Voices from the 2nd Floor

Voices from the 2nd Floor

Voices from the 2nd Floor Copyright Š2016 Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, a Creative and Performing Arts Magnet Pittsburgh Public Schools, Pennsylvania The copyright to the individual pieces remains the property of each individual.

For copies or inquires: Mara Cregan, Department Chair 111 Ninth Street Pittsburgh, PA 15222 mcregan1@pghboe.net

Level Four

Lucky Number Seven Ahmir Allen

One day soon I will open my eyes and become seven years old, nothing will be significant in even the slightest way, no grandeur, no big clock ticking down inside my heart, no backbone to fight for, nothing to fight with, just a large open sky to play in, shaping cloud after cloud inside my vision, and tomorrow is my rebirth, revitalization—recognition will settle on my doorstep and I’ll walk right by, who needs work anyway? Who can try to walk away from paradise? In the morning I’ll slip through cracks in the fence on my way to school and meet up with all of the other voiceless children who I never try to talk to, hear footsteps in the snow cracking water, spilling empty gestures from my palms like saluting in a mirror with my feet on tip-toes, like punching 1-2-1-2 rhythm into my pillow listing things I hate over and over and over and over and over and over as a relaxation exercise, stuffing my face into small spaces to breath more clearly, tuning out time and everything

that has happened so I can try to get used to the future and what the year is like and what could go wrong and what I’ll be in ten years.

To The Wasp Nest Dollhouse

Elemental

Thank you for seven swollen stings. Thank you for Elmo Band Aids, Daddy kissing each swollen lump as he read Frog and Toad under the shading oak, rocking paining knees to the breath of his words.

Outside, I reached through outstretched doors, chubby thumbs naïve, craving one touch of pink and blue, one poke through plastic windows.

You crafted my miniature kitchen into a hive, lining refrigerators in honey.

I never knew you dissected bumblebees, carried praying mantises between your legs, and searched for skin to sting.

I only thought your wings were like cracked glass, your fur soft as teddy bears. But when I touched you, bumped your nest with my elbow, you stabbed me in venomous quills, leaving me bruised in reminders of the house that I’d stolen from you.

The man who trained fire to flit from his lips fell in love with the woman who sang with water’s voice.

Maya Best

Laura Condon

Songs flowed up her throat, washing across the air between them to slip through his ribs as if they were stones in a brook.

She tried to quench the fire that burned in his lungs, but only succeeded in setting herself to boil.

She pooled in a cottage she found for them and begged him to build his hearth there. For her, for love, he endeavored to do it, but stillness smoldered in the soles of his feet.

He set out without a word, charring the miles black behind him.

Her anger hardened to ice in his absence.

She watched over him through news of the havoc he wrought like wildfire.

He left third-degree scars in every life his blazing hands touched and legends wherever he wandered.

Upon his return he attempted to thaw her with searing kisses and warm words.

She tried to freeze him out, encase her heart, but even the largest glacier joins the sea.

Her melted drops found their way to his brilliant flame, and together they simmered.

Foolproof

Madison Custer The scent of the surrounding concession stands hit me like a funnel cake. It drifted around me, lightly whipping my hair in my face, twirling around right under my nose, hitting the tip of my tongue when I talked so I couldn’t identify what the smell was exactly but I knew it smelled like summer.

The small group I was with laughed and joked about the rides we had been on and the ones we wanted to go on and which ones we definitely wouldn’t ever try.

The group consisted of four people: me, tired and sunburnt from the preceding Labor Day weekend; Christian, the boy that I had had a small (read: HUGE) crush on for the past few years; his sister Kelley and her husband Mike. I had tried to seem cool when he asked me to come with them that day because he needed a riding partner, (he had tweeted the night before that he was “5ever alone”) but I had only been able to think of it as an entire day to practice my flirting techniques, because I knew I wasn’t very good. The few days in between the invitation and the outing were filled with stressful moments of realization that I had nothing to wear and that I was probably going to embarrass myself if I got on any rides were on my personal blacklist. It was a twitterpated weekend that I don’t hope to relive.

Almost as soon as we arrived at the park, Christian told me that he wanted to ride the Aero-360, which goes upside down. I don’t do upside down. I told him no, but with some convincing from Kelley and Mike, I agreed. I reasoned with myself that I would try anything once, and if I didn’t like it I’d never have to do it again. I put on my brave face and said it was no big deal, but I tried to put it out of my mind as much as possible in order to avoid unnecessarily scaring myself.

I was the Brave Little Toaster. Besides, who could say no to a face like that? The way his hair floated in the air, his eyes

sparkling in the— never mind.

It didn’t feel real until we got in line.

The sound of people all around us screaming and laughing was deafeningly silent. I was staring at the ride so intently that all my other senses seemed to stop. I forgot where I was, other than the fact that I was about to ride that monstrous death machine. I couldn’t smell the French fries from the booth right next to us, I couldn’t feel the sun beating on my burnt neck, and I had worse tunnel vision than when I’m sitting in traffic trying to get through the Squirrel Hill Tunnels to Monroeville.

I pictured myself holding still when it was our turn to get on, being pulled kicking and screaming across the cement ground and tossed out the exit gate like a rag doll.

That wasn’t realistic—I crossed it off my mental list of ways to get out of riding. The only options left were “cry,” “throw a mutiny,” and “puke—right here, right now.” One time, my friend was on a ride like the old Pitt Fall, where you’re taken all the way up to the top of a huge tower and dropped. The girl sitting next to him was nauseous the whole time, and when they got to the top, she said she was going to lose it.

As soon as they lurched to their descent, her stomach gave way, and her lunch came up. Since they were freefalling as fast as her tossed cookies were, it stayed in a joggling, wiggling orb in front of them. Because of the wind, the ball of puke floated in front of his face and landed in his lap when they reached the ground.

I tried to distract myself from this story and my impending doom by counting how many times the ride went upside down so that when I got on, I’d have some way of knowing when we were almost done. Unfortunately, each ride seemed to have a different number of spins. I concluded that the best way for me to get through this was for me to

close my eyes and bear it.

I don’t remember much of the first ride, other than Kelley and Mike sitting across from me and telling me that if I fell out, they’d do their best to catch me. That didn’t help very much. I closed my eyes, just like I told myself I would, and by the time I realized it, we were done. I had done it, but not happily. I won’t claim I didn’t cry, but if I did, I made sure there were no witnesses to the tears that may have rolled down my cheek.

The rest of the day didn’t feel right. I had had a chance to prove myself and I had failed—miserably. I wasn’t the Brave Little Toaster I made myself out to be; in fact, I was a pretty chicken Toaster. I tried to shake it off while we rode the other spinning rides and small roller coasters. I even went on the bumper cars (number two on my list of Rides I Don’t Ride because I simply can not maneuver them). By the time we decided it was lunchtime, I had had enough with myself. I was going to ride the Aero again, and this time, I was going to do it right.

I’ve never been one to lose. Competitions are only fun when I can win, and I was competing with myself for the award of Most Improved Rider or even Least Chicken. I needed to win.

I devised my plan while we ate our ice cream. I would nonchalantly mention riding the Aero again, and say I had just overreacted if anyone questioned my sudden interest in the very ride I had been scared of a few hours before. I’d talk the whole time we stood in line, but I’d try to remember the amount of circles we had gone in so I’d be prepared the second time around. It would be a piece of cake, and I’d re-earn my title of the Brave Little Toaster. It was perfect, foolproof.

Nothing could go wrong. I was a genius, and I was most certainly going to be the girl who got the guy.

I executed my plan perfectly. As we meandered past the arrow ride, I mentioned riding again. No one questioned me, and I almost asked if they wanted more proof of my interest. We got in line. Kelley and Mike had left us to go do married couple things, like seeing who can eat more Potato Patch fries and who can scream the loudest on the kid rides, so it was just Christian and me.

I tried to look fascinated in the flower he picked me, and tried to act flattered when he told me I was a princess and this was my princess flower. I don’t know why we started talking about princesses; it must have been poorly disguised nervous banter on my part.

When it was our turn, I mock-confidently walked across the tarmac to climb into the seat. I remembered my best friend telling me that if you put your hands above your head and tell yourself you’re confident, you will actually start to feel confident. I made a mental note to raise my arms particularly high when they tell you to put your hands up so the harness can come down. I felt the weight of the situation pressing down on my shoulders, squeezing me tighter than I hoped the harness would push. This was my chance to prove myself a worthy friend—I was brave, I rode scary rides, and I definitely was not a crybaby. I would keep my eyes open the whole time, and only close them for short amounts of time while I forced myself to laugh. If I felt myself starting to tear up, I would say a bug got in my eye. If I actually had fun, I’d try it make it look like I was having lots of fun, just to play it up. Foolproof.

Something went wrong almost as soon as I sat down.

When the attendants said to put our hands in the air because our harnesses would come down automatically, and I was stretching to try to make myself more confident, mine stayed put, suspended above me. No big deal. But then I watched

the attendants walk past me twice before anyone came over to fix mine. Obviously I know that I could have just gotten out of the seat, or even pulled the harness down myself, but all my suppressed panic almost came out right then and there.

I was sure that they would start the ride and I’d be thrown to my death. My mind raced back to all my physics classes, trying to figure out if sheer centripetal force could keep me safe in my seat, but to find the centripetal force I’d need to know my mass, how far away I was from the center of the circle and the tangential velocity of the ride, and I knew none of those things. I didn’t even know that I didn’t know those things. As I was trying to remember physics, naturally the attendant came around and fixed the harness for me, and I made some nervous joke about them wanting me to fall out.

Christian laughed. I realized I had been holding my breath, and exhaled.

The ride started, and it wasn’t as bad as I remembered. Sure, there was the imminent fear of maybe my harness was broken and that’s why it didn’t come down, and that horrible feeling of ice cream sloshing in my stomach that was now suspended in my throat, but I was surviving. Everything was fine until we reached the top of the third loop.

Everything went silent again, and I heard my stomach growl.

It wasn’t an ordinary growl, it was a growl with an agenda.

This growl didn’t mean hunger, or stomach boredom—it meant puke. I started talking before any thought ran through my head. That’s something I do best.

“I’m going to puke,” I told him. He was sitting across from me, staring at me with those eyes that I so desperately wanted to stare into and never look away from. A sudden wave of fear hit me, much harder than the scent of funnel cakes earlier. This was like a bag of bricks hitting me in the gut. The thought of being hit in the gut only made me want to puke more. I was going to be reduced to a mere health hazard, the reason they have to shut the ride down to clean it. I would become the girl who puked.

When I was ten, my family took a trip to the Chesapeake Bay. We went out on a sailboat, and as we were sailing (pretty fast, I may add), my cousins all thought it would be a cute idea to spit off the edge. Not just spit, though. Not like a little spittle. The teenage boys needed to hock a loogie.

Little did I know that as soon as I opened my mouth to laugh at them, their ball of slobber would be carried by the wind smack dab into my mouth. This reminded me that if I puked, it could only land straight on Christian. And it was windy out.

Nothing good happens when it’s windy.

“WHAT?” he yelled over the din of happy shouts and screams. Every sound came rushing back like a wave.

“I’m going to…” I debated stopping. I didn’t have to tell him, and he would never know. Maybe if I didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t happen. Could I psych myself out of vomiting?

Is that how vomit works? Does it really matter? Was thinking about not vomiting making me need to vomit more? It didn’t matter, he was watching my attentively, waiting for an answer.

“I’m going to puke… on you!” I told him. I felt the color drain from my face when I saw the look of realization on his.

Not only was I going to puke, I was going to puke on the boy I had a monumental crush on for at least three years. That’s right, folks, I was in deep trouble.

“Well, close your mouth, and, uh, your eyes too.”

“OK,” I said, scrunching my eyes up tight. I tried to put myself in a happy place, but all I could think of was the scene in The Sandlot where the kids get on the ride and puke all over everyone. I was going to look worse than Scotty Smalls, Michael “Squints” Palledorous and The Great Hambino combined.

I rode the rest of the ride in terror. It seemed like three hours, but judging by my previous calculations, it was probably only a few more loops. With each loop I felt my stomach plummet and soar to the bottom and the top of my belly and chest. When the ride finally stopped, I stumbled off and tried to look cool. I don’t know why I tried. I felt like a total loser.

Forget Brave Little Toaster, I was far from it. I had completely screwed up any chance I had with this boy, all over a stupid Kennywood ride. I had gone from the girl that got embarrassed around the boy she liked, a blushing schoolgirl even, to a vomitus monster, hurling on everyone in her path.

The worst part was as soon as we got off, I thought I could regain my coolness if I suggested we go on the giant roller coaster that went upside down.

Red King | White Queen

Excerpt from You Are My Sunshine

The wedding was over— the men stumbled, drunk, to their cars, and the women carried their stilettos in thin hands and tip-toed across the parking lot. The women thought of the white veil and the marble church and pitied the young quicksilver girl who caught the bouquet, who still thought it charming when her boyfriend reached for her with brimstone hands.

I only sleep when the radio is blaring. Richard’s house didn’t have a good signal; one could only hear full sentences in the living room. I’d go downstairs after putting Joyce to bed. We just had a futon, the foam kind. It was grey, a morbid shade of mothball that gathers in points of fraying threads. I’d huddle on the left side, the side that sags out from underneath the knees and has a lump perfectly positioned under the head. I’d balance the radio on the TV while successfully plugging it into an extension cord hanging down from the ceiling. The TV’s screen would flicker with whatever Lifetime movie was playing and I’d find the closest station to match.

One night, I was watching ET. It’s a childhood favorite, one of the only movies that all of my sisters liked. I had paired it with the country station, but white static kept breaking through the singer’s voice. I dozed with my eyes open, a trick Mel had taught me for long lectures in school.

Richard’s living room fell right into the kitchen. I liked seeing the steady hum of the refrigerator’s light. The corners of the living room dripped with shadows. I could hear Joyce in the room above, tossing her covers on and off. I know she’s grown afraid of a man in her closet. I check every night, search through her toys and clothes, but he always comes back when I leave.

I have never liked wood floors and especially not in this house. I’d always felt the irrational pierce of splinters with every step. When Joyce was first born, I insisted on a carpeted apartment. I’d kneel on the floor everyday, wash it clean of baby formula, sweat, and mud, but it never stayed hygienic.

I miss not having to wear shoes every moment. I make Joyce wear shoes around the house now, because on nights like these I could hear the nails coming up through the floors. The wood planks would loosen and split, chucking

Atlas Dregalla

The bulbous moon, a pool of smooth silver liquid, suspended despite its size, emits a slow wheeze of poison through her pores.

You needn’t touch—to breath is enough.

The red king and the white queen spoke ancient, unbreakable vows, the words Nature wrote for them.

Their script was written in a language none of the guests understood.

When they saw the bride move with gravity, they approved of her obedience.

The guests watched her but never saw her, and wrote in their books that she was hardly there, nothing more than a silver womb.

But if the moon has ever been pregnant she did not carry screaming, sulphuric fetuses.

She was swollen with the primordial night that swallows cold stars, and a gaseous poison that drove her suitors to madness.

Samantha Eppinger

tiny bits of themselves throughout the house. I’d hear them dancing with the cockroaches—would see blurred tangos spin across the bottom of my transfixed gaze. ET was getting on the bike. Elliot was screaming. Broken songs poured out of his mouth like an avalanche of snow. There’s always too much snow in Ohio.

I was making myself stay awake. I was waiting for Richard to get home. I could always hear him first. His footfalls would echo through the plaster walls, shaking the bones of the house. He’d seep into the house, run through the pipes, dance with the floor, and wrap me up in his arms. ET and Elliot were talking. The foam in the futon would dissolve at his breath, and the stench of booze would curl around me. The government men were shouting. ET flew across the moon.

I’d wake up in the morning on the floor. Wooden splinters clung to my legs, black stains rested by my head.

There’s no noise. The white snow stopped falling from the radio. Everything seemed safe in outer space. The TV’s light died sometime during the night. The refrigerator was open, forgotten, and spoiled light spilled across the empty fruit bowl. The chairs seemed to laugh in the artificial glow.

Remake

Dylan Fletcher He knows in the bottom of his heart that he is in a horror movie remake.

His eyesight is plagued by over exposure and hand held cameras.

His peers are one-dimensional stock characters ready to be mowed down by some famous killer with a rehashed story and dirtier mask than in the original.

His existence is a clichéd shadow of a life once regarded as original.

He knows in the bottom of his heart that his life is produced by Platinum Dunes.

He can feel Michael Bay’s sweaty palms around his throat on the walk to the bus stop.

He can smell the squirrel carcasses in Rob Zombie’s breath as he raves about updating origin stories.

He can hear recycled sound bites from the original Movie in the trailer for his life.

He does not fall for that cheap ploy for nostalgia.

When did his original incarnation live?

The 50’s?

Where cardboard aliens and atomic appendages served to strengthen fear of the Bomb.

The 70’s?

Dyed corn syrup by the gallon dripped from chainsaws and formed the words “Capitalism” and “Vietnam”

on grimy floors.

The 80’s?

The age of the franchise, where a burned man could go from child killer to best selling toy all in the name of profit.

All he knows is that he is a bland, plastic, unoriginal, 29%-on-rotten-tomatoes remake.

He hopes he doesn’t get a sequel.

Excerpt from Restless Waves Hannah Geisler

Aiden pulled his gaze up from the water’s surface, meeting eyes with Rene. He took in the twinkle of Rene’s glossy eyes as he heaved one last gustacious breath before hobbling over the last rung of the ladder and propelling himself deep into the depths of the chamber. Basil swiftly pulled a lock of preposterous size from his pocket, reaching over his head to latch the lid shut.

Grey wind. Grey tongue. Grey sheets. Helicopters whirl in frenzy around him, gracefully blanketing the pale, Vermont sidewalks.

Aiden floundered in pure ataxia, his spine sagging under the weight of the chains. An eruption of bubbles saturated the tank at impact, a hurricane of white froth consuming his body.

Aiden’s a pussy— ain’t never had no daddy. Blood spatters on white walls. Tigers purr a lullaby against the ebony night.

He made no movements. Members of the crowd inhaled sharply, squinting through the foam, and searching for any form of excitement.

The walls weep suds. Eyes leaking, nose dripping.

He walks further into the heart of the sun.

Aiden straightened his contorted spine, willing the rapid torrents raging in his veins to placate. The waves settled around him; he was floating along underneath the surface of Lake Champlain. He blinked through the foam: focus.

The wires are taut. Taut. Pulling. Taut. Slicing. The stratosphere quakes, cracking slowly, slicing Gaia into watermelon wedges.

He began counting: handcuffs first. The metallic bracelet jingled around his left wrist. The key. Mouth. Thirty-nine, forty. Aiden reached through the froth, extracting a small silver key from his lips. The handcuffs sunk to the

ground, clattering against the glass.

The whitecaps waltz over Zara’s braids. Her smooth obsidian skin gleams in the sunlight. Beautiful baby girl. An avalanche crashes over her tiny toes.

Feet. Aiden didn’t pause to survey the audience’s faces. He squirmed uncomfortably within the glass box, thinking it felt just a little bit tighter this time. As he shifted himself, reaching for the shackles around his ankles, the water churned around him again, releasing another surge of bubbles.

An icicle drips, drips, drips in the heat of July. A whistle pierces the silence. Fireworks of confetti burst against crimson curtains, suspended stagnant in the rich, velvet air.

He had never been very flexible. Aiden struggled to position himself within the box in a manner that would allow him to reach his feet. His practice trials hadn’t been this difficult. But then again, his practice trails had involved about only half the chains currently squeezing his body like a cocoon. Ninety-seven, ninety-eight. He decided to attack the maze of chains around his middle and come back to his feet later.

A black and white night like a faded photograph. The circus is alive below him—glittery women vibrating their hips, each swift movement leaving a radiant beam of Technicolor in its wake. Poker engulfs the tables; the Queen of Hearts spits on his shoes.

The chains were braided around his chest, tangled in a knot at his groin. He fought the beast desperately, the iron’s weight draining him quickly. One fifty-seven, one fifty-eight. His trembling hands unclipped the padlock dangling over his hip. He shimmied loose of the links’ violent grasp.

He could hear the water’s heartbeat as he sliced through its flesh. Half mutt. His core shook with the vigor of a thousand humming birds. Boys will be boys, she said. The frigid breeze calcifies his chapped hands.

He worked the never-ending coil down his body, unraveling his legs at last. Only the ankle shackles remained.

As Aiden eyed the large weight attached to the shackles, he felt a twinge in chest. How long had he been under?

Jillian. The fairy lights twinkle ferociously. She steps towards him, concern etched into her nurturing face. Waves shatter; he flounders in the undercurrent. The avalanche roars on. His heart pulsates irregularly with the hummingbird’s wings.

Two-oh-two. Two-oh-three. Aiden’s grip weakened.

The water was heavier than concrete, obliterating his airway.

Panicked, he glanced up to find hundreds of eyes staring in pure terror. Aiden heaved at the mess around his feet.

An ivory pair of lungs inhale, the sharp tips blossoming into a bushel of vibrant hydrangeas. The lungs quiver in the air, restless for oxygen. Lavender rain saturates the Earth. The flowering bush sighs, sagging into itself.

The chains broke. Aiden kicked his feet fervently, pushing himself towards the water’s surface. His chest splintered, lungs shriveling like raisins. Aiden gasped, desperate to breathe. The froth flooded his eyes; the iridescent sea of gleaming dresses suddenly becoming blurry. Two seventy-one.

He is overwhelmed with awe, his cheeks blushing warm. Chara drops from the heavens, her amber eyes emitting starlight. She twirls elegantly like whispering tree branches. There’s a sandstorm in Alaska. The Pacific overflows.

Each and every person in the stands was on his or her feet. They subconsciously leaned towards the ring as Aiden’s hands plunged up from the murky underneath. His body slammed against the glass, fingers fumbling frantically to unlatch the chamber’s top. The violas screeched, the drums beating faster than the speed of sound.

Watercolor paint tie-dyes the hills. A landslide of blood. Is it alright if I call you that, “sweetheart?” An ultraviolet sensation spews chrome. Oh, so you’re looking to fit in here?

The latch clamored to the floor. Three-thirty. Aiden shoved the door open, breaking the water’s surface. He clutched the glass’s edge desperately, gasping for air, his stomach caving in with each pant. The audience exploded in applause.

Parables for the Dead & Dying Tyra Jamison

Parables: Earth to Earth The monkey bars are covered in blood!

Deer’s blood, the blood of the lamb, blood of the Son, a sacrifice, perhaps the red drips down the monkey bars to protect the babies from the crossfire of the grown folk mistakes.

I never heard about how the plastic red paint got stuck in the midst of dripping down lemon drop monkey bars, so I’ma make my own sense of it.

Being raised a Baptist girl, I sang songs about how I was covered in blood, how Emmanuel bled for the good of us all, how the paper-skinned Horseman trotted past the children of Israel, because they let lamb’s blood drip down their doorways.

They let the lamb’s blood drip down their doorways to protect their babies from the Horseman that had been invited, he and his indiscriminate greed.

We let the red drip down the doorways to reassure another day for the babies.

When they stole our power to protect the babies, we forgot how to make love.

Parables: Ashes to Ashes In my kindergarten coatroom, it wasn’t uncommon to find inhalers decorated with Spongebob stickers and Dora the Explorer Band-Aids,

plastic like Barbie dolls and large hair beads, like the red-cross kit resting on the teacher’s desk; nothing too serious.

It was never an affliction until asthma attacked the frailest kid in my class.

Although I tucked my inquiries at the back of my neck, I still wondered how to live without breathing.

When they showed us pictures of downtown Pittsburgh; dirty enough for midday to resemble midnight, I could swear the only time I ever saw the sun shine through so much smoke was when my church caught fire.

There were no little colored choirgirls, no black altar boys in alabaster robes hacked up out the ashes. But from beneath collapsed bell towers, two firefighters crawled up into heaven.

The questions teased at the back of my throat, for I was still learning how to live without breathing.

Live without breathing a word about the boot on your neck, live without breathing too loud, lest you shake scales out their eyes, live without breathing ‘till the dried gum and loosies smashed on the street disappear, live without breathing while your cries are sold for Internet hits, I am desperate to forget how to live without breathing live live

without

breathing without…

Parables: Dust to Dust Who said the beginning needs the end?

The end was invented by demons to give us something to dread, a threat to fill the cracks beneath the soil where Black bones would rest.

What the beginning really needs is Blackness!

Needs Blackness the way the soil needs the sea to surround it, the way the sea needs the Moon to push it, the way the Daylight needs the Moonlight to reflect it, the way the Moonlight needs Black skies to carry souls to the base of the sea.

Black people were made from this earth, formed from this soil, with as much purpose as anybody else.

Do you remember the day your demons laid purpose on your back?

Being made of this world is to inherit tissue that you cannot throw away, it’s a legacy that your demons have spent years trying to take.

So let your chin lift up from your chest.

Let the gold, dead skin cells, and dirt rest in your pores, for your flesh is nothing less than refracted soil, and the soil was made to give life.

The Mitchells

fort until their parents carry them back to their respective beds.

Daniel The oldest is always the saddest. His early memories are of his mother—their mother in their Scottish country home. He is the only one. He inherits his mother’s eyes and his father’s curls. He has no siblings yet.

Owen

Jayne Juffe

Zachary

He is named after the beloved and recently deceased uncle on his father’s side. He cries in the middle of the night whilst he teethes. Daniel sings to him in broken Gaelic and restrains from launching projectiles across their shared room.

Chris

His mother takes him for cold walks in the early morning. He is plump and pink and the smallest of them all. The dark hair matches his grey eyes. At the age of four, a raven in the moor blinds him.

Liam

Five heads crowd over his hand-me-down pram. Chris sits with his hand against its side and feels the baby’s cries through the vibrations. The strange faces above him are all semi-identical to his; his light blond hair contrasts against his brothers’ darkened curls.

Nick

The unexpected happens. It’s a girl.

Eric

A year and ten days later, he is born. He is named after many kings in Norway and dons a golden crown on his head. In the living room, they build a fort and paint his face on the flag. The rest of the children sleep around the pillow

Red patches splotch his skin. He uses his quiet nature against his siblings during the Dragons vs. Hydras battle of ’07. When his sister discovers him, she puts a finger to her lips and pulls their blind brother away without a word. He’s safe.

Ryan

He’s older by nine minutes. It’s the nine most important minutes of his life. The rest of them are crushed around the nursery and vie for his attention. Being tied for the youngest has its perks.

Austin

The true youngest despises that he was delivered nine minutes later. He clutches his sister’s fingers and swats the brothers’ away. The only thing he shares with his twin is their birthday and their mother’s rosy cheeks. That is until their mother dies. Then all of their cheeks turn forever pale.

Turtle Necked Sweaters and the Grave Keeper

cake he went back to work, still in his best turtle necked sweater.

I.

In all of his family pictures he was wearing a turtle necked sweater, varying from solid obsidian black to polka dots. He felt no joy.

VIII.

When his wife bought a dog, he named it Reaper. He trained Reaper to dig. Reaper went with him to work.

Chris Kraemer

II.

Never once did he smile. He approached each grave differently, thinking of new and creative ways to bury the dead. He thought about patenting his ideas.

III.

He wanted to smile. He really did, but there was no way. He lips refused to curl upwards.

IV.

His black turtle necked sweater was stained. Not with blood as one might expect but with paint. He had finished building his child’s tree house. Its walls were dusty gray, with a roof of solid black. His wife couldn’t help but notice it resembled a charnel house.

V.

He wanted to sweep the mausoleum floor. It was dusty, corroded with acid, and jagged. He decided to leave it be.

VI.

He tiptoed across tombstones, almost prancing. One observer said it looked like he was leaping with joy. In fact he was.

VII.

On his birthday he put on his best turtle necked sweater, the gray vintage knitted crocheted one. After the

IX.

On the night he was mugged, he didn’t have Reaper with him. He lost his wallet and his shovel. His second favorite turtle necked sweater was ripped. He lay on the street surrounded by shredded newspapers and shit wrapped in paper bags. It started raining.

X.

Reaper died of old age. His son was long gone, off to graduate school in Canada. His wife was losing track of her mind each day. Still he would make the walk to work every night. He never did get any of his ideas patented.

XI.

In his final days he laid his wife to rest, next to Reaper. His son had settled down and no longer bothered to visit.

He felt tired. He dragged on his least favorite turtle necked sweater, a red one with very itchy stitching.

XII.

He never had time to dig his grave. His time ran out when he snapped his wrist, no longer able to create his masterpieces. He never cracked a smile, not in his entire life.

Alone at the End Isaac Monroe

Begin apocalypse movie montage: Rescue helicopter heroically navigates a crumbling Los Angeles— You imagine your neighbor in the wreckage left behind, it took Armageddon, but he has finally turned his music down.

Screams crescendo up Hollywood boulevard and get lost in a cacophony of snapping support beams— How will language fail you after the crest? When all you have to say is ‘Its been…’ and ‘These are the things I have come to see as truth…’

Everything ends unfinished with a crater widening on Main Street. in the descent it’s all seen as inscrutable.

History remains, an empty howl on the lips of a crater.

Flesh pounds flesh; bodies climb over each other looking for something other than hot gas and raw lung— You wonder why it is always Hollywood to fall into the pit first.

As if to say, it started here, in your imagination.

If there is no repopulation project, no action hero sauntering out of the abyss, if there is no republic to rise from the rubble,

then tonight your silence will mean no more than sleep.

Dreams

Iesha Olatunjii A rocket soars through the sky flying higher than our dreams, higher than our deceased relatives lay their heads.

Rocket filled with daydreamers— Where will it land?

Somewhere we can be alone and just laugh together.

Maybe a place where everyone can be accepted for who they are.

Gay, Straight, black, white and even the people in between like me and you.

NASA stamped on the side of the rocket.

Black sky, perfectly shaped stars.

The sight is unreal.

Only a master could craft it, not the day dreamers inside.

But almost.

It came to me in a dream one night and I hopped aboard it with sweet intentions of touching the sky.

Everyone’s dreams have dreams of coming true— passing the sky into the beyond, where the real “stars” are.

The pilot flies higher than imagined.

The rocket’s dreams

are coming true.

Pele

Curran O’Neill Black hair/cooled lava sits weightlessly by your starry-eyes.

A mood ring of tresses burns your scalp persimmon.

Cinnamon girl, sweet in context

bitter on one’s tongue, sing sorrow/

blue flames to the popsicle colored

parrots hiding in neon trees.

By the sea, your volcano an open

wound impregnated with light—

you’re trapped in an open aviary.

Kiss lonely cherry lips to hardened rock.

The stones candied suns under

your glow, blazen newborns press

close to your skin. You breathed

life into raw coals, your children

melt away your solitary life,

fill the hollowness of your bones.

You’ve been empty so long,

devouring all you could reach—

brimming, you don’t notice the first rain.

over bling atomic

But your babies do. They tower you to keep the acid from bubon your flamed cheeks, from the

bomb of storm, closing the lid of your prison. Their faces fade black, charred spirits enveloping their mother in a film of gloom.

You try to kiss firecrackers

on their chubby heads but the

echo of silence brings you to your

knees, try to curse the azure mirror

now blocked by the bodies of your creation. Oxygen fizzing to dust, your last ribbon of flame reflects the decaying hologram of the girl you once were.

Excerpt from Light Speed Eden Petri

3. Tahoe I turn back to the window, to the picturesque tunnel of nature that has turned into mountains. Slices of gray jutting up towards the sky, littered with tall green trees. The tallest ones, piercing the atmosphere, are sprinkled in white like powdered sugar. It reminds me of that time in Philadelphia when we saw snow for the first time. Adeline was 6 and I was 10. We went to visit Dad’s family for the holidays and snow covered the world in blankets. We were wearing shorts and T-shirts, unfamiliar with the feel of the East coast. As we jumped out of the car and fell face first into the cold snow, it felt like fire against our bodies. Adeline screamed, overdramatic as she was, and my father picked her up and carried her into Uncle Bert’s. I remember staying outside, watching my legs turn red from the cold waiting for my father to come and get me.

Finn is awake now, staring in front of him at the panoramic view of this clandestine world of nature. The sun is setting, leaving the sky to bleed out daylight, a cool rush of blue flowing down, all of it contained between two mountains. It feels like we’ve traveled back in time, that we’ve entered some era of simplicity and nature and it leaves the car feeling calm and weightless.

Julian turns onto a side road, a dirt path, and as we go deeper, cabins and tents sprout up like corn.

“206,” Julian whispers to himself, looking out of the window at the numbers on the cabins.

“It’s that one.” Finn points to a very small wood cabin that looks beat up and aged. Julian pulls into the small lot beside of it, the grass almost dead. Finn jumps out of the car, climbs the tattered steps to the door and Julian and I grab our bags out of the trunk.

We packed light, each our own small bag of clothes and

for the collective, soup cans and classic literature. With the bags heavy on our shoulders, we join Finn at the door. He’s typing numbers into the key lock, but he can’t seem to get it.

“Didn’t your brother tell you the code?” Julian asks.

“He shares this place with eight other guys, someone must have changed it.”

My body feels heavy, lack of sleep getting to my head, I sit down on the stairs and wait.

“There’s ten numbers, it’s a three digit code, if we just go through and try all the numbers then at some point we’ll have to get it,” Julian pushes Finn out of the way and starts typing in codes.

It’s cold for California. Night is falling and with it, the temperature. I pull at my shirt, try to cover more of my exposed arms. Latch’s cabin seems distant from the rest, farther back into the wooded forest, it is a loud sort of quiet and it reminds me of him.

Latch spent the holiday with us, he came back from Costa Rica to surprise Finn and he ended up staying longer than expected. We had pitched tents in Julian’s yard, listened to Latch tell us his stories around the fire at night while the embers shot up like rockets only to burn out.

“Did you meet any pretty girls?” Finn asked. I watched Latch’s face, a curiosity flushing my body, intermingling with my blood. Finn’s dream was to go to Spain, meet a beautiful woman and fall in love; to marry her and live in Spain for the rest of his life.

“It’s hard to fall in love when everything is so temporary,” he said. Latch hated consistency; he lived for change, for experience. He was the kind of person who couldn’t settle, he always needed to be moving, to be doing something.

“But isn’t that the best part, the spontaneity of it all?” I asked. Latch looked at me, half a smile, his eyes reading me like a book.

“Yeah, but the ride always has to come to an end,” he said, his smile slowly falling.

“Got it!” Julian yells, grabbing the key and putting it into the lock. I stand up and Finn and Julian walk into the cabin.

They turn the lights on and I’m a little surprised. It looks like a place where an old retired couple from the suburbs would settle down, though much smaller. The walls are decorated with painted saws and a multiplicity of bear paraphernalia.

There are two floors and from the living room where we stand you can see past the banister up into the room that is the second floor. The cabin is long, so that past the living room there is a very small kitchen with a mini fridge and small gas stove, farther back there is a bathroom, and finally a bedroom.

The three of us standing in the doorway take up the majority of the living room, to the point where it is almost crowded. How eight men managed to live here at once, I don’t know. Finn runs back into the farthest room, opens the accordion door so that we can see the twin sized bed and places his bag atop it. Above the bed there is a letter addressed to Latch tacked to the wall and inside there is a picture of a girl. In the letter she explains the standard model, talks about supersymmetry, writes,

You are the mechanism that gives mass to elementary particles

and without you my thoughts weigh more than myself.

You tell me that to count the stars I need to concentrate on absence but I spend most of my time calculating the speed at which I’m falling

(air resistance is negligible) And the total time it’ll take before I’m twisted against concrete.

They say there are two options when you jump: To go face first, see the exact moment of impact Or to go feet first--take comfort in not knowing.

Our world is kinetic energy, our matter never ending.

The day of Latch’s 18th birthday he packed a small suitcase and left for Europe. Finn felt the loss like loose change in his pockets but he kept it internalized. Sometimes, when Latch would write, Finn would run to my house, barefoot and euphoric. We’d sit in my backyard and cling to every word, our adventures a vicarious experience.

Julian turns to me and shrugs, placing his bag down onto the couch and I make my way to the second floor.

Though the bed is much bigger than the twin sized that Latch slept on, the ceiling is much closer to the floor. As I reach the top of the stairs, banging my head against the ceiling, I realize that I have to crawl on my knees to fit, though it’s high enough that I can sit cross-legged without my head touching the ceiling. I place my black jansport backpack in the corner next to a small stuffed brown bear and crawl back down the stairs into the kitchen where Finn is stirring a small pot of chicken and rice soup.

“There’s not a lot of space up there,” I say, leaning against the cabinet.

“Yeah, Latch and his buddies added it in so that there was more space for people to sleep,” he places the silver spoon on the counter next to him, “Who’s hungry?”

The smell is dancing into my nose and I want to vomit, “I think I’m gonna get some sleep.”

Julian enters the kitchen, “That’s a good idea, you haven’t slept in a while.” Finn hands him a spoon and they eat out of the pot--the kitchen bereft of plates, bowls or cups.

There is only a small jar of spoons sitting on the windowsill

and a few pots and pans hanging on the curtain rod.

I go back to my small crawl space, change into an oversized T-shirt and slide into the bed. Lying on my back, my nose nearly touches the ceiling. Below me I hear Julian and Finn whispering about what we should do tomorrow; Finn tells Julian he found a case of beer in the cabinet, that we can go for a hike in the mountains and drink it by the trees: feel the freedom. Julian tells him it’s a bad idea, tells him we might get caught.

We’ve never worried about getting caught before.

The Father Complex:

A group of unconscious associations, or strong unconscious impulses which specifically pertain to the image or archetype of the father: they can be either positive or negative, and as a collective, our feelings tend to fall towards the latter.

When Finn lived in Ohio, he would go on walks with his father around the river.

The cold was the most memorable part: the river wind pulling at his shirt, pushing his tiny arms. He was 8, Latch was 13. The three boys walked along the river, a soft quiet.

Back at the house, Robert asked the boys if they could skip their walk just this once, said he was too tired--could hardly feel his legs. When he saw his children standing in front of him, eyes like lost stars, he felt a pain in his chest, love and longing.

The kids grabbed their coats and Robert locked the door behind them.

Along the river, birds pecked at a tower of bread stacked like a building. Finn stopped to watch them, their beaks like needles. Far ahead, Latch was staring down at the ground mumbling and making noises, arms swaying. He was in the factory.

He created a world in his head--an imagination like wildfire, mom said. When Finn asked him what he did in the

factory he just shrugged his shoulders, said he pressed the buttons, sometimes drove the trucks.

The air was cutting at Finn’s skin like summer grass and he stood by the birds. He noticed his father stop, yell to Latch to wait up. Looking at the ground, he perceived a small rock at his feet. He picked it up and held it in his hands like sharp glass, turning it over until two birds caught his attention. Pecking at each other, fighting over a bread crumb, some type of survival. Finn looked up at them then over to his father who waited patiently. He threw the rock with as much strength as he could and it flew out of his hands and fell in the middle of the birds. There was a huddle of flapping wings, feathers shooting out like bullets as the birds dispersed. Finn watched them as they headed towards Latch who turned just in time to avoid collision. His eyes grew wide, his feet tangled in a fury of fear and he fell with a loud thud into the Ohio River.

Finn’s body was ice, his ears ringing. Before Finn could turn his head, Robert was running into the water after Latch. His whole body submerged upon impact, he pierced through the water and swam towards Latch who was flailing his arms trying to grasp for air. When Robert reached Latch his lungs felt like fire, his arms felt heavy and his head felt like a river in and of itself. He placed his arms around his oldest son who’s flight response was overwhelming. Robert kicked his stinging legs back towards the ledge, Latch clinging to his back, lungs filling with water.

Finn kneeled at the edge of the river, his arm extended.

“Dad!” he yelled.

Feeling the heaviness of his head, his body slowing, Robert pulled Latch off of his back.

“Grab your brother!” he yelled, pushing Latch forward with all of the strength he had, a lightning bolt of fear and paternal love. Finn grabbed onto Latch’s wrist, barely strong enough to pull him up. Above them, birds watched from the trees.

“Dad! Swim!” Finn screamed over and over.

Latch dripped onto the sidewalk, a puddle of coughing and heavy breathing fading out into the currents of the Ohio River until it fell to silence.

After the funeral, Latch blew up the factory and Finn developed his father complex: the yearning for a protector and leader.

Julian’s moved into generativity: to find the lost father within himself.

Finn and I sat on the porch swing of Julian’s house, a desolate gray surrounded by dying trees and browning shrubbery. Julian was sitting in front of us on the cold cement of the porch, his knees tucked up. Sitting like he was, someone on the street might have mistaken him for a small child.

His parents were inside fighting, a scene not unfamiliar to us.

We heard his mother crying, her small dejected voice shouting back and his father, bellowing and hostile. I watched my feet sway in circles, an orbit. In my head, I repeated the names of all 63 of Jupiter’s moons.

We heard a shatter like glass and the voices suddenly went quiet. Julian sat up, hyper aware and out of the corner of our eye we saw a flash of red falling and we turned to the front yard where a rose was cascading to the ground like snow. Julian’s father said something, quieter, harder to hear, and like some kind of storm or flood, books and clothes and art were all falling. Suddenly, Julian’s father was standing in the front yard screaming obscenities as he picked up all of his things.

We sat frozen on the porch, Julian like he’d been struck by lightning. We watched as his father tossed everything into the back seat of his blue chevy, heard his mom in the second floor window screaming at him to go and without another word, he got into the car and drove away.

My own father complex was a rejection of, was a result of tribulation, was an attempt to clear myself of the

childhood that left my body burned.

Dad was in the front seat of the truck driving down a dirt path in the middle of nowhere and I sat in the back staring out of the window, thoughts eating away at my mind.

He was going to pick up a dresser for Adeline, an offer he found on craigslist. I came along for the ride, for the chance to have alone time with my dad. Two weeks before, Carlos Espinoza asked me to be his girlfriend. I was buzzing with excitement, a fly drunk on infatuation. Dad looked back at me through the rearview mirror, “What’s got you so happy?” He asked, a smile spreading across his face. My cheeks turned rubescent and I couldn’t help my mouth from curving up.

“Carlos Espinoza asked me to be his girlfriend,” I said, embarrassed.

His eyes shifted back from me, to the road, to me--his smile faded.

“You’re too young for boys.” I felt my own smile die.

“Dad, I’m 13,” I replied. “Everyone else in my class has a boyfriend.”

“Do you think I give a shit about what everyone else in your class is doing?” he asked, his voice booming like thunder. It felt like there were polkadots in my mouth.

“Break up with him on Monday,” he said sharply. I felt the tears sliding down my now pale cheeks, my mouth hung open.

“Dad, no,” I said and he stopped the car, so quickly, so abruptly, struck by Newton’s first law of motion. He turned back to face me.

“Did you just say no?” I didn’t move. I stared at him, frozen and afraid, “Get out of the car.”

“What?”

“Get out of the car. Now.” I felt my body tense up.

“Isobel!” He shouted, his body a flash of fury--he got out of the car and opening my door, grabbed my arm and dragged me out as I winced in pain. He left me on the cold cement road, then he got into the car and continued driving

down the path leaving me, lost in a world of trees and sun. I laid down on the side of the road encircled by a puddle of my own tears and waited for him to come and get me.

As a result I find myself rejecting the paternal attributes, rejecting protection from others. I do not need my father, and I do not need someone to try to be my father.

Julian and Finn’s voices fade out of the cabin kitchen like the end of a song and the world becomes engulfed in a nebulous haze.

an extension on the theme of relics: Jacob Richards

The second definition for the word ‘relic’ is as follows: “a part of a deceased holy person’s body or belongings kept as an object of reverence”.

EX: · a bone fragment of St. John the Baptist · the hypothetical toe of St. Mary of the Mount though I’d argue one of two things— Either: · relics can be birthed from more than just saints · holiness is much more common than the pope lets on because Her cane is a relic and His desk is a relic and Her bed is a relic too. and one day maybe I’ll be Your relic but the word relic comes from the latin word reliquiae which means “remains” and a form of the latin verb relinquere which means “leave behind” I lay in Jesus’s exalted waterbed, finding tiny ecstasies that make heaven tick. Perpendicular to the curve of the earth, I stand tall, proclaiming to all that I’m materialistic

and addicted to artifacts.

I have wooden floors floating in my house

—murmurs of the trees they were extracted from which I bless with barefeet

Secret Wishes

but I’m plump with the knowledge: when I die they’ll be a relic of me and sweet feet as well.

I. I want to see his cursive.

I want it in blue ink running along blue lines.

I want the page to smell of him.

I want the words to have no real meaning; the meaning should be symbolic.

I want to be able to run my fingers on the prickly edges,

How holy am I?

Shayla Salamacha

I want the page to breath the words, I love you.

II. In times of aching, your heartbeat should touch mine and our chests should bind and bounce together.

Your fingers should graze the outskirts of my palms and catch the tears as they try to lay within my skin’s cracks.

III. My jaw will unhinge every time you walk thorough the door.

My eyes will become glossed over and my heart will begin to beat with an artificial sound.

It will sound like metal collapsing; then you will make the whole machine shut down.

IV. The forever-collapsing world can cause a coarse existence.

Looking into your projected

eyes I see comets and nebulas, here to save me from the falling skies.

Excerpt from Apoptosis Emily Schwager

The Graveyard is blue. It is blue when you tie your shoes in the morning, it is blue when you spread mayonnaise on your sandwich for lunch, it is blue at 3:37pm and even more so at 3:38. The Graveyard is blue when you run to the supermarket for more avocados, when you make gazpacho for dinner. It is blue when you wash your knees in the shower and still so when you pray before bed. The Graveyard is blue when it is green, when there aren’t any leaves, when snow is covering every tombstone and treetop in sight.

It’s the kind of blue you brush your teeth with.

In the summers, you can cut your tomatoes with it. In the winters, you can scrape the snow off your cars with it. In fall and in spring, you can find it inside the blooming tulips, or with the drying leaves. Sometimes in the mornings, when the sun looks like an egg yolk in the sky, you can see where the world starts and where the world ends, all blue, never anything but blue.

The Graveyard’s blue doesn’t have a name. People don’t talk about it at the dinner table. Some mornings, it is a dull blue, a grey scale blue, a copper-coated-cloud type of blue. Others, it’s so intense, so sun-saturated, so lemonjuice-in-the-eyes, you think you might go blind. Breathe it in.

Let it suffocate you.

People walk past the Graveyard in silence. They shove their overpriced soccer mom cameras in their coat pockets, remembering that time their step-aunt died and the feeling of dirt under their fingernails. People text the Graveyard at 2:07am and clear their messages in the morning so that no one knows they are friends. People go on dates with the Graveyard in dimly lit restaurants because they are ashamed to be seen together in public.

But the Graveyard is more than just a landfill for stepaunts, or a place to pick dirt out from under your fingernails and wear the only black dress you own. The Graveyard is

not just a place to stick American Flags into the ground. The Graveyard is tired of being your one-night-stand / your secret lover.

The Graveyard is for you to teach your daughter how to drive a car. It is for teens to sit on decaying steps and light dandelions on fire, to graffiti headstones, to make out under willow trees. On the moss, there are brown spots from the undesirables, the men in beards and four pairs of socks, the women with quilts and grocery carts and no place to call home. On benches, there are bars on the sides so they don’t have a place to sleep, and with one final breath and a curse to a system that won’t help them, they lay on the ground and soak up all the moisture from the soil.

There is a pond in the middle that freezes every winter and one day your children will step on it tentatively, joking about ice fishing with pocket knives and sweater threads. In the spring, you will ride over the Graveyard’s narrow roads on your bike and try to catch frogs, or read books about thermodynamics. The Graveyard is for early morning jogs with your dog and picnics on Memorial Day with quiche and blueberry pancakes. It is for you to set off illegal fireworks on New Years Eve, for stargazing. The Graveyard is for the flowers who steal rainwater from dead grass and for mother birds who feed their young with vomit.

As far as the Graveyard is concerned, for every person who has died, there is a person who has learned how to live in her company.

For Malala

Lanie Wester Knowledge is power, this I know.

20 Pakistani girls all in a row with opals for eyes, throw stones outside my window into dirt.

The humid air of Swat pulls at their foreheads and they sink their brown hands into one another’s hair.

The teachers call them inside and they begin to follow each other like ducklings, their beads rustling off their narrow necks.

The sound of slamming shutters tells me to be silent.

I have heard them calling, their voices pervading a once calm air like crickets luring mates.

They trek the hills of my land like they own it, like they tend to its fields, like they lend it life.

They meet me here with bullets, one, two, threesoon I am gliding on pavement.

I awake to a world flooded over in media coverage and the lingering taste of salt.

My father holds my heart in his hands and is trying to stitch it together with thread, his roughed hands trembling at my bedside.

Gospels gather in my throatI am drowning in my own thoughts it seems.

20 Pakistani girls won’t go to school today.

For 20 Pakistani girls, the world is watching and they are scared.

20 Pakistani girls will cling to their mothers come morning and gently ask where I’ve gonemy window will be empty.

I will arise from this tomb enlightened, spit in the face of those who oppose us98 million Pakistani women, watch them try and bury us all.

Level Three

Palms Up

The Dublin Waterfront

Stare with your face turned up to the sky on the corner of Penn and East Liberty Drive. Open your ears and listen to the congestion of the streets that you’ve created. Hold out the palm of your right hand and with your index finger feel the smudge marks that you’ve left on a community that never asked you to lend a false helping hand. Breathe in the air that you somehow have managed to change.

Swallow down the tang of manipulation and watch as goose bumps begin to rise on your arms as your taste buds explode with the bitter after taste of destruction. Try not to forget (but I’m sure you will) about the after taste. Wash it down with a sip of “pure” water from the “local” Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, or Target. The water falls into your stomach and erases any bitter trace, just as the rain, washes over the land that belonged to families long before soldiers wearing camouflage G.I Joe boots left their footprints in the mud.

Take a step back and watch as the hue of skin tones begin to change from robust coffee to ivory, and then cotton and finally, shades of frost. Try to feel like an outsider in your own home.

Do not blame the people for the mess you’ve made of their home. Do not say they did not know how to utilize their resources, utilize their soil—their knowledge. Knowledge. Because here in America, the education system has been signed off by the same scribbles of those who’ve systematically labeled every person of color as blank charts on bleached paper even though the soil of this country was watered by the tears of slaves.

Maps The lines they have drawn over the Docklands are all too even, alien. They make 90 degree angles at seemingly unusual places, cutting out the north inner city from the waterfront. It’s hard to say your family lives by the port when there is no place for you on the map.

Zainab Adisa

Cavan Bonner

Communal Balconies He never thought he would miss seeing neighbors smoking over the railing every morning till he moved out.

Gated Apartments They are symmetrical arrays of rainbow modules, eyesores of glass and paint.

Gasometer Empty, now, without its inherent purpose. Never was beautiful, but age has given new meaning. He needs to look at photos to remind himself that it once was a stark pillar on the horizon, not a buried stone. It has become a temple now, silent with memories of the structures that once surrounded it.

Campshires The Viking Splash Tour runs through on clockwork time. The people hate the Viking Splash Tour. It took a lot of politicking to convince the residents to stop throwing stones. He’s not sure if he agrees with the stone throwing, but he didn’t much like the defenders of the Splash Tour. Dad was a dockworker, not a Viking. He doesn’t know any Vikings, in fact.

Landscape at Daybreak Irina Bucur

Stroll Through The Park

Golden dusk breaks to golden dawn.

This is the cold awakening to a silver night’s fast waning face.

Of all the ways to go, I had to hear the bopping swarm of anarchy, chasing, swallowing, creating me in the trail left by womb-weary garbage men.

Why wasn’t there time for us?

We watched and waited, two warbling, housebroken tattle-tails left alone.

Duets knew us better than we, sat alone together in coarse night woods, askew separated at a shack full of noodle sharks, the solo became me.

“Drain the anarchist…gently” voices came imagining humanity’s wringer, I was scared but not alone alone, but never cold. Warmed by an icy night wood tattle-tail, she loved the loveless, roaming their plethora of rank esplanades, bringing bright darkness.

Left to someone else’s devices I felt the world I encountered, reaching out to some lacy Parthenon junglejim for guidance.

What could I earn with my offerings? Esoteric club bread and a beating, nothing more than a shadow now, given to me by Enola Gay. Instinctively my body shudders to mixed messages, stop the music to hear what is gained.

A drop off of insanity tested by our hearts, clearly breaking, clearly alive, but not now.

Stop the music to hear what is gainedsilence.

Coming for me, crackling herdsmen of humanity, their weapons: my subconscious

But hold still, sleepy darkness. Hold still, paper moon hung over a ghostly sky.

This is no morning.

No finger of light can touch this charcoal sun.

We rise early at dawn.

We are creatures of premature fires, glinting and glimmering, hidden like the jealous sun’s gems, behind bright lights to sleep.

Dante Caliguiri

1937 Nanking Victoria Cheng

A mix of half smiles and straight stares, I only recognize one woman because she looks exactly like my mom. She is my great-grandma my Tai Po, her face is my connection, a warm string loosely re-tied to murky points in my blood, framed in discolored portrait.

They are 1937 Nanking and I am 2015 Pittsburgh a little 1999 Florence, South Carolina the United States of America and Never Been Outside The Country yet, I have only been to China in the future.

I write more Spanish than Chinese, sometimes my skin betrays my birth and so my mouth curses my origin, I use to want a middle name that didn’t fall off American lips like black rain but more like snow, down to earth like catching flakes on accepting tongues, I find it hard to genuinely laugh at stereotypical Asian burns, third degree and first. I have grown out of striking those matches on the bandwagon, I am third generation young enough to catch the wrongs of my people and myself, one pair of slippers hiding bound feet and the rights of a cultural hybrid.

Excerpt from Love Story Leah DeFlitch

#1

The sky is melting; the moon is dragging its giant infant face onto it.

You are running then, falling.

Your right hand crumples at the end of the street, imitating your body as you lie aghast and red-faced and clutching your broken nose, body spread-eagled out behind you.

Your mother streams like a brash flood from the house.

When she reaches where you have fallen: suddenly her breath drops in measured chunks, her face opens and reaches out and her hands fall onto yours, tender and sturdy. #1 is not panting. She is not crying as you are. She is carrying you home; she is stopping the blood. #2

Never been kissed. Trailing girls and taking names.

You keep your hands in your pocket when #2 kisses you, you tell everyone at recess you leaned in first. #3

Bus station. 4:52 p.m. Both of you all-glowing. And #3 balancing pieces of caramel between her teeth, and you two walking home from the bus stop with the sun that is already setting, and her house that is smoking slightly from behind yours.

When you kiss her past the intersection, or more accurately, she kisses you. When this has been building for months. When you can feel her palms, all sticky from the wrapping of the candies, which will have melted in her pocket come June.

Her index finger pressing on your thumb the rest of the way home, she has never looked warmer.

She

Picture day

She is Sunday morning’s clammy hands. She is uneven brick roads, sunglasses tinted too dark. She is impulsive decisions and compulsive actions. She is the stereo turned up ten notches too many.

There are worse things than these miniature betrayals, like my skin swelling hotter than the air of your mouth a real scorcher; burning my lips and my lungs.

The flesh of my hips stretches tight over the rapid flash of the camera, bending over the loose curls of my hair and shining black barrettes.

I see your brightness as a welcoming existence.

In the depths of my memories it has been a cake of black soap, a wedding ring, a gold tooth fillinga gift out of the ash.

Elsa Eckenrode

This is what makes her beautiful. Her laugh and her horrible singing voice. The wisps of hair that fall when she dances.

The wrinkles of her forehead and the corners of her lips.

Uneven lipstick. Asymmetric eyeliner. Five-minute morning routine.

She is the seatbelt she never wore. Her contacts she never kept clean. She is her half painted guest room, bright yellow over a soft blue. She is her favorite purple lounge chair, and the curtains she keeps drawn. Undiagnosed anxiety. Obsessive tendencies. Reckless behavior.

She was a broken headlight. A four-wheeler in reverse. She was always 20 mph faster than the legal limit. She was the stop sign everyone ignored.

Zada Fels

Beautifully Mad (Excerpt) Gracie Kon

5. A dark veil hid the woman’s face. A small basket was clutched tightly in sleeved arms. In the basket, the vials clinked with every step. The liquid swished from within.

Heels clicked along the cobblestone. A large castle came into view. Clouds started to fill the blue sky as a knowing smirk played on ruby lips.

6. A large, rusted wrought iron fence was the only thing that stood between the King and the woman. Dressed in bright scarlet robes and topped with an elegant golden crown, the King stood in the garden as he berated his servants.

7. A man in silver amour noticed the suspicious woman. Metal footsteps pounded the stone as the knight marched toward the veiled figure. The woman eyed him maliciously. A grey-gloved hand tightened cautiously, sword at the ready.

8. The King abused his power. The meaningless tax collections, leaving the citizens poor and in horrid conditions and only serving to increase the King’s greed. He had no idea of empathy. He was utterly ruthless, beheading people for his own amusement, starting wars over nothing more than simple disagreements. An unlikely person decided to teach him a bit about karma.

9. Glass shattered on the man’s metal mask. Red elixir seeped into the cracks of the suit, and clung onto the knight’s skin. He screamed in agony as he started to disintegrate. The woman let out a horrifying cackle and set her green eyes on the King.

10. All servants in the castle were filled with a mixture of happiness and fear. Happy that the cruel ruler would be no more, yet afraid of the rumors of who or what, had caused his downfall.

11. Back at the little cottage, the woman admired her new mantle decoration.

12. Two weeks later, and the Knights still hadn’t found the King’s head.

Excerpt from Let Her Yell Arwen Kozak Do not feel sorry for the blond girl on the train. Do not call her a girl, it will be a hard habit to shake when you want to call her a woman. Let the conversation die when she whispers “bloody hell” into her hands. Do not try to find out what’s wrong.

But if you ask, she will tell you. You will end up drinking tea at your flat, dancing to Bowie and watching her brush the knots out of her pale hair.

Do not spend months pining over her. You will spend your money on glamorous red platforms to wear to her costume party and she will wear your jacket and say she is embracing your ego.

You will always have to compete for her sympathy. She will quit her job. You will leave the paper on the table with ads circled for jobs and she will tell you she is too good to be a secretary. You will tell her: “I know, baby, I know” but you will want her to take it anyway. You will get tired.

Your friends will tell you to leave her, end it, and you will say that you love her. They will tell you it is not enough, and eventually, you will agree with them.

Do not apologize when she yells. Accept it. Let her yell, and let her leave, and do not feel sorry again. If you apologize, she will cry and you will hold her for hours. She would not have liked the ring you bought her anyway.

Dad

Ruthanne Pilarski He takes pride in the euphoric buzzing of the cerulean china slipping from sister’s hand to brother’s head splintering the textured periwinkle walls.

His stories are harmonious and choreographed like his walk as a candle boy, with a firm figure and fingers still burning from the dripping of the faithful, sugary wax.

He takes care of his mother, her hair pulled back into stormy, wiry curlers that wiggle with her subconscious touch.

He makes her tea and fixes what’s broken, then tells us his friends loved her like he does and her sheepish smile is precious, pungent.

He is in the middle of every picture on the wall grinning, through his knobby, obtrusive haircut hands placed carefully on his knees.

Now it is me who tastes pride like salt for the fingers he and I share.

For our blue eyes, not like skies or oceans but like pulsing, breathing veins.

My heart absorbs his youthful sincerity in light portions, with splitting skin opening palms to the glow of his voice.

Scales and Urbanization

Becca Stanton

When I hug my dad,

my ear pressed

to his cheek, he sounds like an ocean oceans of things I don’t quite get.

Oceans of insight and laughter swarming in currents.

Arms full of binders watching the wheels of the funeral wake passing khakis, navy blue hours. Sweater.

Rite Aid, her arms full of boxes of tampons

and her laugh loud fat lips on the sideline. Little League of Little League.

Pittsburgh Career Institute and I don’t remember where we are, pockets full of shoelaces and band aid wrappers.

Anti-freeze casualties. Rushed flushed cheeks, tingling in my toes and my arms feel cold.

How To Get Through Taylor Szczepaniuk

Don’t watch TV shows about love. Don’t watch any movies where they have happy endings; I promise you that you won’t be a fan of those. Stay away from your social media. Pictures will be posted, and there will be a lot of statuses with people sending you their condolences. This will make you cry. Do yourself a favor: don’t watch the news. Sadly, the event that just ruined your life ruined many others. The pro?

You’re not alone.

Don’t answer the phone. Just don’t. You won’t be strong enough. Everyone who’s calling wants to know how you’re doing. They don’t care about how you are feeling.

They just want the details and the drama. You’re vulnerable, you’ll tell them over 15 minutes of tears and them telling you they’re sorry. Soon after, they’ll get off the phone; call another one of your fake friends, to talk about your devastation.

Don’t call your mom. She’ll understand that maybe you need some space. Mothers are great but they won’t help. They’ll tell you that you’re free. You can date other men. They’ll tell you that he’s not the only fish in the sea. That yes it’s scary but you’ll be okay. Clearly you’re not.

Retail therapy. People say that it works but it doesn’t.

You just lost your boyfriend and you buy a dress. You’ll buy a nice dress that would be great for a date, but who’s going to take you? You’ll take off work for a while. No, it’s not a paid vacation but you’ll spend all of your money, finding yourself in a bind. You won’t be ready to go back to work but you’ll have to because money troubles are not something you want to add on to the list.

For the next 5 years cut 9/11 out of each of your calendars. Call off work. Make sure you skip that day. Sleep right through it. Wake up on the twelfth. Move on. Nothing happened. Don’t read books on planes. Don’t think about twins, or towers, and don’t think about him.

Follow these steps and you’ll get through.

Excerpt from The Winter that Made Me Famous Amanda Talbott

I moved on to spoons. I named every spoon in the kitchen.

Cynthia, Ellis, Jack, Borris, Stacy, Vincent. Lots of names like those.

The spoons became my fans. The forks were my enemies.

Everybody loved me. Everybody hated me. The sheets cried when I lied down. The TV wished I were on it. The walls were too cold to form an opinion.

The last day of the winter, I gave my final performance and the entire house became a live audience. I stood on top of the fridge’s shoulders, crouching down so that my head wouldn’t irritate the ceiling and I spoke. I spoke like an angel, gracefully, poetically. A brush for a microphone and the greatest story ever.

I became a celebrity in my own home, soaking up every wind and blowing it all back out.

Level Two

The Heirloom

Qui Ante S. Anderson Sunset Horizon’s Birthdate: Dear, Journal Somewhere deep in a estranged human emerged land, a woman lies asleep below a rock, in a fetal position. She is pacing back and forth to each side …

How can she be lying asleep and pacing back and forth?

The women’s feet, are like two blow-up fish, her arms, and legs are as frail as two shredded, used swinging vines. Your eyes can feel the pain of her back, as it is curved in like the letter C. This women weighs about eighty eight pounds sharp, she hasn’t eaten a solid meal, since early of last week, but wait—someone and something is within her, a growing life lies inside her soul, heart, and uterus, making the mid-section look like the planet Earth, as mold, bold, solid, and silent as it could be …

Deep inside her mind… She is walking down a path, everything is dark as the night without any moon, then she looks down, and as she slides her foot in a solid circle, she realizes that she stands on a circle. Tree roots, and a thick branch come up on the circle, tiny leaves of all colors of autumn spring from the branch. A tarantula, comes from under her feet designing a web, leaving a hole in the core of the circle.

NARRATOR The Woman giggles MAY-MI Oh sorry little buddy, I didn’t mean to be in your way

… as she picks the tarantula up, and it crawls around her body!

NARRATOR Then a bridge is stumped (Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump!

Bump! Bump! BUMP!) into a stance of the circle, on the top of the tree branch. Three animals creep up beside her legs, and each crochets three different pieces of quilts, then they write symbols on them. She is not of any knowledge of what the meaning of the symbols are. Then gardens of fruit, and vegetation grown on the bridge, and around the tree branch, slowly form into beads, and a little girl comes skipping, waving her head back and forth, which allows her hair to flow.

Her, eyes destined for the future, the creation, and as she gets closer the women realizes, that the little girl is destined for her. In her hand is a bell, which she snips onto the bottom of the creation.

The little girl’s smile made the women believe, the moon couldn’t glow, and that the stars couldn’t shine.

Swinging Alone

Cheesesteak

Inspired by Zydeco Zinger by Andrew Moore

A cheesesteak is never waiting until later for shreds of meat and hot cheese, so you can immediately rip through balmy white paper past grease and lettuce to increase the luminescence.

Ryan Andrews

Twirling and spinning. Turnstiles tipping with middle school bands and roller coaster enthusiasts.

High in the sky, a jungle themed coaster dips.

Exponentially faster than the speed of gravity, my hair was snatched by the excitement.

Cut potatoes drooling cheese, freshly squeezed lemonade, sizzling hot dogs blanketed in batter, ice chips with artificial flavoring, and seasoned chicken strips for all.

Before Katrina.

This place isn’t what it used to be.

It’s not a fun house, a roller coaster capital, a family gathering place.

It’s a late night teenage hangout.

Nineteen year old scene dropouts come to drink and smoke and vandalize and destroy what has already been ruined.

It’s a good day for the rest of New Orleans.

Katrina took you out, Six Flags never wanted to put you back.

What ever happened to the city of second chances?

Overgrown vegetation spills out of abandoned buildings with broken bricks.

Shattering glass and spray

Maisha Baton

A cheesesteak is finding fossils in the last layer of its asylum, exposing the great withdrawal, just to make you realize you do not like cheesesteaks at all.

Excerpt from PANIC! at the Pizza Place Olivia Benning

in my life and what did you do? You smeared red paint all over it.

Leonard has spent the morning searching for a job around town. In order for him to continue living with his Mother, she has told him to find employment within the next couple of days. He is now at Brown’s Produce, his second stop.

CHAD Your project was terrible. You honestly tried to make a potato into a pair of pants.

(LEONARD nods and the woman contacts the manager. LEONARD waits for a few minutes before the manager CHAD walks onto set.)

CHAD You’re ridiculous. You honestly think somebody is dumb enough to hire you?

CHAD Leonard…long time no see.

LEONARD It was just fine that way. I didn’t know you were manager.

CHAD And I didn’t know you actually wanted to get a job. Looks like we’re both surprised. Or maybe I should be the only one surprised. Follow me to my office and we can talk.

LEONARD There isn’t any need for that and you know why, Chad.

(CHAD narrows his eyes at LEONARD before walking of. LEONARD reluctantly follows as they enter an empty part of the store. CHAD and LEONARD face each other, remaining silent.)

LEONARD You ruined my science project. I had never worked so hard

LEONARD I knew it wasn’t going to work but it was great. Who could pass up saying ‘Panta-patato’ like 20 times?

LEONARD Calm yourself, Chad. I was the one who had the highest test scores in Geometry. Not you.

True but I was popular.

CHAD

LEONARD Look where that got you…manager of Brown’s Produce . Are you happy, Chad? Please tell me that you’re happy with your terrible job.

CHAD (glaring) You were the one who was going to get an application to work here. As a cashier!

LEONARD Yeah Chad, I was going to be a great cashier here at Brown’s but not anymore! I’d much rather work at Target than work here with you as my boss.

I see…you’re still a loser.

CHAD

LEONARD I can see that you’re still trying to hide that bald spot with a half assed comb over.

CHAD (angrily) Hair loss in men of young age is becoming very common, Leonard! Plus it isn’t a bald spot!

(Two women pass by the two men, giggling at the conversation. One waves at LEONARD as he smiles and waves back. CHAD sulks as LEONARD stuffs his hands in his pockets.)

LEONARD So…I can’t have the job?

CHAD There is no way I’m giving you an application.

Chumped

Weston Custer Tomorrow I won’t go skate, I won’t talk to Posti, I won’t play guitar.

I guess you could call this, like, premature retirement.

Instead, I’m going to walk home stupid.

I’m going to slam Siamese Dream into my tape deck, and let it play back and forth forever.

Or at least until I’m just listening to white noise and my bed is drifting through the Crab Nebula.

Sitting still was always enough.

Demodex

Dear Mom

I plucked mites out of my eyelashes and married them off in pairs, threw tiny weddings while shaking white bed pillows over them, dust sailing triumphant like rice,

You were always so strong and I never understood it. Because when your daughter screams at you, you always scream back and when your husband tells you things you know aren’t true, your voice reaches a forte. I’ve never seen a man cower in such fear. There are so many lies we have told you. Over and over and over again, they never stop, no matter how much I wish they would. When I told you I was gay, you didn’t even flinch; you told me you loved me. Would you still love me if I told you the whole truth? Would you tell me I’m too young to decide? Mom, I’m not a girl. I’m sorry I never told you. I’m sorry your child isn’t going to grow up to be just like you. There have been so many times you and I have disagreed because I’m just like you. You hate that I’m just like you. I love you for all the times you laid in bed with me, holding my head in your purple cloaked arms, tracing the veins in your hands as I cried over stupid girls and stupid boys and stupid me. Did you cry when you found out that every smile I gave you was fake, that behind my teeth is the depression we never knew about? Or when the psychologist told you I have anxiety to add to our ever-growing list of problems? Did you cry when you found out Sophie was just the same, a mini-me in every way you hate? Did you cry every time Dad underwent life-threatening surgery? Because I did, but I hid behind my beach-blonde waterfall that looks just like yours. Did you cry when our family fell apart? I wish I had.

Noor El-Dehaibi

but lighter.

I had them live out lives I couldn’t see, affairs and burnt casseroles and babies under the microscope, children that grew up and moved out, saved a nest egg for condos between eyebrow follicles.

I made them tiny caskets when they stopped moving, brought in spiders to deliver eulogies and mourn.

They sat on construction paper grave plots peppered with dandelions petals until, in a moment of absentmindedness, I threw them all into the trash.

Maya Frizzell

Sketched

Veronika Gill I draw you during World History while we learn about Moguls and Gandhi.

I imagine you picking your nose, tracing lines of granite with thin ink, then erasing hoping it doesn’t blur.

Facts about the Apartheid-the state of being apart have tainted your face, tinted a rotten gold, wisps of hair floating from your emanating visage, it ties no meaning to the words on the page but I still grasp it pretendimg I’m getting closer to you.

As long as there are stars above you, I feel like the same ones will circle me.

You carry your books with a slouch, flagposted among other bus patrons, screaming children flinging their food at your feet.

You’re in the accordion, the twisting, long ,slender fingers ghosting along a leather cover.

The sunset drips a slow, filtered remembrance of you today, the day before,

last week.

Cut like silkworms, we will forget everything.

To Know Love D.L.Green

I Brown, Brown is my new favorite color.

The Narcissistic gleam mingles flawlessly to the melted chocolate of your eyes.

My first taste of the sweet and sour that makes up you.

My delicious taste of an enticing sin.

II I’ve found myself thinking back to when we where children.

The feel of your lips grazing my ear as you tell me about the latest gossip.

I miss waiting for the delightful burn, as the warmth of your breath hits my skin letting the tingles run through my body.

A feeling that has never completely faded on me.

You have never faded on me.

III At the age of ten I became obsessed with romance.

We’d copy our parents by holding hands while walking through the gardens, our imaginations soaring.

So I decided to asked my mother what love is she told me it’s a verb, something that you do.

I thought that maybe when were older you’ll do it for me, and in return I for you.

IV Summer time was a time for imagination.

In the backyard of my house we were knights.

You would never ask me to play the trapped princess because you knew I hated to be a Damsel in distress.

Although I would have been as long as it where with you.

V In high school you were a walking advertisement of sex appeal.

Maybe you didn’t notice sense your nose was in the air.

I wonder if you ever really cared about us lower class kids, VI You’re in love.

I felt my heart skip a beat when you told me.

I felt the laceration as my heart deflated.

The name you said wasn’t mine.

Sink

Three Graces

for Wilkinsburg

ten·der·ness noun

gentleness and kindness.

The girl in the middle with red hair like a bird’s nest looks at the onlooker with warm, honey eyes.

Her dress–pink as morning skies–matches the pink bow in her hair which matches her cheeks.

Her dainty hands are as delicate as the flesh of a rose petal.

In them, she holds a rabbit.

Suhail Gharaibeh

I am knee-deep in the flash flood of spring. Bullets have burst through bodies and ricocheted to slice open the dark clouds. The blood of eight ruddies the viscous water— this stain will cover the pavement like bark long after a whitehot sun scorches the rain away. In the water: a cracked china doll swathed in strips of skin, the ruined drywall of a subsidy house with a woman clinging to its fire escape, (her skin is dark and wet, smeared with runny mud and shot through with the startling pink of subcutaneous flesh) an arsenal of greasy shotguns, sparking telephone wires.

Bloated ambulances sail by. Policemen rock deep ripples in the water as they zoom past in motorboats to survey the waste. I watch the oscillation from the police boats capsize a cradle, and like a rock an infant sinks to the deep—I turn away before I can see the cruel bubbles rise.

My heart wrenches as the water strokes my waist—the concrete walls of segregation are still sealed tight as a mausoleum.

Where will this water go?

Pay Kish

fruit·ful·ness noun

good or helpful.

She’s young like a newborn lamb standing on tiptoes to rest a cheek on her sister’s shoulder.

She is her elder & her guardian angel, she will prevent anything from staining the innocence.

A pale blue dress lays on her milky body, calm as a puddle.

In her hand, she holds an apple. or·der·li·ness noun

neat and diligent. “Look at me!”

Dark hair and dark eyes sing harmoniously.

Lavender dress, the only one with flowers.

The red bow matches the fire sleeping under her skin, pale as the lace lying on her chest.

She holds a toy soldier close to her

ad·mi·ra·tion noun

respect and warm approval.

The painting has been hanging in our living room for 8 years now. I’ve watched my mother stare at it as if it were treasure.

She says it reminds her of my sisters & I. For some reason I never understood until I was looking at the girl in the middle with the red hair & the rose cheeks & saw myself looking back.

In One Year: Months Five Through Eleven Jessica Kunkel

Month 10: What if I showed up on your doorstep— sweating summer, panting storms— with a pint of Blue Moon ice cream and a six pack of Doctor Pepper?

You told me you’d die of happiness.

I imagined the drop of my stomach as I waited at the door lakes for palms, sunset behind my head.

I’d been imagining, remembering the scenes I wished could repeat, looping through The Best Of. Month 8: I walked up the hill and saw you lanky, leaning against the telephone pole baseball hat, smirk, and Hendrix in tow.

I tripped on the sidewalk, clumsy.

Month 10: I turned the bend to see you sitting on my front porch like it was yours, cap over your eyes, sleeping in drowning in the scent of your fifteen dollar Michael Jordan cologne. I blinked and you were gone.

Your bracelet on my wrist all the while, a string of violets one split down the middle.

When I got rid of it, gave it to Sam, you told her to throw it in the ocean.

Month 5: I took it back.

What if I showed up on your doorstep?

Dignified

Chelsea Lewis Her bones were forced to move themselves as another day had come.

Her kind, hazel eyes not dare peek at the mirror in her passing because she is a victim of red bees buzzing towards her in rapid motion.

The doors of the threshold whipped open and her naysayers oozing green stood and spewed ignorance like chewing tobacco.

They say that her thighs are too chunky and far from sticks like they should be and her hair is too perfect, where’s the kink?

Their envious eyes ignore that her smooth curves round softly to reel you in.

Her skin like a caramel chew, her clothes reflect her true self, her chocolate locks graze her back because her great grandfather just had to have her great grandmother and the list can go on but bottom line, pretty girl she shines in her own right as she is just one of the many Black queens to walk on these lifeless streets, planting her golden seed.

Small things

Pilar Lojacono

I collect small things— faded statue of a cat; toys I’ve found thrown in the street; pinecones my father said made him think of me while golfing a broken glass bead, a mushroom inside it; a ceramic chick I bought with my aunt at Easter.

Locked safe away on the top shelf of my glass cabinet and I look at them Sometimes after school when my hair falls from its clip, and I take off my hoop earrings.

I suppose I am a small thing to collect.

I don’t mind, really, unless you mention it.

Then I do mind.

I push it to the back of my awkward mind where only I can reach it.

So hush.

Feather Pen

Honorable Death Trap

Four bright white walls contain her.

Long hair falls in thick waves like a horse’s mane.

Her russet skin deepens from the white dress.

The floor is cracked and chipped.

She sits with her legs neatly tucked in.

Ink covers her whole hand, making it seem inhuman.

It drips onto her slender fingers, crusting over her fingernails and drying on her cuticles.

The ink is dark like ravens feathers, bleeding into her lips and teeth.

She rubs at her fingers and hands, trying to scrub away the traces of darkness.

Her hands become raw, her tears are black and stain her cheeks.

It splotches on her feet, creating dark pock marks.

Above her is paper, covered in her scriptures and stories.

Her hand is curved with grace, as she swivels Arabic on the wall.

She finishes and tries to stand, but the ink warps around her ankles pulling her to the floor.

It crawls up her leg covering her entire body, eventually devouring her face.

The only sound is her breath.

She sits down again, picking up the feather pen writing with the raven’s feather.

We never used to go that far down. We would leave at dawn and come home well before the sun began to set.

Every time we traveled down the valley you were content for all of two hours before I noticed that you were weak, and tired, and bored.

I thought you were beautiful. My mother warned me that beauty faded. My mother wanted me to marry someone who’s love for me wouldn’t fade. You would walk this far down my favorite trail and help me stay still as I took pictures, and I would recall your arms wrapped around my stomach and your hands on mine.

We got to our normal turn around point, but we just continued walking. My heart jolted. I asked no questions and said no words, but we walked and walked down and as I looked at you each time I could see you clearer and clearer.

It was so quiet until I began to hear the sound. The sound my dad’s tennis shoes made when he walked down the stairs with the sound the pots and pans made when my mother dropped them. You just continued to walk next to me but your hand gripped me tighter and tighter for every step.

The sound got louder as we went deeper- sloped down and down and we just continued walking.

This was it all along. I gripped you tighter.

Chyna McClendon

Caden Molin

Letter to Pittsburgh Hope Schall

I walk down a well-paved street, choked with cars.

I remember each shining boutique, perky and ready for approval.

I cannot remember much about Lawrenceville before I grew up, except for two locations: The first was the Thunderbird, dark and smoky, an Astroturf-green TV screen in the corner penetrating the soot, The typical pub, but to me it was a filthy, fascinating den of adultness, to which I was a voyeur from behind a pool table and extra TV that blared cartoons.

The second was a corner store with bars on the windows.

Mother held me by the hand and pulled me gaping at an ad for Pepsi-Cola into the shop, one room, shelves stocked with shiny-crinkly chip bags, cigarettes and powdered donuts.

She would buy a loaf of bread, and I would find a push-pop in the freezer.

It doesn’t take much to please a child.

Father took me to the Strip sometimes, to track down ingredients you couldn’t find in the grocery store.

These were glorious occasions. I could barely keep myself from getting lost in the street vendors, the swarms of tourists, the conglomeration of all different cultures, the smells alternating between coffee, Chinese street food and fresh bread.

I also remember the clerk in Mancini’s that would hand me breadsticks.

The manager in the pho restaurant with one hand.

The girl whose mother kept a kitten on a leash.

The old woman who gave me candy on Easter, lived during the Depression and came from a family of ten children.

The old pit bull who made me throw bits of wood for him to limp after.

The young, undiscovered blues musician on the street corner downtown.

The corner store is gone.

Now its barred windows show a dusty abyss, and it is covered in spraypainted declarations of war against Google.

The Pepsi-Cola sign is also still there.

Melancholy Ciara Sing

A black boy told me that he never met a black girl with an afro that could pronounce every syllable in the word ignorant, that he never met a black girl who sleeps in satin scarves and dreams about gravitational fields so intense no matter, no particle could ever escape almost as if he never met a black girl who broke down his stereotypes.

As if we should keep the curves in our hips but not in our smile, and allow our voice to be suffocated as intense hate gets injected into our system and tells black girls to become apologetic for their race.

Black girls whose water is poisoned with lead, who become numb to the taste of their own tongue.

Black girls who are so used to white wine intoxicating their thoughts, sisterhood is no longer sensational.

He told me that he never met a black girl, who’s a black girl and loves being a black girl.

As if self love doesn’t come along with the melanin, as if self confidence gets lost in our curls and respect gets left behind in the swishing of our thighs.

He told me that he never met a black girl who doesn’t believe she’ll give birth to a convict.

He said he never met a black girl who doesn’t like being the Sarah Baartman spectacle,

inspected and experimented on, tagged as the unidentified species.

It seems like sometimes black boys forget their black lips use to suck on black nipples.

Accident Brief #1

Based on “Morning Star III” by Georgia O’Keefe

Will Thayer

Staring into the gash in your knee, everything blisters together: that lemon sun, your bloodhot flesh, the sea of teeth that gnashes behind us.

You are an eyeless socket.

The heart of a fig. The mouth of a volcano.

You nurse the wound like a child, baptize it underneath the waves and wait for it to breathe in the salt, the water, the ghosts. In the ocean, everything is blue-white and the coppery spirit of a dinosaur rockets slowly in the distance (Megalodon—no, Leviathan).

The sun has no tendrils here and the creature phases through you.

You wonder if this ancient light you’ve swallowed, the levity in your belly, is what truly made you a ghost. Or is it the magma rising from your veins? The star that fuses above?

You gulp for more water, but your lungs fill with yellow-less light. You wait for drowning.

The Leviathan never comes back to take you to what ever you’re screaming for.

From Large Crowds and Small Moments Isabella Victoria

I come from neighbors that share their gardens, from picking dandelions and crunching them together into my left hand.

I come from tying the longest piece of grass I can find around them in a bouquet for my mother.

I come from wet shoes whistling as they slide up the hills.

I come from breakfasts at the airport and lunches on the beach.

Lake Michigan sand mixing with watermelon and lemonade in Dixie cups.

I come from biting fingernails and chapped lips.

I come from stitches on my brothers’ chins.

Rocks and hardwood floor sliced their skin like my dad cutting tomatoes from the garden.

I come from blue freezy pops and excited sunsets.

From Purple Dinosaur ice cream and cautious sidewalk chalk.

I come from scarlet and gray football games and green Arbor Day songs.

I come from church on Sundays in floral dresses and big bows.

I come from Dorme con los anjelos.

I come from German and Italian words, from Fettuccine alfredo and bratwurst.

I come from being one of 5 grandchildren, from being the oldest and only girl.

I come from picking favorites and picking pumpkins.

I come from being one of 13 grandchildren.

When the whole family is on Rocky Rill we eat in the blue dining room.

Light streams in easily like petals lost in a windstorm.

I come from not knowing what I want to be when I grow up.

I come from always trying to smile and thousands of pictures.

Every year summer and every Christmas we sit together on the steps and attempt to catch time for just a minute.

Excerpt from God Bless America Serena Zets INT. BEDROOM-EARLY MORNING NIA ADAMS, a fortysomething black woman, is asleep in her bed. Her blanket is haphazard and pillows are strewn across the bed. Shot of an eye mask resting on her face, with drawn on eyes. Her cell phone blares “American Woman” by Lenny Kravitz. She jerks up to answer the phone, with the mask still on her face.

NIA Hello?... Yes, I promise I’m awake. Thank god my bedroom is just minutes away from the office, I mean I could just show up in pajamas…Yes, that was a joke.

Besides, who would know about it outside of my staff?

It’s not like I have a whistleblower in my cabinet…Yes, I now understand that that joke was inappropriate considering the NSA scandal. Okay, see you soon.

Nia hangs up the phone and removes the mask. Extreme closeup of her eyes.

INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE OF BEDROOM-10 MINUTES LATER Nia is walking down the hall, when MACKENZIE approaches her. Mackenzie has an overstuffed folder in her hand and wears a badge that reads “Mackenzie Doolittle, Chief of Staff for POTUS”. It’s a walk-and-talk shot. The hallway is dotted with stoic secret service agents in suits. “American Woman” fades.

MACKENZIE Hello Nia. I tried to come into your room, but my clearance was revoked.

NIA (sarcastically, while rolling her eyes) Oh was it? That must have been a mistake.

A man in an apron, SAUL, pauses next to the two woman and places a cup in Nia’s hand. Nia pauses and sips. Saul walks away.

MACKENZIE Back to the issue at handOkay, shoot.

NIA

A nearby Secret Service AGENT jolts up and speaks into his earpiece. The women notice his sudden movement.

NIA No! There’s no gun, I was just encouraging her to talk.

There is no threat.

The agent simply nods and speaks into his earpiece again.

NIA I can’t catch a break today. Between that and my whistleblower joke.

MACKENZIE (she puts her pen down and looks at Nia) You seriously made a whistleblower joke? Do you remember Snowden?

NIA Of course I remember the NSA leak. I do actually pay attention at these briefings, I’m no Sarah Palin.

(Mackenzie uncharacteristically chuckles at the thought of it.)

MACKENZIE (quietly) If anything you’re more of a Michele Bachmann.

NIA What was that?

(Nia and Mackenzie approach the door to the Oval Office.)

Well, Mackenzie, it looks like you’ll have to tell me later.

INT. OVAL OFFICE-CONTINOUS The chorus of “American Idiot” by Green Day plays in the background. NIA sits at her desk, as her advisers cram onto the couches in the Oval Office. She is met by Mackenzie, the Director of National Intelligence, MATTHEW, Secretary of State, BLAYRE, and National Security Advisor ZACH. The song fades.

MATTHEW Good morning, Madam President.

NIA Come on, Matt, I’ve told you a million times, just call me Nia…..You would think, as the head of National Intelligence, that you’d be intelligent enough to stop calling me Madam.

Zachary, Blayre, and Matt all groan at the joke. Mackenzie remains indifferent.

BLAYRE Actually, I’ve kept a tally of that, and it seems that you’ve made that joke at least 20 times. Well, that or 200 times. I can’t read my own handwriting.

ZACH

Good thing we live in the digital age, where handwriting isn’t necessary. Did you hear about the new iPhone? It’s going to be revolutionary.

BLAYRE That’s what they’ve predicted for every iteration of the iPhone, but it’s seldom true.

NIA I just hope we don’t have to take Apple to court again.

That was convoluted. It’s common knowledge that everyone likes their iPhone more than their president.

ZACH (sifting through the thick stack of papers in front of him) Maybe we could convince Apple to create a private browser for the West Wing, so we wouldn’t have to be so old-fashioned and print out our briefing everyday.

Madam you could pitch it as an environmental iniative.

MATTHEW (rolling his eyes) I’m sure the public would love if we used a private browser.

Hillary.

MACKENZIE (under her breath)

NIA And here we thought Mackenzie wasn’t listening.

MATTHEW Let’s get down to business, Madam, we must warn you of an interior threat to our nation’s safety… The ERA.

NIA

Oh no, is that another new homegrown terrorist group?

ZACH No, ERA as in the Equal Rights Amendment.

BLAYRE Are you guys really so misogynistic that you’d claim the ERA is an attack?

MATT No, it’s content isn’t potentially dangerous, it’s the outrage it will cause. And it doesn’t put just Zach and I in danger, but all of us.

NIA What outrage could come from it?

ZACH Do you remember the backlash and protests after your election?

NIA Of course. I just hoped that chaos wouldn’t carry over to my presidency. Why would the public feel threatened, when it’s just an amendment securing their basic human rights?

ZACH Well, domestic terror typically arises after a major shift in the country’s culture, which is exactly what the ERA is prepared to do.

MACKENZIE Also, midterm elections are coming up for Congress.

Its passage will be criticized by conservatives and their anger might be enough to recapture Congress.

But if it’s struck down, Democrats will blame you.

BLAYRE Some feminist leaders have even questioned your qualifications. Gloria Steinem claimed that girls only voted for you because boys did.

ZACH The argument is preposterous and half-formed. Basically they’re questioning if our president, a woman of color, can’t secure rights for everyone, then who could?

NIA So either way, passage, veto, or pocket veto, it’s all going to fall on me?

Matt, Zach, Blayre, and Mackenzie all nod their heads and look to each other. Fade to black. END SCENE.

Level One

Hands Like a Coal Miner

Necklace

Winter beat down hard, covering the rivers in snow and the sky in dull silver. When the clouds opened, quarters and dimes fell at my boots.

The sky was moody, violent and slapped at my hands.

The color is elegant but dull dull like a gray sky on a summer eve.

Shimmer shines and sparkle but be boring and go your way.

Madeline Bain

Spring came in with the flood.

Yellow and grape crocuses were everywhere. I watched the air turn from slate into a bright cobalt plate with heavy, ivory clouds, luminescent at the edges.

I rung the sky of its soot, leaving my nails dirty, and the rag like a glistening gem.

Heat was upon me and within me that summer.

The clouds went to bed peacefully each evening, melting blood orange like birth. Earth sweetly swallowed the candied sun, soberly slipping into the dark wine. I silhouetted cartwheels and never slept, I stared at the stars until they weren’t real. When we put our fingers close to our face, it looked like we held the sky.

Ashton Bopp

Around your neck under your chin elegant and and pretty.

Without it You’d be cheap and mundane, no one to dance with and alone you’ll sit.

Lace, lace but there is none, nothing but cold thin chain, so beautiful this color of this thing, this thing, they are opposite but lovely paired with one another. A somber color, a charming shine.

Sophisticated when called one, uninspiring when called the other.

Dull gray and elegant silver, called lace for my neck from my lover.

The name is a lie and I’ve spoken why, this is neither lace nor anything close.

It’s simple and cold and round and thin, nothing like lace this deception is a sin.

And yet, charming and elegant, graceful sophisticated, also, also while dreary and mundane, dull dull and somber, this color. This color, color of my lace lace for neck neck that is a lie is a lie, ask me why and I’ll be silent, silent as the very thing you ask about. See the silver and sparkle sparkle and silver, and the dull and gray. I know not what to say.

The color is elegant but dull dull like a gray sky on a summer

day.

Shimmer shines and sparkle but be boring boring also.

Cavalier

Tess Buchanan The earth’s skin is swelling, its frozen joints cracking and we sit here mining toward the earth’s core, exhaust seeping from our pores to the atmosphere.

Icy mountains melt as we garnish our landfills with crushed cars and candy wrappers.

We snatched a wishbone with our own two polluted hands and snapped off the short end, tossing it down to earth’s sweaty palms.

The earth pleaded a last, labored wheeze, its evidence sinking, piling at the bottom of the ocean, deeper as sea levels rise.

We are careless.

We have left the hot water on and abandoned the house, stuffing confessions back down our throats.

The tub is overflowing, the water bills flying overhead and we waltz 500 years into the future, where the cratered moon reflects the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower, tranquil on the ocean floor.

Pink Scene Two Jimmy Coblin

(Stage lights come up on the Trivana family’s kitchen.

The kitchen is fairly modern and gives the impression that it belongs in somewhat big house in a suburban neighborhood. MAY sits at the table writing something. She is holding the pencil in her fist. The door opens. Enter Jonah.)

Mom I’m home.

Jonah:

(May sees him and immediately jumps up and runs over to him.)

May: Jonah! Jonah! Jonah! You’re home! I was so lonely.

Jonah: What do mean you’re lonely? Where’s mom?

She had to go to the store.

May:

Jonah: She just left you here alone?

May: She said she had been working all day.

Jonah: (Angry) Unbelievable. I’m going to call her.

(Pulls out IPhone and puts up to ear. Waits for a second.)

It’s busy.

May: (Shameful) Are you mad at me?

(Frustrated) Not at you.

Jonah:

May: Good. I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.

(Suddenly excited) Oh! Guess what happened today?

What?

Jonah:

May: We had another rehearsal for our school play today and we finished staging it! Mrs. Stevens that we just need to put finishing touches on it, and the week after that is tech week, and then we get to preform!

Oh my! How exciting.

Jonah:

May: (Hopeful) You are coming right?

Of course!

Jonah:

May: It’s going to be so fun! You and mommy watching me preform! Mommy will be so proud of me.

You bet she will be!

Jonah:

May: (Whiny) So where were you? Why were you late?

Jonah: I was at the park with Hayley. But if I knew you were here alone I would have come home sooner.

May: No you shouldn’t leave Hayley.

Jonah: She can take care of herself.

May: Jonah are you going to marry Hayley?

Jonah: Eww no! Why would you think that?

May: (Twirls around the table, touching the countertops.) You should. She’s really nice, and pretty, and smart, and funny, and-

train an assistant…NO…I’m just not a fan of them…Listen, I have to go…My kids are waiting for me…Okay bye.

(Sets phone on table) Hey you two.

Jonah: She’s my best friend. I’ve known her for years. She’s basically my sister.

Mommy!

(Runs to hug her)

(Upset) But I’m your sister!

May:

Jonah: Oh I didn’t mean that I was trying to replace you! I would never replace you.

(Enter HEATHER through door, talking on the phone.

She is completely engrossed in the call and ignoring the kids.)

Heather: (On the phone) I’ve sold five houses this month already.

May: Mommy! Mommy!

(May runs toward her. Jonah grabs her, picking her up, her legs outstretched trying to reach Heather. Jonah swings her around and sits her in a chair.)

Heather: (On the phone) I’m sorry but this is ridiculous. We are the most successful real estate firm in the county.

Jonah: (Quietly to May) Lets get you some ice cream to celebrate your play.

May:

Hooray! Ice cream!

(Pounds hands expectantly on the table. Jonah pulls a container of Chunky Monkey Ice Cream out of the fridge and begins to serve it.)

Heather: (On the phone) There’s five of us, and there’s always been five. There is no reason why we each should each have to

May:

Heather: Oh, a hug. I wasn’t expecting that. Hey Jonah.

Hi mom.

Jonah:

Heather: May, why don’t you go finish your homework upstairs, okay?

(May excitedly runs off stage, grabbing paper from earlier and the bowl of ice cream from Jonah. Heather looks at her phone.)

How was Hayley? Did you tell her I said hi?

Jonah: She’s good, and yes, I did. I also sort of committed myself to going to a social justice meeting with her after school tomorrow. Is that okay?

Heather: That’s fine Jonah. Do you know where I left that binder from this morning?

Jonah: No, sorry. So, I was thinking you and I could see a movie or something this weekend.

Heather: (Excited) That would be fun. I have that open house, but (Phone starts ringing. Heather looks at it.)

I’m sorry it’s a client, I have to take this. (To phone) Hello, this is Heather from Toveena Real Estate…The house on Baker Street, right?...Oh of course I can show you again…

Well I have an open house Saturday…Yeah, that works…

Can you meet me there at 3?...Sounds perfect…Alright…

See you Sunday then.

(Hangs up phone)

I’m sorry Jonah, what were we talking about?

Hanging out this weekend.

Jonah:

Heather: (Apologetic) Well, as I’m sure you heard over the phone, I just made plans. I’m sorry.

Jonah: That was for Sunday at 3. What about in the morning?

Heather: I can’t, I have to give a tour of a different house at 9.

What about Saturday?

Jonah:

Heather: Jonah, you already know I can’t. I have that open house and that’s going to take all day to set up and then maintain. I’m sorry. Maybe next weekend.

Jonah: (Disappointed) Fine. Oh, I almost forgot! Has May told you about her play? She’s very excited.

When is that again?

Heather:

Jonah: The flyer said it was on the 25th at 7:00.

Heather: The 25th at 7:00? I’m going to need you to take her that.

Jonah: Sure. So we’re meeting you there then? (Pause) Mom? Heather: (Apologetic) We’re having a company meeting then.

Jonah: So what? Miss the meeting. You work enough, no one is going to care.

Heather: Jonah, it’s not that simpleJonah: Yes it is that simple! Your daughter is incredibly excited for this. It’s very important to her that you to see it! You don’t miss that. She’ll be devastated if you don’t go.

Heather: She’ll get over it. I don’t need to drop everything to see a 7 year old’s school play. It’s not like she’s the star, she’s just in the chorus.

Jonah: She doesn’t see it that way. To her this is everything. You have to be there.

Heather: Jonah no! I can’t. You know I would if I could, but I can’t.

But would you mom?

Jonah:

Heather: What’s that supposed to mean?

Jonah: I’m her older brother. I shouldn’t have to be her parent too.

(Angrily storms off stage. Heather sighs. Stage lights go out.)

My Roof is Slanted Miranda Gilbert

In a deadened city somewhere, there are five stolen blankets stacked on the roof of a building where I rest, attention settling on the darkened clouds drifting across the sky, moon peeking out from behind them.

This house could have been demolished years ago but it’s still here, and this town would have never existed if the community didn’t create it.

I lay on my back, laughing I don’t want your lemons!

Though nobody can hear my outburst, it’s meant for the sky, anyway.

The same sky that once witnessed the Big Bang, descended from it, even and will be here when I’m gone.

I like it that way.

I like the way cotton candy swings off of it during the day, the way it returns at night with the rustling of leaves and the songs of the birds.

The candle next to me is a pillar of comfort, and I turn over.

I think of the Druids who aren’t around anymore of the people who never made it this far and I whisper, I’m okay.

I am not perfect,

but my ego is sated because I am living history, and to live at all is to live long enough.

I curl up underneath my blankets like a newborn, my sleep catches only idle dreams.

The Horror at Gamma Gamma Mansion

By Lillian Hosken

(On opening, a pile of cardboard boxes sits in the corner of the room. There’s a coffee pot sitting on a table, and four glasses are scattered on the floor near the girls. There is a landline phone in the front of the room. The four girls are sitting close to each other on various beanbags or comfy chairs, trying to think of something to do.)

Janet I know! We can play Ouija! – It’s like a scary story but in real life!

Stephanie & Tiffany Ooooh!

Stephanie I thought it was pronounced ow-ja.

Janet No, it’s definitely Ouija. I watched a movie about it with Josh last Saturday!

Courtney (Uneasily) I don’t know if we should Tiffany Oh yeah, I think I watched the same movie! Don’t we need a board?

Janet Yeah! With the alphabet on it! And the words yes and no, and goodbye in case it gets too scary.

(Janet takes one of the sharpies from the pile of boxes and starts ripping a piece of cardboard from one of

the boxes.)

Courtney Guys, are you sure we should Janet Courtney it’s fine. I mean there’s no such thing as ghosts, but if there is, it’s not like they can hurt us. They’re supposed to leave when you say goodbye.

Courtney I mean, are you sure?

Stephanie Um, don’t mind my asking, but what does an ow-ja board do exactly?

Janet Ouija. It’s for talking to ghosts…

(Eyes Courtney with a playful smile on her face, with a spooky voice) if you believe in that kind of thing. - Boo! (Courtney jumps back, the girls giggle. Janet goes back to where she was sitting, taking the cardboard and the sharpie and starts writing letters on the cardboard.)

Tiffany Yeah, you all put your hands on the little platelet Janet Planchette.

Tiffany Whatever. And you ask the ghost questions, and then it moves the…

(Looks to Janet in a loss of words.)

Janet Planchette?

Tiffany It moves the… thingy to certain letters and spells out stuff.

(Pause) What do we use as a uh…

(Stephanie picks up an empty glass.)

Stephanie What about this?

(Janet takes it, walking to the front of the room.)

Janet Perfect!

(Janet sets the completed Ouija board onto the floor on downstage center, placing the glass on top of it.)

Come over here, guys!

(The girls sit down around the Ouija board, giggling.)

Courtney Okay, I mean I’m not scared or anything but, is everyone fine with doing this?

Tiffany, Janet, and Stephanie Yeah!

Janet Great! Everybody put your hand on the glass. I can ask the questions.

(The girls place their hands on the glass.)

Okay… Are there any ghosts here?

(The glass starts moving across the board, rousing gasps and more giggling from the girls.)

Tiffany Oh my god that’s so weird!

Stephanie Are you moving it?

Courtney Who? Stephanie Janet.

Janet What? No! (The glass stops moving. The girls stop talking, looking at each other. Tiffany looks down at the board.)

Tiffany … Yes. It says yes.

Juice and Cookies Jora Hritz

We used to sit on my porch and swing in the worn-down chairs meant for gentle rocking.

We would make up games like counting colored cars as we ate the cookies you provided and thought about our continuing years together.

You would sip your milk and I, my berry Juicy Juice, you teasing that juice and cookies aren’t a duo.

Laughing at my hatred for milk.

I would be your maid of honor and you, mine. We spent meticulous days planning what flowers would be in our gardens, and our kid’s favorite dinners.

We would fill in each other’s gaps with thick liquid cement letting no air through.

Now, I have cracks and air seeps in.

You’re not around to patch me up with comical stories where we both end up laughing at the stupidity of it all.

We have drifted away like sand at low tide.

The waves no longer close to the sand, dry from lack of water.

But one day we will go back to making fun of each other in respectful ways, eating cookies while drinking our juice and milk.

Talking about the distance we once had.

Hugo

Julianne Jacques (Michelle is seated at a desk reading what seems to be a resume. She has her hair down neatly and is wearing a suit. Hugo is outside. He walks in and sits down in the seat abruptly. His hair is out of control and he has stubble on his face. His attire is composed of a half tucked in shirt and slacks with a stain near the knee.)

MICHELLE (surprised by his abrupt entrance) Good morning Mr… (voice trails off) HUGO Berfeld. But you can call me Hugo.

MICHELLE Hmm… Nice to meet you. (extends hand to shake) My name is Michelle Dendroff.

HUGO (yawns and does not take her hand) Pleasure to meet you, Michelle.

MICHELLE (retracts hand) Alright, let’s get down to business. On your resume it says you have no experience of working in an ad company, is this correct?

HUGO Yeah, I’ve never worked in a place like this before.

Alright th-

MICHELLE

HUGO (interrupting Michelle) But I’m a very fast learner and I am so enthusiastic about this job.

MICHELLE Okay, good to know Mr. Berfeld.

HUGO

Hugo.

MICHELLE Um… alright. Now, there were a few other things I wanted to talk to you about concerning your resume.

HUGO Did I forget to fill something in? If so, I’m sure it doesn’t matter too much.

MICHELLE No, you did remember to fill everything in. My question was about your college education. It says here you went to college for three years?

HUGO Yes, I only went to college for three years, but in those three years I learned a lot about ads, lady.

MICHELLE So you did drop out of college? (defensively)

HUGO

Yes, I did, but it doesn’t really seem like a big deal.

MICHELLE (pause) Alright. Tell me about those three years then.

HUGO Okay I guess I can do that. Well my grades weren’t pristine, I guess, but I passed every class I took. Well up until my third year, of course.

MICHELLE Of course. Let’s steer away from the resume and talk more about your personality. What can you bring to Macken and Sceeds Ad Agency?

HUGO Well, obviously I have a big personality and I am very positive. I think I could really help out around here because from what I saw walking around; you guys don’t really have much life in this office. (yawns) MICHELLE (sarcastically) I guess you could say that…

HUGO Oh and like I said before I’m a really fast learner and you know all that kind of stuff.

MICHELLE Okay I think I have seen enough, Mr. Berfeld.

You mean Hugo.

HUGO

MICHELLE Yes, thank you for your time, but unfortunately I don’t believe there is a spot here at Macken and Sceeds for you.

HUGO (suddenly awake) What? Are you sure? I think I would be perfect for this agency!

MICHELLE I just think there are too many holes in your resume, Mr. Berfeld. (standing up) It’s Hugo, lady!

HUGO

MICHELLE Alright I think you need to calm down, Hugo.

HUGO (slowly sitting down) Yes, yes I’m sorry Ms. Dendroff. I’m just very passionate about the job.

I can see that.

MICHELLE

HUGO Look, I really think you’re making a mistake here. I honestly think I could be a valued employee at Macken and Sceeds.

MICHELLE I am sorry, Mr. Berfeld, (Hugo cringes) but the job is not yours.

Tall Gentleman Isabella Johnson

Look at me.

Is it the color of my eyes that turns you away?

Is it the color of my skin that judges my sins?

Tell me tall gentleman, do you have the right to take me away?

Do you have the right to hold my mother down, and rip me from her arms?

Is it her fault that my father left?

Is it her fault that my stomach is full of worms?

Tell me tall gentlemen, Whose fault is it?

When the food is finally gone, the street becomes our aid.

Begging for money — no one has.

Please tall gentleman, my momma did nothing wrong.

She is simply a woman, who tries to live.

Why tall gentleman, when people are wilting, do you choose to look away?

Phosphenes and Winter Annuals

by Brianna Kline Costa

We used to speak words as they entered our entered our mouths, relishing their bitter sweet taste. Now we seal our lips and force them down. We have just discovered the beauty in things left unsaid. Since then, we prefer to choke on each syllable, swallowing them like pills. We allow them to numb our pain, or at least dull it. We search for beauty in the assortment of shapes and colors behind our eyelids. This seems like a secret, so we seize it, hold it tight, and never let it go.

We thrive off secrets.

We trap them within our two hands like butterflies and observe them between cracks in our clasped fingers. careful to not let them fly away.

We sip them through a pink straw and allow them to course through our veins, filling us with liquid electricity.

We would like to believe our hearts are made of ice or stone, but if we took the time to carefully peal away all the layers, we would find only glass.

Our skin is steel, however.

We know this because of the cuts and bruises we have endured. We know this because we can see it with our own eyes, which only seems to validate what we already know: That it’s what’s on the outside that counts.

Someone once told us eyes were the window to the soul, so we invested in tinted glasses and called them curtains.

We sat in a circle in the dirt with our faces turned toward the ground and cried. We hoped our tears would burry themselves in the ground like seeds and our unhappiness would grow from the clay.

Call it sick curiosity; We just wanted to see what would grow: To put a face to the thing that consumed us.

We hung Christmas lights from the ceiling.

We lit candles and watched them flicker in the darkness.

We closed our eyes and hummed and let ourselves burn in the inferno.

We became whole again.

9 Ways of Looking at a Willow Tree

A gathering of folk garbed in black.

A plaque of marble, nature encroaching on it so soon.

The leaves murmured prayers into the wind.

1 Under the willow is where she died, cried herself to death.

Now, two lovers kiss where her lilacs were planted.

7.

Nature took what belonged to them.

Tatters of royal silk, patches of bloodstained burlap, they fluttered in the breeze, it was all the same to the willow.

Delta Landis

2 A sea of bare peaks, a sky of bare blue, save for the mountain with the swaying willow, and the flock of doves.

3.

The barren branches had peeling bark in a million places.

Icicles grew like bean pods on the drooping, wiry branches.

A million sharp fruits of frozen water fell down, on a doe, but no one in the forest mourned.

4.

The dying bitch carried her pup weakly in her jaws to the willow.

She nudged the pup into a cranny, then lay until the ground wrapped around her.

5.

A cluster of years short a decade, the pup returned, full grown.

She carried a pup now too, along with a bullet and determination in her, not unlike her mother’s.

6.

Nothing to be said save for prayer, “Blessed be thee who perished under the willow tree.”

8.

The willow where the world ended gave life, a woman gave birth under the tree.

Humanity’s hope, child of every culture, for now, let the willow wrap itself around you, and rest.

With the world full of such distress, you’ll need the sweet dreams.

9.

A forest made from angels’ tears, feeding off God’s sorrow and sympathy.

The woods were full of death’s trail, the rotten fruit’s juice scintillated in the frost.

Why Zayn

Grapes in a Vineyard

March 25,2015 was the day that changed the course of history forever. I loved him, in fact we all loved him more than the others.

Who cares about Louis, Liam, Niall, or hideous Harry. Zayn Malik! Why did you leave One Direction? You were the hottest, you were the best singer, and you are the reason everyone loves One Direction. And what do you mean you want to spend time with your bae? Seriously, you were engaged with Perrie but you couldn’t even make it to marriage.

Dry, barren land struggling to hold exhausted stumps of tombstones; harvest left withered branches, gnarled fingers, decayed canopies. Falling water is greedily devoured by the land choking from drought.

Mohammed Laswad

Ever since you left, you started looking like a hippie. You have hair as black as night and you dye it blonde… like who does that?

And of all the girls you could’ve dated, you picked Gigi Hadid. BYE ZAYN! You can do so much better.

I think it is a good time to go back to 1D. End of poem.

Sarine McKenzie

Thick, rooted fingers twist, curl, stretch for miles and miles as dirty, brown webbing cradles spherical bulbs by the dozen.

Silky, pasty film, in deep shades of violet, plum, mauve, and mulberry shields the treasure from the sun’s burning daggers.

For hours, day-in and day-out. Bulbs inhale oxygen but no moisture, exhaling in the ears of their flimsy canopies.

Beneath a row or column the sun’s rays are seen from the bulbs’ habit of cascading light into surrounding space.

The bulbs: smashed, collected in barrels; dark, glass prisons, consumed decades later with molded dairy clumps. A relative, the same origin, squeezed into sealed jars to be spread on baked loaves once reopened.

They whisper dried secrets to their brothers and sisters who sleep too long, awaking to find themselves a mere wrinkle, dangling from the lifeless finger that holds them.

Thesaurus

Katarina Mondor

Flipping, flicking, flinging page after page after page.

Find words that mean the same, slap on as your own.

Though not aesthetic truthful, wealth thunders through thickets of thorns.

Therefore thankful that they thought through their theory.

Ignore prefaces, long lines, and. Form your own ideas double check.

Ignore numbers small on page corners.

Ignore footnotes, written for me, or him?

Lick lip, lick finger, turn, lip lick, finger lick, turn.

Weathered, weathered years of use, useful, useless, Grimy hands all the same softening surface touching.

Ancient, old, elderly, language of dinosaurs.

This treasury this treasury of vocabulary holds.

Time is stopped as the lights flicker out, Flicker out, flicker, flick.

Ode to Mon Chien Jenna Moretti

Mon chien, destined to be mine, but not for forever.

Your big brown eyes filled with optimism, personality, and good times, won’t last forever.

String beans under a swollen belly, filled with treats.

Crystal clear and your decision made, I open the door for you.

Mon chien, each thought turned to a hair, the hairs that turn black hoodies to white.

Temperatures start to drop, and you’re confined to the dusty indoors.

Each snowflake your enemy, but you both come to an agreement.

White and as blinding as the sun, with wings guaranteed to fly away some day, don’t worry, a soul as pure as gold, you’ll be flying up into the sky, not falling down.

Mon chien, a miracle that landed right where one needed to be.

Brightest star in the Milky Way,

sweetest smelling rose, funniest comedian around, you lay at home on your filled out legs, one bionic.

You make me smile without effort.

I need to praise you for being the air I breathe. You’re more amazing than shiny silver, steak on my plate, the doves flying above, and those tears of joy.

Mon chien, you’ll last a lifetime.

No More Store Kyla Parker

A wheel full of characters resides in the middle of you, the store that is loved by many.

Once in Times Square, until rent went up.

Then they took you down.

There are many people who visit to walk your pathways for one last time.

But there are also many people who never even got to see the wonders inside of your walls.

Clothing retailers will be put where you once stood.

“We really need another one of those,” said a woman, sarcastically, who stood in front of you on your last day.

Pictures were taken, tears were shed, and the Ferris wheel was ridden.

But then, once the clock struck six, the doors were closed, once and for all.

A Nation

Siempre

A fool bashes in windows, commits crime, and takes out his rage on the innocent. His face is plastered on the media and his name turns to fuel for a stereotype.

Scene 2

Destiny Perkins

Families, children, men, and women wander both land in ocean in search of refuge from their war torn home.

Children sleep in the dirt, harsh wind tearing at their bare skin.

Parents weep for all that they’ve lost, they weep as they witness death in their children’s eyes.

Another fool brands himself righteous. Righteous for fighting for a cause that has been lost amongst the violence. He is a flame of fury and his words are spitfire. He screams injustice, betrayal, and deceit. His rage is infectious and it’s only cured with bloodshed.

A mother weeps on her knees for her son as he lay cold and pale in her lap, water filling his tiny lungs.

If he’d just gone a little further, what then? Up the path, their goal for salvation is extinguished by angry people, stomachs swollen with the benefits of a first world home.

Go home, they say, we don’t want your kind here.

Your kind, the kind whose skin is just like the fools, brown like dirt. Your kind, whose languages sound like exotic spells just waiting to taint our children.

Your kind, who bitter lazy men complain are only here to take our jobs and homes. No, we have no room for your kind here.

Annie Ruzanic (FADE IN: Evan and Kalin are sitting in a coffee shop, waiting for their friends. “Cold Coffee” by Ed Sheeran is playing in the background.)

EVAN What time are they supposed to be here?

KALIN Uhhhh…

(Kalin looks at the time on her phone.)

It’s 11:50, they should be here at 12.

EVAN Has anyone texted you that they might be late?

KALIN Ev, no one has texted me. No one is going to be late. Okay?

EVAN Okay.

(A waiter comes over and puts two cups of coffee in front of them.)

WAITER Can I get you anything else?

KALIN No, but thank you.

(The waiter exits stage.)

EVAN Wanna talk about Hamilton?

KALIN No. I’m sick of hearing about Hamilton. Can we not talk about it for like three minutes? I beg of you.

EVAN Oh, okay sorry. I understand.

KALIN (Looks down at her phone before looking back at a now sad EVAN.) Oh wipe that frown of your face. We can listen to the cast album on the way home. Now my mom texted me saying she wants me to call her this instant.

EVAN Why’d she texted you?

KALIN I don’t know if I should call her.

EVAN Why? KALIN Number one; I am out with you. Number two; our friends will be joining us soon. Number three; I really don’t want to talk to her right now.

EVAN Won’t she get mad at you?

KALIN I’m not sure. She probably won’t. It’s just a phone call.

What’s the harm of missing it?

EVAN I mean, what did the text say?

KALIN That it was urgent that I call her.

EVAN Maybe you should. Just to be safe.

KALIN It can wait. I’ll just tell her I was busy.

EVAN Are you sure you want to do this?

KALIN What? Ignore her call?

EVAN Yeah.

KALIN Yeah, I want to ignore her call.

EVAN Kalin, are you sure?

KALIN Ever since she went on the trip with her new law firm, she’s been different. She probably just wants me to pick some groceries up from Sainsbury’s on the way home.

EVAN Do you want to go home then?

KALIN

No! We’re waiting for our friends. My mom can wait.

(Evan lets out a defeated sigh. He knows he won’t get Kalin to call her mom no matter how hard he tries. With that, he sits there, drinking his coffee. FADE OUT)

Cinderella

Hazel Shanks A delicate glass shoe was all she had, stashed away in an apron pocket.

All she ever thought about, was the prince she left behind, and her father, now cold in his grave.

Every time she walked in the slipper, an empty sound keened forth.

Reminders of the castle finery, and jewels dangling from throats.

Her sisters were oblivious to the secrets she had hidden, of the lady beneath the cinders, and the godmother with her wand.

She was dressed in the palest silk gown, arriving in a coach of shining gold.

They never recognized her, that night at the ball.

She sparkled under the prince’s eye, and he took her arm with awe.

They did nothing but dance, before she fled at midnight into the dark.

Eleven Ways of Looking at Dogs Giordana Verrengia

1.

Up, down, around, the heads turn, to and fro.

Sniff goes a moist snout, travel go four paws, and the missing boy is found.

2.

We relish the weekends, the King and I. As everyone else tugs at the tongues on their sneakers, preparing for a run, we simply snooze.

I’ll clip the leash, sometime soon.

3.

My nose was the only thing exposed to the bitter frost in the air. My entire body was nearly warm.

I looked at Buster with only the slightest envy for his curly, warm coat.

4.

He trudges on the trails, the dirt gathering on his patterned soles. He grunts and sighs in the ninety degree heat. His tail hasn’t moved since we stepped under the sun.

5.

I tour the long hallway of cages like it’s a house I may buy.

I stop in front of the one nearly

hidden from sight.

The pup’s snout is small and wet. His paws wobble under his light body. He is scooped from the cage, and into my arms.

6.

I’ve made some misconceptions about my curly haired companion.

While I thought his habit of toilet bowl drinking made him a heedless slob, it turns out he is courteous enough to not destroy my house when I work late, neglecting to refill his bowl.

7.

California. The one place where every dog can have its day. You got your own menu at three meals for the entire trip.

8.

A walk hardly seems worthy, when you could let your fur flow in the wind during a car ride.

9.

I wish you weren’t color blind, Hectar. so that when I photograph you, you can look at how your eyes are two different colors.

10.

The spots stick out in a sea of

solid fur.

The Journal

11.

The first trick the neighbor’s dog ever learned was to climb under their fence, and into our yard. Years later, I still hope for unexpected visits.

(Takes place in ANNA’s basement in 1996. There is a couch on the right side of the stage. A Blink-182 CD playing from a speaker. ASHTYN appears from the steps going into the basement, stage left. Anna happily gets up from the couch and greets her best friend.)

Radley Tidrick

Happy birthday!!

ASHTYN

(Anna excitedly engulfs Ashtyn in a hug. Both of the girls have big grins on their faces, their cheeks rosy with the August warmth.)

ANNA Ah! Thank you! How are you? How have you been?

(The girls move towards the couch and sit down facing each other.)

ASHTYN I’ve been good! How are you??

(Ashtyn suddenly takes on a more serious tone.)

How has your mother been?

ANNA I’ve been okay; she’s been…better…

(Ashtyn nods as Anna trails off, looking down. Anna brightens back up, the smile on her face big, but not as joyful as it was before.)

But I don’t want to think about that right now! It’s my 16th birthday; I don’t want to worry about anything.

(Ashtyn smiles.)

ASHTYN Have it your way, Birthday Queen!...Oh! (Ashtyn remembers something and turns around to her bag, pulling a rectangular present wrapped with newspaper and a twine string tied as a bow. She playfully pushes it towards Anna, placing it on her knee.)

ANNA

What is that?

(Anna is upset and cautious.)

Your present!!

ASHTYN

ANNA I told you not to get me anything…

(Anna pushes the present back towards Ashtyn.)

ASHTYN C’mon, just take the present.

(Ashtyn pushes it back towards Anna.)

ANNA

Ashtyn, no.

(She pushes it back.)

ASHTYN Anna, yes.

(Ashtyn sighs, picking up the gift and holding it out to Anna.)

At least open it.

ANNA Fine.

(Takes it and gently rips the delicately taped newspaper wrapping off of the gift. She stares at the gift in awe. The music slowly fades out as the CD ends.)

Oh, Ashtyn…this is beautiful.

ASHTYN You like it? I got it made specifically for you. It’s leather…and it has an A for Anna, see!

(Ashtyn points to the cover with excitement. Anna nods.)

I thought a journal was a good gift, since I know you like to write andANNA I can’t take this, Ash.

(She hangs her head and extends the journal back towards Ashtyn.)

ASHTYN W—What?

(The smile drains from her face as she hesitantly takes it.)

I—I thought you— ANNA Ash, I love this, but it’s way too expensive. You have to help support your family…what about your brothers and sisters?

ASHTYN Don’t worry about my family and me. We’re fine.

(Quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, she sounds hurt.)

I saved up my money for a long time to get you this gift…and you can’t even be grateful?

ANNA No, no! It’s not that! I just…I told you you didn’t have to buy me anything, and you bought me something anyways, which is really nice, but I don’t need it. Your family needs this money more than I need a journal.

(Raising her voice.)

My family is fine!

ASHTYN

ANNA Obviously they’re not if you’re getting so defensive!

We’re fine!

ASHTYN

(Ashtyn harshly sighs. They become quiet because Anna’s parents start fighting. Anna looks embarrassed, like she might start crying. ) ANNA I’m sorry...they do this a lot...

(Ashtyn shakes her head, frowning. She grabs Anna’s hand to comfort her. A couple moments later, they hear Anna’s father hit her mother. Anna is quietly crying.)

ASHTYN

(Ashtyn hands the journal back towards Anna.)

Listen Anna; I got you this so that you would have someone to talk to about your parents after I…after I...

(Pause.)

After you leave…

ANNA

(Both are silent for a moment.)

ASHTYN I’m sorry…I know you don’t like it when I talk about it, but…

but it’s going to happen.

(Anna turns away.)

Anna, don’t do that.

(Ashtyn scoots closer.)

You know I’ll be 18 soon…and I am going to leave…

ANNA

Stop.

ASHTYN Anna, you have to face the facts!

(Anna shakes her head.)

ASHTYN (cont.)

What do you mean no? Anna, YES! It’s going to happen eventually whether you like it or not! I’m leaving in a few months to join the Marines. You can’t stop— (Anna kisses Ashtyn and then pulls away quickly. They stare at each other for a minute.)

Anna...

ASHTYN (cont.)

(Anna runs up the stairs, Ashtyn turns to run after her.)

Anna, wait!!

SCENE

Blackest Friday Xander Yates

This will be the place that I will die, For this I am sure.

The hordes of people rushing through the doors, ramming into one another oh!

Look at that old lady over there, she’s tackling anyone who gets in her way, even grannies are no longer sane.

She whips past me, pushing me to the ground, trying to get some sort of toy, likely a gift for a grandchild or grand-something, but she is soon engulfed by the hordes of people around her, thrown to the side of a nearby wall.

The chaos surrounds me, suffocating me, as it drags me in.

For Pete’s sake this used to be a mall but now it looks like nothing more then a battlefield.

December used to be a cherished time, when we just celebrated being with one another, but now it’s just a race to the checkout line.

One could mistake this place for the crusades, with all these bodies on the floor, they are those who have been hurt in the frenzy, and are now asking for someone to help them as others rush by to grab their prize.

I find my way to get past it all, grab what I need, and once paying the rightful toll, rush out of the dreaded place, For I am one of the few, a survivor of the Black Friday.