BUFO 2011-12

BUFO 2011 - 2012

The Literary Magazine of Western Reserve Academy

BUFO

The Literary Magazine of Western Reserve Academy

2011 - 2012

BUFO 2011 - 2012

EDITORS Claire Ilersich Ai Miller & Becca Cartellone ART EDITOR Abby Hermosilla

FACULTY ADVISOR Jeannie Kidera STAFF Genevieve Bettendorf Lillian Carter Alex Fellows Camry Harris Briana Jackson Lauren Kolar Julianne Lavanty

Hannah McKenzie Daniel Miller Mary Moon Mitch Pollack Charles Prendergast Max Rosenwasser Darlene Seo

SPECIAL THANKS TO The Dads’ Club The Pioneer Women The Green Key Society

O

ne thing you learn after multiple years of compiling this

magazine is that you should never leave the editor’s note until the last minute. There are several reasons for this, the primary one being that by the time you have finished the format and layout, after fighting with the computer and cursing the existance of prose poetry (completely different formatting in a new section? No!), you tend to find yourself wanting to complain rather than wax poetic. And then, of course, comes the nostalgia. All of our editorial staff have been associated with BUFO since their freshman year; indeed, Ai has the distinct honor of having never attended a Club Expo without working at the BUFO booth, starting freshman year when zie ‘sang for submissions’ (a mistake at the time, but an happy memory all the same.) Claire, too, was indoctrinated into the ‘cult of BUFO’ at an early stage, deemed the protege at her first meeting. All this nostalgia makes writing the editor’s note last difficult; one is loath to hit that last key, to finish that thought.

As in life, however, all good things must eventually come to an end, and we on the editorial staff of BUFO are sincerely thrilled to be able to present to you this year’s magazine, filled with what we consider to be the best that WRA’s creative writers have to offer.

We’d like to thank the Academy (zing!), our tireless staff and everyone who submitted this year- you all made the process of completing the magazine possible, and incredibly enjoyable. It’s frequently said

by Miss Kidera that writers write because they want to leave something behind; there’s a kind of egotism in believing you have something important to say. We believe all our writers have something worth reading, and we’re proud to provide the vehicle for their voices.

Lick and enjoy!

Claire Ilersich & Ai Miller

Bufo, a journal of young creative writing, is distributed annually by students at Western Reserve Academy, and was published in 2012 by Michele Scourfield of Hudson Publishing. This edition was printed using the Palatino Linotype typeface. Editors can be reached through Bufo Advisor Jeannie Kidera c/o Western Reserve Academy, 115 College St., Hudson, OH, 44236.

CONTENTS 2011 - 2012 POETRY Mitch Pollock, Lovers in a Hospital Genvieve Bettendorf, What a Difference Can an Hour Make Darlene Seo, That Was Some (Kind Of) Holiday We Were On Dori Fenyvesi, Hush Anna McMurchy, The Coming of Winter Tiffany Wang, Distant Life Darlene Seo, The Way the Tracks Divide Grant Ederer, His Landmark Rachel Silver, Venus Maggie Craig, Telling of Silent Rain Genvieve Bettendorf, The Mother Abby Hermosilla, Let the Bass Cannon Kick It

10 11 13 14 15 16 17 19 20 19 21 22

A RT Lauren Kolar, Man and Mountains Claire Ilersich, It Jenny Xu, Man on the Street Briana Jackson, Serendipity Becca Cartellone, Blushing Rose Abbey Griffith, Bassnectar Camry Harris, These Be Swimmin’ Wings Abby Hermosilla, Une Fille Bleu (A Blue Girl) Grant Ederer, Swirls in Brown Nathan Hulsey, Green Countryside

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

FICTION Abby Hermosilla, I Heard Their Voices Past the Window Ai Miller, Goners Who Loved Too Much Lauren Kolar, Step Right Up Audrey Brown, Night at the Andover Mitch Pollock, All-In Becca Cartellone, Memory Hands Julia Ferguson, Prose on the Nature of Gazing Ai Miller, Breathing Verses Out of Rhyme

36 39 42 45 48 52 54 56

Cover art by Claire Ilersich

POETRY

MITCH POLLOCK

Lovers in a Hospital Winter surrounds us, the walls and bedsheets enameled with the sharp white of teeth.

You are curled in the bed, a shrimp, teeth, hair, skin, and all blanched by weeks of frost.

But all I can see is the white-andred blanket spread over red-hot leaves as we revel at the autumn air.

It is our first of many picnics, the day I challenged you to climb the butter yellow tree with me.

Your hands, young and hungry bit at each branch like a great white, more industrious than my own.

The white sets in again as the nurse strolls in.

The seams of your face deepen.

I pull from beneath the red-and white canvas dotted with ketchup stains.

You smile, adding more crystal white to the room. I spread the cloth and I grasp the leaf of your hand, wispy and pale.

GENEVIEVE BETTENDORF

What Difference Can an Hour Make for an hour your back leans against a weeping tree not far from a beach watching the sunshine fall behind the horizon. the world now slips through open fingers sand running through the cracks in the fist of time and you watch the daughter Aurora sing her final battle-cry and retreat in a camouflage of watercolored sky surrendering to the Infinite— Night envelops you deceives your mortal mind drops lies written in a rough hand into the empty wastebin she fills you in where you are lacking with a false balm and under the belly of the firmament you get so lost in the labyrinth of the Infinite you forget to unroll the string so when the meek Aurora comes and bends her sun-lighted eye on the crumpled and broken you screams of pain escape from every wound. you soon grow to love the dark and hate the dawn, even though Aurora has done nothing to wrong you and it is the Infinite that has left you raw; and indifferent; and entirely alone among a thousand grains of cold, unfeeling sand in too many pieces like that hour that so easily slipped through your fingers as you grew distracted and sad—

GENVIEVE BETTENDORF

What a Difference Can an Hour Make (cont’d) you soon grow to love the dark and hate the dawn, even though Aurora has done nothing to wrong you and it is the Infinite that has left you raw; and indifferent; and entirely alone among a thousand grains of cold, unfeeling sand in too many pieces like that hour that so easily slipped through your fingers as you grew distracted and sad— what difference can it make, that single, lonely hour when Aurora abandons you and the drug of dissolution makes you bleed so that all the blood pooling around you reminds you of your existence just a little too late—

DARLENE SEO

That Was Some (Kind Of) Holiday We Were On That break, they aired a movie about us and we never stopped walking throughout the whole thing. “That’s you,” I pointed at the screen, then looked at you, then back at the film. The heavy snow weighed down our shoulders, making us sway from side to side. The wind woke us up like a splash of cold water on our faces and the streetlamps soaked our coats with soft showers of orange lights. “Breaking free,” you read your line, but I stopped you from going on. Then, the fairytale ending: we lay on a flying dinghy and floated out to the bruised-purple firmament.

We waded so high we were right beneath the clouds and we could stretch out our arms to tickle the angels’ feet. The wings of the cirrus made gentle tides as they glided and behind them, the stars were strewn across the sky like sugar, and the whole cosmos was ours to savor, happily, but never after.

DORI FENYVESI

Hush She holds me tighter than ever. Her sweet scent mixes with the salty taste of her skin, until I can’t feel anything but her. She shakes a little more than usual as she holds my head against her chest, but I let my eyes close anyways. It’s just us this time; the man with the muddy boots is finally gone. Yet somehow he left his scent behind.

It is in the air, her hair and even on her skin, mixing with sweet drops of her own sweat. Her usual taste replaced by something dirty I don’t quite recognize. How did I not notice before? She holds me tighter, making me smell something that is so unlike her… It is unsettling. I open my mouth to speak, to tell her she’s holding me too close and I don’t like it, but all that comes out is a meaningless whimper. She squeezes me tightly, her soft breasts pressing against my ribcage now, forcing the air out of my lungs in a torturous pace. My eyes widen as I struggle hopelessly against the firm grip of her birdlike arms. “I’m so sorry baby”, she mumbles against the soft spot on my head, but doesn’t let go. My head spins and I give up. After all, she had him long before me. I always knew I never stood a chance.

ANNA MCMURCHY

The Coming of Winter Tiny puffs of smoke do fly From every mouth agape.

The figures that go shuffling by Clutch at their cloaks and capes.

They wrap them ’round their shiv’ring frames And curse the bitter cold, While I revel in the beauty of This scene that I behold.

The dew that froze during the night Now blankets the stiff ground And crackles underneath my feet With a rhythmic crunching sound.

The orioles are gone for now, The hummingbirds have fled; A flash of red, and now we hear The cardinal’s song instead.

He twitters in the treetops That are losing all their leaves.

They’re stolen by the gusty winds Like a band of greedy thieves.

The stolen loot litters the ground In hues of orange and red; They look like flames that dance upon The frosty ground’s stiff head.

TIFFANY WANG

Drifting Apart The blanket wrinkles as you shift, puckering into furrows while a damp spot seeps from the grass and through the seat of my pants.

Now you lay half on and off the blanket; half-heartedly a part of this raft on the hill.

I sink down too, reclining on my elbows to watch a cloud that is distracting the sun from shining for a minute. You lie face down towards the ground spreading your hands to grab onto the grass as though you were afraid the world would suddenly swing to tip upside down so that we would tumble into the blue.

Instead, you whisper something about how much you love the smellsomething about the sod, waiting for me to say something back; but I’m too busy dreaming navy-colored dreams, fantasizing about the firmament of my visions.

DARLENE SEO

The Way the Tracks Divide A hasty train rushes into the station, white stream of smoke at its head, towards You and me, face to face, hand in hand. People saying goodbye, all around.

It's time to go.

I know, I know.

Your answer trembles in the feeble voice.

You pat my head. You always loved it, my silky hair. Your hand runs down and shields my cheek, traces my jaw, and your forefinger, it lingers at the tip of my chin.

The train stops.

We stand, still.

You stare down the track.

How it branches out into different ways, you don't understand. You don't want to but you have to.

I look down at you - you used to do it.

I kneel; you can do it now, too. Once again your warm glance may reguard me.

The train screams in pain.

Perhaps we've been standing too long.

It's time to go.

Okay, okay.

I take your hand. Slowly, carefully, place it by your side.

You're holding whiskey in your other hand.

DARLENE SEO

The Way the Tracks Divide (cont’d)

I look down in bitterness. Your left foot is missing a shoe.

I bite my lip.

I let your hand tend my hair once more. Maybe just five more minutes, okay?

Okay, okay.

Not okay.

GRANT EDERER

His Landmark Light settles into the tree’s earthen nest, hiding from our view- the darkness creeps; to familiar unkept greens; often overgrown.

Smoke begins to rise as the crackles and sparks cut into the fresh newborn night.

Illumination warms the brow just as its absence- bitter cold.

My body balanced in contrasted comfort.

Encircled by numbered known faces, and known gestures, and known times.

The ritual, again. Uncounted. Change couldn’t come The smell of burning, now at a certain distance.

Bare feet on steel tracks, balanced as all times before.

Smoke begins to travel the dark distance.

Change is fast approaching, and his inevitable nature tenses his residents’ faces- who would soon be, newly-known.

The landmark will still remain, as the unknown new comes to be.

Inescapable, Time, will cease to allow visitors to his private collection of knowns.

RACHEL SILVER

Venus Sitting raised on my fair throne I saw her fresh as dew. Taking my praise although her blood pumped rose to her cheeks proving her mortal and delicate.

With their praise for the earthly rose my thorns began to splay. Vengeance I swore, and I knew just who to have carry out my deed. My son, fox like in his ways, graceful nature in his looks. I sent him away to submit to his inner mischief.

Alas, he hid from me at night. Leaving my mind to wander on the air I imagined on his wings. Her budding curiosity wounded my son, and his mental flagellation behind closed doors was greater than any of my devices.

The drooping girl, she groveled upon the dirt so my fun could again burgeon and wander. Through the fields I sent her withered, trodden.

Once again I was the fairest to behold and Sitting gloriously up high on my victorious crimson throne.

GENVIEVE BETTENDORF

The Mother Night was falling. Her thoughts had been pinned on the wall of an empty room, against which they twitched and then fell back again. She stood at a balcony at the other end of the room, facing away from them, watching the sea. A distance separated them from her; an evening fog rolled over the waves. It approached silently. It was a calm night and only the moon shone. Across the bay she could see a light and at the edge of her mind a shell of her former self moved against the flat of the wall gently in the breeze; the light soon was obscured by the fog and the wind ceased. All was silent.

Even the sound of the waves on the shore was muted by the fog, as if someone put a pillow over the screaming mouth of a child. The sea grew darker yet against the sky as night began to bloom. The fog grew thin again, and, for a brief moment, she could see the lights across the bay—a string of twinkling beads of hope, reminders of what it was like to feel, what it was like to live—but they were quickly suffocated by the low-hanging clouds and fell limp against the wall. She realized she was alone. This thought, unlike the others, remained lively. (Night frightens all away; they retreat in fear of the unknown, shrouded in the quiet depths of the evening, running from nothing. She had no fear. That thought had writhed in a silent, unseen agony for long moments once; it was lifeless now, as it lay flat and dead against the wall.

Nothing moved, because in the nighttime, all wear the mask of peaceful sleep.) Night fell. She was alone, and the darkest hour came upon her. The candle in the room was smothered by the empty air. She could hear him now, because he let his screams escape at this hour two nights ago. She sought the fog that would dim the complexity; she feared the bell jar would rise again. She watched his small body writhe in pain under the hood of the bassinet. After convulsing he relaxed into his end. She imagined that he embraced the same chaos for which she now so desperately wished. She felt the drum slow then stop, and let the pillow fall away. She fingered the pink scar on her lower abdomen. She could see no stars and the fog was bearing down. Night had fallen long ago. It was time to clear the wall and walk out on the sea. She dropped each carcass into the void slowly, savoring her slow end. Night disappeared last into the chaos, and the clusters of dischordant intervals resolved themselves, embracing the dissolution and constancy of nonexistence.

ABBY HERMOSILLA

Let the Bass Cannon Kick It The sink doesn’t really know since it is merely a sink without a squishy brain or slender synapses, but it still breathes under me.

The faucet, stiff with rust, conducts the fall I can’t help but place myself under the rhythmic flood.

The icy water creates an impact on the crown of my head splicing my skull in half and letting the mutant liquid slip in.

Here comes the drop.

Vision fogged, duped by the sounds of gushing moisture and a sickening twist at the base of each transcending droplet.

Water, water, you’re freezing my mind.

Even my skin feels the cannon of humming bass as water trickles down neck and all, and my foot taps to the beat.

ART

Lauren Kolar

Claire Ilersich

Jenny Xu

Abby Hermosilla

Briana Jackson

Becca Cartellone

Abbey Griffith

Briana Jackson

Camry Harris

Abby Hermosilla

Grant Ederer

Nathan Hulsey

FICTION

ABBY HERMOSILLA

I Heard Their Voices Past the Window

“T

iptoe through the window, by the window, that is where I’ll be.

Come tiptoe through the tulips with me,” Tiny Tim belted through the static of our home radio. It was a box of absolute crap; all it did was scream at our family from various ends of the house with the stale voices of news reporters and silly melodies of popular songs. I could never get around to understanding how our society could just jump from the tragedies of unintentional deaths and economic doomsdays to light hearted tunes that pledged their undying devotion to me (and every other girl in the world).

My sister giggled. She sat across from me in our quaint family room which was lit by the last stretches of natural sunlight. In the shadows, she choked the neck of her plastic Barbie doll. While doing so, she was threatening the empty headed blondie with scissors she had sneakily retrieved without my mother noticing. Although she was hardly seven, I was almost certain she was going to grow into the unholy habit of killing people.

“He sounds weird,” she chirped between giggles in response to Tiny Tim’s watery voice and ukelele accompaniment. I smiled back at her, showing an artificial sign of agreement, slimming my chances of being fatally wounded by the weapon that she slickly began to spin around her index finger.

Returning to my perch by the window, a thought that I have long pondered and failed to understand merrily skipped into my head. “Why is it that I find my summer evenings filled with bounties of time on my hands?” I always wondered whether I should have picked up a hobby as a child, like dance or singing - something worth sharing with the world. But no, I decided to grow fat and study in the corner of my room. It was only recently when I developed an activity to make up for all that wasted time: day dreaming.

As if some almighty being that simply lounges in the sky heard my complaints, a 1968 Jaguar rolled up the street. Its pale yellow finish reflected the street lights dim shine and slowly glided across the pavement. I felt my pinched lips loosen and my jaw drop before I could catch myself. It wasn’t quite the automobile’s majestic presence that triggered my awestricken face, although it did seem quite out of place in my reserved suburban development. No, it was the silhouette that depicted a chiseled chin and flowing hair which maneuvered the exotic car. Behind him sat the shadow of a thin female, her fragile head poking through the window. She laughed. Her howl rang throughout the neighborhood, even into the confined corners of my house.

They just seemed like two kids having some fun on a summer night, which caused my imagination to act up again.

Chris Stankavich was a handsome man freshly thrown into the world of careers after many hard and long years of law school. Of course, being the stud he had been all of his life, he adapted to the fast-paced world quite quickly and begins to win the hearts of all the disappointed and incredibly irritated bosses. They adore his groovy attitude, being one of the few young adults that hadn’t been sucked into the mess of hippies gathering in smelly swamplands, listening to obnoxious music and handing out flowers.Oh, no, Chris was a focused young man with only one goal in life: to be

ABBY HERMOSILLA

be successful. Oh, ho, ho, what a guy.

Now don’t be surprised when young Amanda Wellington got a look at him!

Her heart just about exploded in her little chest. “What a guy!” she remarked as he strolled past her and her gal pals. They giggled as he turned to approach her. His silky brown hair seemed to have crafted itself into perfectly arranged locks and the dimples on his face sure were cute. Oh, but when he got a look at little Amanda, he couldn’t believe his eyes! Her blonde hair was neatly tied back to crown the top of her head and her skinny frame complimented her blue sundress quite nicely. He looked straight at her and said, “What a gal!”

Amanda swooned into his arms then and there. She’d been there ever since, especially when Chris grew rich enough to buy his most prized possession: his Jaguar.

It was the car Chris adored out of ‘em all. It was hip with its unique pale yellow finish and sleek wheels. He pictured himself driving it all day with Amanda at his side. Boy, was she excited to see the automobile pull into the driveway for the first time. She nearly tripped running to her new treasure in her classy heels. She squealed and cried out of joy. “We’ll be the cutest couple in town!” and hopped to embrace her lover. The two kids jumped in for the drive of their lives!

The Jaguar began to slow down, pausing directly outside my house where the stop sign had legal authority over it. The driver smiled softly as the passenger began to talk loudly. I could almost make out what she was saying. Perhaps it was something along the lines of: “What a pretty night,” or “Gee, I can’t believe we own this car!”

Amanda laughed cheerily as Chris turned them into a new street. The windows were down and her blonde mane flew like silk in the wind. Chris chuckled at Amanda’s glee. He flipped on the car radio. “Why don’t you find something nice to listen to as we drive?” That girl sure did smile wide as she graciously took the offer.

She continued to turn the dial. Mostly static and low murmurs of news reports flew by. “Ahw, rats. Nothing good,” she pouted. “Keep looking,” Chris encouraged softly.

As the car began to slow down in preparation for a stop, Amanda happily found a tune she approved of. She began to loudly sing along, despite the fact she was incredibly tone-deaf! Chris contently whistled with her.

Within seconds, a loud skid acted as turbulence to my story.

Another car was coming in from outside my view through the window. From the sounds of it, the driver wasn’t being too safe. I only caught a glimpse of its front wheels from my peripheral vision.

“Oh dear!” Amanda was startled by the deafening noise. As her words ended she began to scream. Chris clutched his wheel, trying to avoid chaos.

“Stop staring out the window, Fiona!” the tiny serial killer complained. While I was staring outside, the little devil had successfully removed the doll’s head and limbs. I only turned to her for a split second when a nauseating scream scratched across my eardrums. The clash of metal and engines spilled onto the ground like a shattering wine glass.

Poor Chris and Amanda.

The crash was heard from all over the development. My mother fled to the family room, her worried face searched our living room for the demented tyke.

“Mommy, let’s go see!” The familiar chirp rang from the corridor that led outside; she sounded a bit too eager.

“N-n...no, honey!” the maternal woman called, dodging past my existence by the window after my sister. I felt I had no choice but to follow.

ABBY HERMOSILLA All of my neighbors had been attracted to the sight. The saying “like an ugly car crash that everyone had to see” became the definition of that very moment. Shreds of deep blue from the opposing car meshed with the doors of the Jaguar. Its majesty had vanished.

The serial killer was finally captured at the quaint mailbox that adorned the end of our driveway. My mother collapsed at her side, panting from exhaustion and fear. Many stood from afar, trying to analyze what happened. I heard some whisper amongst themselves, “Those kids must have been crazy,” or “Poor, Jaguar.” A deep pit in my stomach began to gnaw at my heart. I wanted to scream, I wanted to hit, and I wanted to scream some more. “No! Chris and Amanda were lovely people!”

But I couldn’t.

How could I vouch for the kindness of people I made up in my head?

However, I do distinctly remember passing all of those who were too frightened to be within twenty feet of the accident. For some reason, I wouldn’t quit walking away from my mother and sister. I remember the neighbors crying at me, “No! Girl, you stay away!” Their yelps were filled with anxiety and fear, so I shook the warnings off and considered them faulty.

The closer I got, the more confident I grew. Every stride was longer and swifter, acting as if I had any idea as to what I was doing. It wasn’t until I was about two or three feet away when I mumbled to myself in great realization, “Oh gosh, what if there’s a lot of blood or something,” A queasy sensation filled my stomach. The once clear windows were tainted in a deep maroon, which began to drip onto the street. Neighbors still yelled at me from their homes, “Let the police handle it, Fiona!” The officers probably had a long way to go, for I could not hear the faintest cry of sirens.

However, I did hear static and lots of it. I inched closer and squinted past the mist of death that fogged up the glass.

“And if I kiss you, in the garden, in the moonlight, will you pardon me? And tiptoe through the tulips with me?” Tiny Tim finished the song on a high note, holding it for a few good seconds. The ukelele was hardly audible.

I was surprised that the radio would be the only thing to survive the crash.

AI MILLER

Goners Who Loved Too Much

Y

our mother had an affair with the man in the photograph, three years

after you were born. He hangs in the living room to the left of the cold stone mantle, brooding eyes sliding over your head to watch your father through the door way. Your father sits, balding, pouring over bills. The photograph is black and white, a self-portrait sold at an art festival you only remember from the seat of the stroller. You can’t recall seeing his face in the color of real life contact, but the dark leathery texture of his skin in the photograph suggests he was tan and muscular, a surfer type maybe, but his eyes and the soft play of his nimble fingers spoke artist so deeply to your mother that she couldn’t stay away.

It is a hot summer afternoon in the living room and the fans are on, but only at a medium speed because your mother is napping. She has been lulled to a soft doze by the beep and click of the machine that regulates her IV drip of painkillers, and by the hum of the 16-inch TV, set to mute at the end of her rented hospital bed. You sit in the overstuffed La-Z-Boy, your elbow resting on the high safety bar, torturing your eyes with dizzying colored flashes from the TV. You deliberately try not to stare at the photograph that presides over the whole sordid affair, avoiding the modellike gaze that haunts most of your memories.

You know of the affair—had suspected for years, overhearing fights between your parents about the staying power of the photograph, about the rigid awkwardness of keeping the likeness of a complete stranger in your home, about the time your father dropped it and cracked the glass in the frame. He offered to buy a new one, but your mother—perhaps set upon by guilt, perhaps just to be vindictive—craved something she could hold over his head. “It’s just a photograph,” your father had scoffed before realizing what he had said. You could picture perfectly the half-crazed, bloodshot look in your mother’s eyes as she whirled on him, the same look she gets when she’s woken up and needs another morphine dose: like a wild animal, rabid and starving and hurting.

“It’s my photograph, Jeffrey,” your mother had snarled, cold words forced forward through her teeth like bullets from a pistol: hot metal cooled by speed and the rapid heartbeat of its victim.

Almost without meaning to, like weak magnets placed inches apart, you drag your eyes back over to the photograph. To a certain extent, you could see why your mother was attracted to him—the curve of his jaw, the Roman aquiline nose, the fierce and yet inviting look in his eyes, the way his arms looked lanky but strong, wrapping around chiseled shoulders. You’ve seen his thousand faces before, and today it’s a glare he’s sending you, sending your father as he scratches sweat away from behind his ear. A glare for what, though? A picture is worth a thousand words, the old cliché goes, but really the story is endless when you only know half of it. Did he want her to run away with him, like your mother so seriously considered doing? Is he

AI MILLER glaring because it’s your fault she stayed—or because it’s your fault she wanted to leave in the first place? Did he care for her?

Your father is getting rid of the picture as soon as your mother goes. That was the first thing he said to you when you came to the house after the tumor was declared inoperable—well, the third, to be fair. First he hugged you and told you he was sorry, the creaking boards under his feet emphasizing how tired he was as he clung to you just to remain standing.

You hadn’t moved your mother home yet, and you looked at the living room, knowing that you had to move the heavy, lumpy couch out of the way to make room for the hospital bed and all the equipment. Cancer costs a fortune, your father had muttered, rubbing the back of his neck so the little hairs stood on edge—the second thing he said to you when you came home.

And then, the third thing.

“As soon as she’s gone,” he said, his voice stronger and clearer than anything else he had said before, “that picture is going in the trash.”

You looked over at his craggy, determined face, slightly alarmed by the way he sounded so sure. He seemed a little frightened by his assertion too, because he quickly backed down, mumbling that no, he was going to see what your mother wanted to do with it, but the statement was still there, hanging in the air, clinging to the walls, a single threat to the man in the photograph: your days are numbered.

You thought, for a while, that you would take a closer look at the picture, find out the artist’s name and google him, contact him while your mother was still breathing and could still be made happy. But your heart wasn’t in it—you didn’t want to disturb the photograph while your mother was in the room, in case she thought you were removing it. She knows of your father’s plan, and she does not approve. She grabbed your arm one day, springing up out of the middle of a nap like a cat sprayed by water. Her fingernails hadn’t been cut recently, and they dug into the soft flesh of your forearm, clinging to you like she thought she was going to be swept away.

“Don’t let him throw it out,” she hissed, and there was that wild look again, like standing in front of death was making her less and less human. “Don’t let him. I don’t want it to be thrown out.”

When you had coaxed her off your arm, her nails had left little pink indents, blood rushing to the sites of pressure where it had previously been cut off. She wasn’t strong enough to cut you, you realized the next day as you prodded your arm in the peeling yellow light of the bathroom. It hadn’t even hurt.

You’re wrong, of course. She can still hurt you, and unlike when you were a teenager, you can’t hurt her back. Dying has made her impenetrable, a solid rock castle that only time can break down. Time is quickly running out, and she knows it. She sits up again right in the middle of her nap, and when your attention goes to the machines she grabs your arm again, pulls you in close like your life is some thriller movie, every movement jerky, every angle up close and personal. She spits a little bit when she talks, and you can smell death on her breath, musty and brown, but you can’t pull away.

“I slept with him,” she sputters in a spinning cycle of need—she’s been carrying her secret for so long, though perhaps not as discreetly as her painkiller-ravaged memory would like to think. “Four times after I bought the picture. He was so romantic, I can’t even explain it—and unf.”

AI MILLER Here she grunts and you close your eyes, pushing away the image she’s trying to plant in your mind of a tangle of bodies and sheet and ultimately, your mother laying underneath the man in the photograph, being fucked by the man in the photograph, while you and your father sit at home and he feeds you Cheerios. “He was so good in bed,” your mother babbles. “An absolute beast.”

“Mom, I don’t—” you begin, trying to pull away from her, but you find you can’t extract yourself from her gnarled grip. You never noticed how old her hands looked, but there is magic strength in her fingers, as if every bit of life she has left has settled into them and is now seeping into your arms. “I almost left you for him,” she says, glittering brown eyes searching yours for something, some kind of reaction. You freeze, your face chalking over, but you don’t say anything—can’t say anything, with the sudden lump stuck in your throat. “I almost left your father and you for him, but I didn’t. I never did. I always came home.” She repeats the last phrase like it’s the Hail Mary, like this moment is her penance for years and years of carrying around an affair.

“I’ve always regretted that.” It’s the kicker, the last drop in the bucket, the final body blow. You want to double over and throw up on the smelly sheets under her body, on the patched-up night gown and her long gray hair, strewn under her head as she lets go, exhausted by causing as much damage as she can before she dies. Her eyes snap close like she’s some kind of android who has just had the power plug pulled. She doesn’t have much time, and she used a little bit of it to tell you all that.

You seriously consider smothering her for nearly five minutes as illness turns to anger. Put her out of the misery that has twisted her so completely, end all the pain this is causing. And then suddenly, just like the lightning bolt that was the revelation that your mother feels she wasted her life with you, you go limp, held up only by the La-Z-Boy. You can’t be mad.

You want to be angry, you want to slap her and shake her, make her pay for what she just said, but you can’t help remembering the tumor the size of a grapefruit settled on one of her ovaries. You can’t help but be reminded by the constant beep-beep of the machine how many painkillers she’s on. You know that if she were sober and pain-free, she would have never said that— her dark secret would have gone with her to the grave.

She is going to die at the end of the week, and you will discover she has left you the photograph of the man she wanted to be with, one last twist of the knife. Your father will hand it off to you, suggesting that perhaps you could just throw it away, because it’s yours now. You will nod slowly, staring at the face that nearly made your mother abandoned you, tracing the collar bones with your fingertips. You won’t throw it away—you’ll want to, but you won’t. You can’t hang him up either. Instead, he’ll be packed into the attic, that one crazy artifact your spouse will insist you get rid of when you move into a bigger house, but since you’ve become your mother, you’ll declare you can’t get rid of it, and he’ll sit in the new attic, glowering at boxes teeming with old birthday cards and pictures of you doing stupid things in college, gathering dust at the back of your mind.

LAUREN KOLAR

Step Right Up

“J

ust three quarters,” I whine, tugging at the pockets of my big

brother’s overalls. His overalls are identical to mine, except he’s quite a bit bigger, and also I can hear the change rattling around in his pocket like a bunch of metal crickets.

“Okay, sis, but you have to be back here before three, and if you’re any late I’ll have you by the hair,” he says, jokingly swiping for one of my ginger pigtails. I whip my hair out of the way and bounce off, giggling, the scent of deep fried this and that disappearing into the background as I venture further down the midway.

The carnival has become basically my home, with George working the elephant ear stand and Momma being away all day at work. I’ve spent this whole summer surrounded by flashing lights and sweltering heat and calliope music. George figured this would be a boring school break because the carnival is fun, but it isn’t fun every day in a row, especially when the rest of your friends aren’t here, so he made a bet with me to keep the days more interesting. He promised that if I could win one of those big, furry bears at one of the games, he would sneak me free elephant ears for the rest of the summer. Since then he’s been giving me coins he finds on the ground to try to help me win. It sounds weird that he would be helping me win a bet against him, but he’s just one of those brothers.

Last week I tried to win at the ball and basket, but it was not nearly as easy as it looks. I swear, there has to be some sort of cheating trick that the operators, or splinter heads as George insists they’re called, use to keep that ball from falling into the basket. After I told him about how I spent almost a whole dollar trying to throw it in, he told me that yes, they do use a sneaky trick. Apparently they put the basket on some kind of tilt so that the ball always bounces out. I don’t know, it doesn’t make much sense to me, but George is eighteen and pretty smart in science so he must understand it.

Gaffed, he calls it, which he says is a carnival word that means you can’t possibly win.

This week I’ve been trying to win at the dart booth, which seems to be the only game you can actually improve in and get good enough to win. On Monday, for instance, I threw my second dart, and it bounced off the cork board and nearly landed on the operator man’s foot. He wasn’t too happy about that, and ever since then he watches my throws closely. But yesterday I actually managed to hit one balloon, a big ol’ green one, and so I did a little happy dance that made the dust around my feet swirl up into miniature storm clouds. The catch is, you can’t just win with one balloon. You have to hit three or else it don’t mean anything.

As I approach the booth for the sixth time this week, I can see the operator behind the chipped wooden counter is amused. He has a look on his face as if he’s saying “You again?” but at the same time he has this grin, like we’re old friends or something. Now this man and I are most definitely not close friends, but I’d rather the carny think of me as a pleasant acquaintance than an annoying little girl who keeps on coming back to his

LAURENKOLAR stand every day. At this point, even I think of him as a familiar face, maybe not exactly welcome to the point of being friends, but I’ve enjoyed seeing his salt and pepper mustache and droopy brown eyes each day for the past week. Even his greasy black spray of hair and his stained, crooked teeth.

“Good afternoon,” he says, voice laden with years of smoking.

“Hello,” I reply, fishing around in my pocket for the first quarter. I bring it out and set it on the counter, sliding it over the splintered surface of the wood to where the carny’s hand rests on the other side.

“Thank you ma’am,” he remarks, his eyes crinkling up at the corners to form tiny canyons etched into his face. He hands me four darts, each exhibiting cruddy, split feathers on one end, and a needle point on the other.

I curl my fingers around the blue and orange striped barrel of the first one, and take a few practice flicks of the wrist, not letting go of the dart but taking aim, squinting with my left eye to target a balloon. With my gaze zeroed in on a certain yellow balloon, I throw the dart at the cork board, my eyes focused on the yellow balloon the whole time. I hear no pop, so I assume that I have missed, and therefore reach to pick up the next dart, this one a red and black checkered pattern. Singling out the same balloon, I release the dart with a swift flick of the wrist, and this time the space where I had focused my stare is suddenly replaced with a clearance of cork, the red and black barrel of the dart sticking out where swollen latex was just moments before.

“Yes!” I squeal to myself, kicking up my feet into a little jig, stirring up little clots of dust that send the carny into a fit of painful coughs. My cheeks redden as I lower my gaze, trying to ignore the fact that I just sent the operator into a coughing fit. I grab the next dart, a green and yellow striped one, and instantly focus once again at the task at hand, my tongue peeking out slightly as I throw it towards the cork. It bounces off the cork, and in the corner of my eye I see the carny sort of jump back a little into the corner of the booth. I’m getting a tad frustrated now for whatever reason, probably because I forgot to eat lunch, and my stomach rumbling is always rather off-putting, and also I can feel the first waves of a cramp clenching my hand, and cramps have always sort of freaked me out a bit. I hesitate to pick up the last dart, and once I do, my hand gets real cramped, and it feels like my whole palm is trying to fold over on itself, which isn’t a very delightful sensation. I clutch the dart as best I can, which isn’t very well, and hurl it at the board, hissing as I let go and holding my hand out at a distance from my body as if it’ll help the pain. Not surprisingly, it hits way off course, almost in the bottom corner of the cork.

I figure I can’t really give up though, because I still have quarters left, and I would be a quitter to stop just because of a cramp, so I decide I’ll have to try throwing with my other hand. This is going to be interesting, considering my left hand is almost useless. Other kids in school could always at least write their name with their weak hand, but my scribbles looked like nonsense, and my classmates would taunt and laugh at me because of it. But I can’t just stop, so I begin fumbling around my pocket for the next quarter.

As I’m digging around my pocket, I can see at the booth next to me: the milk bottle game. A boy who looks about my age, around eight or nine, is standing in front of an older boy, who looks to be his brother. He’s throwing the rubber ball as hard as his twiggy little arms will let him, obviously trying

LAURENKOLAR to impress his brother, who is significantly more muscular, and who is housing a smile that makes you think that he thought the world of his younger brother, even with his toothpick arms and all. It isn’t that much of a surprise that he hasn’t been able to knock the bottles down anyway, because as George explained to me, the bottles have lead bottoms, so they’re real heavy and hard to knock down.

It’s quite swell, really, to have a brother who works at the carnival, because that means I get to know all the dirty secrets. It’s really fascinating, actually. For example, the woman who works the milk bottle throw, she’s what they call a Lot Lizard, which I don’t know exactly what it means, but as George described it, she apparently is boyfriends with basically all the carnies who work here. It’s sort of gross when you think about it, especially considering that she’s missing a couple teeth, and that can’t be very pleasant for all of the other operators to kiss, a mouth like that.

At this point, the carny has lain out a set of four more darts on the counter in front of me. He waits, eyes expectant, as I scoop up the first one, projecting it onto the cork wall. Just like the first one of the last set, it misses, sticking out between two rows of balloons. I snatch the next one, my hand trembling just the tiniest bit since it’s so darn weak. Once again it gets it lodged in the back wall somewhere between a purple and orange balloon.

By some miracle the third dart pierces a balloon, and I can’t really believe that I popped one with such a shaky little throw. With the last dart, I take a step back, examining my options in terms of what balloons are up for popping. I spot a blue one smack dab in the middle of the board, and squint one eye so as to take aim. Snapping my wrist, I release the dart, and suddenly three blue latex scraps fall to the floor, accompanied with a startling pop.

It takes me a moment to process, but soon I’m jumping up and down squealing, “I won I won I won!” My body shakes in my dirty blue overalls, the straps starting to fall off my shoulders. I gather them back up, and my gaze rests on the carny, who’s looking at me with a with the spark of amusement reflected in those droopy brown eyes.

“Which one would you like, honey?” he asks, gesturing to the row of hanging plushes with a narrow, bony hand.”

I scan the selection, finally deciding on a honey colored bear with button eyes and a sewn on plastic nose. He retrieves it with a long metal contraption that unhooks it from the ceiling of the booth, and hands it to me with a small, content smile plastered on his face.

I immediately squeeze the animal against my chest, feeling the bean stuffing inside filter to its arms and legs, puffing them out. My head pressed against its ear, I inhale the aroma of dust and cotton. I reach into my pocket with one hand, clasping my fingers around the last quarter, and set it on the counter, flashing the man with the salt and pepper mustache one last beaming grin, which he returns, before I turn on my heel, heading towards the flashing “Elephant Ears” sign.

AUDREY BROWN

Night at the Andover February 16, 1692 John Parsons never liked me. Even though he had been my neighbor for 15 year, I wasn’t the least bit surprised to learn that it was he who turned me in for bein’ a witch. It wasn’t but two day ago that I was out in my garden weeding, when I saw a swarm of the nastiest little maggots, those buggas, feasting on my yellow squashes I had so meticulously harvested. I was so furious, I began jumping about like an elephant in a mouse house, squishing the buggas under my boots, frantically flicking them off my squash, yelling, “Be gone you tiny devils! I will destroy you vermin! Damn you little devils!” After I had hopped about for a bit and wiped the sweat from my temples with a muddy glove, I looked up to find John Parsons. He too had been out in his garden, but was now staring right at me, his eyes wide and fearful, his stance unmoving. He let drop his bucket with a heavy thud, and no sooner was he galloping like hell to the towns center; our majestic Puritan church. It was later that evening after I had just lit my candles, that I heard a hollow tapping on my door.

“Goody Glover!” a man’s voice rang with authority. I relaxed my face muscles and opened my eyes in a wide, innocent-sort of fashion, and I swung open the door.

I flapped the book shut. I couldn’t read anymore about the frightfully paranoid town of Salem, Massachusetts that was so encapsulated by mass hysteria because they were convinced the devil walked their dirty streets. I was never awesome at school anyway; I had an absent-minded adventurer that existed inside me, that caused me to do things like occasionally miss classes, and then get caught in strange places like the employee lounge at Best Buy or the undiscovered rooms of the public library.

So my reputation was small, but I considered it to be harmless, and sacrificed what I had to for adventure, even if it meant being known as a bit of a delinquent.

As I read Goody Glover’s fictional account of her being accused, I felt bad knowing she was truly innocent, as were the other convicted, but I couldn’t find myself able to concentrate on the trials. Tonight I was going out, and sneaking backstage of the Andover City Theater with my neighbor Johanna. Tonight the theater was being opened for a town reception where the mayor would be announcing the opening of a new public library; massive red ribbon and giant scissors included. While the inhabitants of Andover laughed and gabbed over sparkling beverages, and my neighbor old Mrs. Winson thought of all the audio books she could now so conveniently check out, Johanna and I would be silently slipping into the door of the open main theater room; maybe our town needs to fund our security guard program instead... ...

I stood with my back flat against the broad wooden door of the theater.

My black bangs clung in disarray to my sweaty forehead. Johanna and I turned to look at each other in the complete darkness of the room where there were no windows. I could see only the dimmed white of her glowing smile, as she silently celebrated the success of our break in. I shone my flashlight on the walls, then up to the ceiling, then on the framework, walls, ceiling, framework; the dull yellow circles of light revealing intricate tile patterns, gold-leaf painted designs, and miniature greek statues. Even in the dark I could tell the color maroon was overwhelming the room, flooding

AUDREY BROWN over the seats, floor, and stage curtain.

“Come on,” I whispered the Johanna, nodding my head towards the stage. I took off galloping down the center aisle, bee-lining towards center stage, running my hand over the tops of soft velvet seat backs as I went. I took the aisle stairs up to the apron of the stage, and bent my knees so I could lift up the bottom of the weighted curtain just enough to allow me and Johanna to slip under. Backstage was even darker than the main house, and I had to squint hard through the darkness just to be able to make out the catwalk hanging above me. As soon as I made out its shape, I knew it was where I wanted to be; where everyone should want to go when they break in to a theater. I traced the catwalk with my flashlight; it appeared to have been lowered down and a few lights had been removed, most likely because they were being cleaned or getting the filters changed I guessed. We carefully felt our way up the ladder, reaching cautiously for each wrung, like we weren’t sure if it would be there or not. We heaved in relief as we hoisted ourselves up onto the platform, and next to me I found the counterweight system, the large mess of pulleys, ropes, and weights. I had done backstage work on many plays in my school, so it was familiar to me, and I carefully browsed the messy hemp and metal cluster until I found the rope that would miraculously lift the heavy curtain. I reached and placed my hands high on the rope, thrust all my weight downward, and watched the curtain slowly rise, while a heap of tangled rope accumulated behind me. We looked out into the vacant seats of the audience. I imagined hundreds of dimly-lit faces; dapper men in suits and bowties and stunning women.

“This place is amazing,” Johanna breathed. She began to back up, with her eyes still fixed and gazing out on the majestic theater. Maybe she was trying to widen her view, although I thought the theater looked large enough. I watched it happen slowly, as she was not moving incredibly fast.

She stepped her back right foot right into the center of the coiled rope pile, her left heel caught on a thick bunch of gathered up rope. Her entangled feet sent her stumbling backwards, her feet becoming more entangled with every stumble, and through the open space on the edge where the lights were removed, I watched Johanna begin to fall. She reached her arms up, grabbing for what in particular I’m not sure. One end of the rope was secured at the source of the counterweight system, and the other loops and coils of the rest of the rope were encircling her body as she fell. I watched the rope go taught; I heard the sickening sound of gagging, and a terrifying last breath that made me weak in the knees. Then, there was silence. The kind of silence that falls over the audience when the actor is in despair, or is a delivering a particularly emotional monologue. I didn’t want to believe what I couldn’t see, so I dropped to my hands and knees, and quivered my way over to the edge, to peer over the side of the platform. Johanna hung several feet from the floor of the stage, still swinging gently from the momentum of the wild fall. I laid my eyes on hers and let out an agonizing scream that projected offstage, filled the empty seats, flooded up the aisles, and crawled up the walls. Here eyes were still open and staring as if she were still in awe of the impressive theater. Her arms dangled casually at her sides, and her legs were straight and even; she looked more like she was standing on invisible ground than floating. It was the pure innocence of her that startled me. No crime had she committed, no man had she killed, nothing she had done wrong, yet there she hung, no better reason than a

AUDREY BROWN a devastating turn of events.

I guess they did have some security that night, because moments after I screamed, in walked a man wearing a black polo with a flashlight and a key ring, followed quickly behind by a similar figure. Together they descended towards the stage shining their flashlights, and quietly whispering questions back and forth.

“Is that a girl up there?” I heard one of them whispering, “Is it a suicide? Is she alone?” At the word alone, I couldn’t keep my pathetic, helpless sobs in. All I could do was wonder, regret, cry, and wonder more. I heard one of the guards shoot a quick message over his talkie, and within minutes, the broad theater door creaked open, letting in the mayor, a police officer, and a suspicious amount of town citizens. I grew angry as I wondered why they were bringing in so many people; they disturbed the calmness of the theater’s still sound, and brought in a sort of panic that quickened the pace of my heart and made the back of my neck get clammy.

“Is anyone up there?” called one of the figures, I assumed the mayor. I couldn’t quiet my sobbing; my heaves and sniffles were a continuous cycle with no end.

“Hello?” yelled the mayor, he could surely hear me, “come on out!”

Robotically, I made my way back down the ladder, reaching for each wrung with uncertainty just the way I came, and the crying cycled on.

It was the walk up the long, narrow center aisle, that seemed to grow longer and narrower as I went, that was the worst. The police stood authoritatively, with their hands on their hips and their mouths ready to question me. The people stood in a frenzied cluster, their eyes brimming with concern, whispering inaccurate stories and false accusations. But I looked down at my feet as I walked, despite the possibility of making myself appear guilty, but if I didn’t watch the ground, my feet would surely entangle, and I would trip and never get back up. As I got closer, the whispers got louder and more vicious, and their eyes were now filled with more excited wonderment than concern.

“Hi Samantha,” the mayor said gently, “You are going to come with me and these two nice officers here, and we are just going to take you somewhere where we can all take, okay?” My head swung gently back and forth as I agreed to follow. As I walked towards them with my arms dangling motionlessly at my sides, I actually wished I would have stayed at home, to finish the next chapter of Goody Glover’s account for homework.

I walked down the narrow dirt road of my street, while my neighbors and close friends stood on either side of me, spitting cold names at me. I watched young girls shout that they grow cold as ice as I walked nearer them, and raise hands to their brow as I walked by, and give a great sigh and keel over in some pretend fainting act; good little actors those little buggas were. People shouted profanities, accused me of flying through their windows at night, or ruining their harvest with one of my spell. Others stood in silence, holding their rosaries, thrusting the tiny jewel crosses towards me. Aye, if they would just stop their whispering! Their piercing words and false accusations were enough to turn anyone as bitter as a witch.

“Stop!” I yelled, “Enough!” This sent them into a fiery uproar, only making matters worse.

“The devil has enraged her!” one man yelled. I continued into the entrance of the courthouse, leaving the hysteria behind me, and took my seat in front of our judge.

“Now Goody,” he said truthfully, “If you just confess yourself a witch, you will go home tomorrow. If not, you will hang for this.”

MITCH POLLOCK

All-In

T

he all-in. It’s by far the simplest yet most powerful bet in the

game of poker. The all-in is like doing the trust fall with your cards- you think you can trust them, but you can never be sure whether they’ll be able to save you. Looking over my tall stacks of chips across the lawn of green felt I could see my only opponent, the shadows of his chips not nearly as long as mine. He had bet very high right out of the gates, however, and now all eyes were on me. ‘He must have something good,’ I thought. ‘Too bad it doesn’t matter.’ With a sly half-turned grin I pushed every one of my stacks into the pot, my hands forming a bulldozer across the felt table. “All-in,” I shouted, and everyone in the room crowded to that table to witness the final hand of the tournament. I looked at my opponent, and I witnessed the fear begin to bubble inside him, about to spill out as he prepared to lose. Then, still smiling, I flipped over my cards for him to see, my fate now unchangeable. ...

As I reached out my arms to collect the pot, a mound of colored plastic that previously held the hopes of four other players, I looked past the clusters of spectators and today’s round of losers to a playing table at the far end of the room. A thick velvet rope separated it from the chaos of the playing floor, but a few people were inside, setting their mammoth stacks of chips on the table for the next day. “The final table,” I said as a portly man with a handlebar mustache and two Miller Lite’s in hand approached the table. I recognized him at once. “I may have had to play through every table, Jack, but I made it. The final five!”

Uncle Jack slapped me on the back and replied hoarsely, “Yeah, well, it’s abou’ time, ain’t it, Danny boy?”

“That’s Action Dan to you, old man,” I said, grabbing the other beer and walking away as someone came to move my chips. We walked through the sea of ever-changing bodies of the game room to marvel at the table with its fuzzy green surface. In less than 24 hours, I would be sitting here in a do-or-die game for 500,000 dollars. After a year of playing small tournaments and ignoring everyone and everything else in my life, I had made it to the big leagues. I turned and looked back at the grand gameroom, with the bustling players moving to and fro with their fancy cocktails.

Table after table was placed on the plush lavender carpeting, and the elaborate chandeliers above cast an exciting, sharp light on the entire space. I saw the faces of all those I had beaten these past three days, having to pay the five thousand to get my chips, and then play through three days of games to make it… make it. I quickly turned to Jack again.

“Steph didn’t make it, did she?”

“Nah, and to be honest, did you really expect her too?” he replied.

Steph never did feel comfortable with my poker playing, but I was actually about to make some real money, so I had hoped she would show. Then again, after last night’s fight…. “Hey, don’t sweat it, man. You gotta get ya head in the game!” yelled Uncle Jack, dispensing another hard pat on the

MITCH POLLOCK back. And he was right of course. I couldn’t let my girlfriend and her stupid worrying keep me from the jackpot, that which could finally pay off all the debt. I could put poker behind me forever.

“You’re absolutely right. To poker!” We clinked glasses and gulped down the last of our drinks. ...

Silently and slowly, I grabbed my beer off the counter and approached the velvet rope. The game hadn’t even begun, and already I had to weave my way through a mob of spectators to get to the table. Eventually, I stumbled through the mob and got to my seat. My five opponents were already seated, and it appears as if they had been waiting for me. “Sorry,” I mumbled. I was so shaken up at the moment. Steph had not come back to our hotel room last night. I hadn’t seen her for two days now. I looked over the dealer’s shoulder and saw Jack, who gave an exuberant thumbs-up, already giddy at noon from one-too-many beers.

The first thing I did was immediately check out the competition.

Directly across from me was a man with spiky hair wearing his sunglasses upside down across his pudgy face. I recognized him instantly- Charles “the Prince” Matheson, the chip leader and my biggest competition. To his right was the only woman left, Melissa Stewart, her fiery red hair ready to set the table ablaze. There was also a man with a stylish blue fedora pulled down to cover half his face- Gentleman Bob. Only the tip of his pointy nose and his thin line of a mouth was visible, out of which protruded an immense cigar puffing dark smoke into the air. To my right was a kid I hadn’t seen before here. He had a short jet black haircut just like mine, but his face was many years younger. He was probably fresh out of college. Returning my thinking to the game, I saw that the dealer had distributed the first hands. I took a peek at my cards and saw two aces. ‘What a way to start- pocket rockets,’ I thought, careful not to show my excitement. I knew it was going to be a good game.

It didn’t take long for the first to go. Gentleman Bob hadn’t started with many chips, and after an extremely unlucky streak, he was left with nearly nothing. He went all in on a possible straight because he had nothing to lose. Too bad he didn’t know I could do him one better. With three cards out from the flop, when the dealer flipped the others one by one, I easily got the flush and sent Bob home puffing. Before he left he threw his hat into the pot, a spoil of war. By this point I was the heater of the game, nearly tied with the Prince for the lead. The kid was in it, too, only slightly behind. That kid played a whole lot like me: aggressive, a risk-taker, trusting the river and his luck in close situations. He was almost as lucky as me, and maybe even more.

As the game went by more and more empty beer bottles collected on the felt, with our chip towers rising just to their level. The exception was Melissa. She was good, no doubt, but she had a slight tell. When she was bluffing she would tap her red nails on the green surface very softly. The nails reminded me of Steph’s (she always liked to get her nails done all long and shiny-like). As mine and the kid’s chips kept getting taller and taller, like skyscrapers being built one steel girder at a time, her skyscrapers were being demolished floor by floor. She finally bowed out after she ran out of chips to bet with. Her nails flashed one last time as she tossed her cards

MITCH POLLOCK and stood to leave. Thinking of Steph again, I turned my eyes to the table.

‘C’mon, Dan. Focus.’

The game went by agonizingly slow after it was narrowed down to three. It seemed as if the kid’s luck had finally run out. He lost a ton of chips to me on a bad beat, when we both had a flush, but I had an ace too. See, there is a set order in which hands were organized, and whatever five cards were your best at the end, they were your last prayer. You could fold, or you could cross your fingers and make a bet. After the kid lost another really devastating round at the hands of my straight, I turned to him with a grin on my face, expecting him to be crushed, but he returned my smile and said, “Man, that was bad, right? I guess today’s just not my day.” Nothing fazed him, which was the one aspect of his game that differed from mine. When he finally got down to three measly stacks of the precious plastic, he just said, “What the hell, all in,” without even looking at his cards. I was floored, and even more so when after I had gotten the pot off of a three-pair, he turned to be, shook my hand, and said, “Good game, man. Looks like Lady Luck are playing for your team today.” Leaving me with my mouth agape, he calmly stood up and walked away. Peering through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of him shrugging in front of a pretty young girl with hoop earrings.

She shrugged, too, and the two lovers came together in a sympathetic embrace.

“Damn,” I said, watching him walk away with his woman. ‘I beat him, and yet, why do I feel like he’s better than me?’ I had never seen a player like that before, who honestly could care less about the money. ‘If only I could be like that,’ I thought. ‘It’s too bad I need the money.’ I found Jack’s face to see if he was just as surprised by the kid, but he had something else on his mind. I followed his pointed finger into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes I had ever seen: she had come. Steph was wearing that oversized track jacket I had given her from my high-school years. I suddenly felt a surge of new energy. But it only lasted a second, because my gaze fell on her mouth. She didn’t smile, she just… stared. Her glare was hardened by a year of wasted weekends, frustrated nights spent apart, and the sinking feeling of regret. Our gazes didn’t connect; somewhere in the middle the past surfaced again. She looked down into her shoes; I turned back to the cards.

It had taken three opponent’s exits and several hours, but she was back in my mind, and I couldn’t focus. My eyes kept flickering towards Steph when I was playing a bluff, and the Prince saw it. After one bad beat, I shut my eyes grimaced, my face scrunched tightly as if I was benching an enormous weight. ‘I can’t get her out of my HEAD!’ I thought, images flashing by of our nights at the fair and eating frozen yogurt on the boardwalk in Florida. I saw silent bitterness over Chinese takeout as I plan for the next tournament, and her riding away in her dad’s truck after a fiery Thanksgiving. I tried desperately to justify this game in my head. ‘It’s just poker. Harmless, really.’ Apparently it was anything but. I pictured the kid grinning in my mind. He knew what mattered to him. Not like me. I can’t think straight anymore.’ I was shocked back into reality by the Prince’s chuckling.

“Love makes for a bad bluff, my man,” he said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat in sight of lost little Alice. Looking at my hand, I saw a little red

MITCH POLLOCK

seven and a little black two, the worst hand in poker. ‘I literally can’t win,’ I thought to myself, but then I thought of something. Just in time, too, because Steph was on her way to the exit. Seeing that the Prince had bet very high, I turned a half-smile, formed a bulldozer with my hands, and pushed my immense stacks to the middle, shouting “All in!” and meaning it with all my heart. All of the spectators crowded around the table, eager to see who would win. I saw the fear in the Prince’s hazel eyes, and knew that it was all over. All the chips were out there, and it all came down to this.

“Congratulations,” I said. Then, I showed him the seven and the two.

It took a second for the poker junkies all around me to register my move, but once they did, it was chaos. The Prince simply sat there, his thick face frozen, unable to comprehend his incredible luck. I stood up and ducked between the mob, running after Steph. I erased the “O” that her mouth had formed with a quick kiss and wrapped my finger around her little hand so it wouldn’t slip away. I looked into her eyes and my anxieties about money and poker and what came next instantly melted away. We both grinned wildly and, hands grasped in a steel grip, ran under the exit sign without looking back.

BECCA CARTELONE

Memory Hands

T

he bay stretches out, a serene eternity as grey as the sky and

the aroma of rain in the heavy air. It is calm today; no watery fingers scratch and claw at the ragged cliffs, as if they are the desperate hands of a drowning man. But the thoughts in his head churn like waves, washing up for attention before just as quickly fading away, lost, without leaving so much as a vestige behind.

He rests on a bench by the water, watching it, but not seeing anything. His mind is elsewhere, with the memories imprinted on his gnarled hands.

Rough hands that have labored in wide fields of wheat, held the instrument of death before his enemy, and bled away fragments of his life.

Soft hands that have caressed a mother’s golden curls, felt the blush in a woman’s cheek, and cradled a newborn child still glowing with innocence.

His history is written on his hands. He can feel it there, existing as plainly as the bay itself. The girl can see it too; sense the immensity of it reverberating in the space around her.

She sits with him, the stranger whose story she knows so well. They don’t acknowledge each other, but stare straight ahead, an old man and a young girl on a bench by the bay.

His forefinger passes over the jagged scar on his palm, from the time when the china cabinet fell during the earthquake and he sliced his skin on a piece of glass. The spot on the top of his left hand where a bullet grazed him feels coarse, but that wound was a lucky one considering the fate of most others in that war. The smooth pad on his right thumb has been hardened from decades of strumming his guitar, although he was never very good at playing due to his crooked pinky, the result of a bicycle accident in his boyhood.

His entire life has been catalogued onto two entities of bone and flesh and blood.

He reads his hands like an autobiography.

The girl silently peers at him from the corner of her eye, following his right fingers as they glance over his left hand and alight upon his silver banded wedding ring.

“Have you seen my Sylvia?” he asks suddenly, hoarsely, as if he is awakening from a long sleep.

“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t,” answers the girl, only rotating her head toward him a fraction of an inch.“I’m waiting for her,” he shares distractedly, already returning his concentration to the meticulous study of his hands.

A few minutes pass, or seconds, or hours. Time is skewed as memories transcend the past and become reality.

The girl watches a seagull dive into the bay, shattering the glossy mirrored surface, causing ripples to dance across the water.

“Have you seen my Sylvia?” the man questions once again.

“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t.” This time she glances away.

“She’s meeting me here,” he says. Then, “It’s our anniversary.”

A smile splinters the stoic façade of the girl’s expression.

“Congratulations.”

BECCA CARTELLONE “We met here, on this very bench. I knew I loved her the moment my eyes were graced with her beauty.” It seems as if he will continue, but his gaze retreats back to his hands, to the proof of the life he has lived.

Later, he displays his palm, indicating a miniscule splinter trapped beneath the skin. “This came from the bench. The day everything changed.”

The girl inspects his hand, but doesn’t touch it.

“I didn’t take it out, because I never wanted to forget her. I knew I would marry her, but I wanted to always have a little reminder of her as a part of me, forever.”

The darkening light casts shadows in the valleys between the wrinkles of his weathered face.

“Have you seen my Sylvia? She’s meeting me here. It’s our anniversary.”

The girl doesn’t reply.

A gentle mist permeates the atmosphere.

“We should go in,” the girl says, rising.

She helps the old man to his feet, his joints straining against his body weight. She gives him his carved walking stick for support.

“Sylvia?”

A ghost of a smile. “No, Grandfather. It’s me, Amelia. Sylvia couldn’t come. She’s very sorry.”

His eyes are glazed over, uncomprehending. “No,” he asserts, more forcefully than the girl imagined possible.

She assists him in taking small steps towards the house.

He touches the splinter almost subconsciously, whispering, “She’s here.”

The girl holds his hand as they walk. She is keenly aware of the existence he has lived but cannot remember, of his evanescent memory and his hands that remind him of the secrets of his life.

She sees her own hand, insignificant and inexperienced, grasped in his.

When she grows old, she hopes her hands will whisper their story to her. A story of the feel of a grandfather’s leathery skin, of the silkiness of a butterfly rose petal placed upon a grandmother’s grave, of the icy shock of a diamond tear wiped from an eye, and of the simple tenderness of lips curved in a smile.

JULIA FERGUSON

Prose on the Nature of Gazing

I

t began with a single fleeting glance of eye contact. She was aware

of its occurrence and internalizes the guilt of being caught in a semitransfixed and inexplicably intrigued state of mind, wondering if it was merely coincidence to meet his eyes or if he mirrors her curiosity. He seems too wise, too talented, too old, to engage with. To confirm he isn’t paying attention to her she searches his face and waits to be proven right, but again her eyes graze his and her mind is made up; his sight is circulating around hers, in a slow, deliberate game of cat and mouse. It is with this realization that she also remembers the company she holds, what will the snow be like on the mountain tomorrow, she asks, nudging her way back into conversation after the short respite.

“Nothing but perfect”, he said with the cool Colorado tongue he was born with that he cultivated to effect ease of language and mind. His unmistakable drawl, juxtaposed to his restless appraisal of the young girl across the room, seemed unnatural, throwing his habitual confidence slightly askew, if only for the unintended moments of recognition between he and the new face. To consciously avert his eyes from meeting hers he gently gathered the company around, picked up the traveler man’s guitar from the fireplace mantle, and spun the familiar acoustic stories of The Greats: Jimi, Syd, Neil, with the resounding strings. Her eyes were on him still; he could feel them as they prompted him to play more.

The company cleared out, shuffling away with the plates, the glasses, the stale air, and the drowsy muddle of low frequency murmurs, into separate rooms to separate conversations and tasks. But their two sets of eyes remained fixed. He continued to pluck and spin his notes, partially to impress her and maintain the idol status he figured she projected on him, partially to live out the moment of contented leisure, which was apparent on her face. “You play well,” she softly spoke. And the desire to know everything about the foreigner across the table from her was undeniable, a fascination that would only be quelled with unedited correspondence. She wanted to make him real, to judge his person fairly and typify him into the categories she had established for men. Perhaps he will forge his own category.

“How old are you?” There was something small that indicated to him that she might be young, perhaps a passing reference to high school that didn’t seem quite nostalgic enough to match the age he had assigned to her in his mind, perhaps the glint of expectancy that lay deftly hidden deep within her eyes. He felt ignorant for believing otherwise.

Was it not inappropriate for him to indulge in conversation with a girl of so few years, with no supervision, no qualms acknowledging its potentially skewed perception? Was it worse not to acknowledge that she resides in a world of Friday night football games and daily algebra assignments, while he submits to the habitual taxes of the so-wrongly coveted adulthood? He held his eyes on hers now, acknowledging his reciprocated interest, dispelling their game of timid eye flits, demanding her attention.

“Age is just a number,” she replied with the customary lightness

JULIA FERGUSON she had perfected when asked that insidious question. Another day, she would have directed the conversation with her apt nature of elusiveness, avoiding any mention of adolescence, artfully spinning white lies to convince the listener of her maturity, though it was not necessary tonight.

He put her at ease, she felt his magnetism control her language, as it held her glances, and truth fled from her mouth as would a caged bird freshly untethered.

And as she read to him the poetry of Homer, he grasped her gaze, and said, “You are older than your years.�

AI MILLER

Breathing Verses Out of Rhyme

S

he pressed her head against your shoulder, fingers of one hand

interlaced with yours. She sits still, breathing deeply, and you’re not sure if she has fallen asleep while you carve your name into the knob of her spine with your thumb, but you don’t dare move. Her hair is soft, a bit oily but smells like strawberry conditioner, and there’s a stray eyelash on her cheek.

You wipe it away, then slide your hand down her cheek, across her jaw line, peach fuzz giving way to the soft underbelly of her neck. Your fingers land on her jugular, pulse slipslipping against fleshy pads.

She groans, shifts against you, and you let your hand fall, cupping the curve of her knee, feet firmly pressed against the brittle rust of the fire escape. Sticky nicotine stains hold your hands fast together in flashback as you hold your breath and count to ten. ...

The funeral is closed casket, flowers smothering her corpse, wheelchairs squeaking through ancient aisles. Rising cathedral windows dribble colored light against white hair and pale necks of bowed heads. You stand at the back, entirely underdressed for the affair, leather jacket-covered arms crossed over your chest.

Everyone in the church seems to be exhaling death, and you’re breathing it in, wading through murky carpet and branches of candlesticks to sit in the last pew, wincing at the creak of warped wood. Grandmas surround you like a pack of wolves, canes and walkers pushing you out.

“Did you know her, dear?” one asks, browning teeth crowding you, hot breath that smells like decaf pressing up into your face.

Your jaw stays tight, arms rigidly folded across your ribcage, silently counting breaths as the priest begins his sermon. One, two, three— stale air whistles through your ears, setting your teeth on edge.

“Did you know her?”

“Only in the Biblical sense,” you reply, words catching on the jagged edges of your snarl. The woman- her grandmother, her aunt, whoever the fuck she is- gasps, fragile spine clacking against the wood of the pew as she stiffens in shock and surprise before scuttling away again, back to the recesses of the properly respectful.

Somehow, verbally abusing old ladies doesn’t make you relax, doesn’t let the muscles in your neck release their grip on the nerves that are causing a pounding headache. The old woman’s question echoes in your head with every half-beat of your heart, your answer playing back with the other half, call and response, call and response.

‘Did you know her?’

‘Only in the Biblical sense.’ ...

You can hardly believe everything that rests under her skin, as you slip your hands along her thighs. Muscle and bone, blood and marrow, ligaments and arteries, all of it tucked neatly under three layers of skin.

AI MILLER You met in an anatomy class, a class both of you barely passed despite all the ‘studying’ you did together. And yet, as you run your hands over her body, the Latin names come back to you: biceps femoris, vastus intermedius, gracilis. Your fingernails grip her vastus medialis, while your teeth dig along her deltoids, coming to rest on her sternocleidomastoid. You listen to her superior thyroid artery echo in the cavern of your mouth, making your molars vibrate excitedly, like church bells calling the congregation to prayer.

You don’t worship her, exactly. You just love the contrast of skin against skin, crappy sheet against skin, teeth on skin, tongue on tongue, teeth on tongue, eyes on everything, breath in and out. You love watching her lay there passively on your striped comforter in your dorm room, you love watching her squirm under your grip, the smirk tugging the edges of her lips, every inch of contact buzzing between you.

And perhaps you love her too, if you stop to think about it, if you grudgingly tick all of the prerequisites off in the box on the form. But you don’t stop to think about it, you leave the section blank as you raise blossoms of hickeys, entire fields of love-bruises across her neck and collar bones, listening to her gasp and moan, counting each breath as she takes it. ...

The eulogy or homily or whatever it is drags on as you count the whoosh of an oxygen tank three rows in front of you, pumping air into some old woman’s lungs when her lungs won’t take in another breath, when her heart won’t pump.

You drop your chin to your chest and try to separate your jaws— they’re clenching so hard it hurts, and the headache is rising in tempo and pitch, grating like the pinchsqueak of the shoes tapping on tile behind you.

Her uncle, probably, or a distant cousin, pacing back and forth, back and forth, wincing as his shiny new shoes pinch his toes, rub the back of his ankle raw through his dark sock, fabric spotted with blood stains. You want to shake him, fingers digging into his shoulders so you don’t grip around his neck and shout in his reddening face “Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”

You didn’t really respect her, not like you should have. It deflates your anger, leaves you rubbery and limp, your spine slumping, arms opening up and stretching, stretching across the edge of the pews. Your eyes rise to the large crucifix hanging behind the alter, and you unconsciously cross your feet at the ankles.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the congregation begins, and your lips move in unison, grinning at the Virgin Mary painted in the windows, snarling at the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, but mostly at the uncle behind you who paces, back and forth, back and forth, four five six seven one two three four.

...

“I’m not your manic pixie girl!” Her face is flushed, fields of blood rising to the surface of her cheeks.

“I don’t even know what that means!” you shoot back, because it’s the truth and because you’re not even sure what this fight is about any more. It’s her dorm room this time, not yours, periwinkle coverlet thrown half-open to reveal purple sheets underneath, a pink sock plastered against the matching pillowcase, her hands balled up into white fists.