Re:Visions 2020 by University of Notre Dame Creative Writing Program

RE:VISIONS 17TH EDITION

This representative collection of writing by Notre Dame students is published through the Creative Writing Program in the Department of English. Each year, a new editorial board consisting of graduate students solicits and selects manuscripts, and oversees the production of the journal in order to encourage creativity and recognize student writing of notable quality. Graduate Editors: Sebastian Bostwick, Rebecca Gearheart, Sara Judy, Jahan Khajavi, PJ Lombardo, Misael Osorio-Conde, Valerie Vargas, Scarlett Wardrop Undergraduate Editors: Stephen Anderson, George Bednar, Chelsey Boyle, Michael Donovan, Patrick Harig, Thanh Nguyen, Erin Riley, Abigail Urban Cover Artwork: Mariner of the Skies by Henry Jackson John Huebl named Re:Visions in 1986. Re:Visions, New Series began in 2002. This is Re:Visions, New Series 17. Copyright 2020 by Re:Visions

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear Readers and Contributors, For this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edition, we selected the theme Re:Currence: Turning the Decade. The pieces in this issue address this through cycles, memory, repetition, a new decade, or other interpretations on this theme. We publish this issue in the midst of a global pandemic and hope that it can serve as a reminder of the importance of art and artmaking at all times, and especially through difficult ones. Thanks for picking up Re:Visions. Sincerely, The Editors

CONTENTS POETRY Changes Zach Phillips

Champagne-soaked strawberries Bella Niforatos Untitled Jane Bonfiglio

the unremarkably remarkable adventures of a time travelling cat Mary Lusebrink

How Jack Whittakerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Life was Destroyed by a $314 Million Lotto Win Chelsey Boyle

Brown Eyes Chelsey Boyle

Boxes Chelsey Boyle

2020 Anna Staud

this will be our year Anna Staud

7 Functions Michael Donovan

Odette of the Deli Alena Coleman

The Train that is Always Here Alena Coleman

Ten Years Ago, Today Alena Coleman

Grandmother’s House Alena Coleman

Here comes the beekeeper, with her pitcher full of smoke Anna Benedict

You only take as much as you can with two hands Anna Benedict

What the F*** is Language Pedro Navarro

“Recommended” Serving Size Laura McKernan

Dermatophagia 35 Joseph “Jack” Collins belitting burden 37 Francie Fink

8 WHEN YOU PASS THROUGH THESE RIVERS Thanh Nguyen

THINGS I WILL SOON FORGET Thanh Nguyen

Husserl’s Swans and the Heraclitus Candle A.A. Ford

Awakening the Echoes, 1928 Sarah Kikel

dead letter Sarah Kikel

the deans of geometry Sarah Kikel

Cousins 46 Joseph Cozzi Eutrophia 47 Michael O’Rear A willowed stretch Montanna Kirven

L’Ordre dans le Ciel (avec des Diamants) Theresa Azemar

how has it already been a year? Sean Pietrowicz

9 Ashland Street Sean Pietrowicz

Cherry perfume Gabriel Niforatos

PROSE What We Had Jane Bonfiglio

Could’ve Would’ve Should’ve Mary Lusebrink

but a melody gave them life Andrew Lee

Disillusionment Hannah Gillespie Le Nain Rouge Michael Donovan

The Wishing Tree A.A. Ford

Off the Court Monica VanBerkum

83 99

107

110

Robert 118 Mark Mehochko

ART Mariner of the Skies Henry Jackson

Photograph, 7360x4912px

Cover

modern era Oksana Oleshchuk

Photograph, 8.5x11”

126

No Lifeguard on Duty Augusta Westhoff

Photograph, 7x5”

127

Surveillance Acrylic, 18x17” 128 Augusta Westhoff Melt Augusta Westhoff

Watercolor and ink, 8.5x11”

129

Not an Architect Augusta Westhoff

Ink, 8.5x11”

130

I Hate the Color Blue Acrylic, 24x36” Yansie Gean Norment

131

Torn L and - Pedro Navarro

132

Digital Powerpoint, 8.5x11”

POETRY

Changes

Zach Phillips insects bloom diseases bringing toxic changes scientists worry about harder skies glaciers dripping to Sea from smoky salmon to walrus hauled-out there, dead.

champagne-soaked strawberries Bella Niforatos

ingesting the popfizzrumble of carbonated fruit: looking forward to the taste, the future sidewinding on the other side of glass curvature: it is the new year and the land will hold what we forget, the muffled footsteps around mountains that reminisce of lost childhood, we will find it: in the bottom of the wineglass buried in oxidants and fresh red-kissed fruit, resolutions of identity: different selves shedding like hail, harder than slightly melting snowflakes, underneath: fear of forgetting nights under Orion and Big Dipper, our long gone guardians who watched us leave the hospital for the first time to infant-sleep in a motel roomâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;so peacefullyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;after: 11 consecutive homes, sinks void of hydration and floors holding the winter in, stranded with no function, stability tossed around and fed to an apathetic darkness: i wonder what the strawberry will taste like under its conditioning and fortifying of champagne, i wonder what the sky tasted like the last night of placitas and who grabbed the stars and carried them with us when we left (the last time, the final time), i popfizzrumble the strawberry into a ready mouth, between cracked yet soft lips and the strawberry tastes like timelines, here to there, and family huddled in winter coats around a fireplace, feels spiky like the kindling we collected and new mexico mountain dirt elevated under bare feet, tastes like a year stretching forward and compressing backward, tastes like fruit, fresh sweet and fizzy, better than i had expected all those years ago lying in the house on the hill staring past broken ceiling to the bright champagne stars.

untitled

Jane Bonfiglio I walk down the streets of the city of xxxx and people stare at me because I am moving slowly and in the city of xxxx everybody runs. I try to hum along to the piano music jigging through the air like a yellow canary but I can’t tell if the song is “Heart and Soul” or that one about the girl in a dress. I walk over flower pots old photos books roses Now the world is melting. The world is trying to kill me. I see rampant death and rampant destruction and rampant drilling and oil spilling over my melting snow and ice like blood. I see white and I try to blend in and hide from death but I am death to some.

the unremarkable remarkable adventures of a time travelling cat Mary Lusebrink

{Inceptive, Cardinal, Pioneer} in a dark garage, a girl with cold fingers strokes a patchwork cat as dim light reflects off a bluestool. {Anon, Ergo, Coterminous} the channel lies still while a hidden current droops along you can wash your feet in these frigid waters or sit next to the lonely girl on the dock whose cat wanders the broken banks {Culmination, Finis, Swansong} and at once it hits me, the extreme beauty of this place. somehow it is easier here, in the cold with a stuffy nose, as a cat slowly circles, with shy confidence.

How Jack Whittaker’s Life was Destroyed by a $314 Million Lotto Win Chelsey Boyle

I’ll marry Jack Whittaker, When I am good and dead. With not a cent? No sir, This man I will not wed. Till I am good and dead, I’ll chase the boys with dough. I say this man I will not wed, And love I’ll never know. Jack, now with all the dough, It’s true, I won’t decline. Love will I never know? Must I leave my heart behind? Yet, his money I cannot decline. So, I’ll marry Jack Whittaker, Then leave dear Jack behind, With not a cent—none sir.

Brown Eyes Chelsey Boyle

Screw melted chocolate, they aren’t sweet enough for candy to symbolize. Brown eyes have crawled through the fertile soil under the muddy meadow. The color brown does not fear solitude, cast aside from the rest of the rainbow, See the years carved here, years that only rings etched in an oak’s trunk signify. Dripping molasses poured out over history, present yet unknown in modern times. Melanin blocks the secretive soul from sight like billowy drapes on a window. One look speaks promises or threats in a language blue eyes could never know, A riddle difficult to decipher almost like reading a sonnet called Brown Eyes. But these puzzles are hard, and this mud is unclean, so a solution was created. It was to eliminate the not melted chocolate for not being sweet or pure. The dream was to burn the brown wood of the hearth that you hated, So you could brush aside your lover’s straw blonde locks that would endure while your broccoli-looking blinkers crinkle with pride, crafting a cliché simile that used a big word like “azure” to compare her eyes to–let me guess–the sea.

Boxes

Chelsey Boyle A Man once loved an object, so he built a box to keep it safe inside. A Man once killed a man, so men built a box to keep him safe inside. The Man tried to leave the box, so they put the box in a bigger box, to keep them safe from what’s inside. They put more men who were not safe in the box, to keep them safe inside. Except the men inside were not safe from the men inside, so, they built boxes in the boxes to keep all the men safe, inside. But objects weren’t made to be in boxes, so a Man made a box cutters to cut the boxes open and Men weren’t made to be in boxes, so they took the box cutters and cut the men open instead. Men built more boxes and box cutters and cut more boxes and men, until all of the boxes and all of the men vanished under a sea of shredded cardboard.

2020

Anna Staud at midnight he pressed his soft lips against mine & my teeth stopped my tongue from spilling i love you onto the chipped floor with the vodka & confetti & i stared into his almond eyes & thought maybe this year the world will stop burning & our hollow cathedrals will spit out music instead of ash but now twentyfive days have passed & we still do not believe we are beautiful we walk around heads down wishing we were going somewhere else & last august a six year old boy said to me this city needs to be torn down so no one gets killed & when we got to the park he ran to the swings & now he is seven and can swing higher but still hears death cries of four more years & tastes metal hate in the water he drinks & the air is frozen i canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t walk around this lake anymore & sometimes want to break the candles after i pray because all i see is barbed wired-fear stretched for miles on an arbitrary line that was stolen & i bite my nails in class worried if i should choose A or B while bombs go off in a country far away & a white man shoots thirty people whose names i canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember & now i wish i said i love you

this will be our year, took a long time to come Anna Staud

“But remembering with longing is like saying farewell once again.” – Clarice Lispector

february 24

i put on the red flapper dress and red lipstick my hair curled it’s time for senior speeches they said i felt dizzy how was i supposed to sum up four year of auditions rehearsals songs in a few sentences spoken between stifled sobs i remembered the tiny classroom and black box theatre singing love on top cast lists posted lines highlighted i felt salty recollections percolate and pressed the microphone tape closer we circled up one last time shouted break a leg you squeezed my hand and the music started the curtain opened the lights went up they should have blinded us but we bloomed i wanted the audience to keep applauding can’t we run the number one more time perform one more night we know the lyrics by heart i can improvise too please can’t we freeze but the show must go on i said my last line where to bobby we hugged backstage had one final bow i had never been so happy never been so sad and the flowers were beautiful but they died may 22 i knew i was approaching a series of lasts walking up the steps just as i had done countless mornings before without thought or appreciation mind occupied with tests and papers unaware the

21 monotony would turn into meaning we sat in class rolled our chairs down the hallway signed our tie-dyed polos and khakis with permanent markers we hopped the fence she climbed the goalpost we cartwheeled across the football field sprinted across the hallway our way of saying goodbye to the bricks and the blue paint and the people we were free and known we counted down the minutes the seconds the bell rang one final time we screamed and hugged i put in my locker combination thirty-two fourteen twenty-six left no trace of my pictures magnets notes books i closed it the metal startled shut i turned down the stairs the hallways looked smaller somehow we all piled into the back of her truck did pirouettes around the lot i drove out of my parking spot eyes ahead but i could not stop glancing at the rear-view mirror august 15 it was eleven at night the day before we knew our whole lives would change driving across our small town that was our world wishing to stay and wishing to leave simultaneously living twice acutely aware weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d miss that precise instant some moment in the future yet singing as if it was the only moment that mattered with the people that mattered the most that would always matter the most even if everything changed we held onto each other hanging outside the windows and the sunroof we turned the music louder played donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop me now super trouper total eclipse of the heart our anthems of infinite youth headlights flashed the night stung and the wind whipped my hair across my face but we werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t going fast enough my tears tasted bittersweet like memories and my laughter ached with nostalgia we were going too fast and i shouted for one more song one more loop around the neighborhood wishing we had more time to drive before i had to go home before i had to leave home

Functions

Michael Donovan def event trace a skinny finger around the edge of the ottoman’s disc top [[this]] you tell me (and them too) is the edge of the flat earth — like in the Netflix documentary, the YouTube clippings wherein icy anarchic rings hold a watery womb [i think matter-of-factly, impressed with myself] if it cracks, overflows, truncates [water breaks] we all drown >> funny, so funny like that other video I watched with you (and them too) on YouTube :: “how is prangent formed?” ~panoply of laughter~ [[“dangerops prangent sex”][ “pregananant” ][ “pregnate”]] cacophonous refraction, basting our greased leather with diced language the shaken signifiers of those set to bring an I/other into it he yelps, laughs, hollers, keels, whelps, wails, (help me!) I’m running out of synonyms for their flemmy mouth noises and you smile [[seemingly]] kindly, silently breathy chuckle unlike the diaphragmatic rapture that unfurls when someone

23 suggests that the ice — circumscribing the ottoman’s disc top — broke, fating all [[theoretically]] to a mushy demise return setback we broach a puzzle | christmas cookies [[in march]] | i got the blues, you the reds, he the yellows, the greens soon we’ll be unstuck just a minor setback so i took the ‘long face’ way the ‘onward / upward’ way seemed unnecessary — like bombs — blowing heads off cats in a dead-split churchyard, orchestrating a gothic [[necromantic]] language of the pre-devotional fenians uisce beatha uisce beatha uisce beatha uisce beatha a peculiar typecast (a keystone of the crumbling arch){ flash-consulting, classifying through its action} the odors of the six angriest bois >> — drunk, disorderly. spam socks (blue // red // yellow) signify: that i am the funnest, that i am the most lighthearteddest def annoyance deep earthen red {not a blush but desire’s patch}

24 troubles smooth skin it will dry don’t touch don’t touch don’t touch your face don’t touch don’t touch your face let it flake don’t scratch let it flake let it flake scratch dig watch it bleed dermatophilic imposter skinluvingwhore & you scratch it off: you semi-professional shit disturber — you well-practiced flaneur :: having woken from a mourning nap return warning this product contains a chemical known to cause cancer or birth defects or other reproductive harm this item must be attached to the wall <> why — the y spuriously situated between ll and s: [[avowal]] make like masking tape and stick to me now my designated menthol: ascribe to my method: subdue rub against the pine trees through which i needle; the tall ones ([hi_t]) that tower above the small ones ([lo_t]) plastic violence smoked them out: a-pastoral, irreparable track / / interpret / / misalign / / estrange from whatever i think i felt it doesn’t matter. i won’t be around.

Odette of the Deli Alena Coleman

In my mother’s kitchen, I dangle legs over the counter and watch her dance. Cash-register sets tempo, soup-of-the-day on bass, meat-slicer melodizing in G minor. And the cowbird chorus enters, broods parasitic, two-legged bellies with jaws unhinged, singing. And watch! Piqué, chassé, jeté, Balancing banana bread on her head and ruebens in both hands, my hands mirror her movements across boiled eggs I peel, and she pushes out plates down the counter past beaks into gullets, A sorrowful thing. To feed while hungry, to fill the world from your own stomach.

The Train that is Always Here Alena Coleman

In the pit of the night, I sit in a bed that is not mine and listen. A train hurls a prayer up into the womb of the sky. Tearing, a birth of sound, slick and fast along the arms of the two-stringed lyre of iron. chug chug against the current of organ pipes and pulse. It vibrates outward, the sound that plays fugues on the sinews of my jawbone. A divine descant of steel and tissue. The body listens, the body sings, and as the train pulls its bow across my throat I alone ring hollow.

Ten Years Ago, Today Alena Coleman

On the bank of the river we plant ourselves on rocks, those crocodile teeth cracking through a mossy jaw, and jump. Down into the riptide, fledgling morning doves graduating the nest, we pull for each other with earth-worm fingers tugging and curling until we can fly back to shore. Where we hold eggs in our mouths and run, tongues cradling the shells against our gums. We come out spitting gold and porcelain on the crocodileâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tongue. The next time we are here we sit again in the beastâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth, wet and sacred.

28 You hold a beer can in one hand and clench warm moss with the other. We do not jump. We do not fly. Instead we throw eggs in the river and watch their life swirl and sink into the seething saliva.

Grandmother’s House Alena Coleman

At grandmother’s house, I sit in the algae-rimmed night, pond-water air slipping through the window to hug my bare body. Outside the Baptist’s steeple penetrates the lightning bug halo. I hear my grandmother’s voice in the kitchen, whispering to the person on the other end about coyotes on her acres, bring the shotgun, bring the shotgun quick before he gets too far. My mother’s voice surround-sounds in my head, mind the path! don’t stop for flowers! there are coyotes in those woods! The pressure of her hood nooses around my neck, and I dig my hacksaw nails into the porcelain tub. Then my grandmother cracks the bathroom door, and she, a woman who I never saw with a man, who I never saw pray, kneels at my feet. Her fingers wrap around my knees as if they were rosary beads, and she gets in the belly of the coyote with me. She has been there too. She knows the knife. And we breathe.

here comes the beekeeper, with her pitcher full of smoke Anna Benedict

so for fuck’s sake I gotta stop coughing. I knew this was coming. My hands grasp the railing and that’s the only way I know I’m awake – sometimes I look down & see six fingers, or bone, or something. Always the hands. The foghorn’s a deep bored oooo-oooo-oooo & frankly that’s more annoying than the fog itself. Or maybe it’s the stink of gutted fish. Or maybe it’s the fact that none of the potted plants on this damn pier are native, so everyone’s lying to the birds & the bees & the butterflies. Sometimes I think about bringing you here to hear the waves crash & crash & crash but then I remember how often she used to come here, & how she brought another instead but wished he was you. I can’t even see the water. A seal calls & some seagulls screech, so I cover my ears & turn & walk away from the edge. I catch my reflection in the diner glass, swaddled in spongy grey. I look like her, always have, but it still surprises me. (Would it be more confusing for you if I didn’t?) The lighthouse blinks green & I bet if I could lick the beam it would taste like key lime pie. Maybe I am dreaming. Or maybe she fell asleep and never woke up. Maybe when she comes to she’ll forgive me for being awake.

You only take as much as you can with two hands Anna Benedict

or, at least, with two hands & a bordering belly & a strong back. There’s a point to this endless gingerbread city, she’d told me, then left me on my own to deal. There’s a word for this – döstädning – Swedish death cleaning. Morbid but I’ll take it. I open one box & peer inside – a dislodged ship in a bottle, seventeen crumpled love poems in her tongue, a picture frame with her head & your head – his head? – synapsed & hands pressed together in an airborne diamond. I don’t want to look at my own. I squint at the photo & I wonder at what point I stopped being her & you stopped being him. Whatever. I’ve lingered long enough. Cardboard corners dig into fleshy palm meat & tummy. I see a broken doorknob on a dusty floorboard & I place it atop the box for safekeeping. As I heave I become aware of something at the bottom of the stairs – it is her, I think, or it is me, or it is us, I don’t know. (It’s okay, I know her, this wraith’s wrath will hold as long as I’m here.) I stop & drop the box & look down the stairs & she stares. The box dissolves like sugar in water & she does too, the world does too, & the darkness turns bubblegum pink & all I can think is how I can place the box in the light to sort through if the morning has come.

What the F*** is Language Pedro Navarro

Do you realize that you just had a conversation about Caetano Veloso and Sunday barbecues at your grandparents house and arguments with your aunt about Bolsonaro and how your family is from the northeast colonized by the Dutch? And with correspondent depth you heard about your friend’s middle school stories and cold winters in Minnesota and breakup stories and that his favorite Dalí painting is Corpus Hypercubus. Do you realize, Dro? (You even got a nickname!) Do you realize that you once roamed around Amman saying yalla and slept on the top of a rocky hill in Wadi Rum talking about stars and astronomy to people who have no idea what coxinha da Real is? Y’all sang Brazilian funk in Buenos Aires and after long discussions about poetry with Californians and “zazdarovje!’s” followed by Fernet and Coke, the motto of the night had to be teveel gezopen. How did it feel having to say Ich habe dich lieb and not Gosto muito de você to a girl who came from Germany carrying a bucket full of cherries

33 she picked up the day before and got delayed by a military coup d’etat in Turkey? Just like that, one day you’re skeet shooting in Arkansas with a friend, the other you’re both hiking in Rio de Janeiro, getting tipsy of caipirinhas in Ipanema. Like saudade, it’s unexplainable.

“Recommended” Serving Size Laura McKernan

Each morning-afternoon-evening I walk around with cans of Diet Pepsi. Some people try to (falsely) argue that I am “too bound” to Diet Pepsi. Doctors have bristled and barked at my copious cola consumption. I still guarantee that I will make my diet round with Diet Pepsi. When campus eliminates my life-giving potion, I boycott at once. I fight for my right. I will die on this mound for Diet Pepsi. I become a dealer, a back-room boy, doling out contraband to and fro. But my head is down, my eyes are low, in case they hound my Diet Pepsi. Some people don’t get it, they are blinded, deprived, unenlightened. My reverence “doesn’t make sense”. Somehow, I confound by Diet Pepsi. Have you ever cracked open a can, heard the euphoric crack-fshhh? God, woman, have you ever been graced with the glorious sound of Diet Pepsi? I should be—nay—deserve to be Queen, crowned, of Diet Pepsi. I tell them, just wait, even my corpse will be found with Diet Pepsi. So promise me that in my coffin my body will be surrounded with Diet Pepsi. Despite, ironically, my being there ‘cause I’ve finally drowned in Diet Pepsi.

Dermatophagia

Joseph “Jack” Collins Some chew on ice I gnaw on phrases “i read Prufrock to the dying // those who dared to eat a peach” Prenatal stanzas that Bleed nicotine ambrosia “and I your silent disciple // worship from afar – your grace” If I stop to breathe They bite my tongue, “fire and forgiveness // could you end this” Burrow into my gums Leave malformed larva “my poison was my own creation // false vision laced with good intent”

36 Metamorphosis brings New words to mouth “my mother is one of five // framed figures on the stairs” Alien letters to page And still I gnash “you have become the rivets and the seams // of my reality” Ever uncertain of Who consumes whom

belittling burden Francie Fink

but to deepen a question for frivolous intent is to await the burden of a jelly-legged horse to analogize the world to an oyster is to place substantial truth in an atomâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s view of the cosmic origins to fight the synergy between a soul and a system is to carefully craft your own conviction in the legitimacy of social beings to give up in the human fight against gravity is to sew your eyes to the loneliness that accompanies linked elbows

to resist the temptation to find inspiration in a synthesizer is to show preference to an odd number in nature

38 to stroke the ego of an unapologetic bow is to provide refuge to a mourning of thoughts to insist upon the spark of olive is to fail in the pursuit of spiced individuality to consider lightly the robustness of peace is to submit your intestines to certain turbidity and to face expressionless an overload of the senses is to render yourself prone to freezing in liquidus state of melancholy

When You Pass Through These Rivers Thanh Nguyen â&#x20AC;&#x153;There is a version of me

which haunts the space of the space.â&#x20AC;? - Mohammed Kazim Ali

A cigarette burned holes through my palms today. Which is to say (I am) the symbol of the promised land, made from (girth and grit) and the stories of people who are now dead. They told me, once, through a fortune cookie: good nature will bring about unbounded happiness. But what is good, (I) want to ask, will you (smile) even (while you drown), laugh at the boats weighing against you, hold your head towards the skies when (you) walk, corpsed water (beat)ing upon your thighs? (the rain) smells like agent orange, the sea, (like a monsoon) of water buffaloes. (Blessed are) those (w)ho do not s(e)e and believe, and I believe. I

believe.

Things I Will Soon Forget Thanh Nguyen

The sun swallows the night / and I am left with only its shadow. / Ghosts, too, / haunt what I cannot remember. / like how I cannot recall my father’s name / or the taste of my mother’s pho / my grandma’s dustbowl kitchen / and the smell of chrysanthemums that lined the cabinets. / sooner or later / you come to love things you never had / I loved a girl once / because she held a hint of Hanoi, / but the homeland was too far removed / and I could not touch either of them. (The night swallows the sun / but I am still left with a shadow.) / If I could write one thing / in this wretched world, / it would be you.

Husserl’s Swans and Hercalitus Candle A.A. Ford

I wanted to call the whole world in to see, wanted to pull up the four corners of the earth and shake the people out into this spot tucked between the birches to see what I was seeing: the lake a Crème brûlée, ice-crusted and snow-dusted flat and white, all flat and white but for the black teaspoon pool carved out of the flat and white and flat and white and the two swans floating headless in the black interruption of the flat and white and flat and white floating not like swimming but like clouds, like clouds hovering on the surface of the night, the white interruptions of the black the night, so flat the night their long alien necks with the black-trimmed beaks deleted below the surface of water opaque and hard an obsidian mirror too black for sight, reflecting back the night an aberration in the flat and white bare arms of birches splayed spasmodically, the stripped sycamore spindles grasping up with barky fingers long and white, fingers stark and straining tight

42 reaching into so black a night, the lack of light and the ashes bending low, almost to scrape the powdered snow so flat and white, the snow so bright their branches bowed like souls contrite cradling where they twist upright a coat of white that did alight upon those branchesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; weighty might black and black as flat midnight with clouds upon it floating light like swans with heads ducked out of sight on water flat as backless night reflected in the depthless heights that pierce the flat and endless white with voidy timeless lack of light and all of it so still. It seemed to me absurd that all the world should not be here to witness the moment in its specificity, that the preservation of it, the existence of it, should be only in the archives of my mind; a shaken photograph blurred before the flash could fade, a candle dark before the smoke could dissipate.

Wake Up The Echoes, 1928 Sarah Kikel

Your musings rekindle The ghosts of past conversations, Which floated up to the rafters in the East Dining room Long before us. Decades ago, supported by the oak-beamed structure, Students conspired with professors, Attempting to derive solutions In suits, Over steak dinners, Faded whispers enveloping the evening. And for years the incomplete propositions hung over collegiate diners Like a suspended layer of dust, Discontented spirits awaiting their liberator. But when you speak to me, Hunched over the table, Your foot tapping your chair sinusoidally, The evening light caresses your musings. As you gesture, mapping out the dimensions, You resume the long-abandoned project Begun under this Gothic roof Generations before. And your thoughts, too, rise up to the rafters, Awakening their elders from their near-century-long slumber, Till together they fasten, in harmony, Forming the long-desired solution, Then descending down to the tables To rest on your fingertips. I thought I sent your photo

dead letter Sarah Kikel

to the River Styx but you returned dead letter undeliverable

the deans of geometry Sarah Kikel

in the Fall, the deans of geometry seemed rigid, adhering blindly to Euclid’s axioms with spectacled eyes, absolute devotion to his postulates, faithful followers of the misguided movement. but then they read us Riemann and we saw a new dimension; Lobachevsky, and we believed it, awakening us to the depth of their field and acquiring our respect. by the Spring, the deans of geometry still don’t have the answers. instead, they ask the questions— imparting contradiction, speaking poetry.

Cousins

Joseph Cozzi Black lettering stands island to an ocean blue on ‘Party 2000’ paper napkins. Outdated twenty years they still chaperon plastic cutlery and plates at my uncle’s home. The folding table plateaus from base of wooden floor formerly covered by red shag rug which taught seven children to stumble and fall. Champagne folding chairs support the only token of an aunt now lost in minotaur’s maze of divorce paperwork. Hyena mouths devour spaghetti Bolognese for the third night in a row while napkins alone remember.

Eutrophia

Michael O’Rear Swinging her hips in wide circles the naked truth comes as she is: lecherous. It is Eutrophia, slung over her back the universal temptation of stagnation makes kissy-faces at the algae of souls Veins that haven’t been used in days convulse as they return to their routine flow Take me to the river, pull me out before I drown And after all, the bodies lay and fester and deteriorate And after Fall, the air loses the humidity of breath in its steadiness And the last moans sound I told you so Wolves cling to their gambit despite their uncle’s heavy words Somewhere the baying of mere hounds awakens poets An infantile deity is trying, somewhere more, to push light back into a box And after all, the bodies lay and fester and deteriorate And after Fall, the air loses the humidity of breath in its steadiness And the last moans sound I told you so When the doors of perception are choked, all appears as it is: anoxic

A willowed stretch Montanna Kirven

A willowed stretch Upon that path I dared to walk alone And figured I was safer there Among the sticks and stones Where two roads meet I’m sure to keep My feet down on the road I’ve known from stories And tales of glory Of all the heroes of old For if you read You live it twice Though vicarious it’s true So when you reach The road less traveled You’ll realize you’ve travelled it too

L’Ordre dans le Ciel (avec des Diamants) Theresa Azemar

I’m boring because I imagine myself suctioned in the stratosphere ejected from the pollution of biological systems and functions. Even my heart is left down there. I imagine my spirit sitting above Nimbostratus Lysol clouds and nobody can touch me. Not even my mom. I’m boring because I imagine myself so high up that I’m breathing air untouched. I never have to go blue again, second hand smoked lungs lie with my hands and lips maybe 30,000 feet below. Perhaps deeper. I imagine Clorox wipes running through me the way a stranger’s cough tries to. I imagine virgin wind blowing through me the way the dust of Community tries to. Only this time it doesn’t choke me and snuff me out like a bathroom candle. It fuels my burning lungs like kerosene. I’m fire breathing. I imagine my breath of life is sterilizing The needles I’m made to walk on. Cutting, like diamonds.

how has it already been a year? Sean Pietrowicz

for a dumpster diving debutante sunbathed in stiletto prose i felt your cursive comedown in a fistful of lanterns and i felt your shape in my blind district slaughter we plundered carousels and cross stitched our crucifixes we tugged on this frayed senselessness until strands sutured our eyelashes i haven’t cried in five years strung out on sawdust birds of paradise what will happen when the decade ends? so kiss me now that i’m older now that saliva’s rusty blade has slathered my tongue in a new halloween and you can barely taste who i used to be remember that night when, running through the woods, we rehomed a caterpillar’s laughter? your beartrap grinned around my ankle a scarlet splatter for your birthday

51 dripping stride for stride with brighter eyes my trail diluted in lemon rain soon washed into nothing but honey weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be alright even if iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve tasted a bit metallic lately salt these fields with celerity so that springtime will weep for us and winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s words will thaw for us though summer streets can stray from us fall will never fail to bury us in sleep

Ashland Street Sean Pietrowicz

Watercolors ruptured into Lake Michigan My eyelids peeled back to inhale the hazy painting Glare that tastes like ash Shriveled in the lightshow’s silence Etiolated echoes Faded ringing breath Condensed in his back pocket Drooling lumps of tar somersaulted on his tongue To ask “What’s your favorite animal?” I replied “I don’t like people” [unspoken reason: they lack tails and fur] He placed me in the front seat and muttered: “Just wait until you get older” We smeared American candle wax over an asphalt canvas as Scrap-metal scarecrows sang “Hardcore UFOs” Autumn ferried us down Ashland Street Offering aeropsia confetti for us to snort The leaves returned a few years later But our portraits weren’t quite the same

Cherry perfume Gabriel Niforatos

Cherry perfume is dangerous It is nostalgia for sunsets I never saw A hand that reaches through the ice to bring life for a brief second to my decaying flesh They say that the constellations will change in a million years, That we are seeing history when we look up at the sky I want to watch stars and time as dusk falls And we are shadow puppets against an aquamarine sky The city a black soundscape somewhere in tomorrow Cherry perfume is a hand reaching back in slow motion A music video An advertisement where the face is glowing golden and you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see who is dancing with you But you feel them

54 On your lap at the cheap movie theatre where you laughed together Cherry perfume is ice cream dripping onto your thigh. (I swear I saw wind through the plastic flaps on this cold metal doorframe) That time you lay on top of me on fresh grass Back in July of a year that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist Cherry perfume is sixty-second sunflowers Turning into moss between my pores I miss cherry perfume And feeling nostalgia for sunsets I have never seen

PROSE

What We Had Jane Bonfiglio

Beatrice “Is this the last one?” I drop the cardboard box onto grandma’s beat-up wooden coffee table. “Careful,” Grandma scolds. “You know you can’t buy wood products anymore.” She sets down her chipped blue mug, the only one she ever uses, and carefully peels back the tape. “Are there any more upstairs?” “No.” “Then it’s the last one.” She removes a thick orange envelope from the box, opens it, and pulls out a stack of photos. “So how do you want to do this?” I ask, sitting down across from her. “Do what?” she asks, staring at the photos. “This!” I wave at all the boxes on the faded living room carpet, the coffee table, and the couch. She puts the photos down and takes a sip from her mug. Every time she pulls it down from the cabinet she tells me that it’s supposed to be used for coffee, and I ask her why she still has it if there isn’t any coffee to fill it with. She never answers, just sighs loudly as she fills it with lukewarm tap water and informs me for the hundredth time that the white bird painted on it is now extinct. “Isn’t it your job to tell me that?” Grandma peers at me over her glasses, her dark eyes cryptic. “We want our subjects to be comfortable with the process, Grammy. The best way for you to share information is

58 the best way for us to gather information.” “Is that what is says in your project description?” “No,” I lie. “So I’m your subject, then?” she asks. “Well, we want our interviewees—” She holds up a hand. “Just tell me what you want to know.” I pick up my tablet and open her file. “Let’s start with your life,” I say. “Anything you can remember from living on the coast before the Floods. You lived in Eastport, right?” “Yes, Eastport…” she says, gazing across the room at the weather-proof cellar door. A ding sounds on my tablet, but it doesn’t break her focus. “Why not show me the pictures?” I say. She turns toward me, seeming to wake up. “I can do that,” she says, and hands me the stack of photos. “If any of these seem relevant to your ‘research,’ I’ll gladly tell you about them.” “Okay, this one.” I hand her the photo that caught my eye. She and another girl are sitting on the edge of a boat. Grandma looks young, maybe in high school or college, and is wearing a strapless bathing suit top. Her tan lines are visible, not hidden by the light hair falling past her shoulders. She is smiling behind pink Aviators and leaning her head against the other girl, who looks about the same age. One side of her friend’s red bathing suit top is visible, and the rest is covered by wavy blonde hair. Behind them, the dark, murky blue of the water makes the light sky even more striking, and two yachts are visible behind Grandma’s right shoulder. *** Sadie “Sucks you have to leave tomorrow,” I told Elle,

59 unfolding my legs underneath the giant unicorn float on our laps. “Honestly, it was really inconsiderate of you to accept an internship that isn’t in Eastport.” Elle laughed. “Come visit! Because you know you won’t once we go back to school, even though it is your turn to visit for a football game.” “It’s so far. Plus, my mom doesn’t want me gone for any more weekends after I go to the beach with Deven.” “I can’t believe you’re choosing a romantic beach trip with your boyfriend over driving nine hours to come see your bestie,” Elle said. “I also can’t believe your dad is letting you.” “Me neither. But he loves Deven. They bond over baseball and their favorite beers.” Elle laughed. “Your dad might love him more than you.” “Girls, let me take a picture!” Elle’s mom called out, holding up her phone. “How can you even see us? This float is so big.” “It’s fine, I want the float in. It’s cute!” We leaned our heads around the unicorn’s neck and smiled. Elle’s mom snapped the photo. Then Elle’s dad started the engine and the boat pulled out into the harbor. I watched the docks and houses sail past. Every time we hit a wave the boat went airborne, and Elle laughed as she tried to hold onto the float. I turned into the wind to keep my hair out of my face. When we finally reached the mouth of the Severn River, Elle’s dad slowed the engine and aimed for the Eastport Bridge. “We should rent a yacht for our 21st birthdays. Throw a huge party,” I told Elle. Elle’s mom laughed. “How do Marie and Ben feel about that idea, Sadie?” “They laughed when they heard it, too.” “Better idea,” Elle said. “Matching yachts. Then we can

60 throw huge boat parties whenever we want.” “Genius. How about those?” I pointed to two similarlooking boats floating past as we approached the bridge. “Yes. Mom! Take our picture in front of our yachts.” I hand my phone to Elle’s mom and she says: “Okay girls, smile.” *** Beatrice “When did you meet Elle?” I ask. “Sophomore year of high school.” “Where is she now?” “She went to Europe after college, when the flooding started to get worse. We lost contact when the big phone networks crashed. I ran into her parents a few years later. They told me she had died in the first big malaria outbreak around the Mediterranean.” “Oh.” “She’s in this one too.” I look at the next photograph in the stack. Its background is breathtaking. A small harbor at sunset, the calm water of the inlet visible behind white boats and pilings. Off to the side, a basket of white flowers hangs from an unlit lamp post. Further back, the sun is an orange glow behind the dome of a tall white building. In the foreground, Elle stands on an elevated wall surrounding the water, one leg perched atop a dock box like she is stretching. Another girl is standing next to her, one hand partially covering a slightly exasperated smile. Standing behind her is a small blonde, smiling at the camera but looking like she doesn’t belong in the photo at all. “Who are the other two girls?” I ask. ***

Sadie “What you wanna do now, birthday girl?” Charlotte slipped on her sunglasses and tossed her hair back. “Ice cream?” “Obviously,” I answered. “But where?” “Red Bean?” Sophie suggested. “Ooh, yes.” “Perf,” Charlotte said, typing on her phone as we walked up the street. The three of us filed into the ice cream shop and stood in line behind a young guy with a crab on the back of his t-shirt. Charlotte was still on her phone and Sophie was looking at the menu, so I pulled out my phone to text my parents. Glancing up, I noticed Charlotte was pointing her phone camera at the door behind me. “What?” The bell over the door dinged and I looked back and almost screamed as Elle grabbed me in a sudden bearhug. “Surprise, bitch!” she said. “Happy birthday!” “Oh my god! When did you get here?” I turned to Sophie and Charlotte. “You two knew?” “This morning,” Elle answered. “You’re lucky to have me.” We got our ice cream and headed down Main towards the water, passing a few shops closed for repairs and a few that had been vacated. We did a slow circle of City Dock. As we were walking back, trying to avoid the standing water from yesterday’s big storm, I noticed the sun sinking slowly toward the brick buildings. “Wait!” I said. “I want a picture of you all. Go stand on that wall.” Elle jumped up, and Charlotte followed her, reluctant. Sophie awkwardly climbed up behind them.

62 “Don’t just stand there. Smile. Do something fun.” I told them, holding up my phone. Elle swung her leg on top of a dock box next to her, Charlotte laughed and brought her hand up over her face, and Sophie just smiled. *** Beatrice “What happened to Sophie and Charlotte?” I ask. “Sophie went to Chicago. I kept in touch with her for a while, then found her again awhile back. She died of lung cancer a few years ago.” “And Charlotte?” “We were close for a while, actually. Your mom knew her well. But when her kids grew up she took them to France.” “I’m guessing she died there?” “Well, your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t heard from her in years. But if the heat wave didn’t kill her, the drought might have.” I keep flipping through the photos. “Wait,” Grandma says. She picks up the one I just placed on the table. In it, she looks to be the same age as in the other two, sitting on a red bridge railing, illuminated by the flash. Next to her is a lean, muscular guy who has one hand on her hip and one hand resting on the railing. Both of Grandma’s arms are wrapped around his thin waist. They’re both soaking wet. “Was that taken at night?” I ask. *** Sadie “You guys really doing this?” Charlotte asked, pulling

63 into the Fleet Feet parking lot. “Why not?” Elle said, hopping out of the passenger seat. “Well, for one thing, the water is super polluted.” Deven and I climbed out of the back. “No backing out now,” he said. “Just swim around the dead fish.” We all walked up the sidewalk onto the bridge. There were no cars, just the sound of the waves gently lapping against the docks, boats creaking, and our flip-flops slapping. “You’re coming out by the Sailing Club?” Charlotte asked. “Near where we parked?” “Yep,” Elle hopped onto the railing and peered over. “Sadie was right. There’s a ledge.” “That’s a first,” Deven said, climbing over the railing with Elle. “Deven, it would be a real shame if you fell in headfirst,” I said. He grabbed my arm and helped me climb over. “Are you all jumping at once?” Charlotte asked. “Yep,” I told her. “Want to go down now? Do you have the flashlight?” “Yeah, but…” “We’re fine, Charlotte. Just shine the light and we’ll swim towards you! There are ladders all over those docks,” I said. “I still don’t think this is a great idea,” she said, turning back the way we’d come. No one said anything while we waited for her to reach the dock. I looked down at the dark water below, then at Deven, who was watching me. A warm, salty breeze ruffled his hair as he leaned over and whispered something into my neck. “There’s the light,” Elle said. “Ready?” We all grabbed each other’s hands. Deven counted down from 3. On 1, we jumped. The fall was fast and breathless, warm air hitting my face and filling my lungs, then a splash as we entered the water. It was

64 cool and dark and gentle and silent. I let myself float below the surface for a few seconds, enjoying the peace, until Deven and Elle pulled me up. We swam towards Charlotte, the gentle splash of our limbs through the water cutting through the quiet air, then climbed up onto the dock. Charlotte handed us towels. “How was it?” she asked. “Refreshing,” said Elle. “Let’s go back up,” I said. We walked to the center of the bridge once more and stood peering over the edge for a few minutes, silent. For the first time, the black water, rising and reaching for the shops and restaurants and homes of Eastport, actually seemed threatening. I turned to Deven and ran a hand through his wet hair. “Let’s get a picture,” I said. He groaned, but climbed with me up onto the railing, facing the bridge. I handed Charlotte my phone and she stepped off of the sidewalk, looking up and down the street, positioning herself to take the photo. “Elle, get out of the way,” she shouted. *** Beatrice “Can we look at the rest of these tomorrow?” Grandma asks. She is gazing out the window at the fading daylight. “You should start walking before it gets dark.” “Sure.” Grandma carefully puts the photographs back into their envelope, then places the envelope in the box. “It’s just—” She looks around at the rest of the boxes. I watch her, my hands ready to type. “I had so much,” she says.

*** The next morning, when I walk into the living room, sweating from the heat and the long walk over, Grandma is holding a leather-bound journal in her lap. “What’s that?” I ask. “I found this last night.” She opens the journal to a page marked with a faded strip of newspaper. I lean closer, but am only able to read the word Obituaries before she tucks it into her pants pocket. “I wrote this right after I left Eastport, so I wouldn’t forget.” She hands it to me. *** What I Had My uncle’s boat, Painless, me sitting on my mom’s lap and wearing a puffy blue life jacket. I loved watching the water swirl behind the boat and the American flag in the aft flapping in the wind. I was always afraid it would fall into the water. Jumping off the boat, mom trying to teach the cousins and me how to do back dives. We always landed on our backs. My cousins. One day Tommy decided that jumping off the top of the boat would be fun. He put on two life jackets, one on his chest and one on his legs like a diaper, climbed to the top, hesitated, then, after several minutes of encouragement and a few insults from the rest of us, jumped off. He said it was higher than it looked. Kayaking to Do What You Want Island. Nikki chose this name for the tiny sand bar because “You could do what you want there.” Her reasoning was that our parents wouldn’t kayak or swim over there to boss us around, so, in theory, we could do

66 what we wanted. Quackers and Daisy. Boating with Deven. Fighting over who got to drive. He told me he always let me win that argument because he liked watching me hold my hair back from my face and press my sunglasses to the bridge of my nose instead of driving with one hand always on the throttle like my dad had taught me. Tubing. The feeling of holding on for dear life, being whipped around behind a boat with my brother. He made me furious and we were constantly at war, but those fifteen minutes on the tube were a temporary truce. Eating ice cream at City Dock. Watching the ducks bob in the wakes of motor boats and shake dirty water off their wings. My dog George, who we could never get to jump in the water after us. Tanning on the dock with Charlotte, listening to Tim McGraw and Sam Hunt and putting lemon juice in our hair and complaining about summer jobs and not being able to go to the bars downtown without seeing people from high school. Lying on the dock with Deven at night, listening to cicadas hum and boats creak in the waves. He pointed out the constellations, one wiry arm under my head, the other waving at the sky. I looked at his eyes, blue and gleaming in the small dock lights, and told him that was all a load of crap. He laughed and said that I was right, it was, that he had no idea which stars were part of which constellations. I elbowed him in the side and complained about light pollution, until he tangled his hand in my hair and pulled my sunburnt face to his own. Chasing George to the edge of my backyard, then watching him run out onto the frozen water. He would look back at me and tilt his small head as if he knew I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get to him. He came back when he pleased, wagging his tail, snow on his nose.

67 Reading on my screened-in porch with my parents, rocking in the green wicker chair, and watching the water darken between the trees as the sun went down. Visiting Deven at work. Sitting with him on the dock with my legs dangling over the water, seeing how far I could push my flip-flops off my feet without dropping them. Getting up and leaning against the sun-warmed wall of the general store whenever customers came. I always smiled at the boaters and watched Deven fill up their gas, making small talk in his red uniform shirt and a blue bathing suit that made him look like a walking American flag. I told him that, and he wore it to work for the rest of the summer. Sitting on a paddleboard with Sophie, watching the Water Taxi go by and waving at all the tourists. They would smile and shout at us, but we felt sorry for them, because they were only visiting. Driving over the Eastport Bridge. Rolling our windows down when we had to stop for a sailboat, letting in the sounds of seagulls and motorboats, the smell of the brackish water churning below. Bonfires in Oliva’s backyard on the Fourth of July, giggling after our fourth glass of champagne and listening to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and watching the dancing red reflection of fireworks on the dark water. Sneaking onto the dock with Deven after everyone else fell asleep and tasting him, salt and tequila and Spearmint gum. *** “Do you know where Deven is now?” I ask Grandma, flipping through the rest of the journal. “Deven?” A yellowed sheet of paper falls from the back of the book.

68 I pick it up and unfold it. “What’s this?” I ask her. “A letter? To Deven?” Grandma is silent. “Can I read it?” I ask. She nods. *** Dear Deven, Your hair was as messy as we were. It fell over the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen and I wanted to drown myself in them and never look back. I wish every day that I had. Your smile was everything and every day I want that smile to meet mine just one more time and then I would never stop smiling. We were laughing and crying and sad music and a beer can opening and you don’t have to hold my hand but please just let me sit with you forever. But you left and the blue keeps flowing. I hated you for smoking cigarettes when you were drunk. I used to think that I only smoked cigarettes when I was too drunk. But since you left me with your ghost I’ve realized that I actually only smoke cigarettes when I’m broken. It doesn’t make me feel better but it makes me feel in control. In control of the destruction. But we’re only in control until we aren’t. We knew we were losing control and losing chances. And then it was too late. Now I avoid blue eyes. Now I avoid blond hair and scars. Now I avoid saying all the right things. No talking, no walls, no clementines. This is all because we’re vulnerable but not on purpose.

So I try to protect myself from myself and everything I had. But one thought, one word, one memory, and the water comes flooding back and I’m even more broken than before. I’m left scribbling in the water and trying to make sense of words that won’t last. Come back. I’m sorry. Sadie *** Grandma’s eyes are closed. “Oh…I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry to dredge up painful memories. But this guy Deven is in a lot of your stories, and we’re trying to fill in as much history as we can. Can you tell me what happened? Did he leave because of the Floods? Do you know where he went? Could you get in contact with him?” She doesn’t answer. The clock ticks. “Grandma?” I say. “Are you okay?” “History,” she says, giving a sad laugh. “Deven didn’t leave, honey. He died.” My stomach drops. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I thought—” She shakes her head. “It was a long time ago.” “How did he die?” I ask quietly. “Well, he drowned, of course.” I watch her, still holding the letter. She’s not crying, just breathing slowly, deliberately. “You don’t have to tell me about it.” She looks up at me. “Yes, I do. Get your tablet.” I retrieve my tablet from the armchair and sit back down. “You know the Floods weren’t a single event,” she tells

70 me. “It was years of worsening storms, heavier rains, more frequent flooding. The Eastern Shore was being swallowed by the ocean, but people on the other side of the bay didn’t want to leave.” “Even though they knew it was dangerous?” “It was our home,” Grandma says. “We didn’t want to leave because we knew that once we left, we’d never go back.” She shakes her head and continues. “Anyway, it kept getting worse. They tried sea walls and sandbags and resiliency plans, built breakers and outlets. But the water kept rising. Eventually people did start to leave. Slowly at first. My parents left with my brothers. Most of my friends.” “But you stayed?” “We stayed. Deven and I. We’d moved back after college. We had it all planned out. We’d get married and have a house on the water. A dock. Our kids would know how to kayak and sail and catch crabs. But in the back of our minds we knew that eventually we’d have to leave, and we wouldn’t have any of that. Our kids wouldn’t have… They wouldn’t have any of what we had growing up.” “So you left?” Grandma shakes her head, blinking. “I didn’t want to. He didn’t want to either, of course, but he was willing to admit defeat. Not me. He tried talking me into it, he tried so hard, but I was stubborn and stupid. I wouldn’t let go, and I was angry at him for giving up so easily.” “Did he leave you?” She smiles. “He would never have left me.” Then she is silent for a few seconds. “He loved me too much.” “What happened?” I ask quietly. “A storm. A flood.” Her voice is a monotone. “Hurricane Ida. He was trying to help our neighbor who was stuck in his car. I didn’t see it. All I know is what people told me.”

71 “Where were you?” “At home. We were looking out the living room window at the filthy water flowing down the street. I think I was crying. I knew in that moment that everything was falling apart. I don’t know how long we were standing there. Then our neighbor Sharon called us, asking for help; her husband was the one in the car. I said I’d go with him, but Deven made me stay. So I told him to be careful. Told him it was time to leave Eastport. Told him that I loved him. He told me he loved me. He kissed me. Then he left.” “I’m so sorry,” I say. “When he didn’t come back, I left,” she says. “I came to the Midwest, before the Great Retreat and before everything fell apart. I went to my family. My friends. We survived together. While they were alive, it was like I still had a part of him with me. But now everyone who knew him is dead. Everyone who knew Eastport is dead.” She looks down at my tablet, then out at the roiling clouds of another summer storm. I blink away tears and Grandma smiles sadly at me. “Don’t cry for me, sweet Beatrice,” she says. “If anything, cry for yourself.” “Why?” I ask. “You’ll never really know what we had.”

Could’ve Would’ve Should’ve Mary Lusebrink

We could’ve been neighbors. That’s what your father said that night with the maps, the night when he asked me to show him where I came from. He said he could’ve built wells there and dragged you along with him. You could’ve been around when a storm tore the trees out of the ground and deposited them gently on my house. Your family could’ve let my very pregnant mother stay with you. My father could’ve put me to sleep to the sound of your empty shower running. We could’ve grown up together, throwing rocks in the channel and catching minnows in the lake. I could’ve known you as the boy next door and you could’ve known me as the girl who went to Catholic school. I could’ve taken you on playdates to my grandparents’ house so we could pick raspberries in their backyard. You could’ve forced me to play with lightsabers and I could’ve forced you to play with horse figurines. We could’ve held hands, but in the way that children do—innocent. We would’ve grown apart, in those awkward years when kids always do. You would’ve started middle school and become too cool for me. I would’ve started going to public school and made better girlfriends. You would’ve gone on to high school and joined the band, and I would’ve gone on to middle school and started wearing skinny jeans. We would’ve seen each other around and gone to our parents’ respective holiday parties, awkwardly carrying out half conversations in an attempt to please them. You would’ve been that guy who lived on my street and I would’ve been the girl at the bus stop.

73 And then we would’ve reached the tipping point: you in your senior year, me in my freshman. We would’ve gone to the same tiny high school in the same middle of nowhere. We would’ve been like those lanky teenagers you see on T.V. We would’ve seen each other during band. I would’ve slowly realized through the haze of empty crushes and unmet expectations that I was falling for you. You would’ve noticed me, the girl who had always been in your peripheral vision. We would’ve started texting and talking more. I would’ve stayed up late at night to throw rocks into the lake and you would’ve joined me. My girlfriends would’ve stolen my phone and sent you fake messages. We would’ve held hands at a football game, sitting close to keep warm. You would’ve shown me the magic you had found behind a computer screen and I would’ve shown you the way the words moved me. You should’ve asked me out and I should’ve said yes. Our love should’ve been the literal embodiment of a Taylor Swift song. Our first kiss should’ve been in your backyard, next to the swing set and under the stars. You should’ve fallen for my wild and I should’ve found peace in your calm. There should’ve been no Meredith or Connor or exes or heartbreaks. Only us, wrapped up in our own little epiphany, the first of its kind. It should’ve been beautiful. It should’ve been perfect. It should’ve been. . . . . . But then you would’ve gone off to college and who knows if we would’ve survived that change and my parents would’ve gotten a divorce and I would’ve fallen apart and cried on the phone with you and who knows how that would’ve gone and then I would’ve found out that some of my girlfriends weren’t as good as I thought they were and I would’ve felt extra alone because you were miles away at some college and my senior year would’ve

74 rolled around and I would’ve died inside because I wanted to be near you but I didn’t want to seem like ‘that girl’ who followed her boyfriend off to college and I wanted to be a strong independent woman and make my own choices but you would’ve been gone so far away at a time in my life when I needed you close because everyone else who was so close felt so far away and there would’ve been nothing we could do about it because it was all just circumstance and circumstance was conspiring against us or maybe we wouldn’t even make it to long distance because maybe I would’ve broken your heart in high school or maybe you would’ve broken mine and we would have long heated screaming matches on the phone and you would feel miles away even though you were just next door or maybe I would’ve complained to my girlfriends about you before I knew who they really were and they would say you were weird and lame and I would’ve believed them or maybe we would’ve moved or you would’ve moved and everything would be ruined and I’ve just now realized I don’t want to think of a life without us exactly as we are. are.

I don’t want to think of a life without us exactly as we

You grew up in Pennsylvania. I grew up in Michigan. We each had our own middle of nowhere 500 miles apart. My parents got divorced. Your dog died. I made one or two shitty friends and lots more good ones. You got into fights with bigger kids and worked at the golf course. I thought I fell in love with a boy who cared more about the state of his car than the state of my mind. You got rejected by a girl with red hair and then ended up dating her three years later. We met in college by chance upon chance upon chance. You helped me learn to march at band camp. Your girlfriend was long gone. You lived in an apartment off campus you dubbed

75 C0D3 H4U5. My boyfriend told me he might want to break up. I told him might wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t good enough and walked away. I made the band. I made more friends. You and I were in the same section. I went to movie nights at your apartment late on Thursday nights. I free-wheeled. I fell apart. I made out with random boys at parties. You did your work and enjoyed your senior year. I guess I did some work somewhere in there. I realized I liked you at a party when a drinking game forced my best friend to lick your face. This was about the same time I started drinking and got my shit together. You found out about my breakup during a game of hotseat, and I found out you might like me. I started texting you on a regular basis and wrote some bad love poems. You wished me goodnight. I came to your birthday party. You put your hand on top of mine while we sat on the floor of your apartment. My best friend told you to make a move at another party. A week later you asked me on a date. We ate pizza and talked about movies. Our first kiss was at a sweaty house party on the shady side of town. You wore a suit and I had my best friend contour my boobs. I spent the next day wrapped in your arms and whispered away my secrets like we were in third grade. I wrote more bad poetry. You told your mom about me. I wrote a poem about loving you and let you read it. You graduated. You moved to Seattle. We call every other day and ask each other corny questions. I hold you through a cell phone instead of in my arms. And I miss you, but I am at peace. I have gorged myself on delusions all my life, but this time. . . . . . I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want a fantasy.

but a melody gave them life Andrew Lee

She wanted me to play. We needed you to play. My sister NaBi was named after the butterflies my mother played with as a child. She remembered what our parents looked like. She remembered what their voices sounded like. She remembered what it was like, watching them leave. My sister NaBi believed that music existed for a reason. She believed that music was a way of connecting. Those that could not rest just yet found some momentary form of respite through the music we created. She wanted me to play music for them. I did not know them. And I refused to believe they existed. We have always existed. I was grateful enough. NaBi was all the family I ever needed. We went out again, just like every Saturday night, to sit on the bench near the yellow cafe that never seemed to age. NaBi bowed briefly to the old lady that always seemed to be sitting with us. From there, we could see the jewelry shop that sat right across the street. Time seemed to run differently on this street. We watched as an old, married couple walked in, not letting go of each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands and choosing to push the door open with their shoulders. A moment later, the door opened again as two college

77 students walked out, both holding tightly onto each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arms. NaBi poked at my arm, letting me know that I could be like those students next year. I was busy watching the life around me. She was busy listening for the life we could not see. And we were all listening with you. I knew why NaBi brought me out that night. She wanted me to listen to the music students from the nearby college played. Every Saturday night, students performed in front of the yellow cafe. Sometimes it was jazz, other times it was classical. The music of these students filled the neighborhood with life every weekend, and everyone came out to listen and enjoy. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need to convince me to love music though. After all, I had grown up with it. I received my first cello on my 8th birthday. It was in a large black case with bold yellow letters carefully written by NaBi that spelled my name. I remember a man walking into our small, one room house as my sister signalled for me to go out to the park by the ice cream store. I came back later to find it sitting in the center of our home. She smiled and gave me a hug as I felt a small tear soak into the sleeve of my shirt. Music was our key to finding a better life. But it was also so much more. By the time I was in middle school, I had already become well known in the town as a prodigy. There was no natural gift or talent I was born with. I guess I was just hungrier than most others. My middle school teacher convinced me to go out in a competition that was held in Seoul. She even offered to pay for the bus ticket. I won first place and brought back a prize of 500,000 KRW. NaBi and I cried in the center of our small home as we hugged each other, overjoyed that we could enjoy a meal

78 outside for the first time this month. Since then, I was asked to perform monthly at the community center towards the end of the town. It wasn’t much, but I made more money than NaBi and I ever imagined while growing up. We were able to afford three meals a day. We were able to afford warmer clothes for the wintertime. We were able to live without worrying about running out early into the month. We both knew I could make this the norm for us. And we were crying with you. And after school, I took my place under the tree I had climbed before in my younger years. I leaned my back on the base of the tree as I set my case down gently. A young girl tapped on my shoulder to ask what was inside the “big silver bag.” I told her it was my cello. She tilted her head to signal that she had never heard of it, so I took it out and explained how I could create music with the bow and cello. I ran the bow softly across the strings to play a few notes, hoping it would give her a better idea of the instrument. Her eyes flashed as she asked if I could play a bit more. I asked her to close her eyes as I closed mine with her. I could hear her quiet laughter blend in with the notes that I played. It was always the same piece, my sister’s favorite song. My eyes opened just enough for me to catch her bright smile. The warm summer breeze blew gently around us, allowing her yellow dress to twirl outwards as she touched the base of my cello. And then she was gone. But the yellow never disappeared. As I started packing my cello and loosening the bow, an old man tapped lightly on my shoulder before introducing himself. He gave me a gentle smile before telling me that he was the owner

79 of the yellow cafe that sat a few blocks down. All the time I had lived in this neighborhood, I had never seen or met the owner of that cafe before. He gave off a strange aura, something that felt eerily calm and comforting. A gentle breeze tickled my face every time he talked. Delighted to finally meet the owner, or anyone that was a part of the cafe, I let him know that my sister and I lived nearby. It seemed he knew already. He took my hand before asking me if I could do him a favor. Slightly taken aback, I asked what I could help him with. “Please play your instrument for us this Saturday night,” the man asked. I could feel a smile forming across my face. We smiled with you. NaBi was ecstatic when I told her about my encounter with the old man. She had always dreamed of watching me perform in that spot, since our younger years. I smiled before asking her not to make a big deal about it. She winked at me before grabbing her coat and running off to the grocery store down the street. I sat down on the floor and unzipped my cello case. It had been way too long since I changed the strings and I decided it would be best to try the new ones my orchestra conductor had given me earlier. I was just as excited as my sister deep down; the eyes of Korea watched those that performed at that yellow cafe. And we knew it too. I woke up to the sound of rain hitting the roof of our house. The walls and ceiling were thin enough for each raindrop to echo through the room, something I had always hated while living here. A small smile formed across my face as I thought about the apartment NaBi and I would be able to afford soon. The forecast showed that the rain would stop by the evening. It didn’t matter

80 much though; people still performed through the rain with the shelter of the cafe porch. I got dressed quickly before grabbing my cello and walking out the door. We walked with you. I walked past the bench NaBi and I always sat at, as I made my way towards my high school. The janitor always left one of the practice rooms open for me, even on weekends. I caught a silhouette with the corner of my eye and recognized it as the woman NaBi always bowed to. This bench was the only place I ever saw her. I approached her and bowed before turning to walk down the street. She gave me a sad smile. And we all knew the reason for her sadness. I could swear I heard a voice calling out my name. There wasn’t a single person on the street other than myself, though. As I turned towards the voice, I saw it. It wasn’t the silver truck hurtling towards me that I saw. It wasn’t the face of the driver either. It was my own face, reflected off of the windshield that was coming closer every second. I looked eerily calm. We are sorry. The second I woke up, I could tell I was somewhere I could not be. The white walls and the beeping of devices and monitors next to me sent a panic through my mind. Hospitals were the one place my sister and I could never be at. I ripped off the needles and stumbled to the door, thankful that it wasn’t too far from the bed I was placed on. I reached out with my right hand to turn the door knob and paused. I had no hand to reach out with.

81 But we still held your hand. My cello sat in the corner of our house, collecting dust as I refused to look at what was once a life and a dream. And I hated the sound of music. I hated looking at myself. I hated the bandages that permanently replaced my hand. And we lost ourselves. NaBi did everything she could to make enough money for us to survive. We had no income; my music was the only source of money we had. I soon realized how badly we had been taking our new wealth for granted. She started coming in later and later, sometimes bruised and hurt, but always with some form of money. I could not get myself to look at my own sister because I knew what she was doing. And I knew why she had to do it. You were never at fault. And we lived for months. Maybe that’s the wrong term; I was never living, merely breathing. But I was still here. I don’t remember much. I don’t think I would have liked anything I remembered anyways. But I do remember NaBi. She was in pain. She started coughing and sweating. She started losing weight. She stopped eating. Her skin was hot. She touched my left cheek and whispered, “No hospitals.” We will take her. A young girl skipped along the street of blue and red houses. She danced past the blue houses, towards the yellow cafe that always seemed to be open. Each house joined in with the night as she walked towards the one light left in the neighborhood. This light

82 never died. Her yellow dress fluttered through every movement as she sat herself down on the steps of the cafe and waited. An old woman walked along the street of blue and red houses. She took a moment to look at the blue house to her left. In her memories, it was still the bright yellow she had loved so dearly. Each house drifted off into the night as she walked towards the one light left in the neighborhood. This light never died. Tears streamed down her face as she approached the small silhouette sitting on the steps of the light. The door opened with the sound of bells dancing in the warm summer breeze of Seoul. An old man stepped out and greeted the two with a hug before closing the door behind him. A certain coolness took over the warm air as the three walked down the street, each holding one another’s hands. The young girl asked why they were walking this way; he smiled warmly before telling her, “To see a butterfly.” The three stopped at an old house that had abandoned its light. Months ago, music of this house gave rest to the souls of those like themselves. They were sad, but not without hope. The young girl smiled as she waved at a single butterfly that fluttered out of a crack in the wall. She opened her palm, allowing it to sit as the old woman put her ear to the worn door of the house. A familiar note painted a smile across her face as she stepped away briefly. The three turned around to greet the hundreds that had come back to the sound of his music. And the butterfly fluttered to the shoulders of an old, married couple that refused to let go of each other’s hands. Yellow is the music you play for us.

Disillusionment Hannah Gillespie

Hi Margie! I’m texting you to invite you…. My phone gave a buzz, trembling in excitement at the flash of blue light across its screen. I reached up to take the turban towel off my head. Wet hair slapped my neck, falling in a tangled mess on my new shirt. I picked up the phone - it lit up in anticipation. The name ran along the top of the message: Jack Wertz. I hadn’t seen Jack in years. This is so random. Last time I saw Jack was in the back of one of those little school buses you take to go to state championships or math competitions. We were on our way to a state championship math competition. Jack was the smartest boy in our high school. Although he was younger than me by a year, he was in all of my classes. …to the thirty-third annual Wertz family New Year’s Eve gala. A New Year’s Eve gala? That sounded fancy. Maybe it was a joke. I almost choked on the next sentence. This is a black-tie event with food, drinks, blackjack, a roulette wheel, valet parking, and a live jazz band. A live jazz band? Who was this kid? I looked up from the phone. My high school memorabilia still stood on that childhood shelf along with my middle school softball trophies. Maybe I had

84 missed something important from that era of my life. Jack must have a ton of money. I tore through the hazy memories in my mind. He was always kind, pretty nerdy, awkward in a funny way. But he didn’t appear to flaunt any fancy clothes or drive Range Rovers in the school parking lot. I hope you can come. The event will start at 8:30 pm on New Year’s Eve. I threw my phone down on the bed and ran a comb through my wet hair, leaving streaks of snarls in its wake. This is just like the Great Gatsby. Poor Jack must have been searching for years after high school to reunite with his one true love, inviting her to party after party just hoping she would come. Now he has to put on the biggest event of his life, the so-called “Wertz family New Year’s Eve gala,” in the chance that she might, for a measly second, spare him one glance across the dusky smoke of the blackjack table. In my room, I could already hear the trumpets blaring in the background, Jack sitting with his black tie and button down tuxedo, a drink cocked confidently in his hand, hair slicked back. She might, with the right proportion of trumpets and Shirley Temples and careful valet parking, give him the slightest upturn of her lip. I laughed out loud. *** “Amy,” I talked to my friend through the phone. I was sitting on my bed, hair dried, knees crossed. “Did you hear about Jack’s party? This thing is fancy - it’s practically the Great Gatsby.” I made sure to help Amy understand the true fanciness of the party by extenuating the word for several seconds. I didn’t especially like parties, but Amy did and I wasn’t about to show up alone to Jack’s house.

She spoke back through the phone. “Margie, New Year’s Eve! It’s like the Roaring 20’s all over again.” I paused – she was right. It was the eve of the 2020’s. This party was a centennial celebration. “The Roaring 20’s were a terrible time though,” she continued. “It was all just a search for substance.” “Substance? Like…” “Oh, like meaning. Like something real. Something to hold on to.” A pause. “Something to live for.” “Sure,” I conceded. “Did they find it?” Amy sighed. “No. The entire era was just an attempt at distracting themselves from their own lack of meaning. Read Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises. Total disillusionment. The Lost Generation, right? And that,” she waited dramatically, “is why there was so much depression in the 30’s.” I frowned, looking at my chipped nails. “What?” I asked through the phone. “I don’t get it.” “Because they all got depressed from trying to find substance and utterly failing.” I didn’t say anything, somewhat stunned at the simplicity of her cause-effect understanding of history. Her voice continued. “Margie, you would be depressed too. If you were searching your whole life for substance and couldn’t find it.” “I guess.” I put my hand in my pocket, hiding the nails from view.

86 “Amy, you know that’s not what caused the Great Depression, though, right?” She stayed silent for a few beats. My friend Amy had great emotional intelligence and could get to know a person within a few minutes of being introduced, but her understanding of history had always been a little subpar. In my mind, I saw her on the other side of the phone, her hand on her head, eyes screwed shut as she tried to remember her US history lecture from junior year of high school. “Anyway, I think you’re right though,” I spared her this time. “I would be depressed. But the Roaring 20’s also had beauty, and music, and wonderful dances! And fancy clothes! I think this party will be fun. We should go. Plus I want to find out who Daisy is.” “Daisy? What are you saying? We didn’t graduate with any Daisy’s.” “She’s the girl that the Great Gatsby loves. Remember in the movie? They’re neighbors. He has parties every night just hoping she’ll come by.” I imagined showing up to Jack’s party now, a serious-faced tuxedoed valet helping me out of my car and leading me to the party, the jazz band playing 21st-century pop songs among a crowd of fancy men and women, piles of strawberries and pound cake next to fountains overflowing with chocolate, a swimming pool sparking under the fireworks of the new year celebrations. Amy’s exclamation interrupted my revelry. “The green light! I want to go as the green light.”

87 “You want to go as the green light?” “Yes,” she continued excitedly. “Margie, we got to help Jack. If he’s the Great Gatsby, I’ll go as the green light, you can go as that really cool yellow car they drove around, and we’ll help him find his Daisy.” “You want to go as the green light?” “We have to help him. He’s obviously starting his search for substance.” She paused. “We don’t want history to repeat itself.” I laughed wryly. “We have to save him from the depression.” “Exactly.”

***

We were late to the party. I had to work concession at the middle school basketball game, Amy burned her hand using the curling iron, and the gaudy earrings from senior year prom didn’t look as good as they had in high school. Years of squinting eyes and college stress had unbeknownst drawn lines on my face. I drove, just for the chance to hand my keys off to the valet. The car was filled with the scent of Amy’s perfume lining her bright green boa scarf. I thought the scarf had been a little too much, but Amy had insisted. She had already bought me a matching bright yellow boa scarf before I could protest. My older cousin’s ugly yellow prom dress was finally put to use after years in our closet. Amy had splurged on a forest colored floor-length gown that made her strangely resemble Elphaba from Wicked! Amy navigated. I kept looking out the window, hoping to catch a

88 glimpse of the mansion we were about to frequent. We drove past a line of cars and reached a stop-sign at a four way street. The houses around us were very averaged sized. “Where’s the valet?” I wondered aloud. Amy shrugged and strained her neck down to look out the window. We crossed the street and came to a house with a few lights on in the front room and a wretched tree in the front yard with a few oversized Christmas ornaments strung by threads against the wind. The GPS announced in robotic women’s voice that we had arrived at our destination. I stopped the car. The lights from the living room revealed a few people standing with drinks in their hands, laughing. No serious-faced tuxedoed man came galloping around the house to greet us, so I resigned myself to parking my own sedan quite easily at the end of the row of cars. Amy and I hiked back to the house in the cold, our breaths fogging the air as we giggled, nervous now, as we finally came to the house of our long-imagined Gatsby party. “Remember the signal,” Amy whispered as we walked up the stoop. The muffled noise of talking and drinks and piano playing trickled through the door. “And walk with confidence.” She squeezed my hand, peered around the yard one last time, and threw the door wide open with a big smile. My stomach gave a lurch as the sticky heat slapped my face and the noise of the crowd crackled in my ears. *** “Remember when Mrs. Peters thought you were meeting with college recruiters,” Amy sat back on the stool, laughing noisily,

89 wine glass in her head, green boa draped carelessly around her neck, “but really you were just running late to class every single day?” Jack shrugged, unperturbed, smiling innocently. I studied him. He wore a midnight blue tuxedo. His face was thinner than high school. He still had the habit of looking at me sideways, facing away from me but his eyes finding mine when he conversed. His brown hair was cut and swept sideways across his head. Jack spoke carefully, using his right hand to accentuate his words, “A deception, unfortunately, but one that I did not instigate.” “Oh yeah? You didn’t correct her! Why were you late every single day? It wasn’t even that late, just one or two minutes. What would it have cost to be a little early instead of a little late?” “If I am a great athlete someday,” Jack began dramatically, lifting his right hand straight up in the air. I stifled a laugh, my hand flying furtively to my mouth. “I would care about time. Because the difference in milliseconds, no, microseconds nowadays – they have very advanced technology, you know, lasers and such – can highly influence your finish. Imagine me as an Olympic track runner, and…” Amy snorted in her wine glass, spinning in her stool to catch the wine on the counter. “Jack,” I spoke consolingly. “That’s a hard thing to do, no offense meant.” Jack glanced at Amy, still recovering from her wine spill, and slowly lowered his arm. “Point being,” he said, turning his back on her to give me his full attention, “that in school, the first few

90 minutes do not mean the difference between a gold and silver medal. In fact,” here he scrunched his eyes together thoughtfully, “the first few years of high school could probably have been slept through and everything would have been just fine…” “For you, maybe! Some of us need to pay attention in class to do well in school,” I protested indignantly. A boy wearing a white shirt and a black bowtie walked by with a tray of small sandwiches. Another server passed him with two champagne glasses in his hands. The boys looked like they were in high school. “Have you ever thought,” Jack’s smile twisted across his face, interrupting my thoughts, “to see just how little you could pay attention in class and still pass?” “No,” I answered proudly, twisting my bright yellow boa across my shoulders in a flourish. “Of course not, I value my education.” Jack nodded. “I do too,” he agreed. “Everyone needs an education. But not everyone gets that in a classroom.” At that moment, a beautiful girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and golden hoop earrings entered the room. Jack’s eyes darted immediately to her face. For a moment, a wistful look came across him, a combination of mournfulness and regret. “What would you do if you didn’t go to school?” I wondered aloud, honestly confused. If anyone I knew was going to get his Ph.D., it would be Jack. “You wouldn’t be happy around people less intelligent than you.” “That’s conceited,” his eyes flashed back at me in amusement, although he still appeared distracted. “Who judges intelligence? I

91 could tell you a little about quantum mechanics from my physics classes, but I don’t know half the things that go on in running a restaurant. I’ve played Rachmaninoff and Debussy on piano, but what do I know about improv and Jazz? In fact,” here his face grew thoughtful, suddenly alert, “did you know you’re supposed to open a little door above the fireplace before you start a fire in there? A little trap door?” Amy, recovered from the wine episode, spun around in her chair. “Jack and Margie,” she called, holding back giggles in her grin “Don’t put such a damper on things!” I groaned, Jack looked confused. Amy’s boa left a trail of perfume in the air as she swung the stool around, laughing with both hands around the wine glass. *** We were alone now, Amy and I, and surveying the room. Girls in dresses of varying lengths and colors stood laughing among men in cleanly pressed shirts and bowties. Many held champagne glasses, preparing for the moment when the clock would chime midnight. “There’s Nicole,” I whispered to Amy. “She’s brought her boyfriend, that’s him for sure. I saw their picture – last week they went ice skating down in Chicago, you know, on that new strip. They’re perfect.” “Paola,” Amy whispered back, pointing discreetly to a girl in a long blue dress with long dark hair. “She’s still playing golf, down at Miami. I followed her team on insta. I can’t decide if they take drives from the yacht or if it’s just where they live.” We snickered behind our wine glasses.

“Ah, Nick,” I nodded at a large, blond-haired kid. He was on the football team in high school. “He definitely got a girl, they’re so cute together, Amy. I bet they’re going to get married.” Amy sighed. “Oh there’s Britany,” I smiled at a girl sitting by the piano. “She looks exactly the same. And there’s Tia. Her parents gave her a new car for Christmas. A bright blue 2017 Jeep Wrangler, to be exact.” “Guess we’re all up to date, then,” Amy nodded, agreeing. “No new drama.” “Yeah, you’re right. It’s been four years since high school? And we know everything that’s going on in their lives.” I sat back in my stool in amazement. “Except Jack,” Amy said, thoughtfully. “He’s changed. He seems different somehow. Older maybe.” We sat in silence for a moment. “You follow him on Facebook?” I asked. She shook her head. I thought for a second. “Me neither, I guess.” She shrugged. “I don’t think he has one.” Britany played a few chords on the piano. Tia laughed with a group of girls over by the drinks. Nicole and her boyfriend sat on the couch together, looking bored. “I think I know what’s wrong with Jack,” I smiled secretly, and

93 whispered, “Which one of the girls here is Daisy?” In the corner of the room, the green light and yellow car leaned back in their chairs, laughing out loud and scanning the room with their eyes. *** The tower of cupcakes had slowly been diminished over the course of the evening. From my view at the blackjack table I was keeping my eye on it. A few with pink sprinkles and cherry frosting still remained. In the corner of the room, the jazz band was getting set up. The drum set had been assembled and the piano wheeled out by three boys in black suits. They all looked younger than me for some reason. I wondered if I was getting old. The blackjack game was mediocre at best. Over the course of forty-five minutes, I had gotten blackjack twice, gained $12.50, and lost $9.00 of that. My remaining chips huddled together in solidarity for their lost comrades. I carefully selected a loyal fiftycent piece and offered it up to the luck of the round. As the dealer placed the first set of cards, I suddenly saw Amy across the room. She was waving at me, an excited look on her face, standing slightly outside a circle of people from the debate team, next to the jazz band. What did she want? I squinted – her eyes grew large and she gestured towards the kitchen. Oh! I thought. It’s our signal. Not trying to appear too excited, I considered my hand: a nine of hearts and a three of spades. Should I risk the bust? I knocked the table with my knuckles; the judgment came – a king of

94 spades. Bust. I glanced back at Amy. She was talking with her friends on the debate team, but shot me a look. I stood up. “Hey those cupcakes have been eyeing me,” I said to the table. Blank faces, eyes still stuck in their cards, hands grasping champagne glasses, glanced back. “I’ll be right back.” I scurried to the kitchen, careful to keep my eye out for Jack. As soon as I entered, I saw him in the corner sitting on some stools with the beautiful girl from before. Casual but collected, she sat next to him with a dark blue dress that swept across one shoulder. She faced him, frowning slightly. Her gaze was bored. Who is she? I didn’t recognize her from high school. Was she a girlfriend? From college? I hastened to the pile of cupcakes, feeling stupid in my ugly prom dress. The bright lights of the kitchen left no place for me to hide the puffy yellow boa scarf that Amy had stuck around my neck. My face blushing red, I grabbed a plate and reached out my hand to grab a cupcake off the dwindling pile. Just at that moment, the squeal of a trumpet from the next room made me jump in my heels. I plunged my hand into the cupcake, grasping for support. It came back covered in pink frosting. The jazz band suddenly started in earnest, as if to make up for its shocking prelude. The trumpet resumed its earlier cry, this time in combination with piano chords and the rapid sound of a cymbal. The sudden blast of music in my ears made me forget my frosted pink hand for a moment. That is, until Jack appeared in front of me, his face flushed. “Margie!” He said, laughing. “Your hand!”

95 I held up my hand dumbly. At least my chipped nails were completely invisible under the layer of frosting. The girl that Jack was with had disappeared. “Here, come over here and wash it off,” Jack guided me to the kitchen sink, grabbing a towel on the way. I stuck my hands under the faucet. “Can I ask a question Jack?” I said, feeling displaced and exposed as the stream of water relieved my hand of its unwanted layer of frosting. “Who are the guys in the jazz band? And serving the food? They look younger than me!” Jack didn’t look directly at me, but diverted his face towards the sink and addressed me from the side of his mouth. It was his typical way. “They’re a combination of my neighbors and my younger brother’s friends from high school,” he explained. “I hired them to come work this party. Did Fred meet you to get your car?” “The valet? No, we parked ourselves,” I took the towel, drying my hands. “Ah, I figured,” Jack sighed. His face had returned to its normal state. “Darn, I knew I couldn’t trust Fred to be alert out there.” “Who’s party is this?” I asked, confused. “I organized it myself,” Jack glanced at me for my reaction. “All the decoration, the jazz band, the blackjack table, the food.” “Isn’t it your family party?” I looked around. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen any adults around. Jack saw my gaze and

96 shook his head. “Originally, but not anymore. My parents met at a party like this, New Year’s Eve, so I continue the tradition. It’s not about showing off though, Margie,” Jack said. “I just wanted to bring people together. We think we know what’s going on in other people’s lives - don’t you? But do you really?” Here he looked around before leaning in, lowering his voice. “Did you know Britany changed her major, she’s studying piano performance and wants to be a music teacher? And Tia, she was in a bad car accident on her way home from Iowa City last year. Paola was telling me her team is super clicky - it feels like high school again for her. And the coach plays favorites. She doesn’t like being so far away from her family. Nick’s found the love of his life, Margie. You should hear him talk about Cindy. But it’s not all daisies and roses there either.” He paused, thoughtful, remembering. I waited with my hand on the kitchen counter, heart racing. The sound of the jazz band had faded into the background. The memory of my words to Amy earlier raced through my mind: And we know everything that’s going on in their lives. “I think you and me, people here, we want authenticity, Margie,” Jack continued. “You know what I mean?” I nodded, still silent. “Like real friendships, true friendships. Not just what you can find online.” His eyes swept around the room before focusing suddenly, directly on mine. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just be real with each other?”

97 “Is a party really the best way to do that?” I blurted out. “I only know like a quarter of the people here anyway, and I’m not going to share my life story with a total stranger.” Jack nodded, thoughtful again, but smiling. “You’re right,” he said. “It was just a hope. That maybe something would come of it. Or that I could have a conversation like this, about stuff that matters.” “Jack,” I asked, breath swelling in my chest. “Is there someone here in particular you wanted to have a conversation like this with?” He paused. “Maybe,” he offered. “But she just left. And I didn’t actually talk to her.” His face returned to the wistful look he had when his eyes first alighted to the beautiful girl. Daisy. “I’m sorry, Jack,” I said. I reached out my hand and touched his shoulder. “It was a really great party.” The jazz band continued playing. The cupcake pile had gotten smaller. From across the room, I saw Amy out of the corner of my eye, lounged on the couch, utterly absorbed in a game of Presidents with a stack of cards. Her excited voice drifted over the sound of the trumpets, into the kitchen. I saw Jack’s face. “Oh Jack, don’t be sad.” “I guess the only thing we can do now is enjoy the party,” Jack said in an ironic tone. “Even so, I’m glad I was able to bring people together, you know, even if it was only for a few minutes? Sometimes it’s nice just to be in close proximity with other

98 people, even if you have no idea what’s going on in their heads.” I shrugged my shoulders, uncertain. Amy was right - Jack was in his search for substance. I just wasn’t sure he knew where to look. “Come on, Jack,” I said. “Let’s go dance.” The music swelled, the voices shouted and laughed; the thirty-third Wertz family New Year’s Eve gala continued.

Le Nain Rouge Michael Donovan

The Guardian — art deco sentry, pewabic memory of the first overgrowth tracing the tick of a crystalline [unpriced] clock — overlooks a ridiculous landscape. Perched atop a gilded petroleum pedestal [memorial to the Big Three, Pinkerton’s militia, speculative assholes everywhere], he stands at the center of a second overgrowth: Gilbertopia’s [ceremonial] protectorate. Beneath The Guardian, tendrils sprawl from wounds in the earth (the work of data miners) positing fungal promises: quicker loans, customized business solutions, regression-modeled entrepreneurial activity optimized, leveraged human capital, The World as a Better Place™. Each tendril looks and smells delightful [fruiting via that ramen shop (Urban Ramen) over in Corktown, that brewpub (Jolly Pumpkin) in midtown, that dangerously delicious pie joint near The Magic Stick] as their spores [ravishing young professionals traipsing about town in vintage attire, adorning the booths of Great Lakes Coffee, Sy Thai (Go), Kuzzo’s] expand, lining the circumference of the second overgrowth in accordance with the well-regulated mechanisms of the Gilbertopian machine. It’s a fabulous place to visit (#1), The New York Times writes, reporting the second overgrowth, scrapping their previous characterization (49.7% ghost town, 50.3% warzone) for something more enticing (vintage chic, decadence in decay).

100 Spores march around The Guardian in costume, each red in the face, their bespectacled eyes glistening [frozen, not burning] as they refract images without depth, flatten depictions of Le Nain Rouge — the demon at the strait. Out with Le Nain Rouge! the spores cheer, voices harmonizing in the common tongue, a bloody mary morning eggsbenedialect native to the second overgrowth. Le Nain Rouge is to Blame! they scream as they march around The Guardian, wearing his shadow’s blanket as protection. It was Le Nain Rouge who caused The Battle of Bloody Run [1763, 58 Redcoats dead at the hands of the natives], The Fall of the Strait [1812, an early American stronghold surrenders], The Packard Bankruptcy [1953, a late American stronghold surrenders], The Riots [1967, seismic actors, once dormant, erupt] and it will most certainly wreak havoc again. Out with Le Nain Rouge! the spores chant and will continue to chant until Le Nain Rouge evaporates — banished, or, burnt. Just beyond the tendrilled perimeter, hidden from The Guardian’s view, thousands of self-proclaimed non-spores gather to say hideous things like We are Friends of Le Nain Rouge or worse: We are Le Nain Rouge. Le Nain Rouge is not to blame, the non-spores tell the spores. It is you, spores, spawn of Gilbert’s organ, who infect the city at the strait, spreading excess and allowing it to fester violently. We can’t afford to lose Le Nain Rouge, the non-spores say. Le Nain Rouge has been here the longest, longer than any of us: since contact, before even the first overgrowth. You, spores, are infants, children of the second overgrowth. You know nothing of anything but yourselves. You have no right to banish Le Nain Rouge. But rights never mattered to you, did they? You banished Le Nain Rouge when you banished us, [aging victims of the first overgrowth] without

101 remorse. You sent us to the stake. When we fought back (1967), set our voices ablaze behind Le Nain Rouge, you conceded the strait [for the second time], but denied us oxygen. Then you fled, established a perimeter around our stronghold, choked us with rings of smoke. We suffocated, suffered, until you disengaged, leaving us in the cold. And Le Nain Rouge taught us how to make fires, emanating warmth in exchange for sacrifices. Le Nain Rouge our Guardian, blaspheme monarch to the non-spores. ~*~ According to legend, Antoine de La Mothe Cadillac (French Explorer, “Founder” of the city at strait) first encountered Le Nain Rouge in the early 18th century, 200 years before The First Overgrowth. Despite Pontiac warnings (“You mustn’t upset Le Nain Rouge. Appease it. It has always been here. You’ve only just arrived: merely visitors, its unexpected guests. Appease and it will treat you well.”), Cadillac fell upon Le Nain Rouge (a red imp, he called it) violently, smacking the creature on the head with a wicker cane, and the creature fled. Spore tradition lauds the smacking as impetus for the first banishment: a historic model for cyclic (and celebratory) erasure. In non-spore tradition, it signals a curse set in motion, altern alterations degrading Le Nain Rouge to an abject existence. Banishing Le Nain Rouge, the non-spores say, excises the gatekeeper of the original growth. Without Le Nain Rouge, nothing left sustains disorder (entropic energy pushing outward). Superstructure, as such, will implode on itself. ~*~ I am a third-generation child, descended from the first overgrowth spores who left The Guardian’s realm following the

102 eruptions of 1967 & I live where the tendrils are woven into thick vines & everything is above ground & decolorized & outside the borderline circle [an unspoken place where non-spores fraternize with Le Nain Rouge]. I live among the spores who subsist on petroleum fumes from the first overgrowth & thoroughly enjoy their life as spores, spending time with other spores at Starbucks & Equinox & The Club [swimming, golfing, pooling, swiving, cheating, breathing, teething, steaming] & never or only sometimes aspire to drive all-purpose Ford / GMC / Chrysler crossovers southbound down The Lodge, past the borderline circle, into Gilbertopia where one might meet spores from the second overgrowth, mingle. I want to infiltrate the non-spores, I tell my friends while we drink & play electric guitars in a well-furnished Midwestern basement. I want to cross over to the non-spore circle where I can drink & play electric guitars with other people who infiltrated the non-spores, people like The Gories & Tyvek & Protomartyr & Fred Thomas & Deadbeat Beat & Bonny Doon & Moonwalks & The Pizazz & Cosmic Light Shapes & that band we saw at El Club (a former spore emporium) in poorly furnished Midwestern basements where people living like non-spores [eating, dancing, drinking] need not suffer like non-spores. I want to grow stealthily in the non-spore circle as spores do when they infiltrate the borderland in search of Le Nain Rouge. We are jaded young people, my friend I believe as we drive southbound down The Lodge [toward the border] blasting My Girlfriend Beru [my friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s band] in my car [who I call Tim]. One more year, one more year, one more year, Zimmer sings

103 over & over again, his serrated chords wailing against Tim’s windows, echoing into our ears straddling Theo paradiddles, Kevin’s thumbabumdumps, Daniel salivating grandeur: one more year: & we cross the border, screaming into the tendrils of the first overgrowth as it tapers and subsides, giving way to the Middlegrowth. The name Middlegrowth misleads. The Pontiacs occupied Middlegrowth [though they didn’t call it the Middlegrowth] & when Cadillac landed in the Middlegrowth, he was the first to start clearing it away so he could lay seeds for the First Overgrowth. The only reason we call it the Middlegrowth is because, collectively, we can’t remember anything before the First Overgrowth during which [most thought] the petroleum fumes killed the Middlegrowth once and for all. The Middlegrowth didn’t return until after the eruptions of 1967 & we didn’t start calling it the Middlegrowth until the Second Overgrowth sprouted from the data mines, sandwiching the Middlegrowth between Two Great Overgrowths & within our linear imaginations. Before the Second Overgrowth, everyone thought that the Not-Yet-Named Growth would overrun the fallen pillars of the First Overgrowth. Yves Marchand and Roman Meffre [French, fittingly] took some pictures of the whole ordeal, perhaps to slag their early-modern compatriot who thought he could suppress the Not-Yet-Named-Growth in open combat, but they didn’t do so well. They suffered from a lingering obsession with the first Overgrowth’s decay, the decimation of its theatrical, domestic, industrial testaments to the Anthropocene. Blinded by their obsession, they captured little of the Not-Yet-Named-Growth’s

104 silent march around the edges of the First Overgrowth’s faded perimeter — through the corridors where the spores would never go, where the non-spores humbly built their communes from scratch, detached from the water-weighted vines from which the spores drink, in conjunction with Le Nain Rouge, who befriended the non-spores after the last of the Pontiacs disappeared. We cross the border & I found myself in a new city. ~*~ Peering through the mangled segment of fencing, her veins run cold. From a distance, the overgrown vines and bushes looked manageable. But here, alongside the century-old crumbling remnants of the zoo — once the gem of Belle Isle — the weeds pose, overhead monsters. “I’ll give you a lift,” they offer. They oblige, stepping into the cusp of his hands and squeezing through the oblique sliver in the fencing, tearing their jeans in the process. A can of spray-paint slips from their windbreaker, tumbling into a nearby shrub. They recover it, careful not to cut themselves on scattered shards, broken glass. They climb through. “Follow me. I have to show you something,” they say. They ascend slipshod steps to a skyway of sorts — crisscrossing above the flora-coated remnants of a man-made jungle, long dead. “We’re in ‘The Goonies,’” they think. “Or maybe we’re the kids from ‘IT.’”

105 When they reach the central building, its conic spire overlooking the central meeting area, they lead themselves inside, up a spiral staircase, onto the terrace. Their message, painted two days previous in elegant script, reads clearly on the meeting area concrete: “Did I freak you out?” They certainly did. They’re not ready for the relationship. Not even ready for a talk. But they won’t tell themselves. They’re not smart, noble. They hand themselves the spray-paint, anticipating a response. ~*~ I meet you again fortuitously, as a spore: undersexed, oversaturated with pop-cultural references, committing heinous acts of fey-pop violence against the heart of the Middlegrowth [Twee as Fuck!], singing liver-slapping love songs to surrounding grasses, Mr. Soppy Feelings Spore. Le Nain Rouge would gladly eat me alive, sink his red fangs into my softened flesh, shredding me as he did the spores lost in the 1967 eruptions & I would most certainly deserve it as a descended child of the First Overgrowth. The Guardian can’t protect me out here nor can the water-giving vines. My friend and I are alone. We’ve given ourselves over to the Fun House — at the end of the shirtless and bloodied boulevard concatenating the broken bottled, necropasteurized walkways crisscrossing the abandoned zoo.

106 I bring my hands to my face, dig my fingernails into the crown of my nose and pinch: feel the puss and blood swell in the sac and burst white-red onto the tip of my finger. I pull the skin pack and pinch again until a burst uncovers, brings out Le Nain Rouge: not as a friend, not as anything I can make sense of, Le Nain Rouge surfaces and I cry red tears.

107

The Wishing Tree A.A. Ford

“I came to thank you.” The boy stands in jeans at the base of the tree, holding a Diet Coke and a heart full of memories. His words catch my attention. Few who come to the Wishing Tree receive what they came here for. They stand on roots and whisper to branches, praying for love. Most give up and go to seek a better religion. Some answer their own prayers. The few who are persistent enough or intriguing enough to warrant the Wishing Tree’s wisdom never return. I have not heard the words “thank you” since her, the first one to pester me with her problems. The tree was a sapling then, compared to the gnarled monstrosity it is now, but still tall enough and thick enough to support the weight of a man swinging from its lowest branch. I should know. The woman came in the dead of night. She knelt and placed her hands on the ground, already praying. Had she been six feet deeper, those hands would have rested on either side of my rotting face. “Please,” she breathed, “tell me how to woo my love.” Why, I asked, startled, dost thou ask this of an adulterer three years in the ground? “Of all those in this wretched town, I believe thee best acquainted with forbidden love. And a dead man cannot spread secrets to unfriendly ears.” I was not so certain of that last part, but I had no interest in sharing the secrets of the living anyway.

108 “Please. Wilt thou help me win her?” Thy fate may be the same as mine. “’T’would be worth a thousand hangings to see my heart reflected in her eyes.” Very well. We plotted and planned and the woman left to carry out all that we devised. I did not see her again until a year later, when men with torches pulled her past me, to be strung up on a different tree. “Traitor!” she shouted at me, half-dressed, caught with her lover in the dead of night. “This is thy doing!” I gave thee only what thou ask’t for. Though my reply was loud, no one heard it over the shouts of the mob and the screams of the woman. None, save the woman’s lover, who stopped and broke free of the men holding her long enough to run to the tree, place her hands on its roots and whisper, “Thank you”. So, when I hear those words again now, centuries later, spoken by a boy who does not remember my name but the tale passed down through generations of a tree that grants luck in love, of course I am startled. Why do you thank me? I ask. The boy—no, the man; there is too much sadness in his eyes to call him a boy—seems startled to hear my voice. “I came here three years ago and asked to be the love of her life.” Now I remember. I said nothing to the boy at that time. Whatever happened since was not my doing. And your wish came true? I ask. He swallows hard. “Yes.” Then you owe me. Pour me the schnapps you’re hiding in that can. He sputters for a moment, then sighs and empties the Coke can into the dirt. Most of the liquid soaks into the topsoil, but a bit seeps down far enough to touch my skull. I relish the

109 taste; I haven’t touched alcohol since I was alive. The young man sits, his back against the tree trunk. Whatever his problems are, I doubt alcohol could have drowned them. The lynching of the woman and her grateful lover was the last time I have heard the end of a story brought to the Wishing Tree and I realize I am hungry, starving to know more of what happens to those who pray beneath these branches. How do you know? I ask. “What?” the man replies. You are still young, I say. How do you know you are the love of her life? There is a long silence before the man answers in a small voice, “Her funeral is tomorrow.” Oh. How do you not blame the Wishing Tree for her death? “I do blame you.” He sighs heavily, his head thumping back against the Tree. “But if her death is your fault, then so is our love. And the only reason this is the worst thing to ever happen to me is because she was the best, so. Thanks.” There is a long pause. Tell me more. And he does. Until dawn, the man sits and sobs and tells me of a girl who, in his eyes, was beautiful beyond compare, even when she lost her hair to medicine and her body to tumors. He tells me of years in sunshine and darkness and a devotion that wavered in neither. He tells me of a love that burned steady and bright and all-consuming before it died too soon. In the morning, he leaves to go put on his best suit and worst problems and the silence beneath the branches feels empty. I ponder the prospect of hearing the same story whispered again under the Wishing Tree in another five thankless centuries.

110

Off the Court

Monica VanBerkum The ball slid off my fingertips, a spiral of orange and black through the air as I stood at the top of the key, only to bounce off the rim and come right back to me. “You better work on that shot if you want varsity this year, Johnny,” said Coach from the opposite end of the gym. I’d been hoping he wasn’t watching. I dribbled forward, ducking an imaginary defender, and lined up for the perfect jump shot, the ball arching before the net – and slamming into the backboard to land in the hands of another player. “That should’ve been all net,” I said in frustration, wiping sweat off my forehead. “Just keep practicing, Johnny,” the other player encouraged, bobbing around me for his layup. “You’ll make varsity. You would’ve last year if, you know, you’d been focused.” My eyes drifted to the bleachers on the side of the gym, the row of seats that I’d found myself on for so many games. All those late-night hospital calls and panic every time the phone rang might have made Jake throw himself completely into his game to escape that fear that one time Mom wouldn’t make it, but it had the opposite effect on me. Well, at least that fear was past. Because she didn’t. ~*~ Only Jake’s truck sat in the driveway when I biked home after practice. Another mac’n’cheese night, then, since Dad most likely hadn’t had time to put anything together and I definitely

111 wasn’t eating anything Jake cooked. Ripped-open envelopes and crumpled papers were strewn across the kitchen table, Jake at its head with a frown on his face as he stared at his laptop screen. I picked up a couple of the letters – Congratulations! You have been accepted… – and asked, “Where are you applying to now? Aren’t enough schools begging you to come be their quarterback?” Jake tapped his pen against the table. “USC.” The letters slipped out of my hands. “California? But – but I thought Madison was your dream school?” “Sure it is, but if USC gives me the chance to get out of here, you think I’m not gonna take it?” I frowned at the fancy red cursive heading: University of Southern California. “You said that scout was coming to your next game – they haven’t even seen you play.” “I’m asking them to send a scout now. I’ve told you all this, where were you?” Here in Chicago, I thought. Two thousand miles away from California. “Dad’s not home tonight, you know,” Jake continued, his eyes already back on his screen. “You’re on your own for dinner.” “Yeah, I know,” I muttered and leafed through the remaining letters in an effort to ignore how Jake’s words gave me that same sinking feeling that came whenever I didn’t see Dad’s car in the driveway. ~*~ “Johnny, can you please pick up from where we left off?” I jolted back down to earth as I realized the class was staring at me. Pulling my literature textbook toward me, I glanced down at the story, wondering if I was even on the right page.

112 “Can you tell me anything about the plot so far?” Under her scouring gaze, I wished I could sink into the floor. “Umm…no?” She shook her head. “I wish I could say I expected more of you, but truthfully I did not. Maybe next time you could grant me the favor of paying attention in my class.” She rapped the podium sharply. “I’m afraid you can only pull the sympathy card so many times. It gets old.” The class took a collective breath, looking to me for my reaction, but I wasn’t Jake: I didn’t fly off the handle or stick up for myself, just focused on the text as my ears buzzed. When the bell rang, my feet pounded through the hall like basketballs bouncing, my fingers slipping on my combination lock as the numbers blurred. As I slammed my palm against my locker, my backpack slipping off my shoulder, someone else came up next to me and spun the lock, popping open my locker. “How hard is it to remember a combo, kid?” Jake ruffled my hair with one hand, because he still had a few inches on me and knew it annoyed me. “Just three numbers.” “I’ve got it,” I mumbled, my eyes stuck to the family picture I had taped inside my locker. She looked so happy in it, all golden and smiling and healthy. Jake’s friends were calling him, but as he backpedaled away from me, he said, “You okay, kid?” and I looked up at him. No one accused Jake of playing the sympathy card; he didn’t need it. He had football, he had scholarships, and he had a chance to get out for good. Did those scouts ever wonder what happened to me when he left? “I’m good,” I said – you don’t need baggage – and he walked away. ~*~

113

Someone was always around for a pick-up game on the basketball court behind the school, which made waiting around for Jake’s practice to end preferable to doing homework in an empty house. When we stopped for a water break, one of the guys jerked his head toward the football fields. “How come you never went out for football, Johnny?” If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that… “I like basketball more,” I said because it was simpler than explaining how my mom had signed me up for it when I was six and it had been our thing while Jake had Dad for football. Even with her nurse schedule, she had been at every game until last winter, when she had to miss more than half. That was when I first learned what it felt like to keep the bench warm. “You looking to go to college for ball like your brother?” the guy asked. Shrugging, I bounced the ball between my hands. “Maybe. I don’t know what I want – he doesn’t get that. He’s always mad at me for not putting my whole heart and soul into basketball.” I didn’t add that I had wanted to until last winter. Dribbling forward, I stopped at the faded white threepoint line and put up a shot, knowing somehow before the ball even left my hands that it wouldn’t make it. ~*~ “Saw the letter from USC on your desk, Jake,” said Dad when we had one of our rare moments all together in the family room after dinner. “Good news?” I gripped my pencil too hard; the lead snapped as I pressed it to my paper. Jake’s face lit up, though he tried to keep

114 his voice casual as he said,. “Oh yeah, they’re gonna send a scout to the next game. If I play well, they’re sure to offer me some money.” My dad smiled tiredly. “That’s good to hear. Who do you play next?” “Just Eisenhower – their defense are sheep, should be easy. Think you can make it?” “Text me the time and I’ll do my best.” He let out a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Johnny, how about that biology grade? Saw your report today.” I shrugged, mumbling, “It’s not a big deal.” “A failing grade is a big deal, buddy.” Dad arched an eyebrow at me. “How much time did you spend studying for it?” “You’d know if you were around,” I shot back and immediately regretted it as pain clashed across his face. Jake’s mouth fell open in shock, but before he or my dad could say anything, I slammed my book shut, leaped to my feet, and left the room. I threw myself on my bed and allowed it to swallow me. When the pounding in my ears dulled, I could hear them talking quietly in the other room. A moment later I heard my dad’s chair squeak and his low voice say, “I’ll talk to him.” I made no move to get up, staying silent as he walked in and sank down on one side of the bed. “What’s bothering you, chief?” When he spoke in that voice, a lump grew in my throat because I wanted another voice just like it. I wanted to tell him everything that was bothering me and tell him I was sorry and that I didn’t blame him for anything, but all that came out was: “I keep missing all my shots. I can’t make half my threes anymore, and tryouts are in a month and a bit, and I suck.” He ruffled my hair lightly with one hand, and his voice was gentle as he said, “I miss her too, kiddo.”

115

~*~ “Woods kept missing every ball I threw at him,” Jake griped as we pulled out of the school lot, wheels splashing in new puddles. “I don’t know if Coach should let him play…” “You’ll win,” I said confidently, flipping through radio stations. Jake slapped my hand away from the controls. “Don’t say that too quickly. We need this win if we want States eventually.” “Jake, you’re playing Northvale. We could kill them even if you had a broken arm.” “I swear, Johnny, if you jinx us with that kinda talk –” “Calm down, you’ll be fine. You guys will win and you’ll be a star quarterback and everyone will still love you.” I took the opportunity to switch the channel as he looked mollified. The windshield wipers squeaked as rain ran in rivulets down the glass, the sky outside growing steadily darker with every gust of wind. A few minutes later, Jake glanced over at me and said, “You been practicing for basketball tryouts?” “Yeah, I guess.” I traced the rain droplets’ path on the window with my fingers. He raised an eyebrow. “I guess? Hey, what happened to your dream of starting varsity sophomore year?” “I dunno,” I said defensively, watching the houses pass by in a grey mist. “It’s not – it’s just, I don’t know if – I’m not that good, anyway.” “Johnny – is this about Mom?” Surprised, I turned in my seat to look at him; Jake never mentioned Mom, not anymore. But now he was staring at me intently, his hands gripping the wheel as he said, “I know basketball was you guys’ thing, okay. And I know it sucks that she won’t be there – believe me, you don’t think I’ve felt that this

116 season? But she wouldn’t have wanted you to lose that.” My eyes couldn’t meet his, instead flicking up to watch the road ahead, and suddenly I grabbed at the dashboard. “Jake –!” “Johnny, I’m serious. You love basketball, and you are good at it, idiot, everyone says so. You can’t let that get –” “Jake, look out!” ~*~ Smoke furled damply from the hood of the car, swung wildly off the road to stop next to a railroad crossing sign. I sat on the curb with my head in my hands, my heart still pounding ferociously, while Jake stood talking on the phone a few feet away. He came to sit by me when he finished, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Johnny, I don’t know what happened – jeez, that was close –” I watched the rain splatter the pavement at my feet, staining it to a dark grey. “Jake,” I said, my voice breaking through the droplets, “don’t go to California.” He looked at me, disorientated. “What?” “I don’t think you should go to California for college. It’s real far, and you’ve never even been out west.” “Johnny, I haven’t even gotten an offer there yet.” “I know.” I scuffed my sneaker against the soaking pavement. “I’m just saying.” ~*~ My dad’s car pulled up in a screech of wet tires. The engine kept running as he stepped out to meet us, and although

117 I had been holding it together well before then, when I saw his face, something seemed to snap. “You’re okay, Johnny,” Dad said, wrapping his arms around me while I buried my face in his chest. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” ~*~ Dad’s car was parked far back enough on the driveway that I had enough space to practice my threes, but I stuck to layups. The crisp air hinted at winter, the tree branches bare against a pale sky. I went up for a layup, snagged the rebound, and dribbled back down the driveway to the top of my chalked arc. From the front porch, a voice called, “You going out for varsity with that shot, kid?” Placing the ball on my hip, I shrugged. “Yeah, think so. Gotta problem with it?” “Good.” Jake grinned at me, tucking his hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket, now neatly adorned with a State Championship patch. “Those Madison scouts can start working on you now, then.” “Madison?” “Yeah. I can even put in a good word for you.” Jake laughed at my confusion, pulling an envelope out of his pocket and brandishing it. “Looks like I wasn’t good enough for USC, kid. You’re gonna have to deal with me being closer to home.” I looked from the envelope to his face, and slowly I felt myself smile. Glancing back toward the hoop, I lined my feet up outside the three-point line and arched my arm up in a shot. The ball slid off my fingertips, a spiral of orange and black through the air – All net.

118

Robert

Mark Mehochko Robert was an average man. He had an average life, with an average wife, and two incredibly average kids. When Robert wakes up in the morning, he eats a piece of toast, some eggs, a slice of bacon, kisses his wife on the cheek, and drinks a room temperature cup of coffee as he walks out the door. Robert is not special in any way, shape, or form. Robert works at a company called Envisitech. Robert does not really know the purpose of the company other than their tagline: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Inspire the Future!â&#x20AC;? Robert sits in a cubicle with a picture of his family and types numbers into a machine. Robert does not understand these numbers. Robert is middle management. Robert does not ask questions. Robert is happy. One day something happened to Robert that was not normal. As he walked up to his cubicle in the morning, he saw a manila envelope waiting for him. Its orange color contrasted the mostly grey aesthetic of his cubicle. Robert glanced left and right but could not detect any sign of who could have left it. He slowly sat at his desk and cautiously considered his options. He could open the envelope and it could be for him, in which case he is incredibly justified in doing so, thank you very much. He could open the envelope and it could not be for him, in which case he could be held accountable for his atrocious actions, rightfully so, thank you very much. Of course, he could always just ignore the strange manila envelope, pretending that it had never appeared and disrupted his normal, perfect life. Just as this thought occurred to Robert, he heard a

119 small cough behind him. He quickly hid the envelope, which had somehow made its way into his hands, and turned his chair around, attempting to act natural. “Hey there Bob-O!” Said Chad from accounting as he loomed over Robert’s desk. “How’s the quarterly reports coming?” “Great, Great,” replied Bob-O, who had always hated that nickname but refused to be confrontational, “almost done.” “Faaaaaaantastic.” Chad smiled with what seemed to be millions of perfectly white teeth. “Keep up the good work and you’ll be out of this department in no time.” Robert had never wanted to leave the department before, but apparently that was what was expected of him. He turned back to his computer screen, inciting a crinkle from the envelope he had stashed underneath him. He had almost forgotten about the envelope. The disrupting envelope. The out of place envelope. The manila envelope. He wondered why he had felt the need to hide it before. It wasn’t illegal to have manila envelopes; it wasn’t even frowned upon. And yet, Robert felt some protective instinct towards this envelope. This utterly bizarre disruption of his average life. Robert stared at the envelope. The envelope stared back. Robert flipped it over and spun it around in his hands. There was no mailing address, no return address, no way to truly tell who this envelope was meant for. And yet, it had been at his desk. And now it was in his hands. There was a certain weight to the envelope. Robert felt something move in the envelope as he twirled it. Papers possibly? Robert had never been an imaginative man and couldn’t picture there being anything else in the envelope besides papers. But what did they say? Were they a new expense report that Robert needed to file? Or perhaps a notice informing him of the termination of his position within the company? Robert glanced at the clock and realized he had

120 been at work for three hours already and he hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t gotten a single thing done! All at once Robert began to feel as if things were spinning out of control. This envelope was ruining him. With that he made a firm decision. He took the key from its hook on his cubicle, unlocked his small filing drawer, placed the envelope inside, and locked the drawer. Robert leaned back in his chair, breathed a sigh of relief, and got to work. It was within fifteen minutes that Robert noticed the discrepancy. He was rereading a finance proposal he had just typed up when he saw the out of place word. Envelope. It was in the middle of an otherwise ordinary sentence. Envelope. Robert blinked hard and shook his head a bit. He wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t one to make careless typing mistakes. He highlighted the mistake and erased it from the proposal. He continued his work. Only five minutes had passed when he came upon the next discrepancy. Envelope. It was inexplicably out of place in the otherwise ordinary spreadsheet. Envelope. Robert began to search all the documents on his computer and, sure enough, the discrepancies continued. In a quarterly review. Envelope. In a deposit statement. Envelope. In the middle of a pie chart. ENVELOPE. What did it mean? Was Robert going crazy? Was this an office prank? Robert slowly rose to a crouch in his cubicle and looked over the top. Everyone seemed hard at work. No one was even glancing in his direction. Chad was over by the water cooler talking to one of the receptionists. Samantha was comparing numbers between two spreadsheets and marking both for errors. Joseph was in the breakroom eating lunch. Lunch. When had Robert eaten last? Breakfast seemed like it had only been minutes ago but, looking at the clock, Robert knew this was not the case.

121 “I’m hungry.” Robert said quietly to himself. “That’s all this is. It’s some hunger induced hallucinations. I heard about this on the news one time. It’s something with blood sugar or something or other. Once I eat this will all make sense.” Robert rose from his desk with a newfound confidence and walked to the breakroom for his lunch break. This would all be over once he ate. All he needed was some good, old-fashioned brain food, then this whole envelope business could be settled. He felt the piercing eyes on him as he made his ways to the break room. They tracked the orange residue of the envelope left on his fingertips. He paused in his walk for a moment. He could hear their whispers behind him. He resumed his walk, quicker this time, and, with three large steps, lunged into the break room, practically slamming the door behind him. Joseph looked up from his lunch at Robert, but quickly lost interest. he break room was as unremarkable as the rest of the building that Robert worked in was. Four walls colored in soft colors that were unoffensive to the eyes. There was a small kitchenette, stained with years of use. On a wall there was an inspiration poster. “Hang in Envelope.” Robert blinked. “Hang in there.” It pictured a cat hanging from a tree. The company had put it up years ago to raise morale. It was peeling slightly at one edge but following its own advice. The fridge in the break room wasn’t a particularly large one, but it was enough to accommodate those who brought their lunches from home. Robert’s wife had always packed his lunch and today was not different. Today was a normal day until the Envelope. Robert pulled his Tupperware of Envelope from the fridge. His wife’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were always the best. She even had placed a little Envelope in there with it for dessert. Chocolate Chip was Robert’s favorite. Robert down

122 next to Joseph and began to eat. “How’s the semi-annual Envelope coming Rob?” Joseph asked between bites of his wife’s lasagna. Robert almost choked on his sandwich. “What?” He said, between coughs. “I said ‘How’s the semi-annual filing coming?’” Joseph looked at Robert, a worried expression plastered onto his face “You doing alright there Rob?” Rob, who still preferred Robert to any other name, shook his head dismissively “yeah, yeah, I’m good, all good.” He was not good, all good. He was not even average anymore. All he could think about was the manila envelope currently sitting in the filing drawer inside his desk in his cubicle. The manila envelope that was infringing on his otherwise perfectly ordinary day. “Rob I know times have been tough and all, what with the kids growing older and you with them, but just know that everything will be fine if you Envelope.” Robert stared at Joseph’s smiling face. Joseph stared back, almost as if he were daring Robert to question him. Robert did not. Robert was middle management. Robert didn’t ask questions. “Well Rob I’m gonna get back to it, just remember if you ever need me Envelope Envelope Envelop Envelope.” Robert nodded absently. His peanut butter and jelly sandwich had lost all flavor. His cookie seemed to be oatmeal raisin instead of chocolate chip. The only thing that retained its color was the manila envelope currently sitting in the filing drawer inside his desk in his cubicle. He was sure that was just as vibrant as it had been before. He could almost see the color of it through the walls of the break room. It was practically glowing. At some point Joseph had left the room. Robert didn’t process that this had happened, all he could think was

123 Envelope. He stood up. Envelope. He went back to his desk. Envelope. He unlocked the drawer. ENVELOPE. The orange glow from the envelope highlighted the absentness behind Robert’s eyes. E He reached into his middle drawer and retrieved his letter opener. N Every action he took felt like it took years to accomplish, although he was sure it was only a matter of seconds. V He placed the letter on the desk in front of him, pushing his keyboard out of the way. E He placed the letter opener to the seam and, with all of the intent in the world, prepared to end his misery. L But, just then, he caught the light reflecting off the picture of his family. O His wife, their two kids. His perfectly average family. P Robert took the letter opener off the paper’s envelopes seam. E He moved his keyboard back in to place on his desk and, with finality, placed the envelope in the shredder. E N V E L O P E. It seemed to say. An observant person would have questioned this. Robert was middle management. Robert didn’t ask questions.

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125

ART

modern era Oksana Oleshchuk

No Lifeguard on Duty Augusta Westhoff

Surveillance Augusta Westhoff

Melt Augusta Westhoff

Not an Architect Augusta Westhoff

I Hate the Color Blue Yansie Gean Norment

Torn L and Pedro Navarro

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CONTRIBUTORS

136 Theresa Azemar is a Junior studying American Studies and English at Notre Dame. She specializes in poetry and creative nonfiction. Anna Benedict is a junior, majoring in Neuroscience & Behavior and English with an Honors Concentration in Creative Writing. She is a Trustey Family and Glynn Scholar, President of Mustard Creative Writing Club, on the Sailing Team, and does MEG analytic research in the Memory, Aging, and Cognition Lab. Jane Bonfiglio is a senior English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Sustainability. For her senior capstone project, she is compiling a portfolio of creative short stories that have to do with climate change and its effects on human relationships; this is one of them! Chelsey Boyle is a sophomore majoring in English and minoring in CDT and she hails from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a current News Writer for The Observer and plans to add a concentration in Creative Writing to her English major. Another passion of hers, apart from creative writing, is German and she looks forward to studying abroad in Heidelberg. Alena Coleman is a sophomore English and Spanish major with a minor in Education, Schooling, and Society at Notre Dame. She has been published in The Juggler, and she is the Vice President of Notre Dame’s Mustard Creative Writing Club. She also plays piccolo in the marching band. Joseph “Jack” Collins is originally from just outside Jackson, Mississippi. Jack is a senior Computer Science major living in

137 Keough Hall. A life-long reader, Jack hopes to instill in others his passion for words and the change they can bring about in the world. Joseph Cozzi is a senior Physics in Medicine major currently serving one of the co-presidents of the ND Glee Club. Josephâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work is often influenced by his academic research as well as popular music. Originally from Illinois, Joseph will be returning to Chicago next year to complete an MD/PhD program. Michael Donovan wants to ease the pain of existence with (A) good words or (B) a well-tuned quantitative model â&#x20AC;&#x201D; whichever gets the job done first. Francie Fink is a senior Environmental Science major. She began writing poetry recently, and has found it to be an incredibly healing form of art. She hopes to use poetry to create accessible language that describes the mundane and extraordinary parts of life. A. A. Ford is a sophomore from St. Louis, Missouri majoring in English and minoring in Theology at the University of Notre Dame. She is an enthusiastic member of the Not-So-Royal Shakespeare Co. on campus, enjoys all forms of storytelling, and lives to bring greater glory to God. Hannah Gillespie is a senior studying mechanical engineering and minoring in theology. She is from Johnsburg, Illinois and lives in Pasquerilla West Hall on campus. She likes to explore the world and her favorite literary genre is historical fiction.

138 Henry Jackson is a Freshman in Keenan Hall. He is majoring in either Political Science or History. He hasn’t quite made up his mind yet! He was born in New York City but has lived most of his life in London, U.K. Sarah Kikel is a sophomore majoring in PLS, with a concentration in cults. She is commonly found listening to the Beach Boys and photoshopping her roommates into various scenes. Her greatest aspiration is to meet Chris Finke or Fr. Sorin, but mostly Chris Finke. Montanna Kirven studies English and Psychology and coxes the ND Men’s Rowing Team. She enjoys painting and calling any deviation from the plan an “adventure.” She is also known for playing any song on the ukulele as long as it has the same four chords and lying about her height. Andrew Lee is a sophomore from Seoul, South Korea. He’s always been fascinated with stories and how they create art that is personal to every different reader and writer. This is the 2nd story of a series of short stories he calls “Ghost Stories.” Mary Lusebrink is from Jackson, Michigan. She is currently majoring in English and minoring in CDT and Digital Marketing at Notre Dame. She is also planning on a concentration in creative writing. She is a member of the marching band and also enjoys reading, writing, waterskiing, and hiking. Laura McKernan is a senior Neuroscience and English double major originally from Maryland. She spends her free time participating in the Not-So-Royal Shakespeare Company,

139 consuming objectively too much Diet Pepsi (so she’s been told), rewatching the best film of this century - clearly, Rocketman (2019) - and worshipping her late Bysshe, Percy Shelley. Mark Mehochko is a freshman studying in the Program of Liberal Studies. He hails from Mazon, IL and is a member of the Notre Dame Glee club. He loves long walks on the beach and wants to thank his dog, Casey, for always inspiring him to be a better writer. Pedro Navarro is from Sorocaba, Brazil. He is currently a senior, Chemical Engineering student at Notre Dame. He has always enjoyed poetry writing, and decided to take on the challenge of writing poems in English — while mixing Portuguese with them and elements of his Brazilian upbringing. Thanh Nguyen is a current first-year at the University of Notre Dame studying history/anthropology and pre-professional studies. Her poetry explores her multi-linguistic and refugee backgrounds, her interdisciplinary interests, and her fascination of poetry as “language beyond language.” When she is not writing, she plays a variety of musical instruments, golfs, reads John Steinbeck, and engages in many interfaith activities on campus. Bella Niforatos is a Psychology and English major from Albuquerque, New Mexico. She feels compelled to write in order to satisfy a primal hunger inside of her that demands words as tribute. She also enjoys dancing, immersing herself in the mountains, and dreaming about outer space.

140 Gabriel Niforatos is a junior at Notre Dame who studies political science. He wants to be involved in public service in some capacity when he graduates, and writing is the muse that he chases on his way to get there. Gabriel has no idea what the meaning of life is, but he will continue writing and dreaming until he thinks he has found it. Yansie Gean Norment is a student with the Moreau College Initiative, a joint venture between Notre Dame and Holy Cross College, that offers college degree programs at Westville Correctional Facility. He recently completed an A.A. in Liberal Studies. Yansie is a nontraditional student from Chicago, Illinois, and enjoys making people laugh. Oksana Oleshchuk is a junior Neuroscience & Behavior and Theology major who has many interests outside of her majors, including photography, public transportation, and the floral industry. She wishes that the year 2020 came with 20/20 vision so she could finally do away with pesky corrective lenses. Michael Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Rear is a senior at the University of Notre Dame, where he studies English. He is from Granger, IN. Zach Phillips is from Elkridge, MD. He is currently a senior Accounting major from Zahm House with an interest in creative writing. Next year heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be leaving the east coast and moving out to Chicago for an accounting career. Sean Pietrowicz ACMS, Class of 2020. Keep a place for me at the bottom of your wishing well.

141 Anna Staud is a sophomore at ND studying Economics and English. She lives in Walsh Hall (#wildwomen) and her second home is CoMo, where she rehearsed for Folk Choir and works as a tutor at the Writing Center. She loves Dove chocolate, her Google calendar, and laughing with friends. Monica VanBerkum is a senior studying anthropology and theology. She lives in Cavanaugh Hall and enjoys running, cooking, and attempting to play basketball. After graduation, she hopes to become an elementary school teacher and somehow have time to keep writing. Augusta Westhoff is a wee freshman in Marching Band and Liturgical Choir. She is double majoring in English and FTT with a Supplemental Theology Major, hoping to become a successful novelist, playwright, director, or all of the above. She likes pineapple on pizza and cream cheese on hot dogs.