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. Vickie Hunt
Prose Editor:
Dr. Jon W. Brooks
Poetry Editor: Amy Riddell, MFA
Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography:
Benjamin Gillham, MFA
Editorial Advisory Board:
Dr. Beverly Holmes, Dr. Christopher Snellgrove, Dr. Betsy Ponder-Melick April Leake, Dr. David Simmons, and Dr. Jill White
Art Advisory Board:
Benjamin Gillham, MFA, Stephen Phillips, MFA, J. Wren Supak, MFA, MA, Leigh Peacock Westman, MFA
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. Deidre Price, Dr. Dean Allen, and Dr. Dirk Dunbar 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.
Just When You Thought the Bar Couldn’t Get Lower:
Local Man Thanks Himself for Showering Regularly
Christopher McLoone
Thanks for hanging in there and doing your best each day to stumble out of bed and stagger into the bathroom, feet making sticky padding noises on the freezing tile. As you yank on the shower tap, the water hisses to life.
Thanks for banishing the BO for another twenty-four hours. But you don’t need to spend that much time wiggling around under hot water, daydreaming you’re a curator at the Louvre flirting with Richard Armitage, who finds you absolutely scintillating -you know that won’t excuse your tardiness.
Come on. It’s fifteen ‘til, and your girlfriend needs to get to class too.
Bowie/Bowie
Chance Freytag
“For this dark and lonely room Projects a shadow cast in gloom And my eyes are mirrors Of the world outside”
– Elton John & Bernie Taupin, Skyline Pigeon
Just under five foot three, Lara stood staring out the window in her front door, eyes glazed over, leaning her whole body against a chest of drawers. She had a red Walkman II in her jacket pocket, running Bowie’s “Diamond Dogs” front to back. This was May of 1983, and she was just barely sixteen, no real class left in the tenth grade. The jacket was a brandless one with homemade buttons near the collar, a jean jacket her mother had brought home, smiling and chuckling, barely an idea of what she had in her hands. Lara’s hair was a light brown puff, wavy and framing her face, short enough that it barely covered her ears; her eyes were large, and her skin was pale, making the bags under her eyes all the more prominent. She wore Tretorns with no socks and a t-shirt that said, in red letters like lightning bolts, BOWIE. It was tucked into her jeans, but she’d pulled at it, and it had become baggy at the waistline. The house smelled of must and stagnation.
She muttered under her breath without knowing it, “Hey babe, your hair’s alright, hey babe, let’s stay out tonight…”
From the kitchen: “What’s that, honey?”
“Hm?” She moved one of the headphones back.
“Did you say something, hon?”
“Uh, no.”
“Is Janis not here yet? I thought you were supposed to leave by two. Doesn’t it start at two-thirty?”
“It’s fine.”
“I can take you. I don’t have too much to do.”
“It’s fine.”
A sputtering noise came from down the street. Through the frosted glass, she saw a tall, white shape go by and then a small red one come from behind it and stop at her driveway. Lara dropped the headphones around her neck and felt in her pocket; she pressed a button on the Walkman and the music stopped with a strained plastic clicking. She only half said, “She’s here. Bye, mom,” and went out to the Pinto idling on the street. The air was muggy, and she felt it as she went across the lawn, her shirt beginning to stick to her back. A haze had settled on the neighborhood, blurring it, floating in waves down the rows.
She slid into the passenger’s seat and shut the door behind her. Before she looked at her, she heard Janis chewing gum, smacking it as she put the car in reverse. Janis’s hair was up in a ponytail on top of her head, held by a neon green scrunchie. Hall and Oates were on the radio.
“How are ya doin’?” Janis chewed on her tongue as she spoke, something close to a lisp.
“Fine. Uh, how are you?”
“Peachy. Peachy. Glad it’s all over and done with. Ms. Bernhardt is, like, a total bitch.”
“Oh, uh, yeah. I told you about the thing with the football pi-”
“Yeah! That’s crazy! Totally crazy.”
Janis pulled the Pinto back out of the driveway and took off toward the back entrance of the neighborhood. Lara wriggled around in her seat trying to keep her back from touching it where the sun had baked the fabric. The whole car radiated a thick and pervasive heat. She glanced over at Janis, shaking back and forth, humming to “Maneater.” A tall girl, Janis barely fit into her own car. She wore a blue tank top and a little Swatch on her right wrist. Lara’s eyes went up to Janis’s ponytail, lightly dancing against the ceiling, blonde hairs caught in the lining.
Lara leaned against the window and watched the road go by in the rearview mirror. She said, “You think Theo’s gonna come?”
Freytag • 3
“Hehe, you’ve got, like, a fat chance wi-”
“No, I know. Do you think he’ll come?”
“Like I know,” Janis chewed the gum louder and pointed to the radio, “You know I’m gonna, like, see them in New Orleans this year. Got tickets.”
“Oh, cool,” Lara nodded. “Have you ever been to New Orleans?”
“Never. I’m real excited. Have you been?” They took a sharp turn into a little neighborhood full of one level houses, most of them the same build only in different colors.
“My family goes every couple years to see my dad’s family. He grew up in Louisiana.”
“Totally, totally. Anywhere I, like, should see?” Janis came onto a street shaded by rows of trees, the houses all overgrown.
“Well, there’s a couple. I mean, there’s some places you really shouldn’t go; it can get kinda dangerous.”
“Totally, totally,” Janis nodded her head to the radio.
“The whole city is wild, a lot of crazy people.”
“Kooks and stuff, yeah.”
Lara bent forward and scratched her lower back, “I guess.”
They stopped in front of a house with wind chimes hanging around the front porch, still in the absence of even a breeze, but they had an illusion of slight movement as the heat washed over them. A few potted plants had tiny American flags stuck in the soil. A house for ex-hippies. Janis moved the gum around in her mouth. The door flew open, and a girl with curls down close to her waist threw it shut behind her. Her sunglasses had a neon frame, and she wore a wrinkled Black Flag t-shirt that was too big for her with a small leather purse across her torso. Janis turned to Lara, “Christie has to-”
“I know,” Lara got out and, pulling the lever, bent the seat over and slid it forward. She held one hand above her eyes and waved weakly with the other.
Christie tilted her head and smiled; her face was thin and tanned, “Hey, bitches!”
Lara gave a jittery nod, “Hey.”
Christie came around the car, smirking a little and
looking over her sunglasses. She made a sudden gasping noise and tossed a pair of socks at Lara who lurched backward and barely caught them. The strap of her purse got caught on the passenger’s seat as she crammed herself into the back, knees nearly touching her chest, and she used it to try and tug the seat back into place. Lara set the seat right and threw the socks back at her before climbing in again.
“So,” Christie set her chin on the passenger’s and leaned against the headrest, “what’ve I missed?”
“I’m going to New Orleans to see Hall and Oates,” Janis said.
“Hey, that’s great!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she started off toward the front of the neighborhood, the Pinto shuddering and growling.
“I’ve been there,” Lara leaned her head away toward the window, and she could hear Christie’s breathing.
“What do you think, then?”
“Bourbon Street is pretty fucking weird and stuff. I once saw a guy there covered in butter or something, and he was naked, just walking through the street.”
“Uh, okay,” Christie fumbled with her purse.
Janis glanced at Lara, “I don’t want to go there I guess.”
Lara chuckled a little, “Yeah, there’s always a cloud of marijuana, uh, just smoke over the street. You just kinda get used to the smell. I don’t know.”
“Hm,” Christie spoke in a guttural Southern drawl, “‘Pot, grass, whatever you want to call it, it’s probably the most dangerous drug out there today in the United States,’” a smile crept over her face, “‘and we haven’t even begun to study all of its ill effects.’” She put a mostly smoked joint between her lips and pulled a lighter from her purse, laughing to herself all the time.
Lara shrunk in her seat as Christie held the flame beside her head, moving her own face hesitantly closer, trying to touch the stub to it. There was a slight moist smell.
“Hey, what the fuck?” Janis reached back and gave Christie an ill-aimed smack on the shoulder. “You can’t, like, smoke in here. My parents use this car. You’ll totally stink it up!”
“What? Why? It’s a shitty car.”
“You’ll totally stink it up! Ugh.”
“Jeez, fine, fuckin’ airhead.”
Rustling in the backseat, Christie shoved the joint and the lighter down to the bottom of her purse and buried them in crumpled ones and fives. Lara glanced over her shoulder and scratched her cheek near where the lighter had been. Christie tried to lean back and set her purse in her lap. The sun shone down over the car, came in through the windows and emanated up from the asphalt, filling the Pinto with an invisible and suffocating fog. The radio got quiet and then said in a dried-up voice, “That was ‘Maneater’ by Hall and Oates. Now here’s the Boss with ‘Atlantic City.’ Keep listening to 98.7, that modern jukebox that brings you all of today’s hits.”
“Not this shit, I swear,” Christie rubbed her temple.
As Janis turned the knob, the music faded out, “I know, the music video was, like, nothing.”
“Totally. My mom loved it. It’s just a bunch of random black and white shit.”
Lara started, “I gu-”
“It’s not as good as Elton John, is it?” Christie said into her ear.
Janis laughed, “She asked about Theo earlier.”
“The photographer kid?” Christie tried to lean back again. “Mmhm.”
No one spoke.
The A/C was loud then, as they rode in silence. Moist clicking sounds joined it as Janis kept up her with her gum. Lara knew it had to have been flavorless and wondered why she chewed it. In the rear-view mirror, she could see Christie twirling her hair and rubbing her nose beneath the bridge of her sunglasses.
Outside, the rows of fields came to a stop, and the trees became more well kept. The Pinto passed by a new development, one with only a few houses, and then past a McDonald’s, a movie theater, and an arcade. A series of strip centers that had sprung up and with them came RadioShacks, Eckerds, Sears, chain
stores replacing older ones, like the grocery store that they only remembered as the Food Lion, though it hadn’t always been one. Janis pulled the Pinto into a spot between a Camaro and a mustard-colored El Camino. The parking lot was long and thin, dedicated exclusively to a brick building, all painted tan with a flat roof and, protruding from it, a red awning. Across the front, there was a dainty neon sign that looked like it had been made for a smaller building, flat and nearly colorless in the afternoon light, with “Hadley Rollerama” in cursive and beneath it, in still smaller lettering, “and Pizzeria.”
Janis stopped the car with a jolt and nearly forgot to put on the parking brake. Lara opened her door (there was barely enough room to open it without hitting the El Camino) and slid the seat forward, letting Christie out after her. Her hands in her pockets, Lara followed Janis and Christie toward the front door, squinting and watching as Christie tossed her balled up socks into the air and caught them, over and over. There was a kind of relative silence for a moment, just some distant cars and the slapping from Christie’s flip-flops; a throbbing started in Lara’s forehead, and she wondered if she’d slept enough. Her thumb found a button on the Walkman and pressed it unconsciously; Bowie started to play just loud enough for her to hear it.
It was nearly as hot inside as it was outside, even though metal fans that hung from the walls hummed and rattled. Janis went up to the front counter and said, “We’re with the party for the yearbook staff. From South Hadley High.” The girl behind the window nodded flatly and murmured, “Alright.” The three of them filed by, and further inside, there was a dry, musty smell that got stronger as they walked. The Hadley Rollerama had orange shag carpets on the floors and walls, no windows or especially bright lights. Lara had never been there before, but there was the feeling that maybe it had been cleaner some time before. A few who had arrived on time floated in mindless circles and figure eights around the rink in twos or threes, talking and laughing over the music in idle contentment. A few stood in a vague half circle around the cigarette machine. There was a
Freytag • 7
banner hung between two posts that had “Congratulations, 1982-83 Yearbook Staff” in blue, hand-drawn letters.
Janis went up to the skate rental first and said to the boy, “I wear an eight. And I don’t need to pay; I’m on the yearbook staff.” The boy had a defined, almost cartoon face and large cheekbones, shaggy hair that was parted in the middle so that it framed a large, white zit. He stood eye to eye with Janis. He handed her the skates and with a “Have fun!” he turned to Christie, who tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned against the counter.
“I’ll take a six,” she read his nametag, “Chuck. What’s your last name?”
He turned around and took the skates from the shelf, “Oh, it’s Carpenter.”
“I’m Christie.”
“Well,” he started to turn toward Lara, “have fun, Christie.”
Christie followed Janis to the benches by the lockers; Lara stepped up and stared blankly at the rows of skates against the wall, fumbling in her pocket to stop the Walkman.
“What size do you wear?”
“Uh, I’m a six, too, I think.”
He turned and grabbed a pair and as he handed them to her, he gestured to her jacket, “Nice pin. I like Elton John.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, thanks,” and she went over to the benches.
Christie smirked, “Did you forget socks, too?” Lara looked at her shoes as Janis chuckled a little. Christie shook her head, “I’m the only one that plans ahead.”
Lara sat down on the bench behind them, facing their backs and started to slide off her shoes, not letting her bare feet touch the carpet.
Janis muttered, “You’re also the only one who wants to get with ‘Chuck.’”
“Shut up,” Christie shoved her with her shoulder.
Lara spoke, but she could barely hear herself over the Joan Jett song, “I met his little brother at the mall. Tim Carpenter. He’s in junior high.”
Janis turned to Christie, “You could go over there and
show Chuck how much you care by popping his zit for him.”
“Gag me,” Christie pushed Janis again.
The other two girls looked back at her with blank eyes and slack-jawed faces. Lara looked down and started to guide her feet into her skates. Only out of the corners of her eyes did she see them leave and float onto the rink. The skates were too large. She tried to tighten them, wrap the laces around the back and strangle her ankle, but they were still loose. She’d broken her ankle once before. She slid her Tretorns back on and carried the skates back toward the counter where a short boy in a letterman was talking to Chuck, who didn’t seem to be paying attention. He asked Chuck if he’d read The Catcher in the Rye and scratched at his head through his flat-topped military cut. Lara put down the sixes and asked for fives without looking at the boy who slapped her on the shoulder, “Hey, didn’t think you’d come. Have you seen the new Star Wars, yet?” Chuck handed her the skates, and she started back to the benches, “No.”
The boy so intent on talking to her about Star Wars was Kevin Hopsicker, and he scuttled after her, “I saw it last night. It’s sick. You’ve got to go. Have you seen the other ones?” His voice made it sound like he was breathing helium, but it was coarse and low. Under the letterman, he had on a Panama Jack shirt, the same one he’d worn everyday doing whatever it was he did in yearbook. Lara couldn’t remember.
“Yeah. They’re fine,” she sat down and took off the Tretorns again.
“Yeah, I love ‘em. Yeah. You think the flitty photographer kid’s gonna be here?” he sat down next to her.
“I don’t know.”
He held his arms out in front of him and rolled his shoulders in loosely rhythmic circles, “‘Uh, she was the young American.’”
Lara raised an eyebrow.
“Y’know, the ‘Young American’ video? Where Bowie’s all skinny, he’s like, what’s the word, when you don’t eat enough or you’re on drugs or something, like, anti- no, anorexic. That’s it.”
“I don’t get it.”
Freytag • 9
“Like Theo. He’s basically anorexic.”
“Oh.”
Kevin shook his head, “His chest makes me uncomfortable. It’s so bony, and the skin is, like, really gross and thin and veiny.”
She didn’t know if he meant Bowie or Theo.
“He’s so damn pale, too.”
Lara finished tying the laces, looser than she wanted, and started to roll away without saying anything.
“Hey, w- I’ll be just a minute,” Kevin lifted his foot onto the bench and started to fumble with laces.
The floor of the rink was wooden, a clear coating over it, and Lara felt the bumps in it as she rolled slowly along the edges. A disco ball hung from the ceiling in the center and at the far end, a college-aged guy with a messy mustache stood on a platform with a microphone next to his face nodding to the music. Lara clung to the sides of the rink, faceless skaters weaving past her; she didn’t look for Janis or Christie. Her movements were slow and deliberate. There was nothing natural about how she skated. In her pocket, she ran her fingers over the Walkman’s buttons, feeling around the indentions and the crack on the corner, the leftover adhesive where the price tag had been.
The lights went down, and a red one hit the disco ball and sent thin, dusty beams of light down onto the rink. Over the speakers, “This one’s gonna be a couples skate. Find somebody. A friend or maybe, y’know, a little more.” He played a Flying Pickets song.
She floated in circles in the dark; the rattling as she went over the uneven boards put her feet on pins and needles. The song had a synthetic choir in the back; an electronic and high pitched humming ran beneath it all. Lara thought that she hadn’t slept enough. A numbness started in her forehead and slowly spread throughout, to her cheeks, the bags under her eyes, down past her hairline and into her neck. She became aware of the way her hair bounced, as if it were dragging her to the ground, moving of its own accord. The air was thick, and she could feel it parting to let her through.
Between two silhouettes and in the light beneath an exit
sign, she saw Theo. His hair was short. He was thin and pale. He wore a light pink short sleeved button up tucked into pleated white pants with thick creases. In his lap, he held a little black and silver Nikon. His thumb made circles around the shutter button. She kept looking at him as she went around. He looked up at her, and his face was expressionless. Under the light of the sign, his eyes looked as if they were green, no pupils or irises. The song ended. Theo raised the camera. Someone said something about Elton John, but Lara couldn’t tell where it came from. A harpsichord echoed through the room. Theo took a picture.
In it, blurry silhouettes formed a dark and solid ring. All their heads were raised with their gazes directed at the speakers in the ceiling, and among them Lara stared absent-mindedly into the lens, her eyes drooping and seemingly dilated, her face caught in the light. She was waiting for him to smile.
Graffiti Girl
Hannah Strom
Even though my bedroom door was locked and barricaded with old art easels, I could still sense Coby’s ghost in the room. I burrowed deeper under my heavy comforters. If I looked, he wouldn’t be there, and if I called his name, he wouldn’t answer. But he’s dead! I saw him die! I made him die! I choked on tears as silently as I could. The shaking of a can, the pop of the cap, and the hypnotic hissing noise I knew so well. He was spray painting the walls. Again. I wanted to change my position‒get off my elbows and cover my ringing ears, but then he might actually see me this time.
By the time I decided to move slightly, the noise was gone. He was gone. I shook and sobbed for what felt like hours, all with the same thoughts going through my head. I couldn’t do this anymore. I had to turn myself in to the police. My friends said it wasn’t my fault. But I had picked the dare. I had sent Coby to his death off the cliffs of the Tennessee mountains. My phone alarm went off in the fading darkness. Through stinging eyes and nail-bitten-to-flesh fingers, I slithered my way out of comforters. What would it be today? Another threat note? My full name‒Arizona Dawn Carter‒ in blood-red, full caps?
No. This time, it made my heart drop further than it had been before. Do it, you big baby. The last words Coby heard before his body broke one-hundred feet below.
Grabbing my phone, I hit the nine. This was it. One. It was time to turn myself in. One. I shuffled down to the detention center, cursing myself like I had for the last month. The punishment had been as severe as a minor could get in vandalizing a national monument. Maybe if I had told the police and everyone else interested in my teenage life, I hadn’t been alone. That me and about twelve other people went every Friday night to spray paint all the rocks at a lookout point on
the mountains with gang signs, confessions, and vulgarities, maybe I would have gotten a shorter sentence.
I pretended to be bitter about it, but really, every night when I went to bed, I knew I should have gotten a longer sentence. I should have told them about the last time I went up there with our new recruit‒Coby‒, the hot, sort of gothy looking new kid at school. I should have told them how I shamelessly flirted with him, and how I dared him to go up to NoFurther point, named after a faded out warning sign. I could see Coby was scared. I remembered how he smirked at me and told me he wasn’t the village idiot. The way he said it made me repeat it a thousand times in my head as my begging finally got him to climb. And finally made him fall.
They found his body that night next to a shattered neonblue paint spray. I was sitting by my parents at the breakfast table when they showed me the paper. They asked me if I knew—because I’m a teenager which means I know every other teenager in town. I said no. I hadn’t really looked at the pictures they shoved in my face. I had found his body just five hours earlier. Five torturous hours before.
I froze at the door of the recreation room. At this time of night, nobody was in there. But here was a boy, facing a paused nature program on the TV. The dude wasn’t watching though. He sat on a chair facing an easel he had to keep from tilting. I crept up until I was directly behind him. I leaned on the barred windows behind me, hands curled toward the art supplies. The juvie center was trying out a new thing to make us “model citizens” like we hadn’t already screwed our lives up. The plan was to take away whatever you got in trouble for. Since mine was graffiti, they had taken away everything used to write with. Had to use a computer screen to type anything like they expected me to write threats on the bathroom walls or something.
I swallowed and stared at this boy harder. I couldn’t tell what he had done. Something severe or else he wouldn’t end up in here.
“What are you in here for, Picasso?” I tried to stand as tall
as possible.
He frowned, stirring the paint brush into a greenish-blue water cup. “Not vandalism, graffiti girl.”
“How did you know?”
“Everyone knows you.”
My insides shook. Coby. They knew.
“How? How so?” I stammered.
He turned to look at me. Brown, floppy hair, green eyes, cheeks covered in a yellowish paint. “It takes real guts to paint those mountains.”
I held my breath as he spoke. Expecting him to mention the boy found one hundred feet below. Instead he offered me a sticky hand.
“Michael.”
I shook it. “Arizona. But you can call me Ari.”
“Cool. Want some paints, Ari?”
“You in here for running some kind of black market?”
“Nah, stealing.” Michael flicked a wet paintbrush in my direction. “Dang, I guess this system is working.”
I smiled. “I shouldn’t.”
“But you will.” With that he stretched and left me alone in the recreation room with his painting plus all the supplies. It was gorgeous. A skyline of a grassy field, certainly not anywhere near this ugly patch of Tennessee.
As we were called to bed, I slipped some of the art supplies and dry brushes into my pockets. If Michael got to paint, then I get to steal. I started to leave the room before turning back and flipping the painting around. I told myself it was so nobody would vandalize his painting. I chuckled to myself as I set off down the hallway. How ironic. Maybe I was changing. But who to? Whom did I want to be?
A guard nodded me into my room, which was actually nicer than what I thought it would be when I first came here. The room, that is. The woman didn’t give two winks as to what I did.
I made sure to empty my pockets and slide my treasures under the bed before chucking my dirty clothes down the
laundry chute.
How easy, I thought as I slid into bed. Maybe, perhaps, thieves had more eyes on them. Man, that’d suck.
I was caught thinking about what I would use the painting supplies for when a dream hit. I was painting Michael’s landscape, except the colors were all wrong, and I couldn’t figure out why the sky wasn’t red anymore. I was starting to cuss out the sky when the sky melted, raining big fat red drops on me, revealing a blue sky beyond. I was soaking wet with sticky paint. The smell was so real…almost like…almost like…
I bolted up. Not again. I was soaked with green paint while a small nightlight illuminated a painting on the bare walls. In it, a girl that looked a lot like me was falling. Although there was no scenery, I already knew where and how far.
“Coby?” I stumbled out of bed, head still buzzing with my dream and haunted by that picture. “Coby, you don’t have to do this. We can talk this through. It…it wasn’t my fault.”
Oh come on. Who was I kidding?
“Listen…” I waited for anything, but it was silent. “Um, you can’t do this here. I’ll get in big trouble, and I don’t have any paint remover, you know, dude?”
A roar blasted through my head like a thunder clap. I fell back into bed, covering my ears like it could keep the words out.
“I was innocent!”
“You were,” I practically sobbed. “But I’m not.” My hair and bed were now soaked with salty tears. It felt like nothing else existed except my spot curled up at the end of the bed. I didn’t want anything else to exist. Just me and this night. Please don’t let morning come.
It came anyway like the jerk it was. It came at four thirty when I startled awake again. I couldn’t remember my nightmare‒never a dream‒they were always nightmares now. When I tried to sleep again, I kept shaking, my body still stuck on whatever nightmare I had missed. Finally, I forced myself up, grabbed a pair of fresh clothes, and slunk back out. I slid the card on my door to “Breakfast.” I could have waited for the eight o’ clock breakfast, but that would mean being in my room
when the guards came in. If only I could find Michael.
As if I had summoned him, in the dining area was Michael, sitting under a row of dim lights. Between handfuls of dry cereal straight from a mini carton, he was making broad strokes on a huge piece of paper that took up almost the entire wooden circle.
I grabbed an apple and a cold, packaged, chocolate chip muffin before heading over there. Michael must have seen me coming, for he pushed his paper slightly to the left. Maybe to hide and protect it, or maybe just to be nice. Either way I was blushing as I sat across from him. But no way was I going to decide who a guy was based on looks ever again. Not after Coby.
“Hey, Ari. Dang, you look pale.”
I struggled with my muffin, the noise seeming too loud for human existence as everyone else slept. “I sort of need your help,” I muttered.
I was struggling more and more. I couldn’t find a flap or a “tear here.” My eyes were tearing up. Please don’t let me cry here.
Michael put a hand on the package, making me stop. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
I wiped my hand across my eyes. Real quick. He didn’t notice, right? “I kind of messed up… with those paints and need you to remove it.”
“Oh.” Michael pulled his hand back like he was embarrassed caught being so caring to a stranger. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
As he threw away his breakfast, I studied his sketch. Looked like a face, but I couldn’t tell whose. I pretended I hadn’t peeked as we took off to the girls’ section. Surprisingly there was nobody on watch, so it was easy to slip inside my room, which I changed to “In.” It felt strange, him in my room, but it felt even weirder having him look at Coby’s work. Nobody had before. And if he asked, it was all my work. Hopefully Coby wouldn’t start up with his death threats, or I’d be in big trouble.
Michael tilted his head at the threat. “Yeah, this shouldn’t be too hard. I just have to run and grab the equipment.”
“Thank you.”
He smiled. While he was gone, I quickly finished my
breakfast, without the apple. My stomach was twisting too many ways to handle it. When he came back, he set to work. I hated just standing there. I almost wanted to slap him away. What if Coby started hurting him too?
When Michael was finished and all packed up, he paused in the doorway, risking more than he should have. “If this happens again, just tell me.”
I rolled my eyes. “It won’t.”
But it did. For a whole week, I’d wake up with more graffiti. Never death threats, just more pictures. Until that last day. We had been cleaning up the graffiti when Michael didn’t leave. Now me and Michael had been hanging out a lot. Michael…. he made me feel as if there was some part of the old me left. Maybe we were even starting a relationship. But now, his face wasn’t my friendly, safe spot anymore.
“Why are you doing this, Ari?” he asked, hands spread out, so he covered the way out. “I’m serious. The pictures were creepy, but whatever, maybe you were that kind of person, but now‒” Michael shook his head. “I just don’t understand. I used to think you were just calling me in here because you wanted to hang out, but today you’ve gone too far.”
My head was swimming. “I do want to hang out with you.”
“And I do too.”
“But..” Now I was crying. And not silent tears, but the kind that screamed and threw a fit as they crawled down my face. I choked several times before I could continue speaking. “It’s not me,” I whispered. “I’m not the one making these marks.”
Michael’s hands were by his side now, clenched into fists. “Then who did this?”
“Coby.”
“The…the dead guy?”
I nodded and sank my chin to my chest. I expected him to laugh or just storm out. Instead he hugged me.
“Are you sure?”
It was hard to step back, but I did. “You still don’t believe me, and don’t try to hide it.”
“But I want to.”
“But you can’t.”
“Try me, Ari.”
I sat on my creaking bed. “Ever since I killed Coby‒”
“Ever since he fell, you mean.”
I stiffened. Michael had been trying to get me to believe it wasn’t my fault. But it was just too hard. “Anyway, his presence, or ghost, or whatever, would write graffiti messages on my wall. I finally couldn’t take it and called myself in for vandalism. I didn’t think he could come in here. I thought he would stop. And now…well I have no idea what to do.”
“Well,” Michael sat on the bed beside me. “What do you want to do?”
Well that surprised me. I wasn’t expecting that. Nobody ever asked me what I wanted to do, and I never really thought about it. But as I stared at the wall where the threat had been, I knew.
“I need to go back to the mountains where he died.” By the time anyone knew we were gone the next morning— signaled by our ankle bracelets turning red—we were already on a tour bus heading for the mountains. It actually wasn’t that hard to get out. Michael had simply picked the lock. Then we followed a family, posing as their children. By the time we were approaching the national monument, the bus drivers had switched, so the new one never even knew we got off with different people than we got on with.
I almost didn’t recognize the parking lot we got off at. It was scrubbed clean. No blown-up memes, no dirty pictures, not even so much as a name. I smiled, my heart sinking as memories of my friends came back. I could almost hear Chris screaming at Theo for changing all his signatures to Christ. I could hear the teasing and cussing. The laughing. The calls to run at the police sirens. I had given people something to be proud of. Did they hate me, now? I sure did.
As we went up the steep road that had to be at least a one-eighty angle, I found the reason for this sudden cleanse. Security cameras. As gangster as we pretended to be, nobody who was anybody wanted to get caught. I had once, not here,
but somewhere else. That’s how my parents knew. I suspected the only reason they ignored everything was because I was their only child. Never would they guess one day I would turn myself in.
By the time we reached the top, a flattened out parking lot surrounded by huge rocks, making up miniature mountains, and an observation deck up a pathway of fifty stairs.
Breathing hard, I pointed to the deck. “There, that’s where.”
Michael cursed. “There’s more?” He was bent over at the knees, face red.
I didn’t blame him as I rested on a handicapped parking sign. The air no longer smelled of wildflowers and pine. It was cold and stinging to my aching lungs. I swallowed.
The rock mountain, usually painted with the most colorful and artistic graffiti was dirt-caked brown. Horribly ugly, I thought, but Michael was staring at it in wonder. Or at least I suspected it was wonder. He could have been wanting to paint it, just in a different way. I didn’t have that feeling anymore. It died with Coby.
My ankle monitor blinked a deeper shade of red. “Come on, Michael. We probably don’t have much time. I shouldered my backpack one last time before approaching the stairs. They creaked as we climbed.
I rolled my eyes. “At least the important things were fixed.” Michael snorted. “Yeah. Hey, what are we going to end up doing?”
I hugged my backpack tighter, feeling the rope inside. “You’ll see.”
When we got to the observation deck, I swung my pack off. It made me nervous, carrying it so close to me. I knelt down to unzip it, and Coby’s presence rode in with a cold fall wind. Guess it would only be fair for him to see this. Before I pulled out the rope, I turned back. Michael was fiddling with an old, paint-rubbed telescope. Good. I tied one end of the rope to the other telescope, this one newer and hopefully sturdier. Now it was time to look at the place I vowed never to see again.
Beyond a rusted fence with a new “Don’t Cross—Danger” sign was a gap of about five feet before getting to a group of rocks. These rocks were still graffitied with my signature, a snake in a star shape. Dang. If the professionals wouldn’t even, then what was I doing?
Coby was by the fence, probably gazing into the gap like he had that last night.
“Come on,” I had said, with my best flirty tone. “Try it. Get over there.”
He had laughed. “And kill myself with that gap?”
“I could do it, you big baby.”
“Not so fast. Who said I couldn’t do it? Watch this.”
He had steadily climbed the fence, eyes only on the unpainted rock. I had put my hands on my hips and leaned back, admiring him. That’s when he gasped and wobbled. Arms out, I had run forward. But he had fallen forward, smacking his chin on my star snake rock. I didn’t even get a last glimpse of him as his body vanished down the darkened pit. All I did was scream.
“Ari?” Michael put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright?”
“Pre…precautions,” I stammered. Taking a deep breath, I tied the rope around my waist. Both Michael and I tugged on it to make sure it was good. After his tug, we locked eyes.
“I’ll be holding the other end,” Michael said.
“But it’s tied in.”
“I’ll still be there.” Michael kissed me.
I wanted to stay like this, attached to him, and safe, but it would be the cowardly thing to do. Michael knew this too as he shoved the paint spray into my arms when we pulled apart.
Heart shuddering, I put my first foot on the fence. As I climbed, I tried not to look down, but I couldn’t keep it off my mind. That one-hundred-foot drop. Not a gamble, but a deal with death.
I gripped the top of the fence as I flipped over. There was a small ledge between the fence and the gap that I had to twist my feet just to fit on. Coby must have missed it. Now, I was
facing Michael, who, like he said, was crouched by the telescope holding the rope, but I’d have to turn around.
At this point, I would have just spun around and quickly scribbled down my snake, but not this time. I would have to spend time perfecting this‒a portrait of Coby. From my belt I pulled out a black paint can and started with his hair and shirt. Every time I pressed the top down, my knees wobbled. By the time I was finishing the shirt, I had broken my record of staying on this ledge. My stomach felt sour, and my head ached.
Just keep going.
I quickly finished the rest of him, while silently swearing to myself. It was torture.
“That looks great,” Michael called, voice wobbly. “Now come back.”
Nodding, my whole body shook. I put away the tan paint and went to turn around. But my shirt must have been hooked onto the fence, because I felt the fence jerk toward me.
“Michael,” I screamed, but it was too late.
The fence fell toward me. A flash of colors, and everything stopped moving. Michael was cursing, but my eyes were closed. I wanted to ask if I was dead, but the words wouldn’t come. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The fence had fallen, making a perfect bridge across the gap with me hanging on the bottom of it like Spiderman. My fingers were clutching the gaps in the fence’s material.
Michael was kneeling by the bridge’s end, trying to lift it. He grunted and fell on his back. “I can’t lift it, Ari. I can’t lift it. It’s too heavy.”
“Stop, stop,” I shouted as he repeated himself.
His voice cracked as he spoke. “You’re going to have to let go.”
“What?” Coby’s scream was echoing through my head
“I can’t lift the gate and you. Just let go. The rope will hold you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Would it though? Did I trust Michael? Had Coby trusted me?
“Okay,” I whispered. “But I can’t do it alone. Step on my
fingers.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Michael, there’s no other way.”
He said a curse, not even I could get myself to say. “Fine, but I’m not going to enjoy it.” He raked his hands through his hair before pressing the bottom of his shoes against my fingertips.
Squealing as my fingers burned, I let go. And fell. A sudden jerk went through my hips. My stomach flew to my mouth. But I was hanging. Scraping of metal came from above before he called down that it was gone.
My whole body felt sour as Michael started to pull. Although any girl would say it, I really didn’t weigh much. When I got to the top, I grabbed the ledge and pulled myself up. I fell into Michael’s arms, both of us sobbing as police sirens wailed.
“Never again,” he said.
I wiped my eyes and turned toward my artwork. “We won’t have to.” Although I hadn’t painted Coby with a smile, he was smiling now. He was finally free.
The Dance of Liquid Butterflies
Rachael Bell
I gently grasp a bottle filled with a clear teal liquid and remove the cap with a pop. My finger fits almost perfectly on the smooth nozzle. I press down firmly.
Immediately after, a mist springs forth. Walking through the mist, droplets land on my skin soaking into me, and it feels as though thousands of butterflies have brushed past me with their wings gently scraping my skin as they fly.
Chipped Paint
Alicia Cavaco
You know this door: Handle polished smooth from indecision, the spot near the bottom where you picked the paint as a child, trying to decide: Mom or Dad, the splintered wood remnants of high school when you struck it again and again and again. unsure if living was easier. You stare at it now.
Purple Heart
Ruvik Smith
I step back to dodge the rat scurrying by under the bright purple neon lights, which color the garbage bag ties resembling the flowers on my mama’s porch.
I remember her in tears.
Make-up stained tears. Foolish woman crying for a man she had on her finger but not on her heart. The porch had been littered with bottles painted with lipstick like a skull marks poison.
She was all the same to others who wasted tears over losing flowers and left for rats who would refuse them. “No one takes trash, only makes it.” But my mother was taken, how unfortunate for me.
I had stained mama’s porch with my own bloody garbage. Woe to follow in her footsteps and match the darkened purple of her skin. But I will not cry over losing flowers, I will not forgive him, my own rat.
Mama doesn’t care for my flowers only for the murder on her porch, but she would never blame the rat. It was obvious through bottles that leaked into her tainted purple heart.
Jolene
Aidan Fleming
Lauren stalked the small creature that hopped through the woods. The moon was bright above her, offering her enough light to discern her prey. It was a small rabbit, not a very filling meal, but it would do for the night. Lauren had hunted in these woods her entire life. In those days, she would hunt elk and deer, but now the forest held only rabbits, squirrels, and birds to feed her and her husband. The rabbit stopped suddenly, looking around, startled. Its ears pricked high and straight like the blackwood trees that surrounded them. Lauren slowly took out an arrow from her quiver, holding her breath as she did. The rabbit remained still, but was breathing quickly, darting its head all ’round. It hadn’t seemed to notice Lauren and never once looked in her direction; it seemed to focus most of its attention to the opposite side of her. Lauren took her arrow and pulled back her bow. She exhaled, then inhaled. Stay still, she thought to herself. Then from somewhere in the woods came the sound of a branch snapping, and that was enough to set the rabbit off. It darted to the left, and Lauren reacted quickly, jerking her bow to the side and releasing.
“Shit,” she cursed under her breath. Her arrow struck nothing but dirt. She walked up to her failed shot and crouched down to pull the arrow from the earth. The wind around her began to pick up, and the blackwood trees, leafless and devoid of color, danced in the night. She stood back up and examined the arrow for damage. It was chipped slightly, but nothing too bad that she couldn’t fix. The wind became stronger, and the trees began to shake violently. Lauren looked around, annoyed at the sudden change in weather. She put her arrow back in her quiver and turned around to find where the rabbit had gone. When she turned, she saw two dark emerald green dots glowing in the night. The two dots, side by side, stared intently at her from deep in the forest.
Lauren froze at the sight of her eyes. Whenever she saw Jolene in the day, it was hard to notice their subtle glow. “Hello, Jolene,” Lauren said, trying her best to keep her voice still. The woman known as Jolene said nothing, and the forest was silent except for the ever-intensifying winds. As the wind grew stronger and more violent, Lauren heard a strange noise: the sound of stones being scraped together in a manner and tone similar to a man screaming. Lauren looked around to find the source of the sound, but when she turned back, she noticed the emerald green eyes were gone, and the body of a stag lay on the ground. The stag was huge, larger than any kind she’d seen before, and it was already skinned. The moonlight glinted on its red meat and black antlers. Lauren inched toward the stag, and as she neared, she noticed the antlers were made of an oily black stone, and the stag was missing its eyes. The stone screeching grew louder as Lauren looked around, bewildered, the wind threatening to knock her off her feet, until suddenly everything stopped. The trees stopped shaking, the wind stopped blowing, and the screams died off to nothing.
It stayed like that for a while, until a voice pierced the silent air. “There is no need to hunt, Lauren. I will provide for you.” The sound echoed throughout the forest and lingered in Lauren’s mind. Its tone was paradoxical, seemingly tender, but with an edge of cruelty. Lauren looked around to find the source of the voice, yet those emerald eyes were nowhere to be seen. She stared into the forest; nothing stared back. Somehow the moon seemed dimmer, and the forest darker. Lauren looked down at the stag again, finally noticing the rise and fall of its chest, and ran back toward the safety of the house.
The wind picked up, the trees shook, and the inhuman stone shrieking began again. It seemed as if the forest was collapsing around her, the sound of wood, wind, and stone filling her ears and blurring her mind. Just when she feared she was lost in the black woods, she made it to the cabin. Passing her herb garden, she grabbed a large handful of sage, flung open the cabin door, and ran to her husband. Noah smiled at the sight of his love and began to greet her, but she shushed
him, crushing the leaves between her hands into a paste and smearing it on his skin. She whispered, “She’s here,” and Noah nodded. Lauren took her bow and put her ear to the door, but all she heard was the wood, wind, and stone. Noah crouched under one of the windows with a hammer in his hand, the same one he had used to build their cabin seven years before. The two waited with drawn breath until the wind slowed and the trees stopped shaking. Lauren stepped away from the door and grabbed a piece of paper along with ink and quill.
We must remain quiet for the rest of the night. She could still be out there.
She handed the paper to Noah, who nodded in response. He took the quill and wrote, I’ll stay up tonight.
Lauren thanked him with a kiss. As Noah posted himself at the chair by the door, hammer in hand, she went to the bedroom and slept. She dreamt of a stag, skinned but breathing, with the face of her husband.
The sun shone through the windows of their bedroom, waking Lauren. She slept well and had nearly forgotten her disturbing dream. She rose from her bed and walked into the main room of their cabin. Sitting next to the door was her husband, fast asleep. Lauren smiled softly and walked over to Noah and ruffled his hair, waking him. “Thanks for staying up all night to protect me,” Lauren teased.
“You’re welcome,” he said smugly, “I stayed up all night, and then when the sun rose, my eyes fell…” Noah said, letting his eyelids flutter shut and giving a loud fake snore. Lauren giggled and looked at Noah fondly. His brown hair fell into his eyes, and he was smiling warmly. Lauren admired her husband in a moment of calm, then with a violent shock, she imagined his pretty face fused onto the body of that stag. Lauren shook her head and walked away to look out the window. Noah opened his eyes to see his wife obviously upset. “What’s wrong, Lauren?”
Lauren tensed and said, “I wasn’t able to get any food for us last night. Jolene interrupted me, and even if she hadn’t, I only found one rabbit the entire night.”
Noah went silent for a moment, thinking, then said, “Well,
Jolene does offer food every day to the rest of the village. You can always get some and bring it back for the two of us.”
Lauren turned around to look at Noah, then averted her gaze again. “And do exactly what she wants?” she said. “And where does she even get all of this food? I’ve been hunting every night, and there’s no big game left, yet she comes there every day with pounds of meat and no explanation of where it comes from. I don’t trust that!”
Noah nodded and replied, “I understand. I don’t trust it either, but what’s the other choice? Starve?”
Lauren regarded the floor, then muttered, “That’s not our only option.”
Noah sighed. “We can’t fight her, Lauren. She killed everyone: your father, my brother, every other man we know. We’re lucky you were able to save me —I’m lucky. Thank you, Lauren, but please, we don’t stand a chance against her. We just have to do whatever we can to survive.”
Lauren breathed deeply, then said, “I can’t live like this, Noah. How can you accept this? You’re locked in here all day, knowing that if anyone else sees you, Jolene will…” Lauren trailed off. She shivered as her head was filled with images of her beloved lying mutilated.
“I’m not accepting it. I don’t want to live like this. But this is our best chance of survival, and if it means I’m locked in this cabin with the love of my life, then I’ll be just fine.” Noah went to his wife, putting his hands on her shoulders. Her stormy blue eyes stayed fixed on the floor. “Hey, I love you, and we will get through this.” Lauren looked up and finally met his eyes, and that moment of calm took her again. The lovers exchanged glances, the light brown of autumn meeting the deep blue of a now tranquil sea.
“I love you, too,” Lauren sighed, kissing him.
Noah smiled. “Now can you please get some food for us? Because I’m starving.”
Lauren laughed. “Fine, I’ll head to town and bring some food back, and if I happen to run into a way to kill Jolene, I’ll take that back with me too.”
Noah sighed. “Just don’t cause too much trouble, alright?”
Lauren grabbed her satchel, heading toward the door. “I’ll try.”
“Oh, and let’s open up the bottle of whisky Gideon gave us tonight.”
Lauren opened the door. “Sounds good. I’ll see you later, love you!” She closed the door, passed their sage garden, walked through the clearing around their house, then made her way into the woods.
The village was quiet. A handful of women were gathered in the square where a large table had been set to hold Jolene’s offerings. On the table were fresh elk, fish, bear, and eggs. Some of the meat was left there raw, while other pieces had been cooked and prepared into fine meals. Mothers and daughters sat around the table, eating in near silence. Some of the women looked around warily as they ate, on lookout for Jolene, but not all had such gloomy expressions. Lauren recognized the old woman, Bella, seated at the end of the long table, eating a plate of elk with a satisfied smile upon her face. Her husband Gideon had been the first man to die. Seeing so many miserable expressions at the table, Lauren decided not to get any food. She instead turned to her friend Maple’s house.
Lauren knocked on the door and was greeted by her best friend, tall and strong with a long dark braid down her back. “Hey, Maple, may I please come in?”
Maple opened the door wider to let her in. “Of course! What’s up?”
Lauren walked in then looked out the window, looking for any sign of Jolene. “Everything’s wrong, Maple. No one’s alive anymore. She may have only killed the men, but look outside! They’re all breathing corpses. This is no way to live.” Lauren stopped talking for a second then, after one more look outside, plainly said, “I’m going to kill Jolene, and I need your help.”
Maple stood silently, eyebrows raised. Lauren continued, “I’m not asking you to be there with me; I just need information. If there’s anything you can tell me about how I might be able to hurt her, please do.”
Maple thought for a moment then said, “Well, when she
first came to the village, in all the chaos our garden of rosemary was burned down, along with most of our stores of it. I never actually saw it happen; all the men in my family were already dead and Noah was away so me and Lillian just hid here. But I do remember hearing that Bella tried to fight Jolene. She probably has the most experience with her.”
“Thank you, Maple. Do you have any of that rosemary left?”
“Yes, I just have to ask Lillian where it is.” Maple went to her bedroom. Lauren followed and saw Lillian, pale with shortcropped blonde hair, lying in bed. She had been living with Maple since Jolene attacked.
“Hey, Lauren,” Lillian said weakly. Her eyes could hardly stay open.
“Hey, Lillian, I hope you’re feeling better,” Lauren said, perching on the side of her bed.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Maple, what are you looking for?” Lillian asked as the taller woman rummaged through their drawers.
Maple sighed then said, “Honey, do you know where our last bit of rosemary is?”
Lillian stared blankly for a moment, eyes glazed with fever, then said, “Yeah, it’s in the dresser in the left corner.” Maple went to the dresser and pulled out a small vial filled with liquid and herbs. “It’s a mixture of water and every herb I grew; the other herbs mask the scent of the rosemary, so Jolene never found it,” Lillian explained. “But Lauren, why do you need it?”
Lauren looked down then said, “Because I’m going to kill Jolene. We can’t live like this anymore—I can’t live like this anymore.”
Maple walked closer to Lauren and looked her in the eyes, “Is it because of Noah?”
Lauren sighed then said, “Noah just wants us to lay low, but we can’t live like that forever. Jolene is going to find us one day, unless I do something about it.”
Maple nodded then put the vial in Lauren’s hand and closed her hand around it. “If you’re going to do this, you’ll need something else.” She walked to the closet and pulled out a long axe. “Here.”
Fleming • 31
Lauren took the axe and admired it, her dull reflection looking back from the brushed metal. She looked up and said, “Thank you, Maple and Lillian. Noah and I really appreciate this.”
Lauren’s lips twisted. “No, he doesn’t. But he’ll understand once we’re free.” Lauren looked at the two of them then said, “Well, I’d best get going then. Thank you again.”
“And Lauren,” Maple said, “Bring that axe back when you’re done.”
Lauren smiled softly. “Yes, ma’am.” She exited the home, walking back into the silent street.
Lauren got many looks from the other women of the village, with an axe strapped onto her back and a look of determination. She went up to the house of Bella, the woman who fought back against Jolene. She knocked on the door to find it unlocked; she let herself in and found Bella sitting down in a rocking chair.
“Hello? Who’s there?” Bella cried.
Lauren entered cautiously. “Hey Bella, it’s me Lauren.”
Bella turned her head and gave a large grin, “Lauren! Oh, it’s good to see you, come in, come in. I haven’t seen you in so long. How are you?” Lauren walked further into the home and sat in the chair opposite to Bella.
“I’ve been okay. I just came to check up on you and ask about a couple things.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Lauren, I’ve been doing well. I cooked a beautiful meal with some of the food Jolene gave us. I hope you got some before it was all eaten!”
Lauren faked a smile for a second, then stopped and leaned forward slightly. “Bella, I came here to ask about the first night Jolene came.” Bella’s joyful face turned sour as she avoided Lauren’s eyes. “Please, I need to know what happened between you and Jolene.”
Bella stared at nothing and remained silent until she said, “Why… do you want to know?”
Lauren bit her lip. “I’m going to try and kill Jolene.”
Bella began to shake, and her face twisted in anger.
“Lauren, you need to leave.”
“Bella, please, you’re the only one who ever fought her. I need to know what happened.” Lauren leaned back slightly to give Bella space.
Bella shook her head and looked Lauren in the eyes. Tears were streaming down her face. “You can’t fight her. You don’t know what she’s capable of.”
“Then tell me, tell me why I can’t fight her.”
Bella collected herself for a second. “She came for Gideon first. We were in our house, Gideon was reading something, and I was preparing dinner. There was a knock at our door. I went over and answered it, and there she was, her skin white like snow, with emerald green eyes and flaming locks of auburn hair. She was so tall, at least seven feet, she had to crouch to get into our home. I was stunned by the sight of her. She walked in and looked at me. She smiled and said, ‘I’m here now, Bella, like you asked.’ She then walked over to my husband, and her nails grew long and sharp like claws, and she slashed at his chest. Gideon flew back, cursing and looking for any kind of weapon. I grabbed one of the knives from the kitchen and drove it into her chest. She just looked at me, her eyes weren’t angry, and pulled out the knife. Jolene continued towards my husband who was crawling out the back door.
“Once outside she raised her hand again and struck down towards him. But I stood in between the two of them, and she stopped on instinct. I begged Jolene not to take him away. I was so scared. But then her nails shortened, and she put her hand on my face, and wiped away my tears. She told me that she wasn’t here to hurt me. She was here to save me. Then she took the two of us deep in the forest and she turned Gideon into something beautiful. He was turned into a creature with the body of a stag, but with his head, upside down on the neck. And from his gaping mouth grew antlers of black stone that rose high into the woods, intertwining with the trees. Now whenever wind blows through his stone body, he sings.” Bella held a smile of wonder on her face, as tears ran down her cheek. Lauren swallowed and tried to focus. “So, she can’t hurt us?”
Fleming • 33
Bella nodded with enthusiasm and said, “No, of course not. Jolene isn’t here to hurt us, Lauren. She’s here to free us, to take care of us. Everyone out there is so afraid when really there’s nothing to fear. We’re the ones with all the power. It just shows how much trust Jolene has in us.”
“Bella, this is great. Why haven’t you told anyone this? This is exactly what we needed to know to fight against her. We can finally be free of Jolene!” Lauren said with excitement. Bella frowned and shook her head. “No, no, no! They don’t understand yet; they don’t understand what Jolene did for us. She freed us all. She’s the one we need.”
Lauren stood up. “How can you say that after what she did to your husband- “
“Gideon was an awful man!” Bella cried, “He would yell at me, and hurt me near every night. And when I told the other boys they only called me a liar, said Gideon ‘wasn’t the type.’ So, I prayed every day and finally God came and saved me! I’m sorry, Lauren, I didn’t know she would take them all, but things are better now. We’re all going to be okay.”
Lauren said, in shock, “You’re the reason she’s here? You’re why my father’s dead, why my husband’s dead?”
Bella began crying and shouted, “Yes! I’m sorry, Lauren. Every night I prayed; I screamed at the blackwood forest begging for an end to my suffering,” she said, looking past Lauren. “And then you came!”
Lauren quickly turned around and found Jolene towering behind her.
Jolene looked down at her with glowing emerald eyes. “Hello Lauren.” The voice caused Lauren’s entire body to shiver, and she backed away slightly. “Why are you making Bella cry?”
Lauren clutched the vial of herbs in her pocket and said, “I’m not afraid of you, Jolene.”
Jolene smiled and walked closer; her movements had an eerie perfection to them. “I don’t want you to be afraid. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”
Lauren grasped the vial so tight she feared it would break. Anger filled her mind, and she exploded, “What’s best
The smile that stained Jolene’s face faded slightly, “You’re right, Lauren.” Jolene’s eyes were wide and filled with hatred. “I don’t remember killing your husband.”
Lauren’s stomach dropped.
Jolene’s smile returned. “I’m going to your cabin. I’ll meet you there,” Jolene said, and then left Bella’s home.
Lauren stood still, unable to breath. Then fear and concern flooded her body, and she started running home.
The sky behind her was orange like fire from the setting sun. The wind began to blow like the previous night, and Lauren’s mind was filled with fear and the image of the love of her life turned into a stag. She made it to the clearing where her home was; light could be seen from the windows, and there was no sign of Jolene. She passed the sage garden and burst through the door.
“Noah?” she cried out, looking around in desperation. Noah came out of the bedroom and said, “Hey, Lauren, what’s wrong?”
Lauren ran up and hugged Noah. “She’s coming; and she knows about you. We have to get ready.”
Noah began to panic and looked around frantically. “She’s coming? How did she find out? What are we going to do, Lauren?”
Lauren took the axe off her back and shoved it into Noah’s hands. “We’re going to fight.” Lauren went into the bedroom and got out her bow and put the quiver on her back. “Get the bottle of whisky and keep it ready; we’re going to burn her to hell.” Then as she finished her sentence, they heard wind roaring outside. The black wood trees began to shake with violent anger, and Gideon’s song echoed through the night air.
Fleming • 35 for me? You killed everyone! Because of you, pregnant women are terrified of having sons, because of you we’re not allowed to love. We’re not allowed to mourn or grieve, and with you around, there’s no possibility to move on. You are the cause and constant reminder of our tragedy. When I see you, I see the body of my father and my husband. I doubt you even remember killing him. “
They stood still, listening for any movement outside and then jumped at a knock on their door. Lauren took out an arrow and drew her bow, pointing it at the door. Jolene ripped the door off its hinges, then ducked under to make it inside the cabin. Lauren released her arrow and hit just under Jolene’s left eye. Jolene stumbled back slightly then continued inside. Lauren notched another arrow and shot it near Jolene’s heart. She winced, then pulled out the arrow and threw it to the side.
Jolene ignored Lauren and looked at Noah. “Come, parasite,” she said as she pointed out a finger. The nail on it rushed out of her hand. Lauren jumped in front of Noah and Jolene’s nail stopped immediately. Jolene’s face contorted into a frown as she said, “Stop this, Lauren.” Lauren then shot an arrow directly in Jolene’s left eye.
Jolene cried out then stumbled in pain, bumping her head on the ceiling. Noah rushed towards Jolene and swung his axe directly into Jolene’s heart. Jolene screamed so loud Noah could feel blood trickling down his ears, then a mass of flesh exploded out of the wound knocking Noah back.
Jolene continued to scream as her body started to contort and deform. She started to grow larger, and as her muscles expanded, her skin ripped and tore off her body as she grew immense in size, destroying the roof of the cabin. She began to grow a variety of extra limbs, all in varying size. She began flailing wildly, tearing apart the wooden walls, sending Lauren and Noah flying into the dirt.
The torches that lit their home fell onto the grass, lighting the garden and pieces of broken wood on fire. Noah found the bottle of whisky, still intact, and brought it close to him. Jolene found Noah and lunged her arm after him. The muscle grew and stretched as she reached for Noah. Noah quickly darted to the side where Jolene’s hand smashed into the dirt. He brought the axe high above his head and cleaved halfway through Jolene’s arm. Jolene screamed and used her other arm to grab Noah, who let go of the axe and was now holding the whisky in his hand.
Lauren got to her feet as soon as she saw Jolene holding
Noah. But before she was able to get a shot off, Jolene used her other arm to grab Lauren, squeezing her tight and putting an immense amount of pressure on her chest.
Jolene held Noah up to her face and examined him with cold green eyes. Lauren struggled and screamed at Jolene, “Get your fucking hands off him!”
Jolene turned her head towards Lauren. “Do you love this thing?” Jolene looked back at Noah; his face was filled with fear. “This creature which has siphoned off you this entire time. I know you still love it.” Jolene stared deep into Noah’s eyes, reflecting the fire that surrounded them, then brought one of her extra hands up to his face. “Will you love him after this?”
Jolene asked, as she gouged out Noah’s eyes.
Lauren cried out as Noah screamed in agony. He began twitching and dropped the bottle of whisky, spreading alcohol over Jolene’s body.
Jolene shook Noah’s body and said, “Do you still love this, this sack of meat named Noah?” Lauren cried, mouthing yes, but no words came out. Jolene looked at Noah in disappointment as blood flowed out of his empty eye sockets. “Don’t worry, Lauren, I’m not going to kill him. I need him to ensure you behave. You’ll come live in the village, and you’ll eat the food I bring. You will learn to love again, and if you ever disobey, I’ll take away another piece of Noah. Do you understand, Lauren?”
Lauren looked at her husband; his body had gone limp. She looked down at the hand that held her, then back at Jolene. “Okay Jolene, I’ll behave. But please, can you loosen your grip? You’re starting to hurt me.”
The same smile came upon Jolene’s face as she let go of Lauren and said, “Of course, you know I’m not here to hurt you-”
Lauren reached into her pocket, grabbing the vial of rosemary and smashed it into the cut on Jolene’s arm. Jolene’s body began to spasm and twitch; her muscles came apart like threads coming undone. She let go of Noah, and when she did, Lauren grabbed a flaming piece of wood and threw it onto Jolene. The wood ignited the whisky that soaked her flesh
Fleming • 37
and Jolene shrieked in a hundred voices. Her flesh melted and fused with itself as her limbs grew and shrunk in size. Lauren rushed towards Noah and dragged him away from the flames. She took off his shirt and wrapped it around his eyes, hoping to stop some of the bleeding. Jolene’s screams lasted for minutes but steadily decreased in volume. Then Jolene’s screams stopped, along with the blowing of the wind, and suddenly rain began to fall.
The rain washed off the blood that covered both Noah and Lauren and extinguished the flames that surrounded them. Approaching Lauren was a mass of voices. Lauren looked behind her to find all the remaining villagers walking towards her. Lauren saw Maple, who immediately ran towards Lauren. Maple saw Noah, bleeding and unconscious, and motioned one of the women to get closer. The woman examined Noah and told Maple what to bring back from her house. Maple nodded and then ran back to the village. The woman asked Lauren if she could stand back from Noah. Lauren agreed, letting go of her husband and sitting on the grass nearby, staring at the woman tending to her husband.
Mothers and daughters went up to Lauren to thank her for saving them, but she ignored most of them, focusing only on her husband. His breathing was slow and pained. Lauren went to her husband and held his hand; she then leaned down and whispered into his ear, “I’m not leaving you.” Lauren saw Noah’s mouth lift into a soft smile.
Lauren smiled and began to cry, her tears falling with the rain.
Margaret Bartlett Clay
Autiana Boyer
Photograph Ominous Haze
Abigail Christian Charcoal Downtime
Abigail Christian Clay Renewed Blossom
Abigail Christian Clay Ripples
Sunny November
Nadia Cooks Oil
Nadia Cooks Oil Whisper
Brenda Crabbe Clay Raku Seahorses
Lorraine Dales
Photograph An MC-130H Combat Talon
Heather Hill Clay
Sky Fall
A
Michael Howard
Pen and Ink
Peaceful Prelude
Shelby Jones Mixed Media False Promises
The
Shelby Jones
Digital Illustration
Gatekeeper
Ella Joslin Photograph Untitled II
Ella Joslin
Mixed Media
Linda Leigh Lawson
Graphite Deadline
Natalia Light Wood Comfort Zone
Under the Circumstances
Becoming Animation
Mercy Pettis
Graphite, Chalk, Pastel
Anna Sellers
Mixed Media Bloom
Anna Sellers
Pastel
Self Portrait
Consumed
Micaela Shelingoski
Color Pencil, Acrylic, String
Alex Shields
Charcoal, Pen and Ink
Dysphoria
Alex Shields
Charcoal, Pastel Head Case
Jacob A. Smith
Jacob A. Smith Oil
Ellise Sorrells
Illustration
Aubrey Walton Wood Woman in Fashion
Mind Control
Olivia West
Mixed Media
Driving Him Home
Morgan Chipman
Somehow, he takes the routine in the palm of his broken hands and wrings the habits dry . . . just like he takes my own calloused fingers and eases the pain of the day-to-day.
My hands will say a prayer and his lips will respond with a gentle kiss.
The green lights warn me of his blue eyes leading me astray. Still, we have approximately 0.95 seconds, and 0.95 seconds is long enough to be mercifully distracted.
My little tree hanging from the mirror might say otherwise, but we both know adoration clings to the air . . . rather than whatever cliché scent the corporate has concocted for us.
Sometimes, it’s obvious, like when he plays Taylor Swift over the speaker because he knows she’s my favorite. Other times, it’s less so, like the silent battle between my eyes and the road.
I have never lived in a world where I wasn’t captivated by the spectacle reflected in two shattered hearts — but his lips on my hand are soft when society’s sins are sharp.
I can just taste the unsaid words; we’re just kids getting a little lost together before we find our way back home.
First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2020
Alone in That
Ireland Thomas
At the youth group, I am overly talkative. I talk because no one else does or because I can’t stop myself. I’m like an overstretched balloon. Once I begin squeaking, having that look on my face, one my leaders can easily decipher, I am asked to speak, to release, and like a balloon, I leak.
“Do you think you’re alone in that?”
Leader Two says. I wonder why she says “think,” and not “believe,” like most people say. Yes, think is better than believe.
“Yes, I think I am alone in this,” I respond. I don’t remember what I said to explain it, but I know it wasn’t what I wanted to say.
Everything is my fault. The way I want to throw myself from the window until I’m too broken to crawl back up the stairs and try again. The way the mattress has sunk in on itself, the way my hair mats up against the tear-soaked pillow. The tapping! God, the tapping. The constant rhythm on the pads of my fingers, the blood welling up from scratched-off scabs, the way I wash my hands each time I touch a dirty dish when emptying the sink. What about identifying with the illness? What of the not-moving-on-ness of my existence. I am to blame for not thanking Him for this test.
I just want to be eight again, death ahead of me but not so close.
I taste syllables of truth on my tongue, but I keep my mouth shut and listen and let them go through their spiel:
“Well, you aren’t alone in that, here’s why . . . .”
“Can we pray for you?”
“I’m going to put my hands on you, is that alright?”
“I pray for healing . . . .”
All I Can Do
Ireland Thomas
The struggle of becoming is filled with uncertainty. I want to love what I like and hate what I dislike all the time, but instead the grey of the day tells me to contain the massive hornet’s nest of my brain from which a steady buzzing echoes forth, the sound successful in blurring out all my reasons to stay, the pain of stingers defiling my missives, the bitter stink of a honeyless hive evident to all who pass me by, their eyes widening as I shut my own mind’s eyes,
disguising the fact that I am hollow inside, nest ingesting what is left of my mind.
I feel the pain of not knowing my own name, so I take this refrain and I reframe reality,
blurring the fantastic with the drab, all to distract myself from the fact
that I am not improving my craft or my being, all of which is encouraging me to pack my bags and begin leaving, begin dreaming, begin bleeding.
I wanna die, but the mind’s eyes defy my wishes, telling me that at the very least I do the dishes, at the very least, I fold the laundry. I am an important part of my household’s machine.
I know I shouldn’t define myself as what I do, but it is all I can do for the time being.
Masks of a Madman
Ash-leigh Buterbaugh
It was late September in 2012 when my life started to turn into something out of a bad movie. I had just turned eighteen a few months before and was in the mindset of adulthood. I lived with my mother and father in our three-bedroom home. It all started like a typical night in our household. I was sitting on the brown loveseat swiping through a popular dating app called Plenty of Fish. The television played in the background, and the smell of my mother’s cooking filled the house. Then, there he was. A message from a man with slicked black hair, a toothy grin, and sinful eyes appeared from the devil himself. I scrolled through his profile to find details that I found interesting. Adam was a car salesman—that should have been my first red flag. But he also was tall, dark, and handsome like a model straight from Calvin Klein.
Temptation got the best of me, and I read his message, “Hey, I love penguins, too!” He had me in his trap then, as penguins were my favorite, and I was always a sucker to talk about them. We talked back and forth constantly. I was addicted to the notification of a new message from him. We started meeting up regularly and spending hours together. It was finally official; Adam was mine. Things moved so quickly between us, and I lived in a euphoric universe that contained just Adam and me. Perhaps that’s what he was waiting for before he started to remove the masks and show his true self.
One day we decided to meet at a restaurant in downtown Fort Walton. As I pulled up to Buffalo Reef, a chicken wing restaurant, I was excited to be with my other half. We both ordered buffalo wings and fries, something I found cute. However, he did not—thus what should have been the second red flag. As the food arrived at our table, he stopped me and looked at me seriously.
“What’s wrong?”
The silence between us seemed to last an eternity until he opened his mouth. “You can’t eat man food.”
Confused by what man food was and being naïve, I laughed like it was a bad joke. “Yeah, okay.”
His stern look never faded, “I don’t want you to eat man food. It’s embarrassing to go out with you. What must people think if we eat the same things?”
Stunned, I could only find a few words. “What is man food?”
Adam looked down as if I were stupid for not understanding. “Chicken, steak, lobster, and well basically anything I would order—just eat a salad.” I was just too naive to understand and became silent. He pulled his phone out.
“How much do you weigh?” I looked at his stern eyes once more—
“121 pounds.” I watched him stare at his phone with disbelief.
“Well, your BMI states you should only be 120 pounds, and if you gain one more pound, we are going to have to break up.” I stared blankly across the table wondering if this was a crude joke. The words break up rang through my head, and my heart started to race.
“I’m sorry; it won’t happen. I’ll be better.” Who would have guessed this would be only the first mask Adam would remove?
Our relationship continued, and I began to watch what I ate to please Adam. I was spending more and more time with him. It was impossible to get out of the trap. I would spend all my free time with him, and then I started calling out of work multiple times a week as he asked me to. I would arrive home in the early hours of the morning, trying not to wake my parents or trigger the dogs into a barking match. It didn’t take my mother long to notice me missing from my bed at night. I was in my room when she walked in, slowly sitting on my bed. “You know you’re an adult now?” I was confused where this was coming from. “If you want to spend the night with your boyfriend, you can, because you are an adult.”
I had a mix of emotions being both excited and confused. My mother was always the strict and protective no-boys-allowed type. However, she trusted that I was old enough to make my own choices dealing with boys—I still wish she wouldn’t have.
Gradually, I started moving into Adam’s apartment. At first, I would spend only a few days a week with him, but then that turned into every day. He never wanted me to work, even while he was at work. I didn’t mind though, and I had no bills to worry about besides my car. Adam had a motorcycle because what beautiful man didn’t? It gave him that bad boy vibe that tempted me even more. He would spend hours outside working on it. I never understood what was even wrong with it. One day he angrily came inside. “I’ll have to go rent some tools from AutoZone!” I felt upset for my distraught boyfriend.
How can I help?” I believed he would just ask me to go with him or even help him fix the bike as a bonding moment.
“Give me your bank card!”
I looked in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
His stern eyes looked right into mine. “I said, give me your bank card; I need it to get the tools I need.” Hypnotized by his voice and locked into his empty eyes, I handed over my card. He kissed me goodbye and disappeared for a few hours. Upon his return, he held the tools from AutoZone in one hand and a Wendy’s bag in the other. I felt happy he had returned and even more excited that he had brought food. We crawled into the bed to watch television together, and he pulled out a triple bacon cheeseburger and a large fry for himself then turned to me and handed me a side salad the size of my hand. I didn’t want to start a fight, and I had promised to watch my weight, so I sat silently and ate.
After I finished my salad, I jokingly reached for Adam’s fries, grabbing just a single fry. He turned to witness my actions and reached out and slapped me. “Those are mine.” Frozen, I just looked at him. “I brought you back a salad, and that’s all you need.” I shook my head unable to find words. Yet another mask was removed from the man I thought I knew. Halloween finally came, and I was so excited to attend
my first adult Halloween party at a club. A group of my friends all decided to go to a dance club in Fort Walton all dressed up for Halloween and a good night. Adam and I arrived, and one of my friends was sitting at the bar waiting. I approached my friend, and Adam went off to play pool. Soon after, all my friends appeared, and we all decided we wanted to go to the dance floor. Adam had no interest to join; therefore, I went with my friends. We were all dancing together when two guys dressed as male playboy boys surrounded me. They only wore small black shorts, bow ties, and white arm cuffs. Not thinking much of it, I continued to dance with my friends and these two random men. Next thing I knew, I felt a hard grasp around my wrist and a quick pull. It happened so quickly, and I was able to finally look up to see Adam. He wasn’t looking back at me, though. Instead he was staring with his big empty eyes at the two men who attempted to dance with me. I could feel his anger radiating from his whole body as he firmly held onto me. He looked down at me finally and started to dance with me as if nothing had just happened. Not trying to turn the night sour, I noted it as just a jealous moment and let it go. Adam leaned down to the side of my face, “You’re mine.” I shot up a confused look, and he locked eyes with me, “You’re mine, don’t forget that.” I didn’t know what to take from his words except for jealousy. For the rest of the night Adam either held onto me or stood directly behind me towering over my every move. As we drove home that night, he held my hand tightly and screamed, “You’re mine! Do you hear me?” I had never seen him this way. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the jealousy, or maybe it was just his secret personality all along. I never hid anything about my health with Adam. On our first date, I disclosed that I was a Type 1 diabetic and gave myself insulin shots and poked my fingers. He never once said this bothered him, and we continued with our relationship with it never hindering us. Then one day I was in the middle of a shot and looked up to see his gaze set on me. “Your shots freak me out.” I had never meant to scare anyone, and I normally always asked if people feared needles. “Can you just stop doing it in
front of me?” I was baffled that we had gone months into our relationship, and he had never said anything.
“I’m sorry! I guess I never saw it as an issue. I’ll stop if it bothers you.” From that moment on I was self-conscious about my shots. I would run off into the bathroom to inject myself, or there were times I would skip my shots because I was too worried about how Adam would feel about me. Soon enough the combination of not eating properly and not giving my insulin properly began to catch up to me. I became deathly ill and spent a lot of time throwing up because my body was shutting down. I grew weaker and weaker by the day, and I couldn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. Without even realizing it, I had lost a lot of weight. My face was sunken in, and my clothes wouldn’t stay on. I had no idea how bad things had gotten.
December arrived, and I always loved Christmas and decorating. My mother knew how much I enjoyed it and dropped off an artificial Christmas tree and some old ornaments she had. I managed to get the tree up and decorated and felt slightly better about my condition. As I laid in bed one day unable to keep my eyes open or even get up, I had a revelation. This was how I was going to die. Right here, in a rundown apartment unable to get out of bed because I neglected myself for what I thought was love. I suddenly decided that this was not how I was going to end. I gathered all the strength I had and got up. I started to pack my belongings ready to free myself from this hell.
Adam walked into the room just silently watching me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I had found my courage, and I was not afraid. “If I stay here, I will die, and I refuse to!”
Adam just smirked and let out a small laugh. “You must have forgotten that you belong to me.” I no longer cared what he had to say and grabbed the rest of my things and pushed past him as I headed for the front door.
Suddenly I felt a hand snatch up the hair on the back of my head and heard a click next to my ear. “I don’t think you
heard me—you belong to me.” Adam turned my head with the control he now held in his hand, so I was kissing the barrel of a gun. “Get your ass back in the room.” I didn’t move because I didn’t know what to do. He dragged me by my hair into the bedroom where he threw me halfway onto the bed. He held the gun to the back of my head.
“Please let me go; I won’t tell anyone.” I couldn’t stop the flow of tears, and I wondered if anyone would find my dead body.
“You’ll learn one way or another that you’re mine.”
I closed my eyes and began to silently pray. I felt the gun pull away from my head, and I began to question if I was free. Had my prayers worked? Suddenly, I felt a swift jerk on my pants, and the gun placed back on my head. I soon realized my hell was just beginning. Adam thrusted himself into me as I screamed. Pain filled my whole body as I became tense and afraid. He was rough and forceful and continued to rape me.
“Please stop.”
I knew he’d never stop now; he was too busy trying to prove a point. He grabbed my hair again and shoved my face into the bed to shut me up. I cried uncontrollably and whimpered into the cotton sheets. I blacked out and awoke naked next to his sleeping body. The gun laid on his chest firmly gripped and pointed at me. I crawled slowly out of the bed, grabbed my clothes on the floor, and ran for the door. I didn’t need anything else; it was my life or my belongings, and I wanted to live. I got into my car and drove off until I could no longer see his apartment. I let out a scream and pulled over and cried into my steering wheel. Was I finally free?
I drove to my parents’ home in silence. I didn’t know what I’d tell them if anything at all. I got to our home and went straight for my bed. Curled into my blankets, I heard my mother walk in. “What’s wrong?”
I choked on the truth. “Adam and I broke up.” Some part of me wanted to tell her what really happened, but the other part of me was ashamed and embarrassed.
“Well you’ll have to go back to his house and get the tree
and decorations I got y’all.” I lay still, silent tears rolling down my cheeks at the thought of returning to that hell.
“Yes ma’am.” I called three of my friends and told them Adam and I had broken up and wondered if they’d go with me to collect my things. They all happily agreed, and I felt relieved but still concerned because I knew what he was capable of. We drove up to the apartment, and I started to shake uncontrollably. Tears started flowing as we walked to the door. As a group we entered the front room, and I stood there motionless and locked onto Adam’s empty eyes. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said everything. Fear crawled up and down my skin as my friends took apart the tree for me. As they finished, I saw Adam move and walk towards the bedroom. I began to panic and rushed my friends out of the apartment. They didn’t understand anything, but I knew what could happen next. We drove home. All my friends were laughing and singing to the radio, but I just looked out the window.
My hell was finally over, and I was finally free—or so I thought. The aftermath was just beginning. I went back to work regularly after a few weeks and found joy in my job again. One day I was working, and I looked out the window and saw a motorcycle. It looked so familiar, and I just sat there looking at the details of it. It didn’t take me long to realize it was Adam’s, and I ran up to my friend, “Please don’t let him know I’m here.” I ran to the back and sat in a corner in the stock room shaking. A little while later my friend came back to find me, “He’s gone.”
I looked up confused, “Why would he drive 45 minutes out of his way to come here?”
My friend looked shocked, “You know he comes in several times a week, right? He’s been a regular for a few weeks now.” I started to cry and shake once more.
Then a few days later my mother came home from Lowe’s. “Hey, I just saw Adam at Lowe’s on his bike; he pulled right in front of me, and I almost hit him!” I didn’t know what to say and just let out a laugh. Then another few days went by, and I received an email from Plenty of Fish. Confused because I had
deleted the app, I redownloaded it to view the message. It was Adam, using someone else’s name but his own picture. I read the message out of curiosity, “Hey, I see you like penguins; I just got back from visiting some in Antarctica!” I threw my phone. What sick game was Adam trying to play with me?
Soon after my health began to decline. I had been through so much that I lost forty-one pounds in just a few months. I now shopped in the children’s section for clothes because I only weighed eighty pounds. I developed two heart conditions, low blood pressure and tachycardia. I had to stop working because I was lightheaded and always blacking out. But worst of all my mental health was ruined. I lived in constant fear, and I trusted no one. To this day, I still feel ashamed and embarrassed for missing so many red flags that I still haven’t told my mother, and I probably never will. It has been seven years, but I still think about the man who changed my life forever.
Sidewalk Races
Miranda Richeson
Pigtails bouncing as they race down a cracked sidewalk, tennis shoes hitting the pavement with a rubbery noise. He always let her win those races. As she gets older, she thinks to get wiser. Her hair is cut short, pigtails gone.
A new vision of the world tainted by the smell of alcohol, shaken by the sound of anger and raised voices. Like a mouse, she retreats into her room. Fingers pull at the shag carpet, her eyes brim with bitter tears. She feels a sharp pain everyday of her life like a poison having no real remedy. A world painted black, a father’s voice, not kind.
Ten Things I Hate About You
Morgan Chipman
1. I hate your habit of rushing— rushing to find the first parking place, to shop for ice cream, even though you’re lactose intolerant, rushing to find broken pennies on the sidewalk and show them off like treasure, and rushing to find my imaginary friends to reintroduce me.
2. You’ve always got this stupid smirk on your face whenever it turns out you’re right. It— it doesn’t go away whenever I see you. I hate it.
3. I hate your hair. One second, it’s blonde and slicked back for prom, like a waiter from the 1950s. The next, it’s blue and you’re asking my friend out because I said no. The next, it’s purple, and we can spend hours making out without saying a damn thing to each other. Months later, it’s back to blonde again, and we both know how to talk to each other. I still hate your hair, though.
4. I hate your poor eating habits. It doesn’t matter how many times you chide me for not sleeping, as long as you get enough kid’s meals and salt and vinegar chips, you will always win at this self-destruction.
5. I hate every single one of your sorrys. I hate that they say I’m mad at you. I’m not. Sometimes, I just like to be by myself. It’s not your fault.
6. I hate how you look at me with those blue eyes and a nice-to-meet-you smile, as if every time you see me, you are passing crayons in kindergarten to your new best friend.
7. I hate that I’ve turned into a love interest in the story of my life because of you.
8. I hate every movie we watched together. In no particular order, we watched Harry Potter, when you told me I shouldn’t distance myself from you, Baby Driver, which we didn’t finish because my childhood best friend texted me for the last time, and 10 Things I Hate About You, which was the first time you came over.
9. I hate that I ever said I hate you and meant it. I don’t anymore.
10. I hate that you know me so well.
The Shattered Man
Allissa Sandefur
I was walking through the woods when it found me. A crisp and unforgiving winter morning yielded little in the way of comfort, and out in the forest under a blanket of snow, I felt as if I were on an alien planet. I liked to take these walks; the silence comforted me. In the mornings before class or work, in the evenings when the cavernous halls of my home seemed unwelcoming, the forest provided company in its chitters and even breaths.
However, on this morning in particular, the eerie quiet had my nerves alive with alarm. I remember seeing a shimmer of light, a fleeting flash that caught my eye from the side. When I turned my head toward it, I saw waves of undulating energy barreling toward me. They were transparent but shimmered like an electrical current. It was all I could do to register it before it barreled right into my chest.
The pain was sharp and blinding. It felt as If my heart had seized. I fell to my knees. The air ripped from my lungs, and I gasped with both shock and necessity. It took some time for the ache to subside, but once it did, I felt no soreness. It was as if the electrical waves had blown right through me.
In the days afterward, I gave it some thought. I considered telling Richard about my experience but figured he might not believe me over his guffaws. In any case, it hadn’t changed anything. I wrote it off as a strange occurrence, and time continued to pass.
The year was 1970, either the end of the sixties or the beginning of the seventies, depending on how you feel about zero. Richard called me one evening while I was studying for a physics exam. I heard the shrill call of the landline, and when I picked it up, he said, breathless, “Bo, I need your help.”
I was at attention for a moment before I remembered who this was. Richard, my oldest friend, big honking grin over
a pint of beer, friendly slugs to the arm in an awkward moment. I knew this was no emergency.
“I have a date tonight with this girl, and she wants to bring a friend. I need you to pony up and meet me.”
I sighed. “I would, but I’m busy, man.”
He implored me. “Look, she told me last week, and I completely forgot. If you don’t come with me, I’ll bore the hell out of these two, and then you’ll be knee deep in shit. You owe me.”
He was right, I did. Rich had come to my aid many times in the last ten years regarding the opposite sex. I relented and lay the phone down in its cradle, pulled on my loafers and a coat, and let the lock click behind me.
Despite everything else I’ve seen, I know I will never forget that night. Amid the worn wooden tabletops and the clamor of the pub, Marjorie’s face still gleams in my mind’s eye, the halo of a cone light swaying gently above her. There must have been noise, I’m sure, and conversation; I’ve no doubt. But I remember the way my heart clenched when she smiled at me and the way her eyes crinkled around it. Even now, I sit in stupefied wonder at the memory. Some things can’t be erased.
She called me a couple of days later. I remember answering the phone and hearing her nervous laughter on the other end. We started dating shortly after. She was a law student and sharper than any woman I’ve ever known. She had a way of quipping me into place; where she captured her wit is a mystery to me, but she conjured it in ways that made the mind reel. We moved quickly and comfortably into one another’s lives. She stayed at my apartment most weekends, where we ate breakfast on the mattress on my floor and read to one another from various texts both literary and official. It required little effort to fall into step beside one another. That was when it happened.
I heard the front door open one Wednesday afternoon. It startled the ham sandwich from my grasp, and I started from the kitchen table, alarmed that anyone might have let herself in. When I turned the corner, I realized it was only Marj, standing in
Sandefur • 87
the foyer with her coat on and a couple of suitcases on the floor. She smiled at me. I said, “Hey, when did you get a key?”
She laughed in response and hurried over to greet me. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? It isn’t too soon?” she asked. I eyed the suitcases on the floor. “What’s too soon?”
She laughed again and rapped my chest. “You think you’re funny. Come, help me with these.”
I helped her carry her luggage into my apartment, still not entirely caught up on the joke yet. I dared not ask her why she was moving in, for fear I’d forgotten some important conversation held in hushed tones or with the cover of a comforter. Besides, she wasn’t the type to misconstrue a conversation or jump to any rash conclusions. We must’ve had the conversation . . . but I couldn’t remember a thing.
That same week, I arrived at work to find that our cubicles had been rearranged. After an awkward conversation and much shuffling, I caught my coworker, Tara, in the break room and asked if I’d missed something.
“Missed something? You were at our conference last week,” she said.
I must’ve been blank in the face because she continued. “We sat next to one another, Bo. Jeremy said that there’d been a change in DMs, and he had a whole new schematic for the office. You don’t remember?”
No, I didn’t. But I wasn’t close enough to Tara to admit I had no earthly clue what she was talking about. “Right, I must’ve forgotten. Not sleeping well and all that. Thanks.” She nodded with hesitation, and I backed out of the room.
Two weeks later, I was walking through the commons at school and noticed leaves crunching underfoot. I looked down and found a bevy of orange and red leaves piled up on the sidewalks and scattered across the lawn. I stopped and surveyed the trees in their autumnal gleam. When I woke up that morning, I could have sworn it was only August.
This went on for some time. It wasn’t major: a mismanaged weekday here or there, a forgotten change in routine at work, a missed memory of a conversation with Marjorie. I still hadn’t
spoken to anyone about it, for fear I’d be considered insane. I did suspect that, though. I made an appointment with a neurologist, and after several tests regarding machines that I knew I’d be paying off for years to come, he told me my brain looked perfectly fine. The doctor chalked it up to lack of rest and wrote me a prescription for a sleeping aid and sent me on my way.
I came to accept the notion that perhaps I was crazy. And if I was, I didn’t seem to be doing anyone any harm. What were a few forgotten details in the grand scheme? Marjorie and I were doing well. I was near completion of my bachelor’s, and I was performing well enough at work. No one seemed affected by this but me, and I grew accustomed to the forgotten snippets of memory. I recovered from them more quickly than ever, barely stumbling during those moments I’d almost been caught in the truth of my existence like a rabbit in a snare.
Marjorie and I got married; I do remember that. Neither one of us liked parties; I brought her home from the courthouse and carried her across our threshold. We made love on the kitchen floor. I certainly remember that.
It wasn’t until two years later when it began to pick up speed. I came home from the lab one day, opened the front door, and heard a baby’s cry. It stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Bo, is that you?” I heard Marj’s voice. She emerged from the hallway carrying a child in her arms. I was wide-eyed as she leaned in to kiss my cheek. She didn’t notice. “Hi, honey, he’s been giving me hell all afternoon. Can you hold him for a while? I’ve been trying to go pee for an hour now.” She handed him to me swiftly and took off for the bathroom. I stared dumbstruck at this child, saw the dark hair he’d inherited from my side of the family and felt my heart break for the first time. I missed it. I didn’t just miss his birth; I’d missed almost an entire year. I met my son for the very first time in the foyer of my apartment on one blustery weekday afternoon.
I couldn’t join Marjorie in pregnancy, in planning, or in the hospital. She’d been alone for it all. I was a father now, and I’d been none the wiser.
The time jumps increased slowly. There were moments in between it all that I felt grateful to be present. Marjorie had started her own practice, and we somehow emerged from the well-worn student poverty into comfortable family life. We bought a house in the city with a taupe face and a long front porch. Before I knew it, Marjorie was pregnant again. But this time, the bedroom was painted pink. Had I done that? I couldn’t recall. I was in my study one day, having brought my work home from the lab, and I heard footsteps. A little girl padded into the room. “Daddy, I’m hungry,” she said flatly and crawled into my lap. I held my daughter and observed Marjorie’s eyes in her face. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I felt my eyes grow hot as I lamented the missed years of her life. I resented the phenomenon that was my life, but it was growing in power, and there was nothing I could do about it. I held her tightly and brushed her hair from her face.
I’d lost all control of it now. I would be in a time or place for what seemed like weeks, and then, when I came to, I began to realize I’d jumped again not because of the change in season or the missed days, but because of my body. I suddenly rolled out of bed with weaker knees. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and noticed my hair paling and my face changing before my eyes. My children were young adults now, and my son was in college studying what I had once studied. Marjorie changed, too, but only grew lovelier. She was gentle with my forgetfulness and chided me playfully for becoming an old man. I held her tightly when I could, and I tried to keep track of my absences as well as I could remember. But after long enough, it didn’t seem to matter. Now, I was only home for a couple of days before my consciousness was hurled forward again: a year, five years, eight. I tried to forget about the time that was lost and, instead, embrace the hours I had with the unfamiliar faces that were my family.
It was on what I believed to be a cold November afternoon that I realized more time had passed than had before. My bones felt heavy, and it proved to be a chore simply to turn my head. This had been a significant deterioration. A young
woman stood in front of me as I sat in my chair by the window and stared at a crossword.
“Grandfather,” she said, “I wrote a story. Do you think you could read it?”
I looked at her blonde hair and wondered which of my children had given her that. She may have been in her late teens, but it was difficult to tell with the expression of innocent eagerness splayed across her face.
“Sure, darling,” I replied, and held out my hand.
Once I completed it, I sighed. I never could lie well. “Your characters are all over the place… but I think the plot is certainly special. And it’s written well enough. I recommend you keep at it and see what comes of it,” I told her. I handed the typed papers back. She took them quietly.
“If you love it, keep doing it. The passion will work itself out,” I offered.
She nodded in return, but I could see she held defeat in her mouth. I suddenly had an idea. “I have a story for you. Do you think you could write about it?” She looked up at me and nodded once.
“However . . . it’s a secret. You have to promise not to tell anyone in our family.” I figured I had nothing left to lose but time. She agreed eagerly, and then my granddaughter sat down across from me, her hands folded patiently in her lap.
I told her my story from the start: the strange electrical entity, the missed days, and then the missed years. My eyes began to burn from the resurgence of sorrow. I didn’t even know her name.
When I finished speaking, she said, “Grandpa, that’s happening to you now?” I nodded once and averted my eyes. My granddaughter leaned forward and placed her hand over mine. “I believe you,” she said, and I felt my heart pound.
“You do?”
“Of course. Let’s figure out what to do about it.”
Alice theorized that I start keeping diligent notes of everything that had happened to me: where I was, what I could remember, what I’d been told I had forgotten.
“You’ll need to put these notes somewhere where I can find them later. Perhaps in the house?” She rubbed her fingers together thoughtfully before beginning, a trait I recognized as that of her grandmother’s. “How about under the stairs? Leave your notes in the storage room there, and when I come over, I can compile them into something that makes sense.”
I nodded in agreement. Suddenly, somewhere, a faint glow of hope had begun to burn inside me.
“Alright, I’ll start stowing them away there.”
We were silent for a moment, and then she said, “Hang on just a moment. I’ll go check something,” and hurried out of the room. There were several moments of silence while I stared at my incomplete crossword puzzle, and then she called out, “Grandpa… I need you to come here.”
I followed her voice down the hallway until I reached the stairs. She had opened the cubby door and dragged out what appeared to be boxes and boxes of papers. She was reading one fervently. “March 20, 1983. I believe Marj has come down with the flu, so I’m taking care of the children myself. I’ve missed Richard’s sixth birthday, or so I believe. Catherine is walking now. I’ve quarantined them in the study to keep them from catching Marj’s illness, but it’s difficult to keep an eye on them both.” Alice stopped reading and raised her wide eyes to meet my own.
I stared back at her, itching to tear through the pages. My memories were here. I didn’t remember Marj ever having caught the flu. What else waited in the treasure before me?
“It worked,” my granddaughter said, breathless now. “I don’t know how it worked, but it did.”
I steadied myself against the wall and looked at the several boxes she had pulled out from the closet. There were more piled inside, stacked haphazardly with papers sticking out.
“How?” was all I could manage. She shook her head.
“All I can assume is that you aren’t just speeding through time. . . you’re wading around in it. It must not be linear for you. If we had this conversation just now, then you’ve since revisited previous times. It’s as if your memories have been… scattered.”
I stared down at the boxes once more. I wanted to rip them open and devour their contents, but I knew it would be of no use. I simply didn’t have the time. My granddaughter lowered the pages she’d been holding. “Grandfather,” she said, and I looked up at the earnest tone of her voice. “I promise I will help you. I can study these . . . compile them. There’s a professor at my school who specializes in general relativity. Maybe he’ll listen to what I have to say.”
I didn’t object. After all, I knew she was my only hope now. She hugged me then, and I felt her desperation seep into my skin. I suddenly realized that this young woman, whom I didn’t know and may never know again, loved me as her grandfather. There are some sensations that simply can’t be forgotten.
The years passed, as they so often do. I began to think of my memories as a pool of sorts, into which I inadvertently dipped down into. Some days, I felt physically well, and others I could hardly get out of bed. What once had been weeks in a portion of time turned into hours, then minutes. I was taking smaller and smaller steps into my life. It had spun out of control. It became a blur of faces I did not recognize, changed trees, different temperatures. Once, I caught Marj hanging stockings over the lit fireplace, her gray hair shorn above her shoulders. The next hour, they were gone, and the grass grew green outside the window of my study. I did my best to hold on tightly, but my life was slipping between the cracks. I knew that, soon, it would be gone entirely.
On an afternoon I had guessed to be in autumn, I looked up to find my granddaughter leading me by the arm. We were in some facility, a sterile building with wide windows and white floors. I plodded along with a cane in my free hand. “What’s happening?” I asked her. She looked to me, and I saw she’d aged. She may have been ten, twelve years older, but I had no idea. It’s rude to ask a lady that sort of thing.
“Hey, Grandpa. I’m glad you’re back. I suppose I’ll have to tell you again . . . we’ve made a break.”
“A break in what?” I wondered, and she smiled.
“We’ve figured it out. Why you’re losing time. It took a
while, but we studied everything you had written. My old physics professor believed it in earnest, and he funded some research into it. We didn’t make quick progress at first, not until… the others emerged.”
“Others?”
“There are others like you. They’ve been afflicted by the same condition. It wasn’t until we’d started putting out requests for more patients to study that they came forward. They’re all in your age group, now. Others who found themselves afflicted by the Outsiders.”
“Come again?”
“It’s what’s been doing away with your memory. Back in the sixties, several thousand members of its species made it into our atmosphere. The government tried to play it off as missile projectiles, but some of the reports were unclassified in the years following…” She trailed off, her brow contorting into something else. I tried to remember what a dream might have felt like and if perhaps it was what was happening now. A species?
It was then that we arrived at a pair of doors set with two glass windows. Alice leaned forward to swing one wide. Inside was a laboratory, glass-paneled and gleaming. The assorted desks occupied a dozen or more other scientists who waited patiently for our arrival. My granddaughter ushered me to the front of the lab, where a steel chair was prostrated against a white board. A bright metallic arm swung up from one side of the chair, with a helmet and diodes scattered across the top. She helped me to sit. My granddaughter turned to present. She introduced me to the researchers, and I saw a sort of desperate plea in their eyes. Maybe too much emotion. The steel chair hurt my ass. What was I doing here? No matter, I’d be gone again at any moment, whisked away into another few years’ era.
The sole projector light in the center of the room reflected off Alice’s crisp white lab coat, and I lost myself in a train of thought considering that once upon a time, she had wanted to write stories. I wondered if I was the reason she stood here now as a scientist. I wondered, too, if she regretted it. I came to at
“Now, everyone . . . it’s time.”
All at once, the various occupants of the room began to move, assuming positions and rightful stations. One woman stood several feet away with a clipboard. Another two young men arranged themselves at the panel of a large, metallic device situated on the other side of the room. Researchers at the projector, at the arm of the chair. My granddaughter, alone, remained in her position, moving only to turn toward me. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. “Alice . . . where’s Marj?”
I watched her face become a closed fist. Her lips pressed curtly into a thin line. “Grandpa . . . she’s been gone for some time now. I don’t think we need to relive that just yet.”
I knew with immediate certainty that Marjorie was gone. I felt an unbelievable pressure well up in my chest and wished for the first time that I might jump forward again.
“It was difficult enough the last time and, well, what’s about to happen could be exacerbated by it,” Alice continued. One of her assistants had come forward with a clear visor and began to slide it over Alice’s eyes. She adjusted it accordingly, then leaned down in front of me.
“Grandfather . . . ” she began, and I saw the same eagerness in her eyes as I had on the day she had come to me with her story. Whatever this was, she was terribly nervous about it.
“This is going to hurt.”
She stared at me then, and I thought of Marjorie. I thought of the wrinkles that appeared around her eyes when she smiled and how I wouldn’t see them again. I thought of the hours and years I had missed out on with her and with our children and knew that I would be willing to take whatever risk was necessary to retrieve them. If that meant my death, then so be it. I nodded once in understanding.
At my affirmation, she stood and signaled to the two men at the control panel on the far side. One began his directive while the other stood in assistance. Presently, I felt a buzzing begin to emanate from the diodes on the device overhead. It began increasing, slowly at first, until the vibrations felt as if
Sandefur • 95 her emphatic statement.
they were rattling my skull.
“I love you, Grandpa,” Alice’s voice echoed from somewhere far away. Then the vibrations ricocheted.
I gripped the arms of the chair in earnest, suddenly lashed with a blinding pain that I couldn’t articulate. Agony cracked across my skull like a belt, blinding my vision in white bursts and traveling down my spine. I opened my mouth to scream, and heard nothing. The researchers moved around me in a flurry. Through the glare of pain, I heard fragments of their cries.
“There!” and “Christ,” emphasized their sentences.
“Now, turn it up, now!” That was Alice.
I felt something slimy around my throat and struggled to open my eyes and move them. When I had made the long, arduous journey to gaze at my chest, I saw the tail of some creature trailing down my chest. The skin was a dull and soft green, and not unlike some amphibian’s. In my horror, I attempted to grab at it and found I could not move my arms from their vice-like grip on the chair. The pain struck in bolts across my vision, yet I raised my eyes to Alice.
In her visor’s reflector, I saw it. A snarling, writhing creature, with a tail coiled in ropes around my throat and an oblong head placed atop my own. Its mouth was open, and the jaw revealed rows of teeth which were planted into the crown of my head, sucking fervently. I felt the realization of its position dawn on me, coupled with encroaching disgust. On the beach of these two emotions, however, crashed the familiar agony of my situation.
In one final, arcing shot, the electrical current burst through my skull, and I remembered no more.
When my memory returned, I was standing on the shag-carpeted living room of decades past. I smelled the familiar scent of wood and lemon and knew instantly where I was. Funny how memory can trigger such emotions.
I looked down and observed my dark green cable-knit sweater, one lovingly gifted to me the Christmas before by my mother. The wood-paneled walls of my shabby apartment felt
like a dream I’d once forgotten. I circled the room in revelry, letting my fingers glide over my university textbooks and the empty mugs of coffee. The clock on the wall chimed its 9 o’clock call, and only then did I realize that the sound had been joined by the rotary phone wailing its high-pitched call from the corner of the room, and I crossed over to it, knowing exactly who would be on the other end of the line.
When I answered, I heard her nervous laughter chiming like a bell. A pressure returned to my chest; this time, it was warm, and it glowed lowly like a lit fire. I remembered the smile and the evenings spent on the mattress, my face buried in her neck. “Hello, is this Bo?” she asked.
“I thought you’d never call,” I said.
The Boy Who Wears Skirts
Matthew Woods
I talked to the boy who wears skirts today during our PE class, between runs. He started with a smile, saying his name with a voice you’d expect from a boy his age.
“Nice to meet you, Charles,” I replied, trying not to glance at his skirt.
We walked to the cafeteria together, since lunch was right after PE. He said his mom usually cooks, but that whenever his dad makes dinner, it’s a really good blend of flavors, with many spices and sauces in the mix. I wonder, does his dad wear a skirt?
I liked video games; Charles liked video games, although his tastes were a little different from the more niche games I play. We both played Call of Duty, though I couldn’t imagine him sitting down, shooting people’s heads on the screen, on a killstreak while wearing a skirt.
For a sophomore, he had his stuff together. I told him about what happened last year when I almost didn’t survive my depression. He just put a hand on my shoulder, told me he knew what I was going through, and that it would be alright. I regretted making jokes about him with my friends.
The next day in PE as we ran, I asked him the big question on my mind, and he gave me his answer as we jogged, trying to catch up to the other students.
“Because I want to.”
I talked to the boy who wears skirts today. I couldn’t believe he was normal.
Growing old.
Becoming less.
Under My Umbrella
Margaret Keicher
Waning like moon sliver in midwinter, alone and unnoticed.
Standing sodden in the brown autumn of my life. Old.
My lungs expand as I breathe in Today, slowly exhale… and turn to catch the wind.
Age has become my umbrella, repelling the deluge of uncertainty that was my life. It is well worn and fits comfortably in my hands, undeniably dilapidated, with the faint scent of a room shut up too long.
My stalwart protection from life’s onslaught-of shame, of loneliness, of judgment.
I dance as my umbrella flips itself inside out-then rights itself, catching rivulets of unimagined dreams and depositing them at my feet.
I am old.
I am new.
Will You…?
Margaret Keicher
Love takes a knee, asks the question, and waits with bated breath . . . . A ring slides onto the finger like blades on a silvery pond. “yes, Yes, YEs, YES.”
Her litany becomes song as his voice joins hers.
Sparkling eyes, the whisper of silk stockings, giggles as the garter is pulled up to heights only he will know. Endless pearl buttons, tons of tulle, piles of petticoats, and shoes too high to dance in.
Things old and new, borrowed and blue, all hold place on her person. The heady scent of jasmine and roses envelopes her.
Music begins; piano, harp, violin, and flute beckon her forward.
100 • Blackwater Review
Last minute kisses, hugs, tears, and advice. The veil is drawn.
Eyes meet, two hearts beat in time with the music.
Vows are spoken.
Love asks the question, the room waits with bated breath . . . . Rings slip onto fingers like two sets of blades on a silvery pond. “yes, Yes, YEs, YES.”
Their litany becomes song as they are joined together.
“Leo.”
Minor Perfidies in Karnak
Christopher McLoone
He turned away from the hieroglyphics to where she was holding her torch up to the voussoirs of an oversized arch.
“What.”
“Let’s get a move on.” With a sweeping motion, she advanced through the archway into a cavernous atrium, and he had no choice but to follow her. She just had to get all businesslike right when it was getting interesting, he thought, scuffing his boots through a pile of sand bullishly. Same as when she first joined the team.
The air down here was cold and still; a thousand years’ worth of dust had long settled. Their boots tapped thoughtfully on the stone floor. Rocky crossed straight to the other side of the expanse. Leo’s eyes traced the murky outlines of a tall mural, and he slowed to take it in more fully. A figure with a rat’s head was presenting some sort of boon to a large group, diverse in social class, judging by the variety of dress. Human bodies with animal heads represented deities, but Leo couldn’t recall one with a rat head. He squinted at the ornate little box in the deity’s hand, black with a serpentine gold seal; it matched the description of the artifact they were trying to dig up. He noted the location of the mural in his field journal. “Rocky, come look.”
She stepped over to him. “Nice mural.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t this look like the Karnak Coffer to you?”
She peered at it from her superior vantage point, being a foot taller than him. “It does. We must be headed in the right direction.”
The next room was long and low. There were more paintings of the rat-headed deity, and swaths of hieroglyphics stretched across the walls. Leo placed his hand against the rough stone and traced the faded lines before him. If he was interpreting these signs correctly, the box held instructions for
medicine and hygiene, as well as some history of the neighboring nations of the time. The documents in that box—if they were still there—would be a great asset to the Archaeological Institute.
Did this say “healers rejoice” or “rulers rejoice”? The glyph was of a seated male, but all further identifying marks had been worn away by time.
“Leo, come on. There’s nothing here.”
“Are you kidding? I know you can’t read hieroglyphics, but there’s a ton of good information here. I think this bit,” he said, gesturing to a section by his head, “could actually tell us exactly where the box is in this labyrinth.”
“We don’t need that.” She widened her stance, planting one hand on her hip. “We can get the box quicker if we just go look for it. Eyes on the prize first, and then you can come back and translate all this.”
He turned to look at her head-on, brows furrowed. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
She tipped her head toward him challengingly. “Getting my hands on that coffer is my top priority.”
A creeping sensation ran across Leo’s shoulders. “Rocky.”
She sneered. “What.”
“The Institute,” he began, scrutinizing her face, “sent us out to gather information. We don’t have to find the box today.”
Rocky scrutinized him back, breathing deeply. Then she crossed the long, low room to grasp his arm, and leaned in.
“The Institute,” she said, “is nothing to me.”
Leo’s mind blanked. “What?”
“We’ve been working for them for sixteen years now, and I’ve decided that I wanna retire early,” she said. “I didn’t wanna leave you behind, ‘cause you’re my partner. You deserve to know the truth, and you deserve the chance to come with me if you want. But I’m getting that box, and I’m getting it today. And by this time tomorrow, I’m gonna be making bank off it.”
With that, she dropped him and pushed off to leave. The torchlight bobbed beside her. Leo swayed back on his heels, catching himself on the rugged wall.
He didn’t understand. She had always seemed loyal to the Institute.
“Rocky!”
He ran to catch up with her, stumbling to a halt in a large chamber where she stood before a broad dais and a pedestal curtained by surprisingly well-preserved fabric. An ornate little box was in her hand, black with a serpentine gold seal. Leo’s hands curled into fists.
“You can’t stop me, Leo. By the time you’re able to report what I’ve done, I’ll be long gone. Why not come with me?”
“I became an archaeologist because I care about the advancement of our knowledge of ancient history,” he said, “not to get rich. That coffer is important to our understanding of Ancient Egypt.”
“This coffer’s gonna fund an around-the-world vacation, pal.”
Before he could flinch, she rammed past him and out to the open air. His skull rattled against the solid bricks, and his vision went fuzzy. He gasped.
By the time he was able to stand, her footsteps had long faded. He thought about what it meant to fail as he stumbled back to the entrance. The sky above was bruisy with dusk. He marched to the Jeep tucked behind a crumbling wall and had nearly put the key in the ignition when he thought of all those hieroglyphics down there, waiting to be noted and translated. “The Institute sent us out to gather information.” He grabbed another bottle of water from the trunk and slipped back down the huge stone steps to the room with the arch, field journal in hand. The Karnak Coffer was gone, and Rocky with it. But he was still an archaeologist, and he had a job to do.
A Tell-Tale Sighting in Tel Rehov
Christopher McLoone
The flickering electric lights overhead in the Director’s office made the room look colder than it actually was, and they made an unpleasant buzzing noise. As he rested his elbow on the arm of the chair in front of the cherrywood desk, Leo was acutely aware of how one of the tips of his shirt collar was curled upward because he couldn’t be bothered to starch his collars. The Director adjusted her skinny rectangular glasses as she looked over the contents of the manila folder. “We’re sending you to Israel.”
“Israel,” said Leo, in a way that could have been a question or a statement or a sort of distasteful grunting noise. He had nothing against Israel, but he had been hoping to go back to Egypt. Karnak was still there, glittering with murals of rat-headed deities and harvest calendars—the sort of things that any archaeologist would find fascinating. What did Israel have? Probably more harvest calendars, he supposed. “Israel isn’t exactly in my realm of expertise.”
“You’ll be fine, Mr. Crane,” she soothed. “I mostly just want a senior staff member present while the greenhorns scope out the Tel Rehov site. You know how it is.”
Leo wished he did not know how it is, but after sixteen years working for the M. A. Fischer Archaeological Institute, he did in fact know very well how it is, even if he didn’t like it. You go where you’re sent.
On his last expedition, he had gone where he was sent, and he had done what he was told to do. He had completed his task to the letter, and it had allowed Rocky to run free with the Karnak Coffer. That was six months ago. He still sometimes wondered what was wrong with him, or if there was anything wrong with him at all. It wasn’t his job to chase down criminals, and he had reported it to the Institute as soon as he got back to his hotel. But if he really was as loyal to the Institute as he
claimed, shouldn’t he have tried a little harder to stop her, instead of prioritizing his translation and data collection? He brought his hand up and bent the collar tip the other way in a futile attempt to straighten it out.
“Are you still,” --Madame Director searched for a word-“concerned about Miss Rockwell?”
Leo took a deep breath to stall for time before answering. “No.”
“Don’t lie, Mr. Crane.”
Ugh. “ . . . Yes. I still feel guilty, and I constantly wonder where she is.”
Madame Director closed the manila folder and laced her fingers on her desk. Speaking very slowly, she said, “You are not at fault for Miss Rockwell’s actions. We are working with Interpol to track her and the artifact down. You, Mr. Crane, best serve the Institute by turning your focus toward a new assignment.”
“Israel?”
“Israel.”
Her spectacles glinted at him challengingly. He sank a little deeper into the bureaucratically half-comfortable maroon armchair in front of her desk. It might be good to get back out into the field, experience another successful expedition—one that didn’t end in perfidy and peculation. It might take his mind off Rocky. Then again, it might just leave him thinking of her and that last assignment the whole time. But this was his career and his duty to the Institute. There was no sense in him weighing the pros and cons; you go where you’re sent.
“When do we leave?”
Ten days later, Leo found himself sweating outside a longabandoned synagogue as Jack and Tina—young archaeologists, new members of their Israeli division, and clearly infatuated with each other—muttered and moved bricks around from inside the building. The other member of their team, Keegan, had spread a large piece of paper and some drawing implements over a front step that no longer connected to a front door, and he was sketching a map of the ruins they were exploring.
Tina stepped out of the synagogue and said, “We found a mural!”
“Groovy,” said Leo, trying to temper the touch of sarcasm halfway through the word. “Let’s see it.”
She waved her arm to beckon him in, and he swung in after her to see Jack squinting at an enormous panel of colored tiles, a notebook in one hand and a stubby yellow pencil in the other, a book open beside him to a page of notes on Biblical Hebrew.
“Jack’s working on translating the words on the mosaic here,” she gestured, “but we were wondering what you thought of the imagery, like, the symbolism in the picture itself, you know?”
Leo carefully stepped over a crumbling block to get a better look at the tiles. Above the words were images of a menorah, a goblet, a sheaf of wheat, and a surprisingly detailed portrait of a man. He wiped the salt off his brow and asked, “Have you already translated the characters right here by the picture of the man?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Jack. “It’s, like, my god is salvation, or something like that.”
Leo crossed his brown forearms over his chest and frowned. Lots of old Hebrew names had a literal translation, like Japanese names. “How’s it pronounced?”
“Uh, ‘eh-lie-shuh.’ Like the name Elisha.”
Leo took this in, closed his eyes, and wondered how Jack had made it this far without an ounce of critical thinking skills.
“Do we think maybe that is, in fact, the guy’s name?”
Behind him, Jack groaned, “Dude! I should have thought of that!”
“Oh my god, we’re so dumb,” Tina laughed. Leo shook his head, turning around to face the two. “You’re not . . . dumb; you just need to look past the literal words and think about why they’re there. Why would someone put a piece of text right next to a portrait, if not to identify the person?”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re here to put us on track,” said Tina, slinging her arm over Jack’s shoulders and jostling him lightly. Jack turned a little pink and grinned mindlessly.
McLoone • 107
Leo tightened his lips into a professional not-smile and stepped out of the synagogue to check on Keegan. They really weren’t idiots—the Institute would never have hired them if they were—but it felt like he was babysitting, and he wasn’t crazy about it. He didn’t feel personally rewarded by teaching others how to be better archaeologists. He wanted to make his own discoveries in his own field of expertise, using his own particular painstakingly acquired knowledge. He wanted Egypt.
Going back to what he had said to his teammates earlier, “You need to look past the words and think about why they’re there,” he found himself lingering again on how he had handled his last assignment after it got derailed by Rocky’s theft. Maybe if he had tried harder to stop her, he could have managed to keep her as his partner.
Simone “Rocky” Rockwell had been his coworker for sixteen years, since his first day at the Institute. She had been a partner or teammate for almost every assignment he worked on, and she had been an asset to the Institute with her nononsense, hard-working attitude; her strength and excavation know-how, and her blunt, shockingly insightful remarks. More than a coworker, she had been the closest thing Leo had to a friend, and he had believed that she had considered him a friend too. But on that last mission, she had acted so different: more than just blunt, she had been angry and aggressive. It was unlike her—or, he supposed, unlike the façade she had put up to gain the Institute’s trust. But sixteen years was a long time to work for someone if all you planned to do was steal an artifact. Most grave robbers didn’t get a master’s in archaeology.
Leo plucked at his linen shirt to cool himself. The sun had slanted down and was starting to cast merciful shadows, but the temperature was still quite warm. Maybe Rocky hadn’t been out to betray them the whole time. Maybe something had changed, but what? And could it be changed back? He stopped himself and checked his watch. It was time to call it a day.
“Let’s pack it in, you guys,” he called to his three teammates. “Who wants lunch?”
Tucked around a table in the corner of an Israeli diner, Leo
passed his order to Jack, whose Hebrew was the best out of the four of them. He turned and stared out the fingerprint-spotted window to watch the people in the street as they hustled and bustled along. Truth be told, he didn’t often spend much time “on the economy,” among the modern people who inhabited the country whose ancient ruins he was studying. It was neat, certainly different from the United States, but then, not very. People are people.
One person stood apart from the throngs of others: someone tall, dressed in modest tan trousers and a white shirt, facing away to look in a shop window across the street. The person turned to rejoin the foot traffic, and Leo froze. That was Rocky.
Or at least, he was pretty sure it was her. She had the unmistakably broad shoulders and the same panther-like stride. The dark brown hair was cut in a different style, but as he squinted out the window, he thought the bone structure in the face matched his remembering.
“See anything interesting?” asked Keegan from his seat across from him.
Leo’s eyes followed the woman down the street. “No.”
Keegan was silent for a long moment. Then Leo heard the sounds of a glass being shaken—empty except for a couple ice cubes—and air being sucked through a straw in a fruitless attempt to get the last few drops of Schweppes.
Leo turned back to the table. What else could he do? It might not even be her; but if it was, he wasn’t about to bolt out of the restaurant, sprint down the street, and have a verbal confrontation with a woman definitely capable of decking him in the middle of a sidewalk in Beit She’an. He just wasn’t that sort of person—as he had so clearly proven six months ago, he thought with some little malice, not a brave bone in your body and he refused to let his life turn into a total telenovela.
But Rocky… He didn’t know how to complete that thought. Rocky should be apprehended and taken to the police? Rocky needed to know that her actions had hurt him? Rocky had been his best friend?
He stood up. “Will you three survive if I go out for a couple hours?”
Jack and Tina looked at each other. Keegan looked at him. “Sure. But your food’s about to arrive.”
“Ask for a bag. I’ll call the hotel room if I need to be picked up, yeah?”
“Sure, okay.” The three young archaeologists’ eyebrows seemed stuck in suspension. Leo was aware that he was still standing, unmoving, over the table. He grabbed his hat and wallet.
“See you later.”
The door to the restaurant chimed as he stepped out onto the street. Wonder of wonders, he could just see the woman in the white shirt with the unmistakably broad shoulders, a halfhead taller than most of the crowd, making her way down the sidewalk.
Thrusting his hat on his head, he went to follow her.
Diverging Stories
Abiageal Ketchersid
Tiny ten year-olds meeting under white fluorescent classroom lights. Young naive minds out finding best friends forever.
A sleepover was a must, unless you weren’t cool enough. A condo on the beach, moonlight shining on a tiny Christmas tree, lulled to sleep by crashing waves and only then, did I realize not everyone is all that great. Young as we were the lines had been drawn, one had defended where the other had made fun. It was the beginning of something, but we were too young to know
High school was weird, the stupid linoleum floors were the same. The same feeling of cold metal lockers under hand even in a brand new place, but still it was different, And so were we, but I couldn’t change that, no matter how hard I tried. You were cool— I wasn’t. That’s just what it was.
Then we were out of there, moving on and away, an hour away’s not so far. You met new people, and you stayed in touch, but it wasn’t quite the same. The stories were different, new characters I’d never met. Now I was reading the book, no longer there on the page.
It’s the Spark that Set the World on Fire
Morgan Chipman
My friend cut her hair to look like me. It wasn’t that hard. She had the same hair, colored and warmed by the fire in her eyes, the kind that sparks when the night feels too alone to create any light.
For her, the fire was sparked inside a handheld bottle of pills she refused to swallow whole.
For me, the fire warmed me against the stubborn wind refusing to catch me from the cliff.
Should I have stepped off?
We spent hours creating our world together, building castles for our empire, daydreaming about who we thought we should be.
Every piece in our grand puzzle had to fit just right in our minds because if the world is made of stories, then we had to be the protagonists of every one.
We were the underdogs, the misfits, and the rebels, laughing at God’s throne, preparing to steal it as punishment for Satan locking us out of the room.
If I covered her hands with my dust, she promised the dust would flow like ambrosia.
My friend’s fear of death made us immortal.
So I wasn’t afraid that our fire would burn us. But we weren’t immortal. We were stupid kids, angry at ourselves.
So my dust never turned into ambrosia. Instead, it gave my friend another excuse to yell about her dirty hands.
It was when God allowed me into His throne room while my friend was locked outside that her fire burned me for “stealing” the moment she thought was her own.
My friend might have had my hair, but she could never compete with my eyes. I saw my guardian angel pulling me away from the edge of that cliff, but she only saw a trick of the light.
Safe Pages
Abiageal Ketchersid
An escape-drawing me in as I tear through the pages.
Weathered over the ages, like a stone turned smooth in a raging river.
Faded and worn, its pages turned, by time, the color of desert sand.
Safe and enveloping, a warm fire with friends on a winter night. Comforting, like a child’s favorite blanket.
A constant, in a mercurial world.
I am not rejected, no!
Consolation
Ireland Thomas
Well, rejected, but not dejected. Well, rejected, as opposite to accepted, as opposite to succession or depression.
Each “unfortunately” must lead somewhere, “sadly, we must inform” ends not always with scorn, but with progress.
I will write the dead to life, plant flowers, and water with tears, for rejection gives way to nourishment.
When the spring comes, and oh! it will come, perhaps my garden of hope in the aftermath of my mind’s attack will silence all my fears.
A Gorge(ous) Evening
Margaret Keicher
Today, we can be anybody or anything we’ve ever dreamed of being.
Today is magic. Not the nasty eye-of-newt, chicken-blood-on-a-pentagram kind of magic, no not scary magic.
Today’s magic transforms shy misshapen girls into mysterious gypsies and fearless firefighters. Scrawny freckly boys become sword-wielding swashbucklers and buzzing bumblebees.
Today, bravery, glamour, and dreams are ready-to-wear and easily purchased at Walmart.
Tonight, as the witching hour draws nigh, the masked masses—armed with Vera Wang treat bags, recycled mop buckets, and old pillowcases— descend like locusts on neighborhoods, churches, and festivals.
Gluttony is the order of the evening; like children of Komos they revel and gorge.
Until, as if in a trance, they turn towards home. On the morrow, the only reminder of their sweet nocturnal dalliances will be chocolate-streaked bedsheets, and a nagging case of the collywobbles.
Truth Is Lightning
Aidan Fleming
Truth’s strike can be sudden–a repulsive flash, of devastating light or it can be expected–as the clouds darken over crowds rushing to buy the paper. As the air tightens when you wait for them to reply–unable to breathe as we all await Truth’s grand reveal.
From afar its impact dazzles–a miraculous sight of divine strength. When it strikes close–burning the air you breathe, then you will feel the cost of enlightenment.
After the War
Raven Odum
His eyes opened.
Oh, gods! He’s alive! The girl standing in front of him thought to herself. She had done the impossible.
“Marietta?” he asked, his voice soft yet clear. A thin smile spread across the girl’s face.
“It’s me,” she responded. She lifted her pale yet scarred hand to him. When he took her hand, she felt his icy touch sink into her very being. It did not matter to her, however; all was as she expected. He paused—perhaps a moment of uncertainty—then stepped from his glass-walled stage and onto the rigid metal flooring below.
His gaze shifted from left to right. He had known of the existence of this place, but his visits were scarce. Multicolored wires spread along the shiny silver coating of the walls just like a spider’s web, minus the graceful organization expected of one. To his right, three computer monitors were set up to form a half-hexagon facing the wall. To his left was a counter with papers hopelessly scattered upon its unrecognizable surface. Then his gaze rested upon the one who had awakened him from his slumber, Marietta.
She didn’t look as picturesque as he once knew her. Her inky strands of hair, once perfectly tame, now possessed a life of their own; they jutted every which way. Her formerly tan skin now was a ghostly white, so transparent that he could see the blue of her veins. Her eyes, though quite wide, were surrounded by a black so thick he wondered if it was natural or simply eyeliner. She was dressed in a baggy white t-shirt which had patches of grey, blue, and black, as well as a pair of skinny jeans with a few tears for style.
“How long was I out?” he managed to say, his voice feeling slightly unusual, but he couldn’t identify the precise cause.
“A couple of months,” she said. She took a few steps back
so that he had more room to move. She was watching his every motion with intense curiosity. It felt as if he were performing, with thousands of eyes fixed upon him. He took a couple of steps closer to her. After thinking for a moment, he embraced her, allowing her warmth to soak into his ice-like being.
“I missed you,” she said. Marietta embraced him, allowing herself to smile, a smile of relief. She felt as if her pressures had been lifted off her shoulders, and it literally felt as if she was thirty pounds lighter. After a few seconds, she let him go. “My brother, Ray.”
Ray looked exactly as she always knew. His long auburn mane was as unruly as ever, with uneven cuts that jutted out of place. He had on new clothes, however, wearing a white cotton tank and baggy black leggings. The only thing missing was his jacket.
“What have I missed? What happened while I was out?” Ray asked, his fascinated amber gaze turning to one of concern for himself and his sister.
“I was able to manage. Everything is perfectly fine. However, we are short on rations. When you’re ready, I’m hoping we can make a supply run,” Marietta said. She was about five years younger than Ray, but in these trying times, she was forced to mature rapidly.
He nodded. “Alright.” Ray stepped past Marietta and looked around the room. Cabinets were lined up against the walls, and in their steps were beakers and vials of substances and liquids Ray couldn’t hope to understand. It wasn’t this odd display that caught his attention, however, but the pristine katana lying on one of the counters previously obscured from view.
“While you were out, I made it a bit . . . better.” Marietta laughed, with an inkling of nervousness in her voice. She wanted him to be impressed, but she was more concerned with the success of her project. Ray took the sword and lifted it, the blade itself shiny enough to bounce the daylight back at the sun, though the cloth of the handle had a few loose threads that led nowhere. He lifted his gaze back towards her and smiled.
“It’s great. Thank you.” He let his arms fall to his side. “We should get going. Who knows if there is anything left now?” He began to walk to the triple-bolted metal door that separated the lab from the rest of the bunker.
“Wait!” Marietta exclaimed. “Don’t you want to know what happened? Outside of here, I mean,” she said, with a slight hint of urgency and fear in her voice. It was enough for Ray to turn around in concern.
“Are there snipers out there waiting to blast our brains out?” he asked. She paused and shook her head.
“It’s nothing like that,” she responded. She felt a little stab of shame, but shrugged it off; it would not help her.
“Then tell me on the way.” Ray undid the multiple locks and stepped into a near black circular chamber. A red ladder that was speckled with newly formed rust extended from the floor up to a lock, a lock that looked like it belonged inside of a safe. In front of them was another securely fastened metal door. Taking his thick leather jacket from a clothes hanger (there was one right on the wall, in front of the ladder) and a duffel bag tossed onto the floor below, Ray stepped onto the first rung of the ladder. “I’ll meet you out there,” he said, and climbed up to the top, undid the lock, and stepped out and onto the surface.
After a few minutes, Marietta joined him, with a gray backpack around her shoulders and a pistol at her side. She smiled; it was strangely nostalgic to brave the wilderness with her brother at her side, despite how she hated doing so. “Lead the way.”
They followed a path traveled by many, a path that was littered with freshly fallen leaves, creating a vermilion blanket for them to tread. Ahead of them, the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm sunset across the Earth. If it wasn’t for the rubble around every step, and the ghostly remains of stores and homes they had to pass, it would have been a beautiful day.
“I didn’t come out often. Only when I needed a few spare parts . . . ,” Marietta explained. “But when I did, I noticed a few animals in these forests. One of them looked like a doe, but I’m unsure what it was. It had the form of a deer but with a longer
tail, like that of a cat. And it—it looked like it was burned. Only if the burns reflected light. Almost like scales, but it was just one giant plate.” Marietta continued to keep her head down as she visualized the oddity she encountered. “And I think I saw a rabbit, too. Though it could have been a frog by the sound of it.”
“Did any of the bandits try to break in?” Ray asked. He wasn’t so interested in the animals, whatever they may be, but interested in the dangers around them. The other survivors of the war.
“No. It’s like they vanished. I’m not sure where they have gone to, but they aren’t around here anymore. It’s always so quiet,” Marietta responded.
“Too quiet.” Ray kept his head up. They were almost to the convenience store, or what was left of it.
They could see right into the store. A gaping hole replaced what had once been the front walls, with only the corners standing to support the structure. From the growing cracks in the walls, it was unlikely they would hold through the winter.
When they stepped inside, the orange light shone right into their eyes. The roof itself was in pieces, with the right side of the building being completely exposed to the elements. The trees had grown over the edge, creating a new sort of canopy. As the autumn winds blew through, a cloud of dust blanketed them. The bits and specks of dust shined as they floated through the air, almost looking like fireflies in the evening sky.
Ray stepped into the store, looking towards the food section at his left. The produce had spoiled long ago, but there were a few occasional flies that would visit. Ahead of him were about a dozen rows where a multitude of foods was once held. As he passed them by, the empty shelves and discarded boxes and chip bags created a sense of loss and dread.
Marietta walked behind him, keeping her eyes to the right. Tattered scraps of clothing still hung onto the metal stands. The only clothes intact were hideous; it was clear why they didn’t sell before.
“Is there even anything left?” Ray asked.
“There’s still some in the supply rooms. I hid the door
behind some boxes after . . .” she paused.
“After what happened.”
“Speaking of—what did you do after the bandits beat the hell out of me?” Ray asked.
“I had to wait until they were gone,” Marietta explained. “Eventually, they got bored,” she said simply, trying to avoid dwelling on those memories. “After a while, they left. I took you to the lab. So I could heal you.” She quickened her pace as she saw the boxes. They were somewhat heavy, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle.
After the boxes were set aside, Ray twisted the rusty handle, which felt like it would crumble in his hand if it had been hollow. He stepped inside the darkened room, with Marietta stepping behind him. It was almost pitch black, with the only light coming from the opened door and a few holes in the ceiling. Ray dropped the duffel bag and rummaged through mostly empty compartments.
“The flashlight is still inside, right?” he asked. It wasn’t like his sister to go through his bags, but after two months, he didn’t set aside the possibility.
“Yeah.” She reached into one of the smaller pockets and took out the flashlight. “I needed a few batteries. It still works—I think.” She examined it for a moment. “I replaced the batteries with older ones. It should have some charge.” She turned it on, and a dim beam of light shot from the flashlight and into the darkness of the supply room, illuminating the various metal shelves, mostly untouched, and the half-labeled boxes scattered around the area.
“Then we know what we’re looking for first.” Ray remarked, and he picked up his bag and swung the strap back over his shoulder. Marietta led the way, going past multiple sealed boxes and a few empty ones. They were not the only ones to have found the supply room; there were quite a few before them.
Marietta grabbed one of the boxes and ripped it open. A few miscellaneous chargers, phone cases, and various electronic parts fell out. She looked a bit disappointed. “They are useless now.” She pushed away what she knew would be of no
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use to her: cases, small wires, and a few bits and pieces.
Ray opened another box next to her, and began to rummage through the contents. “I think I found something.” He said. He took out a few battery packs, each containing only a couple of them. Marietta glanced towards him.
“These are perfect!” she said, and took the packs from him. She sliced open one of the cardboard packages with her toughened nails. The batteries dropped beside her knee, as did the battery cover of the flashlight. She lifted up one of the batteries and held it close to the flashlight.
“It’s going to go dark for a second.” She quickly ripped the old batteries out. A noticeable clink was heard as the first one dropped, and then the second dropped a few moments later. Marietta switched the light back on and pointed it towards the wall.
Marietta let out a deafening scream. Ray flinched and looked towards her. “What?” he asked, in a panicked tone, but he was cut off.
“Look!” she shouted. The light rested upon two skeletons, each with torn clothes that clung to their body, and with bits of flesh clinging to their bones. Ray pulled Marietta back and scanned the room around him, but was able to make out no image of danger, of anything that could be a threat to them.
“Those are just skeletons. Whatever killed them is long gone. We need to get back to scavenging,” Ray said. He stepped in front of Marietta and the wall, though his eyes were irritated from how bright the light shone, even if it wasn’t directly in his eyes.
“Okay . . . ,” Marietta said. She reached for another box, but then heard shuffling coming from the corner of the room. She flinched and flashed the flashlight where she heard it, but whatever it was avoided the light with only the tip of its massive black tail able to be seen. Her shaking hand redirected the light to follow the tip, showing more of the creature’s body.
Ray’s gaze shot at the creature, and he unsheathed his katana. “Behind me,” he said. He began to walk backwards to the door, Marietta keeping the light in front of him while
occasionally looking back at the wall. She heard it slither to her right, and pulled Ray through the door. Letting out a scream, she fell on her back and pulled him down beside her.
“Whoa!” Startled, Ray jumped to his feet. The creature jumped precisely where they had been before. Ray took a few steps back at the sight of the beast; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Its face was obviously human, yet it had black scales on its face, starting from under its eye and extending onto the cheeks and down the neck. The eyes were a sickly gray, yet its pupils were somewhat reptilian, with a slit narrowing in on Ray. It had shoulder-length black hair, so greasy that it looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. It was clothed with some rags, with holes in countless locations on its body. Along its hands were scales mixed with skin and long nails that could easily slice human skin.
“Run!” Ray shouted, and Marietta bolted down the path and towards where they had first come. Ray picked up the pace as he ran after her. He was able to hear the creature bounding after them, no longer attempting to be stealthy; it knew it had been seen. It wasn’t long before it was directly behind Ray, and once they made it to the entrance, Ray spun around as it lunged and slashed through one of its arms. The creature collapsed, with what used to be a right arm now sliced to the bone and bleeding thick blood with a few dark black chunks of flesh falling into the mix.
The sky above them was now nearly black, with only a sliver of sunlight passing through the trees and forest around them. Without saying a word, the pair dashed along the trail and back towards the bunker. Stepping on the leaves, their retreat could be heard from a mile away, but so could the advance of more of those fearsome beasts.
“Keep going!” Ray yelled. He turned back to face the beasts. “I’ll catch up with you!” he shouted. Marietta understood that this was no time to argue. She bolted down the path while Ray stood firm as the creatures surrounded him.
The first monster lunged at his neck, silvery fangs ready
to tear into his flesh. He quickly spun to his side, slicing the monster’s head clean off its body. He didn’t remember being strong enough to do that before, but he assumed it to be because of the new, sharpened blade. He came back to reality quick enough to impale another that lunged, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch a third pounce on him from behind. The creature wailed a sickening, inhuman screech, then plunged its claws into Ray’s back. A sharp pain electrified his body, and he screamed in agony. He was able to elbow it away, but it stabbed him again, this time in the shoulder.
Then he heard her scream. They hadn’t just chased after him. “Damn, no!” he shouted, and with his free hand he grabbed the creature and forced it into the ground. His terror now eclipsed by pure rage as he slit the being’s throat and ran down the path Marietta had taken, forgetting about his own wounds in the moment.
She was on the ground, her pistol having been knocked away from her before she could get a clear shot. The creature was on top of her, and it would have finished her off if it hadn’t heard Ray approach. It moved to the side, its agility superior to the others as it dashed at Ray, stabbing him through the gut with an iron spear. After it had done so, it backed up, gazing cautiously at Ray.
Ray came back to his senses when he was stabbed, yet this time he wasn’t able to feel anything other than a small shift in his torso. He slowly looked down at his chest, seeing a hole through himself. His free hand lowered down to feel his chest, but he felt nothing through the hole. He saw metal, wires, and a few occasional sparks.
“What—” he managed to say, then looked at the creature in front of him. It turned back and fled back to where it had come, and in shock, Ray looked towards Marietta, who was writhing on the ground. Ray hurried to her side.
“I couldn’t let you die,” she said, lifting her face up from the ground to reveal claw marks, gruesomely fresh and still bleeding, on the left side of her face. She reached towards him and put her hand through the hole in his chest. “I couldn’t—”
Ray was in shock, speechless. He wondered why he hadn’t felt anything before, and now that air was passing through his new mechanical body, he could slightly feel the metal and gears where his organs and flesh used to be. She glanced weakly up at him.
“You died, Ray.” she weakly made out. “I saved your brain, and I made you a new body.” She smiled a sorrowful smile, her breath becoming weaker. A wound previously unnoticed from her side began to bleed into the dirt around them. “I love you,” she whispered, before laying her head down onto the grass.
“I—” he started to say, then looked at her wound. He held onto her hand as he opened the door to the bunker. “I would have done the same. Now, it’s my turn to save you.”
Who Am I?
Katherine Weiss
I am from twelve-month deployments, from cookie cutter houses never lived in long enough, with friendships that never got to be. I am from the heat of the South but the snowy cold of the North, from rocky mountains to soft sandy beaches. I am from half-formed traditions, from blinding stadium lights and biscuits and gravy for breakfast. I am from many places each as memorable as the last.
A Rolex Is a Tough Act to Follow
Abiageal Ketchersid
It sits in a box. I can’t remember the last time it came out. It has a purpose though, one bigger than just being worn. It was a promise to yourself, a high-dollar promise, and boy did you keep it.
Every time I see that glint of gold through the glass, I see your tired eyes after staying late, a man so headstrong and obstinate he made it work. It hurts. How can I live up to that promise? Its legacy is long hours as late nights turn to early morning. That’s all I want, but I’m not sure I’m enough.
The sight of it is the reason that plan A is always ready and plans B through Z, too. You had to work for everything. I don’t want anything handed to me. I got my way of thinking from you, a head full of numbers and statistics that make it clear that the only way to be sure I make it is pushing pencils from nine to five. You want me to be self-sufficient and safe. You only want better for me. You don’t say it, but I know. But still its meaning hangs over me, heavy like the gold from which it’s made.
Contributors
Sarah Augustin is a student at NWFSC.
Margaret Bartlett is a life-long artist. She loves all media, and enjoys playing the piano and bird watching.
Rachael Bell is a senior in high school and dual enrolled at NWFSC. She loves to write, and she would like to be an author of fantasy books one day.
Autiana Boyer is a seventeen year old girl who showcases her appreciation for nature through photography.
Ash-leigh Buterbaugh is an aspiring writer, who has a passion for connecting to others. In her work, she likes to express raw emotions.
Alicia Cavaco is a burned out over-achiever just trying to get through college and into the real world.
Morgan Chipman is a junior at Collegiate High School. She likes pretentious lyrics and her dogs.
Abigail Christian is a nineteen-year-old Fort Walton Beach native who loves the beach, has two brothers, and has a wonderful mom who supports all she does.
Nadia Cooks is an illustration major who is hoping to continue her studies in art after being a student at NWFSC. She enjoys painting and fine dining.
Brenda Crabbe loves diving and our local waterways. She enjoys sharing the beauty and sometimes whimsey of sea creatures.
Lorraine Dales is a painter, potter, photographer and musician who is originally from Manchester, England, and is now living in Destin, Florida.
Aidan Fleming is a sophomore in college and an occasional writer and poet. He is currently studying for a degree in journalism.
Chance Freytag was born in Tennessee but moved to Florida soon after. He is currently a senior at Seacoast Collegiate High School and plans to attend a Florida university in the fall. Other defining traits include being a Talking Heads’ fan, being a ginger, and being a despondent leftist.
Heather Hill finds happiness creating art. She is continually creative.
Michael Howard is a socially awkward twenty-nine year old college student at NWFSC. He may have trouble dealing with social situations, but he uses art as an escape.
Shelby Jones is a mother of two, a wife, and a student who works hard to do everything she can for her family.
Ella Joslin is a U.S. citizen against her will. She plagiarizes daily from gravestones while coming up with names for her numerous fake identities.
Margaret Keicher is in her third semester at NWFSC.
Abiageal Ketchersid, raised in Destin, Florida, is in her second year at NWFSC. She plans on minoring in writing.
Linda Leigh Lawson is currently a student at NWFSC, and her passion lies in learning and progressing as an artist and an academic.
Natalia Light is seeking to create art that would change lives (at least slightly), and is fascinated by conceptual art, suprematism, and minimalistic design.
Christopher McLoone is a full-time college student and parttime starving artist. He has been writing creatively since he first learned to write and was president of his high school creative writing club three years in a row. He is currently writing an
Contributors • 131
adventure novel in between working on his French major and giving unsolicited advice to his friends.
Danielle Muir was born in Northwest Florida and has wanted to attend UWF since she was twelve. She plans to transfer and pursue majors in digital art and anthropology.
Raven Odum is a hobbyist writer with a passion for the dark machinations of the mind.
Mercy Pettis is a self taught artist who enjoys all media.
Miranda Richeson is a NWFSC student who enjoys writing and other creative endeavors.
Allissa Sandefur is a full-time student and part-time worker in the library on campus at NWFSC. She aims to obtain a bachelor’s in creative writing and, ultimately, a master’s in library sciences. She enjoys writing fantasy and science fiction but occasionally dabbles in bad poetry.
Anna Sellers is a life-long Okaloosa local who creates whimsical, impressionistic artwork.
Micaela Shelingoski enjoys making art to show her creativity. She was born and raised in Niceville, Florida.
Alex Shields is a student at NWFSC with a passion for fine art.
Jacob A. Smith paints.
Ruvik Smith is a senior at Collegiate High School. He has been accepted at Full Sail University and intends to pursue a bachelor’s in creative writing. He has been published in the 2018 and 2019 editions of the Blackwater Review, and is an aspiring horror/fiction novelist.
Ellise Sorrells is a student at NWFSC. She loves sharing with others the beauty she finds in the outside world through photography.
Hannah Strom has always enjoyed writing and has wanted to be a published fiction author since she was eight. She wants to work toward an English degree with a minor in creative writing.
Ireland Thomas comes from a long line of creatives, and she’s always changing! She hopes to pursue a career in creative writing. She’d like to thank her family for always taking care of her, her teachers for inspiring and guiding her, and her body for enduring and surviving an incurable autoimmune disease.
Aubrey Walton is a driven, mixed media artist who draws inspiration from everyone and everything. She often pushes the limits and loves to create meaningful art.
Katherine Weiss is a Collegiate High School student from a military family. Her work represents her experience as a military child and how it has shaped her life.
Olivia West is from a small town and hopes to move to New York City to continue pursuing her art degree.
Matthew Woods prefers not to have a bio. Please understand.
