Stories: A Collection of Flash Fiction

Stories Junior Class Flash Fiction Collection Literary Arts Department Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 a Creative and Performing Arts School

Stories

CopyrightŠ2020 by CAPA Literary Arts All Rights Reserved For Information Contact: Mara Cregan, mcregan1@pghschools.org

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Ian Aiken

Periit ex Patria

Robin Clement

Oak Ridge, Tennessee: Secret City

Azriah Crawley

Lovely Crossroads

Madeline Ficca

Arson

Alison Harvill

What You Need

Joseph Johns

Small Town Circus

Natalie Kocherzat

Degradation

Nadia Laswad

Feeling Foreign

Amanda Mitchell

Two and a Half Miles

Lily Weatherford-Brown

Glowing Bodies

Anika Weber

How’s Ma?

Liam Weixel

The Empire

Periit ex Patria Ian Aiken

Periit ex Patria Ian Aiken

For my parents, guardians, and my dogs

Table of Contents 1. Gone, Gone 2. Farewells and Poor Carpentry 3. Stanwix and Cart Repair 4. What We See When We Sit and Look Back 5. The Man Who Sold the World 6. Patchworks and Nightmares 7. What is a Journey but its Hills and its Camps?

8. On You Leaving and Being Gone 9. The Wind, The Rain, The Embers, The Smoke of the Ashes

Gone, Gone

It had rained for a long time, was raining, and would continue to rain. It was cold, and together those two filled the crevices of every person in, or around the rain. Filled to the brim by both the sogginess of the pestilent rain and the cold, Stanwix sat there, dead.

Stanwix couldn’t tell you how long he had been dead. It had been a while. He didn’t know where his body was, but it was sitting against some tree, a little off the path, likely covered by moss and weeds.

He could tell you that he missed his home. It was empty and quiet, and his parents were buried out back, but it was much warmer, and much dryer then it was out here. Stanwix didn’t have many friends, only one. She was the only other kid in the town his age, and she lived just three farms down. That was nice. Stanwix and her explored every part of the back wood they could get their hands on. He was full of stories about exploring the woods behind their homes. Beyond those woods into a set of open field where they ran around and played, and all the way to the river behind it. They’d sit at the edge and think about disobeying their parents and swimming in it, but they never did.

It felt so long ago that Stanwix wasn’t here. Wasn’t wallowing in the mud, against a tree, soaked through teeth and bone with rain, wasn’t dead. It wasn’t too long since Stanwix had left on his grand journey, had left everything he knew before dusk with an

oddly worded note and no goodbyes. He had thought about how stupid that note was for almost a week. He slumped here in that same spot he’d been in and thought how he could have done it differently.

He thought of how it was before his parents died. They farmed sprouts on their little chunk of land, take them into town, and sell them to everyone who walked up. All those days in the town square were so sunny, so warm. The days when Stanwix would wander around town and talk to people, and they’d all know his name, or when he’d climb up the hill on the edge of town and look down on the people.

Those days felt much better to think on now. Growing crops was tedious, but he had his mom and dad with him. Life was good, but life changes.

The people of the town noticed he was gone quickly, and slowly realized he wasn’t coming back. His note was found, somewhat deciphered, and soon enough Stanwix’s name was known as the boy who wasn’t coming back.

Farewells and Poor Carpentry

The letter was quickly written, scratchy, and was hung before it could dry. The edges of the letters sunk lower than they normally should. The lines flowed to the right crookedly, and the end of the signature at the bottom kept going to the direction he must have left in.

Don’t come look for me between the great rolling paint strokes of green earth and blue sky; I won’t be there, I’ll be away from here, the dry crusted earth, the old gray stone above my ma and pa, the dying fields they left behind; I won’t be another name beneath the McCarthy farm’s dirt, the dying farm filled with miserable harvests and rain; I won’t be another forgotten man, bone’s crumbling to dust and name evaporating from memory; I won’t be a dying man. Don’t follow me down that old stone road away from here; I’ll be too far past it already; i’ve a journey ahead of me, I can’t stop for long. Don’t try to remember I was in this ghost town, this decaying lump of abandoned dreams and hope; I won’t be trapped here to let me hopes and dreams die. The world has enough nameless farmers, I won’t be one; I refuse to be bogged down, I refuse to quell the fire in my heart; I’m going down this stone path of destiny, to a life I’ll shape with my own hands; I’ll go the kings lay, I’ll dig my grave, prep a marble headstone; A Marble grave that won’t fade. You won’t have to look for me after all, I’ll be found; Within a parade of people and their memory of me I’ll trudge each coast and all the way in-between, and I’ll keep marching on and on until they run out of ink, bottles stacked upon bottles of empty caked ink, till the ink fills books

about me, and until they have to start stacking the books too, until I live forever, as anything besides a dying farmer.

I found the letter freshly fallen into the dirt. The hand writing looked like it came from someone crazy. It took me a while to figure out the entirety of it. The more and more I read through it the less I understood about it. Then I looked at the signature on the bottom. All I could make out was an S and a T. I knew as soon as I was in front of Stanwix’s house. The door was flapping against the wall, and it was so quiet. The only thing I could hear was wind sifting through a small crack in the roof. Stanwix was gone.

Stanwix and Cart Repair

The bunny shifted through the sunny grass. It edged its way over the Stanwix, curious of the meat he was cutting into slices. Stanwix watched it smush its body down, inch closer and closer to his bag lying beside him. He tossed a piece of sausage right in front of the rabbit. It slowly knelt down, sniffed, turned, and hopped away.

Stanwix went back to his snack. He was taking a break under a willow. There were trees spaced around him, but this one was close to the trail, and had a lot of shade. Stanwix put the food back in his bag, rested his head against the trunk of the tree, and stared out to the swaying grasses, and the cliff just a few yards past them.

A crash of metal scraping against wood boomed from the other side of the tree.

Stanwix pushed himself up and spun around the tree. Just near the cliff was a maimed wagon, a woman, and a horse. The horse in front had been spooked and was whining, wandering away from the wreck. There was a large wooden wheel on the ground next to it. Stanwix realized it was slowly tipping and ran over.

They dug their feet into the ground and pulled the wagon as hard as they could.

They tore skin, muscle fibers, strained their every bone to keep it from falling further.

They tugged, and kept tugging. Eventually the front wheel caught back onto solid dirt, and the two pulled the cart back onto ground till they were sure it was settled.

They collapsed beneath themselves. They heaved until their breath came back to them. Then, for a little, they sat there and stared at the cart. Too tired to talk, too tired to think.

Between breaths, the woman introduced herself as Marcy. She took her time getting up and started positioning the wheel to put back on. Stanwix helped her slide the wheel back and hammer it back into place.

She hopped into the cart and tossed Stanwix a coin.

“For your troubles,” she said. Stanwix awkwardly caught it and awkwardly put it away. He gave her a thumbs up. “What’s your name, kid?” she asked him.

“Stanwix.”

“Well Stanwix, get home safe,” she rode off on her wagon.

Stanwix stood there for a little, pulled out his coin, and looked it all over. He wandered back to his bag, and it began to rain.

What We See When We Sit and Look Back “I always knew I would wash up on an island”-Amy Rowland

Sometimes, when the sunset is finally absorbed by the horizon, and the cold fills the holes between my skin, I regret leaving. It’s the one time I feel weakness in my decision.

Tonight is a reminder that those are times I can’t listen to. Maybe it’s the cliff face behind me blocking the winds, maybe its the fire fanning my face.

I can trace the trail spread below me. It seems so empty compared to today. The darkness slowly caking over it makes it seem so serene. It seems so short from up here. The full day of trudging up the gentle slope littered with rocks and stones. Maybe when I reached New Haven and look back on the brick road up to it, this whole journey will seem so short. Maybe one day when I look down onto the fields from a king’s feast, my whole life will seem so short.

I think back to the trail today, the first time out of the dense woods, into the rocky plains I’ve been told about so many times. As I walked it, all I could think was how vast the world really was. Then it scared me, how small I was beneath the sun and among the grass. Now, I remember how small it really looks from another perspective.

Today that same trail seemed like it dragged on and on. Today wasn’t a day of skinned ankles and knees, of sheltering underneath indents in Oak trees away from the rain. Yesterday, I waded through a bog so empty of sun it felt like a nightmare. That biting water sank through my boots, all the way through my skin. Tomorrow might be the same. Today, though, I walked, and felt the sun warm my blood. I have to keep walking, there’ll be more days like this.

The sun has set, and the dancing bugs have come down onto their stage. The trail below is the floorboards of their ballet. I shift in my blankets, rest my head against the small trunk of a tree. Watching the flames crackle and jump, I let the fairies guide me to sleep.

The Man Who Sold the World

He followed the trotting of worn down horseshoes. He tied his horse on the edge of the camp. It was a small camp, maybe the size of two bedrooms from barren dirt end to barren dirt end. He sat down across the fire pit from me, joined me in staring at the swaying and crackling flames. The barely empty sun showed just the faintest details of his face. He looked like he’s been tired for a long time. We sat there quietly for a long time, till the sun was replaced by newly born stars.

We started talking about how we’d come to be sitting at this camp, him and his horse, me and my dusty old pack. He said he’d been wandering these trails for almost 15 years now, and I told him how far I had come to get here. Eventually we each had to fess up why we started walking. My ma and pa were dead I told him, I was going to make sure someone more than my son would remember my name. He chuckled a little.

He didn’t mean any harm by it, he said. He just saw a little version of him was all. He wanted to be a painter, be the greatest the world had ever seen.

What happened I asked him? He sighed, it takes a long time to make a painting worth a month of bread. Delivering for a merchant’s feeds his wife and kids much better.

I must’ve put my fears on my face. He chuckled at me again and told me it was worth it.

You’re going to meet someone you love so much, you’ll be happy just for them to know your name for one day he told me.

We sat quietly until we both felt the lull of starsong. In the morning, before we went down opposite ends of the path, we wished each other health and wealth. He

turned back towards me, and I wish love for you too he said. He untied his horse, and the man who had sold his world walked away from me. The man who sold his world for love. That kind of love scared the hell out of me.

Patchworks and Nightmares

Stanwix had settled down for the night. He would sleep until far past dawn that day, the fatigue of constant walking finally catching up to him. But we must not forget that Stanwix is not the only thing alive on this path. We mustn’t forget the animals, or the travelers around him.

Stanwix had left his home before dawn. He left on a trail, one he had watched people come and go on from his father’s sprout field for years. He left out of a town he had never left, into a world he never knew. Stanwix didn’t know how far the city was, what the city looked like, or anyone there. Or what he would do once he got there. But he would never admit that. Stanwix told anyone who asked that he was going to be a great swordsman. In his mind he was going to be, and he might have been able to too.

Stanwix’s imagination had made him believe that this trail was consistently deserted. So it was a surprise to him when it wasn’t. Stanwix routinely had a fire to share, and someone to talk to while he walked. It was a patchwork, each thread that made it, wound around others and tightened together to form itself. It’s hard to say if Stanwix realized this, but he quickly became part of that patchwork.

The next day Stanwix began with the sun, he followed a trail for hours ahead of him. It winded around and around, over hours spinning him into a daze. Even though the sun should have still been out the air around Stanwix became colder and between the trees it became darker. Stanwix, looked down, the path he had been following was gone. Around him the forest looked different, it looked like it had morphed around him.

Stanwix felt eyes all over his back, he tried to see what was looking at him.

Everywhere he looked it was darkness. He set his pack down and unraveled his word from it. He palmed it awkwardly, scanning for whatever he had felt on his back earlier.

Now he felt one cold gaze on his back. He shifted and stared it down. It was tall, slender and looked like it was made of shadows. The air became even colder when Stanwix looked at it. It walked towards him. Stanwix swung out when it was in arms length of him. It condensated into a cloud of mist past Stanwix.

The forest around him returned. Stanwix was back onto the trail he had been on earlier. He could hear voices down the path. Voices of people talking.

At the campsite Stanwix warmed himself in front of the fire. He kept why he was so cold to himself, and didn’t think to speak of what he just saw.

What is a Journey but its Hills and its Camps?

(406) The path up Tamrial Hill was framed by a wooden sign post and a small boulder, and on that rock sat a man deep in thought, and a bag strewn to the left of his legs. He was so engrossed in thought that it took Stanwix blocking out the sun on his straw hat for him to look up.

“I just came up to you to ask what you were doing on this rock, right before this mountain we both have to climb,” Stanwix asked.

“Well, I’m just here thinking.”

“Could I ask you about what?”

The man, who Stanwix noticed wasn’t really a man the more he looked at the peach fuzz on his lips and the soft outline of his face, motioned up the path winding over the hill, “Well it’s a mighty big climb up there, and I know it isn’t too late, but it’s getting there and I was just thinking about waiting here the rest of the night.”

Stanwix turned and studied the path with his eyes. It looked straight enough, and the sun off to the left of the mountain was still well above it.

“I think you’ve got plenty of time left,” Stanwix said. The man turned his head and stared down the sun.

“Yeah, you might be right.” They both stood there in silence for a bit.

“I’m Stanwix,” said Stanwix, reaching out his arm.

“I’m Pete,” They shook hands.

Then for about an hour together, they trudged and sometimes pulled each other over rocks all the way up the hill.

By about sundown, Pete and Stanwix had both stumbled up to a small camp, similar to the rest of the ones scattered up and down the entire trail. It was a circle of dirt ringed by a clean cut out wedge of rock, and surrounded by the gray of the rest of the mountain. Across from it, down below the mountain they sat on, was a blanket of grass, a lining edge of the forest Stanwix had left that day, and the setting sun behind it.

Stanwix and Pete laid their bags and their blankets out on either side of the fire.

Pete set out about making a fire.

“It’s a long hike up here huh?” Pete said.

It took a second for Stanwix to hear him. “Oh, yeah, yeah it is.”

“Do you have a long way left?”

Stanwix thought for a little, “I hope so.”

(306)

The path up Tamrial Hill was framed by a sign post and boulder, and on that rock sat a man deep in thought, and a bag strewn to the left of his legs. He was so engrossed in thought it took Stanwix blocking the sun on his straw hat for him to look up.

“I just came up to you to ask what you were doing on this rock, right before this mountain,” Stanwix asked.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

The man, who Stanwix noticed wasn’t a man the more he looked at the peach fuzz on his lips, motioned up the path, “It’s a mighty big climb, it isn’t too late, but it’s getting there and I was thinking about waiting here the rest of the night.”

Stanwix studied the path. It looked straight enough, and the sun off to the left of the mountain was still well above it.

“You’ve got plenty of time left,” Stanwix said. They both stood there in silence for a bit. “I’m Stanwix.”

“I’m Pete,” They shook hands.

Then for about an hour together, they trudged and sometimes pulled each other over rocks all the way up the hill.

By sundown, Pete and Stanwix had both stumbled to a camp, similar to the rest of the ones scattered up and down the trail. It was a circle of dirt ringed by a clean rock,

and across from it, down below the mountain, was a blanket of grass, a lining edge of forest, and the setting sun.

Stanwix and Pete laid their bags and their blankets out. Pete set about making fire.

“It’s a long hike up here huh?” Pete said.

It took a second for Stanwix to hear him. “Oh, yeah, yeah it is.”

“Do you have a long way left?”

Stanwix thought for a little, “I hope so.”

(256)

The path up Tamrial Hill was framed by a sign post and boulder, and on that rock sat a man deep in thought, so engrossed it took blocking the sun to look up.

“I just came to ask what you were doing on this rock, right before this mountain,” Stanwix replied.

“Well, I’m just here thinking.”

“About what?”

The man, who Stanwix noticed wasn’t a man the more he looked at the peach fuzz above his lips, motioned up, “It’s a mighty big climb, it isn’t too late, but it’s getting there and I was thinking about waiting here the night.”

Stanwix studied the path. It looked straight enough, and the sun to the left of the mountain was still well above it.

“You’ve got plenty of time left,” Stanwix said. They both stood there for a bit. “I’m Stanwix.”

“I’m Pete,” They shook hands.

Then for an hour together, they trudged and pulled each other over rocks all the way up the hill.

By sundown, Pete and Stanwix had both stumbled to a camp. It was a circle of dirt ringed by a rock, and across from it, down the mountain, was a blanket of grass, a lining of forest, the setting sun.

Stanwix and Pete laid their bags and their blankets out. Pete set about making fire.

“It’s a long hike up here huh?” Pete said.

It took a second for Stanwix to hear. “Oh, yeah, yeah it is.”

“Do you have a long way left?”

Stanwix thought for a little, “I hope so.”

On You Leaving and Being Gone

Stanwix, I’m writing to you because a lot of people miss you. I read your note that you left, and I couldn’t make too much sense out of it.

We’re mighty worried about you Stanwix. I know I’m not your family and I know I don’t know what’s best for you but leaving us without any warning can’t be too great.

I wanted to let you know your farm is doing alright. They decided they weren’t going to auction it because it was yours. Whenever you come back I can help you start to clean it up.

I think you would have enjoyed the sunset last night. It looked nice over my homestead.

I tried to paint it, it didn’t come out too good.

For a little while everyone was thinking of waiting for you to do the funeral. They just decided to finally honor them a few days ago, the ceremony was nice.

We all go through grief differently, believe me I know, I’ve had my fair share, but I think it would be best if you came back and worked it out here. I just want to make sure you’re safe.

Your letter Stanwix, it looked like it was written by a mad man, but I took some time to read it. Its real pretty. I realized it meant you were leaving right as I realized you did.

Its sad not having any lentils at the market this year. It feels a lot lonely without anyone at your booth at all. When we took Barley into town with us she was sniffing all over for you. Get back soon so you can get the plants growing again, okay?

I’m surprised you want to be a swordsman Stanwix, I didn’t know you had this pent up fury against farming, I always thought you enjoyed it.

If you do end up becoming a swordsman of some sort, make sure you write me back and let me know, and make sure you come back to your farm. You only hate it because it was your parents’, Stanwix.

Everyone in town would be more than willing to help you clean it up. The farms a little rough around the edges, but that’s it. I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much you started to despise it Stanwix, I should’ve realized that better.

The Stone Mason made beautiful graves for your parents Stanwix. It’s a picture of two intertwined roses on each of them, you have to make sure you come back and thank him for them.

Last week they decided they were going to build a fountain in the center of town. I think it’ll look good, some people not so much. They said it’ll be all done and working next spring.

I heard someone say something about the roof of your house yesterday, there’s a tiny little crack forming where we used to sit. Its been so long I don’t think we could have caused it. I just thought I should let you know.

I heard there’s a small town with a market a few days down the trail, if this somehow catches you before you get to your end goal, you should stop there.

I was thinking about that time we had to track down the liebarder’s cow the other day, do you remember when we had to chase that thing all day?

Just so you know, I told the man carrying the envelope to look for your cowlick. It’s the one thing that hasn’t changed about you since we were kids. I just thought you’d like to know, I know how much you like it when I bring it up.

Speaking of the Liebarder’s, they just had another son last week, they named him jack.

More people than I can remember wanted to send their regards after they heard you were gone. I’d take the time to write everyone’s names out, but to make it short its just about everyone you’d think of.

The pond has had a lot more fish jumping out of it than usual. Its odd because that usually happens at such a different time of the year. That’s just how life is sometimes, weird things happen more than normal ones if you really think about it.

I know you know how to make a shelter, but make sure you stay warm out there, its been cold some of these nights, and I can’t help but think about the worst.

My family’s been holding up okay if you wanted to know. Everything’s about the same really. Everyone’s sad that you’re gone, but life goes on.

It’s going be hard not having my best friend around Stanwix. I guess its your dream and all, but life’s going to be a bit gray for a while. Everyone dreams of moving off the farm, but if everyone went to the city all the town’s would be empty.

We’d love to give you some food when you come back, don’t think any of us will be mad at you when you come home. I promise.

I get you have to find yourself Stanwix. You have to go find yourself before you die, whoever you are. Don’t leave your family in the process, you still have some. We’re your family Stanwix, all of us are. Get home safe Stanwix, do it for us.

The Wind, The Rain, The Embers, The Smoke of the Ashes

Many moons ago, our hero walked into a dark forest with his musty old pack, held up by dreams that lie on the other side. This was the final piece of the journey he had been waging for so long, and with each stride he clawed closer to his finale of triumph. Stanwix, our swordsman, had been warned about this forest. Many people he had met along the way had told him stories of people fading away into nothing in those woods. He proceeded forward into those dark woods anyways. He had learned the forest was about as dangerous as the acorns in it during the day. Stanwix entered the forest with about 4 hours of daylight left, he judged by the distance of the sun to the ground, measured with his fingers. He didn’t know how far the forest went on, but he knew he was quick on his feet.

From outside the woods it looked like he was feeding himself into the belly of some beast. The light cut through less and less as the path sunk deeper, and frigid winds brewed in it.

Stanwix couldn’t tell how long he had been in the woods, it was dark enough that he could only see a few feet ahead of him, yet he trudged on. Stanwix started to figure out what those Nightmares so many people had talked about were. The fire that had sputtered to life and blazed in his gut long ago was withering away. There was no rain that had tried and kill it, no wind to burn it out. Its embers had flash freezed. His breath drew shorter and shorter, his gait slowed and slowed. He tore out sharp breaths as he limped forward and forward. For the first time Stanwix had the thought of stopping, taking a quick break. This was the first time he had ever thought such a thing, and if he

wasn’t in that forest he would have thought it to be too despicable to acknowledge. He had a goal to do, he couldn’t stop for one second too long. He was Stanwix, he was going to cross this forest, no matter what.

But he was so tired.

He leaned up against a rotten tree and slid down to the ground. He looked around him at a lowering fog. His eyelids started covering the width of his vision. He felt ensnared in the woods. He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave.

Stanwix woke up warm. He looked around, and there was no more fog on the ground around him. Small slivers of light made most of the path visible now. He stood up, walked back to the center of the path, and prepared to walk forward into his destiny.

He had forgotten his pack. He turned back to the tree where he had rested the night, and saw a dead man. A flame that hadn’t fought through rain, or been muffled to ash by wind. It was uprooted fast and without warning. It’s flame had been stomped out.

Stanwix sat for a long time in the middle of the path. He sat through the rolling the fog, and the slowly breaking of light. He stared for so long at that pile of ash. The one that was swept away before it could truly begin.

After some good long time, Stanwix stood up, decided to go to the end of the woods, see the path feed into the big town he wanted to see. It was a busy town. He stood on the edge of the woods, stared at the people moving around it, heard the noise from all the life.

Above the town swirling around was a bird being pulled down from one broken wing. It struggled and struggled upwards, tried to remain in the air. Eventually the bird lost, it landed on the ground, and stayed there. Maybe there was more honor in that.

More honor in the struggle against the wind, the rain. Who was braver, the man who fought the good fight and lost, or the man who was seized in the night while he slept.

Stanwix wandered back into the forest, and looked into the eyes of a man who had been seized in his sleep. There was no fear in them, there was no time.

Oak Ridge, Tennessee: Secret City

by Robin Clement

Oak Ridge, Tennessee: Secret City

By Robin Clement

Dedicated to the video about Oak Ridge that popped into my recommendations on Youtube one restless night

Table of Contents 1. Bedtime Story for the Children of Oak Ridge 2. Inherited Guilt 3. Bottle of Stars 4. Stage Directions for a Life 5. The Founding of Oak Ridge 6. Things We Cannot Say 7. Oak Ridge, 1989 8. 25 Things Oak Ridge Won’t Teach You 9. Calutron Girl 10. An Alternate Timeline Where Oak Ridge is Bombed, or あの日

Bedtime Story for the Children of Oak Ridge Let me tell you a story, the story of our home.

In a time before ours, a devastating brush fire ravaged our world. It scorched through castles and churches, through houses and families. The fire was born of men, and men fueled the flames in its journey across the lands. The fire was not born here, but instead was given life in overseas lands, the Third Empire and the Sunrise Land. The Sunrise Land ignited the fire throughout the East, to rid the Eastern lands of their people and take them as their own. Even as the fire burnt on, our land remained in safety, oceans away from the scorch. The great leaders of our land stayed away from the flames so not to get burned.

One day, without the sudden suffocating warmth fire brings as a signal of its presence, the Sunrise Land had spread the fire to one of our islands. The fire killed many of our innocent men, destroyed our ships, and brought to our people the fear that the fire would soon consume our entire land. Our great leaders, brave and determined to put out the horrific fire and to stop the Sunrise Land’s malevolent crimes, declared that they too would join the fire, in attempt to overpower the blazes of the Sunrise Land.

Our great leaders planned out how they could extinguish the Sunrise Land, and they started to ignite an even bigger fire, one so massive and dangerous that it would overpower anything that came before it. But the great men knew that it would take lots of work to start this fire, and they built a small settlement. They named it Oak Ridge, and it was secret to all but those who came to work there. Many settlers were needed to start the fire, so people left behind the homes they had before and came to Oak Ridge to help. The workers didn’t know they were constructing another fire, but they knew that

their work was important and would end the World’s Fire and all the tragedy that it caused. They knew that if they didn’t, the World’s Fire would get worse and their land would be destroyed beyond repair. The settler’s hearts were overflowing with pride for their land, land that was so savagely attacked by the Sunrise Land. They despised the people who caused such destruction, so much that they would do anything to stop the world’s fire. For many nights and days the settlers worked to craft the massive fire, building it up from strong materials and making sure it would ignite properly. The brave settlers risked their health to create our fire, a fire that was completely new to the world.

It was a fire Mother Nature had no part in making. The fire they built would make Mother Nature nothing but a dull spark. The settlers were studious workers, and they made sure the fire was able to spark and overthrow the other fire. Our great leaders who commanded the project tested the fire for the first time, and its mighty orange flames shot up like a crown. It was complete, it was finally time for the fire that had taken so many men by attacking our peaceful land to be smothered out.

The day our flames enveloped the Sunrise Land was the day of victory for our country. When the settlers of Oak Ridge received the news, they knew that they had started a fire that would leave scorch marks on our world. The settlers all rejoiced, voices ripe with pride. They danced in the muddy streets, leaving behind crusted earth on their shoes. The soil dried and marked the importance of the settlers’ hard work. Our great fire consumed two settlements of the Sunrise Land, and with that destruction they knew that they could no longer keep their flames alive. Soon after, the world’s fire completely burnt out and was nothing but dark ashes of history left behind. Our great fire ended the World’s Fire.

Oak Ridge was meant to be destroyed after the World’s Fire was put out, but even after, the settlers stayed behind, turning the settlement into a small community with permanent mud tattoos of the fire they built. It’s because of them that the war ended and we are here today. That, little one, is the story of our city.

But mom, didn’t you tell me you can’t fight fire with fire?

Inherited Guilt B. Why do you belong here?

—G. A. Ingersoll Directions: Read each question carefully. You must answer the question fully to get the points 1. Your grandmother’s father came to Oak Ridge in 1944 for work. 1945, your grandmother arrived in Oak Ridge. The bomb dropped in 1946. When your grandmother was ten, her parents told her they would probably return to their home outside of Oak Ridge after the war. Oak Ridge was not “home,” it was meant to be temporary, a place made for the war and nothing else. Your grandmother never moved from Oak Ridge. She married, had your father, and your father married and had you. If it was supposed to be temporary, why are you here?

2. Your great-grandfather helped build the atomic bomb, a puzzle of destruction, he was a key piece, no matter how small. You cannot have a full puzzle without every piece. He had no clue that the blood of innocent citizens would be on his hands, they would be on everyone’s hands, everyone in Oak Ridge.

What part do you play in this?

3. Is that blood hereditary? Is the blood on your hands?

4. When the citizens got the news of the bomb dropping, they celebrated. The war was over. Your grandmother told you how proud she was of her city, of her family, of America. She was proud of the destruction. You watch a documentary about the people of Hiroshima. You watch how lives were

destroyed by your own ancestors, your own flesh and blood caused flesh to melt off and cancer to infect the bloodstream of people who were targeted just because they were Japanese. Are you a bad person? Can you ever truly be a good person?

5. Do you know what Hiroshima looks like today? Do you know what it looked like before? What about Nagasaki?

6. Have you ever met a Japanese person? If you did, what would you say?

Would you ask them about the bombs?

7. Are you that insensitive? Is that insensitive? Will you ask them if they know of the Manhattan Project? Why would they? Would you tell them what it was?

Would you tell them who you are?

8. Should you even say anything?

9. Your house is in Oak Ridge, it always has been. You were born and raised in the city, you’ve spent your life living in the gruesome shadow it tries to gloss over. Oak Ridge is where you live, but it has never felt like “home.” But yet, it’s all you know. You hate it, but you can’t imagine life outside of it. Why should you stay here?

10. Where should you go? Where could you go?

11. Where is your home?

Bottle of Stars After Gregory and the Hawk “Boats and Birds” I can never forget the day you came to stay with us. It’s sealed tight inside a glass bottle of origami stars you gave to me before you went back home. I open it, the stardust left behind takes me back to that Saturday afternoon. Back then, all I knew about you was your name and that we were the same age. You were suddenly part of my family, although temporarily. That’s what my mom told me when she first mentioned you, that you were coming here as an exchange student to experience our culture and it was our job to make you feel at home. You got homesick the first night. You were too nervous to wake up my mom, but you couldn’t get yourself to sleep no matter what you did. You said you’d never slept so far away from your home before. You asked me if I had any paper. I thought this was a strange request, but I grabbed a stack of colored construction paper from deep in one of my drawers. That night, you folded the first star.

I watched your fingers gently press the edges together, a magic trick before my eyes. It was what you did to calm down, you said. You made boats, cranes, but your favorite were the stars. That, night, you taught me how to fold stars myself.

It was my job to show you around Oak Ridge, introduce you to the city. As a result, we spent a lot of time together, many lakeside walks where we’d spend hours together. We’d talk about anything, be it school, what it was like for you back home, our favorite video games and TV shows. Trains would pass as we’d grow closer, learning more about each other with each day, each walk, each star. I told you more about me than anyone else. We’d laugh at our strange inside jokes, and I’d admire the way your

nose would scrunch up like the folding of a star. I remember the day I looked at you and the corners of my heart creased over, sealed with a piece of Scotch tape.

My mom would check in on us every night before bed, making sure you were comfortable and safe. After the first week, she eased up a bit. After the second week, she stopped entirely. She knew you were comfortable. One night, after I had realized my feelings for you, we stayed up late into the night. We sat on my bed together, close but not touching. You began to fall asleep, your head resting against my shoulder.

Nervously, I tapped you awake, and you retreated to your bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep that night. All I could do was stare and wish that I was sleeping next to you. The next night, we pressed our bodies together, hands folded in one another’s. I remember the stardust gleaming in your eyes. You had folded up my heart into a star.

I’ve never stopped thinking about you, even though you’re 6,661 miles away now.

The day you left, we cried into each other’s shoulder. We both gave each other bottle of stars as a memory, with the bottle of stars I gave you, you took my heart with you. Though it was such a short moment, I can never forget our time together. I wonder if your heart is in mine, if it’s the stardust left behind at the bottom of the bottle.

Stage Directions for a Life A child soloist, went on stage with the orchestra…

—Margarita Meklina

Father: A researcher at Oak Ridge National Laboratory. Graduated summa cum laude from Cornell University. Fell in love with an international student he met in his junior year, a freshman, two years younger.

Mother: Born in Japan, came to the United States to study at Cornell. Intended to study law. Wanted to become a prosecutor so she could help bring justice into the world. She never got to go to law school, dropped out to take care of her child.

Son: An unplanned birth.

Mother: Became distraught when she found out she was pregnant. Desperately tried to get an abortion. Father forbid her, told her she couldn’t kill their child.

Son: Born on a rainy day in May, a pink band around his tiny wrist.

Mother and Father: were disappointed when their child wasn’t born a boy.

Father: The year after the son’s birth, got a job at the Oak Ridge Natural Laboratory.

Mother came with him. Proposed to her in front of the Friendship Bell.

Mother: Skeptical of the city. Quickly learned of their involvement in World War II. Accepted Father’s proposal. Wouldn’t have said no if it were anywhere else, even in private, but her heart would always say no. Passed away two weeks before Son turned three. Died before she got the boy she wished for.

Father: Wasn’t quite sure how to raise a child, especially if the child wasn’t a boy.

Wasn’t quite sure how to explain what happened to Mother, so he burned her memory

down. Remarried a white woman. Wanted Son to be exactly like him, even though every time he looked at him he only saw Mother.

Son: Was a gifted child. Excelled in science, but felt drawn to the stage. Grew up confused in many ways. Beige-tinted skin and dark hair were notes that isolated him from his Father and Stepmother. Often felt as if he were a museum display. Grew to hate Oak Ridge. Grew uncomfortable with acting as the part of his body. The only time he felt at home was up onstage, the only time he felt himself was when he played a male role. There weren’t many boys around in the theater community of Oak Ridge, so he often filled the part, a part he wished to fill forever. Invested all his time in theater.

Came out as transgender his senior year.

Father: For the first time, no longer wanted a son. He refused to accept Son, a stain on his perfect idea of a child. He had no son. He said would have no daughter if Son kept up his act.

Son: Graduated and moved to NYC. Vowed to never speak to Father or return to Oak Ridge again. Auditioned his ass off, felt the bite of rejection over and over, but the scars faded after the break in his career, landing an understudy position for a lead in a Broadway musical, the first rung of the ladder he began to climb with ease. The only scars that remained like golden-brown patches of newborn skin were the ones left behind by his youth in Oak Ridge.

The Founding of Oak Ridge In time of war, it is the civilians who suffer the most

Displacement Before everything, we were here. We were descendants of settlers who watched the fight for the new land, we were the descendants of the Natives who were scattered across the continent like stars in the sky, those who were forced out in favor of these European strangers. We were poor farmers, struggling to survive in land that had been stolen and passed around over and over again. But here, we finally started to feel we had a stable home. We were a community, the few thousand of us that remained. There was a man in our community who saw visions of a massive city being built on top of our community, stamping us out like campfire embers. We thought he was crazy, but he was really a prophet. The news started to pour in, barely enough notice for us to comprehend what had happened. The land in which our community grew was now the government’s. We had little time to gather up our things and get out, no matter how much we protested they would not give into the demands of so few of us, we were not enough to be considered people. They promised us they would repay us for what they had taken away, but often that promise was nothing and we struggled to find ways to move forward. Like most Americans, we didn’t find out what our land was used for until the bomb hit. Many said it was a necessary evil, that it was for our benefit as Americans, but we didn’t feel as if we were included in that. It stung knowing that the same soil that we grew from was used to cultivate destruction.

Internment We were born here, we know nowhere else but here, but we are still treated like the enemy. Our fathers and mothers came to America to follow dreams of success, like so many other immigrants had. They were Americans, and we were Americans, and nothing could change that fact. Our blood did not make us evil, and yet we were forced out of our homes that we had worked day and night for, that our families gave everything for so we could live comfortably. The government didn’t care that most of us had never set foot in Japan, never known anything else but here as home. We could never be both, we couldn’t be Americans and Japanese, we were only Japanese, only the enemy, only driven by pure evil and destruction. Nothing could convince them otherwise. No matter how loyal we were, how much we loved our home, it was always obscured by our blood, no matter how detached from the culture and place, no matter if we were only a part Japanese, a drop of blood was enough for us to be criminals. Many of us would’ve been more than willing to fight for our country, even if our country didn’t fight for us. And the strangest thing is how, while we were imprisoned and treated as subhuman for the atrocities of people who merely share the same ethnicity as us, when America did the same to us, they forgave. They forgave America for creating entire cities to destroy people, because they understood that people are not a monolith.

Segregation Scarboro was built for us, they said. The black part of town. They planned it out all special so that everything would be in line, completely ignoring the fact there were

bigger issues on the horizon. We shoved aside in the corner of town, so far from the public eye. I guess out of sight, out of mind was their motto. What ever happened to separate but equal? Even if we must be apart, they at least have to keep the other promise true. But they didn’t. Where we lived, known as The Pens, was more like a unkept zoo for animals than somewhere for people to live. Even animals got better treatment than us. I watched my roommates come and go, so many friends dead because they couldn’t put aside their hatred in our time of need. When we needed unity the most, we were shoved away. They said they meant for us to have more space, but the plans didn’t work out so well. Instead, our neighbor was the factory in which America concocted up its secret weapon. Scarboro was the closest neighborhood to the factory.

We were the only ones with noxious clouds swallowing our tiny houses. We were the only ones whose children splashed around in a creek poisoned by uranium. They dropped a bomb not only on Japan, but on their own citizens, innocent people made to pay the ultimate price for a crime we didn’t commit.

Things We Cannot Say But tonight, in this moment, we dare not change a thing —Robert Olen Butler

Joyce I wish that I could write to you without them rifling through our letters. If I said what I truly wanted to say I don’t know what would happen to me, or what could happen to you. It’s rare that we can even see each other. I wish I had the courage to say what I felt out loud, even if it’s only to you. But I fear that even when we think we might be alone, hiding out in the woods together, we are still watched. It’s those rare moments I often dream about, you and I, alone together. It’s forbidden, like the peaches I steal from the orchards and bring to you. It’s not often you are treated fairly here. It hurts my heart to see it. After all, we are both humans. But in war, in this time, people are blind to that. Do you ever wonder what it is we are doing here? I came here for a better life, for the money, but we are working to end the war. I only wonder how it is we are going to do that, and what part we play in it. I’m not one to question authority out loud. I doubt as much that you would be that type of person. It’s much too dangerous. But I just wonder why things must be the way they are here, why everything must be so forbidden and secret. It’s like I cannot speak, I can’t speak of work, of you, of my feelings. If I so much as mention any of those things I will be punished, but those are the only things that occupy my thoughts. I feel as if I am the only one who feels this way. No one else seems to question this world we live in. Do you?

Marian Don’t you ever tire of the eyes constantly watching? We live in secrecy and yet we can keep no secrets inside this caged-in city. Day in, day out the soldiers are monitoring us, making sure we are only doing what we are told to do. You and I are universes apart in the same city. All I want is to spend my time with you but they will not allow it. Even if we were the same, if we weren’t separated, we would still be looked down upon. I want to be somewhere truly secret with you. There are so many things I am not allowed to do, not allowed to say, and that is just the reality of life for a woman like me. In some ways, life in this city makes us similar in ways we never would be. We both long for somewhere peaceful, somewhere quiet where there are no guards keeping track of our every move, where there’s no more factories churning out chemicals that will surely kill us. But we are similar in another way, in our love for one another. Do you ever think that with so few men around it is strange that they do not anticipate us growing close? Then again, I don’t know what it’s like for women like you. Is it accepted over there? Would we be looked down upon only because we are different races? Is there anywhere we can go where we can be ourselves, without being held to laws separating us and keeping us quiet, keeping us from questioning what is spoon-fed to us here, what is expected of us everywhere?

Oak Ridge, 1989 I never settled as a child. As soon as tiny roots started sinking into our new house, Dad got a new job and ripped them out, raw and exposed. This happened several times before we ended up in Oak Ridge. I was eleven. My first day there, I walked my entire neighborhood in ten minutes. Tucked away in the corner of the neighborhood was a small skatepark: a sheet of blue concrete with ramps bursting out like horns. Boys flew through the air on their skateboards, hitting the ground with the tough clunk of the wheels. I spotted a boy around my age. When he glided through the air, his golden hair swept forward like waves on the shore. My heart’s wheels clunked down on the concrete. That night, I begged my father for a skateboard. On my skateboard, my newborn giraffe knees wobbled as I forced myself up the ramp. I crashed down on the concrete for the first time, my bloodied knees like an exposed heart. The boy’s shadow loomed over me, I squeezed my legs to my chest like a roly-poly, but his hand reached for mine, helping me up. He retrieved gauze from his bag and dressed my wounds with a tender smile. That day forward he was my mentor, showing me all the tricks as I slowly built up my repertoire to impress him. The day I finally conquered the ollie, I flew through the air, my feet slamming down on my board below. I felt like I could do anything with the adrenaline that flowed through me, so I hugged him. Instantly, he tensed up, shoving me back on the ground, full force. My back hit the concrete like a skateboard snapped in half. What the hell, dude? Are you some kind of fag? he spat as I shook my head, trying to dislodge any thoughts I had of him, in case they shined through for him to see. His shadow loomed over me once more, but this time his hand was not outstretched, it folded back in a fist that struck my nose. The stench of iron filled

my nostrils as blood escaped. He walked away with his crew, leaving me cowering on the ground, proving I was alone in Oak Ridge. I hoped that somehow my thoughts of boys would bleed out my nose and be left behind on the concrete too.

I never settled as a child. As soon as roots started sinking, Dad got a new job and ripped them out several times before Oak Ridge. I was eleven. I walked my neighborhood in ten minutes. Tucked in the corner was a small skatepark: sheet of blue concrete, ramps bursting like horns. Boys flew on skateboards, the tough clunk of wheels. I spotted a boy. When he glided, his golden hair swept like waves. I felt my heart’s wheels clunk on concrete. I begged for a skateboard. On my skateboard, newborn giraffe knees forced up the ramp. I crashed for the first time, bloodied knees an exposed heart. His shadow loomed over, I squeezed knees-to-chest like a roly-poly, but his hand reached for mine, dressed my wounds with a tender smile. That day forward he was my mentor, I built repertoire to impress him. The day I conquered the ollie, I flew, feet slamming down. Adrenaline flowed through me, so I hugged him. He tensed up, shoving me onto the ground, full force. My back hit concrete like a skateboard snapped in half. Are you some kind of fag? I shook my head to dislodge thoughts of him in case they shined through. His shadow loomed over, his hand folded in a fist that struck my nose. The stench of iron filled my nostrils as blood escaped. He walked away, leaving me cowering, alone in Oak Ridge. I hoped my thoughts of boys would bleed out and be left behind too.

25 Things Oak Ridge Won’t Teach You 1. August 14th, your birthday, is the day Japan surrendered. Citizens rejoiced in the street, the same soil where you blew out three candles crowning your chocolate cake.

2. Your mother’s pen pal in high school was Kumiko, a girl from Kyoto. They wrote to each other for four years straight, until the letters suddenly stopped coming.

Your mother worried something had happened to her. She desperately tried to get back in contact, but she never heard back from Kumiko again.

3. The boy in your sophomore chemistry class who helped you cheat on every test spent several nights of his life mapping out plans to build his own atomic bomb.

Whenever the subject was mentioned in class, his face would light up in a twisted way. You always thought he was one of the good kids.

4. Your great-grandfather who fought in Okinawa remembers the Japanese school boys taken to be soldiers. Year after, he drew charcoal pictures of the faces he remembered, ones he saw living and ones he saw dead. It was the only way he could cope with the photographic memories. He didn’t show them to anyone, and he was never known to draw anything else. You’ll find them hidden away in his sock drawer when cleaning his house after he’s passed.

5. Kumiko’s grandmother, Yurie, was born in Hiroshima. She left for Kyoto with her family exactly a year before the bomb hit. They were originally hesitant about leaving, but ultimately decided it was a better place to be. If they had stayed, chances are your mother would have never written to Kumiko. Chances are she

might never have been born. Kumiko never told your mother this. She worried that it might make her feel guilty, even though she would have no reason to be.

6. On your fifth birthday, your mother bought you a flimsy replica kimono that was machine-sewn from a Joann’s pattern. She told you that it was authentic, that it was handmade by a Japanese woman. The same day, a small family kimono business closed up due to lack of sales.

7. Your mother hated Oak Ridge. She tried to discuss the possibility of moving with your father, but she was always shut down. She wanted to raise you in somewhere like New York, so you wouldn’t grow up as sheltered as she did.

8. Kumiko stopped writing to your mother shortly after graduating high school because she had a child. She was so busy juggling jobs to provide for him that she never had time to sit down and pen out a letter telling you what happened.

Her son shares your birthday, although he’s two years older than you.

9. Hiroshima survivors, known as Hibukusha, usually were unable to get married.

People were afraid that they could infect other people, that they were contagious.

Yurie’s older brother stayed behind in Hiroshima and was there when the bomb hit. He survived, and lived many years alone for his status made him unable to marry. Even after the stigma began to lessen, he was unable to marry his boyfriend. They died together, their love unrecognized.

10. Yurie never mentioned her brother to her children, nor her grandchildren. She never knew her brother as her family disowned him before leaving Hiroshima.

She was less than two years old the last time she saw him. She had no idea he was one of the survivors. Kumiko never learned about him at all.

11. The boy from chemistry class frequented the Dark Web. He formed a group of nameless friends who all prayed for the day nuclear war would break out. He smashed his computer and threw the pieces in the river before he got arrested for the threats written in the bathroom of your high school.

12. One of your great-grandfather’s drawings is of a boy who he found lying dead on the ground underneath a tree. He was no older than fourteen. He thought of this boy the most, and often spent many nights paralyzed by what he saw. He was a man who was known to never cry.

13. Your mother still has the one picture Kumiko sent her, as well as all of her letters.

She takes them out every so often and reads through them, the ink smudging off on her fingers to the point where some of the words can barely be read anymore.

She still remembers what they say.

14. Your great-grandfather tried to forbid his children from going into the military. He never wanted them to see the things he saw, never wanted them to take a human being’s life no matter where they were from. Both of his children obliged, and held the same sentiment toward their children. Your uncle broke this cycle when he enlisted in the Marines.

15. While stationed in Okinawa, your uncle kidnapped a sixteen-year-old girl. She bore his daughter. All of your family still believes he is childless.

16. Your grandfather never knew about Kumiko. Your mother lied and told him she was from China because if he knew she was Japanese, he would forbid her from writing to her.

17. The same year your mother told this lie, your grandfather spit on a man he believed to be Japanese. He was Chinese.

18. Your mother wanted to name you Kimiko, inspired by Kumiko. She never proposed the name to your father for she knew he would only laugh.

19. Your middle name, Kimberly, was the closest she could get.

20. Your cousin in Okinawa spent the first five years of her life in an orphanage. She was adopted by a family in Sacramento. When she was in high school, she began searching for her biological parents, filled with curiosity for her heritage.

21. Your mother is a lesbian. She married your father because she was scared of how the small southern Oak Ridge community would react. Every night she dreams of the life she could’ve had. She never came out because she didn’t want you to grow up in a home she shattered, even though it hurt her heart to keep living in lies.

22. Kumiko’s son Hideo visited Oak Ridge as an exchange student. Before he boarded the plane, his mother mentioned the pen pal she used to have who lived there. That was the first time she thought about your mother since she stopped writing. Hideo thought nothing about it during his time there.

23. You didn’t talk to Hideo very much during his stay. He tried to approach you a few times but he got too nervous and always gave up. You two could have easily been great friends.

24. Your mother walked past Hideo one day while buying milk. She had no idea that he was the son of her first love. The same night, she thought about Kumiko.

25. Lucia, the musical theater major who was your roommate in college, is your cousin. You two never saw eye to eye, always argued over where things should go and how loud the other was. You blocked her on Facebook after graduation.

She tries to message you every year.

Calutron Girl Always be on your best behavior. You are here to do a job and do it well. All you need to know is what to do and how to do it. Keep a close eye on those dials. Adjust them when needed, only when needed. If you have a problem, tell your supervisor. Do not try to fix it yourself. Don’t ask what the dials are for. Keep to your knitting, as we say.

Don’t discuss work. Not with your friends, not with those who work with you. Don’t talk on the job, even if it’s unrelated to work. You aren’t here to make friends, and we can’t have everything we’ve worked so hard for be messed up by some hillbilly girl. Don’t ask any questions, don’t question what you are told to do. Don’t wonder what are we working on? You will get no answers. Curious girls have no place here. You can and will be replaced. Remember Marian? You don’t want to disappear like she did. Keep your nose down. Always carry your badge with you, display it on your person. When you enter your house, put your shoes in the shower. Don’t track the mud inside. When you go to Knoxville, you don’t want them to chase you out. When you go beyond the fence, keep to yourself. Try not to let the outsiders know who you are, even though they’ll spot you from the mud crusted on your shoes. Be nice to the shopkeepers, even though they will not be nice to you, why should they be? Don’t let them ask any questions. You can’t answer them, anyways. Don’t tell them what you do in the confines of the fence. Don’t invite your family to Oak Ridge, it’s not worth the hassle. Don’t tell them what you do.

You can tell them you make good money and that you are in good health but say no more than that. If you did, we would read it. Your letters are confidential, but the city’s confidentiality takes more priority. There’s no room for privacy here. If your privacy violates the secrecy of the city there will be consequences. If you disobey, you will be

removed from the city. If you go on a date, don’t expect to be alone. Even when you think you’re alone, enjoying a movie with a friend or a date, we will be hiding in the aisles, shining flashlights on you to make sure you aren’t letting talk of work escape your lips. You will be observed to make sure you are not doing anything to break our rules. Don’t bring any men back to your dormitory, not even if your father managed to visit. Stay out of the orchards. Don’t sell the apples you pick to your neighbors, you know they have no sugar or butter for pies. War is hell, you know. You came here for a better life, and a better life is what you are getting, even if you don’t see it that way.

An Alternate Timeline Where Oak Ridge is Bombed, or あの日 (Ano hi) Your black hair turns the dark night into delirious memories of the human refugees fleeing from the disastrous mudslide —Qiu Xiaolong

The sky was painted in thick strokes of baby blue mere minutes before the explosion. We saw the sky shatter into splinters of light as the bomb hit, and just as quickly, everything was covered in a sheet of black. There was no sound, just light and darkness.

When the light cut through the sky, we all panicked. One of us flung herself between two large boulders. She scraped up her cheeks and her knuckles, but we had no time to be in pain, so she did not flinch, her body remained rigid as the stones she took shelter in. She kept her face down, buried in the rocks for what seemed to be an eternity. Like all of us, she tried to convince herself she was dreaming, that instead of lying in a grave of rocks she was in her bed, even though the cut searing her forehead was more realistic than any dream she’d ever had. Her breaths came out like broken glass, jagged, sharp inhales as she shut her eyes tight enough to block out everything going on around her. When she finally lifted her head up, she told us she saw the corpse of our city. Charcoal smog filled the empty streets that moments before were bustling with people. Fragments of brick and concrete laid around her, buildings that had exploded and burned down to nothing but dust. Bodies littered the ground, charred, and the only thing we could smell was the burning of flesh.

After we saw the flash, then came the fires. Houses that survived the blast stood burning, smoke bellowing from grassy patches. Many of us thought that we had died and been sent to rot away in Hell, not knowing our lives had become more real than Hell could ever have been. Another one of us had been blown back into a creek, dirty water filled his mouth as he believed he was dying, his last moments spent drowning in rubble of his hometown. When he realized he was still breathing, he opened his eyes. Bloated bodies floated in the creek, several piled-on top of each other like bricks of a house.

They were marked with burns and bloodied from the face to the toes.

Many of us believed that we were dying. Blood rushed from wounds and we convinced ourselves it was our last moments. A young boy wrote a message in the dirt, this is where Luke King met his end. Children buried under the skeletal remains of buildings cried for their mothers who had been flung several feet away.

Several of us were close enough to the blast that we became nothing but burned ground where our bodies were, permanent shadows drawn like chalk outlines. If we weren’t completely vaporized as if we were never on Earth to begin with, many of us bled out from the glass piercing our skin, mosaiced backs lying up to the sky. The hospital was destroyed, it became ruins of the city as we tried to get help, an endless parade of pain and misery. It was like the dystopian novels we had read as children, it seemed as though it was only us on the Earth and no one else. Ghosts were no longer imaginary, they filled the streets in the forms of burned and ghastly bodies. The sky remained soaked red with bloody flames, even as night began to fall.

Even after the blast, we grew sick and died, with no way to cure us of the poisoning we had suffered. While the city was alive again, flowers beginning to sprout through the singed ground believed to have been lifeless, we were still dying. Children were left to fend for themselves as many had become orphans in the blink of an eye.

Our community was shattered, and we were left behind to gather up the dingy shards left behind, with scars engraved into our bodies like museum statues, images of history.

Lovely Crossroads

by Azriah Crawley

Lovely Crossroads

by Azriah Crawley

“Point of no return and now it’s just too late to turn around. I try to forgive you but I struggle cause I don’t know how. We built it up so high and now I’m falling. It’s a long way down.”— Louis Tomlinson For Diego Tinoco, Harry Styles, BG, and sitting in the atrium with Joseph Johns.

Table of Contents 1. Maturing 2. How to Live Like the Living 3. 25 Things You Didn’t Know About Your Wedding 4. Nine Month Sequence 5. Trinkets 6. Sunny Snowfalls 7. Wash Out 8. Parting Before Death 9. Eternal Love 10. After the Storm 11. Epilogue

Maturing: 2002 Now he’s afraid of everything: of being alone…of his mother’s fury, his father’s indifference.

Margarita Meklina Charlie Smith: dyed his hair with his two older brothers when he was five. His father gave them all buzzcuts in his barbershop: to get the black dye out of their hair and to teach them a lesson. Played club soccer in elementary school. Lost his father when he was seven. Visits his grave the last Saturday of every month. Helped his mother cook dinner on Wednesday night. Ate berries his brothers dared him to eat in the woods.

Ended up in the emergency room for a night. Cried when his mother started going on dates. Had a crush on the babysitter.

Eleanor Lancaster: was always been the youngest person in her grade. Learned how to pack a lunch by herself. Started taking dance lessons when she was four. Switched from private school to public school in sixth grade. Had been to six of the seven continents by the time she was ten. Ate hot dogs with applesauce every afternoon.

Spent most of her time with nannies. Started gymnastics at eleven. Spent time with her parents only at art shows. Fell in love with school lunches.

Charlie: had the best grades out of all his siblings. Saved all his homework until two o’clock on Sundays. Took any advanced classes he could. Ended up being the best man when his mother remarried. Kept his hair buzzed in honor of his father. Asked Eleanor out by mistake. Accidentally put a note in the wrong locker. Didn’t mind

because she was pretty. Took her to a football game. Joined the varsity soccer team.

Cried when his brothers left for the Marines. Led the student section at football games.

Got voted class president. Pushed a kid into a locker once. Regretted it instantly.

Eleanor: stopped taking dance lessons to become a cheerleader. Got involved in political protests. Got offered rides from eleventh grade boys. Only accepted rides from her neighbor’s daughter. Tried to curl her eyelashes for a school dance in sophomore year. Ended up ripping them all out and wore fake ones for the rest of high school. Kept all the notes from Charlie in a box with hearts over it. Finally learned how to ride a bike after getting made fun of by her friends. Got asked to prom by Charlie. Said yes.

Charlie: bought Eleanor a corsage that didn’t exactly match her dress. Spilled fruit punch on her dress. Got a soccer scholarship to Penn State. Planned a life with Eleanor at college. Was the first in his family to be salutatorian.

Eleanor: told Charlie she’d go to Penn State if she got in. Applied to Penn State and Georgetown. Got into Penn State. Got waitlisted at Georgetown. Cried for three days over it. Got into Georgetown. Committed to Georgetown. Didn’t tell Charlie.

Charlie: found out that Eleanor got into Penn State. Found out Eleanor committed to Georgetown. Broke up with her after graduation. Left for college early.

How to Live Like the Living: 2007 Then, promise someone you will love him forever. Say, No one but you will ever kiss these lips…

–Jennifer A. Howard First dye your hair red. This will be the beginning of the independence from your parents.

Next, become friends with your college roommate. She will take you to parties, show you how to cook macaroni in your dorm room and introduce you to boys your parents wouldn’t approve of. Make sure to enjoy your college experience. Go in undecided. Join the cheerleading team. Take the theatre class you’ve always wanted to.

Learn how to tap dance. Go to bars. Show off how smart you are in your classes. Ask questions. Answer questions. Take notes. Don’t worry about the boy in the back of the class who roll their eyes when you raise your hands. Move off campus with the girls in your philosophy class after freshman year. Switch your major three times before deciding on business. Wash the dishes on your day. If you use something up, replace it.

Don’t skip more than two classes a week. Apply to online law school so you can work at the same time. When it’s time to graduate, cry. You will be saying goodbye to a big part of your life. Take pictures with your old roommates, with the boys you’ve dated (and gotten over), with the professors who helped you most.

Go home and start working the accountant job your father lined up for you. Say yes when your high school boyfriend, Charles, comes by your parent’s house to invite you to dinner. Check his Instagram to see the girls he dated in college. Notice how their fair skin differs from your dark complexion but don’t get upset over it. Realize that

everyone has a type. At dinner, take the purple corsage and laugh about how it would’ve been the perfect color for your prom dress. Ask about his mother. Smile when he says she and her husband are doing great. Stay silent when he talks about how she won’t visit his father’s grave. Kiss him when he drops you off.

After six months, move into his one-bedroom house on the South Side. In the morning, catch the bus to work together. Walk to the Point on together on your lunch break. Go grocery shopping on Saturday mornings and sleep in on Sundays. Put on makeup on date nights. Give your old roommates a place to stay when they come to visit. Bite your tongue when they talk about how small your house is. Don’t be scared to leave Charlie alone with them the way they were with you and their boyfriends. Listen to their stories about how much they love their jobs as company executives. When they leave, start looking for jobs in the business world with more purpose. When you can’t find anything in Pittsburgh, look at jobs all across the country. Graduate from online law school. Skip the ceremony in California. Apply to be a legal consultant at business firms in New York. Agree to the Skype interview at Barker Consulting. Accept the job. Accept the promotion a year later.

Tell Charlie over dinner. Be relieved when you see his excitement. Start looking for apartments together in Manhattan. Decide on the two-bedroom apartment in Inwood.

Ask you dad for a loan behind Charlie’s back. Congratulate Charlie when he gets an engineering job at Bombardier. Pack your framed prom picture, the China your great grandmother left you, and college scrapbook. Go out for drinks with Charlie’s coworkers one last time on Friday night. Set an alarm for early Saturday morning. On the road, stop at exactly three gas stations. Don’t eat the fly invested hot dogs but drink the blue

raspberry slushies. At your new apartment, hang up the prom picture first. Secretly take the pregnancy test you bought at the gas station. Be disappointed when it says negative. Go out to dinner to celebrate your first night in town. Complain about eating in a pizza shop to celebrate. Ask Charlie why he hasn’t eaten anything. Scream when he takes out the ring. Say yes. Cry.

25 Things You Didn’t Know About Your Wedding: 2010 1. Charlie wanted his niece to be the flower girl but you chose your best friend’s daughter. She did a terrible job. The petals were left in large clumps and when you weren’t looking, she stuck her finer into the back of the cake. You blamed Charlie’s brother, Victor, who stills holds a grudge.

2. The pregnancy test you took three nights before the wedding was a false negative.

3. Your mother kept suggesting Virginia for the wedding because she wanted to invite your grandma. She has a deathly fear of traveling. She and your grandfather looked at pictures online while eating TV dinners the next day.

4. Before the ceremony, your high school friend Alyssa was going to confess her love for Charlie. When the groomsmen wouldn’t let her see him, she gave up.

She went back to her hotel room where her boyfriend was waiting for her.

5. The dress you were wearing was the same dress as the officiant’s ex-wife wore on her wedding day. He sold it after he divorced her for having a miscarriage.

6. You consider yourself to be a lucky bride because nothing went wrong on your wedding day. That’s not true. No one told you because they knew the smallest inconvenience would make you call the wedding off.

7. The florist messed up your flowers on purpose. She said you were her first bridezilla.

8. You ripped your veil after taking pictures near the tree in the front of the church.

No one had the heart to tell you. If you look closely, you can see it in all the reception photos.

9. The lead singer of the band you hired was your high school stalker. He dyed his hair and changed his name so you wouldn’t recognized him.

10. Your engagement ring wasn’t a family heirloom. In 1990, Charlie’s father pawned the real one to pay for Christmas gifts that year. He bought a cheap one from a knock off jewelry store after Charlie told him he was going to propose to you. Not even Charlie’s mother knew.

11. Your father didn’t like the church because it looked like the Vegas chapel he got married in when he was eighteen after he thought he would be drafted. After three months, the woman died. He still doesn’t know how. He married your mother two years later in the court house.

12. The first draft of the best man’s speech had an entire paragraph that talked about how Charlie broke up with you at you high school graduation. Charlie made him take it out.

13. Three weeks after the wedding, your officiant was arrested for fraud. He wasn’t a real officiant but had married over two hundred couples. Each couple paid five hundred dollars for his service.

14. If you would’ve released the white doves after the ceremony, you would’ve seen that one of the doves died.

15. The French fries you said were cooked in canola oil were cooked in peanut oil. A boy with a peanut allergy had to leave early because of an allergic reaction.

16. The “something old” charm bracelet your mother-in-law got you was brand new.

She bought it as a gift for herself but it was too small so she gave it to you.

17. Charlie only agreed to the wedding cake being lemon because he wanted to pick the appetizers. After you fed it to him, he ran to the bathroom and threw up.

18. Alyssa got proposed to at the reception.

19. Charlie saw you in your dress before the ceremony.

20. The weather app was wrong. If you would’ve gotten married in California, the ceremony would’ve been rained out. The coin toss that decided on New York saved your wedding day.

21. A month after the ceremony, the florist sent you an apology card and a refund check. It got lost in the mail.

22. If Charlie would’ve mailed the invitations on time, your childhood neighbor would’ve gotten one. He had been there to clean out his mother’s house after his she died. If he would’ve gotten it, he would’ve come only to convince you run away to Oregon with him. You would’ve considered it.

23. Half of Charlie’s vows were things he copied from West Side Story.

24. Victor had been secretly dating your seventeen-year-old sister, Aria. They didn’t care about the seven-year age gap. When they told your mother, she got so angry that she talked about sending Aria to an all-girl boarding school.

25. Your wedding dress was by far the piece of clothing that Charlie loved most on you.

Nine Month Sequence: 2012 Eleanor Smith-Lancaster I hate looking down and not being able to see my feet. I hate that I can only shop at maternity stores. I hate not being able to know the sex of the baby until the baby shower. I hate how far along I am. I hate not being able sleep on my stomach. I hate taking my anger out on Charlie. I hate that I crave hot dogs and applesauce. I hate how fat my feet have gotten. I hate the vitamins I have to take. I hate my cramps. I hate how thick my hair has gotten. I hate walking. I hate my stretch marks. I hate how I got angry and dropped spaghetti sauce on my rug I got in France. I hate how people come up to me and touch my stomach. I hate that my eyesight has gotten worse. I hate how our couch was so expensive but is so uncomfortable. I hate how little kids ask me why I’m so fat. I hate how easily I lose my breath. I hate my cankles. I hate that my heating pad shocks me. I hate contractions. I hate that my skin is so bad. I hate not being able to go to work. I hate all the false alarms. I hate how the due date was wrong. I hate being a woman. I hate being a pregnant woman.

Charles Smith-Lancaster I love feeling the baby kick. I love knowing that we created a life. I love her pregnancy glow. I love our maternity pictures. I love how close we’ve gotten. I love tying her shoes when she can’t reach them. I love going to the store for her. I love the weird looks I get when I have a pack of tomatoes and a can of frosting. I love telling people it’s for my pregnant wife. I love cooking extra for her and the baby for dinner. I love how she can’t work as much anymore. I love the name Samuel. I love how she gets excited to go

on walks in the park on warm days. I love our visits to the doctor’s office. I love looking at the baby on the ultrasound. I love going to birthing classes. I love that we get to make our own baby food. I love rubbing her feet. I love that her company allows for her to be off for four weeks before the due date. I love that her company has a three-month paid maternity leave policy. I love the way she holds the bump. I love rushing to the hospital when her water breaks. I love holding her hand while she’s in labor. I love meeting my son for the first time.

Trinkets: 2017 (400 Words) I fell in love with her when I gave her a tour on her first day at the company. We bonded quickly because were the only black executives in the office. We took pride in this. She was the chief marketing officer and I the chief legal officer and we sat together in meetings passing each other sticky notes of doodles and tic-tac-toe games.

Her name was Amelia. She insisted I called her that but called me Mrs. Smith Lancaster long after we became friends. She had long curly hair but kept it in a neat bun in the office. All of her blazers were color coded by day of the week. Everyone loved Amelia. Howard from the mail room loved her a bit too much. But no one loved her like I did. I loved the way she smiled, the way she talked, the way she was able to stand her ground, even in a room of men telling her otherwise.

We had our first kiss after the office Valentine’s Day party. I stayed to help her clean up after everyone, even the security guard, had gone home. We kept the lights off for it and after it was over it was our secret. We got closer after this. We ate lunch together every day, had girls’ nights, sleepovers. I saw these as secret dates, memories that only she and I would remember.

I talked about my son so much that she wanted to meet him. I didn’t think it was a good idea and I told her this. But she had her heart set on meeting him. I gave in. I told Charlie about how great of a friend she was and we planned the dinner together.

When the night came, she called me an hour before in tears saying how she couldn’t make it. She apologized repeatedly before hanging up, not letting me get a word in.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked.

“Something came up.” I said.

I was relieved that she couldn’t make it. I had too much respect for Charlie.

At work the next day, Amelia and I went about our normal day. I got her coffee, we played tic tac toe, we ate our lunch. She apologized to me every chance she got even after I told her not to. It was the first and last time she let me down. I forgave her.

(300 Words) I fell in love with her on her first day. We bonded because were the only black executives. We took pride in this. She was the chief marketing officer and I the chief legal officer and we sat together in meetings passing each other sticky notes of doodles and tic-tac-toe games.

Her name was Amelia. She insisted I called her that but called me Mrs. Smith Lancaster long after we became friends. She had long curly hair but kept it in a neat bun. Everyone loved Amelia. But no one loved her like I did. I loved the way she smiled, the way she talked, the way she was able to stand her ground.

We had our first kiss after the office Valentine’s Day party. We kept the lights off and after it was over it was our secret. We got closer after this. We ate lunch together every day, had girls’ nights, sleepovers. I saw these as secret dates, memories that only she and I would remember.

I talked about my son so much that she wanted to meet him. I didn’t think it was a good idea. But she had her heart set on meeting him. I gave in. When the night came, she called me an hour before in tears saying how she couldn’t make it. She apologized before hanging up, not letting me get a word in.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked.

“Something came up.” I said.

I was relieved. I had too much respect for Charlie.

At work the next day, Amelia and I went about our normal day. I got her coffee, we played tic tac toe, we ate our lunch. She apologized to me. I told her not to. It was the first and last time she let me down. I forgave her.

(250 Words) I fell in love with her on her first day. We sat together in meetings passing each other sticky notes of doodles and tic-tac-toe games. Her name was Amelia. She insisted I called her that but called me Mrs. Smith-Lancaster long after we became friends.

Everyone loved Amelia. But no one loved her like I did. I loved the way she smiled, the way she talked, the way she was able to stand her ground.

We had our first kiss after the office Valentine’s Day party. We kept the lights off and after it was over it was our secret. We got closer after this. We ate lunch together every day, had girls’ nights, sleepovers. I saw these as secret dates that only she and I would remember.

I talked about my son so much that she wanted to meet him. I didn’t think it was a good idea. But she had her heart set on meeting him. I gave in. When the night came, she called me an hour before saying she couldn’t make it. She apologized before hanging up, not letting me get a word in.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked.

“Something came up.” I said.

I was relieved. I had too much respect for Charlie.

At work, Amelia and I went about our normal day. We played tic tac toe, we ate our lunch. She apologized to me. I told her not to. It was the first and last time she let me down. I forgave her.

Sunny Snowfalls: 2018 …in the way she—and I, I suppose—imagine a lover would, but she does nothing to make it happen –Gary D. Wilson, “Sweet Sixteen” “It’s because of the sun.” Amelia says and pulls down the shade to cover her eyes.

She drives slowly down the snowy New Jersey backroad that has enough sunlight to make a blind man see. Silently, she asks for my sun glasses but she doesn’t directly say it so I don’t give them to her. She shrugs and turns the radio up louder so she can sing louder and squeakier. We both know she can sing. She showed me when we first started seeing each other. But she chooses not to and screeches at the top of her lungs like a tone-deaf bird on an early spring morning. The one you can hear even when the windows are bolted shut. The one that sings loud enough for all of New York to hear. The one who force feeds your ears an off-beat tune.

The sunny snowfall scene reminds me of the Christmas we spent in New York after getting snowed in at the airport. For the first time we wore matching pajamas and baked our own cookies. Sam jumped up and down on our bed until we woke up to open gifts and Charlie made breakfast. That year they pitched in to buy me a locket with family pictures in it. On the back there was an engravement that said ‘WE LUV U 4EVER’. Sam made sure to let me know he picked it out. He made me promise to never take it off.

I can never wear the locket when I’m with Amelia because it makes me feel guilty. When I look at it, I’m supposed to be reminded that I’m loved. That there is a

man who promised to love me for all his life. A man who cooks, clean, takes care of our son, while I am loving someone else.

Amelia asks me what I’m thinking about and I tell her my husband. The word always makes her go quiet. She speeds the car up and comes to a quick stop. We sit together in silence. She tells me that if she was married, she’d leave her husband for me. I laugh because I know she wouldn’t. It’s not that easy I say. She pinches the bridge of her nose and turns the car back on.

“Fine.” she says and turns around to go back into the city.

Wash Out: 2018 You leave your work shirts on my floor. The collar is always stained with lip stick and there’s always a button out of place. After you leave I make a concoction of baking soda and dish liquid to feed on the shirt before I throw it in the washer and sew the buttons back on. You don’t know that I’ve stayed up late, woke up late, went to my meeting late, all so I could fix your shirt. The next time you come over, you fold it and leave it in the drawer we share. The one you’re wearing on the goes on the ground, all for me to do it over again. I take in the shirt’s scent to find traces of myself but I can only smell him. The detergent he uses, the steam from his iron, the cologne he wears. It makes me wonder what he had that I don’t.

I wake you up from your nap when you have to go home. You rid yourself of the shirt you slept in, not wanting him to smell of the air freshener I use on my blankets.

When you’re gone, I drown your clothes in Gain to get rid of the Tide, I spray my sheets in Febreze to clear out the Glade, I shower myself in Olay to rinse off the Dove. I can’t be angry. You’ve loved him since high school. You have a child with him. Yet I can’t help but to look at your shirt, dowsed with my scent and wonder how you don’t love it.

How you see no stains, no button out of place and think he can do half the things I can.

Maybe it’s because he’s a good father.

He’s able to be a parent, the one thing I can’t do. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t learn for you or your son or the family we could one day have. I can’t make special Italian dishes every night for dinner. I can barely cook at all. I can’t make your son like his vegetables with one dish. But I could make his grass stains disappear with one wash.

Maybe you’ve had enough of my complaining because the next time I see you, you hand me a letter addressed to your husband. I read it repeatedly and each time it makes my heart do a summersault. We’d only talked about you leaving your husband twice, both conversations ending with the word ‘soon’. I never thought it would be this soon.

Parting Before Death: 2018 After Chrisette Michele’s Epiphany Charles, After eight years of marriage and twenty years of knowing you, this is the first time I can’t bring myself to face you. I know I’ve done some things in this marriage I’m not proud of. But I know nothing can be worse than this. I’m leaving you.

I felt the divide when Samuel was born. You held my hand in the hospital room the entire time but when he emerged into the world you let go and wouldn’t take your eyes off him. At first, I thought, what a great pair we’ll be. But I was wrong. You had your ideas of parenting and I had mine. There were only a few times when I felt like we were on a team. When Sam would break something in the house you were always the first to defend him. You never blamed him but always managed to blame me. And I learned to live with it but after a while, I realized that you loved our son more than you loved me.

I resented Sam for how much you loved him. Every time he cried at night he would steal you away from me and I started to hate him for it. Maybe it was because I wasn’t ready to be a mom at the time. So, I started to work more and come home after he was in bed because I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He was what was destroying our marriage.

But the more time I spent away from you, the more I realized that Sam wasn’t the problem. I liked being away from you. I liked talking to other men and women. I liked being the center of attention. At home, I knew I could never be the center of attention with Sam here. I was a mom in your eyes. But to everyone else, I was a sexy, confident

woman. So, I fixed my relationship with Sam. I put his pictures on my desk at work, I took him ice skating on my days off. For the first time I felt like I a mother.

The problem was with you. I was jealous that you got to spend more time with him. You picked him up from school, put him to bed at night, all the things I wanted to do. I kept thinking, ‘He’s doing this to spite you’. At this point, my attitude towards you was turning hateful but I didn’t want to hate you. I just wanted to be a parent to my son and you weren’t letting me. I let it go on for year for Sam’s sake. I didn’t want him to be a broken-home kid.

Then I met Amelia. She was sweet and caring and didn’t love me because she had to. I never thought I could love another woman, but she took the time to get to know me. She laughed at my jokes and didn’t minimize me. It felt good to be more than a sidekick.

I can’t express how sorry I am. But both deserve to be happy. You’ll get the papers soon. It talks about a custody agreement. I’ll be around later to talk to Sam about it.

Eleanor

After the Storm: 2018 Number of emotional breakdowns: 1 —Gregory Burnham On the first night, Charlie sat in the living room with the letter in his hand. “She’s gone,” he mumbled over and over again trying to make sense of it. ‘In a letter,’ he thought. He put his head in his hands and screamed. He didn’t care about the noise complaint that is going to be filed or the sleeping baby in the next apartment over. He cared that after eight years, he would be sleeping in his bed alone. That his wife spent the last two years of his marriage with someone else. He stood up and dropped the letter in the fire place. The only time he talked for the rest of the day was to talk to Sam after school.

After five days, Charlie still hadn’t shaven. Sam said that it made him look like the man from Jetpack Joyride. It’s the first time he’d laughed in days. While in the kitchen, he looked at all the pizza boxes and take out containers on the counter. The dishes in the sink were dirty. There was still pasta sauce on the stove from last week’s dinner.

Sam didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he thought everything was normal. For the first time in almost a week, Charlie cleaned his house. He found out it helped him with the sadness.

This is how he developed minor OCD. After eight days, Sam made Charlie run in his school’s ‘Run for Diabetes’ campaign. He hadn’t done any exercise for what felt like months. With all his built-up aggression, Charlie was able to come in third out of forty-seven people. When they got home later that night, Sam asked why his mom didn’t come home anymore. Charlie sat him down and explained that they were splitting up, giving him the generic “We both still

love you a lot” and “You’ll get two Christmases and two birthdays” speech. That made Sam not mind that his mother wasn’t coming back for good.

After eleven days Charlie changed the locks to his apartment. He even considered moving without letting his ex-wife know. When she came over to see Sam, she noticed that the divorce papers were still on Charlie’s desk table. He rolled his eyes when she started whisper-screaming at him. He told her that she had five minutes to talk to Sam and that the next time they spoke, his lawyer would be there to talk about the custody agreement. This made her storm out.

Eternal Love: 2018 This is the story of a little boy who had a mother and father who hated each other. The boy heard them insult each other equally, went to both of their houses equally. Each time he arrived and left, they both said the same thing to him.

“And remember, I love you the most.”

And with that, they sent the boy on his way to the other’s house. The boy didn’t mind though. The way his parents explained it, he got two Christmases, two birthdays, and two bedrooms each with a TV in it.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he would only stay at his father’s house with his mother coming to visit. Every time she came around, he would have to wait until his parents were done whisper-arguing to spend time with his mother.

Those days, he would see a swarm of men in the kitchen with his father, most of them with brief cases and stacks of papers with lots of highlights and sticky notes.

The first time the boy went to the courthouse his father was the one to take him.

After noticing the hot dog stand on the corner. The hot dog man tapped him and offered him one but his dad refused, saying they were late. When the man realized where the boy was going, he caught up with them and gave it to him for free. The boy accepted it with a smile and ran through the doors of the courthouse.

The second time the boy went to the courthouse, he sat with his grandma and grandpa in the lobby. They brought his Christmas gifts and he spent the whole time unwrapping and playing with expensive gifts until he fell asleep.

The third and final time the boy went to the courthouse, the boy in the big black robe asked him to sit in the chair next to him. The chair had a table in front of it and a microphone the boy was asked to stop playing with. In front of him were his parents, each of them sitting at two different tables with two people that had brief cases like the men in his father’s kitchen.

The man sitting next to his father stood up. “Who do think loves you more?” he asked.

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Who do you want to live with?”

The boy shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

The man sat back down and the woman sitting with his mother stood up. She and the man sitting next to his father walked up to the man with the robe and whispered to each other. The boy took the time to take in his parents’ features. They both looked clean and professional like they did when they went to work. But his mother’s make up was sloppier. She had tissues all around the table and her water pitcher was almost empty. His father, however, had a full pitcher with ripped up scraps of paper all around him. When the man and woman sat back down, the boy’s parents left the room.

The man stood back up. “Who do you see more?”

“My father. Only because my mother works so much. And when I talk about school, my father is normally the one who’s there to listen.

The woman stood up. “Who gives the best hugs?”

“My mother. And she gives the best gifts. She got me a remote-control plane for my birthday. And my father got me a monster truck for my birthday when I asked for I

dinosaur. The man in the robe told them to stop asking questions and to bring his parents back in. He didn’t remember the rest of the night, only when the judge banged his gavel and they left the courtroom.

While standing outside of the courthouse, his mother bent down to his level.

“When it’s just me and you, we can go to the park or to the movies,” she said. “We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”

His father picked him up and they walked back their car, past the hot dog man and his stand. No one knew that only a few years into the future the back and forth would end.

Epilogue Go to Sam’s soccer games. Watch him in his school plays. Go to his sports banquets. Introduce him to Amelia. Understand when he doesn’t warm up to her at first.

Leave angry voicemails for Charlie when he’s late dropping him off as your house.

Decide on a middle school with Charlie. This will be the first time you have a civilized conversation in seven months. Buy Sam a PlayStation. Regret buying him a PlayStation when it’s all he does at your house. Ask him about his father. Be shocked when he tells you Charlie has a new girlfriend named Rose. Work less. Bake cookies with him and Amelia for his school bake sales. Don’t talk bad about Charlie in front of him. Give him $450 each year for his school trips. Make sure Charlie pays the other $450. Take him to get a more mature haircut for his eighth-grade graduation. Ask Amelia to move in with you. Kiss her when she says yes. Pay half for his tuition in high school.

Let him redecorate his room. Don’t get hurt when he slams his door and says he hates you. Allow for him to host study groups in your apartment. Be friendlier to Charlie.

Spend more time with Amelia. Laugh when he and Amelia try to play Just Dance together every time he comes back from his dad’s. Be surprised when Sam invites you and Amelia to spend Christmas at Charlie’s house. Drive to his new house in Long Island. Be relieved when he treats you like family. In private, thank him for the invitation.

Laugh when he says thirteen years is too long to hold a grudge. Become a PTA mom.

Pay for the best SAT tutors. Buy a Columbia sweatshirt when you, Charlie, and Sam take a tour. Frame pictures of Sam and his prom date. Go to Charlie’s house on early decision day. Cry when he gets in. At graduation sit next to Charlie and rose. Hold Amelia’s hand. Scream when they say Sam’s name over the speakers. Cry in the

pictures. Go out to dinner to celebrate. Apologize to Charlie. Thank God he forgives you.

Arson

By Madeline Ficca

Arson

By Madeline Ficca

Dedicated to Mom, Dad and Natalie

Table of Contents 1. Girl in the Sky 2. Worries for Lillianna 3. We Sabotaged the Raspberry Parade 4. Married 5. Fiery Accident 6. Things That Lillianna Doesn’t Know 7. Caught 8. Rational 9. When the Building Burned Down

Girl in the Sky There once was a girl who could not walk outside. Whenever she left her house, the wind blew so hard she would fall. When she fell, her skin scraped and bled. She decided to solve this problem, so she borrowed a shovel from her neighbor and began to dig in her backyard. Despite the wind, she continued to dig until she created a hole in the ground that was big enough for her to live in. She brought her favorite books and blankets, and then moved all of her furniture into the hole until the hole had been transformed into a lovely hideaway. From then on, the girl lived underground.

Sometimes, when it wasn’t too windy, she would run back to her house to bring food into her hole or say hello to her family. People around town were intrigued with the hole that the girl had built. Sometimes, her classmates or teachers would visit the girl’s underground hole. The people would stare and whisper about how strange it was that the girl had gone through all the trouble of digging an entire room, just because of wind.

One day, when the girl was walking outside to get food, the wind blew even harder than normal. It twirled in circles and the trees shook so hard that the ground holding their roots began to rumble. The air pushed her hard onto the ground and the girl was frustrated, she just wanted to walk. All of a sudden, a strange gust, much different than the ones that normally knocked her over, surrounded her until her feet began to lift from the ground. The girl began to float and hover above ground. The wind pulled her upwards slowly, higher and higher until she was floating with the clouds. As

she moved farther from earth, the world shrunk beneath her. She could see the entire town from above, and suddenly she realized how big the world was. Her family yelled into the sky, calling for the girl to come back down. The girl couldn’t control where she was going. She waved at her family who grew careless about the girl as time went on.

For years, the girl continued to move with the clouds and traveled the circumference of the world. The girl moved quickly, but lingered long enough to wave hello to the cities and other towns below her. The people from the cities below would shout and fling themselves toward the clouds when they saw the girl.

People from the town heard news of the underground girl who was now known globally as “Sky Girl”. People laughed, and wondered how she found her way so high in the sky. As the girl was nearing the end of her journey with the clouds, the wind that was carrying her became calmer and calmer as she approached her home town. By the time she was dangling above the center of her town, the wind was holding her still. The girl kicked her legs and flapped her arms, she wanted to continue flying. But instead she stayed floating above the town that she hadn’t visited in years.

People from the town noticed the girl. The news spread quickly, and soon the people of the town had gathered underneath the girl. People jumped and yelled at the girl, but she remained quiet. The Fire Department arrived and set up their ladders, but no ladder was tall enough to reach the girl. After the girl had been stuck in the sky for hours, some people began to cry with fear. As the town fell into chaos, the wind started to swirl heavily . The wind whipped with anger and pushed the people around until they were tripping and falling on each other. Despite this wind, the girl in the sky remained calm and unaffected by the chaos below.

In the midst of the chaos, the girl felt her arms and her legs expanding. Slowly, her body inflated. Her body grew and grew until she covered the entire sky. The people below had fallen into a panic. The sky went dark as the girl grew so huge that she blocked the sun. The people of the town wondered how the underground girl suddenly had the power to control the sky. Some of the town was angry at the girl, some of the town was angry at the wind for giving the girl so much power. When the girl grew as big as she could, and she covered the entire sky, the town went pitch black. The people in the town suddenly felt sorry that they never protected the girl from the wind.

Worries for Lillianna Lilianna gave herself the unofficial title of mother. I work a lot, and I’m sure that this upsets her, but Lillianna doesn’t complain. She’s the middle child, stuck between Jaden and Harry. Jaden is a few years younger than Lilianna, and has more energy than everyone in the family combined. He’s been suspended for silly things like painting the hallway floor and screaming during class. We all know that he does it for attention, and I hope he grows out of it soon. Harry is older than Lilianna and also gets in trouble at school, bur for lazy things like sleeping or refusing to take his headphones out.

Lillianna always followed rules, even though she didn’t like them. She cooks dinner sometimes and helps Jaden with his homework. Things that I should be doing.

When I got called to talk with the police officer about Lilianna’s “situation”. The office took an immediate disliking to me, and then proceeded with questions.

“Does mental illness run in your family? Is she antisocial? Who are her friends?

Do you limit her time on that damn phone?”

No? I don’t know. Poor Lilianna. I think that she is overwhelmed. Maybe she wants to be rambunctious like her younger brother. She’s smart, she can do math. She has never been a troubling student.

The police officer recommends that she visit a mental hospital. I laugh. He looks at me and proceeds to talk about the lawyer and all of the logistics. I wish that I understood what is going on.

We Sabotaged the Raspberry Parade (400) I dislike raspberries because they are bitter. My town loves raspberries, they admire the bitterness in the fruit, so much so that they gave the fruit the unfortunate role of being our town symbol. The farmers all grow raspberries in Jasper County. In June the streets are painted pink and everyone prepares for the Raspberry Parade. First up was the Marching Band. The dancers gasped when they began to twirl a ripped flag.

The band winced when their trumpets were clogged. We watched from sidewalk, giggling. Then came the floats, dripping in raspberry colors and local sponsors. Queen Raspberry, the winner of the town pageant mustered a smile. Her dress was ripped and patched with safety pins. Pretending to be so sweet must be so hard. Someone on the float turned on the confetti machine, hoping it would sprinkle everyone in pink and red.

People frown at the confetti, because this year it is not pink or red. It is brown- it is dirt.

The dirt falls onto the road, leaving it dusty. The children don’t care. They wave to the Raspberry Queen who grimaces with bitter tears and waves. Onlookers cover their eyes and murmur as they are sprayed in dirt. The teenagers on the float stand clueless after failing to find the “off button” for the confetti machine. Following the float were the toddlers who twirled in tutus as they waved wands that sparkled pink. They danced under the dirt cluelessly as it landed in their hair. Onlookers gasped as if the sky was falling. We stood next to George, the mean town sheriff and we watched him carefully.

He squinted his eyes and sniffed the air suspiciously. In his lifetime of policing, he has

never seen a crime as violent as dirt. He mumbled some words under his breath and the three of us snickered. He stares at us, “You think this is funny?”. We find it hilarious.

Sheriff George shakes his head, “this is sabotage”. Someone on the float turned on a speaker, as if the music would drown out all of the flying dirt. Instead of Kidz Bop or 2010 Taylor Swift, the Raspberry Queen covered her ears when Heavy Metal screamed so loudly from the speakers that it nearly sent every elder into a heart attack. The three of us looked at each other with satisfaction, and then we laughed again.

(300) My town loves raspberries, they admire the bitterness in the fruit. They gave the fruit the unfortunate role of being our town symbol. In June the streets are painted pink and everyone prepares for the Raspberry Parade. First up was the Marching Band. The dancers gasped when they twirled a ripped flag. The band winced when their trumpets were clogged. We watched from sidewalk, giggling. Then came the floats, dripping in raspberry colors. Queen Raspberry mustered a smile. Her dress was ripped and patched with safety pins. Someone on the float turned on the confetti machine, hoping it would sprinkle everyone in pink. People frown at the confetti, because this year it is not pink, It is brown- dirt. The dirt falls onto the road, leaving it dusty. The children don’t care. They wave to the Raspberry Queen who grimaces with bitter tears. Onlookers cover their eyes and murmur as they are sprayed in dirt. Following the float were the toddlers who twirled as they waved wands that sparkled pink. They danced under the dirt cluelessly as it landed in their hair. Onlookers gasped. We stood next to George, the mean sheriff and watched him carefully. He squinted his eyes and sniffed the air

suspiciously. He has never seen a crime as violent as dirt. He mumbled some words under his breath and the three of us snickered. He stares at us, “You think this is funny?”. We find it hilarious. Sheriff George shakes his head, “this is sabotage”.

Someone on the float turned on a speaker, as if the music would drown out the flying dirt. Instead of Taylor Swift, the Raspberry Queen covered her ears. Heavy Metal screamed so loudly from the speakers it nearly sent every elder into a heart attack. The three of us looked at each other with satisfaction.

(250) My town loves raspberries, they admire the bitterness. They gave the fruit the unfortunate role of our town symbol. In June the streets are painted pink and everyone prepares for the parade. First up, the Marching Band. The band winced when their trumpets were clogged. We watched from sidewalk, giggling. Then came the floats.

Queen Raspberry mustered a smile. Her dress was ripped and patched with safety pins.

Someone on the float turned on the confetti machine, hoping it would sprinkle pink.

People frown at the confetti, because this year it is not pink. It is brown- dirt. The children don’t care. They wave to the Raspberry Queen who grimaces with bitter tears.

Onlookers cover their eyes and murmur. Following the float were the toddlers who twirled as they waved wands that sparkled pink. They danced under the dirt cluelessly as it landed in their hair. We stood next to George, the mean sheriff and watched him carefully. He squinted his eyes and sniffed the air suspiciously. He has never seen a violent crime. He mumbled under his breath and the five of us snickered. He stares at us, “You think this is funny?”. We find it hilarious. “This is sabotage”. Someone on the

float turned on a speaker, to drown out the flying dirt. Instead of Taylor Swift, the Raspberry Queen covered her ears. Heavy Metal screamed so loudly from the speakers it nearly sent every elder into a heart attack. The three of us looked at each other with satisfaction.

Married After Kacey Musgraves’ Merry Go Round

You were 14 when your dad was fired. The automobile shop felt sort of bad, but they were running low on money.

When the fridge was scarce, your dad would argue with your mom. You and your brothers listened in silence as she yelled back and told him to get a job. He refused, and started spending his days and nights on the couch.

When you came home from school you tripped on glass bottles. Dad sat on the couch laughing. You could never tell if he was laughing at you or the conservations he had with himself in his head. He stopped asking how your day was.

One day, your dad stole 20 dollars from your mom’s purse when she wasn’t looking.

Your mom noticed immediately. With tears, she yelled at him for wasting her money.

When you were 15, your mom started selling Mary Kay Cosmetics. She worked 9-4 as the clerk at the hair salon and then would come home to sort through packages of lipsticks and moisturizers. She sold the products to her friends who bought them only because they felt sorry for her. Every month mom would get a check with the money

she made and Dad would yell at her for it. He insisted that it was a stupid way to make money. Your mom snapped back, and told him that it was better than sitting on the couch surrounded by bottles.

In the summer going into 10th grade, your older brother left home for a week. Nobody knew where he went. Your father laughed it off and your mother called his voicemail every morning and evening. He showed back up a week later and told you that he went for a trip with his friends. Your mom yelled at him and told him that he was going to end up like his father. She pointed at your dad who threw a bottle at the wall. The family was silent as it shattered.

Your grandma visited when you turned 16. Your mom yelled at your dad to clean up his mess but he didn’t. Your mom spent the evening vacuuming the carpet with sneakers on because she was afraid of stepping on glass. When grandma saw your dad, he tried to give her a hug. He walked up to her, crooked and lazily. Your grandma scrunched her nose and told him that he was unrecognizable.

In the spring of 11th grade you came home to see your dad sitting on the couch with a woman who was not your mom. They turned their heads when you opened the door and the woman stared at you and then looked back at your dad as if he knew what to do.

She hugged your dad and ran out the front door. She looked younger than your dad with hair bleached straight and makeup dark and smudged. You asked your dad what her name was and he said it was Mary. Later that night, you told your brother and he

yelled at your dad. Your mom asked what they were yelling about. You told her, and she said she already knew about Mary. It didn’t take long for your neighbors to recognize that your dad and Mary were together. When the entire town knew about them, it was as if you were living with a scandal.

Fiery Accident

7:02 I never get phone calls from the station in the evening. It’s a Thursday night and I’m eating dinner with my wife.

7:33 pm They tell me that the gas station was burning for about thirty minutes before anyone noticed. The gas station is abandoned and rests behind a ratty motel. The fire department says that it was done by an unexperienced arsonist who used gasoline and matches. The building burned for 30 minutes before a woman at the hotel noticed.

8:02 pm Light shoe imprints reveal that our arsonist is a woman that is size eight in shoes. The crime scene buzzes with excitement. The last time we had a town criminal was three years ago. The town shoplifter was notorious for stealing fancy technology from stores around town. Someone proposes that the fire was probably started by a group of teenagers and that there is nothing to be afraid of. But we want a manhunt, we want to make this our mystery.

8:30 pm

The fire is out but the news is only beginning to spread. The “Jasper Courier” is already typing what will be the headliner for the entire week ahead. We locate stores that sell gasoline and receive warrants to look at their video footage.

9:00 pm It’s late, but the town is more awake than it was all day. The town gossips have already formulated a list of suspects. At the top of the list is Jenny Baker, the lady who got kicked out of Town Council. Second on their list is Bryan Grove, the nineteen year old who still eats his boogers. The town perceives the crime as a threat.

9:58 Why would someone burn an old gas station? Nobody works or visits the gas station. It is meaningless. We try to identify motive 1. For fun 2. Accidental 3. Anger 4. Threat We hope for one of the first two.

Things that Lilianna Doesn’t know

1. Your grandmother never liked your father. But your grandma never said anything about it because she wanted your mom to be happy, even if she knew it was temporary.

2. You reminded Sheriff Fred of his daughter, so he told the other cops to take it easy on you. When he got home, he gave his daughter a hug for the first time in a week.

3. Your dad lied about church on Sunday. He always told your family that he couldn’t go because he worked, but nobody in Jasper works on Sundays.

4. When you bought the gasoline for the fire, the guy at the CVS felt a sinking in his stomach when he gave you your change.

5. Your 8th grade teacher told your older brother to take care of you in high school.

She knew you were smart, but she was worried about how you would deal with your dad.

6. The woman that your dad cheated on your mom with lived down the street. Your dad met her when he was sitting on the porch. She was walking her dog and they exchanged phone numbers after he asked her what her name was.

7. Your dad punched a hole in the wall after he got fired. Your mom told him to put ice on his knuckles because they were swollen and round but he refused.

8. Your mom found out about Mary because she came downstairs for a drink of water in the middle of the night. Your mom screamed because she didn’t

recognize the woman sitting at her dining room table. You and your brother slept through the screaming.

9. Your brother decided to stay nearby for college because he didn’t want to leave you or your mom alone.

10. When your mom hid your dad’s bottles during your grandmas visit, your dad still found them. Your grandma saw him drinking on the back porch. She asked your mom why he sleeps on the couch instead of the bedroom.

11. When you set the gas station on fire, a lady saw it from afar. She didn’t say anything. She watched the flames inflate after you walked away.

12. Your mom was a valedictorian in high school. People thought that the only reason she stayed was because she wanted to stay with your father. It wasn’t about your father. Your mom was too afraid to leave.

13. When your brother left home for a week, he didn’t know where he was going. He drove on highways that he didn’t know and decided to come home when your mom stopped calling him.

14. When you were little, your mom wanted you to do ballet but your dad wanted you to do soccer. Your dad won the argument and so you played soccer for five years.

15. When you stopped being friends with Amelia and Rena your brother made sure to give them a nasty look in the hallway. He wasn’t sure what happened, but he was mad about it.

16. When your dad was in high school he got suspended for kicking a locker so hard that the door fell off. He wasn’t mad, he just wanted to kick a locker.

17. Your family stopped going to Flora’s diner on Friday evenings, not just because it was too much money, but because your mom couldn’t sit across from your dad for more than an hour.

18. Your mom printed a list of possible jobs for your dad. She handed it to him and told him to pick a place to apply. He grabbed the paper and ripped it before looking at it. He said that he is friends with everyone in town and he will not work for his friends.

19. The girl who sits across from you in math class is certain that she is psychic. She tells her friends about your aura and she says that it is white, a strange color to have as an aura.

20. Your dad remembered your 16th birthday. The night before, he drove to Walmart and bought a bag of milk chocolates. Your mom refrained from telling him that you only like dark chocolate.

21. When your mom took the family to Harry’s Restaurant for dinner, the waiter felt bad for you because she watched your facial expressions the entire time. This is why she took ten dollars off of the order and drew a smiley face on the receipt.

22. The woman that your dad is having an affair with is the sister of your English teacher. Your English teacher knows about the affair so she grades easier on your essays.

23. Your mom didn’t cry when she learned about the affair. She is waiting for the right moment to announce her divorce.

24. Sometimes when your dad is home alone during the day, he dances on the back porch. He hums songs from his childhood and closes his eyes. It is a surprise that he hasn’t fallen doing this.

25. At this point, everyone in town knows about your dad and Mary. All of the gossipy women hug your mom and tell her to divorce your dad. When people see your dad they tend to scowl and shake their heads with disappointment. Everyone pities you and your brothers.

Setting: Cop Car Freddy, police man, 43 Lilianna, 16 Caught Freddy Most of the juveniles I deal with are sassy, but (mostly) friendly or funny. Lilianna isn’t like the kids around town. She’s quiet but intimidating. Most kids cry in the cop car because they fear what their parents will say, but Lillianna looks bored. Part of me feels bad for her. Her facial expression and posture reminds me of my daughter. We stop at a long red light and I look behind me. She has her head up against the window with her hands locked in her lap. I’m good at reading body language, but I don’t know what she’s saying. I usually break the silence with the classic “don’t do drugs” or “I know your parents” or “I hope I don’t have to put you in the back of this car again” talks. I can’t find any sentence starters for Lillianna. I’ve never met her parents – I’ve only heard about them. When I hear about them, it’s almost never good. Her dad used to be a friend of everyone in town, but he lost his job and went way downhill. Her poor mother just tries to keep up with everything. I’ve heard about her brothers as well, but they are also blend into the background like much of the family. We keep driving, but I look at her in the rearview mirror. She has long black wavy hair and she twirls it around fingers, but not anxiously. I suspect that Lillianna isn’t popular, but not looked down upon by her classmates. I can tell that she’s an in between kid. She’s mad at how she feels so lost in a town that is so small.

Lillianna The cop driving the car keeps looking at me. He’s trying to figure out why he doesn’t recognize me. The cops in our town know most of the teenagers through some event or connection. Every year or so, when the cops get a little more bored, they tighten the curfew. Every weekend becomes one big hide and go seek game, the teens vs the cops. Nobody takes the cops seriously, though. Most kids have gotten caught for curfew at least once. I never have. But they tracked me down for the fire. The cop’s name is Fred and I can tell that he is harmless. He keeps looking back and moving his eyebrows in strange directions as if he is trying to understand what I am thinking. I don’t think it’s working. I want to yell at him and tell him that he’s wasting his time. I wonder if maybe, I talk to him, we can make an agreement to both continue our days as normal.

He could let me walk home and he could go solve a minor shoplifting case instead.

Rational Often, people cry when they are unhappy.

When people are mad, they need to put the anger into something. I decided to pour all of my anger into an old gas station. The gas station sits on a small hill, not far behind a motel, and the gas station has been abandoned for as long as I can remember. When I started high school, the gas station was a place where Amelia, Rena and I would hangout. We sat under outdoor roof and talked about silly things as we watched the town from the up high.

In the summer between sophomore and junior year the three of us stopped hanging out.

There was no incident, but our small friend group fell apart. Rena and Amelia were one fragment, I was the other.

In the middle of junior year, dad still hadn’t gotten a job, and at this point, the entire town knew that my dad was an alcoholic having an affair. We were the towns pity family. Old ladies give my mother hugs drenched in sour perfume and glare at my father whenever he leaves the house. Nobody in my family liked this. My mom didn’t like the help and nobody liked the attention and sympathy.

CVS was a ten minute walk from my house. Five minutes away from the CVS was the gas station. It was a Saturday evening when I walked to CVS to buy deodorant because I was nearly out of mine.

I arrived to CVS and walked straight to the aisle full of deodorants. The CVS is almost always quiet, which makes it easy to listen to the conversations of people in the aisles beyond the shelves on your left and right.

I recognized the voices of the people speaking on the other side, but I couldn’t decipher who’s voices they were. It drove me crazy at first so I eavesdropped.

“I feel kinda bad for her you know.” I knew that girl speaking was a teenager, and I most definitely knew her.

“Why?” The other girl responded.

“The whole town talks about her family. That’s gotta get annoying.”

“Oh yea, my brother said he saw her dad with the one lady who’s like, 20 years younger?” I knew who was speaking and I knew exactly who they were speaking about It was Amelia and Rina, the girls I used to sit at the gas station with. They talked about in a town gossipy way, as if they never knew me.

In this moment, I felt so much anger. I didn’t want to stand with my ear next to the deodorant, listening to them speak. I marched to the back of the store where I bought a container of gasoline and matches. I forgot about the deodorant, and I even forgot about overhearing Amelia and Rina. I marched to the abandoned gas station and I focused on all of the anger.

I was mad at the people for firing my dad and I was mad at my dad for cheating on my mom. I was mad at my mom for never leaving the town or my dad. I was mad at the town for talking about my family. I was mad at the friends that I used to talk with at the gas station, and I was mad at the gas station for hearing everything I had said to people that no longer knew me.

I walked up the hill to the gas station, the sun was beginning to set. I didn’t have any fire starting experience but I sprayed the rusty gas station with as much gasoline as I could. I lit multiple matches at a time and threw them at the gasoline so they would spark and spread. I wasn’t processing what I was doing. I was so focused on the anger in a way that made me feel separated from anything I was doing. I was sure that the fire would burn out soon. I felt like I was flying when I ran home, I was light without anger.

When the Building Burned Down I say: I want to leave this interrogation room. They all looked at me wide eyed with anger.

Maybe it was real anger, or maybe it was an intimidation thing. I shrugged and sat quiet.

They say: I need to be serious. They told me how I was young, and they tried to tell me about my future. Spit fell onto the table as they screamed. I watched it leap with their words and lay flat on scratched metal. It was disgusting.

I want to tell them all of it: I overheard a conversation at CVS and it sent me into a rage that I turned into a fire.

The gas station made me mad because I used to be happy when I would hang there with my friends. The fire felt like a gust of oven air and It smelled bitter. In fifth grade I marched in the Raspberry Parade. Everything was sorbet colored. The director yelled at me for not smiling. Just like you, spit ran from her mouth. I was hot with madness and the sun. I marched the entire parade and my feet stung when I took my shoes off.

Everyone is always yelling, spit always flying and landing somewhere. The spit grows like bacteria, I’m surprised it hasn’t swallowed the entire town.

I say It was abandoned, so it didn’t matter anyway. I tell them I think that fire is cool and I didn’t expect for the whole thing to burn down. I ask them how they know I did it.

What You Need Alison Harvill

What You Need Alison Harvill

“Wait…” – Lottery by KCamp Dedicated to 3:33 in the “athrium”, Colleen, Madalyn, Liam, and to all the Rite-Aids and CVSs in Pittsburgh.

Table of Contents 1. Orientation 2. Something Big 3. Who Knew Why 4. 25 Things Your Customers Never Told You 5. Patron of Love 6. I Don’t Expect You to Understand 7. Kyrie Eleison 8. Maybe Calling You was a Mistake 9. Empty Man 10. School Projects

Orientation Okay so, if you get a bill over twenty don’t use the counterfeit pens, those don’t work, hold it up to the light to check the watermarks to make sure it’s real, if it’s not say something went wrong on the computer and call me; don’t call me unless it’s necessary, I avoid being in the aisles as much as possible because it’s always “Can I speak to the manager” this and “where is the manager” that; I do very important things in my office don’t bother asking; never leave the registers unattended that should be obvious, we don’t want to be robbed again, guess the last time it was robbed, damn right it was before I became manager, over eleven years ago yes sir; there is a difference between robbing and stealing though, damn hooligan kids; company protocol states that you cannot help at all in the pharmacy, unless of course you have a medical degree you neglected to mention; the pharmacist is the only one who’s been here longer than me, ask her sometime how much better I am at running the place then the old boss and how lucky you are to work under me instead; absolutely no personal items behind the register, yes that includes phones, I’ll assign you a locker in the back room, don’t put any stickers on it they’re a pain in the ass to get off, but other than that I don’t care; Besides being on register you’ll have to restock; no I don’t have a locker that’s why I have an office…yes my desk is personalized, I have a nice boat-themed calendar and pictures of my cat…I used to have more about a year ago but I think everyone would agree it’s weird to have frames up of your ex-wife; you should memorize what is in each aisle, you won’t believe how many stupid questions you’ll get like “where’s the milk” and “where’s the bathroom” even though there are signs, but you can’t show how stupid these questions are; once a woman asked me where the candy was, and all I did was

point down; you have an hour lunch break, but you have to clock back in exactly after an hour no earlier, no later; I tend to take my breaks at the bar two buildings down but you’re not allowed to do that; you do get a 20% discount for working here that applies to everything except gift cards, so a lot of people just buy food here and eat in the back; I remember when I was a just a regular worker here and always ate alone in the back but now I have an office to eat alone in; but I’m sure you’ll fit right in here; we’re like a family here, the good kind, not the kind that leaves you, and as long as you show up on time and be an all-around good employee you’ll be fine.

Something Big After Kyd the Band’s “Francis St.” Like every Friday night, Jamie, Jimmy, and I spend it escaping home. We go to the drug-store to stock up on snacks for the evening. Jimmy’s already waiting outside for us; he’ll be sipping on a can of Arizona Iced Tea and eating a bag of Hot Cheetos.

Unlike him, who gets the same thing without fail, Jamie and I tend to vary our purchases. I decide finally on pretzels and a Diet Coke and head to the counter, disappointed to see Cynthia working.

I put my purchases on the counter and smile sweetly, stifling a gag. I forgot how repulsive she is. Cynthia scowls, which makes the wrinkles on her face somehow deepen.

“Next time one of you heathens shoplifts from here, I’ll get the cops to arrest your ass,” she says in that four-pack a day voice.

“We literally never do anything wrong.”

She scowls deeper and narrows her eyes as she hands me my change. I leave with her eyes bearing into me and the coins bouncing in my jean pockets, next to the lighter I swiped. I think Cynthia has reported us a number of times, but never with any proof. I didn’t even start shoplifting until she gave me the idea.

“Sad to see they gave the dinosaur Friday shifts again,” I say. They both roll their eyes in agreement. We get in the car without any further discussion.

Jimmy lives across the street from me. He’s two years older and is the only one out of the three of us to have their license. Jamie lives two houses down. Jimmy and I

don’t try to be, but we’re better friends with each other than with Jamie. She’s just happy to have friends at all.

We used to all play outside with each other. Games of basketball and hockey in the street kept us occupied. As we grew older the only things that changed were what kept us out of the house. Inside our houses, things have just gotten worse.

Jimmy pulls over into the field near the woods and the park. He lets out a long sigh that puts me on edge. Jimmy has the most reason to escape, and he’s been trying.

Jimmy’s dad has always been a drunk. On multiple occasions I’ve heard large crashes come from his house and minutes later Jimmy appears on my door-step, disheveled and saying he needs a place to stay for the night. He’s been looking forward to going away for college since middle school. I’ve looked forward to that for him, too, but now I know that means leaving Jaimie and me behind. We have less and less Fridays.

“My Dad is going to rehab,” he says, which makes me let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Me and Jamie share a look. Jamie’s dad abandoned her and her mom and has a new family. I’ve never met mine.

“That’s great…right?” she asks tentatively.

He shrugs.

The air hangs around us. A mosquito hovers in the window, deciding whether to come in. Eventually we speak again, about things like Nicole’s new piercing or about Jaimie’s crush of the week or about our over-rated football team. We all crave something new.

The next Friday, Jimmy buys a can of coke and potato chips. Jamie doesn’t seem to think anything of it, but I know it’s something big.

Who Knew Why After Eating Bone by Shabnam Nadiya Oliver was sent to the store by his father to buy eggs. His father ranted for a long time about how a growing boy needed protein, and how it was a god-forsaken shame that their house had run out of eggs. His father yelled at his son first, and then at his wife, and then to no one in particular—maybe whatever god he was referencing before.

He kept saying that protein made a man strong, and being strong made a man. And if Oliver wasn’t strong, he couldn’t possibly be a man, right?

His father gave these rants about everything, though typically he yelled about Oliver’s camera and his lack of participation in football. His father had a clear image of a man, and Oliver wasn’t it.

Oliver’s pace was quick as he walked through the store to the refrigerated section. He yanked open the door so hard it hurt his shoulders, but he didn’t bother wincing. He grabbed a carton of eggs and stared at the twelve unbroken curves before carefully closing the lid and heading to the register. He walked slower now, and scanned all the items on the shelves leading to the cashier. He was in the make-up aisle and felt heat rise in his cheeks, even though the aisle was empty. His eyes darted down to the white tile, before slowly lifting them back up.

Without too much thought, he grabbed the first thing in reach, which happened to be a small golden tube of hot-pink lipstick. He put the items gently down on the counter, as if both were cartons of eggs, and his hands shook as he passed over the money.

The young-girl cashier said his girlfriend would love the gift. He forced a smile.

His father didn’t look up from the TV when he re-entered the house. Oliver placed the eggs in the kitchen and slipped the lipstick into his pocket before throwing the bag away. In his room he took out the tube and tried to understand why his heart was racing. He uncapped it and his breath hitched. He rolled up the pigment, so the hot-pink was bursting out of its shell. He carefully pressed it against his fingertip and marveled at the streak left; too bright to be a wound but hurting just the same.

Oliver was too enamored with his reflection and how much he wanted to put lipstick on every day, that he didn’t notice as his dad cracked the door open slightly, to see his son tracing his lips ever so slowly in the mirror, not breaking eye contact with himself.

Today, Oliver was a man.

25 Things Your Customers Never Told You 1. The first customer you ever helped didn’t notice how nervous you were, with your shaking hands and unsteady voice. She was too worried about the magazines at the counter because her favorite celebrity couple had broken up.

2. The old man who comes in and always buys a bottle of orange juice when refilling his prescription, the one you think is so kind, is a pedophile. Whenever he comes in and you aren’t working he gets upset.

3. The 28-year-old woman who came in and excitedly bought a pregnancy test cried when she saw it was negative. The 14-year-old girl who came in and bought the same thing cried when she saw it was positive. You didn’t think she looked 14, but you knew she was young.

4. The item you have scanned the most is a gift card for Amazon. 80% of the people who bought this used it as a last-minute gift.

5. The man in his early forties who came in and bought a small fake Christmas tree and Dancing Santa is actually Jewish. He started online dating and accidently told a girl how excited he was for Christmas. He started panicking when he invited her over and realized he had no Christmas decorations up.

6. The only person in your English class that you don’t know the name of is Brandon. He has come into the store thirty-two times since you began working there, hoping for you to notice him. He doesn’t know you don’t know his name.

7. The 14-year-old girl who found out she was pregnant never told her parents, or the boy whose baby it was. She only told her older sister, who helped her get rid of it.

8. Seven people have shoplifted while you were working. You were never even suspicious.

9. When you tell stories about work, you often tell the one about the customer who bought a ten-dollar bottle of aspirin with only dimes. He was homeless, and it took him a month to save up enough to buy it.

10. The old man has stopped getting his prescription filled. He doesn’t even like orange juice. He keeps coming into the store.

11. You know you are adopted, but don’t know that you have helped your birthmother three times in the store. To be fair, she didn’t know who you were either, but if she did she wouldn’t want to introduce herself while you were working.

12. Brandon is stalking you.

13. Your next-door neighbor has undiagnosed insomnia. He has bought melatonin pills several times, and isn’t sure why they don’t work. He tells you it must be his new puppy barking, but he is starting to get worried.

14. The man in the suit who came in and bought a pair of sandals stepped in dog poop on the way to his sister’s funeral. He started laughing in the parking lot at the situation and then broke down crying.

15. Your birth mother has only bought diapers from you. She has a newborn and a husband now. She gave you up for adoption because at the time she wasn’t financially stable and your birth-father wasn’t a good man. She regrets giving you up, but knows it was the right choice. You have no animosity towards her.

16. You told a boy who was buying lipstick that his girlfriend would love it. He was buying it for himself.

17. Your so-called “friends” come in to see you just to laugh afterwards. They think it’s funny that you have to work, let alone in retail.

18. The elderly woman who came in and bought a single birthday card without an envelope does that every year for her husband’s birthday. He has been dead for ten years.

19. Brandon is the reason you got a pay-raise. He fills out every survey he can saying what a good employee you are.

20. The ten-year old who came in and bought a can of soup hadn’t eaten in two days. His parents never remember to feed him, as they are never sober. He stole a twenty-dollar bill from his dad’s wallet to pay for it.

21. You didn’t think anything of the woman who bought a huge bag of dog food. She doesn’t have a dog. And, no, she wasn’t getting it for anyone else.

22. After serving a customer you turned to your coworker and expressed how rude you thought it was when people bought things while listening to music. The customer you just served was wearing hearing-aids, not headphones.

23. Your ex-best friend was the one to come and shake up a bottle of soda and open it, causing a big mess in the aisles. She ran out before getting caught. Your coworker cleaned it up, but she was hoping you would have to.

24. You considered calling the cops on a woman who came in started screaming obscenities in the middle of the store and knocking items off the shelves. Your manager kicked the woman out and told you not to worry about it.

25. You should’ve called the cops.

Patron of Love (400 words) He realized he should get a Valentine for his new girlfriend, only after she gave him his gift this morning. He was empty handed, but lied and said he had just forgotten hers at home. He really had forgot to buy it entirely. He was also silent after she said she loved him. They had only been dating a month, but she was more than thrilled to be in the relationship. He, on the other hand, wasn’t. She was too clingy, and who said they loved someone after one month? He didn’t want to break-up with her, though, so he needed to get her something. Dinner reservations needed to have been made earlier, before they were even dating. He settled on just going to the drug-store.

There were two aisles dedicated to the holiday. He had to blink to adjust his eyes to the red and pink vomit in front of him. He struggled to find something that didn’t say love on it. He knew he didn’t love her, and wouldn’t anytime soon, so he wasn’t going to give her false hope. He found a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a bouquet of fake roses. He took it up to the only open register. He set his stuff down and looked up and stared into the eyes of his ex-girlfriend.

He knew she worked there while they were dating, but the thought didn’t cross his mind as he walked there. He had avoided shopping there subconsciously since the breakup, but he was so desperate he forgot today. He was frozen. She moved first; breaking eye contact and scanning the roses.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. She kept her eyes locked on the screen. She knew she should be doing her job, asking trivial things like “cash or card? Will that be

credit or debit? Do you have a rewards card with us?” but she wanted to ask what he was sorry for.

It had taken her a shamefully long time to move on, but she had. She knew he was bound to come in someday. Maybe it was the purchases that made her upset.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He had broken up with her. He thought maybe there was someone better. He didn’t know he was wrong. While watching her scan the gifts he bought for another girl, he realized he made a terrible mistake.

(300 words) He realized he should get a Valentine for his girlfriend after she gave him his. He said he had forgotten hers at home. He was silent after she said she loved him. They had been dating a month, but she was thrilled. He wasn’t. Who said they loved someone after one month? He didn’t want to break-up with her, though, so he needed to get her something. Dinner reservations needed to have been made before they were dating. He settled on going to the drug-store.

There were two aisles dedicated to the holiday. He had to adjust his eyes to the red and pink vomit. He struggled to find something that didn’t say love on it. He knew he didn’t love her, so he wasn’t going to give her false hope. He found a box of chocolates and a bouquet of fake roses. He took it up to the only open register. He set his stuff down and stared into the eyes of his ex-girlfriend.

He knew she worked there while they were dating. He had avoided shopping there since the breakup, but he was so desperate he forgot. She moved first; breaking eye contact and scanning the roses.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. She kept her eyes locked on the screen. She knew she should be doing her job, asking things like “cash or card?” but she wanted to ask what he was sorry for.

It had taken her a shamefully long time to move on, but she had. She knew he was bound to come in someday.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He had broken up with her. He thought there was someone better. He was wrong. While watching her scan the gifts he bought for another girl, he realized he made a mistake.

(250 words) He realized he should get a Valentine for his girlfriend after she gave him his. He said he had forgotten hers at home. He was silent after she said she loved him. They had been dating a month. Who said they loved someone after one month? He needed to get her something. He settled on going to the drug-store.

There were two aisles dedicated to the holiday. He had to adjust his eyes to the red and pink vomit. He struggled to find something that didn’t say love. He wasn’t going to give her false hope. He found a box of chocolates and a bouquet of fake roses. He took it up to the only open register and stared into the eyes of his ex-girlfriend.

He knew she worked there while they were dating. He had avoided shopping there since the breakup, but he was so desperate he forgot. She moved first; breaking eye contact and scanning the roses.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. She kept her eyes locked on the screen. She knew she should be doing her job, asking things like “cash or card?” but she wanted to ask what he was sorry for.

It had taken her a long time to move on, but she had.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He had broken up with her. He thought there was someone better. He was wrong. While watching her scan the gifts he bought for another girl, he realized he made a mistake.

I Don’t Expect You to Understand After The Voices in My Head by Jack Handey No, this mascara isn’t for me, I’m buying it for my girlfriend. She said she needed this, but I think need is a strong word. She tells me she needs a lot of things, but I don’t think make-up is a necessity…but maybe for girls it is? She was pissed this morning when she didn’t have any, and of course blamed it on me. Can you not go to work without makeup? I don’t get it at all. I know there’s this toxic culture for women and make-up but I always tell my girlfriend she’s prettier without make-up. She just yells at me. I think you would be prettier without makeup, too, but you’re already very pretty… I hope I got the right brand. She was hysteric yelling at me this morning but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this shade of blue tube on the counter before. She doesn’t ever clean her stuff even though I tell her to all the time, so I’m usually the one who organizes everything. I’ll be back soon if this isn’t the right brand, I can already hear her screaming at me.

I know what you must be thinking, but trust me I’ve never been happier in a relationship. It’s all fine. She tells me she loves me. And love makes all the bad things okay. Right?

Thank you so much. Hopefully I won’t have to see you later, but I wouldn’t mind it if I did.

Kyrie Eleison After Pectorals by Matt Boyarsky We pile in the back room, and by “we” I mean the five of us working the morning shift today, including the pharmacist and her assistant. Zach demands attention and the most space though, so we still end up brushing up on each other while he speaks.

“Okay people, we need to be more like hawks out there! There has been a huge increase of missing inventory in the past week. If you think you see someone shoplifting, call them out! I’m beginning to consider hiring a security guard,” he says. He wouldn’t hire a guard. He couldn’t actually, there was no way we could afford it.

“Just be on the lookout people. One of the missing items is an air mattress, for Christ’s sake. Those boxes are huge!”

After that we’re released back to work and Cheryl walks out next to me. She flips her hair and rolls her eyes excessively.

“He thinks that just because we work here we must be dumb.” Another eye roll.

“Yeah, how’s college?” I ask. Her jaw drops and she stalks away to the farthest register.

I sign into my account. I need to change my password. I hate having to type her name. I really was stupid, using my wife’s name as a password.

The hours drag by. I shouldn’t have made Cheryl mad at me first thing. She’s working all day, too, and she keeps stealing Brad, who is working the register in between us, away from me. Great, more time alone.

I can feel the elevator music that’s on loop carving into my brain. The magazines on display all shout the same news, that one couple “everyone” loves has split up. I

don’t know who everyone is. I only know who they are because Katherine told me.

Maybe she’s only doing this because she saw her idol doing it. I can’t help but doubt it.

It’s a slow day which makes the time go by even slower. I turned all the magazines around so I didn’t have to look at them anymore but when Zach came around he made them right again. I could probably talk to Zach about this, but he’s different. Him and his wife got a divorce, me and mine are just in a fight.

On break I stroll the aisles way longer than needed. I have every item memorized, I have since my second day working here, but now I’m even more familiar. I spend more time here than anyone.

I grab a bag of chips and a bottle of soda. Maybe if I had a better body she wouldn’t be doing this.

I go up to Cheryl to pay, but she immediately turns on her heel and hits me in the face with her hair.

“You shouldn’t have pissed her off,” Brad says laughing as I move my items to his register.

“Yeah, I know. But she’ll forgive me by tomorrow. Or at least forget.”

I ignore the questioning look from Brad and head to the back room and sit and eat my meal. In high school I would’ve barely considered this a snack, but now it is probably the only meal I’ll eat all day. At least I get an employee discount.

After break the day goes by faster. I talk down two separate soccer moms who scream about how we are out of eggs. I also clean my counter after a baby throws up all over it. The mom apologizes and offers to clean it up, but I welcome the excuse to close my register for a little.

Brad leaves after his shift and Cynthia takes his place. Cheryl stole her away too, but I don’t like Cynthia, so this time I don’t mind. When the pharmacy closes, Zach comes out to say goodbye to us. I don’t think he’s supposed to leave an hour early, but he does every day. I’m not complaining though, it helps me out in more ways than one.

When Zach gave me the key and lock-up duties I got excited, thinking that maybe with a promotion and bigger paycheck Katherine would be happy, but she still kicked me out.

Cheryl and Cynthia leave without saying goodbye. I kill the lights in the main floor and lock the doors, skip over the alarms. In the back we have lockers and a storage closet. Zach insists as manager he doesn’t have to do anything hands-on. I move the mop out of the way and grab the air mattress I stored there. I set it up between the registers and the aisles in the front of the store.

While its inflating I risk taking a granola bar and a bottle of water. Zach’s getting suspicious of something, but definitely not this. She’ll take me back before he figures it out, though. She has to.

Maybe Calling You Was A Mistake After 232-9979 by Carol Edelstein I’m so glad you’re home honey. I didn’t mean to alarm you with the phone call. I didn’t realize you had hours left at work. I just needed to tell you something, but the message came out all wrong. I felt like I was going to puke. It’s some really big news, I couldn’t have told it over the phone even if you picked up.

Well here it is: I had the day off because Buster had that appointment, as you know. Oh, do you think this is about Buster? It’s not, Buster is fine. Or, he will be, Doc told me, if we put his meds on top of his food twice a day for a week. I know you think his food is disgusting, but it’s a small price to pay for him to stop yakking on our shoes.

But Buster is the reason this is happening. After the appointment I was driving home and I turned to look out the rear window, and you really should’ve seen him. I should’ve taken a picture! He was so sad, it made me want to cry. And laugh. I felt so bad that he had to go through all the poking and prodding at the vet’s that I decided to get him a treat. After putting him in the house I walked over to the corner-store.

I got the treats without a problem, but as I made my way to pay for them I noticed a big sale they were having. On pregnancy tests.

Empty Man On a sunny morning, the kind where the sunshine holds tight to grass, an old man found out he was dying. He woke up and got out of bed, but his heart stayed behind under the covers.

The man bottled up his heart and took it to the doctor, who told him he was a rare case. He was completely empty inside. His other organs had turned to dust, but his heart turned ceramic and fell out of his body. The man asked if he would die. The doctor said we all die eventually and asked if the man had lived a full life.

The man pondered the question. He had only a few, vague memories because he had nothing worth remembering. He stayed inside most days during his childhood, and always kept to himself. He never had a single friend or romantic partner. He got the first office job he could and stayed until he retired. His desk was the only desk in the whole office that didn’t have a single decoration on it.

“I can’t die yet!” the man cried out. He hadn’t lived at all, so how could he die?

The doctor knew people like him couldn’t be saved by medicine, they had to save themselves. Still, he wrote a prescription for the man. The doctor didn’t tell him the medication was a placebo, but he trusted the man to make the most of his life, even if there wasn’t much left.

The drug-store where the man picked up his prescription was something to marvel at, which is what he did for the first time ever. It had everything you could need.

There were candies, regular food, make-up, toiletries, gift cards, pairs of shoes and shirts, and in the very back was the pharmacy. The man had never thought emotion mattered so, he chose to ignore it. His doctor’s appointment made him realize how

wrong he was. He beamed at the woman behind the counter, complimented her red hair, and wished her an amazing life.

After getting his medicine he went straight home. He parked his car, and then walked back to the store and then walked back home again, stopping every five minutes to take in the world for all the beauty it was. He had never taken the time to take in his surroundings.

He had never left his hometown, but now he wanted to see the whole world and experience life to the fullest, both good and bad, as he was tired of being neutral. He booked the first plane he saw tickets for. He did that again and again, zigging and zagging across the globe. Everywhere he went, he kept his heart in his pocket. He was unaware that every new place he went, his heart got a little softer, and one morning he woke up, and the jar was empty. His heart had re-entered his body, and he lived the rest of his life fully.

School Projects Your child comes home from school and there’s a moment when you’re watching him take off his shoes that you are so filled with love for him and awe that he is becoming a human being. He’s already in fourth grade, but yesterday you could’ve sworn you were changing his diapers. This moment is soon ruined as he comes up to you with a look you know too well by now: guilt. Postponing the inevitable, you ask him how his day at school was. Good, he tells you, and you hear it hanging in the air. With a raise of your eyebrows he complies, sagging into the arm chair. He informs you he has a project in history. Due tomorrow. Your fingernails dig into the arm rest. Your son tells you he is sorry, he knows he shouldn’t have waited this long, but the damage is done.

Your son tells you it’s about Egypt, and he is supposed to make a diorama of the Nile. You check your watch and realize you will barely have enough time. You immediately erase all plans of the wine night and book you wanted to read, and instead get on your coat and boots. You don’t have the time to go to a nice craft supply, so the drug-store will do. You take the car, even though it’s such a close walk to the store.

You pick out green and blue papers. They’re neon but it’s the only paper they have. You look at the toys and are lucky to find one with a palm tree. You can’t remember if Egypt actually has palm trees next to the Nile, but it’s a fourth-grade project, you decide it doesn’t matter, but you don’t tell your son this. You take the stack of papers up to the register and part of you wants to tell the teenage girl working to never have kids, but you also know that’s not entirely true. You hand over a ridiculous amount of money for what little you bought and head home.

You spread out the supplies on the kitchen island and begin gluing the paper together. Your son finishes his small report on your laptop. You proof-read it for him and then print it. He misspelled pharaoh four times, and you fix each one without mention.

The project is finished well past his bed time. You taught him a trick about layering the paper so the Nile actually looks like its flowing. The palm trees really add to it, you decide, even if they aren’t accurate. Your son hasn’t gotten better at telling you important things, but you’ve gotten a lot better at this last-minute thing. The first few bake sales and history projects ended with burnt cookies and hot glue in your hair. You know your son will tell you important things when they really start to matter.

You put the diorama on the radiator by the door, next to your keys, because both of you are likely to forget it. You tuck him into bed and give him a kiss on the forehead.

You stand in the doorway, watching him close his eyes and drift to sleep, before turning and shutting the door and going to sleep yourself.

Small Town Circus

by Joseph Johns

Small Town Circus

by Joseph Johns

For Alyssa and atrium days with Azriah Crawley, Robin Clement, and Anika Weber

Table of Contents 1. This Magical Place 2. Summer at the Circus 3. The Ringmaster 4. How to Fake a Smile: For Aspiring Clowns 5. Constructive Criticism for a Trapeze Artist 6. The Show Must Go On 7. Night at the Circus 8. Break a Leg 9. 25 Things You’ll Never Know About Yourself and Your Circus 10. Circus Funeral

This Magical Place They say there once was a circus that traveled to this town. They say that even though there were only 2000 people in this town, the circus would attract so many people that it felt like its own bustling city surrounded by barren country. The seats were always full and the lights were so bright, you couldn’t see the stars on a clear night.

The circus came one summer, offering leisure to the bored people in this tired place, and it became the talk of the town overnight. A news article was published a few weeks before the grand opening, which exposed people to a summer of fun and opportunity in a colorful tent. There was even a line forming the day before it opened.

With nothing else to do and a wave of kids who were fresh out of school, the circus blew up like fireworks.

Every night was filled with smiling faces, jolly music, and savory peanuts. These small features were great wonders to the audience, but what they really went to the circus for were the amazing acts. There were many acts that everyone loved like the clown who offered endless comedy and made even the sourest folks crack a smile, the trapeze artists who swung so gracefully in the air doing tricks that nobody in the audience could do, a juggler who would mesmerize the minds in the crowd, wild animals who were tamed so perfectly to do unimaginable tricks, and so much more. It was like magic.

Although the audience adored these acts, the most famous attraction by far was the bearded woman, poised in her glass box. The best thing about her act was that she

didn’t even need to work to please the audience. She was born with her circus act and used it to her advantage. Everyone was stunned to see a woman with a beard. It was a fantastic experience to see a freak of nature in person. Tickets to see her cost more than most people could logically afford, but that didn’t stop them from spending their money.

Everything was swell at the circus that summer. Everyone was happy and the performers were eager to hand the audience enjoyment on a platter. The circus would’ve stayed until the end of July, but unfortunately lasted only until late June.

It was just another night at the circus. The tent opened and people were rushing in, generously spending to be entertained. People were snacking on their peanuts and chatting to each other, sharing their excitement while feeling anxious for the show to start. When it finally did start and the ringmaster appeared from behind the curtains, the audience roared in gratitude. The ringmaster gave his introduction, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the circus!” Those seven simple words were enough to send the audience over the moon with joy.

Normally he would follow up by introducing the acts, but at this one particular show, something was wrong. He began to stumble and sway before eventually collapsing. Everyone in the audience gasped and became paralyzed, unsure of what to do. He was eventually rushed to the hospital. They did everything they could for him, but unfortunately couldn’t save him.

It was confirmed that he died from a heart attack. Nobody really knows what caused this but they say it was because of his diet. Everyone was devastated when he died. The performers, the animals, but most of all, the audience. They had lost their

most popular access to entertainment. The people who were in the circus whenever the ringmaster died were very angry that they never got a refund. A few days after his death, the circus closed down for good. The performers left in pursuit of new jobs and the animals were released. The people who had planned on going to the circus protested the closing, but they were unsuccessful. Eventually everyone gave up complaining, went back to their simple lives, and by the time the summer had ended, nobody was worried about the circus anymore. Nobody in the town ever thought to dismantle the circus so it stayed there until it decayed and became infested with nature.

Nobody cares about the circus anymore and nobody in that small town ever knew what became of the performers, but it’s said that they lived out the rest of their lives in grief of this magical place and their beloved ringmaster.

Summer at the Circus After The Beatles, “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!”

If you’re like everyone else in this town, always finding yourself bored in the summer, then come on down to the circus! Spend your night at the circus this summer, opening Saturday June 5. All shows will be held from 6-10 p.m. on all days except Sundays. The final show will be held on Saturday, July 31. Be sure to come to the circus while you have the chance. See all of your favorite acts like the trapeze, the clown, the juggler, the trampoline artists, the animals, the freak show, and more. We had a chance to interview the master of the show for some insight on what the circus will be like.

“I can guarantee that if you come to the circus this summer, you won’t be disappointed. You’ll have a chance to see all the acts you love and be part of the great American experience. Have a fun time with the family while snacking on the best peanuts in town. Remember, we’re only here for a few weeks, so come on down while you can. I, and all of my performers can guarantee that you won’t regret it one bit.”

Everyone has their favorite circus act, so we were curious to know which one of the acts was the ringmaster’s favorite. “Well, I hold them all dear to my heart, but I suppose if I had to pick one, it would be the bearded woman. I know she’s not necessarily an act, but she is my favorite part of the circus. She’s the perfect type of entertainment for anyone who needs a good joke to laugh at.”

He also had a bit to say about what it means to be part of the circus experience.

“It’s all about the community that we build here. The performers work tremendously hard

to make sure that you have a good experience, because what we really care about at the circus is the well-being of others.”

If you have any interest at all in attending the circus, just go for it. After all, this isn’t an opportunity you get every day. Even if it’s just for one night, come out to the circus and support the acts who work so hard to give you a good night. It’s sure to knock your socks off!

The Ringmaster They were beginning to tire of mocking the kettle. They wished they had a sweeter way to pass the time. –Eva Marie Ginsburg, “The Kettle” They were getting paid to perform, yet they hated being put on display. None of the performers particularly liked acting, but all of them, each for different reasons, somehow ended up in the circus. They wanted to leave, but knew they had no other place in society, so they stayed, forever entertaining, forever regretting their decisions.

Hatred for the ringmaster was the most common similarity among the performers.

In their eyes, he was just a greedy capitalist, so desperate to make a living that he put everyone else in the spotlight to collect his paycheck. The only thing he was good at was faking a smile to the audience and demanding orders. He wasn’t the one risking his life or his sanity to appeal to an audience ignorant of what the performers were feeling.

They never thought they got the attention they deserved even though the audience treated them like the center of the universe. All they saw was the revenue that wasn’t in their pockets.

The ringmaster never knew about the distaste shared among the performers, or about how they felt mistreated, or how they would mock him when he wasn’t looking, or how they all had thoughts of stealing the money he collected, or how at some point during their careers, they all considered leaving the circus, or how despite all this, deep down they knew they’d be nothing without him.

How to Fake a Smile: For Aspiring Clowns Become reckless with the hearts of others and fickle with your own. –Jennifer A. Howard, “How to End Up” “Do you like being a clown?” is a question you hear too often from your fans.

Learn to use the word “fans” loosely because you’re not quite sure if they actually like you or just the idea of you, the novelty of laughing at someone on display with no consequences. Your answer to this question should always be “I love what I do” which should be easy for you to say with your face masked in comical paste.

“How did you end up here?” is a question you hear too often from yourself. Every clown has their own story, but it’s likely that you decided to become one because you couldn’t see a future for yourself in any other career. You thought this would’ve been an easy way out from conforming to society’s standards of doing well in school and going to a good college to get a good job, but now you realize that the path you took was harder than the norm. Despite this, you are in the circus whether you like it or not and it’s important for you to embrace it rather than think about what you could’ve done different.

“I bet it’s hard faking a smile for so long” is a comment you hear too often from your fellow performers. Don’t let this get to you. Just agree with them and brush it off.

You know they’re right. Whenever you’re in your dressing room getting ready, look at yourself in the mirror and tell yourself that you can do it. Even if your reflection has tears and thoughts about how these acts will never end, tell yourself you can do it. Put on your makeup, your wig, your nose, and your clothes. Whenever the ringmaster is ready

for you, take a deep breath, and no matter how you’re feeling, walk into the tent with a smile on your face. The audience will never tell if it’s real or fake.

Constructive Criticism for a Trapeze Artist And yet many Americans do not even have the time to talk to me? –John Leary, “What I Know of Your Country” I’m just a trapeze artist, but I know more than people would expect.

One time a woman in the audience passed out from fear of watching me do my act. I did the same thing I always do, risk my life to hear a clap, and I did it with confidence. I usually don’t look at the audience while I’m in the middle of an act, but as I was swinging back and forth I caught the woman in the corner of my eye. I watched her faint and as I saw that, I started to lose my sense of being solid in the air. I’ve never fainted before, but I assume this is how that woman felt when she did. I know that most people can’t do what I do, but I never thought of it to be so extreme that it could make someone lose their presence.

One time I was backstage and overheard some rowdy kids around the back of the tent. They seemed impressed by my performance, yet they were typical preteen boys, desperate for unnecessary violence. One of them said “I wish I could’ve gotten to see him fall off and hit face first onto the ground and watch his blood ooze out of his head.” The other laughed. I always receive applause from the audience instead of constructive criticism, but I’ll be sure to take their suggestion into consideration next time I perform.

Although those kids were unappreciative of my performance, most people do enjoy what I do. Some people even go out of their way to express their appreciation for me, like when a girl I hadn’t even noticed in the audience sent me a letter about how she loved me so much, that she was going to hunt me down and marry me. That letter,

though creepy, didn’t really phase me because I knew that there were a lot of overenergetic fangirls in this country who never acted on anything. And besides, I got that letter a year ago. If nothing has happened by now, it probably never will.

I’ve always been the performer, never the watcher. Maybe if I was in the audience, I would understand why people disconnect from the selves that they show the rest of the world while they’re at the circus. If I saw a performance, would I faint? Would I become violent? Would I become a stalker? I’ll never know as long as I am hanging from these swinging beams. I assume it’s like this for other trapeze artists.

The Show Must Go On I hate everything about being here, but this is the only place I belong. Mother always wanted me to be a proper lady, to grow up being polite, reserved, and pretty so I could be the perfect bride. My genes had another plan though. If it weren’t for the beard, I could’ve been exactly what mother (and men) wanted from me. I’ve always been reserved and kind like a lady should be, but that never got me anywhere. I wish I could’ve been pretty like the other girls, but my beard gets in the way of that. No man would ever marry a freak, and that’s all I am in this world, hence why I ended up here.

Obviously I don’t remember being born, but I grew up hearing the story of whenever my mom held me for the first time. She told me that I was an ugly newborn (I don’t take offense to this considering every newborn is ugly). She said the first thing she noticed was the slightest bit of peach fuzz around the base of my face, but she didn’t think much of it. She just figured it would fall off and that it wouldn’t be an issue. It never did fall off though.

I never had any friends growing up. Most kids would look at me once and either turn the other way or ask me what was wrong with my face. The nicest comment I’ve ever gotten was “I bet your life is hard.” This wasn’t exactly nice, but it did carry some sympathy which wasn’t something I ever expected to receive.

I learned early on in life that I would never get married. I knew that the bearded woman was a popular circus feature, and without a man to marry and no other way to make money, I decided at twenty to sell my soul to the circus.

My first night at the circus was draining. While the other acts were in the tent doing tricks, my performance was to sit in a glass box outside of the tent for two hours

and “look pretty” according to the ringmaster. Even though I was used to hearing remarks about my beard my entire life, hearing them at the circus was somehow worse than every other circumstance. I think the pointing, stares, and gasps at the sight of me, combined with being confined in a box with no way to defend myself, made this situation worse than others. After the first few weeks, I managed to desensitize myself from the audience, but I still do the same performance I’ve always done to this day.

There’s another show tonight. I’d rather just stay in my dressing room, but I know the ringmaster needs me. I hate him with everything in me, but regardless I bend to his will. After all, the show must go on and what else would a woman like me even do? If I left tonight, I wonder what would happen. Would anyone care? I’m sure the audience would miss having someone to laugh at, but they could find someone else. People are good at that.

Night at the Circus I’ve always hated the circus, and if it weren’t for my son, Billy, I would’ve stayed home. I only came to this hell-hole because he wouldn’t quit begging. As soon as he saw that headline in the newspaper that read “Night at the Circus,” he wouldn’t shut up about how he wanted to go. I told him no, but I eventually caved. I figured it wouldn’t be that bad, but I’d rather be anywhere else than here right now. God, I hate capitalism.

I’ve hated the circus since I was a little girl. My mom took me when I was six, when I knew nothing of the circus. She talked about it like it was some magical place, but when we walked up to the tent, nothing about it feel that way. Most of the acts were fine, but none of them made me feel like I was in a magical place. Seeing the animals was cool, but even at six, I thought it was odd that they were performing tricks for us instead of living in the wild. I hated the clown most of all. The pasty, soulless makeup, Rudolf nose, and constant laughter didn’t impress me. I wonder if any of the other kids in the audience shared my thoughts, or if they were just enjoying the performance like my mom.

I haven’t been to the circus since that day, and now that I’m here with Billy, I’m not sure how to feel. I guess what I really care about is him having a good time, even if I’d rather not be here.

The show is starting. This loopy, redundant music doesn’t settle well with my ears. Billy doesn’t seem to mind though. He probably doesn’t even notice these minute details. He seems happy with his peanuts. I thought the ringmaster was supposed to be upbeat, but it looks like there’s something a bit off about this one. Oh well, it’s probably nothing. It’s nice to see Billy having a good time. Seeing him smile makes it worthwhile.

Break a Leg (400 words) Something about him seems off today. If I cared about him more, I might confront him, but instead I’ll keep quiet. It’s best not to draw too much unneeded attention to myself, which is ironic given my career.

He’s usually on edge before a show, but we’re about to start and he hasn’t said anything to me. It’s unlike him to not say anything right before a show. His usual form of encouragement is “if you kill this show, I’ll kill you,” but I haven’t gotten something as simple as eye contact from him today. Rarely does he tell me to break a leg. He saves that for the real performers, like the trapeze artists. I wonder if he actually wants them to break a leg. It would create more publicity, and maybe that’s what he’s secretly hoping for.

I wonder if he thinks that all I am is a clown. Obviously, it is my occupation, and occupational careers do, in a way, define who a person is, but I hope he knows deep down that I’m more than just my job.

The show is starting. He’s introducing the circus, as he always does. For some reason though, he seems a bit less energetic. It’s probably nothing. I’m probably just paranoid as usual. I don’t perform until around the end, but I still like to peek through the curtains or watch from the sidelines while the others perform. It’s exciting, but also nerve-racking seeing the audience waiting to be impressed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the circus!” I’ve heard him say a million times. After a while, the words he says and the cheer from the audience blend into white noise. This entertainment is so routine I almost forget that at one point I was unadjusted

to life in the circus. It is odd though that for some reason something seems off about this show in particular, like it doesn’t quite fall into the routine. I’m sure it’s nothing.

Something’s wrong. He’s just collapsed. The audience is stunned. I think it might’ve been a heart attack. How can this be happening? Is this my fault? I should’ve just confronted him as soon as I noticed that something was a little bit off but now it’s too late. I think we’ve just lost our leader. What happens to us now? What happens to the audience? The animals? What about the circus?

(300 words) Something about him seems off today. If I cared about him more, I might confront him, but instead I’ll keep quiet. It’s best not to draw too much unneeded attention to myself, which is ironic given my career.

He’s usually on edge before a show, but we’re about to start and he hasn’t said anything to me. His usual form of encouragement is “if you kill this show, I’ll kill you,” but I haven’t gotten something as simple as eye contact from him today. Rarely does he tell me to break a leg. I wonder if he thinks that all I am is a clown. Obviously, it is my occupation, and occupational careers do, in a way, define who a person is, but I hope he knows deep down that I’m more than just my job.

He’s introducing the circus, as he always does. For some reason though, he seems a bit less energetic. It’s probably nothing. It’s exciting, but also nerve-racking seeing the audience waiting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the circus!” After a while, the words he says and the cheer from the audience blend into white noise. This entertainment is so routine I almost forget that at one point I was unadjusted to life in the circus. It is odd though that for some reason something seems off about this show in particular, like it doesn’t quite fall into the routine. I’m sure it’s nothing.

Something’s wrong. He’s just collapsed. I think it might’ve been a heart attack. Is this my fault? I should’ve just confronted him as soon as I noticed that something was a little bit off but now it’s too late. I think we’ve just lost our leader. What happens to us now? What happens to the audience? The animals? What about the circus?

(250 words) Something about him seems off today. If I cared about him more, I might confront him, but instead I’ll keep quiet. It’s best not to draw too much unneeded attention to myself, which is ironic given my career.

He’s usually on edge before a show, but we’re about to start and he hasn’t said anything to me. His usual form of encouragement is “if you kill this show, I’ll kill you,” but I haven’t gotten something as simple as eye contact from him today. Rarely does he tell me to break a leg. I wonder if he thinks that all I am is a clown.

He’s introducing the circus, as he always does. For some reason though, he seems a bit less energetic. It’s probably nothing. It’s exciting, but also nerve-racking seeing the audience waiting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the circus!” This entertainment is so routine I almost forget that at one point I was unadjusted to life in the circus. It is odd though that for some reason something seems off about this show in particular, like it doesn’t quite fall into the routine. I’m sure it’s nothing.

Something’s wrong. He’s just collapsed. I think it might’ve been a heart attack. Is this my fault? I should’ve just confronted him as soon as I noticed that something was a little bit off but now it’s too late. I think we’ve just lost our leader. What happens to us now? What happens to the audience? What about the circus?

25 Things You’ll Never Know About Yourself and Your Circus 1. Your heart attack wasn’t because of your diet. People will say it was, but it was really because of stress that you didn’t know how to cope with.

2. Despite what you always thought, everyone who worked for you hated you.

Every single one of them had frequent thoughts of leaving the circus. The only reason they didn’t was because they knew they couldn’t survive anywhere else.

3. People weren’t sneaking into the circus. The juggler regularly stole your revenue while you slept.

4. Your circus was the first circus experience for about 70 percent of the kids who went. About 90 percent of them developed a fear of clowns.

5. The animal tamers you hired purposely starved the animals. They were afraid that if they had too much energy, they would be too vicious to tame.

6. After you died, the bearded woman never shaved her beard. Even though it was the source of her insecurities, your death made her realize that she could never bring herself to erase the thing that made her unique.

7. Your circus was popular enough to stay after July 31, had you not died on June 24.

8. Your ex-wife had a heart attack on the same day as you, 800 miles away. Unlike yours though, hers was due to her poor diet. She survived, lived to 83, and never heard a word of your death.

9. The day you died, the clown had a feeling that something was wrong with you.

He was afraid to confront you about it, but he never slept well afterwards.

10. Your best trapeze artist was given the opportunity to become an actor, around the same time he was recruited into your circus. With every performance, he regretted his decision to go into the circus. After you died, he looked for more acting opportunities, but was never successful. He ended up working as a dishwasher in a diner for the rest of his life. None of his coworkers ever found out about his time in the circus.

11. A year after you died, the juggler was arrested for robbing a bank.

12. Although your heart attack was mainly due to stress, drinking more water would’ve pushed it back a few years.

13. The same night you died, one of the kids in the audience took his peanuts home and nearly choked to death on one of them. He never ate peanuts again.

14. Even if you hadn’t died when you did, it’s possible that the animals would’ve eventually got fed up with performing and would’ve performed a violent escape, resulting in many casualties. Although your heart attack was a tragedy, it ultimately deterred a massacre.

15. Some of your performers were buried in the same graveyard as you, which resulted in an uncomfortable afterlife.

16. Some of the animal tamers became vegetarians after the circus closed. Others became butchers.

17. None of the people who worked for the news station that interviewed you prior to the opening of your circus, the people who were telling everyone in town to attend, actually went to the circus themselves. Like all other news stations, they were just focused on the publicity, just like you.

18. The animals were released after you died. Most of them died within a year due to a lack of ability to adapt to a new environment.

19. The juggler escaped from prison two years after he was arrested. He ran away to Alaska, built his own cabin, continued to shoplift, and never went back to prison.

20. The bearded woman became homeless after you died. She moved to the city hoping to at least get loose change from strangers. She got very little money from this, but what she lacked in finances she made up for in identity. She was now known as the homeless bearded woman as opposed to just the bearded woman. The extra label, though unpleasant, gave her some sense of character.

21. The clown developed an eating disorder after you died. He was so afraid he’d end up like you if he ate too much. He died ten years later from cardiac arrest.

22. The trapeze artist never missed performing for the audience, but he always missed doing the act.

23. The animals never cared much for each other, but the one thing the shared was their hatred for performing.

24. When the circus closed, the people who were planning to attend threw a riot, but none of the performers were there to respond. Your potential audience members trashed the circus and no one ever went their again. It died quickly, despite its popularity.

25. All of your performers were at your funeral, but most of their thoughts weren’t focused on your death. They were focused on what they would do without the circus and what would become of it.

Circus Funeral BEFORE THAT, it was a simple summer day. –Hannah Bottomy, “Currents” The performers never fully adjusted to their new lives. They struggled to make money and new reputations. They always thought they’d be happier without the circus, but quickly realized that they were nothing in a world without a ringmaster.

Before that, the poles which held up the tent eventually rotted and collapsed, bringing the tent with them down to earth. It laid deflated and pathetic on the ground until it eventually became overrun with weeds and rodents.

Before that, the performers made a sign to put at the front of the circus. It read, “Due to the absence of our ringmaster, this circus will be out of commission until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience.” People who had planned to attend were devastated and outraged by this news. They protested, but never gained recognition since the performers were already long gone by the time anyone else noticed. Nobody ever decided to get rid of the sign or deconstruct the circus.

Before that, all of the animals that performed were released. The performers thought they were doing a good deed by setting them free, but they didn’t realize that most of the animals weren’t adapted to life in America. Many of them died not long after their release, unable to adjust to a new life.

Before that, the performers discussed among themselves about what they should do. None of them imagined a future for the circus, and none of them were fit to run it.

They knew they were better off as followers rather than leaders. They decided to shut it down and move on to other careers.

Before that, the funeral was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that the color of autumn leaves masks the tragedy of their fate. All of the performers showed up. Some of them praised the ringmaster, some shed tears in their seats, some were secretly relieved, and some were more focused on the funeral of their incomes.

Before that, the ringmaster had a heart attack in front of the audience while introducing the acts. He was taken to the nearest hospital, which wasn’t very near, but he was already gone by the time he was admitted.

Before that, it was just another night at the circus.

Degradation

By Natalie Kocherzat

Degradation

By Natalie Kocherzat

For my sister, who’s aspiring to be a doctor.

“Disease gets a bad rap, don’t you think? For being filthy, chaotic… but really, that just describes the people who are sick.” -Pestilence, Supernatural.

Table of Contents 1. Castle 2. All for You 3. The Corrector 4. Tick Tock 5. Understand 6. Another Day 7. We All Die Alone 8. What You’ll Never Know 9. Before Hours

Castle You run through the halls, passing by doctors and commoners who look too similar to differentiate. You have to stay in front of Bart, need to reach Mother’s room first. A tug pulls at the collar of your shirt and you momentarily choke and fall backwards.

“Hahaha, got you!” Bart runs ahead. You spend little time thinking before pouncing up to catch him. You speed off, easily gaining on Bart, when you see something at your mother’s door that stops you. Bart sticks his tongue out as he passes you again. As he reaches the door, though, he finally sees the figure and pauses.

A large bird-man with hallow eyes rimmed with metallic yellow left Bart open mouth. He was enveloped in a grey gown and held a long staff. You slowly walk up to Bart and put a protective hand on his shoulder. The bird-man speaks, voice muffled and without moving his beaked mouth.

“This is a quarantine zone, now. No admittance.”

“But that’s our mother,” Bart protests. You inch away, though, the truth settling over you. You don’t want to be here, can’t risk getting ill, too. Bart doesn’t understand what this means, but you do. Mother must be sick. Very sick.

“Come hither, Barty, we should head out.”

“But Alec, I want to tell mother of my victory.”

You grab his arm and drag him away despite his struggle. Bart doesn’t understand what this means, but you do. Mother must be sick. Very sick.

“I know a fantastical place we can head to,” you say.

“Mother was fine when we left, why can’t we enter?”

You keep ignoring him, just need to get somewhere else, somewhere that neither nor Bart will get exposed. Eventually, you get Bart into an empty room and he yanks free from your grip. You look around the stone room and spot a table that you slide under. It’s pushed against a cracked wall, and sits beneath a tall window pane with intricate metal details. Bart only glares, so you pat the space next to you. He looks to the ground before walking over.

“Mother said she would be fine,” Bart says.

“I know.”

“But something is wrong.”

“Yes, Barty, something is wrong.” There’s a moment of silence.

“I don’t like this place very much anymore,” Bart states. His gaze is set forward, determined. This isn’t good, the hospital will soon be where you two spend most of your time. Mr. Brewer was a close family friend, but you doubt both of you could stay there for long. His wife, Miss Lila, has always taken a distaste to Bart. You think the situation over, and finally come up with something.

“Why don’t you think of this as our castle?” You ask.

“Our castle?”

“Yes! All these corridors hold our secrets, all these people work for us. We even own the place.”

“Oh! And we can have a moat full of alligators… and a lava pit!”

“Of course, we can.”

“But… how will we make sure no one steals our castle?” Bart questions. You thought for a moment before locating a small stone on the ground.

“We mark it,” you say. You turn around to the wall and begin carving into the grainy surface. When done, it sloppily reads A.W. “Your turn.” Bart, with wide eyes, takes the stone shard and begins working his own initials into the stone. B.W. “There.

Now everyone who comes here shall know this is our castle, they can’t do anything to mess with us.”

“Woah.” Bart slowly traces over the carvings. “No one can take our castle.”

You close your eyes and nod, thankful for a moment of peace.

All for You Dear lord, I can hear the walls dripping with insects. Thick stone walls, meant to keep them out, dank and dull, a perfect breeding ground. They are going to get me, tear my walls down brick by brick. Erratic beating pounds in my ear, fills the room, can you not hear it too? I am the beating. I know they must be coming. It’s always this this time, always now. Why won’t they let me sleep? Thin tallies line the walls, how long have I been here? I fall against my thin cot, thin polyester blanket.

They must be coming. I wish my mama could help, why did you need her? I’m now thinking I wasn’t ready to give her to you. I choose not to cry, though, I don’t do that anymore, not since they first dosed me with poison. I’m not demented like these doctors claim me to be, you are my alibi to that, but where are you now? Mama needed to go, you said so yourself, why won’t you make them understand? Every day gets harder and harder to pinpoint the bugs, to recoil from where they bleed out of the walls. It must be poison, they are killing me slowly. There’re no windows, I don’t know where I am, only you know the truth. I can always feel bugs writhing beneath the skin on my arms. It gets hard, so hard to ignore, despite all my attempts. And then doctors come and dose me and life blurs. I can’t focus to relocate the bugs and the doctors won’t listen despite my protest. Can you not hear me? Then comes the pain, practice they insist will drain me of insanity. I’m not insane, but perhaps it’ll finally get rid of the burrowed bugs. They drain and drain until all I see are blurred faces against white, then I’m dunked into Hell’s ice and am reborn into the world. Maybe this is deserved, maybe mama was right, I am

the devil’s spawn. Maybe I need to be dunked and dunked again, breath sucked out from icicle bursts, cuts numbing at the cold attack, oh, mama I’m sorry. Maybe I’ll see her soon, maybe you’ll allow me that one thing. Lord, I just miss her so much. But then I’m left again in my room with the bugs oozing from the walls and my arms too heavy to lift. Can this really be something I deserve? Is this really what you want for me? Praise Jesus for your revival, you will be cleansed, those words drilled into me day in and day out by disembodied voices and I’m too tired to do anything until I’m not and can finally refocus on the bugs stuck under my skin. I scratch and scratch but it’s still not enough and they get angry but they just won’t listen and I scratch. Lord, why am I forsaken?

You plant bugs under my skin when all I do is fulfill your requests. For you, my mama is gone, but still my skin squirms and no one, not even you, will listen.

The Corrector In a faraway land, there were consequences for kids who couldn’t conform. The special boy tried to stay in line and follow the rules, but something always went wrong at the worst moment. After fainting spells and throwing up into the hallway, the elders had enough of his antics. He was going to The Corrector. Hardly anyone ever returned from The Corrector, and those who did always came back changed with hollow eyes and near no personality. A walking vegetable. Stories were spread of gigantic metallic blades and long needles. The Corrector poked at their brains, let out their blood, and some say he ate their organs. The towns people justified it though, as this was all to make the children normal.

The special boy was wheeled down a dank hall, confined in chair. The rooms were all occupied by other miscreants undergoing the painful procedures that the special boy would soon go through. This is what happened if you failed to follow the binary rules. The Corrector sent his masked minions to turn the special boy into a crimson tap, tasked them to drain his blood. Soon, though, the room’s overwhelming scent of iron was washed out with orange spice and death. The boy’s eyes blinked open before closing again. This happened many times until he succumbed to the pull of darkness. This issue was one of the reasons for him being there in the first place, but it would soon be fixed.

The minions were making progress, but there was something not right yet. A certain standard needed to be reached before you could escape The Corrector’s claws.

The minion leaned over the special boy with a large needle and pried open the eyelid.

This practice was easier when the kid was asleep, so they made haste. The needle was angled then pushed into the pupil. Had to get rid of the blurriness, the needle scraped back and forth, jostling everything side to side. Just like wiping down a window. The eye was red and irritated, the pupil bleeding, but the minion was satisfied with their work.

Just had to correct the other eye.

They waited for the special boy to wake, and when he did a curdling scream sounded through the ward. Another one gone to waste, perhaps he wasn’t meant to be returned. They would try the special treatment again, but so many of these kids were just duds that needed to be purged. Kids need to fall in line to be a member of society.

They need to fall in line. The special boy couldn’t see now, he waved his lost hands through darkness. The minions try to save these people, but they’re so defiant and broken. Perhaps if they stirred the gloop of his mind it would correct the special boy, but so far, the treatment had worked for no others.

The minion tried to proceed, but the special boy was scared now, flinching at every disembodied footstep that approached him. He must’ve been able to tell the end was near, knowing no others ever returned blind, only fixed. He was broken now. The special boy tried flee, but sharp objects kept prodding and rubber slicked hands pushed his chest back onto a cold surface. The special boy struggled, but was ultimately restrained.

There was an agonizing moment of stillness, not even ragged breathing heard, before sharp metal pierced the skin of his forehead. He figured he could bear it, that is, until a raw mechanical whirring filled the room. The special boy began to cry, tears mixing with the blood that spilled down the side of his face. He distantly heard a tsk from

somewhere in the area. His skull then began to vibrate, it felt like his face was going to explode. They were trepanning him. The minions kept working and working at his forehead, and forming coherent thoughts began to be a harder and harder task.

Eventually, the special boy ceased to respond to the minions’ questions. Another day, another loss. They set him loose among all the other kids who failed to conform.

This land they are sent to is dank and grey, a place where no one else can be bothered by their presence. Sun never shines here, kids are no more than mindless pillars decorating the land. The grass lay littered with those who’ve already passed, but others still wander around blindly, unable to even think about how they have been saved if they just kept in line.

Tick Tock “What else can you do?” -Nuala Ní Chonchúir.

There aren’t many people left in the good ol’ US of A that come down with the Bubonic Plague, but today must just be your lucky day. You were always told against having dogs in the Midwest, but you just couldn’t bear to see ol’ Archie go. So, congratulations, you’re now in a quarantined ward of some pretentious city hospital.

The long periods of nothingness are unbearable, and everything hurts. At this point, you can’t recall the last time you saw an unadulterated face. Everyone that comes in dons some kinda fancy mask and neon suit. Constant blood tests are issued, how many times have you been pricked now? Can’t even scrounge up enough energy to remember. Your arm is tender and bruised. Despite everything these darned pricks put you through, though, you know that the waiting is worst part. There’s a clock outside of your room you don’t dare look at it. Great Louise is it hard, but if you look, you’ll get dragged into the ticks, how they drone on second after minute after hour.

In this crumbling stone building, you miss all those little blessings you took for granted. You miss Marie, the lull of cicadas at night, the clink of cold Coke bottles. The night you were taken, you were on your way to see The Philadelphia Story at the ol’ drive in. These are your truths, but you aren’t thinking about that right now. This humdrum routine is so suffocating, you just need to get righty on out and move. But you can’t. You’re nothing more than some trapped rat to these flash show doctors. You don’t want to be here, don’t even think what’s going on is legal, but hell, what do you know?

Figured they’d at least let you call Marie, though.

You wander around the room, ensuring no one’s on their way. They’ll only sedate you if you’re spotted. Make sure to watch the IV drip, you don’t want to accidentally pull it out of your arm. The doctors wouldn’t be too happy about that, and their patience seems to be wearing thin. You have to keep moving, can’t lie still all day staring at the ceiling, can’t count anymore tiles. You crouch along the wall, trace faded carvings that’ve been painted over. You think they just might be initials.

It's time to retreat. The clock is dangerous, don’t you know, but you also can’t be caught while up, they check on you in a very scheduled routine. As if on cue, persistent coughing begins. These fits come constantly, many accompanied by crimson splatter against your hands. Bloody fool, you have to fight it, don’t double over just yet, the bedpan is just a few feet away. They say it will get worse, to the point of being bed ridden, you’ll be damned if you let them take your last days of mobility. Wipe your hands off on the hospital gown, just focus on getting to bed.

Damn these pompous city folks, treating you like a varmint, don’t listen to not one word you say. Can’t do nothin’ now, though. No, you only feel cold tile against your knees and cotton sheets on your hands as you try to claw back onto the bed. Lord, if your toes aren’t on fire right now. You see the clock, the second hand, neon suits. The door opens and you are dealt another coughing fit. People lift you and the last thing you see is the ticking clock as the world descends to darkness.

Understand Gregor was disappointed in his superiors, they really didn’t understand that he was going to save this patient. He was the only one in the hospital who had any vision.

The previous doctors that tried reconfiguring the brain must have been doing something wrong, it was going to work this time. As he’d been banned from hospital grounds, Gregor had to enter at dusk when only the guard that couldn’t tell right from left was on duty. It was demeaning for someone such as him, but it had to be done.

The patient, Mr. Brewer, always tried to help out when he was younger. Neither Gregor’s father nor mother cared, but Mr. Brewer did what he could to ensure Gregor was alright. It was time to repay that debt. Lurking down dark halls, Gregor made sure to skirt past the quarantine ward, the stench of decay and hypocrisy overwhelming. The others intended to experiment on some diseased country scum, but looked down on Gregor’s own techniques. How ludicrous.

Sliding into room 264, Gregor shifted Mr. Brewer out of bed and wheeled him down to the operating room. He was already quite sedated, having been admitted with several fractures and showing agitated behavior, but there was more that needed to be done. The car’s driver wasn’t intoxicated or speeding at the time Mr. Brewer bolted into the road, so the accident had to have been self-induced. He began to writhe, so Gregor made haste. A large shot of insulin was prepared, then another, and both were pushed into the patient’s bloodstream. This coma induction would normally be spread over multiple days, but this would just have to make due. He would thank Gregor later for this, would owe his life to him.

This hospital didn’t support the practice of lobotomies anymore, so he would have to make due with an ice pick. Gregor prepared for the incision, prying Mr. Brewer’s eye open and angling the pick to the inner corner. Gregor squinted, trying to see better in the dim room. The eye squelched under the pick’s presence and began to slog inwards. He finally bumped against the Ethmoid bone, signaling it was time for the hammer. He steadied it along the top of the ice pick, brought it down lightly to test the aim, then thwacked it hard and recoiled from the satisfying crack and pop of breaking bone.

Finally, it was time to get started. He shuffled around in the jelly of Mr. Brewer’s brain, dancing around to separate white matter from grey. Only he could do this, revive those within the clutches of insanity. His superiors would see, they would pay for their insubordination. When he finished separating the lobes and brain matter, the eye was no more than a swirl of white and red. It was no matter, he could fix that up later, too. It wouldn’t be perfect as he wasn’t a plastic surgeon, but the mask would be enough.

He went to the reconstruction surgeon’s office to acquire the porcelain mask, but must’ve been too loud getting it. The guard now spoke hurriedly into a walkie talkie, despite having been languid all night. Gregor wasn’t worried, though, the procedure was almost done. Splicing the skin so he could graft it against the mask was swift, and it wasn’t long until there was banging against the locked door. He took one last look at the face on his operating table, one eye twisted in building pain, the other shiny and staring inanimately at the ceiling. The right half of his face irritated and puffy. It was okay. It was all going to be okay. The lock finally jiggled open, and security flooded in. Gregor put his

hands on his head and walked quietly towards them, prepared to be taken away. As he was walked out by one of the guards, he heard another speak behind him.

“Oh my god…”

Gregor smiled. They would all understand soon enough. They would all beg for his mercy. He had the power to save or destroy them all.

Another Day Dr. Peony clicked down the corridor after clocking in. She was called in early that morning regarding a pressing problem with one of her patients. His condition took a turn for the worse, his liver had failed. It was going to be a long day. The patient had been there now for nearly a week, but she was still nowhere near knowing what was wrong with him. She sighed and ducked to the left as a nurse rushed past her. The hall was falling apart, making her perform an ungraceful dance to dodge fallen pieces of stone.

This place needed to be shut down, it was more destructive than healing at that point.

She swallowed a yawn and popped into the patient’s room to get a basic understanding of how he was feeling. He threw obscenities, asked if Dr. Peony had eyes, said he damn near felt like death. She just nodded and left to head towards her office. There were worse things than words that patients had thrown at her before. She always loved the room her office was in, it was a time capsule of the past. Pushing aside her research for changing buildings into landmarks, Dr. Peony got to work on the patient’s file.

No improvement seen at all, only tests that yielded no productive results. Dr. Peony doubted the patient even wanted to be saved at this point. He had nothing to go home to, only a deceased wife and two kids that wouldn’t even bother to pick up the hospital’s calls. He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary lately, there was no reason he should be sick.

Insistent beeping from her pager filled the room. A nurse was calling her to check on the patient, he was coding. She rushed to the room but it was already too late, time of death had been called and a sheet was pulled over the sickly yellow face. If only

there had been more time, there had to be a reason he was sick. Too late, too late, too late‌ Dr. Peony decided to clock out and head home.

Another day, another loss, another death gone unsolved. These were the trials she faced every day, a routine she had to get used to and learn to bury. She headed out to her car, shielding her eyes from the rising sun, and hoped to get home before the world truly woke up.

Another Day Dr. Peony clicked down the corridor. She was called in early that morning regarding a problem with one of her patients. His condition took a turn, liver had failed.

The patient had been there nearly a week, but she was still nowhere near knowing what was wrong with him. She ducked as a nurse rushed past her. The hall was falling apart, making her perform a dance to dodge pieces of stone. This place needed to be shut down.

She swallowed a yawn and popped into the patient’s room. He threw obscenities, asked if Dr. Peony had eyes, said he damn near felt like death. She nodded and left.

There were worse things patients had thrown at her. Pushing aside her research, Dr. Peony got to work on the patient’s file.

No improvement seen at all, only tests that yielded no productive results. Dr. Peony doubted the patient even wanted to be saved at this point. He had nothing to go home to, only a deceased wife and two kids that wouldn’t even bother to pick up the hospital’s calls. He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary lately, there was no reason he should be sick.

Insistent beeping filled the room. A nurse was calling her to check on the patient, he was coding. She rushed to the room but it was too late, time of death called and a sheet pulled over the sickly yellow face. If only there had been more time, there had to be a reason.

Dr. Peony decided to clock out.

Another day, another loss, another death gone unsolved. These were the trials she faced every day, a routine she had to get used to and learn to bury. She headed to her car shielding her eyes, and hoped to get home before the world truly woke up.

Another Day Dr. Peony clicked down the corridor. She was called in early regarding one of her patients. His condition took a turn, liver had failed. The patient had been there a week, but she was nowhere near what was wrong. She ducked as a nurse rushed past. The hall was falling apart, making her dance to dodge pieces of stone.

She swallowed a yawn and popped into the patient’s room. He threw obscenities, asked if Dr. Peony had eyes, said he damn near felt like death. She nodded and left.

There were worse things patients had thrown at her.

No improvement seen at all, no productive results. Dr. Peony doubted the patient wanted to be saved. He had nothing, only a deceased wife and two kids that wouldn’t bother to pick up the hospital’s calls. He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, there was no reason he should be sick.

Beeping filled the room. A nurse was calling her to check on the patient. He was coding. She rushed to the room but it was too late, time of death called and a sheet pulled over the sickly yellow face. If only there had been more time, there had to be a reason.

Dr. Peony decided to clock out.

Another day, another loss, another death gone unsolved. These were the trials she faced, a routine she had to get used to and learn to bury. She headed to her car, shielding her eyes, and hoped to get home before the world truly woke up.

We All Die Alone After AJJ’s We Shall All Die Alone Someday I’ve never wanted to die, that truly wasn’t the case. I suppose everything can boil down to the fact that, while I was alive, I didn’t think I particularly cared. Did it hurt when my daughter didn’t visit me while I was dying of cancer? Hell yeah, it did. But to be truthful, I never really gave her anything. Would have been nice to see how she was doing, though. And maybe back then I missed living alone, not needing to rely on a nurse for everything. Maybe I miss living. But that’s all meaningless now. There’s so much going on, more than anybody could understand, it’s pointless to get hung up.

Every day my arm was pricked and life got a bit number. I woke up puking most nights, my head was cold and bare, god I looked like my father. There were good times, yes, but in the end it’s a truth that bad things happen every day. Everyone told me to let everything go and live, but none of them understood how it felt. They don’t understand it feels great to be alive, except for all those times we feel dead. So much bad happens, there’s no way to amend it all. No point in trying. When I refused to go to my wife’s funeral, I didn’t realize that would be the last straw for my daughter. Every action I took justifies where I am now, if I think about it. My penance was every atom within my body setting my nerves ablaze.

I think I actually enjoyed playing with my daughter, she wasn’t just added pressure after my 9hr work day. Winter nights were always the best. My wife would already be cooking, the house filled with pumpkin and allspice. The warmth would envelope me in orange glow. Nothing felt good in the moment, though. How do we keep ourselves afloat in all this sad stuff? I was only human, I was entitled to mistakes, I

could succumb to sadness. I accidentally ran over the family’s dog, and all my daughter did was blame me. I hurt, too, but was only the villain to her. I was losing her long before I even realized.

Maybe I was panicked my last night alive. It was nearing 4am and all I could hear was nothing. For that part of town, it was an anomaly. Not a single honk or insect chirp, just the ever-constant presence of death. It was a silence that engulfed you and could drive a man half mad if forced to listen too long. That’s how I knew it was time, and how I knew I actually wanted to reconcile with my daughter. I wanted to attend my wife’s funeral, renew our marriage vows, actually fix the attic’s squeaky window that still haunted me every time I heard a gust of wind. My end couldn’t be laying in sticky sheets, sweating from the sheer pain I was in, too hurt to turn my gaze from the swirling hospital ceiling.

I never wanted it to end like this, I should have been around more, this wasn’t how it was supposed to turn out. How was I supposed to fix it all? This can’t be it, right?

How could one person manage everything?

I never wanted to die al-

What You’ll Never Know 1. Your grandfather never loved anybody, didn’t mourn at his wife’s funeral. Your mother worked so hard to ensure you didn’t turn out like him.

2. The father you never had wasn’t a hero like your mother said, she just wanted you to have a hero to look up to. He, however, was lazy scum that ended up wasting away in the sewers after slipping while black out drunk.

3. When you punched your brother, Bart, for following you around town, that was the first time he genuinely hated you. However, he believes it was when he realized mother was dying and you were trying to make pretend.

4. The death of your mother was preventable. The doctors treating her were just so overwhelmed due to the outbreak that they skipped her routine check-up.

5. She didn’t die from the disease, but from choking on the orange you asked the doctor to give her.

6. The initials you convinced your brother to carve into that hospital wall sparked a tradition that patients of that room continued. Even after the wall was painted over, people continue to carve their initials there.

7. Your family wasn’t the only one going through turmoil. Using your mother’s death as an excuse for behavior issues impressed no one.

8. The cat you always fed despite your mother’s protests was the one that brought disease carrying ticks to the town.

9. An old man from the Midwest will trace over your initials shortly before his death.

10. When you were born, your mother looked into your face with not love or care, but fear. She saw the face of her husband and was filled with what-ifs and regret.

She asked the attendee to take you away, said she wasn’t feeling all that well at the moment. She had felt fear before, but never in her life was it so intense as it was at that moment when she felt responsible for bringing a soon to be monster into the world.

11. No matter how smooth you though yourself to be, you never did know how to talk to girls.

12. Charles, your childhood friend, never liked the games you two would play. He saw you as stuck up and self-centered, but was lonely and had nowhere else to go.

13. A young doctor will eventually claim the room with your initials. There, she will go on to struggle through the loss of multiple patients before adding RP to the wall and quitting.

14. Ms. Lila stopped selling you her bread because she caught a peek of you tossing it to some mangy street animal.

15. That pit you dug with Charles will later be claimed by Gregor Wallace as a burial site for all the patients he lost during experimentation. After he was caught, and even after he passed, police have never been able to locate his victims.

16. The family struggled after Ms. Lila stopped supplying bread, but your mother always made sure to put on a smile and keep her kids fed. For a while, though, she resented you.

17. Rita Peony gets the hospital shutdown and claimed as a historical site before moving to California.

18. Your brother isn’t necessarily your brother. More like half. Your mother was surprised that you hadn’t inquired about how she could possibly get pregnant when there was no man around, but chalked it up to how young you were. She was having an affair with Ms. Lila’s husband and couldn’t stomach terminating.

People talked, asked questions, but nothing big ever came out of it.

19. Ms. Lila didn’t find out until a drunken argument with her husband.

20. Your father’s last conscious wish, as he was covered in grime and staring at nothing, was that there was a way for you to never have existed. Perhaps your mother never would have kicked him out if that was the case.

21. Charles got blamed for the ball you chucked through his window. His father was not happy, and Charles was definitely not happy when you laughed after he told you what happened.

22. Bart turned into exactly what your mother feared. After you moved on and left him to his own devices, he spiraled. Bart seemed well at first, but his wife knew the monster he was. She didn’t want the child, but Bart insisted. The kid grew up with a resentful mother and neglectful father, no wonder he claimed his uncle’s pit and began lobotomizing people.

23. Before you left the state, you were considered one of the most gifted doctors from the area. Before they knew you were quitting, staff had a stone carved and prepared to officially honor your name. You quite two days before they were going to show you.

24. The stone with your name was part of a wing that crumbled during a snowstorm some years later. All the stones and materials were demolished, reduced to rubble, and sold as scrap for a meager profit.

25. Every day for a couple of years, from 12 to 4 am, a tabby cat would curl up against your headstone. When the sun began to crest, it would stalk off to the hospital and become a phantom amongst the halls.

Before Hours The cat rose from its dry spot in front of the headstone as sun began to trickle into her view. She stretched, tabby fur puffing, before heading to the abandoned hospital that could be seen above the hill’s crest. In this rural area, the day was chilly.

The cat sidestepped a large pit that had long since been revitalized with grass, wild peonies, and ammonia fungi. She shifted through dewy grass during her descent and gave a quick shake as she reached the crumbled opening of a hospital wing. This area was rotted and smelled of mildew, but as the cat continued on her usual route, things began to turn. Strong walls of stone still held up most of the hospital. The floors were mute, but had the potential to gleam again. The cat was no more than a phantom amongst brightening halls.

She ventured from room to room, batting at wires and the occasional mouse before moving on. Shards of plastic littered the floor from the old rectangular ceiling lights. Much of the glass from various wards had shattered all together, making this journey a dangerous dance. The cat negotiated these obstacles gracefully, though, one pad touching down followed by a weightless twist or leap. She ventured down a hall that led to a room with a mildewed bed on one side, and on the other, a shattered clock with both hands frowning. She entered the room and pawed at scratch marks on the wall below a window, adding her own signature to the mix. The cat was no more than a phantom amongst brightening halls.

A beaked mask laid next to a grey bricked wall. The cat prodded it to see if any breakfast was in there, but all that puffed out was a plume of dust. She sneezed before continuing on. A torn painting of some young person hung lopsided along the wall. His

face was layered too thickly with dust to make out much, but the plaque beneath it read In Tribute to Alec W. The cat continued on, picking a fight with an icepick that clattered from a shelf and startled her. She pawed at it then pounced around, head kept low.

When it was no longer deemed a threat, she gave it one last nudge before moving on.

The cat was no more than a phantom amongst brightening halls.

All the ceilings that were left were low-rise and flat. The architecture from so long ago had collapsed, decades of pressure too much to handle. A leak from some busted pipe occasionally filled the hospital with the soft plonk of water hitting water. It was chilled in here despite the warming summer morning, but there was a special spot that never disappointed. A whimsical spot of spirits and loss. She carried on across the floor, determined to keep moving. This place may have felt tranquil, but she could sense the unease these stolid walls held. The cat was no more than a phantom amongst brightening halls.

Through a cracked window pane, sun streamed through. It illuminated the dust, making the hall seem full of fairy magic. She swatted through the air and caused a stir in the twinkling serenity. The cat was content on the spot and jumped from a metal shelf to the high window. Sun felt calm against fur, a sharp contrast to the hospital’s cool interior, and the cat’s purr echoed into the hall. Soon enough, though, it was almost the afternoon and she had places to be. It was time to leave until tomorrow came around again. The cat was no more than a phantom amongst brightening halls.

Feeling Foreign

by Nadia Laswad

Feeling Foreign

by Nadia Laswad

For my mother

Table of Contents

1. María 2. Where is Home 3. Waiting for the Sun to Set 4. Don’t Look Back 5. Everywhere 6. The Bus Stop 7. The Three Doors 8. My Little Actress 9. Reduce Your Likelihood of Self Shame

María 25 things you’ll never know…

1. I knew that kids made fun of you when you only knew how to speak Spanish in elementary school. I didn’t say anything because you looked so confused. Your eyebrows were scrunched and your eyes were slightly squinted. You looked adorably innocent. You tried to remember what they said in English and slowly pronounced every word that you recalled. Then you asked me what it meant and I couldn’t tell you. I just couldn’t. You were only a little girl who came from Trujillo.

How could I? It got so bad, your teacher called me and told me. She said it would be better if you left Spanish for proper English. I hung up because Spanish is who you are. Don’t leave it. Embrace it.

2. You grew up and forgot what I taught you. I saw it coming, but I didn’t know years of diving ourselves in Spanish books would make you forget so easily. You got what you wanted or what those kids wanted.

3. You know, your father loves you. It’s not that he refuses to call you, it’s that he doesn’t know how to speak to you. He’s never known English the way you do.

Don’t blame him.

4. I love you.

5. Your father asks me how you’re doing. He says we should travel over to him. He says he wants to see his little girl again.

6. I’m working three jobs, not two.

7. Your grandparents want to see how you look like now. I sent a box to Trujillo. It has all of your photo albums. I didn’t want them to miss a single moment.

8. Your name is not Maria. It’s María, with the rolled r sound.

9. I never wanted to come here. I wanted to stay in Trujillo with your father eighteen years ago, but then you were born and I knew we had to make a better life for you and it wasn’t going to happen there. Not when we barely had enough money to buy ourselves food for dinner. Your father said he couldn’t leave with us, not when his business was finally starting to do good.

10. I know you wish I never moved to America and I know why. You’re still having trouble with the same kids but in high school.

11. I know you still love watching “El Chavo Del Ocho.” You never get tired of it. You think I don’t notice, but I do. I think it’s because you know your father and I watched it on our very first date.

12. Your boyfriend came over the other day. He asked if you were there. I remember the whole day before that you locked yourself in your room and I guessed you were ignoring his texts or calls and that’s why he came. I told him you weren’t there because that’s what you would’ve wanted.

13. Your father and I aren’t together. We haven’t been for four years. He hated doing long distance and eventually found someone else. We still talk though.

14. I found someone else. We’ve been dating for nine months.

15. Your father’s been learning English for you so the two of you can talk on the phone. He told me he learned the alphabet. When he recited it, I almost laughed.

He reminded me of an infant trying new sounds.

16. I still love him.

17. I had a miscarriage two months ago. I was four months before that, but it didn’t show. You would’ve been a big sister. I was sad. I was relieved. You wouldn’t have to know about everything now. I can only imagine what I would’ve had to tell you if my bump showed.

18. Mateo doesn’t know I’m still technically married. He doesn’t know I kind of like it that way.

19. I looked through your phone while you were taking a shower the other day. Your home screen was of us last Christmas in front of the tree. I smiled. It was just us.

That year, we didn’t invite anybody for the first time. We made cookies and watched movies. Then we slept through the night and we even forgot to open our presents. I put down the phone when I heard you turn the water off. Then I went downstairs and made cookies.

20. I installed security cameras because the neighbors got robbed not because I just felt like it. I wanted you to feel safe since this house was all I could afford.

21. Your father called last night. He told me he wanted a divorce, that he wanted to propose to her. I didn’t know how that would work when he was on the other side of the world, but I told him we could figure it out even though I didn’t want to and I didn’t know why. After that, I called Mateo and gently told him I needed a little bit of space. That I wouldn’t be able to go on that date next week.

22. I wish I never moved to America. If we stayed in Trujillo, I would’ve been with your father and you would’ve known Spanish. You’d be able to talk to your father

about everything you wish you could talk about and your grandparents wouldn’t have to ask for pictures of you.

23. You broke up with your boyfriend. I know. When you came home after school today, you didn’t tell me, but I could tell. Your eyes looked like mine. I don’t know why you never tell me anything, but I guess I do the same.

24. I made you cookies today, but you didn’t notice. I left them on the kitchen counter in case you come out of your room.

25. I know you’re watching “El Chavo Del Ocho” right now, but you’ll never know that your father and I won’t ever watch it again together. At least not as lovers.

Where is Home “In fact, my entire neighborhood is glowing. Except for my home.” after Ann Hood

My mother is scared to come back home. Yes, that is why she isn’t there every time I see if she’s here. I kick my feet off the rusty wooden chunks on the ground and swing. I feel myself elevate higher and higher then come back down. A wave of disappointment rushes through my body every time, but I keep swinging anyway. I know I am a grown man, but I don’t care. I don’t care that kids are waiting for me to get off the swing. I haven’t been here in a while.

I don’t know why mother hasn’t been home. Father says it’s been years since then, but where did all those years go? Has it really been that long? I remember how she looked the last time I saw her. I was fifteen. She was beautiful. I remember every time we went to the park, she’d turn heads, even the married ones. Her long brown hair cascaded down her back in waves, she had soft eyes, a soft smile. You wouldn’t think she was the type to run away from her problems, but she did. I blame my father for the divorce.

I keep swinging despite how crazy I look. I’m wearing my suit attire and dress shoes. It isn’t my favorite, but it’s what I have to wear to work. I’d much rather wear my sweatshirt and track pants, but I guess you can’t always do what you want. I feel like I can’t keep up. I mean, all my friends are settled down. They have kids. I can’t imagine myself being like them.

I find it funny that I get numerous clients swarming through my phone line when I need a lawyer myself—to help me with my case.

My mother is scared to come back home is what I tell myself. When she comes back, she’ll notice the house isn’t ours anymore. When she wants to come to find me, she won’t be able to. I live far away from home now. Even if she finds out where I live, she won’t able to figure out where I am. I am scared to come back home. Here is the only other home I know. Where I live in the past and where I live as a kid. I wonder which home mother is scared of revisiting. I wonder which home I’m supposed to live in.

Waiting for the Sun to Set

Kayla I know I am black like my biological parents and I know this color is not tan from the sun because my parents now do not tan from the same sun. We put on the same sunscreen. I put on the same makeup as my mother but how unnatural it looks on my face. It’s revolting, but I try so hard to fit in. I want to hold my mother and my father’s hand out on the beach and not be questioned. I want to take pictures with them and show off my tightly kinked hair. A little boy bumps into me and without saying sorry, he walks a bit faster after seeing me. This area isn’t known to have many colored people so I can understand that. Why me though? The one whose ancestors were slaves to whatever plantation? People say they are glad that times have changed, but I am still a slave under the sun, here at the beach. Mother and father don’t know. How would they know when they think people are staring because we’re running around? There were other people running around too. They always look at the brighter side of things, like how they are taking pictures of the sandcastle I made, while I was staring at the sunset above the resonant waves, happy that it was going down. But, mother and father don’t know.

Melissa Jeremy and I know. We don’t say, but we know. The way she’d compliment my tousled blonde ringlets, hold them for a little too long and explore the texture. The way she’d look between her wide-tooth comb and my paddle brush. The way she’d look around

mindlessly and see if people were watching her. Nobody was watching, I wanted to tell her every time she turned that little head of hers. If they were, it was because they were captivated by her big soft brown eyes and bold hair that cascaded down her skin, so shiny, like dark roast coffee beans. She’d never believe me if I told her. She was like that. So stubborn, never wants to listen. Well, at least to me. She sucks up to her father though. I remember when she was six, I tried to read her a bedtime story, but she never fell asleep. I called over Jeremy and he read to her in a voice so soothing, she was out like a light before he could even finish the story. We laughed and ever since that day, she was attached to Jeremy. He took the opportunity to teach her things like baseball, how to avoid boys and even cars, but he, I mean we, never talked to her about what people like her need to know. But I don’t want her to know about—she’s too young. But for now, I want her to smile about her sandcastle before it disintegrates.

Don’t Look Back Her scarlet skirt hid the purity of her heart.

--Opal Palmer Adisa, “Fruit Series”

Play

Play the piano, mother says. My fingers numb and elude to the touch, but they still betray me. They don’t mean to, it’s just habit. Mother wouldn’t be too happy if I stopped playing. It wouldn’t look good for our family. My grandfather, who had played six Mozart pieces by memory. My mother, who played all the classical instruments. My father, who played the violin. This tradition, I called it an unplanned pregnancy. You don’t want the child, but you have to embrace it.

Perfect

Hours of ballet. I used to enjoy it, but not anymore. Not when I have to be dragged to the studio. Every day I hear the same things over and over again like a time loop. Turn out. Point your toes. Keep your shoulders down. Hide your thumbs. Pull up through your torso. Don’t sickle. The studio used to be a place where I would do contemporary dance in the mornings, but when my mother found out about my secret drives, I had to put on my point shoes and suck it up.

Feelings

Lian, my sister, doesn’t want this life either. It’s like we can’t be American in America. Maybe I want to have sleepovers and do things that the girls in my grade are doing. Talk about boys or even watch chick flicks while we cry and blow our noses.

There’s one thing mother doesn’t understand. I’m just a kid.

American

I think she’s scared I will forget where my ancestors came from, but how could I forget all of that when I have the face of a minority? I feel like I am between the collision of two countries, China and America. I don’t know where I am supposed to stand or what face I want.

Everywhere After David Crosby’s Looks in Their Eyes

I see her everywhere. I’m starting to think I’m going insane. And maybe I’m okay with being insane because seeing her is what I want. Not when I’m at work because then I’m reminded that work is why I am far away from her. I just want to wake up and be in my village where I was born, got married, and where my daughter, Imani, was born too. Her name is Amari. She’s my wife.

I’m on my phone, staring at a picture of Amari, Imani, and I when I hear a bell, which means a customer walked into the store. He seems tired. He walks with his back hunched. He looks like he needs a day off with the way his clothes are looking as if messily brushed over with paint. He probably does renovation. I had to do a job like that once for my neighbor, I recall.

I watch him, making sure he doesn’t steal. Every item in this convenience store, I bought with my own money so I will be damned if I ever let anyone take anything. He walks into the candy aisle and looks around, sees me watching him and then suddenly seems as if he changed his mind about wanting anything sweet. I’m not stupid. I might not have security cameras, but I learned when you’re busy watching the real thing happen on the screen you miss your chance of catching them.

“What are you looking for?” I ask the man. He seems caught off guard from my accent.

“Ehh…I don’t really know. Actually, I think I might just get a pack of cigarettes,” he replies.

I look behind me and ask, “Which one?”

“The red one.”

“4.50.”

“Perfect.”

The man takes out his wallet and looks through it. His eyes slightly widen as if he realized something. I put the Marlboro pack on the counter and he snatches it, then runs before I even know what happened. The last thing I remember is the bell ringing. I guess I am stupid.

Stupid for thinking I could at least send a hundred dollars for Amari and Imani who want new shoes. It rained in the village last week out of nowhere and now their shoes are ruined, completely filled with mud. There was no use in cleaning them when they were already torn up from being worn countless times.

I see them everywhere. I am reminded that my life here is relied on by them. I see them, yet I still don’t try to catch him because maybe I don’t want to be here. Maybe I’d rather sell fruits at the market where my people never steal.

The Bus Stop He knew then that they were going home.

--Muna Fadhil, “Prisoner of War” All I can feel is the wind biting my face as I stuff my hands in the pit of my pockets and shiver from the cold. My house is across the street, and I could stay inside where it’s warm and cozy, but when I went downstairs and looked through the window I see the same people I usually see at the bus stop stuffing their hands in their pockets and for some reason, it set this churning feeling inside of me. I felt entitled to stay inside so I walked into the chaos and stuffed my hands in the same way.

As I wait, I have the urge to look at my phone, but it’s too cold out. I sigh and decide to play around with the snow instead. The tips of my shoes draw lines across the ground. I’m not sure what exactly I’m drawing, but anything will do if it means it’ll kill boredom. I keep drawing until I hear a sudden voice behind me.

“I saw that pin on your backpack. You Muslim?”

I turn around and immediately recognize whose voice it is. The same guy who talks to me every day. Even so, I don’t know much about him other than the fact that he’s a smoker and is around his mid-thirties or forties judging by his wrinkles. He is wearing a Trump hat and it covers his eyes but I can still feel his glare. He looks down at me in a menacing stance and steps a bit closer. I don’t know whether to feel intimidated or disgusted by the way he reeks of alcohol and cigarettes. I ignore him as usual. He keeps trying to talk to me even though I’m wearing my headphones. I never listen to anything, but it comes in use when I go anywhere and now is a good example of why.

“I know a lot of people like you. Haha. You should vote for Trump Lots of bombings happening in the Middle East. Tell me, when’s it gonna bomb here?” He asked.

I look around to see if anybody is watching. I see the lady who I have sat next to on the bus a couple of times when it was crowded. I remember I have gotten up for her once when I realized no one would stand up for an elderly woman. She knows what’s going on, I can tell, but when I catch her eye, she turns her head. I frown. Everyone else’s back is faced towards the other way, using their phones as excuses to ignore the situation or pretending they were looking to see if the bus was coming. The bus was not coming any time soon. I don’t understand why they acted like they were in such a hurry when I was standing in front of a drunkard, desperate to be the first one on.

The Three Doors In a distant realm, a man named Akeem walked through the Hall of the Unknown, his voice wavered as he called for somebody, anybody who might have been there. Alas, there was no one. He took the chance to observe. It was heard of that the Hall of the Unknown generated its setting to the place you find the most sentimental. As soon as the thought came to mind, a screen appeared below him. The visual of a tide was directed towards the end of the hall and he had a feeling that was where he was supposed to be. So, he let the tide lead him and at the end of the hall, a door was revealed.

Unburnished and no handle. He wondered how he would open it. As soon as he traced the chipped paint of the outside edges, it pushed open on its own.

The first thing he noticed as he stepped inside was a silky yet rough texture between his toes. He realized beneath him was an island of sand. He felt naked like he was the butter on hot toast. What was happening? He didn’t know. All he knew was that this felt like home.

This felt like the sunny walks by the shore with his little sister, Fatimah, except she wasn’t where Akeem was. She was back in Aden with their mother.

She didn’t want to leave her mother behind so she stayed with her. As much as he wanted to be with them, he knew this was the right choice. He needed the dollar bills which weighed more than Yemeni Rial. They were also well off on their own, but he knew he could spare them the poor conditions of their apartment with a job.

And here he was in front of three doors. All of which were plastered by flags signifying the entryway to a country. Akeem knew this was going to happen.

It was part of the process of immigrating to a country. Each person who was applying was put into this realm and presented with three doors. Even so, it wasn’t the same three doors for everyone.

He knocked on the first one. America. The country of freedom. Well known for its diversity yet also known for its deep segregation. Nobody cared though. Everybody was in it for the money.

A voice hollered out, “What is your name?”

He answered with a heavy accent, “Akeem Mohsen.”

“Your application wasn’t accepted as Trump administration banned seven countries from entering the US including Yemen.”

“But—can I at least—what am I supposed to do—” The voice cut him off, “I’m sorry, please proceed to the next door.”

Before he knew it, the door disappeared, along with the American flag. He sighed, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know why or what happened, but realized he had to move on. Although, that idea was foreign to him.

With his toes, he scrunched the sand and reminisced his favorite memories. He was going to back out, but now with the strength of his family by his side in the grains of this island of wonders, he knew this time was going to work. So, he walked with his bare feet to the second door and knocked.

A British voice called out, “Your name?”

Akeem told the voice his name.

“Visa denied because the applicant is not qualified.”

“What? No. Listen, he told me on the phone—” “Next door please.”

The second door disappeared along with Akeem’s hopes. Britain was somewhere on his list of countries he would like to have visited or lived in if America wasn’t an option. While there were work opportunities in America, he didn’t know anybody there, so he thought maybe Britain was the better choice since he had friends there, but he wasn’t accepted. He walked to the final door and knocked.

“Hi! What’s your name?”

“Akeem Mohsen,” he said for the third and final time. He hoped to God that this time a door would open up for him. That he could start a new beginning.

As much as he didn’t want to leave behind a sentimental memory, he knew had to for the sake of his family. He knew this was also part of the application process, the test. The ability to move on to bigger and better things. He anticipated a moment before the voice finally spoke. “…Applicant accepted. Welcome to Utopia!”

My Little Actress (400 words) “Don’t worry about it,” mama and papa tell me. It’s hard when you get phone calls from teachers asking you to rewrite classwork because most of it was in Spanish.

The thing is, we’ve settled here for about a couple of months already and it’s been really hard, especially trying to get accustomed to a different country. María, my daughter, started taking ESL classes but I don’t think it’s helping her out much. She doesn’t seem happy here. I notice how she tries to talk to her friends, but they don’t understand her.

When they come over, they don’t know how to interact with her, so they play together.

That’s all kids care about nowadays. If you are fun to play with, then you got yourself a deal.

I hear María tiptoeing in her room and the floorboards creaking. I chuckle to myself. There’s no hiding in this house, especially when it’s still under repair and every little thing makes noises. I place my coffee on the table before heading upstairs. As expected, it creaks and as I’m going upstairs, I hear panicked footsteps for a second before it abruptly stops.

I see María’s door and open it. The lights were off and she was tucked away in bed pretending she wasn’t awake past her bedtime. She’s so funny. María groans as she turns over to another sleeping position and I can’t help but notice what a great actress she is. Then strangely, I wonder what type of actress she would become here in America. A Spanish or an English one?

Would she rehearse and recite lines in a language so unfamiliar to her ancestors or would she travel to North America and act in movies her grandmother would understand or would she become a Hollywood actress and go on the red carpet?

I realize I’m getting ahead of myself. Earlier today, I called my friends who were back home in Trujillo about my over worrying and they told me a common thing that happened with immigrants and their children was that they would grow up and forget their roots. So, they advised me to teach her everything I know. Even teach her our family Spanish recipes so she doesn’t forget what Hispanic smells like.

As she lays here “sleeping,” I kiss her on her forehead even though I know she was watching “El Chavo Del Ocho” the entire time.

My Little Actress (300 words) “Don’t worry about it,” mama and papa tell me. It’s hard when you get phone calls from teachers asking you to rewrite classwork because most of it was in Spanish. We’ve settled here for a couple of months and it’s been hard, especially trying to get accustomed to a different country. María, my daughter, started taking ESL classes but I don’t think it’s helping her out much. I notice how she tries to talk to her friends, but they don’t understand her.

I hear María tiptoeing in her room and the floorboards creaking. There’s no hiding in this house, especially when it’s still under repair and every little thing makes noises. I place my coffee on the table before heading upstairs. As expected, it creaks and as I’m going upstairs, I hear panicked footsteps for a second before it abruptly stops.

I see María’s door and open it. The lights were off and she was tucked away in bed pretending she wasn’t awake past her bedtime. María turns over to another sleeping position and I can’t help but notice what a great actress she is. Then strangely, I wonder what type of actress she would become here in America. A Spanish or an English one?

Would she rehearse and recite lines in a language so unfamiliar to her ancestors or would she travel to North America and act in movies her grandmother would understand or would she become a Hollywood actress and go on the red carpet?

I realize I’m getting ahead of myself. Earlier today, I called my friends who were back home in Trujillo. They advised me to teach her everything I know.

As she lays here “sleeping,” I kiss her on her forehead even though I know she was watching “El Chavo Del Ocho” the entire time.

My Little Actress (250 words) We’ve settled here for a couple of months and it’s been hard, especially trying to get accustomed to a different country. María, my daughter, started taking ESL classes but I don’t think it’s helping her out much. I notice how she tries to talk to her friends, but they don’t understand her.

I hear María tiptoeing in her room and the floorboards creaking. There’s no hiding in this house, especially when it is still under repair and every little thing makes noises. I place my coffee on the table before heading upstairs. As expected, it creaks and as I’m going upstairs, I hear panicked footsteps for a second before it abruptly stops.

I see María’s door and open it. The lights were off and she was tucked away in bed pretending she wasn’t awake past her bedtime. María turns over to another sleeping position and I can’t help but notice what a great actress she is. Then strangely, I wonder what type of actress she would become here in America. A Spanish or an English one?

Would she rehearse and recite lines in a language so unfamiliar to her ancestors or would she travel to North America and act in movies her grandmother would understand or would she become a Hollywood actress and go on the red carpet?

I realize I’m getting ahead of myself.

As she lays here “sleeping,” I kiss her on her forehead even though I know she was watching “El Chavo Del Ocho” the entire time.

Reduce Your Likelihood of Self Shame Do not frustrate.

--Ander Monson, “Reduce Your Likelihood of Murder”

Do not care. Do not think about what they said. “I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re a good fit in this workplace.” Do not think it is because of your size. Do not think your size is a bad fit. Do not think that is what they meant. Do not care. Do not stop walking to your bus stop because of the pain in your feet and the pain in your knees. Do not look at who you think is looking. Do not care that you have no thigh gap. Do not care about the hour glass figure walking much faster than you. That’s it. There you go! Now, you’re at the bus stop. You’ve made it. Oh! And here comes the bus! Put in $2.75 and you’re good! It’s filled though. Only a couple individual seats and two seats in the middle were empty You take the two seats because it’s just enough for you.

Don’t let it bother you that the bus is gradually filling up. Don’t let it bother you that the last person getting on the bus is looking for a seat. Don’t look at the second seat that most of your body is sitting on. Don’t pay attention to the old lady in your left giving you a disapproving stare and whispering to her husband about you even though she was hardly whispering. Don’t feel claustrophobic. Remember, it’s just a bus ride.

Don’t let your nerves get to you.

Don’t let her judge your supposed diet consisted of “fast foods and chips.” She doesn’t know any better. Smile and enjoy these two seats. You’ve finally found a good fit.

Two and a Half Miles Amanda Mitchell

\ Two and a Half Miles Amanda Mitchell

‌RENEGADE. —Lottery, K Camp For 3:33, Juliana, Mark, and the friendly golden retriever & his owner who I run into every year on the Sea Gate elevator.

Table of Contents Under the Boardwalk 4-7-8 Single Rider Across the Sand Over Heat Snow Angels 25 Things You Don’t Know While on Vacation Lookout In the Middle

Under the Boardwalk

A great while ago, when the world was still full of wonders, people lived under the boardwalk. It was too dark to see more than a few feet in front of oneself, yet there were cracks in the boards where light filtered through, casting tall projections that resembled humans.

A young boy spent hours staring at the light while his grandma slept. There was no such thing as night and day down there, all he knew was when his grandma was asleep and when she wasn’t. He lived among other families, but his grandma told him that it’s better to keep to himself and that he shouldn’t be talking to others unless he’s told to do so. They stayed in their own tiny home that was dug into a dirt wall spaced out from the other houses. His grandma never allowed him to leave unless she was going with him, but he still found his way out of the house.

When his grandma wasn’t asleep, she spent her time balanced upon a rocking chair with him sat on the floor in front of her, listening to stories she told about the earth.

Nearly every night, he dreamt of leaving and getting to live through the stories she told.

He fantasized about taking his first breath of fresh air and looking up to see, what his grandma described as, an endless and suffocating blue.

The only thing his grandma refused to tell him is why people fled under the boardwalk years ago. She just continued to reinforce in his mind that there was nothing left above them, and if he found his way beyond the boards, he would be completely alone.

He could often hear steps atop the boards, but his grandma reassured him that it was only the wind. Even if he did bring up any questions about leaving, his grandma said he wouldn’t make it out there without her and she was getting too old to make it out herself. Sometimes while she napped, he would silently pry at the boards above him wishing for just a nail to pop or a screw to come lose. His fingertips were covered in splinters that he had to rip out himself or else his grandma would know that he had been messing with the boards.

He knew his grandma had become prone to breathing in the thick air that he was forced to live in, but it was beginning to make him feel nauseous. He realized long ago that he was going to have to leave without her. He thought he was going to need time to pack, but started to realize that he didn’t have much to bring with him in the first place.

He started asking around about the exit and talked to people that he didn’t even know existed. He grew weary of asking, but soon came upon a woman who had a similar story. She explained that she had left once, much like he was, but returned because she missed her family all too much. She directed him to the exit after hearing his reasoning and they parted ways when the light from the tunnel was too bright for her eyes. The light burned his eyes, too, but it was welcoming.

He never thought he would be able to leave with such ease. He liked to think his grandma was out searching for him, but at the same time he didn’t want her to. He just wanted to go outside and see how big the earth really was. His grandma had told him that the only thing she missed about the earth was how much space there was to roam, but he hadn’t been able to picture what that looked like until he took his first step out.

He took a breath deeper than he ever had before and felt it weave between his ribs and dance in his lungs. The second thing he noticed was the open blue his grandma protested and wondered how she could ever be too overwhelmed by fear to leave.

4-7-8

After Jamaica Kinkaid, “Girl”

This is how you pull out a splinter with just your fingers, look, don’t twist it; these are the things you put in a first aid kit; if your friends jump off a bridge, are you going to jump too? This pepper spray only has one spray left, I’ll pack it for you; you never know what kind of people walk next to you on the boardwalk; if you find yourself caught in a riptide, swim sideways, not directly against the current; if your friend gets caught in a riptide, don’t try to save them, get the lifeguard to; you’re too young to go to the inlet when it’s dark outside, it’s too crowded; this is what you do if you see a shark near you in the water; don’t panic if you get stuck under a wave; this how you don’t end up like your sister; are you listening to me? I don’t feel like a mom unless I’m being listened to; are you sure I can’t come?; I hope you and your friends have fun; this is how to have fun even if you’re paranoid; this is what to do when your friend does something you’re not allowed to; this is how to walk so you don’t look like a moving target; this is how to respond when I text you; this is how you text three people your location if you’re going somewhere alone; don’t go anywhere alone; this is how you pretend to talk on the phone if you feel like someone’s following you; these are what stores you can shop at; these are things that you’re allowed to buy; these are things I don’t want you spending money on; this is how to steal something if you need to; this is how to breath if you start to panic; breath in for four seconds, hold the breath for seven seconds, and exhale for eight seconds; it works; if your friend gets caught in a riptide, maybe you should save

them, I would want them to save you; this is the way I wish I spoke to your sister; this is how to pose in pictures so it looks like you’re having fun; this is why you will have no time to relax; this is why you need to calm down; this is why you need to walk faster when you’re not around many people; this is how I know you’re going to stay safe; this is how I’m not going to lose another child; this is how to pull out a splinter, twisting it might make it come out faster; this is what to do if the splinter breaks in half; this is what to do if it gets infected; this is what to do if skin grows over it; this is how to pull the splinter out even if it has already burrowed six inches under your skin—

Single Rider

…the hollow machine heaves and drops, leaving them weightless for long moments before scooping them up again.

—Sionnain Buckley

While walking, she thought about the distance between each of her steps. With every one she felt the uneven boardwalk nails press through the soles of her sandals. A blinding wheel stood in front of her, as it turned, it suffocated the stars behind it and she could swear she felt herself having to catch her own breath, too. No one else seemed to be nearing the Ferris wheel as it came to a stop, maybe it was seconds away from rolling off its hinges like she had only seen in cartoons or maybe it was stuck and the person at the very top was moments away from bawling. Then she saw the wheel set into motion once again and examined every cart as they rocked back and forth, with the passengers somehow able to laugh about it.

She knew that she would soon be the one in the cart, but she would not be laughing. She had already planned to sit cross-legged upon the seat because she didn’t want to see her feet dangle in the air or maybe the safety bar would begin to cut into her thighs while she was at the top and she would have no way of alerting the operator. It was her own idea to ride the Ferris wheel by herself because she knew that she had to confront her acrophobia sooner or later and what better way to do it than with the slowest, yet highest, ride at the end of the boardwalk. It was her first time visiting the beach and she came alone to ensure she would have no distractions. She liked the

beach and the way her feet buried under the wet sand if she stood along the shore for long enough. She even thought that she would finally have some courage to get over herself, but now as she watched the wheel turn over like the crest of a tidal wave eager to crash, she considered going back to her hotel and sleeping on the carpet so she could stay close to the ground for as long as possible. But she had already trapped herself in line and tiptoed into her seat, with the operator slamming the bar of the cart shut, almost snapping her fingers, and sending her backwards, inducing instant nausea.

She nervously wiggled her hips as she tried to cross her legs and teared up when she realized she wasn’t going to be able to. As she rose into the sky, she thought her seat would eject and fling her into the ocean and considered that she would much rather that happen, so she could sink to the bottom of the sea.

Across the Sand

And she caught her breath when she saw the two of them in the mirror.

—H.J. Shepard

Her hands waved helplessly above spindrift water. She knew there were no lifeguards, it was just him and her too far out to reach the bottom. She thought of how content she had just felt on the boardwalk not even ten minutes ago. Gray clouds covered the sun, yet they still ate ice cream together anyways. He didn’t think about the ice cream, all he could feel was the water ramming into his ribs, nearly turning them into icicles. He didn’t brother waving his arms like she did. He was always told it was better to remain calm if you were drowning. He wanted to say something to her but every time he opened his mouth it felt like he was downing a glass of salted mouthwash. As much as she wanted to get back to shore, he preferred the underside of the surface as silence pealed in his ears.

She hadn’t been pulled under yet and she could still hear guitar strums from boardwalk musicians just across the sand. She knew they were only six streets out from the start of the boardwalk when they first dipped their toes in the water, but she recognized the inlet Ferris wheel warping over her now. Even in such distress she considered how easy it might’ve been to relax and drift under a wave like she was only a blade of seaweed and pretend that’s where she was supposed to be.

He shot upwards to the sky and suddenly he was able to catch his breath again.

He felt her arm wrapping around his chest and found comfort when his feet scraped

against the sand below him. Once his body was laid onto the shore, his hair tangled with sand, he somehow missed feeling weightless under the waves. Back on land it felt like gravity was going to suffocate him.

“Are you okay?” He heard what sounded like a familiar voice, but couldn’t determine if it was her because he had never heard her so out of breath before.

He smiled and sprawled his limbs in all different directions trying to imagine what it felt like to be among the waves again. She didn’t smile back but instead pressed her face into the warmth below her and listened to the boardwalk musicians play softly, still across the sand as if nothing had ever happened.

Over Heat …and he did not protest against the dark.

—Hannah Bottomy Avery wore sunglasses, yet the sun still glared too sharply into the squint of her eyes to see anything ahead of her. Maybe that’s why she was always tripping.

BEFORE THAT, when they kissed, she slipped away onto the sand. It was her first time stepping onto the beach in seven years.

BEFORE THAT, Avery stood as her mother recited vows to her soon-to-be stepfather. They wed on the boardwalk rather than the beach because her mother didn’t want to get sand on her dress.

BEFORE THAT, her mother never stopped planning vacations to the beach; if anything, she planned them more than she used to. She started going with her new boyfriend because Avery didn’t want to go with her anymore.

BEFORE THAT, Avery never liked the boardwalk, she constantly found herself tripping on uneven boards. Her mother told her that if she wasn’t always looking down at the screen of her phone, then maybe she wouldn’t trip as much.

BEFORE THAT, her father had suffered a heart attack on twenty-eighth street.

Avery was holding his hand when it happened.

BEFORE THAT, the three of them walked down the boardwalk, her mother always strayed behind and sometimes completely disappeared when she wandered into shops without letting them know.

BEFORE THAT, her father held her hand as they walked down each street. He would grip both of her hands and make her fly above the ground each time she was about to trip.

BEFORE THAT, her mother surprised them with a vacation somewhere that was warm for the first time. Avery didn’t want to go, but her father told her that was probably just going to be a one-time thing.

BEFORE THAT, the boardwalk was just a place she thought of that had no snow, unlike her Denver home. She liked the cold more than the heat and she was pretty sure it was always going to stay that way.

Snow Angels

Together, they walked upon the frozen boardwalk. They were bundled in homeknit scarves, wool hats, and jackets so puffy they could extend their arms only enough to hold each other’s hands. Although it was cold and last year he had suffered minor frostbite on his fingers and toes, they still preferred taking their annual beach vacation during the winter.

They used to bring their children, but they easily tired of not being able to swim or shop or do practically anything. They decided they liked it better without the children anyways; they could do whatever they wanted without hearing a single opposition, plus the boardwalk and the beach were completely empty all day. They thought that snow was much better than sand. Sometimes they liked to see who could stand in the snowcovered sand the longest without shoes. Their feet would burn in the snow just the same as it would in the sand and their soles would redden like cherry-dipped ice cream.

When they came to the boardwalk for the first time during the winter, they were young and had only been dating for about a year. It was their senior year of high school and they planned a trip during December so they could skip a few days of school, as if it were a second winter break. They hadn’t been to the beach in the summer since and didn’t plan on going again anytime soon. Sometimes they considered leaving everything behind to pretend they were in high school again. They would stop responding to their families calls and texts and even letters if it came down to it, and live to make snow angels along the shore.

Every year, when they had to go back home, they would drive with the AC on full blast so they could keep their jackets, hats, and gloves on and pretend they were only just driving to the beach. They usually sat in silence the whole time. He would focus on driving and she would press her head against the window and fall asleep. She didn’t like watching as they drove home, it made her too sad thinking about what they were returning to. The beach didn’t demand responsibility from her like caring for her family did, all she had to do was lie down and turn to ice. Sometimes she would try to persuade him to stop and they could just walk back to the beach from there, then if their car was found, no one would ever even know if they went back or not.

Snow Angels Together, they walked upon the frozen boardwalk. They were bundled in homeknit scarves, wool hats, and jackets so puffy they could extend their arms only enough to hold each other’s hands. Although last year he had suffered minor frostbite on his fingers and toes, they still preferred taking their annual beach vacation during the winter.

They used to bring their children, but they easily tired of not being able to swim.

They decided they liked it better without the children anyways; they could do whatever they wanted, plus the boardwalk and the beach were completely empty. Sometimes they liked to see who could stand in the snow-covered sand the longest without shoes.

Their soles would redden like cherry-dipped ice cream.

When they came to the boardwalk for the first time during the winter, it was their senior year of high school and they planned a trip during December, as if it were a second winter break. Sometimes they considered leaving everything behind to pretend they were in high school again. They would stop responding to their families and live to make snow angels along the shore.

Every year, when they had to go home, they would drive with the AC on full blast so they could keep their jackets on and pretend they were only just driving to the beach.

They usually sat in silence the whole time. He would focus on driving and she would press her head against the window and fall asleep. She didn’t like watching as they drove home, it made her sad thinking about what they were returning to. The beach didn’t demand responsibility from her like caring for her family did, all she had to do was lie down and turn to ice. She would try to persuade him to stop and they could just walk

back to the beach from there, then if their car was found, no one would ever even know if they went back or not.

Snow Angels Together, they walked upon the frozen boardwalk. They were bundled in homeknit scarves, wool hats, and jackets so puffy they could extend their arms only enough to hold each other’s hands. Although last year he had suffered minor frostbite on his fingers and toes, they still preferred taking their annual beach vacation during the winter.

They used to bring their children, but they easily tired of not being able to swim.

They decided they liked it better without the children anyways; they could do whatever they wanted. Sometimes they liked to see who could stand in the snow-covered sand the longest without shoes. Their soles would redden like cherry-dipped ice cream.

When they came to the boardwalk for the first time during the winter, it was their senior year and they planned a trip during December. Sometimes they considered leaving everything behind to pretend they were in high school again. They would live to make snow angels along the shore.

Every year, when they had to go home, they would pretend they were only just driving to the beach. He would focus on driving and she would press her head against the window and fall asleep. She didn’t like watching as they drove home, it made her sad thinking about what they were returning to. The beach didn’t demand responsibility from her like caring for family did, all she had to do was lie down and turn to ice. She would try to persuade him to stop and they could just walk back to the beach from there, then if their car was found, no one would ever even know if they went back or not.

25 Things You Don’t Know While on Vacation

After Matthew Burnside, “Oblivion’s Fugue”

1. The man who walks next to you on the boardwalk for twenty-three minutes almost pickpockets you seven times, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

2. Your daughter, Ciara, hates family vacations at the beach. She can’t shake that time you let go of her while learning to swim in the ocean nine years ago. You don’t remember it happened.

3. Your son, Mason, thinks that the vacations are boring. He thinks they would be more fun if you didn’t yell at him for spending too much time on his phone.

4. After you tip the woman singing on the boardwalk four dollars, she is extremely underwhelmed. She uses two dollars to buy ice cream that slips out of her hand and falls on the ground. She uses the other two dollars to buy a keychain.

5. Ciara sneaks out of the hotel room every night. Sometimes she leaves because you snore too loud, other times she thinks of running away; most of the time she’s going to get something to eat. Mason knows, but he doesn’t think you’ll care if he tells you.

6. You have dropped thirteen pennies, seventeen nickels, one dime, and two quarters between the boards of the boardwalk.

7. In three years, you will get divorced. Your wife will lay awake some nights and miss the annual beach vacations she went on with you and the kids. You will miss when you didn’t have to be the one to help the kids with their math homework.

8. Both kids hate your favorite seafood restaurant. Next year, you will eat there alone.

9. Your wife meets someone else at the inlet the night you decide to stay in the room. They will spend hours playing games and riding rides together. When she comes home that night, she considers telling you, but she doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal.

10. You have been in the background of four different photos taken on the beach.

One of which looked like you were purposefully photobombing it.

11. One night when Ciara sneaks out of the hotel room, someone attempts to kidnap her as she takes a shortcut to McDonald’s through an alley, but she makes it away in time. She continues to run to McDonald’s instead of going back because she knows you won’t do anything to help make her feel better anyways.

12. Mason will go on his last vacation with you in three years. Ciara’s last will be in four.

13. A horseshoe crab’s tail was three away inches away from stabbing into your shin while you stood in the ocean.

14. Years after you stop coming to the beach, your favorite seafood restaurant will close down for failing to meet basic health regulations. Ciara will find out and gag thinking about how slimy their fish used to be. Mason won’t remember the restaurant. Your wife will cry and eat fish for dinner that night.

15. The only thing Ciara anticipated doing while on vacation this year was going crab fishing with you. You will cancel because you think she doesn’t enjoy it anymore.

When she finds out you aren’t going together, she cries in the hotel room for an hour and a half while she’s alone.

16. The moldy bread that you decide to feed to the seagulls makes them all sick for days. Although, the one who stood in the back and did not get any food from you, died of starvation three days later.

17. When you tell your wife that you don’t think renting a tandem bike will be fun, she goes with the guy she met at the inlet instead. They ride past you as you walk down the boardwalk, but you don’t notice.

18. The ball you hit into the pond while mini golfing interferes with the system that regulates the temperature of the water, causing all the fish to die five hours later.

19. You accidently locked the balcony door thinking no one was out there. Ciara and Mason spend two hours locked out before your wife comes to open the door.

20. In exactly six years, the pier you think has the best view will be completely destroyed by a hurricane.

21. When you were too busy watching a jet ski ride by, Mason nearly drowned, but someone else helped him get to shore. They asked where his parents were and he said they were back in the hotel room.

22. You have tripped over forty-four uneven boards in total while walking the boardwalk this vacation. Ciara laughed at you eleven of those times.

23. The dog you walked by that was laying in the sand has been missing for a year and three months. You recycled one of the lost dog posters that its owner made

after seeing it crumpled up on the boardwalk; you thought of it as your good deed for the day.

24. Your wife lost her wedding ring while swimming in the ocean. She didn’t notice until the next day.

25. The only reason Ciara continues to come on family vacations with you is because sometimes she has hope that you’ll start acting like a father. Other times she completely disregards this idea.

Lookout

They stared me down as if I had just said something unimaginably terrible, although I knew they couldn’t hear me. It was a slow day; there hadn’t been a single customer since I clocked in because of an incoming storm. It was nearing the end of August and everybody was leaving their beach vacation to go back home. All of the boardwalk stores sat like empty cabinets.

Frail dolls sat parallel to me far across the store, but it felt like they were closing in on me. They were all identical, with layered clam shells coming together to mold their bodies, dresses, and hats. They had two black circles painted on their faces for eyes and no other features, which meant they had nothing better to do than stare.

The only time I wasn’t keeping an eye on the dolls, I was peering through the glass entrance door, over the sand, at the ocean. Usually I did this to distract myself or to avoid becoming overwhelmed with paranoia, but today the waves seemed like they were fighting with each other. The surface of the water was dark, as if the ocean had been flipped upside down and the shore seemed like it was inching closer and closer to the shop. Yet my eyes still focused on the dolls.

I never knew why I was scared of them, I had always played with dolls when I was younger, yet there was something ominous about a doll who had been assembled with seashells that were once embedded deep in the ocean floor.

I felt that if I took my eyes way for more than a minute then I would look back and one of the dolls would be missing, but it was getting harder for me to watch them as the

rain picked up outside. It was only a few minutes before the water was pounding on the glass to get in.

I marched over to the door and remembered to keep my back to the wall at all times so I could keep watch over the dolls. The water was strong and I had only been trapped in the store by a flood once before, which was nowhere near as bad as this.

Last time, my coworker was here with me and having manned the store for twenty years longer than me, she had everything under control.

My shins pressed nervously against the glass, and almost turned to ice before I bent my knees away from the cold. The dolls seemed so calm; they had nothing to do but watch me struggle. I felt the wind strike the glass and the door slammed me forward.

I fell to the ground within a second and the water surrounded my body, making me so cold I feared that I wouldn’t be able to stand up.

As I brought myself to my knees, my eyes first went to the dolls. The water pooled just around my ankles, but summoned enough force to find its way to the old wooden shelf and knock it over with ease. Each doll plummeted face first into the shallow water. Their bodies instantly shattered. A wave of anxiety exhaled from my chest knowing that they could no longer run away. As I watched their broken bodies pull in and out of the tide, they seemed at peace, too, as if all they wanted was to be back under the pressure of the ocean, floating aimlessly in whichever direction they were taken.

In the Middle

After Marcel by Her’s

My sister, Jasmine, and I sat in the sand with earth crumbling around us when she told me she was leaving. I pretended I didn’t hear her and asked her to repeat herself. As she said it again, I leaned back and let the sand mold around my skin.

We had lived along the boardwalk for just over a year, ever since Jasmine turned eighteen. When we were younger, we had always planned to move away together as soon as we got the chance; our parents thought it wouldn’t outlast our childhood. Most of the time I forgot that our home in Maryland wasn’t permanent, so I couldn’t tell what she was trying to say. We got up and walked to the nearest bench, leaving our imprints together in the sand.

She told me she felt like the beach wasn’t a home anymore and that she wanted to move back to Georgia with our parents. I asked her how she could possibly be tired of the beach and all she said was that it had nothing do with me, just that this feeling’s getting overgrown. She didn’t look at me the entire time, she just picked grains of sand off her thighs like she was ripping away leeches. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. I had never felt like I wanted to leave before, if anything, I wanted to stay longer.

Jasmine said sometimes it felt like she was sinking into quicksand and that she had to pretend she wasn’t, just for me. Her bags were already packed because she didn’t want me to be able to change her mind. Our parents arrived an hour later to pick

her up and I wondered how she could be able to plan something so big without telling me single detail.

Our parents offered to take me home, too, but everything was happening so quickly. I could feel my childhood waning as I watched Jasmine shut the car door, although I should’ve realized that it was gone long before that. She told me that she never thought she would get tired of living by the beach, but explained there’s so much Georgia had that Maryland didn’t. She missed her friends and loved hearing their stories about college, wishing she could have some of her own. I didn’t like having to say goodbye, especially when we had not had to say it to each other for so long.

I sat on the cold wooden boards and watched them drive away. The nails beneath me tried to poke through my skin, but I didn’t want to sit in the sand and I didn’t want to go back to Georgia, so I sat somewhere in between.

Glowing Bodies Lily Weatherford-Brown

1. HOI 4 2. HOI1 3. HOI 2 4. Monologue 5. Folk tale 6. Shrinking Story 7. Free Write 8. Ekphrasis 9. List essay

Prologue (HOI 4) Mom couldn’t hear the ghosts, but she could see Sophie. Mom said I was just like she was when she was younger, that unjust things broiled under my skin, made my blood hot. She called them rage fevers. I would cook whenever I got blood hot and red, even when I was just mixing mud pies and garnishing with chopped myrtle. She said that was coping, but I think it was keeping my hands busy.

Before I knew what a paranormal therapist was, I read your early work. You talked about how strange it was that we could all see the ghosts but only some of us could hear them. That it was even stranger that as a society we weren’t more invested in answering that question, that huge why. We were all too worried about how to become ghosts in the first place. And what comes after ghosts? What happens when we finally disappear for good, turning to glittering dust?

I wrote about the death of my sister in my application. I never wanted to fit the cliché role of a young woman recovering from the death of a loved one. In truth I wasn’t this cliché because I had never loved Sophie. I never knew her. But, as I sat with my finger underlining the essay prompt again and again I could only think of Sophie. Why would I want to work with ghosts? Why would I want to learn about them? Could I handle it? I wrote sixteen pages for Sophie and you read them all and you chose me for this class. You chose me.

I had been having trouble with my write-ups for weeks before our private meeting. My old reports were marvelous, (I use that word only because you wrote it once in red pen on the left corner of analysis of a thirteen-year-old boy turned ghost I found still roaming around his group home.) You sat in on a therapy session with Mr.

Matthews, the deceased cancer patient, and whispered compliments to me. You said you loved my notes on his quivery body language, the way I signified long pauses in his speech with a sloppy backslash, the way all the muscles in my face seized up when I focused on the patient, my penmanship, the way I acted like the ghost was a person worth listening to. That was where we tended to differ ideologically. I loved ghosts as I loved people. You loved ghosts like science loves a specimen. This dead man to me was homo, homonis, man to you. I called a therapist’s job a conversation, you called it procedure.

I frequently returned to your old writing. One late night I asked why you thought there were only some who could hear the ghosts. You thought it was to keep weak minds from a power that would drive them mad. You inferred that our minds were stronger, better in some way. You talked about a hierarchy among the living, predestination.

I interviewed a young living girl during that week before our meeting. Her father had died and his ghost stayed right there in the house he’d always been in. He went around doing what he’d always done; lovingly holding her mother and talking late into the night and helping her think through the tricky things like how she was going to pay off the house.

Her mother kept living on like nothing had changed. The girl held my hand in both of hers and asked me why she couldn’t see his ghost.

I talked about her that night during our meeting. You asked what this had to do with my huge drop in performance and why I was bringing this up now. Couldn’t see I was on thin ice, teetering over the brink of losing my scholarship? Didn’t I care?

I cried that night but I did not cry for you. I cried for the blood hot anger in my temple, and for the five years I spent searching for Sophie. I cried for my broken mother and for my contempt for you. You gave me a hug. The worst hug. You told me it was just like you had always said, that there was this living hierarchy. I was too fragile to see Sophie. I showed you my research. I’d compiled hundreds of case studies on people who couldn’t see ghosts. You read a couple under the lamp light and called them emotional. For the longest time you would review my work and put double spaces after every sentence, and you would look up and ask if this is what I wanted your opinion on.

I quit a month after our meeting. We ran into each other on the street. I was carrying newly bound legal pads and you were late for a class. You were surprised to learn that I was operating without a license. I called myself a private detective which seemed to make you laugh but only out of a corner of your mouth. You waited until I had waved goodbye to ask why I left the academy. I have begun my own writings, a collection of stories. I am predestined to answer my own questions, I told you, to see Sophie or to die trying and see her in death. You thought it was presumptuous to assume the afterlife worked that way and you left for your class.

Empty Spaces (HOI 1) Journal entry: 6/19/2010 Sophie came home 5 years after she had died. She was my parent’s first child.

Mother said she was an uncontrollable wildfire. Sophie left home right after high school and she never called home. For Sophie home must have looked very foreign. In just the 5 years she was gone I was born, our father disappeared from the picture, and our mother had begun to morph into some attention greedy monster of herself, clinging to me as if when she let go I might turn to nothing. Dad leaving hadn’t really bothered her, she said she’d fallen out of love with him long ago.

One morning while she was making me pancakes and orange juice she turned towards the front door like she’d heard a voice and began to cry. It was the kind of crying where her whole body shook even as she slid to floor and pushed herself back again the kitchen counter. I ran to the rotary phone in the hallway like Mom had taught me to in case of an intruder. I dialed nine and one and stopped just in time to hear my other shouting. She said, “My baby, my baby, you’re home,” and from the hallway I could see her cupping the air as if a face sat between her hands.

Mom told me I had to move my things out of my bedroom. She said my room was Sophie’s old room, and Sophie was back now. She gestured to an empty space beside her, holding her hands out like she was holding shoulders. It was the same way she holds mine in rooms so busy she’s afraid she’ll lose me in the crowd. I had seen ghosts and I had heard ghosts and I had been told that it is special to hear them but I had never in my life met a ghost I cannot meet. I pushed my hand through the space, twisting my fingers, trying to conjure Sophie, trying to remember what she looked like in

the photo album I had seen once on a rainy afternoon. My mother slapped my knuckles so hard they were red and stared at me with wide, white eyes. “Be careful,” she said so quick the words must have been hot on her tongue, “what if she disappears again?”

My mother sat a place at the table for her, every night. She filled Sophie’s glass of water higher, she straightened her napkin straighter, she put seconds on Sophie’s plate and I stared across the table into the back on an empty chair. My mother talked warmly, constantly, and even though I know she can’t hear Sophie she would sit and stare into the space above her chair like she was rapt at every phantom word.

Mom kept empty spaces in family photographs, in conversations, on the couch during late night movies. She kept spaces open at restaurants, and ordered extra plates of food and shoveled them into to-go boxes which she kept in the fridge and never ate.

She left spaces between us when I told her important things like the night Aunt Beryl died and she spent the whole conversation looking into the invisible eyes of my sister and not at me. When I moved to Las Angeles to go to school she said she’d help me pack but instead she watched me pack, sitting with her hands propped on her knees on my bed. As I was packed into the car she began to cry. When I drove away I watched her hug the air through my rearview mirror. I watched as she didn’t watch me drive away.

Night climbing (HOI 2) Interview Recollection: 7/17/2008 My first ever patient comes around noon time. He floats through the threshold of my door, unannounced, early, serious as death. I note his human-ness, and look the ghost in the eyes as he sinks into the chair at my desk. He almost seems to breathe, chest rising and lowering, but is only a trick of the light he radiates.

We sit and talk about his death. I write notes on the new legal pad ripped from its cellophane just hours before. Mountain, two weeks, Daniel. Climbing at night, the darkest part of night. The ground seemed closer than it was. The slope seemed longer.

It looked she was the one falling, falling away, melting into the darkness.

Sister? I write. Then a moment later, Sister.

He wanted a diagnosis and a treatment. I could tell by the way he leaned towards me, face tilted up, bent over like he was leaning on the desk. He almost seemed to shiver, rippling like sunlight across the water. If he was living I could give him a prescription. He could feel the warm touch of a loved one, their arms wrapping up and around the back of his neck and cradling him there until he stopped crying. Instead, he floats there in my office, faux breath hitching, mouth agape as if he was waiting to sob.

Around 2pm I act as translator. Ghost to girl, slowly becoming brother to sister. I saw his words exactly how he wants them said.

“I love you. I’ll miss you. It is not your fault. It’s not.”

I watch as they try to embrace in the moonlight. I watch her phase right through him, his glow bouncing off her face. She is an ember in the night. Aflame.

Addict (monologue) Audio Transcript: 1/12/2012

GHOST: When I was alive, I was happiest with shopping bags on my wrist, sashaying down an LA street in fashionable white linen or pink silk. When with one swipe of a credit card I spent more money than my cashier would see in a year.

But then my Dad cut me off the credit card. You can’t imagine how that felt.

JULIAMICHELLE: And what happened after that?

G: Well obviously, then I died. It was insult to injury, really.

JM: Tell me about that. The pain. This is a place for you to remember.

G: The worst pain I feel is not having new things. Well it isn’t about the having or the things, never was, it’s about the new and the getting. I don’t wish to be alive again I wish to be able to get again. I wish we weren’t all naked and poor in death, shifting around, a thousand of us all looking like vacant copies of each other.

JM: You don’t miss living at all?

G: No, god no, but I miss lots of things that can only happen to the living. I miss brand names and hierarchies and the comfortable feeling of just waking up in a warm bed.

More than anything I miss feelings.

JM: What feelings?

G: Longing. Superiority. The, “yes measure me by the length of the train of my studded gown, count my worthiness by counting the digits of my tabs and totals, tally my perfections” kind of feeling. The feeling at the top of a swing right as it begins to drop when you’re not sure if you’ll return to earth or continue floating.

JM: I read about your crash. How did you feel about your death? Was it painful to see yourself like that, all broken?

G: I wasn’t mad. As far as deaths go, mine was downright placid. Imagine my elegance drifting out onto the street. Imagine a silk scarf which billows in my wake like a 7-foot serpent. I look like a newlywed bride as I step into my Mazda, the convertible kind with the roof rolled way down. I look like a goddess as I hit the gas, the scarf flittering behind me. Imagine the scenic vistas, the sun streaming across my face as I watch the river, glinting like wet mud. Imagine the graceful snapping sound of my neck as the scarf gets caught up in the car tires. Imagine the car careening off the road. That is where they found my ghost, mourning over the blood-stained Valentino blouse. No, when I saw my

arms bent back it wasn’t painful. I looked graceful, like a white robed ballerina or a crushed white bird.

JM: What about your father? Have you reached out to him since the accident? Can he hear?

G: No, no I haven’t talked to him. I couldn’t if I wanted to, no one in my family can hear.

There was a funeral though, open casket. Seeing myself there reminded me how I am that I died long before my face began to wrinkle. My father’s wrinkled early. I saw him there at the funeral. He looked beaten and sun-bleached and His expression had warped into a sort of deranged rictus of a smile. And then all of the sudden he tried to hold my glowing face in his hands. He said- He said so seriously to me, “What have you done?” He didn’t ask me he just said it.

JM: And how did that make you feel?

G: Bad.

The Crawlspace (Folk tale) Folk Tale, Midwest United States, 1925 (adapted) In a town far away from this one, a young man found a stashed crawlspace in his attic. He had just moved into an old manor home in the country. The shutters and doors and stained brick were a deep sepia so they melted into one big mass that sat a hill above the town. The young man set local movers to work, and as they dropped a maple vanity in the attic it made a hollow thump against the wall. The man tapped the wall and listened as the knocks bounced back. He stood there knocking and the movers, although unnerved, filled the house in around him.

After everything was settled, he walked the movers out. As they shared farewells, he asked them about the wall. It has rested on his mind.

“It’s probably nothing,” they said, “insulation or a building error. Nothing at all.”

The young man noticed their shaking voices and hands, the beads of sweat slowly rolling down their noses, the way their feet turned away from him like they’d rather be anywhere else. The man watched the strongest men in town—burly, sturdy, fully-grown men—pale in the shadow of his new home. He felt a strangle prickling on the back of his neck and could not settle, so he began to walk.

He veered into town, to a little hardware store tightly nestled to the side of a pharmacy. The young man stepped through the threshold and admired the wood work of the door, the way the polished maple hinges of the door noiselessly fell into each other. When it closed it made a quiet ringing, like angels, and the small clerk behind the counter turned his head. The young man asked the store clerk for an axe.

“Son, I’m wondering why a city slicker like you would want an axe,” the clerk said.

He pointed out the young man’s shiny leather shoes. The clerk’s wife who was stocking the shelves pointed out the cleanliness of the young man’s hands—especially his fingernails. The young man described the strange hollow wall and the clerk listened.

“I would like to see behind the wall,” the young man said. The clerk retreated into himself, as if he were a rattlesnake, coiling up. He tapped his wife on the shoulder, motioned for the back room, and she obeyed as if under a trance.

“You need to head out now. I’m taking my lunch break,” the clerk said, although it was only eight in the morning.

The young man walked home and sat in front of the strange wall rolling the belly of the axe in his hands. The manor was cavernous, with winding halls and dark, empty rooms that he could have spent this time refilling. Instead, he sat in front of the wall and watched. It the manor were a great pyramid, then the wall was a dark tomb he wanted to crack into. It felt like he needed to. He held his axe up to it and practiced swinging a couple times. He held the handle high above his head, then swung down hard, coming to a stop just a fingertip’s length from the door. On his third practice swing, he heard his doorbell ring.

The young man opened the front door to find the clerk’s wife. She was sweating and unkempt, like she had run right to his front door. She held a silver picture frame. He let her come in and sit in his undusted sitting room, and for a long while she sat in silence, just looking.

“When I was a girl I lived here,” she said at last, holding the picture frame out.

There was a family in the frame, she was there as a rosy young girl, two parents, and a

small boy peeking out from between his father’s legs. “Please don’t open the wall,” she said, and she laid the picture frame out on the young man’s table and left.

The young man carried the frame upstairs to the attic and struck the wood which yelled out with a fantastic thud. The wood splintered into oblivion as he swung again and again, leaving a black hole where the wall one was. He peered into it, and was met by two eyes, two glowing cheeks, and the rounded jaw of a boy. The boy shot out of the hole in the wall like a firework whistling through the air. He hovered for just a moment, and the man recognized him from the picture frame.

Then there were more glowing bodies; Children that strikingly resembled the moving men, a couple that looked like the clerk, a man who looked identical to the portrait in the dining hall and three glowing terriers. They howled with joy as they escaped, spilling out like a spectral dam had broken. They formed a many-colored light which broke the night’s deep and pitch black. The young man watched them fly away.

The next morning the young man went to town to return the axe and buy nails and wood to fix the wall back. The clerk was very solemn.

“The matter, I’m afraid, is my wife,” said the clerk. “Last night she was visited by a falling star which she followed into the night. She cried. She sang her brother’s name” The young man apologized and the clerk shook his head. The clerk looked feebly out the window, watching the dark blot of the man’s house on the hill. With the morning sun behind it, the house had a shining halo which pooled at the bottom of the hill and in the town square and tip-toed through the store window. “She looked at peace,” the clerk said softly, running his hands against the stool his wife once sat in.

Legend has it, the clerk’s wife is still chasing after the star boy, that remnant of her brother. She will try to catch his glowing ankles in her hands and he will slowly float further and further away, like cloud or a ray moving with the sun.

Delude/Deluded (Shrinking Story) Ghost Testimony, May 1998 After I died, my neighbor was the first to find my body. He was dropping off a bike pump he’d borrowed without permission, and walked right through the unlocked door.

He sat and studied me like a critic does a painting, unemotive. He watched a puddle of my blood. When the police arrived, they began to collect my things for the state to sell.

They said ghosts can’t own property. My neighbor offered me a deal, to give him my inheritance and in turn stay with him, keep my things. I could haunt him for an eternity.

Walk in his shoes.

I spent the next year as his asymmetrical shadow. We went to work together, to his 3-wall cubicle. I helped him proofread, rewrite. I kept his quotas met until his boss sent me away. At our house he played piano, smoked expensive cigars, or brushed the hair of my Shih Tzu, Pinky. We went out on the town to clubs and casinos. We lived.

I thought we we’re companions. He talked to other women. Sometimes he would dance with them, and later, pretending he could stroke my hair, he’d say he was thinking of me the whole time. He sold our things. My things. I yelled at him for a long time about the gold plate centerpiece, the Steinway, that Tiffany chandelier, and then the cigars which disappeared by the case. Whenever I got mad with him he’d lay down in the reading nook, lay his arms out like he could hold me, and sit there for hours until the sun was so low I could pretend to feel it. I watched his chest rise and lower. I’d hear his uneven heartbeat like a war drum and pretend it was my own.

Our house began to look like a scalped head, the silk curtains were long gone, along with the rug tapestries and the candelabras. The stained-glass windows were

popped out of their frames leaving windy thresholds behind. He started coming home later and later. Pinky went missing. He sold his car. He quit his job. One night he laid a suitcase open on the floor where the table used to be. He filled it with underwear, khakis, and cash. He left a day later and I didn’t try to stop him. Now I stand in the reading nook wishing I could feel the place where we once sat.

(400 words)

After I died, my neighbor was the first to find my body. He was dropping off a bike pump he’d borrowed without permission. When the police arrived, they began to collect my things to sell. They said ghosts can’t own property. My neighbor offered me a deal, to give him my inheritance and stay with him, keep my things. I could haunt him for an eternity.

I spent the next year as his asymmetrical shadow. We went to work together, to his 3-wall cubicle. I helped him proofread, rewrite. I kept his quotas met until his boss sent me away. At our house he played piano, smoked expensive cigars, or brushed the hair of my Shih Tzu, Pinky. We went out on the town to clubs and casinos. We lived.

I thought we were companions. He talked to other women. Later, he’d say he was thinking of me the whole time. He sold my things. I yelled about the gold centerpiece, Steinway, Tiffany chandelier, and cigars which disappeared by the case.

Whenever I got mad he’d lay in the reading nook, and sit there for hours until the sun was so low I could pretend to feel it. I’d hear his heartbeat like a war drum and pretend it was my own.

Our house looked like a scalped head, silk curtains long gone, along with rug tapestries candelabras. The stained-glass windows were popped out of their frames. He started coming home later and later. Pinky went missing. He sold his car. He quit his job. One night he laid a suitcase open on the floor where the table used to be. He left a day later and I didn’t try to stop him. Now I stand in the reading nook wishing I could feel the place where we once sat.

(300 words)

After I died, my neighbor was the first to find my body. When the police arrived, they began to collect my things to sell. They said ghosts can’t own property. My neighbor offered me a deal, to give him my inheritance and stay with him, keep my things. I could haunt him for an eternity.

I spent the next year as his asymmetrical shadow. We went to work together, to his 3-wall cubicle. I helped him proofread, rewrite. I kept his quotas met. At our house he played piano, smoked cigars, or brushed my Shih Tzu, Pinky. We went out on the town to clubs and casinos. We lived.

He sold my things. I yelled about the gold centerpiece, Steinway, Tiffany chandelier, and cigars which disappeared by the case. Whenever I got mad he’d lay in the reading nook, and sit there for hours until the sun was so low I could pretend to feel it. I’d hear his heartbeat like a war drum and pretend it was my own.

Our house looked like a scalped head, The stained-glass windows were popped out of their frames. He started coming home later and later. Pinky went missing. He sold

his car. He quit his job. One night he laid a suitcase open on the floor where the table used to be.. He left a day later and I didn’t try to stop him. Now I stand in the reading nook wishing I could feel the place where we once sat.

(250 words)

Highway Thieves (Free Write) Audio Transcript Excerpt: 8/13/2014

GHOST: We started with BP’s and Marathon’s because they were easiest. Then it was ma-and-pa motels and small-town convenience stores. We kept moving down Interstate 90, never stopping in the same city twice so the local police couldn’t catch up to us.

Roadie said something about us skipping between jurisdiction lines but I didn’t care about the technicalities.

JULIA MICHELLE: You’ve brought him up before. Who’s Roadie?

G: Friend from Glenwood. We grew up together.

JM: That’s not good enough. Tell me more.

G: Roadie’s job was the mapping and the planning. I did most of the hard work because even though he was a rebel, anarchist, hillbilly, Roadie couldn’t stomach violence.

JM: You did the hard work? How violent did it get?

G: Don’t make it sound like- Look I’d be shouting for the money, get it in the bag idiot, hurry up and get it in the bag.

JM: Who? Who were you shouting at?

G: Whoever! Whoever would be scared stiff because he thought I had a gun but it was a toy pistol painted black because Roadie and I were just kids.

JM: And that worked every time? You just faked it?

G: Well we didn’t think about what happens if the cashier pulls out a shotgun on our pea shooter. That- that night we were headed out doin’ whatever, maybe it was 3 am. The sun wasn’t up yet. We pulled into this damn Shell and I had a bad feeling because the air was so still and Roadie didn’t care. We walked in there like we owned the place and I slammed down on the counter top and Roadie punched the register and the cashier just pulled out- he pulled out- He just shot him-

JM: Shot Roadie?

G: Shot him right in the- in the arm.

JM: Then what?

G: He was yelling in the floor, just laying and yelling and at first, I thought he wanted help. Then I realized he was telling me to run and get the hell out of here. So, I got the hell out of there, started screaming down I-90. I kept turning the radio up so Billy Joel

would drown out the wail of sirens. They’re onto us, Roadie would have said. And the squad car played bumper tag with me, metal squealing against metal, the sound was awful it was awful. And I swear it was an accident but I cut my wheel too quick and suddenly I was wrong-side up in a tornado ditch, the car barrel rolling further and further from the road.

JM: Did you know you had died?

G: No, I only felt pain for an instant and then the car stopped on its edge, driver side to the ground, and I floated away from my body. That’s when I knew, when I was high up looking at myself. I was so still. Like a doll. Like a painting.

JM: Did you stay with your body? Did you touch it?

G: Well the cop cars caught up to me, rolling up real slow to my crumpled car. And they were saying stop right there and I thought about it for a moment that they probably couldn’t do anything now that I was dead. I ran. I left my body there and I just ran. I didn’t know if they could arrest a ghost, but I wasn’t planning on finding out.

Scapegoat (Ekphrasis) (Musical Ekphrasis of “Say Can you hear by men I trust, italics indicates a direct quote) Testimony of a ghost: 2012 My car crash has become my best friend’s legacy. We were at a sorority party.

The rhythm seeped through the walls before we even opened the door. I remember the bass, and the sea of balayage blondes that made a tidal wave of hair. She was the only blonde I knew. When she got swept up in the mass of them I was stranded. I got bored of punch-table small talk. On the road my head was cloudy with party noise. My eyes glazed over and when they re-focused it was too late. I drove, around 2 AM, into a concrete road divider. It took 20 minutes for someone to drive by and call the cops.

My best friend writes late into the night on her blog about my tragic suicide. She’s developed a digital career on the back of a late-night driving error. The computer light glows against her in the dark just as I glow. Looking at the two of, illuminated, we could have morphed into one. I watch her until it makes her skin crawl.

“Do you expect to get away with re-writing me?” I want to ask her.

“You were the scapegoat”, she said like she thought it was an apology.

I pretend she is trying to apologize to me, but I know she is sorry to her conscious. For the nagging Jimmy Cricket in her left brain. She’s glad she can’t hear me. It helps her make up excuses for every moment and motion. She can ignore everything except for the look in my eyes. It reminds her of the way she looked at me that day in seventh grade. She held my hand. She told me she though she loved me. I told half the school about it. She spent the next three years haunting me as I haunt her

now. It’s all old grudges. Or maybe it’s an endless cycle, like a sorority sister samsara.

We are forever encircled by jealously, perfectionism, and bottles of fake tan.

My best friend says that I was manic depressive. She says that I was always fragile. My Dad left when I was young, that’s why I’m flighty. I grew up poor, that’s why I’m a dullard. I had my first cigarette at nine, that’s why I’m an addict. I got here on a scholarship, that’s why I’m a prude. She’s trying to fix things that have never been broken. She prescribes without diagnosis. A couple days into my afterlife I start to find her writings. I read about her seeing warning signs when we were only twelve. I hear people talking about the childhoods we shared.

I chase her down like a bright, beaming fire. I follow her to each class and people start to question her stories. How could I be depressed and distraught and reclusive if I was following her around my whole afterlife? My best friend says that I miss her. She whispers that she thinks maybe I love her. I want to break every bone in my hand but my punches pass through walls and desks and the back of my best friend’s head.

Is there a meaning to her grief? She writes a graduate’s thesis on “My Best Friend’s Tragic Suicide.” She sends it to my mother. The letter is self-absorbed, raving about her cryptic ways of explaining away my death. My mother cries. My mother cannot hear me crying with her.

Just last week I followed her to her first book signing. It’s a best seller. She set a table out for photos with the author but everyone wanted photos with the ghost. I posed as their glowing back drop. She smiled the whole time. That night she was very quiet.

She was like a misty zoetrope, repeating the same simple movements. She looked at

me. She looked away. She opened her mouth then closed it. At some time around midnight she made a quiet sound. I didn’t hear the words, but I pretended I forgave her.

Incorporeal (List Essay) Julia Michelle, Personal Log: 3/18/2015 25 things you’ll never know…

1. So far, I have documented testimony from 442 ghosts. I have interviewed 884 relatives, witnesses, and mourners describing thousands and tens of thousands of ghostly visits. I did it all for you. Every interview, every question, every late night, every thesis paper. Every word. And still I have been unable to see you.

2. When our neighbor, Ms. Tinker, first heard about your death, the first thing she said was she was glad she wouldn’t get egged again. She held herself by the shoulders like she was hugging herself, like she was celebrating. Mom thought you would have liked that you bothered Ms. Tinker so much. She said you would have liked that she remembered your torment.

3. A couple years after you died, some guy knocked on our front door. He asked if you were home and we told him you had died. He stood on our porch for a long time. Mom gave him hot chocolate and sent him home. He comes by every once in a while, for another mug of cocoa. He looks around the house like he’s expecting to find you hiding somewhere we hadn’t thought to look for you.

4. Whenever someone says I look just like you I agree as if I knew you.

5. I am still mad that mom made me move out of the big bedroom when your ghost came home. Even if I could see you, I would have bitterly resented packing up my pink bedsheets in dramatic little boxes and pushing them across the hall.

6. Mom still hasn’t told Dad about your death. It’s been fourteen years. Every now and then she would type the first seven digits of his phone number into our land

line. Then, she’d set it back on the receiver, just askew enough for me to hear the screaming dial tone.

7. The cocoa guy tells me stories about you. He shows me pictures of you two. My mother sighs and grabs her chest and he rolls his thumb in circles as he holds her hands. My favorite story was about the time your cat Henry caught his tail on fire because you had open candles in the apartment you shared together. I’m sure Henry wouldn’t find it funny.

8. The first ghost I ever saw was an eight-year-old girl by the side of the road, blood soaked, half her face a raw nub of red meat. Her play clothes were tatters. She was crying out for her mother and it gave me nightmares and I slept in my parent’s bed for weeks.

9. Mom started painting after your death. She paints you, but not you as you were living. It’s the ghostly, glowing, vacant you that she says visits from time to time.

She stares at the portraits and takes deep sighs. She tells me she wishes I could see you. She says you’re beautiful.

10. I took care of Henry the cat for you. Cocoa guy brought him one night with a litter box, a 5-pound bag of food, and a beaten cat toy in the shape of a shallot. Henry lived to the ripe old age of 24, the same age you were when you died.

11. For the past fourteen Halloweens I have egged Ms. Tinker’s house. I am now nearly thirty years old standing in an old woman’s yard and laughing like a kid. I don’t know what I’ll do when she dies. When the building changes hands will I scare some poor unsuspecting couple out of their cushiony Tudor home?

12. When I played house with my toys, you were broccoli play food. Dad was a Beanie Baby bear. Mom was a Polly Pocket. I was Tinkerbell. At first you were going to be the barbie I tried to cut bangs for, but when I looked hard at her face I could tell it wasn’t you. Anything with a face felt wrong for a creature as blurry and nondescript as you. You are an inanimate broccoli, a play food, a something not a someone.

13. My math teacher in ninth grade told me that I did much better in math than you ever did. I burst into false tears. He called my house multiple times and apologized whenever I caught him looking at me for a year straight. I thought it was hilarious. More than that I thought it was vengeance. Even though I never knew you, it was vengeance.

14. I’ve never seen an animal’s ghost, but I still believe Henry is with you.

15. I contemplated getting a nose job just so I wouldn’t have to hear about how much I looked like you.

16. Dad left before I was born. He lives somewhere on the west coast. Dad says Mom never told him she was pregnant, and if he’d known about me, he would have stayed. Mom says he knew. Mom says that a father knows. He got back in touch with her five years ago. We eat silent dinners once a week.

17. The day that your ghost came home, it was the first snow of the year. I was catching flakes on my tongue. The ground sparkled and I crushed it beneath my boots. Mom sobbed so violently I could hear her from outside.

18. The cocoa guy asked me out on a date. He was really drunk. I think he thought I was you. He hasn’t been back since.

19. It took us three months to find your body. Mom wanted your buried up at St. Mary’s with. I didn’t think it much mattered. I spent two hours putting together an outfit from Mom’s wardrobe I thought you might like: a long black dress, a pearl necklace, a pair of flats. Mom said you didn’t like it and I cried and I wasn’t sure why I was crying.

20. Ms. Tinker’s husband left her. She and Mom have been playing silent games of bridge on Sunday nights. When she sees me, she acts like she doesn’t know who eggs her house every year.

21. Henry liked to sit in your old bedroom. He had never been to our house before.

He’d never lay there with you on the bed by the window. But for some reason he spent long hours sitting in the places where you once sat.

22. I have met three other people who can’t see a ghost. For all of them it was a relative. My professor thinks I should be able to prove through science that the “selective sight” is hereditary. I don’t know how to prove the sinking motion of my gut, or the empty air that I swear you must be standing in, looking at me right now.

23. Dad still thinks you’re living out some California fantasy. We have weekly dinners together now, and one night he started yelling about why Mom wasn’t looking for you. She sipped her Chardonnay and I talked about how happy you must be right now. Something instinctual told him to stop asking questions, but I think he already knows.

24. I regret not going on a date with the cocoa guy. I regret not staying with Mom after high school. I regret letting my credit card run a deep and thorough debt. I

regret not picking up that dog I saw on the side of the road last year. I regret not taking that job I want in New York. But I want nothing more than to be able to see you.

25. Last night I sat in your old bed. I tried to go to sleep. Ghosts are incorporeal, like light. There is no documented case in all of history of man being able to touch ghost. Last night I could have sworn I felt you holding me. I’ve never met you and yet I knew it was you. You held me like only a sister can.

How’s Ma? Anika Weber

How’s Ma?

By Anika Weber

Dedicated to my Grandma and Bus Drivers

Y’all both have been through it

Table of Contents

1. What Could Happen 2. Honey, I Killed the Hamster!

3. Rudy 4. Diagnosis 5. Sheryll, You’ll Never Know 6. A Nickle a Lash 7. Routine 8. The Boy’s Rebellion 9. The Middle of the Vortex 10. Downfall in Reverse

What Could Happen

I am forced to pay more attention to certain small things about myself (you can well imagine what) and take my measure anew.

I saw someone I knew in the grocery store the other day and froze. They didn’t see me, or didn’t care to say anything. But every time I’d see them I started to wonder what would happen if that same thing went down during work, when I’m stuck in that springing high chair and they just want to get home. When there is no way to avoid each other, unless they retreat back into the marching penguin line of squealing students and office grumps, or if I pass the stop entirely and get glared at by every poor soul at the stop. I have the list in my head;

1. Neither of us notice.

2. I notice and say nothing.

3. They notice and say nothing.

4. I notice and ask them how they’re doing.

5. They notice and ask me why I gave up in life.

6. They notice and know enough about me to comment on how I’m continuing the family bus legacy.

7. I notice and let them shuffle to the back of the bus while I stress if they’ll see me when they get off, and wonder why I didn’t say anything

8. I notice and let them shuffle to the back of the bus, and while looking back to see if I catch their glance, crash into that one blue Mercedes or the corner store or an elderly woman with a reflective walker.

9. They don’t have enough bus fair and expect because they sat across from me in statistics they can get on for free. And I let them.

10. They notice and tell me that story about Sean Wilson getting on the school bus with no shoes on, and how my mother, driving the bus, laughed and lent him hers, and he got off the bus with these massive shoes like a clown.

11. They notice and ask how my mother is, and I say fine.

12. They notice and ask how my mother is, and I cry into the steering wheel and tell them she forgets my name sometimes.

13. They get on the bus and neither of us notice, and we are both content like that, and I am just a bus driver and they are just the passenger. We are blending into the chaos of the city. We are two insignificant people filling our roles in society.

Are we ever more than that? Would we be if we noticed each other?

Honey, I Killed the Hamster!

I squeeze the mop. I move the bucket. I push. I push the squeegee.

Feed the hamster. I wake up on the couch, reruns of The Jefferson’s blurred on the television. Sheryl texted when they got to New York and a list of reminders for Petey the Dyungarian. Clean the cage. Feed the hamster. I shimmy my way off the couch and to the kitchen. I fill a cup of water from the sink for Petey. I drink it. I fill it again and water the flowers, then make my way up the stairs. I forget the water. I go back down and stick two slices of rye in the toaster. I take my meds with raspberry lemonade. Feed the hamster. I shuffle up the stairs. The carpet sinks between my toes. Clean the cage. A brown stain pops up between the gray and cream wool. Carpet shampoo foams from white to ginger. Feed the hamster. I storm up the steps and into Rudy’s bedroom. The top of the cage pops off and Petey lies belly up, baby gray arms folded like origami. I scoop him up, his white fur encased in bedding. Clean the cage. Feed the hamster. I realized I haven’t in days. Clean the cage. They come home tomorrow. Feed the hamster.

Clean the cage. I tidy Petey’s enclosure—scrub the plastic dome, pick the poop out from the corners, refill the bottom bedding. I snap the lid back on and hide it away in the closet. Maybe they’ll forget. Petey lays limp in a napkin. Feed the hamster. I find an old perfume box and put him inside. When Sheryl and the boys come home the next day,

she gets ready for a meeting, and opens the perfume box to find a small dead hamster drooping at the bottom. Clean the cage.

Rudy

My friends like to set me up on blind dates with their sisters. My last one was with Tom’s; a good guy, a decent plumber, said she was a real cool chick. But her face matched his exactly. Her hair was knotted at the top of her head, body slicked in a purple dress. I just then start to feel underdressed.

She orders a wine I can’t afford, tells me about the dog she adopted with her roommate and the newlyweds she met at this restaurant and took a picture for. She asks me what I do for living. It’s hard to muster an answer, to tell the truth or what I’m supposed to be doing. I choose the latter.

“Buses. I drive buses.”

She swallows a laugh and nods, then tells me about her vet job and the rabbits she just helped birth. I nod, but know this won’t work out.

I walk as fast as I can to the bathroom to make an escape plan. I put on my coat inside-out and scratch the gel out of my hair. When a waiter passes the bathroom door, I hide behind him to leave. I jump from human shield to human shield, glancing at the girl and the table and the bottle of expensive wine. I use the money I’m supposed to use for my lunch break to buy a drink across the street.

Mom orders takeout on nights she wants to argue, which in reality, is most nights. She busts through the front door and slams the plastic bag of food on the table.

It’s silent until we’re all settled in our seats. Mom rips a packet of soy sauce with her teeth. She tells me she noticed I don’t have any hours coming up for work. I shrug. She

says she talked to Mr. Wilson about it and that he said I quit. My head and neck have solidified to my body, but I manage to nod. Orange chicken shoots from her mouth, screaming bloody murder.

“What are you going to do with your life? Why would you throw this away?”

“Look at the life your mother and I created.”

“Your brother wants to study art or some shit, now this?”

Anthony glares up from the mixture of soy sauce on his plate. Ma scoops white rice into her mouth. Both dead silent. Am I better off as anyone else at this table? Highstrung, a coward, slowly losing my mind? Aren’t we all a family of people who don’t know what we’re doing?

Diagnosis

Anthony Mom didn’t have to say anything for me to know what’s going on, though that voice of hers will always make me feel guilty of something, like when I told her I wanted to study film and she slapped me hard on the back and said, “That’s not for you,” and somehow, though I knew how stupid it was of her and how wrong she was, something in my brain agreed with her. I’m shoving these mozzarella sticks in my mouth while my mothers hold back tears—the strip of cheese hangs down my throat like a swallowed hair. I want to say something but I fear if I try my voice will crack and Ma will look at me with those shriveled eyes of hers and I will burst into tears, right now as she’s sitting there, just staring into the void, and I wonder if that’s what comes with dementia or if she’s just too afraid to say anything.

Cynthia I don’t know why Sheryl couldn’t wait for Rudy to get home, we’ll just have to do this all over again. She’ll mutter exactly what the doctor told us and I’ll sit there thinking of the worst—how I’ll forget the bus route from downtown to Oakland, and get me and a bunch of people lost in some sort of Bermuda Triangle, but I know I’ll never forget the feeling of sitting in that office and letting the doctor’s voice drown out, the way my bones hardened and my throat tied closed, imaging my brain eating away at itself—and I have to wonder if everyone I love could completely disappear from my memory, and that they’ll abandon me in some retirement home and I’ll walk around clueless that my wife

and children live on without me, that they ever were there—will they forget about me just as fast?

Sheryl I know she wants to just nod her head and give up but I won’t let her give up. She will let her brain overtake itself, but I will not let it. I’m starting to wonder if it’s this house that feels frozen or if everyone else is frozen in time. Rudy isn’t home and Anthony gnaws at cheese sticks like taffy and Cynthia stares at the bubbles popping at the top of her ginger ale, my eyes are fuzzy and bloodshot. I can hardly support myself on this counter, yet neither my wife or my son has said a thing since we walked through the door, though if Rudy were here he’d make it all about himself, so I’m stuck explaining every detail, playing doctor, as if I know any more than my family does, as if I can control what the hell we are about to go through.

Sheryll, You’ll Never Know

1. Those two older women that get on the bus in the morning gossip about you and your family. They purposely pick a double seat towards the back, eyelevel to your rearview mirror, so they can catch a glance of your plum eyebags, just to see how much worse they’ve gotten.

2. Both of your sons have always felt the need to satisfy you. One knows they can’t, and hides it, and the other does whatever you want him to so he can. Neither are happy like this.

3. You had the same person inside the mascot suit at all your Chuck E Cheese birthday parties. He had to evacuate his home due to an intense rat infestation.

He quit right after that.

4. Your mother replaced your family cat when it ran away. That’s why Scratz starting biting you when you tried to pet his tummy. It wasn’t Scratz at all.

5. The graffiti in the back of the bus was not done by just any teenager. It was done

by Rudy, trying to impress a group of punked-out college students. He completely forgot about this, but he still misspells the word “anarchy.”

6. Your dad got a woman pregnant after you moved out. The boy rode your bus often, always thanking you before he got off. He found out about you years after you died, from a photo album your dad kept in his sock drawer.

7. After you snap at the boys, Anthony will be too afraid to call or visit you. He’ll stop visiting you and Cynthia, focus on film school, work on a big action film, and get rich. You won’t hear of any of this from him. You’ll get it from the local paper. You won’t try to call and congratulate him.

8. The woman you kicked off the bus for being two quarters short got frostbite on the way home. She left her coat somewhere and walked through a storm in just scrubs and a thin cashmere sweater.

9. You made your first girlfriend realize she was straight. You made your wife realize she was gay.

10. Rudy and Anthony’s real parents were coworkers. They sat together at lunch not knowing their future sons would call each other brothers

11. A hippie’s cat leaked piss from the carrier onto the bus seat. Hundreds of people have sat in that seat. It is still stained with pee.

12. Nobody really wants to be a bus driver, not even you. It was drilled deep into your head at a young age that this was your destiny, and your children’s, and their children’s. You’d make a fine soap maker.

13. Cynthia didn’t realize you were going on dates until your fifth one, at the ice rink, when you held her waist as she struggled to support herself on the skates.

14. When you retire, your boss will be thankful you’re finally gone. You almost started fights five times the year you retired. You were a good worker, but an aggressive one.

15. On the night before your wedding, Cynthia had doubts. Not about you, but on whether she could walk out there knowing none of her family would be there to support her. Hardly any friends. But you were enough for her. The only person she really needed to be there was you.

16. Cynthia forgot your name days before you realized it.

17. Anthony and Rudy didn’t make the cookies they gave you for your 40th birthday.

They went to the grocery store, bought a box of snickerdoodles, and a tube of white icing. That was still homemade to them.

18. Cynthia lied about her family history of dementia. She always worked to avoid that inevitable part of her life. When doctors would ask, she’d shake her head, knowing the truth.

19. The kid that made fun of your big ears in preschool nearly lost his in a violent boating accident.

20. Anthony will marry a girl who’s never ridden a bus before. Rudy will marry a girl he met on the bus, a business woman who’ll insult you behind your back, then the hippie with the piss cat.

21. Sometimes Cynthia gets up in the night and roams around the house. She doesn’t move anything or make a sound, just shuffles around the carpet, roundabouts the kitchen, then crawls back into bed as if she hadn’t moved at all.

22. When your mother accused your dad of cheating when you were twelve, she made him sleep on the bus for weeks. His flings would stay with him. You can still smell his heavy cologne on the side seats.

23. You can’t control the progression of Cynthia’s health completely. There’s no cure.

Don’t blame yourself too much.

24. You can’t control anyone else’s life. Not even your children’s.

25. Anthony will come to your funeral despite not talking to you in years. He’ll sit next to Rudy with his hands folded neatly over his lap, avoiding eye contact with any other family members. He’ll leave as soon as it’s over to avoid confrontation, but visit your grave whenever he can and apologize for being so distant.

A Nickle a Lash

I round the corner and spot the usual lineup on the main and forth street stop; the family of Russian dolls, the man with a fishbowl head and the guppy circling inside it, the sandpaper-skinned businessman, the woman in the macaroni wheelchair plucking and selling her eyelashes like hotcakes. I’m more than sick of seeing them.

Every time I look in the rearview mirror I see one of their morphed, inhuman faces. I remember driving by myself for the first time and noticing how every person who got on the bus was identical, just the same tired people on the same boring route. But slowly they started to morph, turn into these weird creatures that I still see when I close my eyes.

I think about what mom would say if I told her I wanted to quit. My friend Margo just quit her job, a cashier at her family bakery, to pursue some sort of science-y, and that her parents flipped out when she told them. She told me me how relieved she was that she did, and ever since I started realizing how much I hate being a bus driver, and how if I could quit, I would. But I knew mom would skin me alive if I did.

I hear the macaroni wheelchair crumble towards the door. I unhinge the ramp, but before zooming down, she unfolds her crumbled hand and reveals a palm full of eyelashes.

“A nickel a lash,” she says to me, “A real bargain.”

It is then and there I tell myself I need out. I need to quit. I smile and shake my head, then nudge her out with the tip of my shoe. I pass up every other stop on my way back to the bus garage, even if someone waves for me to stop. The whole ride back I

can’t help but think about what’s next; conference trips, business deals, stacks of cash piling up like a sleeve of staples in a staple gun. And I tell this to my boss. But when I leave his office and go to remove the pictures and post it notes from my little corner on the bus I realize that I have no passions, that I’ve been set up for this specific job and I can’t name a single thing I’m good at.

When I get home I tell mom my day was fine and that I’ll be doing the same route tomorrow morning as I have for the past two years. The next day I really go to a diner and eat omelets and pie until my stomach pops, then come home as if I’d been driving all day.

Routine

Shower, brush your teeth. Fold and tuck the blankets into each other. Make breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast nearly burnt, clementines peeled and picked of gummy strings, blossomed in a ceramic dish—the same thing every day. I try to switch it up once in a while, put cinnamon on the toast, add spinach to the eggs. Rudy bumbles down the steps, sits across from me, complains about the lack of salt. Bad food. He leaves for work. I know he doesn’t go. I see the reflection of his friends in the waxed Jeep that picks him up. Wipe the crumbs off the table and scrub the leftover egg sludge.

Water the flowers on the porch. Rub the silky geraniums until the feeling of petals and your fingertips become one. Peak out the window once in a while to spot a neighbor.

Remember something to talk about if you see one—the kids, the deer leaving ticks in our yards, the way the moon looked last night. I can’t remember the last time I saw Sue come out of her house. Is she dead? Is she locked inside? Is she waiting for someone to talk to? Is it me? Circle through the channels two or three times until Antique Roadshow flashes on. Think about how much you could sell your grandma’s vase for.

Or that china set. Or the ceramic dog Sheryl found in her dad’s attic when he died.

Where will you hide the money so your children don’t take it from you? Rudy’s been raiding my purse for years. Go through the photo albums. Who are these people in the back? Why didn’t I get more pictures of the kids when they were young? When Sheryl gets home, ask her how her day went, if Carl, that cartoony business man, got on and complained about work to her again. Listen; until the kettle screams or until you can’t anymore. Doze off on the couch. Wish you had a job still, or just something to take up

the time in the day. There is something so draining about being isolated. I used to see about a hundred people a day. Now I’m lucky if I see three. Make dinner the best you can. Wait until Rudy and Anthony walk in to eat. Hear them all argue. Focus on your chewing. Brush your teeth. Layer the blankets neatly over yourself. Kiss Sheryl goodnight.

Shower, brush your teeth. Fold and tuck the blankets into each other. Make breakfast—toast nearly burnt, clementines peeled, in a ceramic dish—the same thing every day. I try to switch it up once in a while, put cinnamon on the eggs. Rudy bumbles down the steps, sits across from me, complains about the bad food. He leaves for work.

He doesn’t go. Water the flowers. Rub the silky geraniums until the feeling of petals and your fingertips become one. Peak out the window once in a while to spot a neighbor.

Remember something to talk about if you see one—the kids, the deer leaving ticks in our yards, the way the moon looked. I can’t remember the last time I saw Sue come out of her house. Is she dead? Locked inside? Waiting for someone to talk to? Is it me?

Circle through the channels two or three times until Antique Roadshow flashes on.

Think about how much you could sell your grandma’s vase for. Or that china set. Where will you hide the money so your children don’t take it from you? Go through the photo albums. Who are these people in the back? Why didn’t I get more pictures of the kids when they were young? When Sheryl gets home, ask her how her day went, if that cartoony business man got on again. Listen; until the kettle screams or until you can’t.

Wish you had something to take up time in the day. There is something so draining about being isolated. I used to see about a hundred people a day. Now I’m lucky if I see three. Make dinner. Wait until Rudy and Anthony walk in to eat. Hear them argue. Focus on your chewing. Layer the blankets over yourself. Kiss Sheryl goodnight.

Shower, brush your teeth. Fold the blankets into each other. Make breakfast.

Rudy bumbles down the steps, complains about the bad food. He leaves for “work.” He doesn’t go. Water the flowers. Rub the silky geraniums until the petals and your fingertips become one. Peak out the window once in a while to spot a neighbor.

Remember something to talk about if you see one—the kids, the deer leaving ticks in our yards, the way the moon looked. I can’t remember the last time I saw Sue come out of her house. Is she dead? Locked inside? Waiting for someone to talk to? Is it me?

Circle through the channels two or three times until Antique Roadshow flashes on.

Think about how much you could sell your grandma’s vase for. Or that china set. Where will you hide the money so your children don’t take it from you? Go through the photo albums. Who are these people? Why didn’t I get more pictures of the kids when they were young? When Sheryl gets home, ask her how her day went, if Carl got on again.

Listen; the kettle screams. Wish you had something to take up time in the day. There is something so draining about being isolated. I used to see about a hundred people a day. Now I’m lucky if I see three. Wait until Rudy and Anthony walk in to eat. Hear them argue. Focus on your chewing. Layer the blankets over yourself. Kiss Sheryl goodnight.

The Boy’s Rebellion

In a time not too different from ours, one woman set out the goal to continue her family legacy of bus driving. The woman had been taught the ways of the bus from her father, who learned from his. She met her wife through the bus system—waving at her when they passed each other on the road, small talk at the bus base. Eventually they adopted kids of their own, and decided they too should become bus drivers.

Her wife debatable quitting when her memory began acting funny, but decided to go through with it when it got progressively worse. Their eldest son, a lazy boy, was a bus driver for years, until he secretly and inevitably quit to mess around with friends and mooch off his parents. So the woman was left with her youngest son, just old enough to become a driver, to share the occupation with and teach her ways.

There was a problem, though; they boy hated the idea of driving a bus. He got easily car sick, hated the possible confrontation between passengers, and felt there were better things he could do with his life. He has passions for art and film. His mother used her wife’s degrading mental health as a way to guilt trip her son, and he gave in.

The first month went fine—just training with his mother, doing the basics. But he still longed for what he really wanted—film. Watching all the college students get on his bus was torture for him. The second month went slower, as he began driving by himself, and repeated the same routes every day until his eyes were tired and hands sore from the wheel. The third month he had had it. He was sick of the routine, sick of the cranky passengers, sick of it all. After work some days, he would take a tour of colleges,

imaging himself in the classrooms, learning all he wanted to know. And then he realized what he had to do. He decided he must confess his real wants to his family.

It wasn’t his brother or sick mother he was worried about—it was his other mother—the kind of person that’s not easily convinced. She was passionate about him continuing the legacy, and knowing he was her last outlet to do that, he knew this would not be easy.

One night before dinner, the boy crept downstairs. He sat in a chair across from his mothers, reaching to the remote to turn down the volume.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about the bus situation. I know its what you want me to do, but I can’t deny the other things I want in my life. I have a serious love for art and I think I need to pursue it.”

His strict mother straightened her back. “What are you saying?”

He gulped. “I want to go to college for film.”

The mother exploded. Her sick wife laid silent on the couch, watching the mute television switch pictures. She complained to him about his lack of care for the family, calling him selfish, pleading him to not be so foolish. But he was determined, and insisted he go, whether she likes it or not. The mother huffed.

“If you do this, I won’t support you,” she said, “If you do this, you’ll have to find your own place. Make your own money. Support yourself.”

The boy found this ridiculous. He was doing what made him happy. Why should he pay the price? He lashed back at her, telling her this, trying to convince his mother to reconsider. But she wouldn’t. He ran upstairs and started his college search.

The next few weeks he worked on his portfolios, staying with friends or relatives, until finally he was accepted. He went to visit his mothers to tell them the good news, but found his sick mother knew not who he was, and his other mother felt no pride for her son’s accomplishment.

The boy would force himself home once in a while, checking on his sick mother, eating dinner, the simple things. But when he would try to talk about school, or any opportunities he was being given, his betrayed mother would ignore him completely.

Eventually the boy stopped coming as often, as his sick mother only got worse and worse, and seeing her only made him sad, and eventually, he stopped entirely. And this is how things stayed.

When the boy started gaining fame in the world of film, he would not tell his family. He was too busy and thought they really would not care. They found out about his fame from a local paper, and though they were furious with him, they never tried to talk to him about it.

The Middle of the Vortex After “Dawn Chorus” by Thom Yorke

Sheryl You take a little piece, then you break it off.

I am trying desperately not to look at your frozen face, hands folded around those plush arm rests even though I am no longer yelling. I look up once and see the blurred whiteness, thicker than fog. I look back and see the flecks of snow floating still in the air, the buildup in the window corners.

I think back to when we met, the bus trainings, gas station coffee runs, greetings at the warehouse, slowly turning into diner dates, Blockbuster rentals, elementary talent shows. Back to that first time I thought you got rid of your wedding ring but you had put it in the sugar bowl. It was just a mistake back then, everything you did was just a mistake. I have to tell you when to bathe now. You’ve worn the same three shirts the past six years. It all came to me at once, how much worse this is than I expected.

Please let me know, when you’ve had enough.

Anthony When I walk out of the house you’re lying flat on the lawn, succumbed to the snow piling up around your ankles. If anyone passed they’d think you’re a frozen corpse. The only signs of life are the paw prints stamped into the sidewalk. I lay next to you. You hardly move, but I see your iris sink to the corner of your eye.

“What’s up?”

“Mom,” I say, “I think I hate her.”

“You don’t,” you respond, “She can be an idiot but you don’t hate her.”

Melting snow bites my cheeks. The clouds and snow blend together, into my eyes. It burns like the eyedrops Mom made us put in when they got dry around this time. The cushion of snow muffles our voices, but I try to continue conversation.

“Why are you out here?”

You shuffle in your coat. “Heard arguing, thought it best I stay out here.”

“Is that all?”

A car zooms downhill and almost slides into a mailbox. It sits curved against the road, the woman inside curled up in a ball on her steering wheel. A minute passes and she backs up and continues slower down. The world goes silent again.

“Mom knows I quit,” you say, “and I don’t want to come back again knowing she’ll criticize me for not being able to find a new job again. Being a bus driver doesn’t mean lot on a resume.”

I manage to nod inside my Velcroed hood. I’ve never felt so close to you. We were never the closest brothers. The most meaningful conversation we probably ever had till now was about the chemistry homework you helped me with in 10th grade.

Maybe it’s the quiet of the snow, or coming fresh out of an argument with mom, but I needed this. I need more of it.

If you could do it all again, without a second thought.

Downfall in Reverse

Before that, it was a simple summer day.

Cynthia and Sheryl sit across from each other in stained recliners. Sheryl watches her wife zone in and out of thought, watches the steaming black coffee become slowly forgotten.

Before that, Anthony storms out of the house and sees his brother lying flat on the lawn, staring up into the sky. He lays next to him, but neither say a word.

Before that, Sheryl mocks Anthony for wanting to go to college. She insists he drive a bus just like the rest of the family did. “I’ll have taught you all this for nothing,” she says.

Anthony tells her she’s selfish.

Before that, Rudy tells his parents he has been unemployed and needs money. Sheryl snaps. The two argue about his dishonesty. Cynthia lies on the couch and listens to Rudy explain why he’s so tired of caring for her, as if she’s not even there.

Before that, the family crams in around their television set and watch a cooking show in silence. Cynthia is clutched in Sheryl’s arms. Rudy’s head droops from the couch to the floor. Anthony paces upstairs, piecing words together, trying to tell his mothers the truth.

Before that, Sheryl safety-proofs the bathroom with color coded tape and steps. Cynthia is not weak, but Sheryl is convinced otherwise.

Before that, Anthony rushes out from the bus port and goes into the city to tour colleges.

Before that, Rudy takes Cynthia to the grocery store and creeps down the aisle and picks out a can of tomato paste four times. He watches her from the wall of milk. She leaves the cart at the bakery twice. He lets her buy two cheesecakes.

Before that, Sheryl attempts to convince Anthony to take over Cynthia’s bus route. He accepts but deep inside he’s dreading everything about it. Driving gives him too much time to think about how much time he’s wasting.

Before that, Cynthia bakes a birthday cake for Sheryl and lights candles for someone twelve years younger.

Before that, Rudy quits his job. He goes out with his friends when he’s supposed to be at work. At lunch with a girl, he tells her his moms are killing him. He says he has too much responsibility, that he basically runs the house. The rest of the time he talks about his high school football career. The girl never calls him back.

Before that, Sheryl tells Cynthia they’re going to get soup at her favorite diner. Sheryl parks outside a doctor’s office.

Before that, Cynthia almost crashes a bus and has no recollection of it the next day.

Before that, Cynthia accidently kills the family hamster.

Before that, the family celebrates Anthony’s adoption day with a cookie cake and a trip to Game Stop. Rudy gets jealous and stays at home locked in his room.

Before that, Cynthia’s mom passes, having dealt with dementia for almost twenty years.

Cynthia was sort of glad she was put out of that misery.

Before that, Sheryl wants to adopt a child. They meet a ginger boy named Rudy with burn marks on his chest and know he’s the one.

Before that, Cynthia and Rudy say “I do.”

Before that, Sheryl and Cynthia bump into each other at the bus wash. Sheryl compliments Cynthia’s Batman socks. They make plans to go bowling the that weekend. They move in together the following month, since Cynthia is at Sheryl’s most nights anyways.

The Empire Liam Weixel

The Empire Liam Weixel

For my Mom, my Dad, Evie, and the rest.

TABLE OF CONTENTS You Can’t Beat the Mouse MAGIC KINGDOM What’s Going On I Answered That I’d Been Visited by Three Ghosts Waste Stranger to a Stranger Land Red Rock River Moon and Nothing Like Home Singular 25 Things the Common Man Doesn’t Know

You Can’t Beat the Mouse

The truth of the matter is that the Magical Kingdom had been better as an amusement park. As it was now, it was the only “themed” part of the Empire. Citizens of the Magical Kingdom grumbled over the fact that they virtually had uniforms, and they kept their heads down when the Stormtroopers marched through the streets.

Bob Iger, now known across the Empire of America as Lord Voll, had seized his opportunity as the world fell apart. Using the monopoly that he held over the entertainment industry, he took control of every benefit within his grasp and pushed it to its limits.

Rumors persisted that Lord Voll had been alive for longer than any human had ever lived for, and more rumors still claimed that he was actually not human at all. You see, since the Empire had begun, Iger had been encased in an amalgam of parts lifted from various animatronics and costume closets from around the world. Fashioning himself this suit of armor, consisting of multiple parts of Mickey Mouse, Darth Vader, one or two Avengers, and an honest-to-God sword from the new Disney film “Jak of the Wasteland” (which, you know, did quite well with younger audiences, but among adults was considered “Maybe a smidge too violent, and played a touch too much as propaganda.”)

Voll had not been seen out of his full-body suit in many, many years, almost two generations, in fact. The truth, of course, stayed murky, did Voll and the Disney company have access to something that prevented or slowed aging? Was Voll human anymore, or had he become part of the Mouse? Or, perhaps, was Voll even Iger?

MAGIC KINGDOM Lord Voll, High Supreme Leader of the Magic Kingdom, was displeased. Looking off of his balcony over the periwinkle and pink majesty of his corporate world, he imagined the numbers. After the release of the sixth Cars film, Disney’s reviews had started to drop, there were few good reviews for the live-action Cinderella 2, and an outpouring of dislike for the re-animated re-remake of The Lion King.

Now, in anger, he swept back into his quarters and took off the Mickey MouseDarth Vader helmet he knew he must keep on at all times. In private, he knew himself to be safe, his secret was guarded, but to the public he could only be Lord Voll.

Taking several deep breaths, he steadied himself, Lord Voll could not lose his temper, Lord Voll was the Warlord of the Magic Kingdom, servant of the High Emperor.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

“The numbers do not matter,” he repeated over and over. “You are one with the Mouse. You represent the House of Mouse.” He replaced the helmet.

Lord Voll strode out of his rooms, his half cape not so much sweeping but kind of flapping a little behind him as he walked. He made for the throne room, descending the purple stairs into his court. Waiting for him were his advisors, Goofy, Donald, and Daisy.

The glassy eyes of their masks followed him as he walked past, moving to his throne and reclining on it.

“Dog!” He called, and Pluto hobbled toward him on hands and knees. He waited until Pluto stood right in front of him, then carefully put his feet on his back.

Lord Voll, High Supreme Leader of the Magic Kingdom, looked to his advisors and spoke with the voice of Mickey Mouse. “Where do our armies march?”

What’s Going On After Big Easy by Raphael Saadiq

To wake up alone in bed during a storm is disorienting, and Michael stumbled out of his bed immediately after realizing his wife was no longer there. He cast his eyes around the sparse room they shared, the only door out was still closed and chained from the inside. The singular window, which usually gave a rather average view of the Old Orleans street, was now so covered with rain that the only thing visible through it was patches of light from the streetlamps across the road.

Maybe she’d gone out. No, it was Christine who was frightened of thunder and who had warned him for days to prepare properly for the massive storm. It wasn’t unheard of, he thought, hurricanes in this part of the world. Even from generations before there were still records of storms with names that had caused devastation.

Pulling high boots over thick pants and a raincoat over his shirt, Michael stepped into the hall, hearing water pound against the walls, and locked his door behind him.

Please. He prayed. To anyone listening, let Christine be safe, let her be close by.

The wind howled louder than before and the building made a loud, uncomfortable creaking noise. And please, let the apartments still be here when I get back.

Michael walked out onto the street, and was almost pummeled back into the building by the rain and the wind. Pushing forward, he pulled his coat closer around him and dug into the ground, hoping to cross the street and shelter under the terraces of the apartments opposite him.

As he ran across the street, he thought he could hear faint music on the air.

Distracted, he stopped in the street, buffeted by wind and rain that came down like bullets. He searched for the direction the music came from.

He chased after it, the song fading behind the howls of the wind and the sound of rain on skin and street, but the faint sound always coming back to lure him closer.

Michael walked blind, not able to see five feet in front of him, only navigating by ear.

The music led him across the street, down the road, past rows of houses, and down an alley.

As he walked down the alley, the music echoed off the walls, now loud enough to easily distinguish from rain. Michael came to the end of the alley and stood in shock.

Before him stretched a massive parade, marching through the streets of Old Orleans.

Many people were dressed in the matte gold and white of Imperial soldiers, some in party attire, all of them dancing. Michael watched them, stunned, before seeing a red dress dancing at the head of the parade, Christine’s red dress.

Michael sprinted into the mix of the parade, pushing through the people, trying to force his way to the front. As he moved closer--his hands stretching out in front of him, almost losing his footing--the music swelled. It was deafening, hurting his head and his ears, but he’d reached Christine now and as he moved to grab her shoulder, the music hit a high note and ended completely.

Michael found himself kneeling in the street, rain pounding down onto his back, holding only his wife’s red dress.

I Answered That I’d Been Visited by Three Ghosts

The first ghost in my life was “what if?”. What if I’m not good enough, what if I was wasting my time, what if?

This ghost came to me the first time I was heart broken. What if I could have fixed things? What if I met them again? It’s a bitter ghost and not an easy companion to kick. This ghost will worm into your head and if you let it into your heart you’ll go insane.

The ghost followed me for two months, until I pushed it out and accepted my loss. I grieved, I mourned, and I left the ghost in the grave and took the memory with me. I got lucky, I was able to get rid of “what if”, not everyone can. For too many people, “what if” haunts them forever.

The second ghost in my life is doubt. I doubt myself, my friends, my family, the world at large.

Doubt breaks trust, makes your head ache, strangles you while you’re awake and suffocates you while you sleep. I met doubt when I was applying for work and I couldn’t get accepted anywhere I looked. Doubt seeped into my mind, made me question my abilities, my friendships, made me feel completely alone.

I can’t escape doubt, but I don’t drown in it anymore. Doubt follows me around, but I don’t let it in.

The third ghost is my father. Many nights I wake up feeling sure that I’ve just heard his voice, that if I had just woken up a second sooner he’d have been there. His

ghost is the only one I don’t want to get rid of. When he is near, I know, he keeps the other ghosts at bay.

Waste Happy birthday, my boy. I know it’s early, I know, but I needed to talk before the sun came up. I promise you can go back to sleep in a second, I’ve just gotta say my piece, alright? Alright.

You’re not as old as you think you are. That’s not me making fun of you, don’t worry, it’s just…Jesus, kid, you’re still so young. Being old, as old as you think you are, is such a kick in the gut. You can’t live life thinking you’re old just because there’s a new letter after the first one, especially if the first one is the letter one, and your decisions will mean something. They will always mean something.

Don’t live like there’s no tomorrow, kid, there’s too many tomorrows for you to think like that. Don’t neglect those grades, alright? I know that’s a real “dad” thing to say, but I’m serious, that’ll…that’ll screw you if you don’t think about it. Trust me, you don’t want to end up farming for the rest of your life.

Girls are a…girls are a topic we can talk about next year, sixteen seems like more of a…well, whatever. Or boys, you know, boys are fine too, but I’m not qualified in that area, honestly. Sorry, I don’t really have anything planned to talk about specifically, I just figured… …you know how everyone says we’re so similar? I know you look like me, same eyes, same hair, or what used to be my hair, and I get that. You know how everyone asks you what you’d tell your younger self? You know that question? Everyone always

answers it with something like “Don’t give up” or “Losing isn’t the end of the world, try again” but I don’t think they ever really think about the question, you know?

Those are all, like, fine answers, but no one would actually tell their younger selves that. They’d say something like “Don’t date Karen, she’s just trying to get back at her ex” or “Stop eating at McDonald’s every day, it’s going to kill you”, and even if you did say all that vague, blanket-statement stuff, younger you isn’t going to care. If I tell you right now that losing isn’t the end and sometimes you have to lose to win, you’re gonna say “Okay, Dad” right?

Yeah, see. Love you, buddy. I’m not angry or anything about it, I was just thinking earlier, I guess. Sorry, it’s early, it’s not really the time of day to be talking about the past, especially when it comes to your future.

Especially when it comes to your future. I guess my point, my real thing here is that I want to tell you not to make my mistakes. I don’t want you to end up where I am, which is kind of stupid, considering I have a beautiful wife and a great son and that’s really all you need, right? But I don’t…I don’t want you to regret the life you had and the choices and everything before that.

Sorry, buddy, get back to sleep, you don’t have to listen to me anymore. I love you, happy birthday.

Stranger to a Stranger Land Once, in a different time, there was a little town in the Valleybowl. On a hot day, a poor Stranger passed through. In this town, travelers rarely visited, so he was viewed with little interest. The citizens were accustomed to armed men rushing to rob the first people they met and escape before they could be caught, so a sort of apprehension fell over the village as the Stranger walked into town.

The sky was bright and the sun was merciless, so the poor farmers worked in the fields bare-chested and any person who didn’t have to work took refuge inside and in the shade. Villagers lounged under trees on the hill overlooking the town, some cooled themselves in small plastic pools, and some leaned inside doorways. The Stranger wore a shabby brown poncho despite the heat, though his eyes were covered by dark glasses to keep the sun out.

It was this poncho that distinguished the Stranger from the regular citizens of the small town, as it told a story of travels from far across the Empire. Where the Stranger went, eyes followed, and when he entered a cafĂŠ, several villagers followed him slowly inside.

He ordered a cup of water and a bowl of soup and ate silently and slowly. If he noticed anyone looking at him, he ignored them, choosing instead to focus on his meal.

The villagers, mostly people who had never travelled out of the Valleybowl before, were intrigued by the appearance of the Stranger, who had long hair and the skin of someone from a different part of the Empire. They stared at him openly, without any bad feelings or dislike, just to see the differences.

It was when the Stranger raised his hand to ask for another cup of water that his poncho shifted aside to show the weapon he wore in a holster on his belt. It was a rare weapon, something few people used, and the poor villagers wondered how someone so shabby might have gotten his hands on something so singular and valuable. It occurred to some that maybe he was a bandit of some kind, who stole from wealthy people traveling along the road.

Some of these like-minded citizens broke away and left, intending to find the Mayor and inform him that this Stranger was a threat and was sitting in town with little intention of moving.

Back at the cafĂŠ, the Stranger finished his water, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and put his empty cup and bowl on the counter. Then, he gathered his poncho around him, nodded to the other patrons in the cafĂŠ, and left.

The Mayor followed the people as they pulled him to the cafĂŠ, huffy at being drawn out of his cool office into the hot day. When they came to the table the Stranger had sat at, finding it empty, he asked the people just what they thought they were doing, dragging him away from his work for no reason. The people responded that the Stranger was armed and they assumed that he had come into town to rob them.

The Mayor was alarmed, recalling similar incidents in the recent past, he called the strongest farmers to him and they set out to look for the Stranger in town. Any place that he had visited said that he had bought what he needed quietly and left quietly.

The Mayor was confused, if the Stranger was armed and desperate, why was he buying things quietly and privately in town? They searched for the Stranger for only a little longer before giving up and going back to their homes.

As the group retreated, three men walked into town. Unlike the Stranger, these three newcomers wore light clothing and carried their weapons openly. Sharp little knives and short clubs poked through belts and the Mayor took a step back. The farmers, tired from their work in the fields, stood their ground as the bandits closed in towards them.

From the shadows of a doorway stepped the Stranger. Quietly, he walked between the two groups with a slow, deliberate pace that held everyone’s attention. He stopped suddenly, facing the bandits, and in a clear voice he politely asked them to leave.

The bandits, seeing only the worn poncho, drew their weapons on the Stranger.

With a sigh, he drew his own weapon, and in a flash it was done.

Red Rock River Moon and Nothing Like Home

The man in the brown poncho sat alone on top of the pile of rocks. Below, cradled in the valley, rested a small settlement, he would make for it tomorrow. Sitting next to his fire, he warmed his hands, watching the individual lights in the settlement turn off, listening to the river.

He thought about where he was now, sitting atop the red rocks, listening to the running river water under the moon. With so much time and distance between himself and his home. At his village, there was a great lake that stretched for miles, and more grass than there was here.

He thought of his siblings, he hoped they were safe, happy. He thought about his old friends, good people he didn’t know anymore. He remembered the death of his father, and the purpose which pulled him to the South.

His father: the man who taught him to love life, how to enjoy what you had, who had been lost many years ago to emissaries from the South. Now, to avenge his father, he traveled to their land with similar intentions.

The man in the brown poncho sighed and wrapped his garment tighter around himself, now all of the little lights in the village had turned off. He wondered just what his father would tell him if he could see his son now.

The man knew that his father would likely be disappointed.

“My son,” he would say. “Why have you chosen a life of violence and a goal of vengeance?”

The problem, mused the Son, was not that he didn’t want to honor his father’s memory. The problem was more found in different memories. When it came down to it, the memories of love and learning were marred by his father’s death. If traveling South with the intent to find the men who rampaged through his home long ago was not honoring the memories of his father by removing that taint from them, the Son didn’t know what else to do.

Under the moon, with the fire burning slowly out, the Son in the brown poncho listened to the hidden river nearby. With hundreds of miles between himself and his village, he acknowledged that more than the distance itself, time was what separated him from his home the most. With this thought still burning his eyes, he laid down under the moon and slept.

The man in the brown poncho sat alone. Below rested a small settlement he would make for tomorrow. Sitting next to his fire, he warmed his hands, watching the lights in the settlement turn off, listening to the river.

He thought about where he was now, sitting atop the red rocks, listening to the running river under the moon. With so much time and distance between himself and his home: his village, a great lake that stretched for miles, and more grass than there was here.

He thought of good people he didn’t know anymore. He remembered the death of his father, and the purpose which pulled him to the South.

His father: the man who taught him to live life, how to enjoy what you had, who had been lost many years ago to emissaries from the South. Now, to avenge his father, he traveled to their land with similar intentions.

The man in the brown poncho wrapped his garment tighter around himself, now all of the little lights in the village had turned off. He sighed.

The man knew that his father would likely be disappointed.

“My son,” he would say. “Why have you chosen a life of violence and a goal of vengeance?”

The problem was not that he didn’t want to honor his father’s memory. When it came down to it, the memories were marred by his father’s death. If traveling South to find the men who rampaged through his home long ago was not honoring his father by removing that taint, the Son didn’t know what else to do.

Under the moon, the Son in the brown poncho listened to the river. More than the distance, time was what separated him from his home. This thought still burning his eyes, he laid down and slept.

The man in the brown poncho sat alone. Below, a small settlement he would make for tomorrow. Sitting next to his fire, he warmed his hands, watching the lights in the settlement turn off.

He thought about where he was now, sitting atop the red rocks, listening to the running river under the moon. With so much time and distance between himself and his home: his village, a great lake that stretched for miles, and more grass than there was here.

He remembered the death of his father.

His father: the man who taught him to live, to enjoy what you had, who had been lost years ago to emissaries from the South. To avenge his father, he traveled to their land.

The man in the brown poncho wrapped his garment tighter, now all of the little lights in the village had turned off.

The man knew that his father would be disappointed.

“My son, why have you chosen a life of vengeance?”

The problem was not that he didn’t want to honor his father’s memory. When it came down to it, the memories were marred by his father’s death. If traveling South to find the men who rampaged through his home long ago was not honoring his father, the Son didn’t know what else to do.

Under the moon, the Son in the brown poncho listened. More than the distance, time was what separated him from his home. This thought still burning his eyes, he laid down and slept.

Singular “We were one of a kind, both of us.”—You Can Adapt to Anything by John Wiswell from Flash Fiction Online You are one of a kind. You are special, and when it comes that the Emperor needs to pass his name on, you will be the most special boy in the world.

This is what is told to the son of every Emperor. Every Emperor’s son who grows up to be another Emperor, who will react the same as his father and never learn just like his father. Each of these heirs is special. Each is one of a kind and wonderful and one day they will be the most important boy in the world.

Your son will be called just another pair of hands. Another unnecessary body, another name to another census. You may tell them that they are special but you will never know if they believe you.

When the Emperor’s son misbehaves, or throws a tantrum, he is bribed into being quiet, into behaving. When your son misbehaves you will take, you will punish how you see fit, and he will learn his lesson and grow up. The Emperor’s son will not learn.

Your son will become a man. He will not idolize you, he will learn from you and from what you show him. He will disagree with you and become a person. The Emperor’s son will not be taught by his father, he will be taught to hold his father above the world. Everything the Emperor does is to be taken as gospel, and the heir will be trained to be his father, to become a symbol.

In the end, it will not matter that your son is a commoner. It will not matter that he is not the most special boy in the world, he will be an adjusted human being. You know that you will be proud.

25 Things the Common Man Doesn’t Know

1. Lord Voll is not really Bob Iger anymore. He probably once was, according to legends and history books, but in the end he was just a human, and he died.

After his death, his son became the new Lord Voll, and the secret has persisted and continued to strike fear into the hearts of the other warlords in the Empire for many, many years. The rumor of the mouse-human hybrid, however is not entirely fictional.

2. The warlords of McDonald clan and the Wendy’s state have been secretly married for thirteen years, in July. It is why the frozen patties (yes, frozen) distributed in food packages from those two groups all taste the same.

3. The mattress you sleep on has bugs in it.

4. We did reach the moon in the past, but not with an elevator, as speculated by modern scientists.

5. Cell phones used to be widespread. No, really.

6. The Empire used to be a united country run by democracy. Concourse was originally called Washington D.C. and, as it is now, was the main capital of the country. The “Imperial Palace” used to be called the White House, and was

originally white, not red. It was also much, much smaller than it is now, and was missing several cannons on the roof.

7. The movies and television shows you view as historical fact are completely fictional about 34% of the time, regardless of what Lord Voll says. Here are a few real ones: Ken Burns documentaries, Lincoln, All the President’s Men. Here are some totally fictional ones: Blair Witch, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Jungle Book and Die Hard. I’m sorry if this ruins your interpretation of history.

8. The reason historical records are so scant and difficult to accurately find is that upon the formation of the Empire, the Emperor ordered the destruction of anything explaining various historical occurrences based on a list that was to be kept so secret that anybody who saw it was to be put to death if even one of the subjects of the list were ever widely known. There are entire schools of scholars who now, generations after the list was supposedly destroyed, pore over every single history book they can get their hands on to parse new knowledge of the past from the paper.

9. The list was not destroyed. However, only a select three people know where it is hidden.

10. You yourself, nor anyone you know will ever know where it is hidden.

Unfortunately, no one except the Emperor will know the contents of the list for another century, while this may seem disappointing to you, it should be taken into account that not only do you know little about history (real or otherwise), but you

also wouldn’t know what any of the events listed are. The only people who may take anything of importance away from the list are the scholars who have tried to study the jigsaw of history that’s left.

11. Even the Emperor--upon climbing the steps to the hidden dais deep underground where the list may or may not be hidden, upon taking the box from the center of the altar, upon opening the box to reveal the list, preserved through time, and even upon reading the list—will not care about what’s on it, nor understand it.

12. You have, at some point in your life, I am sorry to inform you, eaten human meat.

13. What you believe to be ancient religious sites scattered across the Empire are actually things that used to be called “Water parks”.

14. The film Alien is not, I repeat, not at all a historically accurate film, and is not a good reason not to try re-exploring space.

15. The reason that America has not heard a word from the countries across the sea in many, many years is far worse and far less believable than anything anyone has ever theorized.

16. You will never fly, you will never sail across the ocean and return, you will never climb the mountains and come home again, you will never see a different continent. For that, I am sorry.

17. You will see the sun rise, the sun set, and you will see the moon. You will feel the breeze on your face and you will miss the cold when it is hot, you will miss the warm when it is cold.

18. For those last truths, I envy you.

19. Your fears are mostly unfounded. As terrified as you are of invasion, many of the people you consider enemies consider you less than dirt. You will likely not be invaded.

20. You will probably die of sickness, unfortunately, but in thirteen years someone will develop the cure for the common cold.

21. Your name will be forgotten, but you will be remembered as one of the generations that kept this country alive.

22. You should not trust every stranger, but if you meet The Stranger, you should offer him a drink. He has a role to play.

23. Lord Voll’s family tree does include several mice. As disturbing and disgusting as it is, it’s not impossible.

24. Your ears do not deceive you, it doesn’t matter what they tell you.

25. Someday, eventually, the Empire will fall.