Illuminati Spring 2018 by notthatilluminati

A Journal of the Arts / Miami University Middletown Spring 2018

ÂŠ 2018 The Illuminati Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the editors. Editorial Offices: 129 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown, Middletown, Ohio 45042 https://notthatilluminati.wordpress.com/

https://miamioh.edu/regionals

President/Editor in Chief Jessica Powers

Staff Ashley Baker, Vice President Simon Bhatti, Treasurer Luke Baker Michelle Lucas Amy Malott Audrey Morris Bailey Schunk Noah Wolfenbarger

Faculty Advisors Michelle Lawrence Eric Melbye

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Contents

Jessica Powers

Forward

Jasmine Fletcher

Illness Says

Chance Humphrey

Waiting Room

Detention

Prayer for the Dying

The Picture

Brittany Maloney

Desperation

Audrey Morris

Untitled

Blow to the Head

James Noes

Letters Home: On Animal Rights

Jessica Powers

Untitled

A.C. Ross

For Th’One’s Who Now Whisper With the Wind

Amele Sakpo

Sunset

Waterfall

Blue Heaven

Swallow the Sea Monsters

Home on the Horizon

Cassandra Seidenstricker

Forest Sunset

Emily Steele

An Ode to the Disordered

Soul Search

Carl’s Body

The Running of the Bears

Amy Malott

Samuel Schenck

Carter Surber

The Warning

Boys Will Be Boys

What the Cat Says to Me

Mara Vida

Unbroken

Taylor Williams

Insert Generic Depression Poem Here

Sides of the brain are a myth

Cycles

Forward This issue reintroduces The Illuminati to the world and I’m so excited to be a part of this organization’s rebirth. As an organization, our main goal is to promote creativity across campus and to give people an outlet and platform for their ideas. Particularly with this issue, we wanted to give a platform to diverse voices and messages. We wanted a collection of pieces that would demonstrate distinct points of view in our community. By including this array of viewpoints, we hope this will inspire and encourage others to share their stories and have their voices heard as well. I want to thank everyone who reads this issue for your support, everyone who contributed their work, and all the staff who helped throughout this process. A very special thank you goes out to our advisors Eric Melbye and Michelle Lawrence. Since The Illuminati’s revitalization, they have been so helpful, wise, and fun to be around. Their passion for providing this community and its inhabitants with more opportunities for creative expression inspires me every day! Personally, I was really impressed with the pieces in this issue and they make me excited to see even more of what our community can create! Be on the lookout for more creative mischief on campus courtesy of The Illuminati. --Jessica Powers Editor-in-Chief

Jasmine Fletcher

Malcolm Sedam Creative Writing Award Winner

Illness Says Remember when you were younger You saw a stray cat wandering around the street You asked your parents if you could keep it? “Oreo” is the name you gave the black and white kitten. “Silly girl, you shouldn’t name things you can’t keep You’ll get attached” What’s wrong with getting attached? Illness is a parasite. It feeds on your soul And clings to every part of you. Illness feels like home, Like second nature And once you have Ana, Mia or Sue There’s no living alone Because naming things makes you attached. Illness greets you in the morning Coffee flavored just right A blueberry muffin, fresh baked And gives you a smile. Illness gets drunk on Tuesday afternoon Shoves you into the coffee table Then passes out on the couch. Illness is your ex-girlfriend Who swears she’s gay At least “A little bit” But she leaves you for her Ex-boyfriend. She isn’t “that gay” after all. She says “we can still be friends” Then she ignores you in the hallways Yet tells everyone how messed up you were. Illness is your ex-boyfriend Who keeps goading you on Asks for pictures and favors

But when you tell him “No” He makes you walk down the highway in the rain. After a couple miles he pulls over in front of you. “I was only kidding, get back in.” It’s cold outside So you open in door. When he tells you to pull your shirt off You think about just getting out of the car, Walking home, even though you’re 20 miles away. Illness knows your favorite color is blue Your favorite movie is Interstellar Your favorite season is autumn. Illness also knows you loathe your body. Illness knows tricks, though. Years later, illness reminds you of those tricks But you tell yourself you will wait 236 days Before climbing back down the rabbit hole. This way your body isn’t feeding another body That way it’s fine if you don’t eat. Illness says it doesn’t matter That it has been 12 years since the first time Or even that it’s been 5 years since the last time Because time isn’t truly linear. Tomorrow you could wake up Be six again, hiding in a closet Hiding from the monster. A monster that your parents swear is imaginary. They don’t remember seeing any monsters. Illness learns about bloodletting Finds you a special blade And lets you write stories on your wrists. It’s been 2 years since you had a visit from your metal friend. Even though you should have evicted him He still lives in a jewelry box in the top drawer of your dresser. Sometimes you miss your time together But too many eyes are watching now So there’s no time for an affair with your secret love. Speaking of love, illness says you will always be alone. Two children, four years and a daily “I love you” Is a show the universe has involved you in. Illness told you that you were nothing more

Than a rag doll with no autonomy, A marionette with strings that people will pull, A sex doll with no voice Because that is how the play has been so far. When you find the person Who gets your voice back from the sea witch You wonder what new thing Your soul has been sold for. Surely there isn’t someone who wants nothing Other than your company. Illness says whoever hears these words Is judging you Since people are always judging you. Being in public is a nightmare. You are a gazelle in the savannah, Everyone else is a lion. They are waiting for you to stumble So they can chew you to pieces Then leave your corpse for the vultures To pick your bones dry. Illness says maybe it’ll be better to be a corpse. When your belly is full of pills You will sleep so much better. If your metal lover Can dig deep enough into your story Maybe you won’t feel the weight of the world On your crumbling shoulders. Illness reminds you That the train is less than a block away And that the train comes through many times a day. Illness says maybe your next life Will be better than this one. Maybe you won’t get such a bad hand starting out. Illness makes you think about your children Telling you that they deserve better. Illness doesn’t tell you That their world would crumble without you Or that maybe what he did to you Wasn’t okay after all. Illness doesn’t tell you to love the body That carried two beautiful souls Into this dark world.

Illness doesn’t tell you that yes, He really loves you and those walls Don’t, in fact, have to be up every single second of the day. Illness will never tell you You don’t deserve the pain, Punishment, misery or fear. Illness never told you the world is better With you in it.

Chance Humphrey

Malcolm Sedam Writing Scholarship Winner

Waiting Room It’s late November and the asshole weather has frosted over everything. I continue to slip on the smallest patches of ice, one after another, reeling about this little parking lot- but bye god I am an athlete and I am continually recovering with grace. I reach the van, start the motor up with a twist of her key and shed the whole thing of morning glaze. Completely composed, we begin moving through the wind and ice to the hospital. This early everything is reflex. Hands and feet work away on autopilot. Head clears the cobwebs of waking- attic space haunted this morning by an old ghost with a new shock. My stepmother’s voice, thin and distant over the phone keeps telling me: “Your Dad was taken to the hospital and they’re saying he may have died in the ambulance. You need to get here, now.” It was her voice, alright, but it sounded all garbled. Like choking. “Atrium Hospital in Middletown. You need to get here.” Vroom vroom. Tires sliding across ice, I’m not panicked. I’m completely composed. Dad’s health has provided no shortage of foreshadowing. Being in the shadowy years of his sixties. Steady regimen of doctor visits. Shrinking stature. Swelling fondness for storytelling. I have the wheel in both hands, I spray frozen Midwestern chips on the cars that I pass. I weigh how much it matters, how fast I drive. Pulling straight into the hospital parking lot and striding through big electric doors up to the receptionist’s desk, I find an enormous, round woman squatting in a teeny swivel chair. The poor seat frame squeaks in desperation as she shifts her weight to peer up at me over the top of some wire framed glasses, perched way down on the end of a boulder nose. Canyons of staggering depth stretch across her face. Unpredictable patterns, craggy and cratered. It’s these canyons I stare into, not her eyes, as I ask her which room -omitted- was taken to. He would have arrived in an ambulance not too long ago, I tell her, I am his son. The golem says nothing but stares into my eyes as she begins to type into her keyboard, gravel fingertips clacking against the plastic. I think perhaps I might have more accurately said: “His body would have come in an ambulance not too long ago- I am its son.” But the only thing I can do is stare back at her, hands hanging cold and useless at my sides. She could know whether a man or a body had been brought into this building. She should know. Being The Great Boulder of Greetings that she is, embedded here in front of the electric doors, seeing everything come and gone for a thousand years.

So I start trying to find clues. Scouring the earthy expression, I squint, peering deep down into all those canyons, searching to the depths of each and every one. Raising myself to the tips of my toes. Making myself as tall as possible. Straining my calves for a better perspective. I have to restrain myself from uprooting, crawling across the desk, staring down into one of those mossy stone ears. But without means of proper excavation- and the lobby wholly void of pickaxes, jackhammers, bulldozers- the canyons keep their secrets. Chasm after chasm sealed shut by a professionally ordained apathy. They reveal nothing to me of what they hold at their bottom. Her black eyes flick down to the computer screen. “PATRICIA.” she says. Right. Her eyes flick back to me. She says it again, louder. “PATRICIA.” It hits me. I’ve missed something. Some part of the precession, or hospital protocol. A secret password. Mandatory for admittance. Not prepared after all . . . they won’t allow me passage. Caught here forever away from where I need to be, with these black sinkhole eyes just burrowing away on me . . . when a tiny little nurse rounds the corner and the receptionist, who has firmly regained and refuses to relinquish her stare into my face, says from the corner of that craggy mouth, “Patricia, please take this young man to the QUIET ROOM.” --The tiny little nurse stands there and nods and gestures at me so I leave the receptionist alone and follow her gesturing as she turns and scurries down the hallway. We twist down corridors and passageways, her frail scrub-draped frame always two quick steps ahead of me. White hair pulled tightly into a small knot on the back of her head. Thin traces left unsecured wisp wildly in her wake, making airy, nearly invisible passes at my face, hoping to stick in the wet of my eyes. I swat it all away. We pass through another lobby, people scattered in handfuls across rows and rows of chairs. They all stare into the floor or ceiling or walls, just a bit of slobber dribbling unchecked down their chin, catching the light. They all just sit, anchored. Waiting. I shiver. Past this lobby, we whip up and down more corridors before finally coming to a halt in front of a broom closet. She turns and gestures at me with her tiny little hands. She makes a pattern with them in the air that says to me something like, “Now you stay right here.” The door of the closet stands open. Screwed into the wall next to the door frame is an antiquated little plaque that says in raised white font: ‘QUIET ROOM.’ I take a peek inside, and this broom closet has no brooms nor mops nor buckets, but instead a carpeted floor and four little chairs crammed in a semicircle around a crooked little wooden table. The chairs are replicas of the ones in the lobby. The ones sat on by the drooling Waiters. On the crooked little table sits a fresh box of tissues.

I turn and say, Listen. Please. My stepmother is around here somewhere. Can you take me please to wherever that is... But the nurse is gone. To the far ends of the corridor there is no sign of her or anyone. How thin could this air be? I crane my neck, but find only white walls spotted with signs and arrows. Alone now- with a bit of breeze maybe remaining from the nurse and her scurry away- I feel much larger than I should. Standing here, straight backed. Waiting. The problem with standing so still and tall in such an empty space is it makes me feel like prey, and so I start thinking that maybe I should track down my stepmother myself. She’s loud enough that passing within a quarter mile should allow me to pinpoint a location. But of course, I could never navigate these corridors alone. I would wander directionless with my hands cupped around my ears, listening and squinting and gradually withering away until I’m starved to death in the white halls. Eventually my skeleton would be found, sprawled across sanitized tile, picked clean and scattered by the dogs that roam forever the bleakest hospital corridors- and when they pieced me back together again they would not associate the completed skeleton with being mine- for I would have shrank in my being alone. The bones head-to-toe would stand as tall as a child. The skeleton would be placed on display in the lobby of the hospital, encased in a tower of glass with a shining silver plaque set square in the bottom dedicating the whole thing to the mysteries and wonders of medical science. My name and I will be placed on a list of missing persons. All this makes my stomach twist so I think maybe I’ll sit down. I move towards the QUIET ROOM, eyeballing the little chairs. Inching closer, my stomach starts to settle. The dim light makes me feel stable, normal sized. The walls inside are close together, a reprieve from these expansive halls. But something freezes me just outside of the doorway. An odor. Something damp, familiar. I focus my eyes through the dim until they adjust to the interior of the QUIET ROOM. A minute passes . . . and this room becomes clear- the trap for fools. Grief pouring down the walls, thick, viscous, peeling the wallpaper. Worry and denial all ground deep and dark into the upholstery of the chairs. Hope corroding all the fixtures, yellowing the light. Misery soaked into the carpet, lapping about, ankle height. Step inside and sink straight to the bottom. The QUIET ROOM. I’m not going in there. I fold my arms and I laugh, turning my back on the sad sad broom closet to lean against the wall in the corridor. Right. What a thing. Really. And this nurse better hurry up too, or I’m burning this fucking building to the ground. Blue hair teased all up, congenially plump, a new little nurse washes into view at the end of the hall. Her face is round and kind and soft, gently shaped by years of genuinely caring. She greets me and asks softly, smiling, so what is my relationship to the patient? I tell her that I am his son. She pours on like a seasoned professional: Okay. Now. It appears that your father has suffered a major heart attack. He is currently in the emergency room undergoing procedure. Your stepmother is there as well, in the room with him. Would you like to be taken to the room? I tell her that I would.

She pauses, very professionally, and adds in gentle, articulate notes, “I must tell you that often times, family members would rather not witness a loved one at this stage of procedure. In his kind of condition.” She says this kindly, understandingly, “Should you choose to see him, you should be prepared- it’s not a pretty sight. Many patients do not wish to be remembered in such a way.” I tell her that it’s okay, my Dad was never exactly what you’d call a pretty sight. She looks me over from kind little eyes set deep into that warm washed face as I half-chortle at my own half-joke. She begins to stare at her own feet. I stop my chortling as she continues to stand, suddenly immobilized, offering nothing but a benign statue. Stagnant. Staring into her own feet. I get nervous. I begin to fear that I’ve sent her into some kind of altruists’ stupor. I think to place a hand on her padded shoulder, to shake her awake and to tell her that my joking is nothing inhumane- nothing malicious or remotely abnormal or pathological or disassociated- that I swear I’m just well prepared- when she snaps her head up and says to me, little eyes darting, “It’s not a nice thing for loved ones to remember.” She says, “But if you feel you’re prepared, we can make our way.” I tell her that it’s okay, if that’s where my stepmother is, and that’s where my father is, then that’s where I need to be. She smiles at me, doubt pooling in the corners of her eyes. She begins back down the hall the way she came. I follow. All that separates the Emergency Room from the hallway outside is a thin blue curtain partition hanging from the ceiling, pale and emaciated, thrown into turmoil by anything passing. It’s an unqualified participant- sadly attempting and consistently failing to contain everything it’s asked to contain. Inside of the curtain, a pantheon of machinery rises up and up in a looming semi-circle to the ceiling, spouting steam and smoke and sparking little bursts of blinding white bits into the air. Noise fills the space- fractured clips and blips and bleeping and ticking and hissing, buzzers sounding...tangles of cord and wire run from the rattling machinery to a gurney, dead center of the room, swarmed by revolving hordes of scrubs. The scrubs are darting to and fro, in and out, round and round in frantic fashion- but softly, just barely, beneath the sound of sirens, you can hear them exchanging dialect to one another, rhythmically, indiscernible to you and I, but pulsing steady and calm under the static of machines. On the gurney at the center of the Emergency Room, plugged into the ends of all the cord and wire, is my father’s body. Complexionless, nude and tangled in a wrecked hospital gown. White skin interrupted only by patches of matted and greasy old man hair. The whole thing is convulsing, writhing on top of the gurney, slamming again and again its back against the tabletop and its arms against the raised steel safety barricades. Rubber tubes jammed down the throat, pumping and pumping, attached to a machine operating its insides. Its entire chest expands and contracts, expands and contracts in violent unison with a particular set of sounding buzzers. BLEEP and the whole frame of the chest fills up, forcibly, til you see the seams start to struggle. HISS and the air releases, the frame deflates.

The smoke from these whirring machines starts to fill up my lungs, thick and noxious. It starts swelling in my throat. Fumes crawl up through my neck, getting in behind my eyes, itching and burning and making my vision fray. Through the smoke and wires and scrubs I spot my stepmother like a heavy pillar against the far wall. I skirt the edge of the room, stepping carefully, athletically, over cords and plugs and discarded syringes on my way to her side. Reaching her- tall, alone- she looks at me with swollen red eyes, stricken and searching. Her slowly-aging, ever-rounding face is covered in sweat even though the scrubs fly by fast enough to create a gentle breeze. Posting myself against the wall beside her, we stand and are specters. Between the two of us we have four hands, and all of them hang idle at our sides. I focus on holding myself appropriately because that’s my father’s body twitching there on that table and he could be watching us from the ceiling of the room right now and I want to be seen standing appropriately. To show him that the shaking vessel on that gurney isn’t hurting us. If he’s in the ceiling, he’s causing us no pain. We’re not scared because we know that’s not him convulsing at the end of those wires. Only a damp and aging shell. A former suit. Now unassociated. The nurse in charge of keeping his body straight on the gurney continues to stick needles into its arms. She goes for a particularly vile looking one as the body gives a particularly vicious rattle, threatening to toss itself over the safety bars and to the tile floor below- a jump that would be pulling cords and wires taught enough to collapse the theatre of machines or else ripping open flesh and spilling blood and sending me, preparations and all, into a savage collapse of my own. My stepmother starts at this, the rattle triggering an audible sob, her shoulders mirroring the convulsion. Don’t cry, I tell her, He could be watching us. She shakes her big head side to side and puts her idle hands to her aging face. I said quit crying. He can see you. “What are you saying?” “He wouldn’t want you to cry for him,” I say, “he wouldn’t want to see that.” She shakes her head, tries to stopper her eyes. “I know, I know.” A new nurse, brilliant red hair and face, approaches and quickly explains that they are now preparing to move the patient to an operating room where a doctor and his team will perform surgery essential to the patient’s survival. She says more while I cover my mouth, watch the smoke from the machines curl through her tangles. She tells us we are to follow along. We offer up a chorus of nodding heads and okays as the scrubs begin to unplug my father’s body from the machines until only one remains attached- a tall, thin, leaning mechanism with four oiled wheels at the bottom and a brilliant compass at the top. The electric numbers displayed on the compass all flash in code. A single silver wire runs from it, feeding information into the veins of my father’s body. I assume keeping it alive. The whole mechanism ticks and tocks like a grandfather clock. The scrubs begin to disperse from the Emergency Room. The walls start to expand a bit with each exit, the space suddenly growing at an alarming rate. A few of them join the red haired nurse to form a small core that adheres to the gurney, kicking off the locks to the wheels.

Dad’s body has mostly ceased its writhing. My stepmother lowers her eyes to the floor. I scour the ceiling as it lifts up and up. The scrubs begin to navigate the gurney through the curtain and the procession spills into the hallway, sweeping away around the corner, us chasing after. The scene moves quickly down the corridor, ticking and tocking and soft pattering feet. The scrubs are moving so fast with the gurney that my stepmother has to jog to keep up, which she does ungracefully. It looks terrible and I go to work lengthening and quickening my stride. I don’t want our lot to look ungraceful. Not now. Not when father could be floating along above us on the ceiling, watching. The hall stretches and it keeps stretching. We finally rip around a corner and the scrubs have already stuffed my father’s body out of sight into an open elevator, gurney and all. The nurse turns to us with her head fully aflame under the fluorescent white lights and tells us to wait there, next to the elevators, until someone arrives to tell us where to go next. Her face flickers, disappears behind shining silver doors and everything lifts away from us. We are left alone, waiting on another nurse full of directions to appear. I slump against a wall because I’m tired of standing straight and this hallway looks like it extends the length of the hospital now. Maybe even beyond that. Maybe it just keeps stretching because I sure as shit can’t see the end and it’s making me nervous again. My stepmother stands less than a foot away from the closed elevator doors, taking in a distorted reflection. Eyes locked on her shifting silver self. We’re left here, and maybe it’s not the hallway growing. Maybe it’s just us shrinking. Waiting.

Detention I can’t tell if this is punishment. Miss Fenton hands me the receiver to the phone, her face twisted up somewhere in the strange parts of sadness. This expression adds to my confusion. Her face should be more simple. It should be angry. I’ve made her first year of teaching a wild kind of hell, and that’s why I’m here. After school. All alone with her in the classroom. I’m pretty sure it’s called detention, a phenomenon new here in the first grade. I think I understand this much at least. What I don’t understand is this phone, extended to me on the end of Miss Fenton’s arm, quivering a bit. Is this a routine part of detention? I reach for it with a pale little limb steadier than her adult one. Her trembling makes the receiver look heavier than it should be, like it’s being weighed down by whatever’s on the line. A police officer? A priest? I do a quick mental scan of all my wrongs, wondering where they’ll place me along the scale from Prison to Hell. It’s mostly judo kicks and karate chops springing to mind. Delivered to boys, to girls, to the thighs and guts of adults. Tight, compact blows executed throughout the year that had driven the young Miss Fenton to shout at my mother at a parent-teacher meeting, If he’s not crying, he’s kicking the other kids! He’s dealing with things by being violent, pretending he’s a ninja! And you just keep on lying to him! And a Ninja’s not all I am. I’m a Mutant, too. Imbedded with genetics that make me a head shorter than everyone else in my class and completely immune to most words. I operate in the world of sticks and stones, where Midget and Shrimp will never hurt me. Forever protected by my homespun Turtle armor, just like my heroes in their own half-shells. I take hold of the receiver but Miss Fenton maintains her clasp for just a moment more. Her tremor transferring into the phone, into me. It makes me remember flashes of Show and Tell. When my classmates brought in their ferrets, their baseball gloves, their Pokémon cards. All presented with excitement and smiles. And I brought in a picture of my Dad, presented with a story about how he was dead, and a tremble a lot like this one rattling me now. When Miss Fenton finally lets go, leaving the receiver in my sole possession, her brow begins to transform. Tremendous waves shape on her forehead, like they’d try to wash me away from this place, shell and all, if they could. They freeze in a distantly familiar form, much softer than the pitches that accompany the typical reprimands of my kicks and chops. Softer even than those which come with the pleas to halt my episodes of eye leaks and manic, class-disrupting noises (episodes that startle even me, feeling that there should be a knob somewhere inside I could simply twist to an off position). It takes me putting the plastic earpiece against my head before I recognize the waves. They’re flipped completely upside-down, but they’re the exact same waves I once saw crashing towards my mother, the ones that stormed at her with You Keep On Lying to Him echoing up and down the halls, reverberating somewhere still. The plastic is cold, the earpiece swallows my ear. “Hello?” A man’s voice comes to me through miles of wire. 17

“Chance?” “Yeah?” I ask back. “Chance, this is your daddy.” I tilt my head, furrow my brow. “You can’t be my Daddy . Daddy’s dead.” There’s a pause on the line. It’s long enough for me to look up at Miss Fenton, leaning back now in her chair with all those waves filtering through her eyes, coming in silent, uninterrupted streams down her face.

Amy Malott

Malcolm Sedam Writing Scholarship Winner

Prayer for the Dying My mother once bought $2000.00 worth of water from some preacher on television that wore the most horrid looking toupee I’d ever seen. It was the day that we were setting up my frilly pink four poster bed in the living room for my father to die on. Mom had that ridiculous preacher on, again, and he was shouting, again. “Friends! Is there a Fre-d? No, that’s not right. Francis?” “FRANK!” She looked at me when she shouted it, like I would absolve her of something, but my father’s name wasn’t even Francis, “He’s talking about your father!” “Francis, you served in Vietnam, amirite? And now those doctors tell you that you’re dying. Francis! Ohhhhhh, you need the HOLY water of Je-sus, Francis!” I left the room as she was dialing the phone to spend money we didn’t have on water that came from a tap some place in Jersey. It didn’t save him, even though he guzzled it for days. She really believed it would and I felt sorry for her. My friend Tommy took acid when we were watching 90210 one night. He stared for three hours into one of those long mirrors that you hang on the back of your closet door and repeated over and over that he knew, he finally knew, what the meaning of life was. I wanted him to tell me, wanted him to look into my eyes and blurt out what it all meant, but he didn’t. He just keep saying he knew but no matter how hard I tried to get him to tell me, he wouldn’t. If that’s not a metaphor for my life, I don’t know what is. I only really had seven friends when I was a teenager and we fancied ourselves “Club Death”, which was only said out of the earshot of our families. Every single one of the seven of us had lost someone close to us in a really tragic way, which our parents thought was fortuitous because, since we all hung out together, they didn’t have to talk to us about any of it. As members of “Club Death”, we learned how to triage our grief together, access the damage and patch what could be patched, then move the fuck on. Tommy’s dad had been a big rig driver who literally lost his head outside Dallas when Tommy was five. A flat tire had forced him to the side of the road and a passing semi crushed his skull when he bent to change it. The twins, Brandon and Daniel, had a younger brother who fell at the skating rink and died of an aneurysm two days later. Faith and Katherine were only eight and nine when their mother died of breast cancer. Then there was my sister, Maria, and I, who had watched our father die of liver cancer the year before. There used to be eight of us in “Club Death” but our friend Aaron died three months ago in a head-on collision with a car full of drunken frat boys on a country road in Oxford, Ohio. For kids that had been touched by so much 19

death, we felt we handled it pretty well. Of course, our parents thought we needed intense prayer sessions twice a week at church until God could fix what ailed us. Our parents were those religious wackos that believed everything that some preacher tried to sell them, like HOLY WATER that costs $2000.00. They thought that if their children went to church 2 nights a week and twice on Sunday that they would be spared the trials and tribulations of teenage angst. We’d somehow walk through the fire of public school to be reborn, with diploma in hand, on the other side. The only good thing that came out of the deal was the fact that we went to church in an old high school building in Hamilton, Ohio. We were given free rein of the gigantic and mostly abandoned property. We had fashioned a comfortable clubhouse of sorts that we had filled with long forgotten desks and a few old, half moldy rugs. The adults rarely made it this far inside the depths of the old building, I suspected because it wasn’t renovated and the air had an old, musty smell. They had spruced up just a few areas that they used but the majority of the place had been left as is. I guess, if you think about it, it’s how they dealt with most everything. Fix up the stuff that would be seen. Make it shiny and clean and covered in decorations. The rest of it, the rest of us, were just useless space that could be ignored and you could pretend it didn’t exist. Tommy tossed me his packet of cigarettes, “Your mom tell you about this stupid meeting thing?” “Yeah, she bought finger food.” A wry chuckle came from the other side of the room, “I’m not going. Jesus. Let’s hash out how fucked up we all are. They’re nuts.” “Bran, you’re going because my mom told me to pick you up.” I tossed him the pack, “’Sides, I wanna go to prom this year so you jackasses have to go to this stupid thing and behave so my mom will be in a good mood.” My sister looked up from the book she had her nose buried in, “It’s about Aaron. They think Amy’s depressed. She won’t have a husband now.” I chucked my lighter at her face, “Shut the fuck up.” “Fuck you. It’s your fault anyways. I heard Mom bitching about it to Pastor Josh the other day.” I gave shot her a nasty look, “So?” “So? So, there’s only 7 of us now, Stupid. They gotta make sure to find you a nice, Christian boy. Wonder what Melanie will think?” She raised an eyebrow at me and went back to reading. We met twice a week in a tiny room behind the stage that made me feel like I was suffocating. The air was stale and I felt dizzy every time I walked into this place. I’m not sure how they managed to get that grand mahogany colored desk in here. Maybe they built this suffocating room around that fucking thing. It was god awfully huge and he sat behind it like he was going to teach me a lesson. He fiddled in the drawers and picked up the phone to listen for a

dial tone. He’d been here for months but every time we met, he acted like it was the first time that he’d sat behind that annoying desk. “Did you skip school again?” I took a breath that half filled my lungs, “I mean, I told you that I was going to. I’m not allowed to see her. What am I supposed to do?” He had eyes that reminded me of a picture of an iceberg. That blue doesn’t look real, like you couldn’t touch it even if you tried. He rolled them at me now, “I can’t keep covering for you, Amy. It really makes me sad that you don’t care about my relationship with Je-sus, Amy. Lying is a sin so here I am, lying for you….again, Amy. Where did you go this time?” “Her mother works,” I almost whine, hoping that this will absolve me and fix this and I won’t have to say what happened. He taps on the top of that idiotic desk that makes him look small. He looks like a half torso with a bobbling head, eyes piercing mine. “Did you touch each other?” He waits, doesn’t push. He lets the question bounce off the walls, reverberating. I don’t answer right away but I know if I don’t tell him, this will drag on all afternoon. I have been told to purge myself but why is that desk so high? There were so many things that I wanted to tell them, my “Club Death”. I didn’t say anything because that’s what I did. It’s what we did. There were all these things right under the surface that needed to be talked about, needed to be reconciled. We didn’t really understand it but the gravity of the grief we had, the weight of the seemingly unending list of rules and expectations we lived under, we were drowning. We made this womb in the attic of an old, dusty school so that we could breathe. We made the old abandoned place our home because we knew no one would look. It felt safe and like the only place that we could be ourselves but I really wonder now if you can be yourself when you’re told not to be. At a time when we shouldn’t have known who we were, we were told it was wrong to wonder. They stripped us of our agency and told us that it was a sin to try to figure out the world around us. We were taught that they knew the way because GOD told them and we weren’t old enough to question. It was all too much. There was no gray as far as we were told, and expected to live. We were to be straight and to partner off with someone in the small group of Christian peers we had been raised with. We were to only show a moderate interest in each other but not so much to worry our parents about becoming too close. We were, of course, required to remain chaste and pure until our marriage days, ultimately with one of our assigned mates. The clarity of this system allowed us to circumvent the entire system with our lies. We covered for each other. We lied for each other. When we felt like too many adults were looking a tad too intensely at our little ragtag group, we upped our game. Two of us had already made campus visits to our local Bible College and had pledged to anyone that would listen that we planned on “giving back” to the church community and become youth pastors. The response to these grandiose plans was swift and full of positive

accolades for the group. We were assimilating into the sort of young people that we needed to be, all the while knowing that we were all full of shit. They lied to us, so we lied in kind. Tommy told me once that he saw my mom crying in the hallway outside of Pastor Phil’s office. She was sniffling into an old tissue and he thought it seemed fake. I couldn’t picture it as many times as I had him describe it to me. This wallowing hot mess of woman in the hallway didn’t at all seem like the woman that screamed at me that I was going to hell while she slapped me with a Bible. I don’t think that woman was capable of crying. Maybe I had it all wrong but I didn’t think so. Maybe if Tommy had just told me what he saw in that mirror, it would have all worked out ok.

The Picture Most of us don’t have photographic evidence of the moment that our childhood vanished. It comes and goes without fanfare and we miss it altogether. Even if your childhood illusions got smashed in a million tiny jagged pieces, there is rarely a camera present to document the moment. I’m staring intently at the burning cherry red end of my mother’s Salem cigarette when I request the proof of my disappearing childhood. “I’d really like to take a look at that picture. I can handle it and…..” My voice trails off into what feels like a question that will never be answered. She avoids my eyes and takes another drag, “What’s it for? I have it put away.” Breathe. “It’s not that I want to, Mother. Can you just go get it?" I had been a coddled teenager when he got sick. I went from no responsibilities to becoming the commander of my parent’s tiny army of 10 children. I think they used the disorientation and confusion from the situation to shield me from the worst of it. I had a mission so my attention was on that and not on the obvious wrongness in my house. She stands unceremoniously and heads up the stairs so I follow. I suddenly feel like we’re headed to open some long forgotten Egyptian tomb and I’m sure that we’re dooming ourselves to some bizarre curse. I feel like I’m watching her from above the room as she walks with purpose over to a drawer and digs around. I see it hidden under her neatly rolled underwear and a sudden wave of sheer panic courses through me. I take a deep breath and steel myself for the memories it will unleash. She holds it in her hand like she’s afraid it’s going to bite her. I wait patiently for her to turn over the picture. I feel like I’ve got some weird syndrome that steals away what was real and replaces it with these new memories. Nothing is solid. I can’t pin any of it down. It’s all borderless and shimmery. I knew that I wouldn’t be sure of anything until she showed me. My brain had hidden away so many things from me. She levels her eyes and turns the picture over, it’s placed gently it in my open palms. Just like I knew it would, the picture jarred loose memories I’d tried so hard to forget. I remember that day. Something much like what crawled out of the premortal ooze had invaded my young consciousness and shoved my kid brain out of the way. My new state of being did the math with scary efficiency. He was going to die and it was going to happen soon. More importantly, my young mother was going to be suddenly left alone to raise 10 children by herself. Something in me had risen up that day, blocked all the bad things that were going to happen and became my mother’s soldier. I would do whatever it took to get her through this so that my brothers and sisters never knew. My mother’s voice is far away and uncharacteristically quiet when she explains how they had tried everything possible to keep him alive. They never lied to us. They really did believe that they would find “The Thing” that would somehow miraculously right the wrong and put it 23

all back to the way that it had been. They divvied out information in such a way that I never really got the full picture. I knew there were too many doctor visits for it to not be something serious. There had been hushed conversations with relatives I’d never met in darkened rooms of my house. The thing is that I didn’t need her to explain any of this. It didn’t really matter. The thing that stood between us, the thing that stood between me and really remembering was that I didn’t care if he died. I’m not sure if at fifteen I understood that I wanted him to die but seeing that picture made it clear. There was no way around the truth that stared me in the face. Life was better without him. Weights were lifted off shoulders and we all could breathe a collective sigh. My mother wraps herself in the grief of a widow now but then, she didn’t. I remember smiling with her that day, when the camera flashed. She knew I got it. She knew that this was it. We were free.

Brittany Maloney

Desperation My heart beat quickens. What is that? A panicked shiver pervades me as my head snaps up from the Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. It sounds as though someone has knocked on the front door. After a few moments the sound does not come again, and I slowly lower my eyes to my book and begin to read: "The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal-the redness and the horror of blood." Footsteps. I hear footsteps upstairs making a thump thump thump. I'm fearfully confused. I dwell alone. The footsteps grow softer, yet still heart chilling, and fade away. I glance around the dark, gloomy home. I can't see anything suspicious from the living room chair in which I sit. The adjacent rooms are black as coal; the luminescent moon shines through my slightly-covered windows, casting long, cowering, and deranged shadows. Besides the low fire, it is the only light source in the house. I look into the flames the fire to gain some comfort. The cracking and motion of the fire puts me at ease. Anxiety has been a long fought battle of mine since he’s been gone. I think of his deep blue eyes that remind me of the sea and the way they would swim when staring into mine. His smile was contagious, captivating my very existence so he was the only person who mattered. I hear a knock, snapping me out of my daydreaming. Deep into the darkness, peering, I long sit here wondering, fearing and listening. "Who's there?" I wanted to call out, but my voice is lost to me. I close my book slowly but surely, cringing as the slightest noise of the crease being forced back. What is wrong with me? It's probably just my cat, Annabel Lee. I begin making my way down the eerie, forlorn hall and the knocking begins again, louder than before. It's coming from my room. I stop in my tracks, staring frightened at my closed door. Red seeps from its edges, the knocking turns into scratching. The scratching against the door starts out as fast, rapid movement then becomes long, drawn out screeches of nails against wood. Frightened, I take a step backwards. What demonic creature lurks just beyond the door? I begin to convulse with horror. I need to leave this place, be somewhere, anywhere else. Everything becomes soundless and after a few silent moments of dreadful fear, I hear a soft, almost indiscernible meow. Relief floods me. It was only Annabel. I rush to the door and fling it open, the door hitting the wall with a loud bang. I swiftly scan the room before me, searching for my fluffy tabby. That's when I find her. My cat... She's dead.

Her blood pools on one side of my bed, soaking my white sheets a dark red with a small puddle on the floor with more blood dripping into it. She has long ugly gashes all over her. She looks wicked and horrifying and is motionless. "No!" I scream mournfully. I fall to my knees and begin sobbing. Who would do this? Why would they do this? All of a sudden, realization hits me. He’s here. I spring from the floor and whirl around. A dark, hostile shadow of a person stands in front of my opened window. Unable to scream, I run out my bedroom towards my back door. I need to get outside. I need help. I throw open the back door and run out into the stormy, dismal night air. Cool rain droplets quickly soak my attire. The crisp air leaves me breathless as it make contact with my clammy skin. Adrenaline pumps through my stressed body with each timed heart-beat. The will to live courses through me as I approach my neighbor’s lawn. My throat is parched from fear and the possibility of not reaching help. As I run to the ominous trees by the back fence, I check over my shoulder and hes not there. I gain a small feeling of hope that I can make it. I will beat this. I crouch near the trunk of the tree, resting my hand against the rough surface of the bark as I look for the quickest route to my neighbors back porch. I glance around me and only see bushes and trees and a small swing set in the corner. I listen carefully for the footsteps of the perpetrator, but only hear the drizzle of the rain on leaves. I make a run for it. With all my might and strength, I run to freedom, to safety, to life. I’m so close, I start to cry. “I did it,” I mumble to myself in quiet relief. I step into the light of the back porch and growl erupts in my ear. The attacker viciously hits me from behind, and I fall with a sickening thud to the moist ground. Desperation courses through me as I struggle to fight away but, his strength is too much for me and I give in. He rolls me over onto my back and I see the shining stars of the night sky one last time. I look at the attacker, and all I can see is deep, blue eyes… My vision turns red and I am nevermore. I awoke with a gasp. Was it only a dream? The "Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe" still lay in my lap. Mind foggy, and rubbing my eyes, I look into the fire and think of him. Sighing, I pick the book up and finish reading: "He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

Audrey Morris

Untitled “Everything is going to be okay, just breathe.” I keep saying the mantra into the phone. I can’t decide if it’s more for me, or Jennifer. She is hyperventilating and keeps asking for her mom. I feel tears in my own eyes start to brim. I’m halfway there now, I need to keep it together. I turn to my mom in the driver’s seat and put down the phone, though I can still hear Jen’s sobs through the receiver. I close my eyes and put my head in my hands, I can’t do this. Mom looks at me. “Be strong for her,” is all she says. Her eyes are tired, I can see the lines wrinkling across her forehead. I woke her up out of bed to drive me out here. I pick the phone back up and hear Jen talking to the motel management. She asks for a refund but doesn’t say anything else. I look out the window, all the shops have been closed for hours now. We finally pull into the motel. It’s as shabby as I pictured. The neon signs flicker in the background, but my eyes focus on Jennifer standing under the streetlight, crying. Her hair is a mess and for the first time in years she looks the way she did when we first met: like a scared little girl. I jump out of the car before my mom gets a chance to park. I embrace her. She cries harder and asks for her mom once more. I don’t respond. It leads me to think for the hundredth time that if her mom hadn’t kicked her out, none of this would have happened. Getting her into the car was the easiest part of the night. I stroke her hair while tears fall onto my shirt: some hers, some mine. My imagination is running wild over what just happened within the motel room. The thoughts make my stomach churn with acid. I don’t dare open my mouth fearing it might all come out. As my mom continues driving, my body starts to numb. Their voices become fuzzy. My mom asks nonchalantly, “So are you staying with us or what?” Jen takes a deep breath before answering, stops crying, and levels her voice. “You can just drop me off at my aunt’s house, thank you.” How can she be so okay? We arrive to the house, and I get out with Jen. Looking at her now, I want to scream at her. I hug her instead. I know this isn’t her fault. She stands with her arms across her chest. She’s not crying anymore, but I can see the demons in her eyes. “Stay safe,” is all I choke out. She nods and walks into the house. Guilt starts to bubble up inside me. The quietness of the ride home gave room for my thoughts to scream at me. I replay the phone call I got from Jennifer earlier that day over and over. I had begged her to stay with me, not in the motel. She didn’t listen though. The world has unspeakable evils in it, and this was one of those times I shuddered to think of the kind of people who live in this world. I should have made her stay with me. *** “Darlene was a wonderful, loved woman…” the man’s voice is calm and unfamiliar. It seems odd for a stranger to be talking about mamaw. Maybe he was one of her old people friends. Lots of mommy and daddy’s friends are here. I see them walking to the front, past the

body. I stay on the back couch. It’s red and comfortable, but I sit on the edge and keep counting. There are twenty chandeliers with four candles on each. Sometimes I haveta start over. I hear mommy crying and she interrupts my thoughts. Don’t cry mom. I’ll cry. I keep looking at the body. But I don’t want to touch it. I don’t run up to mamaw like mom did. My cheeks get hot and patchy. I need to start over again. One…two…three… Bubby walks across the room and sits by me. Nobody else talks to me because I’m a kid. I don’t want the attention anyway. Bubby says it’ll be okay, but I don’t see what is okay about not seeing my mamaw again. They told me I wouldn’t be able to go over to her place anymore. I can’t play dress up in her silky nightgowns or play with her princess brushes and mirrors. I can’t keep counting. Hot tears roll down my face and slide onto my black velvet dress. Mommy bought it new for me. Someone comes up to me and sits me on their lap. They are talking to me, probably saying it will be okay. I can’t hear though, cause all I hear is my mommy crying up front on my mamaw’s shirt. I don’t think hers is velvet. *** I killed myself wishing to be someone you could love. I begged God every night to let me be who you thought I should be. I wanted him to let our lives combine instead of being separated. I lost myself trying to please you, while you pleased others. I was a puppet on a string and you were my master, and you knew it. Over and over I ran my head into a wall wondering what I did wrong, begging for forgiveness while you were the one betraying me. I drove myself mad trying to be loved by you, and I learned to hate myself. You were always wanting me to be the best and my best was never good enough. But it was good enough, and I was good enough. It was you who was undeserving of my patience, my love, and my ability to always be there for someone. You took my soft spot I had for you and stuck a million knives through it. You made my skin boil and break and eventually, my soft spot scabbed over. You threw nothing but dirt on my name when all I did was leave to protect myself. You are a coward with a mind that others want to fix. There were and will be a hundred others like me, but it’ll never be me again. *** The jump was not as high as I thought it’d be. Water rushed steadily underneath the concrete bridge. Logan picked up a rock and threw it in. It clanked and clattered down the concrete, hitting the bottom with a definite thump. It would crack your skull open if you jumped, I thought. Instant. The day was beautiful: sky full of the deepest blues, clouds made of cotton balls, dandelion weeds as big as my fist. I blew on it and make a wish. I don’t remember what I wished for. “Come on let’s sit on the edge and take a picture” Did she say it? Or did I? My legs filled with jelly as the skin on my thighs rubbed against the concrete. I swung them over and they hover over the empty space. We took photos. My face hurt from laughing, hurt from having fun, hurt from the pain inside etching into my face, trying to escape. If I were alone, I could do it. But I’m not alone. Never alone. I’d never jump. I’d never jump because I had every day angels near me. Whether they knew it or not, their wings carried both them and myself. It took being held up by others to let my own feet walk the ground again. For so long I was crawling, dragging myself, not wanting to go on. It was the

presence of others that kept me alive and made me want to find my drive for life again. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never jump, because I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meant to. I was meant to fly.

Blow to the Head Jason Schul was being followed. Stalked, to be quite honest. In the last few weeks his paranoia had reached peak levels. When he saw someone’s eyes lingering on him for too long, he thought “Is that them? Is he one of them?” He doesn’t go out much anymore and spends more and more time inside his tiny apartment on Walnut Street in downtown New York. His worries were getting the best of him. Sleep evaded Jason every night. His body refused to sleep, tossing and turning all through the night. He awoke with dark circles and bags under his eyes. Throughout the next day his eyelids would droop, begging to be closed and get some much-needed rest. However, instead of getting rest, he spent his hours online researching stalkers and their tactics, trying to find answers as to why someone had suddenly taken interest in him. It all started when he noticed a man following him on his way to work. The sky was overcast, and despite Jason’s fast paced walk to beat out the rain, the man kept up right behind him. Once or twice Jason peaked over his shoulder and the man seemed to always be right there, unphased, looking back at him. He wore a jogging outfit, color coordinated. The man had on glasses with a slight tint to them, but overall was ordinary looking. Jason didn’t recognize the man at all. Soon Jason was approaching his office building. With his hand on the sleek door handle, the man behind him suddenly sprinted away, occasionally looking over his shoulder right at Jason. While it was an odd occurrence, Jason shook it off as just some weirdo wondering the streets. However, it didn’t stop there. No matter where Jason was, even inside the closed doors of his bedroom, he felt as if he was being stared at. He confided in his best friend Harry about the day he was followed. He explained the situation and Harry dismissed it with a hearty laugh. “Followed you? It was probably a homeless man, looking for a quick buck. Or hell, he may have been trying to rob you. You didn’t have anything flashy out, did you?” Harry seemed unconcerned. Jason remembered what the man was wearing. He certainly didn’t look homeless, and never did he beg for anything from Jason. After that, he decided to keep his thoughts to himself, especially when he started doing his own research. The next week, another man had followed Jason to work. This time he was disguised as a cyclist who had an annoying habit of riding just slow enough to stay behind Jason up until he reached the company doors. Upon that instance, Jason searched on his computer about other people who had similar occurrences. Reading about other’s experiences sure didn’t help any to calm his nerves. Jason didn’t even leave the house anymore unless he absolutely had to, and he started taking a cab to work. To make matters worse, it made no difference. He started becoming suspicious of his cab drivers. When they wanted to make small talk, he dismissed it by acting as if he was taking a phone call. He didn’t want to leave any clues for anyone who may be behind it all. If someone made eye contact with him, he couldn’t help but duck his head and cover his face. He trusted no one. A few weeks had passed and after a long day at work Jason approached his apartment door and stopped in his tracks. The blood drained from his face as he saw several Post-It Notes stuck to his door. He put his hand up to his forehead, unaware of what he should do or what it might say on the notes. Sweat beaded down his neck and back as he slowly stepped up and looked at the notes. Some of them made no sense at all, for all he knew, it was a children’s doodle. But some weren’t as innocent. The creepiness intensified as he realized one of them was a list of where he’d gone that day. He hastily took down the Post-It Notes, went inside, and locked his door. It was then when he considered going to the police. Who could this person be? 30

Was it his ex-girlfriend Jennifer? They’d been broken up for a few months now and he thought she’d been taking it quite well. Jason decided not to focus on the thought of it being her anymore. After all, the people who were watching him were never her or any of her friends he knew of. Jennifer was the only one in the city who he had really gotten close to. He’d moved up here on a whim in hopes of a job, which he then landed. Sure, he was friendly with a few people from work, but would only consider Harry his friend, and even he was kept at a distance. His decision to move away in hopes of a better life was starting to turn into a nightmare. As if the stalkers alone weren’t scary enough, Jason was worried for a lot of other reasons as well. His work was suffering greatly due to the lack of sleep he was getting. His boss was hounding him about deadlines for their paper. Jason was a journalist at a local small newspaper, who was dedicated to keeping up with the upcoming war that the U.S. had just entered. People were saying it could be World War III with how it was looking. Jason’s problem was that instead of investigating news, he was investigating other people who seemed to be getting stalked and targeted out of nowhere. There were thousands of stories he fell across about people being watched inside their homes and followed outside of them. Most of them had fears it was the government watching them. Some posted their full names and whereabout in hopes that if they did go missing, someone would notice. There were talk of cameras being installed in their homes, their phones recording them without permission, and all sorts of things that started to make Jason feel like he was going crazy, and that maybe Harry was right after all, it was just some nut jobs having a laugh. There was something about those articles though that was eerily familiar to him. Most people describe it happening randomly, but there were some theories that more abductions and stalking were on the rise, due to all the talk of war going on. As well as that, many of the people said that they were worried mostly because they we not among family, they were new to a state or city. It seemed to be people who believed they wouldn’t be missed, because they were not around those who would search for them. Therefore, going to the internet for help, usually when their families dismissed their fears for paranoia. Jason couldn’t shake the fact that he met all the criteria. The night before the stalking came to an end once and for all, Jason found a group online that insisted the government was selecting certain people and taking them to never be heard from again. Many of the stories matched what he had read before, which is what prompted him to read the stories of this group. There were over ten thousand people in the group, where most of them stated that it all began by being tailed by someone on their way to work. Jason felt his heart race faster, scrolling through all the articles, his stomach churned but he kept on reading. There were stories of notes being left on their doors as well, and sometimes even phone calls with people saying “see you soon” or nothing at all. It sounded too much like a horror movie. Calling the cops was out of the question, as Jason decided that no one would believe him anyway. After searching the group for several hours and against Jason’s better judgement, he decided to run down to a 7/11 right across from his apartment complex for a coffee and snack, there would be no sleeping for him tonight. Jason left his apartment quickly, looking back only to make sure no one was there. Nothing was out of the ordinary, and he made it over to the 7/11 without anything odd going on. The place was pretty much dead. The store sat alone on the corner and the paint was heavily faded and chipped in some places. The lot seemed empty aside from the one junker on the side, probably the cashier’s. No one really bothered to go inside even though the store owner kept the inside spotless and well stocked. Jason was in the middle of getting his coffee when a woman of

about thirty came inside. She was very pretty, with long red hair that came down to the middle of her back and had a thick southern accent as she asked the cashier for directions. Jason was hit with thoughts of Jennifer for the first time in months, who also had red hair. Jason finished up with his things and made it to the counter just as the cashier was telling her he didn’t know where she needed to go. She let out a sigh but didn’t seem too bothered and said thank you and walked out the door. After paying, Jason was on his way back to his apartment when he heard the southern drawl call out his name. The woman was leaning up against her car, as if she was waiting for him to come outside. “Can you tell me how to get to Jacktown from here, Jason?” she asked, eyes shining underneath the street lights. Jason stopped in his tracks. How did she know his name? “Um, I’m not sure I’m familiar with that area, I just moved up here myself. Sorry but do I know you?” Jason’s weight shifted leg to leg. Something was telling him to go home, but on the other hand maybe it was someone he knew. Or at the very least someone he’d like to get to know. “You don’t know me,” she smiled then with perfect white teeth “but thank you anyway, Jason.” “How do you know my name then?” Jason walked closer to her now, getting a good look at her face. This had to be a joke. It had to be an old friend or a friend of Jennifer’s at the least. The girl started to slowly get into her car, ignoring Jason’s questions. “Hey, wait!” he exclaimed, walking to her car. The woman locked her car door, unsmiling now, and suddenly picked up a cell phone. She’s calling the cops, Jason thought and began to turn around to go back inside the building however when he turned around he found himself surrounded with what appeared to be masked robbers. Did the 7/11 get robbed while he was too preoccupied outside? Jason’s head started spinning with confusion. Suddenly, a blow to the head knocked him on the pavement. Several men emerged from behind the building and the woman’s car. Jason laid unconscious on the ground only stirring when they hoisted him into the trunk of the woman’s car. The last thing he heard was the sound of the trunk slamming above him and the car peeling out of the lot. Jason awoke to what he thought was a hospital. He had wires linked to him everywhere and there was a constant beeping of his heart rate going off. It even smelled like a hospital, like it was too clean. The walls were white and so was the floor. Bright overhead lights kept him from seeing too much around him, but he could tell he wasn’t the only one in the room, as voices started a commotion around him. “He’s coming to,” said a woman’s voice. It was her voice, the southern girl, she was in it all along. “Someone get the doctor, we can test on him now.” Another voice, a male’s this time. What doctor? Was he at the hospital? Jason couldn’t remember what happened after the men hit him. Surely it was a robbery and he had been picked up by an ambulance. He quickly looked at his surrounding, searching for clues. A small window near the top of the building revealed a tree top, leaves turning from the cold. In the distance he saw a tall, white building which could only be one building in the United States, the Washington Monument. Jason looked away from the window. His breath quickened, but he had to calm down quickly, if he was going to get any information, he’d have to play dumb. Jason raced through thoughts of why he could be here, but could only come to the conclusion that the people in the forum online weren’t crazy after all, they were right. Their own government was behind the disappearances.

“What am I being tested for? Am I okay?” Jason asked weakly. Suddenly the woman from the 7/11 was right in front of his face, her hair touching his cheek. “Oh yes,” she said sweetly, “you’re okay now. But you’re not going to be.” “Who are you?” Jason asked again. She must have something to do with all this, perhaps even the person behind it all. “Why, I’m the one who has been leaving the notes on your door.” She smiled quickly, then moved her face away from Jason’s, instead putting the bright light directly into his eyes. Jason squirmed as she put it closer and closer until he could see nothing but white dots behind his closed eyelids. He thought to himself how stupid he was for wanting to even talk to her at the 7/11. If he would have avoided her like he’d avoided everyone else, he would never have been in this situation. “Is he awake?” A new voice asked. It was a deep voice, a steady voice. The voice of a doctor. “Yes sir.” the others said in unison Jason couldn’t tell how many people were there. “Alright, knock him out then, we’ll do the shock therapy first then we can move on to see how the body reacts to negative temperatures.” Jason heard the sound of gloves being put on, he didn’t dare open his eyes again in fear of blinding himself. He protested, ready to put up a fight, to realize his body was bound to the table. He waited for some sort of needle to be put in his arm to get put to sleep, but it never came. “Let’s all get ready,” called the Doctor again “The shock therapy should produce the most pain. I want to see the way those towelheads look when I am through with giving them 20,000 volts to the head.” Jason’s eyes shut even tighter. Another theory proven right, the war was the reason more people were being taken, it was to test torture methods on enemies. Weren’t there other people they could test on? Surely even criminals would be better than their own free citizens, Jason thought. Suddenly, Jason felt someone standing over him. Whether it was a group of people, or just one, he couldn’t decide. He took a chance and opened one eye, which was met with a sea of red hair, almost grazing his face. She was still beautiful, despite the ugly situation at hand. “Careful now, Stephanie, we still need to test his brain, don’t do too much damage.” The doctor said. “I will be, Doctor,” said the southern drawl again “goodnight, Jason.” Jason’s eyes flicked shut, quickly, and he braced himself. Jason felt a bat meet the side of his head once again, and this time, he didn’t stir.

James Noes

Malcolm Sedam Creative Writing Award Winner

Letters Home: On Animal Rights 3/30/1980 Dear Ma, I reckon you probably heard by now, but the judge done said I is destined for the gallows. Of course, they ain’t got no gallows now-a days, but they got what they call the lethal injection. Suppose to be more humane and such. Although I don’t see nothin humane bout killin no livin being, especially when they ain’t did nothin. But that lawyer said I was guilty as sin, and he done said that I got the animal instinct. Yes ma’am, the animal instinct. Though I ain’t really ever understood what that supposed to mean, but they say it the reason I done what they say I done. But that lawyer son of a bitch ain’t no nothin, he said I no different than the wolves, like them wolves that killed one or our hogs. But I suppose them wolves only done what they done cause they ain’t got no farms or grocery stores like we got. They just tryin to survive. I was pretty red when it happened, but hell, they got a right to survive just as we do don’t them? I mean, it ain’t no different than a man killin-a cow just to have a bloody steak. The way I see it, the difference is that man thinks he ain’t did nothin wrong when someone else do it for him. I’d sure as shit bet if folks had to do it themselves, ain’t hardly no one eat meat no more. But I guess this ain’t the kind-a thing a mother need to hear when her first born son fixin to die. I sure hope you and the boys can make your way up here and see me, though I won’t go blamin ya if you don’t. They sayin it could be two years or more till the state will allow the injection, with it bein all new and such. And my lawyer said we got a shot to appeal, or least that what he been tellin me anyhow. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be seein y’all on the outside again. Just know that I ain’t kill nobody, and make sure my brothers know that too. No matter what the hell the state be sayin, it ain’t me that done it and I intend to prove that somehow. But for now, keep an eye out for my letters Ma, even if I don’t be gettin none back, I’ll keep-a writin. Your boy, Billy *** 4/15/1980 Dear Tommy,

Well Slim, looks like I ain’t comin home less I get-a miracle. But you know I ain’t religious like Ma, so the chances ain’t lookin so good. That means you got to be the man of the house now as you the second oldest. Though I know Ma can fend for herself, cause her as mean as a rattle snake when she need be. None the less, it’s your job to look after the rest of the boys now and make sure they ain’t gettin themselves in trouble like me. You also in charge of the farm now and that be real important. You don’t take care of it, we goin-a lose it. Them new businesses been buying up all the small farms that be strugglin and makin them factory farms were they got hundreds of animals and land as far as the eye can see. Things be-a changin in this world Tommy and that old farm is the only thing our family got left. So take care of them animals as if they is your own kin and take care of them fields as if they made of gold. You do that and things gonna be alright. And I hopin ya’ll been doing good while I been away, I ain’t heard back from Ma yet but I don’t blame her. I’ll tell you one thing Tommy, you don’t ever want to end up here on death row, this place be hell sometimes. But it better then bein out there with the rest of them prisoners and always havin to look over your shoulder. Still, they don’t care much for ya when you just be sittin around waitin to die. It’s like once you on death row, you ain’t got no rights no more. Hell, not that prisoner got rights anyhow, you ain’t even human no more once you seen that judge. The only thing they be letting me do is read, but it’s nothing but old left over article, journals, and books that’s been donated from colleges. And how they expect uneducated prisoners to be readin that kind-a stuff. You could probably read ‘em though slim, seein as you the one who got the brains in the family. Thought there ain’t much else to do sittin here, so I reckon I might as well just give it a try. Been thinkin-a lot about what that prosecutor done said about me bein like an animal and bein no different then the wolves. So I been tryin to get my hands on all the article I can find about animals and such, thinkin maybe learnin about it can help with my appeal or somethin. I mean shit, it worth a shot. Anything worth a shot if it mean clearing my name for somethin I didn’t do no how. But I guess only time will tell, and from the sounds of it with the process of changin over to the injection instead of givin the gas, I got some more of it. Take care of yourself Tommy, I think about y’all every day. Your Brother, Billy *** 4/28/1980 Dear Ma, Hope ya’ll are doin good, and hope the farm is runnin smooth with me bein gone and all. I still am adjusting to the solitude of death row after bein in the prison with the rest of them fella’s waitin on my trial. But I’ll tell you what and you surly wouldn’t believe it. With all this time to kill, I been-a readin every day. Still ain’t as smart as Slim, but givin that I ain’t even finished high school, I reckon it’s something to be proud of. I read this article yesterday by this crazy lady who been livin with chimps for the last 20 or so years, and it really made me think of you. Not the bein crazy part and all, but the article talks about them chimps bein raised in the wild by they mothers. That prosecutor said I was no different then animals and after readin this article, I am 35

thinkin he may be right. Though I startin to think that maybe all of us are more like animals than we be thinkin, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all. This Lady Jane seen that the baby chimp’s start crawlin and walkin just about the same time as any human baby. On top of that, she sayin that the chimps learn by experience and learn what is expected of them by other members of their society. It kinda like how we got laws we learn as kids, but they say you break ‘em, and you end up were I at. But that ain’t all of it, she also sayin that these young chimps are able to learn new things the ones before them ain’t figured out yet, changin their society and such. That kinda made me think about the colored folks. How back in grandpa’s day they ain’t treat them all that nice, but the newer generations started thinkin that they ain’t any different than anyone else, and then they got rights like the rest of us. That makes me think that animals can change for the better in time, just like humans be doin. She also sayin that the chimps fathers don’t play much of a role in the family life, and just as you probably guessed, that made me think of that old bastard Pa of mine runnin off after me and my brothers was born. But I guess what I am really tryin to say is that, them animals seem not all that much different from us humans and that prosecutor callin me an animal don’t really seem like that bad of a thing when you think about it. I reckon the problem is that our society just ain’t figured that out yet. I mean, the colored folks are no different than anyone else, and that surly seem to take too long a time for the rest of them folks to figure out. So I guess if it took humans that long to treat other humans right, it would probably take twice as long to get humans to treat animals right too. But anyways, that lady was talkin about the connections and attachment of them chimp’s babies with they mothers, and that made me think of you. I really hope ya’ll doin alright Ma, not hearin back from no one just keeps me worried. Anyhow, I’ll keep writin to ya and I think I’ll keep readin too. Hope to hear from ya soon. Your son, Billy *** 5/12/1980 Dear Ma, Still ain’t heard from ya, but I am sure your keepin busy with me bein gone and havin to keep the boys in line. It alright though, I know things is probably hectic on the farm, and I know you’ll write when ya get the time. Speakin of time, I still been readin every day and it sure helps pass the hours in this cell. Yesterday I read this article by a fella name Penfound, kinda a funny name, but it sure was interesting. This article of his kind-a made me think of my time out there in the prison before they put me up here on death row. This fella Penfound is sayin that humans done inherited a lot of our traits from the animal kingdom, especially them apes. Reminded me of that Jane lady, but this fella ain’t livin out in the wild or nothin. He saying that in animal society they got ranks based on fear, and that is probably why families be like that too. Like how before Pa took off, he’d give me a beatin if I done somethin wrong. But this also ain’t all that much different from these prisons either. They got ranks in here from fear, and you go breakin 36

‘em, and you gonna get put up in the medical ward or a wood box. He also sayin that we inherited aggression as well, and I suppose that explains them ranks. After all, that aggression leads to fear. The thing that probably reminded me the most of this prison thought, is that he sayin species be reproducin at rates that be causin overpopulation, and that humans no different. I sure know that these prisons be overpopulated, and just like in the animal kingdom, it be leadin to high tension and low standards for everyone. I mean hell, people in here be fightin daily over a piece-a bread. But I reckon humans be best at this overpopulatin, and it be causin tension between us and animals. Makes sense though, the more people we got, the more of them animals land we be takin. Since they got no rights, ain’t no one stoppin us either. That reminds me of another thing this fella say we inherit from them animals, our need for territory and our right to defend it. Like in this prison they always havin fights over which group belong were, or even like back on the farm. We bought our land for the farm and we got a right to defend it against any folks that be tryin to harm us. Though I guess that be a right that them animals don’t have, and that be why we just take their land and sometimes folks get attacked by them. Seem to me that if-a man get bit by a bear, it probably only cause that man invaded the bears territory. But I guess most humans don’t be seein it that-a way. Speakin-a which, ya’ll been havin any trouble with the bank or them fella’s from them new industrial farms? I know they be itchin to take our land, and that just ain’t gonna happen. Make sure the boys be keepin the rifles loaded, but don’t be lettin them use ‘em less they absolutely havin to. But enough a that, I ain’t tryin to upset you or nothing. Anyhow, as always I sure am missin ya’ll and I’ll keep on writin. Talk to ya soon Ma. Your son, Billy *** 5/22/1980 Dear Ma, I know it must be hard havin a son on death row, but not hearin back from nobody sure is startin to worry me. I just hope ya’ll ain’t havin no troubles with the farm, the last thing I want to hear before dyin is that ya’ll had the farm taken away and ain’t got no place to go. Besides, I done read this article by a fella name Singer, and he sayin that them factory farms that been buyin up all them folks land is no good. He sayin by takin the farms away from the simple country folk like us, only be makin life worse for all the animals. Accordin to this fella, they stickin as many chickens as they can get in a dark cage, not carin if any of them die or not. That again kinda reminds me of these prisons, but it tears me up more to think of our own animals bein treated that-a way. Me bein treated that-a way I can understand, but them chickens, they don’t know why they bein treated that-a way. This article sayin they be cuttin of their beaks to keep them from fightin on-a count-a the fact that they got so many packed in there. Worse than that, is that this fella sayin that chickens don’t normally be doin that kind-a stuff, but because they bein treated that-a way, it be changin ‘em for the worse. I mean I know we ain’t keepin them chickens

in the house or nothin, but we sure treat them much better than that. I reckon the problem is that we need our chickens to make-a livin, and can’t be lettin them die or be harmed cause that’s no good for anyone. But these big factory farms, they ain’t give-a shit about the chickens, cause they got thousands of ‘em. Hell, this Singer fella even sayin that these farms even be feedin calves nothin but liquid and not lettin them move or get the right nourishment just so them snobby kind-a folks can eat ‘em on-a account-a they skin color. If you ask me, this ain’t right and somethin ought-a be done about it. I tell you what, I ever get out-a here and I reckon maybe I’ll be the one to do it. That politician they sayin I killed, I guess he was strongly against this kind-a thing and was fightin to keep the farms in the hands of everyday folk. If that jury had known me, they would-a known that I’d have no reason to be killin a fella like that. I would-a shakin his hand, not killed the poor bastard. But with that fella bein in-a grave and me not hearin from ya’ll, its killin me to think that all our land and animals be going to people like that. If ya gettin my letter Ma, please write back. I’d sure like to know that ya’ll ok. Your son, Billy ***

5/26/1980 Dear Mr. Walton, I hope everything is goin alright with my appeal and I am really hopin we got-a shot. I have been doin all kind-a researchin about animals and how they behave thinkin that maybe it might help us in court or somethin. I know that prosecutor done made them jury folks think I was a wild beast, but I am startin to realize that animals ain’t really like that. And I was thinkin, maybe if I can prove that to them jury folk, maybe they might think differently of me. I been-a readin all kind of article about animal right too. Just yesterday I read about this new institute that this place called the Humane Society done made. This article sayin that labs be puttin makeup on rabbit’s eyes and shavin cats faces to test new lotions and that sort-a stuff. But hell, the article was saying that it ain’t even that relevant to humans and that there are all other kind-a things they could be testin on instead. The article also be sayin that kids be doin all kinds of bad stuff to animals at them science fairs they got at the schools. Like puttin fish in the wrong type-a water just to see what would happen. But this article done said that the worst of all, is them factory farms like the one tryin to take my family’s farm away. Although apparently there was this Animal Welfare act that is supposed to help animals have some rights, but from what the article sayin, it don’t do nothin for animals gonna be made into food. I guess somethin like 20 percent-a them animals on them farms die, and that ain’t even includin the thousands of more that die bein transported around. But I guess there is this new fella named Fox that is now in charge-a this institute. I guess he sayin that we need to get away from believin that we have-a right to control all animals, and that all life is valuable, even the life of animals. I reckon I would have to agree with the fella on that one. Though I guess you don’t have time to be hearin all this with workin on my appeal and such. I just wanted to see how things is goin, and see if there is anything I could do. Also I was

wonderin if there was somethin else you could do for me too. I ain’t heard-a pep from no one in my family since I got put on death row, and I am startin to really get worried. I can understand Ma not bein able to face me right now, but it burns me up thinkin my brothers ain’t want nothin to do with me. I know I have asked-a lot out-a ya, but if you could just tell them I’d sure like to hear from ‘em, I would really appreciate it. You done the best you can as my lawyer, so if this appeal don’t come to nothin, I’ll die bein thankful of ya anyhow. Lookin forward to meetin with ya next month and in the meantime, I’ll keep-a studyin and you can tell me if any of it will help. Thanks again Walton. Sincerely, Inmate #7439837 Billy ***

6/2/1980 Dear Billy, I am sorry I have not written you and I know you must be having a hard time being all alone on death row. Things have been a little tough around here without you, but I have been getting all of your letters. To be honest, I didn’t write back because I assumed that the state or someone would had notified you and I guess I was just too yellow to tell you myself. However, your lawyer Mr. Walton came by and we agreed it was time for me to tell you the truth. I don’t have any easy way of putting it, so I’ll just be straight. Ma isn’t with us anymore and I didn’t want you to feel like it was your fault. About a month after they locked you up, she started having problems and her heart just finally gave out. It’s hit me real hard Billy, but I knew it would hit you harder. Although I don’t want you blaming yourself, the doctor said it was only a matter of time and that she had known the state of her heart for quite a while. I guess she just didn’t want to worry us boys and kept it to herself. She had the best funeral we could give her, it was something you would had been proud of. I really should had told you earlier and please don’t hate me for waiting this long. I guess I just figured it would be better for you to die not knowing, or it would be better to tell you on the outside in the event that your appeal was successful. Either way, I am sorry for not telling you when it happened. I also want you to know something else. Every since you were put away, I’ve been doing everything I can to find a way to clear your name. I know you didn’t kill that politician and I intent to prove it. I’ve also been doing everything I can to keep the bank at bay. We owe them a lot of money and that factory farm company is really putting the pressure on them to collect. They have got the bank to foreclose on serval farms already so that they can buy them up real cheap. Just you know Billy, I won’t let that happen to us. I have read all of your letters and I think all of your reading can really help. I plan on picking up exactly were that politician left off, and I will show the banks and everyone in town that the big farms are no good for anyone here. They keep throwing around their money trying to blind

people to what they plan to do, and I won’t stand for it. You have every right to be mad at me, but I hope you will continue reading and writing your letters. I have been doing a lot of research myself and even got little Jack helping me out. I think that if the three of us boys keep at it, I can use the information to save us all and maybe to get you out of that prison. The gossip in town is that it was that company who paid someone to kill the political and that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If that’s the case, you better believe that I will prove it. Again Billy, words can’t describe how truly sorry I am. I just hope that one day you can forgive me, and keep on helping us try to really make a difference. You’re Brother, Tommy

Jessica Powers Untitled I know you liked this dress when you bought it. The lighting in the dressing room was bright and it felt fun and free and everything you wish you were. But the lighting in your bedroom is dim and it gives everything a yellowish tint. You slip the dress on once again after holding it prisoner in the closet for months. You study yourself in the mirror for a few minutes and the air seems more still as you do. It just looks stupid now. It’s the same dress and it’s on the same person but it’s different this time. It’s the kind of dress you imagine wearing. You picture yourself in the dress at a party with your friends. People steal glances from across the room and you beam as you sip on your drink. But the yellowish tint is persistent. It seeps back in, tainting your fantasy. You’re stuck looking at the same old you, in the same old room, through the same old mirror, with a newish dress. Nothing has changed. You were foolish to think it would. *** The words sting your throat as they come out. You know it’s wrong but you can’t stop them. It’s like vomit forcing its way up, only you don’t feel better after. “This is why dad left you.” She stares at you with unwavering eye contact. Her eyes get glossy and she takes a step back. You want to step toward her but you can’t. You’re paralyzed. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. After a minute that feels like an hour, she manages to say, “Get out. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day.” Suddenly you notice the faint wrinkles around her mouth and the not-so-faint bags under her eyes. You want to say something; anything. But you just grab your keys and leave. Coward. *** The gravel spits out from underneath your tire as you pull out of the driveway. You pass Rachel’s house and you want to stop by but she probably doesn’t want to see you anyway. You keep driving as you think about a quiet place to go kill some time. A massive bolt of lightning splits the sky in jagged halves and you wonder how something could be so devastatingly beautiful. You start to sweat a little so you roll down your window letting the cool wind hit your face. It reminds you of how fast you’re going. The thought of opening your door creeps its way into your mind’s periphery and then it’s all you can focus on. It would be so easy. You unbuckle your seatbelt and your hand hovers over the door handle. Stop! What are you doing? You buckle yourself back in. Why are you like this? You’re scaring me. Suddenly, you find yourself in the parking lot of the same coffee shop you go to every week. You don’t even remember driving the rest of the way. You swallow the lump forming in your throat and go inside. It’s pretty empty, save for an older man sitting at a table alone tapping away at the keyboard on his laptop. His glasses droop down on the bridge of his nose and he

holds his eyes shut a little too long each time he blinks. His brow doesn’t move from its furrowed position. A small bead of sweat runs down his forehead and he wipes it with a napkin. Okay I think you’ve been staring long enough, weirdo. You shift your gaze to the man behind the counter. “Hey! The usual?” He asks. You nod and reach into your purse to grab your wallet. “Can you believe this storm right now? I think it’s supposed to be even worse tomorrow.” “Yeah it’s crazy.” You hand him your credit card while avoiding eye contact. After you get your drink, he tells you to have a great night and stay safe. If only he knew what you almost did on the way here. You go sit in your favorite corner and take a sip of coffee. It’s almost hot enough to comfort you. Almost. *** You wake up the next morning feeling disoriented. Your phone is still in your hand. You check the time; 6:37. It’s way too early for you to be up, but here you are. You just want to sleep but you can’t stop thinking about everything. Why do you think so much? You sit on your bed and wrap yourself in blankets, forming a makeshift cocoon. This is what you usually do with your free days. You sit on your bed and stare at your phone. You fall asleep periodically and then wake up to continue staring. By the time night rolls around, you pay the price of taking several naps throughout the day. Sometimes, in a poor effort to change things up, you lie on your back and stare at your ceiling instead. You study the shapes reflected onto it from the headlights of passing cars. You see things in these shapes like a Rorschach test. You give these shapes stories. Usually sad ones. One small shadow is following too closely behind another. Why is she following without hesitation? It looks like she’s just going through the motions. Why doesn’t she ever stray? The vibration of your phone interrupts the story. You unlock it and see a text from Rachel. She wants to hang out today. Why did you think she didn’t want to see you? You’re so stupid sometimes. You know you have friends and yet you act like you’re so alone. Ungrateful. *** You pull into Rachel’s driveway for the first time in a long time. It almost feels like you shouldn’t be there. You notice how Rachel has blocked her mom’s car in with her own, parking behind her rather than beside her. You can’t help but think how thoughtless this is. You laugh to yourself at how different the two of you are. Rachel is so carefree and fun. She doesn’t think, she just does. How does she not worry about the way she makes people feel? You never want to rub people the wrong way. Rachel doesn’t care who she’s rubbing or which way she’s rubbing them. Why can’t you be more like her? Rachel’s eyes light up when she greets you at the door. “Hey, girl! It’s been a while. What have you been up to?” She practically yells. “Not much. You know, just the usual existential crises.” You laugh but she doesn’t join you. She looks at you with a half-hearted smile, like someone might look at an old man who’s eating at a restaurant alone or a dog with three legs. “Well let’s give you a break from all that. Come on in!” The familiar aroma of butterscotch dances around you and you feel better already. You used to be over here almost

every day. Rachel and you would watch movies, have dance parties, cook together, and so many other things that made life fun. Back then you didn’t think as much. Things are different now. “Make yourself at home!” Rachel booms as she hops onto the couch. You slump down beside her. She grabs the remote and starts flipping through the channels until she stops on Chopped. She remembers that you both love this show and you’re a little flattered. “I can’t remember the last time I watched this,” you admit. “I can’t remember the last time you were at my house. I’m so happy you’re here!” She meant that to be nice but you can’t help but sense some resentment. “I’m sorry I haven’t been making an effort to hang as much lately. I’ve missed you.” “Yeah I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that actually. Listen, I don’t mean to sound weird or anything but like, are you okay?” She looks at you with her eyebrows raised and she leans in, as if waiting to hear a secret. “What do you mean?” You notice a sinking feeling in your stomach. “I mean like you’ve been distant lately. You just stop replying to me and you never want to go out anymore. Whenever I do hear from you, you’re just sitting at home if you’re not at work or school. And when I see you at school you look… different. You seem sad.” Where was this coming from? How long has she been analyzing and judging your every move? That sinking feeling in your stomach starts to rise to your chest and you can feel a tightness that makes it harder to breath. “Well I don’t know. I just-” “And I didn’t really want to tell you this,” she interrupted, “but your mom texted me yesterday. She told me what you said. She’s worried about you and wanted me to talk to you and see what was going on” “Wait, you’ve been talking to my mom about me behind my back?” “Well, yes but-” “What the fuck, Rachel? So you’re only hanging out with me today because my mom asked you to?” Your face is hot and you can feel yourself starting to shake. “No! Not completely, at least. I did want to see you but I figured it couldn’t hurt to see what was up with you after what happened with her.” “Well you sure didn’t waste any time doing that! I wasn’t aware you two were so close. There’s nothing wrong with me, okay?” How dare she act like you’re doing something wrong. Sure you’re not as close are you once were, and maybe you spend more time at home and you think a lot more now, but what’s wrong with that? Why is that weird all of a sudden? “Please don’t be so defensive, I’m genuinely worried about you and so is your mom.” “If you don’t want me to be so defensive maybe don’t talk about me to my mom. Don’t act like I’m the only one responsible for us not hanging out as much. Don’t act like I’m fucking broken or something.” Your voice cracks and your vision starts to blur. That feeling that started in your stomach has worked its way past your chest and up into your throat. You can’t hold it back any longer. You blink hot tears onto your cheeks as a feeling of helplessness starts to consume you. Rachel puts her arms around you and hugs you tight. You sob into her shoulder, feeling more pathetic than usual. ***

You finally leave Rachel’s with the knowledge of your mom’s betrayal heavy on your mind. You walk out into the rain and each drop hits you like a bullet. You slide into the car and slam the door behind you. How dare she go behind your back like that? You start your car and peel out of Rachel’s drive with smoky tires. The rain gets heavier and you have to turn your wipers to the fastest setting. Lightning breaks up the pitch black sky every minute or so, illuminating the landscape like a momentary sunrise. Why is your mom so worried about you? Sure you’ve been distant lately and lash out here and there but it’s only because she won’t leave you alone. She has to constantly check in with you and probe you as if she wants something to be wrong with you. Well something is, so maybe you should go share the good news with her. A fiery bolt of lightning races down from the clouds quickly gathering above you and a deafening crash of thunder follows. You have to confront her; there’s no way around it. You have to know what her problem is. Ever since your dad left she’s been acting like this. Granted that’s about when you started retreating from life too, but that should be a pretty understandable reaction. At least you’re reacting. She acts like nothing even happened. And you’re the weird one? Is she a robot? You grip your wheel tight and pull to the right a little too sharply. Suddenly, you lose control and start to hydroplane. Your car does a complete 180 and all the traffic that was trailing behind is now barrelling toward you. As the headlights approach you see your mother, you see Rachel, you see your father, you see that stupid dress, you see all the mistakes you’ve ever made and all the people you’ve tried to be. “This can’t be it, this can’t be it,” you whisper over and over. As the orbs of light get bigger and bigger, the whisper grows to a shout. The lights get closer until all you can see is white. “This can’t be it! This can’t be-” *** Your eyes feel heavy. You can’t even open them. You can hear a faint beeping that’s consistent and annoying. After a minute or so, you let the light pour in and all you can see is white. As your eyes adjust, you see the source of the beeping. A heart monitor sits beside your bed. Your eyes follow the cords attached to the machine. On the other ends are patches stuck to your chest. “Oh my god!” your mother bursts in the door and throws a tray of food onto a nearby chair. She climbs onto your bed and hugs you so tight you start to cough. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?” She squeezes your arm with one hand and tucks some hair behind your ear with the other. “Oddly enough, I feel fine.” She tilts her head slightly, and opens her mouth to speak but her eyes wander away from yours and she presses her lips back together. “Mom I’m so sorry. For everything. I’m not okay,” you finally admit. It feels good to say out loud. She pulls your head to her chest and you notice her heartbeat has synced up to the beeps from your monitor. “Honey, I’ve known that for a while now. It’s okay not to be okay.” Her voice softens. “I’m not okay either,” She practically whispers. You pull away to look at her. “Honestly, I’m just really relieved that you’re even here right now. I could have lost you. I’m lucky to have a daughter, even if you are kind of fucked up.” She smiles as tears start to gather in her eyes. “Well at least we’re fucked up together.” You share a laugh, though you’re both about to cry. You think about how funny it is that at a time like this, you can still manage to joke around

together. You’ve missed moments like this. You’ve missed her. She hugs you and you look out the window across the room. You see clouds parting and sunshine starts to wash over all the lush trees, bathing the birds perched atop them in its warmth. You would hardly be able to tell how intense the storm was just yesterday. You can’t remember the last time you saw the sky so blue.

A.C. Ross For Th’One’s Who Now Whisper With the Wind

To soak up someone That be it as equal To that of a towel Then I shall do it For you, sirrah-misses For you have now seen Ultimately the ultimate Payment. I suppose the robed skeleton The one who travels an unseen sea Has bought several a ticket A boat ride the size of an ark Oh, surprise, surprise indeed Methinks it unwise not to-- Sorrow, absolutely sorrow filled this destiny on which is brought here. And, with memory, illusionistic memory... oh, how poor of me as a space minded fool, I forgot the memoir at home, but... ah-- There we are, that’s what it is I am now you The catalyst holding your life Thank you For giving me you… ...before you rode away.

Amele Sakpo

Sunset

Waterfall

Blue Heaven

Samuel Schenck Swallow the Sea Monsters Salt water slams against the inside lining of my stomach. I feel the push and pull of the waves between my belly-button and spine, swirling down into my legs and boiling up into my throat. I feel angry sharks battling and stirring my stomach, gnashing their teeth and flailing their tail fins as they shred me from the inside out. I gently place my palm over my navel to cover up the dorsal fin that I can feel stretching out through my skin, the same way a woman with child embraces her baby’s kicks and stretches with her warm hand. But my palm doesn’t silence the growls of the sea monsters, as they conquer my stomach and fill my head with their screams. GRAWR. I had worked on this paper for twelve hours nonstop. There was a permanent imprint of my body in my bed, and a crease in the layers of blankets where I would flip them over for a quick smoke, a cup of coffee, and/or a bathroom break. A flannel sheet on the inside, a plaid quilt on top of the flannel, and a suede comforter laid on top. These layers became inverted when I got up, and only laid how they were supposed to when I was snuggled in bed. But I couldn’t feel too snuggly, no, I had to stay up. I had to smoke more, I had to drink more black water, there is no time for breaks when this paper needed turned into Dr. Layne within the next few hours. I had to meet with Dr. Layne face to face in his office to discuss this paper. This paper was my final product for my independent study for my favorite professor. While I had invested a semester’s worth of work into the research for this paper, the paper itself had been wholly neglected. It was miserable piecing this assignment together, my evidence was clearly dated and I couldn’t make sense of my notes. What does this mean? What does this mean? I did what I could to finish the paper. It wasn’t good. Nonetheless, I got out of bed and got ready for my meeting. I close the bedroom door behind me, my inverted, creased sheets behind me too. His door was open, his shirt was purple, and I don’t remember much else. I only remembered these two things, because they were the two things I could always count on in Dr. Layne. An open door and a purple shirt. There was a lot of silence in this meeting as we read through this monstrosity of a paper together, with my rowdy stomach being the only sound disrupting the harsh silence. Who knew chain-smoking and drinking cup after cup of coffee were bad choices for your stomach? The glass windows in aquariums are built to obscure the distance between yourself and the beady-eyed sharks and inky-slinky squids. We are supposed to be in the same room with them, as if they are our performers and we are their honorable spectators. We get to lean into the bubble-shaped dome in the glass, and watch the once great and feared rulers of the ocean swim lazily around us. But, we’ve seen Jaws and Harry Potter: The Sorcerer’s Stone. The glass creates no safety, it only creates a feeling of safety. We know that the second we let our guard down, this glass window will disappear, we will tumble into the tank, and struggle to

doggy-paddle away as the shark and squid race to see who will get the leg, and who will get the breast. My stomach is only as convincing as this glass window. Our meeting concludes with a less-than-satisfying agreement. I will continue to work harder on this paper so I can prepare it for a conference later this year and he’ll grant me an “A” for my independent study credit because my research was stellar, despite my failure to deliver on the paper. I feel so incredibly stupid. Why hadn’t I given more time to this project? I cared so much about it. I cared so much about Dr. Layne. I am so embarrassed. Why did I flounder so bad on this project? Why did he see promise in me? I am so sick. I tumble through my own glass wall, the one that used to look like a belly. I swirl into my stomach. I clutch at the walls around me like slippery, moss covered bricks entombing a well. My clutches are futile and I’m tumbling into the sea water. Salt fills my mouth, I’m choking on the crystals that fill my throat. I feel tentacles and teeth rip into my legs, and down I swirl inside myself. GRAWR. I remember when my stomach first felt the twitch of the monsters. Third grade. Mrs. Blonde. Reading and writing class. A spelling test returned to me with an “F” written in red. Truly any other color would’ve softened the effect of being told I had failed. But no, red. I felt it in my belly then, the genesis of the beasts within. I could feel a soft, little egg bust open, releasing a tadpole into me. It wiggled around blindly, bouncing off the walls of my tummy and disturbing me just enough to know something was within me. I could feel my embarrassment come alive. I had let Mrs. Blonde down. Math class. Sixth grade. Mr. Smith. I was growing a lot then. I ate nonstop and slept when I wasn’t active. I had laid my head down on my desk, and Mr. Smith announces some advice to me as I sat in the back row and he stood at the front of the class. “You know, Sam, your big ears would do much more for you if they weren’t lying on your desk.” My tadpole had eyes now, it could see where to go. It stretched out its brand new little legs and freshly sprouted webbed toes, and calmly stirred up my stomach acid as it back stroked from one side of me to the far wall, lap after lap, over and over. It swam smiling as I clutched my growling stomach. I sat tongue-tied and dumbfounded by Mr. Smith’s comment. I was angry, but I was sad. I was humiliated. My ears were big? Sleeping is bad? Mr. Smith didn’t like me? I’m sorry, and I’m embarrassed. Ribbit. Freshman year. Math class. Adam was always good at soccer and schooled everybody in math. He was more average looking than I was with brushable blonde hair, a set of normal-sized ears, a bit short, but still had an athletic build. He was smarter than me and I was dumber than him. He was good at soccer and I was bad at soccer. He had a body that girls liked, and I had a body girls didn’t like. Did he have a body I liked? My tadpole turned frog sits on a lily pad in a placid pond of stomach acid. Sticky and green, green and sticky. A shadow emerges out of the bile, looming behind the frog. The frog hops to face the shadow. The shadow crashes down and swallows the frog and the lily pad

whole, replacing the tranquil pond with a thrashing torrent as the shadow transforms into something more clear, something more scary. A dragon? A magician? A lava monster? I still can’t tell what was inside me then. I only know the monster is breathing fire. Its smoky breath roasts my stomach like a glob of glass in a furnace, roasting me until I’m soft enough for teeth to sink into. Subducted flesh turns to magma. But, I don’t get softer, my stomach becomes hard, baked hard like a crystal. I hear the laughs. Wait, laughs? Two, three, four?...many monsters. There’s an army inside me, and they laugh at my rosy cheeks as I struggle with the realization that I might like a boy. My head swims as fumes of burning stomach and half-digested frog spin into my head. I’m not as good as Adam. I’m not what people think is good enough. Why can’t I look like him? If I looked as good as him, then I wouldn’t let so many people down. My teachers would like me more if I was as smart as Adam. I’m sorry I don’t look good enough. I’m sorry I’m not smart enough. Adam, I’m sorry for liking you. I’m embarrassed. ha Ha HA! And we know about Dr. Layne already. Between my freshman year of highschool and my first year of college, the fire monsters that used to burn my stomach were drowned and replaced by the sea monsters, the ones that crash inside me now. They’re the ones that remind me of when I’m embarrassed now by slapping their bodies against the front of my stomach, growling into me their “GRAWR” as I struggle to keep a cool head. But what do I do with these monsters? I know they cripple me when I’m embarrassed, that they thrive on my insecurities. That my stomach aches turned into something more real when I allowed my embarrassment to become more real. But how real is embarrassment? I only really know one way to conquer the beasts that thrash inside me, and that is to ask myself amidst their growls, ”Does this really matter?” Sure, I feel embarrassed on a daily basis, and my stomach flips a bit every time that happens. However, that is part of living. It is normal to make a complete ass out of yourself everyday by stuttering, stumbling, bumping into someone, submitting a paper past its due date, passing gas at an inopportune time, catching eyes with a stranger multiple times at the gym, driving at 1 m.p.h. in the parking lot and still almost come into contact with a pedestrian. All of this is highly embarrassing and it, in fact, does not matter. It takes a second for the question to surface through the growling of my stomach, but it always does and I respond to myself, “No.” In addition to these dialogues with myself, I started treating my monstrous infection chemically. I fed my body breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I slept at night and not during the day. I sat outside, in the rising sunshine as I drank my ONE (1) cup of coffee for the day, and listened to music that got me uplifted me rather than reminded me of more troublesome times. Kesha may seem to be an odd choice for the dawn of a Wednesday morning, but you wouldn’t believe how much of a rockstar you feel like after listening to some club music to start your day. TAKE THREE TABLETS BY MOUTH EVERY NIGHT AT BEDTIME LITHIUM CARBONATE ER 300 MG TB

I also took my medicine and vitamins. It’s a lot easier to tackle the day when you aren’t already tackling your own emotions and thoughts and the sniffles. It is nothing less than magical how empowered you feel when you actually break away from the script that medicine for your mental illness is a sort of defeat, or that the adjustment period for your medicine could do you in. I like to think of these tiny pink tabs as tools, just as a pen is a tool to a writer. In this case, when

I swallow these medicines, I imagine them as my own little military going in as the army to fight back my racing heart beat, the air force to protect my brain, and the navy to fight off the monsters that swim in my belly. My sea monsters still dwell inside me today. They swim in the murky chamber of my abdomen, glassy eyes just below the mossy surface of stomach acid, waiting for my next embarrassing moment. And I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say for sure that I will ever conquer these beasts, because, letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face it, these bastards are tough. But what I can say is that one way or another, you learn to take a breath, take another step forward, and swallow the sea monsters.

Home on the Horizon Do you see that place out there? The place where the sea meets the sky. I’ve always wondered what it is like, a place of light, and warmth, a place where it is always wet and earthy like a rainforest. A place that heals, and makes itself new. Many say that the horizon is just that, a horizon that is forever away, out of our reach. But isn’t that what heaven is? A place forever away, untouchable? I think heaven has been just across the fields, the sea, the city, the backyard, just that far away, all along. Horizon is heaven. I imagine myself there when I decide to pass, a place where my head is healed and my guilt is forgiven. Where the scars in my head are filled in and colored to match the rest of me. Where the scars become new again, no longer scars, just me. Healed. A place where my hair grows and curls out in wild little rings, where my skin glows like that of a wickedly beautiful nature god. My tattoos shine like a brand new penny, one cleaned with lemon juice, absolutely and reflectively beaming. My tattoos and skin do not radiate light themselves, no, I, and you alike, are just children and reflectors of the Sun. The Sun submerges our world in light, a natural phenomenon that is so beyond the power of man that we take it for granted. The power of light grows our greens and tans our skins and burns the lines that curl around our faces when we laugh into permanence. It is the greatest gift to mankind. And in the horizon, we are forever washed in the glory of sunlight. When I rest there, I will be home forever. Maybe that place is the genesis of it all, or maybe it’s the place where everything ends. A place of rest, of renewal, of rawness. When I go there, I know it will at least be warm. I want to take you with me, to the place where the sea meets the sky.

Cassandra Seidenstriker

Forest Sunset

Emily Steele Ode to the Disordered

Emaciated You stand before me Demanding respect Yet I cannot heed your plea "But look,â&#x20AC;? you say "At my self control, The nourishment I've withheld All the happiness it stole "I've lived for this, I will die by it When my family needed me, Still I focused on my diet "When I watched you fall Into the same harmful patterns Still I did not waver Though your life was in tatters "And look at everything I have to show for it! Varicose veins, exhaustion The scale shows two digits "There has never been Nor will there ever be Anyone as loyal Or dedicated as me" Emaciated, I watch you walk away. You made the wrong choice, This is your price to pay

Soul Search Sometimes I think I see me In the dirty reflective glass that adorns my bedroom wall. I see long brown tresses, blue eyes, nose dotted with freckles, But I do not know who she is. She is not Me. So I look for me In the old forgotten corner of a dusty church pew, In the middle of a book I adored in my youth, In a desk in the back of a classroom too brightly lit. I look for me in coffee shops, The burning bitter liquid giving me life, but not meaning. I look for me under a starry sky, The moonlit nights giving me clarity, but not peace. I look for me in others, Digging for their stories, our similarities. I wait to hear some resonating revelation that screams you're not alone. But how can I know? I often feel like I am made up of nothing but infinitesimal pieces of everyone else. I take what they give me, but I never give back. I have nothing to give back. So I return to my mirror. I look at the long brown tresses, the blue eyes, the nose dotted with freckles. If you find me, Please bring me home.

Carter Surber

Malcolm Sedam Creative Writing Award Winner

Carl’s Body Carl Wisenhower was the apple of his God’s eye. He was one of the good old boys, and the world has never been the same since he left. You see, Carl knew how to take care of people, to bring them together. He could quiet a room with the wave of his hand, he could get his son to stop crying with a couple gentle words to smooth away the jagged edges of his developing femininity. “Boys don’t cry. It’ll stop bleeding soon.” He knew how to treat the African-Americans in his shop. He was always kind and respectful, and sometimes he even hired one. If he saw them chatting it up with a friend instead of doing their work, well, he would keep it quiet for a bit and complain back to his buddies at their weekly card games. Two of them held businesses. One of them was an alcoholic and lived on the street ever since his service in the war. Carl knew how to feed him and then turn him away at the end of the night. During those card games, when they would discuss the blacks and the Hispanics and border security like only men who knew what they were talking about could, his wife would bring them cold beers at his request. She would sometimes cough on their thick cigar smoke, her eyes watering and turning pink. But that just showed how much she loved her work. Even when the smoke threatened to steal her breath, she’d make sure that the men were taken care of. “Lemme tell ya,” He’d grumble. “I almost regret hiring Jerome. He’s talking more than he’s working, let me tell ya. Gets nothing done.” “That’s what they’re all like.” His buddy would say. “Government hands them out blankets when they’re cold. I sleep on a cardboard box. I know how to deal with the cold. Fuck ‘em for taking the wool.” Every once in a while, his wife would have a little slip. “But honey,” She’d say, turning around from the couch upon which she sat, just far enough away for the smoke not to bother her anymore. “The other men talk just as much. I’ve seen it.” Carl would flush before turning scarlet, eyes training in on her. “Do you want to go to the doctor’s again?” His wife flinched and grabbed her head with one hand, eyes going wide with fear as she shook from the memory. Carl, satisfied that she had been put in her place, turned back to his friends. “That doctor works miracles.” He mused. “She’s so much happier when she’s done with those appointments. Pretty, pretty girl. Those opinions stress her out, a woman’s just not built for it. I know it’s unpleasant when it’s happening, but they need to be kept like dogs. Dogs don’t like to get their shots, but it’s ultimately what’s best for them. Now look at her, doesn’t she look happier now that she’s shut up?” Carl’s wife stared blankly at the wall, mumbling something under her breath, and flinching every couple of seconds.

Carl laid down his hand of cards. He had some aces up his sleeve, sure, but he’d worked to put them there. He wasn’t about to start playing fair now. Everything worked out best for everyone when he was in control. He grinned as he took the chips. Aaaaah, yes. Carl Wisenhower. He was the apple of his God’s eye. And I saw his God on the street last week with a prescription for glaucoma.

The Running of the Bears The lake was crystalline. It was the most beautiful place that Maddie had ever seen; she had been astral projecting only a few months, and every time took her somewhere more beautiful. She would never get over the soft lushness of the grass, or the way the stars in the sky seemed to surround her like a warm blanket. “Why are we here?” She asked, turning towards the bow of the boat. Her spirit guide was a tall and wise man with long, spindly arms and legs that always seemed to shift under view. She had tried to count them once, spilling out from under his dark robe, but had been unsuccessful. “The sooner you learn patience, the better,” He responded. His voice echoed. He was a storyteller in every universe he had ever been to, and he was training her to be one too. He liked to take his dear, sweet time getting to the point sometimes. But she knew that it would be worth it to wait for his grand reveal. It always was. The sound of water broke her from her fault as he rhythmically paddled. ‘Ian’ was the name that he had given her. She knew that it was not his real name but it was what he liked to go by, and that was good enough for her. Ian continued to paddle. He turned his head up towards the sky, and his straw hat swayed with the wind as it danced across the horizon. She turned her attention toward the sky as well, knowing that the best way to get answers with Ian was by doing whatever he was doing and figuring it out for herself. This also resulted in several disasters over the short course of their travels, but hey. You win some, you lose some. He suddenly extended his too-long arm, pointing a bony claw towards the sky as he turned back to look smugly at her. “Do you see that? Those lights?” She peered at the sky. Slowly, twirling bits of blue and green and purple began to weave their way into the night. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes filled with joy. “You’re taking me to see the Northern Lights?” She asked, filled with a kind of unspeakable joy. Ian smiled. “No.” He told her, pointing again. “I’m taking you to see the Running of the Bears.” Suddenly, the small boat jolted. Maddie sat up sharply, seeing that the reeds and grasses were now pouring into the boat from all sides as they came to a stop on land. Ian climbed out of the boat, and offered her his cold hand. “The lights are simply one of the signs that it is time.” She slipped her hand into his. Despite their differences in age- his noble 274 and her meager 15 years- their hands were the same size whenever their palms touched. She felt a kind of similarity with him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He led her to a little meadow not far from the bank. One of his many legs slithered out from his cloak and wrapped around the tip of their boat, keeping it in place while he taught her his lesson. He led her to a small blanket he had set down ahead of time, and he stood on the corner. He gestured with his too-wide eyes, wordlessly commanding her to have a seat. She obeyed. “How much longer is it going to be until the bears come?” She asked. She looked up to see that the lights had increased, their flicker waxing and waning overhead, brilliance so radiant that it almost felt as though they were touching the earth. “Not much longer.” Ian said. He directed her attention towards the cave with a claw pointed delicately towards its painted walls. 60

Bear-prints lined its walls in earthy reds and oranges from top to bottom. The cave suddenly let out a sigh of warm air that rushed over them, whipping the sea of grass in all directions as a bear’s call resonated against the walls. Then, they came. Polar bears, black bears, brown bears. Big and small and old and young and ancient and innocent alike began to lumber out of the cave in front of them, all headed towards the lake. They parted to avoid her blanket, although a few brushed up against her shoulder or gave her fleeting looks of interest. Their eyes sparkled with wonder and excitement. Their fur was air-tousled as they stepped onto the beams of light, which were now reaching the lake. She watched for a long time. She finally turned to Ian, hoping for some kind of a concrete explanation. Ian smiled. “When it’s time for hibernation in their own corners of the globe, the bears leave their bodies and converge here. Together, they ascend to the stars and travel the realms together. They come back every year more knowledgeable than before. As a species, bears are more spiritually in-tune than any other living being on earth.” “And?” She asked. It was a spectacular sight, but there had to be something more than that. “Don’t ever let anyone see your development as a hibernation.” Ian elaborated. “Sometimes, you might need to take a break. Vacations are not simply fun, they are necessary to learn who you are and discover who you ought to be. Taking a break is simple. Taking a break is natural. Taking a break is necessary.” She thought that over, letting it sit with her. “No matter what anyone else tells you, you know when it’s time to rest. Our personal seasons are not as predictable as the earth’s. Hibernate when you need to, Maddie. Even if, to others, it only looks like you are sleeping through winter.” Maddie nodded, sitting back. She smiled softly as she watched bears climb into the sky. A little polar bear cub attacked a brown bear playfully, sending both of them rolling down the stairway and back into the grasses below. “Does that mean we can take a break tomorrow?” She asked. “And see something that I want to see, rather than something that will teach me a lesson.” “I suppose so.” Ian relinquished. Maddie glowed in the wake of this small victory. She had a whole new appreciation for bears.

The Warning “Show me yer tits, Babe.” He yells out the window. The light of the streetlights reflect off the hood of his beat-up Honda. I capture his eyes. I do not smile, I do not frown. There is nothing for me to acknowledge; he does not know. “You would look prettier with a smile.” My eyes are still staring into his, and he seems unsettled. He knows something is off, but his self-preservation has been shattered by his hatred for his mother. He cannot stop himself. I have been trained to obey. “I don't think you want to see.” My voice and my gaze are beacons of warning. He is a ship in the night headed towards a rocky coast. “Throw me your panties.” He begs. I heave a sigh. This now seems inevitable. “Well, which is it? My tits, my smile, or my panties?” He looks at me blankly for a moment. He does not heed my warning. “Tits.” He says, like a parakeet mimicking back in the hopes of a cracker. I unbutton my blouse. “This may hurt.” He doesn't seem to care. It’s entirely possible that he doesn't hear. I reveal inch after inch of my skin, soft and seductive. My fingers dig under the bottom of my bra. My eyes command him to look away. He doesn't understand what I am saying. I yank the fabric up. He screams. He is unable to look away, my beauty is honey to a fly and he is already trapped in its sticky depths as my true form burns his eyes. His pain echoes off the buildings. His hands raise in an attempt to shield his eyes, but it is too late for he is already blind. He has gazed upon raw power. I lower my bra back over my breasts, and my steady hands button my blouse back up. He is crying, and his tears sting his new wounds. I do not smile. “You crazy bitch!” He wails, clutching at his face, clawing the skin around his eyes bloody with his own self-destructive nails. His sight will not come back. “I gave you a warning.” I say. My inflection doesn't change. I continue to walk down the street. He will be in pain for some time.

Boys Will Be Boys My hands are not a football. My stomach is not a sidewalk. My legs are not a slide. My complexion is not a sandy beach. My shoulders are not a jungle jim. My torso not a climbing wall. My hair is not a jump rope. My breasts are not a trampoline. My hips are not a bike trail. My curves are NOT grassy hills on a warm day, are not waiting to be rolled down. There are no swing sets on my terrain. And I will not let you drill them into me. Boys will be boys, but my body is not a playground.

What the Cat Says to Me It’s two in the morning. Everything is dark except The kitchen light, Spilling through the doorway like Milk spills from a forgotten glass. He is quiet, Sitting on the couch. I pet him. He leans into my touch, refuses to purr. He is quiet. But he says, “You crave this intimacy; Quiet understanding of what I want from you. You want Something nobody can give.” He yawns wide. He is sitting in The spilled light. It’s touching My hand and I don’t shy away. Before I know it I’ve stuck My finger into his open mouth And even though he doesn’t want to, he bites me as he closes it. He is quiet, but leans into my touch. There is still no purr. He says, “You want them to hurt you. Because deep, Deep down, You feel like you deserve it.”

Mara Vida Un-BROKEN SMACK! Her eyes immediately popped open as she instinctively grasped the side of her face. How did she get here? Doesn’t matter now. It’s time for work. What day is it? Monday. Never miss a Monday, they said. What is there to look forward to in life anyway when your skin is brown and you’re poor? Who cares? Not the bus driver watching you run for the bus as he keeps driving. Not the next bus driver smirking as I try to use my back to hide the 100 pennies I’m using for bus fare. At least I made it on. Cool. I got a seat in the back of the bus. The same back of the bus that Rosa Parks refused to sit in that’s so popular now. The door opened. It’s cold outside. I feel the kick of an alien inside my belly. How am I gonna be a mom to a daughter, when I don’t know how it feels to have a good mom to a daughter? Next stop. Prom is coming up, but not my issue. That’s for the well off and popular kids. I’m neither. Not well off, not popular, nor a kid. Leaning my head against the window, I watch the world fly by. Next stop. Something ain’t right with her. They said she was slow. I feel ashamed. What is wrong with my body? Flutters in my tummy again. I wonder if these flutters will be like last time, not up to speed. Hard stop. Made me bump my head on the seat. Too much fast food, too much yelling, now he’s gone. What kind of example am I setting for them? It’s funny how the seasons seem to change outside the window. From spring to summer to fall to winter. Is it better to be outside in the elements, or stay on this bus and watch the seasons change year after year? Next stop. Time to step off the bus. Time to walk. Time to run. Time to fight. Time to breathe. Time to live. Time to try. Time to win. THE END BEGINNING

Taylor WilliamsÂ Insert Generic Depression Poem Here When I felt alone I saw myself in a crowded room Full of faces In the middle of nowhere. When I felt alive I floated in the air With hope in my chest Happiness filling my heart When I could not sleep I felt a heaviness that drowned me Words that echoed through my brain Crawled on my skin When I looked in the mirror I saw a stranger Someone who had habituated in my body Had stolen my soul Had worn out my thoughts But I knew better I knew my ghosts would not haunt me forever I woke up one day finally able to get out of bed I saw the sun; It was bright.

Sides of the brain are a myth I am not defined by my major. I say, “I’m in psychological science” Others say, “Oh, you must think with the left side of your brain” (which is a myth, by the way) I say, “I guess, but that is also a myth.” I am told, “you must like numbers a lot” “You are probably good with science” “So, you do a lot of statistics” But I am bigger than the piece of paper my major will be listed on. I am an artist. In my free time, I draw I see shapes and pull them together I guess as a science; Also as an art. When my pencil hits paper, I do not see numbers; I see pieces of a puzzle to be aligned To be focused on the page. I grew up singing, It was my passion Before I knew the standard error and how to write a manuscript I heard the notes and the rhythm I felt the song in my heart. I am bigger than my major

Cycles I am from a cycle of nothing. My roots have not grown, my thoughts have not expanded. I water my branches with the notes and ideas of scholars I plant myself within the hope of tomorrow My hope of tomorrow To get a second opinion is obvious And to question myself is to be honest I want to breathe better, be better Have a better chance of breaking the cycle The cycle of nothing I am the first in my family to graduate from college; The first to aspire to be bigger than themselves; I want to find myself in the eyes of my heroes To sit on the shoulders of literary giants And look down on those below My heart beats for a better tomorrow While I cry, and cry and I cannot contain my sorrow I hold my hope and my heart and my brain and my art To try and find a better tomorrow. I may have embellished the truth when I said I came from a cycle of nothing I came from a cycle of something Something bigger than me But I see the ladder The ladder of success And it tightens and holds and clings to my chest And I feel as if I cannot breathe Because I feel the pressure of those who waited before me I just want to make my family proud And see them in the stands But the green monster in the stands Might be the one holding their hands For I wanted to share what I had fought so hard for Because it was so hard for me To start from nothing But again, I lied, maybe it was something. Something that was broken and bruised and old and used 68

And not a part of me but part of who I used to be A part of the old me The me who would have quit Who would have thrown a fit and given up? I would have given up But I grew up And I flew up And I knew better So I could be better So I could see a better tomorrow.