Blackwater Review 2022

Isabelle

2005 Cover: “Bustie: Emulating Diversity and Pluralism,” Clay, by Rosanna Michelle Boylan

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

A Journal of Literature and Art

Volume 20, No. 1 Spring 2022

Niceville, Florida

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. Christopher Snellgrove

Poetry Editor:

Dr. Jessica Temple

Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography:

Benjamin Gillham, MFA

Editorial Advisory Board:

Dr. Beverly Holmes, Dr. Anne Southard, Dr. Robyn Strickland

April Leake, Dr. David Simmons, and Dr. Jill White

Art Advisory Board:

Benjamin Gillham, MFA, Lesha Porché, M.Arch, J. Wren Supak, MFA, MA

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.

©2022 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Acknowledgments

The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Dr. Devin Stephenson, Dr. Deidre Price, Dr. Dana Bigham Stephens, and Dr. Robyn Strickland 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 winners are included in this issue.

We also would like to thank the estate of James P. Chitwood for funding the Editors’ Prizes, which the editorial staff awards for writing excellence.

This issue is dedicated to Dr. Jon Brooks and Professor Amy Riddell, whose dedication to quality and love of writing made them two of the finest editors Blackwater Review could ever hope for.

This year we celebrate the 20th issue of Blackwater Review by featuring cover art from our previous issues. We hope you enjoy this look back!

Grey with an E

Isabelle Alegria

It’s the color of tombstones, of last words, of untimely goodbyes.

The color of spreading your ashes into steely sea waves, The regret of all the things I wanted to tell you but didn’t know how to say.

It’s the color of memories warped by time,

The injustice of feeling crisp details fading away.

It’s the color of the miracle that was supposed to save you, But never came.

First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2022

Why I Love My Little Brother, Levi

Jared Smith

He won’t settle for a single costume. Today: Peter Pan, a ninja, and Hawkeye. He laughs like Ernie from Sesame Street, Less coarse, more bubbly, a gargled guffaw. His voice an innocent falsetto, singing Elton John; He’s obsessed with the artist because I am. He knocks endlessly, I hear quite clearly through my door, “Can you come play with me?” I do, at 7 a.m.

He’s enraptured by cemeteries and the deceased, This year he celebrates Año de los Muertos. He reads now, which I detest. He liked when I did voices.

No more will I pass out in that bottom bunk, His cold hand on my face, baby skin not shed yet. He laid in that crib, miniature and motionless, A vivid memory, I still hear “The Well-Tempered Clavier.”

I have loved him since I saw him first, I have not let go of that baby boy. Now, Exaggerated smiles, just two teeth missing, Show that he loves me back.

Second Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2022

American Woman

McCaid Paul

“What can I do? She’s in so much pain.”

“We can help with that, but you’ll have to make the decision to sign the Do Not Resuscitate form. You’ve been hesitant to do that.”

When my dad didn’t reply, the man went on. “Her liver has failed, her kidneys have shut down, and she’s currently in congestive heart failure. There’s nothing else we can do but make her comfortable.”

I sat in the corner of the dim-lit hospital room, gripping the arms of my chair. The conversation between the man in scrubs and Dad had taken a turn for the worse. But so had the diminutive woman lying back in the large hospital bed, an IV attached to one of her purple-veined, arthritic hands. Her eyes were closed. She was asleep, for now, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before she tossed awake, wincing and mumbling about the pain.

I’d never seen a person die before, only heard about it. How a room hums with silence after, death so eerily quiet, until the body begins to make gurgling noises, trapped air releasing through the mouth and nose. I imagined it’d be the same for her, and, selfishly, I didn’t want to experience that; didn’t want to watch the woman who’d given out bone-crushing hugs to me through the years like candy succumb to nothing but a frail carcass of skin and bone.

It just didn’t seem fair. But watching my grandma writhe in bed day after day, not even capable of sitting up straight— the same woman who mastered the toughest Sudoku puzzles and liked her tea sweet enough to kill fruit flies—was proof enough that nothing about life is fair.

She was an American woman, the typical Grandma and KFC connoisseur all rolled into one. The woman who survived the Great Depression, World War II, rode to town in a wagon

as a young girl, and yet never owned a cellphone. The woman who talked about characters in Hallmark Christmas movies like they were real people. The woman whose grocery lists took Mom, Dad, and me combined to try and decipher, made mostly of items suitable for a teenage pothead: donuts, Snickers ice cream bars, Cheetos, Club Crackers, Oatmeal Creme Pies, Golden Grahams, and Dr. Pepper (by God, she was the poster granny for Dr. Pepper).

The woman who cheered for the Atlanta Braves every season. (They won the National League pennant the other day. I know she would’ve been proud.)

The woman who received the first copy of my book when it came out.

The woman who read said book with a magnifying glass held within a millimeter of her face, mumbling the words aloud to herself. Even though she could only read a chapter at a time due to her dry eyes, it was an honor knowing she cared enough to try.

A day or so after the conversation between Dad and Grandma’s doctor, we all gathered together in her little hospital room for one of the last times. My mother pulled me to the side and whispered, “Go tell your Grandma goodbye.”

And so, as my legs trembled and my throat tightened like it would close up, I crept to the edge of her bed and looked down at her. Her body trembled every few moments as she sucked down air, but her eyes were closed and her skin had yellowed. Carefully, I leaned down and kissed her snow-white hair, which felt as soft as cotton against my lips. At the touch, she didn’t stir like I expected; didn’t reach for my head to kiss me back.

It just didn’t seem fair.

The unconscious form in the bed was nothing like the spunky woman I used to know. In a way—though I felt great shame for thinking it—it was as if she were already gone. I remembered something I’d read once, how cancer patients are dead long before they die, and although she’d been fortunate enough to never experience such a thing, I knew the same applied for her.

I wasn’t there when she called out the names of her sisters and late husband in her sleep, dreaming of better days.

I wasn’t there when Dad gripped her hand and whispered, “Momma, when you wake up, you’ll be with Jesus.”

I wasn’t there when she died, but I heard it was silent and peaceful, though I’ve never thought of death that way.

I wasn’t there enough, and that’s something I’ll always regret.

But the other day, I stopped by her house and looked inside. It’s been two years since she passed, but I still expect to see her, smiling back at me from her dingy-red recliner, a sweaty can of Dr. Pepper in hand. I still expect her to ask how I’ve been doing and to please replace her half-empty soda can with a cold one from the fridge.

The other day, when I stepped across the threshold, I noticed both of my books propped atop the mantel. I opened them up, read the message I’d written inside nearly four years ago, and smiled to myself. One of the pages was still creased from where she left off. It almost made me cry.

Before I left, I grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper from the fridge, retraced my steps back to the living room, and stared at the books on the mantel far longer than I’d care to admit.

I remember thinking: That’s the greatest memorial you left me, right there on that shelf.

And there they’ll stay.

Ode to the River

McCaid Paul

Oh, river, how I’ve missed you. Today, as I drove over Harrison Bridge, you were there, shining just below, gurgling and burbling and murmuring against the sandy-white banks.

I closed my eyes, just for a moment, and I could feel the sun’s warmth and the cool breeze kissing my skin, almost like I was there again.

Back in my father’s boat, a bream pole gripped in hand, anticipating the first nibble, that first chance of fate.

Even then, the weight on the end of the line felt like a promise, a secret both father and son shared, as you gave up your fish like an unselfish merchant.

This morning, peering down at your still surface, glistening like fish scales in the sun, I remembered your murky depths, your vastness, your tangled terrain, like a separate world, or some undiscovered domain.

And I remembered— the fingers of fog sneaking through leafy foliage, hovering like damp breath; the sweet and smoky scent of cypress; the whisper of wind, shedding yellow dust; fishing lines swishing over your rusty-brown surface— until you slipped from sight, forever in my rearview, replaced with the blur of the pines.

How the Tides Change

Elan Camaret

His time was running low. The sky began to shed its blues in favor of bloody shades of orange and pastel violets–signaling to Rob that his mother would be mad if he didn’t head home soon. She’d given him until sundown to enjoy the surf before requiring him to return home. Tomorrow would be his first day at his new school, and Rob’s subpar performance at his last three high schools awakened a strictness he’d never seen from his mom before. Rob had been helping his mom unpack boxes all day, and still, he’d had to argue hard for the chance to get in the water for just a couple of hours before preparing for school the next day.

Rob sat there in the frigid water on his 6-foot-10 Bear Designs he’d brought with him from California, wind rustling his wet, salty hair and ripping through the tattered wetsuit he had gotten for his 13th birthday. The lineup was vacant compared to where he’d come from, but there was still a handful of surfers around. His calloused fingers and chewed-down nails throbbed with every gust of the bitter, offshore wind. But to Rob, every second of discomfort was worth it to surf these waves. He’d never seen nor surfed East Coast waves before, but the tales he’d heard of the fast, thumping swells at the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse held up handsomely. Rob paddled for a small left that peeled off the jetty. He popped up and rode it mildly, just trying to scrub the extra speed he wasn’t familiar with, and then paddled back out next to the jetty.

Rob, his mother, and his stepdad had arrived at their new rental house just yesterday, and the only thing Rob could think of was the surf. He’d called it: The nor’easter that was set to blow through town in a few days was sucking the wind offshore so that it made its way over the shrubby dunes, glassing up the surface of each perfect curl before exiting over the top and sweeping the salty spray off the backs to cloud his vision.

Again, Rob dropped into a fair left. He tried to tuck into the pocket when it hollowed out, but there was more power than he was used to—the waves came from deeper, wilder water— so he dug his rail and got sucked over the falls. He used the jetty again to paddle back out.

He was no stranger to this setting. Only he had always experienced it on the other side of the country—2800 miles away in Encinitas, California. His stepdad, Ron, was a traveling salesman, though Rob never knew why anyone would buy something from him. His gaze beamed from his beady black eyes perched awkwardly above his big nose and sharp chin, and his tall, thin frame could’ve scared away a thousand crows. But he could talk circles until his victim didn’t know up from down—maybe that’s why Rob’s mother had fallen for him. Rob was beginning to understand the water around him better. He tried this time for a slightly bigger peak but stayed ahead of the pocket roaring behind him. Instead, he played on the shoulder with a few easy backside carves up and down until it faded out. He received a friendly greeting from a local who was also using the jetty to make his way out.

Rob faltered before responding, which seemed to give away that he came from the West Coast. No one ever spoke to each other out there. Rob smiled to himself as he finished paddling back out but caught himself before he got carried away. Encinitas was the longest he’d ever been in one place and, after a year, he’d played the dangerous game of making friends. Of course, it was a game he lost. They moved too much, and Rob knew that making new friends would only lead to new pain when they left. So he kept his eyes strictly on the horizon and stayed further from the pack as he waited for the next one. Still, he couldn’t keep his ears from taking in the playful laughter echoing from the small group of surfers.

Rob let an entire set roll under him as the others took their picks and tore the waves apart. No one from California surfed the way they did. Every wave in the Pacific was the same as the last, meaning if you could ride one, you could ride a hundred more without any surprises. It was different on the East Coast.

Each wave carried its own unique personality all the way to the sand. These surfers knew how to embrace these differences: Their styles were aggressive and fast and nothing caught them off guard. Rob was instantly in awe of their mastery. He knew that every second of his free time here would be spent striving for such proficiency.

The sun was so low now that the dunes were backlit from the west and the waves had been cast into shadow, and, somehow, it got colder. This didn’t seem to phase the others as their banter continued while they returned to their place in the lineup. Rob knew he’d have hell to face when he got home, but that didn’t hinder his decision to disobey his mother and keep surfing. He knew that his mom’s anger would fade eventually— just like he knew they would move again, he would lose any friends he made, and the cycle would begin again. Everything always changed for him. Surfing seemed to be the only constant in Rob’s life. The undeniable truth that the waves would be there long after he was gone was his only comfort and the only thing Rob cared for as he paddled for another one.

today the moon

Megan Gardner

today the moon is just a low sliver the edge of a plate dipped in sunlight i think about the other side how bright and full it must be from a different perspective the light of the sun so far away yet we still see its effects even at night a finger tracing the sky i think about the old times how easy it must have been then to believe in a creator each day a new phase with no knowledge of why or how all in calendar motion, never pausing or changing how easy it must have been then to believe in the smallness of earth when all that you know is all that is there the sun rising and setting new every morning the moon’s dance changing face for show even now i still can’t help but imagine the night and day sky revolving us as if we truly were the center of the universe

Dear Lily,

Letter to a Childhood Friend

Megan Gardner

I broke your necklace the other day.

Transparent turquoise with white and green swirls

The feel of it like glossy ocean waves

On a frigid day at the rarely calm sea, Found shattered into three uneven pieces

Under a park bench in the dusty gravel.

You gave it to me after Italy. You’d only moved there a year ago, But with every homesick glance, hidden By a daylight smile, I knew the truth. It had already become your home. Fourth-grade friends ‘til the end Or until fifth grade.

You came bearing gifts,

As if you owed us for leaving, Hand-taken photos of clotheslines

Draped across mustard and pink buildings, Bicycles strolling down cobblestone streets, And of course, that seafoam and teal necklace, With “Made In Italy” etched in gold on the back.

I didn’t break it on purpose, of course. No, never on purpose… It was never my intention To leave it there, in pieces

Abandoned on the ground. In fact, it was quite the contrary.

I saved it for seven circuitous years Before I decided to even risk exposing That shiny coating that gave way to blue. A real mistake, I guess.

Seven years, I seldom had a thought To the fourth-grade friend that I lost To a child’s inability to stay in touch.

Dear Lily, I wore your necklace the other day, And somehow, that aquamarine teal Unattached itself from the glass Between each cloudy spiral. The crystal cracked, Leaving me standing here With blood on my hands, Staring down in terror At the fragments of colorful glass.

It took all of me not to fall apart with it.

Because I Said So

Abby Brodzeller

I read the time on the clock in my mom’s Nissan Murano at around 7 o’clock. It was a school night, and I had unfinished homework, but that was not unusual for me. I trusted I would be able to finish it just in time. Time seemed to have slowed to a near stop. After what seemed like hours of tapping my feet and rubbing my thumbs together, I finally arrived. I was nervous but excited. I walked up to the front door, and a familiar face turned the knob to invite me in.

Once inside, I was greeted by the sloppy kisses of a dog I was unfamiliar with. He didn’t know me either, but he didn’t seem to mind.

My friend led me into the living room to greet his parents. “Nice to meet you,” I exhaled, attempting to look as polite as possible. We carried on down the stairs to the basement. The area was beautifully finished and spacious. A large TV accompanied by an even larger leather couch took up just a small portion of the room. Behind the couch was a green felted pool table. It was recently used; the sticks were sprawled across the table with chalk remnants as evidence. Behind the table was a small bar. Bright ceiling lights encompassed the entire area, but the bar remained untouched from any light. The basement was a comforting space, or so I believed.

I took a seat upon the leather couch. The cushions were cold against my skin but warmed up eventually. They molded to my touch, slowly bouncing back to their original shape once left alone. Next to me sat the boy’s friend whom I had just met. We all talked for hours. The time seemed to have picked up speed. Around 9’ o’clock, it was time for the boy’s friend to go home. He mentioned homework he needed to get done and said his goodbyes before leaving me and the boy to ourselves.

“Wanna play darts?” The boy got up from the leather couch, leaving a perfect imprint of his body behind. It was faded by the time I decided to answer his question by getting up and joining him. As we took turns throwing, we tried to distract each other from our

throws in various ways. My go-to tactic was a little shove, harmless but effective. I never realized something so innocent could be laced with bad intentions so quickly. His next attempts to distract me quickly became less innocent as our turns went by. As I felt his unwanted hands on my body, I immediately went flush.

I tried to laugh it off. How could someone I thought I knew so well violate me with no concern for how it made me feel? How could I put myself into this situation? His parents were just upstairs. Did they know what was happening? I felt so stupid. So many thoughts ran through my mind, a new one forming before the previous was even complete. In an attempt to change the subject, I told him I did not want to throw darts anymore. We instead sat on the couch, molding ourselves into our previous spots. I felt another hand. The same hand I felt while throwing darts. The same hand that made my heart jump into my throat and become lodged, unable to move up or down. Swallowing became more and more difficult. My reflexes shot me out of my sitting position, and I walked over by the wall next to the pool table.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.” I refused to make eye contact. He came up next to me. I felt the same hands again, this time roaming farther than before. They were warm, but they were not comforting. “Stop.” I felt so little. The things I really wanted to say would not come out.

“Why?” he said so calmly, as if he couldn’t see how uncomfortable he was making me. As if what he was doing was okay.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because.” My answer was not good enough for him. He pried and pried in hopes I would give in. Time was slowing down again, even slower than my drive there. I could’ve sworn the clock stopped a few times.

Eventually, I got the text that my mom had arrived. I felt my frozen body slowly defrost. I quickly gathered my things and began my walk up the stairs. I turned around, taking one last glimpse of my surroundings. I looked back at the leather couch. Though the couch in that basement may be able to reshape itself after molding to my touch, I knew I would never be able to reshape myself from the feeling of his touch.

Miguel, the False Hero

Fiona Morris

The portrait of a handsome family of four greeted those who stepped foot into the church on the corner of St. Martin street. Javier Estrada stands inside with his hands tucked tightly underneath his armpits, wincing each time the door is pulled open to reveal the loving sunlight that is desperately trying to intrude. He watches with his judgmental eyes as couples tightly walk along the clean floor, clutching candles and flowers they bought twenty minutes before their arrival. Very few people acknowledged him, nodding with tight lips as they make their way to the main event. The others simply walk past Javier as if he were a ghost. Maybe they were too nervous to speak, or too embarrassed to admit they never cared about his family. Did they even notice he is one of the four grinning in that family portrait?

The air is thinning as the room overflows with mysterious faces and, personally, too much chatter for Javier’s taste. It’s only been a few nights since, but everyone in the town seems to have heard. It is easy to hone in on those conversations that begin, “Mother and son on the same night, can you believe it?”

His nose crinkles as he observes the crowd more, catching the brief, “I heard the son was speeding to get to his mom before she passed; it’s so tragic. But, you know, the weather has been so bad these past few nights. He just lost sight of the road.”

No, he didn’t, Javier yearns to interrupt, he was drunk. He finds himself avoiding the two caskets that are adorned by the altar as he purposefully moves to a cluster by the pews.

“I heard about the accident from the news. Javier is the only living member of the Estrada family. He’s over there.”

Perfectly in command, their heads slowly turn to face the older gentlemen whose suit is a bit more formal than how they’re dressed. Javier glares at them before they huddle back up to continue murmuring.

“Here—I pulled up an article. Vivianna Estrada passed comfortably in her sleep, says here she was 64. And her youngest son, oh, hold on, there’s an ad—yeah, her youngest son was Miguel Estrada. Apparently, he was on his way to comfort her in the hospital when he got into an accident that resulted in his immediate death.”

It is so unbearably stiff in the room. His fingers curl into a fist as he bites back the words he wishes to scream, We are not your tourist attraction. This is my family. And hearing people mourn for Miguel, his drunk, idiot of a brother, lights another pit of anger. He wants to shout again, He was never there for Mamá ! He did nothing but worry her!

Oh, how Javi did nothing but worry for her… His heavy feet glide towards her stilled body as if she had beckoned him. Javier can barely stand as he is against his mother’s painted corpse. How she looks as alive as she was four months ago before she was stationed at the hospital full time. It is almost frightening to see her without that tangle of tubes that hugged her every day. Javier feels ridiculous for his belated realization that she’d no longer needed them, or him.

He avoids that thought and focuses on the sounds of the room. Behind her busy casket stands a collection of three elderly women, rosaries clutched in their hands as they repeat another Hail Mary under the rowdy air vent. He can’t help but wonder if they’re saying it for his mother or for him.

Peering down at her glossed fingertips that encompass her own aged rosary, Javier suddenly notices how much attention her dead body received. He flinches. Where was this attention when she was alive? Where was it when there was still time to save her? He continues waiting for her chest to fall as he watches her now, hating how perfect she looks and resisting the urge to pull her gentle bangs out from behind her ears. No one in this room will ever look at her with as much love as Javier does now.

Smoldering next to his mother’s casket is that of Miguel Estrada, the boy everyone has come to see. He takes long steps over, almost hesitating before peering into the box that sheltered Miguel’s body better than the vehicle he crashed in.

Javier’s dark face hangs high above his younger brother’s, confused and mournful eyes scanning every detail as if to memorize him in this new way. For the first time in years, he looks sober. Miguel’s rebuilt face mocks Javier for his lack of empathy throughout his short life, and he can see Miguel’s lips move as he whispers, “If only you had been there for me when I needed you. If only you hadn’t yelled so much...”

“They’re here for you,” Javier starts with a straight face, a single fist resting against the wood, “You’ve got the image of a hero now.” His eyes sting as he leans in lower, “Because it’s so heroic to steal money from our family to feed your pathetic addiction. The money that could have gone to keep our Mamá alive a little longer. But you always needed your fix, didn’t you?”

His spiteful words slap against Miguel’s blushing lips. Javier prays that it stings him. “This should have been our mother’s day, yet your selfishness stole that from her, too. If you hadn’t died the other night, Miguel, I’m sure you’d show up to this wasted just like you did when Pa died.”

Javier waits for another slimy excuse but this time, Miguel’s mouth stays sewn shut. His tears swim against Miguel’s cold skin, falling upon the lips that could no longer breathe. Only then did he realize his brother was truly gone. He breaks, “I want to be mad at you, mi hermano, but there is no you to be mad at anymore.”

Summers in the Screen Room

Fiona Morris

Weren’t always sunny, but I preferred the fearful sky as it was an excuse to sit inside with you. I remember the stormy days most. You’d tell your best stories when the wind howled louder than your own thoughts. I’m surprised you heard them.

The rain continued to tap dance on the tin roof as you made ice cubes out of Coca Cola and I sipped on my orange soda while checking on your tomato vines. They never grew after you passed. And the summers in the screen room are as dull as your aged shed tools.

It’s fall in the screen room now and there’s an empty recliner next to me. I stare at it, patiently waiting for you to walk through that broken screen door to join me, Coke in hand. I know you won’t, but the rain lies and tells me you’re up there, working on the roof.

Elton’s Sycamore

McCaid Paul

My wheels tremble with every rut along the tired road. A Mellow Yellow rattles in the cup holder, dog tags swinging and clinking from the rearview mirror. It’s their first trip back home.

In the distance, barbed wire fences circle arid pastures, heat waves shimmering above sun-scorched earth. Tucked beneath spindly oak branches, Mr. Fountain’s farmhouse sags on its foundation, tin roof now a speckled rusty-brown. In my wake, a thick red cloud of dust drifts like a contrail from an airplane.

Today, there are no other cars, station wagons, or tractors hugging the one-lane road. Better yet, there is no one around for miles. Not Elton, Mr. Fountain, or Miss Judy, whose bodies now rest beneath faded white marble.

Ahead, a brindle hound feasts on a slab of red meat, its bones trembling with every bite as flecks of drool string from its snout. The dog reminds me of Sally, my old Blue Heeler, who’d listen to me read aloud from my tattered Old Yeller paperback every Saturday beneath the limbs of a towering sycamore in Elton’s front yard. Every day after elementary school,

I swung on a rope tire attached to that tree, until Mama’s voice beckoned me inside for supper. At thirteen, I drank bourbon for the first time under the safety of the sycamore’s canopy, until Dad found the empty bottles in the watering hole behind our house.

Now, as I pass Elton’s yard, choked with weeds, wild grass, and briar patches, I notice that sycamore is now only a stump. My tires crawl to a halt, Mellow Yellow quietening in its holder, dog tags growing still, as the truck lever shifts to park.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, imagining bark digging into my back, the breeze tousling my hair, the smell of pine and honeysuckle, and Sally panting at my feet. In the span of a thought, I’m twelve years old again.

If only I could tell that boy to stop, rest, and think things through. If only I could tell him that this will be as good as it gets; please don’t ruin it so soon. If only I could tell him that things don’t have to change, that he doesn’t have to leave to be content.

I want to tell him, yet I know he won’t believe me, until he’s driving down these roads in thirty years, a few more wrinkles added to his once boyish face, sprouts of gray in his hair, his beard, searching for the things that disappeared during those years he left them behind.

Fuhgeddaboudit

Wallace McCarty

Standing on the stern of the ferry, he gazed back at the skyline he’d seen countless times before, the glittering shore seeming to mirror itself endlessly in the reflection of glass skyscrapers. The lower deck was astonishingly vacant, as was actually the usual case per his account, aside from the few cars that were hitching a ride to the Staten Island suburbs.

“This. This is how we do it in the city, my guy,” he murmured in his deep, raspy—yet still quite easy, good for radio—Brooklyn accent. “You don’ wanna be up there with the other tourists and guys in suits, down here you get the view. You really get to see the city.”

Water splashed up on my face from the waves left in the ferry’s wake; it felt nice on that balmy day in June. Seeing the statue in the harbor with the breeze in our faces created this liberating sensation—even he had to admit it. He took off his Yankees cap to reveal a receding hairline and proceeded to wipe off his forehead and glasses with the waist of his collared shirt, exposing pale bones underneath.

“It’s a beautiful day; we really never get enough of these— the tourists have been behaving themselves.” He turned back to the group, “When we went down to Strawberry Fields, it was like we weren’t even in the city. Usually, it’s fifty guys with guitars doin’ John Lennon tributes and some dozen-odd outof-towners stompin’ all over the mosaic.”

The ferry reached the other end of the Upper Bay and we got off at the classy Staten Island terminal, which was another great spot to view the city through the glass atrium. As we went up the escalators, all the security guards smiled, and would occasionally yell, “Chicken Man!” which seemed to be a constant for most places we went.

We’d be walking down Wall Street and guys in suits would come up and give him fist bumps. “Jimmy!—Chicken Man!”

A group of touring school children in Chinatown. “Chicken Man! Chicken Man!” Heck, cops would tip their hats at him outside the 9/11 memorial out of all places. “Chicken Man!—

How’s Reggie?”

He’d look back at us with slight distaste and back to Reggie. “My guy, I think they’re onto us!”

If they didn’t recognize his face, many could point out the small plush chicken he always carried with him. They nicknamed it Reggie. Beaten, torn up by dogs, thrown off the Empire State Building and into a murky puddle during rush hour. It was fading from white to a soiled black in spots, and the crest on its head was held together by stitches. A New Yorker. He had kinda become an urban legend of sorts—Jimmy the Chicken Man.

“Alright guys, we made it to Staten Island,” we got to the top of the escalator and looked around, “and can anyone tell me the best thing we can do in Staten Island?” Jimmy proceeded to turn around and hop on the escalator going back down. “Leave.”

We got back on the same bright orange ferry heading Manhattan-bound.

Jimmy leaned against the railing, the chicken still grasped in his fist, and took a moment of silence to look at the small group of about ten or so. “Well, guys, it appears I’m out of things to talk about on the ride back. So…where are you all from?”

They went around in a circle. “New Jersey.” “Philly.”

“We just got off the plane from Manches’tuh.”

“I’m from California.”

He got to the end of the line and raised an eyebrow at me. “And you, my guy?”

“Florida,” I said sheepishly.

Jimmy nodded slowly with swagger, in sync with the sway of the boat. “As I mentioned earlier, I’m from Brooklyn, which is right over there.” He pointed towards the east side of the bay, past a large island that looked like an old castle or fort. He quietly stared at the island as it got closer and then turned

McCarty • 23

back around to look down at his phone. When he typed, he didn’t use two thumbs but instead swiped the keyboard with the slide of his finger, a feature I thought no one actually used. It was a peculiar detail, but for some reason it stood out to me. Impatient yet precise.

Someone spoke up in the back of the group; it was the gentleman from England. “Have you lived in the city your whole life?” he asked in his native Mancunian dialect.

He shrugged and smiled, “Pretty much. I’m one of those poor New Yorkers who can’t figure out where to go, but only knows they don’t want to die here.”

The gentleman’s wife followed up, “You don’t want to stay in New York?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the city, but I think everyone who’s been here more than half their life, y’know, real New Yorkers, feel the need to get out eventually. They either get out or get consumed.” He looked back at the island, now floating past on the starboard side—that was the right side, as Jimmy had taught us all earlier (‘P-O-R-T equals L-E-F-T. Remember that and starboard is what you have left, but not L-E-F-T, that’s port—just don’t make me say it again.’). After a final longing stare, he turned back to face us.

“My dad was a pro animal trapper, and one summer he took me out to the abandoned mental hospital on Governors Island to take care of feral cats.” He gestured towards the small group of buildings on the island, all with a distinct old fashion style of stone architecture. “Used to drive around in an old 1968 Cadillac ambulance, like the Ghostbusters one, doin’ ‘nuisance wildlife patrol.’ We’d roll through stoplights, throw on that old siren, woooo. Everywhere we go, people on the corner would be yellin’ ‘Ghostbusters!’

“Dad was a New Yorker by every sense of the word. You know what I mean. Born down in Brooklyn, raised in the ole’ city, ‘fuhgeddaboudit,’ all that. He remembers the nightmare years of New York you’d see in the movies. The one the old men act like they’re nostalgic for, but no one really misses.

“So anyway, he’d catch, for example, a squirrel in Brooklyn,

release it in Manhattan, because, y’know, squirrels can’t swim, that sorta deal. Possums in the attic. One time he had to get a fighting rooster out of someone’s backyard, the ones with the sharpened talons. Another time, apparently, he had taken a job where there was a chimpanzee in someone’s apartment. Fullgrown chimpanzee and he tried to tackle the thing, and it bit him on the hand—he had a chimpanzee scar—and it threw him into the wall. Then he decided to just tranquilize some bananas, so he ate some bananas and came in and just tied up the ape after that. There was also a mountain lion. Both the chimp and the mountain lion were abandoned, more than likely trophy pets of a drug lord or something like that.

“This city is crazy, and a job like that in a place like this can really make you go insane, and frankly, he did.

“So, here I am, living in the city my whole life, and I’m only in my thirties thinking, ‘I’ve seen it all!’—but my old man… fuhgeddaboudit.

“Gentrification has changed the city quite a bit. You guys might feel scared about visiting New York, I think. The things you see in movies and things like that. You get the idea. It’s a wild time in the city.

“When I was a kid, growing up in Park Slope, you got to go to Manhattan, the Big City New York, on the weekends, y’know? I thought it would be really cool to go to Manhattan for school—like in most places, you have to apply for college, but here you have to apply for high school and everything, too—so I would actually commute to go to school, cross-county, interborough, I would take the subway and then a bus and I would go to school on the Lower East Side.

“They’d have ‘no-captive ’ lunches, they called it, where they used to let you go around the neighborhood and buy food from the local bodegas and ‘le établisse-ments.’ So one day we’re going out, and we look under a car, and what do we see under a car? Low and behold: dead body.

“ Well, we thought it was a guy sleeping at first, and then our skills of New York intuition think about it and we’re like, ‘yeah, nobody sleeps under a car, even homeless people don’t

sleep under a car.’ It reminded me of, like, when an animal will crawl into a small hole to die.

“So we looked down, and I definitely did the Stand By Me. Don’t even remember where I got a stick in the city—we found something to poke him with, probably like a piece of metal because we don’t have many sticks—we poked it, and you know, nothin’. So we go down to one of these red boxes on the corner—one of them’s police and the other is fire—and we called the fire department and we’re like, ‘uh, there’s like a body under a car,’ and of course, we wanted to watch them get it out. Entertainment value, baby!

“So we go get some food. Get it, bring it back, post up, stoop up. Get up on the stoop, eating the slice, drinking the Coke, lookin’ down, watchin’ them, y’know, peel this body from under the car.

“It was not as entertaining as we thought it would be. They used a little jack to get the thing up. It was too fresh— that’s the story. We should’ve waited on it. Told nobody. In a couple of days, come back, see what’s what. Decomposes. Huh?

“So anyway we left. And that was the story.

“ Traumatic, right? Is this am I the only one who thinks this is not… normal? I don’t know, but that’s what it was like growing up in the New York, the Big City. We’re kinda… trapped in the city. I mean, I don’t even know how to drive, my guy. Fuhgeddaboudit.”

The gentleman from Manchester stared blankly into Jimmy’s eyes. The breeze blew into all of our faces, perturbed as the Manhattan terminal came into view; the gates opened and the boarding ramp was lowered. We were just another batch of tourists.

Jimmy held the chicken high as he marched the group off the boat. “This place we’re going for lunch on Fulton, you’re really gonna love it. It’s not a buffet, though; you should never call it that. If you say that to their face, gee, fuhgeddaboudit…”

To Chaos

Dallas Le

The lull of thunder rolled through as the announcer welcomed the Choctawhatchee band into the stadium. We didn’t know what would happen then. We only gripped our flags, sabres, and rifles close to our chests and kept our expressions stern as we walked into our sets.

Each flag was placed down carefully. I glared at my own flag, the red and black silk of the flag slightly dampened from an earlier rain shower. I furrowed my brows to it, playing it off to the spectators as if I’m just more focused and passionate about the show. But I mentally gave my flag a flimsy ultimatum. “You drop, you die.”

Any good guard girl knew not to point blame on the flag and not herself being out of practice. But it made my lips quirk into a smile at the thought of throttling an inanimate object after it humiliated me in front of a hundred people.

I heard one of the more notorious vets, Cheyanne, quietly whining about the wet sod on the ground. She was near the front. She and I were part of the thirteen members of the just-flag line. Anna, one of the cockier rookies, hissed at her to be quiet.

We were sitting in a circle around a black stage, eyes dancing between our more flexible peers on the circular platform. They’d dance between the drumline before leaping off the structure to mingle back with the flag line.

Our legs were spread wide, one hand resting on a knee while the other held by our ear, cupping our face. The sound of our drum major calling for attention and a recording of some elderly man preaching about the need for chaos and calmness began.

A droplet fell on my hand.

“Five…” Cheyanne began. Our coaches hated that we counted the rookies off. They’ve been in guard for about four

months now. But we had gotten the bad habit of coddling our rookies too much to offset how much two of our four coaches hated them.

“Six.” Chastity, one of my friends, murmured behind me as the drumline began to kick off. Her eyes were downcast.

“Five, six, seven, eight.” I finished, in sync with the flags as we suddenly began our own dance.

We pretended our heads were cracking under the stress, that our bodies were pulled taut with the clash of cymbals and the second roar of thunder. As we mocked birds, leaping over others’ flags, a couple of rookies began to panic, hesitating on their leaps as we still chanted our counts.

The trumpets and tubas circled us as the sky began to sprinkle gentle droplets of rain on the field. I didn’t register the sudden cold feeling on my neck, mistaking it for sweat. After all, we had just gotten to our flags, and the fun was about to begin.

The band sparked to life; pandemonium turned into a melody. My flag was no longer a lifeless pole but now an excited mustang as it sprung into the air. It swung to my hips with a desperate fervor. A smile cracked through my facade of stress.

The rookies were still counting out loud, eyes caked in eyeliner locked with mine. I wished that there was a way for me to console them with eyes alone, but I wouldn’t have time to before I’d turn my back to them, leaping into the next set.

I’d have to run through two tuba players. One of them had the bad habit of walking towards me. However, my glasses were starting to fog up with condensation just as a rogue trumpet blared between me and the tuba player. The trumpet and I made direct eye contact. Her sky-blue eyes whispered one word, “sorry,” as she crossed my lane to her next spot in the show.

I faked the toss. The trumpet was too close for me to get the full rotation. My eyes scanned the sea of band kids to find Anna landing her toss.

Together, we’d run to our next set, preparing for the ballad.

By now, the shivers running down my back weren’t from adrenaline, no. They were from the downpour of rain sticking to me and my flag. I wouldn’t have long before my flag lost its spark.

Every drop of rain painfully added another gram of weight to my flag. The drumline masked the rage of the storm but I knew that the rain wouldn’t be easing up as I volleyed my flag into the air.

It was then I finally cast my gaze to the audience. Something was askew. One of my fellow flags wasn’t performing like she was supposed to. Bleached blond hair, tied into a fake ponytail. Cheyanne.

She was going through the motions. Not because she had forgotten the choreography. Not because her heart wasn’t in it. But because her flag itself wasn’t even in her hands. My eyes glanced around. Why didn’t she have a flag in her hands?

Cheyanne was supposed to always have a flag in hand. She’s supposed to be the epitome of a flag member. What is this?

The rain is pouring now. I can’t see any of my tosses. Instead of a vibrant red silk and black taped pole, it’s merely a blob of the aforementioned colors, flying into the air and back down in my hands. If I could force the dying air in my lungs to speak, I would have been screaming my counts. Cheyanne didn’t have a pole, the rookies were more like frenzied farm animals in the midst of a wolf attack, and the rain wouldn’t stop.

I caught the last double of the phase, heaving as my body forced itself to not collapse too hard into it. My head was bowed, just as my coaches wanted, but my expression was shameful as I knew I was a count off. The pit started off, another recording of that same elderly man discussing the calmness now.

We got through the first part of the ballad without a hitch. It was when I crouched down to pick up my yard-long swing flag that I realized yet another thing, other than Cheyanne missing a flag, the rookies panicking, and the rainstorm, was wrong. See, the coach in charge of assigning our makeup was a

professional dancer. He taught at the Fred Astaire Dance School in Fort Walton Beach. But, on that day, he had made a severe lapse in judgment.

He had ordered every guard member to go to Walmart and buy eyeliner gel. Then instead of working on a wing that would win a drag show, he had us cake it onto our eyes. The Choctawhatchee Colorguard looked like the backup dancers for Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” music video.

And now? The makeup was trying to come off.

Makayla, the girl three yard lines away from me, was a mess. I could see her desperate attempts to clear her eyes, but it was a futile attempt. She wasn’t an uncredited extra in the back anymore. She looked like she belonged as the lead singer for KISS.

She wasn’t the only girl suffering from the rain’s harassment of the Walmart brand makeup. Nonetheless, she was the worst off.

The rest of the ballad was rough. Our swing flags were heavy enough to begin with, but with the added weight of being saturated with water, they wouldn’t move the way we wanted them to.

My flag stuck to my body at all the wrong angles. The end of the silk would be coiled around one leg, making hiding my flaws all the more troublesome as every movement was accentuated by the black to golden orange ombre flag on a green unitard.

As the ballad finally came to an end, I ran to my next place, moving to grab the oversized swing flag. I must’ve yanked too hard because instead of it dazzling the audience with my dainty movements, the flag shrieked as it began to tear at the pole.

The finale had finally come. Makayla went from being three yard lines to being right next to me, crouching by the stage, away from the view of the audience. I could hear Cheyanne’s panicked cries as she still reeled from abandoning her flag at the initial set.

We didn’t have any more time. This was it. Our final act. We had to finish strong. We were wet and could barely see, but we couldn’t falter now.

With a few words of condolences and comfort to my peers, I lifted my flag, preparing my most happy smile. The audience didn’t need to know we were living through our show’s theme, dedicated to chaos. No, instead, they would believe we were calm and collected at our cores.

My flag was soaking wet. A simple drop spin was pushing not only against the wind but the dripping water in the silk of it. Next was a double. It wasn’t a full rotation, barely getting enough for me to fake that I succeeded. But I continued with the bravado of a master and the boldness of a phony.

I heard the last crescendo of the band, letting the flag soar through the air, weighted silk and all. And I caught it and hoisted my flag in the air like a proud mother.

The crowd burst into applause. They were all safe, hurdled under bright umbrellas and clear ponchos while we stood in our poses, shivering but not daring to move a muscle. The rain shower finally came to an end as we cleaned up our flags, as if satisfied with the torture it spat upon us.

Photos of the Early Days

Isabelle Alegria

The photos pile up in boxes, Awkward and unwanted after the divorce. These memories belong to no one now, They drift helplessly in dark seawater, Haunted and silent like shipwreck debris.

They are photos of the beginning, My father and my mother before me, before my brother. They are young, happy, innocent and arrogant. They have nothing and share everything, Birthday cakes with glittering candles, Plastic table cloths, and crooked smiles.

It’s their first Christmas together, Her blonde bangs frame blue eyes, She’s wearing a black dress and tights, Red lipstick she doesn’t like anymore, And a pair of gold hoop earrings that now Live alone in a vanity drawer. His eyes are bright and dark, Glittering with ambition instead of greed. A wide smile of silver braces, tall, lean, eager to impress. There was laughter and dancing, Noses touching, spinning slowly, A perfect pair, the sun and the moon. A love that was legend for twenty-four tumultuous years, Friendship and unity, no bitterness, nothing broken, no betrayal.

They grew up, they grew apart, Chasing each other in circles with empty promises and threats, Everything came slowly collapsing down, She called in all his debts, a failed attempt to keep him, He fought his way out of our home, Teeth barred and claws bloody, A lion makes no apologies.

Lost love frozen in photos, Pictures that belong to the past. Before he stepped on her ribs like ladder rungs.

Reflections of a Front Deck

Ethan Howard

This earthly coil grows weary and brittle, Blows away like chaff in an angry gale; And yet, Every day greets us with a newborn sun. My wood may rot, bricks crumble, My plaster chip, and cement fade into dust; And yet My memories will never be washed away, Lovingly carved By the ever-roiling ebb and flow of time.

I’ve been here through a score of multicolored years, Each one creating its own mosaic of laughter and sorrows. Stains and cracks adorn me like fine jewelry, Tresses of ivy belie my years.

My doormat grows heavy from the dirt and dust Deposited by soles of homebound footwear. I welcome them in, from dawn till tangerine dusk.

I’m friend to human and animal alike; The lizards and geckos appoint me as their reptilian paradise, I provide a sun-baked vacation to the occasional frog. Spiders and insects call my crooks and crannies home, Snails grace my bowing vinyl siding, Leaving their slime-trail regards.

Still, I leave a place for you among my multitude of guests, You who take refuge behind my sturdy wooden doorframe, Painted white as the fluffy marshmallow skies. My wizened concrete foundation Remains vacant for you.

The Liberation of Jedediah Pickett

Ethan Howard

Wet grass crunched underneath Jedediah’s grimy leather boots. He trudged through the rain with brawny resolve, fighting against the suction of mud grasping at his soles. With a grunt, he adjusted the weight of the musty burlap potato sack slung over his shoulder. A towering 6’ 7” giant of a man, Jed dwarfed the squatty bulldog chasing his heels. She nipped playfully at his ankles.

“Not n-n-now, Rosie.”

CRASH!

A bolt of lighting cracked open the roiling sky, briefly illuminating the Pickett farmstead. Jed continued his solemn slog past the rickety back porch of the main farmhouse; the awning sagged under years of disrepair, forming a divot in the shingles that funneled rainwater into a miniature waterfall. He glanced up the moldy, rotting stairs to look at the wicker chair Momma always sat in while he played outside. Echoes of her screeching still played in his memory:

“Jedediah Pickett, you get the hell out of that mud before I come over there and beat you!”

“If you track that inside, there’ll be no supper for you tonight! I won’t be the one answering to your father, you hear me!?”

His 5-year-old brain paid her no heed. He liked feeling the gooey earth squish between his toes.

“Jedediah!”

He stared quizzically at the ground, focused on a blob of brown that stood out against its muddy surroundings. Plunging his tubby fist into the warm muck, he grasped his fingers around the squishy, warty object. He crouched to peer at it. Two black, beady eyes peered back. The creature croaked meekly, as Jed held it gingerly

and watched its gullet pulse with breath.

“F-f-f fr- froggie-”

Just then, an iron vise-grip clamped around his throat. Jedediah gave out a strangled cry, hands shooting up to his neck in an attempt to free himself from the oxygen-denying chokehold. The frog, dropped in the ensuing struggle, bounded away in a fright.

“Did you not hear me, boy?” Momma hissed through brandywashed teeth.

Jedediah replied by gulping down air in panic, in an attempt to cool the stinging in his throat.

Momma continued, “Get yourself inside. I hope you’re looking forward to Pa’s belt…”

Shoving the memories from his mind, Jedediah refocused his gaze upon his goal. Two red tail lights shone like an eerie glare through the hazy rainfall, marking the bed of his beloved pickup truck. They pierced through him, as if they were silently judging the black deeds that stained his being. He glared back at them in defiance.

It only took a few more strides of his lumbering gait to reach the truck bed. Wiping the condensation from his eyes, Jed rolled the sack off of his goliath shoulders, clenching the fabric tightly with both hands. Rosie jumped up in excitement, biting and tearing at the burlap. Jed nudged her gently with his boot.

“Git down girl! You can have s-some’n in a minute.”

Without hesitating, he swung the potato sack with the full weight of his body, sending it over his head and into the truck bed with a meaty squelch. It bounced limply off of the metal frame then settled in place next to an identical burlap bag.

Jed heard an expectant yip from the ground beneath his feet. Looking down, he saw Rosie’s rain-drenched face, her drooping jowls flapping to the rhythm of her panting. His gaze moved to the red-and-purple shoeprint branded into her white coat. It struck him with visions of that morning.

Jed had awoken to his father’s smoker-lung voice screaming at him from downstairs.

“I thought I told you to keep your bitch dog out of my kitchen!”

There were the muffled noises of a bulldog barking and snarling.

“Mangy mutt, let go a’ my steak!”

A flurry of sounds echoed from the floor below: leather striking flesh, the frightened whimpers of a wounded animal, claws clattering across wooden floorboards.

Jed’s muscles moved before he knew what he was doing. His footfalls descended down the Pickett house’s neglected staircase, echoing like a war drum off of the oak panels.

He reached the final step, pivoting off the banister to face the wretches he called his parents. They turned slowly to stare at him; Momma looking up from her pot of barely-edible grits, Pa still scraping blood from his shoe with a crusty, crumpled napkin. Reflected in their eyes was an emotion Jedediah had never seen them express before: blood-chilling terror.

“You shouldn’ta done that, Pa.”

The pitter-pattering of raindrops wrenched Jed back to the present. Rosie still gazed up at him, fur matted with blood and rainwater. He sighed, turning back to the truck bed.

“It’s a-alright girl.”

He shoved his hand deep into a potato sack, fishing around with his fingers until they brushed against smooth bone. Haphazardly yanking out the prize, he tossed it to the begging bulldog. Rosie snapped at the treat with delight. Her teeth clamped excitedly around the femur as it arced towards the earth, digging into the still-moist meat in a frenzy. Jed crouched down, supporting himself with his tree-trunk thighs, and carefully caressed her head as she devoured her meal.

“Don’ w-worry old girl. We w-won’ have to think about Momma and Pa ever again.”

I Love You, but I Have to Go

McCaid Paul

Amber light crawls through the blinds in Dad’s room, revealing the epitome of despair: a dusty alarm clock, a laundry basket overflowing with sweaty clothes, an unmade bed with ruffled white sheets skirting the stained linoleum floor.

On the nightstand, a woman smiles behind fingerprint-smudged glass, forever frozen. Her almond eyes, cherry-red lips, and hair the color of honey spur a memory in my mind— one which involves a Blue Moon crate balanced on my mother’s hip, as she gazes over at me like I’m nothing more than a piece of lint on a new shirt.

Look at me, son, she whispers. Instead, my eyes bore into her black stiletto shoes. I love you, but I have to go. Now, staring at her photo, I hear the click-clack of those heels mixing with Dad’s damn yous and a slamming screen door. All over again, I feel the pain of digging my nails into my fleshy palms,

and the tight knot in my throat, like a jagged thorn lodged there, stabbing me every time I dare cry, Don’t go. Please don’t go.

Staring at her photo, I remember the Friday nights bundled in her lap in the back of Dad’s Chevy Silverado; her face, swathed in golden streetlight as she sang about those lyin’ eyes and hands as cold as ice. I remember when the sky would rage and the room would tremble and she would hold me tighter, whispering, I’ve got you. I’m right here. I remember towering cakes and dripping candles and my mother’s voice: Another year older, but you’ll always be my little boy. I remember pitch-dark seconds after the nightlight would burn out, and I would call for her and she would come.

Staring at her photo, I see those lyin’ eyes she used to sing about, like a crack in her picture-perfect façade; smile a thin disguise, as if she contemplated leaving all along. Staring at her photo, I see a prophecy, set in place long before I ever considered that one day even I wouldn’t be enough to make her stay.

What My Mother’s Silence Taught Me

ReAnne Harrison

English is my mother’s third language

And the only one I speak. When she stutters in her speech, “Can you put on the…” Hand reaching at a blank TV. “Filipino news channel?”

The screen resumes its normal programming Of people gossiping in that familiar foreign tongue. I watch for their movements and tone, Listening for the words they don’t say.

My mother never boasted about her chores. Laundry always clean and spotless Freshly stacked on my mattress.

Never knowing how the stains disappeared, I learned to keep away from paints and dirt. Sometimes buying clothes

Just to avoid the growing pile.

My mother deftly vacuumed every Monday morning, While my sister and I were gone. The neat lines carved in the cream carpet Was her activities’ only evidence. We would always give thanks on our return, And should we miss that visual cue of tousled floor, I learned to say “thank you” even without clues. A faith sometimes misplaced

On task avoidant coworkers

And despondent boyfriends.

My mother always had food ready in the kitchen. A mouthwatering mixture of spiced meat and rice, Thoughtfully made to each of our tastes.

Each element was expertly made without explanation. So as soon as my hands failed to mimic her movements, She’d salvage my meal before it could crumble. Never having a chance to taste a flopped meal, I learned to simply stay out of that domain. That world of unknown delicacies Are better left to the skilled hands of a chef Over my own fumbling.

My mother made sure we were properly packed for family vacations To visit her family a day away by plane and jeepney. The water park we all went to was a cool getaway From tropical fields and torrid pastures. Hours went by as I enjoyed the vast pools, Until she handed me the large tshirt She had prepared in her beach bag. Realizing her gentle questions were not suggestions, I learned that modesty was in fashion. Even in a sea of family, It’s better to pick clothes and mannerisms That compliment their view.

Without the vocabulary, These were lessons my mother tried to teach And lessons my mother didn’t mean to. She still wishes she spoke her mother tongue To us while we were young. If I had learned those jokes that made my mother laugh While on Skype with her sisters, Or could understand exactly what my mother meant When she pointed to a faded family photo, Maybe these lessons wouldn’t have been so hard to hear. I can’t help but wonder if silence Wouldn’t be so loud.

Daddy’s Visitation Days

Fiona Morris

The polished court smiles at me, inviting my timid toes to skip along the fresh pine-scented wood. Though this court belongs to you, I recklessly intrude. It’s my home, too. If it’s clean, don’t dirty it. I repeat those rules as I climb the abandoned bleachers, entering a new atmosphere that smells more like a lost loved one than the Carmex yellow of the court.

As the bleachers fill with the game’s crowd, I mimic that sitting sculpture outside the public library: the stone-faced immaculate, warily eyeing the jersey that is desperately seeking me out. My fear gives me away, and the beast inside you can smell dread mixing with the estranged scent of a lost loved one. You associate me with both.

I was clean, but you never much liked the rules. Don’t dirty me, yet you drag me along the playing field, forcibly folding me into whatever you desired. Your hand weighs down my head, dribbling around the court where your sneakers squeak and I dance between your feet, careful to slip past you and your long, egotistical strides. You always caught me though, and you’d dribble me longer, exhausting me, anticipating the crowd’s cheer before taking a shot. You missed it.

My cheer is of a thrown-up, littered deposit of sandpaper. No itch is satisfied on my pimpled back as you claw at me, aggressively still wanting more from my tired shell. I ache the same innocent pain of the day when you lied your way

to steal my freedom, reporting to the judge that you’ve never missed a shot. As you hold me up, I see the teeth of the court beaming at me— how could they all smile? When the buzzer screams, your beloved audience leaves and I’m left searching for your approval. Daddy, did I give a good enough show?

If it’s clean, don’t dirty it. If it’s dirty, clean it up. If it’s broken, then fix it. If it’s Fiona, throw it out. You heard the rules, so deflate me, I beg! Release me to the floor and I will cling to it, kissing it graciously, thanking it for holding me. Throw me out, I plead! I dream of smelling like a lost loved one, so go on. Make it happen, you coward.

The Snow Queen Revisited

Kendra Belton

Once upon a time…no, wait. This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a true story, so it should begin in a believable way.

How about this: A little while ago, sometime at the beginning of this century, two children were making mud pies together. Their faces were speckled with dirt and their hair stood up on end. Impulsively, the little boy kissed his friend on the cheek. In return, she screeched, “Kay!” and slung her pie into his face.

Through a mouthful of mud, Kay sincerely declared, “Gertie, I’m going to marry you one day.”

The little girl just giggled in her adorably high-pitched way and got back to work, making another pie out of the earth. Years passed, and Kay watched Gertie grow from a chubby toddler with lopsided pigtails and a crooked grin to a petite young lady with a not-quite-curvy body (but in the best way), shiny black hair, and soft brown eyes. He listened as her voice matured from that of a screechy kid’s to one that stopped everyone in their tracks when she sang. He teased her for being half a foot shorter than him. He listened when she told him her secrets, and he willingly told her his. He relished their deep conversations and how they could disagree without hard feelings.

To be sure, Gertie did not ignore the way Kay grew taller and stronger and more charismatic. She didn’t mind his floppy blonde bangs or his superb performance in class, and she even liked his storm-grey eyes that occasionally flashed with passionate lightning. She figured he was an all-around good guy, and, of course, they were best friends. But why in the world were so many of their classmates convinced that the two of them were dating? She could not imagine. Yet sometimes, she let her mind wander in that direction…just the tiniest bit. The morning after they’d had an intense study session in

the local library, Gertie couldn’t believe that Kay hadn’t shown up for first-semester finals. There was snow on the ground, she reasoned. Perhaps he couldn’t back out of his driveway. Still, as the day went on, she became incredulous that Kay hadn’t come to school after their hard work. Gertie tried very hard to forget the argument they’d had before Kay had gone home – it was quite minor, really. She tried to forget how they had whisperscreamed at each other amid the piles of books, blaming one another for getting them stuck in the library when it started to blizzard (both of them knew that it was for another reason entirely: Kay didn’t like it when Gertie flirted with the guy at the desk, but neither of them would come out and say so since they were both so miffed). Finally, Kay had thrown his hands up in disgust and charged out into the storm. Gertie also tried quite hard to ignore the dark silhouette of a slender woman she’d seen in the snowy dusk. The image haunted the back of her mind as she texted Kay throughout the day and into the night, but to no avail. She didn’t know how to explain she’d only been trying to see if Kay would get jealous; they could talk about anything at all besides their own possibility of romance. He never responded. Eventually, Gertie even called Kay’s mother, but she was clueless as to where Kay was. During the conversation, Gertie swore that the older woman sounded choked up, as if she’d been sobbing.

A week passed. A month. Two months. Still, Kay did not reappear. Shortly after Kay’s absence, Gertie took up running. While she ran, she daydreamed of his return. What if she kissed him on the cheek when he came back? What if she kissed his lips?

Every morning she ran past a bakery where an ashen, crippled old lady sat: a beggar on the streets. Sometimes, when she had the money, Gertie offered to buy the lady a pastry. The beggar always accepted the offer and told Gertie stories while they ate. The eldery woman’s favorite story to tell was about a little boy named Kay and a little girl named Gerda who were playmates. One day, Kay went sledding and disappeared. Gerda went on an adventure and rescued him from the court

of the Snow Queen. When they grew up, they got married and lived happily ever after. The entire story was punctuated with knowing chuckles and unnecessary comments.

Gertie humored the lady, never wishing to impolitely interrupt, even though the story and apparent insanity was always the same. One day, Gertie asked who wrote the story. To this, the crone said, “Well, you ought to know, dontcha think?” With that, she hobbled away to find a new spot to ask passersby for food.

The thought of Kay’s disappearance was forever on Gertie’s mind. She missed his laugh, his hair flips, and the way his eyes never ceased to shock her. She forgot to eat, even when she bought food for her “friend” on the streets. She ran longer routes weekly. Her hair thinned and her clothes no longer fit around her body the same as they had before. Her fingers decided to entangle themselves with each other, her toes took up the habit of tapping, and her soft, green eyes hardened.

Gertie’s encounters with others grew shorter and more constrained; her daydreams grew longer and she wallowed more deeply in memories of Kay. One day in late spring, Gertie passed by the lady near the bakery on her run, but did not stop to talk with her. She couldn’t bear to plaster a smile on her face for one more second. As if reading her mind, the lady screeched out in her screechy, crazy, third-person syntax, “Of course you’ll run, you idiot! You’ll always run! But Mrs. Raven knows where Kay is! Yes, she does!”

Gertie skidded to a halt and turned around to face Mrs. Raven. She was cackling uproariously and beckoned to the girl with a crooked finger: “Come here, girl. Mrs. Raven will help you find your love. She knows all about him. Yes, she does. She does!”

When Gertie was close enough to the woman to smell her foul breath (she did not correct her when she called Kay Gertie’s “love”), Mrs. Raven snatched Gertie’s phone from her hand and ran with it, faster than any old woman, crippled or not, should. Gertie chased after Mrs. Raven in hot pursuit, but the lady raced at a steady pace out of the town and into the meadows.

Abruptly, she came to a pause. Gertie had been so busy running that she had not noticed the changes that overtook the lady: instead of bent-over, she was tall. Instead of crippled, she was strong. Instead of ashen and weary, she looked tanned and rejuvenated. Her sparse white hair was now thick and dark, and her wrinkles had faded into her skin.

Gertie, gasping for breath, stared at Mrs. Raven in amazement.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, girl?” the transformed woman demanded.

“You…you…but—” Gertie spluttered.

“Meet the Robber Girl,” Mrs. Raven—the Robber Girl— gestured to herself, before handing the phone back to Gertie.

“The…the Robber Girl? Like in the story?” Gertie questioned.

“Of course. I had to play it a bit crazy to get to know you, but I know how to help you, ya know.”

“I… I know.” Gertie decided to believe the homeless, crazy lady-turned-Robber-Girl.

“Alright. Sorry, I don’t got a reindeer for you, but my husband’s got a horse.”

As if on cue, a majestic chestnut mare came charging out of the setting sun, like in a movie. A tall man sat atop it, dressed from another time, like Robin Hood. He pulled the mare to a stop and looked down at the Robber Girl.

“This the kid who’s got a fella in the Wasteland?”

A “fella”? Gertie thought, confused, yet secretly pleased that someone had possibly confirmed her feelings for Kay. Despite her evergrowing daydreams, she’d been unable to fully admit that perhaps she thought of Kay as more than a friend.

“Yup,” the Robber Girl replied, shoving Gertie towards the horse. “Love ya. Don’t die.”

With that, the man swept Gertie up onto his horse and galloped away. They rode for hours and hours, but Gertie never got bored, for “Robin Hood” entertained her with stories of him, his wife, and their raven.

The sun set, the moon rose, and the stars twinkled in

Belton • 47

the wide expanse of the sky. A bitter wind began to blow, and the traveling party approached an icy wasteland. A dilapidated castle that must have once been grand stood in the distance. A frozen expanse of lake separated the living beings from the palace and in the middle of the lake, a hunched figure sat upon a flattened spire of ice.

“This is where I leave ya,” the man briefly grunted. “You know what to do—just like in the stories Robber Girl told ya. I’ll know when you save ‘im. I’ll be back. Don’t freeze, okay?”

As Gertie nodded, he and his horse disappeared in a gust of snow.

“‘Don’t freeze,’ huh?” Gertie murmured as she started to make her way across the lake. “Easier said than done.”

The wind ripped through her thin running attire and bit her fingers and cheeks. Her meatless bones quaked in the frigid environment, and her stringy hair blew into her face.

After what seemed like hours, Gertie finally made it to the spire and recognized that the figure on top was Kay. She saw spikes jutting out the entire length of the structure, so she took a deep breath and started to climb. Gertie hoisted herself up on each spike, consciously denying her numbing fingers and appendages bleeding from the jagged points of ice. After what felt like many more hours, Gertie reached the flattened surface and stumbled towards Kay, exhausted.

She fell short when she saw his face: lips purple, ice hanging from his scraggly hair, and his eyes. And… holy crap, his eyes! They were frozen wide, glowing an icy blue instead of the stormy grey color that Gertie had begun to romanticize in her dreams. He did not move.

All of a sudden, Gertie rushed towards Kay, sobbing and reaching out to hug him. She held him to her bony figure, with tears freezing the moment they left her eyes. She whispered, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” over and over again. She didn’t care how cliché it sounded; it was true, and she knew it.

In her arms, Kay stirred. He saw her for the first time in months and took in her tears and skinniness and sadness and joy, and his eyes thawed out to their beautiful grey as he hugged

her back. Despite her being a deathly ghost of her former self, he’d never thought she could be so beautiful. He was so happy to see her again after the terror he’d been through.

Slowly, very slowly, Kay got up, walked to her, and promptly passed out. Gertie sighed, shook her head, and dragged him down the spire and across the lake to the shore with newfound strength. “Robin Hood” met them there, and rode with them all the way to the city limits.

When Kay came to his senses, he was lying in a warm bath in what he recognized as Gertie’s bathroom.

“So,” she said. “When are we getting married?”

“Huh?”

“Hm,” she grinned. “Have you ever heard the story of the Snow Queen?”

sage

Megan Gardner

sage green

it’s the steam coming off of a warm mug of chamomile tea the lingering smell of incense burned long ago old hardwood floors against bare feet condensation in the evening grass foggy seaglass, just a little warm from being held too long or just long enough the almost-crunch of wet leaves on the forest floor before daylight it’s a hidden smile, a resolving piano chord a purring kitten, a mother’s song a fresh sprig of rosemary, hung out to dry a weighted blanket pretending to be a hug worn out converse, worn out for another day, it’s sugar cookies in the oven raindrops on a windowpane muffled laughter the downstairs neighbor’s piano softened by the floor/ceiling in between both of us classical vibrations through carpet and cement as I lay there, close to its heartbeat

Warm Spring October

Carly Veach

As the seasons change their tune

I revel in their gifts

The cacophony of new sights

The sound of nature shifts

The sun is wont to rise in the morning

The air is wrought with light

I ought to be enjoying its company

But I prefer the night

With the seasons comes change

And moving time heals my pain

September showers bring autumn flowers

But I prefer the rain

The weather dips to two extremes

The heat won’t go away

With the sun, the leaves gain color

But I prefer the gray

And as the season changes tune

I revel in the past

I can’t keep up with the time

The world moves too fast

I can’t keep up with you

Your world moves too fast

Instrument

Kendra Belton

I love it, I hate it— with its foreign words and magical endings, its hours of practice and breathtaking applause. Its rubbed-raw skin beneath my chin and dexterous fingers delicately balanced on smooth wood. I hate that I’m never enough when I feel like I should be, but am perfectly lovely when I feel the exact reverse. I love the black dress—perfect, uniform, moving in unison with my fellows. Except when we’re not, and we’re in a back room— yelling, scrambling, hurting, preparing for the brilliant yellow light and a thousand pairs of eyes, and, more importantly, a thousand pairs of ears, waiting to behold us. There’s clapping, of course, regardless of any presented prestige; always congratulations, especially when it’s just me, up on stage, alone in black. They tell me I’m the best, but I know better. (Truth be told, I long to be the worst, or barely just mediocre, so that no one expects anything of me.) Why, then, do I devote myself, a groveling slave to this piece of wood, synthetic string, and horsehair? The long, long sessions of grueling thought, the frustrating repetitions of patterns and endless clicking? I hate it, I say! I want nothing to do with it! And yet, I love its beauty, profound. It expresses what I cannot write.

(I cannot speak, regardless.) It brings smiles to many, tears to some. I love it, I love it. I hate it, I hate it. I love it, I hate it... I love it.

dead fish

Finn Harris

oh no!

the goldfish floats, dead in its cramped plastic bag. its soft belly faces the veiled sky, presenting its most vulnerable parts in submission towards God.  it didn’t reach home, pitiful thing. maybe the bumping of the ride did it in,  bike wheels harshly jumping on crooked sidewalk and cancer-coated gravel. the bagged fish thumped against the frame of the bike as you clutched it  and the handle together in one nail-bitten hand. or maybe the wicked fumes  of the city, composed of car exhaust and cigarette smoke, were what killed it.  who knows what kind of poison could have crept into the bag, malicious tendrils  of carbon monoxide worming invisibly through the seal? or maybe it was the sun,  furiously heating the small bag of water with the wrath of a pinprick star  that doesn’t have much else to do. always vain and self-conscious,  the sun tries anything to feel important. or perhaps its death was of illness from before you even left the pet shop, completely unrelated to the inconveniences  of being a fish in a plastic bag in a vicious city. maybe the whole affair was doomed from before you left your apartment. whatever the case, you are holding a scrap of plastic  with a wet fish corpse wrapped inside. how strange it is that things ended up this way.  you dig a hole in the earth, drop your dead inside, and cover it up again.  you rest on the ground, belly up, and submit to God for a little while.

Melissa

Sarah

Halal Allen

Photograph Vivacious One 2011 Cover

Louann Brechler

Photograph Athena’s Ear 2013 Cover

Candace Harbin

Aliya Walton

Heather Phillips

Photograph Floating Bubbles 2019 Cover

Sarah Augustin

Pencil

2020 Cover

Hannah Schloemp

Acrylic Dark Café

Finn Harris

he swoons as he downs his fifth cup of black coffee before bed,  in love with the acidic numbness that comes with subpar brain function.  losing sleep makes him lose himself, floundering in hazy confusion like a vulnerable child tangled in moss, lost in the Black Forest of fairy tales. he has grown tired of working so relentlessly to stay sane in his waking hours, a weary soldier who honors his station though he was drafted against his will. he gives up. he is obeying God and forsaking men, letting the madness in  with a resigned smile. He is relieved to put down his guns and finally stop fighting  in this stalemate feud. he is weakening his mental facilities, jacking his neurons open with his own two hands. he wants to welcome the destined derangement with a balmy picnic lunch and gingham napkins folded to look like little swans. he knows it would get him eventually, each second a slow crawling conveyer belt  to deliver him beaten & gift wrapped & glittering to his patient assailant.  but lack of sleep speeds it up for him. it helps rip off the band-aid with a loving snap, jacking the conveyer belt to fly like a swordfish and finish the whole damned ordeal. he is sick of waiting on the porch like a pitiful dog for its master; wondering when  his captor will arrive twists his guts like lemon juice stirred with Dr. Pepper. so he hasn’t slept much the past few days. he has lain pacified and pulverized, relieved at being crushed in God’s tender blender, twitching & sobbing & writing  poems like this. he’s done fighting. let them come. expedite the inevitable. maybe then he’ll move forward with his life, for better or for worse,  instead of being trapped in uncertain static limbo, a fish under winter ice.

Third Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2022

A Father’s Love

Ron Nation

It had been snowing for three days, and Jake Rawlings’s wife and daughter had been missing for two of them. It was 7:33 pm when Jake pulled into his driveway, his mind weary at the thought of opening the car door. Towards the end of the street, he saw a snowplow being driven by an old man. The walkway was filled with textured square stones and lined with wood-framed flowerbeds. The stones had been imported from some fancy shop in Europe at the request of his wife, and the flowerbeds had laid empty for months.

Before grabbing the doorknob, a tempting thought seeped into his mind. He’d get back in the truck, hit I-90, and head straight for Seattle. He’d drop the truck in some sketchy part of the city and locate an alleyway to find a score. He stared at the three unopened pill bottles he had collected from the pharmacy, then opened the door. “Honey, I’m home,” he announced.

That same greeting he had been using for the last ten years fell flat and tired. He noticed a note on the fridge reading: Hey, went out... pay the sitter -Angela. He had seen this before; it had become a habit of hers to just take off at random times and days. “Helayna?” Jake hollered out.

Silence crept through the house, and shortly after searching it, he knew she was gone.

The police had told him that the first twenty-four hours were the most crucial. Anything beyond that decreased the likelihood of them being found alive. Helayna was only nine years old, and there was no excuse for her mother to have been out doing God knows what in this weather. Why didn’t she keep a better eye on her?... And what the hell was that old man with the snowplow doing on our street? His brain growled.

He remembered that the road had been salted the day prior, and the snow hadn’t even built up yet. The cops had told him they’d question Mr. Williams, the usual man on the job,

when the weather calmed. His temper and anxiety had been building during the conversation, and he reminded himself of what could happen. Doc said you don’t need to let things boil over. We don’t want to lose ourselves again. Focus on your breathing exercises, his mind pleaded. Fuck that... if the police refuse to get answers out of him, I will.

The night’s frigid breeze cut through the darkness, crashing down the snow-capped hills, echoing throughout the empty valley. It seemed like the wind had a voice of its own. And with every step, its sharp vowels stabbed through Jake’s saturated boots, begging him to turn back. He had learned quickly during his time as an Army Ranger that the mind could block out almost any pain. He hadn’t made a hike like this in quite some time and wondered if he still could. “We can’t think like that now, Jake; your daughter needs you.” He was talking out loud now.

He had been walking for most of the day, and the weather wasn’t taking it easy on him. Jake shook his head, wiping the snow from his eyes, just to see it was now almost kneedeep. The flickering of his flashlight prompted him to stop and change batteries. Where in the hell are the batteries? He paused briefly and could still see his wife going through his backpack in the kitchen a few days prior. In typical form, she was holding an almost empty bottle of wine rummaging through his pack, looking for money most likely.

Four years ago, Angela had a miscarriage on the later side of mid-term and never seemed to recover from it. He recalled how she used to be: motivated, disciplined, fit, and those flowing gold locks she chopped off, dyeing them brown. The thought of how she let herself go gave him an unsettling feeling of contempt. All she’s done is give up. His head was spinning with anger and his hands shaking.

I should’ve been there, I should’ve spent more time, I should’ve… Tears caressed his cheek. All at once, his world turned upside down, going back in time. The haunting loss of his best friend in Afghanistan and flashes of people he had killed. Jake fell to his knees. Face after face, the memories of

burning flesh and bone filled his lungs, and then his daughter.  He awoke at the edge of a wood line, confused and disoriented. The snow cleared along a small path twisting into the darkness as the trees leaned over top and handfuls of cobblestones came up for breath. Jake spotted a rusted-out mailbox hanging onto a rotting post. Inside the driveway, he spotted a snowplow. He was sure it was the same one from his street, but it was different somehow. The hair on his neck stiffened. He could see its tires had flattened, succumbed to vegetation, rust claimed its panels. The early morning fog crept over the front yard, hiding a small rundown house. Its doorknob absent and the door tapping with the wind. Clenching his knife, heart galloping, Jake crept into the shadows of the front room.  Jake could feel the house’s bones, familiar yet unknown, the floor beneath him sticky and wet. “No one has lived here in years,” his mind panicked. Jake’s shaky hand raised his flashlight, a click summoning its weakened beam. He turned the room in desperation, his eye catching some writing on the far wall around a small mirror. He needed to be closer. His feet kept crawling forward against his will. The writing becomes clearer: A father’s love…A father’s love…A father’s love. Sweat trickling down his back, Jake approached the mirror. His mind screams, trapped in a body anchored at port as he stares into the hollow eyes of that old man.

When I Had a Home

Ron Nation

You sat on that beige-plaid couch, its cushions worn by naps and horseplay, With that glowing smile lighting up my heart, letting me know I was home. I still remember the copper curls softly, yet neatly, spiraling from your head, The sound of a spoon scraping the bowl as you mixed peanut butter and jelly. I would eat in the faded blue recliner watching House and Grey’s Anatomy, While the house filled with the calming scent of fresh laundry and apple spice.

Your back rubs sang me to sleep, floating me away like the gentle current of a stream. Your laughter was a contagion of joy infecting everyone and everything around us, I can still hear those words that always seemed to follow, “oh no, I’ve got to pee…” Like trees to the soft feathered sparrows in your front yard, you were my home.

Then you laid on that couch, tethered by tubing, prolonging the inevitable, Your wilting body grew pale, as the rot claimed your weary bones. The tamed copper curls turned wild, crumbling into a tottering grey labyrinth. Fear radiated from your sunken sallow eyes, as layers of your life stripped away. Numb. Yet I remained, watching your winces and the clutching of your stomach.

Now I’m sitting on my own couch patiently listening to my busy laundry room, And with every hollow thud and thump it strikes the walls of my lonely heart I smile sometimes, but it is hard without your loveable snickering I laugh occasionally but it stings without your gentle comfort. I sit waiting through a night that never ends; I know you’re gone. And I know that without you I’ll never be home again.

Memaw’s Car

Megan Gardner

It was on those chilly afternoons in the dust-filled car rider line that I would see my Memaw’s car. Come to pick me up from another day at school. It always stood out against the other parents’. A brand new car. With an ocean teal paint job and fresh leather inside. The old white Ford was done.

No matter how many passing school years went by, it always sustained that new-car smell mixed with her familiar old-lady perfume. Both my grandparents always came to get me, Granddad manning the wheel, Memaw backseat driving from the passenger seat. The true captain of the vessel.

I always wanted to sit in that small space, squished up in the front between them, seeing the world through the glory of the wide and unbelievably clear windshield.

I grew up in that time, in that brightly colored car, and I watched them grow older than I could imagine. Wrinkling faces and paper-thin skin stretched over her hands, my Memaw’s hands.

My Memaw, who could yell a cat out of her backyard tree and make the best strawberry cake in the county. Who picked out the ocean teal car in a lot full of grays and painted her garage door to match.

I always was the first to see that teal blue car pulling into our driveway, like a chariot coming home from a battle. That’s how I knew my Memaw and Granddad had come.

The car is mine now.

Memaw isn’t here to ride passenger and Granddad, well, he’s got no use for it anymore. It no longer has that new-car smell. Its a mixture of my lavender vanilla air freshener covering the laundry scented tree from last week, and the ever lingering stench of fast food and gasoline, coming from somewhere. Sometimes it’s suffocating.

Memaw’s angel figurine is no longer clipped to the visor saying “Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly,” but there are new small friends on the dash. A possum and a lizard smile at me, and a corn-shaped ornament named “Maizie” hangs delicately from the rearview mirror.

The windshield is dotted with dried raindrops and mysterious smudges. The floorboards collect dirt. I drive and live in this memory that is mine. But I can’t help but wonder if I’m worthy of inheriting something that carried so much love, so many people.

My Memaw’s ocean teal car is mine now, though even after a year it still feels like borrowing. Like she’ll come back and need to take it home one day. No matter how much I change the decorations or leave my things in the backseat, my trash too.

Sometimes, only sometimes, I see that car in my driveway and think, just for a moment, that my Memaw and Granddad have come to visit again.

Not-Miami

Dallas Le

Lee woke up with a jolt, gulping down air like it was in limited supply, and looking above showed a bright light that stung. He flung himself up, hands flying to his stomach where a large stab wound had already scarred over. There were gaping holes in his memory: He couldn’t remember his mother’s name or what he was doing the day before he was dying in his dorm living room. He realized that he wasn’t at home anymore as his peripheral vision beheld vibrant green grass and a calm breeze tickled his neck.

However, his heart thrust itself into his throat as his eyes locked on the singular wound that he swore killed him. Closing his eyes, he could still see, with spotty vision, the unidentifiable person who stabbed him. The one memory Lee clutched at was that they slowly blinked at him while he choked and sputtered. Once Lee’s legs gave out, the attacker shrieked, dropping the knife and making a run for the closest phone.

He opened his eyes, forcing out a breath as his fingers brushed against the pale scar tissue. The wounds were recent, weren’t they? His memories of being murdered were still too fresh. He covered his mouth, nausea forcing his organs to twist and knot with anxiety and dread.

Lee nearly screamed when his pocket buzzed, stopping his train of thoughts. Funny, he very strongly recalled that his Adidas running shorts did not have pockets big enough for a phone to sit in them. Suddenly, the scar on his stomach didn’t matter as he slid a cautious hand into his pocket, pulling out a knock-off iPhone.

That was wrong. Lee’s phone definitely sat on the couch cushion. He remembered cheering with someone as he managed to “score a point” by throwing his phone across the room to the couch. He also knew his phone wasn’t some janky knock-off iPhone since he spitefully preferred a Samsung Galaxy with its

3.5 mm audio jack.

Lee almost got caught up in trying to remember why he was so spiteful about a Samsung before a text lit up the screen. The lock screen wasn’t his selfie with his girlfriend. Instead, it was a generic blue-shaded pyramid on a black background.

“Congratulations, Liam ‘Lee’ Gresher, you’ve died and joined the population of five thousand undead at Not-Miami!” The text read as its preview. The sender’s name was surprisingly already set as “Pantheon.”

Lee reread the opening line a few times, hesitating to properly open the text. He pondered what made dying something worth congratulating. With a sudden inhalation of air, he psyched himself up to open the message. The phone instantly unlocked, recognizing him without requiring him to insert a password, “Don’t panic! I know you want to but I’m here to help! I’m Pantheon, the one and only support person for everyone in Not-Miami! You’ve probably got a lot of questions but everything will be covered in the introductory video when you unlock your phone. Fun fact! I’m the speaker for it! And you get to see all my amazing Powerpoint transitions!” The message was followed by various heart emoticons and smiley faces.

He winced, debating if he really was dead or if he’d become a sleeper agent who stole random people’s phones with bad wallpaper designs. He idly let his train of thoughts go to imagine himself: a muscular undergrad student, pickpocketing strangers solely because their phone wallpapers were that bad. However, the thin scar on his chest was evidence that he wasn’t alive anymore.

Lee finally took a precursory glance around. He was lying back on an old wooden bench that had a handle duct-taped back together in a haphazard manner. It looked like it had recently been repainted blue, but the thin layers of paint couldn’t hide the graffiti tag underneath. In the distance was a billboard advertising a nightclub that doubled as a tavern. “Sepia,” it read in a bold font that seemed almost too professional.

Across the street, there were buildings with large murals painted on the walls. The closest one was of a long-haired person

with blond hair. They had multiple hands framing their face with blue accents to their tan features. Lee tilted his head at the sight of the person’s very long ears. They were clearly made to mimic elven ears. The background was some very detailed but trippy mandala of various shades of blue, matching the same hue as his new lock screen.

Rows of palm trees were variously placed along the road. People roamed the streets. Some wore puffy dresses with sleeves larger than Lee’s head while others strutted around in glitzy disco attire. There was the occasional passerby who wore what Lee could associate with a more modern outfit, but he could almost convince himself that he had fallen asleep and woken up outside of his dorm on Halloween before the frat parties would kick up. However, before he could slip into that ignorant fantasy, he gaped at the glowing pyramid that stood above the city like an alien mothership.

There even was some sort of blue-tinged tractor beam coming down from it. Lee decided Not-Miami was worthy of its name. There was nothing that immediately stuck out to the Miami resident as home. It was as if whoever made the city had glanced at a Google map of its namesake and maybe went to the tourist destinations once before creating the place after forgetting half the details of Miami. (He wasn’t even going to process the giant blue pyramid in the sky.)

Lee stood up, wondering how he was supposed to react to being dead less than an hour ago. He glanced down at his phone, inhaling through gritted teeth before sitting back down, and then opened up the introductory video, titled “Welcome to NotMiami!!!! <3333”

The screen lightened to reveal a “Welcome to Not Miami” in a pink coloring hastily drawn onto a yellow to orange to black gradient. A blond-haired person matching the same appearance as the wall mural appeared as a headshot at the bottom right of the screen. They looked like they were using a 3D model and rigging instead of physically recording themself. Their eyes were closed as a text box slid into the screen.

“Greetings, Recently Deceased!” They opened their eyes

with a flourish of their hand as the dialogue finished. “I’m Pantheon, your support for everything Not-Miami and First Level, for starters!” They tilted their head as they smiled, one ear twitched as the hand lowered. They went back to their neutral expression. “You probably have a lotta questions.” Their lips pulled into a frown before they tilted their head with a smile. “I’ll try my best to answer them!”

The screen changed to a child’s drawing. Lee squinted, trying to decipher what the image could represent. He could see a shakily drawn pyramid that would baffle any geometry student. It was above five brown and black rectangles with tiny squares. There was a yellow circle with a blue crescent inside it. He could identify that it was a sun and moon, but he definitely wanted to know why the sun-moon had aviators.

“Sorry, I’m not a good artist.” Pantheon blushed as their eyes trailed downwards. It then clicked. This was a drawing of Not-Miami.

A circle slid into frame before settling on the giant pyramid. “That’s where I live!” Pantheon went back to grinning and tilting their head as more dialogue appeared on the screen. Lee snorted as he fought against cringing when sunglasses slid across the screen and onto Pantheon’s face. “Yup, the First Level!”

“Not-Miami has five thousand people, but I didn’t feel like pasting five thousand stick figures so...” Pantheon’s sunglasses disappeared as they glanced away from the camera. Four stick figures appeared on the screen. “Take four?”

They looked like they awkwardly laughed just then. There was something uncanny about Pantheon, but Lee couldn’t place it. They seemed too pretty yet too stiff to be genuine. He skipped through the text. It was some sort of inclusivity statement about fitting in. He’d already heard that spiel enough throughout his childhood.

He paused for a second, glancing at the new image pulled up. Lee initially mistook it for one of those images that meal plan companies would print onto plates until he read the title: “Not-Miami.” The original Miami was definitely not as clean-cut as the map dictated, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to be split

between “Daylife Quarter, Nightlife Quarter, Entertainment District, Midtown, and Residential Area.”

Lee continued to fast forward through the video.

“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why you can’t remember anything.” Lee skipped another five seconds ahead before pausing. He was curious as to why he couldn’t recall his murderer’s face or what his girlfriend’s name actually was. He reversed the video.

“To prevent stress and anxiety from trauma in your living life, we’ve removed them!” Lee gulped, rereading that line again. How could Pantheon look so cheery about purposely obstructing someone’s memories to avoid bad consequences? Wasn’t not doing that the point of every dystopian novel? “You’ll get them back! Don’t worry! We just want to give everyone the same starting place without thinking they’re forced into the same role they had in life!”

Lee felt an argument rise in his chest that smothered itself at the realization that he was watching a video.

“Now, Not-Miami is an incredible place thanks to our great goddess, the Ebony!” The image transitioned to a stick figure who looked very much like Pantheon. “I’m made in her image, but she’s just really pretty, and I can’t draw.” The Ebony’s stick figure didn’t have a face. Lee knew there were other attributes that made someone pretty, but he felt like maybe a set of eyes would help convince him that she was pretty. He almost felt like Pantheon was doing this just to flatter themself and the Ebony at the same time.

Of course, he would definitely argue that Pantheon was worthy of flattering themself. They’re definitely easy on the eyes if he suppressed the uncanny valley feeling he got when he stared at them for too long.

“She lives in the First Level with me and my friends!” Pantheon did their head tilt and smile again. “Speaking of that! You won’t see me unless it’s in a recording like this!” They then puffed their cheeks out, blushing and glancing off-screen again. “Wish I always looked this good.”

“Anyway!” They went back to a neutral expression. “The First Level offers the ability to age, procreate, and, well, unlock

humanity’s true potential! Ever wanted to cast spells? Turn yourself into a catgirl? Become a dinosaur for an hour? Well, now you can!” They grinned. Lee clicked his tongue, enticed by the offer to pretend he was Merlin and throw fireballs around. “For the price of five thousand gold!”

There went his dreams of yelling Latin and waving rapidly at strangers.

“We used to have a problem with Not-Babylon trying to overthrow the Ebony, so we’ve unfortunately paywalled it. Rest assured, you can easily earn good money with many job opportunities! Not-Miami sports the lowest unemployment rates with 0% unemployment!” Lee hummed to that statistic. It sounded fake but if he was to believe that he was supposed to be in a happy afterlife, he’d accept it. Miami-Dade county held an unemployment rate of 8.5% at the time of his death, so he’d just add this fact to another attribute of Not-Miami not matching up with his hometown.

He continued to skip through the rest of the video. Pantheon was answering random questions that he knew he didn’t ask. Lee learned that his scar on his stomach was a death mark and would never fade. Pets could be found throughout the city, but he’d never see his family dog again since apparently, Not-Cairo had a cat problem ages ago (somehow, time was both relevant and irrelevant in Not-Miami.)

Lee couldn’t wrap his head around that one. People from every era would wash up in the city, but the population shifted depending on the First Level. The only way to “move on” and leave was behind a paywall at the First Level.

“Now, this is a fun topic that I love to address to my Not-Miamians.” Pantheon used a new emoticon where they looked almost sadistic with glee, eyebrows furrowed as their features twisted into a wide grin. “The First Level can create your stereotypical monsters for you to kill for money! We offer a bounty program where you can freely hunt down entirely synthetic monsters for fame and riches! Find your local bounty board for details!” Pantheon switched back to beaming.

“Anyway! I hope you enjoy your new life and can’t wait to

see you soon! I love you!” The video almost ended with Pantheon’s outro before they turned red from the neck to the cheeks to the forehead in an animated unrealistic manner. “Aren’t…” The dialogue paused. “Aren’t you going to say it back?”

Lee sighed, moving a leg off the chair to stand up. Pantheon’s sunglasses reappeared as “Pantheon Out!” appeared in the text block. Their model disappeared off the screen before the video ended.

After the screen faded to black, Lee waited, half expecting to see a link to a “WikiHow to Cope with Being Dead” with the twenty heart emojis Pantheon strung to the congratulatory text. However, to his surprise, nothing appeared; that was all the coverage he got on dying and waking up in a new world.

Well, Pantheon mentioned that a bounty board existed and that it would hold more insight. Lee leaned back, recalling all of Pantheon’s repetitive gestures and static form. It probably was the effect of some sort of 3D rig, but it nonetheless imprinted itself upon Lee’s memory.

He lifted his phone above himself, swiping through the apps. There was a “Bounties” app that informed him that he needed to get in touch with a Bounty Board for the most upto-date knowledge on the bounties. If he didn’t, he could only find the street names where these monsters would be appearing. Where would he even find a “Bounty Board”? The Nightclub did not sound like a place that would have one.

Lee pushed himself up, making the decision to go explore and hopefully find more answers.

Lee quickly learned that people, even in death, were not more kind and considerate than they were in life. Most people ignored him while he tried to initiate conversations with them. The seventeenth person he locked eyes with was a man who was dressed in a decorated maroon coat with shoulder frills. His hair was slicked back into a low ponytail tied with a ribbon. Lee couldn’t tell if it was satin or silk and then wondered if there was a difference between the two. When they met eyes, Lee observed that the man wore a monocle, despite being in his late twenties. He also lacked a nose, white scarring in place of where it should

be. The man immediately averted eye contact and continued walking quickly down the street. Lee sucked in a breath, picking that guy to be his victim.

“Hey there, sorry to bug—” Lee waved sheepishly before freezing at the man’s face.

“Yes?” He sneered at Lee, eyes narrowing at Lee’s crop top hoodie.

“I’m new here.” Lee glanced at the man’s attire, noting the various pins and badges, denoting something in nobility. He slowly crept a hand to pull down his shirt. Listen, he didn’t ask to be stabbed in a shirt that accentuated his midriff. Nor did he ask to die in shorts and high socks. Thank god he magically got shoes or he might’ve cried.

“And?” The man turned his body to Lee. “Is there a reason you’re bugging me, the Viscount Lyles Wiseacre?” He sniffed with a look of indignation. “You definitely seem new.”

“Well yeah, I’m, uh,” Lee paused, feeling the skin on the back of his neck prick up. However, he dismissed it as nerves. “You look very approachable.” His phone buzzed, but he quickly silenced it.

“Thank you.” Lyles seemed pleased at the compliment, closing his eyes. “I suppose I can offer some time now to answer your questions, new person.” He stroked his beard, and his stoic resolve visibly collapsed with the slightest praise.

“Okay, thank goodness,” Lee sighed, body relaxing. “So, I’m looking for the closest bounty board?”

“Ah, well, if you open your phone,” Viscount Lyles pulled out his phone, gesturing for Lee to do the same. Lee snorted at the sight of the viscount in the decadent attire holding a smartphone.

However, on both of their phones was a text from some guy named “Valen Arrington.” Lee opened his mouth to ask how random people got his phone number but immediately shut it at the viscount’s expression.

Lyles’ blue eyes were blown wide at the text, mouth opening and closing. He immediately straightened his posture.

“Apologies, I don’t think we should chat here.” Lyles

laughed awkwardly. “I’d hate to miss out a chance to help you out, especially since you’re new and all, and I’m an amazing philanthropist. But you should run. You’re new here.” The viscount slowly backed up, putting his phone away.

“Huh? Wait, why?” Lee paused, peeking over to look at the text before Lyles took the phone away.

Lee glanced down at the text, reading that Valen was informing him that there would be an “Easy” bounty on 304 Alpha Street in a minute from now.

He slowly peered at the closest building. It was a closed boutique and clearly had “304” nailed above the door frame. Lee blinked as he realized that he was definitely on Alpha Street. He looked back to Lyles only to find the viscount sprinting halfway to the intersection before turning, out of Lee’s sight.

A loud thud vibrated through the ground and Lee snapped his head back to see a single smartphone in a crater on the ground behind Lee. It suddenly glowed, spewing out blue particles. They danced across the street, spawning in large crates of weapons. Lee gaped at the three battle axes that suddenly appeared to his left. Across the street were sledgehammers arranged in a row.

Soon, the entire block had various weapons, and the phone was still puking up aquamarine blue specks. Lee watched as a monster with four legs, a long tongue, and angular diamond head began to be built like it was being 3D-printed.

As its yellow scales glistened in the sunlight, his legs finally felt like running. It clicked that this wasn’t a fake monster hologram but a real hideous insectoid creature. Although before he could make it far, the insect-beast lifted its head and let out a guttural screech and darted after him, maws chittering in a hungry craze.

Lee volleyed over a crate, trying to remember if he even knew how to fight. A flashback came to him, his fist socking a guy’s face back in high school in a boxing club. Would his fists even make a difference here? That thing was taller than him!

A gunshot rang out from somewhere far above him. It clipped the creature’s pincer, forcing it to retract and fail to hit him in the side.

He scurried away from the monster as it let out another screeching cry. The closest crate was within arm’s reach. But it wasn’t a battle axe, sledgehammer, or, unfortunately, gun that greeted him. A shortsword’s glistening blade stared back at him from his hands.

Before he had a chance to drop the weapon he had no clue on how to use, the monster was in front of him again, swinging its insectoid limbs at him. He ducked, muscle memory coming in strong. All he had to do was stab, right?

Another gunshot echoed through the quiet street as he closed his eyes. He thrust the blade into the creature, flinching at the squelch.

Blue specks tickled his face as he bit back a sneeze. He slowly opened his eyes. His blade had, by sheer luck, pierced into the creature’s chest, exposing the shortsword as the entry wound began to dissolve the body, producing a wide cavity of its organs. He glanced upwards as the monster’s body began to crumble apart. It had no head.

Whatever diagrams his general biology class taught him failed to capture the real deal of blood gushing out of a wound. He staggered back, abandoning his sword as it clattered to the ground. The creature’s fluids turned into blue particles, moving upwards and back to the First Level.

Did he actually kill it? No, someone else did. But he actually stabbed it. He sucked in a breath, eyes stuck where the beast once stood. He lost his footing, breaths quickening as the monster eventually vanished, leaving no trace that it was even there, save for the forlorn shortsword.

He parted his lips as he eventually tore his eyes away from the scene. The bullets had come from behind the monster. He locked eyes with his supposed savior, a short girl in the process of sliding down a rope off a tall building. She was wearing a very frilly dress that practically engulfed her. As she strode up to him, he observed that she was also very young, no doubt a preteen, and had long black hair, kept out of her face by multiple hair clips clearly dating from the 2000s era. The vibrant pink and yellow striped clips contrasted the girl’s sniper rifle and

brightly - colored, Victorian-era dress.

“The heck was that about?” She immediately spat at him. “You just wanted to steal my kill, huh?” She stomped towards him, taking advantage that he had fallen back to make up for the height difference. Her hands flew to her hips. “Huh? Huh? Say something, kill-thief.” She bobbed her head, eyes narrowed.

“What?” Lee blurted, eyes wide. His savior was a twelveyear-old punk! “No, no, I,” he sputtered, beginning to crawl away from her.

She pulled out her phone from a carefully disguised pocket in her dress. She huffed as she swiped through the screens before presenting a banking app. She shoved it in his face, waving it around rapidly. The screen was blue, reading “4,988 gold.”

“You see this? I was just twenty-five gold shy of meeting the First Level. Thanks to you, I lost twelve gold. Pay me back.” There was barely room for Lee to breathe, let alone come up with a retort.

“I’d love to but,” Lee paused as she leaned into his face.

“This was the last bounty of the day. Thanks to you, I gotta wait till tomorrow for one more kill I shouldn’t need.”

“But I just woke up here and I don’t…” Lee began, trying to pull out his phone, going quiet as he caught her gaze.

She stared at him, eyes mere slits as she questioned the notion of his right to live. She hissed at him like a literal cat before stepping back.

“You’re lucky you’re new.” The girl straightened her posture. “Anyway, you owe me, dumb-dumb.” She rolled her shoulders, face locked in a sneer. If Lee wasn’t busy cowering, he might’ve joked about her getting early wrinkle lines if she kept that face up.

“How much?” He squeaked out, pride massacred as he, a nineteen-year-old college student, was left cowering at the hands of a seventh-grader. He only just died and he was already going to get sucked into the mafia. Or turned into a child’s butler! He didn’t want to spend his afterlife playing bouncer or muscleman!

“Later. I don’t see a point in bullying you if you’ve only got twelve in the bank.” She threw her hair off her shoulder as she

slid her phone back into her pocket. She adjusted her rifle as she gazed at him. “Go to Breezies. An old friend of mine is starting a day bar and cafe and he needs help. He’s got a spare room and you’re his type. Good luck.”

“Huh?”

“Huh?” She repeated, mocking his accent. “Did I stutter? You’ll find a job at Breezies. Now piss off.”

“What’s your name?” He pivoted, starting to get to his feet. She simply snorted at him, not bothering to turn back and look at him.

“Thanks?” He slowly said, unsure if she’d yell at him for “stealing her kill” again. But then he decided that he wasn’t a coward and should show respect to her for saving his life and quite possibly giving him a clue on surviving this horrible afterlife. “Thanks!” He yelled to her backside as she continued off to another street, checking her phone.

However, Lee passed by multiple buildings and began to doubt if Breezies truly existed. A quick web search told him it was in the daylife quarter, and he was supposedly in that sector. He was pretty sure he walked past the same four boutiques three times. Each one was a different decade, with mannequins dressed in 1920s, 1970s, and 2000s. They were likely a franchise. There were two people with blue triangular badges performing magic in the streets, dazzling the passersby, including Lee. He had paused in the middle of the street, watching the performers. Fire danced by his feet as doves manifested out of the center of the road.

Each one of the performers looked rather unique. One of them had blue skin, bright purple hair, and wore a flowy skirt. The other one had hot pink curly hair and elf ears and wielded a baseball bat and ball.

Lee glanced down at his phone as the pink-haired girl spun her baseball, causing autumn leaves to kick up into a vortex. His fellow watchers gasped at the display. He paused when he finally read the digital clock. How could it be six o’clock? The sun was still so high in the sky. He didn’t know if he used to know how to tell time via the sun’s position in his other life, but

he could clearly tell the sun hadn’t moved since he woke up.

He turned away from the display, moving to continue his search for Breezies. He really hoped that this old friend of that twelve-year-old wasn’t also a middle schooler. Or worse, a fiveyear-old. Lee didn’t think he could emotionally prepare himself each day for a five-year-old bartender and barista.

He took a left instead of a right at the intersection toward Zeta Boulevard. Unfamiliar buildings greeted him. Lee sucked in a breath and kept walking.

His legs finally called it quits after what felt like hours of walking aimlessly around. He knew he should’ve asked for directions as he walked down an alleyway, sliding down against the cold brick walls.

It was some random building. Lee didn’t care to look at the poorly painted sign. He instead opened his phone, trying to find some sort of “Pantheon Maps.”

“Sun’s out, guns out?” A man read off his shirt, spring green eyes squinted at the fabric lettering. Lee gasped at him, completely failing to notice him walking up. The man had tan skin and a chestnut brown ponytail with the sides shaved off. He also wore a knit cardigan and casual clothes, looking more from Lee’s time than the viscount or the Victorian sniper-brat.

In one of the man’s hands was a rather large trash bag held just barely above the ground.

“Sorry, I like your shirt.” The man laughed, turning his eyes away from Lee. There was a starlike scar centered on his forehead with a lighter diamond center.

“I, ah,” Lee fumbled, “Thanks.” He lets out a weak chuckle.

“Is there a reason you’re sitting outside my garbage can, though?” The stranger threw his trash bag into the trash can.

“Well, I’m,” Lee immediately pushed himself off the wall, getting ready to defend himself. Wow, he was a whole foot taller than this guy. “I’m kinda new here and I’m supposed to be looking for a place to work?”

So far, his experience of meeting people hadn’t been the most insightful, but this guy had complimented his shirt, so he couldn’t be worse than Sniper-Brat and Viscount Wiseacre.

If push came to shove, he might not remember how to fight outside of giving a high schooler a mean left hook, but he was certain he could take out the “Christian White Mom” man with just a punch. Lee suspected he could easily pick up this guy if he needed to; he was just twigs and skin.

“Oh! Did you just die?” The man laughed, slapping his forehead with a hand, oblivious to Lee’s internal monologue. “Sorry, I’ve had a long day.”

Lee thought for a moment, processing the question. He then nodded, conflicted on if he’s supposed to feel relieved that someone was willing to help, or ashamed that it was obvious.

“Yeah! Yeah, I did.” Lee scratched the back of his hair, noting that he’d need to retie his hair. “Died less than two,” Lee glanced down at his phone, looking at the time. He then opened the text from Pantheon. “Three hours ago.” He corrected himself.

“That sucks, man.” The conversation came to a lull. Makes sense, how could anyone continue a conversation after dropping the “I’m dead” bomb?

“Hey, uh, can you help me? A little twelve-year-old bratty girl yelled at me to go to, uh, Breathies? Breezies? I don’t know where that is.” Lee asked, picking this guy to be his tour guide after the viscount ran away.

The man stared at him for a second before snorting. “Mate, you’ve got the most insane luck.”

Lee remembered the freshly painted sign that looked more like a five-year-old’s warm-up finger painting and not an actual sign. Sniper-Brat had told him that her friend was just starting a day bar and cafe. He facepalmed.

“Ten Almasi, owner of Breezies, a cafe/day bar that opened officially last week. Work staff of one.” Ten held out a hand, grinning like a proud parent.

“Liam Gresher, but I go by Lee. Um, unemployed. And suffering from Pantheon-Induced Amnesia.” Lee slowly shook his hand.

“Great! Now, that bratty twelve-year-old? Did she wield a sniper rifle that is bigger than herself?” Ten kept the smile up.

“Yes…?” Lee tilted his head biting his lip, as he slipped his

hand by his imaginary pockets.

“That was Lottie. Royal pain she is. Also, she’s been here forever, so ignore her brattiness. She’s had to kill two hundred monsters just to get to the First Level ‘cause no one wants a twelve-year-old working. Child Labor laws and all.” Ten’s voice almost sounded sardonic at the last sentence. Nonetheless, it’s nice to have a name for Sniper-Brat now. “But, we don’t need to talk out here. Wanna head inside my place?” He jabbed a thumb at the building behind Lee.

“Alright– wait, you’re not, like, a drug lord, right?” Lee let out an awkward laugh as Ten pivoted to leave the alleyway.

Ten only glanced back at him, ponytail bouncing up and down. “Would I tell you if I was?” He tilted his head as his smile turned almost sadistic, showing too many teeth. Before Lee could answer, Ten laughed. “Of course not! I’m something much worse! A barista and bartender! Feeding a caffeine addiction and alcoholism is how I get paid!” Ten joked. Lee bit his lip, awkwardly laughing as well.

The inside of Breezies was a lot more appealing than the outside would depict. There were avant-garde pieces along the walls, each bearing a different signature. Ten informed Lee that they were all legally bought. Lee pondered why Ten would even need to mention that before Ten mumbled, “Well, most of them,” before giggling.

Lee glanced at the alcohol shelf of various wines and other beverages. Ten was very giggly for a bartender. Lee didn’t remember if he got into any parties, especially given that he was nineteen and should’ve started his second year of college. Nonetheless, weren’t bartenders supposed to be stoic and all “sir, you’ve had too much to drink?”

“Sit down anywhere you like. I’ll get you some water. Cup or bottle?” There were many places to sit: four booths lined the walls, three tables made to sit six were closest to the bar; nearest to Lee sat two couches, split by a coffee table. The bar could fit five people. There was even a staircase that went upstairs where he could potentially sit if everywhere else was filled up.

“Huh? Cup. Why do you ask?”

“I’unno how you died. I didn’t want to ask but some of the people who were poisoned don’t feel too safe when I make drinks. So I have unopened bottles of water.” Ten gestured to two packs of water stacked on top of each other in the corner of the room.

“Oh, I was stabbed. Not poisoned. Don’t remember who stabbed me, I’d like to sock them.”

“Yeesh, that sucks. Bet you can guess how I died.” Ten poked his own forehead before bringing the filled glass to Lee.

“Shot?”

“Yup, in a bank robbery! I was a lowly hostage who tried to fight back. Took one straight to the noggin.” Ten looked too proud to say that. How could everyone in this place be so nonchalant about dying?

“Ah, my condolences.” Lee tentatively said, biting his lip as he took the glass of water.

“Nah, it’s all good. I’ve been here for eight years now. I’ve had enough time to cope with my death. Anyway, you need a place to stay, eh?”

“Well, yes, but I don’t want to pressure you.”

“You’ve seen my establishment. Upstairs, I can give you a tour, but I’ve got a nice place. Two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and this entire place. My ego might be fat enough for two bedrooms but Lottie’s lectured me enough on self-care.”

Lee wondered if Lottie yelled at Ten the same way she humiliated Lee on the street. “I know this is sudden, but do you want to stay upstairs? All I ask is that you work for me about four days a week.”

“Do…do you have any credibility? Reviews on the sta—” Ten cut him off with a neutral expression, eyes barely narrowed.

“Listen mate, you’re clearly exhausted, sitting outside my trash can, and don’t even have half your memories back.” Ten sighed, leaning back. “How about I give you a tour? You can stay the night if you’re that nervous about me being a drug lord.”

“Deal. Anything suspicious, and I’m gone.”

Ten smiled at him, eyes scrunching up, and Lee felt like he had finally found a new home in his new, undead life.

Ode to the Skink I Crushed With My Honda

Ethan Howard

A final memory, bequeathed In death, A memorial to you, dear friend, Your blameless head crushed By my accursed heel.

My mind was flitting away In glittering, euphoric daydream. My hands, resting on the warm leather helm Of a thrumming white chariot, Longing to be wrapped Around an equally warm coffee mug. “Home again!” I thought, Allowing my body to sink into the seat cushion. “Just in time for Sunday brunch.”

Perhaps,

Had I seen

Past my dream-filled naivete, Would I have averted the cruel, Merciless fate, that fell like a gavel upon your innocent frame?

My sister’s anguished cry Alerted me to the crime

My wretched hands had wrought, Now stained with crimson guilt. My unseeing eyes Now opened, setting Like shameful dogs

Upon your broken body; Battered, bloody, broken body.

I felt the bitter rot of sickness Set upon my tongue

While your own tongue lay there, Splattered, pink and lifeless. Your scales, now desecrated By the white chariot’s feet, Still shone in inky, raven-like luster As they had in life. Even dead you were beautiful.

Mercy on my soul, What have I done?

We seldom spoke, But I feel I have snuffed out The spirit of a lifelong companion. What little time we shared Was spent bleaching your blood From the cold, unforgiving cement.

We carried your body with honor, On the rusted blade of an ancient garden hoe. Carried it like beloved King Arthur’s Funeral procession. Even the summer songbirds Seemed to cease their cheerful calls, Tongues quieted in mourning. At last, in a shallow grave we buried you, Not pausing to reflect until the black pit Rendered by my sin was filled.

Surely, a skink-shaped part of my soul Was shorn off that day, Forever damned to the gravelly soil In which you lie. Forgive me, my reptilian friend, Whose coal-black eyes And ever-glossy scales Blessed all who ever had the sincere pleasure Of gazing upon your form. May your humble spirit continue to live on, Nourishing the ground from whence you came.

Pandemic

Adriauna Day

Before the world riddled in fear, that park was your favorite place to be. Your face always lit up with excitement as the colorful park came into view. You could make friends with anyone. Always giving out the biggest hugs, and never afraid to hold their hands. Your laughter would fill the air, like an elementary schoolyard. The swings were your favorite. The hinges violently creaked, appearing louder with every swing and sway. The cracks in what once was a smooth leather showed the memories of previous users. You’d take turns pushing each other as you kicked your feet back and forth, going higher with each swing. Happiness was there.

Now as you sit in isolation, your favorite place is no more. Two years have passed now and your aged body shows it. You’re always wearing a mask. Not only physically but emotionally. You’ve become dull and scared. The only thing you hold now is the neck of a sanitizer bottle. Even though you still enjoy the swings, the loneliness has consumed you like darkness in an unlit room. At least the cracks are still here, along with the memories.

She Doesn’t Want to Be Saved

Hannah Squires

Everything is blurry, and though someone is next to me, I could not feel more alone. I am here in the sand-colored jeep my dad owned, feeling the rush of the chilly wind as he sped down the highway. That should have been refreshing in the intense heat of Florida, but at the moment, it was bone-chilling. I could feel the hot, blurry tears that would not cease to stream down my face as I questioned if this was all my fault. I could taste the bile that was built up in my throat, what felt like any sudden movement would release it. You could see my dad’s knuckles turning white as a ghost as he attempted to keep up with the vehicle that was going well over the designated speed limit. We were following a bright red ambulance that contained the girl who meant more than anything in this world to me. And if you were there, you might hear the car, going over rocky potholes in dented concrete, but all that I could hear was her voice. Her telling me she loved me before two men took her away, two men that I did not know the names of and did not care to know. Her voice strained and scared beyond belief as she knew what was waiting for her where she was going. All I could think, and hope, was that that was not the last time I would hear her voice, the voice that captivated me and intrigued me the moment I heard it, a broken and quiet voice, but full of hope.

I met her that year in school, our sophomore year. She was the quiet, timid girl who could never seem to stand up for herself. I was the mildly extroverted, outspoken new kid who needed a friend, and, to be honest, although she had been there all her life, she needed one just as much. She always said that I made her more confident and that she would still be letting herself get walked all over to this day if I had never come into her life. I wonder to this day if the tragedy that had happened would have if I had never met her.

This particular day was a sunny Tuesday afternoon in

May. She had a banquet to attend later and was so nervous to see a boy that she had liked for a long time. Her immediate solution to this anxiety was to call a friend whom she knew had what she needed. When we picked him up, he was already long gone, his eyes red, almost bloodshot, and he reeked of the smell of marijuana. We walked to a distant bench, hidden in the palm trees in the back of my private community that, ironically, was known for drug users. I stood far into the clear as she took her first hit, immediately smelling the foul smell I had gotten used to, not wanting the smell to rub off on me as I had to be home later that night. I watched her then take a second, then a third, and after that, I stopped counting. Before I knew it, the blunt was gone, and her eyes were glossed over and hazy, and she stumbled when she tried to get up and walk.

This was usual for her and our outings, and I knew how to handle it. We walked along the wiry fence of a field as she held onto my forearm and took small steps while the boy stood alongside us. We made our way to a break in the shrubbery and evidence of civilization. I started walking with her still holding on to me towards her white Audi parked crookedly in the middle of a row of parking spots but stopped when I heard her whisper in my ear. She shakily said, “I don’t feel good; please come to the bathroom with me.”

I immediately followed her into the cold, dank, and rather revolting bathroom. She then turned to me, and I will never forget the look in her blue, beautiful eyes stained a bloody, hazy red as she said to me again, “I really don’t feel good, I think he laced it.” Rage and sadness and utter fear filled my body as she fell into my arms with a panicked look in her eye. I turned and flung open the metal grey door and started screaming at this boy who decided to wreck both our worlds. He denied it multiple times, of course, and left almost immediately, walking away from a problem he knew he had directly caused. Her hands were shaking and cold, and her face was as white as a ghost. She could barely keep those pretty blue eyes open, which were now stained an ashy gray. I did not know what to do, as I was always prepared for everything, but it seemed I could not handle this

on my own. With no choice and no questions answered, I called my dad, and in a panicked, frantic voice explained what had happened, and then, in a few blurry minutes, he took us home and called an ambulance. I sobbed warm, thick tears and held on to her as she told me she would be fine. Even in her moment of greatest weakness, she was strong for me.

I pulled up to the hospital with tears still streaming and ran to her ambulance, afraid of what I would find. I was redirected to a cold, monotone waiting room, with doctors and nurses that did not understand how much I needed to see her and know that she was okay. Eventually, her distraught mother appeared, and although I expected her to yell, she was awfully silent. She let me into room 320 with glass sliding doors, where I saw a machine with upwards of 10 different colored wires and tubes hooked up that displaed a monitor showing a patient’s health statistics. The nurse was shoving IVs into her like she did not even care that the girl next to her was wincing. She did not even care. No one did. A look forward and a pair of those oceanblue eyes I could recognize anywhere bore into my brown ones. My eyes filled with tears, and I was unsure if they were happy or sad. But then I thought to myself that she is here, and she is alive and looking at me, and that is all that matters to me in this crazy, messed-up world. I held her shaky hands in my own as IV fluid pumped through them and she breathed in shallowly and says, “She has to believe that this was the first time that I have done this.” And at that moment, I knew that no matter what I did, I could not save her because she did not want to be saved.

The First Drive After

Megan Gardner

The red light flickers and a young man in a beat-up black jeep edges to a stop. The evening sun shines through the brand new windshield in sharp dagger rays. As he flips the visor down, a pile of unopened envelopes flutters into his lap. They are covered in urgent red letters: “EVICTION NOTICE,” “IMPORTANT MEDICAL BILLING,” “PAST DUE.” He lets out an exasperated groan as he tosses the papers into the passenger floorboard, careful not to disturb the wilting bouquet of white orchids in the passenger seat.

The old car rumbles as he turns onto an old country road with pine trees lining it. They replaced the whole front half of the engine, but it still bellows and grumbles at every start. He eyes the CD case next to the flowers, covered in dirt and burn marks, the CD inside still perfectly preserved on the inside of the plastic. Ignoring the album cover’s glare, he reaches to turn on the radio, searching for something busy to drown out the suspicious rattling coming from somewhere in the backseat. The radio sputters, words mesh with static, and he turns the knob through station after station, trying to find a signal, finally punching the off button and sitting in silence for a few moments.

The rattling starts again and he curses, shoving the CD into the slot. A simple guitar riff rings through the speakers and a memory comes flooding back. His sister.

“You can’t keep listening to the same songs every single day, you know,” he said as she struggled to unwrap the plastic of a new CD. “Your brain will rot.”

“Ugh, you sound like Mom.”

His eyes widened, “No I don’t! I’m just bored of your girly music.”

“Well, too bad.” She gingerly opened the CD case and slid it into the receiver. “This is a new album anyways, so you won’t

“I doubt it.”

She rolled her eyes as a simple guitar riff started to play, the sun glinting off of her light brown hair as they rolled through the trees.

The young man turns up the volume, the honey memory of her laughter combining with the cheerful tune, until her laughs start to remind him of her screams.

The phone rings. A ten-digit number scrolls across the screen, accompanied by “might be: mom.” He sends it to voicemail. A few moments later, the tired sound of his mother’s voice plays through his cell phone speaker.

“Collin. Please answer your phone. Let me know you’re safe.” He could hear her exhausted sigh even through the phone, her silence saying more than her words. “I miss her, too; it’s not your fault, okay? Just…just come home soon.” But she was wrong. They both knew it was his fault. He remembered the look in her eyes when she walked into that hospital room; he remembered everything. His sister’s breezy laughs as they sped down that old country road, her album blasting over the radio; he liked the music after all. He remembered how he sped up, going 80 in a 20, just to mess with her, to see how much the wind could push her hair in front of her eyes. He remembered how the other car pulled out of nowhere, and the way his jeep tilted when he tried to swerve out of the way. The deafening crash as the passenger side of the car collided with a tree. He remembered how that simple guitar riff still played over the radio when he woke up and tried to get out. Tried to turn to look at her, to get her to answer, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak. He just laid there, in an overturned car, listening to the repeating melody of his sister’s favorite album, praying that someone would come soon enough to save them.

He had gotten his jeep back a few months after the accident, brand new windshield, brand new paint job, a second chance at life for that beat-up car. Ironic. She was the one who deserved that second chance. Funny that the only thing she had gotten was a little memorial sign on the side of the road,

Gardner • 101 even be that bored.”

a metal white circle with five words embossed in black in the front: “In Loving Memory. Drive Safe.”

A young man drives down a country road going 20 miles per hour, hands shaking as he pulls over into the grass, next to a little two-foot sign with wilted white orchids lying on the ground next to it. He takes the CD out of the stereo and gently puts it back in the dirtied case. No sound escapes him as he approaches the sign and replaces the flowers, resting the CD in the dying grass. He sits there for a moment, listening to the birds chirp, remembering the way her smile used to brighten the whole place. His throat tightens, and his eyes fill with water, but he makes no sound for her as he begins to cry.

The Green-Eyed Kitchen

Megan Gardner

A wide kitchen window

Adorns the side of an oversized white house

Streamline blinds open and close, Visible from the next house over Giving the neighbors a perilous peek Into that brightly lit palace.

Each cabinet is clear and crystal, Showing off wedding china And spotless white plates; The glasses are rearranged every evening At ten, when the cleaning supplies come out And the dust bunnies run and hide.

Visitors are greeted by a bowl Of warm chocolate chip cookies; Surely they taste better Than Mrs. Charlie’s churros from across the street.

There are no spots or blemishes

On these pristine walls. No dirt stains, Only the blood-red smudge Of judging eyes and greedy guest’s hands. Angry that this house is not theirs to take, They glare at the fruit bowl As two limes stare back Like Shakespeare’s green-eyed monster. That’s what this kitchen can do.

The brand new dishwasher Is never used, the fridge is empty

Save spring water in prepackaged plastic bottles And precarious stacks of takeout boxes From last night’s dinner out. There is no cooking done in this place. Its true purpose is only to impress.

The center island is made of real marble, Imported all the way from Brazil And stretches through the whole kitchen Like a blinding field of smooth white stone. The smell of a vanilla bean Yankee Candle Covers the odor of bleach and Windex. The house sits clean and bright Perfect and hopelessly alone in its perfection.

They say eyes are windows to the soul But through these windows there is no life. This house holds nothing but things; Things that take up space, But have no real dimension. No heartbeat in this whitewashed kitchen. Yet it stays and works the late shift, Just so it can have a bit more shine Than the kitchen next door.

Long Ride Home

ReAnne Harrison

“Bye! Get home safe!” Luthe waved over her shoulder.

“ You too! I’ll see you later!” I also waved back, lingering just long enough to watch her disappear down the stairs. The soft whistling sound of her train pulling in reminded me to get moving before I missed my own. Above, I rechecked the green arrow pointing towards platform 3. I only recognized the first kanji for “mountain,” but Yamanote Line was still lit up in English underneath it.

Now that I was alone, I triple-checked the directions I’d written down in my wallet years ago. Just to be safe.

At 9:20 pm on a Sunday night, people breezed by in every direction. Although it seemed chaotic, my eyes were trained to watch for the changing currents of people that flowed from one gate to another. Charting the direction I needed to go, I blended into the right lane of people. My feet carefully matched pace with my neighbors’ and joined the cacophony of shoes squeaking over tile. Once my gate came near, I broke away to catch the escalator leading down.

A handful of people descended the regular staircase that bordered the escalator, but my calves ached too much to join them. Instead, I kept to the left side of the escalator. Considering the number of people around, staying a couple of steps away from the person in front of me seemed reasonable. A salaryman in a suit hustled by on the “fast line” on the right half of the escalator and I gripped my bag closer to give him room.

“What exit are we looking for?”

“Central West Exit. It’s near the theater we went to before, remember?”

“Ooh right .” I vaguely remembered the bright red exterior of the theater and the trees that lined that street. Chesha, Luthe, and I were bringing Savannah to the big bookstore in Shinjuku that day and were taking the escalator up.

“Should we stop by somewhere to eat first?”

“Yeah, I didn’t have breakfast this morning, so I’m starving.”

They chatted about food options as we got to the top. At the back of the pack, I stepped off the moving steps last and felt a weight on my shoulder. Supposing the man behind me stumbled on his exit, I let it sit.

“Oh, she hasn’t tried soba yet. Maybe we can find a cheap place somewhere.”

“Yeah…”

A few steps later, the conversation slowly died as the three of them came to realize the same thing I did: that the man behind me still had his hand on my shoulder.

In unison, we all turned our heads to confront this guy with scowls as hard as concrete. He stuttered and immediately scuffled away.

“What was that guy doing?”

“I don’t know…”

When I stepped off the escalator, there was no weight on my shoulder this time. The look of my friends’ faces unified in disgust still made me chuckle, despite the situation.

On the platform, another digital sign overhead said the next train would roll into the station within a few minutes. I measured the length of the bumpy yellow tiles that ran along the track, guessing about where the train car closest to my exit in the next station would be. That way, I wouldn’t have to walk so far once I got there.

As the train came in and its doors slid open, I held my bag close and stepped to the side. Only a young man with headphones exited. A few people dressed in flashy dresses and jackets entered, likely going to join the busy nightlife in Shibuya. With the new influx of people, the others in the packed car shuffled further in.

Hooking my hand on an overhead handle, I tucked my bag between my feet and swayed with the motion of the car. The window glittered with life as the city at night came into view. A dark range of buildings with glowing windows and signs, just

• Blackwater Review

as alive as it was during the day. Reflected more clearly in the window were the occupants.

A couple of men near the doors behind me suddenly burst out laughing, breaking the calm hum of the ride. I glanced at them in the corner of my vision, careful not to accidentally make eye contact.

“Are you sure he wasn’t saying something else? I’ve never seen that sort of thing actually happen…” Chesha said with a small tilt of the head before we boarded our train.

As if to prove it to her, a drunken man stumbled into our train car at the next stop. His uneven gait and disheveled shirt stood out like a scab in the sunlight. I turned my heel to keep my back towards the man, carrying on whatever conversation I was having with Savannah. So preoccupied with ignoring the man, I didn’t notice the innocent smile Savannah had given his way.

Chesha managed to secure a seat a couple of yards away while Savannah and I hovered near the door. The man claimed his spot next to me.

People trickled in as each stop went by, the train slowly becoming dense. Each stop, his body got closer, foot inching closer. His incoherent grumbling was punctuated by the sharp smell of something sour. All I could do was look anywhere but at him.

Savannah was huddled somewhere behind me, in soundless shock. Chesha was in view, but a line of bodies kept her from standing. There was a group of rowdy boys sitting next to her and I silently begged them to notice.

Then I felt the light kiss of his shoe nudge mine. I swore to myself if he didn’t leave on the next stop, I would. I’d just dive into another car or wait for the next train to come around.

But then he left as easily as he had entered.

“Wow…,” Chesha said after that, her polite features marred with horror and guilt, “Sorry. I can’t believe that really happened.”

The men near the door playfully nudged each other. With

the fragmented knowledge I had, it sounded as if they were sharing some story from school and my shoulders relaxed.

The feminine voice chimed that the train was arriving at Shinjuku station. As it repeated, the couple that was seated near me stood up as the momentum of the train came to a slow halt . A change of people washed out and then in, but none had filled their vacant seats. Seeing as there were no elderly or pregnant people standing, it was free for me to settle in.

A digital screen above the closing doors changed to the green circle of the Line, a dot blinking over the Shinjuku stop. Three more dots to Shibuya would last about fifteen minutes. I took the chance to dig out my earbuds and scrolled through the collection of music on my iPod. Settling on the usual playlist, I hung my head and closed my eyes.

Two older men in plain black suits had entered a couple of stops ago and stood in front of the priority seating where I was. I had debated on offering my seat to them out of courtesy, but when I heard the heavy hum of English in the conversation, the idea was quickly forgotten. I paused my music but left the earbuds in, curiously eavesdropping.

Neither of them had any reason to be speaking in English, their accents heavy enough to prove it wasn’t their native language. The only clear foreigner around was myself. An uncomfortable lump coiled in my stomach, so I closed my eyes and let my posture slack.

The weight of the seat shifted at the next stop as my neighbor rose to exit. Their presence was quickly replaced by one of the men, trackable by that unnerving chattering.

“Do you think she’s…?” His voice was suddenly clear. In the darkness behind my lids, the weight of their attention stuck me to the chair, cut off from any exit. I desperately clung to my napping facade.

The train shuddered around a sharp corner and his shoulder collided into me. And then it stayed there. Counting down the stops left until mine, his weight grew heavier. The harder I tried to ignore his existence, the more clearly it was pressed onto me.

“Hey,” his friend mumbled something after a pause in their conversation. There was a faint brush of his hand on the man’s shoulder and he awkwardly shuffled back to a socially acceptable distance.

As soon as Shibuya echoed overhead, I “woke up” and squeezed through the crowd.

After about the fifth song, the digital screen changed to the map and the Shibuya dot was blinking. The queue to exit was collecting near the doors and my feet groaned as I went to join it. As soon as they opened, a new swarm of noises swept over us. The sound of metal squealing across tracks, automated messages, and restless pedestrians filled the cool night air. When the train rolled out of the station, it kicked back a gust of wind that tousled hair and clothes.

The crowd bottomed out downstairs and I darted past the shops and through the ticket stalls. Across the backside of the station lined barred-off waiting zones for buses that came and went. Right at the end, across the street from the development complex, the last bus to my street waited. Here, I finally had the space to breathe.

My pace slowed as I leisurely climbed the front steps leading in. The bus driver, a middle-aged man, gave a polite but tired greeting and I returned it. With a final beep of the bus-pass machine, I was free to find my favorite seat.

Near the back and to the right, it gave a nice clear view of the entire front half of the bus while the seat in front of it gave some level of cover. But seeing as the bus was comfortably empty, I picked the one in front of it with a full view of seeing and being seen.

The time on my iPod flipped to 10 pm and I slumped against the window. The driver kindly waited a couple more minutes for last-minute stragglers. Just as his arm reached for the door switch, a young man meandered out of the shadows and into the harsh light.

Thin and dressed in a t-shirt despite the outside chill. I discreetly watched him in the reflection of the dark windows as he paused and then traveled across the linoleum expanse. The

doors awkwardly shut as he passed them.

Then he sat next to me.

Where the air had felt refreshing and cool, it then turned sour. The bus trembled as the engine came to life. The overhead handles, similar to the ones on the train, rattled quietly as it turned out of the station to join traffic.

He didn’t say a word as he sat there. Music buzzed in my ears, but the thumping in my chest began to drown it out. It would take about twenty minutes for the bus to reach the last stop my stop.

But what would happen then?

Although the driver was busy, he and the white lights kept any shadows at bay. Once I got out, though, there wouldn’t be a soul around to witness me.

“The bus is empty and some guy sat next to me.” My hands shakily typed out a text to Luthe, although I knew she’d still be busy in transit herself and the signal would be spotty.

The last stop was in front of a large hospital, but it was closed at this time. Right around the corner from that was a small twenty-four-hour police box, but there were so many small and dark alleyways on the short path to my apartment building.

The bus turned and twisted away from the main road to get lost in the tangle of inky neighborhood streets.

“What should I do?” I’m not sure what Luthe could even do for me so far away. I just needed someone to know what was happening. Both my parents were in bed by then and would grumble about asking them to meet me. I didn’t want to possibly get my sister in any sort of danger.

Flipping to the iPod again, I blankly scrolled through my music library. Then I switched back to my phone, fingers fumbling over its buttons, checking and rechecking messages.

This was the last run of the day for this route, so no one was waiting by the side of the road. Somewhere in the dark, the elementary school passed by. And then the college and the tiny shopping street. Still, the man didn’t press the stop button so we traveled further into the night together.

Then something snapped. Like ice breaking in my veins, anger started to swell in its place.

I silently dared him to say something to me. Try something. Any rationality was quickly evaporating away. I’d rather look like a crazy person than suffer just to save face.

And just as I slipped my phone into my pocket in favor of the sharpest pen I had, the bus came to an abrupt stop.

The man got up and left, not leaving any trace that anything had happened.

The bus safely pulled away from the curb and climbed the last hill to the hospital. The street was silent as I sped down the street to my complex. When my front door was finally locked behind me, I let the death grip on my pen drop.

In the stillness, the light on my phone blinked.

“Are you ok? I just saw this.”

‘“Yeah I just got home,” I texted back. After a moment, I added, “Let me know when you do.”

The Light of a Bus

ReAnne Harrison

The console’s cheerful tone chimed

As my bus pass skimmed over its surface. The driver tipped his head in greeting, A gesture returned with a shy smile. With cautious optimism, I found a seat and wondered what awaited me On the other end of those short fifteen-minute trips.

The windows framed breezy days

In a city landscape brimming with change.

Grey concrete paths that led to new storefronts, Bakeries, schools, offices, and conbinis.

The bus glided over those sunny roads With such routine easiness, I never worried that I’d reach my destination.

Passengers poured in and out like the ocean’s tide, Each stop bringing in a fresh wave of life That filled every available seat and handrail. Sometimes I offered my seat to a kindly elderly And enjoyed the balancing game of the turning bus. Other times were spent reading the colorful ads That lined each corner of the roof, Promising exciting movies, seasonal drinks, And chances of a happier life.

When night blanketed the busy buildings, Their lights twinkled with a vibrant vitality. But sometimes that enchanting city suddenly grew dim Like when I lost my only pair of glasses Or forgotten to fetch groceries for my mother. Once, the outside was swallowed in that darkness.

Fluorescent bulbs bore down on me and the stranger That sat next to me on an empty bus, Terrified of what was on the end Of that final stop.

Still, I greeted the driver the next day With a giddiness like the girls on their way to school. Now that bus pass sits in a drawer, A memento from a time years and an ocean away. Kept carefully preserved in hopes That one day I’ll use it again.

Home

Julie Trinh

I miss lying in the soft, feathery sand.

Listening to the rhythm of the Gulf pushing and pulling. Above me are a million, no, an infinite amount of gas and dust shining and spaced before me in multitudes of almost touchable clusters. It’s impossible to overthink when this starlit midnight blue curtain is above me. All my thoughts dissipate as, with closed eyes, my breath takes the forefront. Inhale—waves.

Exhale—stars.

Inhale—white noise.

Exhale—wonder.

When You Resurface

Carter Hyde

When you resurface, you will be somewhere at the edge of the woods with thick, burgundy stalks beaming at you and a brand new sun glaring directly into your eyes. You will blink, hopelessly at first, then with a sprinkling of tears that you didn’t know you could shed anymore. In fact, when you resurface, you will ask yourself how long you had been dead.

You will walk along the highway in the dense sunset with your shadow carrying you on its back and it will tell you you’ve been dead for maybe a couple of months if the change in height is any indicator. You will squint at your own shadow in disbelief and profess you don’t believe it, but it will still carry you because, in this fantasy where you resurface at the edge of the woods, you aren’t shot dead for talking back. You will pick up a stick to swing along the way, covered in lichen and moss and twirling with this straw-colored root of some sort or another, decadent swirling in the Appalachian breeze. You’ll take off your jacket, arms bare to the coming dusk, and loop it around your waist to tie, fumbling with the branch still. Your feet will ache and your forehead will drip down the sides of your face and into your densely crowded hair.

Your boots will run the white line at the side of the road and they will ask it what it holds, kicking up old stories and a faint cloud of dust. You will ask it how long you had been dead. It won’t respond, but the bodies buried underneath it, years of postmortem sprawl dangling in the spaces between soil and rock and other such bones, will, and they’ll tell you you’ve been dead for your whole life. They’ll tell you you’ve been through a lot. They’ll tell you it wasn’t your fault. They’ll tell you that you’re not the one who tossed yourself to the wolves, but welcome back to the land of the living, not without a twinge of jealousy in their synchronic voices.

When you resurface, you will find yourself right back

where you started, at the edge of a town at the edge of a doorway at the edge of your bed tossing inside with something like rage. You’ll prop your stick upon that doorway and slam the door to protect yourself from the ghosts, and they do very much still haunt the old place whether they’re literal or not. The past echoes within your skull, and you think to yourself, full of terror you didn’t know you still could feel, that you are very tired, because you know now that being scared can sometimes lay a person to rest. You will ask the wraiths slamming against your door screeching in anger and pity and shame and remorse how long you have been dead, and the spectres in your house will seize up and quiet down, lowering their voices and letting the electricity loose, retracting their singing fingers from around the baseboards and settling back into the dark corners where they goddamn belong, and they will tell you the truth: that you never truly died.

Talks Like We Used to Have

Jared Smith

We crawl into separate twin beds. 11:00 there, 10:00 at home. My friend Andrea sets a timer on his phone for seven in the morning so we can have an early breakfast at a café down the street. How European of us, waking up to dine out. I wear pajamas: shirt, pants, socks. He wears a t-shirt and boxers. Spending my spring break at his Baltimore home forces me to lie here restless, anxious about how these next two days will turn out. Though it’s late, he begins that nostalgic chatter we familiarized ourselves with in fifth and sixth grade. I’ve missed it these past three years. We had long nights together where we talked about everything until streaks of sun through the window told us we should be asleep.

“Do you have a girlfriend where you live?” Andrea asks with a raspy voice, filtered through his Italian dialect. He only learned English at the end of elementary school, so he still used too many words to say simple things. I would have simply said, “You’ve got a girlfriend?”

“No, but there’s a girl I really like.” I think of her. She’s in my theatre class. She always wears a cacophony of colors, sometimes in her hair, too. She talks to me about everything, even the mundane details that cause me to practice the art of fake listening. I’ve been told that the guy she’s been flirting with in Theatre is a means to an end, and I, apparently, am the end. Brunette, freckles splattered on her face, eyes- what color are her eyes? Andrea’s are light brown.

“That’s good. What’s her name?” Why is he asking so many questions now? He wasn’t like this in the taxi on the way here from the airport. Honestly, I thought he’d be more physically excited to see me. Maybe hoping this sort of thing would happen since I last saw him heightened my expectations a little too much. I’m sure he wanted me to come see him.

“Abby.”

“You should ask her out.” A very bold statement coming from the smoothest talker, who has had only four years of hitting on girls in English. Andrea’s always been proficient in getting people’s attention. How could he not be? His swimmer physique and dorky smile attract people without him lifting a finger. It’s different when I make a move. When I deliberate with myself over the prospects and possibilities of whether a girl will reciprocate a feeling, I take my time and risk nothing. That’s why I become best friends with girls before I try to date them. Just to make sure they even like me at all. Andrea always thought that was stupid.

Even worse than that was the first time I expressed my sentiments to a girl. Sion had straight, black hair with barettes in to hold her bangs. I didn’t have a particular reason to like her. During sleepovers, my friends would all talk about which girl they were so deeply connected to at the ripe age of 11. Nobody picked Sion, so she was mine. As a timid, innocent girl, she never wanted to talk to me after my friends had supplanted that tingly drama within our sixth grade class. I finally told her the news directly by running past her and saying, “I LIKE YOU.” Andrea slapped me because of how terribly I executed flattery. I broke the news of my affection to her more than three times for her to understand how willing I was to commit my life to the idea of “us.”

“Come on, do it.”

“I will when I get back home. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” he responds, reclining onto his pillow. “She’s from China. I started dating her when we lived there last year. Have you had sex yet?”

“What?”

“You haven’t had sex yet. It’s pretty cool. Not as fun as you think it will be.” I don’t believe a word he’s saying. First off, Andrea is 15, so he couldn’t have done anything like that yet. Also, he wouldn’t ever say that it wasn’t as interesting as expected. Sex is all he would ever talk about after that German boy showed us what it looked like on the theatre trip to England. Andrea’s totally bluffing, but I won’t say anything because I’m

sure he feels really cool right now. Wouldn’t want to ruin that for him.

“I don’t think I will for a while,” I answer honestly. I don’t really want to talk about this anymore.

There’s a long period of silence. I can hear a certain thought, the same one I’ve thought for years, turning in Andrea’s head. The room is too quiet. It needs the ticking of a clock or the subtle whir of air conditioning to give it volume. My mind wanders down a labyrinth of tracks. Andrea turns over in his bed. The ruffling of his sheets indicates that I should follow suit. I pull the thin blanket over my shoulders and press my working ear into the pillow so I can hear the sound of the bed. Vibrations from the other side of the room travel into my eardrum. I look over my shoulder towards Andrea. He’s looking at me.

“Hey. Hey.” His face carries a desperate expression. I don’t know in what way. “You’re not gay, right?”

In his brown eyes, I can see a memory plaguing his mind. I remember it, too. Why do we worry? We both have girls in our lives. At least, something about them that is worth talking about out of admiration. They’re interesting, funny, beautiful, attractive, good at drawing, laugh at every joke, and aren’t afraid to hug you with your arms grabbing lower than theirs. I don’t worry. I haven’t been worrying. Has he?

“No,” I chuckle like it’s a stupid question. “No, I’m not.” Looking away, he visibly gains some sense of calm. Hopefully, he doesn’t think about it that much anymore.

“Good. Good. Goodnight.”

I’ll ask Abby out when I get home. It will make me feel better.

to be alone is not a tragedy

Alexa Foster

to be alone is not a tragedy, it does not cause an ache in my heart

i can hold myself close content in my own company; can consider my own lilies, can put my own fingers in my mouth to teach myself to form words again

i am every fish in the sea, i am a prayer to myself; i will play orpheus and eros and i will play eurydice and psyche there is no apology owed for this except, perhaps, to myself

Red Sugar

Jameson Feeley

The ship lurched. The boy struck his head against the floor. Tears welled in his eyes, mixing with the blood on the floor. The boy felt the bandages wrapped around his head. They were wet and sticky. The boy began to cry.

They had been captured two weeks ago. The white men had leaped like demons from the grass. They had attacked the boy and his father. His father fought the white men, but there were seven of them. The boy and his father were draped in chains and marched to the coast. They walked for thirteen days. The boy had smelled the ship from miles away. It was large and crowded. White men dragged black men down into its stomach. The boy tried to run away. He did not want to get dragged into that monster’s stomach. The white men caught him and forced him back in line. A cloud of death surrounded the ship. It forced itself down the boy’s throat. The boy felt his stomach turn. Angry voices filled the air. A white man emerged from the hold. He beckoned to one of the other white men guarding the boy and his father. The white men pushed them up the ramp. Some of the white men restrained his father as the white man examined his teeth. Then the white men dragged the boy’s father into the hold. The boy tried to follow, but a white man grabbed him. The boy began to kick and scream. The white man examined the boy’s teeth. The boy tried to bite his finger. The white man snatched his hand back. One of the white men slapped him. The white men dragged the boy into the hold. The boy was brought to a table. Blood stained its knotted surface. A white man stood behind the table. The white man held a large knife in his right hand. A dog sat behind the man. The white men forced the boy’s head onto the table. The boy struggled. The knife slammed into the table. Blood ran down the boy’s cheek. The knife slammed into

the table. More blood. The boy cried. A white man wrapped his head in cloth. The white men pulled him away. The dog was chewing something. The white men forced the boy to the bow of the boat. They crammed him between two other boys; they were about his age. Red cloth was wrapped around their heads. Blood streaked their faces. The boy lay on his side, knees pressed against his chest. He cried himself to sleep. Three hours later, the wind changed. The boat left the port. It labored westward. A demon ship. Wreathed in death.

• • •

They had traveled for three weeks. The hold was small and cramped. Bodies pressed in on the boy from every side. Urine sloshed in the corners of the hold. Shit coated the underside of the boy’s feet. Flies buzzed around the boy’s head. The food was sparse. Maggots lived in the bread. Worms swam in the water. The rats were bold. They would sleep on top of the captives and steal their food. One had bit the boy’s toe. The boy had grown used to the smell. It seeped out of the captives and crept through the air. Diseases spread quickly. The boys he had sat between had died. The white men had carried their bodies out of the hold. The boy had imagined the white men feasting on their corpses. He hated the white men. They believed they were better than black men. But the black men do not attack the white men on the roadside. They do not tear the white men away from their wives and children. They do not bind the white men in chains and herd them onto ships. They do not whip the white men. They do not chop off their ears. The white men called them slaves. The boy wanted to know why. Why were they being punished? What had they done? •

After seven weeks, the boat stopped. The white men ran up and down the deck. They shouted back and forth. White men poured into the hold. The boy had been asleep. A white man kicked the boy. The white man grabbed his arm and dragged him to the door of the hold. White men swarmed around the door. Black men were being shepherded out of the ship. The white man brought the boy outside. The boy stumbled. The sun was

The next morning, the door opened. The boy was pulled to his feet and dragged outside. The sun had not yet risen. The boy stumbled along, groggy. He did not understand what was happening. •

The boy fell onto the hard dirt floor. The white man said something. The boy did not know who he was speaking to. The door slammed shut behind him. The boy had been brought to a large marketplace. He stood on a large wooden platform. There was lots of shouting. He had been sold. Like a cow. A white man brought him to a long mud house. He had thrown the boy inside. The boy felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. A girl knelt beside him. She was not a white girl. She wasn’t a black girl, either. She helped him up. The boy looked around. Women and children

Feeley • 123 bright. He could hear water slapping against wood. The wind blew against his face. Fresh air. The boy inhaled. The slave ship was gone. He hoped it would stay gone. The white man pushed him. The boy fell. The white man shouted at him, gesturing to a group of black men walking away from the harbor. White men surrounded them. The white men carried guns. For a moment, the boy considered running. The white man raised his gun. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran towards the black men. He heard the white man laughing behind him. The white men brought them to a building. It was short and squat. It had no windows. The door was barred with a heavy wooden beam. Two of the white men opened the door. The black men were forced into the building. One of the black men resisted. He attacked a white man and ran away from the building. He was shot. The white men shut the door. The boy heard the beam fall into place. Some of the black men began to explore their new prison. Others sat down and went to sleep. The boy watched one man push against the door. A white man shouted. The man walked away from the door. He began to pick at a piece of loose mortar. The boy sat down. He knew that he would not be able to leave unless a white man opened that door. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. •

slept, ate, and played all around him. Most of them were black. A few resembled the girl that had helped him up. She told the boy that he had been sold to their master. She told him that the slaves stayed in this building. She told him that, when the bell rang, he would have to work. The boy asked her how she could speak his language. She told him that her grandparents had lived on the island long before the white men came. She had grown up a slave and had learned the language of the white men and the black men. The boy asked her about the work. She told him that it was very hard. The women had to make rum. The men had to carry sugar from the fields and crush it up with big machines. If you wanted to take a break, you had to be sneaky; the white men would whip you if you stopped working. The idea of working for the white men upset him. He did not want to spend all day gathering sugar cane and crushing it with giant machines. The girl saw how upset he was. She brought him some food. They ate together. The food was simple, but there were no maggots or worms. The boy cheered up a little. He had found a friend in the white man’s world. The girl watched the boy eat. She felt sorry for the boy. She was only ten, or twelve, but she knew a great many things. She knew that she was an exception. Most slaves did not live for more than twelve years on the island. She had seen slaves pass out in the fields. She had seen slaves get caught in the sugar mills. The white men would not stop the sugar mills if a black man fell in. He would be crushed to death. It had been a long time since their master had purchased a boy this young. She hoped he would be an exception.

The white man heard screaming. He turned around. One of the sugar mills had stopped. The slaves were no longer turning its giant wheels. He strode towards the sugar mill. A slave must have fallen into the mill. Anger drove his whip. He began to beat the slaves. Forcing them to turn the mill. Slowly, the wheels began to turn. Satisfied, the white man turned away. The slaves would find the remains, crushed and beaten, buried in red sugar. They would take care of the body; they were slaves, after all.

a love letter to outdoors

Finn Harris

when you knew me, I was dusty. pink scraped knees and grime in soft smudges around my overbite were marks of pride, battle scars signaling to the other children that I knew my way around the playground. I kicked & scratched & bit, playfully shoving my way to elementary school respect.  tumbling in the Florida sand meant I belonged to childhood, and childhood belonged to me,   safely clutched in my grubby little hands. I ran & yelled & giggled, completely free!   that is, until my teacher’s strawberry-red whistle herded us inside. I kicked the other children,   and they kicked me. this made us feel big & it made us laugh & it was natural.   when I became tired of football, I skipped rope, sneakers thumping on the blacktop, or played freeze tag, wind slapping me mischievously across the face, or did cartwheels,  pinwheeling haphazardly into the sand! this turf belonged to me, and I belonged to it. you loved me, and I loved you. the sun beamed, sweet citrus yellow on my scrawny tan arms.

since we have grown apart, I have become too clean.   I look at my uncalloused hands, soft and cold like compacted snow, and I do not smile.  I do not tumble in the dirt anymore because I no longer feel welcome with you.  you had always taken care of me, brushing my hair with soft southern breezes and wrapping me in the soil’s damp & gritty & metal-tinged embrace. now, I shiver, unable to warm in your sunlight

you see, you sway and glitter in my vision, glowing cruelly in acid-dipped spots if I think about you too long. my eyes give out because I am afraid. I am afraid of the sky, and this makes sunlight turn into lava lamp bubbles and vertigo-inducing shimmers.   I keep getting stuck in the middle of fields. I naïvely walk out into the middle, searching for a remnant of what we once were. I want to read my book in the firewood-scented air, grass happily licking at the soles of my shoes. but then I dwell on the grass for too long, and it begins to twinkle and wink at me. you are probably just trying to say hi,  grinning toothily and welcoming me to frolic in the green like I once did! but I close my eyes & whimper & pray because it looks malicious and strange to me. and I ache, teeth rotting into mushy yellow holes just like the ones in my belly.

I am sorry.

I am afraid of God,   and I am afraid of not existing. do you remember when I feared nothing, harmless bruises from play dancing across my legs like a finger painting? what happened to me? now, I panic like a fish breathing air, and you symbolize my fears to me, at the wrong place at the wrong time like a messenger pigeon caught in gunfire. sometimes, I love you again, but then I squint at the sun and see God playing

• Blackwater Review and shrinking back with my hands protecting my soft guts.  you look at me and see a frail creature, eyes red-rimmed and tail between its legs. you wonder if you did something wrong. I promise that you did nothing. I hope you do not feel guilty for my aloofness, because it is my fault. it is my fault.

a dirty trick on me. alternatively, I squint at the sun, and I do not see anything at all. you were a source of light, and now a source of cold panic, sweat freezing on my neck. I like birds because they distract me from you. I am still scrawny; the sun still shines on me. but now I am pale. it is not your fault.

I know you are simple and sweet, the sun melting an ice cream cone into a joyful sticky mess  on a child’s chin, the summer rain creating shiny puddles to bounce & splash & play in, the loose, sandy soil providing a habitat for gopher tortoises and longleaf pines.

I am sorry I cannot see you anymore. I am sorry for ruining us.

My Grandmother Was Young Once

Isabelle Alegria

May of 1962, just a month after her eighteenth birthday, she stood outside the closed chapel doors. Battered oak that would swing open to a crowd of people dressed in pastels, a worn carpet aisle leading to a handsome, arrogant groom. The daisy bouquet shook in her hands. She scratched at the high collar of her mother’s wedding dress, its lace yellowed with age. The bodice hung awkwardly, the waistline too big; there had been no time for alterations. Her father smiled at her encouragingly, eyes full of pride behind his thick glasses, lacing his arm through hers, his other hand clutched his cane, knuckles turning white. A childhood battle with polio left him with a considerable limp but he was determined to walk her down the aisle. She squeezed her father’s arm, the words struggled at her lips, What if he’s the wrong man? But the doors swung open, everyone staring; it was too late.

She stood at the altar, rubbing her gold cross necklace, fingers tracing each point. Her groom was tall, handsome in his suit, high cheekbones and dark eyes that glittered like obsidian, gifts from his Cherokee mother. A wealthy man, his father came home from war with gold medals and hollow eyes. The bride looked around at the congregation that crowded the creaking pews. Her two beautiful sisters sat closely to their husbands, bouncing squawking babies on their knees, their gloved hands occasionally dabbing their cheeks with handkerchiefs. Her brothers sat with their wives, scolding their children for tapping scuffed white dress shoes on the backs of pews and playing with choir books. The youngest of five, she would finally be married.

Rice showered the cracked sidewalk; a photo was taken, a blinding white flash. The bride smiled, but not in her eyes. A small reception was held in the church hall, a glass bowl filled with red punch, a tray of sandwiches with pink lunch meat,

The engine was rumbling, crème-colored leather seats hot in the Florida sun, the convertible top was down so they could wave goodbye. The bride’s mother caught her eye. Her mother’s hair was pinned back into a silver-blonde bun at the back of her neck, her grey eyes hard like pebbles, her lips drawn tightly. She offered a rigid wave, no explanations, no advice, no warning of all the pain that was to come. For years after, the bride would gaze over at her mother, in her high buttoned blouse and apron, her glossy black Sunday heels squeaking on the kitchen floor, mixing bowl at her hip, wooden spoon in hand. The bride would watch her mother, and think Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you prepare me? Why didn’t you stop me? But it wasn’t her mother’s fault. She was just one woman in a long line of mothers and daughters who didn’t know to ask questions and learned not to offer explanations.

The first year of marriage began with deployment, orders to Germany. Her husband worked hard for meager wages. Too proud and eager to impress his father, he refused to ask for financial help. At home, he sketched faces of soldiers lost, his hands covered in charcoal. He drew lost American planes, pilots still wearing helmets, their skeletal eyes expressive, teeth bared in lipless smiles. She starched his uniforms, washed the dishes, never complained. The apartment was cold. The grey German sky filled the windows with bleak light.

A worn copy of Gone with the Wind in her lap, she held a handful of popcorn; her stomach rumbled. She ate breakfast one kernel at a time. The baby screamed from his crib, chubby face flushed from crying. She scooped him up, bouncing him

Alegria • 129 yellow cheese, and wilted lettuce, a wedding cake her mother baked. Family and friends ushered them into the groom’s car, shining cherry-red paint and sparkling chrome out of place in front of the church tower, its peeling white paint and broken bell. Her husband opened the car door, stuffing her skirt in behind her, not caring that the lace was caught in the door. He refused to have cans tied to the bumper, no balloons allowed. She folded her hands in her lap, watching in disbelief as her gold wedding band sparkled in the sun.

roughly at her hip, pinching a cigarette in her other hand. She dropped ashes on the rug and swore. She kissed his round cheek. The salty taste of his tears on her lips reminded her of the day he was born. Panicked, she had rushed to the hospital, crying out for her mother and sisters who were all an ocean away. Her husband squeezed her hand, watching indifferently, pacing the bedside. Her teenage face filled with relief at the sound of the baby’s healthy cries, tears on his purple face a sign of life. The nurse bundled the baby in a blue blanket, pulling a white knitted hat on his egg-shaped head. She cried from the white cot, muttering over and over what a beautiful baby he was. Her husband said nothing. He scooped the little bundle up, looking into his son’s blue eyes.

“His name is Ronald, after his father,” he boasted proudly. She didn’t argue, lying back on the thin white pillow, sweating and exhausted. He’s happy, he’s happy, she thought, watching her husband holding the baby, his smile so handsome and rare now.

She rocked the baby clumsily; he felt awkward in her arms. Pregnant with their second child, she glanced over at the empty refrigerator fearfully. His little hands balled into angry fists, the baby wailed despite her soft lullabies. Face red and fists waving, he looked like his father. Defeated, she sat the baby on the rug, sank onto the threadbare couch, staring out at the snow. Her stomach growled as she lit another cigarette. She thought back to the Florida summer sun, oak chapel doors, what would have happened if she had the courage to say the truth: He’s the wrong man.

Contributors

Isabelle Alegria believes that poetry is a powerful way to express things that would usually be left unsaid. She writes to tell the truth.

Kendra Belton is a junior at the Collegiate High School at Northwest Florida State College. She is a voracious reader and an avid writer. She mostly writes poetry and very short stories but sometimes attempts to complete longer works. Besides her literary interests, she enjoys visiting the beach and eating cookies’n’cream ice cream.

Abby Brodzeller is 18 years old. She recently moved from Illinois down to the Niceville area and is a freshman at NWFSC currently majoring in psychology.

Elan Camaret has always enjoyed literature and read like a maniac when he had the free time that came with childhood, but never wrote creatively until recently when he enrolled in a creative writing class at the college. He has enjoyed it so much and has produced work that he never would’ve thought he could.

Adriauna Day is a twenty-one-year-old college student currently working towards her A.A. degree. In the future, she hopes to work in physical therapy in the sports medicine field.

Jameson Feeley is a junior at Collegiate High School. His hobbies include reading, drawing, and playing video games. Jameson has been practicing Taekwondo since he was five years old; he is a 2nd Degree Blackbelt. He notes that “Red Sugar” is a work of historical fiction and should not be relied upon as an academic source.

Alexa Foster enjoys writing, but she mostly keeps everything to herself in notebooks or in digital form. She is an eighteenyear-old dual-enrollment student at NWFSC who enjoys anything that involves creativity.

Contributors

Megan Gardner is in creative writing and has never tried to write before this year but is having a lot of fun learning!

Finn Harris is a junior in the Collegiate High School program and is currently taking Creative Writing I at NWFSC. He writes poetry most often, though he works on stories as well. He also enjoys caring for his pet birds, birdwatching, drawing, and collecting plastic figures from things like TV shows and comic books. He is an active member of the Raider Writers club and recently won a Raider Writers fiction contest.

ReAnne Harrison spends her time drawing, writing, and trying to figure out what to do with her life. She is currently in the process of finding more freelance illustration work. Find her art on Twitter: @tarubunart!

Ethan Howard is a dual enrollment student at Northwest Florida State College for whom writing is one of many passions and who wishes to never stop improving literary skills. This is Ethan’s first time submitting poetry to a contest of any kind.

Carter Hyde is never sure what to write for these, and he may not even exist. Carter burns all the bridges he doesn’t try to cross, or whatever it is they’re saying these days.

Dallas Le is a seventeen-year-old attending Collegiate High School and finishing up their Associates of Art Degree. They’ve been an avid reader and have turned to creating what they wish to read in books, completing NaNoWriMo 2021. Dallas has two older siblings and two younger sisters. They grew up in a Vietnamese-American household and have many dogs that have somewhat defined their upbringing.

Wallace McCarty graduated NWFSC in 2021 and is now off doing stuff... somewhere. He writes (how could you guess?) and is an inspiring filmmaker (how is that going?). He’s working on it... whatever it is...

Fiona Morris lives to see the world smile, but she writes to help herself smile.

Ron Nation served in the U.S. Army as a Combat Medic for eight years and most recently spent a little over a year as a Correctional Officer at Okaloosa Correctional Institution. At 29 years old, Ron has no formal writing experience but has found a joy in writing while attending Northwest Florida State College. He uses his personal experiences as fuel for his writing.

McCaid Paul is a dual-enrolled student from Walton High School. This is his last semester at Northwest Florida State College before he receives his A.A. degree. He hopes to one day become a full-time novelist.

Jared Smith is a senior at the Collegiate High School. He is an active participant in the Niceville High School Theatre Department and likes to make comedic videos in his free time.

Hannah Squires is a junior in high school and dual-enrolled through Northwest Florida State College. She enjoys music, writing, reading, and, more than anything, learning. Her short memoir exhibits the truth that there are some things we must let go of, no matter how hard it may be.

Julie Trinh is a Panhandle local who enjoys daydreaming, quiet silences, and, admittedly, true crime podcasts.

Carly Veach is a sophomore at Collegiate High School who enjoys reading and writing poetry as a hobby and loves being creative. They try to focus their poems on convoluted metaphors to get readers to focus on how they perceive the world and their own thoughts. They hope that their poems cause you to think.

Contributors • 133