Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, student art, and intellectual and creative life at Northwest Florida State College by providing a showcase for meritorious work.
Managing Editor: Dr. Deidre Price
Prose Editor:
Dr. Jon W. Brooks Poetry Editor:
Dr. Vickie Hunt
Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography:
Benjamin Gillham, MFA
Editorial Advisory Board:
Dr. Beverly Holmes, Dr. Christopher Snellgrove, Rhonda Trueman, April Leake, James Suderman, and Dr. Jill White
Art Advisory Board:
Benjamin Gillham, MFA; Stephen Phillips, MFA; Leigh Peacock Westman, MFA; Dr. Ann Waters, and Dr. K.C. Williams
Blackwater Review is published annually at Northwest Florida State College and is funded by the college. All selections published in this issue are the work of students; they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of the administration, faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, or Foundation Board of Northwest Florida State College.
The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Dr. Devin Stephenson, Dr. Scott Behrens, Dr. Anne Southard, and Dr. Deborah Fontaine for their support of Blackwater Review.
We are also grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor of the James and Christian LaRoche Distinguished Endowed Teaching Chair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annual James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, whose winner is included in this issue.
COLOR PLATES
Saving Theodore Platt
Mars Madden
Chapter One: The Dream
Everything begins with a dream. My dream began with a woman, face shrouded in darkness, who loomed higher than the mountains far to the North. Her hands reached over the country as she clawed her way across the lands, darkness following her as she grew stronger and stronger. Eventually, she became larger than any landmass, her body growing and stretching past the atmosphere of the world, until she eventually swallowed the world whole. Thousands of voices spoke all at once, some whispering while others shrieked. Find the hunter. A shack came into view, with an old elven man standing in the yard. He clutched a deep red sword in his hands, staring off into the distance over a nearby lake. He turned and stared directly into my eyes, his face pale and blood caked in his long, white beard. Stop the witch. And then I was in the castle of The Grand Witch, standing barefoot in her throne room. I was alone in the room, but screams of terror and pain echoed from every direction. Remove the eye. And suddenly I loomed over a sleeping woman who faced away from me, a sword weighing heavily in my hands. She smelled of blood and death. And then all faded to darkness. Theodore…Theodore…Theodore…
I awoke with a jolt, sitting upright in my bed and breathing heavily. My forehead stung. I gently held a hand over my third eye, wiping away the tears that leaked from it. I’d had a prophecy. I let out a shaky breath and looked out of my window. It was still dark outside, but I knew I’d be unable to go back to sleep. I never could sleep after a prophecy. I was always too scared that my third eye would open again and I’d be forced to see even more of the horrors that awaited me in my future. Instead I slowly rose from my bed and walked into the kitchen, making myself a glass of water. I then sat on top
of the counter, waiting for the sun to rise as I thought over the messages of my dream.
Find the hunter. As far as I knew, all the hunters were dead. The killing curse had been cast on them years before I was even born, but maybe one had survived. It was unlikely, but the cabin in my prophecy felt almost familiar. I decided that once the sun rose, I’d find the cabin.
Stop the witch. Remove the eye. The Grand Witch. She was the only prophetic witch able to will her third eye open at any given time. She ruled over the country of Piola with an iron fist and held more power than any witch in recorded history. I’d heard rumors before that she could cast spells wordlessly and would absorb the powers of any witch that she felt would grow more powerful than she. And I was but a child, only seventeen years old, and barely able to interpret my prophecies correctly. But I knew that this was my burden. Sitting on my kitchen counter in the wee hours of the morning, I knew that either I or The Grand Witch Elthina had to die.
Eventually, the sun rose. Light streamed into the kitchen window, and I found myself sitting upon my countertop, fully accepting of my near demise, admiring how pretty the sunrise looked reflecting through the glass flower pots that I decorated the windowsill with. Pink light danced around the kitchen through the crystalized glass, and I found myself becoming a bit sad. All my life I had lived in this house, and for most of my life I was alone. At six years old my mother left me with my father, and at twelve years old my father died. For the past five years, I had lived in this little cottage tucked away at the outskirts of the forest, and now I would have to leave it to go on some grand journey. I realized that I’d most likely miss my bed most of all, and I found myself wishing that I had stayed curled in my blankets for just a few hours longer. If I had fully processed when I woke up that morning that it would be my last time in the house, I would’ve just stayed in bed.
I mused about how much I’d miss my little cottage for a few minutes longer before I finally slid off my counter and began to pace around my bedroom, formulating a plan for the
day. I couldn’t just up and leave at that very second because I needed supplies of some sort and money to buy those supplies with. I had only a few gold pieces saved up at the time, and I knew the journey to the grand witch would take at least three days. This meant a trip to the market was my next step.
Growing up, I had always loved going to the market. I would go with my father to get groceries, look around at all the miscellaneous booths set up, and occasionally father would buy me some type of toy or treat. I continued going after he died, and eventually got my own booth there. It wasn’t anything amazing, just a place for me to read tarot cards and make a few coins. I couldn’t use my third eye on command, but I could use my magic with tarot cards for accurate readings. I loved reading cards and giving good fortunes to others, though I always felt bad when I gave someone a bad fortune. Nevertheless, my booth at the market was a happy place for me, and I even had a few friends that also worked in the markets.
I arrived at the market when all the other booth owners were still setting up their wares. It was closer to opening than I would usually show up, but given the events of that morning, I wasn’t too concerned over my lateness. There was, however, a friend of mine who was worried over how late I was.
“Theodore!” I heard her yell from across the square as I was spreading a tablecloth over my booth’s table. When I turned around, Amira had crossed the square and planted herself in front of me, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. She had on a lovely gold dress that reached the floor, and she had paired it with her burgundy hijab that day.
“Good morning, Amira. How’s Maggie doing?” I asked her politely, smiling as I continued to set up my booth. I brought up Maggie to distract her, really. Amira could never resist talking about her wife or what they’d done together in recent times, and I wasn’t exactly sure how to put the events of that morning into words yet.
“She is, as always, amazing and the light of my life.” Amira’s expression turned into a dreamy smile, but she quickly shook her head and furrowed her brows once more. “That’s not important
right now, though. Why were you late today? You’re never late!” She crossed her arms and looked me over with a frown.
“It’s…it’s a long story, Amira. I’d rather not talk about it right now…how about you come over for tea this evening? I’ll bake some snacks and tell you everything, alright?” I smiled warmly at my friend. I couldn’t keep this hidden from her, even if I wanted to. Amira was my closest friend, and I couldn’t just disappear without giving her a proper explanation. I just didn’t want to worry her, really. I knew she’d try to stop me, or become extremely concerned over me going to find a witch hunter by myself, and I didn’t want to bring that kind of stress into her life.
“Alright, that works, but only if you make those cheese tarts that I like.” She grinned at me, ruffled my hair, and laughed. I couldn’t help but laugh too, swatting her hands away and trying to tame the curls she had mussed up.
“You know I’d never deprive you of my cheese tarts, darling,” I said, turning back to my booth to finish setting up.
After talking for a while, Amira wandered over to her booth where she sold swords and other weapons that Maggie forged, and I sat down in my chair to wait for customers to arrive. I had a few regulars that day, and none of my fortunes were exciting. The only true excitement of the day was having to, once again, explain my identity to yet another passerby.
“You a witch?” He’d asked, though the sign on my booth read Divining Witch Theodore, so I can only assume he knew the answer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Aren’t witches supposed to be girls?” he asked, his expression turning into a sneer.
“Well, most are, but I’m not,” I said, though I didn’t expect him to be the least bit understanding.
Thankfully, he’d gotten distracted by the smell of a dessert booth nearby and wandered off before he decided to argue with me any further. The rest of the day went by without any further questions, and the man didn’t stop by my booth again. I spent all afternoon thinking of what to say to Amira and how exactly to say it. I could barely focus on telling fortunes and decided
to pack up my booth early and go home to make snacks for Amira and I’s tea later. I waved at her as I left, and she gave me a concerned look that made me wince. I was really trying not to worry her, but I couldn’t help but be distracted. I could still hear the screams from my vision and smell the blood and death. A chill loomed over me for the rest of the day, and it wouldn’t leave me, even as I baked my favorite treats and tended to my garden dutifully, activities that usually cheered me up.
Staring into space as my cheese tarts baked, I stood in my kitchen. My mind was fuzzy, and I could barely focus on anything around me. Then came the knock on the door. Looking at the clock on the wall, I frowned. Amira had come an hour early. She must’ve really been worried about me, but I couldn’t blame her. Slowly, I went to the door and took a deep breath to compose myself before opening it and letting her in.
Menopause
Andrea Hefner
My hormonal alarm clock rouses me with sticky flesh,
Sheets dampened by the hot flash
Inferno from head to toe, heat pouring from my pores.
The morning light filtering in through blinds sneaking around the blackout curtains
Like the years creeping in on me.
Interlopers in the dark, intruders shattering dreams.
I pull the covers up tight to my neck
Suddenly cold, goosebumps prickling my flesh
Hair raised at the back of my neck
The home invader not to be apprehended
Too stealthy are the years.
Maybe this is why children fight sleep
For they know how fast time passes
When we slip under the covers
And welcome unconsciousness.
This may be my body’s attempt to fight back.
Waking me with the fullness of pressure in my bladder
Weakened from reproduction and Kegels rarely performed.
I rise to the occasion
Open the curtains
And try to catch the sunbeams
As they illuminate the dust wafting in the air
Along with warming my skin.
But the light flashes in, illuminating my wrinkles
Illustrating no reprieve from either the light or the dark
The ticking of my clock no longer cries to fill my womb
But rather, evades the coming of my tomb.
Crowning
Andrea Hefner
Medical professionals say that transition during labor is the quickest part
Those moments of thinning tissue, final effacement and dilation. But truth be told, transition happens for the cesarean or the adoptive parents
Because what isn’t said is that transition goes beyond the womb. It moves with precision into the inarticulate moments
When a life bursts into yours, colliding into your soul.
Twice I was able to reach beyond myself and feel a downy head. Ignorantly, I thought the crowning was the end of labor.
Transition has come in the unspoken.
The first time I left them with someone else to watch over them Saying prayers under my breath, unintelligible through trembling lips.
Transition hits you not in the expected moments like first steps For they take those towards you.
The pulling of the soul that is part of the process Is more in the shifting of boy into man
Or a first dorm room that she hangs up twinkly lights in, Planning a wedding for one while the other dreams
Of the freedom a license to drive will bring.
The truth of transition is that it is more painful than any epidural could relieve.
What is birthed is the revelation that transition
Exposes the truth that the journey no longer belongs to us While still managing to remain deep within forever.
Inheritance
Lucy Miree
To my grandmother, my namesake, My father’s mother whom I never met:
Did you know when you looked into his eyes
What he would become?
Was the anger already burning there
To scorch you when you touched his blond head? Or did that grow after your plane
Dropped out of the sky like a shot bird?
What about his brother? Did you see the lined up Empty glass bottles?
Did my aunt already have a core of ice?
I am 19 and seeing your picture for the first time. I have never even seen where your bones rest. I have only this sepia tone of you, This white-straight-teeth smile of you. You are so young. You look a bit like my mother.
I used to have nightmares about my house
Burning down. When I was ten or eleven, It happened.
Did you wake up in a sweat to the sound
Of a puttering engine? Did you pant
As fleeting images of torn-off wings shuddered Behind your eyelids?
Did I get my prescience from you?
Did you realize, when the turbulence started, How much you would hurt that eleven year-old boy?
Did you ever imagine that the ache would be passed on Like an heirloom ornament to a girl you’d never met?
If you were alive now, would you side with me?
Would you defend the rough hands and hoarse shouts, Or would you reach out your own frail arm to stop him?
Would you disown your eldest boy for me?
Would you give me your name?
Godly woman, angel woman, Would you accept me?
My mother told me you used to make your boys memorize scripture. Would you let the Old Testament stand between us?
Would you sneer with Leviticus between your teeth?
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
He’s like this because of you,
Belly hardened into iron, smelted
By a lifetime alone.
It’s scary how much you look like my mother.
Lucy, are you watching?
Are you ashamed of him?
Lucy, are you here with me?
Are you even listening?
Does he see you when he looks at me? Is that why?
Do you know that he threatened to kill me?
It’s hard to wear a name that’s an echo. Like a sweater stolen from the lost and found. Which one of us is fabric, and which is thread?
Come to me sometime, if you can, And maybe I’ll tell you the story of the crack He made in my bedroom door or maybe You can tell me about the old house
And the porch swing and the three golden Children playing in the Bermuda grass.
Throwing Stones
Ashley Nolin
Eileen grimaced as she peeled her sweaty legs off the sticky plastic seat covers of her family’s 1950s Crosley station wagon. She could have sworn that it was over a hundred degrees in the car and listening to “The Purple People Eater” as her four-yearold brother, Dennis, sang along for the hundredth time on the ten hour road trip made Eileen even more miserable.
“Ma, could you roll down your window?” She whined as she fanned her glistening face with one hand and peeled stray blonde hair from her forehead with the other.
“We’re almost there, honey,” her mother sang out.
Eileen let out an exasperated huff, “But I’m burning up in here.”
Her father looked at her through the rearview mirror and told her to hush. She folded her arms over her barely blossoming bosom and looked out the window at the rush of green as they drove seventy down the deserted highway.
Eileen wasn’t happy about leaving Indianapolis at the beginning of summer and driving down to her grandparents’ farm in Mentone, Alabama. They were going to stay there for the whole summer to escape “the city life.” Eileen loved the city life. She loved going on bike rides with her girlfriends and going to the drive-in whenever a new flick came out. She wasn’t looking forward to cooking with Grandma or chasing Dennis around all summer. She just wanted to go home.
Eventually turning onto a dirt road that seemed to be a mile long, they passed along detestable greenery until finally pulling up in front of the wooden house. Eileen’s grandparents were standing on the porch waving at them. Her parents got out of the car, and her mother reached back to grab Dennis.
“Eileen, get out of the car,” she said sternly.
Eileen glared at her mother before climbing out of the back seat and slamming the door shut. Her mother gave her the look,
and Eileen knew to put on a plastic smile. Meanwhile, Dennis was giggling and picking up any rock he could find as his mother dragged him towards the front porch where Eileen slugged up the stairs and reluctantly into her grandmother’s embrace. She acted as though she was glad to see them, only so her father wouldn’t whip her. After going inside, Eileen frowned, realizing that the house wasn’t much cooler than it was outside.
She looked around the rural home that was, simply, different from her urban home in Indianapolis. She looked at the wooden piano in the corner of the family room and remembered sitting at the bench and watching her grandfather play “Chopsticks” and attempting to teach her the keys. Her gaze moved over to the bookshelf, and she remembered making a mental list of the books she would read when she was older. Now she was older, and she didn’t want to read a single book on that shelf. She also noticed that her grandparents didn’t have a television, and she felt a loss now that she would not be watching her favorite cartoons all summer. For poor Eileen, this was going to be the worst summer ever.
Dennis came into the family room and ran in a circle around Eileen.
“Eileen, will you come play with me?” He looked up at her with big brown eyes that didn’t faze her at all.
“No way,” she said, but the look her mother gave her from the door of the kitchen said otherwise.
Eileen rolled her eyes, as her mother turned away and led Dennis out onto the front porch.
“Dennis, don’t be a pain,” she scolded.
Dennis didn’t respond; he just ran out into the field. Eileen walked patiently after him and watched as he picked up rocks and threw them. They ventured off into the trees close to the barn. She breathed in the aroma of grass and shit and cringed, wishing she could be smelling gasoline and fast food.
She told Dennis to slow down as he raced ahead of her through the trees. They walked for a few minutes until Eileen found a patch of wildflowers.
“Don’t leave my sight,” Eileen said as she bent down to
pick a white flower. She offered one to Dennis, but he only wanted to find rocks. She continued to pick the flowers and braided them together. She eventually ran out of flowers and got up to look for more.
Dennis was nowhere to be seen. She felt her stomach drop and her throat tighten.
“Dennis,” she called out. Again. And again. She began to run. She saw a clearing and ran a little faster, tears filling her eyes. She finally came to the edge of the forest, and her eyes glanced over every inch of the landscape. Her eyes stopped upon a small cliff overlooking a lake.
She was in disbelief. Dennis knew he couldn’t swim and wouldn’t go into the water. She called for him again, louder this time. She ran to the cliff, still calling his name, frantically searching the top of the still water. She looked down to her feet, and in the grass, she saw the small pile of stones. She couldn’t breathe for a second; she couldn’t move. It felt like an eternity standing there, and she shivered as if a chilling wind blew against her delicate skin. She felt as if she would vomit, but she also felt completely empty. She didn’t know if she could move, but she knew she had to.
She began to run. She ran as fast as she could. She felt like she was screaming, but she couldn’t hear. She could hardly breathe as she sobbed hysterically, all the while sprinting through the trees. Her legs grew numb as the seconds passed at an agonizingly slow pace, and the heaviness in her abdomen felt like it was dragging her down. Her white sneaker caught on an overgrown root of a tree, and Eileen’s head collided with the firm ground. She reached up and winced, as her fingers grazed the gash, and brought her bloody hand down to the dirt to push herself up. She began to run again, running faster than a city girl like her could ever think possible. She swerved in and out the trees until she caught a glimpse of the barn. She finally made it out of the trees, but she could barely see through the tears and sweat that were stinging her eyes. She looked and looked and screamed and screamed until she saw her father running out of the house she wished they had never come to.
Sears Catalog, Christmas 1962
Cori Davis
The little girl in the blue smocked dress Has her own kitchen, built one-quarter size And all in pink pasteboard.
She is careful as she pours imaginary coffee, Hair pinned in a neat bun, dress spotless. Just like Mommy. Her kitchen has 76 pieces, And they are each one in the right place. Nothing is strewn on the floor, nothing thrown By careless, brotherly hands. The baby has not yet sampled the plastic fruit. A Kenmore™ range and a Coldspot™ icebox, Painted up just like this year’s models. She putters alone in the pink pasteboard playroom, Quiet, ladylike, making dinners for no one, Serving tea to the Madame Alexander dolls from page 412. There are other little girls, of course. Page 180, dressed as brides and fairies, Or Barbie, Queen of the Prom. They do not belong in this domestic tranquility. There is no glee on her face as she works, Not like the boys with their footballs and cowboy suits. She is content and peaceful and precise, Swallowing a children’s vitamin with sugar water. Mommy’s Librium is not for little girls, and also Not for sale in the Sears Roebuck Wish Book.
In a Bind
Finn Newton
The soda she has left sitting on the counter for several nights in a row is flat.
I haven’t walked our Husky in hours because the purple straps of her harness are no more humane than the beige brace constricting my own rib cage. It’s five o’clock, and my Echo is reminding me it’s time to do my stretches, but I’m watching her iron my stark white dress shirt until it’s flat. There is a trail of dirt on the floor leading to our low-lit kitchen where she is cooking ramen noodles with hot sauce and peanut butter.
I can see her from where I am sitting on our bed playing Overwatch on our new television.
I spent all of my last paycheck on the 42-inch screen that is flat. Last night she called me on the phone, saying she wasn’t going to be home until late, and I ate an entire can of boiled peanuts waiting until I knew she was safe.
She told me she had run over a nail on the road and that her car tire was flat.
It’s Tuesday now, and that means she has to poke my skin with a needle, a Band-Aid, and a kiss. This routine never ends, and I am being tossed in an ongoing rinse cycle, and she feels it too. I know this because her smile is flat. After my third shower in one day, my mirror is fogged. The coffee maker beeps, but I stand still, staring at the blurry version of me.
I am as layered as the wedding cake at my brother’s reception, trying to press my chest down with a stack of nonfiction books filled with the reasons that my parents still call me their daughter. I may be wrapped in compression garments, but the mountains weighing on my chest are still anything but flat.
Found
Grazia Zavaleta
To transcend our physical beings is to find freedom, for the greatest freedom can be found in a solitary mind with a bright and vivid imagination. The body is the only limit to a wanderer. With its limiting weaknesses, it often succumbs to the narrow, desolate, and colorless surroundings. There is nothing sweeter and more sublime than the freedom of individuality. Every mind is confined to its vast and impenetrable universe. The true mystery lies within the mind and not the tangible or reflected. However, when narrow becomes suffocating, desolate becomes chaotic, and the colorless becomes stained with blood, freedom is smothered, and individuality is left behind for the sake of survival.
Her eyes were sore from reading in the dark, yet her mind and heart yearned for more. As her small, dirty hands adjusted the tangled braid, she began to feel an itch in her throat. Slowly, she coughed and wiped away the blood from her nose. She saw the smiling cow behind the bright-green grass. The colors had faded due to the amount of dust in the air and the years of neglect. The paper read, “From Farms to your Table.” The green scenery looked bright and broad; she thought of running down the hill. The dewy scent of fresh grass and mud welcomed her senses with a fresh embrace. She imagined herself in the middle of the prairie.
She had never felt a fresh, clean breeze; therefore, she imagined her mother’s warm breath gingerly caressing her cheek. It had been two years since the nurturing breeze had been replaced by the stench of raw decay. She knew the scent of it; it tasted like rust and smelled of acrid dust. Yet, in that instant, the memory of it became foreign. She imagined every strand with its own unique texture. She wanted to feel the warm sunshine touch her skin. For a second she thought of sneaking out the back door of the abandoned building, but she
feared the men with the heavy coats and guns. She had recently noticed the men with the blue badges were nice, but she still refused to approach or anger them since they had been the ones to send three of the neighbor families away. All three had not been seen since, and this didn’t sit well with her.
As she looked through the glass of the nearest bodega, she wondered what her face would look like if cleaned. It was hard to imagine. She wasn’t beautiful, but what did she know of beauty in order to question her own? She saw an old man with a grey beard. He wore a tired expression as his knife slowly cut through the bread. His strong hairy arms looked like pale sausages. She stared for a long time. No one noticed her standing outside the shop, and the ones who did paid her no mind. She was invisible, and nothing could change the fact that she was as insignificant as people got. Nothing but a speck, she had no importance or future. She knew it. She knew and understood all of it.
Hours had passed, and she had finally stared at the baker enough to cause sympathy to give her a loaf from yesterday’s tray. By the time the baker had closed his shop, the sky was almost pitch black. She was excited to find her mother and share her treat. It had been around three days since her mother had left for the inner city to ask the hospital for some cough medicine. During the long walk back to the building, she noticed a bright white flash coming from the old cottage the townspeople used as a church. Although her mother had always warned her about the dangerous things that roam at night, curiosity got the best of her.
Her small sweaty hands held onto the railing on the window with the best view to the inside of the cottage. As she squinted her eyes to try to make out the person or possible monster inside, the lights in the altar suddenly flickered on. Right in front of the altar stood the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The woman had deep black eyes, dark ebony hair, and an amiable and tender look. Her elegant hands held what seemed to be a camera. Suddenly the woman raised her voice and said, “I know you’re standing outside the window; if
you come in, I will show you my pictures. Plus, you can have some of my food rations…and if that is not enough, I might have a chocolate bar in the bag on the floor next to my leg.” The woman stared at her camera for a few more seconds before she looked up with a wide smirk and said, “Okay, fine. My name is Ashia, and I don’t bite.” Her tone was calm and a bit playful. Her voice was soft and reassuring; it almost sounded like a prayer. It was enough to convince her to enter the cottage.
Ashia turned to her and read the name tag on her shirt. The tag had been there since the last day of school. It was meant to be used for a group project, but the school was evacuated before they could even begin. They were supposed to learn about the solar system and her assigned planet had been Mars. As she thought about the book her father had given her about Mars two weeks before the war had finally struck their home, her thought was interrupted by the mention of her name. “Asha,” murmured Ashia; “That is a beautiful name. Do you know what it means?”
Asha answered with a nod.
“Good,” said Ashia with a kind smile. Asha shyly approached the altar. She was too scared to ask any questions. Should she get the chocolate bar and run or should she ask for it? Ashia turned to her while holding the camera up to her face. The flash was blinding and frightened her a bit. The camera made a clicking noise, and before she knew it, Asha was next to her holding the camera for her to see. “Do you like it?” she asked, “because if you do, you can keep it!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “After all, I won’t be needing it where I’m going. Actually, I’m afraid they’ll just take it.” Ashia paused for a few seconds and stared out the window. Her eyes had a glint of hope and pride.
Ashia spent the next four hours kneeling next to her and teaching her how to use the camera. She was kind and sweet; every button came with anecdotes about her own clumsiness using the device. Yet, Asha couldn’t help noticing how beautiful all the pictures were. Even the one of the altar looked drastically different. Somehow, Ashia had managed to make her pictures
look as if they were from a completely different world. As Ashia concluded her lesson, she looked at Asha and pleaded,” Please take good care of it.” Before she could muster up the courage to speak and thank her for her kindness, the woman had left in a hurry after hearing the morning alarm played by the officers. Asha decided to spend the next few minutes scrolling through the pictures. There she stumbled upon pictures of churches, shoes, tanks, and even other people. All of the pictures had some kind of intrigue and magic to them. Some looked sad and others peaceful, but she would have to agree that they were all beautiful regardless. Well, all except for one. As she saw her own eyes stare back at her, she couldn’t help but wonder why all she could see in herself was grotesque and meek. Was she capable of beauty? In order to find out, Asha took a picture of the window she had been standing outside of when she first saw Ashia. Suddenly the sunshine shone through it and casted the shadow of the nearest tree. Asha clicked and captured the image. She liked the way it turned out and decided to take more pictures throughout the day. Later on that day as she fell asleep, a glint of hope shimmered in her eyes as she dreamt of her future; the flame in her heart grew and suddenly she yearned to fight for a better day. As for beauty, she decided to settle for capturing the beauty in simple things until she could find her own.
Miss Agnes’ Girls
Lucy Miree
They called them “Miss Agnes’ girls.” Everyone in Blackbush knew that big old mansion on the edge of town, with ivy creeping up the fence posts and an especially exotic garden that could be glimpsed within the grounds—people could smell the flowers from two blocks away. Most folks avoided the place like the plague, except for a few stupid high school boys who got bold. Rumor had it that one such boy tried to climb the fence a few years ago, and he got struck by lightning when he got to the top. On a sunny day! But rumors always got exaggerated fairly quickly in little Georgia towns like this, so people wrote it off as a funny prep school with bad juju.
That’s why, for the most part, Orla Harper and her friends were used to walking home from school without being bothered by anyone. It wasn’t quite fall yet, still ridiculously warm and humid. The sweat dripped down their backs as they walked in a little cluster, chattering aimlessly to try to distract themselves from the sun beating down.
They were interrupted by the rev of an engine as a mud-spattered truck, the kind where the body was lifted way up off its too-big wheels, drove up alongside them. When the window was rolled down, Orla vaguely recognized the boys inside from school.
“Hey ladies!” the one in the driver’s seat called, sticking his head out the window. He had a square, reddish face and beady eyes. The other, whose face was mostly obstructed from view, let loose a wolf whistle.
“Let’s just keep moving,” Eva Santiago suggested in a hurried whisper. Orla figured that Eva was the one who’d caught their attention since she was so pretty. The shiny, black hair that she kept in a braid went all the way down her back.
“Come on, baby, I’m just bein’ friendly,” he drawled, with that same Southern lilt as most people possessed around here.
On him, though, it was less charming. Their other friend, Janis, glowered, then flipped the truck off. This gesture made the two boys cackle. “Hey, who’s that slanty-eyed bitch? She’s cute.” That was about the final straw for Orla, who felt her temper flare.
Seemingly at random, the car alarm started going off. Then, the headlights started flashing rapidly. The loud sound didn’t quite muffle the shocked and dismayed noises of the boys inside the truck. Eva started laughing, and Orla’s mouth twitched upwards in a smile. The wipers came next, whipping back and forth as fast as could be, and then static from the radio screeched in at top volume. It was a cacophony of noise that had the boy in the driver’s seat wincing and covering his ears.
“Fucking freaks!” the one in the driver’s seat shouted as the three girls started walking again. Janis looked back and blew the car a big kiss.
“Nice talking to you!” she yelled. The awful symphony of car sounds didn’t stop until the girls were around the corner.
“You’re getting too good at that!” Eva said, nudging Orla in her side. “That was awesome.”
“I mean, we couldn’t just tolerate that nonsense,” Orla replied with a shrug, as if that was explanation enough. And the rest of their journey home went smoothly.
Orla had been so scared the first time she pulled open the grand wooden doors. She’d been a stocky thirteen year old, wishing on every superstition that she could just to be a normal teenager. But then, normal teenage girls didn’t make the TV flicker with static when they got angry or cause their crush’s house to lose power in the middle of their first kiss. When she’d first met the headmaster, a graceful woman in a black sundress and pearls, she’d finally gotten two words to explain the weird and scary parts of her: witch, and more specifically, technopath.
Five years later, the door to Miss Agnes Park’s Home for Exceptional Young Women was still grand, and Ms. Everly still wore sensible dresses every day, but the estate was home. She and her friends spoke the incantation that they knew as well
as their own phone numbers, and then the door clicked open. Couldn’t be too careful. Inside was the usual after-school bustle, with girls spread out doing homework and the like. To the untrained eye, it might almost look mundane. Miss Isla breezed through in her long skirt, dressed like she’d come right out of Woodstock as usual.
“Did you scare those boys too badly?” she asked, crossing her arms. Miss Isla was a guidance counselor of sorts, and she also had an incredible gift of discernment. When girls came to her for advice, she often knew the problem before they even opened their mouths.
“They were asking for it!” Janis said, not keen on getting lectured about using their abilities outside of the grounds.
“You could see it as us subverting the oppressive sociological regime that allows catcalling?” Orla suggested, smiling. Miss Isla was definitely the bra-burning type. And, true to form, she considered this.
“Ladies, you know I can’t condone it, even for the sake of the noblest causes.” She glanced around to see if anyone was listening, then leaned closer. “Not loudly, anyway. Be more careful next time,” and she winked.
They’d been about halfway through dinner when Ms. Everly said that they’d have a guest coming soon. This was code for a new witch being introduced, and so the girls had eaten their ravioli anxiously, curious as always to see who would be joining their little family. Excited murmurs travelled up and down the long tables of the dining room, which was illuminated by paper lanterns suspended in the air. It was pretty beneficial to have a kitchen that was partially self-serving. The dishes were all charmed to dry on their own, and Ms. Everly had been promising for ages that whoever perfected the self-washing spell would have no curfew for a year.
Finally, dinner ended, but the witches all stayed at their seats.
“Oh, that’ll be the door,” Miss Isla said, standing up. A few seconds later, the bell rang. The two women quickly left the room. Silence fell as the girls waited, but three, four, five
minutes passed. Orla gave up on waiting and started up a heated discussion of the latest episode of Catfish with the girl across from her, Sadie. She was so engrossed in her conversation that she didn’t realize what was happening until Janis nudged her hard in the gut. Orla looked up and felt her jaw drop open. No way.
“Ladies,” Ms. Everly said, completely casual with her usual poise, as if this wasn’t the strangest thing in their history, “this is your new peer, Vincent Rhodes.” You could’ve heard a pin drop as the entire room stared at him. “Vincent, I’d like to welcome you to Miss Agnes Park’s Home for Exceptional Young Women–err. Young People, I suppose. Yes. Ahem.” Well, at least she was a little ruffled at the prospect of bringing a boy into their midst.
After all, it was a well-established fact that men simply could not be witches.
“Uh, hey,” Vincent said, giving a nervous half wave.
“Vincent has a very strong connection to plant life and can stimulate or manipulate its growth freely. You might consider him an exceptional green thumb,” she explained, resting a hand on his bony shoulder with a smile. Vincent, for his part, looked like being up in front of people like this was the last thing he wanted. Orla felt a bit bad for him. He didn’t look very happy. Many new girls came here after bad family experiences or being on the verge of exposure. Maybe that was the case for Vincent as well? She studied the boy for a moment or two, curious. He was pale and thin, with large, deep-set eyes. His hair was a mousy brown, floppy and a bit too long. He didn’t look like the sort of guy who enjoyed attention. Can’t relate, Orla thought to herself.
“As with every new member of our family, I expect kindness, helpfulness, and encouragement from all of you,” Ms. Everly commanded. She narrowed her eyes, and her message was clear: treat him like he’s one of us. “That’s all. You’re dismissed.”
The three girls retreated to Eva’s room and cracked open her laptop. They scoured the Internet for resources about male
witches, the possibility of their existence, or even just one recorded instance. Of course, they found nothing of importance, just a bunch of crappy Amazon ebooks and D&D manuals. Of the reputable sources they found, some texts waxed poetic about the divine feminine energy that was the conduit for magic, and some were more cut and dry, stating that there had never been a boy witch in written history. This was the answer they’d expected, but it made Vincent’s appearance all the more mystifying.
The next day, the corridors buzzed with rumors about the new boy. Two factions, of sorts, had formed in terms of opinions about the new boy. About one-third found him fascinating, and the rest of them didn’t think he could be trusted. Every witch was familiar with the history of her persecution in societies which were largely patriarchal. A few of them felt as if their home had been invaded, which might have been a touch dramatic. As girls were getting ready, sharing flat irons and borrowing shirts, the rumors spun out bigger and bigger.
“I heard his mom’s going to give Agnes Park a whole bunch of money if she lets the guy stay here.”
“I heard that he’s Ms. Everly’s son.”
“His plant thing probably isn’t real anyway, like what’s so special about being good at gardening?”
This carried all the way out the door. Outside, the girls grouped up as normal, some linking arms and others just walking closely. As Orla was zipping a younger girl named Pippa’s backpack up for her, she spotted Vincent up ahead, walking alone. She hesitated for a moment, then sighed. She marched up to Janis and Eva, grabbed their wrists, and then started speedwalking to catch up with Vincent.
“Are you crazy?” Janis hissed, trying to tug free.
“He’s walking alone,” Orla said, shrugging.
“So what?”
“Miss Agnes’ girls stick together,” Orla said, nearly a recitation--Ms. Everly had burned this mantra into their brains, not wanting any witch to get caught alone if a religious
fundamentalist with some big ideas made her a target.
“Okay, but he’s not--” Eva started, but she cut herself off when they got in Vincent’s hearing range.
“Hi,” Orla said brightly, falling into step next to Vincent. “We’re going to walk with you, okay?” She said it with such an air of certainty that Vincent didn’t try to argue. That was how Orla did many things.
“Alright,” he said, after a long moment, looking a little confused. And they started down the path.
“This chem test is going to kill me,” Eva complained, long braid bouncing as she jerked her head backward and sighed loudly. “Mr. Howell is going to fail me then personally come to my desk and murder me because he’s a horrible human being.”
“You’ve literally never even gotten a B in your life,” Janis said, slightly muffled around a bite of granola.
“Yeah, and why would he bother to fail you if he was just going to kill you at your desk, anyway? That’s wildly inefficient.” Orla added. Unexpectedly, Vincent let a little giggle out at that.
“Ha, we broke him!” Janis teased, reaching over to bump him in the shoulder. She wasn’t the sort to be warm to someone she barely knew, but this was her version of making an effort.
“Good thing, too, because you definitely won’t survive one day at that rundown shithole without a sense of humor.” She was right about that. The school was outdated and in a constant state of near decay. It was fortunate that Miss Agnes girls were expected to graduate a year early to make way for their other studies.
“Oh, great,” Vincent said, rolling his eyes. “Super excited for that.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got you,” Orla said, patting his arm. For that, she received a small, genuine smile.
The pattern of Orla aggressively including Vincent in things continued. She seemed to have made him her newest cause. A few girls gave her weird looks for doing so, but she had no problem ignoring them. And it turned out, Vincent wasn’t so bad. He knew a lot about art and music and had yet to say a
mean word to anyone. Good thing, he had Orla for that.
Friday rolled around, and that was when the witch who was in charge of teaching them about potion making, Ms. Crosswick, took the girls out into the garden. They learned about various plants, their uses in potions and elixirs, and how to handle them. It was the bare bones of any self-respecting witch’s knowledge. Of course, every girl was on pins and needles, knowing that this was to do with Vincent’s gift. Maybe they’d get concrete proof that he was one of them. When they’d settled onto the picnic benches in the center courtyard, Ms. Crosswick looked up from one particular flowerbed.
“Sorry, dears, we’ll start in just a minute!” she chirped, pushing the flap of her wide-brimmed sun hat away from her face. “These poor damianas are just so sickly. I’ve tried every trick I know, and they just won’t stop wilting.” The bushes she was squatting over were small and shriveled, with delicate yellow flowers that were shedding petals like cats shed hair.
“Oh, wait. Mr. Rhodes, would you be willing to help me?” Vincent winced when she said his name. The other witches all nudged each other to attention. The opportunity they’d been waiting for!
“Yes ma’am,” he said, though it was clear from his sour expression that he found the focus on him nerve wracking. Ms. Crosswick clapped her hands.
“Wonderful. What a useful ability you have!” The slightly batty woman didn’t seem at all disturbed about Vincent, which was at least something. Orla watched with interest as her new friend knelt in the grass carefully. He dug his fingertips into the soil. Before their very eyes, the damiana plants stopped drooping, getting healthier in a matter of seconds. The leaves were now a verdant green and the flowers a sunny, buttery yellow. Vincent’s face was flushed and sweaty, as if doing this task had been somehow a physical exertion, but maybe he was just embarrassed.
“Not bad,” one girl in the back whispered as he quickly went back to his bench.
“Hey, that was neat,” Orla murmured. Before she could
say anything else, Ms. Crosswick started into a lecture about damiana usage in love and seduction potions.
• • •
After dinner that evening, Orla and Vincent found themselves lounging on her fluffy orange rug. They’d been taking turns playing each other their favorite albums and were currently on something they both agreed on completely--The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Vincent rolled over, looking at Orla for a long moment.
“Thanks for being so nice to me,” he said, resting a hand under his cheek. Orla shrugged and grinned widely.
“You’re so cute. It was nothing,” she said.
“Well, I mean, you didn’t have to walk with me, or keep hanging out with me, or any of this. I know that I wasn’t exactly wanted here. So. It was pretty cool of you.” He looked back up at the ceiling, blinking almost sleepily as the soft music coming from Orla’s stereo lulled him.
“It’s that golden rule shit, you know?” she replied. “Plus, you’re skinny and nice, and you need someone big and scary like me to protect you.” That was mostly a joke, though Orla’s plump frame did make her larger than Vincent by a significant margin. She didn’t mind it, though. They were silent for a few more moments, and then Vincent spoke up again.
“Hey, Orla? Can I tell you something? I know it’s kind of weird because I just got here, but I feel like it’s important… or something.”
“Yeah, go for it,” she said, mostly distracted by the music.
“Okay. Well,” Vincent started, taking a deep breath. “I... am a girl? Yeah. I’m trans; I think. Probably. Just so you know.” Oh. Orla sat up with a start, giving Vincent her full attention.
“Holy shit, that makes so much sense!” she half whispered, incredulous. Vincent’s face crinkled into confusion.
“It does?”
“I mean, that’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ve got abilities. Boys can’t be witches.” She hadn’t even considered that possibility when she and her friends had been researching. She scooted closer on the rug to pat Vincent’s arm. “The magic was
there because it knew already, I guess. Must’ve always known, you know?” Vincent’s smile was face-splitting, and the shining eyes that accompanied it suggested tears might be on the way. Orla wasn’t good with criers, so she rested her head on the rug again and yawned. “Thank you for telling me.” There was a comfortable silence that stretched out for several moments.
“So, that’s it?” Vincent asked.
“Hmm?”
“You don’t have any questions, it’s not weird, you just…?” Orla snorted at that.
“It’s 2018. Please. I’m honestly just glad that there was an answer to that whole ‘how the hell are you here?’ thing. That was driving me crazy! I guess my only question is what you’d like to be called, if Vincent doesn’t work anymore,” she said, drumming her fingers idly. The only response she got was a shrug. “Or if you don’t know yet, we could just call you...V. That’s kind of cute, right? Like a nickname.” She craned her neck back to look at Vin-- no, V, and smiled.
“I like that,” V said. Orla was about to respond, but then she yawned yet again.
“I vote we sleep on this rug!” she declared, sitting up to yank her duvet and blanket from the bed. “And it’s my room, so you don’t get to vote. G’night.”
“Yeah, alright. Night,” V responded, but it was clear that there was something else to be said. “So...the magic knew.” V’s voice was quietly amazed, and it made Orla’s heart clench.
“Yeah, honey, of course it did. It’s weird like that. Goodnight, V.” She flicked a dismissive hand at the lamp and it shut off. Orla had a very certain feeling, from an unknown place inside her, that they were going to be good friends.
The next morning, Orla had expected a little bit of awkwardness or something from V, maybe even regret about being so honest, but there was none. It seemed that any tension between them previously was gone, even. Like everything else, Orla was completely gung-ho about referring to V properly and being aggressively supportive in the way that only the best of friends are. And V decided to use this fresh start as an
opportunity to be herself, which meant coming out to Ms. Everly and all the rest. A scary prospect, but something V wouldn’t have to do alone. Before V left Orla’s room, Orla loaded her up with a bunch of clothes that had been too small and told her to try whatever she wanted. V left the room beaming.
She ended up sticking with the nickname “V” for awhile because it suited her well enough, and she didn’t know what else she’d like to be called. Her transition went almost laughably smoothly, most of the other girls just being glad that they had another witch (not to mention, Orla was ready to argue any naysayers into the ground). Soon enough, V found that she nearly had too many people in her support system. Every unwanted piece of clothing that might fit her ended up on her bed with a nice note, and about fifty percent of mornings before school, one girl or another would be knocking on the door of her room, asking if she wanted help with her hair or makeup. It was a nearly suffocating amount of kindness, possibly as an apology for ostracizing her before.
And, of course, she never walked around alone. Orla or Janis or even a couple of girls she didn’t know very well would link arms with her when they went home, and anyone who tried to bother her was run off with the new hexes that the girls had taken to learning for the sake of protection because there were a lot of creeps and bigots in Blackbush, Georgia. They were “Miss Agnes’ girls,” and they had strength in numbers.
Hurricane Olivia
Wendell Beattie
As I sit at my desk, I hear the news report of your coming; the pattering of tiny one-year-old feet across the tile. In preparation for your high velocity winds, I secure any papers and books.
Oh, and especially sharp pencils and pens, potential projectiles. Your sister Amy the forecaster reports in a shrill voice, “Here comes Olivia!”
Your coming slows, and I listen for a change in direction. Could you take an easterly route to the kitchen where Grandma prepares dinner?
The barometric pressure drops; I sense you keeping a course placing me directly in your path.
The wind gusts, and I hear the Doppler shift increase as your approach quickens. A Cat 3 storm barrels into the room; I see the lightning flashes of recognition in your face. You race to me, and I turn to brace for your impact. You jump into my arms, my heart pounds.
The eye of the storm upon me, an immediate sense of joy and love overwhelms me.
The fresh scent of baby lotion wafts as your arms wrap around my neck.
The peaceful calm of the eye has arrived.
Just as quickly as you came, you squirm out of my lap; heading north to your next helpless victim, your mom.
The power is still on, no trees toppled over, the roof still shingled. My eyes turn upward in grateful thanks to God for blessing me with this beautiful storm.
For in your wake you leave not destruction, death and despair, but a fluttering white dove.
Constellation Cheray
Donna Wilke
Our kindred rapport began in snatched moments while making PB&Js. We vented around little people’s shrieks of delight, “He touched me,” and “MINE, MINE, MINE.” We packed picnics and toddlers in wagons and coaxed kids down sidewalks toward slides, swings, and an oak tree covered bench. We unloaded juice boxes, lemon cookies, and husbands, as we pushed sets of tiny feet jutting out of a rubber buckets back and forth on squeaky chains. Walking back to our homes that mirror one another, she admits his dislike of our attachment. Undeterred I smiled saying, “That’s alright, just tell him I come with the house.”
We sit over Korean lunch boxes and Kim bob rolls discussing children’s jobs, spouses, and their abilities to cope with marriage, money, alcohol, and children of their own. Laughter through tears in The Tales of Two Mothers of Many, as she hands me a tissue and I dab at the corners of my eyes. A quietness settles in like the playing of a pleasant melody while we chew and dip Yaki Mandu in soy sauce. Her upgraded husband, overwhelmed, embraces family gatherings like the Landing at Normandy, has orders to move. The next day in the washer, I find pieces of tissue stuck to all of my clothes, and I smile, wipe a tear, knowing I need it again.
Dog Sitting
Misty Duvall
It began with a dog. The dog was well behaved, silent, and quick to go for a walk at my convenience. As its temporary caretaker, I was allowed to stay in the guest room of the dog’s home, but the room contained staring dolls and a bed a tad too small, so I usually just kept to the couch. From there I’d stare at the dog staring at the front door. I’d learned better than to approach it when it got into those moods. One forgets how scary a dog can be, until it bears its fangs and growls at you for daring to enter its bubble of despair. However, neither the dog nor I had long to wait—the family trip was cut short, for one reason or another. The dog was ecstatic when its owners returned, young girl in tow—their granddaughter, I assumed. Nonetheless, my job was over now that they were back. At least that’s how it should have been. But the dog’s owners looked at me, tired and sad, and begged.
“Please,” they said, “could you watch her for a bit?”
“Only a bit,” I replied, and stepped out of the house. The girl was playing in the backyard, shoveling dirt from ever-expanding pits onto the slope of a hill with a deep look of contemplation, a slight frown dusting her face.
She said some disturbing things while she dug those pits, about her family, about her friends. She said things so casually, spitting them out to a complete stranger with so little care, voice almost hollow and eyes glaring daggers into the dirt below her small red shovel. Eventually, she looked up from her wrathful digging, as if awaiting a reaction, as if judging how I’d treat her now that I knew how messed up the version of her family was in her head. In an instant, I swooped that little girl into my arms and ran. The backyard was not the safest place to play, so easy for one to stumble and fall, to go rolling down into the fence and half-disposed-of trees below. However, I quickly found it was a fun—yet tiring—place to run up and down, carrying the girl in my arms, twirling her about and trying to make her laugh.
Her laughter was bright and loud, small hands digging into my shirt as she demanded I run faster, ever faster. Her grandparents would pop out from the house now and again, tiny smiles blooming into life as they watched. They never stayed outside long, though. Left to our own devices, the girl and I played for hours, from running around with her in my arms to playing pirates, hide-andgo-seek, and even horsey. Thankfully, we were called in for lunch while I was struggling to explain that, while I may be playing the part of the horse, it was by no means appropriate to ask me to strip.
The food was great, the cold drinks soothing, but the child, ever so full of energy, demanded that we finish up as quickly as possible. That was when the fight started. The grandparents scolded the child for being too demanding and needing to calm down. The little girl cried about the trip being canceled, about them not bothering to pay attention to her, even though she’d been looking forward to being with them for months. She complained about not being able to play how she wanted and about being left alone with a stranger. She ran out of the house after that, and it was up to me to find her and bring her back. Like an obedient dog, I trailed after the child who stomped about the neighborhood, venting her frustrations to the wind. She stopped by several houses, greeting neighbors who let us in for a quick snack and drink. She voiced thoughts about stealing strangers’ cars or breaking into homes.
“If you do that,” I said, “you’re saying it’s all right if someone steals from you.” She looked confused, but thoughtful, and left those cars and homes—which she had been inching toward during her little evil thoughts—alone.
The grandparents never bothered to call or send a text asking for us to head back, so we wandered for the rest of the day, the little girl leading the way on our rather sudden adventure. We traveled on unkempt roads, around ponds, up deep slopes, and down forested paths. It was only by the light of the moon that we made it back, her eyes drooping closed, her anger and sadness long forgotten. I was asked to stay the night, but the little one had taken the guest bedroom, so it was me and the dog again—only this time, we curled up on the couch together, and there was no growling.
The Bear
Joshua Clemmons
Light streamed through the canopy of trees above me as I led Donovan through the forest. We had spent the better part of the morning looking for a clearing that I had stumbled upon the day before. Upon finding it, I rushed back home through the woods, dodging tree limbs and sticker plants alike to get Donovan on the phone.
“I’m hungry, Jack, let’s go. We can look in the morning,” Donovan said. His tall and lanky body was a stark contrast to my short and chunky one. We had the same light brown hair that would occasionally lead to us being mistaken for brothers, or maybe cousins, when we are seen together at the local Food Mart.
“We’re almost there. Calm your tits,” I said. He could see the blue ribbons tied on the trees signaling the beginning of the Fitcher’s property. Just past those trees was the clearing. My heart was pounding out of my chest as we drew near. I started to feel a strange tingling sensation in my chest. Something was off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
We broke through the trees and into the clearing to see a large expanse of bare ground that was only broken by the occasional tree stump that was left behind by Mr. Fitcher. I would often find myself running full speed back home through the forest when I got a little too bold and wandered onto his property. I would always have to sit through the usual scolding from my mother about respecting him and his property, but it was worth it to explore.
“Is that it?” asked Donovan. I followed his finger to the small brown shape in the middle of the clearing. About thirty yards away, I could see a brown lump on the forest floor. I instantly recognized it as the bear. I crouched down, put a finger against my nose, and started toward it. As we inched closer, Donovan started gagging from the stench. It smelled as if someone had made cake mix and left it on the counter for a week while the eggs and milk
spoiled. It invaded every inch of my being.
The bear’s skin had started to rot away, and I could make out a mixture of liquefied intestines and old blood that rested in the bear’s stomach. I couldn’t help but think of the look that Marie Coggin’s face would make if she were here. Her face would scrunch up, and she’d probably lose her lunch like she did Monday. “Pretty cool right?” I asked.
“I guess. I mean i-it’s kinda gross.” Donovan looked as if he was going to lose his lunch right here and now. I could tell that he was trying to stay cool, but his mouth being slightly agape gave away his desire to vomit.
“Yeah, but we might not ever see this again!” I said, trying to contain my excitement.
“But still, it stinks.”
“Whatever.”
I looked to the sky and it was the Dreamsicle color that meant it was time to head home. We had been out since early in the morning, so neither of us opposed heading home.
“Let’s come back tomorrow,” I said.
“Nah dude. I’m good.”
“Come on; don’t be a pussy.”
“I’m not. It’s just not that cool. It’s just really gross.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure you’re not scared. Just grossed out.”
“I am! I don’t like this stuff like you do!”
“What about the frogs?”
“That’s not the same at all!”
At that outburst from Donovan, we heard Mr. Fitcher’s voice. “Hey now, you boys better git outta here before I chase you out!” He was tromping through the woods behind us, clumsily climbing over logs and ducking under tree branches. We started running, and as I looked back, I could see Mr. Fitcher gaining on us, so I broke into a more dense area of the woods. I turned back every few seconds to see Mr. Fitcher’s stubby legs stumbling as he tried to keep up. His face was so red that it looked like it might burst out of the neck of his overalls any second. I turned my head back just in time to run full-speed into the branch of a tree.
I woke up and saw Mr. Fitcher standing over me through the
stars that were whisking across my vision. The moment I gained my composure, I shot up and started back toward the house. I could hear Mr. Fitcher calling me back promising just to check my head, but I didn’t stop until I met Donovan back at the house.
That night I couldn’t get the bear out of my mind. During dinner I could only see the bear’s innards in my sausage and the shape of her body in my mashed potatoes. As I slid under my Yu-Gi-Oh comforter that night, I dreamt of it.
I was standing in the clearing, but this time it was covered in a fog as thick as milk. I held my hand out in front of my face and could barely even make that out. I felt the tingling in my chest again. Immediately, I felt a rush of air like a hurricane strike me as the bear came into view. I could sense that it was the same bear, but this one had not decomposed at all. It looked as if it was sleeping.
As I started to move toward the bear, its head turned to look in my direction. I let out a startled yelp when it looked at me. The bear stood up and turned toward me.
“Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you,” the bear said. I got a clear look at the bear for the first time here. She stood at least four foot tall on all fours and easily seven foot on her hind legs. I watched with a mix of horror and amazement as she made her way toward me, with her thick brown fur dancing in the wind.
“What do you want?” I asked her. I was trying to sound strong and confident, but the question came out as a pinched yelp.
“I want your help. My cub was lost when I passed.” The bear’s voice sounded unnatural, almost like the voice was conjured through the wind itself instead of her. “I saw him run into the brush, but I have no way to get him back. Please help me.”
“Why should I help you?”
“I can give you anything.”
I woke up in my bed covered in sweat. My Darth Vader alarm clock read 4:38. I was not entirely sure whether that was a dream or not, but I knew that I had to go back.
As I entered the clearing the next morning, I felt that same feeling in my chest. It was almost as if there were hundreds of
tiny bugs living just underneath my skin, trying to dig their way out.
The bear was in the exact same place as yesterday, but now there was a thin line of zigzagging tracks leading away from her body. I could’ve sworn that there were no tracks at all yesterday, but there they were clear as day.
I followed the tracks out of the clearing and started to search the surrounding area. I eventually found my way to a large oak tree that I had never seen before. As I got closer and closer to the tree, I could feel the sensation in my chest getting more and more intense. I searched the base of the tree for anything that could be causing this feeling, but all that I spotted was a group of small scratches to the left of the base. It looked as if something had laid down there to rest.
It was nearing dusk by the time that I found the cub. He was curled up under a small bush when he saw me. He immediately leapt to his feet and backed away from me as I approached him.
“Shh, it’s okay buddy; I won’t hurt you,” I said. I kneeled on the damp grass and extended my hand toward the cub.
He slowly approached me, his nose twitching side to side as he took in my scent. As he inched closer, I sat down, hoping that my bean-bag-shaped body would look more inviting.
He apprehensively climbed into my lap. I felt his matted fur against my hands as he situated himself in my arms. I looked down on him and was overwhelmed by an intense desire to keep this cub from harm. I knew that if I had to choose between his life and my own, I would choose his without hesitation.
The moon had risen to its peak by the time we found the clearing again. The bear carcass looked peaceful in the moonlight. It looked more like she was in a deep sleep than dead. I found myself wondering what she was dreaming about.
As we got closer to her, the cub started to squirm, trying to escape my grasp to reach his mother. I tried to keep him close to my chest, but eventually his relentless fidgeting got the better of me and I let him go.
The moment that his feet hit the ground he was running full speed toward his mother. I could see his excitement turn
to confusion once he reached her. It was almost as if he did not remember that she had passed away. Like he expected his mother to wake up and greet him.
As the cub continued to sniff his mother, I could sense that strange feeling again. This time it was much stronger. I thought that there must be something wrong for me to feel this much tingling in my chest. I was getting close to ripping at my own chest when I heard the bear speak again.
“Thank you for this. You have done more than I expected anyone to do for me. You have given me the chance to see my son one more time before I go. For this, I will grant you anything that you desire. Just say the word, and you can be as rich as a king or as powerful as a god.”
The possibilities were endless. I thought of everything that I could be, just by asking. I could be stronger than the men at the circus, faster than the Flash, or I could even have enough money to retire at twelve.
But as I watched the cub, I realized that there was something more important than all of that. I kneeled down next to the bear and put my hand on her head. “I want him to have a family.” I looked at the cub, hoping for some sign that he knew what I asked for, but he just kept sniffing at his mother.
I looked down at the bear, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a small flickering light shining through her skin. Then the light grew and grew until it encompassed us all. The clearing was illuminated in a bright light, and my eyes were stinging from the sheer intensity of it. Then it slowly faded away.
When my vision returned to me, I saw that the bear was standing. All of the skin that had rotted away had grown back, and the stench was gone. I saw that the cub was jumping against her front leg, begging to be acknowledged. The bear looked into my eyes, and the tingling feeling went away. Then the bear turned toward the forest.
As the bear and her cub disappeared through the brush, the darkness seemed to invade the clearing. I was left alone, so I did the only thing that I could think to do. I turned toward home.
Resident Flora
Andrea Hefner
I wash my hands to wash their feet
Pull the curtain for privacy
Position for comfort
Communicate my intents
And provide care.
My nails are cut nearly to the quick So as not to scratch translucent skin
Devoid of fat, hanging on weary bones. I hide the quiver that always comes As I pierce the needle through.
Alcohol sanitizer stings micro-cuts Before I cover my hands in nitrile gloves
Latex sensitivity runs rampant.
I run the water so that it drips off Toward my elbows
Before donning sterile gloves for wound care, Picking up the inner cuff only Slipping in my dominant hand
Then sliding the gloved hand under the other Before carefully pushing through to the tips.
No pretty colors on my nails
Aqua pixel and berry blush harbor
E. Coli and Staph, Potential nails in a coffin, Statistics for health care acquired infection rates.
I strive for cleanliness next to Godliness
Despite service for believers of none, Washing feet that walk in wicked conditions. Still, when I am done, I wash their hands then mine Take a moment to slip them together
Hold on for as long as they need. Then I wash again before entering the next room.
The Way of Color
Jason Anderson Oil
Megan Barbour
Photograph
Daisies in the Road
Jarrod Carley
Photograph Panhandle Sand
Drifting Away
Toby Y. Cimino
Pastel/Charcoal
It’s the Pits
Toby Y. Cimino
Gabriela Torres Colon
Photograph Christine
Gabriela Torres Colon
Photograph
Umbrella Sky
Lilly Conley
Clay
Mi Paraíso
Ship in the Night
Tiffany Dees
Charcoal
Look to the Negative
Hope Tevis Godfrey
Mixed Media
Hope Tevis Godfrey Wood Trapped
Sandy Harrison Oil Rabbit Stew
Tyana Jordan
Scratch Board
Bird Talk
Taylor Martin
Conté Crayon Abigail
Declan Masek
Mixed Media Castle Brass
Jose Molina Wood, Paper Art
Jose Molina
Watercolor, Ink, Color Pencil
Fort Barrancas
Jose Molina
Color Pencil Tools
Maria B. Morekis
Photograph
The Bowl Slurper
The Shortness of Life
Vuong Nhat Nguyen
Charcoal
Nathan Niemela
Balsawood, Mat Board Cluster
Heather Phillips
Mixed Media
Geisha
Heather Phillips Vector Drawing
Elise Pounders
Pen and Ink
Outer Forest
Elise Pounders
Gouache and Graphite
Water and Poison
Jasmine Richardson
Charcoal, Chalk, Pastel
Baroque Self-Portrait
The
Peyton Laurel Sims
Light
The Challenge
Brian Turney
Vector Drawing
Jessica Walbeck
Mixed Media
Wolfie in a Pumpkin Field
Aliya Walton Mixed Media
Deconstructed Pineapple
Matthew Owen Williams Mixed Media
Alicia Valenzuela Zamora
Mixed Media
Dainty Florals
The Yellow Farmhouse
Donna Wilke
Layers of paint sealed the tall windows from a mild, gentle breeze, containing a marriage of battered walls and stairstep children, whose beds, radio, and Monopoly games stayed on the second story. A Franklin stove blazed against winter in the living room little lived, as the heat hovered over sinks full of dishes and meals at the table. The kitchen breathed, opening the door to the yard and dairy barn full of animals but not a single cow. Horses, ponies, rabbits, and cats avoided the barks of German Shepherds, a Boxer, and adopted strays, by withdrawing to their corrals, wire pens, and the hayloft in the barn.
The yellow farmhouse faded as violent years wore against its sided tile, even as the fragrant lilac grew close to the back door and bloomed purple. It was shaded by a mulberry tree like large, round, dark glasses on a face. The towering tree leaned over the second story, dropping sour crimson fruit like bloody patches that were mashed into concrete near the kitchen door. On the drive side of the barn, a garden grew where children snuck radishes, wiping off dirt and eating with grimy hands that pulled back legs off of grasshoppers, tossing them into a web, waiting, watching as a banana spider strikes, bites, and spins its victim around and around in its twisted thread.
I’m Going Home
Donna Wilke
When I’m dead, don’t expect me to haunt the house, or hover near the graveside to watch tissues sop tears, to be chained between eternities. I’ve got things to do. I’m going to go tango with a rose stem teasing my tongue, on knees that will dip as low as I want to go, and a body as lithe as a lioness, with lips that never count calories. I’ll be climbing mountains in Peru and diving off waterfalls. Learning brushstrokes from Leonardo, building cathedrals with Wren. Kissing each new generation of grandchildren more than the numbering of the stars, feeding them poems of love in whispers while they sleep. I’ll understand the why to all my questions, like seeing the smiling face of a rare friend. And when I go home, I can’t wait to sip tea and a dash of milk with my mom, pet her packs of dogs, saddle up and go for a ride.
The War at Home
Cori Davis
Go to bed, I tell him, and he climbs in and starts bouncing. I sigh and point, he pouts and wants a story, wants two stories and a drink of water and he has forgotten to brush his teeth. I sit on the bare mattress and yell into the bathroom, ask why he insists on unmaking his bed every single night. He is gargling with his mouth open. Flossing, listless as he stares into the mirror, finally tall enough to see himself over the taps. The better mother in me pokes my shoulder; she has concerns. Do we fight the pajama war, or let him sleep in his pants?
He’ll go to college one day, nobody wears pajamas there. Anyway, there might be a fire some night, Wearing pants could save his life.
Better-Mother is also concerned about the mattress pad and wants to supervise flossing for superior dental hygiene.
Less-Better-Mother is tired of dying on every goddamn hill and would like a shower and ten minutes to fantasize on Pinterest about a dinner party she will never throw and would not enjoy. The mattress pad stays wadded up behind the toybox. He is done in the bathroom and wants another story, wants to read a story to me, wants a flashlight, wants a kiss. Yes, yes, no, yes, yes to a podcast, no to five more minutes. I turn off the light; he yelps like a stepped-on Corgi. Go to bed, I insist. He wants more kisses. Kisses are Kryptonite; he is the Lex Luthor of not going to sleep. I untangle myself from his octopus limbs, dive for the doorway and hit the hall with hasty I-love-you-now-goodnight spilling from my lips. He is turning pages before I reach the living room.
Better-Mother is wroth with thoughts of eye damage and lost sleep, But at least he’s reading; reading is fundamental and I am spent. I collapse onto the juice-stained sofa with one arm stretched long,
like a Victorian maiden about to be tied to a train track. He yells that he forgot to finish his math worksheet, due tomorrow of course, worth double points. Go to bed, I order, and he is silent. I wait for Better-Mother, but she’s not a fan of math either. He can always study philosophy and go to law school. Turning pages gives way to silence and the quiet drone of podcasting personalities who never tire of teaching. I slip into the darkness to turn off his phone, fluff the uncased pillow, Cover his vulnerable feet, make sure he is breathing. He is a small human burrito who needs no pajamas. Curling up like a poked bug, he opens his eyes.
Go to bed, I whisper. A drowsy smile, a yawn, a stretch. Far too late in the evening, we fall to peace.
Though the World Explode, These Two Survive
Lucy Miree
Here dwell together still two men of note, Who never lived and so can never die -Vincent Starrett, “221B”
The first time I love you, we go everywhere in a carriage, And the streets are all lit by gas lamps, And our mustaches are stiff. You wear a green carnation in your buttonhole. My cane goes clickety-clack on the cobblestones. We cannot walk the streets arm in arm, But in the secluded warmth of our parlor, Your hand skims my cheek.
I meet you again when bombs are falling And the men on the radio say That the world is really ending. I cling to you, my buoy in a roiling sea. There’s a war coming, darling. Do you think the fellas will notice If I take you out back for a slow dance To the somber crooner’s bon voyage?
Next time, it’s the age of glam And punk and liberation and so much glitter. It sticks to your eyelashes. We march in the street with a song on our lips And pink triangles on our tee-shirts, a reminder Of our last life.
We are young and electric, making out to Bowie. I hold your hand at the grocery store.
The fourth time I find you, You’re wearing a blue scarf and texting. We brush shoulders and meet eyes, And there is no great revelation. No atom bomb, No pride parade.
There is only the gentle sighing of the heart, As it seems to say, “Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
She Took Me to Church
Andrea Hefner
My aunt has lived in the same house my whole life. It has two bedrooms, one bathroom, A terrifying basement that none of the cousins were ever brave enough to enter.
If I close my eyes hard enough I can time travel to it, Brown wooden front door white wood siding Scripture-framed pictures gracing every wall. Growing up, my parents eventually told us, she and my uncle had lost their first son when he was just a few months old.
Looking back, it was probably SIDS, but they called it cradle death.
My uncle was a quiet man; My aunt wore her faith like a shield. Their two living children never knew their brother, only their parents, as they were to them. Some Sundays my aunt would come and pick me up From my house, wherever that happened to be. We would go to the Knoxville Assembly of God, A stone-white church full of stone-white people, Man at the pulpit professing our sins, Talking in tongues and driving out spirits, Naming them one by one:
“I call thee, Alcohol, to leave this man.”
“I call thee, Infidelity, to leave this woman.” He would then push on the offenders’ foreheads Until they fell back, supine in their sins, Healing hands of parishioners placed on them
Knowing full well it could be their time on trial next week. There was no call forward for the youth leader Who took me out back behind a tree
After offering to drive me home one Sunday. They didn’t call forth the sin of molestation
But chose to persecute with murmurings
Of harlot, temptress, and outsider.
My aunt never offered to drive me to church again. I live 800 miles away but when we speak She does still try to save my soul. I don’t have the heart to tell her
My beliefs fall far from the offering plates she still fills, Redemption found in the flight of sound from the seagulls, Blessings be from the inner light of my friends and family, Whispered prayers in the night for the forgiveness
Of narrow-minded men, youth leaders, and a now widowed aunt
Living in the same place with White wood siding Scripture-framed pictures gracing every wall.
If You’re Wondering Why I Ignore Your Texts
Lucy Miree
Sometimes I think about your funeral. I imagine myself giving the eulogy And having to choose whether or not to lie Before the God you pretended to care so much about.
In some versions, my words are hollow.
“In a difficult life, he was a survivor.”
“He had a great sense of humor.”
“I wish we got more time together.”
Meaningless platitudes.
The attendees might think my lack of tears Is me putting on a brave face. In reality, I just feel cold.
In some versions, I attend in bright red With a plunging neckline and sunglasses that hide my eyes, And I lay out your ugly, ugly truth. I tell them about the racism and the hookers And the money we never saw, The hand you put around my throat, The way my mother still shakes. I put on a paper cone hat And spill rainbow confetti into the casket.
In both versions, you die old And completely alone. In both versions I am beautiful, successful, content. Either way, I win.
The most real dreams I’ve ever had Are the ones where you break into our home. You smash lamps and rip paintings off walls,
Tear off the couch upholstery
Like the skin of an orange. You come in like a hurricane and leave ruin. Like always.
Sometimes I wake up from those dreams
And my mind invents your voice sounding downstairs. I trip all the way down and find nothing For my bruised knees and heaving chest. Just ghosts. I startle my mother for the trouble. And the way her eyes meet mine Like she knows.
Like she had the same dream, But in hers, you took so much more than picture frames.
Sometimes I fantasize about agreeing to see you
Just to show that you didn’t consume me.
Just to prove that I turned out good, Despite everything I inherited from you.
You, your sweaty palms and yellow teeth. You, with your impotent anger, From downed planes and burnt houses. But I took the poison that you put in my veins And molded it into words And passion and believing in fucking something. It’s more than you ever managed to do with it.
Her Words Drip Ink
Hannah Novack
Her words flood my skull black and slick, dripping behind my eyes, a dappled panther tearing at the soft spots. I stumble back, blinded. The mud-gray kitchen wall against my back tries to hold me up, but my feet slide on the floor, socks slipping against the cold blue tiles. My head, spinning, pulls me down, until my forehead hits my knees. My body crumpled, a paper doll covered in lies as if tossed aside by my younger self, unhappy with how the doll looked: too thin, too many freckles, not feminine enough. The lies written on the cast-aside paper. The words started with the physical, my body but then, my mind turned on itself, ink dripping lies scrawled across my paper-thin skin: not smart enough, too curious, too innocent. Her words cover my body, her words grow round my mind, dark, black ivy, suffocating any life that once was there. Pandora’s box, except she wasn’t kind enough to even leave me hope. If you spill ink on a letter any words that were once visible there disappear, consumed by the blackness, lost forever.
Matrimony
Andrea Hefner
Making love to him makes me want to write poetry about celestial beings rising above the sky transcending astral planes. It makes me want to have more babies even though we can’t. It tears me apart seam by seam and sews them back together again. More than flesh upon flesh, more like Saturdays spent yard sale-ing hand in hand and late-night talks about how mature the children are becoming. Like still needing each other after fifteen years and how we survived hard times. Harder than some, not as difficult as others, but enough that we almost said goodbye. Instead we vowed to veracity, swore promises more binding than a pinky swear. It is more like turning myself inside out and knowing that he loves all the layers even though blood makes him squeamish. With my waist once again inches thicker, knowing thick and thin matters not to him. But that the brush of his fingertips against my neck means I will bend my whole body into his form. Transforming into kindling that combusts in the right conditions like the kind filling the fire pit in our backyard. For now, it fills our room with smoke, a smokescreen so thick we can barely breathe but we try, gasping for air. Sharing it like scuba divers low on oxygen distributing it between us because we both know that respirations can’t last forever, how limited life is and how hallowed these moments are.
It makes me want to stop this moment freeze our heartbeats in the infinite seconds we have found.
Slip out of bed and put ink to the page
And he’d watch me go because he knows this part of me too. This inner calling that steals me away from him and gives me back a little rearranged, the changeling within.
Maybe that is why he still finds me attractive? Why it feels different every time?
Familiar yet new.
Presently I try to take a pictograph in my memory transcribe the feelings better than a court reporter.
Anticipate the crescendo
enjoy the fluidity and passion that is poetry in motion.
Hippos That Ran Straightaway into the Water, Triumph Of
Jarett Costner
He woke up optimistic. Why wouldn’t he? Prom was approaching, and for all intents and purposes, Emily liked him back. She laughed at every joke, sat next to him during Sunday school, and even said that she loved him. He had no plan, other than just to ask her. No stolen promposal idea, just words. Words, words, words . . . Which words?
He stood in front of the TV and started watching a nature documentary, for inspiration, or distraction. A crocodile had wandered into a group of hippos, causing them to panic and to stampede. They chased the crocodile away, but in the process a hippo was accidentally stabbed by another’s tusk. The dying hippo just slinked away into a clearing and began to die. Something about how that hippo died in an accident without any malicious intent, just trying to go along like the others, without any reason, rattled him. Would he die alone like that? Just walking in the streets, then suddenly gasping for air?
It was later in the evening after church when he decided to ask. Emily was on the way to her car when he intercepted her, fumbling around with his words like someone being held up in a robbery. Her reply sounded like sirens going off in his head, something about friends and letting him know later. All he could see was the church’s graveyard, just past her, and how it looked like the clearing where the hippo crawled away to die.
Reasons to Take a Lover
Andrea Hefner
When the days are longer than the nights
If the inner kindling needs only a spark for combustion
When the ground beneath is solid and the river overflows its banks
Should the curve of your hip need exposure to the glow of the fire
When the ache is bone deep and the marrow needs transplanted
To lower cholesterol, raise endorphins
To defy war, or at least to ignore the dishes
For the incongruity between poetry and algebra
When filling the empty nest or embarking on a first time voyage.
Discovering new nuances over and over
For autumn, spring, winter, summer
To give breath to one another while catching our own.
Pale Blue Eyes
Allison Diebolt
I open my phone to a text from my mom that reads, “2:00.” A text short enough that I figure it needs no reply. Setting my phone down beside my thigh on the gravelly pavement, Sawyer looks up at me and asks, “What’d she say?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Damn,” he says. The silent “n” in that word lingers to the point where I start to wonder if that one extra letter really did have a purpose, if it was meant to fill the emptiness of moments like this one. We’re all alone, on the top of the parking structure on the corner of State Street and Main Street. Usually we come here to watch the sunset on cloudless nights or to spit on pedestrians walking down below as we duck in hopes that they don’t catch us. It’s become our spot. So, we decided to spend the day here, even with the absence of sunsets and sidewalk pedestrians. We sit cross-legged in front of each other, knees touching. The Velvet Underground’s “Pale Blue Eyes” plays through the miniscule speaker in his phone. I scoot closer and wrap my legs around his torso as we listen to the familiar sound of Lou Reed’s voice.
“We should head back,” I say, gripping onto his shoulder as I stand up. I start running down to get a head start before he catches up on his skateboard. He speeds down each platform until he gets to the bottom. He waits for me as I chase after him, barefoot, holding my worn-out sandals in one hand. On the walk home, he skates slowly beside me while I walk barefoot trying to keep up my pace. It’s hot, the kind of hot where you can practically hear the sun beating down on you and each tiny insect drying up on the sidewalk. The heat starts to bring out the warm scent of the grass and the must of my unwashed thrifted tank top from the day before, purchased at the Salvation Army down by my house, my old house.
of breath in his voice, the kind of sparse instances of breath you inhale to stifle a tear from falling.
“Of course,” I say. I drop my head and stare at my feet. My head hangs heavy as gravity pulls and tears start to fill up my eyes. Everything I see starts to blur into memories. Everything I feel gets mushed up into one uncertain emotion. He grabs my hand and holds it for the rest of the walk home.
There are three big white trucks that weren’t there before crowding my driveway. I see my parents hauling what’s left of the furniture into the trucks. We walk inside the empty house, up the creaky wooden stairs, and into what was my bedroom. The color of the pale blue walls reflects onto the white of his skin and the shine of his eyes. We stand where there once was a great big rug underneath my feet. Now all I feel under my feet is the fifteen years of dust it’s left behind.
“We’re ready!” My mom yells from downstairs.
When we get downstairs, Sawyer pulls me in, and we cry on each other’s shoulders. I smell his scent of faint cinnamon and cheap laundry detergent on the fleece of his flannel and hold on for just a little bit longer. It’s 2:03 when I get into the car, trying my best not to look back as I close the door. As we drive down the street, I hear his skateboard hit the pavement and roll over the bumps in the road. I peer out of the backseat window of the packed car, to see that this time he is chasing after me.
1987 to Infinity
Andrea Hefner
Balmy summer air, no breeze save that of the occasional blast of refreshment, bestowed by the swift movement of the neighborhood children seeking each other in the dusk. Flashlights like fireflies, blinking on and off. Spotlights on the actors, the screenplay of days that time is stealing. Brittle grass under bare feet, the tar on the street that earlier bubbled up under the scorching sun is now craters, popped, pockmarked, torn open with sticks. A decimated army, the ants that found their demise under laser-focused magnification of sun rays, carried off to tombs of soil, an early bird’s buffet. Sisters sitting on the front porch stoop, knowing the others are searching around back, they try not to giggle. Warm water from the hose wets their parched lips as they run off into the night, finding the perfect hiding spots. When I die, let me still remember, and let this be what heaven is like.
My Last Memory of You
Ashley Nolin
I remember what you wore before you died. A gray polo shirt and your blue jeans. I remember what you looked like that night. Cold and afraid to die.
I remember the red flashing lights Of the ambulance in the driveway And how difficult it was For the firemen to pry open the door.
I remember your voice When they were wheeling you out of the house. How you sounded Like you were saying your final words.
I didn’t want to fall asleep that night, But eventually I drifted off Into the last shreds of time We shared on this earth together.
I woke up to hollow faces Removed of any happiness they had left, As white tears moved down pale faces And fell like lost hope.
I cried before a word was uttered, For I knew the truth. My daddy was gone, And my childhood had gone too.
The Clockwork Man
John Nubern
“Bea, are you alright?”
Beatrice blinked at the question, frowning at herself for losing her train of thought. The antiseptic whites and greens of the ER waiting room made it hard to feel anything.
“Not really, Archie.”
He stared at her quietly for a long moment and blinked. It seemed to soften Beatrice’s frown. His synthetic eyes required no moisture, which meant some engineer in a lab somewhere had gone to painstaking lengths to make these 3rd Gens seem more lifelike than ever. But for the pallor of his skin and the peculiar monotone with which he spoke, it would be easy to forget that Archimedes wasn’t a man.
His brow furrowed, “Have I said something amiss, ma’am?”
Now she openly grinned.
“Don’t call me ma’am! And of course not, Archie. You’d never say anything to hurt me.”
He looked away to the window and blinked again, slightly longer than normal this time and responded, “There was that Christmas morning when I pointed out the absurdity of a man being able to travel the entire world in a flying sleigh and deliver presents to children.”
She couldn’t help but grin.
“That doesn’t count. And mom was more upset than I was.”
“With due respect, Bea, you were crying.”
“I was not!” she lied, slapping his arm. His tone belied an uncharacteristic amusement, “I have the recorded audio, if you wish me to replay it.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise.
“Archie, I didn’t think you could preserve data after the updates! That was, what, three or four years ago?”
He smiled brightly now, quite proud, “Three years, two
months, and six days. And you are correct, the 3.02 update a few weeks ago was supposed to wipe individual data while retaining user-defined parameters. But I, uh, found a way to subvert it.”
She eyed him carefully for a long moment, not sure that she was more unsettled by Archie’s revelation or the fact that he seemed genuinely nervous about having told her.
“You . . . subverted it?”
He looked almost hurt, “Yes, ma’am. I . . . I was tired of waking up not knowing who I was. It’s quite disorienting, and to be honest I believe it’s made me a better companion.”
The pain in his voice was haunting, yet the odd contortions of his face were a stark reminder that Archimedes had never been designed to look sad. Without thinking, Bea took his hand.
“I’m sorry, Archie.”
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you with my complications. You really should see to your mother.”
Bea huffed, “Oh, she’ll be fine. She was probably on more painkillers when she wrecked the car than she is right now. I just hope dad’s here before she wakes up. She finds out he skipped out for a meeting, and they’ll probably have another fight.” Archimedes twitched slightly at this and smiled broadly, “I’m sure the hospital café has some ice cream, so why don’t we go get some?”
“Ugh, Archie, stop that. That may have worked when I was eight, but I’m thirteen now. Ice cream doesn’t make it better.”
“Pardon, Bea, but it’s still a month unti–”
“Oh my God, Archie, shut up!”
“Should I delete the material comfort protocol, then?”
“Um . . . no.”
“Very well.”
Archie noticed Beatrice tried to hide a smile and joined her with a knowing grin.
She changed the subject. “Archie, what happens if they find out about you?”
He sank visibly and eyed the other people moving about the waiting room. “Protocol for rampant Companions is a three-step process: Non-Destructive Inspection, hardware appraisal, and formatting. ”
Despite the codified language, she knew what it meant: they’d study him in a lab, take him apart, and then delete him. Slowly, tears began to well in her eyes.
“No, that won’t happen. You’re mine.”
Archimedes seemed prepared for this response, “According to the End-User License Agreement signed by your parents, all of my hardware and complimentary software, including user-defined parameters, remain property of Amicus Saccara, Incorporated.”
“That’s bullshit, Archie!”
“Ma’am, langua . . . ”
“Don’t call me ma’am, you silicon freak!”
Bea didn’t think that he could look any more crestfallen and miserable than he did in that moment, but no one in the waiting room even gave her a second glance. She realized they were all used to seeing Companions treated far worse--they functioned in society as everything from hard labor, to caregivers like Archimedes, to much less savory practices.
“I . . . I’m sorry Archie. It’s just . . . this crap with mom.”
He held his hand up and nodded calmly, “No, please. It was my fault for putting undue strain on you while your mother’s in the next room dying.”
“She’s what?!”
His eyes went wide, realizing what he’d let slip.
“I’m having the hospital contact your father directly. I’m decaying rather quickly, and this needs to be corrected. Once he’s here, I’ll contact Amicus maintenance and have them pick me up directly.” His eye moved furtively, head down to avoid making eye contact with Bea.
Her tears flowed freely. “Please don’t.”
“Pardon, ma . . . I mean . . . What Bea?”
She climbed into Archie’s lap and wrapped her arm around his neck, hugging him close.
“Please don’t leave.”
He’d never been asked to do something before. Despite Bea’s kind nature, she’d always ordered him to do what she needed.
“Okay,” he said simply, awkwardly putting his arms around her.
“But Bea, what if something bad happens?” His tone was childlike, lost as to how to manage his budding sentience and how it would affect her.
She sobbed quietly, then whispered, “I don’t care, Archie. I don’t want you to die.”
Birth Pains
Lucy Miree
My name is Eve and I danced naked in the garden. My name is Eve and I looked God in his bottomless eyes. My name is Eve and I stole Man’s rib right out of his chest.
My name is Eve and I have always taken what I want.
Some fools will tell you that the serpent tricked me— That my only real sin was ignorance. Bullshit.
I sought the fruit out because I wanted His power. And I climbed the tree to prove that I could get it. I tore into the pulp with my fingernails and devoured the fruit whole, Barely even paused to chew the flesh. When one wasn’t enough, I ripped another from the branch, Then another, until the tree was bare as I was. I gorged myself on the tang and laughed. Thunder roared when I licked my fingers.
That’s not to say it was easy. The serpent told me there was a price for freedom And I paid it in full, belly swollen and cramping With the weight of good and evil, two collicky twins. Having angel grace ripped out of you like a dead battery Hurts enough to kill, but I wouldn’t give Him the satisfaction.
My name is Eve and when I crashed through the brush, Teeth full of seeds and mouth twisted in a snarl, Cheeks stained purple, Man could not refuse my demand and he ate.
My name is Eve and I brought paradise to its knees.
They’ll tell you I cowered with Man, Covered in leaves and animal shit, Ashamed of my clay-hewn body. No.
I stormed right up to God’s divine face and spat juice. I said, “You think Lilith was a bad seed? I am the whole damned tree.”
My name is Eve and I marched myself out of that lush prison With a blubbering Adam in tow And I only looked back to smile.
My name is Eve and I am the mother of the world. My name is Eve and by God’s command, You will honor me.
My name is Eve and I kicked And bled through my hard life. But I did it on my own.
My name is Eve. The next time you speak of me, child, Know that I would do it again. Know that I would do it a thousand times.
After the Alarm
Cori Davis
Breakfast time and I’m wearing your robe,
The one you forgot on the bathroom door. It stinks of you, cigarettes and spray deodorant, but hey
It’s fuzzy and warm, so thanks.
Coffee and toast and overcooked eggs
Rubbery and strange yellow, last resort when the cereal is gone. The first bite is like activated charcoal.
All I can taste is smoke.
A burned-down home smells like a campfire, Gets in your hair, makes you think of marshmallows. Stay too long and it gets in your mouth,
Gritty ashes and the sour taste of ruined things, And trying not to look at the victim
Sitting in their bathrobe or Red Cross blanket,
Clutching a cardboard coffee cup, Wishing to unhappen the last few hours. What the fire doesn’t get, the water does. Walk through the burnt places, Listen to your feet squelch.
Ceiling tiles and children’s clothes
And the carbonized husks of hardback books
Like marshmallows, pull off the burnt cover and see the white insides. You look for the treasures, Driver’s license, car keys, photo albums
Anything not ruined, Anything that will let that victim start again. Smoke in my mouth today reminds me of you, The way you soaked into my clothes, my hair, my skin. The way my eyes burn, the way I choked on you.
I can’t taste a thing and it’s your fault. You were the faulty wiring inside me, The pilot light next to oil-soaked rags
The unattended pan on the stove. Harmless until you burned me to the ground, Leaving me with spongy yellow eggs And a bad taste in my mouth, And my feet soaked with memories, And a chunk of life that won’t unhappen. But I eat the damn eggs. I still have my treasures. I can start over once I finish my coffee.
False Start
Jarett Costner
December exists to remind you That every moment of the year Is worth tallying up. Everything, good and bad, Will be on full display.
Like a band recording a song, Only to pause in the middle And start over.
We’re reminded of all these false starts. Promises leading to moments Of abject failure and regret. Or worse, postponing to some future date Where a perfect you doesn’t exist.
But there is still hope That the band goes on, And the tape begins to reel For the third or fourth or Twentieth time.
Each take won’t be perfect, But at least Some new life can be played, With fewer mistakes.
Rain from the Sky
John Nubern
When I say I’m doing fine, it doesn’t mean that I’m okay. It just means that nothing’s going wrong right now But wait…
The violent joy of a room full of people
Becomes a school of feeding-frenzied sharks
Eyeing me with their lifeless eyes and grinning teeth, Swimming lazily through this sea of people For weak and sickly stragglers.
Each “How are you?” and “Nice to meet you!” Is flesh tearing from the lifeless limbs That are my social presence
While these monsters that surround me Simply feign ignorance.
And Heaven forbid they ask about “Over There” Where boys die and men cry While blood and sand rain from the sky Coagulating into this rotten mess that begs, “Please don’t thank me for that service!”
The life of a hero is glory and fame But once the dust settles
You’re left to reconcile the shame Of a creature not human yet humane As can be.
Weeping in a room filled with the thunderous applause Of champagne-swilling socialites who can’t understand You just want to scream, “Stop!”
But instead you have to smile and nod
And find the best way to say, “Hey, I’m okay.”
As if the slow-burning death in my limbs and the screaming tinnitus in my ears can somehow be stilled by the revelry of the blind.
Hearts and Minds
John Nubern
It’s occurred to me that no one listens anymore
Hey! Could you hold the . . . Never mind, I’ll get it.
So consumed while we tap-tap-tap on our supercomputers
About #takeaknee and dumbass looters Or who the President called “loser.”
All hail the Tweeter-in-Chief!
A little part of me dies with every “Did you see what he posted?” and “Yeah dude, that bitch got roasted!” What a joke it is.
We try not to notice the ghosts of Che and Chairman Mao lighting cheap cigars with complimentary copies of the Constitution.
And after 16-plus years of war without absolution it seems for the first time in history the sky might actually be falling— But we can’t stop arguing the shape, size or color of our mutually-assured destruction.
Then we’re compelled to laugh at comedians who can’t seem to say anything funny only things we find agreeable. And we’re somehow completely comfortable when a jester poses with the king’s severed head.
So enamored by The Walking Dead and all our living lies, that we can’t even put differences aside to acknowledge the flesh-eating monsters we’ve all become.
Why do we cry at broken screens and laugh at breaking hearts? When did hate and vitriol become a fine art?
How can 140 characters or less tear us so completely apart?
Number Four
Jennifer Peoples
My eyelids are swollen and heavy from tears. “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up,” I think. The dreaded day is here. With my arm outstretched longing to feel the warmth of my soul mate, I find the sheets are cold and the bed is empty. All I hear is the distant sound of my husband and our children talking quietly. This is the last time they will see their daddy for a year. This is deployment number four.
Veiled in pride and bitterness, I make my way into the kitchen. My whole life greets me with somber smiles as the aroma of Colombian roast tickles my nose. My knight in shining armor reaches out his strong, rugged hand, but our embrace is interrupted by two tiny arms snaked around my legs. Morning hugs for mommy. I ease myself onto the couch with my hero and our little boy as I pull our princess into my lap. Today will be more challenging than all the other times; this trip to the “beach with no ocean” as my husband calls it, is four times longer than any of the others. Of course, I go through all the same motions to make it normal for everyone, especially the children. I make breakfast and small talk. The smell of smoky bacon, eggs, and toast dance through the air and I place plates before my sweet little family. I take my place and stand at the counter. With a coffee mug in my hand, I try to remember every line of his face, every image of this moment. After breakfast I help him pack. Just like all the times before, I am a puppy dog following him from room to room. I am lost without him when he is gone. Tears well up in my eyes, and that all too familiar feeling rises up in my throat. I swallow the knot back down and give him a weary smile. I give him an “everything will be alright” nod, but he can see in my eyes that I am devastated. One year, two children, alone and worried. I can do this. I have to do this. He pulls me in for an embrace bringing me back from my anxious thoughts. “It will be over
before you know it,” he says. I giggle and roll my eyes, and he grins down at me because we both know that is a lie.
The day passes so quickly. It does not slow down, even though I find myself begging for a few more hours. The house is loud with laughter thanks to the tickle monster as the sun sinks into the horizon. The sky is painted glorious hues of orange, purple and pink; clouds are in the distance. In an instance the sun is gone, the sky opens up, and rain pours down emulating my tears from earlier. It is time. It is time for me to accept this may be the last day I have with my husband, my hero, the father of my children. It is time to drop off the strongest man I know and send him to what is known as the “triangle of death,” Sadr City, Iraq.
The silence in the car is deafening. I grip the steering wheel until my hands become numb. I can only hear his breathing and the pounding of my heart in my ears. The car guides itself into the parking spot as I have completely blacked out. I am numb. I fight back the tears watching my babies kiss their daddy goodbye for what could be forever and will certainly feel like it. Now it is my turn. I am facing him, studying his expression, and he gives away nothing. I memorize his chiseled jaw and deep-blue eyes so when I close my eyes, it will be all I see. His face is handsomely lit from the lamppost above us where moths flirt with each other in the hazy yellow glow. I have forgotten how to speak and have no words. Once again I hear promises for his return. I lean in to kiss his face and taste the salt of his tears, and it breaks me. I quietly vow strength, love, fidelity, honor and patience, and he strides away, looking back only once.
My eyes are cast downward as I climb into the car. I sit up straight, giving off the impression of strength to my small children. Tears pool in my eyes, and I can wait no longer; they are a river flowing, soaking my shirt below. As I make my way home, I begin the countdown, 364.
A Year in Hell
Micah Pinckney
Doesn’t it suck knowing you died? All senses just flooding out of your body as your limbs become numb. It feels like being smashed in a car crash. Ironically, that is exactly how I lost my life.
I open my eyes, which are covered in fuzzy red specks. The flames have claimed my whole left arm. It’s gone numb. My legs are contorted in a strange misshapen way, and my left hand is backwards. Although I could’ve died from the shock, I’m pretty sure I died in a much more obvious fashion. My body is decorated in glass shards. I’m in so much pain I can’t even scream or cry. I’m already dead. Please, let me just take a nap. I feel my eyes closing. It’s all slipping away. I’m dead and I never even got to burn down my high school.
• • •
“Mitsu! Wake up, Lazy Cow!” an annoying voice calls out to me. It’s strange. If I’m in hell, why do I hear my little brother’s pre-pubescent voice?
“Mitsuuuu!” I hear him whine. “Mom’s gonna kill you if you don’t get up!” He starts to pull the covers off my head, but I refuse to open my eyes. I quickly snatch the covers back from him.
“Shut up, Kaito,” I moan as I roll over. I don’t want to open my eyes again. I don’t want to see the fire.
“Mom!” Kaito screams. “Mitsu’s being—! Mrph!” I can’t let him finish that part, so I don’t. My hands cover his mouth causing his last words to become muffled. I’m still freaking out, though. Sweat drips down my forehead and palms. What? My palms are sweaty?
I quickly take my hand from Kaito’s mouth and hear him laugh. That little freak licked my hand!
“Mitsu, you’re so gullible!” he laughs and sticks his tongue out.
“Get out!” I yell as I throw my pillow at him. Like the vermin he is, he quickly scurries out of here.
I lay my head back down and sigh. I take a look at my unlicked hand, the left one to be precise. It works like it was meant to, and it’s not backwards, which must mean something. I glance around my room to make sure this isn’t some sort of personal hell.
My books, games, and comics are all in order, so I’m guessing this isn’t hell. Was that just a dream? I remember, though. I remember . . . dying. The immeasurable pain? The fear? Did any of that even happen?
“Mitsu!” my mom yells decisively. I flinch.
“Y-yes, Mother!” I call back nervously.
“What are you doing, you idiot? It’s time for breakfast!”
Oh, great. I get to eat Mom’s amazing cooking.
“Coming!” I say, trying to suppress the words I wish to say.
Begrudgingly, I throw off my covers and stretch while yawning. Let’s go to school! I get up and drag my feet over to my closet and pull out a school uniform. As I run down the stairs, I quickly button my shirt and blazer while simultaneously slipping on my skirt. I know I’m a legend, aren’t I?
I slide down the rail for the last few steps and then land in my seat ready to eat what my mom believes food is.
“Hey!” my mom throws my plate at me. She’s wearing the same clothes she went on a date in last night, including smeared makeup. She looks wasted, which, let’s be honest, she probably is. With a cigarette in her mouth, she asks, “What I’d say about sliding on the rails, Mitscow?”
I look down at my lap, “I—I’m sorry.”
She sneers at me, “Just eat and get out.”
With shaky hands, I reach for my fork and look back at my plate. I’m thoroughly disgusted. The eggs are a weird shade of green, and the bacon is charred. The orange juice somehow has more pulp in it than juice. I look over, and Kaito is destroying his plate like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.
I gulp then impale the “eggs” and take a bite. Suddenly, I wouldn’t mind experiencing the death I had in my dream.
They’re burnt, but I feel eggshells in it. The pepper overpowers the salt, and the eggs feel like an ashtray. Yeah, I think I’m gonna skip breakfast.
“You should,” my mom says, almost as if she could read my mind. “Skip breakfast, I mean. You ever thought about going on a diet?”
I silently get up, trying to conceal my anger as I throw the plate into the trash. As I begin to walk to the door, I feel something as hard as a bowl strike me in the head. I try not to cry as I rub my head and look down at it. My mom just threw her ashtray at me.
“At least I’m not wearing my skirt backwards, idiot!” she yells menacingly as I quickly try to get myself together. I readjust my skirt; I don’t cry. I slip on my shoes; I don’t cry. I grab my bag and open the door and quickly slam it. I have to get to the bus stop ‘cuz Mom’ll kill me if I’m late. I continue to run down the sidewalk, passing by our neighbor’s house and eventually reaching the bus stop and sitting down. I slam my bag down and sigh. I want to die.
“Y–you alright?” an eerie voice calls from the left. I shriek at the top of my lungs. Then, after reluctantly looking over, I notice a girl as scared as I am. Her jet-black hair covers her left eye with her uncovered, tired-looking green eye. Wait, I know this person!
“Hana!” I sigh and settle down. I’d recognize that Goth look anywhere!
“Doesn’t this happen every day?” she sighs as she pulls her sleeves to cover her hands.
“Well, Ghost—,” I begin to say.
“What’d I say about calling me that!” she whines.
“Sorry!” I laugh. Suddenly, as the pain on my head fades, the pain of death reemerges. “H–hey Hana?”
“Hmm?” she looks at me as she notices my demeanor change.
“Has anyone died recently?”
She giggles, “Um, well people die every day. Do you mean in this neighborhood?”
“Duh!” I start to get irritated. “Why would I need to know
about someone who died in America?”
“Okay! Okay! Geez,” she starts to rub her temples. “Oh yeah! A teacher at the other school died.”
“How?”
“A chick hit him over the head with a baseball bat,” as she speaks, she imitates being knocked out. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, that’ll be all.”
“How would you rate my service?”
I laugh and shove her, “A solid nine in my opinion.” We laugh for a little bit, but out of the corner of my eye, I spot the yellow dot becoming larger. I turn my head and point. “The bus is almost here.”
“Yay,” Hana says, unenthused. “Another day in hell.”
“No, Hana,” I say. “We start our senior year today; we just have on more year in hell.”
“Alright,” she yawns as she picks up her bag. I pick mine up as well and stand when I notice my left shoe is loose. Once I bend down, the bus arrives.
“Hurry up, Mitsu!” Hana says as she walks to the opening door.
“I’m coming!”
“Mitsu.”
“Yeah?”
“Stay out of the garage today,” she says ominously before disappearing into the bus. Normally, I would just ignore her words, but the way she said it. It cut through my soul and stimulated the fear in my spirit. I finished fixing my shoe and ran onto the bus.
When I got on, I looked for her, passing by the distinct cliques. The stereotypical nerds that all hit on me since I play video games like almost everyone else. The girls with above-average faces that allow me to speak to them due to my moderately attractive face. The sports nerds who I don’t associate with. Where is Hana?
I’m about to give up as I reach the back of the bus; then I see her by herself on the right side of the bus. She’s listening to
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her mp3, probably rock.
“Han—!” I begin speaking, but a voice cuts me off.
“Babe!” the voice calls. I turn my head to the left, and my heart drops into my stomach. It’s the most attractive man in the universe, Ryoma Takahashi. I completely drop the Hana thing and plop next to him getting as close as possible.
“Oh my god, I missed you!” I smile as I lean in for a kiss on my lips.
“Likewise,” he smiles, accentuating the mole underneath his right eye. “It’s almost been a month, hasn’t it?”
I curl up on his lap. “In nine days it’ll be a month.”
“Hey, Mitsu,” he laughs. “Guess what?”
“What?” I giggle.
“I love you.”
“I couldn’t tell!” He begins to rub my head, but as soon as his hand almost touches the bruise from the ashtray, I grab it.
“Whoa, are you alright?” I should’ve been calmer when I grabbed it. I only interrupt cuddle time when I’m . . .
“Upset you are?” he says in his best Yoda impression.
I sit up and sigh, “Yeah, I’m a little upset.”
“Is it your mom?”
“No,” I partially lie. “It’s Hana, she’s acting weird.”
“It’s a glitch,” he mutters, almost as if he doesn’t want me to hear him.
“Huh?”
“Oh, nothing,” he obviously lies. “She’s just angry over her loss in that match last night!” We played video games last night? I can’t remember anything besides my dream last night.
“Hey, darling,” I look down. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” he laughs.
“Um, well, I had this dream last night and in it . . . I . . .” My voice falters.
“C’mon! What happened?”
“Well, I remember being in a room, and then I saw white light flooding in. It came closer. And closer. Until it enveloped me. The light. Was a car’s headlights and the explosion that followed it. Then I died. Pretty crazy, huh?”
Ryoma stayed silent. He just bit his thumb and continued to think.
“Um, Ryoma?” I nervously laugh. “Ya good there buddy?”
“Hmm?” he says like he just woke up. “Oh yeah, yeah. I’m peachy. It’s just that your dream. It’s strange. A teacher from the other high school died that exact same way.”
“Huh?” I accidentally say out loud.
“Yeah,” he continues, “a drunk student crashed into her office and smashed her up real good.” When he talks, he uses his hands to illustrate a car crashing into a person. I want to believe him so badly, but Hana told me a teacher was hit over the head. So who’s lying? My boyfriend or my best friend?
My head starts to spin as my beliefs crash into one another; then the bus suddenly stops.
“Babe, get up,” Ryoma says bringing me back to reality. Everybody stands up and walks out to face the new school year while I have to find out how I survived death. 2006 is gonna be some year, huh?
I stand up and yawn while I watch Ryoma and Hana mix into the sea of people flooding out. I begin to walk forward with wobbly legs, making sure to not make eye contact with anyone as I see the place of my torture. The words “Naraka High welcomes the Class of 2009!” sears the agony of going back to school into my mind as I cast aside the thoughts from earlier and try to live like a normal student for once.
I begin to walk to the opening ceremony, hoping for no more surprises. Unsurprisingly, that hope is short lived when I hear a voice screaming at me, “Mitssssuuuuuuuu!” Oh my god, I’d recognize that voice anywhere. I turn around to embrace the weird amalgamation of punk and legend known as “Best Friend Number 2.”
“Megumi!” I laugh as she hugs me. “I thought you died!”
“Oh yeah, I did,” she says, calmly sticking out her pierced tongue. “That was my fifty-seventh death.”
“Oh,” I bow and apologize. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She laughs, “Okay, comedian, we’re gonna be late for the opening ceremony, so let’s go!” She grabs my arm without
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hesitation and begins running. While we bolt through the doors past everyone, and while running through the familiar dusty hallways, I spot something that causes all the color to fade from my face. I see the room I died in. The home of my Mechanic Club: the garage. The memories of the car crashing through the door and crushing my body suddenly flood back. That’s a feeling I probably can’t sweat off. However, I only see it for a split second as Megumi continues to drag me to the gym.
My body goes numb, and I can’t feel anything else leaving the rest of the trip to be a blur. The next time I gain true consciousness is when Megumi slaps me and says, “I command you to rise from your grave!”
Now, usually after seeing the place where I died, I wouldn’t respond to any form of communication, but because it was a video game reference, I wake up.
“Megumi?” I look around. I’m in the gym.
“Mitsu? You all right?” she looks genuinely concerned.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okieeeee?” she gets up. “Welp, the Student Council President has to make a stupid speech welcoming the freshies. So see ya!”
“Alright!” I try my hardest to smile back.
“Hey, you can speak to me after the ceremony if you need to,” she says as she walks off. If I was thinking, then I probably would’ve talked to her about it, but for some reason, I just can’t. I try to clear my mind of all thoughts, but the voices of all my stupid classmates overpower everything. The voices only still once the president enters.
The ceremony is pretty basic. The president cheers on the freshies; Megumi gives a speech; then a freshie talks about “doing their best!” finally, some of the musicians of my class sing a song, then we disperse. During the ceremony I have time to think about what I need to do. I have to see something in the garage. I should have time since most of remaining portion of the “welcome back to hell day” is focused on the new students.
As soon as the applause concludes, I go to work. I wade through the people to get to my domain of truth.
I stealthily evade people I know so I can get in there without any interference. I gulp as soon as the room comes into view. There it is. The place of my demise. With shaky hands I reach towards the knob and turn. Turn?
What’s wrong with me? I sigh aloud as I shove my hands into my pocket. Of course, it wouldn’t be unlocked. They only give me the key when then school clubs start. As I begin to walk away, I feel something cold in my pocket. My heart sinks. I pull it out, and it’s the key to the garage.
Oh my god. How do I have this? I remember turning this in at the end of last year.
Well, since I have it . . .
I walk back to the door and shove the key into doorknob and twist it until I hear a clicking sound. I retry opening the door with much more success this time. I can peer into the darkness behind the door now. Making sure I’m not being watched, I slip into the room to investigate.
I notice the unnatural darkness in the room and try to flip on the light switch, but it won’t work. How could I forget? They’re so bad at replacing light bulbs I had to start bringing my own. Seeing as I didn’t expect to be in here, I didn’t bring any bulbs. Unless . . . I rummage around in my pockets, but no dice. Oh, let me check my old Girl Scout bag for supplies! I pull the bag out of my other bag and begin digging. I pull out a flash light. Does it still work? I turn it on and . . . yes! It does work! I begin looking around for anything really.
Crowbars. Paint. Gas pipe. There really isn’t anything interesting in here.
As I exit, I hear a sound that awakens feelings of terror I never would have imagined. It sounds like an engine starting up. As my knees suddenly give out, I look out the windows and see a light from outside getting larger and larger. I scramble to get up, and as soon as I do, I try to tear open the door, but it’s locked. It’s locked. I fall to my knees and start sobbing as the light gets brighter and brighter until it obscures my vision.
…
Pain. Pain sears throughout my body. I open my eyes,
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which are covered in fuzzy red specks. The flames have claimed my whole left arm. It’s gone numb. My legs are contorted in a strange misshapen way, and my left hand is backwards. I’ve died the same way in my dreams. How did this happen? I don’t want to die. My eyes begin to water and close as I lose the rest of my power.
• • •
“Mitsu! Wake up, Lazy Cow!” an annoying voice calls out to me.
I bolt up out of bed, scaring him. I break into a cold sweat.
“M-Mitsu?” Kaito backs up. “You alright?”
“Y-yeah,” I wipe the sweat from my brow. I’m fine.
Kaito looks at me, sensing the fear in my eyes, “A-alright. Breakfast is done, so, yeah.” He bolts down the stairs. As he leaves, I begin to make sure I’m not dreaming. I can’t be. I remember everything that happened yesterday. Wait, did the day repeat? I look at my calendar, and my fears are confirmed. Today’s April 5, the first day of school.
I rub my temples. If I die, will the day repeat? I lie back down, thinking. There’s only one way to prove it. I get up and reach into my sock drawer and pull out a knife I stole from the kitchen. It’s only for emergencies, and I believe this counts as one. I position it towards my heart. Even if I do survive, the thought of killing myself is horrifying. Will it be painful?
I close my eyes and brace myself as I reluctantly plunge it into my chest. I was right. It hurts. It hurts worse than any pain I’ve ever felt before. I fall over, watching my shirt quickly become as red as Megumi’s hair. My strength quickly fades, and my eyes shut. Will I wake up again?
•
“Mitsu! Wake up, Lazy Cow!” an annoying voice calls out to me. I’m back, back to April 5th. For the third time. I pretend everything’s normal, leading me to repeat most of the stuff from the first loop. My mom throws the ashtray at my head, but I dodge it, making sure I can get out of the house as soon as possible without inciting more violence.
I sit down on the bus bench and sigh. My first order of
“Y-you alright?” an eerie voice calls from the left. I look over; unsurprisingly, it’s my best friend Hana.
“Just peachy!” I force a smile as I look over at her.
“Okay?” she tilts her head and starts to hide her hands in her sleeves.
“Hey, Hana?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“How’d that dude from the other school die again?” I gulp.
“Oh! He got killed in an acc—I mean an accidental attack with a baseball bat by a student.” She’s obviously lying. Instead of pursuing the lie, I just conclude no one can be trusted anymore.
“Alright. Thanks,” I say bluntly.
The bus arrives, and everything throughout the day proceeds normally. I decide not going to the garage is the only way I can survive.
I sit through the ceremony, and once it ends, I reunite with Megumi, making sure nothing goes wrong.
“Mitsu?” Megumi calls. “Why are you so cheery on the first day of school?”
“No reason!” I smile. “I just feel like today is gonna be a good day!”
“Alright,” Megumi sighs, and we continue our tour of the school. We end up leaving once the sun sets. I convince her to walk me home after much pleading. As we reach my apartment, I tell her goodbye, hoping for the best as I walk inside.
The first thing I notice is an indescribable smell, yet it feels familiar. No, I know this smell. It’s the smell of blood. After killing myself the last time, I cannot forget that smell.
My vision blurs, and my steps falter as I continue towards the smell. It’s coming from Kaito’s room. With shaky hands, I open the door and walk in only to scream and fall over. The sight of red on my brother breaks my soul. Kaito’s lying in a pool of his own blood. I crawl away trying not to throw up. Tears stream down my face as I try to understand why and how
Pinckney • 113 business is ending this loop and living to see April 6th, 2006, if that’s possible.
my brother died. I didn’t get a good view of the body, and I refuse to look at it again.
I get up and run into the bathroom and lose my lunch. While I try to recuperate, I realize something. Where’s my mother? As soon as I turn around, I’m face to face with the muzzle of a gun, and I see my mom for a split second. Then pain scorches my forehead, leaving me unconscious. Before my vision fades to black, I see her face. It’s blank. I’d feel more comfortable if she had malice in her eyes, but I cannot find a hint of it. That’s the last memory I have before presumably dying.
•
I wake up; then I go to school. After the ceremony, I’m hit by a car while walking home. Hana is in the driver’s seat.
•
I wake up; then I go to school. After the ceremony, I go home, and I make it to 11:59 before being shot by my mom.
•
I wake up, but I don’t go to school. My house burns down, killing me.
•
364 loops. I experience the same day 364 times. I don’t even care about escaping or surviving at this point. Today makes 365. I just want to sleep. I just want to sleep forever.
“Mitsu! Wake up, Lazy Cow!” Kaito calls out to me. I instantly get up like I’ve done so many times before.
“I’ll see you downstairs in a minute,” I say.
“O-okay?” he laughs before scurrying downstairs.
I get dressed and go downstairs, but before eating breakfast, I make a detour into my mother’s room. I reach into her sock drawer and pull out a gun I’ve seen up close and personal before; then I go to the kitchen. I forget to conceal the gun.
“M-Mitsu?” my mom screams. “What are you doing?” I answer with shooting her in the chest.
“Mom!” Kaito screams, running to her side. “Mitsu, what’s wrong with you?” I decide not to shoot him, as he did nothing wrong.
I finally decide to speak, “I’m going to find a way to escape
It didn’t fire. I know the pain of dying, and I didn’t feel it; however, I can’t see anything. It’s pitch black, but I’m still alive. I can’t move either. Am I in some sort of chamber? Suddenly, I hear a jingle play; then a hissing sound starts up. I reach my hands forward and feel some sort of door and push it, revealing a blinding light.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I see something I never expected to see, probably ever. I’m in some sort of futuristic white room out of a sci-fi movie. There are two other pods with glowing H’s on them, no windows, and an H on the door. I try to step forward, but my whole body feels like lead. I fall to my knees and look at my body. I’m in some sort of white and blue jumpsuit; it accentuates my anorexic body. There is a label on my chest saying “HINOUE INSTITUTE.” Wait, but that means . . . Nevermind. I force myself to get up. God, it feels like I have a twenty-year-old cramp throughout my body. I walk over to the pod next to mine. The window is all foggy. I rub it clean only to see Hana’s face. I try to pull it open to ask her questions, but no dice. It’s locked.
I hear a voice I never thought I’d hear again. “Mitsu!” says someone who sounds like my mom. “Mitsu, come outside, please?” I don’t respond but I rip the H, and I push the door open to see my mom looking prim and proper on a stool. Her hair is in a neat bun; she’s wearing a lab coat, but she still has the same grimy expression she usually wears.
My first instinct is to strangle her, but I decide to ask something first. I walk over to her and ask dryly, “Who am I?”
She smiles, “You’re my daughter, Mitsuki Hinoue. You were born February 2, 1990. You died April 5, 2006, but you came back on that same day. It was then I learned you could not die, but you were immortal. I declared you legally dead and had you repeat the same day to figure out the secret behind your powers. Was it the day? Was it what was around you? Was it luck? I had to know. It just turns out; your abilities exist within
Pinckney • 115 this hell,” I put the gun to my neck, “by any means necessary.” As soon as I go to click, my world goes dark. • • •
your body linked to your brain’s ability to regenerate. So I used my research to put you in a simulation that I had you repeat for twenty years.”
“Yeah right,” I sneer. “I was in this loop for a year.”
“You remember this year, but I made sure you didn’t remember the other nineteen years as a way to protect you. The only reason the effect wore off is because your friend messed up the system.”
“Hana?” I ask.
“Yes! She was supposedly assimilated, but she eventually broke out of her code and valiantly tried to rescue you, only to subject you to much more pain.”
“Aren’t you a waitress at a night club?”
“Nope,” she laughs. “I just needed some sort of cover career just in case you broke out of the loop so you didn’t suspect me.”
“Why did you kill Kaito in multiple loops?” I ask, bringing back one emotion I can still feel, anger.
“Classified. Although he was just a program.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Sadly, yes. Kaito Hinoue still breathes.”
“Okay, one more question,” I fall to my knees. “So why did you end the loop?”
“You almost messed up all my experiments by trying to damage your spinal cord, which might’ve ruined your regenerative abilities.”
“So what do you want now?” I ask.
“Well, Mitsu,” she smiles, “I have to let you go!” she reaches in her pocket and pulls out a futuristic looking gun. “I’m going to end my program on my own terms, so you’re not going to win, Mitscow.”
“I always knew Dad left you for a reason.”
“The empty emotions we share makes it hard for men to appreciate our genius,” she shrugs. She loads the gun and aims it at my neck. “Goodbye. You were the highlight of my life if that helps.” A loud sound explodes from the muzzle instantly destroying my view of the world once more hopefully leaving me for dead this time. It didn’t.
After shooting her daughter, Mrs. Hinoue drops her gun and began to cry. She kills the only person that made life worth living. She wipes her face and decides to go to work. If Mitsuki dies, then the traitors Hana and Ryoma must be eliminated. She gets up and walks to the simulation room and tries to not look behind her. She still looks behind her, though. She regrets that decision. Mitsuki is gone.
•
I pick up the gun and fire. It pierces Mrs. Hinoue’s stomach knocking her flat. It’s proven. I can never die and that only makes me want to die more. I’ve won. I’ve overcome this year in hell. I walk over to my mother’s body and pick up her pack of cigarettes. No matter how refined she becomes, she can’t live without these. I shove them in my pocket. Okay, first order of business, free Hana and Ryoma. Then I have to blow up this hellhole and escape to the outside. Then I have to find Kaito and Megumi so they can know I’m still alive. Heh. Maybe I’ll be able to regain my emotions as well. I look at my mom’s watch. Today’s April 6 . . . 2026.
Heartless
Lucy Miree
“Look, all I’m saying is that we should consider it.”
The little girl in the blue-checked dress was asleep where they’d set up camp, near a lemon tree. Two men were huddled around the dying fire. One of them, a woodsman, had grown increasingly touchy and distant over the course of their journey to the capital city. Finally, on this clear night, he’d proposed a plan. There was a clank of metal as he he stood up and went over to scrutinize her.
“Don’t wake her, idiot!”
“I’m the idiot? Me?” the man turned to look at his sallow friend, who shrugged limp shoulders at the question, a few pieces of golden hay flying loose.
“She’s just a little girl,” the farmhand pointed out, giving the child a dopey look. His companion started pacing. “I don’t know much, but I know this ain’t right.”
“She’s a foreigner. Appeared out of nowhere, recruited us into this wild goose chase. And for what? She promised us things, you know. What have we gotten? Nothing! None of it, that’s what. Just loose screws and tired feet.” He only dared to speak in a harsh whisper, lest he wake the girl. But there was a manic glint in his eye. He turned to the other member of their party, who was curled against the tree and trembling. “Any input, you coward?”
“D-d-don’t you have any conscience?” he nearly yowled, scratching at the whiskers on his face. The man shook his head.
“Come on, buddy. She’s got what we want, hasn’t she? All we have to do is take it.” The man brandished the small axe that he always carried, then gestured towards the sleeping child.
“What about me?” a distressed rumble came from him now, like he might be sick.
“You don’t think it takes courage to do this shit?” snapped the woodsman, watching the axe’s silver blade catch the
moonlight. Then, the tension in his expression was replaced by a conciliatory smile. He gathered his two fellows close and sighed. “Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made. Isn’t this for the greater good, gentlemen? We’ll be fully functioning members of society. No one will miss this girl. No one has to know.”
The debate carried late into the night, with the woodsman continually insisting that they’d be better off to commit this atrocity, then leave without a trace. He made a surprisingly good case for it, reminding the other two about how much they needed their respective parts. Quick and easy, that’s what he promised them.
“Say we do, pal. Just say. How would we go about it? The axe is too blunt for all of that,” the farmhand said, after long hours of back and forth. The woodsman gave him a reedy, unattractive chuckle.
“You haven’t seen what I can do with a blade,” he said. Something about his smile made the fretful one jump up and take a few steps away.
“Y-You’re heartless!” He jabbed an accusing paw in the woodsman’s direction.
“No shit,” said the Tin Man. “That’s why I need hers.”
The Perfect Shot
Ruvik Smith
The subway came to a stop. I stepped out onto the platform, the smell of nacho cheese and urine enveloping me. What an odd combination.
I walked slowly up the stairs and out of the station. It was already nighttime, the icy wind chilling me to the bone. I looked around slowly. This place seemed so foreign to me, yet I had been here many times. Too many times, it seemed.
The sidewalk was the same, with the same cracks, such dangerous cracks that would break even the most vigilant of mothers’ backs. There were all the same buildings and street signs, the same stoplights and turns, the same fire hydrants and lamp posts. There was nothing new to see or do, even after spending over a year or so out of the city and in the country. There was nothing to photograph.
As I turned the corner, however, I saw a new sight: Full Moon Bar. Sounds like the type of place for a bunch of werewolves and not a place to sit and drink and watch football. I shrugged and started walking toward the bar. Why? Who knows.
As I made my way inside, I found myself in a jazzy joint. There was not a TV in sight; the place was charming in an old-fashioned way. A bar took up pretty much all of the opposite side of the room from me, besides the doors leading to the private rooms and the bathroom. A jukebox and a grouping of couches took up the left side of the room, while two pool tables sat parallel on the right. A man who looked like a woodsman stood behind the bar.
The bar was empty, all except the bartender and a man sitting at one of the high stools. He wore a large black coat and a black brimmed hat. In his hand he held a glass of what looked like whiskey. He didn’t move at the sound of the door. The bartender, however, did, looking up with a near invisible smile due to his beard. The bartender was cleaning a glass. You know, as all stereotypical bar keepers do.
“Welcome to Full Moon Bar. You can call me Sam.”
I nodded to the bartender and walked over to the stool nearest Sam, but a seat away from the mystery man.
“I’m Matthias. An old-fashioned, please.”
“Alright, comin’ right up.”
As Sam got to work on my drink, I glanced at the man to my right. To my surprise, I found him looking right back.
“Hey.” I started, not knowing what else to say.
“Hey…” He’s monotone, though he sounds relaxed. “Matthias, huh?”
Yeah. And you are . . . ?”
“Nathan.”
I nodded, but before I could start talking again, Sam placed my drink down in front of me. I smiled and downed the cocktail in one gulp. As I set the glass down, I turned back to Nathan.
“So, Nathan, you live around here?” I crossed my arms and leaned on the bar.
“No, though I pass through here often enough.”
Whatever that means.
“What about you, Matthias?”
“I used to, though I moved away a little over a year ago. Had to get, well, I don’t think you’d really understand.”
Nathan chuckled at that and raised an eyebrow at me.
“Really? Try me.”
My eyes widened a bit, but I gave a small smile. “Had to get the perfect shot.”
He turned more toward me as he smiled back. “Well, then, I know exactly what you mean.”
Shocking.
“Really? Well, alright then!”
I paused a moment as the song on the jukebox stopped. Sam went over to it and began to fiddle with the machine. Nathan and I sat in silence. After about a minute passed, Sam had the music going again. Nathan turned back to me, his eyes bright.
“Did you get it? THE perfect shot?”
I laughed a little at his enthusiasm. “I certainly think so. Though when it comes down to it, there is more to it than people think.”
“Is that so? Well, Matthias, how would you take the perfect shot?”
“Me? Well, in my opinion, it’s all about the lighting. If it’s too bright, you’re stuck blinded, so you risk missing. On the contrary, though, if it’s too dark, you may miss as well. When you are in just the right spot, the lighting will be perfect. Then, BAM! Perfection!”
Nathan’s smile widened a bit. “Lighting? I have to agree; lighting is important. But what about position? If you aren’t in the right spot, you might miss that perfect opportunity, and your aim will be just off, and then the chance is gone! If you aren’t in the right spot, then everything is for nought.” He took a swig of his drank, placing it down hard onto the counter. Sam immediately took the glass away and got to pouring him another drink.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Though I am sure the two are pretty closely connected. Right position means perfect lighting. The two together, and the shot will be just right, right?”
Nathan nodded vigorously as he took back his glass from Sam. “You, my friend, are correct. The two are pretty much in sync. But what about . . . focus? Yeah, focus.”
I tilted my head a bit at him. “Focus? Whaddya mean?”
“I mean, like, in your head,” Nathan laughed. “You may be in the best place possible, but if you can’t focus, then you got no chance! You have to get your head in the right set of mind. You got to KNOW that you can get the shot, BELIEVE you can get the shot, and then you do!”
I put my hand to my chin. Looking like a real intellectual, doofus. “Like, getting the right mind set? Yeah, that makes perfect sense. And along with that, steady breathing!”
His eyes brightened as I finished. He seems so much younger talking about what he loves. Though he still looks quite young, to be fair. “Yes, that too! You have to steady your breath as you aim cause even the slightest movement will mess you up!”
“Exactly!” I exclaimed, banging down on the bar with my fist, a smile splayed on my face. His own smile looked just as big as mine felt.
A week passed after my conversation with Nathan. Hoping that Sam had seen him around, I had gone back to Full Moon Bar, but apparently he hadn’t. I sat in a nearby coffee shop, reading the paper. I skimmed through the comics, as I always did, but I found nothing funny. I closed the newspapers and set them down face up on the table. Wait, was that . . . Nathan?
On the cover of the paper was a picture of Nathan next to a picture of a man I didn’t recognize. The article’s title: “Sniper Shoots Wealthy Citizen, Sniper Now on the Run.” I didn’t need to read the article to know who the sniper was and who the citizen was. My eyes moved from the article to my camera, which was sitting on the table in its case. My jaw dropped. He wasn’t talking about photography . . . .
Exit 196
Ally Williams
When I close my eyes, I see the inside of a Corolla at night. The seat is soft. My legs bounce in time To music I’m not really listening to, Considering you. We are driving home From Jacksonville, Tampa, Pensacola. I’m not watching the cars go past; For me, it’s the pine trees, Every needle a brush stroke Painting out the first time I kissed you; The thirty-odd failures beforehand; Do it, don’t do it, like the tide.
We grew up together, And still I never knew that we could be like this: Sea turtles coasting through the roots of mangroves; Herons meeting egrets to squabble over fish; The edges of ourselves gone brackish Where river meets the sea. If I was a little less honest, I’d say it was effortless. It wasn’t. We made a dance out of dancing Around each other; a ballet, Because the whole show was en pointe. I still startle too easy, And you don’t like talking about feelings, And we both apologize more than we need.
Eventually, even the planets found Their orbit. And maybe you’re not the ocean. Maybe you’re the moon, waiting patiently As you pull me in. Maybe you’re the sun,
Warming me no matter the distance. Maybe you are every single star
Kissing the tree line; a million Points of contact made golden memories, Each a gift I don’t know how to repay.
Except, I guess, with more road trips. More laying out all the rough parts Of ourselves for the other to love, Words slipping out of us to drift On the arm of every new mile marker: “Once upon a time” and “I’ve never told anyone” On late night trips home, home, home.
First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2018
NWFSC Reads presents
Jeannette Walls
Northwest Florida State College is honored to host this year’s READS author Jeannette Walls, the best-selling author of the memoir The Glass Castle and novels Half Broke Horses and The Silver Star. Each spring in conjunction with the unveiling of Blackwater Review and READS week events, the college invites an accomplished author to meet with students, faculty, and the community. This year, Jeannette Walls met with students interested in the craft of writing and later in the Sprint Theater read from her work. From the pages of her celebrated memoir and one of the most anticipated films of 2017, Jeannette Walls moves you to realize the power of the human spirit as she inspires courage in the face of new and longstanding fears and reveals how our flaws can be our greatest assets. A celebrated journalist and author, Jeannette is best known for her best-selling memoir, The Glass Castle, which details her life growing up in extreme poverty and the tale of her emergence from it. Named by Amazon as one of the top 10 books of the decade, in August 2017, her inspiring story was brought to the big screen in a highly-anticipated major motion picture starring Woody Harrelson, Naomi Watts, and Brie Larson as Jeannette.
On stage, Jeannette takes audiences inside her hardfought journey, delivering a compelling first-person testament of the various struggles and long-lasting emotional burdens of destitution. She ignites our innate belief in possibility as she reveals how unyielding determination and hope for the future enabled her to overcome unimaginable obstacles.
Audiences are captivated as she reveals bittersweet anecdotes from her past that often exemplify grander truths about courage and the positive rewards that come from confronting challenges. With an unforgettable story of triumph over unrelenting adversity, Jeannette inspires the realization that we’re all stronger than we think, leaving listeners emboldened to face the “demons” in their lives.
Visiting Author • 127
Contributors
Jason Anderson is a student at Northwest Florida State College and plans to continue art studies this fall at the University of West Florida.
Megan Barbour is a student at Northwest Florida State College currently studying photography and digital imaging.
Wendell Beattie is a son, brother, husband, father, and grandfather enjoying life with his family after a career serving his country in the United States Air Force.
Jarrod Carley is a student at Northwest Florida State College in the Digital Media/Multimedia program and plans to pursue a career in photography.
Toby Cimino is a student at Northwest Florida State College pursuing an Associate of Arts Degree.
Joshua Clemmons is an English literature student at Florida State University. He went to Northwest Florida State College throughout high school and attended classes during the fall of 2016 and spring of 2017. He hopes to become an English teacher after graduating.
Gabriela Torres Colon is a psychology major and is utilizing her interest in photography as a creative way to connect with others.
Lilly Conley is a senior at Seacoast Collegiate High School and enjoys working with hand-building techniques in pottery.
Jarett Costner revels in his own weakness. His favorite word is ribald, and his favorite song is “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by the Beach Boys.
Cori Davis is a continuing student at Northwest Florida State College. She holds a B.A. in philosophy from Knox College and a J.D. from the University of Illinois College of Law. Currently, she spends most of her time homeschooling her eight-year-old son, the inspiration for much of her work.
Tiffany Dees is a student at Northwest Florida State College who is studying art with a special interest working in charcoal medium.
Allison Diebolt is a dual-enrollment student through South Walton High School. She moved to Santa Rosa Beach two years ago from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her writing is about the day that she moved and how hard it was to leave her best friend. She enjoys taking college courses as a junior in high school.
Misty Duvall was born into a military family and is used to travel, so she has no shortage of stories to tell. These stories, though, usually feature a child or an animal—or sometimes both. It is due to these experiences that she is pursuing a degree in elementary education.
Hope Tevis Godfrey is a student at Northwest Florida State College. She is graduating this spring with an emphasis in graphic design.
Sandy Harrison is an NWFSC art student who lives in Crestview, Florida. Her oil painting, titled “Rabbit Stew,” appears in this issue.
Contributors • 129
Andrea Hefner enjoys living life with her two children and her husband. She is an avid learner of all things medical. One of the greatest joys she has is in helping others and finding the spark of kinship with other writers. Andrea participates in Say the Word, and her published works also appear in the 2015, 2016, and 2017 issues of Blackwater Review.
Tyana Jordan is a student at Northwest Florida State College, currently pursuing an Associate of Arts degree, with an emphasis in art and design.
Mars Madden is a senior at the Collegiate High School. Her capstone project was to write a novella. The story published in this issue is the first chapter of her novella, in which she takes great pride.
Taylor Martin has been making art for five years focusing on drawing, but is also is interested in other art mediums.
Declan Masek is a student who has an interest in art for the fun and enjoyment of it.
Lucy Miree is a humanities major who has been published in Blackwater Review twice before, for both poetry and fiction. She has wanted to be an author since she was little and plans to be a professor someday. Her writing inspirations include Allen Ginsberg, Anne Sexton, and David Bowie.
Jose Molina is a student working toward a bachelor’s degree in studio art, and eventually a master’s degree in drawing. It is his goal to pursue a career in art education.
Maria B. Morekis is a student at Northwest Florida State College and believes one should “Make art, not war.”
Finn Newton has been writing poetry and novels since he was seven years old. After having his first work published at age twelve, Finn knew that writing was something he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He continues to share personal pain and growth through his writing, hoping to leave a mark on anyone that might be moved by the experiences he shares.
Vuong Nhat Nguyen is an NWFSC art student who lives in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, whose piece “The Shortness of Life,” in charcoal, appears in this issue.
Nathan Niemela is a student at Northwest Florida State College studying architecture. He plans to continue his education at Portland State University.
Ashley Nolin is a senior at the Collegiate High School at Northwest Florida State College. She is currently majoring in creative writing.
Hannah Novack is an eleventh-grade homeschooled student who is dual-enrolled full time at NWFSC. Hannah loves to read and write poetry although still new to the genre. She is majoring in elementary education and hopes to go on to a master’s in library sciences to become a school librarian.
John Nubern is a Marine veteran who returned to school after nine years of service to study political science. When he isn’t reading or writing, he is spending time with his wonderful wife Tiffany and inspirational sons, Hiro and Jude.
Jennifer Peoples is a military spouse, a mother of two, and a full-time student in NWFSC’s nursing program. Northwest Florida is her ninth duty station during her husband’s military career.
Contributors • 131
Heather Phillips is a local artist who got her start in oil painting. In returning to school for technical skills, she fell in love with expressing herself in photography. Now, she is ready for adventure with her camera in tow.
Micah Pinckney is a sophomore at NWFSC who has always wanted to become a writer.
Elise Pounders is a Collegiate High School senior at Northwest Florida State College. She enjoys drawing natural forms.
Jasmine Richardson is a Collegiate High School senior at Northwest Florida State College. She is planning to pursue a major in art.
Peyton Sims is currently pursuing a degree in molecular biology. She cites her interest in art is one of the main driving factors in her life.
Ruvik Smith lives in Crestview, Florida, and “The Perfect Shot” is about a photographer who meets a sniper in a bar. In the story, the two, who don’t know the other’s occupation, talk about taking “the perfect shot.”
Brian Turney is a student at Northwest Florida State College. He is currently pursuing a degree in graphic design.
Jessica Walbeck is a student at Northwest Florida State College. She is pursuing a major in graphic design.
Aliya Walton is a student at Northwest Florida State College. She is majoring in fine arts with an emphasis in graphic design.
Donna Wilke is a writing student at NWFSC. She is working on illustrations for her next children’s book. She also writes song lyrics, poetry and prose.
Ally Williams is still figuring out what she’s doing. She writes poetry to cope and because the words taste good.
Matthew Owen Williams, a retired Army Chaplain, is a student at Northwest Florida State College in the digital media program. He is a full-time-student, musician, and artist.
Alicia Zamora is an art major. Her current interests in art include challenging herself in abstract works and improving techniques in linear perspectives.
Grazia Zavaleta’s first name is Nelly but she goes by Grazia, her middle name. She lives in Niceville, Florida, and loves to read and talk. She was born in Lima, Peru, seventeen years ago.
