The Red Swing

By Lillian Milgram

Most people enjoy the ocean while the world is awake, while gulls argue and waves race towards the shore. Crowds come and fill the air with the smell of sunscreen as blazing rays warm the sand. Even so, Luna has always believed that the shore’s beauty only fully shines through in the later hours of the day, just before the moon casts an opalescent glisten on the water, slicing through a dark abyss. She spends most evenings sitting silently on her porch swing, picking at the chipped and fading red paint, and patiently waiting for that perfect moment when the horizon lights up with shades of apricot and amber. When the skyline holds the weight of the setting sun. It's quite peculiar. After a childhood spent living by the sea, you would think she’d have lost interest in the suspended reality that occurs when the rushing of water alone disturbs the beach’s silence. You would assume she’d get tired of the hours when the world is still and sleeping.

Luna is an anomaly in this coastal town we call home, where few people value walks along the beach at eventide because we are all accustomed to the shore’s presence. Sure, when days become balmy and nights become longer people go out to the beach, right at summer’s noon, in hopes of seeing it packed to the brim with human lobster mutants to mock, or sunburned tourists as you may know them, but Luna never comes. That humorous display of snowbirds’ blatant ignorance is really the extent of the shore’s appeal to locals, I can’t imagine enjoying the stillness of the beach at night like Luna… I find it eerie.

This particular summer though, Luna wanted to walk along the seafoam at night and well, our mother made me take her. It was a lovely evening; we could feel the sand exfoliating our soles and taste the salty, crisp air. We walked for miles, just me and little Luna, discussing everything under the sun. It’s too bad she’s shy and quiet around most people, she has a lot to say about the world and the world would benefit from hearing it. It's amazing how much she learns from listening without responding… I suppose there is a reason why God gave us two ears and one mouth. As her older sister, it's pretty nice to have someone with such keen listening and observation skills; she is good at solving conflicts and practicing de-escalation.

We lost track of time as we talked over what Luna –ever comfortable being the family oddity– liked about the creepy environment we stood in. The blue vanished from the stippled sky, replaced entirely by orange as we noticed how far we had drifted from our home boardwalk. Then, as if ink had spilled in the heavens, darkness. Hours away from shelter. Cold. Alone.

“Is this supposed to happen?

Please tell me you've been out here THIS late before!” Unfortunately, at this time, Luna was usually back on her fading red swing so she was as helpless as I was. Lights are not allowed along the ocean at night in the summer because they confuse hatching marine turtles who use the moon’s light as a guide, directing them to the ocean. We had no option but to turn around and begin walking through the vast void in the direction we came. “This is it,” I thought, “This is when I die.” Even for Luna, the majestic coast had suddenly turned quite ominous. The full moon no longer glistened and welcomed us to where the sea meets the sand. Now, it watched us from behind clouds with unfamiliar matte tones, a reminder that us humans know little of the beach at this hour. The choppy waves of the day had eased and now the ocean was a smooth mirror of the pitch black sky. Luna and I linked arms so that we wouldn't separate, since we couldn't even see our hands in front of our faces. Time melted away and the temperature dropped. 10:00, 11:30, Midnight. All of the beach exits looked identical and the houses’ silhouettes blended into the clouds. We were hopelessly lost and completely vulnerable to nature.

The angry wind threw my hair into my face and pierced through my clothing. We were about to find a spot amongst the reeds and grass to rest until morning when we heard a muffled sound. The noise seemed out of place in the silence of the early hours of the day. It grew from odd bells to screaming, shrill, aggressive whistles. The aggravating sound, suddenly familiar, was a ringtone coming from the back pocket of Luna’s shorts. As she pulled out her cell phone, we exchanged a disappointed glance. We’d had the phone, and the GPS application on it, the entire time. Our mother’s worried rapid fire of questions, “Where are you? Do you know what time it is? You can’t scare me like that,” were drowned out by my and Luna’s laughter. A digital map led us back to our home where we practically collapsed.

As I stand with Luna in her kitchen flipping through the yellowed pages of our Mama’s old cooking book in search of her signature key lime pie, I remember what it was like growing up here years ago. Luna’s timid children remind me of her; I can see them through the window on the recently repainted cherry red porch swing, watching the sun go down in the distance. The gulls once again gossip and bicker, and I finally realize the midnight ocean’s appeal: the water has been here for generations, welcoming outcasts and watching them bloom, coaxing them away from the comfort of their red swing.

Hot Cement

By Khira Hickbottom

monsoon come on wednesday clouds told me that can’t hold it anymore, can’t keep from getting so lost in my mud they disappear when it rains i start the turn table and cry with the sax, reminds me that the earth, the brass, the tunearm’s armed with my same sadness the showers burns like the back of throats filled with fire and liquor and rain from tributary eyes, my frame in the mirror clouded and held by steam i’m sorry i didn’t leave my room today, i’m sorry i left before i was ready to be seen, i’m sorry that all i have for you are apologies don’t dissipate on hot cement, just dry on the inside of my bitten cheeks, i’ll be better when i brush my teeth, scrape them out

WAVE - Ainsley Anderson

I originally submitted this piece for the Dean’s Honor Scholarship when I applied to Tulane. The prompt was simple - to do a project about a box or a square. So, I recreated the iconic “Great Wave” done originally by Hokusai and I added my own twist to it - Fibonacci, or the golden ratio.

I’ve known about Fibonacci since seventh grade. My dad was my math teacher that year, and he was really into it at the time. I was actually wearing my dad’s old Fibonacci shirt when I read the prompt for the Dean’s Honor Scholarship. I knew it was what I wanted to focus on.

Fibonacci can answer a lot of nature’s unanswered questions and give insight into what we consider “beautiful.” Seashells, flower patterns, the layout of the galaxy, and even stock market fluctuations all come back to the golden ratio. Fibonacci is a combination of math, nature, and balance. The representation of Fibonacci that I painted on top of the wave is a series of squares organized where each length and width of the square can be divided by the golden ratio to find the length and width of the next box. Pairing it with the Great Wave represents the intersection of math, nature, and what we find beautiful.

I used to paint a lot, but I stay busy with school and work. I love it because it relaxes me. So I was really excited to paint a picture to represent Fibonacci and the golden ratio. It gave me an opportunity to remind myself to keep doing the things I enjoy and learn about the things that interest me.

Welcome to Party City

By Ella Jeffries

I had to remain at the store for extra hours that night to clean up the mess. I wasn’t even the one who let go of the balloon. Apparently, the culprit was “busy” and couldn’t possibly take on extra time. It was as if everyone assumed that I wouldn’t have any unchangeable plans, not even asking if it would be an inconvenience. I didn’t really mind, though. It was something different than the routine.

As I swept up pieces of balloon, a shudder of fear rippled through me. I couldn’t imagine floating around, just living my life, and suddenly being torn to shreds by an innocentseeming fan. The fear felt sharp. It was electric, almost refreshing. It was the one night out of many I didn’t feel numb.

The next day, I tied together a bunch of balloons and helped a woman pay for them, gathering the change in my hand and hearing the satisfying clink of the coins. Once she was gone, I stood awhile, leaning against the counter lined with air pumps and spools of ribbon, awaiting my next task.

I heard the bell at the door ring. A man entered, walking briskly into the store. I couldn’t help but stare at his feet. He wore tan sandals two sizes too small, his gnarly toes hanging over the edges.

He walked over to me and asked if he could come behind the counter. I stared at him for a second, puzzled. This wasn’t a normal request, yet I was struck by the coarse scratch of his voice. It sounded like rain against the window of an empty house and the creak of wooden stairs. Unsure as to why I was doing so, I nodded my head. The man walked over and stood behind my right shoulder. His mere presence made the air feel heavier, like it was sticky with sweat

As more customers shuffled through and asked for this balloon or that, he followed me back and forth between the two counters, tracking each of my movements. I became almost self-conscious of him as I went about my job, like he was somehow attached to me, a piece of my soul displayed in human form.

None of the customers seemed unsettled by him. I didn’t think much of it since they were all engrossed in planning for this party or that. Yet, I eventually began to question if they could see him at all.

“Don’t worry about them not seeing me,” I heard the man whisper in my ear, “they probably don’t really notice you either.”

That’s when I realized who he was. Why he seemed so achingly familiar like one’s own eyes in a mirror. It was Loneliness.

He went and sat down. Right on the carpeted floor. He grabbed a zip tie from a container on the bottom shelf and began picking his toenails with it. Scraping out guck and grime and shoving it into the carpet, burying it in folds of wool.

After he finished his nails, Loneliness continued to sit on the floor and began to hum. A gentle melody, somber and pitiable. I felt an overwhelming sadness, a longing for something unattainable. Then my usual numbness returned. I felt a sudden urge to grab a spool of ribbon from the counter and tie it tighter and tighter around my wrist until I finally felt something.

Loneliness stopped humming. The feeling passed and I returned to work, filling empty balloons with metallic confetti. After a few minutes, Loneliness tired of the floor and I watched him set the zip tie he had used for his nails back in its container. I turned away, allowing my brain to settle on how I’d have to clean those later.

All of a sudden he was at my shoulder again. I hadn’t even heard him stand up. But he was there. I could feel him in the air—could see his shadow on the counter in front of me.

I shifted to look at him and we made eye contact for the first time. I looked away and began turning to watch the glass doors. Just then he grabbed my cheek and roughly moved my head back to face him. His hand felt clammy and humid on my skin and my breathing quickened. He didn’t let go. I was about to try and squirm away when a glimmer of something in his pupils caught my attention. Then, with a flash, a scene unfolded right in the dark of his eyes. It was a scrapbook of experiences—my experiences.

I was at my fifth birthday party. My parents cutting a cake for me while trying to sneak concerned looks at one another. They were wondering why no one in my kindergarten class had wanted to come to my party. Their minds were racing with a cocktail of confusion mixed with guilt. They didn’t know the truth. I had merely been too nervous to invite anyone.

It flashed again and I was at a family Thanksgiving. I was twenty. My aunt was making her usual passiveaggressive comments about my love life to my mother. Why doesn’t she have a boyfriend? Couldn’t she just look for someone? Surely there’s someone out there who wouldn’t mind dating her. I mean, she’s pretty enough... her words started to pile up. They tasted coarse and bitter.

Then I was in the store again, but it was one year ago and the customers were asking me whether most parties had regular balloons or confettifilled ones. I had to admit I had no clue, but as far as I could remember, more people purchased the confetti ones?

The scene melted away and I was back in the present. Loneliness retreated, breaking the connection. A sense of regret weighed down on my shoulders, squashing me. Then I felt something new. Something so clear and crisp it was almost delectable.

“Get the hell out!” I yelled at Loneliness. “Get out of this store!”

He looked frightened, as if Confrontation had been his enemy all along. He gazed down at his shoes before nodding his head and slipping out the door.

In an instant, the air felt lighter and cooler. I breathed it in and sighed, feeling oddly at ease. I heard the familiar chime of the bell and refocused on my job. There was a new customer to attend to, more balloons to fill and prepare.

“Welcome to Party City!” I said brightly when they came over to my counter. “How may I help you?”

GRATITUDE - Nakia Fofana

I like lists because they are easy to read and remind me of writing notes for school, which makes me feel organized and productive. I began a gratitude list after realizing that there were so many small things I was thankful for in my day that I missed out on appreciating because I simply forgot. Reading my list always makes me happy, knowing that these things continue to exist in the world even when I am unhappy or upset. Most of the things on the list are attached to my own memories and experiences, so I tried to add things that were specific enough to speak to some of my niche interests. Though it can feel silly, it's a nice thing to look back on knowing that they are tailored to me and it brings me genuine happiness on rainy days.

Second Hand

By Khira Hickbottom

i get all my clothes second hand because i like to carry ghosts on my back, spin tales on their behalf denim wash elastic waist and moth eaten cardigan worn in memory of who they used to be, to remind them of the flesh and bone of being alive when i was little i grew as fast as the reeds around the excuse for a pond out back, got on the bus in my mom’s browned sneakers until the reeds frosted over now i pillage through her closet creak around the death of our attic searching for a way to wear her shadow— remind myself of a time before she sacrificed person for the loneliness of motherhood, climb into her skin and wonder: how did you love before the imposition of me, what hands had the privilege of breaking you, do you still think of her?

Plan B Musings

By Winna Xia

I named her Plan B.

I named her in protest of the US Supreme Court overrule of Roe v. Wade. I named her in hopes of Plan B continuing to exist despite trigger bans. I named her Plan B when everything was shattering into pieces around me, the personal and public, and I just needed, needed something to hold it together.

Yes, I quite literally banked my existence on a tiny, caramel calico-printed, leg-chomping dwarf Holland Lop bunny.

I named her Plan B as a joke too, relishing my friends’ groans as they lament over the name of an otherwise cute bunny who had no idea what was going on. Yet, from this joke, I learned about how the name Plan B makes people uncomfortable. I learned to watch for people’s recoil from the fluffball with the slight mention of a preventative measure for unwanted pregnancy.

I remembered what my high school sex-ed teacher once said: how words are just words, how there is a negative societal connotation with penetrative sex-insinuated words, and how it is important to say those words over and over again to destigmatize them.