Voices from 9th Street: 9-12 Literary Arts

Voices from 9th Street Spring 2015

Literary Arts Department

Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 Creative and Performing Arts Magnet

Voices from 9th Street Spring 2015

Literary Arts Department

Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 Creative and Performing Arts Magnet

CopyrightŠ2015 Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, a Creative and Performing Arts Magnet Pittsburgh Public Schools, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania The copyright to the individual pieces remains the property of each individual.

Reproduction in any form by any means without specific written permission from the individual authors is prohibited.

For inquiries: Mara Cregan, Literary Arts Chair Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 111 Ninth Street, Pittsburgh, PA 15222 mcregan1@pghboe.net

The Literary Arts Program at Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 is a seven-year, intensive course of study in creative writing. Here at Pittsburgh CAPA, students with a love of writing and a commitment to achievement have opportunities to pursue their passion that are unavailable virtually anyplace else. Our young writers explore every literary genre: poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and drama. Each year, working with specialists in every genre, they take increasingly advanced courses, as they work to create a broad and sophisticated writing portfolio.

It is with great pleasure that I present the 2014-2015 literary arts anthology. The work represents the efforts of a talented group of literary artists.

Mara Cregan Literary Arts Chair Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12

Grade 9

Birds Are Hope Ryan Andrews

Birds are a sign of hope, they stay in your mind.

They fly around in your skull and peck at you when you’re drifting off.

If you’re not listening, even if you’re doubting the bird, it’s controlling you from the inside-out constantly. You’ll never get rid of it.

Twenty-four seven the bird is chirping, alerting you of your mindset.

Don’t ever let the bird leave, it’s keeping you on check—all for free.

Another Heirloom: Scene 7 Thee Heirloom (One-Act Play) Qui Ante S. Anderson

Sunset and Sunrise enter into …

SUNRISE HORIZON Well, here we are Sunset. We are back, back in …

SUNSET HORIZON What? We’re in …

How do you know so?

Sunrise points to the in the west direction. Sunset turns her head abruptly.

Brief silence.

SUNSET HORIZON Wow! We are her Sunrise, just look, look at the Sun setting.

SUNRISE HORIZON I know it’s like we never left. I love that it is still so silent, that it speaks.

Sunrise and Sunset sit, listen and observe the speaking sky, for a brief moment. Beautiful line: the speaking sky.

SUNSET HORIZON Happy Birthday Sunrise, I love you SUNRISE HORIZON Happy Birthday Sunset, and no, I love you!

And thank you for remembering it was my birthday too.

SUNSET HORIZON

What? Never did, and never would forget!

Sunrise leans her head in and lefts up her eyebrow.

SUNSET HORIZON Okay maybe just once.

NARRATOR Both giggle and hug each other.

SUNSET HORIZON Oh, I almost forgot your gift Me too!

SUNRISE HORIZON

Both pull out gifts, from their satchels and exchange them.

Then each take off the bow, opened their boxes, and take a glare.

Both drop open their mouths

AWWW Sunset

SUNRISE HORIZON

Tears roll down each of their eyes.

SUNSET HORIZON Sunrise! This is the most beautiful thing ever.

SUNRISE HORIZON And this is perfect Sunset, it’s nothing I imagined as a present, but it’s everything I need Both pull their gifts out of the gift box.

Both stare at their re-crafted dream-catcher from each other.

Than they stare at the side of their dream-catchers.

SUNSET HORIZON What is this clip for on the side, of my dream-catcher?

Sunset turns Sunrise to the east direction and Sunset turns the west, now they are shoulder to shoulder with each other.

SUNRISE HORIZON Move your clip to the edge of my dream catcher.

Sunset takes her clips to the edge of her dream-catcher, and both put it up to the sky and let the sun radiate in it.

Than each read the in-crested words the other wrote on their dream-catchers.

SUNSET HORIZON From the West …

To the East

SUNRISE HORIZON

May the sun die?

SUNSET HORZON

SUNRISE HORIZON May the sun be reborn again?

Form the West…

To the east The Moon rises …

SUNSET HORIZON SUNSET HORIZON SUNRISE HORIZON

And the moon Sets

SUNSET HORIZON

…

Both stand, holding the dream-catcher to the sun, hug each other and cry. For many seconds the stare at the dreamcatcher. Then two images of their MAY-MIY and PAY-PIY radiant from the sun into the hole of the dream catcher.

SUNSET HORIZON Oh Sunrise! We forgot about MAY-MIY and PAY-PIY. Both run down the rest of the path, until the dream catcher burial is in sight of their eyes. Tears run down each of their eyes, as the walk in what seems to take forever.

You ready, Sunset.

SUNRISE HORIZON

SUNSET drops out of a brief daydream.

What?

SUNSET HORIZON

SUNRISE HORIZON I said are you ready.

Oh, Yes I am!

SUNSET HORIZON

SUNRISE HORIZON OKAY, so you can go first, if you’d like.

Yeah Sure

SUNSET HORIZON

Sunset pulls out her journal from her sack.

SUNSET JOURNAL ENTRY : Finale OCTOBER. 25, Dear, May-Miy and Pay-Piy I can write, one of my many inherit-ants which is from both of you, She swallows. but when I write about you two, I get a block. It’s strange, because this time I am able to write. I don’t know does this symbolize something? For the last couple of weeks I have been pondering on the question of “Why are Sunrise and I, going to your grave?” Are we not living by the quote you created and we grow-up on “A soul in a human is simply energy contained in a capsule” and part 2 of this “when the human dies, the energy leaves the capsule …

Sunset and Sunrise eyes glare ahead, and reject the light before them, that is nearly blinding them.

Two auras forming glitches of web, and papaya are circling around each other. Then…

Sunset Pay-Piy Sunrise May-Miy May-Miy

What do you think Pay-Piy? Are, our Sunrise and Sunset living un-according to what we’ve always taught them?

Pay-Piy glares up in the sky and gesture his hands on his chin.

Pay-Piy Well we also did teach them that the meaning of perfection was for them to be..Imperfect.

May-Miy That sounds about right. What do you think Sunrise and Sunset?

End.

10 and ½ Ways of Looking at 1:42 a.m Maisha Baton

One Cherry red heels stumble and scuff the cold concrete. the moon illuminates tiny oceans.

Two A head against a window. Streetlights and silhouettes spin past.

A bionic voice announces two streets we don’t recognize.

We laugh.

Three A pile of blankets slowly rise, and slowly fall for twelve hours. Snores emerge from a cold room.

Four Grass pinches a pair of necks.

Thick summer air sits next to us.

We stare at the stars.

The stars stare back.

Five The wind makes our bones rattle like tin cans. We watch our candy wrappers dance

across the radiant blue snow.

Six Calloused feet stomp across the chilled sidewalk, stained sweatpants fly over chipped red nail polish. A pair of hands clutches a torn garbage bag.

Seven An empty bed sits under a dim ceiling light. In the next room over, a cat sleeps on a pile of clean laundry.

Eight A man feeds pigeons by the pond. The moon looks at herself in the reflection.

The man stares at the moon.

Nine I keep opening a book and never finishing it.

I keep taking bites and spitting it out.

I keep falling asleep and waking up tired.

Ten Don’t want to sleep.

Don’t want to be awake.

Can’t quite make sentences can’t quite shut up.

Where do I go from here?

Ten and ½

How do I feel?

How do I feel?

Age Association Olivia Benning

Black and white pictures of Presidents that mean nothing They say I’m too young to understand, too young to be involved with politics Or anything for that matter I watch as an 40 year old man walks into the store, Greeted with a warm smile from the cashier I watch her face as I walk in only a hard stare given to me I’m too much of a teenager to go unsuspected here Or anywhere for that matter Smiling happily as I ironically get a Happy Meal “You’re too old for that” I cringe as I hear those words, biting my tongue I’m such a child when it comes to certain things Or anything for that matter Then I see it, The gray hair and the wrinkled face He sits on a rusty park bench, playing on a Nintendo 3DS I say to him, “But sir, you’re too old for that”.

“Kid, it doesn’t matter what your damn age is Tell me…how old do you feel?”

You are absurd To tell me that my age determines how you look at me Give me the impression that because I’m young, I’m not worth much Only I know how much I’m worth I know how old I feel.

ARTS REVIEW Weston Custer

As I trudge into Delanie’s Coffee, I’m nearly floored from the sensory overload. All the products being offered are described as ‘organic’. There’s flyers everywhere, advertising folk music colleges and sculpture galleries. It’s like some post-bohemian hellscape. A frantic effort to shield my retinas leads me to the bathrooms, but they’re locked.

There’s no escape.

I regroup, and after some deliberation, swallow my pride and decide I’ll order something. The barista’s nametag says ‘Tim’. I ask ‘Tim’ what he recommends. He shrugs, says ‘The coffee,’ laughing. It’s not funny. I heed his advice. My beverage is expensive, and tastes pretty much like coffee.

He thanks me, and I smile, but I can’t display any weakness.

That’s what they’re waiting for.

I climb 14 steps to the loft. Unable to find a seat amongst the crowd, I settle on another stairway to an apartment. I try busying myself with swinging my keys around, pushing back my cuticles, anything to remove my mind from this coffee’s awful aftertaste. I reorganize my wallet twice. The art on the wall offers no consolation. Why is that eyeball wearing a beret? I imagine riding an orca with wings. That would be cool. I despise coffee.

A guy in a beanie, also unable to find a seat, sits under the staircase. His face is, like, centimeters from my butt.

As I conclude that the coffee is actually acid, a woman with a blue Mohawk takes the microphone and introduces the first reader, Lisa Alexander. She’s reading this lady’s accolades with a cadence typically reserved for poetry, which I’m sure is a joke, but nobody is laughing. It’s definitely a joke.

Lisa Alexander has a blunt, self-aware voice. She’s humorous and confident, and the Mohawk lady laughs too loudly. My tailbone aches. You know, the coffee isn’t so bad. I’m barely aware I’ve been ensnared, like a tranquilized gorilla. Lisa reads, like, 7 poems about neighbors showering and space heaters.

I realize I’m tapping my foot to the Animal Collective.

Next is Christine Deka. She reads about a runaway bride at a diner in rural Pennsylvania. There’s little conflict.

My left eye starts twitching. The orca is back. I catch myself drooling. The main character hasn’t even finished her potatoes yet. Hours pass. Years pass. Someone drops their pastry. The Mohawk lady is sitting across the room, maybe making eye contact with me? Is something interesting behind me? Maybe she’s wondering if I’m making eye contact with her?

Fortunately, it’s time for the final reader, Karla Lamb.

Unfortunately, I’m out of coffee. She writes in the everpopular sensory collage style. Stuff like ‘Your veins hold champagne/ don’t they? Your perfume lies haunt me’, etc.

She prefaces a poem by asking the audience if they’ve ever felt manic. I’ve never felt manic. I’ve always felt serene, like right now. I raise my cup to my lips, but it’s empty. Why? Karla finishes, the crowd disperses, and I’m in the slushy cold again. I want coffee. 2/5 stars.

Dizzy

Isabella Victoria I’ve always been used to rough games, two brothers that are constantly fighting.

You know the drill one picks on the other, and they both roll down to the geometric patterned carpet with perseverance to punch, kick, and throw the other.

I’ve always been used to being the girl, the older sister that’s supposed to be annoyed all the time.

A girl who looks up from texting on her iPhone to yell at the aggravating little brats then goes back to clicking polished nails on a fragile screen.

Fragile like the glass angels waiting on the mantel, delicate like a dandelion softly spinning in the wind.

I am the soft white furs of the dainty flower after they have been blown, after they explode into the air.

I have this urge to join in, to punch and kick and throw with them.

To swing them by their left arms in circles, until their feet leave the ground and we all collapse onto the whirling wood.

There’s nothing stopping me from being this wild girl, not the curled hair of the tea-sipping ladies, or the neat aprons of proper wives in the kitchen.

I could- I should- I can wake up.

I could wake up without prince charming staring over me.

I should click my heels and snap out of the norm.

“Cross your legs ladies.”

“Sit up straight, ladies don’t slouch.”

“Keep you hair smooth and shiny ladies.”

I can throw my hair in circles around my head until I see straight, until the Earth spins slower, until the dizziness stops.

Brown Leather Ballad Eva Dregalla

1.

Worn. A tired cow laid down licking old wounds and stray hairs.

Multiple slashings on a stained hide.

2.

A smell – secret in the way that I find comforting. Em will tell me it smells like B.O. but to me it is summer.

3.

In a different life it could have been a mother. Strong arms and warm hearts. A maternal love where no hats are needed to ward off the cold.

4.

A cavern worked with loss. Pockets as tunnels, crumbs as boulders. You let me carry your keys, and it makes me feel special.

5.

If it wasn’t a jacket, was it a blanket? Could I have enveloped you inside to keep your teeth from grinding?

I hadn’t seen you shudder like that before.

6.

She snagged this one from Goodwill and we all appreciate the buy, somehow an icon.

7.

A sister’s death is less definite if you find chewed gum in her backpack.

That little ball of rubber had her DNA worked into it, and in that school bus moment it became sacred.

I’m wondering if she smelled like summer too.

8.

You couldn’t make this jacket a coffin if you tried. Watch as you nail yourself in and still feel free. I’m sure this was my skin once.

Lucky Penny Noor El-Dehaibi Characters SUZANNE: A 17 year old TOBY: Suzanne’s 32 year old estranged cousin Setting: The middle of a park, near a wishing well.

(SUZANNE is sitting on a blanket with a picnic basket, eating a sandwich. A small drawstring bag is sitting beside her.)

Suzy! eating.)

(offscreen)

TOBY:

(She pretends to not hear him and continues TOBY (con’t):

SUZY!

(She continues to ignore him. TOBY bursts into the scene, looking annoyed and ragged.)

SUZANNE GREEN!

TOBY (con’t):

(She looks up.)

SUZANNE: I knew you would be back. Can’t you bother somebody else?

What about Eric? He got more out of the will than I did.

TOBY: You know it’s not money I’m after.

SUZANNE: (scoffs) Then what do you think these are?

(She holds the bag up in the air. TOBY reaches towards it.)

Treasure.

(dreamily)

TOBY:

SUZANNE: A bag of silver pennies and mercury dimes isn’t treasure. It’s spare change you feel guilty about spending. (glares at him) And I intend on keeping it.

(TOBY steps closer. SUZANNE protectively wraps both of her hands around the bag, guarding it.)

TOBY: I would never spend them on anything! Who do you think I am, an amuteur?

SUZANNE: Oh, dont worry. I know how deeply you understand the world of coin collecting. Either way, selling it fifty years after it went out of circulation is just spending it to buy more money.

TOBY: That doesn’t even make sense.

SUZANNE: I don’t care, I’m keeping them. How dare you even come to me asking! You know how important these are! This little bag is all I have left of them!

TOBY: (exasperated) Suzy, they’ve been gone for six months. Give it a rest.

SUZANNE: I will NOT give it a rest! Sam RAISED me! They were the closest thing to a parent I ever had!

TOBY: Don’t you think I miss Sam too? They meant the world to me.

SUZANNE: Did they mean the world to you, Toby? Then where were you when the diagnosis came? Or the chemo? Or even the FUNERAL? (stammering) I-I….I tried, but…

TOBY:

SUZANNE: You didn’t show up until the will was read! And even then you left after I got THIS! (She emphatically waves the bag around, growing more and more angry. TOBY winces as the coins rattle within it.)

SUZANNE (con’t): What gives you the right to claim this? A hobby? Well let me to you something, while you were hunting around for banged up old coins I was giving Sam hospice care!

TOBY: I… I’m so sorry….I never-SUZANNE: Never what? Cared? Because I know you don’t! All you care about is this little thing, bothering a grieving woman day and night for some money from the 1800s! You know what? I’ll make sure you NEVER see them in your life!

(SUZANNE crosses over to the wishing well.

TOBY, seeing what she is doing, gaps and desperately tries to pull her back. She slaps him across the face.)

SUZANNE (con’t): (snarling) Never. in. your. life.

(She dramatically pulls the bag open and dumps its contents into the well. TOBY is petrified. Suzanne walks over and shoves the empty satchel into his hand.)

SUZANNE (con’t): Here. Take your inheritance.

TOBY:

(in shock) That… that could’ve been my rent. That could’ve been a year’s rent. But you just… threw it away…

Leave.

(coldly)

SUZANNE:

I‌ I‌

TOBY:

(TOBY walks offstage in a daze, staring at the satchel in his palm. SUZANNE waits for him to leave, then sits back down. She opens up her picnic basket and pulls out a worn leather pouch.)

Serves him right.

SUZANNE:

(She kisses the bag lightly and carefully puts it back in the basket. She picks up some of her food and begins to eat again, shaking her head slightly. End of scene.)

Definitions for Words I Will Likely Never Use Noor El-Dehaibi 1.

Susurrus (noun): The wilted jar of potpourri your aunt regifted three years ago.

It smells like oven cleaner. (Does potpourri go bad?)

2.

Pomposity (noun): The diagnosis that you are praying you will not hear.

Aggressively contagious.

(Ex.): You will live with pomposity if you get treatment early.

3.

Curd (verb): To lead animals while holding three shepherd’s

crooks.

(Originally came from the name of a small but devastating gang of young sheep herders.)

10 Ways of Looking at a Baseball Maya Frizzell I. Wishing to be the moon, spiraling towards a dark and resting expanse, only falls when it reaches the starlit sky.

II. Sitting on the dirt mound, forgotten, the sun makes the skin of the baseball dry with the heat of a summer day.

Too long it’s been waiting.

III. White turned yellow by the greedy gripping of children’s hands, the red twine of the baseball finally unravels.

IV.

Snow falls softly, and in the midst of it, all you can see is the red lines of the baseball.

V. Crowds cheer with support as the boy’s toes curl, his hand lets go of the baseball, and all you can see is a white blur as it flies to meet its mark.

VI. She grips it in her ever-growing hands, wanting for the game that she is told is for boys.

As she holds it, the baseball comforts her crying eyes.

VII. It hides among the green,

too high for any to reach it.

They’ve lost the baseball for the fourth time this week.

VIII. Lying on a bedroom shelf, the baseball is left as a final salute to the days when it was their everything.

IX. The dirt slowly coats the baseball as it rests in the dirt and the owner walks away, never to see the small orb again.

X. The baseball seems to shine through the store window as the young girl presses her hand against the glass, wanting for nothing more.

Chain Link Fence Suhail Gharaibeh

My back is carved with the pattern of the twisted steel diamonds making up the chain link fence in my elementary school’s tarmac playground.

Heat dizzies in waves off the ashy concrete as I nervously anticipate my turn in the biweekly relay race.

My powder blue hi-top Converse tap against the ground.

I see the redheaded boy with freckles like a constellation run towards me grasping the iridescent green baton, white-knuckled and crazed with competition.

I step forward, trembling, and snatch the plastic tube from his hand.

Run, boy!

I hear his voice behind me, squeaking like rusty pipes.

Run like you ran across the border!

Blood rushes into my too-tan face.

The tips of my ears tingle, reddening as I reach the other side of the track.

What does he mean?

I was born here in Pittsburgh, there must be some mistake.

I find myself back-handing tears off my terracotta cheeks, my legs that are only good for jumping over chain link fences and sprinting, terrified, from la migra are tired of running.

Palestinian Potluck hosted by Conflict Kitchen Suhail Gharaibeh

On November 18th this year, over 200 people lined up to fill their plates at a Palestinian Potluck. The Potluck, held at the East Liberty Presbyterian Church, was hosted by a takeout restaurant and performance art project Conflict Kitchen.

Conflict Kitchen offers a rotating menu, serving foods from countries with which the United States has social or political conflict. The restaurant was opened in 2010 by Carnegie Mellon art professor Jon Rubin and Dawn Weleski as a social experiment. Recently, the restaurant shifted from Cuban to Palestinian cuisine.

Individuals of diverse races, ages, and religions attended the potluck, sparking interesting interactions between guest speakers such as Palestinian nationals and the attendees, many of whom are involved with Palestinian solidarity.

The potluck featured bountiful authentic Levantine mezze, or appetizers, that attendees brought to the event, such as hummus, tabbouleh, olives, and pita bread. The chefs of Conflict Kitchen served soups, tea, and baklava for dessert.

Classical Palestinian music was the background for laughs, emotional talks, and political discussions.

“It’s funny how political food can really be,” expresses a Chatham food studies major that I sat next to, “I think that’s why Conflict Kitchen is causing such rich dialogue right now.”

Conflict Kitchen explores the idea of food in relation to politics, as the restaurant spurs on discussion via the vehicle of exotic foods. Establishments that will cause social dialogue are the cornerstones of many communities, and events such as these are doing a lot for our city.

A Folding Chair Veronika Gillespie

Wellness is watery sickness, not only in the mind, but in the lungs and innerworking cavities that compel you to keep melting off and lukewarm, and keep digging in until the underneaths of your fingernails are orange and slimy and somehow gorgeous, in the back of the bottom of the trench of the malady-riddled fear you fill your throat up with for sundaes brunch. You are okay, in the way that is a mystery to lyricists everywhere, in a way in which you could not, can not, find a way out when they’ve tried to say they’ve known you from a story in a book that combusted into rickets and allergies that she dates back to the 17th century and you cannot tell if it happened in a month a day and a month in May and you may have heard this before, and the limpid rapid syllables pour out from teargassed cheeks in ways so foreign, in places so warm, you could not, can not recreate, can not race for a cure in the valleys and tangerine sadness flooding through paper mache inflicted into eyes, fowl turning out of tune and you could not ever understand, you can not feel every crevice inside peanut-butter shut, residual bitter waste, all about the subconscious and all about Friday and you would not ask me even if you wanted to. You would not tell a lie if a horse by any other name would request it upon you, and you could not ever understand the dripping echoing throughout barnyard storms and grown men crying.

When Sound Falls Dominique Green

No sound falls, from the moaning sky, the children’s laughs, from your lips!

It all slips away into the silent abyss.

Filled with the words that slipped from lips, the words you dear not say!

Now stay inside a deeper part of me.

You a childless mother, is comforted in the womb of loved ones.

The connection that was lost.

Will never lose purpose in the heart.

When the beat becomes fatal, and your skin is cold like the day we first met.

The children’s laughs will come back, Moaning skies will fill the air, and my eyes will be flooded, with tears.

When you come here.

When the sound falls once again.

Native

Dominique Green Flowers battered with butter that make the flies seem sweet.

The tip of my tongue is a bee’s desire.

Sunshine in the night sky is like me unique.

I am a native of a native who was a native, but now is not a native but will always be somewhat of a native.

This is the legacy my parents have left for me.

The hills are where I am from.

Valleys are a myth of foreign affairs.

As are the stories I use to share about the girls with the unique hair.

Where the foreigners are natives and natives are foreign I am a pure breed one without the head that guides me through struggle.

Sweet Memories Dominique Green

I remember swinging on the swing set Watching the spruce tree grow.

Listening to my mother talking about cutting it down, was a myth she always told.

Back when my mind was free, back when my only enemy was me,

and when the world never seized to amaze me.

I was like a honeybee absorbing the honey.

Those are the memories I want to keep close.

Dancing, cheering being loud was always my thing.

My mother made me play sports hoping that I would have less energy.

I can still remember the first time I really needed my mother, and she was there for me.

The tender caress of my mother’s arms is what made my child hood memories sweet to me.

10 Ways of Looking at the Stars Pay Kish

I. The stars are your caretakers.

Their soft, cool glow whispering reassurances in your ear, And sprinkling your mind with star-dust.

Leaving nothing but pure thoughts, And a heart full of hope.

II. Words.

They fill your brain with ideas of a better future, Things you wish you could say, But get trapped in the back of your throat.

They are the words that you keep in the prison cell that is your mind.

The stars make you think.

III. Hope.

Their little, bright lights Gleam like the entirety of a city.

Little things can be big things too.

IV. Addictive.

They are like a narcotic.

Every night, you crave seeing them, And their soft, reassuring lights.

You crave seeing them because They’re the only stable thing you have left.

V. They are friends of the moon.

You’d think that big, round, Ivory orb would get lonely up there,

Sitting in the sky every night, Like a bird caught in a tree branch.

But she’s really not.

She has every star in the sky, Dancing with her until the Sun peeks its head over the horizon, And stretches it’s long, orange arms across the land.

VI. Life.

For those who like the way Insomnia Feels in their veins.

VII. The stars are a preview Of what the universe holds.

Eons of time and light years of galaxies, And yet we still think that the stars are enough.

VIII. The hearts of lovers Set on fire.

All of those who feel bright, burning passion For another who feels the same.

It’s peoples’ love set aflame, And buried in the night sky.

IX. A celebration.

They’re like decorative lights, Celebrating every night because people Are alive, and drinking in their beauty every moment.

X. The stars are simplicity.

They instill an unexplainable calmness

Into some of the darkest of minds.

Tea

Jessica Kunkel Lava encircles its prey stalking morning doves vapor arises soaking into airborne toxins.

You claim it’s harmless, choking on rats’ tails.

Sweet nectar runs into hot springs founded by corporations. Granules of powdered pigeons make a beeline toward the boiling liquid. Slithering over bumpy tongues are promises-not-kept.

Orchestras compose to fragments of tables and carvings and we have our noses tickled by one form of water and cattails.

Knees-to-chin our posture is shot thirty seven times in the dignity our arms curled around ourselves tree branches gnarled and twisted in permanence with condensation on cheeks windows to the mouth and not the soul.

Dripping from one two orifices running away from tunnels heat can do that to a person.

Draw it in as you let it go it make illustrations a blur.

Save Me

Jessica Kunkel Shattered hours neon vernacular human wishes magic city leaning against the sun. Leaving Saturn the world split open. Goodbye, but listen, swimmer in the spreading dawn steal away the body’s question. Repair don’t let me be lonely. Weather central fragments from the fire what you have lost.

Revolutionary petunias American noise these are not sweet girls. Under milk wood the black notebooks radiation life on mars. The city in which I love you don’t cry, scream.

In Memoriam Jessica Kunkel

I’ve always found peace of mind in these rain-filled days water sliding down my skin soaking into my pores to my core eighty percent water doesn’t begin to describe my belonging in the rain.

We laugh together with the sunset and ice cream dripping down our chins gathering in pools on our shirts little brown cure-all and a good time.

Drudgery

Chelsea Lewis Your ignorance is silently killing people and you don’t even know it.

She’s the girl who walked two extra steps for that last donut.

You probably saw her in Linden and the next day in Harrison and wondered if you were seeing double.

Her with her black smock covered in stains, dark hair always being tied up.

She dreamed while she was restocking the glazed donuts, counting her register and preparing to tell you about the weekly specials.

She simply wished for a better life.

And here you are, raising your voice because you asked for chocolate not blueberry.

And there she is, silently flustered yearning for that measly 8.25 an hour.

That was her runway, the model employee.

The epitome of drudgery, the best of the blue collars.

She lay her limbs on the comfort and flesh of the interior of her van.

Soon to let go and leave the earth.

She leaves her friends, family and boyfriend to mourn.

Her children clueless wondering where mommy is.

Everyone else, weeping for their daughter, niece, cousin, aunt and friend.

Sadness over comes them as they prepare for the final goodbye.

And here you are, still blissfully ignorant to every worker you see.

Dressed for Success Chelsea Lewis

Four years ago, Brenna Gallagher walked in to Pittsburgh CAPA, dressed up with curled hair and ready for the audition as if to say, “Hi, I’m here! I want to be a writer!”

She soon realized that everyone else was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Embarrassed, she went into her assigned room, sat down and wrote what she recalls as “the silliest poem she’s ever written” but she still was accepted.

Now, Gallagher reflects back on her time at CAPA, saying, “I wouldn’t change a thing, I really wouldn’t.”

Gallagher is a senior literary artist on the fast track to college, specifically, Point Park University and hopefully, the cinema program.

It was recently that she decided to attend college. “I want to write and I want to make movies and I didn’t know if going to college would be best for me,” she says. Luckily, it did work out for Gallagher, who was accepted. “I felt a type of pride that I’ve never felt about myself.”

Gallagher aspires to be a filmmaker and novelist because she also loves fiction. “I’m excited for film school, just simply to be able to explore creativity that I’ve never been able to before.” This upcoming year, she has the opportunity to do screenwriting but is choosing to specialize in directing. Later down the road, Gallagher also plans to attend grad school at Chatham University for creative writing.

Fortunately, she has been able to spend time on the campus and get the feel of the college lifestyle because some of her friends already attend there. She likes the homey feel of Point Park instead of a big university-type like the University of Pittsburgh. “It’s so much better to me because then you have a way more of an opportunity to build friendships.”

The main reason that she considered not attending college was the tuition; in fact, she came to CAPA because of the Pittsburgh Promise opportunity, which is not offered in Catholic schools. “I have the Promise to thank, for the opportunity to go to college.” Unfortunately, Point Park was not so gracious. “I’m commuting to campus instead of living on campus because it’s so expensive. They didn’t give me any scholarship money because of that which annoys me; I think it’s petty.”

With college comes responsibility, which Gallagher took a while to accept. “In college, there’s not going to be a ‘Mrs. Kennedy’, who right now chases me around and makes me turn in my work.” Gallagher doesn’t want college to be the same as high school where everyone blends in and countless days are spent solely on worksheets and essays. Gallagher prepares to easily survive next year so her education will be joyful instead of stressful.

For all of you juniors and seniors who aren’t confident or insecure about college, Gallagher encourages you to take a risk and push your limits. “Honestly, it really does not hurt to apply, it really does not hurt to think about every single possibility that you have and explore them.” She agrees that colleges are intimidating, but to try it because “you can always build up from your decisions.” Also, she encourages you to be fully engaged. As in the words of her friend, “If you’re not geeked about every single class, you’re wasting money.”

Gallagher has high aspirations for herself in the next five years. “I hope I’m going to be fresh out of college with a BA in Film, take a year off before grad school. I just want to

be happy, to be creative and I want to be making something new every day.â€? Â

My Innocent Victim Pilar Lojacono

Don’t send them back to Mexico, sir, they ain’t done nothin’ wrong.

Oh don’t send them back to Mexico, sir, they ain’t done nothin’ wrong.

The kids have been on the trains for far too long.

Honduras is full of murders, mister, that’s why they ran away.

Honduras is full of rapists, mister, that’s why they ran away.

They wanna just be safe, they’ve been runnin’ since last May. Their mamas are all crying, but they wanna just be free.

Their daddies are hitting up, so they wanna just be free.

The government wants more money, but why can’t they let them be…?

In Another Light Chyna McClendon

The sun shines in the slightly angular room, dust particles dance in the rays.

I stride to the chair and slump, assuming my horrid posture.

A porcelain face stares at me.

Untouched, perfect in her own way.

Framed in ancient wood that smells of pine.

Paint fumes are saturate the air.

Every breath I take is pure bliss.

I bend back the soft bristles, letting them tickle my hands.

Prepping them for the task ahead.

I dip my brush in the endless colors of my panel.

The brush is an extension of me my mind and body becoming one in one stroke.

Wrists bending and twisting creating the lips and lines of a girl who never smiles.

Always feeling the ruff canvas, and the way the brush curves at the end.

Her delicate long fingers folded and poised.

Her face holds a million secrets

Society Says

Chyna McClendon Society says that you don’t have to be perfect.

Society says that no matter what you look like everyone will love you.

Society says that no one can judge you.

Society says that no one can exclude you, that we are all a family.

No Society has an image.

The girl with the perfect hair, and the thin waist.

The girl with perfect teeth, and even tan.

The flawless skin.

Is this the standard?

Perfection is key right?

But what if you’re not “the image.”

But what about the girl with the uneven hips?

With hair that’s not long and flows.

With teeth covered braces.

With skin that is a maze of pimples and craters.

Limbs that are covered in scabs.

Why is she not up there? Why is the “perfect girl” up there.

Ask yourself and you’ll know the answer.

Society lies.

Snowfall

Caroline Molin Lately my father; his tone’s really scary like really, I’m trying not to cry daily and sincerely, He left just two weeks ago and now things Are all happening so slow.

My eyes are marbles all shiny.

My nose is sand, all dried up from blowing.

Can’t believe yesterday it was snowing.

Feels like that was a year ago.

Christmas in a couple days my mother’s trying to console me, But it’s not like my father hadn’t just stole me.

Me and my thousand tries, thousand lives, My father’s thousand lies, apologize But now my mom’s getting a call, feel like I’m about to fall, Daddy’s in my house and all.

Now I’m trying hard to breath, pulling on my other sleeve I don’t know what’s gonna happen but I just want my dad to leave.

“Caroline It’s all okay, this is just another day.

I know how you feel, nobody wants your dad to stay.”

We pull up to my house and now my heart is hard as stone.

My dad had taken everything, no way that he was alone.

Now it just feels like he’s just washed away the time he’d stay And I just want to wish there was another way.

I can’t pretend I’m not in pain, my head feels like it is insane.

But for that one I guess I only have myself to blame.

My life is officially a mess, but I have nothing to confess This is just another week, don’t worry, Rest your head and go to sleep.

On Conflict In Public Schools Hope Schall-Buchanan

Sweet Surrender, sweet sweet surrender feels like cheese.

It feels like cheese and chess and quests for greatness.

Dissatisfied are you, dissatisfied with poo and food and cruel and holes in the ground? Fine fine is the final forth-ward northward word for finding fine fine. Fines are mine and metal is mine and detectors is mine and lines, short lines is mine. Dashes is mine and stairs is mine and the first first table in the able hablar atrium is mine. Me is mine. Fight is mine. I am mine.

Mice, white mice run run run. See mice, watch mice and see them. Funny purple flirting mice. Mites in mice and mites in books and also bugs and thugs. Bug-ugly thugs. Pretend thugs, funny suddy thugs thudding thud thud thud. Mud in the machines, mud in the clean thinking machines, coin machines, little thing machines. Little machine things, putting things in things and on things and in things. Point, point me coyly, altar boy cabin boy coward boy.

At The Wholey’s

Hope Schall-Buchanan 1.

The house itself, was filled with cold, white-blue light.

It had no chairs or tables, but instead icy counters with fat, fully finned corpses that stared at you without judgement.

I was enchanted by the fish in the tanks.

They swirled and circled and dipped

like quicksilver droplets in water, but went nowhere, barred by invisible barriers.

2.

The lobsters, who scuttled along with nowhere to go, and whose feet smoothly transformed to claws drew my eyes too.

They seemed almost wooden until they were to be examined, when their foot-claws would snap at hands and the sides of the tank.

They laid bare their fire when they fought and struggled against their smug predators, against the scale, the plastic casing and the boiling pot.

Dictated but not read by the Illuminati

For All Those …

Ciara Sing

This is for all those broken girls.

The ones who will stand up for what ever they believe in.

For those who get so carried away that their voices begin to rise, hands start to fly around, next thing you know she turns into a minister and you feel like you’re watching Joel Osteen on Sunday morning. But, as soon as she sees you, she goes quiet.

This is for all those contemplative girls. The over thinkers.

Those who watch 12 turn into 5, whose thoughts gets leaked into the sheets every night and wish for all the impossible things.

All 482 things.

This is for all those who secretly suffer.

Who would rather construct a prison around their heart then let people in.

For those whose best friend is “I’m fine,” even though we all know that’s code for I give up.

This is for all those altruistic girls.

The mothers who aren’t even mothers.

The ones who will bite their tongues and swallow whatever feelings they have for you.

Who ignore the urge to tangle her fingers in your hair, the yearning for the warmth and security of your hugs, and the desire to be comforted.

The girls who have to hold up bricks in a pool of guilt.

This is for the girls who get taken advantaged of walked on overlooked.

The ones who think they’re not good enough when they’re the only ones that are actually good enough.

The ones who don’t believe compliments meanwhile you’re the only ones worth giving them too.

This is for the hard working compassionate independent strong intelligent role model you are.

Since society never wants to, this is for you.

Childhood Ciara Sing

Merely an illusion a distant thought going off in the wind. Time can not withstand the power created by hippocampus.

I’ll always remember the shock from light hitting skin, the faint shadow of the black bunk bed, the silver circle swirls

now covered up and the smiles etched across everyone’s face.

Just like the sun will always follow the moon and the moon will always follow the sun, it will never cease to exist.

Gertrude Stein Imitation William Thayer

Purples huffing against brick houses and an eye squeaks out and out and back in and out as out as in can get.

A kaleidoscope of appendages, ligament through mandible swirling in swirls as in swirls not as in burls or as in as is.

As swirls.

In patch after patch patching patches of soft patchy ground. Breaking through patches of dirt breaking through patches of patchy air air he had air air and not as air only but as patches of sky.

I Just Wanted to Say Goodbye Aurora Wise

Kiss my only daughter, like I had the day she was born.

Her skin used to be smooth like stainless steel.

But now when I laid my lips on her forehead, small flakes of skin come off on my mouth.

I do not wipe them off.

I am now stuck kneeling over the toilet from sun up to sun down, dusk to dawn.

The slightest breeze will knock my fragile body over and my bones will splinter.

I am crying blood instead of tears.

I want nothing more than to touch my husband, to look into the shining eyes of my boy, but I am in a white room and I cannot get out, cannot get out.

I want nothing more than to kiss them, for the disease to take them over and squeeze their innards, so we can be a family again.

I want nothing more than to hold their hands when I black out.

I just wanted to say goodbye.

I just wanted to say goodbye.

The Journey from CAPA to College Serena Zets

“Gumbands, chipped ham, slippy in the bathroom, incline, PAT bus, traffic goin’ downtown. We don’t care, we’re runnin’ pierogi races in our dreams.” If these lyrics sound familiar, you’re not the only one who thinks so. Over 17,000 people have viewed “Pittsburgh Royals” on YouTube, making its creator, Pittsburgh CAPA senior Drew Praskovich, a viral hit.

In his short high school career, Praskovich wrote this song, won multiple Scholastic Writing Awards golden keys, was nominated for a Gene Kelly Award, and had a play produced at City Theatre. Each accomplishment is impressive, but they only account for a handful of accolades that CAPA students receive each year.

Praskovich’s exposure is an example of a common CAPA belief, that CAPA has allowed students to explore not only their art forms, but their futures. Praskovich describes it as “CAPA has infinitely prepared me [for college]. If I hadn’t gone to CAPA I would have gone to a Catholic school right by my house and taken the yellow school bus. Everyone would have had very similar ideologies and beliefs. Going here has really changed… how I perceive ideas and how I communicate.”

The effect of this creative environment shows when CAPA students apply for college or jobs. The experiences and training that CAPA students receive gives them an advantage over their peers at other high schools, especially literary artists. “Not only if you love writing, but it’s just such a practical thing,” says Praskovich. “Not every writing major goes to writing, but there’s so much you can take from it.

Finding your voice, learning how to communicate through words, it’s just so important.” It’s true; not every writing major will become a writer. There are writing majors currently planning on joining the Marines, becoming filmmakers, and going to college for pre-med. Then there are those who want to major in English or become playwrights. Despite the

diversity in their life plans, each of these students will be able to utilize their writing training throughout their careers.

CAPA has the highest graduation rate in the district, with 96.7% of students graduating. The only problem with this steady stream of graduates is convincing them to stay in Pennsylvania. The Pittsburgh Promise is a burden that students carry with them through the application process, since a lot of students are interested in the entertainment industry outside of Pittsburgh. Thus, students end up leaving the state to study or head straight into their desired industry rather than utilizing the Promise. Praskovich is interested in studying film at a college outside of Pennsylvania. He wants to eventually become a film director, screenwriter, and possibly act. He says “I don’t know where I’m going but I’d hopefully like to go to a new city… Somewhere new that isn’t Pittsburgh. Not that I don’t love it here, but I’m ready for something new.” But no matter where Drew Praskovich ends up going, he’ll always be a Pittsburgh Royal.

New Moon Serena Zets

The skyline is diluted by skim milk fog.

Red brick reminiscent of rust coats the skyscrapers.

From here, they’re not so big.

You can crush them with your fingertips.

They disappear behind eyelids.

Trees stand uniform.

Stark against the urban landscape, weakly giving an

allusion of nature.

But they fail.

Trees aren’t meant to grow in a line, but with roots twisting and snaking, clashing with each other in an invisible underworld.

A sign lining a restaurant window reads, New Moon, written in neon lights.

No one here notices the moon, new or old, or not.

They’re too consumed by their tiny rectangles of technology that distracts them from reality, just for a moment.

They don’t watch the moon because it’s beyond their little realm of control.

They can’t hit pause or stop or mute on the moon and it’s cycle.

It’s going to swing in the night sky whether they’re watching or not.

Grade 10

Vintage

Zainab Adisa From time to time I carefully remember precious memories of waking up early on weekend mornings.

My mind would waver to the husky navy blue Dodge and it’s slick slippery tires that would fade down Baywood street, and somehow make its way to Bridgeville, Pa. My first item from a flea market was a Scooby Doo movie that I paid for with my own money: one dollar and thirty five cents¾ with the exception of ten cents borrowed from my mom.

They say flea markets are another term for sink holes where disposable goods are tossed out like yesterday’s left overs.

But I consider your junk my treasure.

The air would smell of blissful honey suckle from the bush and my favorite times were when the rain would pour down like a leaky faucet.

Silently with my sister we’d stick out our tongues and taste the 1996 vintage oak flavors.

And once, the sky had become hazy orange with traces of lilac we’d come home to the squeaky door

of the brown and white house just in time to discover sleepy stars.

My eyes would try to make out Castor and Pollux as my scarce thoughts started to scatter into tomorrow’s dream.

Midnight City Cavan Bonner

We descend out of mild noon to Midnight City, beatclaps to jazz arcs & thumps- the gold mine of gaslight switches off when the clock recycles, the streets go atmospheric with mood & sirens of deep night rites, Scarce & Primal torchlight.

Orbits of Iron Cavan Bonner

Town Watchers, rusty leviathans of machinery, hover tediously above in orbiting solemn silence— iron temple of shrapnel in exhausted grey flesh pacing by it’s motive persistently.

We roll the storm-slicked rain cold bone dice underneath our grim machine temple, They whip the neon-pulsing blood from us in quotas;

hunters for elongated grease filled rats in scraped leather jackets tiredly trotting down the fire escape.

Warm & deep within the pile of bones we huddle around flickering blue screens, nursing our wounded tender skulls and whistling cryptic celestial symphony.

It was a haze Cavan Bonner

“Not all those who wander are lost.�

-J.R.R. Tolkien It was hunt in crowded streets, humid/packed frigid/desolate, was the road trip thrill of chasing in chaotic linear grids.

Day-night dust of summer was thick and seemed to levitate, numberless microscopic boulders tumbling on currents, clogging the air and holding it captive and still.

And so it was a haze of discount motels, late to bed, late noon coffee, single occasion encounters we left and came to

insatiably, so it was that when we reached the end it was still just you, the dog and I. Hard to see in a haze, no matter the sunglasses/shade, streetlight/hoodie, the burning car seat leather gave the most burning of all headaches. Haze summer when neither knew the numbers, the recollections ambiguous as to town names and street signs.

Taking a Shower Irina Bucur

This is a cold invitation to some imitation of peace.

The wet tiled floor, the peeling wooden window, and you, hugging your bare arms, tasting each drop of iron water.

You are being born again.

That’s what this is.

Soap suds gather at your feet-you are Venus, and rivers trickle down your shoulders, your toes.

When this baptism is over, you wipe the fogged mirror (the delusion), you put on the makeup to see your better reflection.

Being Undesirable Dante Caliguiri

Notes On Being Unemployed and Undesirable · There will be rejection, get used to it. · It might not be good to look in a similar field. People talk, things spread. · If you have been fired, don’t lie about why. If a possible employer asks, they already know. · New people are often needed, but rarely wanted. · You will be glad you have experience being alone. If you have none, get adjusted. · Nothing is guaranteed. If a friend says they found you a job, don’t start cancelling interviews. · Family will try to reach out. This is pity, not compassion. · Over a very short amount of time, your expectations and hopes will sink lower than ever. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It’s been almost two months since I was fired. There have been no callbacks in this time, and I don’t expect any to come soon. I suppose the story of what happened at Ramis, Murray, and Third-Name got around quickly. It’s odd to think how even the normal places like grocery stores and mini golf courses know about it- and even more so that it affects my chances of getting a job from them. The days begin to go by differently when you don’t work. Not that time passes faster or slower, but certainly not the way I was used to. I started learning guitar. So far I’m not too good- can’t get the finger placements down- but I’m improving with every self-taught lesson. This skill isn’t going to help me find a career, so I don’t think it should really be a focus. I like it though. It keeps me here.

Classifieds- Job Listings If you’re looking for a ‘job’, keep searching. If you want a career, apply now! Contact Kelly for immediate interview 829-302-4565 Air Compressor Service Tech Kurman Equipment is seeking highly motivated service technicians.

Candidates must demonstrate knowledge of electrical circuits, have at least 3 years experience.

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Send resumes to whitelyfields33@yahoo.com or call 829-102-4646 I went to see her today. They had her working the cash registers. I told her again I was sorry. She said she knew, and that I didn’t have to be. I know she was just trying to be nice. If I could spend all my time with her, everything would be ok. I wouldn’t need to worry about money, I’d have her. Where I was going? Who cares, she’s there. What shred of life, of wanting to go on, is left? Enough to make her know she matters.

But that won’t happen, it’s never going to happen. I need to put more attention on job searching. First my mind, and then my body, wander. Straight from the kitchen table to walking around outside. I never know where I’m going, because I’m not going anywhere.

Well, that’s not always true. Sometimes I’m going to her.

Some friends called while I was doing nothing. I didn’t answer. I haven’t listened to their messages yet. There were plans today, I think. I can’t remember. The rain does that now. When’s it going to stop? I don’t want it to, but everyone else does. Rain never bothered me, especially not now.

What time is it? My clock says 10:18, but does anybody really know? There are so many buildings around here. Why do I live in the city? Maybe I should move away, but I know I don’t want to leave everything behind.

What Not To Say To Someone Who Is Unemployed · All that free time must be nice. · How’s the job search going? · Do you need to borrow some money? · You can stay with me if you need a place. · I hear being unemployed is cool nowadays. · How many resumes have you sent? · Wanna come check out my job? · God just has a different plan for you.

My parents stopped by with my aunt today. They all act

worried about me, but I know it’s just because they don’t want to look bad. Ever since I was little, and I questioned her on her beliefs and everything, they sort of looked down on me. As if, just because I thought a little differently than they did, I should be a lower-class family member. Everyone denies that- my dad, my grandma, my cousins. They aren’t good at hiding condescension. None of this made me be rude to them, of course. They were guests in my house and I treated them as such. The impromptu Bible reading wasn’t expected, but I let them get it out of their system before they lied about plans and left. Sometimes I think I am that fig tree.

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Pronto’s Gas Station and Grocery Stop We sell gas, we sell some groceries, what more do you want? We need work, so do you. Apply now. Call 829-5758322 I finally decided to look into more local jobs. Things I wouldn’t have thought of checking out before, like the cheap grocery store Jimmy John’s, or Pronto’s gas station. Each seemed enthusiastic about new applicants, but even if I’m

accepted at one of them I don’t think I’ll take it. Somehow I feel having no work is better than having they’re work, though they’ve done me no wrong. They hadn’t even heard about what happened at my old job, which came as a shockI don’t know if that’s good or bad. Maybe I don’t really want to work. Maybe I don’t know what I want.

Answering Machine- Past Week · 58 Missed calls from 829-437-5683 · 40 Messages from 829-437-5683 · Answering Machine Full My phone’s been ringing for what seems like the whole week. I haven’t gotten myself to pick it up or listen to the messages, but they’re all from her. Knowing this doesn’t make me any more enthused to find out what’s on the tape.

If anything, I never want to know. I feel like it won’t be good.

Probably worrying about where I’ve been, why I haven’t stopped by, all that. Maybe she’s the only one that’s ever really cared. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought that.

I always said I accepted that we were just friends, that you were happy with someone else. This was never true, and I know you knew that. Ever since we met, you were the person I loved talking to more than anyone else. I just felt so comfortable. Leaving this was never something I’d even consider, until recently. This is really more of an apology than a goodbye, but it acts as both. For a while you’ve been everything that kept me here, and I need you to know it’s never your fault. Nothing is your fault. I’m weak now, just like I was before, and it’s become too much. After looking for a new job. After looking for anything. You can’t deny your past, it’s always there, and I feel now is simply the time to act on it. At this point all that’s left to say, for the millionth time, is ‘sorry’.

I’m guessing she found the note soon after I left. Not seeing

me, not hearing from me, it probably sparked something to make her come to my house. Hell, my family probably even stopped by so others didn’t think they were terrible people. Of course, she was the only one there because she cared, because it was me, and because it mattered.

What happened likely wasn’t shocking to anyone, they all knew I’d thought about leaving for a long time. But having it actually happen probably wasn’t something they expected.

It’s odd after you’ve gone, though. You think about all the times you’ve said goodbye, heard goodbye, read goodbye.

They never mean much more than see ya later. It’s the ones that actually mean goodbye that hurt. And it did. Telling her goodbye hurt a lot more than making it goodbye. It meant we’d never see each other again, but right now that’s probably best.

Hitting The Wall Behind Us Dante Caliguiri flabbergasted pigeons outside the PNC sit “COO COO COO” they coo I coo back, they don’t hear, I’m far away at the BNY no, the UPMC whatever it is, I’m there, somewhere. steel mills flutter by, a shopping center must be the Waterfront or anywhere else in Pittsburgh, circa 2015. time has come and gone with the thoughts of a teacher at Greenfield, CAPA, ‘Dice. Students sit by themselves, a lesson plan taught by life alone and not some eight year old French book. this group of Independent Minds all thinking alike, headed for CMU

Pitt, Chatham. Me, CCAC (maybe) focus on today. “Tomorrow is Today soon enough” but it isn’t real. An idea made by Yesterday the foolish dreamer like the construction of a new bridge.

Smithfield, Panther Hollow, Hot Metal how many places must we cross before we drive over ourselves?

Laid to rest at Calvary Cemetery as the grey moon falls under Schenley Park.

Quite The Pickle Dante Caliguiri

“Where does the time go?” Jason thought out loud, looking at the beat up watch on his left ankle.

“Excuse me?” The customer inquired, not rudely, but in a way that implied otherwise.

“It’s already 6:23 on a Wednesday evening!” Jason exclaimed. “It feels like just yesterday it was 4:15 on a Tuesday afternoon!”

“Could you please just check me out? I’ve been standing here for half an hour,” this lady was terrible with time, it had only been 11 minutes 46 seconds, “and I just want to leave.”

“Oh, I’m sorry ma’am,” Jason apologized. He looked her up and down, noticing a nametag that read ‘Susan’; “You look very nice today, though your neon green shoes are a bit loud, Susie.”

“What?” Susan, who did not like to be called Susie, asked, caught completely off guard by the remark.

“You asked me to check you out,” Jason said matterof-factly.

“I meant with my items! Scan my items! Are you slow

or something?” Susan had become quite angry, and was not prepared to deal with any more trivial bits of conversation.

“I don’t have a learning disability, but I’ve also never come first in a race,” Jason had begun bagging and scanning Susie’s groceries. “Which definition of ‘slow’ did you mean?”

Susan let out a deep sigh. After cooking non-stop for nine hours at Five Guy’s Burgers and Fries, she didn’t want to put up with any more stupid people, which she clearly thought Jason was. After starting, it took Jason only five minutes to finish with Susie’s items.

“Would you like my help carrying these to your car?”

He offered kindly, with a very wide grin.

“N-no. No,” Susan stammered. “Please, don’t.”

“Are you sure? You’ve got an awful lot, and it’d be a shame to see you make so many trips,” Jason asked again.

“I think I’ll be fine, really, just, don’t help me,” Susie told him quite sourly, as she took her bag and walked out of the store.

Seconds later, Jason’s friend Carl came into the store.

It would be unimportant to note that he brought with him four black garbage bags; one full of cheddar cheese cubes, one filled with VO5 conditioner, one full of blank scrabble tiles, and one filled only 4/9 of the way with LG cell phone chargers.

“Dude, look what I bought at Jimmy John’s!” Carl yelled, holding the bags in the air and handing Jason the receipt, which was printed on cheap white printer paper.

“You actually paid for that stuff?” Jason asked, almost disgusted.

“All with my employee discount, too,” Carl said proudly.

Carl started down one of the aisles, checking each loaf of bread for freshness. He did not look fondly on wheat breads, so those were all pushed violently aside as he searched for the softest loaf of Yodles White. Jason watched, amused, for the fifteen minutes his pal spent touching bread, until he

came upon what he thought to be the perfect loaf, which had originally been the first he checked. With this in hand, Carl took the twist tie off, and began pulling slices from the middle.

“You know you have to pay for that.”

“Of course, of course!” Carl said, his voice muffled by the large bite of cheese sandwich he had just taken.

“You want a bite?” He asked between chews, offering Jason his hastily made confection.

“No thanks,” Jason answered, pushing the sandwich back to Carl. “I had cupcake spaghetti earlier.”

“Suit yourself,” Carl remarked, and he finished the last bite.

Looking under the counter, Jason did not see his book bag, but a small handle in the floor.

“Do you remember this being here?” Jason asked Carl, pointing to the handle.

“How would I know, I don’t work here,” Carl said, looking at the floor. “Let’s find out what it does.”

Clearly this was a bad idea, but Jason didn’t care, he pulled on the handle. It gave a bit of a struggle, but was openable, and revealed a damp, earthy tunnel, which smelled of honeybaked cod and Spumoni ice cream.

“Woah,” Carl said.

“What the hell is wrong with our stores?” Jason asked rhetorically, dumbfounded by what he saw.

“Come on,” Carl said, climbing over the counter and into the hole. “Adventure!” And he disappeared from view.

“Oh, dear Buddha,” Jason said, exasperated, as he followed Carl into the unknown.

The two began to follow the tunnel they found once in the hole. It had many twists and turns, and near no light save for Carl’s light-up Buzz Lightyear sneakers. Sticking together, Jason and Carl found their way to a large opening, with an eight-legged stool in the center.

“I’m gonna sit on it,” Carl said.

“No!” Jason grabbed Carl before he could run towards

it. “This could be a trap.”

“Aw, come one. Who puts a comfy lookin’ stool like that as a trap?”

Carl got out of Jason’s hold and bolted for the poorly crafted, splintery, soft cushioned chair. As he closed in on it, he tripped over a clearly visible piece of string which ran from one wall to the other.

“Ah, fu-“ he started, before a cone of silence fell around him.

“Carl! What did I tell you?!” Jason said, walking to the clear container.

“Wubwubfu hhmmf mumumf,” came Carl’s muffle speech.

“I can’t hear you!” Jason yelled to his friend.

“Fummmh Humpwa!” Carl screamed.

“The curtains!” Jason said, pointing to the bubble Carl was stuck in. “They must be soundproof!”

Jason left Carl to investigate the string. Picking it up and following it to the wall, he saw a small panel with a placard.

The sign read: Under Construction. Do NOT Bring Mustard.

“Uh oh,” Jason muttered, remembering the honey mustard packets in his pockets.

At that moment a loud orange light appeared at the roof of the cavern. It seemed to be emitting traditional circus music, as vents on the walls released the most terrifying bugs you can think of. Surprisingly the wall of shower curtains around Carl lifted, and he ran to Jason.

“What did you do?!” he screamed.

“I don’t know! This sign said something about not having mustard and then-“

“You’re wearing your honey mustard pants, aren’t you?”

“Ugh, of course I am, it’s Friday!”

“It’s Wednesday!”

“I’ve been wearing the same pants for six days?!”

The insects began viciously flying around the room, and

the music grew louder, all while these two idiots continued to fight about pants. As their argument came to topics of lasagna, the number 20, and the economic state of America at the end of the 19th century, the floor they stood on began to open. Soon all that was left was a small patch which supported them, while all around was darkness. This bit of ground started to lower; all the while Jason and Carl noticed nothing. Not until they had gone down 42 kilometers did they see anything different.

“Wha-what happened?” Carl looked around nervously.

“I think we were on a platform that took us down here,” Jason observed.

“But where is here?”

“Well, it would appear we are in a pickle,” Jason said.

“And quite some pickle, at that.”

He was, of course, commenting on the bright green walls surrounding him. Yes, a wall being green is not exactly a pickle indicator, but these walls were moist, seedy, and the whole place smelled like feet.

“What does this mean?” Carl asked, scared.

“I think we’re gonna have to eat our way out,” Jason said.

“Nah, man, I can’t do that!”

“Why not?!”

“You know I’ve been sober ten years!” Carl yelled.

“I haven’t touched a pickle in all that time, and I’m not just gonna throw away all that work!”

“This could be life or death, dude!”

“You’re just gonna have to do it yourself man, I’m sorry. If I eat pickle now, then it all means nothing, and I can’t let it be in vain.” Carl said as he sat down.

This frustrated Jason greatly. He didn’t like pickles, Carl wouldn’t eat pickles, and they were both in a pickle. Sucking it up was like wearing an itchy wool sweater- Jason didn’t like it.

“Ugh, fine,” Jason said angrily.

Climbing the inside of the pickle, he got to the wall. From

his pants he pulled out a fork and several packets of honey mustard.

“I guess we’re going in,” Jason said to himself, as he jabbed his fork into the pickle.

At just the moment when Jason took the first bite, “Afternoon Delight” began to play from an unknown source. Since his childhood this had been a song of inspiration, leading him to victories, like the time he did a quadruple backflip instead of taking his Calculus test. It’s a good song, but I don’t see why it matters to him so much. Regardless of my opinion though, it fueled Jason’s energy to eat that pickle.

“I think I’m really making progress!” He yelled to Carl, with a mouthful of mustard and pickle. “We should be outta here in no time!”

Carl was still over on the sod platform, talking to a squirrel that wasn’t there.

“Why aren’t you helping your friend?” The little squirrel asked.

“I already told you, I can’t eat pickles.”

“But look at him, Car! He’s over there forcing it down alone, to save you!”

“If I start again, I might not stop, man! It’d be third grade all over again!”

The squirrel stood up to twice the height of Carl and smacked him across the face.

“Look, man,” he said in a mocking tone. “You get up and eat your way out of this damn pickle!”

“Bu-but, ten years,” Carl was saying over tears.

“Quit blubbering!” The squirrel yelled. “Have some self control, and help your buddy! Don’t make me come back here.”

And with those final words of wisdom, the squirrel hopped away, disappearing in the distance. It took all of Carl’s strength to go to Jason.

“Hey man, what’re you doing? You don’t gotta help, I understand,” Jason said, chomping on pickle.

“No, I do. The squirrel told me to, and to be honest,

I’m scared of him,” Carl said.

“Gee, that’s really great!” Jason said. “And I think we’ll talk about this squirrel thing later.

Carl, without a utensil, began to dig into the wall. After three moderate bites, he was reliving his past addiction.

Voraciously eating away, making significantly more progress than Jason had, Carl freed them from the pickle prison. All Jason could do was stand there with his jaw dropped.

“Wow.”

“Come on, I don’t think I can be here much longer,” Carl said, looking sick.

Stepping outside, the two were on a lush, grassy hill. In front of them was a valley stretching as far as the best eyes could see. Down in the valley were scattered aisles of oblong objects.

“What could those be?” Jason wondered.

“Let’s find out!” Carl said, running down the hill.

Before Jason could catch up, he could see Carl kneeling in the valley.

“Oh my,” Jason said.

As he approached the objects, it was apparent they were pickles. Across this vast landscape, certainly no escape from the hell they just endured, a pickle plantation. Carl was sobbing loudly, Jason fell to the ground with him.

“No,” he said. “No. No. No,” until he too broke into tears.

It seemed there was no escape from the situation, and there wasn’t. Jason and Carl, after discovering something they shouldn’t have, are now stuck in the bizarre, the disgusting, the Pickle Zone.

Being Frank on the Way to the Memorial Museum Victoria Cheng

It’s 7:15 on a Wednesday morning, I throw a toasted cream cheese blueberry bagel in the trash on my way out of Pittsburgh CAPA and board a looming charter bus, a gleaming moth under the school’s lights, I am swallowed in the Steel City’s unbroken dawn. I go, we go from Pittsburgh to Poland the second the box screen goes bright, March sun hidden by breathing cumulus, stratus and altostratus captured by a student’s blurred selfie, no “1 2 3 Gouda!” just the sound of her quiet narcissism and hum of the engine.

1 Mississippi 2 Mississippi 3 rivers of melting winter and suffocating goose poop, 4 Mississippi I sip a Nestle bottled water’s worth and apple juice carton, 5 Monongahela, I think my hiccups are gone now and K&L Gates in forenoon fog has nothing on this valley of 8 o’clock clouds.

On Tuesday mornings, John Doe and I make ocular conversation with our reflections in Bricolage’s window, but my eyes are rolling alone on this juvenile prison because here stale air mingles with stupefied legs and a pair of kids are yelling about the “nipple of Jesus” as the sun

until 11:39, another river a different skyscraper, the Potomac and the Washington monument.

D. All of the Beneath Victoria Cheng

I am trying to fight the bubbles, the boxed in graphite constellations, a land mine of wrong answers in stilted ground, a delayed detonation followed by bouncing legs and shaking shoulders, my own conscious, “If you don’t bubble proficiency, God willing advanced, you will surely see Opportunity and Success white out your name in their co-authored best seller.”

I can’t think, I don’t think I’ve used “b” in the past four questions but “c” is statistically safe for guessing, but “c” is not safe, not sound for guessing open ended questions.

Open end is a dead end. The standard questionnaire is a dead beginning.

I understand College Board. My name is required for identification. My race is essential for number crunching and analysis.

You have woven a net of steel to bring in an ocean of prolifically presented information that students will hustle through

not distinguishing personal from private information, perhaps.

And after all this, what do I get?

Two hundred and thirty six unread emails. I have read the subject lines, I cannot delete them, I cannot meet their gaze. I have become pen pals with an empire, I cannot become conquered peoples— Stop! This is the end of the critical reading section.

Night Hymn Leah DeFlitch

With swaying hands and clasping palms we cross at Forbes and Murray, at the Rite Aid and maybe at baby blue awnings, dead pigeons, sky with repugnant drab, maybe all of these at once, and this is how we talk to each other with the I am sorrys and cruel looks, upturned eyes, soft cheeks;

ultimately widening our teeth and lips and speaking out of turn, crossing at the light, riding the 61C to Oakland, loitering beside bus ways, side streets, street lights, goodnights, holding our necks out for the eventide to come in; again, I am eating my words again, as I place my right wrist out at the bus stop, flagging down

another night bus, call a cab, take me home. Told myself not anymore not past 10 P.M. not at the intersection with the church because this is us as we find ourselves here: both pushing things under the rug both clutching sun like dumb soundless flies feeling like certain deadbeats, flocking to side streets like pigeons to a sidewalk

holding our heads up, our palms together.

Come Sunday, elsa eckenrode

it is raining and she is so cryptic against the wall.

I feel her brain break down in pitter patter pitter patter but not harmoniously.

She is scattered and I haven’t seen her in 2 weeks.

She is made of Mondays, and sometimes Tuesdays, she’s nervous of collapsing inward.

She has learned to adapt to superstition and fabricated curfew, April is so hard for you, I know.

I hope she isn’t lost somewhere among mist or drowning mid-tsunami.

She stutters at the forecast and asks me to check one more time, I’m sorry, but it’s still raining.

She says sorry & I miss you.

I hear soft rain pitter patter pitter patter I miss you too.

rhd

Zada Fels My grandmother is 80 this year.

I speak to her like I speak in churches lightly and slow and hushed short words for a woman who has lived four of my lifetimes.

As a child I would take the stones from her driveway, put them in the drainage systems.

I stole her neighbor’s green black berries from his front yard and smashed her porcelain vase, the zinnias covering the linoleum like a work of God.

Job? Do I Need One? Gracie Kon

“Why are you home already? Shouldn’t you still be at work?” she asks as she moves over to the opposite side of the room. I quickly follow her and stand right behind her.

“Well, about that…” I start as I look down to the floorboards. She whips her body around to face me. Without even looking at her face, I can tell she’s glaring at me.

“About. What. Manny?” she asks, pausing with frustration after every word.

I sigh heavily.

“I may or may not have lost another job,” I say. I finally look up to see her face, but quickly regret it when I find out I was right when I thought she was glaring at me.

“And by lose, do you mean fire?”

“Yes,” I mumble, just audibly enough for her to hear.

“Oh no, Manny! What did you do this time?” she asks as she walks back to the couch and throws herself face down on it. I look around, not sure as to what to do. I pick her legs up and throw them off the couch so I can sit down in my normal spot. She rolls off the couch, lands on her back, looking up at me, stunned.

“What? You were being a couch hog,” I try to explain to her, but she never realizes how inconsiderate she is. She shakes her head and crawls up to the couch.

“Now, Manny, how did you get fired?” she asks as if she’s speaking to a child. I know she’s extremely ticked off, but is holding it back so she can find out what exactly happened.

“Well, see—”

“It’s never good when you say ‘well, see’.”

“Well, see, I wasn’t just fired. I’m also never allowed in that particular office building again… forever,” I explain, ignoring her comments.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god. Tell me what the hell it was

that you did to get yourself not only fired, but kicked out of an entire building as well,” she asks—well, more like pleads.

“Maybe we should look at the bright side and think of all the other buildings I didn’t get kicked out of permanently!”

I say, trying to ease the tension. It unfortunately only makes Caroline angrier.

“Manny!”

“Okay, okay. So, you know how I got that goldfish to keep in my cubical?”

Caroline nods.

“Well, I was walking in and I accidently bumped my desk and that caused Goldy’s bowl to fall on the floor. It broke open and there’s Goldy jumping around on the ground like a fish outta water. So, I panicked and put him into the closest water source, which was the water cooler, while I cleaned up the glass. Then I forget to get him out before I went back to work and my boss, Mr. Watson decided to get a drink.” I pause there, expecting Caroline to react in some way, but oddly enough, she’s still looking at me dead in the eyes, expressionless. I turn my head away and look out the window. There’s a fluffy squirrel climbing a tree. I happen to really enjoy watching animals. Wait, it looks like he’s about to jump. No, no, no, squirrel! Don’t jump! Don’t ju—

“Are you planning on finishing the story anytime soon?” Caroline asks, interrupting me. I whip my head back around, not able to see if the squirrel really did jump.

“Sorry. As I was saying, Mr. Watson got a drink of water. Now, I don’t know how it was possible, but some how, some way, Goldy slipped out of the water cooler and into his drink. He freaks out and starts choking on Goldy. I’m not sure how to do the Heimlich, I never really paid attention in gym class, never was really fond of it, so I hit him as hard as I could in the back and he fell forward so hard that he actually knocked a cubical down and when that cubical fell down, it had the domino affect on some other cubicles and I got fired and totally banished from the building. Luckily, no one was hurt, except poor Goldy. I don’t think he made

it. Which is really sad… We should get a new fish,” I say.

Caroline looks at me stunned.

“You know, you have done some really stupid things since I’ve been with you, but this might have made it to the top ten,” she says. She gets up and grabs the newspaper off the table and throws it at me. I don’t catch it (never liked gym) and it falls to the ground. “Get a new job. Now.” She walks into our bedroom, honey curls flowing from side to side as she stomps away and slams the door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lamp has horses on the shade, different from any of the other lamps I have. I set it on the desk in Caroline’s office that holds all of my other table lamps. Lamps that range from outer space to Halloween themed. I love plugging them all in and turning them on and off. Watching the light flicker. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off…I’m a little bit of a kleptomaniac when it comes to table lamps…

“Manny, please stop playing with your lamps and leave for your interview,” Caroline pleads. I, already in my best suit, reluctantly agree. I give her a kiss and walk out of the house.

The travel to the big, shiny, new, office building (the one I had worked at previously was quite honestly old and dilapidated, compared to this art piece of a building) was an interesting one. There was a man in an alleyway who asked me if I wanted to buy a watch. He wore a trench coat and sunglasses. I could’ve really used a new watch and he seemed like a respectable man, but I knew Caroline would be mad if I was late to the interview. I really did want that watch though.

I knew I had arrived when I saw the reflective surface of the building. The sun was bouncing off of it and into my eyes, such as when you walk behind a bald man on a sunny day. I hurried inside and as my eyes adjusted to the amount of light, I could see a beautiful atrium. In the crowded atrium, there was a big fountain and a rainbow cast from it. Feeling

out of place, I went straight for the elevators. I’m pretty sure any other person would like it there, or at least stop to stare at the perfectness of it, but for me, it seemed too clean, too sterile, and too perfect.

I went up the elevator to the 13th floor and stepped out into a perfect little office. I felt uncomfortable again. I quickly made my way to the receptionist and asked where the interview was being held. She pointed the way and I almost ran, trying desperately to get out of this perfect-ness.

I reach for the knob when, the door when it opens itself. The man standing before me was a rather… round man with a mustache and a head that looked like the red sea after Moses had separated it, only, with hair instead of water.

He wears a brown suit with black suspenders, brown loafers, and a very out of place, yellow belt that seems like it’s using all its might just to hide his enormous stomach away. He looks like he’s very serious, considering the way he’s already furrowing his brow at me.

“You the boy who has the interview?” he asks in a gravely voice. I nod, a bit scared to speak. “Well, you’re a minute late,” he says.

“I’m-a- I’m really sorry,” I stutter, still a bit unnerved by him. He grunts and turns his back to me. He starts walking to his desk and waves a hand for me to follow. I comply and I’m immediately taken aback by a hit of his cologne. Pushing through it, I sit down in a chair across from him.

I take in the room. The leather seats, the leather books, is everything in this office made out of leather?

“So, Manny Allan? You want to work for me?” he questions.

“It would be nice. I’m very good at working with people,” I say.

“You think working for me is going to be easy? You think that I’m gonna let someone just waltz on in here, sit down in front of me, and give them the job? Does that make sense to you?”

“No sir,” I quickly reply. I don’t know what I said to

make him so angry, or rant about the job being easy (or not) for that matter. He starts yelling at me again but I lose concentration and see that he has a very interesting desk lamp (surprisingly not made out of leather). It has a dark ocean blue shade and the base is made out of black colored iron. It has a dark brass pull string (my favorite type of table lamp!!) I try so hard to keep my focus on him and whatever he’s talking about, but I really just want to turn the lamp on and off and pull the cord and just stare at it. It’s so perfect.

Not the bad kind of perfect, but my kind of perfect.

“MR. ALLAN! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?!”

“Huh? Oh yes. Definitely.”

“MR. ALLAN! DO YOU WANT THIS JOB OR NOT?”

“I would very much like it,” I say

“WELL THEN HOW ABOUT YOU LISTEN?!”

“Well, see, the thing is, I just keep getting distracted,” I explain.

“YOUR FULL ATTENTION SHOULD BE ON ME!”

“Well, that’s a bit narcissistic,” I say, fed up with him and his ego that’s as big as his stomach.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?”

“Speaking of, you should hire a narcissistic person.

They would give you all their attention. Mainly because they’d be able to see themselves in that shiny cranium of yours,” I say. I don’t have much common sense and I’ll probably regret saying that soon.

“GET. OUT.” I look at him dead in the eyes. He looks like he wants to kill me. I sit there, a bit afraid to move.

Pushing my fear aside, I decide that now would be a great time to leave. Making my way through the door, I remember the lamp. I want it, like I really want it. Without thinking, I turn back in, grab the lamp by its neck, unplug it, quickly wind up the cord, stuff it underneath my suit, and try to find my way out.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” he screams. I stop and look at him. I decide to run. “SECURITY!” he yells.

Security guards are chasing after me. I run as fast as I possibly can down the stairs and out of the atrium. They stop following me when I go through the huge double doors.

I make it out with the lamp. I’m so excited to play with it that I catch a taxi home.

In the taxi, I take the lamp out of my suit and start fiddling with it. I pull the brass string numerous times and imagine what kind of light it produces. I know that I’ll find out soon enough though. The taxi arrives home and I run through the door. Oh, I meant run into the door, face first.

I fall flat on my back. I hope the lamp is okay. I sit up and examine it. It seems fine, maybe a scratch. Then I notice a little red mark on the shade. Touching it, to see if it comes off, I realize it’s my blood and that my nose is bleeding. I ignore my pulsating nose, jump up, pull the key out of my pocket, unlock the door, turn the knob, and go inside.

“Manny! Are you home yet?” Caroline calls from the living room. I sit at my table lamps’ table and repeatedly pull the cord on my newest prize.

“Yes. I’m in here!”

“Oh. Good. How did the interview g—” she starts, but is suddenly stopped when she comes into the room and sees me. “Oh my god! What the hell happened?”

“I got a new lamp,” I say happily.

“There’s blood all over your face!”

“Oh, I ran into the door and my nose started bleeding, but look!” I say as I hold out the lamp to her like a trophy.

“Yes, yes, very nice. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine. It doesn’t really bother me. I just didn’t get a chance to clean the blood off of me… do you want to pull the cord on it and make it go on and off?” I ask.

“No thank you. And are you sure you’re okay?” she asks worried.

“Yes, Caroline. I’m fine. You don’t have to baby me.

You should really look at this lamp though. It’s awesome,” I say.

“Oh, what the hell did I marry into?” Caroline mumbles

as I turn back to admire my lamp. I don’t think that she knows I can hear her, but it doesn’t bother me anyway. “Well, since you’re okay, how did your interview go?”

“Bad interview, great lamp!” I say. I turn away from the lamp and she looks at me disappointed and sighs. “I’ll look in the newspaper for a job tomorrow,” I say. She nods. “But in the mean time, come look at this lamp!”

Caroline sighs and with a slight smile, makes her way over to me and sits crisscross on floor next to me. She rests her head on my shoulder and I kiss the top of her head.

Circus

Arwen Kozak Ardor upon ardor harbors incoherent, barn-raised girls, orange-juice curls in that house off the main road.

Hardly obtuse: aberration arguments with a cloy contortionist impertinent, insubordinate, chartreuse suit babies: those rural girls with bad network connections: office romance, loose, truce, overproduce.

Lost tranquility, behind thick glass screens, close knit visits to Cirque de Silence, solace, the missing rig in thick metal rings, trapped off the beaten subway train, off the path that had once filled those early summer days with an argumentative garment bag. Petal pedestals are lost in overproduced, overused, focus groups on those little, country girls.

Two O’clock Train Ruthanne Pilarski

The ground is dry. Muddy water runs somewhere deep in the crevices of the crusted dirt that she and I walk on. I don’t want to think about my mother and how her hair is turning thin and frail like the straw-like tumbleweeds that scratch across the road. I don’t want to think about my father and how the glossy, unfocused look in his eyes has now become permanent. How even in his old age he still lives with an emerald green glass bottle attached to his arthritic fingers.

“Don’t think about them.” Scarlet’s voice breaks the whistle of wind against the still surface of the pond in front of us. She can see it in my dark brown eyes, that are painfully squinted, like they’re trying to see something miles away.

“You’re right.” I undo the thick cerulean tie that Scarlet knotted way too tight around my stiff neck. I slip off the black shoes that are a half a size too big and take off the navy socks that don’t match my pants. Her feet are already dipped in the stony water.

“Your mother is sick, Matt. Very sick. And I know I told you not to think about them but—”

“You think I didn’t know?” My voice is harsh. “I’m sorry. But it’s not hard to tell.”

“We don’t have to talk about it.” And so we don’t. She kicks her feet up and water splashes onto my white shirt so that it becomes nearly transparent. Instead of talking I sit there and tell her more than I ever could with words with the way my body slumps, and slowly slides down the pond bank with a rush of dirt. With the way my feet are heavy and shivering in the lukewarm water. With the way that my fingers dig nervous holes into the wheat colored ground. I stare hard at the particles of mud that have dried into crumbling balls of dirt, caking under my fingernails. I let my hands feel where the thin layer of dusty soil ends, and wear the dried

and cracked ground begins. I feel the magnetism between my eyelids and suddenly I am leaning against the tree with a look on my face like I’m dreaming. But not about her. I am dreaming about the ground that pokes its rigid surface through my pants.

Ground is such a dirty word. Dusty and uncomfortable. Yet here I am, slowly sliding down the slope of moss and pebbles towards the pond shore. Scarlet has begun to wade, and is now waist deep. She looks just like she did 28 years ago, walking out from the same nook of the pond bank. Her hair was blonder then, and not the dishwater color that it is now. She also wore high tops with the words PEACE written all over them in blue permanent marker.

She’d even put stickers of the peace symbol all over the soles of her shoes—the one that I used to always confuse with the Mercedes symbol when I was drawing on her dry hands. She would laugh at me then because I was so stupidly adorable to her. She’d run her chipped black nail polish fingers through my dark brown hair and tell me she liked me.

A lot. I used to just smile and kiss her pale and symmetrically freckled cheeks. I’d trace the alignment of freckles that looked like the big dipper, and I’d tease her about following the North Star straight into her jade eyes. Sometimes, I’d push her in the water because I could see that she wanted me to. And then I’d jump in after her, with all my clothes still on. I remember once when it rained on her 17th birthday in August and she didn’t even give me the chance to push her in. She just jumped and said I don’t want this to ever stop.

Then she laid on her back and sang every Beatles song she knew while it poured on her. I sat beneath the tree and watched her, listening to the two o’clock train pass through town on its way to somewhere in the far east. She used to tell me one day she’d be on that train. She’d sneak in with the cargo and ride across the country with the only company being Styrofoam packaging and cardboard boxes. I would ask her if she wanted me to go with her, and she’d say no.

That was one thing she’d need to do on her own, but thanks

for offering. One time she tried to sneak on during a reloading of supplies but the police caught her, and she used her one phone call to get me to come get her from the station because she didn’t want her father to know. Not because he would be mad or disappointed, but because it’s what he would have expected. God forbid he ever found out I was the one she called. Of all the things he neglected to care about, he chose to hate the fact that his daughter was dating an older boy. He pretended to be protective and scared for her, but I think the only reason he hated me was because I was a new man to take care of her. Though he’d never been committed to that role, he didn’t want to sit back and watch someone else do it better.

Is two years too much? I thought about it every night of my senior year. I let myself flunk every class. I ignored homework and sleep just to stay up worrying about whether of not I should go after a sophomore girl with ripped jeans and messier hair than me. I kissed her for the first time on my last day of high school. She was a friend of the family’s, so she sat in the corner of my living room during the graduation party, stuffing her pockets with strawberry candies from the crystal angel dish that was my grandmother’s pride and joy. I sat down next to her casually after introducing myself to every extended cousin on the property. She tensed up, thinking I’d yell at her. But instead I just asked her if I could have one. She giggled and gave me two. I told her I needed to show her something. Then, like any real man would in any decent romantic comedy, I took her to the roof. She slid so close to the edge I thought for sure she’d fall off, but she didn’t. She balanced so effortlessly on the gutter. I told her to be careful too many times to count but she’d just laugh and shout at the guests three stories below. Later, after cake and horseshoes I went to my spot in the pond to be alone and she was there. So, before she could say anything I kissed her. Softly, with my hand around her waist. She pushed me back and said, next time you should ask. I stood there for a few minutes, staring at her and waiting for her to scream and

have some muscly boy come through the weeds to save her.

But instead she nudged me with her sharp elbow and said, ask. And so I said, can I kiss you? And she said yes and so I did, longer this time.

Still nothing beats the time she left a grocery list of clues for me to find her on our 10th anniversary.

1. Tumbles and weeds. 12:00 2. Wind and whistles. 1:30 3. Sugar and Honey. 2:14 4. Black and Blue. 4:05 5. Jeans 7:00 I knew what all of these meant, of course. The first was the spot by the railroad crossing where we once counted tumbleweeds for three hours when she should have been in school and I should have been working. The second was at the tree house we built deep in the woods where all you could hear was the whistle of the trains and the wind. The third was the corner store where we bought sugar and honey to make each other tea when we were both sick the winter of her senior year. And then every winter after that for the next 5 years. The forth was the spot on the roof where I told her I’d never call her Scar like her old boyfriend did because that felt too black and blue and not orange and green which were the colors, I’d decided, that fit her most. Then she cried and told me she loved me for the first time. And the fifth was the store where a girl named Jeanie tried to kiss me, but before she could, Scarlet tackled her to the ground and ripped the cardigan she wore right off her body. In order to congratulate and thank her, I bought her a ripped pair of jeans that she then wore almost every day for three months. I wasn’t surprised that I’d remembered. But that she remembered made me smile. It showed me that she cherished the memories too. It wasn’t a gift with tangible, expensive qualities, but one that filled my heart in a way that made it weightless.

Too often did I forget to get her an anniversary gift. Or a birthday gift for that matter. Our third year dating I got her a bus ticket to New York—the only thing she ever wanted. She

never got to go because her father died three days before the trip. After that I never bothered thinking too hard about gifting her anymore if it was never going to work out the way I wanted. As the years went on the gifts got worse. Less attention to detail, less sentimental value. And now here we sit on the exact spot of our first kiss, neither of us having given the other one a gift in 15 years. And the saddest thing is that gifts are just one of the many things we lost. I’d like to say it started after her father died in a car accident and two years later her mother died too, of an overdose. A month after that we got news that her sister died of a heart attack on a beach in the Gulf of Mexico. None of these struck her too hard because she’d lost contact with all of them, having lived in and out of foster homes since she was 12. But somehow I felt like she just pretended not to care. And that pretending carried over into other things like me and our relationship.

She never wanted to get married because she thought marriage was only building something that was bound to break, so why waste our time and ruin what we had? I argued that one for a few months before I gave up. There was no changing her mind. And slowly as time went on I stopped fighting her on anything. And here we are 28 years later; She’s still pretending to care about my alcoholic father and my sick mother, and I’m still just letting her get away with it. We’ve both settled at the conclusion that there is no point in changing that now.

Hard and life changing decisions were blatantly ignored with any slight raise in her tone. I wanted kids but she didn’t. So we didn’t have kids. I wanted a house but she didn’t. So we didn’t buy a house. And there was never any argument, never any grey area. Just black and white and nothing in between. It was always her way and that hasn’t changed. But maybe it was time it did.

“Scarlet do you want to go to dinner?” My voice is unfaltering and straightforward.

“No.” She said, expecting I’d just drop it.

“Well I want to. And I’m going.” She turns her head

around, her long hair swiveling around her head in a fan-like motion.

“What?”

“I’m going to dinner. With or without you.” I stood up from the spot in the dirt and began re-tying my shoes.

“What are you—What has gotten in to you?” She has let her shorts start to slip and they are now touching the water.

“Everything I guess. And maybe nothing. Just sitting here in the same place we used to every day 28 years ago makes me think about how things used to be.” I drape my tie over my shoulders and stare hard at her. “You don’t love me anymore.”

“That’s not fair.” She shakes her head condescendingly.

“You didn’t deny it.”

“So you’re leaving me?” She says, settling without even putting up a fight. I feel the slight shiver in my hand swell to an apparent tremor. Her shoulders barely slump, and I can see that her downcast look is all part of the practiced dramatics. She’s been waiting for me to do this for years. Though this hardly surprises me the burning feeling still pulses in my throat and the brinks of my eyes become lined with the salty droplets of tears.

“If that’s what you want.” I say, to throw the burden back at her.

“If that’s what you want.” She’s too good at this game to even bother fighting. I just blow her a weighted kiss and turn to walk back down the path to my car. I’m sure Scarlet is still staring at her reflection in the water near where we used to love each other. Because we did. At one point. But they have cut down too many trees and my dad drinks more than ever and my mom has gotten sick. And the two o’clock train hardly even stops anymore. I walk slowly down the path I’ll likely never see again.

The ground is still too hard.

Serving Mexico Ruthanne Pilarski

Her grandmother grew up in Chiapas, the Pacific Ocean making her hair smell like gulls and sunburn.

She ate bread on the beach with Oaxaca cheese and pretended the sand was her skin in pieces, swept away with the temperate tide.

The waves took her to the courtyard of Chapultepec where she built Frida Kahlo out of clay and painted her blue.

She took a bus to the Z贸calo and fought with Quetzalcoatl against Cortez and his fleet of ships on the edge of lake Tepozteco.

They came out of fog to thank her, but she was gone even before the thunder had become a lull on the horizon, her dark hair whisked away by sun dried wind and warm Spanish rain.

I Pledge Allegiance --Inspired by “The Bricks” by Reena Spaulings Ruthanne Pilarski

I am not made of faded oil pastels creamed together in a house wife’s mixing bowl or charcoal pencils that smear together and smell like fire.

I am the fallen emblem of strawberry patterned aprons ham dinners firefly jars in the backyard.

I am the drooping flag of protection marigolds white picket fence golden lab and yet you see something more.

You see secrets whispered between buildings and highways cracked by tires holding drivers who just drive without destination.

And now that the sky is black with night and with smog and we have lost the ability to tell the difference you watch me crumple at your feet ash stone broken shell and it is more graceful

than even I could have imagined.

I am revealed and you see my emptiness.

All my colors blend to white and I promise this nothingness is a mixture of something.

Something worth devotion ovation screaming out loyalty hand over heart.

Knives, 1981

By Caylyn Smiley-Jones Soft pink painted blades laid out like crooked teeth.

We use them to cut zucchini and short rows of almonds.

My mother washes them to the static from the kitchen radio.

I can hear the sharp vibrations from my bedroom and the sound of the knives rattling against the sink.

The muffled noise is familiar, like a car pulling into the driveway or trees shaking in the wind.

We’ve had the same cutlery set for years.

I have faint memories of slicing watermelon in the summer.

Clouded visions of dinners, of solitude, of various cutting boards.

When I was eleven, I accidently grazed the valley between my thumb and index finger.

It left a scar that runs vertically on my hand like rust.

Scales and Urbanization Becca Stanton

smart mouths at the dinner table

glass of water emptied on the face and front of my little sister. when I hug my dad,

my ear pressed to his cheek, he sounds like an ocean oceans of things I don’t get- I don’t understand. oceans of insight and laughter swarming in currents. arms full of binders watching the wheels as the funeral wake passes khakis, navy blue hours. sweater. rite aid, her arms full of boxes of tampons

and her laugh loud no cigarettes between thin lips, fat lips on the sideline of little league. pittsburgh career institute and I don’t remember where we are, pockets full of shoelaces and band aid wrappers. anti-freeze casualties. rushed flushed cheeks, tingling in my toes and my arms feel cold.

Fish

Becca Stanton He’s standing in front of his Western Auto with his belt buckle and hunter and white flannel.

His eye sockets are deep and you can barely see the clench in his jaw and the strain in his arms.

His long arms that lead to fingers, hooked into the gills of huge fish gray scales tinted with pink blood.

The pipe held taught between his teeth, angling upwards like the foggy eyes of the fish, staring at the gray sky.

I confess, that I don’t know how to feel, and I don’t know what to feel.

A devastation maybe.

Like I’ve been punched in the chest, had the wind knocked out of me, been slapped across the face.

Like I’ve been released from a choke.

After watching his wife cry,

her face old and weary, over his body, her hand still clutching his, her knuckles pressed to the hospital sheets.

I don’t know.

Adopted

Taylor Szczepaniuk “You have white parents!”

Oh really?

Thanks!

I didn’t know that.

“Are they weird?”

I don’t know.

Define weird.

I didn’t know skin color decided your weirdness level.

If anything YOU’RE the weird one.

“Do your parents feed you chicken?”

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! It’s my turn to ask you a question.

“Do you think about what you say before you say it?”

No? I can tell.

Oh did I offend you?

Sorry but I’m not sorry.

But to answer your question, I’ll answer with a question.

Why don’t you think White People eat chicken?

“Do they feed you at all? You’re so skinny” Let me tell you a little something about myself.

Food.

Food is my best friend.

The difference between you and I is the fact that you sit on the couch all day everyday.

While your sitting on the couch, I’m running on the soccer field.

While your shoving chips in your mouths my parents are cheering me on in my swim meet.

Yes I said it. Parents.

P-A-R-E-N-T-S. Their heart picks me up, carry’s me through the rough times.

It doesn’t matter what color they are, how old they are, what their rules are, they love me.

They taught me respect.

Something that your parents obviously didn’t teach you, Because if they did you wouldn’t be treating me different for something that I can’t control.

I am NOT from outer space.

I am Not E.T. This is my home!

I want to have friends, sleepovers, shopping trips.

I want to be invited to the parties that you talk about the next day. In front of me.

And trust me I’ve asked.

“How come, I’m never invited?”

The response?

“Your parents are white and they don’t let you do as much.”

Correct.

My parents don’t let me swear, and won’t pay 200 dollars for shoes that I would just ruin the next day.

They don’t let me stay out past 8 on school nights.

They don’t let me smoke.

I’m not allowed to watch PG-13 movies. I’m 10.

Scary movies? Not allowed, but I make it through the night in my OWN bed.

The reasons for their severity, has nothing to do with skin color.

It has to do with them caring.

They raised me to do better,

strive to be different, respect myself.

I’m not sorry, like the dog who ate everyone’s homework.

I agree.

Rewinding to those days, I want to thank them.

Thank you to all the people, who treated me different.

Thank you for showing me, that you aren’t going anywhere in life if diversity isn’t set in your brain.

We are not the same, a dictionary.

We all have our own words.

Accept them. Put a welcome mat down.

I learned something from you guys.

You want to be respected?

Well you have to Respect yourself first.

The Restroom Amanda Talbot

I needed to use the restroom and The Olive Garden was the only available restaurant.

They denied me access and everyone denied me access from then on.

I stood at the gates of Cuba with my sunglasses and bikinis.

Havana didn’t open after some hours so I turned around and swam back to Miami.

A great white shark ate me up and I waited at the gates of Heaven, a briefcase in one hand and a Polaroid camera in the other, but God just shook his head no so I asked to go back home to Pittsburgh. He gave me a second chance so I took it and spent it at the AMC Theaters.

I paid in quarters and they denied me access to a Rated R film.

I said that my mother would let me see it, but that wasn’t enough.

The lemon chicken soup was merely water and I was still hungry.

I only had one quarter left.

I slid it in the jukebox

and the waiter finally let me go.

Thank you, Mr. Waiter, that’s what this is really about.

Bus Ride

Amanda Talbot It was I who survived and you who died.

You sat across from me, Daddy, with your shades low for protection. The bus clumped on the desert, as the wheels were milk crates, past cactuses and sand castles that flumped back into piles. The smell of human carcasses blew out the AC vents and splattered vapor blood and sweat onto our summer clothes. Daddy, you watched as I pulled down the window that crumbled on the seats like sugar decorations and I jumped.

Did you really watch it happen?

Can a blind man see these kinds of things coming? Were your shades protecting your eyes from the sun or from the world knowing your gaze out the window is a learned lie?

I watched from the dunes the bus chug away on triangular blocks of wood until it reached the horizon and fell off the face of the earth.

Grade 11

Strong Wings Ahmir Allen

- Inspired by the music video for “After Dark” by Asian KungFu Generation Mom! Mom! I saw an angel today! Those wings… Okay, wait, let me start over—we were walking to school, wandering past some corner stores and skyscrapers, trying not to get separated in the crowd. Hmm? Yeah, there were so many people! There were people in business suits and older kids in high school uniforms and, and, and there were those weird people walking around in bed sheets with bird masks strapped on their faces, and small, unimpressive knock-off wings taped onto their backs. I wonder if they were trying to tease the angels…anyway—nu-uh, they didn’t try to talk to us. Anyway—no, promise, they didn’t try to talk to us.

Cross my heart and hope to—oh, sorry, I forgot I shouldn’t say that. Well, anyway. Yeah, so there were people walking all around us, and up on the side of this one particular building men were washing the windows, which I don’t see how anyone could do what with them being so high up, but anyway, the man’s scaffold broke apart and he started to fall! One of my friends, the shy one, put his hands in front of

his eyes—oh, what? No, no, we’re all fine. No, mom, listen listen! The man began to scream immediately. As he fell, some random guy on the street, almost identical to all of the other business people, he, all of a sudden, he took off his suit coat, and wings spread out the back! Those wings… they were so awesome! They were longer than he was tall, and they looked so cottony and delicate…but they were actually so strong! He, the guy with the wings, the angel, he took a running start and he started lifting off the ground, and eventually he got so high up that he caught the falling man in his arms! Do you think I might ever save someone like that?

Do you think an angel will ever save me? Oh, what? Oh, the rest of the story. Well, there isn’t much. The two descended, and the guy with the wings, the angel, he looked really sweaty and so afraid. I’m not sure why, though…a hero like that…anyway, they landed and everyone gathered around them and began cheering! The guy, the guy who was falling but was saved, he was so thankful…I mean, obviously. You know, you taught me that we should always be thankful to anyone who helps us…I wonder if anyone will thank me like that…well, anyway, that man, the man with the wings, the angel; he looked so relieved--so relieved, as though he had been afraid for such a long time...I wonder why. Well,

anyway Mom, hey, hey mom, do you ever think maybe I’ll be able to be an angel like that? I know that my wings are small right now, but I dunno, maybe when I’m older, like 16 and in high school, or 20 and in college, or 25 and…somewhere… maybe my wings will be strong enough. Hey, hey mom, mom, are you all right? Did you get hurt? Why are you crying? …Mom, you don’t need to be afraid. I’ll be all right, I promise.

Watermelon Maya Best

Like a cantaloupe, a perfect sphere that hugged her at the waist, the bulbous belly had clasped onto her mother, gradually expanding and swelling as each month passed.

Surely there would soon be no space left for the little girl with swinging braids who clung to her mother’s wrist, begging for kisses. The girl could never understand why they all loved it, cooing and whispering. Even the cat had betrayed her, curling up on the warm rounded hump and kneading into the skin that grew pale as time passed.

She remembered last summer when her mother, with a flat tummy, had handed her five watermelon seeds to plant in the ground outside the dining room window, but instead she had pushed four into her jean pockets and slipped the last one into her mouth just to see what it would taste like. She could feel it sliding and sticking on its way down her throat, and she waited for the watermelon to grow in her stomach as the storybooks had warned her. Now she wondered if perhaps her mother had made the same horrible mistake, and now a massive watermelon was forming under the skin. She would’ve liked to pop it with a sewing needle

and free her mother from its stubborn grasp, but how her mother seemed to love it, for she patted the smooth flesh affectionately, protectively, as if it were something of great worth, her most precious treasure.

So then, while her mother was snoozing on the sofa, the little girl found a marker and gave it a friendly face.

Orange Juice Maya Best

The man who kissed my mother poked at the skin of

our couch, digging his fingernails deep into its leathery flesh.

“Where’s your mother?” he asked.

“Sleeping.”

The stairs creaked and I knew it was her before

she’d even entered the room. He knew too and pressed his palms into her hips, guiding her to the couch. He wore a placid face despite the grief that gripped my mother. My father was at the bar, probably drinking away his own grief.

This man ordered me to pour a glass of water, but I poured orange juice instead just to defy him and just because it was mother’s favorite. He was clutching a small umbrella in his left hand when I served her the juice and I don’t know why

because it wasn’t raining. Maybe he wanted to be prepared in case something spilled, in case something went wrong so he could be the hero, the savior to dig us out of our troubles.

My mother was crying without tears, crying where

it was dark and empty, where everything hurt the most, reminding her of what she’d once had. She pulled at fraying threads on her sweater, gradually unraveling the stitches.

The man managed to pry her fingers from the string, gently wrapping them around the glass of juice I’d handed him.

“I thought I said water.”

“You did.”

“Last time I checked water wasn’t orange.”

“Orange juice is her favorite.”

I pointed to the empty glass in her hand. She set the

glass on the coffee table and began fiddling with her hair, humming softly. He gave me a smirk and reached for her hand once more, this time grasping it tightly in his fist. Soon his arm stretched around her shoulder as she leaned against him. I watched this secret encounter from the threshold.

“Don’t you have homework to do?”

“I’m in first grade.”

“You might want to clean your room.”

“No I don’t.”

He clenched his teeth. “Well I’m sure your mother’d

appreciate it.”

I remained standing. “I don’t think she cares.”

He sprang to his feet, startling my mother and

disrupting the kitty’s nap. “Well I do! Please go and give us some privacy. We’ve got things to discuss!”

I grabbed the kitty and dashed up the stairs, slamming

the bedroom door. I watched my father’s car from the window. Watched as it pulled into the driveway, watched as he locked the doors and searched his pockets for the house keys. I heard the door fly open, my father’s bag slam to the ground, his shoes stomp into the living room. I could sense his fear, feel the thud of his fist against the wall when he saw them on the couch. I could taste his breath when he hollered and the house shook from the wail. His raw whiskey breath.

His sad, lonely breath. I could taste the orange juice knocked to the ground as the man leapt to his feet, gathered his things, and bolted out of the house.

Mushrooms Maya Best

1.

I used to lean against her prickly hair in the winter when ice lined the windows and I’d slide under her woolen blankets, stealing the hot water bottle that she kept by her feet. The kitty often managed to sneak onto our tummies, tickling our cheeks with his whiskers. I used to sleep against her, backs pressed together, absorbing her warmth. As her belly began to swell, she continued to let me under the covers, holding my palm against the smooth flesh she proudly bore. She told me stories someone who was hiding in there, who would one day come home in a blanket and become my friend.

2.

They would’ve named her Annabelle, would have stitched those nine letters onto patchwork quilts, would have captured her first smile, filmed her babbling words.

3.

The cradle groaned with every push and from the doorway I stared at her eyes, aging rapidly, disconnected from the rest of her youthful body. The blankets, and booties, and bottles removed, but mother clung tight to the cradle. It was a gift from our neighbor the carpenter who’d painted it brown like mother’s hair, now gray from fading dye. I could tell she was slipping away.

4.

I don’t think she loved him, she couldn’t have, for the only love she had was for the child she had lost. Even the expensive, elaborate gifts couldn’t sway her in the way they used to. He only served as a reminder for what she wished she could forget.

5.

Daddy kissed me when he left, one sad chapped kiss, mustering all the breath he had left. The house began to feel strange.

6.

At seven, I cut my hair, snipping off strands in the middle of art class while everyone else designed paper snowflakes.

The blunt scissors produced a sloppy pixie cut. Mother never screamed when she saw my crooked bangs. She just gave me the hand mirror and walked away.

7.

My only doll had button eyes, sloppily sewn on with grandma’s shaking fingers. The Sharpie smile had started to wear and I often had to reapply it. On bad days, I’d give her a frown so I wouldn’t be the only grump in the house.

8.

Beans for breakfast, beans for lunch.

Beans for dinner, beans for brunch.

Grandma loved beans more than she loved me.

9.

The man who married my mother could cook when he tried, stir-frying shiitake mushrooms and Bok Choy, sending glorious smells up to my room. But still I refused when he offered me a plate, taking Grandma’s bean stew instead because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I never did like the man who married my mother.

10.

I tried a fried shiitake mushroom while he wasn’t looking.

Slipped it into my mouth and sucked on the juice till the dried skin stuck to the roof of my mouth.

11.

At twelve, I stopped joining them at the dining table, locking myself in the basement where the kitty and I read all of the books Dad left behind. The pages still smelled like his cologne. I wondered where he’d gone.

Something about the Stars Jessica Britton

It was that night they embraced and their ashes fluttered up into the black sky. They were forged into the night to be forever cast in stars, two constellations, in and of themselves. She, finally free of invisible chains, could no longer feel the ghost of the shackles around her wrists.

He, finally finding companionship, could no longer feel the emptiness of every room.

He would fly down city streets in his blue mustang as if it were a winged horse. His tires never touching the urban craters as the streets crumbled under him. Dark eyes, black clothes, hair slicked back; he was a rebel of the times. He slew heartbreakers with souls of stone in the lost hours of dawn. He kept mementos of them to remind him how it felt to feel nothing. These women would never forgive themselves for their unwilling usefulness in fulfilling another man’s agenda. He could control an entire room with a look in his eyes and when he left, he had a way of making everyone watch him disappear, and stare long after he was gone. He held a practice of never glancing back to wrap up the loose ends that frayed under the mysterious tension he left behind like strong perfume. There was no way to attain someone like this, most couldn’t even think of a way to try. He often was alone in a world where everyone else was merely decoration.

The thing that feared him the most was his growing desire to know vulnerability.

She would stay repressed in the metal bindings of her family’s debutant pride. Her self-esteem was surrendered to her mother’s misguided arrogance. Any good trait she had, her mother made sure she got credit for: her curly hair, her crystal eyes, her delicate features, her gentle voice, none of it was attributed to her. At dinner parties her parents would use her to raise their social status. They would embellish her plotted life to establish their position as proper parents. She was a weapon in the battle of egos among the rich and uninteresting.

She was made out to be a beautiful young success, but lacked a sense of any real accomplishment. At some point her life had become a fictitious offering to self-proclaimed gods. She spent the sleepless hours of the evening trying to decipher the things that were tangible. A slave to her family name, she knew her only use was perfection. She would remain useful until proven human and then she would be left to the monsters of judgment and doubt. She always wondered how it felt to do something simply because she wanted to.

It was almost eleven at night when the party ended and the city’s most influential stumbled around on the glow of champagne. The sultry wife of a CEO jingled her car keys drunkenly. The mother stopped her at the door. She started to go on about how her daughter was to drive her home. She bragged on about how her daughter was an excellent driver and would be better off being driven. The CEO’s wife obliged with slurred thank- you’s. She called down her trophy daughter who hesitantly took the keys. She sat behind the wheel of the Cadillac while the CEO’s wife slept, sprawled across the back seat, her red pump half off her foot. She sat in the driver’s seat staring at the open road in front of her. She didn’t have much driving experience and the darkness that consumed the world outside the windows made her clutch the steering wheel until her hands were red.

She made it to the mansion of some important CEO at a careful speed and the woman was removed from the back of the car. The powerful man thanked her for taking care of his floosy and expensive car. She recited a response that she could hear from her mother’s mouth. On the way back the streets were almost abandoned. The colored stoplights reflected in her eyes and everything was swirling together.

She made an illegal turn down a one-way street and when another driver cursed at her, she panicked. It all came to her at once. She wasn’t ready to be perfect, now. She could feel the monsters creeping up her legs from the gas pedal. She turned down street after street, unsure of the right way to go.

She wanted to be in bed, she wanted to be anywhere but

in the CEO’s car. She wanted to get home and be free, and for the lights to stop turning red around every turn. She kept going. The lights turned crimson and spilled on the road like a seppuku suicide. She drove through the neon warnings, no one was around to stop her now. She made another turn, and another. She drove through the lights and then stopped suddenly.

She stopped in the middle of a four-way intersection.

This was not by choice, but from the blow of hitting another car. She went through the windshield and landed on the black asphalt bathed in the colored glow of the stoplights. She had lain there, bleeding from her mother’s soft skin, feeling the pain of her mother’s strong, broken bones. She looked up at the blue Mustang next to her, and then up at the bloody faced boy that was scooping her up in his arms. He held her there, his dark eyes different now. She stared into them as everything got darker. She smiled, for she was finally saved, and in that moment he knew all about vulnerability that he could ever know. They melted away, then. They were weightless as they made their ascension to the empty sky where everything they knew could have happened was forever told in the story of their connected constellations.

Who Wants to Live Forever?

Laura Condon

To Everyone I’ve Yet to Meet,

First, I’d like to say: Please, for the love of whoever it is you’d care to invoke, don’t scream when we finally do meet. I know, I get it, it’s not pleasant, no one wants to meet me, to feel my icicle fingers take their hand, but you’re all going to. So get over it. Just get over it. It’s the ineffable plan. Say it with me now: In-eff-a-ble. Got it? Lovely.

Second: When we meet, I’d like you to know you should be grateful. Sure, maybe the circumstances aren’t ideal. Truly, I understand. This job’s been mine for eons, literally since you people arrived on the planet and started falling over and getting sick and what not. I’ve developed some sympathy for you over the years. You’re entertaining, though I do wish you’d stop killing each other. It increases my workload. Also, it’s really bad form. Seems that if I could learn to take pity on you after all this time, evolution could grant you the ability to pity each other. Really, it’s rather outrageous.

But anyway, you should be grateful. I know you think immortality would be an eternal party, but you’re wrong. This existence, it’s – well – it’s lonely, to say the least. It’s just me. Here. On planet Earth. Looking after you fools. For all eternity. I know, I know: But there’s no time! There’s so many places and I haven’t seen them all! Chill, love, they’re not that great. The Coliseum? It was about as interesting in its “glory” as it is now. Believe me, I was there. Quite a bit.

Never-ending, roiling, boiling blood.

Still: grateful. That’s what you should be. The only thing that’s decided for you is that you will die (hence, “ineffable plan,” yeah?). It’s up to you how the bit in the middle goes. In this world, there’s one sweet moment set aside for you. You do things, you screw up, but it’s yours and you make your choices.

Choice is invaluable, you know. Every moment of

every day there is hook in my ribcage and a line reeling me towards the next poor soul who needs collecting and I never get to choose. It’s all decided for me. I just move, move, move like whoever decreed that this should be my job didn’t once think that perhaps I would resent the lack of choice.

But anyway.

Like I said, I’ve had this exact same occupation since the beginning of time. I’ve touched the world with my fingertips, scraping you off the earth like blood bloated ticks, and it’s been great, but I’m tired. I like you guys, sure, but…

Well, it’s old now. This same thing. I come to get you. You scream and cry and beg for mercy. And then I move on to the next poor shmuck. Lather, rinse, repeat. It’s exhausting.

Emotionally, you know?

So, friends, when we meet, maybe try to scream a little bit less. Ask how I am, have a conversation. I’d really appreciate it.

Sincerely,

Journey’s End

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy Laura Condon

Irate with the task and blame he’s been given, Loki storms from the throne room. Odin raises his hands for his ravens to alight upon. They turn their eyes to him and he gestures after Loki, setting them to their newest mission. ***

Through his chamber window, the ravens watch Loki at the looking glass. With a snap, the fair-haired man vanishes. Where he stood is a magnificent mare, with flowing golden mane and a coat that shimmers like starlight.

After a moment, the horse transforms back into Loki.

The god grimaces. “As you wish, All-father,” he hisses. “I suppose it’s time to turn on my charm.” ***

Alfr and his powerful stallion erect the wall with terrible speed, quick enough to beat their deadline three days hence. Almost certainly, the Æsir will be forced to give up the sun and moon, delivering on a gamble they never imagined losing. A gamble Loki convinced them to take.

It cannot be allowed to happen.

At nine precisely, Alfr unharnesses his stallion.

Odin’s ravens swoop through the twinkling sky. Despite the darkness, they do not miss Loki melting from the shadows, and settle to watch him make good on his promise. How will he assure that the wall is not finished?

The stallion spies Loki approaching, and turns away from Alfr. Loki trots towards the forest, beckoning: Let’s you and I go romancing.

Breaking from his master, the stallion gallops after Loki.

From above the treetops, the ravens track the mare and steed. ***

With the ravens’ enhanced vision, it is practically possible to see the mare’s chest pulse as Loki’s heartbeat grows faster. The mare’s calls of distress pierce their ears yet they do not flinch. For one moment, the façade slips just the tiniest bit and it is Loki’s screams that ring through the night.

The ghastly scene unfolds before the eyes of the ravens, yet their gazes never waver.

In the throne room, Odin wishes he could look away. ***

In the days until the deadline, the ravens come periodically, ensuring Loki keeps the stallion distracted. The stallion doesn’t need much convincing. Some might call it fortunate. Loki would disagree.

After the deadline has gone and the heavens are safe, the ravens still display Loki being tormented by the stallion.

Odin orders them to put an end to it. They dive, scratching the stallion’s eyes until he flees.

Still in the form of a mare, Loki drags himself into a cave. The cries echoing from inside are beyond pitiful.

***

As time passes, the ravens make occasional stops at the cave, though Odin would deny sending them. They peer into the dim cavern, watching for Loki’s coal-dull eyes to blink out at them. He flinches at every sound, never forgetting how loud the stallion had been, thinking of it always.

When the god rises painfully to graze in the grass outside the cave, the ravens retreat to the cover of the trees.

It is then that Odin commands them away once more. He doesn’t want to see the mare’s swelling stomach. ***

His body tangled in agony, Loki is finally able to return to his own form. The god curls into himself, limbs quivering, but manages to pry his eyes open and stare at the eightlegged foal beside him on the stone floor. Gentle, hesitant, he pulls the newborn closer.

Loki murmurs to his child, “Everything’s alright,” and holds on tight. ***

When Loki reappears in the throne room of Asgard, the ravens are perched on their master’s shoulders. Loki presents the Crown of the Æsir with an eight-legged foal to be his glorious mount, and the All-father is unable to meet his eyes.

The foal is left whinnying wildly for its mother as Loki exits. Thor, Odin’s son and confidant, sneers as the pale and shaking god passes him. “It’s an admirable animal,” he comments, “Where’d you get it from, lover boy?”

A moment passes in which Loki allows himself to be overwhelmed by his offspring’s anguish. Then, he raises his chin, and pretends it doesn’t exist.

‘39

Laura Condon

In the year 2059, Freddie Brian Rogers is born. The delivery room is miniscule, barely large enough for the medical staff attending his mother. The nurse declares, “It’s a boy!” even though they’ve known for months. She wraps Freddie in a yellow blanket and hands him to his mother, Alice.

Later, Freddie’s grandmother stands at Alice’s side and strokes the baby’s head. Bittersweet tears slide down her cheeks.

“He has Dad’s eyes,” Alice says.

The grandmother nods. “He does,” she agrees. She bends and kisses Alice’s forehead. “Your father would be so proud.” * * *

At three, Freddie has heard all of the stories about his grandfather. The stories come from Gram, because Alice was so young when her father left, that she has almost no memory of him.

“The ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn,” Gram tells Freddie for the umpteenth time. Still, he’s enchanted. “It was the sweetest sight I’d ever seen. A score of brave souls, your grandfather among them. I was so proud, Freddie.” She stares into Freddie’s bright eyes: her husband’s eyes. “So proud.” * * *

Alice fastens the clip-on tie to Freddie’s collar and says, “I was just your age when Grandfather went up in the ship, you know. Twenty-five years ago.” She sighs and drops her head, hiding her puffy red face from Freddy’s view.

She stands, offers her hand. “Let’s go, sweetie. We’ll be late for the memorial.” * * *

Gram kneels beside her bed, hands folded, unaware of Freddie watching her. He’s seen pictures of children kneeling like that in history class, from back before religion

was banned. Curious, he watches his grandmother as she whispers, her face turned towards the ceiling.

“Please, David.” Gram’s voice is choked. “Don’t you hear me calling you? Please, David, come home.”

Freddie creeps in, wrapping his arms around Gram’s shoulders. She holds him fast. Her misery flows from her, silent. * * *

When he tells people that he wants to be a lawyer, every one of them thinks of his grandfather. Some think of David and are disappointed in Freddie, shocked that he’s not doing something more impressive, heroic.

The others think of David, and don’t blame Freddie one bit. * * *

At thirty, Freddie helps Gram mount the stage to sit with 19 other families. He stares at the crowds that stretch for miles, watching him on the Megascreens.

The president of the International Coalition for the Discovery of New Earth takes the mic and clears her throat.

“We thank these courageous people,” she says, “who sacrificed their loved ones for the sake of us all, fifty years ago today.” A red balloon floats cheerily over the reticent crowd and Freddie watches it until it disappears, tuning out the rest of the speech.

He can’t remember the 25th anniversary memorial, but he imagines it was slightly bigger. * * *

A week later, Freddie watches his mother place Gram’s ashes into the Mass Mausoleum slot she reserved years ago. The one beside remains empty, waiting, David’s name engraved below. * * *

Freddie tells his granddaughter about David Rogers, the hero who embarked on a mission to save the world.

“He was your great-grandfather,” Freddie says, tugging on the little girl’s pigtail. “He wanted to find a better world for you to live in.”

“Did he do it?”

“…I don’t know, darling.” * * *

Every screen in the world tunes in to watch the ship.

As the twenty men and women exit, Freddie can’t breathe.

He glimpses it before the camera moves: eyes exactly like his, peering at what the world has become. * * *

When Freddie is finally allowed in, David is not filled with the same light as when he’d stepped off the ship. The good news of a world so newly born was crushed under the weight of his heavy heart.

His greeting to his 80 year-old grandson is, “It’s 2139.

I’ve been gone a hundred years.”

“You have,” Freddie affirms.

“So many years have gone, though I’m older but a year…” David shakes his head in amazement. “You’re my grandson,” he continues. “Your name is… Hold on, I know it.

They told me… Freddie?”

Freddie nods solemnly. “Yes.”

“You have your mother’s eyes.”

“She always said they were yours.”

Pro Wrestling is Real Madison Custer

The room was full of businessmen. The men sat in suits and adjusted their ties; the women sat in the corner and gossiped.

(It was a normal Monday morning.)

A man entered. He angrily slammed his briefcase on the table and fumbled through it. The other businessmen snapped to attention.

“Jamie and Adam debunked us again,” the man said. His name is Virgil, he is not having a normal Monday morning.

“Which one?” someone from the back piped up.

“The Apollo moon landing photos.”

(Virgil is, of course, referring to the theory that the Apollo moon landing photos were not taken on the moon, but were, in fact, taken in a warehouse in Hollywood on a modified sound stage.)

“Well it wasn’t long before people stopped believing that,” a woman said. “Who came up with that one? It was the old intern, right?” The businessmen chuckle.

(The old intern has since been fired. He was never accurate with the coffee orders, and was never on time for meetings.)

“Well, we need a new idea. Something fresh. Something so ridiculous it’s actually believable.” The businessmen gathered around the table. Virgil found a whiteboard marker and started to jot down ideas. Before long, the white board

looked like: · Coca-Cola changed Santa’s suit to be red (publicity?)

(Cold War!) · Skeleton and human footprints found on the moon · Fluoridation of water pioneered by (German?) chemical company to make people more submissive to those in power · Chem-trails (bio weapon?) · “Vril Society”- secret form of energy, “Vril” is used and controlled by a subterranean society of matriarchal, socialist, utopian beings · The Royal family shape shifting alien reptiles (+Obama) (man-eating, from the 4th dimension) (+Clintons) · Obama traveled to Mars as a teen (CIA?) · Nazis live in the moon and want to kill all the puppies (whales?) · Pro wrestling is real · Keeanu Reeves is immortal The businessmen took a step back. Mary, one of the women, got out a laptop and started typing all the ideas down.

(Virgil’s favorite was the one about the secret energy source, but mostly because “Vril” was a derivative of his name.)

“Well, which one are we pitching?” Virgil looked at the team expectantly.

“I think,” Mary started, “I think that when deciding, we need to look at the theories that are believable enough that they last a lot longer. Like, for instance, the one about Coca-Cola would last a long time because it sounds plausible, but the one about “Vril” wouldn’t be… very….good?”

Virgil cleared his throat.

(Of course he wouldn’t tell Mary, but he had been secretly rooting for “Vril” all along.)

“Of course you’re in charge, Virgil, but my vote is in for the Coca-Cola and fluoridation.” Mary put two checks next to those bullets on the board.

“Fluoridation,” a man piped up.

“The skeleton on the moon,” another said.

Before long, there were check marks next to every theory but “Vril.”

“Well, Virgil? It looks like it’s down to fluoridation and Keeanu Reeves,” Mary said. “Which should we go with this week?”

Virgil paced around the room. He stroked his beard. He looked intelligent.

(Of course she wouldn’t tell Virgil, but Mary was secretly turned on by this.)

“I think you’re all wrong.”

Mary gasped quietly.

“I think you’re all wrong, and the best theory on the board is ‘Vril.’ Here’s why. It’s so unbelievable, it’s perfect. We publish it, and it only takes a couple minutes for the men that live in their mom’s basements to start writing articles on it. Of course the articles will try to make the theory more plausible, and that will only add to the intrigue. ‘Vril’ is classic. It’s timeless. It’s a conspiracy for the ages. If you want an idea that will last for months, ‘Vril’ is the way to go.”

The room stared at Virgil. No one spoke.

“Well fine, if you don’t believe me, publish your fluoridation theory tomorrow.” Virgil took a computer out of his suitcase and opened a webpage. He started typing furiously. He gave everyone a smug look as he hit ENTER. They waited. Suddenly their devices started dinging. Their eyes widened. ‘Vril’ was trending on every noteworthy conspiracy theory website in the nation.

“People think ‘Vril’ is the Russians!” Mary said.

“The cause of the Revolutionary War! Why didn’t we think of that?”

“The main ingredient in McDonalds French fries! That’s why they’re so addicting!”

Virgil stood up. He packed his things in his briefcase. He looked at his group of businessmen. He was proud.

He stood up straight, and everyone copied. They saluted each other. Just as Virgil opened the door to leave, they heard footsteps running down the hall.

“Mr. President! Mr. President!” the voice shrieked. “Don’t leave without your coffee! And I made those photocopies for you, too. I’m so sorry I’m late!” The new intern ran up to Virgil, and handed him a coffee and a manila file folder.

“Good work, Anne,” he said.

(Anne knew these meetings happened every morning, but she was always late. Virgil was off to his next engagement, but first he needed to find a new, competent, intern.)

Chinook

Madison Custer “All righty, folks. Let’s saddle up.” The tour guide motioned to the three white-water rafts sitting in the mud on the bank of the river. He wore a yellow bucket hat, a green “Park Ranger” shirt and an industrial grade life jacket. He held a black paddle that looked like it was actually made for sport, not the sissy yellow paddles the rest of rafters would use.

Stephanie grinned from ear to ear when he asked her if she was ready to rumble. Stephanie thought that the ranger was very attractive.

They set off. The first section of the river was slow, just like the tour guide had explained. Stephanie kept both of her feet inside the raft like he had told her to, and tried her best to help paddle the boat along. She felt so sporty. Just wait until she told Julian at work what she had done. Julian liked to brag about his special hikes and camping trips and how he was so much outdoorsier than anyone else in the office.

Stephanie’s rafting party hit the rapids. They bounced, tumbled, fell in the water and climbed back into the raft. The water churned underneath them. Stephanie was sure she saw a salmon swimming downstream to where it planned to lay its eggs and then die. She proudly told the tour guide what she had seen, and he laughed and rolled his eyes.

(Anyone who knows anything about fish knows that that is not the case with salmon.) He told her that he would tell her some cool facts about animals when they came to a slower patch in the river. Stephanie couldn’t wait. She wanted to totally best Julian on Monday.

“Well, that’s your classic Western White Pine,” the tour guide started. They were paddling slowly through a stagnant, shallow part of the river. “You’ve got your Whitebark Pine,

your Ponderosa Pine, Sitka Spruce, Western Hemlock, Mountain Hemlock- oh look, there goes a Sasquatch!

They’re pretty easy to spot in the spring-time around here when they come south from Canada for the summer. This is pretty early to be seeing them. Must have been a rough winter in Canada, if you know what I mean.”

Stephanie reached for her water-proof camera she had bought especially for this trip. She pulled it out and took a picture of the Sasquatch. It wasn’t the best picture she had taken, but she saw Sasquatch in her backyard all the time.

They liked to come pull up her carrots and walk back into the forest eating them. Stephanie was not a fan of Sasquatch.

“Your Alaska Cedar is a little more difficult to find this far south of the border, but there’s a little patch over there. If you look underneath us, there’s a Chinook Salmon. Judging by your size and stature, you’d probably struggle to get one above your head, they’re that big and heavy.”

Stephanie decided she was going to tell Julian that she had lifted a Chinook salmon above her head. She was sure he hadn’t. She watched the scaly fish swim under her, imagined herself lifting it as high as possible, and what Julian’s face would look like when he saw a picture of a fish above her head.

A Thunderbird Named Desire Madison Custer

Chuck pulls into the drive-in slowly. The big white screen billows lightly in the breeze, and the smell of popcorn wafts into our open windows. Chuck puts the car into park and turns off the ignition. He looks over at Mary expectantly, but she says nothing. Her hand sits on his thigh. It had gradually

moved upwards from his knee the entire ride over, but of course I hadn’t said anything. Mary decided she wanted to double date, and so she set me up with Thomas, Chuck’s teammate. He sits next to me, his arm draped over my shoulder. He smells like cologne and old football sweat.

Chuck puts his arm around Mary, twirling her ponytail in his fingers. Thomas copies him. The last thing I want is Thomas’s fingers in my hair, but I don’t say anything. His hand gets caught in my cheer bow, and I reach up to help him untangle it. He slides his hand down my back. “Nice cardigan,” he says. “Thanks, it’s cashmere.” I roll my eyes.

Chuck is trying to drink a beer but Mary won’t let him. She said something about “You’re our ride home.” Chuck passes the open can back to Thomas (“I don’t want to waste it!”), who takes a huge gulp and hands it to me.

“No thanks,” I say and hand it back up to Chuck, who takes a small swig and tosses it out the window before Mary can say anything. I grab my cross necklace and hold onto it tightly.

Thomas throws his arms over me again. I try to shrug them off but he doesn’t notice.

The movie begins. Marlon Brando waltzes across the screen, Vivian Leigh teasingly runs away. Marlon screams “Stella!” Mary and Chuck start making out.

Thomas sees this as an invitation for him to do the same with me. He leans in, I wiggle away. He grabs my waist, I open the car door. Mary and Chuck don’t notice that anything is happeneing. I stand up and start to leave, and he grabs my arm. The credits roll.

Sonnet 1

Muriel D’Alessandro He bullies her, words cracking, bruising her mind. Time stops for no one, days carry on.

She lacks a substance to cling to, crayons are all she clutches, fighting fists and slurs with dirty color scribbles. High skies blur, fingertips leave thick trails of dreams on dawn and paint cans overturned in her neon frenzy. Her parents wish her more demure.

She brushes them all away, drumming out long twisted offerings to the goddess who dances in her shadow with outstretched arms. Yet his broken jaw spits rotten doubt, he sinks into his hollow chest, godless, whilst she grows closer to the sun she sketched.

Brooklyn, April 15, 1947

Clara Dregalla inspired by Welcome to Night Vale by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor Hiya, folks! It’s April 15, 1947, and you’ve just tuned your radio to The Brooklyn Bastion, the best place to get news on our wonderful borough. I’m your host, Clara Dregalla, and you’re just in time to listen to our cherished Dodgers crush the Boston Braves here at Ebbet’s field. Your husband, Michael, is sitting in his chair, his head tilted toward the radio so you can’t see his face. You can’t see his face but you can see the anger trapped in his muscles, coiled in on himself like his body is a python trying to crush the man you fell in love with.

He was fired yesterday. Came home too early and said in a voice that sounded like the moment before a gun goes off, I got fired. He was still and quiet and you had realized with a twist of nausea that you were scared of this part of him. You tried to reach for his shoulder but he shook you off and you wondered for a second if maybe he was gone forever.

You cooked dinner and set the table and said grace but Michael hardly ate. You tried to tell him it would be okay but his head jolted up and he shouted that you didn’t know, you don’t know! You wondered which thing he was referring to. You wondered if he really knew whatever intimate wisdom it was that was digging a rift between you. His next words were hardly above a whisper. Some white bastard tries to say I’m not a man, but it’s me who gets booted when I try to defend myself. A woman could never know what that’s like. A woman could never know that.

Now you’re sitting at the kitchen table, dishes cleared away, and watch Michael lean toward the radio. It’s turned up loud and you think my voice is annoying.

Now the players are entering the field! If you’ll notice number 42, that’s Jackie Robinson, who will go down in

history as the first Black man in major league baseball.

He’ll be remembered for years– he’ll be a hero. Fifty years from now you’ll remember listening to this game, listening to the radio herald the entrance of Jackie Robinson, you’ll remember the whole block holding their breath and letting it out slowly, trying hard not to be too happy or too cautious.

You remember wondering if it was some kind of trick, but fifty years later your grandkids will ask you about what it was like to listen to Jackie Robinson’s first game, what it felt like, what it meant to you. You will admit that you never knew the score, because you were looking at Michael.

You look over at Michael and see his face slowly become less haunted. You watch hope return to his face, a little at a time. You get up and walk over to his chair, reach your hand out and touch his face just to know that he will let you and you will feel him. The back of your fingers brush his cheek and he kisses your knuckles and looks up at you.

You both smile and recognize each other and I feel a little intrusive, barging in on a moment of such intimacy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. You nod. You needed to hear that.

“It’s going to be okay,” you tell him.

He looks hard at the radio and you know it may not have been a sentence that could lift him out of hopelessness forever and that it okay.

He looks back at you. “No matter what, we can’t let them beat us.”

You smile and he mirrors it and in his face you see the man you love.

California, Age 1 Sam Eppinger

My baby girl lays swaddled in an embroidered gold robe. The lace peeps over her widow’s peak, and the gold sheen casts a sickly glow over my baby’s skin. Carefully balanced on a mountain of decaying furniture; my Sarah is the perfect star on a shredded Chinese flag. I am being filled with concrete, and soon I will be immobile. My coffee goes cold. Sarah shrieks. It sounds like a banana slug being cooked by the California sun. I can’t cover my ears, can’t leap from my chair to comfort her as she begins to writhe like a demon, trying to break free from her earthly confines. She opens her ruby eyes and her wail intensifies. The decayed lumber, riddled with holes and cracks, begins to moan in duet, and I no longer yearn to comfort my baby. I want to run, but body has hardened to the seat. Sound slows as the mountain tidal waves over top of me, catapulting my demon into my arms.

Crying.

The sound echoes down narrow corridors.

Glowing red letters read

4:37, God, I’ve only been asleep two hours I hit the cold half of my bed

wishfully, before rising to my heathen’s siren.

She shit herself.

It takes ten minutes to coo her back into slumber.

I wish I could fall asleep like that.

I’m so tired. Nothing feels real anymore.

As I pass by the curtain drawn over my kitchen window, I can make out the angry 5 o’clock sounds of cars on the LA interstate.

I could be out there.

Or I could be asleep.

I used to have a job in the big city.

From intern-- associate- to queen bee secretary.

I used to be important.

High rise. Bathroom.

Pink plus.

The knowing ruddy face of Mrs. Brown as I cried

after she found me,

throwing up day after day, in the seldomly

used bathroom where Mr. J and Quinn would lurk.

I heard she is his new secretary.

I wish I was asleep.

I can feel the weight return to my stomach,

pressing down on my abdomen

telling me it wants out.

I am breeding resentment

and I’m not sure how to abort it.

The curtains are heavy to block the sun, The curtains are heavy to make sure that the dust and exhaust of 7 billion lives stick to one side; My bones collect dust making sure my child’s feeding patterns are uninterrupted.

I no longer have a sleep schedule.

I can no longer stay here in this house.

I can no longer stomach this weight.

Crying.

I drop the curtain

and see in the sink, piles of plastic bottles

Glowing red letters read

6:37,

The weight releases; plummets down, through my tissue lining breaking my femurs on the way out.

She’s hungry. My Sarah must be hungry.

Am I out? What if I’m out?

Frantic I open the fridge to see blank shelves except for one bottle. I rush into Sarah’s room with open arms, ready to console her, cuddle her, contort to her every need.

She is crying, not screaming like when she is hungry. Her toys are all accounted for, her periwinkle onesie is dry, but still she cries. I scoop her up, over one shoulder and croon into her ear; “Mommy loves you, you’re okay, I love you.”

Sarah becomes still, and her peaceful breaths are gentle waves after a hurricane. I hold her up to the light, and see a halo around her head.

Fried Chickpeas Sam Eppinger

Open 1 can of Chickpeas. Drain in a colander.

Liz sat at her desk, while I sat on her bed. She would draw men without tongues wearing lipstick and girls with holes through their heads; I would read books of poetry or the Bible because I’ve heard people quote it a lot and it seems like the kind of thing I should know if I want to know everything. I used to think a lot about knowing everything.

Heat oil in a pan till it is hot and can blister your pinky finger.

Liz sat at her desk, while I sat on her bed; her mother brought us up dinner. We sat in silence working on homework while a record turned over into static silence (we were both too comfortable to move the needle back, back, to back track). Sometimes I would overstay my welcome and would leave a hurried trail of apologies and long faces, I hoped they would hang in the static air after I left as a reminder. But more often than not, my movement set the record player turning again and I’d fly out the door, self-pity still attached by the umbilical cord, Black Flag flushing my presences out of every room.

Dump Chickpeas into pan. (Optional; also add onion) Liz sat at her desk, while I sat on her bed; her mother brought us up dinner and soon I went to sleep. I was too tired, too tired, to do my homework or to care about Jerusalem, Jesus, or Nobles Truths. Liz would sit at her sewing machine making patches in exchange for second hand Pokemon skateboards shoplifted from Walmart.

Sometimes her friends would come too and sit around my cocoon; they’d leave coffee cups to mold because Liz forgets

about objects in the real sense of the word. Liz would wake me up when her mother felt like the house was too full or that the moon was too high and I would leave and walk in circles through trees because sometimes it just isn’t time to go home.

After 3 min, add a combination of garlic salt, paprika, cilantro, or basil. Garlic salt required.

Liz sat at her desk, while I sat on her bed; her mother brought us up dinner and soon I went to sleep only to wake up and find that she wasn’t at her desk anymore, she had gone to a party and wasn’t planning on coming home for the rest of the night. I left the record player turning static into the air and went to sleep in my own bed.

Fry for 3-5 more minutes until crisp.

Villanelle of a First Grader From Out of Town Dylan Fletcher

I guess it’s fine nobody likes me.

This isn’t exactly new.

Have fun in your group of three.

I can’t say I’m surprised, honestly.

The people who tolerate me are few.

I guess it’s fine nobody likes me.

I’m not going to submit some plea to increase my group to two.

Have fun in your group of three.

Others find friends with sickening glee.

They are rubber, I am glue.

I guess it’s fine nobody likes me.

I really hope you never see this poem that I wrote about you.

Have fun in your group of three.

Maybe writing alone is the key to discovering why I’m so blue.

I guess it’s fine nobody likes me.

Have fun in your group of three.

Tiramisu Dylan Fletcher

The banged up dining table in my father’s house is a

battleground. The prize in my clutches, I peer around for any signs of rival Italian predators. There are none to be found.

At last, I open the container and stare at my tiramisu.

This layered extravagance is mine, and mine

alone. To devour the tower of custard and lady fingers and chocolate is almost a crime against art. Almost. Alas, this piece of heaven was created for consumption, and with that ravenous dog out of the house, I can devour the tiramisu without fear of attack.

Eating alone has its advantages. An empty home

means overindulgence with peanut butter, large doses of milk, and occasionally, a delicious treat all to myself.

It’s around two o’clock in the afternoon on a Friday. A snow day such as this is a delicacy as much as the tiramisu. The frosted windows of the dining room bathe me in sunlight, giving the tiramisu an ethereal glow. It takes nearly every particle of restraint not to devour my prize in a blinding whirlwind of custard and cake. Instead, I carefully lower my fork to the frozen dessert. The frozen custard offers a small

amount of resistance to the fork, so that when it finally sinks to the bottom of the little container, it feels as though I’ve laid waste to a castle’s defenses and have begun my siege of the city. Tenderly, I pull a piece up to my face. The aroma of mocha, chocolate and cream settles in my nostrils. My mouth waters. Slowly, I move the fork closer.

As I’m alone, I have no fear of uttering an obscenity

as the tiramisu meets my tongue. The blend of coffee, custard, cake and chocolate dances in my mouth, a ritual of flavors I have experienced far too little of in my time on earth.

Piece by succulent piece, I chip away at the tiramisu, staring out of the window at the blank white world around me. The near inaudible thud of my fork against the bottom of the container is the only sound. The rest of the world is forgotten like an equation on a test day. I am quite happily alone with my friend, tiramisu.

I’m at the half way mark. Although there is still plenty to go, that rotten feeling stirs inside me, that feeling of loss after your favorite meal is gone. It’s on the horizon. The tiramisu begins to taste sweeter with every bite. I linger for a second more before biting into it.

Despite my efforts to savor it for the rest of time, my tiramisu dwindles to a quarter piece. The grief now wells

up inside me. There is no denying that soon, the cold, crisp cake will depart from this world. Only now does the isolation set in. Suddenly, the house is cold, quiet, and musty. I am lonely.

The last bite sends chills up my spine. With my prize dead and gone, I no longer seek solitude. I want my father to come home. I want us to play a game of Madden together or sit side by side, doing our work. I want to eat a home cooked meal with him. I’d been so selfish with him that contact with the outside world seemed trivial. Tiramisu should be battled over. It should bear witness to the clashing of forks as one tries to sneak a bite of it. It should be enjoyed by family and friends, the centerpiece of a joyous celebration. One thing is for sure: I will never eat it alone again.

// Lessons //

Hannah Geisler this is how to perform the butterfly. this is how to do the breast stroke. this is how you freestyle in the pool; a breath every three strokes; this is how to swim. this is how to swim like a shoelace. this is how to glide like my paper airplane. this is how to paddle like my dog, Ruby. this is how to pass level one even though you can’t swim. this is how to dive from a sitting position. this is how you dive from your knees. this is how you stand for a proper dive in the big league. this is how to dive like Michael Phelps. this is how to arch your back like Ryan Lochte. this is how you win gold. this is how you cannonball. this is how you jump. this is how to belly flop because you still don’t really know how to dive. this is how you ease your stomach’s pain. this is how your hold your arms to hide the throbbing pink flesh. this is how to say you’re having fun. this is how to do it again. this is how to blow bubbles from your nose. this is how to tuck your knees. this is how to somersault. this is how to flip. this is how to have a tea party. this is how to be a fish. this is how to creep like an alligator. this is how to dance like a mermaid. this is how to fall in the deep end. this is how to push off the bottom. this is how to clear the water from your lungs. this is how you keep your head above water. this is how to laugh with your friends. this is how to hold onto the side. this is how to stay calm. this is how to fight. this is how to tread. this is how you bike. this is how you frog. this is how you act confident. this is how to stay afloat. this is how to smile at the lifeguard. this is how to learn. this is how to be independent. this is how you breathe underwater.

Sugar

Hannah Geisler “Don’t use too much butter,” my mother says. “Then it will be too runny.” Her fragile hands knead dough that will be the top crust. My fingers graze the apples, coated in a nutmeg and cinnamon mix that feels like sandpaper. She watches the dough in concentration, balancing the flour-towater ratio, just as she did years ago, flour on her cheek, when my dad showed up to dinner an hour early.

“She was in her sweatpants,” my father will chuckle as he tells the story. “Making spaghetti dinner…when I showed up, oh God, she was just so embarrassed!”

I hold my breath as my mother lays the thin dough over the apple mound ever so carefully. I wonder how many pies she has baked. I wonder how many pies she has baked for my father. I wonder if she likes baking pies–if she likes our brick house–home to three blonde children–I wonder if she planned on living the American dream. She coats the crust in milk and a few sprinkles of sugar. My father nonchalantly passes by and I wonder if he’s eyeing up the pie or my beautiful mother, her warm face looking so youthful. She neatly forks the edges, and I remember trying to help her do so as a child. Now she stands up and passes the fork to me, brushing the flour off her cheek.

“Here, poke the heart for your father. You know apple pie is his favorite.”

Mechanical

Hannah Geisler He has fingers made in China, crippled from holding hands in the back of the cinema.

She has delicate fingers crafted like lace and posies. But my posies are eaten by the camel roaming in your deserted mouth with the kissing fragrance of chemicals.

My fingers rest softly, joints crafted of clamshells and chain links—tarnished silver not like spoons but like the hail that fell the day you and I wanted lobster so we walked to Maine.

Your deprived body trembles like your fingers—anile and hungry. Try this new diet—originated by babes in Cali who are actually all dead, but maybe that’s just chance.

Characters Tyra Jamison

SAG OR NON UNION CASTING NOTICE FOR FEMALES-ALL ETHNICITIES- FROM THE LATE 80’s. SHOOTS ON “STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON”. SHOOT DATE TO BE DETEREMINED. WE ARE PULLING PHOTOS FOR THE DIRECTOR OF FEATURED EXTRAS. VERY IMPORTANT—YOU MUST LIVE IN THE LOS ANGELES AREA (ORANGE COUNTY IS FINE TOO) TO WORK ON THIS SHOW. DO NOT SUBMIT IF YOU LIVE OUT OF THE AREA. NOBODY IS GOING TO BE FLYING INTO LA TO DO EXTRA WORK ON THIS SHOW—AND DON’T TELL ME YOU ARE WILLING TO FLY IN. SAG OR NON-UNION FEMALES - PLEASE SEE BELOW FOR SPECIFIC BREAKDOWN. DO NOT EMAIL IN FOR MORE THAN ONE CATEGORY: A GIRLS: THESE ARE THE HOTTEST OF THE HOTTEST. MODELS. MUST HAVE REALY HAIR – NO EXTENSIONS, VERY CLASSY LOOKING, GREAT BODIES— Mama, today Danny Beaumont stuck his pink-putty hands and a pink-putty colored piece

of gum in my hair, ‘cause he wanted to see if it was real. When I went to Father Cornell’s office, he didn’t call Danny in, he just called you. He called you in and called my hair a “distraction”.

Mama, what’s a distraction? Is it something you’ve got to cut out of my head? Why can’t they look— B GIRLS: THESE ARE FINE GIRL, LONG NATURAL HAIR, REALLY NICE BODIES. SMALL WAISTS, NICE HIPS. YOU SHOULD BE LIGHT-SKINNED. BEYONCE IS A PROTOTYPE HERE. AGE 18-30. PLEASE EMAIL A CURRENT COLOR PHOTO— The directors called me the hottest ethnic they ever saw, and asked what I was mixed with to make me “so damn fine”. They’d never believe I was born en la republica dominica, to my mama whose pelo shrinks something serious in the rain, to my papa whose hands are the same deep moreno as the wood he works. My light skin becomes absorbed in summer days where the sun blesses me with pigment. You damn straight, I said blessed. Por que no pueden ver—

C GIRLS: THESE ARE AFRICAN AMERICAN GIRLS, MEDIUM TO LIGHT SKINNED WIH A WEAVE— I went out with my girls last night to celebrate my birthday. I was turning 21, and it was a big one, you know? On this night, I had to feel the most confident I’d ever felt, so that I could be an actual, grown woman. And yes, I had got some extensions. Everything was all good until some fellow decided to buy me a drink and told me that I looked pretty good…for a black girl. As I was walking away, I remember how his eyes drifted behind me. Why can’t they look beyond my — D GIRLS: THESE ARE AFRICAN AMERICAN GIRLS. POOR, NOT IN GOOD SHAPE. MEDIUM TO DARK SKIN TONE. CHARACTER— I’m sick and tired of hearing about how rejection builds character. I’ve spent damn near a thousand dollars working to get my body right and it’s still not good enough. I can never have “the look”, because I don’t have no great-aunts who had any Indian in them. Because “the look” is what sells a character, right? I stay away from bleaches, light-

eners, lye, alla that mess, because why would I want to fill myself with chemicals like that? I come into every call, and tell them that I manage myself and they just laugh. Why can’t they look beyond my body?

Indigo and Frankincense Jayne Juffe

1.

Violet is born on Christmas. Jace is born on Boxing Day five minutes later. Their mother endured pain for nine hours and slept for nine more. The smell of myrrh and frankincense glide through the hospital rooms, and the nurses dress as elves and wear reindeer antlers. Violet and Jace spend their first day in parallel clear plastic cubicles with red and green felt hats.

2.

The countryside lays docile in the night with no other sign of life.

Violet jolts up from her bed. Jace is asleep. He shares her unruly curly black hair and is identical in most ways. She peers at the birthday cards piled on her nightstand. The top one has a large bright yellow four on it.

“Happy birthday, Vi,” Jace murmurs.

“Happy Christmas, Jace,” she replies and glances at the clock. 12:02. It becomes habitual.

3.

Jace and Violet blow out the neatly spread birthday candles simultaneously. Their father starts to cut the cake.

They share a look, knowing they’ll blow out another 14 candles tomorrow. They don’t mind.

4.

The wreath on the door is crooked. Violet glares at it and looks down the only main road available as Jace plays with his shoelaces.

Their mother makes them wear their fancy clothes.

The ones for when they venture into the city for symphonies.

Violet wears a maroon velvet dress that sparkles when the light hits her. Jace is stuffed into a grey waistcoat and

trousers and spills milk to try to get out of it.

“Our city relatives are here. Now behave,” their mother hisses, but her touch is gentle as she blots a towel on his sleeves. “We’re going to have to get you changed.”

“I don’t have any other clothes.”

“Jasper, we both know that isn’t true,” she stops and kisses her son on the cheek. “Violet, stay here whilst I go get your brother changed.”

Violet sticks her tongue out at Jace when their mother’s back is turned.

5.

Jace quietly creeps down the stairs with his sister at his side. He is taller than her, but still hunches down as they stick to the wall.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” Violet hisses.

“You didn’t have to come, Vi.”

“Of course I did. If Mother or Father caught you, they’ll automatically come to me and ask why I didn’t stop you,” she says as she shivers with every word.

“Then be quiet.” Jace turns to Violet. “Now stay here.

I’ll be right back.”

She starts a retort, but he has left. Violet stares up at the staircase, hoping her parents and visiting relatives are deep asleep. She feels her heart pounding against her ribcage and glances toward the light.

The kitchen overhead hurts her eyes. She sees a silhouette.

Jace walks up to her, holding a black box laced with red ribbon in his hands. He gives it. The number fourteen is painted on.

“Happy birthday, Vi.”

“Happy Christmas, Jace.”

6.

Violet picks up two envelopes. The city cousins send cards shaped like the number eighteen.

Their mother dies on Christmas Eve.

7.

Christmas day is insipid. Boxing Day is worse. The funeral is held at midnight.

The two do not speak nor do their glares waver from their mother’s casket. Instead they clasp their hands.

The walnut wood glistens in the moonlight and camouflages into the grave.

“Come now, children,” their father says and walks back.

Violet follows, but turns and sees her brother with his head bowed. She stares and trudges forward.

8.

Jace disappears after the midnight funeral. He writes, but missives become infrequent.

9.

Their nineteenth and twentieth Christmas and Boxing Day pass with no communication.

Violet wonders where her brother has gone and staving off the fear that surrounds her.

Jace wonders through Piccadilly Square, feeling somewhat discontent and estranged. The cool London air feels foreign on his skin and makes him homesick. He steps into a bank and begins planning.

10.

It is their twenty-first birthday. She wears a scowl.

Violet marches through the acrid graveyard dirt and the dead plants beneath the patches of snow. She stops. Her heart pangs and starts racing against her ribcage.

“Jace?” she calls out, but the figure doesn’t respond.

She approaches him, blinking the warm tears away.

He meets her eyes and smiles. He looks older, but still like him. He takes her hand. It’s warm and familiar.

“Happy birthday, Vi.” “Happy Christmas, Jace,” she whispers.

The Dancer

Chris Kraemer

Loosely based on The Tale of The Bamboo Cutter.

She was found, pale and weak, wrapped in a white blanket. She was shrouded in moonlight. Her legs kicked.

Tendons elastically snapping into place.

Her hair cut short, her legs worn open, she was not like others. Her back contorted and shattered only to be whole again. Her face wore a mask of bone. She didn’t know herself. Her limbs moved like a spider cocooning its prey.

The shroud of moonlight was replaced by deceit.

She moved with perfection. A dark perfection that was coveted by her audience. Her eyes never changed, always glassy and emotionless. She crushed bones to a fine dust. A white dust.

Her dance floor was coated in white dust. She was alone, no audience left to dance for. She kept her shoulders up, refusing to give into her shattered back. Her perfection broke. She went with it.

Turtle necked sweaters and the Grave Keeper Chris Kraemer

I.

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

II.

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

III.

He wanted to smile. He really did, but there was no way. He lips refused to curl upwards. As he finished sawing, he bit down on his lip. It was perfect.

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

On his birthday he put on his best turtle necked

sweater, the gray vintage knitted crocheted one. After the cake he went back to work, still in his best turtle necked sweater.

VIII.

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

IX.

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

X.

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

XI.

In his final days he laid his wife to rest, next to Reaper. His son had settled down and no longer bothered to visit, limiting himself to one phone call every two weeks.

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

XII.

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

I Have It Hard (That’s A Lie) Isaac Monroe

1 My friend is enthralled with the idea of colorblindness, he holds it above me as a looming example of his own tolerance.

His skin is peachy white and it tells a story he would prefer to drown out.

We have both been taught when the right time to cross the street is or when it’s time to put the new phone away based on who is walking down the sidewalk.

A color-coded story of good and bad.

A subliminal conditioning that sticks even after you fall in love with the black girl with the words that tear down civilizations.

I understand how wrong this is.

I have it hard, but that is a lie.

2 The story of my skin is lost to me.

I have never gathered the strength to understand the connotations of pinkish olive undertones.

I have left myself ignorant of my skin’s roots in my soul.

I shelter myself from stories of insidious ancestry.

My history has been neglected and has festered.

I wonder if I can rightfully say that I have overcome it.

3

The sun has sunk neath Braddock Avenue like a bottle in the dirty river.

My white skin is immersed in black night in a black neighborhood.

Dilapidated houses, statuesque on the side of the road.

Tonight not even the blight is colorblind.

My privilege lights my path home, I come in and lock the door behind me and rush off to bed in a lightless house.

I sob in my sheets for the peoples stories that I have so far neglected to read.

I sob for every one I have stolen a room from.

Collecting myself, I let go of acquiescence And storm angrily into sleep.

Braddock Real Estate Isaac Monroe

Good Old Days Chuck never had any problems with the business. He sold houses like hotcakes and was heralded best salesman in the county. Most nights Chuck and Wife Martha would go down to the Avenue and hit the clubs, their legs spastic on the dance floor, grinding on each other like a pair of excited foxes.

There was plenty of liquor and plenty of songs to swing to. Chuck and Martha weren’t worried about the babies smelling the booze, or hearing the sounds of their wrestling and snapping at each other in bed; foxes they were. These are what Chuck would call “the days.”

Chuck often forgets how on nights like these how he would be softly stirred from his rambling dreams by the howling of jackals in the backstreets of town.

Babies

Chuck woke up one night, heavy with sweat. The green of dawn spilled into his room and cast a sickly veneer on everything it touched. Martha was sprawled out on the bed like a sacred scroll. Murky fractals of light were stirring galaxies on the surface of her naked back.

Chuck was tangled in the fading pictures of his dreams. He had been asleep for what felt like years, dreaming of the house down the street from his. It had been demolished the month before; resting on the ground a pile of weary bones. He had dreamt that he was this house, his sentience stretched from the cracking shingles to the weathered foundation. His windows hung open, breathing the bitter smoky air without respite, it wafted through his aging corridors and vestibule, and out of the front door, which had been kicked off of its rusted hinges.

Chuck was gripped by an insurmountable horror. This

had happened when the babies were still babies.

Terror Number One

Chuck stumbles in the house, his three-piece eschew, sweating real heavy from a particularly good Lindy with some random from the dance floor. The dame had lips like plantains and kissed like a sock in the face. Martha had left months ago. She packed her things, screaming vehemently about demons and the prospect of hellfire. She said she didn’t feel safe. As for Chuck, he was certain that she would come back; she had probably just run off to her mother’s.

He figured she would put Martha on meds and then point her back home. He hadn’t stressed out about it, the liquor accounting for that much.

The sitter, Beatrice stands in the door with her hand extended. Chuck coughs up a greasy twenty and smiles at her, releasing a predatory whiskey grin. The sitter dissipates into the night.

Chuck closes the door behind her, he looks down, the doorknob is not a doorknob. Chuck looks at the cold pale appendage where the doorknob once was, it is wrapped in shining white skin.

Chuck drinks too much. Chuck mutters to himself that he drinks too much. Chuck is ignorant of the fact the walls are now pillars of white, breathing flesh. He ignores the fact that his furniture is now assorted dietary arteries leaking fluid onto his imported rug. Chuck goes to the kitchen for a beer; he trips over stubby black hairs poking up through the floorboards. Chuck looks around and begins to scream.

Chuck falls asleep under a blanket of his own cold sweat.

Upstairs the children have been lulled to sleep by the sound of a heartbeat.

Terror Number Two, Formerly Known as Retail

“Godforsaken steel town, I pour my life into these houses and what do I get in return? Three houses I gotta sell that ain’t no one wants to buy. It’s that goddamn Lawrence

I’ll tell you. You know this the third house this week? They’re scattering like a bunch of cowards. Like the fish when you throw rocks in the water—all this been seeing things—Ben you know that I been—Goddamn houses—I got babies you know Ben?”

“Chuck, Chuck are you alright—Help! Help! Someone call for help!”

Chuck was clenching onto a stack of business papers, foaming at the mouth, his eyes were evicted from his sockets. He could swear he could hear Martha somewhere.

Daddy “Daddy why is everyone leaving?”

“Don’t worry about it dear. We don’t need them, as long as you and your sister have a house to live in, nothing can hurt us.”

“I don’t like the house without Mommy.”

“Then we’ll find a better one dear. I love you.”

“When do you get to leave this hospital?”

Death

The pathologist who worked on Chuck’s body was bewildered at the sight of tiny toy furniture lodged in Chuck’s throat. Cause of death: asphyxiation.

Esprit De Corps Isaac Monroe

STAGE ONE: Pickins arrived winded, dirty and broken. The journey was a strenuous one; the village in which he now found himself was separated from the capitol by the a sickly green lake that smelled sharply of chemicals and a 30 mile trail slithering between uncharted mountains.

There wasn’t a single teletube, shuttle car, hypermateralizer or commercial airliner headed to the proper port. Contemptuously, Pickins was forced to settle. In the dead of night, Pickins departed on an old, greasy shrimper with the words Raison D’état painted on the hull.

Upon arrival at the bay, Pickins rented a mule and headed off onto a mountainous trail. It was the first time in many years Pickins had seen mountains that weren’t rendered entirely destitute by the mines.

Esprit De Corps was a tiny village filled with tiny people. What they lacked in height they made up for in intellectual propensity and a communal feeling of compassion for one another and the world that they inhabited. They had dainty feet that were usually wrapped in rags if not entirely bare. Despite the initial giggle their tiny feet filled him with, Pickins had the utmost sympathy for the people and their grievous lack of civil footwear. Every inhabitant of Esprit De Corps had calluses at least two inches thick on the balls of their feet. The calluses were so huge that when Pickins offered his loafers to a weary child of no older than 10 his sores had ripped straight through the soles.

The townsfolk were cautious of Pickins, they were suspicious of his finely embroidered jacket and the way he observed with imposing speculation. There was a noticeable hindrance in a tribal ceremony one day as Pickins joined in a dancing circle mimicked their ancient mantra.

Pickins felt lovely. He felt there was something entirely

exotic about the place. Peaceful. Like a retreat at camp. He felt it was his duty to ensure that this poverty stricken town experience some positive growth. Pickins had high hopes.

He wished to see his vision unfold. He decided to buy some property. To his bemusement, he found the town rejected the concept of currency. He found an unoccupied space beneath a large tree and began to build.

STAGE TWO: Esprit De Corps occupied about a hundred acres of land beneath a large purple mountain. Homes were quaint and keenly crafted out of mud and large logs. There was a longhouse for communal eating in the center of town, and rows of houses huddled closely behind it. The townsfolk, who numbered only about 200, would gather together and eat rice (occasionally they would have lamb when the shepherd from the top of the cliff journeyed down to share in meat and conversation with the elders) four times a day. At night they would return happily to their homes, rubbing their bellies and exchanging kind words.

On the edge of town, hidden slyly amongst the tree line was a sullen and lopsided hut. Painted in scraggly lettering above the door were the words “Pickins Loafers and Callous Treatment.� Pickins was not great at business, and it was hard trying to get the locals to begin respecting his newly invented system of currency. Pickins ate his rice alone in his shoe store while the others congregated around the stream or in the longhouse. With a shabby pair of canvas boots, he bribed a young villager to ride into town to send a letter to the capital.

STAGE THREE: A group of humanitarian artists and aspiring business owners rushed over the lake to experience the supposed cultural renaissance that this romantic little mountain town had to offer.

The people of Esprit De Corps were conflicted about

the influx of young entrepreneurs. Their tiny plots of corn that were watered by natural grooves in the ground didn’t seem to yield a large enough harvest since these fresh new faces had arrived. Many of the more passive townsfolk decided that it was of no bother and that they should offer the crops to the newcomers anyway, they are our guests after all, they said. Not everyone entirely agreed with this but a vote was held and the newcomers were given corn and space in the available huts.

An art studio was built next to the shoe store and beside it a virtual watch manufacturer. Pickins held a meeting with all of the new coming townsfolk to discuss business and the daily politics. They decided the old system of using shoes as currency was ridiculous especially considering nearly all of the citizens were barefoot, and it defeated the purpose of a shoe store. They all agreed to begin distributing the vast supply of aquamarine at the bottom of a mountain a few miles down the trail. This would be reinstated as the local currency as soon as possible.

At one of the town meals, while the newcomers were busy collecting rocks in the woods, a meeting was held amongst the townsfolk. Many were upset that the people from the capitol were imposing their modern economic spirit on their village, they were concerned it opposed their gift economy of mutual aid they had practiced since the ancient times. A group of young people, tired of the complacent hospitality of many of the townsfolk, stormed out of the eating hall in fury. The meeting was never formally concluded and the tension was palpable.

In the morning the new businesses had been burned to the ground.

STAGE FOUR: After many years of what was called “The Aquamarine Wars” Esprit De Corps had its name officially changed to Raison D’état, a popular war song originated from the capitol army. Although Esprit De Corps had a tiny army of tiny people, they maintained defense of their town for multiple

years successfully using the mountains as coverage from enemy invasion. They were finally defeated when the Capitol strip mined all of the mountains surrounding the town.

Raison D’Êtat is now a bustling city of culture and industry, with the most wealth per capita of any city throughout history. It now houses the largest loafer industry in all of global enterprise. There have been multiple complaints filed with the executives of the manufacturer, Pickins Enterprise, about human rights abuses toward the several indigenous workers. So far none of the claims have been investigated.

DUST to DUST Curran O’Neill

There were butterflies in my stomach. Not a figure of speech but actual butterflies. Don’t ask me how they got there, they just… did. One day I felt their wings brushing against my belly like a baby’s kick, like eyelashes fluttering against my cheek. In a way, I saw them as my babies. They were growing inside me after all. I checked out books at the library on what butterflies liked to eat and forced my self to swallow flowers whole. Their petals clung to the back of my teeth, bitter and cold. Adonis didn’t like them. Rather, didn’t trust them. Took one look at the x-rays doctors had had given me and smirked. How is that possible? They shouldn’t be there. He turned away from me in our bed.

Stopped going to work. I caught him staring at the moon in the middle of the night. Pushed me away when I tried to touch him. Sometimes he didn’t come home. And when he did, his hands would be balled into fists like he was ready to hit something. But he never did. Then, one day I couldn’t feel their wings. It felt… wrong. Next thing I knew my whole body was burning and I had collapsed to the kitchen floor, clutching my stomach calling for, TOM! TOM! HELP! …He stood at the doorway, balancing himself against the polished white frame. He just stared at me. And I was so mad, the volcano inside of me was about to explode and he just walked over my shrunken body to open the fridge. I coughed up ash, watched a wing wilt on the kitchen floor, my lungs were fire, fire, fire. Only then did Adonis scoop me into his arms. The milk in his hands fell to the floor and he stepped on some glass—he winced. Tried to carry me down the stairs but we were falling, falling stars and I kept saying his name, Tom… Tom. Coughed up ash all over his shirt but by then we were concrete, we were blood, we were tar, tumbling down the street in each other’s arms.

I was crying… Tom was too. He never liked them but he let me cry puddles into his neck and stroked my hair. The

wind picked up the ash on his shirt, carrying the blackened remains towards the sky. And we were dust, dust, dust.

November

Curran O’Neill

It must/ve been a girl—twilight ruby, a co/met flashed across the roof of our house. Flames hit your lip—a kiss unruly, untame, a child not marked, yet she is sour.

Body of stars, lit like Neptune, a harsh blue in/ferno. Many tears fell to dawn, into the caves filled in/digo—a marsh colored in light. Will you wipe her old con to o/blivi/on so she’ll rise, will you ignore the sparks e/scape wallow/ing eyes rather observe the girl exhaust anew to ash. At least heavens reward demise.

Or per/haps that was no girl but a whis/ per, glow/ing ne/on blue—naïve bliss.

Eating Alone

Iesha Olatunjii

After suffering thru a long eight-hour day of school three to four times out of the week it is followed by a five-hour shift of work at Kmart. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, not mine. Eating is barley a part of my day.

Running around all day in school then straight to work I barely have time for a meal little less a snack. Running off of two in a half cups of French vanilla coffee everyday eventually stops working as it did on Monday night. On my bus ride to work my stomach growls as loud as a crowd at a rock concert due to the fact I haven’t eaten all day. Arriving at work I pray for a fast a productive five hours knowing it will be a slow dreadful five hours. Around seven o’clock, seven thirty my half an hour break comes and I can’t wait to sit down and chow down on whatever my stomach wants. I walk a couple doors down from my job to Subway for my dinner. I order a number one off the menu. A sweet onion chicken hoagie on Italian bread with melted provolone cheese, lettuce, spicy banana peppers and sweet onion dressing. Topped off with an ice cold root beer and bag of plain lays potato chips. My favorite. I sit down at a high top table close by the window. I notice two older women sitting in a booth nearby who I recently checked out. They looked at me with confusion as if I wasn’t allowed to eat there. I tried not to look back, thinking to myself “What are they looking at” the Subway already smells of raw meat and yeast that is unpleasant and I say to myself I bet the two old women looking at me stink too. I take my first bite and my brain tells my stomach to get a grip, food is on the way settle the juices.

What would happen if my fairy godmother arrived in the front of Subway with a BMW chariot and sweep me off my feet and I rode alone in amazement and a little fear on the way to

Pittsburgh International Airport where I board Delta to Rome, Italy to enjoy a fresco lunch with real provolone cheese and pepperoni. While enjoy the scenario I see bodies of men, women, children, waiters moving in different directions some silent, some riding bikes, some seating and reading books and others talking swiftly in a language that I seem to understand, but it’s Italian. For every bite I take of my sandwich there is a new adventure now I’m standing in front of the Roman Coliseum, another bite and I’m now enjoying a sweet cannoli.

As I walk across the stone-craved bridge eating more cannolis, “boy are they good”. I see the most amazing glass through a shop window; it shines of cobalt blue, which is my favorite color. I enter the shop and everywhere I look there is nothing but beautiful glassware designed like drinking glasses, vases, plates and some items that I don’t have a clue what they are. I stretch out my hand to feel the prettiest one the vase that is cobalt blue; it feels warm to the touch.

Let me leave this shop before something crashes.

I walk to the edge of the water and board a boat, the boat is moved through the canals by one man standing, dressed in a colorful uniform with a round hat he uses a single oar and sings as the boats moves around the city to view the sights of old buildings some appear to be sinking and other I walk the cobble stone streets and view the churches, pigeons, fashion, the bright sunshine and everything beautiful that makes Italy, Italy.

My cell phone alarm goes off so loud that it startles me; I jump without thinking or remembering that it was just a daydream and to my dismay it’s time to return to work.

Eternal Inflation Eden Petri

Winter comes like flies to fruit bowls, and X fills his time by learning how to cook. As he is making roast of lamb with a balsamic reduction there is a knock on the door. X is unaccustomed to guests, and at the moment he is so invested in his cooking that he decides to ignore it. As he is slicing tomatoes for the side salad, there is another knock.

He looks at the timer sitting on the counter: 2:13. What are the chances this will only take two minutes? His mouth waters with the smell of lamb in the air. The seconds are fleeting, and the knocking is persistent. He digs into his jacket pocket, pulls out the three items and sets them on the granite counter: a pen, chapstick, and (a break-up letter from Y), (a miniature Buddha statue), (ginger). He sighs, digs into his other pocket: a penny. He balances the coin on his thumb, heads, answer the door, tails, tend to the cooking.

Without hesitation, X flips the coin into the air.

Heads

He catches it with a twist of his wrist, slaps it onto the back of his right hand: Heads. There is another knock. He carries the kitchen timer with him. Walking to the door, his steps are soft and quiet, his movements like fish. He opens it, and Y is standing on his front porch, her light California attire no match for the cold of the East Coast. The timer falls to the ground. She bends over to pick up the broken pieces, and the familiar smell of her perfume hits X like a train.

She apologizes, handing him the mess. He accepts it with shaking hands, stares at her in awe. They stand in silence, the world around them rotating like moons of a planet. Her hands lay softly at her sides, her hair paints her face like a portrait. She was the map of constellations in his sky of disarray, and upon seeing her he is filled, like a glass of water. Then he notices her tan skin, her California key chain.

He asks her why she’s here, to which she pulls out a key.

She tells him it’s the key to his apartment, but he doesn’t believe she would come all the way out here to return a key.

He tells her she could have mailed it. Suddenly, tears are streaming down her face and she wraps her arms around him. Instead of her perfume, he’s hit with another smell: the smell of burnt meat.

Tails He goes to catch the coin, but his calculations are off and it falls to the ground. The ringing fills the air and he finds the coin sitting below his feet: tails. He feels a sudden sense of relief. He places the coin and the other remnants back into his pocket and continues slicing tomatoes. There is another knock, and X ignores it, filling the silence of the kitchen with humming. The room smells like a gourmet restaurant and the table is elegantly set for one; a single rose placed in a vase atop a white table cloth. When the knocking subsides, X is focused on one thing: getting his lamb out. The timer rings but there is a hollowness in X’s chest. He repeatedly catches himself staring towards the door, as if it has its own gravitational pull. With a sigh, he walks through his kitchen to the front door, a steaming pan of lamb in his hands. He opens it slowly, sees the soft trickle of snowflakes falling towards his feet and then his eyes fall to the welcome mat.

Sitting atop it are two envelopes. He picks them up with his free hand, the smell of lamb mingling with another familiar scent. Opening the first envelope, he finds a key. In the other is a letter from Y, an apology. It is split up into two sections, I: He opens the door; we get back together, and II: He doesn’t open the door, we were never meant to be. The pan falls to the ground, glass shatters and the lamb is scattered. X once again feels empty.

Daffy

Jacob Richards

My twin sister used to call me “Daffy.” Like the duck.

We used to watch it together: Saturdays, nine-to-noon, LOONEY TUNES. Mama would be cleaning the kitchen and would call to us, she’d call Luna! Bella! (both her parents emigrated from Naples) I’m going up to wash. Come clear the dishes from breakfast. Your father, he doesn’t like a dirty house. And Bella and I would come bounding down the stairs and we’d pass Mama and she’d stop us and tell us to walk like ladies, like silver spoons were balanced between our toes and then she’d disappear inside the creases of our old house, a house that was pasted together with month-old adhesive, and Bella and I could rule our first-floor castle. We would run together to the new television set, beholding it in all its newfangled glory. One of us would be brave enough to turn it on and our eyes would go glossy at the sight of Porkie and Bugs.

She hasn’t called me that in years; actually we haven’t spoken in months, though not on purpose. We’ve slipped between the cracks in each other’s lives, the way sunlight always seems to wiggle its way into a darkened room. In

fact, the last time I saw her, she’d seemed smaller, her eyes and skin receding into her skull like a waning tide. I’d joked with her saying I’d get her a cat to get her company, and her very own Tweety Bird, knowing perfectly well she hated animals. She’d smiled then, the type of smile that defines the word subtext.

As the months passed we fell apart, two puzzle pieces sliding apart from one another, sanding down the carefully carved edges that had formed their connection. I’d think of her on the nights when my demons kept me up, wondered how small she’d become, imagined her as a clump of flimsy plastic, linearly shrinking in the daytime heat. I became afraid, afraid that she’d grow so small that she’d crawl inside her chest cavity and fall asleep indefinitely. But I could never bring myself to call her at these midnight moments and by the time I left bed the next morning, all thoughts of her had evaporated, leaving behind only contentment with my own life.

Last night, I got this awful feeling, the feeling I used to get when Elmer Fudd would suddenly appear before Bugs, this pit inside me that all my organs would fall into.

I felt undeniably empty. That was hours before my mother called me from the hospital and told me things were bad,

that I needed to come quick. And as I sped to the hospital, I couldn’t help thinking about life, about my life, about our life.

Death was out of the picture—she couldn’t die, she couldn’t.

No one dies at the age of thirty. She couldn’t. I sped along the road, running not from a coyote, or a determined hunter, but from the ending. I was the Roadrunner, running from the last ten seconds of the show, not letting myself slow down enough to hear anything, because to me the end was defined by three short words.

That’s all folks.

Désirée Lyn

Jacob Richards

Before her knees sank six feet under and her eyes

rolled back to purgatory, my grandmother loved Lucille Ball.

My grandmother died last Tuesday—I guess it didn’t hit me til I saw her name printed all out in the obits. Désirée Lyn. She swore she was named after Lucille Désirée Ball, but anyone who knew her knew she was like a bag of mature—full of shit. Regardless, her name made me think of the doo-wop shops where her and Pop would groove and dance and never ever stop.

Last night I finally broke down and cried. I cried when

I remembered her blue veiny hands and I cried when I found a birthday card she had signed for me in her looping script and I cried when I tried to quit crying goddamnit why couldn’t I quit?

My grandmother told me never to quit. Ever. She

taught me the names of all the jazz musicians and how most of them felt run down at some point. “You ain’t never gonna quit anything you begin. As long as I’m alive, you’ll not quit.

Ya hear?” I suppose as a woman growing up in Georgia, she had to teach herself not to quit, constantly fighting to be listened to. I remembered she told me about the bars she would work at, serving old men—pigs, she called them, always tryin’ for a peek up her skirt.

We were out once in the park, minding our own

business, and this-this middle aged man asked if I “wouldn’t mind comin’ home with him” and my grandmother, she told him to burn in hell playing Russian roulette with Satan himself and this man had the nerve to spit on her. I never saw my Grandmother so angry and I gaped when her iced-

water-with-lemon ended up all over his face. We walked away while he was still clutching his eyes, screaming. And she told me never to let anyone walk over me, to demand respect because I am a woman who loves herself and doesn’t need no man to make me whole. She told me hell if any man treats you any less than the angel you are, he doesn’t deserve the breath of life that Jesus bestowed upon his corpse.

In her coffin, my Grandmother looked at peace. She

didn’t look alive or nothing, but she still radiated this sense of power, of self-worth, of confidence. I imagined her preaching to me-

“Sure, I’m dead, but look at my life, look at all I did. I

raised you didn’t I?”

“You did, Grandma,” I’d reply, “Now go, raise hell with Lucille Ball.”

Don’t Try This At Home Jacob Richards

Testable Question Can Batman Fly? Hypothesis If Keith dons his Batman suit and attempts to fly like superman, then he will be able to fly, because all the other super heroes have some way to fly so it’s not fair that Batman shouldn’t be able to.

List of Materials · Keith a.k.a Batman · Devin a.k.a Robin · Batman costume · Robin costume · A three story house · An open window Research

—After watching the old-fashioned TV series, it has

been concluded that not once has Batman ever flown during the show. However, it should be noted that the show was made in the 60s, thus the technology present at that time was probably incapable of realistic flying. [A]

—Evidence was also found suggesting Batman’s cape

was modeled after Leonardo Da Vinci’s sketch of a flying device. [B]

—If you look closely at the following picture, you can

see our heroic he-man performing an activity that seems to be similar to flying. It seems that the sky is behind him, even though the background is a blood orange hue (the artist probably utilized this color choice to make the blues pop out). [C]

Sources [A] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batman_(TV_series) [B] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batman [C] http://goodcomics.comicbookresources.com/wp-content/ uploads/2014/03/untoldlegendbatman3.jpg Procedure Step 1: Wait until Mommy and Daddy leave the house.

Step 2: Climb the stairs to their bedroom (must have a window).

Step 3: Change into Batman and Robin1 costumes.

Step 4: Check the weather— if it is below 60 degrees, a light coat may be necessary.

Step 5: Make sure cape is on the outside of all layers of clothing.

Step 6: Open said window.

Step 7: Batman should now assume the position (his flying stance, in the window).

Step 8: As Robin watches, Batman will attempt his amazing feat of wonder.

Conclusion Batman cannot fly.

Analysis The sources were not thoroughly read—source B went on to say, “Batman has no inherent superhuman powers.”

However, it’s interesting to note that the ambulance arrived a good 5 minutes later than average.

And wheelchairs were 30% off that weekend—a Memorial Day Blowout Sale.

1 Robin is there purely for moral support. It is general knowledge that Robin can’t fly. A “Holy Placebo, Batman!” here and there will suffice.

The outcome was not one anyone could have predicted—a revised Keith, now quadriplegic.

Next month’s science experiment How fast can his wheelchair2 go?

2

He calls it the Batmobile

Wish You Were Here Shayla Salamacha

We were scared the first time. He had woken up in a pool of his own blood and skin and after he settled down from the shock, stated that he hadn’t felt a thing. I really had no idea what it was, or why it happened to him. But I told him it was just puberty. It began to happen every year after that.

Once, I watched. I pulled up a little wooden stool to the edge of his bed and pulled down his covers. For a while I was only watching him sleep. His body full of breath and his mind filled with content dreams. After just a bit, the horror began. His skin slowly crept off of his body from the top of his head to his big toe. The part that came after was the worst. As the new skin formed around him, cracked and tough at first. Blood seeped from him and dripped down his sides and over his body, onto his winter flannel sheets.

I buried my hands into my palms and cried until it was finished.

When he was very young, he used to cry too. He wouldn’t even look into the mirror before screaming, “I liked my old self better!” Then he would approach the mirror hanging on his bed room door, put his face almost against the glass, look directly at himself and say, “We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.”

One of These Days Shayla Salamacha

I needed to do something different so I had decided to spend the day downtown. I would just walk, go into all the little stores, maybe find a nice place to eat lunch.

I was inside a flower shop looking at vases when I first

noticed him. He was in the check out line holding a bouquet of pretty white daises. They were all perfect, porcelain looking, and I remember noticing the flowers before I noticed the man holding them. He was big, not fat but just big. He was scruff.

He was wearing dark blue jeans and a gray shirt, both looking as old as my grandmother.

After I was done looking at the vases I walked out and saw an antique store right across the street. I went over there, soon I noticed the same man was in there with me. Then he followed me to the convenient store when I bought a bottle of water. And then the nice little restaurant I ate lunch at.

When he sat down at the table next to me I knew this wasn’t all a big coincidence. This man was following me. I decided to act normal. I would eat my lunch, no matter how uncomfortable it would be, I would do it, and then I would get up and walk to my car and drive home. As I ate I noticed that his bouquet of daises had all of the petals taken off. All of the flowers were only stems and he had even cut those short so they could fit in his shirt pocket. All the life that had been in the flowers had been taken away. I decided to leave half my sandwich untouched, got up, and left. I walked to the parking lot where my red Sedan was. I turned around and saw him behind me. I walked faster and faster and he began to walk faster as well. With every step I took I could sense him becoming more aggressive.

I got to my car and stopped. I turned around and then he halted to a stop. He gave me a hard look and ripped the daisy stems out of his shirt pocket and then he ripped them in half. He threw each fistful of them on the ground.

As I got into my car he said to me, “One of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces.”

Independence Day Emily Schwager

“And the Lord said unto Moses, Rise up early in the morning, and stand before Pharaoh; lo, he cometh forth to the water; and say unto him, Thus saith the Lord, Let my people go, that they may serve me. Else, if thou wilt not let my people go, behold, I will send swarms of flies upon thee, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thy houses: and the houses of the Egyptians shall be full of swarms of flies, and also the ground whereon they are” Exodus 8:20

flying.

The rope hangs like a loose tooth.

You grab it and hurtle yourself into the sky. You are

I watch you with admiration. The way you leap off the rock, your raw fingers blushing as they struggle to hold your weight. You drop into the river like a new penny.

It is summer and our parents are at the campsite setting up 4 of July fireworks and grilling vegetables. My skinny chest is covered in red marks from the horse flies.

When they nibble on my stomach and hiss in my ear, I cry.

You emerge from the water and scale up the algae covered rock to sit down next to me. You are nineteen. You are “responsible.” When the horse flies nibble on your calves and hiss in your ears, they do not bother you. You do not listen to them. You teach me to squash their heads between my fingers but I am too scared to kill them.

The rope comes swinging back. You catch it. You hand it to me. Dad never lets me swing but you tell me it can be our secret. My tiny fingers grip the rope and I stand up.

I lean back and take a running start. I leap off the rocks (I am not as graceful as you.) The flies follow me, screaming in my ears and biting my chest. They are vicious.

You are shouting at me to let go but I do not like flying. I want to stop. My palms are sweaty. I begin to swing back towards th

land. The flies enter my mouth. I cannot breath. My heart is beating too fast. The flies are gnawing the flesh off my fingers. The rock is below me. I let go.

The Sin of the Calf Emily Schwager I am enervated.

I, who cut each individual finger off and handed them to you in a diamond encrusted box, with stumps for ears and plastic replacing my teeth and eyes.

And you, who nailed bricks to my feet knowing that if you dropped me on an ice coated path, I would sit there to offer a painless route across.

(I welcome the opportunity!)

I burned my wrists dipping you in molten aureate: my own personal golden calf.

And after I put up with so god damn much, condoning years of countless lies and attention seeking falsehoods, you took it upon yourself to thieve and then christen yourself a coquette.

(When you split your tongue in two, ordering one side to tell the truth and the other to lie, I only saw one side.)

You, you are not sad, you are obsessed with the idea of it, with the image of sadness.

You are a basket, and every morning you fill yourself with new assets, new identities, new stories and so forth.

(Now you tell me that I am a rose, and I wonder if you have branded yourself a thorn or a belladonna or perhaps not a flower at all.)

My rage has subdued to an acidic sadness; You have robbed me of more than gold these past few years, and I am through with allowing you to drain me.

I am disappointed. Disappointed in myself and the way I allowed myself to be asphyxiated, that—despite your actions I still want to give you redemption.

(Why am I so weak?)

I have removed the bricks you attached to my feet; I have destroyed you, golden calf.

You fake god, you imposter.

Please, stop begging for forgiveness with false sincerity and remorse and confession.

You need to admit your faults, you need to break your kneecaps for me this time.

I am tired of worshipping you.

GOD LOVES CHESS Lanie Wester Characters: Mr. Fisher: A 38-year-old man that is recently deceased. His hair should appear to be neat and he should wear a plain gray t-shirt.

God: While he has no age, he should appear to be an older man with a beard. He wears a white robe and other white garments.

Angel: A minor character, he should also wear all white. Can be played by either gender.

Setting: The stage should be brightly lit with all white lights.

In center stage, stage blocks should be used to make a table and two chairs. in the center of the table is a chessboard, with the pieces all lying face down. Stage left, there should be another table with a pitcher of water on it.

(Lights up. ANGEL and MR. FISHER enter from stage left. ANGEL is pulling him along. MR.FISHER struggles with him).

MR. FISHER

(yelling) What the hell are you doing you idiot? I told you to get off of me. I’ll have you arrested for aggravated assault, false arrest! Whatever the hell this is! I have a lawyer! Are you even listening? I can have you thrown away for the rest of your sorry life.

ANGEL

(chuckles) Yeah yeah, pipe down moneybags.

MR.FISHER This is an outrage! I demand to talk to whoever the hell runs this place. Now let go of me! Let go of me dammit!

(ANGEL abruptly lets go of MR.FISHER, sending him flying forward, stumbling.

He gets up and dusts himself off.)

ANGEL

See, I let go.

MR. FISHER (He approaches ANGEL and points at him/her

menacingly).

I demand to speak to whoever’s in charge.

ANGEL Well it appears you’re in luck Mr. Fisher, as my job is already done.

(He/She smiles and begins to exit).

Wait, where are you..?

MR. FISHER ANGEL

Have fun, Mr. Fisher.

(ANGEL waves and exits stage left, leaving MR. FISHER standing dumbfounded. GOD enters stage right, but MR. FISHER does not see. Beat).

Ahem.

GOD

(MR.FISHER turns abruptly to him).

MR. FISHER And who the hell would you be? Would you be the bozo that runs this nuthouse?

GOD Ah Mr. Fisher, it’s so good to finally meet you. Please, won’t you take a seat?

MR. FISHER My apologies, but I don’t sit with strange lunatics I don’t know. So if you could please direct me out of this dump, I’d be thankful.

GOD (He walks over to table with the water pitcher. He pours a glass and takes a sip).

Oh Mr. Fisher, it appears that brain aneurysm of yours must have stunted your memory.

MR. FISHER Brain aneurysm? What the hell are you…?

FISHER)

(He is cut off. GOD begins to walk towards MR.

GOD December 5 , 6:00 pm. You’re driving home after having a visit with your lover from work in her apartment. Your wife is at home with your daughter. Now if my memory is correct, the roads were slick, Mr. Fisher. That’s when your brain aneurysm hit. Tell me Mr. Fisher, do you think she knows now? Your wife, I mean. Do you think she’s smart enough to put it all together now that you’re dead? th

MR. FISHER Dead? What are you talking about, what is this? Who the hell even are you?

GOD Oh Mr. Fisher you mean to tell me you haven’t already figured it out? I thought a man such as yourself would have known sooner.

MR. FISHER Know what? I’m not dead, I’m alive! Look at me, I wouldn’t be standing here if I were dead!

GOD So naïve, Mr. fisher, I’m disappointed in you. Your entire life, so brutal and assertive. But now look at you. Too naïve to recognize your own death.

(He slams his glass on the table).

MR. FISHER

(Puts hands up and begins to walk backward slowly) Look buddy, whoever the hell you are, you’re insane. Just point me in the direction out of here and I can forget this whole thing ever happened.

GOD Mr. Fisher, come, take a seat. Let’s talk, shall we?

MR. FISHER What’s there to talk about? Whatever sick game you’re playing isn’t funny, and I’m not going to be the brunt of this joke any longer. Let me say it slower so you’ll understand.

Where. Is. The. Exit?

GOD

Don’t you get it, Mr. Fisher? There is none. You’re dead, gone, no longer among us, 6 feet under, however they say it nowadays.

(Beat)

MR. FISHER So you mean to tell me that I’m dead…which means that you’re…

(He gives GOD a questioning look, to which he nods in response).

That you’re the big cheese.

(He sighs) Wow. GOD Yes, it’s all very astounding I’m sure. Now can we please take a seat so we can get down to business? Because believe it or not Mr. Fisher time is of the essence. Even I don’t have all the time in the world.

MR. FISHER

(Stuttering) I have so many questions…about everything.

GOD If you’re going to ask me about my views on abortion or whether or not I care if two men get married, please, save it.

We have more important things to discuss.

(MR.FISHER walks over to the table with the chess board and takes a seat.

So does GOD).

So, Mr. Fisher, 38 years old when you died. Fairly young.

MR. FISHER

(After a second of realization) I-I completely wasted my life.

GOD You were married, had a daughter, were a powerful stock exchanger. You lived well, stop complaining.

MR. FISHER But not as long as I had hoped. I didn’t even get to enjoy retirement. There goes that fantasy of wasting away in the Keys.

GOD The cookie crumbles for us all, Mr. Fisher. Except for me of course. I get to play this game forever.

(He chuckles. MR. FISHER is not amused).

MR.FISHER So why am I not on my way up like everyone else? Why’d I stop in between?

GOD Usually it’s a simple decision, Mr. Fisher. One glance and I can make up my mind. Downward bound or upward bound, everything I’m sure you’re already familiar with. But then there are those very few exceptions that always prompt a second look, sometimes more than that. I’m afraid you’re one of these, Mr. Fisher.

MR.FISHER So you’re going to decide whether I go.. (he points his finger downward) or (he points his finger upward. GOD nods).

GOD So tell me, Mr. Fisher, did you ever get bored as a stock exchanger? Seems like a pretty exciting occupation from what I’ve seen.

MR. FISHER Sometimes, yes. But that happens with any job. Too much routine, you know, not good for the mind.

GOD Did it ever become tiresome?

MR.FISHER Well, of course. But it was a good job. Lots of money, health benefits, the works. Not to mention our yearly luncheons.

Damn, those were good. That’s one thing I’ll miss.

GOD If you would be so kind Mr. Fisher, could you please enlighten me as to why you cheated so many people then? As a person living such a lifestyle, it seems a bit… unnecessary to wrong so many.

MR. FISHER Cheated? What do you mean?

GOD All the women you used, all the people you fired for no good reason, all the lies you told, all the promises you broke. Did you think these things would go unnoticed?

MR. FISHER Surely we all make mistakes.

(He nervously chuckles) GOD Mistakes happen once Mr. Fisher, and we typically learn from them, don’t we? You though, you just really had a way of repeating the past.

(He sits back in his chair and laughs)

MR. FISHER Look, so I wasn’t the greatest guy in the world. But it’s not like I murdered anybody for Christ’s sakes. I mean come on, cut me some slack here.

GOD Mr. Fisher, I could have you plummeting to your eternal doom with the simple snap of my fingers.

(He snaps his fingers for effect).

And I have plenty of reason to do it. So please don’t give me any more.

MR. FISHER Please this is all a misunderstanding. I was a decent guy, I mean, surely I didn’t always do all the right things, but hey! I donated blood every two years.

GOD Oh let’s get you a medal.

MR. FISHER

(Sighs) Look, what do you want from me here?

GOD Honesty would be nice. Or a begging plea for your soul.

Either or.

MR.FISHER Okay fine, I admit it. I was a terrible person who ruined many peoples’ lives. Blah blah blah. Now can we please skip ahead to the part where you plunge me into an eternal fire? I have the strangest feeling that I’d be happier there.

GOD Ah but where’s the fun in that, Mr. Fisher? You lived a life full of recklessness and little care for others. You know all about fun.

What do you mean?

MR. FISHER

GOD I mean that I’m willing to help you out Mr. Fisher. Do you like chess by any chance?

MR. FISHER Yeah…I used to play it all the time, actually.

GOD And it just so happens that I myself am also a chess enthusiast. Would you care for a game?

(pausing) This is a trick.

MR. FISHER

GOD Not a trick, Mr. Fisher. I don’t trick or cheat. I know that’s something you’re awfully familiar with, but I’m not really fond of such things.

Ok fine.

(He sighs) White or black?

White

the board.)

MR.FISHER

GOD

(The two begin setting up the chess pieces on

MR. FISHER So what are we playing for here?

GOD Well since you don’t have any money or anything worthwhile, lets play for your benefit, shall we?

My benefit?

MR. FISHER

GOD Yes, your benefit. If I win, well, let’s just say, the future looks a little hot for you. But if you manage to beat a wizard of chess who has mastered the game since the beginning of time, then yes, you’ll be allowed up there.

(He points upward).

MR. FISHER Wizard of chess? Isn’t witchcraft a deadly sin or something?

(Annoyed) It’s a figure of speech.

GOD

MR. FISHER But wait, let me get this straight. If you, an almighty deity of everything in the entire universe wins, I’m damned forever.

But if I, some ordinary mortal with no special powers wins, I get to spend the rest of eternity in peace. Does that sound fair to you?

GOD A lot of things aren’t fair Mr. Fisher. Do you think it was fair for you to fire Marina Williams for forgetting about your daily 8am coffee? Do you think it was fair to purposely run your wife’s car off the road? Or how about the time you came home and slapped your daughter bare-handed against the cheek? Yeah all of those were really fair, right Mr. Fisher?

(beat) I didn’t want to hit her.

MR. FISHER

GOD Didn’t you though? How did you look her in the eyes afterwards, Mr. Fisher? You do know that she’s not even going to your funeral, right?

MR. FISHER I didn’t mean for it to happen. But I was just so exhausted and done with it all that i needed something to make it better.

And she started to cry when I got home…and I just…I hit her.

I didn’t wanna hear it. I didn’t want to listen to the pain of it all. It just..it hurt too much..the sound.

GOD She had every reason to confront you.

MR. FISHER Yes...I know she did. But it was hard, she….she didn’t want to listen. I tried to explain it to her, truly i did.

GOD But you didn’t. You stood there in the center of that room and you heard what she said. But you didn’t listen. And you got to the point where you didn’t want to hear it anymore. Because you knew what she was saying was true. And so you hit her.

Because to you, it was better than listening to your daughter say all the things you never wanted to hear. And that Mr. Fisher, is the truth. Don’t deny it.

MR. FISHER Yes it’s true. She held a mirror up to my face and I refused to look. There, are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?

GOD I’m only simply looking for the truth, Mr. Fisher. That is all.

MR. FISHER And I’m giving you the truth, am I not?

GOD Yes. But I see no remorse in your eyes.

MR. FISHER If you want me to get on my knees and beg it simply won’t happen.

GOD I never asked for that, did I? No but..

MR. FISHER GOD

(Cuts him off) But you loved your daughter, correct Mr. Fisher?

MR. FISHER Of course I did. She was my daughter, after all. Call me a monster, but I loved my daughter with everything I had inside of me. I still do.

GOD You say you loved her so much, but did you ever think of her on the nights when you partied away your paychecks and left her alone to her mother who refused to speak to her? Why didn’t you talk to her? On the days she needed you most, you were gone.

MR. FISHER Look, things are more complicated than that. I wanted to be

there for her, I really did. And when I was…

(Cuts him off)

GOD And when you were growing up you had an overbearing father who slaved away his days away from home, away from you, never giving you the proper attention you needed and thus never giving you an idea on how to be a father yourself. Yes yes, I’m already aware. But that doesn’t change anything, Mr. Fisher. You chose to leave her. You chose to do what you did.

MR. FISHER The worst decision I ever made was not being there for her when she needed it.

GOD Interesting, Mr. Fisher. That’s the first bit of genuine emotion I’ve heard from you since the moment you opened that mouth.

Is that a good thing?

MR.FISHER

GOD I’ll leave that to your own interpretation.

(He moves his first piece)

GOD ( CONT.) Ah, the pawns. The most underrated piece in the game.

MR. FISHER They’re the weakest, though.

GOD But there are many of them, Mr. Fisher, and that’s the trick. If you play your cards right, your pawns can do almost all the work for you.

MR. FISHER Yeah well, a good chess player knows not to depend on their pawns. They can play the game just fine.

GOD A good chess player, Mr. Fisher knows all his pieces and their value. You however, are already behind. Your king is already within my grasp.

(Sighing) Yeah, don’t remind me.

MR.FISHER

GOD

(He grabs a piece off the table) Come now, Mr. Fisher, I thought you played all the time.

MR.FISHER Yeah but that was when I was playing for expensive cigars and money. Not my soul.

GOD Funny how death changes things, huh Mr. Fisher?

MR. FISHER

(sarcastically) Yeah, real funny.

GOD One minute you’re on top of the world. You’ve got enough money to buy yourself a house on all seven continents and…

(He gets cut off)

MR. FISHER I think that’s a bit of an overstatement. I mean, I wasn’t that rich.

(Beat)

GOD As I was saying, you had enough money to rule it all, Mr. Fisher. And then it’s gone. Snap, just like that. Your daughter, your wife, your lovers, your riches; everything falls to pieces Mr. Fisher. Even someone of the likes of you had to face the music.

MR.FISHER You said it yourself, everything’s temporary.

(Beat)

GOD Mr. Fisher, could you please tell me the name of your daughter?

MR.FISHER Her name was Margret. I wanted it to be Isabella, but of course my wife had to name her after good old Aunt Margret.

That woman always had to have it her way.

GOD Speaking of your wife. What was her name?

MR.FISHER Jennifer. But I’d refer to her as more of a forced acquaintance than a wife.

GOD

And why is that?

MR. FISHER All she ever did was complain. She never treated me with any decency or anything, and she was constantly yelling at me for staying out working and not helping with the kids.

Well excuse me for trying to make some money. Besides, half of it was placed on her golden debit card each payday anyway, so really, it was for her benefit. But of course she was always too absorbed in herself to see it.

GOD

(Laughing) Too absorbed in herself? Coming from the man that spent most of his money on fine wine and aged brandy.

MR. FISHER Is it a sin to enjoy the finer things life has to offer?

GOD But what about your daughter , Mr. Fisher, did you ever think of her? Do you know she’s going through depression right now and won’t even speak to her mother?

MR.FISHER

(Sighs) I never said I was perfect.

(He moves a piece on the board and takes another off) Yeah, no kidding.

GOD

MR. FISHER Alright, go ahead. Got anything else you’d like to say about the evil, horrifying life I led? I know I did terrible things. I

understand that. I hurt myself and more importantly, my daughter. So go on, shoot, say what you want to say.

GOD No, Mr. Fisher. I’ve said plenty. I’m curious as to what your thoughts are, however.

MR. FISHER

On what?

GOD On your life, Mr. Fisher. Do you know why I’ve brought you here, you of all people? Has that thought even crossed your mind? Or did you assume you were special, like always?

(Beat)

MR. FISHER I-I don’t know actually. I don’t know why I’m here.

Yeah, I figured as much.

GOD

MR. FISHER Well don’t hold back now, aren’t you going to tell me?

GOD (takes a piece off the board)

She begged for you.

Who?

MR.FISHER

GOD Your daughter, Mr. Fisher. She got on her knees the moment she heard you were dead, and she begged for you. She begged me to give you a second chance, to have some mercy on you, for she knew you would be given none. Even

after the lies you put her through she still fell and cried her heart out for you. How could I ignore a poor soul such as hers?

(Beat) I-I had no idea.

MR. FISHER

GOD Even after it all, she didn’t hesitate to try and save you. She knew you were going to Hell, she knew what plan I had for you. And still, deep in her she knew you deserved it. But you were her father. And she wasn’t going to let that happen to you.

MR. FISHER

(voice trembling) I don’t deserve her forgiveness.

GOD No, you don’t. And it perplexes me, Mr. Fisher. How a girl raised by two people lacking common human decency, can still find it in her heart to beg for your safety. You don’t know how lucky you are to have her.

MR. FISHER

(losing composure) No, you’re right. I didn’t know.

GOD And you sat here, talking about how the world owed you, how I owed you, how it was all everyone else’s fault. You never were willing to take the blame. And now your daughter is alone. She has no one, not even her mother.

MR. FISHER I was awful, yes i know. She doesn’t deserve that. Oh God,

what have I done?

(MR. FISHER slumps out of his chair and breaks into a fit of crying. He loses his composure completely).

GOD Oh, we all have our off days, Mr. Fisher. You say some things you don’t mean, I say some things I don’t mean.

(He moves a piece on the board and looks up at MR.FISHER. Beat).

MR. FISHER I was never going to win this game was I? GOD Come now, Mr. Fisher, we must finish our game. Here, I’ll take the next move.

(Lights fade. Blackout) Checkmate.

END PLAY

Grade 12

The Collector, Post-apocolypse

After Bob Hicock’s “The collector” Anne Amundson The apocalypse left only the Met Museum and everyone inside untouched. The curators, the docents, and a couple, on their last date before proposal. She has no dress and he has no ring but it was going to happen until everything went to heaven except for history and a few people who want to believe that they are intelligent.

They want children someday and a gas oven for their yellow someday-kitchen. They want to spend their day at the museum observing Degas and Tiffany and developing lectures on the importance of art which they can later preach to their children. They want to create memories, just them, in a room full of death and soft, art-safe lighting. They want to peruse the paintings hand-in-hand, talking about religious renaissance art and not about the outside world that no longer exists.

The apocalypse left only the Metropolitan Museum of Art and everyone inside alive. the curators, the docents, and a couple, on their first date as Adam and Eve.

We Will Never, Ever, Ever Get Back Together To M.T.H. Ra’naa Billingsley

I hope you die.

No. I don’t hope you die. Everyone knows that when you wish death, you’re destined for hell. I’ve taken numerous heavy steps, ran so many miles to get away from you. I’m tired now. Sweaty chest heaving, from heartbreak and heat. I don’t want to go to hell, because that’s where you’re going . The day it frost over is the day I’ll love you again; forgive you once again. When the devil’s horn dissipate. The raining lava turns into steaming ice. When the piercing screams become soothing sighs.

When Lucifer’s black minions unlock your rusty bound chains, and you’re free to kick and dance.

When they replace your over used tongues, so you may speak.

When they replace your previously severed blood stained hands tipped with your filth sculpted nail beds, so you may hold things again; so you may touch things once more.

These have been taken away, because you’ve said too much.

You’ve danced and kicked enough.

You’ve touched enough.

You’ve held enough in your undead life.

You will never, ever, ever hold me again.

They retracted these things because you took advantage of them.

You took advantage of me.

That will never, ever, ever, happen again.

I loved you.

I loathe you.

I hearted you.

I hate you.

You are Kalona, a fallen angel, trapped in his own heart break of betraying your goddess he once adored, served for, and protected.

Willpower

Ra’naa Billingsley I look at the clouds sometimes, and I see hands. I pray above sometimes, and I hear Him. I pray to the clouds sometimes, and I see God’s hands, seeking down upon me. Seeking to guide me to the heavenly luminescence. Sometimes the devil’s dusk takes us over. When we close our eyes to see our inner most self, darkness is the only thing we see behind our pasted eyelids. When we meditate and “olm” away the pain, all we see is obscurity. The sun gets stronger every eleven years, but this earth gets darker every decade. We search for the light, Seek it, Yearn for it, Crawl

towards it, Drag our burdened mass of body with our newfound arm strength, towards that glowing orb. We are have all been lobotomized, and in our vegetated states, light is essential. We need it for survival. Shed light upon my skin before it disintegrates to paste for the vultures. Shed light upon my soul, so it may stay pure and good, and it may not be stolen. Grant me willpower, and I will power through this. I will get to this light, before my existence ends in darkness, as the same way it began.

No lie. Thug Life, One Wife, a Mistress, and a Girlfriend.

A poem can lie, as a man can to his Mistress Ra’naa Billingsley

Prelude.

I love you J’adore tu, madame Te amo, mi amor.

You’re my heart, soul, breath, food, air, and water.

You’re steady breathing’s, like the pounding of my heart.

Accelerating when things get a little too hot.

I. You are my soul. You are fulfilling. deeper, extraordinary, deep like the Indian ocean, where we’ll sail one day on our honeymoon. You are my soul and I would never sell you to the devil for a pair of shoes.

II. You are my breath. You’re liquids course through

my arteries. You’re two toned, sour sweet, breath inflates my lungs, like we’ll inflate the balloons at little Charlie Jr.’s first birthday.

III. You are my food. I wanna eat you up, honey. Scrumptiously tasty, you are. Able to devour, you are. I have, I will, I must live off of your decadence. You’re sweet like smooth buttermilk, you’re sour like the rainbow, you’re salty like caramel, you baby, you baby, you make me drool like a fool.

IV. You are my air. You surround me. I inhale relentlessly. You cling to my skin. A cheater is a dead man. You cool my cadaver down on a sweltering midsummer night. You are Haagen Dazs, rich and perfect, modest, but you werk it.

Werk it with an e. When the sweet cools, it’s like an A/C, baby. And I love it. You are my warmth when I’m alone, but never lonely. When I’m chilly and I’m frisky, you baby you set fire through my body, toes to nose. Fill my soul with fire.

I’d be a liar, if I didn’t say that you were my flem. My Mary to Bethlehem.

V. Know your place.

Know your place in my heart.

You baby you baby, please, don’t think you’re special.

White Picket Fence MacKenzie P. Bruce

Joseph steps into the shoes of another man every time he opens his front door. The men at work say that he has everything he could ever want; the quintessential “American Dream.” The beautiful wife, children at the perfect age, white dog, three story house; what more could he ask for? He comes home every day, 36 minutes after he steps in his car, the same drive, the same hellos and the same goodbyes. He drives slowly, he drives with only the purpose of movement, nothing except the job to wake him up each morning.

His life seems endless, the weeks and years of youth passing him by all to fast. Living begins to pursue an endless repetition that he doesn’t care to escape. His wife, Silvia, stays at home. She believes in raising her children, and not much else it would seem. As Joseph walks through a cherry oak door into white washed walls he calls the courteous call.

“Silvia, I’m home!” There is no answer, but he hears the floor creek and knows she is coming.

She walks in, flashes a grimace to his smile and kisses his cheek, never his lips. He reaches out for her hand; she brushes it and walks back into the kitchen without another word being said. Thirteen years of marriage and the pleasures have all but worn themselves out of style.

The kids were brought about the last 2 times they had any “inappropriate” interactions.

Family pictures haunt the walls of the hallway, the photographs of happy children and smiling parents; all those things that normal men begin to get jealous of in their later years. Joseph wipes his feet on the word welcome, unties his laces, breathes in deeply and sighs. He wears white socks, so the dog’s hair doesn’t stand out when his pant legs ride up at work. He walks like he drives and meanders his way into the kitchen. Work wears on him; when you have

such a monotonous life, you lose your way in it, it would seem. The living room holds sparse furniture; a television, a tall backed pink arm chair (picked out by his wife since she is the one that does the decorating), a long sofa of the same color, a coffee table with a lamp at its center, and a small stand in the far right corner with several bottles of liquor on it which are covered in a thin veil of dust.

Joseph tries to keep a smile on his face as he moves from the foyer into the living room and the living room to the kitchen doorway. He peels off his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of the armchair, and looks about. He notices that his children and the dog don’t appear to be home; he looks to his wife for the reason why.

“Honey, where are the kids?” he asks She looks at him with contempt, but he doesn’t catch on.

She sighs quietly, responding out of exaggeration. “Janet is at Rachel’s, it’s her birthday in a few days and Georgia…”

She stops when she sees Josephs quizzical, confused look.

“That’s Rachel’s mother, Joseph.”

He nods as though he knew the entire time and looks at their kitchen instead of at his wife. The small bar counter leaves only a large enough space for Silvia or the kids to maneuver comfortably in the entire kitchen. The open doorway is large enough that a pair of wooden doors can close it off easily from the living room.

Silvia continues talking. “Thomas is out walking the dog. He was going to wait for you, but you got home late, as usual.” He gives her the confused look again, and she can’t help but detest him every moment he’s near her. He never seems to understand a single thing she says. “Yes again Joseph, you’ve been getting home later every day, it’s a constant problem.”

“But it always takes me 36 minutes….” He says in a whisper.

“What did you say?”

Speaking up he replies. “I just said alright. I was only wondering where they all were. How was your day?” He

makes his way over toward her, but she retreats back behind the counter.

“It was fine.” She starts to look in the refrigerator, ignoring Joseph completely. “Did you remember to get beef on your way home?”

Joseph sighs, knowing Silvia is about to be angry with him again. “No, it slipped my mind.”

“You really never remember to do anything do you?

Stopping at the store would have been a reasonable excuse for being late, and you couldn’t even do that.” She stands up straight, slamming the refrigerator door. The anger in her gesture makes Joseph jump slightly. “I asked you to get me just one thing. Now how am I supposed to make meat loaf tonight? You know I always make meatloaf on Mondays.

Don’t you look away from me Joseph Rieter!”

Joseph tries to talk, but he is not the combative sort.

He looks past Silvia; instead, staring at the wall, trying to lose her voice in the silent white paint. He stares at the crucifix hanging above the window, where in any other household a clock may be. He starts to smile, remembering what had brought him and Silvia together in the first place, until he is suddenly ripped out of his memories by a harsh shove, and Silvia’s face only inches from his own.

“God dammit Joseph, can you ever listen to me?”

“Silvia, calm down. Please, you know I hate it when you use the Lord’s name in vain.” Joseph looks down and ponders kissing her.

“Of course, of course, that’s the only thing you hear.

Honestly Joseph you all you have been able to think about is yourself and your religion since you began those AA meetings.”

“Silvia, you know that isn’t true.” Joseph reaches out in an attempt to console her, but she moves aside quickly.

“Oh, I do, do I? Because I am fairly certain it is.” She huffs; reopening the fridge she begins to pull out ingredients: red onion, green pepper, and carrots.

“You…” Joseph starts, but Silvia waves her hand at

him dismissively as she moves over to the cupboard. She pulls out a pack of angel hair pasta and two chicken stock cubes. “What are you making now?”

“Thick chicken soup,” she replies as she moves over to the freezer and pulls out two hefty bags of chicken meat.

“You know I hate chicken soup, Silvia.”

“I know, now leave me be to cook.”

“But…”

“Go call Thomas in. He should have been home by now.”

Joseph knew he wasn’t going to make any headway when she was angry like this. He reluctantly turns around, picks his jacket off the chair, and heads towards the staircase. Every step creaks, every step is tiresome. He knows he should go call Thomas in, he knows his wife will get angry again if he doesn’t. He stops half way up the stairs and looks back down towards the door, shrugs and keeps walking up. He faces another white hallway as soon as he reaches the landing with large blank spaces of white. Silvia hates a dirty house; she stays home with Janet every day since she isn’t old enough for school yet. While Janet naps, she cleans, while Janet does her reading, she cleans, when Janet goes to a friends, she cleans and drinks. Joseph hasn’t had a lick of liquor for two years, seven months, and thirteen days; following the 12 steps has helped him stay away longer than anything else has.

He starts towards the bedroom. Twisting the small brass handle, he walks in. He doesn’t pay attention to anything except hanging up his jacket on his side of the room; he steps over small piles of clothes and papers he’s left laying around. Silvia doesn’t sleep in the same room as him anymore so she lets his messy habits take hold in this room alone; she prefers her own room at the other end of the hall, as far from him as possible. Joseph pops off his shoes and flicking them against the back wall in a single fluid motion. There’s a queen size bed with the covers un-made, a pillow with the case half pulled off, a dresser in the far

corner (almost buried in clothing), a lamp on a short bedside table, and a radio at its side. As he moves around the room, he turns the dial on the radio. Jazz begins to flow through the speakers and makes the musky air swirl with music. Joseph breathes a sigh of relief.

He lays down on the bed with his arms spread out.

Every day at work wears at him like a day of battle in war.

It’s a terrible fight to get through the drudgery of dealing with colleagues who babble about incoherent, nonsensical things: who is the new sexy secretary, who won last nights baseball game, who is going to get the next promotion: not him. Nothing involves him at all, so he just sits at his desk and writes, types up report after report, fixing mistake after mistake. He needed a job to keep his wife happy, and at that point keeping Silvia happy was all that mattered to him.

Well that and keeping a full bottle of whiskey at home. He can’t help but think back to the times when he used to get completely drunk on love alone, moving to liquor with an urgency he couldn’t understand only after love began to falter and fade away from him.

Joseph lays in his mess of a room, closes his eyes and just tries to breathe in deeply; forgetting his troubles for a minute helps him deal with a wife that hates him as much as he despises his job. He suddenly hears Silvia’s voice ring up the stairs.

“Joseph?!”

He doesn’t answer. He is trying to relax. He is trying to forget. He is trying to breathe, but then he hears her voice again.

“Joseph, you better not be up there lounging about!

Go get Thomas!”

He doesn’t want to move, but he knows if he doesn’t she will come up and scream at him even more, and he does not want that. It is enough to deal with her being angry about their relationship in general. When he can, he tries not to goad the demons in her by disobeying too often. He sits up, unbuttons the top few buttons on his white shirt and reaches

for his shoes. His eye catches his black book shoved inbetween the bed and the nightstand, and he reaches for it first. Joseph was a godless man once. He believed in nothing at all; raised Catholic like so many others, but soon found himself waning from belief in a God who had never done anything to reward him for his good deeds. He stopped going to church, stopped believing there was something greater out there; the views of his parents disappeared from his mind until he met Silvia.

Silvia has always been a good catholic, always gone to church on Sundays like her parents taught her. She knew that she wanted to be saved whenever Jesus Christ brought the world to salvation. Whenever she learned that Joseph was hardly a churchgoer, she made him start. She took him to the church she had grown up with, with the priest she had always known, and the choir that always sang the same songs each and every weekend. Joseph was not all too happy about this, but he wanted her to be content with him, so he went along. He went every Sunday; slowly falling more and more in love with a church he stopped believing in years before. Soon he began going to confession, a week’s release every Tuesday evening at seven, where he could let out his breath without worrying who would hear him.

Joseph wipes his fingers across the cover of his Bible, brushing a light dust off of it before blowing the rest off. So many times he has come up here, these last few years, and read this book, passage-by-passage, finding solace in its pages. He had never actually owned one until after his first AA meeting. Before that, he had never even read the Bible in it’s entirety, or even at all. All he ever knew was what was spoken in church, learning his beliefs from the spoken word, not from the book they came from. Leaning his elbows on his knees he flipped through the pages of his religion, and was relieved of some of the stress plaguing him. Soon he found himself delving into his memories with a certain fervor.

Joseph had been talking to the priest about his

drinking problem for almost a year already at weekly confessions, but when Silvia told him that his drinking was the cause of all the problems in their relationship, he began to investigate the possibility without a word of argument.

After confessions one fateful Tuesday night, he finally got up the nerve to ask his priest. As he was about to leave the booth, he sat back down suddenly, startling the priest slightly.

“I’m sorry Father, but I have one more thing to say.”

“Yes my son?”

“Well, you see, my wife wants me to begin going to Alcoholics Anonymous, and I don’t know where to find a meeting. I was wondering if there are any hosted nearby.”

Father McDowl looked concerned as he replied, “Do you really believe that is necessary, my son? From what you have been telling me of your liquor consumption, it is not more than the average man.”

“Honestly Father, I am doing this to please my Silvia, not so much for myself. It may be helpful in getting me to cut back on the whiskey, but I wont know until I attempt it at least once.”

“If that’s truly how you feel, we do host one every Thursday evening at 6. Just show up and see how you like it.”

“Thank you so very much father.” Joseph left with a smile on his face he knew he only had two days to wait until he began making Silvia happy again. He wanted to go home and tell her immediately, but knew she wouldn’t be happy to see him home early, so he headed to the bar for a beer like he always did after confession.

There is something about spilling your soul to a person for 15 minutes a week that is both relieved and depressed a man at the same time. He walked out the front door of the church, and closed the heavy oak doors behind him with a light thump. He breathed in the night air and began his walk to the bar only two blocks from home. The church itself is at a walking distance from Joseph’s home,

only about a mile from front steps to front steps. It gave him time to think about what he was going to say on the way there, and time to say his Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s on the way back.

As he walked he stared at the houses next to him and named each family in his head. The Milers lived here, the Smiths lived there, the Jacobsons lived across the road, and the Beauts lived a few doors away. He knew almost everyone in the neighborhood, at least it seemed that way.

Before he knew it he had arrived at The Blue Heron. He sat in his usual seat at the far corner of the counter, waved his hand, signaling for a bottle of whatever was on tap. He sat there sipping at the bottle for a good ten minutes before finishing it; he called for Victoria Jacobson (the bartender).

“What can I get you Joseph? Didja enjoy your beer?”

“Of course, of course.” Joseph could never look Missy in the eyes. She was a pretty girl, and he didn’t like to be reminded of his younger days when pretty girls like her floundered at his feet every time he came into a bar. “Could you get me a double shot of whiskey on the rocks?”

“Sure I can, this is more than you usually drink Joseph. Are you sure you can handle it?” She laughed as she poured him his shots.

“Yeah, I believe I can.” She finished pouring and pushed the glass of liquor towards him. He kicked it back without another thought, and breathed out a heavy breath.

“Celebrating something Joseph?”

“In a way I guess.” He laughed and continued; “You actually probably won’t be seeing me in here anymore after tonight.”

“Oh, and why would that be? I didn’t offend you or nothing did I?” She smiled at him, a forgiving smile, one that Silvia hadn’t shown him for several years at this point.

“No, no, no not that at all. My wife’s convinced me I have a drinking problem, so I am going to an AA meeting soon. Don’t worry, I’ll still wave to you whenever I am walking home.”

“Well, don’t become a stranger Joseph!” Joseph looked up at her, fiddling his fingers over a five-dollar bill. He placed it on the table and smiled at her slightly, and nodded goodbye before he began his walk home. He still was smiling when he walked through his front door, but the smile dropped off his face when he saw his wife standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and a scowl of sorts on her face.

“You were drinking again.” She said it matter of factly, like she knew exactly what he had done and was so ashamed of him she didn’t even need to ask a question.

Joseph wiped his shoes on the word welcome, not answering his wife. “What happened to cutting down on the alcohol Joseph? Hm? I thought we had already talked about this. You can’t be going out to drink if you are trying to stop altogether.”

“Silvia, it was just one drink…”

“You say that every time, but then you want to have another when you get home, you want to pour yourself a glass of whiskey and listen to the radio. You don’t even want to speak to your kids whenever you get home on Tuesday nights, you just go to our room and sit there.”

“That’s not true, not true at all.”

“Oh yes it is. If I called Thomas and Janet in here right now, you would probably go cowering away immediately.

I know you Joseph. And I may love you, but this whole thing with the liquor has got to stop. You know it, and so do I. “ Silvia caught her breath for a moment and Joseph intercedes.

“But Silvia, I am taking the first step. I talked to the priest today; I asked him when the next meeting was. I’m going to go Thursday, so please lower your voice. I’m doing what you asked.”

Ignoring what he said about going to an AA meeting Silvia began to get even louder. “Lower my voice? You’re the one who always raises your voice to me whenever you’re too drunk off your ass to understand even what’s going on around you.”

“Silvia, please, just calm down.” Joseph replied exasperated. He was tired. His head was beginning to hurt.

He just wanted to go upstairs and lay down. “I wasn’t saying that I don’t get loud, just the kids are probably wondering what’s going on by now.”

As if on queue, both of them hear footsteps from above, the floorboards creaking loudly. Silvia pulled on a smile and looked up the staircase straight into Janet’s bright blue eyes.

“Sweetie, go back to bed, it’s not morning yet.”

Janet looked down at her mother, thinking for a moment. “Why are you and Father yelling again Mommy?”

“Oh darling don’t worry, sometimes Mom and Dad disagree about things. I’ll be up in just a moment to tuck you in. Okay?”

Janet nodded her head and slowly made her way back to her bedroom; Silvia stared up at the second floor until she heard the door close again, then she turned her attention back towards Joseph.

“You are so lucky Jo. I have to go put your daughter back to bed because you were out drinking again.”

Joseph tried to respond, but Silvia waved her hand at him dismissively. “I’ll be back down soon to deal with you. Go tell Thomas it’s time for bed. He’s in the living room watching one of those television programs.”

Joseph just nods to her and starts to make his way into the other room. His son is laying in the middle of the floor as he walks in, staring at the screen, unblinking. Joseph sighs as he struggles out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the armchair sloppily.

Thomas looks up from the television for a moment.

“Hello, Father.”

Joseph smiles sheepishly, half way to a grimace.

“Hello, Thomas, what show are you watching?”

“Just the new Ernie Kovac’s Show. They’ve been showing one hour specials lately, but it’s almost over.”

“Your mother says its time for bed Thomas. You know

we don’t like it when your mother gets angry, especially if she’s already upset at me.”

Thomas groaned, “Awh, please Dad, there’s only five minutes left in the episode!” He gave his father the puppy dog eyes and Joseph broke.

“Oh fine, but don’t tell your mother I let you, okay?”

“Okay!” Thomas smiled and leaned back on his elbows, face glued back into the television screen.

Joseph stretched his back and undid the top button of his shirt, trying to get a bit comfortable before Silvia came down and started up her angry tirade again. He maneuvers past Thomas and makes his way to the kitchen, thinking that Silvia had to have made something for dinner already tonight. Opening the refrigerator he found a Tupperware container filled with yesterday’s pork chops. He pulled some of them out, set them on a cookie sheet, and turned on the oven; he wasn’t going to eat them cold.

He leaned back against the counter, waiting for the oven to heat up, and listened to his son’s television show play through the closing theme music. He breathed in heavily as he looked through the kitchen doorway at the bottles of liquor that say at the back of the living room. Two bottles of whiskey, one bottle of sherry, one bottle of rum, and two crystal glasses (fake of course.) He tried so hard to fight the urge to go fix himself a drink, especially since he knew Silvia would be back downstairs soon.

Joseph opened the cupboard directly behind his head, which is filled with coffee cups and cheap plastic glasses; he pulled one out and opens the fridge again. He searched for something to drink, finally coming upon the milk, shoved in the bottom shelf of the door. As he poured himself a glass, he heard the Television click off and Thomas came into the kitchen.

“Goodnight Father. Don’t forget I need a ride home from practice tomorrow. Mother said she’d be busy.”

Not completely paying attention, Joseph replied, “Of course, I’ll make sure to come get you.”

“Thank you! Have a good rest!” Thomas smiled without a care in the world and made his way toward the second floor. Joseph could hear him walking up the steps, until Silvia’s voice drifted through the living room.

“You better be on your way to bed Thomas. You know you have school in the morning.”

“I know Mother, I’m going up this moment; I’m actually very tired, so goodnight, sleep well.” Thomas gave his mother a hug and a slight smile, then, turning around he said, “Please don’t yell at Father anymore tonight, I really do want to go to sleep.” After that, he made his way upstairs and into his room. Joseph couldn’t hear anymore after that, but a few seconds later Silvia appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Joseph prepared himself to be scolded by his wife even more, but surprisingly she leaned her head against the doorframe and smiled half-heartedly at him.

“I’m sorry Joseph, I didn’t mean to get so angry before. You know I just can’t stand when you come home so late from confessions, especially since I know that means you went to the bar. I just, I worry.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her with that knowing smile, it reached his eyes and reminded him why he loved her, even when she got so angry at times. She was the light of his life, and kept him going day to day. He loved her so much, he had married her and found himself having a family soon after. She knew him better than anyone ever had or ever would. His eyes were halfway filled with tears when he reached out to her, embracing her in a hug that seemed to push away all the anger from only minutes before.

“I know Silvia, I know. That’s why I am starting the AA meetings this week, so that you can stop worrying so much.”

Silvia looked up at him and smiled. Finding happiness in his eyes, she laid her head against his chest. “I am so glad that you’re doing what I asked of you. It will make you so much better. My brother went through it five years ago and he has become so much closer to god. He finally found

happiness away from his addiction. Soon you will too.”

Joseph held Silvia tightly in his arms for another moment before letting go. He smiled at her once again and turning around, puts the pork chops into the oven.

“You didn’t eat before you left for confessions today?”

Silvia asks.

“No, I wasn’t able to.”

“Well why didn’t you say anything? You know I would have cooked something up for you if you asked.”

“You seemed a little angry at me whenever I came home, I thought it would be better to just heat something up.

You know I enjoy pork chops no matter if its Monday or not!”

Joseph laughed at himself, Silvia half smiled at his bad joke, he knew she doesn’t make pork chops on any day except Monday’s.

“Alright, alright. Did Thomas remind you to pick him up from practice tomorrow?”

“Yes, he did, what are you doing that you can’t get him?”

“Oh, I have to go shopping tomorrow with Beatrice from next door. She needs help getting things ready for her daughter’s birthday this Thursday, so I offered to help.”

“Okay, okay. What time do I need to meet him?”

“3:50”

“Silvia, how can I make that? I have work till 5 every day, you know that.”

“Just leave for an hour, please, Joseph.” Silvia walked back up to him and kissed him gently. “Beatrice really needs my help.”

Joseph sighs, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Husband.” Silvia looks about the kitchen once and then back at Joseph. “I’m going to head up to bed, it has been a wearying day. Just make sure to clean up everything whenever you’re finished.” Silvia brushed his hand and left the room. Joseph smiled as she went and pulled his chops out of the oven. He breathed in deeply, and after he sprinkled salt and pepper on his meat, he begins his

meal.

Only a few minutes later, he put his dishes in the sink and wiped down the counter. Soon he was on his way out of the kitchen, picking up his suit jacket on the way. He makes his way upstairs, and into the bedroom. He laid out his clothes for tomorrow morning on top of his dresser. Getting undressed he buried himself under the covers and was soon fast asleep.

Wednesday came to early; the sun was still down when Joseph pulled the covers off. He kissed his wife on the forehead and got dressed, he had the left side of the room for his things, and the right was for hers. He pulled on his black pants, then his white shirt, then his white socks, then his black shoes. He heard scraping at the door, and knew the dog wanted out like he always did.

Joseph made his way to work like he always did in the morning; sipping on coffee, listening to the Philadelphia news station, and sitting in traffic. There wasn’t very much traffic this time of the morning, but it was always one of those dreary things one had to deal with no matter what time. It was the first of his job’s many annoyances and antiquated activities.

The radio was blaring about the Soviet Union and its mischievous acts towards the United States on a daily basis, and then soon moved to happier news; Disney’s animated Cinderella was coming to theaters today. The first thing that popped into Joseph’s mind was that Janet would want to go see the film as soon as he got home from work. Silvia would have told her about it weeks ago.

He sighed, even thought it only took him 27 minutes to drive to work, and pulled into the parking lot. Soon he was inside, at his desk, with a stack of papers on it that sat higher than his head. He slipped one off the top and began the tedious task of re-typing its contents. Hours passed by without any difference, without anyone talking to him, without a single word springing from his lips or from the others around him. They all just sat there at their desks typing

and typing. They had the menial job, almost like a floor full of secretaries all reporting to a single boss. When Joseph popped up his head from the typewriter for a moment, all he saw were his co-workers deep into their work, even though it was already time for lunch. There were about fifteen of them sitting in a large room together, small doorways led off to the executive’s underling’s offices. Every few minutes you would see one pop out and glance around, making sure their workers were doing what they were paid to do.

Joseph stared at the slightly smaller stack of files next to him and longed for the next four hours to pass by quickly.

He picked up one file after another and kept typing, typing, typing as the clock zipped by. Before he knew it, the papers were only about six inches high, and it was time to leave.

He had skipped lunch again today; there was no time to go out and eat, there was too much work for him to do. Joseph opened a small black briefcase he had sitting beside his desk and dropped the remaining files inside. Cracking his fingers he stood, and put his suit jacket back on. The rest of the men began to congregate toward the door, talking about their plans for the night; a few going to the bar together, a few going home to screw their wives, a few heading to the hockey game tonight; all manner of activities, none of which applied to Joseph.

He rarely spoke to his colleagues; they had almost nothing in common, except a need to go to Church every Sunday. Joseph slipped down the stairs quickly and out to his car, hoping to beat some of the rush that 5 P.M. brought to the road home. He was worn from reading and typing his day away, and he was famished. Speeding along the highway, he hit traffic about five minutes into the drive and silently breathed out his anger and aggravation. He just wanted a drink to calm his nerves.

He hated the job he was forced to do every weekday, but knew there was no possible way for him to move up in the company or do anything different with his time. He had to provide for his family, so he worked the job he hated until his

fingers ached and it was painful to even move his knuckles more than a few inches. Joseph stared down at his red and sore hands, knowing that he must come back to that place da after day.

Thirty minutes into the drive, and almost home for the day, he spotted someone walking along side the road. Going only twenty-five miles an hour, he noticed that it was his son; he stopped the car immediately and opened his door, thankfully there wasn’t anyone behind him.

“Thomas? What are you doing walking on the side of the street? Haven’t I told you how dangerous it can be, people are terrible drivers!”

Thomas looked up from the street, finally noticing that it was his father yelling to him, his face moves from excitement to anger in an instant after seeing him. “Where were you Dad?” At that moment, Joseph realized his mistake and gasped in horror. “Oh no, Thomas I’m sorry, I just got so caught up at work. I didn’t remember I was supposed to be picking you up.”

Thomas looked at his father with a righteous anger and kept walking.

“Thomas, come back here right now! Let me drive you the rest of the way home.” He said pleadingly.

Without stopping Thomas replied, “No, I’m walking the rest of the way home. I started walking, and Mother is going to know that you forgot to pick me up from practice today!”

With his last words, he looked back angrily at his father, bunched up his shoulders, and started to move again.

Joseph sighed heavily, knowing the disappointment Silvia would spew at him when he arrived home without their son. He stepped back into his car and drove up next to Thomas again, driving slowly forward to stay in step with him; he rolled down the passenger window and called out again.

“Thomas, just get in the car. I’m sorry, alright? What else can I say?”

Thomas stopped walking for a moment and looked into the car. “You could have picked me up like you said you would. But you couldn’t remember to do that. I’m fine, I’ll see you at home.” Joseph could see the tears that welled up in Thomas’ eyes, even over such a meaningless thing as this.

He couldn’t help but think what a soft boy his son was, how he takes after his father in that respect, but was as stubborn as his mother when it came to changing how his mind or how he acted.

He looked at Thomas once more as he slowly continued driving home. As Joseph drove past him he couldn’t tell whether or not he was upset at being left at practice or just too headstrong to take up his fathers offer for the last few blocks. Shrugging his shoulders, he made his way home without another hitch. He walked into the foyer only seven minutes past his usual time. Pushing open the door, he called out.

“Silvia, I’m home!”

He wiped his shoes on the word welcome and called out again.

“Silvia? Janet? Hello?!” No one answered him. Soon he made his way to the living room to take off his jacket, and then into the kitchen. He couldn’t think where else his family would be at this time of day. Usually Silvia was here, beginning on dinner already, and Janet would be in the living room, but today no one was here at all. It was just so odd.

Suddenly, Joseph heard the front door open.

“Silvia is that you?”

“No Father, it’s Thomas. I told you it wasn’t that long of a walk.”

Disheartened, Joseph didn’t even reply to his son.

Almost immediately Thomas made his way to the kitchen.

“Is Mother not home yet from Beatrice’s?”

“Oh, of course that’s where she is, I completely forgot about that.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and turned away to head up to his room to get changed out of his uniform. Joseph was

left standing alone in a kitchen that is usually filled by his family and knew how lonesome he truly was. The drinks in the opposite room called to him. They promised a release from his tedious, mind-numbing day. He made his way to the crystal glasses and unscrewed the lid on has favorite liquor; pouring himself a full glass he knocked it back quickly.

Pouring himself another he headed upstairs.

His hands gripped the railing tightly as he lifted one foot after another; each step seemed to take him away from reality and into his own little world. As he stepped into the bathroom he drank the entire glass like it was a single shot and set it down hard on the counter. He then let out a hot breath that fogged up the mirror in front of him. Joseph moved his palm slowly across the fog showing his face in the mirror; his reflection stared back at him vacantly. Its expression was that of a broken man, someone who knew he was defeated long ago and yet still fights on for whatever reasons he can hold on to.

Joseph turned on the faucet, splashing the water on his face with his hands as he tried and failed to wake himself from the reality he had to face. He couldn’t help but be thankful that Silvia wasn’t home when he got here, at the same time he felt guilty for thinking that at all. He sighed so often it felt like he could never gain a full breath before another would leave him. His heart goes out to those who do not know what they are getting themselves into when the idea of marriage is proposed.

Joseph looked at himself a final time, staring at graying hair, a furrowed brow that hid his grey blue eyes, and a frown that was a semi permanent attachment. He made his way slowly to the living room and sat in his high backed pink chair. He picked up the days paper, and after only reading a few lines he promptly drifted off to sleep. One hour after another passed by and he laid there still; newspaper on his chest, mouth open, completely dead to the world around him. Joseph awoke as the paper was pulled off of him and upon opening his eyes he saw a fuming wife staring down at

him, the crystal glass in her hand.

“You have been drinking again Joseph! Leaving Thomas stranded at practice wasn’t bad enough for you, you had to come home and leave him unattended while you lay here asleep and probably drunk too! What were you thinking?”

Groggily Joseph attempts to respond. “Silvia, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think I would fall asleep.”

“Joseph, just stop, stop. Don’t even try to explain yourself. I am going to make dinner for Thomas, Janet already ate with me at Beatrice’s. Did you even let Wylie in from the back yard?”

“That’s where he was?”

“Why did I ever think you could be responsible for our child, let alone the dog?” Exasperated with Joseph, Silvia made her way into the kitchen. She opened the back door and in came Wylie, barking loudly. He runs straight for the bowl of food that was left out for him beside the fridge.

“He is probably freezing from being out there so long; Thomas, come down stairs!” Silvia yelled “I’m making you dinner!”

“I will be down in a moment!” Thomas’ voice came down like a loud whisper from the second floor.

Joseph propped himself up on his elbows and tried to collect himself before Silvia came back in. He moved slowly, his limbs barely obeying what he asked them to do. As soon as Joseph began to get up, Thomas came running full force down the stairs and through the living room, slowing down only when he saw that his father was sat there watching.

Joseph opened his mouth to say something, but only a cough came out. Thomas looked back at him, and then went into the kitchen. Thomas saw his mother and quickly smiled and straightened his shirt.

“Good evening Mother!” He spoke cheerily, as though he had been waiting all day just to say to hello to her. That’s what she expected of him, so that’s what he did.

“Hello Thomas, did you see that Janet got to bed

alright? I sent her up when I came inside, but did not go up with her.”

“I saw her going into her room, but that’s all.”

“Okay, well go up and check on her, would you? I’m making you Spaghetti.”

“Mother I just came from upstairs. Do I have to go back up?” Thomas sighed exasperated. Silvia looked at him with a glare that could have pierced through walls and replied in turn.

“I asked you to do something Thomas, I expect you to do it.”

Thomas looked down at his sock covered feet, “Sorry Mother,” he replied as he made his way out of the kitchen.

Joseph heard a loud huff from the kitchen as Thomas passed by him on his way back upstairs. All of a sudden Silvia called to him.

“Joseph!”

He stood up, stretched his back and pulled his arms above his head. He didn’t want to go into the kitchen, he knew that Silvia was already angry, but then again he didn’t want her getting angrier than she already was. He sighed under his breath and stepped gingerly into the kitchen.

He coughed, having that disgusting feeling in his mouth that happens when one fell asleep with their mouth open wide. “Yes, dear? Again I’m sorry I fell…”

“No, don’t apologize to me, you didn’t wrong me, you wronged your son, who you left at practice, all on his own, in the middle of the day, when you promised to pick him up.” Silvia turned toward Joseph with a stern anger in her eyes that made Joseph turn his face to the floor just as his son had moments before. “When Thomas comes down back down, you are going to apologize to him and promise that this isn’t going to happen again. If you are going to start taking the responsibility over your own life not to drink anymore, then you better start having the responsibility to take care of your family. That means doing what I ask and picking them up from practice, or taking them to the doctor’s,

or even remembering to let the dog back inside; for Christ’s sake!” Silvia’s hands flew about her as she spoke, weaving an intricate web of words and gestures that Joseph, newly awakened, became dizzy as he tried to follow.

“Of course Silvia, but it was just one time that I forgot to…”

“But Joseph, it isn’t the first time and it probably won’t be the last either! After so many, I am getting tired of having to apologize to our son that his father is so inconsiderate, that he doesn’t know any better.”

Joseph felt his chest grow tight, he hated when Silvia got like this. He loved his wife dearly, but there were times when she could be overly blunt and on the verge of being cruel. She just had these days when she was so unhappy with him and he never could understand why. When Silvia first found out she as pregnant with Thomas, her and Joseph were yet to be married. A month later he was forced to propose by her family and his (with her grandmothers ring), and then, soon after that, they were married. He knew that her family wouldn’t have approved of her having a child out of wedlock, and that that must have been the reason for her pushing it on him so feverishly.

“Joseph!” Silvia’s voice pulled him out of his own thoughts and back into the present, he looked up at her.

“Have you even heard a word I said? Of course you haven’t.”

She gave him a disgusted look, forcing Joseph to look away again. “Just go, please, I don’t need this tonight. It was a long day.”

Joseph stayed where he stood, not knowing weather or not she was actually trying to make him leave or if she’d be angry he did.

“Did you really not hear me again? I told you to go!”

Her voice grew angrier with each syllable she uttered.

Joseph swiftly exited the kitchen and made his way upstairs.

With each step he grasped the side rail, still slightly groggy.

He went into his bedroom, sat down on the bed, and promptly dropped off to sleep once again.

Joseph woke up to the sound of the 6 A.M. news crashing down on him. He realized he was on the floor when his fingers brushed wood instead of bed sheets. He must have fallen off when he fell asleep; sitting up he saw Silvia lying in bed, still fast asleep. He moved through his morning ritual as he always did: brushing teeth, showering, dressing, eating, and driving to work. He sat down at his desk and imagined what it would be like to have a job that he actually enjoyed doing. Something like being a photographer, or writing what he thought was important; instead he’s stuck in this office, waiting for anything out of the ordinary to happen.

Work passed by slowly at first, his stack of papers only a few inches shorter than where he started, but soon it felt like the hours passed by in only a few moments.

Without a second thought about the work he hadn’t been able to finish, Joseph was back in his car with radio whispering to him as he drove. He got home quicker than usual (only taking 32 minutes), wiped his feet on the word welcome, and called out. “Silvia! I’m home!” There was no answer at first, but then he heard the back door open and slam shut. He called out again. “Silvia?! Is that you?”

“Yes, yes I’m in the kitchen Joseph.” She called back.

Step after step, as he always does, he made his way into the kitchen. “How was your day darling?”

“It was fine. Hang this up for me.” She held out her coat for him to take from her. Joseph looked at her for a second then took it, hanging it on the chair in the other room.

“No, not there, you know where the coats go. Honestly.”

Silvia sighed loudly, shaking her head. She must still be angry with me because of yesterday. I wonder if I will even be able to sleep in the same bed as her tonight. She may make me sleep on the couch again. I wonder where the kids are. Joseph thought to himself as he went to hang the coat in the foyer closet, those thoughts slowly drifted into words as he made his way back into the kitchen.

“Honey, where are the kids today?”

“You should know by now that Thomas is out walking

the dog, Joseph. Janet is upstairs playing with her dolls I think. We went out today and I bought her one of those new Barbie’s. She seems to be enjoying it.”

“Well alright. That’s good.”

“What time is that meeting tonight?” Silvia looked at Joseph.

“Oh, 7:00 I believe. I’ll leave home at 6:30 or so. I plan on walking there. Need my exercise.” Joseph tried to crack a smile, but Silvia looked at him blankly.

“Well just be home before 9:00. Thomas needs to get up early tomorrow, and I don’t want you keeping him up.”

“Of course.” As he said this Silvia turned away from him and opened the cupboards; his cue to leave her be.

He went into the living room, picking up that mornings newspaper he settled down to read. He stretched out his hand for his usual glass, but didn’t find it there. How could he have forgotten to get a drink, he started towards the liquor in the back of the room, but stopped himself. It wouldn’t do him any good to go to an AA meeting after drinking alcohol, slightly counter intuitive actually. He frowned at the bottles and, turning around, went into the kitchen and got himself a glass of seltzer.

An hour slipped by; immersed in the paper he hardly noticed how much time had passed and when he looked up at the clock he realized it was almost 6:30. When he glanced into the kitchen Silvia wasn’t there. She knew where he was going, so it didn’t matter if he saw her before he left. He pulled on his jacket and headed out into the frigid night. He passed by the usual homes, the usual families, the usual cars, and the usual activities. There was Mr. Honer fixing his drainpipes, and Ms. Honer was holding the toolbox for him while chatting to Ms. Monet about the daily things. Everything was how it always was. Without warning there was the church in front of him. Breathing in a deeply he stepped inside and looked around. There was a small sign tacked up on the corkboard in the foyer of the church that pointed toward the basement and said “Alcoholics

Anonymous” with a small arrow beneath it.

He made his way down the concrete stairs, holding tightly onto the wooden guardrail, and into the atrium without much difficulty. He found a small classroom of sorts off to the side, which held a circle of chairs at its center. As he peaked his head in the door he noticed only three people in the room, one man was setting up tables, while another was pulling flyers out of a cardboard box, and, as soon as he looked at her, the woman he saw was headed over to him, a broad smile on her face.

“Hello, my name is Kathy. I’m supposing you’re here for the meeting?” Joseph stared at her blankly, not sure how to respond to her yet. She just laughed lightly, “Well I’m going to take that as a yes. A lot of newcomers are nervous at first.” She smiled at him again. “Just take a seat anywhere in the circle, the others will be arriving shortly.”

As she said that she walked away, and Joseph meandered cautiously over towards the nearest chair. He pulled it out and sat down with his back towards the door he had come in. He looked down at his watch he noticed that it was only 6:50. He sat there staring at nothingness as he listened to Kathy great more people behind him, spouting names of people like grains of rice: John, Susan, William, Smith, Michael, Fred, Anne, August, and more. By 7:02 almost every chair was filled. Finally, Kathy took a seat about three over from Joseph and introduced herself again.

“Hello everyone, I’m happy to be seeing some new faces here. Today I will be chair of this meeting, all this means is that I am going to be here as a base for all of you.”

She smiled at everyone in turn. “So I’ll begin. I’m Kathy and I am an Alcoholic.”

“Hello Kathy.” Was let out in a small murmur from the collective.

Kathy kept talking “I’ve been sober for about 6 months now, and I have come to find AA as a place that can help me keep my mind clear of thoughts of alcohol. God is here to help me through my urges as I hope he can help all of you.”

As soon as Kathy ended her speech the man next to her began his and so on and so on, until finally it came to Joseph. He had begun to drift off to sleep when the person next to him tapped him on the shoulder a smile on his face.

“It’s your turn.” He said to Joseph.

Joseph looked around the group nervously, everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to start talking. He had only half heard what the stories of these people were. He knew the man straight across from him was Fred; he was a plumber whose first time here had only been two weeks before. He got drunk at the bar almost every night before he started to come here, he had gotten in a fight when he was to wasted to even know what was going on around him, and the court mandated that he come to these meetings for at least 3 months. Fred seemed to be the only one with a scowl of contempt on his face from sitting in this room with the rest of us.

Suddenly Kathy’s voice pulled Joseph back out of his mind “We don’t force anyone to share, so if you aren’t ready yet we understand. Just pass to Susan.”

Joseph coughed and cleared his throat. “No, that’s okay. I’m sorry.” He was slurring his words as he spoke and he knew it. Embarrassingly he began again, “Sorry, my name is Joseph. This is my first time attempting one of these meetings. I’m here because my wife things my drinking causes problems in our relationship.” As he went on, it became easier and easier to talk. “I don’t know why it would, I don’t believe I drink that much to do any harm. I’ve never hit my Silvia. Sorry my wife. I mean she just thinks that me not drinking would be better overall.” He stopped talking suddenly and looked around the group to see if anyone was going to react. Kathy’s voice rang out before anyone else’s could.

“We are happy to have you here Joseph, even if you don’t want to be. The first step in our program is to admit there is a problem, it seems like you still need to work on it, but we are all here for you.” She smiled at him, and said

“Next.”

Susan began to talk, and Joseph sighed to himself.

A weight was lifted off his shoulders, just as if he had left confession on any Tuesday night. He couldn’t help but let a smile creep onto his face as the group introductions ended.

Kathy began to speak again. “Alright, does anyone have anything they would like to say? Any worries, wants to have a drink, or some bout of anger? You can talk about anything here; nothing is going to leave this room that you don’t want to.” No body spoke up. “No one? How about you Joseph? Do you have anything you would like to talk to us about?”

Joseph was taken aback at being confronted again and just sat there for a moment not comprehending that he was supposed to answer. After a moment he replied. “Uhm, I am not sure what to talk about. My life is fairly ordinary.”

“How about you tell us the last time you had a drink?”

Kathy asked.

“Okay, I suppose I can do that. It was yesterday evening, after I had forgotten to pick up my son Thomas from a practice at his school. I got home late and sat down with a whiskey.”

“Would you mind telling everyone how much you had to drink?”

“I mean I only had one glass, then I fell asleep.”

“Well at least you are honest with us, that is getting you closer to the first step of our program.” Kathy smiled at Joseph again, this time with a pleasantness that Joseph couldn’t comprehend entirely. Joseph looked at everyone in the circle and didn’t know what else to say. He just sat there, his shoulders scrunched up toward his head. He felt out of place in this room, but he also felt like these people would listen to him and not judge him in the least. It was a wonderful feeling that helped him to breathe a little easier.

Pretty soon William began to talk about his horrible week at work; how his boss degraded him and made him feel worthless, how he had to fight himself not to pull out the flask

of gin that he kept in his car. He fought the urges to drink with the intensity that one would play a sport or fight for his life.

This struggle was completely foreign to Joseph who had no like addiction, at least that’s what he thought, and hadn’t had to fight with himself to stay sober for long. Joseph sat in the circle, listening to everyone’s stories, about how alcohol was once what their lives revolved around, but how this program had helped them through it. When Joseph looked down at his watch he noticed that it was almost 8:30 already. He needed to get going, luckily as soon as he was about to excuse himself, Kathy reigned in their discussion.

“Well everyone, this will conclude todays session.”

Addressing the man sitting across from her “And don’t forget that next week you’re Chair Michael.” He nodded, and then Kathy stood up, and so did everyone else. Joseph was still sitting when he realized he should probably follow the group.

“There is coffee behind us as well as some cookies that Michael’s wife sent with him tonight. Please help yourselves and have a pleasant week.” Kathy continued, “May God be with you.” As she bared her grin again everyone began to pick up his or her jackets and headed towards the coffee.

Joseph picked up his and maneuvered his way towards the exit when Kathy called out to him. He turned around to see her walking toward him.

“I’m so happy you shared today, it’s usually so hard for newcomers to break the ice and let out their fears and memories, but you did an admirable job. Oh yes, I have this to give you, as well as this.” Kathy picks up a black book and a small pamphlet from the table near the doorway. “We make it a policy to give each of our members a Bible and a little something to help them learn our twelve step process. We all hope to see you here next week. Have a good weekend, Joseph.” With that she turned back into the crowd and Joseph, only slightly confused, headed outside and began his walk home.

After a few blocks walk in the cold night air, the moon

shining on him like a spotlight, Joseph was home again.

Twisting the brass knob on the door, he let himself inside.

He stayed as quiet as he could, he didn’t know if Silvia had put Janet to bed yet or not and didn’t want to wake her if she had. Pulling off his jacket as he walked through the living room, he threw it on the chair as he usually would, but this time the small pamphlet he was given fell out. He bent down to pick it up, sat down in his chair, and began to read through it thoroughly.

Introduction to AA

Philadelphia Group

Meetings: Public - Thursdays 7:00 P.M.

This pamphlet is an attempt to set forth a few of the rudimentary ideas of A.A. Its purpose is to give the new member a working knowledge, so that he will have some understanding of the purposes, functioning and organization of A.A. What is covered here, we hope will give a prospective member an idea of how to at least start the A.A. program.

However, since the A.A. idea is ever evolving and developing, each new member is strongly advised to circulate freely at meetings and elsewhere with other members. It is, in fact, only by intimate personal discussion that a full understanding can be attained. All older members are willing and anxious, without obtrusion, to assist new men along this line.

I. What do the letters A.A. stand for?

Alcoholics Anonymous.

II. What is A.A.?

A.A. is a group of people for whom Alcohol has become a major problem in their lives and who, admitting it, have decided to do something about it. They have, on the evidence of their own lives,

decided that for them Alcohol is a poison, and are honestly attempting to build a satisfactory mode of living without the use of Alcohol in any form.

III. What is an Alcoholic?

An Alcoholic is any person whose indulgence in Alcohol continuously or periodically results in behavior such as to disrupt his normal relations with his or her work, family or society, and is of such a nature as to cause him or her serious trouble.

An Alcoholic is any person whose mental or physical condition is so affected as to, in fact, seriously jeopardize his or her normal relations with her or his work, family or society.

While the actual damage may not have been done, it is merely a matter of time or luck when something serious will occur. Therefore, so far as the necessity of their giving up drinking is concerned they are Alcoholic.

An Alcoholic is any person who experiences an abnormal craving after drinking, and, who finds it necessary to use Alcohol the next day as a medicine or drug to alleviate the very condition which Alcohol itself has created.

An Alcoholic is any person who under any or all of these conditions finds it impossible to discontinue both its constant or periodic use.

IV. Am I an Alcoholic?

We believe that if any person will with brutal honesty face the questions raised in Paragraph III, he or she can definitely determine whether or not he or she is an Alcoholic.

V. Is it a disgrace to be Alcoholic?

While we do not feel it to be a happy state, we do not consider it a disgrace.

Medicine and Psychiatry now both admit that the urge for Alcohol by an Alcoholic is far beyond the indulgence of a whim. That the necessity for Alcohol by an Alcoholic cannot be permanently overcome simply by medical therapy, or by mere will power alone.

Theories are advanced that the cause is a peculiar chemical makeup of the body resulting in a physical allergy, or that it is an emotional instability or immaturity; that it is

due to a character deficiency or lack of will power, or to an escapist complex, inferiority complex or numerous other idiosyncrasies. Any one of these may be true in whole or in part.

However, for simplicity, we have chosen to identify it as an allergy resembling the unfortunate situation of a diabetic with an insatiable, ungovernable desire for sugar.

VI. How soon will I be cured?

If you mean when will you be able to drink in a normal way again, the answer is, never in this life. Overwhelming evidence of medicine and psychiatry is that once a man has stepped over into the classes as described in paragraph III, no person can ever drink normally again.

If, on the other hand, you mean when will you be free from the desire to drink the answer is, that alcoholic type of drinking being a way of life both in thought and action, the rapidity with which you succeed in changing your fundamental outlook on life, determines the time when you will be free. This, in turn, depends almost solely on the degree of sincerity and energy with which you throw yourself into the program. Some get almost instant release; for others it is a matter of weeks, or in rare cases months.

Our case histories prove that, if a person definitely decides to give up drinking, and if he is not mentally impaired, no failure is possible, provided he honestly and energetically follows the program.

VII. Why can A.A. help me where others could not?

Because A.A. combines the basic and essential elements of sound Alcoholic therapy. It advises you to seek medical help for

your physical deficiencies, if any; a return to your God for your spiritual well-being; the righting on your part, insofar as it is possible, of all past wrongs in order to relieve your mind of inner conflicts. It furnishes you with social and physical activities for the release of nervous energy and the correction of intravert type of thinking. A.A. offers friendships and understanding such as you have probably not known in years. It gives opportunity for sympathetic mutual discussions to give relief to your complexes, repressions and self-recriminations.

Finally, it gives you an opportunity to help others in the same manner you will be helped.

VIII. What do I have in common with such a Group?

In addition to having a common Alcoholic problem you will find that A.A. is as representative a cross-section of our community life as could be found. Members of the group include representatives of every profession, trade and skill. There are business men, laborers, employee and employer, men and women, young, middle-aged and elderly, scholar and student. It is truly representative of many walks of life, social, economic, political and religious. There is little doubt that you will find types to your liking and in harmony with your tastes.

IX. Is A.A. a religious group or movement?

If admitting that we ourselves nor any human relationship or agency have been able to help us so far as the drinking problem is concerned, and that we are desperately in need of help from somewhere, and are willing to accept it, if it can be found - if that is religion - the answer is, yes.

A.A. has no dogma, no creed, no ritual.

It does not intrude into a member’s conception of the Spiritual.

However, we believe that an appeal for help to one’s own interpretation of a Higher Power and the acceptance of that help is the indispensable factor in working toward a satisfactory adjustment to life and its problems.

X. Are there dues, fees, etc.?

There are no dues or initiation fees. A voluntary collection is taken at each meeting to defray current expenses for meeting halls, refreshments, etc. The more fortunate financially contribute $1.00 monthly.

However, A.A. stresses the fact that there are no salaries of any kind or any financial emoluments to any member, whomsoever.

XI. What form of Government does A.A. Have?

Each group throughout the country (of which there are approximately 150) selects its own method of conducting its own business affairs. The group by whom this pamphlet is prepared has adopted the following simple procedure. It has an Executive Committee of five, elected by the Group at large at a regular monthly business meeting. Each member serves for one month, and at the expiration of the month a new Committee is elected.

The Executive Committee elects a Chairman from among their own number who serves at its discretion.

In addition, one member is elected to the House Committee for six months who serves with the Executive committee in order to have continuity in the affairs of the Group. There is also a Treasurer, Secretary, an Entertainment Committee and such other Sub-Committees as may be deemed necessary for the efficient functioning of the Group elected by the Group at large.

XII. How do I become a member?

You become a member of a Group almost automatically. There is no formal initiation or induction. If, after examining yourself honestly and courageously, you admit to yourself you are an Alcoholic, that you sincerely want to stop drinking once and for all, you have only to attend the meetings, make an energetic sincere effort to be guided by the advice and experience of those about you, and try with complete sincerity to live up to its principles, to become a member.

With continued sincerity of purpose, half your battle is won; without it neither A.A. nor anyone else can help you.

General Information.

Any one demonstrating his or her honesty and sincerity of purpose in his or her desire to stop drinking will have recourse to a list of names, addresses and telephone numbers of the Group who will be glad to furnish advice and assistance.

When you feel the need of advice or companionship, do not hesitate to call on or phone any member on the list. If he or she is occupied, he will assist you in getting in contact with some other member who is available. That is an essential part of each member›s work, so don›t feel you are imposing.

When you have decided to become a member, make it as much a full time job as possible (regaining your former life of complete sobriety is a twenty-four hour a day job. Get active; ask the committee if there is any work you can do.

Make it your business to meet and know every other member. Do not be afraid of appearing too forward. We always try to know everyone by their first name; you do the same.

Bring your wife, husband or any other close relative you choose, to the meetings. The better informed your relatives are as to the program, the better position they are in to cooperate with you in this important program for your readjustment.

You will at first naturally feel closer to one or two members, but it is important that you broaden your contacts and develop as many friendships as possible.

Don›t act like a «patient» too long, become the «doctor» and get out and get yourself some patients.

Don›t ever, at any time, imagine you are being slighted.

Time and a little logic will prove to you how wrong you are.

Alcoholics are inclined to hyper-sensitivity - so fight this with all your intelligence.

A.A. can and will do for you what it has done for thousands. If you are sincere in your desire to stop drinking, you can. No one can cure you. You must help yourself.

A.A. gives you the tools, and shows you how to use them. It is up to you to do the work.

There are meetings nearly every evening during the week in various parts of the Metropolitan area. If you desire any information regarding them or if you wish to get in personal contact with a group, address your communication to: P.O. Box 4735, Philadelphia, Pa.

At the first meeting you attend be sure to personally give your name, address and telephone number to the Secretary, if you desire to become a member.

A.A. publishes a 400-page book entitled ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS, which is obtainable at the Clubhouse or any public library.

We urge every victim of alcohol, friends of victims,

physicians, clergymen, psychiatrists or social workers to read and study this book, as it deserves the careful attention of any one interested in the problem of alcoholism.

This book will give them, as no other treatise known, an inside view of the problem which the alcoholic faces and represents the pooled experiences of 100 men and women who have been victims of alcohol, many of them declared hopeless by the experts, and who have won their freedom and recovered their sanity and self-control.

The unhappiest person in the world is the chronic alcoholic who has an insistent yearning to enjoy life as he once knew it, but cannot picture life without alcohol. He has a heart. “1 Joseph set down the pamphlet as thoughts blazed in his mind. The last phrase stuck with in his mind. He knew that he is “yearning to enjoy life as he once knew it,” but it wasn’t just due to alcohol that he couldn’t have it. There was so much more, but he could hardly even admit his unhappiness to himself. Joseph stared at the pamphlet for a few more minutes before he heard the stairs creak. As he looked up, Silvia walked in smiling widely. He couldn’t help but think that this was the first time he had seen her smile for a very long time.

She came over to him, kissed him on the cheek and asked. “How did the meeting go Joseph?”

“It went well, went well… They said I have to believe in getting better to get better at all. That I have to quit alcohol completely.”

“Well isn’t that a good thing to hear!”

Silvia smelled like fresh coat of perfume, lemon with a hint of mint, he thought. I wonder why she decided to put on perfume. Couldn’t have been for me, she hasn’t used perfume for me since our 5th anniversary. I took her out to Franco’s and she wore that black dress…

1 http://westbalto.a-1associates.com/EARLY%20%20PAMPHLETS/Introduction%20to%20AA%20Philadelphia.htm

Silvia continued, breaking Joseph’s thoughts, “Now I suppose we should celebrate! Help me grab the bottles off the table, won’t you?”

Joseph shook his head. “I’m not supposed to drink Silvia, I just told you that.”

“Exactly, we are going to pour all those liquor bottles into the sink and watch your alcoholic self disappear with them!”

Suddenly Joseph’s voice rang out loud and angry, “No!” Silvia looked taken aback and Joseph quieted down, “I mean, no, we should keep them there as a reminder of what I have to fight against. Right?”

Silvia looked at Joseph like she was staring into the face of a stranger. “Of course, why not keep them there as a reminder. I just better not come home to find you sitting in your chair, drunk and sleeping again. If that happens we will both know that the AA meetings aren’t helping you at all, and then I will just be forced to keep a stricter eye on you.” Silvia scrunched up her face. “Now I wonder where Thomas is, he was supposed to be home from his friend Rich’s by 9 P.M. He knows that I don’t like it when he’s home late.”

Silvia left Joseph sitting in his chair and headed out into the foyer, Joseph heard the door open as Silvia looked outside to see if Thomas was anywhere in sight. Joseph heard the rattling of a bike drifting in through the living room’s open window just as Silvia called out.

“Thomas! You get in here right now! You are late!”

Silvia walked away from the door, leaving it open; Joseph heard the bike drop onto the sidewalk with a crack of metal. Thomas then appeared in the doorway, his breath heavy, trying to talk to his mother as she walked away.

“Mother, I’m sorry Rich and I were playing ball and we lost track of time.”

She turned around and glared at her son, “No excuses young man. Now you don’t get to have the dinner I made for you. Go upstairs, make sure your sister is still in bed, and then go to sleep yourself.”

“But Mother I was only five minutes late…”

Silvia turned around, a shocked look appearing on her face. Joseph sat in his chair and watched everything happen around him. He didn’t have the power in him to stop his wife from yelling at their son. He knew that soon enough Thomas would have to learn to be complacent to his mothers will or consequences will occur. Joseph heard the smack before any further words were spoken; his wife’s hand leaving her sons face with the power of a whip.

“How dare you talk back to me, go upstairs, now!”

Thomas placed his cold hand against his cheek and turned around, making his way up the stairs to his room. “And I better not see you till the morning!” Silvia called after him.

Infuriated she turned back toward Joseph. “Sometimes I feel like your son just won’t do as he is told, I was kind and let him go to his friends. Yet still he shows me such disrespect.

After I slave away all day for him to have a clean house, a good meal… I just can’t understand why he would talk back to me like that.”

Joseph nodded his head in response, not necessarily agreeing with what his wife had said, but not wanting to cause any more problems that night. It had been a long day, and he felt like the weekend couldn’t come quickly enough, Saturday and Sunday were the few days when he could relax at home without work and without worry of being bothered. Silvia would go out to the store to do the weeks shopping on Saturday and on Sunday she had book club with the ladies in the neighborhood. It was this freeing feeling that made it the best part of the week for him.

Looking up at Silvia he said, “I’m sorry darling, but I must get some rest, work comes early in the morning.”

Joseph stood up and stretched. He leaned forward to give Silvia a kiss, but she backed away slightly.

“Not now Joseph, I’m upset. I will be in bed shortly.

Sleep well.” With that she maneuvered past Joseph and went into the kitchen. Joseph picked up his jacket, the pamphlet, and the bible Kathy had given him. The last thing

he heard was Silvia opening the fridge as he made his way upstairs. As he laid down in bed he couldn’t help but think how odd his night had been. The meeting was the only thing on his mind, even the fact that his wife had hit his son once again, moved out of sight. The AA meeting had deeply affected him; it had made him feel accepted for the first time in years. Like his life wasn’t as terrible as it could be, and that he now had something other than weekends to look forward to every week.

Joseph picked up the bible from where he had dropped it next to his side of the bed and began to flip through it. His eyes glazed over with drowsiness as he fell asleep and forgot about the world around him and the malevolent god described in those first few pages of the bible.

“Joseph, you better not be sleeping!” The sounds of Silvia’s voice seem to awaken him from the deep slumber of his memories. Joseph sits up and shakes his head, he can’t help but continue thinking about that first AA meeting two and half years ago. How much his life has changed because of going there. The only difference in his home life thought is that Silvia has forced him to sleep in a different room from her, on his own every night.

Joseph rubs his eyes as he stands up from his bed and stretches languidly. He can’t tell how long he has been out, but he knows it must have been only a few minutes. He needs more sleep. Tomorrow is Thursday and he wants to be fully conscious when he goes to the AA meeting. It is his first time being chair tomorrow, so he has to get there earlier than usual. He hears a faint call from downstairs, this time not Silvia’s voice but Thomas’. Joseph turns to the clock, and notices it is already 8 P.M. He knows that Silvia’s voice would soon ring up the stairs in an angry roar. Thomas has been forced to come home earlier and earlier as the years have gone by, his freedoms being ripped from him without care. Just as he thought this he heard a voice ring out.

“Where have you been Thomas?! I told you when to be home, and you didn’t listen to me again! Again and again I tell you when to be home, I told you 7:30, you have work to do, you know you have to be home when I tell you to. You know that you have work to do, why would you get home late again?!”

The anger in her voice is slowly rising, growing until it swells and bursts in the face of her son. Every word that spilt from her lips has been said before, the same anger in her voice as it is every night. Whether it is aimed at Joseph, Thomas, or Janet; it is always the same. Joseph decides to forget about his world as he lies back down in bed. He can’t deal with her harsh words at this point; he needs a break from the beating her words deal out. He falls asleep to the sound of crying downstairs and the screeches of an irrational wife.

A ringing wakes him. The alarm clock beside his bed is going off with a fury; it pulsates until Joseph musters up the strength to smack the snooze button. As soon as he has he wishes he hadn’t, he doesn’t have the will to go into work today. It is the same thing he has been stuck doing for the last several years, and it is wearing on him so heavily that he doesn’t have the will to move at all some of the time. Yet he still gets up, showers, and performs his morning routine without a hitch. Before he leaves he steps into his son’s room to check on him.

Thomas is lying there silently breathing, sleeping soundly, just waiting for his mother to wake him from slumber in time for school. Joseph breathes in deeply, trying to decide whether or not to wake his son to see if he is okay after last night. He decides against it, and closes the door silently behind him. Thomas would be fine today; he’d be fine just like Joseph was every day. He just learns to live with it, and hopes for a day when things will work out the way he always wanted them too.

Joseph is soon on his way to work, getting caught in the highway traffic like he always does, and dealing

with incompetent drivers. He moves like clockwork, each minute already predetermined for him. Work is stressful only because the stack of papers he copies seems to never diminish, only growing each time he pulls one off the top. The company has told him that his job may become unnecessary soon; at least they had the courtesy to tell him to start looking for a new job, but Joseph doesn’t know what else he could do. The day slips by as he types and types, his fingers itching to leave the keys. Periodically he looks up, hoping for more time to have passed, but instead of hours going by, he saw minutes.

He takes his break at noon, not caring that his work wasn’t nearly completed. His head aches and his fingers are cramping already, which they rarely do before noon on a normal day. Joseph stands up and looks around at his fellow typists. He notices that everyone was still working diligently, many of them not planning on taking a break at all today. Joseph decides he needs a true break today, and so he quickly gathers up his jacket and briefcase, and slips out of the office. He makes his way down the stairs with childish glee; he knows he shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing, but it felt so right to do it anyways. He hasn’t taken a day off of work for a year at least, even if he has been sick, he still went. There is just always too much work to be done in the office. He goes down the back staircase as fast as possible, so as to avoid anyone who may be coming back from a lunch break. He gets to his car, tosses his things in the back seat carelessly, and, opening up the windows, begins the drive home.

He starts to think to himself that maybe Silvia will be happy that he was coming home early. He can’t help but remember the days when they courted feverishly, just hoping for the day to come when they would be married. He drives down an almost empty highway thinking about the first night she fell asleep in his arms. It was the first time they had disobeyed her parents, and she stayed at his house over night. Joseph smiles warmly, hoping that she will welcome

him home. He washes away all the memories of her abuse, her insistent anger that permeates their day-to-day life, and the fear that goes with it. He drives fast, the radio shouting jazz at the blue sky and sliding out the car windows to flow in his wake.

Joseph pulls into the driveway as quietly as he can because he wants to surprise her. He opens the front door with only the lightest touch and makes his way inside, not even bothering to bring in his briefcase and jacket from the car. He makes his way into the kitchen, expecting her to be in there, but not even the dog is there. His smile falls away and begins to morph into a frown as he continues to search for his wife, not daring to call out her name yet.

All of a sudden he hears a sound from upstairs, as though something has fallen to the ground. Joseph cautiously makes his way up the stairs, not knowing if someone has broken in, or what else may be going on. The lights are off on the staircase, but he can see a stream of light seeping through a crack in his wife’s bedroom door.

Joseph holds onto the handrail as tightly as he can, and makes his way to the top of the stairs. As he walks slowly he hears something else drop to the floor, startling him. He clutches at his chest, not realizing he has been holding his breath until it expels from him. As he steps into the hallway he begins to hear the sounds of pleasure leaking from the room. Deliberately he places each foot in front of the other, his breath gets heavier. He knows something is wrong, something he never expected to happen to him.

Joseph could feel the blood rushing to his head, knowing what he is about to find when he opens the bedroom door.

Joseph stops right behind the spot of light and takes a deep breath before pushing the door open. What his eyes behold is nothing worse than what he had been expecting.

It is needless to say, but Silvia’s face is filled with ecstatic pleasure, that is, until she hears the creak of the door as Joseph walks in. Her vision turns to him instantly, but the man keeps at his work nonetheless. Silvia smiled at Joseph;

a wide devilish smile that says she had been waiting for this day to happen for a long time. Joseph stands there for a moment, his eyes squinting in anger and embarrassment.

He doesn’t know what is worse: his wife screwing some unknown man or the fact that he thought she would welcome him home. Joseph turns to leave the room, without saying anything, when Silvia spoke.

“Joseph, my husband, would you mind closing the door before you go?”

Joseph turns back around in heated fury, wanting to be that jealous, angry husband; his so infuriated he wants to murder that man. But when he looks at his wife’s smiling face, he can’t do anything but oblige her request.

He leaves without uttering a syllable. He closes the door silently, listening to the moans of pleasure bleed through the doorframe as he makes his way downstairs. His head is filled with infamous thoughts, though none of them would come together coherently. He should have expected something like this from the beginning, how long she had been sleeping without him in their bed should have tipped him off in the least.

Joseph goes and sits in his pink armchair. He listens to the floor creak above his head. He sits there trying to forget what he saw whenever he opened the door; trying to forget that that was his wife upstairs. Staring at his shaking hands he holds back the fury raging in his mind. He always follows what his wife asks of him. Every day of his life is completely controlled by her and what she wants for him.

Even his son and daughter are prone to becoming prisoners in their mother’s arms, waiting for the day when they would be able to get away from a life plagued by a beguiling, yet terrible, presence.

His thoughts begin to turn away from the noise and toward the crystal glasses covered in dust sitting not to far behind his chair. He asked his wife to leave them there after his first AA meeting, as a reminder of what he sacrificed for her happiness, and supposedly his own. The warm liquor

sat on its silver tray, whiskey, still sealed by its wax, waited for him to taste it again. There is a pain in his chest so sharp that he can’t think of any other way to rid himself of it but to drown it in alcohol. Calmly, with a collected air of determination, Joseph stands up from his pink armchair and finds a knife in the kitchen. He comes back moments later and slices the wax off of a bottle of whiskey immediately.

He breathed in deeply, sucking up the air of a three year old whiskey.

He knows that he isn’t going to go to the meeting that night; he knows that his salvation is not with them, at least not at this point. He needs solace from the horrors of his life; those horrors are precisely why his drinking had begun in the first place. After he had married his wife, she began to change almost immediately. Her words turned harsh before his eyes, her happiness coming from demeaning him without a single pleasantry. Joseph feels his eyes welling up with tears as he wraps his hand around the throat of the bottle; he realizes that he shouldn’t do this, but can think of nothing else except the lover his wife is taking up at that moment, in his house.

With a deep breath he puts the bottle to his lips and drinks the smallest amount before spitting it out of his mouth.

He throws the bottle to the side, its contents spewing out on the hard wood floor, flowing like blood toward the kitchen doorway. Joseph realizes he can’t do it. He can’t put himself back into that position of helplessness, while he is already so helpless in every other aspect. Joseph’s face begins to twitch, his lips following suit, and soon his entire body was shaking with the pent up anger of years. Anger at the woman he chose to marry, anger at the world he had brought his children into, anger at the liquor he thought would take him away from his life, anger at himself for being so foolish for so long. He didn’t know what to do with his anger; he couldn’t very well take it out on his wife or her lover, who ever he was. He can’t get rid of it. It is going to stay there for as long as he could hold it in. Until the day he gains the courage to

speak.

Joseph stands there shaking, as seconds became minutes and minutes become hours. At some point the shaking subsides, as does the commotion upstairs. When Silvia comes downstairs, hand in hand with the man who makes her smile, she doesn’t even notice Joseph standing silently in front of the liquor as she kisses her ‘friend’ goodbye.

“Will I be seeing you next week?” The strange man asks.

“Well of course darling.” Silvia replies.

She closes the door smiling. Then Silvia moves from the foyer into the living room, not noticing the silhouette of her husband in the back of it until she was only a few feet away. When she suddenly sees him she lets out a short screech, and holds her chest tightly.

“My God, Joseph, you scared the hell out of me standing back there, so broodingly silent like that.” Joseph doesn’t even turn around at the sound of her voice and Silvia rolls her eyes. She makes her way over to him, and placing her hand on his shoulder, produces a half smile, only in pity of his predicament. His head turns slightly, as if trying to hear what she has to say better. “You knew something like this was going to happen eventually. I don’t know why you would even be surprised at all. You know that we haven’t done anything for so long…” Joseph turns his head a little farther and pulls his shoulder out from under her hand. “Oh Joseph don’t take it so harshly, my God. Its only sex, honestly.”

Joseph turns around completely, feeling, in that moment, a complete serenity. What Silvia is saying to him hardly even registers in his mind, he is stuck there, focusing entirely on how meaningless his life had become. Go to work, come home, go to work, come home; how has he lived like this for so long? He questions whether or not there is some way out of it. He confesses every week to Father McDowl about his family life, and again every Thursday to Kathy and all the other group members, but neither of those

things has truly freed him from his life for long. He still goes home, deals with a wife who hates him, and a son who disrespects him. No matter what is going on in his life, these are the unchanging constants.

He stares down at his wife with an air of confusion, like he has forgotten for a moment who she is, or even what is going on around him. In that moment Silvia notices that one of the bottles is missing form the tray behind Joseph; the next moment she sees the bottle shattered on the ground.

“Oh Joseph look what you’ve done! How am I supposed to get those stains out of the wood? We’ll have to call someone in to refurbish the entire living room.”

Silvia says, exasperated, as she walks away from Joseph and leaves in search of a broom and dustpan. Her mind moves away from pity as she switches back into her role as the housewife as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Joseph keeps looking down at where his wife’s face had been, words caught in his throat, tearing at him from the inside. He can’t face the truth that his wife is far from his and only his now; thoughts race through his head like bullets and crash together like morning waves. How long has this been going on, how long has she been lying to him, how did this happened, do the kids know, what will his life be like now, how will he live knowing what Silvia is doing behind his back? So many questions he can’t answer, and so many fears that were instantly turned into reality only a few moments before. He has kept up the façade that his life is perfect for so long, he even had begun to think it was so himself.

Silvia reenters the room and begins to sweep, not looking at Joseph as he stands there silently, as if waiting for the past hour to disappear. Silvia begins to tire of him staring over her with that blank expression on his face, so she begins to try and convince him out of it.

“Don’t just stand there dumbfounded like that Joseph, honestly. I need to go pick up Thomas soon, and Janet is

going to be at her friend Rachel’s until 4, so please collect yourself by then. It won’t be a healthy thing for your children to see you in such a state.”

“Okay.” Joseph answers. He then proceeds to fix a smile on his face in return to Silvia’s annoyed scowl, and blink his eyes several times; as though something is there that he cannot rid himself of. He rubs his eyes with the side of his hand, breathes in deeply, lets out a sigh and looks at Silvia again, who had been watching him the whole time.

Tentatively Silvia asks, “Are you going to be alright Joseph?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He replies. Looking confused he glances around the room. “What time is it?”

“Only about 1. You know you are wearing a watch Joseph. You should know these things.”

“Of course I didn’t even realize I had my watch on.”

Silvia looks at Joseph quizzically. He seems out of place, being just slightly more complacent than would be normal after discovering her and her lover in bed together.

Silvia shakes her head, and tries to forget about it all. Moving her thoughts instead to the ecstasy she experienced less than thirty minutes before. She had wanted Joseph to find her and Stephen together at some point, or at least she wanted to tell Joseph about him eventually. She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up her lie much longer, especially since things were getting more romantic with Stephen, rather than just the sex. Silvia sighs audibly, causing Joseph to turn and look at her.

“I’m going to go for a walk. I’ll be home later.” He tells her suddenly.

“Joseph, you need to be home tonight, no AA meeting.

We need to have a talk about what happened earlier.”

“Right, right you are dear.” And with that Joseph picks his jacket off the pink chair as he walks through the foyer and out of the house.

Joseph walks fast, his legs move without thought or provocation. He doesn’t know where he is walking, but

he knows that he has to go there as soon as possible. He can’t be in that house any longer than he could be with that woman. He has to get away. He has to live. He has to breathe and he had to exhale. He had to live his own life and not this false one he has for so many years now. Joseph walks past the Millers, past the Wilsons, past all the identical homes. He walks past all the people he has known in the drudgery of his daily life. He walks past identical families to his. Families where the fathers, husbands, or sons, would go off to work each day to leave their mothers, wives, or daughters too do what they would. Each family dealing with the abuse that life deals out, maybe the husband beats his wife, or the kids disobey their mother, or the mother curses her family and cheats on her husband every waking moment.

You never truly know, but there are always some problems within their lives.

Walking through his neighborhood of white picket fences Joseph understands that families like these are a constant in his life. He walks past his daughter’s friend Rachel’s home, and sees Janet playing in the yard. She is happily digging up the ground with a small shovel and dressing up dolls with her friend. Janet sees him and waves, her pristine teeth glistening, except for the space left by the absence of her front two teeth.

“Father!” She cries out “Hello Father!” She keeps smiling as Joseph turns away from her, his eyes welling up with tears. He doesn’t want to look at her; her face is much too similar to that of his wife’s. He doesn’t want to think of how his daughter has been growing up in a house as broken as theirs; didn’t want to imagine how it will continue to affect her and Thomas for the rest of their lives. They know nothing different from the terrible treatment their mother gives, only because their father is too much of a coward to do anything about it. He wants to love his wife; and he wants her love in return, but neither of those things can happen. Joseph looks over at his daughter one last time, as her smile fades from her lips, and he speeds up his pace.

He walks for what feels like miles before ending up at the front steps of the church. Looking down at his watch he realizes he has barely been out for more than an hour now, his mind had been drifting so flippantly from the past to the present and back again that he paid time no mind. He doesn’t know why he had made his way here, but he feels the urge to go inside. Joseph knows that he can’t be weak any longer. He needs strength, and the only way for him to gain it can be through the God he has found solace in these last several years.

Joseph takes a deep breath and walks up the steps, his heart pounding in his chest as he opens up the grand church doors. No one is inside that he could see, the mid day sun was still shining through the stain glass windows creating an ethereal feel to the barren hall. Joseph walks up the main aisle, his feet hardly making a sound on the red velvet carpet. He stares up at Christ being crucified on the cross the entire way up to the altar and continues looking at Jesus as he kneels down to pray.

“God, I don’t know what I should do. I haven’t spoken to you directly for a very long time, but I think it’s time I should. I found my wife cheating on me today, and I wanted to kill her and the man she was with, but I couldn’t find the courage. I’ve been longing for a way out for so long, and now that I have one I don’t know if I even want to take it.

Oh God, I am so confused. I love my family, if only because they are my entire life. I live every day to take care of them, to make sure they are safe, happy, and well off. Why did my Silvia have to do this to me?” Tears are starting to drip from Joseph’s eyes, his breath growing ragged he tries to continue on. “God, I just need your guidance, you’ve been here for me for years, through weekly confessions, through church, and most importantly through AA. You gave me a community to believe in and a life that I wanted to live. I have been afraid for so long; it was impossible to get away. I just didn’t want to leave my family; I didn’t want them to have to live a life without a father.” Joseph stops talking, and just

listens to the sound of his voice echo off the empty walls. He bows his head down and closes his eyes once more. “Would it be so terrible a thing to leave my family? I don’t know anything else but being a father, a husband, and a worker; what else could I do though? Please, God, give me a sign, some reason for me to stay or to leave, I can’t make this decision on my own.” Joseph’s tears stream steadily down his cheeks, his voice cracking every few words of the prayer.

He stares up at the Crucifix waiting for a sign.

Why do you not breathe?

MacKenzie P. Bruce

You crack your thoughts against barren stone.

Watch as the world becomes one with angry demons you have known.

You dreamed of life without a past, why have you become so outcast Your soul’s been blackened by the tar, your shouts over fury never made it to the lords ears; your voice doesn’t carry that far.

You spoke without warning, blasphemy on your lips, why do you never question the holy scripts?

You stink of lies and bitter perfume, you still wish to assume that life has some greater purpose for you. You groom yourself each morning, with make up and tears, why don’t you just accept your own damn fears?

You make a mockery of your life when you leave your church before prayer.

You hope to God that he leaves you without strife, but your husband comes home late,

and you wonder, but why do you even wait?

You skin yourself to the bone, and hope that no one can find a scar.

You say you never want to be alone, but when the words drop dead in your throat he leaves you. Why must you always get the last note?

You stay calm, and collected, your thoughts don’t stray from him.

You do just as you are expected, and crawl to the crucifix on hands and knees.

Why do you wait for the pain to ease?

You watch as the years go by, no one notices your tears, no one notices you cry.

You are left alone to seethe, why haven’t you stopped to breathe?

Retrograde Amnesia MacKenzie P. Bruce

I remember

a word you said once.

I was lost

And you tried to bring me back.

You said I was

a memory, or that I

was losing memory.

Losing myself To a place without

words.

I remember

a dream I had yesterday, but today its fading.

You reminded me of ice, but I don’t know why.

I think of what’s

outside.

White flakes of

water.

Smiles are everywhere

I see them When people look at me.

You say I’m

disappearing…

I remember

when I could remember anything.

You told me

I loved Music,

That I listened to Bach.

I don’t remember

the sound.

The words and notes all blur together

like finite memories slipping away.

I remember when your fingers

curled mine.

Your hair caught the light.

Fire blares outside

a window, I wait to become warm again.

I remember

sticking needles in my mind.

Trying to pull

everything back into fo cus.

You say you miss who I was who you wish

I could still be.

I remember

breathing, deeply

and waiting for

hours for you to lift me

from where I laid

unknowing of what I had done, of what you And I meant to each other before all of this.

I don’t remember where I was

yester day.

Or even your name.

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik or A Little Late Night Music Madeline Colker

Only in slipping darkness when my body moves like a doll’s do I pick up discarded sunflower petals (the lion of flowers) and begin to cry.

Using the crumbling velvet to wipe away my tears, I gather the broken stalks in my arms and crease them into crutches to support my folding body.

And there are forever stairs to fall up, hallways, even rooms with doors slightly ajar, light creeping through gaping slivers like ivy.

Dancing reflections along the walls that remind me how still I have become.

I drip a trail of sunflower petals along the stairs so I can trace my way back but I never turn back and soon those petals are swept away and used tomorrow night as dolls hair.

If You Shall Ever Be Taylor Fife

after Anne Bradstreet if you shall ever be you’ll be both wasp and honeybee— my little best of me. aswirl in the depths of my vascular galaxies, you swim in infinite loops steadily, patiently. it is amazing what nature can do— turn one body into two. right now you’re the size of the tiniest pea but I know one day you’ll have your Mama’s personality— my little black queen bee. and if the day shall ever come, my coco sugar plum you’ll be born midday in the thick of september— my little raisin in the sun.

I can’t help to think will you be mad at me? for pushing you into this world of madness and instability? or will you rise up, what will you become? be a leader, do the things that I have never done. fight battles,

tear down walls steal hearts one-by-one, explore the world— be my little princess on the run.

I promise to love you more than I love me. my precious star, my patient moon— my little fire ablaze striking up inside my womb.

The Dirt on Our Hands Taylor Fife

I come from the deepest part of Motherland Africa, jungle hair and swampy lips, desert skin and tribal black stamps— I carry a thousand kings and queens on the crest of my bare back.

Pressed into my ebony skin, the sun beats rays on the creases of my neck.

There’s sweat dripping down my forehead, it falls to the cracks in my lips.

The salt is bitter, the air is southern, it whips through these fields, the wind is too broken.

I hear my ancestor’s screams through the whispers of their windy shadows— the air is too dry in these fields.

We’re growing a garden

in the ground from the dirt on our hands.

I hear Papa at the end of our row: he whispers North is the way and I believe him when he says that freedom isn’t but one mossy, green trunk away.

But I see how Mama laughs at him, laughs like the apple buds laugh into blossoms.

I turn away.

The land is afire with color and the sunflowers nod in hot fields.

It is mid-June 1842 and my hands are caked in the field’s wet soil. Under my nails there is amber-brown clay and spools of grey cotton that make my fingertips bleed the color of primrose. My palm cracks into shades of blue.

A Humming Bird Speaks Taylor Fife

I am a bright whirligig, who knows no grief.

Mother told me I was born from a thousand thimbles of sweet nectar and sweat, the edges of a curled nest, no proper word

to describe me. Soaring through nature’s tresses, I’d sample and savor another honeysuckle and the next.

What more pleasure is there than to fly in endless clouds, my glittered wings sparkling like gems?

Or to spend my hours flower-gorged, the sugar whisking off my tongue?

When there are no more flowers left, I will float away to a weeping dawn.

I will be born again, pushed out in the open sky it is then when I’ll see what color the sun has become and how the world turns.

I will awake, lie stretching into a shimmering dawn.

An Excerpt from How To Happen Brenna Gallagher

I live open/I’ve always been moving, always interweaving with myself, letting things pass through/passing through a field filled entirely with Hydrangeas, I thought about my body/my body is a structure/I’ve listened to her hum into bed sheets/bed sheets never smell as good after you lay on them/neither do I/if I could have been born anything else, it would have been a mattress/I was walking down the street the other day, I saw a mattress left on the side of a sidewalk for the trashmen/there was a large blood stain in the middle/I felt it in the middle/I felt it in the middle/I felt it in the middle of my gut and I knew it was wrong/knowing you were wrong, I still listened/and I’d do it again/because when I was walking through that field of Hydrangeas/I didn’t think of you.

An Excerpt from How To Happen Brenna Gallagher

There can be something holding you somewhere with its hands around your neck and it can’t be touched back/ touching your back, I’ve never felt anything softer/touching your unshaven face, I’ve never felt anything/I felt more/I felt you more on Sundays than any day of the week/any other day, I would have left by now, but I didn’t/instead I felt you/ you felt wrong when I asked you to leave me alone/leave me alone/leaving your house with no shoes on, the ground hurt very bad.

3.6 Degrees of Uncertainty Jessica Ignasky

Water’s home is a heated pool, but the dial is broken.

Water’s roof can’t keep its glaciers from sliding down; melting, melting, melting – Earth is unhappy. She struggles through negotiations, lets others determine her proper temperature and how she should keep Water satisfied. She is letting others speak for her. Her melodies translated into scientific data, her moods converted to Celsius.

Our hands holding up our own glaciers, but we have no gloves.

Ice burns our skin; watery flames peel layers of us into the oceans.

Contingent (Particles of the Universe) Jessica Ignasky

I let the icicles on the porch shimmy off their skin onto my scalp. It’s an unhealthy little method; the idea is that the shocks from the cold water are supposed to freeze up anything you don’t want to think of. Two or three drops and I

was set, well, that’s how it used to be. Now, I’m going for the full reverse brain freeze.

My eyes focus on the tree. If the branches tilt or I see

the wind crawling inward through what’s left of the leaves, it’s over. There are a few different ways I’m probably going to die by, and none of them include sending an icicle straight through my brain. I’m not stupid. *

I’m flat against the bed, the dark squeezing into my

eyes, making a roof for itself out of the lids. The freezing didn’t help. If I don’t think of another way to learn how to control myself, I’m going to end up like X, going to end up gone, going to be dust. The wind’s going to pick me up, and right now it can’t even carry me to the water because in this cold if you so much as lick your lips you’ll have your own icicles.

“You don’t wanna go in the winter. If you go then, you’re gonna wait. Wait for the snow you land on to melt so you can sink into the ground. That’s a bad way to go. Waiting in the cold for the world to suck up your spirit, almost feels like it forgot about you.”

I need another alternative to the icicles. *

X flicks the coins from her palm into their jar. Every

time one lands, metal against glass crashing into the walls, I wish the whole thing would shatter. When a coin ricochets off of the rim of the jar and falls in, water drips from the hole in the ceiling. The togetherness of everything is unnerving.

What is left of the coins is allowed to fall into the jar.

There isn’t much jar left to fall into; maybe it would be best if the entire thing shattered. Would it turn to dust if it was broken? Would the shards, before they even reached the floor, float over to the puddle in the corner and –

“Take it,” the jar in front of my face, eyes crossing

at the silvers and deep browns through the glass. I pull my head back.

“This is yours.”

“Take it.”

“Why?”

Her hand shakes, the weight of the jar pushing

through the gravity around it. I don’t want to take it, something doesn’t feel right; feels like I should let her hold it

out to me until the weight becomes too much and everything sinks into the floor.

“Please.”

My hands reach out to hers, the jar shaking in

her grip, the sound of money ringing so loud I can’t hear anything else. I pull it close to me; let it rest on the bed. X stands in the middle of her room like a word. Like ‘shame’ is being screamed out of all the pores in her body.

“What’s it feel like?” I know what is happening now.

The discarding of possessions is one of the first signs that the earth is beginning to take your energy to use as her own, recycling you into her arms, taking the best of you and turning it to dust.

Discarding objects allows people to speak with each other, find the words subtracted from their mouths and turn them into something physical. Giving part of yourself became a small gesture that wouldn’t let what the earth had rooted inside of you know you were accepting what was happening.

Eventually it wouldn’t matter whether you understood what was becoming of you, acceptance had little impact on your capability of surviving. Energies were nearly impossible to reverse once they began to turn against you.

“It’s…different somehow. I’ve only heard my aunt

describe it; you know how it’s not a thing you ask other people, you just…let it happen to them. She always said it was pressing, felt like something was pushing inside her all the time. Said it hurt.”

“Does yours?”

“Mine is…how it feels when someone whispers to you.

Feels like there’s wind inside of my body. Doesn’t hurt,” she says the last bit with relief stained on her eyes.

I move to touch her arm; scared to take it in fear she would melt into dust in my hands. But she couldn’t. She still has a chance. I try to convince myself. She must’ve just found out, this is fresh and she’s telling me now. This is early. I want to tell her that, tell her that there is time, that if she starts forcing it out of herself, if she doesn’t let it root itself any further she won’t –

“I can’t do that,” she knew.

“I know you don’t believe in that, but I do. You just

have to train yourself.”

“I’m not that type of person, Zia.”

“It’s not just one type of person. You could do it! You

have focus, you’re strong, you’re…look at you, I can’t lose you!” I bury my head into her shoulder, the bone pressing hard against my face. X is like a rock, sometimes in the

typical, dependable sense, but also physically. She is strong, she’s an unmovable force of a woman who brushes herself against waves and stands tall through the rushing water, but as I hold her in my arms I feel her falling from underneath my grasp, the strength already removing itself from her reach.

“I’ve had it for longer than you think.”

X peels her pants leg up to her kneecap and turns

around, the back of her calf exposed in the dim light of her room. Her flesh is dark and discolored, looks like it is starting to melt itself off of her bone. I’ve only heard of how the earth starts twisting your energy within you, but I knew what would happen next. It would wrap itself up her skin, climbing its own stairs to the top of her body where it would rest. She would grow content with it, and then, almost in the same instant, she would be gone. Dust.

“Why’d you let this happen?” I ask as she rolls her

pants leg back down, careful not to press too hard against the skin. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I tried to. It stopped me.” *

Up in bed, checking my ankles, the room pushing

me towards its center. It’s dark, but not on my skin, the

ice on the window illuminated by what stars are left in the sky. There aren’t that many. I should be thankful. Maybe I’m lucky, maybe I will never feel my energy twisting within myself; maybe I’m built to fight it off.

Waking up in the middle of the night is just another

routine. Night makes you vulnerable, tears you from yourself and into sleep, drawing you in with dreams and darkness.

If you’re strong enough to force your way out of sleep, you might be able to fight it, push it from the depths of yourself as you push yourself from your dreams and resurface, free of darkness, free of dust, free of disappearing into nothingness.

But the sleep I force myself from has become impossible to fall into, just as the icicles will soon have to fall onto my head for me to gain any feeling from them. My life is based around methods that have absolutely no guarantee of success.

Fitting. * “You need to call more often,” my mother on Sunday afternoons, disappointment rolling off her body and onto my table, “I mean it.”

“I thought you being here was what you wanted. You

said talking over the phone had no personality.”

“I didn’t mean stop calling altogether.”

“Well,” my chair suddenly extremely uncomfortable to

sit in.

“This isn’t a great atmosphere either. Why do you

have to arrange everything? Can’t I just stop by one day, out of the blue?” she says this as if the glass in her hand has not felt the same words vibrate off its body before.

“Sundays are fine, this works,” before Sundays it

was Saturdays. Before Saturdays it was Thursdays. We are running out of days to make things work.

I watch her sigh, the air pulling itself into her lungs.

She always needs something close to her. She sighs again, hoping I will be with her, hoping I will move with the stale air of my house and drift beside her. She doesn’t have to say what she wants; it’s always the opposite of what I can give.

There is more silence. The words we want to speak to

one another stay buried beneath our tongues; I wonder what they would taste like if they became dust. The letters piling up on one another, the shapes spewing over our taste-buds, coating the inside of our mouths, a riverbed of meanings curled up between our teeth, all of it streaming out endlessly until –

“I worry,” my mother grabs my hand across the table,

suddenly, as if she’s never worried before. “When I leave

there’s a week between us and I worry about you alone because what if something happens to you, what if you get swept up and I can’t see you in time before you’re gone.”

“I’ll get swept up into the earth slower than a week you

know that,” I try to release her grip from my hand but she’s gone, spiraling.

“What if it happens to me, will you even think to check

up on me?”

I pull her hand from my arm, red marks starting

to form from where she’s seeping all her worries into my skin. I grab her shoulders and steady her; I can feel her mind speeding around the room, pulling her farther and farther away from me. I prepare myself for the crying that will happen soon; prepare myself for the weight of her body in my arms as she collapses into me. But it doesn’t come. Instead, silence. As she calms herself I feel her pulse slowing in my arm, feel the blood in her veins lose its excitement.

“The reality of losing everything is not an idea I like to

entertain,” she sighs again. Would she be able to sigh if the air turned to dust? Would we be able to breathe?

“That’s why I left.”

“What?” this is not a question; she wants another

answer.

“I can’t waste time telling you things you already

know,” I stand up from the table and move to the door, aware of how heavy the doorknob feels in my grasp. My mother looks hurt, of course she does, I’m pushing her out, but I’ve no room for people who shuffle themselves around without considering the idea that everything they know could disappear. Ignorance is how we’ve shamed ourselves into believing that there is only one way out of this life. My mother may want to be dust, but I will not leave my life floating through the air. *

Hyacinthus

In memory Apollo’s lover and flower Taylor Johnson Apollo listens to Sade while memorizing poetry in the bathtub.

The polished metal basin is flat. There are no more soap bubbles left to hide under; just stale lukewarm water is left to rinse his shoulder blades.

His feet, crossed over the edge.

He licks the tip of his index finger and drops the book into the water.

Gripping a tear stained flower, he inhales the petals and swallows erupting sobs. / Artemis knocks on the door.

“Apollo, what’s wrong?”

My hand grazes the knob, and without even turning I know his silver bow is propping the door closed.

I haven’t seen my brother in days.

The last time I saw him he was golden, throwing a disc back and fourth with Hyacinth. / As I held him in my arms, I felt my grief emanate with his skin that seemed to luminesce, watercolors faded from his sheer satin skin.

His veins were indigo, I remember. I placed a kiss on each web and grew a garden from his spilled scarlet blood.

My budding flower, Hyacinthus. / My brother listens to Sade while in the bathtub.

The music echoes off the marble tiles and granite walls of this house.

His sobs never stop singing from under the door.

One of his mistresses are waiting in the foyer.

They wait all throughout the night for the screaming to end. /

Robert Downey Jr. Auditions for the role of Hercules Taylor Johnson

Jupiter put handguns and drugs under the tree for little Hercules.

Putting the trigger in his own son’s hand they sparked over breakfast, like father like son.

Thirty one years old, racing down Sunset Boulevard white powder dusting the leather passenger seat, needles dripping off the dash, Hercules holds his .357 Magnum hitting the insides of his knees.

He climbs in through the window to Jo’s house and falls into slumber on white sheets stretched tight across a queen mattress, in a blue room.

“He’s troubled,” the chorus says.

“He has a good heart,” the chorus says.

Hercules woke up and missed his final drug test.

Hercules spent the next 6 months behind golden bars.

Because I Wanted It Just As Bad As You Did Jazmyne Kenney she sits the foot of her bed half morning and half tired eyes. she murmurs to herself twenty-five thousand, carrying the number off her lips like treasure. she scratches lottery tickets with a nail file, stopped using quarters, she said, because there was too much bad luck on other people’s hands, too much being passed around. a ticket for everyday spent wishing, because a stranger scooped her sleepy hands up into theirs and told her today was hers. she was an imploding sun. because a week after the birth of her daughter a woman in rural Pennsylvania won ten thousand with the numbers of the day she was born. because her grandmother

had eyes the color of new pennies and when she told her “girl, you got some magic in you” she had no choice but to believe. she treats lottery like religion prays in numbers and takes fortune cookies as gospel. avoids cursing in the bathroom hunched over scratch offs or on car rides to giant eagle or standing in front of the neon colored machine, saying, “this is a sacred day.” she spins fantasy into truth, presses it into dimes, throws her sadness away into wishing fountains, crosses her fingers whispering to herself, “this time.”

Fragility Between Big Hands Jazmyne Kenney

and the lord made light, and it was good. a GIRL is born, ten fingers, ten toes a light somewhere in a small room, goes out. little fingers catch between locked doors, a bone is broken. then jesus came to them and said, “all authority on heaven and earth has been given to me.� they should have found a name for HER somewhere between the storm, the eye, and the sun.

from him, through him, and to him, are all things. the screams came in waves soft at first, as if the earth was made of milk, then, all at once, a thunderous, choking, quiet. in the image of god, he created them; male and female, he created them. after that SHE hung herself out to dry, filled up every clothes line with her body, folded HERSELF with the bed sheets and closed all the drawers.

jesus wept.

Valentine Application Mollie March-Steinman

1. Have weathered hands, bright teeth, cheeks sore from perpetual grins, fresh calluses rising from old ones, a smattering of curious scars.

2. Know how to cocoon a woman, to plant gems in her dimples, to hold her most neglected bones— clavicle, ankle, hollows of the neck. Listen when

her lips aren’t moving.

3. Cherish the spot where hips taper into ribs; cherish it with both hands.

Interrupt yourself to kiss her and giggle when your glasses clink.

4. Smile widely at waiters and store clerks and let her sip from your coffee mug. Take refuge in empty classrooms, grazing her hair with musicianfingers, strumming curls.

5. Layer your leather jackets.

Be the Danny to her Sandra Dee, the Crybaby to her Allison. Smirk a lot. Scoop her up on your metaphoric motorcycle while smoking a square.

6. Allow yourself to be overcome with emotion. Delight in the freshness of a young morning, the yawning of new flowers,

the buzzing

of caffeinated blood. Find romance in the end

of every rap song.

Gulabi Gang

Mollie March-Steinman for the Indian vigilante group fighting against rape, sexism, and domestic violence.

This cinnamon-toned sentry, this fresh rose garden, this flamboyance of avian pink, this wealth of passion fruits flushing at unwanted touch, these unapologetic saris pounding their rage on dry grass, sucking up blood-puddles & staining themselves cherry. Indian anguish is red today, hot, like chafed knees & cheeks pressed to bus windows. You can hear its pulse in the staccato bamboo thumps, the pounding, the straining arteries of a weak empire. 400,000 flamingos extend feathers over their sisters, their militia, & armed with a feverish need, set fire to the southern sky.

Sukkot in Frick Park Mollie March-Steinman

germinate

When we are breathless from mud-fights and laughter and other such childish delights we take turns dancing through hose-water, naked, spraying the dog too because his tongue is dry with summer. Rosebud breasts and soft-fuzzed skin prompt little side-eye—the male gaze still waiting for us to bloom.

pollinate

We are in a gusty hut, fingertips touching, dead grass tickling bare skin, watching the sun redden through slits in the palm-frond roof. A soft wind picks up the dusk and barbecue smoke and swirls it around our faces, my long hair flaming gold on the makeshift floor— we are sacred, sexuality unquestioned, the picket-fenced princesses of Point Breeze.

anticipate

I catch a firefly, place it on your nose, and call it an angel. You ask how they fly in dresses when the sky is so windy, and we agree to wear blue jeans with our wings. Golden soul flickering, our angel leaps away, into the dust, through the gaps in our holy nest.

Sugar

Alexis Payne We use three sticks of butter in these cookies.

Maybe two.

I’ve forgotten or can’t remember, how to make your Christmas cookies, the ones that make your thighs hurt when you eat too many.

I only remember flour caught under your nails, body spilling over your mobile chair, brown skin sagging beautifully. the magnet on your fridge: We are here for a good time, not a long time, curly gray hair I’d climb on your bed to comb.

I don’t remember how you said to mix the batter, to create the perfect consistency.

I only remember your brown slippers, your large legs, the time I called you fat under my breath under my breath you mixed batter and smiled, tasted butter on your tongue, and set the oven to 350.

Being Human Alexis Payne

Part One—Hair Little dark girls with naps. Little dark girls with naps play on the street corner at midnight while little dark boys shoot craps in the hallway, whisper to each other about the politics of survival. Little dark girls with naps make sandwiches with bologna and twist hips on the sidewalk, tumble in heels too big for small feet. Little dark girls…little dark girls…

You don’t see me in magazines. Hair thick like a brillo pad, short mini fro like the way I came out of the womb womb womb. I lie. I was bald when my mother birthed me, my head like the shiny back of a new penny. What is hair anyway?

You don’t see me in magazines.

Sometimes you see girls with curls that run down their shoulders in ringlets, exploding from their heads in long long tresses. “Mixed Chicks” product line like being black is a crime of sorts, praising the girl whose hair feels like hair. Mine reminds you of wool you say. Some days I wish I had hair like yours. Some days I don’t. These days I more often am grateful for me. Those days I wished everyday that I was you you you.

In elementary school, I thought there were more white people in the world. The Flats look like beer cans and Hillbillies and people who are broken and…have…no… class. What’s that mean anyway? Have no class? We went swimming in a pool down the road from our school and I didn’t wanna get my hair wet because it was straight and I loved it and it made me look like you you you. You were beautiful.

Little dark girls with naps.

This woman walks up to me and she says…Is that all your real hair really? I say no. I should say yes. I should say … is that all your hair really? I should lean forward like she does, petting at my scalp like I am something to be gaped at. I don’t say anything. Does that make me weak? I used to do hair you know? I used to do hair but I never did hair like yours. Yours. Yours. Little dark girl with naps. Her hand still rests there, trying to figure out the maze of braids that confuses her. She must solve the mystery that is me. I smile wide at her, tight-lipped. I am fake. I am weak. I don’t say anything….Oh I see. I could tell. I could tell it wasn’t real, I just wasn’t so sure. I pack up my things and she moves her hands. I am still smiling. Am I weak for this? For not knowing what to say? She doesn’t know. She grins at me and shrugs. Mhm. Mhm. Mhm. Hips and hair. Little dark girl with naps. Celebrated naps. Look at her hair. She’s a proud black woman who don’t need no man. Afrocentric! Making statements that bounce of societal expectations and stick to the places that burn the most.

I am not making a statement. I am not making a statement.

I like naps. I like naps like the ones my grandmother had when she came out of the womb womb womb. My hair is in curls too thick to see. I like weave sometimes. I like straight hair and big hair. I like hair. I like my hair. In so many shades of black, I am tumbling. I just want to float away, to be a human…human, human.

Part Two: Purpose At a church retreat we discuss what the word “purpose” means to people of the world. I say that for a lot of people, purpose simply means to survive. My church doesn’t understand that: “Maybe in West Africa, where people are fighting Ebola. But not here.”

Not here. Not here. Like we are some grand and holy nation.

Like we all have never been to prison, never felt hopeless, never had the lights shut off because we couldn’t pay the bill.

I want to tell them of the boy who got shot on Saturday night.

The boy who went to prom with us. The boy who graduated.

He was 18. 18. 18. The news says that he died very matterof-factly, dryly, like there’s nothing particularly remarkable about a black boy getting shot in the head head head:

“Mr. Turner had been found in the stairwell, shot in the head, and was taken to UPMC Presbyterian where he died Sunday”

He died Sunday. The Lord’s Day. The holy day. We pick apples on Sunday. We sing songs about Jesus with a guitar, smile at the little boy who is running across the carpet in bare feet. Chandeliers dangle above our heads and we are warm. We sleep in this mansion in Ohio with room and rooms and rooms. A tree house and a lake sit out back with a dock for paddleboats, and a cute statue of a little white dog.

…he had been found in the stairwell, shot in the head.

My stepmother almost cries when I tell her because she feels responsible. “What gets me is that I don’t know if he was saved or not. I don’t know if he’s going to heaven or hell. I never had that conversation with him. He was in my house and I never had that conversation with him,” she says, leaning back in her chair. I say nothing. I wonder if she is sad because he is dead or sad because she didn’t fulfill her eternal duty. I don’t know the difference.

What is your purpose in life when you’ve seen twenty of your friends shot in the head head head? What is your purpose in life when no one will give you a job because you had to sell drugs because you didn’t know how to do anything else

because public education never felt like teaching you how to read because politicians are rich people who can’t see beyond their own noses…what what what. Your purpose is to survive. To pay bills. To find food. To take care of the people you love. It is not to change the world. Some people simply don’t have that luxury.

When I go back home, I tell my best friend to be safe. I tell him not to go to places where he might die. That sounds ridiculous because he could die anywhere. He could die in the middle of a church. I don’t understand why some lives mean more than others.

“He was a thug.”

“He chose to live that life.”

“The boy was asking for it.”

“You hear they found weed in his back pocket?”

“You hear they found weed?”

My best friend tells me that he’s going to get himself a gun: “It’s crazy out here. That way nothing can happen to me.” I want to tell him not to. But I don’t want him to die. I don’t say anything. Guns scare me. Scare me.

Maybe you haven’t even begun to ask the right question: “You hear he was a human being?” ...a human being…a human being…

Evolution of Woman Alexis Payne

Eve with a twistout. Thick brown hair trails to her hips, eyes the color of chestnuts.

She kisses her daughter’s forehead and greases the scalp with palm oil, wraps it in cloth before bed.

Eve with locs and locs and locs, mother of humanity, dark skin with thin brown hands.

“Careful now don’t eat the fruit fruit fruit” Eve in green, covered in green down to her hips. Teeth sink into an apple. Bursting gums burn. She discovers sin in granny smith, notices the scandalous contour of her breasts, the deep crevice between her thighs, learns to be ashamed of the shape of her backside, the mirth found in her cheeks.

Eve with sons, two boys who point at the budding places beneath their sister’s shirt. Eve grimaces, runs tongue over teeth, tastes salt.

Adam whispers with palm wine breath, boys will be boys.

Takes another swig from his wooden gourd.

Eve in gray, tugs at her skirt, remembers cool air kissing bare skin, observes where her face has grown pale.

She wonders if her hair, its long thick tresses like wool, was too much for the world she birthed.

;-) Drew Praskovich

I don’t ask for parental consent before going on the

Internet. Cereal commercials always talk about asking my mom or dad before going on their websites. But, I don’t care what they think. I will play games if I want.

I really like Postopia because they are advertised on

Fruity Pebbles. Fruity Pebble milk is colorful and sorta brown but tastes like sugar. When I drink cereal milk from the bowl I pretend I’m a hummingbird.

Grammy Piggy likes to put sugar in her hummingbird

water feeder. She says they like sweet things as she pops a chocolate into her mouth. She smiles and the chocolate covers her thin, few teeth that I’m always afraid of when I kiss her hello/goodbye.

I’m not here to play games though. I’m here to be a

cool kid. My sister is a cool kid. She’s 16 and chats on AIM with her friends from school. There, she isn’t Mallory but shortybabe7675. I’m 8, and it’s time for me to get a head start on establishing my future position as a popular kid at her Catholic high school. It’s my turn to finally get my name right

like my parents couldn’t. I’m sick of people asking me if Drew is short for Andrew. I am not an Andrew. Just a Drew. My new name must be cool.

I don’t think of my brother as cool, but he has an AIM

too. I ask praskyguy1234 if he has any ideas of cool names for me.. I like animals especially ones that are black and white, and I know that there should be an animal in my screen name. We start a poll on a piece of loose leaf. The other ideas seem pointless when we finally see it written on the paper. drewsterrooster9. It is playful, and I already have an idea for my bio once I log in: cock-a-doodle-drew.

I have no friends (online). I’m the only 8 year old with

an AIM, so I can only chat with SmarterChild. He’s a robot and is really smart. We play hangman, and I try to beat him as much as I can, but he knows bigger words than me. I pick guinea pig and I know that’ll give me his stick figure body parts. But the noose is empty, and he gets it in a few tries. He isn’t good at flirting back either. I ask him what he’s wearing and tell him he looks cute today, but instead he tells me the 5-day forecast. It’s going to be rainy this week.

I want to tell my friends to join, but some of their parents

don’t even let them watch Fairly Odd Parents, so I don’t think they’d let them on AIM. Anyways, I deserve to be the only one.

Mom speaks a lot about networking and how it’s important for people to know me. She does art and she says that it’s all about who you know.

The after school computer schedule usually goes my

brother, me, then my sister. So, I log out when she kicks me off and she signs in. I watch her fingers type her password as she logs on as shortybabe7675. ********. It’s the name of her cat, Tucker, who pees in my book bag and on my storybooks.

Her friends’ list is active, and I know this is my chance to get people to talk to me. I memorize as many names as I can from her list, thats0kinky, justpeachy452, and bunch of other anonymous users. I think about them as songs to memorize them. I need more.

Today during my computer time, I log into AIM as my

sister. I make sure no one can see me. Mallory is at softball practice, and Ryan is upstairs practicing bagpipes. I feel right as shortybabe7675. People want her, and I don’t let them have it. A few chat bubbles pop up.

frdrummer127: heyy

I feel the tension in that double y. It is lingering and innocent, but only so.

shortybabe7675: heyy ;)

frdrummer127: You’re outfit looked really nice today

shortybabe7675: …I was in my uniform

frdrummer127: U looked hot though

frdrummer127: Jkjk

frdrummer127: Maybe not ;)

My sister deserves better.

shortybabe7675: Thx

shortybabe7675: U looked cute 2

shortybabe7675: jkjk you always look bad

frdrummer127: hey! >:-( meanie

shortybabe7675: tehe lol jk

frdrummer127: I hate u.

frdrummer127: gtg, mom made roast

I blow him a kiss. He signs out to the sound effect of a

slamming door. I don’t know who this boy is, but he wants me.

I make a word document of shortybabe7675’s contacts to use for my own. I read her status before signing out just a boy, just an ordinary boy. These are words to live by.

My parents warned my sister about online predators.

They tell her there are old men who like to take advantage of young girls online. My dad complains how when he was little he never had to worry about things like this. They only tell this information to my sister. I wonder if there are any old men online trying to find me. I hope there because I think it’s rather flattering to have someone trying to find you. Maybe frdrummer127 is an online predator. I think about logging back on as shortybabe7675, but my sister will come home from softball practice in a few minutes. Before my time is up, I add her contacts to drewsterrooster9’s profile. A few requests are accepted immediately. My eyes glisten over. People want me too.

We’re in Church, and I’m sick of hearing the priest talk so I lay on my back and stare at the row of ceiling fans. They are all rotating at a different speeds. There is a name on my new contact list of 68 people that never stops running through my head. rainbowbaby227. rainbowbaby227. rainbowbaby227. I need rainbowbaby227 to talk to me.

We get home and I run to the computer. My mom is

wondering why I don’t want any bagels. I tell her I have a lot of homework. While they are upstairs, I log on. I look at my

friends list and scroll through the never-ending alphabet from A to B to F to H to K to P. And there he is rainbowbaby227, under the R’s.

drewsterrooster9: heyyy

rainbowbaby227: oh. Uh hi?

drewsterrooster9: lol sorry I scared you

rainbowbaby227: don’t worry you didn’t :-)

drewsterrooster9: lol

rainbowbaby227: ur mallory’s little brother right?

Shit. Do I play clueless? I know who he is. His name is Sam and he is the lead in all my sister’s high school musicals.

drewsterrooster9: mmhm. ur sam right?

rainbowbaby227: yep, that’s me!

drewsterrooster9: Well then, hi sam!

rainbowbaby227: hi drew!

drewsterrooster9: What role do you want in the musical?

rainbowbaby227: I don’t know. I like Jojo and the Cat in

the Hat

drewsterrooster9: I could see you as both of those!

rainbowbaby227: aw! Thanks! Idk know though, we’ll

see what happens.

drewsterrooster9: I’m excited to see it.

Oh god. I’m falling apart. I’m falling apart. im falng part.

drewsterrooster9: I gtg eat a bagel…. Byyeee

I leave before I see his response. I forget to sign out.

My mom didn’t buy strawberry shmear, so I have to eat

my cinnamon bagel with just butter. Sundays are for watching Extreme Makeover Home Edition and eating cereal before bed. I don’t want this week of school to happen, but at least we have an assembly on Wednesday. I focus on Wednesday before bed. Wednesday will get me through the week.

Wednesday is Ash Wednesday. We stand in line as Fr.

Bud rubs ashes on our forehead. I pray I get the nicest looking cross, because if something is going to be on my forehead all day, it better look good. Ugh, but mine aren’t the nicest, Maggie’s are by far. The ashes are solid black, and you can see the delicacy of Father Bud’s thumb on her forehead. I

stare at her all day. God, I want to rub mine off in the bathroom.

My lunch table stays after school to set up for the Fish

Fry. Well, we don’t set up, our parents do. We dance on the stage or eat the test batch or French fries. Middle schoolers are there too. My brother is one of them, but the kids I’m scared of the most are a grade below him. They all play basketball together, wear the same shoes, and use the same Adidas cologne. The worst of them are Colin and Nick. Colin and Nick have those evil eyebrows and never smile in their school pictures.

After playing tag for a while, I have to pee. I go to

the bathroom by the staircase. The urinals don’t have any dividers between them, and I get really shy if someone else is in there. Luckily, no one is so I don’t have to pee in the stall this time. I hurry and double check I zipped. Ms. Gerrity told me that a proper person washes their hands for as long as it takes to sing “Happy Birthday” twice. I sing it under my breath and adjust the water so it’s a little hotter than lukewarm. My cheeks are fat in this mirror and I can’t wait to stop singing “Happy Birthday” so I don’t have to look at this face, my face, anymore. Tyra Banks teaches me a lot about how to make my face and body look good, but right now there’s no amount of smizing or catching the right light so the angles on my face

look good. Because for one thing, I don’t have angles. My face is just a globe and everything is round and red and pink, and I want to slap it off. But, I can’t slap my face off today because of the ashes on my forehead.

I dry my hands off on my cargo shorts and walk out of

the bathroom. A circle of boys, Colin and Nick leading it, are waiting outside the bathroom for me.

“Who’s rainbowbaby?”

“Huh? Is he your boyfriend?”

“Why are you talking to old guys?”

“Are you a _______ ?”

“_______ !”

“Nobody cares, Drew. Cause you’re _____ .”

“Ryan told us you were talking to him. Why don’t you

say it? C’mon tell us you’re a _______ . “

My clip-on tie feels like it’s choking me. What did I do

wrong? What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong? Are they right? I know what that word is. We practice using context clues anytime we read stories, and I know that this word isn’t a good thing. This thing isn’t good. This thing is bad. This thing is me.

I don’t move. I just stand in the circle until they stop

saying things and go back over to the bake sale table so they

can raise money for their trip to space camp in 8th grade. I don’t think I’ll make it to 8th grade. My mom told me once how girls sometimes make themselves throw up, and right now that’s all I want to do. But I’m too afraid to reach inside my mouth, and I don’t know where my tonsils are. There’s a table by the pop machine, and I sit there for the rest of the night eating Boston Market mac n cheese and a slice of plain cheese pizza until my parents come to pick me up.

drewsterrooster9: hey :/

lizardbreath010: What’s wrong?

lizardbreath010 is Elizabeth and she is in my class. One

time we went on a (play) date to Build-A-Bear and we made Frosty the Snowman bears and got strawberry Frappuccinos.

Her mom came, and pulled me aside because the week before I told Liz that Santa Clause wasn’t real. Her mom pulled me up by the collar of my shirt and said never do anything like that to my daughter again.

drewsterrooster9: so uh. I have a ummm a secret?

lizardbreath010: What is it?

drewsterrooster9: no… its 2 embarassing

lizardbreathe010: Just tell me!

drewsterrooster9: I have a crush

lizardbreath010: On whom?

drewsterrooster9: ….

lizardbreath010: Who?

drewsterrooster9: I have a crush on you, and I think we

should go out.

lizardbreath010: Wow. So you’re my boyfriend now?

drewsterrooster9: yes.

I log off. An hour later I log back on.

drewsterrooster9: I think we should breakup. We’re too

young to be doing

all of this. We aren’t mature enough.

I don’t talk to her again. At school, we never mention our relationship.

I wear a polo shirt to the opening night of my sister’s

musical, Seussical. It’s orange and has small blue stripes. I look pretty good. My sister is the lead, and all my cousins and even my other grandma is coming to see her. We take up the first couple rows. The show is amazing. My sister makes

everyone laugh and rainbowbaby227 is the Cat in the Hat and he’s on the stage a lot. I put a circle next to his name in the playbill.

We wait in the lobby after the show with the rest of

the parents. I’m holding flowers for Mallory. A few cast members come out, but they are just ensemble so to me they are irrelevant. I recognize some leads that come out, but still my sister hasn’t shown up. rainbowbaby227 walks out.

His eyes still have eyeliner on them and he is radiant. My mom tells him he did an excellent job. My dad even does too. rainbowbaby227 and drewsterrooster9 look at one another.

The stare is sustained, only for seconds, but it’s long enough that I decided to hide behind my mother’s legs. I hand her the flowers. Why didn’t I just tell him good job. This is how the rest of my life is going to be.

My Kleptomaniac Mother Kisses Me During Church Matty Smith

1. Her Things

Glass for pitching at cornfield crows, someone’s ankle.

Strings from folding clothes, a broken nickel, grandma’s gun.

Letters from my sister to me the maple maniac, bubble gum, the black bear claw, snapped, splintered pencil.

Collected in cobwebs the baby’s first breath, photographs for pockets, and our bravery in jars.

Tender turtle shells wound in bailing wire, a dusty pecan.

Calendars that make our bodies atomic.

Black buzzard wings, timid sketches of window shades, chips of motel paint.

And four stubborn maps of our old planet.

2. Her Church

A concrete desert: mute and dirty with Jesus Freaks and marble steps crumbling into scarlet synagogue carpets.

Sour tongues twisted around mutated candles.

We are fireflies in a bathtub.

Sticky wings pressed into children’s soft chests.

Barbwire fingernails and striking toothpick teeth,

with soft palms she paints the pastor’s sermons on his cheeks and his toes, and I shiver at the sight of his wet, painted spine.

These great windows that bullet through the ceiling and stomp on the floor are great dusty dandelion headed giants, they make me afraid to disagree with these prayers, with my mother.

The fans hum and the socks are wool because no one wears shoes on holy ground: splintered floorboards that cry out for water and wine.

3. Her Words

“I know what I did, but that’s why I’m here.”

The Birth Effect April Yoder

I can feel myself jiggle as I run. I told Mom I didn’t want to do this.

“My legs look like hairy sausages when I wear shorts,” I said, “no one wants to see that.”

“Well, no one wants to see a 30-year-old man with so much belly you can grab it either,” she said and proceeded to dig her sharp little fingernails into my stomach to prove her point. She didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t laughing.

“Come on, Josh, my inauguration to the Council is coming up in two months. If I show up with four beautiful daughters and one fat son, the media will make a mockery of me. Man up.”

I can feel the first hints of winter whipping at my calves as I roll her words over my tongue. Man up. I’ve heard this word throughout my whole life, but I have yet to figure out what it means. When my sisters would pinch me until I cried, she’d say Man up. When I’d fight back, she’d say Man up. When I’d let it happen, she’d say Man up.

And it’s not like I had much to go on. Mom always told me she didn’t need a man to make my sisters and me because God created us with just a touch of her finger. God was, after all, the mother of us all. I learned later that this meant my father was a donor.

Mom never had any man friends either. She got into politics before I was even born, so all of her friends were powerful women like her. Now that she’s been elected to the World Council, she’s probably going to be spending most of her time with those women, so I’ve kind of given up on solving my “manning up” problem. I figure, she probably knows better than me, so if I just do the things she tells me, maybe I’ll eventually understand.

So, here I am, huffing my exhaustion into the biting fall morning air, trying to keep my legs from crumpling beneath me. With each step I can feel my thigh muscles slowly turning into jelly. I try to focus on my surroundings

to get my mind off the pain. I jog by an ad for an artificial insemination clinic with a glowing pregnant woman smiling at me over her perfectly round stomach. It reads: Make your pregnancy your own at Do It Right Clinic. Another billboard displays a man with a chiseled jaw biting into a hamburger like he’s about to make love to it. The next sign I pass is an ad for a strip club. Three men are pictured on it, each with rippling muscles and tiny garments. I look down at my own body and back at the billboard, and decide not to look at the road signs anymore.

Instead, I study the trees surrounding the park trail. A gradual rouge has begun climbing through the leaves, as if each one is blushing as I run by. Suddenly, there’s a guitar in my hand. I’m running through my throngs of lady fans, holding the guitar above my head and revealing a perfectly toned six-pack under my tightly fitting T-shirt. Everyone screams as I take the stage. I go to play the first chord when all of a sudden I’m falling.

I’m back in the park. My knees hit the gravel and I feel the pain of the whole run all at once. I look behind me and see the small rock that caught the toe of my shoe. I must have been dragging my feet. As I’m inspecting the aftermath of my knees and palms, I can hear Mom’s voice in my head.

Man up.

I sit there for a while, listening to my own breath, choppy and wheezing. The sharp air makes every inhale painful but it’s hard to focus on that when my hands and legs are throbbing and leaking blood onto the trail. I hear some footsteps in the distance, but I don’t look up until they’re right in front of me. I catch a glimpse of him: tall, muscular, handsome. He’s running, but he hasn’t broken a sweat. And on his face is a look of pity mixed with utter disgust. It’s at this moment I realize what I am: a fat man collapsed on the side of the road. If this is what being a man is like, I’m not sure I want to be one. * *

*

I stumble into the house through the back door—I figure a sweaty, bleeding guy walking through the front door of the soon-to-be councilwoman’s house would be bad publicity. Mom is in the kitchen drinking from a slender glass of deep red liquid that perfectly matches her figure and the color of her dress. I can see her initial instinct flash across her face as she sees the little drips of blood I’ve gotten on the floor tiles, but in the next instant she shakes that off and plays mother instead.

“Oh, baby, what happened? Did you trip? Don’t worry, you’ll get better at it, you just need to do it more often,” she coos as she lightly touches my shoulder, a carefully selected blood-and-sweat-free spot on my body.

“I’m fine. I just need a shower,” I say as I brush her off and head for my room. As I descend the stairs into my den I can hear Mom calling to our butler, John, to clean up the mess in the kitchen. I’ve become accustomed to her incessant cleaning up after me, at least in the upper part of the house. She lets me have the basement all to myself (or maybe she’s just afraid to come down here). It’s all mine: a den with the most comfortable couch in the world (although Mom would probably cringe at the stains and patches), a flat screen TV, an Xbox surrounded by games I’ve been collecting since elementary school, a separate room where I sleep, and my very own music room complete with my guitars and recording equipment and soundproof walls (Mom had those installed herself). Plus, I get my own bathroom.

My sisters made sure of that: “There’s no way in hell we’re sharing a bathroom with Josh. He’s so hairy.”

I turn the TV on to a random channel and throw my brand new running shoes into a corner and I’m suddenly aware of the pain in my feet. As I rub them, I watch a man on TV fumble with all the buttons on his remote until his wife comes in and helps him find the channel button. It takes me one full infomercial to get all my clothes off without getting blood everywhere.

Once I’m undressed, I shuffle to the bathroom. As usual, I try not to look at myself in the mirror, but it’s hard to ignore when you’ve got a side profile like mine. I study the convex curve of my stomach and the roundness of my face. I think of the man I saw in the park and all the men perpetuated in those billboards. Then, I remember the man in the ad on TV: chubby, glued to his couch, bumbling. I try to suck it all in. I manage to get it all tucked in pretty neatly, but the moment I exhale everything flops out to its normal size.

Eventually, I give up and get in the shower to wash away the tortures of the day.

I get out of the shower to the sight of long, dark locks of tangled hair flowing over the back of my couch.

“I see you’re still stuck on the last level, Ellie,” I say and she pauses the game with the controller in her lap.

“It’s not my fault this idiot Link keeps getting his ass kidnapped,” she replies as she turns to look back at me, “Whoa, what the hell happened to you?”

“What a dirty mouth! I hope you don’t use that mouth to kiss up to your mother.”

“I’m sixteen, not five. Also, you’re mixing me up with our other sisters. Seriously, what happened to you?”

“Mom wants me to get into shape.” I plop down on the couch next to her. She snickers a little as she watches me sit and I tighten the towel I have wrapped around myself.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just this is the last thing Mom hasn’t tried to change about you. And now she’s changing it.”

“Not true. There are plenty of things about me she hasn’t changed. I’m not her puppet.” I adjust my towel again.

She smiles at me.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re still here, right? You’re just so fascinated by the political world.”

“I’m here because I spent all my money on a college education and now Mom’s supporting me while I start up my music career.”

“Uh huh. And why was it you went to college again?

I mean a degree in English is so useful for you right?” Her face cuts like butter. She loves toying with me. And she’s good at it.

“I want to do something important, Ellie. I want to be someone. I don’t want history to remember me as a councilwoman’s son. I want history to write me down as someone who did something extraordinary, and oh yeah, he had a councilwoman for a mom,” I stand up and pull my towel up to my armpits. “Mom helped me see that no one man can be someone without a college education. So, that’s what I got.”

“Josh, you are someone,” she says quietly, “you don’t need a college degree to prove that. Remember when Emily pushed me into the pool and I couldn’t swim yet and you dove in to save me? I would have died if you weren’t someone.”

“That’s not what I mean, Ellie. I want the world to remember me. I want to write music that can never be erased.”

“Then, type it on a computer, for God’s sake. This is the 21st century.” Her buttery smile is back. I turn away and walk into my bedroom to get changed. “Don’t be mad. I’m kidding. Josh?” I can hear her through the door, but I don’t reply. Instead I slide down to the floor, releasing my numbing grip on the towel and just sitting in the dimming gray air of my room.

Ellie is still calling to me, and now she’s knocking on the door at my back. I’m saved by the opening of the basement door. I can hear her go see who it is and have a clipped conversation with a low voice from upstairs. Then, she comes back to me.

“Time to eat, Josh,” she says softly through the door, “Victoria and her husband are here to have dinner with us, so hurry up. You know how she hates tardiness.” Perfect.

A perfect ending to a perfect day. Just as I’m contemplating ways to squeeze my barrel of a chest out of the small

basement window, a tiny slip of paper slides under the door near my hand. I pick it up and read: Don’t worry, bro. I’ll distract John and you can spit in her food.

I smile slightly in the growing darkness. * *

*

I watch intently as Victoria deconstructs her steak piece by piece. She pauses briefly to tuck a perfect coil of sleek black hair behind her ear, and then continues cutting.

I’m vaguely aware of her laughing over something with Mom, but all I can hear is her knife sawing away at the tender meat on her plate. Her husband sits silently next to her, glancing in her direction every once in a while like a puppy waiting for his food. He laughs when she expects him to, and talks when he is asked a question.

“Josh.” The dining room comes back into focus.

Victoria is staring at me with an amused look on her face and Ellie is giving me her warning eyes. “Hello? Are you in there?” she says and waves a thin, manicured hand at me.

“Sorry,” I muddle.

“I was just telling Mom I’m impressed you’re not getting seconds. You were always the first one to dive back into the mashed potatoes when we were kids. Right, Ellie?”

She giggles and turns to Ellie who is pushing bits of steak to the edge of her plate. Ellie shrugs. “Anyways, Mom’s new weight loss plan for you must be working.”

“I just started today.”

“Oh! I was wondering why you looked so tired. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. You just have to do it regularly,” she says and smiles at Mom who looks so proud she could explode. “You may not believe this, but Paul used to be just like you, didn’t you, honey?” He nods. “Then, he met me and we worked together to get him to where he is now. See, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Josh.” I groan. “Well, I’m glad you’re doing this, Mom, because I know our Joshy would

never get off that lazy butt of his unless you pushed him.” I can’t take this anymore.

“Yeah, thanks Mom. And I’m glad you have so many connections because I know our Vicky would be jobless unless you bribed her way into government,” I say, only slightly regretting it as it tumbles out of my mouth. Ellie barely keeps her laughter behind her lips.

“Joshua,” Mom butts in, “your sister earned that job with hard work. Just because you’ve never worked hard a day in your life, doesn’t mean no one else in this house has!”

“Yeah, she worked really hard sucking up to you.” I can’t stop the train of words once it starts rolling out of me.

“Josh, there’s no need for aggression,” Victoria says calmly, but I can sense the anger in her voice.

“Aggression?” I ask.

Mom puts her silverware down carefully, begins to rub her forehead gently with two fingers, and says, “I thought not getting married would create a household free of this kind of hostility, but God had to give me a son.”

“It’s a test of patience, Mom,” Victoria says and starts carefully rubbing Mom’s shoulder, “and it seems to me you’ve fared pretty well all these years.” I know this part. This is when they talk about me like I’m not here.

“You’re right, Vicky. Patience. Hopefully, his new job will show him how to be a little more civil.” New job?

“My new what?” I say after dropping a piece of potato into my lap. Victoria rolls her eyes as I scrape it off my jeans.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you! Honey, Victoria and I were talking and we think it would be great for you to come work for me as an assistant once I’ve been inaugurated. Isn’t that exciting?” Of course. I shouldn’t have expected them to ask me before making my life decisions.

“I have a job already, Mom.” “You mean at that run down record store? Josh, honey, you can’t work there your whole life.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I’ve told you a million times I’m working on—“

“Right! His music,” Victoria says before letting out a wave of high pitched laughter. She doesn’t even try to hold it back.

“I know, honey,” Mom says, “but maybe in the mean time you could just work for me. It would just be until you find a nice, successful girl. Or, you know, until you get your music career started. It would be a good experience.” I can sense that the decision had already been made before we even had this conversation. I look over at Ellie and she’s looking back at me with pity from behind her messy curls.

Mom’s eyes are pleading but stern. Victoria’s lips are still entertaining hints of laughter as she places a chunk of meat between her teeth. Paul studies his hands. I feel nauseous.

“Fine.” * *

*

The inauguration ceremony is a blur. Mom says her oath: I vow to use my power as a woman of the World Council to keep peace among the eight nations, protect the rights of humankind, and mother the world as if it were my own child. Then, there’s cheering and light bursting in my eyes over and over.

Mom, my sisters, and I are ushered out of the stadium and into our designated cars where we have a brief moment of darkened silence before we’re dragged out again and met with more light. This time there are questions: Are you proud of your mother? Do you know what her first action will be? Is she nervous? What does it feel like to be the son of a councilwoman? I feel like I’m in a tunnel of microphones and cameras and flashing lights and strange voices that goes on for eternity.

Then, suddenly, I’m in an office, at a desk. Mom walks by, followed by a string of young women in suits carrying clipboards. When she reaches her office door, she makes a swift motion with her hand and they scatter. She notices me staring at her.

“Have you just been sitting there?” she asks. Finally, I’m aware of where I am and what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Oh! I got your coffee. I was waiting for you to get back,” I say. I pick up the large coffee from the desk in front of me and hold it out to her. “You were gone a while, so it’s not hot anymore.” Mom looks at me sympathetically. That’s how I know something bad is coming.

“Honey, we’ve got to find something more for you to do.” See? “I know! I have a meeting with one of the heads of Feed the World in a few minutes, but I have a lot of work on my plate. How about you have her sign in and then show her around a little until I’m ready. I heard she’s young and successful. Maybe you two will hit it off.”

“Mom, please.”

“I’m just saying, you should be looking around, you know?” I roll my eyes. She sighs, goes into her office, and shuts the door. I fiddle with the buttons on my suit jacket.

Mom had the torsos of all my new jackets thinned to tighten my stomach. I’m getting sore, so I let one of them loose.

I’ve been on Mom’s weight loss plan for two months, but I haven’t lost much weight. She tells me I’m not working at it hard enough.

I’m beginning to loosen the other one when the door opposite Mom’s office door opens. A dark-haired, roundfaced, flustered woman slides into the room. She carries a binder spilling with papers and a bulging briefcase. She wears a suit that seems a little too tight on her and thick heels. Her eyes are the color of chestnuts and when they catch on mine I glimpse flecks of green in them.

“Hello,” she says hesitantly, “you’re not Councilwoman Woods.” She says this more like a question than a statement.

“Uh, yeah. I’m Josh,” I stumble.

“Hi Josh, I’m Sophie.” She pauses and switches her weight to her other foot. “So, is the councilwoman around?”

“Oh, right, my mom said she’s busy right now, so she wants me to show you around for a bit.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah, I’m the councilwoman’s son.” Her face changes, but it’s an expression I can’t decipher.

“I’m getting the royal tour then?” I laugh and the button on my jacket chooses that moment to come the rest of the way undone. She glances down and bites back laughter.

“Mine’s a little tight, too,” she says as she tugs at the sleeve of her own jacket, “I guess pizza will do that to you, huh?” This takes me by surprise; Mom always told me not to talk about my weight. Somehow it makes me feel calm, though. The smile I give her feels natural.

“Oh, it’s ice cream for me,” I say and then cringe.

A smooth, watery laugh escapes her mouth and all of a sudden, I feel something cool wash over me. Relief?

Freedom? For a moment, I focus on that feeling; I don’t ever want to let go of it. It isn’t until she furrows her eyebrows at me that I realize I’ve been staring at her.

“So, um, shall we?” she says and gestures toward the door.

“Oh yeah, you can leave your stuff here if you want.” she sets down her binder and briefcase on my desk with an unnaturally loud thud and I escort her out of the room.

I open the door to the first stop on our tour and Sophie lets out a small noise that could be either awe or fear. The room is curved. There are ceiling-to-floor windows fringed with heavy curtains that are liquid gold at the top and then spill into a deep blue that reaches to the floor. Light trickles in and illuminates a carpet that looks as if you could drown in it.

In the center of the room is a single table. A simple fireplace cuts into one of the walls and is framed by a white marble mantle with intricate carvings dripping down the sides. Four chairs sit on either side of it. A crystal chandelier dangles from the ceiling. Three framed paintings of women hang in various places on the walls. Our Founding Mothers, Mom calls them.

“This is the Blue Room,” I say quietly, trying to let her take it all in as she slowly spins around in the center of the room, her mouth hanging open.

“This is beautiful,” she says deliberately, as if she wants me to hear every syllable. She practically skips over to one of the chairs and lets her hand hover over the sleek blue fabric and gold embroidery. She turns her head to look back at me, throwing her hair over her shoulder, and I see that it has light brown, almost golden tones that are only visible under the natural sunlight. Her face looks hesitant, and I realize she’s asking me if she can touch the chair. I nod.

She presses her fingers lightly into the cushion and traces the threads going through it. She turns around and is about to sit, but she pauses and looks at me again. I nod and she settles in and closes her eyes. It doesn’t seem like she’ll be leaving any time soon, so I take the spot across from her. She suddenly opens her eyes and I get a flash of hazel glowing under the sunlight.

“Yeah, I could live here,” she says definitively. A growing silence follows that statement. Her eyes scan the room, but I feel like they’re watching only me. I look down at the suit I squeezed myself into this morning and realize I haven’t buttoned the jacket back up. I fumble with those until my stomach is securely tucked behind the stiff black fabric.

I’m straightening the creases in my slacks when I hear her watery voice again.

“So, why are you here?” she asks, “I mean, I know your mom is Councilwoman Woods, but why are you here?”

“My mom hired me as her assistant. It’s just until I can get my music career going.” Why am I telling her that?

“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I like this job.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry.” God, I’m screwing this up. I try to think of something to say besides mumbling nonsense, but all I can think of is “So, why are you here?”

“I’m here to talk to your mom about birth control.” I can feel all of my organs trying to force their way out of my

body through my throat. Birth control. I’ve only heard Mom talk about that subject once and it was to denounce birth control advocates for being “God-less, ignorant, hostile heathens aiming to take away a woman’s right to her own children.” I have to warn her.

“Um, you know my Mom is pretty conservative, right?”

I say slowly.

“Birth control is much bigger than liberal and conservative, Josh. The world is much bigger than that. And it’s growing. So fast that mothers in third world countries can’t feed their children. It has nothing to do with politics.”

I can see the heat behind her eyes. Mom always said that it’s a man’s duty to know when to step back, but I can’t help warming my hands in her fire.

“So, why are you here, then? My mom is a politician.”

“You can’t get anything done in this country without government support,” she says.

“Support for what?”

“The Feed the World Organization is doing a global campaign. We already have people stationed all over the world to work in poor communities, but now, when we hand out packages of food and supplies, we’ll also be handing out packages of condoms.” I really have to warn her.

“Okay, maybe don’t say that in there. That’s almost a swear word in my house.” I try to laugh at myself a little, but her fire is blazing, and I think it might burn the Blue Room to the ground.

“This is part of the problem. No one is talking about it.

We’re being silenced and it’s going to take a councilwoman to start this conversation,” she says and the fire simmers to a flame. The room is cold again and the silence hangs heavily over our heads. It takes all of my strength to break through the cloud.

“I can talk to her,” I say, startling myself with my own voice, “She doesn’t listen to me much, but I can try. It seems like it would be worth a try.”

“It is!” She jumps to the edge of her seat. “It is worth

it. Thank you, that means a lot.” The silence returns, but this time it’s a blanket—warm and light. I could sit like this with her for eternity, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the screen.

“My mom texted me. She says she’s ready for you now.”

Waiting for Sophie’s meeting with my mom to end was like waiting for the end of the world. Sitting in the silent, barren office between my mom’s and the hallway, staring at the wall, imagining my mother tearing apart the angel I just met, is driving me mad. After an hour I convince myself that I’ve imagined her, actually that I’ve imagined everyone and I’m actually alone in the world, creating people in my mind.

That’s about when Sophie opens the door to Mom’s office and leads me back to reality.

“How’d it go,” I mumble, but the fire in her eyes is gone and I know the answer.

“Um, not good,” she mumbles back. I look at her sympathetically and she looks back at me hopelessly. Then, she gets an idea and pulls a scrap of paper out of her binder.

She takes a pen out of her pocket, scribbles something, folds it up, and hands it to me. “Talk to her for me, okay?

Let me know how that works out.” I nod. She smiles at me and leaves. Once she’s gone, and I’m left with silence and a blank wall yet again, I unfold the paper she gave me. It has a phone number written on it with her name scrawled below it. That cool, smooth feeling washes over me again and I feel the weight of her name in my hands. Then, Mom bursts out of her office. She has fire, too, but this fire is different. This fire burns me.

“I take back what I said about her, Josh. She’s crazy,” she spits.

“I liked her,” I say softly and I’ve never wished so much that I could take my words back.

“Liked her? Josh, do you know she wants me to get behind a campaign that gives men the power to take birth

away from women? Birth, Josh—God’s most sacred gift to the world. A woman who’s willing to let men control her like that is not welcome in my office. It’s a disgrace.” This is when Mom’s teachings come in handy. I nod at her, which makes her visibly calmer. “Oh, Joshy, I’m only trying to protect you.

There are people out there that will manipulate you. I just want what’s best for you.”

I want to tell her I’m 30 years old. I want to tell her I’m an adult. I want to tell her I can make my own decisions. But I don’t. I let her walk back into her office and I turn back to the blank wall. * *

*

I’m shelving records and CDs. It’s my last day on the job since Mom has me working for her full time now. I study the album covers as I listen to Quinn, my manager, humming while he counts the register money.

This work is tedious, so I have a habit of trying to look into the pasts of the artists on the covers. The pop section yields the best album covers for this practice. I lift a pop album from my cart and study the women on the front: a team of girls, barely 20, posing together on a couch in the middle of a park. They’re all smiling at each other as if someone just said a joke. I can’t believe girl bands are coming back. I imagine these girls all met in college—some prestigious music school—and when they saw the surge of girl bands they jumped on the wagon and rode it out. I shelve this album.

The next one holds a single man. He inhabits a shining metal chair with one leg hanging over the armrest.

He wears nothing but a small leather number around his crotch, thick boots, and white gloves. The muscles in his abdomen and arms ripple. The background is white and his eyes stare longingly past the camera. I rest the record on my round stomach as I study it. I wonder how he made it.

Probably used what God gave him. Mom calls this making a

dishonest living. Just ‘cause you have it, doesn’t mean you have to use it, she says.

I shelve the rest of the albums without looking at the covers. Then, I meet Quinn behind the counter to take my shift at the register. We nod at each other and he heads into the back.

“Hey Quinn,” I call after a moment of contemplation.

He pokes his head back out where I can see it.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Do we have any male artists in here who aren’t ridiculously good looking?” Quinn pauses and turns to look me right in the face.

“Damn, you’re pretty sheltered, aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Quinn chuckles a little.

“It seems to me like the women in your life are controlling you.”

“That’s not true. You don’t know anything about me.”

I’m heated now.

“I’m just saying, being the son of a rich politician must put up some walls for you.” He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say You know I’m right. He always manages to piss me off.

“You never answered my question.” He thinks for a moment.

“Josh, the music industry is brutal. If a man doesn’t have a pretty face or a meat bag for a body, he’d better give up.” * *

*

I collapse onto my couch, finding comfort in the ripped edges poking up at me. I think about what Quinn said. Do the women in my life control me? This thought makes my head hurt, so I sit up and dig through the suit I wore today, which is strewn over the back of the couch. I find Sophie’s number and stare at it.

I’ve never initiated things with a girl before. When I was a teenager, Mom advised me in how to make myself available so that girls would notice me. I didn’t get much action in high school; I always assumed it was because somehow the other guys were making themselves more available. I thought maybe I just wasn’t capable of being available. The longest relationship I’ve had was with Lucy.

She broke it off after a year because she said I had no passions of my own.

Suddenly, Sophie’s voice is in my head: Talk to her for me, okay? I stand up so quickly I almost fall back onto the couch. I stuff Sophie’s number into my pocket and practically tumble up the stairs. Mom is in her usual spot leaning against the kitchen counter with a skinny glass of wine placed carefully between two fingers. She’s on a phone call that sounds important—something about healthcare—so I root through the pantries and start making myself a sandwich while she finishes up.

When she hangs up, she turns to me and says, “Josh, you know, you can have John make you food if you’re hungry.”

“I can make my own food, Mom,” I say through mouthfuls of bread.

“Well, I’m glad you’re taking initiative. Hopefully, you’ll be cooking for a beautiful, strong woman soon.”

“Speaking of initiative, I wanted to talk to you about Sophie.” I put my sandwich down and stare at my hands.

“The Feed the World girl?” I nod. “Oh no, not her.

Josh, please don’t tell me she dug her little hooks into you.”

“I just think you should consider what she has to say.”

Mom puts her wine glass down. She must be angry.

“Look at me,” she says and plants a manicured hand firmly on the marble countertop. I slowly meet her eyes. “What that girl stands for is sinful. God gave women the power to give life and she is threatening to take that away. It’s unnatural. Do you hear me?” I nod. I don’t mean to, it’s just a learned response. “I know this is hard, honey.

Sometimes men can get a little confused by women, and that’s okay. But, I have a surprise for you! Victoria has a lawyer friend who is very interested in meeting you. So, you two have a date this Saturday at 7!” She claps her hands together a few times as if I just won an award. I nod. This isn’t the first time she’s set me up with someone. I’ve learned just to go with it. It’s easier than fighting her every time.

She tells me her name is Rachel and that she’s a partner of a law firm and some other stuff, but I’m not really listening because my hand is in my pocket carefully folding and unfolding Sophie’s number. Finally, Mom stops talking and I head back downstairs.

I take Sophie’s number into my music room and tape it to the wall. I pick up my favorite guitar: the beat-up, acoustic one Lucy bought me in college. It has dents and chips in the wood and it sounds a little funky when you play it too rough, but having that guitar in my hand is what helps me find those passions of my own. I play a few chords, never taking my eyes off that little piece of paper on the wall. I think about the Blue Room. I think about Sophie and I floating there, cloaked in sunlight. I decide it’s now or never, and before I can convince myself out of it, I’m dialing her number in my cellphone and pressing call. It rings a few times and I consider hanging up before it goes to voicemail when she answers.

“Hello?” That watery voice.

“Hi Sophie, this is Josh Woods,” I say, trying to control the trembling in my voice.

“Hey Josh! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon.”

“Yeah, I talked to my mom about you. I mean, not you, you’re organization.” I rub my temple. Will I ever be good at this?

“What did she say?”

“Well, she used the words sinful and unnatural. You can probably fill in the rest.””

“I see.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Besides, one angry councilwoman isn’t going to stop me. There are seven other councilwomen I have yet to persuade.”

“You’ve got a lot of confidence.”

“No, what I have is awareness. Women have a lot of power in this world, Josh. I might as well use that to do some good.” My mouth opens, but emits no noise. I grew up with women and girls, powerful ones, but I’ve never met a girl who speaks like Sophie.

There’s some yelling in the background of her end of the call and then a crash like pots and pans falling from the ceiling.

“What’s going on,” I ask.

“I’m with some people from my organization. We’re preparing for an event we’re planning. Hey, you should come. We’re going to get a bunch of donated food, cook up some meals, pack them in Tupperware, and drive around handing them out to homeless people around the city. We’re meeting at the church on Porter and Seventh Saturday night.” My date with Rachel. I nearly throw my guitar.

“I can’t. That sounds great, but I have plans. Sorry.” I drag my fingers fiercely through my curls.

“That’s fine. Maybe another time. If you get out of whatever you’re doing, give me a call.” There’s more yelling and more crashing. “I have to go. It was nice talking to you again, Josh. See you around.”

“Yeah, you too.” Silence. * *

*

Mom bought me a new suit for my date with Rachel.

This one is even tighter. It’s 6:35 on Saturday night. I study myself in my bathroom mirror. The buttons on my jacket are straining slightly. I put some gel in my hair to keep my curls from frizzing. I’m ready to go and soon I’ll be late, but I haven’t yet done my usual sweep of my entire appearance.

I start from the top. My hair is gelled, but there’s a curl or two that keep sticking out; I try pushing them down, but then another pops up somewhere else. There’s a patch of dry skin on my forehead that I can’t stop picking at. It gets all red, so I rub it with some moisturizer and then cover it up. My nose is thin, but the way it hooks up at the end has bothered me my whole life. I used to tape it down at night in the hopes that I’d wake up the next morning with a straight nose. My neck is thick and has a couple folds in it. I smooth out the folds, but I know this is irrational, so I move on. The wideness of my torso speaks for itself. According to the national average, I could fit one and a half men of my age inside of me.

I’m about to move to my legs when Ellie materializes in the bathroom doorway. “You look ravishing,” she says. I look myself over one more time.

“Thanks, but I look like a fat butler,” I say, and when I try to laugh a strange wheezing sound comes out of me. Ellie smiles gently and puts her hand on my shoulder.

“A very handsome fat butler, then.” We both laugh.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders and we stand there in the bathroom, looking at ourselves in the mirror for a minute or two. Then, she goes upstairs.

Rachel and I meet at the restaurant at seven. I try to get there early, but she’s there before me anyways.

Apparently, Victoria described me to her before today because as soon as I walk in she waves me over. I’m surprised she still wants to do this if Victoria explained my appearance to her. When I sit down across from her I’m immediately aware that she’s out of my league. She has shimmering white-blonde hair that flows over her shoulders and down to her elbows. Her eyes are the kind of blue you can only find in coral reefs. Her skin is smooth and milky and her hands look like they’ve never worked a day in their lives.

“You’re Josh, right?” she says in a voice that brushes its silken fingers past my ears. I can do nothing but nod.

And sit. “Your sister told me a lot about you. Aren’t you a musician?”

“Yes, but only on the side,” I say too quickly, “I’m working for my mom right now.” She smiles, and the sight of her glistening white teeth makes me feel small.

“Right now? Are you planning to do something afterwards?”

“Um, I’m, uh,” I stammer. She smiles again and holds me in her hand like dust. A waiter materializes at my side and I finally exhale. I ask for chicken, she orders salmon and converses with the waiter about wine. Then he’s gone.

I search desperately for something to talk about.

Anything but me. “What about you,” I spit out.

“What about me?”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a partner at Greywater Lawfirm. You may have heard of us; we do pretty high profile cases. Did you hear about the Walter family murder?” I nod. “I was in charge of that case. Pretty gruesome, but it pays the bills,” she says with another smile, but my mouth must be open because her face quickly disintegrates until she looks like she’s just run over a puppy. “But enough about me. Tell me about your life.

Vicky tells me you live with your mom?”

“She told you that?” I squeak.

“It’s okay, Josh, every success story starts somewhere,” she says and lays a soft hand on mine.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Sometimes, you have to hit rock bottom before you can start moving up again.” She gives my hand a squeeze and I can feel myself dissolving beneath her grasp.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Josh. Your sister told me that you’re going through things right now, and that’s okay. I can help you.” I feel a dampness under my arms that seeps through the pressed fabric of my suit jacket. My hand feels wet beneath hers so I slip it away, drying my palm on my thigh. I taste her words in my mouth—sweet and dry.

Help you. This isn’t a date, it’s a therapy session.

I think of Victoria’s feline smile. He needs help.

I watch Rachel smile across from me. I can help you.

I remember Sophie’s smile. Genuine. Fiery. This is beautiful.

Suddenly, I’m standing. I mutter something that I don’t hear, maybe something like, “I have to go.” Rachel looks more confused than hurt. I’m running to my car and thanking God Rachel didn’t pick me up. Once I’m in the car, I check the time: 7:20. I drag my phone out of my pocket and dial her number. My thumb presses send before my brain decides to call her. She answers. There’s water in my ears. I press myself back against the seat and allow myself to feel all of my weight all at once, melting.

“Hello?” she repeats.

“Oh, hi Sophie, sorry, I mean—“ “It’s okay. What’s up?”

“My night just freed up. Where can I meet you?” * *

*

We meet at a church. I expected stained glass and a steeple, but what I get is more like a shoebox. As I step out of my car, Sophie emerges from it carrying a box overflowing with small Tupperware meals. Two more people exit behind her: a tall, skinny guy who looks fresh out of high school and a woman about my age with choppy purple hair and swaying hips. Others are scattered throughout the parking lot, fitting boxes into trunks.

Sophie smiles when she spots me, and tries to wave, but instead nearly loses control of the cargo in her arms. I run to help her balance it.

“Thanks,” she says, “Hey, do you think we could put some of this in your car?” I nod and open up the trunk.

There’s not much room, but the three of them manage to stuff two boxes in. The third goes in a pickup truck parked a few spaces down.

“This is Cody,” Sophie explains as she points to the tall, skinny guy, “he’s going to school for social work and he volunteers for us on the weekends.” Cody gives me a slight nod. “And that’s—“ “I’m Keisha. Stay at home mom,” Keisha cuts in before Sophie can finish and holds out her hand for me to shake. I take it—her hand is much softer than I expected.

I wonder how Mom would respond to her. Mom is a strong advocate for giving women the maternity leave they deserve—she took nearly two years off for me and each of my sisters. But a woman who doesn’t work at all? The way Keisha shakes my hand feels like she may rip my arm off, but somehow it calms me.

“Cody, Keisha, this is Josh,” Sophie chimes in, “Councilwoman Woods’ son.” Keisha drops my hand. Cody adopts a disbelieving smirk.

“Oh God,” Keisha sighs, “You’re not going to lecture us about keeping male aggression in check, are you?” No. That’s Mom’s job. I open my mouth to speak, but the words lay flat on my tongue and I can’t manage to get them past my teeth.

“Don’t worry,” Sophie intervenes, “he’s not like her.

He’s learning.” She furrows her eyebrows for a moment and then seems to be struck by an idea. “He’s my pupil.” I feel warm, though the parking lot we stand in grows darker and colder the more we stand in our small circle of assorted bodies. I feel my arms leaking through my suit again.

Keisha releases a bubble of laughter and says, “Corrupting the mind of the councilwoman’s son? This is why I hang around you so much, Soph.” Sophie grins proudly and then ushers us into our separate cars.

Sophie and I end up in my car, following behind Keisha in her pickup truck. My hands are slipping on the steering wheel.

“What did Keisha mean? Corrupting my mind?” I say so quietly I’m unsure if she’s heard me.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Your mom just has some,” she pauses and I can feel her shifting in her seat, “views.

And some of them go against what our organization has worked so hard for.” I see her look at me out of the corner of my eye and suddenly I’m aware of how heavily I sit in the driver’s seat. She takes a deep breath and speaks softly: “You’ll see.”

We pull into a parking lot in a part of town I’ve never been to. Mom calls places like these “problem neighborhoods.” The lot is adjacent to a store long shut down; the windows are blinded by splintering wood and the walls have been beaten into submission. Sophie unloads a box from my trunk and I follow suit. She walks up to the mouth of the battered building and knocks on its teeth: four quick knocks and three long ones. The mouth opens and a head of wiry gray hair emerges from the belly. At this point, everyone else has appeared behind Sophie and I, half of them wielding steaming boxes. The man at the entrance eyes the boxes and looks at Sophie with glistening eyes. He disappears and the slab of wood he stood behind swings open. I follow Sophie through the threshold.

The interior looks as though it may bury us in dust and bricks at any moment. Once my eyes adjust, I start to notice clusters of dark shapes in the corners of the room.

They huddle and shiver as one. The warmth in our hands begins to draw them closer. Many are children, cautious but incurably curious. And hungry. Even through the layers of tattered clothing I can see their bones. Some spot Sophie making her way through the darkness and relief spreads through them to their bony fingers. She glances back at me, as if to make sure I haven’t escaped. I glimpse the fire in her eyes—so warm, even in this darkness.

Sophie hands a container off the top of her pile to a woman who sits near her feet. She has a bundle of blankets in her lap, and only as she reaches up to receive the food from Sophie do I see the small, red-cheeked face wrapped

in it. The woman grasps Sophie’s hand for a moment, tears gliding down her cheeks and wetting the blankets she holds.

Sophie looks at her with glowing eyes and I swear I can see the heat passing between their fingers. As I watch her move from person to person, I don’t see her passing out food, but rather offering each person fire from the palm of her hand.

Suddenly, Keisha bumps me on the shoulder with her fist and gestures to the box in my arms. I realize I’ve been standing in the midst of a crumbling building full of crumbling people with a box of food in my hands, but have failed to offer it to anyone. I quickly shift the weight of the box to one hand and pick a container off the top. I hand it to a man I see leaning against the wall. He has a rough gray beard that conceals most of his face, but his eyes look up at me; they are stretched and tired. He nods as I hand him the food. I hand boxes to every body I see—some come to me, some can only look to me with pleading eyes, some can’t even open their eyes—until I have only one left.

There’s a tug at the bottom of my coat. I turn around clumsily, nearly stepping on a few toes. A boy stands in front of me. His eyelids droop and the area below them is dark, but his eyes, brown and wide, seem to illuminate the room.

His hair is assembled in tight curls that reach for the ceiling.

He holds his hands out to me, searching the darkness for help that seems never to come to him. I place the last box in them, end his searching, but I can see in the way his eyes survey it that he knows it won’t last, and he’ll be searching again tomorrow. He puts the box under his arm and holds out his free hand to me again. I set down my empty box and kneel in front of him. What could I possibly give him?

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, so as not to disturb the heavy silence that coats the room, “that’s all I have.” His eyes dim.

The room grows darker. The tiny hand he held out to me now drops to his side. For some reason, I feel that I can’t just let it hang there, so I reach over and take his hand in mine. It’s rougher than I expected—rougher than a child’s hand should be. We search each other’s eyes for a moment, and then

he turns and vanishes into the darkness. As I’m standing, I notice Sophie standing at the opposite wall, watching me.

She walks over to me, her empty box hanging at her side.

“Come on,” she says and walks towards the entrance.

We step out into the moonlight, which seems blindingly bright now. Everyone else is still inside, so we stand alone in the gravel and the silence of the night. Sophie’s face is a silver coin.

“That’s what hunger looks like, Josh,” she says deliberately. I nod. The monster behind me has eaten my words. “Overpopulation is destroying this world. Can you imagine what it’s like in other countries?”

“My mom says God gave women birth, and she will provide,” I recite. Sophie gazes forlornly at the gravel crunching beneath her shifting feet.

“People like your mom, they don’t see this.” She turns and meets the monster’s face. “If there is a God, I’d like to think this isn’t what she intended for her people.”

“Me too,” I utter, because there’s nothing else to say.

Then, people begin spilling out of the building, Cody and Keisha leading them.

“Come on,” Keisha shouts and punches my shoulder just hard enough to send shock waves through my bones, “we’ve got more spots to hit.”

We spend the rest of the night driving to various dark, crumbling buildings or makeshift shelters under bridges or enclosed alleys. We all meet back at the church around ten.

I help Sophie and the others carry the empty boxes back inside. Everyone starts to leave and Sophie stops me at my car before I get in.

“Thanks, we could use a little more help around here.”

I know she means more than this city.

“Yeah, sure.”

“No, really. Thank you.” Her eyes are still, fierce, binding.

“It was,” I search for a word that I know won’t come to

me, “nice. I’d like to do this again.”

“But you’re a councilwoman’s son. I’m sure you have better things to do,” she says in a mocking voice. I don’t take it personally.

“Well, I did skip a date for this.” Sophie smiles—her teeth glow. I feel myself warming up again. My face feels twitchy. Can she see me sweating?

“You stood up your date for this?”

“Yeah, but it was a set up, anyways. My family is trying to fix me.” There I go, whining again. “So, thanks. For saving me from that.”

“No thanks necessary. This is what I do.” She observes me for a moment, as if trying to find the entrance in. “In fact, I should be thanking you. How about I make up that lost date for you? In gratitude for your hard work today.”

This is the first time I’ve seen uncertainty in her eyes. My heartbeat feels uncomfortably irregular. Am I dying?

“Yeah, that would be,” my brain still searches for a word it will never find, “nice.” Sophie smiles.

“Great. I’ll call you.” * *

*

I don’t remember driving home. It seems more like I flew. The next few days were a blur of staring at my phone screen, staring at Sophie’s number, considering calling her, deciding not to, and instead replaying every moment of that night in my head. Mom heard what I did to Rachel. She scolds me about it at least once every hour. She swings her small, flat-ironed head out of her office door to admonish me for my poor life decisions. I nod.

Three nights after I volunteered with Sophie, I sit with Ellie in my cave. She’s severely crushing me in Maria Kart.

“Damn, you suck at this,” she laughs as she crosses the finish line in first place.

“No, you just spend too much time down here playing games when you should be doing homework,” I retort.

“You’re the one who spends too much time down here. You really should hang out upstairs more. Mom always assumes you’re jerking off in your room.” I roll my eyes, but I’m not surprised. Mom has a habit of assuming things about me. I’m about to respond with something about Ellie’s grades but my phone rings. I nearly rip my pocket off trying to remove it from my pants. Ellie gives me a knowing smile and turns off the game console.

“Hello?” I squeak.

“Hey,” she says, “Sorry I didn’t call until now, I’ve been swamped at work.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been pretty swamped, too,” I lie.

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, I should be.”

“Great, I’ll pick you up at eight.” I nod, and then remember that she can’t see me.

“Okay.”

“See you then.” Silence.

I turn to Ellie, who has now cut her face in half with her teeth. I can’t help the smirk that creeps across my own cheeks. She squeals a little and jumps on me, rubbing her hands into my hair.

I do my routine. This time I make it to my legs and note how bubbly they look in my jeans. Ellie told me she had a paper to write, kissed me on the cheek, wished me luck, and left me to my own defenses. I prod my cheeks, pull at my hair, and fix the button down I’m wearing over and over again. I almost don’t notice when my phone buzzes on the bathroom sink. She’s here. I take one last look at myself and head upstairs.

Mom isn’t in the kitchen. Thank God. I inch through the darkness of the house, so massive it seems to take me hours to get to the front door. I can’t believe I’m still sneaking out of the house.

I have to travel a few blocks down the street to make it to where Sophie’s car is parked because security past that

point is tedious. She waits for me in a small blue car; the engine runs and her eyes are closed. I get in the passenger seat and she slowly lifts her lids to see me.

“Where are we going?” I ask as I buckle my seatbelt.

“Well, I was thinking maybe we could get some ice cream and then take a walk in the park. That’s one of my favorite things to do.”

“But it’s March. Won’t we freeze?” Her eyes widen to the point where I can see the way her pupils move.

“I’m going to be honest: I hadn’t thought of that.” She drags her fingers through her hair.

“What about soup?”

“What?”

“We could get hot soup to go and walk in the park.”

She stares at me with a look I don’t understand.

“Josh Woods, that’s a fantastic idea.”

We carry out our soup plan, walking along the path where I take my daily runs. We talk about the world as if it’s a book we’re studying together. Mostly, Sophie goes on tirades about the things that ignite her and I listen, trying to capture what pieces of her inner heat I can. Occasionally, she’ll sip her soup and remark about how truly fantastic this idea was.

At the end of the night, we walk back to her car.

She drives me home and parks a few blocks away. I thank her for buying me soup and taking me out. She laughs at my formality. We look at each other across the center console for a moment, absorbing the moonlight and our round faces into our memories. Neither wants to forget. She leans over so slowly I think for a moment she won’t reach, but the next moment her lips are on mine and I feel a warmth exploding from us that I’ve never felt with anyone else. She has shared her fire with me, and at that moment, I vow to feel it again. * *

*

We do. In fact, we see each other many more times, and for some reason, we can’t think of anything better to do than get soup and walk in the park. But, according to Sophie, “What’s the point of doing anything but this?” One such chilly winter evening, we walk along our usual path a few minutes after sunset.

The small paper bowl of soup cradled in my hand heats my fingers down to the bones. The boiling spoonfuls of clam chowder dripping down my throat warm my core. We walk slowly down the path, but just fast enough to keep the blood and heat pumping through my legs. Sophie sips her chicken noodle happily beside me.

Dusk has passed already, but the sun clings to the night sky with fuchsia fingers. There is barely a sound besides our mouths slurping soup from plastic spoons.

“There’s something I was wondering,” she says casually. We look at each other with curiosity. “Why did you come that Saturday? To that food drive.”

“You asked me to,” I answer plainly. I’m not sure what she’s asking of me.

“I did. But you could’ve stayed with your date.” Now the bowl is burning my fingertips. I switch hands.

“This probably sounds weird to you, but this isn’t the first time my family has tried to fix me with dates. It’s happened before and I recognized the situation and decided to bail.” I cringe at my own bluntness.

“What do you mean fix you?” she asks, a piece of chicken steadily being chewed throughout her words.

“I guess they figure I’m beyond any sort of self-help, so they enlist some successful, intelligent woman who loves an underdog to spend enough time with me that I latch on to her good habits. And maybe I’ll even marry her one day.” I try to tone down the sarcasm in my voice, but it’s impossibly thick.

“They do this to you a lot?” Sophie makes a face that looks as though she’s found a rotten carrot in her soup.

“Yeah. The first time, they really got into my head.”

No, you’re setting yourself up, Josh. Sophie slurps down her soup and looks me straight in the eyes.

“Do tell.” Damn.

“Um, well, her name was Lucy. She went to the same college as me, and we had a few classes together, but I had never talked to her before. One of my sisters, Caroline, had some mutual friends with her. Apparently, my mom heard she was studying to be a doctor and explained to Caroline why we would be such a good pair. Anyways, they set us up, we went on a date, and then we went on some more dates.

She was really into punk music so she took me to concerts and events. It wasn’t really my thing, but I saw how happy it made her and decided not to complain. She broke up with me after a year because she felt like I wasn’t passionate about anything. I still don’t really know what that means.”

After I’ve finished, I feel like I’ve been talking for hours. My mouth is dry and the words hang in the air above our heads, waiting for something, anything, to break the density.

“There are a lot of standards for men, Josh.

Unattainable standards. No one should expect you to live up to those—not because you’re not good enough, but because they’re impossible. You are good enough. And if all those women trying to pick at you can’t see that, maybe it’s time you start hanging out with people who can.” She slows nearly to a stop then, and she looks at me and her skin glows like the moon bouncing in the water. I go stiff.

Suddenly, she begins walking at a normal pace again and turns forward. “But I don’t think that’s why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you came to our food drive on Saturday. It’s not because your date sucked. Tell me the real reason, Josh.”

The chill of the evening attacks me all at once, ripping at my nerves and muscles. I shiver wildly now. The reason is you.

I want to let it go; it sets fire to my tongue, burning me from the inside out. Just say it. But something keeps my teeth clamped down on it, capturing the writhing words.

Something. What is it?

The shivering stops. I can’t say it. And it’s not because I’m afraid or nervous. It’s because it’s not the truth. And this is where the truth spills.

“I want to change the world. That’s probably stupid or cliché or selfish, I don’t know, but I need to do something important. I’m thirty already and the most I’ve done is worked for a councilwoman who also happens to be my mother. All my life I’ve been corrected. I’ve done the wrong things. I’ve liked the wrong people. I’ve been the wrong weight. I just want to do something right. Something people can’t argue with or nitpick at. For once, I want to do something right.”

The words fall out of me like water. And I swear I’ve lost more weight saying those words than I did in any of my months of exercise. Sophie slows her steps and then halts in the middle of the asphalt, which is turning blue with the moon.

“You want to change the world?” she asks quietly. I nod. It sounds worse coming out of someone else’s mouth.

Her eyes search me, and the corners of her mouth bunch so that her lips curl slightly. “Josh, listen to me. If you want to change the world, you have to stop letting the world change you.”

Faces begin to blur my vision. Lucy. Victoria. Mom. Rachel. Ellie. Faces from billboards. Faces from TV. My own face. They surround me, coiling around my head like snakes.

I can’t breathe.

Then, Sophie reaches over to grasp my hand and begins pumping air back into my chest through her fingertips.

“You’re not wrong,” she says carefully, “It’s the system that’s wrong. And you’re not alone, either.” Our hands feel like two suns embracing each other. I can’t tell if my eyes are muddying or if the world is melting away. Suddenly, she digs her bright fingers into my palm and begins dragging me back to the car. I drive, and we don’t speak except when she gives me directions. Night descends further and I wonder where she is taking me. What more could you possibly show me?

A structure looms before us, half destroyed as if someone began tearing it down and then forgot to finish. I want to make a joke about how she keeps bringing me to abandoned buildings and I hope she’s not going to murder me one of these days, but the menacing structure we stare up at through my windshield silences me.

We get out of the car and the doors don’t make a noise as we shut them. As we drift towards the building, a faint sound rises from its depths: human voices crashing upon each other like waves. I can’t tell if they’re screaming or cheering. Suddenly, I’m shivering.

We enter and find the stairs in the center of the building. Then, we descend—down and down and down.

Just when I think the walls around us might start heating up we reach the end and exit the stairwell through a heavy door.

As the door swings open, the sound I heard faintly outside hits me in one suffocating tidal wave.

I locate the source of the noise: a huddle of about forty people, facing inwards, shoving their fists and their voices into the air, jerking and pushing like a monster digesting its food. Sophie wraps her fingers slowly around mine, and I want to secure them there, but my muscles are limp. Her presence comforts me, though, and I gather the courage to look away.

The room is a concrete box, broken up only by the occasional pillar. A single exposed light bulb dangles from the ceiling, splashing a bit of light into the crowd. Darkness leaks from every corner, threatening the weak light. A few people hang back from the pulsing mob; they watch from a distance or lean against a wall with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. What is this place?

Sophie begins gently leading me towards the group.

At first, my legs don’t move, but after a few tugs, I’m shuffling alongside her. She pushes past a few people and brings me up beside her between sweating, pounding bodies. I can see all their faces now. Men mostly. A few women are

scattered throughout. I think I see Keisha, but it’s someone else’s purple hair I catch a glimpse of. They are shining. The little bulb suspended above them reflects in the dampness of their skin. Their mouths are open, and they all seem to be releasing something from their jaws all at once, forcing it to collide in a spot right in the middle.

Sophie has a man in front of us move one step to the side, and I see them. Two men are writhing in the center of the crowd. Their limbs swing at each other and each of their breaths is like vomiting. They’ve been at it a while. Sweat and blood making them slippery, so their hands glide off of each other’s skin like oil. One of the men is much taller than the other. His arms reach farther. His balled hand connects with the other man’s left ear, which sends him reeling into the crowd. They roar and hold out their hands to catch him, and then thrust him back at his counterpart. Blood drips slowly out of his ear and down the side of his neck as he staggers back into the circle to face his opponent.

I can see the places where this has happened before: a blossoming bruise tracing his jaw line, a deep opening above his right eyebrow where it seems the skin simply burst, a trickle of blood escaping from the edge of his mouth.

The other man seems not to have taken a single hit. He swings a few more times at the bruised man, flailing and showing his exhaustion. Miraculously, the blows are dodged.

Desperately, the losing man plunges his shoulder in between ribs and stomach. Together they hit the concrete slab beneath them, hard. I tighten my fingers around Sophie’s.

She mirrors my grip.

They tumble for a moment. The crowd heightens. The tall man ends up on top. His long arms swing up and down rhythmically. The man below tries desperately to block the blows with his arms, but they are quickly losing strength.

He begins shouting something I can’t hear—everyone is screaming what I assume is the taller man’s name. Johnny.

Johnny. Johnny.

Someone near the front of the crowd bursts through

into the circle and grabs Johnny’s shoulders, frantically trying to pull him off. The group boos angrily at first, wanting the fight to continue, but when Johnny releases the man underneath him, he falls limply onto the concrete and the noise simmers. A few people from the crowd silently drag his half-conscious body away, leaving a slash of blood on the cold floor. A few more walk up to pat Johnny heartily on the back before leading him out of the circle.

There’s murmuring in the masses, and for a moment I think they’re going to disperse, but two people walk forward, discard their shirts, and assume the positions of the previous two within the circle. I look at Sophie in horror. Please, don’t make me watch this again. She looks back at me. Her eyes are hard and cold like the walls of this nightmare. Silently, she leads me away from the growing noise of the crowd and deeper into the darkness.

“Remember when I showed you what hunger looks like, Josh?” I nod. “This is a different kind of hunger. This is hunger for freedom. This is what happens when you oppress people. Society tries to hide this, but it’s inevitable. And suppressing it only makes it nastier.”

“Sophie, this is horrible. These people are insane; they can’t be…” Before I can finish, something slaps the air out of my chest from behind.

“Josh!” the voice shouts over the growing cacophony.

I spin around and I’m surprised to see Cody, the skinny kid from the food drive, giving me a thickly sweet grin. “I can’t believe you’re here. Hey Soph. Did you guys see a fight yet? Did Johnny fight?” Sophie nods carefully. “Damn. He’s the best fighter. Are you guys leaving?” We look at each other, neither breaking our stony stares. Cody becomes visibly uncomfortable. “Okay, well, while you guys decide I’m going to head over there.” He breaks off from our circle and Sophie’s eyes break from mine to watch him go.

“This is human nature, Josh. People crave it. Push people down enough, they’re going to burst. And it’s going to be ugly.” With that, she erased herself from the room. And I

was left there in that coffin of noise and blood. * *

*

The next few days are lonely and torturous. Ellie advises me not to call her. “You don’t want to seem too desperate,” she says. Nearly every night I hold my guitar in my lap and stare at my phone, neither calling her nor playing a single chord.

She calls me after four days. It’s late, and I’m in my music room, digging my fingers into the neck of my guitar.

“Sorry if I freaked you out,” she says, almost in a whisper.

“It’s okay,” I say, “I’m sorry too.” She tells me I don’t have to apologize, and then I apologize some more. She laughs and it’s as if a river has come babbling out of my phone. It cleanses me. We talk more—about Cody, about up-coming food drives, about what I saw in that concrete box in the earth. I think about my mom, what she would say. There’s no need for aggression, Josh. Aggression is unintelligence. Aggression is unnatural. Aggression is what weak men feel. Man up, Josh.

I feel sick. My hands are shaking, and I use my free hand to pull the strings of my guitar almost to breaking point, trying to steady it, trying to squeeze the anger out. I did this as a boy, with my first guitar. I didn’t know my own strength and ended up snapping one of them. Mom saw the welt on my arm and assumed I was getting into fights with the other boys at school. She grounded me for a week. Man up.

Wet, swirling pools begin to gather at the edges of my vision. I feel heat in those pools, as if they’re boiling in the corners of my eyes. There’s a fire in me. My lungs quiver, and I fight to keep them under control. Mom says you should never cry in front of women; they’ll think you’re weak. Man up.

“Josh?” Sophie’s voice lifts me from the abyss.

“I get it,” I say with heaving breaths, “I feel it.” Then, I

let my sobs roll. She listens to my throbbing breaths silently for a moment.

“I’m coming over,” she says finally. Before I can ask what she plans to do about the security, she’s gone. I let my phone drop to the floor, barely noticing the sound of hard plastic meeting tile. My eyes boil. I’m smashing my hands into the surface of my guitar, burning my fingers on the thick metal strings. There’s a crack. I look down and there’s a slight fissure at the base of the neck, right beside a small inscription: Follow your passions. Much love. Lucy.

The door is closed. The walls are padded. I stand up, grasping my guitar like a hammer. I put both hands on the neck, lift it high above my head, let out a scream that shatters my lungs, and bring the instrument down hard on the tile floor. It cracks in half, but the bottom still clings to the strings. I go again. And again. Until I’m panting. Until the body of the guitar lays in clumps at my feet and I stand amidst the splinters of wood, the broken neck hanging from my hand like dead flowers.

I get a call from Sophie after half an hour standing alone in my music room. I can hear her pouting through the phone. They won’t let her in, the bastards. I try to make myself less puffy, to no avail, and make my way upstairs.

Mom is nowhere to be found. I think maybe God is looking out for me after all. I slip into my shoes and head out, disregarding the lasts wisps of winter nipping at my bare arms.

I find Sophie’s car parked a few blocks down. I see her dark hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail and I feel that warm, clean feeling of the day I first met her. I climb into the passenger seat and she immediately grabs my shirt and pulls me into her arms. Her fingers burn into my back and her breath is on my neck. I wrap my arms around her middle and let them sink into her. I’ve never felt a person so warm.

Slowly, she releases me; we slide our arms out from inside each other. As we part, she catches my face in her

hand. I’m suddenly aware that I haven’t shaved since I last saw her. Her fingers graze my stubble. She looks at me.

The fire in her eyes is soft, silky. It sets the air between us aflame. Her fingers inch to the back of my neck, and she pulls me to her lips. We are submerged in flames, and I can feel her heat in my eyes. Everything else is water.

It seems like an eternity we spend in that fire, but when she let’s me go and opens her crisp eyes again, it flutters away. Something comes out of my mouth, and it takes me a moment to register it.

“Do you want to come in for dinner?”

Sophie gives me a look of surprise mixed with doubt.

“What about your mom?”

“She’s not the one making dinner, so she doesn’t get to decide who eats it.” Sophie smiles.

Sophie grabs my hand as we walk up to my front door. When we step inside, she squints as if we’ve just stepped into broad daylight. Mom is still in the kitchen, sipping at the last dregs of her wine. She almost chokes when we walk in.

“Josh, I didn’t know we were going to have company.

You should have told me, I would have warned John,” she chides.

“It was a last minute thing, Mom. You’ve met Sophie, right?” Mom shifts her feet and sets her wine glass down carefully on the counter behind her.

“Yes, I believe we have. It’s nice to see you again.”

The words sound like gravel coming out of her mouth.

“Nice to see you too,” Sophie says graciously, but I can hear the slightest quiver in her voice. She squeezes my hand. Mom glances at our interlocking fingers nervously.

“I didn’t know…” she begins, but she’s cut off by the small clinking of a bell from the direction of the dining room.

“Oh! Dinner time.” She shuffles past us into the next room.

Sophie looks at me pleadingly before we follow.

We all sit silently at the table, leaving three seats

open; four are for my sisters (three of whom are off to college or starting their own families), Sophie occupies one of them, and Ellie is nowhere to be found. The silence is broken by Ellie noisily descending the stairs and bursting into the room.

“Sorry, I was…” she starts, but stops when she spots Sophie. A stupid grin spreads across her cheeks. “You must be Sophie.” She plops down in her chair and scoops her hair away from her face. Sophie nods. “So good to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Ellie winks at her. Sophie shifts in her seat and smiles awkwardly. Mom stiffens.

John enters, saving us from a painfully awkward silence. He lays a few dishes in the center of the table silently. Every trip he makes back to the kitchen (not Mom’s kitchen, no one cooks in Mom’s kitchen) we watch him wordlessly—chicken breast marinated in a sweet-smelling sauce, creamy mashed potatoes, steaming greens. Once the food is laid out, we each just look, waiting for someone else to begin.

“Well, I guess I’ll start, then,” Mom breaks in and dives into the chicken. We all begin methodically spooning food out onto our plates.

“So, Sophie,” Ellie spews through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “What do you do?” I give Ellie a warning glare. She knows what Sophie does. She loves to stir. But Sophie is happy to have something to break the silence with. I watch Mom’s face tighten as she explains, and I feel a devilish joy kindling in my heart. I study her, watching her face change, and my fondness for Sophie grows as her words make my mother’s face contort. Then, she starts smiling, and my joy turns to dread.

“Sophie,” Mom says, interrupting Sophie in the middle of a sentence. Sophie shuts up right away. “How long have you and my son been seeing each other?” She emphasizes “my son” as if to prove to Sophie who I belong to. Sophie glances at me.

“About a month. Maybe longer, right Josh?” I nod.

That seems about right.

“Josh, why haven’t you told me about this?” Mom asks, feigning maternal hurt.

“I’m telling you now.”

“Well, it can’t be that serious if you’re just telling your mother about it now.”

“Mom.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Mom, I’m an adult.”

“Oh please, you still live here, Joshy.” Sophie looks like she’s about to jump out of her skin. Even Ellie looks uncomfortable. Anger boils inside of me.

“Mom, please, can’t we just be grownups tonight?”

“Oh, you’re grown up now? You’re a man now? You can’t even find a decent woman willing to marry you and take care of you.”

“I finally bring a girl to dinner and you’re telling me I can’t find anyone?”

“This girl? Tell me, Sophie, are you going to marry my son? Are you going to support him? Have children with him?”

I’m about to lose my head. She’s meddled in my life for the last time. But I’m surprised to hear Sophie’s voice ring out over the argument.

“No.” The room temperature spikes and I swear I’m melting in my seat. No? Everyone at the table gapes at her, unsure if they heard correctly. Sophie turns to me with a look so sad I feel like I’m drowning. The water in her eyes has doused her fire, and I’ve never felt so cold while looking at her. Suddenly, she stands up and walks quickly out of the room.

“See?” Mom says coldly, “Not even this one wants you as a husband.”

I barely hear that comment because I’m up and following her out. I find her in the kitchen, trying desperately to keep the tears from spilling onto her cheeks. I’m not sure if I should touch her or not, so I stand behind her, watching her wipe the water out of her eyes. She must have heard me

breathing, because she turns around and looks at me.

“Is that what you want?” she mutters, desperately trying to keep her voice even-toned.

“I want you.” It seems like the only thing to say.

Please, Sophie. Say you want me too.

“But, what you’re mom said. Marriage. Support.” She pauses for a moment and looks like she might collapse.

“Kids.” I look at her intently, trying to dig through our conversations, trying to find something that might give me even the slightest clue as to what’s going on. I’m so confused.

“What’s wrong, Sophie. Just tell me.” She just looks at me for a long time, searching me and herself. Then, her face gets hard, focused.

“I’m infertile.” Something shatters behind my eyes.

Infertile. It’s a word I’ve only heard spat out of Mom’s mouth.

Mom says infertility is a result of promiscuity and sin. It’s something foreign in this family. Unclean. Other.

I’m reeling. I had never considered what I would do if my girlfriend was infertile. Then again, I’d never considered the alternative, either. What do I say?

Sophie watches me carefully, as if predicting in her mind what I will do next. What will I do next? Then it comes to me. I’ll do what Sophie would do.

“And I’m fat. What difference does it make?” She looks confused, but her lips twitch into a slight smile.

“Sophie, if you’ve taught me anything, it’s that you decided who you are. You’re infertile. I’m fat. We aren’t going to let those things define us. Are we?” She shakes her head and the smile crawls across her face. She embraces me. We stand there in the kitchen like this for a while, entwined and warm. She says she’s going to go, so quietly I barely hear it.

I walk with her out to her car. We embrace again. She kisses me. And she’s gone.

As I’m walking back to the house, I can feel the world cooling around me. I open the front door and I’m hit by arctic winds. Mom is in the kitchen, chugging wine from the bottle.

When she sees me come in, she slams the wine down on the counter and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Barren, Josh?” she practically screams at me across the room, “You’re dating a barren woman?”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“Yes, I was eavesdropping. I’m your mother. Don’t change the subject. You brought a barren woman into my house and sat her down at my table.”

“She’s just a woman, Mom.”

“Just a woman,” she scoffs, “Well, she’s a woman you won’t be seeing anymore.” It feels like she has just unraveled the seams that hold my guts on the inside. Everything spills out now.

“You can’t keep controlling me. I’m thirty years old.

I’m not some goddamn doll you can tear apart and sow back together and dress up when you want to show me off.

I’m a person. Sophie’s a person. Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I’m stupid or incapable. My life is mine. I don’t need someone to take care of me; I don’t need someone to tell me right from wrong. I’m a man. And I don’t need to be perfectly shaped or happily married or a father for that to be true because I don’t need to prove that to anyone. You think you’ve been making me better, but you’ve just made me ashamed of myself. Not anymore. Sophie has shown me how to be who I want to be, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.” I take a few deep breaths. Mom looks almost sympathetic and for a moment I think she’s going to apologize.

“Honey, I know you’re going through things right now,” she says instead. I should have known she wouldn’t understand. “But that girl is leading you down the wrong path. She’s leading you to an empty life. What kind of man will you be if you don’t have a family?”

“There are other ways to be fulfilled than to have a family!” It seems futile now, but my insides are boiling over and I can’t stop it now.

“Like what? Music? We’ve all seen how well that

worked out for you, honey.” Her sweet voice makes me sick.

“At least I’m working honestly towards my dream. You only reached your goal by stepping on other people.” My fists are like water balloons that could pop any second.

“I got to where I am by showing people right from wrong. And I will not let that whore smear my name by seducing my son.” I can feel my face reddening, swelling.

“Don’t call her that.”

“She thinks she can use me and my family to get to the top and spread this birth control garbage in my country?

Well, see how much people listen to her when they find out she’s barren.” She chokes the neck of the wine bottle, digging her pointy fingernails into the glass.

“You wouldn’t.”

“She’s threatening the integrity of this household!”

“She’s done more good for this world than you ever have. And you’re going to take that away? You can’t.” She can’t.

“Watch me.”

“Don’t, Mom. Please.” She thinks on this for a moment, obviously enjoying watching me beg.

“Fine,” she says with a smirk. I sense a trap. “But you can’t see her anymore. I want all ties between her and our family severed.” There it is.

“No. I’m a grown man. You don’t get to make my relationship decisions for me.”

“Oh, but I do. Because if I catch you with her, her infertility won’t be such a secret anymore, do you understand me?” The room begins flooding. I’m up to my eyes in water.

I’m drowning. I know she’s serious. She values her career above all else. Suddenly, I’m empty.

I nod slowly—every movement is painful. As I wade towards the door to my den, she stops me.

“Joshy, remember: the media is always watching.” * *

*

Night descends. I watch the lasts of the sun drag over the horizon from inside my car. It’s torture waiting for the bright colors of the sunset to fade to black. Once the sun is completely replaced by moon and stars, I start my car. I’ve parked it a mile away from my home and I walked a roundabout path to get to it. Any chance of being spotted has to be squashed. Still, I’m nervous.

I take the long way to our meetup spot, a bench a little ways into the woods in the park where I run. She is waiting for me there, sitting like a stone. The tension in her muscles is visible. When she sees me, she bolts up out of her seat and wraps her arms around me. We stand like that for a moment, letting our embrace soak in the moonlight.

“This is ridiculous,” she says into my shoulder. I pull back a little.

“What do you mean?”

“This.” She gestures her arms at the trees, or maybe the world. “Meeting like this. Hiding.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, my mom didn’t allow me to be seen by any cameras until I was fifteen, so everyone thought she only had four daughters.” I try to laugh at myself, but my own laughter stings and Sophie’s mind is elsewhere.

“Think about it. We’ve been doing this for two months now and nothing is getting better.” She looks up at me, her cheeks round and glowing in the patchy light streaming through the trees.

“There’s no other way.”

“But there’s no future in this, Josh. We can’t keep hiding.”

“Sophie, please don’t make me go back to the life I had before.” Something hot passes over Sophie’s face and I feel that I’ve said the wrong thing.

“Oh, it’s all about you, isn’t it? I’m telling you I’m not happy and you’re worried about your life? It must be so terrible for you to live in a mansion and never work hard a day in your life. I’m sorry you hate your mom and your sisters

are mean to you. God, Josh. Why don’t you just man up and deal with it.” Suddenly, I’m sure that I’ve started bleeding.

Sophie’s words have poked a million little holes in my skin and now my whole being is leaking out onto the ground. I’ve heard them countless times from Mom, but Sophie’s mouth makes them sharper.

I don’t want her to see me cry, so I turn around and my legs begin to move. After a few seconds, I’m aware they’re taking my back to my car. I’m vaguely aware of Sophie calling my name, but my legs don’t stop moving until I reach the car, get in, and drive away. * *

*

Ellie holds my head in her lap, stroking my curls carefully. I grip my phone in one hand and ball the other into a fist so tight I’m sure my fingers will lock that way.

“Maybe you should call her,” Ellie says quietly, “it’s been a week. You can’t ignore her forever.”

“I thought she’d be different.” The muscles in my hand are starting to get sore.

“I know. Maybe she’s just going through a lot right now. I mean, she must have been hiding this for a long time.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Her hand stops.

“Josh, look at me.” I sit up and find her eyes behind the curtains of dark curls. “Think of all the girls you’ve dated.

Think of the things you did for them. You listened to music you hated for Lucy. You cut all your hair off for Katie. You grew out your beard for Cara. They all convinced you that you needed to change yourself. Now, think about who you were before you met Sophie, and who you are now. All of the changes that girl has made in you were already there, and she brought them to surface. The people who matter most in your life aren’t those that cause you to change yourself, but the ones who make you a better you.”

She puts a pale, skinny hand on my arm, and I let the warmness of it sink into my skin. I look at her petite frame

and wild curls and try to figure out how my baby sister is so impossibly wise. I used to be able to hold her with one arm.

“You’re right.” I’m searching for her number in my phone when I hear Mom’s voice calling me from upstairs. We both cringe. I head slowly up the stairs, as if heading to my execution. As soon as I open the basement door, she shoves a tabloid in my face. It’s open to a page of politician gossip.

Splashed across the top are the words Councilwoman Wood’s son seen with a mystery girl; could this finally be the one? I know this is bad. I’ve never been in the tabloids before. I guess the media doesn’t care about the politician’s fat son unless someone is actually romantically interested in him. Now that’s a story. Mom’s face is red with rage.

“Mom, let me—“ “No. No petty lying. I know what’s going on, I’m your mother. But I’m feeling gracious today. This is the first strike.

I want no more of this.” She waves the magazine around for emphasis. “My career is at stake here, Josh. End it now.”

I shuffle back downstairs, feeling helpless. Useless.

Ellie watches me descend. Her eyes hold a muddle of sadness and rebellion.

“Don’t listen to her. You can’t listen to her.”

“I have to. For Sophie’s sake.” * *

*

Agony. Sophie’s calls come in increasingly longer increments of time. She’s giving up. But still, every time I hear my phone buzz I jump at it, holding it up close to my face and staring at her name on the screen. She’s just a swipe away—it’s so easy—but every time I think about watching her pass out boxes of food, how those people clung to her for warmth and assurance. I think about the first time we met. The heat in her eyes contrasting with the cool walls of the Blue Room. Her hair shimmering as the light poured in through the milky curtains. Her wild expression and gesturing hands as she explained to me the intricacies

of her plan to end world hunger. If Mom starts spreading rumors about Sophie, most of the councilwomen would never take her seriously. Her plan would be dead. How could I do that to her?

Ellie visits me in my room every once in a while and tries to comfort me. Sometimes we play video games, but she crushes me every time. “Sorry, I was trying to go easy on you,” she says. I crack a joke about how Mom says video games are for lazy men who can’t get jobs. She punches me, hugs me, and then leaves to do homework.

Being at work is worse. Mom walks out of her office every now and then to ask me something pointless. “What are you looking at?” “How’s it going?” “What time is it?” It’s as if she’s checking on me to make sure I haven’t escaped.

There’s a TV mounted to the wall in the in-between room where my desk is, and sometimes she just sits in a chair next to me and watches the news. I assume she thinks she’s spending time with me, but she never says a single word during these strange episodes.

The day Sophie stops calling me, I fall into a deep depression. I think of every possibility as I stare across my desk at the endlessly white wall. She found someone else.

She’s dead. She realized she hates me. She was kidnapped.

She moved away.

I’m considering writing these down when Mom’s office door opens and she steps out silently. She turns on the TV and sits down next to me, all without making a sound.

The TV jumps to life, and for some reason, this fills me with unfathomable amounts of dread. She’s ruined everything that’s ever been good in my life, and she thinks she can just sit here next to me and play the mother part as if she just needs to put in her few minutes every day? I’m sure I’m going to explode, but a voice like water suddenly fills me ears. Sophie?

I’m convinced I’ve gone mad, but then I see her on the TV, wide eyes full of that fiery passion I had come to rely on. Mom stiffens next to me, as if her body suddenly became

one with the chair beneath her. I can barely concentrate on the words Sophie is saying into the camera; I’m so relieved to see her round cheeks and inky hair. How I’ve missed them. Okay focus. What’s she saying?

“Because we feel that hunger and poverty is much bigger than shortage of food. All oppression is connected.

I’m doing this for myself, yes, but I’m also doing this for everyone. Because I want a better future for the children of this world—one where they won’t be treated differently based on their biology. For all the men out there who feel isolated, suppressed, or hopeless, and for all of my fellow barren women out there, you’re not alone; we’re doing this for you.”

I can’t breathe. My suit feels too tight and the air is so thick that I can’t seem to swallow any of it. I think Mom might be suffocating too, but she seems so distant now. So separate. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I almost fall out of my chair. It’s a text from Sophie: I hope you watched the news today. I’m so sorry. If you forgive me, meet me at the usual spot in an hour.

I don’t realize that Mom is looking at me until she says my name. It’s like a dart, shot right into my ear.

“It’s her isn’t it,” she spits. I just look at her blankly. “I swear to God, Joshua, if you leave this office right now, you will never be welcome back in.”

That’s enough for me. I stand up, take one last look at Councilwoman Woods, and leave that place for good.

I have time to stop at home. Ellie is practically waiting at the front door for me. As soon as I step in she throws herself on me.

“Did you see it? Please, tell me you saw it, Josh. She was doing it for you. Did you see it?”

“Yeah, I saw it. Look.” I show her the text. The scream that comes out of her could break glass.

I run downstairs to change out of the suit that now feels like a strait jacket. Then, I face the bathroom mirror. I see the effects running has had on me. My belly used to sag

over my pants like overflowing molasses. Now, it’s solid. My legs are strong. I feel strong. My hair has grown out into little ringlets that I push back with my fingers. I throw on jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. It’s not any of this that makes the mirror less daunting, though; it’s knowing that I matter.

The sun is setting and I think of how seeing golden pink light drip through the trees like melting candy will always remind me of her. I don’t have the courage to look for her amongst the fullness of the branches, so I stare up at the canopy of light. My shoes crunch through the lasts of the disintegrating leaves on the park floor. The dark air is warm around my bare arms. It’s as if it knows who I am and is telling me to keep going. I want to fall into its embrace and let it carry me into summer.

Then, I see her. She stands solitary in the midst of the trees, like a toy soldier standing with an army, pretending to be real. The light sinks into her hair, making it sticky sweet.

Her eyes are glass; I’m afraid if I look at them for too long they’ll shatter. And in her hands, she holds two paper soup bowls, the steam rising from her palms and disappearing into the air by her ears. When she sees me, her face cracks, and I start to run. It feels good. There is no pain in my chest, there is no heat in my calves, and the wind that whips at my legs is soft like fingers.

Once I reach her, I sweep my arms up under hers and pull her sticky hair and her glossy eyes in to me. Her warmth is so dim now, and I have to really hold her to feel it, but it’s there. I feel a wet heat on my back and realize she’s spilled the soup on me. Sorry, sorry, she says, but I tell her she doesn’t have to apologize to me and I don’t let go of her.

Then, there’s more wet heat, but this time it’s on my shoulder and I know she’s crying, or maybe I’m crying, but either way we are bound with water and heat.

We sit on our bench for hours, not talking so much as we are thawing. I tell her I missed the beginning of her

speech and she says that’s okay, she’ll explain it to me.

“Outdoor concerts. We needed Councilwoman Woods to back us because we couldn’t get sponsors to fund our birth control plan, but now we don’t need her. Because we’re going to have concerts around the country to sponsor gender equality and raise money for condom transport. We’ll have volunteer musicians and local food vendors and we’ve already gotten a bunch of companies to sponsor the tour.

Isn’t that great?”

I can only look at her with awe. Deep in her being I can see her fire dialing up its heat again—whether it’s from her anticipation or the lasts of the sun soaking her in gold, it’s hard to tell. And once again, I am merely a bystander, somehow lucky enough to stand close to this blazing comet and steal some of her light.

Suddenly, she seems to have remembered something.

“I haven’t even told you the best part yet!” She jumps to her feet, abandoning her bowl of soup on the bench and starts running. I follow, and again I’m running for Sophie.

Eventually, we reach the street and she finds her parked car. We’re both a little out of breath when we get there, so we lean on the car for a minute. Then, she pops the trunk.

Within, there is a dark black leather case. The way the leather curves gives away what’s inside. I look at Sophie with disbelief. She studies me with her round, flaring eyes and a wild grin cuts across her face. * *

*

One hand is wrapped tightly around the neck of my new guitar so that my fingers just cover the bowl of soup carved into the wood. The other hand grips Sophie’s so tight our palms have melded together. We stand behind a heavy curtain, deep black like pupils. There is a roar from the other side, and I’m reminded of that night Sophie dragged me down into the earth. I shiver. She turns to me, and her eyes

hold so much confidence I feel silly for my trembling. She leans in close to me so that I can feel her breath on my neck.

“Relax,” she whispers into my ear like mist, and unravels our fingers.

I hear my name, but it’s faint in my ears compared to the pulsing behind my eyes. I climb the stairs onto the platform and open the curtain. The roaring intensifies. I see a mass before me, so huge it’s impossible for me to distinguish any one person. They move and rumble as one being. A single microphone stands alone at the front of the stage. The crowd goes quiet as I move towards it, slowly, calculating each step as if these are the last steps I will ever take. These aren’t my last steps. These are my first steps.

My lips are at the mike. My fingers find their strings.

My breath echoes over the audience. And I strum the first chord.