GSB Literary Magazine: The Unknown Muse (2020) by Gill St. Bernard's School

The Unknown Muse 2020 Faculty Advisor Andrew Lutz Senior Editor Caroline Grant Junior Editors Ellen Besjak, Catherine D’Arcangelis, and Laura Howard Literary Contributors Giulia Bailey Ellen Besjak Karen Blair Mars Braemer Maya Coleman Catherine D’Arcangelis Caroline Grant Laura Howard Andrew Lutz Rachel McQueen Stephanie Vasquez Lindsey White Art Contributors Karen Blair Austin Carey Cecilia Crowe Joe de Grandpre Abigayle Hardy Allen La Tournous Rachel McQueen Stella O’Connor Shaniya Riddle Sofia Walz Chloe Wasser Lindsey White Delaney Yates Cover Art Lindsey White

We dedicate this edition of T he Unknown Muse to Mr. Hockenbury. He was an integral part of the Gill Saint Bernard’s community, and we all miss him deeply.

Mind the Gap by Rachel McQueen Benjamin’s eyes, fingers, toes, and lungs were cursed with the inability to move. Paralyzed by an unseen electrical current that he could not feel. With his back glued to the cold concrete, he could see a flickering sign above him. The off-white color akin to that of Christmas lights was blinding his sensitive eyes. He was missing a necessity. The lights were all he could see. The edges, details, curves, and cracks, all just a muddy mess of fuzz and colors to him. Where was he? He wished he could see. He wished he could know. All he knew was the cold ground – in all its grimy, dingy comfort -- that he felt like had been with him forever. That, and the sound of a train speeding past, its wheels sounded like they would soon break away and free themselves from the track. The sound drew nearer, swelled up as it passed by him, and then disappeared into the dark tunnel, allowing silence to take its place. However, the rumble that usually came with the sound was absent. The platform was still. Not a speck of dust was moved. The train... Yes, his place was clear to him now: Dyckman Street Subway Station. The station he would pass through on his way home. The station he and his father would travel to when taking him to school. They never owned a car, his father sold the family’s bikes, and Benjamin’s mother refused to pay for an Uber, so the subway was their only option. Benjamin’s father blamed him for this inconvenience, as he abhorred the subway vehemently. Benjamin still could not stand, though his eyes and fingers were beginning to function properly. He looked to his left and he barely saw the silhouette of a wired trash can. He looked to his right and a strange array of erect rectangles snuck their way into his peripheral. He blinked and then lay still in confusion. His eyes did not feel dry, yet that was the first time he had blinked in the five minutes since he had woken up. How had they not been dry? And no urge to use his eye drops? None of it made sense to him, so he decided to focus on a currently more essential body part. Benjamin flexed his finger, then another, and another, all in order from one to five. A fist eventually formed from each hand. He tried to flex his muscles and he felt an invigorating coolness radiate from his hands, through his arms, and throughout the rest of his body. He exhaled for the first time. The first time? he thought. I…haven’t been breathing? Benjamin contracted the muscles in his stomach and his legs, stretching the ones in his back, feeling each and every tendon pull on one another as they had to get used to moving. It was like rigor mortis had set in early. They had no intention of doing much of anything until now as Benjamin forced them to. He groped the floor for his glasses, finding that he was just as unlucky as he was in school whenever he fell at the hands of the large, high school junior-looking units most kids his age call eighth graders. Just then, something decided it would have a little fun and prick his fingers. Then something else decided it would slash them. Then another decided it would do both. Shards of glass cried out to his sense of touch, leaving a deceptively delicate trail towards his poor glasses. He got his hand on the frames and then placed them onto his face, broken left lens and all. Woah... This place looks so dead. The train isn’t even moving.

Though a little unstable, Benjamin stood up completely on his own, for some reason feeling the accomplishment he would have felt as a one-year-old eleven years ago. Now, as he got a better look at his surroundings, he deduced that the array of rectangles was really the set of turnstiles that signified the entrance down into the subway, and subsequent exit up into the city. But… There’s no door? Benjamin thought when he looked past the silver boxes. It was merely a concrete wall that matched the floors with posters plastered all over it. As if the city had decided that this specific subway was no longer needed and their idea of fixing this problem was just to make the entrance disappear from sight. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Benjamin turned back around and took a step towards the halted train, then another step, and another, rolling through each seam and every inch of leather in his Converse. He had begged his father for these the year before because he thought they would make him look cool, but they had been completely trashed. Every bit of white was scarred with black streaks, the laces were frayed, and the poor things were torn up to the point of no return. His father’s shoe mending techniques that only he knew were useless there. But he did not care much about Benjamin at that point anyway, so it would not have mattered. He continued closer to the train, until I placed my hand on the boy’s shoulder and he flinched. Immediately the world burst to life around us. Police officers were everywhere, but none of them seemed to be bothered by the fact that we were far behind the fluorescent police tape. The crowd was being held back by a few policemen, craning their necks in an attempt to see exactly what happened with the train. The entrance had opened too. It was visible, accessible to all, but tangible? Depends on who you are. “Who are you?” “Please don’t go near that train, Ben.” I replied promptly in my calmer, more friendly tone. My normal speaking voice tends to unnerve people. “Why not? And how do you know my name? And where did all these people come from?” “Woah, slow down with the questions. They’re unnecessary,” I responded. I smiled as my hand fell from his shoulder and his big brown eyes stared at me in confusion and intrigue. I supposed he was specifically interested in the way I looked. I do not think he expected me to be a woman either. That day I had to wear a black pantsuit as per my job description. I wore my ballet flats of the same color rather than my heels, let my golden hair fall onto my shoulders rather than restraining it to a bun, and kept my jacket unbuttoned rather than buttoned up, all to create the look I desired. If I had had my own way, I would have chosen something much more relaxed. Perhaps a sweater or something of the like. As long as it was not stuffy. I have noticed that businessmen and businesswomen tend to make people anxious. “Unnecessary?” he repeated.

“Yes, they’re unnecessary.” Despite this, he proceeded to question me anyway. “Who are you?” He asked again. I pointed to the name tag on my chest that he did not seem to notice. Nor did he seem to notice the little plastic flap that was peeling off of it. “Libitina?” I nodded. He twisted his lips and then crossed his arms. In hindsight, I should have known what he was planning to say. “Alright, Libitina,” Interesting, I thought, I wonder why he thinks I am lying. “Why’re you here? How’d we both get past the police?” “I know how I got past them,” I said, "But how could you not remember how you did?” “I...” He shook his head, thinking he could physically remove thoughts just by tossing his head around. “Where’s my dad?” I was dumbfounded that of all things, he was worried about his father. Not about himself, not about who was on the tracks, his father. Poor boy, surely, he must know it. “Why’re you asking about him?” I asked. “He’s not here. Nowhere near here actually.” “Because…” He knew the answer. At least, he knew what he was supposed to say. But his empty hesitation spoke absolute volumes to me despite the fact that I have had my eyes on him and his family in preparation for that day for over six months prior. I should not have been so surprised since he had always been a timorous child. Always afraid to act on the clear and obvious. “Because he’s my dad obviously! Why wouldn’t I be?” he finally said. “Was he asking about you when the train was late?” I asked. “Well--” “Was he asking about you when you called him telling him you were off the train?” “I--” “Was he asking about you when he left you here by yourself?” “That’s...that’s...” It took him quite a long time to come to his senses, but he finally began to sound logical. “Hey! How do you know about that?! Who the hell are you?!” “You already know my name, and you know I’m not here to hurt you--”

He interrupted me and shoved me out of the way, pushing his bony little forearm into my abdomen and pushed me aside like he would open a door. I made sure to move a little myself to make it seem like he had actually pushed me. I watched his irate yet anxious movements as he beelined for one of the policemen. I was not going to stop him, so I decided to wait for him to come into contact with someone else and let everything else unfurl itself. “E-excuse me!” He tried in a strong, grounded voice, but it just came off as desperate. He called again, “Excuse me!” with little more assertion than he had the first time. One last time, “Hey!” and a futile voice crack fractured the air. I almost winced. His hand reached for the man’s jacket and it phased straight through him. Passing through the policeman like he did not even exist. “Wh-what??” He whipped around and stared at me. I watched as he was trying to read my face for reaction, but as always, it was painted with a demure calm and accented with apathy. “What did you do?!” “I didn’t do anything, Ben.” I raised my hands in defense. “Where’s Dad?!” He was angry at me now, and I understood why. But it did not make it any less frustrating. Angry children are the worst to deal with, not just from this side, but the other side as well. They never want to obey once they are angry and they demand things that either you cannot or simply do not want to give them. But at least on this side they have no choice whether or not they want to follow me. They can cry and complain all they like, but they will all eventually come to the realization that the only escape is to move away from the glass, and I am the only one that can do that for them. Looking through the glass here is painful. It’s a false reality. There is no way to speak to anyone other than me, which is most likely the reason every poor soul that ends up here dislikes me. Everyone I study and then meet gets so confused and lost once they do what Benjamin just did. A cry for help is unheard, a warm touch is unfelt, and a body in need is unseen. It makes me hesitate to do my job every time. “He’s not here, Ben,” I tried to reply with empathy, “It’s just you and me.” I needed him to trust me, but I took a gamble because I knew that what I had just done might have conceived the opposite idea. A crack formed in Benjamin’s face and his frown only exacerbated it, causing it to spread. I watched as the invisible fracture, unbeknownst to him, spidered down the rest of his body and once it reached his feet, he collapsed to his knees. His feet were shattered, broken, and his legs soon followed. His hands came next, crumbling silently along with his arms. His face dismantled itself as he broke down into tears and his eyes, the poor boy’s beautiful dark brown eyes, withered away with the rest of his body. I felt so much sadness for Benjamin I could hardly contain myself. My motherly instincts had almost kicked in. My own son was so much like him. So afraid of the unknown. He would much rather have stayed home and asked questions than go out and experience things himself. Ignoring what is right in front of his face in favor of hearsay and assumptions. But the feeling dissipated

when I remembered that I was not there with him anymore and my training replaced it. This is your job. Just do what you are supposed to do. I calmly walked over to Benjamin and looked at him for a moment. On his knees but stuck just as before. He could not move an inch of his body. His muscles, down to the thinnest tendon, were locked and his glasses were on the floor again. Even his eyes were closed. The tears were the only thing on him that was moving. They stained the concrete floor an ashen grey and the policemen, the yellow tape, and all the people disappeared. All that was left was the station itself, the train, and the object on the tracks that Benjamin wanted to see so badly. I kneeled down and grabbed his hand with mine. To my relief, he came to life again. His eyes opened and I immediately recognized the concoction of wonderment, fear, sadness, loneliness, and confusion swirling around in them, all simultaneously tugging at him from the inside. He could not speak. I lifted his hand and he followed it, the muscles in his thighs and his calves stretching the ones in his ankles, feeling each and every tendon pull on one another as they had to get used to moving again. He picked up his glasses, now with no left lens at all, and slid them over his ears. I gave him the most genuine smile I could and then held his hand as I guided him towards the stairs that lead to the city.

Still Angels by Mars Braemer When I was a child my room was filled with angels all shelves and surfaces were lined with statues poised in perfection They stood on my dresser hands positioned to hold flowers or birds their dresses precisely patterned I had angels made of metal their wings stagnant in recline always still with trumpets waiting for an unplayed performance One was stretched out mid-flight with painted eyes turned to the sky tied down with words etched in her arms preaching about peace Where walls lacked shelves stationed angels still in paper posters and soft painted feathers with no body attached â&#x20AC;&#x2039;by Chloe Wasser

My ceiling over my bed was littered with stickers of women adorning wings because it was the only spot I could reach to place them But my small hands could not reach high enough to make them stick they fell every day and I grew tired of trying to make them stay Faceless angels were moved to boxes and closets wooden flowers never wilted and wings took up too much space

Tornado Season by Lindsey White Stood like a scarecrow between squared row after row after row of trembling, tender sprouts of green-immature corn that would be unearthed far before harvest-I saw a boy. rain clothed his jeans and beaten dress shirt, ricocheted off already-soaked shoulders and palms of dark hands outstretched to awful sky. awful, awful sky of spun clouds and whiplash gusts that turned the young leaves onto their backs, whilst the boy, awestruck, caught pelting rain on his tongue. the sky became a whirlpool of barn boards and pulverized livestock, and from this awful sky, scrawny, jagged lightning’s limbs reached to the boy with spindle hands, unholy bolted arms of beryl that busted the sky into bits. the spiraled cloud neared me but was even nearer to him, pushed the heavy hair from his eyes, with a firm-gusted finger, so maybe he could see the atrocity above I, and the awful sky, must have thought he would run on his toes, to take cover beneath the fear-stricken foliage, that screamed rustling, trembling worries as the wind pinned them up to show their whitened, veined bellies. the boy did not, he stared the whirlwind down, and he knew it wouldn’t save him, ravaged the corn around where he stood as it inched closer, and my windows began to seize, threatening to burst and let the abuse of the winds inside, my basement door wide open, large enough for two, but I knew I would not help him. if I did, I would go outside and reach out to outstretched hand, and he would not take my hand. instead, he would grab the bolt’s clawed hands, and be unearthed by the awful sky.

Roxbury Park Bike Trail by Catherine Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Arcangelis the sky, heather gray, mottled with cotton-ball white the tracks, rust-browned, green-yellow moss on the sides ride on a pile of grey-black gravel stretching into the trees piney pitchy green in the shadows and sea-glass in the light tracks cut through the New Jersey forest like snail slime they twist a cleared path through the leaves and detritus sitting on rocks so rain will drain, minimize rust tied together with wood, an iron-and-steel colored zipper an interruption loud laughter two girls on shiny-bright bikes red racer and purple with a basket and bell chase each other pent-up, cabin-fevered shaky with the delight of being outside giddy at every chipmunk and warbler the trees sigh despite the still air, needing no breeze to rustle infected with the sisters, sick with want for their freedom unable to pick up their carefully built roots and remember what it is to revel in movement Chains by Stephanie Vasquez Each time the swing goes up and down I hear a loud creak from the rusty chains The sound normally wrestles with my ears, but today it comforts me. I sing with the sound of the chains trying to recreate the Mister Softee jingle the dozens of kids waving the truck down and the one child that drops his ice cream. Now with every time my feet swing back I slap them against the seat pretending that the thumps are basketballs being slammed against concrete. I kick off my chalky white sneakers They thrash into the dozens of woodchips like a kid smashes his feet onto the ground after reaching the bottom of a bumpy slide. by Cecilia Crowe My voice is sore so the chains sing alone I grip tightly onto the shackles of the swing If only a car drove by, So that the chains donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to soothe me.

Playing Pretend by Lindsey White Sebastian hauled an overpacked, flower-stem-green backpack to the campsite, an hour later than his friends. The backpack looked ready to burst open and spill its contents all over the dewey grass. He adjusted the straps on his arms, attempting to shift the weight so his stuff wouldn’t get all soggy and grass-stained. He wouldn’t have packed so much, but his mom insisted that she would pack for him before he left the house. He had extra clothes, an extra toothbrush, two kinds of toothpaste, and his recently-washed, olive green, winter jacket. The jacket was the overly-warm kind; the type that looked like it was made of stuffed garbage bags, with brown faux fur lining every inch of its insides. Sebastian used to like to rub his hands all over the fur, but ever since his mom washed it for him, it started to feel sticky and dry on his fingertips. It made him feel all weird and staticky. Disappointed. He was used to the faux fur’s former, glorious softness. It was May, anyway, so Sebastian didn’t plan on even touching the sticky faux fur. The weather had been cruelly, disgustingly damp from dusk until dawn that month, the air heavy with the kind of humidity that made Sebastian’s palms sweat and lungs feel stuffed with cotton. He felt almost lightheaded as he plodded through the grass in white sneakers, that had turned tan from the last camping trip, when Preston tripped and sent Sebastian tumbling into the river. Sebastian’s dad led him down the grassy path. He would only be tagging along for Sebastian’s walk to the campsite, since he and Sebastian’s mom had to attend a wedding two states over, in Florida. He didn’t want Sebastian to be lounging around all weekend, so this camping trip served as something to keep him busy while they were away. Sebastian had turned thirteen in January, which had been his dad’s ideal “responsible” age, so this would be his first camping trip with no parents around. Preston, Tristan, and Daniel all seemed thrilled by this. Sebastian was afraid. Preston and Sebastian’s parents had collectively decided that letting their sons out in the woods alone wasn’t the greatest idea, so Preston’s seventeen-year-old brother, Keagan, involuntarily stepped up to be the four boys’ chaperone. Sebastian would have been comforted by this if he hadn’t seen Keagan in the parking lot when he and his dad pulled in, sleeping in the driver’s seat of his silver Prius. Sebastian’s father stopped in front of a thick wall of spruce trees, smiling at his son and bending his knees slightly, so they were eye-to-eye. “Okay, kiddo,” his dad said, “You keep safe, alright? Don’t leave any food out in the open and remember to stay in a group. Don’t wander alone. Got it?” “Okay, Dad.” “If any of you get hurt or get in any trouble, tell Keagan. He’ll be coming out to the site in a little bit, alright?”

“Got it, Dad.” Sebastian nodded, even though he knew Keagan wouldn’t be leaving his car anytime soon. His father grabbed his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, “Alrighty, Sea-Bass. You have a good time, now. We’ll be back tomorrow night. Love ya’, Sea-Bass. We’ll miss you.” “I’ll miss you too, dad,” Sebastian smiled. He ruffled his son’s hair and kissed the top of his head before walking back in the direction of the parking lot. Sebastian watched him go for a bit before turning toward the wall of evergreens. He walked below the lowest branches, quickly catching sight of a campfire and the sound of three unnecessarily loud voices. He hesitated before pushing through the shrubs that surrounded the clearing where they’d pitched their tent. It was a clearing in the thick evergreens, the density of the spruces and the emptiness of the camping spot contrasting so greatly that, if you looked directly up at the sky, it looked as if you were standing in the center of a canyon. The three voices kept yelling on and on relentlessly. Preston, Tristan, and Daniel were, undeniably, the sources of the sound that drowned out the forest’s natural ambience. They were sitting on a spruce log laid on its side next to the fire. Sebastian sat on the log, keeping a small distance from the boys that clumped together at the opposite end. He stayed quiet, not wanting to greet them yet. He was still gripping onto the last bits of his weekend alone-time. “Hey, Sea-Bass,” Preston said, Sebastian’s alone-time coming to an abrupt end. Daniel and Tristan finally shut up so they could hear Preston speak, “Took you long enough. Heard you saying goodbye to your Pops over there. Y’gonna miss him, huh, Sea-Bass?” He didn’t like when Preston called him Sea-Bass. That’s Dad’s nickname, not yours, Sebastian thought as Daniel and Tristan’s engine-voices started up again. They sputtered like a couple of unstartable cars, laughing and struggling to get even a sentence out. Preston didn’t even say anything funny. Sebastian wrinkled his nose and forced himself to grin. He wasn’t able to force a laugh this time. “What a baby,” Daniel smirked, baring his twisted, crooked teeth. He gave Sebastian a punch in the forearm, sputtering brokenly some more. “Guys, guys,” Preston raised both of his hands, using his authoritative, order-in-the-court voice, “I’ve got somethin’.” He grinned the kind of smile that meant something sinister. The kind of smile that didn’t make his eyes crinkle at the corners. Sebastian was more familiar with this smile than his laughing-smile. He waved Daniel, Tristan, and Sebastian into their tent, making sure to velcro-zip the door-flap closed. He peeked through the bug-proof window and unzipped his bag, sliding out a

small, sleek BB gun with a fake-wooden handle. Sebastian tightly clutched the straps of his backpack that he had forgotten to set down. “Dude, no way! You got a BB gun?” Daniel asked, hushed, as if the thing weren’t sitting in Preston’s hands right in front of him. “Yup. It’s my dad’s.” He smiled that smile again, whispering, “I found where he hides it in the garage.” “We’ve gotta use it!” Tristan said as Preston stuffed the BB gun into his shirt, that was conveniently baggy enough to hide it perfectly, even though he had no reason to hide it. It made Preston feel like he was doing something wrong when he hid the gun. He seemed to enjoy it. “Why else would I bring it?” Preston mumbled as he made his way out of the tent, “We’re gonna go hunting.” Sebastian watched them begin to make their way out, scared for whatever it was they were going to hunt. He stood in the tent. His Adidas seemed to have planted themselves there, on top of a blue sleeping bag. Preston grabbed his arm and uprooted Sebastian from his place. “Unless,” Preston said, still grinning, “Somebody’s too scared.” “C’mon, let’s just leave him here,” Tristan said, propping his hands on his hips. “Yeah, if he can’t handle it we should just go without him,” Daniel added, looking genuinely irritated at Sebastian’s reluctance. Sebastian wasn’t exactly scared, just not too fond of hunting. He crossed his arms, feeling embarrassed. “No, I want to go,” Sebastian finally spoke, fiddling with a rubber band that he wore loosely on his wrist. Preston crossed his arms, smile still plastered on his face, “Good, then. Be ready to hunt, Sea-Bass.” The boys wandered into the woods, one fidgeting with the gun beneath his shirt, two of them babbling hushedly, and the fourth silent. The sun had set and the sky was turning a dull ultramarine, purple-blue shadows casting over the boys’ faces as they romped on a carpet of moss. Most animals, despite the boy’s careful efforts to keep quiet, fled for their burrows and their nests. Sebastian watched a flycatcher and a young wood thrush scatter from their roosts in the needled branches overhead. A red squirrel with tufted ears spiraled down trees nearby and then scaled back up the bark of another far away. A fox flattened its ears and sauntered off to find new hunting grounds. They either smelled the three or heard Daniel’s accidental shrieks of excitement. One, old opossum was unaware, moseying in a patch of loose dirt leaves, and nosing at them with muffled snorts. It had beady black eyes, pink hands, and round little ears. Sebastian heard it

snuffling and sneezing out dirt it kept getting stuck in its twitching, pink nose, hoping the others wouldn’t notice it until… “What the hell is that?” Tristan whisper-screamed. “A rat!” Daniel shoved Tristan, gaping at the elderly, matted animal. “No, dumbass, that’s an opossum,” Preston dug the gun up from under his shirt. Sebastian winced at “dumbass” as if he’d broken some law just by hearing the word. He grasped at the hem of his shirt to resist the urge to bite his nails. “Give me the gun!” Daniel flailed for the weapon, Preston shoving him aside. “Shut up! My gun, my rules,” Preston yanked away from Daniel. “I shoot first.” Preston held the gun awkwardly. He stuck his tongue out and bit down on it in concentration. He fumbled with the little gun a bit, deciding which finger to pull the trigger with. Sebastian knew he had to use his pointer finger, but decided it was smarter not to say anything. His father taught him how to shoot when he was ten years old, even though Sebastian hadn’t expressed any interest in it. Sebastian wasn’t too worried about the opossum anymore. He was confident that Preston would miss. Preston had never even touched a gun before. His father would never let him. He said he was “too reckless” to handle a gun and that he’d “never trust him” and Sebastian couldn’t help but agree. Sebastian was pretty sure a BB gun wasn’t powerful enough to kill an opossum, anyway. Tristan and Daniel laughed quietly into the palms of their hands. They seemed confident that the opossum would live on, too. “Shut up, give me a minute,” Preston grumbled, “You won’t be laughing once I figure this thing out.” The two bit their tongues as Preston decided to use his ring finger, somehow. Sebastian had to disguise his laughter as a hoarse cough, covering his smile with his arm as Preston aimed the gun shakily. He shot the BB gun. A click followed by an airy pop echoed off the walls of surrounding evergreens. He had his eyes closed. The opossum winced, stumbling a bit before falling limp on its side. “You got it! You got it!” Daniel chanted and ran over to the opossum. “Woah, dude!” Tristan cheered, following close behind Daniel.

Sebastian walked over to the opossum astonished as Preston opened his eyes. Preston was silent. Sebastian was astonished. He knelt beside the limp opossum, whose jaw went slack, exposing rows of shiny, curved teeth. “You did it, Preston,” Sebastian tried to sound proud, but ended up just sounding confused. There was no trace of any wounds on the opossum’s body. Preston didn’t respond. The boys looked back at Preston, who was staring emptily at the ratty, old animal. “Preston? You got it, dude,” Tristan frowned, “It’s dead.” Sebastian noticed the rise and fall of the opossum’s belly. Daniel was staring back at Preston, mirroring Tristan’s expression. Preston’s eyes grew glassy in the light of the full moon glowing through the branches overhead. They began to reflect the silhouettes of the trees and Preston began to snivel. “I killed it?” He muttered pathetically. “Yeah!” Daniel and Tristan said, trying to sound proud of him. Sebastian didn’t say anything, still watching the rise and fall of the opossum’s belly. Its whiskers quivered gently, despite the stillness of the night. “I’ve…” Preston dropped the BB gun at his feet, “I’ve got to go.” Preston sprinted away. Tristan and Daniel sprung after him, sputtering as they went. Sebastian stood up and stepped away from the opossum. The opossum’s nose began to twitch, feeling less threatened once the other two boys skipped far enough away. It lifted its head, staring at Sebastian with lively eyes. Then, the opossum got up, and it sprinted deeper into the evergreens. Its eyes turned pointed, and its hairless, ashen ears flattened to its prickling neck. It sprung to its little fingerless-glove feet and hissed, puffing its pinecone-shaped body out and exposing curved, yellowing fangs. Sebastian stumbled back and away from the little creature’s maw as fast as he could. It hissed, but the opossum made no effort to lunge, gray, wire-haired body puffing out until the animal looked like an oversized horse chestnut. Once it had properly scared Sebastian, it sprinted deeper into the evergreens. Its pink, rat’s tail disappearing under a layer of fallen leaves and broken hemlock branches. Sebastian could still hear the sputtering from the two other boys drowning out the faint patting of the opossum’s fingerless-glove-feet. He stood up, brushing some loose dirt from the knees

of his jeans, and began to sprint after Tristan and Daniel. If they got lost in their pursuit of Preston, Sebastian was sure they’d never find their way. “Preston, wait up!” They hollered, “You got it! You got it!” He could finally see the back of Tristan’s Red Sox jersey and hear their whooping clearer than his own footsteps. They both had their arms thrown up into the air. Catching up, Sebastian weaved in front of the other two boys wordlessly, their sputtering momentarily shutting off and back on again. Sebastian followed the occasional print of Preston’s shoes that popped up wherever the dirt was soft enough to leave an imprint. Tristan and Daniel began to follow him, shoving and bashing into one another. The outhouse wasn’t far. It blended into the trees behind it. The walls were made of rotting spruce, splotched with moss and lichen. Sebastian had to squint to see the little shoebox of a building. Tristan and Daniel had no idea it was there. Sebastian came to a sudden stop, sneakers skidding in the foot-worn dirt in front of the outhouse. The two other boys ran straight to the door, shaking the flimsy handle. Sebastian winced as he watched it bend weakly with their erratic attempts to open the outhouse door. “Preston!” “Preston!” There was a loud sniffle from inside the outhouse, “Go away!” “Preston, you killed it! You killed the rat!” Daniel pounded on the door relentlessly. “You did it! Come out!” Tristan jumped, smiling triumphantly. Sebastian watched the boys leap, shake, and hit the door over and over and over. There was a shuffling from inside the outhouse and, then, Preston’s voice, sounding small, “No!” Sebastian could faintly hear Preston’s shuddering breaths and stifled, angry sobs from behind the door. “We saw it hit the ground, Preston! You got em’ good!” “Yeah! We’ll pick up the body and… and… We can stuff it!” “Yeah! Then you can put em’ up somewhere and show em’ off and we can tell Keagan and your dad and--” “Shut up!” Preston yelled, “You can’t tell Keagan or Dad anything!”

The sputtering went silent. The forest’s ambience settled in for a few seconds, a backdrop to the muffled sound of Preston’s tears. Sebastian stepped forward, toward the outhouse, shoving himself between Daniel and Tristan. He stared up at the dark, crescent moon hole cut into the outhouse door. Sebastian tilted his head up toward the opening, so that Preston would hear him loud and clear through the rotting door, “Why not? Are you too afraid?”

by Allen La Tournous

Daffodil by Ellen Besjak Wake up late with shards of sun like spotlights that stab through the cracks in my curtains and fill the room like sea-water in a sinking submarine. In the bathroom, I scrape new mascara over half-open eyelashes, heavy from clumps of old mascara never washed off ‘cause I couldn’t wipe away the pretty face in the mirror last night; quicker to cover up and smooth over in the morning. Dress in the fading dark, this kind of late makes you too busy to flip a switch, so trip over balled-up blouses and crumpled pant-legs— they snake like roots over the carpet everything’s the same shade of gray in little light. A clementine to break fast— peeled at a quiet kitchen table. Peeled like skin from bone and it sounds like when I step on the dehydrated daffodils on the lawn I trample on my way to the car. They’re curled into fetal positions beneath brittled, yellow grass, and their stems crunch like wet ice in March, under tires on the driveway. Bent and sickly, pale-yellow blossoms grow in the morning.

by Abigayle Hardy 18

Compulsive Cursive by Giulia Bailey “Specific” my teachers voice croakes through computer speakers my hand moves on its own cursive flowing on pages “specific” written in the loopy letters too messy for classwork easy enough for a scribble “frost” he says catches my attention pen tip moves down a line “Ea-” He starts a new sentence “April” “Spring” “Bitter air” The words are scrawled across the page Fragmented and cut off When a new word imprints itself Into the front of my brain and the Palm of my hand Into my fingers

by Chloe Wasser

“Hello?” I look up “Pay attention.” There was a question I look to my notes Only lines of his Fragmented words

Lost in New York City by Maya Coleman Albert walks out of Leah’s apartment building and into the calming streets of New York City. He’d much rather be out here than holed up in that modern apartment with his daughter and son-in-law. The knitted scarf his wife made for him last winter is wrapped around his neck and he buries his chin into it, covering his face up to his nose. It’s warm, like her hands always were. Snowflakes land on the yarn and linger for a few moments before melting away. He slides his age-wrinkled hands, calloused from a lifetime of landscaping work, into the pockets of his trench coat, finding a set of hand warmers that Leah, his daughter, must have put in there. He goes from street to street, walking with his head down, walking with his eyes on the ground as much as he can without getting run over. For the first fifteen minutes, all he sees are cigarette butts and empty Starbucks cups getting kicked about. He takes note of the smells as he walks; they’re constantly changing. At first, it smells like pizza from Joe’s, even though he knows the closest pizza place is The Best Pizza. At the next crosswalk, it smells like the sewers. Then it smells like good food again, soft pretzels this time, then the sewers. It goes back and forth throughout the entire city. He walks past Rockefeller Center and lifts his head to look at the famous tree. It’s mid-December now, so it’s covered in lights, like a million tiny rainbow flames were lit with a match on every branch. Thank goodness they’re not candles, though, Albert thinks to himself, inching past too-many-pictures-tourists. Otherwise the entire tree would be completely ablaze. Maybe we could roast marshmallows. Wouldn’t that be fun? Albert chuckles softly to himself at the thought of a bonfire that large in the middle of the city. As his laughter fades, his gaze returns to the ground. He continues to walk in this way for a few more blocks, and then a flash of red catches his eye in the middle of the crosswalk. Albert waits for the white walking sign to appear on the screen and then proceeds to walk across the striped pavement, getting bumped into by millennials complaining about the beeping sound the crosswalk machine makes. “That’s so annoying!” one girl says while sipping something from a Starbucks cup. A boy who nearly knocks Albert over grumbles, “My ears are bleeding, would someone shut that thing up?” Albert regards these complaints as nothing but part of the soothing city rhythm. Albert does a quick dip down into the crowd and grasps the flash of red. He puts it into his pocket and pulls it out once he’s able to stop moving. In his hand he’s holding a glove that couldn’t have belonged to anyone older than three years. It’s red and frayed at the fingertips, muddied at the palms, too. He walks two more blocks before finding a small stuffed Nemo crammed between a brick wall and a trash can. Nemo joins the glove in Albert’s right pocket. Feeling the wind start to get to his delicate, old skin, Albert takes a quick stop inside the library to warm up. He strolls around the sections, glancing over the books, looking between them for anything someone may have left behind. Albert slides books off the shelves and flips through their pages, looking for small bits of paper to fall out, maybe love notes or a grocery list used as a bookmark. He finds nothing, but that’s the usual result.

Albert prods across the red carpet, muted footsteps carrying him to the back of the library where the restrooms are located. Albert walks inside the men’s room, wondering if anything may have been left behind there. Sure enough, a heart-shaped locket is resting next to the sink. Part of the chain is sitting in a puddle of water, and Albert rushes over to the sink to move it; he doesn’t want it getting ruined. He dries it off with a paper towel, then starts to examine it. Albert sighs. Such a pretty locket, he thinks. Such a shame that someone would leave it here. Albert wraps the chain around his fingers so it won’t get tangled, then puts his hand in his pocket. He walks back across the library and out the front doors, back into the calming NYC atmosphere. Albert breathes in the city air; smells good in this spot, like a bagel shop or maybe doughnuts, but at the next block that familiar sewer smell comes back. Despite the smells, Albert’s eyes stay alert and scan the streets. By the time Albert makes it back to Longacre House Apartments he’s collected quite a bit. He steps inside the apartment building, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the golden indoor light rather than the dark, screen-lit streets. Once the green blobs have faded from his vision, he begins to walk across the lobby to the elevator. “Good evening, Mr. Diggory,” the concierge at the desk says. “Leah has been worried sick about you, not knowing where you were. She came down here three times to ask if I’d seen you.” “Bah,” Albert says, waving his hand as if shooing away a fly. “She’s always worrying about something.” “Best you go on up, sir,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to worry her even more.” Albert smiles at the concierge and steps into the elevator. The doors close with a chuck chuck and he watches the numbers increase until they hit 27. The doors open with another chuck chuck and Albert steps out of the elevator, prodding across the green and grey checkered carpeting until he reaches a slick brown door with a brass 15 nailed into it. He digs through the pockets of his coat, sifting through items with his fingers, feeling for his keys. The jagged side of one of them scrapes a knuckle and he grasps the key, pulling it out of his pocket. The key slides into the slot in the door handle, unlocking with a hard click. The doorknob is cold and smooth in Albert’s hand, sliding a bit as he turns it. Walking into the apartment, Daniel, Albert’s son-in-law, is standing in the kitchen, tossing a pan of stir fry on the stove. The smell of soy sauce and fried vegetables fills the apartment, soothing Albert’s city-confused senses. “Hey, there, Pops,” he says, turning away from the stove to julienne red peppers. “Good evening, Daniel,” Albert responds, unwrapping the scarf from around his neck and gently hanging it, careful not to catch any loops on the hook. “Where’ve you been?” Daniel lifts and tips the cutting board, sliding the peppers into the pan. “Just out for a walk.” Albert sits down in the dining room, pushing away his table settings to make enough space.

“What did you find this time?” Albert empties his coat pockets onto the table, separating each item so that no two are touching each other. Daniel leaves the stir fry to come peer at the miscellaneous items on the table. “Where did this one come from?” he asks, pointing at a pearl earring. “Found it on a windowsill outside of Barcelona Bar,” Albert says. “No telling how it ended up there.” Daniel nods. “How about this one?” This time he’s pointing to the locket. “That one was on the men’s bathroom sink in the library,” Albert picks up the locket, running the chain between his fingers. “Look, Daniel, see how it’s green? That means someone wore it for a long time.” “Why was it in the men’s bathroom?” Daniel takes the locket from Albert’s hands. “I’d think it would be in the women’s room.” Albert shrugs, then stares at the locket for a moment, as if trying to read a story off of it. “My guess is that they broke up. The locket was probably a gift that she returned when their relationship was cut shorter than they expected.” “Why didn’t you take it to the lost and found?” Daniel asks. “Maybe it’s still special to that person, and they’re looking for it.” “It was abandoned in a bathroom, Daniel,” Albert says, watching the locket spin in circles as it dangles from Daniel’s fingers. “Whoever left it there wasn’t ever coming back for it. And I couldn’t leave it there to be lonely.” Daniel nods slowly. “Did you open it yet?” Albert shakes his head, taking the locket back. “There’s no need to be that intrusive.” “That’s good of you,” Daniel says. “It almost makes up for you taking it in the first place.” Albert doesn’t respond. He continues to look over what he has on the table while Daniel returns to the stir fry. As Albert reaches for a baby shoe, Leah walks into the kitchen from her bedroom. “Hey, babe,” Daniel says, pulling Leah to him for a kiss. “Stop that, Danny,” Leah says, playfully resisting, but then her eyes land on Albert. “Dad, where on Earth have you been?” Albert looks up from the baby shoe; he’s been turning it over and over in his hands, once again trying to read it. “Just out for a walk.”

Leah rolls her eyes, moving to sit at the table with him. “Where did this come from?” she asks, gesturing to the shoe. “I found it outside Radio City Music Hall,” Albert says, rubbing his thumb over the toe of the shoe, feeling the ridges of the rubber sole. “Must’ve fallen off a little boy’s foot while he was in a stroller, and his mom didn’t notice. He probably cried, and she probably just fed him to shut him up, not realizing that one foot only had a sock.” Leah takes the shoe from Albert, pulling the Velcro flap off and repositioning it, making it straight. “Dad, this has got to stop.” Albert looks up. “What?” “I can’t handle this anymore. Your disappearing acts, wandering city streets, stealing whatever random stuff you find. It has got to stop.” Leah takes a deep breath, dropping her gaze to the baby shoe still in her hand. “Danny thinks we should put you in a home. Then maybe you won’t go wandering off as much.” Albert’s old eyes get a little emptier, a little milkier, and then they drop again to the shoe in Leah’s hands. “I don’t want to put you in a home,” Leah says quickly. “I don’t think you’re that bad yet—you’re only seventy, for goodness sakes. But I think you need help. I want you here, with me, no matter how much you want to go off alone. It’s too big out there. You could get lost. Besides, Mom would want you here.” Albert takes the shoe back, putting the Velcro back to the way it was when he found it on the sidewalk. The ripping sound it makes is the only sound in the apartment. The furnace isn’t running, Daniel’s stir fry isn’t sizzling, and no one is tapping a foot. The silence is screaming, and it lasts for too long. “Here,” Leah gets up from the table, slicing the silence with her chair. “Let me take your coat. Did you get everything out of it?” Albert nods, shrugs out of his coat. He allows Leah to take it to the door and put it on the hook next to his scarf. She goes to the kitchen, swerving around Daniel, and fixes Albert a mug of hot cider. “Get your hands warm,” she says, placing the mug in front of him. As Albert reaches for the mug, his right sleeve is pulled up an inch or two. A bracelet hangs there, dragging on the table a bit as it moves toward the cider. It’s one chain, links not too small but not huge, and, like the locket, it’s turned green, rather than silver, from too many years of wear. “Mom told me I could have that,” Leah says, pointing to the bracelet. “I used to play with it during church and ask about it, and she would tell me I could have it when she died.” Albert’s hands grasp the mug, absorbing its warmth as a wave that slowly travels up his arms and to his chest.

“She fastened it around my wrist,” Albert said. “She gave it to me.” Leah reaches for the bracelet anyways, but Albert pulls away. “Dad, I’m not going to take it. I just want to see it.” Albert takes his hand off the mug, feeling all the heat he just gained drain away in an instant. Leah takes his wrist and flips it over, searching for a certain loop in the chain. She finds the loop and touches the little piece of metal attached to it; a small metal circle meant to attach a charm to the bracelet. “Did you find it yet?” Albert shakes his head. “I can’t believe it’s lost. It’s so small, too. It’s nearly impossible to find something like that in the city.” Albert looks up. “It was the first gift I ever gave her. She never took the thing off,” Albert chuckles a bit, remembering. “Kind of like this here locket.” Albert picks up the locket and runs the chain through his fingers, feeling the cool metal move around his knuckles like it’s a liquid. “Well,” Leah starts, speaking slowly. “Maybe someone will find the missing charm and put it in the lost and found somewhere. How would you feel if someone found it and took it for themselves, the way you did with this locket?” Albert puts the locket down and looks at Leah the way only a father can look at a daughter. “I hope they are finding love in it.” “But you’d want it back, right? If you found them wearing it?” Albert sighs, putting one hand around the mug. It’s losing its warmth little by little. “I suppose.” “See, Dad?” Leah runs her finger over the chain on Albert’s wrist. “Other people are like that, too. They want their things back. You can’t keep taking them.” Screaming silence fills the apartment again. Albert watches Leah’s finger as it moves over the links in the bracelet. “I just want to find it.” Albert says softly, like the object is sacred. Leah nods and pushes his wrist back to him, and he curls his fingers around the mug once more. “You will,” she says. “But maybe you should stop stealing other people’s things first.” Albert nods, pulls his sleeve back down over the bracelet. His hands start to warm again, but when he takes a sip of the cider, it has already gone too cold for comfort.

Exit by Caroline Grant

my sister and i would beg to stop everytime we passed that exit even on the hot days and the rainy ones we’d hike a mile from gravel parking lot to drawbridge enter under titan grey pillars riddled with moss stone towers casted shadows across an uncut lawn

bags fit into the trunk like a poorly made puzzle we had to push and bend every piece until it finally fit took an hour just to pack it and i still sat with my sneakers on a suitcase knees stuck just below my chin wonder how we’ll drag all this through Heathrow car rides used to put me to sleep not today BBC turned down to volume 4 not a single word exchanged all too quiet my sister was asleep head against the window face covered by braid-escaped hair hands clutching a doll whose hair is unbrushed doll’s tiny plastic suitcase packed with velcro clothes and rubber shoes i rolled my window down air smells like wet stone like Bodiam

climb around the same ruins we’d seen ten times only to scrape our knees on splintered wood columns sit in the grass and stare at an always overcast sky stone walls smelled like mold after rain almost headache inducing but we still raced up spiral passageways and under crumbling arches the walls always holding us in i rolled the window back up sound of the air flowing violently in and out of the car made my ears ring i stared at the back of my mom’s seat and wondered if we’d ever drive past that exit again

by Cecilia Crowe

Happy Hour by Laura Howard A floating dock in turquoise water got darker, crept away from shore with a lounge chair and a table for a drink as if anyone could swim out 40 feet with one in hand without spilling worried more about splinters on the driftwood ladder than cocktails which would topple over because the wind picks up around 5:00 not strong enough to displace the dock just enough to make it seem that the square piece of wood was going to spring loose from its anchor and float out one gust away from lost

â&#x20AC;&#x2039;by Delaney Yates

Room in New York by Mars Braemer Neither of us spoke as we sat near the table. Frank had his paper open and was intently reading the news. He must’ve thought I wouldn’t know he was checking up on his horses; he believed me to be ignorant of his betting, but then again he believed me to be ignorant of most everything. The open window brought in the familiar bustling sounds of New York City to the small room. I could catch snippets of conversations people shouted over car horns and construction while walking down our street. Businessmen rushing past bystanders without a care about them. The further the sun set the clearer the streets became of men briskly moving to and from offices and mothers strolling infants down the sidewalk. They were replaced with the younger crowd of students free from classes and teenagers traveling in clusters for false protection against anything lurking around in alleys. It gave me no joy to hear lovers and friends walking by speaking about the childish fun they were off to at movies and diners, or the declarations of love they cooed to each other; things they hadn’t learned yet to keep private. I gazed down at the ring around my finger. This little band of gold was such a simple token of what should be considered so sweet. Glancing at my husband from across the table, I saw he was still deeply interested in the paper in front of him. Whatever article he was reading must’ve been captivating for he hadn’t flipped the page once in the past half hour. I suppose he thought the same about the sheet music that lay on the piano I sat at. It must be very complicated if I hadn’t played a single note. As I brushed my finger over a key, I reminisced of a time when this little apartment had been filled with so much noise. Once upon a time, my fingers had danced along the ivory keys as Frank tried singing along with the tune. Once upon a time, the small rooms were filled with friends laughing and the smell of champagne. And even in the quieter moments, there was a sweet pitter-patter of soft paws on the wooden floors. Once upon a time, the air in this room wasn’t stale and still, even with the windows open. I stood up from my seat. Frank’s hand shifted its place on the edge of the paper, but he didn’t look up. Walking up to the wall, I placed my hand against the rough surface and traced the unintentional patterns carved there. I tried to keep count of every small dip, crack, and raised chip along the wall. With my fingers, I exaggerated the imperfections and lingered on faint scratches. They were almost invisible, and maybe not even there, but I still felt the need to acknowledge everything. I suppose if you live somewhere too long you begin to look akin to your rooms. What was once so smooth was now overpainted and wrinkled. Covering up the crevasses with new patterned papers and colors only seemed to have made all the mistakes and neglect more obvious to me. I moved my hand away and touched the sides of my face, trying to iron out the blemishes that only I seemed to notice. The sound of a newspaper crinkling came from behind me and the clicking of a glass followed. Frank had poured himself a drink, and upon seeing my sudden interest in him, he took out another glass from the cabinet. The edges of the table and chair that he stuck to for most of his life were worn out and battered. Polished wood had faded in the light along with the once bright fabric

of the cushions. If he sat still for long enough, Frank almost disappeared in the seat behind him. I walked over to my coat on its hanger and pulled out my cigarette case. Silently holding one out which Frank wordlessly lit for me. Having found no comfort in the flawed walls and furniture, I went to the window to note the flaws of the city. Flicking my ashes onto the gutter below me, I added to the assortment. Sometimes they would fall on the heads of the people below if the wind blew right. I would watch the same way children would watch innocent bugs slowly getting crushed by the closing of a door. Sometimes, however, you were on the receiving end. I did nothing to warn them. It was strange to me, how a room could feel more cramped with two people than it had with dozens. There was a loud thunk of glass hitting wood and a cough from the other side of the room. I took a long drag and turned around to my husband. His face now back in the paper. “Yes?” “Don’t you think we should be having dinner soon?” His voice was gruff and he hadn’t looked me in the eye yet all night. “Are you asking my opinion or telling me to make your dinner?” The cigarette hissed as it hit the cool ashtray. He didn’t respond. Sighing with too much exaggeration, I crossed my arms with a huff and waited for him to react. Getting nothing from him, I took long strides to sit at the table across from him; making as much of a show of it as I could. “What would you like, dear?” “Don’t get facetious with me, Claire.” “How will I know what to make if you don’t tell me what you want? I can’t read your mind.” “And I don’t want to”, I muttered after. Of course, he had heard me, but of course, he did not acknowledge anything. “ “I suppose I’d like a roast turkey then.” “I made that Tuesday.” “Great, so it’ll be quick.” “You don’t want to try something new?” “I know what I like.” He turned the page and reached for his glass. “But if not, just the soup from last night will do.” “You never want to try anything new.” I looked back to the open window, the giggling of young girls coming from it annoyed me. I did not care to hear about their trivial loves. Pulling out another cigarette, I stood and grabbed a match from my piano’s music rack. “Well maybe if you made something new once in a while I’d eat it.” “I have, Frank. And you never do.” “As I said before, Claire,” he threw the news onto the table. “I know what I like.”

“I don’t think you do, I think you just don’t want to venture out of your tiny box.” “I don’t see you giving me a reason to.” He got up and poured himself another drink. “I don’t see you giving me any chances.” I retaliated. “I give you plenty of chances,” his biting voice cloaked in familiarity. “You just never take them. You could’ve made anything for dinner but you asked me what I wanted and you criticize me for telling you.” “I asked you because when I don’t you end up not liking what I’ve made.” “I don’t remember the last time you made something new.” “I don’t remember the last time you asked for something new.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath. “Why don’t you just make what you want to then,” he said with exasperation. “I don’t care anymore.” Frank trudged back over to his chair and leaned back in it. His face was drooping and his forehead had wrinkles chiseled in by stress. One of the last great artists. I, however, had smiled too much in my youth and tried counter-acting its stains now by never smiling too brightly. I turned my gaze up to the dimming light that tried illuminating the room. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe your rooms begin to look akin to you instead. And perhaps living with someone for too long brings out their true personalities. And perhaps you know that’s not why you married them. “I’ve lost my appetite. You can make dinner for yourself.” I faced away from him. He scoffed. “Of course, Claire, and you can read up on the business while I do.” He snapped back. I turned around sharply and briskly walked to the small adjoining kitchen. Pulling a container from the refrigerator, I spun around and slammed the cold soup in front of Frank. His head snapped up and he looked me in the eye for the first time that night. “Goodnight, Frank.” I left him and opened the door that led to our room, locking it behind me. It’s not as if he ever left his chair anyway. I ripped off the clip-on earrings I always wore to please Frank. He had never wanted me to get my ears pierced but liked the way the jewelry looked. Taking off anything else that he picked out for me to wear, I stood naked in the unlit room. My skin was unremovable. Pulling up the covers of one of the twin beds, I laid staring at the ring around my finger. It looked so beautiful gleaming in some of the outside lights coming through the curtains. It was disgusting. I fiddled with the band until it tugged away from my finger. I placed it under my pillow the way children would a tooth and hoped that when I woke in the morning, it would be gone.

Seventh by Laura Howard Blue raspberry Airhead wrappers and mini water bottles litter the seat next to her. Her black drawstring bag from Zach C.’s bar mitzvah sits on top of the trash and she leans back in the bus seat, the scratchy neon blue fabric irritating her neck. The teachers had boasted about it being a coach bus and it having wifi, but Eden fails to see the perks of this seven hour-long trip to Boston. Once they get there, she knows it’ll be fun, because they’re going to the Boston Tea Party Museum first, but she’s sick of sitting here. The bus had developed a faint body-odor smell as soon as they had left Maryland, since the whole seventh grade is stuffed together. The boys sit in the back near the tiny bathroom and the girls in the middle. The teachers and Nurse Diane occupy the first section. To her right, her two best friends, Mara and Gwen, are on their phones, giggling to each other. She tries to understand what they’re talking about, but she can only make out a few stray words here and there since they’re whispering quietly. She places her elbows on the armrest facing them, the rough plastic digging into her skin. “Hey, how’d you guys get the wifi password?” Eden says to them, across the row. “We’re using our personal hotspots,” Gwen answers her, not looking up from her phone. Eden recognizes the pastel blue bar at the top of Gwen’s screen and realizes that she’s on Snapchat. Eden’s mom isn’t allowing her to download the app until she turns fourteen, which won’t be for another two years. And she doesn’t have a personal hotspot because her dad used up all of their data listening to podcasts about Egyptian tombs on his way to work. Eden opens her bag and takes out her copy of Flowers for Algernon. She smoothes the cover of her book, feeling the creases and rips in the paper. She had stuffed it into her backpack so many times that the spine had scoliosis, having been bent in several ways. She runs her finger across the top of the book, looking for the receipt she was using as a bookmark. She finds it, places it on the seat next to her, and begins to read. Alice and Charlie were just at the movies and she was telling him about his development throughout the trials. Eden’s in the middle of her second paragraph when she feels someone’s finger graze her arm. “Eden!” Gwen pokes her harder. “You want a magazine?” She holds out an issue of J- 14. It has Shawn Mendes and Noah Centineo on the cover, under the title “Hollywood’s Heartthrobs.” “I’m good, thanks.” She rereads the same line again: “You’re beginning to see what’s behind the surface of things.” She can hear Mara taking the magazine from Gwen and the rustling of her flipping through the pages. Eden focuses on the words in front of her on page 77. Her eyes keep scanning the same sentence over and over and over, not processing the meaning. She closes her book and places it on top of her bag, not committing to putting it inside. “Gwen, can I actually have a magazine?” “Sure.” A different one, titled “People’ s Bachelorette Behind the Scenes” lands in her lap. Eden had never read People magazine before. Her mom had said it was mindless junk and no one should care what those Kardashians are doing. Her thumb plays with the corner of the magazine, peeling up the edge. She’s tempted to open it, to read about the “Worst Dressed at the Met Gala” and Jeremy Renner’s drug addiction. Eden flips the magazine and opens the page. The headline across

the top reads “Candidates for Sexiest Man Alive 2019”. Pictures of men in their underwear cover the page and Eden quickly closes the magazine. Her mom is right, that she isn’t ready to see what’s inside. She presses the cover flat and places Flowers for Algernon o n top of it. She looks across the row and notices that Mara is reading hers, laughing at some article. Gwen is writing on hers with a glitter pen, probably doing a personality quiz. “Do you have any other J-16’s?” “You mean J-14’s?” Gwen doesn’t look up from her quiz. “Yeah.” “No, sorry.” “We can do something else.” Mara shuts the cover of her magazine and makes eye contact with Eden over Gwen’s head. “I’ll tell you all about Daniel.” “Daniel Gretson? He’s weird.” Eden makes a face. She had been at school with Daniel since third grade, when he used to stick pencils in his ears and wipe the wax on her desk. “Oh. Well, he’s been Snapchatting me this whole bus ride.” “Oh.” Eden doesn’t know what to do, so she begins fiddling with the corner of her book, feeling the thick paper resisting her ripping. “But it’s nothing.” “Mara likes him!” Gwen chimes in. “Gwen!” Mara looks betrayed. “Who’s Eden going to tell?” Eden shifts in her seat, unsure if she is supposed to answer that. “I’m not going to tell anyone, Mara.” “Thanks.” “Does he like you?” “I think so. He invited me to sit with him back there.” Mara points to the back of the bus, where the bathroom is. Eden hasn’t been back there yet, but she can tell that it smells awful. She doesn’t get why Mara would want to sit in the pungent row with Earwax Boy. “And I told her that she should’ve gone.” “It would’ve been so weird!”

Their conversation turns into a volley of them arguing back and forth about how Mara should have handled the Daniel situation. Eden doesn’t feel like the conversation involves her, since she wasn’t there to make the original decision. “Well if you think I should’ve done that, then you should talk to Scott!” Mara’s voice rises above the loudness of the bus. “You like Scott?” Eden asks. She doesn’t know much about him. He just came to their school this September and is close friends with Daniel. She peers into the back of the bus and recognizes Daniel’s platinum blonde hair. Scott is sitting next to him, doing something on his phone. “A little.” Gwen shrugs. “Anyway, according to this quiz Niall Horan is my soulmate!” Mara squeals and takes her phone out again. Eden notices her arranging her hair and straightening her shirt. Mara takes a selfie, then looks at it, deletes it, and reassumes her pose. Eden thinks that she’s probably sending it to Daniel. She wonders why Mara is taking so long and is so worried about her appearance. It’s just Daniel. Mara hands her phone to Gwen, who examines the screen. “Your mouth looks weird. Make a duck face.” Gwen says, showing Mara how to puff out her lips. Mara copies her, then takes her phone back and poses again. “That’s better. Send it!” Eden watches Gwen press a button on Mara’s phone. Eden takes out her phone and plugs in her headphones. She opens her Spotify and scrolls through her music. The titles of the songs are gray, since she didn’t download them and doesn’t have wifi. She goes to the bottom of the list and finds a green-highlighted song- “Where You Are” from Moana. Her younger sisters are obsessed with the movie, so she had ended up saving this song on her phone. She presses play and the cheerful music floats into her ears. Someone going down the aisle bumps into her knees and she moves her legs to the inside of the aisle and now is facing the window. “Eden!” Mara calls out to her. Gwen is waving her hand in front of Eden’s face. “What?” “We’ve been trying to get your attention for forever. What’re you listening to?” Gwen says, stretching her arms across the aisle to Eden’s phone. She taps on the screen and recognizes the blue album cover. “Moana, seriously?” Eden takes out her headphones and wraps them around her phone. “Yeah. It’s the only music I have since-” “Scott told Alex who told Daniel who told Mara who told me that he likes me!” Gwen interrupts her. “Oh. Who’s Alex?” Eden asks, unscrewing the top of her water bottle. She begins drinking from it and drops of water dribble onto her shirt. Gwen gives her a side eye when she sees the stains on her shirt.

“Scott and Daniel’s best friend!” Mara pipes up. “Oh.” Eden tries to sound excited and she fails. She hears rubber soles squeaking on the tiled bus aisle and assumes that someone is on their way to the bathroom. The sound stops however, right in front of her row. “Hey guys!” Halle looks at Mara and Gwen. Eden stares at her feet, at her bright white Stan Smith’s. “Can I sit?” “Eden, move your stuff!” Gwen’s voice is oozing with saccharine. “Students, please refrain from standing while the bus is moving. It is okay to move seats, but please make it quick. It is a safety concern.” Mr. Waterbury, the Social Studies teacher, looks pointedly at Halle from the front row. Eden picks up her book, bag, and wrappers and sits down in the window seat. She stacks all of it on her lap and Halle slides into her seat. Halle turns around to face Mara and Gwen, her back to Eden. “So, what’s this I hear about you and Scott?” Halle clasps her hands, her glossy neon pink nail polish reflecting the bright lights of the bus. She flips her long brown hair and it swishes into Eden’s face. “Sorry!” She looks over her shoulder at Eden, her green eyes trapped in a cage of spidery, clumpy mascara. “I guess he likes me.” Gwen says, tucking her hair behind her ears. “And Daniel said he liked me!” “I’m so excited for you guys! Alex told me all about it.” Halle smiles at them. “And, he told me to ask you guys if you wanted to sit with them.” Gwen and Mara look at each other. “Duh!” Mara replies. “And, like, don’t tell anyone I’m telling you this, but they have Cards Against Humanity. ” Eden is surprised at this. The teachers had said that game was off-limits for the trip. And when she asked her mom what it was, her mom said it was for adults. “Yay!” Gwen claps her hands. Mara rummages in her tote bag and emerges with a fruit punch Lip Smackers lip gloss. She swipes the wand over her lips and passes the tube to Gwen. Gwen applies it and holds it out to Halle. “No thanks, my mom got me a Kylie Lip Kit, so I’m gonna put that on.” Halle takes a long tube out of her back pocket and lines and fills in her lips. Eden opens her drawstring bag and searches for her Burt’s Bees lip balm in her bag. She can’t find it and cinches the bag. “Ready?” Halle gets up and steps into the aisle. She starts walking to the boys’ section. Gwen gets up first and looks at Eden. Gwen doesn’t say anything. Mara follows her and stares at the boys, ignoring Eden. She watches them sit down with the boys and turns around to face forward. She

wouldn’t have wanted to anyway, since she would’ve been the seventh wheel. She takes out Flowers for Algernon and begins to read the same line again: “You’re beginning to see what’s behind the surface of things.” “Is anyone sitting here?” A boy points at the seat next to her. Eden shakes her head, then looks back to her book. The boy sits down. “Oh, I love that book.” “Yeah, me too.” Eden dog-ears her page and closes the book. “I’m Jasper.” He grins. “Sorry to interrupt, but someone just kicked me out of my seat.” “Eden.” “These girls came and the boys said that they had been saving the seat I was in for them and that I had to leave.” “That stinks.” “Yeah.” Jasper takes out Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. “Have you read this?” “Nope.” “You should, it’s almost as good as Flowers for Algernon. ” “What’s it about?” “This boy whose dad is Poseidon, that Greek sea god, and his mom is a mortal.” “Weird.” Eden scrunches her nose. “It’s better than I’m making it sound.” “How old is the boy?” “Twelve.” “Okay, good.” “Want to swap?” Jasper asks, holding out his book to her. She hands him her book. Eden notices that this cover is soft and worn. She thinks that this must be his favorite book, since it has obviously been held a lot. The spine has white cracks flooding down it and the green design of the cover has peeled off. Eden opens the book to the first page and begins to read, wondering where this story will go.

Preserved Farmland by Lindsey White White light pries its way in through blocks, through kitten-whisker-thin threads, through the missing pieces of ramshackle plywood, splintered by fickle winter weather, carpenter bees in summer, and termites whenever they please, in the hayloft I climb up to via flimsy ladder, which is missing one rung or maybe two, if the second, which left a bit of space between the floor and the ladder and two squared slots on either side of the wall, had been picked up by who-knows as a moldy, busted souvenir with splinters poking out its sides, and the long-ago smell of vultures with their blood-ridden dander A toy tractor, set between two pillars, half-buried in straw. and someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nest, in the corner of the hayloft as vacant as the loft itself, and dolls set in chairs around a table with empty plates, two girls with straw in straw-colored hair, eaten apart by time.

â&#x20AC;&#x2039;

by Joe de Grandpre

Safety Zone by Maya Coleman Lean into the heavy door, don’t bother freeing a hand to push the bar, just throw yourself against it and hope you press it in enough to open the door. Swings open, hits the wall, adds a black mark to the windowsill, chips at the paint, rushes closed with a bang loud enough to hear down the hall followed by two clicks of the bolt, backpack barely makes it through without getting caught. The hands on the clock haven’t lined up at the three and twelve yet; stairwell is empty, stampede of students due in six minutes. Glad to get out of class early, don’t have to deal with the mob of kids that will flood the halls and stairs, too many faces to see and too many eyes to avoid. My feet pit-pat down the stairs, one at a time, not in a rush to get out the way most days I am. Eleven stairs, platform, eleven more, reach the door. Shift history textbook to one arm, yank handle with the other hand; this door doesn’t have a push bar, actually have to put effort in to get it open. Leave the Place of Refuge Stairwell 2 Zone 5, my cinder block, indestructible corner of my Brutalist-built school.

by Stella O’ Connor

White Lilies by Caroline Grant No one tells you how you’re supposed to act at a funeral. If you can cry or not. I wasn’t close with Lily’s grandmother, but sitting in the second row staring at her coffin made me feel like I was. My mom and I spent most of our time there standing around awkwardly. Unsure of what to do in a sea of mourning strangers. The funeral was at the big white Episcopal church in the middle of town. My mom and I went together. We had driven past it a million times but I had never been inside before. It was set in the middle of a perfectly manicured lawn, surrounded by a chipped white picket fence. Even though the fence was barely standing and faded from decades of sun, it seemed bright compared to the people dressed all in black, flocking towards the main entrance. There were two paths leading into the church. One to a huge set of wooden double doors and the other to a small red door beneath an arch. Both were lined with people moving into the building like ants to an ant hill. This was the first funeral I had ever been to. I was 15 and before Lily’s grandma died, no one I knew well enough had ever had a funeral. I found out that she had passed away after my mom got off a long phone call with Mrs. Shea, my best friend Lily’s mother. They both cried. The next morning Lily sent me a text that said: ‘my grandma died. the one on my mom’s side. will u come w me to the funeral’ So one Saturday in September, I found myself wondering what is appropriate to wear to a funeral. I always assumed you had to wear all black. But my mom told me that mostly dark colors were also acceptable. I was even more surprised when I got there and saw some people weren’t wearing any black. It was hard to choose what to wear. Especially because it was still so hot outside and I knew that whatever I wore would be inevitably drenched in sweat. Even worse, most of my dresses and skirts were suddenly attention seeking. I spent far too long picking out an outfit that no one but my mom would even notice. I was nervous. I didn’t know what to wear, let alone how to act. I wasn’t ready to see Lily cry. She had only cried in front of me once before when we were ten and we watched Bridge to Terabithia for the first time. Lily’s grandma was a big deal in that small town. So was Lily. They had money. Not just the kind of money that comes from a six figure salary. The kind where there’s enough left over to pass from generation to generation. The kind where Lily’s mom never worked, and Lily probably won’t work either. But they weren’t flashy. You couldn’t see the privilege just looking at their house or their cars. The funeral wasn’t flashy either. There were flower arrangements of white lilies, but I could tell Mrs. Shea made them all herself. Lily once told me they were her favorite flower and I guess they were her grandma’s favorite as well. The pamphlets that laid out the service were clearly homemade. The first page, a picture of her grandmother, was stapled messily to Psalm 23 on the second. I stared at the picture for a long time. Lily never bore much resemblance to her mother in my opinion. But she looked almost exactly like her grandma when she was younger. I looked at it for a long time, admiring her kind smile and soft freckles just like my friend's. I looked at it until it started to creep me out and I had to leave it on an empty pew. Her grandma was a very active member of the church and the yacht club and the local YMCA. So the funeral was crowded, which made the inside of the church even more hot. I was

sweating before we even got inside. I couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or the humidity. The coffin was on the stage at the front of the church next to a podium. The polished mahogany was so shiny that I could almost see my own reflection. Lily was wearing a halter neck black dress and little strappy heels that didn’t match it. Her hair was a curly mess but she didn’t bother pulling it back into any kind of ponytail. She was in the receiving line between her mom and brother. The line went all the way out the door. People waited patiently on their phones or whispered closely to each other. I watched Lily shake the hands of an old couple that I could tell she didn’t know by the look on her face. When it was my turn to be greeted her mom gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear. “Thank you for being here.” I smiled and nodded and she released me from her arms. Lily gave me a quick hug and a soft grin. “I really have to pee,” she said quietly. I stared at her blanky for too long before I shook my head ‘yes’. Her eyes didn’t look sad like I expected them to. They looked panicked. She couldn’t stop them from darting back and forth between me and whatever was beyond my shoulder. Her face didn’t match her eyes at all. She looked calm. Peaceful almost. It was hard to look at. She grabbed my arm and dragged me through a door to the left of the stage. We passed through a room where the family was keeping their stuff and entered a bathroom with two stalls. The door was so old it barely latched behind us. I sat on the windowsill while Lily went pee. “So,” I said cautiously, “how are you doing?” “Just tired,” she said as she flushed the toilet. “There’s a lot of people here.” “Yea,” she turned the sink on. “My mom said there would be a lot but Jesus.” I cringed a little at her saying that in a church despite my own lack of religious awareness. Lily ripped a paper towel from the dispenser, dried her hands, and then shot it into the trash like a basketball. The crumpled towel hit the rim of the trash can and fell to the floor. We both looked at it for a minute and then without picking it up, left the bathroom. “Aren’t you going back to the receiving line?” I asked her as she sat down on the couch in the side room. “Nah, I need a break.” Lily was never emotional. But I was shocked at how seemingly emotionless she was that day. I watched her lean into the back of the couch and take out her phone. She started scrolling through Instagram. My mom and I sat in the second row behind the family so that she could rest her hand on Lily's mom’s shoulder. Aidan, Lily’s brother, gave the eulogy. He told a story about the first time he ever had to give a presentation in class. His grandmother helped him rehearse it over and over until 42

he finally felt confident enough to stand up the next day and present it. He choked through the last few sentences in an attempt to swallow the tears that eventually welled up in his throat and exploded into sobs. I tried my hardest not to cry. I didn’t feel like I had a right. But I have always been a sympathetic crier and watching a 19 year old boy break down in front of a church full of people made it nearly impossible. Lily was unphased. Her face held the same doe-like expression that it always did. When the service ended my nose was dripping with snot and my cheeks were wet with drops of mascara. I fixed my makeup in my phone camera. I didn’t understand how Lily was so calm. The reception took place in a medium sized room in the back of the church behind the organ. There was just enough room for about thirty people and two tables full of finger food. Lily was standing over a plate of mini hot dogs. She dipped one in ketchup and stuck it in her mouth. I hesitated. I didn’t want to go up to her. It was hard to know what to say. She turned away from the table and we made eye contact. I blinked rapidly to keep tears from forming in my eyes, I refused to make this about me. “How are you doing?” I asked. She swallowed a bite of hot dog. “Good.” There was nothing else to say. Or nothing I could think to say. I smiled and nodded awkwardly. Lily did the same. Then she turned and walked away. My mom and I spent another twenty minutes at the reception. I spent most of my time trailing behind her, listening to her conversations without contributing anything. After a while there was no one left whom either of us recognized. We said our goodbyes to Lily and Mrs. Shea and then we left. We walked silently across the grass lawn of the church. We didn’t bother using the sidewalk this time. I climbed into the passenger seat and watched my mom start the car. Music came on the radio but she turned the volume all the way down. She hesitated before putting the car in reverse and driving away. For a moment we just sat there, both staring at the church. I felt my throat start to tighten and it seemed as if someone was pushing with all of their strength against my chest. As we drove away I started to cry. It didn’t seem right for me to cry but I did it anyway. My mom didn’t ask me why I was crying and I didn’t offer her any explanation. Before that moment I never understood what a weird place funerals can be. I had no idea how I was supposed to act or what to say to someone who was struggling with death. Lily didn’t cry. I couldn’t understand that at the time but it wasn’t because she didn’t love her grandma or not care that she was dead. Funerals are a weird place. There’s no standard reaction to death. Not a single person knows what to say half the time. That’s why no matter how many times I asked, my mom couldn’t tell me what to say to Lily or how to act around her family. I realized that moment, sitting in the car, that I hated funerals just as much as everyone else.

Luquillo by Andrew Lutz A sand line crescents off to the east where a projection of palm trees juts into the sea It is a beach—to be clear—with whitish sand, a full complement of aquas and azures The drooping sun smacks the water in a dizzying glare, lazy paddles coax a kayak across the horizon just as my daughter and I did an hour before, squinting back at the beach, searching for my chair Now guarded by a ring of six palm trees, their shade shielding me from too much sun at once, yet it is beyond the hour of the harshest rays, and nary a cloud hangs in the sky I should be sipping a cold Medalla, but gulp Gatorade, powder-mixed, from an old, dented silver Thermos, diluted and warm A truant Styrofoam plate skulks by, skips and smacks sand mounds, driven on by the incessant breeze, rasps like a tight toy drum All around me rustle green to yellowing palm fronds and whistling blackbirds, iridescent, step closer closer My son should observe them for ten minutes for his spring break bio project; instead he rubs Banana Boat 50 into his younger brother’s back unwilling to grease his own hands or touch another’s skin I wait for them to be done with it, to recap the sun block and head east back up the beach where my wife and daughter wade in the tidal pool beyond the swim line, with the steep and sudden drop off and drifting warm pockets of Caribbean Sea unknown to passersby, so I can lay back and close my eyes

by Austin Carey

Straight Sounds by Maya Coleman My fingers hover over plastic keys, the middle C plus E to make a straight and satisfying sound to all but me. The balance in the notes was never right, it never sounded clear to me, my ears were lost to perfect thirds. I stretch the sound, the pedal pressed until I cannot bear to hear the C and E another count. I cut the note and blindly start to look for different keys to match my clashy E. I find a match with finger four; it took me to a nice B flat. I play the B and add the E, two keys, a set of mates that makes me realize not all notes sound straight.

Stand In by Rachel McQueen Standing square to a mannequin Hands in or grab the hand with Nana’s ring Bull in a china shop so don’t you dare touch a thing Walk around and pretend that it doesn’t sting Standing square to the mirror that I’m in tired and hungry but I don’t say when In a too-big dress, it won’t go with my skin I’m swimming in it, like a fish with no fins Standing square to my Nana, the only kin With me in this store that I’m drowning in Many thoughts cross my mind that can help me win Run off, destroy it all, steal, is this a sin? Standing square to the mannequin Shoulders back, hips forward, tummy in, Is this the right way to begin? No, that won’t work, I can’t be her twin Instead I guess I’ll just be her stand-in

by Sofia Walz

Power Outage by Stephanie Vasquez The rain made loud splashes as it crashed into my window. I sat in my room playing Xbox with my friends. My thumbs twiddled on the controller. The X button was unresponsive from overusing it. I pressed it down a bunch of times to reload my gun. It wasn’t working. After ten seconds my gun started to reload. “Finally,” I muttered quietly to myself only to see myself get shot right before it finished. “Damn it!” I said into my mic. The sound of my friend's laughter echoed into my ear through my headset. “Bro, how can you be so bad?” Kevin asked me while he was still laughing. “Dude, shut up. I can never reload with this crap.” I said. “Just play with your other controller.” “I can’t,” I said. “My brother dropped it down the stairs and now it doesn’t work either.” Kevin couldn’t stop laughing. “It isn’t even that funny.” “I bet you’d think it was funny if it was me dealing with this,” he said. The next round finally loaded up. I picked a sniper and ran up onto a hill and hid behind a bush. My eyes looked through the scope and searched for Kevin. Finally, I saw Kevin shooting at different player. His name tag allowed me to follow him with ease. For a second, he stood still to load his shotgun. I aimed for the top of his head ignoring the fact that he was on my team. “Let’s see who’s bad at the game now,” I said to him. I pressed the trigger on the control only to be greeted to a black screen on my TV. The lights in my room shut off leaving me in the dark with nothing but the sound of pouring rain. I tried flickering the lights on and off. Nothing happened. My phone was dead, and I had no way to charge it. I walked downstairs into the living room looking for my brother. He was on the phone talking to someone “Tommy!” I yelled at him. He looked at me. Kelly stood right beside him with her ear placed against her phone. “Okay, Mrs. Lewis. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine,” she said, “Alright, drive safe. Bye.” “What happened to the power?” I asked Kelly. “It went out cause of the stupid storm,” Tommy said while he stomped his foot. I glared at the five-year-old. “I wasn’t talking to you Tommy.” I looked back at my babysitter.

“When’s the power coming back?” I asked. “I don’t know yet. It could be for a few hours,” Kelly said. “What about Mom? Did you talk to her?” “Your mom said the roads are too dangerous to drive on right now. So, she’s stuck at work,” she said. “What am I supposed to do until the power comes back?” I asked. “I know. We can play together!” Tommy interrupted jumping up and down in excitement. “Eww. Anything but that.” I rolled my eyes and slouched on the couch. I was already bored out of my mind. How did old people live like this? “Listen boys. There’s no way I can order pizza right now. The best I can do is make you guys sandwiches and chips.” “Yay sandwiches!” Tommy shouted. “I’ll be in the kitchen making them. You guys behave.” Kelly walked out of the room and into the kitchen. A roar of thunder crashed into my ears startling me a bit. I was already bored. I went to the couch and slouched trying to think of a way to kill time. Tommy walked over to me and slouched on the couch the same way as me. I sighed and he sighed as well. I noticed what he was doing. What the hell did this kid want? “Tommy why are you copying me?” I asked him. “Tommy, why are you copying me?” he said, mimicking me. “Stop saying what I’m saying.” “Stop saying what I’m saying,” he repeated. “Stop it!” “Stop it!” “You're such a pain in the ass.” “You’re such a pain in the ass,” he said. I face palmed my forehead realizing the stupid mistake I had just made. He did the same. I didn’t mean to swear. Mom would kill me if Tommy said that in front of her.

Tommy started to giggle. “Tommy don’t say that word,” I told him. He looked at me still laughing. “But you said it first.” “It was an accident. Don’t say it anymore Tommy.” “Okay,” he agreed with laughter. He walked over to the other side of the living room. Next to the tiny toy chest beside the tv. He opened it up and took out Monopoly, bringing it to me and placing it by my feet. “Michael, will you play with me?” he asked. “I already told you no.” His voice somehow got more annoying, but at least he wasn’t copying me anymore. “Fine. Then I’ll just!” he stammered while he was thinking. “You’ll what?” “Umm.” “Exactly,” I said to him. The midget had nothing against me. “Ass! Ass! Ass!” he chanted as he got and marched around the room. My jaw dropped. I could already see the funeral in my future. My tombstone would say death by Mother’s rage. He marched around repeating the word. I had to fix this. “Tommy, please don’t say that word anymore.” “No!” “Please,” I begged. “Only if you play with me.” I groaned, “Fine, I’ll play with you.” “Yay!” he yelled. He ran in circles as he was fueled up with excitement. “Just promise me you won’t say that word anymore.” “I promise,” he said, slowing down to look up at me. He sat down on the floor beside the Monopoly.

“I don’t think we should play that. It’s boring,” I said. “What should we play?” he asked. I thought about it for a second, but before I could respond he asked, “Can we play Xbox?” I was so close to shouting no when he asked that. Instead, I thought of a way to say no while keeping him from shouting again. “Well, the power is out so we can’t.” “Aww man,” he said, “Can we play with my toy cars?” “Fine,” I said. I realized that none of the games he could suggest would be all that fun for me, so I gave in to playing with cars. Tommy ran over to the toy chest putting Monopoly away and grabbing a few cars with his tiny fingers. He placed them on the ground in the middle of the room. He went over to grab some more but was stopped by a voice coming from the kitchen. “Boys, dinner’s ready,” yelled Kelly. I got up and walked to the kitchen while Tommy skipped behind me. The two of us sat across each other at the table. Kelly placed two sandwiches and a bag of Lays in front of each of us. “Dinner is served,” said Kelly. I took a bite of the ham and cheese sandwich. Tommy went to go take a bite of his but stopped before he did. He opened the sandwich and stared at it. “Kelly, I don’t like Peanut butter and jelly,” he whined. “We ran out of ham and cheese. Sorry kiddo,” she said. Tommy sighed and put his sandwich back down on the plate. Instead he opened his chips and only ate those. Another rumble of thunder struck loudly. It sounded like it was close. “Guys, I’ll be back in a minute. I’m just going to go to the bathroom,” said Kelly as she walked out of the room. We sat there quietly for a moment until I thought of something I wanted to ask Tommy. “Hey runt, why do you want to play with me so badly anyways?” I asked.

He looked up at me. “Cause you’re my brother,” said Tommy. “Can’t you just hang out with your friends?” “Yeah, but I see them all the time. I never see you,” he said. I was caught off guard by that. “What? We live in the same house. How is that possible?” “You’re always in your room.” Now that I was thinking about it, he was right. Whenever I’m home I play Xbox in my room. “Last time you opened my door I threw a sock at you. Why would you even want to hang out with me?” I asked. “Sometimes you can be a meanie, but I forgive you cause you’re my brother.” Damn. He was starting to make me feel like a jackass. I looked down at my sandwich. “Here,” I said, handing him the sandwich, “Take it.” He smiled at me as he grabbed it and took a bite from the other side. “Thanks Michael,” he said. “It’s fine. I don’t even like ham anyways,” I lied. We both knew I loved ham. The lights flickered back on. Tommy looked up at them. The pouring rain seemed quieter. With the power back on, that could only mean the Xbox was back on too. I stood up and was ready to get back to playing. I looked at Tommy. The thunder started to strike quieter. “Tommy, let’s go play Xbox.” He grinned, “Really?” “Yeah.” “Yay!” he shouted. He got up and zoomed out of the room. I followed him. He was probably going to break my only working controller and the only game we could play that was kid friendly enough for Tommy was Just Dance, but that didn’t seem too bad.

Cantaloupe in a Paper Towel by Laura Howard Snack time was at 3:30 when I was in afternoon half-day Pre-K and my sister was in third grade four years too apart to be friends

Cut a darker orange piece for me, sweeter and easier to chew and a pale, less ripe one for my sister who liked the sour taste

Bickered in the backseat about how she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sit with me in carline and that i said hi to her friends and the boy who lived next door

Placed the two pieces into two sheets of paper towels set one on my placemat the other on my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Until we pulled into the garage dropped backpacks into the mudroom stepped out of my sneakers and she out of her sandals

We swung our chairs around and jumped off ran into the living room and threw ourselves onto the plaid couch

Slid into kitchen stools around the island watched and waited as mom pulled out the blue cutting board and a serrated knife

Sister turned on the TV to PBS kids, Curious George started to eat our snack as we laughed at the Man in the Yellow Hat

Lifted the cantaloupe from the fruit basket and cut it evenly in half flipped one over so it looked like a dome sliced it into crescents

We stayed like that until it was time to wash up for dinner our hands sticky from cantaloupe juice paper towel barrier dissolved.

Taking Notes by Mars Braemer Time ticked forward, never back, never left, never right In a room without windows, shadows found a home under our bodies and on tops of lamps, Pens clicked and frantically scratched at note paper. Scratched like nails on skin pulling back lines to reveal a candy apple sweet that lies underneath. Scribbling on its paper, spread over white make it an uneven rhubarb, like the dress Mum wore last summer, when school felt long over. Pens pressed to tests that could never be perfect, covering the page with a pigment red like wine, but I was too young and called it cranberry. Pushed holes in notebooks, Stabbing with dulled pencils Beating the placid marble cover into submission Unsatisfied with its look, as if killing it would be too good.

â&#x20AC;&#x2039;by Abigayle Hardy

Until the clock ticked forward enough with its scarlet hand, And we left forgetting about the mutilated books.

In-Between by Giulia Bailey The bus was too crowded. Way too crowded. Luckily, I had a sister that would save me a seat before I was there. I didn’t want to get stuck next to some random kid. Most people weren’t lucky and ended up sitting on the floor near the emergency exit, which admittedly, was more comfortable than the lumpy seat I was stuck on. Our school just didn’t want to get a bigger bus for the kids who didn’t want to pay for late bussing after practice, so they assumed that the little bus would suffice. And as anyone could see from the people sitting on the floor and blocking exits, it obviously didn’t. I turned to my sister next to me who was falling asleep and nudged her with my arm. She looked up and jabbed me with her elbow. She didn’t like being woken up. “Five minutes,” I said to her. Jess raised her head, nodded, and let her head fall back down toward her chest. I began to look around the bus. Kids were talking to each other over seats and some were yelling at each other from the back to the front. Jess and I never knew how they all had so much energy at the end of the day. Landon took up the seat and most of the aisle next to me. We’ve had Spanish class together ever since freshman year, but we’ve never talked to each other. He had sprawled out in the seat he refused to share and slept with his earbuds in. The music was loud. How he ever slept with rap music blaring in his ears, I’ll never know. His back was against the window and his legs reached under my seat as he propped up his backpack against the window to use as a pillow. Isn’t that funny? You could see somebody every day for three years of your life and never talk to them. Strange. My focus shifted from Landon to the freshman sitting in the seat in front of him. Tyler, I think. Like Landon, his earbuds were in, but he was far from asleep. His head rested on the seat in front of him while he was playing a game on his phone. A soccer game, nonetheless. My eyes flicked down toward his cleats and high socks. I guess I knew why he needed the late bus. After missing a goal, Tyler shifted in his seat and exited the app. He brought his head up and slouched, ramming his knees into the seat. He moved on to check his SnapChat and I turned my head away. A junior staring at you might have been weird to see through your back window. I checked my phone. 6:15 pm. We should be there. We rolled to a stop in front of ShopRite. I nudged Jess and she groaned as she swung her backpack around her body and stood up to follow me. I stepped over legs, backpacks, and even people as I made my way towards the door.

“Thank you,” I said to the bus driver. And with that, I stepped down the stairs and walked to the front of the supermarket. “Did you call Nonna?” Jess asked. Crap. I didn’t. We would have to wait for her to come and pick us up. “No. But I’ll do it now.” I reached for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and went through my contacts until I found Nonno. I clicked and it dialed. When my grandfather died last year, my grandmother decided that it would be a good idea to change her phone number to his. She felt that it would keep her close to him in some way. I didn’t question it, but I also couldn’t bring myself to change the name on my phone. It would always be his phone number. My grandfather died of an aortic aneurysm last year while he was driving. It was sudden and nobody knew it would happen. The following months were terrible, but things had started to get better once we moved into my grandmother’s. It was clear she had been feeling alone. Jess didn’t talk about the move. She really didn’t talk about anything that had happened in the past year. I had tried to make it easier on my parents, but my best really just consisted of not crying whenever somebody mentioned my grandfather or leaving my childhood home. Things were okay now, and I had adjusted. “Hey Nonna, Jess and I are waiting at ShopRite,” I said into my phone. “Really? Why are you calling so late?” My grandmother said. The rustling coming from her end suggested that she had been sitting on the couch watching the news. That’s all she did now, but at least she wasn’t staying in bed anymore. “I’m sorry. I forgot to call you when we left.” I said. “Sure, honey. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” “Okay. Bye. Love you.” I hung up. “Ten minutes, Jess.” She was annoyed. I mean, I can’t blame her. I wanted to go home too. Jess’s head turned to look through the window of the ShopRite. “Do you have money?” Jess stared at me. I guess I owed her for not calling Nonna sooner. “Yeah, what do you want?” I asked. “I’ll decide once I get there.” Jess pushed passed me and through the automatic doors. I sighed and followed her through. The wall of air conditioning hit me immediately and goosebumps appeared on my arms and legs. I looked down at the athletic shorts I was wearing and wished I had brought sweatpants. Jess went straight to the candy aisle and I followed. She dumped her backpack down on the tile beside her and began searching. She crossed her arms in front of her and wrinkled the “Summit Preparatory School” logo.

Luckily Jess and I didn’t have to change schools when we moved. I always felt bad that my parents spent so much on school. At least the late bus was free. “What do ya want?” I asked as I came up the aisle. “I can’t decide whether I want a KitKat or Sour Patch Kids.” She leaned back on her hip and took in a wider view of the selection in front of her. “There’s Twizzlers! Okay, this is gonna take longer than I thought.” She said. “I’m only getting us one each, Jess.” I crossed my arms in front of my body and started looking at my options. “Oh come on, Abby! I’ll even pay you back with the $5 I have at home.” “Nope. You choose one. I’m gonna walk around a little. Call me when you make up your mind or if you need me.” “Don’t you want candy, Abby?” Jess shoved a KitKat into my face and smiled. “Not even a Kitty Kat?” Kitty Kat. Nonno used to say that. He was an immigrant and had a thick Italian accent. When he found out that KitKats were my favorite candy, he used to get me one every time he went to the grocery store. When he picked us up from the store he’d reach into the cupholder on the door and pull out two KitKats. One for me, one for Jess. I was surprised Jess brought it up. She didn’t like talking about him. “Fine, I’ll get a KitKat.” Jess brought her hand down from my face and threw the KitKat at my chest. I managed to catch it before it hit me and fell on the floor. “Alright, well, if this is gonna take long I’m just gonna walk around a little.” “Okay.” Jess knelt down to look on the bottom shelf and I turned around to face the back of the store. I walked up the aisle and I turned to my left. I looked up at the sign over the aisle. ‘Bread and Rice Cakes, Chocolate Syrup and Cocoa, Peanut Butter and Jelly.’ Who thought that would be a good idea? I kept walking in the hope of finding something interesting. There was a young mother who was pushing her cart while she looked for bread. There was a little boy in the front seat of the cart. He had a Superman action figure in his right hand and was waving him through the air as if Superman were flying. He was happy. I wish I could say the same for his mom. She looked very stressed. Soon the figure was launched into the air and had a crash landing in front of me. The toddler began squirming in his seat, trying desperately to get out on his own, but it didn’t work. “Mom! Superman!” He yelled. He pointed at my feet and I bent over to pick it up for her. I walked up to him.

“Here you go.” I smiled at the boy and his mom. “Thank you so much.” She smiled back. I waved at him but he was too immersed in his toy to care. “Thomas can you say thank you to her?” She tried to look him in the eye but he avoided her gaze. “Oh that’s okay. He’s having fun.” I laughed and waved goodbye to the mother as she looked for bread. Eventually, I came across the ‘School Supplies and Toys’ a isle. A bit more organized than the first. I took a right and made my way through the surrounding walls of off-brand Barbies and Lisa Frank notebooks. I picked one up. Nonno once bought me a Lisa Frank notebook with tigers on it. I used it to write songs and notes for him. He told me he kept them in his bedside drawer and read one every night before bed, even when I thought I grew too old for sentimental notes. My phone buzzed and I glanced down. A text message from Jess. Jess: Where are you? Me: School supplies and toys. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and continued scanning the wall. Eventually I started looking at stationary. I’ve always loved stationary. Isn’t that weird? Nonno used to laugh at me for getting so excited over new highlighters. “Abby, I need you to help me decide on what candy I should get.” Jess rounded the corner and walked toward me. In her hands, there were two family-sized bags of candy. One pack of Reeses and a bag of KitKats. “What happened to the regular-sized bags of candy? You know that Nonna’s gonna get mad about it.” I put the notebook back on the shelf and Jess followed my hands with her eyes. “Do you think we could find the notes somewhere?” My head snapped back from the notebook. I was surprised she even remembered. “I think Nonna threw them away when we moved in.” I wanted those notes more than anything. Nonna tried to clear out as much space as possible so I knew they were long gone. “Who said she could do that? I didn’t even get anything that was his! I don’t even have the stars anymore ‘cause I lost them in the move.” Jess tossed the candy on the shelf, knocking down a Ken doll and a pack of glitter gel pens in the process. Nonno used to give me and Jess glow stars to hang up on my closet at my childhood home. Jess only wanted the stars, so I opted for the extra planets in the pack. My bed was on the same wall as my closet and I could see Jupiter and Mars from my bed as I drifted asleep most nights. Jess put

hers on the ceiling. She liked being able to “star-gaze.” They were my grandfather’s way of watching over us as we slept to make sure we were safe when he couldn’t be around. “Jess, stop it. We’re in public.” I grabbed her arm to try to get control of the situation but she ripped her arm out of my hand and took a couple steps back. “Don’t touch me.” Jess missed him. I knew that. I took a deep breath and kept myself from making Jess any more upset. “Look, grab the candy you want. Let’s go buy it.” I reached for it, but Jess smacked my hand away. “I don’t want it anymore. I’m putting it away.” Jess took the two bags in her arms and took down the pack of glitter pens. She stomped down the aisle and left me standing alone. I knelt and grabbed the pens, putting them back with Ken. I turned around to the wall behind me. There sat a pack of 100 glow stars. I picked up the stars of all different sizes and I thought of him. God, did I miss him. Just then, his name popped up on my phone. I slid the green phone logo over and held the screen up to my ear. “Hi, Nonna.” “Hi, sweetie. I’m here okay?” She said. “Yeah, can you hold on? I have to buy something.” “Yes, just don’t take too long. I still have to make dinner.” “Okay, we won’t be long. Bye. I love you.”I hung up and went to find Jess with the pack of glow stars still gripped tightly in my left hand. I realized that I was still holding the KitKat that Jess had given me earlier. I don’t know what came over me. All I know is that I was upset. I had been for a year and nothing is going to change that. Nonno didn’t have to die. Jess didn’t have to lash out. We didn’t have to move. Nothing had to change. Nothing. I scanned the aisle for employees or customers but didn’t find any. I slipped the KitKat into the waistband of my athletic shorts and pulled my shirt down to cover the bump it made in the fabric. God. I hope Nonno’s not watching me now.

I went back to the candy aisle and found Jess standing there waiting for me. “You didn’t leave?” I asked her. I held by hand on my stomach over the bump. I hope she wouldn’t notice. “No I didn’t. I was waiting for you.” Her head was glued to her phone. “What candy do you want, Jess? You have to hurry and choose something because Nonna’s already here.” “Sour Patch Kids.” She mumbled. Jess might have been mad. But I knew candy would cheer her right up. I grabbed the big sharing-sized bag. “Didn’t you say that was too much?” Jess said looking up. “Changed my mind.” I held up the Glow Stars. “What do you think?” “I love them.” Jess smiled. “Come on. Let’s go pay!” She started walking down the aisle. I kept my hand over the bump on my stomach while I walked through the automatic door and sat in Nonna’s car. It had started to melt.

Warming Up by Caroline Grant I wrap my hands around the mug until my fingertips meet ceramic is hot to touch but I keep a tight grip lift it to my face and let the steam warm my nose I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like the cold so I pull my itchy blanket up to my chin and focus on the yard below I can see the wind running through the leaves chasing them across the lawn most of winter disappeared now yet the forest floor is still coated in a layer of crunchy brown and orange the branches above have sprouted new leaves bright green and yellow I breathe in bitter air spring has such a smell more than just the constant loom of rain it smells like air coming back to life and grass waking up from the longest nap each blade making a slow recovery from the snow covered season I take a careful sip from the mug it burns my lip but I take a second and a third feel the heat drip down my throat sun is still crawling slowly through the clouds blinding but I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop staring hoping today it will be warm enough to plant the herbs that have been sitting idle in the garage waiting for the nights to come and go without frost

by Shaniya Riddle

Sea Glass by Karen Blair I had never found pink, so when I did, I yelled out loud; even though I was the only person in the exposed cavern created by the receding tide. My thoughts wander when I hunt for sea glass, and I think that is one of the reasons I love to search for the special shards in any location where it is possible. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a funny thing about sea glass; The colors often represented as sea glass colors â&#x20AC;&#x201C;the aqua and orchid are actually very rare finds. People down-play the brown glass because it is so common. But, I love the browns because they vary so. From the very light browns which are almost taupe, to the deep, dark almost red browns, the browns never fail to add dimension to the collection. I feel almost the same about the whites. Some are frosty, some are clear, some have flecks. They are varied and individual; yet easily overlooked. The greens are probably the next most common,

and vary less than the browns or whites. I always feel like I am cheating with the greens. Finding them is so easy as they stand out starkly from the white sand. Blue is more rare, and I find myself swearing that I will end the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s search if I find just one more blue. I have found yellow and red, though not often, and once in a while the coveted aqua. But never a pink until that day. I have bottles of sea glass all over my house and office. I have given sea glass as gifts and used it in decoration. It is as much a part of me as anything I have done over time; the collections emanating from the many beaches I have explored over the many years of my life. I hope to always collect sea glass, from beaches I have yet to see, and beaches where I will return because a part of me lives there, always looking for brown and white, and always hoping for the occasional surprise of pink.

by Karen Blair Repairing Chuckholes by Ellen Besjak It’s bumpy and with every pothole and divot my knees bounce up from the springy seat and hit the glove compartment and it doesn’t hurt, not right away, but after so many holes in the ground and so much jostling they start to feel tender and each hit stings more, like waking up when sleeping on the top bunk at Uncle Ray’s place and banging my head every morning on that creamy white slanted ceiling that held the whole sky because I dressed it in stick-on stars that glowed when the creamy white turned grey and then foggy black but never dark enough to muzzle those stars and what they had to tell me, about how they can let me see everything, even in the blackest room, but when everything got lighter again and the ceiling and stars blended together into a dull paste there wasn’t much for them to say and I always found it funny how they only let me see them and smile up at them when my eyes were supposed to be closed and when the room was lacking all other light and when every other child on the street was asking their mom to leave the door a crack open so it wouldn’t be so dark. It’s odd how you can bump your knee and remember something so old that you thought you forgot about, but long drives dig up all kinds of fossils and you can never remember if you buried them on purpose or not until the dust settles but by then it’s too late because they’re just stuck there, sitting like a big dog on top of all your other thoughts. I wonder if Mom remembers putting up the stars with me so I look at her because sometimes that’s what you do on long drives when nobody has spoken for a while because speaking over the silent white noise of the air humming through the vents is just too loud and all those dog fossil thoughts that are being dug up are shattered and they never hear you the first time because they’re thinking a lot louder, but people can feel you looking at them a lot of the time and then they turn and they don’t see you the first time so they turn again and they have to speak first. “What’s up?” Mom locks eyes with me the second time she looks over and smiles but I can tell she’s still thinking about those fossils because her eyes aren’t seeing me or the road, they’re seeing the landscape of whatever place she’s visiting right now and I feel bad that I’m pulling her away from it but I don’t feel that bad because she keeps driving right over the potholes in the ground and my knees hurt and it feels like she’s doing it on purpose. “Remember my room at Uncle Ray’s place?” My voice is scratchy and it sounds like if the road’s surface was a playable vinyl like those records Uncle Ray used to keep below the TV set but those sounded nice and only skipped a few times and my voice doesn’t sound as nice so I swallow hard after yanking mom away from her thoughts and realize I’m thirsty so I reach into the little cubby in my door and grab onto a Deer Park water bottle by the cap and tug at it until it squeezes out with a crinkly sound that would have been louder if no one had spoken first. “Of course, what about it?” Mom says in a less scratchy vinyl voice than mine and the glaze on her eyes dissolves like that time I dropped a piece of one of those dollar store donuts that Uncle Ray used to buy me for breakfast in my glass of milk and took so long to scoop it out that the shiny frosting was gone and the once fluffy donut was heavy and soggy from the milk, and her focus settles on the road and all the fossils she dug up are just sitting there, not buried in the ground or

resting in her hands above the ground being carefully inspected, but sitting there on the surface, waiting, and I’m sure they feel heavy to her like they might break through the surface again and fall and she might never find them. “Remember putting up the stars with me?” I take a sip of the water and it crinkles again like how Uncle Ray used to crack his back when he got up fast from the green plaid couch in his living room while we were watching TV with our donuts in the morning. “I don’t know honey, that was a long time ago,” Mom breathes the words out like when a balloon is rapidly deflating and flying around the room, panicked, and bumping into the other balloons which are still full of helium and watching all the people duck as it flies above their heads and nobody catches it, “you sure Dad didn’t do that with you?” “No, I remember it was you.” I say and I’m sure I’m giving Mom that look that makes her say ‘don’t look at me like that Paige’ but she doesn’t see me and I think how funny it is that people always try to make eye contact with the driver when we’re in the passenger’s seat even though they’re not even facing us, “I must have been ten years old ‘cause it was the summer right after I stopped living with Dad during the school year. It was the first time you dropped me off at Uncle Ray’s so, yeah, it had to be you.” “Yeah, if you say so.” Mom breathes out the words again like she’s deflating and I wonder which part of what I said stressed her out because it could have been the part about it being the first time we hung out after Dad lost custody or the part about spending summers at Uncle Ray’s when I was little or maybe Mom’s deflating so quickly because I’m telling her I’m right and she’s wrong, and she’s never wrong. But it doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong because sometimes people will hold onto something they’ve said so tightly like how I used to grip the blue and yellow plastic rocks on the rock wall in the backyard at Uncle Ray’s place that was only ten feet tall but felt a lot taller at the top and it didn’t matter that I had a rope attached to my waist I wouldn’t let go of those rocks going up or down the wall because even falling with a rope to catch you is scary and in the back of your mind you always picture the rope snapping, and Mom always snaps at me when I’m wrong so I just say I’m right until I have blisters and scrapes on my hands. “Why don’t you remember?” My voice sounds a little less like a scratchy vinyl now that I drank some water but now it sounds hurt and I didn’t mean for it to sound hurt because I was trying to sound angry. “Mom, that was the first thing we did together, like ever.” My knees whack against the glove compartment again and I swear Mom’s swerving to drive over the potholes in the road on purpose. “It’s just hard to remember things that happened a long time ago,” Mom says, still deflating, “And it’s hard to talk about Ray right now. Don’t you get that?” How can it be hard for her to talk about Uncle Ray? Dad left me there every summer and then Mom left me there every summer and I guess it’s nice that they agreed on at least that, but it doesn’t mean Mom knew her brother because I’m pretty sure the only reason Dad or Mom found him at all was to have a place to dump me every year for a few months and I’m not bitter about it, I don’t think, because I had a good time with Uncle Ray so nobody can assume “I don’t get” that it’s

hard to talk about him I just still want to talk about him because people like to talk about things that make them happy even if those things make them feel like they’re deflating a little bit. “What was his favorite food?” I ask. “Excuse me?” It sounds like the deflation in her voice stops for a second, confused. “It’s macaroni and cheese with onions mixed in.” “Paige, I don’t want to do this right now.” Mom starts to deflate again. “His favorite TV show is Looney Tunes because it reminds him of when he used to watch it with Grandpa,” “Paige.” “He likes to sing to his collection of vinyl even though he can’t sing and the vinyls skip sometimes but he sings along to the skips and it’s really funny and his favorite record is that Jim Croce one that starts with Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.” “Paige!” From my experience, when somebody yells really loud in a car, all the other sounds stop, even the ones you imagined like the balloons deflating and clang of the shovel when it hits a new fossil. This is something you can always count on. But another thing I’ve realized is that, even if you’re not talking anymore, you still might be really, really angry and the longer the silence sits in the car with you, the more the anger builds and builds like helium in a balloon and when somebody is really full of anger, especially if they’ve just been yelled at, a thing that seems really small when you’re looking back on it later might pop the balloon. Mom swerves and drives over a pothole so deep everything in the car, the lip balm and the keys in the cup holder, those loose quarters on the dashboard for the tolls, and the Deer Park water bottle at my feet bounces up an inch and falls back down again and my knees slam into the glove compartment and it breaks the silence before I have to. “Stop doing that!” I throw my hands in the air like I’m having a stroke and stare at her and Mom’s still just watching the road. “Ray taught me that.” Her voice is deflated. “He called them chuckholes cause that’s what Daddy called them. And he’d drive over them really fast on the way to school and it made me sick to my stomach sometimes, but he always said ‘the harder you run ‘em over, the flatter they’ll be for the next car,’ and I’ll never forget that.”

The Waterthrush by Andrew Lutz whistle pierces, a mid-winter dream deep in the night The open beak of the bird, skyward-cocked head as it pipes its pronouncement down and downward to an un-listening world, all birds unheard, unseen, arrived from over and under seas, bridges a gulf, reaches safe shores, sings on creek and river banks, lurks in shadows cast by May branches and buds, but always lacerates the breeze, parsing reality with its knife-edge message, ethereal and other-worldly, its undershadow truth It wants to be listened to, or maybe it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Not spots or streaks, or eye ring or pink legsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; only its voice says who it is, this underbrush thrush, not a thrush at all, an early season warbler proclaims the start of spring from darkness.

by Lindsey White Eyes of the Ant by Stephanie Vasquez There’s an infestation in my home. Ants crawl on my floor. They keep me from walking in certain spots, despite being so small and so harmless They know where I plan on going, feel the vibration of my feet and they use that to keep their eyes on me but ants have bad vision, they see in blur some are even blind. so I can never understand why they think they possess the eyes of a human I have no desire to step on the ants, or splat them with bug spray. I don’t bother to call the exterminator because I feel guilty

by Karen Blair

over hurting an ant that has never even had the luxury of 20/1000 vision

Last Trip by Catherine D’Arcangelis Cara's hands smelled like gas station soap. Headlights glared in her face as the occasional car passed in the other direction. Her lips were sticky with ice cream and Rory's lip gloss. Lightning flashed off in the distance, but she couldn't hear the thunder over the road noise. The intermittent blooms of light illuminated big black billowy clouds. Rory turned on the cabin light to drop a crumpled tissue in the garbage bag. She was reapplying her lip gloss while driving. It made Cara nervous. Rory's nails gleamed dimly. They flew at 70 miles per hour through the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. The world was dark-bright-dark again. Fences flashed white as they passed and road signs jumped out of the night to meet the high beams. The lipgloss tube was squished between Rory's knees as she used one hand to brandish the applicator. Every few seconds, she glanced into the sun flap mirror to check her work. "Do you want me to drive?" Cara flinched as a car passed them. Rory slid the lipgloss shut and raised her eyebrows, checking her reflection one last time. "Why would I want you to drive? You hate driving." "You're making me nervous with your multitasking." Rory grinned and thunder clapped, loud enough to hear now. It was getting closer. "It's all good, Cara. Don't worry." “I can’t help it. Your driving would make any reasonable person fear for their life.” Rory just laughed. Cara wasn’t joking. Rory drove like a maniac. Cara reached up and pressed the cabin light, coating the interior of the car in velvet black. Her hands got more sure of themselves when they were just shapes outlined by moonlight. She stretched her fingers as if she was teaching numbers to a young kid. This is ten fingers. Can you count them? She remembered the days spent helping her overworked mom with her little sister. Rory pulled over to the shoulder, jerking Cara out of her thoughts and throwing her into the secure embrace of the seat belt. “What the hell?” “Sorry, Cara. I think one of the tires is flat. The ‘tire pressure low’ light came on.”

Cara put her head against the dashboard. “Do you know how to change a tire?” “Um, yes?” “Well, I’m convinced.” Cara punctuated the sarcasm with a sigh. “My dad taught me a few years ago,” Rory said defensively. “He’s good with cars and junk like that.” Cara sighed again, pushing the heels of her hands against her eye sockets. When she opened her eyes, Rory was busily gathering her hair into a ponytail. The blue raspberry-flavored Kool-Aid dip-dye was fading back to light brown. The car door bounced open and Rory hopped out. Her white shoes picked up the dusty soil. She walked around to the front of the car and kicked both of the tires. The right one squished under her toe before bouncing back. She trudged around to the back of the car and opened the hatchback. “Better hurry. Thunder’s getting louder.” Cara was still in the passenger seat, twisting the hem of her shirt around her index finger. She thought of how Rory liked to take her time doing important things. She considered how little time they had together. Cara shoved her door open. She disentangled her legs from the two backpacks at her feet. The strap of the worn navy blue one was stuck on her left foot, and the fading purple bag had rested on top of her right foot for so long that her toes had fallen asleep. Her knees popped as she straightened them out to stand, and she stretched briefly before walking around back of the car to join Rory. “What did you say a second ago?” “Thunder’s getting closer. We should get our asses in gear to change this tire and then get back on the road.” “Google ‘how to change a tire’ just to make sure I’m not doing anything wrong.” Cara pulled out her phone and turned it to show Rory. “No signal. We’re in the middle of nowhere.” The blue glow from the screen illuminated Rory’s face for a moment and Cara saw an unreadable expression cross it. Then Rory’s familiar half smile returned and the phone turned off and all that was left was the moonlight. Rory lifted two things out of the trunk with a huff. “Jack. Lug wrench. Go get the manual from the glove compartment. Should be instructions in there. Lucky there’s no one on the road.” She knelt next to the flat tire and positioned the jack under the car. “Here, help me.” Rory held the jack out. “Hold this?”

Cara grabbed it, surprised at its weight. She watched Rory jump on the lug wrench to loosen a sticky bolt. She handed over the jack when asked, but stared off into the distance, distracted. Rory turned the jack’s handle until the car was high enough off the ground to take the wheel off. “I think those clouds are getting closer. I’m starting to worry.” Rory glanced up. “We’re fine.” “You should hurry up.” “Chill, it’s all good.” “We have to get this done before those clouds get here.” “Cara, seriously.” “We don’t have enough time, Rory!” Cara covered her mouth with one hand. She hadn’t meant to say that, especially not with her face open so wide, shoving her feelings out into the open air. Rory stood up. Cara felt her heart rate pick up a little. She was feeling frayed at the edges. Too panicky. “Cara,” Rory said, gently. “Why don’t you go walk around a bit. Take a couple breaths.” “But-“ “Go. Walk. I’ll be done by the time you get back.” Cara didn’t want to walk. She wanted to be inside the car, enjoying her last college road trip to Maine. She wanted to be flying away. Quiet squeaks reached her ears as Rory lowered the jack. Without turning around, she imagined she could feel the car settling back on to its wheels. A little more unsteady on the new, thinner spare tire, but settled nonetheless. Cara tipped her head all the way back. When she looked directly up, she was faced with millions of stars. She took a deep breath. The air smelled like rain and ozone. She counted some of the bigger stars. She looked for the Big Dipper. Rory appeared by her side. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” “Huh. They are. I thought they would all be covered by the clouds by now.” “Guess not. Did you know the closest stars to Earth are around four light years away?” Cara tore her eyes away from the stars to look at Rory. “That’s all your astrology major is good for, isn’t it?”

Rory grinned, still looking up. “You mispronounced astrophysics.” Cara placed a hand on her forehead, overwhelmed. “Jesus, Rory. I mean. Holy crap. We’re going to graduate school. You’ll be an astrophysicist.” “Well, yeah. You’ll be an art historian.” “But, like, we’re basically there. We’ve taken our finals. College is almost over. We’ll have to get jobs.” Rory nodded, her smile tinged with sadness. “It’s almost over,” she echoed. She chewed a scab on her lip. She opened her mouth, about to ask a question, but changed her mind. “I miss Acadia,” Cara murmured. “Then let’s get there.” Cara reached for Rory’s hand. The moon shined kindly from the sky, sneaking through the cloud cover in patches. When Rory started the car, Cara closed her eyes. She was suddenly exhausted. Sleepily, she turned to ask Rory a question. “How much time do you think we have left?” Rory was quiet for a long time. Cara could see the question flipping and twisting around in her head, weaving through the turning gears. “I don’t know. But I hope it’s a lot.” Cara nodded. Her eyes closed without meaning to, and she fell asleep to the sound of cool summer rain hitting the windshield.