UpperMississippi Harvest
A History of Upper Mississippi Harvest
Since 1991, students in the English Department have produced the Upper Mississippi Harvest, SCSU’s annual literary and art journal, showcasing students’ creative works. The journal itself has gone through many changes over the years, including its name. Starting in 1962, it was known as Parallels, then Sticks and Stones, followed by Wheatsprout and Crosscurrents, until we landed at the Upper Mississippi Harvest in 1991. Since then, we’ve gone from black and white pages to partial color, and finally in 2017, due to our editors’ volunteer fundraising work, we have been able to publish the journal in full color. Students from across the campus are encouraged to submit their creative pieces in the fall where they are evaluated through blind judging by our student editors. The journal is celebrated every spring during a release party where student contributors are invited to read or present their published works.
As we celebrate the 33rd anniversary of the UMH, we want to acknowledge its history. Since 1962, the English Department’s staff and students have published over 60 issues of the literary and art journal, and we are thrilled and proud to continue this tradition. Sit back, relax, and we hope you enjoy this year’s Upper Mississippi Harvest.
A Letter from your Head Editors
First and foremost, thank you to all the contributors whose exceptional dedication made this year’s journal possible. The Upper Mississippi Harvest (UMH) is a product of combined effort and passion and it is heartwarming for us to continuously see the talent that comes from SCSU’s students. Every year we are impressed with the work and dedication you all put into your craft. Without it, UMH would not exist. Thank you.
We would also like to thank our incredible team of editors. They are responsible for much more than just editing. They find opportunities for us to market our journal and attend several events to help bring awareness about the UMH to campus. They also give up a portion of their winter break to read through all submissions. Most importantly, they fulfill the difficult task of choosing the pieces that will compose our final journal. To all our editors this year, you’ve done a magnificent job, thank you!
To our talented and devoted designer, Jess Meichsner, who has created this year’s edition of UMH. From working with tight deadlines to sharing her expertise, your brilliance made it so we were all certain of the quality of our journal. Thank you for being such an exceptional addition to the team this year, we are fortunate to have you. Thank you, Jess!
A heartfelt thank you to our adviser, Professor Leanne Loy. Her passion for the UMH comes through in every effort she makes to help this journal thrive. Her faith in the value of this project, and in all of us, has made this year a valuable learning experience for all of the editors.
To our ever-reliable, kind, and hard-working Molly Mitzel. We pester you each year with our printing needs and all things administrative. We sincerely appreciate everything you have done for us no matter how busy you were. Thank you for always greeting us with a smile and enthusiasm to help us out, it means more than you know.
To Dr. Judith Dorn, Co-Chair of St. Cloud State’s English department. Thank you for continuing to support the arts and allowing UMH to have a community within our university where we can grow, evolve, and reach more people every year.
It has been a challenging year, with new obstacles, lessons, and adventures, but we have met it with laughter, dedication, and a desire to present the best journal possible. We believe in this journal and the power it has to touch, move, and inspire people.
We sincerely thank you all and hope you enjoy the 33rd edition of the Upper Mississippi Harvest.
–Chinyin Cheu and Greici Alles
Bethany Lawrence Determination Has A Voice
Determination has a voice, And it says
“Even though I lost, I will continue working, And eventually I will win.”
Determination has a voice, And it says
“Even though it hurts I will nurse my wounds And grow stronger.”
Determination has a voice, And it says
“You have worked hard. Good job! Keep going.”
Determination has a voice, And it says
“You are strong. Trust yourself. Push through it.”
Determination has a voice, And it says
“Rest, so you can Get back up again Tomorrow.”
Determination has a voice, And it says
“The small steps You’re taking Will multiply.”
Determination translates and signs It is a universal language
Determination moves And it charges forward, step by step
Determination has tears And cries when it needs to
Determination has fears But faces them little by little
Determination has a smile It appears for each completed mile
Determination has a brain, It understands progress
Determination has a voice, And it is screaming, whooping, cheering
“You can do this, Through the high and low, You are capable, pick a starting point, and go!”
Isaiah Okongo
Be Fair
Logan East
Be fair with your gentle kindness; do not hand out that which is not deserved. For that, if it was not of worth, their behavior and their vigor will be timeless.
Be fair with your wretched hatred, see it for the poison that it is; the virus that spreads like a disease, release the anger that you keep acquainted.
Be fair with your apathy for contentedness; not always should one feel constant joy, for it is at that point that normality feels low, and rough times become ever more resented.
Be fair with yourself and others, do not treat such as glass, for it is a fate worse than death to be treated as Broken.
Do I keep you awake?
Joselyn Garcia Gonzales
I must have said your name like a prayer, A shiver in my heart.
As the world entirely has become you.
My heart is renewed.
Despite the change around me, this love is only yours.
You hold the key to all my desires, the honey in your voice laces my mind. The sweetness of your smile kills any doubt I’ve had this lifetime. You are a temptation, you embody salvation.
Yet like Prometheus, I am punished, punished for bringing the fire in your eyes into my heart, allowing it to consume my soul.
Allowing you in my heart has condemned me eternally, for I am only yours.
Jocelyn Khongloth
You Are Dreaming
Logan East
INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT.
A simple bedroom is seen. Posters of movies adorn the small walls as well as shelves of small action figures. Moonlight shines through the cracked, open window and the curtains rustle from a slight breeze.
A boy, LUCAS, is seen at a desk. He is wearing small, cheap headphones. His head is tilted down and he has deep bags under his eyes and a cut that goes from the middle of his forehead, through his eyebrow, to the bottom of his cheekbone. He is reading a thick book he is almost done with, and on the computer in front of him is a writing software. His desk is a total mess, with papers strewn all across it and shoved in tight places, folders stacked on top of each other, rouge paperclips left here and there, and a small notebook labeled “DREAMS” sits to Lucas’s left.
The analog clock next to Lucas’s twin bed says, “3:44 AM.”
The door to the bedroom suddenly creeps open and Lucas sees this out of the corner of his eye, jumping from his seat at the desk to standing, wielding the book as a weapon. His mother, MARY, stands still in the doorway, with her eyebrow raised.
Lucas sighs, dropping the book back down onto his desk and collapses back into the chair. His mother opens the door more and leans against the doorframe.
MARY (softly)
Lucas. It’s four in the morning, what are you doing up?
Lucas looks down at the desk and the book on the desk. The title of the book is finally seen: “How to Control Your Dreams: Make it a Reality.” Mary’s face softens.
MARY (CONT’D) (carefully)
Is it your dreams again?
Lucas sighs, and finally fully pulls off the headphones, resting them on his shoulders.
LUCAS (mumbling)
You can hardly call them dreams.
Mary winces.
MARY
I know, honey. But you can’t just not sleep.
LUCAS (irritated)
Well, why not? It’s worked before in the past.
Mary stands up straight and crosses her arms.
MARY
That’s because you passed out. That doesn’t exactly count as sleeping, Lucas. You heard what the doctors said “The–”
Lucas rolls his eyes and finishes what his mother was going to say, putting up finger quotation marks to mock the words.
LUCAS
“-The fourth stage of REM sleep gives you the deep sleep you need. When someone doesn’t sleep to the point of passing out, they are missing out on the last two stages of sleep which makes them miss out on the crucial stage of REM sleep and will not have
proper brain function,” yeah, mom, I know.
Mary uncrosses her arms, walking into the room and sits on Lucas’s bed.
MARY
Well, if you already know so much, why are you insistent on staying up all night and avoiding sleep?
A beat of silence. Lucas sighs, swiveling around to look at his mom. He sits back.
LUCAS (mumbling)
Because even that is still better than the alternative.
Mary looks at him, her lips tight and eyes downturned. She jerks her head from Lucas to his bed, and he rolls his eyes before standing up, shedding his jacket onto the chair and lies on the bed.
MARY
You haven’t even tried the app. They said it worked for a lot of people, it can’t hurt to give it a try.
As Mary says this, she tucks him in under the blanket and adjusts the pillow. Lucas looks past Mary.
LUCAS
It can if it makes it all worse.
Mary smiles indulgently at Lucas, pushing his hair back and out of his eyes.
MARY
It won’t. But even if it does, then we just don’t use it again. No biggie. We’ll find something else. Okay?
Lucas looks upset, but nods anyway.
LUCAS
(barely audible)
Okay.
Mary smiles at his agreement and kisses him on the forehead. She grabs his phone, opens an app and clicks a big green “ON” button. She then walks over to the lamp next to Lucas’s desk and turns it off.
MARY
Night, honey. Sweet dreams.
She leaves and closes the door behind her. Lucas is only faintly lit up by the moonlight now.
A close-up of him as he says his next line is shown, and he turns over so his back is to the camera after he speaks it.
LUCAS (faint and detached)
I certainly hope so.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. CLASSROOM. DAY.
A large classroom with 15-20 students in it is seen. All of the students are on their phones, talking with classmates, or reading/writing on paper.
On the whiteboard, the words “AP PSYCH PROFESSOR XAVIER” is written along with information about things such as REM sleep, lucid dreaming, and dream interpretation.
Lucas walks into frame and sits in the middle of the classroom. The bell rings, and a teacher appears from the doorway, PROFESSOR XAVIER.
PROFESSOR XAVIER
Welcome back, class! Did you all have a great weekend? Anyone do anything exciting?
A majority of the students absently nod their heads, roll their eyes, or just ignore the professor entirely. Lucas has his head resting on his hand and
bags under his eyes. The answer to Xavier’s question is clearly a “no”.
Lucas closes his eyes, and the screen gets blurry, and time all around Lucas speeds up as students are seen leaving and arriving. A scream cuts through the ominous music playing and Lucas snaps his eyes open. The classroom is now dark, and it is night.
INT. SCHOOL. NIGHT.
Lucas jumps out of his chair, sending it flying to the floor, and he runs out to the hallway. However, instead of the hallway, he runs into an unfamiliar dark room. A girl, UNKNOWN GIRL, is tied up there, and she looks terrified.
UNKNOWN GIRL (begging)
PLEASE, please, you have to help me! He’s going to kill me!
Lucas looks confused but frantic, and goes to untie her.
LUCAS
What-what happened? Who?
He finishes untying her wrists and she snaps around to face him, grabbing his wrist. She smiles.
Him.
UNKNOWN GIRL
She looks over Lucas’s shoulder, and he turns his head in time to be whacked over the head with a blunt object. He falls to the floor in slow motion and as he lies there, breathing shallowly and dazed, the camera blurred, a voice is heard.
VOICE
You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
Lucas lifts his head while lying down and the camera lifts and tilts with it.
INT. CLASSROOM. DAY.
LUCAS!
PROFESSOR XAVIER
The camera opens to the professor shouting downward into the camera, before jumping to Lucas’s reaction.
Lucas gasps awake, jumping out of his seat like he did before. Only now, everyone is looking at him. Lucas is breathing heavily. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at his classmates and the professor’s strange expressions on their faces, and speed-walks out into the hallway. Every head on each person tilts and follows him as he leaves.
Lucas walks back and forth in the hallway, flapping his hands to get rid of excess energy. He slowly calms down and puts his back to the hallway wall, thumping his head back to hit it lightly, closing his eyes.
Lucas?
PROFESSOR XAVIER (CONT’D)
Professor Xavier very suddenly appears, as if she had been there this whole time, right next to Lucas. Lucas jumps, putting a hand on his heart and looks at the professor in slight annoyance. The professor laughs.
PROFESSOR XAVIER (CONT’D) (slightly smiling and jokingly) You okay, Lucas? Kinda went a little wild in there.
Lucas stands up straight and turns to face his professor.
LUCAS (calming down)
Sorry, yeah. Haven’t been sleeping well lately.
The professor looks confused.
PROFESSOR XAVIER
Why? Are you staying up all night playing video games?
Lucas grit his teeth in annoyance. The lights above them flicker slightly.
LUCAS (grounding out, trying to restrain irritation)
No. No. Just not sleeping well. Nightmares.
The professor laughs again, and Lucas looks incredulous at her audacity.
PROFESSOR XAVIER
Just some silly little nightmares? Come on, you’re better than that, Lucas.
The lights fully go out before coming back on, and all of Lucas’s classmates are standing behind Professor Xavier, still.
ALL (CLASSMATES)
You’re better than that, Lucas.
Lucas takes a step back and breathes in realization, eyes widening.
LUCAS (breathily)
This isn’t real.
The professor laughs, and ALL (CLASSMATES) mimics.
The professor takes a step forward, and ALL (CLASSMATES) mimic.
PROFESSOR XAVIER
You are dreaming.
ALL (CLASSMATES) (echoing, faintly overlapping) You are dreaming.
PROFESSOR XAVIER
You are dreaming.
ALL (CLASSMATES) (echoing, faintly overlapping) You are dreaming.
Lucas continues backing away in fear, and they all follow. For every four smaller backwards steps Lucas makes, they all take two larger ones, and are catching up.
PROFESSOR XAVIER (snaps, shouting loudly) WAKE UP!
ALL (CLASSMATES) (shouting loudly) WAKE UP!
INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT.
Lucas wakes up with a scream and falls out of bed with a mess of limbs, blankets, and pillows. He breathes heavily as he sits with the side of his bed to his back. His phone buzzes from his side table.
VOICE
You are dreaming. You are dreaming. Wake up.
The voice on the phone drones in a monotone voice, and Lucas sighs in relief as he turns it off. Mary warily walks into the room and sighs when she sees Lucas.
MARY (hopefully) Did it work?
Lucas looks at her disdainfully, shoving the blanket off of his lap and untangling his legs.
LUCAS
I don’t know.
Mary looks confused and walks fully into the room, sitting beside Lucas onto the floor.
MARY
You don’t know?
LUCAS (a little annoyance in his voice) I don’t know.
A beat. Mary tries again.
MARY
Did you wake up faster than you would have without the app?
Lucas looks at his phone before looking down at his lap.
LUCAS (mumbling)
Yeah- yeah, I guess so.
MARY (gentle, attempting to lead him to her conclusion) So...doesn’t that mean that it worked?
Lucas looks hesitant.
LUCAS
Maybe...But it also made it kind of...worse, at the same time.
MARY (concerned) Worse? Worse how?
The phone on his bedside starts vibrating again. Lucas snaps his head to it.
VOICE
You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
Lucas breathes heavily, while Mary just looks confused and faintly amused.
MARY
Well, that’s weird.
A loud thump is heard from the house. Both Mary and Lucas sit up straight and go quiet.
LUCAS (quietly, scared) What’s happening?
Mary looks at him and shakes her head. She doesn’t know either.
LUCAS (CONT’D) Is this real?
Now Mary looks concerned, but she doesn’t have time to ask any questions as footsteps grow loud as they approach Lucas’s room. Lucas looks at Mary, wide-eyed, and she gestures for him to get underneath the bed. As Lucas does so quickly, Mary covers him with his bed blanket. Lucas peeks his eyes out over it.
Mary quietly runs over to Lucas’s closet, opens it, and gets inside, just barely managing to close it when the footsteps sound right there.
The camera is next to Lucas, underneath the bed. The black, combat boots of a person, THE INTRUDER appear in the doorway as they get to Lucas’s room. The mystery person stops. The only parts of them visible are from the lower thigh down.
A beat of silence as the person stands there. They shift as they adjust their posture, their hand and what they are holding comes into frame. It is a large, machete-like knife. It just barely reaches the ground, and as THE INTRUDER walks into the room, they drag it along the ground.
They stop at the foot of the bed, and Lucas covers his mouth with his hand, gripping onto the blanket with the other.
They slowly sit on the bed.
THE INTRUDER
(a deep, rumbling voice, slowly spoken and enunciated)
I know you are here.
Lucas looks terrified, wide-eyed and trembling, but slowly looks over at the creaking as Mary opens the closet and steps out haltingly. She stands in front of the open closet door, and THE INTRUDER makes a humming noise.
THE INTRUDER (CONT’D)
Much better.
THE INTRUDER slowly stands up, and the large knife goes out of view of Lucas. He takes two steps until he is right in front of Mary.
MARY
(trembling, whispers) Please.
THE INTRUDER stabs her with the knife, but that is not seen, only heard. Her body slams onto the floor, and Mary’s head is looking straight at Lucas. He screams, backing into the bed more frantically.
Mary’s eyes are open, and she is clearly dead. Lucas is incredibly distressed, but stops his panicking when Mary’s mouth slowly opens and she croaks out:
MARY (CONT’D)
You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
INT. BUS. DAY.
Lucas wakes up with a gasp, and he is now on a bus. He frantically looks around for a few seconds before sitting forward. He shuts his eyes, breathing out.
LUCAS
(mumbling to himself) Wake up, wake up, wake up. Come on.
He opens his eyes. Nothing has changed, except a few people are glancing at him in the corner of their eyes
judgingly. Lucas then has a mental spark, and feels across his body, pulling out his phone. His fingers fly across the screen and he clicks a call button. He puts the phone to his ear, bouncing his leg as he waits.
LUCAS (CONT’D) (breathing out in relief) Mom. Are you okay?
A beat. Mary’s words aren’t audible, but the concerned tone stands out.
LUCAS (CONT’D)
Good. That’s great. Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Just, I don’t know where-
He is cut off by the bus stopping, and all of the people around him rushing out. He slowly gets up and follows. He exits the bus to see his school.
LUCAS (CONT’D) (quietly, almost inaudible) ...I am.
MARY (concerned) Lucas? You still there?
LUCAS
Yeah. I’m here. Hey, why was I just on a bus?
A beat of silence.
MARY (slowly and pointedly) To go to school. Lucas looks confused, and shakes his head.
LUCAS
I’ve never rode the bus to school in my life.
A beat of silence again.
Shelby Miller
Jelly Dreams
Maya Geving Subtle Violence
I am sick of your sadness
And your tear-welled madness
I am sick of your silence
And your subtle violence I am sick of the porcelain eggshells
Beneath my feet
Every time I try
To tell you you’re not fine I’m sick of your ignorance
Your god-forsaken victim complex
And the ways in which you turn me Into someone I barely recognize
Kate Bush is cool, but God owes me back taxes
Jesse Peterman
It might not be a hill, but it’s that godforsaken staircase Seventeen shoddy wooden steps and half a railing on the wrong side.
I’m sending a collection plate to heaven’s IRS. It’s too late to swap places, but I need to know Why they haven’t sent my heaven-sent return.
Maybe it’s because I lost Count of all the nights I spent Fighting for my life—That’s not a metaphor. It’s not like I could keep receipts
But at least for that one sleepover
Where I couldn’t sleep ‘til it was over The weekend-long standoff: My mind against his body
The reason I can’t go anywhere I can’t leave Any time I want to. Anywhere with only one exit.
The least God could do is cover the therapy.
Or let me sleep
Without a locked door. Now that it’s over
I really think it’d be nice if I Could see someone in public that looks vaguely Like him without getting the shakes
Cyndi Lauper had an idea about What I want.
I want my life back. I want freedom, I want the million tiny things I shouldn’t be missing.
Fun doesn’t quite cover it, but My best Toni Basil impression Is what I want the most
I want to invite a man into, well, anywhere Private to me.
Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God)
Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want To Have Fun
Toni Basil’s Hey Mickey (2020)
The Drooling Duckling
Tara Butkowski
“Sir, you’ve really had enough, you’ve caused enough trouble tonight. I think it’s time you got home and slept it off. You can come back and tell your ‘stories’ another time,” said the stern bouncer, towering over Wally, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“Look, I dunno if you heard me before, but I ain’t goin’ anywhere less you’re gonna drag my old ass out. You really wanna embarrass yourself, dragging out a poor old man?” asked Wally.
“Sir, you will be the one who’s embarrassed if you don’t come with me right now and get in the cab waiting outside.”
“Well, shit. Don’t you know who this is?” said Wally’s buddy, Frank, from the next stool, to the burly bouncer, Joey.
“No, sir, and frankly, I don’t give a damn.”
With that, Joey took Wally by the collar of his fake leather jacket and dragged him to the front of the bar and out the door, Wally’s shoes sticking to the floor, damp with spilled drinks, along the way. Wally didn’t fight it; he’d dealt with Joey before. This time it wasn’t worth the effort. He would go home and have an early night, maybe tomorrow he’d wake up before noon.
Wally didn’t remember much from that night after getting into the cab. He woke up in his small apartment to his basset hound, Doug, licking his face to be fed. He woke slowly, as to take in his surroundings and get his bearings. How did I get here? I need a drink.
With a pounding in his head, he made the short trek across his apartment to the kitchen, well, more like a sink and a microwave in the corner, as close to a real kitchen Wally would ever get.
While the coffee rotated in the microwave, Wally fed Doug and gave him a few pats on the head. Good boy, Doug. Soon, it would be after noon, which meant it was almost time for Wally to clean himself up and get back out to the bar. I should try a new place tonight, I don’t wanna fuck around with Joey again. A long, hot shower was the only thing Wally needed every day, besides a bourbon with his buddies, and telling his old stories of how he used to be, how he used to live. He was far from that life now, but he held on as tightly as he could to that old life that he wasn’t sure even existed in the first place.
When Wally’s wrinkled and leathery skin had turned red from the hot water and his hard scrubbing, he got out and got dressed, his usual plaid flannel and blue jeans and his baseball cap with the logo of his old company “K&E Engraving.” He found himself walking to his usual spot, The Drooling Duckling, without even thinking about it, by now it was just habit for the old guy.
“Hey, old man!” Frank said to Wally as soon as he walked through the door, “I’ve been saving your seat for ya, what took you so long? You’re late.”
Wally motioned to the rest of the bar that was completely empty beside the two men and the barmaid, Cate, and said, “How can I be late when there’s no one here?”
Frank said nothing, but just turned his body back toward Cate behind the bar. Wally silently sat down next to Frank as Cate poured him a bourbon on the rocks, his usual.
“How’s your head today, Wally?” Cate asked, breaking the silence.
“That depends, do you want the real answer or the entertaining answer?”
“Why can’t we live somewhere in between?”
“Okay, you want ‘in between’, I’ll give you ‘in-between’.”
Wally cleared his throat, downed his drink, and began his walk down the path of fantastical exaggeration and hyperbole, all in the effort to entertain, as he did for Cate and the guys at The Duckling every night. What bullshit can I pull out tonight? What haven’t I told for a while?
“Today, my head… let’s see… Well, I’ve got no complaints… yet! Haha… sorry, but just as well, my head’s been pounding again in the morning, right here in my temples. It hasn’t been this bad for years, not since I took that helicopter ride. Oh yeah, I told you about that one, right? The time Bob Hope took me up in his helicopter? Ah, you’re too young to know Bob Hope. Anyway, it was the third year of K&E’s contract with those Academy Awards to do the engravings of the statues after they were given out. K&E sent me out because I did the straightest lines and had the best handwriting, not to mention I was the best-looking bastard at the place. They weren’t gonna send any old Harry to the Oscars, ya know? I think Hope was hosting that year, so he had no reason to talk to the engraver, hell the winners never even talk to the engraver. I sometimes ‘lovingly’ call those
winners big-headed famewhores, but all in good fun you understand. But, I can’t blame them for ignoring me, they were high on adrenaline, because, ya know, you get the trophy, you say the speech, you thank your mom and your god, you go to the bar, get you champagne, then you come to me just so your trophy will actually say your name on it, and so it can be returned to you when you lose it in the bathroom in twenty minutes at the after party. Ah, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“Oh no, Wally, I love it, please keep going, how’d you end up in the helicopter?” asked Cate, pretending she hadn’t already heard this story at least four different times.
“I guess long story short, Bobby saw me being ignored and was sympathetic. He started chatting with me after the awards were done, complimented my work, and offered to take me with him to a nearby army base where he would be performing the next day. I couldn’t say no, so the next day when he was coming to pick me up, I sat and waited on my front step for about an hour and I was about to give up because there was no traffic on the street, no sign of him anywhere and just as I was going inside, down comes this massive helicopter and it lands right on the road in front of my house. I’m standing there going, “What the hell is this?” and out comes Bob, waving me over. Anyway, he took me to the base in the helicopter then took me back to my house after he was done with his performance, funny guy that Bob Hope. The air pressure was what made my head pound so bad.”
“Wally, that’s incredible. Crazy stuff. You sure have lived, Wally,” said Cate with a tint of sarcasm in her voice. She poured him another drink before going to the back to get more ice for the coming crowd.
Thank god that’s over, she better not ask me for another story, I have to stop lying. When are the rest of the guys getting here? What time is it? I think I’m hungry. Wally downed his second drink and wandered over to the bathroom. Damn Prostate. When he finished and washed his hands, he found himself staring at the sad-looking old man he saw in the mirror looking back at him. His hat covered his comb-over, his severely balding head, and the liver spots on his scalp. He was looking extra pale these days. Too much time inside. His old-fashioned hearing aids made his ears look bigger and more prominent on his head than they were, he tried not to think about it too much. And his eyes, oh his eyes. You look like a fly with those damn glasses, bub.
In his stories, he never looked like that. In his stories, he looked like Carey Grant or George Clooney even though he has looked like a wrinkled old fly for most of his life. It was just another one of his fabrications in his stories, a reimagination of the truth is what he told himself. Not a lie, never a lie. Wally didn’t lie. He was a storyteller trying to entertain his audience.
When he went back to the bar, Wally saw that some more regulars of The Duckling had arrived, the ones who always expect an Oscar’s story from Wally. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Heyyy, Wallyyy,” said John, from the bar, prompting the others to call out in the same way.
Wally politely smiled without showing any teeth and took his seat between Frank and a woman he had never seen at the bar before. Hmm, she’s new.
“Hey Wally, this is my sister, Sheila. She’s visiting from outta town. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought she’d like to hear some of your stories,” said John.
“Hi there, Wally. I’m sorry for my brother. I told him to take me to a movie, but he said, ‘I’ll do you one better,’ and he brought me here, but he’s right, I wouldn’t mind a story or two. John told me you used to engrave the awards at the Oscars, is that right?” asked Sheila.
She seems sincere, but is it worth it? God, I hate John. I hate these fake stories. It’s only four… can’t go home yet.
Wally found himself replying, “Oh, it’s no trouble. I love telling my stories, talking about the good ol’ days. What do you wanna hear first?”
Cate poured him another drink.
“John told me you got a kiss from Sophia Loren, is there a story there?”
“Oh yes, the Italian bombshell, where to start?” Wally tried to stall as long as possible to remember the details of the story he had already told over and over. Was that in 1962 or 1963? More and more often, he was forgetting old details. Maybe it’s for the best since none of it even happened…
“Maybe at the beginning,” said Cate from the register, knowing Wally was full of shit, but egging him on anyway for her own entertainment.
“Okay, well… it was… 1962, right, yes, 1962. Sophia won the Oscar that year for Best Leading Actress for a film called ‘The Woman’ or something like that. Anyway, she came to my station after her speech so I could put her name on the statue. I remember she was all a flutter, just glowing with beauty and happiness. She might be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. While I was engraving, she was spouting something off in Italian, I couldn’t understand it. Next thing I know, I’m handing her the statue and she’s planting one on me. She grabbed me by the ears and pulled me in, left her red lipstick all over my face. She was married at the time, so she got outta there pretty quick when she saw her husband waiting for her.”
The guys did their usual ohhs and ahhs in all the right places. If only they knew that didn’t happen. I only put her name on the thing, she didn’t even look at me. Why would she kiss me? I was too unimportant. I still am.
“My gosh, Wally, that sounds incredible. Ya know, I always wanted to be an actress, go to the Oscars, but it’s much too late to start now,” said Sheila.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Sheila. Have you ever tried to audition?” asked Wally.
“I wouldn’t dare! Who would wanna hire a 68-year-old widow with no experience?”
John had to chime in, “I’m sure Wally has some connections from back in the day, don’t you Wally?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Did I tell him I had connections? I can’t remember anything.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure I do, pal. Is that something you’d want me to look into, Sheila?”
“No, no, no, it’s just a silly childhood dream. I wouldn’t dream of it now.”
Thank fucking Christ.
“But I wouldn’t mind another story if you have one, Wally,” Sheila said.
I should just leave. Wally downed another.
“There was this one time Cary Grant offered to buy me a drink. Yeah, he sure did. He didn’t win or anything, but I think he was presenting. Anyway, he came back with the winner and hung around with the crew people. Very personable he was. He came over to me, told me I was doing a great job, shook my hand, and offered to buy me a drink. I was still pretty green at the time, so I said yes. We sat and talked a while, and I made him laugh so he took a liking to me. Next thing I knew, he was inviting me to an afterparty at his mansion. You can’t turn down a guy like that, so I went, and I partied with the guy and all his famous friends. It was practically an orgy, really. There was this one lady, oh, what was her name? Ahh, I forget the name, but I’d never forget the face. Oh, yes, she was a sight.”
Wally noticed Joey walking in out of the corner of his eye, that would mean it’s almost five, and that Wally would likely wake up in his own bed again with no memory of how he got there.
Sheila brought him back, “Wally, I am so jealous of the life you’ve had. I wish I could’ve met the people you have.”
“Trust me, it’s not all that,” Wally said as he motioned to Cate for another drink, “Someone else tell a story, I’m tired today.”
“C’mon Wally, you can’t be that tired. Just a few more stories…” said Frank, who hadn’t said a word to Wally since he got to the bar. Why is he pushing me so hard today?
Wally excused himself to use the bathroom again, to speak with that man he has seen there before, the old man in the mirror.
Why do you do this to yourself? Why did you make up that one lie all those years ago? Engraver at the Oscars? Sure! You did it ONE time and you got FIRED. No one talked to you except the security guard who escorted you out because you were too drunk to find the exit without causing a scene. You were lucky enough to be able
to keep your job at K&E, but why not just leave it at that? Why do you need to be popular? Why do you need to be liked? Why do you need to entertain these strangers? They don’t know you; they never did, you didn’t let them.
Those bug eyes stared for a long time before Wally felt enough shame to fill the whole bar, a feeling he was used to these days. He took some deep breaths, splashed some water on his face, and went back to the group.
Wally didn’t feel the same sitting at this bar as he used to. He downed another drink, but this time also asked for a glass of water. Cate gave it to him with a wide smile, the most genuine smile she had ever given Wally. She knows something…
Wally forgot Sheila was sitting next to him when he heard, “One more, Wally, please…”
Okay, one more, then I’m done forever.
“Once, Bob Hope took me up in a fighter jet. K&E sent me out cuz I did the straightest lines. They weren’t just gonna send any old Tommy Lee to those Oscars. Hope was probably hosting that year; he had no reason to talk to little ol’ me,” Wally went on.
“Wally, didn’t you already tell this?” asked Frank.
“Maybe he has, but I haven’t heard it yet. Keep going Wally,” said Sheila before Wally could respond to Frank.
“Uh, yeah, so long story short, Bob saw me being ‘gnored and was empathetic to me. He started chatting with me after the show was done and offered to take me with him to an army base where he would be performing the day after and I couldn’t say no, so the next day when he was coming to pick me up, I sat waiting in front of the theater where the awards were for hours and hours and hours and hours. There was no sign of him anywhere and just as I was going in, down comes this massive helicopter and it lands right on the road in front of my house.”
“Hold up, Wally, something’s not adding up here,” said Frank.
“Yeah, so was it a helicopter or a fighter jet ‘Bob Hope’ took you up in? And did he pick you up in front of the theater or in front of your house?” asked Cate. I knew she was catching on.
“Well, hold on there, Cate, can I have another?” Wally was starting to get sloppy now with this next drink. He was starting to get his stories jumbled together.
“Just let him finish, maybe it’ll come to him,” said Sheila.
“Okay, so anyway I’m standing there going ‘what the hell is this?’ and out comes Bob. Anyway, he took me to the base in the helicopter then took me back to my house after he was done with his performance, funny guy that Bob Hope. It was that air pressure…”
“What about the air pressure, Wally?” asked Sheila.
“That was from earlier, Sheila, don’t bother questioning him now, he’s too
far gone to keep anything straight. He does this every day. Comes in, tells one coherent story, gets drunk, and the rest are a mess. It’s become his routine. I can’t help but pity the old guy,” said Cate.
Sheila didn’t say anything but had a look of pity on her face about the old man.
“Who’s that over by the door? He’s been staring at me this whole time,” said Wally.
Frank leaned over to Wally and said, “What do you mean, Wally? There’s no one over there except Joey, you’re getting paranoid again.”
“No, I ain’t being paranoid, look for yourself. Who is that?”
“I said that’s just Joey, Wally. Keep this up he’s gonna take you outta here again. Maybe you should just head home and get an early night.”
“He wants me outta here… he’ll have to drag me out. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. Now lemme finish my story.”
“Ya know, Wally, I think Frank is right. I think you should pay out and head home,” said Cate.
“Hold on, hold on, I ain’t finished my story yet.”
“No, Wally, I think you have.”
How did I get here?
Roscoe Berrios
BEEF: It’s Not Just For Dinner Anymore!
Tara Butkowski
Ron called a meeting of the executive board for 8 AM a few months ago, so the guys and I made sure to get into work super early, in our cleanest suits. We all wore our matching gray ties with the little face of a cow right under the knot and were ready for whatever crazy money-grab Ron was thinking about implementing at our company, our farm, ‘Beef as You Like It!’. I say “our”, but it was really Ron’s. It was given to him by his father, bless ‘im, a great guy, a simple guy, who just wanted to quietly and without fuss make the best lean steaks and flanks he could. Ron didn’t really care about all that.
All eight of us sat around patiently in the gray room. We tried to make small talk but mostly we stared at the four blank walls and zoned out. We weren’t really friends, or buddies, just work colleagues, all with our secretaries, making their own small talk amongst themselves. There was Bob, with his secretary, Mina, John and Catherine, the others. Mine was Jill. She was new… inexperienced… green… dumb.
I remember her first day fondly. She wore this little blue thing, I don’t even know that it could qualify as a dress, but I loved it! Very memorable! Quite a looker. Blonde. Not much makeup. She was very perky and eager to learn about the company and its inner workings. She will be missed around here.
Anyway, her main jobs from me were just to take notes in all my work meetings and to take calls for me when I was napping at lunch like I do every day, not much different from all the other secretaries for the board.
But, so, Ron came in and he was full of energy, it’s practically seeping out of his little ape-shaped body. I knew his idea would be good, it had to be. He usually isn’t that excited. His hair was scattered all over his head, bald spot peeking out,
his tie was loose. Keep in mind this was at 8 AM and he already looked like shit. I assumed he was up working on his pitch all night.
“Okay, everyone, it’s time to gather around. I’ve got an important announcement to make,” he said in a rushed tone even though we were already gathered.
We all sat up and noticed an easel with a draping over it near the entrance of the gray rectangle we called a conference room. I hadn’t noticed it when I went in because I was too busy avoiding eye contact with the other board members and their secretaries. Did I already mention we aren’t friends?
“Okay, guys, listen. The beef market isn’t what it used to be, you know with all these vegans and vegetarians popping up everywhere. So, I’ve decided we are officially shutting down production of lean steaks and flanks and cuts and loins and bacon and whatnot.”
The rest of us guys sort of wriggled uncomfortably in our chairs. I mean, we thought we were all going to lose our jobs, not to mention the hundreds of other employees at the farm and all those cows that would go on living full and happy lives. It was obvious to Ron we were getting worried.
“Hey, hey, hey, before you go on fretting. No one is going to lose their job and no cows will go unkilled and cut up. Only now, those juicy money machines we call cattle will not be cut up into lean slices for packaging, they will be chopped up and ground down and stomped on.”
There was still an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air, but none of us would’ve dared say anything to Ron. We wouldn’t risk our jobs like that for something only potentially going to destroy the entire company. The board knew how he was, but the little green dummy couldn’t just sit there and let Ron go on.
“Stomped on?” asked Jill. She sounded far off, though she was right behind me.
I could see Ron’s eye start to twitch when he craned his head in her direction. Usually, no one asks questions, just nods along until Ron tires himself out. This was a new experience for all of us.
“That’s right whatever-your-name-is, stomped on! I read an article on the toilet about wine-making and home brew. Apparently, it’s all the rage. Now, personally, I don’t understand it a damn bit, but we are going to break into this new market ourselves. Introducing… Cabernet Bourguignon!”
Then he took the draping off the easel to show us the design for the bottles of wine. It was a rolling vineyard with our cows roaming happily through them. Horns still on ‘em and everything. We all sort of started applauding nervously. Again, we were not about to protest Ron; there’s just no point. No matter what, he would do what he wanted, lose a million dollars, then go back to business as usual.
The person in the room with the biggest balls was little Jill.
“So, um, Ron, how exactly are we going to make wine from our cattle?”
The vein in Ron’s head was starting to pop out. The last time I saw that vein was when Ron’s mother got too drunk at his wedding and wouldn’t stop kissing his groomsmen.
“Great question, whatever-your-name-is! According to the article I read while I was on the toilet, I think you are supposed to mix yeast with the juice of the grapes and that turns the sugar into booze when you let it sit for years and years. I’m assuming the same rules apply here. We’ll do it like they used to in the olden days. We will put our money makers into the grinder, stomp out all the juice, chuck the leftovers, add the yeast, and leave it to get nice and boozy for a while then – BAM! Money in our pockets!”
“Um, yeah, that sounds great Ron, but won’t the wine still taste like… meat?” asked Jill.
“Yes, but that is the draw, that’s the draw! Who ever heard of meat-flavored wine before, HUH? WHATEVER-YOUR-NAME-IS?”
His face was turning a deep shade of red when he ran out of the conference room. We could hear him rummaging, presumably in his office, then he came back in as quickly as he left, this time with two bottles that looked exactly like the one on the easel.
“Look, look, just try it for yourself. I took the liberty of making some sample batches. Just pass this around and take a swig.”
He uncorked one of the bottles and started passing it around. The whole room quickly started to reek of blood and rotting flesh. One by one we went around the table and took a swig, offering one to each of our secretaries. It was obvious that we were holding back gags and vomit. It got around to Jill, still standing right behind me. I could feel her staring at my hair plugs the whole meeting, and she looked like she didn’t want to try it after seeing all our reactions. I gave her a little nod of encouragement; it wasn’t that bad after all. It was mostly tequila and fresh cow blood. Looking back now, Ron definitely did NOT know how to make wine…
That poor little green thing couldn’t hide the disgust on her face like the rest of us. Her face turned a strange shade of yellowish purple and she threw up right there, down the back of my authentic leather wheely chair and all over the floor. It was probably the worst smell I’ve ever been exposed to. The only thing worse than meat wine going down is meat wine coming back up. It was the chunks of baguette that almost got me. Ron also definitely did NOT know what yeast was.
“Goddamnit whatever-your-name-is! All over the nice chair??? That’s coming out of your salary!” Ron yelled at Jill.
Jill kindly offered to clean up her mess and I excused her to clean herself up first. I didn’t need notes about that meeting anymore. None of us did. We all excused our secretaries to go purge that “wine” in the ladies’ room.
The whole meeting seemed to take a commercial break while we all just sat and watched Jill clean up the vomit. She got me a different chair which I was thankful for. She really will be missed around here.
Ron just stood at the front of the room with his hands leaning on the table. He kept glancing at the second bottle he brought in. He was the only one of us who hadn’t tasted it at that point.
Just when the smell of Clorox had overtaken the wine and vomit odors, wine smell persisted again when Ron uncorked the second bottle. The vomit smell persisted again when the wine reached Ron’s stomach.
Everywhere.
He vomited everywhere.
It was like he was a cartoon hose possessed by Satan himself. Spray.
I don’t know what he ate that morning before the meeting but… Chunks.
More chunks.
Baguette chunks.
I think some might’ve even got in my shoes.
Once he was finished, he took a few moments to catch his breath and to stop his body from shaking and he looked up at Jill, trying not to start up again herself, and said, “You started this, bitch, and you’re cleaning this up, bitch!”
Jill said nothing, she just left the room, and I assume after that she just went home. I couldn’t blame her after all that mess and the smell that was trapped in that room.
Ron just told me I had to control my girl and he chased after her.
We all just waited in the conference room, trying to keep our composure and to not add to the mess. We didn’t hear any rustling or any screams, but we never saw Jill again after that.
Ron came back into the conference room and dismissed us about twenty minutes later. All that went on and it wasn’t even 9 AM yet.
I haven’t really seen or talked to Ron since that meeting, officer. He hasn’t come into work at all. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help to you, but I am rooting for you and the rest of the boys on the force to bring Ron to justice. What he did to Jill… That’s just not right.
No man should have to tell his wife that he was late to dinner because his secretary went missing and he had to talk to the police. And no man should ever have to tell his wife that he was late to dinner again because the police found his secretary’s DNA all over his boss’s office. And no man should have to tell his wife that he was late to dinner because the police pieced together that Ron finally snapped after all these years running the farm and he turned my secretary into a bottle of horrible, horrible “wine”. And no man should have to tell his wife that he has become the CEO of a company because the boss is on the lam, and he has the most seniority.
Bethany Lawrence Customer Service
I’m suffocating
Your approval is my air
No oxygen here
I am always wrong
Customer is always right For minimum wage
I feel more sooty Than the cracked, crusty, greasy Black restaurant tile
Bruce Dabria’s Foolproof Way of Dealing With Pushy Sales Associates
Logan East
Bruce liked to think that he was a practical man.
He lived a simple life, really, out in the barren wasteland of Front Royal, Virginia. He caught his own food a majority of the time (fish from the lakes and deer in the forests), cooked and prepared it himself (albeit with only salt and pepper for seasoning), took care of his family and provided for them (no one needs to know that his family only consisted of two mutts, six cats, three ducks and himself), and has a stable, well-paying job as a teacher at a local university. He handles all of these things on his own, so, yes, Bruce considers himself practical.
He has a simple life, with simple pleasures.
Or…well, he had a simple life, until a man named Wilder Drake walked through his classroom door with his swaggering sway of a walk and stylish metaphors he spewed like a self-entitled therapist, upheaving the delicate balance Bruce had barely managed to hang onto for years by now.
But now? After having been gutted and heartbroken and feeling the loss of a son he never thought he would be able to have, to feel the pain and betrayal of a once-friend turned to an enemy, then something maybe-more, only to be hurt all over again and back to square one? After chasing that once-friend-turnedenemy-turned-friend-turned-something-more all across the east coast, leaving everything he had behind, to being shot, having the lowest moment in his life when his once-friend-turned-enemy-turned-friend-turned-something-more (what were they at that point? Jilted lovers?) attempting to gut him again, once and for all when Bruce rejects Wilder, putting the last foot down that what they were was unhealthy and he couldn’t do it anymore (not to mention the fact that Wilder was a very sought-after serial killer), to which Wilder just surrenders himself to the police station in retaliation, Wilder, you maniac, you were supposed to leave
the country. And after two years of pining but trying to forget that he’s pining and five more years of normalcy with a new family (two dogs and five cats still, but hey, at least a wife and a kid were included in that too) before being dragged back into the fold that got him into this whole mess in the first place when Wilder shows up at his door, having freshly broken out, pushing him to murdering a random guy he had brought to his doorstep, fighting the police at every turn with Wilder, nearly drowning, and for two weeks barely managing to not let himself or his now-definite partner bleed out and living a thrilling chase with a string of bodies following their paths?
No. He didn’t have a simple life anymore, nor was he practical (blame Wilder for spoiling him like he was his sugar baby, the man had a complex, he was positive of it).
That being said, he was significantly more put-together mentally (in his opinion, at least) than where he started all those years ago, and their life much simpler. So it came as no surprise when preparing to move out of their cozy beach house in Hobart Bay, Alaska to a quaint, little cabin in a small town in Denmark, that they needed to cancel their cable and internet service.
Ordinarily, Bruce would have refused to go in person at all. He disliked most people on good days and killed them now on bad ones, so in his personal opinion, he was extremely unfit for the task.
However, as Wilder said, “We need to return the DVR box and router, darling, it’s best to do it all in one fell swoop and get it over with since you have to go at least once. Not to mention the things I need you to pick up from the grocery store after,” to which Bruce glared at him in reluctant agreement, resigning himself to awkward and pitiful human interaction (Wilder doesn’t count, the man’s barely human in even the physical sense of the word) with tired sales associates trying to convince him not to cancel his service.
Kill me, he thought as he entered the shabby store filled to the brim with perky adults looking at their lists of services and kids crying, seated on the floor, waiting to leave the wretched store, would Wilder be too mad if I lied and said I was canceling it, but just secretly pay it each month to specifically avoid canceling it?
At the sight of two tired and stressed out adults across the store beverly arguing in the corner, Bruce hastily decided not to, seeing that in his future if he did lie to Wilder about it.
It was a lofty dream anyway, he tells himself, I shouldn’t be this adverse to simple human interaction. I can do this. I can totally do this. I’m a grown man who has murdered dozens of people, I can handle canceling my television service. I can do this.
He glances at the couple in the corner again, the man clearly overly-agitated and the woman who has tears brimming the edges of her eyes, ready to release at any moment. He hears the kids whining to parents, begging to leave, begging for the various new phones displayed around the store. He hears peppy sales people with their “Oh yeah! For sure, which email is that under again?” and meaningless platitudes, “Thank you so much for your service! Have a wonderful day!” and decides he cannot, in fact, do this. He turns sharply towards the exit and is ready to escape this nightmare, before he is interrupted.
“Excuse me, sir?”
A cold shock goes down his back, and his body sags in resignation.
He may not be able to do this, but he’s going to anyway. The first step has already been taken out of his hands, and the dominos have already begun to fall.
He sighs, steeling himself, before turning around to see a young sales associate rapidly approaching him.
“Sorry for the wait! We’re rather busy at the moment if you can’t tell,” the unnamed sales associate says, faking a laugh before continuing, “So, what can I help you with today?”
Bruce plasters a strained smile on his face, no doubt coming off as an intense grimace if the way the unnamed sales associate’s smile dipped slightly before correcting itself. Even when faced with open hostility, they would undoubtedly smile through the interaction. Despicable.
He forces a laugh between his gritted teeth, “Yes, uhm, I was rather hoping you could help me cancel my service and return this equipment?” He gestures to the large bag in his hand, and the unnamed sales associate blinks down at it as if seeing it for the first time.
They then focus their attention back on Bruce, and his hackles rise at the piercing stare.
If TV service stores are hell, then their workers are the demons, forever trying to convince you you need their service and never giving up on their purpose. Their cheery attitude is to disguise the fact that this is torture.
“Cancel your service? Are you sure?” The unnamed sales demon asks Bruce, and if possible, Bruce glares harder.
“Yes?” He bites out before taking another deep breath, and as level-headed as possible, tries again, “Yes. My partner and I are moving, so we have no more need for service at this location.”
The unnamed sales demon narrows in on the smallest details, and Bruce curses himself for not having thought that would be used against him.
“Oh! You’re moving houses? That’s nice! Well, we can set up a transfer nice and easy for your new location so you already have service when you get there. Where are you moving to?”
Bruce barely manages to resist snapping out a furious ‘That’s not of your damn business, just cancel my service before I crush your windpipe and feed you to my husband’, but, thankfully, he simply swallows down the words by clenching and unclenching his fist over and over again, imagining it was the unnamed sales associate’s throat he was squeezing.
A more genuine smile crosses his lips at the thought, and the unnamed sales associate notably relaxes, thinking it was in response to their words, and not the numerous murder fantasies Bruce has playing in his head.
“Out of the country. Very far. Denmark, actually. So I do rather need to cancel my service today. Right now. So if you could do that, that would be great, please,” he says with a half smile, tacking on the please as an afterthought when he sees the displeased expression on their face at his words.
Fight fire with fire, he thinks viciously, kill kindness with fake kindness (which is actually thinly-veiled hostility).
“Oh? The unnamed sales associate fakes surprise, “So you won’t need service at all where you’re going? We cover places in Denmark as well, if you can share the address, I can check if we’re in the area and-” Bruce cuts him off.
“No need,” he smiles a close-lipped and cold smile, “Where we’re moving already has service. We’re moving in with his sick parents to take care of them, and they already have service, so there’s no need,” he lies easily.
And at that, the unnamed sales associate visibly falters in conviction.
“O-oh?” They stuttered out, mentally off-balanced, “What about the people moving in afterward, do you know if they’re going to need service….?” The unnamed sales associate trailed off, realizing they had completely lost this whole interaction, and Bruce would get away with canceling his service. They scowled, but hid it behind a slightly strained smile.
“Cancel my service, please,” Bruce requested, and the unnamed sales associate sighed.
“It’ll be a bit of a wait, we’re currently very busy so it could be up to an hour and a half,” they warned, but Bruce didn’t waver.
“That’s fine, I’ll take the wait. Thank you,” he smiled tightly, twirled around, and sat directly in the middle of an unoccupied sofa, making sure to take enough room that no one could sit on either side of him.
By the half-hour mark, he had tipped his head back and retreated into his imagination, peacefully passing the time. So it was a surprise when what felt like only minutes later he was shaken back into reality to see a different unnamed sales
associate nervously looking at him and the now-darkened sky outside casting a shadow across the store.
“Sir? Sorry to bother you, but… we’re about to close, and you can’t stay here,” they anxiously bit out, and Bruce narrowed his eyes.
DAMN, he thought furiously, that sales associate won! I’ll have to come back some other day and have this argument with a whole different person. Damn them!
“Great,” he grit out, looking briefly apologetic at the person bringing him the bad news. This unnamed sales associate looked very new, and apparently had yet to be corrupted by corporate businesses. “Hey, do you know what the easiest time to come back to return equipment is? I really am in a hurry to get rid of this stuff, I’m moving very soon.”
They blinked, looking startled, before visibly putting themselves together and propped up.
“OH! You don’t need to come in-store for that if you don’t want to. You can just go to a local parcel store and they’ll cancel your service and ship it back for free, hassle-free,” they said, then described the closest place he could go, and Bruce could honestly kiss them if he wasn’t already married.
“Thank you, so much,” he says reverently, truly grateful for the only good person in this store. “You have been a great help, thank you.”
He grabs out his wallet and hands the better unnamed sales associate a twenty dollar bill, before starting to walk out.
“Thank you,” he whispers to them again while backing away from the sales associate, who while at first looked incredibly grateful, was now looking a little creeped out, but Bruce couldn’t be bothered to care.
He spins around in joy, and skips back to his car, calling the trip a victory as he pulls up the directions to the postal store.
Yes, he thinks, that’s a win in my book.
Just One Bite
Chloe Blue
Confessions of a Mall Queen
Jesse Peterman
‘Kay, so like, I’m dead I guess. That’s not the point though, like I’m fine, it’s chill, it’s been a long time since I died. The point is though—
—I’ll just tell you and it should make sense. So I was like the HBIC (head bitch in charge) at the mall, and like, way cool, for real, like so well known. But I had a— oh what’s it called— a thing you don’t say but you do? Like you don’t tell the girls? Ugh, words are so hard when you’re dead. So like, I had this thing though, when I was like, still just a kid I found this weird room in the mall with all of these games in it? Smelled like sweat and nerds but like I thought it was perf. I would like, sneak off and just play for hours but it’s not cool, I guess, and my friends don’t like those kinds of games. I just went alone and like, I’d get odd looks cuz I’m not like what you’d think a nerd would look like. I can be smart and pretty though, so stuff it nerds.
So I was playing my fave one, this dance game where you would like, step on the lights at the right time and I was like, so good at it. I had the top score for months until that uggo brat Nick broke it. Like the game, he tore out the cord and it took for like, ever to fix. I was so mad I thought I could kill him, but I was being cool, at least I thought I was. He just looked so smug, like he’d just won a prize. Dumb kid looked at me like I was out of place every time I was there, like sure, I’m tall and blonde and a size 0, but so what? I can’t like games and clothes? Bull- shit I can’t like both.
Like a whole month later the guy in charge said he fixed the game, and I was so hype, like I ditched all kinds of plans to get my score back, but like, they didn’t fix it. There was a whole new game where it should be and I was big mad. I looked at it though, and it had the same light up floor like the last game, but it was so much bigger. There were spots for two people to play at the same time, and
all new songs, too. I wasn’t mad then, just like, a little weirded out by the change. Now the whole thing was like, a mini stage, with lights and all that. I had to try it out. It had all new songs and a few old ones, but it was a lot more dance-y and I was in love. I was wearing wedges but I was not about to let that stop me, so I got up there and started a song. The spots weren’t in the same spots and the space felt weird, but I was just so into it I didn’t care.
I was like, going there almost daily to dance, it was way more fun than going out cuz like, none of the nerds would even talk to me, so I wasn’t being bugged, and like, for real I didn’t even like the club that much. Like, a week later though, I lost it. All my high scores were beat in like one day. Out of town for some school thing and when I got back that ‘ABC’ was all over the scores. Like, my best song was the last one left with my name at the top. What kind of nerd puts in ‘ABC’? Like at least put your name up and own it, I had it made though, ‘KIM’ fit just right on the board. I was there like, all day getting my scores back to the top, or trying. I went home when the mall closed and I was so tired and sweaty, I looked a mess.
I walked in the next day looking all done up, like I was going to kill these scores when I saw him, some guy who looked like, my age-ish was up there, putting in his record on a song as ‘ABC’ and I knew he was the one beating my scores. He was cute, with messy black hair and that like, sort of punk look and of course the one person who can beat my score was my type. I stepped right up there on the game and said “You, me, all songs dance off.” He looked like he was scared I was gonna kill him but he slid over to the right and we put in dance-off mode. We both started dancing, and it was so close. Song to song to song we were so close in score the whole way, one time we tied and I thought he was going to pass out.
We got to the last song, and my best one: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and I felt like I was going to die if he beat my score here. The first few steps start out slow, but there’s a like, mix-up before the bridge that gets you if you don’t know when it is. I step through like I do, and he for real matched me like a twin. I had no words, like it threw me off so bad I thought I might lose. I was stomping on the lights with all I had, like no way I’m losing this here. Snap. My wedge broke and I fell to the side. Hard. My neck hit the pink side bar thing and that was it. Dead. I don’t know what the guy did next, but I was just a ghost like, later that night. No clue what went on.
Now to the point— It’s been years since then and he comes in, and plays the game, and I learned his name is Axe, I guess, but the point is he plays and has the high score in all the songs, but if he’s going to beat my score on Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, he just stops. Like it’s fine, I don’t need my name on the board, but I think I’m stuck here till he moves on. So, the thing. Can you beat my score?
Maya Geving I hope
I hope
There will be more mornings
Where your espresso tastes like sunshine
And your eyelids don’t flutter with sleeplessness
I hope You’ll have more days
Where inspiration strikes you
And you feel complete once more
I hope
You’ll have more nights
Filled with bonfires and fireflies
With laughter and friendship
I hope
That you realize
That even amid darkness and despair
In times of anxiety and dread
There is hope after all
There is hope after all
I Got Lost Somewhere Along the Way
Logan East
At night, I think of the kid who laughed all the time and who celebrated birthdays.
I think of the kid who loved running around the house for no reason and used to skip on the way to school instead of walking because “It’s faster! Trust me.”
The kid who was held up onto a man’s shoulders, placing a pretty star on a tall tree and placing all sorts of handmade crafts as ornaments rather than plastic, metal balls.
I mourn for the life I had as a child, how carefree and happy I was to just exist.
I think of how on hot days the street waves like you could see the heat and how my sister would tell me, “Watch where you’re walking, careful, careful. Look at your feet when you walk, so you can’t trip.” with a small smile and I think of that smile every time I walk on the street now, staring at my feet.
How do people walk around every day with the grief of losing who you once were? Of losing that childhood innocence that you will never get back, you will never be that young again, be with those people in that way again, that house, that year, those clothes, the friends, pets, furniture, and everything. Never-ending grief and no conciliation with what you lost until years and years later when you look back and realize.
At night I think of my past, of who I was, and I grieve a little bit every day. By day I’m picking myself up and trying to live with a smile on my face again.
Angelika Mehes
I must be boring at parties
Jesse Peterman
I say I don’t dance, but that’s only true when I’m conscious
It doesn’t look like dreaming,
When I sleepwalk with eyes open
Locked out, rhythm makes the key
Allows me back inside myself
A city under radiowave sea, headphone bus tickets
Homeward bound, music pulls me under
Frequency of my body a melody I can’t make
Consuming art like blank canvas—starving.
Four-on-the-floor beats echo through Bones, hollow and resonant
Rave of an inner life
A lightshow of imaginary quality casts
Curtains of color across the skull walls
An abused psyche’s shadows dance between the beams
Affirmations rise, lyric and buoyed on the synth And bass of therapy, rafted together like kandi beads
Getting lost in the multisensory venue is an art that Heals, stitching together motion and emotion.
Whirling like a bobbin a self of myself
On the dancefloor riding and rolling through
The setlist of a kinder life than mine
Step after step a shuffle forward
Peace, Love, Unity, Respect, Cardinal directions on the compass rose
Engraved in my soul like an invisible tattoo
Sometimes I forget which body is awake
The steps synchronize, each mask becomes its wearer and I dance,
An audience to my own being
a talk Austin Saatzer
How To Make Friends in College
Tara Butkowski
The first instinct is to simply not do it1, especially if you commute, but this will only leave you feeling disconnected from your campus and you will regret this later down the line. “But I’ve got my friends from high school and that’s enough for me,” you say to yourself when you see people walking in groups on campus while you walk alone. This excuse can only be used for so long, as your high school friends will soon be making their own friends at their own schools far, far from you, making it harder for you to cling onto them and easier for them to forget you ever existed.2 This may sound harsh, but it is true. It is perfectly natural for people to drift apart and for relationships to change or even end.3
It is highly recommended, these days, to ask for peoples’ Snapchats4 when you find a ‘class friend’, a person you likely sit by in a class and therefore make small talk with, sometimes by force as many college professors like to put people in pairs for seemingly no reason other than to ask each other what your favorite movie is.5 These friendships are doomed to last only one semester because once you stop seeing that person twice a week, you forget about them, and they forget about you.6 You might be lucky and have more classes with that person, then it
1 Do not listen to this instinct. You do not want to become a hermit, but maybe you do, who knows?
2 This obviously applies on a case-by-case basis; you may be able to keep those long-distance friendships just fine. But more than likely they will become less meaningful and more of a hassle to keep up with.
3 This is only sometimes your fault.
4 Grow up.
5 Like any other icebreaker, it is sort of dumb and silly, but sometimes you actually learn something interesting about someone in your class.
6 Roasted.
is recommended to expand the conversations to a deeper level rather than just homework assignments, maybe getting their actual phone number and seeing them outside of the classroom setting, trying getting lunch or coffee.7 Talk about real things that affect your life. If you get really deep really fast, they may feel comfortable reciprocating and before you know it, they are telling you about how they were adopted from Bulgaria and lived in an orphanage for ten years before being brought to America and being forced to become a pretend devout Catholic because they don’t really believe in that sort of stuff and if God existed why did their parents die and how their new parents made them assimilate into American life and forget their old language and culture to the point that they don’t remember a single word of their mother-tongue.8
While this may lead to a long-lasting friendship, it is not guaranteed. Many college relationships are referred to as ‘fast-friends’ because they form very quickly but fizzle out just as quickly. You make a friend in a day and by next week you are sick of them. This also applies to college roommates and neighbors in dorms if you are an on-campus person more than a commuter.9 You may think you have found a new bestie in your new neighbor because she was the first person to say “hi” to you when you moved in, so you started hanging out and knitting together while watching The Real Housewives of Orange County, only to find out she likes to party too much for your taste10 and she is very loud at late hours of the night when you are trying to sleep.11 It would be wise to set up boundaries with this person right away12 because they will also think you are their bestie and think it’s okay for them to come over at any time, to borrow things without permission, like your fridge space or a DVD from your collection that took you years to accumulate and that you treasure, and to be straight up rude to you
7 These interactions may feel uncomfortable at first, but when you push through the lack of comfort, you may find yourself enjoying your time spent with this person. If you find this is true, and conversations come easy, you may have found yourself a new friend.
8 Fabricated for effect: this probably did not happen to Jenny in your psych class.
9 For full information about how these rules apply for different Residential Life situations, see this website: www.idontknowhowtomakefriendsatthisweirdstageofmylife.net
10 Because you are a prude who doesn’t like the taste of alcohol and you don’t want to party at the frat house known for drugging and raping, but this friend loves going there for whatever reason, no judgement.
11 “Very loud at late hours” is code for “She likes to go on Tinder when she is bored and bring strange men back to her room and fuck them very loudly against your shared wall then send you a text at three in the morning that says ‘sorry’”. The worst part is that you know she is not sincere, and she will be doing it again the next night.
12 They will push back on your boundaries hard because they think you are a push-over, but you must be strong here and now move those boundaries an inch.
because “that’s how I talk to all of my friends.”13 And you are surprised they have been able to have any long-term friendships at all based on their behavior and attitude and how much they like to show off their dildo collection.14
The best way to find friends in college is to be yourself 15 and surround yourself with people that give off good vibes (though good is relative to each individual, for you to judge).16 Do not go looking for friendship online, no apps. Nothing good comes from the internet. You might meet people, yes, but some of them might still be grieving the loss of Princess Di or they might be into some super weird stuff sexually.17 Joining a club is highly recommended.18 Keep yourself open to new people and new possibilities. Try a club that you might never have considered before; does your school have a drag troupe or a quidditch team?19 Do not be afraid to look like a fool every now and then. It could be in those moments of foolishness that people become attracted to you and your energy.20 But do not just wait for people to come up to you in the library because it won’t happen 21, you have to make the first move toward real friendship.22 Yes, it is scary, but it is so necessary. You do not want to be that person who only sees other people outside of class when your friends come home for the holidays.23
You might also want to try getting a job on campus; the printing center maybe? Or the coffee shop? This will ensure that you interact with lots of different people every day and you might become casual friends with that weirdo who shows up all the time to have their assignment printed or who only orders drip coffee.24 They will know your face but won’t know your name, but you’ll know
13 This is not a proper excuse for bad behavior and mistreatment. You deserve respect and you should demand it.
14 Boom, roasted, and, gross.
15 Though it can be difficult.
16 “Good vibes” means generally kind to you, does not want to borrow money, and does not fart on your pillow.
17 And some of them might be serial killers that want to eat you.
18 When joining a club, be mentally prepared to meet some of the strangest people you have ever met before. Keep in mind that strange does not equal bad (though there are some exceptions to this rule).
19 Maybe something gay? The LGBT community has always been known to be accepting, but of course there are exceptions. Gay people can be just as horrible and mean as everyone else.
20 Strange attracts strange (in a good way).
21 Because you have serious resting bitch face (no offense).
22 Stop being so scared and anti-social.
23 Because that is pathetic. Did you expect to get this roasted today? Do you need some ice?
24 Who orders drip coffee?
theirs. It’s a step in the right direction.25
Don’t dismiss professors as potential friends, either.26 Professors in your major might have connections in the field you are trying to get into after you graduate. Being the teacher’s pet is not always a bad thing like in elementary school.27 Try to be a memorable presence in the classroom and turn in memorable work. You want to be a published writer? Form a relationship with your professors who have been published, they might be able to connect you with someone or something that could change your life, then you might not be so worried about making friends.28
Listen to the universe and pick up on vibes29, the right people will cross your path. You need to be aware of these people and jump on the opportunities when they present themselves to you. Keep an open mind and an open spirit30 and you will attract the type of people you want to be friends with31, but it is your responsibility to keep the friendship alive and moving forward. Eventually it will feel like less work because both parties are working toward a common goal and there will be a mutual respect there. Then, before you know it, you have made a potentially life-long friendship.32
25 Based on real life.
26 It might be weird at first but go with it.
27 It is unlikely you will be mercilessly bullied for being the teacher’s pet in college.
28 Success and money fix everything.
29 If you cannot read vibes, this will be a little harder for you and you will have to learn how to set boundaries very fast and know when to walk away from friendships; all that is in Volume II of this collection, “How To Set Boundaries With Unbearable People”.
30 Not in a foo-foo way, for real.
31 It might not be exactly what you thought it would be, maybe better.
32 Congratulations, you’ve made it to the end. Go make some friends.
Angelika Mehes
Lumineire Danse
Ladder
Brielle Russel
I rose up from the cold, hard ground
And through the jet-black abandonment, I saw a golden light shining above me.
I reached out, And against my rigid fingertips I felt a ladder.
Desperate to escape this hellish tundra, I used it to climb towards the light.
Each rung brought me closer
To the release I have been craving. The tiredness that used to weigh me down Became the thing that sped me up. I didn’t dwell or pause, I just kept going.
Beneath me, the rung that held my feet snapped And I was left hanging over the darkness
To which I swore I’d never return.
I looked down into that lifeless pit. The nothingness
Made me realize how far I had come.
continues on next page
I steadied myself on the ladder, And for the first time since the climb started I had no idea what I wanted. I stopped moving upward,
But somehow the light continued to get closer. I started to climb down, but it didn’t matter. The end wouldn’t let me get away.
The golden shimmer blinded me
Caressed my head as I tried to pull away from it.
The sweetness, the warmth
The opposite of what I had started with. Suddenly it meant nothing.
As I tried to escape the inevitable, Each rung offered a new memory I had kept distant.
The light burned my hands, The flame I had dreamt of meant nothing.
Love, loss, laughter, shame
Every experience re-named a part of me.
Everything I knew, Everything I felt, Everything I thought, It all meant nothing.
Hollowed bones, Immaturity, Lips mesh, Lessons suffered. All of it meant nothing.
I pulled away from the ladder, And the darkness took me back.
Meditative
Makayla Zimmerman
Who Am I When Nobody’s Looking?
Maya Geving
I love traffic
At least as much as a fourteen-year-old who hasn’t yet experienced the stress it creates when you’re already late for work can love it. I stare out the window of the school bus. Most people in my grade walk to school, but I can’t. We live in the rural part of town where the houses are spread far apart and there are more cows than people. Right now, the bus driver is trying to turn left onto the main road that leads to my school. There’s no stop light or roundabout, so it’s a challenging task during rush hour. I desperately hope the traffic will make me late for school. Then I won’t have to sit by myself in the dimly lit hallways while my classmates cluster in groups before school starts. I’m the only one who sits alone. I tend to scroll through my phone rapidly, pretending that the reason I don’t talk to anyone is because there’s something on my phone that is more urgent and important. But it’s pointless, everyone can see through me and I know it. I’m the odd one out. The one nobody talks to. I wonder if I’m missing something. If there’s some part of a social code that everyone has seemed to crack except for me. Even the so-called losers of the class have their own friend groups. They congregate throughout the hallways while I slump against the wall, wishing I would just disappear. …
I’m the most content when I’m busy
I am seventeen. I am pacing through the dusty floral-scented hallways of the retirement home where I work. I am dressed head to toe in scrubs with a mask
and goggles covering my face. I am pushing a blue snack cart around the floors, complete with pink lemonade, cookies, and banana bread. Upon arriving I had to take my blood pressure and temperature, and answer a bunch of questions about Covid symptoms before they finally let me through the doors. I feel like a different person when I’m at work but in a good way. I feel important. While everyone else is sitting at home, I am here, doing a job that cannot be done from a living room. I like who I am when I’m at work. Behind the goggles and mask, nobody can tell how awkward and anxious of a person I am. I lean into the anonymity of my uniform and cheerfully knock on the doors yelling “Snack time!”
…
Do soulmates exist?
His eyes are brown with specks of green in them. I can see the way his hair curls behind his ears from the corner of my eye. He puts his arm around me, and I can feel my heartbeats in my chest. I want to be close to him. I want to rest my head atop his shoulder but I’m far too nervous to lean in. I try to focus on the movie, but I have no idea what is going on. I don’t understand why I’m scared. He likes me, obviously, or he wouldn’t be here with me in a dusty basement watching The Perks of Being a Wallflower with his arm wrapped around me. I fight my anxiety and snuggle up closer to him. He squeezes my shoulder and I look up at him, smiling. He laughs before leaning forward and kissing my forehead. My chest feels like it’s exploding with happiness.
…
It’s hard to break generational patterns
…
In this house, we don’t speak of painful things. When glass shatters, we sweep it under the rug instead of cleaning it up. The walls hold echoes of unspoken words. Sometimes I wish my parents would sit me down and ask me how I’m really doing, at a time when it isn’t ever so obvious that I’m not okay. Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel so alone.
…
Love is painful, too
I know I’m asking too much of you, but I can’t seem to stop. The endless phone calls, you lose sleep because I need you there with me every step of the way. Because I can’t be alone. I’m scared my feelings are so big that they’ll eat me alive if I try to conquer them by myself. My legs only work if I have your ground to stand on. My eyes can only see if you’re the first thing in front of me. It’s not healthy. You need your space and your friendships too. But I can’t seem to comprehend that when my chest fills with panic and my breathing increases. Sometimes due to small things, other times my anxiety is more justified. Either way, my reaction is always the same. When I hyperventilate and cry my eyes out, you’re the one to comfort me. It happens so frequently, often several times a week. I know it drains you to have to be the one to calm me down. I feel so guilty afterward because I wish I didn’t rely on you to feel okay. I wish I could handle my emotions like a normal person. I know you’re growing tired of this and that you’ll leave me if it keeps happening. I make false promises, trying to convince myself that I’m in control and that it won’t happen again. But it does, and you leave me around the two-month mark, just like the previous boyfriend, and the one before that. It’s an evil cycle, jumping from relationship to relationship because I don’t know how to feel whole on my own.
Will I always walk the line between stability and instability?
I’m eighteen and I don’t understand myself most days. I’m doing well in my classes. I got into all eleven colleges that I applied to. I work full-time hours even though I’m still in school. I go to the gym several times a week. I’m moving away from my family to a different country for college. Yet I’m the most mentally unstable I’ve ever been. My emotions are so strong that anything can trigger me into a spiral of demeaning thoughts and feelings. I cry my eyes out for the smallest reasons. My relationship is toxic, and I know it, but I can’t seem to stop coming back because I can’t be alone. My boyfriend is tired of me. My parents are tired of me. My friends are tired of me. I’m tired of me. I spend days in bed, wishing I could spend the rest of my life like this, all curled up in the sheets shutting the world out. Yet I still manage to go to work and school when I have to. Every morning I tell myself, just go to your first class. You can always go home afterward if it gets too bad. Most of the time I stay.
…
Escapism never works
…
I’m nineteen and the walls of my dorm room feel like they’re closing in on me. What I thought would be a new start feels like a horrific nightmare. My mind is racing. Everything is ruined. I messed up my one chance of being happy. I lost you. I spend the next few months trying to re-construct a false narrative of myself. If I can’t be happy, I might as well be liked. Be a shell if nothing else. Empty on the inside, thriving on the outside. I go out every weekend. I make friends that only like me when I’m drunk. I join a sorority despite my parents’ protests. Is this who I am now?
…
You can’t fully love someone until you love yourself
I am sitting on my gray couch in my college house. My friend looks over at me, confused as to why my eyes suddenly well up with tears as I’m supposed to be interviewing him for a class project.
“What’s going on?” he asks with a concerned look on his face.
“I know I need to be alone right now but it’s so hard sometimes, I feel like I’m juggling a million things at once. I just want to lay in my bed and not talk to anyone or do anything,” I stutter in between sharp breaths.
“You’ve got this,” he says. “You wake up every day. You get your shit done. Sure, you lay in bed some days but that’s okay. I honestly never expected you to make as much progress as you have in the past year. Leaps and bounds my friend, leaps and bounds.”
“Thank you,” I reply gratefully. Having someone else tell me I’m on the right track feels good. But then the fear creeps into my stomach again.
“What if I die alone?” I burst into tears again.
He sighs and says, “You’re not going to die alone. You’re twenty, you have time. You just need some more time to work on being independent and so far, you’re doing a great job.”
…
Happiness and sadness are both temporary feelings
…
I light candles on the bathroom sink while I shower. They’re pine-scented and remind me of the dark green forest by my parents’ house. I bought satin sheets to sleep in, just me. I work the night shifts, doing dishes until my hands are dry and swollen. I bought a car. My first big purchase, all on my own. A red Honda Civic from 2008. I named it Holly. Not the fanciest car but I love it because it’s mine, bought with the money I earned from scrubbing dishes and serving plates of bland food all summer. I go to the gym every night. I change from my scrubs to my workout clothes and aim for six miles on the treadmill. I love running, I always have. It’s hard to feel overwhelmed by emotions when my body is in constant motion. Once I feel the runners high, I feel like I can do anything. I’ll be the editor of a newspaper. I’ll travel all around the world. I’ll write books. I’ll be successful. I’ll be a daughter my parents can be proud of. And even though this motivation doesn’t last forever, it’s enough to keep me coming back every day.
…
You choose who you become
I’m wearing dress pants and a bright pink blazer. The person in my earpiece tells me the show is starting in ten seconds. I’m scared to death. I focus on the teleprompter, waiting for the red light to blink telling me I’m on-air. Last minute, I decided to audition to be a news anchor at my university’s TV station. I’m just auditioning for fun. There’s no way they’ll let me on TV, I told myself. I’ve had a fear of public speaking for as long as I can remember. My face reddens and my voice becomes shaky whenever I have to speak in front of groups of people. I don’t know why I thought I would be able to handle news anchoring on live TV. But somehow, the audition went well and I decided to try it. After almost backing down several times, I persevered and showed up to the TV studio that Tuesday evening. It’s good to challenge myself. If I hate it, I never have to do it again, I tell myself. I take a deep breath. The red light on the teleprompter blinks and I’m on-air.
We keep living, despite it all
I’m twenty-one and I’m letting go of the idea that happiness should be everlasting and constant. Experiencing pain is a natural part of being human. I spent so much of my life shoving my pain in the nooks and crannies of my brain or getting so engulfed in it that I thought it would last forever. I’m learning to cradle my pain instead of fighting it. To understand that happiness and sadness are both fleeting emotions that will come and go throughout my life. True contentment involves accepting these dualities and remaining grateful for everything that is.
I’m trying to come out of my hardships as a better human. I’m trying to form better relationships with the people in my life. I’m graduating college in May. I don’t know what my life will look like in a year’s time. I don’t know who I’ll be. My life is changing in every way possible. And I’m beginning to feel okay about that.
Shelby Miller
Galaxy Mushrooms
Butterfly
Being the best Has been on my mind
Lately because I have always felt Like I am worst and I am the last
To get It
To get life
My life has been slowly Progressing
Because I didn’t want to grow up I think Its time For this caterpillar To become a butterfly Finally To grow up and Show the world What this brown little girl Is made of To show that She Is colorful And not blue
Like she used to be
Zaya Moreno
An Angel Without Its Wings
Angela Fritz
You had claimed me to have come from the cosmos; the stars, and the heavens above like an Angel.
But I was malnourished and deprived of the sun’s golden rays.
In some life, I’m sure I enjoyed the fruits of my labor In rich nectar that would dribble down the side of my chin accompanied by a warm loaf of bread so soft and supple. And I would have hugged the broiling sun without an ounce of remorse. Throughout my days, I would hold on to each ray, hovering so close to the horizon,
until the very moment, the moon dared to kiss the sun away.
But here, I find myself looking at grey. Not grey clouds, or withering flowers, or the moon, But the icy and rusted metal bars and jagged rocks of this oubliette–This birdcage.
An Angel…
What was an angel if trapped?
An angel that cannot spread its wings
Might as well be an Angel without wings
And what was an angel without its wings?
Surely, you couldn’t even identify it.
I could weep diamonds, with the shrillness of a cherub, And they’d glisten in the reflection of the metal bars As they pooled into the crevices of the rocks meant to cut through my illcolored skin. it wouldn’t matter.
Because I was malnourished and deprived of the sun’s golden rays and couldn’t spread my wings.
While I was trapped inside the confines of your improbable beliefs and self-centered needs it didn’t matter how hard or far I stretched or reached For the escape from this damp and hopeless enclosure, But I fear either way, it’s too late.
You had planted a seed Inside of me that had grown into fatal insecurities and self-limiting beliefs. They should not have been a part of me. I should not have had to carry their weight,
But you watered and nurtured them until they’d overgrown And consumed every corner of this grim place.
And it became clear to me,
Locked somewhere far from where I longed to be, That I would die here if I stayed a moment more. And I would not be missed as an angel with such great potential l displayed by the flutter of the wings I carried on my back, But I would be missed as an angel, withheld and trapped–stripped of her wings,
And what was an angel without its wings?
Jocelyn Khongloth
I’m Here
Mark Goenner
I’m here.
I can’t say it.
He blocks out the sun, leaving his face in silhouette. Move, I want to see you.
I can’t say it.
A tear lands on my cheek. How long has he been crying?
Don’t cry, I’m here.
I can’t say it.
He’s sobbing, his shoulders rising and falling, making the sun hit my eyes.
I can’t look away. Sit me up.
He looks so sad, so dark. I wish he’d turn me. I just wanna see him. Clear. He’s rocking me. Sobbing.
I wonder what about.
He screams, agony.
I’ve never heard anything so terrible. Stop! I’m here!
I can’t say it!
“You’re ok, ok? You’re gonna be ok!”
I’m still here!
I can’t say it!
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His eyes catch the light for a moment, and it’s eternity. I’m lost inside them.
Funny. I’ve never been so unconcerned with life. Nothing about how this happened matters. Nothing about what will happen matters. All that matters is right now. I’m here.
Everything’s slow, faded, foggy.
Tears land on my cheeks.
What’s that sound? I wish it’d stop.
Agonizing wails pierce the fog. My heart crumbles. I see him.
How long has he been crying?
Smile...Please?
My lips turn up, my hand raises to his cheek.
I don’t feel him!
His hand rests over mine. It’s red.
Are you hurt?
I can’t say it.
Our eyes meet.
Nothing matters anymore.
“Don’t go!”
Where am I?
“You’re gonna be ok! Ok? Just stay with me!”
I’m not going anywhere.
“No don’t go! Please! Please don’t go!”
I’m here...Aren’t I?
The Void Loves You
Happy Deathiversary!
A skeletal figure stands before you, two full rows of teeth grinning down at you from the shadows of its hood. You absently stare back at it, blinking rapidly as you try to get your bearings. Your body feels light, weightless, as if it isn’t really there. Slowly you reach out to the figure, your eyes drifting to the translucent shape of your bloodied hand.
Oh.
You speak through a cloud of frozen air, your voice echoing around the hollow space of the darkness you reside in. The hooded smile lets out a chattering laugh, somehow filling you with an odd sense of warmth, despite how cold and lifeless you are.
No need to worry little one, you are safe now.
The smile speaks with a gentle kindness you are not used to, it is foreign yet welcome. Bony fingers carefully grasp your still outstretched hand, your blood staining the thin ivory.
Here you need not breathe, nor fear. Never again shall you feel the pain of the living.
Your chest feels empty, yet somehow it still tightens with unshed tears. You believe it. The crushing weight perpetually pressed into your shoulders has been lifted, freedom has never felt quite so good. The figure motions for you to follow it, leading you farther into the darkness...
Ding!
You pause, turning your head to look behind you. A misty light greets your eyes, followed by a second ding. It’s a familiar sound, but your mind is foggy, and
Valentine Sarin
you struggle to place where you know it from. You feel a tug on your hand, and you return your attention to your companion.
Do not fret over what you will leave behind, come with me, little one. You will be safe here.
You trust its words, yet something still holds you back. You’re unable to form coherent thoughts, so you open your mouth and let your heart speak.
Will they be ok?
The figure breathes an empty sigh, but not one of impatience or disappointment. The grinning teeth continue to smile at you, although given the ability you’re sure it would’ve slipped into a frown.
I cannot say what will befall them, for that is not within my control nor my expertise. Even if I knew I’m afraid I would not be able to share that with you, little one.
You nod your head slowly. You understand. You’re prepared to go now, but another sound draws your attention. It’s a rhythmic vibration, like a small motor. As you stare into the light a shape begins to come into focus. Pointed ears flick to attention as you’re finally able to make out the two bright yellow eyes staring at you. Your little void sits before you, his long fluffy tail swishing back and forth as he waits for you to come home.
Home...?
His large paws set on a lit-up screen; you have two new notifications. A message and a reminder. You get to see your love tomorrow; you can’t miss that. The light starts to get brighter, enveloping the world you were floating in. You look back to the figure as your body starts to get heavier.
I guess this wasn’t your year either. You’re nineteen now, aren’t you? Happy birthday little one, and good luck.
The bones wrapped around your hand carefully release you. You smile sheepishly as the figure dips into a bow.
Thank you.
You watch as the darkness around you is molded back into your warmly lit living room, and the figure fades away. You look down at your hands. They’re solid and clean, simply wet with tears you don’t quite remember wiping away. Your shoulders are heavy with the usual crushing weight, and all your muscles and bones hurt once more. You didn’t miss this, but it’s a reminder that you are alive. A loud meow interrupts your thoughts, and you remember where you are as you look down at your fluffy void. He stares back at you with his yellow eyes, filled with an odd sense of understanding...before he rams his head into your arm. You can’t help but smile as you pull him into a hug despite his disgruntled grumbling. The void loves you, and you love him too.
Love note to a dead thing
Jesse Peterman
Some things are better once they’ve died. Like a flower, pressed-dessicated into a book
Past-fuelled potpourri
I’ve heard love is a flower. Perhaps the lingering Smell, sensory, memory Of a dead thing improved, It matures the contents. Lessons like petals Fill the pages Pressed into story
What’s your excuse now?
Maya Geving
Youth was a cushion
You clung to its fuzzy texture and soft feel
Every time you backed down from fulfilling your potential
Youth was a meadow
A place to rest
A place to rot
You laid in the soft grass among the lilacs and willow trees
Telling yourself
you have all the time in the world
To write that book
To make those friends
To travel to those places
continues on next page
But youth was really a dimly-lit bedroom
A head full of uneasy thoughts
Thumbs that got sore from all the scrolling, Hoping that looking at the lives of others would distract you from your own
Now, age is a freight train
Flying toward you at one-hundred miles an hour What will your excuse be when it hits you And suddenly your face is tainted by wrinkles and your hair is turning gray What can you cling to now?
Am I My Father?
Sean Anderson
Resentment
Mitzy
Fae
Cloth is surprisingly strong. I used to scoff at the characters in my books clambering out of windows with ropes made of cotton blankets, but now, as I dangled under the balcony by the ends of my grandmother’s quilt, it didn’t seem quite as absurd. I only wish I’d tried it sooner.
The twinkling sound of glass shattering brought me back to the task at hand. As impressive as these interwoven fibers and loving stitches were, I still ran the risk of breaking my legs on the pavement below because of my boiled noodle arms. At least all the yelling above me would keep anyone from hearing if I cried out.
I awkwardly swung my lower body towards the wall, trying to catch the window ledge with my toe. The sun-warmed stone was just out of reach. It took a few more moments of me flailing around before I caught the rough beige bricks with the ball of my foot, then a bit longer to get my other foot up and firmly planted. There weren’t any clear handholds, so I opted for pushing against the top of the window frame like some kind of meat-based car jack. Once my right hand was properly locked in, I let go of my safety line, watching it slide loose from the black iron bars and pool pitifully on the ground.
I took a moment to breathe, listening to see if anyone had noticed my disappearance. It sounded like they were still fighting in the kitchen. Something about having too much clutter, overflowing sinks and paper plates, then another dish breaking. I grimaced at the thought of the tiny shards that would have filled my hands had I remained to clean up after them.
Just past the edge of the sill was a large pile of leaves and lawn clippings, damp and reeking of decomposition. Ten feet was a considerable drop, but having something soft and suspiciously spongy to land on would hopefully be enough to keep my limbs intact. I slowly inched towards it, sliding my feet along the bricks
and trying not to look down. As I neared the edge, I peeked over my shoulder to ensure my fall would be clear.
The momentary lapse of concentration caused my right foot to slip, scraping off the stone and trying to drag the rest of me with it. I slammed my right hand into the side of the frame, my left hand desperately grasping at the top to steady myself. My heart felt like a bird trapped in a cage, being smothered by my hyperventilating lungs.
I carefully lifted my foot back onto the ledge, then closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing. As I began to relax, steady pulses of pain rose from my hands. I was sure I had scraped or bruised my right hand, considering how hard I had slammed against the jamb to stop my fall, but I had to look up at my left hand to see that two of my fingernails had bent back when I clawed at the bricks above me. They didn’t seem to be bleeding, but I could feel a burning wetness radiating from the exposed flesh. I sighed, looking back to the leaf pile. I would have landed on it just fine, had I let myself fall.
Shaking my head to disperse the clouds of disappointment, I prepared myself for a more controlled drop. I took a deep breath, then swung my right side out as I pushed off the stone. In an instant, I was half buried in dead, damp plants. Beyond the burning in my ankles and the throbbing in my tailbone, I felt unscathed. I breathed the overwhelming rot out of my nose violently, then pinched it shut as I clambered out of the vaguely slimy mountain.
The yelling had long since stopped. I couldn’t hear as well, now that I was far removed from it, but the heavy silence leaked from the open balcony door like fog pours from dry ice. I glanced at the pile of colorful cloth below it. My grandmother had given it to me years ago, a month before she had passed away. I had loved her as much as I hated my parents. I walked over and scooped it off the ground, shaking some of the dirt free before bundling it up and holding it close to my chest. It was too small to properly cover me anymore, but the comfort and safety that resided within it was still as powerful as ever.
I quickly walked to the shed, glancing back at the house to ensure no one had spotted me. Once there, I ran my hand along the top of the door frame, grabbed the rusty key that hid there, unlocked the worn wooden door, and slipped inside.
It smelled dusty and dry, like long-forgotten memories. I pulled boxes of messily scrawled letters and old figurines aside, wishing I had the time to delve into their contents. Reaching behind a crate of vinyl records, I reclaimed my hidden backpack and sneakers. I set the quilt down and dusted off a muted green armchair, perching on the edge to pull balled-up socks out from inside of my shoes and pulled them on, ignoring the twinges of pain from the scrapes on the sole of my foot. Once I’d put on my shoes and laced them up tight, I slung my pack
over my shoulders, scooped up my blanket, and peeked my head out the door. Still nothing from the house. I slinked out of the shed, shushing the squeaking hinges, then locked it up and returned the key to its home.
The sun was still high enough in the sky that I’d be able to get far away before nightfall. My face set in a determined scowl, I began to march away from the buildings, straight into the woods that leisurely swayed behind my prison.
* * *
The sun was settling into the hazy embrace of the horizon, and I still hadn’t gotten anywhere. I thought I’d eventually find my way out if I walked in a straight line, but all I’d found thus far were trees. Just as I was about to find a clearing to roll out my sleeping bag, a glimmer in the distance caught my eye. A warm yellow light, steady and welcoming, in a vaguely square shape that could easily be a window.
Reinvigorated by the thought of a warm house, I picked up my pace and made my way toward it. It looked like a perfectly normal cabin, save for the lack of paths leading to it. There was a curtain behind the lantern in the window, so I couldn’t tell if there was anyone home. I marched up the porch to the large green door, mussing up my hair and putting on my best I’m-a-poor-helpless-child face as I reached forward to knock. A firm rap from my knuckles was enough to push it open. I blinked in surprise, then leaned forward to peer inside. It was dusty and cold, as though it had long been abandoned. Maybe it was someone’s summer home. I walked in, looking around. If no one was living here, I might as well make use of the place. To the left, where the lantern was, was a large fireplace surrounded by a matching set of velvet armchairs and a sofa. It looked plush and inviting.
To my right was a kitchen. A disgruntled noise from my stomach made that my first destination. The first cupboard I opened was empty. So was the one after, and the one after that, and the fridge, which didn’t even have a functioning light. I sighed in disappointment, then pulled off my backpack and plopped it onto the rustic log table that sat under a haphazardly balanced antler chandelier. I wandered into the other room to grab the lantern, as the last rays of light weren’t nearly enough to eat by. I reached behind the curtain to pick it up by its wire handle, then went back to my pack and started rummaging through it. I pulled out a paper bag and water bottle, replacing them with the quilt I had been carrying all day. I’d only had room for one sandwich and a couple of carrots, which I gratefully ate. I’m sure foraging couldn’t be that hard. The water I was a bit more careful with; drinking river water sounded disgusting.
Once I had finished my meal, I packed away my water bottle and threw the paper bag into the empty trashcan next to the counter. I grabbed the lantern
and my bag, then wandered back into the hall. At the back were three doors, all made of a light beige wood that contrasted with the dark walls. On one side of the hall was a door engraved with books and quills that led into a study, complete with towering bookshelves and a tidy desk in front of a boarded-up window. The opposing door had carvings of clouds and stars, leading into a master bedroom with a four-poster bed, reminiscent of bedrooms in historically inspired movies. Once I was done exploring, I was going to sleep like a king.
The third door, empty of decoration, led down. The walls and stairs were made of cement, with no handrails, but there was a light at the bottom. Part of me wanted there to be someone down there, and part of me hoped it would be just as empty as it was up here. I considered just going to sleep and leaving the lower half of the building for tomorrow morning, but curiosity got the better of me.
I tentatively descended the stairs. As I got farther down, I could hear a jazzy tune playing from below. I peeked through the hinged door frame, seeing cement floors and gray walls adorned with flowery gold sconces that barely lit the space with a warm glow. Most of the doors lining the walls were the same as the door that led to the basement, other than being in various states of repair and decay. At the end of the hall, far removed from the others, was a dark red door.
I tiptoed towards it, the jazzy music getting louder as I got closer. It looked like it had recently been installed; the hinges were made of shiny brass with a matching ornate doorknob. Upon closer inspection, I could see small animals in Victorian clothing adorning the wood, like something out of my old children’s books. One pair looked exactly like Frog and Toad.
I carefully placed my hand on the knob, turning it slowly so that if there was someone inside, they wouldn’t notice me. As I opened the door, the music stopped. I froze, looking through the gap to see floral yellow wallpaper and part of an elegantly carved dresser. After a moment, I heard some whirring and decided to risk opening the door further. On the dresser was a cassette player that had just started rewinding the tape inside of it. Next to that was an ornate lamp with a Winnie the Pooh shade, then a matching Piglet calendar. October, with every day crossed out. Then another deep red door, and a plain wooden chair. A plain wooden chair with someone sitting incredibly still in it.
I almost turned to run; her dark curled hair and porcelain skin made her look exactly like my mother. There was no way she could have been here unless she had left the house at the same time I had. Unless this building was much closer to my house than I had anticipated. I took a deep breath to steel my nerves, then swung the door open the rest of the way, ready to face whatever she might have to say to me. She didn’t respond to the movement. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t seem to see me. I looked her up and down, taking in the strange device on her
face, dark blue blouse, long wine-red nails, and black suit pants. I went to set my lantern on the dresser, then walked over to the chair. As similar as her features were, her outfit was one my father never would have let her wear.
The stranger sat there, motionless, eyes staring straight in front of her, void of any intelligence. I wondered if she could even close her eyes, or if the liquid-filled cubes were forcing her face to hold that expression of perfectly posed apathy. Hesitantly, I moved closer to get a better look at the objects plastered to her face. The base of it seemed like rubber or plastic, somewhere between surgical gloves and a hairdresser’s cape, in a very particular shade of muted blue. The cubes were perfectly clear and rounded at the edges. If they weren’t half full of liquid, I would have mistaken them for partially melted ice cubes.
The liquid itself was tinged purple and slightly clouded. Every few seconds, a small bubble would slowly ease its way up to join the rest of the air trapped inside its crystalline cage. I hoped that this was because the liquid was seeping out onto her face, rather than it being slowly injected into her skin.
A mottled yellow blotch on the right of her neck caught my eye. I started to lean in to get a better look, then froze, looking back at her face. Her gaze was on me, black eyes locked onto mine. They looked alive now, like conscious black holes that consumed any of the light that dared to come too close to her irises. Her expression hadn’t changed, but there was an undeniable rage pouring from her, filling the air with something blunt, something that would cause bruises and broken bones to relieve its overwhelming presence. It forced my throat shut, gripping my trachea as I tried to breathe without moving, in fear of what violence could follow the stillness between us. It felt as though we were both frozen there for hours, with only small bubbles and my shallow breathing indicating the passage of time. Then, her mouth began to open.
The process was slow, as though parting her red-painted lips took a tremendous amount of effort. As soon as her bright, pristine white teeth became visible, her jaw dropped wide open, hanging limply as though she had just snapped a rubber band that had been holding it shut.
Her tongue didn’t move. Her lips didn’t move. From deep within the cavern of her mouth rose a rich, tinny voice, starting and stopping as though she was borrowing words from a recording; “It was you.”
I furrowed my brow, bewildered both by her statement and her method of speech. I stood straight again, moving a few steps back, and tentatively asked, “What was?”
“It was you.” Her body snapped up, her head ticking to the side. “It was you you you your fault your fault your fault.” I backed away, my eyes widening as she started to stand. Her hips lifted first with her upper body following, then flopping
forward, like a poorly controlled puppet. Her head wouldn’t stop twitching, but her gaze never left mine. Her left arm swung up smoothly, carrying a limp hand that unfurled at the peak to point a deep red fingernail toward me. “Monster.” It was barely audible. She said it again, and again, steadily growing louder and less clear as whatever speaker resided within her throat struggled with the noise levels. She lurched towards me, nothing but screeching coming from her voice box, and I stumbled back before turning to run.
I closed every door I could, desperate to dampen the sounds from behind me. She didn’t seem affected by them. She roughly pushed open the ones that wouldn’t latch properly, broke through the ones that had molded, and forced the others off their hinges. I assumed they were at least slowing her down, since she hadn’t caught up with me, but with all the rooms I had passed through and the countless turns I had taken in the winding halls, there was no way for me to check.
Once her voice became more muted, more surrounding rather than focused in one direction, I began to slow down. I couldn’t tell where I was. The gray walls and yellow sconces all looked the same down here. The doors were intact, so I knew I was somewhere new, but I couldn’t tell which ones were near the staircase. The stairs weren’t behind a door, were they? I couldn’t remember. There was a frame and hinges, but I couldn’t remember if there was a slab of wood hanging from them. I held back tears, starting to run again. Would I ever get out of here? The basement was so much bigger than the structure above. I slowed again, wiping my face roughly to rid myself of the water blurring my eyes. My foot hit something on the ground and I stopped, looking around.
I had reached a splintered door. There were shards of glass resting in pools of lavender fluid, as though she had broken them on the door frame when she barged through. The remains were a deep red, the same cherry color that stained the door she had previously resided in. Looking farther in, I could see her chair. The cassette had restarted, playing a cheery tune in words I couldn’t understand. I turned around, more confident in my position, and readjusted my backpack straps as I hurried back down the hall. If this was her room, then the stairs should only be a few doors down.
I walked quickly, opening every single door on my left. One, two, three, five, ten. I was becoming frantic. I should have reached the stairs by now. As if to rub my lack of directional sensibility into my face, I arrived at a turn in the hall. It should have been along this wall. I sprinted back to the cherry remains, looking into each empty gray room as I went, wondering if I had missed something. Her screeches were becoming louder. The layout of the basement was not what I remembered it being.
I went back into her room, hoping I’d find an answer through the open door on the other side. In my hurry, I accidentally caught my foot on one of the chunks of wood and fell forward. I just barely managed to catch the door frame, then cried out and quickly pulled back. The scrapes on my hand were burning. I looked at my palm and saw a pale purple film slowly eating away at the edges of my wounds. My eyes widened and I desperately tried to wipe it off on the strap of my backpack, the woven canvas roughly tearing at my dissolving flesh. I winced, then yanked off my backpack and ran to hide behind her chair, just in case she passed by. I unzipped it as quickly as I could, shaking my right hand to try and alleviate the burning sensation while I grabbed my water bottle with my left. I did my best to grip it between my knees as I untwisted the cap, then poured it onto my palm. The purple liquid washed right off, the cool water easing my pain.
Once I couldn’t feel any more burning, I stopped to take a better look at it. It had gone from a small scrap to a large patch of missing skin. I poured more water on it, wanting to be sure it was completely washed off, then grabbed the small first aid kit I had in the front pouch of my backpack. I struggled to pop it open with my left hand, then looked in disappointment at the contents. I hadn’t replaced the pad of gauze from the last time I had gotten hurt, so the only coverings I had were small neon bandages. I huffed in frustration, then covered my mouth and curled up tighter.
There was clicking coming from the hall. At some point, she must have stopped screaming. Had she been wearing heels? It sounded like someone in heels was walking towards me with uneven steps, getting closer by the second. I closed my eyes, hoping the chair would fully cover me. She stopped. From closer than I had expected, I heard her lilting voice. “Worthless.” It took all of my focus to keep my breathing steady and quiet. “Worthless? Woooorthless.” It sounded questioning, as though she was calling someone’s name, rather than saying an adjective. A few more clicks, closer, closer. “Worthless,” she whispered, directly above me. I opened my eyes, looking up to see her face leering over the back of the chair. Most of the cubes had been shattered, and the liquid had spilled all over her face. The edges of her mouth and nostrils appeared to be slowly dissolving, but the rest of her skin was unaffected. The corners of her lips pulled up, her mouth still wide open and every other part of her face unmoving, in a twisted, empty grin. “Found you.”
I screamed, ducking down and grabbing my bag as I felt something swing just above me. I scurried out from behind the chair, dragging my open pack behind me as I ran for the open door. Before I could reach it, I felt cold fingers wrap around my collar and pull, throwing me backwards. I was able to keep hold of my
backpack as I flew back and hit the opposing wall, but the contents had spilled all over the floor.
She was taller than I had realized. Had she been this hunched over when she got up the first time? Her head was still ticking, like a broken animatronic, her eyes still managing to stay on me despite all the movement. There was liquid dripping from her chin, soaking into her blouse as she stumbled towards me, holding her open-mouthed smile. “It’s all your fault,” she said, her voice having shifted to the southern drawl of an old-timey cowboy movie to match the ballad playing from the cassette.
I gulped, my eyes darting around me for the closest item. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did.”
“Your fault.”
“I didn’t mean to.” I carefully readjusted to stand on my feet, crouching low as though I was trying to approach a wild animal. There was only one thing in reach and only one thing I could think to do with it.
“Worthless, you hurt us, broke broke us worthless.” As she came within tackling distance, she raised her hands to reach for me. Her nails had broken in places, making them even more claw-like than before.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I leapt for my grandmother’s quilt. She screeched, her smile dropping as she grabbed at me, managing to catch a handful of my hair as I picked up the quilt. I swung at her hand, screaming “Let go of me!” as she dragged me back. When I hit her wrist, I heard something click sharply, making her release me and start screeching, holding her arm with her hand dangling limply, as though I had broken it.
While she was distracted, I kicked her knee, surprised at how easily it snapped backward and buckled. As she fell to the floor, I ran around behind her, looped the quilt around her neck, and kicked the middle of her back to push her down. Her spine bent at an awkward angle as she fell. She was surprisingly delicate for someone that could bust through doors. I crossed the cloth over itself and moved to stand on her back, just below where I had broken it.
I rotated my wrists to wrap my hands once, twice, then pulled back as I firmly jammed the heel of my foot between her shoulder blades. She flailed wildly, shrieking as she desperately tried to reach behind herself and grab at my leg with her functioning hand. I pushed harder on her back as she bucked and twisted, doing everything I could to keep her pinned down as I pulled on the ends of the quilt. Something popped in her throat, making the tinniness of her voice much worse, and she choked, coughing until she spat out blood, a small round of metal mesh, and a torn foam disk. I tugged again, doing my best to ignore the blood
seeping from her mouth as her screams became gargled, then stopped abruptly with some muted zapping sounds.
Despite the speaker in her mouth being destroyed, she was not silent. There was still bubbling and wheezing coming from her, reminding me that what I was killing was an organic being, something alive that was desperate to keep itself that way. Her form was human, the flailing of her limbs afraid of what comes after this existence. There were tears in my eyes for her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, untwisting the blanket around her neck and anchoring my foot more solidly between her shoulder blades. As she tried to twist her head, I dropped the ends of the quilt and stomped on her neck, her face slamming into the cement and shattering the last of the cubes on her face. The wheezes became more powerful, as though she was screaming in pain. “I’m sorry.” Another stomp, firmer, focused more toward her trachea than her spinal cord. “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t actively trying to throw me off anymore. Her body was convulsing violently, but she no longer had control over her movements. I wondered if it had something to do with the faint purple tinge over her eyes. “I’m so–” I lost my footing, falling to the side, then hurried to prop myself up on my arms and legs and scramble away from her.
Her eyes were watching me again. Her face could move now that she had been freed from the final blocks, and she glared at me, finally expressing the rage she had been emanating since she had awoken. She mouthed something just as her entire body stiffened, her left eyelid twitching as her eyes rolled back, then fell completely limp.
I sat still, staring, for ages. I was afraid that if I moved, she would too. Finally, I sat up and crawled over. She seemed dead. She was dead. I grabbed the closest part of my grandmother’s quilt, softly weeping as I tugged it out from under her. Once it was free, I sat back and scooted toward the wall behind me. I hugged the blanket tightly, ignoring the glass shards digging into my skin and the burning from the fluid the cloth had soaked up, and sobbed into the soft, threadbare remains of my happiness.
Fight or Flight
Shelby Miller
The Glory in Looking Up
Cambrie Kowal
When I am home from college in the winter, I like to roll the windows down in the passenger seat of my mom’s car. Today the sun is so bright that I must put the visor down to protect my eyes and keep myself from becoming car sick. The road that leads to my house is like a snake. Long with unexpected curves that weave between short hills and farmland. When I hold the button down on the door of the car that makes the window descend, a wall of cool air smacks my face. Although, I don’t mind the crisp wind on my face and in my hair.
Since it’s the end of November the sun sets before five. Our car chases after the sun on the highway and even though my mom has a heavy foot that tests the boundaries of the speed limit, we never catch the sun before it disappears under the naked trees on the horizon line. I watch as the oranges and pinks saturate the sky and then eventually disappear into the dark blue evening. Down here the stars are extraordinary. The moon smiles at me. I miss the stars when I go to school. I roll down the window almost out of habit and put my arm out into the bitter wind. My face next. I close my eyes and let the wind’s icy touch draw lines across my face. I lay my head against the seatbelt and stare up at the stars.
I don’t know any of the constellations. Except the big and the little dippers. When I was younger my dad stuck glow-in-the-dark stars onto my bedroom ceiling because I feared the dark. I would lay in bed at night and connect the dots of those two asterisms. I point to a spot in the deep sky and tell my mother I’ve found them; she nods but her eyes stay glued to the dirt road only visible in the headlights. I wonder if the stars are all connected or if they are entities. I wonder if the stars know who they are or if they ever get lost in the vastness of their space. I watch the sky the rest of the way home, but nothing happens. The gravel cracks under the tires and the radio is soft. My mom tries to sing but she hardly knows the words, so she reverts to just humming the melody, which is a shame because I like this song. When my lonely house is in view my mom lets off the accelerator and the car slows down. As we turn into the driveway, I realize that I am smiling. I am happy. I am home. Breathing in the fresh Missouri air. The sky is full of stars and at this moment nothing else matters. I think about how I am going to write about this when I get inside.
Angelika Mehes
Bloom
Maya Geving
This is our apartment Furnished with A loveseat And Boston ferns
Blue-rimmed window panes And a view of the city In all its majestic glory
This is our home That I infuse With lavender-scented oils And Marigold yellow
This is our sanctuary You bring home yellow roses on Fridays And fill the kitchen with delicious smells Of exquisite spices and seasonings
This is our space; Our bedroom wall Is covered in Tapestries Of sunflower fields And lilac ambrosia
They remind me
To be grateful Be present Bloom
Strange Young Man: Pantoum
Mina Hakmoun
I know you from somewhere
Your eyes are familiar
Looking right at me
Reading my soul like poetry
Your eyes are familiar
Curious and insightful
Reading my soul like poetry
As if you know me too
Curious and insightful
You keep your gaze strong
As if you know me too
Five seconds and you’re gone
You keep your gaze strong
Noticing every part of my iris
Five seconds and you’re gone
I never truly knew you
A Heart Fragment
Mitzy Fae
and this foolish thing, they stare at you like you’re the stardust the world says we’re made of. Their heart overflows with a feeling they can’t describe, something that echoes in their mind like an old memory, twining around their fingers and refusing to be held. Something that tastes of cotton candy and strawberries, tainted with the sour lime of jealousy.
You are what they wish they still were, what they wish they could be.
Your gentle strength is unfamiliar, terrifying, and they want so badly to be close to it, close to you.
Enveloped in the soft cotton of your words, the fluffed cushion of your voice, and they hope the world doesn’t see you as a dog toy, that it doesn’t test the resilience of your stitches when you are something that is meant to be cared for.
Augustus Dykstra Ice Walk
EXT. FROZEN LAKE- DAY
TROY sits by a frozen lake all by himself. An angstridden seventeen-year-old. Though it is winter, he only wears a flannel with jeans. He seems unfazed by the cold weather. As if he cannot feel anything.
Troy gets up and takes a step onto the ice... It is frozen solid. He continues to walk forward on the ice, feeling invincible.
Until...
MAX
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the Messiah.
A smile comes across Troy’s face as he turns around and sees MAX, the same age as him, though more jolly.
TROY
Messiah? You couldn’t come up with anything else?
MAX
You’re the one walking on water. You’re digging your own grave.
Max walks on the ice, though more careful, and obviously more worried than his friend. Troy confidently walks forward and helps him maintain
balance. The two seem to trust each other a lot by holding onto each other.
MAX
So you made it to fifth hour. That’s a new record.
Troy sighs.
TROY
They should just expel me at this point.
MAX (Sounding serious) Then what?
TROY
I could fake my age and go into blue collar. Jake’s cousin makes fake ID’s all the t-
MAX
Have you ever considered that you are putting your talents to waste?
Troy looks confused.
TROY
What are you talking about?
MAX
No matter how much school you miss, you still maintain a 3.8 GPA.
TROY
It’s just luck.
MAX
It’s a talent-
TROY
If it’s a talent, then why do I not care about it?!
Max is lost for words, as Troy nods his head, as if he is saying “That’s What I Thought.”
While Troy tries to move on his own, Max stays by his side.
MAX
There’s more to life than hunting and trucks, you know. There’s more opportunities than being a hick!
Troy turns to look at his friend.
TROY
Well what if that sort of life is the only life I know?!
MAX
See, you’re not challenging yourself!
Troy tries to ignore Max, shaking his head.
MAX
You’re in this world for a reason. There’s a side of you that only I have seen, that everyone else should see.
TROY
Fuck that, we’re all just little accidents floating around in the air.
MAX
That’s your dad talking. You are NOT like him.
Troy finally stops walking, and listens.
MAX (Cont’d) What he did was unforgivable. But you’ve grown through it and unlike him, have stuck with everyone. Your mom, your brother... Even me.
Troy nods his head, though not looking at Max.
TROY
I know.
A soft look comes over Max, and he gently grabs Troy’s arm.
MAX
I just don’t want you to waste your life.
Troy finally looks at him, a soft look replacing his previous tough one.
TROY
You’re the only one who understands me.
Max smiles.
MAX It’s my job.
The two kiss, passionately holding onto each other.
TROY
If the town found out-
MAX
Things will change, I swear.
Troy looks anxious.
TROY
What if it doesn’t?
Max grabs his hand.
MAX
Then we’ll keep walking forward until the ice has melted.
The two look onward, both anxious about what the future has in store for them.
FADE OUT:
Augustus Dykstra
Mississippi River Love
Srinath Vislavath
Beneath the Mississippi’s gentle flow, Two hearts united in love’s radiant glow, By the river’s edge, their destinies aligned, In the presence of love forever entwined. A boy, and a girl, their fates entwined that day, By the river’s edge, they found their way, He with a heart that yearned to proclaim, The feelings within are like a burning flame. Her eyes, a verdant forest, deep and wise, In their emerald depths, his spirit lies, Brown hair framed her face, a flowing stream, And pink lips, like a rose in the moonlight gleam. They spoke of dreams and pasts so tenderly, Shared secrets under the river canopy, Emotions flowed like the river embrace, Their souls are entangled in the sacred space. He watched her, lost in the Mississippi’s dance, Her beauty is a mirage, a fleeting chance, With courage, he finally found his voice, To speak of love is the ultimate choice. In the presence of Mississippi’s grace, Their love bloomed, a timeless, boundless space, Two souls, together forever to be, In the river’s embrace for all eternity.
Rosy Lightning
Brooks McBride
You arc across my sky with bolts of bright Pink sparks and lightning in my heart. You carve your name with strokes of glowing light, And resolutely they remain with permanence of stone. I know you sing a song inside this soul, For it overflows and pours right out my Mouth and whispers sweetly with your music, Testifying to the world the depth of love beheld. I need never hear another song for Yours resounds in every glade and valley, Rousing every bit of grass or greenery That grows inside of me with melody.
If I could see the glory of the Universe
Consolidated in a single face, I know it would be one identical to yours
Callie Jacobs Log Jumble
Undefined
Mitzy Fae
They wake in a cold sweat, shooting up to their feet as soon as the metal restraints retracted back into the bed. Their eyes dart around the room, trying to find whoever knocked them out. All they saw was a minimalistic white kitchenette, a shiny metal table, and a white leather couch. There was no sign of their assailant. They rubbed the dull ache at the base of their skull, trying to gather the thoughts rushing through their head like water over craggy rocks of panic. What was their name again? They pat around the white scrubs they’d been changed into, finding a keycard in the front right pocket of their pants. It had a picture of what they assumed to be their face next to handwritten black letters; Ryley McLaughlin, subject number 106. Their nose wrinkled in dismay as they read it again. Subject.
Ryley put the keycard back in their pocket and scanned the bright white walls again, their eyes steadier as they settled into the reality of their situation. No noticeable cameras, no seams where a door or window should have been, no vents to supply them with air or allow for an uncomfortably snug escape route. They wondered if something was hidden in the fluorescent light humming far above them but couldn’t think of a way to reach it. Their eyes lingered on the kitchenette, wondering if there was something in the assorted cupboards they could throw at it. Ryley shook their head to clear the thought from their head. It was much more likely that they’d find nothing but the glass and plastic remains of their only source of light.
Instead, they turned back to the tall, hospital-esque bed that they’d been laying on moments before. They looked under it first, finding nothing but the plain white bottom of the stiff mattress and the metal bars that supported it. There weren’t any signs of the restraints that had released them from the bed.
Wondering if they had somehow retracted into the mattress, despite the lack of openings in the covers, Ryley began tugging at the tightly fitting sheets that encased it.
After pulling off the fifth plastic-y cover with no end in sight, they gave up and redirected their attention to the couch, marching over and pulling off both of the leather cushions. They paused for a moment, staring at the white squares haphazardly strewn about the floor. Tentatively, Ryley placed the flat of their palm against one of them. The cushions were warm. Had someone else been here recently? Their brow wrinkled in confusion; it felt as though the cushions were generating heat themselves. If they focused, they could feel a faint thrumming, as though a small machine was working steadily deep inside the foam and cotton filling of the couch cushions. It was almost comforting, like a cat purring.
They tried to find a way to remove the leather covers from the cushions to no avail. There weren’t even any noticeable seams. Ryley begrudgingly admired the craftsmanship of their captor’s interior design choices before going to dig around in the crevices of the couch’s framework. Other than a considerably large ball of lint, the couch was clean. They tilted the entire thing back to find more nothing underneath, then carefully replaced the cushions and walked over to the kitchenette. Ryley pulled open every drawer and cupboard they could see, scanning the four collapsible pots and pans thoroughly before setting them on the smooth plastic floor. Beyond that, there was a large spoon, a spatula, a bowl, and a plate, all made out of the same white plastic. Nothing sharp or made of metal. There was nothing in the small microwave, nothing in the mini-fridge, nothing on or in the stovetop that bent back their nails when they pried off the cover. With an agitated huff, they walked back over to the bed, considering pulling more covers off of it as they tried to massage away the pangs of pain in their fingertips. It didn’t feel worth it.
They wandered around the edge of the room, running a hand along the matte white wall to feel for any kind of break. The bright lights and white plastic made the room look much larger than it was. Ryley had assumed it was around the size of a small auditorium, when in reality, it was around the size of a studio apartment. The walls seemed to be dim lights as well; their hand was casting a soft shadow away from the wall, rather than against it. All the shadows in the room seemed a bit subdued, making it all seem almost dream-like the longer Ryley stared at their surroundings.
With a heavy sigh, they returned to the couch. They sat down, then immediately stood back up; the warmth and gentle thrumming felt off-putting. Before, it was almost cozy, but now it felt off, as if they were sitting on something alive.
Instead, they paced around the room. They worried about their dog, who couldn’t stand being alone for longer than six hours. They worried about their friend, who was waiting for Ryley to tell her if they’d be able to make it to her wedding next week, despite the short notice. They worried about their partner, who was expecting them to pick her up at 8 pm tonight for their third anniversary. Was it even still tonight?
Ryley sat heavily on the unforgiving mattress that welcomed them into this place, absently chewing on their thumbnail. There was no way to tell time in their pristine prison. How long had they been gone? A few hours? A few days?
An alarm started blaring. The walls turned a dim red, the light attached to the ceiling turned off with a buzz. Ryley jumped off the bed and ducked underneath it. The room went dark. They tried to keep their breathing steady, tried to stay as quiet as possible. After a few seconds, a whirring from the ceiling dropped a grid of blue light over the entire room, just barely missing the tips of their fingers. They tried to ball up as small as possible, pressing up against the wall as their eyes flicked around what they could still see of the room.
A soft, robotic voice echoed through the room: “Please exit your place of hiding.” Ryley didn’t move. “Please exit your place of hiding.” They held their breath, tightly closing their eyes. “Please exit your place of hiding.” It repeated quickly, impatiently. It felt like it was too late to show themself. “Please exit your place of hiding.” Ryley opened their eyes slightly, slowly exhaling, then taking in a shaky breath that caught in their throat. They could smell something burning. “Exit your place of hiding now.” Their eyes widened as they saw the sheets they’d pulled off of the bed earlier burning where the blue light touched them. It cut through them quickly, the edges of the remaining squares of plastic curling and melting into the floor. Nothing else in the room seemed to be affected.
“This is a warning.” It was more of a threat. What reason did they have to believe they wouldn’t be reduced to a singed pile of meat cubes as soon as they emerged from under the bed? “Three.” They glanced up at the mattress and metal bars hiding them, wondering if it would be enough to protect them if the lasers ramped up in power. The metal, maybe, but not the mattress. “Two.” There wasn’t anywhere else to hide. They might be able to fit in one of the cupboards, but there was no way to reach it without giving away their position. “One.” Ryley squeezed their eyes shut, praying to whatever higher powers there might be. They waited for the overwhelming smell of burning plastic and fabric, waited for the burning sensation, waited to die.
Nothing happened.
After a long moment, they opened one eye. The blue light was gone. The room was glowing faintly. Not enough to see by, but enough to discern basic
shapes around them. They weren’t sure if they should trust that the danger had gone. They waited a bit longer.
When there was still no change to their surroundings, Ryley started to relax. They crawled forward, slowly exiting their safe haven, then paused. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious. They pulled the keycard out of their pocket, then tossed it as far from them as they could. After what felt like a minute of nothing, they breathed a sigh of relief, crawling out from under the bed. Since they still couldn’t see very well, they stayed low to the ground, making their way toward the kitchenette as quietly as they could. Even if they were safe for now, there still wasn’t a clear way out of this place. Assuming the blue lasers would return, or the possibility of some secret door opening for their captor to enter and kill them, Ryley felt safer having access to a fully enclosed space.
After carefully maneuvering around the metal table and the kitchenware they’d left on the floor, they opened one of the cupboards and crawled in to ensure they would fit. It was uncomfortable, but sacrificing comfort for safety was an easy choice to make. They awkwardly readjusted themself to leave the cupboard, grasping around on the edge to drag themself out when they heard a low grumble. It seemed like it was coming from the other side of the cupboard door, but a vague, lumpy shape was easing into Ryley’s field of view.
They quickly retracted their hand, hoping whatever had made that noise hadn’t noticed them. The grumble rose to a growl, then stretched into a long sound that ended with a wet, higher-pitched noise, like a large animal yawning. It was moving, whatever it was, with soft thumps announcing each of its many footsteps. The shadow ambled farther into sight with what they assumed was a head bobbing about low to the ground. It continued to grumble and groan, its deep vocalization periodically broken up by a squeak or a chirp.
The room flashed, giving Ryley a glimpse of a large, bulbous creature with torn white flaps dangling over shiny, pinkish flesh with a red grid pattern, as though it had been lightly burned by the lasers. It had deep-set black eyes erratically placed all over its neckless, triangular head and stout limbs that jutted out in every direction. When the room dimmed again, it no longer seemed to be moving. It was chirping more, its breathing getting heavier and... Louder. It hadn’t stopped moving, it was moving toward them.
Ryley tried to force themself farther into the cupboard, their waves of panic accentuated by the metal table screeching across the floor as it was nudged out of the way. The large shadow slowly got bigger, a scent reminiscent of cinnamon, apples, and rotting wood wafting off of it and a soft, giggle-like sound haphazardly dancing under the monster’s chirping and panting as it slowly inched closer. Giving up on finding more room where there was none, they scrabbled for the
cupboard door, bumping one of the collapsible pots in the process. Swept up in a stream of thoughts that moved quicker than they could be conscious of, they grabbed the pot they touched and threw it as hard as they could, hoping to clear the top of the creature.
The vague slap of silicone hitting plastic, followed by the metallic ring of the pot hitting the frame of the bed proved they were successful. However, the monster didn’t stop moving. Instead, Ryley heard excited chirps coming from a completely different part of the room, followed by the squeak of skin being dragged across plastic. After a few seconds, there was a heavy whooshing sound, followed by a thump on the wall Ryley had thrown the pot at and the creaks and screams of metal bending and snapping under the weight of something it couldn’t hold.
As their heart fell, preparing themselves to stop, they felt something damp bump their hand. They hadn’t even realized it was still extended after throwing their lifeline. Ryley couldn’t move. They wanted to pull their hand away, to fight back against the monster touching their outstretched fingers, to do anything. Anything but sitting there frozen.
It was no longer moving forward, no longer panting. Its chirping sounded like a cat that had found itself in a box it didn’t expect to be in, confused and nervous. Neither of them moved for a long time.
Finally, Ryley took a deep breath. It wasn’t attacking them, despite being in direct contact with them. If anything, it seemed... Scared. Plaintive mewls joined the chirping at some point, making it seem even more like some kind of misshapen, pitiful cat. Tentatively, they reached their hand farther forward, resting their palm on its warm skin and gently petting it. It purred.
They scooched forward a bit, feeling more confident in their actions. The chirping was cheerful now as it nudged into their hand. Clambering out of their hiding space, they continued to gently scratch and pet it, doing their best to avoid the eyes they couldn’t see. Ryley heard some shuffling to their right just as they were bumped by what they assumed was the second creature they’d heard leap at the wall.
They reached over to pet it as well, flinching when they felt what seemed like a dog’s ear sticking out of it. Curiously feeling around, they found that its head was covered in ears the same way the other one was covered in eyes. They couldn’t tell which would be best, but they gently scratched it behind one of its many ears, encouraged by an approving chirp. Ryley cracked a smile as their fear melted away, doing their best to find comfort in this moment. Nauseated by the
smell and Ryley’s overly affectionate disposition, I withdrew from their head and drifted back through the grayish wasteland to my body.
* * *
I opened my eyes, squinting at the bright lights as I sat up. “They didn’t eat this one.” Tim, my least favorite coworker and the person who was meant to be monitoring the mindshare, blinked blankly at me, then glanced at the clock.
“They didn’t? Then why are you back?” he asked as he rushed over from the door. I hadn’t stayed in their head for the full hour.
I shrugged, hopping off the clean white cot and walking over to the monitors as Tim tried to keep the cables that chained me to the beeping machines from getting ripped out of my skull. “I got bored. It’s not like you can’t see what’s going on from here. You’re just not able to experience their thoughts or smell the disgusting musk that covers those stupid things.” Resting an arm on the shelf above the bulky old computers we were stuck using, I leaned forward, squinting at the vital charts for Ryley and the aliens we’d been given. As expected, their charts synced up whenever there was physical contact between them. “And personally, since it’s my life on the line, I’d really rather not wait long enough to risk getting stuck in whatever that hazy connection zone is. I still have to run from Charles every time I pass through there.”
Tim bit down on whatever retort he had for me. He wasn’t there, but he’d heard about it from his wife, Maria. He wasn’t there when Charles’s body withered up after sixty-five minutes of testing the mindsharing implant that our xenoengineers told us was safe. He wasn’t there when Charles possessed Grace and started screaming for help as Grace’s body rapidly began to decay, begging for us not to put him back into that hellscape. Before any of us could react, he was gone and Grace returned, only to be killed by the mold that had eaten through her flesh.
I was the only one who was still willing to get hooked up to the machine. The video feed wouldn’t work without someone on both ends, and we needed to be able to collect information on every thought and feeling our subjects had after the last incident.
Assuming Tim had been out of the room ever since he’d confirmed I had gotten through the in-between and fully connected, I said, “This one hid under the bed. They could fit in the cupboards too.”
“Ah. I’m glad they did what you wanted this time, I guess.”
“The alarm and the quick repetition of that recording was a good touch, really freaked them out. The last one they ate, I think the adrenaline must have
made them taste better or something. They react to fear faster now, it seems to make them excited. Wakes them up sooner. It might be worth trying to keep the lights brighter so our subjects can see them a little better. There was a bit of a panic spike then.”
Tim shook his head. “Not until they’ve matured more. The light level we currently keep it at is barely dim enough for the hearing one when it’s out of its cover. Flashing the light for the seeing one is damaging enough as it is.” He paused, then looked down at his clipboard, speaking hesitantly, knowing how I would answer his question but still hoping for a change of heart. “... Should we really be fear-feeding them? I feel like it’s too risky, considering-”
“If it bothers you so much, you shouldn’t have messed up the anesthetics. Once we’ve pumped them up, we’ll kill them, same as the rest. This entire process is risky, what difference does it make?”
He immediately looked up at me, some mixture of anger and shame creasing his brows and spilling from his mouth; “It was an accident! Why do you still insist on bringing it up?” He sighed, shaking his head. “We don’t have enough people working on this project or a way of finding more of these, we need to make sure no one else dies and every pair gets us as much information as quickly as possible to avoid more casualties-”
“Yeah, and we are.” I pushed off the shelf and turned to face him, initiating the dance we’d done a dozen times; I marched forward, he shrank into his shoulders and stumbled back, hugging the clipboard to his chest and turning his gaze down to the ring that keeps him on the team. “You know what we’ve learned? We’ve learned they like it when we’re afraid. We’ve learned they like how it tastes, that this isn’t just some stupid invasion, we aren’t just some planet to take over, we are their feeding grounds to give them a stronger army.” Tim was trembling again. He had stepped out of the range the cables kept me leashed to, and still he was afraid. I’d gotten over my guilt after watching his wife brush off his incompetence and coddle him too many times.
The first two that woke up had done barely any damage. They’d eaten a few people and permanently disabled a few more, but they’d died with a few shots from a shotgun. Our team had sworn we’d never let it happen again. We had strengthened the holding cells, reduced all localized personnel, and increased each facility’s firepower. Had the second test gone smoothly, no one else would have died. If Maria hadn’t insisted upon adding her husband to the team, gushing about his expertise and attention to detail, if she hadn’t been in such a hurry to prove his capabilities to us... “Thanks to your little accident, we lost people ten
times as valuable as you.” Keeping the hitch out of my voice was getting easier every day. I leaned as far forward as I could, lowering my voice. “You have no right to preach at me about this shit. The least we can do is make sure they didn’t die in vain.”
I had been inside the subject’s head when they woke up. It took a while to understand what was happening, why the hazy dream state I was used to had become so... alive. By the time I had gotten past the overwhelming rush of thoughts and emotions that didn’t belong to me, I had to feel the rough bone patches inside of those monsters’ mouths grinding down flesh that wasn’t mine, screams echoing inside my head until I was able to rip myself out. Knowing every person they ate had to experience that excruciating sensation of being scraped to a pulp, dying from shock before the aliens could even swallow... I could never forgive Tim. I could never forgive myself. “It took a grenade in the mouth the last time. Assuming it compounds with the amount of people they eat, we’ll be prepared this time.”
I straightened back up, crossing my arms. “We need to test how much damage they can do when they get a consistent meal of fear, figure out exactly how much it’ll take to kill them when they get to that point. This fucker,” I sharply gestured back at the monitor, the hazy green video feed showing Ryley scratching the underside of one of the alien’s heads like it was some kind of mutant cat, “messed up that test, but at least now we know something new, something that might reduce casualties even more than a human free diet. Never would have thought to cozy up to them, but this anxious wreck just decided anything’s a dog if you’re brave enough.”
“We already know they’re more dangerous when they eat scared people.” Tim’s voice was little more than a mumble. “Why do we need to test how far that goes? What if they reach a point where we can’t kill them?”
“And what are we going to do when these things get planted all over the world and terrorize the public while chowing down on an endless supply of panicking humans? The least we can do is test it now and see just how much it takes to kill them before dealing with hundreds or thousands or however many those stupid purple pricks decide to throw at us.” I sighed, massaging the anger from my brows. Tim relaxed, knowing this would be the end of my outburst. “We need to follow this test through, see how long they stay alive, see how bad those monsters get once they’re fully grown. See if there’s something to being friendly with them before they fully mature. In the meantime, we should continue collecting people with anxiety issues.”
“Now? Shouldn’t we wait for Ryley to get eaten first?”
“What, you remember our subject’s names but not your own duties?” I waited a few seconds for Tim to do his usual agitated huff, reveling in his discomfort for a bit longer before continuing. “There’s no promise of that happening. We need to set up that secondary mindsharing machine and get the fear-feeding test started again.”
Tim scoffed, looking at me incredulously. “And who on earth is crazy enough to get hooked up to that?”
“How am I supposed to know? Hire someone new or hook yourself up to it, I don’t care. At least then you’d be doing something helpful.” The color drained from his face at the thought of it. “Then someone who can actually be bothered to keep an eye on us and take notes will be monitoring the machinery and video feed, instead of leaving the room in the middle of a session, risking the loss of a very valuable member of our team and missing out on important data.” He looked down as shame restained his neck and cheeks with the red I’d just scared out of him.
“I’ll see what Maria thinks.”
“Good.” As he started to speed toward the door, I snapped my fingers at him. “Hey. Leave the clipboard. I need to write down the stuff you didn’t bother with and keep an eye on our monster tamer here.” Tim rushed back, shoved it into my hands, and practically ran for the door, struggling with the handle before finally escaping my spiteful glare.
Chloe Blue Zombie Stomp
Eli
Blue Eyes
Valentine Sarin
Eyes are terrifying
They see everything
Always watching
Staring
His eyes were the worst
Always forced to look into them
Blue eyes
I’m scared of blue eyes.
Eye contact is important
But oh so difficult
I always remember his eyes
It makes it hard to breathe
Hard to function
Like drowning
Drowning in blue eyes
I hate blue eyes.
continues on next page
Their eyes were green
Easier to look at
Look into
I loved their green eyes
So bright and soft
I started getting better
Better with eye contact
I don’t like blue eyes
Eyes can lie
Perhaps mine were lying to me
I saw something that wasn’t there
Love that didn’t exist
Didn’t mean anything
At least not to them
I don’t care anymore
I don’t care about blue eyes
Your eyes are blue
But they’re also green
I like them
They make me feel safe
You make me feel safe
Such pretty eyes
I like blue eyes
I love looking into your eyes
It gives me butterflies
But good ones
Ones that make me happy
Make me feel loved
Like little kisses across my skin
My heart beats a little faster
I love blue eyes
Toad Brick Soup
Jesse Peterman
With a swiftness her old joints would surely exact a price for later, Miriam strides through the labyrinth of alleyways and back streets, eyes forward with a glare so intense it could set paper aflame. She refuses to turn her head or look behind her, the subtle scuffling audible between the clack of her boots on the ancient cobbles is enough motivation to continue on. Miriam’s long life in the country hadn’t prepared her for this, but she knows now more than ever that she must appear calm, even as her purposeful steps round the tight alleyway corners and further from the main roads.
Regretting that her good knife rests on the bottom of the sturdy satchel on her shoulder, Miriam makes a mental inventory of her options.
1. Keep going and hope to make it out the other side
2. Turn back and deal with it
3. Find a way up
4. Hide and hope it passes
5. Give up the facade and run
None of these are good options. Nevertheless I must choose. Miriam’s pace stays steady as she tries to figure out what to do. The scuffling is closer now. She would have never thought the capital had such a mess of alleyways, but at least they might be working in her favor. Miriam rounds a particularly tight corner, and a sixth option literally opens before her: a manhole cover left open. Breaking into a sprint, she knows that with mere moments to spare before her pursuer gains sight of her again, Miriam has no time to be concerned with the landing, at least just yet. Tracing a hasty circle with her finger, Miriam feels the small magic she has left in reserve begin to shift, focusing on the heavy stone cover. Slowing only enough to not overshoot the hole, Miriam steps in; the spell she had worked only a moment before pulls the manhole’s heavy cover shut as she drops into the dark.
Now much more concerned about the landing, Miriam traces another circle in the air, desperately willing the magic to work. It doesn’t. Dropping through total darkness, she doesn’t even have time to realize she’s probably screwed before— Splash. Like an oddly shaped stone no good for skipping, Miriam’s body tumbles into the sewer’s drain water. Weighed down by her clothes, shock, and fatigue, Miriam struggles in the water, flailing wildly. She hadn’t gone swimming in years, and it showed in her panicked, uncoordinated motions. Catching an edge with the back of her hand, the pain and solidity of the experience jars Miriam into more rational action. Land. With what feels like the last of her strength, Miriam manages to drag herself, sopping and exhausted, onto the dry brick. Left hand throbbing from the impact and the rest of her body equally unhappy with the last several minutes of strain, Miriam barely manages to drag herself to a nearby wall to lean against before all but passing out.
Waking up some time later, Miriam feels rested, but much worse. Not bad for an old coot, doing her best to take stock of her person. It takes a few blinks before Miriam realizes she’s still in total darkness, and that getting anywhere is going to be an issue without light, she walks herself through the steps for that light trick she’d learned as a child.
Growing up in a tiny village in the deep country, Miriam’s only contact with outsiders had been when travelers from the high road would wander into town, looking for supplies or a warm meal. One such traveler she would never forget. A sorcerer of great power was traveling, an attempt to recruit young students for the school of magic he had just founded. Every child in the village was ecstatic. Since the talent for sorcery was rather rare and many spent years studying just to create a campfire or summon flowers. The sorcerer was in his middle age— I used to think that was so old, now look at me, on an adventure nearly eighty years later —
Miriam’s commentary derailed her own remembering, fatigue and pain making focus all the harder. Come on you old bat, use that experience you’re so proud of. Despite her own scolding, it takes a few minutes before the memory comes again.
The sorcerer had asked the village to gather its children, to see if any had the knack for magic. Being a sorcerer, his own magic was poorly understood, but he had with him a simple notebook of spells and charms to test children with. Miriam was older than many of the village’s kids, being almost a teenager, and rather than taking the test herself, had been tasked with cleaning some animal pen or some other menial task she had loathed. Instead of working hard, Miriam had watched as each child of the village was tested, and each failed the tests. Even a few of the adults in the village could do some magic. The butcher’s boy had some luck, producing a few sparks where a flame should have been, but that wasn’t enough
to be whisked away to some magic school. The sorcerer announced the tests were over, and the sad crowd of kids and their parents dispersed. Innkeeping had been Miriam’s work since even then, and the next day when the sorcerer was to depart the village, he stopped for a moment, almost as shocked at seeing Miriam, who had been sweeping the inn’s floor, as the startled pre-teen, broom still in hand. He knew he had no time to test another child, but standing before him was the only child in the whole village who hadd not tried yet.
Miriam still remembers the look of cautious optimism in his eyes as the sorcerer handed her the notebook. He winked, said something vague about chance and magic, and disappeared on the spot. Finally, the only spell she had gotten to work from that booklet came to mind. A little witchcraft for dark nights. Miriam traced a little star in the air, her finger following old and practiced motion as she finished tracing a circle around her imaginary star, the increasingly familiar flow of magic gathering into a point before a softly glowing ball appeared with a— puff, I love the sound it makes. The soft glow grows brighter as the ball floats, like a campfire getting a fresh log.
In the growing light, each detail brings new horror to Miriam. The walls and carved floor sit pristine, no sign of vermin, buildup, even devoid of dust. Nothing. The drainage water is crystal clear, the wide trough itself looks like it has sat untouched. Something wiped the entire thing clean. No city this large can have a sewer this clean, even with magic. Miriam’s thoughts are interrupted by the sight of her waterlogged satchel, opened and dripping. Time to see if that rain charm works on something already wet, I suppose. While no sorceress or great magician, the numerous travelers she had met and bargained with throughout the years had left her with a few simple magics. The charm she had used to close the manhole, the light, and a spell to stay dry through the rain, to name a few. She fumbles through the steps, long disused, and begins tracing a small circle in the air. The trick, as she had been taught, is to just use one finger for the first circle, almost like asking the magic to pay attention. Her hand motions don’t feel just so, and it takes a few tries before she feels the magic moving; a nearly transparent disc forms below her feet. It travels upwards, passing through Miriam as if it weren’t there. The water soaking her clothes and hair is pulled up, drawn into the disc, the satchel partially suspended as it cedes the dampness within it. Amazing how many things one spell can do. If I make it out of this alive, I’m going to learn magic in earnest. As the disc reaches its resting place just a few inches above her head, the water evaporates all at once, dropping the satchel and its components onto the tile walkway, scattering its contents. Time to take stock of what I’ve got.
Carefully placing her few belongings in the ragged satchel she’d once been given by a courier, she counts her assets with surprising melancholy.
1. One wheel of good cheese
2. A sharp knife, traded from a hunter years ago
3. A hammock, gifted from the previous innkeeper at the Toad Brick Inn
4. Kindling, enough to start a fire or two
5. The thick scarf she’d been working on since her middle age
6. A single brick, pried from the Toad Brick Inn’s kitchen as a memento
7. The sturdy bag she carried it all in
Hefting the satchel, Miriam mourns the missing booklet of spells, probably lost to the drain alongside her cane and hat.
No time to dawdle, those creatures are still out there, and there’s no guarantee I can make it to the castle before they find me again. Trekking at a much more sustainable pace, each step brings a subtle twinge, a reminder that her body’s still quite upset at all the exertion. Miriam’s reflection in the steady flowing water shocks her. Her frazzled dark hair belies her age, and the way her spine stands erect gifts the crone with a rigid dignity beyond her eighty-six years. Well-patched and worn through like a child’s favorite pants, her plain dark dress makes her image resemble the caricature of a witch, complete with the crooked nose and an unfamiliar, wild look in her eyes.
That look darkens as Miriam remembers her purpose here. The new king, supposedly a magician of great power, had been deaf to the peoples’ concerns as the smaller towns and villages withered away, the regular trade and travel gutted by that selfsame king’s new mandates. Miriam herself had originally been on her way to petition the king about the empty high road and losing her home of over fifty years, the Toad Brick Inn. That inn has been in business for nearly a millennium, and one foolish upstart with a crown and some dark magic ruined it in a year. Miriam’s steps, despite her dark mood, are soft and stealthy, at a low risk of alerting some unknown presence in the sewers. An intersection gives Miriam pause, waving at the rain disc like some kind of fly, the magic is shooed away. Taking each step like testing thin ice, Miriam inches forward, tense as a drawn bow and twice as strung out, she finally peeks around the corner. The intersecting tunnel diverts the drain to the left, empty and pristine as the last distance in the sewers. Miriam lets out a breath she had not known she had been holding in. Her relief is interrupted by a stroke of luck: There, engraved into the wall at the corner, a detailed map of the sewers. It would be a good two hours walk, but the route was simple, the entire sewer ran from a spring in the castle gardens, meaning all Miriam had to do was follow the water. With more confidence now, her progress through the empty tunnels is steady, and still there is no sign of the creature or creatures that pursued her. With time to let her mind wander, she is brought back to the day she left.
Miriam had never been a woman of means. Grit and a little kindness had been her mainstays for the eighty-six long years she had been struggling through the life she had been dealt. The humble building she had called home for the last fifty years was once a thriving tavern and lodge, and now it was the last holdout of her stable life. The warped, ancient glass twisted gray light as it floated into the decrepit room. The life of a traveler isn’t suited for the old, but neither is withering in isolation. Miriam had once been the lifeblood of The Toad Brick Inn, but the new king’s trade mandates had emptied the old roads and bled her home dry alongside many other crossroad towns.
Necessity may have been pushing her to action, but the opportunity for adventure reawakened a thirst for new experiences. The early morning sun broke across the uneven gravel as Miriam paused to drink in the last time she would meet the sun at this spot, in this way. The history of this intersection seemed to wash over Miriam and for a moment she was sent adrift in it, the people and uncountable objects that have passed through either towards the frontier or the capital city. She grinned at the sun like an old friend she has tricked, and turned west towards the kingsroad.
I suppose if such an old inn can finally close its doors, a spry gal such as myself can find a new home. Buoyed by this newfound enthusiasm, Miriam’s steps felt light for the first time in a decade, which is almost as long ago as the last time she had made the journey to a major city. Several months ago, when traffic dropped off drastically, Miriam had asked every one of the few guests what had caused such a drop in trade, and each of them had said something like “The king’s new trade laws” or “The roads just aren’t as safe anymore” or any other number of vague non-reasons why there were so few moving between the cities and dozens of tiny settlements across the countryside.
The final straw for Miriam had been two months prior, when the farm she had been relying on to stock The Toad Brick Inn during the slump had seemingly been abandoned overnight. The farmhouse, animals, and even the fields lay empty, with only a scribbled note on the door:
Gone to live in the Capital
Miriam’s knees demand a break, and not a moment too soon. The exit she has picked is just ahead, and she knows once she is above ground again, there won’t be an opportunity for a break. She lays on her back, uncaring about the discomfort as she runs through the only plan she has. Whatever those creatures were, they had the royal crest on them. The king was somehow responsible for not only the dropping traffic, but the capital—and kingdom’s— lack of people. If everyone had left their homes to move here, then where were all of them? It’s too
suspicious, too on the nose. Miriam sits up and pulls the brick from her satchel. It’s the only thing she’s been carrying the entire journey without a specific use in mind. This memento had been merely that, something to remember the life she had been forced to leave, the home and countless hours in keeping it. Now, she knew this brick carried more than that. The weight of every empty house and town she had been through since leaving rested on this brick. Miriam’s eyes grow dark once more as she remembers the two scared children, the only people she had found since leaving the Toad Brick Inn days ago.
All day, a dark and heavy rain fell. It had been decades since Miriam had been on the boardwalks of Fengate, and they looked as disused as her once-young balance. Having assured herself that it was the uneven boards and warped wood to blame, Miriam all but stumbles across to the nearest solid platform. Resting a moment against the heavy post anchoring the platform she had just made it to, Miriam finally got a good look at the town. Resting on a maze of boardwalks and rafts, was an unearthly stillness, with no indication that anyone lived there. Already small, the entire settlement was hardly twenty buildings, the largest of which, Miriam’s destination; a stout, rounded building in the center of the town rose slightly above the dark roofs surrounding it, the town hall and Frog Belly Bed and Breakfast. Between herself and the inn rested her final barrier to a good night’s rest. Anchored to a central platform, several surrounding houses floated loosely, the platform itself functioned as the catch-all market, main square, and whatever else it was needed for. Now, the only thing this is good for is a death trap. The wood, warped and rotten in some places, with several jagged gaps just large enough to fall through dot the area, and no sign of anyone to repair the damage. Shadows stretched the silhouettes into a bramble of dark and danger, making Miriam anxious for the first time in years.
Nearing the end of her patience with the treacherous boards and this town’s emptiness, Miriam was just about to lose it when a light flickered from within the Inn’s second floor window for a moment, quickly going out. Either that’s a person, or I’m about to find out if one can cook ghosts. Making her way carefully across the more stable-looking edges of the platform, Miriam’s footsteps and the protesting wood were drowned out by the torrential downpour. At least rain will keep the place clear of that awful fog it usually wears. Miriam’s thoughts betray her as the rain suddenly stops, leaving a smothering silence behind. A few more steps before she reaches the edge, and each creak seem to scream into the late evening.
One final hop and Miriam lands solidly, and silently, on the front step of the town hall. Pushing through the heavy wooden door, Miriam winces at the anticipated bell, but no sound follow. Panic set in as she notices a rune sloppily carved into the floor. The symbol for silence. Deep grooves traced the floor, lining
a direct path across the empty and darkened main hall. The last time Miriam had seen that symbol was nearly sixty years ago, when, in her twenties, she had seen it on an assassin’s knife. Where there should be the village elders, travelers, the barkeep, and locals sat empty chairs, still out like they never closed shop. Miriam stood, frozen just inside the door as it swung shut behind her. Certain she had seen that light on the second floor, Miriam decided the risk was worth a shot at a dry place to spend the night, and ventured towards the stairs, an eye on the carved lines extending from the rune. Magic runes could be linked to create complex enchantments, but she had never seen one so large. More silence runes cropped up at the corners and each turn in the staircase, but they all remained linked together, as if whatever was going on here, silence was an absolute necessity.
Light drifted down from the stairs, growing warmer as Miriam climbed. Hairs standing on end, either from anticipation or the sheer density of magic in the air, Miriam finally crested the top of the stairs, only to be confronted with the inconceivable. Two children, maybe ten or eleven at the oldest, stood there, disheveled and terrified, the older-looking of the two gripping a brilliantly glowing knife. They must have carved the runes, but that fell secondary to the fact that this seemingly abandoned town was only inhabited by two scared kids, hiding like their lives depended on it, literally gripping their means to do so.
Miriam can’t bring herself to think about what will happen next. The fear in those kids’ eyes came against her will, haunting the back of her eyelids. I’ll never let that happen again. No child should face that kind of evil, even if it means violence. Gripping the brick tightly, she swears to herself to end this reign of terror. A scuffling noise from far down the tunnel makes her bolt upright, knees protesting the sudden movement. It grows louder and Miriam knows she’s been found. I suppose this is it, just think of it like a dinner rush. Climbing the ladder to her exit, the few spells Miriam knows flash through her mind; one for moving objects, Miriam traces a circle with one finger, focused on the manhole cover above. She reaches the top as it lifts, floating a few feet above the exit. The scuffling has grown so loud that as she stands for the first time in daylight since the chase, she turns just in time to let the cover drop back down onto the black, misshapen head of what was once a person. At least, it might be the case. Hustling through ornate hedges and garden beds that would normally make her stare for hours, Miriam’s gaze is once again fixed directly forward. One to keep dry. The list of her meager witchcraft continues as she paces through the gardens, reaching the ornate stone door of the main keep. One to open and close doors. Her finger once again traces a circle, this time twice over. The great doors swing inwards with a resounding boom. Knock knock, you have visitors. Miriam almost grins at her dramatic entrance. I’m even making an entrance like a witch, I really should lean
more into that. A wave of her hand and the doors slam shut behind her, creating an even louder sound. One to bring light. Tracing a star this time, an aggressive puff and nearly glaring light fill the grand hall, empty but for the majestic wall art and a carpet so plush it looks like fur. High vaulted ceilings and white stone walls frame the next challenge well. The scuffling noise from outside rises to a great rushing noise until her pursuers slam into the closed doors, shaking the great stone on its hinges. Whatever those creatures are, human is no longer the right word.
Striding like a judge to the stand, Miriam crosses the great hall and through the open arches into the throne room. What a narcissistic way to build a palace. Convenient though. Lounging on the far end of a disturbingly empty throne room, atop a white stone chair which can only be described as dripping in blood, is the king. He looks lazily at Miriam, not bothering to hide the disdain in his face.
“Why is there a maggot in my home?” he asks nobody in particular.
“I seek an audience with the king. He has betrayed his people, left the land to waste, and—” Miriam is cut off before she can finish.
“Blah, blah, don’t care, you’re just going to die like the other old fools.” He nods casually to a pile of bones, nearly as tall as the throne, left in the corner like dust. Miriam drops her satchel, removing the knife. Carving a circle in the palm of her bruised hand, she says, now with more weight behind it than could be natural, a phrase only heard once in her many long years.
“By blood of hand and life in land, I challenge you, King Merrick, to a duel of magic. Bound by blood and word, face me. So it will be.”
He stares in shock, having himself never heard the deep magic. The king stands almost not of his own will, and despite his disdain, knows that this fraillooking old bat has made certain one of them will die here, by the ancient spell she’d invoked. Risen to his full height, the king brandishes a black wooden scepter, draws a swift, crackling circle over his head, and without a word, a glistening sharp blade of ice materializes in the air, then another, then another, until there are over twenty hanging ominously above him. He shrugs off the blood-stained, once-white fur cloak he was wearing, only to reveal the clothes of a necromancer. Black cloth and bones woven together forming a powerful and cursed armor. Dealing in the magic of death is dangerous work, and King Merrick shows no hesitation. Miriam’s greatest concern is the scepter he holds, as even a novice, she knows that a magician’s skill is only as important as their tools. The magic of the land itself lends more power to meaning and the metaphorical weight of an object than its actual value, and that black rod was once white wood, stained so severely by blood and evil magic. Dropping her knife, Miriam instead raises her empty hand, the other gripping that brick so tightly her knuckles are white as the stone walls. To stay dry. The disc forms, now positioned in front of her like a window.
The king takes a step forward, swinging his scepter down like striking a match. The icy blades fly toward Miriam, the air singing with the intense speed. Miriam takes a step towards the king, mirroring his stance. The blades collide with the charm, dissolving like a dream.
Thrown off by her continued survival, the king conjures a great orb of molten rock, nearly half his own height wide. Miriam’s response is quicker than the last, tracing another circle twice over, this time to fling the enormous rug running the length of the room at him. Surprised but not caught off-guard, the king splits the orb of lava, using half of it to burn away part of the rug. The other half is launched at Miriam, this time with an aggravated grunt from the king. Miriam grins, amazed that the king would be so straightforward in his offensive. Like a fly. The other end of the massive rug whips around, slapping the lava so hard it splatters into thousands of tiny sparks and shards, bathing the king in his own weapon. He roars in anger, tracing several frantic circles, one to disappear the lava, one to launch himself at Miriam, and a few more to stick the landing. His fingers whirl and twitch, hardly making the shapes in time.
“You. Will. Die,” he all but screams.
Miriam raises her brick, focusing on every dish made in that kitchen, the hundreds of years of meals, chefs, the weight of every piece of kindness the Toad Brick Inn was home to.
“Not. Yet.”
Miriam’s reply carries an unearthly resonance, like a great church bell. The king draws an enormous circle, calling some unknowable darkness from within himself, black flames sprouting from his eyes and hands. He leaps at Miriam, swinging the scepter with his full might. Miriam traces a single tiny star, bringing the brick down, and with it, the weight of fifty years of the free meals, bartered rooms, and million other tiny gifts given since she had taken over at the inn. A lifetime of kindness in one single swing. She connects first. Puff. The king crumples to the ground, darkness and magic driven out of him like dust in the face of a good broom. That should do it. Miriam’s vision blurs, the exhaustion finally taking hold as she wilts to the floor like a dried-up flower. That should do it.
Magic ripples throughout the kingdom, each one of Merrick’s dark enchantments coming undone. The misshapen creatures still pounding on the castle doors seem to come unglued, peeling apart into the hundreds of people once fallen victim to the curse laid by the ex-king. Many people simply coalesce from dust, the deathly shadows of their homes finally banished. The entire kingdom comes back into itself, like a lens pulled into focus. For the first time in months, the sounds of life return to the land.
Alyssa Tix Hazy Skies
The Night
Mina Hakmoun
This room is hollow and black
You can only hear the breeze
In the shadows of the trees
The light shines in from cracks
In the blinds, I should be sleeping
Closing my eyes, I search for calm
I hear the horn of the night train
Hoping for the white noise of rain
Unclenching palms and lowing shoulders
I let go of the day’s trials and pains
The built-up anxieties of the day
I can feel lingering in my body
My racing mind is craving sobriety
The thoughts seem to slow down
And dissipates with the lack of visibility
I open the window for a cool breeze
It is a brisk and silent summer night
My eyes closing, I am not going to fight
This part come with the most ease
I begin to slip into the land of dreams
This should be a more relaxing scheme
Mia
Rhea Marlovitz
I trekked through the dense woods that lay behind my house. The sun was beginning to set, allowing for bursts of reds and oranges to cover up the sky in a fiery hue. Light was beginning to disappear from within the forest. The shaded trees only provided room for darkness to exist. I held the flashlight in my hand, the indents from the handle beginning to create marks in my skin. Despite my exhaustion, I continued moving forward. My husband was covering another part of the woods. We had agreed to split up over an hour ago. I wouldn’t normally suggest separating from your partner in the woods, but desperate times were upon us. We had a seven-year-old girl to look for, one that had wandered away from our backyard treehouse.
“Mia!” I called into the thick expanse of trees. “Where are you, sweetie?”
The only sound I could hear were my boots crunching against the leaves that covered the ground. The temperature was beginning to drop and I knew Mia only had a thin coat to cover her. We were running out of time, once night hit I knew it would be almost impossible to find her.
“Mia! Mia!” I continued to yell into the grove of trees that surrounded me. Suddenly, I heard a giggle behind me. One that definitely came from my little girl. I knew that laugh, one that I had been hearing for seven years now.
“Mia, come out now!” I begged as I quickly turned around.
There was no one there, much to my chagrin. There was nothing but hundreds of large trees. I swiveled my head in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of Mia in her red coat. Once again, I heard another giggle. One that sounded as if it was much farther than the one before.
“Honey, where are you?” I called out as I began to sprint towards the direction of the laugh.
The lush trees and greenery became a flash of woodland as I continued to run forwards. I was almost ready to stop when I saw a flash of red from behind a tree. Mia was running about a couple yards ahead of me. Her purple tennis shoes pounded against the ground beneath her, kicking up leaves as she ran. My heart sped up as I began to run faster, desperately trying to catch her.
“Mia, this isn’t funny!” I panted as my legs struggled to catch up with the adrenaline that was pounding through my body.
Mia took a sharp turn to the right, once again breezing through the trees. I followed her, trying not to trip over the piles of leaves on the ground. I could hear my blood pumping in my head, my breaths were incredibly heavy and came out in fast increments. I knew my body would give out soon. I was too old to be running after an energetic little girl for this long.
Just as abruptly as she started, Mia came to a sudden stop. I tripped over my feet in an attempt to slow down. My tennis shoes slid along the leaves as I stopped. I bent over with my hands on my knees as I attempted to control my heavy breathing. Mia stood a few feet away from me, her back turned.
“Mia,” I cried out. “What were you thinking?”
Mia, who hadn’t moved a muscle in these few seconds, suddenly began to laugh. No longer was it the usual giggle that I was so used to, but now a wicked cackle that shook her entire body. Her shoulders moved up and down with her laughter and I stepped back, unsure of what to do.
“Let’s go home, Mia.” I spoke softly as I reached out to grab her shoulder.
Mia visibly tensed as my hand touched her shoulder. Her body froze and she no longer howled with laughter as she had before. Her head began to turn to face me as her body stayed in the same place. I fell back with a scream when I saw her head continue to turn back until it was fully facing me. Mia’s neck looked as if it was about to break off from the unnatural twist of her neck.
“Who are you?” I screamed at the little girl before me. “Where is Mia?”
Mia’s eyes, once brown like mine, were now a pearlescent color. No longer was there an iris, but just white. She smiled at me, one that was toothy and reminded me of my daughter once again.
“Mia?” I whispered to the being before me.
The curly-haired, little girl before me tilted her backwards head at me. It was almost as if she had no idea who I was.
“Mia,” I spoke once again. “Let’s go home.”
At first, she didn’t say anything. She just gazed at me with that cruel smile on her face. I moved to stand up, but was immediately stopped by a loud, animallike wail. Mia shrieked at me, her head still turned at the wrong angle. All I remembered was my head smacking the hard ground before everything went black.
“Emily! Emily, wake up!” came a voice from beside me.
I hesitated to open my eyes, but forced myself to lift my eyelids.
“Where is Mia?” I muttered to my husband, David, who stood beside the bed.
“Who is Mia?” he questioned.
“What do you mean? We were just looking for her,” I frowned.
“Looking for who? You were yelling in your sleep,” David explained as he rested his hands on my trembling shoulders.
“What do you mean, who?” I asked. “Our daughter, Mia.”
“Daughter? We don’t have a daughter,” David answered.
“Yes, we do!” I protested. “Mia! She’s seven. We were looking for her in the woods behind the house! She’s lost, we have to find her!”
“There is no Mia!” David berated. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” I shoved the covers away from my shivering body. I didn’t need to listen to him. He was wrong, he had to be. I have a daughter. A seven-year-old girl with curly brown hair and brown eyes. One that I have spent years taking care of.
“I’m freezing,” I muttered as I stomped into the closet to grab a sweater.
I reached toward the top shelf until I felt a soft surface against my fingertips. With a sigh, I pulled it down and over my body. As I was about to exit, something swiftly caught my eye. Upon the shelf beside the door was a doll. The first thing I noticed about it was its short, curly hair that was incredibly tangled from years of abandonment. Its brown eyes were opened wide and staring directly at me. The porcelain doll wore a red coat with purple shoes and upon further notice, there was a scar on its neck. I picked up the doll to find that the scar ran around its neck as if it had been twisted around by a careless child.
“Your old doll?” David asked as he opened the door to the closet.
“Yeah,” I sighed as I held the doll in my hands.
Without another word, I pushed the doll’s curly hair out of its face and placed it back on the shelf. I pushed past David as I walked out of the closet and back into the comfort of my home.
Makayla Zimmerman
Swirling
Brittany Walter Initials on a Tree
When most people carve their initials on a tree, they are in love with someone. There is something about the permanence of your initials on a tree trunk that seems to be an appropriate expression of your desire to love another forever. When I wrote my initials on a tree, it wasn’t because I had fallen in love with another person, it was because I had fallen in love with the land I called home.
During the early years of my childhood, my family moved a lot for one reason or another. So, when we were told that we were moving once again, we were devastated. My dad and mom decided to buy a piece of property in the country this time and build our new home on it. The land was filled with trees: white pines, red pines, oaks, quaking aspen, ash, and white spruce. I spent every moment I could amongst them. I knew their sounds, colors, and textures and how they changed throughout the seasons.
We built our home and moved in about a year after we bought the land. My room was in the basement and from my windows, I could see my trees. On a warm summer day, I would run out the basement door and dart down the path near the garden, admiring the various new wildflowers along the way. After the garden was the wood pile, and then a place that filled itself with goldenrods in the late weeks of August. Here, I paused for a while. To my left were rolling pastures of emerald green, speckled by the neighbor’s beef cows. Dropping down into the tall grass all around me, I looked up at the blue sky and watched the wind play with the tassels over my head: back and forth, back and forth, sweep into a circle, back and forth. Next, I raced to the back of the property and curved around to enter the woods. Here I felt the most at home. Seeing a pine tree that looked easy to climb, I would swing myself up and, step by step, make my way to the top. From this new vantage point, I was a queen, an eagle on her perch. The
smell of pine embraced me, and the sun warmly kissed my skin. I felt the breeze rushing through my hair as I rocked on the unsteady tip. The other trees around me also yielded to the wind, and together we danced to a wild symphony. Blue jays warbled and screeched, chickadees sang to one another, and juncos quietly gathered beneath me as they became comfortable with my presence.
I left home to go to college in Kansas a couple years after I graduated from high school. While I was there, hundreds of miles away, my family moved again. The pine trees and the wind and the goldenrods are still there, but I am not.
Home means something different to everyone. Home to me was not four walls and a place to sleep at night. It was five acres of woods near some fields. It was the wind in the pines and a soft carpet of orange needles covered by a canopy of forest green. That land wasn’t just a place to play, and those trees weren’t my toys. In that little space of earth I learned who I was. My trees were witness to my years of being a teenager, to losing loved ones and dealing with grief, to the joys of new ventures, and to the expanding emotional depths that come with growing up. They stood by me through it all and offered me speechless wisdom. Like a loving parent points to an image in a book while they read their child a story, that land taught me to notice intricate details, such as the muted pink bark of the red pine brushed with orange and gray and blue. From the wind in the branches I gained a lasting love of silence. From the solid oaks and white pines I came to understand the power of stability and quiet strength. Songbirds remind me to this day to take time to notice beauty and to listen.
Sometimes I still drive by my old home and my trees. It doesn’t look quite the same. The trees have grown taller. Some of them are missing. I can tell the underbrush has altered too. But there, all the same, I see myself. I know my initials, carved with a flimsy pocketknife, are written on a quaking aspen tree tucked into the back corner of those woods. In fact, I was able to see them recently because they are so near to the property line, and I’m still friends with the neighbor. They aren’t as easy to read as they once were. The jaggedly etched lines have melded together such that they’re almost illegible. I’m sure someday those initials won’t be there anymore. It’s okay, though. Home may be a place that we have to leave, but it doesn’t have to ever leave us.
Pressed to the Lips of the Rhetorical Quill
Olivia Fredrickson
It was a love affair of ages and ages---He returns to his realm, the quill pressed to his lips. It is pressed not forcefully but serenely, sincerely, silently. She paints his words through the foliage of the moss-covered subterrain. Biting rhetoric fighting the burning sighs of the trees and grainy earth. He is at once the forest, an Iron Hans, one with nature and at nature with his one—His true one.
The lady quill, the voice of nature. Her voice is not sharp, nor cutting but is floating, fleeting, molecular. The sweetest of the dew drips from her lips--salivating for the utmost chemicals between the trees. Hands touch the dew--green ink, splattered up to the top of the forest. The quill and her true one continue through their spiritual homecoming into the atoms of the earthbound elements.
foes. fighting. friends. falling.
The quill is released from his lips, taking his voice to strengthen her own. The sweet dew is now turned to sap, sticking, gripping each molecule of air that it touches. As if to hold onto each living spirit, feeling an organism it had created and kissed on the lips. The kisses are that of truth. From the beating heart of the quill, down to its last feather. His lips now silent, returned back to his original form, the quill still floating through each and every grain of solitary worlds and lips.
“A” Rose By Any Other Name Wouldn’t
Bethany Lawrence
It seems silly to let a little letter Dictate whether my future will be worse or better. I should be thankful to be alive, But if my GPA dips, will I survive? I should separate my identity from my grades, And yet through my nose, the stench of “B” pervades I am terminally ill, pill bottle “A” is the cure But I’m not sure this exam is one I can endure. I need the grade, or insecurities will ooze and fester Sliced deeper by the knife of the semester. Every day my condition gets more severe, When I envision myself homeless without a career. The truth is, I’m nothing but a crumbling corpse--I’m dust. And I’m rolling in my grave with imperfect 3.9 disgust.
Angelika Mehes
Derevo De Vida
Hma Monk
You were from shaven heads, calloused feet, saffron robes, endless sutras, early alms, late fasts. Your days were meditation, cleaning, eating. You would memorize none of those scriptures and always get beaten by the head monk. Your life was spent at that monastery. Most of your life was simple.
You are sun-bleached denim, a dirt-kissed Chinese Honda Win, messy ponytails, beaten-up toolboxes, sputters of smoke. Heavy oils, too. Everywhere. Even stained on your very soul. Your days are dingy garages, old tires, fluorescent lights, cheap cigarettes, mud. This is now your life. It’s chaotic and complicated.
Today you will be loosening lug nuts, pumping air, getting sprayed in the face with oil; inhaling exhaust fumes, tobacco smoke, too; slamming hoods, and tightening screws. When the sun sets and the ancient fluorescent sing and shine their hum of almost light, you and your roustabouts will go to the tea shop next door. All of you will sit around a shin-high table on half-broken stools grown from the soil. One of you will fall to their back. Everyone will have a good laugh. You will order your usual set of spiced rice, pickled tea leaves, a fried egg, and chilies. You will drink tea with these people beside you. You consider them your friends, brothers even. Those who wandered who found a home to come back to. You all toast and talk about annoying customers, expensive cars, and pretty girls. The hours pass. Tea turns into beer. While the revelry continues, you will leave before it gets even rowdier. You will flip-flop back to the second floor of the auto shop. You will collapse onto a mattress topper covered by a blanket.
Today was a good day.
Tomorrow, while you’re fixing a car owned by a man who wears two watches, your boss comes over to tell you that you have a week off.
On the full moon of this month, The Buddha descends from the heavens. People light up candles and miniature hot air balloons, hold festivals, and pray as The Buddha returns to the mortal world for one day. No one has time for work during that week. Except you.
Normally, you would reject the offer. There are always things to fix, especially cars. You like fixing things, like cars, and your motorcycle. This man who doesn’t wear shirts with his hand on your shoulder taught you how, after all. But unlike all the other full moons, you now have a motorcycle. So you finally decide to go on that trip back.
You’re on your motorcycle. A prize you won with a lucky gamble, luckier that his face was in the way of your fist afterward. The tire grooves are stuffed with dried mud. You haven’t given her a name yet.
For one day, you will return to that spiritual world. You will return to get what you left behind.
More and more dirt embraced the motorbike as she trenched along the unseen country road. Wheels bumping fenders. Past paddy fields, towards the village that uses roofing as walls.
You see a procession of monks. A line of red marching along buildings built on stilts. They carry black alms bowls clutched around their stomach. This is the only way they can hold them. Those robes are draped so tightly that the arms are the only part of the upper body able to move, or risk total drapel collapse.
Morning alms.
In front are the two laymen carrying and hitting a gong in the shape of a crown. The sound could swallow you. A reverberating silence. Every hit makes the gong spin. Every spin is a new wail overlapping onto another, a droning repeated. You don’t hear the motorcycle anymore.
One of the laymen stops the spinning. Sound resumes. You hear that familiar rumbling again, some sputtering too. Replace the muffler when you come back. The monks will return to the monastery. Morning rounds are over.
There’s one monk separated further away from the rest. A young boy; a novice monk. His robes are threatening to trip him. He’s carrying the alms bowl on his back. Slowly, painfully, he walks. Further and further the other monks are from him, until he must watch as they proceed further into the village paths. His red is alone now.
This you experienced well.
You drive up to him. The boy is barely taller than your motorcycle. He is startled by your approach but the pain in his feet doesn’t let him stop. His footprints are bloody. In time, there will be callouses. For now, you offer him a ride.
He stops. Something else makes him forget even the pain.
Fear. Of punishment: the sounds of flesh hitting flesh echoing through the halls. Those were hard slaps: concussive force; skin rippling. Dragged out to stand in the rain until the next morning.
He tries to ignore you. More bloody steps. He stops again. He continues to walk. You accelerate and swoop him up onto the back seat. The alms bowl rolls alongside you for a moment before you and the novice monk head into the village to the monastery. His arms are short, but he grabs hold of your waist as much as he can.
The buildings built on stilts got taller. Children stared, old people glared; motorcycles were rare. You don’t see many adults. Most of them are at the monastery. Golden Buddha statues keep watch in their place. Through every window is one with the same cross-legged pose and the same shut eyes threatening to open before you. If they do, you might finally incur his divine wrath. You imagine a giant hand from the heavens flattening you to a bloody paste.
The boy starts cheering as you slipstream around people. From pain to fear to excitement. He won’t forget this for a long time.
Be sure to protect him.
You’re driving towards gold-painted gates. The boy falls silent. A crowd starts to form on the other side. You don’t slow down; they quickly spread out. Your arrival is heralded by a choking muffler.
Saffron surrounds you. Familiar bald heads. You re-tie your ponytail. Murmurs. Laymen and adults join to see a man with a ponytail on a motorcycle. Beyond the expanding crowd, you hear sweeping: hard straw against the ground, another familiar thing.
How different you must look, you wonder.
The thought doesn’t linger long as the crowd falls silent. They notice the novice monk. His quivering form holds you tightly. What’s their next move? Are they going to pull him down? Topple your motorcycle? You clench your fists. In your back pocket there should–
“--SON!”
A woman with slightly disheveled hair stands in front of you.
“MY SON IS THAT YOU?”
The boy leaps into her mother’s arms. He hugs her tighter than he’s ever to you. He cries. The mother was about to yell at you until she saw her son’s bloody footprints. She starts piggybacking him and mouths a thank you before disappearing into the crowd. He looks like a child again. He shouldn’t be walking barefoot while holding heavy bowls. He shouldn’t be sitting still for hours. He shouldn’t be memorizing thousands of words only to get beaten. She will do a
better job protecting him than you ever will. Parents are there to protect their children. The boy will renounce his monkhood after this. And he will happily do it while holding his mother’s hands. But when he is older, he will return to this monastery. It is the only life he knows.
You alone escaped enlightenment.
The crowd started to dissipate afterwards. They don’t care about your ponytail or jeans or motorcycle anymore. They need to prepare for the full moon. The Buddha will descend soon.
Or maybe he’s already here.
You walk alongside your motorcycle to the monastery. Your stuff might still be there. The handlebars jitter, the front brakes force your second steps to be heavier. New projects are in your mind now. You want this thought to linger on longer, but you hear a familiar cough and wheeze.
A monk stands in front of you. A prune wrapped in deep crimson. It’s becoming more wrinkled. He’s smiling. You can see his teeth; they’re yellow and his ends are decaying in black.
“Welcome back, my son!” he exulted. His thick-rimmed glasses almost fell from his bulbous nose.
He has a cigar in his hand. It’s now back in his mouth.
“Thought the monastery would forget you, did you? Well, this senile monk won’t!” He lets out a heaving rhythm.
You hug him. He hugs you back. He never cared anyway.
“Came crawling back, didn’t you? Outside not as good as you thought, huh?”
He’s still alive.
“All that hair’s gonna be hard to shave!” He pats your back. You brace yourself.
He waits for a retort. There is none.
“I know why you’re here. Follow me.”
You parked your motorbike where she stood. No one wants to steal her anyway. Novice monks start to flock around her. You almost want to swat them away.
“Don’t mind the boys, they’ve never seen a motorcycle before.” Another set of heaves, followed by a phlegm-filled cough. He spits out a glob of red. It wasn’t blood. Betel nut. You thought he’d quit by now.
He leads you past the bathhouse. It still has no electricity. The inside was dark and damp. Memories of you tripping came to mind. You can hear water falling from pails. Wet monks come out with their robes wrapped around their crotch.
Monks don’t get naked. Their robes are skin.
Past the dining hall with the outdoor kitchen. Volunteer laypersons prepare the most important meal of the day: lunch. It’s the same dish every day: rice, alms, and whatever’s left over from yesterday. The leftovers were mixed into a pot
as large as two people, and stirred, and stirred, and stirred. The monks from the morning rounds dump rice from their alms bowls into it. Some got lucky and had curry or meat in theirs. You ate that every day. Some part of you misses it.
Monks don’t eat after noon. They only get the earliest breakfast and lunch. Then the meditation hall. There is no sound except for sometimes the beating of sticks against heads. Only still red figures sit crossed-legged with their eyes closed, waiting to attain enlightenment in one way. After hours of nothing, they will become the loudest building with more hours of reciting sutras. The Buddha did it, the monks will as well. Today they will be silent until the beginning of tomorrow. For the Buddha.
Monks only need to meditate. They will escape to nirvana that way.
“You never could memorize anything.” He blows out a big puff of smoke from his cigar. You tighten your jaw.
You’ve arrived.
In front of you is a building adorned with cornices in the shape of a naga’s tail. Even the stairs leading up to the monastery have two of them guarding side by side, sliding down from the great pillars of its entrance.
They could constrict you if they wanted, or maybe burn you with their breath.
Inside, are people praying. Palms and forehead touching the floor, towards a giant golden Buddha statue. Behind it are strips of multi-colored lights flickering. Half of them don’t work. The people separate from the floor, they clasp their hands together. Speakers blast out monotone sutras; there is a pause. Again, they pray, they chant out those sutras, they worship.
“Maybe this time he’ll finally come down from heaven.” The old monk grabs something from his robes and shoves it into his mouth. You can hear what’s left of his teeth vigorously chewing.
You make your way up the building, where everyone slept. The worshiping didn’t get quieter even after reaching the top floor.
Something sticky touched your feet. The stomping of feet can be heard as you pass rooms. The doors had no number. Some were open. You don’t see any monks inside, only more Buddha statues. Every room had its own. You had to remember where your room was. The eighth door down the right hallway. You reached your room. Its door looked the same as every other. Your room didn’t have a statue.
The old monk started wheezing, almost dropping his cigar.
A single light bulb is attached to a ceiling only slightly taller than you. A thick layer of dust slept on the floor; so did you. Only a straw rug in between.
Monks don’t need things. But you had something.
It’s not there anymore.
“Were you looking for this?” From his robes, he pulls out what is yours. A knotted plastic bag protects your belongings. He’s dangling and crinkling it in front of you. Almost taunting you to snatch it. “Kept it with me in case I’d forget.”
When you escaped the monastery lifetimes ago, it was raining. Pitterpattering on your bald head. Everyone else was asleep. They dragged you out because of something you did. It didn’t matter what it was.
You ask for it back.
He refuses. “No can do, I know what you’ll do if I give it back.”
You surveyed the surroundings. Puddles started to form. Mud later: you hid your footprints that way. Floods last: they thought you died that way.
You ask again.
“You should have taken it with you when you hightailed out of here.”
While it was still dark, you girded your robes to your loins and covered your head with any loose cloth.
You tried taking it away from him.
“My son, this is proof that you were here. If this is gone, not even I will remember you anymore.”
The entire village flooded the day after. The stilts kept everyone safe though. You don’t give him an answer. His magnified eyes stare into you.
“All those years, all the struggle, all the practice, you lived a good life here. You could’ve reached godliness. You could have escaped from this never-ending cycle of life and rebirth. But you left, into that messy world with its messy problems and thoughts and full of suffering.”
How long did you run? The road felt endless.
“It could have been simple. Why make it so complicated?”
Someone offered you a ride. The driver is half-naked. He told you how much he hated wearing shirts.
You gesture for him to hand it over.
“You killed the Buddha.” He hands it over to you; not a wrinkle on his face moved. “Now it will be gone. I will forget you. May you live one idiot’s step at a time. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
You’re about to leave the monastery. He follows you back to your motorbike. You can hear him chewing and spitting and puffing along the way. As you start revving up her engines, the head monk tries to say one last thing.
“My son, I–“
“--I will see you in the next life.”
Nyra Brown
Red and Rainbow and Black Plastic
Lynn Dobmeier
In the eighth grade, I spent most of my time in the school’s library. I would walk between the shelves of books, fingers gliding along the bumps of book spines. Occasionally, one would catch my eye. Whoever created the saying “never judge a book by its cover” was an idiot. They were probably just mad that their ugly beige-colored hardcover never sold. I judge by the cover. I judge whether or not it has a fun font used for the title. I judge if it’s simple or a full hand-drawn picture on the cover. I judge by the cover. By the spine.
One day my fingers glided over the spine of a book, but then I stopped. I brushed my fingers back to the book. The background of the book was solid black. The author’s last name was at the bottom of the spine in all white. But down the center, in rainbow colors, was the title of the book.
I slid the book out of the shelf to look at the front. A black and white image of the building sat behind the bold, and once again rainbow colors, of the title: “Stonewall.”
The Stonewall Riots took place from June 28th to July 3rd in 1969. The Stonewall Riots were a series of protests done in response to a police raid at the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village.
Stonewall Inn was a gay bar.
There was a playground behind my town’s catholic church. It was the best playground in the town. It was also close enough to my home so I could go there after school by myself.
A signature of this playground was the red circular-shaped monkey bars. The cool kids always figured out how to sit on top of the monkey bars.
My brother was one of those cool kids.
I would shout at him until I started crying, asking him to teach me how to swing myself up onto those monkey bars. His attempt at teaching turned into him struggling to pull me up onto the top.
It wasn’t until I finally sat on top of those red monkey bars, with all the cool kids, that I realized I had no idea how to get down. ***
In the 1960’s, the Gay Community was still being targeted by police.
Police officers would dress up as “Gay men” (often wearing women’s jeans, crop tops and painted nails). The officers would then plant themselves in gay bars, looking for anyone “dangerous.”
When the officer found someone to take the bait, they would lead the person to a hotel room or nearby apartment. This accommodation worked as their jail cell. The officer would leave the person there, under the guard of other officers, before returning to the gay bar for their next “catch.” ***
I would only go to church with my parents because sometimes they would take us out for pancakes afterward.
While I sat in the pews that smelled of mildew, surrounded by the chorus of elderly people hacking out their lungs, I would stare up at the ceiling. I would look at the giant chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, and follow them straight down to see who they would crush if they fell. My third grade teacher. My ninth grade math teacher. My best friend’s aunt, who was also my after-school catholic religion teacher.
It never crushed me. ***
I was always the weird girl in middle school and high school.
I wore black plastic Party City cat ears to school every day in the 7th grade. I wanted those expensive fluffy ones that clipped onto your hair for realism, but I wasn’t allowed to order anything online. I also didn’t have enough money to buy them, anyway.
So I wore my plastic cat ears. Everyday.
I felt so cool in them. ***
Standing in between the shelves of my school library, I opened the cover of the book with the rainbow letters. At the front of every library book, stuck to the
back of the cover, would be a slip of lined paper with all the names written on it of everyone who checked it out.
This book had no names written in it.
I assumed that must mean it was a new book.
I took the book up to the front desk and checked it out. I watched as the school librarian scribbled my name on the lined sheet of paper before handing it back to me.
I curled my fingers around the spine of the book, covering the rainbow letters. I held the book to my chest to cover the title.
I think taking an “Are You Gay” quiz is redundant. If you feel the need to take a quiz, then it’s pretty obvious how you are feeling.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from taking the quiz.
In the ninth grade, I sat on top of those red monkey bars with my girlfriend. Our friend had also come with us, but he wasn’t athletic enough to get on top of them, so he stood on the ground underneath us.
I was talking and laughing with my girlfriend when I heard the sound of a phone taking a picture. I looked down to see our friend holding up his phone at us.
He said he liked to keep memories.
Question number 2: Have you ever questioned your sexuality?
My girlfriend and I loved to walk around our local mall and hold hands. We wouldn’t go there to buy anything, we didn’t have much money anyway. We would just walk laps around the mall and hold hands.
In my senior year of high school, during my free period, I was once again roaming the shelves of the library. I stopped short when I came across that longforgotten book with the rainbow lettering.
I slid it from the shelf and flipped open the inside cover.
On the lined sheet of paper only one name could be found scribbled across it.
Question number 11: Have you ever dreamed about kissing your best friend?
I was a very good ally in my school’s gay straight alliance. I helped design the posters and hung them up around the school. They had a light blue background with white fluffy clouds. In rainbow lettering, it told students when to come to the art room after school for the club.
A week later, of the few that were still left hanging, they were covered in crosses drawn on with black sharpie.
I got 62% percent on the “Are You Gay” quiz. I wasn’t sure if I should be happy or sad that I failed.
When I think about that year when I wore the black plastic party city cat ears to school every day, I feel nauseous from embarrassment.
In the 7th grade, we were going to California for the summer marching band trip. My dad was worried that drinking the tap water there would turn him gay.
When we would walk around the mall holding hands, people would stare –some would even go as far as to point at us.
We would both just giggle to ourselves.
We liked the attention.
We would then proceed to swing our joined hands as we walked, like we were showing them off.
I think we liked the attention because it was the only time we could share it.
After spending the whole evening with my girlfriend at the park, I came home to watch some TV while I avoided my homework.
I hadn’t been sitting in my room long before I heard a knock on the door from my mother.
She opened the door and I noticed she was holding my brother’s phone. She turned the screen to me and loudly asked what this meant.
I looked on the screen and saw a picture of myself and my girlfriend sitting on top of the monkey bars. Underneath it was the caption, “I hate being the third wheel.”
I told my mom it was an inside joke. She glared at me before slamming my door.
I called my girlfriend, and over the phone I told her I didn’t want to be friends anymore.
I think it was her birthday.
We never went to those monkey bars again. We never went anywhere together again.
The
Shelby Miller
Queen
A Memory
Kaytlin Sellner
We’d been walking so long in the desert that I could feel every little grain of sand that had gathered in the bottom of my worn boots. Wind kicked up grit and hit my face, forcing me to squint. At least I could be grateful that it wasn’t a sandstorm. We had walked through one about half the day yesterday, or at least tried, before we gave up and hid in some charred scrap we’d found jutting out of the ground. It wasn’t until early this morning that we could start moving again. The sun blazed and sweat made my hair stick to the back of my neck. I longed to stop even though it was hardly even noon.
Tanar was a little speck of white on the horizon a few meters in front of me. As he came floating back, he seemed excited. His little form was a blur before my eyes could focus on him: A little drone, no bigger than what I could hold between the palms of my hands, with a crisp blue eye and a polite, kind demeanor. Sometimes I wondered if he was real. Sometimes I wished he was a real person.
“Lyric,” he says, with a voice calm and gentle as someone talking to a child. “There’s a village ahead.”
I struggled up a dune, sand spilling down and pulling my feet with it. But after a few lunges, and some encouragement from Tanar, I stood on top of it, and I could see the village. I’m not sure what I expected, but what I saw made my stomach tug with disappointment. All I could see were ruins, desolate and abandoned. Just like everything else we’d come across so far.
////
“Look.”
I followed Tanar’s gaze from the spot we found in a crumbling hut. It was one of the few standing structures spattered on the ruined landscape. Any other signs of civilization were reduced to rubble, dust, and the crunchy foliage underfoot. But somehow, out there in the distance, was a creature so large I had to squint my eyes to understand what I was seeing.
With great white horns sprouting from its mouth and leathery gray skin, I at first thought this was a creature not native to Earth. I figured it was some strange, rabid creature brought here for the constant warring for resources. But something in me recognized it. Its ears flapped and the dust and dirt that had
collected about its head clouded the air and fell to the ground. Its long, strange nose curled downward to a much smaller organism underneath itself – its own young, I realized, once I could make out its shape as it toddled forward and past its parent.
My eyes saw a different time, a different place. I remember lush vegetation and a beautiful spring of water. I remember seeing dozens, if not hundreds of these creatures gathering around the water and within it, drinking and bathing themselves and each other. Someone whose face I can’t remember is at my side and points out a pair among them: a mother and child. His blank face calls them Amara and Ife.
“Elephants,” I finally said, remembering the right word.
“I don’t think they’re dangerous,” Tanar said as he hovered close to my face. His single eye regards mine. “Are you alright? You seemed lost for a moment.”
“A memory.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah. From before you found me.”
Tanar faced the scene, seeming contemplative at my response. Before he could answer, I startled at a flourish of movement to our south. They were moving far too fast to be more elephants. A distant rumbling made me realize we had far less agreeable company.
Their bulbous, hovering bikes crested the dunes, sending up huge clouds of sand. The vehicles broke through, and on their backs rode strange, four-armed creatures that chittered and caterwauled in excitement. The band drifted in a long arc, and I realized they were zeroing in on the elephants who were scrambling back together in fear.
I felt my chest tighten. There were five hover bikes, with at least one rider apiece. That speculative number increased as I saw a passenger launch themselves flying off the backseat of the leading bike, each hand wielding a wicked blade almost as long as the creature’s own body. It began to lurch towards the frightened elephants, with the mother squaring up and her baby hiding between her legs.
“I think they are hunting,” Tanar noted, but his little lens widened as he saw me take out and level the pistol I’d scavenged earlier.
“Lyric?” he asked, concern in his voice.
I wasn’t the kind of person to get into a fight on purpose, and Tanar knew it too. I think I surprised us both in how I held the pistol, almost helplessly, at the hunt unfolding in the ruins. I couldn’t even look away to answer him, my eyes fixed, watching the circle tighten around the elephants. Though my hands trembled, I still wanted to save them. It felt important, even necessary.
“That will not work at this range,” Tanar offered, looking down at the pistol when I didn’t answer right away.
“Then replace it with the rifle – the big one,” I answered, kneeling on the ground. For a moment I didn’t believe he’d listen, but then the pistol lifted from my grasp weightlessly and was enveloped by light and geometry. When it came back to rest in my hands, it was an old, weighty rifle with a long barrel and a scope. On the side where one pulled the bolt, the number seven was scratched into the metal. Like everything else we had, it had been scavenged. I supposed it was a good time to see if it was worth keeping.
“Are you sure you want to pick a fight with them?” Tanar asked.
“It won’t be a fight,” I whispered. “If they’re dead before they know it’s one.”
I laid down with the rifle, cranking the bolt back. Without hesitation, Tanar came to rest just behind my shoulder. His little eye narrowed and focused in on the distant creatures, and in my scope I saw a familiar blue glow. He became my rangefinder, tracking the distance from us to them.
I took a long breath as I settled the lurching swordsman’s cranium into my crosshairs.
Bang.
////
The dust began to settle to the beat of my footsteps on the dunes, their pale hues stained dark blues and purples. The now-abandoned hover bikes drifted to and fro in the wind. Soon, without power, they’d settle and fall into the sand, joining the ruins. The elephants stood past the carnage we’d inflicted, and we approached them with care. My body kept low and docile in a way I didn’t recognize, and when I raised my hand to the mother, her trunk gently caressed my hand, as if to say thank you.
Tanar hovered close behind me, but as he passed one of the corpses, a hand suddenly burst out to grab him. My body jerked back in response, adrenaline still drumming in my chest. In just a twitch, my free hand took a knife from my shoulder and sliced the air with the force of the throw. It missed the hand, but it didn’t miss the eye socket of the creature it belonged to, which uttered a final shriek as it collapsed on the ground.
The baby elephant startled, beginning to run away from the scene. The mother somehow remained serene. Still, she moved along to follow her baby. As her trunk let go of my hand, and her head swept to face the direction of their heading, her eye met mine. Part of me hoped she’d remember me.
Tanar came to hover beside my head, calling out, “Take care!”
“Take care,” I echoed. “Amara, Ife.”
Vivid Soul in a World So Routine
Nyra Brown
In a sea of black and blue, she’s green. Not quite as different, but still she’s seen. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch a fleeting glance, But with her, you’ll never get a chance.
Her eyes reflect the emerald seas, With mysteries as deep as ancient trees. A heart that beats to its unique cadence, In a world that craves conformity’s presence.
In a world of grayscale conformity, She’s the brushstroke of eccentricity. With every breath, she dares to fly, A rebel spirit, reaching for the sky.
She’s the enigma in the crowded room, A wild spirit under the pale moon. In her world, the colors dance and gleam, She’s the girl who lives inside a dream.
She walks a path that’s all her own, Through fields of wildflowers, she has grown. With each step, she breaks the mold, A story yet to be fully told.
So, let her be the verdant in your life’s scheme, For she’s the girl who lives inside a dream. In a sea of black and blue, she’s seen, A vivid soul in a world so routine.
Diversions
Angelika Mehes Kvitne
Olney, Illinois
Brianna Condon
In the Southeast corner of Illinois, somewhere between St. Louis and Louisville, is the small town of Olney. Its historic downtown looked much like every other historic downtown; the occasional restaurant or thrift store squashed between empty storefronts. The old theater sat vacant, bought and sold over and over in hopes of finally being renovated. By all accounts, Olney was a blink-andyou’ll-miss-it sort of town, you didn’t even need to turn off the highway. The only people who deliberately made the detour had run out of gas or cigarettes, save those who had taken an interest in some of its smallest residents.
Slick dew still pearled the grass at Olney City Park, its sign declaring the town Home of the White Squirrels. Every year, the city ran a census on the white squirrel population in town, sixty-four as of last October, and even enacted an ordinance that gave the unique critters the right-of-way when crossing the street. Everyday celebrities, those squirrels were.
On the morning of Monday, September 4th, Mara opened her eyes and everything was as it always was, except for a small tear–a pinprick really–that had opened up in the basement of the Richland County Courthouse. The hole had popped into existence at approximately 6:58 a.m. CDT, two minutes before Mara’s alarm was set to go off for school. The residents of Olney, Illinois, weren’t aware of the anomaly and never would be.
As Mara stepped out of her house and ducked into her lukewarm hatchback, the pinprick expanded slowly and steadily. By the time she had reached Richland County High School, six hundred or so strong, it had swallowed its first filing cabinet. Mr. Paxton, who had had a warrant out for his arrest based on those very files, was set to have his house raided that morning. With a single gulp,
he disappeared from the docket. The officers assigned to Mr. Paxton’s home proceeded elsewhere, and they all enjoyed a rather eventless hour or so.
The hole, now surely large enough to be called that, continued expanding until it had swallowed the entire labyrinth of files and shelves that had been gathering dust in the archives. Hopefully it didn’t have allergies. At school, the bell rang to signal the end of the first period, and the students sprang up from their seats. Mara was especially studious and had recently taken up an internship at the Courthouse, which she attended for her second and third periods. As she hurried to her car, the Courthouse, as well as everyone inside, was enveloped. She reached her car, grabbed a warm pack of gum from the center console, and walked back inside to enjoy her free periods.
Having swallowed an entire block, the hole became quite ravenous. It seemed the larger it grew, the faster it expanded. Mrs. Castillo, the proud owner of El Cactus Mexican Grill, crouched down to retrieve a lost pair of sunglasses just as she and her restaurant were swallowed whole. Her daughter and son-in-law, anticipating the announcement of their first pregnancy, had been coming to visit her all the way from Indianapolis. They had stopped at Crumble Coffee & Bakery, enjoyed a delightful breakfast, and promptly turned back the way they had come.
“Why’d we even drive so far for breakfast?”
“Don’t know, but damn it was good, don’t ya think?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Soon, Mara was pushing notebooks back into her school bag, eager to grab a light lunch with her friends at Ophelia’s Cup downtown. Mara and her friends hopped into the hatchback when suddenly, she was craving pizza, then Chinese, and then cold-cut sandwiches from Casey’s. They agreed to get sandwiches and Mara pulled out of the parking lot. The trio arrived just as the cashier’s girlfriend, a petite woman who loved to gossip, was snatched along with what was formerly twenty-two blocks worth of businesses, homes, and residents. She had been busy spreading a rumor about the woman who lived in the unit above her, a single mother.
“She has men over every night, you know?”
“Yeah?” replied her hairdresser, trying to recall if this was the same woman who’d had the yapping dog last month.
“Yeah,” she laughed, “and they pay her like shit, too.” None of that was true, but it no longer mattered when the mother, too, was swallowed.
The cashier was probably the sleaziest one employed, even before he no longer had a girlfriend to keep him in check. He made no effort to hide his attraction for the girls, even moving from behind the counter to touch Mara on the shoulder. He had never been so bold. The girls talked in hushed tones about the interaction as Mara drove back to school, but were quickly distracted by their
phones as the Casey’s became victim to the black hole in the distance. The hole was no longer perfectly circular as it expanded; it reached out with inky arms, a paintball splattering Olney in slow motion.
They brought their food to an empty table in the cafeteria and ate quietly. There wasn’t nearly as much to talk about now that half the town had been consumed. A flock of ducks had been flying to a small, swampy pond at the end of a cul-de-sac on the southern edge of town. The oldest of the flock felt a pull in his heart for that pond, and then like a pair of scissors snipping a thread, his desire vanished. He banked and led the ducks onward, passing over what remained of Olney and narrowly avoiding the void’s reach. The frogs below, however, weren’t so lucky.
Mara didn’t feel anything in particular when she ceased to exist, she was simply gone. Drake University in Iowa had no reason to send an acceptance letter to a girl who didn’t exist, from a school that didn’t exist, and so her name subtracted itself from their spreadsheet of new hopeful enrollees. One less envelope an underpaid student assistant had to seal. As the abyss grew larger and larger, the town became smaller and smaller.
Mara’s father, Ryan, was a welding instructor at Olney Central College who had been visiting a neighboring college in Robinson. He found himself at the center of a classroom filled with bored eyes and restless legs. “Well, introduce yourself,” said Kenny, a stocky, lifetime resident of Robinson.
Ryan raised his hand and gave a quick salute to the class. “Hey, my name is Ryan Hansen. I’m here from…,” he trailed off. And just like that, the last oak tree, just past the baseball fields on the edge of town, was swallowed. A squirrel had lived in that tree, quite peculiar in terms of squirrels. It was the very last white squirrel that called Olney home, a ghostly sight to see. Once swallowed, this squirrel–quite possibly the most powerful squirrel we have come across in our time–did something to that hole. Around noon, the hole quietly began to pucker and shrink, heavy arms pulling at the edges of the land as it collapsed in on itself and the last white squirrel, and of course, all 9,584 residents of Olney, Illinois. It shrunk until there was no trace a town had ever even existed there, and on Monday, September 4th at 12:08 p.m. CDT, the trip from St. Louis to Louisville was shortened by 3.5 miles, about six minutes by car.
And After
By Mitzy Fae
CW: suicide, self-harm, anorexia/disordered eating
I didn’t want to wake up. As long as I kept my eyes closed, I could pretend I was dreaming of a darkness where dozens of audio tracks played over each other, each trying to be the loudest thought in my head. As long as I kept my eyes closed, nothing could exist, and if nothing could exist, then nothing could be wrong. I waited patiently for my mind to drift back into oblivion. Every second felt longer than the last. There was a faint buzzing itching at my ear drums, like a fly that was making itself at home inside my head. I considered getting up. I considered the nothing I had to do. I considered the patchy warmth on my stomach, sun rays that had slipped between the cloth I nailed to my window days before, and I considered the stillness of the world around me. It didn’t sound like anyone was home, but it rarely did.
If there was sunlight coming from my window, then it was after 3 pm, which meant my parents were out of the house, unless it was a weekend. I hadn’t been keeping track of the days. There was no reason to anymore. But even if my parents were out, my siblings would still be home, unless our dad had taken them with him so they could do some shopping before picking my mom up from the college. Or after. I was never really sure what order they did things in.
Maybe it was better to stay in bed and avoid the risk of running into one of them if I wandered out of my room. Maybe it was better to stay in bed so no one knows that I’m awake. Maybe it was better to stay in bed so thatThe doorknob rattled. Someone was trying to open my door. The only one inconsiderate enough to enter my room unannounced was the main person I was avoiding. I considered pretending I was still asleep, then remembered I had jammed my chair under the doorknob the day before so I would feel safer. If he finds out I’ve been blocking my door, he’ll take it off its hinges again. My eyes flew
open and I swung myself out of bed, barely managing to land on my feet as I fell from the bunk bed I had removed the lower bunk from. I stumbled towards the door and grasped for the chair I had tucked under the knob to find it wasn’t there.
As I stared blankly at the empty space where my makeshift lock was supposed to be, the door swung open. A small silhouette surrounded by an unfamiliar white background hesitated in the frame for a moment before walking in, closing the door behind them with a click.
“Well hi I guess. I didn’t expect there to be anyone in here.” They looked like a child, maybe eight years old, with long, straight black hair and a familiar face. I couldn’t place where I knew them from.
I scoffed, trying to gather my thoughts. “Why are you… Who-”
“Doesn’t matter who I am, and no, this isn’t your room, at least not in the way you think it is.” My brow furrowed as I tried to start another sentence. Failing to find the words that were meant to fall from my mouth, I closed it and looked around. We were in my room. The dim golden light that filtered through the folded black cloth on my window was enough to see that all the main furniture pieces were here, including the yellow chair that was meant to be sitting in front of my door. The only visual difference was that the space had been thoroughly cleaned. No piles of junk on the ground, no messy chalk drawings or sheer acrylic paint on the bumpy beige walls, and only one plush toy on my bare mattress; a lamb that I’d had since I was five or six.
“Where are we?” I managed to ask, my voice sounding much smaller than I’d intended.
The child shrugged. “I dunno. Some sort of in-between I guess. Like the River Styx or a train station or a bus stop or–”
“The River Styx? As in the river you cross to get to the afterlife?”
“Yes, that River Styx.”
“As in I’m dead?”
“Yes, as in you’re dead,” they said, rolling their eyes. “Why else would you have woken up in a replica of your room?”
“I don’t…” I chewed on my lip, peeling off bits of dried skin as I tried to wrangle my thoughts into a sensible order. “How could I be dead? I’m 16. That’s not a normal age to die. I would have noticed if there was something wrong with me. I would have… I would have woken up if something happened.”
“How am I supposed to know? I didn’t kill you. Let’s just check the recording.” Before I could ask what they meant, they marched over to the old musty dresser at the foot of my bed, yanked out the top drawer, and flipped it over.
“Hey! Don’t look through that!” I stepped forward, hand outstretched to pull them away as a yellow sharpener and the handle of an X-acto knife fell out. The
blades were missing from both, as I remembered, but they didn’t come tumbling out after. My uninvited guest paused for a moment, looked at the plastic pieces laying innocuously on the floor, then looked inside the drawer before grinning.
“Hah! Your room got baby-proofed. Loser.”
Shame warmed my face as I snatched the drawer from them, setting its wheels back into the thin metal rails before tossing the offending plastic chunks back in. “What are you even looking for?” I snapped, shoving the wooden drawer back into place.
“Some sort of viewing device. A laptop, phone, TV, hologram… What year are you from? Did you have one of those fancy life-sized, fully interactable thingamajigs?”
Instead of gracing them with a verbal response, I stomped past them to pull open the folding closet door, revealing a boxy television with a built-in VCR. There was a VHS tape I’d never seen before leaning against the side of it. I picked it up, ignoring the sounds of disapproval behind me, and turned it over to find a piece of peeling masking tape that read Play Me! in hot pink Sharpie. On cue, the TV flicked on, the screen softly glowing and buzzing with energy from a power source I couldn’t see.
I pushed the VHS into the VCR, waiting patiently for the ancient machine to register that it had been disturbed. After a few concerning clicks, the screen turned a shade of pastel blue. A few more strange noises, then bright white letters that read Welcome! Please press play when you’re ready. The display was much clearer than I remembered; the edges of the letters were crisp and the whites and blues were pure, unspeckled sheets of organized sky. A pause sign popped up in the bottom left corner, free of the yellowish blotch that had plagued the TV ever since I’d gotten it.
Hesitantly, I reached for the play button, stopping just before I pressed it. There was an overwhelming sense of dread in the pit of my stomach, plucking out every uncertain thought I had and consuming them like ripe grapes, growing heavy with fermenting fruit and seeds that burst into fully grown plants, stretching their vines up to restrict my breathing as I became dizzy from the wine brewing in the pot of fear my dread had made. As I withdrew, the vines shriveled and the wine dissipated.
“Hellooo, are you still there? Knock knock?” The child tapped me on the head. They’d climbed up onto my bed at some point. “You won’t know how you died unless you press play.”
“I don’t know if I can.” I stepped away from the closet, hugging myself tightly. They sighed heavily, clambering down and walking over to the TV. As they lifted their hand to press the button, all of those sensations flooded back into me; my head was pounding from thousands of anxious whispers and screams, my
throat refusing to open enough to let me breathe. I crouched down, shutting my eyes tightly and covering my ears, begging for it all to go away. And it did.
I slowly opened my eyes to see that the VHS tape was playing. The images were life-like, depicting a baby crawling around a familiar room. My eyes widened and I unfurled, moving closer to the screen as two people walked in.
“That’s my mom. And my brother. I. I think that’s our room. In the trailer house.”
The child next to me looked at me like I’d just discovered that grass was green. “Yeah. Obviously. This is a recording of your life.” They crossed their arms as they watched my mother pick up baby me, my older brother toddling about her legs like a wobbly planet orbiting a star. “You said you were 16, right?” I nodded and they started tapping the fast forward button, glaring at the controls when it wouldn’t go over two times speed. The images appeared to be moving much faster than the little white symbols in the bottom corner indicated, but it had clearly reached its limit. “Greeaat. Stupid old technology.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled sheepishly. They waved me off and clambered back up onto my makeshift loft bed, patting the bare mattress beside them. I climbed up after, keeping an eye on the TV to ensure we didn’t skip over anything important. The bed was much more comfortable here than it had been in the living world. Curiously, I picked up my stuffed toy to find it was considerably softer as well.
“So, um. What was it like?” they asked. I looked at them, confused. They gestured towards the TV. “The time you’re from. What, 80s or something?”
I shook my head. “I’m from the 2000s. That was just something my dad gave me. He probably got it at an auction.” I played with the ears of the plush lamb. “What’s this place like? It looked kind of clinical out there.”
“Yeah, that’s about right. It’s just a bunch of hallways with rooms where each of the occupants died. Mine was a parking lot.”
My brows wrinkled in confusion. “Like an entire parking lot?”
“Yep. That’s where I, um…” They trailed off, looking at the TV. It showed me at five or six, sitting on a window sill on the second floor of an apartment building, swinging my feet and leaning out over a parking lot, my eyes vacant as I considered the embrace of tarmac. I looked down at the plushie in my lap, trying to hide my face. “Yeah. That.” They fell silent, examining their hands as though they were trying to find something on them.
After a long silence that zoomed through my elementary years, they spoke again. “I wandered out of my room a while ago. It was boring and uncomfortable, ya know? I met a lot of people, wandering around and opening doors. None of them ever left with me. And when I would go back, they’d be gone. I don’t…” The child paused, picking at the fraying hem of their black athletic shorts. “I don’t know if they left, or if something took them. ‘Cause a few times, I’d only stepped
out of their room for a few seconds before they were gone.” They tugged one of the threads loose and tossed it off the side of the bed. “Maybe we’re supposed to wait in our rooms for something to come get us or lead us away, like a reaper or angel or fairy or something. But I can’t find my room anymore. So I don’t know.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. My first instinct was to comfort them, but my curiosity was stronger. “How… Long have you been here?”
They shrugged. “A couple of lifetimes, I think.” The child snorted and gestured to themself.
“Doesn’t mean much coming from me, but. I don’t know. I’ve seen a couple of people reach old age. Both in that I met them, and that I watched their recordings after they disappeared.”
As I opened my mouth to offer some form of reassurance, they hopped down, running to the TV and slowing it back down to a normal pace. It was playing through the months just after my 16th birthday. The me on the screen was sleeping and waking later and later, until their schedule had readjusted to being mainly nocturnal. When they were awake, they spent their time on a laptop, typing words we couldn’t read to people we couldn’t see. They would sneak out of their room late at night to steal some food from the kitchen and sneak into the living room where they would play video games until the sun began to rise. Then they would retreat back to their room to chat and sleep.
At a point undefined by the video, the recording of me began exercising. At first, it was pretty typical, like a teenager who had suddenly decided to turn their life around. Then they began periodically looking at their stomach in the bathroom mirror. The screen started getting hazier as we watched me exercising more and more each day, working my muscles until I collapsed on the floor, laying still for long periods of time before shakily standing to climb up the ladder of the mutilated bunk bed. That wasn’t enough for them.
We watched them check their stomach, their arms, their thighs, we watched them weigh themselves on a scale that only showed a frowny face where numbers were meant to be. We watched them eat less and less until all they were consuming was water and occasional cups of milk as a treat. Eventually, the cup they had snuck out of the kitchen stopped being used. We watched them drag metal across their skin where the body fat upset them the most, we watched them take a pair of scissors, grit their teeth, and–
I looked away. I didn’t need to see it happen again. The child below me was still watching, a sick fascination holding their eyes wide open. I curled up, trying not to think about the scenes playing out on the screen in front of me. After a few moments, they tapped me on the knee. “Hey, I think this is it.”
Taking a deep breath, I looked up. The TV was just as grainy as I remembered now. The yellow splotch had returned to discolor the lower left corner. The me on the screen was lying in bed, idly drawing lines in a large sketchbook. The laptop had been taken away at some point, I knew that for sure. My recorded self set down the pen, turning over and laying still. The window next to me showed the rise and fall of the sun. After a full day, I stirred, shoving the sketchbook and pen off my bed and readjusting my position before going still again. Half a day, and I moved again, looking at the alarm clock on my dresser. 4:35 PM. My recorded self went back to sleep.
The time in the recording was moving much slower now. The moon rose, followed by the sun, followed by the moon, followed by the sun. There was an itching in the left side of my head, then a sense of panic. My grip on the stuffed sheep tightened. “Wait. No, no, stop the–Stop the tape.” I hopped down from the bed and rushed to the TV, backing it up until the clock on the screen said 3:38 PM. I stared at the screen, then looked back at the annoyed child behind me.
My mouth felt dry. It was wrong, something was wrong. “I was supposed to…” I searched my mind for what was meant to follow. “I was…” I stared at the screen again, trying to swallow the unnecessary words and puzzle the remaining sentence fragments together, trying to find what I needed to say. In a moment of clarity, I said, “I was supposed to wake up,” then froze. What did I say? Why did I say it? I searched the screen, then pointed a shaky finger at the alarm clock. “Then. That’s– That’s the time I was supposed to wake up.” I didn’t know where this knowledge was coming from. But it seemed to click for my guest.
“Another version of you must have woken up then.”
“Another version of me?”
They nodded. “Like I was saying earlier, about different rooms leading to different timelines? This is the same thing, except it’s more about when you could die. There’s still a you, same timeline, same life, same person, that’s still alive. They must have woken up, but you’re the version that didn’t.” They reached past me to press the play button. The person on the screen kept sleeping. The moon, the sun, the moon, the sun, the moon. The screen was fading more and more as the days cycled on, no one coming to check on them, their sleeping body never stirring. Eventually, the screen turned black. White letters cheerful popped into the empty space: Thank you for watching!
I took a few steps back, collapsing on the yellow chair and dropping the plush toy I had been clinging to. Part of me wanted to scream and cry, to insist that this wasn’t right, that it wasn’t fair. Part of me wanted to run out of the room and find the version of me that got to continue living, to sabotage their life from the other side. Part of me was grateful that I got to die.
I was so deep in my tangled brooding that I hadn’t noticed the child walking over to the door until they opened it. Overwhelmed with a fear of what came next, I stood to follow them, stumbling over the sheep I had dropped. I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to ask them to stay, to ask where they were going, to ask to come with. Luckily, I didn’t have to speak for them to understand.
“I can’t stay for too much longer. Technically, I’ve got all the time in the world, but, well. The sooner I get back to my room, the better. You should probably stay here, so you don’t get stuck like I am. But I have to go. I have to. I think I’m getting closer.” They looked down for a moment, then back at me. “I… I know I’m closer. We, uh.” They looked away again. “We have the same dad.” Before I could say anything, they added, “If your mom hadn’t stayed. If you hadn’t been born.”
I stood quietly, staring at them with a mixture of concern and curiosity. I wondered if he had put them through everything he put me through. I wondered, had they lived longer, if they would have done the same things I had done. I wondered whether their mom was better or worse than mine. I wondered if they had siblings. I wondered if they died in the same parking lot I had thought about jumping into.
It didn’t feel right to ask. It didn’t feel right to keep them any longer. I took a deep breath, then did my best to smile. “Good luck. I hope you find your room soon.”
They smiled back, nodding in thanks as they shut the door.
Maya Geving Anxiety
there She comes again through the windows of a freshly built exterior unbecoming and becoming She is holding my hand while I aimlessly sprawl trying to avoid Her grasp but I can feel it in my chest calmness is once again out of reach
Meichsner
Jess
woman staring through steel wool
Three Car Monte
Jesse Peterman
It had been a boring afternoon for Harold. As a welder for Union Pacific rail, he loved his job, if only for the solitude it afforded him. Today was his turn to go inspect the tracks between Kansas City and Jefferson City. Now, Harold didn’t mind Missouri, but it certainly wasn’t a place he liked. The people were okay, but the weather was downright unacceptable. Summer meant temperatures regularly got over a hundred, and that by itself wasn’t so bad, but the humidity made the whole atmosphere feel like breathing soup. Tepid, too-hot-to-be-comfortable soup.
But, back to the reason it was a boring afternoon. About an hour and a half down the line, at least by his estimate, Harold had found a pretty significant fault in the welds holding the inner rail to the ties, which wouldn’t by itself be dangerous, but it needed to be fixed as soon as possible. However, Harold was pretty sure if he just welded over the fault it would break the moment any heavy freight went over it. Now, Harold’s no fool, and he’s been doing this job for a good while, so he radioed into the rail traffic center. Candice picked up the phone for the third time today, and by God did she sound like it was going to kill her. Harold explained the situation, and that in his professional expertise, the fault would mean the whole tie and part of the rail would have to be replaced before another train could cross. Candice sounded like she was ready to strangle the phone, Harold, and whatever else was in reach, but said there’d be a crew on the way to meet him at the Jefferson City station. She’d cancel any trains until the all-clear. Harold was pretty satisfied, having done his job for the day, at least until he got to the Jefferson City station.
Harold drove along the narrow service road, only half paying attention and mostly thinking about what he’d buy with all of the overtime that fault in the weld meant. He’d been saving up for a new car, maybe he’d get one of those new
Camaros he’d seen on tv, the broad-bodied muscle car was always shown skidding around corners, smoke coming from the tires. Harold had never been a fancy car kind of guy, but the idea of rolling up to work in something loud and impressive like that was alluring in the you-don’t-need-a-personality-anymore kind of way. He could finally see the railyard coming up ahead, and started looking for the crew he’d be guiding. He saw Marcus and Jane, old friends as far as coworkers were concerned, and couldn’t help but smile a little. Jane loved driving, and would always insist on it. Marcus wasn’t much of a talker, on account of not speaking much English, but nobody was better with a plasma cutter. He knew the repair would be quick and simple, but more importantly, he’d get to sleep on the ride to and from the repair site. There was a unique pleasure in passing out in the back seat of a maintenance truck while on the clock that Harold had decided it must be the best thing since cable television. A quick exchange of vehicles later, Harold was pointing out the fault on Jane’s map before reclining into the cracked leather of the backseat. Half an hour later, Harold was thrown into consciousness by the steady blare of a train horn. He almost leaned back to ignore it, but something in his brain, the part that had been doing this a little too long to distrust a feeling, made him get up. Passing the maintenance truck, Harold watched with bleary confusion as an Amtrak economy train thundered past, hauling a combination of passengers, freight, and whatever the hell else someone was too cheap to ship properly. It must have been going over eighty miles an hour at the straightaway, because it was well past them by the time Harold put together that they were traveling in the same direction as the train. Oh fuck, I need to call Candice.
Meanwhile
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?!” Alex glares at you indignantly, “I thought you were better than this, but no, here we are with the silent treatment.”
You stare blankly back, confused by his sudden outburst. You hadn’t even said anything to begin with, let alone tried to give him the ‘silent treatment’ he seems to be fuming about. After all, he’d been talking almost non-stop for the entire ride. Every year Alex took you with him from St. Louis to Santa Barbera, sometimes by air, but after the frost incident, it’d been by rail. Alex slept in the seat across from you until passing through Jefferson City, and now you’d get to endure the wild ups and downs of Alex’s determination to make his ability to speak your problem. It’s honestly ridiculous, you think, for him to expect you to carry a conversation. After all, what kind of goldfish can even talk? You decide Alex is too far gone and think this is a fine time to nap. Circling your travelbowl, you settle into the tiny ceramic castle nestled in the bottom, resting on the brightly colored rocks.
You’re startled awake several minutes later as the whole train is shuddering. Alex has a look of panic, and is frantically trying to strap your bowl and himself to the seat, picking your container up and wrapping his arms around it. Alex is far from sane, given how much he talks to you, but something feels off this time. You peer between his lanky arms out the window, and by the trees rushing past, the train is probably just going around a bend quicker than Alex would like. He looks down through your bowl’s sealed lid at you, flashing a very fake but probably intended-to-be-reassuring smile.
SNAP.
The world goes weightless and time seems to stretch beyond reason. Alex is still wrapped around your bowl like both of your lives depend on it, which given the airborne nature of the car, certainly may be the case. The other passengers who, up until this point, had been doing their own thing or side-eyeing Alex’s conversation with you, are similarly losing their shit. The cheap arcade-esque carpeting tracks its way around to where the ceiling used to be, and you become quite aware that this moment, and most likely your life, are about to end. A terrible screeching and crunch noise shudders through the water in your bowl as the car, and most likely the rest of them, collapse inwards like so many of the empty Mountain Dew cans Alex used to flatten during those long nights at his computer. The walls rush in from all directions. The top few feet of a single shattered pine tree cartwheeling through the cabin plows into your seat and the world goes dark.
About that time
I’m pretty sure I hate this job already. I used to think being a train conductor was the coolest possible way to spend a life, constantly going from one place to another, getting to see so much of the world fly by. Now, after maybe two weeks on the job, I already hate it. Not the traveling, just the people. Management, I should say, the passengers and engineers and all that are fun, always such characters, but the management can eat shit and die. When I got hired I was told I’d be running the empire builder, a fantastic cross-country passenger line. I was so excited–it makes a huge loop around the continental U.S. and I’d get to see it all, not to mention the overnights in some of the coolest cities around. Last minute, someone’s brat nephew needed a job and I was ousted to some budget line in the midwest. Nepotism strikes again, I guess. I really should’ve just been born rich, this whole middle class thing is a bit of a scam. At least they reassigned me, so I’ve still got a job, but this direct line from St. Louis to L.A. sucks, no stops in the smaller stations, no cool geography, the only perk is that I get an apartment next
to the station in Cali, so at least I’m saving a ton in rent. Too bad I’ll pretty much never spend any time there.
My alarm sounds and we’re off. Doors close and I pull the full train out of the station. I’m lucky I still got a passenger train, even if it’s mixed cars with cargo and private rentals. Those cargo-only trains are some of the worst working conditions in the business, according to my work-friend-turned-real-friend Jane. She’s been called into Jefferson City for some repair nonsense, I wonder if I’ll be able to catch her on the return trip. Yeah, I make this trip twice a day. Four hours each way and only twenty minutes at either end, they’re running me almost as ragged as the engine. I straighten my badge, log my departure with the station master’s radio, and accelerate into the through-line.
The schedule’s clear after Jefferson so I don’t even need to check-in at the halfway mark, luckily. The midwestern Ozark view is too familiar to look at, so I take the time to clean off the little nameplate my mom gave me when I got hired. It’s a cute little faux-bronze placard I’ve velcroed to the top of my engine’s control panel. After some scrubbing the name shines through nicely: Marina Seymour, first female conductor of an Amtrak passenger train. Shocking, I know, given how old the rail industry is, you’d THINK there’d have been one in the U.S. before, but then again, I’ve only met four other women in the whole of Amtrak. Men and their heavy machinery, ugh.
I slow down as Jefferson City’s station comes into view. After all, even if it’s supposed to be clear, there’s no such thing as a safe bet on the rails. Down to twenty miles an hour as we clear through, and the yard is packed today, trains, cars, and a surprising amount of maintenance gear are all sitting quietly, poised to leave. The one engineer I see as we roll past does a double-take like he’s never seen a woman up front before. I’m used to the confusion though, I knew getting into this that I’d be dealing with a lot of extra bullshit like that, being asked if I know where I’m going, the misogynistic jokes, the sheer disbelief that I’m the one driving the train. It still stings a little as I pull through though, so I think I’ll put on a little speed, as if to prove a point to myself.
I’m nearly fifty miles out of Jefferson City when I pass a maintenance truck on the byway, and it looks just like Jane’s. No way she’d be this far from the station though, but it puts me on edge. Something doesn’t feel right about it traveling the same way as me, away from the station. I dial back the speed, dropping to around forty miles an hour. I’d rather be late and not have a good reason than to disregard a bad feeling. I’m starting to relax again after a few minutes, and I know it’s probably nothing, but I can’t bring myself to speed back up. The radio explodes into life, an unfamiliar voice practically screaming through
“Amtrak L.A. Direct, this is Dispatch, you are on a closed absolute block (that means there’s no trains allowed) due to a line fault (that means it’s unsafe to have a train on the rails)! Stop immediately, I repeat, stop NOW, there’s a line fault Ahe-”
Steel screeches all around me, drowning out the attempt to warn me. The radio cuts to static as the engine pitches sideways, the floor coming up to meet my face. I wake up who knows how much later. I’d wonder how the hell I survived, but the hot wetness on the side of my face and the dizziness tell me very clearly that I’m not out of the woods yet. I test my body, seeing whether or not I’m pinned and it’s a miracle. The worst of it missed me— but just barely. Sharp pain pulses through my whole chest and back every time I breathe, and the absolute genius of experience tells me I’ve probably cracked a bunch of my ribs. The windshield’s busted through, and I think I’ve gone deaf, but my head’s not bleeding bad enough to scare me yet. The smell of diesel coming from behind me though, that’ll do it.
The exit door’s been crunched so severely you’d think it was postmodern art, so out the front it is. The sideways nature of the cabin makes it unclear whether I’m unstable from brain damage or if the floor/wall/whatever it is is just like that now. The broken glass is less concerning than the warmth at my back, but I’m not the type to confirm my fears before I run. I have to slide down a few feet of the twisted metal that was the front of my engine, but I make it to actual land alright. I hobble forward a few feet, there’s a creek bubbling by like I didn’t just survive the next historical train disaster, and it’s almost insulting how peaceful it looks. The heat on my back is getting worse and I know I need to hustle before what I’m pretty sure is a fire reaches the massive diesel fuel tanks just below the engine’s front end. Then I see it. Confirmation I’ve got brain damage. Floating down the creek, in the most incongruous hallucination my brain could slap together, is a cracked fishbowl, lid still on, with a goldfish in it. Just. There. Looking as confused as I am. It might be fake, but damn is that a high-definition hallucination. I can’t stop though, because, as I figure, that little voice in the back of my head telling me you’re in danger is the only reason I’m still breathing. And it says I need to get away from the engine.
Boom.
If Computers Can Cry
Jesse Peterman
Point Nemo
The most isolated spot on our planet
An ocean refuge turned dump site
When space debris comes down
We drop it there, among the who-knows-what.
And the early satellites, the ones we left up in the dark
Once burned out to nothing
Have come back to life.
Irradiated into some zombie
Of the sun’s making.
Oceanic microphones
Left drifting in the Pacific hear it
Upsweep from the graveyard
A fading cry from below
Broadcasted from dark to dark
A signal passes between them, A kind of S.O.S. from
One abandoned machine
To the disposed pile below.
Nemo means ‘No-one’
Abandoned satellites cry ‘0-1, 0-1
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_unexplained_sounds#Upsweep https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zombie_satellite
Roscoe Berrios
Matchbook
Brianna Condon
Sentimental and attached
I collect intimacy
In scribbles and notes post-its and napkins
The airport claim check I salvaged from your luggage
The folded receipt
Seven whole dollars for parking
Frayed cards from games
We rarely ever played
An expired learner’s permit
Oil change records
21+ wristbands
Hotel key cards
Rejection letters
Intake questionnaires
I paste them on walls
On dresser drawers
You are pinned and bare
On each and every surface
Absent and disjointed
I am caught in a mousetrap
Should I gnaw off my own leg
I never told you I was collecting matchbooks
But no one ever taught me how to light one anyways
Callie Jacobs
Children Playing with Barbed Peace
Peace is what we want, so we carry a cart full of peace knowing we have no money to take it back home. Over here now, we the kids have fled to what seems like another planet to run away from death. Seems we didn’t travel very far. Seems like death is always in the same room as us, asking God when he should take us back. I am sitting on the living room couch with the prayer mat spread out next to me in October, past midnight, while thinking about a lot of things; my heart recalled the tears of a girl that I had met in that meeting room a few days ago. Blanket, I just wanted to go under my blanket like the moon crawls under the clouds. I was not prepared, nor did I want to acknowledge my own sadness and grief. Leaning forward onto the meeting room table, I got hit with a realization. I am about to be woken up forcefully by an arm that has been waking up the people in our countries for years. Trust was something that everyone in that room longed to feel. I think I heard her say, “I couldn’t sleep last night, I knocked on my roommate’s door and slept next to her, it was the only thing I could think to do to ease my heart.”
Even though we were all at school, we didn’t feel safe. Sitting there, we went on about how we didn’t have the slightest freedom to even grieve. Peace, we are so young, the future of tomorrow and we only wanted peace. Outcry wasn’t a choice, overcoming this would be like overcoming monstrous waves in the ocean.
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Foss Dakane
Suddenly, in the room, a feeling of overwhelm rushed into my veins as a student mentioned how he had his photo taken at a peaceful protest. “Secrets,” he said. “Keep your identity safe, I was so dumb to forget, there is barely anyone on our side.” I sat there looking at each of the nine students in the small room. Before, I would stare out the window and daydream. I am now still sitting in my living room, wondering whether there were even any windows in that tiny room; if so, how could I have been forced to recognize this pain?
Listening to another student’s story in that room, my eyes follow his left hand as he raises his phone and moves it back and forth while he tells the story. “I,” he said. “I got stopped in the airport when I was coming back to America, even though I was born here.” The TSA had stopped him I think because of his eyes; I think they could tell that all he wanted was peace. “They took my phone and asked me if I was part of a…”
I have now moved from the couch to the floor, lying next to me is my mother’s tasbih and probably death. Exhaling is hard; I grab the tasbih with my right hand, we the children want to let peace roam freely, but death continues to put thorns in our path. “Subhana Allah,” I recite a hundred times. “Astaghfirullah,’’ I recite a hundred times, and “Allahu Akbar,” I recite a hundred times.
Tomorrow
Callie Jacobs
When you fall asleep tonight
I’d like you to dream of me
On that beach you discovered
Back before you knew what You wanted.
Meet me on our faded brown couch
And watch the tide come in
While tourists stare into the abyss
We call home.
Walk with me and pick up
Abandoned iridescent oyster shells
We couldn’t possibly relate to now
And giggle when the cold pacific runs
Past our ankles.
Lean your head on my shoulder
As we listen contently to millions of rubies
Crashing together to create a Symphony of noise relaxing only to us.
But when the sun begins to peek through the overcast sky
And sunlight shines into your hazel eyes
You’ll leave me standing alone on our rainy beach
With promises to visit again
Tomorrow.
Joselyn Garcia Gonzales Mexico
My home, my mother, my beauty.
The sands of time were drawn on my skin. How long has it been
Since I’ve left yours truly?
The roots of my heart rested upon you, the sweet smell of gas, dreams, and dust too.
Your beauty is hidden for my eyes to see, littered with glass Coke bottles, chisme, and bursting in laughter. The sun has no fear, it shines on our faces combined with the sacred earth and blood spilled in disaster. Mexico, my beauty, my home, mi alma. Si muero mañana, no te olvides de mi.
Please don’t forget about me.
One, Two, One
Logan East
In a tall, old building, lay an old, empty coat rack. It had been there for quite some time, and as a result its wood was stained and it fervently shook with every storm. Until one day, a coat finally adorned it.
The coat was old as well, its pockets in tatters and its threads becoming undone. The coat looked at home when atop the coat rack, as if it had always been there. As if it were made to be there.
The sight of the coat and the coat rack became familiarthey were never seen apart.
They spent years upon years together, the two of them, so much so that the mold melded them where they touched; they became one, a unit.
Thecoatandthecoatrack.
The coat relied heavily upon the coat rack to be there, it would be a mess on the floor without itand without the coat, the coat rack would feel purposeless, having no meaning in that house and would simply degrade in the years of loneliness.
Thecoatandthecoatrack were grateful for each other.
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Then, one day, with a flash of blue and red lights, The rumbling of a deep growl, And the countless strangers that passed by, the coat vanished.
No, the coat was stolen. Cruelly, out of the coat rack’s hooks, without warning.
And it was just the coat rack once again, more weathered than it was before, more crickety and ready to break than before, and alone. Once again.
It looked odd, sitting there, having nothing there to accompany it. It looked odd, because the two’s existence had been so woven together, it looked wrong being so bare and empty inside the little old, now abandoned, house.
Alone.
The spot where the coat was ripped from its coat rack had torn the paint and wood from where it hung, splinters of wood sticking out every which way, an open wound the coat rack, being a coat rack, would never be able to fix itself.
Small Town Pink
Lynn Dobmeier
Being raised in a small midwest town of maybe 2,000 people – on a good day – you learn things others miss. For example, when my neighbor across the cul de sac would leave his garage door open all day – because no one would risk stealing in a town where everyone knows everyone – I would see his new bike that he must have just bought, because it wasn’t in his garage last week. Or when I went over to the neighbor boy’s house to play baseball, I could just turn the front door knob and let myself in because I knew the front was never locked.
I learned these things in my small town by watching.
There was this one particular house that I loved to watch. It was a mansion by small town standards. It had a spiral tower that I imagined housed a library. High pointed roofs covered in detailed metal railings. Grand front steps that lead up to a large walled in sunroom. But, the thing that stuck out to me most as a kid was the color. Pink. Bright neon highlighter pink.
I never knew why it was painted pink. I would ride my bike across town just to look at it. I must have thought that if I stared at it long enough it would tell me why.
The street outside the house was on a hill. I would ride my bike down that hill one, two, usually seven times a day. All the while staring at the bright neon highlighter pink.
When I got older I learned the story of why the house was pink. I asked a teacher at my school after realizing the house wouldn’t tell me itself.
Apparently the house belonged to a husband and wife and their only daughter. I was told they always wanted a house full of children. But, they were lucky to even get one. So they spoiled her. The father asked the daughter what color they should paint the house.
And she said, bright neon highlighter pink.
The house isn’t as bright anymore. Tragedy touched that house. I could tell. They say hoarding is a sign of tragedy.
The front lawn was covered in things. Random things. A blue rusted wheelbarrow filled with microwaves, toasters, and hair dryers. Three little red tricycles tied together by the handle bars. A plastic kiddie pool filled with black garbage bags, the insides of which I never saw. All these things became covered in tall grass. Weeds as high as me.
The once bright neon highlighter pink mansion became the color of sunbleached pastel pink pansies.
I never learned what tragedy struck that family. I just knew it did. As I watched.
A new family moved in. I decided, as I watched, they must have been a nice family. They removed the pile of moldy rugs in the front lawn. Put caution tape around the dilapidated disconnected garage. Mowed the lawn. Reshingled the roof. Washed and replaced the cracked windows.
But what made me decide they must have been a nice family was that they never painted over that small town pink.
In Another Life
Mitzy Fae
Sweet pink petals
Swirling between us
Cutting red thread
Meet the
Faculty Advisor
Leanne Loy
“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” -- Virginia Woolf, “A Room of One’s Own”
Editors
Mitzy Fae
“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.” -- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Olivia Fredrickson
“You are the storyteller of your own life, and you can create your own legend, or not. Write what should not be forgotten.” -- Isabel Allende
Maya Geving
“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” -- Fitzgerald F. Scott, The Great Gatsby
Cambrie Kowal
“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough that suits me.” –- C.S. Lewis
Bethany Lawrence
“One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them.” -- Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
Editors
Head Editors
Chinyin Cheu
“Only when we’re no longer afraid do we begin to live.” -- Dorothy Thompson
Greici Alles
“Be weird. Be random. Be who you are. Because you never know who would love the person you hide.” -- C.S. Lewis
Zaya Moreno
Zaya Mareno
“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” -- Pablo Neruda
Valentine Sarin
“I have found that it is the small everyday deed of ordinary folks that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.” --J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
Jesse Peterman
“Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s nonsense.” -- Lemony Snicket
Michelle Gay Taylor
“Do not think like a human. You have the ability within you to create anything you wish. Truth is, you are all highly powerful entities walking this planet, disguised as simple biological beings & the disguise fools everyone - even yourself.” -- Bashar
Designer
Jess Meichsner
Jess Meichnser
“These things will be hard to do, but you can do hard things.” -- Glennon Doyle
Submission
Our submission deadline for each year is October 31st.
To be eligible for submissions, students should be enrolled in at least one credit during any of the following semesters: the previous spring or summer, or the current fall term.
All submissions should be emailed to: uppermissharvest@stcloudstate.edu
Include your name and title(s) of your work in the body of the email while putting the genre you are submitting to in the subject line of your email.
Please remove your name and other identifying information from the individual documents, so that only the title is present on each submission. All written pieces should be submitted as an Offline Word file.
We do not accept .pdf, OneDrive, SharePoint, or Google documents. Any files that come to us in these forms will be automatically deleted.
Failure to meet any of the guidelines may result in disqualification. We reserve the right to reject submissions. Faculty members are not eligible for publication.
Guidelines
Submission Guidelines
Eligible submissions include:
Poetry: 1 - 5 pieces per person, typed. Maximum 1500 words per poem.
Short Fiction or Nonfiction: 1 - 3 pieces per person. Maximum 4,500 words per piece, typed.
Drama (monologues, short script excerpts): 1 - 3 pieces per person. Maximum 3,000 words per piece. Formatted appropriately.
Media (photography, art, digital art, collages, or graphic novels): 1 - 5 pieces per person. Black and white and full-color submissions are accepted. Your submissions must be 2400 x 3000 pixels or higher. Please list the medium being used for each piece.
Your submitted work must be original and previously unpublished in order to qualify. We do not accept simultaneous submissions.
**NOTE: No sans serif fonts. Preferable fonts; Times New Roman or Georgia.
All submissions must be sent from a college email address to be accepted.
Call for Editors
Join the UMH Team and help us create the next edition!
The UMH Team is a great place for you if you are interested in:
Writing
Reading
Art
Photography
Graphic Design
Editing
Publishing
Marketing
Fundraising
Being part of UMH offers a community of writers, readers, and visual art lovers who use their skills and knowledge to create the literary and art journal you hold in your hand.
The class allows students to receive college credit while learning more about the inner workings of journal preparation and publication including getting hands-on experience of the entire process. Editors are required to register for the course in BOTH Fall and Spring semesters.
For more information about the requirements and the course, email the faculty advisor, Leanne Loy, at leanne.loy@stcloudstate.edu
We would love to work with you next year!
St Cloud State University is an affirmative action/equal opportunity educator and employer. This material can be made available in an alternative format. Contact the sponsoring department. St Cloud State University values diversity of all kinds, including but not limited to race, religion, and ethnicity. Member of Minnesota State. Upper Mississippi Harvest is published annually by St. Cloud State University. It is distributed free to SCSU students and staff. All pieces were chosen through blind submission. Names of all authors and artists were hidden until after the final selections were made. Contributors retain all rights to their works.
© Upper Mississippi Harvest
Funding courtesy of SCSU Senate Finance Committee