Etchings 29 2

Etchings Literary and Fine Arts Magazine of the University of Indianapolis Volume 29 Issue 2 2017

Copyright Š 2017

By the University of Indianapolis and Individual Contributors Cover Art by Lauren Raker Cover Design by Mercadees Hempel and Zach Swaim Printed by Triangle Printing, Inc. Indianapolis, Indiana 2017 www.triangleprinting.us

2017 Etchings Editorial Staff

Gabbie Brown Editor-in-Chief Design Editor

Kylie Seitz

Managing Editor

Alexis Stella Poetry Editor

Zach Swaim Prose Editor

Kevin McKelvey Faculty Advisor

Editorial Committee

Matthew Byrd, Jeff Dixon, Mercadees Hempel, Courtney Loshe, Spencer Martin, Natalie McCann, James Nelligan, and Josie Seach

Table of Contents Letter from the Editor Dorlis Gott Armentrout Award Sax • Catherine Watness Weightless • Paige Stratton Just North of Hope • Gabbie Brown Up & Away • Alexandra Myers Slip-Cast Mug and Mold • Auna Winters Assorted Slip-Cast Mugs • Auna Winters When the Plane Goes Down • Shauna Sartoris Every Child is an Artist • Morgan Litchfield Yellow • Hunter Little A Million Epitaphs • Mercadees Hempel Bothrietchis Lateralis • Abby Kepley Ode to Eden and What Could Have Been • Shauna Sartoris The Fall • Keegan Ham The Trinity Manifested • Keegan Ham swing dream • Lauren Raker Street Art in Fort Wayne • Dalton Atchison Departure • Erica White train • Lauren Raker Wake • Mercadees Hempel A Prayer in an Elevator • Madison Deline Hershberger Time and I Time • Laura Beth Johnson Grandpa’s Hands • Melenie Brown A Journey to Manila • Marissa Driml Retired Military • Morgan Litchfield Headlock • Morgan Benjamin iv

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Batter Bowl • Rachel Gravens Beneath the Surface • Rachel Gravens The Worst Night of Your Life • Sara Perkins Leagues Above the Sea • Alexandra Myers Good Morning War Machine • Erica White Reveles Family Photo • Paige Stratton Virginia P. • Laura Beth Johnson They Call Her Freedom • Melenie Brown I’ve Never Been in Love • Natalie McCann The Small Wonders of Life • Melenie Brown Toothache • Kyle Agnew Charlie and the Chocolate Factory • Christian Blanco Dinner Time • Kyle Agnew Ursa Minor • Hunter Little Inside Tintern Abbey • Spencer Martin Cumulus • Kyle Agnew Temporary Home • Morgan Benjamin Untitled • Cheyenne Granger Cold Coffee • Rochelle Bauer Family Portrait • Abby Kepley Happy 6th Birthday Samuel • Paige Stratton An Account for the Lost • Natalie McCann Crazy and Special • Laura Beth Johnson Parking in Fountain Square • Paige Stratton buttons • Lauren Raker

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Letter from the Editor Each and every issue of Etchings that we produce here at the University of Indianapolis wouldn’t exist without our contributors and our hard-working staff, but that is more true of this issue than it is of any other issue I’ve helped create. Without the hard work and dedication of our staff after the first draft of this issue was deleted, this magazine wouldn’t have been finished in time to be published this spring, and without the flood of submissions from our contributors, we wouldn’t have had a magazine in the first place. Because of that, I want to say a big thank you, not only to this spring’s staff, but also to everyone who submitted their work for our consideration. It is thanks to all of you that we are able to produce yet another wonderful issue.

I also owe thanks to our faculty advisor, Kevin McKelvey, for looking over each draft of the magazine and offering us advice on how to make this issue the best it can be. Without his help, this issue would likely be riddled with little mistakes we all missed after hours of inserting and formatting pieces until the English language stopped making any sense. As always, we are thankful to the English Department for giving us the opportunity to create this magazine, and to Debby McGary, who sends out reminders pushing people to submit and who doesn’t mind us ducking around behind her desk to grab what we need from our makeshift Etchings office during the day. We, as a staff, also want to thank Triangle Printing for working with us and producing the lovely looking copy of Etchings you are holding in your hands.

I hope you enjoy perusing this fabulous issue of Etchings just as much as we enjoyed putting it together. It has been a truly enjoyable experience, and know that I, along with the rest of you, will be waiting with baited breath to see what next year’s staff will create.

Wishing you all the best, Gabbie Brown

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Dorlis Gott Armentrout Award

D. Gilson is the author of I Will Say This Exactly One Time: Essays (Sibling Rivalry, 2015); Crush with Will Stockton (Punctum Books, 2014); Brit Lit (Sibling Rivalry, 2013); and Catch & Release (2012), winner of the Robin Becker Prize. He is an Assistant Professor of English at Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts, and his work has appeared in Threepenny Review, PANK, The Indiana Review, The Rumpus, and as a notable essay in Best American Essays.

This issue’s winner is “Good Morning War Machine” by Erica White on page 55.

This issue’s runner-up is “Temporary Home” by Morgan Benjamin on page 76.

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Sax • Catherine Watness The sexiest instrument on earth is the Saxophone A golden erect cock spurting forth melodious vibrations Every woman’s dream The dulcet sounds of that phallic wonder Can give me either the most passionate fuck of my life Or make the sweetest love I’ve ever cherished I have a thing for voices And by Satan does the Sax have a sexy one Downright sinful screams of le petite mort No wonder Blues musicians have sold their souls For the privilege of stroking medallion keys to climax If only ever I had a lover as passionate as a Sax I too would gladly give up on the pipe dream of heaven for the tortures of hell As long as that instrument of pleasure was burning alongside me Voice drowning out the screams of fellow poor souls in perdition

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Weightless • Paige Stratton

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Just North of Hope • Gabbie Brown Cold wind howled across an icy mountain ridge, sending little eddies of snow across the silver streams of moonlight that filtered through the thick clouds overhead, serving as the only illumination for miles. Kaitlyn Cameron pulled her hat further down, fingers already numb in her thick wool gloves. Her heavy coat did little to stop the persistent chill from sinking its thick fingers through her skin to freeze muscle and bruise bone.

Hooked on the belt at her waist was a two-way radio, the glowing green light that indicated that the radio was on barely visible through the storm. A dead man’s voice chattered cheerfully over the static filled radio waves, accompanying her on her late-night trek.

His body was buried under snow and ice, frozen dirt and tiny chunks of granite, just as it had been since the winter snow had blown in a month ago. His lifeless body had been buried in the spring, when flowers still bloomed on the mountainside, but the man’s former girlfriend had put up with his chatter until long after the snow had blown in.

Despite the continuing moan of the winter wind and the soft, breathy quality of his voice, Kaitlyn could hear every meandering phrase he spoke. “She shouldn’t ’a sent me for milk,” he was saying.

“She knew it was a bad neighborhood—she’d lived there all ’er life, so she had to have known—but she did.” He paused, and the wind howled louder, as if to make up for the lack of talking. “I shouldn’t ’a gone. I’d only lived there a week an’ a half but two people’d already been shot.”

“Why’d you go, then?” Kaitlyn demanded before clapping a hand over her mouth. She tried not to talk to the dead. It only encouraged them to chat further. Worse yet, it gave them focus. Or made them stick around like a particularly stubborn piece of graffiti, refusing to be scrubbed away or painted over. She’d learned that when she was still in middle school, around the same time that she’d discovered that the dead did not respond to just anyone who spoke to them. “’Cause I love ’er,” he said in the hopeless tone of someone caught in a trap with no way to see an exit. “Love ’er so much it hurts. It drives 6

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me crazy. Sometimes I think I’d step into the middle of a crowded intersection if it would make ’er smile at me.”

Kaitlyn wanted to tell him that stepping out into the middle of a busy street wouldn’t hurt him anymore, but she didn’t want him to keep chattering. Furthermore, she wasn’t sure that he knew he was dead. Instead of saying something she would regret later, she kept forcing her way through deep snow, praying that she was going in the right direction. She could dig her phone out of her pocket and pull up the map function, but its battery was low after being used most the day as a temporary credit card scanner after her old machine at her antique store had finally kicked the bucket. She wanted to save that for a last resort.

The dead man kept talking. That wasn’t unusual. Most dead people chattered on and on, as if they could reanimate their rotten corpses through words alone. It was something that Kaitlyn should have learned to block out years ago, but never had. The constant chatter of the dead assaulted her ears during the day and crept into her dreams at night. Lingering remnants of the dead were constantly speaking to her, saying what they had never voiced when they were still breathing.

“She has the prettiest hair,” the dead man said in a vague, confused voice, as if he wasn’t sure why he was saying it. “Like corn silk when the crop is ripe for the picking. And her eyes were brown and bright as new copper pennies. A guy could get lost in those eyes.” He let out a happy sounding sigh and then asked, “Do ya’ think she loves me?”

Kaitlyn might not have known who the dead man had been when there’d still been air left in his lungs, but she knew exactly who he was talking about. The woman had come into her shop, leaving a classically handsome man out in the idling car. Her hair had been pulled up in a glossy, gold bun and her skin had been clear but her eyes had been a dull brown, the color of gooey mud that waited to suck a car’s tires in, refusing to let go. Purple bags from long, sleepless nights had lingered under those eyes. In a trembling hand she’d clutched the two-way radio that now rested against Kaitlyn’s hip. The woman had placed it on the counter, practically tossing a pair of double A batteries after it.

Kaitlyn had caught the batteries before they’d rolled into the mess that made up the front counter of her antiques shop. She’d graduated college with a degree in business, hoping to get away Volume 29 Issue 2

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from the lingering spirits of the dead who’d haunted her since childhood.

In retrospect, running an antiques shop in a tiny Maine town tucked away in the Longfellow Mountains hadn’t been the best way to do that. Anything old enough to be considered an antique normally had sentimental value, and the lingering spirits of the dead tended to cling to things with sentimental value.

“Jocelyn told me you could get rid of this,” the woman had said, voice rough with exhaustion.

Kaitlyn hadn’t bothered to ask who Jocelyn was, knowing it was likely a friend of a friend who’d procured her peculiar services before.

That was how much of Kaitlyn’s secondary business reached her. “Get rid of what, exactly?” she had inquired instead.

“Him,” the woman had replied, voice filled to the brim with that particular brand of ugly loathing that very pretty women often master at a young age. “I buried him months ago, in the spring, but his voice keeps yammering on and on to me every time Arnold and I are—” She’d cut herself off with a quick glance at Kaitlyn’s six-year-old niece, Miranda, who was drawing pictures of her new cat, Ghost, with crayons. At least the woman possessed enough common sense to know that there were some things you didn’t say in front of a small child. Kaitlyn didn’t think that the woman’s new boyfriend had any sense at all. If he did, he wouldn’t have been hanging around with the sour-faced woman who’d brought the radio in.

“You can get rid of it, right?” the woman had asked, as if they were speaking about garbage disposal rather than the deceased remains of her former boyfriend’s spirit.

“Yes,” Kaitlyn had replied, and the woman’s murky eyes had lit up with relief. “But I’m going to need to fill out some paperwork first.”

She had worked too hard making her business legitimate to have it all undone by an unfiled piece of paper.

The woman had printed her name, Annabelle Tremain, before writing her reason for requesting elimination of the lingering spirit, using the same crude terms she’d been about to use before she’d considered the presence of a child, in elegant cursive.

As soon as she placed the last, looping signature on the last piece of paperwork to be filed, she’d dropped a fistful of crumpled bills on the table, not waiting for her change before she’d fled the store.

Kaitlyn had seen her type many times before. Annabelle had been the 8

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kind of person that couldn’t bear to look at the past for one minute longer, because if she did then she’d have to admit her guilt.

“Do ya’ think she loves me?” the dead man asked again, in the persistent tone of someone who was going to keep asking until he got an answer.

“No,” Kaitlyn told him. It was harsh, but she didn’t believe in being gentle when it came to love. She’d fallen in love once, but that had been a long time ago and had left wounds which had yet to heal.

The dead man began sobbing then. It was the kind of messy crying that could make even the coldest man pause for a moment. Kaitlyn, who had been waiting for the batteries to die during the hours-long hike so he would finally stop talking, began earnestly praying for that outcome.

She didn’t want to have to listen to the heartrending sound. It reminded her of a low spot in her life that she didn’t like to think about. She’d cried over her one-time boyfriend like that, years ago, and he hadn’t been worth it any more than Annabelle Tremain was.

That didn’t mean she didn’t understand the pain. It just meant that she didn’t want to hear it.

The wind buffeted her back and nipped at any exposed flesh it could find, but she pushed forward resolutely, determined to see her task through to the end. As she hiked onwards, the dead man’s cries began to fade away until all that was left was the crackling sound of static coming from the radio. That, too, silenced after a minute as the light on it turned red, flickered, and then faded out.

Kaitlyn stopped, turning her gaze upwards towards the thick clouds that obscured the stars, and breathed out a soft sound that was almost a sob. Then she turned and began to make her way down the mountain to where her car was parked, waiting to get her home safe and warm.

There was no need to locate a single headstone in an out-of-theway graveyard, perched precariously on the edge of a cliff where the wildflowers bloomed during the summer. Heartbreak had done what she had set out to do, banishing the last remnants of the dead man’s soul from the Earth.

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Up & Away • Alexandra Myers

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Slip-Cast Mug and Mold • Assorted Slip-Cast Mugs • Auna Winters

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When the Plane Goes Down • Shauna Sartoris She is slicing an orange. She is breathing, breathing, she is remembering her son in the back room. He is still sleeping off playtime, dreaming of building a booming tower of bricks, just the way Daddy taught him to; stacking this against itself and that against another one. He knocks it down. Screams and

Mommy, in the blue-tiled pantry, smiles. This is what he dreams of. His mother smelling clean like lemon-fresh wetwipes, singing back to the oven its timer tune in the early afternoon; “no, Sweetie, Daddy won’t be back until dinner.” This is what he dreams of, while his mother drops the knife and turns the television up.

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Every Child is an Artist • Morgan Litchfield

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I am Yellow • Hunter Little Like the light you switched on As you screamed my name And smashed Grandmother’s Fine china against My bedroom wall I hear ringing, the sound Of our doorbell the day CPS received my call and Your smoke rings floated Like dragons’ breath, fading Into the autumn wind Turning fallen leaves Yellow, like your Fingernails and me Afraid of remembering Your wild, yellow hair chasing me, Like the flame of your lighter Chasing a cigarette you dropped In the yard, where you used To push me On the tire swing, smiling with Your teeth not yet yellow Like the moon In August, when you pressed Your cigarette to my skin And I became yellow.

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A Million Epitaphs • Mercadees Hempel ANDREW ALEXANDER 1943–2015 Beloved father, brother, and friend Andrew’s children stopped calling him when they turned 25. His brother broke a beer bottle on his face ten years ago, and he had no friends because he often stole from them.

BETHANY KATCHADORIAN 1955–2015 An angel of this world Angel? Bethany Katchadorian was notorious for being the cruelest teacher at Fletcher Elementary. She once told a girl who was misbehaving to sit in the trash can for time out because that’s where the garbage belongs.

REVEREND WALTER MITCHELL 1947–2015 He has finally gone home to God We all know that Rev. Mitch was not helping little John Phillips with math problems after service, and we also know that Mark Waters didn’t stop coming to church because he had switched to Judaism. I know it, you know it, and certainly Mrs. Mitchell knows it too.

ERIKKA THOMPSON 2000–2015 Treasured daughter If Erikka was so treasured, why did she hang herself in the closet after coming out to her parents?

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CARTER STEVENS 2014–2015 Sleep in Heavenly peace Carter never slept in peace because his parents would not allow it. Some people said that their midnight binges and parties would wake the dead. I wish something could.

ASIA MATTHEWS 1994–2015 Wonderful daughter, sister, and friend Asia ran away from home two years ago. Her mother wouldn’t say why. Her sister wasn’t allowed to talk about it. Asia was found in New York last month behind a dumpster. In her apartment, the police found a baby.

JOHNATHON WALKS 1945–2015 Devoted mayor, honest man I’m getting too old for this…

NATASHA STEVENS 1983–2015 Don’t cry for me, for love never ends The paper spoke with your son. He got life. He says he doesn’t regret what he did. Do you?

GEORGE AUSTIN 1955–2015 Forget me not I’m sorry, George, but you never came out of your house unless it was to collect the mail. So, I’m afraid everybody already has.

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ANNA LEE 1970–2015 Precious wife We all said that Anna should have left when she had the chance…

A million epitaphs later…

DAVID SMITH 1985–2065 Husband, father, grave maker I was paid to tell lies.

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Bothriechis Lateralis • Abby Kepley

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Ode to Eden and What Could Have Been • Shauna Sartoris Bring forth the lilac bushes— sweet in scent and soft as the gentle lamb.

Beware serpent trees.

Cut down the weeds in the flower bed— crust and decay. there is no room for it here.

You will reach for fruit that rots in your stomach. Stop Before it reaches your lips.

Savor the bittersweet of Choice for a moment and retract.

Let it be known that here the dark of night is as light as day.

The sun is warm and the moon glows bright.

Naked, run through waving fields at dawn to reach the tree of your Father’s love. dig at the roots. take them. touch them. return them to the ground when you have had your fill. they will still be there when you return at break of day tomorrow.

To dance in the freedom of this, your great innocence.

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The Fall • Keegan Ham

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The Trinity Manifested • Keegan Ham

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swing dream • Lauren Raker

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Street Art in Fort Wayne • Dalton Atchison

The street art was created by Yis “Nosego” Goodwin from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and is titled “Nomad.”

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Departure • Erica White We were somewhere past Hon Dori Station in the patchwork of covered streets, karaoke bars, and izakaya red lanterns. I had been here before in these narrow cobble roads, but not drunk like this, not hoping you would decide to stay longer because I will never see you after this evening. We are drunk:

You knowing me for Who I am, I from knowing Who you really are

Not for love, but to know what we are, to know I am here in this world.

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My hand slipped from yours The wool blanket distance fell Down a narrow street

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train • Lauren Raker

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Wake • Mercadees Hempel

“Eddie’s dead.”

My mother gasped. I closed my eyes, holding the phone closer to my ear and lying my head down. I imagined my mother standing in her marigold yellow kitchen, wearing her soft pink robe, her fingers touching her lips as the hand holding her phone shakes.

She had probably just woken up. It was nine a.m. on a Saturday in Indianapolis I was sitting in my own kitchen, in an apartment complex fifteen minutes away. While my mother’s kitchen was the color of marigolds with a linoleum floor and a paint-stained wooden table, my kitchen was white with black cabinets, countertops, and a black island, my red appliances rich in color against them.

“What did you say?” Mom whispered.

“Eddie died,” I said.

I lifted my head from the black top of the island to the screen of my laptop again. I had checked my Facebook and saw that I had been tagged in a post. It was a post to Eddie’s obituary. It had been published a week ago, but I had been tagged in it last night.

“Edward Blake III, 54, died last Friday at 9 p.m. from a heart attack. It was a sudden and quick death,” the obituary said. It went on to explain his accomplishments, graduating magnum cum laude from Indiana University and his work as a dermatologist.

“Oh, Gemma,” Mom said. “I’m so sorry. This is awful. How did he die?”

“Heart attack,” I said. “It doesn’t give much details.”

“When are the services?”

I skimmed ahead to the funeral information and said, “The wake is today. At noon.”

“Oh, no,” Mom said. “I should go.”

“Why?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Gemma,” Mom sighed softly. She used the voice she often used when she thought I was being too cold, a voice so warm that she thought it could melt the ice around my heart. “He gave me the best gift anyone could ever ask for. Don’t you think I owe him that much?”

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“We don’t owe him anything!” I snapped. I knew I was acting like a baby.

My mother changed tactics.

“Gemma Rose,” she said in a firm tone. “We are both grown women. I am choosing to go to the wake. You may make a different choice. But I ask you to accept mine.”

I sighed in defeat. “I gotta go.”

My mother said bye and that she loved me before I hung up. I began to read the obituary all over again.

“Blake was a dermatologist for 21 years and opened his own office at the age of 33. Blake is survived by his wife Sylvia (Adkins) Blake, son Edward Blake IV, daughter-in-law Lydia (Simpson) Blake, granddaughter Clementine Blake, daughter Anastasia (Blake) Thompson, son-in-law Andrew Thompson, and daughter Gemma Lee-Blake.”

My eyes couldn’t leave my name. Hot tears welled suddenly, and I felt rage form in my heart.

“Edward,” I growled at the screen.

The Fourth Edward had tagged me in the post on Facebook, and I knew at that moment he had been the one who wrote the obituary.

If it had been Sylvia or even Anastasia, there’s no way I would have been mentioned at all. But Edward always had to dig in the knife. He had to twist our two worlds together to make it seem like they were one in the same, even though he knew damn well my last name was legally just “Lee.” Edward.

The Fourth Edward.

My brother.

My half-brother.

Numb, I kept reading.

“Blake had just become a grandfather this past summer. He was the best man at his son’s wedding the year before and had just walked his daughter down the aisle at her wedding two weeks ago.

He will be missed by all who knew him and loved him.”

Except by his daughter Gemma because she did neither, I thought bitterly.

I got a mention, but Edward has failed to explain that his father— our father—hadn’t seen me in six years and that even when he had stopped by, it was only for a couple times a year. And yes, Sylvia was Volume 29 Issue 2

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the sweet and loving wife that had stood by his side for over twenty years, but Edward conveniently left out the part when the man fell into the arms of Madeline Lee. Angry, I texted my mother, “I’m going with you. Be there in an hour.”

I went to my bedroom and slid open the closet door. My heart was pounding at a million miles a minute. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. My stomach did flip flops.

I pulled on a black, long-sleeved dress, black panty hose, and black ankle high boots. I pulled my long blonde hair into a ponytail, my signature hairstyle. I wondered if it was appropriate to wear a smoky eye at a wake. Would people think I was daring, wearing that much black eyeshadow at a place that often calls for tears? I would have no reason to cry today, so why not?

But then I checked the time and remembered I told my mother I would see her in an hour. I splashed on concealer, drew on some winged eyeliner, and smeared on chapstick before heading to the car.

I met Eddie when I was five years old. Aunt Cheryl was babysitting me while Mom was at lunch with a friend. I was drawing a picture for her because it was almost Mother’s Day. Cheryl was painting her nails a strawberry red, and the smell of nail polish and acetone was thick in the living room where we sat.

My eighteen-year-old aunt was sitting on the plush leather couch, and I was on the floor at the coffee table. Cheryl was different from Mom and my teachers. She had a wildness to her that made me feel uncomfortable, even though I loved her. I heard the car door close, and I smiled, knowing that it was Mom. Then there was a second car door closing.

Mom walked in, looking bright in a pink sundress with white sandals, her blonde hair in curls. She smiled at me, and I was so excited to show her my picture. But then a man walked in. A Cuban man with black hair, parted on the right, tall, tan, with dark brown eyes. He wore a light blue button down shirt with a collar and dark blue jeans. He grinned at me, and his two front teeth were overlapping.

My aunt glared at him, but said nothing. Mom kept smiling, but she was cracking her knuckles too. She was nervous.

“Gemma, say hi to your daddy,” Mom said, gesturing to the man.

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I thought I was shrinking. I wanted to grow tiny and disappear.

I did not like this man. I did not like that he was here in my house full of girls.

“Aunt Cheryl said I don’t have a daddy,” I whimpered.

“Cheryl, why would you say that?” Mom snapped. Cheryl’s glare turned to a frown, and she left the living room. Mom shook her head and turned to the man.

“Eddie, have a seat,” she said. “Sit down and meet your daughter.”

But Eddie did not move from the door. He seemed nervous. He had grown pale.

“Eddie?”

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” he said softly. His voice was deep and thick. I didn’t like it. It didn’t match my mom’s gentle voice and tone.

“Edward, no!” Mom cried, clenching her hands into fists. “You promised you would meet Gemma. For God’s sake, Eddie—” “I’m sorry, Maddie,” he said. “I need to go. My—My wife is waiting.”

He turned around and left, the door slamming behind him. My mother cursed and ran after him. I shyly went to the screen door and saw the two arguing, my mother gesturing widely at me. Eddie just stood there at his black car, taking it. I don’t remember what they said, and I doubt I understood at the time.

I felt a hand touch my shoulder, and I looked up to see it was attached to Aunt Cheryl. She was wearing an orange knit crop top and shorts. Her strawberry blonde hair was in two braids, tied with yellow elastic bands at the end.

“You said I don’t have a daddy,” I whimpered, confused.

“Everybody has a daddy, Gemma,” Cheryl said somberly.

I didn’t see my father again for a few years after that. I learned later, when I was older, that Mom and Eddie had met at a concert.

Eddie had been married, but he and Sylvia were separated. She was depressed after having The Fourth Edward, and he was annoyed.

So he went to a Grateful Dead concert and became enchanted by the beautiful blonde in a flower crown named Madeline. She was twenty-two at the time. He was thirty and a dermatologist. He paid for an expensive condo downtown, and she moved out of her tiny apartment that she shared with her five friends. He came nearly every night after he finished with work. She thought they were happy.

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And then she got pregnant with me, and that’s when she learned the truth. He had a wife. A son. They had been together for four months, and Mom had just learned all this about him. He said that he loved her, but he couldn’t be with her. He couldn’t have a baby with her. He asked her to get rid of it.

My mom moved back in with her parents, and she had me. I was twelve when I first asked her why she didn’t get rid of me.

“There was no reason to,” she said. “I had a job at the elementary school. I had two parents and a sister who were willing to support me. And I wanted you.”

And that was that. Eddie got his wife on some postpartum treatment, they raised Edward, and then Anastasia was added to the mix three years later. My half-brother and I are only thirteen months apart. Mom worked as a fifth grade teacher, sent me to school where I majored in graphic design and advertising, and we were happy. We were happy.

“Hey, babe,” Mom greeted as she got in my car.

She was wearing a tight knitted black dress and flats. Her hair was curled as per usual, and she had put the effort into finding a long silver necklace to wear and a red lipstick. She was forty-six years old.

I began to drive towards the funeral home Eddie was being held.

Outside the car, the leaves were red and orange, gently drifting onto the ground. It was chilly, but not too cold. It was an actual autumn day, a rarity. The sky was clear blue, not a cloud to be found, and the sun felt warm in the car, the wind blocked by the aluminum casing.

“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Do you remember my 18th birthday?”

She didn’t answer.

“It was the last time I saw Eddie,” I told her. “It was also Father’s Day that year. It was so freaking hot. We were in the kitchen, making cookies. Aunt Cheryl, Grannie, and Grampa were going to come over. And the doorbell rang, and I said, ‘I bet that’s them.’ You went to answer the door. I turned around because I heard footsteps, thinking it was Grampa.

“But it was Eddie. He was standing there in a polo and jeans. He looked the same. Older, but same dark hair and dark brown eyes. I hadn’t seen him in two years. Remember, Mom?” “Yes, Gemma, I remember.” Mom’s eyes were focused on the trees.

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“It had been two years, and I didn’t get a phone call, a letter, a visit, nothing. But there he was. And he held opened his arms and said, ‘Aren’t you going to wish me a happy Father’s Day?’ Do you remember what I did next, Mom?” “Yes, Gemma,” Mom said, sighing. “You spat in his face.”

“And I just laughed and walked right into my room.”

The funeral home was on the right. I turned on my blinker and got into the turn lane. It was a small funeral home that was right by the highway. The sound of cars and trucks whirling by filled the air. The home’s tan bricks and white pillars stood strongly in the cement parking lot. I parked into the first free spot I saw. There were only about five cars there, which surprised me. The funeral was starting in a few minutes. Why weren’t there more people?

“He didn’t even wish me a happy birthday. He just wanted to hear me tell him happy Father’s Day. What a prick.”

“Sweetie,” Mom said, grabbing my hand and focusing her eyes at me. “I know you’re hurting right now.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Mom insisted. “I know you better than anybody. I can see it in your eyes. You’re hurting. And you’ve been hurting for a long time.”

“I’m not hurt,” I argued. “I’m pissed off.”

“Honey, there are things—” “I don’t want to talk about this. Eddie’s lucky I’m even here!”

I got out of the car, slamming the door shut. I walked briskly to the door of the funeral home, my mother trailing after me. We stepped inside.

The parlor had beige walls and green carpeting. A gray haired man with kind brown eyes dressed in a suit smiled humbly at us and said, “Hello and welcome. Are you with the Blake family?”

I was suddenly anxious again, my stomach practicing a gymnastics routine again. I opened my mouth but said nothing.

Mom took the lead, stepping to my side and taking my arm. She nodded.

“To the left then, ma’am,” he said, gesturing to the white parlor doors with brass handles. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Mom said, guiding me to the doors. She pulled the right door open, and we walked inside. Two steps in, I froze again.

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placed in rows. Only the first two rows were filled. In the front was the coffin.

The coffin was black, and in it laid my father.

My father.

A bouquet of wildflowers was placed on the coffin. I could see that Eddie was wearing a black suit with a blue tie, and his hands were solemnly folded over his stomach. A podium was placed at the foot of the coffin. Soft classical music was playing, and gentle weeping mingled with it.

Mom guided me towards the coffin. She was speaking, but it felt like I was underwater, unable to hear her clearly. It’s tradition, she was saying. We had to pay our respects. Snapping back to reality, I jerked my arm out of her hand and stood about a foot away from the coffin.

Mom and I stared at each other, a power struggle with her begging and me resisting, before she turned and approached the corpse.

I crossed my arms, awkward. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sigh, couldn’t blink appropriately. You’re supposed to be in mourning at a wake, and I just felt numb.

“Gem?” A soft, familiar whisper hit my ears. I looked over and saw that Eddie’s family was sitting in the very front row, only a foot-and -a-half away from where I stood. It had been The Fourth Edward who had whispered my name. He shyly waved at me, his eyes filled with tears. The Fourth Edward’s wife, carrot head Lydia with freckles over every inch of skin, was resting her head against his right shoulder. He had their one year old, Clementine, in his lap. Anastasia sat on his left.

Thick tears dyed black from mascara and eyeliner flowed down her cheeks, and she was holding a white handkerchief to her face. Her husband, Andrew, was staring at the floor, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Sylvia had her auburn hair curled, a ring on every finger, and was sitting with her back straight. A trail of tears broke streaked across her foundation. She was frowning at me. Not in anger, I realized. In confusion.

I coughed and began walking to one of the seats behind them.

Mom sat next to me, taking my hand in hers. The gentleman with kind eyes entered the room and went to the podium.

“I am Pastor Brown,” he said. “And I would like to thank you all for coming to celebrate the life of Edward Blake III. Edward was a kind man who was dedicated to his patients, his friends, and his family.”

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He was a dermatologist. How dedicated did he have to be to his patients? I thought.

“I did not have the pleasure of knowing Edward, but I feel as if I know how kind and warm of a person he was by talking with his lovely wife and two beloved children.”

Yes, two children. You got that right.

Suddenly, there were soft whimpers coming up from the front of the room. I looked and saw that Clementine was being fussy. She was now looking over Edward’s shoulder, struggling to get out of his grasp. Her big dark brown eyes were staring straight ahead, staring right at me. Edward tried to shush her to no avail.

“Gemma,” Mom said. “There’s some things you should know.”

“I would now like to—” Pastor Brown began.

A horrendous shriek cut through the air like a blade. Clementine had not been soothed and was now crying, kicking at her father.

Her tan face was as red as her hair. Panicked, Edward sat her down on the ground. Once free, she sprinted towards my chair.

She threw her arms on my legs and buried her face in my lap, unexpectedly calm. I flinched a little and saw Edward’s eyes widen.

He stood and walked over to us, nervousness clearly painted on his face. I looked at my brother, down at my niece, and then up at the coffin. I looked at Eddie. I wondered if his front two teeth still overlapped.

“It looks like she wants her aunt,” the pastor joked. A couple people chuckled.

Her aunt, I thought. Her aunt.

I reached down and picked Clementine up into my lap, wrapping my arms securely around her. I looked up at Edward. His face was a mess of confusion, grief, surprise, and relief. I could relate.

“I got her,” I said.

The Fourth Edward hesitated before nodding curtly. He returned to his seat. Silence restored, Pastor Brown led everybody in prayer.

That was when I began to cry, the tears falling into Clementine’s red hair. I held her closer and kept crying. I was sad. My father was dead. I was sad. I hated that I was sad.

Pastor Brown was now talking about Eddie’s accomplishments.

Clementine gurgled in my lap. My mother wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

I looked at her and asked, “Why didn’t he want me?”

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It was the question I had wanted to ask for years.

“Things were complicated,” Mom whispered, looking down.

“He wanted to be there for Sylvia and Edward. He realized he loved her. And when he told me that, I was angry. I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me, so…so I kept you to myself.”

“What?” I asked. Shame covered her face.

“I kicked him out of the delivery room,” she said. “I told him not to come to your first birthday. It wasn’t until you were five that I said it was okay. Then he chickened out in the living room, and I got angry again. He tried to make it up to me after that, but I was selfish. He was selfish too, but it wasn’t just him. I’m sorry, Gemma.

I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes were moist as she asked, “Do you hate me now too?”

I could have been angry that she had let me believe that it had all been Eddie’s fault. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t blame her because I had never wanted to share her. I couldn’t blame her for feeling the same way.

“No, Mom, never.”

The sermon ended, and people walked up to the coffin to pay their respects. I handed Clementine to Mom and left. I couldn’t handle it. I felt like a bomb that had been ticking the whole time, threatening to go off. I didn’t know when I was going to explode, but I didn’t want to be around everybody when I did. It was the least I could do.

I entered the lobby, shaky and sweaty. The room was too small.

My mother had kept me away from my father. My father had chosen to stay away. I didn’t know what to expect from anyone anymore.

The parlor doors opened. The wake was over. My five-foot little sister was storming towards me, her face streaked with black trails.

“You bitch!” she shouted.

“What? What did I do to you, Anastasia?” I demanded as guests oozed out of the room.

“You didn’t come to my wedding!” she said, shaking with rage.

“I invited you. You never answered my emails, my texts, nothing!

Who does that?”

“Ana,” I whimpered. “I got the invite, but I didn’t know you wanted…” I trailed off. I couldn’t make any excuses. I got my sister’s save the date, and I threw it away. I had thought it was ridiculous that she was getting married. She was only twenty-one 34

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years old. It was even more ridiculous that she was inviting me, a stranger.

“You didn’t come to my sweet sixteen, my graduation, and now you don’t come to my wedding! Fuck you, Gemma!” Sobbing, Anastasia took off, her husband following.

“Ana!” I called pointlessly. I spotted my mother and rushed over to her side. “Mom, we better go.”

“Gemma!” Now The Fourth Edward was walking over. I wanted to run. He looked like Eddie. His hair was the same color and was parted the same way. His eyes were dark brown, like Eddie’s too. He was wearing a gray suit, and while he didn’t look angry, my heart was pounding.

“Edward—” I started.

“Can you get coffee with me? Please?”

I didn’t answer at first, suspicious.

Edward gave a tiny smile and said, “Oh, come on, Gem, can’t you be nice to me? After all, my dad just died.”

I sighed wearily and said, “Fine, but I need to take my mom home.”

“My mom can take her.”

“Edward!”

“It’s fine, Gemma,” Mom said, kissing my cheek. “Go on with your brother.”

She smiled, and I wished we were back in our marigold yellow kitchen doing paper mache, back when I knew I only belonged to her. I hugged her tightly, and I led Edward to my car. We sighed comfortably against the leather seats once buckled in, and we settled into silence while I pulled out of the parking lot.

Heading towards Starbucks, I said spitefully, “Thanks for the phone call about Eddie.”

“Gemma, I did call,” Edward said patiently. “You didn’t answer.”

I thought back to last Friday and remembered seeing Edward’s name pop up on my phone. I had been on my work break at the ad agency. I had sent it to voicemail. He hadn’t left a message, and I didn’t call back.

“Is this how it’s always been?” I asked, pulling up to the Starbucks, thinking about my mother denying Eddie visits and me ignoring my siblings’ calls. “Have my mom and I always been the shitty ones?”

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“You’re not the shitty ones,” Edward said.

I turned the car off, but we didn’t get out. We just sat in front of the green and tan brick building.

“We look like we’re going to a funeral,” I joked.

Edward cracked a smile.

“Why did you want to talk to me?” I asked.

“Because you’re my sister,” Edward answered. “But you seem to forget that a lot.”

“Edward, it’s complicated,” I moaned. “I was five years old when I met Eddie. I didn’t even know you existed until we were like ten.”

“Well, you were never a secret. Anastasia and I always knew about you. And my mom doesn’t hate you. Or your mother. She forgave Dad for his mistakes, but you didn’t. And I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t?”

“No. Dad was a shitty person sometimes. For God’s sake, he left my mother when I was a baby. Did you know he left after Anastasia was born too?”

“Do we have another sibling?” I asked jokingly, but I was surprised. I hadn’t known.

“Nope, luckily. But he did leave. And sometimes he would stay out late for a long time, and I never knew where he was. He pissed off a lot of people too. He’d cheat them at gambling, borrow something that was in mint condition and return it broken. He was inconsiderate, and he was selfish. But he was my dad. He loved me, and I always knew that. And I’m sorry, Gemma. I’m sorry you didn’t know.

“But do you have to punish me and Anastasia? You missed both our weddings. You missed Clementine’s birthday. You never answer our calls or texts. Why?” I stared ahead, longing for a sketchbook and a pencil, something I could doodle on and forget what was happening. But my brother wanted answers. I knew how that felt.

“Why do you think, Edward? You guys remind me of what I didn’t have.”

“Is that our fault?”

“No.” “So…?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And as soon as I said it, I realized I meant it.

“Did you really hate him?” Edward asked.

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I bit my lip. The tears were threatening to come back. I let out a shaky breath and said, “I was sixteen years old. It was Valentine’s Day, and I was at a school dance. It was in the gym, and I was so excited because Mom had bought me a beautiful purple dress with straps and new silver earrings. I went with this guy named Leo Carson, who was the cutest boy in our grade.”

“You hotshot,” Edward said, laughing.

“Yeah. Here I was, the artsy kid with the star athlete, looking radiant in my purple dress and my gold hair. We had just finished dancing to the hit Taylor Swift song at the time, and the DJ said it was time for the father-daughter dance. A lot of girls’ dads were there chaperoning. Others had come because they knew about the dance and wanted to surprise their daughters. But I stood off to the side, alone. Leo asked me where my dad was. And just as I was about to say, ‘I don’t know,’ I heard my name. I turned around, and there was Eddie. My mother was behind him, beaming.

“He took my hand and led me to the dance floor, and we danced to ‘Daughters’ by John Mayer. That is such a terrible song, but in that moment, I loved it. We danced, and he kissed my cheek. After the dance, we went with Mom to Steak and Shake, and we talked and laughed. He said he was sorry he missed my last birthday, that he promised he would come around more, that he would be a better father. I believed him, Edward, and in that moment, I loved him.”

“Then what?” Edward asked after I paused.

“He didn’t call,” I said. “And he didn’t visit. I didn’t see him again until my 18th birthday when I spat in his face.”

“Yeah, he told me about that.”

“Do you think he deserved it?”

“Definitely.”

I smiled, but it faded fast.

“Why didn’t he call, Edward?” I asked. “Why didn’t I hear for him after that night?”

Edward thought long and hard, resting his head against the seat. He shrugged.

“Honestly, Gemma, I don’t know. I don’t remember.” He looked over at me. “Does it matter?”

If he had asked me that this morning, I would have said yes, it did matter. Our father should answer for himself. But then I remembered him lying in the coffin, his hands against his stomach, Volume 29 Issue 2

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placed there by the undertaker. We were never going to go back in time and fix everything. It was too late.

“Do you remember when we met?” Edward asked.

“We were 10,” I said, smiling.

“And you realized we both liked Ninja Turtles.”

“That was a good day,” I chuckled, seeing in my mind Edward and I playing with the plastic turtle figures I owned in my room while Anastasia was fascinated with my dollhouse. Mom and Sylvia had been in the other room, sipping tea. The visit had ended in an argument between our mothers, an argument over Eddie. But before that…

“There could be more good days,” Edward said. “If you want.”

I nodded slowly, remembering the warm sunlight that had illuminated my room that day, warming the three of us, remembering the moment when I thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having a brother and sister.

“I’d like that.”

Edward grinned broadly. His bottom teeth were crooked, just like mine.

“My mom’s having a potluck at her house tonight. Pretty sure she talked your mom into going too,” Edward said. “You want to head that way?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds better than coffee.”

Edward typed the address into my phone’s GPS. I wondered how I was going to make it up to Anastasia for missing everything, to Edward, to my niece.

“Do you have a picture?” I asked, heading down the road. “Of Clementine? I’d like to have one for my desk at work.”

“Sure,” Edward answered. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a photo. I braked at a red light and took it. Clementine’s dark brown eyes looked back at me.

“Isn’t she a cutie?” my brother asked.

I smiled, the ice around my heart melting, and said, “She has our eyes.”

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A Prayer in an Elevator • Madison Deline Hershberger

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Time and I Time • Laura Beth Johnson Time and I sat crossed-legged in a field coaxing from flowers secrets to yield latent petals fell, gold and round settling softly on the ground we tugged on them like children “he loves me, he loves me not”, said I “He loves me, He loves me not”, said Time and all the while our thoughts contained image of boy and Man we hoped to gain their shapes filled our eyes nearer came we to the last yellow leaf our voices grew taunt with tension and grief and among the strewn our answer was found tawny tear-drop burial ground whole things were whole no more

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Grandpa’s Hands • Melenie Brown

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A Journey to Manila • Marissa Driml A train whistle sounded across the farmland of central Kansas.

Its tall smoke stack continually puffing out black smoke into the air. Every now and then a wagon would be passed by the great iron behemoth as it ran alongside the dirt road that ran parallel to its path. As the coal-powered locomotive went over the tracks, one of its passengers was deep in thought about circumstances that had led to his being on the train in the first place. The thoughts his mind was entertaining were often plagued with questions. Would he be considered a shame to his family? Would he be considered a disgrace to his community? If he ever went back home, would he be welcome? Would he be considered a failure by his family and friends? Or would he come back a hero? Would he come back to people cheering him for his service protecting this country? How does a Quaker end up in the army going to the Philippines to fight the Spanish?

Even if it is the 1890s, the idealism of pacifism is still very preeminent in his small-town Quaker Meeting House. His mother was definitely not pleased to learn that he had not refused being enlisted into the army. She had a long talk with him about the sixth commandment on “Thou shalt not kill” and why it should be against a person’s conscience to go and fight. Her right hand would run through her gray-streaked black hair, a sign that always accompanied her frustration and worry for her second eldest child.

“Have thou forgotten the ways I brought thee up?” she would argue.

“Who will help thee Father with the Farm?” “Does thou know what thou would be getting into?” Normally, his mother could make him reconsider his decisions, but for once, Clarence was convinced in his decision. At his continued persistence in the matter of his being allowed to join the army, his mother decided to bring his father in on the subject.

War had always been a sore spot for his father. Not because his father was a Quaker. No, his father opposed war because his own father had been killed fighting in the Civil War when Clarence’s father was just a young boy of ten. His older brothers, James and 42

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Isaac, also went off and fought in the Civil War making his father the man of the house. When the war ended, both made it back alive, but James had been affected by the war and never was the same person he had been before he had left. So when his mother threatened to bring up the subject of him going into the army with his father Clarence remembered getting nervous about his father’s reaction but had resolved at the time to stand his ground as a grown man in defense of his own agendas.

That was why he and his mother had been so surprised by his father’s reaction when they had sat down at the kitchen table late one night to discuss his enlistment. Compared to his mother‘s reaction, his father upon learning about his son entering the United States Army had said nothing to persuade his son one way or the other except, “You’re a man of twenty now. It is your decision to make. Your Mama and I can’t make it for you.” Then he had stood up from the kitchen table walked over to Clarence, gave his son’s right shoulder a tight squeeze, and then had headed upstairs to get what sleep he could.

That is exactly what he did. So here he was, Clarence Arville Roberts, and these were his thoughts as the train carrying him westward pressed farther through Kansas. Clarence, just a small -town farm boy from Raysville, Indiana, the son of Marion and Alzina Roberts, was now off on his way to fight for the United States in the Philippines. He was off to fight. To fight was against the Quaker belief and everything he had been taught by his mother growing up. Know he was going to test his mother and these principles by going off to fight.

His decision also went against some of the sage advice of some of the old war veterans who had fought in the War between the North and the South. Nearly forty years had gone by already, but the memories and the atrocities of that war still lived in the minds of those few who were still alive. One old veteran with only one leg, Alexander Rench, had made it a point of discouraging the young men in Clarence’s hometown to go and fight by telling war stories about his role as a union soldier at the battles of Shiloh and Fredericksburg. The latter battle is the one that had cost him his leg. Rench would sit on the front porch of Mr. Hittle’s Mercantile Store and point to his peg leg, telling how the Confederate shell fire at Fredericksburg had nearly killed him. The shell fire had killed Volume 29 Issue 2

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his brother Pete. Pete had been beside him at the beginning of the battle but midway through was shot in the head dying instantly.

Rench had been lucky to escape alive. Losing a leg was a lower price to pay than one’s life, Rench would then spit out along with the cheap chewing tobacco he always was chewing. After pausing for a long time, Rench would murmur low enough that only those close to him could hear “War is hell boys. You take heed to my words.” Alexander Rench was an ornery old man but even he did not want to face the wrath of the women folk hearing him utter a curse word.

However, there were plenty of other veterans ready to promote the young men off to battle. Many of them had seen Clarence and a couple of the other local boys off at the train station. They had sent them off with cheers of patriotism and yelling at the new soldiers to give the Spanish a piece of the Yankee spirit for them. It had been a send-off that had made Clarence feel special. And if that was not enough, being in the army definitely had proven to have its perks.

One of them was that Clarence had been given a new army uniform to wear. He, like other men who were going off to fight, went and had pictures taken in their uniforms. Some sent these pictures sent to family, wives, sweethearts, etc. Clarence personally had two copies made when he went to get his picture taken. One of them went to his family. The other one was given to Daisy Gaylord.

Daisy lived in the nearby town of Knightstown, which was only three miles from the Roberts’ farm. Just remembering her made Clarence warm all over. She was one of the prettiest things he had ever seen in his entire life. She had been living with her mother on her Uncle’s farm since her father and sister had died of the yellow fever epidemic ten years before. The three of them attended the Christian Church just down the road from the local Quaker Meeting House. He had made it a point the past several years of speaking with her after services. Lately, she had allowed him to walk her home on Sundays. Recently, this past Christmas, he had also asked her to attend the Christmas Ball that had been held in Knightstown (If his mother had known she would have been furious. A Quaker dancing in a public display like that!) but the evening had been a fun one, one that Clarence would remember for a long time. Daisy had had plenty of other beaus before but Clarence was determined to be her favorite.

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By enlisting in the army, Clarence was trying to maintain being her favorite. He also hoped he impressed Daisy by wearing his new uniform in town before he left and giving her the picture of him in his uniform. Besides talking to her and taking her to the dance, he had just started to court her on a regular basis and he liked her a lot.

When she found out he was leaving, Daisy had promised to write to him. He had great hopes of marrying her one day if she would have him. The great question was would she really keep her promise and write to him? Would she still be there when he came back? If he came back of course.

A jolt from the train going over a rough piece of track brought Clarence back to reality. Remembering that he was not alone, he glanced to his right. Sitting next to him on the train was a boy from St. Louis who had introduced himself as John Newkirk. Since then the boy had been really silent and had kept to himself. Trying to put an end to his questioning thoughts, Clarence decided to break the silence between the two. After clearing his throat from not having spoken for so long, Clarence ran his hand through his thick black hair and started with the only point in conversation he thought of, “So you said you are from St. Louis. Were you born there?”

The boy gave a start caused by Clarence’s voice. The towheaded boy nodded his head once before answering, “Yep. I’ve lived there my whole life. The whole eighteen years of it.” After a pause the boy glanced back at Clarence and asked, “I forgot where you are from.

Where is it again?”

“Raysville, Indiana. It is a small farm town near New Castle. It’s east of Indianapolis. I grew up on a farm. I’ve been helping my Pa out with it since I was about five. My parents and siblings are going to all pitch in and take care of it while I am gone. They and my girl are all going to be waiting for me when I come home. You have any family back in St. Louis?”

“My Father and step-mother along with five younger siblings.

Two brothers and three sisters. Youngest is three. Probably won’t even remember me when I come back. We live on the east side of the city. My father owns a grocery store. As a kid I was always getting in trouble for stealing peppermints out of the glass candy jar on the front counter.”

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on the farm just outside of Raysville. His parents were well known in amongst the local farmers in the small community of Raysville.

It was one of those towns were everyone knew everyone including everyone’s public and private affairs. Maybe he did not steal candy but he certainly had found enough mischief to get into, like stealing his mother’s good sheets to make a tent out of. His mother had never let him live that one down.

Also, unlike John, Clarence did not have any brothers. He had grown up with sisters, four of them to be exact. Maude, Effie, Clara, and the baby of the family, Irene, who, like John’s youngest sibling, was also three years old. He missed them already and hoped that they would be able to help with the farm. Clarence was brought back to reality when John asked him, “So why are you going off to fight?”

This question caught Clarence completely off guard. Should he tell John that the big reason he even put this uniform on was to impress the girl he liked back home? John would probably laugh at him. Should he tell John that he really was not sure, that he had been caught up in the glory of the moment that he really had no though that far into the future? No, that would make him sound really stupid. Above all he was not going to tell John about the second thoughts that had started to plague him since he had left Indiana. No way would he let himself look like a coward. “I joined because…everyone is so it seemed to be the right thing to do.” Great. Clarence thought. Now he probably thinks you would jump off a bridge if everyone else did.

Deciding to turn the conversation away from his generic and lame-sounding answer, Clarence turned to John. “So why are you going to fight?”

John’s blue eyes developed a bit of spark before to the question.

“Well, at first I signed up because I thought it sounded like a good way to impress people and to maybe earn some fame for myself.

But once I got on this train I suddenly started to remember all of my grandpa’s stories about the Civil War. I have to admit I actually considered jumping off the rain at one point wanting to admit that I might have made a mistake.

But then I remembered some advice I heard from an old school teacher of mine when I was in the third primer. That by me fighting I will be able to keep my loved ones safe and to let them have the freedom we all deserve. That way after this war is 46

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over everyone can go home and live happy lives with family and friends. I am glad I am able to serve for so noble a cause.”

Clarence sat for a moment silently to think about what John had just said. What he said had truth in it, Clarence realized. War was in itself terrible but it was a price one had to pay for the safety of freedom. A high price but one that Clarence decided in that moment he would be willing to continue to pay. All Clarence could do was nod his head at John and say, “That is true,” in acceptance of his answer. A period of reflective silence descended on both of them as Clarence continued to ponder John’s words.

“So what do you think we are going to be in for against the Spanish?” asked John offering Clarence some of a sandwich that he had been apparently saving.

Clarence inwardly laughed and decided he liked John. At least someone else was thinking the same thoughts he was about the war and a new friend would definitely make the trip go faster. The questions that had been plaguing him since he got on the train might not be completely answered but the nagging had stopped.

The war he was about to enter into would answer them. It could be as hellish as Alexander Rench claimed it was. He could come back a changed man. He might end up being forced to kill a man which was another dilemma for Clarence to possibly face. But as the train continued through the countryside, Clarence realized he now had a specific purpose to fight for. He was willing to fight to keep America and his loved ones safe.

This is Clarence Arville Roberts. This story is loosely based on events that really took place in his life. Clarence really did serve in the Spanish American Civil War and into the Philippine-American War that started after the previous one ended in 1899. He was reenlisted into the army in 1900 and continued to serve in Manila during the Philippine Insurrection. He was mustered out of the Army on the 30th of August 1903. On the 9th of November of that same year, Clarence married Daisy Gaylord. They settled in Greenfield, Indiana, and had two daughters together, Ruby and Dorothy. Clarence Roberts died in 1964 at the age of eighty-four.

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Retired Military • Morgan Litchfield

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Headlock • Morgan Benjamin I’ve been wrestling my entire life. It’s a wonder that I’m not stronger, but I’ve been wrestling me— tension without resistance. Following the restroom signs labeled “women,” growing my locks to my ass, pulling it back, buzzing my head, never shaving my legs again—or my pits.

I’m wrestling me in the office, searching for a lover, losing, joining a rugby team, bruising, changing my name to Benji, clipping and cleaning under my nails, researching top surgery, piercing my nipples, running a few miles to clear my head—never leaving my bed. Netflix instead.

Is there a lover here other than me?

The TV hangs on the wall like a mirror when turned off. I see my shadow’s reflection.

In my home, I’m wrestling me, shadow boxing, grappling and choking—loving my vagina, a proud female, but donating my dresses, whipping on a belt, tightening my paisley bowtie, admitting that I cry, yet feeling awkward as a woman— entering the men’s room, then marrying a woman while enjoying a mistress, declaring myself a feminist, on the table striking my fist— I’m having Jameson for breakfast. Later I order “something fruity like me,” fermenting— I’m bittersweet with age. I choke me out.

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Batter Bowl • Rachel Gravens

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Beneath The Surface • Rachel Gravens

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The Worst Night of Your Life • Sara Perkins The windshield wipers oscillate like an upside-down pendulum, wiping your tears off the cheek of your heartbreak.

A spotlight illuminates the frontal lobe of your rusted-out Jeep, as two veins transfer life from my hypothalamus to your amygdala.

Earlier, we held each other closely as the rain gave a gentle texture to Modest Mouse’s “Perfect Disguise.” There was a gentle sway, like tiny boats enjoying a pleasant breeze. My head rested on your chest while your hands protected my waist. We circumvolved until the clock wound down and we were suspended in time. In limbo, you advanced and I retracted, shattering the glass between us, the glass that protected us from the flood outside.

Together we sit in silence, heavy from the ramifications unbeknown to us. Pop Rocks fizzle on our tongues as we imagine where the night could have gone, longing for a different outcome. The tears on the glass reflect the rain on your face as I resuscitate your Jeep. No longer could we ignore that burning on our lips or the current in our cores, the tender stroke of my cheek or your body against mine.

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Later, we will splash each other in the blazing July heat and my legs will wrap around your torso as your hands tenderly reach the exposed small of my back. You’ll fabricate ridiculous stories about the jets painting the sky overhead with their white tails and we will laugh in between kisses and effortlessly circumvent in the water, just like we did tonight.

Much later, I will drive home in the thick of a snowstorm as my windshield, the very windshield that bears our sorrows tonight, will continuously freeze. I will become nauseous from the heater laboring to bring back the infatuation and passion of summer, of the intoxicating brush of your lips or the perfection of your hand in mine. No matter how hard the heater will try, I will feel my broken ribs and my split veins from your abandonment.

But tonight, tonight is the worst night of your life, not mine. Mine will come much later.

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Leagues Above the Sea • Alexandra Myers

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Good Morning War Machine• Erica White This clear morning sky, the pale Indiana blue you can’t for certain tell whether it is cold or not, I wake up to a white disk sun. Outside golden November touched our dogwood trees, and the fruit ripen bright red in between maroon leaves. Black oak turned rust, the maple turned yellow. The wind decides not to stir a single leaf. My eyes are sore, and I hesitate to get out of bed. I do not want to hear anything, not the face of our future.

What judge will we face For splitting up families,

Children deported?

Now my students’ eyes,

They are warm tears, now fearful

Of the road ahead I look outward. For now, my garden stays the same. The cabbage I beheaded in September continues to grow with three new heads. I look at the white ashes of a wooden palette I threw to the fire pit.

The palette nails rest within the ash, and I cannot use these ashes to feed the garden.

“Somebody ought to set fire to those pages.”

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Reveles Family Photo • Paige Stratton

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Virginia P. • Laura Beth Johnson The wedding band of my mother’s father’s mother curls around my pinky like a woman around a man with lines etched down the side, platinum plated, small as a dime.

She had child fingers, Virginia Inscribed inside are their initials H.D. and V.P. and a date: November 23rd, 1933.

I can barely make it out, the etchings worn smooth.

He was Henry Drouin.

They named their son the same and called him Hank.

I call Hank “Pop” and he called me sweetie when he forgot my name for disease is to the mind as surf to stone.

No one asked him his mother’s maiden name.

Now they’re asking if we want a feeding tube put in.

There are no photographs of Virginia my mother cannot verify the memory of an Irish woman with strawberry curls, but I have seen my brown hair glint red.

My thumb spins the slight ring around my pinky and I imagine her sixteen and unmarried standing at a bus stop or train station thick letters printed on the side of her suitcase Virginia Perkin Virginia Packer Virginia Penning Virginia Porter Virginia...

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They Call Her Freedom • Melenie Brown

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I’ve Never Been in Love • Natalie McCann I’ve never been in love but I have been to Paris and I know that love calls for a daily surrender.

Today the sun is bright and mean and it’s making me tired.

I’m counting the cracks on the sidewalk because numbers distract me.

I’m counting the times I’ve told everyone I’m okay, that you never meant much to me, knowing that at this moment, if you walked through my door I’d throw myself into your arms and weep until tears form a pool at your feet.

I used to think death was just an accident but now I know you were meant to leave us in the spring.

I’d like to imagine you flying through a heaven that is vast and warm, but I am too old for fantasies and I know that eternity is just a small, dark room, cold as January.

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The Small Wonders of Life • Melenie Brown

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Toothache • Kyle Agnew

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Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (A Collaborative Project) • Christian Blanco Scene 1: Opening Titles (Directed by Steven Spielberg) A geometric silhouette of Charlie Bucket encounters colorful backgrounds and other silhouettes in a cartoon montage set to upbeat smooth jazz where the entire plot of the movie is summarized in a subtle way.

Scene 2: Meet the Buckets (Directed by David Fincher) Charlie Bucket (Played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt in a newsboy cap) passes Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory on his walk home from school and stares whimsically at the magnificent structure. He inhales the sweet smells emanating from the factory and wishes he had enough money to buy a Wonka bar like the other kids from school.

He shivers in his thin hand-me-down sweater full of holes, and continues walking to his green-tinted, low-saturation home located in the basement of a grimy rave nightclub blasting music composed

by Trent Reznor. His family, including his, father Mr. Bucket (played

by Brad Pitt made to look old and worn out by the hardships of life through a heavy amount of makeup) and his mother, Mrs. Bucket (played by Helena Bonham Carter made to look old and worn out by the hardships of life through a minimal amount of makeup) are there to greet him with a nice, hot bowl of cabbage stew. Charlie slurps it down in a hurry and then sits in an uncomfortable wooden chair next to his bed-ridden grandparents, Grandpa George, Grandma Georgina, Grandma Josephine, and Grandpa Joe. Scene 3: Prince Pondicherry (Directed by George Lucas) Grandpa Joe tells Charlie the story of how Willy Wonka once built an entire palace made of chocolate for an Indian prince. The audience will become personally hurt at the fact that the Palace depicted in the film is made out of white chocolate instead of milk chocolate like everyone 62

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thought it ought to have been. Their scorn will only be exacerbated by the DVD release of the movie, which will include digitally added gumdrops and Hayden Christensen.

Scene 4: The Golden Tickets (Directed by Christopher Nolan) Mr. Bucket reads a news article aloud to the family about the five golden tickets hidden inside Wonka bars.

Grandpa Joe (who is now being played by Christopher Nolan’s muse and discreet lover, Michael Cain) thinks this a brilliant marketing strategy.

Fans ask Nolan if he’ll be directing another chapter of the book, and Nolan says he’ll “think about it”. He wants to focus his attention and energy on something we don’t even know we want to have first.

Scene 5: First Two Finders (Directed by Robert Zemickes) The next day, an overweight German boy named Augustus Gloop (played by Tom Hanks in a motion-capture suit) is in headlines as being the first finder of a golden ticket.

Later, Veruca Salt, the daughter of a wealthy businessman (played

by Tom Hanks in a motion-capture suit) is on TV after her tycoon father (played by Tom Hanks in a motion capture suit) had factory workers unwrap hundreds of thousands of Wonka bars until a golden ticket was found.

Back home, the Bucket family (all played by Tom Hanks in a motion-capture suit) express their disdain for both children.

Scene 6: Charlie’s Birthday (Directed by Christopher Nolan) Charlie’s family all pitch in to buy Charlie his birthday Wonka bar (Morgan Freeman). Regardless of internet hate rants made by fans who believed the part of the Wonka bar should’ve went to Forrest Whitaker, Freeman plays the part perfectly and later wins an Oscar for best supporting-actor.

Fans ask Nolan when he’ll be directing another chapter from the book. Nolan says he’s not sure. This time he’s just not really feeling it.

Perhaps he’ll have some tea. Maybe take a nap.

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Scene 7: Two More Golden Tickets Found (Directed by Robert Zemickes) Violet Beuregard and Mike Teavee (both played by Jim Carrey in a motion-capture suit) find golden tickets.

Scene 8: The Miracle (Directed by Joel and Ethan Coen) Charlie spots a five dollar bill peeking out from a pile of snow on the ground. He picks it up and walks into a nearby candy store where he asks for a Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight. The candy store owner (John Goodman) hands him one, and Charlie unwraps it to find a golden ticket.

Goodman lets out a five-minute long roar of excitement before turning to his co-owner (John Turturro) and saying something quaint like “Doesn’t that just make your Jiminies jump, Melvin?” Their teenage employee (Steve Buscemi) walks out from the back and cheerfully asks what all the whooping and hollering is about. An excited John Goodman runs to him and slaps him hard on the back, killing him. No one in the store seems to care that much.

Scene 9: The Factory (Directed by Martin Scorsese) On the first of February, Charlie and his Grandpa Joe show up at the front gates of Wonka’s factory, along with the other four ticket finders, as instructed. At ten o’clock, on the dot, the iron gates open and out walks Mr. Wonka (Leonardo DiCaprio in a purple top hat and goatee).

“Well, well, well,” he says charmingly to the children and their parents, “It’s so good to finally meet all of you and see your bright, smiling fuckin’ faces.” He turns around and motions the group to follow him with his cane. “C’mon,” he says, “We have so little time and a fuckton of things to see, so let’s get on with this fuckin’ fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck.”

Later, in the Chocolate room, as Wonka is distracted eating an Oscar Jujube soaked with silent tears, Augustus Gloop leans down to drink from the Chocolate River as Donovan’s “Atlantis” begins to play.

When the song gets to the “Way down below the ocean” part, two pairs of tiny arms reach out from the river and take hold of Augustus.

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“C’mon, grab his muddafuckin’ legs,” says the Joe Pesci OompaLoompa.

“I’m trying,” says the Robert DeNiro Oompa-Loompa. “This fat fuck’s fuckin’ heavy!”

They drag Augusutus down into the chocolate river and a Dean Martin Oompa-Loompa narrates through song. An alarmed Mr. Teavee (Albert Brooks) asks what the hell those things are.

Scene 10: Loompa Land (Directed by Michael Bay) Loompa-Land is an intense place. You can tell from how yellow and orange and warm everything looks. The Oompa-Loompas are also intense because of how they’re constantly perspiring. Everything is hot and the Oompa-Loompas are sweaty. So sweaty.

The Oompa-Loompas are in their tree-top huts, throwing spears at the attacking Whangdoodles down below. The spears are bouncing off its armored hide and the situation isn’t looking too good for the Oompa-Loompas. Suddenly, a rocket shoots down from the sky and the Whangdoodle is obliterated in a glorious explosion.

Wonka then flies down to the Oompa-Loompas in a jetpack and wearing full-fledged United States military gear as triumphant music plays. He tells the Oompa-Loompas that he wishes to speak to their tribe leader.

They take him to their chief (Full-height Megan Fox) who wears nothing but lingerie all the time. She’s sweaty, too, but not a lot in the face because that’s not sexy.

Wonka then tells her that she and her people should come live with him in his factory, where they can get away from the Whangdoodles and Hornsnozzlers and be paid in cacao beans. She thinks about it for a moment, and then accepts the offer in the traditional fashion of rubbing herself in patriarchy before blowing herself up with a stick of dynamite.

Scene 11: Down the Chocolate River (Directed by special resurrected guest director Stanley Kubrick) After ordering a couple Oompa-Loompas to escort Mrs. Gloop to the Fudge Room, Wonka takes the guests on a boat-ride down the Volume 29 Issue 2

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chocolate river which leads to seventeen minutes of bright lights and close-ups of the actors making uncomfortable faces. Why? Some say Native Americans.

Scene 12: The Inventing Room (Directed by J.J. Abrams) Wonka then hurries the group along into his Inventing Room. The audience can tell that a lot of science and stuff happens here because of all the bright lights and lens flares. Wonka turns on a machine that spits out Everlasting Gobstoppers and gives one to each of the children.

Veruca automatically pops a piece of chewing gum in her mouth when she spots it. She turns blue and grows to the size of an industrial wrecking ball before being rolled out by a group of Oompa-Loompas that include Simon Pegg DJ-ing with Daft Punk about how gum is for squares who didn’t like Mission: Impossible 3.

Scene 13: The Squirrel Room (Directed by Sylvester Stallone) Wonka leads the group into the Nut Sorting Room, where hundreds of specially trained squirrels test peanuts to see whether they’re good or bad. Veruca immediately becomes enamored with the squirrels and asks her father (Sylvester Stallone) if she can have one.

Mr. Salt asks Mr. Wonka how much he wants for a squirrel, and Wonka replies that they’re not for sale. Veruca becomes furious at the fact that someone said no to her and tries picking one up anyway. They rest of the squirrels respond by swarming and carrying her away.

“Where are they taking her?!” screams Mr. Salt.

“My guess is the garbage shoot,” says Wonka.

“Not if I got anything to say about it,” says Mr. Salt. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on a flat-bed truck. The camera cuts to a close-up shot of his face. “Alright, squirrels…”

He pulls the slide back on the .50 cal. The camera zooms in even closer on his snarling lips. “Time to get nuts.”

Mr. Salt opens fire on the squirrels and they’re ripped to bloody shreds by the dozens. One of the squirrels tries to run for cover but is cut in half by a renegade bullet.

Then, a big, meaty, power lifter squirrel (played by Dolph Lundgren) throws Veruca down the garbage shoot, causing Mr. Salt 66

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to jagged-mouth shout something incomprehensive. The bodybuilder squirrel chipmunk chuckles and points a finger at Mr. Salt before dragging it along his own neck menacingly.

Mr. Salt pulls the trigger, but the click of the machine gun tells him he’s run out of ammo. He instead rips off his shirt to reveal a lifetime of chest-presses and concentration curls.

The rest of the group looks on in awe as they witness what looks like a giant pile of uncooked spam wrestle another giant pile of uncooked spam with tattoos.

After six minutes of choreographed Muay-Thai, Mr. Salt manages to put the P90x squirrel into a head-lock.

“Alright, Rocky,” grunts Mr. Salt. “Meet Bullwinkle!”

He releases a final grunt of effort and snaps the giant squirrel’s neck. After taking a moment to catch his breath and recompose himself, he remembers about his daughter Veruca and dives into the garbage shoot shouting “Adrieeeen!”

“Well,” says Mr. Wonka, at last breaking the still silence that follows. “I can’t decide whether that was cool or stupid. Who wants to see the T.V. room?”

Scene 14: The T.V. Room (Directed by Zack Snyder) The low-saturation of the T.V. room reminds Charlie of his home. There’s a television set on one side of the room, and what looks like a giant retro laser on the other. Mr. Wonka explains that he’s currently working on what he calls Wonkavision, a way of sending a Wonka bar directly into a person’s home via T.V. Mike Teavee laughs at this and says it’s stupid. That’s not how television works.

Mr. Wonka demonstrates his invention and proves him wrong by sending a giant-sized Wonka bar to the other side of the room using Wonkavision. Mike Teavee is absolutely stunned and wants to be teleported into the TV set himself.

He wastes no time in pushing himself past Wonka as the scene transitions into a state of slow motion.

An Oompa-Loompa security guard steps in front of Mike Teavee and tries to stop him. Mike raises a hand in extra slow motion, and then, in extra fast motion, slaps the Oompa-Loompa out of the Volume 29 Issue 2

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way, before returning to a state of extra slow motion. He presses the Wonka Ray’s “power on” button, and then Air Jordan leaps in front of the machine as a bullet from the Loompa guard’s pistol misses him and hits another Oompa-Loompa behind him. There’s a bright flash and Mike Teavee disappears.

Mr. Teavee falls to his knees with his palms facing towards the heavens and screams “MIIIIIIIIKE!” He demands from Mr. Wonka to know what’s happened to his son.

They both go to check the television set on the other side of the room where they find Mike Teavee, now the size of an action figure.

“You see? There he is, safe and sound,” says Wonka reassuringly. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to him.”

“What are you talking about?” says Mr. Teavee angrily. “Look at him!” He glares at Wonka. “And didn’t one of your Oompa-Loompas just try to shoot him with a gun?”

“What? I don’t remember seeing that,” says Wonka.

The scene then cuts to a dog dressed as the Green Lantern chasing after Frisbees. It makes no sense, but screw you, Zack Snyder is directing this, and you know you secretly kind of like it.

Scene 15: Only Charlie Left (Directed by Quentin Tarantino) After Mr. Teavee leaves for the stretching room holding his shrunk son, Mr. Wonka congratulates Charlie on being the only kid left. He shakes his hand warmly and tells him he’s won a great prize.

“C’mon! Back to the Glass Elevator,” he cries. “There’s much to do!”

“Oh, I’m sure there is,” says a dark figure in a black fedora and trench coat. “I’ll let y’all get to it just as soon as this unfinished business between me and Mr. Wonka gets settled.”

“And just who the hell might you be?” asks Wonka.

The mysterious stranger removes his fedora to reveal the face of Samuel L. Jackson. “The name’s Slugworth,” he says. “Arthur Slugworth.”

Slugworth then goes into a seven minute monologue about how he’s here to reclaim the title of Candy King, and how he’s spent the last several years systematically katana-hacking his way through his closest friends and family to get to him.

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“That’s right,” says Slugworth grinning. “Everyone you ever met on your long, life journey to get to where you’re standing today, was granted an honorable death by ancient Samurai standards, with a little guidance from my helping hand, of course.”

“Woah, that’s heavy,” says Wonka. He turns to Grandpa Joe and Charlie. “How did you guys find out where I was?”

“I walk past your factory every day on my way to school,” says Charlie.

“Oh, really?” says Wonka. “No shit.”

“Why didn’t you just Google the address, Mr. Slugworth?”

Charlie asks innocently.

“I DON’T REMEMBER ASKING YOU A GODDAMN THING!” snaps Slugworth, raising a Colt Peacemaker and aiming it at Charlie.

“All I want from yo ass is that Gobstopper this candy-ass nigga gave you earlier, and if I don’t get it by the time I count to three, there’s going to be some serious repercussions.”

(Slugworth just said the N-word, but it’s okay because Samuel L. Jackson is black, and it’s actually kind of funny when he says it.

Don’t even try to say it isn’t.)

A bullet from Slugworth’s revolver shatters Wonka’s right knee in a cloudy burst of bright red blood, and Wonka lets out a terrifying scream of pain.

“One!” shouts Slugworth.

Wonka’s left knee explodes. Another blood-curdling scream.

“Two!” “All right! All right!” pleads Charlie. “It’s yours! Just stop shooting Mr. Wonka!”

“Don’t give him a damn thing, Charlie,” says Grandpa, standing behind Slugworth and aiming a .44 snub-nose to the back of his head.

“Grandpa! Where did you get that gun?” asks Charlie excitedly.

“I never leave the bed without this little sucker, Charlie. You never know when you might end up caught in the crossfires of a nigger’s revenge.”

(Okay, Grandpa Joe just said the N-word, but it’s not as cool because he pronounced it with a hard R at the end. It’s a little hard for the audience to handle, because up until this point he was a completely likeable character. Still, Grandpa Joe is old enough to have been heavily influenced by the segregationist culture, and Volume 29 Issue 2

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we can’t just pretend like that part of United States history never happened, can we? And besides, you can’t think that much about it right now, because the movie’s moved on and there’s already other stuff happening.)

“Drop the gun, codger,” says another voice (Tim Roth’s), holding a blunderbuss. “You, too, Artie. C’mon.”

“Goddamn, it Ficklegruber. I ain’t got time for yo bullshit right now,” says Slugworth angrily.

Ficklegruber then goes into a six-minute monologue about how revenge belongs to him on this day, when an Oompa-Loompa (Michael Madsen) jumps out suddenly from behind a licorice bush with an MP40 submachine gun and shouts, “LOOMPA-LAND, MOTHERFUCKERS!” He shoots Ficklegruber, whose blunderbuss obliterates Grandpa Joe, but not before shooting a .44 round into Slugworth’s gut. Quentin Tarantino makes a special guestappearance as an Oompa-Loompa innocently walking past the massacre, but is immediately shot in the testicles and dies.

In the end, only Charlie and Willy Wonka are left alive. Charlie, with urine-soaked pants, looks at Mr. Wonka, who’s lying in a pool of approximately ten gallons of blood.

“Charlie,” says Wonka weakly, “You’ve did it. You’ve won. The factory. It’s yours. Congrats.”

(Screen cuts to black and the credits roll to the song “Fernando” by ABBA) THE END

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Dinner Time • Kyle Agnew

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Ursa Minor • Hunter Little The girl with the flames for hair and Eyes you said you’d get lost in Kissed your chest Tapping her piano fingers Against your rib cage And rested a thumb in the center Of your collarbone Her flames flickered along Your bare arms Her lips tainted the hollow That had held her thumb and You named the constellations When she asked about The big and little bear That ruled the night sky I’ll call this place Ursa Minor Just like a little spoon The one she stole From the Greek restaurant Where you took her On her birthday last year And she told you she climbed Buildings in Fountain Square Because she wanted to be afraid Of falling

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And her working hands Rested on Ursa Minor for minutes Until her flames fell To your furry chest like a forest Below Ursa Minor where the drumming Echoed under your skin and Lulled her to sleep As she tried to bear The possibility Of falling.

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Inside Tintern Abbey • Spencer Martin

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Cumulus • Kyle Agnew

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Temporary Home • Morgan Benjamin in you I rooted, a red pot for my enflamed heart which began on the porch and settled in the living room, the bedroom, hanging from rafters and window sills— I soon probed your conic edges, caressed them and felt cozy, but I kept growing. rooted deeper, I drove into, through—a fissure, schism, pulled apart from itself— a red pot shattered in the foyer.

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Untitled • Cheyenne Granger

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Cold Coffee • Rochelle Bauer Our eyes meet in the mirror as you terribly misbutton your wrinkly shirt.

You smile over your shoulder at me.

My eyes fixate on the haphazard curls bunched around your flushed cheeks.

You like when you make me nervous.

As I wait for you to lean in, I lose focus.

And I think you don’t notice but when we’re this close it’s hard to ignore my breath as it becomes short.

You taste like smoke, acerbic dirt.

I have never liked coffee, I probably never will.

But I could learn to love it, as the color of your eyes.

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Family Portrait • Abby Kepley

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Happy 6th Birthday Samuel • Paige Stratton

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An Account for the Lost • Natalie McCann my vision beginning at age eight. my favorite pair of jeans. my trust in men under the flickering lights of my garage. my trust in women while coated in plump tears trembling in a hotel room. my power on an older man’s bed. my virginity on my best friend’s couch. my best friend. thousands of brain cells to drugs I was eager to meet. my strength when i remember I am young and still have so much more to lose. my dignity when I fell back into arms that were once so quick to let me go. valuable tears to invaluable matters. and a piece of my soul each time I pushed the blade into my skin.

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Crazy and Special • Laura Beth Johnson (featured in the original song, “Barley Field Children” by The Sorrow Estate)

I used to think I was crazy and special clothed in halfness like a goddess my mind, an earthspine of crooked mountain vertebrae closer to the stars closer to the core always both, sometimes more then came The Naming my condition is labeled I’m not special just sick not special just crazy not a goddess, a gene pool mistake a fluke the name stripped me of demigod cloak mortal now, mortal forever now and those pills they have these pills and light boxes and herbs medicines to cure what I hate most is that it would work they don’t need to know me, just my sickness cures to bulldoze my mountainside I’m not special just crazy

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I am all empathy all selfishness all compassion all anger I am always all no pills through my pelican throat I am all nothing all nothing all nothing all nothing I am the biggest nothing I have ever seen I used to think I was crazy and special but I am a statue weathered naked by wind the half desert paradise mind of mine is all torture now thoughts swarm like locust is my personality a disease? embrace my polars or pills or me or me or which or me I used to think now I am told and I do I do swallow them now I am not crazy or special now I am not crazy

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Parking in Fountain Square • Paige Stratton

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buttons • Lauren Raker

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Contributor Biographies Kyle Agnew has some really cool pictures.

Dalton Atchison is a senior at the University of Indianapolis. He majors in Business Administration and minors in Photography.

Rochelle Bauer is currently a sophomore at the University of Indianapolis studying Actuarial Science with a minor in Philosophy.

If there was time, she’d also be minoring in Creative Writing since writing, especially poems, is something she’s always been passionate about. She’s also (sort of) passionate about math, or why else would she be doing what she’s doing?

Morgan D. Benjamin grew up on the southside of Indy, and while she loves the city enough to have a tattoo in its honor, she is excited to leave in a year and a half for grad school. Her hobbies include playing rugby, hiking, naming inanimate objects, writing poetry, cooking omelets, lifting weights, and rating public restrooms.

Christian Blanco is a senior who usually wears his sweatpants to classes. It’s really comfortable, but mostly he just likes to look like showering isn’t all that important to him.

Gabbie Brown is a senior Creative Writing major with minors in History and Professional Writing. Her long-term dream is to write novels and own half-a-dozen dogs (and maybe a lizard, because lizards are cool), but in the short term, she’d just like to have a job when she graduates. She wants to say a big thank you to God, her family, and her friends, because without them she wouldn’t have gotten this far.

Melenie Brown is a senior here at the University of Indianapolis.

She is a Psychology major with a minor in Photography.

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Marissa Driml is from the eastside of Indianapolis and is currently a sophomore at the University of Indianapolis. She is majoring in History with two minors in Experience Design and Creative Writing.

She is involved on campus and has participated in intramural sports and the chapel. Some of her hobbies include photography, reading, watching old movies, walking her Golden Retriever, and of course writing! Her favorite genre to write is historical fiction, combining two of her favorite subjects together.

Cheyenne Granger is a freshman at the University of Indianapolis.

She is pursuing a Studio Art major with a concentration in Ceramics and a minor in Art History. Focusing on clean lines and texture in functional pieces, Cheyenne is currently exploring geometric pattern in her work, often inspired by the patterns of Ancient Greece and African Civilizations. As a member of the Research Colloquium, she is studying glaze chemistry outside of class. After graduation, she plans to enroll in an MFA program and, afterwards, open a studio and become a well-known ceramicist.

Rachel Gravens is a junior Anthropology and Studio Art student.

Her concentration is in ceramics, which she uses to convey her appreciation for the relationship between people and our physical world. In addition to art, Rachel loves being outdoors. She loves hiking, camping, rock climbing, snorkeling, and being in nature.

Rachel is drawn to the arts because of their ability to bring people together and creatively express emotions and ideas. She is passionate about traveling and looks forward to the many adventures and opportunities to come.

Keegan Hamm is working towards a BFA in studio art with a concentration in drawing. His style is influenced by anime and comics from Marvel and DC. He hopes to one day create his own comic series. In his work, he likes to use high contrast and to explore subjects on both extremes of the moral spectrum. Highly contrasting characters and imagery create a lot of drama and interest, both of which are essential to creating a successful comic.

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Mercadees Hempel is a senior Communication major and an English minor. She rarely leaves the house without winged eyeliner and red lipstick and is currently the Managing Editor for The Reflector. She is also interning at NUVO. She loves to read and write and can often be found watching Netflix or listening to true crime podcasts. She has had a passion for storytelling ever since she was a kid, and she was always inspired by her parents to follow her dreams. She hopes to be a journalist and a novelist and would like to take the opportunity to thank God, her amazing mom and dad, supportive friends and family, and her wonderful boyfriend for always supporting and loving her.

Madison Deline Hershberger is a sophomore at the University of Indianapolis. She is majoring in Psychology to become a Child Life Specialist and minoring in Ceramics. In the summer she works as an assistant manager at a pool. Throughout the year she volunteers at the Indianapolis Zoo and Riley Children’s Hospital. She has always been passionate about the arts, whether it be dancing, drawing, painting, singing, pottery, writing, and others. She has wonderful parents and a little sister who have encouraged her to follow her dreams and she couldn’t be more thankful for them. Her family is her main inspiration throughout the arts because they were the ones who told her she could.

Laura Beth Johnson likes to make stuff. Her favorite medium is words. Occasionally those words become songs. Last May, she independently released a debut album of original music under the moniker, The Sorrow Estate. The music has been described as “poetic lyrics and haunting melodies meandering through a unique blend of folk, rock, and jazz.”

Abby Kepley is a junior pre-Art Therapy major. She created the snake picture.

Morgan Litchfield is a photography minor and in her third year at University of Indianapolis. She enjoys taking lifestyle and nature photographs. She loves vintage photography and has recently started a collection of vintage cameras. She is usually in the country taking photographs of landscapes, bugs, wildlife, and plants.

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Hunter Little is a senior Creative Writing major at the University of Indianapolis. She is from Brookville, Indiana, and is planning on attending graduate school in the fall to earn her MFA. in Creative Writing with a concentration in poetry.

Spencer Martin is a junior Creative Writing and Literary Studies double major with minors in Professional Writing and Gender Studies from Anderson, Indiana.

Natalie McCann is a sophomore at the University of Indianapolis who hates sleep and loves volcanoes. She is majoring in Creative Writing but plans on becoming either a gardener or a gravedigger.

Alexandra Myers created two of the awesome and very surreal visual pieces in this issue.

Sara Perkins is a first-year undergraduate student at the University of Indianapolis, currently majoring in Professional Writing. She is from the tiny Hoosier town of Silver Lake, where her pastimes include begrudgingly playing the saxophone, tricking herself into believing that today is the day she will paint something, or wallowing in existential dread.

Lauren Raker is a sophomore at the University of Indianapolis who created a variety of awesome visual pieces in this issue.

Shauna Sartoris wrote her first poem when she was seven years old, and has written thousands since. Fascinated by all things language, she eventually took to writing songs, novels, short stories, plays, and nonfiction essays as well. She is currently studying Literature and Professional Writing at the University of Indianapolis, with few plans for post-graduation other than traveling and continuing to write.

Paige Stratton is a junior studying Art Therapy with a studio concentration in Photography, and this is her fourth Etchings publication. Her artwork comes from a fascination with surrealism and a respect for conceptual commentary. She also enjoys working with a variety of mediums like mixed media collage, watercolor, and ink.

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Catherine Watness is a junior at the University of Indianapolis majoring in Secondary English Education with a minor in Creative Writing. She firmly believes artists weave truths through lies and hopes she has done her part in honoring this timeless tradition as well as entertained.

Erica White is the author of poems “Good Morning War Machine” and “Departure,” with poems and visual artwork featured in Etchings editions 2015–2017. Her poems “Black Cat at Atomic Bomb Dome” and “Pregnant Sally” will be featured in the next edition of Tributaries magazine. A Literature and Creative Writing major at the University of Indianapolis, Erica divides her time between writing and visual art.

Auna Winters created several of the amazing clay pieces in this issue.

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Call for Submissions

Etchings Volume 30 Issue 1, Fall 2017 Submissions are due September 25, 2017 • • • • • • •

Guidelines for Submissions All students, faculty, staff, and alumni are invited to submit All accepted undergraduate submissions will be considered for the Dorlis Gott Armentrout Award Submit up to three short stories or creative nonfiction essays, five poems, and five visual materials Artwork must be in .jpg or .png format. Please save at a high resolution so files are 1–5 megabytes in size Poetry and prose should be in Microsoft Word format (.doc, .docx, or .rtf) Poetry should be single spaced, and prose should be double spaced in a 12-point font Give each submission its own document or file name (LastName_SubmissionTitle)

Submit work at etchings.submittable.com

We do not accept email submissions. Please create an account at submittable.com or sign in using Facebook.

For questions, email or visit us at uindyetchings@gmail.com the University of Indianapolis Esch 044 1400 E. Hanna Ave. Indianapolis, IN 46227