Blackwater Review 2023

CONTRIBUTORS

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

A Journal of Literature and Art

Volume 21, No. 1

Niceville, Florida

Spring 2023

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. Jessica Temple

Prose Editor:

Kodi Richardson, MA Poetry Editor: Kathryn Young-Hunsinger, MFA

Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography:

Benjamin Gillham, MFA

Additional Photography: Ashan Pridgon, MFA

Editorial Advisory Board:

Heather Hartness Bodiford, MA; Dr. Beverly Holmes; April Leake M. Ed.; Dr. David Simmons; Dr. Christopher Snellgrove; Dr. Anne Southard; Dr. Robyn Strickland; Dr. Jill White

Art Advisory Board:

Bejamin Gillham, MFA; Ashan Pridgon, MFA; Lesha Porché, M. Arch; J. Wren Supak, MFA, MA

LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest Judges:

Claire Massey, MFA; Dr. Katherine Nelson-Born; Andrea Jones Walker, BA

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.

©2023 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Front cover artwork: Brighter in Fog, Damian Dawkins Jr.

This is all you need to know about Dr. Vickie Hunt: After she retired in May, there were two things left in her office, a karaoke machine and a box of Blackwater Reviews. The karaoke machine symbolized the joy and unconventionality of her teaching. The BWR collection reflected her love for and dedication to creative writing. Dr. Hunt was a pied piper; students followed her everywhere. She hosted readings at her house, scheduled open mic nights at a local restaurant, and facilitated BWR student readings. Students eagerly waited for the RaiderWriters to begin every Tuesday afternoon.

This issue is dedicated to Dr. Hunt (1956-2022). She was the driving force in resurrecting the current version of the BWR to showcase student writing. To this end, she dedicated 20 years of her life, marshaling funding and serving in every editorial capacity.

In honor of her contributions to Blackwater Review and our creative writing program, we are establishing the Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest. To donate to the fund from which this annual prize will be awarded, please contact the Northwest Florida State College Foundation. We missed Dr. Hunt tremendously as we created this year’s magazine, and we will continue to feel her absence. Most of all, we regret that so many of our students won’t know Dr. Hunt’s love for writing, her advocacy for students, and the joy she insisted on finding in daily life.

Acknowledgments

The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Dr. Devin Stephenson, Dr. Deidre Price, Dr. Dana 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.

Room 149

Ethan Howard

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t think of stories. Regardless of whether the worlds I imagined were those of my favorite books or ones of my own creation, I tethered my childhood to fiction as if it was my second mother. The adventures of heroes like Spider-Man and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fueled my nighttime dreams; I longed to experience and wield magic and fantasy alongside Harry Potter and Percy Jackson; I lost myself in the worlds and characters of The Legend of Zelda, Mario Bros., and Professor Layton. So, unable to travel to Hogwarts and Hyrule, I did the next-best thing: I wrote. I created my own stories, breathed life into my own characters. My worlds expanded with my years, scattering across folders of crinkled college-ruled sheets, worn-out sketch pads, and innumerous computer tabs. However, that’s where they all stayed: under my closet, on my bookshelf, or in my hard drive. I never considered that anyone would read my stories, much less that they would be enjoyed at all. Deep down, I never truly believed in the potential of my imagination. But, when I first entered through the door of Room 149, Dr. Vickie Hunt’s sanctuary of writing, the paradigm of my life shifted.

In that modest room with its tightly cramped desks and broken window blinds in the back, I found others like me: readers with thirsts for adventure so insatiable, they had nothing left to quench them with but their own words; poets who took their tears and their joys and weaved them into tapestries; visionaries, some who shared their stories for the very first time, others who wielded their pens like they’d been born with them in their hands. I found fellow lovers of adventure and magic, and they found me. But, more than any of them, it was Dr. Hunt who inspired me to break the walls I had built around my worlds. All of the statements I had told myself for so long that I believed them to be true—you don’t

have the skills, you don’t have the wits, nobody wants your pitiful stories—evaporated.

No matter how grueling the week had been, her class gave me a second wind. I came to Room 149 energized, ready to learn, ready to write. My creations outgrew the confines of my head, leaving me no place to put them but in reams of notebooks and miles of scrolling computer text. As I shared them with my new contemporaries, I didn’t know what to expect. Would they cringe? Would they laugh at me?

Instead, their reaction flabbergasted me more than anything else could have: they enjoyed my work. They invested themselves into my stories just as I did into theirs. For the first time, I had evidence that my dreams carried more substance than my fears. The hope they gave me—the hope Dr. Hunt gave me—convinced me that not only could I write, but that I had an intrinsic obligation to allow my characters to live and to breathe—even to die.

Now, I sit over the precipice of my future. I have not changed much since my childhood. I still dream of battles between heroes and villains. I still long for magic. I still lose myself in the realms of new games and old books. And, of course, I still write. The only difference is that now I can believe in these words as I type them. I can see the reflections of my peers—my writing family—in the screen, their hands on my shoulders.

I can see Dr. Hunt, sitting in that classroom, sheaving through papers with one hand and balancing her pen in the other. She gets up from her chair, looks around one last time. She smiles, knowing that she and Room 149 have fleets of new dreamers to watch over.

She steps out.

to a happier year

Jude Peck

and you are summer, warm and wild-spirited, setting my world alight with your long days and short nights.

and you are autumn, ever-changing and colorful, recreating my world with warmth and embracing me tightly.

and you are winter, keeping me cold and alert, while also keeping me comfortable holding me inside to stay warm.

and you are spring, new and alive but always familiar, constantly growing and changing yet always feeling like home to me. and you are love.

First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2023

Irreversible Climate Climax

Jake Williamson

we’ve got Twenty-Five years

Twenty-Five (slowly, let the syllables drip from your stalactite tongue)

Twenty-Five years to feel your hand muss my hair like the warm washcloth of a post-rain breeze

to feel my shoulders heave against you like a lizard clinging to a rock in the sun

to feel our tears mix together with the rain identical in their soothing power

watching the birds make their arcs against the windshields watching the gas pedal force them down against the horizon with the setting sun, there’s more left to be said, but no time

Second Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2023

(symbiosis)

Rachel Baxter

there is a thing with claws living in my ceiling. I hear it scratching scrabbling at night before I sleep I do not fear it for I know I am the lurching, thunderous creature that lives in its floor.

there is a hornet’s nest under the stairs I watch them hover and worry about I do not fear them for I know I am the large, stomping threat that looms overhead as they wait for me to pass.

Third Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2023

The Scavenger: an Excerpt

Ethan Howard

The air rippled as the first bullet whistled past Jess’s shoulder. She ducked, narrowly avoiding the second, muchbetter-aimed shot, then changed trajectory to bolt sideways down a nearby alleyway, almost slipping in fresh mud. Making sure that her jacket hood and painter’s mask were secure over her face, she weaved in a tight zig-zagging pattern to make herself harder to target. It seemed to work; another bullet struck the building beside her, spraying her with cinderblock debris.

Funny. Jess thought that with the Empire’s pragmatism, Vigils would receive better firearms training.

“Idiot! That was a breach of protocol!”

One Vigil screamed, female voice gritty with electronic distortion. Even while running at a full sprint, she tilted her head to glare at her partner, his wobbly pistol aim still attempting to follow Jess’s erratic movements. Jess could visualize her expression without needing to see past the opaque, flat visor, a stark white plate identical to the rest of the Vigils’ head-to-toe body armor. A single black stripe on their pauldrons identified them both as officers—the lowest rung on the military ladder, a position too esteemed to bother with garbage picking, but just expendable enough to chase after disguised trespassers on government property.

The second Vigil fired again and, again, missed.

“Hey! You know we’re not authorized to use lethal force unless–”

Ignoring her, the gun-wielding officer lifted his wrist to his chin.

“Officer reporting. Identifier: B-182-34. Pursuing suspect: identity unknown, Caucasian, approximately six feet tall, muscular build. Location: Substation Thirteen, Sector Five, Quadrant Three; suspect is fleeing on foot, carrying a small duffel and some kind of…I think it’s an instrument?”

Jess gripped her satchel closer to her stomach, then

reached back to grasp the neck of the guitar case strapped around her torso. For a moment, she considered unzipping it. But that was a last resort. If she did, blood would spill, and most of it would not be hers. Ending human life…she refused to do that.

Not that she lacked the ability. Really, it was that ability that scared her the most.

“You! Stop…now,” Trigger panted, “and we’ll…hold our fire!”

Are you kidding?! It’s a bit late for that…

Jess looked back to make sure the Vigils were watching and threw up a hand signal that, in hindsight, was not her brightest idea. She forgot to keep strafing.

BANG!

The crack rattled down the alley. Pain blossomed behind her right knee as the bullet burrowed into her flesh, twisting deep between the tendons. Her leg buckled and threw her down to the mud, a white-hot liquid sensation running down her calf as she tumbled, rolling shoulder-over-shoulder.

All the while she kept the satchel shielded in her arms. She couldn’t afford to damage the goods inside. Not after all the effort, and now blood, that she’d used to get them. Not to mention that if one of them broke, she would be vaporized before the thought of “what just happened” could blip from one brain cell to the next.

She sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and bounced back to her feet. Even with a limp, Jess still managed to out-pace the Vigils, pushing on through sheer adrenaline.

“Suspect…is injured, but…still…escaping!”

“If we get written up for this,” Cautious shouted, “I’m blaming it all on you!”

Safe to say, none of this had been part of the plan.

Jess careened down another, tighter street that cut in between two decaying apartment complexes. Each thundering step aggravated her wound even further, sending sharp whips of pain up her hamstring. The cold touch of metal shifted around inside her leg, just behind her kneecap.

She ducked around another corner, falling against a rusted dumpster with a clatter. So much paint had chipped off from age that it could pass for an ancient relic, but the side Jess landed against still had partially legible text: “UN-TED S--T-S WAS-E MANAG--E-T.”

Pre-Empire. The kind of artifact that belonged in a history museum, worth millions to some stuffy, socially reclusive collector, if Jess cared about that sort of sentimentality.

But she didn’t.

She dropped the jacket hood and ran her hands through her dense mane of bright scarlet-dyed hair, shaking out the sweat. It streamed down her back and shoulder—only the left, since she’d shaved a choppy undercut into the right side—and draped over her face, the coloring broken up by streaks of her natural white.

A hot prong stabbed through her knee before she could forget why she’d stopped.

She felt around her leg, fingers wriggling through the fresh hole in her black cargo pants.

And these were such a good pair, too…

She dug deeper. It didn’t take long to find the bullet hole; her hand met the slick, warm fluid running over her skin—and then another searing flash as the tip of her index finger brushed the entry wound. Grimacing, she steeled her jaw to remain as silent as possible, then jammed her thumb into the hole.

Her gut wrenched and forced her eyes to screw shut. She foraged around with them closed, searching for the bullet. After four agonizing seconds, she caught it, yanking it free in a single motion before it could slip out of her grasp. She dropped it and risked a sigh of relief. But now she needed to do something about the bleeding, and quickly, before the Vigils had a chance to catch up.

Binding the wound would take too long. She needed a hastier solution. Her fingers flexed, and an answer came to mind.

She hated it. The last thing she wanted was to rely on that part of herself. In her mind, it felt like a surrender, an admission of defeat, confessing that, deep down, she lacked the strength to survive without her father’s power. Her “gift.”

Her curse.

She pressed her hand to her torn flesh and, resigned, let energy trickle into them. Flames burst from her skin, a controlled burn that heated her fingers like soldering irons. Ignoring the disgusting, angry sizzling noise, she cauterized as much of the wound as she could reach, inside and out. The excited tingling sensation soothed the muscles like a warm shower.

Soothed. How annoying. She’d rather feel it burn. At least it distracted from the shot.

There…that should be enough, at least until I can let it heal fully. She brought her right hand out from under her and looked down at it. A dark, slippery maroon coating painted her skin the color of black cherries; darker, blacker rivulets ran like drips of oil down over her palm, over the brand that circled her wrist: the scarlet insignia of a coiled, writhing serpent, jaws closed around its own tail. The mark had never ceased taunting her; it stood out like blood against snow, even through years of razor cuts and burns that had tried and failed to remove it over and over again, no matter how many times she tried it never went away… why wouldn’t it go away?!

The longer Jess stared at her blood-soaked hand, the more something began to boil in her chest. A haze crept over her vision. The colors of her thoughts blurred and swam. More! Let there be more! I need it…

Silky strands of smoke lifted from her palm, bubbles rising from the red channels formed in the creases of her skin. Let there be more! I need it. I crave it!

She restrained her right arm with the other hand as her fingers twitched and flexed, erratic and asynchronous. She ripped off the mask as she started hyperventilating. They would be so easy. Nobody else is here. Nobody else would know. I could eat as much as I wanted! Gorge on it! Feast on it! Warm and fresh from the source…

Her heart twisted like she had been shot again. Her chest panged, her muscles strained and creaked against her bones, spastically dancing below her skin; pang, her veins exploded,

swelling, pulsing faster, coiling tight against her flesh; pang, her lungs squeezed, forcing her to breathe in, out, in, out, in, out; they burned–

Come on, come on! Let yourself live! Let yourself feast! You know you want it. You know you need it. You know you can’t stay perfect and locked up forever–

Her hand dove for her jacket pocket, opened it, and fumbled for one of the small capsules that lay there. She pulled one out, hesitated, retrieved a second pill, and shoved both painkillers into her mouth. It took a few seconds for the effects to kick in, but eventually, the burning in her arm began to die down.

She didn’t want to admit that she had grown dependent on the pills. But with how frequent the pangs had become now… at least her increased metabolism made them fast-acting. But that “perk” still created more problems than it fixed; how long until the next capsule, she wondered–Voices echoed around the corner.

“Hey! Come out and show yourself!”

Jess scrambled to her feet, re-affixing the mask over her face. Though the stabbing pain in her chest hadn’t fully disappeared, she managed to reign in her breathing and control the muscle spasms. She bore down on her injured leg to test it. It wobbled but supported her weight.

Cautious hissed something, too quiet for Jess to understand, but her partner continued to ignore her.

“I know you’re there! I’m giving you until the count of three to come out with your hands above your head!”

Jess stole another look around to plan her next moves. Heat rippled from within her palm, only for her to quell it in the same instant.

I can do this on my own.

Can I really?

It’s too much of a risk.

My whole life’s been a risk! What’s another–

“ONE!”

Jess surrendered, and her subconscious rejoiced in it. She

curled her fingers, readying a dense ball of flame that burned yellow-orange in her hand.

For all of her traits she wanted to forget, why did they all have to be so practical?

At least she’d decided upon the means to escape. But where to escape–

“TWO!”

At that precise moment, she spotted a triangular shape rising up in the distance, distinct from the blocky apartment buildings yet nowhere near as tall as the lightning pylon that loomed just beyond it. A half-demolished steeple topped with an iron cross lacking one of its arms.

Jess exhaled.

Well this isn’t predictable at all…

She waited until—

“THREE!”

—then launched into a full sprint. She turned to look back as the Vigils rounded the corner. The officer on point raised his firearm. Marking her target, Jess reared her hand back then hurled the fireball.

It struck the dumpster and exploded in a heatwave that flash-warmed the entire alleyway. The blast blew the dumpster away from the wall and directly into the Vigils’ path.

“A-oh–!”

His next word garbled beneath a resounding clang, followed by the clatter of a person crumbling to the ground, and then the softer clattering of said person’s firearm being involuntarily thrown into the side of a cinderblock building.

“The– the suspect is armed with some kind of IED! I– we–” Cautious finished for him.

“DISENGAGING!”

Jess focused her vision on the steeple, clamping her satchel to her side, and just ran.

(incorporated)

Rachel Baxter

you can tell it by his hands. signed and dotted with those telltale nicks & burns & his forearms are tanned even on the inner tender meat from so many flashes of searing bright flame. he tells me in 12 hours this meat will be falling apart. I hear I’m so excited to see your face when you take a bite. he’s made dishes that don’t even have names–& he’s checked, thumbed through the hundreds of cookbooks he walked away with when the used bookstore shuttered its doors. there are post-its breadcrumbed between the pages, color coordinated for seasons rating difficulty & pale green ones are the ones he’s cooked on every last one of our dates: written, on each, in his chef’s all caps CON MI AMOR, followed by the date. he forgets many things: doctor’s appointments, brunch dates, even his own birthday but I don’t think he’s ever forgotten my thoughts on every dish he’s ever cooked for me. the end of a bad day always consoles me with my favorite: a single chocolate croissant, flaky and buttery perfection. when I’m traveling and he misses me. I can see stacks of mixing bowls in the background of our video calls. I know I’ll come home to pink velvet, or churro, or mimosa confections that he thought of me while concocting start to finish so I swore off store-bought treats for life. when we died, it was him first. an unruly oyster took him and I never ate again.

[dr. pepper-

James Land

everything is a reflection bright red can, just like your lips ungodly sweet, with a bitter aftertaste these hundred and fifty calories is all i need every day but you wouldn’t be so bad, either]

A Dream is a Wish That Your Heart Makes

Kendra Belton

Imagine having a beautiful, identical twin sister, and immediately knowing when she’s been split into shards. It’s dreadful, believe me. Whatever you just imagined, I can guarantee that reality is worse. It is almost as if you’re the one being shattered into a million pieces, not her. It’s like looking into a mirror and watching yourself crumble, piece by piece, into a fine dust. Except that you can’t even watch it happen because you might as well be a thousand miles away. It probably feels worse that way, not being able to see it, not being able to do anything to help her...

I think it probably hurt me more than anyone else, but I suppose that I was the lucky one, even though I didn’t realize it at first. She was left out in the open air, just a little bit too big for our host’s slightly lopsided anatomy. We screamed out for each other as I was being pulled away, but no one heard us, of course. At least, no one paid us any attention. Still, I couldn’t help wishing that, even if we had to be separated, we were in opposite positions. I am—was—the adventurous one, after all.

I still hold on to the image of her, stranded on that stair step, listening to the clock strike twelve. She should have run, she really should have. But she didn’t! Why she waited there, alone and shrouded in darkness, I will never understand. If she hadn’t, she would still be whole. If she hadn’t, I would still be whole.

If I was the one left out in the open like that, I’d be well on my way to China by now, hitching a ride with some unsuspecting traveler. Or else I’d find a way to follow her. Why didn’t she follow me?

Regardless, I’d be mourning the entire time, of course. I can’t bear to live without my sister. At least she’d still be alive if I’d been the one to be left behind.

But that’s what happened, and I can’t change it, and

you’re probably wondering where I am now. Well, I was closed up in a dark closet for what felt like ages, and I’m not sure why. When I was finally let out, I was shoved into a fabric sack and bumped down some stairs. There were horrible sounds— absolutely dreadful. I knew that they belonged to my sister. She cried out to me because she felt that I had entered the room. She screamed about the blood that was seeping into her as she passed from host to host. She didn’t understand. One moment, she’d been magicked into the world, and the next, she was forced upon person after person. I didn’t understand either. I still don’t.

Before I could escape from my portable prison, I heard one last shout, and she broke. With her, so did my soul.  And now a hand is drawing me out of the sack and placing me gently on a foot. I can’t see anything because I am crying so hard, but my heart leaps just a little because my host is rejoicing that she will marry the prince that we met on that magical night so long ago.

Wildflower

Kenneth Miller

Wildflowers of Mays, Abruptly set ablaze. Burnt to their roots

Withered in a haze.

Beauty vanishes

As the world blackens. Such a sad truth to know That this is why it happens.

A life without boundaries

Is sure to invite strangers, Seductive glory with all Its inherent dangers.

But how was I to know? What was I to do?

I’m just a wild flower That fell victim to you.

Spring cleaning

Kayden Peets

When you left, I started a fire in front of my house. No, I didn’t burn your clothes; I burnt my own. Every skirt that you said I looked good in, every graphic tee that you bought me, and every dress that you made love to me in are now a pile of ashes. I couldn’t handle every time I wore my clothes the fabric hugged my skin as if your hands were still all over me. I couldn’t get rid of your touch or even the memory of it. Like a fingerprint, I burned it off to get rid of any trace you left. People asked me, if I burned my own clothes, then what did I do with yours, and I simply tell them I needed a new wardrobe.

Lighthouse in a Storm

Ethan Howard

I never imagined it possible for a place to die. But standing here within the wreckage of our once-home, I’m confronted with the evidence. The rafters are bare, relieved of drywall, yellow insulation fuzz strewn across the ground in an architectural massacre. A light fixture hangs by a single twisted wire. I’m careful not to bump my head or glance my shoulder on it, lest I get zapped. I know there’s no way the power is on, but still. Capacitors can shock you to death even when they’re unplugged. That’s why you don’t try to fix microwaves without an electrician, or, at least, that’s why according to YouTube. Does this light even have a capacitor?

I guess it’s a good thing I’m not an electrician.

I take another step, daring deeper into the gory maw, watching my footing to avoid stepping on stray fiberglass. That stuff freaking hurts when you get it on you. The carpet squelches under my shoe, grossing me out a little. I look up to see gray clouds peeking through the shingles.

Plop. Water lands on the tip of my nose like a teardrop. I can’t tell if it came from the mildewed ceiling beams or the brooding Floridian sky above. Either way, it feels like another slap in the face on top of the beating that I–

No, that’s selfish. I should say, the beating this building has sustained.

It just makes me more angry at it all. At what our Lighthouse had become. Well, that’s what we called the place anyways; the repurposed building had served as our go-to hangout for years, just off the campus of the First Baptist Church. For all the love and time we had poured into this place, it just didn’t feel fair to have it taken away too.

My foot decides to take it out on a styrofoam fast-food cup. I watch it bounce across the room—sloshing inferior Pepsi on the already-wet carpet—and land next to a small collapsible

party table. The cup, the table; there are so many forgotten things here. Or maybe ‘forgotten’ isn’t the word. No one had prepared for the storm.

I remember one evening before the storm. We had gone to Sonic together for company and cherry-limeades. I hadn’t imagined the direction the conversation would take, but looking back now, it was inevitable what we would end up discussing.

“Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean you guys are leaving?”

As the fluorescent bulbs hummed overhead, I had asked that question half-hoping to hear a “just kidding” in return. Instead the group had just stared at me, blank-faced.

“Well dude, it’s just…” One of them, a dark-haired guy with vibrant blue eyes and a worrying Dr. Pepper addiction, scratched his head before fanning himself with his t-shirt. “… I don’t really know a good way to say it. Wednesday nights just won’t be the same without Pastor Jeff.”

“But what about the band!?” I had asked in return. “Every one of the old players have left. All we’ve had is my keyboard, one soprano, and your drums. That’s pushing bare minimum, even on the simple hymns!”

He’d given a jittery shrug, grabbing his third Dr. Pepper of the evening with an olive-skin hand and gulping down a generous sip.

“Sorry, man. I just wouldn’t feel right not supporting him, you know?”

“…Yeah.” By this point, I was looking down, pressing my nails into the plastic tabletop and seeing how far I could make the keratin bend. The pressure helped to ease my nerves a little bit. “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m being selfish.”

“Look, you’re loyal to First Baptist, I get it. It’s not like I hate the people there or anything, it’s just–”

“Please, let’s be real.” Another youth had interjected, tossing her bright blonde ponytail over her shoulder. “You know the real reason they’re giving Jeff the boot. Talk all they want about the budget and whatever, the plain truth is that the ancient old coots runnin’ all the committees just don’t like him

Howard • 19

and wanna see him leave. All the finance stuff just happens to be a nice convenient excuse. They’ve never cared about him, or us, or the Lighthouse, and you know it.”

The circle of heads nodded in tandem agreement, offering individual commentary. They reminded me of those bobblehead figurines of famous baseball players. The kind that you just look at it, and, for no real reason at all, you just wanna flick it, as hard as you possibly can, right in the noggin.

I kept my head down.

“Of course you think that. You all want to have your little clique, and this one has just outgrown its usefulness. You’re just mad about it because you can’t live without needing something to be vindictive about. Now it’s all about who’s Team Blue or Team Red, left or right. God forbid anyone wants to be an independent in the whole ordeal. All your talk about excuses and loyalty and care, yet you’re taking advantage of the situation to start fights and build factions and shirk responsibilities. Fine then. Have your toxic cake and eat it too.”

… Is probably what I would have said then, had I the energy or the guts. After all, what did I know? Instead, I had just stayed shut up and sitting down. I didn’t want to delve into that hurricane by myself. Either way, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that, in a few weeks’ time, not even our old meeting house would be left intact.

Plop. Another water droplet hits me in the face, and I’m brought out of reminiscence. I continue dredging through the bowels of the Lighthouse, making my way up a small set of steps and onto the stage. It really wasn’t much of a stage, only enough space for a keyboard, drum set, and two singers, but it was enough. Standing here, I can kind of hear the old songs we used to play.

Oh, happy day, happy day… … …

I loved playing that song. Maybe it was just that I got to slam the F major chord with the fury of a thousand jackhammers, but there was something about it that was just so fun. After the band-leader torch had passed down to me, I

had made sure that the song was on our regular rotation as often as possible. Something about that feedback-y old sound system just added to the experience. Everyone was alight in this place, souls bared and unified by that thumping, constant beat. In those moments it really was a lighthouse. A beacon. I guess the hopeful child in me just never realized it could go out.

As I step down from the stage, I accidentally bump into something. It’s Jeff’s tiny wooden pulpit. Covered in insulation and pieces of ceiling tile now, but it’s in surprisingly good condition. Something bumps my foot, and I realize I’ve knocked one of the aged King James Bibles to the ground. I look down at the leather-hugged cover. It’s starting to soak up some of the excess water from the squishy, brown carpet. For some reason, call it romanticism, it feels wrong to just leave it there. I pick it up gently, careful not to damage the frail pages. Not all of the floor grime wipes off easily. But I’ve done my part. I set it back on the pulpit.

I’m ready to leave, to get out of here, yet I can’t resist the temptation. I pinch the front cover with a pale and trembling hand. Slowly, it lifts. As it turns, I get the feeling I’m yanking off the lid of a casket. A single object sits there between the leather and the first page. A picture.

It’s us, or at least, what used to be “us.” All posing by a gleaming lakeside, wearing identical gray t-shirts, mine a size too large. One man stands in the center, his smile so inconspicuous yet so palpable I can’t help but have all of my attention drawn to him. His tanned arms are outstretched, pulling us all close together. I can see the promise behind his eyes.

I will always be here for y’all. This is a family. Don’t forget that.

Even though the clouds still, a single raindrop falls.

Story of Space

Callista Talbert

Space was a black canvas, stretching forever.

Then it was painted.

Stars seeming to be small freckles on the canvas, Or giant balls of light.

Planets painted in different hues, Each stroke of colour giving a different story: Green was a tale of life, Grey one of nothingness, Red one of fire and destruction, And so on.

The canvas itself was sprayed with watery shades of Green and purple and orange. Space is a painting of infinite depth.

Every colour has a meaning, Every time you look closer you find something new, Every layer showing a new story.

The canvas would stretch forever: Artists on every edge, painting their planets and stories.

Or maybe they’d go back and change a story they didn’t enjoy. An asteroid here, a new life form there.

Space is an art you can keep looking at forever and never stop enjoying.

Giant, golden eyes

Dragon

Colby Daigle

Set, unblinking, in black scales

I am the dragon

Drowning Dr. Pepper

Jake Williamson

And so, the police sped off with my father for the second time that year. It had been only the week before he had excitedly announced it was all behind us over Sunday family dinner. “I got the lawyers to file the papers to end it all,” he had said, barely able to contain his smile, weary from the long day of sermons he had given.

“Where’s daddy?” asked Ellie, a confused frown on her face. She stood in a line with my other younger siblings, watching me watch the painfully idyllic street. I could not move. Moving would make it real. I could pretend for now my father was just out of sight. That the windows were paintings in an art gallery, and I was just empathizing with some tortured artist.

A car flew past at speeds resembling those of a jet shattering the sound barrier. Time began to blow past me. All six of my siblings were looking at me. Fear was dripping off my face. It was in my eyes like sunscreen, blinding me, and they could see it. They had already started talking among themselves. I needed to say something.

“It’s ok, alright? There’s no rea – nothing wrong,” I stuttered out. Could they understand what was happening? I had to call Mom before they put it together.

They were young. Complex terms like “arrested” were beyond their comprehension. Except for George. He was already ten. He was stoic and silent and staring directly at me. We stood like two nuclear launch crewmen preparing to turn our keys. I instead slid my phone from my pocket and stepped away from the front door and into the kitchen.

The phone rang and rang. I was shivering, pressing the phone hard into the side of my face. The vibrations were soothing. It felt like I was holding a carefree cat directly against my face. I felt strangely tired, even though it was the middle of the day. It continued the buzzing as I swayed in the kitchen. I

was calm; I was unable to reach this number at this time. Would I like to leave a message after the beep?

The cat was gone. My face felt vulnerable, like shaving after growing out a full beard. What was I supposed to say?

“You need to come home,” my voice began to quiver. “Now,” it cracked.

I ended the call the second the words left my throat. With every word I had spoken, it had become more real. I just needed to calm down. Nothing had been given away to the kids. They still didn’t know.

Okay. She hadn’t picked up. I tried to recall the instructions she had left for situations like this. Believing them to be unnecessary, I had tried to scrape them out of my head. I put my thumb against my forehead while closing my eyes and concentrated hard.

“If anything ever happens or somebody comes to the door that you don’t recognize and you are alone with the kids, just call me. I’ll tell you what to do from there, okay?” My mom had patiently explained this to me every time she embarked on a long, treacherous post-church trek to Publix every Sunday. Alright, await further instructions? I could easily do that, even with both hands behind my back. Cold, smooth steel in my hand. The phone was no longer softly purring me to sleep. I should have done something. This was my responsibility. Years of life I had spent lovingly with this phone. It was there every morning to wake me up, share interesting facts, even whisper audiobooks to me as I fell asleep. I had just let it go without even a word of protest!

My thoughts were interrupted as Lydia, the youngest, ran screaming into the kitchen. She leapt at me and seized my arm, twisting it to pull me down to her three-year-old face. She was crying in the way only babies can: with a complete disregard for the limits of the human voice. It scratched across the ceiling and leapt back down to bury itself deep in my ears. She knew.

“The pigs! The pigs!” she shrieked.

It was worse than I thought. Not only did she know, but she had also already processed the full implications of these

events, developed a theory of state monopoly of violence, and radicalized to the point she was calling the police “pigs.” George sprinted in, eavesdropping on our anarchist aside.

“The guinea pigs! They’re still outside!” He turned and ran towards the backdoor.

Of course! Right before it happened, we had been about to bring the poor things inside. It was the middle of summer! They couldn’t handle the humidity of an average summer afternoon in Florida for longer than thirty minutes. I glanced at the oven clock: 3:00! They were supposed to be in by 2:30 at the latest.

I shook Lydia off gently but firmly. This was a tragedy unlike anything I had ever seen. I was out the back door right as George scooped up the first guinea pig, Mr. Bean, off the ground. He had been laying underneath Dr. Pepper, the other guinea pig, who was now sprawled sideways. I charged forward and grabbed him with both hands. His brown fur felt like hot concrete. I pulled him right side up, eye-to-eye. Guinea sweat was dripping off his face. In his eyes was a pure, animalistic fear. It was arcing through the air like an electrical current. It was more than fear; it was confusion. Why was the sun so hot? Why wasn’t his body created to automatically regulate his core temperature? Why had he been abandoned at the critical moment, where he needed support more than ever? We contemplated these questions together, having a full discussion with only our eyes. Then Dr. Pepper began foaming at the mouth.

I quickly pulled him close, cradling him against my breast as I sprinted inside. I came in to see all six of my siblings cluttered around Mr. Bean. He was shaking, but that could have had more to do with his anxiety issues than any health crisis. Dr. Pepper began pulsing and vomited up an ugly orange paste onto my shirt. I quickly tried to come up with some plan. Overheated and dehydrated for certain and probably heatstroke too, he had maybe minutes. There was an old rocking chair, a lamp, a family portrait on the mantle, and a ceiling fan. No, none of that was helpful. I needed something that actually functioned, some way to cool the pig down. Mud cooled pigs down.

I smacked the side of my head. What was I thinking? I was wasting precious seconds. I rocked back and forth on my heels. A fog was rolling into my head and corroding my neurons. Lay down, I internally screamed at myself. At least get a drink or something before you faint.

A drink! I had to get Dr. Pepper a drink. Twelve eyes spun to watch my frantic dash into the kitchen. I pinned the slowly squirming pig against my chest with one hand and cranked the sink faucet to maximum with the other. The water burst out into the sink, like a water hose against a burning building. Little specks of water splashed against my face as the water began to fill up the sink.

I thrust the pig’s head underneath the roaring spout of the kitchen sink. He writhed like an ancient whale being torn apart by a harpoon. Life was coming back to him. I had pulled him safely onto the boat. The water was several inches high and rising. Dr. Pepper violently shivered as I moved him out of the beam of water. I was helping him, no matter what the sun or the world had to say about it. He coughed and vomited again; his head still hot from fever.

Massive rippling waves of water slammed against the sink as I shoved Dr. Pepper beneath the surface. He wasn’t squirming. Why? Why did I leave him outside? No, why did the sun have to be so hot today? Why didn’t he crawl and hide from it? What a pathetic creature. How was I supposed to respect a guinea pig that couldn’t even defend himself? If I threw him into even the children’s park that was completely free of danger, he would just sit and starve as I sped off down the road, abandoning him.

There was hardly a gasp for air as I lifted Dr. Pepper back out of the basin. His back arched at an unnatural angle. A seizure? It must be heatstroke. His legs began to flail wildly like a flipped cockroach, tearing nasty red gashes across my forearms. He really was a cockroach, just vermin. I shoved him back under the water, half out of desperation and half out of anger. I was doing my best here. Could he not appreciate that? I didn’t forge the sun, decide on the weather, or decide to move

to Florida where there was unbearable heat. Why was it on me to hold him here? I had a life as well. How long could this last? Was the rest of my life going to be spent at this sink endlessly splashing water onto Dr. Pepper? I didn’t ask for this! What was I supposed to have done? The sun was beyond my control. I raised Dr. Pepper out of the water. He was supposed to be better now. The water was supposed to renew everything. He was motionless.

My eyes were locked on Dr. Pepper’s as I held him at arm’s length. We stood over the sink together, water dripping from his outstretched arms. His eyes were glazed over and dull. Some blood where his nails had cut me dripped into the still full sink. How could I believe in the sun now? It wasn’t anymore. It was a large gaseous collection of atoms that had already feasted on Guinea pork and was coming for me in five billion years. The sun was God. It could tear the roof off our house and toy with me because no one could stop it. It could knock on our door any day of the week and drag my father away. I couldn’t kill the sun.

Ancient Winds on a Newborn Day

Ethan Hyland

Carrying the larks and the ravens, Raising the birds forever upward, These gusts roar with life. Ancient winds on a newborn day.

Eroding the ever-strong rocks, Bashing away the glacier-like layers, These gusts roar with power. Ancient winds on a newborn day.

Rushing the water down the brooks, Releasing the life-giving liquid, These gusts roar with enrichment. Ancient winds on a newborn day.

These breezes grant eternity. All of these ancient winds on a newborn day.

Just Getting Started

Hannah Squires

When you are young, you are told you can accomplish anything you put your mind to. At four years old, I wanted to be an artist like my mother. At six, I dreamed of being a hairdresser and even carried this passion into my Halloween costume. At nine, I decided I would be the first professional female football player. At eleven, I was telling everyone who would listen that I was going to cure cancer. And at thirteen, I figured I was already on my way to becoming a musical superstar. I know what you’re thinking. Her poor parents! Sometimes I wonder how they raised me with such grace. My parents never told me who I had to be. They never pushed me to play sports, play an instrument, or even enroll in my mother’s art classes. The guidance they offered was much more meaningful than all of this. No matter what hobbies I indulged in, they only pushed one concept; education. They aided me in understanding that as long as you are happy, passionate, and, most importantly, educated in what you are pursuing, you can build a great life and career.

I learned how to effectively debate from a young age. How to back a claim with evidence, how to summarize a counterargument, and how important it is to always cite your sources. I practiced a lot with my parents. My claim usually consisted of wanting to spend time out past my curfew. I suppose you could simultaneously call me a rebellious child and an ambitious young woman. It was no surprise what occupation I decided on in my freshman year of high school. I was going to be a lawyer. I was adequate at debating, I thoroughly enjoyed research, and I wanted to wear fancy pantsuits. Most importantly, I knew I could make good money. What could possibly go wrong?

I quickly learned that what could go wrong was a drastic move away from all of my friends and everything I loved. Moving to an unfamiliar, unaccepting, and unnecessarily hot place did not help this. Moving to Florida caused me to spiral

into a deep depressive episode. I did not want to read, I did not want to sing, and I certainly did not have the fire in me to research and analyze court cases for my English class. I was a distressed sophomore in a school I despised, I had friends that were never sober, and I no longer had passion for things I once loved.

However, my junior year took a turn for the better. I transferred to a high school where I could dual enroll and go to college full time. Even still, I had to start over. I had grown to hate school, but now it was getting more serious than ever. I had college applications coming up, and I didn’t even know what I wanted to pursue anymore. However, school here felt different. It was not my old high school. It was not pointless papers, pop quizzes, and wasted time. My classes were led by deep, analytical thinkers. Like myself, my peers had a passion for learning and exploration. I had never experienced this. Slowly, I fell back in love with education. I was excited to go to class, to read, and to talk to my professors. I met great friends who shared interests with me. I took classes I loved and mastered the information so much I could almost teach it. So, I decided I would.

Like many young students, I find my priorities shifting. Financial success was my motivator. I now realize that finances are only one of many considerations in determining my vocation. My parents have always said that if you do what you love, the money will come. I have found now that they are right. My greatest desire is to have a job that I love and will help change the world. I believe the best occupation to achieve this is being a professor. I am a living example of how education can change people’s lives. I would like to provide the same experience for others. I am just getting started.

[situational soulmate -

James Land

your favorite thing is sakura blossom leaves, but i don’t know your middle name. you’ve been to the emergency room a half-dozen times, but i don’t know your birthday. we’re friends, right?

a stupid question, you say, but i’m not so sure. i rephrase it—what are we? and it’s the first time you’ve ever been silent.]

(selkies)

Rachel Baxter

I slip my skin I split my skin underneath red blood white fat gutted fish

I snap and crick and snick away at each porcelain piece of myself & I toss it to the gulls because I know this false skin, and tear away just enough that when I spill into the water ((midnight sneakout, shallow breath, lightfoot steps)) the cold water seeps through to the underneath & reminds my body not to forget the sea I can’t sleep when the tide is high or if there’s any hint of the moon lingering at my window so instead I check every last one of my husband’s hangers & hope to find my skin.

Bitter

Ethan Howard

I look down at her pallid body, White glaze like faded enamel. Her murky contents left forlorn, Forgotten. Slowly, I sip.

Lukewarm acid assaults my tongue; She contorts, defiles my lips.

I harken back to an ancient ten minutes ago, When the coffee-pot still roiled With tantalizing vigor.

I poured, Bitter ichor slipping soundlessly from the spout, Filling my cup with liquid delight. Notes of decadence lilted Like a waltz from her well. Rich, yet subtle blankets of Columbian soil, The tender, supple oils Of freshly ground beans. Concerto of flavors, Symphony for my senses.

An errant blip of thought, Some chore or errand, Blared in my mind. All concern for my cherished one Dissipated.

Ten minutes pass. I finally grasp my oversight, Rushing to my beloved, Praying for a single filament of hope. Now that too has burned away.

All that remains of her Is cold, Bitter, Languishing, Dead.

Perfectly Broken

Elizabeth Kelly

Don’t cry It isn’t over yet

The blurry pictures and the blurry hopes and the blurry memories and the blurry losses and… Well, they will fade eventually, as all things do

But not yet (Everything is more perfect when it is fated to be lost.)

I think it’s over

The blurry pictures and the blurry hopes and the blurry memories and the blurry losses and… Well, they have already faded And I know I will cry

As soon as your back is turned and you think that I’m okay to be left alone

(But everything is more beautiful when it is already lost.)

The snow falls outside

The grey sky weeps white

The gifts are under the tree; the candles are lit… And I am alone

And you are alone (It is Christmas Eve.)

I remember when the choir sang Silent Night in the church When you came up behind me

Underneath the stars

And hugged my waist and kissed and kissed and kissed me… And it was snowing (I didn’t think that anything so perfect could ever break so much.)

Could you wait in the rain?

Could you stand at the train station for another hour?

Could you run after me?

Could I run after you?

Could we have lasted…?

(No amount of wishing can make dreams come true.)

I’ve spent my tears And I’ve wished to see your red scarf In those awful shopping crowds that throng the city streets every year…

And when it is dark and snowing and I am alone I whisper into the stillness (I can’t seem to breathe when you’re not with me.)

The Elegance of Music

Ethan Hyland

When the lavish melodies soothe the ears, Everyone listens and hears. The tranquil woodwinds, the roaring brass, The rhythmic percussion, all with class.

The melding of melody and harmony. The music now seeks its destiny. Here comes the crescendo, And now, a diminuendo.

The sound, it rises and falls. With every note, the ending calls, For everyone expects the abrupt, And the beautiful noise will now go up.

The fortuitous end which forever beckoned, It comes with a roar from the back end.

From the flutes to the trumpets, from the tubas to the timpani, It all stops, but no one is ready.

The beauty of the sound, it comes, and it goes, For the idea known as music, it shines, and it shows.

Isabella Bartholomew

Clay dreaming of the moon

Kate Beliaeva

Digital Illustration

Cassidy Cunningham Take Heed, Traveler

Alexus Forte

Photograph Night Life

Even Dying Flowers are Pretty

Franklin Photograph

Pencil

Sterling Howard

A Certain Scene

Life in the Garden

Joanna Johnson

David Laird Photograph Mocking Bird

Mary Plenge Equally

Audrey Schuster

Eyes on the Prize

Keely Sims

Photograph

Spring of Human Knowledge

Digital Illustration

Jakob St Onge

Watkins Photograph Heavens and Earth

Gina

The Perception of Stillness

Haley Williamson Photograph

Tools of the Trade

Thomas Witt

Palm Reader

Isabelle Alegria

A canopy of twisting oak branches shaded artists, their vibrant paintings hung on the black iron gate, paper sale tags fluttering in the breeze. Three young boys sat shirtless on the ground behind overturned white plastic buckets, drumming with wooden sticks, the fast-paced rhythm filling the air. Sweat glistened on their brows. Their rusted bicycles lay on the sidewalk beside them. I threw a few dollars in the jar. The pristine Puritan face of the church watched over it all: the artists, the musicians, the tourists with their flashing cameras. Palm readers crowded the street of Jackson Square. Reanna walked from table to table, eyeing the palm readers as they worked, whispering prophecies and promises.

“What about him?” I asked, glancing over at a man in a purple top hat, a stack of tarot cards on his table. Heavy dreadlocks tangled with bits of shell, and feathers snaked out from under his top hat. He wore a black vest over a buttoned shirt and heavy crystals around his neck.

“No, he’s too flashy,” Reanna sighed. Her dark eyes turned to me. “If I’m going to do this, it has to be the real deal, Belle.” She bounced on the toes of her orange Vans, continuing her slow stride past each table. Her brow creased as she listened to each palm reader decipher the lines in the hands of strangers. Finally, she stopped at a fold-up table covered in a quilted cloth. A battered conch shell, chipped and cracked, sat on the table along with strange bottles of liquids with labels like “Florida Water.” A wipe board with curling letters written in orange marker read: “PALM, TAROT, SPIRITUAL ADVISOR.” Reanna turned to me excitedly.

“That’s it. She’s the real deal,” Reanna whispered, eyeing the woman who sat at the table. The woman wore a long sunshine-yellow dress, an emerald green turban knotted around her head. Plastic Mardi Gras beads hung from her neck, glittering silver, gold, and purple in the sun. Heavy metal bracelets clinked together at her wrists, plastic jewel rings

crowded her fingers. A dot of gold face paint shone on the dark skin of her face. I looked at my younger cousin skeptically.

“She’s the real deal?” I asked.

“Yup, I can feel it.” Reanna nodded, taking my hand and pulling me into the line of tourists waiting to have their future told. We watched as the woman whispered passionately to each client, holding a small umbrella in Mardi Gras colors, purple, yellow, and green, trimmed in feathers, to shield her face from the sun. Reanna folded her arms over her chest; her white t-shirt was spotted with sweat at her back, long dark hair tucked behind her ears. She bounced on her toes as we waited, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jean shorts. I twisted my necklace, my thumb running over the inscription on the delicate gold bar: 9/26/18. The necklace was a gift from my boyfriend, inscribed with our anniversary. At eighteen, throwing around the word “anniversary” made us feel so grown up. I wondered what “the real deal” would have to say about him.

Finally, our turn came. Reanna sat down in a white plastic folding chair, her hands knotted together in her lap. The palm reader smiled at Reanna, her large dark eyes pools of mystery. I sat beside my cousin in a twin chair, my hands shaking softly. What would the nuns at school say about this? Was this evil? Would I leave here possessed?

“Hello, Star Queen.” She smiled, turning to me. “Hold this and keep the sun off yourself.” I nodded, taking the obnoxiously colored umbrella from her hand. The drawl of her voice hung in the air like a wisp of smoke, sweet as a tall glass of tea dripping condensation, a lemon wedge on the rim. If the bricks of Jackson Square could talk, it would be in that voice. She turned back to Reanna.

“Your palms,” she asked coolly. Reanna uncurled her hands.

“I um, I’m not sure I wanna go first. Belle?” Reanna turned to me, an unspoken question pleading in her eyes. The palm reader turned to me.

“Well come on, Star Queen, put your palms down,” she cooed. Reanna quickly curled her hands up like fern leaves and tucked them in her lap, crossing one leg over the other.

She looked at me, her dark eyes flecked with gold, her irises the color of honey in the sunlight. She pursed her lips softly. Please, her face asked, long lashes fluttering softly around her doe eyes. I sighed, handed Reanna the umbrella, and lay my palms facing up on the table. I shot her a look, my blue eyes sharpening. If I get possessed, it’s on you. She smiled.

The palm reader traced a long finger over the creased pink skin of my palms. She jerked her hand back suddenly, as if electrically shocked.

“What is it?” I asked, turning to look at Reanna who watched the palm reader, her lips parted slightly in awe.

“What have you been up to? You have something evil on your hands. You been walking around this city touchin’ old things?” The woman asked, screwing the top off a bottle of pale green liquid labeled “Florida Water.”

“Well, I’ve been touring plantation houses. Maybe something from one of them?” I offered shyly. She didn’t reply, placing the top of the bottle on the table, she poured pale green liquid all over my palms.

“What’re you doing?” I jerked my hands back, shaking the liquid off them.

“No, you must’a touched somethin’. You had a spirit on your hands. That Florida water will git rid of it. Rub it into your skin, it won’t hurt you.”

I glanced over at Reanna; her amber eyes were wide. She nodded at me. Hesitantly, I rubbed my hands together. The Florida water had a heavy floral scent, like wilted flowers.

“Is that good enough?” I asked the palm reader. She nodded. I placed my damp palms back on the table, my knee bouncing involuntarily, the dirty toe of my Converse digging into the cobblestone. An evil spirit was not a good start. The palm reader pulled a small wooden stick, the size of a chopstick, from a heavy bag at her feet. She placed it to a crease in my palm, tracing the thin line. Her brow furrowed.

“Awww, Star Queen, you have a sweet spirit. You attract just ‘bout everything. You’ll attract bad people, people who will think they can take advantage of you.” She looked up at me,

dark eyes flickering and smiled, “They’re wrong.” She traced the stick down another line of my palm.

“I can see now why you were at the plantation houses.” She laughed softly. “You’re a kind of medium; when you touch old things you feel a connection to ‘em, it’s why you love history. You didn’t choose history, Star Queen, it chose you.”

I glanced at Reanna, my blue eyes wide. Just last week I had considered changing my major from English Literature to American History. A small panic rose in my chest. Reanna smiled encouragingly at me, pulling my two long blonde braids behind my shoulders.

“You’re a natural healer; you’ll heal your mother,” The palm reader said matter-of-fact.

“Heal my mother?” I repeated softly. She didn’t reply, tracing the lines of my palms so gently goosebumps sprouted on my arms despite the heat. My parents still were waiting on the paperwork to finalize the divorce; my father hadn’t been home in months. A single phone call ended twenty-four years of marriage.

“Just tell me,” My mother’s tone was casual. The sound of my father’s breathing crackling, static and suspenseful on the speaker phone. “There’s someone else, and I want a divorce.” The phone fell out of her hand, its glass screen cracking on the kitchen tile.

“Forgive your mother. Pray for your father.” Her voice was gentle, sorrowful. Her eyes met mine, their expression soft as sparrow feathers. Could she feel this pain?

“I don’t think I have anything to forgive my mother for…” My voice faded. That first day after the phone call I refused to talk to my mother.

She lay on the couch, her hands trembling, her voice far away, as if my father had died. “I’m going to Nick’s,” I called flippantly from the front door, sunglasses hiding the red puffiness in my eyes, a blue velvet scrunchie holding my long gold curls back from my face.

“Okay baby, drive safe. I love you,” she whispered. I sighed, slamming the door behind me. I couldn’t look at her. She didn’t do anything wrong, she was just the only one that was there, the only one to place the blame on.

“You’re a strong woman, stronger than you think. You’re so worried about your future, but it’ll all be okay, Star Queen.”

My college class schedule at Northwest Florida that coming fall flashed in my mind, Practical Applications of Math, Biology, English I, American History. A terrible knot twisted in my stomach when I read the classes, could I do it?

I remembered being a tiny girl, first grade, standing in front of my class, tiny hands trembling as they held a school book.

“Isabelle, please read,” Mrs. O’Neil asked, hushing the class. I looked down at my paper, but the letters were scrambled, undecipherable as a bowl of alphabet soup. Lowercase d’s and b’s reversed themselves. Letters drifted across the page. I couldn’t catch them.

“I, uh, um, I…” I looked up at the class. A girl with a pink bow in her hair giggled. My hands shook harder.

“That’s enough, thank you. Please sit down, Isabelle.”

Defeated, I sank into my plastic desk, wishing to be invisible, wishing to be smart.

The palm reader interrupted my memory. “Your husband’s name will be Anthony—”

“Anthony? No, my boyfriend’s name is Nick,” I corrected her. She shook her head, a small smile at her lips.

“You’ll marry a man named Anthony, but you’ll never call him Tony. You’ll have four children, three girls and a boy.” She traced my palm gently. “You’ll be a very important woman, Star Queen. Important to your family, important in politics. Your future is on the East coast.”

“Four children?” I muttered. “The East coast?” For years I had printed out pictures of North Carolina, sticking them to the cork board over my bed. I dreamt of wild horses splashing through seafoam, hiking mountain trails, hearing the crunch of red and orange leaves beneath my boots, gazing out at mountain ranges and writing poems on lined paper, poems that would be published.

“Do you have any questions for me, Star Queen?” She asked softly.

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered softly, slightly dazed. “It’s Reanna’s turn.”

Koré

Alexandra Wells

My eyes slowly opened as the sound of beeping machines rang through my ears. A familiar set of faces stared at me with tears and relieved and joyful smiles. Mom, Dad? A sudden wave of exhaustion and soreness rushed through my body like a fierce current as I tried to sit up. I let out a groan, and my parents anxiously looked at me as the nurse told me to be careful while she helped me lay back down. My mom handed me a cup of water, and I slurped down as much as I could to ease my sore throat.

My eyes glanced down, and I realized that my right arm was in a cast and my left was covered in scratches and bruises. My head shot up towards the rest of my body, making me feel dizzy, and saw that my legs weren’t much better. My brain was filled with fog when I tried to remember what had happened, and I began to feel dizzy.

A set of footsteps sped towards the door, which opened to reveal a girl around my age with hazelnut skin and curly dark brown hair tied in a ponytail. Hailey? She looked at me with wide eyes that began to tear up as she nearly sprinted toward me, despite the nurse’s warnings. “Mia, I’m so sorry.” Tears spilled over onto dark circles under her eyes. “It was all my fault; I shouldn’t have run off like that. I was so stupid, and you almost died because of me.” My mom embraced her as the girl cried on her shoulder. What is she sorry for? My brain felt too exhausted to remember anything. I only had enough energy to give a small smile.

“It wasn’t your fault.” My eyelids began to feel heavy as I spent what little strength I had, and I immediately went back to sleep.

When I woke up, my mind still felt foggy, and my muscles ached with every move. Hailey was sketching on her tablet, deep in concentration. “You always were the creative one,” I smiled as I sat up.

“Here.” She handed me a cup of water and turned towards the table next to my bed, overflowing with letters, flowers, and all kinds of desserts.

“What are you working on?” I asked in a raspy voice.

“Drink first. You sound like a zombie,” the brown-haired girl said playfully. I let out a chuckle and took a swig.

“It’s a sketch for a new necklace with the center charm embedded with a small camera,” Hailey explained as she turned the notebook around. “What do you think?” It was a sketch of a silver necklace decorated with shiny jewels with the largest one in the center labeled as obsidian.

Why does that say “obsidian” next to the center?

I shrugged. “Might as well read a few of those,” I murmured as my hand reached for a white envelope.

“When the police told everyone what happened a few nights ago, the hospital was swarmed with people sending gifts to your room. You’re an overnight celebrity,” she said with a smirk. I let out a small chuckle.

“I was kind of a celebrity before that,” I replied as I opened the envelope and took out the card. The front was decorated with brightly colored flowers with the words “Get Well Soon” in elaborate cursive. I turned the page and read the letter that was written in neat and simple handwriting:

Dear Koré,

Thank you for everything you’ve done. Thank you for all of the lives you saved and the evil you’ve fought for us. I’m not sure if you remember, but one night when I was jogging through Central Park, a man tried to mug me, and you dropped from a nearby tree and saved me! I wanted to thank you again in person, but I wasn’t sure if I would see you again. And when I saw what happened on TV, I had to send something, even if it was just a short letter. I’m sure you’ll get back to swinging in no time, and remember to stay strong, Koré.

Sincerely, Sarah

It was the first time I went out as a superhero, I thought as I smiled to myself. We were sixteen and had been planning it for a couple of weeks. Hailey made a hero costume out of a thick dark green hoodie while I practiced fighting with the thick vines. It was a Friday night, and I told my parents I was going to see a movie with some friends. I felt bad for lying, but I knew they would never let me go into the city at night. I borrowed my parent’s car and drove while Hailey called me to review the game plan. “Remember, just stay in the park and use the trees to stay hidden,” she explained.

“Don’t worry,” I replied in a relaxed tone. “I have it all figured out. I helped you with that plan, remember?”

“Yeah,” Hailey let out a sigh. “But it’s still dangerous out there.” An image of Hailey being attacked in the city streets flashed through my mind.

“I know,” I winced at the thought and dug my thumbnail into the top of my middle finger, making the vision disappear. She’s in her room, I reassured myself. She’s safe.

“Hey, are you still there?” Hailey’s voice broke my train of thought.

“Sorry, I was focused on the road,” I lied.

“No worries, how’s the traffic?” She asked.

“Not too bad,” I shrugged. The rest of the drive there was pretty uneventful, just complaining about annoying teachers and talking about upcoming movies. Eventually, I managed to find a parking spot and walked a few blocks over to the park’s main entrance. I slid my phone into one of my leggings’ side pockets and connected a small wireless earpiece to my phone. I slid the case into my other pocket as I hear Hailey’s voice in my right ear.

I stood in front of the park’s main entrance with a metal plaque labeled Prominent Park. The trees were covered in dark, green leaves that were just out of reach of the lampposts’ lights. Perfect for sneak attacks, I thought. I wrapped the vines around a sturdy branch and hurled myself toward it.

My eyes widened as I realized I’d used too much force. In mid-air, I used the vines to push me back and slow my

momentum. And instead of a few broken ribs, I got the breath knocked out of my lungs and a lifetime supply of embarrassment.

“What was that?” Hailey asked through my earpiece.

“Nothing,” I said instantly as I felt my cheeks heat up. She giggled in response.

“Whatever you say,” Hailey replied sarcastically.

“To be fair, it looked a lot easier in the Spiderman movies,” I whispered as I looked around the empty park. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

I latched one of the vines onto a tall but sturdy branch, and I swung across as quickly and quietly as I could. My feet were caught off balance on the landing, and I swiftly wrapped a vine onto a nearby branch for support. I let out a quiet sigh of relief as I regained my footing. Off to a great start, I thought sarcastically.

The sound of heavy breathing and footsteps approached. A woman wearing black leggings with a light blue tank top that complimented her light brown hair, tied up in a ponytail, was jogging on the sidewalk below. I don’t see anyone else, I thought. Might as well follow her and make sure she’s safe.

As the brown-haired woman ran past me, I grabbed onto one of the thick branches from a nearby tree and swung into the cloud of thick leaves. I managed to land without falling off. I think I’m getting the hang of this.

After swinging past a couple of more trees, a man in a black hoodie and jeans jumped out from behind a tree and onto the path in front of her. Now’s my chance!

I flicked my wrist, and a branch from a tree across from me shook violently. Instinctively, the man turned around with his back facing me. As he yelled and aimed his gun at the thick, dimly-lit trees, I made another branch move next to the first one. That should distract him long enough, I thought as I carefully swung into another tree right above him. As I crouched hidden, I concentrated on the vines in my sleeves and leapt into action.

One vine grabbed his gun and yanked it out of his hands while the other tied his legs together as I kicked him square in the chest. He lay groaning on the sidewalk as both vines

wrapped themselves around the gun, slowly crushing it. The woman looked at me with wide eyes and her jaw dropped to the concrete. “Who are you?” she asked in disbelief.

I don’t have a superhero name, I realized. I scanned my brain for any interesting plant-related names until I remembered an old lecture from history class; Mr. Angelo spent three days solely on Greek Mythology. And in one of his classes, he talked about the famous myth of Persephone and Hades, and a certain name stood out to me-the name Persephone’s mother, Demeter, had given her.

“Koré.”

I let out a tired sigh. Things were so much simpler back then. “Are you ok back there?” My dad asked, looking in the rearview mirror of the car. He had one hand on the steering wheel while the other played with the radio. My mom sat next to him in the front seat on her phone.

I blinked a few times. “Yeah, I’m good,” I answered. “And you don’t have to call me ‘kiddo,’ Dad; I’m 18.”

“I don’t care if you’re 18 or 80, you’re still a kiddo to me.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Besides, who else is going to watch cool movies with me?” A small chuckle escaped my lips as Mom playfully rolled her eyes.

“We’re here,” Dad said as he turned into a near-empty parking lot in front of a moderately-sized building with a sign that read Central Sonia Hospital Physical Therapy Center. The three of us got out of the car and headed inside. As we approached the door, I ran my fingers along one of the straps that held up my broken arm.

Over the next few days of physical therapy, exercises that I could normally do in my sleep felt like an extreme workout. My muscles trembled and burned as if they’d give in any second. Oh how the mighty have fallen, a voice in the back of my mind laughed. And even though I was slowly getting stronger, I couldn’t help but agree. If anyone wanted to fight me right now, they’d probably win. All the more reason to keep at it, said another voice. And so, I kept going, despite my screaming muscles.

That night, as I sat in my room, sifting through fan mail I’d gotten when I was in the hospital, I found one of Hailey’s sketches. The same one that had changed our friendship forever. It all started when I was getting ready for another night patrol around Prominent Park. And after a little less than two years of being a hero, I was getting the hang of it. I’d tried calling Hailey about it all day, but she didn’t answer her phone. The thought of her being kidnapped and killed resonated in my head. I pinched the tip of my finger with my thumbnail to clear my head. It’s already dark. I should get going.

Just as I opened the door to leave my room, Hailey walked in and we almost head-butted each other. The two of us laughed for a moment, and as I stepped back, I saw the strange outfit she was wearing. The brown-haired girl noticed my confusion and smiled.

It’s my hero outfit,” she explained. “What do you think?” Hailey spun around, showing off her skin-tight blue and black bodysuit with weirdly thick black gloves. “Look,” the darkskinned girl sighed. “I know I don’t have any powers, but I’ve been working on these gloves that form a layer of electricity when I turn them on. We’ll be an unstoppable team!” Hailey pumped her fist in excitement.

Meanwhile, my mind raced faster than the speed of light, projecting visions of Hailey lying in the street in her bloodstained bodysuit. I’ve always been worried about her safety. Ever since I’ve wanted to be a hero, I knew it’d put everyone I love in danger, and I worry for her the most. That’s why I’ve never let her come on a mission with me. And as my brain pictured every horrific outcome, one thought echoed through my mind.

“I can’t let you, Hailey.”

“Why not?” Her voice had a sweet but angry tone, like the sound of a bomb falling from the sky before it explodes. “I can hold my own in a fight.” I couldn’t help but see the resemblance to my sixteen-year-old self when I snuck out two years ago.

“I can’t risk you getting hurt.” A knot began to form in my throat.

“Quit acting like I’m some helpless child, Mia! Is it because I’m not special like you?!” Angry tears started to form in Hailey’s eyes. “You know what? I don’t need you. I’ve never needed you. And if you just want me to be your nerdy sidekick, then I’ll be a hero myself!” Rage boiled up in me as if I were sitting on a flaming stove.

“Fine! See how long you last out there!” I yelled back as she slammed my door shut. A wave of emotions hit me like a freight train as tears welled up in my eyes.

Did she really mean it? Does she want to be my friend anymore? After a fight, we’ll apologize sooner or later, and things will go back to normal. But now I’m not so sure. Tears finally spilled over as I curled up in my bed and shielded the blankets over my head, hoping to clear my thoughts. But I could hear Hailey’s voice replaying so loud and clear it was like she never left. Soon, my eyelids turned to lead as I felt the energy draining from my body like water in a strainer and succumbed to sleep.

I jolted awake to the sound of my ringtone. I grabbed my phone and tapped the screen to see who it was. Hailey.

I angrily sighed and answered. “I thought you didn’t need me,” I snapped.

“She changed her mind.” I almost dropped my phone at the sound of the mysterious monotone voice. An icy chill slithered up my spine and tightened around my ribcage. “Hello, Koré, or should I say, Mia.”

“What do you want?” I asked, grateful that my voice didn’t falter.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Mia. But you’re getting in our way.” Our? “Meet me at the old paper factory, and I’ll explain more.” This has to be a setup.

“And if I refuse?” He gave a light chuckle.

“Then your friend here will take a tumble off the factory roof.” My panic rose even further as I heard Hailey’s terrified voice.

“Don’t do it, Mia!” She yelled.

“Shut up!” The man shouted, and Hailey let out a pained

yelp. He hit her. Any fear I had was replaced with pure rage.

“What time?” I couldn’t help but picture him smirking on the other end.

“You’ve got one hour.” The man hung up before I could say anything. I glanced at my phone’s clock. 3:45 a.m.

I picked up my superhero hoodie and concealed it in the large pack pocket that connected to my sleeves. Then a realization hit me: how will I get there in one hour? The garage door will wake my parents if I take the car. Then a crazy idea popped into my head.

I bit back a scream as I was launched above the trees. The vines latched onto a large oak tree and pulled me up as much as my power would allow. But since rage still flowed through my veins, the vines catapulted me higher and farther than I had anticipated. I continued to swing from the vines like a monkey and used my phone’s map for directions to the abandoned factory.

Eventually, the worn brick building came into view. Finally, I thought as my feet touched the ground. My eyes glanced at my phone. Just in time. I carefully made my way into the abandoned building.

The inside was empty. Dust floated in the dark, clinging onto the littered concrete floor or graffitied brick walls. In the middle of the vast room, Hailey sat tied to a metal chair, gagged, with an alarming amount of dried blood running down the side of her face.

But it was the man standing beside her that worried me the most. He was at least seven feet and made John Cena look like a toddler. I tried to keep a poker face and suppressed a whimper. Take deep, steady breaths. When you get the chance, choke with the vines until he passes out. Easy.

“About time you showed up,” the man said in a deep, gruff voice. “We were just about to have a little chat on the roof.” Tears streamed down my friend’s face as I resisted the urge to use the vines and strangle him.

“What do you want?” My voice was filled with outrage.

“To see what you’re made of. I’ve been itching for some

good competition, and I wanna see if you’re as good as they say. Well, me and my boss do.”

“Who’s your boss?” He let out a roaring laugh that echoed throughout the empty factory.

“And why would I tell you that?” the man asked sarcastically. “No one’s that dumb,” he chuckled.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I snapped. “What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The man smirked as he unzipped his jacket revealing his abnormally large muscles that seemed to stretch his skin. This guy’s built like the Hulk, I thought as my eyes widened. “I’m here to kill you.”

The man lunged at me with surprising speed for his size. I barely dodged his punch and kicked him in the stomach. He grunted before round-kicking me in the back. Pain erupted throughout my spine as I desperately tried to get up. The man picked me up by my hood before punching me in the face. My head exploded with agony and he tossed me to the concrete floor. As I coughed up blood, my eyes drifted to Hailey, sobbing as she helplessly watched.

I clenched my fists. I’m not going to die like this. Fury reignited inside me, dulling my pain and giving me a burst of energy. Not here. Not now.

The vines raced toward him as fast as my power would allow. And just as the vines were about to touch the man, he held them in his giant hands.

The plants thrashed back and forth to free themselves, like baby garden snakes, but it was useless. He clenched his fists and the vines’ stems snapped, falling limp into his grip. He yanked the vines toward him with unmatched strength, sending me flying in his direction. The man gave an evil grin as my head collided with his.

It felt like a bomb had gone off inside my skull as my vision and thoughts became blurry. A stream of blood trickled down my face and along my neck.

The hitman pulled the vines away from each other with insane force and tore my hoodie apart. As the vines lay dead on

the concrete floor, the realization set in.

I can’t win this fight. He’s too strong.

As he grabbed my neck, I held my trembling arms up to my face to block, and he punched my forearm with a loud crack! I screamed as my right arm exploded with pain. Held up by his grip, I gasped for air, until his fist tightened, closing off my windpipe. As my lungs burned for oxygen, I heard a quiet voice cry out from the depth of my subconsciousness.

This isn’t over, it whispered like a flickering flame in a cold winter wind. The tiny flame grew into a blazing inferno, giving me a sudden burst of seemingly unlimited strength. THIS ISN’T THE END!

I called on my power and it replied with a mighty roar as both of the vines wrapped themselves around the man’s neck from behind with incredible force. He tried to loosen the vines’ grip, but it was futile. After what felt like hours, the hitman finally collapsed with a loud thud! that echoed throughout the building.

With a final ounce of strength left, I wrapped the vines around the chains that confined Hailey, freeing her from the chair. She rushed to my side and held my head in her lap as more tears rushed down her face. And as my consciousness began to slip away, my friend reached for my phone in my pocket and called 911. Through the shattered window, the first light of a new day began to shine through. How poetic. I gave a small, but hopeful smile before my mind filled with white noise as my consciousness faded away.

scolding my sleeping pills

Kendra Belton

you know, you were supposed to help me fill my head with bubblewrap that the muse can’t pop, protect my fragile brain from her whispers. you weren’t supposed to let her squeeze through, but you did. that evil lady convinced you, and now i’m curled up in the glow of electric lights, words bleeding from my sleep-worn eyes as i cry out in a beautiful pain. you didn’t do your job, but that’s okay. i thank you now,  for pictures have sprung from my mind. (tomorrow, though, i won’t, for I shall be too tired to care.)

The Brain and the Bird

My brain is hungry so I feed it anxiety

My thoughts are birds

Jasmine Niblett

Creating is a euphoric flight

My right temple stings

The bird is caged now

In my well of knowledge

My brain is a sinking seed

Drowning in life

Alone I Reflect

Reed Zinke

Day 3

Alone, I reflect, for it is one of the few things I can do. About two days ago, the doors closed and drowned out the sounds of clashing steel. I was surrounded by the cacophony of war. I was preparing to fight when a cannon blast rocked the building. The roof had collapsed and debris was falling on me. At that moment, I quickly fled to the old secret underground passage. I was planning to exit the passage and regroup with my troops. I went through the passage and took a rest in this room, the room I am writing in. I suffered a few burns, but nothing too serious. I continued until I found the way forward to be blocked by rubble. I believe the ceiling collapsed due to the cannon fire. Now I am isolated from the battle. There are few supplies here. If I ration properly, I may live for three weeks. There are a few torches to keep me warm and provide me with light. A few rusty pickaxes and shovels are in the corner. The earth is thick, and I cannot hear what is going on above me. When I was initially trapped, I tried to dig a way out of the castle, but to no avail. Then I tried to dig back to the castle. The way back was blocked by the rocky ceiling. I believe it collapsed due to the fighting outside. There is a small opening, but I cannot fit through the small space. I think even if I did, I’d still be stuck, as the darkness beyond the small opening suggests the path is blocked. I can smell fire and ash. As long as the rocky ceiling doesn’t fully collapse, I will be able to breathe, hopefully. I pray to the Heavens that my army has won the battle and is looking for me.

Day 6

Alone, I reflect. I am uncertain whether or not I will be saved. I still have hope I will be saved, as I heard some movement above me. I do not know how many days have passed, but I assume it is 6 days as the passage gets colder over a period of time.

For the time being, I think it best to chronicle my life with the little paper in here. In the event that I pass away, what I write on these papers will be written from a historical perspective of my experiences along with my determination to leave this passage. From when my journey began, I remember when traitorous rebels had killed the Emperor in a coup along with all of his family, at least those that were present. They usurped the throne and put a Puppet Emperor in his place to further their power. Their corruption spread like wildfire. The war against the rebels had begun. The land was thrown into chaos, and the various factions set out for war. Some sought power to increase their dominance in the land. Others sought to restore the Empire to its former glory. Looking back, the rebels were mere peasants who faced the corruption of the Tong Empire. Perhaps the Puppet Emperor would have ruled graciously. Perhaps isolation has made me more sympathetic to traitors. I do not know. All I do know is that the Puppet Emperor was defeated, and I became a hero, along with some others. As for my current predicament, I have barely made any progress getting out despite my constant digging. I have only progressed ten feet forward. For every bit of gravel shoveled away, more appears. The rocky ceiling seems to be stuck in place. Two shovels have broken, and I dare not use the pickaxes to wedge the rocky ceiling so that I may crawl through the small opening.

Day 10

Alone, I reflect on my early years. There were those who flocked to my name in hopes to find a new lord, one that would bring peace back to the land fractured by warlords that vied for power and heroes that sought to restore the Tong Empire. I was counted among the heroes of the land, and I was given the moniker of Shao Yuan, the Hero of Turmoil. At times I commanded my armies in battle or fought against the enemy. For those under my leadership, they fought bravely in battles, planned and prepared well for the enemy, and attended to my lands while I was out on campaigns. In return for their service, I treated them well and considered them in high regard, higher

than my family, the legends of yore, even the Gods themselves. The only thing I wanted in return was the strength to restore the Tong Empire back to its former glory and the loyalty of my vassals that would ride with me into the ending days. But no one will die with me in this passage. If they were to save me, they would have found me already. Even Cao Wei’s forces would have found me unless they thought me dead. No, Cao Wei would want confirmation of my death. Doesn’t matter; all that matters is all of the shovels are broken, and I am using my hands to dig. I made some noticeable progress, but it will not do. The rocky ceiling is slowly collapsing, and I have placed the rusty pickaxes to hold it up. I know I won’t be able to crawl through, but I will be able to breathe for a while longer. There is no food and water left unless I eat my flesh and drink my blood. There are only two torches left and a few pieces of paper. My ink is running low, and I might have enough to write on two pieces of paper. I believe tomorrow will be the last paper I write that is at least legible.

Day 11

Alone, I reflect. This will be my last paper. No one will find me alive. Only my corpse and my writings. The air is gone. The rocky ceiling has fully collapsed. The path out is unending. The black day. I remember it well. Cao Wei assassinated my wife and my anger was that of a thunderstorm. My anger could not be quelled as my advisors begged me not to attack Cao Wei. I threatened them all with death and went to the plains of Song Ju with my loyal troops. My forces outnumbered an exhausted Cao Wei’s forces 5 to 1. I expected Cao Wei’s forces to crumble in one week. Crumble like the rocky ceiling that has trapped me here. Cao Wei exploited my rage. First, it was my legendary warrior who fell to an arrow to the head. I wish he was alive to save me. News of his death angered me further at the time, but now it makes me sad. I set out for battle immediately. My trusted strategist begged me not to. I labeled him a traitor for trying to undermine our morale. Then, I chopped his head off with one swing from my sword, quelling the thoughts of

my soldiers similar to my strategist. If he had lived, he would have surely saved me from this cave. We met the enemy at the crossing of a shallow river. I ordered my calvary to run through the enemy lines. Cao Wei had planned accordingly and quickly eliminated my calvary. Just then, we were attacked from our sides by the enemy. I ordered our forces to retreat. There were only half of us left as the corpses of the other half of my army dammed the river and turned the water red. We fled to the safety of our main camp, but, alas, it was on fire. Then we were ambushed by the enemy, losing a quarter of my troops. We fled to the lands of Jian Shu. Along the way, we were ambushed multiple times and only 12 of us returned to the castle. One week later, we were attacked by Cao Wei’s forces, with Cao Wei himself leading the siege. We held them off for 3 days until they broke through. Now I sit in this cave. Alone, I reflect. I hope I am remembered as a hero. If isolation has taught me anything, it’s that the Gods in the Heavens are real, for they have punished me to this death. It was on that black day they had abandoned me in my quest to restore the Tong Empire. I swore an oath to restore the Empire to its former glory, and if I were to harm the Tong Empire, I wanted the Gods to grant me a long and slow death. I ask the Gods for forgiveness. If they forgive me, they will let me live. If they don’t, then to whom this may concern, deliver my writings to my son.

a dying art

Kayden Peets

My grandmother asked me why I like to buy flowers that are going to die when I could just buy a plant and grow it myself.

I find that there is something beautiful about a flower’s temporary beauty. The flower is still pretty and doesn’t make a pitiful show as it knows it is slowly dying. I find learning to appreciate dying flowers to be an underrated life lesson because there will come a time when my love for someone is temporary or the life of someone I love is temporary. For many these moments break them and tear them apart, but appreciating a dying flower is a reminder to hold on to the beauty of the moment even though you know it’s temporary.

I hope one day someone loves me despite the things I cannot change about myself. I hope one day someone loves me even if our moments together are simply temporary. I hope one day someone loves me as their dying flower.

something about water

Carly Veach

I don’t like white noise

I don’t like how it sits in my head droning on forever, beautifully consistent eating through my brain

but there’s something about water and its strange, quiet gurgling in its beautiful inconsistency

I’ve found a sweet symphony

through the hot droplets of the shower and the soft pitter-patter of rain the singing accompanying thunder the stream flowing in my brain and in all its perfect melodies it never loses the fact that water stops my mind from thinking through its swells of sweet symphony

and maybe that’s why clouds put me to sleep and rain runs through my head and rivers stream from out my eyes and showers eat away my dread and maybe we could sing together and harmonize with the waves and hold each other beneath a stream and stop thinking here together the perfect spot perched inside your heart underneath the bubbling stream and in its beauty and your voice

I’m living a lovely dream

I’ve found my tiny paradise

Volunteer

Jake Williamson

Before the killing, volunteer work was how Felix Joyce coped with unemployment. He hated money. Taking it felt wrong, too professional. Once you take money, you open yourself up to criticism, Felix reasoned. Your work stops being a gift, heavensent; it becomes expected, a responsibility. What use did he have for money anyway? Praise, though, that was real currency. Felix could feel the torrent of chemicals rush up through his ears, slurping eagerly into his brain’s gaping maw through the nerve system straw if someone so much as said, “good job.”

Roadside litter disposal, animal shelters, even the volunteer fire department that one time; he couldn’t get enough of it.

Felix almost considered it a religion, no, more of a philosophy. Some built their lives around social contracts or virtues or non-aggression principles, but, unlike them, Felix had taken anatomy and physiology in high school. Simple science could prove the best life was one that maximized positive chemicals and minimized stress, which inevitably leads to heart attacks, according to several studies in peer-reviewed journals.

Felix had discovered this system of ethics at the early age of sixteen, a fact that filled him with considerable pride. What other teenager could content themselves with the knowledge that they had unearthed the true meaning of life? The hard part of life was over. All that was left to do now was maximize those sweet dopamine hits.

It had only been a year since Felix had started routinely volunteering at the dragon farm. Seventeen then, he hadn’t expected that volunteers would still be needed an entire year later. The town of Tuscaloosa barely needed the farm, honestly. Horses had been edging out dragons as the preferred therapy riding animal for some time now, especially in the dried, arid climate that imposed its flammability onto the surrounding forest. Say what you will about horses, they don’t start many fires.

Felix had little interest in the animals themselves. They were car-sized, lumbering creatures, obsessed with flinging themselves onto patches of dirt and wriggling like worms drying up in the sun the second their saddle came off after sessions. Whatever novelty the small, chickenesque flights had once captivated in Felix had been quickly superseded by the towering stench of shit. The smell practically cultivated a membrane around the yard that one needed several years of mithridatism or at least a pinched nose to permeate.

Felix never really minded the smell all that much. It felt heroic in some small way to wade through an ocean of olfactory feces, not for money or fame, but because, well, because it was just the quixotic thing to do.

He wasn’t about to tilt at any windmills, however. Mostly because the green energy craze had yet to graze the pastures of Tuscaloosa. Felix had considered protesting this issue with that one leftist group he had run with at the college a couple weeks ago, but people usually seemed much more willing to praise him when he volunteered to pick up abandoned cans than when he picketed for grander plans.

Obviously, no one was really in a praising mood on the day of the murder. Felix had rolled up to the farm at 10:17. He was scheduled for ten o’clock, but he was a volunteer. What were they going to do, fire him? Even the amount they could chew him out was limited by the fact that if they pushed too hard, he might just stop coming altogether.

Volunteer work was basically a utopia, Felix thought as he stepped out of his car and onto the dusty, flame-licked dirt that encircled the farm. His second thought was less coherent and more reactionary in tone. In fact, Felix wasn’t really sure it even met the definition of a thought. The acrid stench charged his nose, its battering ram desperately hammering at his tear ducts like a fish wriggling, life blinking in and out, to break the net and fill its gills with salty water. But that was business as usual. There was something more this time, trojan horsing its way in, just beginning to pour out into the streets of his nose and begin the massacre. Felix’s thought started there,

sprinting from his nose like Pheidippides if the Persians had won. Panic coursed through the veins of the thought as it breached the septum, approaching the brain in desperate need of its wisdom, coherent use of language, and brevity. The blood drained from his face, the unrealized thought spiraling away down into his esophagus past the ganglion and coming out as a primal, disgusted, “WHATTHEFUCK,” that was cut off as his stomach began to feel like a black hole, sucking the rest of the body in as the nasal massacre and visual horror combo caused his body to enter lockdown and reject the contaminated air. Felix’s knees buckled and he fell back against the open door of his car, coming to rest on the frame where only moments ago the door had sealed him against the noxious stench.

There were screeching noises across the field, some kind of bird perhaps, Felix thought as he held his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His thumb and forefinger were practically crushing his nose. Two people on either side of his head, stomping inward. That was the only way Felix could rationalize the pounding, throbbing beating his head was surely sustaining. The clouds today were nice, Felix thought as he continued to slump against the frame of the car.

“Felix? Where the hell have you been? We’ve got a real mess on our hands over there.” A woman stood over Felix; her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle out what he was doing splayed out across the frame of his car. This was Tabitha, or Teresa. Felix was bad with names and also didn’t care.

“Yeah, I can smell that,” Felix said as he grasped the edge of his car door and contorted himself into a standing position. “The dragons eat too much Taco Bell? You know, last night, and they needed to poop?” Despite Felix’s incredible delivery, his masterfully constructed joke was wasted on Tiana.

“Felix, Karma killed Blondie last night.” What? Karma couldn’t kill anyone. Felix was sick of this Buddhism trend that had been sweeping the nation. Karma wasn’t real.

Felix pushed himself up to a standing position. “Really. Karma killed somebody?” He had a slight smirk creeping up the

side of his face.

“Yes. Karma broke out of his stall last night and got into a fight with Blondie,” she said, a slight annoyance creeping into her voice.

Of course, Felix thought. Karma was obviously the name of one of the dragons here. He was impressed he had managed to deduce this so quickly from the limited information he had received. “Mating season, isn’t it?” Felix began to assemble the pieces of the puzzle. “They got into a fight over a mate, right?”

“No, it’s the middle of fall. Mating season is spring.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you feeling okay? You seem a bit out of it, Felix.”

Felix came to the realization that Tiffany was not going to be of any further assistance. “I’m fine,” Felix chirped, shaking his hair into place and assuming a friendly grin. “How can I help here?”

“Well,” the woman looked out to the farm, pausing for a moment. The field itself was barren, scorched Earth. Felix followed her gaze to a large truck set up like those ones in army caravans with a tarp stretched over a flatbed. A tail disappeared into the truck, pushed in by a masked, uniformed figure who locked the tailgate into place. “Well, the body’s taken care of. But we still need to prep Karma, get his jaw fixed, snip the flame glands, get him on some drugs. And we got to find somebody to drive him down to the clinic so he can be put down.”

“Yeah,” Felix sighed out as he began to perform rapid mental calculus, trying to determine which task would be the least unpleasant. Stabbing the thing with chemicals? No, he hated the sight of needles. He’d either have to drive the damn thing or walk away. “Alright, alright, I’ll drive him down there.”

Dragon murder. Arguably the most serious of all the dragon crimes. Felix held two fingers up to his lips, pretending to smoke. He felt like a real cowboy out here, preparing to carry a bounty to town. He was smoking inside the transport truck. It was the same design as the one that had carried the other dragon’s body off the field. There was a driver’s cabin that seated two, with a window that split the truck into an enclosed and an

exposed space. The exposed area was a large flatbed, about as wide as a moving truck but not quite as long. The flatbed was surrounded on the left and right by bars with a tarp stretched over the roof.

It wasn’t the most secure arrangement, but it didn’t really need to be, Felix thought. Karma was going to be so heavily sedated that it wouldn’t matter if he were transported on a surfboard. Tori was busy in the back, her and several other volunteers dragging Karma into the back of the truck on a chain. He watched them through the rearview mirror. Karma’s eyes were bright, his mouth propped open with a large ball of gauze soaking up the blood from his cut fire glands that twisted his jaw into a cheerful smile. Felix would have been back there helping, but he was making sure everything in the driver’s cabin was ready. The keys were hanging off the wheel, which concluded his pre-drive checklist.

Taylor patiently explained the directions to Felix twice until he understood them. It was a simple route, with most of the drive being a stretch of empty highway.

“Just go straight there and come back,” Thalia said as Felix cranked the truck’s ignition and flames began flowing through the mechanical beast’s belly. “The injections in Karma will last you enough time to drive there and back three times before they wear off, so just drive normally and please, please watch the road while you drive!”

Karma shifted in the flatbed behind Felix as he pulled onto Highway 82, just a toolbox that rattled and slid with the sharp turns on harsher roads. The farmlands started to fade, replaced with trees that sat very still and dull against the plain, flat two-lane asphalt Felix was speeding down. Dusk was setting in fast, and Felix cranked the windshield wiper dial, causing him to jump in his seat. He spun the dial for the lights to high beams and the windshield wipers to off. The white lane markers were rhythmically sucked underneath the car as Felix glanced back at Karma in the rearview mirror. Karma was in a daze, drool dripping from his stuffed gaping mouth and a glazed expression that made him seem like he was dreaming

about rolling in a dusty field or, more likely, about killing again. Felix let out a slight huff. Was that all dragons cared about? Wasting their days doing the bare minimum, always crawling around and fighting and killing and even humping each other for fun? Standing still in the middle of the road of life and just waiting for…a car horn exploded from behind Felix, and he jerked the wheel right and the whole truck groaned from the sudden movement. Felix had been driving on the lane markers, and the driver of a red sedan informed him of this with a middle finger as he rocketed past.

“Hey, I–fuck you too, man!” Felix screamed out through the closed driver’s side window once the red sedan was definitively out of hearing distance.

What was his problem anyway? Some people didn’t know when to relax. That was the problem with culture today, Felix decided. People were always obsessed with working themselves to death when it was all about math, really. Science dictated, as he always said when presenting arguments in his head, that the happiest life was the one where you did the bare minimum necessary to be happy. Dialectical or something like that.

Karma! Felix craned his neck around in a mad panic, forgoing the mirror and forgetting the road. Karma had fallen over onto his side and wasn’t moving. Drool was pooling onto the truck bed and filling in all the small grooves buried in the metal. He looked so weak, so unaware of where he was going.

Felix panicked for a moment, thinking he had killed the poor dragon, but his chest was still rising and falling with the motion of the car. Were the breaths too slow? How fast were dragons supposed to breathe? There were scars running across the neck of the dragon where it had been fixed, its fire glands removed, and Felix felt a throbbing pain in his neck. How could the dragon be so calm? He had lost his fire, his drive.

Felix was driving! He turned back to face the road but sweat was beading up and rolling down his face, and it felt like he was crying before he had even felt the urge to start. The road was still empty, but he had ended up in the left lane while he wasn’t paying attention and was going ninety miles per hour.

His eyes shot in every direction as he slammed the brakes, but his hair was coming down over his eyes. It was soaking with sweat and his eyes felt like they were burning as torrents of the stuff began to run down his face and it was a rainstorm or the universe itself slobbering over how big its jaw was and how small he was.

Slobbering over Felix’s head was Karma. There was a raspy breathing that Felix heard, and he looked up to see jaws suspended in place by a gauze and drool dripping onto his face, a drain depositing a deluge of water during an otherwise drizzling rain. It felt like the stuff was curdling the contents of his stomach. Karma had his claws against the ceiling, crawling along and was now past Felix’s head and approaching the windshield. The dragon had pulled itself to the passenger side of the car and was beginning to snake his way back around, obscuring the windshield. Felix backed up slowly, undoing his seatbelt and shifting in the driver’s seat to be closer to the truck bed window as the car began to turn to the left and hit the warning strip used to wake up drivers so that they could adjust the wheel and not flip their car over a railing.

The wheel! Felix was at least two feet away from it. Karma hung right over the wheel, wings flexing down and knocking an empty soda can from the passenger’s cup holder. Felix had to make a mad dash for the wheel anyway. The cruise control was maintaining the speed, but it was only a matter of time before they crashed. Right before he could, a thick object slammed into his neck and made his face wince from the blunt impact. Karma’s tail had been pulled through and with its arrival he was now entirely within the driver’s cabin. Felix felt his mouth go dry and gripped the window dividing the truck bed and front cabin, straining his way as far from the dragon as he could. His leg snagged in the seatbelt and he struggled against the fabric, thinking, these things are supposed to help me, and the car steadied itself.

Karma had a claw wrapped around the wheel and he was moving at a sloth’s pace, eyes glistening and blissed out on whatever drugs they gave dragons who were going to die.

Felix freed his leg and fell backwards into the truck bed, rolling back up and standing to see Karma entranced at the sight of the driver’s side mirror. The car was moving smoothly again so Felix simply half-walked, half-climbed his way back to the window separating him and Karma.

All Felix could see in the mirror was the night sky. Alright, so the dragon was tripping. At least it seemed to be keeping the car straight. Felix felt his knees buckle from the stress of the minor bumps in the road and found himself staring at the tarpaulin roof of the truck bed. It was straining against its binds to break free from the truck and soar in the wind. He needed a plan of attack. The wheel needed to be reclaimed.

For all he knew, the dragon was driving him to his death. A perfect spot where Karma could leap out at the last second and leave him to careen into a wall and explode like some sort of half-rate action movie. Felix knew he couldn’t die that way. It was so anticlimactic, and he was going to get a profound ending where he succeeded in doing what he wanted to do. What did he want to do? He felt the jolt of a road quality change beneath him. Was this road better quality than the one he had been on before? He couldn’t tell the difference.

Was he really just going to lay here while he was driven helplessly to his death? A wall approaching at a lethal speed and he was just going to be a crash test dummy in this dragon’s later regaling to his bar-mates the story of how he got a DUI while driving that night and somebody named Finnegan, or something like that, was there and died very unceremoniously and really wasn’t all that important and would probably be left out in future retellings of the story. That damn dragon would have just the right amount of social awareness to see the lull in the attention span of his listeners and make a note of it, the bastard.

Felix couldn’t move. The world was ending around him, and he just felt a cold iceberg pressing against his chest, melting and spreading all over his body. He was flying towards his death at speeds of at least eighty miles per hour, and he was paralyzed. How could he feel so calm, so stoic right now?

He struggled up to his knees. He had to kill Karma. He

crawled on his hands and knees, like a child learning to walk, and gripped the window, pulling his face level with the cabin.

Karma was looking at him with that same peaceful, not quite empty expression. The exit he needed to take was coming up in half a mile. He had to act now. He leapt forward, grabbing onto the armrest as support and kicking his legs as he pulled his way back into the cabin.

His hand smacked into the radio volume dial and the car became filled with the progressive, new wave sound of static. He slid forward and collapsed upside down onto the passenger’s seat and kicked his legs through the air, occasionally meeting the dragon’s scales with his Nikes. No sound came from Karma.

Felix lunged for the wheel and pulled it hard, the fall as he crashed down into the driver’s seat sending the car flying to the right and into the turn lane of the exit.

Karma looked at Felix as he panted, shivering and terrified, and dripped cold sweat onto the driver’s seat. Felix looked up at Karma and saw that drool was now coating the creature’s face and had even spread up to its eyes. He really did vomit then and collapsed, upside down, into the seat.

The truck shot down the offramp like a pinball and there was a rapping at the driver’s side window and Felix was sitting, upright and with no extraneous fluid other than a cold sweat.

“Hey, uh, Karen sent you, right? With the killer dragon?” A person stood outside Felix’s car window. Felix managed to nod.

“Well, hey, great. Thanks for bringing him in, good job.”

Felix nodded emotionlessly.

A Fond Memory

Kara Crowther

The smell of gardenias wafts about my memories. A nostalgic scent that seems persistent in making its mark on my childhood. The fragrant, pure white beauty with its waxy lime leaves. I loved to watch the petals part to display an elaborate maze of golden, dusty strands. I merrily pranced to the lush bush nestled at the end of the slanted cobblestone driveway to pluck a freshly bloomed flower. Your face would beam when I handed you a newly cut gardenia. You eagerly raised the flower to your nose to smell the zesty, sweet fragrance of the angel. Whenever I catch the enticing scent of a gardenia, I cannot help but smile, for it reminds me of your warm embrace.

The Godless Crow

Ezra C.

There is a crow

That is always screaming, Swearing at the gods For daring to punish him

“I am still stronger than you,” He screams to the heavens, “You deign to transmute me, To make me lesser, And yet you left me wings!” He crows to the gods, “You gave me flight, I could still greet you!”

On and on he heckles, Various threats

To ears that hear him As simply a nuisance

“I will kill you all! I will steal your ambrosia, Your nectar, And I will become thrice as powerful as you all combined!”

And yet

All the peasants hear Is a crow squawking in distain. Faced up as if blinded by the sum

“You thought this would curb my ambitions! You thought this would weaken my spirit! But all you have done is give easier access to your kingdom!”

“You can not stop me, Nothing will stop me!” And then the crow takes flight, Leaving behind coal feathers And heads to where he was forbade.

The gods see the crow And laugh.

“It is a bird, What harm can it do?”

Chortles Zeus

“None,” Replies Mars, Picking the meat from the bone Of a golden sheep

But it swoops, Grabbing crumbs of the godly food, Little bites here and there, Small sips.

Artemis takes aim, As does her brother, And clips the wings of the crow, But it is too late.

As he falls, He still laughs, Because he knows the fall can kill him no longer.

The Black Dog

Richard Dean Ratliff

Old Joe had been a hunter all his life. Ever since childhood, he would hurry to get his schooling and chores on the farm finished so he could strike out in the woods with his favorite hound and feists to subdue some sort of game for the dinner table. Not only that, but he had even sold enough furs to buy his very own rifle at a very early age. It was just an old octagon barrel Remington single-shot rifle, but it was an extension of himself and very reliable. He had always appreciated this tool and kept it clean and well oiled. Many times, sitting beneath a tree in the cool autumn on the cold ground, he handles this fine rifle and admires its simple yet artful lines. He loved the weight of it in his grip and its trustworthiness.

Old Joe would often go out on a tramp in a ring around the valley. Just on the outskirts of his own modest homestead and the other surrounding farms. Every so often in the pursuit of wild game, he would go deeper into the mountains. This was something Old Joe was reluctant to do as it was dangerous to be alone in the mountains, especially at night. One could easily slip and break a leg and be stranded.

Therefore, Joe made sure he was never really alone. He always had his greatest companion with him. His best friend. His best friend was a big black dog. When I say black dog, I mean black from head to toe. Even his fingernails. This was a big dog. Easily 100 lbs and what we would call a large breed by today’s standards. No one was sure what breed Black Dog was. He was just big and coarse-haired and mild-natured. Old Joe had found him at the crossroads. This was the way the Gypsy folk traveled on their way to the coal camps. He had found this little pup, half-starved, guarding what was left of a deer carcass. It was a winter evening, and it would be cold soon. Without even breaking his stride, it seemed he snatched the little pup up and stuffed him in his buffalo plaid jacket. On the long trek home,

they shared warmth, and it seemed a bond was formed that would last until one of them perished. The little black pup with soulful and wet brown eyes grew into a big black dog with the same. Although the village folk at first were apprehensive, the canine seemed to be so mild and forgiving to the local children he soon became somewhat of a local celebrity. Especially when the local fair time came and Black Dog would spend his time letting the small children climb on his back and feed him fry bread. Old Joe wouldn’t be able to get him to hunt for at least a fortnight after that.

Well, one evening Old Joe and Black Dog set off on one of these hunts. This was going to be a longhunt. Being a longhunt, Old Joe came a little more prepared than usual. He had a whole box of .32-20 ammo for his rifle, a canvas tarpaulin to sleep under, and a wool blanket. He kept all this in a handmade leather pouch with a strap. From this pouch hung a small railroad lantern and an old iron camp axe with a steel bit, sheathed in leather. Whether he was on a longhunt or just a short walk, he would always carry his windproof lighter, a flint and steel, some tinder cloth, and about 15 feet of hemp twine. He always kept these items in his buffalo plaid jacket. In his jeans pocket, he would always carry the steel hawkbill knife his father had given him. In this way, Old Joe was always prepared to handle whatever the wilderness threw his way. While he was rarely completely comfortable, he was often content to be alone with his dog out in the woods. This night, though, would be different. This night would not be content.

Joe had walked about three miles through the forest and up into the lower ranges of the mountains when he looked at his watch and realized it was about 3:30 p.m. His watch had always slowed down a little as the day went by, so it could even be a little later. Knowing that the sun would be going down in a few hours, Joe chose the edge of a small clearing in thick brush to camp. He got as far away from any big trees with dead branches as he could and picked a nice dry spot. A small mountain spring-fed creek was just to the west of him about hundred yards. To the east were the lower crags and boulders

of the mountain and piles of jagged rocks and more than likely rattlesnake dens. To the north, the game trail continued up the mountainside, and it got steeper and steeper the higher it went. In another few miles he would be well above the valley. He wasn’t really planning on going that far though. He would set a line of snares in the morning for fox and maybe one or two beaver traps that he had hauled along this time. He would place those in the creek.

The whole time that Joe was clearing a place to camp and getting a small fire, Black Dog was sniffing around the perimeter. He fell into his canine duties in a soldier-like manner. He would circle around the perimeter, sniffing and marking as he went. When he got back to Joe at the end of his imperfectly circuitous route, the small campfire was started. Old Joe was heating a small bit of water he had scooped from the creek. As it came to a boil a little while later, Joe added some pine needles to it, some fresh green ones. He would make a little pine needle tea and eat a small piece of bread he had carried with him. That reminded him, he should set some trot lines in the morning as well; some fish would be good for his supper that next evening.

After his tea and a thoughtful drag on his pipe, Old Joe piled up the pine branches he had collected into a makeshift mattress and then covered that in some large patches of soft moss. He then laid his wool blanket atop that. By this time, the small, unobtrusive fire had died down to a few embers. Black Dog knew it was time for bed as well, and he and Old Joe piled onto the makeshift mattress. Their combined warmth would be enough for this mild winter night; no fire would be necessary. As a matter of fact, Joe would get more sleep without it since feeding a fire can be a chore. With the warm tea and bread in his belly and the warmth of black dog snuggled next to him, Old Joe drifted off to sleep.

Oftentimes, he would dream of taking walks and fishing and hunting in places he had never been. As always, Black Dog would be there in the dreams beside him. He often wondered if Black Dog had the same dreams or if, in fact, they were sharing the same dream. Just a passing thought, and a hope as well. Just

as Joe’s unconscious mind overtook his consciousness, like the night had just taken the day, he had that single thought. If he dreams with Black Dog, maybe they too will be together in the otherworld. With a smile on his face and that singular thought floating away into the abyss, Old Joe drifted off to sleep. The dog and man become one breathing mass on top of a pile of moss and branches with their minds free to go about as they pleased.

Something snapped Joe awake. His mind came to focus quickly. A hunter’s ears and mind were accustomed to alerting to certain noises. Joe’s mind was starting to register some of those sounds now. As Joe laid dead still, he could hear his own heartbeat. He could feel that Black Dog was awake and alert. That was confirmation. At that thought, Old Joe knew that there was something out there in the woods to the south. How far and what though? Doubtful it was raccoons. Joe hadn’t cooked anything or left any offal out. Plus, the local raccoon population knew of Black Dog’s reputation, and they generally avoided him and his scent. Could it be a small herd of deer heading up the mountain to bed down in the briars? Could be so. That would explain Black Dog’s apprehension to bristle. Old Joe never let Black Dog run deer and rightfully so, although he never had shown much of an inclination to anyways. Though he could track a wounded deer anywhere, even if the blood trail crossed a river.

Instinctively, Joe slowly rolled over to his belly. He grabbed his loaded rifle and then laid a hand on Black Dog to make sure he was settled. That being done, he then slid his railroad lantern up next to himself. He lit it as quietly and slowly as he could. He knew he would need some light at the right moment if he had to take a shot, but, for the time, he dimmed it and blocked the light as best he could. He was hoping it was a few deer. He knew it was a bit early in the year, but all the fawns had grown by now, and he would need to fuel his body for the next few days in the mountains. Plus, Black Dog loved his share of venison, and it did some good for his bulky yet lithe frame. So, once again, man and dog laid together in one breathing silent mass waiting.

Yet at this time, they were at the height of consciousness. This time they were waiting, uphill and in ambush for their potential prey. For what felt like hours but were only minutes, they could hear small footsteps and undergrowth being pushed away. Curiously though, as the sounds got closer, they could hear another softer but equally persistent sound. It was a mewling sound. Almost a rhythmic whimper. Was it a bobcat? No, couldn’t be. Bobcats are usually silent and often alone. To hear a troupe of them crashing through the underbrush at night would be incredulous. No, must be deer. Is one of them hurt? Still not likely. Old Joe has never heard a deer make a sound like that, hurt or not. What did it remind him of?

Just as that thought crossed his mind, he noticed a dark form appear in the very dim light. It was just starting to climb over a large fallen tree trunk. Once atop the tree trunk it stopped, crouched. It looked as if it was shifting its weight. This was not a deer. The silhouette then made an audible grunt and heaving motion as a blockier object made its way to its side. Then with another heave and a thump, the blocky object crashed to the ground. It is then Old Joe distinctly heard the word “Ouch!” in what sounded like a child’s voice. Feeling Black Dog bristle beside him lit a fire inside Old Joe, and he immediately uncovered his lamp and turned the wick up all the way, illuminating the immediate area in front of himself brightly.

What was in that light astounded him. Two man-shaped creatures covered in what appeared to be black fur. They were just over maybe three feet tall, and both creatures had their clawed hands around what appeared to be a sack. It only took one guess to figure out what was in it. Old Joe didn’t even think. He aimed square and pulled the trigger. BANG! And with the report of his rifle, he heard a deafening scream and a flurry of movement. The creatures jumped back the way they came. They were dragging the child with them as he screamed from inside the sack. It was at that time Black Dog sprang up, ready for action. All this time he had laid patiently with his muscles coiled. “No, settle down, sit,” Old Joe barked out in a whisper. Black Dog did because he knew too. He knew that it was now time to play the game. The boom

stick went bang, and the prey made a cry, and soon it would be time to play.

Old Joe sat quiet. He brought his ragged breathing down to a calm, even pace and he relaxed his nerves. He pulled out his pipe and packed a bowl. As he pulled some smoke, he thought to still his nerves. He had a feeling these things came out of the dark places and would return there before Sol broke the horizon. In that case, time was on his side.

As the adrenaline wore off, Old Joe was fighting the heavy hand of sleep. At moments he questioned the whole scene. Did that just really happen?

The sun rises. It rose for Old Joe just in time. He couldn’t fight the restlessness anymore. As soon as the sun peaked its rays over the horizon, Old Joe was up. No coffee this morning. He stuffed some bread in his mouth and then pissed. The next thing he did was refill his lantern, and then he put ammunition in each pocket, for quick access no matter which hand was free. He tucked his camp axe in his belt. Black Dog was already on the trail. Just as he had thought, there was a splash of bright red blood on the fallen tree. He had hit his mark. It was that easy for this team. Immediately, Black Dog locked on to the trail and headed uphill in the direction of the rugged mountains to the north.

Old Joe had been walking all day, and it was getting into the next evening. The scent trail was still strong and Black Dog was moving at a quick pace with a definite goal. The blood had started to thin out a while back. That made sense; either the bleeding was stopped naturally or by aid, or the creature was weakening and running out of blood. Hopefully the latter. Time went on, and they went on and up. Old Joe had his mind focused and was searching the ground for a sign. Just as he started to zone out, he heard a low growl. Old Joe looked up and was startled to see they had reached their destination. He knew they were there because he looked upon Black Dog, fully bristled and alert with his low growl directed towards the small opening of a cave. An opening maybe three feet in diameter right in the mountainside. This was the place. With the sun going

down, Old Joe knew they didn’t have much time. Black Dog must have known this too because he jumped straight through the opening. Old Joe lit his lantern as quick as he could and went right after him. After crawling on his hands and knees for what seemed like too long, he came out into an open space. It wasn’t huge or cavernous but like a large room in the house of a gentry. He looked around, getting stock of his surroundings, letting his eyes adjust. It is then that he came to focus on Black Dog sniffing something hanging from the cave wall. It was a sack with something in it! He rushed over and gently brought the sack off of its crude hook and softly laid it to the ground, quickly opening it to reveal a young towheaded boy! He was beaten up and bruised, scratched, and, it even seems, bitten by some animal–no, creature. Despite that, he was alive! He was breathing, and his heart was beating strongly. Those foul creatures must have been saving him for later. For whatever ungodly reasons. He knew they must be nightwalkers. They must have retreated to the rear of the cave, away from the light with their wounded. That means there is little time. It is just then that a plan came to Old Joe. It was then that he asked Black Dog to get in the sack. To his wonderment, as if Black Dog could read his mind and knew his plan, he jumped in. Old Joe then hoisted the sack back onto the crude hook on the wall, grabbed the child, and quickly exited the way he came. As soon as he came out of the cave, he knew time was short. The sun was sinking, and it was time to dig deep. He hoisted the child on his shoulders and left everything behind besides his knife and axe in his belt. He even left his beloved dog and trusted rifle. It was then that he ran all evening, as hard as he could with lungs burning and muscles aching. Only stopping for water, knowing he had to make the most of the time that Black Dog had bought for him. Just as Old Joe thought he couldn’t go anymore, he stepped out into the clearing of the closest farm. He used his last burst of speed to run out into sight of the people milling about there, putting up farm equipment for the night. As soon as he was in earshot he shouted, “HELP!” and then collapsed.

-THE END-

Epilogue:

Gog sprang awake. He could hear the labored, ragged breathing of his brother Magog beside him. He wouldn’t last much longer. How it was worth it! He never liked his nasty, biting, domineering broodmate Magog. Maybe they would eat him too, when the hunger came again. He was always so hungry after the long sleep. Painfully hungry, but oh, yes, there was a tasty snack up above! As soon as that nasty god of day, that ball of fire in the above goes to rest, will it be time to eat! We can’t eat that tasty treat until Momma joins, and Momma never comes above when the fire god walks his realm. She will only come out when he descends to the underworld. “I know,” muttered Gog to himself. “Just a little peak, just a little taste.” So, with this thought Gog climbed up to the above, to the open chamber. He crept over to the sack hanging on the wall. He clambered up, and, unable to control his bloodlust, he thrust out a claw, cutting the bottom of the sack clean open. What fell out surprised him and not in a good way. Before him stood a creature, covered in black fur, just like him. Yet this one was not like him. Before another thought could enter Gog’s head, it all went black. The last thing he felt was fear, and his last thought was, “This is not a child, this is not a tasty snack, this is DEATH, and I am the snack!” and, just like that, no more thoughts because his skull was crushed.

Time went by and this incident faded to memory and then was forgotten. All that was left was a great, great grandson, who was especially fond of black dogs because his grandfather was. And when he went for walks in the woods, there just so happened to be one leading the way. Some would say that big black dog had always been around. Others would say they remembered him being a small pup and would swear he must be the progeny of that big black dog in the tales of the region. All the young boy knew was that some nights, when things got

bad at home, when the nights were dark in the dead of winter, he could pile up in his bed with his big black dog and drift off to sleep. Sometimes, when he slept, he had nightmares, bad ones. Always, without missing a beat, his black dog would be there in his dreams, ripping his monsters to shreds. When he would awake with a startle, his companion would be there, awake as well, staring into his eyes, lending comfort. It is then as he drifted off back to sleep he would wonder, “Does he have the same dreams as me? Do we dream together...” and then his unconscious would take over as the night takes over for the day. They would both lay there asleep, dog and boy, one mass, breathing together in the night.

Bra Strap

Jake Williamson

back and forth on and off

I practice the motions, the tender caresses, slow kisses, straightened feet, loose lax posture, knees touching watching the boy in the mirror shamefully correcting his mistakes with a large, firm hand

you’re there, on the bed, and I’m pulling the bra straps with the same stoic detachment and shaking hands of a young soldier assembling and deconstructing his rifle I pull the bra tight against my accounted for ribs crushing my broad shoulders, but it’s not its fault, I’m the wrong size

and I turn, lipstick applied by a child’s hand, the cheapest perfume and too small clothing, and you kiss me and believe it when you lie that I’m beautiful

Possibility and Misconception

Kimberly Callahan

Lyra opened her eyes, blinking at the bright lights, confused. She took in her surroundings, the unfamiliarity of it unsettling. There were panels of electronics like in a high-tech operating room, but she didn’t remember being in the hospital or why she’d need one. Everything was white and silver metal, clean, sanitary, stark. She looked down at herself, assessing her physical condition. She wasn’t in pain, but there were hundreds of electrodes stuck to her skin, her body covered by a thin gown. An IV was hooked to her arm, feeding a bluish liquid into her veins. She could see the fluid mixing with her blood just under the surface of her skin, purple lines spider-webbing out from the contact point. She listened intently, trying to find a familiar voice or sound, but the electronic beeping of a heart monitor was all that came to her. The antiseptic smell was making her woozy, and she reached up to pull the oxygen tube from her nose.

A frantic beeping came from one of the machines as she did this, and she sat up, hoping it would bring a doctor to her room. She needed an explanation. Where was she? What happened?

Lyra turned as the door to her room opened and then froze in shock at the people before her. There was a man, impossibly tall with a regal stature and the kind of face people said was “carved by angels.” He had piercing purple eyes and hair to his shoulders like golden waves of desert sand. He was too thin and too tall and too beautiful and had a glow about him that was otherworldly. The woman beside him was even more exquisite and unexplainably, terrifyingly beautiful. Her eyes were green, a glowing green that reminded Lyra of the neon sign over the corner bar where her dad liked to hang out. Her hair was a red so dark it looked black except when it caught the light. Both strangers smiled at Lyra, which only frightened her more instead of putting her at ease.

“Where am I?” Lyra asked, her voice trembling and weak. She hated the sound of it. She swallowed hard and asked again, with more control this time. “Where am I?”

The strangers looked at each other before the man stepped forward and spoke.

“We are the guardians of this realm. You are here by mistake, young one. You were in an accident on your home world that brought you to us. We have been watching over you until you awoke so that we can send you back home.” His voice twinkled, the air sparkling around him as he spoke. Lyra found it captivating and disturbing all at once.

“Who are you?” She asked him, curious about her apparent saviors. Again, the two looked at each other before answering her question.

“My name is Gabriel,” said the woman, “and this is Michael.”

“Such simple names for such awesome galactic guardians of some unknown realm,” Lyra said without thinking. She immediately covered her mouth, “sorry” slipping through her fingers, but the two only laughed. The sound was like twinkling bells at Christmas time, and Lyra finally felt at ease as she listened to it.

“We are accustomed to such as this,” said Gabriel graciously. “Most do not expect us to be as we are when we meet, and the shock can make for unusual outbursts.” Lyra looked at her for a moment, trying to understand what she was experiencing. She finally gave up trying and looked around the room again.

“So what kind of accident brought me here, wherever here really is,” Lyra asked, glancing at Michael. He looked at her with a strange sadness and seemed to choose his words with care.

“You were on a bus going home from college. Do you remember?” A memory flashed through her mind of a run through the rain, jacket held over her head with one arm while the other clutched the handle of a suitcase. The bus splashed water on her as it pulled up. She was drenched and panting, but she didn’t miss the bus. Lyra nodded, indicating he should

continue his story.

“Your parents were waiting at the bus station for you, but you never made it there. Your bus driver lost control in the storm, and there was a terrible collision. Most of the passengers were killed. Only a handful survived.” He said this gently, allowing his words to sink in. Lyra processed this information slowly and then looked hard at Michael.

“Did I die?” She asked bluntly, emotionless. “Is this the afterlife?”

Again, Gabriel and Michael exchanged glances before she moved closer to answer.

“Yes and no, to both questions,” she answered honestly, cryptically. “Death is…more complicated than humans think it is, “ she continued. “What you perceive as death is really more of a transference. Your soul leaves your body for another existence. We help souls move on to the next realm, be reborn in whichever form they’re meant to have. You were not supposed to be here for quite a few years, Lyra. Your time on Earth isn’t complete, and your next form is not ready for you yet.”

Lyra was quiet for several long minutes as she processed this information. “Are you angels?” She finally asked, feeling silly as the question left her mouth.

Michael nodded knowingly. “Yes, some have used that term to describe us before, but we are not the same spiritual creatures described in your religions on Earth. A more accurate term would be your word alien. We travel between realms, Earth being just one of millions. When a death is imminent, we meet with the soul and guide them to their next life. There are a finite number of souls that exist. We are responsible for keeping them rotated between the realms so they can experience all they can.”

“What about God?” Lyra asked. “Is there a God equivalent?” Gabriel smiled.

“There is,” she said, “but it is not a being so much as a machine. There is a great computer that processes all of everything that has, does, or ever will exist. It tells us who will die and when and where and then tells us where to send them

• Blackwater Review

next so we can prepare a new vessel for the soul. It’s a living thing and more intelligent than all of our souls combined, but it does not feel or hurt or any of those messy things like other living creatures.” She paused. Lyra was shaking her head, a small smile on her face.

“It’s amazing,” she said. “All the stories are right but so very wrong. How can they both be true?”

Michael chuckled. “Only some of the transition memories carry over to your new body. Some souls retain more than others, and some….embellish their memories to fill in the gaps.”

“So how do souls end up here by mistake?” Lyra asked. “How do souls die before the God-computer says so?” The smiles faded quickly from their faces at this. Seriousness took the place of amused joviality.

“We don’t know,” Michael admitted after a moment of contemplation. “This is exceptionally rare for a soul to come to us before we are ready.”

“But it has happened before,” stated Lyra.

“Yes. And we can send you back. It’s tricky, but it can be done,” said Gabriel.

“And if I don’t want to go back?” asked Lyra, no hint of playfulness on her face.

Michael was alarmed at this, but Gabriel calmed him with a hand on his arm. She smiled softly at Lyra. “If you wish to move on to your next vessel rather than going home, then you will have to wait with us while your vessel is prepared. As we said, your new body isn’t ready yet. But you are welcome to join us in our guardianship until it is.” Gabriel looked at Lyra, calm and poised, though Michael was unsettled and rather fidgety for a regal alien.

“Okay,” said Lyra. “I’ll help you guys until I can move on, but I really don’t want to go back. “

Gabriel nodded and motioned for Lyra to follow. “Then your duties will begin right away.”

Little feet

Audrey Russell

Little feet, padding up and down the hall, whispers, I can hear them all, devious plots to wind away, the waning hours until day, small voices raised in fervent protest, proclaiming that they shall not rest but do not fret for soon, you see, eyelids begin to droop so heavily, near now is the hour when all will be slumbering so peacefully, and little feet shall no longer tread, for all are now tucked away, in bed.

everything

Carly Veach

I woke up again and didn’t know where to go the stars weren’t in the sky and I got lost in a blanket of night

but you were there every time the birds sang together over the moon and you held out a gift in each hand

a heart-shaped box that I couldn’t see you whispered to me of winter and held my hand on the way

screaming and crying ripping through cold emotions swirling through tearful smiles and yet, we’re in this together

what’s the distance between here and the end? how do you exist in forever? I hope to see it all

when winter comes and darkness falls through the cold and bittersweet sobs and life persists despite it all you are all I could ask for

every night i tear gender away

Jake Williamson

every night i tear gender away let it run through my fingers with my balding hair into the trash who can bear my burden stoically

but in the morning im back dirtying the undersides of my nails scraping through the half-eaten food i shamefully discarded and grounds of coffee that i force down my throat (a healthy adult is mature enough to diet and enjoys a coffee now and again)

the gender coalesces under my nails darts inside me

streaking for my core, my identity, white blood cells powerless against the toxin coursing through the cells

it gets lost, paces the kitchen floor, then passes out still undressed in clothes

(penelope does a puzzle)

Rachel Baxter

I am Penelope when we do puzzles

You’d never notice a single ounce of sabotage

I’m much more subtle than unweaving

After all, progress can be measured in stitches and rows

And you’re quite a smart cookie.

But instead, I find the plainest, most nondescript piece

And stare at it all day till I can discern where it belongs (why do you think the puzzles I choose always have the most beautiful, expansive skies?) and half that time I’m actually paying attention to your hands

As you seek and place each piece in earnest

Your hands dancing like a pianist’s

I take no rush in completing the puzzle, So that mine might dance with yours

A little bit longer.

Ni De Aquí, Ni De Alla (Not

From Here, Nor There)

Lizbeth Ledezma Garza

Change is inevitable. For as long as it has existed, the universe as we know it has failed to remain the same in its entirety. It is the natural order of things. An undeniable truth. In the years leading up to our family’s decision to move to America, things in Mexico had been changing drastically, unfortunately for the worse. Poverty, crime, and hunger were polluting my home country at rapidly increasing rates. My parents’ fear that Piedras Negras, Mexico, would eat us alive led us to the United States.

Growing up, I had heard talk of the American dream. In my country, it was usually spoken of in passing, a casual nod at a realistically unattainable way of life by the kind of people who did not have the luxury of entertaining such fantasies. Bitter words and yearning eyes. However, movies and TV shows portrayed American life as something to be realized by any willing person. Economic prosperity, better education and a higher standard of living overall, according to the media, were of equal possibility for anyone. These different perspectives brought life to a disharmony within me. The desire to relate to the people in my home country and to reflect a common resentment toward a viability that could only be gained by leaving my entire life behind and allowing myself the benefits I was once denied are always at war.

Prior to our move, my parents sat me down to talk. They explained that moving to a new country and building a life there would not be easy. While my parents were going to be working odd jobs until they were able to find a more permanent position, my brother and I were to help take care of my younger sister, keep the house in order, and be accountable for the progress of our education. The Latino community prides itself in its values, food, and collectivistic culture, so sharing such responsibilities

was not new to either of us, but it was obvious that this would not be the same. It is important to note that my brother, though four years older and male and thus traditionally expected to uphold a more leading role in this new dynamic, was diagnosed with high-functioning autism at a young age. While academically inclined, his social aptitude and reactive behaviors prevented my parents from being able to properly rely on him for socially demanding settings. It was for these reasons that my parents made it clear of their expectations for me.

We arrived at College Station, Texas, with only three months left until the end of my first-grade year. By then, I’d finished kindergarten in Florida and had been placed in ESL classes and a dual language program where I worked with teachers on learning the English language. By first grade I could make full sentences with minimal errors; I could write a short story and differentiate literary patterns between English and Spanish. Despite my dyslexia, I came to enjoy reading and writing, so English Language Arts was often the highest grade on my report card. In fact, it was often the only good grade on my report card. It seemed that while I had no problem grasping the English language as a concept, I struggled with manipulating it outside of its basic semantics. Science, math, and history were difficult for me, and because my parents could not help me with school, it was up to me to pull through. Balancing my grades and helping around the house when my parents worked late was strenuous. I had to deal with the things that were too difficult for my brother and parents to handle, and when we finally began to settle down in America, things only got worse. I was seven years old when I translated my very first legal document. The bus ride home from school had felt particularly long that day. My head was suffering from a dull ache that wrapped around the back of my eyeballs and my feet weighed twice my entire body mass under the hot, liquid sun as I did my best to avoid the thorn bushes along the bus stop. I was taking bows and clips out of my hair as I walked to my door, thinking about heating up last night’s leftover mac and cheese and taking a nap until my sister got home, when I saw my mother

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standing in the front yard beside our old Chevy. The first thing my mom did when she noticed me was scold me for messing up my hair, but the second was to promise me ice cream if I helped her with an errand. All I had to do was translate a piece of paper and a conversation. Up until then, I had translated medical visits and records for my parents and siblings with the help of onsite interpreters. While I did well in English class, speaking to people was not something I enjoyed doing. I was a shy kid, and adults were intimidating to me, especially when they spoke fast. Sometimes my brain couldn’t match the words they were saying to the Spanish meaning in time to relay it back to my mom or dad.

My mom explained to me that she had found an apartment at a good price but needed me to read her the contract. I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t feel good and that my brother was older, and he spoke English better than I did anyway, so he should be the one to do it. I wanted to explain to her that my hands were getting clammy, and I felt hot just thinking about having to speak, and, worse, what if I didn’t understand something? My mom was counting on me, but why did it have to be me? The entire ride I felt like throwing up. My throat burned the same way it had the day I helped my mom register my siblings and me for school, the first time at the clinic, at the mechanic, at the church. It was the same feeling I always got when I went somewhere new. When I got out of the car, I thought my legs had gone numb for a brief moment, but I kept walking anyway because I knew my mom had been looking at me. She always looked at me like she knew exactly what was going through my mind. She took a moment, stopped, and bent down to my level.

“¿Qué tienes?” What’s wrong? she’d asked.

I felt a weight shift within me. It was thick, palpable and like a thousand shards of broken glass running down my throat. An itch I couldn’t scratch, a root I couldn’t rip out. I told my mom I was afraid that I wouldn’t do well. I told her I didn’t want to disappoint her or seem ungrateful but that speaking by myself made me uncomfortable. She reached around her

neck and unclasped the cross necklace she always wore. As she put it on me, my mom explained that the necklace was special because it had been passed down from generation to generation. It would take away all the bad feelings with a single prayer like they did hers when she left her home for the first time. Whether it was true or not, it calmed me down and made me feel better.

The office building was small and wide. Off-white paint chipped off in plastic layers and patches of moss covered the walls. The air conditioning was being tended to by a hefty man with a stained Texas A&M shirt as he blasted a vaguely familiar country song on his cheap radio. There stood a smartly dressed woman at a desk behind a stack of papers, a bored look on her made-up face that turned bright as she saw us come in. She had a thick southern twang and spoke much too quickly as she shuffled through some paperwork, slowing down only when she heard no response to her question.

“I’m sorry. Slower, please.” I was embarrassed to have had to ask her to slow down and suddenly very aware of my own accent. She apologized and offered me some candy. Of course I wanted the candy, but I had reason to believe it would only come right back up if I allowed myself to have any. Still, I couldn’t stop fidgeting. My nerves were getting the best of me. The woman gave me a smile and gestured for me to stand up.

“Take a deep breath.” Her voice was calm and sweet, so I did as I was told. “Relax, I’ll go slow, everything will be alright.”

I sat back down on the cushy chair and felt much more at ease this time. She brought out the paperwork, and, as she saw me translating everything for my mom to the best of my ability, she congratulated me on being fluent in two languages. Through my prior experiences of translating, I had come to understand that there are different types of technicalities to the English language within specific fields. The jargon used in the medical field is not the same as what is used in a mechanic shop or in a contract between a landlord and a tenant. While I was able to translate most of the documents, I had a hard time making something of specific terms that were used in the contract that

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my mom simply expected me to know. At seven years old, I had no idea a “party” could refer to a person. I didn’t know what lease provisions meant or how to translate that. I had no idea what a waiver of rights was or what it implied. This woman was kind enough to be patient with me and explain things in simple terms, and the deal was ultimately successful. We were able to move into our new apartment within the month, and my mother thanked me for helping with the documentation. It had been decided that I would be the spokesperson for the family when it came to appointments, documents, errands, and any other necessities that arose where a language barrier presented itself. This was under my parents’ misconception that I had managed to translate a legal document correctly due to my own knowledgeable efforts and not because someone had been compassionate enough to take the time to explain things to me without the use of slang, analogies, or legally specific vocabulary.

It would not be much later until my parents had me going to all kinds of appointments and meetings with them to interpret a conversation or file. While my first real translating experience had gone rather well, this was not always the case. There are places where a social stigma surrounds people of a culture that differs from the usual American lifestyle. While there were those who appeared to be fascinated and supportive of an external culture, there were also many who looked down on my parents for needing their children to aid them in trivial things, such as communication. On an occasion where our apartment had been victim to a robbery, the police were called. I was doing my best to answer the officer’s questions and paraphrase what was being asked of me back to my parents. At the time, I was too young to comprehend the meaning behind his looks and the subtle remarks he made about my parents not being able to speak for themselves; after all, he was there to help us, but the way I felt under his judgmental eyes will always stick with me.

The reality is, coming to the United States was a great sacrifice my parents made for their family. It has provided me

with many opportunities, but it also challenged me. While I was allowed access to things like better health care and education, being the translator for my family made me develop a complicated relationship with public and professional communication and the family dynamic. There were many times that I resented having to help my parents. It often felt like I had no choice but to spend hours perfecting my English skills when I could have been watching TV or playing video games, the way my brother was allowed to do. I was not given actual succor for my anxieties of public speaking in a way that changed my relationship with the responsibilities expected of me at a young age. I was simply made aware of the importance of my help.

To this day, I am still the family translator. I now thoroughly enjoy reading and writing in my spare time. I am now able to adapt to the literacy required of me by my environment. Having to speak to adults in different kinds of settings with varying tones and social demands from an early age has facilitated my ability to navigate myself around new people as an adult on my own. However, every now and then I get that familiar burning at the back of my throat and my hands start to clam up. I wonder what life could have been like if we’d stayed in my home country. I miss the person I could have been even if it had meant enduring the harsh winters Mexico had to offer. Then I look outside my window at the hot, liquid sun and the bushes that pave my driveway. I remember the woman who had the patience to look at me as a seven-year-old girl doing her best.

There is nothing spiritual about the cross that hangs around my neck anymore. Still, my fingers always seem to find their way around it. A reflex? Perhaps. Mostly, I think, it is an ache I am not willing to explore.

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Contributors

Isabelle Alegria is a creative writing major continuing to pursue her passion and better her writing. She hopes to be published again soon.

Isabella Bartholomew is a high-school junior dual enrolling at NWFSC. She recently took Pottery I at the college and loved the experience. Her piece “dreaming of the moon” took several attempts to create. Isabella experimented with facial structure and expression, color, and texture. She drew inspiration from goddesses, the celestial world, and the unconscious.

Rachel Baxter is a 25-year-old poet transplanted to Fort Walton Beach from Las Vegas. She loves coffee, classics, learning languages, and when she’s not at work or the gym she is usually hiking or spending time with her three rescue dogs. She hopes to write things that make other people feel seen in their vulnerable, complex emotions, so they might feel a little less alone.

Kendra Belton is a firm believer that poetry is for the insane, which, fortunately, she is.

Kate Beliaeva is a fashion designer, artist, and current student in the PTA program. She has always been passionate about art and fashion, and although she chose a career as a ballet dancer, she kept drawing and creating costumes for performances. She is from Russia and lived in the Middle East for six years before moving to the USA. Because of this, she can see this country from a different perspective and compare it to other cultures.

Writing poetry, freeform or not, has never come that easily to Ezra C But he did have a fun time writing this sorta-epic of a crow that messes with the Greek and Roman gods.

Kimberly Callahan is an older student returning to college to finish an education she began many years ago. She is not a typical student—she is married with four kids, one of whom is also a college student! She has always loved to read and write, and making things is one of her passions!

Kara Crowther writes poetry as a way to express her feelings through a myriad of colorful words. Her works reflect her experiences in childhood and teenage life. She is currently a junior at Collegiate High School and hopes her poems resonate with those who spend time reading them.

Cassidy Cunningham is a multi-media art student with a passion for creativity. She’s an avid fantasy fan and helps lead the tabletop gaming club in building a wonderful community of friends through a couple of dice and cards. She has many plans for the future, creating as much

art as she possibly can! She hopes to make many little joys for as many people she can.

Colby Daigle is a high school junior at Collegiate. They are taking five college classes, write for fun, and are even in the process of writing a story with their best friend.

Alana Davis is a senior at the Collegiate High School at NWFSC. Alana spends her free time learning all types of art, which include drawing, playing piano, and her favorite media, watercolor.

Damian Dawkins Jr. is a photographer who wants to show people the more uncomfortable sides of things unseen. Naturally we tend to ignore the unfavorable parts of living. Damian wants to show that the dark and unknown can offer many things if you let it. This photo may induce unrecognizable emotions. Embrace yourself within.

Alexus Forte received a Canon Rebel T6 as a gift to document her pregnancy. When her oldest daughter was born, she started to take pictures of her. This is the moment she fell in love with art and photography. Her expertise includes personal, holiday, graduation, wedding, family, and newborn photography. Her dream goal is to provide exceptional photography with her business, Graceful Images.

Luke Franklin is a sophomore at NWFSC/CHS.

Ethan Howard is an English major who hopes to publish his own stories. He wants to thank everyone who reads his work.

Sterling Howard is an 18-year-old freshman at NWFSC and an artist pursuing the graphic design field. This piece, which she dedicated to her dad, who has a passion for bikes, was from her first art class this year.

Ethan Hyland is a student at Collegiate High School. He values the traits of learning and hard work. He plays the bass clarinet and clarinet, which requires a lot of creative energy. He infuses his poems with the same energy.

Joanna Johnson is a 17-year-old dual enrollment student. She took Professor Pridgon’s ceramics class last semester at NWFSC. At first she wasn’t sure if she really liked ceramics, but through her professor, she came to love it, and this piece ended up being one of her favorites.

Elizabeth Kelly is a sophomore at Northwest Florida State College. She is currently finishing up her associates degree and will transfer to pursue astrophysics. Despite the fact that she wants to go into a STEM career, her love of reading and writing was cultivated at a young age. In her spare time, she loves to read voraciously, write novels—she has finished three—and write poetry.

David Laird is working to begin a career in photography. This is his final

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semester at Northwest Florida State College. His passion for photography was ignited when he received his first camera at fourteen years of age. This photo was taken while he was in motion and the mockingbird was taking a short rest on a fence.

James Land is currently a Collegiate junior. He’s been writing as a hobby for the past three years but joined the RaiderWriters group to improve his writing. Along with creating some of the best friendships he has, the RaiderWriters helped him break out of his comfort bubble, and, for the past half a year, he’s been experimenting with poetry.

Lizbeth Ledezma Garza is currently studying to pursue a career in early childhood education. Her hope is to be the person she needed when she was younger for her students and help them grow into strong-minded individuals. She enjoys writing stories that will never see the light of day, procrastinating responsibly, and learning new languages.

A returning student, Kenneth Miller is a NWFSC sophomore majoring in art and aims to become an art history professor. He admires all creative pursuits, including poetry. He has had two works previously published in Blackwater Review: a drawing titled “clarity” in 2013 and a sculpture titled “a lost heart” in 2015. This is his first go at sharing written works.

Jasmine Niblett is a 28-year-old mother, student, and desk clerk. She has recently rediscovered a nostalgic love of art, music, and the written word.

Jude Peck is a sophomore at the Northwest Florida State College Collegiate High School.

Kayden Peets is a student at Collegiate High School who plans to double major in biology and English. Her life goal is to become an oncologist and to write at least three books. Her goal as a writer is to be able to write about something that is completely foreign and unknown to her, while still having the intended tone and message for the reader.

As a child, Mary Plenge loved art and the idea of creating something beautiful. Art lessons learned as a child have stayed with her. This work consists of three lotus flowers in different life stages. From budding through shedding petals, each is a beautiful flower and a unique piece of art.

Richard Dean Ratliff has expanded on an Appalachian tale that he was told by his mother as a child.

Audrey Russell is a 16-year-old dual enrollment student. She plays for Niceville High School girls varsity soccer. In the little spare time she has, she enjoys drawing, classic literature, and writing poetry.

In this oil pastel artwork, Audrey Schuster created a disfigured and

Blackwater Review

disproportionate figure to challenge the bounds of beauty. Her goal with this piece was to communicate the need for outlandish forms of creativity because without it, the world becomes bland. In the future, she hopes to explore more eccentric art styles that question what we find pleasing. As an artist and photographer, Keely Sims enjoys capturing animals and nature. Through these means, she is able to bring others into a place or moment in time. Her favorite mediums are digital photography and watercolor, although she is always reaching for new mediums and incorporating them into her art.

Hannah Squires is a dual-enrolled senior in high school at Northwest Florida State College. She is attending Florida State University in the fall. Hannah is planning to pursue a double major in English and philosophy. She is also a part of the college’s vocal group, Voices of Northwest Florida. Hannah loves reading, writing, singing, and spending time with friends and family!

Jakob St Onge could be just like you: working to get by, doing art as a side hobby or a second income. But this can only satiate the soul for so long. In this picture, most of which was shot on NWFSC’s Niceville Campus, several staples of the campus architecture are on display, as the image is blended to create the effect. This picture has been years in the making.

Callista Talbert is a freshman in the Collegiate program. She has written poetry for a while as a way to express feelings or tell a story in a different way. She found the contest to be a great way to get out of her comfort zone and hopes to learn from this experience. This is her first published poem.

Carly Veach is a young student, artist, and writer attending Collegiate High School. They love writing poetry that forces readers to think and concoct their own interpretations of their works. They are a digital illustrator, and they also love birds, frogs, and space.

Gina Watkins is a firm believer in furthering one’s education and following the path of one’s passion. Photography is one of her passions, and she decided to further educate herself in it.

Alexandra Wells is a junior in high school and is dual enrolled at NWFSC. She started writing in her sophomore year in a creative writing class and fell in love with the art of writing, especially fiction. But when Alexandra’s not writing, she’s a competitive tennis player and was on South Walton’s varsity team, which made it to the state tournament last season.

Haley Williamson is a freshman currently studying to attain an Associate of Science in Design and Digital Marketing. When not in class, Haley is out practicing photography, writing, or editing content for her

Contributors • 117

podcast and blog. Spiders may be “creepy” to most, but when looked at through a positive perspective, a spider’s stillness can be quite awe-inspiring and beautiful.

Jake Williamson is a college student at Northwest Florida State College. He is notable for having work that was included in the Blackwater Review. Unless he didn’t, which means you’re also not reading this.

Thomas Witt has been an artist for his entire life. Currently, he is an arts student here at NWFSC. He works in a variety of media including graphite, charcoal, ink, watercolor, and 3-D animation software. This piece is an open composition drawing of several tools on a carpet.

Reed Zinke is currently a college student at Northwest Florida State College, and he plans on achieving his AA degree. He likes to write fiction, short stories, and a little bit of poetry in his free time.

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Northwest Florida State College is dedicated to the concepts of equity and equal opportunity. It is the specific intention of the College not to discriminate on the basis of age, color, ethnicity, disability, marital status, national origin, race, pregnancy, religion, genetic information, or gender, in its employment practices or in the admission and treatment of students in its programs or activities. For additional information, visit www.nwfsc.edu. Por favor llame a la Oficina de Admisiones de Northwest Florida State College al 850-729-5205 para obtener materiales de la Universidad en Español.