New Literati Web Issue Fall 2018 by New Literati

FALL 2018

NEW LITERATI 1

Copyright © St. Edward’s University All Rights Revert back to the individual authors and artists. The views expressed in this publication are those of the individuals authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors, staff, or the university. The New Literati Web Issue is an annual online publication. St. Edward’s University 3001 South Congress Avenue Austin, Texas 78704 2018 New Literati Web Issue Cover by Precious Parker 2

DEAR READERS, New Literati may be a literary and creative arts magazine, but more than that, we are a family of people dedicated to spreading the voices of those within our community. This issue is particularly magnificent as it travels the depths of both real and fantastic lands, myths, personal narratives, cultures, emotions, social commentaries, the obscurity of nature, experiences, etc. in visual and written form. Thank you to all who sent in submissions, you are the vitality keeping this publication alive. And to my lovely staff, please know that I deeply treasure each of you uniquely talented individuals. It’s been wonderful getting to know more about you all, and I can’t wait to continue to working with you in the future. Please enjoy New Literati’s Fall 2018 Web Issue! Sincerely, C.J. Shaleesh Editor-in-Chief Logan Stallings New Literati President

New Literati Staff Editor in Chief C.J. Shaleesh Managing Editor Oliver Davis Poetry Section Editors Kristyn Garza Hannah Jones Prose Section Editors Alejandro Castillon Rebecca Harville Design Editor Melinda Hurtado Visual Editor Precious Parker President Logan Stallings Vice President Duni Sissoko

Featured Artists, Writers, and Poets

Jillian Horton Grace Horvath Aleida Lopez Jovahana Avila Kristyn Garza Ecere Miguel Escoto C.J. Shaleesh Timothy Nguyen Corinne Bates Olivia Vahsen Alejandro Castillon Arielle Avila Layla Hanusic Annie Bresee Arianna Acosta Andrea Angeli Gonzales

Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s 10

Lost Wanderer By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

Journals, Sticky Notes, and Arms By Aleida Lopez

Ache By Grace Horvath

Golden Girl By Ecere

A Tunnel Of Trees By Olivia Vahsen

In This Letter, By Layla Hanusic

Grunge By Timothy Nguyen

Black Trees By Timothy Nguyen

Steeping By Corinne Bates

Of Summer, Myths, and Plants By Aleida Lopez

Clean-Relapse By Aleida Lopez

Damaged Toys By Kristyn Garza

Hold On By C.J. Shaleesh

Alice By Aleida Lopez

Soâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;l By Jilian S. Horton

Woman By Corinne Bates

Inconsistent By Grace Horvath

La Corde By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

A Chest Filled With Rubies By Kristyn Garza

First Latina President of the United States By Miguel Escoto

Girl with a Pearl Earring By Arianna Acosta

Le Chameau By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

Dear Friend By Ecere

Les Chameux By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

Painful Nostalgia By Corinne Bates

American Sugar By Alex Castillon

David NY By Annie Bresee

Antigua By Annie Bresee

Lucky Numbers By Aleida Lopez

The Sun: Mermo, Who Outsmarts Tourists By Miguel Escoto 7

135

Americana By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

La Chevre By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

100

136

Cowardice: A Savior By Aleida Lopez

On Westmoreland Street, Dallas, Texas By Jovahana Avila

101

137

Iceland Couple By Annie Bresee

Hope Peddlers By Miguel Escoto

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138

For The Ages By Aleida Lopez

No One Is Ugly At 2AM By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

131

140

I Failed Yet Again By Ecere

Highway Fumes By Timothy Nguyen

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The Soulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Return By Kristyn Garza

Subterranean Homesickness By Arielle Avila

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148

La Morte By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

Observer, Observed By Arianna Acosta

134

150

Texas By Miguel Escoto

How to Get Lost By Arielle Avila 8

Lost Wanderer By Andrea Angeli Gonzales 10

Ache By Grace Horvath Can I just sit on this ground? watch the frost crystalize in the grass. Slow everything down, like a tree in the winter the predecessor of accumulated snow at its foot. Can my raw empty arms reach up with pale hands, to the cloudy unsuspecting sky, expecting nothing? just, waiting. comforted by the skyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s collection of snow. My hands will struggle to become wrangled, like brittle branches of hibernating trees. Winter, barely continuing life. I. crave. to embody a tree, attaining peace by air, filled, disguised by blizzards, lonely to none. warm bark protection, voiding pain. my core attached to the ground, like the tree Alive in the dark Earth. Loss of content, as I notice my shortcomings. These dreams will not come true The trees I crave are unattainable, anatomy different, energized by their own mysticism. I can just sit. Can just wait, but cannot complete the change my legs will not grow into ground my hair will not bloom leaves in Spring. My arteries will not become fixed or solidified. This body: I exist in, disallows exact transformation. frozen by frost, these dreams 12

would die. my blood criticizing the costly decision, crystalizing in sharp designs like frosted grass. my skin would turn solid, unsustaining. breath hesitating. I cannot breathe in these Human lungs and exist in this winter too. Lord, let me. become. both

A Tunnel of Trees By Olivia Vahsen There exists a tunnel of trees which I cannot pass through without thinking of you. On the highway which runs alongside the sea is the place where the pines dip their toes into the salted brine behind the cover of fog. My memory of you lives in the shadows cast by the branches, taunting me as it twists itself into intricate wisps of nothing in the morning mist. You would not hesitate to peek around the narrow trunks at me if you were here, your feathered hair matching the thin leaves that obscure your face. There exists a tunnel of trees which I cannot pass through without thinking of you. As I blink, your shape has been absorbed by the spindly trunk that leans against the frigid wind. In this forgotten place by the sea, my mind refuses to forget you. How many memories will take refuge here against the cleansing storms that mean to erase them? In this empty crowd of trunks, the silence can make thoughts too loud forget, but the crashing waves can make them too quiet to remember. There exists a tunnel of trees which I cannot pass through without thinking of you. In darkness, the cold, damp mist will spiral into a foreboding column down my throat that I cannot escape. Inhaling the infinite shades of half light cast by shadows upon shadows reminds me that here, now, in this place, anything can happen. There exists a tunnel of trees which I cannot pass through without thinking of you. As it rains, I will walk along the cliffs facing the ocean, and the ebb of the tide will convince me more to release you from my mind. 14

But as I pass the marshes whose low-cut creeks are skimmed with mist, and the reeds begin to sway in time with the wind coming off the waves, I will be alone with the inevitable, and I will not let you go. For as long as I fly among the sun-filtered fog, I would not want you to let me. There exists a tunnel of trees which I cannot pass through without thinking of you. As far as I travel from this place, whenever the trees weave shadows under frigid light, I will retrieve the postcard-sized box that you inhabit in my mind, and it will transport me, if but for a second, back to these shores. Perhaps one day you will meet me through the wind-blown branches as we look upon the many waters, and I will exhale the foreboding mist that anchors me here. Until then, I will return to the place of my far travels, as quickly as I came. There exists a tunnel of trees which I cannot pass through without thinking of you, but I will try.

Grunge By Timothy Nguyen

Steeping By Corinne Bates There are a few peaceful moments every morning Before it comes I lay in silence Listen to the birds The cars on the highway My breath filling the room Then it washes over me A fog rolling in It creeps into the cracks Labors my breathing So I lay in sadness Let it steep Dyeing my insides Finally I scoop it out Wrap it up Put it in a box Place it back inside my chest Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no longer steeping Just sitting and waiting As I go about my day The box leaks sometimes The latch breaks It begins to seep back out I patch it with glue Putty Tape It holds a little longer As I smile at strangers on the street And laugh with my friends But the moon draws it back out Like it does the waves Pulls it from within Places it back on the center of my chest Begs me to feel it 17

Part I- Clean By Aleida Lopez

I try to believe They are victorious Battle scars Won by strength Instead of self-inflicted abuse For being weak

“I’m a warrior now.”

I try to believe No one can see them Anymore not even myselfthat Enough time has passed But in the right light they shine Like embedded silver

“Fluorescent lights are so unflattering.”

I try to believe People don’t feel second-hand Embarrassment when 18

Their eyes fall to my wrists But I see their flickering gazes They’re scared of the psycho

“I was joking when I said I wanted to die.”

I try to believe They aren’t there by Ignoring them but Someone’s faltering voice Or lingering eyes Force me to stop lying to myself

“Where are all my bracelets?”

I try to believe I can hide them easily Without having to keep lying Even in humid summer heat When Mom turns a blind eye And confessions come off as jokes

“Yeah, I totally did that to myself, Mom.”

I try to believe Last time was the last time But bad days come and My body fights To turn against itself more than It fights to love itself

“I just want to stop thinking.”

I try to believe One day they will Finally fade so my wrists can Be smooth and unblemished But they dent my skin Like they have for years

“I am more than my mutilated skin.

Aren’t I?”

Part II- Relapse I’ve surrendered the battle I waged for months

Now here I am Trying to make defeat beautiful

Fluorescents or sunlight or what streams Through the blinds of a darkened room don’t matter

Silver paths have now clearly Succumbed to pomegranate red

Keep the fatality out of sight Don’t show the world the loss

I wasn’t trying to kill myself I’m too afraid of death

I’d been clean for months And I fucked it up again

Mismatched bracelets cover A prickling patch of peeling skin

When I go home I’ll have to Watch the turn of my wrists

Mom knows the truth, I know, I wish She’d stop playing dumb

The fires I ignite to sear my flesh Stop me from suffocating in saltwater

I know my self-loathing is unpleasant For you it is for me too

I could promise it won’t happen again but I Hate liars and I hate myself enough already

Hold On By C.J. Shaleesh My darling, I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let you go. I will hold on as the winter moon turns my skin to crackled coal. I will hold on as the summer sun beats gardens into my soul. I will hold on as my fingers lick pomegranate seeds from your wrists. And I will hold on until you learn to love the nature trying to grow within yourself. Only then, can I let go.

Journals, Sticky Notes, and Arms By Aleida Lopez Inspired by Ocean Vuong’s Notebook Fragments How do I turn the volume down? How do I mute the voices? For once let me breathe. Shut up, enough, please.

I’m sorry I’m too much

of everything.

I’m used to self-harm in the form of fire, nails that were too long, and dull blades. But I never

thought it could be in the angry words that fuck my

brain.

In me lie the flock of birds, the sun and rocks, the thorns that choke the vines.

There is truly a problem when someone who loves words cannot find them or lose themselves in them anymore.

Where was I going with this?

I know you are good for me, like I know 24

the sun goes from east to west and

that the sun comes out at night. I know.

Tear me down with honest lies.

Tell the boy with origami lilies and dragons,

and the girl who always wore bright pink,

and the boy who gave me a book trilogy.

and the girl who I never said a word to

that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry.

Say my name right, and if you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t then

fucking ask me how to.

Shooting stars streak across my arms. Make a wish.

When I woke up, I felt my wings breaking as they came to life.

I have fluttered my way over rivers to migrate from a house to a home,

and from a home to a house.

Yesterday as I sat alone in my room,

I cut my arm until pain became

numb. 25

And tears overflowed to wash the blood away. Today, surrounded my friends,

I laughed until my stomach hurt,

and talked until my voice was hoarse.

The difference between a healthy and toxic friend: You deserve to give yourself a chance at being happy.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a long time since I was at the mercy of my mind.

I took my first clean breath of oxygen

when their fingers tangled with mine.

Iou make brown such a magnificent color.

I fucking adore you

You took the poetry from my mouth with a single touch.

When I realized I could love a girl,

I realized people would be so much happier if they let themselves love

blindly.

My family is counting the days until they see me again.

I’m still not okay. That’s okay.

Pluck away the weeds and thorns. See the flower they leave you with.

A lot of people have told me they’re proud of me. But I think this is the first time I’m proud of myself.

Golden Girl By Ecere Her green eyes make even the strongest men shiver, Taken aback as our muscles starts to quiver. I love her because she is warm to the touch, Thawing a heart that’s been frozen too much. Gentle nature reflects in her features. The golden touch she has for such creatures, Healing the hearts of broken brothers and sisters, Taking the tragedy of the everyday and turning it into Christian beauty. Fingers so long and beautiful like tree branches, Her limbs flicker and spark like matches. What I would give just to touch her hand. I stretch, I reach for affection with little to no chance. She’s a gift from God, for he gave us light, Light bestowed inside her to make this hell we call Earth…alright.

In this letter, By Layla Hanusic In this letter I am a fig tree. My roots are deep and gnarled, pulsating through the soil as if I’ll be ripped from stable ground at any moment. My trunk is narrow. I am young. But my bark feels old as time and I can’t help but think it’s only a matter of time before my leaves fall away for the last time. And I never experience spring. My leaves are whatever you want them to be. They can be lush, green, full of energy and conversation as the wind passes by. If you prefer, they can be cracked, colorful, subdued, yet still very much exposed to your icy words as they freeze my growth rings. My fruit never to fall suspended on a branch, aching with “what ifs”,ever to experience the warmth of summer again. In this letter, I am a fig tree.

Black Trees By Timothy Nguyen

Of Summer, Myths, and Plants By Aleida Lopez Wheat

O Demeter, how you loved the fruit of your womb, so that you mourn her loss each time she goes How powerful the love of a mother.

A lot of girls I know have this relationship with their mom where they tell them everything. They tell their moms when they like a boy, when they date a boy, when they lose their virginity, when a boy breaks their heart. They tell them absolutely everything. I don’t have that with my mom. But I’m not entirely sure why. I used to think it’s because I just didn’t trust her. In fact, I didn’t know I was missing anything in our relationship until I learned it was unhealthy to fear her. The more I think, though, the more I realize I don’t fear her, rather I live in fear of losing her. I’m terrified of disappointing her. How do I sit her down and tell her, Hey Mom, I’m depressed. I’ve been diagnosed with depression and anxiety by professionals, it’s real. Hey Mom, I like girls. And I like boys. And I like people that are neither or both or something in between. I know it’s confusing, but we can talk about it, if you want. Hey Mom, I’ve had my first kiss already, and it was backstage in high school with the boy who used to be my best friend when he wanted me just to fuck me. Hey Mom, I’m not a virgin. Hey Mom, I was dating a girl all summer. Hey Mom, there’s a lot about me you don’t know. 31

Hey Mom, I’m everything you never wanted me to be. Can you still love me? Pomegranate Tree

Bittersweet seeds doubled as a sentencing for naïve Persephone staining her lips and fingertips as they trapped her in the Underworld away from her flowers and sun.

I was only supposed to be there for a week. I had things to get back to. I had plans. I was going to go to Pride, and I was going to train my dog to be off leash. I was going to go to a concert and then hang out with my friends. I was going to spend the summer in the AC with a new book every week. Instead, my mom gave new excuses to keep me in Mexico longer and longer. She pushed back the date of our return more and more until I was looking for shiny red shoes to tap my heels three times and come home. It’s not that I don’t like Mexico. I love it. Mexico is my roots. What made me want to stay home wasn’t that I’d grown up too much or that I didn’t love my family. It was the fact that I knew I would get lectured for my tattoos. I knew I’d get asked about my dating life without being able to reveal I was in a relationship with a girl. I knew I’d get shit over the way I dress and style my hair, because it wasn’t feminine enough and that spiked rumors and side-glances. I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of, Why do your eyes look so sad? Why don’t you smile as much as you used to?Because I wasn’t the happy-go-lucky kid I was when I was twelve, thirteen, fourteen. And more than anything, I knew more than I wanted about everyone’s truth, and I couldn’t go back there just to pretend I didn’t. Couldn’t pretend Tia never said I had always been a selfish, spoiled brat. Couldn’t pretend that I 32

didn’t know she hated her marriage. Couldn’t pretend Abuelito never tried to leave over a stupid fight. Couldn’t pretend Tio wasn’t just engaged to run away from home. I couldn’t pretend everything was fine. All summer long I just wanted to go home even while I was home, though I’ve never known a home. Meanwhile, my abuelita frowned at my consumption of alcohol. Though I acted more like the girl they knew all those years ago the most when I was drunk, so it didn’t really make sense to me that she would be upset. Wasn’t that what she wanted? I was just trying to make her happy. I was just trying to make it through the summer. Narcissus Flower

Vain and beautiful man, Narcissus, your stillness would leave a legacy of resilient, joyful flowersas if you hadn’t withered yourself away.

I have three siblings, one brother and two sisters. Ever since I was eight years old, I never knew what marked the line between being a big sister and being a replacement for Mom. Though in retrospect, I might not have been here if it wasn’t for them. If it wasn’t for the love and affection they gave me and what I felt I needed to provide for them. When depression came along, I was lucky to have my younger brother and sister around. They gave me a reason to be okay… or at least a reason to want to try to be okay. This summer, surrounded by the constant passive reprimands for no longer being that sweet little girl, that light that everyone seemed to want me to be, I needed them more. They were my light, my hope. My reason to smile on the days when my brain was refusing to feel. 33

One day, in the sweltering heat of Mexican summer, my brother caught a glimpse of my exposed arm and the pale lines that streak across like my personal meteor shower for the first time. Where’d you get those lines from? I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t need him to know how much I sometimes hated myself. Was it Leah? I let out a breath and said, yeah, it was. She’s a bad dog, he said. Then he showed me another funny video for a show we watch together so I could laugh. And that was that. My little sister has always loved musicals. Near the end of summer, we were in a new little town- my stepfather’s hometown- putting on the image of a happy family. I was in a dress a size too big, with half formed thoughts of ineptness. Then the DJ play “Grease’s” Hound Dog, and my sister tugging me to the dance floor brought me back to reality for two minutes and fourteen seconds. Smiling at me in a way that would stay imprinted in my heart for the rest of my life. I hadn’t smiled like that in years. I got sick this summer, and it gave me a free pass to stay on the couch watching my favorite movies on Netflix. I chose “The Prince of Egypt” and smiled as my baby sister covered me with blankets. She froze when she heard the tune of the River Lullaby. It’s the song I’ve always sung to her to put her to sleep since she was born, though she’d never heard the original. She stared at me for a moment before running towards me and climbing onto me. Her little hands wrapped around me, and her chubby cheek pressed against mine until the song was over. They were the brightest parts of my summer. They kept me sane.

Hyacinth

The death of the prince was not caused by a flying disc, it was the pride the jealousy the envy of the gods he loved so.

I watered a dangerous emotion this summer. It was the first summer my stepdad was able to go home and see his family after 12 years. My sisters were easily assimilated to the family. My brother didn’t particularly care. Meanwhile I was well aware of every awkward side glance, every pointedly turned face, every single time people’s eyes seemed to glaze over me because I wasn’t important enough. One day during a carne asada, with four Tecates in my system, I found my sister crying. I asked her why and she said, I miss my dad. I wanted to say happy father’s day to him. The speed at which my anger overcame me was terrifying. The thoughts I had were horrible and unfair, but I’d thought them nonetheless. I couldn’t even blame the alcohol for them, I’d have thought them anyway because that’s how the brain works; it’s quicker than morals. How dare she complain? She had her family back home, she had mine, she had the one we shared, and now she had our stepdad’s. Everyone loved her. She had two dads and I had none. My stepdad rarely talked to me, and she was complaining because she wanted to be with a different dad for a day? What I’d give to have one at all. 35

Logically, I knew she’s just eight. She’s had her share of struggles for a kid. But to me, at that moment she was spoiled. Greedy. And I couldn’t be a sister. I did however, gulp down the rest of my beer.

Sunflower

Pitiful Clytie, couldn’t you see Apollo was no good for you. And yet, so faithful you watched him move until you found a new form of beauty.

We were meant to fall apart. She didn’t know how to love me and that was fine, because I knew I could never know how to love her. She was someone who made poetry easy. She was someone who realized Elysium for me and made it so tempting to let myself feel that high. I was blinded by the joy, and I grasped for it too greedily, afraid for it to be taken. And I fucked it all up. She was someone who deserved so much more than what I had to offer, when I knew I could offer more if I just tried. Her name was Sol and she was good. All summer long, she was patient and she was loyal. She seemed to see the person I could be rather than the person I am, and maybe that’s why I was scared of her. After a night leaving necklaces of violets on each other’s necks, I suddenly wanted to run away. Run from her before I could lose her. That’s exactly what I did. Mom made it easy, whisking me away to Mexico for summer vacation. Still, it didn’t change the fact that after each question of, Got a boyfriend yet? 36

my mind immediately went to her and how I had to hide her, hide myself. Or how I wasn’t being faithful because a boy said I had the mouth of a goddess and my hubris made me need to be sure I was the goddess he couldn’t resist, despite not seeing each other for three years. All summer long I received texts asking how my summer was, how I’ve been feeling, all always about me like I was important. Maybe to her I was. I chose to ignore them, guilt-ridden and undeserving while answering an asshole’s texts about what he’d do to me in bed. It was easier to answer when I felt nothing. Even easier if I was drunk. She didn’t deserve that. My Sol followed me all summer just for me to yank her from the roots when the summer ended. Rock-Rose and Crocus

Poseidon! Zeus! Bastards! Seducing Medusa into a monstrous name, drawing Europa in with flower’s breath, only to take what you want and go, what gods you are.

There was a boy who had been my best friend when I was naïve. He changed me more than anyone I’ve ever met. The day I asked him if he cared that we hadn’t talked- Not really. Things were easier. I cried myself to sleep for a month. The day I told him I needed closure- You just need to move on. I was only nice because I still wanted to date you. I acted the way I knew you’d like me to. I realized I didn’t believe in love anymore. The day I told him I didn’t love him anymore- You wanna be friends with 37

benefits? I wondered if being a play toy was all I was good for. The day I told him I did- Meet me backstage. I blew him to feel… something. A year later after not talking- How’ve you been? …. What are you wearing? I sent him a picture. Another year later- I can’t wait to fuck you in the backseat of my pickup. I asked him why he kept coming back to me. This past summer- I think I want to be a fireman…. How’s your summer? … I miss your mouth. You have the mouth of a goddess…. I’ll fuck you good. I asked myself why he still made me laugh. He will be my destruction. But I’ll be his too. Lotus

I wonder how the island felt when Odysseus’s men had to be dragged from it if I make of the ones I love Lotophagi will they have to be dragged from me, or forget me?

I didn’t want to leave home this summer because I was leaving my books, my dog, and my siblings behind- but I also knew that I was terrified of being left- all summer long, I dealt with people asking me if I was okay asking why I wasn’t being normal, I felt them all pulling away except maybe I was pushing them away and maybe that’s why I get left so much, I push and push and push and- I’ll do anything to keep them, anything to get them to stop leaving me my friends my family my siblings I can feel them growing distant when the summer is over, my brother lounges on his PS4, my sister delves into YouTube, my mom doesn’t text me every day, I stop answering the family group chat, my friends didn’t check on me all summer fuck I was alone again and it 38

seemed like it was all my fault.

Asphodel

Great fields of asphodel your swaying waves are so welcoming for a tired soul wanting to forget but I don’t want to see you yet.

The last time I wanted to die, I was a senior in high school. I’ve done so much fucked up shit in my life, I would figure everyone was better off without me. I figured no one needed me around very much. I figured I was too much of a disappointment. But I hadn’t felt it as strongly as I felt it this summer. This summer after abuelita lectured me for damaging the Holy Spirit’s temple with tattoos. This summer after my mother made me wear three dresses when she knows I hate them and my step dad put my dog in the backyard, because I wasn’t home to clean up after her. This summer after abuelito told me he was disappointed with my lack of enthusiasm, confused with how distant and withdrawn I’d become. This summer after watching my stepdad’s family embrace everyone but me. This summer after learning that my aunt is suicidal and there’s nothing I can do to help her when I’m a border away. This summer after not getting a happy birthday message from the people who called themselves my friends. This summer after pushing away a person who might have loved me one day, 39

in favor of one I think I might hate. This summer after depression swallowed me whole and didn’t let me go because I couldn’t fend it off with a blade or a tongue of flame. This summer after everyone noticed something was wrong, and took it upon themselves to point it out and make feel like a damaged thing. But I don’t want to die. I want to kiss girls and boys, and wear a suit to the next family wedding, and get more tattoos, and retrain my dog so she can come back with me and see my siblings grow up, and watch funny TV shows, and listen to new music, and find new flowers and plants that can tell my story. I want to live with my depression instead of hating it, and be okay with loving myself without counting on other people to tell me I’m wanted. I want to be alive.

Damaged Toys By Kristyn Garza The desires of breath; The desires of worlds upon worlds The conjoining of hemispheres (two) To grant animation To save souls so full of sin and spite, The vilest of demons, Venomous and cruel. The obtainment of joy, Or what mimics the faรงade of joy, Taints the innocent pursuit And twists and coils and slithers Into the crook of my neck and Nuzzles, rearing its baneful head To infect and blight my skin, Seeping into my blood and crawling Under skin, cracking bones, Bursting veins, flaying skin Skin skin skin skin skin skin skin! Doom! The harrowing of the realm In which He reigns, ravages, Rampages, and rapes. The purging of Sin. The stealing of souls. Blistering, biting, Blighting all those in the Fields of Asphodel. Ravage this soul of mine, Rape it, defile it, discard it (Abandon!) Hate me, fuck me, use me, kill me. Hide me away in the recesses of the mind. I am sick. 41

I am dying. I am gone, Dead and laying amongst The remnants of other damaged toys.

Alice By Aleida Lopez I A girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth is the rabbit hole to Wonderland Strands of her Bleached, discolored hair decorated my pillow I was entangled in the smell of herSoft and sweet as mouth watering as her porcelain skin just above her collarbone, the crook of her neck I painted that space in burgundy splotches Like sloppily painted roses Eat me Drink me Devour me Until our necks are matching Rose gardens Looking into her Eyes, I waited to wake up How was this real? II Can you believe in An impossible thing? I shook my head. A scarlet hand reached out touched above my left breast The Queen of Heartbreak had taken a liking to me She smiled, her teeth glistened with liquid rubies 43

I believe in as many as You before breakfast Try it. If I’d been smart, I’d have seen the guillotine behind her, the garotte wrapped in her fist The way she eyed my neck and coveted my roses Instead, I decided to listen I tried to believe in love III Six months And a day later I had turned my back on Wonderland I’d lost my head and drowned in my tears I walked home with a broken heart The cold dried my eyes Winter held a grudge When I looked up I saw the moon It was the Cheshire cat’s smile, mocking me, I could almost hear her singing Would you like to join us? You know heartache leads to madness and we’re all heartbroken here Then in the corner of my eye I saw a flash of moonlight Somewhere in the night The ticking of a pocket watch.

So’l By Jilian S. Horton I wish I could just make you be sunny, Like I can force myself to be But that’s a terrible curse to bear, Saltwater in the eyes and Glass stitches in the thumb I want you to be safe more than I want you to be shining Because shining means hurting for people like me, And I don’t want to drag you through sand with your body worn down like that But you need to see the size of the sea I feel so helpless when I look at you Because you give me all of the hope in the world, And I can’t give a grain of sand back To all the castles you have built

Inconsistent By Grace Horvath The wind blowing against wings of eagles in alpine skies, also flows over white sea foam in ocean waves. The wind rustling fallen leaves in quiet valleys, also tunnels through building bases off city streets. The wind entering the nose of a Nepalese child, also enters my own noses here in the U.S. One difference: consistency The wind’s character remains the same, though its soul changes day by day. Changes with different elements mixed, gases combined, sediment swirled. Ancient animals and Homo Sapiens smelling the difference. Modernization turned that void, finding only greed and discontent in the wind. Spraying indigenous blood in clumps through colonial sword fights. Crushing bone for the foundation of ingenuine churches. The ancestors, their guts on the hands of those who killed them dripping down, staining the ground. Rituals Ravaged. Villages Murdered, Environment Bleak, Great Shamans cut down for Mighty Priests to walk over. Wind never faltered. These events, mere phases of the world unimportant. Time is yet to come, taking its turn destroying life: making glaciers melt, water rise, ancestor bones no longer standing tall above heartache. 46

We will not remain. Our indentation, of hate only crusted onto the highest mountains of our Planet.

A Chest Full of Rubies By Kristyn Garza “Your majesty, the embassy has arrived from Arcadia.” The royal steward’s fretful voice bounced off the walls of the vast, empty throne room. The chamber was cold from the winter tempest that howled and raged outside the palace walls, winds of pure ice threatening the stability of the castle’s ancient foundations. The massive fire in the corner of the room struggled in vain to warm the immense, cavernous room. Queen Lorna sat atop her throne made of every precious metal, every rich gem, imaginable. Her fiery red hair cascaded in tremendous waves down the length of her back. Her ivory skin was smooth to the touch and as perfect as fine cut diamonds. Her amber eyes flared, aglow with a fury that could never be doused. She was known throughout the land as the Crimson Conqueror, the most ruthless of any ruler in their kingdom’s history. “Send him in. Do go quickly, Gustavus, I have no time to be listening to the ravings of the Arcadian king’s perturbed mind. Our overseas enemy, Empire Foraylia, has made further movements into our territory. I, therefore, must strategize our army’s next actions. You see why I’d very much like to be done with this charade as soon as possible.”

“Of course your majesty, as you wish.” Gustavus hurried away, rush-

ing to fetch the neighboring kingdom’s embassy, leaving the queen to herself and her thoughts. Sighing, Lorna stood from her position on the dais at the head of the room and went to warm herself by the fire. This winter was especially harsh, but no one was 48

more affected by the chill than the queen who was already known to have skin as frigid and fair as snow. The maids of the house would often gossip and giggle in their spare time, commenting how their queen was in danger of having her fair ruddy lips and pale fingertips turn into a poisonous blue from the chill that was in her heart. Lorna knew herself to be glacial but, she couldn’t help herself. If only he had stayed, she thought to herself, thinking back to unpleasant memories. If only they had all stayed. Hurried footsteps could be heard advancing towards her, so she turned, the breath catching in her chest. Coming towards her was an unusually beautiful young man dressed in the attire of a low born. His hair shone a silvery blonde like that of stardust and his eyes were a cloudy grey like the fog of a winter’s night sky. He was enchanting, as captivatingly lovely as a man Lorna once knew. Her eyes widened when he bowed to her and spoke in a voice like the comforting crackle of a hearth fire, “Fondest greetings to your majesty, fair Queen Lorna. I, Veikko of the Kingdom of Arcadia, bring a proposition from my master, King Adwr.” Lorna cleared her throat but could not look away from his strangely familiar face. She spoke, “Then I give you leave to speak. Say what you will then be on your way.”

“Very well, your majesty. Speaking plainly, my King has sent me to

ask for your hand in marriage.” “Marriage?” Lorna scoffed, almost doubling over in bitter laughter, “How bold of your dear King. Does he think himself a worthy man 49

to have my hand? I should think not, that sniveling coward wants only to save his own hide. Begone, I have more important matters to attend to than hear more of this foolishness.” Instead of turning to leave, Veikko moved even closer to the queen, “Your majesty, blister my tongue if any of my kinsmen were to hear me utter these words, but I know my master to be a coward of the worst sorts, though I love him dearly. Aye, it is a fact as true as the sky is blue but, he knows not the ways of women and therefore cannot begin to understand why his proposal so cowardly. Indeed, he wishes only for the safety of his kingdom which you threaten every day as your armies march closer and closer to overtake our borders. So, I ask you, fair beauteous Queen, what will appease your thirst?” Slinking seductively to sit at her throne, Lorna cast a dark coquettish smirk at Veikko, “Why, you, fair young lad. I shall like to have you.” In her mind, Lorna knew the boy would jump at the chance to bed her and, having been satisfied, he’d finally leave her to concentrate on the enemy at hand. Men’s natures were always so easy to discern and so quickly pacified were their desires. Lorna knew very well what it took to get what she wanted, and right now all she wanted was peace to brood over her battle plans. My people are depending on me, she repeated over and over in her mind. Gustavus, the queen’s faithful steward, stumbled forward in protest, “But, your majesty, he is not of noble birth. A mere peasant, and of a rival realm too, should never have the tremendous honor of lying with a beauty as bountiful as your own.” 50

Lorna narrowed her gaze to glare at her servant, “Hold your tongue, sir. It is not your place to voice such concerns. Am I not the greatest conqueror to have ever lived? Have I not proven my prowess time and time again? I take whatever I want. So too will I take any man of my choosing and add him to my collection of lovers and play things.” Don’t try to interfere old man, I’d like to be done with this errand soon, she thought to herself. Veikko spoke at this, kneeling before her and saluting with his fist over his heart, “Risking my life and the impropriety of appearing rude, I must decline, your majesty. You may not have me.” Lorna was shocked, her eyes wide with furious confusion, “I may not? Who are you to deny a queen’s wishes? I shall have your head for your insolence.” How could he refuse? This is all anyone desires from me besides wealth or status. What does this man want?

Veikko bowed his head low before looking up into her blazing eyes, a

gentle smile playing on his lips, “If it is your will to have my head then so be it. But know that you will gain nothing by doing so. You will remain, still, a lone ruler in a castle of austere majesty.”

Lorna’s anger billowed forth at his insolence and she called for Gus-

tavus to take the impudent man from her sight. Ever her faithful servant, Gustavus reached towards Veikko, meaning to drag him from the throne room and toss him into a dungeon cell to rot away the rest of his years but, Veikko was too quick and leapt from where he had been kneeling in front of the queen’s throne. He vaulted towards Lorna, pressing her against the back 51

of her throne, his body against her own with her concealed knife already quickly drawn and pressed against his neck.

“Your brazen nature will be your downfall, fool.” Lorna’s voice trem-

bled, though with rage or fear, no one could ascertain. Her hand that held her knife to his throat remained steady, however, unwavering and poised for the kill.

Veikko smirked as a small bead of blood was drawn from the skin at

his jugular. “End me, my fair queen, but know that it will not end your pain to do so.”

Lorna was taken aback as she glanced with curious flaming eyes from

the thin trail of blood trickling down his neck to his unnerving half smile that exuded a calm charm. “What would you know of my pain, knave?” Lorna scowled at the presumptuous young man who stood before her, too close. His sweet aura suffocated her and sent her head spinning with muddling emotions that stirred inside of herself, blowing like strong gusts of wind through a cavernous, hollow chasm.

“I can only imagine, lovely queen. I see the pricks of sorrow over the

expanse of your fairness.” He remained silent for a moment before speaking again in a hushed tone filled with overflowing gentillesse, “Who has abandoned you to leave you in such a wretched state?”

Lorna’s breath caught in her chest, her knife clattering to the floor,

the ringing resounding through her near empty throne room mimicking her shock. “How could you possibly know? Who are you to see so clearly?” 52

Veikko gave her a sad whisper of a smile and said simply, “I know of loss, my Queen, and of the sting of abandonment.” Veikko of the Kingdom of Arcadia, grew up with a father for the first ten winters of his life. He was the beloved son of a proud and mighty man who shone with the radiancy of the sun and yet, was unknown to anyone. Many in the kingdom believed him to be an orphan and wondered how he had survived since no one ever saw his father. When Veikko turned ten, King Adwr spotted him alone in the marketplace and decided to show him kindness by taking him in as his servant. Upon hearing this news, Veikko’s father, the shining man with hair of gold and eyes of steel, turned his back on his son and told Veikko to go to the king, for he would no longer care for his child when the king had taken him in. With that briefest parting, young Veikko never saw his father again and was brought up in the castle of King Adwr. He rebelled and scorned the life he was given, believing that if the king hadn’t taken pity upon him, then his father would have stayed with him forever which caused his heart to melt into lava within his own body, coursing rage and fury through him. But gradually, Veikko and the king grew to love each other as adoptive father and son, and he cast off his shroud of bitterness and hatred, not allowing it to taint his soul. His heart hardened into a more dependable, more pure essence from the love that he’d allowed himself to be exposed to. Veikko very much knew of Lorna’s pain, but, unlike the cold hearted queen, he had not succumbed to bitterness. Instead, he had steeled himself and let his kindness shine outward, bringing radiance wherever he went. 53

It was his radiance that caused Lorna to pause before speaking again.

He shone so brightly into her darkness that she found herself craving more of his light. “I should kill you for your despicable actions and the words you have spoken but, I will instead have you stuck here. You will be my little caged goldfinch, unable to fly back to your own kingdom. I will break you and your condescending nature.”

Veikko flashed his brilliant smile at her, “Condescending? My Queen,

I should say not. I have no contempt for you nor any within your court. I am a simple man of little status, wealth, and any other criteria used to indicate importance. But, if this is a man that you would have within your domain, then I am at liberty to oblige your wish.”

And with that, Veikko was sent with Gustavus to be prepared to dine

with the queen that evening. Lorna struggled to shake herself back into the task at hand. While her handmaidens prepared her for dinner, Lorna sat at her vanity pouring over maps and strategies for how to defeat Foraylia. Her brows furrowed in concentration which vexed the poor servant who was trying to apply the queen’s makeup, but was struggling with keeping her canvas of dewy pale skin smooth. The young woman combing through Lorna’s luxurious hair that cascaded down her back in waves like the wisps of a fire muttered under her breath in the language of her foreign kingdom. The other girls giggled but continued their work, stealing derisive glances at Lorna. Chuckling to herself in her mind, Lorna wondered how her servants would react if they found out that their queen did indeed understand and spoke 54

fluently the language they used to mock her when amongst themselves. She could speak to them in their tongue. She could make their faces turn an ashen white from the blood that would drain out of fear. But instead, she recalled the radiance of the young man who had recently entered her court. Veikko’s light was like none she had ever seen. She wanted more, to create a light as beautiful as his own. She spoke, “I apologize for being difficult. I shall try my best not to interfere with your beautiful work.”

The young women all looked puzzled. They knew only the queen

that apologized for nothing and was considerate of no one. The girl who’d been applying the queen’s makeup was the only one brave enough to at least smile at Lorna, cautiously accepting the queen’s apology. The other girls fell at ease and continued their work, but just as the tone had shifted lightly, the pot that the young girl was using to paint Lorna’s makeup clattered onto the vanity, thoroughly ruining Lorna’s maps and plans with the contents of the pot devouring drawn landmass after landmass as the liquid seeped into the parchment and stained it with its rusty copper tint.

Lorna’s rage flared as she quickly tried to save the documents she had

worked so hard to formulate. She scorned the women, spittle spewing out from her elegant curved lips as she blistered her servants in their own language, adding an extra layer of mortification and fear from which the girls were forced to awkwardly courtesy and fly from the room with the haste of women who were being chased by demons on their heels. With the door to her chambers still ajar, Lorna slumped back into her seat at her vanity and caught a glance at herself in the mirror, her chest heaving with the intensity 55

of her internal fire. Her eyes appeared as hardened as steely ice. She frightened herself. Listening to the silence around her and scanning the desolate room, she began to weep quietly, almost imperceptibly, not knowing that there was a lone figure hidden outside her door, saddened by the faint sound of her falling tears. What she wanted was to exude light, but instead she just revealed her darkness that writhed inside of her like the rearing head of a monstrous beast.

“Everyone despises me,” she mumbled to herself, “that’s why they all

leave me.” Too wrapped up in her own internal thoughts, Lorna didn’t notice when the faint footsteps retreated from their place on the other side of her door frame. In her room, devoid of any soul save her own, she found herself wishing for her beloved Mildryd, the nursemaid and head servant who had passed five years prior from a terrible plague that swept the land. She had raised the young queen since her age of adolescence, acting as the only mother the young queen had ever known. Lorna glanced at the toy chest she still kept in the corner of her room, her mind recalling one of her earlier memories with the kind older woman whom she missed miserably. —*—

Lorna grew up as a spoiled child, demanding a great many trinkets

and playmates from the court gentry. Without fail, her playtime would always end in frustrated tears. Her gifts always broke, or wore away, or tore, or were lost. Her playmates would always leave her and return to their own homes, most never returning for fear of being tied up by their greedy princess again. Every 56

time, after one of her possessions were taken from her or a playmate would leave her, she’d cry and scream and wail like someone had taken their hand and ripped out her heart. The servants and King Cecilius were at a loss. Her nursemaid was the only one to understand why Lorna would become so upset over the loss of trivial belongings and artificial friendships. “You are an empty chest, milady.” She’d say as she’d tuck the young princess into bed after some fit or another she had thrown.

Lorna’s brows would furrow, hot angry tears still pooling in her fiery

amber eyes, spilling down her pink heated cheeks, “Blister your tongue, Mildryd. How dare you call me empty.”

The child’s nursemaid would crack a whisper of a smile, her eyes filled

with a strange light of knowledge, “But, you are, milady. You are a sad empty chest whose treasure has been stolen from you.”

Lorna’s confusion frustrated her and she’d burst out in anger, “How

am I like an empty chest? You make no sense. Explain yourself or I’ll have the King send you to be hanged from the gallows.”

Mildryd would simply wrap her arms around the child, squeezing

tight to let her know she was loved, and she’d kiss her forehead, leaving the young princess to her thoughts in her room, alone. —*— At dinner, Lorna felt uncomfortable sitting so far away from Veikko at the head of her table. She wasn’t accustomed to actually using her dining 57

hall except for when visiting dignitaries came to discuss politics with her. She, having no one to dine with, was used to taking her meals in her study or war room where she could continue her studies or plotting new strategies for her armies. The constricting armrests of her chair made her feel boxed in and isolated. At the far end of the table sat Veikko who had been cleaned of the filth and grime from his journey and given a new tunic of the finest linen in the purest white. His fine silver blonde hair had been washed and combed, his hands and feet scraped of all callouses. His beauty, which was already prominent before, had taken on an ethereal quality that outshone the light that came from the flickering candles nestled within the room’s massive golden chandelier. Gustavus was the sole servant remaining in the room, standing at attention against the wall behind Lorna, ready to be called upon at any moment.

Veikko was the first to speak. “You have a lovely castle, your majesty.”

Lorna, still distraught from remembering her beloved nursemaid,

was startled out of her reverie. “Thank you, I’m glad my little bird finds his cage to his liking.” Stabbing a baby potato with her fork, she shoved it greedily into her mouth with no attempt at acting as a lady. Gustavus cleared his throat behind her, just as King Cecilius used to do when she was a child and acted unladylike. Ignoring her old servant, she continued to shovel her meal into her mouth, unfazed by any attention it received.

Veikko chuckled, smirking at her from across the room. Standing up

and taking his plate and goblet of wine in his hands, he sauntered over to 58

Lorna’s end of the table and sat at her right hand, causing Gustavus to turn beet red.

Moving forward from his position behind Lorna, Gustavus spoke,

“My Queen, the insolence of this man to sit at the distinguished seat of honor by your majesty’s side, I cannot abide by it! Please, allow me to escort the knave to a prison cell at once.”

Lorna stopped her chewing and took up her goblet of wine, taking a

long swig from it. “Let it be, Gustavus. I am not offended so why should you be? You know I care not for such formalities as to who sits where. After all, I can hardly have a proper conversation with the man if we must continuously shout from across the room. Therefore, I say peace my noble steward, for I am not sorely wroth.” Gustavus stole a glance at the queen before reluctantly returning to his post where he glared at the impudent young man seated at Lorna’s side. Together, Lorna and Veikko continued their dinner, conversing and sharing stories from their respective kingdoms. Their two people didn’t have much in common except for one aspect of their folklore: there were children of the gods that lived amongst men.

“My entire town believed me to be the son of a god,” Veikko said,

laughing lightly, “they never saw my father and everyone knew my mother was healthy and strong as an ox, yet she died while giving birth to me.”

“Yes of course, just as the legend says. The mothers of demigods pay 59

the price for their children’s divinity with their lives.” Lorna knew that piece of folklore very well. —*—

Twenty-one winters ago, when King Cecilius journeyed to the ally

kingdom of Hyggelig to strategize a plan against the Empire of Foraylia during their land’s first encounter with the foreign power, a God descended from the heavens and, upon seeing the beauty of Queen Goderun, unmatched by any other maiden among mortals or the heavens, he became immediately lust-stricken. He coaxed and courted her until she fell into his arms, filled with desire for him. They were in love. But she then died while giving birth to a beauty that doubled her own, and the God gave this babe the name of Lorna. The King would remain in his ally’s realm for four winters afterwards while the young princess was raised by her father in secret with all the paternal affection and attention she could ever desire, though the servants believed themselves to be her only caretakers. Those were splendid days, when the sun shone brightly over the child’s own little world as they often played together in the gardens with the light illuminating her father’s white-blonde hair like the ethereal light of a halo. She was never left to herself, she was always attended by the God, that is, until news arrived that the King had made his return. Just as swiftly as her father had entered her life and that of her mother’s life, he vanished without a word, back to the heavens and wiping his hands of the child he had spawned. The 60

poor young princess begged and cried and held fast to him with what little strength she could muster at the sparse age of four winters old. But the God would listen to none of it. No tears welled in his eyes that were the color of dead, flat, lead. He, instead, pried his daughter’s fingers from his legs and left her screaming for him to return. The child cried and wailed for days on end and would eat not, nor speak not and the castle’s household was at a loss for the reasoning behind her bizarre behavior.

Meanwhile, King Cecilius did his best to try to raise the girl, whom

he believed to be his own. But, the child would have none of his love or affections or gifts or attention since they were not from the one person she truly wanted them to be from. She wanted no part of this man who thought himself her sire, and she even took to calling him “King” or “your majesty” and never, not once, did she ever call him father. And so it went for many years until the King died three days after Lorna had turned ten winters old. He left this world still believing he had sired a child whom he’d tried to love, though it had been tremendously difficult to attempt to love a child who so clearly despised his very existence. She was crowned a season after his death and from that moment, she would become known as the Crimson Conqueror, her eleven-year reign being known as the bloodiest and most successful of all within her kingdom’s history. This was the time when her cold heart had hardened and become completely frozen. 61

—*— Lorna’s mood fell heavy, she hated recalling bad memories. Seeing her eyes cloud over, Veikko’s brilliant smile wavered. Placing his hand upon her own, he stroked her skin that was as perfect as freshly fallen snow. Lorna jumped at the gentle touch. It feels different, she thought to herself, most men’s touches are far less kind, though this tender brushing of skin burns into me more than any other.

“My mother died.” She had no idea why she said it, but it was out in

the open. Veikko simply nodded and kept his warm hand on hers, allowing his warmth to seep into her skin to drive out the cold.

“My mother died when she gave birth to me. The king died when

I was a mere ten winters old. Five winters ago, my beloved nursemaid, my Mildryd, died from plague.” The words kept tumbling out of her as she was unable to keep them from flowing. Again, Veikko nodded, his eyes closed as if in pain at her despair. “And…a-and,” Lorna choked on the final confession, “my father left me all alone!”

Gustavus was silent behind his master, but his hands tightened into

fists at his side. He and Mildryd were the only ones to have guessed the truth behind Lorna’s birth and it was only them two who looked after her, watching her struggle more and more as the people around her continued to disappear.

Sobbing with her chest heaving from the efforts of her breaths, Lorna

stood from her place at the table. “I-just, leave me. Please, leave.” Placing the back of one hand over her mouth to stifle her cries and the other clutching at 62

her abdomen like she was afraid that if she didn’t support herself she would come apart, she walked a few paces from Veikko. But the man would not flee. “I will not leave,” said Veikko, taking a couple of tentative steps towards her. Lorna’s anger flared, “I command you to leave! I wish not to be seen in such a state.”

Veikko again ignored the queen, instead he took several more steps

towards her, mere inches from her back.

Whipping around to face him with scalding tears billowing from her

flaming eyes, she shouted, “Leave me, I said! Why do you still stay to torment me so? No one would ever want to see such a disappointing queen in a state such as this.” Never had anyone seen her cry, not since the season of her fourth winter. Not since him. Lorna pushed at the fair young man who refused to move an inch. Tears were flowing easily from her eyes, making their amber color liquid like blood.

Unfazed, Veikko held her fists that tried to swing at him firmly in his

grasp, “I will not leave you, beauteous queen. No matter how many times you strike me, no matter the countless threats you hurl with scalding curses, I will not leave. Inflame me, burn me with your fire if that is what you wish. Destroy me, fair beauty, for I am content to have you do so.”

Her cold fists firmly in his grasp, his warmth seeping further and

further into her skin, the queen’s shoulders slumped, devoid of anger and struggle. Whispering under her breath, Lorna asked softly, “Why?”

Veikko looked into her eyes and, with his voice filled with his radiant 63

light, he spoke, “While everyone else may leave, here will I still remain, for I could never come to despise you, gentle queen, when our souls yearn for the company of another to drive out the loneliness. My heart has begun to fill with only love for you. And so I shall stay, know that that I will never leave you so long as you will be content to have me at your side.” And with that, the queen was left at a loss for words, for no one had ever given her so much love in her life, nor had anyone alighted so much love within her own heart before. That night, the pair became one in mind and body, giving themselves to each other with overflowing tenderness. Upon making love with one another, Veikko and Lorna learned of a puzzling truth. Embossed on both of their bodies was the symbol of a sun. While Lorna’s was emblazoned on the right side of her chest where her heart beat, Veikko’s was positioned on the left side of his chest so that when the two came together, their suns were joined.

Veikko smiled down at her, kissing the tip of her nose, “I suppose we

were born to be each other’s halves, two hemispheres that make up a whole sun.”

“May we burn ever brightly from now into the beyond.” She nestled

into him, burying herself into the crook of his neck, not feeling alone for once. Dressed in her shift of black silk, Lorna laid next to her love in her bed that was so large it made her appear as though she were a tiny fragile doll laying lost among the mountainous piles of sheets, tethered to the solidity of Veikko’s presence. Lorna stared up at her ceiling that was so high it appeared to have trapped little stars in the darkness of its shadows like that of the starry 64

night sky and the pair drifted off into sleep.

After a complete moon phase, Lorna, with Veikko at her side, had still

not figured out a way to defeat the ever-encroaching enemy of the Empire of Foraylia. The queen, being desperate for any smidgen of a strategy, called for the spirit woman that had been making her rounds about Lorna’s realm, helping people however she could with her gift of spirit. Upon peering into the eyes of the queen, the old wise woman concluded, “You are incomplete, your majesty.” Lorna’s confusion showed plain on her face and the spirit woman’s verdict silenced her voice. Veikko stepped forward inquiring, “To what meaning do you speak those words, gentle woman?”

Turning to the sound of Veikko’s voice, the old woman locked gazes

with the fair young man, reaching into the truth of his soul as she had down with Lorna. She spoke, “The meaning is just as I say. The queen is incomplete and you, young lad, are of the same intriguing nature. How odd is it that two halflings should stand side by side, both wondering why their strength is not efficient to subdue the wrath of tyrants when their souls are not even whole.”

“Halflings,” Lorna murmured, “so then you know about our true

nature, do you?” Veikko moved towards Lorna, standing at attention by her right-hand side.

The old woman chuckled, “But of course, though I have no intention

of voicing what I know. I mean only to advise your majesty. You will never be able to defeat your enemy as the halfling that you are. Your lands will be ravaged and your people destroyed. In order to save your kingdom and 65

drive away the force of evil that knocks at your front gates, you must become whole. Only then will you have the strength to save your people.”

“How do I become whole?”

“When two hearts, two souls, become one, then too will you take on

the form you most need.” And with that, the old spirit woman left the castle to travel around and continue helping those in need of her guidance. But, before she had gone, she left Veikko with a decision: give up his heart for Lorna to consume or kill his beloved queen in order to steal her heart himself so that he could rescue the kingdom. Veikko, loving Lorna more than life itself, never even gave the second option a single thought. But, he knew that Lorna would never accept his decision. Indeed, that is precisely what she said when he told her about the solution.

“Out of the question, Veikko! I will not accept this.”

“My love, it is the only way to save your beloved people.” Veikko took

his queen into his arms, kissing her softly, once the throne room had cleared out after the spirit woman’s visit.

Lorna struggled out of his embrace, exasperation in every breath she

took. “I will find another way. Foraylia cannot possibly be so strong that they are invincible.”

“Indeed not, until recently the entire land had thought your own

kingdom invincible yet look at where we are now. Everyone has a weakness, love. For Foraylia, it is you. And all you need is a piece of me, which you already have within your possession from the moment I laid eyes upon you and had my heart forever in your care.” 66

Lorna tightened her arms around his frame, kissing him passionately

to keep the bitter sweet words from flowing out. “Veikko, enough. I will not take your heart from you. Though I love my people with every fiber of my body, I love you with every part of my soul.”

Veikko, readily determined, knelt before his beloved. Taking the dag-

ger she always had concealed within the folds of her dress, taking the tip to his chest. Looking up into her glistening eyes full of pleading sorrowful tears, Veikko’s eyes shone with love. “You will not be taking my heart, but I am giving it to you as freely as I give you my mind, body, and soul. So, my beauteous love, do not weep for me. I swore to you that I’d never leave you and that promise shall I keep. Remember, our sun will burn ever brightly from now into the beyond. Farewell my love, may we once again meet.” And with those parting words, Veikko took the dagger and plunged it into his chest, dragging the blade down the surface of his skin, ripping through flesh and cracking bone to carve out his treasure, Lorna screaming all the while. Taking a shaking hand, he shoved his fingers into the chasm he’d created with rivers of blood cascading from his chest like a perverse scene of some waterfall within an ethereal garden of twisted beauty and, with the little strength he had left, he tore out his heart, collapsing onto the ground with the treasure still in his hand reaching towards Lorna.

The queen’s knees buckled from underneath her. She stared, her

mouth agape, at the corpse of her beloved Veikko. Her body felt hollow, as if a gust of wind could have blown through her and a forlorn sound would resound from the deepest depths of herself. In a daze, she listened to the silence 67

that seemed to be creeping in on her like a beast ready to devour its prey. Looking around her, she saw that it was just herself laying slumped next to the body of her love in a room with a lone throne and a grand fire that made the room eerily glow, while not managing to warm anything in the slightest, the cold too potent to be driven out. She was alone once again.

The voice of her beloved nursemaid, Mildryd, echoed in her mind.

You are an empty chest. She recalled what she had told herself afterwards when the old woman had left her alone in her room. I am not empty.

“I am,” she whispered to herself, scared to say it aloud for fear of mak-

ing it true. I am not empty. “I am.” Tears poured forth, clouding her amber eyes and dousing the fire of her resilience that had burned there for her entire life. Spilling down her cheeks, the tears stung and burned as they carved their own salty, bitter path, plummeting towards the surface of the cold marble floor that mirrored the growing coldness of her lover’s skin as the radiant warmth of his spirit left his body. I am not empty. “I am.” I am not. “I am!” I am… “Empty! Empty! Empty! Empty! I am so unbelievably, unbearably empty!” She punctuated each utterance of that venomous word with the pounding of her fists over and over again on the hard floor that echoed a soft hollow pounding into the desolate, cavernous room. She wailed loudly and so filled with despair that anyone who’d heard would think her cries the calls of banshees, the lost souls of lore. Her sobs racked her body, trembling and heaving like the air had disappeared from the room, and she couldn’t seem to breathe. The queen gasped in breaths, her hands flying over her mouth 68

as she screamed out her misery. Moving towards Veikko and looking into his wide-open eyes, the color of ash after a billowing fire, she found her own vision blurred and obscured from the overwhelming flood of tears. She took him into her arms, cradling his body in her hands. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and inhaled. Already, his scent was seeping out of him. She laid her forehead against his and inhaled his receding sweet scent, engraving the memory into her mind.

“Veikko, my love, I am of a selfish nature and therefore wished for

you to remain with me so that I did not have to be alone, for I am terrified of the feeling,” she whispered to the piercing silence of the room, “but your selfless sacrifice for me and my people will not be in vain, this I promise you.” Looking down at his outstretched hand that had been reaching for her, to her great astonishment, she saw a great big ruby composed of a collection of many smaller rubies nestled in the palm of his hand. The gems were the most precious and gorgeous than any Lorna had ever seen or possessed from the lands she had conquered. There was no jewel more perfect in her own coffer, nor in any treasury in the entirety of the world, than this ruby that she now held in her hands with the greatest love and care. Placing the beautiful gem in her mouth, it turned to liquid and was drunk by the Queen, blood dribbling down the side of her softly curved- bow lips. The moment the liquid jewel had glided down her throat, she felt comforted, like Veikko’s soul had fused with her own and now she would never again be alone. The strength, the resilience 69

that had seeped out of her at the loss of her love, now coursed through her again,stronger than ever before. She now possessed enough strength to take down Foraylia and protect her beloved people. Outside, the winter winds which had been raging most tempestuously for far too long, died down. The ice from the trees toppled, the snow softening from sheets of hard ice to scrolling hills of soft wool. The sky, having been blackened and nearly consumed by darkness of winter clouds, now was freed by the appearance of the bright sun come to shine over the land once again. Seeing this through the large window beside the expansive fireplace, Lorna smiled sadly as if greeting an old friend.

Touching her skin over her heart she closed her eyes, whispering

into the room, “Our sun will burn ever brightly from now into the beyond.” Within herself, she felt Veikko smile, his warmth radiating within her, now that their souls were joined as one.

With her troops having been readied for some time before, awaiting

their orders to attack Foraylia, Lorna immediately set off to lead her armies herself. Marching through her kingdom’s streets, her people who had once feared the Crimson Conqueror, the Bloody Tyrant, now gingerly peeked from their doorways at their grimly determined queen who, with newfound strength, marched to save her people. Within the growing crowd of peasantry, a rising chorus of cheers and cries for their queen’s success grew and spilled over, filling Lorna with even more resolve and comforting her aching heart that still mourned Veikko’s physical loss. Touching her fingertips to her breastplate over her heart, Lorna murmured to the spirit of Veikko within 70

her, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Come my love, let us burn brightly.â&#x20AC;?

Girl with a Pearl Earring By Arianna Acosta

Dear Friend By Ecere Love, those I call my friends. The souls that carry hope I truly depend on, At least that’s what I believe. My time drawing to a close. I will clarify with my prose. I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other in forever, What seems to me like millennia. I have yet to call or talk or text to anyone. But words are starting to fail me, Grinding to a halt. The fingers of family are slipping away at this very moment. I stand with the wind knocked out of my body Left with nothing to do. Everyone I have come to know, Everyone I have come to love, Everyone, I love you. You are great and magnificent and extraordinary and brilliant and I will watch as you bring Mother Earth to her knees sobbing hysterically, attempting to capture your true wit and beauty. As you look down on everyone with a sly yet powerful smile, I want these words to be engraved on the plaque that hangs on the universe wall… …I believed in you. You set the world on fire and extinguished your flames within a day and had time to sit back and watch God strike a look of disbelief into the hearts of billions. For that is the true power I see in you today. You may not look that deep inside yourself. Wait. You will conquer the world. What an amazing friend I have. 73

Painful Nostalgia By Corinne Bates I miss you, In the way I miss cigarettes sometimes. I don’t want to, And I am ashamed each time my mind wanders to you Instead of something Pertinent, Important, Relevant , Viable, Realistic in any Way Shape Or form. I’ve always been prone to bouts of fantasy, Daydreaming of the lives I could have lived, Or could be living If I had just… But I didn’t. We are constantly told to “Live in the moment.” But I feed off the melancholy of the past And the unfounded prognostications of the future. I rarely find the current circumstance to be very compelling Or poetic. But it will be these things if I just give it time to become Just another moment that will replay in my mind Over And over. Until I move on to another And let the cycle repeat.

David NY By Annie Bresee 75

Lucky Numbers By Aleida Lopez Turn your scars into stars. 9-23-8-38-45-12 -Fortune Cookie

When I was eight years old, My father abandoned us. When my mom fell In love with someone new, He promised heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d step up where My father stepped down. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m going to be around For a long time, bubs. He stayed for twentyThree months. Then he was gone.

When I turned twelve, Mom said I was Old enough to do The cooking and cleaning While watching after My brother and sister. 76

This was also the age When I first reached for The scissors With intent to Carve Love letters Into my Arms.

Once I no longer Needed Momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Permission, I started therapy. Welcome to Lifeworks. I had weekly sessions for nine months Before I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Afford it Anymore.

I had to wait to Come of age, because when I tried to explain To my mom 77

I’m just Not myself I’m scared, Momma I don’t know What’s wrong with-

She cut me off and Claimed-

Oh please, You sound like Your grandma, Just giving yourself sicknesses. It’s all in your head. No shit. Just tell yourself you’re Okay And you Will be.

I said I would. But I wasn’t okay. I’m still not. 78

My mom is Thirty-eight years old now. The last time I Went home, she Said to me

I think I’m depressed.

I almost laughed. I didn’t.

I’ve counted forty-five scars On my arms alone. They glisten under Bright lights like LEDs For the world to know I am broken.

What a fucking trip.

I should also say79

When I was eight I became a big sister To a beautiful little Boy who never fails To make me laugh and smile. I love you.

Those twenty-three months Gave me good memories And resulted in A gorgeous little Sister who aims to follow In my footsteps. I want to be just like You when I grow up.

When I was twelve I realized I was stronger Than I thought. I was hurting and older Than most kids my age. I had stories to tell. I think I want to be A writer. 80

At thirty-eight my mom Might understand depression Because she’s feeling this too. Maybe she’ll take Me a little more serious Now. It’s okay not to be Okay. It doesn’t make us crazy.

Those nine months Of therapy Got me through A time I Might not have survived Alone. Thank you, Rachel.

I counted the days since I last Pressed a blade to my wrist. I’ve been forty-five Days clean.

I guess I’m doing okay. 81

When things get to be Too much, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll go outside, Look at the sky, Breathe.

I am a galaxy Of emotions, Colors, Experiences, Struggles, Memories. And all my scars Have become stars.

Woman By Corinne Bates I don’t wanna be a woman today Wanna shave my head Wanna change my name Wear my brothers jeans Have my face squeaky clean Don’t wanna dress like a lady I don’t wanna be a woman right now Wanna take my shirt off and walk around Fix my car Build my lover a house Be naked and proud Be myself and loud I don’t wanna be your woman now But I wanna paint my nails And my lips red When I feel like it I can kiss that boy And hold his hand Doesn’t make him less a man I might wanna be a woman tomorrow Maybe next week Or a year from now But I don’t want to be a woman today

La Corde By Andrea Angeli Gonzales 84

First Latina President of the United States By Miguel Escoto When asked, she used to tell people she would be the first Latina president of the United States of America. I’ve had a crush on her ever since. But since her grandmother was diagnosed with cancer, the Presidency lost its charm. “Last night, I dreamt my teeth crumbled into powder like a mazapán.” She said. “¿Y eso?” I asked. “It means something.” “¿como que?” “I think it means someone in my family is dying” “No te preocupes. Aren’t we all dying?” “Some quicker than others.” “Do you believe that?” “Yeah, we all have different rates of destruction.” “No, I mean your dreams. Do you believe in them?” “If I did, I wouldn’t be here and Abuela would be dead by noon.” “Where would you be?” I wanted her to say Harvard. Last year she turned down the full-ride, and has since refused to talk to me about it. “Cállate, menso.” She smiled instead.

Le Chameau By Andrea Angeli Gonzales 87

Les Chameux By Andrea Angeli Gonzales 88

American Sugar By Alex Castillon

Leo was white chocolate. That’s what the barrio kids used to say in

the summer, anyway: the milks, darks, and the caramels, running barefoot on burning sidewalks along Kingfisher lane, afraid of standing still for too long – they’d melt on the pavement. It was all about speed in those days anyway, and whoever was the fastest was the fastest. It would start in the morning, when they’d tie the laces of their shiny black shoes around their necks and barrel down the block to school. The bell sounds out eight hours later. Its erratic ringing would signal them outside, where they’d race for the title of fastest 4th grader from San Antonio to the Rio Grande Valley. The buzzing exodus of kids on the school soccer field would progressively thin out as the sun dipped threateningly low. They were the kids whose parents never came to the fence, encircling half the field. Mothers and nannies stood stoic awaiting their children, while fathers or maybe tios hovered at the fence’s edge, breathing smoke, spitting into the overgrown grass, and chucking empty Corona bottles far out onto the field. Every afternoon, a sea of chocolates and vanillas hauling heavy backpacks like turtle shells trickled out the rusted fence gate and into the arms of these adults. By dusk, only a handful of hyperactive misfits like Leo remained. It was always the same crowd who stayed playing ball or running till dark. The unclaimed sweets.

“I’m up, that’s me. Ya vamos, Leo!” a short-haired girl named Beat-

riz says one day, after waiting ten minutes for Jorge and Luis to tire themselves out bolting to and from a tattered soccer goal yards away. Once the 90

boys become miniature versions of themselves in the distance, panting and high-fiving, Bea lines up next to Leo and a patch of weeds budding small yellow dandelions. Little Leo readies his stance on the starting line, tucking his ridiculously long uniform polo into his shorts to increase aerodynamics before the other two boys triumphantly return.

“La marimacho versus el mudo! This is gonna be good!” previous

loser Luis announces for everyone to hear between mosquito slaps.

Beatriz spits his way, and the kids whoop and holler. Leo’s heartbeat

pummels his eardrums. Bea turns back to Leo and offers a bright smile, wiping drool off her chin. Quiet Leo nods.

Under his breath, he begins, “Three…two…”

A firm slap on the back of his head; Leo turns to see Jorge Rendon’s

thin silhouette against the hazy sun. Jorge, the fastest, is milk chocolate boiling in the sun.

“Luis does the count off, he’s the ref. Last race of the day, so no cheat-

ing, gringito.” Jorge says with faux annoyance, holding back the faintest of smirks and proceeding to re-lace his scuffed-to-hell adidas up against the goal post. He props one slender bronze leg up at a time to do this, letting the last gold rays of daylight cast a glow on him; boys and girls in the group sneak glances, either in awe or in envy. “Un..!” For Leo, the taller boy’s cool-tempered bravado deeply reminded him of his own father, Reynaldo Longoria; God rest his soul. Coming home off work every night, he used to always pat Leo on the head and laugh softly at 91

mysterious things white men said on the television during dinner. “…dos!...” Leo often entertained the thought of how similar Jorge and his late father are. Both Mexico City born, lanky in frame, prideful to a fault, and unlike Leo, Brown with a capital B. Leo and Jorge grew close in the months after his father’s heart died. “…tres!”

Beatriz snaps into motion instantly. Her arms slice the air at her sides

and her skinny legs kick up swirling dust clouds in her wake. Coming back to life, Leo darts off, chasing after her choppy dark hair dancing in the breeze. But her head start is fatal, and the gap is growing long. Leo hopelessly flails his arms and legs up and down, sucking in deep gulps of air. Beatriz grows smaller and smaller. Yards behind, indistinct cheers and heckling erupt from the gaggle of school kids. Leo’s chest burns with every breath as he forges ahead, full of shame and hot-blooded adrenaline. Leo locks his sights on the back of Beatriz’s baggy gym shirt, right when her left leg buckles underneath her. Her small body tumbles into the grass, skidding and rolling a few feet. Leo’s heart sinks. He hears her spouting Spanish curses he does not recognize and tearing up the weeds as he flies past her. He shakes it off. The only thought pulling him forward is the gloriously exhausted shamble back to his friends, meeting their excitement and praise. Speedy Leo. Lightning Leo. And yet, Beatriz’s fall drags heavy on Leo’s momentum. Involuntarily, it injects his head with the memory of his own mother: Sylvia, crumpled to the living room floor when she found her husband lying by the fireplace cold, 92

motionless. Crumbs of half-eaten pan dulce littered the Longorias’ carpet that winter night when Leo got home from the park. To this day he could not eat any of the sweet breads without hearing the echoes of his mother explaining to him what a blood clot is. Suddenly, the world had gone silent. A towering figure from the legend of Leo’s youth had been slain. It wasn’t an ending Leo could ever think was possible. Reynaldo was always invincible, at least in the old stories. Sylvia was from a place called Boston, but met Rey in Mexico City while studying abroad. They used to ride through the city in the slick red convertible he lovingly built himself after years of working in his family’s mechanic shop. That was always a lesson in hard-work-pays-off. Recounting the tale in old photographs over every Christmas dinner in Leo’s memory, all his tios and tias call his parents’ love “Coahuilan dynamite.” They had a son, moved to the states, and reveled in the harmonious whirlwind-fusion of cultures for a time. That was the story Leo knew. Leo, still stuck in the eye of this storm – flooded with confusion – keeps running. Every muscle in his legs sears and burns. The sun is now a molten half on the horizon and dying fast. He finally pushes past the tattered goal post, sprinting to the very edges of the field. Hot tears burst out the corners of his eyes, and he can no longer hear the other children hollering far behind him when his foot plunges into razor sharp glass. Emerald shards tear through the soles of Leo’s leather school shoes and into his soft skin. He cries out immediately in agony, shock, anger, and collides face-first into the dirt. Leo’s crimson filling spews from his shoe and 93

soaks into the Earth. Sticker burrs pierce Leo from head to toe as he lies in the dark for several minutes awaiting the arrival of thumping footsteps – his breathless whimpers competing to be heard above the clicking of cicadas, their duet filling a silent dusk. *** That night, Mrs. Huerta came to pick up her daughter from the corner clinic, dabbing away black streams from her eyes. A wrinkled doctor had the wide-eyed girl’s twisted ankle stabilized, wrapped in ice, and sent the stern mother and daughter hobbling home to run another day. Leo awoke to sterile odors of cleaning agents used to wipe down the drab white-and-teal room he now lay in. A soundly snoring Sylvia sat slumped in a corner chair, a patchwork quilt wrapped around her like the arms of an ex-lover. Leo stopped his mind wondering how long she might’ve been there. Instead he focused in to her bear-like snoring, a comfort. It harmonized with the air-conditioning. Peering down, Leo could see his bare, rotten-milk colored toes and his feet, numb and bandaged, stains like old coffee splattered around his heel. He could also see a beaming Jorge Rendon, sitting at the bed’s edge with his gym uniform still marked by grass and smelling of sweat. Jorge struggled to keep his voice low.

“Chingado, I thought that foot was a goner, for sure! Thought they

would’ve apputated……amputated…I was gonna celebrate your mute ass not following me like a shadow no more. Oye, but I think you and Bea should sit out for a while though, yeah? My dad said to bring you something, so I just grabbed this from my house.” Jorge tossed Leo a tall, cold glass bottle of 94

Coca-Cola. “Your trophy.” This wasn’t the cheap metal coke cans Leo and his mother would buy from their corner bodega. It was sleek, bright, heavy in Leo’s small hands. Forgetting his pain for a moment, Leo gazed into the clear glass, through his own reflection, at the dark drink inside – it looked richer somehow, a carbonated purity.

Leo felt Jorge’s eyes linger on him before The fastest broke his silence

again. “You never had one of those, huh. Oh, that’s the real stuff, my tio brings us whole boxes of them from across. Y’see, the cokes you buy here, they all use sweeteners in their stuff. In Mexico, they make it with ‘natural cane sugar.’ You can taste how it’s different, drink..”

Leo gulped sweet soft drink down slowly. It popped in the back of his

dry throat in a way nothing had. His mind drifted again. He wondered if his father ever drank cokes like this with his friends when he was younger. Or if his mother ever drank them in the photographs, when she tasted his country for the first time. Those long cobblestone streets stretching on towards the azure horizon, surrounded on both sides by sun-kissed stucco in orange and reds, Cathedrals carved out of time, reaching up to God. Crowds of rosy tourists swirling into crowds of rusted locals. Every one of them knowing their own name, story, flavor.

“It’s kinda like you and me if you think about it, Leonardo, I mean,

we’re the same, pero...” Jorge’s gaze shifted from Leo’s light face to the half-empty bottle he now clutched in his hands. “You got azúcar americano in your veins, in your blood.” 95

Antigua By Annie Bresee 96

“The Sun: Mermo, Who Outsmarts Tourists” By Miguel Escoto Guillermo’s usually went by “Mermo.” This one chose “Mermo.” He camouflages most emotions with humor. His alcoholic father made sure to beat him into learning that no “Te amo, papa” ever went unpunished. As a result, he spent hours of loneliness in his room in front of a mirror, trying to perfect his “Chabelo” impersonation. He would put up a show whenever Papa felt particularly angry at the cartels for mistaking his wife for a Sinaloan drug dealer’s mistress. “Como mámas, Mermo” he would grunt with a burp and a smile before his tequila put him to death. Now he outsmarts tourists at Tulum Mágico: Mayan Ruins Park by selling them overpriced tour guides. He thinks of his father’s funeral and all the ways he could have improved the eulogy. His best friend, Fernanda, was impressed either way, but Mermo was sure the speech could have ended up better—perhaps funnier. Fernanda was 29 and liked Mermo because of his heart. He had a 9thmonth-pregnant belly, a regrettable neck tattoo, and was the unsavory age of 51. He picked her up from her shifts at Mextreme Strip Club near Las Islas Mall. That’s what best friends did anyway. Mermo knew how to turn all of Fernanda’s student debt, douchey ex-boyfriends, and self-consciousness into comforting absurdity. Like outsmarting tourists. He had spent 3 years making her laugh. Instead of dollar bills, Mermo left Fernanda anonymous love notes at her dressing room. They were passionate, not funny. They spoke of fire, not fallen tree leaves. They began with “Dear Child of Planet Earth...” and ended with “Love, the Sun.” He refused to own up to it. She recognized his handwriting because he wrote o’s like u’s; but she too was scared to admit it. They dreamed of kissing each other anyway, until the day Fernanda saved enough money to pay for medical school in Texas. Mermo forgot how to be funny that day and showed up to the airport gate with a final “Dear Child of Planet Earth”—one that was meant to be read out loud. When he finally arrived, the plane was already zooming halfway past the Sun: over clouds, birds, and moments that could’ve otherwise been spent in flames. Although it was the hardest thing to do, although it was the easiest thing to do, he smiled at the trajectory. 98

Americana By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

Cowardice: A Savior By Aleida Lopez

I want a ticket to Make it up to the clouds But I don’t know if Anyone will get me back down I’ve got a bad fear of heights But the view is so tempting And this earth has gotten tiresome I’d like to try flying

100

Iceland Couple By Annie Bresee

101

For the Ages By Aleida Lopez “Our lives may not have fit together, but oh, did our souls know how to dance.” -K Towne Jr. Versailles, Yvelines 1789 The revolution had taken it all. It took away Hélène’s father, her brother, and best of all oncle Jean who used to sneak into her room when she was younger. But Colette was safe. With her steady gaze, her warm hands, and that lovely smile in which Hélène found her peace. Colette had not been taken and never would be. Colette was Hélène’s neighbor and best friend of five and ten years. She was the only one who knew about oncle Jean, the only one who made the world feel like it could still be safe and good and beautiful not only for her soft yellow hair, or her morning dew eyes, or the expanse of stars on her cheeks, but in a way Hélène never really knew before, a way that made her shine brightly like the guiding light for Hélène’s soul. She was so beautiful. Soon news came to Colette’s maman that her papa had been killed in the war. Hélène watched as Colette’s magnificent eyes turned 102

into melting glaciers. Her feet grew wings and Hélène followed her to a field, took her in her arms, rocked her back and forth, stroked the waterfall of hair hushed the muffled wails, and took her trembling hand until some gust of wind found them face to face sharing each other ’s breath. Colette’s tears became Hélène’s, agony shared through the salty taste of tears when Colette tilted her head just so, and Hélène’s world cleared and righted itself within the softness of her lips. When Colette pulled away her soaring eyes wouldn’t meet Hélène’s until she kissed the rose petals on Colette’s cheeks in a silent promise. They knew not all was lost yet.

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When winter came to pass, the days became darker and colder. Coletteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family had packed and left with no word of warning, and just like that, the world was blurred again. Ma Cherie donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fret I did not lie about my affections for you. Maman knows of our kisses under covers of stars. She believes you were the devil. I do not think she knows it was I who kissed you. Respond with a different name ma belle so I may keep you. Tu me manques. YoursforeverColette. Mon Amour your absence has left me dim. I have no one to spend the days with, no one to make smile, and if our kisses took you away, 104

I would hold them all back to keep you by my side. Without you here, I wonder would we be happier had we never known our love? I cannot know for sure, though what I do know is that you would still be by my side. Will I see you again one day? YoursalwaysMarieJohanneClauCherie. Cherie why regret those kisses when we’ve learned to love through them? I don’t know when I will see you again, but I hope the day will come. Maman is sending me to a convent to rid the Devil’s mark, she says. Perhaps I’ll run away and find you. Please don’t regret what we had, we will have it again. Je t’aime parce-que je connais ton âme comme mon propre. YoursforeverColette.

105

Ma belle Colette each day is darker despite the flowers that grow on the side of my house. Father has returned alone from the war. He asked for you, and I felt a piece of myself disappear. Tu me manques. YoursalwaysCherie. …………… Mon Coeur I hope you are well. It’s been nearly a month since your last letter. I thought perhaps you might be at the convent, but I’ve received no letters from such a place. Has your maman found out who I am? Has she forbidden you to write me? Please send some thing to tell me you are safe, my love. That I am still on your mind as you are on mine. YoursalwaysCherie.

……………. 106

Colette each day without word from you tears me apart. I miss you. Yoursalways Cherie.

…………….

Colette maman has heard tell they’ve sent you away to a place no one leaves again. Tell me it isn’t true. If I must stay away to keep you safe, I will, but let me know you are not in that horrid place of nightmares. Tell me I did not send you to a place that will dim the light. I’ve always loved in you. Yours always Hélène. ……………. …………….

…………….

107

Was our love so wrong? No. They just never understood it. Perhaps we can try again in some other life. Birmingham, Alabama 1866 Two years. That is the pace of a heart to fall to its ruin. In that time the heart meets another amongst the smell of pies and under the heat of southern sun and sees in them not a skin color, but a vibrant light it never knew it needed. A light that grows brighter with each auburn tone autumn, chilling winter, blossoming spring, and sweat-soaked summer. Stupid heart, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you know you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hide a light like that? 108

miss clara i finished separating your daddy’s crops. anything i can do before i go? Yes. You Can Sit And Have Some Pie With Me. Slowly a heart may begin to take the shape of a pie. now i don’t think that’s a real good idea…. It’s Just A Slice of Pie, Henry. I Just Want More Time With You. How’s Little Cece Holding Up? He smiled, something soft and radiant. miss clara i love the way you look at me, it makes me feel like the strongest man alive. she’s doing better 109

thank you for asking. i’d like to try that pie now. It was danger. It was risk. It was desperate. It was love. Clara’s sister smelled it, smelled the tangy sweetness in the air when Henry stopped to pay his share, smelled the nectar in Clara’s peach wedge smile and the light in their eyes, watched them risk for a small touch, just a brush of fingers, maybe just to feel the warmth. Clara saw her warning gazes, the way her nose twitched at the sight of Henry but her mouth stayed puckered. Clara, what do you think you’re gonna accomplish? Stupid girl, Papa won’t think twice before whippin’ you both, even if he ain’t a slave no more.

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Mary Shut Your Eyes And Pretend To Be Blind. He Makes Me Feel Real. But the walls had ears and mouths and envy growing in green moss. The next time peach pie sweetened the air, it swirled and mixed with the smell of copper. The sounds of anguish, but not regret echoed back to the kitchen window where Clara sat on the floor in Mary’s arms. They grew tighter with each wail trying to keep her heart together, while Henry’s back was ripped apart. I Did This To Him, Mary. I Did This. Hush, and be grateful you ain’t tied up with him. But I Wish I Was.

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She would never fully know his pain. They were trying to take his light, and that made her hate the world. Bitter barley soured the scent of baking peaches. Staggering steps spread dirt on the floor. Papaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes fell to where Clara and Mary sat before, his face twisted and he spat at her.

WONâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T HAVE NO GODDAM LIGHT-LOVER UNDER MY ROOF.

He stumbled away. Mary let go whispered, Go on. and Clara ran. Henry was shaking on the ground, dark skin covered in dirt red rays of sunlight purifying the earth. no 112

miss clara. don’t you worry. you’ll get hurt.

Weak hands tried to push her away. She took them instead, kneeling beside him.

God Henry. God, Oh God. How Could You Worry For Me When I Did This To You? all you did was share a pie each time i visit. miss clara you’ve gone and gotten dirt all over that pretty blue dress. Let Me Help You. I’ll Heal You In The Kitchen. The Pie Will Be Out Soon For You. you’ll get hurt. he told me to stay away from you. Clara shook her head and tried to lift him up, fighting her tears. It was not her place 113

to cry when he was punished because she loved him.

Come On, Henry. Let Me Get You Cleaned Up.

She carried his weight, and took a step toward the house. Papa, no please donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t! one. two. three. cracks. of thunder.

GODDAMN LIGHT-LOVER

no.

He watched the light blossom across her abdomen.

Oh God, Oh.

She watched the rivers of unspoken love trickle down his chest. She fell first. He never let her go. A heap on the ground, finding their way to each other a final solace. In his arms, she loved 114

without reserve even as the warmth of the sun seeped from their bodies. Somewhere Mary screamed for help. From the kitchen window wafted the acrid stench of something burning. Melilla, Spain 1923 The linens were as white as the clouds overhead. The aprons on the nurses pristine. The beds perfectly made. The doctors’ coats spotless. The hospital doors opened and hell entered. The agonized wails of injured soldiers pierced their ears. Some innate instinct pushed César’s body into motion. The cots soon coated in dirt tracks in pools of blood that seeped out black 115

I Love You.

soaked in red and dried brown. The gentle faces of the angels in the nurse aprons were smeared with blood and grime. Their eyes wide with bravery. Supplies were rushed bandages applied. César worked at a pace that didn’t let him think just move. Just move. Save them. Get the screams to stop. It took all night before the panic grew tired. The nurses allowed their bodies to tremble once they were away from the eyes of patience and their patients’ eyes. Except one. Haide sat staring at the dried tears and blood on her hands. She didn’t shake or cry or seek refuge 116

in the arms of other nurses. Dark brown eyes met his as she tilted her head up. The ring on her finger no longer gleamed silver white diamond coated in copper red.

Haide.

One day it may be my Alonso being carted in. Maybe heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s already at another hospital. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the main hospital base in Melilla. They would bring him to you. Y si nunca llega? Tears poured from her battered soul but never left her eyes. Her jaw was set with remnants of strength she was grasping onto. Perhaps it was 117

there covered in red those gleaming eyes so fixed on him that he first began to fall at her mercy fully knowing his affections could never come to fruition. When he saw Haide again she was folding warm and freshly washed blankets. She kept to herself mostly writing letters when she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t taking inventory of their supplies. As she looked for the sound of someone approaching CĂŠsar saw a new softness in her smile. It felt like coming home when she looked at him with those earthly eyes. That day he knew he was hers. Through the weeks she told him about her days in Madrid shopping for dresses with her cousins and drinking tea in the evenings 118

with her mother and the afternoons she would spend on the balcony of her room smoking a cigarette as she watched the clouds move across the sky. She didn’t mention her fiancé. He never mentioned his. Weeks came and went. The nurses became quicker their hands steadier their wings stronger. Haide became harder but softened for him. It happened the day César’s fiancée came to give him news from Madrid. She’d found him with Haide both taking inventory and greeted him with a kiss. Amor, no han llegado mis cartas? We have wedding plans to finish.

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Veronica, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re at war. I have other things on my mind. The wedding can wait.

He turned to introduce her to Haide but she was gone. Veronica stayed to tell him about the tiger lillies and the satin eggshell dress and the church with its high arches and the guests from wealthy families and everything. He only half heard. By the time sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d gone back home the stars outshone the moon. He basked in silver with the wrong girl on his mind.

Vos no me habeis dicho que teneis prometida. The sound of Haideâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice made him turn to the hospital door. 120

She stood still in her white nurse’s apron staring with the stars in her eyes. Does it matter? You’re engaged as well. You never said anything. The night swallowed the silence as she stepped toward him. She placed an envelope in his hand and a soft, forbidden kiss on his cheek then disappeared into the hospital. Her angel wings beating weaker than ever. He opened the letter. i can’t do this, mamá. estoy enamorada de otro. Nothing more nothing less. No name. No address. The letter 121

would never be sent. Within a week everything that had been built fell apart. Haide’s fiance returned missing a leg and given honorable discharge which prompted him to beg for a sooner wedding. Within a week everything that had fallen apart was destroyed as Haide donned her white wedding gown and stared at the aisle she’d walk down with trails of red roses and angel wings fluttering on her back. The words danced on César’s tongue never freed as he watched her promise herself to someone else. Como pude perderte

sin siquiera

tenerte querida?

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Monterrey, Nuevo Leon 2018 Would you know if the love of your life walks into class and takes the last seat beside you with a thermos in one hand and a book in the other the cover a picture of two boys kissing? No. No one could. Much less know their first words would be something as mundane as how do you get to the bathroom from here? But sometimes thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s how it goes for a boy in uni. And he starts to fall in love with the smell of Nescafe con leche which used to give him headaches. 123

And he enjoys the sound of pencil granite scratching along a paper because the boy is bringing paper to life creating a heart squeezed by a hand or sometimes the school logo U.A.N.L or sometimes two indecipherable silhouettes coming together. And he wonders what each new book might be about or how to ask about them without sounding illiterate. And he thinks TODAY TODAY I’LL SAY HI every day. But he doesn’t notice he’s falling until the day the smell of coffee is missing and the absent sound of a pencil creates a discomforting silence and there’s no new book because he’s not at his desk. But the next 124

time he is there’s a bruise on his cheek. Estas bien? What happened to you? Got in a fight. Oh. Except that can’t be all because he’s not thumbing through a book and even though he’s there the sound of a pencil is still missing. What really happened in the fight? My dad found the drawings of the boy I like. Oh. Like is a strong word. I don’t even know his name. I think that’s Okay. … 125

I’m Héctor. Carlos. I like you r art, Carlos. A smile. A laugh. A beginning. Falling in love was easy with Carlos. His heart was big and his soul beautiful like none Héctor had ever thought possible. Something he was reminded of each time he stopped to drop a few pesos in the cup of the legless woman by the seven eleven or the days he’d tear his torta in half and feed half to the stray dog that loitered the campus grounds or the days he brought Héctor one of his favorite books like Las Ventajas de ser Invisible so he could love them too. He made the impossible real and fear 126

felt like a bad dream. He was brave and he was honest. And Héctor’s mother hated him. Not because he was a boy but because he was breaking her son’s heart. I’m going to Gringolandia, they’re giving me a scholarship. You’ll forget me. Never. I’ll come back for you. Promise? I do. And so he waited and he called every night to hear the promises again pretending he doesn’t hear the way the words become too calculated too rehearsed. Until he changed the script. 127

Do you love me? Creo que te ame antes de conocerte. Me amas? Mas que a mi mismo. Please come back. Me haces alta Y tu a mi. Soon. Except he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. He wants the American Dream which means leaving his past in the city of mountains. He meets someone new. He makes new promises. A new face fills his sketchbook. Someone who drinks coffee with him and reads the same books he does and shows him new ones someone who wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make his papa hit him for loving her. 128

Do you love her? HĂŠctor, I did love you. But I moved on. I made a life here. Maybe you can take this experience to learn for when you start liking someone else a lot. Do you love her?

Not the way I loved you. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry. The line rings the length of their distance and echoes the sound of a forgotten heart shattered by the person trusted most with it. Would you know if the love of your life walks out of your life for good? No. No one could. 129

TO YOU: Wherever and Whoever You Are This TimeWe haven’t gotten it right yet But maybe this time our souls will hold on tighter fight harder. Take my hand just one more time I know we were meant to be together. What is fate but a cruel dance partner getting the steps wrong? In the end of time though, this will still be our song. We will sing it again and again in every language until the end of time if that’s what it takes. Maybe even then we will be what’s left.

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I Failed Yet Again By Ecere My mind told me never to love, for lovers own the art of deception. But my bleeding heart points out the girl with the moonlight dress and how she makes the sun set. A romantic companion.

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The Souls’ Return By Kristyn Garza Fields of paper mâché flowers and long, drooping, hanging chains of papel picado are strung together by golden thread mimicking the shapes, outlines of flowers like some sort of inception artificial, transparent, disfiguringly pierced through to carve perfection into sheets of (already) pure perfection. Little creatures buzz and whizz and zoom as they fly past these paper flowers. They are bright blue, pale pink, plum purple, grass green. Some have jaws filled with sharp shark teeth, layer upon layer of white capped mountains in rows so neat. Others are small and meek, though they glow in neon and ethereal fluorescence. These tiny creatures, give way to mighty beasts and vicious brutes, lead us to our purpose, our path. Hail alebrije! Hail alebrije! Companions of the Soul, fair beasts of trust and faith, our spirits we place in your care. Deliver us to frolic in fields of papel. Allow our essence to bathe under a sky of pure white, shining down on pathways, roads made of packed shining marigolds in full bloom. Petals upon petals upon petals, freshly picked, marigolds of the purest gold that illuminate the dark of Death in which smiles the calavera. All hail the midnight strike! All hail the souls that return to us at night!

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La Morte By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

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Texas By Miguel Escoto Soy Texas. Nací Mexicano pero me secuestraron los gabachos con tácticas militares, metralletas poderosas, oportunidades económicas y seguridad. Hablo este idioma como toco la guitarra en la calle en mes de diciembre: con manos frías y dedos chiveados. ¿Se te olvida que también hace frío en el desierto? No me pusieron las películas gringas en versión doblada. Cuando cantaste “Soy tu amigo fiel,” no te entendía bien aun que me disfrazaba de Woody todos los días desde la edad de 3 hasta que tenia 6. Perdóname Abuela, pero estas películas nos construyen como su fuéramos plastilína. Yo las escuche en el idioma de los colonizadores, los que te robaron a tu Texas. — I am Texas. I was born Mexican but the gringos kidnapped me with military tactics, powerful rifles, economic opportunities and safety. I speak Spanish the way I play guitar on the street in the month of December: cold with shy fingers. Do you forget that it also gets cold in the desert? They didn’t screen American movies in the Spanish-dubbed version. When you sung “Soy tu amigo fiel” [“you’ve got a friend in me”], I didn’t quite understand, although I dressed up as Woody from the age of 3 until I was 6. Sorry Abuela, but these movies construct us as if we were Play-Doh. And I listened to them in the language of the colonizers, the ones who stole your Texas.

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La Chevre By Andrea Angeli Gonzales

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On Westmoreland street, Dallas, Texas By Jovahana Avila

A mi Tio

On Westmoreland street, stood my brown-skinned uncle in his construction pants where he blends in with the rest. He is the face of perseverance standing in a land unknown & he called home. On Westmoreland street, police stopped him for driving through the light, but he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fight. He is now an inmate and his son is eight. Another generation in pain due to deportation. On Westmoreland street, home feels bittersweet . I only wish that day, it was me in the car seat.

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Hope Peddlers By Miguel Escoto Let’s be hope peddlers with skinny bodies and bare feet. Let’s donate dismembered fingers until our hands are unable to wield firearms. Let’s assume that someone frowns because our government launched wars on false pretenses. Let’s hug people like water trickles in cascades. Let’s convince bigots that they’re refugees as long as their lungs need air to breathe. Let’s swap socks in solidarity of textile prisoners. Let’s build Rome using bricks of forgiveness. Let’s survive. Let’s think of ourselves as specks of dust. ‘Cuz I can’t do it alone. Alone isn’t worth it.

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No One Is Ugly At 2AM By Andrea Angeli Gonzales 138

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Highway Fumes By Timothy Nguyen Oversized loaded trucks and double-decker buses buzz, whipping past my eyes. I’m slammed against the highway curb. Doors tore and handles snapped. Wheels and brakes strewn about. Platinum sheets contorted protecting carbon lungs. I’m breathing fast, black tar and noxious fumes hemorrhage through the air. I cough. I cough. I cough. I see the light and it’s burning, it’s burning hot. Gas hurricanes fueled with putrid ignorance. Asphalt scorches sunburnt skin. Sulfur trees in place of clouds. Plastic fields in place of crops. Lofty exhaust pipes and factory towers stretched as high as Babel are pumping past the speed limit in darkened coal-black highway fumes.

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Subterranean Homesickness By Arielle Avila I.

Warning

Sinkholes are the earth Trying to whisper to us But yelling instead ----The husband and wife slept side by side. Separated by rooms under one giant roof. The wife tossed in the king sized bed. The husband turned in the grey pull out couch. A drywall planted itself in between the husband and wife. It held their dear family photographs. There stood three decades of memories firmly between the two. The husband and wife dreamt of the framed memories floating in time and space. Of their newborn daughter, and her graduation day. Of their vacations on the east coast, and their honeymoon on the west. The big house silently wept as the two owners restlessly slept. The drywalls quivered bringing the frames to life. The houseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s walls had cracked where fresh paint once stretched. Its floors had parted where the wood and tile once met. Its roof had sagged where it once kept rain, hail, and snow out. The promise of time was coming to a close. II.

Collapse

Sinkholes do not look 141

At the time for approval They come as they please ----It was time. 2:54 a.m. The earth shook without a care in the world, causing the house to come unhinged. It was just a matter of time and space, the foundation had been broken for years. The husband and wife tossed and turned searching for sleep. But the earth carried on. Inch by inch it cracked – and the earth began to swallow the poor house foot by foot it widened – piece after piece yard by yard it opened – after piece. First course was the metal plumbing. Second, the concrete foundation. Third, the windows and walls. And last the roof, with the chimney on top. The earth let out one long belch. Giving the husband and wife and sad sunken house one final shake. The husband and wife started to wake. III.

Submerged

Sinkholes are hungry Ruthlessly gulping up land Hungry for a change ----142

The house floated beneath the earth. In the same manner it had been fifty feet above ground. The same way it had been six minutes before. The same way it had been the past forty-three years. Without question, the house accepted its fate completely. The earth embraced the house completely without question – it’s roots hugging the gutters and pressed up against the windows. But there was a force between the earth and the house. One pushed east, as the other pushed west. It was just a matter of time and space. IV.

Depression

Sinkholes are the land Burying into itself Till it disappears ----The husband and wife thought it was still night – the shutters still shut, the drapes still drawn, still no sign of light. The husband stretched his arms up to the land above, his legs onto the ground, his toes wiggling in earth’s cold dirt. The wife rubbed sleep and dust from her eyes, tried flicking the lights on and leapt from the bed. John? The first time his name left her mouth in weeks. She drew the drapes and opened the shutters. Two earthworms danced across the window almost colliding, 143

but not quite. The lamppost that sat on the corner of the block was no longer there. The entire block for that matter was no longer there. Cathy went in search for John in the big sad sunken house. John? The taste of his name was foreign. I’m right here. I’m right here. With no light in the house, they could not see one another. They reached out instead grabbing at the sounds of each other’s voices. I’m right here. I’m right here. He grabbed her hand. She grabbed his face. How did this happen? ----Slowly time passed, if that’s what you can call it. Without day or night or electricity the husband and wife could not tell. They started to hear their world above – footsteps coming and going, muffled conversations of their daughter and her new husband. How did this happen? Where the hell is the house? Who cares about the house – where the hell are my parents? They’re in a better place. No, we’re not! John and Cathy yelled at the ground above. But this did not reach Isabella. 144

They began to curse the gods that laid them there. They kicked the walls and spat on the ground. And naturally, they blamed each other for there was no one else around to blame. Then came silence – emptiness flooded every room of the house. John and Cathy’s screams grew tired, feet grew sore, and hearts grew hollow. Nothing existed inside the house for three long (above ground) days.

Adjustment

Sinkholes are empty At least from up above What lies underneath? ----John? She caved. She always did. Again, they played their game of Marco Polo, finally finding each other’s voices. I’m right here. The husband and wife teamed up for the first time in almost a year. Fighting the house and the earth and the void that they lived in. Together they learned every inch of their house that they once thought they knew, thinking at first, Maybe we can make this work. But the more they learned, the more certain they were that this was no house fit for their needs. 145

So they took old bowls from their kitchen once used for mixing salads, put them together creating helmets for one another. They found their largest ladles that they’d use to forge a path. They planned an escape, a way to get out of this hole.

VI.

Surface

Sinkholes are a space For water to flow where it Had not been before ----Are you ready? The wife would ask the husband Day after day (or what felt like it). She patiently waited for his approval, knowing it was hard to accept the unknown, whatever could be outside of their house. We can’t stay here forever. But maybe we can. The house was growing weak. It started to feel the gravity of the world above. It clung to the husband and wife, relentlessly. Without them it would be just an empty house. We can’t leave this house. But maybe we can. The earth urged the house to let go. The house cried harder, please, no. The house pushed east, the earth pushed west. The promise of time was coming to a close. You either follow me 146

or don’t. So that’s it? That’s it. The wife reached for the door handle. The husband reached for her hand. Together they left the sad sunken house hand in hand.

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Observer, Observed By Arianna Acosta

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How to get lost By Arielle Avila “think you’re escaping and run into yourself. longest way round is the shortest way home.” -James Joyce, Ulysses STEP ONE write out your stream of consciousness, your every thought. explicitly and unedited with every little detail embedded in your cerebrum. dont edit, don’t erase, don’t think twice, dont think too much. The brain is a soft mass of supportive tissues and nerves connected to the spinal cord. The weight of the human brain is about three pounds. Eighty-five percent of the brain’s weight is the cerebrum, the largest part of the brain. read it, reread it, read it out loud and feel embarrassed or ashamed. resist the urge to tear it up and forget it ever happened. save it for another day. save it for yourself. hide it from the world because that’s the part of you no one deserves to see. The average number of thoughts that humans are believed to experience each day is 70,000. It is estimated that for most people, seventy percent of these thoughts are negative. STEP TWO Your skin weighs twice as much as your brain. stand in front of a mirror. look at yourself. really look at yourself. really. who do you see? do you see your mother or your father? do you see the person they think you are? do you see the person you hoped to be? The first sense to develop in utero is the sense of touch. The lips and cheeks can experience touch at about eight weeks and the rest of the body around twelve weeks. trace every curve and crevice. pinch and poke and drag your fingers along while you follow the trail of sensations. become aware of every mole, every freckle, every birthmark. look at yourself again. notice the little flaws. the 150

crooked part of your smile, the unevenness of your skin, the way your face is not perfectly symmetrical. look in the mirror and see what you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to see. embrace it. STEP THREE turn off every electronic device. every distraction from the world. turn off your phone, your laptop, your television. every connection to the world. turn off your radio, turn off your clock. Over one hundred forty proteins in the brain are negatively impacted by exposure to electromagnetic frequencies. lay in bed. wrap yourself up in blankets. focus on your breathing. inhale and exhale. focus. you can almost do it. breathing. clear your mind. The brain generates between twelve to twenty-five watts of electricity, enough to power a low wattage LED light. when the monsters find a way in, lean on them. Prescription sleeping pills do not put a person to sleep. find solace in them, somehow, because what other way is there. Prescription sleeping pills put the brain into a state similar to a coma. STEP FOUR go for a run and watch the world change in front of you. look at the sky. are there any clouds? are there any stars? is there anybody up there? in planes or helicopters or hot air balloons? The human brain is regarded as the fattest organ in the human body. About 60% of the human brain is comprised of fat which is the highest concentration of fat that is present in a single organ in a healthy human being. look at the ground. feel the impact of the concrete pushing against your feet. feel your weight, every ounce of your body holding itself up against gravity. 151

feel your lightness when the breeze hits and you sway a little to the right and for a second you think you might just float away. There are no pain receptors in the brain. Brain surgery can be performed while the patient is awake without experiencing pain or discomfort. why are you running? what are you running from? donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look back. STEP FIVE fall in love Aristotle thought that the functions of the brain took place in the heart. with the wrong person. He was proved to be wrong. then what? STEP SIX drink as many whiskey cokes as this step (six) Alcohol primarily interferes with the ability to form new long-term memories, leaving intact previously established longâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;term memories and the ability to keep new information active in memory for brief periods. then add another. As the amount of alcohol consumed increases, so does the magnitude of the memory impairments. pop a bottle of champagne Large amounts of alcohol, particularly if consumed rapidly, can produce partial (i.e., fragmentary) or complete (i.e., en bloc) blackouts, which are periods of memory loss for events that transpired while a person was drinking. 152

with your friends Blackouts are much more common among social drinkers than was previously assumed and have been found to encompass events ranging from conversations to intercourse. and lovers. â&#x20AC;&#x153;what are we celebrating again?â&#x20AC;? Mechanisms underlying alcohol-induced memory impairments include disruption of activity in the hippocampus, a brain region that plays a central role in the formation of new autobiographical memories. remember this: celebrate life. STEP SEVEN get in your car and fill up your tank and find a highway and drive. Brain information moves anywhere between one mile per hour and two hundred sixty-eight miles per hour. Formula One race cars top out at two hundred forty miles per hour. turn on some music and sing the wrong lyrics and sing them loud. turn off the music and listen to all the people in the world trying to be someplace else. There are around four hundred miles of blood vessels in the brain. STEP EIGHT When Albert Einstein died on April 18, 1955, the pathologist on call, Thomas Harvey, stole his brain. pack up everything in a suitcase. everything is subjective. leave behind anything you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want in your new life. Harvey kept the brain in a jar in his basement for forty years. walk around in circles. think about leaving think about starting over think about a clean slate. then stop and look at where you are. 153

Eventually Harvey made a cross-country trip with Einstein’s brain in a Tupperware container to deliver it to Einstein’s granddaughter. unpack your things and put them back where they belong. STEP NINE Hold on tightly to one minute of your life. We have an estimated eighty six billion neurons. Think of what that means how it feels where it goes. There are two hundred to four hundred billion stars in the Milky Way. “there are no facts, only interpretations.” -Friedrich Nietzsche

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