SCAD Artemis 2016 by SCAD

SCAD Artemis

Cover image: Ying Chen, M.F.A. painting, Shanghai, China .

SCAD Artemis

Introduction At the Savannah College of Art and Design, creativity knows no bounds. Offering more than one hundred degree programs — the most diverse assortment at any art and design university — SCAD is uniquely positioned to prepare undergraduate and graduate students for careers in thriving, in-demand fields. People from all over the world choose the SCAD writing program because of its widely published faculty, comprehensive curriculum, and high post-graduate employment rate. SCAD offers unmatched resources such as Ivy Hall, a hub for distinguished visiting scholars-in-residence, lectures, and literary salons. Through the Ivy Hall Writers Series, students have received coaching from such acclaimed writers as Elmore Leonard, Augusten Burroughs, and Jeannette Walls. Our writing students are immersed in a learning environment that exposes them to varying creative styles, formal and informal techniques, and journalistic approaches. The curriculum provides a foundation in visual art and art history courses that enrich observational sensibilities and enlarge the writer’s ability to describe and narrate. Students also develop an understanding of design and computer applications to prepare for work with multimedia and new media content — skills that land jobs.

When you view the work in this volume, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see poems, essays, stories, and plays that represent the best work selected from the writing major and creative writing minor. These items reflect the talent, hard work, and unique and authentic voices of our students. SCAD students often finish their degrees with publication credits to their names and are prepared to work as copywriters, editors, novelists, news writers, humorists, social media marketers, Web content writers and critics. Our students have been hired to write for such media outlets as Vanity Fair, Time magazine, the Atlantic Monthly, the New York Times, the Huffington Post, Southern Living, Vice, Oxford American, Marie Claire, and Paste magazine. Some have found literary agents and sold books and book proposals even before graduation. The pieces we have chosen for this issue of Artemis reflect the dedication of an outstanding faculty that includes bestselling novelists, authors of creative nonfiction, memoirists, journalists, columnists, bloggers, and writers who have their work featured in noteworthy publications around the world. Through their industry connections, SCAD professors cultivate contacts that will lead students to rewarding careers. We invite you to experience the truly amazing work presented here and see for yourself why students come from all over the world to study at SCAD.

Faculty editors Mary C. Kim James Lough, Ph.D. Angela M. Brandt George Williams, Ph.D.

Table of contents LITTLE LIES...............................................................................................................................10 Nonfiction by Andrew Larimer

A PERFECT MATCH................................................................................................................13 Fiction by Eesha Chavan

DECEPTION BY THE SEA ....................................................................................................16 Poetry by Stephanie VÃ©lez Portilla

APPETIZERS ...........................................................................................................................17 Fiction by Christian Burney

OH WHAT I WOULD GIVE................................................................................................... 22 Poetry by Asli Shebe

PICKING SCABS.....................................................................................................................24 Nonfiction by Brianna Howarth

FUNAMBULISM.......................................................................................................................30 Poetry by Josh Hilty

THE WITCH.............................................................................................................................. 32 Fiction by Clara Asumadu

DROUGHT................................................................................................................................36 Poetry by Robert Hanley

DOG........................................................................................................................................... 37 Fiction by Kimmy Birdsell

DIFFERENT..............................................................................................................................39 Nonfiction by Brittany Landry

MOTHER....................................................................................................................................41 Poetry by Robert Hanley

ORANGE...................................................................................................................................42 Fiction by Genevieve Vines

SAP............................................................................................................................................45 Poetry by Josh Hilty

THE WISHES...........................................................................................................................47 Fiction by Jenna Dousi

CLOUD ILLUSIONS................................................................................................................ 52 Nonfiction by Jess Bugg

UNCOMFORTABLE................................................................................................................55 Poetry by Asli Shebe

SLIMEBALL..............................................................................................................................56 Fiction by Kristin Paxton

ADVICE.....................................................................................................................................59 Poetry by Brianna Howarth

QUEEN B................................................................................................................................. 60 Nonfiction by Lauren Hilton

BUTTERFLY.............................................................................................................................62 Poetry by Forrest Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Olympia

LAUGHING CROWS...............................................................................................................67 Fiction by Jo Schramer

DEAR ESTEEMED LAKE SWIMMERS...............................................................................70 Poetry by Samantha Williams

PAPERS..................................................................................................................................... 72 Fiction by Meagan Mulgrew

THIS IS THE PATH WE TAKE..............................................................................................78 Nonfiction by Rachel Reed

CHARLIE...................................................................................................................................82 Fiction by Amanda Depperschmidt

TOO BAD..................................................................................................................................84 Poetry by Grant Furton

MIDNIGHT RIDE......................................................................................................................85 Fiction by Paulina Antillon

INSTRUCTIONS FOR FLOATING....................................................................................... 90 Poetry by Bates Hagood

TWO CUPS FROM PARIS......................................................................................................91 Nonfiction by Ciera Bowlby

PLANS.......................................................................................................................................94 Fiction by Maria Alvarado

THE WAY IT HAPPENS.........................................................................................................96 Poetry by Bates Hagood

RECONCILED..........................................................................................................................97 Fiction by Hailey McLaughlin

A SLEEPING ATLAS............................................................................................................100 Poetry by Abe Ross

EMPTY DUGOUT................................................................................................................... 101 Nonfiction by Nile Pitts

SIGNS OF A GOOD MAN...................................................................................................104 Fiction by Eric Vanderpool

HOW MUCH DOES YOUR TONGUE WEIGH?.............................................................. 108 Poetry by Bates Hagood

BRICK BOY.............................................................................................................................109 Fiction by Thomas Manry

THE OLD HAG.........................................................................................................................113 Nonfiction by Jose Maestre

INTERNAL DIALOGUE ON THE SUBJECT OF FAITH................................................. 116 Poetry by Robert Hanley

SHE WAS A NEW PERSON.................................................................................................117 Fiction by Zara Bell

STARTING THE BOOK OF DREAMS................................................................................123 Poetry by Nicholas Squires

THE GIRL WITH NO LEGS................................................................................................. 124 Nonfiction by Isabella Roy

LITTLE LIES

Nonfiction by Andrew Larimer

I whispered in his ear while his pulse was steady and his eyes were still. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” My breath smelled of day-old PBR and ripped spliffs. The door was half open and rain smeared my windows. I barely heard his heartbeat, a gentle thump, and his breathing was long, unknowing sighs. He had full lips, prickly cheeks and spiraling tattoos. I played with the sleeping boy’s curls until he turned my way with swollen features and a garbled voice. “What time is it?” “4 a.m.” He fell back into rhythm. It was easier that way, when the boys were asleep, to say those three words. Maybe because it wasn’t directed at them, or maybe I was simply allowing myself to believe I could feel that way. That I could understand why I kept drowning. Yet, he was just an inanimate object that hummed like low-volume TV static, and I guess that was the point. I wasn’t seeking a response or for him to even hear me. It was to feel the vibration of those words that rarely broke my lips and maybe then it would feel real. Or maybe I knew better while tangled in those sheets, and I think I still do. I got up and closed the door. Emily once broke the handle of my bedroom door, ripped it off before sobbing harder. Now, with an unfiltered shadow and angry deep brown eyes, she complained about her boyfriend, his questionable devotion and how she is more “his dude friend” than his dutiful girlfriend. 10

I consoled her, patted her hair, wiped her tears away with my sleeves, attempting to channel a more genuine me. But I couldn’t help but feel hollow from a too-wellrendered understanding of what was actually going on. Still, once she calmed down, I told her what she was seeking; that her boyfriend was immature. She grinned and bought the lie because he was almost two years younger than we are. I did it for the sake of her feelings and because I don’t think she could’ve handled the truth. A truth I knew well. What her boyfriend wanted was his space and his freedom. He wanted blurredout nights and other girls’ wishful lips circling around him. While he lay awake next to her he wondered about the night’s frozen air and walks back from a hustling nightlife on coiled concrete. He dreamed about pulsing music that could take him to edgeless realities and jagged lines. He wanted to explore the ambivalence that only comes at 2 a.m. on empty streets with flickering stoplights. The glittering unknown. Looking back, I may have just resented myself because of all the things I thought he wanted and the places I’d already been. Whatever the case, he is stuck with her because of his “I love you.” And I am forced to tell lies because I am stuck in other sentences and synonyms for those three words. I was him, except I fell into the impulses. I only remember the walks to the bars, never the taxi rides back home. On the edge of Prospect Park in Brooklyn, I took a taxi to a museum for a date I was running behind for. I ended up having an awful time and lost all my money, a double negative. The boy talked about art with a confidence that bordered on pretentious. He used words like “gusto” and carried around a Moleskine notebook that he wrote things down in with tiny, dull pencils. “Not everyone understands art, you know?” “What do you mean by that?” “You must have a certain amount of sophistication to really get it. To be immersed by it.” “And you have that?” “I like to think so.” He laughed because of how charming he thought he was. I smiled not to be rude. Although I spent the rest of my time dodging him around sculptures and frequent bathroom visits until we said our good-byes (for good) and without a first-date kiss. During the subway ride back to Brooklyn, I thought about what art meant to me. What it actually is. It isn’t the museums or the glorified paintings that hang in 11

galleries. Or the overly saturated words from phonies trying to make an impression. It’s the walking there — the back alleys and silhouettes of people darting by. Art is the minute I forgot about a lover and the memories I let drift. Art is not just the traumatic adolescence or the emotional childhoods, but the expression that understands these differences. Art is when the pretty doesn’t cut it and when the beautiful hurts. It’s the inanimate objects that have no real meaning until we attach some to them, as they lie in front of us, next to us. Sometimes I feel when everything in my life that is beautiful just sits there pretty — like neon lights, or the boy in my bed, or the friend with red weepy eyes, or the art at museums — I become fuzzy like broken radio signals. Aggravated, apprehensive, hissing. My morning toothpaste comes out too slow and the water in my sink drains too fast. The thoughts don’t flow and the world becomes gray. The divots in the road rattle my car, and I consider crashing into the side of unpainted houses. I notice the spots I missed shaving, the blemishes on my chin, the dark circles under my eyes, the dirt under my nails. I fixate on my good bone structure, but it never seems to help. And at other times, when I feel everything that is just pretty is standing beautifully, I can finally fall into a rhythm. It’s worn books and dog-eared chapters. It’s my sun-dried sheets, cheap pizza, and Thursdays after 5. It’s the roller coaster rides down bumpy roads with the windows down and well-kept porches. The times when the music is muddled by real conversations and friends whose histories remind me why I’m there with them in the first place. In these moments I think I know love because I’m in them and then everything else becomes more real than it all seemed yesterday, when I searched for color and purpose in the world, in my world. When it mattered less with the door half open. When museums weren’t pretentious, dates weren’t exhausting, and art was one thought. A time when my friends’ lovers were genuine and my lips didn’t ache with half-truths. Moments I wasn’t so self-aware and let myself sleep under the harsh shadows at 4 a.m. When “I love you” wasn’t just a contrived whisper, but a conduit to a night where it never completely grows black and a morning that exists even in the dark. The boy stirred again. This time more gently and less aware. He was nothing I had dreamed of, nothing I’d ever sought. But I couldn’t see myself trying to understand anything else.

T 12

A PERFECT MATCH

Fiction by Eesha Chavan

There was a festive buzz in the Desai household today. The door was adorned with a toran, a cdecoration of flowers sewn together. A beautiful rangoli sat in front of the door, eager to welcome the impending guests. The house was filled with the aroma of delicacies being prepared in the kitchen. The living room, like every other room in the house today, was nicely decorated. There was no trace of dust or mess, and yet Mrs. Desai’s mind was dusty with memories and cluttered with worrisome thoughts. She arranged the sweets on the plate and then set it aside, careful not to spoil the new arrangement or her beautiful sari. She took a deep breath and smoothed the pleats of her sari. She walked around the house and did a mental check for all the preparations. The last room on her quest was her daughter’s. She stood at the door of her room for a long time. A loud noise from inside the room interrupted her thoughts. She quickly flung the door open. She was greeted with the sight of her daughter, who looked back at her with a guilty smile. Mrs. Desai shook her head in disapproval, but smiled nonetheless. “Try to be more careful, Swati,” she said. “Sorry,” Swati said. She picked up the jewelry box that she had dropped. She placed it back in the cupboard and closed it shut. “How do I look?” she asked as she did a small twirl for her mother. “Beautiful.” “Really?” “Oh wait!” Mrs. Desai exclaimed. “I almost forgot what I was here for. I want you to come taste the food and tell me if it will suit Rohan’s taste.” 13

“It’s Rohan, Ma. He likes anything and everything you make.” “What about his parents?” “It is the first time I’m meeting them too. How would I know?” “You should find out about such things before falling in love.” “Ma! Not today.” “I worry about you.” Swati gave her mother a nervous smile. The doorbell rang loudly. They exchanged a last smile before both rushed out of the room. “I will open the door,” Mrs. Desai said. “You get the water for the guests.” “Okay.” “Don’t spill any water on your sari. Be careful,” Mrs. Desai chided. She only received a nervous laugh as a reply. Mrs. Desai opened the door for her husband and the guests. Mr. Desai had gone to the airport to receive them. There was an exchange of formal greetings. The guests were then escorted to the living room. The three Khannas sat on the couch. There was an awkward exchange of smiles. The older Khannas inspected their surroundings. Their gaze was calculating and cold. Their faces held a deceptive smile though. After Swati brought water for the guests, everyone was introduced. Pleasantries were exchanged. The real topic was addressed as the food was served. “Does it suit your taste?” Mrs. Desai asked the Khannas. “It is great as always,” Rohan said. This comment received a smile from Mrs. Desai and a sharp look from Mrs. Khanna. “The food tastes really great,” Mrs. Khanna said. The Desais could almost hear the impending “but.” “An unusual choice of menu though.” “This is what is traditionally served at matrimonial meetings in our family,” Mrs. Desai answered. “The daughter’s parents from where we are usually go all out with food and stuff,” Mrs. Khanna said, “so I was just a little surprised. They serve really exquisite food.” An awkward silence followed. Mr. Desai spoke to break the silence. He asked the Khannas, “So, what do you think of Swati?” “Well, I’ve heard so much about her. It was really nice to see her finally,” Mrs. Khanna said. “I hope only good stuff,” Mr. Desai joked.

“Well, that is what Rohan tells me. It is really great that they both are from the same profession also. Swati can support him,” Mrs. Khanna said. “I hear that Swati earns just as much as Rohan.” “So it seems,” Mrs. Desai said. “It is great that they both can support each other.” Mr. Desai tried to move the conversation in a different direction. “Swati is our only daughter. I know this is a love marriage and not an arranged one, but I have to ask this question,” he said. “So Rohan, do you promise to take care of my daughter?” “Of course I do. I’m marrying her.” “Why?” Swati asked. “What?” “Why do you want to marry me, Rohan?” Swati asked again. It took him by surprise, but he replied quickly, “You are beautiful, you are kind, well-mannered, and polite. You and I look great together. You are from a good family. I think we would be a great married couple.” “Of course, that is what makes a perfect match,” Mrs. Khanna interrupted. “Looks, behavior and family are what matter. You understand that, don’t you Swati? You made the right choice.” Mrs. Khanna laughed and the other Khannas laughed along with her. The Desais smiled too. The rest of the meeting progressed like every other marriage meeting would. The families exchanged their expectations for the marriage and the wedding ceremony. Swati served the dessert. That night Swati sat down with her parents to look at the other matrimonial proposals for the first time. Now that she knew the ingredients of a perfect match, she thought she deserved better.

DECEPTION BY THE SEA

Poetry by Stephanie Vélez Portilla

Watching a boat in the distance laden in a tremulous sea. I hear the siren, like my mother’s lullaby, I feel enchanted. A grin marks my face with misty illusions of happiness, but I stand erect with a clear view and walk toward a drunken city. Blinding neon lights incite people to sin, I am no different than them. Aren’t I here after all? Accompanying the offenders and the dead? I’m no devil but I watched remorselessly, a boat eaten by the sea.

APPETIZERS

Fiction by Christian Burney

Steam passed by the parted shower curtains. The shower was on and empty, and from the soft pattering of water against the cast-iron tub arose a soothing sort of white noise. Hot water collected in a small pool around the drain, which gurgled disgustingly. Mark sat naked on the toilet with his laptop. He browsed the homepage of Your Astrology Today, where the latest daily horoscopes had been posted fifteen minutes ago. Daily Horoscope for Pisces, January 13th, 2016 You may be feeling stressed, flustered, or tired, but don’t let that distract you from what you know will make you most happy. Remember that good fortune is within your grasp and you will find the strength to reach for it. — Chuck Aisley, author and editor for Your Astrology Today Mark scrolled down the page to the comments. Eleven users had shared today’s blog post and another six had commented. Site traffic was slower than usual. junkyardvirgo: I needed to see this. Work’s been so stressful lately. I’m a very patient, compassionate person, and some of my coworkers have been taking advantage of that. I just need to stay positive and focus on what’s best for me. ClosetedAstrologist: So true, so many people are blind to the billions of opportunities all around them =/ peppypisces: This gives me hope. Mark opened peppypisces’ profile in a new tab and read the user’s bio.

peppypisces A wandering mind is a healthy mind. To explore the space behind the third eye, to pull back reality’s veil and glimpse the raw, unfettered void is to reach outward and brush the impossible with a delicate fingertip. Poetic. Astrology was such a fascinating field. Its celestial signs and the ancient lore behind them, its astronomical amount of data and precision directed into elaborate personality profiles and, most of all, the wonderful people it attracted—fascinating. Mark clicked “Reply” on peppypisces’ comment and drafted his response. Chuck Aisley: Don’t lose sight of what you want. Do whatever it takes to achieve happiness. I wish you the very best. The shower drain sputtered and coughed up bathwater. “Honey?” A knock came from the bathroom door. “Can you hurry it up in there?” “You’re more than welcome to join me,” he said. He let the laptop’s mouse arrow linger over the exit tab button and impassively watched the lockless doorknob. “I’m feeling nauseous again,” said Rachel. “Now I’m feeling offended,” he said. He listened to his wife’s laughter behind the door. “Please, babe. I need to go.” “I’ll be right out,” he said and sent his reply to peppypisces. He closed Your Astrology Today and hid the laptop under a laundry hamper in the corner. He stepped into the shower and stood under the waterspout. When he was good and drenched, he turned the shower off and reached for a towel. Mark moved to the clouded bathroom mirror. He delicately wrote a message on the misted glass with his fingertip and drew a lovely heart around the text. No smelly laundry, no stinky dishes. Those boring chores are mine to bare and for you, only my love and my best wishes. Happy tenth. Rachel was waiting impatiently at the door when he left the bathroom. She was frowning, yet she mustered a smile at the site of her husband. “I can’t take this much longer.” “You won’t have to. Only three more months.” He pulled her close and they kissed. “Happy anniversary.” “I love you. Now go, move!” She scooted by him and shut the bathroom door. “A message on the mirror? Seriously?”

“Absolutely!” “You spelled ‘bear’ wrong.” “I’ll see you tonight,” said Mark, and he left for work. Mark stuck his arm out the window as he drove. The wind rippled through the space between his fingers and he smiled. Today would be one to remember. His phone, resting on the dashboard, buzzed twice. He reached for it and, with minimal concern for the road, checked his messages. Martha: Am I going to see you tonight? He rolled his window up, silencing the roar of the wind. A breeze was appreciated, but the irritating noise he could do without. Mark: Absolutely. 5 pm at the usual? Martha: No. You can come to my place. He left this morning. I love you. He parked in the lot of Dursley’s Divorce Attorneys and turned off the car. Mark: Okay. <3 “Good morning, sir,” said Mark’s secretary as he entered the law firm. “Mr. Hedrick is waiting for you in your office. I would have asked him to sit in the lobby but I think he’s been drinking.” “Excellent,” he said. “Thank you.” Alfred Hedrick was indeed waiting in his office and he did indeed reek of booze. “Good morning, Alfred,” Mark said. He offered his hand and Alfred weakly shook it. Mark took his desk seat opposite the ruined man before him. “So,” he said, inspecting his client’s paperwork. “You’ve moved out, then?” “Yeah,” said Alfred. “Unloaded the last of my stuff into the Motel 6 on Chestnut this morning . . . How did you know?” “I can see it in the way you carry yourself,” said Mark. “You’re already looking more confident. That was obviously the smart thing to do. I’m glad you’re making the right call.” “I might look like I’m holding up all right, but—” “You’re making the right choice.” “I just don’t get her. All this talk about soul mates and compatibility. We were doing just fine.” “If your wife truly loved you, why would she let some horoscope on the Internet tell her otherwise?” Alfred shifted in his seat. “She’s willing to give it all up on a whim? If you ask me, you’re dodging a bullet.” “It doesn’t make any sense. We’ve been together for almost eight years now.

What suddenly changed? How could she throw away our life after reading some fucking trash about the stars?” The tone of Mark’s voice went low. “Astrology is such a fascinating field. I studied it in college as a hobby. I’ve read countless books on it. I’ve joined forums and subscribed to daily horoscopes. I’ve amassed notes of longitudes and latitudes, memorized solar cycles and plowed through set after set of staggering statistics that could plot the past or future path of any planet in the solar system. I know which dates and times serve certain signs and I know the alignment of the planets on each presidential inauguration for the next twenty-nine terms. One who understands astrology’s intricacy, Alfred, is one who can appreciate it for what it is: damn good fiction.” Mark’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Martha: Have you told your wife yet? “I don’t understand,” Alfred said. Mark sighed and put his phone away. “Your wife? She’s delusional. You deserve better and, my friend, I will do everything in my power to make sure you get what you deserve. I think it’s wise that you’ve moved out of the house. You have room to stretch, to think, to be yourself again. But I also think that your house is your house. Your wife, Martha, she has a job, correct?” Alfred nodded. “And you have no children, yes? Your wife has an income and the house is under your name. You have no children and, in summation, your wife has no case. We will get you your home back.” Alfred held back tears. “I don’t think —” he started, but Mark had risen from his seat and was reaching for his coat. “Now, I will see you . . .” He checked a calendar on his phone. “Next Monday. We can draw up assets and discuss just how hard you want the hammer to fall, then move forward from there.” “Wait, sir, but I —” “Chin up, Alfred.” He leaned in close, ignored the scent of whiskey and said, “I need you to be strong, buddy. You deserve to be happy. You deserve someone who will treat you right. All you need is the courage to do what you need to do to achieve that happiness.” Mark left his bewildered client in his office. “I’m running some errands,” he said to his secretary. “It’s our anniversary.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said with a smile. “Congratulations.” Mark scrolled through his messages as he walked toward his car. Rachel: Making one of your favorites for dinner. Don’t have too big a lunch. Mark: But I’m starving . . . I’ll stick to appetizers. Your cooking always satisfies my hunger.☺

OH WHAT I WOULD GIVE Poetry by Asli Shebe

To be

In between breaks,

the cigarette

against the red and grey

held between

brick building.

your lips. I’d stay on your tongue Craved.

a burning reminder.

An addiction,

My perfume in

a daily routine.

your hair, on your mouth

Passed between

and clothes.

your mouth and fingers. A secret Perched on the edge

you wouldn’t want

of your ashtray.

your Mother to know.

Watching you as you cook.

A pack a day.

You’d have me

Marlboro

with your

Camel

morning coffee

Newport

and your

Dunhill

evening tea.

Winston.

Have me light have me raw, wide and unfiltered. You go through cigarettes like you do women. Careless. Two, three at a time. Hand and mouth. Back-to-back. A pack-a-day. Oh, what I would give to be your two packs a day. The first thing you reach for when you wake. The smoke rising, spelling out my first and last name.

PICKING SCABS

Nonfiction by Brianna Howarth

In grade school, I was always the kid with the bloody lip. Once in second grade, instead of paying attention during a cursive lesson, I sat at my desk plucking away at my mouth, my forefinger and thumb prying away unwanted skin. I didn’t like the feeling of the curled, scratchy bits when I smacked my lips together. Usually, when someone witnessed me peeling away the skin, they assumed I was biting my nails because the gestures look similar. I always shook my head no. “I’d never bite my nails,” I’d say. Soon enough, my forefinger felt wet: blood. I got up from my desk and grabbed a tissue, dabbing away at the red that just seemed to keep coming. I always felt a pang of guilt whenever I caused myself to bleed, especially if someone noticed. And usually someone always did. As a little kid, I had a knack for picking scabs. I got the typical scraped knees and elbows, but usually the scrapes took what seemed like months to heal. There was something about the bubbly, uneven surface that I didn’t like when I was young. But I knew I was supposed to leave my scabs alone. I watched my brother once mimic my behavior, scratching at a scab on his knee, the ruddy brown bits falling away. My mom noticed and softly scolded him, “Don’t pick at your scabs. They can’t heal that way.” I made sure I always picked in private. Especially because people I knew — my best friend, my grandmother, my mom even — said chipping away at scabs was gross. I didn’t want to be disgusting, but I couldn’t win. Scabs are gross. Picking them is gross. I didn’t want either.

The scab scraping and dry skin ripping eventually morphed into something different in middle school. When I was twelve years old, I sat at my desk while the teacher discussed the difference between a semicolon, a comma, and a colon. We were going over our homework and had traded workbooks so we could correct each other’s work. My teacher randomly called on us to give the answers, and every time she said the next problem and looked around the room, I ripped off the skin around my nails, creating hangnails where there weren’t ones before, or just making fresh ones worse. I corrected my neighbor’s work in pink pen, and to calm my nerves from potentially being called on, I dug around my thumbs until layers of skin were missing. Afterward, I needed a tissue to wrap around a few fingers because I was bleeding. I always hated how my hands looked too. Jagged skin in places, red all around my nail beds; it was ugly. But the plucking and pricking was subconscious; sometimes I wouldn’t even realize I had ripped off most of my skin. I even ripped off my nails, on both hands and feet. Usually they were clean, but sometimes if I pried too deep into the nail, the swift swipe would lead to so much missing nail that I’d bleed. Yet, nail clippers worry me because I’m scared I’ll cut off too much nail, but it’s okay if I do it. Sometimes, I couldn’t paint my toenails because it’d look weird to see four vibrant toes and one with barely any polish on it because there was barely any nail to cover. It’s funny though, because I pass out at the sight of blood. Once in high school I was using a box cutter to create a frame for a charcoal drawing of a clenched fist. I could cut a frame in my sleep because I had done it so many times: with the cutting mat on the floor, align the ruler to the measurement; use my knee to keep the mat from sliding out from under me, and with a steady hand, slice as close as possible. Simple. After cutting three of the four sides, I noticed a red splotch on the gray paper. I cut the last line, and then looked at my hand. Bright red was bubbling from my pointer finger, but I glued the frame to my drawing. Then I went to the nurse and explained that I had cut my finger. “Do you need a Band-Aid?” she asked. “Uhm, I don’t know. This is a pretty deep cut and it’s a lot blood.” A whole chunk of my finger was missing. Luckily, the blade of my box cutter was so sharp that I hadn’t felt any pain. Blood continued to ooze, and I felt wobbly and lightheaded. “I need to sit down,” I said while slumping onto the cot.

I sat there focusing on my breathing. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. My peripheral vision will return. I won’t feel icy hot soon. In and out. Eventually I felt well enough to stand over the sink and run cold water over the cut. I left with my finger wrapped in gauze and tape. Growing up, I went through a lot of Band-Aids, but never the kind with cartoon characters, always the flesh colored ones. SpongeBob or bright purple would have given me away, but the skin-colored Band-Aids offered camouflage. My mom bought the boxes of Band-Aids that housed different sizes and shapes. There were tiny circles for paper cuts, the traditional-looking ones, a waterproof kind, and thick, rectangular ones meant for big, nasty wounds. There were never enough BandAids. But I was the only one that knew of the shortage, and I never told my mom we needed more. I knew she’d ask questions. I was a stubborn and impatient child. If I helped bring in groceries, I’d loop all the bags around my arm, insistent that all ten bags could be carried in one trip. If I was untangling jewelry, I needed all the necklaces separated now. When plucking off my nails, I couldn’t just do one. If one was jagged, they all should be. And if I started ripping one and it started to sting or hurt, I couldn’t stop. I bit my lip and continued to pinch and drag away the nail while blood gushed from my toe or finger. But this blood I had to look at. It was my self-inflicted achievement. The first time I cut myself was with a pair of purple scissors in my room during freshman year of high school. The cuts weren’t deep or gnarly; they were skinny, dotted, and healed the next day. Barely any blood trickled from the fine lines. I was a little disappointed because as deep as I had plunged the scissors’ blade into my wrist, the scars didn’t match the intensity. There was nothing worth looking at, and Band-Aids weren’t even necessary. Once while showering after a soccer match, I discovered a sharp piece of plastic sticking out from the loofah I was using to wash my body. The scissors didn’t work as well as I wanted, so I instinctively slid the plastic across my wrist. The red I wanted to see blossomed out of the fresh cuts. I did this over and over and over again, repeatedly slashing fresh slits. I watched the droplets of blood mix with the hot water until it stung my wrist. The pain felt good because it was a physical manifestation of what I didn’t know how to describe. Sadness, self-loathing, disappointment, worthlessness, frustration, worry; all of them looked like red to me and I wanted to see them. I wanted to know how to feel, and I knew how to feel pain.

The next day my wrist looked like a scribbled red mess. I stared at my teammates’ hands and wrists: friendship bracelets adorned their arms; there were purple and blue nails, and smooth skin. No one’s looked like mine. Like most girls, I struggle with feeling confident in my own skin. I think my nose is too big for my face, my boobs are too small, and if I were to cut my hair short, I’m certain I’d be mistaken for a boy. But the shame I felt looking at my ruined wrist is incomparable to the insecurities and flaws I’ve been able to pinpoint about myself. I wasn’t born with destroyed nails and wrists; that’s something in my control. And looking at other girls’ hands, I wondered what was wrong with me. In the huddle before our home soccer match, when they piled their hands on top of one another, I made sure my wrist faced down, avoiding all eyes and possible questions. When I say I’m okay, I never am. But dealing with pain, physical or emotional, has always been a private matter. After a car accident, I couldn’t decipher how to feel because I was frustrated that getting my car fixed was taking weeks, and my schedule was interrupted because I didn’t have a vehicle, I was embarrassed asking people for rides and feeling less than self-sufficient and dependent, I was mad at myself for being hasty and getting into the accident in the first place, and I was panicked about the cost of everything. I cried every day. After a few days of crying, I didn’t want to do it anymore. I felt my face contort and the heat from tears sting my cheeks, so I found my X-Acto knife. I don’t know why, but I have a cap for it, so I removed it and felt the slight weight of the shiny, metal utensil. In front of the mirror I eyed pieces of skin. Behind my knees? My hips? My collarbone? My ankles? I found excuses for the others, but my collarbone seemed ideal because the scars could go far. Right before cutting, anticipation and adrenaline flood through me. My heartbeat quickens. I feel cold. Here it comes. With the X-Acto knife in my right hand, I pressed it just above where my collarbone pops up and dragged it slowly across my skin; the pain biting enough to know I was leaving an intense mark. When the blade kisses the skin, it’s a moment of relief. It’s “this is what you’re feeling.” The knife understands and can articulate it in the most precise way. But it’s also a moment of utter control. I can control pain, and no other external forces are affecting me. I don’t like being out of control, which is why I don’t cry in front of others or show any signs of pain. I don’t like feeling like I need someone to put me back together. And instead, in the corners of my room, I create scars and appreciate the blood because it’s the tangible evidence that I’ve exerted control

over the situation and myself. And the scabs that come after are my badges to prove I’m still in control. But being in control is different than actually being okay. And a few days after the car accident and after cutting, my best friend saw the thick red lines across my collarbone, even though I had worn a sweater to cover them. “Brianna, you know I’m here for you, and it hurts when you feel like you can’t come to me and talk about anything. I hate seeing you do this to yourself; I don’t want you to,” Nile told me. I can’t explain why, but I’ve always had this complex that my problems, the ones I don’t know how to talk about sometimes, are insignificant. I feel like a burden when I talk about them. I can complain about silly things that don’t matter, like it’s too cold outside, I’m hungry, or I don’t want to study right now. But the immense, overwhelming ideas that are much more personal and ambiguous in meaning — selfworth, depression — I can never find the words so I choose not to talk to anyone. Probably because I’ll show my lack of control as I stutter and talk myself in circles. “Nile, I know, I’m sorry. I just — I had all of these emotions, and I didn’t know what to do with them, and just . . . I know,” offering an apology, an excuse; I’m not really sure. “You don’t need to apologize. Just promise me you won’t do it again. I don’t like seeing you in pain. Talk to me, okay? Call me anytime you think you’re going to do it. You know I’ll answer the phone.” I started to cry and continuously nodded my head “yes” in agreement, fully aware that how I deal with emotional trauma isn’t healthy. But it feels so right. Between sighs and sniffling I said, “I promise I’ll stop.” But bad habits don’t die easily. I’ve never stopped ripping my nails or the skin around them off, but it happens less frequently. I even swore off cutting and got a tattoo commemorating my triumph. Unfortunately, that didn’t last long, and I found new areas of skin so as to not taint the wrist where the tattoo had been inked. The good news, though, is I’m seven months clean. I’ve thought about it often but haven’t acted on the impulse. I was relieved that Nile caught me that day because he listened to me vent and talk, and he held me when I cried. He made it easier and it hurt a lot less than the blade. And that’s what I’m learning to consider before I grab the X-Acto knife — how much is it helping or hurting. It always helped before, or it appeared to. It was there for me each time, waiting and patient. It knew how to listen. But it’s

addictive because I need it to listen over and over again to reassure myself I’m in control. It doesn’t say anything back and afterward it just makes me feel ugly and deeply ashamed. I wish there was a bleached ending to my bloody story. Something like the only time I need a Band-Aid now is when I get a paper cut. Or I threw away my X-Acto knife and haven’t thought about it since. But I have this intrinsic desire for control, and I’m not sure where it stems from. I’m sure once I figure that out, my fingers will remain pristine and my wrists unscarred. But for now, the first step is letting people I care about, people like Nile, inside. Because he’s going to listen better than my X-Acto knife. He’ll say something uplifting or realistic or whatever the moment needs to let me know it’s okay if life seems out of control. We can talk about it until the gnawing, overwhelming emotions don’t feel so raw and until I don’t think the only remedy is red. I’m learning that if you keep picking at scabs, slashing the same scars, nothing heals.

FUNAMBULISM

Poetry by Josh Hilty

My man he treks the ropes, One hand for balance, Slips once and down the hole he burrows, Falling, Canteen but half full of rain water, Still, Spares drops to those without, Yet he remains breadless in its absence, An eye for salutation when sockets bear of sight, Among the all but giving world he plunders, Wrenched in famine, Home disguised as a dust bowl, Prospects of crops smothered by dry basins as plodded soles pace the mudded bog of now tainted sympathy, Bewildered by itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s emptiness in neglect of rust shut levies, Hopes of cure show pity through stark intentions to save all but one more mangy stray, This statistic, Grace him, Dip him into this sugarless world all too sweet for extremities, Timid his roar, Leaves deaf ears ringing with the cries of woe Sirens, Weeping within his presence, Talking change, Too wide of scope for a limited amount of Lincoln Logs, Bartered sleepless nights for opened dreams, Marveling at the obscenities behind the curtain, To follow this foxhole to its den, And by God he knew there was going to be a fox,

Puppets of Oz dangling like the cardboard cutouts they are, As it is, As it has been, Taut, these tattered ropes tense with vigor, And my man heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s back to trek the ropes once more, Knowing very well to expect the fall, One hand for balance, And the other to catch the rain water.

THE WITCH

Fiction by Clara Asumadu

On a fine Friday morning, she woke up later than usual because she could peacefully go through her morning routine since there was no one at home to disturb her. She showered, singing out loud as if she were in an opera, and clothed herself as if she had servants dressing her. She even drank coffee, which her mother banned her from drinking, and she drank it like a noble Englishman drinking tea at afternoon tea time. She watched TV because her annoying little sister wasn’t there to make her sit through torturing episodes of Dora. Today was going to be a good day; with her parents and sister away for the weekend, she was free to let her inner rebel shine. It was 8:05 a.m., and school already began, but she hadn’t a care in the world. She felt like an independent black woman who could leave her house whenever the hell she wanted to because her mother wasn’t home to give her long lectures about the importance of being on time. (Those speeches never even made sense because her mom, and frankly any Ghanaian, was never on time to anything.) She walked majestically to the side door and opened it for herself as if she were her own butler. But before she could open the storm door to leave, she noticed a furry white animal sitting on the stairs. It was a cat. Her heart dropped. She looked into its eyes. Damn, she thought, the devil is trying to get to me. Cats were witches disguised as animals, and anyone who owned a cat was a master of witchcraft and a master servant of the devil — at least that’s what she was raised to believe. “Never look a cat in the eye,” her grandmother would always tell her in Twi. “That’s how the devil gets you.” As a child, she stood by this belief

because everyone, young or old, said it was true. The stories she was told involved a cat that turned out to be a witch. A great number of movies, which she thought were documentaries, had cats that turned into witches right before her eyes. Even the history of her family that was shared during dinnertime involved a family member who owned a cat and practiced witchcraft. But as she reached her teenage years, she began to understand that cats were just animals, not witches. She had never been face-to-face with one before, and maybe that is why she was able to get over this belief so quickly. However, at that moment, it just had to be a witch. All the evidence around her substantiated that notion. First of all, she disobeyed her mother by drinking coffee and watching TV before school. She remembered the number of times her Sunday school teacher, with her cold, monotonous voice, told the class, “If you disobey your parents, you’re going to hell.” She had sold her soul to the devil and God was clearly punishing her for committing such an offense by bringing this cat to her. It was also Halloween. She never really understood the concept of Halloween or why it was such a big deal to these weird American people, but it had something to do with evil spirits. If a cat appeared on her porch on Halloween, and she had just committed the worst sin of all sins, she knew there was something ominous about it. Maybe if she prayed, God would pity her and save her. So she prayed to him, saying “omg, get this cat away from me,” five times and throwing in an “amen” at the end. She opened her eyes. It was still there. She reached for the door, thinking, it’s seriously just a cat, not the devil’s spawn, but she stopped herself. She glanced at her phone to see that it was 8:45 a.m. How the hell did that much time pass by? Her palms sweating and heart palpitating, she reached for the door but hesitated yet again. She stared at the door for a very long time, making sure she didn’t look at the cat. In the glass door was her reflection, which reminded her of how amazing she looked. She had to go to school because she looked too damn fabulous to not show it off to her peers. Ah, she remembered, there are two other doors in the house. She walked over to the front door but remembered that no one used that door because her family knew nothing about how to maintain a lawn. There was a big bush growing in front of the door, so she wouldn’t be able to get out. She considered using the back door. As it turned out, that door had been shut off by a large wooden panel since the room it was in was being renovated. This proved that the devil was out to get her.

Contemplating what she could do next, she went over to the side door, the place where her battle began. She thought maybe she should call her friends and explain to them the dilemma she faced, to see if they had any advice for her to be able to conquer this devilish cat. As rebellious teenagers, they probably knew how to deal with the devil. However, it was 10 o’clock and they were all in school and didn’t answer her phone calls. But either way, they probably would’ve just laughed at her; she couldn’t even take her peril seriously. Her next best option was to use the Internet. She went on her phone to search “what to do when a cat tries to possess you,” and ended up watching a thirty-minute video of a pastor delivering a cat from evil. She watched the video, laughing at this pastor for actually thinking that this cat had demons. She continued laughing after the video but stopped when she realized that her laugh was beginning to sound like the cackle of a witch. At this point she was hungry; the clash with the cat had drained her of her energy. It was now a little past noon. Lunch was over at school, and she had already missed the first half of the day. She was too afflicted by her plight and too hungry to be worried about school. She left the side door and walked over to the kitchen to look for something to eat, but she couldn’t find a proper meal. She did find some Goldfish crackers and apparently, cats liked fish, or at least foods that looked like fish, according to a commercial she had watched earlier. Maybe this was a sign that God was trying to help her. She prayed over the crackers so that once it tried to eat them, the power of God would rid it of its demonic ties and allow her to leave her house. But she was hungry so she ate the crackers because this cat was really not evil and she could leave the house anytime she wanted. Unfortunately, she was too terrified to leave because she didn’t want to risk any chance that the cat would turn out to be a witch, so she sat and stared at the glass door. There was no point in going to school now since it was almost three o’clock, when school was over. She still wished she could get rid of that stupid cat that ruined what was supposed to be a good day. To make matters worse, in a couple hours, annoying little kids dressed in costumes and all ready to “trick or treat” were going to come knocking at her door because they didn’t understand that if there is no candy outside the house, it was because there was no candy. In defeat, she decided to go take a nap, and as she turned to leave the door, the cat decided it was time to move on to another house. Maybe eating the Goldfish crackers that she prayed over saved her soul from the devil after all.

Her mother called later that day to find out why she got a call from the office saying she wasn’t in school. She explained the ordeal with the cat and to her surprise, her mother was understanding. She did complain that the prayers weren’t strong enough to let the cat leave earlier, but she was thankful to God that the devil could not have his way with her daughter. In fact, on the Sunday of that week, her mother said in church that the devil tried to make her daughter his servant, but God intervened. As her mother testified, the girl looked at her mother in disbelief, wondering why the hell she was actually telling this story. The whole church ridiculously listened in awe and was so thankful that she was saved. She thought to herself, there’s something seriously wrong with Ghanaians for this many adults to think that cats were actually witches. But that’s what Ghanaians do, regardless of where they are. They stand unwavering in their many beliefs, including the ones that are clearly false. And even if she knew cats weren’t witches, she was still Ghanaian.

DROUGHT

Poetry by Robert Hanley

I know the way the rain lays is the same in any place But clouds shift leaving us dry You and me now six feet deep wondering what the weatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been

DOG

Fiction by Kimmy Birdsell

Dear Samantha, I hope you are enjoying your vacation in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, I am emailing to inform you that I would prefer you find someone else to watch your dog for the second week of your vacation. He is extremely neurotic and reckless. I am willing to drop him off anywhere you would like, but I need him out of my household promptly. You had informed me that he was well-house-trained, but I have seen no signs of it. He refuses to eat his food out of the bowl and instead flips it over and eats it off the floor. I assume you do not have a bidet, because he barks at ours for no apparent reason. He is unable to walk up the stairs, so we leave him downstairs overnight. In the morning, I have found him standing on the dining room table. I am still baffled about how he got up there. All the chairs were tucked in. Yesterday I let him out into the backyard to go to the bathroom, and he came back in with an immature python about three feet long. He dropped it on my daughter’s lap and she nearly had a heart attack. I don’t know how he found such a thing, but he cannot continue this behavior in my household. He got his head stuck in the backyard fence, he ate two pounds of frozen meat when I had left it out to thaw, he chewed up the computer cords of my husband’s desktop, and he got into our dirty laundry and ate only the underwear. I am not sure if he has been to the vet since you have gotten him, but he is in need of some medical attention. My daughter scratches his lower back, and he has since grown a bald spot there. I am not sure of the cause, but the left side 37

of his face began to droop dramatically, and he currently canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t blink his left eye. My highest concern is for his tail. The very tip of it seemed infected and it fell off on Thursday while I was at work. He was wagging his tail and hitting the wall, leaving small bloodstains when I noticed the problem. I put a finger splint over it to stop the bleeding. If you do not respond to this email by the end of the week, I will bring him to Bone Adventure Dog Kennel in Costa Mesa. You will have to pay for his stay when you pick him up. It is not my responsibility to pay for your demented dog. If possible, I would suggest giving him a new name. I feel that calling him Dog has set him up for failure. I expect a response in a reasonable amount of time and I hope you enjoy the rest of your vacation. Sincerely, Denise Parr

DIFFERENT

Nonfiction by Brittany Landry

What sound does this phonogram make? How about this one? No, try this one again. Good. And this? Yes, it says Ō, but it also says OW as in cow. Okay, ready for the hard one? We‘ll do this one together. ŏ-Ō-Ö-OW-ÛF-ŏF as in thought, though, through, bough, rough, trough. Good, next time you will do that one on your own. Let’s try some reading. Here is the book we started yesterday. Here’s a pen. Don’t forget to mark the vowels as you go. Remember, a U shape goes above the short vowels and a line goes above the long ones. It doesn’t matter “the” can be thĕ or thē. No, Kate is a person; this “a” is short. Cat, this is right. Ran, good. Now, here underline the phonogram. Yes, “dune” is a word, but it’s making the other sound, as in cow. D-D-OW. Yes! Down. Keep trying. Stop guessing. Look at the word. Can you see how this was the same word we had over here? You got this. You had it a minute ago. This one is going to be a little tricky. Can you see the phonogram? Yes, it does look like there are two next to each other. Just underline the whole thing. Now cover the letters around it with your fingers. Does that look like a word? Air, yes. Now move your fingers away. What does the rest of it say? Ssss-ta-ta, stairs. No, it’s okay, you will get it next time. Do you know what you just read? No, it’s okay, I will tell you, don’t cry. You point to each letter with your pen and I will read. The cat ran down the stairs. Here look at this word. You have this one. It’s only two letters. Don’t give up. To. Yes, see you got this. Our hour is almost up, your mom will be here in fifteen minutes. How about we come back to this book tomorrow. Let’s do some spelling. Remember only cursive. Okay, spell “now.” Capital N’s don’t have two humps, only lowercase, but you spelled it perfectly. Try “know.” That’s right; this is the word with the silent K. Close, it’s ow, not ou. Like I want to know 39

right now. You want a long word? Are you sure? Okay, let me see. Okay I thought of one. Different. Sound it out. You did it! It looks like your mom is here. One more word, then you can go, okay? Sow, as in the farmer can sow his seeds in the spring. There you go, see you can do this. Good job. Now, make sure you give this envelope of homework to your mom and make sure she knows that we did not finish your school homework. I will see you again tomorrow after school, but I think the day after that you have dyslexic testing? Good work today, Brittany.

MOTHER

Poetry by Robert Hanley

I see her most days. A starving cardinal in the park waiting for crumbs. Her path is painted in oil. Blurred from the ghost of a mother. The pain of a father. The tease of a brother. It is she who decides. Torn by guidance untouched by desire where no mark is greater than those we walk upon. The birth of a child defeating any filth of fame. And the memory of a love which could have been born if most days she had seen her own mother.

ORANGE

Fiction by Genevieve Vines

The goldfish convulsed in Abby’s open palms. It got her hands wet, but she didn’t mind. It was the kind with puffy bubble eyes. Her parents let her pick it out when they took her to the pet store last week. She had stared into the fish tank and dreamed of popping the bubbles and watching them inflate again over and over. “Stop moving, Fred.” She gripped the fish in a fist and squeezed one of its eyes with two fingers. When her father picked her up from school the next day, she said, “I’m going to get a new fish with the biggest eyes in the world, bigger than me!” She stretched her arms excitedly. But her parents decided they would not be buying her any more goldfish. She had gone through five already, and one never lasted more than a week. For the rest of the afternoon, Abby made a big show of crying. She spouted tears and wailed whenever her parents tried to comfort her. She refused to eat the spaghetti, her favorite. At night she protested going to bed, and her mother had to pry open her jaws to brush Abby’s teeth. “I will not sleep until I have a new Fred.” She crossed her arms defiantly. Abby’s pouting did not end the next day. Her parents were forced to pull her out of the bed and squeeze her plump frame into her checkered school uniform. Abby’s father held her by the arms and carried her squirming body into the backseat of the car. Her cheek was pressed into the window the entire drive to school. The autumn leaves outside were her favorite colors, yellow and orange. She whined loudly to prove just how upset she was to her father in the front seat.

That afternoon Abby’s parents had a gift for her. She jumped with glee, sure that her protest had worked. But they did not give her a plastic bag containing a goldfish. They presented a pumpkin to Abby. It was small, just big enough to fit in her open palms. Her wide eyes crawled over its surface as she hesitantly accepted it. The pumpkin was golden orange. She decided it was beautiful, and she hugged it. “I love you forever,” she said to the pumpkin. Abby slept with the gift tightly in her arms. She dreamt of Fred — that his great bubbly eyes had been pumpkins all along. They started small but grew and grew until the stems fell out of his eye sockets. Then new ones would pop out and grow all over again. Fred was growing the pumpkins just for her. There were dozens. In the morning she sat the pumpkin next to her on the kitchen table and poured it a bowl of Cheerios. She spoon-fed it, spilling milk and bits of cereal. “That’s a good little pumpkin. Eat all of the Cheerios to make you grow big and strong.” Her parents did not scold her for wasting the cereal. Her father was nosedeep in the daily paper and her mother sat in front of the television. Abby slipped the pumpkin into her baby blue school bag unnoticed. She couldn’t bear to leave it home, but she had to keep it hidden in class or else Mrs. Flincher would take it. Throughout the day she unzipped her bag slightly, just enough to peer in and give the pumpkin crackers from her lunchbox. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to hide long. I’ll play with you after school.” At home the two jumped into piles of leaves together. Abby threw the pumpkin into a pile first and leapt in after it. Her shin landed on the pumpkin’s sharp stem, but she ignored the pain and pulled herself up again. Abby didn’t notice the blood on her leg. “Time to take you for a walk!” She wanted to put the pumpkin on a leash so it could march beside her down the street, just like the dachshunds her neighbors walked every day. She looked at an untied sneaker on her right foot. Her hands pulled at the lace until it came unwound, and she tied it into a loop around her pumpkin with a tail for her to hold. She tugged the makeshift leash and, seeing it was too short, took the lace from her other shoe and fastened it to the end. “Perfect.”

Abby dragged the pumpkin out of the yard and into the neighborhood street in her laceless sneakers. She began running to the end of the road and gazed at the pumpkin bouncing along behind her. It popped out of its leash. Abbyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heel popped out of her shoe. A car quickly rounded the corner as her face and hands crashed into the pavement. The pumpkin was rolling backward. It looked calmly at Abby while it retreated, an orange dot in the distance.

SAP

Poetry by Josh Hilty

Most just read about world hunger, Who lends themselves to be that kid who neglects to rep the first three digits of their phone number, So what are you? Weary of those who bury their nose in their area code, To those Compton crowd stomping grounds? Some taking pride in making it out of somewhere most would drown, coasting proud amongst those grown out born gowned in woven crowns, I regress, a rose free of thorns, isn’t as proud to bloom, isn’t as tempting to pluck, no pride no scars no gouge of wounds, no ounce of truth, See some start climbing at the top of the stairs, Haven’t learned to fall, aboard piggybacks of parents, Sport pigtails of greed to mask their backs of hair, A sails mast not sparse too vast for heirs, Irony, Have fun keeping up with a ball that’s already rolling, Pyramids topple and fold under bulbs in lack of pollen,

See crops of seedless prospects, drop with leaves of toxic, neglect to see the process, bleed and plead to stop it, screaming; Socrates done lost it, Ignorance in a nutshell, sun-dried grapes of wrath, a history of trail mix, too bland to take upon a path, that Jedediah been a liar since he raked the chosen path, The road not taken, words that’ve choked the mouth forsaken to spoke aloud the phrase that has lingered to endless ages, Paint me a pretty picture, most too lazy to read the book, Lyrical lasagna, ungraft a path with what’s kuh-putz, It goes run, walk, crawl, Mind lined in borderline insanity, a tablespoon of paranoia in a bowl of white kid tendencies, The Indian in the cupboard, a minion to the buzzards, who flock amongst the others, rotten off the chops of numbers, Scavengers, Gray to the naked eye whose tear ducts be lavender, haphazard some passengers snag rations you’re grabbing for, Hold your nerves, Nerds run for the ’burbs, That poverty line budgets first come first serve. 46

THE WISHES

Fiction by Jenna Dousi

She caught a glimpse of herself in the dark window. She was a mess. She should have done something about that. Mark sat at a table in the back of the room. He pulled his weathered green cap over his ears in an attempt to muffle the premature Christmas music. She hadn’t seen him since September and didn’t know whether to kiss him or not. He turned his head, checking the door, something he’d been doing every five minutes. There she was. “Anna!” Great, she thought. Mark rose up and waited for her to walk closer. Instead, Anna stood where she was, blocking the entrance to the coffee shop. There had been no anxiety on the long drive there, but insecurities flooded her the second she recognized him. “Anna.” He laughed. “Come here.” She let him wrap his arms around her little frame, staying only a moment before pulling away. “How long have you been waiting for me?” “Maybe half an hour.” Mark was looking — really looking — at Anna. She was dolllike and charming and so clearly unaware of all that. The bun in her hair had gone loose, and blonde wisps framed her face. She tucked a piece behind her ear, and they sat down. “So, how’s your life in the city been?” “Good.” Mark was never one for details, which Anna often mistook for indifference. He watched her sink into her chair and corrected himself. “Good, but I’ve missed you. I missed you a lot.” 47

Her sudden lack of morale surprised him. Women were strange, he knew, but Anna had never been that way. Once the girl who had jumped into his arms upon arrival, she now played fumblingly with her thin fingers. He smoothed his hands over hers. She frowned at Mark’s touch, ashamed of her own distress. She wasn’t supposed to need his reassurance. Knowing how to pretend, Anna pulled her pretty fists away and made eyes at the barista. His nametag promised nobility: Bryant, strong and honorable. He worked the espresso machine with clumsy movements. Mark followed Anna’s gaze to the dark man behind the counter and laughed again. He was handsome enough, sure, but no believable distraction. “What are you looking at?” Anna mimicked an interrupted girl. “Hm? Oh. Nothing.” “I’ll introduce you. That’s Bryant.” “You know him?” “Yeah. Why? Do you like him?” Mark asked with a smile on his face. “Be quiet.” Anna tried to smile back at him — to accept it as just funny banter — but she wished he’d meant it. She wished he was worried. Why couldn’t she like someone else? Before she could think of a better retort, Mark was up and walking toward the counter. Now, from a safe distance, she was more prepared to look at him. He was tall but not too lanky, understatedly rustic, brown eyes just light enough to have a faint glow about them. She still loved him. It was terrible. Mark returned carrying two cups. “I got you tea. I also told Bryant that you like him.” Anna’s face reddened. “No, you didn’t.” “No, I didn’t. He’s got a girlfriend. Too bad for you. But I did invite him out with us tomorrow. I hope that’s okay.” When imagining her visit, Anna had never considered that other people might be present. She hadn’t even considered that Mark had made any friends yet. He never told her about them. But he hadn’t told her much at all. “That’s fine,” she lied. “Great! He’s lived here much longer than me. So he knows all the good tourist spots.”

“I’m not a tourist.” “That’s right. You’re my tourist.” What was that supposed to mean? She wasn’t his anything. Of course, she had been, but they’d grown distant since he moved. Anna drank her tea slowly. She played delicately with the string of the still-sunken tea bag and occasionally blew across the surface of the mug as if to cool it down, though it was already lukewarm. To Mark, she looked dreamy and concentrated. That was the point. It was strange catching up in person. He talked about his new job, how his mom was doing, his great apartment. He told her things she already knew. She listened without asking any questions, and he continued without asking any either. “You must be tired by now,” he said. “Are you ready to go back to my place?” Mark’s apartment was great. It wasn’t in the heart of Chicago or anything, but there were high ceilings and exposed brick walls, like someplace out of a movie. Anna would have felt jealous if Mark hadn’t held her thigh on the drive there, but he had. And now his home felt a little bit like her own. She put on her nightgown, the one she had carefully selected when packing. It was both lacy and modest, and she thought Mark would like it. It was useless though, because as soon as she lay down next to him, she rolled over onto her side in the opposite direction. Immediately, she began to scold herself, unsure of why she’d done that or how to face him again. She hoped he would touch her shoulder, pull her toward him, or something. She lay like that until she grew sick of herself and finally shifted her body around. There, she met his eyes. They were already closed. Anna had barely gotten any sleep when she awoke the next morning to several hushed voices. Mark was at the front door of his large studio, obstructing any clear view of the two figures outside. “Alright, hold on,” she heard him say before he closed the door and turned around. “Oh, you’re awake. Good morning, sleepyhead.” She had unknowingly sat up in bed in an effort to see who was at the door. “Yeah,” she said, smoothing her hair. “I am pretty sleepy. What’s going on?” “I’m really sorry, but Bryant and Eve showed up early. They’re waiting outside for us. Do you think you could get ready kind of quickly?” She looked down at herself. Dumb nightgown. Who was Eve? “Sure.”

Dressed in another one of her thoughtfully chosen outfits, Anna met Mark’s friends at the door. There was Bryant, whose long black hair looked much wilder outside of work, and a petite girl who Anna didn’t recognize. “Ah, Anna!” said the girl. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Anna must have looked confused because the girl nearly shouted, “Oh, I’m Eve!” She tried to soften her face. “Eve. Right. Nice to finally meet you, too.” Eve’s dark, cropped hair poked playfully from behind her ears. She was painfully adorable. “And this is Bryant,” said Mark, jabbing Anna in the rib with his pointer finger. She batted his hand away. The four of them, after Eve’s incessant pleading, decided to go to Millennium Park. It was too rare of a winter day — both sunny and crisp, not yet snowing — to spend inside, she said. But it was cold at the park. Anna watched as Mark and his friends rushed along. They went on from attraction to attraction, admiring the public artwork for only moments at a time. She tried her best to keep up — to stay close to Mark — but always chose to slow back down whenever Eve stole his attention. Eve was like a puppy dog: skipping through the grassy fields, playing with the boys. Every time Anna saw her brush against Mark’s arm, she was reminded of how she used to be around him — smart and uninhibited, like Eve. But it was out of irritation rather than boldness when she finally grabbed Mark’s hand. Beaming, he looked at her. “Are you having fun?” “I don’t know. I thought we might go to a museum today,” she said. “What?” He stopped walking. Eve and Bryant continued ahead. “Why didn’t you say anything?” “Because Eve was begging you to go to the park. I didn’t want to get in the way.” “Get in the way of what?” “I think she likes you.” He let out a real laugh. “Oh my God. Are you jealous?” Anna said nothing. “Anna. She’s Bryant’s girlfriend.” “They’re dating?”

“Yeah. They just don’t really show off their relationship. But they love each other. Kind of like us.” “Oh.” At once, Anna felt both relief and disappointment. He still loved her. She had wasted so much time questioning him. Even worse: questioning herself. But she hadn’t come here for answers. She just missed him, and she missed who she was around him. She still did. Mark recognized the look of quiet despair she gave, though it was unfamiliar on her face. It felt like the first time that he was really seeing her. He didn’t know whether to kiss her or not.

CLOUD ILLUSIONS

Nonfiction by Jess Bugg

I was homeschooled as a kid, which meant I was basically left alone. I spent the majority of my childhood in the woods, climbing trees and reading. I read Little House on the Prairie and pretended I was Laura Ingalls Wilder. When it snowed I built forts and made snow candy, a recipe from the book that involved pouring molasses over snow until it hardened. I dreamt of a Christmas where oranges and peppermint sticks were extravagant. Maybe I was sheltered, certainly naive. I never experienced a kid whispering lewd things to me on a school bus or got picked on for my appearance; all my cuts and bruises were external. I always wonder how my parents just let me be, let me live. “We knew you were fine,” is the only response I’ve ever gotten from them. Whether this parenting was intentional or just lazy, I am grateful for it now; although it’s taken me a long time to get here. The lack of guidance kept me unsure of what was ahead, navigating deep waters alone. Things like sex eluded me. I didn’t even fully grasp the concept until I was being forced into it. There are still so many basic things about this earth I do not understand. Most of the time I feel like an alien, floating along and waiting for someone to take my hand. I meditate constantly and sometimes unconsciously. I have gotten so good at clearing my head that I’ve missed entire days. If I’m ripe enough, I can fall so deeply into my own mind and body that I completely detach from both. I’ll come to and have no idea where I am or how I got there. I am mostly capable of living normally during these periods although I briefly forget how to perform basic tasks like driving a car or turning on a faucet and fear I have I suffered a small stroke. Sometimes I

look down at my hands and they are shaking, I open my mouth to speak but it is weak and self-conscious. Is that muscle memory? Is my body reacting to the world around me without my consent? Maybe it’s unhealthy to clear the mind that much, but it’s all I’ve got. When people get into heated debates about politics or religion, I can see the anger inside their body and their brain is so crammed with debris, cluttered with ego. I watch as their souls ricochet around, not gaining any ground. I can see a shadow overtake them like in the stories I read as a kid about Rocky Mountain locusts, a shadow swarming the land, devouring everything in its path and blotting out the sun. I spent years that way, feeling my skin burn and my knuckles bleed. I was once married to a man who wrapped the fingers of his right hand tightly around my throat while covering my nose and mouth with his left, pushing me down into our mattress. I struggled under his weight while concentrating on muffled laughter and beer cans cracking open from the kitchen. My dog saved me that night by jumping on the bed and frantically whining. When he let go of me, she licked my face and laid her head across my neck. It’s easy to fall into the life of a victim, the ego getting a cheap thrill every time someone outwardly acknowledges my pain. I try to remember the truth as best I can; something painful happened, but I’m fine now. I don’t believe in baggage. Sometimes I watch the scenes of my life from afar and mourn for that naive girl. Sometimes I wonder how things could have been different. The illusions we live by on this earth were made up by some men a long time ago. I don’t want to live someone else’s vision of what my life should be. I don’t want any part of that. The only thing we have is our own perception. I try not to eat meat anymore; how will I ever know what kind of soul resides there? Why are pigs okay to eat, but not dogs? We worry so much about the environment but keep eating cows, their flatulent assholes laughing all the way to the slaughterhouse. These tiresome traditions, what else could they be called? I don’t know what the right side of history is; all I can do is slow down my thoughts and hope that it buys me more time in understanding this mysterious earth. Thinking before speaking is a lost art. I don’t feel anger for the people who’ve hurt me anymore; how can I be angry at what I don’t understand? I can’t judge a person for having a different perception than my own. I don’t know if this is dissociation or spiritual growth. I only know which one I am actively working toward.

As individuals our time on this planet is so fleeting, humanity as a whole is what matters and we are only as strong as our weakest link. I dream of a future that is less dystopia and more Star Trek, where artists affect the collective consciousness on a grand scale. For my own life on this earth, I can only let go of all expectations and try my best. I want to live a simple life. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care for money all that much, but I would like enough to acquire a small piece of land somewhere far away, maybe Montana. I want to be able to bury my own dog when itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s her turn to go. I want to surround myself with light and understand my fellow humans better. When a stranger asks me for the time, sometimes I feel an odd twinge of brotherly love. Here we are, the two of us hurtling through space on a pale blue dot, believing in time.

UNCOMFORTABLE Poetry by Asli Shebe

misplaced breathing,

I want to jump out

lips pursed

the window.

no air, nails on flesh

No,

and flesh underneath

taste the concrete

nails

in my gums

there is

and chew

a deep discomfort

asphalt.

in being. I don’t Push. Sometimes my brain forgets to tell my lungs

want to fly.

Swim. Sometimes my heart forgets to tell my blood. I’m floating in a pool of blue and it burns like barium. Here the mouths won’t stop clacking and teeth on lips and fingers on dead trees and hands on plastic ink, eyes sifting and searching and my body rejects itself. 55

SLIMEBALL

Fiction by Kristen Paxton

One solid kick rolled the washing machine halfway into the alley and out of Warren’s Laundromat. They were nearing the end of a fifty-foot journey to send the broken machine somewhere they arguably both belonged: the trash. Steeling himself, Warren secured his Walkman and braced his hands on the trim, raised a single cowboy boot, and thrust forward. Washing machine sixteen skidded across the threshold and sent Warren into the business end of a coat rack. He trained his eyes on the door and watched it close so he could safely say, “Worthless piece of crap!” Warren Fitch was not devoted to the noble cause of Laundromating. He loathed it. He hated the uneven black-and-white linoleum and the hypnotic rhythm of the machines, which was bad for his vertigo, and he hated playing civil with the customers, which was bad for his blood pressure. Frankly, Warren was more interested in laundering other things, but Suds-and-Duds came with the territory. Perhaps the most disappointing thing about the Laundromat was that people in the neighborhood seemed to have the impression they could just come and do a load whenever they felt like it. Luckily, the missing units from the wall had slowed business a bit. This week he could count his customers on a single hand, which was still one hand too many. Given this run of good luck, he nearly had a heart attack when he returned to the floor and found a woman loading uniforms into one of his machines. He lurked to the safety of his office and left the door open, adjusted the potted cactus on his desk, and returned to more pressing problems: eight across, nine letters. Another word for “a slovenly and unlikeable person.”

An hour passed without incident, and things were looking up for Fitch. After abandoning eight across, he’d written the names of the tallest Beatle, a Germanmade car, and some president who was assassinated (he wasn’t sure which president the crossword wanted, but he liked Nixon’s style). Basically, Warren was on a roll, so when he did notice the woman at the door, attempting in vain to get his attention, he couldn’t say for sure how long she’d been trying. He raised one headphone and said, “What?” “Do you work here?” Beside him, a shiny, plastic plaque read manager. “Yes,” he said, stalely. The woman seemed unsure, but she continued, “I’ve lost something in one of your machines.” Warren couldn’t feign interest any longer. “So? Wadd’ya want me to do about it? Pick up a new pair of panties at the drugstore, I’m busy.” The woman hesitated. A minute passed in silence. Warren threw his headphones around his neck and said, “What?” “I just don’t see why you can’t get it. It’s not something that can be replaced, it has sentimental value.” “What, like an expensive heirloom or something?” “It’s priceless!” the woman said. Well, why the hell didn’t she say so in the first place? Now she was talking Warren’s language. “Priceless, huh?” “Yeah,” the woman said. “Ever hear of World War II? I was washing my pa’s uniform, rest his soul.” Warren folded his arms and listened. At the end of her story, he dropped a hand on the desk and stood. “Sorry, sweetheart. Whatever it was, it’s good as gone. These machines got chutes,” he lied. “To China.” The woman wasn’t moved. “For good?” she asked. “For good,” Warren said. She sat on this for a moment, contemplating her own situation, not convinced by the manager’s reasoning. “Even so, it’s pretty heavy, so I think if you just removed the barrel — ” The woman was given the same treatment as washing machine number sixteen: a boot out the door. An asshole, but a courteous one, Warren ejected her load of

wet laundry after her and threw the lock, dropped the blinds, and declared Sudsand-Duds officially closed. In mere minutes, he was standing before the body of the womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s machine where it lay, mostly intact, in a puddle of detergent. He stared into the window, a dripping crowbar in his hand, and he wondered: What now? Ripping the unit from the wall was the easy part. Doing so didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t require strength or intelligence as much as it did anger management issues, of which Warren had plenty. He surveyed the tools he had at his disposal: a screwdriver, a sledgehammer, a concrete cinder block. A practical thinker, Warren took the screwdriver first. He swung it like a shank, stabbing any surface that appeared stabbable, and concluded after little success that the stupid thing was broken. The sledgehammer and the cinder block proved disappointing. The sledgehammer struck the washing machine like a gong, and the cinder block, despite a promising buildup, hit the casing and split in two. He tried sawing it open, drilling it open, burning it open. In desperation, Warren even tried to vacuum the machine into submission. An empty bottle of Drano and a crossword puzzle at his feet, it only seemed to him like the natural escalation of events to aim higher than he had before. Namely, the roof. Perched like a masked vigilante over the city, Warren enjoyed the prospect that he would be the one to shove the washing machine to its death. Sweat pouring down his face, he staggered to its side and pressed his back flat against it. He strained to push it even an inch, until finally, with a good shove, Warren felt the weight of the machine leave him. He turned around, his gibbous eyeballs watching eagerly as it plummeted and a cord wrapped, unseen, around his boot. All it took was a solid yank, and Warren was in the alley and out of the Laundromat for good.

ADVICE

Poetry by Brianna Howarth

When the poems won’t come, give the cigarettes to your neighbors. When the poems won’t come, curse and loudly until it falls like a brick from your lips without resonance. When the poems won’t come, let the sink guzzle the whiskey instead. Go for a walk. Order takeout. Put on mascara. When the poems won’t come, cocoon in your bed. Cry yourself to sleep. I promise, the words will rise like steam.

QUEEN B

Nonfiction by Lauren Hilton

There she stood, 5'7", holding her microphone in one hand and a glove covered with diamonds in the other. Her fierce stance demanded attention from audience members as they swayed and rocked back and forth to the sound of her voice. I was sixteen when I first saw Beyoncé in concert. She was wearing a burlesque, crystal showgirl leotard with nude tights that made her legs look close to perfect. She sashayed her heavenly legs across the stage, hitting every beat on time. Her hips were built like a factory moving up to her tiny vixen waistline. Her mesmerizing Coke-bottle figure made brothers want her and ladies envy her. Her strong African American roots mixed with a little dash of Hispanic/Latina gave her complexion that extra splash of gold. She sang the sweetest melodies that spoke to your spirit. Then she would sing that “diva gangsta shit” that us chicks like to listen to when going through a breakup. Her music made you want to dance. Break out and do the doo-wop, the boom cat to the uh-oh, drop it low and pick it back up. It didn’t matter what generation you were from; as a woman her music spoke to you. Telling you to leave that man that you put your time, love, and devotion into if he betrayed your love. You would think that if God was a woman, she would be Her, the way she wrapped the crowd around her finger. She was the voice among females that made it okay to be a little crazy now and then. Beyoncé is the epitome of “you can achieve your dreams and have it all.” A dream career, happy marriage, and a child. But when she sang the song “Resentment,” I knew she had been hurt. She humanized herself and showed vulnerability when she sat down on the steps and connected with the crowd. Her hair blew in the wind 60

as tears flowed down her cheeks. It could have just been for dramatic effect; that’s what great entertainers do best. But, at that moment, I was a young girl believing in her tears as a six-year-old believes in Santa Claus, so naive and full of curiosity. Every tear she cried, I knew was genuine. The same tears my mom had cried. The same tears I cried when womanhood began for me. I became a mother at age 18, juggling school, work, and a relationship. I can teach you a little something about being a woman. Being a woman means that you have to take a step back while being two steps ahead. Being a woman means blood, sweat, and heels. But the first time I saw Beyoncé and her husband perform on television, I knew that he was the rock behind her. I don’t know how to sing a single melody, but she has demonstrated that a woman alone is powerful, but having a man to share success with is something that you just can’t explain. In an interview she said she was really a shy person. She said her family gives her the extra push to come alive on stage. She said she meditates and reflects on all that God has blessed her with. That spiritual connection with God gives her the burning passion to perform and give it her all onstage. She describes it as if another person is trapped inside of her, begging to burst out like an alter ego. And when her alter ego is freed, she murders her performance. I always told myself to never stop dreaming, because when you stop dreaming, you stop living and start surviving. I often look around day to day and see people tired and frustrated from being broke. If only they had kept dreaming and had a support system, maybe they too would be singing on stage with a $10,000 diamond-covered glove on their hand. Or maybe not. Truth is, only a few people in this world get that luxury and even that comes with a price. Queen B, I am not just a fan of yours who buys and vibes to your music — you are an inspiration to me and to every little girl out there with a dream. And also to women discriminated against because of their gender. So, maybe you are considered a queen because of all your money and all your Grammys. But to me, you’re a queen for your fierceness, and your pain, and for not being afraid to show it. For being a woman who stands before a crowd and puts on a show while trying to hold everything together behind the scenes. You are a smart businesswoman who thinks about your family having longevity in wealth well after your performing days are over. From the looks of it, your nature seems humble and sweet. My mother would always tell me, “A queen is not defined by the price of the handbag she carries, but how she carries herself.” Thank you, Beyoncé Knowles-Carter.

T 61

BUTTERFLY

Poetry by Forrest Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Olympia

the first time I nearly died i was six or so and I remember it like it didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t happen to me or to you. hairline fractures and incandescent lights and the rain. the next time i was eight. suffocating on the contents of my snorkel, looking through the swirling water with breathless eyes. pulled to the beach and laid on the sand, dusty and orange but bright and immovable yellow cabanas like toucans in heat and green razors of palm stretched and blurred to obscurity under layers of coconut oil and the friction of fingers on photographs then, at nineteen, and one half. lying in a strange bed bleeding from the hole in my leg, sweating like the tropics and smelling of disease. festering yellow/blue 62

against the supposed sanctity of an off-white rag, tied tightly as if to ward off the foreign air, like a swarm of flies with no country. bleeding and melting while flower petals are placed on her altar, safe in a pantry full of childhood crumbs and withering limes. The sultry scent of first-hand decay lingers in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nostrils, similar to something familiar. reminding me of the reluctant whores and their perfume but especially of the rapacious Australian men with their dribbling flesh and quivering billfolds. i lay there with thoughts of American cornfields and tortured metal dancing together in a place ringed with flames. nostalgia for the grotesque, for the steam-engine heart of grime-black that churns out organic cigarettes and chicken-paste on the same conveyor belt. twenty found me drowning again, unable to move a muscle in this familiar sea, tossing me about like it knew where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been.

I know where I’ve been. who I’ve loved save the first names and the reasons. I’ve lay intertwined on foreign sand soaked in salt water and illuminated by the angelesque glow of bioluminescence only to find my transient and ethereal acquaintance hardened by the coin. I’ve awakened to the squawking sunbeams stealing their way past turquoise curtains, heavy with dust and implication burning lines of embittered masculinity into the peach-flesh of this man-child lost in a decrepit Babylon. tiptoeing over the snoring corpses and down the uneven hall past the soiled condoms and brandy bottles. with a secret purveyor of young, malleable boys and methamphetamines for a guardian and friend,

I searched for excalibur among the slums. alongside the seawall where garbage crests the waves and where sun cooks the mind. I drove myself to insanity, pining for the devil to come along and approve my home equity loan. I raided the cellars of my mind crushed the grapes and scattered my prizes all over the lawn, where I studied and sculpted and squeezed and scrutinized until my skin peeled. the first time I nearly died i was six the first time I really died i was sixteen perched on a stone wall with a pair of lungs. the next time i was nineteen and one half again, saturated with spores, whispering answers

of immaculate importance into my own ear and coming to terms with my eventual exit from this plane of overcomplication and systemic division. say what you will, say it with gusto, for the winds refrain from humoring the momentary passions of heroes and hypocrites alike. born to die, and ever aware of the impending guillotine, we walk home with our backs to the sun and salt in our eyes.

LAUGHING CROWS Fiction by Jo Schramer

When Lilly was in middle school, up north in the pine tree forests, she had a hard time getting along with crows. They perched high up on the topmost branches and cackled at her through their narrow beaks. They woke her up in the morning and teased her at the bus stop when she had to go to school. Poor thing, she didn’t want to go to school. There were more crows there that laughed at her about one thing or another. They laughed about the way she dressed, or talked, or the things she would get into fights about. Then she had to stop fighting because of the long talks with the principal and the teachers. Lilly couldn’t see why she always got in trouble for throwing rocks at some mean birds when hunters regularly shot innocent deer. She heard the crows in the woods outside her house after school. Every effort that she made, her every failure, was for their amusement. Sometimes she hid in her closet, but she still heard them laughing, no matter how many coats and blankets she put in between her and them. When that didn’t work, she threw rocks at them. She could do it at home, just not on school grounds. But it got very silent one day when she slipped into the woods wearing the peacoat that her mother had bought her. It hugged her warmly between the brambles and bushes while she hunted for targets. The crows were scarce and hidden, and she found that the deeper she went, the quieter their voices became. It was within that silence and serenity that she met Taylor. At first Lilly didn’t know what she was looking at, a human, an animal, male, female, or neither. He/she/it/they . . . were thin and draped in an old, dirt-stained hoodie, which resembled the scraggy fur of an animal’s pelt. Around her neck was a

garland of shiny reflector shards, surely collected from the roadside where smashed headlights often pooled. Without them Taylor might have been mistaken for the type of creature people liked to shoot and take back home in the bed of a pickup truck. The garland shuffled around, revealing a young face with skin made harsh by the cold. Taylor couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Lilly. “Do you want some berries?” Taylor asked, offering some to her with bare, red-stained arms. “Aren’t you cold?” “Do you want some or not?” She took a berry, popping it into her mouth and moving it around before biting it and tasting the juices. It was faintly sweet and full of small seeds. “The berries from this bush are okay, but the ones over there are no good. You’d be dead within the hour.” Taylor ran a hand through tangled, matted hair. “Wanna see where I squat?” she asked, and Lilly couldn’t help but follow. Taylor lived underneath a tall pine tree in a small niche, deep back behind the ferns, a home scattered with syringes, beer bottles, stained rags, and blankets. A thick tarp was spread out over the ground, underneath which a large human shape lay. “That’s Spinny,” Taylor said. “He’s sick. But he’ll get better.” Lilly stepped around Spinny with care. “How long have you lived here?” Taylor didn’t know. She had first made the woods her home when it was cold, and then it got warm, and cold again, so she guessed it had been a year. Lilly told them that it was September and school had just started. “You go to the high school?” Taylor asked. “No, I’m in seventh grade.” “Ah, that’s tough. Kids are stupid, right? Screw ’em all.” The crows began to laugh from high up in the pine trees. They were right above where Taylor and Lilly sat on a moldy, yellow-checkered blanket. Lilly became aware of the sound of the fallen leaves in the wind scratching up on top of the tarp that covered Spinny. Along with the leaves, the wind carried an unpleasant stench. Lilly’s nose wrinkled. “Well, you’re welcome to stay here,” Taylor said, massaging a gruesome big toe, which poked out of a hole in her sneakers. “Don’t be afraid of the wolves, they won’t hurt ya. It’s the police dogs you’ll want to worry about. Then there’s the bears, but I’ll tell you about them later.”

Lilly’s face reddened. “Oh, I’m not running away,” she said. “I couldn’t do this.” Taylor laughed. She plucked a radio off the ground and fiddled with it. “Yeah you could,” Taylor said. “I did.” The sound of country twang came on the radio and Taylor hummed and folded dirty rags and cloths. “You know you should be careful about who you run into this deep in the woods,” she said over the whip of fabric. “Not all of us like to be found.” “I have to go,” Lilly said. She quickly left the niche, stumbling over Spinny by accident. What she kicked with her boots was solid as stone. “Come on back here. Don’t tell anyone about me,” Taylor called after, her voice fading with the crows flying overhead. The crunch of dead leaves underneath Lilly’s waterproof, tightly sealed boots was louder than their laughter. But she could still hear them the whole way home.

DEAR ESTEEMED LAKE SWIMMERS Poetry by Samantha Williams

When it gets tough to pull the water back, like the waves are trying to run away, beware that you have not taken a left turn and upset the skin of the sky as it will gladly open itself up with a straight edge and rain down, blurring the line between blue and blue. If the first warning fails you, heed this second, make sure to float backward with your face pointed skyward no matter how hard it pours because if you, for a second, even think to roll over you have already given up your world. The Ones that Punish donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take kindly to deference and will come down from their posts at the edge of all existence to pull you back into their order. 70

Previous swimmers have noted that the payment for such may be finding your organs outside of your skin or your teeth in a pile on the pillow at night. But for all of their excellence at torture and pain, the fact still remains that the Ones can leave their posts for any little thing so maybe weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re more alone than we think.

PAPERS

Fiction by Meagan Mulgrew

It was incredible just how unforgiving thin slices of tree could look when you pressed them white and inked them with words like power bill or report card or, in joan’s case, joint complaint, petition, or declaration for divorce decree. How strange it was, how harsh paper, of all things, could look. The stack of papers reminded her of her mother: stark, honest, endlessly unimpressed. From the sour look on Dave’s face, he also saw the parallel. He was leaned against the kitchen counter, staring with his arms crossed over his chest as if the papers might suddenly come to life, sprout gray hair, and tell him he overcooked the Thanksgiving turkey again. “Well,” he said and made a noncommittal gesture. “Well,” Joan agreed, without the weird half-shrug. Dave shifted his weight from foot to foot and glanced at his phone. “Two minutes,” he said, as if she didn’t know. Joan frowned. “How — how are we going to do this?” “We just tell them.” Even though she knew what time her twins would be home — of course she knew — she also looked at her phone. One minute and forty-three seconds. “We just — we be very honest and we tell them.” “Like a Band-Aid.” When he said it, Dave looked anywhere but her. For that, she was thankful. Her palms were sweaty enough without his guilty face making it worse. “Like a Band-Aid.” Joan looked at her phone again. One minute. “You know, maybe they won’t be too upset,” Dave said and Joan rested her forehead upon her palm. Not this again. Sometimes she thought the discussion of 72

possibilities must be more exhausting than the act itself would be. “They’re good kids. They’ll understand. Right? I mean, well, I can’t imagine that they would — ” He rambled away, as was typical of Dave. Joan stopped listening, as was typical of her. “Joan? Joan, are you paying attention?” She didn’t respond. “See, this is why — ” “Oh my God, can we not get into this right now?” “I’m just saying, maybe if you’d — ” “Dave, we are not talking about this right now.” “Not talking about what?” There stood the twins: Adam, adjusting his glasses, and Anne, resting her soccer ball at her hip, and both right on time. Joan was suddenly overcome with just how much they had grown and yet, at sixteen, how young they still were. Guilt tasted like bile at the back of her throat. She had to force herself to keep from sweeping away the papers and pretending that nothing was there, that she and Dave weren’t about to ruin their children’s lives. It wouldn’t have mattered at that point, though. Adam had already seen the stack and moved closer to examine it. Joan pulled the papers close and smiled. Adam crossed his arms and Dave coughed awkwardly. “Kids, how was your day at school? Have fun?” Anne and Adam stared at him. “Uh, it was fine, I guess,” Adam said. Joan couldn’t look either of the twins in the eyes. Dave’s smile resembled a scarecrow’s. “Why are you guys being so weird?” Anne asked as she took an apple from the fruit basket. “Seriously, you would have thought someone died.” “No one did, right?” Adam asked, sitting across from Joan. “What? No. No,” Joan said. Adam glanced at the papers again and she moved them so they were practically falling into her lap. Adam snorted in that half-laugh way of his. “Subtle, Mom.” Heat rose to Joan’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She could almost feel Dave burying his head in his hands behind her. This wasn’t going well, but anything was better than the alternative: telling them the truth. The problem was that Joan knew this would crush them. She could picture their distraught little faces now. She saw Adam desperately begging them to stay together. She saw Anne shouting and slamming doors. Their identical eyes would fill with tears and for once, Joan wouldn’t be able to kiss them away because it would be all her fault. Well, not all her fault. Joan looked back at Dave and, unsurprisingly, he stared helplessly back. 73

“Adam, Anne,” Joan said. “We need to talk.” “We’re not getting the sex talk, are we?” Anne asked, carelessly throwing herself down in the chair next to her brother. “God no,” Adam and Dave said simultaneously. “No, no it’s not that,” Joan said, motioning Dave forward. He placed his hands on her shoulders as if on instinct and then moved away as if burned when she tensed. The twins glanced at each other. “Look, Adam, Anne, first off, we need you both to know that we love you very, very much.” “And that will never change,” Dave said. Adam and Anne seemed unfazed. Joan took it as a good sign and forged on. “But sometimes — things don’t work out. Relationships are tricky, even for adults.” Anne and Adam stared. They almost seemed disinterested. It threw Joan for a loop and she looked up at Dave, who appeared just as puzzled as she felt. “What we’re trying to say is — ” Dave’s voice was careful and quiet. “Your mom and I are getting a divorce.” Joan tensed, waiting for the blow, waiting for the tears and the screams and the cold shoulders. She clenched her seat so hard her knuckles hurt and the air was heavy and thick. Joan held her breath as Anne turned to Adam. “That’ll be twenty bucks.” Adam sighed and pulled out his wallet. If he said a curse word Joan didn’t hear it. Her ears had been suddenly filled with a strange buzzing sound as Adam handed his triumphant-looking sister a twenty-dollar bill. Joan sputtered a strangled,“What?” Anne looked at her and shrugged. “He bet that you two wouldn’t last until the end of the month.” “Excuse me?” “I know, right? I bet that you wouldn’t make it until the end of the week.” Anne waved the money. “I won.” Joan looked for the joke and couldn’t find one in Anne’s satisfied smile, nor Adam’s resigned frown. Dave was quickly turning a fabulous shade of plum, though. “You — you two bet? On our divorce?” he said. Anne looked at Adam and shrugged. “I mean, we figured it was only a matter of time,” Adam said. It was Joan’s turn to go scarlet. “Young man — ” “Well, statistically speaking, it’s unsurprising,” he said, cleaning his glasses on his shirt. “Did you know that about fifty percent of marriages end in divorce? You had a one-in-two shot of making it. Don’t feel bad.” 74

“Yeah, most of my friends’ parents are divorced,” Anne said. “Besides, all the warning signs were there.” “Warning signs?” Joan looked desperately at Dave. Was she supposed to be relieved or offended? One look at Dave told her he didn’t have the faintest clue. His eyes were comically wide with incomprehension. “I — what? I don’t understand.” “Lack of communication, a stupid amount of eye rolling, takeout dinners, arguing about the garbage disposal — ”Anne said, counting the items off on her fingers. “To be fair, most couples do those things,” Adam added, misinterpreting his parents’ expressions. “But every time you two do, it’s like a world war. It’s actually pretty impressive. I’ve never seen anyone get into fights over types of apples before.” “Okay, that — that is an exaggeration!” Joan said. “Yeah, okay,” Adam said in a way that indicated he was only humoring her and Joan gaped at his audacity. “But you know, we never could figure out what exactly was the main issue. Could we, Anne? Like, there were all of these little things, but nothing that led to something actually significant.” “Yeah, what was it? Are we going to lose the house? Is it a money situation? Dad, did you cheat on Mom?” Anne asked, leaning forward. “No!” Dave and Joan said at the same time, startled. And then Dave added, “Wait, why just me? Why couldn’t your Mom have cheated on me?” “I don’t know. You seem like the type?” “Anne! Apologize to your father right now!” Joan said, reaching back for Dave’s hand to squeeze it in support. Dave looked flabbergasted, but he squeezed her hand back. “To be fair,” Adam said. “Statistically, men do have a higher rate of — ” “Adam, if I hear one more statistic come out of your mouth, you’re grounded for the rest of the month.” Dave said and Joan was impressed by his tone. Adam fell silent. Anne, however, did not. “So is this going to be, like, a Parent Trap situation? Is Mom taking one and you’re taking the other and suddenly Adam is going to be British and we end up meeting at a summer camp and — ” “Enough!” Joan said, and Anne had the decency to look at least a little ashamed. “What is going on with you two? Why are you so — unconcerned?” “Apathetic,” Dave said, moving to stand besides her. “Do you not — ” The word stuck in her throat. A light pressure in her hand reminded her that Dave was still holding it, for which she was thankful. “Care? At all?”

“It’s not that we don’t care,” Adam said, frowning. “We just kinda expected it,” Anne said. “It was predictable.” “I think I would have been shocked if you didn’t get a divorce.” “Right? Yeah, couldn’t imagine it.” “Surprised it took you so long, really.” “Yeah, I — ” Joan cried, “Stop that!” at the same time Dave shouted, “Go to your rooms! Immediately!” The twins smiled strange, almost knowing, smiles then and stood up. “Go on!” Joan snapped and they ran upstairs. Joan could have sworn she heard Anne’s faint giggle. She and Dave stared at the doorway for a couple horrible seconds before erupting into furious confusion. “What the hell was that? They expected it? What does that even mean?” Dave said, pacing erratically, hands moving through what was left of his hair. “Shocked if we didn’t? What are they talking about? Why was there no crying? I prepared for crying!” “I can’t believe this.” Joan was fuming. “They act as if we haven’t been good parents! We’re great parents! We have a great family! Who do they think they are?” “And another thing — !” They continued on like this for some time, pacing and ranting and shouting. Their children’s lack of faith in them struck a chord deep within Joan and she was overcome with the need to do anything to convince them otherwise. She was a good mother. Dave was a good father. They might not be a good wife or husband all the time, but how could their children expect them to be? They weren’t a statistic, for God’s sake. “Yeah, ‘statistic’ my ass, Adam.” Dave said. “Yeah, we’re not your friends’ parents, Anne,” Joan said. “You know what? We don’t even need these papers.” “Yeah, you’re right! We don’t! Expected it. Okay, kids, did you expect this?” Dave snatched a paper from the stack and ripped it clear in two. “How do you like that?” It was a mad, beautiful frenzy of torn paper and ink, pieces of the decree falling around like some sort of twisted snowfall. “Well,” Dave said, after a long pause as they looked at the damage. “Well,” Joan agreed and a panic settled in. They stared at each other and then miraculously, Dave took her hand. “Let’s go give those kids a piece of our minds,” he said and she had never loved him so much.

From their perch at the top of the stairs, Anne threw Adam a wicked smile. “I bet you fifty they still get a divorce.” Adam pulled out his wallet. “You’re on.”

THIS IS THE PATH WE TAKE Nonfiction by Rachel Reed

Mississippi is the agreed upon birthplace of the blues. Its roots start near the mouth of the Delta on Dockery Farms Plantation and sprawl out in every direction. But earlier dates aren’t clear. Nobody from Dockery down to Natchez or over in Hot Coffee can pinpoint the moody music’s origins prior to Charles Patton and Henry Sloan. Everything before that’s been lost with time. And time, for those who reside here, often passes like it’s moving on its own axis, separating buried facts from understood truths only by how slowly they ebb. People everywhere else, even some in the South, often think of the Magnolia State’s stillness as nothing more than a land bridge. I-20’s interruption on the way to New Orleans or Mobile. A spruce pine, a spruce pine, more spruce pines. In truth, that’s most of it if you’re looking from the interstate. But no matter how you feel about Mississippi, by the time you get half a mile from the capitol, you’ll come to a clearing. On my way in, I almost missed it. So if you’re heading that way, slow down. But don’t do it for the skyline. The only thing distinguishing exit 55 from the off-ramps nearby is sloppy graffiti. this is the path we take is scribbled thin in black. After you veer off, keep reading.

Every other billboard is plastered with the mantra let’s regrow mississippi, but regrow has been marked through and replaced with rebuild I’m told they’ve been up for over ten years. Mississippi, as we’ve known it, is often dubbed the fattest state. We’ve almost come to expect it. It’s consistently named the poorest state. It has rapidly growing teen pregnancy numbers and extremely low scores in literacy. The list goes on and 78

most of the statistics aren’t pretty. Neither is its history. Nobody denies that. But how Mississippi can be given sole credit for something as pivotal and culturally significant as the blues, and nevertheless still be defined by all of its negatives doesn’t make a lot of sense. I used to think of Jackson as the easy place to blame. After all, capitols are designed to be thriving centers for state progress and stability. When I made it to the heart of its downtown, it was empty. Sure, the once hub for economic growth turned hazard zone has the status symbols you’d expect to see in a capitol: governor’s mansion, the old capitol building, city hall, etc. Each one is pristine and stately with perfect landscaping and cast-iron gates sky high. Yet, every strip is covered in buildings once designed for big business that sit vacant, with boarded up windows and faded For Sale signs. Orange cones line one-way streets like urban monuments, only disturbed by taxi drivers weaving through them like an obstacle course. Not everything is deserted. The historic King Edward Hotel has been converted into half apartments and half a Hilton. Looking at it from the sidewalk, you’d think you’d stepped into another time. A time when the newly built railway brought business. When the city held promise. When it had money. The magnificent three-dimensional sign for the King Edward hovers over Capitol Street, one of many reminders of a Jackson that no longer exists. But it’s not just the downtown lack of a scene that makes a typical day here feel off or blame-worthy — it’s the stagnant busyness of everything else surrounding it. The rest of the city is chaotic, crammed with houses that look like they were built between the 1950s and the late 1970s, each designed differently than the last, bright green, art deco, or three-story antebellums, you name it. There’s this cluttered, disjointed look and feel at every turn, making the roads feel like a monotonous loop keeping it all running. And it’s not just the houses. Beth Israel is right by St. Philip’s Episcopal, which sits adjacent to Trinity Southern Baptist that happens to stand a bit shorter than the only Hindu temple in the state, which you can see jutting over power lines if you make it to the Ross Barnett Reservoir. It might seem odd to some, putting all that money into a belief buffet, while the roads lining each center of worship remain unkempt, covered in bottomless potholes and bumps big enough to cause whiplash. Three months in, I’d already replaced three tires. The first popped during Sunday traffic. An older couple in a Cadillac stopped to help. After they let me borrow their jack, the wife placed her hand on my shoulder and asked what church I belonged to, but didn’t bother about my name.

William Faulkner once wrote, “To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.” And after my first year of school, I didn’t. Because what Faulkner forgot to mention is that before you can understand a place like Mississippi, or Jackson, you have to figure out how to appreciate it, for what it is and what it isn’t. That’s not the kind of thing that can be forced. It takes time to want to belong. The roads, the ruins, and the feeling of being stuck, soon became my day to day. That much I’d accepted, but I was still pretty lost most of the time. Then quite by accident, I found the 930 Blues Café. There’s no street sign, but it’s been in the same spot seemingly forever. I paid the cover and walked through halls of the old, wooden two-story house. Both sides were covered in signed photos by blues legends. I squeezed my way into a room filled with heavy smoke and elbow jabs while house favorite Washtub Sam opened for a man who used to play on the road with B.B. King. I stood mesmerized as he plucked an electric guitar with his teeth. Two a.m. hit, the lights came up, and I stood still in the middle of an experience I couldn’t quantify. An old yellow house alongside the cluttered, unavoidable facts of the day, but a no-frills beacon of real blues by dawn. This was Jackson. Two months later it closed. I wondered if maybe that’s what happened to everything else. If an amazing place like this, standing for over thirty years at the birthplace of the blues, could shut down forever, then how could anything else be expected to survive? Why get attached to any of it? Why attach any meaning to experiences in Jackson if the place itself can’t withstand the burden of its own significance? I didn’t know, but blame was easier than answers. Farish Street is considered one of the most forgotten and rough areas of Jackson. No one worries with it, but everyone knows where it is. The buildings are not only vacant, they’re barely buildings, with no windows or roofs. Homeless men claim them sometimes, only closed in by the leaning sidewalls and silence. The fronts are mostly open, unfinished construction now coming apart at the seams. Physical space here is just that. No one rebuilds. But sometimes all it takes is one spot, one movement, one quality tune to make a little sense of things that best quantified. At the corner of North Farish and West Griffith, there’s a blue, concrete building called F. Jones Corner. Outside, you’ll find the best beef brisket and hot dogs you’ll ever taste. I used to wake up at 2 a.m. and drive there in my pajamas just for that. I wasn’t the only one.

Inside, you’ll barely be able to breathe without getting in someone else’s space. You’ll hear some of the grittiest blues bands, along with many other traveling musicians, just passing through Jackson. On occasion, you’ll even see Washtub Sam. If you’re lucky. But any night you’re willing to pay the cover, walk in and look up. The wall to the right is painted with only one sentence that reads, no black, no white. just blues. It’s eleven at night and F. Jones is open. It will be until three, maybe four. That might just be today. Once you stay in Jackson long enough, you’ll accept that part of it and not waste time. You’ll just take it. You learn that the meaning found within a place is only significant because of people who love it for reasons that transcend statistics and square footage, making it what it is. Uninhabited buildings are burdens only to people who can’t see them any other way. And those who are the heart of Jackson carry around the parts that make it real and indestructible, preserved within the soul, ever-changing and permanent. Maybe some things shouldn’t be paved over because life is already growing through the cracks. What’s left helps us remember what deserves to not be forgotten about a place like Jackson. There doesn’t need to be any regrowing here, only growth. Otherwise, you’d be somewhere else. That’s something that people who’ve lived here long enough to appreciate it — for what it is and what it isn’t — seem to understand.

CHARLIE

Fiction by Amanda Depperschmidt

The one thing I couldn’t say was “giddyup.” I looked down at my pretty boots, but I just couldn’t say yes to Lance the Cowboy. He was bad news, the kinda bad news my mama and my nanny always warned me about. “Lance, I quit you,” I said. A tear dripped from Lance’s cheek, but I didn’t see it because I was already gone. “I won’t write you,” I said. He called out my name, but I just kept leaving. And then I was gone. I went to the barn to see my beautiful stallion, Charlie. “Charlie, how is it that men are so complicated?” “Sarah, you’ve been so patient,” Charlie whinnied. “First with Jack the Firefighter, and now with Lance the Cowboy.” “I am pregnant and I don’t know who the father is!” Charlie wrapped his hoof around my waist. “You deserve better, Sarah.” “You’re right, Charlie. I deserve the open range!” I flew up onto Charlie’s back and he jumped over the stable door. We ran out the door and past Lance the Cowboy. We kept running, so fast it felt like we would crash into the sun. “I feel so untethered and free,” I said to Charlie. “You are a girl without any faults at all, you deserve freedom,” he neighed back at me. “If only I weren’t just a virginal, clumsy, and shy Southern Belle!” “Virginal!” Charlie laughed. Then, out on the plains, we saw Jack the Firefighter’s big, thick, masculine fire truck. “No!” I screamed. Charlie ran right for it. “No, we’ll crash!” 82

Charlie leapt over the truck. “I validate you!” he neighed in the air. We landed and kept running. “Neigh, neigh, neigh,” said Charlie. “I love you, Charlie. I will raise this baby as its mother, and I will be mother to the entire world and all of the horses, because I am free like the wind.” I lifted my arms up to let the wind blow against my poncho. I felt Charlie between my thighs and the unbreakable bond between a woman and her horse.

TOO BAD

Poetry by Grant Furton

Nobody wants to play with you out in the empty streets, where orchestras of cicadas hang from the trees. All the other kids Are tied to their TVs so own the world, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2030;â&#x20AC;&#x201D; explorer, thinker, racer. The parks and the woods and the driveway the speedway must be stories by now. Brandish your eyes and fingers wrapped around branches and handlebars. Trace the sidewalks and learn the cracks, dizzy yourself in the drifting cottonwood. Go ahead, scream your love For the sky and the trees and the nobody.

MIDNIGHT RIDE

Fiction by Paulina Antillon

Diego shivered with discomfort from the cold December breeze. He scooted closer to the column and pulled his arms inside his ragged old shirt and waited for the midnight train. His legs dangled from the edge of the church tower as he enjoyed the scenic view. The moonlight gleamed, casting long dark shadows through the valley. He tried to catch a glimpse of the tracks, but his eyes were too tired to focus, so he waited for the familiar sound of the train’s horn. Diego’s head wobbled as he slowly opened his eyelids to face the empty valley. He knew the train was not coming, but the mystery of its destination still intrigued him. The clock struck one last time, signaling to Diego it was time to go home. He made his way down the tower into the cold night. He sprinted through the shadows of the main street and eased his way into the dark alleys that led to his house. A couple of years ago the Cobras had taken control of the town of San Vicente. The first year was full of chaos; children disappeared and San Vicente became a drug town. Ninety-nine innocents died before everyone succumbed to the laws of the cartel. His father was the last one to die. By the second year, everyone followed the new rules. San Vicente went back to being a forgotten old town, or at least that’s what everybody kept telling themselves. Diego knew better than to be walking in the dark streets past midnight. Unless you were a prostitute or a customer you weren’t allowed on the streets, but he couldn’t help his increasing curiosity. Along with the new rules came a new train schedule. Every Saturday

at midnight the train blew its horn and made a stop on the outskirts of the town. For the past three months he went to the church tower every weekend at midnight in hopes of discovering anything about it. His house looked deserted from outside. Patches of dead grass lined the front of the house. Black plastic bags covered the windows, and the once bright orange paint was now a dull brown, slowly fading to concrete. The house was silent. The inside wasn’t much different. Most of the furniture was sold or traded for food. Diego found his sister, Lucia, still sleeping in the room they shared. His mother was out working. He lay on the bed while his sister’s slow breathing lulled him to sleep. The sound of gunshots echoed through the neighborhood. Lucia cried under the covers. “Diego,” she cried. “Get under the bed,” he said. “Help me.” He crawled to her bed and helped her get under it. “Where’s Mommy?” “I’m going to look for her. Wait here.” The gunshots ceased, leaving the streets silent again. Diego found his mother sitting on the kitchen floor. She held a purse close to her stomach. “Mama, are you all right?” “Mijo, where is your sister?” “She’s hiding under the bed. The gunshots were really close! What happened? Are you okay?” “I’m fine, mijo. Some boys were messing with the girls tonight. Don’t worry about it. Just stay alert and keep your head low. Now, let’s go to your room. Lucia shouldn’t be alone.” She held his hand as they walked to the room. “You shouldn’t be out on the streets at night,” said Diego. “You are not a prostitute! There are other ways.” His mother turned around and faced him with glazy eyes. “Let’s move to the city,” pleaded Diego. “You can clean houses with Aunt Laura, Lucia can attend public school, and I’ll work in a factory.” “You know we don’t have the money to move or even rent a house there. Remember Aunt Laura lives with her employers. No one would take me with two children,” said his mother.

“I’ll live with Aunt Laura or I’ll find a place for me,” replied Diego. She caressed his cheek. “My sweet boy. Come help me with Lucia,” she smiled. “You better stop having midnight strolls. Enrique saw you sneaking out of the church tower tonight. I can’t be worrying about you every night.” Diego watched Lucia jump the rope with three other girls she knew from school. The park was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. Most families were too scared to let their children go out and play. His mother was too busy trying to manage daily jobs on top of her nightlife in order to give him and Lucia a tolerable life. “Diego, come play with us,” called Lucia. “It’s too hot. I’ll just stay in the shade.” He noticed two Cobra thugs walking toward the park. Sweat trickled down his neck as he noticed a white pickup truck following right behind. “Lucia! Let’s go.” He sprinted toward his sister. “You want to play now?” “It’s time to go home.” He pulled her by the arm. “Hello, children,” said a hoarse voice. “I’m here to pick up a package. Maybe you can help me, little rat.” The thug grasped Diego by the collar of his shirt. “I’m looking for Soledad.” “No one will help you,” said Diego. He closed his eyes and waited for the worst, but nothing happened. The second guy pointed a gun at his partner. “Let’s not get distracted,” said the second guy. Diego recognized him from church. His name was Enrique and he was the first in command for this town. He was also his mother’s boss. The girls sobbed and huddled together. “I’m looking for Soledad. Have any of you seen her today?” He kneeled to look at them in the eye. One of the girls on the back raised her hand to speak. “I think she stayed home ’cause she was sick,” she whispered. “Good girl,” responded Enrique. He signaled the truck to the white house on the corner. Diego watched the thugs break into the house while screams disturbed the

people in the streets. Diego held his breath. His hands shook with anger. The thugs came out with a small dark-haired girl who kept calling for her mother, but no one came to her aid. The truck drove away, taking Soledad. “You should be thankful your mother loves you more than money. Trust me, these children are going somewhere better,” said Enrique. Diego walked the girls back home making sure no other thug would try and take them away. He was baffled by the words of Enrique. His mother sat on the front porch waiting for them. “My babies, I’m so glad both of you are fine.” “We are fine mama, but how did you know?” asked Diego. “Enrique came to the house and told me about the incident. He wanted to make sure you guys made it safe, but you took so long. I was so worried. Why didn’t you run straight home?” “Enrique! He is a monster! A kidnapper and a rapist.” “Diego, shut up. Enrique has been very kind to this family. He’s given us protection.” “He took a girl away today. How can he offer protection? He told me I should be grateful you were not one for the money. What does he mean? No one is getting money from them.” His mother was silent. “Are the Cobras paying for these kids, mama?” “Desperation and greed are big in this town, my boy. Some families find solace in the fact that their children are going.” “Do they get a lot of money? Where do the children go?” “The money is good, but it’s not worth losing a child. They go somewhere far away from this lost country. A land of hope, but you shouldn’t worry, my boy. We’ll always stick together.” The hum of the train echoed through the stillness of the night. Diego felt the pulsations, as the train got closer. “Are you sure about this, Diego? Your mother will be devastated,” said Enrique. “She deserves the best. Make sure she gets the money.” He had never been this close to the tracks. “Get the backpack with all its contents to the other side and I’ll make sure your mother and sister get settled in the city. Also, give a hand to Soledad. I don’t think she is as strong as you,” said Enrique before leaving.

The screeching brakes grew louder, forcing him and Soledad to cover their ears. He checked that his and her backpacks were safely strapped to their bodies before boarding his beloved train. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still an opportunity for us.â&#x20AC;? He held Soledad while the train rode into the night.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR FLOATING Poetry by Bates Hagood

I built us a sailboat. She never asked to help. Then again, she never asked me to build it. When I was finished, she was gone. Fading into the horizon, I sailed away with her twin, the idea of her.

TWO CUPS FROM PARIS Nonfiction by Ciera Bowlby

The first place I burned my tongue was in hell: A well-lit, multiwindowed, teal-walled, warm, inviting, hipster warehouse/paradise Hell by the name of Satan’s Coffee Corner. It’s here that you will find reprieve from the bustling, sardinepacked madness that is the Gothic Quarter. Satan’s Coffee Corner sits, ironically, only a few blocks down from both the Cathedral de Barcelona and the Basilica de Santa Maria del Pi. But don’t let the name fool you; the coffee here is divine. And it’s all thanks to the baristas, so rightly called “Coffee Lords.” These guys (and gals) are badass. I’ve never seen espresso pulled so swiftly and beautifully, the crema resting velvety smooth on the murky layers of the shot. There’s no sour or acidic note that stings you in the bones of your jaw and chars your tongue as you try to gulp the hot liquid down. The espresso just sits on your tongue, bitter, full-bodied, and proud. Which is similar to the attitudes of Satan’s baristas. They know what they make is great, and that it doesn’t need to be bastardized with syrups or pumpkin-spiced gimmicks. Their espresso is served simply with just a cube or two of sugar and a small, metal spoon to stir it with. And that’s all there is to it. Subtle waves of cherry kiss your lips the instant they touch the tiny, white porcelain cup. Meanwhile, intense dark chocolate and oak flavors are complemented by the warm, sweet caramelized sugars. It is a richness of flavors unmatched by any of the coffee I’ve ever had stateside. Satan sure as hell made a good espresso, but I wanted the Spanish coffee I had heard so much about. I wanted thick, sludgy, overly sweet coffee paired with fatty milk. I wanted the darkest of the dark roasts to overwhelm my senses and palate in 91

a way that espresso just couldn’t hold up to snuff. I needed traditional. I needed to walk in the Barri Gotic among the shops, tourists, and vivacity of Barcelona life to find the caffeine I craved. Off on a corner hidden from the roars of the crowds sat the tiny counter-service coffee shop of my dreams. There was no room to twiddle your thumbs, no room for a complicated menu board, and barely even room to sit down. If you were lucky to make it to one of the five counter seats, you were rubbing elbows with men whose asses have occupied what little seat real estate there is for years and years. There are no hipster twenty-somethings with handlebar mustaches and fixie bikes. Nothing was infused with nitrogen, or tonic water, or whatever new coffee fad. There’s just you, a pastry case, and an old woman who does only one thing. She makes café, and she does it using sludge. Sludge is the affectionate name for stovetop espresso, given due to its thicker, stewlike texture, and rich, dark chocolate color, and is made in an inexpensive aluminum kettle called a Moka pot as an easy way to deliver a good source of caffeine. And this woman knew exactly how to use one. I nuzzled my way to the front of the counter at the very end, trying to sit on the petite, red seat instead of the lap of the man ten inches from me. I looked up and made eye contact with the woman as she wiped her thick hands on her white apron. She raised her stern, brown eyes and loudly sniffed as she plodded to the black stove behind her. She must have had at least six different Moka pots going at once on that gas range, a tiny tin town, each pot at a different point in the brewing process. Without using a timer, she poured thick, black liquid from two pots held precariously by her forefinger and thumb, while the fingers on her other hand tamped down the coffee grounds in another pot. She poured water into the bottom chamber, and placed the freshly packed pot of coffee on the stove. After turning up the gas on the burner, she placed the two cups of steaming coffee on the counter and began to dump in heaping mountains of sugar by the tablespoon. I was transfixed. I had never seen coffee made in this manner. How was she able to control all those Moka pots at once? How did she know how much espresso grounds she needed without measuring it out? How does everyone here not have diabetes? As I sat there, brow furrowed, mouth slightly opened in awe, a large, red coffee cup and saucer slid into my periphery followed by another one just like it. They slished and sloshed as they passed down the line, but never once did a single drop spill. The

men around me changed their stoic expressions, and began speaking raucously in their native tongue as I bit mine, regretting the Spanish classes I never took in high school. I laced my thin fingers through the thick, cherry-colored porcelain of the handle and inhaled deeply. It was intoxicating, the sweet smell of frothed milk and earthy espresso. I kissed the rim of the cup, and slowly lifted my hands until the hot liquid hit my tongue. The taste was so singular, so unlike any coffee experience I have ever had. The espresso was so rich and buttery from the temperature of the water and the coarseness of the grind, but it never overpowered its foamy counterpart. And much to my delight and surprise, the foam wasn’t made by milk, but was instead made with breve, half and half, adding layers of depth, fat, and sweetness that intermingled so nicely with the caramelized heaps of sugar swirling around the bottom of the cup, bringing out delicate chocolate notes. They all danced around my mouth so beautifully, the flavors conducting waltzes and foxtrots between the front of my teeth and the back of my throat. I sat there, holding the precious liquid on my tongue, mouthful by mouthful, swiping up every drop with my index finger so not to lose it to the saucer pool below. The men sitting around and the woman behind the counter began to stare at the young, foreign girl drinking coffee like a starving man eats food. They had well finished their first cups by the time I had finished my first few sips. I greeted the woman with the biggest grin plastered across my face and in broken Spanish, I asked for another cup. There was no way I could only experience this once. Barcelona had captured the heart and soul of everything I knew was good. For them, coffee is an experience, a part of a much larger culinary and cultural identity. And it was something you could taste from the first gulp. I felt so beautifully inadequate as a writer attempting to describe exactly how I felt. Those cups of coffee were more than just java and dairy. They were culture and community. I knew that I would never belong to this place like the men sitting around me. I couldn’t call this café or this city home, despite how comfortable I felt. It was because I found the familiar in the unfamiliar. Coffee was something I knew, and knew well. Even though Spanish made me tongue-tied, and Catalan rocked me into a trance between the singsong of its syllables, the people in the café and I all spoke the same language. In spite of the language and age gaps between us, we had an appreciation for the same beautiful thing.

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PLANS

Fiction by Maria Alvarado

For the past four hours, Dina has been staring at the greens, browns, and dirty grays that look more like desperate brushstrokes than actual landscape. Her legs and arms are numb from sleeping against the window of the bus, crouched to keep herself from accidentally kicking the person in the seat beside her. Her neck hurts. Her eyes are tired. She tells herself that she should get used to these feelings. Yesterday, Dina left home. She left the home of her father, who said he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afford to send her to college. She left the old cat that sleeps at the foot of her bed, waiting until morning to bury its claws into her leg. She left the sound of the old radio, the voice of the weather forecaster floating inside her room. Inside the second drawer of her nightstand, she left pictures of people and a letter from a boy. She took her worn-out school backpack, enough money for the bus fare, a notebook, and clean underwear. She wonders if her father is sitting at the kitchen table, rocking the tea bag in his favorite cup, pushing his round glasses up his nose, and reading the newspaper.

She is still wondering when the bus stops and the passengers line up in the

narrow aisle. Dina follows them inside the station, wrapping her arms around herself when she feels the cold morning wind. Inside the station, there is nothing more than an empty counter, plastic seats, and an old vending machine. She dumps herself into one of the seats and searches her bag for a dollar bill or a forgotten cereal bar. She finds three quarters. She should start getting used to hunger. In a corner, a man sleeps covered by a dirty rag. His hair is dark, tangled, greasy and his feet are covered with socks filled with holes and cheap plastic sandals. By

his side rests an empty tin can and a wrinkled cardboard sign that reads, a dime for a lost brother. Dina looks down at her tennis shoes and her clean blue jeans.

She tries to imagine herself sitting on a bench, alone in a park at night, trying to fit herself under a sheet of newspaper to sleep. She closes her eyes and imagines that she is invisible, just like the man in the bus station. There, at the corner of a street, she asks for spare change. Just enough so she can buy a bar of chocolate, some water, maybe a soda. She has plans. She isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t lost. She is going places, to a city, far away from her boring hometown where she couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t expect more than to end up a housewife. Someday she will eat delicious scrambled eggs and bacon in the morning and sleep in a warm and comfortable bed again. She will be fine. She has almost a dollar. When she opens her eyes, she is alone in the waiting room. The bus has disappeared from the garage and on the seat by her side rests a cardboard sign.

THE WAY IT HAPPENS Poetry by Bates Hagood

Angels are reserved, at first. They are shy, hiding in the shadows. When they must, angels fall from translucent clouds, where they reside. They sail to the dirt, where we are. Their restraint grows old and decrepit, like my grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm. Its veins and bones are all that remain, nearly black from ordinary earthly torments

RECONCILED

Fiction by Hailey McLaughlin

Father Ortega watched the dust motes swirl through the pink stream of sunlight coming through the stained-glass window. He glanced at the clock on his phone. Mass started in twelve minutes. This was not the first time he had waited to hear people’s confessions, only to be met with silence, but it wore on his heart nevertheless. It didn’t help that it was summer; people go on vacation and fall out of their schedule. A vacation from the school and work year apparently meant a vacation from reconciliation as well. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The air-conditioning didn’t quite reach this room, and his thick vestments made him sweat. He glanced at his clock again and frowned. There was a click and he heard the heavy wooden door creak open. Father Ortega didn’t see the man at first when he entered. A large red curtain partitioned half the room, if parishioners so chose to hide themselves from him during reconciliation. Instead, the man chose to sit himself down on the hard black chair in front of Father Ortega. The chair groaned under the man’s weight. His wobbling flesh was a ruddy pink and his thinning blonde hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned!” the man boomed. He clapped his hands together with an echoing crack, and for a moment he seemed to be trying to smash an unseen object between them. He let his hands fall, looked up and smiled at the priest. Small rivers of sweat were coursing down his forehead, running into his watery blue eyes.

Father Ortega studied the man for a moment. Only old ladies and the occasional home-schooled seminarian said “forgive me, father, for I have sinned” anymore. And what about the hand gesture? Father Ortega dismissed this, sure that he meant no harm, that he might have just been a bit unusual. He leaned forward in his chair and bowed his head. “It is by God’s grace that we are forgiven and with that grace made whole and new,” he prayed. He looked back up at the man, who had a small, almost mocking grin on his face. “Go ahead,” Father Ortega said. “Oh,” gasped the man, as if he had been caught off guard. He gave another sheepish grin and started to twiddle his fingers. “Well, I — I, hee hee.” Dimples puckered his fat jowls. He glanced up at Father Ortega like a naughty school boy who had been caught. He gave the priest a brilliant smile, his teeth lined in his mouth like polished shards of porcelain. “I killed a man,” he said softly. A pit formed in Father Ortega’s stomach, but it wasn’t because of the confession. He had heard people admitting to killing before. A teen boy who had come in sobbing because of a drunk driving accident that caused the death of his best friend. A reformed criminal who had come in trying to rid himself of the ghosts of a drug deal gone wrong. A woman who had smothered her child for sad, dark reasons. All of them heartbreaking stories, all of them soaked in tears. Water leaked from the man’s eyes, but not from crying. The grin was still on his face and drops of sweat were squeezed from his laugh lines. There was no remorse in his confession. There was also something inhuman about his smile. Father Ortega weighed his options, and decided to test how human this man was. Just a simple phrase, easily repeated by humans, not quite as easily by other forces of God’s creation. “I’d like you to repeat after me,” said Father Ortega cautiously. “Jesus Christ is my Redeemer, and I love Him.” “But you didn’t let me finish!” the man whined. “You don’t even know who I killed! I killed a priest! It’s been a dream — no — a prayer! A prayer I’ve prayed for a long time. Finally answered.” Pink streams of sunlight reflected off of the man’s smiling shards of teeth. “Repeat after me,” recited Father Ortega, trying to ignore the pounding in his heart. “Jesus Christ — ”

The man’s face twisted into an enraged snarl. The floor shook as he heaved himself out of his chair. There was a small flash of silver as he raised a knife into the air. Father Ortega was slammed against the stained-glass window as the knife hissed past his ears and sliced into his shoulder. The priest screamed and with primordial strength, shoved the man away from him. His own hand bent the man’s swollen wrist, pointing the silver knife at the man’s heart. Father Ortega didn’t stop the knife from sinking into the man’s chest The man staggered back and crashed into the bright red curtain, swaddling himself and the knife in its folds. A dark stain spread. The priest stepped hesitantly forward and plunged a shaking hand into layers of the man’s neck fat. He couldn’t find the pulse he was searching for and drew his hand back to his chest and pulled out the knife. “I killed a man,” he said, barely above a whisper. His vision blurred with tears. Father Ortega sank to his knees and bowed his head, falling out of the stainedglass window’s light. “I killed a man,” he said and held the knife to his neck.

A SLEEPING ATLAS Poetry by Abe Ross

I’ll eat up the rain slapping and slipping down the roof of that beat-up car I was so sure wouldn’t live a week. The feeling of waxed wood, holding the weight of my arms while I have my second cup and smile at that girl in the cafe, kind enough to smile back. That flint spark, late beyond night; igniting the air in an overtired mind, when I remember It would only take twenty minutes to get to the beach. Favorite words that sound like simple syrup no matter how many times they’re said over and over, epoch, brood, epoch, brood with pentameter thrown in for good measure. This tug of minutes, swinging the vignettes, the fickle fourth legged house pet in and out of the screen door. Sometimes it’s hard to remember why I live so angrily. No pastry preserves its sweetness nor should hands keep from cracking There’s no such lies with the passing of time, but the indulgent resignation a fragile smile, held with care. and the prayer: please don’t blink, I’m happy.

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EMPTY DUGOUT

Nonfiction by Nile Pitts

“Aight, so where you been at? I hadn’t heard from you in weeks.” “Well you know, I’ve got school and stuff.” My brother is on the line. He’s pissed because I haven’t called him in weeks. I haven’t thought about him for longer. But he’s always pissed that I don’t call him. I never check in. I’m always distant. This and that. He can talk to me anytime he wants to, yet I’m the one who never calls. “Everyone outside our immediate family is already at odds with each other. We’re all we got. We have to stay . . . ” I sit my phone facedown for a moment to let him exhaust himself. I love my brother to death, but he’s so whiny these days. “ . . . and I got FaceTime now, so I’ma annoy the hell outta you.” “I got you,” I say. “Yeah, love you too.” Growing up, I did anything to hang out with my brother. I played the same sports he did, the same video games; I even mimicked what he wore. I wish I could say that I stopped there, but there’s something of a trance that falls on every little brother who turns him into a little henchman: a mindless right hand that will do anything for big brother. We were often put on punishment when we were younger, for whatever reasons. No television, straight home after school, the works. But our parents worked day shifts at the time, so after school we had about a good hour or so to get our daily fix before one of our parents pulled up in the driveway. My brother would power on our Playstation® and continue our Crash Bandicoot saved file while I would sit in the back of the living room to keep a good eye on

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the kitchen window. This way, I could let him know when someone got home so he had enough time to put away the games and controllers. “Okay, Norman, it’s my turn.” “But you have to stay and watch the window.” “Can’t we just switch?” “Nile, don’t you want us to beat it? C’mon I need your help. I’m almost done.” I couldn’t argue with that logic. He was always better than me at video games, and I would throw a tantrum if it got too hard for me. We built a solid system, but it was still always a little disappointing if I didn’t get a chance to play. I held my post and I sat perched at the top of our couch, understanding that this was a team effort. This was our daily routine, save for my few outbursts of crying because he wouldn’t let me play. In which case, he would get in trouble for playing the game when we weren’t supposed to be. But it wasn’t until the fourth grade that I started getting him in trouble on purpose. It’s the usual afternoon, I’m keeping lookout and my brother finally gets past a difficult level. I’m enamored by his skills and concentration, so I decide to move a bit closer and sit next to him. He’s got a high streak, dodging and hurdling everything in his way. And then we hear a key jingle at the front door. The lock turns and our dad comes in. In a frenzy, we both scramble to wrap the controllers and put away the system. Unfortunately, half the side of the front door is visible from the living room, so we get a direct hit from our father’s tirade that seemed to last for hours. His eyes are deeper than any red the welts on the backs of our thighs could produce, and because he is older, my brother gets the shorter, snakeskin belt end of the stick. I promised Norman that it was an accident and I apologized. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being mad at me. He didn’t say a word back that night. I had messed up. I left my post. I didn’t keep watch. I’m the whole reason we got in trouble. I knew two things from that point; he would never trust me to keep watch again, and he was going to get me back. A few days later, we were riding home in the backseat from T-ball practice and I was playing around with my softball. The air from the window made the threads move in the wind, almost bringing it to life. It was my very own, and I didn’t always get things brand new, so I was quite proud of having something that wasn’t a hand-me-down or pre-used. I sat back and marveled at the freshly dirt-stained ball, wondering why softballs were bigger than normal baseballs, but hollow.

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“Hey, pass it to me for a minute?” Before I could make a decision, I already raised my arm to pass him the ball. Of course I would show it to him. This means he forgives me. We toss it back and forth for a while and I let him hold on to it. He holds it up to the window and starts teasing me by holding the ball close to the opening. Then he actually held it out of the window and made more silly jokes about practice. I laugh and egg him on about it. It’s working. We’re hitting it off again and everything is going back to normal. I finally ask for it back, and simultaneously, he releases his grip on the softball, letting it fly out of the window to greet the cars behind us. There’s no telling how long it took for me to stop crying, or how much he got yelled at when we got home that night. All I remember is how we were forced to be a family, despite the intermittent hatred in my heart. “I love you, Nile.” “Yeah. Love you too.” It’s not a phrase I’m used to saying to him yet; I was almost always crying or mad at him. Because I was so used to spending my time sucking up to him and trying to get his attention, we only ever told each other “I love you” when we were being mean and had to apologize to each other. My mean was still mean I suppose, but always a little mundane: exaggerating an injury, lying on him, playing the baby card. They were quick jabs that hit hard when they needed to, but my brother’s mean was on a different level. He had a habit of ruining my happiness, making me wish that I knew how to beat video games on my own or throw knives with accuracy. But usually, he just made me angry — the furthest away from love a little-brotheryear-old could be. I sometimes wish he still made me angry. It’s better than being indifferent. But he would have to actually see who I’ve grown up to be for me to be anything but. Not that he hasn’t tried to stay in touch, but when I see him, he just wants to babysit me. He doesn’t realize I don’t need his attention anymore. I don’t need his praise. It’s as if his way of spending time with me is leaving me with his college friends with a bottle of peach Ciroc. Kind of how you would distract a child with a toy. Or a softball. “Yo, hit me up the next time you wanna chill or drink.” “I will, Norm.” I never do. I’m sure he’ll keep calling to yell at me. I just hope I keep answering.

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SIGNS OF A GOOD MAN Fiction by Eric Vanderpool

I watched James watch Star Wars on the television. Luke Skywalker was ignoring Yoda for the thirty-somethingth time in my life and I was more interested in my son. We were both dressed with ties on and shoes only slightly scuffed, waiting for the car to warm as the world outside grew darker. It was 5:15 in the evening. We were already late, but I had no desire to be on time. I planned to sneak in, sneak out, and do nothing beyond what was expected of me. I let Luke topple a rock pile and saw my son gawk at Yoda’s unmatched power. A few scenes later and it was a pointed text from my sister that carried me out the door. I told James to get in the car and he didn’t move. Instead, he asked when the cold would go away. “Soon.” It was only January, but I wasn’t in the mood to tell the truth. He was young and would have plenty of truths by the end of it all. I told him again to get in the car, and he scurried out into the driveway. I grabbed the remote he’d left on the floor, cut Luke off mid-Jedi training, and stood silent in the silence. I could hear the heater click on in the basement. I stepped out into the Pennsylvania ice. My car was warming, but James shivered outside. “Aren’t you going to get in?” He demonstrated that the door was locked. I offered an apology and pressed a button on my keychain. The locks shifted and James scrambled inside.

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As I backed down the driveway, James asked me where we were going. I stopped and hesitated. There were no cars in sight and I’d ignored this question twice already. “It’s . . . a party.” His eyes lit up. I’d told the wrong lie this time. “Well, not a party! It’s not a party. It’s a . . . gathering.” I glanced at his confusion in the rearview mirror and pulled out onto the road. I waited for him to respond, but he turned his attention out the window. The snow was descending and the sun rested behind clouds on the horizon. I knew I owed James a proper explanation. I knew I had to tell him something about where we were going. Still, I kept quiet. How do you explain death to a fiveyear-old without making a joke of it? I turned on the radio and searched for something sad. I settled for Simon and Garfunkel. As the song played out, I played with word choice. “Death” seemed too harsh. “Passing away” would only confuse him more. I mulled it over until we were halfway there, and I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. I struggled to find the perfect words. “We’re going to a funeral, aren’t we?” James said. He turned my way, blinking. The radio went to advertisements. I lowered the volume to a whisper. “Do you know what a funeral is?” He shrugged. After a long pause, he asked me if it was like the sad part where they burned Qui-Gon Jinn. I told him that it was exactly like the sad part where they burned Qui-Gon Jinn. I’d forgotten that George Lucas had raised James in my absence. James then asked me if his mother would be at the funeral. I told him no, speaking more from desire than truth. I didn’t have a clue. I told Janice about the funeral over the phone, but since we’d split, she had no connection to anyone there. She had no reason to attend. There was no reason for James to attend either, but I didn’t want to go alone, so there he was. James asked me another question: Could we get ice cream after it was over? I laughed and made up an excuse. “It’s too cold for ice cream.” He frowned and faced the window again. I turned the radio back up and we rode the rest of the way without another word. It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking lot of the Donovan Funeral Home that the sorrow wormed its way inside. I’d been so caught up in worrying about how James would take it, I hadn’t given much 105

thought as to how I would take it. It didn’t help that Janice’s car was already there. I made sure to put at least three spaces between me and her Toyota. I bumped into the parking block in front of me and switched off the engine, staring blankly as the snow was quick to blanket the world around me. Each wisp added a new layer to a prison I was quickly building for myself and I soon was trapped in memories. I remembered Christmas of ’87. I remembered the Pirates game, the only one I’d ever gone to. I remembered the last time we spoke and how he was the one who walked away from it. I remembered my wedding and how glad I was he didn’t show. It was only through James that I yanked myself back into the car. I could hear him behind me, trying at the door handle. I asked him to wait a moment. He asked me what for. I didn’t have an answer. I offered him my phone and asked if he wanted to play a game. He shook his head. I didn’t have the Star Wars Angry Birds that his mother had; I only had the normal Angry Birds. I turned the ignition back on and made sure that every song we listened to kept my sad mood stirring. I let the music overtake me and melted into my seat. I don’t know how long we sat there before James finally changed his mind and asked if he could have my phone. I could only force a feeble smile. I doubt he was able to make it out in the dark and, if he did, I doubt he had believed it. “Not right now. How about we go inside?” I’d confused him again, but I knew he’d understand someday. Or maybe he won’t. Even now, a few years later, I’m still never sure as to how much of anything he’ll remember. I got out of the car and helped James out of the back. As we crossed the parking lot, he took my hand. James and I pushed through the doorway. My chest clenched as a blur of low lights and faces I’d forgotten spun spirals past me. My Aunt Susan, voice muffled in the moment, exclaimed my name. Jordan, my cousin, gave a shy wave that made the world spin faster. My grandmother tried to meet my gaze and I had to close my eyes to settle the nausea. I didn’t have time to react as Janice approached. I know James was excited to see her there, but it hit me only later how quick she was to brush him aside and make straight for me. She whispered some generic something as she pulled me in close. It took me several moments to realize that she was hugging me.

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I understood the gesture, but I’ll never understand the way she held me then. She was hugging me as if we were still in love, a feeling neither of us had had since before we were married and James was already well on his way. Still, I raised my arms around her. If she could pretend, so could I. Something about her then brought the world back into focus. Over her shoulder, I saw my father lying amongst flowers, photos, relatives and friends, all of them signs of a good man, all of them lying to themselves and to each other. Tears threatened escape. I kept them inside. Maybe he was a good man by the end of it all. I’d never know. The more I think about it now, the more I reflect on the life he led, the less I care to know. As Janice backed out of the hug, her hands still resting on my shoulders, I broke the contact. She told me that she couldn’t imagine the mix of emotions I must have felt right then. “I don’t feel anything.” She gave her head a slight shake, not wanting to call me out on the lie. She didn’t have to. She knew that I knew that she wouldn’t accept my answer. I let her hold my gaze for some time, only brought out of it by a tugging on my pant leg. I was startled. I’d nearly forgotten that James was by my side. He was still shivering from the January outside. He pointed to my father’s corpse and asked me who he was. I forced another smile for James and he returned the gesture, folding his arms to warm himself. I tried to answer, but my throat clenched shut. The words were stuck and, if I had said another word, I might have choked on them. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t get the words out and I was done lying for the night. Instead, all I mustered was, “Let’s go get that ice cream.” His face contorted and he repeated my words from earlier. “It’s too cold for ice cream.” I laughed. “At this point, I don’t think anything could make us colder.” I know we were watched by everyone as we left. I didn’t mind then and I still don’t mind now. I took James’s hand and we pushed past their staring eyes and out to the car. Within fifteen minutes, he had a cone of cookie dough, I had some sort of mint, and somewhere in there he got to rambling about how Vader beat the Emperor.

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HOW MUCH DOES YOUR TONGUE WEIGH? Poetry by Bates Hagood

Some days it feels small and weak, steps barely able to rise above the lip of the brick. Little escapes the skull. Once it was a baby fox, other times itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s old adobe, Full of candor. Speaking in a dead language. Some days it lays fat and heavy, in need of assistance, having trouble breathing, no trouble speaking, like a drunken slur.

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BRICK BOY

Fiction by Thomas Manry

When I close my eyes and feel the warmth of my skin over the sockets, I imagine that’s what being in the womb felt like. Completely enveloped in skin, snug and secure. Then, I sometimes think, that’s probably what being a brick is like. Bricks are beautiful. Older than swords, more iconic than domes or rising-sun glass window motifs, they’ve protected and enhanced humans for longer than almost anything else. The most beautiful building in the world was made of brick and masonry, the Hagia Sophia. I have a collection of bricks in my apartment. Lovely rose red ones, rough granite ones, flat ones for walkways and streets, one from the Berlin Wall. I started collecting them when I went out camping with my friends. We were fishing in a small creek. That day was particularly sunny, but the trees were too thick for us to get hot and sweaty. Instead, the branches and leaves were lit up and silhouetted against one another, as if we were in a massive green blood vessel, lined with dark veins and pumping water and light. We hadn’t brought enough rods so I was waiting for my turn, passing the time by foraging through the dense brush that was both sticky and sharp. Then I found a square stone engulfed in moss. I wiped the life away and it was clear it was a brick pretending to be a rock. No one really cared, but it seemed so pretty to me, so I took it home. After I washed it a few times it resembled something close to a normal brick. It still had bits of greenery stuck in it, I thought those parts would be impossible to remove without something like a power hose. But there was something magical about it, as if it could be thrown just about anywhere and made to fit. In the forest 109

it probably had a thousand generations of snakes and mosquitoes rise out of it, and when it was made, it was already the perfect shape for building. I hugged it close to my chest as if it could give me some part of its belonging. At that age I had already sensed a disconnect with the people around me. People used to fit together like bricks. That’s how I’ve always imagined it anyway. Everyone doing their part to hold up the world. I wish I was born in that time, when people knew what they needed to do and did it. When they were born into roles — farmers, hunters, leaders. As I was growing up, I was just told to do what made me happy. But what made me happy was making other people happy. And apparently that’s not something you can just do. So I tried construction. But I was too weak for the job. And I was accused of stealing bricks, although I hadn’t. I just examined them. I tried to talk to people about bricks, but they never seemed to understand. They all wanted to win the lottery, or marry rich. My apartment building isn’t made of bricks. It’s a giant piece of cement. They made a mold of a beehive, or ant hill, and just poured. It’s horrifying how they shaped a person’s life like that. The maximum space with minimum waste, it’s like putting a price on a human life. Eventually, if mankind goes beyond the moon, there won’t be bricks anymore. They’ll make molds of apartments like this, with the least space wasted. My thoughts seem to have somehow put me in opposition to the rest of the world. No one sees the reason, the rightness, of just being part of something bigger than you, while retaining your dignity and shape the way a brick does. I think I can blame it on American individualism. Everyone thinks they need to be, deserve to be, a superstar to be successful. But that’s not true. I only brought a girl back to my place once. I couldn’t get it up until I started thinking of my member as another brick that had to be put in its place. She didn’t seem to mind until I started to explain my brick collection to her. She seemed interested at first, but when I told her that I had to think about them to sleep with her she left. I watched a documentary about tigers. The mother hunted and failed, over and over. Eventually she got a kill, a sambar deer. As her children ate it, she discovered one of them had already died of starvation. She gave the body to her surviving cubs. I had never seen something so pure and honest. The way there was no hesitation in fulfilling her needs as well those of her children’s. The way they fit together made me envious.

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I quit my job at the coffee shop. The other baristas were talkative and cheerful, always cultivating the customers and looking for more tips. I was just trying to do my job and get paid, but that never seems to be enough anymore. I sold my bookshelves and stacked my books like bricks. I decided to put them in front of my apartment’s wall-sized window. I started buying more books to cover the whole thing. Eventually I had to add my brick collection to the pile. The windows were covered. I was alone in a perfect cuboid. When the snows and winds started I wasn’t scared. Sometimes my room was so hot I could literally feel myself heating up by standing in it. But when it didn’t stop getting colder, my old girlfriend showed up at my doorstep again. Her house had been crushed by waves of ice. We watched the news on the television until it stopped working. The room grew cold slowly, starting at the window. I was on the first floor, so the devastation was visible just behind my bricked up window. Eventually we realized we would have to burn the books had piled up for warmth. I was extremely reluctant, mainly because our curtain was already being used as a blanket and I didn’t want the world looking into my room. But as we pulled the bricks and books down we saw something through the window. Despite the sleet and snow blowing sideways, there was a woman trudging by us, almost spent. Desperate, she turned and hammered on the glass with her fist. Without thinking, I gestured to her to continue along the path and I ran out of my apartment to help her in. As I opened the front door, the leviathan whiteness screamed in, whipping around my face and rubbing every inch of skin exposed raw at once. After a moment I was able to take a single step outside. It felt like I was struggling against a mattress wall. It occurred to me as I struggled forward that such a heroic action was the opposite of what I always believed a born brick like myself I would perform. To go so far for a stranger was insane. I could almost feel my blood freezing cold. The wind was so loud and the world so white that I lost track of time, an eon could have passed out there on that street. Could I even go back to being a brick after something like this? I didn’t have to worry. I reached the spot outside my window and there was no woman. Just the girl inside beckoning I come back in. I trudged back inside, it didn’t take as long as it had to go outside. The girl told me that after I had gone outside, the woman had lingered for a few seconds before wandering off into the snow, leaving her coat and scarves behind. 111

This feeling was familiar to me. The sensation that I shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have even made an effort in the first place. I had wound up where I was at the start. I decided to burn the books anyway. The bricks I left on the ground where they were lying. Despite this affirmation that being a brick was the only way to be safe, I was left unsatisfied in my small gray room. I sat with the girl and watched the snow pile up.

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THE OLD HAG Nonfiction by Jose Maestre

During the dead of night, my nightmare appeared before my bedroom window once again. My acute senses kept track of its ominous presence as it watched me sleep. I did not know who the dark silhouette was. The man. All I knew was that this wasn’t a dream. I tried to alert my roommate, Nick, who slept peacefully on his bed. No response. The man stood closer to my roommate but paid no attention to him. I tried to scream once more, but my mouth wouldn’t open, no matter how hard I tried. My body couldn’t move either; it was as if someone restrained me from getting up, placing an intense pressure on my body. Fear clouded my thoughts, and panic took over my body. But I closed my eyes and did nothing. In a few minutes, I regained consciousness and stood up as fast as I could. It was in that moment that the nightmare finally ended. The man disappeared. My chest felt tight and my heart was beating wildly. What just happened? Both Nick and I were up early in the morning. I sat on the futon in the middle of our tiny bedroom in our dorm. My hands trembled as I covered my face — I was so tired and weary from the night before. Nick looked at me with concern. “Are you okay, man?” he asked. It took me a few moments to collect my thoughts. “N-no,” I stammered. “I — I didn’t sleep well last night. I think I might have had a night terror.” “I’m so sorry. Hope everything gets better.” Nick wasn’t the type of guy who gives you a pat on the back when you feel sad or broken. He kept it plain and simple. It’s just how he is. I inhaled deeply and eased my mind. 113

“Did you hear me last night?” I asked. “Calling out your name?” “No,” a puzzled Nick replied. “I did not hear you call out to me.” I was stunned by Nick’s reply. “Really? Nothing at all? Not even a mumble? A yelp? Anything?” “Sorry, man. Nothing. I mean, I could have probably been in a deep sleep, but usually I hear everything.” Nick knew I wasn’t pleased with the response. The worried look on my face was obvious. To take my mind off of my nightmare, we talked about video games for a solid two hours, but the memories of what had happened that night kept haunting me. I thought of a logical answer to the state I maintained during the night. Why couldn’t I move? Why couldn’t I yell out for help? What was that intense pressure that held me in my place? Just why? Perhaps my soul was possessed. A spirit could have gotten attached to me. Believe me, I fall easy for that shit. When I was thirteen, I had a similar experience to the night terror. It wasn’t as potent as the one I experienced that night, but it was terrifying nonetheless. During a school night, I had a sudden urge to wake up from my sleep. But an invisible exertion that circled around my face pushed me down into my pillow, preventing me from moving. In this scenario, my eyes were closed, which made the situation feel like a horror movie. When the force subsided, I woke up feeling depressed and confused. It became more frequent as I grew up into adulthood. After that experience back in the dorm, it didn’t occur again until Nick and I moved to a new house in our second year. We moved off campus to a little carriage house on Henry Street, which was very convenient as it was only two blocks away from one of the college buildings. The carriage house had two floors. On the first floor was the living room, and our bedrooms were located on the second floor. At the time, Nick and I had to share a bedroom since we lived with three girls. We picked the smaller bedroom to share (similar in size to our old dorm). We bought a cheap bunk bed big enough to fill the room. I slept on the bottom and Nick slept on the top. For once, the shadow man did not haunt my sleep. The darkness no longer frightened me and I looked forward to going to bed in peace. Or so I thought. Later that spring, it happened again, only worse. It happened one late evening, after a grueling day of classes. I was so exhausted from school that I just wanted to go straight home to bed. Due to my exhaustion I was bound to fall asleep in an instant. As my eyes began to shut, I suddenly felt an electric shock generating from

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my head and spreading down my body. In that moment, while my consciousness saw everything, my body had completely shut down. It seemed I was paralyzed. It was happening all over again. There was no man in the darkness when this happened. Thank goodness. However, death was still possible. With my face pressing down into the pillow, there was no air circulating around my nose, and my mouth was shut. I began to suffocate. My thoughts were clear, and I knew screaming wasn’t going to work, but I kept trying. I held my breath until my system could become active again. Desperation and fear were as clear as water. After a short time, I regained control again. Time meant nothing. What probably lasted a few minutes had felt like a decade. The experience terrified me. It made me think I should skip sleep at night. It wasn’t an option, to be honest, but I thought about it. That same night, while scrolling through my social network, I came across a peculiar picture with a curious quote. It was a man sleeping with his eyes wide open while a female demon stood on top of him. The quote read, “You haven’t experienced true fear until you have had sleep paralysis.” It all became much clearer to me after my curiosity brought me the answer. The “old hag” syndrome. This sleeping disorder has followed me ever since my childhood. I became more vulnerable to it in adulthood. I never imagined that the old hag would try to kill me. Ever since that dreadful episode, sleeping facedown is not an option. I confessed this curse to Nick to raise awareness about the disorder. It seemed like a smart move, but in the end it didn’t matter. The disorder is triggered at random, any day, any time, and the dark silhouette, the shadow, is unavoidable. It frightens me to my core. The dark thoughts that my mind unconsciously conjures up are astonishing. The emotions become fragile and reality ceases to exist. The nightmares continue, but I stand tall, prepared to face the hallucination. In one of those dark nights she visited me. She stood in the corner of my room with red eyes. She was covered in darkness, similar to the man in the dorm. She did nothing but stare. Even though I trembled in horror, unable to move, I can bravely stare back at her. The old hag.

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INTERNAL DIALOGUE ON THE SUBJECT OF FAITH Poetry by Robert Hanley

I bet you never believed in the Nicene Creed. Or any prayer, preached and promised, over and over, all Sundays spent with parents yelling “You can’t wear jeans.” I bet you find yourself kneeling at an altar without answer. Viewing Catholicism as a force, not choice. Is this what your God would’ve wanted? Eating the store-bought bread and wine, singing jingles with glued palms. I bet you’ll be looking for comfort when you’re old and weak. Something to tell you it’ll be okay. Then noticing the thousands of years gone, filled with these gatherings by car, horse, boat, foot to praise the entirety of one man once in the flesh, now watching your every move.

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SHE WAS A NEW PERSON Fiction by Zara Bell

Aaron took Taylor’s virginity on a grimy Indian blanket in a teepee outside Jes’s mom’s house. When she cried out, he asked her how old she was, and she told him the truth, fourteen. Oh no, he said, but it was pretty much too late. She said she didn’t want him to stop, so he didn’t. After that they started dating. Aaron was twenty-one, the blue-eyed, dreadlocked lead singer of a band called Rolling Crow. Jes had introduced them at one of the Crow’s gigs, at the little bar that never checked IDs. Taylor had told Jes about her crush on a different Aaron, a high school sophomore on the soccer team, but Jes got confused. Anyway, Taylor had been dancing right up front, her eyes on the bare-chested singer — who was eyeing her back — not even knowing that his name happened to be Aaron, too. She was trying out her powers of seduction and they were working. He lurched through the crowd in his leather jacket, chest glistening, and approached her as if it was a done-deal. And of course, it was. He drove a beat-up, butter-colored 1970 Volkswagen Bug. The inners of the rear end of the car were an exposed, rusty tangle of tubes and wires and a single, bugle-shaped exhaust pipe that extended back and up higher than the roof of the car — in a way that reminded Taylor of both a baboon’s ass and an erect penis at the same time. The key had broken off in the ignition so, to start it, he used a pair of pliers — if he could find them, or he hot-wired the thing. It stalled all the time. Taylor would get out and push with him until motion would coax it back to life. But that was later.

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Jes and Aaron came from a small village south of town. They were part of a tribe of feral children whose parents had decided, in the late ’60s, to tune in, turn on, and drop out of capitalist society. The parents didn’t believe in conventional hierarchies, including those within families, so the children ran loose while the adults dropped acid and ran loose also. Everyone grew their own food, raised apple orchards, and made cider to support themselves. They also grew weed, harvested psilocybin mushrooms, found peyote, wherever that comes from. Taylor thought the best parties happened there, out under the pitcher of Aquarius — people of all ages dancing around a series of bonfires in a field behind someone’s adobe house. The night of the teepee extended into morning. Taylor doesn’t remember sleeping, and she got her first ride home in the Bug. It stalled on the way through the canyon — or maybe he just pulled over — and he turned, slack-faced, and reached for her. It was black motor oil from his hands that she felt on the insides of her thighs on her way through the front door of her house. “Hey, muffin,” her dad said. “How was the sleepover?” He was standing at the stove, stirring his famous green chili. He made it every July for the Riso family’s just-as-famous annual fireworks party. Today was the third. On the counter were a dozen unopened liter bottles of various liquors and about as many bottles of wine. The bitter, pungent smell of cumin and garlic hung in the air, reminding Taylor of Aaron’s sand-colored dreadlocks. Or was that his smell still on her? “Don’t call me that,” Taylor said, plucking at the flesh of her waist. “Where’s Mom?” “Errands,” he said into the giant cast-iron pot. “She said you need to pick up your room before tomorrow.” “Why? It’s not like the party’s in my room,” Taylor said on her way up the stairs. She took off her clothes in front of the bathroom mirror and then stood staring as steam from the running shower curled around her. My body, she thought. My body my body my bod-ee. What a funny word, body. She shifted her weight from hip to hip, posed like a pinup model, turned to look at herself from behind. Was she sexy? Her skin seemed to vibrate; she could feel her pulse in the hair on her arms. She cupped her breasts. Should they be bigger? Something about her thighs was wrong . . . where the black smudges were — that part shouldn’t rub together. But she had entered the world of sex and that was something. She was a new person.

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Maybe she was still stoned. After her shower she slept all day, sheets pulled up over her nose to shield herself from the obscene smell of the chili. Rarely did a guest to the Risos’ parties wear anything but black; they came in leather pants and turtlenecks, cameras dangling, whatever art gallery people wore. And on the fourth of July, everyone also brought their kids, who wore whatever kids wore. In 1988, Taylor Riso was no longer a kid. She and her five friends wore black, too, but for different reasons. They were vampires to-be. In training. Cultivating their powers. The pact they’d made dictated that they tell no one. Somewhere in the world, you could never be sure exactly where on any given night — maybe Boston, maybe Europe, sometimes New Orleans — because they could travel as bats or hawks or vapors; they had a coven of real vampire soul mates. The Batz, which was the coven name the girls chose for themselves, would talk to the real vampires on an Ouija board. That’s what they were doing, up in Taylor’s room the night of the party. Taylor’s vampire soul mate was tall — she imagined — and thin, and of course, very pale. He looked a lot like David Bowie in Labyrinth. He had no scent. He had spelled his name on the board but it couldn’t be pronounced in English. He, like the rest of the vampires, had the power to see his mortal soul mate at any minute of the day — not necessarily every minute, it’s not like they just sat around watching — but they could if they wanted to. They said they checked in once in a while just to make sure the girls, the Batz, stayed faithful. Spiritually. They were free to seduce mortal men, they just had to believe that the vampires were real and that they were coming. “We should get some alcohol,” said one girl, picking at her split ends. “Give it a few more minutes,” Taylor said. She stood at the window, looking down at the patio. It was still light out, but she imagined that she was hovering outside, invisible. Which guest would she kill? She flinched at the idea, but had to get used to it. Vampires need to eat, too. Below, the guests were lining up or settling in, bowls of chili on their laps. They managed to get a half-full bottle of Stoli and a bottle of Jack with just a few swallows left. Everyone but Taylor had a bowl of chili. Then they sat on the floor, in a circle around the board, amid the litter of shoes and bowls and piles of black clothing.

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At least three of them had to have their fingers on the pointer or it didn’t work. They had repurposed the lid of a Mr. Coffee decanter for the pointer because it was big enough for more fingers, plus the original one got lost. “Where are you tonight?” someone asked the board. The pointer spelled out the word Paris. The girls looked at each other, wide eyed, and repeated the word. Paris. So cool. “Do they have the Fourth of July there?” “Duh, that’s just an America thing.” “I’m just asking. God.” “When are you coming? Soon?” The board spelled the word yes, and then soon. “Tonight?” The board spelled too risky tonite. “Oh yeah, because of the fireworks.” “Who’s there?” Taylor asked. The board spelled the names of three of the other girls’ soul mates, and Taylor’s. Taylor’s was their leader. Taylor was the youngest of the Batz, and she felt flattered that the leader would choose her. She had been shy and quiet when they first formed their coven, but the fact that she was chosen gave her the boost she needed. She wasn’t really the group’s leader — they had no leader — but they did spend most of their time at Taylor’s house. There was always lots of food there. Several girls were like Jes, more or less on their own. There was a place called Jes’s mom’s house, but Jes’s mom was never there. “Did you kill anyone tonight?” The board spelled yes little girl. The girls looked at each other. Someone said, “Aw,” and was elbowed into silence. Then the board spelled and man. The girls looked at one another, breath held. Man was raping girl deserved to die. Collective gasp from the girls and the faint popping of fireworks in the distance. Do you still believe? “Yes! We believe, we believe,” the girls — the Batz said. Everyone must . . . and then a jerking pause . . . someone is lying. They pulled their fingers away from the pointer and looked around the circle. “Who is it?” Taylor put her fingers back on the pointer and peered across

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at the others until two of them joined her. After a moment the pointer started moving again. A . . . it moved excruciatingly slow. R . . . And then a loud knock on the door. Everyone jumped, squealing, upsetting the board and the Stoli. “Taylor,” her mom’s voice said. “Do you girls want to come down for pie? Dad’s lighting the fireworks soon.” “No,” Taylor said. “Fuck, Mom. We can see them from the window. God.” “Oh, I want pie,” someone said. “Me too. Come on, Taylor.” Even though they were there all the time, Taylor’s friends liked to have Taylor with them when they went into the kitchen. I guess I am kind of a leader, Taylor thought. So they had pie and watched fireworks and stole some more liquor and then fell asleep watching The Lost Boys on VHS. Taylor didn’t tell her friends about what happened in the teepee. She didn’t want to be like her friend Alisha, who, when she lost her virginity, would not shut up about it. She hadn’t told her friends when she got her period a couple years ago either, for similar reasons, but those were different friends. She didn’t talk to those girls now that she was one of the Batz. Now that she was, she felt she had to experience everything she could before the vampires came to get them. She had sex, snuck out of the house at night, went to as many parties as possible, smoked anything that was passed to her, took mushrooms, chugged tequila just to show that she could. (The tequila she wouldn’t do again.) She knew that she couldn’t get in too much trouble and if she did, her soul mate would come take her away and she’d live forever, hovering above the earth with the rest of them, watching the mortal bullshit below. She did things with pure will, too, for practice. She made people turn around and look at her, or made it so that they couldn’t see her at all. She could even make it snow, to close the schools — but not by herself, she needed the rest of the Batz to pitch in for that. She dated Aaron — if you could call it that — for a long time, almost the whole summer. He took her places and fucked her there; but actually, she hated him. She was using him to hone her powers and to toughen up. She got to where she didn’t really even feel it anymore. One night Taylor and the Batz were at a party, a high school party — Aaron wasn’t there, thank God — when something happened. Or, really, nothing happened. The

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six of them walked in — or maybe they were walking out — the invisible aura of Batz magic radiating from them, and from somewhere a male voice said, “Ooooh, vampires, scarrrry,” and then the laughter of many voices. Taylor didn’t turn but she recognized the voice, Aaron the soccer player. What had he heard? A flush of shame washed down her back. She curled in away from it. Later there was a smoky gathering at Jes’s mom’s house. Crow Aaron, greasy motor oil, cumin-smelling Aaron was there and he was looking for Taylor. She left each room she saw him enter. She went outside and climbed an apple tree, and looked up at the billion stars. She stayed up there as long as she could stand it, but no one came looking for her, so she went back inside. “Mmm, you’re so . . . voluptuous,” Aaron said, his arms circling her from behind. Taylor turned to face him and before she could stop herself she was clawing and scratching at his chest, screaming, “Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou — get the fuck off of me,” in a voice she’d never used. Someone pulled her away; someone pulled him back and he stood there, slack faced for a moment, before he turned and was gone. Taylor was tiny, smaller than she’d ever been. She was an acorn shell, dry and hollow. She wished someone would bury her. This is when they need to come for me, she thought. But no one wants her like this. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She wasn’t tiny; she was voluptuous. She was disgusting. She wouldn’t spend eternity in a body like this. She decided that tomorrow, she’d start that diet.

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STARTING THE BOOK OF DREAMS Poetry by Nicholas Squires

On the first page of my dream book it is always Gaudi and Giger BeksiĹ&#x201E;ski and Chris Cooksey. Winding roads heading toward an endless shore Dante had Virgil a poet Encouraging with verse. I have the Death Jester a harlequin pestering and macabre spewing soliloquies. On the fringe the path unfolds as a crow flies, lamps clutched in talons coal burning cherry red. How covert are my dreams to require a guide for learning myself?

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THE GIRL WITH NO LEGS Nonfiction by Isabella Roy

I went home from school early that day. After my mom texted me that Moriah was diagnosed with viral meningitis and after my AP Biology teacher told me that the disease almost always ended in death and after I left a smiling face of mascara, foundation, and tears on her light blue sweater. She told me that she would pray for her. She wasn’t supposed to say that. My real father picked me up. His spray-tanned chicken legs holding up his disproportioned torso as he wooed the women in the main office. I hadn’t seen him in a few months, but he didn’t mention that to the young, blonde receptionist at the front desk. We left my car in the faculty parking lot where I’d parked it that morning. My father talked on the phone the whole drive, but once we got to Ridgewater Estates he took my hands to stop them from shaking and said, “Don’t worry, the disease attacked her spine, is all.” He dropped me off at my mother and stepfather’s house and his eyes lit up like they always did when he saw where his children lived. He would never be able to own that house and he often posted on dating sites that he did. “Your brother’s driving home from Cookeville. He’ll be here soon to take you to the hospital.” “What did you mean, ‘it attacked her spine’?” “I don’t know, sweetie, I’ve got to run.” And he did. And so did I, up two flights of stairs to my stepsister’s bedroom. She hadn’t been home since Thanksgiving and hadn’t yet finished packing from 124

moving out three years earlier. Her wall of magazine cutouts, dead roses from four ex-boyfriends ago, a dusty desktop, a hoard of plastic water bottles, and four shelves of name-brand heels, cowboy boots, rain boots, tennis shoes, flats, and sandals all remained. I turned on her desktop to research spinal injuries and then threw up in her bathroom after I noticed the word paralysis repeated more than twice. While I was brushing my teeth I heard the loud, thumping bass of Nick’s car. He also ran into the house and up the two flights of stairs. Nick’s a mess, but once I saw him, I relaxed, as I always did. “Sigma Chi’s Christmas party last night,” he said, as if it weren’t obvious. The Christmas sweater, the red painted nose, and the blushed right cheek from him trying to rub off the penis someone drew on his face said enough. He gave me a short hug and a kiss on the forehead and I led him downstairs to our parents’ bathroom so I could clean him up. “How’s school going?” he asked while I wiped off the red paint from his nose with warm water and our mother’s lavender soap. “Same as it was.” “Heard back from any colleges yet?” “I did.” The penis was drawn in black Sharpie. “And?” “Do you think Moriah’s paralyzed?” “I don’t know, Izzy,” Nick looked down at the tiled floor. “Dad said it attacked her spine.” “That could mean anything.” I didn’t respond with words, but my hands started shaking again, so Nick told me to sit down so he could take over. When he finished, he went and found an old sweatshirt he’d left behind and a tan cap to tuck away his blonde curls. Then we left for Vanderbilt. We drove with the windows down and the heat on high and smoked a couple of spliffs on the way. I stared out the window at the Batman building while Nick scrolled through Twitter and navigated the gray streets of downtown Nashville. I sprayed us both with perfume and we split a piece of gum. My hands had stopped shaking. We walked around the hospital until we made it to the ICU level. The overweight and overly touchy church people who always asked personal questions whenever my mother would make me attend morning service crowded the waiting room. 125

They all turned their heads toward the door simultaneously, and if I remember correctly, formed an NFL-style huddle, put their hands in the middle, yelled, “Break!” and jumped onto us, forming a dog pile of false comfort, compliments, prayer, gross casseroles, and my opinion on Obama’s reelection. We somehow found our mother on the sidelines staring at the ceiling. She asked if we wanted to go back to see her. Before we could, we were instructed to wash our hands twice, sanitize them once, and put on rubber gloves. A male nurse with yellow teeth helped us out of our coats and into puffy, mint-green robes with matching shower caps and doctor’s masks. Then he led us down a wide, white tiled hallway with glass walls giving us a clear view into the other patients’ rooms. I crossed my arms and stared at the various people in various states of dying, feeling like I was living some twisted life on Vonnegut’s Tralfamadore, until we reached Moriah’s room. She first noticed Nick through the glass. “Bubba! You’re here!” She had never called him Bubba before. “Hey, Mo! How are you feeling?” “Sissy! You look beautiful!” She had sometimes called me Sissy. “Hey, Mo! How are you feeling?” I echoed Nick, but only when I felt uncomfortable. The room had the same white tile as the hallway. It was small, no windows facing the outside, and way too many machines. There wasn’t a place for us to sit and really no place to stand, so we squeezed onto her bed, moving the tubes out of our way while we did. Her brown hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, no doubt the work of my mother, and she had put on a light-pink lip gloss that someone had bought her from CVS. She didn’t look sick. “You guys have to try this medicine. I can’t move or feel, like, half my body. It’s the craziest feeling,” she laughed. A lot. They hadn’t told her yet. “It feels like I’m floating or flying or something weird. For real, Iz, touch my leg! I won’t be able to tell.” I didn’t. “How’s school going, Mo? You study for finals?” “Don’t remind me,” she rolled her eyes. “They won’t let me email my professors to tell them I won’t be able to make it because I’m stuck . . . here.” 126

A nurse put something into her IV and Moriah closed her eyes long enough to give us time to feel sorry for her. She woke up once more, though, to ask if we wanted to watch a movie. We nodded. She fell back asleep and my brother prayed that she dreamt of hiking mountains or swimming through oceans while we lay on either side of her watching Superman on a small, portable DVD player. He was the only one in the room who could fly.

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