Journey by Nick Wilkinson

JOURNEY A LITERARY MAGAZINE VOLUME 1 SPRING 2016 A Movement Publishing Production

STAFF MANAGING EDITOR CaSondra Poulsen

INTRODUCTION

ACQUISITIONS EDITOR Logann Epley

TEXT EDITOR Taylor Garrison

MARKETING DIRECTOR Clara Edwards

DESIGN DIRECTOR Nick Wilkinson

SPECIAL THANKS

Dr. Bev Rilett Abby Johnson Theresa Ann University of Nebraska-Lincoln English Department Jon & Holly at The Printer

A great pleasure of literature is the journey. It is during the journey that characters are developed and struggles are fought. The Movement Publishing idea of “Journey” is broad, but that doesn’t make any of the stories, essays, or poems less significant. Journeys happen in all circumstances, to all types of people, in every genre, and in a variety of forms. Through excellent literature, hand-made art, and photography, a variety of journeys have been beautifully told. Your journey through this magazine will be much like Dorothy of Oz’s: you’ll find brains, heart, and courage in the works of talented creators. By following the path of the yellow brick road in this magazine, you’ll see physical journeys of travelers, spiritual journeys of those finding their true place in the world, and abstract journeys of those who dare to go off the beaten path. Starting with the physical journeys of James Garza and Haley Bledsoe, each describes a trips around the world through personal anecdotes of growth and perspective. “Porchlight” is an amazing drawing by Ly Nguyen, a sophomore Fine Arts major at UNL who was born in Vietnam to a family of artists. Her inspirational work led Nick Wilkinson to pen the poem “A Porchlight Prophecy.” I love how this coupling tells such a vivid story that, although fictional, still focuses on the physical journey of returning home.

The short fiction of Lane Chasek is a turning point within the magazine where a realistic journey is second to the developments he makes personally. Father and daughter Bruce and Keren Carlson of Pleasant Dale, NE are featured together. Bruce’s photo “Creation Beckons” pairs well with his 14-year-old daughter’s poem, “I’ll

Get Back Up,” depicting the journey of overcoming physical and mental barriers. Theresa Ann’s artwork “Mississippi Sunrise” was drawn with chalk pastels after she and her friends and visited the Mississippi. She was inspired by memories of sitting in the cold, watching the sunrise with coffee and doughnuts during a homecoming celebration. The transition to more personal journeys of growth or change of heart begins with John Tessalee’s true story of spending the night under a bridge in Lincoln, Nebraska, in which he expresses his gratitude and perspective gained from the experience. The photo behind his work is Maddie Mathias’s colorful capture of a sunrise. Clara Edwards’ poems move further into a more introspective place, dealing with the expansion and growth that a person experiences as they mature. My essay, “A Beginner’s Guide to Apostasy” is about my personal search for religious truth in my personal life. Yoojeong Lee’s drawing of books is a great companion to this personal essay, because knowledge contained in books unlocked my personal revelations about the purpose of religion in my life. Lee is an international student from South Korea, who said “learning art is one of the most important ways people tell us how they view the world.” Jaelle Kondohoma opened up in another personal essay about overcoming obstacles of racism in her life and learning to accept herself as she is. Leo James’ article “Prom Queen” outlines his transition from the pinnacle of high school femininity to coming out as a transgender man. We are grateful for these individuals’ willingness to share these very intimate

experiences they face in their lives. At the next point of the literary journey, things get abstract. Madison Larimore’s piece of prose poetry, which she said “operates on this speculation: when we die, we are put in the place of ambiguous Adam or Eve to see how we might begin the world differently after our journey through life.” The final piece is a science fiction written by our amazing design director, Nick Wilkinson. “Will Heaven Wait?” is set in a future where medical advancements have made it possible to be nearly immortal. The protagonist struggles with the decision to accept the contemporary medical practices, at a possible cost. At the end, Matt Cikovic’s photograph of a train station in Manchester, England ties together the industrial aesthetic invoked in Nick’s story while calling back to the physical journeys shared earlier in the magazine. We are so proud of the journeys shared and created in this literary magazine. Ernest Hemingway said, “It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” We hope you enjoy the journey forward as much as we have loved the journey of creating it. Signed,

Logann Epley

ACQUISITIONS EDITOR

CONTENTS SPRING 2016 INTRODUCTION CONTENTS JAMES GARZA LY NGUYEN NICK WILKINSON HALEY BLEDSOE LANE CHASEK BRUCE CARLSON KEREN CARLSON THERESA ANN JOHN TESSALEE MADDIE MATHIAS CLARA EDWARDS CLARA EDWARDS LOGANN EPLEY YOOJEONG LEE JAELLE KONDOHOMA TAYLOR LYNCH LEO JAMES THERESA ANN MADISON LARIMORE NICK WILKINSON MATT CIKOVIC ABOUT US

3 4 6 8 9 10

PERSPECTIVES ON THE MIDDLE EAST PORCHLIGHT A PORCHLIGHT PROPHECY COURAGE

MY FRIEND DANIEL FELL IN LOVE WITH

CREATION BECKONS

17 18 19 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 28 29 30 33 34

A CLARINET PLAYER I’LL GET BACK UP MISSISSIPPI SUNRISE UNDER A BRIDGE SUNRISE GROWING PAINS CHINA DOLL A BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO APOSTASY BOOKS UNTAMED ELK CALF PROM QUEEN DESERT WINDS APPLES WILL HEAVEN WAIT? TRAIN STATION, ENGLAND

Perspectives on the Middle East

My fascination Arabic culture and language grew out of the Arabic course taught by my professor during my freshman year at the University of Nebraska. My professor’s Syrian accent drilling us on vocabulary and grammar was part of a consistent, everyday routine that most of us fell into. During my introductory classes on Islam, the Middle East, and conflict, I realized that there is no way to understand another culture without learning the language. Arabic is a holy language, spoken through the angel Gabriel and brought to the people by the Prophet Muhammad in Islam. There is no understanding Islam without understanding Arabic, and this prompted my travel to the Middle East, a soon to be common theme in my next three years as

a student of the Middle East. On a hot summer day in Amman, Jordan, 40 students, myself included, were whisked away on buses from the hotel. We just arrived the night before to see the city we would call home for two months. The sights, smells, and sounds of the urban landscape flew by as we struggled to comprehend what we were experiencing. Walking through the downtown city center, known to locals as Al-Balad, was our baptism by fire. The old, conservative part of the city featured small streets, crowded markets, and vendors’ repetitious chants of the afternoon’s deals on fruits and baked goods. This was the beginning of my

time in Jordan, a country that has seen thousands of years of civilization, now wedged in the middle of a region torn by religious and political divide through the lens of violence. Generalizations are made with broad strokes about this region and even this country. The scenes one sees on television

coming out of the war-torn areas of Iraq and Syria are stark, and the footage of refugees in dusty camps do not help either. People are people in every part of the world, and that includes the Middle East. My study abroad program gave me the opportunity to meet Jordanian peers at my university. Through the weeks we hung out as the locals do in cafes over tea, I came to realize that there are no differences on a human level between my American peers and my Jordanian peers. We laugh about the same jokes, talk about cars, politics, and share a mutual interest in learning about each other’s cultures, as would any curious college student trying to learn about the world. A year later, I found myself aboard a plane yet again to the region, but this time to the Sultanate of Oman. Determined to evolve my understanding of the region as a whole, I traveled under the University of Nebraska with fourteen other students to learn about Oman in two weeks. In the suffocating desert heat, we visited Photos by James Garza offices and talked to officials from various organizations such as the World Health Organization, the U.S. Department of State, Omani economists, and business entrepreneurs determined to continue pushing Oman forward in spite of the chaos in neighboring Yemen and falling oil prices.

The exorbitance of material wealth in the capitol cities of Jordan and Oman only serves as a façade for the underlying cultures that some argue are being eroded amidst hardship and a changing world. My next voyage overseas highlighted this change in a culmination of my experience for a mission greater than my own education. My last journey to the Middle East involved a week in Jordan in March 2016 to conduct research and interviews to find out how exactly the Syrian refugee crisis is affecting water and food security in Syria, Jordan, and the surrounding region. This was to prepare for a global conference on these issues. Although it was the shortest visit, it provided me with the most insightful perspectives and experiences not only having to do with our mission, but the people of Jordan and Syria. The most powerful time on that trip

I spoke to him about what I was doing there and what my interests were with the water at the camp. He smiled and told me how it is his second year in the camp since leaving the Syrian capital of Damascus with his family. I asked him about the water in the plastic tanks nearby and he assured me it was good water for him and his daughter. Amidst the dusty, barren camp that we were surrounded by, he repeatedly insisted that I come in for tea in his tent nearby. I politely refused since we needed to leave soon, but I stood there in disbelief thinking that no matter the circumstances surrounding this father’s life at the moment, he is still willing to offer hospitality to a total stranger in a clean white shirt. A stranger who gets the leave at the end of the day while he must stay at this camp for what will sadly be a very long time. I stared out the window with images racing through my head of world leaders, politicians, and news stories from back home that attempt to depict the nature of these people at camps such as these

for better or for worse. Those thoughts juxtaposed with the sights of children playing soccer in a fenced-in field of dirt or parents walking with their children from school put a perspective in my mind that I so badly yearned to share with my community, country, and the world. Coming back to the West after experiences in places like Jordan is always complicated. I watch the cable news and listen to my peers discuss these topics and try my hardest to convey the things I’ve learned during my time in the Middle East. Working to dispel stereotypes of security and culture for the countries I’ve visited has become routine, but the most important part of my message lies in the people. American, Jordanian, Syrian, or Omani, life still goes on. I experienced this common theme throughout my time in the Middle East. From the wealthiest, most privileged people I met, to those whose wealth lies in their ability to cope with living in the tough conditions of a refugee camp, I experienced hospitality and respect for my interest in the culture. I was never blamed for what is going on, nor chastised for being an American citizen. I felt welcomed wherever I went, from the professionals working to provide the Middle East with solutions to their water crises to the taxi drivers so willing to share their unique stories with me. My goal is to share this perspective with the world at a time in our history where it needs it the most.

GARZA

JAMES

The deep, echoing sound of the call to prayer reverberates through the neighborhood as I stand and watch the sun set over the hilly skyline. Amman’s mountains, or jebals, and creamy limestone buildings reflect an orange glow that seems impossible to capture through a lens or words. The fast is over on this day during the holy month of Ramadan and the evening’s feasting begins with the Adhan’s sigh of relief flowing from the hundreds of minarets in the city. It is each day at that time that I contemplated the journey that brought me there, and that would inevitably lead me down a path in my life that involved understanding a culture another world away.

was the tour to the Za’atari refugee camp. Located seven miles from the Syrian border, it is the largest refugee camp in Jordan and second largest in the world. Our mission was to learn about how the water facilities and distribution worked in the camp of 80,000 people. One portion of the tour brought us to a water truck filling station on the edge of the camp. I walked over to a public water tank nearby and saw small children with their siblings watching and observing us with curiosity. The language barrier was an issue for most of the team, but a Syrian man did approach me carrying his daughter.

JAMES

GARZA

James Garza

My most important discovery in Oman was the gulf, or khaleej, culture. Painting the Middle East as one culture with the wide stroke of a brush is a mistake. The dress and attitudes towards people in Oman were surprisingly different. Sunni and Shia Muslims prayed in the same mosques, one of which shared a wall with a Hindu temple in the oldest section of the capital city, Muscat. Omanis pride themselves on settling their differences in religious sect in for the advancement of their country. In the Levant region that includes Jordan, Syria, Iraq, and Lebanon, sectarian tensions are historically prevalent, with the conflict in Syria only fanning the flames.

A Porch Light Prophecy Nick Wilkinson Leave the porch light on Mama ‘Cause I’ll be back I have to go find myself Out in the night so black

NGUYEN LY

And if I don’t come home, carry on Mama I want you to know I did what’s best But always Leave the porch light on Mama Out in the night so black Drawing By Ly Nguyen

WILKINSON

Say a prayer for me Mama Maybe your words can get me back on track Maybe I can sing you songs in the morning ‘Cause I’ll be back

NICK

Don’t give up on me Mama And leave that porch light glowing ‘Cause I’ll be back Whether sleeting, hailing or snowing

BLEDSOE

HALEY

Chains rattled in the brisk wind as I pulled my body to the next level, my chest tightening as the elevation increased. My palms perspire and my legs quiver as I look behind my steps. I see the thousands of stairs below, the mountains peaking through the fog, and the millions of steps ahead. I was on Mount Huashan, the deadliest hike in the world. I planned and mentally prepared myself for this… “I was ready for this, I was going to conquer this mountain.” Despite this determined voice in my head, nothing could fully equip me for the image that I was experiencing: it was real. I looked around my surroundings as I reached the north side. People were scattered around peak, resembling an ant colony shuffling to complete their tasks. I noticed the diversity; different ages, skin color, adults wearing business attire while others resembling Sherpas carrying twice their body weight on their backs. It was the most bizarre scene I had ever seen. In that very moment, I realized that I would never have a feeling like this again. I could never replicate my sense of adventure, fuzziness that was buzzing in my head, and heat on the tips of my fingers. I live a different life, a very different life. However, there is something so unique but similar in everyone: C O U R A G E. The pillar that stands tall in my life is courage. I believe it does in everyone, although you may not yet be aware of it. There is a secret ingredient in each person on this world that will make people curious and inch closer to the edge. It is what keeps them up at night and sparks a passion in their soul. Some days it is dull, but sometimes it is strong enough to spark a forest fire. I believe when a person finds their niche they will indeed need the courage to share their passion and vision with the world. I look back and I wonder what it would be like if I took that risk or if I had at least dipped my toes in the water. One thing I know for sure, I have never regretted pursuing what I believe in my heart is worth pursing, despite other people’s opinions. Courage takes faith and perseverance. I know it’s worth the persecution, ridicule, and the view.

Haley Bledsoe

HALEY

BLEDSOE

COURAGE

My Friend Daniel Fell in love with a Clarinet player Lane Chasek CHASEK

LANE

he best day of my life was when I returned to my hometown of Whitman after six years of struggling to get through college and working odd jobs in Milwaukee. I didn’t tell anybody I was returning. I didn’t have many friends at the time and I thought it would be best to not let my parents know how much of a failure their only son had become. So I drove back to Whitman alone in a 2001 Buick LeSabre with a busted taillight and two flat tires, checked myself into a Motel 8, and enjoyed a night alone with a bottle of cheap gin and basic cable to keep me company. I got a text from my girlfriend, Clarissa, asking me where I was, and I didn’t message her back. Then, at around three in the morning, I texted my childhood friend, Samantha, for the first time in seven years, asking if she still lived in Whitman. She never texted me back, so I spent the rest of that night downing my gin, thinking how great it felt to truly be alone for the first time in almost a decade. I soon found out I couldn’t stay lonely for long. I met a man named Daniel at a new bar in Whitman called the Sinister Grin the following afternoon. He was fifty-seven years old, had a full head of white hair, and talked like Vincent Price. He said he was from Indianapolis and used to be a concert pianist. After accidentally killing a biker when he was driving through western Nebraska, he lost his driver’s license and decided to settle in Whitman because gas was cheap, even though he couldn’t drive anymore. “Low gas prices always mean good

neighborhoods,” he told me at the Sinister Grin the first night we met. He was drinking his third ginger ale and vodka of the night. He’d convinced me to buy them for him because, in his own words, he was “gainfully unemployed at the moment.” He later told me he lived on welfare because his spine had been permanently damaged in his car accident. “Even if I killed a man and lost my license, that wreck wasn’t all bad.” By the end of the night I was out of money. A twelve-hour drive from Wisconsin to Nebraska, a night at a cheap motel, and an afternoon at the bar were apparently enough to leave me broke. When I told this to Daniel, he struck me on the shoulder, smiled, and said I could stay with him for the night. We drove the three blocks to his rental house in my car and I passed out on Daniel’s couch. I didn’t realize then that I’d be spending almost every night on that couch for the next few months. Daniel apparently had had lovers all across the country. His most recent lover was a twenty-two year old clarinet player with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra named Geoffrey. They hadn’t seen each other in three years because Daniel was too embarrassed to admit he was indefinitely stranded in Nebraska. Daniel had the occasional fling whenever he met a young man who found himself at the Sinister Grin, confused about his urges and confused about life in general. Daniel took it upon himself to “help them out,” as he described it. They were usually

from out of town, usually Scottsbluff or Casper. Whenever he got lonely or started to think about Geoffrey, he’d play a few songs on the electric keyboard he kept in his living room. After years of professional drinking and a lack of professional playing, Daniel had fallen out of practice. He’d play Raskolnikov with less of the technical precision and skill you’d expect from a classically-trained pianist and more like a jazz pianist, playing the wrong notes as loud as the notes he played correctly. Sometimes he’d play through the entire night, no matter how much I complained. On my third day back in Whitman, I realized I still had one childhood friend left: Logan Hanneford. He’d been my only friend through middle school and high school and I found out through his mother that he’d moved out of his parents’ basement two months before to start living in an apartment one block over. When Logan answered the door I could almost recognize him. He now had a beard that hid the bottom half of his face and was prematurely balding. He asked if I knew where his cat was, but once I told him who I was he opened the door all the way and let me in. I almost tripped on the wires, switches, and wifi routers crisscrossing the floor of his darkened apartment. Logan brought me a chair to sit on and asked what I was doing in Whitman again. I told him I was just passing through, which was half-true. Logan asked if I was working for a major newspaper like I’d always dreamed of doing, and I told him that my dream had fallen through a few years ago.

When I asked Logan what he was doing now, he said he’d dropped out of MIT to continue living in his parents’ basement. After they’d kicked him out he moved into his current apartment. When I asked what he did for a living, Logan pointed to the cables and routers congesting the floor. “You’d be surprised how careless people can be with their credit card information online,” Logan said. “I just takes a few dollars at a time from them and they never know the difference.” “You’re able to take people’s money with just a couple routers?” I asked. Logan shrugged and looked at me like I was an idiot. “It’s more than just routers. It’s a pretty complicated setup. You wouldn’t understand.” “Is it legal?” “Legal’s a tricky word. All I care about is paying my bills and not having to work, and that’s good for me.” I was lucky that Logan and Daniel got along so well. Logan was two years older than me but hadn’t really grown up past sixteen. Still, he talked to Daniel like Daniel was some kind of wisened uncle. We were drinking Coke and vodka in Daniel’s living room. Daniel sat crosslegged on the floor while Logan and I shared the couch, listening to Daniel’s story about how he almost died in Chicago. “I was sharing drinks with this one young man, and before you know it, the guy’s father showed up at the bar and said he didn’t like the way I was looking at his son,” Daniel said. “So him and three other guys with arms like lampposts tackle me and drag me into the alley. The guy’s father pulled a switchblade on me and said I had a choice: either he slits my throat or he cuts off my fingers.” Daniel paused. Eventually Logan said, “So you chose neither.” Daniel shook his head. “What would make you think that?” “You’re not dead and you still have all your fingers.” Daniel laughed. “I wish life were that easy. I actually told him to cut my

time I had to get stitches in my upper lip when I was eleven after Samantha threw a dirt clod at me not knowing there was a small shard of glass hidden inside it, or the summer I worked for her father mowing lawns in Whitman. I referred to Samantha’s father as Mr. Baumann and that confused Logan. “What does that have to do with Samantha?” “Mr. Baumann’s her father,” I explained. The way Logan grunted in surprise told me this was news to him. I decided to drop the subject. When you realize one of your only friends has been in love with a girl for years and still doesn’t know her last name, you tend

fingers off. I figured my life was worth more than my music career, and I was ready to lose everything at that point. And that guy was gonna cut them off, too, before the cops showed up.” I think Logan’s mind is stuck in middle school. He still thinks my favorite book is Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood like it was in seventh grade and asks why I’m not writing for the Kansas City Star yet. One night, when Logan and I were alone in his apartment, he asked me if I still talked to Samantha. I told him no and he sighed in relief. The way he looks now, with his receding hairline, short beard, and hairy knuckles, it was bizarre to see him acting like a lovesick pre-teen. He confessed to being in love with my childhood friend Samantha since he was ten and said that he often had fantasies of marrying her. He went on about her short red hair, what he called her “slingback hips,” and her slender wrists for almost an hour. Eventually I joined in and we shared our stories about Samantha, like the time Logan saw her in a bikini at the public swimming pool, or the time Samantha and I spent an entire afternoon fishing discarded horseshoes from Lame Johnny Creek, or the morning Logan waited on the street corner near Samantha’s house waiting to see her walk out, or the

to want to ignore it. By December I’d been living in Whitman for about five months. It was around this time that Daniel spent most of his days sitting at his electric keyboard without touching a single key, sometimes randomly bursting into tears and pacing the apartment with his forehead in his hands. Soon he was in the closet, wrapped in every blanket in the house and screaming into them. I thought he’d eventually suffocate himself, so I tried to open the closet, but Daniel had somehow secured the doors shut from the inside. I checked the medicine cabinets and saw that the pain pills Daniel took for his back were gone. Fearing the worst, I called the cops, hoping they could get him out before it was too late. Eventually, the two officers that had been sent to talk to him soon told me there was nothing they could do since Daniel didn’t seem to be an immediate threat to me or himself. So for the rest of the night I had to listen to Daniel’s random bouts of crying and screaming until the next morning when he finally came out. He wore the blankets around his shoulders like a cloak. His eyelids were

CHASEK LANE

suitcases in one hand and three plastic grocery bags bulging with dirty clothes and toiletries in the other. He entered Logan’s home without even asking me or Logan for permission. He made himself at home in the living room. He told us March 1st was also the day Nebraska became a state and that the three of us should celebrate by getting drinks at the Sinister Grin. Logan was sitting in the living room with us by then and said it would probably be cheaper to just drink at home. So he took a miniature keg of Heineken out of one his pantries, welcomed Daniel, and gave him a hug. He said he’d been waiting to hear from Daniel for months. The three of us spent the evening in the living room with Daniel dominating most of the conversation, telling us what he’d been doing for the past three months. He said his back pain was gone and that he no longer had any paranoia about Geoffrey marrying somebody. “To be perfectly honest,” Daniel said, “he can do whatever he wants now. I think part of the reason I’ve been so miserable all these years is because I still wanted to be in love with him.” While Logan slept in his room that night, Daniel and I shared the living room floor. Something was off with Daniel. Or maybe “off” isn’t the right word. There was something in the way he sat upright like an attentive six-yearold instead of an aging pianist, and the way he slept with a smile on his face that made me feel uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t name. The next morning I had a hangover and woke up to Daniel sitting over me, offering me a cup of coffee. I took it from him, started sipping it. “Thanks,” I said. “You shouldn’t sleep so long,” Daniel said. “It’s almost noon. At this rate you’ll sleep half your life away.” “When did you get up?” “Six.” “You’re insane.” “Not insane. I’m just better than I used to be.” I sat up, faced Daniel. “Is Logan still asleep?” I asked. “Yeah.” “Figures. He probably won’t be up until sunset.”

Daniel shook his head with a smile. “Life’s too short to be sleeping.” I got up, stretched, and went into the kitchen to make myself some toast and eggs. Logan had recently introduced me to a recipe he called an egg-basket, where you remove a hole from the center of a piece of bread, place it in a hot skillet, then fry an egg inside the hole. Daniel followed me into the kitchen, that same smile from last night on his lips. He was starting to annoy me. This was the same helpless old man whose hand I had to hold while we walked back from the hospital, and the same man who’d been begging me to get a job to help him out. His welfare had probably run out and he’d probably been evicted, making him just as helpless as me right now. He acted like he had something on me, some kind of surprise I didn’t know about. “What do you need?” I asked. “I need to tell you something.” “About Geoffrey?” “You know I’m over him, right? I think he’s part of the reason I was miserable for so long.” I let the bread sizzle in the pan before cracking an egg into its center. “So what are you gonna obsess over now?” I hoped that if I was dismissive enough, Daniel would leave. But he didn’t. “Listen,” Daniel said. He lowered his voice. “Before Logan gets up, there’s something I wanted to tell you in private.” Daniel put his lips close to my ear and said, “My dad died two nights ago.” “You seem to be taking it well.” “I am. Because I know it’s for the best. You should have seen me the day before yesterday. I drank half a bottle of vodka and nothing else. My welfare had run out, I didn’t have any pain pills, and I was going to be evicted by the end of the week. So there I was, laying in the middle of the floor, trying to forget Geoffrey, trying to forget my back pain, trying to forget all the horrible things I’ve done in my life. And then I heard the voice.” “A voice from Heaven?” “No, it came from the air duct. I’m sure of that. I think it was an angel, though. It had a deep, raspy voice, and it started listing off every bad thing I’ve ever done, starting from when I was just

a baby. And then it started telling me about Geoffrey and how I was letting my memory of Geoffrey kill me. At first I tried to ignore the voice, but soon I couldn’t resist it. I had to listen. Everything it said was true.” I dumped my egg-basket on a plate and started eating it with a plastic fork I found on the counter. I tried not to look at Daniel and started to wonder where his story was going to lead. The last few years had been rough on him, so it wasn’t surprising he was having a psychotic breakdown. But as far as I could tell this breakdown was treating Daniel pretty well, so there was no point in complaining. “And then the voice stopped. It was like I’d woken up from a dream, and soon I realized my phone was ringing. I answered it and I heard my mother crying. She said my father had died three hours earlier from a heart attack. And as soon as she said that, I hung up and started praying.” Daniel leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and nodded his head while staring into space. I was done with my egg-basket and stirred the solidifying yolk on my plate with the tongs of my fork. “Is that it?” I asked. “Yeah,” Daniel said. “It’s pretty obvious when you think about it. The angel was telling me all the things I’d done wrong in my life, but the only thing that really tormented me was when it started talking about Geoffrey. And my dad dying must have been a sign from God. I think it means I need to move on and leave Whitman before I die.” I pushed my plate away. I didn’t believe in God, but if Daniel wanted to believe in miracles, I’d let him. “Don’t you think God is pissed off at you for not crying about your dad?” Daniel’s expression didn’t change. “I’m too old to care about death.” “Good for you.” “Do you still talk to your dad?” “Not really.” “You should while he’s still alive. You might regret it later. Your mother, too.” “I’ll think about it.” I woke up in the middle of the night to a soft voice whispering above me. I

opened my eyes and saw Daniel praying over me. His eyes were closed and he held his hands together so tightly his knuckles were white. I rose up, put on my coat and shoes, took the bag of clothes I had nearby, and made my way toward the door. Daniel had stopped praying and was now trailing behind me. He followed me outside to my car in the parking lot, grasping my arm. “You need to listen to me,” he said, “you can’t just leave.” “I can and I will,” I said. That unnamed thing I’d seen on Daniel’s face was more apparent than ever. Even being around him made me feel angry and sick, as if I could punch somebody in the face without caring who I punched. Daniel wouldn’t let go of my arm. He whispered, “You can’t leave. Not yet. That isn’t the plan.” “What plan are you talking about?” I said. I held the driver’s-side door of my car open, ready to get in and leave Whitman once and for all. I thought this town would have felt different now that I’d gotten a taste of the outside world, but I’d been wrong. The way Daniel was talking to me made me realize something was either wrong with this town, wrong with the world, or wrong with myself, and I didn’t want to find out which one it was. “We need to start working again,” Daniel said. “We need to start working, living, acting. You know, start being people again.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I shook off Daniel’s arm and got in my car. Daniel pounded on the window, trying to get my attention as I started the engine. I backed away and left the parking lot behind me. I had a whole tank of gas and a hundred dollars I’d borrowed from Logan. I knew that with a little luck I could make it anywhere. So I drove west, hoping the next town I found would let me call it home.

CHASEK

into my back and sides. It was easier than ever to not have to work. Logan and I spent most of our days buying our basic needs with the money he’d stolen and we’d spend the rest of the day eating, drinking, and telling stories about the past because there was nothing interesting to say about our current lives or the future. The boredom I’d felt while living in Wisconsin was behind me now. I hadn’t grown into adulthood when I left Whitman, I’d just thrown myself into it. After I realized journalism wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life, I dropped out of college for a few months before trying it again the following year, picking up random jobs in the meantime bussing tables, working security at pawnshops, and working customer support at a startup company that failed within three months of being created. And despite spending almost all my time at work, I still found time to hang out with friends who would drift in and out of my life. They were mostly women, some of them “girlfriends” like Clarissa, while girls like Elaine never slept with me but stopped by every few days to sleep on my couch after her parents had kicked her out, share a few joints and part of a six-pack with me, and talk about dream jobs we were probably never going to have. I liked girls like Elaine the best because they never expected much out of me. Once during that winter, I sat at the foot of Logan’s bed, watching him sneak money from a local car dealer’s checking account. I couldn’t begin to understand what Logan was doing but he said, “Just call me a modern Robin Hood.” Just then I decided to ask Logan why his parents kicked him out. He said they couldn’t understand his line of work, so he figured it was best to cut off ties with them for good. At that point I liked to imagine my life had been better than Logan’s, but I wasn’t sure now. I recalled thinking the same things about my parents when I’d first left Whitman six years earlier. The first day of March is Dr. Seuss’ birthday. That’s what Daniel told me the day he showed up at Logan’s door on March 1st, struggling to hold two

LANE

paler than the rest of his face, which was now almost red. White spots of dried saliva sat at each corner of his mouth and he was mouthing something silently. I asked if he was okay and he nodded. Then I asked if he’d swallowed any pills and he shook his head. I made him sit at the kitchen table, but as soon as I turned around to inspect the closet that had been his temporary home I heard him vomit behind me. His vomit clung to the carpet fibers like whisked egg while the partially-dissolved pills in it told me that the bottles in the closet were probably close to empty. I ended up taking him to the hospital, where one of the MDs said Daniel had induced vomiting at the perfect time. He called it a miracle. That afternoon, as I walked Daniel back to our apartment, he was still reeling and nauseous, holding my hand like a toddler about to fall on his own face. “Why the hell would you do that?” I asked. It took Daniel a few seconds to register what I said. “I thought I was gonna die,” he said. He must have thought I meant vomiting on the carpet, so I ask him why he swallowed the pills in the first place. “I had a dream Geoffrey got married. It was terrible. He sent me an album of wedding photos and everything.” Once we were home, Daniel complained about having a sore back for the rest of the night. I spent Christmas with Logan, and with a little careful prodding I convinced Logan to let me stay with him through February. Life with Daniel was becoming more than I could handle. He said his welfare had run dry and that eventually he’d be homeless and he said he wanted me to start looking for work so we could afford more pain pills for his back. So I left him the night before Christmas Eve, when he tried to play a Brahms concerto, started screaming about his back, and threw his keyboard against the wall, leaving a cat-sized hole in drywall. I slept on Logan’s floor that winter. I’ve never been able to sleep without tossing and turning so I always woke up with wires or router boxes pressing

I’ll Get Back Up Keren Carlson Creak, creak, creak. I lifted the bar and stood staring down the huge hill. Down, down, down. My thoughts whistled around like the bitter winter wind. if I go down. It’s a long way down, but I slid forward.

Faster, faster, faster I went

BRUCE

my heart pounding in my chest. ‘’Snowplow! Snowplow!’’ I can’t do it! I’m going too fast! I’m going to fall! And then, I did. I lay on the ground - stunned. “Are you okay?’’ I sat up. I looked down. I was okay. Now, I’m going down again. And if I fall, I’ll get back up.

“Creation Beckons” By Bruce Carlson

CARLSON

down, down,

KEREN

CARLSON

I’m going to fall. I’m going to fall

Under A Bridge

ANN

“Mississippi Sunrise” By Theresa Ann

“Sunrise” By Maddie Mathias

as much as I was scared that there were other areas in my life I had stopped being grateful for. I realized that my college career had turned into something I had taken as a given. I treated it like something I deserved and not something I had to earn. That night helped me realize that my education was not promised to me, and that a possible alternative was not one I could live with. It also opened my eyes to see many of my peers were living the same way: skipping classes to play video games in their dorms; working on how fast they could chug a can of beer instead of attending their professor’s office hours; paying hundreds of dollars for textbooks they open just a couple hours before their exams. The list goes on. From that point on, I’ve worked to be grateful, and it has been hard work because I had become so complacent. As I strove not to take things for granted, my college experience became more enjoyable, my GPA rose, my friendships grew deeper and my overall outlook on life became much more positive. I share this so others can benefit from my experience. Start with being grateful for your bed and work your way from there. Then, step back and see how much better life is when we don’t take it for granted. Why take my word for it? Go sleep under a train bridge and experience it for yourself.

tessalee

THERESA

Additionally, what I didn’t realize beforehand was that my new roof was actually a train bridge. Every 20 minutes or so, after I’d dozed off to sleep, I was rudely awakened by the sound of a train thundering across the tracks just feet above my head. Each time I woke, I was terrified for my life and felt very alone. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep very well. By dawn, I was exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally, and I made my way back to my dorm for a hot shower before skipping my morning class to actually get some sleep. That one night shaped my life dramatically, and it made me realize that I had been taking much of my life for granted. So back to my initial question, have you taken anything for granted? How about your warm, safe, clean and very comforting bed? Perhaps it is family, friends, faith, football, food? Have you ever, recently, not properly appreciated someone or something because its presence has become commonplace in your life? How about education? Do teachers, classes, projects or even homework go unappreciated? How about the whole college experience? As a whole, have we been grateful for the privilege of a four-year degree, or has it turned into something we take for granted? I walked away from that bridge scared, but I wasn’t scared for my life

john

Have you ever taken anything for granted? Me, too. That is, until the night I slept under a bridge. It was my junior year at UNL on a windy winter night. I was walking back to my dorm room, and I saw a footprint in the snow. Not a shoe print, mind you, but a foot! I could clearly make out the indent that the toes, heel and arch had made in the snow, and I was struck by the realization that someone was walking around without shoes that frigid evening. Curious, I asked myself what it would be like to spend a night as a homeless man out in the cold, so I decided to sleep under a bridge! I shot a text to some friends, asking them to spend that night with me outside. The response was an overwhelming no, with more than one of them telling me I was crazy. Undeterred, I bundled up in both my winter jackets and a blanket and marched off on my own little adventure. I chose a bridge near to the Bob Devaney Center, found a crack that was shielded from the wind, and laid down. By this point, it was late, but I was too nervous to fall asleep on the hard ground. I was already feeling cold and dirty, and on top of that, I started to feel increasingly unsafe. I worried that some homeless person had already claimed that spot, and that he would return to chase me out. I imagined being robbed and injured without anyone really knowing where I was.

John Tessalee

Growing Pains

Sirius is my sister. Twinkling fingers outstretched, laced together, we stride through cold consciousness. Her sharp tongue cuts through layers of black misunderstandings as I give life to fellowship. The universe, whether to call her mother or monster, I cannot yet tell. I grow as she does, upward and outward, leaving moments of light in my wake.

China Doll Clara Edwards

We used to be playmates. I caressed your porcelain skin, plaited your baby-yellow hair. Our blue eyes met. Yours whispered, “No more.” No more playing dress-up, throwing tea parties. Soft love is hard to render. Stone-cold, you slump on the display shelf beside Mama’s glass figurines. We could dress up, throw a party, but I can’t reach you from here.

EDWARDS

CLARA

The universe expands, her charred belly bloats and bulges as hot balls of matter push to fill outer spaces, on the cusp of either pregnancy or indigestion. Carl Sagan once said, “We are made of starstuff.”

CLARA

EDWARDS

Clara Edwards

A Beginner’s Guide to

Apostasy

EPLEY

Logann Epley

LOGANN

Hi, I’m Logann, and I’m not a Mormon. I decided to leave the Church of Jesus-Christ of Latter-Day Saints two months ago, but if I’m being honest, I’d subconsciously made the decision way before that. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. I was born Mormon--I spent every Sunday at church for at least three hours. I attended early morning seminary class every day before high school. I went to youth group. I was never “Molly Mormon,” a term for goody-two-shoes that I resent, but I was full-on drinking the Crystal Light. Even though I broke some of the church standards, like watching R-rated movies, I always kept myself from breaking any of the big no-nos. I didn’t drink, smoke, have sex, or, worst of all, drink coffee. I was sheltered! My big moment was buying a bikini of rebellion on my 18th birthday, which I hid from my parents until I went to college that fall. Despite my willingness to swim without my stomach covered, I was still religious. I started attending the LDS Institute on campus, where I met a guy my first week of school. We started dating in September. He had served a full-time mission for the LDS Church in Taiwan for two years and was on track to go to Brigham Young University. After getting together with me, he changed his plans and started at UNL to stay with me. I started planning our wedding after a few months of dating. I can’t pinpoint the exact time I started to lose my belief in the claims of the LDS Church. There were a lot of issues that ate at me, little by little. Maybe it was when I learned that the tithe totaling 10 percent of gross income all “worthy” members pay is going to the Corporation of the President of the Church, or that Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon with a stone in a hat, or maybe it was when I learned “Brother Joseph” had at least 30 plural wives, including 14-year-olds. My biggest trial of faith began last October, when LDS Church Headquarters released a new policy that said any member of the church engaged in a homosexual relationship, past or present, is subject to a “court of love,” that could excommunicate them for their actions. This new policy also states that children of individuals in same-sex relationships cannot be baptized until they are 18 and “disavow their parents’

actions.” LGBT suicide and homelessness rates in Utah have always been higher than average, but they jumped after the policy change. Real damage was being done. Or maybe it was one of the thousands of other reasons I’d come across in my life, but placed on a shelf to think about later, blissfully still believing. One day, the weight got too heavy. That shelf collapsed. I’d been lied to. Everything I’d built my life on, all of my goals to be married in the beautiful temple and teach my brood of children Book of Mormon stories were changed once I admitted that the church is not true. I’d lost my future plans and my present support system, built on friendships in the church. My mom’s side of the family is all baptized into the faith, too. However, apart from my temple-worker grandma and Bishop grandpa, almost everyone is ready to leave, too. Feeling isolated has been the hardest part of making this transition. Even though my parents, brother, and aunts also dislike/resent/don’t believe the church, we didn’t discover that hidden support system for months. I was worried I’d be disowned by my grandparents, accused of sin by leadership, and left out of social events. To some extent, that’s all happened, but it’s not as tragic as I imagined it would be. Throughout this entire process, I would vent to my believing Mormon boyfriend. He listened sometimes, but was always quick to defend and apologize for the church. He plans to continue the life of a believer, which includes going to the temple to be sealed, one of the ultimate ordinances in the church. A temple sealing is a commitment ceremony joining man, wife, and God, which binds them for eternity. It’s one of the key steps to salvation, according to LDS theology. As a child, I often sang a song called “I Love to See the Temple.” Photographs of the castle-like buildings decorated my walls. It’s every good little Mormon girl’s goal to get married in a cap-sleeved gown in one of the 150 operating temples in the world. To enter one of these great and spacious buildings, a believing member must be interviewed and found worthy by a Bishop. But things have changed since I was a child. I realized I could never bring myself to that. I couldn’t lie my

way through worthiness interviews and pretend to support corrupt leadership that whitewashes history and tells halftruths to the members who support them, especially just to make someone else happy. I was sick of holding myself back from the things I’ve always yearned for, but were too far outside of the path of expectation. Most of all, I was sick of the guilt I constantly carried around for not being good enough for my boyfriend, because I was the non-believer who couldn’t enter the temple. In tears, I broke up with him in February after almost three years of dating. Two months before, he’d asked my parents for permission to propose. This wasn’t a decision I took lightly. Living a life of integrity means standing up for what my core values are. I realized that my passion as a feminist, my love for members of the LGBT community, and my belief in equality outweigh any desire I had to conform to an ideal set by a quorum of 15 elderly men who control the church. My personal freedom is more valuable than anything the church could promise me. I was sick of feeling silenced in classes that whitewashed church history. I was sick of being the only person to speak up in opposition in lessons about the value and worth placed in a woman’s chastity. I was sick and tired and angry that I felt pressure to give a disclaimer of what I was not when I told my friends I was Mormon. The relief I feel after making my choice to leave the church makes up for any invitations I miss, and the realization that the leadership has no actual authority over me is freeing. The knowledge that my actions no longer contradict my beliefs is more comforting than the pain of leaving. While this is a personal choice that is right for me, I do not have any hard feelings towards the members of my former congregation. I still number many of them among my closest friends. If they believe that being a member of the church gives them a more positive outlook on life and truly helps them be a better person, I don’t fault them for staying. If I were to dictate another person’s choice to leave, I would become exactly what I tried to escape.

Drawing By Yoojeong Lee

UNTAMED

KONDOHOMA

Jaelle D Kondohoma

JAELLE

It’s an unbearably hot summer. The summer her brothers can’t bear to spend another day on the black, sticky, leather couch in the living room. The summer she’s forced to watch over them just because she’s the girl. The summer the brothers decide to mindlessly go on an adventure to re-discover the swimming pool while she couldn’t. The summer her mother says “if you stay out in the sun for too long you’ll get too dark.” The summer she’s told that very black skin isn’t attractive on a girl. The summer she has to scrape off the scabs from her head with a comb, all credit due to the hair relaxer that burned her skin because she left it on her hair for too long. The summer she wants the straightest hair possible. The summer her mother says that nappy hair isn’t respectable. The summer her mother told her to never talk to other black people at school because it’ll tarnish her reputation. The summer she believes that she needed white friends around so that her blackness would be ignored. The summer her mother tells her to never speak her native African language because French is more respectable. The summer her mother refuses to let her set foot outside of the house because she has to clean the house. The summer her mother says “because you need to learn how to take care of a house,” when she asked why she couldn’t do what she wants. The summer her mother says “you need to learn to cook so you can make your husband happy when you’re married,” when she asks why she has to cook for everyone. The summer she hears that “the highest honor a girl can achieve is marriage,” when she wondered what to do with her life. The summer she believes she wants a family of her own to take care of. The summer she asks why her brothers aren’t being raised the same way as her. It’s noon. The time of day her the mother is already tired of the boys’ attitude, so she puts the sister in charge. The time of day she continues to make not-so-empty threats to take away the myriad of video games in the boys’ endless treasure chest, a simple box. The time of day she puts an end to the boys’ tedious rebellion. The tedious rebellion in the sole purpose of the brothers’ belief that summer is a magically celestial time where human beings never have to abide to the laws of basic hygiene and nutrition. The time of day they cave, partly due to the fact of the crippling hunger, and mostly due to the consequences of the

unimaginable world apart from their precious Xbox universe. The time of day she, finally appeased, lets the boys out into the world to enjoy the burning hot sun in the cool water (all this while she watches through her bedroom window). The time of day she got tired of being in charge of her baby brothers because she was the girl. The time of day she got tired of her brothers getting their way with everything because they were boys. The time of day her mother says “boys will be boys.” They’re in the living room. The living room where the younger of the two brothers asks in his sweetly innocent voice, “Why aren’t you coming with us?” The living room where the sister answers “because I don’t want to.” The living room where the boys head to the pool laughing, while hurriedly trying to escape the sister’s wrath and teasing her. The living room where they teases her on the matter that she can’t swim (which is true). The living room where she’s left laughing along with them through the living room window while she was still in her bathrobe. The living room where her mother told her that a respectable lady cannot be seen in her bathrobe, even though she rarely considers herself a lady since she’s still in her teenage years. The living room where she’s left with her own thoughts, dreading the actual reason why she never wants to stay out in the sun for too long. They’re in the kitchen. The kitchen where her brothers devour the meat like the hungry carnivores they are. The kitchen where she sits right across from her brothers, but she’s not present. The kitchen where she’s focused on her art history book set on the crystal clear kitchen table. The kitchen where her mother hovers over the busy stove, trying to finish the next part of the beautiful meal. The kitchen where her older sister wanders in. The kitchen where her older sister, her voice filled with disgust, says, “Ugh! My skin’s getting too dark.” The kitchen where her darker skinned brothers were also sitting. The kitchen where she wonders why her brothers’ darker skin has never been a problem. The kitchen where the mother looks alarmingly at her older sister as if she’s been caught with the deadliest plague. The kitchen where the mother offers a solution; she will go shopping with her older sister to find the fastest remedy that will cure her of her blackness. The magical remedy that cures

all blackness, lightning body lotion. It’s three in the morning. The world is asleep. The sound of the neighborhood laughing is a silent echo. The soft trees are whistling in the wind. She’s in her room. The room with the fluffy carpet. The room with the filthy teddy bear from her childhood slumped in the dark corner, a relic. The room with the deep red and bloodlike bed sheet, her favorite. The room with her favorite book left widespread on the floor because she yearns for her phone and her plushy bed. The room with the silver moon reflecting on the mirror that hangs in front of her closet door. She loves to savor the beautiful room as she’s trying to fall asleep. She loves to savor the melodic sounds. Melodic sounds emerges from the radio, soft and calm. The music becomes an additional addiction. The addiction that helps her forget that she fears the sun making her skin too dark. The addiction that helps her forget that she hates the way her hair grows. She’s been up all night texting her friend. The friend reassures her that she’s beautiful the way she is. She smiles, then frowns because she realizes he’ll never know the shame. The shame being of who you are and changing every aspect of your skin just to be accepted. She’s in college now, it’s been five months and six days. Five months and six days since she realized that she actually hated the idea of family. Five months and six days since she realized that she doesn’t have to live her life just to take care of everyone but herself. Five months and six days since she decided to stop trying to be the perfect women. Five months and six days since she decided that boys can take care of themselves. Five months and six days since she decided to stop bleaching her skin. Five months and six days since she decided to let her hair grow like the wild forest it is. Five months and six days since she decided to prove her mother wrong. Five months and six days since she heard how beautiful her native language is. Five months and six days since she got fed up with every other skin tone being called beautiful. Every other skin tone except black. Five months and six days since she stood in front of her mirror and decided to stop pleasing everybody but herself. Five months and six days since she stood in the sun.

“Elk Calf” By Taylor Lynch

JAMES LEO

“And your class of 2014 prom queen is… Katie Begley!” The sea of adolescent faces erupted in cheers. They lowered the plastic crown to my long cascading brown hair that needed to be straightened before curled again. I never understood why. I looked out to my girlfriend, Jean, standing to the side of the crowd. She rolled her eyes and tried to hold back the smile I wanted to see. My parents weren’t far from her, clapping and snapping photos of their child standing among the other candidates who were trying to hide disappointment on their carefully painted faces. A bouquet of flowers was placed in my arms. I wanted off the stage. I wasn’t a queen. It wasn’t that I wasn’t happy that my classmates chose my name on the ballot. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate their thoughts of me as someone who deserved recognition. I just wasn’t a queen. No crown could make me a queen. No expensive dress that I made my mother pick would make me a queen. No nail polish, makeup, heels or earrings would make me a queen. Because as I twirled in circles with the boy crowned king to a song I don’t even remember, I couldn’t help but envy his tux. A year and a half later, I chopped my hair off. My mom went nuts, saying I was oppositionally defiant and just looking for a fight. I was just looking for some form of inner peace. A few months later, I stopped wearing feminine clothing. My mom went nuts, claiming that people would think I was a boy. She insisted that I was a gorgeous girl and that I threw it all away. While she grieving the gradual loss of the daughter she believed she had, I was aching for the little boy that never was. The term “lesbian” never settled within me, but it was who I was to my community. My friends supported me, my parents accepted it, and we never talked about it with my grandparents. All was well in our world, except for me. I built a shield of denial and tried to live with the body that betrayed me, but I could only carry my armor for so long. Perhaps one of the biggest misconceptions that exists regarding

whispering to each other asking when it would be over. John and Jack were my friends, and I was theirs. There wasn’t anything more to it. The preschool was attached to an all-girls high school, so during recess, our teachers would take us outside to the soccer field. It was on that soccer field when I first realized something wasn’t quite right. There was a game of boyschase-girls going on, where the boys for some reason chase the girls around. I don’t remember what happened once the boys actually caught up with the girls, but I believe it was just a one-sided game of tag, and I became stuck in the middle. Naturally, I began chasing the girls alongside John and Jack, and neither side thought anything of it. It was just a game, and I was just a player. We’d run after them as they’d squeal with delight once they reached their base, their safe haven. It wasn’t anything more than childhood innocence, until a teacher stepped in. She told me I was playing wrong, that John and Jack should be chasing me. I sat on the side of the field. That’s what my childhood was, the life of a tomboy. My friends were all boys, we’d walk in the creek near our neighborhood, trying to catch fish with our hands just to end up flinging mud from the creek bed at each other. We’d build ramps to fly off of on our bikes and stand up with green and red knees. I’d fight with my mom every Christmas concert when she’d force me into a dress and tights, only to be teased by my friends later who were shocked to see me wearing something other than jeans and a t shirt. I wasn’t a boy or girl. I was a kid. A kid who begged their parents to let them quit ice skating lessons and join a flag football team. A kid who practiced for hours in their garage learning how to ollie on a skateboard so they could prove to the boys that they could skate just as well as them. And eventually, a kid who surrendered to the increasing normality around them once their chest began to grow. Puberty was my wakeup call. Middle School is hell to everyone. When thinking back to their glory days, no one recalls the fond times they had during middle school. Mine were especially hard. I watched the girls around

transgendered people is that they simply possess a desire to be the opposite gender. While that isn’t false, there is much more to it. Transgenders are betrayed by their own biology and are born as a sex they do not identify with. I don’t want to be a male. I am a male. That’s what makes it so difficult, it isn’t a choice. It baffles me as to why anyone would even think that I chose this life. Yes, I make conscience decisions to make my outward appearance align with my inner, but it wasn’t my decision to make them clash. I didn’t choose to need to bind my chest tightly every morning so I don’t have to slouch. I didn’t choose to feel elation when a cashier calls me “sir,” only to be kicked back down when the woman I held the door for calls me “ma’am” moments later. I didn’t choose to hesitate when I need to speak just because my voice is higher than I’d like. I didn’t choose to wait until the moment I desperately need to use the restroom to finally cave and enter the room marked “woman” to receive double takes and looks of disapproval. And when the little girl washing her hands with her mother asks “Why is there a boy in here?” I rush into a stall before they can see the heat rising to the surface of my skin. I ask myself that question every day. Maybe my mother lifted a box that was too heavy while she was pregnant. Or maybe she accidentally inhaled secondhand smoke while passing an employee on break outside of JC Penney’s while going to buy a small dress for her new child. I know they seem farfetched, but scenarios like these put my mind to rest when I search for the flaw in my genetic makeup. I wish the answer was clear cut. I was five years old when I went to Catholic preschool. It was a pretentious establishment with a pretentious name, Duchesne Academy of the Sacred Heart. The boys wore white polo shirts and khaki pants. I had to wear a checkered dress with my name embroidered onto the collar. My two best friends where John and Jack. We spent our days together, building Lego towers as tall as our small bodies could reach, drawing pictures of dinosaurs fighting off jets with guns strapped to their backs. We’d sit next to each other during morning mass,

SEMAJ OEL me caking their eyelids with blue eye shadow and carrying around magazines covered with faces of boys and panicked. Somewhere along the line, I failed to read the manual on how to be a girl. Biting my tongue, I asked my mom if I could use her makeup when she picked me up after school. She was thrilled that I had strung that sentence together and took me out that afternoon to buy me my own. I think I used it twice. I dated boys, mistaking my feelings of admiration for them as something more. I made new friends that were girls and liked them a little more than I should have, and eventually accepted my fate as a lesbian in high school. It was a relief, really, that I could express my feelings for females, even though it was just another mask. And then I met Jean. She was the first girl I fell in love with. She was the first person who knew. I rested against the wall her bed was against, her legs extended across my lap as she stared at her ceiling dotted with glow in the dark stars. Her parents were out, not unlike any other night. Her younger cousin just left the room after proudly showing me his shiny new confederate flag belt buckle. I told him he was a character. He thought Jean was my best friend. I watched as a boat light slowly crossed her window facing the lake she lived on. She grabbed my hand. “Katie?” “Yeah?” I turned back to her as she sat up. “I want to ask you something.” My stomach dropped. With her, I never knew what was to come. “I don’t think I’m gay.” Her eyes stayed glued on mine as I looked away. My stomach was churning. She had done this before. Every few weeks she would break up with me, claiming she just wasn’t interested in girls, only to call me the next day and say it was a mistake. It was torture, but I loved her.

NEEUQ MORP “You’ve said this before Jean.” I got up from her bed and let go of her hand. I wanted to leave. “I don’t think you are either.” I stopped in my tracks. I had absolutely no idea where she was going with this. “Are you transgendered?” The words hit me like a train. I had a weak grasp on the concept of transgenderism, I didn’t know enough then. All I knew was that my peers thought transgendered people were freaks. I didn’t want to be a freak. “No!” I exclaimed, almost as if I were insulted. Maybe I was insulted, that she would associate that label with myself or that she even had to ask. But mostly, I felt

a strong wave of guilt consume me. “I’ll love you even if you are, I promise. I just need to know. It’s confusing for me, too, you know. But it’s okay.” She pulled me back to the bed. I looked her straight in her eyes. “I’m not transgendered,” I stated. “I’m just gay.” My words were weaker. She never brought it up again. She might have believed me, but she was smarter than that. She knew before I did, before anyone did, that I wasn’t “just gay.” It wasn’t that simple. We ran our course, broke up a couple dozen times more before calling it quits for good. And as much as I resented her for leaving me that final time, I’ve come to appreciate her for that moment, as it began my liberation from the confusion and doubt I had endured for years. When I finally came out for the second time to a small group of friends, I expected them to give their sincere we-love-you-no-matter-what’s and weare-so-happy-for-you’s, but I received a response that I appreciated so much more, one untied the knot in my stomach. “That makes sense.” It made sense to me, too. Hemingway told me to write hard and clear about what hurts. While I search for the clarity, it is easy to find what hurts. Hurt is easy, it demands to be felt. It pushes to the forefront of your life, and no matter how hard you shove it back down, it’s fumes linger until you find the strength to expel it from within. Until the day I no longer have to pass the crown my mother now displays in the glass cabinet in our living room, I will have to make peace with the plight to find peace. And I will be okay.

JAMES

LEO JAMES

LEO

PROM QUEEN

Apples By the laws of quantum physics, the heavy wind shifts. The wind doesn’t bring change; it’s pushed by it. With no one left to observe, to quantify the particles into reality, they bind to me, offering my arms to the sky. My palms open to the sun like the sunflowers you used to toil over. There are no other flowers. Only me. The leftover sand is too hot to sustain life. The wind pulls and the sand slides away, sifting to reveal my skin. It’s raw, flesh pink. My closed eyes follow lines of sinew. A map. I won’t need to explain where I’ve been. My body shouts for me.

I know not to expect you. My rib feels foreign.

We stop at the edge of Eden--the wind, the sand, and I--marked by the Tigris. The wind moves to remove my clothes, and the hemp fabric blows up like a sail. I remember when we used to float on our backs, naked. I reach up and snatch the fabric from the air with dirty hands. The squalls forfeit, and leave. Dark hair settles for the first time. It’s shorter than it used to be. It’s lighter than it used to be.

“Desert Winds” By Theresa Ann

I step towards the other instead, leaving behind a footprint of blood. With each step, these grass blades welcome themselves into me. This earth demands that I feel it. And there’s the apple. It’s the same color as, but darker than my blood. The last time, it bit my tongue as I bit into it. The bitter iron cut into the sweetness. You chew for that undertone. I’m reaching for it, but my hand covers my mouth instead. My fingers move to trail the curve of my bottom lip. Despite the dry cracks, I’m more supple than the ripe fruit. Death is a second chance; life is spent learning how we should have begun. I whisper.

I drag it as I circle the trunk. Around and around. Forty days and forty nights. It could have been months or years. Eventually, the tree falls. So do I. I land so the tree stump cuts into my neck, my head resting on its rings. There are more than a million. I’m bleeding. It looks as though the trunk is, too. I understand why we thought we were the center of the universe, as the sky continues to spin around me. It’s dark blue now. My eyes only expect to see the stars, but I know to look for you, Adam. You are above me, out of my body’s grasp. Beyond you, there is us. More than a billion lights. One for each of us. Something in me is able to reach out to you, and you meet me. “Where is He?” I ask.

“Come out.”

“Look down.”

The branch above my head shakes. The bark hardens to scales. The point that the limb embraces the tree crumbles. He drops into my waiting hands. He’s not as heavy as he wishes he was.

I turn my head from you, our fingers still touching. My blood had turned the grass green. It’s spreading out from the trunk. There His head lays on the stump.

I slide my left fist to just below his head and squeeze. He thrusts his lower jaw open. I squeeze until his mouth is big enough for the apple. I know Satan’s hissing, but I only hear the snap as his fangs penetrate the fruit’s flesh.

The river is dry now, Adam.

The apple that fell on Newton’s head is withering in Satan’s mouth. I let them fall. They hit the ground as the flaming sword: the snake the blade, the apple core the handle. I pick it up, and it molds to my hand.

I pull the crude dress over my burning side. This time I’ll enter alone. I’ll enter clothed, without the shame.

I wield it above my head, bring it down hard, and it sticks in the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

His body my own, with my cracked lips, He asks me. “Why?” I thought of all the times I had asked with no answer. I reply to God. “We allowed ourselves to be both. Good and evil.” He smiles. “I created you to be neither.” I nod. “To be human.”

LARIMORE

The wind doesn’t let me walk. My toes lift and I balance on my heels. The sand splashes up on either side. I glide, arms outstretched. I want to hold my side, agitate it in your name, but the air is too strong against me.

The sky is red now; the grass is dead. Out of all the trees, we are left with two. One is dead, and the other in bloom. I never thought there would be a time when the tree of life was no longer living.

MADISON

The last bits of sand retreat from my charred feet. I am spun to the east. I am going back to the garden.

Madison Larimore

Will Heaven Wait? Nick Wilkinson

laboratory. “You been to NamiCo since the war?” Hank thought back, remembering sleeping most of his time there. He could picture the eye-shocking white surroundings. It was the type of glow that made a man think he had finally gone to Heaven. Hank remembered the sense of peace he felt laying on the operating table. The drill’s hum, binding his flesh to the robotic arm sounded. “Can’t say I have.” Hank and Wayne weaved through the few cars parked in the lot as they walked. “You?” “I got tha rabies about six years ago when I dug into a raccoon. Hadn’t eaten for four or five days and I couldn’t make it down to the kitchen from where I was stayin’.” Hank slid his foot through a pool of sand and glass as he passed. “They gave me some meds and sent me on my way.” “Martinez still in town?” Hank asked. The two teetered on delving in on war talk. Each man knew they would need a lot more rum for that. “Haven’t seen him pitch in a while. I’d love for him to stay in this good city.” “A lot was lost here– ” “Hank. No.” Wayne stopped in his tracks. “Not right now.” “No, you not right now.” Hank pointed his steel finger at his buddy’s chest without saying another word, but it never left his mind. For thirty-six years it never left his mind. Hank and Wayne kept moving; the building ahead was made of tinted windows. A large set of stairs led up to a bank of doors. “I’m nervous,” Hank said, tossing his cigarette. “I know, buddy,” Wayne replied. Hank received news of terminal lung cancer five days ago. Five days later the doctors told him they could save him; his life didn’t have to end at a mere 117 years old. *** “S-h-a-r-b-y, HANK.” All the nurses and attendants stopped what they were doing and searched for the guttural roar. Everyone around Hank always stared, but he never noticed, always lost in his mind. He was on a mission. Today’s mission possibly the hardest one yet. Ms. Mimi typed in his name from behind her desk. “Your address, sir?” Ms. Mimi’s earring’s dangled as she looked up to see the six-foot-four Hank towering above.

wanted someone to save his life. Dr. 17 told Hank another professional would be in shortly. It hovered to the pod bank and locked itself in as Hank presumed it would. He felt bad for a moment. Hank waited. He changed into a hospital gown. Hank caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He watched his naked body. It was much older than he remembered. The hoary metal shoulder curved slightly around his collarbone. After the injury his tattoo read “mper Fi” on top and “rine Corps” on the bottom. His green eagle, globe and anchor were unscathed, but fading. Hank knew his hair would crumble into his hands. Eyebrows. Eyelashes. It would all fall out. A blonde man walked in. His neatly combed hair complimented a sharp, white smile. “Hello Hank, I’m Dr. 20. I was notified to take over with you. How are you?” the thin doctor asked. “Dr. 20? Doc-tor 20? What are Doctors 18 and 19 out for lunch?” Hank chuckledsnorted. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that.” Dr. 20 pulled his rolling stool up to Hank, who sat on a cold steel table. “Listen Hank, I don’t want to keep you here any longer than you need to be.” Dr. 20 pulled out a pen and paper and began to jot down notes. Hank was shocked. He hadn’t seen a pen in 35 years. “Whoa, Doc,” Hank said. “Pen and paper? I thought I was the oldest one in the room.” “I like how it feels in my hands,” Dr. 20’s left hand scribbled big enough to cover two lines. “Sometimes mistakes get made when you’re writing things down on a hologram page. Do you think you’re ready to start treatment?” “I think I’m ready to go home.” Hank saw one exit in the room when he looked around. “Home? But we haven’t even started.” Dr. 20 checked his watch. Hank respected the look of the doctor’s royal blue dress shirt and cream tie, but still not convinced it was time to decide. He didn’t know which choice was right. “Are you a religious man, Doctor?” “I am.” Hank couldn’t tell if it was a lie. “Do you believe man can disturb God’s plan?” “I believe man can impact God’s plan,” Dr. 20 replied. “If that weren’t true we wouldn’t have discovered language, textiles, art…chemotherapy. I’m not going to lie to you, the Walk causes severe pain. It could be seen as a trial given to man by his God—Our God.” Hank looked over the doctor’s shoulder. The Walk was deep and black, rounded at the top and flat at the bottom. Hank pictured the Kingdom of Heaven and all the watercolor description he heard throughout the years. He always chuckled at his battalion mates’ explanation of God and the unattainable

WILKINSON

NICK

grumpy since getting the news. “Yeah.” Hank wiped the leftover grease on his worn jeans and then switched to Vaseline. “And what’s in tha bag?” “Thisin’?” Wayne took a two-glug pull from the bottle and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Hank dipped his finger in the Vaseline and then dabbled his irritated skin where metal met man. He finished, tossing the cans in the truck and reached for Wayne’s bottle.. The two shared the Chevy since their time in the Marine Corps. Hank and Wayne slept in the same vicinity since the jungles of Korea. The nights on watch, the fire fights, the steaks and Budweiser, the leg, the arm. It all glued them together. “Got any Camels?” Wayne patted his chest, looking for a light. “Just the one.” Hank pulled a cigarette from the package and bobbed it between his lips, knowing there was one more left. Wayne did, too. “Let me get it this time,” Wayne said. His glasses were dirty, his shirt stained. “No.” Hank always left one cigarette in the pack and placed it somewhere for another person find. “There’s always some’on else needin’ a smoke. I’m just doin’ my part.” “Me. Do yer part for me.” Wayne reached out to grab the Camels. Hank pulled away. “You know how I operate.” Hank knew Wayne could have his own smokes, but preferred booze. The duo spent the week collecting soda bottles so they could turn them over for cash. By the weekend there was a bottle of rum and a carton of Camels at hand. They didn’t worry about food; the government took care of that. Rust fell from the side of the truck as Hank slammed the door shut. He looked out at the skyline. At the center of the city stood three golden towers. The sun bounced from the surface and lit up the morning. Further out was much shorter steel towers; the ones that have stood the test of time. Even farther away were short brick buildings and mounds of garbage. “Beautiful isn’it?” Hank lifted his arms; the fleshy one was shorter than the other. “What did the Yanks do last night?” Hank asked. “Didn’t hear?” Wayne surveyed the garbage heaps and the tractors pushing dust into the air toward NamiCo

did give me lung cancer. Maybe it is just time to go. Hank looked at the door. He could dart out right now, rev up the Chevy and leave New York. “Mr. Sharby? I can take you back now.” He recognized the white walls and white floors. The operating room was new. The large room looked like it belonged in a battleship’s hull. The doors had rounded corners. The walls were a faint green. A robot hovered near the center of the room. It was a four-foot white capsule with a screen on its chest and a glowing red camera for a face. Two long arms stretched out, the motor whizzed as the doctor arranged his tools on the steel table. “Ah, Hello, Henry. Welcome.” The robot hovered around the room to greet him. Hank slid his hand between four pointy rods the doctor used for fingers and shook. “Oh, I am still not used to that. I am Doctor Seventeen. I will be surveying your appointment today.” “How are ya, Doc?” Hank looked around for weapons and faces. After Ms. Mimi left he was the only human in the room. Hank plopped himself on the steel table. Five feet away, to his right was a large mirror, to his left more robot pods. Hank undermined the expertise of the doctor, knowing all doctoral knowledge was imported into its harddrive. All robotics lacked the empathy–an experience Hank knew all too well. “I can see from peering inside your chest that you are dealing with bronchogenic carcinomas. It is severe and spreading.” Hank felt violated. Dr. 17 could see everything–the wiring in his arm, grenade shrapnel in his lower back, cancer spreading–Hank didn’t want any of this. Dr. 17 measured all Hanks’ blood levels. The robot saw the disgust on Hank’s face, identifying Hank’s disapproval of the soulless artificial life. “You can see it, but you can’t feel it, huh Doctor.” “It is clear you are displeased with my practice. To avoid wasting your time I will convey treatment options to you.” Dr. 17 explained the rejuvenation process. It told Hank about the Walk patients take to cleanse them from all ailments. Dr. 17 mapped out the 100-foot tunnel, the stages of treatment and the intense pain felt. The guidelines were clear. It could become a life or death situation if Hank failed to make it through. Hank gritted his teeth. Typical of a robot to pass the buck. “Just give me some damn flesh to talk to,” Hank barked, wanting the upper hand. He wanted someone to look into his blue eyes and comply. He wanted someone to look into his eyes and convince him. He wanted someone to escort him out, tell him he was healthy and let him wander the streets forever. He

NICK

WILKINSON

ugust 5, 2083, Hank Sharby learned he would live. The black ink on white paper made it real. His red 2003 Chevy S-10 rattled through the parking lot. The brakes sighed relief as the truck stopped. “Wayne, where tha hell are ya?” Hank’s squinted, searching the massive parking lot. He searched the entrance to the NamiCo building to the beach. Weeds danced along the fence. Ocean water slapped against the sand and foamed. “There he is.” Hank saw just enough of Wayne’s sun-stained ball cap bobbing to know it was him. His friend appeared from the brush, carrying a brown-bagged liquor bottle in his left hand, in his right a walking stick. “Dammit,” Hank looked at the dashboard clock, 6:46am. “He already got the day started.” Hank noticed Wayne’s robotic leg pumping with each motion. . It would take Wayne a while to drag his prosthetic leg and his liquor over to the truck so Hank took his time. He looked at the three tattered garbage bags in his passenger seat; each one filled with dirty clothes. Hank scavenged between the bags for a half-pint of Ezra Brooks. He shook the remains around, unscrewed the cap, and sucked down what he could. The rum burn tickled the roof of his mouth. Hank stepped out of the truck; his bare feet, cold on the pavement. He reached for his boots, took a whiff and tossed them to the ground. They smelled like bad peanut butter; his camouflage jacket, like boiled cabbage. The left sleeve was cut off at the shoulder so his robotic limb could fit through. Wayne was closer now. The sun reflected of his glasses. Long white strands of hair escaped his hat, waving back and forth as he moved. “Hey, grunt,” Hank cupped his hands and yelled. Wayne lifted his walking stick. Hank knew there was a smile hiding somewhere under his mustache. The New York sun was high and seagulls floated on the summer air. Hank tied his boots and grabbed two cans from the console: Vaseline and Valvoline. “Greasin’ up?” Wayne asked as he hobbled up to his old friend. Hank grabbed a glob of red grease and massaged his iron shoulder. His fingers smushed grease between the plates and wiring, working from the shoulder, moving to the wrist. Hank had been

“S-10 Chevrolet,” Hank said, knowing his home was wherever he ran out of gas, or the beach. “Red Street.” Ms. Mimi typed. “Date of birth?” “February the second, 1966.” Ms. Mimi typed. “Marital status?” “Single.” Ms. Mimi began to type, but hesitated. “Divorced?” “No.” She asked for his driver’s license number. Hank proceeded to tell her he didn’t have one. He pulled out his black leather wallet. All it contained were his social security card and a movie ticket stub. “Emergency contact?” she asked. Hank looked around the lobby–Two women and three old men besides Wayne. “Uhhh … It’ll be a guy named Wayne. Red ball cap. Location: this lobby right here.” Wayne emerged from the corner, pockets stuffed with food, four coffees and an ear-to-ear smile. “That one,” Hank told her. “The doctor will call you soon. Please, take a seat.” Hank scavenged through the snacks and guzzled down coffee. Wayne went sip for sip between rum and coffee. “All I want to do is go back to the S-10,” Hank said to Wayne and then buried half a Butterfinger in his mouth. “Let’s just get out of here. Let’s go find some cans. We’ll be behind schedule if we’re going to get some party favors for the weekend.” Wayne patted Hank’s leg, “You’ll be alright, brotha.” Hank could tell he was drunk. Wayne always patted people too hard when he got drunk. I don’t deserve this. Hank knew the guidelines of the treatment—a full-body restoration. Brand new arm, brand new skin, and lungs. Hank asked God what he did to deserve this as he thumbed the steel cross in his pocket. He made it from leftover trip wire in 2047, while deployed in Korea. Hank reached for a smoke, but remembered he was all out. Hank thought back on a moon-faced boy he saw in a village. He couldn’t have been older than five; naked and dragging a bag through the dirt, the boy was probably walking home. Hank begged for the him to drop the bag. The child kept moving. Follow protocol. Hank screamed. The child was too fatigued to focus on the American’s roar. Hank cocked his rifle. Tears drained from the corners of his eyes–aimed his barrel at the child’s nose and fired. Now he sat in this lobby, about to get a second chance at life. That Korean boy didn’t even get one chance. Hank thought about his diagnosis. He thought all the cigarettes and the firefights where there was nothing to breathe but black smoke. “Is this what God wants?” Hank asked to a passed out and snoring Wayne. Or does God want me to go right now? He

knowledge of the divine. It was there. God was there. Hank knew that, but what he could never know was the plan. Would God turn his back on Hank if he didn’t answer the call home? “I’ll do it,” Hank said. His eyes were red, tears begged to fall, but didn’t. “Promise me you’ll put this at the end of the tunnel for me.” Hank handed Dr. 20 his cross. “I will,” Dr. 20 picked the cross from Hank’s palm, examined it and dropped it into the pocket of his lab coat.

*** He didn’t remember passing out. The hospital room was the same faint green as before–unclear whether it was dawn or dusk. Hank looked at his hands and noticed he had no fingernails. His skin was smooth, no hair or freckles. His new eyes saw color in a way Hank had forgotten existed. “Thank god you’re awake.” Hank recognized Dr. 20’s voice. There were

never batted an eye, but relived the scenes alone at night. Almost four decades later, sadness and doubt remained, regarding life and death, and the power of man— until now. Every hour in the jungle made the war more and more unclear. The setting never changed. The struggle never ended. Hank felt nothing. He left for Korea and returned to a country foreign to him. Hank forgot how to live as a civilian. The blood and iron ingrained something new in our heads. It can never be undone. But it didn’t need to be. Hank blitzed into the hallway, down the glass staircase and through the empty lobby. It was dark out. The wet parking lot sparkled under the lights. The rusty Chevy S-10 waited alone at the back of the lot. Hank held his side; blood spilled, staining his hand. “You’re truly a work of art, Hank.” Dr. 20 walked down the NamiCo stairs, closer to Hank. He ditched his lab coat and rolled up his sleeves. “I can fix that.” He pointed to Hank’s wound. “You stay away from me,” Hank barked. He was unarmed and unprepared. “I gave you a gift,” Dr. 20 loosened his tie from around his neck. “I gave you

something you never imagined. I can let you live forever. You belong to a new breed.” Dr. 20 wanted Hank. He wanted him to work and fix him whenever he was broken. Hank was the perfect candidate: no family, home, job, or future. Hank knew he was hurt. Dr. 20 knew it, too. Hank only knew one way out— fight. He went for Dr. 20’s throat. In one motion, Dr. 20 slid out of the way and hit Hank back of the head. He pulled a syringe from his pocket, uncapped it and held it toward Hank. “I mentioned we perfected a way for patients to maintain neurological functions.” The doctor knelt down. “But we also perfected a way to erase whatever needed.” Hank looked up at him. This was the end. And it wasn’t as serene as he imagined. “Say goodbye, Hank.” The doctor aimed for Hank’s jugular. He winced, waiting for the sting of finality. CRACK. Glass shattered over Dr. 20’s shoulder. A stream of blood ran between blue eyes. He was dead. “Hey, grunt.” Hank knew that filthy voice. He heard that phrase a million

times before. Wayne. Usually, he was there to pick up the pieces, but this time he was there to make them shatter. “You wouldn’t believe my day,” Wayne said. “Woke up drunk as security carried me out. Tossed me on my ass. Ya wouldn’t believe the sting I felt on my cheeks.” “You wouldn’t believe my day, partner,” Hank replied. The blood on Hank’s lip was hot; the air outside cold. He liked feeling cold. It made him feel alive. Hank laughed. Wayne wrapped his friend in a blanket he grabbed from the truck. “Only reason I knew it was you was cuz you were covered in blood,” Wayne said. “I never seen a man covered in blood more times than you.” Hank climbed to his feet. Wayne had saved his life again. “How did you make it out of there? I heard shots and was about to drive off.” Hank and Wayne limped toward the truck. “Don’t ask me how.” Hank stopped and looked into his friend’s eyes. “Ask me why.”

WILKINSON

NICK

Hank stared at the red circle bouncing at the bottom of doorway; on the opposite side bobbed its blue counterpart. “Alright Hank, I’m going to go charge up the machine,” Dr. 20 said over the intercom. The Walk sung like a hand drill as Dr. 20 pulled the lever. The red and blue circles swung on a pendulum toward one another against the black of the Walk’s structure. At the top of the archway a single purple circle hovered above the entrance for a split second as the two circles crossed. “Go ahead and step in, Hank. Take your time. Don’t walk too fast. When you can’t move, count down from five and step forward, one foot at a time.” Three steps in a door slid down behind Hank, trapping him in darkness aside from the purple glow of the swinging circles. The Walk began to scan Hank on the fourth step. On the fifth it neutralized his nerve endings. Hank listened to the hum of the Walk. The monotonous tone sped up as Hank trotted. Five feet into the tunnel it whooped like a helicopter blade. The sound shocked him. A blast of yellow light filled the tunnel, causing Hank’s eyes to feel like someone was strumming on his optical nerve. His skin bounced. The air was hot and hard to breathe. “You’re doing fine, Hank,” Dr. 20 said. “I’m going to up the ante a bit, OK?” “OK,” Hank shouted over the machine. He dragged his feet forward and rubbed his eyes to relieve the pain. He felt the increase jetting from the Walk. Waves of color vibrated through his body. Red, green, silver, orange. The helicopter roar increased to a constant race of sound. Hank’s skin was hot. He threw up in his hands and stopped. “Hank, keep moving” Dr. 20’s voice, a faint whisper. “I can’t do this!” Hank gargled and puked again. The hot vomit settled between his toes. “Hank, if you don’t do this you’re going to die.” He thought about it. Right now that wasn’t such a bad idea. He heard children’s laughter. Colorful rays blasted his skin. Then he heard bumble bees, no—killer bees. He could feel them

other men in the room who chuckled at his remark. Hank slowly sat up. His tattoos were gone. Around the room stood the lanky Dr. 20, Dr. 17, another floating pod, and two green armored men. Their faces hidden by gas masks. Hank was forced to stare down two rifle barrels as the men aimed at him. “What the hell is going on?” “Mr. Sharby, we wanted to thank you for your bravery. In fact, we were quite surprised with the results.” Dr. 20 waltzed with confidence as an army stood behind him. “You’re the first successful full body restoration since— me.” Dr. 20 appeared unarmed. The door was locked. The pods weren’t capable of taking Hank down. He looked around the room again. “This was my life’s work, Hank. Since the 1950’s, the NamiCo brand searched for the proverbial Fountain of Youth.” Dr. 20 came closer to Hank. He hadn’t a blemish anywhere on his skin. “I was nearly dead by the time I had perfected the Walk. Three of my followers gave up their lives to make sure I finished the Walk—the future of humanity.” The guards closed in on Dr. 20’s sides. “Imagine the possibilities, Hank. We can go to the ends of the universe and back. There’s no need for tales of God and the creation. We are God. We are the creators.” Then Hank remembered his robotic arm. It was there in the middle of the Walk, able to be weaponized if needed. “Have you forgotten how to speak?” Dr. 20 grabbed Hank’s chart. Dr. 17 pulled full body scans onto a frame. “I thought we cleared any chance of neurological disruption.” The guards relaxed. It was Hank’s only shot. He leapt from the table. Bullets tattered the surroundings as Hank dove for his old arm. He flexed brand new muscles that he thought were lost. “Hank! Come out. You’re property of NamiCo now,” a guard grunted from the entrance. Hank grabbed his steel appendage. Bullets rang in the tunnel. He jumped from the ground and ran out the opposite end. The Walk activated. “Watch out,” Hank yelled to the guard. It was too late. The Walk’s rays closed in and melted the guard’s armor. He screamed, turning into a puddle. Hank darted for the door. The pods were gone. Dr. 20 was gone. Only the other soldier waited for Hank. He fired. Bullets cut through Hank’s new skin, but his momentum carried him into collision. Hank took three bullets, two to the gut and one to the left arm. He had enough strength to push the guard’s mask off, falling on top of him. Hank used his prosthetic arm to hit the guard’s face again and again. Blood poured from the carnage. That’s what Hank loved the most, humanity’s fragility. During his time in Korea, Hank

NICK

WILKINSON

***

swarming around him. Hank started to scream as the imaginary bees compacted into his mouth and nose. Blue, black, blue, black–the light shook him. He couldn’t do it. Hank hit the floor face first. He landed on a bed of muddy earthworms. He could hear them slushing together; their gooey bodies slithered against his face. Hank’s skin bubbled and stripped away into the Walk’s gusts of light. He needed God, but He wasn’t there. Hank cried on the floor into his melting hands. He turned on his back and guzzled sweet air and foam. Small shades of black pulsed in the corner of his eyes to his heartbeat; a flash in his vision as his heart burst. The worst was over. He remembered lying in the wet grass in Korea. Purple signaling smoke spiraled into the air. An array of colors awed him–The turquoise of midday, pink from the rush of adrenaline in his eyes, and the lilac ghost dancing in the wind. It took four blankets to stop the blood flowing from his freshly shot off arm. He stopped screaming; his throat was raw. He was in a drug induced trance with uncomfortable feelings of pick me up out of this hot, wet grass and let me lay here till I die of old age. He felt that way now. It was a relief he never thought he would experience again. The hallway spun like the arm of a compass. Everything came back into focus. “GET UP, HANK. GET UP. GET UP,” Dr. 20 said through the crackling intercom. Hank tried to sit up. Through the flashes of light, he saw his robotic arm on the floor five feet back. Then he realized his left arm was now his own. It was there, five fingers black against the beaming colors. “I can do this,” Hank whispered. “I can do this, Doc.” “Good, Hank,” Dr. 20 said. “We need you.” Hank propped himself up on his hands and crawled. He slid out of his old, war-torn skin. The husk of his old body collapsed in on itself. Hank reached for the edge, the door slid open and a frosty blast tickled his wet, new skin. The fluorescent light above was bleak. He reached for his cross. New fingertips surveyed the iron floor. The wiring was gone. His old skeleton was charred.

“Train Station, England” By Matt Cikovic

Movement Publishing is a group of talented students participating in UNLâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s English 355: Editing and Publishing class. We come from various degree pursuits and a range of personalities that make us a unique and successful team. Simply put, we rock. All our creations are the product of our collaboration and hard work. MANAGING EDITOR

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