PARALLAX par¡al¡lax noun: effect whereby the position or direction of an object appears to differ when viewed from different positions, e.g., through the viewfinder and the lens of a camera.
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Letter from the Editor-In-Chief To my team, submitters, and to you the reader, I am so proud of the Parallax editorial staff again this year. Our staff has continued to be an adaptable and flexible group, who not only maintains the work ethic necessary to produce this publication, but manages to make every session a fun and exciting one. These individuals came together to make sure every voice was heard in editing to help produce the best edits possible for our submitters to take to heart. From short meetings to long ones, our editorial staff always has this special energy that I am so happy that I could lead in my final year here. You all are something special and I hope you keep this alive. Without the wonderful submissions we got this publication would not be possible so I want to thank you for taking the time to create something special. We at Parallax recognize all the hard work that goes into creating these works and that criticism isn’t something most of us like on something we create ourselves. Not only did you put your work out there, but you brought it back to us for this publication so thank you all for coming on the ride. We’re so thrilled to see your pieces in the publication this year and hope you’ll create more for us to publish next year. To Katelyn I just want to say this wouldn’t be possible without you. You put in long hours by my side all semester and for that I am extraordinarily thankful. I am more than happy to turn over the publication and its processes to you. I know that Parallax is in the best hands. Finally, thank you to the Ripon College student body who supported our endeavor again this year funding us and allowing us to create this publication. We realize without your participation and faith in us we wouldn’t be here, so thank you. Parallax is extremely proud to continue the long set tradition here at Ripon College to produce your fine arts journal. With Love, Ryan Edquist
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The Editorial Staff Back Row: Emma Lemke, Valerie Pike, Ceanna Caelwarts, Evie Green, Izzy Mraz Center Row: Joseph Galbreath, Katelyn Van Swol, Mackenzie Skumatz, Ryan Edquist Front-and-center: Maddy Vega
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Table of Contents Title Author Page Missed Opportunity Paul Ninneman 8 Magenta Joseph Galbreath 9 Sink Ally Wilber 10 Sunbathing Paul Ninneman 14 The last of fall Emma Lemke 15 Frozen today but not tomorrow Becky Baijt 16 With him again Eve Green 17 Not yours, not mine Grace Larson 20 Industrial Sunset Becky Baijt 21 What you lookin at Paul Ninneman 22 Potato Gillian Jackson 23 S-10 Dillon Guelich 24 Modern Tourism Paul Ninneman 25 Animal Form Emily Janssen 26 Strength & Temptation Ally Wilber 30 To my not-mother mom Joseph Galbreath 31 Breath in the sands Joseph Galbreath 32 Icefield Becky Baijt 33 Leave me all alone Emily Janssen 34 Wings Ally Wilber 40 Leaving the volume on Ryan Edquist 41 Idyll’s Trouble Ryan Edquist 43 When she breaks your heart Elizabeth Floodstrand 44 Silent haikus Emma Lemke 46 One moment of lament Ally Wilber 47 Night view Kierstin Luedtke 48 The dancing girl Joseph Galbreath 49 Long days and longer nights Cori Fredericks 50 Workhorse Ryan Edquist 52 Chiseled Paul Ninneman 53 6
Bones Ally Wilber 54 Forgiveness Ryan Edquist 55 A courageous heart Eve Green 56 An open letter Ceanna Caelwarts 58 Current status Ally Wilber 59 Forget-me-not Joseph Galbreath 60 Delicate - but deadly Becky Baijt 64 Tour de feminism Lillian Lenk 65 Adventuring Kierstin Luedtke 68 Do you remember Joseph Galbreath 69 Junk in the yard Maddison Vega 70 Writer’s block Ryan Edquist 77 How it works Valerie Pike 78 The phantom itch of scars of the past Eve Green 80 Singularity Kierstin Luedtke 81 Christ Church, Oxford, England Kierstin Luedtke 82 Music Ryan Edquist 83 Socially acceptable Emily Janssen 84 Maria Antonieta de las Nieves as La... Jorge Gutierrez 91 Being human Amy Fels 92 Journey to possibilities Valerie Pike 93 Angel leaves Gabrielle Horstmeier 94 The streets of Venice Mackenzie Skumatz 97 Daily Abbey Flower 98 Barren dead Becky Baijt 99 Nihilism 101 DeLou Wilson 100
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Missed Opportunity Paul Ninneman Photography
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Magenta
By Joseph Galbreath I am lost somewhere in the translation of red to purple. Never envious at my lack of green, sitting as a calming burn of a no-longer-pink,
and those that would trample ‘til my red flowed like their purple? How can I mend those lost between panic and tension?
pastless, and always testing the present with a toe or two causing ripples. I, always catching the eye of an artist wondering how to roll me out. They rub in their guidance for those whose sparks spread too thin, and I, leaning on the walls waiting for a subtle gesture as though to say that the dying embers are not the last ones forgotten. My fingers wrap a silk scarf around a bare neck. Protecting me, not from the cold, but from words sharp as serrated steel. How can I silence those that let greed rule their lives, 9
Sink
By Ally Wilber There is no actual protocol for this. I’d skimmed an article on wikiHow entitled How to Come in Contact with the Father You Have Never Met, but it failed to mention proper etiquette for announcing paternal relation over the phone. I couldn’t find him on Facebook, and a letter seemed a bit too romantic and outdated. A phone call could easily end an awkward situation with the click of a button. “Hi, I’m Hannah—” choking on my own heartbeat, the weak words tripped over my lips “—I’m your daughter.” The silence seemed to prickle into my ear through the line, stretching on longer than comfortable. Shit. I panicked. “I—I’m sorry.” The apology was a sputtered mess. The voice on the other end laughed. It was a sudden, coarse sound. “Don’t apologize.” Silence again, for only a moment as he seemed to struggle for words. “I should’ve been the one to make this call. I’m sorry.” I looked down at another printed article in my hands, trying to match the scruffy man in its photo to the voice on the phone. Craig Daniels. That’s how I found him – a name from my mother, an area code, and a Google search engine. Local Man Opens Tackle Shop: “Hook, Line & Sinker”. He looked like the type of man to run a bait shop, if that was even a way for a person to look. A bit unkempt with the tan of an outdoorsman, complete with a plaid shirt and well-worn baseball cap. God, I’d never even been fishing in my life. I didn’t own plaid. I quelled the fear of rejection. I needed to do this. Like jumping into a cold river: it would be uncomfortable at first but then it would be over, and that was that. “I think that I would like to meet you. That is, if you would like to meet me?” I couldn’t fight back the mental comparison to Tinder; asking boys to meet in person for the first time. That’s creepy, Hannah. This is your father. “I mean, we don’t have to. If you don’t want to. We don’t have to be buds or anything, I’d just like to meet you once because-- ” I blurted out the words so quickly that I hadn’t stopped to think about what I was saying. I flushed red, thankful to be hidden behind a landline. Too personal, too soon. “I dunno. I just have to, you know?” I waited for him to laugh at me again. He didn’t. “I know.” “I’m graduating from college in a few months and then I’ll be moving out of state. I would like to meet at some point before then, if possible.” Great, now I sound like I’m negotiating a business meeting. And I’m talking too fast. “Wow. College, eh? Good for you.” He wasn’t really saying much, and the words he did manage sounded pained. Did he believe me - the stranger who called him up on a Thursday evening with heavy claims? “Tell you what. Why don’t we meet up for a beer next week? I’m assuming you can drink. I mean, er, of course you’re old enough. Do you drink? You could get a soda or something if not. A burger. Whatever.” A shaky sigh of unease sounded through the phone. “I’ll buy.” All of the information online, as far as I could tell, pointed to Craig Daniels being a bachelor. I pictured this poor man sitting alone in his small house, in the middle of a social dilemma bigger than any he’d dealt with before, and preparing for a stiff drink after the call was over. “A drink sounds wonderful.” What was meant as reassurance had the ironic undertone of humor. We arranged a meeting time and place (wikiHow suggests choosing a neutral, relatively quiet location during daylight hours - and also warns against sharing too much information, such as addresses, with a stranger). It was about an hour’s drive from my school at some small-town dive bar. I wondered if it was one he 10
frequented. Would he want to be seen with me? When hanging up the phone, I noticed the weight in my chest that had been holding my breath low. Tremors ran through my fingers. It was done. After twenty-two years, I was finally going to meet my biological father. I was fifteen when I first learned of his existence. Growing up with a loving mother and father, I never had reason to question whether my family was anything beyond nuclear. “You think you’re such a little darling, don’t you?” My older sister Jenny spat the words at me as she walked out the door, eyeliner smudged. “Well, your life isn’t the perfect little bubble that you think it is, Princess. Just ask your mom what I’m talking about.” She dropped the hint like a bomb, angry at our dad after he discovered she’d stolen money from him. I guess the fight was her breaking point. Born six years my senior, Jenny was the wildcard; the pretty one. I was the goody-two- shoes with my nose in a book. I’d always known that Jenny had a different mother. From a young age I was told that her father and my mother were engaged shortly after having me. As it turned out, the details were a bit fudged. I was the product of a one night stand - a workplace affair. My mom was supposed to be the dumb blonde who came and went but she ended up pregnant instead, causing particular grief to her co- worker who had a girlfriend at the time. She was already pregnant with me when she met the man who adopted me as a toddler - the man who had always been mine and Jenny’s dad. It’s a confusing mess, the whole lot of it. I suppose it isn’t until you’re older that you realize how humanly flawed your parents are. I looked back down at the picture in my hands. Craig. Guess the girlfriend didn’t work out. Part of me was convinced that I should hate the man who treated my mother so shallowly, struggled with child support payments and never once attempted to reach out to me or ask how I was doing in life. The other part of me listed off excuses for him; reasoned that he might not be a bad guy beneath his poor decisions. Besides, I turned out okay. It was only natural to want to meet him - to see what qualities we shared. To see if I was anything like him. I was a bit ashamed with how much I cared about my appearance that day. It was the first time my biological father would see me, apart from a baptismal photo he’d once received . In the photo I wouldn’t have had hair at all. That afternoon, I piled my brown locks into a respectable, high ponytail. A floral shirt, nude flats - I looked like I was heading to a job interview. I sighed into the mirror. I wanted him to take me seriously. I wanted to prove to him how well I’d turned out - a smart, successful student about to head onto Medical School in the fall - regardless of his absence. Possibly even due to it. It was mid-March, nearly spring. The season of new life and possibilities. I thought about that as I pulled up to the bar, stomach tight and clenching with unease. Tom’s Tap. It was also one o’clock on a Thursday afternoon (the one day I didn’t have classes), and there were two vehicles parked outside. A rusted-down purple Chevy Malibu, and a baby-blue pickup truck. I was betting on the latter for Craig. I wondered if the lack of business would make the meeting more or less awkward, but decided that it would be uncomfortable no matter the circumstances. At least there’d be alcohol involved. I felt sick to my stomach looking around the dark expanse of small-town bar for a man I’d only ever seen in an online article. Thankfully, the only other customer was a white-haired man harassing the bartender with raucous laughter. Not Craig. Must be the Chevy Malibu guy. He sat at the very end of the curving bar, my biological father. No plaid today, but a navy blue he’d been sitting there. 11
He didn’t notice me walking toward him; he gave the wall of liquor bottles a hard stare, deep in thought. “Hey,” the word came out in more of a squeak. He looked over at me, and I felt my eyes get hot and itchy. I guess I wasn’t prepared for the sudden onslaught of emotion, meeting this man, seeing his face. I had the heart-shaped face of my mother, but the dark eyes, the dark hair - that was clearly all him. He had the very same brown eyes, though his were framed with tired lines. Chocolate-colored curls touched with silver stuck out from beneath his hat, and a rough stubble coated his face. “Hannah,” was all he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and looked back down at the bar. “Have a seat, here,” he pulled out the barstool next to him. “You want something to drink?” The bartender was an older woman, waiting patiently. “I’ll have a vodka cranberry.” I smiled at her. “Are you going to want some food? They have great burgers here.” I didn’t think I could stomach food. “No, I’m not really hungry right now.” “You sure?” “Yeah.” A moment of silence while the bartender laid my drink in front of me, and Craig tapped on his money for her to take. I picked up my glass with a trembling hand and took a sip. I really didn’t know how to start the conversation. What was I supposed to say? So...any regrets? “Listen, Hannah…” he twisted at the tab on his beer can, looking down, “I know you probably hate me. You’re right to. What I did...it was shit, and I’m sorry. No one deserves that. I just didn’t know what to do or what I wanted.” “No, I understand.” I said the words, but I wasn’t sure that I meant them. Politeness. Nodding. “You’re in college, you’re smart...I’m happy to see that things have worked out for you. I guess I have my bait and tackle shop,” he gestured down at his navy sweatshirt, which read Hook, Line & Sinker; the ampersand in the shape of a lure, “...but I’m a 53 year-old man and all I have is a bait and tackle shop.” He took a sip of his beer. I still didn’t know what to say, my mind was blank. After a moment of silence, he said, “So what are you going to school for?” “Bio-chem. After this year I’m off to Medical School, I want to be a doctor. Cliche, I know.” He lifted scruffy eyebrows, “No. I’m impressed. That’s hard work, and a good job. Good for you.” “Thanks.What made you decide to open your own shop?” He shrugged. “Somethin’ to do. I’ve always loved fishing, and I hated going in to work for some asshole. So I opened my own shop - I’m my own boss, I make my own hours. It’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but I do all right with it. Especially around here with the lake nearby.” “That’s great, I’m glad it worked out for you.” Such polite chit-chat. God damn this is awkward. “Yeah. How’s your mom?” “She’s good I guess. She keeps herself busy with volunteering at church, and crafting. I think she’s in denial that I’m officially moving out after this year.” “Yeah, you mentioned that you’re going out of state. Guess I won’t be seeing much of you then, eh?” My heart sank. Not only at the notion that he wanted to see me more, but at the hard truth of it all that he probably wouldn’t. “I’ll be home sometimes. Holidays, and all that.” “I see.” He nodded, finishing off his beer. The bartender already had another one in front of him. He must be a usual. I noted the dirt under his fingernails. The beer can in his hand, in opposition to my manicured nails holding onto a half-finished glass of vodka cranberry. I kicked myself internally for ever nurturing the hope that we would have some sort of instant, easy connection. No, that’s not how life works. It’s never that simple. I thought of the reason why I’d decided to remainsingle in my final years of my undergraduate career - what 12
would be the point of growing attached to something I’d have to leave anyways? I was never much of one for long-distance relationship maintenance. I was far too busy. I thought about the futility of new relationships while staring at melting ice cubes. “I could give you my phone number, if you’d like to stay in contact? Might be easier.” “Yeah, yeah sure. I’m not much of one for texting, though. Can’t figure this damn thing out.” He pulled a cheap flip-phone from his pocket and offered me a shy smile. I couldn’t help but laugh, but at the same time we’d just established that there probably wouldn’t be much contact after I moved away. I took his phone and punched my number into the dialpad. “There.” I offered him my best behind-the- counter smile, holding back the crushing weight of disappointment. I finished my drink in one swallow. I needed to go before everything truly hit home. My brain was never kind to me in situations such like this. “I should go.” “Already?” “Yeah, I have an hour drive back, and I have homework to do for class tomorrow.” Excuses, but I knew it would be even harder to stay. I threw down three dollars for a tip, and stood to leave. Flustered, he got up to hug me good-bye. That’s when I saw the unfocused haze in his eyes; he may not have been drunk, but he certainly wasn’t far from it. I remembered my mom telling me about his reasoning for having a difficult time making child support payments - Craig always had a bit of a drinking problem. He pulled me in, and held me tight to him like he never wanted to let go. He smelled like stale cigarettes. I put my arms around his back and hugged him in return, feeling the stinging tease of hot tears in my eyes again, and a recently familiar tightness in my chest. “You take care, all right kid?” “I will.” I wondered faintly if the bartender and the Chevy Malibu guy watched. “I’m glad I got to meet you.” “Me too.” I couldn’t manage full sentences at this point, I was too focused on fighting back tears. I didn’t want him to see me cry. I didn’t want him to see me weak. I didn’t want to have that conversation. I didn’t want to pull away from hug was because I didn’t want him to see my face. We stood there in silence for another breath, and he let me go. I forced a smile that I’m sure was far from beautiful. “You have my number.”
He nodded.
I nodded.
I left.
And cried the whole way home.
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Sunbathing Paul Ninneman Photography
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the last of fall By Emma Lemke
like a cool autumn breeze, you rustle me. chilling the very bone, hair-line-fractured by a crisp stigma. a brisk agenda gathering the dead of society. like a cool autumn breeze, you smother me and burn dampened veins with muggy smoke. choking all memory of life as a warning to the last of the fallen. like a cool autumn breeze, you kill me; a bitter dagger perched above boughs meant to stabilize wintertide insecurities. because of you, leaves shed from a dead tree.
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Frozen Today but Not Tomorrow Becky Baijt Photography
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With Him Again By Eve Green
I wasn’t dreaming when I felt it, just sleeping. The flashes of cold on my bare chest had come to be expected, waking me up almost gently now. Still sleeping, Elora’s hands tensed over my chest as she drew the sheets into her fists, releasing a whisper: “Will.” She’d done this once or twice before, earlier in the week, whispering my name in the dark as she held onto me slightly tighter. Sometimes she whispered her father’s name instead. It was on those nights that I knew the dreams were really bad, that she was dreaming about the accident. These have been the only times I’ve gotten to hear her voice since it happened; when she’s whispered my name or his while she’s slept. She hasn’t been talking. She lets me stay with her, doesn’t push me away, but we don’t talk. For the most part I think it’s just the company. I don’t want her to feel alone and I don’t think she wants that either. Sometimes, people who’ve experienced traumatic events will withdraw into themselves and stop speaking. It’s meant to be a coping mechanism... but it’s been almost two weeks now and it’s starting to worry me. I haven’t known what to do, haven’t been able to think of how to help her, how to make things better. In that way at least, last night was different, because yesterday I finally had an idea. As the tears had continued to land on my chest, I’d repeated the same actions I’ve done every night since it started, pulling her closer to my chest, holding her tighter, and pressing my lips to her forehead, hoping she somehow feels safer. I’m always gentle, not squeezing too tightly, not wanting to wake her up. For some reason, the prospect of waking her seems more dangerous to me than leaving her to finish the dream, as though by breaking that link I could somehow break the only connection she has left with him. That prospect terrifies me. Adrenaline pulses through my veins, moving faster with every passing moment as we slowly drive into that white picket town, always getting closer to the church. I’d felt calm taking her to the florist this morning. I’d chosen a nice shop in one of the smaller towns just outside the city hoping that it wouldn’t remind her of all the work we’d done trying to organise the service. We’d driven there in my car, pulling up on the quiet street just outside the store. They had lovely displays of tulips and baby’s breath, and the whole store smelled overwhelmingly of flowers of all kinds. Lilies and carnations were used in the decorations for the funeral so I avoided those. Walking to the other side of the store I selected a single white rose, the most perfect I could find. I could tell she was confused when I didn’t give it to her, her eyebrows coming together momentarily. But she let it go, and didn’t ask any questions. She could probably tell I was a little flustered when I struggled to get the money out of my wallet, and by the increased pace with which I walked us back to the car. Driving through the country, the hairs on my arms and neck standing on end as I focus my eyes on the road, trying to calm my frenzied mind. I planned the drive out this morning, mapping a route that would take us through the country, circling around the city instead of going through it. The country is so much prettier, and it’s always seemed to calm Elora. I allow myself a glance in her direction. Her curly auburn hair flutters gently on the wind coming through her open window. Her high cheekbones cast a slight shadow over her cheek. For almost a week now, she’s had the same resigned sadness, a quiet melancholy only evident in her silence, her downcast expression, and the pain trapped in her eyes. Today, though, I think I can see true serenity touching her slightly full lips, moving them into an almost undetectable smile. It’s something I can never get over, something that never stops surprising me: how beautiful she is. They say that beauty comes from within. For a long time I thought that was just a lie they told people 17
to make them believe that personality and virtue could be seen by all, trying to emphasise that they were more important than appearance. It was when I first met Elora that I realised the truth held in these words. Her kindness, sweet compassion, and bright optimism shine in her, lending a pure, golden glow to her lightly tanned skin and her hazelnut eyes. Looking back at the road, I place my hand on top of hers and interlace our fingers. I can feel her pulse faintly against my fingertips: regular. My muscles start to relax as we continue driving. The wind coming through the open windows blows through my hair, taking my concerns with it. I can smell her perfume, crisp and clear with a delicate hint of flowers. It mixes with the breeze, surrounding me and calming me further. We start to approach the picturesque town, with rose beds and neat white picket fences with matching gates out the front of every house. I can see the little white church from here, sitting at the top of the hill, looking out over the town, the perfect metaphor for God. Even when you don’t believe in all that, there’s a kind of beauty to small town churches, to the heartfelt belief of its parishioners, and their efforts to reflect God’s grace in their houses of worship. I glance at Elora again to make sure the sight of the church hasn’t upset her, but she only looks numb. I slow down as we approach the church, weaving our way through the quiet streets and parking at the base of the hill. I pick up the rose and come around the car, opening the passenger door and taking her hand. We make our way up the stepping stone path that leads to the entrance of the small church. As we approach, her grip tightens ever so slightly, and I pull her closer to me so that, as we walk, her shoulder presses lightly against my arm. We make our way around the building until we come to the graveyard, small and intimate, full of old headstones and surrounded by ancient trees whose trunks are the growing beds for lichen. Some of the stones are so old the writing on them is almost completely faded. We walk through the cemetery, the headstones becoming more recent as we get further away from the church, until finally we come to the newest grave in the cemetery: Elora’s father’s. The headstone is polished and clean, out of place in this overgrown garden of remembrance. Elora’s family aren’t religious either, but they’ve had a plot in this cemetery for generations, and in truth I can’t imagine a more perfect place to be buried. I look at Elora now, studying her for signs of discomfort. The hints of contentedness have abandoned her, yet she doesn’t pull away or ask to leave. She doesn’t seem unhappy so much as she appears lost. I squeeze her hand, then let go and take a step towards the grave, bending down to place the white rose so that it rests against the headstone. Silence grips the still air, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I look into her eyes, the pain held within them reflecting the rose leaning against the tombstone. Seeing the melancholy imprisoned within her, I gather my courage and turn back to the grave. “Good afternoon, Sir. I hope you’ve been enjoying the sun today. You really do have a wonderful view.” I glance back at her, but her countenance hasn’t changed. I feel kind of stupid talking to someone we both know isn’t there, and I’m sure I must look ridiculous to anyone else- talking to a grave as though I’m having a real conversation. Wringing my hands, I readdress the grave, trying to put as much animation and liveliness into my voice as I can to make it sound conversational. “Now, I know it seems incredibly unusual to bring a white rose to a grave. I know, I know, I’ve always been a little unconventional. But I promise you, this time I really have thought this through. You see, bouquets at weddings are usually white, right? They’re meant to be a representation of the bride’s virginity and all that.” I pause, moving my hands to my side so I will look less nervous, and then continue. “Yes Sir, I understand that marriage is a sacred promise made before God. But, if you will just let me finish, I was thinking about it, and given you only die once, I figured you must also be a virgin, but a virgin to death, and therefore 18
a white rose is the perfect thing to bring you as a symbol of your purity as you go to greet the Grim Reaper.” The words feel awkward coming out of my mouth. The only person who’s ever forced such a formal tone from me was her father, though that never prevented my inappropriate humour from presenting itself. The cemetery echoes with silence and the slight breeze cools the sweat that has started to form on my arms, sending shivers through my body. I turn, slowly, to look at Elora, not sure if I want to see her reaction to what I’ve just done. She stands, silent, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, pain and amusement competing for prominence in her eyes. Heart racing, I face the grave once more and try to think of what to say next, not sure if I should say anything at all. I feel a nervous smile tug at my mouth as I start to speak, “Is it really appropriate for me to be delivering a white flower, Sir? Well I say, that’s rather an impertinent question, don’t you think! I dare say your mother would blush to hear you utter such slander of her sweet granddaughter.” I turn to Elora once more, the heartbreak and stifled joy still present in her eyes. I look away, not wanting to make her feel any more uncomfortable. Then, quiet as the breeze weaving through this garden of memories, I hear her voice. “Dad, I miss you. I’m so sorry we couldn’t make it to the hospital faster. I’m sorry you left this world alone. I’m trying to be strong, for you, for mum. Sometimes the pain is so intense at night I can’t breathe. I know the accident wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t you that ran the red light. I need you to know I don’t blame you for leaving us here alone. I forgive you. I love you Dad.” Tears swell in her eyes as they fall from her eyelashes. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I keep my eyes focused on the grave. The air feels dense around us, buzzing with a new tension. I can almost feel his presence with us, even though we both know that’s impossible. My muscles relax and my pulse begins to settle a little. We stand there in silence, waiting to talk again with the man that will never be there, finally feeling connected again. “I can only imagine how much you miss your family Sir, and, as I’m sure you can see, we all miss you too. I know you’re just as proud as I am of how Elora has been coping. I’m sure her strength impresses you just as much as it inspires me.” Finally, I look up at her glistening brown eyes. “Yes Sir, she truly is remarkable.” The light’s faded and the sun is about to set. I know it’s time to leave. I cross the small space between us. She isn’t shaking with sobs; she doesn’t crumple or throw her arms over me and weep. She only stands there, eyes unmoving from the crisp letters chiselled on the headstone. I take her hand and squeeze it gently before letting go and walking back a couple of rows from her father’s grave, leaving them alone. I wait while she takes the moment she needs to herself, the moment she’s been waiting for so long to have: a moment just between them. After a couple of minutes, slowly she turns and makes her way towards me, looks at me with wet eyes and burning cheeks. “Thank you” she whispers. I step towards her, closing the distance between us. She puts her arms around me and we stand there together in the quiet, ancient cemetery, the promise of tomorrow surrounding us like a ball of light that is slowly growing, pushing the darkness away.
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Not Yours, Not Mine By Grace Larson I am not leaving you. Only a fool would leave her future behind. I didn’t want to speak these dreams out loud – Because the words might tangle and entwine You think this path I lead is only wide enough for me But what you don’t know is that I see it all in your eyes Porch swings, and our kid’s scraped knees A bed that’s ours to crawl into at night But even before that I see Star gazing on a summer night Scandalous alibis because our lips could not say goodbye The waves of two divergent lakes, when in us, they somehow collide. So, no, I am not leaving you. Not in the far future, nor anytime soonBecause at some point this “adventure” became ours, Our lives forever aligned.
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Industrial Sunset Becky Baijt Photography
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What’re You Lookin’ At Paul Ninneman Photography
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Potato
By Gillian Jackson Mated to the Earth, I stay here in darkness. Rooted in place The soil is my blanket. My eyes see nothing, Useless bumps on my skin. No ears to listen, No mouth to speak. Liver spots dot my skin, I am ripening with age. Owning a misshapen body Does not mean my flaws are forever. Uncover me-Steal me from my cradle. My leather is not off-putting-In people’s eyes, I am delicious. Strip me naked, Uncover cream colored flesh. Boil me, To devour me. If that is not pleasing Pound me, Grind me, Whip me smooth. Lather me in oil-Turn me brown on the pan. Bring out flavors I didn’t even know I had.
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S-10
By Dillon Guelich Golden roadrunner, gliding across the blacktop on those rubber soles, propelling your passengers past haunted dawns into daydream Saturdays, iridescent and indifferent. Teenage kisses, green smoke and death wishes− Companions, riding on, hours past curfew, asking for trouble, united by the fastening fabric that turns miles into minutes. Dancing in basements, singing in backyards, finishing midnight manifestos glazed over and fading into guest bedrooms at 3:03 AM. Hitching rides hungover on trains, migrating east and west satisfied with the same sunrise in a different location, but inevitably washing up confused at the beach and wondering if anything has remained unchanged, watching for symbolic salvation in the waves washing over the strange, staring outwards into the solar aisle contemplating all that has been, and understanding that morning eyes gazing out, ultimately gaze within.
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Modern Tourism Paul Ninneman Photography
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Animal Form By Emily Janssen
I’ve been living in my wolf form for almost four months. There was a time when Kolren and I laughed about the stories of Animali giving up on being human and living out the rest of their lives in their secondary animal bodies. We always thought that was strange. We didn’t understand what could possibly make someone want to live as an animal full-time. I understand perfectly now. Watching your childhood sweetheart turned husband of less than twenty-four hours be gutted by a Graehnic takes a lot of the appeal out of being human. The Graehnics aren’t Animali; their culture’s innate magic is controlled and focused through objects that hold some special emotional significance to their users. The strength of Graehnic’s power depends on the strength of the emotions imbued in the object. The tribes have always viewed Graehnic power as risky, because it is tied to things that can be easily taken away. An Animali’s ability to switch forms is irrepressible, and we don’t need objects to help us do it. I slink through the woods, my paws quiet on the dead leaves. My silver-gray pelt hangs off me; I only bother allowing the wolf part of me to take control and hunt sporadically these days. When in animal form, Animali carry a part of our animal’s mind within our own. We can let this part of us take control for brief periods, but it’s always temporary. That limitation does not allow me to seek comfort in an animal’s simple psyche. In the end, I’m left with my human mind; tired, aimless and alone. I try not to think about that horrible night when I watched my tribe be killed or carted off into slavery, but it always comes back. My dreams are full of darkness and blood and screams and swords. I see a horde of Graehnics bearing down on Kolren while I tried to fight my way to him. I see the moment when he lost control of his shift and switched from a powerful wolf into a fragile human. I see the terror in his eyes as the crowd closed between us. In my more rational moments—the ones where I try to justify staying a wolf—I tell myself it’s the safest. The Graehnic won’t be able to automatically tell I’m Animali if they see me this way. It took Kolren’s non-Animali sister, Ahki, years to learn all the nuances of his wolf so she could recognize him. Thinking about Ahki is more painful than thinking about Kolren. Thinking about her reminds me that if I could talk to Kolren now he probably wouldn’t tell me that he loves me. He’d probably hate me for being too much of a coward to even attempt to rescue his little sister. I force away the memory of Ahki’s scared face pressed up against iron bars of a slave wagon. I need to keep moving. I don’t know where I’m going, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. After all, I’m just another wolf now; Brya Gallia drowned in the blood of her people and the man she loved. There is no one to go to; every member of the Gallia tribe is either dead or being hunted down. I don’t know what tells me that I’m not alone. Maybe it’s a scent, or a change in the air or a vibration in the ground. I crest a small hill and look down into a clearing edged in bushes. At the bottom is a small stream with a tribeswoman kneeling at its banks. I would burst into tears if I were human, but in wolf form I can only whine. The woman is middle-aged and dressed in a simple brown cloak and dress worn by all my people. Her skin is a glorious golden-brown like my own. Her black hair is done in hundreds of tiny braids shot through with red highlights that mark her as a member of the Yluter tribe. All Animali are part of a tribe that consists of their extended relatives. Members of a single tribe shift into the same type of animal. All members of the Gallia tribe are wolves, all members of Yluter are bears. The Yluters are traditionally Gallia’s enemies, but at this moment, I couldn’t care less. It is so good to see another tribesmember; to know that I am not the only one not dead or a slave. 26
She lifts her head and her dark gaze focuses on me. “Hello, little one. It’s good to find someone else,” she says. My stomach sinks. She knows what I am. Non-Animali might mistake us for real animals, but other Animali always see us as we actually are. As much as I’m happy to see her, I don’t want to interact with her. I know that if I stay she’ll try to convince me to shift back into my human form. She’ll want me to face what has happened to my people rather than trying to forget about it and stay an animal. I turn to leave. “Wait!” she calls, getting to her feet. “It’s alright, little one, come here.” It’s a bit humiliating that after all that has happened, my essence still tells her that I’m a child. I am twenty years old, and even if I wasn’t, no one who has seen the things I have could still be considered a child. The woman crosses the stream and stands a few yards from me, dark eyes fixed on my wolf face. “Wait.” This is the point when I should run. I should run and never look back. I’ve learned my lessons about the human world, and I no longer want any part of it. This woman will just drag me back into it. However, I don’t turn and run. I just stand there, my wolf ’s paws planted, watching her. I know I should move. I want to move, but I don’t. “Come here,” the woman says. “I have food; you look hungry.” The only sound that comes out of my mouth is a low, wordless growl. It’s a sound that would send most running, but she doesn’t even look fazed. “Come here,” she repeats soothingly. “It’s going to be alright.” I tell myself over and over again to leave, but my paws remain rooted to the ground. I stare at her as she comes closer and closer, hands held up soothingly. “It’s alright,” she coos. “It’s going to be fine.” Then she reaches out and lays her hand on my head. Her touch breaks through the wall I’ve built up to hold back my sorrow. I lose my hold on the magic that enables me to control which form I inhabit. I shift back to human form with an ugly, choking sob and slump to the ground. My bare human body feels weak and wrong after so long as a wolf. I’m small, skinny and broken, but the woman just pulls off her cloak and wraps it around my shoulders. The fact that she doesn’t react to the Gallia blue in my braids is a testament to how much things have changed. I stuff my arms through the sleeves of the cloak, bury my face in them and sob. I’m humiliated. I’ve been able to control my shift since I was a little girl; it’s been years since I switched forms involuntarily. Not to mention I’m crying like a child when I’m supposed to be a grown woman. The woman kneels next to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. She just strokes my braids and lets me cry. My sobs start to slow and she speaks, “Come. I have some food for you.” I follow her back to the small pile of her belongings by the stream. She gives me bread and cheese. It’s not exactly wonderful food, but I’ve been living off raw dead animals for months, so it’s not bad. The woman sits cross-legged on the ground, watching me. “I’m Gina,” she says quietly. “And you are?” I swallow and force myself to say the word. “Brya.” She accepts the name with a nod and offers me a canteen. I take it with my left hand and drink. When I lower it, I notice she’s staring at the back of my hand. “What?” I ask. She nods at my hand. “Did you lose him?” I look down at my hand. On the back is the marital tattoo Kolren and I designed together. Other cultures wear rings, but we don’t; a ring would just become lost when you shifted. The elders of the tribe had inked this symbol of Kolren and my union onto our skin mere hours before the Graehnics attacked. I never had the chance to get used to it; I’d forgotten I even had it. The thought makes me hurt again. Kolren and I spent months trying to create the perfect symbol and I’d forgotten all about it. I stare at the tattoo for several minutes before I remember she asked a question. “Yes,” I murmur. 27
Saying it makes it real and I grit my teeth, holding back tears. I don’t want her to see me cry again. “It’s alright to cry,” she says. “I lost my husband too.” She shows me the tattoo on the back of her own left hand. “It was our wedding day,” I choke out. “We’d finished the ceremonies at sunset and our tribe was celebrating. Then they just attacked. We didn’t have a chance to get organized.” “I’m sorry,” she says uselessly. Neither of us point out that even with advanced warning we would never have stood a chance against the superior numbers the Graehnics always use. “People thought we were too young,” I say, the words flowing out of me like water. “But we’d been in love for years. We didn’t want to wait anymore.” Gina nods quietly, and puts a hand on my arm. “It’s alright to miss him.” I still try not to cry, but ultimately fail again. Gina moves closer and lets me cry into her dress for what feels like forever. She doesn’t say anything, and I’m glad because there’s nothing to say in the face of the death of what should have been idyllic decades spent with Kolren watching our children and grandchildren grow. After a while, my tears slow, but I still lean again Gina letting her rub my head. “He’d hate me now,” I whimper before I think it through. “For being alive?” Gina asks. “For missing him?” “No. Not for being alive,” I say. I want to leave it at that, but Gina is looking at me curiously now, waiting for me to go on. I take a deep breath, “It’s because of Ahki,” I whisper. “Who?” “Ahki,” I repeat. “My husband’s little sister. She was sixteen, and she wasn’t an Animali.” Most tribespeople are born with the ability to shift to an animal form, but occasionally one is not. Ahki was one of those people. “A lot of people thought she was strange, but Kolren never cared. They were very close. The night the Graehnics attacked, she was captured by one of the soldiers. It wouldn’t have been hard for them to realize she wasn’t an Animali because practically everyone else was in wolf form. Kolren and I tried to reach her, but that’s when he was overpowered and killed.” I bow my head in shame. “I should have kept trying to reach Ahki, but when I saw Kolren die I panicked. I forgot all about her and I ran. A couple days later I saw her in one of the slave wagons heading for Graehn.” Gina doesn’t say anything so I keep going, “I should have saved her. I should have gone after her in the camp. I should have attacked the wagon to rescue her, but I was too much of a coward.” “You’re not a coward for panicking, Brya,” Gina says quietly. “You’re not even a coward for not being able to save Ahki.” “But she’s a Graehnic slave,” I argue. “Yes,” she says. “But she’s still alive. That means she can still be saved.” I turn the words around and around in my mind. The wagon took Ahki to Graehn to be a slave which tribespeople view as a fate like death, but she’s not actually dead. She’s still out there somewhere. Maybe she’s out there waiting for me. The thought should give me strength, but it just makes me scared. “I can’t go to Graehn,” I say, hating myself for my weakness. “That’s insane. They’ll kill me.” “If they catch you,” Gina says. “But I doubt they look very hard for Animali in their own country.” “Yeah, because they don’t think we’re stupid enough to try going there,” I snap a bit harsher than I probably should have. “Perhaps,” Gina says. “Or maybe they don’t think we’re desperate enough to try going there.” I have nothing to say to that. 28
“Think about it,” Gina’s voice is soft and persuasive. “Out here, the Graehnics look at your wolf and wonder if you’re an Animali, but in Graehn, you’ll just be another wolf. Of course, it’ll probably take you some time to locate Ahki, but you’ll have a nearly foolproof disguise while you search.” I bite my lip, but now I’m actually considering it. I could do it. The Graehnic think they killed everyone in the Gallia tribe who was going to fight back. They think that they can spend the next couple months combing the land around our camp and picking off the cowards. They don’t think that anyone still alive would care enough about Ahki to go after her, because doing so is completely insane. So insane that they probably won’t see me coming. In the end, the thing that makes up my mind is the memory of Kolren speaking his vows just hours before he died. I married him the day that everything fell apart. Ahki was his sister, which means that she is now mine too. It is my responsibility to save her because if I don’t no one else will. Four months ago, I might not have trusted Gina, but things have changed now. We aren’t members of rival tribes anymore; we are Animali. The Graehnic are trying to kill us, and that gives Gina and I a connection we would have never had before. “You’re right,” I tell her. “You’re right about everything.” If she says something, I don’t hear her. I turn to look off through the trees in the direction of Graehn. I’m coming for you, I think even though Ahki cannot hear me. I’m coming now. I’m still a coward, but I’m coming, and I won’t stop until you’re safe. I swear on my life. My family, my friends and my tribe are all dead. Kolren is dead too. I couldn’t save any of them, but Ahki is still alive and I can save her. And I intend to see it through.
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Strength and Temptation Ally Wilber Pastel On Paper
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To My Not-Mother Mom By Joseph Galbreath You bore me to my no-longer-child life and held my hand as I took the first steps away from my real-mother mom. You taught me how to cook tacos where the best part is the shell and my first word when seeing a hot guy should be “fuck,” not silence. You watched as I laughed and learned that if you leave red hair dye in too long you become a not-so-scary clown. You watched and smiled with glee as I learned to keep a chaser close by when I take the night’s first shot, because it will burn while it slithers down my not-used-to-it throat. You shimmied your hips and rolled your shoulders not caring that people watched, but I swayed worried what the too-intoxicated patrons could say. You told me to not care about those I did not know, to move, speak, eat, drink, party like every movement everything could stop.
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Breath in the Sands By Joseph Galbreath We drop ourselves down to the silken sands I dance spin fall in perfect waves and take new breath Down here We seek joy and justify Why we keep that spark in our eyes We learn to laugh again explore our bodies by handling the bruised broken lips of our flowers that bloom better between love I know That we grow on evenings when stars are gone, and sunsets too red. On days like this where the glimmer promises to return another day and here in the sands, You sit Easy to spot in the sculpting clay I reach to hold this moment frozen forever. I, in silver -Time, in Diamond -And you alive.
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Icefield Becky Baijt Photography
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Leave Me All Alone By Emily Janssen When Josie and I were in kindergarten, Mom issued an ultimatum; ballet or gymnastics. She dropped the bomb when we were in the midst of a heated game of Lego Star Wars on our Wii. We were blasting away Stormtroopers, focused on our goal. Per usual, Josie was doing better. She raced on ahead, giggling madly, while I struggled to keep up. We were just about to face a new wave of foes when Mom walked into the family room and turned the TV off. We stared at her in shock. Looking back, it was probably pretty humorous. Josie and I are identical twins, and at that point in our lives we didn’t just dress and wear our hair the same, we reacted the same too. “Why’d you turn the TV off?” Josie asked. “We were almost done with the level!” “You girls have been spending too much time on the TV,” Mom said instead of answering. “I’m signing you up for either ballet or gymnastics. Your pick.” Josie and I looked at each other. Each silently trying to decide if she was serious. When she didn’t laugh and say she was joking it became obvious that we really were going to have to make a decision. I looked at Josie. “What do we do?” I whispered. Josie frowned and bit her lip while she thought about it. “We’ll do gymnastics,” she said. “Ballet’s lame.” Mom turned to me. “What do you think, Maddie?” I didn’t think that ballet was lame. Like most little girls, I loved the idea of floating around on my toes in a big, poofy costume. However, at the time Josie had just finished watching the 2012 Olympics with Dad. Gymnastics was all she could think about. I wanted to do ballet, but I wasn’t sure if I should say it. Josie and I did everything together. What if she got mad that I didn’t want to do gymnastics? What if we started fighting like some of the kids at school did with their siblings? That wasn’t something I was willing to risk; Josie was my best friend. “Ballet’s lame,” I agreed softly. “We should do gymnastics.” --- Spotlights Gymnastics Academy was in a big building downtown. There were two kinds of girls who went there; the ones who had seen Gabby Douglas on TV and wanted to be just like her, or the ones like Josie and I whose parents had decided we were “a bit too enamored with the high-tech luxuries of the 21st century.” The week before our lessons began, Mom took us out to buy our new leotards. We both wanted a royal blue one, but Mom explained that even though this wasn’t school we still had to follow what we called the “Dressing Rule.” The Dressing Rule had come about after we’d started preschool when Mom and Dad had realized that they were the only ones who could tell Josie and I apart when we were dressed identically. Josie and I argued over which one of us should have the blue leotard for a long time until Mom got fed up with the strange looks we were getting and announced that I was getting the blue one and Josie was going to get pink. I was happy until I started to wonder if Josie was mad that I’d gotten the blue. By the time we went to our first lesson I was so worried that I handed the leo over without complaint. Our coach was called Coach Lena. She was a pretty lady with a blonde ponytail. When Mom took us into the gym for the first time, she was sitting in the middle of a circle of five-year-old girls. She noticed us and came over, leaving the other girls with a brunette teenager. She gave us a big smile. “You must be Josefine and Madeline,” she said in the tone of voice that we knew meant she wanted us to give her some sign as to who was who. 34
“I’m Josie,” Josie said and jerked her head at me. “That’s Maddie.” Coach Lena smiled in relief, we watched her eyes flick over us as she memorized what colors we were wearing. “Nice to meet you,” she said with a wider smile. “Come over and we’ll have some fun.” --- It was fun, even though I still would have rathered be taking ballet. I actually grew to like my pink leo because it made it easier to pretend I was a ballerina. I was disappointed to learn that gymnasts didn’t wear slippers, they just went barefoot. In the absence of slippers, I had to wear socks so I could dance around the house twirling. “Are you sure you don’t want to take ballet?” Mom asked me one day when I pirouetted into the kitchen. I froze, I’d figured that once we’d started gymnastics we couldn’t stop. I didn’t know what to say. Josie was sitting at the table behind Mom, as always when there was a tough decision I looked to her for help. She gave me a look that said, “Don’t you dare leave me.” That answered that. I looked back at Mom. “I was just pretending,” I said. “I still want to do gymnastics.” --- After that, I was careful not to dance around the house anymore, I simply went to gymnastics practice and acted happy because Josie was. Josie and I had been taking lessons for a couple months before I first saw what would be the basis of my eventual love for gymnastics. It started out as a normal lesson. We were working on our somersaults when I heard a clang. It came from the part of the gym that contained a couple of beams on legs that held them a couple feet off the ground. When I looked over I saw that we weren’t the only people in the gym. Normally, our class was the only one in the gym during our lessons, but today there was an older man I’d seen around before and a girl. The girl was about ten and she stood on one of the beams. Her right foot was in front of the other because the beam was so narrow, and she held her hands out in front of her. As I watched she raised her hands over her head and leaned over backwards, raising her right leg as she did. I watched as she bent until her hands touched the beam. Her right leg was now pointed straight up in the air and she pushed off with her left foot. For an instant she was balanced on her hands, with her legs in splits, then she continued moving them. Her right foot touched the beam and she folded herself back into an upright position. I stared in shock. I hadn’t watched the Olympics with Dad and Josie so that was the first time I’d ever seen anyone do something like that. I was floored, I’d never seen something so graceful. “That’s balance beam,” Josie said coming up next to me. “I don’t like that one. It’s weird.” “Yeah,” I echoed thoughtlessly. “It’s weird.” but I felt the same tight feeling in my chest I felt whenever I said I didn’t want to do ballet. --- Josie and I reached level four (the first competitive level of women’s gymnastics) at age seven, after spending a couple of years mastering the basics. Our gym wore cute blue-and-yellow leotards with sparkly gemstones on the shoulders. I was excited and proud to be wearing my competition leo. I was sure that those shiny medals would soon be mine. Our team started off on the floor--a large, slightly springy space perfect for tumbling. As I watched, Josie and the other girls on my team went one after another, each doing the same pre-prescribed routine. My stomach began to feel funny and I realized that I was about to be judged by the scary old lady who was sitting on the other side of the floor. My hands shook and by the time it was my turn, I was shaking so badly I could 35
barely walk. I stumbled forward, took my starting pose and waited for the music. The music started and I began my first tumbling pass. In level four, that’s just a front handspring. I leaped forward, my hands slamming into the mat and my momentum carried the rest of my body over my head. Then I pushed my hands off the ground and flipped back to vertical. My feet touched the ground, but then I slipped and landed on my butt. I wanted to cry, but I’d already been indoctrinated to get up and keep going after a mistake so I got up shakily and went on. I was fine until I reached the part of the routine where I was supposed to do the splits. I did that with no problem, but then my mind went blank. What was supposed to be next? I couldn’t remember. How was I supposed to keep going if I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next? I sat down in the middle of the floor and burst into tears. I refused to compete in the other events, but Josie did well. She came in fifth in floor and got silver in vault. On the car ride home, I sat in my car seat and tried to ignore her giggling and showing her medals to our parents. I was deeply jealous. I wanted those medals too. --- Despite my disastrous first competition, both Josie and I qualified for level five by the end of the competitive season. We were both excited, but we didn’t realize that things were about to change. When we qualified for level five Coach Lena sat down with our parents and basically told them that if the Olympics were where they wanted Josie and I to go, our current gym was no longer the place for us. She recommended them to our state’s only Olympic training gym and Mom and Dad looked into it. Josie didn’t like the idea of switching gyms, but she wanted to be in the Olympics so she eventually conceded. I went along with it because she did. I also wanted to get away from the people who’d seen me freeze up at my first competition. Coach Lena had told me over and over that no one held that against me because “everyone gets a little stage fright every once in awhile.” Still, I couldn’t get over the worry that everyone was looking down at me and that everything I did would be overshadowed by my first competition. I was anxious to go somewhere where no one knew about it. The coaches at this new gym were stricter and the training was harder. We spent our nights popping the blisters we got on our hands from uneven bars. Josie didn’t like this new gym as much, but she kept hanging onto the dream of Olympic medals. She especially hated Coach Alice; a middle-aged woman who had been an Elite gymnast back in the days when the Soviet Union won all the medals. Her specialty had been beam, and her response to anyone who said they didn’t like beam was to send them back up and beam to do another workout. Beam was Josie’s least favorite event and she was very vocal about it. She ended up doing a lot of extra beam workouts before she learned to just keep her mouth shut. --- If you would have asked me back then, I would have said that I hated beam as much as Josie did, but I would have been lying even to myself. I still hadn’t learned to make decisions and form opinions that weren’t Josie’s. I didn’t like beam because she didn’t, but the truth was that deep down inside beam had always fascinated me. Whenever I watched gymnastics videos on the internet, I watched beam. I stared at those videos for hours and hours. Josie said the gymnasts looked clumsy because there was no music, but secretly I thought they were beautiful. It was Coach Alice who made me aware of my own preferences. We’d been training at the new gym for a couple of months when she and Head-Coach Greg had to talk to Mom about something. Coach Greg talked and everyone else was just listened and tried not to fall asleep. I watched a video on the iPad of Aly Raisman on beam during the London Olympics. I didn’t realize Coach Alice was looking over my shoulder until she leaned down and whispered in my ear. “You know you could be as good as her if you practiced.” 36
I jumped and stared up at her. She smiled quietly. “Do you want to be like her?” I looked down at the little Aly on the screen; beautiful, graceful, powerful and perfectly balanced, then I looked up at Coach Alice. “Yes,” I said. --- Josie and I qualified as Junior Elites at age twelve. Elites get international experience that can lead to the Olympics. Josie was ecstatic and I was too. Sometime over the years gymnastics had sort of snuck up on me. I wasn’t doing gymnastics just because I didn’t want Josie to be angry anymore. I was doing it for my own sake. I was focused on the beam. Josie wasn’t having as easy of a time as I was. She resented all the hard work we had to put in. She wanted metals, but she didn’t want to do the work. This came to a head several years later, when we were in the process of training for the Olympic Trials. We’d been working on the uneven bars that day, and I knew that Josie and I had a long night of popping each other’s blisters to look forward to. Josie was getting tired and had started to whine. “Can’t we do something else?” she asked over and over again. Finally Coach Alice heaved a sigh. “Do you think that Olympic judges will care if you’re bored?” she asked “We’ve been working on this for ages,” Josie argued. “Can’t we at least do something different?” “Not until you get that transition.” We watched as Josie did the transition, flying through the air as she went from the higher bar to the lower one. She made it, but her form was sloppy. She could do way better. Coach Alice shook her head. “That’s not good enough. Get down here so we can talk about it. Maddie, it’s your turn.” Josie dropped to the ground and went to talk to Coach Alice. I moved to take her place, adjusting my grips as I went. When Coach Alice was done talking to Jose, I pulled myself up onto the lower bar then stretched across to the high one. I did a couple rotations around it to gain momentum, then I did the transition. As far as I could tell it was perfect. I stopped swinging and dropped to the ground before turning towards Coach Alice and Josie. Coach Alice turned to Josie. “That’s what I want you to do.” “That’s what I did,” Josie said. “No,” she replied. “Maddie was far cleaner. You need to need to focus more on what you’re doing rather than just getting done with it.” “She was cleaner this one time,” Josie shot back. “She got lucky.” Coach Alice raised her eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then took a deep breath. “She didn’t get lucky. Maddie is considerably better than you. She has been for years.” Josie’s head jerked back like she’d been slapped. I stared at Coach Alice while shock and something a little like pleasure flooding my veins. I was better than Josie? That never happened. “You’re lying,” Josie said. “Your technique is sloppy and your work ethic is awful,” Coach Alice said. “Maddie’s much more hardworking and as a result she’s more consistent.” Josie’s mouth opened and closed as she tried to think of something to say. The silence was deafening. After a few minutes, Coach Alice turned and headed towards the office. “How about you go home and think that over? I’ll see you both tomorrow.” There was another long pause, I walked over to Josie, brushing the chalk off my hands. She jumped like she’d forgotten I was there. 37
I wasn’t sure what to do. “Josie…” I whispered. She turned on me with a glare. “I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped and stalked away. I popped my own blisters that night. --- Stony silence reigned between Josie and me. It was the kind of silence that you give a judge at a competition. The kind where you never speak to them and barely look at them but everyone can tell they’re all that’s on your mind. We made it through a week like that, then things exploded. We were working on beam. We’d only just started warming up, and we were running through the exercises we’d both done a million times. I wasn’t actually thinking about Josie; I was focused on doing the exercise just right. I always worked to do things perfectly, but on beam my obsession doubled. Coach Alice was watching us from the ground. “That’s still sloppy, Josie. Follow every movement through.” I glanced at Josie out of the corner of my eye. She was practically shaking with rage. It wasn’t surprising that she was doing so poorly; you needed to be focused on beam. Coach Alice must have seen this too, because she sighed. “Why don’t you two take five minutes? Get some water and come back here ready to work.” We hopped off the beams and headed over to the place we’d set our water bottles. I picked mine up and took a drink. It took me almost a minute to realize Josie wasn’t doing the same. She was just staring at me, her lips pressed together. “What?” I asked. “I’ll bet you’re happy, aren’t you?” she said. “Is this about Coach Alice?” “You know the answer to that question,” Josie snapped. “You’ve been strutting around all week acting so high and mighty because she thinks you’re better.” “I haven’t been strutting.” In fact, I’d been doing my utmost to act the same as always in the hopes of convincing Josie to forget the whole thing. “Really,” Josie rolled her eyes. “And I suppose you don’t feel any pride in Coach Alice thinking you’re better.” That I had no answer to. I was pleased. I liked the thought of being better than Josie. As soon as I admitted that to myself, I shoved the thought away. I was better than that; it was my job to stand by Josie no matter what. I was her twin and I wanted us to stay close. “I think you’re good,” I said. Josie snorted. It was an ugly sound that made me jump. “You don’t need to lie, Maddie. You know I can tell.” I was lying. What I’d just said was the hollow reassurance that should have come from someone who knew nothing about gymnastics. I knew too much about the sport to say stuff like that. “I’m sorry.” Josie shook her head. “I should have just let you do ballet,” she grumbled. “But I don’t want to do ballet,” I said as calmly as I could. “I haven’t in years.” “That doesn’t mean anything,” Josie turned away, sniffling like a small child. “You wouldn’t be here if you’d taken ballet.” I pursed my lips, carefully. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything anymore. I’m here now.” Josie whirled around, her face contorted in rage. “Don’t try to make me feel better!” she snarled. “This is all your fault!” “My fault?” I asked. “I don’t have any control over your gymnastics.” 38
Josie shook her head, ponytail flying. “It’s all your fault,” she repeated. “How?” “It just is,” Josie snapped and started to stalk away. I reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “Josie-” She jerked away from me. When she turned back to me, there were tears in her eyes. “Can you just leave me alone for a minute, Maddie?” she asked. “I’d like to be alone.” Never. I wanted to say. We’re twins. We’re supposed to stay together. But something in Josie’s expression stopped me. I looked at the tears in her eyes and realized that I wouldn’t actually help. She needed space, even if I was irrationally afraid that if I let her walk away now she’d never come back. Josie was my twin, and I needed to think of what was best for her. I stepped back. “Okay,” I said. Josie gave me a watery smile “Thanks, Maddie.” Then she headed towards the locker rooms, while I stood among the equipment and watched her go.
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Wings Ally Wilber Soot on Paper
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on leaving the volume on By Ryan Edquist
Every night after the hustle and bustle of a long day I turn my cell phone from silent to on I make sure that if it were to go off It would do so at a volume That terrifies half a city block You see, you can’t let a ringer go off during the day It’s annoying and disturbing and ruins people’s focus At night most people still set their phone to vibrate For a salubrious slumber steadily silent But I still leave my volume on All it took was just one instance Until I slept with the volume on It’s a funny thing memories; Most become hazy blurred clouds Becoming less a story And more the feeling Of spinning colors and fond nostalgia Not this one. Kaleidoscoping Sharper and clearer every day Or maybe that’s just me punishing Myself for not leaving the ringer on It’s been a while, to the point Where I have to remind myself I can get undressed at night This isn’t safe though What if I forgot to put the ringer on? I sleep fully dressed in case I have to respond I definitely left the ringer on. I return to my slumber Sinisterly sirenesque. Lulling me away from vigilance
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The nightmare was much less; this time the monsters only ate my head. I take solace in the fact that it could have been worse I could’ve relived why I leave the ringer on Sleeping with other people becomes a real problem Aren’t you going to get more comfortable? They ask as I crawl beneath the sheets I’m perfectly comfortable In a winter parka I’m not cold At least not in the way That any number of layers could warm Maybe I should check if the ringer is on “What is that sound?!” “Just a text” I sigh relieved Maybe I shouldn’t have left the ringer on A crisp January. A new year a new you I always say. And I guess she agreed 3:04AM Who could’ve known I didn’t leave my ringer on. I had a phone call. She saw the darkness There was no way back for her A shotgun, her newest purchase. And thank god the monsters only ate my head last night.
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Idyll’s Trouble Ryan Edquist Photography
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When She Breaks Your Heart By Elizabeth Floodstrand
Wait for your parents to go to sleep, then close your door. She’ll want to talk, not with you but at you, and you know this won’t be good. The summer has been rough and you could physically feel her losing interest in you, day by day. Your 3 a.m. Skype dates had turned into infrequent “what are you up to now” texts trying to grasp at straws of conversation starters. Everything was surface level, but at the same time almost too deep, like the problems you’re facing are more adult than you can be right now, but you try and fail. She’ll tell you all that you’ve done wrong, that you don’t make her happy any more and that you haven’t for a long time. Your whole body shakes and you can’t get warm as you take her words like punches, blow after blow beating you down. Her words flying, no longer making sense as you become more and more disoriented. This couldn’t be happening. This can’t happen. You’ve told yourself that this would never happen; the promise ring sits heavy on your hand weighing you down. Because a love like yours is an eternal flame that would never burn you. Or hurt you -- never send you to a place that you wouldn’t be able to return. But love lies. Love no longer looks like the girl with rounder cheeks, burning auburn hair, with wide hazel eyes hidden behind black frames. Love no longer looks like that girl who locked herself out of her room at 2am that night in November when you watched movies all day long. Subsequently, of course having to spend the night in your scary lofted bed and like a gentleman, or an idiot, you offered to sleep on the floor. You knew somewhere deep down though, that that wouldn’t last long, because she’d grab her phone and you’d tell her she had to sleep, it was so late at night and there were classes in the morning. She wouldn’t agree unless you joined her up there, so you did. Love doesn’t look like five dollar movies and grilled cheeses, nor does it look like late-night-seconddinner runs to places that seem like worlds away now. Love doesn’t live here anymore. Instead in it’s place, a vacancy that only loneliness and hate can fill. Because she doesn’t love you. And you’re still too drunk or high on the idea that love -- and only fucking love -- can fix you. With her voice marking you like a whip, she makes sure you know how fucked up you must be. How insane that you must be to think you still want to be with her, or that she’d waste any more of her time with you. How could she think time with you, someone she’s shared so many laughs and so much love with would be a waste? You can’t believe it, you want to fight for her, for the girl that who brightened your day even when it seemed impossible. Even now, when it appears that she’s so clearly over you. Or is she? She’ll say she want’s to be friends, that you both have been so much apart of each other’s lives that it would “truly suck” if you weren’t friends anymore. You will hesitantly agree, but your insides will flip inside out. How are you supposed to be friends with someone that for the last two years have been kissing without… thinking about kissing her? Long story short, you know you can’t; but you’re along for a ride through hell anyway. Because she will still kiss your cheek and your lips, let you buy her dinner, take her to fun places like arcades and apple orchards, and she’ll grab your arm or snuggle into you when you ask to hang out, so long as no one she knows is around. “You’re an idiot” your friends will say shaking their heads “What are you doing? Why are you doing that?” You know as well as everyone else that all she is going to do is rip the rug out from under your feet and you’ll land on your ass like Charlie Brown trying to kick that damn football. You need to sweep up the 44
pieces of your broken heart and start glueing them back together. Move on. Don’t text her! Don’t call her! Don’t! And don’t you dare look for her on your way to class, she doesn’t love you and all of her actions prove it. But you love her, and she knows it. She thrives on it. She knows by your past that when your phone lights up, that you will answer her right away, even though it causes you heartache. She was your life, and now the only reason for your phone to light up anymore. Nonetheless, like a love sick puppy, you answer her beck and call. She’s lonely after all, and she “wants to be friends” again. So here is your in, how you can still be with her. She chooses when she wants you in her life, and it’s only when it’s convenient for her, and like an upright bass you’ll get played. Again and again. You will do more than just let her play you, you’ll even tune yourself first, plucking each string a little harder turning the pegs for perfection, because that’s what she thinks she needs, perfection. For a little while things seem to be falling in place again, not how they used to be but not the worst they’ve ever been. Until she gets bored with you, runs out of current problems to talk at you about, or gets tired of having to dodge questions about why you’re still around from friends you’ve used to share, who’ve only heard one side of the tragedy. She won’t want to be friends anymore then, and she’ll tell you over the phone because she won’t be adult enough to say it to your face. You make her feel bad about herself without doing anything. This is because you are a mirror, she sees herself in your reflection of what she is doing to you: confusion, pain hurt, and none of this is equal to that perfection she so desperately wants. She’ll end the phone call by telling you to fuck yourself. When you see her after that she’ll look through you, those warm eyes that once held so much love, now like darts shooting through the air like you’re not there but still hitting bullseye on your already mosaic heart. It will fall to the ground and shatter once more. All you want is to have her back in your life no matter how little she’d be there. So you will play her game time and time again. No matter how how many times it breaks your heart. Until she is done, used you until you have nothing left, and are seemingly just a shell of who you used to be. Sometimes the harder you try to get her off your mind, the more she is on it. Your memories together are burned into everything you do, but now, what was once sweet, is tainted. There is no escaping her name in conversations, she is always there. You want to give up, and just when you think you are ready to at least try she pulls you back in. She’s lonely after all and she “wants to be friends” again… your unfinished letter of resignation tucked amongst the things of hers still left in your closet.
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Silent Haikus By Emma Lemke Screeching little birdEarly in the morning light. By golly, shut up. Screeching little birdMornings are meant for sleeping! For the love of god! Screeching little birdIt’s not like we can’t hear you! OH SHUT THE FUCK UP!
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One Moment of Lament Ally Wilber Oil on Board
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Night View Kierstin Leudtke Photography
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The Dancing Girl By Joseph Galbreath
She twirls in the violet twilight of the flawed hardwood dance floor. Her sapphire dress, hugging her body, morphs, ebbing and flowing, as her arms raise and her hips sway. Her lips, a dark lavender in the enchanting light, are like black ink on a white cotton canvas. Her curled ebony hair swells along with the resounding pulse of the baritone bass. I watch from a table, my eyes trace her lines and motion. I’m biting my bottom lip I can taste my peach lip gloss dissolve across my tongue. I inhale the musty air of the club, and my spark breathes into a new candle light; I ascend to her aquamarine ember.
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Long Days and Longer Nights By Cori Fredericks
As day melts into night, rain begins pattering on the window. Rhythms beaten on drums and music which no one can see Turns the sky a deep shade of grey, opening up on the world Reminding us that things end, And things begin. But all that surrounds me is the endless vortex of thought, Swirling and trapping me Where I am unreachable from the sofa, two feet away. I need to get away, I need to stop, I need to. Breathe. Walk away from the situation, Take a step in the right direction, Except I’m not sure which way is right anymore. I’ve been spun in so many circles, turned over, stabbed in the back I can’t tell if I’m sinking or swimming Drowning in invisibility; Don’t drown. Certified in saving lives And bringing dead bodies back to life. But not everyone can be saved Because some people get lost in the wreckage of days gone by And I am here. Waiting. Wishing. Hoping that I can make it another day Because it feels like I won’t make it another hour. But time keeps moving, ever marching forward. Refusing to stop While I am standing still at the window. The shades are drawn. I cannot see out and the world cannot see in Cannot experience the world of pain That I am feeling beneath the surface Because looks can be deceiving And not everything is what it seems And it seems that things are going downhill 50
But how do you call for help When the screams get lost in the wind And torn from your throat so You are left without words; Without a choice, or a say in the matter Because what matters now Is waking up Seeing the real side of life And recognizing that nothing is perfect But I can damn well try And as night melts into day The thoughts of the night are taken, Stolen, Pulled away on golden beams of light, And I am Free.
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Workhorse
By Ryan Edquist I think of all the times I move Sometimes it’s dexterous tip tapping Sometimes it’s a fluid, gentle rising Sometimes it’s packed bags- Many times it is packed bags Belongings in small boxes Belongings that never fill the trunk Belongings net worth, 2,500 dollars If I die I am worth 2,500 dollars, fuck I know this isn’t how we think of things But let’s play the game of net gains and losses But let’s play the game of good outweighing bad But let’s play the fucking game I have played this game I kept my head down I kept belongings in boxes I kept a promise on my mind The promise has withered The American dream is dead We have buried it We have the dirt under our nails We have proved it for generations Generations come and go, and nothing changes Toil on, the dream is fading Toil on, the bills need paying Toil on, this is your place I hope not. I want to move.
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Chiseled Paul Ninneman Photography
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Bones Ally Wilber Soot on Paper
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Forgiveness
By Ryan Edquist I heard of forgiveness “It is taking the knife Out of your back and not Using it to hurt someone else.” Tug as I might Wounds were left I didn’t think of hurting Though I was in pain I chopped strawberries Mismatched reds Clean the weapon Toss the food Toss the weapon? Clean the wound? I think I should ask what does it look like to bleed out….
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A Courageous Heart By Eve Green
Our fire has always seemed comforting, fighting off the chill of winter in this one part of the house, casting elegant shadows that dance across the room in the warm glow. But not tonight. Tonight the fire fuels a furnace, the room becoming unbearably hot; my own cheeks burning with flames unable to quell the numbness spreading through my veins. The pain behind my eyes intensifies as I become acutely aware of her presence in the room. Mum looks at me, emotion stifled by a decision she’s already made. The weight of her expectations crushes my will to speak. Vocal chords knotted in my tight throat, I wait for her to speak. My ears start to sting with the heat of anticipation, because as much as I don’t want to hear it, I know what’s coming. “I know this is hard.” She pauses, waiting to see if I’ll say something. “But I think it’s time. She isn’t a puppy anymore. She’s suffering. We have to be kind.” The prospect of being without her tears at my heart as memories play at the back of my mind. Just this afternoon she had run up to meet me as I’d come home from school. She always does, every time I come home. She’d jumped up on my legs just for a second before running to the back of the house, tail wagging in excitement, and then she’d run back to me and jumped up again so I could ruffle the fur on her ears. She’d kept jumping and running in circles around me, slower now than she used to be, making sure she was never more than a few feet away, as though my coming home was the most exciting thing that had ever happened, although it happens every day. No person could ever make you feel that valued. Nothing has ever made me want to come home more than to see her so excited to have me back. This afternoon we’d sat on the carpet in the TV room after she’d finished running around. As soon as I’d sat down she’d jumped into my lap and settled herself, letting me run my fingers through her fur, seeming as though the world couldn’t be more perfect. The pain resting behind my eyes intensifies as fear begins to take over. How do I distinguish knowing what is right from being selfish? I bundle the fleece blanket in my fists and pull it close to my stomach. The soft fabric moving over my crossed legs only makes me think of her more, and the stinging behind my eyes grows stronger as my vision blurs. She’s still happy. When she’s with me, lying on the couch in my arms, she’s happy. I know she is. In those moments she’s at peace. She doesn’t feel the pain. Not sure how to make her see, not sure if it’s even right to try, slowly I hear words come out. “If that’s what you think is best.” It doesn’t feel like the words came from me. It doesn’t feel like I’ve said anything at all. Eyes fixed on the blanket in my lap, my heart constricts. Betrayal. The word echoes through every part of my body, bouncing off every bone and reverberating in every chamber of my heart. Then, cowardice joins it. A small part at the back of my mind is yelling, screaming in the hopes I will hear it in time to change things. Fight for her! Fight for us! It’s not selfish to want her to stay when you know she’s still happy. But reason fights back. The seizures. They aren’t regular yet, but she’s in pain. She’s getting old. It will only get worse. It was only yesterday that she had had another one, her third this week. I’d come into the living room to see her walking towards her small cushioned bed. She’d looked unstable. Then, she fell; her body started spasming. Her legs twitched as her neck stiffened, holding her head away from her body. I ran to her and knelt down, not sure what to do. I yelled for Mum to come, but I couldn’t stop looking at my beautiful dog. Her big, brown eyes terrified me: there was so much pain in them. But what pulled at my heart the most was the love that was in her look: she knew I couldn’t help and she forgave me anyway, her love unconditional. After a minute it stopped. She lay on the floor, panting softly, completely fatigued. I sat with her a moment 56
the floor and curving my body around her, placing my hand on her side. We lay like that, together, till she could move her head. Lay there still until she could get up. After she had gotten a drink of water, I carried her to the TV room and held her against me as we lay on the couch, until we both fell asleep. My eyes begin to sting. “Next week then.” Mum looks at me, her eyes full of sympathy. “That will give us some time to say our goodbyes.” Unable to move, my body numb, flames burn beneath my cheeks. After a few moments she gets up and leaves. Alone. Finally alone. My head falls to rest on my knees as I bring my legs to my chest. The composure I’ve been working so hard to maintain begins to break. Finally, I allow my grief to take over, letting the tears fall. By the time I can muster enough energy to move, the whole corner of the fleece blanket is damp. The call comes the next day. She’s had another seizure and this one was worse. Mum’s done waiting. Eyes stinging and headache building I try to maintain composure till the end of my shift. As I walk out, she’s already there in the car, ready to take all three of us to the vet. Too soon. Too soon. Covered by the weight of my blankets, I clutch her collar tightly in my hands, holding it close to my chest. Without her lying next to me my arms feel empty, muscles longing to enfold around her small body: the result of years of nights spent falling asleep with her between them. I wait, for the pain to come, for the guilt, for the anger at my mother for making us do it. But there is nothing. Emptiness fills me like silence flooding a vacant room. She is gone. A painful, unnerving shiver causes my body to convulse. Head numb with pain, my muscles, aching with fatigue, shake and contract as the sobs move through my body. Slowly, eyelashes heavy with tears, my eyelids find the strength to relax and my body obtains the peace it so desperately desires. Sleep. My one escape. In the darkness I’ll be reunited with her, and I will forget the pain, until tomorrow.
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An Open Letter
By Ceanna Caelwarts This letter is to all the boys out there who think it is okay to sexually abuse girls, because while some ‘boys’ might think it is, it’s really not.. A man is someone who has grown up and someone who treats not only their girlfriends right, but also their mothers, families and even waitresses right. But these boys do not know what that is like. These boys may not be classified as a boy in terms of age, but they do not deserve the title of a man if they hurt women. They only know how to be boys who sexually assault -- rape women. I am writing to tell you that it is NOT okay. Never. No questions asked. If you hear a no, a stop, a hiss, a scream, then for the love of god, STOP. If she has stopped responding or fighting back, then stop. It’s just that simple. Sexual assault and rape shatters confidence, trust, and self-esteem. They affect your relationships, your state of mind, your ability to find good within yourself. After something like that has happened to you, you feel worthless. Alone. Abused. Defeated. Disgusted. Silenced. How do you tell those around you what happened to you? Not everyone is willing to believe you. Some will blame you for what he did. Like you encouraged it, like you wanted it to happen. Bullshit. It’s not your fault. Please remember that. You are free to tell your story to those who deserve to hear it and you never have to breathe the word to those who don’t. To all the boys who think it’s okay, it is NOT okay to hurt women for your own pleasure. You should be ashamed for having those thoughts, or worse, acting on those impulses. How is it fair that some women are afraid of the entire male population, just because one guy made an advance on her? Plain and simple, it’s not. Why is it okay that some women do not get to choose who they give their virginity to? It should be THEIR choice. All it leaves is... tainted memories and lingering pain. Why is it that after this happens, these terrible things haunt her for years to come? No one knows, and they shouldn’t have to. Don’t be the boy who haunts her nightmares. You made a mistake. And we shouldn’t have to suffer. This needs to stop here and now. Sincerely, The brave ones 58
Current Status Ally Wilber Oil on Board
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Forget-Me-Not
By Joseph Galbreath I remember the first time I saw that house. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car with my husband, holding his hand, watching the blur of green roll past the window. He told me he had a surprise and asked me to close my eyes. I took in the orange pastel marks on the green canvas, and did as he asked. In my willing state of blindness I felt the weight of the car, as mine shifted slightly further. I felt his hand leave mine and heard the mechanical clicks of the driver side car door open and close. I hummed to myself waiting to hear a click coming from my right. My husband’s arm wrapped around me and lifted me out of my seat. I’m sure I heard him grunt and mutter under his breath. I think it was wow you’re so, but he caught himself and ended with beautiful. A butterfly light smile fluttered across my lips. Remember he told me every detail and remember. I inhaled through my nose and was welcomed with the sweet smell of his cologne mixed with the perfectly tart smell of oranges ready to be picked. I opened my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the light. At first all I saw was a silhouette of a house, as my eyes focused I saw the large bay window reflecting my husband and I, the tall oak columns that outlined the patio, the house I had always dreamed I’d turn into a home. I touch my swollen belly and felt my heart leap into my throat as I felt a small kick. This is the perfect place to raise our baby boy. My husband held my hand and we walked through the front door. I stood in the front hall breathing in the air of a new home thinking of the birthday parties that we would throw and the holiday meals we’d cook. I saw the beautifully stained hardwood floor that I would fall in love with. I couldn’t wait to bring you home; A whisper in my ear. He handed me a rose, and walked me into the next room with the bay windows and leather furniture the color of chocolate. I looked out the window to see orange pastel dots covering a green canvas. It was perfect. I looked at my husband. He looked at me. This was perfect.
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I remember the first time I saw that house. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car with my husband, holding his hand watching the blur of green roll pass the window. He told me he had a surprise for me and asked me to close my eyes I took in the orange pastel marks on the green canvas, and did as he asked. In my willing state of blindness I felt the weight of the car as mine pulled me slightly further I felt his hand leave mine and heard the mechanical clicks of the driver side car door open and close. I hummed to myself waiting to hear a click coming from my right. My husbands arm wrapped around me and lift me out of my seat. I’m sure I heard him grunt and mutter under his breath. I think it was wow you’re so, but he caught himself and ended with beautiful. A butterfly light smile fluttered across my lips. Remember he told me every detail and remember. I inhaled through my nose and was welcomed with the sweet smell of his cologne mixed with the perfectly tart smell of oranges ready to be picked. I opened my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the light. At first all I saw was a silhouette of a house, as my eyes focused I saw the large bay window reflecting my husband and me, the tall oak columns that outlined the patio, the house I had always dreamed I’d turn into a home. I touch my swollen belly and felt my heart leap into my throat as I felt a small kick. This is the perfect place to raise our baby boy I told myself. My husband held my hand and we walked through the front door. I stood in the front hall breathing in the air of a new home thinking of the birth parties that we’d throw and the holiday meals we’d cook. I saw the beautifully stained hardwood floor that I would fall in love with. I couldn’t wait to bring you home. A whisper in my ear. He handed me a rose, and walked me into the next room with the bay windows and leather furniture the color of chocolate. I looked out the window to see orange pastel dots covering a green canvas. It was perfect. I looked at my husband. He looked at me. This was perfect.
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I remember the first time I saw that house. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car with my husband, holding his hand watching the blur of green roll pass the window. He told me he had a surprise for me and asked me to close my eyes I took in the orange pastel marks on the green canvas, and did as he asked. In my willing state of blindness I felt the weight of the car as mine pulled me slightly further I felt his hand leave mine and heard the mechanical clicks of the driver side car door open and close. I hummed to myself waiting to hear a click coming from my right. My husbands arm wrapped around me and lift me out of my seat. I’m sure I heard him grunt and mutter under his breath. I think it was wow you’re so, but he caught himself and ended with beautiful. A butterfly light smile fluttered across my lips. Remember he told me every detail and remember. I inhaled through my nose and was welcomed with the sweet smell of his cologne mixed with the perfectly tart smell of oranges ready to be picked. I opened my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the light. At first all I saw was a silhouette of a house, as my eyes focused I saw the large bay window reflecting my husband and me, the tall oak columns that outlined the patio, the house I had always dreamed I’d turn into a home. I touch my swollen belly and felt my heart leap into my throat as I felt a small kick. This is the perfect place to raise our baby boy I told myself. My husband held my hand and we walked through the front door. I stood in the front hall breathing in the air of a new home thinking of the birth parties that we’d throw and the holiday meals we’d cook. I saw the beautifully stained hardwood floor that I would fall in love with. I couldn’t wait to bring you home. A whisper in my ear. He handed me a rose, and walked me into the next room with the bay windows and leather furniture the color of chocolate. I looked out the window to see orange pastel dots covering a green canvas. It was perfect. I looked at my husband. He looked at me. This was perfect.
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I remember the first time I saw that house. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car with my husband, holding his hand watching the blur of green roll pass the window. He told me he had a surprise for me and asked me to close my eyes I took in the orange pastel marks on the green canvas, and did as he asked. In my willing state of blindness I felt the weight of the car as mine pulled me slightly further I felt his hand leave mine and heard the mechanical clicks of the driver side car door open and close. I hummed to myself waiting to hear a click coming from my right. My husbands arm wrapped around me and lift me out of my seat. I’m sure I heard him grunt and mutter under his breath. I think it was wow you’re so, but he caught himself and ended with beautiful. A butterfly light smile fluttered across my lips. Remember he told me every detail and remember. I inhaled through my nose and was welcomed with the sweet smell of his cologne mixed with the perfectly tart smell of oranges ready to be picked. I opened my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the light. At first all I saw was a silhouette of a house, as my eyes focused I saw the large bay window reflecting my husband and me, the tall oak columns that outlined the patio, the house I had always dreamed I’d turn into a home. I touch my swollen belly and felt my heart leap into my throat as I felt a small kick. This is the perfect place to raise our baby boy I told myself. My husband held my hand and we walked through the front door. I stood in the front hall breathing in the air of a new home thinking of the birth parties that we’d throw and the holiday meals we’d cook. I saw the beautifully stained hardwood floor that I would fall in love with. I couldn’t wait to bring you home. A whisper in my ear. He handed me a rose, and walked me into the next room with the bay windows and leather furniture the color of chocolate. I looked out the window to see orange pastel dots covering a green canvas. It was perfect. I looked at my husband. He looked at me. This was perfect.
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Delicate, but Deadly Becky Baijt Photography
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Tour de Feminism By Lillian Lenk You know those times-when you are interrupted-conversations built around You because of the little phrase “Don’t worry about it my sweet” or rather “Don’t bother your pretty little head.” It is something said that means, you are just a pretty face, you don’t deserve to be heard, you are too dumb to understand anyway. You know those times when you don’t even have a right to vote, no say in your country. They say “politics will corrupt women,” and “You wouldn’t understand, so we will vote for you.” It is something said that means, you are easily manipulated, you are too stupid for this responsibility, you are only good for bearing children anyway. You know those times when you decide you don’t need men, that you don’t really like their inventions; bras and smooth legs. So you set some of those things on fire. You even berate your own kind if they continue to let themselves be submissive. It is something said that means, you now are also going to judge your sex, you are trying to make a progressive movement, to help, you however can’t help but start to sound like your oppressors anyway.
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You know those times when your rights are further brushed to the side, like you are, when you might be attractive, so how can You be smart as well. And when you are not attractive, then you probably are not even seen. It is something said that means, you only matter based on your looks, you are nothing more than a contour brush and your bra size, you only need to find a husband anyway. You are either a prude if you say no and ignore or You are a slut if you are thought to be sleeping around, you are a tease if you change your mind. You know those times you are objectified to point that walking on the street becomes a hassle. It is something yelled that means, you can’t have a peaceful walk to work, you have a gambling choice to answer or ignore, if you say “Not interested,” and try to keep moving, he’ll yell back “Well I didn’t wanna fuck a bitch anyway!” You know those times when you begin to think, your oppressors are just scared of you. You suspect it is because science has shown them equality, and if the world is equal how can it still be a man’s world It is something said the means, you might laugh at the men, you intimidate them, you scare men, so you must continue to be silenced anyway.
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You know those times when you begin to see the truth of their fear, You now understand they are terrified of you. decide you do not care.
It is something said, that means, you would be too much, if you had knowledge, you could take over.
Well yes, of course I could, but I want equality anyway.
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Adventuring Kierstin Leudtke Photography 68
Do you remember --
In response to Man vs. Nature by Aspen Geheber By Joseph Galbreath the gentle touch of wet grass, every time you’ve fallen on cold concrete? Why? Because brother, I remember - the agile blades, when i cut myself on the hardened path. the sheltering shadow of a tree, when you sought the haven of an abandoned building? Why? Because sister, I remember - the infinite shades of green, when i see the fractured window glass and broken light. the cold kiss of a shallow stream, as you shoveling red embers into their ovens? Why? Because father, I remember - the icy splash of clean water, when i burn my hands grey as charcoal ash. the beautiful towering mountains, when all you’ve seen is the cage of skyscrapers? Why? Because mother, I remember - the trails lead up its face, when i stray from my chains.
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Junk in the Yard By Maddison Vega
About a year before Julian left, we were sitting in our little room in his basement and he was telling me that he’d been able to see ghosts since he was little. It was June and I was twelve years old, in sixth grade. Julian had turned fourteen two days ago, and had refused a birthday party, as was his tradition. Then on the next Tuesday he called me and told me I needed to come to his house, pronto. It was important. After he’d said what he had to say he leaned back and looked at me, head tilted, wearing that expression of casual scrutiny that more often than not seemed to be his default state. For a while I fiddled with my hands in my lap, not knowing what to say and not, at that point, entirely used to being stared at like I was being tested on something. Finally I cleared my throat and just said, “What do you mean?” “I mean I can see ghosts.” Julian squinted at me. His basement wasn’t brown and cold in the naked light and streaked with water like my basement was. It had dark green walls and leather furniture that stunk like cigarettes, and a big pool table that Julian said was “just for show”, whatever that meant. There was a neon Budweiser sign next to the television stand that had stopped blinking some time ago, and a charcoal portrait of John Belushi, and a whole lot of black-andwhite pictures of warplanes with names that Julian could rattle off without prompting—that’s the Hellcat, the Mustang, there’s the Douglas; badass, right? And these are just the American ones, he’d say. The room wasn’t for us specifically, but as far as I knew we were its primary patrons. We always sat on the same two slippery couch cushions and braced ourselves against the coffee table with bare feet, which I loved because I wasn’t allowed to do that at my house, and took turns eating out of our bowl of green grapes or graham crackers or whatever Melanie had given us that time. Melanie was Julian’s mom. She had a body like a twig that someone accidentally snapped in two and then tried to put back together, and she had eyes that were dark and small, not green and sharp like Julian’s. I only spoke to her four times in the entire seven years that they lived on my street. The last time was one afternoon when I was at their house playing video games and I came up to the first floor to get some water, and she was standing in the kitchen in a limp pink dress cutting an avocado. She saw me hovering there at the edge of the room, and she smiled at me closed-mouthed and said, Hey Jon, I was wondering, where does your father work? I didn’t understand what she meant, so I just stared at her until she said Your father, slow like she was talking to someone who didn’t speak English. I realized then she was talking about Benjamin and said, That’s not my dad, that’s my uncle. My dad’s in jail for life. And she just sort of said Oh, and looked down at the two halves of her avocado again, and that, I think, is probably why I never spoke to her a fifth time. “You believe me,” said Julian after some time. It was more a statement than a question. “Maybe I don’t.” I did, but I was younger than him and under a constant obligation to impress him. “Maybe I’m just trying not to hurt your feelings.” That made Julian laugh. “I don’t have feelings,” he said. “And you suck at lying.” “Are there any in here right now?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Why the fuck would you ask that?” He was allowed to say fuck at this time, on account of being in eighth grade. “Wouldn’t you want to know if you were me?” I said. He wrinkled his nose, but seemed to concede my point. “No, there’s not. There’s none in my house. 70
Before you ask, there’s none in your house either. I check.” “What do they look like?” At that Julian gave me a funny look. Which was odd to me, considering I thought I was handling this whole thing exceptionally well. After a moment he said, “Have you ever seen a human person, Jon?” I blinked. “Yes?” “There you go,” he said. There had to be more to it than that, I thought. “Are they see-through?” “A little.” “Are they all bloody and stuff?” He wrinkled his nose again. “Morbid. No. Not usually.” “But sometimes?” I pressed. “I’ve seen one or two that was.” “How many are there?” Julian scoffed. “There’s a lot of people that die, Jon. It’s kind of a universal thing.” That gave me pause. I rolled that around in my head for a moment. I didn’t really want to think about how often people died or why—it seemed too sad. Most people probably die of old age, I reasoned. Just up and die one day because they’re too old to be allowed to keep living. It must’ve been a fine way to go, which probably kept their ghosts happy, quiet and friendly and not all bloody. Satisfied with that, I looked up at him again. He gave me a knowing grin. “So?” he said, one eyebrow raised. “It’s cool,” I said. I met his eyes, trying to seem casual. “Really cool.” Julian laughed again, this time easy and genuine, not making fun—a rare sort of laugh, for him. He shook his head at me, eyes bright. “Yeah, I guess it is, isn’t it?” Throughout all of high school, Reagan and I smoked cigarettes in my backyard and complained about things: me about Benjamin and my grades, mostly, and her about the girls in our school. I like to think that my bitching had purpose, but for Reagan it seemed more like some sort of compulsion. Her complaining was fairly formulaic, anyway. It’d be Fucking Maria, she’s so pretty she doesn’t even try; or Carmen told me yesterday that she liked my shirt, I bet she’s never even seen Top Gun; or Do you think Angel likes me? She’s always looking at me, but I guess it could just be that she thinks I’m weird, right? I never had anything much to say, seeing as I knew even less about other people than she did, but Reagan’s complaining seemed to keep her blood flowing or her humours balanced or something, and I’m pretty sure she’d fall terminally ill if she ever stopped. So in the interest of being a good friend, I’d just stand there and smoke, and let her bitch. On the last Thursday before graduation she came over in the evening after calling me, saying “I’m on my way so there better be Marlboros”, and hanging up. I picked weeds from Benjamin’s garden in the yard while I waited for her. There weren’t many, but he liked his flower beds clean, with the bright black soil unobstructed so our neighbor with the sports car could see how good he took care of it By the time Reagan showed up I had a small pile of yellowing weeds built up, which she stepped over on her way in. “Hey.” The gate squeaked closed behind her. “Cig me.” She caught the pack with one hand when I tossed mine to her, leaning against the house to shake a cigarette out. After I finished the lily bed I sat back for a drag, looking around the yard. There were something like eight or nine beds in total, not counting the little stripe of flowers that Benjamin had growing along the house. My weed pile was maybe the size of a baseball by now. It would be small dog-sized when I was done. Then I’d have to bag it so that Benjamin could either take it to be composted or throw it in the garage and 71
and forget about it until next spring. “This is gonna take you forever,” Reagan said, raising an eyebrow at me. “I know,” I threw another weed onto the pile. “You could help me, if you were so inclined.” “Yeah, I probably could,” said Reagan, and made absolutely no move to straighten up. In spite of her pathological bitching and aversion to most things, Reagan was a good friend and also, incidentally, the best I had. She knew about a lot of the things I didn’t like to talk about much anymore, like Julian and my dad and Benjamin’s drunken Jesus talks. Likewise, I knew about how often she stole money from her mom and how much she didn’t like her older brother for his cold stare and cynical laugh. Shared secret keeping, it turned out, was the key to a successful friendship. In that regard Reagan and I were almost as close as could be. It went on for a while—her puffing, me pulling, the wind coming occasionally to scatter a few weeds across the grass. I kept expecting her to start talking about Angel or Carmen, but when she finally spoke up it wasn’t about them. “What’re you going to do once we graduate?” I glanced up. “Huh?” She shrugged. “I mean, you didn’t apply to any schools. So what are you going to do?” Reagan had asked me this once before, last year. “I dunno. Stay here, I guess.” “Pull weeds for your old man?” “Probably.” “Huh.” There was a period of silence. I glanced up to see her exhale a reaching branch of smoke. Then she said, “Well, I think I’m going to run away. Maybe go to California. Live on the beach.” I hummed. Reagan on a beach—that was a funny image. I could see her, dressed in an oversized sweater and dirty tennis shoes, making lewd gestures at all the suburban parents that looked at her funny. Burying seagull bones by the playground and laughing at the horrified kids who stumbled upon them. The smile on her face said she knew what I was thinking. “You’ll come visit me, right?” I thought about that for a moment. “As long as you come visit me here, yeah.” “Hm.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth and inspected it, smirking. “Deal.” About a month after the Tuesday night when Julian told me he could see ghosts, we were down at the only beach in town—not a real beach, but the best a small lake town could do. Everyone seemed willing enough to act like it was the real thing, bringing their bright towels and giant umbrellas and doing their best to hunt down a spot that wasn’t too cold or rocky. I didn’t like the beach very much myself, and neither did Julian—neither of us were ever real outdoorsy types. But a few times we would be walking down our street and talking and when the conversation would dip we would look up and find the lake in front of us like a relative that just dropped by unannounced. After we found ourselves there a few times we started coming intentionally because Julian said Better not work against fate. We would walk down some evenings when the weather was nice enough and we wouldn’t swim or anything, just sort of walk around and talk, maybe look at the sun setting on the lake if we weren’t too late. We must’ve looked weird together, two boys in school clothes on the beach—Julian an animated porcelain doll with his black curls and pretty eyes and red cheeks, and then me, tall and brown and gangly. A stranger couple than Gandhi and Hitler, Benjamin would say. (He said that a lot to me back then, about me and Julian, and I never knew if I should ask him which one of us was supposed to be Hitler.) It was a Friday, and even though it was summer and buzzing warm the beach was only just dotted with people. We walked from the parking lot to the line of the shore, bumping shoulders, talking about anything and nothing in particular. Then Julian stopped.
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I stopped, too, and said, “What?” He didn’t say anything. He was squinting at something behind me. I looked. There were two beach-goers on towels, just laying there and not being particularly interesting in any way. “What are you looking at?” There was a pause, but then Julian said, “I see someone.” “I see a couple people.” “Not those people.” That was all I needed to hear. I felt a rush of hot nerves—this hadn’t happened before when I was around. “Who is it?” “A girl. A little girl, I think she’s—like, seven.” His brow furrowed. “Maybe eight.” “What does she look like?” I said eagerly, and he frowned and described her: skinny, he said, dark skin and hair so short she looks bald, and she’s got a red dress on. A sundress, maybe. I took his description and drew her in standing next to the sunbathing couple, bending like a thin tree in a breeze to splash in the waves while the real living people lay like dead fish. Julian had gone quiet, and so I did, too, not wanting to break whatever moment had claimed us. I looked in the direction he was looking and in the silence I tried my best to see the little girl and imagine the way she was moving—maybe slow and fluid like a dancer, arms outstretched to something under the waves. Or, no, maybe more like the graceless way of kids—and then I remembered a video I had of my mom trying to get me to dance with her when I was real small, in the living room of our old house. She had looked like she was trying to dance with cement blocks on her feet. Maybe it was like that, I thought. After a while Julian cleared his throat. He was looking maybe a little paler than usual, but he met my eyes unwaveringly. “We should keep walking,” he said. I figured if he thought it was OK then it was OK. He kept walking, and I followed. After a minute we started talking again and we didn’t mention the little girl. But even then I knew it wasn’t over—his eyes kept pulling back to the water, and he kept missing parts of my words, like he wasn’t really fully there. At some point he just stopped again and wrapped his arms around himself. I stood next to him, looking where he was looking. “Is she OK?” I said, and wondered about the point of asking that question in regards to a dead person I couldn’t see. In response, Julian took my hand and pulled me for a few stumbling steps, until our toes just barely dipped into the wet sand. He pointed out at the water with his other hand. “She’s standing right there, looking at me.” “She can see you?” “I guess?” Julian sounded uncertain, which was weird in and of itself. I stared hard at the nothing in the water. There was movement, sure, but it was too calm and too rhythmic to have been stirred by anything other than the wind. Then I saw it—something red and fleeting, just a glimmer where red shouldn’t be. It was enough. I looked back at Julian then, wondering. “What do we do?” I asked. I thought he must have some idea—he was Julian, after all. “Nothing,” Julian said quietly. I stared at the side of his face, the slope of his nose, his dark eyelashes. He squeezed my hand, not looking at me. “There’s nothing we can do.” Benjamin’s living room—which at some point over the past few years has become my living room—is warm in the coldest way. Lots of brown or gold crosses. And pictures, too. Most were of Benjamin: some of him young with stern-faced relatives I didn’t recognize; some of him in suits with slick-haired men wearing fake smiles; some that he always said looked like me, though I never really saw it. Back before I lived here
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there had been pictures of Benjamin and my dad, too, mostly of when they were kids. The day after I moved in, though, when I came downstairs for breakfast, I saw him taking down every picture with my dad in it and throwing it into a big grey bin. To make room for new ones, he said with a forced smile when he caught me standing there staring at him. I never saw the bin again. Every time she comes over Reagan spends a lot of time looking at the pictures, getting real close to each one like she’s analyzing the pixels. She’ll spend extra time and scrutiny on the few that have me in them, sometimes making a joke about how I apparently looked high all the time as a kid, or how I only ever seemed to wear shirts with stripes on them. She was doing the same after graduation, when she came straight to my house. Standing there in front of the fireplace, she was still wearing her graduation gown under a Green Day hoodie and the flat black shoes that were probably the only non-tennis shoe sort that she owned. She’d taken the bobby pins out of her frizzy hair long ago, leaving her sort of looking like a mad scientist in the hair department, and the dark makeup she put under her eyes had smudged into indistinguishable lines. “That’s your mom, right?” I knew exactly which picture she was referring to, but I glanced over anyway. My mom had brown hair, lighter than mine, straight until it hit her shoulders and bent out at all angles like fraying wires. She had freckles on her nose and dark eyes, like me. In the picture Reagan was staring at, she was wearing long earrings like little chandeliers and had bright red lipstick on. She was leaning against the kitchen counter in our old house, smiling at the camera, or specifically at the person taking the picture—which had been me. We were about to leave for her sister’s birthday party. My mom wore a nice peach dress with a scooping neckline. It bared her arms, so she had used makeup to cover her bruises. “Yeah,” I said. “She woulda been happy to see you graduate, huh?” I shrugged. “Probably. My dad didn’t think I ever would.” Reagan jammed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and bobbed her head as if I’d just told her something profound. She squinted at my mom’s face. “She doesn’t look much like you, at least in this one,” she said thoughtfully. “She looks happy.” “I don’t look happy?” I said. Reagan looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Right now, or in general?” “I don’t know. In general?” She looked me over for a few moments. “I mean, not really. Most people don’t look happy most of the time. You maybe look a little extra nothing than most people.” She gave me a sly smile, one that pulled her already-thin lips even thinner. “Sometimes I think you secretly don’t have feelings.” I pretended to consider it for a few seconds. “Mmm, I don’t think I do.” She laughed at that. “Me neither,” she said, smiling at me with teeth. “That’s why we’re friends.” The last time I saw Julian was when I was thirteen years old. It was Sunday afternoon. Benjamin had gone to bed right after church because God never intended for man to work on the Lord’s day. I was up, sitting on the ground in the family room, trying to get through English homework. When the knock on the front door came it was so quiet I nearly missed it, and I stared at the door for a good few moments wondering if I’d just imagined the sound before finally getting up to go answer it. “Jon, I have to tell you something.” Julian’s voice came before the door was open all the way. His hands were balled to fists at his sides, and the way he looked—mousey, almost, or like an ant looking out for a boot—I had never seen that before.
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“What?” He pressed his lips together, then told me to come out and shut the door. I did, standing on the porch in my socks and rubbing my arms where my shirt left them bare to the wind. For a moment he looked at me. Then his eyes flicked past, to something in the distance. “I saw your mom,” he said. Silence. I stopped rubbing my arms. Maybe I didn’t hear what he said right away. Maybe it didn’t really click. So stupidly I just said, “What?” “Your mom. I, uh. Saw her.” His brows were pinched together like he was in pain. I stared. And just kept staring. “Sorry.” Julian was shifting his weight. “I, um, didn’t know if I should tell you—” Then I stepped back into the house and slammed the door. Something happened to my head then, like a switch had been hit somewhere and then everything was just noise. All the shit that my idiot brain demanded I say—where was she, what was she doing, was she still mad at my dad, was she wearing her pajamas or the dress they buried her in, did she look happy? I didn’t ask any of those things. Couldn’t. From the other side of the door Julian said my name quietly, once, and then nothing, and I prayed to God he was leaving. Eyes screwed tight, stomach on fire and all I could think was breathe breathe breathe and then my eyes started filling up with tears on their own and I thought Fucking Julian, always tricking me, always. The next day he called me once at night, and I didn’t answer. Two days later, when Benjamin drove me to school in the morning, I didn’t watch his house roll by my window. The next week he was gone. The weekend before graduation, I helped Reagan move boxes of junk from her house and sort through eighteen years worth of birthday cards and graded school papers. We sat on our knees in the garage, shoes kicked off and pushed into the corner, music playing from an old boombox that Reagan had found in some closet somewhere. Reagan was smoking more than she was sorting, but it was alright—I didn’t mind the quiet warmth of the garage and the smell of cigarettes, so I didn’t complain. “Thanks for helping me. Not that I expected you to say no.” She gave an impassive yawn. “I’m pretty sure I’m your first friend ever, so you’re kind of stuck with me.” “Not ever,” I said, setting down some kind of shoddy ceramic bowl on the ground with a clink. Reagan must’ve made it herself, if the frustrated globs of glaze were anything to go by. “Oh, right. There was that smart kid who moved.” She glanced up at me, as if expecting me to supply the name that she’d clearly forgotten or maybe never bothered to remember in the first place. I didn’t. Instead I pulled another box towards me, which, from what I could tell, was full of garbage—newspapers, packing peanuts, ripped pieces of paper. “What’s with all this shit in here?” I said. Reagan craned her neck to see. “Fuck if I know. You can probably trash that shit. Recycle,” she corrected herself. I started picking out the stuff that could get recycled—paper plates that looked clean, plastic cups, a milk carton. I was about to go back in when something caught my eye and I stopped. There was a photograph on the carton, just a little flash of color, enough to compel me to pick it up. It was a girl. Maybe eight, or younger. Her skin was dark, black hair so short she almost looked bald. Across her shoulders were thick straps of what must’ve been a red dress, one of them skewed. The little girl’s smile was massive. Under the picture was a name I didn’t know, and the words Missing since July 14th, 1999. My eyes moved down on their own, and I read: Last seen: With family at Sheridan Beach. “Hey, once we’re done with all this shit, I thought maybe we could—hey, what’s up? Something wrong?” Reagan was at my side. Then she was crouching, reaching out to turn the carton in my hand so she could 75
“Do you . . . ” A pause. “Is that someone you know?” “No,” I croaked. My throat felt tight. Reagan paused again, wearing her hesitancy like a heavy blanket. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her staring at me, waiting—but I had nothing, and so nothing came. She went quiet for a long while. “OK,” she said at last. “Well, uh, I think we can—let’s finish this shit later. OK?” She reached over and took the carton from me, careful. My hand dropped to the pavement. “We can go back inside,” Reagan said quietly. But she made no move to stand up, and neither did I. A breeze skimmed past the entrance to the garage, stirring the flowers. We sat in silence.
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Writer’s Block Ryan Edquist Photography
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How It Works By Valerie Pike
Get over it. That’s not how it worksWork harder. That’s not how it worksJust be happy. You don’t get it, That’s not how it works. Every day is a battle Between two halves of Your self One side of you hates everything. The world. Mornings. People. Working. Moving. You. …Yeah… Especially you.
And it wants you to feel that way, It wants you to run away From the world It wants you to hide From happiness It wants you to feel like you can’t. Can’t do anything. Can’t be happy. Can’t be loved. You can’t “Get over” A monster that feeds on every little thing That goes wrong in your life You can’t “work harder” When you are at battle Every moment of your day You can’t “just be happy” When your happiness is so easily shattered By the monster’s sweet words
The other side of you tries, It tries to like things, It tries to get up in the morning, It tries to keep working, It tries to be happy, But it’s really hard to fight
They don’t love you They were making fun of you You will never be truly happy You are a failure You will be all alone
Yourself
Except for me.
Because you can’t, Run away.
Until you’ve had a monster of your own You will never get it But try to understand That we can never get over it Because it is a part of us And we’ve worked hard To live with it,
You can’t, Hide You can’t
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So don’t tell us words that feed the monster Failure Give us words that we can use as swords to fight. Is there anything I can do to help? Do you want to see a movie you like? Do you want to go to your favorite restaurant? Let me know if you need me. You are loved. You are important to me. You are worth it. Those are the things that will help us “Work harder” and “Be happy” Just not the way you think It’s different. But that’s not wrong So next time, Listen. Don’t speak first. Because you don’t understand We are the generals of this war And you aren’t fighting it. So don’t make the rules That guide our battle, Or we will lose.
And we want to win.
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The Phantom Itch of Scars of the Past By Eve Green
There’s something preferable about being alone - a comfort in the solitude of only being you . A simple sense of pride in being able to define yourself on your own terms -- without relying on another to stand with you, claiming part of your identity. Too many scars left from a troubled past, acting as constant reminders that you are broken... Wishing desperately that they could fade away Hoping that there will be someone to whisk you away. It seems too simple. After all, you know what you want: someone who won’t run when you need them the most. But. You know you can’t pick them - you have terrible taste. Always falling for the ones you know aren’t for you. Looking at your friends, you see how much you have. And yet, still, something is lacking. For once wouldn’t it be nice to have someone you know you never have to worry about, because they always make you proud. But still to feel that spark of the heart that makes your pulse quick and uneven. Still to have that sense of desire, to feel the warmth of love’s comforting fire. All at once - yet all alone - desire pangs with painful strength as you recognise all you’ve lost, And fear you are not enough to gain the one thing you truly desire - not a person, no one specific. But a relationship, a connection. A feeling. Always left alone.
Always…
Wanting
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Singularity Kierstin Leudtke Photography
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Christ Church, Oxford England Kierstin Leudtke Photography
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Music?
By Ryan Edquist Sometimes my body feels music It is quiet and soft and just keeps going, like a run-on sentence It is eyes-closed drifting in space, infantile, And it doesn’t develop. Sometimes my body feels music And it is prickly loud word, needles from fingertips. Click-clacking on keys constantly craving outlet. It is agitated bittered and not to be silenced, Demanding action and will not quiet until Of course I allow its voice; which just keeps going Like a long-drawn stanza, that doesn’t necessarily fit. Sometimes my body hears music Loud-quiet voices in tangential discussion And I’m not sure if I wasn’t listening before Or just walked in late— Not quite music I guess, But what else do you call something That’s neither here nor there, Not real, not-not real either.
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Socially Acceptable By Emily Janssen
The dress wasn’t worth the exorbitant amount Charlie’s father had spent on it. It was just a little periwinkle summer dress, nothing really fancy. She couldn’t imagine Mom ever dropping that much money on anything. Still, such spending didn’t seem to be unusual for her father. The entirety of his mansion was a study in the opulent and expensive. She walked down the smoothly polished front stairs and headed towards his study. He’d told her to come to see him when she was ready to go. She tried not to touch the dress too much. She couldn’t believe she was going out in something like this. She thought of James with his worn boots and fingers encrusted in dirt from farm work and hoped he never saw her like this. He knew about her parents—he always had—but she didn’t want him to see her differently than the girl with tangled hair and ripped jeans she’d been with him. The door to her father’s study was a sturdy thing of solid oak that had been polished until Charlie could see her reflection in it. In the three months she’d lived here, she’d never seen it opened for longer than it took for someone to leave or enter. It was yet another thing that was different from home. Mom had had a study, but her door had always been open. Charlie wasn’t even sure what her father did in his, because famous movie actors didn’t work in offices. Of course, it was possible that he did do something productive. Mom had stopped acting when she and Charlie had moved to Utah so Charlie had no idea what actors did when they weren’t on movie sets. She raised a tentative hand, took a deep breath and knocked. “Enter,” a voice said from within. She pushed the door open and stepped into her father’s domain. The room was even more extravagant than the rest of the house. The floor was covered in thick, dark brown carpeting, the type that clearly showed the footprints of anyone that walked on it. The walls were a rich wine red color and adorned with paintings and a couple of bookshelves full of tomes Charlie wasn’t sure anyone actually read. The shelves also bore her father’s multiple Oscars, all of them shiny and completely pointless and screaming out the so-called accomplishments of the great Philip Réan. Her father sat at a shiny wooden desk in the middle of the room like a king waiting for an audience with his subjects. People said he was attractive, but she thought he looked like an old man who’d had a lot of work done. He was coolly studying something on his laptop and didn’t look up as Charlie closed the door behind her and took up a position on the carpeting before the desk. After what felt like forever, he finally glanced at her. It was only a brief flash of the pale gray eyes that were the only feature she shared with him, but it was long enough for him to see the dress. “So you’re going after all,” he said looking back down at the laptop. “You told me I had no choice.” “I did no such thing,” her father said. “I simply pointed out the grave social error not going would be.” “It’s just a party.” “It’s an important social engagement,” he said without looking up again. “I’m sure your mother never bothered to explain that concept to you.” Charlie clenched her teeth and forced herself not to respond. At moments like this she realized just how lucky she’d been in Utah. Her parents had never officially divorced (neither of them had much fancied turning into a tabloid sensation), but when Charlie had been five Mom had simply packed their things and they’d headed off to a ranch Mom had bought out in Utah. With the exception of the movies, Charlie hadn’t seen 84
her father again until he waltzed into the hospital three months ago, a scant four hours after Mom had died. It was obvious that he looked on the life she’d lead with Mom with nothing but scorn. He seemed to believe that now that Charlie was his problem it was his job to turn her into a perfect model of high society. Sometimes Charlie wondered what he would do if she told him about the time she climbed an old water tower because James’ older brothers had said she’d be too scared to. The thought was tempting, but if she was going to keep living here, there were some lines that shouldn’t be crossed. “If I have to go to this party, can I at least drive myself?” she said instead. His gaze stayed fixed on the laptop screen. If her loathing had shown in her voice, he didn’t react. “You haven’t exactly impressed me with your driving skills.” “You haven’t let me drive since I came here.” He heaved a sigh and looked up. “Fair point, I suppose. Take the Tesla to the party, and if you do well, I might let you take it to school.” He had never let her drive one of his cars before. The butler, William, had driven her everywhere. She was pleasantly surprised by this turn of events; she’d been missing the freedom of taking herself places. She took a deep breath. “Which one?” There were three, each a different color. “The red one William’s been taking you to school in.” She bit her tongue to keep from smiling. “Thank you,” she said. Now he did look up. His eyes were cold and distant. “Take care of it, Charlotte.” As always, the name grated. Before she’d come here, she hadn’t been called Charlotte in years. Not since she’d purposely gotten herself expelled from the ritzy private school she’d gone to in Elementary school by punching anyone who said something she didn’t like. When she’d started at public school, she’d said her name was Charlie Halverson and had thrown Charlotte Halverson-Réan somewhere into the back of her mind where she hoped she’d never have to see her again. She pressed her lips together. “The car will be back without a scratch,” she promised. — The party was being held at the house by the lake that was owned by the family of some senior girl whose name Charlie couldn’t quite remember. The house was as big as her father’s, and the parents didn’t seem to think there was any reason to be there for the party. All the students of Charlie’s new private school were there, because the party was an annual thing and it was social suicide to skip. All in all, it wasn’t Charlie’s type of party. It didn’t help that she didn’t have any friends. Sure, there were a couple girls she’d talked to in classes, but they were too busy gossiping and kissing their boyfriends to bother with the new girl. After stumbling her way through a couple of awkward conversations where she clearly wasn’t welcome, she found herself a semi-abandoned corner of the backyard and curled up there with a plate of hors d’oeuvres. She eyed the swirling mass of people and tried to figure out how long she had to stay before it was socially acceptable to leave. She wasn’t the only person who didn’t seem as into the party as everyone else. A boy sat a short distance from her. He was underdressed in clothes that had probably been bought at Kohl’s. He probably went to the public school. A well-dressed but decidedly ditzy-looking blonde fluttered over to him sometimes, giggling and whispering things in his ear before floating off to talk to other people. She was probably the one who’d invited him. Charlie spent a couple minutes wondering what purpose inviting him served, then decided it was best not to wonder. She did her best to ignore him, and eventually he wandered away too. After what felt like forever but was probably less than an hour, she decided that she was done. She would leave and find someplace to hang out for a couple hours so her father wouldn’t ask why she’d left early. She slid around the throngs of people, through the house and out onto the street. There were some people 85
in the front yard but the street was fairly empty save for the cars lining the sides. Charlie strode down the row of cars to the Tesla only to realize she wasn’t the only person out in the street. The boy she’d seen before--the one who didn’t fit in--was wandering around. She was standing by the Tesla, the keys in her hand, before she realized he’d noticed her. He looked from her to the car and made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. His lips moved in, and it didn’t look like whatever he’d said had been nice. “Do you have something to say?” she asked. He jumped like he hadn’t expected her to notice him. “Me?” “You know I can hear you,” she said. Technically that wasn’t true, but she figured it didn’t much matter. “And I have a right to my opinion,” he said, regaining some of his composure. “And what opinion is that?” Now he grinned. “A car like that is wasted on a spoiled rich girl.” Any sympathy Charlie had felt for him vanished. She’d spent years back in Utah trying not to be exactly what this boy had just accused her of. “The car is my father’s,” she said through clenched teeth. She wasn’t sure if that made it any better, but she had to say something. “Do you know what to do with a car like that, rich girl?” he asked. “I’m sure I know better than you,” Charlie shot back. “Have you ever even touched a Tesla?” His face got red, she’d struck a nerve. “No, but at least I’d appreciate it if I had one.” “Who said I don’t appreciate it?” Charlie said. She’d definitely appreciated driving herself here tonight. “A car like that isn’t meant to be just driven from place to place so you can look superior,” the boy said. “Cars like that are meant to race.” At that moment, the blonde who’d been fawning over him came up and looked suspiciously between them “Brett, what are you doing out here?” Charlie and the boy (Brett, apparently) ignored her. “Race, you say,” Charlie said with a smile. Her heartbeat sped up. She’d been in this kind of situation before and she knew where it was heading. She was surprised; she’d thought she’d had her last of these confrontations when she’d left Utah. “You got a car?” “Are you mocking me?” “No,” she said. “If you have a car, I’ll race you.” Brett’s jaw dropped and he stared at her for several blank seconds. Then he drew himself up and puffed out his chest. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?” — Brett’s car was a rusty yellow model that he’d painted with black stripes in an attempt to make it look like the transformer Bumblebee. Compared to the Tesla it looked like it might just fall apart on the spot, but Charlie figured it was probably more reliable than it looked. The street outside the house was a quiet boulevard that looped around the lake. The loop was about five miles and bordered by guardrails on the lake side. No one but the people who lived in the expensive bungalows that surrounded the lake used it. At this time of night, it was practically deserted. It was the ideal place for a race. Charlie’s car was parked closer to the house so she got the right side of the road, Brett pulled up next to her in the oncoming lane. Not very smart, but she left him to it. By this point all the party guests had heard that the new girl and the public school kid were going to race. They’d crowded into the front yard to watch and were chatting excitedly. Someone had found a green pillowcase and stuck it on a broomstick as a makeshift flag. Vaguely, Charlie wondered if this was the first time any of these kids had ever made do with something before. 86
Brett rolled down his passenger window and waved to her. She sighed and rolled down her own window. “What?” He smiled, his shock at her challenge was gone now. He was getting cocky. “You’re going down.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “You do realize there’s no way you’re going to win a race with a Tesla in that thing, right?” Brett turned bright red, all self-confidence gone. “I’ve made some modifications,” he muttered and rolled his window back up. Charlie shook her head and rolled her window up as well. The quarterback of the varsity football team walked out onto the street and stood between the cars. He raised the flag, Charlie watched his lips move to form the words, “Ready, set, go!” He brought the flag down and Charlie stepped on the gas. She got into the lead quickly because the Tesla accelerated faster than Brett’s beater. Within seconds she was hurdling down a dark stretch of road at eighty miles an hour with no one in sight. Of course, she could see Brett if she looked in her rearview mirror, but if she looked ahead she saw nothing. The last time she’d done something like this, she’d been behind the wheel of an old Chevy truck, the one that James had bought for five hundred dollars off his uncle. The steering wheel shook under her hands and floorboards burned through her shoes. She was two months from turning sixteen, and she’d never driven without Mom before. James—sixteen years old for a whopping three days—was riding in the passenger seat. They were laughing wildly and screaming insults out the windows to the infuriating senior guys they’d just left in the dust. They’d been alive and free and she’d never been so happy. This race couldn’t have been more different. The suspension in the Tesla was good. It didn’t feel like she was driving thirty-five miles an hour over the speed limit. It didn’t feel like she was racing. She could have just been taking a drive. All at once she wished she was driving a car like Brett’s; a car where she could hear the engine roar and feel the road beneath the tires. A sense of profound sadness swept over her. Brett was probably right, she realized. She was nothing more than another spoiled rich girl. She’d spent years in that public school in Utah, trying to pretend to be a normal kid, but aside from James no one had known the truth about her family. Maybe she really was just a rich kid playing at being normal. She tried to focus on what she was doing, but her speed slackened. Brett inched up on her and was beginning to pass her. They flew along the road side by side. She glanced to the left and he grinned at her. Her anger came back; she couldn’t let him win. When she turned her attention back to the road, she was shocked to see something large and dark slink out onto the road. It was a dog. Brett didn’t have time to stop. He swerved to avoid the dog, and his car slammed into the side of the Tesla. Charlie was jerked towards the side of the road. The blue of the lake loomed before her. She was going to go into the water. She twisted the steering wheel and slammed on the breaks. She was going to crash into the water. She was going to drown. The car slammed into something. She was thrown sideways. The seat belt bit into her stomach. White filled her vision, and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the water. It took her several minutes to realize that she was not in the lake. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She was still surrounded by white, but she now realized it was from the airbags. She shifted hesitantly, almost afraid that the motion would be enough to send the car plummeting down into the lake. However, the car remained stable. Something had stopped it before it could hit the water. The guardrails probably. Charlie bit back a sob. She was alive. She wasn’t going to drown. A fist pounded on the window. Brett. Charlie took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She wouldn’t cry in front of Brett. She refused to. When she had herself somewhat in hand she shoved the door open, 87
not caring that he was in the way. “Are you alright?” he asked. His eyes were wide and terrified. “I’m so sorry! I panicked! I-” “You’re an idiot,” Charlie forced her voice to remain steady as she got out of the car. Her legs were shaking, but she locked her knees and bit her lip. “You could have killed me!” She almost expected Brett to say something nasty, but he just folded into himself like he wasn’t sure how to react. “I-I-” Charlie took a deep breath. Calm. Stay calm. She stepped around to the front of the car to survey the damage. The Tesla had been stopped the guardrails that ran along the side of the lake. Both the rails and the front of the car were bent and beaten out of shape. “I’m going to need to call someone.” Brett looked like he wanted to run, but he surprisingly stood his ground. “Will your father be mad?” “What do you think?” Brett’s hands opened and closed convulsively. “Th-then maybe I should go.” “Very brave of you.” Charlie dug around in the car until she found her cell phone and turned back to him. He stood there looking conflicted for a few more seconds then began to back away. “I’m really sorry for hitting you,” he said. “I really didn’t mean to.” Then he turned and hurried towards his car. It started with more of a rattle than before, but seemed to be working just fine as he pulled back out into the road. Charlie watched him go. She tried to feel angry that he’d just ran off when this was his mess too, but she couldn’t. All the false confidence she’d displayed for him vanished. She could no longer keep from shaking. She sunk back against the side of the Tesla and slid to the ground. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and exhaled shakily. Her father was going to be furious. Maybe it would have been better if she’d gone into the lake. Perhaps she should try not to mention the race, but she wasn’t naive enough to think that her father would never find out. Maybe that lie would protect her from the full force of his wrath for tonight, but eventually he would figure out about it. Did it even matter if her father knew about the race and about Brett? The Tesla was damaged and that alone would be enough to make him furious. It wouldn’t matter that he hadn’t even used this Tesla before she’d come here. This would prove was that she was just as untrustworthy as he had assumed she was. He would use this as an excuse to take away what little freedom she still had. She drew her knees to her chest and rested her forehead against them. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be back in her old house. She wanted to sit at the kitchen table and feel Mom’s hand run through her hair as she prepared to go to work. She wanted to wear jeans and tee-shirts and old tennis shoes, and go to a school where everyone wasn’t the child of someone important person. She wanted to kiss James on the hood of his truck, secure in the knowledge that he didn’t care that she was Philip Réan’s daughter. She wanted to go back to Utah and be a normal girl again. She clutched her phone and tried to bring herself back into reality. That life was over. She could never go home again because it didn’t exist anymore. Mom was gone, the house had been sold and she was here living the life of a girl she didn’t know. She understood all of that, but it didn’t make it any easier. --- “What. Where. You. Thinking?” her father stood behind his desk, hands planted on the top. He leaned threateningly across the smooth surface, shoulders tense and eyes dark with rage. Charlie opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “I know the answer to that question. You weren’t thinking. You were acting like a child!” 88
Again, Charlie tried to speak but he wouldn’t let her. “This is ridiculous. You were supposed to go and make a stately appearance at that party and instead you crash my car!” “I was trying to-” Charlie broke in but he cut her off again. “And who was this boy you were racing?” he demanded. Finally, he stopped to give her time to speak. “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t get his name.” She wasn’t sure why she was covering up for Brett, especially since her father would inevitably find out anyway, but it didn’t feel right to just sell him out. No one deserved to have the wrath of Philip Réan focused on them. Perhaps she could save Brett from that for just a little longer. Her father made a frustrated sound. It was almost like he’d expected her to make finding the person who’d helped her ruin a perfectly good Tesla easy. He paced back and forth behind the desk for a couple minutes, then whirled back to her. “What made you think this was acceptable behavior?” “I was proving a point,” Charlie said before he could cut her off again. What kind of point would crashing a Tesla possibly prove?” This time Charlie cut herself off. When Brett had called her a spoiled rich girl she’d felt like had to prove that he was wrong about her, that she was a normal kid just like he was. Her father wouldn’t understand that. Besides, the race hadn’t exactly proved anything. She’d crashed which said very little for her driving skills regardless of whether or not the accident had technically been Brett’s fault. Her father took her silence as surrender and pushed on. “I don’t know what your mother thought she was doing with you. Obviously, she never bothered to teach you the first thing about proper behavior. I’ll bet she let you run around doing stuff like this all the time.” Charlie’s fists clenched in two handfuls of the ridiculously expensive dress. It didn’t matter that she had “ran around” getting in races back in Utah, the fact that he was insulting the way Mom had raised her was too much. “If you don’t like the way I act,” she said through clenched teeth, “then maybe you should have actually shown some interest in me before I got dropped in your lap.” He froze. When he looked back at her his eyes were like icebergs. “Your mother wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me.” “You never even tried,” Charlie snarled. “Even when Mom was dying, you never tried.” She half expected him to claim that he’d spend years sending long love letters to Mom and leaving messages begging to see them, but he didn’t say anything. The silence stretched between them like shards of glass, like one false move would cut. Eventually her father said, “What do you expect me to do, Charlotte? Do you want me to cry and blubber about how you’re right and how I have no say in your life? How your mother saved you from a horrible childhood with me? Do you want me to bring her back from the dead so you can go back to your ‘perfect home’ with no mean daddies suggesting that maybe it’s time someone tried to control your behavior?” he smile was nasty and transformed his face into something ugly and strange. “Do you want to go back to that mundane existence in the middle of nowhere with Mommy to take care of you? Is there a boy there waiting for you?” Charlie lifted her chin. “There is,” she said. “And his name is James.” She only gave herself a moment to bask in his shock at hearing her admit it before pushing on, “I don’t care if you think my behavior tonight was inappropriate. If I were having this conversation with Mom maybe I would feel differently, but she was the one who raised me. She was the one who stuck with me and showed me that she cared about me no matter what. You didn’t care about me until you had no other choice. You don’t have the right to tell me what to do.” 89
He stared at her, his jaw slack. He didn’t have the faintest idea how to react. She said nothing more, just nodded briskly and headed for the door. Her father spluttered his voice back to life. “Stop right there! We’re not done here, Charlotte.” She opened the door, the paused and looked back. “My name is Charlie.” she said and left, leaving the door swinging on its hinges exposing to office to the outside world.
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Maria Antoneita de las Nieves as La Childrina Jorge Gutierrez Drawing
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Being Human By Amy Fels People are curious entities. To be a bipedal form of flesh and bone and water is strange to be sure, But beyond the physicality of ourselves is where the true oddity of being human lies. Our heart can be broken into endless pieces, Yet it will still continue to beat as strongly as when it felt whole. Our strength is found in persevering without the help of others, Or in knowing when to ask for it. Our silence can sometimes say more than a speech, Because it also echoes of the things we’ve left unsaid. Our thoughts and emotions are riddled with complexities and paradoxes That often make no logical sense. Consider this notion and It becomes a miracle that we can relate to one another at all. Which, perhaps, makes being human all the more curious. Because not only have we created the infinite chaos of our hearts and minds, But we find peace and joy and happiness in it where we could expect to find despair. From the deepest, darkest core of ourselves shines a light. And that is what makes our physical existence radiant.
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Journey to Possibilities Valerie Pike Photography 93
Angel Leaves
By Gabrielle Horstmeier “This ain’t about leaves, lady,” I said. Lady said, “Sweetheart, if you’ve got a life left to live deep down in that heart somewhere, we damn well better talk about those leaves.” I didn’t have anything to say to her. They didn’t understand my mess of a mind. * * * Nobody knew about Noelle. I didn’t yet either really, except I thought she’d have honey hair and miles of light behind the gold flecks on her mahogany eyes. She’d love to swing with her hair down when the wind bit a little so she could feel the breeze brush it along her face like bristles. I’d see her running ahead of me with her arm reached back so our hands would meet when I could finally catch up to her. She’d look back at me over her shoulder smiling. I wrote to her a lot back then. “Dear Noelle,” I’d say, and then I’d tell her about my day. It always came back to the foster lady I was staying with at the time. She changed every so often, once she got sick of me or my games, but I called them all lady. They were all the same. Don’t do that, Skylar. Skylar, what are you doing now? Skylar, you’re such a misfit! And eventually, No wonder nobody keeps you around, but they usually muttered that one. Fourteen wasn’t so bad, though, even with lady and her laws I was breaking. I always went back to her house eventually after my wild nights. I didn’t get where the fuck they thought I would go if I didn’t, but they always got pissed anyway. I didn’t know where you were. I’d say, Well I did. They’d say, I was worried about you, and I wanted to say, Calm the fuck down and you’ll care about me about as much as I do. But I didn’t say that to all of them, just the last one. She said if I didn’t care then she had no reason to, and she threw me out on the street. That shit really fucked me over because I didn’t make it ‘til 18 when they’d help you get on your feet alone. Really I ran. Told people she pushed me, which she did, but not the way they thought I meant. She pushed me away because she cared too much. I don’t get attached to people who have the choice to leave me or make me leave. That’s why I wrote to Noelle; she couldn’t do either no matter how much she’d say she hated me some days. So anyway, when Lady tried to pull me back in, I pulled away. And I don’t know who pulled more, but somehow I ended up here with my ass on a curb in the middle of downtown Denver with a cardboard sign that says “Pregnant and hungry. Anything helps.” * * * She kept staring at me. I knew she wouldn’t leave it alone, but I stared right back at her like the badass I wanted to be. “Skylar, I’ve talked to you about the leaves. You can’t pull them off my maple tree. If they didn’t fall for you, they’re — ” “— not mine, I get it.” “Not sure why we keep having the same conversation then. This needs to stop.” When she turned her back to me and walked away, I drew my hands around my body and up to my chest. I relieved their tension, revealing my newest finds and flavors of summer. Seasons were scented differently by nature. But my favorite were fall because they died to meet me, too. I didn’t have towork so hard to make them my own. It wasn’t time for those yet, though. I was still in the alive time of year. And I always thought you worked harder in life than you did in death. * * * Dear Noelle,
I’d say it was a good day because it kinda is. Isn’t it funny how people ask you how your day was 94
before it’s even over? Well it’s barely 6 and I’m exhausted. But I feel like going to the coffee shop and reading Virginia a little. She sorta speaks what my mind can’t. Lady doesn’t. She thinks I’m “too much” and that I need to stop with the leaves because it’s summer. The thing is though that I can’t. They’re all of you that I have. I feel what your skin will be like along their smooth surfaces. I taste what your breath will be in their breeze when I hold them between me and the open window. It makes me want to jump just a little less. That’s why I can’t just wait and have the dead ones. Those don’t make you feel real, and I’d rather keep believing you’ll come someday. Lady told me today I’m gonna leave soon. She said it’s ‘cause I’m getting older and she’s better with younger kids but also ‘cause her husband’s sick. Funny thing is I’ve only gotten four months older since I’ve been here and her husband’s cough started before I got here, probably because he’s just as sick of her as I am. No way I could make it on my own out there like I tell her I could. I put on such an act. Please don’t take these words as advice someday. Lady hates when I go out at night and says it ain’t right for a fourteen-year-old to be alone. Well I just do it to prove her wrong. Really I just go to the river below the bridge between here and the next town over. I just write to you mostly and watch the ripples from the stones I throw. Guess I just pretend to do what they think I’ll do so they like me a little less and less each day. Just waiting ‘til 18 so I can get the hell out of these places where you’re supposed to feel “loved.” Noelle, you’re the only one who won’t be able to leave me. They could. The farther away I keep them, the better off I’ll be. I’m only here ‘cause my mom was a fucked up druggy and lives on the streets somewhere. Probably dead by now. It’s okay though; she’d break your heart, too, if you ever met her. I can’t wait to see you, Noelle. You’re the only one who will understand my kind of crazy. Love you forever, Your Sky * * * Part of my “therapy” was writing because they were all like, Yeah, writing’s good for you and all that shit. I didn’t think I needed fuckin’ therapy though. I was fine. But because I was such an obedient foster brat, I wrote this poem titled “Peace out, Megabitch”: You’re the bee’s knees, Stick with me, please, Don’t leave me here alone. But one cold night, I encountered a fright, For all that were left were your bones. I read it out loud and lady and her husband thought it was cute ‘til the bones part. They got these really fuckin’ weird looks in their eyes and stopped blinking for a while. They never had me go to therapy again. It was about my mom because for all I knew she was dead in a ditch. Hadn’t seen her since I was seven when she left me to figure out fast food by myself. Here’s $5, Sky. Get whatever. I’ll be right back. She didn’t come back. I sat in a sticky McDonald’s booth with a happy meal toy and ice cream dripping down my hand and onto my baggy sweatshirt sleeves until they 95
closed and one of the workers took me to the police station. Nobody had heard from her since, or so I was told, but when I was 11 and living with some wild hippie lady, I snooped through her desk to find my papers. All they knew was she was probably on meth because they found traces of it in our apartment, which she had abandoned along with me. * * * Dear Noelle, You’re gonna come see me soon. And when you do, I hope you’ll look at me and love me the same way that I’ve always loved the idea of you. I thought your dad was the one exception to my policy: don’t love anyone but Noelle. I let myself slip up. I thought he was gonna save me, not leave me after he loved me up and down. That wasn’t love, though. That was fucking just to fuck I guess. Watch out for those ones. They’re too rough with your body and hard on your mind. I was living with him for a while in his shit hole apartment, but it was better than the streets. When he found out I was pregnant, he had me out of there so fuckin’ fast I barely saw the color in his eyes go from deep brown to black like they do when he’s pissed. I swear I don’t imagine it. I hope your eyes don’t do that because it scares the hell out of me. For him, yelling to get the fuck out and never show my nasty ass around there again was easier than sharing you with me ever would’ve been. I don’t ask for help. But today I had to. I’ve been staying at a women’s shelter in the city and getting help from doctors that come check us out sometimes. But I know how pregnant I am. I still don’t know what I’m going to do after delivery. Or how the fuck delivery will work. I’m seventeen years old. I figured out tampons from the damn box. I’ll see you soon, though, Love. You won’t have to worry like I did. Love you forever, Your Sky * * * I woke up here this morning not really sure what to feel. I felt instantly empty without her inside me. I saw her face last night, but I couldn’t remember everything. I guess I fainted or something. But she came. The nurse eventually brought her in and laid her in my arms, and I graced her head with my mouth. She smelled like new life and her skin smoothed against mine, kissing me like the leaves had done for so many years. I knew she’d come. * * * Dear Noelle,
You precious angel, I will never let you fall from my sky.
Love you forever,
Mommy
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Streets of Venice Mackenzie Skumatz Photography 97
Daily
By Abbey Flower From the churches and the schools Brown bodies in brown coffins Buried beneath black earth. Black like looking down the barrel of a blue gun And begging on stiff knees in the red-run streets “Please” Mother “Don’t” Sister “Shoot” Father “Me”. There are white lilies on headstones But white anger picks the petals clean And the barren stem is like the Empty black houses that don’t understand why. Why their daughters and sons and wives and husbands weren’t allowed to wear a sweatshirt or buy a pack of gum or breathe.
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Barren Dead Becky Baijt Photography
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Nihilism 101
By DeLou Wilson [Lights fade about halfway in. The stage should be obfuscated but not obscured from a curious audience member’s prying eyes. The stage is blank, save for a single wooden chair sitting upright at its center.] [The chair is made of a dark wood: perhaps walnut or an age-faded mahogany. In this half-light, the chair looks imposing, even menacing-- a vague, humanish shape in a half-dark space toying with primal, half-remembered human instincts. The audience’s nostrils should instinctively flare in fear.] [Maddeningly, the chair is placed slightly off center: enough for the audience to suspect it was intentional, but not far enough to suggest an answer either way.] [Everyone waits. The waiting thickens the time until one feels like they’re breathing in molasses.] [Abruptly, the lights fade the rest of the way in. The house lights also flip on. Now the entire theatre is standardized by an ugly mustard colored light. The audience can see the chair clearly. It has a dull, rich pallor that reflects the mustard light. The chair’s arms are stained black with the patina of eons, the varnish worn off the seat from countless asses.] [The stage is also wooden. It is marred by deep scars, but only in certain places.] [These are the areas where a dulled sword has struck during a stagefight; the remnants of a bloodless combat rehearsed ad absurdium; the same actor struck down day after day, pretending that their ichor and their gore seep out upon the floorboards even as their liar lungs process the musty theatre air.] [The bystander audience lauds these Whores of Babylon and their falsehoods. Their applause is an ongoing monument to how cheaply we hold life and death.] [Modernity makes pretend at civilization, but the rabble knows the truth. At each false, fatal blow the observers had lapped up the scene. Their innermost hearts prayed that the actor would not get back up. They have each closed their eyes and imagined the slurry of blood and offal, salivating at the fantasy’s unrepentant sanguinity.] [They will envy the actor his death.] [A spotlight appears, strafing wildly about the stage. It comes to a shaky rest somewhere Northwest of the chair. It highlights nothing, but it commands attention.] [Beat.] [The audience grows uncomfortable. They suspect a trick.] 100
[Beat.] [But they are a good audience. They are a patient audience. They have encountered tricks before.] [Beat] [The audience glances at itself.] [Beat] [The theatre has never been this patient before.] [Beat] [They begin to get nervous.] [Beat] [They dare each other to act-- to unravel the holy position of observer.] [Another Beat] [The theatre takes no notice.] [Another, arduous beat.] [Finally. PERSON 1 wanders in, stage right] [Ah, a protagonist. The audience will lean in, grateful to study; to observe.] [PERSON 1 is thin and intense. They are haggard with worldly years. Their eyes are hollow and wooden.] [The audience waits. They have seen antiheroes before, but this one intrigues them. Or maybe it’s the circumstances that are intriguing. The audience is unsure.] [The theatre takes no notice.] [PERSON 1 stands, motionless. They contemplate the stage, the chair, the audience.] [The audience sits motionless. They study the stage, the chair, PERSON 1.] [PERSON 1 slides into motion, smooth as quicksilver. They glide to the center of the stage and forcefully kick the chair over.] 101
[The noise breaks over the theatre like the thunder of God. It reverberates. The chair lay vanquished.] PERSON 1: [Faces the audience, defiant, and shrugs] Whatever. [PERSON 1 exits the way they came.] [Beat.] [Or PERSON 1 could have exited the other way. The theatre takes no notice.] [Another Beat.] [Silence and waiting.] [Keep waiting.] [The audience should show signs of their discomfort.] [Keep waiting.] [They will wonder if it is done. They half-reach for their jackets, unsure whether they should continue to observe or if they are now the actor.] [The theatre takes no notice.] [One will become bold eventually. They will pretend that they have the power to leave. They stand.] [The theatre takes notice.] [Immediate cut to velvet blackness.] [Beat] [In the darkness there may be shouts or screams. There may be anything that a wicked heart wishes. It matters not. The bold one may scrabble back to their seat or they may remain lost.] [The time drips, congealing until seconds pass like minutes. The audience strains to see. They fail.] [Despair falls.] [Lights fade about halfway in. The stage should be obfuscated but not obscured from a curious audience member’s prying eyes. The Stage is blank, save for a single wooden chair sitting upright at its center.] [The theatre takes no notice]
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