Sketch Literary Journal | Vol. 83.1 by isusketch

Volume 83.1 Fall 2018 1

Volume 83.1 Fall 2018

CON TEN T S

MEMBERS 2-5 Letter from the Editor Genre Board Members Officer & Member Bios

NONFICTION 6-19 Grandma ..... 8 College in Lists ..... 10 Saddest Family Gathering ..... 12 General Grievous Drinks Virgin Daiquiris ..... 14

FICTION 20-47

Five Steps Away ..... 22 Memento Mori ..... 24 Saint Valentine’s Toilet ..... 26 Weight ..... 34 When you told me ______________ , I should have said ..... 44

POETRY 48-77 Buena ..... 50 Catch and Release ..... 51 Conversation with the Existential ..... 52 chill ..... 54 Indigo ..... 56 lovelong ..... 57 I’m Sick of Rom Coms ..... 58 Midwest Mountains ..... 60 N19 ..... 61 Standing in the mirror with a dull pair of scissors ..... 62 Pinot Grigio ..... 63 From the Window ..... 64 Music Beats the Bleeding Heart ..... 66 Normal ..... 67 snowdrift ..... 68 In the Aftermath of Pain ..... 70 la douleur exquise (kinda) ..... 74 Walking into a Library ..... 76

VISUAL ARTS 78-87 More than a Number ..... 80 Pangram ..... 81 Facing Yourself ..... 82 Omnipresent Observer ..... 83 Death of a Myth ..... 84 Sick ..... 85 The Arrow That Flies By Day ..... 86

SUBMITTER BIOS 88-91

Submit To Sketch To be published in Sketch, submitted works must be previously unpublished. Each submission must have a separate cover page, which must include: - Name - Mailing address - E-mail address - Year and major - Submission title - Submission category - Author bio

Text submissions should be in .doc and .docx formats. Visual submissions should be in PDF format. Do not put your name on the work itself. Only the cover page will contain your name. All work is read blind. E-mail Submissions To: sketcheditors@iastate.edu

Letter From The Editor Dear Readers, Just three years ago, I stumbled upon an edition of Sketch and decided to check it out on a whim. Today, I write to you in my first semester as Editor-in-Chief and as this issue goes to the publisher. On my journey to make this unique literary journal the best it can be, I have learned a great deal about publishing and about myself. I can’t say that it has been easy, but I can say that it has been worth it. It has been a valuable part of my university experience, so I’d like to say thank you. To all the members of Sketch: Thank you for sticking around with me through this semester. This journal would not exist without you. To all those who have submitted to Sketch this year and in the past: Thank you for your bravery and creativity. You are what keeps us going. To our faculty advisor, Christiana: Thank you for guiding us through this process. Your knowledge and dedication do not go unnoticed. To my family and friends: Thank you for your endless support and love. I couldn’t do it without you. Lastly, to our readers: Thank you for picking up a copy of Sketch. My hope is that you will be inspired by the pieces within this journal to create something beautiful of your own. We do this for you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your support. After many hours of hard work and with much anticipation, I am pleased to present to you the Fall 2018 issue of Sketch Literary Journal. Enjoy!

Jocelyn M. Simms 3

Genre Boards FICTION

VISUAL ARTS

Megan Nicoski Hayley Hartman Megan Chuah Allison Steinebrey Isaac Sinclair Soren Kade Tia Saddler Hope Sievers Grace Chapman

Hayley Hartman Isaac Sinclair Hope Sievers Natalja Handy Sienna Damisch

NONFICTION Megan Nicoski Megan Chuah Allison Steinebrey Alexis Olsen Tia Saddler India Robinson

POETRY Hayley Hartman Alexis Olsen Soren Kade India Robinson Grace Chapman Sienna Damisch Sarah Jean Walsh

Staff Bios Nonfiction Board Editor : Hayley Hartman is majoring in English and History. She enjoys a good book, prefers dogs to people, and consumes ridiculous amounts of coffee at alarming rates.

Poetry Board Editor : Natalja Handy is a senior in English with minors in Linguistics and Teaching English as a Second Language. She intends to graduate in the Spring of 2019 and hopes to spend some time teaching English as a Foreign Language in Japan. She has immensely enjoyed her participation with Sketch over the past few years!

Fiction Board Editor : Abby Stauffer is a senior double majoring in English and Technical Communication and minoring in Classical Studies. After she graduates in May, she plans on attending a summer publishing institute to further immerse herself in the world of book publishing. Her dream is to become a literary editor. In her free time, she enjoys watching any and all of the Star Wars films, reading Stephen King, and bonding with her pet tarantula, Cleo.

Visual Arts Editor / Designer : Sarah Jean Walsh is a senior in Graphic Design. After she graduates she plans to move to big city with great pizza. She spends her free time either taking naps, running around Target, or watching her latest tv show obsession. Oh and she also created the cover art which is pretty neat.

President / Editor-in-Chief : Jocelyn Simms is a senior majoring in English with minors in Event Management and Hospitality Management. If she had it her way, she’d be on the next plane to “anywhere but here.” When she is not busy with school work or extracurriculars, you can find her cuddling with her dog, Tucker, binge-watching something on Netflix, or planning her next adventure.

NO N F I CT I N O NONFICTION

Grandma Emily Smith Grandma lives out in small town Iowa, right near the country, where she can live a simple life. Where horses wander up and visit the fence-line in the backyard, near the tool shed, behind the giant walnut tree that provides shade to the majority of the yard. Grandma is the biggest bookworm you’ll ever meet, and asks you what you’re reading every time you see her. She lives within walking distance from the public library, is friends with all of the librarians, and has probably read every book the building holds. Still, she visits frequently and picks out novels with crinkled plastic covers to carry home and read in her recliner chair in the living room. Grandma likes all seasons. She spends winter knitting away in that same recliner chair, making scarves and hats and blankets, better than any kind you could find in a store. She spends summer filling giant old glass jars (purchased from auctions that Grandpa goes to) with water and tea bags, and setting them on the back porch to brew in the bright summer sun. Grandma loves God, and dedicates Sundays to church and no swearing. Sundays, which also happen to be the day that she cooks a pot roast, mashed potatoes, sweet corn, and homemade rolls with butter and brown sugar. She piles her blue-speckled metal dishes high with the delicious-smelling food and her drinking glasses with the cows on them to the brim with fresh milk from the creamery a few blocks over. Grandma loves the smell of coffee, but hates the taste. She never learned how to swim, but loves spending the summer at the lake in Minnesota, where she fixes up the house, reads the afternoon away, and fries up the most delicious fish, caught at the lake and brought home that morning. Grandma cherishes her grandkids. She leaves a small jar, labeled “Grandma’s Treats” in the kitchen, always filled with M&Ms that you can never seem to stop yourself from reaching for every time you visit. She loves using her years of nursing expertise to heal them when they’re hurt or sick. She loves when they sleep over, and 8

when they wake up, she brings them to the kitchen, makes them hot chocolate from her homemade mix, and feeds them toast sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Grandma enjoys holidays, and loves the fact that the whole family is able to get together even more. During Christmas, she hands out her beautifully wrapped presents, and everyone gets clothing boxes stuffed with wonderful gifts – the signature way that she wraps presents, because it’s more exciting and doesn’t waste wrapping paper. During the Fourth of July, everyone walks down to the volunteer fire station, where everybody eats pancakes and all of the other breakfast staples, and then Grandma helps the grandkids choose which buckets to put their raffle tickets in. During Easter, she and Grandpa put on an Easter-egg hunt in the backyard, reserving one egg wrapped in silver tin-foil for each grandkid, each with a dollar inside to spend on treats at Casey’s down the road. Grandma leads a simple life. She washes her hair in the sink, uses the clothesline in the backyard during summer, and makes big batches of her chocolate chip cookies to store in the freezer for company. But more important than her hospitality are her habits of love for others. Love that brings smiles and laughter, love that warms you with relaxation, love that wraps you in comfort, love that makes you never want to leave.

College in Lists. Kalli Baker Things to love. Keep remembering these: Dogs, cats, chocolate. Usually dogs more. But they’re time-intensive. Hard for college. Classes, work, socializing. No time anymore. Cats’ turn now. Chocolate never fades. Chocolate never fails. Well, most times. It exacerbates acne. Rainy sunny days. Bittersweet lazy days. Nostalgic but different. Excuses to relax. Humidity rolling away. The perfect climate. Pine-scented candles burning. More like dampness. Forests during thunderstorms. Campfires in Washington. Crucial for studying. Along with color-coding. Colorcoding nearly everything. Notes, planners, notebooks. Equal parts good. Equal parts bad: Dirty cat litter. Who designed this? “You know what? I like sand. I like cats. Let’s combine them. Nothing’ll go wrong.” Definitely nothing wrong. No litter everywhere. Floors, couches, beds. Sometimes countertops too? How, how, how? Wet dog noses. So, so cute. Not when sleeping. Shoved against faces. Wake up, now!! Go away, Nala. It’s only 8am. It’s manageable though. I’ll miss her. Even at 8am. Gone after graduation. Boy number one. Ways he chewed. So goddamn obnoxious. “I’m an engineer.” Woooow, so cool. No, no really. I mean it. (But not actually.) Why start there? Engineers and others. Always start there. Business,

engineering, computers. Maybe I’m bitter? (I’m definitely bitter. He’s cute though.) Don’t stop hating: His sullen stare. Boy number two. Maybe a glare. Like I’m contaminated. So he thinks. Slowly developing loathing. On both sides. Why did I? Who knows, really. Him chastising me. “Stop doing that. Swearing is disgusting.” Bite me, asshole. Becoming more aware. Should be good. Aware of politics. Mindful of food. Language, makeup, behavior. All these improved. But, but, but. Aware of disparities. Racism is everywhere. Sexism hasn’t died. Classism just beginning. Everything is debated. Guns, rights, lives. Developing depression, anxiety. How’d it happen? Loved to drive. 11pm to 3am. High school cruising. But then, college. Pedestrians, everywhere, always. “Hit me, idc. Pay my tuition.” Buses hitting pedestrians. Slow, seeping anxiety. Go check once. Or maybe twice. You might’ve hit’em. J ust be sure. Just one look. It can’t hurt. One look’s enough. Downhill from there. More lovely things. College is hard. Loving things helps: Time with friends. Maybe other categories. Not hate, but… Mostly just difficult. Never enough time. Always worth it. Learning to accept. Accepting boys’ flaws. They won’t call. Maybe they will. It doesn’t matter. Boys are boys. Boys are fleeting. Grades are lasting. A’s are impressive. Impressive builds resumés. Resumés mean jobs. Jobs bring stability. (A potential lie). Thoughts of careers. Always multiple options. Usually too many. Curator, professor, writer. Government or private? Everything is exciting. Really terrifying, too. But always layered. The excitement: jelly. Fear: peanut butter. A good sandwich. 11

Saddest Family Gathering Jamie Campbell October 25th, 2016. Red/yellow/orange leaves descend. Buildings pass by. Sleep calling me. Left, right, left. Pocket begins vibrating. Screen reads, Dad. “What’re u doing?” Letters create words. “Headed to Helser. Need nap now.” “Come home today. Going to Marion. Grandpa’s not well. Grab your sister. Leaving at 3.” No discussion necessary. I’ll be there. Thoughts creeping in. Grandparents get sick. They frequent hospitals. We never visit. What’s different now? Start calling Macy. Interruption- incoming, Dad. “Headed for you. Macy’s here too. We gotta go.” Still in limbo. Dad’s gone mute. Flying by fields. Corn, soybean, wheat. Nevada, Marshalltown, Tama. AJ Foyt driving. Texting, calling, driving. Phone lights up. Tina, Danielle, Jim. Severity seeps in. Uncle never texts. “Is grandpa okay?” Need to know. Stomach turns upside-down. Twisted in knots. Sweat begins forming. “He’ll be fine. He’s holding on.” Holding to what? 15, 30, 45. Mile markers blurred. 15 more left. Dad’s messages increase. He floors it. Car turns rocket. 80, 85, 90. Speed limit irrelevant. Fuck the cops. Nothing against them. Places to be. People to see. Hospital in sight. Last spot secured. Race to entrance. Lost in corridors. Left or right? Useless confusing maps. Dad’s stress oozes. Asking the receptionist. Directed towards grandpa. Aunt finds us. Rushed greetings only. Not prepared yet. Still not informed. Door looms ahead. Should I enter? What’s waiting behind? Grab sister’s hand. Take the plunge.

Who is he? That old man. Needles, tubes, machines. Who is she? That old woman. Gripping man’s hand. Grandpa and grandma? MY own grandparents? Grandpa’s usually quiet. Not this much. He’s not conscious. No “Hello’s” exchanged. Raspy, gritty, a-pack-a-day-voice. That was before. Before the tubes. White coat enters. Finally- some answers. He says heart-attack. He says dehydration. I say bullshit. Make him better. Give him medicine. It’s 2018 damnit. Cure my Cubs-lovingcane-wielding-motorized-scooter-riding-grandpa. I’m not ready. Tears held back. This isn’t real. Throat closes up. Decisions, choices, options. Pleading, crying, begging. Face still blank. Holding family tight. To continue, or? No quality life. 5% survival rate. Tubes, machines forever. Or, let go. “If’s” floating around. Doctor needs answer. 12:00 pm deadline. Siblings meet together. Aunts, uncles, dad. Dad finds voice. Truth flows out. “He’d want this.” Grandpa’s spitting image. Grandpa’s little replica. Makes hardest choice. Let him go. He understands Grandpa. What he’d want. No more suffering. Free in Heaven. Best Cubs seats. Limber limbs again. New guardian angel. Everyone gathers near. Hands find hands. Giant group hug. One final kiss. One final good-bye. Gone without suffering. Gone, Gone, Gone. Wrinkled face smoothed. Monitor becomes unplugged. Beep, beep, silence. Tears leak out. Mountains of Kleenex. Family holding on. Family letting go.

General Grievous Drinks Virgin Daiquiris Kody Wallick I’m sitting across from you at a bar on Welch Avenue. It’s the first time I’ve seen you in months and I have to admit you are looking the worse for wear. Darks bags hang under your eyes, a patchy beard covers your chin, and I can see your beer belly poking out from beneath the same red hoodie you’ve been wearing since high school. If I’d have asked I’m sure you would have told me you just haven’t been getting enough sleep, but I don’t ask because I can see the truth cradled in the palm of your hand. Around us our friends from high school are laughing at me because they found out the daiquiri I just ordered is virgin. I can’t help but laugh with them, my pink drink stands out from the mugs of dark brews each of them are holding, and the contrast between their beer foam and my whipped topping adds another layer of conspicuousness. As we laugh I watch from across the table as your brow furrows and your mouth twists downward. It’s a face that once had the ability to stop me in my tracks, but tonight I’m surprised to find it no longer has any power over me. “Don’t you remember what Arnold said?” You ask as the laughter dies down, invoking the name of the man who had once been our childhood hero. I remember the picture you showed me during the summer before college when we had just gotten into bodybuilding. It was an image of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Franco Columbu standing together on the Olympia stage. Both men were giants, but at 6’ 2” Arnold easily dwarfed the 5’ 5” Columbu. Looking at the picture I knew what you were going to say before you said it. “I’ll be Arnold and you can be Columbu.” You had said, referring to my short stature, something you knew I hated. 14

I’m going to be Arnold. I thought then, but I didn’t say it out loud. I couldn’t have, we’ve always been competitive but to directly challenge your superiority would have put a strain our friendship. “When you grow up you have to drink beer!” You shout, doing your best Schwarzenegger impression and raising your bottle of Dos Equis in the air. I have to admit your impression is quite good, but I keep that to myself. “Arnold must’ve never had a daiquiri.” I reply. “Neither have you. Daiquiris have alcohol.” You point out. “That’s pretty much just a smoothie.” I’m too busy sipping my smoothie through my bendy straw to reply. You always had to have the last word. I had learned that back in fourth grade when we bonded over our mutual love of Revenge of the Sith, the newest Star Wars movie that had just been released. Every recess would be a fight for survival, you as Obi Wan and myself as General Grievous. We would square off in the grass, each shouting our favorite lines from the movie. “Army or not, you must realize you are doomed!” I would scream as I ignited my four imaginary lightsabers, all with red blades of course. “Oh I don’t think so!” You retorted before jumping at me with your blue lightsaber held high above your head. Our lightsabers clashed sending blue and red sparks flying everywhere. I saw you raising your hand for a force push and I immediately countered with one of my own, trapping us in a deadlock. We hardly noticed the sweat dripping down from our foreheads and the color of our cheeks slowly turning red because we kept forgetting to breathe. We strained our minds at one another, each willing the other to fly away, to give up any amount of ground that would result in victory. I put on a good show, but I knew that it would be me who eventually gave in. That was my job. I was the weaker of us, you had me beat in both height and strength, and we both knew you hated losing even more than I did. Besides, the good guy always wins, right? So it was no surprise to me when your force push overpowered my own, throwing me off balance and giving you the opportunity you needed to bury your lightsaber in my chest. Our eyes locked and I saw the thrill of victory in your eyes before I crumpled to the ground screaming “NOOO!” 15

You pulled your lightsaber from my chest, giving it a single spin before sheathing it in your belt, a move that I had seen many times before. “So uncivilized.” You would say. To us this was a real battlefield. To everyone else it was just two dumb kids wailing on each other with their imaginations. *** You’re telling our friends about how hard your schedule is, how you’re taking eighteen course credits on top of being vice president in your fraternity. That’s something you always liked to do, brag about how little free time you had. I agree it would be hard, if you went to any of your classes. I choose to ignore the conversation, I’d heard it all before anyway. Instead, I’m thinking about that summer when we used to lift together. Both of us were driven by our mutual desire to one-up the other. If you did ten reps then I’d push for twelve, if I used 25 pounds then you’d put on 30. Your size suggested that you’d have the upper hand, but I’d fight like hell to keep up with you. When we were done lifting we’d walk to Family Foods and buy a half gallon of Anderson Erikson chocolate milk, a brand that I’m still loyal to today, and see who could down it faster. This was a feat often accompanied by stomach pains. It stayed this way until our first week of college, when you joined your fraternity. That came as a surprise to me because we had agreed the plan was to live in dorm rooms near each other. I remember texting you ‘What’s your dorm’s room number again? I forgot.’ And you replied ‘I don’t have one, lol, I joined Adelante.’ ‘What’s Adelante?’ ‘That’s my Fraternity.’ You replied, but I never responded because I didn’t know what to say. That first week was also your Fraternity’s Beer Olympics, an event which you told me involves competitions centered on the drinking of massive amounts of beer such as beer pong or Edward forty hands. You joined me in the gym after the first night of Beer Olympics to do a workout as normal, but right away I could tell something was wrong.

“I had so much to drink last night, I think I’m still drunk,” You said clinging to the railing of the stairs. “But you can still lift can’t you?” I asked, not entirely understanding. “I think I’m going to sit out, just for today.” You said, a phrase that became all too familiar when you stopped showing up altogether. This left me at a loss because I’d never really done anything on my own. Eventually the separation got to me and I finally agreed to go with you to one of your fraternity parties. It was Halloween and I, of course, hadn’t brought a costume. You dressed me up as a cowboy using some of your own clothes and a special edition Hooters cowboy hat. “Don’t lose that hat,” You stressed. “They’re never going to make those again.” “I won’t,” I promised as you handed me a plastic cup full of whiskey. “Ugh, I’d rather have some chocolate milk.” I said after taking a sip and grimacing from the “bite” that dragged down the back of my throat. “Yeah, but whiskey goes with the cowboy vibe,” You said smiling, and I had to admit you were right. You insisted I finish off the drink before you refilled my cup and directed me towards the crowded dancefloor in the basement of the fraternity house. “Get in there and make some friends.” You shoved me into the crowd. The first thing I noticed upon entering was that it was hella freaking crowded, and the second thing I noticed was that human bodies make a lot of heat when they are bunched up together in a confined space. Trying to make my way through the crowd was a nightmare, and every way I turned there was another person splattering beer on me. The minute you took your eyes off of me I was gone, out to the safety and comfort of one of the couches in the common room. It wasn’t long before you found me, and we spent the rest of the night playing hide and go seek. Whenever you noticed I had snuck away from the dance floor you came right out and dragged me back in. Eventually through the combination of alcohol and your extreme effort I was able to make a new friend. “Cool hat,” said my new friend. “Can I try it on?” “Sure,” I said as I handed it over. 17

I never saw that hat again. *** “Hey,” You say. “We’re heading to a different bar, you coming?” “No,” I sip the last of my daiquiri and watch as our friends head out the door, leaving just the two of us. “Aww come on, it’s Friday, and how often do you see those guys?” You wave your hand towards the door. “It’s just one night, what difference will it make?” But that’s the question that makes me the angriest, and I wonder if that’s the same line you tell yourself every night. I’m wondering when one night became every night, and suddenly I realize I’m staring in the face of what one night’s difference can make. “Sorry,” Then after a moment I can’t help but add, “I’ve got legs tomorrow,” half because it was true and half because some part of me hoped you’d offer to come with me. Instead of replying you retrieve your wallet from where you’ve left it on the table, giving it a single spin before sheathing it in your pocket. Then you’re out the door.

F I CT I ON FICTION

Five Steps Away Amanda Schuler My heartbeat speeds up when I steal a glance at the clock. Nearly two hours has passed since I began studying, and I have to be across campus and ready for my lab meeting in exactly three minutes. I hastily pluck out my earbuds and began shoveling my laptop and notebooks into my backpack. In my haste I knock over my water bottle, which falls off the table and shatters the stifling library atmosphere. More than one person glances at me in annoyance. I feel my face grow hot, my embarrassed blush an attempt at an unspoken apology. I’ve been sitting still so long that my left foot erupts in little pinpricks of tingling pain as I hobble my way out of the maze of bookshelves. When I get to the stairs, I take them two at a time, causing people to leap out of my way with startled grunts. I burst from the stale library air to find yet another surprise—rain. Great. Just great. I think as I hold my arms above my head to fend off the rain. I glance at my watch. Two minutes. There is no way I’m going to make it on time, let alone look over my notes like I had planned. This is the last meeting of the semester, and I am supposed to give a presentation of what I’ve been working on in front of the entire department. What an embarrassment of our lab I’ll be, showing up late, unprepared, and soaked to the core! I sigh and begin to walk, thinking of excuses I can give for my tardiness. Around me flows the lifeblood of campus- a constant array of students from every walk of life. They all hurry on their way, their only thought to get inside and out of the rain. As I quickly scan the upcoming maze of sidewalks, trying to determine the quickest route, my gaze falls on a girl. And for some inexplicable reason, my rushing thoughts stop. Her small, black umbrella sways by her side, unused. Her backpack seems to hang weightlessly from her shoulders and she strolls amongst our hurried peers as if the sun is shining bright and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. As I watch, she stops and bends down. She picks up something—a small red leaf, indistinguishable from the others littering the sidewalk. For a moment, she stares at the leaf, transfixed. I catch a glimpse of a smile, unmarred by the rain, spread across her entire face. And then, shockingly, she begins to laugh. Her laughter comes without reason, yet flows freely. It seems to invite me to 22

join in. Come, it sings. Join me. Stop and see the wonder of this world. Come laugh in the rain. I hear the bell tower chime in the distance. Bong! peals its lonely cry. The answering echo overlaps the next distant clang, creating a phantom chorus of chiming bells which seem to weave past the patter of the rain and the gentle tinkle of the girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s laughter. Time is frozen. Suddenly I feel frigid water seeping through my shoes and soaking my socks. I stop in the middle of the puddle, standing in shock. I blink once. Twice. The rain falls. The people surge past. One step is all it takes for me to join them. Two steps is all it takes for my socks to be completely soaked. Three steps is all it takes for me to remember my lab meeting. Four steps is all it takes to remember the incessant weight of the world, pressing down with each pounding rain drop. Five steps is all it takes to leave the girl behind.

Memento Mori Sara Davis Miranda had always been a pretty girl, and had always wanted to get her picture taken. Today was the day. Her hair was curled, her clothes were neatly pressed, and she had a bouquet of white lilies. Mother had gone to the three studios in town to see what their accommodations were before selecting the perfect one. Thomas, her little brother, was not excited. Mother and Father had wanted him to be in the picture with Miranda, but he would have refused. Miranda didn’t mind, of course, she had always loved being in the spotlight. When she was small, Father used to take her to the department store on Main Street to pick out new fabric for Mother to sew her dresses. She always picked red. Bold, brass, beautiful. Perfect for Miranda. Today though, Miranda wore white; white, to match her lilies. Mother had carefully put soft pink ribbons in her hair, to match the soft, muted color of her lips. She was an angelic picture of perfection. They arrived at the studio just a bit early, and needed to wait for another family to finish with their portraits. Father held Miranda close, touching her hand. Mother ran her fingers through Miranda’s curls, which Miranda always loved. Thomas sat in the stool nearest the door, a frown on his face. The photographer approached them as soon as the other family left. He greeted them politely and asked if they were ready. Yes, Father said. Miranda was ready. Mother and Father both helped with the posing; they wanted this picture to be perfect. Miranda was always very particular about the way she looked. The flowers were arranged in front of her chest and Miranda looking down, as though they were the most beautiful flowers in the world. And with Miranda, they were. The photographer told them the exposure would take five minutes. That wasn’t a problem for Miranda. Mother and Father watched, silently, still. Father put his arm around Mother’s shoulder. Thomas stayed on the stool, only now he was turned with his back to Miranda, looking out the window at a white coach moving slowly towards the studio. After extending the accordion of the camera body, the photographer ducked behind the drape, to 24

check the focus. Then, taking the lens-cap in his hand, he began the exposure, careful to not bump the camera and make the photograph blur. He knew a photograph was an important vestige. Miranda—her expressionless gaze fixed on the flowers, golden tresses falling around her relaxed shoulders, thin mouth unmoving— had never been more beautiful. Nor would she ever be again. Mother knew that when the long exposure was finished, the moment would be gone. Passed on and lost to time. Although she knew Miranda’s face would be forever preserved on delicate silver nitrate, she tried to commit each detail, the curtains, the lilies, the curls, all to memory. A photograph was a special thing, a sacred thing. The light that reflected off of Miranda’s soft, pale skin touched the exposure plate, creating the image, and in this way, the photograph was part of her. Mother selfishly wished she could be standing there with her daughter, but a portrait was very expensive. They only had enough money for one sitting fee. The photographer carefully replaced the lens-cap and let Father know they were finished. A single tear escaped Father’s eye as he assisted the photographer in dismantling the body rest that helped Miranda sit straight through the long exposure. Thomas turned from the window, where the white coach waited. Mother couldn’t hold it in any longer, and threw herself down on her daughter’s lap. Miranda, still and silent, her gaze fixed on the flowers, had gotten her very first, and her very last photograph.

Saint Valentine’s Toilet Ryan Byrnes For the First Annual Smooching Nooks of St. Louis Awards, I present the gold to Valentino’s Restaurant. Mr. Dashing Danny Date, please mosey up to the stage for your medallion. Congratulations on asking me to dinner there, a truly original idea, untried by man, magnifipendous, really. Why yes, you can do a speech. What will you talk about? Valentino’s – a spotlight in the city of 200 murders per annum? Valentino’s – the only restaurant where you can find Catholic priests entombed in the basement? Valentino’s – I forget the rest. Honorable mentions from the Smooching Nooks Guild go to that one café off Manchester where they let you play with cats while you drink bubble tea, the Build-a-Bear Workshop behind the Science Center, and the Missouri Botanical Gardens where you could bottle the atmosphere and spritz spritz it on your wrists like they do at the mall. These places would have earned medallions too, except for the fact that you’re not allowed to smooch in them. Nooooo, nonono. I’ve visited these places so many times with Nana that it simply wouldn’t do to let Mr. Dashing Danny Date take me there. Not that we’d do anything wrong. Take the Botanical Gardens, for example, which have a hundred of these little carved benches tucked away in the rose garden where we could’ve sat for five minutes and eaten gummy bears and maybe played Would You Rather, then he would ask would you rather kiss a frog or hold my hand and I would blush and say Oh You Cheeky and as our fingers inch closer like ten slow-dancing caterpillars a family of tourists roll by with strollers and fanny-packs. No. I would see Nana in their eyes. Our hands would never touch. If I ever do the gushy-juju, it will be here at Valentino’s, in the Central West End, one of the less crimeful neighborhoods where you’d go for a poetry slam or a ginger poultice. The tablecloths are pleated like wedding dresses; they are small because they fall away beneath a ribbed ceiling that might have contained the entire sky – tangible proof of a different kind of heaven. Valentino’s used to be Saint Valentine’s Cathedral, but like Nana says, the people here lost use for it after Y2K. 26

I’m alone, it is February 14th, and through the stained glass the sky is wide-brushed with rhubarb. In the choir balcony, a snoring pipe organ is kept asleep by the lullaby of three girls in black dresses who sport microphones, clasped hands, and a shivering, sauntering confessional.

Near, far, wherever you are I believe that the heart does go on. Once more you open the door And you’re here in my heart And my heart will go on and on. Celine Dion, you Queen. I cross my arms and my legs. I uncross them. I tap my foot. On my phone, the 6:04 changes to a 6:05 over the lock screen – a selfie of Nana smoking. Outside the stained glass, a congregation of pigeons explode, flutter, and ascend. Mr. Dashing Danny Date has not yet arrived. I pull up his Tinder. A shaven man in an Air Force uniform posing in front of the Disney Castle. Hair parted.

Danny, 42 Lover of music and movies, Chex Mix and Church. I do carpentry on the side and like to flip slightly used coffins and sell them at craft fairs. Let’s grab a bite some time! God bless. I’m not really a churchy person, so Mr. Dashing Danny Date might be a fixer-upper. Conservative I can work with. Excepting Nana, I come from a family of conservatives – conservationists, conservitarians, what have you. I want him to be just conservative enough so that on our first date we’ll have intercourse. Like in Titanic. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day and I know for a fact Jo and Savannah and all the other people from work are spending the night in Sheraton hotel rooms with their spouses, eating gummy bears and playing Would You Rather and occasionally checking their phones to receive 27

an “everything is okay” text from the babysitter. And I don’t think my desires are wrong – a feeling’s a feeling. What’s wrong with a feeling? I’m perfectly justified in meeting with a consenting adult – a real man, you know, a prince who inherited a dog food company, with three daughters and an evil stepmother. If we lived a hundred years ago he might have owned a castle. Just one night. One night of touching to make up for all my untouched places. I bought lingerie for the first time yesterday. A string of red lace pokes out of my purse. My lips are dry. INCOMING CALL. DANNY. Oh heck, oh hellacious heck. “Hello you.” I say the words in iambic meter so he knows I’m serious. My foot keeps tap-tapping. “Hey, I’m waiting outside the restaurant, and I don’t see you,” his laugh is squeakier than a prince’s is supposed to be. “I’m at the table already.” “Alright, just stay there. I’ll come to you. Sorry, sorry.” With the screen still pressed to my cheek, I scan the restaurant. The tables are booked; reservations probably closed in January. But he managed to schedule our date last Tuesday. “So you’re already at the table?” Danny’s voice comes through again. “Yup.” The tables here only have even numbers of chairs. Most of the guests are couples, although I see a few kids. There’s a boy looking for his parents, also talking on the phone. He’s probably ten. Clipon tie decorated with baseballs. He has green eyes that flicker in my direction. Danny’s voice falls silent in my ear. The kid taps his phone, and Danny hangs up. Uh oh. My phone slowly draws away from my cheek. The screen is pale with makeup particles. On the lock screen, Nana is frowning. 28

“Danny Calderwood, president of the Moye Elementary ghosthunting club. Pleasure.” The two green eyes hold on mine as he shakes my hand. He wears a purity ring. His hand does not fit in mine. I open my mouth. I close my mouth. I was about to say hi my name is Jessie and I work on the production line at a Girl Scout cookie factory and I live with my Nana, but the words got slightly muddled. “Hello you. My name is Jessie and I’m a lion tamer.” “Lion taming,” he nods. “You get dental out of that?” Some heads turn from the nearby tables, and my face has rouged. Cheese louise, I feel pretty goofy right now when I think about the panties in my purse. My hand had trembled when I handed my gift card to the cashier at the Victoria’s Secret, where they were selling the spritz spritz of the bottled air from the Botanical Gardens. A few people smile at us because they think it’s cute, and I hide my face in my hands. “These are for you,” he sets something in front of me, probably flowers. It is a heart-shaped box full of gummy bears. I won’t touch it. “Do you like it?” his concerned eyebrows knit in and out like Nana’s crochet. I really really do, but not like this. “But Danny, your Tinder said you were 42.” “Tinder bans kids under 18, so we have to make up ages and swipe until we think we’ve found another under 18. You’ve gotta be real good at guessing. I mean, your profile said you were 39.” “But I am 39.” “To be honest, when I saw your profile I thought you were in third grade,” he starts to giggle and then catches himself. “But 39 is cool, too.”

The heat has rushed to my face. I blink a few times. My eyes are wet. I got tricked. “That was mean,” I mumble to the napkin in my lap. His feet dangle off the edge of his chair, while in the background the opera girls belt out.

Near, far, wherever you are I believe that the heart does go on. I’m not so sure I like you anymore, Celine. As the date goes on, I find myself looking away from us, at the stained-glass windows which are now black with night. Danny follows my eyes. “Did you know that when this was still Saint Valentine’s Cathedral, the priests used to turn wine into Jesus here?” “Very interesting,” I nod. “No, I mean right here, at this table. See how the building branches off in four directions from where we’re sitting? Like a cross? I reserved this table especially for that; it would have been an altar. We are the center of the show; the architects designed the church so that when we’re in this spot our voices carry to the rest of the congregation.” “Mm hmm.” I would assume the other guests could hear our lack of banter. The waiter comes to let us know he is Mark and he will be serving us tonight and to know if we would like any drinks to get us started. I point out the sparkling apple juice already sitting in front of me. I’ve stopped sipping it. “And you, young man?” Danny pulls a pair of reading glasses from inside his jacket and scans the menu. “Chardonnay.” The waiter turns to me, and his mouth puckers as if to make a w sound. But he stops, and as a result says many words at once – who, what, why? 30

So Danny ends up with the sparkling apple juice because he can’t have the wine. And I can’t have the wine because I want the juice. Both of us end up with bendy straws. When the waiter glares at me, I close my eyes and I am at my locker at work – my coworkers at the Girl Scout cookie factory all have family photos in their lockers. Husbands, wives, children, all hugging in front of photographers. They have photos of newborns they would die for, boyfriends who went to war for them, and in mine I just have one picture. And it’s of Nana. Frowning. I’m the kind of person who says hi to them and they don’t say hi back. “So, Jessie, you said you’re a lion tamer. What inspired that?” I don’t want to answer him at first because I am mad. “I play with a lot of cats. They’re my Nana’s. At first I played with a lot of small cuddly indoor ones, but after a while the small cats wouldn’t do it for me. So I moved onto the streets and played with the strays that live behind the gas station. I went through a cougar phase. Then I discovered lions.” “What do you like about lions?” he tilts his head. That was a hard one. “I guess the way they always travel in prides. The way they always lick each other’s wounds. The way they’re never alone. My Nana and I watch them on National Geographic.” “Those are good reasons.” “Thank you.” I meant it. I sip my sparkling apple juice. “What about you? You said you were a ghost hunter?” “Yep.” “Well, have you ever, you know, seen one?” I whisper so our echoes don’t carry over to the rest of the congregation. “I see ghosts everywhere,” Danny says. “I see a ghost in you.” 31

“Psssh, you goober. Me? A ghost?” “Do you feel loved?” “I-I.” “Then a ghost has gotta be haunting you. It’s gotta be.” I laugh because I don’t know what else to do. “I can love you, Jessie.” “Oh stop.” “But I can.” “You’re so cheeky. My friends have kids your age, Danny.” “Do you have kids?” “Nada.” “Why?” “I think it’s pretty self-evident,” I point at him, laughing even though I’m embarrassed. The boy looks down at his clip-on tie, sullen. “Do you want me to leave?” “No –,” surprise, my voice cracks, my vision blurs, the corners of my eyes are cold. “No. I’m sorry. I just wanted to meet someone special. Just once.” Swallow. Exhale.

Once more you open the door And you’re here in my heart And my heart will go on and on. Celine, you mud-sucker! A couple walks past us, probably in a rush to leave the restaurant and find the nearest empty bed. They are in heat like the lions in Nana’s nature documentaries. The girlfriend notices Danny sitting across the table from me. She stops for a moment and smiles, touching a hand to her chest. So sweet, she mouths. Her boyfriend cringes. The two of them leave arm in arm. 32

I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. On the toilet, I weigh my options. Do I leave now, scold the boy, or take him to find his parents and scold him then? Either way, I want to scold someone. I unbutton my purse and pull out the red lace rigging, top and bottom. It is perfumed. I sit there, hunched over, sliding the lingerie through my fingers and imagining all the places where I could have been touched. I feel like a pedophile. By the time I leave, I have already said goodbye. I have wiped my tears with the back of my hand. I have flushed my panties down Saint Valentine’s rosy toilet. When I return to our table, Danny is sitting there with his apple juice. “Are you going to take your gummy bears?” he asks. “Feed them to your ghosts.” “What?” I inhale and then proclaim like the ancient priests who for a hundred years had stood where I stood and every Sunday morning had turned wine into Jesus.

“I said, feed them to your ghosts, you liar. Maybe you’ll see them in hell.” The whole congregation hears it. The three opera girls finally stop their song, not sure what the outburst was about. While standing at the table, I dish out my checkbook. One hundred dollars and zero cents to Valentino’s Restaurant. In the memo line, I write: for my meal, for the kid’s meal, and for the mess.

Weight Kody Wallick “The anniversary is in two days.” Dad’s voice says through the speaker of my phone. “Are you coming?” I don’t answer right away; instead, I pick up the picture of you I keep on my dresser. In it you are wearing our high school’s crosscountry jersey and shorts that show off your awful tan lines. You had never been good at taking pictures—a trait I think we both share—but I like this one because it’s the only one I can find where your eyes are actually open. There’s a big smile on your face and it looks like you’d been laughing. It’s the sort of emotion I have trouble picturing in my memories. All I can see now are closed eyes and a serene face. “Yes.” I finally say. “I’ll head out shortly.” Before I leave I call into work and explain the situation. My boss is sympathetic but says the days off will have to count as vacation days. I thank him before hanging up. It doesn’t take me long to pack, and before noon I’m locking the door to my apartment. As I start walking towards the parking garage a crisp breeze washes over my face and I can’t help breathing in deeply. It’s only the third week of March, but already the air has begun to warm. Today was 49 degrees and the coming week was supposed to reach the low 50’s.

Perfect running weather, I catch myself thinking. The thought is so sudden that it feels physical, like a blow to my stomach, and the breath in my lungs is gone in an instant. My mouth gnaws desperately at the air, but the crisp breeze is now a giant wave that slams into me and forces me under the surface. It feels like a great pressure is forcing me down, down, down. As the pressure threatens to overwhelm me, I feel something digging into my chest and my mind is so slow that it takes me a moment to realize it’s my own hand, it scrapes and claws at the left side of my chest as though it were digging in the sand. Then I feel it, the thump thumping of my heart. My hand stops clawing and presses down into my chest until I can feel the thumping throughout my whole body. The force of it clears away the waves and I gasp and cough as air rushes back into my lungs. When I regain my senses, I realize I am kneeling on the pavement outside my apartment with my right hand over my heart and my left hand on my shoulder. 34

I kneel there for several moments, just breathing, before I let my hands slip away and rise to my feet. My legs are still shaky, but I manage to cross the street to the parking garage by taking slow and steady steps. By the time I walk out of the elevator on the third floor I can move normally again. I find my tan Chevy Lumina, a piece of junk car nearly as old as me, and climb in. I have to turn the key several times before the engine decides to start. As I drive, I watch through my car’s window. The signs of urban civilization begin to fade away into the softer, quieter life of the countryside where we grew up. Fields of corn and beans replace the blocked streets and the windowed shops that I have grown accustomed to in the city. As the city gets farther behind me, more and more drivers begin to wave at me as we pass each other. It’s a small gesture, but it gets me thinking: In the city I could walk the four blocks from my apartment to the office building where I work without anyone acknowledging me. Yet on the country roads, random strangers smile and wave as if they’ve known me their whole lives. As I get closer to home, I even start waving back. After several hours of driving I’m nearly home and can barely keep my eyelids from drooping. I’ve just crested the top of the final gravel hill before our childhood home when I see a lone figure running up the hill towards me. The sight surprises me, and for a second, I loosen my grip on the wheel and almost end up in the ditch. I pull over to the side of the road and watch in my rearview mirror as the figure’s back disappears over the slope of the hill. I try to remember to breathe. *** It reminds me of those summer days we spent running together with the familiar feeling of gravel beneath our feet. Those days when we ran just for the fun of it, our only goal to escape the chores that Dad would try to give us. Those days before the competition. Before our separation. Side by side, our shoulders almost touching, we would complain about the summer sun, or talk about which movies we wanted to see. We would hide our noses inside the necks of our t-shirts from the dust trails left behind by cars, and we would wave our fists at their tail lights if they got too close. When we came to the final hill, the one right before our house, you would get a big smile on your face. I knew what was coming and would groan and complain, but you would sprint ahead regardless, always determined to be the first one down our driveway. I’d stay behind and watch as your back became smaller and the distance between us grew. I was determined to act like I didn’t care who made it home first, but then you’d look over your shoulder. 35

You’d shout, “Keep up!” And soon I would be running after you. *** That summer, just before your freshman and my senior year of high school, it seemed like we were always drenched in sweat. Dad rented that huge storage shed in the south part of town for his big auction and asked us to help him set up for it. I think it was you who said that we should run there. We woke up early one day so we could trek the three miles into town. Dad followed behind us in his silver Chevy pickup with the windows rolled down so that we could hear his awful country music he knew we hated. Motivation, he called it. His motivation chased us the whole way there. When we arrived, Dad got a phone call from one of his real-estate clients and had to go, leaving all of the work to us. We spent hours going through the junk that people brought for the auction, trying to sort it out into categories: toys, books, old electronics, pictures, collectibles—the list seemed unending. When we finally finished up it was early in the afternoon and Dad still wasn’t back yet. While we were waiting I sat on the edge of a table and watched you play with the WWE figures you found, the ones that came with their own wrestling ring. The only character I could recognize out of all of them was Hulk Hogan. To me it didn’t even look like the real one, the figure was all stiff and shiny, and his face was almost serene. I’d seen the real Hogan on TV once and his face was always twisted with emotion. I told you that they were more like plastic statues than action figures because the only place that they could move was at the shoulders. I was convinced that they were worthless and told you as much. You made a bet with me to see how much they would sell for. Loser had to clean the other’s room. I bet $10 and you bet $50. They sold for $70 apiece. At the end of the auction, you approached me. “I win, brutha.” You said. *** Cross country practice started the first week of August, and it was the first time we ever ran together on the same team. I was a senior and a likely pick for team captain, and you were a starting freshman. Before the start of the first practice, I pulled you aside. “We’ll be one and two this year.” I told you.

“Only if I’m number one.” You replied smiling. I punched you lightly on the shoulder before coach called us over to start a timed 5k route. One and a half miles from the park entrance out into the country and one and a half miles back, a straight shot. We were shoulder to shoulder most of the way, but in the last hundred meters I pulled ahead of you. I collapsed on the ground afterwards, legs burning and drenched in sweat. You came over to me once you finished. “I guess you’re number one.” You said smiling. I laughed, but I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t seem out of breath. Coach was ecstatic. He ran over to you and said that you had the most potential out of anyone he had ever seen. I smiled and clapped you on the back, trying to ignore the fact that the “anyone” included me. School started the next week and I began to train even after practice was over, often well into the evening, and you followed me. We would run sprints up and down the hill in front of our house until I was left kneeling on the side of the road, throwing my lunch up into the ditch while you laid your hand on my shoulder, reminding me that you were there. Reminding me that you were the one still standing. When we got back to the house Dad would complain that running in the dark was too dangerous, but we didn’t care. “We’ll be fine.” I said whenever he brought it up. *** Our season was amazing that year and we won most of our meets, with you and I trading between first and second place. Two weeks out from districts coach made us run repeat miles on the track. You beat me for most of them, but on the fifth and final repeat you began to slow down. I caught up to you with one hundred meters left in the mile, stopping just behind you so that I could hear your hard breathing and your usually quiet feet sounding like hard-heeled boots on high school floors. I saw in your posture that you were drained and something in me just clicked. I pictured myself bursting in front of you just before the finish line and I couldn’t help but smile. I kept my feet light and quiet so you wouldn’t know I was there, and about ten meters from the finish line I made my move. I took your left side, on the inside of the track, and tried to cut around you. I reached my hand out to grab your shoulder, meaning to say, ‘not this time,’ but my foot slipped diagonally off the edge of the track and I felt a ‘pop’ as all of my weight came bearing down on my ankle. My arm flailed wildly and I watched in slow motion as your shoulder slipped out of my reach. 37

The doctors told me that I was out for the season. Avulsion fracture, ligament torn away from the bone. Surgery was required to reattach the ligaments to the bone, with a typical recovery time of six months. I was forced to use crutches and a boot around school. Everyone kept telling me about how they felt so bad for me, but I just felt sick. I told all my friends it didn’t bother me, I said that I was happy to be done. I bragged about how I no longer had to try in practice, that I could just sit under the shade of a tree and watch YouTube videos on my phone while everyone else sweated in the hot sun. They all laughed and told me what a good sport I was, how they wished they could have my luck. Now that you are dead no one is left who knows the truth. No one else remembers the nights that I would cry myself to sleep while you sat on the side of my bed, never saying anything. Just being there. *** I redshirted my first year of college in order to give my ankle time to heal. I would watch my new teammates practicing while I sat on the sidelines talking to the coaches, doing my best not to imagine how you’d be doing in my place. As the season progressed, I got restless. My coach still wouldn’t allow me to run so I decided to train on my own. I rode one of the university buses a mile or so away from campus and forced myself to run back. I made it all the way back without stopping, but when I reached my dorm my ankle was swollen to twice its usual size. After that I could never make it more than a quarter mile without being in serious pain. I missed your state meet that year, as I was traveling with the team out of state, but you called me after your race. “I got seventh!” You exclaimed. I imagined you had just gotten done running because it sounded like you were still out of breath. “Th-that’s amazing. That’s the highest anyone from our school has ever placed.” I said. “I think the previous record was eleventh.” “I know!” Neither of us mentioned that the previous record had been mine. “So how’s your ankle feeling? When can you start running again?” You asked. “I don’t know.” I said, staring at the boot that was once again encasing my ankle. It was a question I heard every day. “Look, I gotta go, we’ll be getting off the bus soon.” We said our goodbyes and hung38

up. I laid down on the bed in my hotel room and did my best to fall asleep. I quit the team after the season was over. *** Your junior year of high school the state cross country meet was moved to a town only half an hour away from where I went to college. The usual location had flooded the week previously and much of the course still remained under water. Dad thought it would be a good idea to come visit me the Friday before the meet and to stay the night in my apartment before we went to watch the race the next day. My roommate was away for the weekend, so it wasn’t a problem, but it also meant I didn’t have an excuse to say no. I tried to tell him I wasn’t interested in running anymore, but I don’t think he really listened. I’m not sure I did either. Dad ran all over the course watching you, but my ankle was hurting so I didn’t follow him. I stayed near the finish line with a large crowd that lined the final stretch. The shouting alerted me to your arrival. You turned the corner to the final stretch, just ahead of another runner, whom I recognized as the senior who had won the previous year. The senior caught up to you as you made your way to the finish line. I could tell you were hurting by the way your feet were stamping into the ground. The senior was beginning to pull ahead. My mouth moved, opened, ready to shout, when your eyes met mine. I could tell you needed me to say something, you needed an extra push. My mouth remained open but nothing came out. The crowd roared as the senior crossed the finish line. I think our whole town must have shown up to see you run. After the race they all crowded around you, shouting, congratulating, saying ‘you’ll get it next time!’ I saw most of the high school staff, the middle school principal, and even the manager from the grocery store on Main Street. They were all there to watch you. It was probably the most exciting event our small town of 3,000 had ever been a part of, and it was all thanks to you. I let everyone else past me, preferring to stay towards the back of the crowd. It had been a while since we last talked, probably since the beginning of the school year. You had been focused on your crosscountry season and I had been busy trying to set up job interviews. I felt out of place, several times I caught you looking at me from over the sea of faces and I pretended not to notice. Everyone eventually began clearing away as they prepared to go watch the next race. Part of me wanted to follow the crowd away as they walked up the hill to 39

the starting line, but your eyes held me in place. As the crowd left you drifted towards me, until I could no longer ignore you. “Y-you did great.” I said, but it must have sounded lame because your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Something inside me twisted and I heard myself saying, “You’re better than I could ever be.” “Thanks.” You said. Years ago, those words might have made you happy, but now you cast your eyes down to my feet. You looked upset, maybe angry, and maybe guilty. We stood together a moment longer before you left to go watch the next race. I stayed behind and watched as your form disappeared into the throng of cheering people surrounding the starting line, massaging my throat. It burned as though something with dagger-sharp claws had scraped its way out of it. *** I got the call near the end of my junior year in college. It was springtime and I was lifting weights in the university gym, a place I had been spending a lot of time in ever since I’d stopped running. The first two calls went to voicemail, but I answered on the third. It was Dad. I remember listening quietly as he explained it all to me, his normally strong voice breaking with the emotions my brain forgot to feel. He told me you had been training on the gravel roads after school with one of your old teammates. You had been preparing to run in college and you had decided to pull ahead of your friend on your own. “It was dark.” Dad said, his voice cracking. “Coming over the top of the hill there’s no way they could’ve seen- I always told you, I always said.” Your teammate had found you lying on the side of the road. He had to run half a mile to the nearest house in order to call for help and by then it was too late. They never found the driver. I hung up. I wanted to go straight home, but at the time I didn’t have a car. I wanted to call Dad back, but I was afraid to listen to his voice again. If I heard his pain it would be real. So I left the gym and started running without a clear destination in mind. My ankle began to hurt but I ignored it, and soon the sharp pains faded away to a dull throbbing. I kept running until my lunch decorated the front of my shirt, until my lungs burned and my vision blurred, until my legs couldn’t bend anymore and I was forced to waddle as though I didn’t have knees. 40

It was the first time I ran in years, and the last time since. The screeching of tires woke me up. I looked up to see Dad’s silver Chevy pickup parked in front of me, black skid marks traced onto the pavement by its tires. I didn’t remember making it to the interstate. When he got out of the pickup I could tell he wanted to yell, but he didn’t. He just hugged me to his chest and carried me to the passenger side of the pickup. When he set me down in the seat, I laid my head against the window and was glad the dull throbbing in my head drowned out the country music coming through his speakers. The seatbelt dug painfully into my shoulder so I unbuckled it. Dad started to say something, but I ignored him and pretended I had fallen asleep. *** I remember standing by your casket at your visitation. I stood off to one side just behind Dad, content to let him deal with all of the people. He stood straight-backed and tall, greeting guests with an open hand. It reminded me of how he greeted real estate clients at open houses. He would stand by the door with a plate of cookies in one hand and a friendly greeting in the other, with a smile that reached all the way up to his eyes. There was a smile on his face now, but it didn’t reach that far. When one guest walked away Dad’s eyes lost their focus, staring straight ahead, until a new guest stepped forward to fill the vacancy. When he spoke to the guests his mouth moved but his eyes stayed the same. I couldn’t bear to look at either him anymore, so I looked at you. You were dressed as though you were about to attend prom rather than your own funeral. It would have been nice except for your arms. Instead of resting crossed on your chest they remained straight at your sides. Your eyes were closed and your face was flat and serene. You reminded me of that Hulk Hogan action figure, unmovable limbs and a face that was too peaceful. To me it hadn’t even looked like the real one. *** The last time we talked was during the winter break of your senior year, the last one before you died. I arrived several days before Christmas after a rather grueling finals week. You and Dad were on the front step waiting for me. I hadn’t made it to the state meet this year, even though it had been your senior year of high school, but Dad was more than willing to fill me in. He told me about your recent successes; you had broken all of the school records, you had won state, and colleges from all over had their eyes on you. My old coach had even said 41

that you were the best athlete to have ever passed through our high school. Dad sounded so proud. I smiled and nodded, but after he went back inside to prepare for supper it was just you and me alone on the front step. “You missed my race.” You said. “Yeah, I know, I was busy and-” You cut me off before I could finish. “I’m sorry.” You said. “For what?” I asked, surprised. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, with your ankle. If it had been me, I don’t know what I would have done.” You chewed you lip. “I know how you feel-” “Know? What do you know?! Do you know what it’s like to try so hard at something, to give everything you have, and still fail? To watch every ounce of progress you’ve achieved disappear before your eyes? No! I’ll tell you what you know, you know how to win. You know how to be good at everything.” I paused because of the look in your eyes, they were fragile, like someone standing on the edge of a cliff, one push would send you over. Part of me felt guilty and wanted to apologize, but another part of me felt pleasure at the pain I was causing you. “I’m a loser, and you’re a winner. Winners keep moving forward and leave the losers behind to stare at their backs.” I pushed past you and went inside. Even in a house as small as ours, we somehow managed to avoid talking to each other the entire break. Once I walked downstairs to see you watching TV and something came over me. For a moment I stood on the last step, one foot wavering in the air, conflicted between stepping forward and going back. I watched you as you pretended to watch TV, as though you couldn’t see me out of the corner of your eye, wishing I would say something. I wished I would’ve, but instead I turned around and went back upstairs. When break finally ended I almost felt relieved. *** Even now I’m still surprised how it can hit me. Alone outside my apartment or on the gravel road just before home, it’s like my entire body shuts down. I stop breathing, stop thinking, and for a moment I think I’m dead too, but then I feel my heart pumping in my chest and realize that I still have to live without you. I place my hand on my shoulder, the place where you used to rest yours, and wait until I can breathe again. 42

When my breath returns, I realize that I’m still staring at the top of the hill through my rearview mirror. Without knowing why, I open my car door and step out onto the road, taking a moment to enjoy the crunching of gravel beneath my feet. Something pulls me forward and suddenly I’m walking towards the top of the hill. A feeling begins to well up inside of me that I haven’t felt in a long time and it forces me to walk faster and faster as it swells. I hear my feet crunching in the gravel, creating a rhythm with my breath as it goes in and out of my lungs. Something clicks inside of me and suddenly I realize I’m running towards the top of the hill. I turn my head to the side and see you running beside me. At first I’m afraid to look directly at you, afraid that I might see closed eyes and a serene face, but when I do your eyes are laughing and there is smile on your lips. I’m so relieved that I burst out into laughter, sending my voice rolling across the countryside. It feels like the first breath you take after being submerged underwater. Your smile grows larger as your eyes turn forwards and without a word I know what you’re thinking. This time I don’t groan or complain. This time, I smile too. As your speed picks up, I match it to my own, and one last time we race each other to see who will be the first one down our driveway, with the sounds of my echoing laughter chasing us home.

When you told me _____________, I should have said: Kalli Baker I was fired Are you fucking kidding me? With that bow tie and suspender combo, you have actually got to be kidding me. You and I both know that your pseudo-hipster style and kombucha isn’t going to endear you to the younger-and-better version of you that got that promotion, Mason. Well, why isn’t Allen being ‘let go’ as well? Oh, his experience saved him. I’m so sure, that makes complete sense. He’s been here a month longer than I have, but alright. Allen and I check each other’s work, so if I you say I made a mistake he should be held accountable too. But I’ve seen you two hanging out after work a lot lately, so accountability isn’t likely, huh?

He’s sleeping with your sister anyway.

you saw this coming No, Mom, I can’t do so much better than that, that was a literal dream job for anyone trying to get into the film industry. Nope, I can’t sue them either. That’s ridiculous. I definitely wanted to be jobless right before the holidays so all the family snobs can ask me about it. Please don’t try to help me look for a different career. You’re so, so smart when it comes to your research but so oblivious about everything related to my interests. For the last time, I wasn’t trying to be an actress! I majored in design and writing and you know it because you yelling at me about 44

the bill was enough for Mr. Hock to call the neighborhood watch last Easter.

STEM is more stable anyway Aunt Judy, if I hear you bring up Colin’s engineering co-op one more time, I’m going to puke or scream or probably both. Yes, we all can see how successful your family is, we can tell from the gross amount of Calvin Klein and MissMe you wear, thanks. Criticism is a great gift to bring to family gatherings, but I kind of liked the jigsaw puzzles you got us when I was ten better. When’s the last time you were actually happy, Judy? Was it before or after you caught Carl kissing Tennis Instructor Alex? Your life is so perfect, but what did you give up when you decided to be Carl’s showwife instead of going to med-school like you’d planned? Was that too harsh? Pour yourself some more wine. (No one will say anything about it, just like they didn’t say anything when I was a kid and you left Colin with us for a year when you moved to New York.)

I shouldn’t have come if I’m going to be such a brat I would have stayed at Mom’s Christmas if I’d known you were inviting your extended family, Dad. Stepmother #3 isn’t too bad – probably (definitely) too nice for you. Looks like her kid is growing up to be just as obnoxious as you are. What a gift you’ve given him. Which is worse, snobby socialites on Mom’s side or ‘Okay, not to be racist, but-’ racists on your side? They don’t judge me for being jobless but they hate me for having worked in Hollywood. That’s a change of pace I suppose. It’s not really that I can’t win with you all, it’s more like I don’t want to, I guess? Oh wow, 100% nope. We will actually not be discussing my lack of a ‘stable man’. Dad, if Uncle Kevin brings up his single and God-I-hopehe-doesn’t-mingle carwash guy one more time, I’m leaving. I do not care at this point whether you put me in your will or not. The thought of a couple of inherited acres of land used to be appealing 45

but seeing you so angry and remembering how we used to have just the one Christmas is just getting to be too much.

you don’t know why I even try with him Mom, it’s Dad’s house, not a war zone, I think I can manage for a couple hours here without you calling me approximately 32 times. No, I haven’t started looking at another job, I think I’ll just sit here and think about all the ways I could blame you and blame myself and maybe blame my cat and then eat a gallon of caramel ice cream. I’ll sleep for three days and then maybe I’ll have the mental capacity to talk to you about jobs again, at which point we’ll delve into more passive-aggressive bullshit. Maybe we’ll argue about how you’ve never been satisfied with my accomplishments and I’ll finally tell you all about how utterly furious I am that I had to grow up running from your house to Dad’s and back again.

Maybe after the ice cream. I guess we’ll see.

POE TRY POETRY

Buena Shawn Robinson You are lemonade Like this sunshine— Pastel, almost, Bouncing down On your soft hands And your sore cheeks On my bad shoes And my rolled sleeves You are roses Rising— With warmth Pretty petals And layered folds Soft red-caressed My sleepy head rests On your leaves You are my summer And every season after Unbound by time, Your hands in mine, We’ll fill Antarctica With our laughter

Catch and Release Trevor Taylor You used to take us to Jefferson lake. To me it looked more like a pond but all lakes were small compared to Michigan. We’d stand on the banks where the cattails grew and watch the dragonflies dance in the summer sun. We were all your babies then. Even my dad – your son – you told me he’d always be your baby. You taught me how to hook a worm. My clumsy thumb slipped onto the point instead, but you said fish don’t like the taste of men. We never kept what we caught. Neither does your memory now. It’s all just catch and release. Names and dates have reached their limit. But I hope your hooks are still in me. Pierce me twice so I don’t slip away. Till I’m swallowed whole at the bottom of the lake.

Conversation with the Existential Trevor Taylor In the basement of cafĂŠâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s he talks to dead philosophers. Conversations with Kierkegaard, Hegel, and Nietzsche with no one else near His mind steeps, like tea, into thick air. Defusing his thoughts until highly concentrated On the Sisyphean task of monstrous freedom. The beast that devours all people because only he can be happy. Such anxious thoughts bring agony as well as authenticity. The hidden gem of human existence. More easily seen as arrogance. A crumbling will to power soon finds what does not kill us, comes back to finish the 52

job later. Like Christâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s second coming He lied to himself about knowing where was his soul. Rationality, a known killer, was just asking for a friend. Yelling at himself he realised that truth wears more than just one face. Deciding delicately the appropriate expression like an artist picking paints The colours he chose or thought he chose to see, he hoped one day would bleed into one.

chill Kelsey Steinbach blocked on snapchat. call no call back. trying to stomach a generation we seasoned and simmered to taste exactly like that. its twenty eighteen where names on screens seems to be all we really are. im not writing to complain about how much time i spend editing instagram photos or carefully composing tweets. im writing to tell you i used to romanticize the push and pull of the ocean before i nearly drowned in it the first time we met. sometimes i feel like the oceanlike the unexplainable void of everything and nothing. a too deep to dive in body of beauty you long for until youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re swimming and wish for the sand. soft to the touch but salty to the taste. better in photos. better from afar.

double tap text back who can blame us for trying to be someone who doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care about that? im writing to apologize for living life posted behind partitions. my armor, my shield, and my weaponall at once.

Indigo Lindsey Settle First it was your eyes, Indigo like the sea Rendering me still. Awakening the salt on my breath, Circling the wind around me. Then it was your embrace. Enveloping me in a passion Of gold. Content of silence, I wait. Until your hues turn black. And I wait again. For the sunrise.

lovelong Shawn Robinson Our forevers are a collection of many single months all strung straight through a sine wave string. Yarn-cloth ripples make bluebirds sing, sun rays gleam We are no different. We beat to the drum of some cosmic storm. This chest-pressed thud is from there formed. “But what of love?”—I can’t ignore. I ask God laughs not grasped that lasts, amor

I’m Sick of Rom Coms Emily McInerney If I have to watch another movie with some model pretending to be quirky and weird getting the guy who isn’t a high schooler and hasn’t been for some time I may throw up I would rather watch a movie where the girl doesn’t get the guy because she doesn’t need him to make her happy she chooses her hopes and dreams and kicks him to the curb See now I sound cynical Like I hate men and I hate love But that’s far from true I love the idea of love I’m just sick of watching Sweet Home Alabama And having some delusional girl say “but Emily that’s true love, see she asks for a divorce and he doesn’t give it to her Because he loves her so much” Weirdly enough when I was asking to leave And the answer was no Because he loved me so fucking much It didn’t feel like love I want a movie I can watch without wanting to scream I want a movie I can watch without wanting to cringe I want a movie I don’t want to walk out of Even after spending $15 on a ticket and popcorn

I’m sick of girls expecting their lives To be like Love Actually Because actually Love isn’t like that Overall I’m just sick of being told what love looks like at all I’m aware the “love” I’ve known Wasn’t really love But I can also see that that Up there on the silver screen Being projected to the longing eyes Of 12 year old girls Is definitely not love I’m sick of Sandra Bullock I’m sick of Hugh Grant I’m sick of Harry meeting Sally And anyone who’s sleepless in Seattle And anything on Notting fucking hill And Bridget Jones wrote in her stupid diary Because none of that is love And I’m still not laughing And I’m still sick of romantic comedies

Midwest Mountains Sara Davis Winds whip stiff peaks, looming meringue foothills of white press past the horizon Immense masses to scatter the breeze The lights and shadows of termination dust pepper the air with green hues And darkness. Echoes ring among the crags sweet moors beneath them sigh a fell crevasse will break the sun All hail this the coming storm, the Midwestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mighty mountains

N19 Jessica Short I didn’t grow up here, no but I found myself here. Tracing the double yellow lines along the curb out of a rainsplattered window. The concrete under my feet talks back to me as I clack past the houses stitched together in rows. Grey skies keep the city tucked away from the sun. And I make my way down, down, down to the Underground. Minding the gap, buzzing along the tracks. Creating a blur out of stations, places, and people’s faces. I didn’t grow up here, no. But I do belong here.

Standing in the mirror with a dull pair of scissors Sammi Maas When my hair grows long, I chop it off for the joy of freeing something I no longer need. I chop it off, the bottom of the stems, something I no longer need when I set your flowers in a vase. The bottom of my stems rest down my back behind me. When I put your flowers in a vase, I run my fingers through my copper stems. Rest on the floor beside me, and listen to me expel my dreams. Run your fingers through my copper stems and tell me you love me. Listen to me destroy my dreams, my eyes leak desperate tears. Tell me you love me and hold me while I grieve. My eyes leak courageous tears as I chop it off. You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hold me while I grieve, something I no longer need.

Pinot Grigio Jessica Short The condensation rolls down the white wine glass and drip, drip, drips by your fingertips Take a sip and wash away the memory of yesterday when you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even know my name Emerald eyes dilated like mine. Crimson cheeks lit up by neon signs Pop open another bottle and fill my glass to the rim Then the tips of your fingers roll up, up, up my back and you trace your name across my skin

From the Window Noah Levere The boy wakes up and looks at the clock, the 8 year-old moves his midnight hair to the side 1am, his nightly ritual begins He squeaks open the door covered in shadow as the old hinges share their quiet screams, he shuts the door. His sister, fast asleep he creeps across her room as luminescence sneaks in through a crack in the blinds. This light guides him to his destination As he approaches the window, he peers out, there she is. There she sits alone. A woman, widowed by divorce, the man she loved died and became another. A victim of the 50 percent. A look of defeat painted across her face as she stares up to the sky hoping it will provide answers. She sits with a cold Bud Light and a charred cigarette. She drinks and inhales the release she desires It lasts but a moment so she cracks open another can and lights another smoke. The boy had been watching her rehearse this routine for years, he wanted to understand 64

what could be wrong with her. He can’t help but feel sorry for her, he can’t help but watch. During the day this woman was so happy, a caring mother of two children, two soccer players with great grades she loved her job in radio sales, she had a new boyfriend, drove a quality Ford Escape was close with her neighbors but when the sun left the sky, her smile left her face, she left her home and took her place on that step. The two’s nightly rituals became one. Under the moon far from the sun. They would always share those nights alone in the dark. He retreats back to his room, squeaks his door to a close, hops back in bed, sets his alarm for school the next day and shuts his eyes. The next sun comes up his alarm sounds, he pushes his bronze hair to the side and his morning ritual begins. He gets dressed in his usual red striped polo and khakis, he grabs his backpack and heads downstairs for breakfast and there she is the woman from the step sitting at the table “good morning sweetie”

Music Beats the Bleeding Heart Sara Davis Sing! Goddess Sing the rage brought forth from suffering borne against the pious spit of he who saw through eyes shut tight the rape of all so fair and just Sing the cries of she who wept and scorn the man who sew the truth beneath indignant face, farce fate he thinketh is his own Goddess, weep, your sistersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; heart has broken, eâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re its progress made was quick and seemed to light the torch yet caused such grief when slipped away stout fingers grasped around the throat of she who shared her song Sing, oh goddess, be her muse, in fervor chant our stories now, intone me too! for hearts that bleed the garish man who thinks himself your god and ours, expose let no candle burn in vain let not our voice be drowned

Normal Annalise Shearer I wake to coyotes howling in the night like women screaming Wait for my heartbeat to slow Try to go back to sleep I rise at dawn to make him eggs Two sunny-side up with toast slathered in jam He rolls out of bed in his sweat-stained shirt Bare feet padding on the faded tile Chews and chews Doesn’t look at me I rest my hands on my belly like a child touching a globe “It’s a girl,” they said three months ago I tried to smile He stroked my hair that day, said, “she’ll be just like you” I looked at my feet threw up in the bathroom They said, “that’s normal” 67

snowdrift Isabelle Shutt My father is outside shoveling. I can hear the scrape of the scratched metal on the raw cement, I can feel the heat radiate from inside our house to the outside. When the door drifts open, the temperature drops with it, snow flecks in on little wispy currents that trail its tendrils down the hall, raising goosebumps on my arms. My father digs a 20 foot trench and scales its icy insides His foot itches at the same spot on the snowy cliffs so that he has to move slightly to the left slightly to the left. His steps reach up only briefly, then slip back down. Lingering when he is done, there is a ring of polished ice above him: the snow and his daughter. He sits down in his self-made valley. His breath pulses in the still air, never feeling heavier the snow stirs up in great plumes, never feeling lighter Inside the house, I am in my bed. Dreams are still melting the liquid sound the icicles make as they drip against my window seep into my subconscious mind. Put the kettle on the stove to boil Wait for the leaky faucet to stop, screw it around and around but the sound is still there. I keep turning. My father has made a tunnel. A labyrinth, he calls it. It twists and turns under the skin of our yard like empty veins. He labors outside the kitchen window, tugging the corners in folding them down around him down and around, From the first bright rays of sunlight, when they strike the earth to the melting snow that drips from the pine. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m inside with the oven on, dropping batter straight into the muffin pans bare metal gleaming. 68

My father is setting up traps. He thinks it best to keep a few skeletons around to let people know to give them warning. Before they wipe their feet on our doormat and see the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Home, sweet homeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; buried under all that cold. When I wake up my father is stomping his boots on our front porch snow falls onto our threadbare carpet, turning to water when it hits the floor. I sweep it up and put the kettle on the stove to boil. Choose the tea from the cupboard, help him out of his coat. When I look away across the yard, the lawn is on fire- the snow is melting. It looks like spring.

In the Aftermath of Pain Mallory Gunther In the Aftermath of Pain Everyone is waiting for me to produce some kind of magnificently transcending piece of art or poetry or a Facebook article all my friends who didn’t visit me can share with all their friends who don’t know meabout a girl they know who almost died but didn’t. I’m here to tell you what doctors and nurses will tell you but Greys Anatomy won’tthere’s nothing poetic about spewing your guts repeatedly from your body onto the floor of your parent’s bathroom and out the window of your mom’s new Range Rover and into a gas station donut bag in the ER while sitting next to a little boy who needs 5 stitches but he got 70

there first so he gets to be treated firsteven after they turn up the volume on the TV trying to cover the sound of your vomiting. When your pancreas tries to kill you in a weird suicide pact you didn’t sign up for, you’ll be in such excruciating pain, then pumped full of morphine, and when that morphine doesn’t work they’ll give you more morphine and you’ll be so high that you can’t make your fingers into a fist. You can’t feel anything but at least you can’t feel pain. But you can overhear your grandparents asking your nurses if you should really be on all that morphine because they heard on CNN, or maybe it was MSNBC, or it could have been ABC, they don’t knowthat there’s a growing number of people becoming addicted to morphine and they don’t want their granddaughter turning into a drug addict. You ring the bell for morphine again. And then you vomit 71

again. They inject you with an anti-nausea medication, but you vomit anyways. You vomit so violently you think what’s left of your pancreas might be caught in the upchuckand you picture your pancreas retched from your body onto the vinyl flooring and all you can feel is guilt for the janitor, Frank, who cleans your room every day and now has to clean up your various organ bits. You imagine every scenario in which your faulty organ suddenly expels itself from your body until you’re given enough morphine to turn your brain off, and then you vomit again. You’re starving because you learn the hard way that your pancreas aids digestion, and when your pancreas abruptly quits on you, your body will reject any sort of solid or liquid food substance. You’re empty but you still vomit. You vomit stomach bile and it burns coming up your throat. You vomit so much you give yourself a panic attack, so you’ll 72

be injected with Ativan and then more morphine and another dose of anti-nausea medication, but a different one this time because clearly the last one was no good. After that you vomit until you shit yourselfand you will have to call a nurse to come wipe your ass because you are physically incapable of doing it yourself. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll spend another two months in the hospital cycling between vomit and morphine and Ativan and vomit and morphine and vomit and Ativan and vomit and vomit and vomit and morphine and vomit. You will want to die or you will wish you were already dead. I am tired of explaining again and again and again to people who were not there and people who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t actually care My body does not want to be a poem.

la douleur exquise (kinda) Kelsey Steinbach the last time i saw him i didn’t know it would be the last time i saw him. we drove down an old dirt road and smoked a joint in his carbecause it doesn’t get more iowa than that. reaching through the smog we had created, his palm met my cheek. his fingers through my hair, pulling me close, kissing me, tugging, sweating, moaning, and sighing“i love you” how many mountains did i climb to hear him say those words? is that why i said it back? i think life does that sometimes, ya know? creates a journey more exciting than the destination. a pregame more fun than the party. a mountain more scenic than the peak. i saw him. a small pool on a hot summer day but the closer i came, 74

the harder i fell and found he was only a mirage. an illusion of desire aligned in my eyes just for a moment. for so long he built walls i could never break down, yet here i am summiting the impossible, wishing i wouldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve said something else.

Walking into a Library Emma Hartman I’m back here again evaluating the rows of eligible men. There are hundreds of them eagerly waiting for me to pick them up. Many of them I’ve taken home and some multiply times. That’s when you find a really good one who touches you in just that right way. Those are the best bedtime men. Sometimes I’ve juggled more than one, my personal best is four at once. Each one I did something different too. One guy I threw against a wall making his spine crack and he fell with a thud. I didn’t like the words he said to me, so he had to be punished. A different guy made my toes curl and body anxious to see what he would do to me. I caressed each corner and never ripped him. As good as they are I can’t have just one, so I keep coming back to find a new or old one who wants to be opened up and not be judged by their covers or titles.

My boyfriend doesn’t understand why I spend so much time with them, or why I keep going back. He seems to think that he is better than them. But he is just footnote in my world, he needs more depth and complexity to be my perfect fantasy, so I 76

bring in the others. I am the writer who is creating her perfect leading male character and the sheets are my paper. Soon my boyfriend isn’t kissing me it’s Romeo, Heathcliff is pulling me closer to his chest, Athos is tearing off my shirt, and Jay Gatsby pulls me deep under all of covers. How can one mortal man compare to all of them? He can’t and that’s why I’m here again. I can have any man I want tonight. I control who I take home and who stays for a short fling, or who joins my novel collection of men. For me to lose myself in anytime I want.

V IS U AL R A S T VISUAL ARTS

More than a number Kara K. Gravert

Pangram Alice Tosi

Facing Yourself Kara K. Gravert

Omnipresent Observer Kalli Baker

Death of a Myth Kara K. Gravert

Sick Kara K. Gravert

The Arrow That Flies By Day Alyssa Clayton

Author Bios In alphabetical order by first name. Alice Tosi Alice Tosi is a third-year Architecture major who is slowly coming to terms with the inevitability of coffee dependence. She is also doublemajoring in Spanish and minoring in Sustainability. In her free time, she enjoys drawing and painting, watercolor holding a special place in her heart.

Alyssa Clayton Alyssa is a sophomore in Graphic Design. She’s been drawing sporadically since she was little, but didn’t get really into it until recently. Digital art is her favorite, but she’s been known to dabble in traditional painting. Someday she hopes to be a graphic novelist.

Amanda Schuler Amanda is a junior in Environmental Science who has always loved to read and write. After too many of her friends laughed at her when she said she likes to write cover letters, she decided to try her hand at writing fiction instead.

Annalise Shearer Anna Shearer is a junior in English at ISU.

Emily McInerney Emily McInerney is an aspiring children’s book author who dabbles in poetry and other works. She also is working on getting a degree in English Education and would like to teach junior high schoolers the wonders of literature. She is a dog person and her favorite color is green. Her favorite genre is nonfiction and she loves stories about people who are far more accomplished than her. She hopes you enjoy this poem about how romantic comedies are kind of bogus.

Emily Smith Emily Smith is a sophomore at Iowa State University studying English. She hopes to one day go into the book or magazine publishing industry. Although she has always enjoyed reading more, Emily furthered her passion for writing in her creative writing class Freshman year. Emily is also involved in Trend Magazine editorial committee and in The Salt Company as a student leader, a student ministry on campus. In her free time, Emily loves to read, listen to music, bake, study her Bible, and spend quality time with her friends, family, and pets.

Emma Hartman Emma Hartman is a senior majoring in Marketing and minoring in English. She is a member of the Mortar Board and NSLS. She enjoys reading, writing, and playing with her dog. One of her favorite quotes is from a fortune cookie. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Words, once spoken, can never be recalled.â&#x20AC;?

Isabelle Shutt Isabelle Shutt is a junior in Environmental Studies and English, recently transferred from Tufts University. She enjoys gardening, political activism, and taking pictures of mushrooms.

Jamie Campbell Jamie is a junior majoring in English Education. She is starting to realize how fun creative writing is, and is exploring her abilities thanks to her Write like a Woman class. She highly recommends taking it. The stories, the skills and, the treats are worth the stress.

Kalli Baker Kalli is a senior triple-majoring in English, History, and Classical Studies. She hopes to attend graduate school for history and work either in academia or in public history.

Kara K. Gravert Kara Gravert is a junior studying Anthropology concentrating on Art and Culture, but she is particularly interested in concepts of culture and punishment. To the viewer: As a human, we must cry, become ill, and experience death. These pieces have been my release from suppressive expectations of our culture.

Kelsey Steinbach Kelsey is a junior studying to become an English teacher. When she isn’t drinking Dr. Pepper, she is writing poetry about stupid boys.

Kody Wallick Alice Tosi is a third-year Architecture major who is slowly coming to terms with the inevitability of coffee dependence. She is also doublemajoring in Spanish and minoring in Sustainability. In her free time, she enjoys drawing and painting, watercolor holding a special place in her heart.

Lindsey Settle Lindsey Settle is a senior studying journalism and mass communication with a minor in French. She’s the best friend you’ve never met and the shot of peppermint of you need to survive the winter. If you know of a good coffee shop she wants to know. And if you’re looking for her, don’t bother. She’s on a plane flying somewhere. In the meantime, enjoy her stories.

Noah Levere Noah Levere is an English Education major at Iowa State University. He enjoys writing poetry but has never thought about having his works published. When asked about it he decided to give it a shot. He has always loved writing. Ever since his days at Waukee High School. He is taking 19 credits at the moment while also working at Red Lobster and being a part of the Phi Kappa Psi fraternity.

Ryan Byrnes Ryan Byrnes is the author of five novels, including a young adult fantasy series and a historical fiction novel, Royal Beauty Bright, to be published in Spring 2019 by Amphorae Publishing Group. He has worked for publishers, literary agents, and has even started his own publishing imprint. To Byrnes, literature is not a means of escapism, but a technology that builds empathy and provides a voice for the weakest people on Earth. Byrnes currently lives in Iowa, where he is studying English and engineering.

Sammi Maas Sammi Maas is a junior in Secondary English Education from the Chicago area and wants to teach writing in a high school after graduation. She wants to prepare future students for a world of reading and writing while instilling creativity and critical thinking. Her favorite forms of writing are poetry and vignettes. 90

Sara Davis Sara Davis is a senior in English Education. She has been writing stories and poetry since she was 10 years old, and hopes to bring that passion for creative writing into her future classroom. She especially enjoys writing as a means of self-expression and vehicle to respond to current events.

Shawn Robinson Shawn is a graduating senior in English Education. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing he enjoys more than making pretty things for the pretty people in our pretty life.

Trevor Taylor Trevor Taylor is a senior studying English.

Volume 83.1 Fall 2018 @Iowa State Sketch

@sketch.isu

@Sketchliterary