The Laureate 22nd Edition

Editorial Board

WESTERN MICHIGAN UNIVERSITY

Editors-in-Chief: Kalloli Bhatt and Nadia Famiano

LEE HONORS COLLEGE

Faculty Editor: Becky Cooper

Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Townsend

Dean: Dr. Irma Lopez

Assistant Dean: Anthony Helms

THE DESIGN CENTER, GWEN FROSTIC SCHOOL OF ART

Art Direction: Nick Kuder and Paul Sizer

Design: Kennedy Allen, Duncan Burdick, Nancy Cowles, Cameron Greene, Peter Morris

The editors wish to thank Western Michigan University’s Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College.

Mission Statement

The mission of the Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College is to provide an exceptional undergraduate experience for high achieving students, to inspire in our graduates a thirst for the lifelong pursuit of creative inquiry and discovery, to provide our students with the skill and passion to address critical challenges and to foster personal responsibility informed by a global perspective.

The Laureate’s mission is to provide undergraduate students at Western Michigan University a medium through which to publish their works of fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and other creative works. The Laureate strives to be a professional and engaging journal that appeals to all.

Letter From the Co-Editor

Welcome, and thank you for reading the 22nd edition of The Laureate. As a journalist who occasionally dabbles in creative works, I admire the genius, spontaneity and dedication to their work(s) the artists within these pages have displayed. It takes a lot out of artists and their works when subjected to the editorial process. From gathering the confidence to submit to a publication, anxiously waiting to hear back and going through the painstaking process of having an editor scrutinize every word, stroke or note, I’m grateful to these artists for coming on this journey with us.

I’d also like to thank all of those who submitted to the publication. Whether or not their work is in here, it takes a lot to have someone else decide whether your work is a fit for publication. I would also like to thank the Design Center. This journal would not look the way it does without all of your help in making it. It could not have been easy using three general words, running with them and producing this edition.

In addition to the artists, I’d like to thank Becky Cooper. She is an amazing teacher and a wonderful thesis chair. Working on the journal would not have as fun as it was if she hadn’t guided Nadia and me through the hard parts. She made sure we stayed on schedule and helped arrange opportunities for both the artists involved and us. I owe a lot of my love for writing, reading and general curiosity to her.

I would also like to thank Jennifer Townsend, Dean Irma López, Assistant Dean Anthony Helms and, by extension, the Lee Honors College. To Jennifer Townsend: thank you for looking at the last version of the manuscript. Your fine eye helps catch all the errors we missed. To Dean López: you’re always excited about listening to developments on The Laureate. If a professor makes a class, a supportive dean is the foundation for an excellent college experience. To Assistant Dean Helms: thank you for always looking out for opportunities for us. Your suggestions will always help embellish our CVs.

Last but not least, I’d like to thank Nadia Famiano. Whether she realizes it or not, Nadia inspires me to improve myself everyday. Her dedication to her craft will take her to new heights and grant the admiration of all who come across it. Those characteristics show through her work on his edition. From finding out we were Co-Editors-in-Chief to the submission of our final writing for this thesis, I’m really glad I got to do this with you.

— Kalloli Bhatt

Letter From the Co-Editor

I have had such an amazing time working on this project. I love all things reading and writing and editing so this was truly a blast. It was an absolute honor to work with this extremely talented group of authors, photographers, and artists. I continue to be impressed by the works they presented us with. I know each and every one of them has a bright future in publication ahead of them. Working on this project was such an amazing opportunity to dip my toes once again into the world of publishing and I am beyond excited for all of the talented people who get to have their work featured here.

Working on this project, as fulfilling as it was, proved to be quite a lot of hard work. I am endlessly thankful to have been able to work with the team that I had, especially my fellow co-editor Kalloli Bhatt. If she had a dollar for everytime she had to hear me say “I have no idea what I’m doing” she would probably be living in a nice beach house in the Bahamas by now. She is wildly intelligent and continues every day to use tons of really big words that I barely understand but impress me nonetheless. I can’t imagine working on this project with anyone else. The energy when working with Kalloli is unmatched and I wish her nothing but the best in all of her future plans.

The backbone of The Laureate is undoubtedly our mentor, Becky Cooper. It is impossible to have a conversation with her and not find yourself completely in awe. To know her is to be obsessed with her. She brings such a perfect blend of mentor, friend, and hard worker to everything she does. It’s impossible

to be around her for more than 10 minutes without absolutely grinning. Whether it is well balanced advice or a funny story, everything she says is presented with kindness. I’ve learned so much in these few months working with her and I will always be grateful for the part she played in my overall college experience.

I want to thank all of the Editors-in-Chief who made the previous editions of The Laureate possible. They gave us the perfect jumping ground to get started. We used their works as a reference and were able to see their unique individuality shine through in each publication. I only hope that our contribution to this wonderful tradition makes them proud.

Finally, I want to recognize the support provided by the Lee Honors College. Big shoutout to them, especially to Dean Lopez, Assistant Dean Helms, and Jennifer Townsend. I would also like to recognize all of the hard work of those on the design team. I have no idea how they do what they do, and I will forever be in awe of their talents.

This publication would not be possible if not for all of these amazing people. And of course, if not for you, the one reading this. I hope you enjoy the 22nd edition of The Laureate, I know I do.

— Nadia Famiano

Grace Cieslikowski

Various Forms of Friction

Friction /'frikSH n/ (noun.): the resistance that one surface or object encounters when moving over another.

: rubbing, chafing, grating, scraping, or abrading.

: the heat from the gun when you pulled the trigger. Aimed right at my chest. No mercy. No questions. Point blank. Boom.

: the pain in my chest as my heart slid to my stomach.

: a reason for all the bleeding

: why I wake up unable to breathe

: an explanation for the burns.

: what it’s like when I think of you

: why I try not to feel.

Friction /'frikSH n/ (noun .): a conflict of animosity caused by a clash of wills, temperaments, or opinions.

: my eagerness to fight

: your willingness to disappear

: to give up

: to forget

: to lose.

: how I lost you. Quickly through my fingers as you fell into oblivion (a.k.a) a space that exists entirely separate from me. A place to which I cannot follow.

: to not apologize

: to not give me a reason

: to not say goodbye.

: to have nobody to call because the person I want to call is you

Friction /'frikSH n/ (noun.): a word to which I give new meaning

: the faces of those who turned my birch born body into a campfire

: the spark when our eyes meet and how it’s extinguished when I realize you still don’t see me

: the rugburns on my lungs from all the breaths I tried to give you

: trying to care for you

: trying to be there for you

: trying to love you

: me moving on

: me facing this life without you

: me failing and falling, yet still ceasing to succumb to the smoke e

Andrew Bohula Sun Set on Waldo

Vivian Williams

Miracle Car

The little pink butterfly hanging on the mirror bounces as the old car travels down the dusty dirt road. The loud noises the car makes are a mystery, one mystery he has long given up on solving. But, the noises are still not enough to drown out the loud, off-key singing of his five-year-old daughter in the back seat.

He smiles, looking in the rearview mirror as his little girl belts her heart out, dancing around in her seat to the music, making up new lyrics for the song she’s heard a million times.

She calls this the miracle car. It’s a miracle alright, a miracle it’s still running.

He got the car cheap, reasonably so, given its condition. A backfire at every turn. There’s no paint on it, just primer. The cloth seats have cigarette burns, and the bottom right corner of the front window is cracked.

But to his little girl, this car is magic. She loves riding home in it, taking in its sweet dusty smell. She always begs him to let her move the stick shift to see how far they could go without pressing the gas, and asks him to play the cassette tape stuck in the car’s music system that she’s currently singing to now.

His smile widens when he thinks of the time he took her and her little cousins to an arcade. He told them all to close their eyes, and then put the car in gear making it shake and rattle even more than usual. He drove the car around the block to stop right next door at the amusement park. The kids stared in awe when they opened their eyes, thinking it was magic that made them travel many miles instead of right across the street.

He slows down the car and pulls into the driveway, smile fading. A nicely dressed lady stands in front of the house, tapping her foot, casting an all too familiar stare at the car and at him. The tan line on her ring finger quickly fading.

He knows he’s going to get an earful, for the dirt all over his little girl’s pants, the craziness of her wind-blown hair, thanks to the window that won’t roll up. But her sunshine smile makes all the troubles of this “miracle” car, of her mother’s stares, fade, as she jumps out of the backseat and runs around to give her daddy one last hug until next Friday.

Teenage Years

Kayla Lambert

Shelby Vaughn

To Be Loved .

I’m not pretty enough to be asked out on a date and given a flower

But enough when the lights are low to get invited to his apartment at dusk

Not desirable enough to experience that slow burning love

Only acceptable to just fuck and pass on

I’m not alluring enough to be introduced to his parents

Yet suitable to be shit talked by his homeboys about how much of “bore” I am

How “insecure” I am

How much of a “headache” I am

How much of a “hassle” I’ve become

How fat I am

How I’m not as pretty as my friends

How I’ll never be

Enough.

I’m not ever enough be the first option

Still, I’ll always be the one he comes and calls when shit hits the fan

The one he calls when he needs a friend

Someone who loves him

Someone to play pretend with

Someone he knows will defend him

I can never just be pretty

Gorgeous

Beautiful

I can never just be elegant

Dazzling

Breathtaking

Never be pretty all around

Or pretty enough to truly be loved.

Madalyn L. Rockwell

To Catherine

When I die

Will you be my moon?

I need something to look forward to From the cool dirt against my back

And the worms holding my hands

I want to see you

Great stone above my head

So that

Even when you’re far, you’re near

And

Even when I’m dead, you’re here.

Nervous Giraffe Pomegranate

Bailey Miller Like a Lyre (In the key of G)

The moon along the water calls me empty It taunts me ‘til I feel the absent fire

I crawled the seven sands to meet the morning

That ‘ol moon rose to greet me every night

I plundered seven seas to meet the morning

The plunder empties me;

it leaves me dry

I only met a woman who kept me lonely

I never knew a thing to steer me right

Heavy

like a lyre

Heavy is the heart that aches for mine

The stars along the towers call me crazy

For climbing to their windows every night

I climbed the seven wonders in a lifetime

But I couldn’t clasp the walls of her mind

Shadows fall on mainstreet in the evening

Young lovers hound for hearts in the mines

I only found a love who left me empty

As that ‘ol moon

shallow moon loves to remind

Heavy

like a lyre

Heavy is the heart that aches for mine

Heavy

like a lyre

Heavy is the heart that aches for mine

Kayla Lambert

“Decomposition Song”

His second existence began in darkness.

When he came to his new reality, there was an extended period of unbearable anxiety–he buzzed with energy but he could not release it. Though his body burned with the wish to explore, he could not find the will to move.

He could not see. Something was eating at his skin: a tickling sensation, not unpleasant, yet uncomfortable. He wanted to brush it away but his arms refused to budge, his legs stuck in their position. Something was in his mouth–slimy, gritty and too unfamiliar. Dirt came to mind. Even as he tried to part his lips to scream, no movement occurred.

He felt no pain. For that, he was grateful. Regardless, he wanted to escape whatever plot he’d been placed in, wanted to shout until someone saved him. No words escaped him, though, no air moved through his lungs.

It felt like hours before he came to accept this different existence. Unsure of what was happening to him, he felt himself fall back into a state of mild endurance. He let his mind shut off and remained still.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been there.

The world around him had been dirt for so long that he had not been able to keep track of the moon’s cycle or see the sun rise or set; his universe had been dirt, maggots and worms for so long that he was stuck in liminality. There was ambiguity as to what day it was, or if it was even day, and he was not sure if he felt comfort in that or not.

He knew he was dead–that was made clear by his still chest and stagnant limbs–but he didn’t know how he had died. He didn’t remember anything about his life before he was here, in the ground. He didn’t even know where in the world he was; all he knew was that he was trapped. There was no afterlife, no great beyond–just existing in a body that didn’t respond to anything, even if he wanted it to.

It was bittersweet. He didn’t remember if he was religious, but wished there was another plane of existence he could tolerate. He was saved from Hell, but he was averted from Heaven. Maybe he should be thanking someone, or maybe he should be mourning something. Rather than focusing on this, he endures. He prefered not to focus on this eternal rest.

A shovel, followed by a gasp, interrupted these thoughts.

The shovel stopped its movements. A hand came down, and it brushed the dirt off of his pale face. He relished the touch, appreciating the feeling of warm, dry skin on his cold, damp one. He couldn’t remember ever experiencing the feeling of flesh on flesh before.

The hand recoiled. Who was this?

“I’m sorry,” a voice whispered.

If his heart worked, it would have skipped a beat. The voice was smooth, like cream, and sweet. Please speak again, he prayed.

He did not expect her to come back again, but she did. It felt like forever, but it also felt like seconds before her touch graced his skin once more. He wasn’t even sure if it was skin anymore—he did not know where in the decomposition process he was, but he did know that he felt alive when she touched him.

She was always gentle while brushing the dirt off of his body. Taking his hand in hers, she’d whisper, “I’m sorry,” in his ear over

and over.

One time, she whispered, “I love you.” If he could have moved at all, he would have shuddered at the words.

He wished he could have responded. He wished he could have said, “I love you,” back to her and held her in his arms. He couldn’t reciprocate how she felt. He couldn’t move. He had no idea who this was, or why he felt this way.

He wanted to kiss her—to feel her lips on his, to appreciate the softness of her skin. It broke his heart knowing he couldn’t, ever. He wanted to answer her questions. He had so many wants and wishes, but none of them could come true. She kept coming back.

Her presence was like a drug to him, one that kept his spirit alive and mind whirring. Slowly, the wonder began to creep in.

He had no idea who she was. Why was she here? What could she possibly want from him? Why did she say she loved him if he didn’t know who she was? How did she find him, buried in the earth below her?

His wondering left a heavy weight on his chest.

One day, she came with flowers. He could smell their earthy, vibrant scent and felt their weight on his chest. What color were they? What kind of flowers did she bring? He wished he could see, wished he could admire. If he did, he might be able to look this woman in the eye and understand her.

“Hi,” she said. “I brought you some roses. I don’t know if those were your favorite. I never got the chance to find out what your favorites were.” She paused. “But you knew what mine are. You always knew.”

Did he know her?

She continued, “Your father misses you. We all do. We forget you’re gone, sometimes, and we talk about you like you’re still here.”

Who was this woman? Why did she love him?

Who was he?

“No one knows that I come here,” she whispered. “No one knows that I know where you are. It’s our little special secret spot. Just you and me. Just like you always wanted.”

He felt his mind lurch at her words, and he took in what she was saying and folded it close to his heart. She sounded so forlorn, so lost. Despite his urge to comfort her, his arms remained in their position and his face marblesque and cold. He willed himself to move, to make a noise, but he could not.

As much as he hated it, he was still dead.

“I’m sorry the only time we kissed was in the rain,” she said. “I’d kiss you a thousand times more if I could.”

Thousands of little snowflakes of inquiry swirled around his head. She had kissed him? That fact was enough to make him want to jump for joy, to get up and run, frolic, jump and never stop.

But he couldn’t, not anymore.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. “I promise.”

And just like that, she left–holding his heart in her hands.

For reasons unknown to him, she continued to come back to him.

He’d be revealed to the world, free from his earthen prison. Some days the sun baked his wilting skin; other days, the wetness of the rain ran over him and washed the dirt away.

He didn’t want to ask any more questions; he didn’t care about the answers anymore. All he wanted was her voice to ring in his ears and her words to pierce his skin. She was all he had.

Day after day, she continued to arrive. Day after day, he felt himself disappear more and more, but she didn’t seem to care. She would bring flowers, and they would melt into him as he melted into the earth. She would talk, and he would listen. He was content this way. He had no need for anything else.

She would tell him stories of himself and his life before death. He soaked up every word, yearning to remember a life where he could touch her, be with her, truly love her.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked one day. He didn’t. She told him.

“Do you remember that time you met my mother?” she asked another day. Again, he didn’t. Again, she told him.

“Do you remember when we broke curfew that one night?” she asked another day. He never remembered, but she always told him.

It went like this for a long time. He was happy with her voice by his side, excited to have any company. But she wasn’t just any company—she was special. Truly a being beyond his full comprehension. He could recognize the cadence of her voice anywhere, understand the dips and shrills it created when she was depressed or excited.

He wished he could respond to her. He wanted to know how she’d react to his voice.

One day, when she came to him, she came with a quiet fury. He could sense her lack of composure, feel the energy vibrating off of her. He imagined that if he could see her,

he’d be terrified of the radiating passion.

There was no introduction today. There were no soft memories rolling off her tongue. He didn’t realize she was crying until he felt the wetness of her tears on his papery skin.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I think he knows that I come here. I think he knows where you are.”

Who? Why are you scared?

He hadn’t experienced fear in a very long time–there was no reason for him to, his existence consisted of stillness and disintegrating—but now, he felt it coursing through him.

“I buried you here so that no one would find you,” she continued. “On the bank of the lake. So that we could finally be alone, but I’m not sure that was a good idea. You were supposed to be celebrated, memorialized, remembered.”

She sniffled. “He took you away from me. He stole you from me, your parents, everyone. It’s not fair. And now, I’m afraid he’s going to do the same thing to me.”

She stayed for longer that day. She didn’t disappear back into the world, like she usually did, after only an hour of staying with him. This time, it felt like days. She was next to him, her hand caressing his disappearing being. He mourned with her.

He didn’t know what happened to him. He didn’t understand how he ended up in the ground; he didn’t know if he was fated to exist here by some omnipotent being, or if he was tortured by a living, breathing person. But he did know that he couldn’t let that happen to her.

How? There was no way for him to prevent anything.

She never came back after that.

He waited with nothing else to do—time was his prison, and all he could do was lie in his grave and wait. He felt empty without her, her voice and soft hands. He was both alone and lonely, something he hadn’t experienced before she came along.

She might’ve forgotten—might’ve been busy, breathing, doing things in the living world. He would’ve been jealous if the relief of knowing she was still alive wasn’t dominating. He wouldn’t wish it upon anybody to be where he was right now.

So he lie. His bones still, his body melting into the earth. The worms ate at his limbs until they became thin, and he felt himself slowly give way to the world. This was how he was meant to be. This was where he belonged.

One day, the shovel returned. It began digging, but instead of digging him up, it dug beside him. There was no sweet voice nor a caress of kindness. Everything about her wasn’t there. Remaining curious, he searched for clues as to who this might be.

The digging stopped. He felt a chasm of emptiness to his left, where dirt should’ve been. Why was the spot next to him open? What was its purpose?

He heard a thump, and felt something be placed next to him. Silky smooth skin was placed in his left hand. Skin he would recognize anywhere. If he still had it, his heart would’ve plummeted.

The skin was cold, lifeless, soft, but stiff—rigor mortis had set in. It was her—he could tell. This was why her voice disappeared from his world. This is why she’d stopped coming to him. It all made sense now, but the truth destroyed him. She didn’t deserve the world he lived in. She didn’t deserve the pain of rotting in this pointless existence.

A part of him wished he could revel in this, celebrate her eternal rot with him by her side. But this was something he’d never wished for her. He’d dreamed, time and time again, of her hand forever in his, but never like this.

If he could sink further into the ground, he would. Her cold fingers sat in his, and his soul ached.

He could feel himself being torn apart, atom by atom, as the dirt around him swallowed him whole. His second life was coming to an end; worm food was all that was left of him now.

He never found out what happened to her. He never discovered why she came to him, or who took her from him. All he knew was that he loved her with every fiber that was left of his being–his soul was hers to hold, mold and play with, and he’d gladly accept any part she’d play in its creation.

He prayed that she wasn’t existing the way he was now, that she was in some sort of divine afterlife or that she didn’t exist at all anymore. Anything was better than remaining like this: slowly becoming one with the Earth, waiting for herself to succumb to the creatures around her.

He knew it was coming, and he mourned the end of himself. He mourned for what he did not know. There was nothing he could do now except wait.

Oblivion came, and he accepted it reluctantly.

The Richardstown Chronicle

February 14, 1993

By Aaron Centry, staff reporter

The bodies of two people were found buried near the Volo Bog State Natural Area off Highway 42 on Feb. 11. Local law enforcement arrived at the scene around 2 a.m. after an anonymous call was made to dispatch reporting the remains.

One female and one male were located in a recently dug shallow grave, according to the authorities.

“It’s unlikely that the two were buried at the same time,” said Richardstown Police Officer Tom Hentwood, “as one body had significant decomposition, while the other was in the beginning stages of the process.”

Police have not made a statement about the identities of the two individuals. However, identification could be challenging due to the decay, according to police.

Authorities are asking for information related to missing persons in the area.

Vivian Williams Sunset at Valley Ponds

Jonah Evans

Morning Light

The memory lingers of a dream of stolen time where my head lay against your shoulder for the last time, and I said I love you for the last time as we waited together for coming judgment or reckoning or we knew not what.

Is the appeal of love really its transience or is that just the pain of love, of life: that one can never fully keep what matters most on earth, because colors fade with the sun, and an instant alters, changes, ends life, like a pink cloud cracked across the sky until a slip of time brings bruised and purple grey.

But no matter the alteration or change or ending, you’ll be there in the face of one who made the clouds, who cracked the pink and made the grey and purple sky, who set the dream of more to come as a yearning in our hearts for more than transience, impermanence, ultimate false acceptance. No, a yearning for the day that is His and will not change.

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Heat Transfer

You’re the sun to my reptilian skin

You breathe me out

I breathe you in

Consume you

Flesh to flesh

Scale to skin

The most you’ll make of me

Is watered down lemonade

Room temperature, with languished ice cubes that refuse to fade.

Penetrate you with my nature

Your blood red

My blood blue

Already dying, life already used

Coil you in my arms

As you fall asleep

A body so frozen

It thinks it feels heat

Leasia

Taylor Gray

The Darkness Did Not Overcome

Fog accumulates in my chest as hours collapse into days. It drifts between bones, seizing my throat entangling my ribs.

Hovering silently, like morning mist across a barren pasture. Murky and dense Casting shadows of doubt; determined to snuff out any remaining light.

Miraculously, this fog never consumes me. For amidst the haze a little golden orb emerges from the secret place. A hidden garden with ivory lilies blooming in the warmth of the sun.

Encircling my desolate heart in gilded threads of light.

Liquid sunshine courses through my veins, an illuminating joy.

Bailey Miller

Doves on the Eaves

(In the key of B)

On the roof of the Radisson hotel

Two lovers look like doves on the eaves

Watching the art kings and hedge fund thieves

Stroll through the hungry ravine

In a room filled with prescription drugs

And bu zz ing breathing machines

Two lovers live like prisoners

Of a stock trader’s mortgage scheme

Say

Do you think you love me?

Do you think it’s all meant to be?

If we could make it through the boss’s share

We can make it through anything

To the north of the private schoolhouse

Two hands pack the air with paint

It colors the lungs of the redlined homes

And cakes every fertile grain

To the south of the historic homes

Thirty-thousand kids p l u n g e into debt

They’ve signed any honest wage away to arcane requirements

Say

Do you still love me?

Do you still think it’s meant to be?

If we could dodge the cars barreling at our brains

We can make it through anything

Hey baby!

Meet me at the lake!

Let’s take in the October leaves

I heard that soon

they’re gonna raze these trees

$ City council’s got a carwash disease $

All these nights spent un tangl ing the lights

That burn us at every sight

Are we just wasting our time?

Questioning this town from these eaves

Say I’m in love with you

And I’m sure it’s all meant to be

If we can make it out of this ten-lane maze

We can make it through anything

Koi Fish

Gracie Klingbeil

By Joey Cruz

Time’s Ocean

Time’s ocean swallows me whole

It runs and runs and runs

Never slowing

Never stopping

I try to beat it

Outrun it

I’m sprinting towards dry land

Faster and faster and faster

Until there’s a pounding drum of heartbeat in my head

A terrifying lack of air in my lungs

The violent waves of time’s ocean begin grabbing and pulling

Each crest growing angrier

I’m kicking and screaming

Begging for another chance

Just another minute

Just another second

Please

My body begins to slip away

My fingertips extend to the sky

Desperately trying to stay exposed to life

But the selfish sea is dragging me under and drowning me

For as long as I live

I fear I will continue to be swallowed

Choked

And drowned

By the greedy constancy

Of time’s ocean

Nervous Giraffe

A Gift to Little Hope

Dakota Fontes

Détaché

A Short Play

Characters:

GAUCHE (gOHsh): The left side of the brain, any gender, ethnicity, age.

DROITE (dr-AHt): The right side of the brain, any gender, ethnicity, age.

TERRE (tAIR): a high school student, any gender, they/them.

MORGAN: a high school student, any gender, they/them.

Time and Place: A bench in front of the school library, mid-afternoon.

Note: The stage directions and setting throughout the script may be changed to add different staging dynamics based on capabilities of the space. The italicized words can be cut to make the interruption clear.

Other Pronunciations:

Détaché – dAY-tAH-shAY

étirer – et-ee-rAY

Deloux – dAY-loo

Descartes - de-kAHRt

At Rise: We open with TERRE sitting on a bench in front of the school library. GAUCHE and DROITE are positioned on either side of TERRE’s shoulders. The song “The Book Report” instrumental from You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown is playing in the background, during the part of Charlie Brown’s solo. TERRE is reading You Are a Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life.

GAUCHE

It’s due tomorrow. We need to do it now.

DROITE

We’ll do it in the morning.

GAUCHE

Think about it, When have we ever gotten up early to do homework?

(DROITE thinks.)

DROITE

In Mr. Tracy’s class freshman year . . . for that Romeo and Juliet paper.

GAUCHE

Oh yeah, okay, but that was three years ago! We can’t just assume it’ll happen again. That is not how things work.

DROITE

Why do you say that?

GAUCHE

We’ve been over this. Just because something happened once, does not mean it will happen again. I control the left half of the brain, you control the right. I am logical, you are -/ idiotic.

DROITE

Creative- HEY!

GAUCHE

What? All I am saying is that we should not wait until tomorrow.

(MORGAN enters and sits by a tree doing homework. TERRE notices them and visibly starts to panic. GAUCHE and DROITE are clueless.)

Mrs. Hall specifically said that this is not a paper you can just write the day of.

DROITE

Actually, she said, “This isn’t a paper you can write the night before.”

(GAUCHE finally notices MORGAN.)

DROITE

So we already done fucked up. We might as well just enjoy our night –

GAUCHE

Hey, hey, hey!

(GAUCHE crawls over TERRE and puts their hand over DROITE’s mouth and forces DROITE to look at MORGAN. TERRE has finally calmed down and is thinking of how to talk to them.)

DROITE

Wait, that’s . . . that’s –

Morgan . . .

Yeah . . .

GAUCHE

DROITE

(TERRE starts to put their stuff in their backpack.)

GAUCHE

Let’s go talk to them.

(GAUCHE starts to move toward MORGAN. DROITE pulls GAUCHE back.)

DROITE

What are you doing?!

This is an opportunity!

GAUCHE

DROITE

What the fuck are you talking about? THAT’S MORGAN!

GAUCHE

Yeah . . . That’s Morgan . . . They are just another person.

DROITE

They most certainly are not.

GAUCHE

They are just another junior.

DROITE

They most certainly are not.

GAUCHE (To TERRE) Go talk to them.

DROITE

We most certainly cannot!

GAUCHE

Why not? – They are just a person.

DROITE

Do I have to go through this again – The fuck they are! They have . . .

(GAUCHE starts to mock DROITE as they have heard this all before)

. . . fashion, and popularity, and friends, and – stop mocking me. I’m telling the truth.

GAUCHE

No, you’re not, you are letting fear take over.

DROITE

I am not, I am only speaking what we know to be true.

GAUCHE

No, you are speaking from fear.

(TERRE is looking down as MORGAN looks at TERRE)

They are also fun, and funny, and nice, and smiling at us. THEY ARE SMILING AT US!

(TERRE looks up and notices them. TERRE waves at MORGAN. Meanwhile, GAUCHE and DROITE are screaming and running around like chickens with their heads cut off. They eventually run into each other and fall. TERRE has stopped waving. Silence.)

DROITE

What do we do now?

GAUCHE

Well, we should have smiled back instead of . . .

DROITE

Right, instead of running in circles and . . .

GAUCHE

Looking like total idiots.

Yup. So let’s smile now.

DROITE

(TERRE smiles awkwardly. MORGAN chuckles and goes back to their homework.)

GAUCHE (to DROITE)

Good idea, dumbass.

DROITE

Hey, you’re in control of the left half of the face.

GAUCHE

How many times do I have to tell you? The left half of the brain controls the right half of the body!

DROITE

Oh yeah . . . I forgot.

GAUCHE

Glad you’re in charge of the memory. Well done.

DROITE

Hey, you’re not always perfect either.

GAUCHE

We need a new gameplan. They saw us smile, terribly, that probably scared them off.

DROITE

We should do something funny!

GAUCHE

Hmmm . . . Funny . . .

And charming.

Charming . . .

DROITE

GAUCHE

(TERRE is disgusted by all these next suggestions.)

DROITE

We could be sleepy, and start to take a nap.

GAUCHE

Sleepy . . . ?

DROITE

Or dopey, we could act dopey.

GAUCHE

Dopey? What –

Happy. Let’s be happy.

DROITE

GAUCHE

Happy? – Dammit, dwarves are not going to help us here!

DROITE

Why not? They helped Cinderella.

GAUCHE

Snow White.

What?

DROITE

GAUCHE

They helped Snow White. It’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarves

DROITE

I got it! We get up and stretch. Do some yoga.

(Beat. TERRE rolls their eyes and goes back to putting their stuff away. GAUCHE is glaring at DROITE.)

GAUCHE

Stretch . . . Really? We hate stretching.

DROITE

Yeah. I think it’s a winner.

GAUCHE

Oh, please enlighten me as to how that is a winner.

DROITE

Okay. First. We do a plié.

(DROITE attempts to do a plié and falls over. TERRE and GAUCHE share a moment.)

GAUCHE

I am only going to tell you one more time. WE DON’T KNOW YOGA!

DROITE

We took that class!

(TERRE is noticing MORGAN again.)

GAUCHE

Forgot about that. But, anyway, that was only one class, and we only went the first day then never went back.

DROITE

And? We can make stuff up.

GAUCHE

And why do you think that is a good idea?

DROITE

Because we can create a new yoga. Our yoga.

GAUCHE

Yeah, sure, that’s a great idea. We could be the next YOGA GURU!

DROITE

Exactly! We can call it s’étirer.

GAUCHE

Stretch, you literally went with the word meaning stretch.

DROITE

Yeah!

You’re an idiot.

GAUCHE

DROITE

If it’s good enough, it could make us famous!

GAUCHE

Famous? Really?

Yeah, and popular!

DROITE

(TERRE is completely disinterested with being famous and popular.)

GAUCHE

Popular.

Yeah.

Really.

DROITE

GAUCHE

DROITE

Yeah.

(TERRE starts laughing at all the stupid memories they used to put so much value into.)

GAUCHE

After years of being excluded from parties, getting our head dunked in a toilet, never having a date to homecoming or prom, you think we can be popular now?

(DROITE nods proudly.)

You’re an idiot.

Why are you laughing?

GAUCHE

DROITE (to TERRE)

GAUCHE

Because there is no way we could be famous or popular. Look at us.

(GAUCHE and DROITE look TERRE up and down. TERRE starts grabbing at the insecure parts of their body, i.e. stomach, hair, biceps. Beat.)

DROITE

Oh yeah, I forgot about that zit we found today.

(GAUCHE points to TERRE’s face. TERRE touches it.)

GAUCHE

That’s what you’re worried about? That zit? It’s so small they won’t even notice.

DROITE

We noticed it . . . They probably will too.

GAUCHE

Okay, but we were like five inches from the mirror.

(TERRE lets go of their body and starts to ignore DROITE and GAUCHE again. They finally finish putting their stuff away. They are now working on standing up and talking to MORGAN.)

DROITE

What if they have superhuman sight?

GAUCHE Superhuman sight . . .

GAUCHE (to TERRE)

DROITE

This is ridiculous, Yes, superhuman sight, do you hear this? It’s a real thing. Some Just stand up and people can see better go talk to them. than a bat.

GAUCHE

Bats can’t see. They can hear.

DROITE

What animal can see? Eagle? Whale?

GAUCHE

I don’t know, why are you asking me, -/ you brought this up.

DROITE

Because you are always bragging about how . . . you know everything. You keep going on and on and never shut up.

GAUCHE

I do not brag. I state facts. You’re the one that keeps going on and on, saying things will happen again when they won’t, like the water incident — how would that happen again?

DROITE

Hey, that will happen again if we are not careful!

GAUCHE

There is no way we will let that happen again! It was humiliating. We were laughed at for days!

DROITE

If it happened once, it could happen again, and we need to make sure we never feel like that again!

GAUCHE

And worrying about superhuman sight is the way to do that?

DROITE

. . . Yes.

You’re an idiot.

GAUCHE

DROITE

Oh, look who is being mean now . . .

GAUCHE

I am not being mean!

DROITE

You so are! You’re . . . yelling at me when all I am –

GAUCHE (Notices TERRE stood up and is attempting to walk over to MORGAN)

Hey! Hey! Shut up!! Look.

(DROITE notices TERRE. TERRE waves to Morgan again. DROITE and GAUCHE both gasp in horror and look away. MORGAN waves TERRE over. TERRE begins to walk over as GAUCHE looks back at them. GAUCHE rushes over to help. DROITE is still looking away.)

DROITE

Oh, this is not good . . .

(DROITE notices GAUCHE has already went over there. DROITE rushes over.)

We need to get out of here!

GAUCHE

Why? We’re doing great! Look, they’re smiling.

(GAUCHE and DROITE look at each other proud.)

TERRE

Hey.

MORGAN

Hey, you’re in my French class, right?

TERRE

Yeah.

They noticed us before.

What are you working on?

GAUCHE

TERRE

MORGAN

Mr. Burnham is making me redo this presentation.

The one on the philosophers?

TERRE

MORGAN

Yeah.

Who’d you choose?

Joseph Deloux.

I did René Descartes.

TERRE

MORGAN

TERRE

MORGAN

Didn’t they pick on you because you peed yourself before

that presentation?

GAUCHE

They remember!

DROITE

AHHH! FUCK ME!

(GAUCHE and DROITE start to run in circles all around the stage. TERRE is petrified.)

TERRE

It . . . wasn’t . . . I . . . wasn’t . . . didn’t . . .

MORGAN

You spilled water.

(GAUCHE and DROITE freeze instantly. And stare at MORGAN. TERRE remains silent, still petrified.)

MORGAN

Right?

(TERRE nods.)

MORGAN

That was mean. They shouldn’t have teased you like that.

(GAUCHE and DROITE are still frozen. TERRE remains silent.)

MORGAN

Anyway, I really got to get this paper done. Good talking to you.

(MORGAN turns back to their homework. TERRE turns to leave. GAUCHE and DROITE unfreeze and are ushering TERRE away. TERRE stops and turns back.)

TERRE

Hey! Would you maybe want to sit together at lunch sometime?

MORGAN

Yeah, sure. That sounds cool.

TERRE Cool.

GAUCHE

DROITE

Nice! We did it!

(GAUCHE and DROITE celebrate. They continue to celebrate as TERRE exits. Time passes. GAUCHE and DROITE notice TERRE zhas left. They start to go off after TERRE.)

GAUCHE

Hey, wait, you need us!

DROITE

Yeah, we got . . . you a lunch date!

GAUCHE

You couldn’t have done it without . . . us!

DROITE

Terre!

(They exit. MORGAN is left on stage. They look in the direction of TERRE. They smile. Lights Fade.)

END OF PLAY

Windy City Sweethearts

Kaitlynn Bradley

Vivian Williams Light Tree

Ketlove Gray

Family Tree

For me it probably all started in West Africa.

Likely Senegal because it has the most shoreline, making easy docking for the slave traders to load their human cargo.

Do you hear the chains clang against the holding cell?

Do you smell the sweat of fear?

Do you see the angered rough waters through the feared eyes?

Do you feel the goose-bumped dry black skin?

I hear it.

I smell it.

I see it.

I feel it.

Do you see my family tree ripped out with the African soil still clinging to the roots?

I do.

Transplanted into the soil of Hispaniola

Where everything was different.

Lost language.

Lost homeland.

Lost culture.

Lost freedom. Toil.

Long, strenuous, fatiguing labor for hundreds of years on sugar plantations under owners.

Do you hear the snap of the cruel whip?

Do you feel the stinging thrashes along the backs?

Do you see the swing of the machete as it cuts down the sugar cane?

I can feel the weight of being treated less than human.

Can you put yourself there with sweat glistening on your black skin and your back aching?

I can.

And I can feel the anger that led to revolution.

So could Toussaint Louverture

Who was a slave that led an uprising.

He said “I was born a slave but nature gave me the soul of a free man.”

He inspired the people that

never knew freedom to fight for it.

They risked everything because they had nothing.

They fought for freedom.

Freedom from brutality.

Freedom from being sold away from loved ones.

Freedom from subservience.

Freedom from tyranny.

Freedom to control their own destiny.

Do you see the flash of the machete now used as weapon?

Do you hear the guns?

Do you feel the rocks under the bare cold feet?

Can you feel the pent up energy transforming the slaves into warriors?

I can.

The only successful slave insurrection in history.

Victory.

Two hundred years later I am born on the land where the roots had been transplanted

Deep in the soil of Haiti.

Not a slave.

Yet not free.

Poverty is a tyrant too.

The struggle never ends.

We fight for freedom.

For Toussaint Louverture.

For self-determination.

To maintain our dignity.

Because we are proud of being Haitian.

Also we celebrate

Celebrate the process of selfdetermination.

The richness of a strong culture, A culture that thrives despite poverty.

Filled with powerful music of African descent. There is beauty within the community and ourselves.

All this history lives in me.

Even though I’ll never know my great, great, great grandmother’s name She lives in me.

Do you feel her?

I honor her.

I honor the history of my people.

Nervous Giraffe For Zachary

Taylor

Mroz

Oranges

i’ve never liked oranges but i like the way you peel them watching you pull cobwebbed strings tells more than a birth certificate love lives in the kitchen— in the whittled island rinds we share and the way my sister smiles when her mouth is full.

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Motherhood

Motherhood started in 3rd grade

When I was sat next to loud boys

Because I was not a boy and not loud

To teach them how to be less boyish and less loud

Motherhood started with my mother

Holding her cold hand while she cried

Her head to my flat chest

Onto the fact that it will all be fine

Motherhood started with my sister

Take her to the doctor

the store

the mall

Make her stop fucking crying

My dad’s words

Motherhood started before middle school

When I should have been young and carefree

Because I was young and carefree

Because I was a girl

Motherhood started

To teach me how to suffer

Jonah Evans

Not Her

You tell me at the kitchen table, across from me, with the flowers I picked standing between: vetch and chicory’s purple blue.

I’m 12, and it’s high time you come clean that the woman I call Mother isn’t: is your second wife, with my own mother dead of all you haven’t told me and won’t for months more of your deception.

Emma isn’t your mother. —the room dissolves and reassembles. Your mother died when you were young. —your voice is distant, flat, cold.

Bailey Miller

My Poet Disguise (In the key of D) Lyrics

I’m gonna put on my poet disguise

Shutter the room with my rhythms and rhymes

Can’t you all see through the lure of the lies?

Hooked on a sleuth peering straight through your eyes

I’m gonna put on my hat and my corduroy suit

Pen in my pocket and a hole in my shoe

I’ll waltz on the stage and sing all my tunes

Stained in the blood

of another man’s blues

When I put on my poet disguise

I pray to the ghost of a drunkard denied

The fame and fortune of the published and signed

To help me to manage my unworthy lines

I’m gonna shuffle the shame and the guilt to the door

Toss it all out and make for the shore

The ocean of song sings the gospel to her kin … so I’ve heard

So I’ll work like a Trojan to play at her whim

When I take off my poet disguise

I face all the devils that squander my mind

Every day I wake and choose a new mask to wear

To please all the people who put me here

Pleasing the people is self destruction

A nod to the demons of soul corruption

So I’m gonna throw out my poet disguise

Snowing Evergreen

Vivian Williams

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Untitled

I feel less like a grand creator more the macabre veterinarian. Stories don’t seem to come from my stitching of tapestries gold and glitter rather of tendons. They show up at my doorstep whatever ungodly hour, beaten ruptured with their skin hanging loose their bones in a mass. They are in terrible pain.

I am tasked to reassemble them, heal them, sort them and set them into an order that at least makes sense. I’m to remove the parts that don’t belong, add the parts that are missing, mend what’s torn, and in most cases make real what didn’t exist prior. They come broken.

I prescribe them analogies, similes, metaphors, alliteration. I sew them with stanzas, saw them with indentions, cauterize them with commas. It doesn’t always help. Not all stories get happy endings. Some don’t get any at all. But those who heal, who walk again on wobbling feet, wander away unheard by most, overcome all the blood and brutality.

Survival of the Fittest

Gracie Klingbeil

Gabby Osterberg

Atop the Playhouse

There was never anyone there, only the sounds of rustling leaves all around us.

I could always imagine many things to do, even if it had just rained. My grandparents would take Matilda and me. Though it was years ago, I still remember how we used to play.

It wasn’t a park, per se. The company my grandfather worked for had added a basketball court, a stage, and some picnic tables to their property. Among them were some splinter-filled, paint chipping, nearly rotted play equipment. But we loved it.

Not everything was made of wood. There were all sorts of things to climb and swing on, made out of metal that would make my hands stink. I can still hear the little bell chiming as Matilda effortlessly made her way to the top of the climbing tower. I can see the disapproving look on my grandmother’s face as I attempted to jump from the roof of the playhouse. I can see the profanity written on the bathroom stall door — the place I learned the f-word. All of these sights are burned into my memory, the only place they remain.

The wooden playhouse was the first to go, after Matilda fell from it. It was a strange thing. A haven that no one knew about suddenly had the whole town up in arms. The climbing tower and anything made of lumber were removed shortly after, upon a specialist of some kind deeming them “not suitable for children.” Yeah right. Maybe not suitable for children who weren’t being careful. No offense, Matilda.

I kept asking my grandparents week after week when we would be going back. Every time I mentioned it, they looked at me like I was crazy. Then my grandpa would go outside and have a cigarette and my grandma would immerse herself in talk shows.

A month later, we finally went back, but only because that was when they were putting Matty’s plaque up. My suggestion that it be put farther from the basketball court, closer to where she fell, was considered “outrageous” and “despicable.” I don’t know why it bothered them so much. I was the only one who saw her fall, so I should’ve been the one making important decisions about plaques and whatnot.

It was Mayor Butthole, sorry Bundt, that suggested the plaque. I don’t know what she was trying to prove. She knew no one would go back there now that she’d had the entire park dismantled. But I think that’s what she wanted. She wanted the entire town to praise her for saving their children from meeting the same fate as Matty, but she wouldn’t actually have to make an effort to keep up with the mission after a few months.

I couldn’t complain about Mayor Bundt to my grandparents, who didn’t really like talking about the whole ordeal. So I complained to Matilda, she was always such a good listener. It became a habit for me to complain to her every night before I fell asleep. While lying on my bed, I would let all my animosities from the day come forth.

Some nights it was, “Oh, Matilda! If only we had been able to stop them! Look what they did to your climbing tower!” Other times it was, “Yes, my dear, I know it wasn’t the best picture they could have used, but they were carving your face into a plaque for crying out loud!” She usually doesn’t say much, so I’d continue talking until my eyelids were heavy and I was ready for sleep. Every once in a while, I would hear Grandma walking past my room, to make sure I was going to sleep. That was my cue to stop talking.

A couple weeks later, we had an assembly at school, the highlight of any fifth grader’s week. On my way to the gym, I passed the guest speaker, Mayor Butthole. She looked at me with those piteous eyes I’ve seen all too frequently.

“Hey, Sweetie,” she greeted me while feigning sadness. “How are you doing today?”

I wanted to tell her that I was a lot better before I saw her, but instead just shrugged. My grandma told me that she’s just trying to help, and that we should be lucky to have a mayor that cares so much about the little people. But once she’s been reelected, she will be out of my hair, I guarantee it.

To no one’s surprise, the assembly is about Matilda. Mayor Butthole announced that she was providing our school with more counselors for any student that needed to “let their feelings out.” By the end of the presentation, Matilda’s teacher was in tears –a little dramatic, if you’d asked me. She’d only known her for five months.

That night was different. I crawled into Matilda’s bed. It still smelled just like her, with her High School Musical sheets, and little stuffed bear in the corner. After the horrendous display I’d seen, I’d decided that Matty would probably hear me better if I was on her turf. I wiggled under the covers, took a deep breath, and thought quietly to myself. Advanced complaints were transmitted better by thinking, not talking.

Before morning, I had made sure to climb back into my own bed. Grandma would lose it if she’d found out I had messed with Matilda’s bed and I didn’t want to upset her. I got out before the sun rose and couldn’t fall back to sleep. I wrote more of the silly song Matty and I had started writing. I couldn’t remember all of it, so I kept adding new stuff.

When I got to school the next day, teachers were taking pictures of the Student News Bulletin board. I figured one of the teacher’s special needs kids had written another poem. However, when I walked by, I saw Matilda’s face. Someone had brought in a copy of her obituary from the newspaper. Don’t they know how insensitive that is? What if Grandma or Grandpa were to visit the school? I could not believe it. After all the teachers left, I ripped the obituary off the wall and crumbled it in my hands.

I didn’t know what to do after that. Even if the teachers were gone, surely a security camera had picked up my crime. Without a second thought, I pushed open the back doors and sprinted

out of the school.

I wound up at the park where I last saw Matilda. I avoided looking at her plaque when I passed it. I’m not quite sure why. I sat at one of the few picnic tables left, and pulled out Matty’s obituary.

Matilda Elizabeth Hart

July 2, 2007 — January 16, 2017. Sweet, kind, and loving girl. Very adventurous.

I don’t know who wrote it, probably Grandma. I had wanted to be the one to write it. Nobody knew Matty better than I did. It should have been me.

It should have been me.

By the time Grandma, Grandpa, and about a dozen police officers found me (as well as Mayor Butthole, I’m told), I was sobbing over Matilda’s obituary.

“It should have been me,” I screamed. “It should have been me!”

I was Matilda’s big sister. It was my job to protect her, not to dare her to do stupid things, like climbing on a playhouse. Grandma had told me it wasn’t my fault, but she wasn’t there when it happened. It was my responsibility to take care of her, and I failed. My sweet Matty was dead.

Dead. That was the first time I had admitted it to myself. She wasn’t just “out,” she was dead. She had been dead since she smacked her head on that playhouse. Talking to her every night, smelling her bed, or tearing her obituary off the wall wasn’t going to change that.

My principal wanted to suspend me for a month, but Mayor Bundt talked him out of it. I guess I owe her for that. She also began talking to me after school. She had been a school counselor before running for mayor. She said that they could remove Matty’s plaque if I wasn’t ready. I told her to keep it. It was the least I could do for Matilda. Also, Mayor Bundt told me

that she lost her little brother when she was twelve. After our first real conversation, I found it easier to talk to her. She opened up to me as much as I’d opened up to her. I realized that all the animosity I had towards her was coming from all the pain. I had been keeping bottled up, the confusion from my feelings. I needed someone to blame for what happened, and there she was.

Now I’m about to graduate high school, and I can’t wait to get out of this town. I haven’t been back to the park since that spring. There are few people who would willingly go gallivanting to the place of their sister’s death. I can’t really call it a park anymore, since it’s become a place for the factory to dump dirt. But, I sneak back there when the factory is closed and place a little bouquet with a note containing our song where I estimate the playhouse once stood.

Not Narcissus

Kayla Lambert

Taylor Mroz

Strawberries reddened knuckles on pale skin you make me blush with hatred strawberry seeds dot your cheeks this is not a love poem sickly sweet memories race me by picnic blankets and lazy pink skies i hope that one day you will explode this is not a love poem

like leaves of grief, i would bet this anger stems from sadness pierce my nails through blood-red flesh this could be a love poem

Raylee Decator

Today I killed the sun

He passed over me like an angel a bright meteor

I held my breath approached in fear expecting the wrath of a king

To find a boy a little thing no bigger than my hand

With wings pulled close he revealed to me his throat and I wept

With this boy-god in my hands I rediscovered religion and fell to a wrath much worse than a king’s

I carried him like a mother undeserving of sunlight to a space I had carved out

I took one last look seared my eyes and left him

Valiant body belly up and burning in the silent summer drought

Leasia Posey

Taylor Mroz

On the Rocks

“Here, let me get you another drink.”

Adila twirled a bleach-blonde lock of hair around her finger.

“Well, if you insist.”

Truthfully, she would’ve preferred some food—she hadn’t eaten in days, and her hunger was taking over her rational mind. But she knew her patience would pay off. As her new acquaintance lumbered off to the punch bowl, she scanned the bar to make sure everyone was doing okay. The music blasted, fighting for attention with lights of every color, but she was able to tune them out and direct her attention where she wanted it. Snippets of conversation drifted in and out of focus: awkward introductions, tipsy laughter, and petty dares. Nothing that worried her; she could focus on her main goal.

The guy she had been talking to made his way back, grabbing girls by the waist to move by as he pushed through the stumbling crowd. Adila adjusted her golden necklace as she fought to remember his name. It had been something short, punchy, but she couldn’t place the specifics…it didn’t matter. They were all the same.

He was grinning at her as he held out the Solo cup, and she returned the smile with teeth a little too pointy. He was attractive, she couldn’t deny that. But more like how the ocean’s surface ripples with sunlight before you can see what’s beneath. His face was sculpted, eyes unsettlingly calm as they ran over her figure, the closely-fitting scarlet dress she’d chosen to match her lipstick. Red was her uniform for a reason—it worked.

“How old are you?” It was almost a shout in order to be heard over the ravaging bass.

She raked her pointed nails lightly across his shoulder. “Older than I look.”

They had minimal talk the rest of the evening, though he was not shy in exchanging non-verbal communication. Adila batted her eyelashes, fake-sipped her drink, and pretended to be very interested in lacrosse. Her stomach growled, drowned out by the

music. She whispered an excuse into his ear before slipping away to the bathroom.

First, she dumped her punch in the sink. Then she leaned over the counter to touch up her mascara (the lipstick was reliable, as always, and needed no adjustment). A girl with jet-black hair and formidable boots stumbled out of a stall and to the faucet next to her.

“I saw you talking to Ryan,” she slurred over the running water.

That’s what his name was! Adila frowned, mistaking the comment for jealousy.

“Stay away from him,” the girl continued. “I’ve heard he puts pills in people’s drinks, and one of my friends said he tried to,” she scrunched her nose in the mirror, “y’know…”

Adila did know, but it was nice to confirm she’d hooked the right shark. “I can handle myself. Thanks for the warning though.”

“Are you sure? I can walk you home.” The stranger flicked the water off her hands.

Ah, the kindness of drunk girls. “I’m good, really.”

She left with a sympathetic smile, and Adila spent a few more minutes fixing her hair before following suit.

Back on the dance floor, Ryan was dancing with a beauty in a glittering blue dress. They appeared glued together, eyes closed. Adila gently pulled Sparkles off of him; she hardly seemed capable of supporting her own weight. Adila popped up onto her tiptoes to scan the room, eyes landing on the woman she’d just met.

Ryan tugged at the strap of Adila’s dress. “Hey, what—”

Before he could finish, she disappeared into the crowd, Glitter leaning on her shoulder. They wove through the twisting bodies, through the stench of beer and sweat, to where the angel from the bathroom was laughing with her friends.

Adila tapped her shoulder. “Look after her.”

She nodded understanding, and the blue-clad girl was passed off. Adila wiggled her way back to Ryan.

“Sorry about that.” Then the smile again, as if she was the one that needed to apologize. “Wanna come to my place?”

He stuttered, looking around as if this was some kind of trick. Almost a moment too late, she remembered that he would not want her if she were too willing.

“Actually, it’s getting pretty late. Maybe I should just…” she leaned into him, wobbly. “Get going.” The growing hunger added

authenticity to her swaying.

“No, no.” He grabbed her waist. “You’re tipsy. I’ll walk you back.”

“Such a gentleman,” she giggled.

The two of them walked arm in arm to her apartment, located conveniently down the street. On the way there, she sang an old sailor’s tune under her breath, passing it off as drugged nonsense. The perfect hint of vibrato to lure him in, a soft melody to keep him there. Already, in the open street, he could barely keep his hands off of her. If she hadn’t had so long to train, it would’ve been difficult to hide her disgust. Disguising repulsion was an art, and Adila was a master—a hungry one.

Eventually they clambered up the rickety stairs and through her unlocked door. She went to turn on the lights and missed the switch, which he laughed at. On the third try, her humble space came to life. “Sorry for the mess.”

It was relatively empty, despite her apology. The floor was sparkling, enough to reflect the white walls. The space had an allure, but not many possessions. Not a permanent dwelling.

Ryan kicked his shoes off and encircled her wrist with his hand, pulling her onto the bed. “C’mere.”

She tugged back, weakly. “I don’t think—”

“Shhh.” He’d pulled her down now, rolling himself on top of her so his knees were on either side of her waist. “Just relax.”

“Stop it. Get off me.” She pushed against his chest, to little avail.

“A feisty one.” He shoved his palm against her mouth to muffle the protests.

Big mistake.

She bit him and he lurched back, squeaking. Her teeth chased the flesh of his hand, now dripping a steady stream of blood. He slapped her across the face, scrambling to get off the bed. The blood on either side of her lips made her smile look wider, and indeed it was. The grin stretched to the very ends of her cheeks.

“Bitch!”

He panicked now, realizing the fear shining in her eyes was a reflection.

Adila was patient, inspecting her sharpened nails as he ran to the door. He jiggled the handle and clawed at the lock, but as it sprung open, she started singing again.

It was the same tune from before, a little more haunting now.

He closed the door and shuffled back across the hardwood, eyes glazing over. His limbs jolted as if pulled by a puppeteer. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“A feisty one,” she mocked, licking the blood off of his palm. This time, she didn’t have to hide her disgust as she wrinkled her nose. “And a little sour, too.”

Then she bit his hand off. He cried out, unable to move, arm stuck out in shaky suspension as blood seeped through the cracks in the floor and disappeared beneath the bed. Adila trailed a manicured fingernail under his chin and gently closed his jaw, muffling the anguish.

“Shhh.”

He was crying now, and she thought about explaining the error in his ways. She concluded it didn’t make a difference— no use teaching lessons to dead boys. Despite his history, she wasn’t a fan of torturing to get even. In an act of mercy, she set aside the rest of his hand for later and went for the neck.

After he was unconscious, she splayed him out on the floor and peeled off his clothes for burning later. She decided to turn on the radio as she ate. The health nuts preach about eating mindfully, fully enjoying each meal, but Adila had found that distraction was necessary to choke down the bitter, sweatsoaked individual. And the chewing was so repetitive (with the toughness of flesh and all) that it quickly grew dull, and so she had little reservation about digesting him with a melody on the side. She hummed as she went.

When the deed was done, she went to the bathroom to lean over the mirror and clean up her face. Licking her teeth, she realized the lipstick had stayed precisely in place. Now that she was thinking about it, maybe her mouth was stained from the unusual eating habits. The tint complemented her face shape perfectly, and she smiled at her reflection before turning back to the bedroom.

With a full stomach and clear conscience, she grabbed the remote and settled into bed, flicking through channels for something to accompany her food coma. A cool breeze rushed in from the window, smelling faintly of the sea. It was a perfect night for staying in.

The Fool