PA NK
promise something, what, perhaps something very small, perhaps ev ev-
11
erything, but in fact proffers nothing at all, I despise every lousy little pebble, you can’t escape its meanness, the tenacity of its meanness, its ill intentions; one goes into town and everywhere clambering about,
endlessly acting out their daily routines, their lives, in a manner consis consis-
tent, as they most definitely think, with how they wish to be regarded,
to be seen, slyly (they think) evading all evidence to the contrary, are its citizens, citizens-as-shopkeepers, citizens-as-clerks, citizens-as-read citizens-as-readers-of-newspapers, citizens-as-citizens, it’s when their paradoxes come
to the fore, their contradictions, they turn on you and are revealed in all
their meanness and cruelty, truly at one with, truly of, the biting cold,
the wind, and the rain, which is driven into you by the wind, like little pin-pricks, that’s how it is mean, this place, with its inhabitants, they are its claws, it is mean in spirit, a spirit which gets into you, into your
head, clouding, or is it crowding, your mind with its damp, its cold, its ennui ennui, a kind of mental fog, all its fog being in its inhabitants’ minds only. Here evenings set in early, impossibly early, earlier than anywhere
else in the world, night gathers and descends swiftly, nigh forcefully,
almost instantaneously, I do not know what phenomena are enlisted to bring this about, but it happens this way, I can tell you with absolute surety, in all honesty, and I am then left here in my room, worst of all,
no recourse, with myself, with my mutterings, with the crumbling plas plas-
ter above my bed, with the play of the lamplight on the wall—surely Mother would scold me for being so wasteful, for burning the lamp at
so late an hour—and with my thoughts of Eben, for it is in fact Eben’s
room in which I stay now, lying in his bed, reading his books, using his bureau to store my collection, it is Eben’s shoes I wear now, Eben’s
clothes I wear now, his coat and his cap I wear now, quite simply be because I did not have much to bring, for I have never had much, but it is
I alone who am here now, muttering away in the monstrous night, mon monstrous because it shows me what is hidden by the day, or is it everything
is larger, more insistent at night, like the sounds which are carried up
from the train depot, sounds which are nearly imperceptible in the day day-
PA NK
Eleven
K A R L T A R O G R E E N F E L D 5 The Prize B E C K Y F I N K 1 2 Two Poems
A N A Ï S D U P L A N 1 4 W., At Restaurant with M.
S A R A H M I N O R 1 6 Static
L I S A B A D N E R 1 9 Shrimps
C H A R L O T T E P O P E T Z 2 1 Our Momma
T R A V I S V I C K 2 3 What I Don’t Have the Breath to Say
N A T A L I E B R I G G S 2 6 power lines draw a map of you
M A C E O W H I T A K E R 2 8 The Blood-Dimmed Tide
D I A N A S P E C H L E R 3 0 How To Make Love in A Single-Room Occupancy
K E L LY A N D R E W S 3 5 Dry Spell C L A I R E B O W M A N 4 2 repose
T . J . M A R T I N S O N 4 3 Miss May Piecework
J I L L M C D O N O U G H 5 2 Two Poems
D A N I S A N D A L 5 6 Eucharist
E LY S I A S M I T H 5 8 Two Poems
N I C K F R A N C I S P O T T E R 6 1 Alvin Dillinger’s Brother
J E S S I C A J A C O B S 8 0 Submission Guidelines
S A S H A F L E T C H E R 8 2 Three Stories
E R I C A M E N A 9 1 Four Poems
P A U L M C Q U A D E 9 8 An Inheritance
N A T A S H A K O C H I C H E R I L M O N I 1 0 8 Eight Years After, Pink Still Startles Her
E L I Z A B E T H H O O V E R 1 1 0 Trade and Transformation
S U S A N N A H B R E S L I N 1 1 2 Dash 2
T Y L E R G I L L E S P I E 1 1 6 Two Poems
J A Y M E R U S S E L L 1 2 0 As the World Falls Down
S A M N A M 1 2 5 This Thing We Do
M E G C O W E N 1 2 7 My Father Remembers the Names of Old Western Movie Stars
M A R Y - A L I C E D A N I E L 1 2 9 Hell with the Lid Off
N A T H A N B L A K E 1 3 1 Making Chance for the Lemonjellos
C Y N T H I A M A R I E H O F F M A N 1 3 8 Two Poems
MASTHEAD
PUBLISHERS/EDITORS
Roxane Gay, M. Bartley Seigel A S S O C I A T E E D I T O R S Sheila
Squillante, Colin Winnette R E V I E W S E D I T O R Randon Billings Noble A S S I S T A N T EDITOR
Jen Pelto R E A D E R S Matthew Burnside, Robb Todd, Jen Knox, Jamie Fountaine,
Derrick Martin-Campbell, Chad Redden, T.J. Martinson, K. Jane Childs, John Myers, Lynn Crothers, Marty Cain, Asha Dore, Chad Redden, Danny Caine, Jo Simmonds, Sarah Miller, Matt Petronzio, Janet Lee, Matthew Dexter, Philip Gordon D E S I G N Alban Fischer C O V E R ART
Jeff Kraus, “Conditions 3” (front), “95 Ft Deep 6” (back), “Usurper” (title page) » » »
Founded in 2006, the nonprofit literary arts collective [PANK]—PANK Magazine & Tiny Hardcore Press—fosters access to emerging and innovative poetry and prose, publishing the brightest and most promising writers for the most adventurous readers. Up country, to the end of the road, to a far shore and the edges of things, to a place of amalgamation and unplumbed depths, a place inhabited by contradiction, quirk and startling anomaly, where the known is made and unmade, and where unimagined futures are born, [PANK]. For more information about all things [PANK], please visit pankmagazine.com. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, in creative works contained herein is just that, creative. Opinions and views contained herein are not necessarily those of the publishers or editors. [PANK] is funded by the generous support of Michigan Technological University, Purdue University, and by readers like you. ISSN: 1935-7133 © 2015 [PANK].
K A R L TA R O
GREENFELD
The Prize T
the eye sockets deeply furrowed and one eye cloudy.
The boy, already a teenager, pretended to
he boy and his younger sister
be unfrightened, and picked up his pace, his
walked up sloping trail lined with
upright posture daring his sister.
thistle and nettle, skirting the
“Do you know the way?” The old man said,
rocky summit of the short hill and then de-
setting down his tool and wiping his brow with
scending into pocket valley before rising again,
his grey sleeve.
steeply, along a dark earth path unworn so that
The boy nodded, paused, pretended to not
grass obscured sharp pebbles that bit through
notice the tangy stink emanating from the
leather soled sandals. The course widened, as
man. “What are you doing?”
if to accommodate bullock carts, but the boy
“I keep the path,” the old man said.
knew no cart ever came this way.
The girl, not yet out of her first decade,
An old man kneeled at the wayside, next to a tree whose brown seed pouches gave off an oversweet smell. He pushed a wooden handled, worn iron spade into the earth near an elbow
stayed behind her brother, as if to hide from the old man. “You there,” the old man said, “Do you know where you’re going?”
root, as if to ensure the way remained passable.
She didn’t answer.
By his side was a satchel with shoulder strap,
“Let me see you,” The old man said.
the outlines of more tools visible in the folds of
She stepped from behind her brother. The
rough, tan fabric.
old man studied her face, pretty, with fair hair,
Both the boy and the girl hesitated at the
lovely, pale skin and good chin. But there was a
sight of the man, and when he turned, he re-
thick, purple-black birthmark that covered her
vealed a face that was at first friendly, a grin,
right eye and descended almost to her mouth
a bright nose, crinkled eyes. But as they came
in a long, dark strip. “We are following the path,” the boy said.
the grin turned out to be the twisted uneven
“Yes,” the old man said, “Keep going up,
set of his mouth, the nose veiny and cracked,
over this peak, and then down, and then there
PA N K 7
closer, those features were less appealing,
GREENFELD
are stairs of wood shoring up earth—I made
were slippery to the touch with almost invis-
them with my own hands—you climb those.”
ible filament of fine-grained sand. And each
They walked on. The day had been sunny
time they believed they had reached the top,
before they departed, cool with a wind that
they found only a few horizontal steps before
promised the colder seasons, but as they
the steep climb continued.
climbed, the sky had closed, the white and
The boy was careful with their water. He
grey clouds moving in from all sides, and the
knew three skins wouldn’t be enough to get
fissures between the downward thrusting
them both back, but he gave his sister a sip and
musculature of the heavier, damp air were
then took one himself.
dark purple. The thick, head-high bushes and
His sister was strong, he noticed, able to
trees that here lined the shoulder-width course
keep pace despite her shorter compass, and so
appeared grey in the half-light, leaves that the
he sped up, scrambling over the mica-specked
girl knew as green from a distance were here
rock faces until they came to the table-top
colorless, the dark day giving the pigment no
crown and began a vertiginous descent that
encouragement.
proved even slower than their climb. This
Now the ground steepened again, an animal
required every footfall be carefully measured
track widened—by the old man?—so that it
and forethought, lest one of them slide down
cut straight up a the hill, a climb that had them
a dozen tree lengths into the grey-green void,
scrambling, their sandals slipping badly on
the foliage that looked cushiony from above,
the scattered and broken scarp, the stones
the boy knew, would provide no gentle landing.
that looked so solid and fixed proving loose,
He told his sister to come around him, to climb down ahead of him, lest she slip and
grope with the foot to see if the rock would
then take them both down the hill. But she
bear weight. They wrapped their hands around
proved nimble, her easy weight allowing her to
thick roots to pull themselves up. Every few
find purchase where the boy’s foot would prove
steps, they had to pause, catching their breath.
too heavy.
The path was no longer a path, but seemed a dry waterfall bed, thick protruding rocks that
Above them gathered a pair of blackbirds, then a few more, then a dozen, within seconds
PA N K 8
so that each step required a tentative testing
GREENFELD
it seemed to the boy and girl, scores swarmed
T H E Y climbed, the steps easy after the rough
in a sickly, squirming knot, the clicky wingbeat
trail, and soon they were on a gentle course
so loud as to drown their footsteps, the ball of
hewn into the side of a mountain. They walked
birds rolling and rolling, away from them and
the hipline, the slope a dusty brown and olive
then back again, so that they were directly over
skirt draped away from them. Blackened trees
them, and then the birds descended, flying
leaned above, drooping grey branches that
in erratic flutter directly in front of them and
looked soft to the touch.
between them, the birds’ green eyes veined red
It was difficult to reckon the passage of
and drunken-looking, before the swarm rose
time, as there was a sameness to this stretch,
and rolled again down the hill.
as it continued to curve at a slight incline, up
The path followed the birds until they
and around, neither the angle of ascent nor
found the stairs the man had described, planks
the leftward veer ever varying. The flora was
slotted into the earth with vertical joists
unchanging. They walked; they walked.
securing them, holding back dirt. There were
They quickened their pace at what sounded
a dozen steps, up through a tunnel of knotty
like heavy breathing, some large lunged mam-
bramble, curving out of sight.
malian pant that seemed to come from above
The girl looked at her brother, her eyebrows raised in doubt. “Father told us,” He said. “Here.” He handed her a small apple his mother had given him. She took it, studied it, and put it in the pouch of her brown dress. The boy looked at his sister and smiled.
and below—or was it a trick of the wind, the valley making echo some rustle of leaf, scraping of wood? The boy kept imagining he was hearing trickle, the gurgle of stream or spring, but then he would stop and so too would the sound of the water. Was it his own water skins making the noise? No, they couldn’t be, the
He’d seen this face, studied that long, black
dripping sound seem to come from all around
mark, wondered what it meant for as long as he
them, not from them. The trail flattened, then bowed into a hammock valley, the path becoming damp and then muddy as they descended, the earth taking
PA N K 9
could remember.
GREENFELD
their feet, the grey and green scrub giving
tell, as she stopped at each ledge wide enough
way to thirstier plants, thick vines crawling
to stand and there panted. He looked down
up veiny, barked trees, choking boughs so that
at her, her yellow hair, her set, determined
they became dead trellises for the vine, closing
expression. Her arms were so skinny, it was
overhead as they went, a tunnel of plant so
surprising she had come so far.
fecund they imagined they could hear it grow.
At a clearing at the top, he waited for her,
The boy walked ahead, his sister beginning
staring out at the rough country, his sister
to slow. She was cold passing beneath the can-
invisible as she made her slow way up the
opy, and she thought of her apple, which she
rocky trail. The green and brown mountains
took from her pouch pocket, and bit into it, the
from here fell away in descending order so that
hard flesh and sweet taste energizing her for
he could only see the penultimate they had
a moment. She ate half, and then tapped her
climbed. There were, he knew, at least a dozen
brother on the shoulder, holding out the apple
beyond that, rough trails and a long day’s jour-
when he turned.
ney back. They had departed before dawn, but
He shook his head. Kept walking.
how long had they been walking? He couldn’t guess, only that he had almost drunk one skin.
C L O U D S still obscured sun. The immutable
After a time waiting for his sister’s face to
light, and now the breathless, still air as they
appear over the ledge lip, he wondered if she
went made them feel they were the only living
hadn’t made it even this far. If she had already
things. Small steps they took along the narrow
succumbed. But then he heard a scuffing noise,
vertebrate trail atop the ridge. White scree fell
and there was the girl, grim expression and
away from them on both sides, the hillside
crescent birth mark popping up before him.
spotted with stones. The boy handed his sister a water skin, told her to drink. When she was finished, holding
lowing his gaze to survey the same rough vista: mountains, and beyond that, more mountains. He opened his shoulder pouch and with-
was her’s; the remaining two, that meant, were
drew two pieces of black bread and an on-
his. The girl was now tiring, the brother could
ion thickly sliced. At first, he handed her
PA N K 1 0
the skin out to him, he shook his head. That
She scrambled over and then sat down, fol-
GREENFELD
the smaller of the two cuts, but then, after
She drank one sip, held it in her mouth,
squinting at her, he took it back and gave her
carefully swallowed it. Then she pulled on
the larger, and a thick medallion of onion. She
the shirt.
put both together, worked her mouth over the crude meal, bit, swallowed. As soon as they ate, he motioned her to
B E F O R E she could rest, he began the ardu-
ous descent down the nearly sheer face they
stand. They must continue. She took a deep
had climbed. She protested, a meek moan,
breath, a sigh, and he could see how deter-
but attempted to follow. The footing was more
mined she was to keep up, to prove her worth,
treacherous on the way down, the footholds
even now. That mark, that mark had made her
harder to assess, the shadow and color of the
always eager to please, as if to bely her stigma.
stones different from this angle. He could barely keep himself upright. Behind him, he
T H E boy sat in a thinly wooded copse atop
heard the girl slipping, falling, at one point
a jagged rise that had taken all his strength
sliding a few body-lengths down, badly cutting
to surmount. Next to the boy, hanging from
her lower back, before she arrested herself and
a branch, was a red shirt with silver thread
found her footing.
filigree piping up the side and sleeves. The girl had fallen far behind. When she arrived, she was panting, stumbling, her toes now bleeding and a scarlet scrape at her shin.
She reached a hand behind her, took it back, studied the blood on her fingers. Still, he kept up the pace, and as soon as he reached less vertiginous ground, he sped up,
She studied the shirt. Who had put it there?
increasing the distance between himself and
He told her to put it on, that it would keep
his sister.
her warm. She begged for water. She had finished her skin.
that must be when this was considering how long they had been marching—took on a different cast. The greens darker, the browns
calculating something, he held out his skin.
blacker, the bark greyer. Even the sounds were
“One sip.”
different in this direction, the breathing closer,
PA N K 1 1
First he shook his head, but then, as if
The trail now, in the late afternoon—for
GREENFELD
the water more distant. But to look around
came trotting up them, the old man, who didn’t
from high ground was to see nothing but shrub
pause or acknowledge the boy in any way as
and thicket and rock in every direction.
they passed. The boy turned and watched him,
At the top of a rise, he turned to see his sis-
heard the clank of the iron tools in his burlap
ter and made out only a stumbling red shape,
sack as he went, smelled his meaty scent. The
distant, too slowly closing.
old man was in a hurry.
She was tired, thirsty, hungry. Soon, he sus-
The boy passed out of the mountains,
pected, she would have to stop, to rest, which
through meadows, across an icy stream. It
would only slow her more.
was early evening, already dark, by the time
He turned and sped up, moving quickly
he arrived back at his home. His mother and
down the hill and then, when he had sur-
father were already asleep when he returned.
mounted the next, he turned, carefully scanned
Awaiting him, on the table, was a bowl of cold
where he had been, the path he had taken, and
barley and milk, which he spooned slowly into
he was sure he could no longer see his sister.
his mouth.
He continued on, not slowing, carefully rationing his water. The trail never eased, and
His parents never mentioned his sister, and over the years, he thought of her less and less.
even he thought of taking a rest, of sitting and perhaps even taking a nap, but he pressed
F O R a time, when he was a man, he hardly
on, for now what light there was was clearly
remembered her. He sometimes wondered if
receding.
she had ever been. But occasionally, at night,
He turned occasionally, checking, but she was gone.
he would dream the black mark, the imperfection of the skin, and then he would recall the girl who bore it.
H I S legs were shaking, cramped, the soles
His parents passed, and he sought to leave his parents farm, their poor village, to escape.
from the descent. He stumbled. He took heavy
He served briefly in the army, even passing
breaths. Finally, he saw the tunnel of prickly
through the capital once. While sightseeing in
bramble up ahead, the stairs. Then a figure
the great bazaar, he came upon a child’s red
PA N K 1 2
of his feet sore, his toes bruised and bloodied
GREENFELD
shirt interwoven with golden thread. He didn’t
and grilled on spits. It was a restless, unre-
know why, but he spent a month’s draw to buy
freshing sleep he had there. When he closed his
the shirt.
eyes, he imagined he heard the breathing, the
He served without distinction in the South, the shirt wrapped in paper at the bottom of his
trickle of water. He continued out of the old farm, past the
kit. When he returned to civilian life, he used
meadows, over the stream, and into the moun-
his soldier’s pay to buy a small, badly watered
tains and up the curving, sloping path, past
holding. He searched for, but never found, a
where he had seen the old man those many
wife of his own.
years ago, and to the wooden stairs, which had
For many years, he aged as one does, with
fallen into disrepair. He clmbed up again into
hardly a sense of his own transformation. But
the hills as far as he could walk, he hung up
in his sixth decade, he felt his strength ebbing,
the red shirt, and he descended. He took an
his quickness diminishing, and his thoughts
iron spade from his satchel, kneeled down, and
for the first time in decades fell to his sister, to
began to dig.
her blond hair, to her birthmark. He decided to take his few tools and possessions—his
He was an old man himself now, working to keep the path, waiting for his prize.
red shirt—and return to the farm on which they had lived. The closest village remained desolate, with few boys and hardly a young girl. Their old family farm had reverted to wild and his childhood home was spavined, the roof fallen in and ivy grown through every opening. He stayed there for a few days, and tried to picture his sister when they had lived there together, but now he struggled to see any more He caught squirrels, skinning them and roasting them, and blackbirds that he plucked
PA N K 1 3
of her than her mark.
How to talk your way out of a traffic ticket in a foreign country
BECKY FINK
Give the officer your hand. Let him hold it so long, he wishes he could borrow it. In his country this is perceived as courage. Direct your attention elsewhere, to when you planted peonies along the interstate. Give him time to contemplate your sincerity. When he asks for identification, give him the picture of your great-grandfather just after he came to the states, head shaved for lice. While he holds the image and searches your face for resemblance, fill your mouth with air, expand your cheeks until they pull against your gums and it hurts. This is an apology.
PA N K 14
Clouds Form a Canopy Over My Bed and Threaten Rain
BECKY FINK
A certain amount of suffocation feels good, his hands press beneath my chin, his breath— damp like caterpillars kept in Tupperware. There is no dry white cocoon when the winds lift linen. I haul steel up three flights and chip away drywall, build a levy for when the house fills and the mattress fails to float. Which way will the room spin as it drains? A guillotine blade is no sharper than a sheet of water.
PA N K 1 5
ANAÏS DUPLAN
W., at Restaurant with M. I wear gloves to dinner. A mortician’s blue nitrile gloves. I wear mortician’s gloves to dinner and I’m still smacking of balm, having disemboweled a septuagenarian just today and combed his hair and dealt him his shoes. When the food comes, I still smell a little like the viewing room. The peroxide in the carpet detergent. The carpet so beige, though all the time people tottering across it, all the time. Vertigo: the tear ducts flood the inner ears. And the cutlery is so charming, PA N K 16
I barely feel the heat
DUPLAN
sinking from my fingers into the fork, the fork sinking into the fowl. It was probably the size of the dead man’s head when they’d bent its neck. Break-ups are terrible. Had it put up a fight? The dead man did not seem to mind the dress shirt I’d picked out. A tenable blue. It was gorgeous, the white of his white hand against the blue.
PA N K 17
SARAH
Static I
MINOR
at green. The mirage eye shifts but I watch until it hurts to look back into it and then raise my lashes and forget until the next morning.
’m a window seater, so I lean in close.
As we approach the runway
the plane is sprayed with de-icing fluid shot from neon hoses that worm their way toward us through the sleet — so when the horizon tilts clockwise the view out my port-window is
Analog video noise is the dot pattern dis-
muddled by brine lapping backwards as a wet
played when TV antennae can catch no trans-
skin is forced from the wings. Monochrome
mission signal. The British see “snow” on black
farmland sinks back into brights and grazing
rather than “bugs” on white. Indonesians see
shadows where clapboard houses and service
“ant soccer” while Romanians see “fleas.” Visual
roads were once stitched and I think—TV
static is the interference and capture of nearby
snow—static coming straight at us, noise
lightning, radio and internal sparks. Some of
scuffing my attention, and I don’t look away.
it is Cosmic Background Radiation—leftovers from the big bang still tunneling through space. Not order from disorder but disorder still undone.
Some mornings, if I wake but keep my eyes shut to the light I glimpse the ghost of a pupil the center of the iris stares back composed of static, crawling with fractured particles hinting
In the years when I first truly engaged with Television, up late and deeply lonely for the
PA N K 18
behind my eyelids. It floats in dusty bursts and
MINOR
first time, I lingered on static-strewn open
doing battle, syphoning water from each oth-
channels, strained to decipher shape and sound
er’s mouths, stuck half-braided, working like a
where none would cohere. Movies teach us
geared machine, clouds sleeping alone the way
that static is the sound of severed connections,
you can’t on an airplane.
of being stranded, or hunted, or given up for dead. Worse, static means a machine without a job or a message, but one still awake. Small hour dredgers know there is a horror inside the static that is not about absence—one that grates on, hypnotic. Static blurs at cold emptiness and leaves cracks for the heat of nighttime to come through, the stray universe for company.
For some time now, I’ve been living in a manner that feels fraying—frantic. Engagements are hasty. The processing of material relies on reaction times. Hulks of deadlines crash and are left behind in haste. Lately, I like best to be submerged, to plan far ahead, to walk fast and in the middle of a group. To hang out of car windows up to my chest and let the wind
We rise and the sun comes in the top lip
rinse my voice and the sound of the road. To let waves crash on my back without stopping.
The light there is fractured first by snow and
I wait for the static of nerve endings to wake
again by brine eeking beyond the second pane
when the groan gets so loud it goes quiet. This
where I could swear we emerge into bright sur-
is a way of living as much as it is of being on
face water rather than thinning air. After half
the run. A way of drowning inner noises and
an hour at cruising altitude, proximate sun
letting interferences scramble before they
burns off the liquid and I can see down into
come across too clearly. Days blend and are dif-
clouds. From planes I’ve seen clouds looking
ficult to parse afterwards. Nights condense into
more solid than real hills and rivers. Clouds
single frames—car door slams, bodies meeting
PA N K 1 9
of window, still sodden and acting submarine.
MINOR
in a room and parting again. The flickering consumes itself so quickly that it seems to move but is going nowhere. Out the other end I am left hollow, buzzing, b&w.
There, high above real snow, tiny crystals spread between the double panes as if inside a petri dish. They line the window’s lower groove, spindley and six-armed. There’s a pressure-balancing hole in the first pane where someone has stuck a pencil tip through and scraped the perfect circumference of its reach in lead. Just outside, electronic irrigators revolve to trace round swatches of farm plots in the landscape, leaving barren rectangles between. The ragged shapes of frozen lakes and the roar of wind against metal. But I’m a window seater, so I lean in close.
PA N K 2 0
K A R L T A R O G R E E N F E L D B E C K Y F I N K A N A Ï S D U P L A N S A R A H M I N O R LISA BADNER C H A R L O T T E P O P E T Z T R A V I S V I C K N ATA L I E B R I G G S
M A C E O W H I TA K E R
DIANA SPECHLER
K E L LY A N D R E W S
CLAIRE BOWMAN
T . J . M A R T I N S O N
JILL MCDONOUGH
JEFF KRAUS
D A N I S A N D A L E LY S I A S M I T H N I C K P O T T E R JESSICA JACOBS S A S H A F L E T C H E R
ERICA MENA
PA U L M C Q U A D E
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