Eastern Exposure 2023

EastErn ExposurE

EastErn ExposurE, Eastern Connecticut State University’s student literary magazine, is published annually by the Creative Writing Club of Eastern Connecticut State University, English Department, 225 Webb Hall, 83 Windham Street, Willimantic, CT 06226.

website: https://www.easternct.edu/writers-guild/eastern-exposure.html

email: easternwriters@my.easternct.edu

Phone: 860-456-4570

Fax: 860-456-4580

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Daniel Donaghy, Professor of English

2022-23 Creative Writing Club Executive Board

President: Maisie Hayes

Vice President: Sammy Vertucci

Secretary: Savion Ross

Readers: Cody Boulette and Evan Morin

Chief Editor

Malek Allari

Cover Art

“Raison D’etre” by Salavanh Thongchampasy

EastErn ExposurE showcases the literary work of Eastern Connecticut State University’s student writers. In doing so, it promotes the university’s mission to be “the state ’ s public liberal arts university” and “to be a model community of learners of different ages from diverse cultural, racial, and social backgrounds.”

SUBMISSIONS: EastErn ExposurE accepts submissions of student creative writing from the beginning of the fall term until 4 p.m. on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. All Eastern students are invited to submit their work (up to five pieces, up to ten pages total) via our Submittable account: https://easternwriters.submittable.com/submit.

EastErn ExposurE is distributed free to members of the Eastern Connecticut State University community. Current issues are available in the campus bookstore, the Student Center, Smith Library, and the English Department Office. Back issues may be available through the Creative Writing Club Faculty Advisor and the English Department.

All print rights for individual works revert to contributors upon publication. However, the editors of EastErn ExposurE reserve the right to feature work printed in journal on its website.

© 2023 Eastern Connecticut State University. All rights reserved.

Dear Reader,

I’d heard a quote recently that made me reflect on the work I’ve been doing with this literary journal. A quote from Margaret Atwood: “A word after a word after a word is power.”

Power is the common thread uniting each work in this year’s issue of Eastern Exposure. Power is the call to action inspired by the recent Black Lives Matter movement in the ongoing fight for civil rights in our country. It is the defiance against the xenophobia that has leeched into our political system, the call for activism and anti-racism, all propelled by the demand for national change. In a time where it is more important than ever that these voices be heard, I am proud to have a part in providing a platform.

Power is the emotional impact of every work in this journal. As we continue to recover from the COVID-19 pandemic, we heal from our time apart by growing closer together. Many of these works are about family, childhood, about the aches of growing up, and persevering through challenging times. It is these stories of humanity that have kept us connected and united throughout these last few years of isolation and uncertainty.

Power is the remarkable prowess observed in the artwork of this issue. In my four years at Eastern, and my two years working with this journal, we have never had this much student artwork to feature. As a whole, this edition of Eastern Exposure has had the highest variety of submissions. From poetry, art, fiction, and memoir, it has been wonderful to see the range of talent Eastern has to offer.

I’d like to thank our active Creative Writing Club members for all their help going through submissions, and making our community as supportive as it is. Thank you to my fellow E-Board members and friends, whose hard work has made this edition possible: Sammy Vertucci, and Savion Ross. I want to give extra special thanks to our club advisor, Dr. Donaghy, for providing direction throughout this hefty project, and always supporting Eastern students in our creative pursuits.

Sincerely,

Maisie Hayes Creative Writing Club President

LAURA BIDWELL

Ocean’s Solitude

The rhythm of the Gulf rushes into me, dares to swallow me beneath the ocean’s floor. saltwater urges goosebumps to rise, and I am submerged, / breathing / floating in my oxygen just fine.

Had I only noticed that you were being smothered in your own home, I’d give you my lungs / trade in my gums to stop chewing on your gills / saturated with thick oil spills / the breading falls into my marinara dinner bowl. Had I too much to eat / you are vulnerable chasing the air / empty / fossilized too soon to rest in sand dunes / you are gone in the soup of the ocean / fresh out of the oven / into the mouth, exhaling CO2 like poison

Under my tongue, my last winded shriek is for you. For you to welcome whales to feed on me / fill their bellies and spit my bones / sucked dry and brittle, back into the ocean where you’re starving for breath.

a Fast and slithering slope

the snake first appeared when i was ten. she emerged in the form of a request: do you want to run with me? she wanted me to lose my baby weight. she wanted to see how Fast i could run.

the snake steadily seized my thoughts and sunk her poisonous fangs in me, refusing to set me free.

she injected my blood with embarrassment and fed on my walk of shame to the Large section. administering me with frustration when they fit too tight or wouldn’t zip at all.

she convinced me to Fast. allowing me dinner and offering tea when the growls grew loud. she filled me with emetic guilt for gorging on more.

the snake refused to shed its protective skin around me. she wrapped me in jackets, concealing my body with a false sense of security.

intermittently, shame wears off and anger takes its place. it boils my blood and heats my cheeks. it rattles me to know that i was too young to be poisoned.

EUGENE BERTRAND

Black Lives Matter

Black Lives Matter they say. He called out for his mother. Yes. George Floyd. Seeing the video makes you feel sick. Yes. George Floyd. Even walking the streets makes you feel scared. Handcuffed. Face Down. Knee on your neck. They did nothing. You. All of this could happen to you at any moment. Just because your skin is black. This is the scary part: He begged for his life. He begged for mercy. He begged... please. His body trembled. His body slowly losing life. This is a scary reality for us, mom says. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. They did nothing.

Your first encounter with cops, you nearly cried. You’re scared. Thank God you had my ID card on you... plus one more. Every day, you pray you are not added to this list.

Reasons I Stay

Because I love petting dogs I pass on the sidewalk.

Silk sheets caressing our bare skin, patchouli cologne, raspberry vanilla perfume, and sweat mixing together under your comforter, shutting out the cold of the winter night.

The smell of asphalt after rain. Scrambled eggs with ketchup. Charcuterie boards by the fireplace. Scary movies on the couch. Oversized hoodies that smell like clean laundry, still warm from the dryer.

Pebbles. Stuffed animals. Songs that remind me of the last summer of high school, compiled by four friends who spent every day together. Pokémon cards in plastic covers.

Holding your hand while I cross the uneven tree branch that bridges over the trickling stream, interrupting our hike in the woods. Hearing you tell me to grab on and skip across, that you’ve got me and won’t let me fall.

Because the cold sneaks in under my five layers of clothes, and the snow falls so heavily that it sticks to my eyelashes.

Because Jayden needs his sister to teach him how to navigate our mother’s mood swings. Because Gunner is a once in a lifetime dog. Because Paige asked me to be her Maid of Honor.

The way the frost on my windshield makes little rainbows dance in my car on cold mornings before work.

That the sun still comes up even after my darkest nights alone. That my grandpa kept going, even after grandma passed.

The chionodoxa that grows on the edge of my yard, soft and blue. Looking up towards the sun, basking in her rays. Nature that goes untouched, unscathed by humans. The flower’s blue is my favorite color because it reminds me of you.

Sunflower Warmth

When a sunflower cannot find the sun, It finds it’s warmth within the closest sunflower that stands nearby; Tilting its bright yellow arms towards it, almost as if to reach out and say,

“Hey, we have each other”

When my father left in the middle of the night, his words stuck with me and rang through the church of my mind, proclaiming a mass that was devoted to his absence. He said…

Nothing.

My father never took into consideration, never pondered how we would take the news with our morning coffee.

Because that morning I took mine as dark as the storm that was brewing overhead in my mind,

As bitter as the taste of blood running down my cheek from cuts of my own silence as my tongue choked up in my throat.

As turbulent as the sea in my chest that crashed and threw the ship of my stability around as if it were a rag doll.

When my father left, he took the words out of my mouth with him, as I stood, stunned at the bottom of the steps, not knowing how to react as my mother filled the emptiness in my heart with a river of sorrow.

When my mother cries, her glasses fog up, and the condensation becomes a thin veil that I wish she would use to shield herself from the hurt.

But pain doesn’t know of social cues.

Torture and heartache cannot read a room, and do not dare ask it to tell you if it is okay to come barging in the door of my spirit.

For it will ignore every sit-down talk that you have with it. It will call your name and not respond to your answer, For it does not care for your heartache, if itself does not have a heart that can be broken.

When my heart broke, I looked at the mess laid out before me, bent over to pick up a piece, stared at it silently, and drew a sunflower on the back of it. Hoping that one day, I too may find warmth in those closest to me.

MARGARET ROUSSEAU

Propitiating Juno

We take flight and flock to her side, and we spend the week dutifully completing rituals: the meeting of the in-laws, the dinners and joint outings, the (part-faked) conviviality with people I may never see again. We drink mimosas alongside our coffee on that morning, We make sure she has her something blue and everything, We help her practice putting on the rings. (My father weeps freely during the service.) The night before, she does not sleep in her own bed. Instead, they separate and do not see each other, as if they have never touched, as if this is her first wedding I’m attending, as if they are not approaching middle age and have a house and dogs, as if some great Wedding God is watching (and this is already the second chance). The ritual is performed, the superstition is heard, the old wisdom is yielded to. We sleep, three in a queen-size bed, parentheticals about her: The bridal party, propitiating Juno.

JUANA SANTANA

The Ticking of the Clock

On September 7, 2022. The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) issued a final rule, with limited changes. The Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) continued. The policy was initially announced in 2012.

We were given opportunities to attend school, apply for a driver’s license, have a decent job, and even purchase a home. But these privileges come at a cost. The uncertainty of tomorrow. You ask us to be more.

To take our opportunities and create more. But how can we reach for more if at every turn we fear to lose it all?

You fill our minds with gaping holes you call the future. Build a life, but keep in mind you might not have it in a few years. These are the leftovers you pretend to feed us. You proudly condemn us to years of unfathomable thirst. A thirst so lasting that, by the time we reach thirty-three, we become dust. Judges take turns poking and pulling at our status. Ruthlessly stating that we exist through means of unlawfulness. Is this really what you call living?

Constantly concerned with the expiration date on your permit. January, February, March, April, four months before. Apply, submit.

We continue to live in increments of two. Two years until our next renewal. The expiration date listed above our names.

Siempre Te Voy Estar Esperando

Sitting on the dingy couch, I’m caught by surprise. Faded edges curl in the frame, A young girl sat on a desk near the edge of a window, Her smile warm and bright as she placed her hand over her hip. My mother’s vibrant nature radiating as the photo curls at each side.

Across the room, I see her again. Her features more mature. Her eyes speak of the years that were left behind. Long nights that thread along the edge of days, weeks, and months.

Until they became years. She sold her vision for a fraction of a price.

Sitting across from me, is my mother. Still expecting her daughter to return. Her warm smile sweet and never changing. Tightly squeezing her hands, I feel the pressure of the years we spent without speaking. Leaning forward and with a single sentence, She melted away the glacier that sat between us. She promised to always wait.

CHRISTEENA AARON

Black, Bold, and Proud

“I don’t see color” is what they say. Well, if you don’t see color, then you don’t see me. My face, my hands, my legs, my cheeks, my eyes brown. My hair is as dark as night and my spirit is as bright as the sun. I am black, bold, and proud.

Proud of who I am and to live in this skin.

Skin that is beautiful.

Skin that is powerful.

Skin that empowers me to excel in my studies and thrive in my environment. So, if you don’t see color, then you don’t see me.

Fading Fall

As a child, Fall was my favorite time of year. It would fill my senses until all I could see were vibrant, warm colors, And all I could smell was the crispness of autumn air As that sharp, refreshing, breeze filled my nostrils.

Fall was my birthday—a time to celebrate. Friends would always come together To feast on vanilla cupcakes with chocolate frosting And cold apple cider in white paper cups.

Chatter would fill the area as we discussed Halloween, Which would always be just a few weeks away. We’d joke about wearing matching costumes And groan at any early mention of winter festivities.

Running around in my wooded backyard, We’d throw leaves in the air paired with laughter. Chasing each other through the curtains of orange, red, and yellow, Crunching them beneath our shoes as they landed.

Every time fall returned, things stayed like this. As the seasons changed before our eyes, It was comforting to begin again with the same familiar faces That shared love for the season every single time.

It stayed like this until one final year, When fall came and pushed us out of the hometown bubble, Separating friends as they landed miles away, Floating to the ground to share their colors elsewhere.

For me, the trees began to shed their leaves across the state; Seemingly in a whole different universe.

I walked around this new place, scrunching further into my sweater, Knowing that those around me wouldn’t share the nostalgic sentiment.

So I’d just keep walking. Crunching leaves under my boots, And breathing in that chilled air, Knowing that the leaves will still fall when I return home.

CLAIRE TREACY

Peach

Juicy and ripe. Cut in half, exposing itself sexually. There’s no erotic meaning behind it, and no, it’s not just another tattoo. It’s my home.

Georgia. The peach state. Where I was welcomed into a world that I am not ready for.

The act of getting the peach was agonizing. Having a high pain tolerance comes in handy, but this time it reminded me of seventh grade.

Two a.m. and unable to sleep. Disturbing thoughts interrupt my sleep. The sharpest object in my room becomes my paintbrush and my skin is my canvas.

Now in my twenties, my skin is a canvas. I can put whatever I want on it. I can do color or simple black and grey.

I can do whatever I want with my body.

I can “ruin” it as many people put it or I could tell my story and show my interests on my canvas.

Can Girls be Robots?

There are robots outside of my window. They wave to me as they pass by, giant bodies brushing the fog in the rainy sky. I can only stare, mouth agape, as they stomp past my house. I feel just like them, but the reason why sits in the bile of my stomach unspoken.

There are robots next to me on the swings. They can barely fit into the rubber seats, and I laugh at their frustration. Hey, Dead Name, why don’t you play with us and stop swinging by yourself? My name is a factory code, meaning the robots’ recess is up.

Sometimes the robots talk to me. Their voices are smooth, a strong contrast to their boxy frames. They call my name in my head, but I ask them not to, calling myself Dawn. A new horizon not yet explored, but simply touched upon in my psyche.

Do you think I’m weird for having robots? These imaginary friends, they feel so real to me, comforting me at night when I get upset, tears flowing at why I’m so alone and synthetic in real life. The robots know my real name – but they won’t tell me it yet.

I have robots inside of my soul. Ones and zeros make no sense, a binary meant to be broken. Metal parts replace the hurting heart and suddenly I feel a bit less alien to myself. The robots don’t make fun of me when I say I don’t feel like a girl.

Atonement

I confess, thinking of you burns like a salt rub on an open wound. The sting lingers longer than your ghost upon my room. Your weight no longer pushes down my mattress. And I can’t feel the hand that once held mine.

I confess, your absence has left me cold. I’d once burst with heat running up and down my spine. Now, my palms turn anything that they touch into ice. But sometimes, thinking of you still brings blood rushing to my face.

I confess, I resent you. Your hands molded me into your desired image, this shape. And just as fast, it sloped and toppled over. Leaving a mess that I now must clean.

I confess, I wonder if you remember my voice. How I held you close to me, tightly, yet not tight enough. How about my smile? My laugh? Do you remember how I felt? Soft and ripe.

But like any sweet fruit, I was soon to expire. Is it really heartbreak if my heart was never yours? Too high up the vine to be picked and pummeled For its sweet juice.

I confess, I have a hard time remembering you. It’s fuzzy, although my fingertips faintly recollect tracing the Curves of your face. Passing through mountains and valleys. My hands cupping it like a dire needed pool of water.

I confess, this has been my hardest goodbye. A cleansing of a soul that isn’t mine.

Chisel and Saw

There is only one such pain that can resemble a brown recluse Spiders bite into their prey’s skin. The venomous, excruciating ache. That is, being carved from ivory, With a hand chisel and a saw.

The great sculpture Pygmalion accomplished Something many can only dream of; Creating the perfect woman, and making her his bride. Galatea.

I am the world’s ivory and it is my chisel.

From the moment I was born, men and women alike were enticed to shape me To what they wanted, to what I should be. Yet unlike Galatea, I am merely made of the dirt under my mother’s foot. I am made of blood and mud.

No matter how tight the whalebone corset is, it cannot keep me shapely for long. The release of a clasp on the back of my bra Is my relinquishment. Allowing myself to completely relax my ever so clenched jaw, Intended to grind away the nerves of walking across a group of grown men,

Leaving my teeth raw,

In the fear that they will follow me

Down the city street to the nearest bookstore, Where I planned to sit and read.

Instead, I am now faced with the responsibility to move in such a manner that my hips sway A bit more than usual.

I go back to Pygmalion and Galatea, Man is lonely, so man must make a bride from Ivory.

And she must be perfect. You can only wonder what a perfect, ivory bride would think of her strange husband. She was given no choice; everything was set in stone. She was not released from her ivory restraints, They were created, and now she was a woman With the need to hide behind the one that created her.

I read the book and I’m filled with nothing. And as I view my fleshy body being chipped at by those who could care less of my choice. From people who need to carve me into what they would like.

I go back to Pygmalion and Galatea.

And I ask you to put down your hand chisel and your saw.

ELLIOT LAWRENCE IV

My Father’s Hands

The tired, callused, fingers that hold it all together. When no one else believes. A selfless hand on my shoulder

As we sit in the white, grey, black, and silver Buick Century, My father rebuilt for my sister time and time again, With Pull it Sam’s scrap yard parts. That thing was a deer magnet. We sit in the lot of BankHometown.

As I tell the man who wishes everything for me.

“I don’t think I can do it, I can’t finish school.”

A warm rain drop leaps out of my eye. My eyes fixated on the horizon, If I looked at him I’ve had fallen apart indefinitely.

“My only wish is that you do better than me and have a full life. Please do not give up and sell yourself short.”

Not once did he mention the acid burns on his hands Or money, he handed us From his tanker work

As he shifted gears thousands of times a day. To feed our family, provide always, and come home thrilled to see us, Alive, happy, and well.

My father’s hands on the worn steering wheel of that Buick, One steelie, four colors, a car that belonged to a realm he did not. Puking pungent transmission fluid on the ground, sick with age. But he drove it every day until it died.

“I am fifty years old, and I don’t care what people think.” He would say. But I did.

My heart split as the man who gave my family the world Was driving a hand-me-down car from my sister Which he bought for her instead of buying himself a car.

My father’s hands that sacrificed peace, sleep, time, money, energy. Who taught me to be a man, better than himself, as he tells me. The hands of the man that gain wrinkles as he pushes me to pursue my dreams.

An Ode to Humanity

I was not born from nature’s mother. Her arms veined of tree branches, Snapped clean from the wind she blows in moments of agony. Expression in the sun that glistens on snow, Sparkling as if the stars have been transported.

I was not born of her dirt Bathing in rainwater, Crumbling in drought.

I was not born of her tears, Of her stormy nights.

Of her children that frolic in open meadows, Mountains, Oceans that stretch across her belly.

I am not hers to hold, Hers to cherish, Hers to love with welcoming arms, Pulling me together and smelling her musky, Grounded, aroma.

Instead, I reek of poison, Of smoke,

Of asphyxiation in her weakening lungs.

I was born of ash. Born of the world that once existed, Burnt to meet the dirt she breathes through.

Of oil. Of fire. Of destruction.

I am not a child of the mother, But the child of her murderers.

Basking in her sunny glow, Not one that glistens with joy, But one that crackles with anguish.

No matter how her defiance gleams, No matter how she retaliates, Even in the dead of winter, Even in times she is expected to rest, She burns.

I am the child of those that lit the match.

August 26th, 2020

I never knew what your problem was. I knew you had one, But I didn’t know how serious it was. Until it almost took you away from me–You didn’t kill yourself–

You were never around, Always going to parties, hanging with your friends, With people we didn’t want around–But you stuck with us anyway. You didn’t kill yourself–

One night you came home. I was watching a show on Netflix, in bed, with my headphones on. I could hear the faint sound of someone talking in the hallway. Whispering like a mouse, You talked about it once or twice, but You didn’t kill yourself–

Mom and I came out of our bedrooms. I could hear the fear in her voice when she spoke the words “There’s something wrong with him!” We all ran into your room to check, but You didn’t kill yourself–

What we saw was a body.

Lying flat, gray in the face, The eyes, the mouth, Cold, stiff, but not quite dead.

Breathing in, but not being able to breathe out; trying to gasp for air. The next three hours of what happened is a blur.

I remember the 90-pound girl in front of me

Struggling to do CPR on your 230-pound body–

I remember the sound mom’s voice as she frantically paced back and forth–Waiting.

On the phone with 9-1-1, praying the ambulance would get there soon. To save him–

To save my brother.

I remember the feeling of my heart dropping and rolling around in my stomach. I remember the moment you stopped breathing completely. At that moment, it was almost too late.

For the first time in a long time, I prayed. I prayed you would be okay. And thank God you were.

They rolled you out of the house. You were conscious and then you choked. Your mouth filled with a thick fluid. It spilled out when they turned you on your side, Splashing on the tiles of the floor and bouncing on the fridge.

You have no memory of what happened. But we do–

You didn’t think this would ever happen to you–But we did. We knew eventually. You didn’t kill yourself–But the drugs would have.

Losing You

I lose you in the morning with my coffee, And the evening with my tea.

I lose you in the rain, And in every melody. I lose you in the flowers

I press between each page Of the poems I write to reach you And the ones I write in rage. I lose you in the yesterdays, And in the setting sun. The sky bleeds a million colors. I lose you in each one. I lose you in everything, But I would be surprised, If I lost you in the blue Of someone else’s eyes.

NICHOLAS CHIACCHIA

City of the Woods

Leave the jungle of confines and concrete

And enter the city of wilderness and wildlife.

See the highrises of oak, maple, and ash

With their residents like the squirrel, Robin, and woodpecker.

Look to the subway that is the river

Traveled by sunfish, bass, trout, and beaver.

The forest is the parkway on which spry deer, Sleek foxes, and lumbering bears

Dash through the blanket of leaves

On the forest floor.

There is air traffic too, with honeybees, Dragonflies, and ladybugs buzzing about,

Darting between every branch, leaf, and blade of grass.

The plants form their own boroughs and neighborhoods.

From the blocks of fiddlehead ferns swaying in the breeze, To the boulevards of pricker bushes and avenues

Of saplings, wishing to become trees.

And beyond the city lay the suburbs of the fields, Where red-winged blackbirds sit atop plant spires, A shimmering ocean of emerald green

Sawgrass, milkweed, and unborn hay bales

Bobbing up and down in the breeze

Like ships in a harbor.

Like spirits so naturally free.

Like how they are always meant To be.

French Fry

My father is pulling into a Wendy’s parking lot, littered with shrivels of wind-filled bags and fists of napkins. The basement in my bones earthquakes when the car comes to a stop. My father has ordered himself a giant magazine of fries––each one; a bullet cringed by its own weight. I watch him scoop the ketchup with the watery tendon and reach out to offer me the gift––a gift not even the hospital knew how to feed me, but my father is no hospital. My father has always been a heavy-lifter, raises the shelf for installation, asks me to hand him the screw, fastens it to the wall but can’t grip the steering wheel long enough. Can’t shake the carpenter from his hands until they become Mickey Mouse.

Can’t move towards me without the fry becoming a slingshot that recoils when fired. My father can’t cross the bridge between us with the fry. My father’s eyes loosen and welt, as he tries to make out the last time he saw color in me––tries to remember how summers ago he would drive by the same Wendy’s every day after picking me up from choral camp and order us the biggest trumpet of fries, each one, full with salt and acoustic, and my belly, full of arpeggios and glossy singer’s pride. Now my stomach is the forever well my father is calling my name down. You are so sick, he says. My father. No magic left to sell me. My father. No way to ask me to eat, without giving me another opportunity to refuse the music. No way to watch me kill myself without pulling into a Wendy’s to tempt hell itself out of my wind-filled body. He watches, anticipation-emptied;

as a father would never say the word Anorexia without believing his daughter’s ability to succumb to make-believe.

Because to believe I do, is to say I believe that this won’t kill me.

I can be magic, Dad. I can wind-fill my childhood if I want to. I can come home from the hospital and drink the salts. I can hide in the basement and not come out for two days, I can still see you holding my dinner plate like a lunch tray in the museum of this beast.

An eating disorder is a tool-less project. And it is mine. And there is no room for your steady hand. My father, you’re getting so old. Just let me do this.

I could tell you this car is too full of a kind of love that I have yet to understand — is only doing what it knows. Love is only doing what it knows. You are only doing what you know. But a daughter, a daughter, I don’t.

Healing in Time

Healing never comes at once. It comes in Light rain, Hail storms, Thunder and Lighting, But healing does come.

You may ask me what the secret to healing is. I think the best thing I could say Is to feel it.

Feel the grief. Every agonizing emotion, Every painful reminder.

Allow your heart to ache and your lungs collapse, Allow every fear and every piece of sadness to engulf you, Just for a little while.

But you have to get up again.

And soon enough you will find that the sun will rise again. The earth is still turning, Even when it feels like the world is crumbling down. Life doesn’t stop for you And you cannot stop either.

Each time I feel myself breaking a little more, I tell myself, “You are not breaking.” You are expanding, softening, opening.

I finally found my rhythm

When I realized that even the steps backwards Were part of the dance.

“Road Trips and Reminiscing” by Raya Cruse

Eastern Exposure

“Gerbera” by Salavanh Thongchampasy

“Raison D’ être” by Salavanh Thongchampasy

“The Witch Wakes at Nightfall” by Marcel Farrell

NICOLE GASTON

Stolen Winter

I sit in the waiting room, gripping the wooden arms of the chair. The pungent mix of cigarette smoke and lavender hits my nose, the pounding in my head getting stronger. My foot taps to the rhythm of the incessant jazz music that’s playing. My hands start to slip on the wood, forcing me to wipe off the sweat on my jeans.

“Mary Jones?”

The receptionist surveys the room as the middle-aged woman two seats to my left stands from her chair. The lady waddles over to the receptionist, then heads towards the back door. The fake potted plants are mocking me. I have to close my eyes, starting to count in my head until it’s my turn. One, two, three… forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-on–

“Avery Foster?”

I open my eyes and grab my coat resting in the seat next to me. My legs are tingling from sitting too long and I make my way awkwardly to the back door. The receptionist smiles at me, but my head hurts too much for niceties. The lady pushes the swinging door back and reveals a dingy corridor lined with, yep, more doors.

“You’re in room twenty, sweetheart.” She gestures for me to go straight down the hall. I must look confused because she says, “It’s the last door on your left.” Her smile returns to her face, and I have to turn away.

“Gotcha, thanks.” My hands are jittery, shoving them in my sweatshirt pocket.

“Good luck!” I don’t know how luck will help me, but I slowly shuffle towards the end of the hallway.

I reach the door and glare at the nameplate: Dr. Dianna Adams. The sweat on my palms becomes distracting again. I raise my hand up and knock, then step back, planning my escape route in the hope that no one answers this time. The door swings open.

“Hi Avery, good to see you.” A woman in her late fifties looks at me. She’s wearing a beige blazer with a brown turtleneck and black dress pants. Her grayish

hair is in a carefully executed updo, finished off with a thick layer of hairspray. She’s squinting at me, her glasses hanging around her neck.

“Hi. You too.” I can hardly get the words out; I don’t want to be here. One, two, three, four, fi–

She raises her eyebrows slightly. “So, Avery, do you want to come inside?”

“Sure.” I follow behind her, slightly ducking under the door frame. The smell of vanilla replaces the horrid smell from the hallway. She walks over to a large, velvet wingback chair and gestures for me to sit on the leather sofa across from her. I sit down while she grabs the notepad and pen from the coffee table fixed between our seats. I rub my hands together, trying to get rid of the last remnants of dew.

She puts on the readers from around her neck. “Okay Avery, you ready?”

“Mhm.” My body tenses as she picks up the pen, ready to write about more of my problems. Last week we only scratched the surface. I guess that’s the point of an in-take meeting. They ask you stupid questions. Things like, “What’s your name?” and “Is there anything you want to talk more about next week?” I did my best to keep my answers as short as I could, but there’s no avoiding anything now. My neck feels itchy, and I have to sit on my hands to make sure I don’t start scratching.

She glances up at me from the notepad. “Avery?” I try to refocus. “When we talked last week, you said some ‘things’ happened to you this year, but I can’t help you unless you try to talk about it.” She gives me that sympathetic look that I’ve been getting for the past few months.

My mouth opens before I have time to think. “I dunno, I guess I’m having a hard time. I don’t really know where to start though.”

She rests the pen on the notepad. “Look, I can tell that it’s tough for you talk about whatever happened.” Tough doesn’t even begin to describe what I’ve been going through. My head’s throbbing again and the itchiness on my neck is burning. “But I’m here to help you, to give you the opportunity to tell your story.” She readjusts her glasses, so they are sitting on the bridge of her nose.

The itch is unbearable. I rub my neck, feeling some momentary reprieve. My mom is the genius who thinks I should be back in therapy. I’m not against the idea, but I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about everything. My head is spinning. One, two, thr–

Nicole Gaston

I clear my throat. “Okay, I guess I’ll start at winter break.” . . .

I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Jo to call. My mind starts to race with the possibilities of what I can get her for Christmas. No matter what she says about not getting gifts, I always end up buying something for her. It’s one of the few times I get to spoil her, and I like making her feel special. I fight with her every year about it, but Jo insists the only reason why she doesn’t want anything is because she already has what she wants. Me.

The damp hair tucked in my hoodie presses against my neck. Mom tells me that I should probably grow out of my habit of coming back with chlorinesoaked hair, but ever since I started swimming it’s what makes me feel most at home. Jo says that she knows when I’m coming because the ‘smell of pool’ follows me. I love it and I know, secretly, she does too.

Winter break started a week and a half ago and we haven’t spent much time together. Her family’s annual vacation always takes place the first week of break, and this year is no exception. She gets back from Florida today, but still, my phone has no notifications. This semester has been difficult for both of us. Her school is over eight hundred miles away from mine and I always have swim practice when she comes and visits. When she can’t visit, we call every Friday, but that never feels like enough. It sucks and I’m resenting the fact that I decided to stay in-state for school. But her being back home meant that all I need to do is walk over the train tracks, to the west side of town and I’d be with her.

I feel a buzz in my pocket and pull out my phone. Her face lights up on the screen, her grin showing the cute dimple on her left cheek. I let it ring a few times and then answer the call. Act cool.

“Hey, Jo.” My voice sounds higher than usual.

“Can you come over now?” The rush in her tone seems odd.

I sit up, my heart starting to race. “Sure, you okay?

“Yeah, just missed you.” Her playful attitude breaks the tension in my question.

My shoulders relax. “Yeah, I’ll leave now. Love you.”

“Love you more.” I hang up the phone, put my boots on, and hurry down the stairs. I grab the copy of the house key in the tray by the door and go

out into the dwindling sun light. The adrenaline pumps through my body like before a big race, urging me to pick up my pace toward her house. . . .

“So, Jo is…?” Dr. Adams listens intently, the pen scribbling away as she tries to give me her full attention.

“She’s m–,” My throat starts to close up, the tears pricking at my eyes. “Was my girlfriend.” I hold in the sob that wants to escape and relax back into the sofa. One, two, three, four…

Dr. Adams doesn’t seem to notice my near meltdown. “How did you two meet?”

“Our families have known each other forever, but we didn’t meet until sixth grade when her family moved back to Saginaw.”

Dr. Adams continues to scribble. “Got it, must’ve been hard not seeing her that much during the year.”

“Yeah, it was. All our fights used to be about that, but y’know, we tried to make it work.”

“Did you guys have plans to see each other?”

I glance at the clock hanging above her bookcase. Only thirty minutes to go. “We didn’t really plan, we kinda knew that we would be with each other all the time during break. I did try to make plans for spring break though.”

“And how did your plans go?”

“Uh, not great.” . . .

I hear Jo walk up the rickety steps of my stairs as I sit on the end of my bed, untying my bootlaces. I feel the edges of the letter dig into my leg, causing an uncomfortable scratch. I try to readjust, but Jo appears in my doorway. She leans up against the door and crosses her arms. She’s wearing her baggy, tattered Harvard sweatshirt and her favorite fuzzy pajamas.

A chuckle escapes me. “Nice sweatshirt, Ivy Leaguer.”

Nicole Gaston

“Nice smell, Michael Phelps,” she fires back. She jumps onto my bed and lays on her back to look up at me.

I pull the crinkled envelope out of my sweatpants pocket and wave it in front of her face. “Here ya go.”

She grabs the letter from my hand and hugs it to her chest. “You remembered!” she squeals. “I didn’t think I was gonna get one. I’m only gonna be gone for a week.”

“Yeah, but tradition is tradition. Don’t read it now though, wait ‘till you’re on the plane.” She puts the letter on my nightstand and lays back on the bed, holding my eyes inviting me to play her game. Game on.

She sits up, not breaking eye contact. I wasn’t going to lose this time. I lean forward so I’m nose-to-nose with her. Her pupils dilate slightly, but she settles into a steady gaze. My eyes twitch slightly, and I have to widen them to keep from blinking. Jo’s eyelids lower slightly. Not this time.

Tears begin to well in my eyes. Jo can’t help but smirk at me. Neither of us will break, so I do what I always do. I let her win. I blink. After two years, she still hasn’t caught on to my game, but I win every day being with her.

“Hah! I win!” She shoots to her feet.

I smile as she revels in another victory. “So how many times is that now, huh?”

“Hmm let’s see, fifty-five to me and oh, zero for you!” She’s enjoying this too much and I can’t take it anymore. I toss her onto the bed, lean down, and kiss her to shut her up. I taste the honey from her chapstick and break away to catch my breath.

I gaze down at her, admiring the green flecks in her hazel eyes. “Hi,” I whisper. She lifts her hands and places them on my cheeks.

“Hi,” she whispers back. I roll off and let her sit up.

I gaze down at her, admiring the green flecks in her hazel eyes. “Hi,” I whisper. She lifts her hands and places them on my cheeks.

“So, I was thinking for spring break, we could go to the lake house. Just the two of us.”

Her brow furrows. “Aves, I get you’re trying to do something nice, I just don’t know where we’re gonna be in three months.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My palms become clammy as surprise sets in.

“I just meant that–” Jo picks at her cuticles. “Ugh, I hate when you do that.” She stands up and starts to pace.

“Do what?” I get off the bed. “All I did was ask a question.” My face is hot now and all I want to do is cry.

“I–, look, it stresses me out.” She cracks her knuckles and walks over to my vanity. “I-I don’t know what’s gonna happen three months from now and I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“I know.” I can hardly look at her. “I just thought it would be nice, to have some alone time.” I can hardly look at her. God, I wish I didn’t say anything.

“Can we talk about this when I get back? My mom is waiting in the car.” She starts to head to the door, but I hold her wrist. I look at the charm bracelet she has with my initials on it, rubbing them with my thumb.

She looks down and huffs. “Look, I love everything about you.” She says it like she expects a response, but my mouth won’t open. “Avery?” Jo looks at me with her eager eyes and puts her hands on my face, waiting for me to say something. Anything.

“I–” I nod.

“I’m not telling you this to be mean. I just wish you would enjoy the now with me.”

The lump in my throat tries to escape, but I nod again. I don’t know why I can’t say a single word to her.

Her expression softens and she grazes her lips against mine. “I’ll see you in a week.”

I stand there, unable to move my feet, and watch as her blonde hair sways

behind her. She doesn’t even realize that she left the letter on my nightstand. . . .

“How did that make you feel, Avery?” Dr. Adams looks up from her notepad.

“Huh?” My knees bounce as I wrap my head around the question.

“I said, how did that make you feel– her reacting that way.” Her cursive writing on the notepad looks illegible.

“Oh, it sucked.” I reach up to my neck to scratch again. It feels raw and hot. “I wasn’t trying to stress her out. All I wanted was for her to want to spend some more time with me, you know?” I reach up to my neck to scratch again. It feels raw and hot.

Dr. Adams pushes up her glasses. “When was this?”

“Like, two months ago.” I readjust in my seat, the leather squeaking.

“It didn’t seem like she was opposed to the idea though. Didn’t she say you guys would talk about it when she got back?” She crosses something out and flips to a blank page.

“Yeah but, I knew she would say no. She hated that kinda stuff.”

“Do you think maybe that’s why she didn’t want to plan things?”

I shift in my seat. “I mean, maybe? She came and visited me every month, though, so I don’t get it.”

“Avery, have you ever heard of codependency?” Her tone feels accusatory. My stomach flips. “Kinda.”

“Do you want me to explain it?”

I shrug, picking at the loose thread sticking out of the couch.

“It’s when you rely on someone too much, like an unhealthy attachment.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s the most normal thing ever to say in our first real session together.

“But she wanted to see me just as much as I wanted to see her. You have no idea what we were.” I can hear the edge in my voice.

Her eyes widen. “No– Avery, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply. It’s just something you might want to think about.”

“We were not codependent!” I spit every single word at her and snatch my jacket so I can stand up.

She puts her hands up calling a truce. “Okay, why don’t we back up a bit? We still have fifteen minutes left.”

“Thanks for everything.” I open the door and head to the exit.

Dr. Adams follows swiftly behind me. “Avery, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean anything by it.” I ignore her and she lightly touches my shoulder. I shrug it off and turn to face her. Now that we’re right in front of each other, I can tell how much I tower over her short frame.

“Look, may- maybe I’m not ready to talk about this,” I say. “I don’t want to lash out, and it’s not fair to you.” Dr. Adams takes a long pause before responding.

“Avery, why don’t you take the week and think about it. You have my number. If you want to meet again, just give me a call.”

I doubt that I’ll be coming back, but I nod anyways.

She gives me a half smile, like she already knows I made up my mind. “Good luck. With everything.” I turn around and don’t look back. . . .

I walk out on the lit-up street, people enjoying their Friday night downtown. I inhale the sweet scent of croissants coming from Valerie’s and instinctively pull out my phone. The picture of Jo lights up and I linger before unlocking the screen. The lump in my throat gets heavier as I click on to contacts, my thumb hovering over her name. I tap it, waiting for the voicemail that will inevitably hit my ears.

“The number you have dialed is not in service, please check the number, an–”

I hang up before the automaton can finish and put my phone back in my

Nicole Gaston

pocket. The breeze cuts through like glass and I head towards the train tracks, her face still in my mind, her voice haunting my ears. I look up at the stars, hoping for a sign.

“Please… please make it stop.” Nothing happens; no grand gesture from God, no sign that things will get better.

I’m horribly, unequivocally alone.

I slow down as I hit the gate to the train yard and slip between the fences. I pause in the middle of the tracks and hear the distant sound of a train horn.

For the first time, I’m not in a hurry to get home.

Isle Zepam

Poppy was up early, rising with the sun as it peeked into her room through sheer curtains. The house was quiet. Still. Her father’s low snores sent vibrations through the floor in front of her parents’ room. They played a tune for her as she made her way down the cold, wooden stairs into the kitchen. Pink walls welcomed her in, and the smell of fresh-picked flowers wafted through the air.

Her stomach growled. She looked around, finding nothing on the smooth, white countertops and nothing but a burned-out candle on the table. Next, the cabinets. No luck. A couple stray crumbs in the back, leftovers from a mouse that made its way inside. The only place left to try was the “off-limits” cupboard in the corner of the room. Many times before, her parents had told her not to open it, saying the contents were “yucky,” but she was so, so hungry. Anything would do.

The wooden cupboard was filled with glass bottles, light bouncing off and casting rainbows around Poppy as she began taking some out and placing them on the cold, tile floor. Removing the round cap of one, a sweet aroma surrounded her. She couldn’t quite name it; a mix of mint and something familiar. The contents were pale blue and milky, almost glowing under the incoming light. She brought the glass to her lips, taking a small sip. It was bitter, but comforting and reminded the girl of the few times she had stolen sips of her father’s coffee when he wasn’t looking. Poppy took another. And another, until the hunger she had felt subsided.

A whisper called to her. “Come outside,” it said. “Follow me.”

She listened, following the voice into the woods behind her house, down the dirt path that led to the stream she often played in while her parents were out. Beneath her bare feet, the path was cold and hard. The forest was quiet, only the stream’s low burble complimented the friendly voice ahead of her. Reaching the water’s edge, Poppy stuck her hand into it, feeling the smooth stones and the current run over her fingers.

“Come in,” the whisper continued.

She stepped onto a rock close to the edge, then another, steadily moving to the center of the river. The voice cheered her on as she went.

“Where are you?” She asked.

“In here.”

Poppy looked in, only seeing the rocks resting undisturbed at the bottom. The voice told her to look closer, so she did. Closer and closer until her face was in the water. And suddenly, she was pulled under.

She struggled and struggled to get back to the surface, and in an instant, she could breathe again. Rubbing her eyes, she looked around. The river she was just in had become a field of poppies. They spread out around her, their red, pink, and white petals going on as far as her eyes could see, the blush of sunrise reflecting off of them. Poppy felt overwhelmed. Too much, she thought; the powdery and earthy scent becoming far too pungent for the little girl’s liking.

“You’ll get used to it.” A girl sat across from her, their fingers laced together. She stood up, pulling Poppy to her feet. “I’ll take you to the others.”

Poppy walked clumsily through the field behind the girl, watching the way her red dress flowed past her and the way the leaves stuck in her hair bounced as she walked. She warned Poppy that it could take a while for her body to adapt to Isle Zepam, the place they walked now.

They approached a group of children sitting in a circle, paintbrushes in hand, moving them slowly over the blank petals of the poppies around them. Laughing together, they waved to the pair, making room for the two girls to sit with them. A boy in white overalls handed Poppy a brush. Rather than landing in her small hand, it fell onto the ground beside her, the red paint smearing the grass below. She looked closer at her hand; a pale shade of blue covered it now.

“That’s just your body adjusting. See?” The boy held up his hand, where the blue only colored his fingertips.

So Poppy stayed with the other children, using her paintbrush to bring life to the flowers around her, joining in their whistling tune. They all moved in slow harmony. Every so often, one or two of them would get up and leave, until only the boy and girl remained beside Poppy, working quietly.

The sky grew rich, turning a dark shade of cerise. Poppy’s eyes grew heavy, and her hands moved sluggishly, falling out of rhythm with the others. The boy and girl got up, taking Poppy with them and bringing her to a large red poppy flower; its petals looked soft and called for her to enter inside. So she climbed in and the petals closed around her, wrapping her into a warm embrace until her eyes closed and she fell deeply into the comforting arms of sleep.

Benny’s Garden

It is a warm Tuesday morning and Benny is getting ready to go outside. He eats his breakfast (buttered toast with scrambled eggs) and then brushes his teeth like every good boy does. In his room, he gets dressed, putting on his SpiderMan T-shirt, red basketball shorts and new Nike sneakers. His mother bought him the sneakers because he has been helping in the garden all summer. Together, they tend to cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, and peppers. But in a small corner of the garden Benny started his own project: sunflowers. His sunflowers started out as little seeds in the beginning of the summer and just three weeks later became tiny plants. After some hard work and tender care, the sunflowers now, in August, stand as tall as himself. Their silky petals range from bright yellow to burnt orange, spreading out as big as his hands.

Benny looks out his bedroom window over the family garden placed in a ten-foot-by-ten-foot area of the backyard. The warm breeze moves through the window past the cracked white painted frame and tickles Benny’s ears. The weather tells him that today will be a great day to go and do some work out there. It is warm, but cool enough that he won’t be drenched in sweat and coated in dirt by the time he comes back in like he was yesterday. Hand trailing along the wooden banister, he makes his way down the creaky old steps of his house. He shimmies past the worn brown couch and heads toward the screen door in the small living room.

“Momma, I’m going out to the garden,” Benny says.

“Your sunflowers are getting quite big,” she hollers from the kitchen. “You must have a green thumb.”

Benny smiles with pride as he steps through the door out to the yard and leans down to grab the tin watering can they keep next to the door. He skips along the back of their sandy-brown house and turns around the side, heading to the hose. He turns on the spigot, but the water coming out of the end of the hose is nothing but a small dribble. It would take him an hour to get the can full at that rate. He cranks the handle on the spigot and holds the end of the hose at the opening of the watering can. The pressure of the water shoots the can right out of his hands, and he scrambles to pick it back up. The hose slips from his grip too, wriggling around and wildly spraying Benny in the face. He tries to wrangle the hose under control while the ice-cold water soaks his clothes, and he rushes to try to shut the water back off.

“What are you doing?” a voice says from behind him.

He startles, hose forgotten, and turns to face a small girl with eyebrows pulled up to her blonde bangs. She stands with her hands on her hips and leg popped out, highlighting her bright green flipflops. Her light blue t-shirt, a few sizes too big, hangs off her scrawny shoulders and nearly covers her ripped denim shorts.

Benny assesses the girl, taking in her sunburnt nose and mix-match eyes.

“Well?” the girl says.

“Why are your eyes two different colors?”

The girl takes her hands from her hips and folds them in front of herself. Chewing on her lip, she relaxes her eyebrows, letting her bangs fall back into her eyes.

“What does it matter to you?” the girl answers. “You know you’re wasting water like that, right?” she continues, gesturing to the hose still spraying water on the ground.

Benny looks down at the hose by his feet and moves to shut off the spigot. He looks toward the girl, but she already has her back turned and is starting to walk away.

He jogs in her direction, his sneakers sliding along the wet grass, and stops a foot from the sidewalk, “Wait,” he shouts, “where are you going?”

She stills to look over her shoulder at him. “Back to my house.” She points down the street, “That way.”

“Where do you live? I’ve never seen you before. What’s your name?”

“You’re just full of questions today, aren’t ya?” she sighs. “My name is Loretta and I just moved here a couple of days ago. That’s why you haven’t seen me.”

Benny nods his head at her. “Loretta…well do you want to hang out? I bet you could use a new friend here.”

He gives her his best smile, showing all his teeth. Good thing I brushed today, he thinks.

Loretta blinks at him and glances back in the direction she was walking.

“C’mon, I’ll show you our garden.” He says, filling the watering can slower this time and turning towards the backyard.

“You have a garden?” She runs to catch up, her flipflops smack the ground and her curls bounce along her back.

She nears the garden and gasps, “Wow, this is bigger than I thought it’d be.”

She steps into the garden and immediately starts to take inventory of what plants they have. Pulling up a little stick she yells, “Oh this is going to be a red bell pepper.” Grabbing another she says, “This one is going to be carrots.”

Benny stands at the side of the garden quietly, tin watering can in hand, and lets her walk around. He smiles at her exclamations and giggles, her excitement growing. He only inches closer to her when she starts to make her way towards his section of the garden.

“Wow, look at these sunflowers; they’re beautiful,” Loretta says reaching up to graze her fingers along the silky yellow petals.

“I grew those ones all by myself.”

Loretta turns back to him, eyebrows drawn together, “Aren’t sunflowers a girl’s thing?”

Benny shrugs off the comment, “I guess they could be, but my momma says that girls and boys can like the same things. Doesn’t matter whose things they’re supposed to be.”

Loretta stays silent and nods, “Yeah, sometimes the girls at my old school would make fun of me because I like cars like my daddy. Nothing wrong with it. I like what I like.”

She goes back to her examination of the sunflowers, marveling at how big they’ve grown. She drifts from one flower to the next, weaving her way through the garden.

“You know,” Benny says quietly, “we still have some space left in the garden if you wanted to plant something of your own.”

“Really? You would let me plant flowers, too?”

Alyssa Meneo

“Of course, it would take too long for sunflowers to grow, but my momma can get you some flowers and you can come over to take care of them.”

“I’d like that, but I don’t wanna be a nuisance and I don’t need you takin’ pity, buying me something because I’m new here.”

“No, you see, it’s not like that,” Benny urges, his voice dropping to a mumbled whisper. “I just thought we could be friends.” He picks at his fingernail, head drawn down. Remembering that Momma says that nail picking is nasty habit, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts and kicks some dirt on the ground. Focusing intently on his shoes, he doesn’t notice Loretta approaching until delicate fingers squeeze his shoulder. He looks up at her wide eyes and solemn face.

“I’m sorry, Benny.” She puffs her cheeks and blows out a breath. “That was a rude way to respond to your kindness. I’d like to plant some flowers here and be your friend, too.”

He continues to look at her, examining, but doesn’t say anything. Noticing her hand is still on his shoulder, she drops it to her side, cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink.

“That is…if the offer is still open?”

“Yeah, it is,” he smiles brightly.

He pulls Loretta into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her. She tenses at first, but slowly relaxes into the embrace, wrapping her own small arms around Benny.

“Sorry, I’m a hugger.” He lets her go and takes a step back.

Loretta matches Benny’s smile with her own, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. “I’ve gotta get home for lunch with my folks, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow!”

Early the next morning, birds chirp sweet melodies outside of Benny’s bedroom window. He wakes up to the shine of the bright summer sun peeking through his navy-blue curtains. He sits up with a stretch and jumps out of his bed. Flying around his room, he gets dressed and runs to brush his teeth until they’re sparkling. He is excited to show Loretta the flowers that he and Momma picked out for her yesterday at the garden center. He had forgotten to ask her favorite

color, so he’s a bit nervous to see if she’ll like them.

Padding down the stairs, he leaps from the third to last step and lands with a thud.

“Hey,” Momma yells from the kitchen, “that sounded awfully loud for someone who was walking down the stairs.”

Benny walks into the kitchen and finds his mama drying her hands on a dish towel at the sink. “Sorry, Momma. It won’t happen again. Do you need any help with the dishes?” he asks.

“I just finished washing them, but if you want to dry them off, I’ll make you some breakfast.”

Benny gets to work immediately, drying off each white dinner plate and cup and putting them in their rightful places. Soon his breakfast is done. He munches away, getting lost in the syrupy goodness of his fluffy pancakes and crunchy bacon, Loretta momentarily forgotten. Yet, as soon as the last bite enters his stomach, he’s clearing his spot and rinsing his plate.

He heads for the screen door, briefly stopping to give his mother a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Momma. Delicious as always.”

He marches out of the door and around the side of his house once again, but there’s no Loretta in sight. Benny takes a seat, sitting criss-cross applesauce in the plush grass along the side of his house. He’s in perfect view of the sidewalk, so Loretta will easily be able to spot him. Benny pulls blade after blade of grass out of the ground, running each between his fingers and pulling them apart as the minutes tick by. He stares at the birds slicing through the clear blue sky, blowing spit bubbles to entertain his wait. Soon enough, Loretta’s blonde hair is a beacon along the sidewalk, signaling Benny of her arrival.

He stares at the birds slicing through the clear blue sky, blowing spit bubbles to entertain his wait. Soon enough, Loretta’s blonde hair is a beacon along the sidewalk, signaling Benny of her arrival.

Benny’s Garden

“Hi again.” Loretta stops in front of him, hands behind her back shuffling side to side. She’s wearing a large bright pink T-shirt tied in a knot on one side to bring in the extra fabric. Benny notices her cotton shorts, covered in little daisies, and can’t help his grin.

“Are you ready to garden?” He lifts himself from the ground and brushes the torn grass off his shorts. Turning on his heel, he makes his way to the backyard, briefly throwing a look behind him to make sure that Loretta is following. She skips behind him, blonde curls bouncing and blowing through the warm breeze.

“Close your eyes,” Benny orders as they approach the garden and Loretta does as he asks. Benny grabs the flowers from the ground, brings them forward and lets her know she can now open her eyes.

Loretta focuses on the small pink and white flowers in Benny’s hands. “Wow, they are beautiful.” She warmly inspects them.

“They’re mismatched,” Benny announces, “just like your eyes.”

Loretta snaps her attention back to Benny, mouth dropping open.

“You got these ones because they’re like my eyes?” she asks in shock. “You don’t think that my eyes make me look like a freak?”

“What?” Benny looks at her confused, smile falling from his face. “I think your eyes are cool!”

“Other kids usually try to make fun of me.” Loretta looks off to the side. Turning back to him she says, “Thank you, Benny, this means a lot to me.”

She throws her arms around him, nearly crushing the flowers between them.

Loretta pulls back from him. “I guess I’m a hugger now, too.

Their smiles return to their faces, and they move towards the garden. They get to work planting Loretta’s flowers, giggling, covered in dirt by the end. The garden is now complete; Benny’s sunflowers and Loretta mismatched pinks and white growing together, side by side.

Looking Through a Prism

White.

It isn’t white normally. At least, I don’t think so. Whenever I draw it, it is the brightest yellow I can find with long, smudging lines coming out of its center. It shouldn’t have been white. My small legs stick to the leathery car seat, even as I try to kick them free. I wonder what they’re talking about up front. I lean towards them, but the belt snaps me back into place. I turn back to the window. Wow, it’s still there! The sun peeks through the lush, green summer trees. It is in the same spot it was before, but I know that we have moved. I don’t understand how, but I see it hasn’t left me.

I yell her name. I want to tell her about the sun! She doesn’t respond. I know that she heard me, but I also know not to try again. I notice their talking is now yelling. I cover my ears and look back outside. The white sun looks down on me, shielding me from the shadows from the front seat.

The moon is white too. Since I noticed the color of the sun all those years ago, it has left me. I thought it never could. But there is rain, and clouds, and night. There is always night. She left with the sun, the memory of both a white, blank space in my mind. The night is upon us. We sit along the deck; I know my ankle is sprained. There’s no point in listening to false promises that it is not so. It’s sprained, but it will heal. Not everything does. We are watching for the stars, the ones that we have been promised will dance across the sky on this night. I already can tell it is too cloudy, but the others hold out hope. I stare at the moon. It stares back. Like the sun, I know that it follows. I plead with the moon, please, watch over her. Please. I say nothing. I rest my leg and my soul. At least the moon knows where she is. I’ve asked before, but it still won’t tell me. Will this heal like the sprain?

I whisper into the wind, hoping the cold air rises to the moon, sending signals through our shared view. I love you. Come home. Remember the melody. I picture myself performing in the room inside my mind. I’m singing this song, and I see her. She is standing on the floor, not dancing like the others. She comes on the stage and sings with me. But then it stops. She does not come home. She never does.

Gray.

The sun is covered by clouds. I know it is there somewhere, but it feels like it is gone forever. It’s cold, but not like winter. I feel the skin on my knuckles cracking from the dryness. The mall we are meeting in is bland. The whole world seems gray. Maybe we shouldn’t have done this. Maybe it’s better to wonder who you are than to face the disappointment. I see you, but I don’t smile. We don’t know each other.

Brown.

You gave me the journals when you first came back. They were gray, but that’s not what intrigued me, instead, it was the cardboard-like back cover. The brown material made it feel so ordinary. But when I opened these notebooks, thinking they’d be blank, I was shocked. There was a book of stickers wedged in the pocket, another shade of brown. And there were doodles and stories and poems and late-night thoughts all throughout it. You had given it to me so nonchalantly, you probably did not realize all of this was in here. And because of that, I shouldn’t have read them. But I did. I didn’t know you, and this was the way to.

Years later I found myself at summer camp, where there would be days I was overwhelmed by all the action around me. On these days, I preferred to sit and hold down my book with my elbow, trying to simultaneously ground it and eat my sandwich. I remember the bland, light brown of the walls. They seemed to be closing in as the voice in the back of my head tormented me, reminding me that people were judging. That they didn’t think me normal. Every time this happened, and my hands shook and my breathing picked up, I brought myself back by remembering your journals. You were too proud to admit it, even now when we know one another, but I knew from your writing you had felt the same way once. And that was enough.

Black.

The sky is not deceivingly navy tonight. It is black. The moon is gone. There’s nothing to look at. No way to send her a message. I am alone.

But the thing about black is that it is not a color. It is the absorption or absence of color. So, although tonight is black, another color will appear tomorrow. And then I will reach out to her, and we will paint a picture together.

The Prism.

“Perception is merely reality filtered through the prism of your soul.”

-Christopher A. Ray

Under the Moonlight

It happens every year, always on the same night. I was standing on my balcony. Staring at the moon, listening to the water of the lake, and smelling the thymes and chestnuts, when I recalled a moment that I will never forget. A moment in which I truly believed that I had someone in my life, but they left like a speck of dust. A moment that neither God nor the Devil can take away. Even in death, that will be my eternal dream. The moment, as brief as it ever was, lasted a lifetime. A lifetime of hope, happiness, and comfort; I felt alive. The story is nothing but a wish from a man who lived his life in the darkness, and once he found the light, he begged the darkness to take him back. I sat down on the table and started to write:

It was a breezy night, in which the mighty wind blew the cold air into our bodies. We were at the shore, my wife and I. As we listened to the tide fiercely hitting the rocks, as the seagulls danced in the night air, and as the moon showed its face upon Earth, my wife and I stood together in each other’s arms. Her hazel eyes shined with life, her golden-brown hair fluttered with the wind, and her smile could light up the darkest place in my mind. I saw everything I wanted from this miserable life in her. I could see my salvation and peace, yet that only brought war to me. That night, she uttered the words I could never forget, “I love you.” Words that could end wars and bring peace. However, it was also the exact words that could bring war, leaving humanity on the brink of extinction.

I stood there, not knowing what to do. I wanted to tell her that I loved her back. I wanted to hold her tighter in my arms, fearing she would disappear if I let her go. I remember tears in my eyes, waiting for the order to march down my face. I was blessed to hear such words. Words that come from a mouth produce melodies for sound and voice. I held back my tears, looked up at the starry night.

“I am truly happy now.” I knew in my heart that not a day would pass without these words singing in my ears. All I could ever do now was fantasize about that day and the future. It will all be fiction in the end.

The two of us stayed under that moon for mere minutes before we went back into my car. All I could think of was the fact that she uttered the words I had waited for so long to hear. If there is ever a day I could go back and just watch myself and my wife in each other’s arms from afar, I would do it. I would fight for it, and hell, I’d sell my soul to both God and the Devil for it. I am ready to kill myself for that day again. I am ready to sacrifice anything to do it over again. However, I have no power to do that.

The power to kill oneself only comes when hate and regret have exceeded the human’s mental strength and could no longer be held it in. It is the power in which a human is no longer afraid of death, selfishness, and folly. It is only a fool’s game to believe that suicide is the answer to one’s problems. It is a fool’s game to believe that death only brings peace. It is only a fool’s game to believe mere words could change the equilibrium of the world. It is a fool’s game…to believe that they are wise and loved. I wanted to say this to my wife, yet I never had the chance to.

I had the chance to do it numerous times. but I was a fool. A fool who believed that the world would work in a certain way. A fool that knew a time would come when his heart would shatter into pieces. Pieces are made of glass so that they can never be fixed peacefully. The hands need to become bloodied to fix a shattered glass heart. Whether it is the blood of the owner or the blood of another does not matter. It will never matter. It is a matter of the ability of the glass heart to go back to the way it is or not. To keep that in mind, glass is never the same once it is broken. You have to rebuild the whole thing from scratch. From sand and water and fire and salts, that is how you can fix a glass heart. Once it is completed, the glass heart will not be the same as before. It embodies a whole new personality, life, and emotions. It is like a new baby with a new life. That is how people change. People change once their hearts shatter into many pieces, whether it is the result of love, hate, wildness, or even calmness.

My wife shattered my heart with love. That was the war she created with “I love you.” I was never the same. I still wish that day would never end. Because after that, day and night, it led me to take a path in life I was never ready for.

“Daddy?” I hear a quiet voice behind me. I look back, leaving the pen and paper on the table.

“Yes, sweetie. I am here.” I walk over to my daughter as she rubs her eyes. I pick her up from the ground and kiss her on the cheek. “What is it, honey?”

“I want some pizza. I’m hungry,” she says. She’s a spitting image of her mother.

“Well, it is after midnight, everyone is closed. You should go back to sleep.”

“What are you doing?” she asks as she hugs my head.

“Writing a story.”

“About what?”

“About love, honey. About the love I once had for your mom,” shifting my weight from one leg to another, rubbing and patting her back.

“I love you, daddy.”

I feel the tears fill my eyes and my vision blur. I raise my head and look at the moon. She looks up at it, and I see her eyes shine. Those hazel eyes curse my memory.

The hazel eyes of her mother. I remember once, I was standing at the top of a mountain, with all blue sky and red trees. I held my wife in my hands, and as we smelled thymes and chestnuts, we looked into each other’s eyes, looking for affection and innocence. I was bewildered by the beauty of them. The memory of it keeps my mind running. It keeps ringing in my ears, the sounds of birds singing, the rattles of the bushes, and the background chatter of the people around us. My wife and I, in each other’s arms, would look down the mountains, and we could only feel our heartbeats and the blood running through our veins. It was our third year anniversary, and it was two years before my daughter was born.

“I love you too, sweetie,” I look back at her and realize she is wearing my shirt with no pants.

“You little rascal, you took my shirt again,” I start tickling her. She laughs loudly and starts running away from me after putting her on the ground. I start running after her all over the house, until she gets tired. I can see that she will fall asleep any minute now.

I scooped her up and went to my bedroom. She hugs my neck harder as I put her on the bed, not letting me go. She turns around as I try to remove myself from her clutches, and her hands soften. I walk back to my paper and pen.

My wife gave me a daughter that I love so dearly, I will do anything for her wellbeing. The love of my daughter keeps me alive, and that makes me work so hard. I want to see her smile, laugh, and feel happy throughout her life. She is the one who fixed my shattered heart, and I see how bloodied her hands became. She is my pride and love, and I will no longer be human if she is not here.

There was a night when I thought about ending it all. All this suffering that I experience every night. The past is nothing but cruel. It was a month ago. Before sunset, I wrote a letter to my daughter for her to read once she grew up. In my letter, I explained the pain I felt. The sadness she sees in my eyes. The silent cries of my heart. I wrote it all down on a piece of paper. I told her of my glass heart. I was pathetic. I am pathetic. I still remember it word by word even now. I remember the ending of the letter. With love, Dad. There was nothing of love

in what I was about to do. I was sure, at the time, she would have hated me and cursed me for her entire life.

I was holding a glass of water and some sleeping pills that night. I do not know what happened, what made me think of suicide. I was out of my mind. All I could think of was peace, but there was no peace in it. I could see my daughter’s tears and screaming face if I was to go with what I had planned. I could hear her screams and cries. I could feel it deep down that no matter what, I needed to be there to stop her tears and calm her down, but how could I if I killed myself?

“I can’t sleep.” My daughter opened the door that night and climbed into my bed. “Can I sleep here?” she said. She was wearing my shirt.

“You really like to steal my shirts, don’t you?” I put down the pills and the water. I started tickling her, and she laughed until tears came down her face, and then she held my shirt.

“I love you, daddy,” she said. I hugged her soft and frail figure. She slept in my arms.

I grab my pen and then put it down again, not knowing what to write next. My mind feels blank, and nothing I think of is good here. My mind is getting poisoned by a disease that prevents good ideas and good blood flow into the brain. My mind is getting poisoned by the sadness and death of my wife. Her death is the most tragic sadness that fills me every day. I will never forget the day she died.

My wife died in my arms. She just gave birth to our daughter, and she had the most precious and wide smile I have ever seen on her round face. We were in the labor room, and the smell of blood and sterilizers filled the place. I could hear the warm water running, and I could see the nurses rushing in with our washed-down daughter. She sparkled, but she looked as puffy as a peach at the time.

“She has your nose and mouth,” I said.

“Indeed, she does,” my wife replied. Indeed? I thought, That’s new. I kissed her on the forehead, it tasted salty from all the sweat and pain she went through.

“You did great, darling. You did fantastically.”

I saw her losing strength, and I hugged her. I saw her eyes trying to stay open, and she was breathing slowly. I started holding her head higher, “Hey… Hey, stay with me. Stay with me! HELP!”

The nurses came rushing in from all directions, pushing me away. One of the nurses gave me my daughter and pushed me further from my wife’s bed. My daughter started crying in my arms, and my wife was on her bed, struggling to stay awake. The nurse came, approached me again, and nodded silently.

I walked to my wife’s bed and put our daughter in her arms again. Both of them were sleeping peacefully. I held both of them between my arms, and all of a sudden, I heard the constant peep from the heart monitor. My daughter woke up and started to cry, and the nurses started doing CPR on my wife. She died that day. She…died. I felt pain in my chest, unbearable pain, and the urge to end it all. It was my daughter’s cries that woke me up from that darkness. She cried, and with her soft nibble on my finger that I realized that I was nothing but scum, thinking about leaving such a frail creature behind.

No matter how brave, strong, or lively I feel, something is missing inside me. My heart feels hollow yet filled with my daughter’s love. I want to tell my daughter how much I love her, kiss her as much as I can, and hug her tight so that she does not fall into death’s gripping hands. Nothing feels right, and nothing feels wrong. It just feels like existence. is something that naturally happens with no real reason for it.

I look at the moon. How shiny it is! The moonlight is nothing but a lie. A lie that is only reflected by the sun, the king of the universe. I look down at my hands and gaze at my skin, the rough hands of a writer. I hear footsteps approaching, that rascal. “Daddy, what are you doing now?” she asks in her silky voice. The moonlight reflects off her hair, picturing her in my mind as the little princess of love and beauty.

“Nothing, darling. Just sitting here on the balcony.” She climbs the chair and sits on my lap.

“Do you remember?”

“Yes. Tomorrow, you little rascal, turn six years old,’ I say as she puts her head on my chest and closes her eyes. I enclose my arms around her, feeling her warm breath on my shirt.

Nothing happens for no reason but, not everything happens for a reason. We exist because we can, and we die because we can. The belief in life and death is nothing but fiction to us so that we can live our lives together until the end. If humans believed in no end, the world would fall under the fires of hell and chaos. Not even the grip of death is as firm as the love of life. You know that as well as she does, I hear my wife whisper in my ear, pointing at our daughter.

Her name was Tabitha, and she gave me my darling daughter, Joanne. I sit there with my daughter between my arms and cry into the night.

Contributors Notes

Christeena Aaron is a Psychology major with a concentration in Developmental Psychology. She is from Meriden, CT, and loves working with kids. She enjoys watching Marvel or Disney movies and hanging out with her friends. Christeena also enjoys enjoy crocheting, reading books, and baking.

Malek Allari, a double major in English with a Creative Writing concentration and Philosophy, is from Riyadh, KSA. He has his own website, malekallari.com.

Eugene Bertrand majors in Elementary Education and History. His hometown is Meriden, CT, and something interesting about him is that he is a social justice advocate.

Laura Bidwell, from the small town of Canton, CT, is an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing. When she is not writing poetry, she likes to listen to music and collect vintage trinkets.

Havi Brouillard is a sophomore English major with a focus in Creative Writing. They are from Vernon, CT, and they have been writing and making art for as long as they can remember. Their high school teacher, Victoria Nordlund, was the main proponent of the continuation of their writing into college.

Ava Burns is a Psychology major at Eastern from Newtown, CT. She has always had a passion for writing, mostly writing poetry with an emphasis on expressing emotions and nostalgia. From here, she hopes to inspire others to share their stories.

Madison Callis is an English major with a concentration in Secondary Education. She is from Farmington, CT, and has always had a passion for petry. She would love to write a book one day.

Nicholas Chiacchia is a Communication major at Eastern with a minor in Writing. He lives in New Milford, CT. A fun fact about him is that he has 18 cousins on one side of his family.

Raya Cruse is a Psychology major with a concentration in Developmental Psychology from Canterbury, CT. She loves writing, drawing, and crocheting.

Marcel Farrell is an artist from CT currently studying Illustration. Marcel’s art reflects his desire to create worlds, characters, creatures, many reflecting what he sees in life.

Nicole Gaston is a Political Science major with a minor in Pre-Law. She is from West Haven, CT.

Marcus Grant is a Junior at Eastern, majoring in English with concentrations in Literary Studies and Creative Writing. He is a cartoon aficionado and enjoys reading horror and fantasy stories. In the future he hopes to become an English professor.

Sara Green is a senior and an English major in the Secondary Education Program. Her poems appear in Outrageous Fortune and Cardinal Arts Journal.

Dana Arroyo Infante, from Myrtle Beach, SC, double majors in Psychology and English with concentrations in Mental Health Counseling and Creative Writing.

Erin Lannon is a full-time English major in her senior year. She also works part-time at Baywood Kennels as a Supervisor. She lives in Ashford, CT, but considers her hometown to be Palmer, Massachusetts.

Elliot Lawrence IV is a Liberal Studies Major with a concentration in English. He is from Eastford, CT, and aspires to become an elementary school teacher.

Samuel Perez Lopez has been writing poetry for about eight to nine years now. While raised in Atlanta, GA, he is originally from Guerrero, Mexico. He’s a DACA recipient and hopes to use poetry to inspire others, hoping to one day become “a voice for the voiceless.”

Olivia Melillo is a double major in English with a concentration in Creative Writing and a General Psychology major. She is from Bethlehem, CT, and an interesting fact about her is that she has three dogs.

Alyssa Meneo is an English major set to graduate in May. She was born and raised in Derby, CT. In the future, she hopes to become an elementary school teacher where she can inspire young minds.

Molly Boucher-Nichols is a senior Social Work major from Bethel, CT. She enjoys spending her free time with loved ones, reading great books, writing, and exploring new music.

Amarylisse Rodriguez is a sophomore from Hamden, CT, with a Communication major. Painting is a great passion of hers. While writing, she tries to use visual language in order to create images from the reader.

Margret Rousseau is a sophomore who is majoring in English with a Music minor. She’s from West Hartford, CT. She likes to draw and sing and is currently trying to work out how to crochet a hat.

Juana Santana is an English major with a concentration in General English Studies. She was born in Mexico City and raised in Riverdale, GA.

Salavanh Thongchampasy is a sophomore at Eastern, majoring in art. His hobbies aside from digital painting include listening to Radiohead and Three Days Grace excessively.

Claire Treacy is an English major from Glastonbury, CT. She has been writing poetry for two years and hopes to publish her own book one day.

Sammy Vertucci is a sophomore English major at Eastern. She is concentrating in Literary Studies and minors in Women’s Studies.

In this issue:

Christeena Aaron

Malek Allari

Eugene Bertrand

Laura Bidwell

Havi Brouillard

Ava Burns

Madison Callis

Nicholas Chiacchia

Raya Cruse

Marcel Farrell

Nicole Gaston

Marcus Grant

Sara Green

Dana Arroyo Infante

Erin Lannon

Elliot Lawrence IV

Samuel Perez Lopez

Olivia Melillo

Alyssa Meneo

Molly Boucher-Nichols

Amarylisse Rodriguez

Margaret Rousseau

Juana Santana

Claire Treacy

Sammy Vertucci

Art Work: “Raison D’etre” by Salavanh Thongchampasy