FIgs & Thistles 2017-2018 | Presbyterian College by Presbyterian College

Figs and Thistles Literary Arts Journal of Presbyterian College 2017 - 2018 51st Edition

Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note Dear reader, The 51st edition of Presbyterian Collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literary and arts journal is more than just another addition to the collection of intriguing work that PC students produce year after year. This book contains a collection of stories and poems that will take you to another world, where these pieces of art come to life. The talent that these students encompass is undeniable, and will be easily visible in every aspect of this book. The completion of this book would not have been possible without the contributions from the many bright and intelligent students at PC! As well as the assistance from our faculty advisor Mr. Robert Stutts, the help of our printer, Mr. Bill Reagan of ProPrinters, and to our amazing staff who put in so much time, effort, and energy into creating this wonderful book. We hope that each reader will find a selection they love within the journal, and will continue to share these pieces by promoting or joining us. Sincerely, Cassie Adair Staff Cassie Adair, Editor Anna Cooke, Layout Editor Kaitlyn Guinyard Sage Hinkleman Will Hobson Faculty Advisor Robert Stutts

Table of Contents Editor’s Note

Prose Alexander Cornelius, Clay David

My Sister is Immortal and I Know This Because I’ve Tried to Kill Her Several Times, Phoebe Jones 10 Third Piece, Kaitlyn Guinyard

Fateful Decisions, Will Baird

Take My Hand, Libby Fowler

Nothing at All, Will Baird

Heart Broken-Repaired-Glitches-Repear, Mary Katherine Rollins 69 Ingrid, Brianna Estes

Poetry Cycles, Sage Hinkleman

Self-Respect, Will Hobson

She is the Moon, Sage Hinkleman

On a Quiet Street, John Thomas “J.T.” Davis

Game of Hearts, John Thomas “J.T.” Davis

A Poem on My Tongue, John Thomas “J.T.” Davis

A Fifth, Will Hobson

Mississippi Blues, Mary Katherine Rollins

Cobbler, Madison Corthell

Nature’s Giant, Clay David

Harvest, Madison Corthell

To Dance in the Rain: What Madness, Mary Katherine Rollins

iii

For the Very Stones Will Cry Out, Will Hobson

Marlboro, Madison Corthell

Blue Ridge, Madison Corthell

PLUNKsunk, Madison Corthell

Artwork Rabat, Morocco, Reese Bates Phoenix, Lauren Adkins

Cover 6

Scuba, Alysa Chirillo

Luna, Lauren Adkins

Fishbulb, Alysa Chirillo

Innocence, Lori Hart

Il Duomo, Milan, Italy, Fanny Mazet

Cotton Field #1, Kaitlynn Campbell

Cotton Field #2, Kaitlynn Campbell

Cotton, Kaitlynn Campbell

Winter Storm, Kaitlynn Campbell

The Cathedral, Alysa Chirillo

Eclipse, Alex Barrus

Geiranger Fjord, Norway, Fanny Mazet

Jostedalsbreen, Norway, Fanny Mazet

Contributorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Notes

Alexander Cornelius —Clay David “Hey, get back here!” I heard footsteps behind me and realized that I had only a few moments before they caught me. I turned the corner and leapt behind some crates just in time as the group of guards ran past my hiding place. I relaxed for a moment to catch my breath before sprinting the rest of the way back to my ship. I should explain: My name is Alexander Cornelius, and I am an explorer of sorts. I travel through time on my ship, the Avalon, looking for artifacts that could be of any major impact to human history and selling them in the present day to whoever pays the most. These buyers contact me through a set of message boards I have set up in most ages of human inhabitance. This job doesn’t come without risks though; time travel can be dangerous if done incorrectly. For example, I must replace anything I steal with near exact replicas, made on the Avalon, so that the timeline will not be affected by its absence. For this particular job, I was on my way to the Renaissance to retrieve designs for the flying machine, Leonardo da Vinci’s attempt at harnessing the power of the wind in order to fly. This heist shouldn’t have been a problem due to the lack of security in this age, but I became distracted by the brilliance of the Renaissance, and in my absent-minded actions, I was discovered by da Vinci himself and the city guards were called. Long story short, I barely made it back to the Avalon with my life. One problem remained: The order was still out on the designs and I had a reputation to keep. As I fired up my ship and punched in the coordinates of a time just a few weeks before, I went through possible alterations to my plan that would allow me to slip into da Vinci’s study and grab the plans without getting caught. When the Avalon touched down in the past, I hastily unbuckled my restraints and gathered my gear. “I won’t be taken by surprise this time,” I thought to myself. I went to the Avalon’s fabricator to fashion for myself clothing fitting of the time that I was in. When I exited my ship, I turned back to take in the beauty of the vessel. She wasn’t what you’d expect a time-traveling vessel to look like. She was made of a plethora of materials ranging from steel to wood. This, of course, gave my ship the appearance of frailty, but I can assure you that she was anything but fragile. Once I had finished admiring the Avalon, I proceeded down a hill and

into town. It was the dead of night when I arrived, so it was a somber experience as I walked through the calm streets. I made my way to the building where da Vinci worked and began my search of the building. It seemed that the document had been moved since the last time he had been here looking for it. “Looking for this?” A deep voice echoed from behind me, and I turned to see a mountain of a man holding the plans that I had intended to take. The man shrugged and tossed the designs to me. I tried to request an explanation of him, but the only hint that he had ever been there was a lingering shimmer in the air that curiously reminded me of the way the air rippled whenever I began a time jump. While I was interested, I was also mindful of getting caught a second time and concluded that it was best for me to get somewhere where I could ponder what had just happened without the risk of capture. I hastily placed my replica of the document where the plans should have been and began my return to the ship. When I got back to the Avalon, I boarded and sat down to ponder an explanation for what had just happened and how the man could have possibly known what I was after. An even more appropriate question would be how was he in this time? As far as I knew, I was the only one to possess the capability to travel through time, but he surely wasn’t from here as his clothes were quite different from mine and the locals’. I found myself worried as I thought of the repercussions of another person having this much power. While I understood that I didn’t use time travel for the most heroic purposes, I always made sure to keep the timeline intact. This mystery man might not be as careful. After all, what if I hadn’t been there? Would he have just taken the designs? Even worse, the unknown man might have been watching my movements and in that case what does he want? I eventually calmed my mind and assured myself that I shouldn’t worry too much now, because I couldn’t do anything about it in my current situation. With that thought, I fired up the Avalon to input the time address of my buyer. On arrival at the buyer’s estate, I was greeted with a squadron of armed men with their guns trained on me and my ship. The Avalon wasn’t bullet proof (as modern science fiction would have you to believe); therefore, I exited my ship in a passive manner that didn’t end in my premature death. Once the guards were sure that I was secure and harmless, they radioed in and I was led inside where I could only assume the client awaited. I was led to my apparent customer who sat in a chair by the fire like this was an everyday occurrence.

“Were the guards really necessary?” I hastily asked. All I received in response was a gruff nod. When the man finally spoke, he did so in a rumbling voice that matched his grotesque body: “Do you have the item that I requested?” Since he was going to be rude, I elected to enjoy the conversation a little. “Do you have the payment that I requested?” My efforts were rewarded with a brief grin that slid across his face. “You’ll find that I’m not one to be played with, Alexander.” He spat the name in my face like an insult. Despite his obvious threat, I wanted to know his name so I requested it in the most irritating tone I could muster. “Damien.” His anger almost palpable in his voice. “Well, Damien, I do have your designs but I’m going to want my payment first.” Damien handed me a briefcase that, upon closer inspection, was filled to the brim with money. “Thanks a million, buddy. I’ll be on my way now.” And with that, I tried to turn and walk back the way I came in. The guards blocked my path, and I could hear Damien’s booming voice from the other room: “I have another request of you Alexander.” As much as I didn’t want to take another job from that repulsive man, I was implored to hear him out due to a gun muzzle poking the middle of my back. I returned to the scrutinizing stare of Damien as he began to recite his order. Damien went on and on about the importance of this request until he revealed to me what I would be searching for: “…I want you to bring me this man.” He held up a picture of a man that I recognize as the figure that gave me the document back in da Vinci’s workshop. “Where do you know this man from?” I blurted out. Damien hesitated before explaining. “He is a wanted criminal that disappeared from prison mysteriously, only to be found in my house stealing the artifacts I’ve collected. Once found in my house, he proceeded to shimmer out of existence carrying my property with him.” Damien was obviously lying about his connection to the man, but curiosity won out in the end. I pondered the situation for a few minutes before asking Damien what this occurrence had to do with me. “The shimmer that he disappeared into was something I had only seen once before when I sent you to retrieve the document from Leonardo da Vinci.” This confirmed my fears that someone else had gained access to time travel. “I’ll find this man,” I said shortly. Damien seemed pleased by my

words and sent me on my way. As I boarded the Avalon, I was struck with the realization that I had no idea how to find this man. The only place I had even seen the mysterious figure was in the distant past, and it seemed that he could time travel just like me. With this knowledge, I decided to go back in time to the place I had seen him last: Leonardo da Vinci’s study. I began the jump through time, and when I arrived, I rushed straight over to the study and questioned anyone who would listen if they had seen the mountain of a man. When I came up empty-handed, I saw a slight shimmer from an alley down the street. Eager to follow the only lead I’d received, I rushed over to the alley and found the man I had been looking for leaning against the wall. “Why are you looking for me?” he asked in a grumbled voice. I struggled for words because I hadn’t expected to find him so soon. “I’ve been asked to find you and bring you back to another time,” I managed to say. The man looked at me with a confused expression on his face. “Wait. You know about time travel? I thought the last one with this knowledge died decades ago.” I took some time to explain the workings of my ship, the Avalon, and when I had finished he nodded. “I see, so you need your ship to traverse time. I believe that you procured this ship from me some time ago. Can you explain to me how the Avalon came into your possession please?” This was one question I couldn’t answer due to my lack of knowledge as to how I encountered the time traveling vessel in the first place. “I’m afraid I don’t remember where I got the Avalon, just that I woke up inside the ship after a near-fatal bullet wound. I was robbed.” After some time and explaining, I convinced the man, who was known as Ross, to come aboard the Avalon and explain himself. “I am a time-traveling being that can be found in many cultures around the world and I have been known to gift normal people with the means to travel through time if I deem them worthy,” Ross explained. “Then why would Damien want me to bring you to him?” I asked. Ross pondered this for a moment before concluding that Damien wanted Ross to give him the ability to travel through time. “Well, needless to say, I would never give Damien power over time, so how about we just forget all about this meeting and you go tell that man that you can’t possibly find me?” I thought about this option for a while and figured that it would probably be best for business if I was the only one capable of time travel. With this

decision, we decided to part ways, so we said our goodbyes and before I knew it I was back on the Avalon poking at the controls setting the designation to Damien’s estate. It was once I had begun my jump to the future that I began to think of Damien’s reaction with me coming back empty-handed. He met me with armed guards the last time I had been there and I had succeeded in retrieving the desired object, but this time I wouldn’t be so lucky without the object in hand. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice my arrival at Damien’s estate until a knock rang out through the Avalon. Then came a shout; it was Damien. “You in there, Alexander? Do you have the man I’m looking for?” I had no way to get out of it, so I opened the hatch on the Avalon and told him the truth. A tick started in Damien’s jaw as his anger grew. He obviously didn’t have any capacity for failure. “Bring me his head,” he ordered the guards. The guards trained their guns on me as I made a desperate dash for the cockpit of my ship. Bullets ripped through the Avalon. I began a time jump for the first place that came to my mind: the night I was robbed. I arrived just in time to see my past self cornered in an alley. I yelled as my soon-to-be killer raised his gun, but it was far too late to interfere. My body recoiled as a bullet hit my chest and I dropped to the trash-ridden ground. It was at this moment that I realized something I had never thought about before: I didn’t get an ambulance the night I was shot; in fact, I never even remembered recovering from the wound. The only thing I remembered was that I took a bullet and woke up in the Avalon, but this didn’t seem to be happening this time. I felt pressure in my chest and I looked down to see the front of my shirt red with blood. It seemed that whatever saved me in the first place wasn’t coming back for a second attempt. Just as my vision began to fade, I saw Ross’s large figure as he picked me up off the ground and disappeared into thin air. When I came to, I was in the cockpit of a strange-looking ship and a man was punching controls beside me. “What’s going on?” I asked the large man to my left. “You were shot and I saved you. You were lucky the bullet missed your heart,” he said. I looked around and took in the intricacies of the ship around me. A medical station sat to my right, and a strange machine further down the ship whirred with a mysterious energy. I glanced at a stenciled name on the wall: Avalon.

The man finally turned my way and stated calmly, “The medication that I’m giving you will make you forget that you ever came in contact with me, but I will leave you my journal on this ship and its functions.” My vision began to fade once again as the medicine kicked in and the last thing I saw before darkness was the man’s form beginning to ripple and shimmer out of existence until it wasn’t there at all.

Phoenix Acrylic on Canvas —Lauren Adkins

Cycles —Sage Hinkleman on the car ride home she shoved it all down my throat “he’s a liar; why don’t you see that?” she spat the words at me because I was too naive to realize it and apparently too young to understand. when she said she hated every part of him, I knew that she meant it because I lived it every day. “I’ve dealt with his shit for 18 years.” now her words settled inside me and I tried to digest them. it hurt. “I’m the good person.” she let me know that she didn’t have time for it anymore, she didn’t need to make time. we pulled in the driveway, the silence ringing in our ears. I should have been scared, but I knew that things wouldn’t change. people don’t know how to change.

Self-Respect —Will Hobson I don’t quite remember exactly when it was that I was called a broken giant. That is not to say I have no records in my head. I have many, but they are Legion. She (with a degree) told me that she was Impressed. …And I was struck: Why call me brave? I have done nothing of note. And following that with “considering?” My circumstances are nothing. Anyways, could She not see? I have been weighed in my balances, and I have been found wanting. But, She took me “up into an exceeding high mountain” to look out on all that could be observed. The dips and the troughs, along with the crags and the caps I knew seemingly Smoothed into a Silken Steppe. And from here we saw titans engaged in comforting familiarity all the while, gliding over their frictionless field. •

•

She asked me to see these Continental Shadows as a foreshadowing because She could explain it better that way. She spoke of the Signs of gliding giants as how the outside lives. She told Wonders of titans never having to scramble and stretch.

But that despite my less than titanic frame, I had walked the same length of sky as these behemoths… Sometimes further. After we descended the highest height back towards crevassed normality, She embraced me and looking directly into my eyes, said – “Be kind to yourself and cast aside your skewed balances. While in them you mightn’t exactly measure up to the titans, your strength and tenacity betrays you. You, yourself, are a Giant but have been broken. Heal and care for yourself. With understanding, you may yet see the beautiful things that the sky holds, and with time, you may yet come out to see, again, the stars.”

My Sister Is Immortal and I Know This Because I’ve Tried to Kill Her Several Times —Phoebe Jones I think most people would agree that my sister should be dead right now. It’s not that we want her to die, or really that we’re trying to kill her. It’s more of an observation than anything. In my house, Murphy’s Law only applies to Isabel, my youngest sister. Anything that can go wrong, will absolutely go horribly wrong for her. “Aww, you guys always win!” My sister, three years old and chubbier than a Shar Pei, pouts at us from the end of the hallway. My middle sister, Vivian, and I had been racing around the corners of our house, sliding along the hardwood floors, and literally bouncing off the walls. My parents’ tired shouts from the kitchen of, “Stop acting like a bunch of damn hooligans!” fell on deaf ears. “You know you’ll run faster with socks on,” Vivian coached Isabel, throwing a conspiratorial arm around her shoulders. “Yeah!” I piped up, “That’s how you do it if you wanna win!” At eight years old, I was clearly beholden to the knowledge of the universe, at least in Isabel’s eyes. She nodded, wide-eyed, and ran upstairs, frantically searching for the frilled little white socks every in-the-know toddler possessed. Flushed and already slipping down the hardwood stairs, Isabel bounded back, ready for a rematch. “Alright,” I started, “On your mark, get set, GO!” We were off! I had a good lead on the other two as we came around the first corner in our house, but was usurped by Vivian who catapulted around me. I saw a flash of blonde as Isabel slid around Vivian and disappeared. SMACK! Oh no. I screeched to a halt beside Vivian as a I took in the crime scene. Blood dotted the crisp white walls like a Jackson Pollock masterpiece, dripping into pools on the hardwood. Isabel’s tangled, tiny body was crumpled next to the edge of a wall, the sharp corner of which had sliced her head open, leaving her blonde curls a matted mess and her already ghostly pale face drained of color. “Kem, get a towel! Oh my god!” My mother ran around frantically, trying to help without getting within a two feet radius of the carnage for fear of passing out or vomiting on my sister. My father scooped Isabel up,

wrapped her head in a dishtowel, and snagged car keys off the hook near the front door all in one fell swoop. As he raced around the corner to the Children’s Hospital, Vivian and I were beside ourselves, sobbing into our mother’s lap that we had unintentionally killed our young, adoring sister. We were pleasantly surprised when she came back a few hours later with a raised, jagged scar across her forehead (not unlike Harry Potter’s lightning-shaped mark) laughing and holding an ice cream cone. Little did we know how resilient she’d become. Since the first attempt on her life, Isabel has survived many more. Not all of them were accidents, and not all of them were our fault, but it seems important to have a comprehensive list. A Comprehensive List of The Ways Isabel Should Have Died 1) Blunt Force Trauma: a) We were rough children. Wrestling with each other and knocking each other down was a favorite pastime. How she survived being jumped on by people twice her size is beyond me. She got shoved into a computer desk so hard the desk flipped over and mouse got unplugged. That’s the day we learned she is very dense. b) We are clumsy adults. The number of times I’ve accidentally punched my sister in the face trying to explain something or dancing is more than I can count. Even her boyfriend has punched her in the face on accident. One time, they were walking out of the house and he turned around to ask her something thinking she was farther away than she was and, well, that definitely left a mark. She is still very dense, though.1 2) Drowning: The numerous occasions when I was supposed to watch her and make sure she didn’t swim out too far into the deep end of the pool or the abyss of the ocean. Her disappearing curls floating on the surface of the water were usually my cue to panic and drag her out, squeezing the bejeezus out of her like a little sponge, hoping to dry her out.2 3) Falling down the Stairs: In my defense, our mom definitely said to 1

Probably because we’ve knocked out all her brain cells. (Just kidding, Mom!) She’s almost been crushed several times by well-meaning family members trying to “save” her from drowning. Isabel learned to swim at an early age and we didn’t bother to tell anybody, so when she was two and she toddled into the pool, my Uncle Stuart thought she fell in and started stripping in our backyard. My parents didn’t intervene until Stuart was almost naked and Isabel’s little head popped back up above the surface of the water. I’m pretty sure Stuart never came back over to our house after that. 2

polish the staircase. Or the railing… oh. My bad. 4) Brain Damage: To be fair, if we didn’t push her over or trip her, playing volleyball would have done it anyway. The concussion she got from missing a ball and hitting the court was probably the grossest noise any human has ever heard. 5) The Flu: Not anybody’s fault but she was blind for, like, two days. Who the heck gets the flu that bad? This is just more evidence of her unnecessary suffering at the hands of Murphy’s Law. 6) Me Being a Horrible Driver: She’s distracting to ride with and honestly the light at that intersection is way too short, so anybody could have almost flipped a car over. Easy mistake, really. Although it was pretty funny to watch her pick shrubbery out of her hair for the rest of the drive. 7) Falling out of Things: a) Isabel almost took a tumble out of the tree house in our backyard and dislocated her shoulder when Vivian saved her by pulling her back in.3 b) At pretty regular intervals I hear a thud from her room across the hall (and laugh) because she’s rolled out of her QUEEN-SIZED BED. Again. 8) Having Her Entire Body Thrown into the Front Windshield of a Moving Vehicle: Of all the ways my sister has almost died, this one was the worst. I not only saw her life flash before my eyes, but I also saw my own (assuming my parents would murder me if I accidentally killed Isabel). We had been arguing for most of the day before the incident occurred. Her boyfriend is a little rowdy for me sometimes4 and she had invited him over, unannounced, to spend the entire day at our house. By the end of the day, when it was time to drive him home, my nerves were shot and Isabel and I were exchanging tense, passive-aggressive one-liners with each other. They sat whispering and giggling in the back, while my knuckles turned white with annoyance as my hands gripped the steering 3

I didn’t know this until I texted her for research and to clarify some incidents. The conversation went something like this: “Hey, Isabel, how many different ways have you almost died?” “At least four. Why, what’s up?” This girl is ridiculous. 4 Read: Most of the time. If we could harness his raw energy, I’m convinced you could power the world for a few millennia.

wheel. We pulled into Divine’s5 apartment complex and slowed in front of his building. He hopped out with the usual, “Thanks for the ride, Pheebs! Catch ya on the flip side!” and a customary fistbump. I shifted gears while he bounded up the stairs and began to slowly ease down the street. “Wait! I want to sit in the front!” Isabel shouted as she threw her body over the center console. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have done what I did, but I was crotchety and had been forced to change out of my pajamas to drive.6 As she tossed her body into the front seat, I slammed on the brakes. SMACK! Oh no. My heart dropped into my stomach as I heard her body fly into the windshield and crumple in the passenger seat. I immediately started panicking as I put the car in park and inspected her head with my hands. “Isabel, can you hear me? Can you see me? What hurts? Tell me what hurts. Look at me. I need to see your pupils.”7 Isabel’s head lolled from side to side as she struggled to focus her attention on my face. “Ish fine, ahm fine, evrshin fne.” Her slurred attempts to reassure me were not helping. As I helplessly watched Isabel struggle to right herself, I had flashbacks of the first night she almost died. Visions of blood-splattered walls and matted blonde hair burned in my brain. The feelings of guilt and helplessness rushed back and I burst into tears, causing Isabel to stare at me in confusion. I must have mistook her confusion for “horribly concussed” because the sobbing got even worse and I started choking out apologies. “I’m (sob) sorry (sob) I (sob) suck (sob) I AM A MONSTER (indefinite crying)” “It’s okay, Pheebs! It was an honest mistake! Really! I’m fine! Everything is fine!” She awkwardly patted my head and laughed.8 5

Yes, her boyfriend’s name is Divine. DivineSun Supreme. I literally could not make this shit up. Which technically means swapping my “sleeping” leggings for my “driving” leggings, but still that’s more often than any person should have to change in a day. THE PAJAMA REVOLUTION IS UPON US. 7 Thank you, Grey’s Anatomy. That’s also where I learned how to do a ballpoint pen tracheotomy. My roommate would like to point out at this point that I am not licensed to do this and should never, EVER do this. I think she’s just salty because she didn’t learn how to perform an emergency surgical procedure. Haters gonna hate, ya know? 8 I’m sorry, she must have magic powers because who the hell LAUGHS after getting thrown into a windshield? Not normal people, that’s who. 6

“No, you’re not! You almost died! I thought I killed you! I’m the worst sister ever! What if I had killed you?!” I wheezed heavily, choking on tears and short, shallow breaths. “Literally, I’m fine. Look, I’m missing a little skin on my knee from where I hit the dash and I have a cut on my nose but everything is okay.” I quieted down for a minute to process this. She presented her knee for inspection and turned on the overhead light to show me the fearsome bruise blooming across the bridge of her nose. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE MISSING SKIN AND LOOK LIKE AN MMA FIGHTER. I AM WORSE THAN HITLER.” I’m pretty sure the crying9 continued for the rest of the car ride home and only subsided as I was trying to explain to my parents how close they came to being down a kid. I hugged Isabel so tightly I thought she would die (oh god), and we parted ways for the night, each hoping to climb into our beds and forget about the trauma of the evening. In all my years of living with Evel Knievel’s lovechild, I’ve never experienced a moment like I did that night. After all was said and done, and the whirring sounds of her mechanical toothbrush slowed down, Isabel stomped down the hall into my room to say goodnight. I winced when I saw her beat up face and tired expression. “I’m sorry I almost killed you. You know I didn’t mean it, right? It was an accident.” “Yeah, I know. It’s okay. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.” “Haha, on porpoise? (attempted dolphin noise)”10 “Yeah, Pheebs. Well, goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow. If I wake up.” She winked. This hoe.11 “Not funny! Hey, wait a sec. I love you.” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “I love you too, Pheebs.”12 As she closed the door, I realized that my baby sister was more 9

My crying. I vaguely remember Isabel saying something about not crying and driving but I was busy. Crying and driving. Strangely enough, as the most sensitive person in the family, Isabel did not shed a single tear. Yet she cries if you say that line from Mulan where the father says, “The greatest privilege and honor is having you for a daughter.” Go figure. 10 My sisters and I have a series of inside jokes based on puns based on animal names based on their resemblance to other things. It’s slowly taking over my life. Is My Strange Addiction still accepting audition tapes? 11 This was a low blow because she knows that was how Billy Mays died and she KNOWS that he was the love of my life, so I was pretty much terrified Isabel wasn’t going to wake up in the morning. And also it reminded me how much I miss Billy. RIP. 12 This was when I cried for ten more hours because if that isn’t the nicest damn thing you’ve ever heard then I don’t know what to tell you, ya Grinch.

wonderful, more resilient, and more amazing than I could ever hope to be. She had so readily forgiven me for something I would have held a grudge over for weeks. She gives me more love than I know what to do with, and I know she’ll have my back in a heartbeat if I need her. She inspires me to reach for new heights and take crazy risks, not knowing whether I’ll come out the same on the other side. She is a boomerang, throwing caution (and herself) to the wind, and always coming back stronger. Literally nothing will stop her. Believe me, we’ve tried.

Untitled Sketch —Alysa Chirillo

She Is the Moon â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Sage Hinkleman she is the moon a surface of craters a body of arches and curves waxing and waning she rarely wears the same smile twice

she is the moon so purposefully suspended created to dance circles me around

controlling

my tides

deepening

my attachments my desires my lust

she too far too full too fast

the

moon

air and

the into

lasso my for me to throw

pull her down

simply to be swallowed for her moonbeams she

the

moon

Luna Mixed Media Sculpture â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Lauren Adkins 17

The Third Piece —Kaitlyn Guinyard “Just as Igneus, Dark Lord of the Underworld, and his army of demons began to rise from the soil, Kovac raised his mighty hand and yelled, ‘Heavens, heed my command! Grace me with the champion of all weapons!’ With a loud crack of thunder, the clouds peeled apart and Kovac’s ultimate weapon fell from the sky!” “Wow...” An excited kick of feet underneath the sheets. “He’s so cool! What happened next, Moranda?!” Moranda chuckled but continued her story with unbound enthusiasm. “Kovac claimed his prized weapon, a tool that no mortal word could ever name, and slammed it into the earth. Then...the most amazing of sights happened. The ground began to crumble, mountains splitting in two as giant cracks ripped through the valleys and hills. Down Igneus and his demons fell, back into the fiery pits of the Underworld!” Moranda’s eager listener was about to cheer but she stopped the premature celebration with a raised finger. “But...as Igneus tried to claw his way up, he made a vow. One day, whether it’d be a century or a millennium later, he would return, steal the mystical weapon, and use it to conquer humanity.” An indignant scoff. “Stupid Igneus!” “Concerned by Igneus’s words, Kovac split his mighty weapon in three and banished them to the far edges of the world, hoping that they’ll never fall into Igneus’s evil clutches. After that, Kovac disappeared; no one, to this very day, knows if he’s still roaming the earth or awaiting Igneus’s return in the Heavens.” “But...why did Kovac cut the weapon in into three parts?” A long pause. “That...is a question that has yet to be answered,” Moranda said. Muscles tensed beneath skin as he raised the hammer above his head, veins bulging from his neck. With a sharp clang, the hammer came down and flattened the molten-red rod. The action repeated, each successive strike growing in power until the floors shook. With a final swing, the man dropped the hammer next to him, barely flinching as the floorboards creaked dangerously beneath its mighty weight. Sweat dripped down his visage, soaked up by his grizzly beard, yet his smile remained warm.

He shot an amused look at his visitor—a young girl. Her chin was propped up on the front counter while her wide, unblinking gaze absorbed his every move. Her fascination was palpable and peeked through as a glimmer in her sky-blue eyes. It seemed that her lips wished to smile but they were also numbed with awe, leaving the child gaping like a pufferfish. The man, after taking a moment to settle his latest order in the water basin, dried his hands on his trousers. “Back again, Fatani?” he asked. Fatani perked up upon hearing the gravel of his voice. For other children, his rugged and soot-riddled appearance was frightening. Many villagers of Arctopia, both old and young, compared him to a dark beast. However, Fatani was one of few to stand firmly before the behemoth of a man and welcome him with open arms. Or, in Fatani’s case, with one arm. She cupped the stump on her left shoulder and pouted. “You know what you’re supposed to do, Hans! Is it ready yet? Is it?!” By this point, Fatani was bouncing and attracting the attention of nearby villagers. Hans placed a heavy hand on the child’s head, halting her movements, before whispering sheepishly, “Alright, alright! Just quit jittering and come in the back, will ya?” Fatani reared back her shoulders in triumph, which forced a huff out of the blacksmith, and obeyed. As he followed her, he could only scratch his wild blond mane and wonder when Fatani became such a constant in his life. Granted, she was an orphan of two years and, based on what Hans had gathered from their endless conversations, the foster mother trusted Fatani’s judgement. As long as she returned by sunset, all was well. This gave Fatani ample time to—in her words—test out a bunch of Hans’s cool machines. From the outside, his shack was minimal in size and appeared no different than any other blacksmith shop. However, the back was veiled by a thick curtain. As Hans pushed it aside, he and Fatani slipped into the epitome of his work—his real work. At first, the area was cloaked in darkness but neither Hans nor Fatani wandered blindly. Instead, Hans slapped the wall to his right and a blue beam erupted beneath his palm. Although it was smothered, the glow was so intense that every object within the chamber was illuminated into existence. Advanced devices littered every inch of the floor. Some were metallic spheres while the items of larger caliber had sharper designs. Despite

their structural variety, they were all lined with linear crevices and emitting the same neon light. “That gets cooler every time!” Fatani gushed before dashing for a metal chair. The crimson cushion stood out grossly against the hard material but she had complained many times about a sore bottom. It took at least two weeks of whining but Hans had eventually caved into her wishes and bought the cheapest pillow he could find. “Move faster, Hans!” Fatani said as she slouched in her seat, attempting to stare holes through the massive man. For Hans, the glare felt akin to a fly buzzing in his ear but he granted Fatani the satisfaction of pretending to wilt. Dragging his feet behind him, he dramatically flopped into the chair across from her before sighing in relief. “Whoa there, little lion! Put those angry eyes away and show me ya shoulder.” Beyond pleased, Fatani pulled down the collar of her shirt—really, it was just a ragged piece of cloth shoddily sewn together—and presented her nubbin. The caramel skin around it was scar-free, as she was born without a left arm rather than an accident having severed it. Hans reached underneath his seat and pulled out an arm. It was composed of a sleek and reflective metal that Fatani had never seen before. Divided into three sections and connected by oblong joints at the wrist and elbow, it allowed smooth movement like an organic limb. He gingerly pressed the prosthetic onto her shoulder and grinned when the device hummed softly. It shifted, once, twice, before adhering to the contours of her stub. There was a slight pinch, causing the girl to wince, but the pain instantly waned in the face of her excitement. Hans rocked back in his seat with a harking laugh. “There, a new arm! Test it out, kid!” Fatani’s round visage pinched with concentration. At first, the arm didn’t budge an inch. Suddenly, it twitched, followed by the fingers wiggling sluggishly. Her focus melted away until it was reduced to a slack jaw and teary eyes. Her lips flapped, yet she struggled to utter a single word. She settled for poking and prodding the appendage. Artificial nerves responded to her every touch and sent the sensations directly to her brain, causing the child to giggle in glee. By this point, her tears flowed freely and her laughter grew in volumes by the second. Hans simply sat back and enjoyed the sight but then tilted his head when she began to murmur behind her sobs, “Can feel…I-I can feel…” He

felt a weight fall upon his shoulders. “I can feel it! I can really feel my arm! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Wetness collected on his shirt. His arms moved awkwardly before they wrapped around the little girl. “Now, now, no need for all of that softness! Tilt ya head up with pride, kid!” Fatani pulled back with a string of snot still connecting her nose to his chest—Hans undoubtedly cringed—and sniffled. She lifted her chin and sported a gaze as defiant as she could possibly muster. “Y…y-yes sir!” Doing so to draw attention away from the horrid mess left upon his shirt, Hans lifted her new arm up and down, toying with its flexibility. A sudden sense of caution infected his demeanor, though Fatani had barely taken notice of the change. Her young mind was simply too swamped with elation. “Hey kid…how bad do ya want this? To have an arm?” he asked. Fatani gaped at him as if he had shaved his beard. “Bad! Really bad! I always wanted two arms! I mean,” her countenance darkened as unsavory memories surfaced, “Everyone else always made fun of me and stuff…and no one ever wants to adopt me. All because I had one arm! They’re jerks! The whole village are jerks!” “That they are,” Hans chuckled. He then quirked an eyebrow. “But what makes ya different from them?” Unlike usual, he didn’t immediately unravel into laughter when Fatani gaped at him; a new breed of calculation infected his features as he waited for her answer. Fatani shrunk a little under the scrutiny. However, she was never one to back down from a challenge, especially not from Hans. “I don’t think badly about people just because of how they look.” She shot a peculiar look at Hans—he was a prime example of what she meant. The blacksmith definitely noticed and it took a mighty dose of selfrestraint not to grin. He puffed up his frame and flashed a grizzly snarl, practically looming over Fatani. He somewhat resembled a savage that lived off the raw remains of woodland creatures; by normal standards, the visual was terrifying. “How about now?” he growled. Fatani looked unimpressed and tugged on his beard. “Nope, not scary at all.” She giggled at the sight of Hans grimacing, clearly unamused with his facial hair’s treatment. “See? I’m way nicer than everyone! Moranda always told me it’s the inside that matters and she’s right.” Hans gently pried her hands from his beard and allowed a smirk to shatter his mask. Though it should’ve been impossible, Fatani’s hair

became even messier as the man ruffled it and laughed. “Good answer, kid!” He patted her prosthetic arm. “Ya definitely earned this.” Fatani wasn’t quite sure what Hans meant; as far as she knew, all she did was ask for an arm—correction, she begged for one. Constantly. Nonetheless, she decided that it wasn’t worth the confusion and simply smiled back. She reached a hand up to Hans’s beard again. He slapped it away, grumbling irritably. “Would ya quit that already?!” “No fun!” Fatani pouted. Hans watched Fatani leave in a show of dramatic sulks and stomping. “See ya tomorrow,” he said. He swallowed back a laugh when Fatani released a strange noise of annoyance, her organic and mechanical shoulders slumping. It had taken the persistence of a rash to convince her to head back to the orphanage; any other day, Hans would’ve given in and allowed her to stay an extra hour before escorting her back. However, as she disappeared and the smile died from his features, the holy pull in his gut roared for attention. “I’m sorry...” Suddenly, his legs wobbled and he leaned against the front counter for support. Hans chuckled bitterly. “It’s working fast. Good.” He hobbled back into his shop, foregoing the lights and instead scrounging through the dark until his shin bumped into the leg of a chair. With a weak sigh, he collapsed into the seat and his head fell back, peering into the endless void above. And he waited. As silence numbed him to the bone, his mind raced. How long would the process take? Was his decision a mistake? Did he place too much on her? Should he have gambled like this? His nostrils burned. “Kovac...” A voice slithered down Hans’s spine like acid molasses. The blacksmith’s body slumped further as another chunk of energy fled from him; at this rate, the transfer would be complete in a matter of hours. Nails drummed on wood of his chair, the vibrations like stings to his nerves. “Parading around in sheep’s clothing? What self-respecting god stoops so low?” “Spare me the almighty talk, Igneus,” Hans said. “Ya never could understand humanity; ruling them is far beyond ya—!” A sick sizzling emitted from Han’s shoulder, tendrils of steam flowing between Igneus’s

fingers. Twin spheres of crimson opened and blanketed the room in a neon glow. “As you wish.” The sing-song quality returned to Igneus’s tone. “Tell me where your weapon resides.” Strained chuckles rumbled in the back of Hans’s throat. “What do I look like? A fool?” “At times, yes. Even more so now, especially since you’re refusing to cooperate. You must be as lame as the other one.” Hans didn’t have a chance to question that last statement; a raw scream forced his senses to temporarily shut down, thrashing violently against the hand sinking into his shoulder like a hot knife through butter. Spots exploded behind his vision and at some point, he could’ve sworn he had bit off a piece of his tongue. Liquid iron rolled down his lips. Then, the torture ceased; Igneus lifted his palm a ghost of an inch to reveal five crispy trenches in the blacksmith’s skin. Hans heaved ragged pants and crumbled into himself, his vision swimming. “No matter,” Igneus said, “You’ve always been a simple god, Kovac. Your precious item cannot be far.” He firmly clenched the wound again, pausing to soak in his rival’s howl of agony, before sighing softly. “You’ve been dismissed.” “You’ll never find it—” Hans exploded into a shower of ashes. Fatani lurched forward with a scream. “Hans!” She bunched up the sheets to her chest as she battled for air. Her skin felt cold and clammy, and her heart thumped so violently in her chest that she feared it would crack her ribs. Never in her entire life had she experienced such a horrid nightmare; it seemed so real and palpable, as if she was a ghost eavesdropping on the conversation. The sound of racing feet almost made her jolt but her posture relaxed a tad as Moranda opened the door. Her concerned expression was illuminated by a small lantern. “Fatani? Are you alright, dear?” She seated herself at Fatani’s bedside and placed the lantern on a nearby table; without waiting for a reply, she pressed a hand to the girl’s forehead. “Another fever dream?” As she spoke, her gaze strayed to the prosthetic; her reaction to the new appendage was impossible to read. The most Fatani could garner from her was a hint of something...bittersweet. Nonetheless, Moranda was

nothing short of supportive and did what she could to help the child adapt. Though the woman’s touch was soothing, Fatani shook her head vehemently. “B-but it was so real! That wasn’t anything like a fever dream, Moranda!” She pinned the woman with wide, glistening eyes. “S-some man killed Hans! He just exploded in a b-big fire and...a-and...” Tears cascaded down her cheeks, but Moranda noticed anger bubbling to the surface. Stone-faced, the woman backed away on silent feet with her gaze fixated on the child. Fatani didn’t seem to sense her departure nor the faint blue glow emitting from her prosthetic. “A-and he just did it! Like it was nothing!” Her hands balled into fists, the glow intensifying. Moranda was now resting a hand on the door knob, prepping to dash for safety at any moment. “He was hurting Hans! Th-that stupid man kept hurting him and hurting him and hurting him!” Her arms raised. Then slammed down with a force mightier than one hundred men. A ground-shaking boom pierced their ears as a hail of splinters and cotton launched out all four sides of the mattress. It caved in with a rapid series of cracks before collapsing to the floor in a mangled mess, its legs completely shattered. And yet, even as the chaos unfolded around Fatani, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She had curled up into a ball, her face hidden behind her knees, and sobbed until her throat was raw. Moranda peeked back inside, checking to see if it was safe to reenter. She had to step over splinters jutting out of the floor at odd angles, but she eventually reached Fatani and pulled her into an embrace, running a hand through her wild hair. “Be strong,” she whispered. Fatani buried her face in Moranda’s chest, staining the gown with her tears. “I-I can’t...” She tried desperately to soak up as much of the embrace of she could while wrestling with the hiccups stealing her breath away. It became somewhat easier as her foster mother’s arms seem to envelope more of her until she was in a cocoon. Or, maybe, just maybe, in the hind corners of Fatani’s mind, she could compare the feeling to a second pair of arms cradling her. Ones as burly and warm as Hans’s. Fatani groaned as sunlight filtered through the curtains. She shifted her head in hopes of evading the beams, but her efforts were fruitless.

Refusing to admit defeat, she threw an arm over her eyes and tugged the sheets over her head with the other. “Always so damn lazy...” Someone poked her cheek, though Fatani just batted the finger away and burrowed even further into the sheets. “Stop it, Moranda,” she grumbled. The child recognized the woman’s giggles, but her next words definitely stirred up confusion. “That wasn’t me, dear.” “It was me, kid!” Fatani’s eyes snapped open, the familiarity of that voice sending her thoughts into a torrent of how, when, why, and thank goodness. She shot up, her hair even wilder than usual. “Hans!” “Now what have I told ya about all that yelling?” Hans scolded in good humor. There was the rumble of his chuckles and the silky bass that endlessly succeeded in comforting Fatani’s being. Running on pure instinct, the child leapt at Hans to embrace him… Only to come into contact with nothing. She united painfully with the floorboards. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow! What in the name—” “Ha! Ya already starting to pick up my sayings! That transfer stuff works fast, don’t it?” Hans observed in mild fascination. Cradling her head, Fatani finally absorbed Hans’s apparel and proceeded to feel every atom of her diaphragm plummet into the pit of her gut. The man standing before her was indeed the blacksmith. However, his entire being was composed of flowing blue wisps and his signature smile was tainted with an inkling of concern. “Y-you’re a ghost…” Fatani breathed feebly. “Th-that man. He…h-he really…killed you. A-and I…I couldn’t even say bye. O-or help you.” “Ya couldn’t have done anything about it, kid.” “But it’s not fair!” Fire ignited behind Fatani’s eyes. “Y-you were hurting so much, Hans! You were screaming and fighting but that monster just...aand you exploded!” Her righteous fury waned quickly, leaving behind a broken heap of what she used to be. She could only run a hand through him, streams of his spirit wafting across her skin like a cool breeze; his death was still registering in her mind. “Yeesh,” Hans said while scratching his beard. “I was kinda hoping ya didn’t inherent the mood swings, too. Well, guess I should’ve saw that coming.” Fatani’s brow scrunched up. “Inherit?”

Hans huffed while crossing his arms. “This’ll be heavy information but... the visions and emotional episodes are side effects of the transfer. You’ll grow used to it with some time and figure out how to control it.” “W-what’s a transfer? Am I sick?” Hans scoffed. “No, ya aren’t sick! I gave ya a gift, actually. That new arm of yours?” He pointed at the appendage in question. “That’s how we’re connected. My presence and powers started transferring over to ya as soon as ya put it on. Those visions ya saw? Those were my memories, kid. Gotta admit though, it sure happened quicker than I expected. I swear, I thought I was gonna faint as soon as ya left my shop!” The confusion was still prominent on Fatani’s face, so Moranda jumped in on the conversation. “What Hans means is that you’re special, Fatani. Your prosthetic is much more than it seems.” The woman’s smile was gentle, yet her eyes glimmered with a rare vitality. Moranda usually spoke with a reserved and practiced air about herself. However, she tended to rouse her inner child from its slumber whenever she recounted some of Fatani’s favorite bedtime stories. “My dear...you have been chosen to fulfill a great and challenging responsibility—” “Don’t daunt her, woman!” Hans interjected playfully. Moranda rolled her eyes in response, apparently accustomed to the blacksmith’s rudeness. “Ya know the tale of Kovac, don’t ya? God of weapons and lightning?” Fatani instantly lit up at the mention of her favorite story. “Yeah! It’s actually my favorite! Gosh, Kovac is so cool! The way he just opens up the ground and sends Igneus back down into the Underworld!” Hans watched her ramble with a dopey and proud grin on his face. “Breathe, dear,” Moranda giggled, “At this rate, you’ll inflate Hans’s head so much that he’ll float away.” That little jab weeded a grumble out of Hans but a series of giggles from Fatani, though the moment didn’t have long to last. “Wait...why Hans’s head? I’m talking about Ko...vac...” Her lungs stopped functioning for a fraction of a second as she absorbed the blacksmith’s smirk and Moranda’s quirked eyebrow. Everything clicked. Fatani held up a trembling finger, her mouth dropped into a gape. “Y-you...you’re Kovac. You’re Kovac. You’re Kovac!” She was literally bouncing in her bed—which was still reduced to shambles—like a trapeze artist and beaming a smile brighter than the sun. “I can’t believe it! So,

does that mean the story’s true?! Did you really beat up that dumb Igneus with your super powerful weapon of the gods? Was it hard to make the ground and mountains rip in two? Did Igneus—” “Moranda just told ya to breathe, kid,” Hans chuckled. Then a sentiment of darker nature settled upon his visage; it wasn’t quite pity but something closely related. “And yes, the story is true...including Igneus’s vow to come back and take my weapon.” His eyes landed on Fatani’s prosthetic and she cradled it defensively. “M-my arm? There’s no way—” “You’re right. There isn’t,” Moranda said. She kneeled next to Fatani and pressed the tips of her fingers to the metal limb. A low hum began emitting from where they touched, gradually growing in volume until a heavy whir filled the room. The cobalt glow from last night returned with renewed vigor. “Not without the second piece.” A similar light ignited beneath her skin, leaking through her mouth, nose, and ears, before erupting into a blinding flash. When the brightness died away, only empty space was left in Moranda’s place. Fatani’s prosthetic didn’t appear to be any different but there was a certain...satisfaction buzzing along her nerves and psyche, as if she felt complete. Whole. Despite the pleasant sensation, she fell into another bout of panic and launched out of her bed, scanning the room for her foster mother. “Moranda? Moranda! Hans!” She turned on the spirit. “Where’d she go? She was just there!” Contrary to what she thought, Hans could still touch her, as his beefy hand plopped onto her head and ceased her rambling. “She’s with ya, kid. With us.” As if the prosthetic heard them, it pulsed a soft blue and sent a wave a warmth through Fatani’s body. “I know that all of this is scary and confusing...But Moranda did what she was made to do. And I swear on my place in the Heavens that she has come to love ya as her own daughter. She will never leave ya.” He bent down to her eyelevel. “And neither will I. Igneus could arrive at any moment, but we will be there to guide ya through this. I picked ya as my apprentice because I saw something special in ya. I see myself when I look at ya. Nothing brings ya down and I can tell ya love creating things. That’s more than enough for me.” Fatani found herself speechless in the face of Hans’s declaration. This was the most genuine and sorrowful she had ever seen of him, which

made her innards coil in fear. Just how dangerous could Igneus be to instill sorrow in Hans, the most boisterous blacksmith of Arctopia? A chill wracked Fatani’s spine yet the warmth flooding her system did well to counteract it. She exhaled shakily as her eyes fluttered closed, focusing on the weight of Hans’s hand. “I’m scared,” she whispered. The warmth intensified. “Be strong.” When Fatani opened her eyes, Hans was gone.

Untitled Sketch —Alysa Chirillo 28

On a Quiet Street —John Thomas “J.T.” Davis Alex The gentle steam my coffee makes drifts up into my eyes, then fogs the glass that grants me sight. With care, I breathe across my cup to chase the steam away; with dainty hands, I tip the liquid lake onto my tongue. The warmth of mocha latte washes past my teeth and drips into my soul. My lungs expel a deep-held sigh, the kind that lasts just long enough to find a subtle peace within my weary bones. Another sip, another wave of joy comes over me. Again, again, my hands approach my lip— a scream disrupts my peaceful state, I turn my head, a bomb is thrown—the world now burns.

Mason Finally! A chance to rest my bones! Too often do I work through the night! Now I can relax! I’m headed home! I sit on the most comfortable stone bench and let out a sigh that could hold a kite: finally, a chance to rest my weary bones! We reap the fruits that we have sown— that’s why I work ‘til mornin’s light— now I can relax, I’m headed home. I see the bus enter the cone of my vision, and marvel at the sight. Finally, a chance to rest my bones.

The bus shudders up to the stop with a groan, everythin’ is gonna be alright, now I can relax. I’m headed home. I hop on the bus as the bomb is thrown. I’m engulfed in a blindin’ light. Finally! A chance to rest my bones, now I can relax: I’m headed Home!

Carson A bomb on a quiet street: emblazoned on the minds of those who were there, forgotten now by those who were not. Emblazoned on the minds are the scorch marks on the street, forgotten, now, by those who were not there, by those who did not care. Are the scorch marks on the street a reminder that no one heeds? There, by those who did not care about life, those marks were etched. A reminder that no one heeds? Wasteful! I remember when I didn’t care about life—those marks were etched by my hand. Wasteful, I remember when I didn’t care about the lives of others— by my hand that bomb was thrown.

About the lives of others, I am now forced to watch. That bomb was thrown, that bomb went off. I am now forced to watch and roam this earth. That bomb went off, and the screams echo eternally. And roam this earth for ten thousand years, as the faces and the screams echo, eternally haunting my memory. For ten thousand years, as the faces float through my mind, haunting my memory, I have realized the error of my ways. Float through my mind! Remind me! I have realized the error of my ways, now I can never forget! Remind me of those who were there! Now I can never forget a bomb on a quiet street.

Fateful Decisions —Will Baird Jonathan’s feet slipped off the branch below, soaked through by the torrential downpour of an April day in Memphis. His heart jumped in his chest as he white-knuckled the damp wood above him, frantically putting his feet back into place. Jonathan felt a surge of heat rush behind his skin, like his blood had been brought to a boil. He exhaled, letting himself crack a smile. Climbing the big oak to the top of Murray Hall had gotten too easy lately anyway. It was one of their favorite things to do on a Friday—nothing like soaking in the night air on top of the college’s tallest academic building. And to Jonathan, there was nothing like the thrill of baiting death a little closer than usual. The moon was rising low in the sky as he hauled himself up the last branches and over the edge of Murray’s weathered brick rooftop, brushing a few leaves out of his spiked yellow hair. Eddy was already there, standing at the other edge, dressed in his persistent all-black sweats and eyes fixed on some imperceptible point in the cosmos. Poor chap. Of Jonathan’s many friends, Eddy was his favorite, and the one he pitied most. “Eddy!” Jonathan yelled to him, flinging his arms wide and his face in full grin. “Stop sulking over there! You look like you’re about to jump off. You haven’t told me your bank info or anything. Did you leave a will?” Jonathan theatrically searched the rooftop for a slip of paper, as if for some reason Eddy would have brought it. “Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious,” Eddy called back, deadpan. He walked over, black hair flowing in the moisture-soaked breeze. “I’m not really in the mood. My life is basically over.” “So dramatic,” Jonathan lamented. “Why so?” He clasped Eddy on the shoulder. “You know why!” Eddy shouted, shrugging him off. “I’m done. I’ve gone through every scenario. I’d have to get over a ninety-four on this final exam to pass tomorrow, and no one but Monica has gotten that high on anything all year!” His voice cracked on the last word. Jonathan hurt for him. The boy looked utterly hopeless. “Four years wasted,” he said under his breath, turning back towards the heavens, as if God might grant him some divine math miracle. “My parents can’t afford another summer session, there’s no way I can get another loan, and besides that, I won’t

be able to pass it anyway!” He looked at Jonathan, his eyes filled with angst. Jonathan grinned at him. He had something even better. “Cheer up, Eddy.” Jonathan put his hand back on Eddy’s shoulder. “All isn’t lost. Not when you have friends that are both awesome and devious.” Eddy lifted an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jonathan shrugged, but couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “Oh God, Johnny,” Eddy said, a horrified look on his face. “What did you do?” “So quick to unfounded accusations!” Jonathan declared. “I confess innocence! Those are not my fingerprints. You have no proof!” “Quit fooling around,” Eddy said seriously. “What did you do? I know you too well. You did something shady.” Jonathan kept grinning sheepishly. “Well...maybe not entirely innocent this time. But I must appeal to pity.” He met Eddy’s eyes. “It was all for my poor, troubled friend. He is truly terrible at math, and I’d hate for him to end up homeless for it.” Jonathan turned to look back over the edge of the roof, to the sparkling fountains and glowing dorm rooms of exhausted souls, killing themselves trying to put a sheet of paper on their wall. His grin faded. He hated the endless cycle of it all, the thoughtless pursuit of what everyone said he was supposed to want. Jonathan would rather sit back and stay out of the fray—just crushed toes and broken hearts on the way to an average future. But if Eddy was not going to jump off the ride, he might as well find a way to ease his pain. The man had poured four years of his life into this degree, not to mention a debt that might follow him the rest of his life, regardless of whether or not he got the sheet of paper. “You really think I’d end up homeless?” Eddy asked, somewhat serious. “It began two days ago,” Jonathan resumed flamboyantly, ignoring Eddy’s question. “I was walking by Dr. Stevens’ office...” Eddy shuddered at the name. “…Minding my own business, when I happened to notice him in a conference with another student. No idea who she was. I found myself irresistibly attracted to the billboard on the wall next to his door, something about a Maymester to somewhere.” “How could you be irresistibly—” Eddy interrupted, but Jonathan held up a hand. “Anyway,” he resumed. “The girl asked if Dr. Stevens had a copy of something for the class, and they walked out of the room to the printer

down the hall to get one for her.” Jonathan was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Now, that printer is well past its prime, so it takes a solid three minutes to receive that message and actually put it on a piece of paper. “In the meantime, I peeked inside his office to…check out the decor. And there, on his desk, was a stack of half-graded exams from the first period’s finals, the same one you’re going to be taking tomorrow, with the answer key sitting pretty right on top. Dr. Stevens never changes his tests. So, logically—” Jonathan paused for a breath. Eddy looked like someone had either strangled his cat in front of him or offered him a million dollars...it was hard to tell. Jonathan grinned. “Now, we get to the good part. Well, actually, it’s pretty simple. I took pictures of the right answers while he was held captive by the dinosaur printer, and made it out with time to spare.” Jonathan folded his arms in satisfaction. Eddy looked like he was having a stroke. “You could get kicked out for that!” he said hoarsely. “He will get kicked out for that, and so will you.” Jonathan spun around, panic gripping him. Katie was brushing dirt from her jeans just off the edge of the roof. He’d forgotten she said she would be there late. They must not have noticed her climbing during the suspense of his heroic tale. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Katie!” he greeted enthusiastically. “You’re late for our rendezvous! You’ve only heard the tail end of my dangerous and heroic escapade!” Katie completed their trio of close friendship, their rooftop hangouts often lasting late into the night. She was a rather dashing redhead, with a seriously cliché fiery personality that exceeded even that of her blazing hair. Jonathan knew she wouldn’t like what he had done, but for their friend’s sake, she would understand. Jonathan felt a small knot in his stomach. She had to. “I heard more than enough! It’s not true, is it?” She looked at Eddy, knowing he was a terrible liar. She looked hopeful, but Eddy’s face was too pain-stricken to show otherwise. “It’s not that bad, Katie,” Jonathan said softly. “Oh, Johnny.” She covered her face with her hands. “Do you know what would happen if anyone saw you? You’d be screwed! For life!” She looked exasperated and frenzied, like she was about to pass out just thinking about it. “Eddy can’t use that. He’d get kicked out too. Seriously…” She took a breath to calm herself. “As your friend, I promise you both will ruin

your lives if you do this.” She turned an icy glare to Eddy. “I never said I was going to use it,” Eddy said defensively, taking a step back. No. Jonathan couldn’t let him back down on this, not when it meant so much. If it was Jonathan’s degree, he’d cherish the opportunity to hit the road and be done with it. But it meant too much to Eddy just to give it all up. “And needlessly fail out of school?” Jonathan said seriously, stepping in front of Eddy. “Eddy can’t take this hit based on a facade of honor or truth-telling or whatever. Calculus is an unreasonable class to have as a general education requirement.” Jonathan shook his head in dismay. She would get it. “Eddy will never use it in his life. No history major will!” Jonathan turned to Eddy for support, but he was frozen like a somber statue behind him. “That doesn’t justify cheating!” Katie yelled. “Just because you don’t agree with the system doesn’t give you the right to tear it down. But besides the morality...” She threw her arms up in the air. “You might have just gotten yourself kicked out of school! All the time and money you’ve spent, your whole future, gone—like that!” She snapped her fingers. Jonathan shrugged. Eddy looked on helplessly. Katie walked over to Jonathan at the edge of the roof, looking both fiery and desperate at the same time. “I’m not gonna get caught,” Jonathan replied emphatically. “No one saw me. And even if I do get caught, it would be worth it.” Jonathan returned her intense gaze. “How could I disregard my friend for the sake of a piece of paper to put on my wall? My life can’t have come to that. What’s the point of all this anyway?” Jonathan gestured to the plethora of buildings sitting underneath the cloudy night sky. “You give everything and gain nothing by it. I never gave helping Eddy a second thought.” She looked at him incredulously. “Is that how you see it? A chivalrous knight laying down his life for his friends?” She looked disbelievingly at him. “If Eddy uses those answers, the chances of him getting caught are much higher than his chances of miraculously getting the highest grade in the class and no one thinking twice about it. That’s insane!” She looked with a hurt expression at Eddy. “Sorry, Ed. But you know it’s true.” “Yeah,” Eddy said defeatedly. “But I’m screwed either way, don’t you understand?!” His face was beginning to turn red. “I’ve done all the extra

help sessions, all the tutoring, and spent countless hours trying to figure this crap out, and I just...I just can’t.” Jonathan and Katie exchanged glances full of pity. Eddy noticed. “I don’t need your pity. I’m probably not going to use the answers anyway. But the point is, I have nothing left to lose!” “That’s not the point,” Katie replied. “It’s so much more than that. It’s about integrity. Will you be able to live with yourself?” She turned back to Jonathan. “Will you? And you don’t care if Eddy drops out anyway! You never believed in education in the first place! Despite the fact that everything we’re doing here...” She mirrored his gesture back to the surrounding academic buildings. “...is everything! It’s our careers, our futures, our lives!” She paused, struggling to control herself. “Well, that’s all fine and dandy when your ideals don’t affect anyone,” she said, talking more quietly. “But you went too far this time. You just wanted to prove you could beat the system. You know it’s true.” “It’s absolutely not true!” Jonathan defended. He was slightly enjoying himself. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “You’re right, I do think the whole system is pointless. People declare themselves superior by comparing degrees and paychecks. It’s worth derived solely from how high up you are on the societal food chain. But that’s not why I did it! I did it because Eddy was about to get cheated out of something he’s worked four hard years for. Sometimes you just have to cheat first in life. Otherwise, you let yourself get trampled.” Katie took a step back. “If only you could hear yourself right now. Wake up, Johnny! The world’s not changing anytime soon. You’re living in a fantasy.” Eddy sat down behind them, looking like a dead man with his neck strapped to a guillotine. “You can’t coast your way carelessly through life just because you think that’s the way it should be,” Katie continued. “The world is a brutal place. The elevator you’re looking for doesn’t exist. If you don’t make your way up that ladder you say you hate so much, someone is going to push you off, and you’re not going to like what you find at the bottom.” “Enough!” Eddy jumped up between them. They both stumbled back, startled. Eddy wasn’t normally one to raise his voice. “This is pointless. You two are getting nowhere. I’ll use the pictures, or I won’t; I really don’t even know at this point. But there’s no use staying up here all night bickering about it. I’m going to bed.” Eddy walked past both of them over to the edge of the roof, and just like that, he was gone, before either of

them could object. “Katie,” Jonathan said softly, grabbing her hand. She looked at it with an expression of bewilderment and sadness. “He’s our friend. I’d do the same for you.” She slipped her hand out of his and turned around, covering her face again. “I can’t.” The knot in Jonathan’s stomach got a little tighter. “You can’t what?” She just shook her head, back still turned to him. “You can’t what, Katie?” Jonathan asked tensely. “I already did everything. You don’t have to do anything.” “But I do,” she said softly. She turned around, tear stains running down her cheeks. It was terrifying. “Do what?” “You know what,” she half sobbed. “I’m president of the honor council, Johnny.” She wiped a tear from her face. “How could I not? I’d get kicked out too.” Of course. How could he have forgotten that all-important fact? He felt like he was going to throw up. “But…we’re your friends, Katie. You wouldn’t.” “Friends don’t put friends in positions like this, Johnny,” Katie said. “You think I want to? I hate it. I hate it so much, and I hate that you’ve put me here. I wish I’d never climbed this roof tonight.” Jonathan felt an anger growing inside him, propelled by fear. “I wish that, too,” he said icily. He regretted it as soon as he said it. She looked hurt. “If I compromise now, I’ll compromise forever. What values would I have then?” Jonathan’s emotions were raging and boiling together: rage, fear, nerves, regret, despair, panic. His thoughts were flying at a million miles an hour. He decided to change directions. “What if I delete them? What if I delete the pictures, Katie?” Jonathan said slowly. He knew he’d have to backtrack if he was going to get himself out of this. “But Eddy already—” “Eddy hasn’t seen anything,” Jonathan cut her off. “It’d be like it never happened.” She looked stricken, caught between her jumbled morals, Jonathan figured. He capitalized. “No one has cheated. No one has done anything wrong. I made a mistake, but a moral error, not a rule yet,” he said softly. He brushed

another tear from her cheek, his striking green eyes locking hers. They’d gone on a few dates years ago. He wondered if she still felt something there, something that might help him here. She seemed to realize it and took a step back. There was an uncomfortably long pause as she just looked at him. “You’ll delete them tonight?” she whispered. “All of them,” he said in his most reassuring tone. She stood still for a moment, and then nodded, seeming to come to her own conclusion. She then came close, her gaze piercing into his soul. “Why did you really do it?” Before he could answer, she turned, walked to the edge of the roof, and descended back down the tree, a flash of red hair fading into the darkness. Jonathan took a breath of the cool night air. It hadn’t quite gone like he’d thought it would, but then again, things never do. He took out his phone and looked at the pics. He could easily delete them right now. It would wipe out the evidence, and then they couldn’t really make a case against him...or Eddy. No one would ever know. His finger hovered above the button. But then he would have gone through all that for nothing, and Eddy would probably still fail out. The weight of immediate danger was gone from his chest, and his previous stance once again began to take hold. He shook his head and looked up at the sky. The stars had finally broken free of the grey swath of wispy clouds. They illuminated the sky like a celestial theater, awaiting his presumably fateful decision. No, it wasn’t his decision to make, and it wasn’t his fate at stake—it was Eddy’s turn now. Jonathan called him, and Eddy answered on the second ring. “I’m sending you the pics, Ed. You do what you need to do, and don’t let anyone tell you different.” He hung up, and let the air fill his lungs once more. Who really cares anyway?

Game of Hearts —John Thomas “J.T.” Davis I look down at my hand and sigh. I look up at my friends and try to keep a straight face— but I know how this is going to play out. We all like to keep our secrets close to our chest, but even that does not keep us from bleeding. The wounds run deep, and when hearts break, the world bleeds red. Even those optimistic few who try to pick up the pieces and shoot for the moon will be hit with a foul trick sooner or later. And when the dust is settled, I’m the only one who has no dust to brush off: I have no tricks up my sleeve.

Take My Hand —Libby Fowler A large group of people gather around a hole in the earth that has only recently been dug. Dressed in black, the throng looks more like a shadow than individual people. The rain falls softly as if to wipe their tears away, not unlike a mother would do to comfort her hurting child. One girl stands isolated from the cluster. Her blue hair cascades down her back underneath a wide-rimmed black hat. She trembles as her anguish attempts to force its way out of her slender frame. Although she is clearly in agony, no one from the crowd moves to comfort her. Instead, they occasionally cast malicious glances her way before returning to producing tears that seem to slide down their cheeks just right. The pastor finishes his remarks and the throng, having spent the required number of minutes paying their respects, begins to dissipate. However, the blue-haired girl remains. Her hat has started drooping from the amount of water it has collected from the rain. She moves slowly towards the large, protruding stone, each step a struggle. Her knees buckle, and her body collapses to the ground. Finally, her fortress tumbles down, and her wails reverberate back and forth from the nearby marble landmarks. Second grade was tough, especially for a girl who didn’t particularly enjoy interacting with others. Her short, light brown hair was just long enough to cover her flushed face as she anxiously listened for her name to be called. “Stefani Macmillan?” the teacher called. Her trembling hand rose slowly into the air. An innocent voice emerged from behind the curtained face. “I like to be called Stef.” The teacher’s lips curved upwards at the corners. “Stef it is, then. Joanne Maddocks?” The arm of a girl with chestnut hair and bright green eyes shot into the air. “Here, sir.” “Hello, Joanne. Welcome to the second grade.” He continued down the list, and after reading the last name, Charlie Webster, he gave instructions to the class. “I want you all to get into

alphabetical order.” He handed out index cards and pens to each student as he spoke. “Write your last names on the card and then get in order. Ready? Go!” The once somber classroom burst to life as some students immediately dropped their pens on the ground as they tried, just a little too hard, to scribble their names down. Others were more successful and managed to write a barely legible name on the front of their card. Now the real fun began. Students snickered as they bustled about, asking to see the other’s index card. Stef was not included in this throng. Instead of actively trying to find her neighbors in line, she simply moved to where she thought would be close to the middle of the order (since her name began with an M), sat down, and held her index card out in front of her. She twirled her solitary blue strand of hair, the one her mom finally let her dye with Kool-Aid, around her fingers as she awaited her fate. Students flowed back and forth in front of her, occasionally pausing to read her index card before continuing on. Eventually, the commotion died down, and Joanne made her way to where Stef was seated on the floor. “What are you doing on the floor?” Stef simply shrugged in reply, her hair concealing her face, and held her notecard even higher. Joanne stared at the index card and ignored it. “What’s your name?” Sighing, Stef replied, “I’m Stef. Stef Macmillan.” “Wow, that’s neat!” Joanne said, smiling. “We’re right next to each other!” She sat next to Stef. “I love your hair. Did you dye it? Or is it naturally blue? I wish my hair was something besides this boring color.” She looked at her hair, frowning slightly. “My mom says it’s pretty because it reminds her of my grandma’s hair. But you know what?” She leaned in until she was inches from Stef’s face, eyes wide. “My grandma’s hair is white.” Stef giggled and smiled. The teacher began to talk to the line of students, but Stef was too busy looking at the girl next to her to notice. “Hey, Stef, what do you think about this dress?” Joanne asked. Stef glanced at her friend’s reflection in the fitting room. Until now, she had been intensely focused on the laces of her boots. “Well, I don’t know,” she said uncomfortably. Joanne continued to inspect herself in the mirror from every angle. “I

think the extra small is just too tight.” For a middle schooler, Joanne was very open and uninhibited. Stef, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. Seeing her best friend only in a training bra and underwear stirred some strange new feelings in her small pre-teen chest. “Could you go grab me a small?” asked Joanne, handing Stef the shirt. Flustered, Stef grabbed it and exited the fitting room. She took deep breaths, redirecting her attention to finding another size for Joanne. After trying on a larger size, Joanne decided to buy it. They walked out of the store and, while Joanne gushed about how they had to get a pretzel before they left the mall, Stef tried to understand the feeling in her stomach; she knew it wasn’t the pretzel talk. It took Stef about ten long years to convince her parents that she was capable of taking care of a cat. And now she was on her way to find her perfect feline. Her best friend offered to drive to the animal shelter. Stef was less than a month away from getting her license, but Joanne had turned sixteen two months before. Their favorite song was playing, and the two girls released all inhibitions as they belted along with the radio, only slightly off pitch. After twenty minutes or so, they pulled into the parking lot of the animal shelter. “Remember the plan,” Joanne said. “We go in, block our ears to all of the cries of desperation, and look for a cat that screams ‘Stef’.” Stef nodded firmly. “Got it. Let’s go.” The two got out of the car and walked into the shelter, arm in arm. It smelled like a dentist’s office in the lobby, that plastic, fabricated smell. Joanne and Stef stepped confidently up to the counter and waited for the man to acknowledge them. His name tag informed them that his name was David. His eyes were half-open, and his head rested on his hand as he browsed on the computer at the desk. He refused to look at them even though Joanne had cleared her throat multiple times. David was far too interested in Amazon than in his actual job. Stef looked at the desk and saw a bell. She simply couldn’t resist the temptation and slammed her hand down. David proceeded to jump so severely that he fell out of his swivel chair.

Joanne tried to disguise her burst of laughter for a cough, but David didn’t quite buy it. He glared at the girls as he rose shakily, fumbling to put his glasses back on. “Can I help you?” he asked forcefully. “Why, yes you can,” Joanne said, a little too sweetly. “My best friend here would like to adopt a cat, if that’s not too inconvenient for you.” She maintained her smile even as David’s jaw tightened with annoyance. “Of course,” he replied with sarcastic enthusiasm. “Follow me.” He grabbed a ring of keys and led the girls into a hallway after unlocking the door. “Take a look and let me know if you need any assistance.” David returned to his desk with the girls standing at the hall’s entrance, cages lining each side. “Here we go. Remember, they all want to be adopted, but you can only take home one,” Joanne reminded. Stef and Joanne began to walk slowly down the hallway, glancing left and right as they went. There were so many of them. Stef wished she could adopt them all and take them away from this bleak place. She gritted her teeth and tried to remain indifferent, waiting for the one that would make her heart leap. The pair had nearly reached the end of the hall, and Stef was a bit disappointed. She desperately wanted a cat—but what if there wasn’t a cat that wanted her? She turned her head to the right and locked eyes with what looked like a giant tan fuzz-ball. Yellow eyes shone from the midst of it, and it walked proudly toward the glass door. It put its front paws up on the door and opened its mouth, releasing a soft mew. Joanne squeezed Stef’s arm. “That’s the one,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll go get David.” Off she skipped down the hall, throwing the door open once she reached it. Stef looked at the cat’s information plate on the door. The cat was a female Maine Coon mix, which was essentially code for “Warning: extremely fluffy.” She itched to hold it and to rub her face in the poof. Soon, Joanne returned with David, forcing him to walk faster than he wanted to. “This the one you want?” David asked, gesturing at the cotton ball. Stef nodded, and David unlocked the door and picked up the cat. Turning, he handed it to Stef.

The actual body of the cat was found at least four inches beneath the fur, making it seem far less self-assured than it originally was. A steady purr emanated from it, and it rubbed its head against Stef’s body. Stef called her mom, asking her to come to the shelter so that they could adopt the cat. David gave them the paperwork to sign, and in a mere half-hour, the cat was Stef’s. After gushing thanks to her mom, Stef climbed into the car, and Joanne followed suit. “So, what are you going to name it?” Stef thought for a moment. “Geri.” Joanne reached over to pet Geri, who was sitting contentedly on Stef’s lap. “Hi, Geri. I’m your Aunt Joanne. You’re going to be the happiest kitty in the world.” Stef smiled. She wondered if life could get any better than this; she had loving cat and a best friend that she put before anyone else. “Stef, come on,” Joanne urged. “The party started an hour ago!” Stef attempted to produce a reply, but her voice was completely muffled as she struggled to pull off one of the fifteen dresses she had tried on. Joanne was busy putting on lipstick in the mirror, or she would have seen Stef flailing desperately to remove the dress. Finally successful, Stef collapsed, defeated and half-naked. “I’m just not going. I can’t find anything to wear.” Joanne rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be ridiculous. All of those looked great on you, and you know it.” She walked over to the closet and picked out a sky-blue dress. “Here, this will look amazing with your hair.” Stef had never worn that dress. “I was wanting to wait for a special occasion,” she said. “What’s a better debut than your first college party?” Joanne asked. Stef sighed. Her best friend had a point. “Fine,” she grunted. “Will you zip me up?” After doing so, Joanne stepped back to admire her. “You look absolutely gorgeous, Stef.” She picked up some heels and handed them to her. “These are perfect.” Stef walked to the mirror. She felt gorgeous. Blue had always been her color. She left her hair down. Naturally wavy, it now rested just below her shoulders. Suddenly Joanne’s face appeared over her shoulder in the reflection.

“See, I told you,” she said, hugging Stef. Stef put some food into Geri’s bowl before walking over to her bed, where Geri was resting. “Bye, babe, be good,” she said, kissing Geri softly on the head. “Okay, let’s go.” They walked out of the room and locked the door. “Don’t be nervous,” Joanne said. “It’s going to be totally fine. And if you don’t want to drink, you don’t have to. They’re really nice about that.” Joanne had already been to multiple parties and established good relationships with the all of the people who were invited. “It’s going to be so fun! I’m glad you finally decided to come with me.” The walk to the party wasn’t ideal, especially since both of them were wearing heels and they had to travel across what seemed like the entire campus. They had to cross several busy streets that required them to do that awkward little run that heel-wearing girls know all too well. At last, they reached the door of the on-campus apartment strictly reserved for upperclassmen. The music was so loud that it could be heard clearly out in the hallway. Joanne grabbed Stef’s hand, rapped on the door with her other hand and then proceeded to walk inside. Every person seemed to know Joanne, and she didn’t hesitate to introduce Stef to everyone she knew. At least every other person complimented Stef on her hair. Joanne would always say, “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? It’s completely natural,” before walking away and leaving the person extremely confused. The pair made their way into the apartment’s kitchen, where bottles of alcohol covered the counter. Suddenly, an overly enthusiastic guy burst into the kitchen screaming, “SHOTS! EVERYBODY, LET’S TAKE SHOTS!” He grabbed a bottle of vodka and a stack of plastic shot glasses. He pushed the bottles aside, making room on the counter. The glasses were stuck together and he struggled to separate them, his fingers fumbling, clearly affected by the amount of alcohol he had already consumed. Stef reached over and helped set them out on the counter. He unscrewed the bottle and sloppily poured the vodka into the glasses. A group of people began to gather in the already-cramped kitchen and started grabbing the shots and gulping them down. Joanne snagged two and offered one to Stef. “No thanks,” Stef shouted over the music. Joanne shrugged and drank both of them. She shuddered as it went

down. The night progressed, and Stef watched Joanne drink more and more alcohol, from vodka and tequila shots to beer. She had retreated to the couch, letting her blue hair cascade around her face as a buffer, just like she always had. Joanne was the life of the party, dancing, talking, and drinking. Stef felt like more of an outsider than this glamorous girl’s friend. As Joanne got more and more drunk, Stef became more and more isolated. Finally, she stood up and turned to leave. “N-no, Steffi, you need t’stay,” Joanne slurred. “I can’t. I don’t feel welcome here. I don’t know anyone besides you, and you know everyone.” “Welllll then, I’m gonna come tooo,” Joanne said decisively. Stef shrugged and moved towards the door, Joanne trailing behind her. Joanne waved one arm in the air. “BUH-BYE PEOPLE!” Stef grabbed her hand, and the two exited the apartment. The walk back to their room was much slower than the original trip. She put her arm around Joanne as they rambled back. Suddenly, Joanne stopped walking. “What’s wrong?” Stef asked, turning around to look at her friend’s face. Joanne was frowning. “Why didju wanna leave? Whyddya always sit an’ not talk an’ have fun?” “I just wasn’t feeling it tonight. I didn’t know anyone there,” Stef said. “Nonono. Thass not it though. Jusstalk to people, they’re all ssooo nice. I toldum how awesome you are, budyou jussnever do anythin’.” “We need to keep walking okay?” Stef tried to put her arm back around Joanne, but Joanne pushed it off. Frustrated, Stef put her hands on Joanne’s shoulders. They stood perpendicular to the road next to them. “Nno! I hate when yer like this. I juss wanna have fun with you b’cuz yer my bessfren an’ I love you an’ I want other people t’love you too.” Stef’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry I’m like this. I’m not like you. I can’t talk to people like you or be carefree, no matter how hard I try.” The tears began falling down her cheeks. “You don’t know how badly I want to be like you.” She looked up, tears blurring her vision. “Don’ be sad, Steffi. We’re bessfrens—” Suddenly Stef leaned forwards. Joanne’s eyes widened as their lips touched and she pushed Stef back forcefully. Joanne stumbled backwards off of the sidewalk and fell into the road. She stood up shakily. “Whyddya do that? Why Steffi?”

“GET OUT OF THE ROAD.” Stef lunged forward to grab Joanne, but the heel of her shoe got caught in the sidewalk’s crack and she fell hard to the ground, twisting her ankle. “JOANNE!” But Stef’s cry was interrupted by an approaching car. She had to watch as the life of her best friend, her only friend, was cut short by a black Ford. Stef solemnly put on her black hat and looked in the mirror. She couldn’t even look into her own eyes, instead focusing on Geri’s reflection. It hurt to even look at the cat, a commemoration of one of Stef’s favorite memories with Joanne. The aftermath was almost more difficult to face than witnessing the event itself. Everyone blamed Stef for Joanne’s death. After all, it was her kiss that put Joanne in the road. Driving to the funeral, she played their favorite song and let the tears waterfall down her face, mimicking the rain outside. She parked her car and got out slowly, her shoes immediately becoming soaked with water. Stef threw all of her heels away. She only wears flats now.

A Poem on My Tongue —John Thomas “J.T.” Davis My tongue is not beautiful. The slippery sound it manufactures does not sweetly seduce your ear. It does not beg to gently brush against your aural faculties. It will not even request your permission when it shoves past your ear, and slithers inside, striving in search of your soul. My tongue is not polished, and thus, I am deeply sorry if it causes you any discomfort as its clunky form bashes against your ears and batters around your brain. There is no remedy, for it is a wholly unoriginal Frankenstein’s beast and none of its parts are proportionate to each other. Even my lips are displeased with its sorry sound and attempt to bar this abomination I call my tongue from polluting our pleasant world.

My tongue is not romantic. If it were, the audial experience I am presently producing would be delightfully delicate. Instead, you must endure this egregiously taxing encounter, and by now I am certain your ears are in as much pain as mine. However, yo no hablo espaĂąol. Alas, je ne parle pas franĂ§ais. What I speak is English and my tongue is remarkably expressive. So now I must solicit your forgiveness, though I know this experience cannot be anything but painful (or at the very least, quite uncomfortable). I hope that these sounds reach your soul and, upon arriving, I hope you will experience how they ring and resonate, how they provoke meaning and emotion that falls upon your being in silky waves. I hope you will find the sensation satisfying once you understand the meaning my tongue is trying to convey. I hope the meaning echoes through your body and heals the scrapes and dings my tongue induced in its abrasive, abusive approach to your soul. For my tongue is not poetic

because it is pleasant to the ear, but because the ear appreciates the meaning that will blossom from these unwieldy sounds.

Innocence Sketch â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Lori Hart 50

A Fifth —Will Hobson Program Notes As Beethoven did it, drowning the Viennese in the tidal waves of a baton desperately summoning, and then banishing fears of an unbidden silence – So does Shostakovich, hounded by a Leader and Teacher similarly unbidden, silently watching. I. Moderato – Allegro non Troppo The slow and perpetual motion of a life maintained in a nervously graying mist is abandoned as three dread knocks summon the condemned as only uniformed machinery can. After the disappearance, the mist lingers, climbing up the neck of the solitary lamppost. II. Allegretto (Scherzo) Being Italian for “joke,” Dmitri says, “Everything must be attractive in the scherzo, and most important, unexpected.” As you hang back amongst the milling of the dance hall, marionettes, each with crimson grins and tangled ropes, issue forth, one by one, from the vague background. But they are not performing for you. You too, are part of the joke. III. Largo Three layers of trembling strings lace the forest in a shimmering haze, hiding us and giving more than it takes. Taking turns, we grieve for those we can never find again, and though we are each of us separate, we mourn as a forbidden One. Our Panikhida ends with a Picardy third, a drop of hope in a sea of grief.

IV. Allegro non Troppo The air is swept up in ceaseless, voluminous concussions and is filled with screaming trumpets announcing the event that must take place. You turn to see the desolation, but that final moment is short. You are then welded into a multitude, and with the blessings of the Leader and Teacher, lend a voice to the quarter of a thousand dominant Aâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s laboring over a point of survival.

Il Duomo, Milan, Italy Photograph â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Fanny Mazet

Mississippi Blues â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Mary Katherine Rollins Almost forgotten memories, dug out of the depths of time. An old photograph, taken on a whim and filed away for a rainy day that never came. A mixture of longing and anger fill my crowded heart; memories of the moment tainted by what he had done years later. A moment in time overtaken by flames. The blazing hot sun, beating down on my head, burning my skin and eyes with its bright light. The muggy smell of gas and oil radiating off the ground, soaking into every pore and choking out anything else. A tin can, cooking me to a crisp and dizzying my head. A scorching touch on the arm, anger jerking me away. The melancholy sounds of simple rifts swim through the soupy air towards us, drawing his attention as if I werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even there. The City of Blues, a town of broken dreams. Mississippi blood yearning for its next victim. A hypnotic song that threatened to drown even the strongest of wills. One city today, another tomorrow. The allure of a wild life. Exotic foods, strange sights, the music we loved. Touching the lives of strangers. Life on the road has its perks, but also its staggering heartbreaks. The sweet sound of gravelly blues is quickly overtaken by the sounds of shouting, fighting, crying. Salty tears in a stiff drink. All other senses wiped out by the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. One had been suffocating, the other intoxicating. A dangerous mix to a dangerous mind. A young face, once excited and yearning, now changed to that of a road weary musician; driven by self-made heartbreak. The taste of defeat.

Soon it became unbearable. Hot summer breezes whirl around just as emotions caused raging destruction. Pulling this way and that way, always contradicting, always unsure. Always pushing. The heat waving up from the pavement, causing mirages, just like the imaginings of a future created by mind out of desperation. I was so stupid, so childish, so unsure of what I was getting myself into. Now, all I can remember is the burning heat, the scorching anger. Fiery passions and the smoldering melodies. A simple photograph, a monumental moment. A memory almost forgotten except for the ache it causes at a single glance. A whirlwind of emotions, enough to dull the senses. Touched by a memory, tasting of smoke and tears. Melodic lies and the stench of failure, an image burned in my mind.

Cotton Field #1 Painting on Canvas â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Kaitylnn Campbell 54

Cobbler —Madison Corthell The largest oven is the South on an August afternoon. Blinding light reflects off singed grass, Heat every surface to 350℉ for 30 minutes, Make a cobbler of the world. They say in Texas you can cook an egg on the sidewalk. The coil of the sun radiates heat Roasting flesh and cooking brains. Hear your own blood sizzle. Humid convection bakes dust and dirt to charred skin. Permanent head in the oven.

Cotton Field #2 Painting on Canvas —Kaitylnn Campbell 55

Nature’s Giant —Clay David Golden fingers ease past the branches of a magnificent being, a tree of colossal proportions. Watching the Tree of Life in Disney’s Animal Kingdom, as it rests peacefully in the late afternoon sunlight is a humbling experience. I guide my mother to a bench with a brilliant view of the slumbering giant. Breathing deeply, I take note of the sweetly pungent smell given off by the animals all around us. The scent painting in my mind’s eye a picturesque Serengeti. Slowly, the great tree shifts in the breeze to make way for the sun to peek through and illuminate the river flowing below. Cool water cradles fallen leaves as they drift lazily down the channel. I mimic the sun and reach my own hand down to brush my fingertips along a now rippling reflection of the majestic tree. The water touched by the giants of both the earth and the sky is warm on my skin.

Harvest —Madison Corthell White heat and pinprick shadows Skip over Earth’s newly opened coffers, Relieved of their starch herbaceous bounty. The festive reds and greens of floor and flora Fill the crisp breeze With the freshly tilled scent of lunch.

Cotton Painting on Canvas —Kaitylnn Campbell 57

To Dance in the Rain: What Madness —Mary Katherine Rollins Clouds grow dark and tree limbs blow against the window; awaken. Branches swaying outside, bending, beckoning in the growing gale. Looking up into the sky, you wonder, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’ Close your eyes and listen to the heartbeat of the wind. Inhale, exhale. Branches swaying outside, bending, beckoning in the growing gale. Pulling sweaters closer and shutters closed, you hide in the safety of your cocoon. Close your eyes and listen to the heartbeat of the wind. Inhale, exhale. You deliberate a moment, but the storm should be over soon. Pulling sweaters closer and shutters closed, you hide in the safety of your cocoon. Lightning flashes bright purple into the room, thunder shaking the foundation. You deliberate a moment, but the storm should be over soon. The sky cries out, all alone, but you must not give into the temptation. Lightning flashes bright purple into the room, thunder shaking the foundation. Just one foot outside, nothing bad should go wrong. The sky cries out, all alone, but you must not give into temptation. As you gaze out the window, you think, ‘you’ve been trapped in here for so long…’ Just one foot outside, nothing bad should go wrong. To dance in the rain, to be free for only a moment, the longing steadily grows stronger. As you gaze out the window, you think, ‘you’ve been trapped in here so long…’ You stop yourself, worrying. What’s just a little while longer? To dance in the rain, to be free for only a moment, the longing steadily grows stronger. The sky may cry and your heart may break, but you cannot go dance in

the rain. You stop yourself, worrying. What’s just a little while longer? Others would watch and pass judgment. Such opinions would only bring pain. The sky may cry and your heart may break, but you cannot go dance in the rain. So, you lock yourself up, safe and sound in your home. Others would watch and pass judgment. Such opinions would only bring pain. You realize you’ve been chained by civility, no longer permitted to roam.

Winter Storm Photograph —Kaitylnn Campbell 59

Nothing at All —Will Baird A crass buzzer blared from some imperceptible point, accompanied by a piercing white light that burned through his eyelids. Simon roughly woke from sleep. He turned over and the gave the ceiling a long stare, slowly and agonizingly remembering where he was. The ceiling looked unnatural—sinister even, which was good. The day he befriended this place was the day the last shreds of his former self finally perished. Simon stood up in his cell and meticulously made his bed, tucking in the sheets and fluffing the pillow. He learned the first week you had to keep suspicions at a minimum if you didn’t want your cell tossed. Simon had a pack of cigarettes and a photograph hidden underneath the thin mattress, and they’d cost him an arm and a leg to get in. There was another buzz as the cell door opened of its own accord, revealing the interior of the open-floored, rectangular penitentiary. The whole place was spotless, a human cage made of metal and concrete. He stepped out and took his place in the midst of a uniform column of inmates, same as yesterday and the day before. At the captain’s command, the group began marching toward the cafeteria. Simon knew the routine by now. No one said a word or moved a foot out of line as they made their way down the stairs, past the “ding wing” (psychiatric unit), and through the stainless steel doors of the cafeteria. The smell of dank oatmeal and moldy bread immediately met his nose, but he was getting used to it by now. Not the way it tasted, though. He used to think television exaggerated the horrors of meals in prison, but if anything, it had been continually understated. Nothing could have prepared him for the affectionately-named “opossum meatballs,” beans that must have been marbles mixed with a mysterious mush, and the ever-dreaded and despicable Nutraloaf: a dumbbell-tasting brick made of scrambled vegetables and tomato paste. Simon sat down with the same guys, in the same place as always. All the days ran together at Bledsoe, nothing to differentiate any moment from the next. It was mild, prolonged, deadening sensory deprivation. “...The question isn’t whether it’s old or not,” Jay interjected. “If it’s bread, it fell off Abe Lincoln’s plate. The question is if there’s even the smallest fraction of grain inside.” He grinned, displaying a plethora of gold teeth. “I’m genuinely curious.” Simon forced a laugh. They were playing

“guess that food,” one of the more popular meal pastimes due to its degree of difficulty. “You boys are just gonna be more and more miserable if you keep playing that game,” Simon said. “Gonna be miserable anyway. Might as well just accept it,” a large, hairy, perpetually grouchy man named Harris muttered. “He’s broken, Simon,” Jay said. “Don’t bother.” “You’d be broken, too, if you were doing all day and a night in this place,” Harris said. “All day and a night” was life without parole—Simon had learned that his first week, too. Harris never said what he did, but Simon had gotten a hint that he’d stuck some dude when a deal went down wrong twenty years ago. He’d been behind bars ever since. “Say, you got any visitors coming for you today, Simon?” Jay asked. He chomped down the last bite of his toast with a resounding crunch. “Yeah. Ava is coming with her mom.” That was one thing Simon had to look forward to, besides getting out. Seeing Ava kept him going. When the food was particularly bad or when someone tried to shank him in his sleep. Or when the depression got bad and his mind felt like it was crashing in on itself, he would just picture her little face, beaming up at him like he was someone else...someone worth knowing. She was still small, only seven years old, and hardly came up to his hip. When it had been his turn to see her, she would run and wrap her tiny arms around his leg, brown curls bobbing up and down in glee. There was no feeling like it in the world. “Well that makes one of us.” Jay flashed his gold teeth again, bringing Simon out of his reverie. “Always good to have a newbie in the group, someone to bring some stories from the outside before the visits dry out.” “What makes you think I got no one coming?” Mac spoke up sarcastically. Mac was a tall, muscular con with a dry wit and an even temper. That was key. Mental stability was more important than your name on the inside. “Mac, no one’s gonna come see yo’ sorry ass unless they figure out how much money you owe ‘em,” Jay shot back. “Don’t know why they’d come see me,” Mac replied with a shrug. “Ain’t got no way to pay ‘em back, unless they wants toilet paper cigarettes.” “Ain’t that the truth,” Harris grumbled. Another loud buzz promptly ended mealtime. The guards escorted them out of the cafeteria. They had names, but no

one really cared to remember them, save for the few “ducks” who were willing to be persuaded into bending rules here and there. It was only key to know which guards were accessible and which ones were going to beat the hell out of you for opening your mouth in front of them. If you were looking to get your hands on something particular, or send a message or whatever, there were a couple guards that could be of service, for a price. On the flip side, if your cell mate was intent on shanking you when no one else was around, that same guard was the one you had to keep an eye out for if you didn’t want to dance on the blacktop. They were led back past the ding wing to the opposite side of the cell block, where they were split into groups according to their jobs. Simon was on laundry, so he and about twenty other inmates were led single-file down a string of hallways to the “laundry room” of sorts. The dingy room was filled with industrial six-foot tall washers and dryers, along with bins filled with dirty socks and underwear, which were washed daily. Jumpsuits were only washed three times a week. Most days doing work in prison was a type of mind-numbing torture, but on visitation day the monotony actually provided a pathway to organize his buzzing thoughts. It had been two weeks since Simon had seen Ava, which was cruel to both of them on innumerable levels. She should have a father, much like he should’ve had a father growing up. The thought that he was becoming like his dead-beat dad made bile rise in his throat. Simon pushed the thought away. There were already enough variables in Bledsoe to make a man go mad, and piling paternal comparison on top of that would surely destroy his sanity. What little was left, anyway. “Simon,” a repulsive tone echoed from behind him. He immediately recognized who it was. He didn’t turn or say a word. “Simon!” it came again, louder. Simon closed his eyes in frustration. “Darren, I don’t have a second thought for your crap today,” Simon whispered back. “Quiet!” one of the guards shouted. “Work!” Simon could have slammed his fist into the side of the washer. Darren had a juice card with the captain, so he basically got to do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted most was to antagonize Simon into doing something rash, so he could play that juice card and get him beaten half to death or send him to solitary for a few weeks. His hatred wasn’t entirely unfounded, though. Simon had used him to prove himself before he really learned the rules, and Rule #1 was: Don’t mess with Darren; he has a

juice card with the captain. Simon ground his teeth. Too late. “That little momma of yours coming to see you today?” Darren said with a soft, insidious voice. It made him cringe. “Or is she going to pay me a visit this time? It’s only a matter of time before she realizes I’ve got more to offer.” Simon focused on breathing and tried to shake off the maniacal grin he could feel penetrating his back. He could think of a thousand comebacks that would tear Darren off his high horse, but he knew that was exactly what he wanted him to do. Every moment of lost temper would be to his own detriment, and he couldn’t afford punishment on visitation day. “He’s just throwing wolf cards at ya,” Jay breathed, a few feet to his right. Simon nodded. Wolf cards were like bluffs, little jabs with no basis or intent to back them up, but they were often very successful at blinding people into retaliatory suicide. Darren kept on and on, but Simon succeeded in not saying another word. He tried to view it as his own personal victory of self-control, but letting some monkey mouth walk all over him didn’t feel triumphant at all. Work finally finished at noon, and the inmates were separated again into those with visitors, which were few, and those without. Bledsoe had strict visitation hours, only dedicating an hour a day on weekends for what little friends and family the convicts had left. Simon could feel himself building nervous excitement as he was escorted toward the front of the prison. Jay winked at him as he walked by. Simon was thankful for guys like him. Jay had been engaged before arriving at Bledsoe, with a little boy and a stable job. He knew fifty guys on the outside that weren’t half the man he was. Some people really deserved to be in a place like this, and some were just victims of a cruel fate. He walked into the visitation room, which was basically just a row of phone booth cubicles with metal stools and small glass windows. Simon’s heart dropped as soon as he sat down. Elizabeth was in front of him, alone. No Ava in sight. Two weeks. It had been two whole, excruciating weeks. Simon picked up the phone. “Where is she?” “Wow. Not even a hello?” Elizabeth said with a sad smile. Simon took a breath. “Sorry...hi.” He paused a second. “Where is she?” Elizabeth laughed. “She’s rehearsing for the school play. She’s—” “She’s rehearsing for a play? Now?” Simon could feel his blood boiling.

He didn’t want to end up like Jay. First a play, then driver’s ed, then some boyfriend, then Simon becomes the dad Ava used to have when she was little, before Mom found a new, more noble daddy, and Ava stopped caring so much about the deadbeat in prison. “Simon,” Elizabeth sighed. “I’m sorry. I really am. She really wanted to be Pocahontas in the play, and—” “Pocahontas?” Simon breathed. The whole thing was beginning to feel surreal. There was no way this was a problem with scheduling. For the one time a month he got to see her? Ava wanted to see him, she wanted to, she had to. Elizabeth was behind it. “Yes,” Elizabeth answered curtly. She narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure you can understand. She’s a little girl. Little girls need plays and ice cream and friends—” “She needs a dad.” Simon glared through the glass. “Whose fault is that?” Elizabeth stared right back. Simon took the phone and slammed it against the receiver with a resounding bang. Not a single coherent thought entered his mind as he was escorted out of visitation and into the prison yard. It was only a feeling, something without name but with an incinerating intensity. “Out so soon, Simon?” Darren called from across the yard. Simon whipped his head around towards the noise. “You get dumped? Or that little girl of yours give up on you?” Simon could see Jay coming at him out of the corner of his eye. He must have seen something in his face, or everything in his face. But Jay was too slow. Far too slow. There was a flurry of motion as Simon struck Darren with all his might, over and over, just like the inmate had always begged him to do. He felt the deadweight of a nightstick crack over his head, and everything slammed into a heavy blackness. When Simon awoke, he was laying on a thin mattress, a thick bandage wrapped around his head. He recognized the bare walls and lack of a window immediately as solitary. Darren. He’d gotten him. He’d finally gotten to use that juice card. A gap in the door slid open. “Simon Mason.” The captain of the guards spoke. “You have been assigned to solitary confinement. All visitation privileges have been suspended. Enjoy your stay.” He lifted his face so that Simon could see his grin, and then closed the gap once again.

Simon couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t react. He felt numb, and his head hurt too much to form anything inside. He tried to grasp something, anything. Some coherent thought that could encapsulate the black hole that he felt inside. But no matter how hard he racked his sluggish, pain-enslaved mind, the only thing that greeted him was blank, cold nothing. Nothing at all.

Untitled Sketch â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Alysa Chirillo 65

For the Very Stones Will Cry Out —Will Hobson After the painting “Mailand: Dom” by Gerhard Richter, 1964 Though the painting must be, has to be stretched and tightly fixed to a plane wall still I hear it and I feel it tricking its dimension – Advance to the wall while closing eyes and opening ears sense the Awe (in its older definition) Richter translated from cathedral to audio spectrograph I want to hear offices: Dies Irae and Te Deum but instead rosin-caked bows scrape on tortured strings which scream as they are scragged and stretched –

Advance further while trying to brush your fingers through the glass, darkly feel the Age (in its older definition) Richter transcribed from cathedral to window, stained I want to feel a surface standing against time and space but instead tired and tried bones spiral and breach the sky as broken spindles â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Still these carapaces hold resonances like the waves hidden inside seashells resonances from somewhere else past the plane wall towards a face in layers of glass though this still must be, still has to be a painting

Mailand: Dom by Gerhard Richter, oil on canvas, 1964, catalog no. [49]

Heart Broken-Repaired-Glitches-Repeat —Mary Katherine Rollins “Alright, class! Today we are going to draw pictures of what we did over this past Christmas break! After that, we will write up a small paragraph describing it for our English section,” Mrs. Pelzer says with a happy grin, clapping her hands with each syllable. The first grade class clamors for their materials, the sounds of rolling crayons and rumpled paper filling the cheery classroom. I look down at my own pencil bag filled with markers and crayons, sighing in exasperation as I start to pull out what I will need to draw yet another useless child’s sketch. I carefully lay out all my colored pencils according to shade at the top of my paper, straightening the white square a fraction to the left. Glancing up and around at the other children coloring away happily, my own picture of my past few days’ activities begin to dance across the page. The teacher walks around the room aimlessly, gazing over a few shoulders and complimenting the occasional student on their artwork. She pauses and smiles down at an especially shy little girl sitting beside me, Rainy Lynn, leaning down to point at the smiling face of her snowman. “Did you play in the snow with your mom and dad?” Mrs. Pelzer asks sweetly. Suddenly, Rainy’s bright blue eyes go wide and fill with tears. The teacher’s face falls instantly and her hands flutter around her helplessly, not knowing what to do to calm her down. “Oh! Rainy! What on Earth is wrong?” she worries, crouching down beside her chair. Rainy sniffles adorably and wipes at her eyes with a hiccup. Mrs. Pelzer looks around worriedly and her eyes land on me. As soon as she looks at me, my shoulders slouch and I groan. “Wednesday! Please, I can’t leave to take Rainy to the nurse’s office…” she says, her voice trailing off guiltily. I nod reluctantly and get to my feet; I had already finished my drawing anyway. Rainy looks up at me with shinning eyes as I hold my hand out to her. She reluctantly puts her tiny hand in mine and I turn to walk us out the door. Just as the door is slowly closing behind us, I hear Mrs. Pelzer yelp and gasp. I smirk to myself, knowing she must have looked down at my desk and seen the picture of our annual family grave robbing, when we dig up our dead relatives and stake them through the heart after cutting off their heads, all to keep them from turning into vampires. I had drawn

my especially favorite part about the whole experience when Pugsley accidently dug up our great uncle Nosferatu and was chased through the graveyard by the fuming artifact of a man. “Um… Wendy?” Rainy peeps up, pulling me from my reverie. I shake the cobwebs from my head and look down at her, smiling politely. “Yes?” “Well… I uh… I’m sorry I cried,” she sniffles. I furrow my brow and cock my head to the side thoughtfully as I watch her shyly looking down at her feet as we walk down the hall. “Are you going to tell me why you were crying? I have to tell the nurse something when we get there,” I say and she nods silently. We walk a few more feet until we get to the nurse’s door. She pauses and shuffles her feet nervously as she wrings her hands in front of her. I cross my arms in front of myself and rest my weight on one leg as I wait for her to speak. Finally, she takes a shallow breath and looks up at me. “My… my dog ran away on Christmas. He never came home. My mommy and daddy have been really upset too,” she says, more tears filling her eyes. I smirk and shake my head, pushing open the door and motion her inside. “That’s no big deal,” I say and she looks up at me worriedly. She shuffles in and I walk in after her. “Well, hello! What can I help you two with today?” the nurse asks cheerily. I look down at Rainy, still sniffling and staring down at the floor. “This is Rainy Lynn from Mrs. Pelzer’s first grade class. She started crying while coloring because her dog ran away and needs to call home,” I say simply. The nice nurse frowns delicately and holds out her arms to Rainy. “Oh, you poor thing. Come on, let’s get you into the office so we can call your mommy…” I leave them to their tasks and push open the door to the office. I pause when I feel eyes on me, looking over my shoulder to see Rainy watching me shyly. I wink at her and she furrows her brows before the door closes between us; I have a new project to work on now. I skip down the hallway, filled with new purpose, and think about where I saw that dog on the side of the road last night when mother and father were taking us on our night-time stroll. I remember the dog had been on a back road, near the ditch in front of the old dam. Mother had seen it and tsk-ed unhappily, latching onto my father’s arm. “What a waste…” she

had said and he nodded sadly, and then we simply continued on our way. While the odds of this actually being the right dog are slim, it will have to do. When I go back down the hallway towards class, I simply walk into the bustling room and gather my things without another word to anyone. I absently notice that Mrs. Pelzer must have thrown out my picture again since it was probably offensive like last week’s favorite hobby assignment. Once my bag is packed, I silently slip out of the room unnoticed, as I had done countless times before. I calmly make my way out of the school building and outside to the parking lot where my driver is still parked near the back from when he dropped me off this morning. He looks up as I open the passenger door and hop inside. He straightens his shoulders and starts up the car, buckling up and nodding for me to do the same with a pointed look. I roll my eyes and oblige, even though a car crash cannot kill what’s already dead. “Skipping class again, Miss Addams? You know they are going to call your mother and she won’t be too happy about that,” he says teasingly. I wave it away and we start down the road. “I have more pressing matters to attend to. Do you recall that old dirt road near the dam? I believe you had to pick up Pugsley there one time when he got lost chasing after a Jackalope.” I point towards the next turn that we would have to take. The kindly old man chuckles and nods, taking the turn. We drive for a few minutes in comfortable silence, scanning the sides of the road carefully. Finally, I see a tuft of black fur beneath some leaves and quickly tap on the window. “There! Stop right here. I see the dog!” I exclaim and he hits the brakes. I open the door and pick my way down the slope towards the hairy heap, the old man shakily following me on arthritic feet. When I get to the dog, I crouch down beside it and thoughtlessly reach for the light blue collar around its crooked neck. I recognize Rainy’s last name, behind two initials, as the contact number and smile victoriously. “It’s the right one! It says here that his name is Max… how unoriginal,” I sigh. Alfred stiffly stoops beside me with a symphony of popping joints and crackling bones. He groans and looks down at the days-old carcass in front of us. He looks over at me with a raised brow and then sighs, situating his feet again to lean further down and scoop the heavy black lab into his arms and standing with some effort. “What do you want with this dog? Does your uncle need a new test

subject for another one of his experiments?” he asks breathlessly as we start up the hill again. I frown as I watch the old man struggling, wanting to take the heavy load from him, but also knowing that he would take the offer as an insult. Instead, I help by opening the back door for him and he gently lays the dog down on the seat. “No, it seems he belongs to a girl in my class. She was crying over him today and I remember her always talking about how much she loved him. She’s very quiet, so she doesn’t have many friends other than the furry ones that walk on all fours.” Alfred wipes his hands on his suit pants and straightens his hat on his head. “That’s very sweet of you, Miss Wendy. I’m sure she will be very happy to see him again.” He smiles sweetly as he starts the car. “I think she will.” When we are back at my house, Uncle Fester comes out to carry the dog down to his laboratory instead of Alfred having to struggle down the steep stone stairs. I skip down after my uncle and wait patiently as he sets his burden down on the large stone slab in the middle of the room. “This shouldn’t be that hard. He’s only been dead for a few days. Probably four at the least,” Uncle Fester says as he lays out the body and feels around on its legs and neck. He frowns and I walk over to peek under his arm. “He must have been hit by a car, he has a broken neck. That’s an easy fix though. Kind of like when we had to patch up Pugsley after you tried to see if he could survive being hit by the family car,” he says with a chuckle. I smirk at the memory. “So you can fix him?” I ask. He nods and starts to look through his tools. “Of course, my dear! Just leave him with me and he’ll be back playing fetch in no time.” My mother calls down the stairs to me “Wednesday, is that you? I thought you were supposed to be in school.” I leave Uncle Fester with his new project to find my mother looking down at me from the top of the stairs with a furrowed brow, her knitting in her hands. “Is everything alright? I don’t want another call from your teacher, young lady,” she says. I shake my head and absently admire her knitting; the tiny baby’s jumper almost complete, only a tail hole left to complete. “You know that dog we found the other night? Turns out it belongs to a young girl in my class, and she seemed very upset about it. Uncle

Fester is fixing him up right now, and we are going to drop him off at her house soon,” I say. Her face softens and she leans down to kiss me on the cheek, her belly swollen out so far she can barely bend. She grins proudly. “That’s my Wednesday. Make sure to leave some stitches showing. I always thought that added some character back to your uncle’s creations,” she says with a wink, turning to glide back down the hall and into her sitting room. I glance down the stairs when I hear crashing and banging from the laboratory. I leave Uncle Fester to his craft and instead make my way to the kitchen phone to call the number that had been on the dog’s collar. “Good afternoon, Thing. Would you mind helping me dial a number?” I ask as I walk in to see the detached hand flipping through a newspaper absently at the table. It jumps to alert when I speak and taps around happily on its fingers. I smile and follow it to the phone on the wall, still too high for me to reach. The hand skitters animatedly across the counters then leaps onto the top of the dial box of the phone with practiced precision. I jump up to grab the receiver and hold it to my ear patiently as I recite the numbers aloud for it to dial. The old rotary phone takes a while to use, but finally I hear the tone on the other end. I smile at our success and look up at Thing. “Thank you,” I say and it salutes me with its pointer finger before jumping down to the floor and skittering away to finish reading the paper. “Hello?” a man asks from the other end of the phone. “Good afternoon. Are you, by any chance, B.K. Lynn?” I ask calmly. The phone on his end is fumbled a moment before his voice comes across clearer. “Uh, yeah. Who is this?” he asks suspiciously. “This is Wednesday Addams. I have your dog.” I say. He is silent a moment before making a choking sound. “Wait, Wednesday? As in the girl at the mortuary that I talked to last month?” he asks suddenly. I cock my head to the side thoughtfully and try to place his voice. “Yes? Who are you, then?” I ask. He laughs over the static and an inkling of recognition pulls at my memory. “It’s me, Butch Kaden. The poor shmuck that got into a fight at my own father’s funeral. How on Earth did you end up with my dog?” “Well, my driver and I found him on the side of the road. We think he

may have been hit by a car.” “Oh… I thought… so he’s dead?” he asks sadly, seeming to deflate. I shake my head, even though he cannot see me. “No worries, my uncle will have him up and running in no time. Simple reanimations like this are easier than you would think. We do them all the time,” I say calmly. He is silent a moment. “Are you saying that you guys are going to bring my daughter’s dog back to life all Frankenstein style?” he asks hesitantly. “Yes, I suppose that’s one way to put it.” “I don’t… I don’t think that will be necessary. I was already planning on getting her another dog if we didn’t find him by the end of the week, so…” “Well, that will no longer be necessary. You can just come by our family house to come get him around three today. He should be done around then. You could also meet the rest of my family since they will not be running a funeral this time, and let us know how that memorable argument you had has been going,” I tease, but he does not seem too thrilled about the topic. “Dear God, I cannot believe I am agreeing to this… but I am beyond curious as to what you are planning to do to my dead dog,” he says irritably. I smile proudly to myself and recite our address. After a short pause, I hear an incredulous chuckle. “You’re that creepy old mansion at the bottom of the hill from where we just moved in… figures,” he sighs tiredly. “You live right up the street from us?” I ask curiously. “It would seem so. Rainy and I haven’t been here long, so we don’t know our way around too well yet. Anyway, I guess I’ll head over once I get back from work then. See you then.” He quickly hangs up, and I am left listening to the dial tone. I chew my lip thoughtfully as I hand the receiver back up for Thing to place on top of the rotary. “He didn’t seem too pleased with the news…” I mumble to myself, glancing up at Thing who runs off again to his paper. “Wednesday! Someone is at the door!” Pugsley calls out into the living room. I look up from where I was playing fetch with Max and roll my eyes. “Would it kill you to actually answer it since I am a little indisposed at the moment?” I tsk, holding the slobbery dog toy up for him to see. Max goes to jump for it but falls over instead, shorting out a moment. I sigh, reaching down to tap the metal antenna between his eyes, instantly

straightening out the issue. He jumps right back up and starts wagging his tail again, his glassy eyes fixed on the toy still in my hand. “Where is Lurch? I thought he was supposed to do this kind of stuff,” Pugsley grumbles, waddling back into the foyer to open the large oak doors. A gust of wind whips through the house, and Max’s ears perk up at the familiar scent carried with it; his people are finally here. He bolts towards the door, his toy forgotten. I get to my feet just as he tackles the man in front of him, pulling him to the ground. “What the fu- hell?” he grunts, recoiling away from the patchwork mutt in shock as he struggles to free himself from the onslaught of dog kisses. He stares down at the dog in fear, revulsion evident on his face as he takes in the gruesome details of the beast before him. His face is white and he freezes, slowly dragging his eyes over to me where I stand in the middle of the room. In search of more attention, Max leaves Butch to sniff around for Rainy who doesn’t seem to have come. “What… what have you done to my dog? I can’t let Rainy see this! Our divorce has already been hard enough on her; how am I going to explain this monster to her?” he yells, his eyes furious as he watches the mixmatched dog sniff around his feet, his antenna catching on his pant leg and causing Butch to yelp and flinch away. I glare up at him, suddenly enraged by his reaction. “Do not use such ignorant words as monster in this house, Mr. Lynn. To a closed-minded person, I suppose Max’s new appearance may seem slightly shocking—,” I hiss but am interrupted. “Slightly?!” he shouts. I hold my hand up and he falls silent, gritting his teeth. I continue. “But that dog is the same dog he has always been, just a little different on the outside. Once I learned the dog was yours, I hoped that you also being a biologist would mean you would understand. I suppose I was wrong about you after our last meeting.” I say stiffly. After a heartbeat of tense silence, he deflates, sagging his shoulders in defeat and finally staring down at the dog. Max wags his now stump of a tail lazily, gazing up at his owner adoringly, his split tongue lulling out of his mouth and greyish drool puddling on the hard wood floor. Butch pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, shaking his head side to side. He opens his eyes to look down at the dog carefully; his eyes lingering at the small metal antenna jutting out slightly from the patchy fur on his head and the band of rope-like stitches holding his head in place.

Reluctantly, a small smirk tugs at Butch’s lips, even though it doesn’t reach his eyes. The dog’s wagging grows more persistent at the small gesture. “Hey, buddy,” Butch says very quietly. Max leaps up in excitement, attacking him with kisses again. This time, the man kneels down in front of him and carefully scratches at his neck, patting him on the back with sad, confused grey eyes. I smile as well, knowing he had started to come around to his altered friend. After a few moments, Butch looks up at me and shakes his head slowly. “You really are a strange kid, but thank you… I guess,” he says awkwardly, getting to his feet with a groan. “Did you bring Rainy with you?” I ask absently. He finally takes a moment to look around the room and raises a brow at the odd décor, but turns his attention back to me and shakes his head. “I’m sorry Wednesday. This is amazing and an act of God, but I can’t let a six-year-old see this. It would mess her up more than she already is.” “I think you don’t give her enough credit. I know he is different, but I think she would love him all the same.” He shakes his head again and steps away from Max. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Thank you, really, I know you meant well, but he has to stay here.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts towards the door. Uncle Fester stumbles up the stairs and peeks into the room to see what’s going on. “Did she like the dog?” he asks nervously. I shake my head and glare in frustration at Butch who has frozen in the doorway. Uncle Fester slowly comes all the way into the room and Butch visibly flinches at the terrifying sight of his bloated and singed flesh, his bald head fried to a crisp from the electric chair that had killed him. “He won’t let her see him. He says the dog is too monstrous,” I hiss. Butch looks over at me with an exasperated sigh and looks down at the floor, pinching his nose again. “It’s not that. Rainy is only a child, this would scar her for life!” Uncle Fester hunkers next to me shyly, his hands wringing in front of him. “You keep him, I know he will have a good home here. Goodbye, Wednesday.” He sneaks away fast enough for the dog to not follow him and shuts the door with a hollow thunk. When he is gone, Max whimpers pitifully and scratches at the door. I look over at Uncle Fester with a raised brow, but he only shrugs. “You knew it was a long shot. Don’t be upset with him, dear. You know

how people see things differently than we do,” Uncle Fester says gently and turns to leave, back down into his dungeon laboratory. However, I bolt to the door and throw it open as I hear the car start down the driveway. Max is across the yard in a flash, barking and wagging his tail in excitement as he chases the old truck down the driveway. Butch suddenly slams on breaks and skids to a dusty stop. I grin triumphantly as I lean against the open door and Fester comes to see what the ruckus is all about. “That wasn’t very nice of you…” he says with a smirk. I shrug and watch as the two shadowy figures argue in the car. Suddenly the passenger door opens and a small little girl comes tumbling out, landing in the road with a huff. In seconds, Max is on her. She squeals and I worry that Butch may have been right, but as I watch, I see the cry had been one of joy and excitement. Butch slowly gets out of the car and slams the door shut, his eyes never leaving me on the front steps. He glares at me angrily, but I simply flash my grin at him again and he rolls his eyes. I look back at Rainy when Max starts to lead her to where Uncle Fester and I stand. “You brought him back! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she yells, rushing forward to hug me. I tense slightly, but nod over to Uncle Fester when she looks up. “Actually, he did.” She turns her attention to the towering man and her light blue eyes go wide. I cringe expecting her to cry or run away as most children did when they saw him, but to my surprise, she pulls away from me to throw her arms around his puffy waist instead. “Thank you so much, Mister,” she says, her voice muffles in his sweater. Everyone is surprised as she does so, completely ignoring his oddness. Even Uncle Fester winces a moment before relaxing into the tiny hug, closing his eyes and smiling contentedly. I look back up at Butch to find him smiling to himself, his eyes on his wonderful daughter. He finally glances up at me and inclines his head in apology. “It seems you were right all along. I’m sorry to have caused such trouble.” When Fester is free, Butch holds his hand out to him. My uncle looks at him in blatant shock, staring down at his hand before hesitantly reaching out his own. “I cannot thank you enough for what you have done. I haven’t seen her this happy since he ran away,” he says kindly. Uncle Fester’s face lights up happily and Butch drops his hand. Rainy laughs and fights off more licks from Max as she stands with us

and Uncle Fester stiffly crouches down to her level. “D-Do you want to see a cool trick? You can do this with Max too, because he’s like me,” Uncle Fester says shyly as the little girl smiles down at him. She grins and nods as he crouches down in front of her, a lightbulb in his hand. “Watch this,” he says. He places the metal end of the unlit lightbulb in his mouth and suddenly it flashes to life. Rainy looks on with wondrous eyes and her dad carefully watches us with the curiosity of a scientist. “I can do that with Max?” she shouts in excitement. Uncle Fester laughs and nods, holding out the now unlit lightbulb for her to keep. She carefully takes it in her hands and looks down at it as though it were magic. “How did you do that?” Butch asks hesitantly. Uncle Fester looks up at him and straightens. He smiles and seems to relax around our new guest. “A fellow scientist, I see. It’s rather complicated to explain, but if you ever want to come visit my lab, I would be happy to explain all kinds of things to you,” he says. To my surprise, a small smile pulls across Butch’s face and he nods. “That would be really nice, actually. Thank you,” he says. Uncle Fester nods happily and claps his hands; he has finally made a friend. “Well, I must go back to the dungeon to finish some other projects that were put on hold. Have a wonderful day, Mr. Lynn.” “Just Butch. You brought my dog back to life, I think we can be on a first name basis now.” “Very well. Butch,” my uncle says before walking away to go back to his studies. When he is gone, Pugsley comes trudging back into the entry way, his striped sweater stuck around his head and his t-shirt underneath tattered and dirty. “Wednesday, where is Dad? I fell down the garbage shoot again and can’t get out of my shirt,” he grumbles. I roll my eyes and Butch laughs as he corrals his group off the front steps. “Just hold on, I will help you in a moment,” I say in exasperation as I look back out at where Rainy and Max play in the yard. “I hope you are happy with Max. We did the best that we could, but he can still be a little buggy sometimes. If he ever shorts out, just straighten his antenna and it should fix itself,” I say to Butch. “Thank you, Wednesday. Really, you have no idea how much that dog means to Rainy,” he says gently, the apology from his earlier behavior still in his eyes. I wave it away and lean against the door casually. He glances

over my shoulder at Pugsley stumbling around, trying to free himself, and laughs. He looks back down at me and smiles faintly. “I really like your family. I hope we can all meet up again at some point, especially to talk to your uncle about his experiments,” he says nervously. I smile brightly at him and nod. “Of course, that would be wonderful. We don’t get very many guests because we seem to scare them all away, but I am sure that my parents would be ecstatic to meet you,” I say. He nods and backs down the stair. “Then we will keep in touch. Have a good night, Wednesday! And stop skipping class!” he calls out to me as he walks away, motioning for Rainy and Max to get into the car. I smile as I watch them leave, knowing Rainy must have noticed me missing and mentioned it to her father. She waves at me through the window of the back seat and I reach up a hand to wave back at her. I’m glad these are our new neighbors.

Eclipse Photograph —Alex Barrus 79

Marlboro â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Madison Corthell Oh, how I loved you, mottled toad on stilts. Swollen body covered in black and purple flowers blooming beneath the rice paper membrane of your skin. Permanently melded to the beige couch, perfuming the room with your breath, a silent ode to Philip Morris. I see you from above, behind. Skinny legs draped over bony shoulders as I comb memories from your thin hair, Memories of people Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never meet twice. Golden light infused with poplar filters through the window, casting a sallow light walls matching carcinogenic skin. Mother of my father entombed in silent reruns and scorched upholstery. Your grave adorned by the singed jewels of spent cigarettes.

Ingrid — Brianna Estes Twenty-four years ago, I was taken away from my home, and now that I stand here at the rotating doors of it, I feel almost calm. I have learned over time that sometimes it feels good to haunt yourself with old memories, especially the bad ones… The doctors always held strong against this statement when I once voiced it during a session alone with the psychiatrist. However, I know deep inside of my soul that the memories that were once coined “bad” are almost pleasing to me. I was eight years old when I was taken away and carted off to the local institution. I had lived in the Breakers Hotel that had been owned by my family for generations on the coast of the Carolinas. My grandfather passed the hotel down to my father who ran it during my short stay. You would have thought that a child my age would never have been lonely due to living in a hotel full of new people every day. However, I always was. I never had anyone to talk to or to play with because they thought that I was weird. Truth be told, I was odd, and I knew it. Looking back at it now, I truly believe that it was always me who didn’t want to associate with the other children. I had one friend while I lived at the hotel, and that had been my mother. Every day I sat out in the lobby watching these strangers enter my home, wondering what adventure they must be on. Sometimes I made up my own stories and scenarios, which usually consisted of a family in hiding due to some kind of mistake or monster. I guess that I always did have a disturbing mind even at that young age. I remember it so clearly; walls laced with large golden-framed windows with creams, golds, and soft maroons draping their glassy appearance; the spinning doors that turned each person into a new guest and led them straight forward to my angel of a mother who ran the front desk. I can see her now, in my head, smiling and radiating her beauty as she checked people in and out. There was a golden bookcase that flowed around the base of the room and followed the curvature of the windows that sat on top. To my mother’s right sat a small common area of tables and chairs, while to her left sat a creamy pearl-white grand piano and a deep maroon chaise lounge sofa that was quilted and looked as if to belong in the palace of a queen. My

spot, of course, was the sofa, because I was the queen of the hotel, and my mother was the one who had always made sure that I knew that. For eight years, I sat on that sofa in an array of pale-colored dresses. I never joined the other children of the hotel outside for games by the shore. I always sat by the window and listened to the beautiful melody of the piano and the chatter of the visitors. I would always find myself staring out and over the cliff that draped the ocean outside of the hotel, dreaming of the water that pounded at the base of the rocks. I used to inspect all of the guests curiously, like I had never looked at strangers before. I watched them interact with my mother and always made sure to keep an eye out for her. Although each and every guest that entered through the lobby doors never knew it, they had been judged by my tiny, satin blue eyes. The hotel staff, and some of the guests, often referred to me as the “peculiar child.” They had once even made up rumors that I had been adopted after being found in the bathroom of a gas station. Mother had always denied it, but thinking back on it now, she never proved them wrong. They never approached their bosses, my parents, about their concern. They would just whisper loud enough to get the ideas into my head…to eat away at my conscience. Mother was a tall woman. Her hair draped down past her bottom, enhanced by the blonde curls that were naturally highlighted by the kiss of the sun. For having lived by the ocean, one would have thought that her skin would have been the color of caramel. However, she was only a few shades past ivory. Her features were tight and stern. She was a toned and curvy woman with eyes that were big, blue, and deep with secrets. I remember watching suitor after suitor beg to take my mother away from the hotel. Every man that had walked through the doors drooled over her…all of them except my father. Why my mother loved him, I will never know. But she did, and she never broke their promise of marriage. I had been so fascinated with my mother at that young age. I guess you could say that I still am considering where I am, right now. She was what held me together, and I only wanted to see her happy. That was my only goal. At night, I would watch her through the small opening in the wall that was in the back of my closet leading to her room. I had “accidently” hit the wall with a doll while playing one day and created the hole. After this, I started to watch her every night; something about seeing her sleep had made me feel comfortable. Mother never found out about the hole in the

wall…I probably would have been sent away sooner if she had. My father was not as approachable as my mother. I remember him living in his office, only leaving to relieve himself or sleep. When dinnertime approached, he would order room service, or, in his case, office service. I once remember peeking my head inside of the office one evening after following his daily maid, Maria, to see her crawl onto his lap. Being eight years old at the time I did not quite understand what they were doing, but it looked a lot like what I had seen Mother do to him on rare occasions. My relationship with my father had been weak while he was alive. One might even conclude that it had been nonexistent. He was never someone who showed his feelings, not even to my mother. Due to that, my hatred for him grew… especially now that I understand what had actually happened. Who was Maria compared to my mother? She had been a maid, not his wife. Father’s eyes matched an emerald, a deep green that was sharp but weary. They always reminded me of a snake, beady and quick to move. He had been the opposite of my mother. She stood out as a pearl through the mud, yet he cowered behind the clamshells. I, for one, had always been a mixture of them both. I had never cowered behind the shells, but I also never gleamed through the mud. I would have compared myself mostly to a bump on a log. I was just there, always in the hotel lobby by the grand piano. I am not sure how I brought myself back to this place. Maybe because I heard talk of a fire burning it up… but maybe I just want to remember. Even at thirty-two, my brain has started to grow foggy. Years of containment haven’t really helped either. It’s been twenty-four years exactly since I walked out of the spinning doors, and now as I walk through the shattered glass panels and enter back into my old home, I feel vulnerable to the memories. As I carefully navigate through the charred doors, sunlight bounces off the scattered glass in front of me, reflecting an orange glow from my outfit. Shivers run up my spine as I scan the old and tattered rotunda that is now hidden under a thin blanket of ash. The beautiful and rich curtains that once lined the circular room now slither across the tired and broken tiles that used to sparkle in the sunlight. My eyes lead me to where they are most comfortable, the now lightly

charred and ash-eaten couch that still sits beside the old, termite-infested grand piano. As I walk toward the couch, I slide my fingers across the grimy piano top and reveal a path of almost white. The tail of my chain bracelet drags through the dust and ashes collecting them in each stainless-steel link as it slides along. Reaching the couch, I sit down and feel the cushion hug my hips, almost like it knows who I am. From this spot I can see everything, inside and outside. My mother’s front desk falling apart and the dinging bell laying upside down on the floor. The hallway leading to my father’s office, and the rocky cliff that descends down to the ocean floor right outside and up the hill. Before I can catch it, a tear drops from my cheek onto the couch, and then the memories submerge me. As I lay in the floor of my closet sleeping, I am awoken by the faint sound of weeping. Gazing through my peep-hole in the back of my closet I see my mother. Her beautiful frame, not so tall and firm right now, is hunched over in the floor sobbing. I want to call out to her, but then she would discover my secret hiding place and might patch up the hole to remove herself from my view. So I sit and watch with my small hands pressed against the wall squinting to see through the hole. I stare, bewitched, as I watch my mother roll over on to her side where a needle is visible. “What is that…?” I whisper to myself. I sit and watch her cry as she injects the serum into her body and I come to the conclusion that whatever it may be, it mustn’t be good. For the rest of the night, I watch her with my tiny body glued to the wall until she finally falls asleep with tear-filled eyes. As her eyes close, mine follow suit. Some ash falls from the burned ceiling and lands on the tip of my nose, breaking my memory. Thoughts of my mother flood into my head. Night after night, I would watch as she cried in the floor of her suite, alone. If I could go back in time, I would have ran to her room and made up some silly excuse for her to come and comfort me as I would fall asleep. I longed to help her and hold her hand. I wanted so badly to hug her and hold her as she did to me when I was a baby; but I didn’t. I just watched

her. Come to think of it, I now understand why I did it. I understand the impulse that ran through my body as I stood on the cliff and I understand why I pushed. Once more, I submerge back into the memory. As I sit in my closet pressed against the wall, something different is happening. Tonight, she is not crying. Tonight, she is furious, and my father is in the room, too. I don’t really know what is taking place, but Mother is standing tall and beautiful. Tonight, instead of her usual nightgown, she is wearing a short, rose-pink, transparent gown that barely covers anything. Father, on the other hand, is wearing his normal attire of a brown pant suit. The features on Mother’s face are sterner than ever, and Father looks as if he has seen a ghost. I push against the wall harder, digging my eye into the sheet rock to broaden my view. Mother begins throwing her hands in the air saying, “I can’t do this anymore, Eric. You haven’t even looked at me in years… I just don’t think I can be around you or this hotel any longer. I have to get away.” “I am just so busy, Teresa…you know how hard this place is to run,” croaks Father. I want to jump up and cheer for my mother to leave him. I had grown to despise him as I watched my mother fall apart. “No, Eric, you’re not. I saw Maria slip into your office a couple of months ago.” “She always brings my meals to me. Why would you even say that?” Mother raises her voice, “Why? Why would I say that? Maybe because as I walked by to pop in and check on you, I heard her moaning! Eric, I am done. I am packing my bags, taking Ingrid, and we are leaving” Father’s face starts twisting up. However, I can’t tell if he is going to explode in anger or just cry. I continue watching and see his tall, lanky frame exit my mother’s room, not even fighting back. I’m not sure what he did, but I assume it has something to do with our day maid, Maria. I hate him. I hate him for doing whatever he did to me and my mother. He tore my mother apart and he is going to pay. I pull away from the hole in the wall and devise my plan of action. Tomorrow we will be free of him. He will be leaving, not us. I wake up with a smile on my face. Today is the day that I will finally be

able to be with my mother, without my father. I put on my favorite white dress that has little red roses embroidered on the edges. Pulling my curly blonde hair up into a ponytail, I throw on my white dress shoes. As I walk past my mother’s desk on my way outside to the cliff, I notice how bright she looks. In some ways I think she knew what I was doing. I smile and wave at my mother as I spin through the doors at the front of the lobby and wander outside towards the cliff that overlooked the sea. Once I reach the cliff, I tiptoe my way closer to the edge, feeling the mist rise from the rocks at the bottom of the cliff and collecting in my blonde hair. People on the beach below start to notice me and begin shouting for me to stop and to get away from the edge. However, I keep pushing forward, walking closer and closer. At last I hear my mother’s and father’s voices booming over the ocean waves that crash below at the bottom of the cavern. The wind whips at my hair and my dress. I turn and smile at them. Mother stops about fifteen feet away crying and begging me to come back toward her. I almost lose vision of my plan and run to her. However, I am on a mission and won’t stop until it was complete. Father sprints in my direction to stop me, wedging his lanky body between myself and the cliff, herding me like a sheep. I take advantage of his wrong move and ram my body weight into him, sending him over the edge to his casket of seawater and rock. I watch as his long body flails down the cliff and lands on the rocky bottom. I look back towards my mother who in in shock. I smile at her as she runs over to me with an odd look. Why isn’t she smiling back? Isn’t she proud of me? “What have you done? Ingrid! What have you done?” “You said you wanted to leave… I freed us from him! It’s just us now!” “No! Ingrid! What, what is wrong with you?” I feel the tears dwelling in my eyes as the anger and sadness flashes over me. What does she mean, what have I done? What does she mean, what is wrong with me? I saved her. I saved me. I saved us. The anger boils inside of me and feels like flames are rushing through my veins.

Mother yells at me, one more time, with a disgusting look. Without thinking twice, I use all of my power and push her closer toward the edge. She stumbles backwards in disbelief, looking at me with her big beautiful eyes and I run at her harder. How dare her to ask what was wrong with me. I was saving her. With my last blow, I watch as she, too, flails her beautiful body down toward the rocks where her husband lay dead. My hands are shaking. My eyes cut toward the bodies down below. By now, people have started surrounding me, and I feel someone grabbing my arm, pulling me backwards, screaming at me. I don’t fight back. I smile, grimly. I am hurt, yes, but I am free. Free from my father. Free from everything. If I can’t have my mother, nobody can. As I snap back into reality, I find myself smiling, staring out at the cliff. Almost leaping from the couch, I run, fast and hard, straight up the hill and toward the edge. I feel the wind whipping past me, rising from the waves that are pounding on the rocks below. Twenty-four years later and I am free once again, standing here on this cliff that changed my life forever. I stop right before the edge and lean over to gaze at the rocks. There she is, my mother, staring at me from below. Her beautiful blonde hair blows in the wind. Her big blue eyes are now full of love and not secrets. She waves at me from down below and smiles up at me. My heart skips a beat and flutters at the sight of her smile. Should I stay? Or should I return to my cage? I turn away from my mother at the sound of a click. When I look up, I lock eyes with the same person that has been my only friend for the past twenty-four years. This time those eyes aren’t too friendly, and it’s not food that they are offering. I had to escape, and they knew it. The officers knew that I’ve been worked up ever since I heard the hotel burned. I had to see it with my own eyes. I had to see her, my mother, at her resting place. I walk toward the pair of eyes with my hands up and my orange pants catch a twig, ripping them and causing me to stumble to the ground. I peer up, defeated. The red and blue lights on the car reflect off of the tails of the broken chains on my wrists. If I surrender I will probably be given the death sentence or chained

into some confined room. Not only did I escape the chain gang while cleaning up the highways, but I strangled three other inmates and an officer in the process. I gather myself and stand up, pausing. I look down at my jumpsuit, tattered and worn. Glancing behind me towards the cliff, I turn and pick my fate. I see you, Mother.

Geiranger Fjord, Norway Photograph â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Fanny Mazet 88

Blue Ridge —Madison Corthell I don’t come from the Rockies. The mighty Himalayas are as foreign as Olympus Mons. My mountains are the crooked slope Of an ancient granny’s back as she stoops to shell beans. Gentle and sheltering, my mountains Weave a world of silent mist, Insular and serene. These weathered peaks have laid down to rest. My mountains have felt eons melt before them Like the last snow of winter, Flowing through the valleys and coves, Etching out a new future for the land. These mountains can be as verdant and fecund as any rainforest, Replete with the chorus of life. But sometimes they are the ragged teeth of a saw blade, Rending the underbellies of ponderous clouds. Bones of iron support this land of stone. Massive monuments to violent volcanism, A dystopian past of primordial birth, Whose legacy is carved into the craggy faces of my people.

PLUNKsunk â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Madison Corthell Frigid; water runs free ze together So lid caps the streamsong Sha t t ers silence. Tum bl ing rock Splash sinks set tle still. PLUNKsunk en Lungs hung er for air y bubbles float Away.

Jostedalsbreen, Norway Photograph â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Fanny Mazet

Contributors’ Page Lauren Adkins is a junior art major with art history and psychology minors. She is from Simpsonville, SC, and loves creating art with literally anything she can get her hands on. Will Baird is a creative writing major and media studies minor. He’s played tennis for all of his life, written for some of it, read for most of it, and drank enough coffee the past year to end it. He loves all manner of shenanigans, especially those that make a good story. Reese Bates is a junior double history and English major from Columbia, SC. She loves writing, reading, and traveling. Kaitlynn Campbell is a senior art major. Alysa Chirillo went to PC for her freshman and sophomore year and is now at PC’s pharmacy school as a P2. Madison Corthell is a senior at PC, majoring in English, French, and international studies. She is from Candler, North Carolina. John Thomas “J. T.” Davis was proudly born and raised in Wilmington, North Carolina. He is a music major concentrating in composition and an English major concentrating in creative writing. He currently plans to follow his calling and head to seminary to become a pastor or chaplain. Brianna Estes is currently a junior earning a history major with a double minor in religion and creative writing. She is also a cheerleader at PC and a coordinator for both Relay for Life and PC Outdoors. Clay David is a third-year biochemistry and psychology major at PC. He got into creative writing to let off some steam from the daily science and math, but found that it became more than just an outlet for stress, it has become a hobby. Libby Fowler is a senior double English and French major, with minors in international studies and media studies with a journalism/communications

concentration. She is currently the PC Choir President and a member of Omicron Delta Kappa, Sigma Tau Delta, and Delta Omicron. She is also a Griffith Scholar. Kaitlyn Guinyard is a senior majoring in English with an emphasis in creative writing. She is also double minoring in French and art. Her hometown resides in West Columbia, South Carolina. Lori Hart is an admirer of creativity and finds happiness in the simplicity of a rural lifestyle. She uses her spare time to care for her growing abundance of livestock and incorporate their meaning in her life through drawing and photography. Sage Hinkleman is a sophomore English major with a concentration in creative writing. She has been writing poetry since she was a child and plans to never stop. Nature-focused poetry is her passion. Will Hobson is currently a senior, and if you make the mistake in asking him what he is planning to do after college, he will probably glare at you and then run away from you as fast as he can. Then, if you follow him from a distance, you will either see him hideout in the library stacks or make a frantic break for his hometown of Carrollton, GA. Phoebe Jones is a senior history and theatre double major with a creative writing minor who has an inexplicable inability to turn anything in on time. She can be found terrorizing young children and annoying the hell out of her roommate. Fanny Mazet is an international student from Lyon, France. She is studying international trade and is passionate about traveling. Mary Katherine Rollins is currently a junior, majoring in business and administration with a minor in creative writing.