texas’ morale status, throughout the world and promoting human rights. (TDP Platform Foreign Policy) Many states and countries do not agree with the death penalty, based on morale hesitations. In fact, with the United States being the only western country that still authorizes the use of the death penalty (Death Penalty Info), moving to abolish this form of punishment would align the country with more modern and humane ways of dealing with heinous crimes, shared by most of Western Society.

After an intense review of this topic, I can say that I do feel that Texas should move to abolish the death penalty. While this sentence may seem like a straight forward approach and offers mourning family members and loved ones a feeling of justice and closure, the burdens and cost of the trial and sentence simply outweigh this benefit. A sentence of death not only punishes the defendant, but the taxpayers as well. Our communities would be just as safe with the accused individual serving life in prison without parole, in lieu of death. Further, a deep look into the skewed number of African American/Black citizens facing the death penalty, in Texas, would be an important step in re-examining this form of punishment. Texas has a moral obligation to review its practices and determine exactly why this inequity is occurring, and what can be done to alleviate it.

Fighting to abolish the death penalty and commute current death-row inmates to life without parole, working diligently to begin examining our death-row demographic data, providing pro-active resources for high-risk individuals and resources for grieving family members of victims, proper education for our litigation teams, and improvements upon our safety regulations and scientific approaches to handling capital felonies, should become important topics for our Texas Legislative Members to address.

Works Cited

COSTS: (2009) Death Penalty Costs in Texas Outweigh Life Imprisonment, Death Penalty Information Center deathpenaltyinfo.org/news/costs-death-penalty-costs-in-texas-outweigh-life-im prisonment Accessed 10/1/2022.

DATA USA (2020). Texas. Demographics. datausa.io/profile/geo/texas#demographics, Accessed 11/18/2022

Death Penalty Info. (2022) 56 Prosecutors Issue Joint Statement Calling for End of “Broken” Death Penalty. fairandjustprosecution.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/FJP-Death-PenaltyJoint-Statement-2022 Accessed 10/3/2022.

Leach, Thompson of Harris, Dutton, Smithee, Collier, et al. (2021) H.B. No. 1340. capitol.texas.gov/tlodocs/87R/billtext/pdf/HB01340E.pdf#navpanes=0

Legislative Reference Library of Texas. Capital Punishment. Committees. texas.gov/committees/report Accessed11/3/2022

Lucio, (2020) S.B. No. 188.

capitol.texas.gov/billlookup/Text.aspx?LegSess=87R&Bill=SB188

Moody, Beckley, Howard (2020), H.B. No. 215. capitol.texas.gov/billlookup/Text.aspx?LegSess=87R&Bill=HB215

Texas Democrats. (2022). Our Platform. Texasdemocrats.org. Accessed11/2/2022

Texas Department of Criminal Justice. (2021) Death Row Information. tdcj.texas.gov/death_row/dr_facts.html Accessed 10/1/2022.

Texas GOP. (2022) Platform and Resolutions as Amended and Adopted by the 2022 State Convention of the Republican Party of Texas. Sec. 2, 39, 76, 189, 196, 228. texasgop.org wp-content/uploads/2022/07/2022-RPT-Platform.pdf. Accessed 11/8/2022.

Texas Libertarian Party Platform. Libertarian Party of Texas, 4, 9, 10 www.lptexas.org/platform. Accessed 11/10/2022

Texas Penal Code. Offenses against the Person, Criminal Homicide. Sec 19.03. statutes.capitol.texas.gov/Docs/PE/htm/PE.19.htm

Texas Penal Code. Punishments. Sec 12.31. statutes.capitol.texas.gov/Docs/PE/htm/PE.12.htm

The Texas Politics Project. (2021) Support for the Death Penalty. University of Texas at Austin. texaspolitics.utexas.edu/set/support-death-penalty-april-2021. Accessed 11/15/2022

The Texas Tribune. (2012) UT/TT Poll: Texans Stand behind the Death Penalty. www.texastribune.org/2012/05/24/uttt-poll-life-and-death/ Accessed 10/7/2022.

How Rosario, Argentina was Affected Throughout Changes of Power

Kaneolani Frisella

Argentina is a land heavily influenced by European immigrants escaping from despotic governments, a land heavily influenced by independence-seeking individuals. During the ‘70s, when my father lived there, it was a land ruled by despots, the likes of which my ancestors tried to escape. He would always mention this story whenever we got on radical Socialism.

Argentina had fallen into political turmoil since the ousting of President Juán Perón and his leftist policies in the mid ‘50s. Upon the overthrow of Perón’s third wife, Isabel Perón, the military came along and attempted to restore order to the country. They did so via brute force by designated death squads. Anyone speaking out against the new atrocities committed by the military junta was severely punished.

Living on the outskirts of Rosario, in the province of Santa Fe, the road my father and his family lived on was the first road one came across when traveling from the capital of Buenos Aires. They lived with my great-grandparents in the fourth house on the block. During this time, my father’s grandfather did his best to stifle his very vocal grandmother from speaking out against the government, as they could, and often did, unspeakable things to people like her. His philosophy was to wave whichever banner of political ideology controlled the country.

Everyone on the block knew one another and was relatively close-knit. They would often gather at someone’s house and have some decent company. The conversation would eventually lean into the politics of the day.

The family that lived in the corner house had a son in university. His name was Jorge. He was studying to become a doctor. Jorge was a leader in an on-campus left-leaning student group and often organized marches in protest of the right-leaning military government and their heavy-handed way of dealing with dissidents. He was fearless and thought the only way to fight the despotic junta was to point out the vicious way they did things. Unfortunately, he made it onto their radar.

One afternoon, while my father was eating lunch with his grandparents, they felt, more than heard, an explosion. They also heard yelling and crying outside. The house on the corner had blown up. Jorge and one of his parents had died in the explosion. The other parent survived, but barely. This family violently became yet another statistic in the ongoing ‘Dirty War’ being perpetrated upon the citizenry by a very heavy-handed military.

From that day forward, my great-grandmother would only speak of her displeasure with the country’s direction in the confines of her home and barely a whisper. It seemed that trying to suppress any opposing opinions in Argentina was working.

The tragedy my father was around for, as they were on the same street, affected the people living around the area. Living on the same street has imprinted memories in my father, reinforcing the importance of streets. As The Address Book by Deidre Mask states, “[streets] tell a grander narrative of how power has shifted and stretched over the centuries” (14). This could be seen as the junta overthrew the government in Argentina. Inside Rosario, Argentina, the changes implemented by the National Reorganization Process, which included the junta and their leader Jorge Videla and Peronism, which was under Peron, affected the citizens by suppressing public protest and causing the loss of jobs due to an unstable economy.

Inside Argentina, citizens were terrorized by the junta to not speak out against their military government that was in control after Peron and his third wife were removed. Political violence-plagued every citizen. People felt scared in the streets and were silenced from speaking out. They feared being the next if they were not made into the example of going against the junta. Even so, a flourishing mass of citizens was growing confident in their political opinions contrary to the junta’s belief. These citizens were the college students who were at an influx after Peron passed a “law that established free-tuition and open access to higher education” (Mendonça 2). As more students joined the political organizations, more voices protested in opposition. With more protested opposition related to politics, there was an “increase of student political organizations” (Mendonça 2) which the junta saw as a threat. As Sebastian Carassai states, “Argentine fascists made clear […] [of ] their aversion to socialism and communism, whose

activists were seen as enemies of the nation” (1). The junta began enforcing different ways to repress these ideals. As Mariana Mendonça mentioned, these ways consisted of prohibiting political activities, restricting access to higher education to prevent the increase of students, and even using violent tactics (2). However, the junta’s actions did the opposite and promoted more political opposition within the student body. Granted, this is how the junta started attacking students and their families, like the Jorge situation that my father indirectly witnessed, which instilled fear inside the community. Overall, the actions taken by the junta affected the students inside Argentina, and their deaths affected other citizens.

Similarly, Peron’s laws and actions affected the people inside Rosario, negatively impacting the economy, causing inflation to become rampant, and even decreasing jobs. Rosario, Argentina, is an industrial city that also couples as a port city. Once Peron was in office, he would change policies that seemed suitable for the economy. These policies were stopgap measures only meant to get him reelected. The economy suffered greatly from it as imports and exports fell precipitously. This not only affected the country but was felt more keenly in Rosario as it is a port city and the major industrial city in the nation. Jobs were ruined there, leading to the economy stagnating and no supplies present. Despite the problems occurring within the nation and, in turn, Rosario, the people were not against Peron. The citizens in Argentina were not against this because of the propaganda machine put into place by Peron’s new Divison of Radio Action. Federico Mario Lindenboim mentions that Peron made radio messages that were produced by this new division that would use different languages and numbers to make things seem better than they were. Peron even enlisted the help of celebrities to spread messages that would redefine in a less negative way what was occurring in order to appease the masses (3-6). Given these events, the people inside Rosario., Argentina suffered through economic and political lows but where complacent due to the propaganda.

In conclusion, throughout the eras controlled by Peron and the Junta military, the citizens inside of Argentina, especially inside of Rosario, suffered. The junta silenced protestors, and propaganda sated the citizens under Peron. Both sides had problems that affected the citizens in negative ways. The actions seen by Peron can even be found in specific countries today, which may lead to the discourse between the economy of Peron and the consequences of the junta.

Works Cited

CARASSAI, SEBASTIÁN. “The Ideological Origins of the Dirty War: Fascism, Populism, and Dictatorship in Twentieth Century Argentina.” American Historical Review, vol. 122, no. 4, Oct. 2017, pp. 1284–85. EBSCOhost, https://doi.org/10.1093/ahr/122.4.1284.

Mario Lindenboim, Federico. “Difundir y Convencer. La Propaganda Radial Durante El Plan de Emergencia Económica Del Peronismo (1952).” Quinto Sol: Revista de Historia Regional, vol. 25, no. 3, Sept. 2021, pp. 1–21. EBSCOhost, https://doi-org.northcenttexascollegelibrary.idm.oclc. org/10.19137/qs.v25i3.4845.

Mask, Deirdre. Address Book. Reprint, Griffin, 2021. Mendonça, Mariana. “Universities in Argentina between Lanusse and Peron (1971–1973): Youth, Repression and Dialogue.” Journal of Iberian & Latin American Studies, vol. 27, no. 2, Aug. 2021, pp. 235–50. EBSCOhost, https://doi.org/10.1080/14701847.2021.1946911.

ADULT POETRY

Where Wildflowers Grow

Alan Elliott

A cluster of wildflowers grow on a street corner. Nineteen, and two more. Reaching for light on a cloudless day. Dew drenched. Crisp. Blossoming. They remember a school filled with Spelling bees. Story times. Nursery rhymes. Hallway chatter. Playground laughter. Forever friends. Flourishing. Nourishing. Growing.

Never expecting evil’s reach, trampling buds before they flower. Stealing memories of a First date. First kiss. Honeymoon bliss. Breaking branches on family trees, Never to be. Never to be.

Pray, not in vain. Pray, never again. Work, speak, act. React. Remember the nineteen, and two more On this sacred ground where wildflowers grow. At the corner of Old Geraldine and Carrizo. In Uvalde.

What Am I Missing

Debbie

Rhodes

It took so many moments of stillness

Falling asleep in the wooded creek

To hear the faint rustle of leaves

A perilously small creature daring to adventure

Beneath a dark cloak of decomposing earth

I rushed the leaves aside and the moment was gone

I was too eager to uncover the mystery

Now All remained quiet

I should have known

Nature does not wish to hurry

It doesn’t like noise and harsh footsteps

Now, something pulls at me to come away from this place of insight

It calls me to duty and obligation

Inside four stale inanimate walls

The same force which keeps my sight and my senses from experiencing

This tiny, resolute being

I will never come to know

But then I say,

“Just a minute more”

He rustles again

And I can cling to the intimate nature of this being That knows this earth so well

The Six Senses of Motherhood

Mary Davenport

(For Amelie and Bowen)

That cotton-clean and milk-breath scent

Of smooth skin slick from a bath beneath the soothing stream of the kitchen faucet. Of freshly laundered footed pajamas and sunlight on crisp crib sheets. I wish I could bottle these smells, And press them to my nose when you no longer fit in my little farmhouse sink.

That wondrously warm and weighted feeling

Of you nestled on my chest, as close as close gets. Of the feathery wisps of hair tickling my chin as we rock to the beat of both our hearts. I wish I could weave this feeling through a blanket, And tighten it around my shoulders when your small hands no longer reach to clasp behind my neck.

That pure, infectious, and joyous sound

Of pealing laughter for funny faces, raspberries, and piggies gone to market. Of bubbling belly chuckles and wild squeals. I wish I could record these sounds on my heart, And play them back on repeat when you no longer laugh so easily.

That singular, soft, and perfect sight

Of rosy-cheeks and heavily-lashed eyes always searching for me. Of you curled on your side, or arms splayed out, caught mid-interpretive dance move in your sleep. No photo snapped, no filter applied, ever captures you with complete accuracy.

I wish I could program a perpetual slideshow, dream in default, And flip through these images when you no longer focus only on me.

That heartbreaking and heart-healing, gravitational love

Of the first time you opened your pink hand and closed it around my finger. Of listening and feeling for your breathing over and over and over each night.

Of you looking at me like I am the center of your world.

It’s almost a sixth sense,

Awakened at the feeling of that first kick.

Intensified at hearing your first bold cry. Solidified the first time I pulled you to my chest, captivated by your smell- so new, and yet, so familiar.

I know I will love you always.

Please remember this

When you no longer want to hold my hand.

When you don’t need me at your bedside in the deep hours of the night.

When you find out that I am flawed.

Remember this

When I am no longer the center of your world.

For you will always be the center of mine.

if I could choose my broken

Mary Morrison

if grief could heal the world

i’d be the specialist with a magic touch— highly sought after.

loving you wanting you brought me here, and now

i’d rather a broken arm broken back broken body

i’m stuck.

with you than a broken smile broken hope broken heart without you.

ache in my chest won’t go away weight on my shoulders makes sitting up straight exhausting face feels like it’s sagging everything pulling downward much lower and life itself cannot be sustained.

Private Nights Cole Conley

Under the influence, Under threat of moonlight and red lights.

I keep driving towards the surgical theater

We vivisect these nights

Examining their tar-stained bones, their ribcages full of cigarette butts And tattered moth wings.

Nervous systems, tangled like gordian knots. We can never sever these ties which bind us.

These nooses we share are dutifully preserved--

Pickled in bottom shelf liquor, Stagnant in the reek of old smoke, Encased in the amber of ambivalence.

Our intentions are dry-firing.

These nights we spend creeping from Main Street to the most obscure outskirts, The empty reaches of country roads whose death tolls number in the dozens.

Night is a black widow.

The constellations are her webs.

The Moon is a spider’s egg.

Like unwitting prey lured to their fates we ensnare each other in our lowlife designs.

I can draw my nights in pharmaceutical clarity.

Attempts at contact through the shadows of bare tree branches.

I hang an empty bottle from the limbs

And count my steps while she counts her breaths.

We are drawing our circles again

A circumference cut along the outer bounds of our unarmored perimeter. Haunted in our circles, by the depths of our anxieties and cowardice.

Hunted in our circles, pushed to the cold center of our little universe. Black holes, in waiting.

Easily collapsible stars, in practice.

This drunken ambition yields futile gnashing at the chains which bind us. Behind the wheel, Guts burning, flight over fight.

Beneath the wheel, Rubber burning, flight over fight.

I am the wheel, Glassy eyes burning, back into the night.

Before the New Dawn Matthew Terry

Awoken by the sun in a field of dew

Fire burns from the pit the night before

As the full moon settled life had piqued

People shuffled and scuffled every other way

Stars disappeared and fell from the sky

Distant thunderstorms surrounded the hill

Like a battlefield lighting up the fire grew bigger

And the lightning struck brighter

The noise of thunder roaring across fields

Through the forests and rivers across the lake

As the music played on and the people dropped one by one

Until the morning when everyone but one could still be heard

This is the end my only friend

The voice overheard above the crowd cried

Back awoken by the dew and the shadow of a man

The figure and features unimaginable for anyone

Reposed to life led by the undefined figure to forget the past

The life had left behind and the people gone ahead of the new day

Making Pottery

Kasey Rhodes

why should I break myself into pieces so that I may live in holes to small for me when I am whole i am a shattered dish being pieced together by a child with glue and wishful thinking . . .

or am I clay handing myself over to be shaped by others flattened rolled rounded . . . then again

HIGH SCHOOL POETRY

Bee Stinger Maryam Anwar

People stung me like a bee

Pushing into my skin with their sharp words

My bitter childhood memories surrounded my thoughts I wish I could go back in time and explain to them That these sharp words were unkind please.

I dreamt and I dreamt Of a life different than what I see A plethora of immaturity, Surrounded by mean

I grew up and got older, With time I see, I started stinging others, with the sharpness of thee I held my breath, and count to ten, Ashamed of myself but leaving me be

Thinking of what I had become, Looked in the mirror feeling numb Have I lost myself, did I really succumb?

I stung people like a bee

Pushing into their skin with my sharp words Being bitter like they were to me in the third (grade), I wish I could go far in the future and explain to thee That These Sharp Words Were Unkind Please.

I Belong Here

Riya Sajan

I don’t belong here

And don’t try to convince me that My skin is the right color

Because when you take a closer look I can never be equal to the rest of them

And I will never lie to myself and say that The color of my skin makes me beautiful and unique I promise you that I will keep telling myself that I deserve the judgment of others

And nothing you say will make me believe that I still deserve love

Because no matter what you say

What’s on the outside is all that matters

And nothing you do will ever make me believe that My color makes me who I am

Author’s Notes

Now read the lines from bottom to top. Today, there are many instances where the world can be unfair to individuals or groups of people. I want to make a difference in the world by promoting equality for all people no matter their race, gender, appearance, or other factors that make them who they are. Nobody should feel like they don’t belong in this world that is meant for everybody.

Yet Another Troubled Soul

Shreya Venkatachalam

I love the rain, The slightly chilling breeze, The unmerciful lightening, The small droplets. I love the rain, The peace of it all, The misty wind that rests On my skin, The quietness of the critters As the beat of the downpower Overpowers that of my own racing heart. I love the rain, Because for once, Like me, Something else breaks apart, Shatters and weeps. I love the rain, Because the skies’ rage thrums

To the beat of my own seething. And while I can’t scream to my heart’s content, The skies most definitely can As they crash into this cruel Earth, Pummeling it with the thunder that carries their anger and aching pain. I love the rain,

Because when I stand out getting pelted by the shards of Cold tears the skies cry out, I can hide the salty streaks on my own bloodless cheeks And deceive the world and myself Into believing it’s the fury of the skies Rather than that of my own turmoil.

I love the rain, Because I can simply drown in the storm, Listening to the sounds of misery and yearning the skies make, In tandem to mine Feeling understood for once.

Era of Your Dreams

Yasmi Nunez

She said: Look keep dreaming

Gaze beauty

High in the sky; keep beaming

Look “cutie” write the meaning

Composition written for a rhythm

Leaping through algorithm

Millennium of sweet alyssum

Growth in the night vision

Renaissance from the west

Draw my way to confidence

Perplexed with the alphabet

Bloom with elegance

Eloquence with romance from the closet

Born from the pain

The swear that I’m soaked in

Promised to make profit

Prophet that’ll remain

To rephrase the domain

From the words to be paved

To the verses to be fixed

So what’s death?

Translate depth

Perfect! Now nourish

“A soul to be flourish”

Pieces shoot to the sky

Sugary spell; The words that foretell “Sequel to Prequel”

Self-Propel your wings to fly

Put others out of your way

Because you’re a legend and you’re here to stay

Now times up, buy your tickets to lullaby

Butterfly of my heart keep resounding

New beginning of astounding

Poetry contemplating constellations

Hallucinations or Aspirations?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Sonder 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, Dean of Communications, Language and Performing Arts Kristen Weinzapfel, English Division Chair

Thank you to all professors, teachers, parents, guardians, and friends who encouraged writers to create and submit and to all NCTC employees who helped make this year’s journal a reality.

Thank you to Demi Bayer for cover design and layout of publication.

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