The Chameleon, 2020 Edition | A Literary and Arts Journal by Norwich University students

A LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL

2020

2020 Editors-in-Chief Carli Harris, Sarah Kazmierczak, Echo Kent, Faith Odegbami, and Ben Zacher

Faculty Advisor Professor Sean Prentiss

Special Thanks We offer special thanks to Robert Halleck, Miciah Bay Gault, Professor Lenny Hu, Professor Michel Kabay, Professor Kaitlin Thomas, Professor Cara Armstrong, Professor Arthur Schaller, Professor Travis Morris, the Peace and War Center, and the Office of Communications.

The Allan Nason Prose Prize ($250) Allan Leonard Hastings Nason (1889-1970) was a Norwich graduate in the class of 1920. Nason was an untamed spirit, and it shows in his writing. He wrote about war and soldiers, and his characters are not respectful of authority. Typically, they are trying to find a way to come out ahead, though not at the expense of the war effort. His accounts of war focus on an individual in relation to the whole war machine, and the way the machine grinds all down. The Allan Nason Prose Prize goes to the best piece of prose that deals with Corps of Cadets’ life or war.

The Robert Halleck Poetry Prize ($250) Robert Halleck is a 1964 graduate of Norwich University. Poetry has been a love of his for over 60 years. He lives in Del Mar, California, with his wife Della Janis. Bob is a member of San Diego’s Not Dead Yet Poets and hopes to continue with that group for many years. A Google search for Robert Halleck Poetry will turn up his latest work. The Robert Halleck Poetry Prize is awarded to the best poem by a Norwich student.

The Chameleon Prize ($150) The Chameleon Prize is awarded by the Chameleon editors to the best piece written by a Norwich University student. This prize is supported by the Department of English and Communications.

All art and writing included here are creative in nature. That said, some of these pieces might deal with traumatic issues. If any reader is looking for support, a great resource is Norwich University’s Counseling and Wellness Center. Information can be found at:

https://www.norwich.edu/counseling/964-counseling-and-wellness.

Cover Artwork By: Rebecca Friend Artwork Title: Without My Eyes You Don’t Know Me

Contents Alumni Corner .................................................................................................................................................3 A Diaspora of Sorts ....................................................................................................................................... 6 February at The Lewes, Delaware American Legion Post #17 ..........................................................7 Ode for Classmates We Have Lost ........................................................................................................... 8 Altoids Tins Art ..............................................................................................................................................10 Familiar Vines ................................................................................................................................................ 12 Wetlands ......................................................................................................................................................... 13 Artwork by Lauren N. Trippiedi .................................................................................................................14 Chinese Poetry Translations ......................................................................................................................16 Military Writers’ Symposium Student Science-Fiction Contest .....................................................20 Dear Mom, here’s what I can tell you about being in the space force ......................................... 22 Artwork by Rebecca Friend ....................................................................................................................... 32 Find Fix Finish............................................................................................................................................... 34 Virtual Reality, War, and the After Effects ............................................................................................40 Spanish Poetry Translations .....................................................................................................................48 Five Questions with Miciah Bay Gault .................................................................................................. 58 Artwork by Rebecca Friend ........................................................................................................................61 Inevitable ........................................................................................................................................................ 62 Memories .......................................................................................................................................................64 Big Living .......................................................................................................................................................66 Artwork by Lauren N. Trippiedi ................................................................................................................ 67 Mornings and Nights ..................................................................................................................................68 The Truth About Love ................................................................................................................................70 Artwork by Neroly Mora ............................................................................................................................. 71 White-tailed Doe .......................................................................................................................................... 72 A Traitor’s Dream ......................................................................................................................................... 73 Artwork by Rebecca Friend ....................................................................................................................... 74 Gaping............................................................................................................................................................. 76 Skin Deep ....................................................................................................................................................... 77 A Graphic Memoir in Spanish .................................................................................................................. 78 Artwork by Rebecca Friend ....................................................................................................................... 82 The Secret Place ..........................................................................................................................................84 Lifeline: A Series of Vignettes ..................................................................................................................90 Artwork by Serene Martens ...................................................................................................................... 93 Long Distance ...............................................................................................................................................94 Echo Taps ....................................................................................................................................................... 95 Artwork by Neroly Mora ............................................................................................................................96 The Whole Turkey........................................................................................................................................98 Artwork by Serene Martens .................................................................................................................... 108 My Friend Corey ..........................................................................................................................................110 The Perfect Night ....................................................................................................................................... 112 Artwork by Price Webb ............................................................................................................................. 114

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ALUMNI COR The Chameleon wants to take a moment to highlight not only current Norwich University students but also to look at Norwich University graduates to see how the creative arts have stayed with them since their time on campus.

For our first look at alumni, Faith Odegbami, one of our editors-in-chief, interviewed Robert Halleck. Halleck has been an advocate for poetry for many years and is the founder of the Robert Halleck Poetry Prize and the Allan Nason Prose Prize. His full bio can be seen on the opening page of this Chameleon.

Faith conducted this interview because she was the 2019 Robert Halleck Poetry Prize Winner.

Robert Halleck ’64 2

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Faith Odegbami: What did poetry mean to you when you were a young writer? Have your feelings developed or changed in any way?

Robert Halleck: I discovered poetry in a 10th grade English class at Dubuque Senior High when we had a section on the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. I thought it all pretty silly until Fern Andrews had a “Come to Jesus” meeting with me after school. It really flipped the switch. “The Raven” and “Annabelle Lee” became favorites, and you can imagine how dreadful my imitations on rhyme and the rhythmical creation of beauty were. Poetry became a way to record observations, opinions, and feelings.

Through the years it has become a real hobby with a serious pursuit of craft, hundreds of submissions to publications, resulting in hundreds of rejections, and the grand total of $7.00 in earnings. Open mics and workshops are important parts of my life.

Poems still generally reflect my life feelings and opinions at any one time but everything is so much deeper. It is my major escape from the ordinary. It also develops an interesting circle of friends who are open, helpful, and generally kind. If you find yourself in a group of poets who don’t meet that description, move on. You create in silence and solitude but you get better in groups.

Faith Odegbami: As a poet myself, a lot of my poetry is confessional poetry. To what extent is your poetry based off of real life experience?

my poems—is now looking back 50-plus years to younger days. You will find this with some of the great confessional poets like Stephen Dunn, Carl Dennis, Robert Bly, and James Wright. Most have some distance between the event and the poem.

Frankly, most young poets looking back over a short span are not that interesting.

To me it takes time. When Mary Ellen’s mother made her give me back my high school ring, it was devastating. I most likely wrote a poem that wasn’t that good.

Now over 61 years later, the poem is richer and more complicated.

Now I try to write more lyric poetry because it is harder for me. I do write a lot of poems about Dubuque, Iowa, and they are best described as narrative and lyrical. It’s kind of like a William Somerset Maugham short story where he is often a minor character describing friends and places. You have to be careful reading my poems because the narrator is not necessarily me, and I may be lying. What I am telling you may not have happened to me. Robert Frost is very unreliable in “The Road Not Taken.” Can you be sure it made all the difference by taking the other path?

A final point here. I have an offbeat sense of humor and can have weeks of producing poems that have little zingers on the end. They are not great poems but they suit my fancy. It really is a James Tate and Louis Jenkins world where strange things happen to ordinary people.

Robert Halleck: In one way or another most of my poems have a basis of life experience but the best—if there is such a word for

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ALUMNI COR Faith Odegbami: When crafting poems do you let creativity drive you or do you give yourself structured prompts to guide you?

Robert Halleck: Wow, I am not sure. I find now I produce less and poems end up in odd places. Like Billy Collins says, there is a difference between the subject you start with and the subject you discover. I work well off of prompts but I don’t seek them out. You will not see me reading an article about “Ten prompts for winter poems.” You will find me in generative workshops like the ones at Kenyon College every summer or at one of Peter Murphy’s writing getaways at Stockton College in New Jersey. My main prompts come from lines of poetry or the whole poem itself.

I get led somewhere and a poem results.

Remember you have to spend 80% of your effort reading and 20% or a little less writing. That’s a given and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Plus, you have to revise, revise, revise. You have to read your poem out loud at every stage. Poetry was verbal in its beginnings. Go to as many open mics and workshops as you can. They are better than solitary searches for prompts. Plus, stealing is a permissible activity for poets.

This may be a good place to mention that I spend time each year writing in form, which is hard for me. When you do, you realize the genius of Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, etc. The odd forms like ghazels are fun to play with. Terrance Hayes’ “Golden Shovel” is a current favorite.

One of my friends just used a chapter out of the Bible for a “Golden Shovel.” Better than most prompts.

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had years when I didn’t write much. Like James Wright said in “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota,” “I have wasted my life.” There is always a poem in my head. It sometimes takes a long time to come out, but I know it will. I don’t care if anyone reads it. I don’t care if it is not that good. I only care that it was in me and now it is out. They can bury the last one with my ashes up on Dole Hill.

Faith Odegbami: Who are some of your favorite poets? Do you have craft books that you are fond of? Ones you return to often?

Faith Odegbami: When did you know writing was going to be part of you for the rest of your life.?

Robert Halleck: This is a tough question. I am a bit like a chameleon on plaid in that I will change, but I come back to Keats and Coleridge, James Wright, Larry Levis, Richard Hugo, Phil Levin, Stephen Dunn, Jack Gilbert, Ada Limon, Natalie Shapero, Dorianne Laux, and Weldon Kees. For craft books I love Richard Hugo’s Triggering Town, which I have read and recommended for years. Stephen Dobyns has two fine craft books: Best Word, Best Order and Next Word, Better Word. Pay special attention to his articles on pacing and line breaks. You should never give the reader a chance to stop reading. Learn how to pace a poem, move the reader to the next line, keep them dancing. Ever wonder why so many really good poets never use question marks. Because you are going to stop and think of the answer. The last line is probably the best place for the question mark. Finally, any craft book or book of analysis by Helen Vendler, Donald Justice, James Longenbach, Jane Hirshfield, and Ellen Bryant Voigt are worth your time, but I warn you they are very hard to understand. I will close by saying Steve Kowit’s In the Palm of Your Hand is a must own. He was a wonderful teacher and human being.

Robert Halleck: This should be my shortest reply. Real quick—like before the end of that 10th grade class. Sure, I have

Faith Odegbami: Thank you, Mr. Halleck, for your time and your answers! Now we’d love to share a few of your poems.

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A Diaspora of Sorts

by Robert Halleck

It is a large church and cemetery unlike its congregation shrunk small.

Headstones grouped by family name show few dates after 1980.

To this small town size 1347 life returns once a year on a Thursday in November.

Originally published in the North Dakota Review.

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February at The Lewes, Delaware American Legion Post #17

by Robert Halleck Inside the first post in the First State we drink ordinary wine in February’s early darkness.

Because we need its existence we search for the insight that comes when it is late and we are very lost.

Two drunk Viet vets play Eight Ball. Another punches up The Eagles Take it Easy on the internet jukebox.

Windows hold back the night.

Pelicans coast the wind.

Cottages and condos left to cold. Wind laced whitecaps rebuilt summer dunes.

The detritus of summer: ripped swimsuits washed ashore, abandoned buckets, chairs with ripped canvas.

Infinite regress—shrieks of joy as a child breaks waves.

The sounds disappear.

The child disappears.

We didn’t know we had everything.

Originally published in the Northeast Indiana Review.

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Ode for classmates we have lost

by Robert Halleck

On a hot day in 1964 we were 212.

Many of us were close, others not so much as we shared classes, parades, weekends, barracks life.

We left to start with lives, wives, careers.

Forgive me if my mind pales on details.

Time only goes one way. In time reunions occur beneath the Parades silver maples.

Under that lofty canopy of green a Corps in step left foot on drums beat lines very trim and neat.

We share stories with no end save what we make up. The wise know the time you have with someone today may be the only time you have.

Too soon a slowing of steps, use of third legs, wheeled seats as we care less about much and sing a tuneless Alma Mater recalling every third word and mumbling the rest. The Pale Horse has room on her back as she grazes on the hills of Vermont. Cruel time which takes in trust our youth, our joys leaves us but with age and memories as we part.

Norwich Forever.

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Altoids Tins Art Those who enjoy art know that it can be found in everything, from paintings to buildings, to product packaging.

Norwich professors Cara Armstrong and Arthur Schaller combined all three of these to teach their architecture students how to convey emotion through 3D objects. Given some paint, a prominent historical figure, and simple Altoids tins, students created shrines that embodied the style of their assigned person. By taking their figures’ most esteemed accomplishments, ideas, and qualities, the class created small monuments dedicated to them.

Each student’s work showcased unique attributes: their focus ranged from artistic elements, like organic forms and color, to theories of thought, such as feminism.

The project gave students “greater insight into someone else’s thinking,” said Charles Vasas, a freshman architecture major. Another student, Alyssa Brink, described this concept as understanding “the art of an idea.”

Professors Armstrong and Schaller were student-oriented throughout the assignment, putting emphasis on how the students themselves navigate the thinking process and pay creative homage to others while remaining true to their own style.

“I get these crazy thoughts,” said student Ben Mitchell, commenting on his artistic methods. “[This project] was a way to really bring my creativity out.”

Altoids tin designs by architecture students.

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familiar vines

by Faith Odegbami With our blood, we wrote our stories in code Etched in a double helix of truth together they swirled and morphed together Growing together like greedy vines thirsting for light Creating buds of their own that will spring forward When we become weak and overgrown Soon to be clipped from the vines we once forged Crumbling like ashes as we blow away in the coming winds Carried away in heavy gust that move everything but our souls Forever to remain in the space we claimed Whispering to the echoing sprits around us We are the familiar vines that grow together In hope of reaching the highest points possible In the hopes of claiming the sky

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wetlands

by Donald Pastures An endless swath of daggers, Rusted to a green-orange hue.

Enshrouding an expanse, That separates me and you.

Sharpened pillars scraping the sky, Above dwellings where sleeping heads lie.

A silver flow reaching across, Closing a gap giving even giants pause.

A marbled expanse, Endless ripples rising and falling, Blanketing over a somber day.

A wall of trunks enclosing us, Providing us sanctuary through the storm.

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Artwork By: Lauren N. Trippiedi Artwork Title: #3 15

CHINESE POETRY TRANSLATIONS Professor Lenny Hu teaches Chinese here at Norwich University.

Professor Hu assigns his Chinese students the task of writing and translating poetry between Chinese and English. Echo Kent, one of the Chameleon editors-in-chief, talked to Professor Hu about his translation work. Professor Hu mentioned that he believes that teaching students about translation is an important skill because translating from one language to another allows for more student growth in the language that they choose to study because it will help in being more accurate in studying and knowing the language.

When Professor Hu was a student himself, he was an English major in China and would translate work from English to Chinese.

When he came to North America, he took a translation course with a professor who helped him to cultivate his passion for translating languages.

Professor Hu is looking forward to having his students translate works from the Chameleon into Chinese but also having his students submit their works. When asked if he would have his students submit Chinese poetry, Professor Hu stated, “I will have a course this semester [Spring 2020] called Tang Dynasty. The Tang Dynasty was a long time ago, and the poetry is not the same as modern Chinese poetry. I might encourage the students to write in a style of Tang Dynasty poetry.”

We are excited to share Professor Hu’s students’ poetry translated between English and Chinese. In the Chameleon’s 60-year history, this is the first time that the Chameleon has published creative writing in a language other than English. We are so thankful for Professor Hu and his students for turning the Chameleon into a multilingual literary journal.

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untitled

by Zenghui Zhang Rainstorm comes I hold up an umbrella for you You shake your head Say you don’t like this umbrella Rather to get yourself wet

下雨了 我为你撑起一把雨伞 你摇摇头 说你不喜欢这把雨伞 宁愿淋湿

Wind blows I put on a coat for you You shake your head Say you don’t like this coat Rather to get yourself cold

起风了 我为你披上一件衣裳 你摇摇头 说你不喜欢这件衣裳 宁愿着凉

……

……

One day You tell me that let’s be together I shake my head Say I’m tired of your lies Rather to get myself alone

有一天 你对我说我们在一起吧 我摇摇头 说我厌倦了你的虚伪 宁愿孤独

untitled

by Drew English Many people love my motherland She is very free and very safe But some people hate her freedom They want to hurt her and make her bleed No, she cannot bleed I must protect my mother country

我的祖国 很多人爱我的祖国. 她很自由很安全. 可是有人讨厌她的自由. 想伤害她要她流血. 不,她不能流血. 我必须保护我的祖国.

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MY TANGERINE

by Brandon Sigurdsson We parted each other.

My Tangerine, I really think fondly of you.

In my heart, Our love resides.

Every day I long for you, perhaps we can meet once again?

我们分别了， 我的橘子。 我真的很眷念你， 在我的心里， 我还是恋着你。 每一天， 我思念你， 或许， 我们还会再见？

LIKE TIME

by Samuel Sotiropoulos I start, But never stop From morning to night I am real, I am not fake I am with you Through your whole destiny, I am with you forever.

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我开始， 但我永不停止， 我早晚都醒着。 我是真的， 不是假的， 在你的整个命运中， 我如同是时间， 永远与你同在。

INNER

MILITARY W RITING $250

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LAN NAS ALW

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by Qiao Guannan In the majesty and solemnity, Amidst scorching heat, The 200 year anniversary ceremony opens.

With the familiar slogans and strides, Accompanied by the sound of the drum; We are marching toward tomorrow, more glorious!

Competitions that challenged the limit of our abilities, Have forged us, Not ever to say “No” to the brilliancy.

久违的庄严与肃穆 伴着酷暑 迎来了200周年的庆典 熟悉的口号和步伐 随着鼓点 迈向更加激昂的明天 对自身极限的不断挑战 铸就了我们 永不言弃的璀璨

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Military Writers’ Symposium Student Science-Fiction Contest The Norwich University Military Writers’ Symposium hosted a student science fiction contest. Below are the top three winners, Maverick Wayment, Dylan Cicero, and Ben Zacher. Before we share their stories, we share an interview with the winner, Maverick Wayment.

Maverick Wayment is the author of “Dear Mom, Here’s What I Can Tell You About Being in the Space Force” and the winner of the Warfare in the 21st Century: Future Battlegrounds writing contest. The contest, hosted by the Norwich University Peace and War Center and the College of Graduate and Continuing Studies, was open to all undergraduate and graduate students at Norwich, and was awarded at the Norwich University Military Writers’ Symposium. Each entry was judged on “creativity, incorporation of story parameters, incorporation of real-world trends, and how well the story is constructed.” Maverick was interviewed on his story, the inspiration behind it, and the process of creating and writing it,

by Ben Zacher, one of The Chameleon editors-in-chief.

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Ben Zacher: Do you have a military background?

Maverick Wayment: I used to be active duty in the Army. I’m also an Air Force veteran.

I’m in the Vermont Air National Guard and went to Afghanistan. Not this last summer, but the summer before that [2018].

Ben Zacher: What made you want to write “Dear Mom, Here’s What I can Tell You About Being in the Space Force?”

Maverick Wayment: I’ve been wanting to write something like this for years. Ever since I read about this thing called SUSTAIN. It’s an acronym, and it stands for Small Unit Space Transport and Insertion. Basically, the Marines have been asking the Air Force about how feasible it would be to put three Marines on some kind of rocket out of Cape Canaveral and then deliver them to anywhere in the world within less than an hour in case you have like an Iranian hostage crisis kind of thing going on.

Ben Zacher: Your story won first place. What did the committee like about your story?

Maverick Wayment: What I heard that the committee liked specifically was the fact that it wasn’t so much the technical military but the geopolitical background that I gave to it. Basically, my biggest concern that I have right now is that there is an underclass in the Third World, of military age males who are unemployed, destitute economically, somehow filled with despair. That turns to anger, and usually results in hatred.

Ben Zacher: What spurred your interest in wanting to write specifically about this?

Maverick Wayment: When I was in the ninth grade, I used to play Halo 3: ODST nonstop. So probably that, honestly. But then just a genuine interest in the geopolitics of it all. I’m genuinely interested in the future of the world. I want to make people more aware of how factions come out of nowhere. It’s written in an article in my story by a professor, and the title of the article is actually ‘Expect more groups like ISIS in the future.’

Ben Zacher: What was the process of building the story and researching all of this?

Maverick Wayment: I take what they’re posing on paper, and then I make a likely conclusion as to how that would actually develop. So, they have this whole SUSTAIN system and then that develops into some kind of spacecraft and they give it a particular name. My whole idea was that doing this kind of operation this way would require a very specialized person, and that they would have to create a whole new kind of unit within this new space force, separate from groups like the SEALs. And the other thing that was featured was a prompt global strike. I then wanted to show the depiction of death with service members in the future. People still do die. Because that’s what being in the military entails. And then at the end of it, the very last document story is a letter from the Commandant of the spaceport to the mother of the main character, and I actually based it off of three different letters from World War II in Korea.

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Dear Mom, here’s what I can tell you about being in the space force

by Maverick D. Wayment Subject: Documents concerning Operations Sharks and Avalanche To: shell.gideon.mil@mail.mil From: constance.hayek.song.mil@mail.mil (the following attachments enclosed in this email are to remain encrypted and may not be shared outside of AFSAC information systems) wellend-letter-to-mother-intercepted-4-sep.pdf (59.9 KB)

SCIENCE-FICT ION 1 st PLAC E WINNE R

Dear Mom, How are you and Jeremy doing? How’s the high school? I hope it hasn’t been torn down yet, I want to see it one last time before they do. I still can’t believe they’re getting rid of it. All that history, Dad’s history, Grandpa’s, yours. I suppose it’s inevitable, but I still don’t like it.

I received your letter before I graduated from basic, and yes, I did graduate. I know you were disappointed when they informed you that I wouldn’t be at the ceremony, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I can’t reveal much about what’s happened to me since I received your letter, but I have been told I can reveal this. I am one of the first non-prior service Space Corpsman to be selected for the Space Drop Squadrons.

That’s right. Remember that special we saw on TV about them? For the most part, it’s only been made up of prior service special ops guys crossing over from other branches. I can still remember the day one of the MTIs called all of us with the highest ASVAB and PT scores into his office and informed us of the opportunity. We were still dripping wet from PT, with that horrible smell of Pinesol filling the air. Still, I could feel my hair stand up when the MTI said the words “Space” and “Drop”.

The evaluation to even get selected to go to the actual schoolhouse after basic was no joke either. And I mean that. No joke. Some of the hardest, most harrowing stuff I’ve done in my life. And you know me, I love working out. That was one aspect, but the mental trials were an entirely different beast. I can’t describe them in detail.

We had to sign new contracts agreeing never to reveal their eval practices even if we fail. So for that reason I won’t go into them. It’s pretty intense though mom.

Psychologically I mean, it’d be hard to describe if I were even allowed to. I don’t think I ever really appreciated what bravery people like the crew of the Challenger must of had until now. The pressure of what we’re doing, how we’re doing it, where we’re doing it most importantly – it’s Herculean. And that’s not me saying I have the wherewithal of Hercules. Maybe I just hide my fear long enough for them to not notice like you taught me to.

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These other people in my new unit though, they’re a different story. But I wouldn’t say they’re like Hercules, more like the titans rather. They’re down right terrifying in fact. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Now that I’m done with eval and selection, I’ve been assigned to the 319th Space Drop Squadron at Vandenberg AFB (that’s pretty much the extent of what I can tell you about it for a while). You’d like our patch I think, the cat on it looks just like Jeremy. :) My squad and team leaders go by “Relic” and “Condor”. They’re brothers, from Jacksonville, Florida. Well, I mean that’s what they told me at least. I didn’t believe them at first. Sort of ended up embarrassing myself, but they set me straight. See I assumed they were just lifelong friends. But apparently they have the same mother.

Who is... not alive unfortunately. Yeah, after a few days Condor opened up about what happened to her, and to the two of them. It’s not my place to talk about what happened so I won’t, but hearing it from him coupled with the scars on his brother’s face... It makes me realize I should be happy that at least I had a father who treated me right before he died as opposed to one who kept living and wasn’t worth much.

Captain Collier who’s our primary STIC, or what we call a Space Transport/Insertion Crewman. She basically pilots and operates the Hot Eagle into and out of near-Earth orbit with the help of two other crewmen. Handling that’s hard enough obviously, but the real trick for her and her STICs is the fact that they have to stay with the aerospace vehicle and defend it while we do what’s needed of us. Then when we finally return, she has to defy all common sense and get something that’s already crashed into the Earth back into the air through the sheer force of human will and rocket fuel until we can connect with a KC-46 and piggyback our way home to goodguyland. Met her yesterday. She hates me. You gotta understand, I’m their first non-prior service. In her opinion I don’t have any experience from a “real branch”. To be honest, I can’t say I disagree. We don’t have any history or tradition yet. Hopefully we can get some after what we’re preparing for this week.

And then there’s this other person in my leadership. Our Advanced Operations Sergeant, or what we call the “Advan”. AOSgt Anthony Adler. He’s... I don’t know what to say about him mom. The 319th has a page for our command team on the 44th Space Drop Wing’s website, go look it up if you’re curious what I mean when I say “I don’t know”. His stare is just.... I’m shuddering as I write this. We don’t really know anything about him, and I don’t think anyone’s really asked. I heard Relic say he used to be “chief risk officer” for some Wall Street firm before the crash. Not really sure what went down, like if he’s the reason they went under or if he got disillusioned with what they were doing or what. But he joined the Army at fortyfreaking-one. And then he somehow got an age waiver for 18X of all things (that’s Special Forces candidate). From what I can gather he was the real damn deal in the Green Berets. I’m still just floored that he left the world of New York finance to be an operator at that age. He doesn’t have a family either. No spouse, children, dog, cat, goldfish, anything. Hell, I’m not even sure if he has a house or home of some kind, sort of seems like he just lives at the squadron building from what I can tell. He’s 24

really strange, kinda off putting, really intense and all-together badass in my own personal opinion. But still freaky all the same. Here’s hoping his freakishness pays off for us as a unit.

Anyways, I’ve been promised block leave when we’re done with what we’re about to undertake this week. I’ll be sure to finally call you once we have so that we can arrange for me to fly out and see you and Jeremy again. I hope all is well, and please don’t worry about me. Okay?

Love, Your Son, Frankie. text-messages-66155519135-intercepted-15-jul.pdf (6.6 MB) Logged: 23 Jul Inquiry filed by: CSgt Hayek-Song, Constance, 1N071 Purpose for inquiry: Air Force Special Activities Center has been tasked with recovering communications between the participants of Operation Sharks and Operation Avalanche to determine what counterintelligence and operations security failures may have taken place. Additionally, upon identifying and determining any existing failures, personnel belonging to the AFSAC are instructed to destroy and dispose of said communications, phone messages, and other pertinent records to preempt any FOIA inquiries that may harm the OPSEC or execution of future missions of the same nature as Operation Sharks.

[The following text messages were sent and received from 661-555-1935 on 15 Jul from 1423 to 1558 hrs.]

[Lt. Col. Durantt, 67th Space Transport/Insertion Squadron commanding officer]: You around?

Collier: Yeah, what’s wrong?

[Durantt]: We just got the word from SOCOM. The others weren’t able to convince the CINC apparently. Congrats Captain.

Collier:

Hell yeah!

[Durantt]: This is the only time I’m going to harp on it, but I need not remind you the Wing’s reputation lies on your shoulders young Captain.

Collier: I know. I’m not going to let us down Sir. I promise you that.

[Durantt]: I don’t doubt it. Just don’t let anything distract you. That’s all I’m going to say. This operation is what you’re going to eat and breathe now.

Collier: No complaints here Sir. I’m hungry for it.

[Durantt]: 25

Collier: Out of curiosity, do you know if that kid has entered the simulator yet?

[Durantt]: Yes. He’s taken to it, I think. The controls were natural for him from what I was told. They ran it on him like ten or twenty times and had a 90% rate of success.

Gen Alpha ain’t worth much, but he’s much better than we could have expected out of any of our prior-service guys.

[Durantt]: (No offense) Collier: Haha, none taken.

Collier: Still, 90% isn’t good enough for what we need in a Tillman driver. The CONOPS calls for a driver that can do thirty consecutive rounds in the simulator with a 100% success rate.

[Durantt]: The Advan assured me he has what it takes. A guy like Adler, I doubt he would have wasted his time with the kid if he didn’t mean it.

Collier: Good point. But, I mean. Adler is...

[Durantt]: Let’s just leave it at that Captain.

Collier: Roger. How goes [the] coordination efforts btw?

[Durantt]: The Control Division is pretty certain that the PLA is too wrapped up with doing random RPOs to piss the President off than notice our drop. Their counterspace has been steadily neglected since that thing back in 07 in favor of stuff like that. You guys shouldn’t have to worry about ASAT while you’re up there.

Collier: Well, it’s his own damn fault when he wags the dog like that.

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[Durantt]: Not your concern.

Collier: Roger.

[Durantt]:Other than that, the Space Glider Wing is on board (as is the entire Strike Division obviously), and we’ve even gotten the Mission Force to play along. Turns out they’re just as eager to prove themselves as we are. I was told the [redacted] commander even tried to convince their Chief of Staff not to assist us in private.

Gotta love that famous frogman toxicity! [end of log] HENS-article-screenshot-7-jun.jpg (48.1 KB) Space Corps rolls out latest weapon at Cape Canaveral by Drew Truax Members of the newly created United States Space Corps are hard at work at Cape Canaveral this month readying the young service’s latest weapon for spaceworthiness. This week Slice Weekly World was invited by the Space Corpsmen of the 302nd Space Glider Squadron to get a sense of what the unit does to provide prompt global strike on a moment’s notice. We talked to Space Systems Sergeant Angelo Hardesty as his Space Corpsmen loaded the first full-production hypersonic glider – the MS-4 PAVE HENS (Hypersonic Entry from Near-Earth Orbit to Surface) – onboard the now famous MS-2A Thoroughbred reusable launch vehicle.

“The HENS is a prompt global strike weapon in the truest sense of the word.“ the Sergeant was quoted as saying. He went on, “Like the nuclear deterrent before us, we can deliver a response to anywhere in the world from here at Cape Canaveral within less than sixty minutes. The only difference is when we hit, we’re not hitting with a weapon of mass destruction, which is key for decision makers like Presidents or Combatant Commanders. But make no mistake, we’re still hitting our target hard with what we have.“ NICF-article-screenshot-12-jul.jpg (31.6 KB) Expect there to be more groups like the NICF and IS in the future

by Professor Abadom Mikel, American University School of International Service Some foreign policy and military scholars say like the Islamic State (IS) before it, the New Indies Construction Front is something that world leaders, diplomats and military officials should have seen coming. Sykes-Picot treaty, economic destitution, despair, and humiliation felt among military age males throughout the Muslim world, cavalier actions taken by the United States and Israel, not to mention divisive rhetoric from professional anti-Muslims that didn’t improve the West’s relationship with Islamic peoples, and most especially the Syrian Civil War are all cited by historians of the 21st century as the origins of IS. The situation today seems like a repeat of the past. Climate change essentially sinks the Republic of the Maldives. The government attempts to move as much of its population as it can onto the newly built, Emirati-funded “seasteads” adjacent to 27

the Indian territory of Lakshadweep. They are advertised to the Maldivian people as luxurious, spacious habitats from which they can continue their traditional occupation of fishing from. The reality: only three luxury seasteads were developed by the Emirati contractors who built them. All meant exclusively for Western tourists. The Maldivian people instead were treated to what were essentially repurposed oil rig designs. What’s worse, is the poor evacuation planning on part of the government, leading to the death of forty three people on Addu Atoll. Worse still, the contractor ended up polluting the water around and in between the rigs due to poor construction standards, making fishing near the seasteads difficult to impossible. We see a trend emerge. More protests on the rigs calling for the jailing of the President of the Maldives. 3D-printed weapons used to kill and maim Maldivian police and Marines. Soon, there are accounts of Chinese MSS agents making contact with key opposition groups, offering higher-end military equipment with which to foment a true opposition to the pro-Indian government. One of these groups courted, as you’ve probably guessed by now, was the NICF. The only problem for China however, was that their plan to arm the opposition groups worked far too well. Even for them. They armed the NICF with a few fastattack craft, Chinese-designed helicopters, and man-portable air defense systems among other things thinking it would tie up Indian and American forces coming to the government’s rescue and thus ensuring their unimpeded access to the length of the so-called “String of Pearls” that girds India’s waters. Unfortunately for Beijing, the NICF had a mind of its own. As China is often accused of doing with U.S. military technology, some very savvy leaders of the NICF found the resources and people who could help them copy what the Chinese had given them. Through a combination of CNC milling, 3D printing, and the time-tested method of piracy the group was able to mass produce Chinese designs in large enough numbers to swarm the navies of the world throughout the Indian Ocean. As a result, international shipping, especially American and Chinese, lay at a standstill until the nations of the world can figure out how to fix the problem and roll them back. The recent hostage situation on Diego Garcia only adds further complication to this mess, complication not seen since a very familiar situation in 1979. zerilli-dorian-journal-requisitioned-21-jul.pdf (62.4 KB) from the journal of CSgt “Relic” Zerilli-Dorian We do it today. They’re getting antsy as to whether or not the hostages can hold out much longer. The attack on the hospital ship didn’t help either. But we’re not going in just to save the hostages anymore. That’ll be the kid and Condor’s job.

Me and the rest of my squad are going to bag or tag the HVI. The freaking Advan is even coming along for this one. He saw me checking over my load out and the Tracker Pelter I was going to wear for it. He told me to be careful tryin’ to “spray and prey” with the FIM-92. Something about the combat cloud not being fast enough to process target designations at the speed we want yet. He said “you don’t want to wait for that motherfucker to tell you where the threat is while they fuck your ass up.” I just smiled back at him and pointed at my scars and said, “Wouldn’t be the 28

first time some mother-cker fucked my ass up, Advan.” We laughed, fucking with that kid some more.

Oh well. This is what the world was, is, and will be. He better get used to it, I have.

Time to go. Time to drop. I love you mom, Condor too. dorian-footage-op-sharks-requisitioned-22-jul.pdf (96.2) Logged: 24 Jul Inquiry filed by: CSgt Hayek-Song, Constance, 1N071 Purpose for inquiry: The Office of Special Investigations, Space Corps Strike Division and senior officials from the White House are all interested in the black box and body cam footage from Operation Sharks and are still actively seeking it from the 44th SDW chain of command. AFSAC is, of course, in possession of it. It will remain in our possession until our inquiry is over and we are assured certain elements of footage and audio are permanently disposed of. [the following is a transcript of footage taken from the body cam of SSgt Connor “Condor” Dorian on 21 Jul after re-entry of the MS-3 Hot Eagle from orbit] [Dorian opens the door to the operator’s cockpit on the M511 Tillman] Dorian: We’re about to hit the shoreline, you ready to do your job kid?

[Space Specialist 1st Class Frank Wellend]: You bet your ass, didn’t get that 100% success rate for nothing now.

Dorian: Better NOT be for nothing kid! This ain’t a VR game now. And you gotta do it with a screaming hostage on your lap for half of it.

[Wellend]: I… I know sergeant.

[Dorian closes the hatch. He fiddles with the sight on his rifle until CSgt ZerilliDorian slaps him on the helmet. Captain Collier’s voice is heard through comm.]

Collier: All right we’re letting the bags out guys, get ready. At least 3 minutes left.

[The loud, piercing sound of the suction of air is heard. Most likely this indicates that Capt. Collier deployed the aerospace vehicle’s air cushions at this time as per procedure.] [footage lapses four minutes] [Dorian can be heard grunting from the impact. The hatch to the Hot Eagle slams down, releasing the egress slide that instantly inflates allowing the foot-mobile Space Dropmen to exit. Once they have, the slide is detached and the Tillman takes off from the spacecraft’s hull as Dorian desants onto it. Collier can be seen with the other STICs donning their Universal Utility variants in order to proceed into the force protection phase of their mission. The outside scenery is completely devastated from the PGS Operation Avalanche launched the hour before. Nearly all buildings are leveled, crumbling or on fire. The runway is cratered. There is very little resistance left to the Operation Sharks team. The only facilities that remain untouched are 29

the hardened aircraft shelters (HAS) where the hostages and NICF leadership are presently being housed.]

[Wellend, heard over comm]: This is Tomcat 211, Oscar Mike! They WILL open the doors right?

Dorian: Combat geeks ain’t let us down yet. They kept the alarm from going off.

Though I doubt it would’ve mattered.

[Dorian is referring to the cyberattack performed by the USMF as part of Operation Avalanche that unlocked and opened the entrances to the HAS and prevented Diego Garcia’s alarm system from going off as the team made their landing. “Combat geeks” refers to the hackers and cyber communicators belonging to the United States Mission Force.]

[Wellend]: This ain’t cool man! Why aren’t they opening up?

Dorian: Calm down goddamnit. We’re not close [gunshot] just keep driving. They’re all too screwed up to know what’s even going on at this point.

[Wellend]: Alright. [Wellend zooms in on his HUD to hovering silhouettes in the distance] That’s not good Condie!

Dorian: I told your ass not to call me that!

[Wellend]: What Dorian: Chill! [multiple gunshots from his rifle] Relic and the Advan got the Stingers.

It ain’t gonna be fun for those helos once they get here. [time lapses a few minutes again, the HAS is now in sight] [an insurgent appears from out behind it and fires an ATGM at Tomcat 211] [Wellend]: [multiple expletives heard] [the dynamic armor on the Tillman reacts and shields the vehicle from the explosion] [SSgt Dorian is thrown from the tank, fluid armor on his INVICTUS (Individual Viability for Combat Techniques Uniform System) variant seems to lock up and protect him from the impact of being thrown from such a long distance and the force of the explosion] [Wellend]: Condor! Condie! Eh! Say something!

Dorian: [violent coughing] I’m fine, shut your mouth! [standing now, running and taking cover behind some rubble] Get to the HAS. I got something for these guys. [the doors on the HAS finally open] [SSgt Dorian fires some rounds in the general area of his attacker. When the insurgent takes cover, he proceeds to remove the Switchblade Loitering Munition (LM) mounted on the back of his INVICTUS] Dorian: This is not gonna be fun for you! [imitating a Cajun accent] I guarantee. [out of breath as he slams it on the ground] 30

[the LM is launched, Dorian taking control from the ground] [five individuals armed with small arms and ATGMs are seen hiding behind the HAS from the LM’s video feed] Dorian: Damn, there’s still a lot of you. [the Tillman has reached the now open HAS, and has begun shooting at hostage takers with its 7.62 minigun] [Dorian directs the LM into the hostile squad of insurgents, killing and/or neutralizing them] [the Tillman has neutralized all hostage takers at this point and proceeds inside the structure] Dorian: I hope you liked that. [he can be heard laughing] [an explosion is heard, Dorian seems visibly confused, the HAS seems to have imploded in on itself] AOSgt Adler: Tomcat 211 actual! Did the tank enter the HAS yet!? Do not let him enter the HAS! Condor! Say something asshole! Did the kid go in yet? [end of transcript] notice-from-commandant.pdf (36.0 KB) Dear Mrs. Wellend It is with profound regret that I inform you that your son, SS1C Frank Wellend has given his life in the service of his country. Please accept my deepest sympathy for your pain and loss. There are little to no words I know of that could possibly ease your sorrow, nor match the sacrifice that you have made. However, I want you to know that your sacrifice is appreciated by a grateful nation. We shall remember you in our prayers, as we remember him, and we trust that God will heal your broken heart.

An official message has now been received in my office which states he was killed in action on Monday of last week in the Indian Ocean. If additional information is received it will be delivered to you promptly.

I realize the burden of anxiety that you have carried since he was first reported missing in action and deeply regret the sacrifice the United States called on him to make. It is my hope the knowledge that your son now stands in the company of American heroes for all time can give you some solace and comfort. He died bravely and gallantly in the defense of American ideals, his fellow servicemen and women, and those who cannot defend themselves. The Space Corps has lost one of its best. SS1C Wellend shall be posthumously promoted to Staff Sergeant effective immediately.

My husband, myself and our family’s sympathy are with you in this time of mourning.

Sincerely yours, Hope Gregory General, U.S. Space Corps Commandant of the Space Corps

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Artwork By: Rebecca Friend Artwork Title: A Ceiling From A Dream 32

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NCE-FICTION SCIE 2nd PLACRE

FIND FIX FINISH

by Dylan Cicero

WINNE

The tiny device weighed heavy in his pocket. Omar ran his finger back and forth over the power button as he weaved through the crowded street. “Turn it on, place it at the entrance and keep moving,” easy enough he thought, recounting Jana’s instructions. He had done some dangerous things for her in the past, but he’d never been this close to Hassan before. Omar pulled the scarf higher around his face, the sandy breeze was a blessing today allowing him to hide his face from its stinging bite. His feet were aching as had been out all morning following his “normal routine” like Jana taught him. He didn’t notice anybody following him which was only a slight reassurance as he made his final turn on approach to his target. Hassan would only be there for a few more days before he would disappear again. Omar wiped the sweat from his face and readjusted his scarf. He took a deep breath to calm himself, the exhaust fumes spewing from the heavy traffic choked his lungs. His heart was racing when he saw the door come into view and he had to slow down his quickening pace. At the corner of the building three large men sat drinking tea at a plastic table in the shade. They spoke to one another while fixated on the crowd, observing the passersby with a stern focus. Omar and one of the men locked eyes. He had a cold intense look and his brow furrowed, “keep moving,” the man said with his eyes. “I can’t do this,” Omar thought, still locked in a gaze with the intense stranger. Omar turned his head, about to continue down the street when he heard a loud crash. A stray soccer ball had flown into the plastic table, burning the men with hot tea. They jumped to their feet, screaming at the boys who came to get their ball back. “Thank God,” Omar thought as he pressed the button with his thumb so hard, he was afraid he may have broken it. He gently tossed the device at the base of the door before melting back into the crowd.

Electricity surged through its circuits. Sensors and cameras powered on and servos whirred as the insect-like drone came to life. “GPS Locked,” the Micro Advanced Reconnaissance System 34

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(MARS) device recognized it was at the starting checkpoint, located at the building’s entrance. Using the overhead satellite imagery loaded by Jana earlier, the advanced AI of the MARS device used an algorithm to plan its route through the building. The organic polymer design allowed the device to shape itself to pass beneath the door.

“Sensors enabled,” MARS scanned each room it passed through, mapping them out in detail. Each scan lasted several seconds, the device pausing and rotating slowly to gather precious information. “Threat detected,” a large heat signature appeared on its thermal sensors as an older man entered the room. The device used its cardiac scanner to try and confirm the target’s identity. They were able to record Hassan’s unique heartbeat on a previous operation while surveilling him with an unmanned aerial vehicle. It was the only way they would be able to positively identify him.

MARS tracked the subject’s eyes to remain out of sight while continuing its search through the building. “Limit of advance reached,” having scanned the entire building, MARS began to move to its final checkpoint for extraction.

Jana pulled the memory chip from the MARS and plugged it into her computer.

She entered her passcode and the laptop scanned her iris, verifying her identity. Her laptop appeared like any other commercial product until she entered a script into the command prompt, which opened her virtual machine client. This allowed her to log into the top secret network without carrying or storing any sensitive materials like special hard drives. Jana started the upload process, transferring the different raw files created by the MARS scan through the target building. She sat back in her chair and forced out a deep breath. She had been tracking Hassan for months and this could finally be the end of it all. He was a high level leader in the extremist organization responsible for attacks throughout the region. Taking him alive could provide critical information to help dismantle the group and save innocent lives.

Ninety percent. “Almost there,” she opened a dusty water bottle and took a long sip. The extra security measures in place on her laptop slowed the transfer of the already huge files. Jana’s watch lit up and gave three short vibrations, she put down the water bottle and picked up her tablet. She flipped through the video feeds coming from the security cameras she had placed in and around the safe site. “No, no, no,” Jana said to herself as four men with their faces covered were making their way through the halls of the building. She could make out a pistol in one of the men’s hands. Ninety-eight percent. “Hurry up!” Jana ran around the room sanitizing anything that could compromise her cover or the mission. Ninety-nine percent. Her wrist buzzed as the cameras continued to track the men as they approached nearer.

“I hope I don’t need this,” she winced as she injected the tiny tracker into her arm.

Upload complete. “Finally,” Jana shut down the laptop and shoved it into her bag.

She opened window, pausing to look down in to the alley below when her watch buzzed again, the men had moved into view of the final camera. “I hate this, I hate this,” she said, climbing down the side of the building using the flimsy escape ladder, trying to avoid looking down at the ground below her. A loud crash echoed from the window above as her feet hit the concrete. She took off around the corner before slowing her pace to match the crowd. Jana pulled out her phone as she walked down the street, adjusting her scarf to ensure her hair and face were covered. “Omar, I need a favor, it’s an emergency.”

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“What’s our time on target?” The bearded man asked without looking up from his computer screen. “0300, we have about 12 hours,” Kim replied. “Get the VR scans ready so we can start rehearsals, I’ll be there when I’m done looking this over,” John gestured towards his computer. “You got it John… I mean, boss,” Kim smiled leaving the room. John pored over the MARS data, looking for anything out of the ordinary that could make or break the operation. This was his first rotation as a troop leader and wanted everything to go perfect. Well, as perfect as it could possibly be. “What do we have here?” John noticed an abnormality with the thermal scans, it could either be a fluke or a possible hiding place in the wall. “John,” Colonel Santos knocked on the door as he walked in, “we’ve got a complication with Objective Lucky Wizard.” “What’s the problem sir?” The colonel sat down across from John. “Just as our case officer sent in the data package, she activated her beacon, we haven’t heard from her yet, but the recovery team is moving to her pickup site.” John closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “So what’s the status on Lucky Wizard?” “We haven’t picked up any traffic but we’re afraid he might get spooked and go dark, we’re pushing the timeline up 6 hours.” John straightened in his chair, “alright sir, we’ll make it happen.” The colonel nodded and rose to his feet, “we’ll handle the coordinations, just focus on getting your people ready, let’s finish this thing out.”

“Power it up Kim,” John said pulling the headset over his eyes. Everyone in the hangar was transported to the target building via their virtual reality headsets.

The MARS created a 3D rendering of the building for the operators to conduct their pre-mission rehearsals. The teams flowed through the building, memorizing the layout and potential threats and obstacles. Breachers took note of the doors, where the knobs are located, the hinges. “SSE, we’ve got computers in room 3,” Kim said. “We don’t have a lot of time on target, but I want those computers,” John said to the site exploitation team. “Finish your runs and get your gear prepped, we’ll do final checks at 1900.”

Jana sat in the café sipping her tea as she watched each car pass down the road.

“The last thing I need is caffeine,” she thought, noticing her hand shake with the adrenaline of being chased. Omar was supposed to arrive any minute and her mind started to run through all the worst possible scenarios. “Well if they found me, they could have found Omar, what if they’ve flipped him, or have his wife?”

She had to shake these thoughts. “He still has time, everything is going to be fine, he always comes through.” Jana checked the time again and looked up to see Omar’s car pulling into his planned parking spot. Omar stepped out of the car and lifted the hood. “So far so good,” Jana thought, waiting a bit longer to make sure it was safe to approach. Omar closed his hood and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement as he recognized her crossing the street. “How was your drive over here?” Omar and Jana had been working for quite some time and he knew what she was really asking. “I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary coming here, but my cousin was acting strange earlier, he got a phone call and practically ran out of the house.” Omar’s cousin was working for Hussain and was an unknowing source of information on the terrorist leader. “I had people come after me Omar, 37

that’s why I called in the emergency.” “How did they find you?” Omar spoke without looking at her, focusing on driving through the narrow streets. “I don’t know, but I barely made it out of there. There is no reason to think they know about you Omar, I’ve worked very hard to protect you, WE have worked so hard at this.” Jana was usually very deliberate when she spoke, but she was having trouble putting together her thoughts. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done Omar, really.” Omar looked at Jana as he spoke, “I’m guessing this is the last time I’ll see you.” Jana didn’t’ realize how those words would affect her. “I have to leave, but you never know. Maybe we can meet again one day under better circumstances.” Jana pulled out her phone. “I’m transferring you your last payment, with a bonus. It should be in your crypto wallet… now.” The car rolled to a stop.

“Here we are,” the doors unlocked with a loud thud as Omar put the vehicle in park. “Thank you, my friend, be safe and may god bless your family.” Omar smiled, “God willing.”

“One minute,” John held his finger up while keying up his wireless push to talk.

The whirring of the helicopter blades was filtered out to a slight hum through his headset. The air was filled with dust and the smell of fuel. John looked out of the door at the city below, lights and buildings reflected off the side of the aircraft by design. Its active camouflage projected its surroundings to help mask its presence, as well as you could hide a ten-ton gunship. John recognized the buildings below from studying the overhead imagery. He ran through the plan over and over in his head, working through as many contingencies as he could. “Thirty seconds,” John looked toward his soldiers getting a thumbs up or a nod in acknowledgement.

The target building came into view. “Get ready,” John said tightening his grip on his rifle. Any remaining lights on in the building went dark as the cyber team cut the power by accessing the grid. The helicopters swooped in and soldiers poured into the street and onto the roof. The cordon team checked in, “barriers are in place.” The man portable barriers expanded across the street able to block most commercial vehicles and slowing down any quick response force. “Fox cell at breach.” The primary breaching cell had planted their charges and were waiting for the command to blow. John looked down at his imagery to double check the locations of each cell. “Execute.” A thunderous boom rang out in the night followed

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by a chorus of wild dogs barking and howling. John watched the blue dots disappear from the street and move into the building, before following the trail cell into the building. The teams flowed through the building as if they owned it, just as they had rehearsed in the VR environment. John took note of the brief radio calls, mentally tracking the cells’ locations within the structure. Sporadic bouts of gunfire barked out. John wasn’t sure what was more tense, the occasional gunfire or the silence in between. “Fifteen minutes left,” he thought seeing the timer count down on his watch. “Get the sledge!” Kim yelled down the hall. A large man appeared soon after ready to smash down the section of wall. “This is the spot John pointed out, it looks hollow on the scans.” John could hear the banging from downstairs, he used to be a heavy breacher and still felt naked without that weight on his back. “I think we got him,” the soldier said to Kim. “He’s not talking but the readings match.” Kim checked the data on the tablet, the cardiac scans were a match. “He fits the description we got from our agent too, I’m calling it up.” Kim’s voice broadcasted across the assault net, “Jackpot.” John exhaled a deep breath through his nose. “Roger, I’m moving to your position, start SSE and reconsolidate, cell leaders get accountability.” The SSE cell began the delicate but hasty process of collecting any documents and media that could be of value. They took pictures, bagged and tagged items while trying to preserve forensic evidence. Computers were plugged into portable uninterruptible power supplies to keep the volatile memory from wiping in transit. “So, we’re sure this is Lucky Wizard?” John asked. “Unless this poor guy is the transplant recipient of a most wanted terrorist leader’s heart, yeah I’m pretty sure,” Kim said. “I don’t know, I guess I was expecting someone more… intimidating?” John said looking down at Hassan shivering at their feet. The old man’s eyes were puffy and red, welling with tears. “SSE complete,” the cell reported. “Roger, all cells move to the south entrance and prepare for exfil,” John said. “Bag him and let’s go,” John pointed to Hassan.

Kim blindfolded the man and fit him with earmuffs. He grabbed him by his zip tied hands behind his back and walked him to the staging point. “Order of movement will be reverse cell order, execute.” John counted each person as they passed through the door, ensuring everyone was accounted for. He stepped out, looking behind him at the building one last time before moving to the helicopter. The timer ran out on his watch as they lifted off into the night, the buildings below shrinking and disappearing and the city lights blurred closer together, fading into the horizon.

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VIRTUAL REALITY, WAR, and the after effects

by Ben Zacher

SCIENCE-FICT ION 3 rd PL W ACE INNER

A soft snowflake fell on the ground, assimilating itself with the surrounding white matter. A snowy afternoon set in on the small town of Celeste, Washington, as the sun attempted to shine through the clouds. Mixed in with the snow, a white house stood in the midst of a street, surrounded by other homes of varying colors. A lightly tainted window on the front of the building broadcasted a violent scene.

“Hold, cease your fire!”

A shadowy male figure rose from behind a pile of precariously stacked pillowcases, knocking one over as they moved their head around to identify the source of the voice.

“Over here, you idiot,” a female voice echoed out. A brunettehaired lass poked out from behind a bed in the corner of the room. She rolled her eyes as she got up, her figure just a few inches taller than the bed itself.

The neatly made bed rested in the corner of a room that was decorated to the brim with gaming consoles and decals. Its walls were completely white, aside from the frequent spots adorned with an assortment of stickers and posters. At the foot of the bed sat a television, complemented by gaming systems on both sides.

With the exception of the bed, the rest of the room resembled a warzone: forts made out of pillowcases, plastic guns scattered across the floor, and two energetic children running rampant with imagination.

The boy made his way around his stack of pillows and walked over to the girl, still on the other side of the bed. His feet lazily dragged across the floor, kicking some of the fake firearms.

“I definitely shot you!”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Their arguing was cut short by a knock on the door.

“Hey, kids! I brought you a new toy to play with, I thought you might like it… judging by the sounds I’m hearing in here.”

Grinning from ear to ear at the thought of a new toy, the boy sprinted from one side of the room to the other, again casually giving no regard to the plastic guns on the floor. He nearly ran into the door but gathered himself and threw it open.

The man stood there with a smile, holding a new contraption in his hand. It resembled a pair of binoculars, with a strap connecting the

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left and right sides from the back. The black strap was attached to a silvery plastic material, covered on its front by a completely flat, dark rectangle. In spaced-out white lettering, it read, “ECHO V-A.”

“Hey, junior. This just came in today, and I thought you two might want to try it out! It’s one of those new virtual reality headsets.”

“Virt…virtual reality? What is that?”

“It’s like a real world, like ours, but it’s not actually real. Everything is just sort of made up, but with this thing… you can venture and be in that world, whenever you want to be. You can play games with this, too, all sorts. Racing, fighting… even,” he snickered, “war games.”

Both kids immediately lit up, beaming in happiness as their eyes widened.

“Here, I’ll show you how it works.”

The father moved over to the bed, his children eagerly following on both sides.

He carefully sat down as they plopped next to him, watching him plug a long cord attached to the headset into the television. He pulled out two black accessories that almost resembled remotes from underneath his arm.

“These things are the controllers. See, you grip them here at the base like you could any controller, but these round things on the end are what read your movements. So you can point with them and use them to grab things or throw things. There are little buttons on them to help with that and movements, of course.”

He grabbed the headset and sat it on his lap.

“And this, you put over your head. You look through these little holes up here, sort of like a telescope. But what you see a virtual reality world all around you and you’re almost living in it. Sounds pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah!” They both screamed in unison. “Can we try it? Please?”

“Of course, of course,” he laughed. “Actually…”

The father got up from the bed and walked over to the door, reaching around the corner. He pulled out another headset and presented it to the girl.

“I got you two.”

“Thank you, dad!”

The duo excitedly but carefully slid on the headsets, the elderly figure helping them out. They snapped the straps on tight as the black cover concealed their eyesight, darkness now enveloping their attention. The man slid the controllers into their hands and flipped on the television set.

Below the lens of the headset, the children’s mouths grew from still expressions to happy glimmers of excitement. Their hands were giddy in anticipation, flying around while narrowly avoiding the man attempting to help.

The seemingly endless black void was now gone.

“Woah, daddy, we’re flying!”

In the void’s place, the kids were suspended in the air. Their heads flailed about, frightened by being so high above the ground. As their father rested his hands on their shoulders to calm them down, their ecstatic movements subsided as they began to look around.

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“We’re in like a desert,” the little boy said. “There’s a bunch of sand everywhere.

Why are we flying?” He looked around.

“So in this virtual reality, you’re playing as a drone. It’s sort of like a helicopter.

You can fly around to different villages and watch them and attack them from above. You have a lot of things you can use to attack, so make sure you try everything until you find something you like. It’s almost like a construction game, but better! You get to destroy stuff and watch some people try to rebuild it… it’s fun. Go ahead and give it a try!”

The kids started moving the controllers around, their mouths agape. “Watch out for that bird,” and “I still don’t see a village” frequently spouted from their lips.

Their dad, still sitting on the bed between them, had his focus locked on the television screen. His eyes circled around, trying to catch every little detail that appeared in an effort to help. Finally, something caught his eye in the far distance.

“Guys, I think I see one!”

“Where, dad?! I don’t see one at all…”

“Off to your right, it’s behind the mountain there. It looks like a village!”

“Oh, I see it!” The kids exclaimed, enthusiastic to finally try out the weapons they had been longing to use.

“So here’s what you want to do,” the father started to explain. “You don’t want to go flying all crazy in there. That’s just going to alert all the people living there.

Instead, you kind of want to creep up on them. Your drone is pretty quiet as is, so they shouldn’t notice you if you hide behind the mountain and scope them out.

Kind of like you two do when you’re playing in here and hiding behind your pillow forts.”

The kids laughed and leaned the controllers forward, inching themselves closer to the village but still out of sight behind the elevation.

“So what can we do to the village, dad?”

“It’s a pretty small place, so I think you could try using bombs. I know you guys like imagining blowing things up in here, if this mess is any indication… but anyway, if you start flying close enough and flick your controller, you should be able to throw an explosive that could destroy the village. And remember, all of these people and places aren’t real! So you’re not actually hurting anyone. This is just all sorts of harmless fun.”

“We can do that!” The two shouted, slowly moving themselves out from behind the rocky peaks and into the public eye. The father watched as people down below, from old to young men and women, took notice at the incoming aviation. Their looks of surprise turned into gazes of horror, their hands covering their gaping mouths. Some ran back into their homes, while others stood in disbelief.

The image on the screen faced downwards as one of the kids started looking around his drone, attempting to locate his explosive arsenal. He found it on his right side and motioned to grab it with his controller. He turned back with it in hand and flung it towards the village.

The girl followed suit, frantically trying to impress her father by grabbing two and immediately chucking them at the townsfolk. Without hesitation, she turned 43

back and continued to retrieve more.

The dad observed the bombs falling on the dusty landscape below, with each bombshell causing an explosive seismic rift that leveled the ground below it and its surroundings. Buildings began to topple over, some to the outside while others faltered onto themselves. Sand kicked up in the air, shrouding much of the view as the unrelenting assault continued.

“Should we keep going, dad?” The boy shouted, struggling to hear outside of the barrage.

“To your heart’s content, son! This is your game now, this is all from you. And once this village is gone, you can move onto the next one! Soon, we’ll teach you how to move on the ground, but for now, I think you should just focus on flying around until you get the hang of it. You guys seem pretty good at bombing things… I think this village could use a little bit more, though.”

The bombardment resumed as the projectiles were tossed into a field of dust. The kids, not knowing where these bombs were necessarily landing, slowly pulled their controllers back to move the drones away from the ensuing discharges.

The dust began to clear, but still prevented the kids or the father from seeing the damage.

“I think you two have done enough to this village now. I think it’s going to take a little while for them to rebuild that village, so how about we come back later? I am sure we can find some new places out and about if we just found this one here. How about you two explore and I will be back?”

“Sounds good to me, dad!”

The dad got up from the bed and made his way across the room, barely avoiding the turmoil covering the carpeting. He grinned at the plastic firearms and pillow forts before rounding the corner and leaving the room, heading downstairs. He made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

He smirked as he heard loud explosions emanating from upstairs.

“Must have turned the volume all the way up,” he muttered. Other noises rang through the floorboards: gunfire, blasts and screams.

He picked up his coffee cup and walked towards the living room, which housed the staircase he just descended from. Placing his cup on a nearby stand, the man walked over to the wall and began looking around.

The wall was covered in decals and medals: on his left, an army uniform decorated with ribbons, while military medallions traced the right side of the wall.

Stretching over to pick up a frame, the man’s gaze focused on the picture. In it was himself, along with the two kids. However, another 44

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man stood on his right, their arms interlocked. The man was slightly younger but stood upright in a military uniform, his height nearly the same as the father. Both were adorned in similar outfits, with tags that read the same last name.

The father placed the frame back on the stand and glanced over to his right at the Purple Heart medal.

“You’ll finally be avenged, son…” He murmured, still hearing the exuberant shouting and tumultuous noises stemming from upstairs. He sniffled, attempting to hold back tears, and moved away from the wall.

The air felt still as the father held back his emotions as he made his way up the staircase. Each footstep caused a creak from the floor below, accompanied by a loud blast from above. His fingertips ran across the railing to his side, holding him up as a small smirk began to appear.

Pictures of his children aligned the walls of the hallway, from their days as unknowing, innocent infants to those where there were no longer three children in the frame. He traced his fingers across the final picture, which contained a full family: the father, a mother, and the three children.

He brushed his eyes to remove any of the potential tears that may have appeared and knocked on his children’s door.

“Hey, are you guys doing okay in there?”

“Yeah, dad! Come in!”

He slowly popped the door open and walked in. His line of sight first hit the kids, who were still sitting on the bed with the headsets on. He then turned towards the screen, which displayed another village being obliterated by fire and missiles.

The drones were again launching destructive devices and concealing the devastation down below.

“You guys are doing great! Do you mind finishing up with that village and pulling off behind a mountain? I just wanted to tell you guys something then.”

“Sure, dad! This was our fourth village that we found. We’re on a roll right now!”

The father quietly gasped, able to hide his emotion with his children blinded by the headset. They pulled their remotes towards the side as the dust covered the

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area visible on the screen. They slowly removed themselves from the wreckage, finding a nearby peak to rest behind.

“I think we’re good here. We’ve done a lot just on the first day!” The girl exclaimed.

The kids pulled the headset off and gave each other high-fives, their father giving them an approving smile while nodding his head.

“Great job, little ones! You are doing an amazing job. I thought you would enjoy this, so I’m glad this buy was worth it.”

“Thanks, dad! Can we keep playing?”

“Of course, son! Play as much as you want. I’ll just be downstairs if you need me or if you want to try something new. I told you, there are all sorts of different weapons you can try. I told you it’s just like a war game!”

With two fulfilling smiles, the duo faced each other and nodded, flipping back on the mechanism on their heads. Their attention was now directed towards the television screen as the father walked out the door.

Casually strolling downstairs, the dad turned his focus towards the nearby entertainment set in the living room. The display showcased a news program, the imagery depicting a horrific scene.

Bodies laid splayed across the desert ground, most with limbs removed from their torsos. The orange and brown sand was nearly non-existent, instead being replaced by the thick texture of streaking blood and guts. The aerial view of the scene gave the impression that this could have been the scene of a bombing.

The father made his way over to the maroon chair casually placed in front of the television set, picked up the coffee cup from the nearby stand, and sat down.

His eyes glanced over to the news station as he took a sip of his drink. His sight followed the chyron on the bottom, in large white text, as it read, “DRONES BOMB SMALL TOWN IN AFGHANISTAN, 48 DEAD.”

He pulled the cup from his mouth, turned his head towards the militaryadorned wall, and grinned. A single tear emanated from his right eye, just as a single snowflake landed on the children’s tainted window.

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SPANISH TRANSLATIONS On the following pages, we offer previously published Chameleon poems. These poems, published in the 2019 edition, have then been translated, by one or more students, into Spanish by Professor Kaitlin Thomas’ students. We hope you enjoy reading these poems in English for a second time and in Spanish for the first time. As with the Chinese poems, we are excited to become a multilingual journal for the first time ever with these Spanish translations.

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Conflict Resolution

Conflict Resolution

by Sebastian Lasher

by Sebastian Lasher, translated by AnnaLeigh Runion

Another lash for the Boy. It was meant to teach, Not Destroy.

You are Right.

He is Wrong.

Otro latigazo para el niño Tenía la intención a enseñar No destruir Tienes razón Él no

Two sides, Hardly a Fight.

But the winner, Always shown in Light.

Dos lados Apenas una lucha Pero el ganador Siempre relevado en luz

You know what You saw.

You Punish the Fatal Flaw.

This had to be done.

Sabes lo que viste Castigas el error trágico Tenía que estar hecho

Are you Good, And he Bad? No answer.

But still, It is Sad.

Eres bueno Y él malo?

Sin respuesta Aún más Es triste

Now look Down, From where you Stand.

The Blood Smeared, Across the Land.

Ya mira abajo Desde donde te paras La Sangre Manchada Por todo el país

Knowing, You were Right And He was Wrong.

Sabiendo Tenías razón Y él no

HOMETOWN FEELING

HOMETOWN FEELING

by Andrew Guiberson

by Andrew Guiberson, translated by Rebecca Garcia

about the sunset on a field of grass and weeds past the brick

El Sentimiento de mi Cuidad Natal

listening closely for a second cars stop passing in the distance Little North East Creek runs forever the echo of time gone, but still catching up to me

Siento la puesta de sol Estoy en un prado de mucho césped Más allá que el ladrillo Escucho atentamente Por un segundo Los carritos paran de pasar En la distancia, El arroyito del Noreste Fluye continuamente El eco del tiempo Desaparecido, pero aun Alcanzándome

HOMETOWN FEELING

HOMETOWN FEELING

by Andrew Guiberson, translated by Jeydi Vasquez

by Andrew Guiberson, translated by Sam Grossenbacher

Sensación de la Cuidada Natal acerca del atardecer en un campo de grama y malas hierbas más allá del ladrillo escuchando atentamente por un segundo coches dejan de pasar en la distancia Pequeño Arroyo del Noreste corre para siempre

Sensación de Ciudad Natal Acerca de la puesta del sol En un campo de hierba y hierbas Más allá del ladrillo Escuchando atentamente Para un segundo Coches dejan de pasar En la distancia Little North East Creek Corre para siempre El eco del tiempo Ausente, pero todavía Alcanzando conmigo

el eco de tiempo ausente, pero aún me alcanza 49

THE LEAP

by Sarah Kazmierczak

Take my hand And lead me, Even though I Already know the steps.

Place your palm

On my back, Hold me tight,

And don’t let go.

I want you

To spin me Until my feet

Ache from the pleasure.

I want you

To twirl me Until I go

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Dizzy from the euphoria.

THE LEAP

THE LEAP

by Sarah Kazmierczak,

by Sarah Kazmierczak,

translated by Blossom Truel

translated by Nicole Valdivia

El Salto Tome mi mano

Y guĂ­eme, Aunque Yo

Ya sepa los pasos.

Ponga la palma de su mano

En mi espalda, Agarreme fuerte,

Y no me suelte.

Le quiero Girarme Hasta que mis pies

Duelan por el placer.

Le quiero

Darme vueltas Hasta que yo vaya

Me maree de la euforia.

Toma mi mano, Y guĂ­ame, Aunque yo Ya conozco los pasos, Pon tu palma En mi espalda Agarrame fuerte, Y no te sueltes.

Quiero que Me vueltas Hasta que mis pies Duelan del placer.

Quiero que Me hagas girar Hasta que me vuelvo Mareada de la euforia.

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ME

by Crystal Drown You look at me You see a good mood If you truly looked You would see deep hollow eyes That shed endless tears of pain I’m trapped In a deep dark hole Where all the people I love And once loved throw stones at me Spoken stones Their jagged edges cut deep It’s all I see through the darkness I wish the darkness would end So the pain will go away

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ME

by Crystal Drown, translated by Jimmy Gonzalez Yo Tu mirame a mi Tu miras ánimo Si en verdad mirarias Mirarias ojos hondos y vacíos Que derraman lágrimas de dolor Estoy atrapado En un precipicio oscuro y profundo Donde los que amo Y aun amaba tiran piedras a mi Piedras verbales El bordes dentado corta profundo Es todo lo que miro en la oscuridad Deseo que la oscuridad se acabe Para que el dolor se aleje

LA GEMELA

by Faith Odegbami Even before I was born, life was a stage for me My twin perished before me in our mother’s womb A darkness that would compel me to ponder To question if it had been me If the sun had set a different way The darkness would have been mine Your soul set out to wander the world Or would the weight of the world crush both sides of the coin

LA GEMELA

LA GEMELA

by Faith Odegbami, translated by Everardo Lopez

by Faith Odegbami, translated by Abby Blossom

La Gemela Hasta antes que naciera, la vida era mi escenario Mi gemela pereció antes que yo En el vientre de nuestra madre.

La oscuridad que me obligaría a ponderar Aquestionar si hubiera sido yo El sol se pusiera de otra manera La oscuridad hubiese sido mío Tu alma se aparto a deambular el mundo O el peso del mundo aplastaría ambos lados de la moneda

La Gemela Incluso antes de que yo naciera, la vida era un escenario para mi Mi gemela pereció al frente de mi en la matriz de nuestra madre Una oscuridad que me compelería a ponderar Reflexionar si hubiera sido yo Si el sol hubiera puesto una manera diferente La oscuridad sería mía Su alma salió para deambular el mundo O el peso del mundo aplastaría ambas caras de la moneda

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FROM THE STARS

by Ben Zacher No one can hear you scream when you’re alone. When space engulfs you, you’re nothing more than a microscopic speck in a sea of stars.

Jim didn’t realize that when he accepted the mission to travel to space.

To him, it was an honor. An opportunity to be one of the greats, a revered astronaut with the likes of Armstrong and Aldrin. It was a childhood dream.

All those years playing with toy rocket ships led up to this excursion.

But nothing could prepare him for being stranded. His connection to the ship, snipped during his efforts to repair a puncture on the side.

The colossi structure that once housed him now seemed like a faraway mirage, drifting off into the endless black void.

Planets provided different shades of vast colors throughout the darkness.

Stars surrounded him, supplying yellow dots both near and far.

Galaxies slowly swirled in the distance, monstrously shadowing over the helpless man.

His attempts to flail about were worthless. Jim was nothing more than an abandoned particle, alone in the universe, inferior to the astronomical natures of outer space.

In a last-ditch effort, he called out from behind his helmet.

But in space, no one can hear you scream when you’re alone.

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FROM THE STARS

by Ben Zacher, translated by Dani Taborda Desde Las Estrellas

Nadie te puede oír gritando cuando estas solo. Cuando el espacio te encierra, tu eres nada más que un grano de arena en un océano de estrellas.

Jim no entendió eso cuando el fue aceptado para una misión para viajar al espacio. Para el era un honor. Una oportunidad para ser uno de los grandes, un venerado astronauta como Armstrong y Aldrin. Era un sueño de infancia.

Todos esos años jugando con cohetes de juguete trasladaron a esta excursión.

Pero nada lo podía preparar para estar aislado. Su conexión a la nave espacial, corto sus esfuerzos para reparar la perforación en el lado. La estructura enorme que antes le daba refugio se convirtió en una ilusión lejana, flotando en un vacío negro sin fin.

Planetas proporcionan diferentes sombras de vastos colores en la oscuridad. Estrellas lo rodean, abasteciendo puntos amarillos cerca y lejos.

Galaxias lentamente dando vueltas en la distancia, monstruosamente encima del pobre hombre.

Sus intentos de escapar fueron ineficaz. Jim era nada más que un grano abandonado, sólo en el universo, inferior a la naturaleza astronómica del espacio.

En un último esfuerzo, el grito dentro de su casco.

Pero en el espacio, nadie puede escuchar tus llantos cuando estas solo.

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THE LAST MORNING

by Echo Kent The morning sheds hues of yellows and oranges upon us.

The light casting through the cracks of the curtains making A blanket, a spot light Just for us.

The entanglement of limbs around each other’s bodies, Trails of starving kisses left all over, hands gliding, digging, Needing to feed the passion, closing The space between us.

Not knowing if this will be the last time, Everything seems to taste sweeter, yet taste so bitter, And the tears, and emotion are all wrapped in a heated moment.

The fiery moment fleeting with heavy breaths, and sweat Covered bodies, ends in us holding each other close, Whispering sweet nothings all while Knowing this was the last.

Desperately clinging to one another To stay a moment longer, to feel the passion a moment longer.

Just one minute more, Stay, my love, one minute more.

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THE LAST MORNING

by Echo Kent, translated by Gabriel Diaz La Última Mañana La mañana tenía matices amarillos y anaranjados sobre nosotros. La luz entraba a través de las grietas de las cortinas haciendo Una cobija, un punto de luz Solo para nosotros.

El enredo de extremidades alrededor de cada uno de nuestros cuerpos, Rastro de besos hambrientos dejados por todas partes, manos deslizándose, escarbando, Necesitando alimentar la pasión, cerrando El espacio entre nosotros.

Sin saber si esta iba a ser la última vez, Todo aparenta saber más dulce, sin embargo sabe tan amargo, Y las lágrimas y emociones son todas envueltas en un momento apasionado.

El momento ardiente, fugaz con besos pesados, y dulces Susurrando dulces nadas mientras sabemos que esta es la última vez.

Desesperadamente pegandonos uno al otro para quedarnos un momento más, para sentir la pasión un momento más.

Quedate, mi amor, un minuto más.

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Five Questions with Miciah Bay Gault

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During the Fall 2019 semester, the Norwich University Writers Series hosted novelist Miciah Bay Gault. Gault grew up on Sanibel Island, Cape Cod, and other places by the sea. A graduate of the Syracuse MFA program, she now teaches in the MFA in Writing & Publishing program at Vermont College of Fine Arts, coordinates the Vermont Book Award, and offers mentoring, editing, and coaching services through Word House.

Goodnight Stranger is her first book and it deals with siblings, Lydia and Lucas Moore, who are in their late twenties when the stranger enters their small world on Wolf Island. Lydia is the responsible sister, taking care of the pathologically shy Lucas ever since their mom passed a decade before. They live together in the large family house by the sea and are both comforted and confined by their insular lives, heavily shadowed by events from their childhood and the loss of their baby brother, Colin, who was their triplet.

When Lydia sees a stranger step off the ferry, she feels an immediate connection with him.

Later, when Lucas meets him, Lucas is convinced this man is the reincarnate of Colin. Who is this Cole Anthony, and what is he after?

To find out, Lydia must uncover sinister truths about her family, and finally face her anxiety about leaving the island and her fear of losing her closeness with her brother.

Before her wonderful campus reading, one of our editors-inchief, Faith Odegbami, interviewed Miciah about creative writing.

Miciah Bay Gault

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Faith Odegbami: What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?

Miciah Bay Gault: In middle school, I was 12. I was interested in friendships, and I was never a popular kid and wanted to be. Also I moved around a lot as a child, moved from place to place, so I was sort of always finding my place, but it was very clear to me that I was never going to be popular. And that was okay with me because I felt like with the popular kids, there was like a lot that made me uneasy.

We were in my English class, and we had to read some story and write essays, from the point of view of the character, about why we wanted to be homecoming queen or king. I really poured myself into that essay. I inhabited that character. And then we had to vote on the essays and vote for the homecoming queen. And I got voted homecoming queen, and it was like fascinating to me as somebody who was never going to be voted homecoming queen. And I was like, Oh, okay, this is interesting, because that just with writing I convinced my peers to vote for me. This would not happen without the written word. And that’s my power, you know, socially, somehow.

Faith Odegbami: Is there something about writing you wish you learned earlier in your career?

Miciah Bay Gault: Well, many things. My novel, Goodnight Stranger, took me fifteen years. I wrote draft after draft after draft after draft. My guess is I wrote eighty drafts total. And, near the end, I had an agent, we were trying to sell it, we were working really hard and it became clear to us that the problem with the novel was that it was sort of lacking narrative tension in the middle. It had really good beginning people wanted to read, and then had a really good ending. But in the middle, it just slowed down. It didn’t make people want to turn pages. It lacked narrative tension, and we couldn’t figure out how to fix that. I would have long conversations with my agent about how we could change the plot. And we just couldn’t get there.

And then finally I sent it to a friend who’s a novelist, who read it and said, “The plot is fine, leave the plot alone. It slows down in the middle because your character lacks agency. Things are just happening to her; she’s not making the things happen. And if you go through it, if you keep the plot exactly the same but revise it so that every important thing that happens occurs because the character makes the decision, it will have narrative tension.” And it was true. I revised it like my friend suggested, 59

and it worked and that’s when the novel sold. So that’s the thing I wish I had known. The funny thing is I did know that. I knew that a plot has to come out of a character’s actions. I could see myself teaching that to students, but I just couldn’t see it in my own novel.

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Faith Odegbami: What was your hardest scene to write about?

Miciah Bay Gault: I have a grave-robbing scene, and that was really hard to write about. In some ways that was hard to write about just because I’ve never had that experience so I had to really imagine what that would physically feel like, what it would emotionally feel like. So that was hard.

Also, I had to give the character a panic attack, and that was hard for me to do. Though it was easy for me to write about because I have panic disorder, it was hard for me to give that to my character because I didn’t want her to have to deal with that. I really wanted to protect her from that. That was no fun.

Faith Odegbami: Do you believe in writer’s block?

Miciah Bay Gault: Sure, I believe in writer’s block. And I believe that you can make yourself just write, even when you have writer’s block. I think writer’s block just means you’re not in this zone. It’s not flowing. You can kind of feel as you go that is not going to be very good. I believe it’s a thing and I believe that you can train yourself to get over it fast.

Faith Odegbami: This question is really dear to me. What advice would you give to young writers that aspire to be a successful author, like yourself?

Miciah Bay Gault: There are two really important qualities for you to have.

One is perseverance, just keep writing. Keep writing, keep rewriting. Go, go, go. Don’t ever stop until it’s published or until you’ve reached the end.

The second important thing, I think, is that, to sort of recognize and cultivate your obsessions. When you think about writing a short story, the place to start is by asking, What are you obsessed with?

What seems interesting to you? And whatever that is, that’s probably the thing to write about that will lead to something interesting. A lot of writers think, “Well, something isn’t an acceptable topic” or they think they should write about something important or about something that other people want to read about. That’s not the way to go. Always go with what’s so fascinating to. Always write about what you can’t stop thinking about.

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Artwork By: Rebecca Friend Artwork Title: This Is What My Stomach Feels Like When You Walk Away 61

INEVITABLE

by Donald Pastures

A taboo thought, Flung from the mind at its utterance.

Trivialized through media, Expounded in every scene.

A numbness that melts our brain, Cooking us on its first chilling appearance.

Gripping our hearts and minds, Ripping it out as it re-emerges.

Forcing us to slink through an inky blackness, Drowning us in the abyss.

Corrupting our hearts and minds, Forcing emotions to flare at every opportunity.

A shadow trailing behind, Growing as the light of day fades.

Consuming your sleep, Sowing seeds of demons within.

An all-consuming force, Gripping those you least expect.

An eventuality, A futility, An inevitability, A force that shall overcome all.

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ROB

WINNER

K

HALLEC ERT

POETRY

64

D

$250

AW

AR

MEMORIES

by Echo Kent Looking at scattered memories on the floor, A childhood photo of summer here, A family portrait from a recent decade there Cover the floor in rug of sentiment.

Eyes are glazed over the boxes, The words smudged just right, It’s just a random pick and guess Of who gets what they want.

I stare at the tear-stained people As their tiny little rat claws rummage For just the right photograph.

A summer night in ’07, A snow day from ’98, The prom photo in a tattered 80s gown, Anything to remember.

Just a small piece of possible, paper Magic to keep the memory alive.

Jumping from one picture to another The memories are abundant Yet, all I want to do is forget.

Forget the pain, the lies, the falsified childhood That these pictures don’t show.

A simple snapshot of a moment in the Endless concept of time.

The rest of them scurry to gather What is left of the picture rug That took what felt like eternity, To empty and place about the floor.

The chimes sing in the window, While the sun spots a fallen memory Tucked away under the boxes of decay.

Lightly touching the corner I already know what it is.

The blurred faces of memory past Do not haunt me anymore.

Instead the faces finally focus, The colors pop at me with a violence Only a sunburn can hold.

It’s a picture of a real, Happy moment of time.

The last happy moment Before things fell to dust and mice.

A memory that has finally Come back home.

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BIG LIVING

by Birch Poirier In a lengthy and honest approach to living, The tree starts as a small and earnest thing, Stratified and quenched, And winterized, In my refrigerator.

It bears berries, Or only leaves, But leaves, A long and green method, A path of wooden Indians, And poignancy.

Here is the great teacher: A both inhuman and very personal thing, Professing by example, Of strength, And load-bearing, And productivity, And gentleness.

I gather from the old post, How to hold and set in, How to endure and absorb, And life, Indifferent, Pushes harder.

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Artwork By: Lauren N. Trippiedi Artwork Title: #2 67

MORNINGS AND NIGHTS

by Echo Kent

My favorite part of 24 hours is the mornings And nights that I spend with you.

In the mornings, I enjoy watching the early Morning sun rays comb through the curtains And climb on the bed where we lie in each other’s arms.

Feelings the soft, warm breaths on the back of my Neck and on my shoulder, while your hand lazily Holds onto mine while you dream and smile in your sleep.

The way that your hair parts a little messier to the right Than the left, and how soft your skin feels against mine.

Is the love of another tomorrow holding on to what is left of The rest of the day? How your lips seem more full, Your scruff still stretching to the rays, and how your thick lashes Fall perfectly upon your sleeping lids, making you the next Perfect thing next to the beauty of early spring. Rising with the Sun, the way we cuddle and the way that we don’t want to let Go makes it hard for the day to start, when all I want to do is Just stay in bed and run my hands over your bare chest, Over your jawline, to use my fingers to gently fix your Messy bed-head. Yet, I get up, sweep your hair back to place, And lay my lips on your cheek because your day hasn’t started yet.

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My second favorite time of day is when the moon Has danced her way up to the middle of the darkened Stage in the sky, shining a little light, while the Stars understudy the moon. The light in our room is just enough For me to see you, but not all of you, allowing for My other senses to see you. My fingers learn the dips And curves of your body the way a poet learns to use Words, my body learned to fit yours like a river fitting Into the mountains, over time but always there. The darkness Is just another safety blanket to let us hide ourselves If we so choose, yet we would embrace our faults In the dark it’s just the two of us with nothing to fear, Nothing to hide behind. Even in the dark, you’re still The most perfect person I think I’ve ever met. Lights on, or Off, just lying in bed next you is like watching a play, just Waiting for the act to happen, to see where this night takes us.

Even in my favorite dreams, you’re still there when 2 am rolls on by and I can feel your warmth envelop me The way the sea laps at the shore, reminding me that You are always there waiting for me. That even in the Deepest of dreams, you still crave my affection, my touch.

Nighttime might be when the day ends, but it’s My favorite part of the day. Always beginning or ending with you.

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The truth about love

by Echo Kent The truth about love is a pretty funny one. Everyone experiences love differently, wants love differently, has love differently. There are ultimately six truths about love. Six undeniable truths about love.

1. Love comes either soft or hard.

Love either

A. Hits you as an unsuspecting baseball from left field or B. Is just there like the teddy bear that’s been in your room for years.

2. Love can be cold, warm, or steamy.

A. A cold love is a sad one-sided love, never being able to experience the warmth.

B. A warm love is the typical love stories that make you want to fall in love, too.

C. The steamy love is one filled with passion, but like steam comes hot and leaves you cold once it’s done its job.

3. Love can be an ugly bitch.

A. From wrecking whole bodies, to causing red rivers in the self struggling type.

B. Love can hurt just as bad as a blade tickling the skin or can heal

like magic in a bottle.

C. We usually see the healing become the wrecking within

months, and it never seems to heal properly from it either.

4. Love is real as real can get.

5. My love is different from your love.

A. My love is different than my boyfriend’s love.

B. My love is different than my best friend’s form of love.

C. Don’t compare your relationship to classics like Romeo and Juliet, or to modern celebrities. What you have is special, and it’s different. From relationship to relationship, you will give love and experience love differently.

6. Love never lies.

A. The biggest truth about love I can give is that love can never

lie. Love, as stupid as it sounds, knows when it’s no longer

valid. Love just knows and won’t lie to you. But you, oh yes

you, you will keep lying to yourself because you don’t want

to get hurt again, or don’t think love will find you. But the truth

about love, it will always find you, no matter what. That is the

truth about love.

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Artwork By: Neroly Mora Artwork Title: #1

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White-tailed DOE

by Hoainam Nguyen

Watch where you’re prancing white-tailed doe, Thick tree roots are breaking through the floor.

Hidden in a thin veil of dull brown leaves, please The great big Sun is setting and the shivering chill is creeping The Moon is only new so allow me to lend you my gray fur coat I’ll hold you, I’ll warm you, and I won’t squeeze you too tightly.

I hope you’re not terrified by my toothy grin because I’m just so ECSTATIC, looking at your white puffed tail.

I hope you don’t mind that I walk behind you even if it’s in the dark, because you see I can see, and smell, wherever you might be.

Go ahead, take your leave white-tailed doe.

I know you’ve places to be white-tailed doe.

It’s never too hard to find where you are white-tailed doe.

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a traitor’s dream

by Hoainam Nguyen The Green Dragon favors ambition, its destiny is to ascend Above the Earth and up to Heaven After its death.

By the Dragon’s Dogma I forego the bonds of Kilth and Kin, Abstain from deeds considered Virtuous or Just, And refuse to abide by any Laws or Civilities My Country and peers expect of me.

For my own selfish Dreams, I have no other choice But to betray the World before it betrays me Snow melts and ice thaws But the ground is still dead.

My battles are won, my enemies are slain, Ruins are all that remain.

Heaven rings with a thousand songs Of my heroic triumphs and deeds But the Earth in its sorrow weeps A river to carry a thousand lanterns A thousand Wishes, a thousand Dreams I have reached the summit, The peak of all mankind.

A life of Hardship, a life of Strife.

No other can follow the path I blazed.

At the height of my power I should never have looked down.

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Artwork By: Rebecca Friend Artwork Title: Every Light Every Direction Every Prism Is A Prison 74

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GAPING

by Sarah Kazmierczak Red, orange, yellow.

These were the colors I knew of fire, So I never expected to see A shade of blue so bright.

I remember – It always stood there: Tall, proud, white.

That was before the conflagration came, With its scorching blue flame And thirst for destruction.

I see – The only thing left is a cavity, The hole from our basement, Which once held our delights – Our pictures, Our memories – Of a time long behind me.

Now just a hole.

Gaping.

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SKIN DEEP

by Faith Odegbami Sometimes I want you near me like the darkness of my skin I wear your love like it’s a part of me Growing and stretching smooth like skin My skin—or is it yours, My being belongs to you, engulf me I ran wild before I met you And you broke me like a wild horse Your domesticated lover

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a graphic memoir in spanish

by Aileen Diaz

Scanned with CamScanner

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Scanned with CamScanner

Scanned with CamScanner

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Scanned with CamScanner

Artwork By: Rebecca Friend Artwork Title: Nobody Gets In To See The Wizard

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the secret place

by Sarah Kazmierczak “Do you want to play with me?”

He turned up the TV and pretended not to hear her.

“Hey, Brayden!” She stumbled over the transition between syllables in

his name. Pronouncing words with the letter Y was always hard for her.

“Will you play with me?”

His eyes remained fixed on the screen, despite the static and

crackling that came from the old set. He couldn’t really tell what he was looking at, but it was something, and that’s all he really cared about.

She climbed up onto the couch and, reaching over to tug on his shirt,

repeated, “Hey, Brayden—”

“What is it, Sophie?” His head still faced forward.

“Do you… do you want to play with me?”

He sighed. “What do you want to play?”

Her blue eyes turned a bit brighter and her mouth widened just far

enough to reveal her two missing teeth. She shoved a bottle of pink nail polish in his face. “Princess,” she shouted proudly, but Brayden still didn’t turn to look at her. She pulled on his shirt and proceeded to point at the yellow princess dress she was wearing as if to say, duh.

“Not now, Sophie. Maybe later.” He pushed her hand away.

“Okay.”

***

“Can you play with me now?”

“Not if it’s ‘princess.’”

She pondered for a moment, her face softening in slight

disappointment before coming to a smile again. “Okay, we’ll play explorers!”

Brayden hated having to do anything he didn’t want to do, but he

hated playing with his sister the most. She was loud, constantly begging for attention, and ten years younger than he. If he wanted to play video games, she’d stand in front of the TV. If he were watching a movie with his friends, she’d tug on their shirts until she got all of their attention and go on to show them all her newest ballet routine, but she didn’t take any dance lessons. If she wasn’t getting her way, their mom made sure she did in the end.

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She was your average annoying little sister, but the TV was being just slightly more annoying that day. Brayden had to fiddle with the antenna every five minutes so he could just make out the silhouette of Dr. Phil and some broken family he was trying to mend that afternoon. Or maybe it was a girl with some strange obsession. Or perhaps not. The static was so loud he could barely hear any words that came through the speakers. But he was able to make out the jingle to Smiling Ted’s, the local car dealership—“When you buy with Ted, you’ll always buy with a smile!”

“Fine,” he said. At least she won’t be painting his nails fuchsia.

Her two big gaps showed again. “Okay, we’re going to find the lost treasure.”

“Lost treasure?” he chuckled. “Where’s our map?”

She hesitated, but for only a second. “We don’t need one, silly. I know the way by

heart. I’ve gone to the Secret Place lots.” He was caught off guard by her response. He expected her to struggle a little, rack her young brain for an answer. In the back of his mind he knew that kids were creative, but in his endless pursuit to avoid his annoying little sister whenever he had the chance, Sophie’s fantastical imagination was something he never took notice of. He also knew that there was no Secret Place in the house, but the way she said it—it made him wonder. “But I need you to help me get the treasure,” she continued. “You’re good at that stuff.” By that, she meant that he knew all the hiding spots for what their mom called goodies. He was tall enough to reach the cookie jar hiding behind the cereal on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet with the broken handle, and he watched where the presents were hidden every Christmas—last year, they were in the coat closet behind his stepdad’s old skis.

“All right, I’ll follow you.”

She grabbed his hand and began to pull him along, in her mind at least. In reality,

Brayden could barely feel her tiny hand on his. He began to think of the Secret Place.

Would she simply take him to her room, where she’d convince him to have a tea party?

Or maybe she’d lead him to his own room and into his closet, where he had an old

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plastic pirate’s chest filled with coins painted the same cheap gold color as her favorite princess dress, which she never took off before embarking on their new adventure.

“First, we have to get through the minecraft.”

“The what?”

She put her left hand on her hip and rolled her eyes. “The minecraft, Brayden.”

He was confused. “Tell me what a minecraft is, Sophie. I’m clearly not as smart as you.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and said, “I know. I should be in high school with you. You know, my last test got put on the ref…the refigig…”

“The refrigerator.”

She ignored his correction, pretending she was the one who actually said it. She pointed at the toys around the living room. “We’re in a minecraft. These are the mines. If you step on them, they’ll explode. BOOM!” Now Brayden knew what she meant. She was talking about a minefield but mixed it up with a game he used to play—Minecraft. But he didn’t bother correcting her again.

“Oh, okay. Well, we’ll be very careful then.”

They maneuvered their way through the living room—around the beige, beat-up sectional sofa, up the rickety staircase and back down again, around the scuffed coffee table, past the smudged glass sliding door—and into the kitchen without being blown up, although an explosion might make things more interesting, Brayden thought.

“Now we’re in the fairy forest,” she whispered. He knew she’d find a way to throw in something girly, like fairies and magic.

“Why are you whispering?”

Her eyes widened—their blue heightened by the dingy yellow vine-patterned wallpaper that her hair seemed to get entangled with—and flashed to their dog in the corner. “Because you don’t want to wake up the dragon.” Max didn’t fly or breathe fire, but his hot breath might make you a little nauseous if he got within smelling range.

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They walked on their tippy-toes, stepped on the white tiles only, stepped on the black tiles only, crawled on their hands and knees, each time around the tiny butcherblock island in the middle of their only slightly wider kitchen.

Great, I never mopped today, and I’m going to be the one who has to get the dirt stains out of the perfect child’s favorite princess dress. “How many times are we going to walk in circles? You’ll make yourself dizzy.”

“Keep your voice down!”

“Sophie, I have stuff to—“ “Shhh!”

They went around the island one more time before Sophie went to open the back door—the back door that sat smack dab between the kitchen and living room, which they walked by to get out of the minefield and into the fairy forest. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“We just have to go through this portal. Then we’ll finally be at the Secret Place.”

She extended her arm entirely and pulled the handle as hard as she could, but the door got stuck in the track as always. Brayden was the only one in the house who could get it open—push hard on the glass, pull on the handle ever so slightly, wiggle it to the left and to the right and back to the left. Voilà. “The magic touch,” his mom would say.

With the “portal” open, they went all the way to the back fence, where the branches of the neighbor’s tree hung over their wooden fence.

“We made it!”

“Sophie, this isn’t a secret. This tree has been here since, like… the beginning of time.”

“Exactly! The tree has ancient magical powers!”

He turned and began to walk back into the house.

“Brayden!”

He looked back at her. “What is it, Sophie?”

“Can I have an orange?”

“We don’t have any. Ask mom to get you some when she gets home.” He started walking again.

“Brayden!” She pointed up at the branches. “I want an orange.”

Slightly confused, very annoyed, but mostly curious, he ducked his head underneath the low-hanging branch and underneath the shade of the leaves. She pointed again, and his gaze followed the direction of her fingertips up into the plumage.

Floating above him was a kaleidoscope of hooker green ovals, dozens of bright golden spheres (not the same gold as her dress or his fake treasure; a kind of gold that radiated light), and endless brown veins connecting it all. He had never noticed them before, as if Sophie’s little hands carried immense power—as if by magic.

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I guess there is a Secret Place. He lifted up his arm high above where hers reached, plucked the ripest orange he could spot, and handed it to her.

“Thank you!”

He turned away and reattempted his trek back into the house.

“Wait, Brayden!”

He ignored her.

*** The static over the TV was loud, but not loud enough to mask the sound of her piercing cry. Brayden ran to the backyard and found her on the ground underneath the tree branch, tears running down her face. Her eyes, once a calm, saltwater sea, were more like the crests of raging waterfalls now. She was holding her elbow and her arm looked limp.

Brayden remembered when he was her age, playing a little league baseball game when he dislocated his shoulder. He knew that’s what was wrong with Sophie’s arm.

“What happened, Sophie?” He began to panic. He didn’t know how to do it, but he would do anything to get her to stop crying. “What did you do?” Mom is going to be pissed.

She looked up at him, her eyes open for the first time since she hit the ground.

They sparkled more than he had seen before, her first taste of pain giving him his first glimpse of true beauty.

He held her now, and her sobs turned to sniffles. She was trying to catch her breath. Through her stuttering inhales, she managed to get one clear sentence out.

“I wanted you to have one, too.” Her mouth widened, the gleam of her white teeth splattered with thick blots of red. Three gaps.

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LIFELINE: A SERIES OF VIGNETTES

by Sarah Kazmierczak

Crisis I open my weathered front door, and it squeaks when I push her against it as it shuts behind her. It’s dark, so I’m not concerned about her seeing my laundry on the floor or my dishes in the sink. Besides, I know I’m not going to see her again. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I’m getting laid—at fifty years old. Still got it.

We stumble into the bedroom, and I feel her reach into the back pocket of my

jeans. She takes out the plastic bag with my last few grams, ready to be released into the chaos, contained neatly inside. She pours the contents onto the water-stained nightstand next to my unmade bed and the powder glistens as the single ray of white moonlight bounces off my crystalized pleasure, beckoning for me. She snorts half of it, gestures for me to finish the rest, and throws my body onto the bed. The old springs push against my back, but it doesn’t bother me much. I don’t feel much of anything anymore. Sure, because of the booze and the drugs, but mostly just because of life. I just don’t feel.

When it’s over, she doesn’t make much fuss about leaving. I don’t even ask, she

just slips on her light blue, ripped jeans and black tank top. I walk her to the door in my boxers—not to be “gentlemanly” or anything like that. I’m certainly not a gentleman and she isn’t so honorable herself. I just need to get more booze. I’m coming down from my high and I need something to numb me, so I don’t remember.

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The back of my throat is lit on fire by the whiskey I struggle to swallow straight from the bottle, and I start to think. How did I get here? How did I live this long? Why the hell am I still here—in this shithole of a house, in the middle of this shithole town, taking shit drugs, drinking shit booze, and fucking women not worth a shit? I’m fifty-fuckingyears-old. What do I have to show for fifty fucking years on this planet? Jack shit.

I finish off what was left in the bottle, and I heave it onto the laminate marble floor. The shards of glass glisten and cut through the veins of the cheaply imitated stone.

Fifty-fucking-years-old. Absolutely nothing. I’m absolutely nothing. I’d kill myself if I weren’t so afraid of dying, if I knew what would happen to me.

I stagger into the bedroom and into the closet where I keep my safe. The clicking of the lock as I turn it—three full turns to the right, 8, 30, 11, pop—gives me a sort of high I never felt before, a rush of adrenaline that makes the hair on my arms stand up and an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint. Happiness?

I stare straight into the black hole for a moment, right through to the back where the shadowy outline of my shotgun stands mockingly. I reach out for it, feeling the rugged woodgrain and shock of cold metal against my fingertips. I put it in my lap, my legs heavy against the scratchy, stained carpet. It’s loaded. I turn the safety off and turn it towards myself.

Who the hell am I kidding? I can’t do this. I’m being a dumbass. I attempt to put it on the floor, but my body is moving slower than my mind and my finger slips.

Bang.

How it Starts What do you do when you feel guilty for doing something, but that guilt makes you want to do it again? I can hear my mother’s voice, her disappointment in me, but also her anger.

“What the hell is that?”

“What, Mom?” “On your arm! Show me!” She snatchs my wrist and the sting of her touch makes me wince. “What is this, Daniel?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s nothing? What the hell do you mean it’s nothing?”

“I mean, it’s nothing. Really.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know, Mom.” She sighs. “What would your father say about this?”

“He’d be mad.”

“That’s right. Now, why would he be mad?”

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“It’s ‘for cowards’ and he doesn’t ‘raise cowards.’”

“That’s right. Don’t you ever think about doing this to yourself again. Have some damn respect for yourself and the life we give you, the good life you live.” She jerks her body back toward the stove to stir her spaghetti.

“I don’t know how.”

Her shoulders droop and her head turns slightly to the right and then straight again, as if she wants to say something and can’t come up with anything, so she chooses to say nothing at all. I turn to walk away, but she stops me.

“Go wash your hands and sit at the table. Dinner is almost ready.”

Waves We knew only because his neighbors noticed his dog was outside for two days.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” they say as they walk by us.

“Thank you.”

My older brother and I were the ones to make the drive and identify the body.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” our cousin says.

“Still feels unreal.”

We go to his house. That’s where it happened. Everything seems so normal, so ordinary. Nothing was out of place. Just the rusty brown spot on the carpet where they found him.

“I’m praying for him,” our aunt says.

“We appreciate that.”

His neighbors were nice enough to watch the dog, but we took him off their hands. Otto will be staying with me now. I’m not sure if he really knows what happened or if he thinks he’ll be going back home to be with his companion again. In a way, I guess Otto’s the luckiest of us – that he can remain ignorant.

“How could he do this to us,” our sister sobs.

“It’s okay to be angry, but you can’t be angry with him.”

I have to be a sign of strength to our family. I need to hold everyone together, so I need to hold myself together. I can’t cry as I look at his closed, mahogany casket, as speeches are made in honor of him, as he is lowered into the cold, damp soil. For each crimson rose shed onto his eternal enclosure, I wish I could bleed a tear for my younger brother and best friend. I wish I knew why he didn’t tell me, why he couldn’t tell anyone.

As I think of him trapping his pain inside of him—so easily freed by mortality—I let my tears fall onto the very soil he is laid in, to remain with him.

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Artwork By: Serene Martens Artwork Title: #2 93

LONG DISTANCE

by Alex Rosas Distance makes the heart grow fonder A lie to be sure, so I thought Yet here I sit, this time to ponder In the agonies distance hath brought The warmth of your smile, That spark in your eye I yearn for love’s guile And beg for reply To sit here and wonder That is greater pain wrought The highest of blunders Shame is not what I sought In days past, love whispers its subtle song And carries us neither forced nor along

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echo taps

by Daniel Curran

1000 men Upon the Hill Parade rest Standing still

A select few 25 or so Truly felt Deep sorrow

Uniforms pressed They all think How life can end In a blink

But 1000 men A solemn sight Gave him a Salute that night

1000 men All alive Think about The one who died

For be it war Or be it cars Be it a D-Day charge Or fights at bar

22:00 On the dot A sole salute Is slowly, upward shot

A brother’s lost Let him sleep tight We all honor him tonight

All around They all raise 1000 hands Men in praise 95

Artwork By: Neroly Mora Artwork Title: #2

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CHAM EL

WINNER

NAL

LITERARY JOUR EON

ITING CREATIVE WR AW

D

$150

AR

the whole turkey

by Carli Harris

CHARACTERS: HAROLD, a prince; does not want to marry his fiancée, ELIZABETH; cowardly, but craves adventure.

ELIZABETH, a princess; engaged to HAROLD, likes things to be her way, has a temper.

GWYNETH, a female knight; sloppy, independent, and slightly delusional.

GREGOR, HAROLD’s loyal servant; kind-hearted, yet dimwitted.

SCENE: The master bedroom of a medieval castle

AT RISE: A room with doors at each end. There is a table with four chairs in the center of the room.

On the table there is a basket of bread and a bottle of ale. Harold, Elizabeth, and Gregor are surrounding the table. Elizabeth is pacing back and forth, listing off wedding details. Gregor is quickly scribbling a long list of notes, occasionally looking up and nodding. Harold stands with his arms crossed, nodding and agreeing with everything Elizabeth says.

ELIZABETH Roses. I want peonies and roses, and lots of them! They have to be bright and fragrant.

I want the entire hall to smell like spring.

HAROLD (nodding) Of course– ELIZABETH (talking over him) And I want you to be sure to have only the finest cooks preparing the food. I don’t want anything made by common servants. It must be exquisite!

HAROLD Right, I–

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ELIZABETH (cutting him off again) Harold, I’m entrusting you with finding the best cooks, alright? Do you think you can handle this, or do I need to give you something a bit more simple to do?

HAROLD No, I can–

ELIZABETH (interjecting) Good. Now, onto the next matter. As you know, the Swedish and Danish kings have not been getting along recently, so we can’t have them stay in the same tower.

HAROLD Do you want me to– ELIZABETH No, no, I can take care of that as well. (turning to Gregor) Gregor, we should probably go over everything.

GREGOR Yes, Lady Elizabeth.

(The two begin walking out. Gregor leaves his quill. Elizabeth turns around to speak to Harold.)

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ELIZABETH Oh, Harold. I’ve hired a guard to keep an eye on you. He should be up here in a bit.

(The two walk out of the room. Harold stands by the table for a while longer and then dashes over to the door. He presses his ear against it and listens for a bit. He smiles, locks it, and runs back across the room. He pulls a suitcase from under the table and begins to pack. He is stuffing an assortment of items into the suitcase, tossing things around, unsure of what to pack. He picks up a sword, strikes a heroic pose with it, then shakes his head and throws it to the side. A knock sounds at the door.)

HAROLD (Shoots up, petrified. He yells at the door.)

What– what is it, dear?

GREGOR Your highness, it’s me, Gregor. I seem to have forgotten my quill. Are you alright?

HAROLD (goes back to packing) Yes, Gregor. I’m perfectly alright. Go away.

GREGOR Sire, you don’t sound alright. This door is never locked. If you don’t open it then I’ll have to break it down.

HAROLD (runs over and leans against the door) No, Gregor don’t come in here, I’m … (waves his hands, looking for an excuse) ... I’m taking a bath!

GREGOR But Sire, you’re– HAROLD Naked! Gregor, I am NAKED! Do not come in!

GREGOR All right, is there anything I can do for you?

HAROLD Go and cook me an entire turkey. I don’t know. Just go away.

GREGOR All right… but could I come in to grab the quill?

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HAROLD I’ll get it to you later. Please just leave me be, Gregor.

GREGOR As you wish. (footsteps fade away) (Harold sighs and stands up. He slowly walks back over to the suitcase and begins packing again. A girl, Gwyneth, walks into the room through the second door and looks down at him.

She then walks over to the table at the center of the room. She picks up the bottle and takes a swig. She then grabs a roll with her other hand and bites off of it, taking swigs to wash it down.

Harold slams the suitcase shut and gets up to leave. He is startled by Gwyneth’s presence. He jumps and the suitcase flies out of his hands, clothes go everywhere.)

GWYNETH (through a mouthful of food) Going somewhere?

HAROLD (smiles nervously and scoops a heap of clothes into his arms, then tries to make his way out of the room) Just taking some clothes down to wash.

GWYNETH (unsheathes her sword and stabs it into the ground in front of him and walks toward him, still holding the bottle) You are not to leave this room.

HAROLD (he steps back into the table, wide-eyed he begins to yell) Gregor! Gregor, come quick!

GWYNETH Ha! What a noble prince you are; calling for the help of a servant. Tell him why I’m stopping you. Tell him that you’re running from your wedding. See how highly he thinks of a prince who is no better than a damsel in distress.

(Gregor busts in through the door, panicked, swinging a baguette. He sees Gwyneth and straightens up, wiping flour off of his clothes. He looks at Harold and gestures to Gwyneth) GREGOR Who’s she?

GWYNETH Gwyneth. A pleasure to meet you. (bows) 101

HAROLD (running over and hiding behind Gregor) She broke in swinging her sword! She’s an intruder! Gregor, call the guards! Have her arrested, executed—I don’t care, just get her out of here!

GREGOR (has a sudden realization) Oh, that’s right! She’s guarding your room to be sure you’re all safe and sound before the ceremony. (frowns) I don’t think Elizabeth wanted a female guard though.

HAROLD If she’s a guard then why were you able to get in so easily?

GWYNETH (swings her sword in Gregor’s direction) Halt! Intruder, you are not to leave this room.

GREGOR (points out the door) You know, I’m actually in the middle of cooking an entire turkey, so it might be best if...

(Gwyneth steps forward and slices off the end of Gregor’s baguette with her sword. He stares at the baguette for a second, wide-eyed, then turns and runs out of the room) GWYNETH The intruder has dispersed. You are safe now.

HAROLD Didn’t you tell him not to leave the room?

GWYNETH (she stands there thinking for a second, then takes another drink from the bottle) Well, by Christ’s blood.

(Harold takes a seat at the table and hangs his head in his hands. Gwyneth walks over and slowly gives him a few pats on the back before grabbing another roll off of the table. She takes a few bites before speaking.)

So when do you think he’ll be done with that turkey?

(Harold slowly picks his head up, turning toward her. He stands up and begins re-packing his suitcase. Gwyneth watches him and finishes her food.)

What are you doing?

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HAROLD I. Am. Leaving. (slams the suitcase.)

GWYNETH Why are you so afraid of getting married? Is there something wrong with Princess Perfect?

HAROLD Yes. I am not in love with her. She is not the one for me.

GWYNETH Well, Harold, what’s she missing? What do you want in a maiden?

HAROLD (crosses the room) I want a maiden with a drive for adventure. I want her to be daring, and brave, and independent. I want someone unpredictable and exciting. Almost like(he looks over at Gwyneth as she’s picking bread from her teeth) GWYNETH (looking up at him) What are you staring at? (smiles) Did I get it all out of my teeth?

HAROLD (walking over to Gwyneth) What do you do?

GWYNETH What do you mean?

HAROLD (sitting next to her) I mean, besides this, you know? Guarding people? What else do you do?

GWYNETH (shrugging) I travel around, battling occasionally. I guess I just kind of drift from place to place.

HAROLD (getting closer to her) What’s it like to get your hands dirty? Have you killed anyone? What’s that like?

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GWYNETH (backing away from him) It isn’t like I enjoy it. It’s just sort of necessary sometimes. Part of the lifestyle, I guess.

HAROLD That sounds exciting… You sound exciting. (he pulls her into an embrace) Run away with me!

GWYNETH (she shoves him away and leans back laughing, using the table to hold herself up.)

Not in a million years, pretty boy.

HAROLD Come on, doesn’t it just seem right? I mean, I won’t lie; you aren’t exactly dignified, but you’re just what I’m looking for! You’re brave, you’re unpredictable, you’re exciting. Just come with me. It may seem like a terrible idea at first, but you won’t really know until you give it a chance. If you don’t like it, you can just leave me in the woods to die or something like that.

I’m sure you’ll come up with a plan.

GWYNETH What is wrong with you? I am here to ensure that this wedding happens. This entire engagement has been set up only to improve the bonds between the two countries and allow your kingdom to gain land and better control of trade. It doesn’t matter if you love her. This is your duty.

HAROLD (getting down on his knees, he begins to beg.)

Please come with me. You’re pretty close to what I’ve been dreaming about. I can’t make it without you. I need you with me.

GWYNETH I know you couldn’t make it alone, that’s why I’m not agreeing to come with you. You have to follow through with this wedding. It’s the best thing for the people of your kingdom.

HAROLD But it isn’t fair. If my people are able to marry for love, then why am I not?

GWYNETH Even royalty has to have its downsides. Just suck it up and marry her. You have it way better than most people.

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HAROLD But I don’t want this. (tackles her to the ground) I want you!

(Elizabeth bursts through the door and stops at the sight of Harold on top of Gwyneth. Her jaw drops. There is a pause as they all stay there in silence.)

HAROLD Oh, Elizabeth. How kind of you to grace us with your presence. (getting up) Not that I don’t love having you here, but shouldn’t you be preparing for the ceremony?

ELIZABETH Harold… what are you doing? Who’s she? Where’s the guard?

HAROLD (throwing up his arms) Sure, let’s start with that. This is Gwyneth. She’s just… teaching me a little bit of self-defense.

She’s here to be sure I don’t– GWYNETH (speaking over Harold) To be sure he doesn’t have any trouble meeting you at that alter! That’s what I’m here for. I’m the guard.

ELIZABETH (putting her hands to her head, she begins pacing) No, no, no. This is a mistake. This is a big mistake.

HAROLD (stepping over to Elizabeth, he begins speaking to her as she paces and mumbles) Elizabeth… I don’t think we should be married.

(She stops pacing and slowly raises her head. She glares up at him.)

GREGOR (from offstage) Sire, I’ve finished cooking that entire turkey for you, I hope you’re hungry!

(He receives no reply, but enters anyway. He sets the turkey on the table. Everyone is watching him.)

Turkey. Entire turkey. Please eat it.

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ELIZABETH Are you serious? (she walks over to the turkey and looks up at Harold. She repeats herself, yelling.)

Are you serious?!

HAROLD What?

ELIZABETH (she is still yelling, clearly upset) Did you not listen to anything I said this morning? I told you I wanted only the best chefs. I said to have nothing made by your servants, but what did you do? You had Gregor prepare an entire turkey.

GREGOR That he did, and I can assure you this will be the best turkey you’ve ever tasted.

HAROLD Gregor, I never told you to cook this turkey.

GREGOR Why, of course you did. Just this morning, sire.

HAROLD I have no recollection of this whatsoever. Are you sure?

GREGOR Of course. Why else would I prepare such an amazing turkey?

ELIZABETH (interrupting the conversation) It’s not about the stupid turkey! (she begins tearing the turkey apart and throwing bits of it at Harold) You never listen to me. Even when you do listen to me, you don’t actually care. Every time I ask you to carry out a simple task, you find some way to mess it up. You are absolutely incapable of doing anything. You couldn’t even find decent cooks. You went against my wishes and had Gregor make this turkey. I mean, how good could this even be? (she takes a bite and then stares at the turkey, amazed) Well, by Christ’s blood. This is the best turkey I’ve ever tasted. Forget about Harold! (she wraps her arms around Gregor and kisses him)

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HAROLD So you’re not mad about this?

ELIZABETH Oh, of course I am. Let’s be real though; I was only in it for the land.

(Elizabeth exits, pulling Gregor along with her. Harold grabs a leg from the turkey and offers it to Gwyneth.)

GWYNETH (she takes the turkey leg and twists it in her hand for a bit before looking up at Harold) So, would you still like to run away with me?

HAROLD Yes! Oh, can I? GWYNETH Well, you’re single now so, sure, why not?

(Harold runs over to the heap of clothes and stuffs them into the suitcase. Gwyneth stands above him shaking her head.)

HAROLD What am I doing wrong?

GWYNETH You won’t need any of that.

HAROLD What will I need, then?

GWYNETH Just grab your sword and our adventure begins.

(Harold struggles to pick his sword up. Gwyneth shakes her head. The two run out the second door, Harold dragging his sword behind him.)

End of Play

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Artwork By: Serene Martens Artwork Title: #1 108

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my friend corey

by Elijah Campiglio I was riding my bike home from the local convenience store with my friend Corey. It was a long day at school and we thought about heading to 7/11 to get some snacks, afterword we planned on go to Corey’s house to hang out. Corey grabbed a big bag of spicy Doritos off the shelf with a loud crunch; I opened the glass refrigerated door and snatched up two Arizona ice teas making my hands wet from the condensation. It felt great opening the first one, hearing the “cshh” of the can and the instant cool relief to my head upon the first sip, the heat just vanished. “Just two more weeks and school’s over,” I said to Corey. He laughed as we walked over to the counter, Corey then pulling a few stray dollars out of his jeans pocket. “You know it! High school is the next step,” he said to me.

The clerk, an Indian man tending to the counter, put his magazine down and got off his creaky stool. Being a local in the town, I visit this 7/11 frequently, but his name is still a blur to me. “What’s new?!”

Corey and I said to him. “The Sox are doing alright, so I’m happy right now,” said the clerk. Corey and the clerk started to talk about baseball while I was focused on other things. Corey told the clerk how he plans on being the best hitter on the baseball team when we get to high school next year. Corey absentmindedly handed me the money while blabbering on and I paid for our cold drinks. The clerk continued his conversation with Corey as he rang us up and tossed me a plastic grocery bag. “See you later man,” Corey said to the clerk. The clerk waved to us and said, “Stay out of trouble.”

Adding with a smile the clerk said, “If you guys ever want to play ball, my little brother is always down,” and then he waved goodbye.

Corey put the plastic bag in his backpack as we walked to where our bikes were locked up. The heat was oppressive outside. I could see heat waves in the distance on the road as cars whizzed by us.

We got on our bikes and started heading to Corey’s to play some PlayStation to get out of the heat. I kept thinking how I wanted to get inside and lie on Corey’s cool leather couch. A mile went by.

Abruptly Corey exclaimed, “Shit,” followed by, “Damn it.” I asked what was wrong. “I left my bike lock in the parking lot,” Corey said.

“Chill here, I’ll be right back.” I said, “Okay” and soon time went by and I wondered where Corey went. Minutes became a full half hour.

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I started to get a mix of nervousness and frustration as I started biking back to the 7/11.

I started to hear sirens. A cop car flew by me and disappeared in the distance. I was scared now and hesitated to peddle. I heard commotion back at the 7/11. At least five cop cars were there with lights flashing, a sixth one pulled in the same time as I arrived. I looked and saw the glass to the front door of the 7/11 was shattered all over the sidewalk.

I saw a policeman sitting on the curb, crying. I had never seen that before. I saw Corey’s bike still outside next to the broken glass door, his kick stand wasn’t even up. It was just lying there on the hot sidewalk cooking in the sun. Corey loved that bike; he would never do something like that. I hear the glass crunching under footsteps as police walked out of the store with heads down, sweat dripping from their defeated faces.

EMTs arrived and walked into the 7/11. No running, no sign of urgency, but a light waltz through the door. The clerk I had only just waved goodbye to was wheeled out on a stretcher with blood all over his face.

The EMTs moved him to their ambulance and lifted him up into the back. That’s when I saw them zip a bag over him like he was a being put in a trash bag. The EMTs got back in with two more stretchers and dark black bags. They actively avoided eye contact with everyone, looking at the ground all the way to the door. I listened to the cops behind me talking. I was amazed no one told me to step back as yellow tape was being rolled out like a spider web around the area.

“What the heck happened?” one cop asked to the other defeatedly.

The other police officer looked sternly at him: “Apparently the kid left his bike lock and came back to get it. The curry lover behind the counter saw he left it and took it inside for the kid. The boy got back, didn’t see it, so he went in to ask. Right as he was walking in, a guy with a gun ready to rob the place got behind him. The kid didn’t even notice and actually held the door for this guy. The clerk didn’t even hesitate and grabbed his double barrel under the cash register and accidently shot the poor kid, thinking he was helping the guy rob the place.”

I blacked out, I didn’t even hear what the other cop said. I just remember waking up in the back of my mom’s car, it was dark out, and my eyes felt raw. I opened up my backpack and there was one warm ice tea left.

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the perfect night

by Moira Stettner

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It could not be a more perfect night. The moon bathes the Earth below in a soft silver haze, outshining all but the brightest stars. The snow fell deeply just days before, and now rests like a heavy blanket around the trees. Creatures in search of food must either burrow into the white drifts or plow through. With no star-map to follow, no moss to point the way, and snow piled deep over untraveled paths, direction and unwary souls are easily lost. The shadows cast by the slumbering trees allow the mind to play tricks as the wind sways both wood and shadow. That gentle creak is just the limbs of that towering red pine groaning, pay it no heed. After the breeze blows past, the woods grow deafeningly silent. That crack was just a branch of that old maple giving out under the weight of the snow it bears, pay it no heed. What is that hushed murmuring? Simply a frozen brook whispering secrets; don’t pause to listen, pay it no heed. What lies under the frozen carpet? Nothing to worry about, don’t stop to look, pay it no heed. You should be less concerned with the things you can explain and more concerned about what could be following your freshly-carved path. But have you heard It? No. But have you seen It? No. The ground is masking Its careful footsteps. The silence fills your ears like cotton and covers Its sounds. Without stars, moss, or road to guide you, how can you be so sure you’re not lost already? Best keep moving, lest you join the others under the white blanket. It could not be a more perfect night.

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Artwork By: Price Webb Artwork Title: Norwich Campus 114

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To submit pieces online, visit The Chameleon page at Norwich University’s website at www.norwich.edu/chameleon