Illuminati Spring 2019 by notthatilluminati

A Journal of the Arts / Miami University Regionals © 2019 The Illuminati Press All rights reserved. This publication may be freely distributed only in its entirety and without modification, and only for private use. It may not be sold for profit. Excerpts may only be reproduced and distributed with permission from the copyright owners, except for classroom use or in the case of brief quotations used for book reviews and interviews. The creative works published in Segue do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of its staff or of Miami University. Editorial Offices: 129 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown, Middletown, Ohio 45042

President/Editor in Chief Sam Schenck

Staff Gracie Chaney, Vice President Michelle Lucas, Treasurer Anna Fink Matt Hollon Meghan Hawthorn Jessica Powers Emily Steele

Faculty Advisors Michelle Lawrence Eric Melbye

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CONTENTS Sam Schenck

Forward

Salim Abdul-Razak

Rediscovery

Angie Conley

Two Moons

Matt Hollon

Predator

Jason Hornsby

Carpenter

Ashley Murphy

March for our Lives

Wallpaper

Woman

Nicole Rivera

Countdown to Blast Off

Sam Schenck

Asleep

Become

No Thank You, Man

Homosexuals

Summer Camp

My First Kiss Went a Little Like This

Sleepless Soliloquy

Weight

Colors

Stitches

Emily Steele

Tina Stoner

Contributor Notes

Forward Spring is a time for rebirth, regrowth, and reemergence of life. The Illuminati welcomes spring with our newest collection of artwork, poetry, memoirs, creative nonfiction and fiction. In the production of writing and creative arts, we give credit to our experiences as artists, Miamians, and people. That being said, in this issue we aimed to capture an array of different perspectives, focusing on voices that are seldom heard in the way they deserve to be. The Illuminati thanks all of those who submitted and congratulates all who were published. We could not have pulled this issue together without the leadership of faculty advisors Eric Melbye and Michelle Lawrence and former president Jessica Powers. Thank you for scheduling and directing meetings, keeping our team on task, and guiding us toward such a successful publication. I, and the rest of the Illuminites, deeply appreciate your hard work and commitment to our organization. Our cover was created by Veronica Long, who I hope will continue to submit her work in the future. Our brand new logo was created by Meghan Hawthorn. All of these creators’ work is invaluable to the revitalization of our organization, and I cannot thank them enough for their creativity and hard work. I proudly present to you the Spring 2019 issue of Illuminati: A Journal of the Arts.

Sam Schenck Editor-in-Chief

Salim Abdul-Razak Rediscovery Amadu stayed alert, hoping and eager to figure out the new developments on his way to the Savanna. Unfortunately, he slept off. In a way that eased the dreadful twelve-hour bus ride. It was the annoying honk of the driver that woke him. The piercing loud horn was to signal the end of a seemingly endless journey through the dark meandering roads to nowhere. As he grabbed his bags and made his way down the three staircases of the air-conditioned bus, he could instantly smell the harmattan dust in the atmosphere. He could hear the melodious tune of the azan mixed with clattering noises of the metal ladles from the wayside kitchens. Smells of arduously simmering meals for the day’s business. The city was waking. He could tell he was home even if his eyes were closed. He felt the usual outburst of excitement which only came anytime he had been intermittently away. He wasn’t sure whether it was the awful semester that had made him appreciate his home city a little extra than he often would. Stepping onto the patchy concrete floor of the transport yard, he was unperturbed by the dry, crackly dusty environment as compared to the humid surroundings he had just sojourned. Perhaps his wanderlust attitude came into play especially when he pretended to be a tourist in a city where he was born and grew up. Many thoughts ran through his head and the joy on his exhausted face was evident. Amadu’s first few moments were engulfed in brainstorming about how his limited time would be spent. The thought of such time limit on this precious visit he had been longing for gave him dreaded headaches.

He made his way out of the yard ignoring the hisses of taxi drivers trying to catch a potential customer. He could not wait to get home, to start rattling the stories about how his university life had been the past few months. Not paying much concern to how weird he might seem, he smiled to strangers as he made his way to the side of the main street. He boarded a rickety taxi, the rideshare ones, not the selfish exclusive ones nicknamed ‘dropping’ in the capital city. He wanted to heed to the advice his mother gave before he left, “You have to learn to economize and manage with the little you have”. Not the literal course of economics and management but it was a lesson he learned the hard way after having spent three months in Accra. Things that cost one Ghana cedis here quadrupled to four Ghana cedis there. It had always baffled him how the same things could have different prices in the same country. As the taxi got nearer to his small town, he spied through the tinted glass window, trying to hide because he wanted his reappearance back home to be sudden. The sort of sudden appearance that heightened your absence. He was expecting to be greeted with the usual pleasantries; “When did you arrive? How was school?” so he could retort shyly. It gave him a pompous feeling of accomplishment. The houses here appeared much more tattered than before, and he was sure the skyscrapers from the capital city accentuated this difference. This city was urban, but his community stood on the outskirts of the city in a village in the process of getting swallowed by the ever-expanding city, right at the junction between two worlds. The children ran after his bags as he got off the taxi and their quarrel to see who would carry his bags gave him a resounding assurance that he was indeed home.

Later that evening as he strolled on his bicycle around the area, he could appreciate the free space. He rode away with the breeze and literally raced the wind. The dry long straw grasses danced with the wind as he passed and the savannah trees vacillating as if they were sending a hello to every passerby. School in Accra had not only succeeded in opening him up to a new ‘urbane’ life which came with its own excitement, however it also enervated him. This time not just energy but occasionally that happiness that he always seemed to rediscover whenever he came back home. His neighborhood was on the highway to other Savanna places further north, to the villages of his grandparents that he had heard so many stories about. He rode further into the area, towards the ‘big’ houses behind his tattered neighborhood which had always displayed its brown rusted roofing sheets to passing vehicles. It concealed the modern mix that lay in depth. He imagined what luxury it would be to own a self-contained house in such a quiet, serene, and free environment. The sun had just turned orange smiling behind the scattered trees, a sunset which he never saw or even had time to look at while in school. He suddenly noticed the eccentric feature of his town; the interesting mix of houses from the traditional round mud houses with thatched roofs to the more modern cement brick houses with corrugated iron roofing sheets to the huge well colored self-contained bungalows they often associated to the very rich people working for international NGOs based in town. He drew inspiration from his surroundings, observing how people here could have so little yet be so happy and content amidst the rich folk. “How could you live next to a walled mansion and not feel jealous of the luxury?” he thought to himself.

It was evident the indigenes appreciated that they cooked on a stone tripod fixed with dry sticks and twigs that had been gathered. Their pots blackened from the smoke emanating from the open flames. The traditional women weren’t bothered by the prospects of arduous scratching of the pot’s surface the following morning with lemon and ash, a locally made detergent which sometimes worked wonders on these blackened pots. His town did not exclusively fit a picturesque rustic or urban description. It echoed the similar sounds in Accra, only tempered by the lesser population and an infusion from the bucolic surroundings. Most traditional houses in the suburbs had some sort of backyard garden of corn, beans, tomatoes, pepper, leafy vegetables and even yams. There was also the likelihood of rearing chicken, sheep, goat or a pen of all. While riding past the open houses, he greeted with a bow in his native dagbani: ‘Dasiba’ and the resounding “Nnnaa!! Naa Gorim?” could lighten up any torpid mood. He retorted immediately with the same amount of enthusiasm, “Nnnaaa!!” The traditional culture appreciated such verve. The sense of communal living was evident and even strangers were expected to conform to this tradition. Amadu’s brief sojourn only deepened his appreciation for his somewhat rustic upbringing. As he listened to the chirping birds, he passed by children who climbed on the shea nut trees and he reminisced about how the juicy shea nut fruit was a delicacy growing up. Saturdays routinely started with drinking grandma’s porridge with little sugar cubes that were never enough and going shea nut gathering later in the morning. He longed to relive these moments and he intended to do that by asking for some shea fruit from the children who gladly unwrapped their soiled shirts, so he could make his selection. The fruits had not been washed but he couldn’t care less about hygiene. Although the thought of a hand sanitizer was flowing

through his head the whole time he ate, it could not curb his lingual urges. He envisioned scenes from his childhood while biting into the green fleshy fruit with nonchalance. He believed he had probably developed some antibodies eating these unwashed fruits almost every day as children over the years. The dam they used to cool off had dried up. He remembered how not even the severe warnings of his mother could stop him from taking a dive into the murky waters on any hot afternoon back in the day. The new developments around him had brought class consciousness as it reminded him of the line between the wealthy and the indigent. As a little boy with his friends, they would often hang around the bungalows of the ‘rich’ with genuine sentiments of playing with their friends. Of course, they looked forward to the other benefits such as the leftovers from the exotic lunches with a side of strange salads and canned dressings that tasted emetic, but which they cherished anyway. Occasionally they would be sent away when it was time for any meal. The latter was much more of the situation than the former. The rich parents didn’t really like them when they played with their kids because they were too tattered. They represented the unsophisticated who might lower the academic capabilities and aspirations the wealthy envisioned for their children. “What a problematic upbringing”, he thought to himself as he made his way back home. Right before dark, he had returned from his bicycle ride at the entrance to the compound hearing the ‘pum pum’ sound from a pestle and a mortar. The bittersweet feeling rushed into his body, as he made his way pass the woven thatched fence. He could see the aluminum pot sitting on the rusted charcoal stove. The contents of the aluminum pot simmering with groundnut soup. He couldn’t help but smile at the prospects of a wonderful meal. A meal that initially surprised most of his Accra colleagues as an ironic choice for a favorite meal especially for an inhabitant from

the Savanna. The muezzin had just finished the azan and he quickly rushed to get a praying kettle. His mother didn’t say a word but the look on her face did not spell an enigma, it was clear she had seen through the ruse he was trying to concoct. The inclusion of the God factor in his chicanery did not make her own the exclusive right to stop him from praying. She immediately followed with a statement in their Zango Hausa “Kaare salah kazo mu daka mbahaka mu beri maka dundu”. “Finish praying and let’s pound this fufu if not we’ll leave you yams”. She often complained about how Amadu and his siblings hated Tuo Zaafi though it was the best for them. Native food doesn’t mean beloved food he’d tell her to her displeasure. Amadu sighed with exhaustion to the fact of labor involved with this meal. It was still a moment of dining bliss he looked forward to. As he made his way into the nearby mosque for Maghrib, he knew he would escape the intense labor of pounding the fufu. He was distracted throughout the prayer. A picture crossed his mind. A bowl of delicacy on the ground with him maneuvering about to avoid the heat of the soup on his hand. Another of him impatiently cutting away morsel by morsel. He thought to himself maybe today should be one of those days he worships God a little more, extra zikr by increasing the count of the prayer beads. That way, Isha’a, the last prayer of the day, would meet him while he was still in the mosque. His delay would make a great excuse. Nobody wanted to be at loggerheads with God here. God was a prime factor in people's lives and the reverence for which people wanted to be on good terms with Him made it an avenue for exploitation. In all his tactics, he knew he’d still come to a bowl of fufu because he could tell he was still in the honeymoon phase and his mother would often pamper him for the first few days before they got

back to the usual routine, an affectionate nonverbal way for expressing the fact that she had missed him. How he wished that stayed throughout his vacation but unfortunately the retreat to normalcy was always sudden. Later after the meal, he sat on the bench in the compound to allow the food to “go down”. Everybody usually sat in the compound to take their supper although the harmattan wouldn’t allow for a longer sit like in the hot season where they’d converse into the night. He had really missed this communal sense of dining after having ate at his study desk alone or with a roommate in Accra. Here, they had neighbors who lived in the last room of his grandfather’s ‘ata kwame’ house. His mother had rented it out. They were at the other corner of the house away from the entrance to the compound. It was during dinning that all the conversations blossomed from events of the day or immediate happenings in the community to gossips. This was the perfect platform to tell all his stories about university life in Accra. As he waited patiently for a chance, Mma Asibi, the wife of Mr. Yakubu, their neighbor asked, “Amadu, how was school?” Before he started, he took a breath of relief. He knew no matter how far he went, he was meant to return to this place. Tied to this place and perhaps one day die here in Tamale where his umbilical cord is buried.

Angie Conley

Two Moons

Matt Hollon Predator I stood tense, breath escaping my throat in a slow steady cloud. My bowstring was pulled taut, waiting to deliver an arrow. I studied my prey from my cover in the underbrush-- A doe. Her copper coat glistened in the setting November sun like cascading coins. I could see a small puff of air leaving her nostrils like a short little puff of smoke. Like I was. She was completely unaware that I was watching her, stalking her. I had been tracking the little bugger all throughout the birches for the better part of the afternoon. More than once I almost lost her. For being dead, those leaves were damn loud if you stepped on them. I slowed my breath and readied my shot. I sent a silent prayer and felt my fingers release the arrow. It flew forward and caught her in the neck. Blood erupted out of the wound like mist and I fought the urge to gag. I like hunting, but I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like that part. To my dismay she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t yet aware that she was dead and she bolted into the woods, leaving a trail of dripping scarlet behind her. I cursed under my breath and sprung after her through the brush. My lungs burned as cold air filled them with each labored breath. Sharp dead branches scratched at frozen cheeks, each prick hurting more than it had any right to. After a few minutes of giving chase, there she was-finally beginning to succumb to the wound. The sun was nearly beneath the horizon and the pursuing darkness painted a ghastly scene. She lay panting on the littered forest floor, blood tainting her beautiful coat. What was once a brilliant copper was now matted with black blood,

leaves and dirt clinging to her ruined fur. The arrow had stuck, still lodged through her windpipe, covered in grime. She stumbled to her feet to try to run again; she must have seen me staring. It was a pitiful sight, the poor thing. I had to put her out of her misery. I like hunting. I ran and tackled her to the ground, my arms wrapped around her thrashing body. We tumbled round the ground as my hands clutched for the knife strapped to my belt. Her blood continued to pour, soaking my clothes and hands. She opened her mouth and bleated a loud strangled call for aid again and again. Her shrieks pierced twilight and curdled my blood. Eventually, I was able to pull the Bowie knife from my belt. As I tried to bring it down into her hide, her leg caught my hand and sent the blade careening into the brush. For a dead deer she was sure putting up a hell of a fight. I couldn’t let her go to retrieve my knife for fear of her running away. It was already getting dark and I didn’t want to have to track her down again. I couldn’t go back without a kill. My hands fumbled around, searching for something as we wrestled on the ground. Eventually, I felt them brush past something hard as her wails became more and more panicked. I felt around and my fingers wrapped around a rough stone about the size of a large apple. I let out a deep breath. I like hunting, I thought. With all the strength I had I brought the rock crashing into her skull. She screamed into the sky in desperation as I brought the rock down upon her over and over. Blood splattered onto my face and her cries grew weaker and weaker and eventually subsided entirely. I felt fresh warm gore trickle over my hands and mingle with the sticky drying blood of her first wound.

I fell away from her body and lay on my back, panting, as tears threatened to pour. “I like hunting,” I said. “I like hunting.” In the struggle, small branches and other leaf litter had clung to my shirt and hands and I felt the all too familiar feeling of hot blood cooling on flesh, coalescing into a hellish crust. I wanted nothing more than to just lay there and watch the sun’s last few rays disappear beneath the trees. To revel in the oranges and reds and purples and pinks and forget about everything. To fall into the sunset and be wrapped in her hues. To be taken away from this withered forest and swim in dying light’s splendor. I shook myself out of my high. I had to get home, I had a job to do. It was almost dark. I knew I should butcher her out here in the woods, but it was too late-- I’d have to butcher her at home by the firelight. I hated butchering. It always made me feel queasy. I found my knife, strapped it back to my belt, and slung her corpse over my shoulders. The weight hung heavy on my weary frame, but it didn’t matter. I had to hurry, it was almost dark. I moved through the forest at as quick a pace as I could muster. The forest had an eerie quality at twilight like this. The shadows stretched larger and larger, a reminder that soon they would cover the entire world. It was easy to get lost in the forest at night because of this. Everything just looked so different without the sun’s guiding light high above. The forest was silent save for my heavy breathing and the leaves crunching under my rapidly falling feet. All the creatures in the forest were bedding down to wait out the shadows. Or preparing to hunt. The thought startled me and I moved even faster. I ran and ran as branches tore into my numb cheeks just as the frozen air tore through my lungs. The sun had finished its relentless decent and darkness began its reign. Twinkling stars began to materialize and the full

moon replaced the fire in the sky with an ocean of ghostly blue. There was still some light in the sky; it wasn’t too late. I just had to hurry. “Gotta go faster,” I huffed. “Gotta go faster.” From somewhere within the depths of the bushes a branch snapped, a loud crack slicing through the night. I stopped dead, my eyes darting around, trying to see through the damned darkness. For awhile I heard nothing save for my own heart thundering away in my chest. Then again, Crack! Closer.In the spaces between the trees I began to see shapes, just barely, Their darkness a little more solid than the night around them. They lurched closer and closer, just beyond sight. Crack! Crack! “Git! Go on git! Git outta here!” I shrieked to no avail. They were closing in. I started sprinting again. They wanted my kill. They couldn’t have her. I had busted my ass all day for her and I’d be damned if I let Them get Their dirty hands on her. That’s how They always were, I’d heard the stories. They were always trying to steal to get by rather than just doing the work themselves. They were scavengers while I was a hunter. They were deplorable. I felt Them chasing me, felt Them closing in, felt Their rancid breath on my neck, Their hands clutching for my kill, my earnings, my only means of survival. “Git yer own! She’s my PROPERTY!” I wailed, terror in my heart. I had to be close. I had to. What if I’m lost? No, I can’t be lost. I can’t. I couldn’t even let the thought cross my mind. Then They’d get her. I hate Them. I just had to get home as soon as possible. I barrelled through more branches, not caring about anything but getting there and keeping my kill safe.

Relief bloomed in my heart as the faint glow of home began to shine in the distance. The torches lining the village were a beacon of safety, calling for me to hurry, comforting me. If I could get in there everything would be okay. It had to. My fear and my hope warred. The closer I got to safety, the smaller the gap between myself and danger. They would have me any second. “GIT OUTTA HERE! GO AWAY YOU BASTARDS! GO AWAY!” I screamed. Right when I thought they had me, I burst through the forest and into the light. They would stay in the darkness of the forest. I was safe. I made it. I like hunting. I walked into the village center where a raging bonfire roared and the citizens stood waiting. I dropped my kill at their feet. They regarded her briefly with pale faces, like phantoms in the firelight. “You’re late,” one of them said-- an angry looking man with greying hair and a pressed suit. “I… I’m real sorry, sir. She was real hard ta bring down and-” He held up a hand. “You. Are. Late,” he said bluntly. “What do you have to say for yourself?” The terror had returned. “She fought real hard, sir, real hard, and… and-” “And it’s not even been butchered,” he clicked his tongue with impatience. “My word, what a disaster.” The citizens all stood stoically, watching me with contempt plain on their faces. I dropped to my knees. “Please, sir!” I pleaded. “It was… it was Them! They chased me through the forest, They wanted ta take ‘er from me, from y’all I mean. They’re always trying to steal from hardworking people like me and blaming us for Their problems.” I spat on the ground to show my disgust towards Them.

He smiled a sad smile and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. Relief threatened. Maybe he wasn’t mad. “I understand. I do, really. They are disgusting, murderous scavengers attempting to profit off of our labor.” “Yes! Yeah, I hate Them!” I almost laughed in relief. “But-” my relief shattered- “you are late. It’s not even butchered,” he gestured at my kill. “What are we supposed to do with it? It’s useless like that.” “I’ll butcher her right now! Right now. It won’t take but a minute and then y’all can eat! I’ll even do the cookin!” That caused a few of them to snicker. I could feel my hands trembling as tears and snot dripped down my face, carving slick trails through the dried blood. “Please,” I sobbed. “You have the choice to be anything you want to be. You can do anything. You chose hunting and there’s no shame in that.” More snickers. “It is a job that must be done. But there are certain expectations that have to be met. You must butcher the creature before you bring it to the village. Tell me, is this carcass butchered?” “Please,” I sobbed. “ANSWER ME!” he shouted, spittle flying from his furious red lips. “No,” I breathed. “You are to get the meat to us before nightfall? What does the sky look like right now?” “Dark.” This couldn’t be happening. “I’m sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.” “Dark,” I said a bit louder. “You see the bind we’re in, yes? You broke our laws. That can’t just go unpunished.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I babbled. He gave a sad smile. “As am I. Now, you’ve been a good person most of your life, so I’ll give you the choice: stone or blade?” My head hung, staring blankly at the ground. I saw the dirt and blood caked onto my palms, my fingers, under my nails. It was disgusting. I was disgusting. Just like Them. I remembered bringing the rock down on her head. Over and over and over. How she had bled. How she had suffered. “Stone,” I muttered feeling numb despite the roaring fire. “Stone it is,” he said briskly. They all slowly formed a great circle around me while one of them, a pretty young woman with blonde curls, ran off and returned with a wagon filled with large round rocks. I didn’t move. What was the point? She had fought, it had just prolonged her suffering. He addressed the crowd. “We do not enjoy this grisly business. It is always sad to see a life end. But what you see before you is a criminal. They made Their choices that led Them here. They could’ve been like us if They simply followed our laws. When justice is not upheld, civilization falls. So I say to you all, brothers and sisters, feel no remorse. This is what must be done. It is a choice to break the law, but it is our righteous duty to uphold it.” They all nodded their agreement, passing stones all around. I merely knelt, the vision of me killing her replaying in my head. Over and over her head cracking open, blood spilling warm and sticky on my hands. I remembered the arrow piercing her neck. She was so innocent. What had I done? I was a monster. Stealing life. Like Them. But I like hunting, I chose it, didn’t I? Sure, it wasn’t the most glamorous work, but it was mine.

The first stone caught me in the shoulder blade and I felt the pain from far away. It was nothing to the pain I felt inside. Her blood, oh how it had flowed! Why did I like hunting? Another stone, this one in the ribs. I hated the blood. I hated the stalking. I hated the killing. I hated the butchuring. But I chose to be a hunter. I liked it. Right? The next one caught me in the mouth, knocking me to the ground. Fresh blood sprayed and teeth splintered, filling my mouth with shrapnel. I didn’t even have the will to spit. I had to have liked hunting. I could’ve done anything, so why would I chose something I didn’t like? A stone to the back, a stone to the groin, that one got some laughs. Why did I chose hunting? It was the only thing I was qualified to do I guess. I couldn’t do anything else. It was that or stealing. Breaking the law. Being one of Them. A stone exploded into my eye, sending hot gore pouring down my face, mixing with hers. The crowd whooped and hollered and they began to throw with more vigor. The stones rained down on me and I was nothing but a mass of torment begging for oblivion. As death wrapped me in her sweet embrace, I was left with a single thought. One terrible, gut-wrenching thought: I’m one of Them.

Jason Hornsby Carpenter I died. I remember feeling the blade enter through my ribs and piercing my heart. When I had exhaled my last breath on earth, I felt my eyes slowly lose vision and close, only to reopen in another world. I had imagined that when one dies, the physical realm would be left behind, but I find it to be otherwise. I now inhabit a new vessel; my hands and feet are shackled to a half spherical boulder as are all the other souls. Our bodies are stretched across the rocks as if we had been put on display. There are no facial features or distinguishing colors, the vessel is of human shape but seems to feel more like a clay mold rather than a fleshly human. I conclude that this is because the soul needs a vessel to experience the anguish or pleasure provided by the senses. I roll my head slowly from left to right taking in the horrific scenery that is surrounding me. The sky is churning with orange clouds promising fury. The plain is scattered with the boulders as far as I can see in either direction, all are occupied. The ground is of black soot, seeming to have been charred for many ages. I arch my neck backwards and see the only exit, my only salvation. Groups of souls would assemble in front of the portal having exacted their punishment, and then they were allowed passage. When the portal would open, light would pour from it like a beacon. Seconds feel like centuries here. Would I ever be permitted to enter the Light? I had not necessarily been an evil man in my previous life, but I had killed for gold once, only because of my own starvation. Ironically, this is the same reason for which I was murdered. I knew it hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been necessary, and I knew I deserved these tortures. One of the fiery men told me reassuringly that tyrants and conquerors of the world were subjected to worse punishments

for much longer times. The fiery men, the humanoid figures that have flames licking the entire surface of their bodies, servants of whom, I know not, but they deliver the punishments that one had earned throughout his or her life. Another clay figure hobbles past me toward the passageway screaming for help and hope of escape. How one escapes the shackles is something I cannot seem to comprehend, although it looks like the soul had ripped off its clay hands and feet. The figure is stopped abruptly as it slams into the barrier; every attempt of escape is halted by the closed portal. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the only way out, but you have to serve your punishment before being released. I have seen dozens up to this point smash into the barrier scraping at the door for passage. I sense one of the fiery men approaching. As he rushes by, the heat singes me with its presence. The pain, just when I thought I had become tolerant, becomes tenfold. The fiery figure strides the next sixty yards and grabs up the screaming soul, burning it with its touch, dragging it away in the direction it had come. Time doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist here, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lost track of the excruciating tortures that were being repeatedly performed on me. Between the tortures, my thoughts focused on how I would do anything to avoid this place if given another chance. Yet another cleansing is to begin. The fiery men are now scattering around the area, stopping before the boulders and standing in wait. I feel the heat as one approaches me. The fiery man before me seems to be waiting for his cue while watching the others. Screams erupt from across the plain. This was obviously the cue. I begin to pull and struggle with all the strength that I could summon. There is none. The fiery man puts his hands together in front of himself and begins guiding them towards my exposed chest. As the fiery fingertips begin to sink into the cavity, an explosion of pain courses through my entire

being. It plunges them deeper. I feel the hands wrapping around my soul. I begin to shake abruptly, and spasms of pain are elevating me from the boulder. The fiery man continues. My mind begins to spin in the direction of the murder that I had committed, the man screaming in agony as I plunged the blade repetitively in his gut then stealing his gold. The direction of my mind swirls into a vision, one of a woman, the one whom had been with the man as I slay him. She had screamed as I ran. I recognize her face. The vision is of her in her dwelling. She is weeping and kneeling in front of a young boy. She is telling the boy of his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s demise. A tear runs down the boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face. Then abruptly the direction reverts back to my own death, (the blade entering through my back). I had never seen my killerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face until now. Though it was years previous that I had murdered, this was none other than the boy with the tear. There was no mistake. I scream. The realization sent pain into my existence of which I had never imagined, beyond the punishment of the fiery men. I was responsible for instilling upon this boy that gold was worth more than human life, entering him into the vicious cycle. Anguish and pain flood throughout me as I am reminded of why this is happening. I am finally permitted to enter the Light. The shackles dissolve allowing me to slide off the boulder to my feet, I trudge myself to the portal, passing the unfortunates left to be tortured. Others are here amassing together approaching salvation. We walk into the portal as it opens. It seems as if we are among the stars stepping onto a passageway of light. As I near the end of the path, I can hear the song of the Fates. The Fates were described to us by the fiery men as being the keepers of time in our universe, the three daughters of Lady Necessity. We are now permitted to reenter time and space. We are led to the Maiden of Time Passed. She was clothed in white, a prophet is talking to her at the side of her throne. He then approaches the podium standing in

front of us. The prophet seems to be a translucent being that is formed by the visible energies within. As he speaks unto us, I feel his words enter my mind rather than him speaking verbally. The words, they feel so distant, but at the same time so familiar. They are soothing, relieving, suggesting. He turns and walks back to the maiden receiving a stack of parchments from her. The prophet of the maiden throws the parchments down upon the crowd of souls gathered at the pulpit. The prophet warns us not to choose hastily, his voice sounding in our minds. Our destinies would not be chosen for us, but we would choose them ourselves. The maidens inspire virtue. Many of the souls around me begin scrambling and tearing through the lots. I pick up a parchment that had landed beside me and read the writings inscribed upon it. I can read the mysterious language, but I have never seen it before: Emperor Acquired Land Murderer A hasty choice could have been disastrous on this one, but this I knew would lead me right back to the plain of torture. I lay it back down. I read through many more, slowly analyzing each one, hoping to find a sure way to avoid the tortures that I had just experienced. There seems to be all the lots in life to choose from, I am overwhelmed by the decision before me. The others have all moved along to the next destination, passing under the throne of Necessity, leaving me standing amidst the scattered parchments. I kneel and pick up one more parchment. It reads: Carpenter Healer Messenger

This is it. I turn and follow the others through the extreme heat of yet another plain, where no trees or plants grew. Then it was on to the River of Forgetfulness; this was described to us as the entrance back unto earth. Each soul was to carry their destiny down to the river and then drink the certain measure of the water. This would then wash away the memories of your past up to this point, and then one would fall asleep, falling back into the earth, waking reborn into their new life. As each soul took its drink, they would slowly collapse on the bank of the river. I kneel down to the river cupping my hands, and lifting only a sip, less than the measure, I take my drink. My purpose will be to teach other men of justice and wisdom, and how to lead a life that will avoid those fiery tortures. I stare into the reflection of myself in the drifting clear water, the hollow vessel in which I have become. My eyes slowly lose vision and close only to reopen as a newborn child upon the earth from which I had come.

Ashley Murphy March for Our Lives They expect us To catch bullets between our teeth, To spit out the shells, Adjust our vests, Say a prayer, And get back to class. As if there isn’t Leftover shrapnel In the spines of our textbooks (In the spines of our classmates) They expect us to forget, But we can’t. We won’t. With chipped-tooth smiles And bloodied book bags in tow, We march on.

Wallpaper The walls –– they listen, I know it must be true. If not, then what’s the point Of all this talking that I do? I’m not going crazy here, Trust me, I’m alright. The walls, they hear my stories, They understand my plight. They listen, these walls, When no one is around. They keep me sane, these walls do, They keep me safe and sound. I don’t know what I’d do If these walls ever would go tumbling, Then who would ever listen To my incessant mumbling? The walls, they keep me company They never leave me feeling blue, So long as I have these four walls, I know I don’t need you.

Woman Red-lipped Devil woman Can’t hold her tongue. Smudge-lipped Angry woman Can’t have no fun. Curled-lipped Hateful woman Can’t sit still Rude-lipped Bitch woman Tell them how you feel.

Nicole Rivera Countdown to Blast Off 10 I think it was you who said that getting out of the house would help me get fresh air It occurs to me that I am drowning in floating beads of sweat and beer and breathing has only been made more difficult 9 God this shit is loud and annoying who said hyperventilation was music anyway 8 When I was three I had a cat who dug his claws into my thighs I named him after nothing in particular I wish he was here now 7 That girl with the stars for eyes looked at me and she must have seen my life in the skies please donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t judge me I tried my best kinda

6 Where did you go where did you go where did you go where did you go where did you go where did YOU go where did YOU GO 5 I felt a draft in my skirt but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m indoors my heart is beating I forgot it did that 4 No it definitely does not do that 3 My mother tells me God is real and Hell is real and all sinners will perish I think I must be a sinner and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why I perish 2 I always thought I could give Satan a run for his money but my battle plans are at home and I left my gun in the drawer 1 Oh.

Sam Schenck Asleep SAM Damn. My arm is killing me. I wake up earlier than he does. My love, my boyfriend, the biggest sleep-in-er of all sleep-in-ers. He sleeps to my left, my window facing east is to my right, letting the brilliant sunrise climb in through my window and into bed with us. I go to get up to use the restroom and find that my right arm is asleep. Funny, I didn’t sleep on it, that’s for sure. I go to the restroom, return to my bed, and the feeling hasn’t quite returned to my arm. It isn’t numb, just pins and needles. Asleep. Brandon wakes up, and we do what we always do. I turn on the TV, we check our phones, we kiss occasionally as a gentle and routine way of saying, “I’m here with you”, and we drink our coffee. When our mugs are empty, I say, “I better get ready,” and he says back to me, “You better not.” He lays on top of me, smiling, lays a here-with-you kiss on me, and rolls off. I kiss him again as he goes out the door and I hop into the shower. I notice my toes are a little tingly too, just like my arm. When did I even lean on my toes? I get ready normally-- put on my clothes, swallow my pills, eat some food, put my two dogs in their kennel, and lock the door behind me as I go to the gym. I drive past my high school, the one I graduated from just two years ago. How can it only be two years? How have two years

already flown by? This is how it goes every morning-- at the ancient age of 20 years old I’m already wondering when I will have more going on, when I will get out of my hometown and show the world that I’m worth something. It’s really depressing when I think about it that way, that I need the entire world to know me to feel like I have done something worthy of attention or admiration. I shake my head and focus on driving up the hill ahead of me, the highest point in our floodplain town. The castle that sits atop this magnificent peak is an almost-rundown Sunoco, neighbored by a tiny white church, an equally tiny local government building where my mom works too hard, and a community “park” with two shelters, four porta-potties, and a few levelled out fields that act as football and soccer fields. The Sunoco is advertising a special on Winston’s. How long has it been since I have had a cigarette? When I started my junior year of high school, I had also started college. That meant I had a laminated, sturdy ID that said I was a college student. This was my golden ticket to get cigarettes for my friends and I. We used to smoke menthols at all the best parties, after school, we would smoke in the Walmart parking lot and in our cars. We would pile into my old SUV and drive and smoke around the township, and when a teacher drove by we would duck so they couldn’t see who was smoking. Now all my friends had moved off, to Cincinnati, to Columbus, or they work too much or I work too much. I shake my head and drive now down the hill out of Madison and into Middletown. I get to the gym, and I work on legs.Three sets of twelve of leg presses. Three sets of twelve of calf extensions. Three sets of twelve of seated leg press. I go and do as many hip adductions and abductions as I can muster. I remember when Jessica and I would come to the gym together, and we would lift and laugh and joke and bitch and get food afterward or go

grocery shopping. We were so out of shape that any exercise made our muscles look huge and we were always itching to get back to the gym and make dinner together. I miss her so much. I shake my head a bit and get on the stair climber. The rest of the day follows in this fashion, me being wrapped up in the tentacles of nostalgia just long enough to make myself feel bad about nothing and the only remedy is to move from that memory, to shove it down and focus on now. And now isn’t bad, it’s just not as fun as then. And the most frustrating part is that I know things get better and I’ll get happier, but when do these things get better? When do I get happier? Things could be worse, much much much worse, but I can’t focus on that. Maybe because in addition to being mentally ill, I’m selfish. I’m just anxious, I’m just depressed, I’m just bipolar. The doctors tell me so, and doctors don’t lie. They get paid incredibly well to always tell the truth. They tell people they have cancer, they tell people that their child is dying, they tell the emergency contact to round up the family for a last goodbye. They wouldn’t lie to me because they do the hardest job of letting other people down all the time, so they must be agents of happiness. But now it’s the end of the day and it’s time to go to bed and my arm and toes still tingle. No, now the entirety of feet are tingly. Maybe I have a cold, who knows. I’m probably just anxious.

AMY I woke up today and my feet, all the way up to my knees are tingling. It’s harder to walk, though not impossible. It’s the kind of tingling that happens when you sit out all night at a football game in the midst of a torrential downpour, a soaked-to-the-bone shivering tingle.

Though, I’m not cold. I tell my mom and she drops me the insurance cards so I can go to the doctor. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, I have to work today. I get ready, I leave, and I’m walking into work when I notice my feet are having a hard time not scraping the ground. I can only guess that I’m battling a strange cold. I work and finish the shift, and while I am tingling, I feel exhausted. The next day I awake to my legs up to my quads tingling, ferociously and angrily buzzing. They refuse to extend the way I wish they would, I will them to stretch and they do so begrudgingly. I dress for the doctor’s office, simple grey nikes, a pair of sweatpants the color of a blueberry smoothie, a black t-shirt. I throw a hat on top of my curly mess of hair that didn’t get a chance to be styled. I don’t look like myself today. I walk into the doctor’s office with effort, my right foot is dragging and I can’t do much to pick it up. As I walk in and towards the receptionists’ desk, all four women working look at me, then each other, then cackle. And I don’t mean cackle in a witchy, sexist way. More so, I mean that they were laughing at my pink sweatpants, or maybe my inability to walk correctly. Disgusting, I think to myself. I sign myself in and take a seat, upon which the barely stifled laughter and darting looks continue. Normally, I’m all for calling a stranger out for feeling the need to respond to how I take up space, but I can’t feel my damn legs and I’m fighting sleep. Every step I take is taking something from me, I can feel the tingling getting stronger. It’s as if my body is fighting me, reminding me that I wasn’t doing all I should have to protect it. I drank, I smoked, I didn’t go to the gym often enough. This is my fault.

I am called up for my appointment, and I see my doctor who has come to be a dear friend. I describe my symptoms, my vitals are taken, and they go to draw my blood. She asks me if I smoke, I lie. I tell the medical professional taking my blood that I hadn’t eaten and I easily faint, to which she responds warmly with orange juice and crackers. The doctor doesn’t have a diagnosis for me, and reminds me that sometimes anxiety can manifest physically. At the time I agreed and left quietly, but when I look back I should’ve recalled that I am young, taking a break from school, serving pizzas and beer for a very generous living, have friends that I go on adventures with, and am always spending time with my stellar family. If my anxiety is possibly at the lowest it has ever been since childhood, why would it choose to eat me from the legs up now? Either way, I thank her and leave quietly. Two days pass with no real improvements or events, besides the fact that I’m now walking in the same fashion as a circus performer on stilts. First I heave my left side forward, brace my left leg, and then the same for the right. I can’t feel all the way up the waist, including my butt and genitals. My mother takes me to the emergency room. While there, they ask for certain information that is run-of-the-mill kind of stuff, then they take the same exact blood samples to test for the same exact diseases and blood counts that my family doctor had already done. I tell the nurse that I hadn’t eaten and I’m prone to fainting, to which she responds aggressively, “I’m not going to let you pass out.” Must be out of crackers and juice, apparently. The doctor listens to my symptoms and doesn’t have an answer for me, until he asks what kinds of medicine I take normally. “Lithium carbonate 300 mg twice daily,” I rattle off, being used to this question. He saw his chance and he lunges quickly, “Well do you take the medicine as you should?” I say I haven’t been taking it since feeling bad, due to being

tired and not eating or sleeping regularly. He gets the results back from my blood tests and sees that my lithium levels are low, which I had literally just told him they would be, and he says “Once you get back on your medicine this should fix itself.” I look at my mom, dumbfounded with this irresponsible diagnosis, and we leave. I can see that my mom is frightened, only because her face is stone. It’s important to note that I’ve lost a little more each day, in addition to my mobility. I need help getting up and down stairs, it’s getting harder to brush my teeth, I can’t lock the door when I use the bathroom, I become a born again virgin. I have lost privacy, intimacy, safety. As I struggle to make sense of what my life is turning into, I am reminded that I took my legs for granted. Well, not my legs exactly, but my ability to move. It took a long time for me to love my body, because being a man with a slight frame and legs that would make Naomi Campbell jealous is something that you have to learn to love. I’ve struggled to be a man, and I’m glad I was able to mentally transcend the gender binary for the sake of self love. That being said, it is painfully ironic that though I am transcendent, I’m firmly rooted in place now because of my broken legs. I can’t do things on my own anymore, and I don’t know if I ever will be able to again. I am broken. The days blur together, but one day after my visit to the emergency room I awake on the couch, stuck. I couldn’t sit up; my abs, lower back and butt were completely paralyzed. I called in an emergency favor from a dear friend. This morning, Jesse came up all the way from Cincinnati to give me a bath. One of my best friends who I’ve known my entire life, Jesse, has a heart of gold that is reliable when you need him most. I’m reminded of our greatest achievements, like when he was inducted into

National Honor Society and I pinned the society’s blazon on his shirt, and I’m reminded of when he changed Karleigh’s flat tire in the pouring rain. He’s always there. Jessica, the one I would go to the gym with, sat with me that morning until Jesse got there to help me upstairs and to give me a bath. He worked as a PCA, so he knew where to lift me to ensure the most comfortability. He towel dried me and helped me brush my teeth, and put my pants around my ankles so that I could pull them up myself. Once I was ready, Jesse left and mom took me to the emergency room again, to which they told me I need to take my lithium, again. I really had been taking it, I swear. They didn’t believe me, or maybe they didn’t want to believe me, because then they would have to admit they didn’t know something. Pricks. I am carted home again, and once I am home I struggle to get in the house. Every five steps I take I have to stop and take a break, and stairs make my knees tremble and buckle like I’m carrying an elephant on my back. My feet drag like I’m a wounded animal stuck in a bear trap that I managed to shake free from the ground; I am wounded and bloodied by this incapacitation. I don’t recall what I did for the rest of Sunday, but now it is Monday. My final day. The day I go to heaven. STEVEN I am in a daze. I can’t feel my body, my arms don’t work now. My lips are flabby; I have to use my limp right hand to press my bottom lip to my teeth to make consonants. Nothing works. I have to sit down to pee, which I did most the time anyway before, but now my sister has to lift me onto and off of the pot. I’m a busted machine, and we don’t have the parts to fix me. My blinding headache has returned, and I can’t stand to look at my phone. I can’t stay awake, my mom is terrified. Am I going to die? I’m going to die.

I always thought suicide would be such an easy option. Living is hard, dying is easy, I thought. I figured when things get unbearable I always have a backup plan; all I need to die is eat a lot of pills in one gulp and call the police when I start to feel sick so my family doesn’t have to discover an hours dead body in the bathtub. It was always easier to think this when my anxiety peaked, when I would think of all the ways I had failed and was failing. I would think of how I should’ve tried harder in school, how I should’ve put down the goddamn cigarettes when I was asked to, how I had been selfish, how I should’ve spent more time with my family, my friends. I was such a screw up. Suicide always seemed easier. But I’m learning that dying is hard—miserable, in fact. And I have a real concept of what the word miserable means now. My mom is reaching a breaking point; she is terribly exhausted and fearful, so she brings me to my family doctor again. I use my grandfather’s walker that doubles as a wheelchair to get myself inside the building, and the receptionists don’t laugh this time. Maybe it’s because I am clearly disabled, in the most literal sense, where I was once able and now I can’t move without familial assistance. Maybe it’s because I could pass for straight today. No matter the case, they minded their own today. At this point I am walking like the people did in the short film I watched in middle school about polio. My hips don’t move, there is no pelvic movement, my legs drag and stutter, and I extend my legs like a toddler learning to walk. I walk like I don’t trust my legs entirely, and I don’t. Why won’t you work? My mother helps me back to the office, and my beloved doctor that I call a friend is at her other office, so we’re left with the crumbs. This other doctor comes in, they retake the same blood and run the same tests for now the fourth time that I’ve been studied in the last five days.

He has no answers, but my mother assists, “Doctor, I’m scared. I’ve been researching on my own, and I know Google makes people think they know more about medicine than they actually might, but my son is expressing literally every symptom of Guillain-Barré Syndrome. I want a spinal tap.” The doctor literally laughs then says, “Guillain-Barré Syndrome is a disease that affects 1 in 100,000 people. There’s no way that could be what he has. However, because the disease is certainly neurological, I’ve got you an appointment at Sycamore to have an MRI performed.” We thank the doctor for no reason and leave. We have the MRI done for no reason, too, as it thinks that I’m perfectly healthy. The man that can’t walk, talk, or shit without somebody holding his hand. Thanks, guys! Mom takes me home and I fall asleep on the couch. I awake to my brother David, his fiancé, Sara, and her brother, Matt, outside on the porch, and I can hear their laughter through the open bay window that sits behind the living room couch, where I am stuck. I fall, because my legs are ensnared from the inside, and David comes in and helps me up to my room. I change and grab a blanket, then they help me downstairs to the armchair, where I fall asleep again. This time I awake to a full house, at least, all the cars of my family, my mom’s side of the family, and my dad’s side of the family. But they were all outside on the porch, talking about what needed to happen for me to get better. They decided to take me to University of Cincinnati West Chester Hospital. David helped put me in the car, Sara and my sister, Patience, grabbed clothes for me, and mom drove me there with the entire family behind us. We get into a room almost immediately because Aunt Holly knew one of the nurses that worked there, and they gave me a bag of saline while they tried to figure out my diagnosis. At this point, I couldn’t swallow

my own spit because my throat and tongue stopped working. Steven held a little cup for me to spit in, which I filled up over and over. I was drying out and I don’t have a linear memory of how this night played out, but I know that we came to this hospital around 6:00 p.m. and I left that hospital around 3:45 am. But before I left in the early morning, I went on a journey during one of my sporadic naps. I shut my eyes and everything turned blue, the most beautiful blue imaginable. The kind of blue in Middletown where where there’s no clouds and you can’t see the pollution clouds from AK or from the paper mill, just deep, deep, ocean blue. I noticed that I was, in fact, in the sky, not like I was flying but like the blue had solidified into a place that had a tangibility to it, a place you could enter. Before I could enter, I was met by two creatures, which I immediately recognized as angels. But they weren’t wearing halos or wings or white gowns, they looked like the most beautiful dragons I’d ever seen. They looked like the sleek, snake-like dragons that climb through the air majestically, and each of their radiant ethereal scale reflected every bit of iridescent light in all the greens, blues, purples, and whites you could imagine. They were so friendly as they guided me to this huge cloud, but then the vision stopped short and I felt my spirit descend back to my body in the hospital. I awoke with a start, because I remembered all my elders that have passed all had similar premonitions and visions like this one before they passed on. I can still feel the ascension. I tell my family that was in the room what I saw-- my mom, my grandmother, Grandmom, my sister, Patience, and my brothers, David and Steven. Their faces were all slack in horror; they knew what it meant, too. It meant I was going to die. Steven left the room, I could

tell he was ready to wail. Grandmom was the only one who came to me, she asked me to retell her what I saw. I did, and she said, “What was it like?” and I told her that it was beautiful. Steven came back in with eyes red as sorrow, and asked for us to pray. I shut my eyes, everyone else bowed their heads. Steven prayed for treatment, for a cure, for healing, for relief. We didn’t know what was going on, I guess that’s why we prayed. I can comfortably say that I hadn’t prayed in years, and this was the first one where I had actually meant what was said in the prayer in years. I can also comfortably say that I wasn’t scared. I caught a glimpse of what was behind the veil, and I wasn’t afraid to die. I wouldn’t hurt anymore, nobody could laugh at my lame legs. I wouldn’t have to battle nostalgia anymore, or remember anymore. I would die in a most agreeable fashion. In a way where there’s no blame. Not my fault. After my vision I slept some more, but this time I didn’t dream or recieve any grand prophecies. I was told by a doctor that I was headed to University of Cincinnati’s Main Hospital Campus when a bed opened up in the neuroscience intensive care unit. This was around 10:00 p.m. Hours passed and some of my family went home, all except David, Sara, and mom. I left the West Chester campus by mode of ambulance around 3:45 a.m. and made it to the main campus by 4:15 a.m. Once I was admitted, I wa given two more ports, in addition to the one I got at West Chester for saline, and I told the nurses again that I hadn’t eaten and was prone to passing out. The nurse said “Tough it out, brother, it’s just a needle.” He was such a dick, but thankfully I never saw him again.

Given my precarious state and unidentifiable illness, swarms of doctor and student groups came in and rattled off their introductions and departments and wished me luck after hearing my story. I was able to sleep for about an hour that morning. Mom, David, and Sara were there as soon as I was allowed to have family in the room. They held my hands and told me I was going to be alright, and there seemed to be a new vigor inside me. After seeing those dragons, after making it inside this hospital, after knowing what it was to have my body taken from me, I knew I had a fight to win. For the first time in years, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to die anymore. I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t scared, either. I knew I could do this, I knew I could win. And I was going to. I am going to.

Become Anxiety rests in the texture protruding from my brow bones. I glue down the hairs, making them into a false slick surface. As I drag a paint stick over my cheeks first, then my nose and lips, Then my forehead and brows, I am reminded that I am meant for the masquerade. I conceal, then contour, then blush my face with creams, Then set it all down with a big dirty powder puff that smells of old women I never knew. But I know the old women who this smell belongs to, The queens before me. The matriarchal olfactory sense is activated as I paint my eyes white And paint a new brow over the clown white eye sockets. I push a brilliant red into my lids and creases, turning my eyes demonic and devilish And beautiful. I paint a thin line and then a thick line over my eyelids, Dragging the line way past my eye and onto my temple. A line thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too long, too thick, too drag, And I remember that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m meant for this. The lines that have defined me bend and break as I paint lines on my face, Is that ironic? I touch a wand to my lashes, making them blend into the liner, Then stack fake lashes on top of my own that make my eyes explode with drama. I touch up my once creams with pigmented powders and make my face more Dimensional, deep, and demanding. Once my face is set, I bring hair that is not my own and Pop it on top of my head. I have become the entertainer, the performer, the god damn queen That everyone already told me that I was. I am unstoppable. I have commanded my craft, I have practiced and promised, I have overcome. I have become.

No Thank You, Man I am less a man than the men around me. I am too skinny, too tall, too quick, too emotional. I have eyes that I’ve smeared a golden glow over, and lips glossed like the waxed hood of a sports car. I am not a man. Men don’t look soft and sleek, they don’t care how they look. It’s not about being gay, it’s about being queer. I am not a woman, no matter how bad other people want me to be. I walk like I have two hips, because I do in fact, have two hips. Count ‘em. I use my hands when I talk, because, surprise, I do have two hands. Count ‘em. I am manicured and dressed like I give a shit. It’s not about being gay, it’s about being queer. I cannot be the men or women that came before me, Because I am not the men or women that came before me. They sat comfortably in the compartments colored blue and pink, But those compartments are ablaze and I’m stoking a grand fire. Why call myself a man when I’m not revered as a man? Why call myself a woman when I’m not revered as a woman? If I’m asked one more time to select a gender on a government form, I’m going to scream like a man. It’s about being queer.

“Homosexuals” At the zoo, in a small glass box, There live two men in a room with no locks. There’s no doors either, just a cube made of windows, In this, these “Homosexuals” live between the alligators and hippos. They don’t do much, mostly just sit and stare like the primates do, Though I wouldn’t do much either if I lived at the zoo. A white woman is with her friends, yelling, “Do a death drop!” One of the homosexuals looks at her indifferently and flips her off. The woman rolls her eyes and casually calls him a fag, Before turning away, getting her water bugs from her handbag. A little boy tugs his dad’s sleeve and asks “Dad, can we have a homo?” Dad crouches to his son’s level, “Is that the kind of life you want to live? No.” The two homosexuals look almost like two men, but they fuck, putting them on display, It’s a crime to be proud, to love the same gender, to be okay with being gay. Gays can only be workers in a few areas, They’re all slavery jobs that punish and rehab the homosexuals’ hysterias. If you want to be gay, that’s all well and great, Just be prepared to live in a tiny glass crate.

Summer Camp Alarms sound when the oxygen levels drop. Sound when the heart rate rises. When you move. The room is a cell, stripped of privacy. Oxygen isn’t enough, you still can’t breathe in here. Levels of floors surround you with people better and worse off than you, but you’re all broken. Drop your life and stay a while, this summer camp is for everyone. Sound the alarms if I laugh, you can’t laugh at this summer camp. When you think you’re all better, or at least getting there, the counselor will scoff. The counselors don’t know how hard you’re trying, but then again, they don’t care. Heart is not a requirement to be a counselor, this is just their summer job. Rate your stay with a vague survey that got mailed to you, this will help them in the future. Rises out of the room, only by getting dragged to another room to bunk in. When you go to summer camp, it’s probably not what you were expecting. You sometimes even don’t get to choose what camp you go to, or want to go to. Move away from the sickness and disease, otherwise you’ll be where I was. The camp is a desolate place for a sick person.

Emily Steele My First Kiss Went a Little Like This: A Memoir When I was young, I was ugly. Now, I know what you’re thinking-- “oh, Madison, everyone feels that way when they look back on their adolescent years. I’m sure you weren’t ugly.” But I was. I knew this because in my group of friends, I was the only one who had not yet obtained a boyfriend by our freshman year of high school. If you count my relationship with Chris-- a boy who claimed me as his girlfriend for 18 hours in the summer of my 8th grade year-- then I suppose the premise of this tale falls apart. But I don’t. Given that he was my best friend Taylor’s stepbrother, the extent of our interaction was the occasional movie night at her house and the occasional “what’s up?” text message late at night after I snuck into my mom’s bedroom to retrieve the cell phone that she confiscated from me after 10 P.M. in the name of sleep. Once, while we were all watching Paranormal Activity 3, he even put his arm around me. But our romance, discussed exclusively over text, commenced and concluded in less than a day. “Hey there,” he sent me late one night. Elated, as I had not heard from him in weeks, I replied with “Hi!!” “Sooooo … you wanna date? :)” To this day, I cannot even begin to guess what was going through his mind leading up to this moment. And I cannot help but be a bit awestruck when I remember the intensity of a thousand different emotions coursing through me, the hailstorm of shock and the wildfire of excitement and the cool breeze of gratefulness. It seems as though we often forget how to feel

deeply as we grow up-- we become jaded and forget that it is a miracle to feel anything at all. Finally, someone wanted me. Hands shaking, I managed to type out “OMG yes,” And quickly hit ‘send’. “Okay cool :),” He said. “TTYL.” Ignoring the fact that he chose not to continue the conversation, I spent the rest of the night lying in bed and listening to “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. Little did I know that the next day, he would spin me a story about how he was moving to my town in a few weeks and thought we should wait until then to be together. I would disagree, but relent. We would text for a few weeks after, and then I would never hear from him again. When the school year started, I would see him in the hallway with his arm around a different girl. I would know then that he had discovered what I already knew-- I was ugly. Of course, there may have been other factors at play in addition to my lack of physical attractiveness. My mom often liked to give me the stereotypical motherly spiel about how I was so intelligent that boys my age were intimidated by me. “They like dumb girls because they can manipulate them,” she would tell me. “You just have to wait for the right one.” While I will never be able to confirm nor deny this with certainty, it did nothing to change the fact that I wanted a boyfriend even more than I wanted a pair of silver sequined Ugg boots. Taylor had been dating a boy named Quenton on and off since they were twelve. My other best friend, Makenzie, had already been through a seven month relationship at age thirteen and seemed indifferent about finding a new one. I developed close friendships with both of their boyfriends, as well as the large majority of the other boys in my small, private school class. They would often come to me for girl advice; my objective point of view stemming from my lack of romantic

connection to anyone coupled with my gender made me an invaluable resource to anyone looking for brutally honest opinions of their significant others. Being needed in this way allowed me to repress the feeling that no one actually wanted me-- I may as well have been one of the guys. I began to think that if I could just get someone to kiss me, let alone date me, that I would be happy. I didn’t need commitment, I simply needed attraction-- something to prove that I was desirable. I felt like Sleeping Beauty waiting for my true love-- or at least, my titillated and sufficiently blind peer. High school soccer season started before high school did, and one day in the middle of yet another seemingly endless practice, we saw him. Given that our small school had a miniscule amount of money for secular endeavors like athletics, the club football team practiced in a small rectangular patch of grass next to where us soccer players kept our bags and water bottles. When your class is comprised of 55 students, you tend to notice a new student. When said new student is tall with sandy blonde hair, light blue eyes and an easy smile, you cannot help but notice. We tried to watch without overtly staring, but to no avail. “Damn,” said Taylor appreciatively, whom I neglected to mention was the most popular girl in the freshman class among both genders without contest. “He’s going to be my next boyfriend.” Spoken with the confidence of someone used to getting what she wanted, I knew that she was probably right. But I couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to get him to fall for the sidekick instead of the superhero. As time went on, New Boy (whose name turned out to be Shelby) remained a topic of interest for most of the freshmen class. He was striking not only physically, but experientially. Having grown up an army brat, he had lived all over the United States and even briefly in Germany. He bragged about the drinking age being “whenever you were tall enough to reach the

tap”. This was scandalous and exotic for our sheltered student body, as he was rather tall for his age. Conversations at the lunch table often went something like this: “So, who do you guys think Shelby likes? He’s been here for long enough that he has to have at least found someone he thinks is pretty”, said Kaycie. “It’s probably me. Too bad I’m taken”, sighed Taylor, who had just gotten back together with Quenton for the upteenth time. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. No one ever seems to stand a chance against you, Taylor”, I said wistfully. “Hey, that’s not fair,” retorted Makenzie, who had no interest in Shelby but had a vested interest in playing devil’s advocate. “Maybe he prefers dark brunettes over pale blondes.” Taylor stuck her tongue out at Makenzie, treating us all to the orange residue of the cheetos she had just finished. “You’re just jealous, Kenz. You know how Austin likes ‘em.” That shut her up. We all looked over at Ally, the only one at the table not participating in our conversation. Before Shelby, everyone had been head over heels for our small private school’s equivalent of the popular jock/bad boy, Austin-- most notably Makenzie and I. Despite being a good friend of ours, Austin had only ever dated Ally-- at least up until this year. Makenize’s face took on a dark look. “Uncalled for, Taylor. We all know you dated him just to prove you could.” Picking up her tray, Taylor stood. “He just couldn’t resist. Just like Shelby won’t be able to,” And with that, she walked away.

A few weeks later, something happened that made me forget all about Shelby. By ‘something’, I mean nothing short of a bona fide miracle. Austin asked me-- ME-- to homecoming. I was sitting at my desk in first period biology, contemplating whether or not the study of life would lead us to the elusive meaning of life (average fourteen-year-old early morning thoughts) when he strolled up. In the span of about two seconds before he spoke I assessed my appearance and immediately wished he had never come over at all. Having been particularly tired that morning, I was clad in a black sweatshirt, our hideous plaid uniform skirt, and furry grey boots. My bun was messier than my bedroom; the purple headband I was using to hold back my flyaways did not match a single part of my outfit. Nervously, I peered up at him through my makeup-free eyelashes. Just because I was an honorary ‘bro’ didn’t mean I never felt butterflies. Putting one hand on my desk, Austin gazed down at my one pretty feature-- my multicolored eyes. “Hey, Madison,” he said nonchalantly. “Hey,” I said, giving him a small smile in return. Be cool, Madison. “So, um … do you wanna go to homecoming with me?” he asked hesitantly. My jaw dropped so far open I thought it would hit my desk. I quickly snapped it shut and tried to form some semblance of a rational thought. “I … um … yes,” I said quickly, my face growing hot. “Definitely.” “Cool,” he said, not looking the least bit rattled. “See ya around,” and with that he sauntered back to his desk across the room as the bell rang.

The daily opportunity to capture the meaning of life was lost on me as I spent the rest of the class daydreaming. Never mind that Taylor was back with Quenton. Never mind that Ally had finally moved on to a new boy. Never mind that he probably just didn’t want to go alone and I was the last choice on his list. For that one magical night, I could feel like he wanted me. I could feel beautiful. Maybe he would even kiss me! It was too good to be true. Alas, it was, in fact, too good to be true. I was devastated when Ally’s new relationship fell through and Austin jumped at the chance to get back with her just two weeks before the dance. He apologized profusely, but he was not sorry enough to leave his invitation to me extended. Looking back I realize what a small incident this is in the grand scheme of things, but at 14, everything feels like the end of the world. It reinforced my own ideology about my appearance; from my own self-centered and limited perspective it had everything to do with me and nothing to do with anyone else. To make matters worse, if I wanted to go with my friends, my group would have to include Austin and Ally. I would have to spend the whole night looking at what I almost had-- what I thought I wanted more than anything in the world. In the days leading up to the dance, I was so bummed about Austin that I did not realize the chain of events that fate was slowly setting up for me. That week, seating assignments in honors English changed and placed Shelby directly in front of me. We bumped into each other as everyone attempted to jostle their way to their new spots. I felt his eyes linger on me a second longer than necessary before he mumbled “sorry” and sat down. The next day, before the bell rang, he turned around, his composure regained, and simply said, “Hey, I’m Shelby. What’s your name?”

Snapped out of my reverie regarding Austin, a dance floor, slow music, and piercing blue eyes, I jerked my head up to regard him. It was not unusual for a boy to talk to me, it was just … this one was talking to me about ME. Not about my friends, all of whom were more popular, nor about his ex, or current girlfriend, or any other girl. Me. Too emotionally exhausted from the week to feel the typical nervousness, shyness, and awkwardness that this would normally bring, I replied, “I know. Everyone knows who you are. I’m Madison.” Shelby raised one eyebrow and smirked. “Everyone, hmm? Glad you’re inevitably included in that number.” I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to pulling out my journal as the bell rang and class began. A boy used to everyone’s admiration? He really would be perfect for Taylor. Next week brought around a rainy homecoming evening. The order of events gets a bit hazy given that I was a 14-year-old experiencing my first significant ‘big kid’ affair, but I’ll do my best to recount them all. When we arrived at Shaker Run Golf Club, no one was as excited as they should’ve been. The storm had dampened both the ground and our spirits. No one wanted to risk pictures outside and ruin the hair and makeup we had spent far too much time and money on. Austin and Ally were fighting yet again, so while they were technically each other’s dates, they weren’t speaking. This left Austin to flirt with other girls-- everyone, it seemed, except for me. Perhaps he was still feeling the guilt of his abandonment, or maybe everyone else just looked prettier. Probably the latter.

The real icing on the cake was that much of his attention was focused on Jayla, Makenzie’s best friend. Seated at our table, Jayla was two seats away from me. The seat between us? Austin’s. It was the cruelest form of irony; having him seated beside me like my date, but having him facing the girl on his other side. How Shelby ended up in the seat next to mine is a bit unclear in my memory. I mean, he was popular in his own right and my friend group consisted of the “popular kids” (this was relatively meaningless in a class of 50 kids, but still). However, none of us really considered ourselves friends with him. I guess that was the reason he didn’t have a date, intrigued by him as everyone was. He just sort of … appeared. Looking back I cannot figure out why this didn’t create a stronger reaction in me; the things you’re looking for seem to appear as soon as you’ve stopped looking. Regardless, despite the sidelong glances everyone kept giving him, I essentially ignored him until he touched my arm and caught my attention. “Content just to know who I am and that’s it, huh?” He asked, studying me intently. I shrugged. “Just a little preoccupied, I guess,” I replied, trying and failing not to look over at Austin. “Well, the way I see it, you don’t have a date to be preoccupied with and I don’t have a date to be preoccupied with. I know it’s technically too late for me to ask you, but what do you say we be each other’s honorary dates?” I stared at him, dumbfounded. How had this not occurred to me? Had I really had the audacity not to be completely and totally intimidated in this boy’s presence until now? The only

boy at school who had shown an inkling of a different kind of attention than I was used to receiving? And this wasn’t just any boy … it was the one everyone was fascinated by-- the one that Taylor naturally expected and wanted to fall for her. “I-- uh, yeah, sure,” I stuttered quietly, though my mind was shouting I HAVE A DATE! I HAVE A DATE! over and over and over again. “Cool,” said Shelby with a half smile, and we went back to not paying attention to each other as awkward 14-year-olds do in these situations. But for me, everything has changed. Something was going to happen tonight, though it seemed so impossible that I couldn’t even daydream about it properly. However, somehow, deep down in my bones, I knew. I was going to get my first kiss. Everyone who was anyone in the freshmen class fineggled rides out of various sleep-deprived parents later that night to the after-party at Makenzie’s ex boyfriend’s house. I spent the ride texting Taylor (who was sitting right next to me, but obviously I didn’t want my mom to overhear) everything that had gone down between Shelby and I earlier in the evening. I was somewhat nervous that she would be upset, but in true best friend style, she gushed with happiness over my every word. There would be other conquests, she said, this one was all mine. Besides, she had Quenton anyway. We had changed into Aeropostale sweatshirts and jeans, but still felt like a million bucks with our hair and makeup done. It was time to party in the best way that private school children knew how. The best way that private school children knew how to party turned out to consist of eating, Just Dance-ing, and gossiping. Those who weren’t eating pretzels with cheese dip were awkwardly contorting their bodies to a cover of Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’, though all the game

truly required to build points was random movements of the controller. Those who were full and tired were seated on the couch around the TV on which Just Dance was being played, talking quietly in groups about the events of the evening. I was seated on the far end between Taylor, Ally, Makenzie, and Jayla. Shelby was the natural topic of conversation. The five of us stole several glances at the spot where he was seated talking to Austin and another guy from our class. “Look, all I’m saying is my plan is brilliant,” Taylor assured us, flipping her hair back over one shoulder and sitting up as if it were already decided. “We’ve all seen Madison play Just Dance at Kenzie’s. Our innocent little angel can MOVE. All we need to do is make sure Shelby sits directly behind her. That’s how babies are made.” “Taylor!” I yelped, causing a few curious eyes to wander our way. Lowering my voice, I said, “I’m not looking for that. Plus, I’m an awful dancer. I’m going to make a fool of myself.” “Honestly, Mads, it’s not so much about being a good dancer as it is about drawing their eyes to the right places,” Ally assured me. “Trust me.” I considered the fact that Austin couldn’t seem to stop going back for more of her and decided then and there to take her word as gospel. If I wanted to get my first kiss before Taylor Swift had (she has that song “Fifteen” where she says, “... when you’re fifteen and your first kiss makes your head spin around”; my fifteenth birthday was two months away and I was arbitrarily determined to beat her) I would have to make a bold move. Why not tonight, when I could already sense something brewing? “Hey, Lucas, I’ve got winner,” I called to the boy currently clutching the controller in the wrong hand and struggling to mirror the image on screen.

He threw me a grateful glance, and not more than a minute later the song came to an end. I got up from the couch and took my place in front of the screen. Right on que, I heard Makenzie say, “hey, you guys should do ‘Ring my Bell’.” I turned to Kaycie, my opponent, and we both shrugged. She began to flip through the song choices. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Taylor move behind me and beckon Shelby over to sit next to her. This was the only part of the plan that concerned me-- Taylor seemed to have a magnetic effect on the entirety of the male species-- but I trusted her. Let Operation Kiss commence. The song began, and I shimmied and shook my little heart out. I won’t call it dancing to preserve the integrity of the art, but suffice it to say that I took Ally’s advice. At the end of song my friends started an obnoxious round of cheering, and, red-faced, I took a seat next to Taylor on the couch. I subtly slid my gaze to the right until I could see Shelby. His stare could’ve burnt a hole right through me. A million different feelings shot through my veins, but anticipation trumped them all. Whatever happened next would change my life forever. I just knew it. I can’t remember exactly how we all ended up outside; we were probably all desperate for some fresh air after the storm passed. Regardless, I found myself lying on the trampoline with Ally and a boy named Noah, who had been like a brother to me since elementary school. We were having some simple small talk under the stars when suddenly Makenzie and Taylor walked up with Shelby in between them. I had no idea what they had said to him, but the smirks on all of their faces were worth a thousand words. Shelby climbed up and laid on the trampoline beside me. Small talk resumed, but my heart was pounding so loudly I thought the whole world could surely hear it. The next part is a blur-- the subject of kissing came up, someone yelled “Madison has

never had her first one!”, everyone else started chanting, “kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”, Shelby looked me in the eye, I gave a slight nod, and then his lips were on mine. It felt like … a fish? I’ve never kissed a fish, but that’s how I imagined it. Cold and wet and unnatural. I guess I knew deep down that since I had never kissed him-- or anyone-- before, it would take some getting used to. Still, I thought it would be more pleasant. We broke apart, and the realization of what I had done sank in. This was my transition from innocence to experience. Granted, it was on a small scale, but for a sheltered kid like me, this was everything. That touch transferred proof in a way that words had no power to-- proof that I was desirable, proof that I was “normal” (which, to me, meant being just like my friends). Proof that I mattered. Looking back, I realize how asinine that sounds now. There are so many more profound ways for a person to matter, ways that I was simply blinded to at the time. At this moment, I felt complete. We opened our eyes and smiled at each other and- “AHHHHHHH!” came a yell so close to my ear that I nearly fell off the trampoline. Taylor did the work for me, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet on the ground. She threw her arms around my shoulders and bounced excitedly on her toes, making my already full heart feel like it would burst. She was quickly followed by Noah, Ally, Makenzie, each of them more excited than the last. “Madison GOT HER FIRST KISS!” Ally yelled, and I laughed out loud. “Shhhh, you’ll wake the parents,” I admonished, but I didn’t care. This night was all about me. I felt a tap on my shoulder from behind. I turned to see Shelby. Weirdly, he had almost slipped my mind.

“Walk with me?” He asked. My friends ‘ooooohed’ and ‘ahhhhed’. My face turned red. I followed him toward a patch of bushes near the back of the yard, and he kissed me again. It lasted longer this time, and it felt even worse. I had no idea what I was doing, moving my mouth around in a way that felt correct but seemed to work counter to whatever he was doing. I was glad when it ended. Shelby, however, did not seem to share this sentiment. “That was nice”, he said, grinning down at me. “We should do it again sometime.” “Yeah,” I said vaguely, but my heart wasn’t in it. Suddenly, it all felt wrong. I thought this would be my modern day fairytale princess moment-- my knight in shining armor would sweep me off my feet, give me a look that would melt the hardest heart, and give me my ticket into the exclusive ‘big kids’ club in the form of a kiss. But the initial joy over the simple fact that the kiss had happened was wearing off, and I was quickly realizing that maybe this wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Maybe I had wasted something that could’ve been special. I decided to repress that train of thought. I now fit in with my friends in a way I hadn’t before, right? At least, I thought, I had social clout to hold onto. The following week, Shelby spent every day at our lunch table. To call this awkward would be to understate the matter dramatically. We found that we had very little in common, and the things about him that had seemed ‘scandalous’ and ‘exotic’ before, such as alcohol consumption, now felt obscene. To make matters worse, as my friends got to know him and the mysteriousness surrounding him went away, they found that he wasn’t as attractive as they once thought. The following Monday Shelby was absent, and as soon as Kaycie opened her mouth I

immediately wished he were next to me, despite the painful cloud of awkwardness constantly hovering above him. “Seriously, Madison, I can’t believe you kissed him,” She said, seemingly out of nowhere. “He has like, the biggest mouth. Isn’t it gross?” “You’re not wrong,” Makenzie laughed, swirling her spoon around in her bowl of soup. “I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.” I stared at them, dumbfounded. Were these not the very same people that had more or less pushed our heads together at the homecoming after-party? I looked at Taylor, a pleading look in my eye. Surely, as my best friend, she would support me. She had to, right? Catching my stare, Taylor quickly averted her gaze. “Yeah, Mads, we love ya no matter what but we also love you enough to pray about your taste in men,” she said lightly, earning laughs around the table. Their giggles turned to ringing in my ears and faded altogether as I sat back, feeling like I had been sucker punched in the gut. It was bad enough that I was already feeling a personal sense of regret-- one I hadn’t told anyone about. But now the one thing I thought still justified my actions-- reaching a new level of solidarity with my friends-- had been snatched away. They had found a common bond amongst themselves that was more appealing than supporting me, and that was making fun of me. Each of them were so afraid of losing their own social standing-even in a group as close as ours-- that they would rather gang up on me than risk drawing any negative attention to themselves. I was sure I had participated in what felt like harmless fun before in regards to things they had done, but I now knew that it wasn’t so harmless after all. I’d

heard before that when things like this happened they were born of jealousy, but there was no way to know for sure. They would never admit it, and it didn’t really matter. I had gotten what I wanted, it had turned out to be nothing like I expected, and now I was paying the price. The superficiality of purely physical attraction suddenly became painfully obvious, and I vowed to never again fall prey to its seductive call. Despite the complete and utter turmoil swirling through me, I gave them a small smile. “Hey, we’ve all done things we’re not proud of. But you know what? That’s okay.” And I knew that one day, it would be.

Sleepless Soliloquy My thoughts are loud tonight and I wonder if you can hear them Echoing across the chasm between Your heart and mine. The stars shine brightly and I wonder if you are among them, Or if you are somewhere looking up at The same velvet sky. The sun climbs to take its place on high and I long to see it reflected in your Midnight eyes, pulling me in like The moon draws the tide. The day will never see me cry but I wonder with every hour if It will bring me back to you, perhaps We were just ahead of our time.

Tina Stoner Weight The weight on my shoulders Is nothing compared to The weight of my own eyelids. The sandbags secured To my ankles, Like shackles, Drag behind me And. slow. my. pace. On my back is the baggage. My legs haul the load, And my neck is stiff From looking upward. The weight of it all Is too much to carry, If only I could... Lie down for a while. The gravity here Is pulling me down, Pressing me into the dirt, Planting me deeper. And the dirt piles on. And on. And on. And I am buried. The weight of the earth Is on my shoulders. Is on my mind. But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still nothing Compared to the weight Of my own eyelids.

Colors I smell the rosy red of passion, The red of anger and of fear, The red of blood spilled open, The red of holidays and cheer. I see the orange of caution, The orange of surprises and of power. I see the orange of ferocity, The orange clock of the hour. I feel the yellow warmth of sunlight, The yellow glow of hope, The yellow of intelligence, Yellow happiness and growth. I hear the green of nature, The green of wind between the leaves, The green of greed and envy, The green of youth and peace. I know the blue of sorrow, Blue solitude, blue infinity. I know the blue of comfort, Blue loss, blue oceans, blue serenity. I feel like purple -- royal, Purple creations, purple magic. I feel the purple of midnight skies, The purple of wisdom, and purple sarcastic. I know the black of authority, Of black suits and black sunglasses. I know blackness like rebellion, Blackboards and hordes of masses. I smell the gray of smoke; Breathe in the gray of calm. See gray shadows, gray memories, Gray hair, gray matter, gray bombs. I feel the cold white of winter; See the bright white light of life, The white of emptiness and purity, And white dresses on future wives.

I taste the sweet pink sugar, The pink candy of bubblegum, Pink like innocence and ribbons, Delicate pink, floral pink, pink alliums. The brown of earth and soil, Brown like neutrality and noses, Brown like woods and trees, But from brown dirt still grows red roses. Each color is unique-Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s obvious, but true. And each color comes with feelings Which may be different from me to you. And these feelings come from all over-Like emotions, memories, and connections. From the dark end to the light, There are worlds within the spectrum.

Stitches Life is made of moments Stitched together in our minds, Held together by a thread That could unravel any time. And so long as the needle And the thread remain a pair-We go about our day to day. We forget it’s even there. But, perhaps one day it changes And the thread falls from the eye, And suddenly these memories Begin to fall aside. We may reach for the thread, But our speed has gone away. Instead we see our wrinkled skin And hair in silver-gray. The needle and the thread, Seem much too great a task, To realign together And so we’re forced to ask-We ask for those around us To help us stitch the patches, Yet, even when they try to help Nothing ever catches. These wrinkled hands of mine Are not what they once were, And memories once clear Fade away into a blur. The sweet faces all around me, My family, I’m told, Offer sympathetic smiles Because they can tell I’m growing old. They can tell I am afraid Of losing what is left, And all I have are fading memories, And each day day I wake with less. The thread keeps on unraveling, 67

As stitching often does, When something as worn as me Is reduced to merely fuzz. They don’t hang me out to dry But at times it feels as though, I’m too tired to hold on And I’m ready to let go.

Contributor Notes Salim Abdul-Razak Dear Reader, I am delighted to bring you along my little journeys through life, starting from my place of birth, Tamale, Northern Ghana. As a travel enthusiast, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m fascinated by the new and unfamiliar, constantly tearing beyond the surface to see what lies beneath what we consider alien. Throughout these journeys of delight, I have learned to appreciate the power of words. The â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;magicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; that simple words can acquiesce into mind pictures and imaginations is powerful enough to induce an emotional connection to places unseen. In a short fictional narrative, I share a snippet into one of the many places our character rediscovers. For me, the writing process is not only a journey to reveal stories of places and people we encounter, but in solemn reflection, to find ourselves and our sense of being. I am a firm believer in the transformative power of storytelling and my passion for telling personal stories drive me through the challenges of combining my science-oriented background with my artistic pursuits. My writing interests and works juxtapose the complexities of everyday Africa and the diaspora including anything that moves me to the jotter. As I continue to nurture this craft and explore publishing opportunities for the short story collection that I am currently working on, I hope our paths cross again soon.

Angie Conley I am a 51-year-old mother of a 30-year-old daughter, widow of a vet, grandmother to three beautiful grandchildren, ages 11, 3 and 2 months (All three have my red hair!), divorcee, and full-time student at Miami University Middletown. I am an Art major. When I painted Two Moons, I was experimenting with the idea of multiple moons in the night sky. I may revisit the concept and try some new techniques and new ideas. I would like to thank my best friend, Sheila, for putting up with my paint and easel taking up her dining room for so long and my boyfriend, Scott, for being so supportive and encouraging. Without their support and encouragement, I wouldn’t be following my dreams today.

Matt Hollon Hi, I’m Matt Hollon, author of “Predator.” I wrote this story during the midterm elections as an attempt to draw attention to, what I believe, is an important issue. The powerful have a tendency to try and divide us to stop us from seeing who the real “predator” truly is. They turn us against ourselves, pitting one group against another, creating an “Us versus Them” mentality to distract us from their own failures. The best predators are the ones that make it so their prey doesn’t even realize that it’s prey. By creating some false enemy for us to focus on, they can feed on us and profit off our work. People are forced to spend their lives doing hard, unenjoyable work as an attempt to climb the social ladder by feeding those at the top, blind to what they are doing. They are too concerned with falling into what they’ve been told the true “enemy” is and they’ll do anything to prevent it. I don’t claim to be some revolutionary, but we live in a flawed system and if we want it to change, we must stand together, not divided. In nature, predators prey on those that have been separated from the pack, but when the prey stands as one, the predator flees with their tail between their legs. Instead of hating those different than us because we’ve been told to, we must stand as one and love one another.

Sam Schenck I want to speak more on my poem, “‘Homosexuals’”. It became apparent to me as I got involved in gay nightlife, drag, and same-sex relationships the expectations that we have for gay men, and more specifically, white g ay men. We have a privilege that the rest of our queer family does not, which is growing acceptance in American capitalist patriarchy. Assimilation into the mainstream means a stripping of queerness and donning of patriarchy, where a gay white man can be somebody’s GBF, a clap back queen, and hyper sexual in the eyes of the mainstream. In this recognition of stereotypes and privileging of white gay men, I wrote “‘Homosexuals’” to speak to the ways we prop up white gays in problematic ways, similarly to how we cage animals in a zoo under the guise of care, when we are actually ripping a being out of its environment for entertainment and capitalist gain. Animals are stolen from their native lands, placed in glass boxes with remnants of their home environment, and labeled with their scientific names to make their incarceration seem educational. These glass walls become symbolic for white gays, though still very real and confining. While the white gays are being given attention so nonqueer people can understand queer folk better, there are other queer people struggling in an environment that is being destroyed, murdered, appropriated, colonized, and sexualized by the same people gawking at the white gays. I ask you: How would you feel about living in a zoo?

Tina Stoner As much as I enjoy writing, I feel like I rarely have or take the time to write creatively on my own due to other responsibilities and distractions. Thankfully I enrolled in ENG 261, Intro to Creative Writing, where I rekindled some of my lost love for poetry. This class inspired me to write the poems submitted here. I hope you enjoy my work and the works of all others brave enough to share their inner thoughts. “Weight” came during a time when life’s demands were simply overwhelming me to exhaustion which I tried to turn into something more concrete and relatable in a visually descriptive way. “Colors” is a curious look at how important a color can be, the emphasis it carries, and how easily we personally associate colors with emotions, situations, and memories. “Stitches” is closest to my heart because I’ve worked in a nursing home for almost ten years and have seen how aging and disease can take away virtually everything from a person. It is heartbreaking to see individuals who no longer recognize their own children or have forgotten loved ones have passed away. It is a reminder to myself to be grateful for the independence and health I have now because there may come a time when I am gray and forgetful and this poem may cease to exist even in my own memory.