Spawning Pool—Prose 2024

Prose Spawning Pool

“Delirium” Spring 2024

SpawningPool

Prose Chapbook

“Delirium”

Spring 2024

Shippensburg University

SpawningPool is a literary arts chapbook published at Shippensburg University by a small and dedicated team of undergraduate students. It is composed of prose pieces submitted by undergraduate students of the university.

SpawningPool accepts rolling submissions throughout the year, and we publish our chapbook every spring semester. SpawningPool is a publication of The Reflector , which also accepts submissions year-round, and is compiled each fall semester.

Contact us: spawningpool@ship.edu

Submissions and inquires: reflect@ship.edu

SpawningPool Prose Chapbook, Spring 2024

Text set in Baskerville Old Face

Printed by Shippensburg University

Layout by Jenny Russell and Kylie Saar

Cover Design by Jenny Russell and Gretchen Lambie

Prose Editors:

Jenny Russell

Kylie Saar

Prose Committee Members:

Tomi May

Hailee Rauch

Annikka Stangil

Reed Vollrath

Katelyn Mader

Shawn McGuigan

Letters from the Editors

Dear reader,

For this edition of the Prose Spawning Pool, we wanted to highlight what is means to be human, in all the best and worst ways.

We wanted to focus on the maddening reality of the things that break us, and, more importantly, the things that put us back together. Each story within these pages does that, in some way or another, which is a truly beautiful thing to accomplish.

In most aspects, these stories speak for themselves, so I will let them do most of the talking and instead just say thank you. Working on this chapbook has been an absolute delight, in all its absolute deliriousness.

Thank you to all the writers who submitted work for consideration in this journal, for taking a chance and having confidence in

your work, and to my awesome committee for ranking both in the winter and in the spring – I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

Thank you to my amazing Associate editor Kylie Saar, who you will hear a bit from after me, for her assistance in the making of this journal, as well as her attitude and contribution to every decision that was made throughout the process.

Thank you to my amazing Editorial Board, Emily, Olivia, and Megan – I will miss all of you dearly next year, but I know you’ll be off in the world doing great things.

And finally, thank you to Gretchen Lambie, who followed Kylie and I around taking weird (delirious) photos for this cover, I love and appreciate you so very much.

Sincerely,

Prose Head Editor

JennyRussell

Dear reader,

More often than not, we strive to put our best foot forward and offer up the most polished version of ourselves. The theme of this book, delirium, asks for the opposite of this. The act of writing itself is already vulnerable. Delirium asks writers to share the unpolished versions of themselves with friends and strangers alike, and to physically put this version of themselves out into the world. I admire every creative who submitted their work to this publication for their bravery and willingness to share the delirium within them.

I am incredibly thankful for the opportunity to have worked on this edition of the Prose Spawning Pool. Interacting and collaborating with fellow creatives on this is an experience I will cherish forever.

I would like to thank and express my appreciation to my amazing Head Editor and friend, Jenny Russell. With her guidance, the process of creating this journal was not only

educational, but enjoyable. I am beyond thankful to have worked with someone with her leadership skills, wisdom, and light.

Above all, I would like to thank you, our reader. Thank you for giving this publication two of the most precious things you have: your attention, and your time.

Sincerely,

Prose Associate Editor KylieSaar

Table of Contents

Addison Coy

Thesoundofagirl,singing,inthebackof class -01-

The British have a Weird Word for Cigarettes -10Dear -18-

April Petesch

The Delusion of Love -12-

B.R. LivingLikeTardigrades -70-

Elizabeth Peters MyBathroomMirror -65-

Emily Cantrell

DoILookLikeaBoy? -74-

Hannah Cornell MorningCoffee -14-

Lou Lou

Athingat1:10a.m.onarandomFridayin

January -03-

Luke Rosenberger

Winds of the Berserker -68-

Madi Shively Infinitude -22-

The Worst Part -38-

Margaret DeStephano

Mad Gal Gone -24-

SomethingSmall -51-

Pamela Jade

CanIBeRebornTwinswiththeSeasons

Resurrections -08-

Ruby Tilder

The Off Season -33-

The sound of a girl, singing, in the back of class

Her voice a song, her voice a melody, her voice creeping across the desks and between half-sleeping students to grace my ears. Her vibrato was clean, coming deep from her throat. That throat that led to her mouth, guarded by her teeth, covered by those honey-rich lips. Between verses, she would pause, and use those teeth to chew at her bottom lip, peeling off a sliver of skin and the deep mahogany lip stain that rested on top. Who knew what she was thinking? I did not. I just wished I was that sliver of skin as she chewed it, deliberate, slow, before swallowing it down that throat to rest amongst her voice.

She had paused, but my muscles were itching beneath my skin, urging her to please, please continue, I can’t take this, I need more. I twitched in my seat, digging my fingernails into my palms; my gnarled, short fingernails, so different from her own that she nibbled on, looking down at her worksheet.

Those teeth, again. Her voice was quiet, but in a few moments she began singing again, and I almost sprung out of my seat. Almost, I thought, until I saw eyes turned to me, hers included. The teacher was quiet. My eyes met hers for a moment, and a shiver ran through my entire, pitiful, hungry body.

“Is something wrong?” my teacher said, looking down her pointed nose at me.

“No,” I assured my teacher. “I just…” I looked back at my precious little siren. Her eyes glittered. “I need to go.”

I escaped quickly into the hallway to press my shameful back against the wall and tremble, tremble thinking of my perfect little songbird and those darling little vocal chords nestled in that delicate throat. She produced the loveliest sounds.

AddisonCoy

A thing at 1:10 am on a random Friday in January

Lately I’ve been focused on distraction. Escapism at its finest. The weather has been cold and I have not left the house in days, too afraid to face my family with the reality of my loss and so I greet them with the smiles of a worthy daughter.

I answered a phone call from my sister. She called me “chipper.” I said, “thank you,” still chipper. In my head I imagined telling her. In my mind I said, “oh, I’m just masking my pain.” The potential that this is what grief feels like is strong. I’m not sure. I still haven’t decided if I’m sad, in mourning, or if I am simply facing the life I have wanted for months.

Is this what it feels like to heal? I don’t know. Do I need to heal? I would say yes. Honestly, I’m more heartbroken that my own mother told me to make it work with him even after I told her what he did to me. Everything he has done to me, at least lately. I told her I was in pain. She told me we have chemistry. I pulled instances of a man I did not recognize and was not the one I fell in love with like I was citing sources for a research paper. My mother told me once I was great at arguing my point and so maybe that is why I was so persistent. I did not need her approval. I know that. But I still wanted it.

I played candy crush for 5 hours today. I haven’t played in months but today I couldn’t put it down. Two days ago, it was Spyroon the Xbox one. I played for hours. We didn’t eat dinner that day and so I had no excuse to stop. I played from lunch until almost the next day. I thought of nothing but the tedious quest of collecting gems.

I told my mom yesterday. I only told her because she made another joke about marriage. I told her I would not be marrying him. It unfolded from there. She didn’t really react. I haven’t told her, or the rest of my family, simply out of fear of their reaction. They don’t know him like I do. They refuse to see who I describe and instead remember him as the sweet boy who existed when we were seventeen. I haven’t seen that sweetness in him for months, maybe longer. I hate that she didn’t react. I wanted her to be mad, I think. I wanted to tell her that I did not need her approval (I would like it, though), but I would appreciate her support (and I would). I would have at least liked a hug. She told me I didn’t seem sad. That makes sense.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep for weeks, but last night was different. He gave me a rubber duck, a yellow one with spy equipment. Last night it was all I could think about. It’s taped inside my car, on my dash. All I wanted was to go out and rip it out. I need to give him back his sweatshirts. I keep thinking about that time we almost broke up; I don’t

remember why. There were a few times. I put all his sweatshirts in a bag and tied it shut. I put it in a corner to take to him. And later, when we didn’t break up, I ripped open the bag and put the clothes back. I keep thinking about how I will have to do that again. But I will need to remember to add the duck.

I want to make a shelf. I want to make one of those cool cardboard shelves on Pinterest, but I’ll need to make plaster and I don’t feel like it. I collect cardboard. I have an excessive amount. I can’t seem to run out of it. At the beginning of winter break I made a cardboard shark and painted it pink. It’s cute and so I named it Sandra. I want to make a shelf next. I have enough cardboard.

I also want desperately to leave the house. It’s starting to feel claustrophobic. I need fresh air. But it’s been so cold, and the roads have been terrible. I want chipotle and I want to go with my best friend, but she is always with her boyfriend. Because they have found a way to be okay, despite their problems. Or maybe she just chooses not to focus on their problems. They have been dating for so long and sometimes I think she is scared of trying to move on, even though she is usually mad at him. And I know I enjoy obsessing over their relationship slightly too much. Maybe because mine did less to me than hers did to her, and yet I could not move on. I don’t know how she did.

I told my sister today. Not the one that called me chipper but the one next in age from her. She asked me if I would see him again before I went back to school. I told her no. It unfolded from there. She showed slightly more care than my mother did, and for her I am grateful. I didn’t go into much detail, because it feels pointless to validate it now, and so I only told her we were having disagreements. She said, “life disagreements?” And I said yes. She said that was sad. I agreed.

A few days before the split, the oven caught on fire. This happened before, when I was younger. It literally exploded. When it happened the first time, I was the one using it. I haven’t been all that interested in cooking since. When it caught fire this time, my mom was preheating the oven. I was sitting there talking to her. I grabbed the fire extinguisher. The fire killed itself, luckily. It was weird that it happened twice. We found out later the damage was repairable, the part for it actually came today.

Yesterday we had a power surge that took out our landline. A few hours before that a breaker blew in the kitchen while my mom was cooking. A week ago, our landline stopped working out of nowhere. Verizon just fixed it yesterday, only for the power surge to take out the phone anyway. I think it was over the summer or in early September when a different power surge took out our old landline. I wasn’t home, but I remember

coming home and hearing about it. It’s weird that it happened twice.

I want to dye my hair. I’ve been dying my hair blonder since 2020, and now I want to go darker. My mom and my sisters are trying to talk me out of it. I’m tempted to tell them I’m either going to dye my hair or get another tattoo, as if becoming single recently wasn’t enough change for me (eye roll). I’m twenty years old and so I know I don’t need their approval, but, once again, I would appreciate their support.

I realize now that I am just saying things. It’s 1:57 am on a random Friday in January. I go back to school in about eight days. Maybe this is in itself a distraction. A contemplation. An effort to once again avoid my grief, if that is what this is. I don’t know, but this was nice.

Now I need to try to rest.

Goodnight.

Lou Lou

Can I Be Reborn Twins with The Seasons Resurrections

it is the summer of pot smoke porch days and mist mornings, I have decided I will take up tanning and gardening, but right now, I am staring at myself, sharped edged reflection full of smog despair staring back, a splattered toothpaste me looking at oily-dry skinsuit I wonder how you can be two things at once: sister and mother, poison and antidote, poet and oblivious, air and earth, fucking Gemini –should this mirror shatter into a hundred nymph me’s Bobble-headed-blue-eyed-neglected-burtoncreation come out of the shade room, our birthday is coming up and my things must be packed before spring reads its eulogy The new neighbor won’t care that I loved them, there’s more to unpack than luggage

These collarbones are reaching for something lately, things I am hungry for, hush with hoodies, hush with poem I know this won’t work when summer crawls back from its grave, I’ll sweat the pencils out of my hands, sweat the mascara off my eyes sweat, tears, blood it was someone else’s pores, eyes, veins Through the wall, I listen to my old roommate run a poem I wrote with my name crammed in between her teeth – she never read them how they were supposed to be read My hair tangled from someone else’s hands, sometimes I feel as disgusting as tiles sticking to my feet, as useless as stolen street signs left from past tenants, posters, signatures, a pen-

and-ink house-centipede with a speech bubble containing my new favorite word: “i am disgusting, if you see me, please kill me.” I have closed my eyes so that boy can’t be seen, so that boy cannot see The room is dark anyway, except the light breaking in through blanket window, demanding attention to wall meet ceiling This place doesn’t make much sense to me, a sort of tableau, and I have the emotional capacity of drying clay I have decided that crying might make me feel, but I don’t, too much time has passed now(has it?), we are both cold, I squeeze my eyes hoping I vanish Patiently waiting for spring, when we’re lighter in the faces, no longer hanging bats I want to wake up to clean sheets and a clear conscience instead of guilt bubbling up – really but a sense of, I know - everything wrong in my world - is my fault - and I watched myself be someone else – i watched myself be someone else. PamelaJade

The British Have a Weird Word for Cigarettes

“You smoke?” she asked me, waving a box of Marlboros.

I shook my head and tried to reply, “No thanks”, but my voice squeaked. I hadn’t been alone with a girl in a while. She was pretty, lounged in her armchair, highrise jeans obscuring most of her pale belly.

“Why not?” was her follow-up question.

“My pappy died of lung cancer. Never really wanted to follow in his footsteps. With anything.” I eyed the box of cigs, panicking as she took one and slid it between her lipsticked, red lips. “I have a light, though,” I added hurriedly. I snapped open my lighter, one of those old-fashioned ones with a lid and everything, and eased it beneath her cig. My hand pressed against her chin. Once the cig was lit, I wasn’t keen on pulling my hand back, but did regardless.

She took a drag, tilting her head back and letting the smoke curl from her lips. Gray against red. Oddly beautiful, curling up towards the ceiling and vanishing the way I wished my heart would vanish so I could stop feeling it pound in my chest.

“Lung cancer ain’t a big deal. At least without the chemo, it takes you quick.”

“Your body completely deteriorates.”

“Gotta be more peaceful than getting shot. Or gutted in an alley. I had a friend, Tom- that happened to him.”

I leaned back, resting my head on the back of the sofa. “Lucky thing.”

AddisonCoy

The Delusion of Love

There must be a reason for such crude obscenities. But, after digging deeper in the trenches of reality I’ve come up with nothing, not a spick of wisdom I sought. Why does my skin feel like its wrapped too tight and stapled together, pinching me. I need to get out of my mask, but who am I turning into too? I’ve been a victim, a bully, an instigator, and a brat. Did I deserve to be toyed with, played with, destroyed, and battered? Depends, I wasn’t a saint, but I had some level of understanding for the narcissist. I am a borderline babe, we’re in the same personality cluster babyCluster B.

I trudge farther and deeper, peeling off the layers of my relationships- casual slow disasters from toxic bonds and self-distraught thoughts, nothing useful for analyzation. I can’t quite pinpoint when the switch was flipped, but I’m glad I cogged that old machine up, chewed it mercilessly, and spat it out to die. There’s no reason anymore. No reason.

I deserve to be loved despite my insanities, my impulses, compulsions, scattered delusions, loose moods, and a subtle twisted uneasy feeling around vulnerability, since there’s been so much abuse in my past. The past ripples into my present but I don’t need to live there. Not anymore, I have a life worth living now.

After attempting to save everyone but myself, I found the value in learning to love something, anything about myself and learn how to care for myself.

Loving myself? That’s been the craziest thing I’ve ever done. But I’m trying. And I’m doing. I may not be flawless, but I love my entire soul. AprilPetesch

Morning Coffee

It is 5:46 am when Jenny drives her work car out of Ruby Valley Hospital’s parking lot. It is a July morning and muggy from the storm system that rolled through the night before. Jenny can see the tendrils of fog that rise from the grass along the road as she turns out onto the main stretch that leads into town. Much to her annoyance, Jenny’s hair, which is worn in her usual pin straight style, has begun to curl at the base of her neck and around her temples.

Jenny hates this part of her job. She hates wading through the halls filled with the sick and injured so much that she rarely takes these early morning shifts. This morning alone she had seen a little boy with blood pouring from his nose, an older man whose face drooped drastically on one side, and a woman hacking violently into her hands and the air around her. She shivers just thinking about it.

Suddenly, her phone rings. She reaches for it where it rests in the center console and fumbles for a moment before answering the call. She turns the speaker on. “Hello?”

“Mornin’ Jenny. How’re you today?” says John, the oldest member of Sunny Valley’s staff.

“Hi John, I’m doing alright. Just did pickup at the hospital, so you know how that goes.” Her nose scrunches without thought.

“Ah yes, that part always bugs ya. Say, do you know what time you’ll be here? Mr. Martin’s family called first thing and I’ll need help getting preparations started. I’m the only one here at the moment, or I wouldn’t rush ya.”

“Aw that’s sad to hear, although we all knew it was coming. Um, just give me a few to get some coffee and I’ll head that way. I’ll be too grumpy without it,” Jenny sighs.

“Sounds like a plan. Hey, pick me up a large black coffee, would ya?”

“You got it. See you shortly.” She hangs up.

Jenny yawns as she maneuvers the vehicle back through town. Normally, she doesn’t have to be at work until 8:00 am, but with today’s early start, it is imperative she find a place to stop for coffee, otherwise she will show up paler than the people she works with. Up ahead, a glowing yellow sign lights up the morning sky. Jenny glances quickly at the sheet-wrapped bundle in the back through the rearview mirror before taking a right into the coffeeshop parking lot.

There are a few cars ahead of Jenny’s in the drive through line, and she hums softly to herself as she waits. People in the line keep glancing her way in their rearview mirrors and onlookers openly stare as she slowly inches the car forward. By the time she makes it to the ordering

screen, she is regretting using the company vehicle to get her coffee.

A young man’s voice comes through the speakers. “Hi, what can I get you started with this morning?”

“Hi, could I get a large, iced caramel latte with an extra shot of expresso please?” Jenny asks.

“Sure thing, anything else for you this morning?”

“Oh, and a large black coffee please.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep… that’ll be every-“ Jenny starts.

Suddenly, a raspy voice comes from the back of the car. “Yes, I’ll take a medium black coffee, and a blueberry muffin.”

Jenny takes one look in the rearview mirror and screams.

“Dude, you’ll never guess what came through the drivethrough this morning,” Michael says, turning to Irene who is there to replace him when his shift ends at 4:00. “It was so weird.”

“Was it weirder than the time that old man walked in here with just a speedo on?” Irene asks, scrunching her face as she remembers the man’s nude display.

“Well, maybe not that weird, but it was still strange.” Michael insists.

“Strange how?”

“Strange as in morbid and creepy as fuck.”

“What was it then?”

“It was a hearse.” Michael shivers.

Irene gasps. “Holy shit, no kidding?”

Michael nods vigorously. “I swear. The driver must’ve been pulling a prank or something too. She ordered her drinks, but screamed and drove off before I could finish taking her order. It scared the shit out of me. I’ll have nightmares for weeks.

Hannah Cornell

It had been like a beautiful fantasy, the first time around. A technicolor whirlwind, an entrancing, silky mouthfeel, slipping between my lips and down my throat. The liquid scarlet. The tangy umami meat between my ravenous teeth. It was taboo, more than taboo, but I was not able to stop myself. I indulged myself in what I had wanted for so long, tearing off strips with my canines and swallowing them down without even cooking my food first. There was no need to cook it; it was still warm. Still twitching with the final throes of death. I swore I could feel writhing in my stomach as my meal fought to free itself, to cause me to retch, to cause me to double think what I had done. But I would not.

I hadn’t told Castielle… my sweet, beautiful Castielle, with his soft blond-brown hair and delicate skin. He was a porcelain teacup, fragile and beautiful and intricate. I wanted to bathe in his beauty, draw him in to me and cherish him for centuries to come. Though the yearning to eat was once again eating me, I pushed it back and instead decided to admire the curvature of his cheeks, the way the tip of his nose pointed upwards slightly, his pointed ears that he used to listen to the praises I poured upon them. Oh, how I loved to hold him, to stroke his beautiful skin. I wanted him. I wanted his skin, forever, always under my fingers, under my nails.

Flashes of the night before played in my head; the sharp tearing of flesh, the feel as meat slipped, wet with blood,

down my throat. The way supple skin so easily caved beneath the sharpness of my teeth, bones crunching and breaking like twigs. It had been an impulse, and one I had never intended on acting upon, but I did, and I could not say I regretted it. It was delicious, more than delicious, to the point I salivated at the thought of it, dripping drool all over the carpet of our bedroom like a starved dog. Colors were beginning to change and twist in front of me, my head buzzing as if thousands of insects had been released within the confines of my cerebrum. My head twitched, my muscles moving of their own volition. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands. I needed to still myself, but the light in our bedroom was becoming too much. Rain was pouring outside the window, the noise worming itself into my ears in a way that I detested. A crack of thunder, and I lurched back, pressing myself up against the wall in what could only be described as mounting terror.

My chest heaved with the effort of breathing. I was still drooling, saliva dripping down my chin and falling into small puddles on the floor. My head was reeling, I could not see straight, and before me I could see the bedroom door knob turning, the door opening to reveal my beloved.

He approached me, and I pushed him away. I could hardly see him; I could not be certain it was him. I saw a blurry figure in front of me, someone barely recognizable as a person, smelling purely of blood and fatigue and meat. His cologne registered too strong in my nostrils. He smelled delicious.

The man- perhaps Castielle, perhaps not- pushed back towards me, and I screamed at him, pounding my hands on my head as if that would make my eyes focus and allow me to see who was in front of me. This figure- was it even a man?- was cornering me against the wall, cornering me as if I were a rabid beast. I was not rabid. I was sane. I had done nothing wrong.

Maybe this odd shape was the police, coming to find me after my first feast. No, no, it couldn’t be, I could not let myself be taken into custody so easily. My reign would not end that way.

For a second, I saw a sheep in front of me. A beautiful, ripe animal, full of tender meat for me to eat. If this was Castielle, then everything was clear to me: I used to look at him, and maybe once upon a time I had seen love. What I had truly seen, though, was a lamb. And if this was the authorities then I had seen a pig, and their flesh was just as delectable.

I lunged for the figure, thinking for a moment I had missed it, but yet I felt skin beneath my nails. I dug those nails in, my teeth ripping and gnashing whatever I could find. I held this writhing mass down below me- first it was a lamb, then a pig, then a shadowy mass of nothing. Who was it that I was killing? Who was it that I was devouring entirely alive?

The figure screamed my name- Tybalt. It was Castielle’s voice, but he was so delectable, just as sweet and savory

as I knew he would be, his blood running down my chin. His own blood pelted him as it dripped onto him; he screamed out again, trying to push me off. It did not sound like his voice. He sounded a thousand miles away. I bit down again, hearing the pleas for mercy, but I could not hold back. He was driving me wild. He was so delicious.

I told him I loved him before he finally went limp. I stood from his body, telling myself I’d harvest the rest of him and store it later, and collapsed back onto bed. My clothes were covered in blood. I couldn’t breathe. I had been whipped into such a frenzy, such a high, and now I was finally calming down. I coughed and spluttered, almost retching but stopping myself. I laid on my back in bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing I could hold my love. And so I dragged him into bed beside me, tucking him into the blankets and snuggling close to him. I kissed his blood-stained face, picked flecks of flesh out of his hair. He continued to stare, wide eyed and limp.

He was so deliciously beautiful.

“I love you.”

AddisonCoy

Infinitude

You know how on the first few mornings after you got that call

You would wake up, and for just a moment you thought that it was just a bad dream Maybe somewhere in the universe it was.

Maybe in a life three doors to the left,

they’re still right next to you. Maybe somewhere in space and time your phone rings and it’s them.

Maybe on the days she knows we need it most, God breaks her own rules, peeling back mortality’s curtain

To show us the infinitude behind the veil.

Maybe that foggy place between sleep and consciousness

Is the only place we can see clearly The only time we can remember that this is all just a dream.

That someday we’ll wake up somewhere much more infinite

Somewhere that lights of life that ran their early course go to continue to beam

Somewhere where that call never came

Not even in your darkest fears

Not even in your worst dreams

Madi Shively

Mad Gal Gone

I don’t want to be writing this

but my therapist told me I had to or at least she told me to do it and it felt like she was saying I had no choice, which is definitely part of why I even have to see the goddamn woman three times a week but instead of working on that I guess she decided it would be more fun (or maybe she’s trying to waste time and drag this all out to get more money) to have me sit here alone on a saturday night and have me write about /

well actually, I guess I don’t know what I’m supposed to be writing

when I told her I used to write a lot and then I stopped, she said: start again and when I asked how and what about, all she did was look me in the eyes and smile and tell me, again, to start again

what the hell am I supposed to do with that? ///

I don’t know what to write about and I don’t want to write anything but obviously there must be some part of me that wants to shut up the uglier parts of me that

say not to do things because I’m still here and if I’m still here, there must be some reason so it would be even worse of me to be here and not do anything than it is to be here and do the thing I don’t understand the point of I hope

or maybe I don’t hope, honestly, maybe my unconscious mind is just a sadistic little bitch who wants me to rationalize her decisions and fail in making sense of the world we’re in and when I ultimately realize the long con she’s got me on, I can actually (finally) give up in peace

I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know but I do know that when I picked up dinner for Ayla last night and I went into the restaurant to get our food, there was a lounge which had a bar filled of smoke and it was beautiful and I had to walk in there and pick up the food and I couldn’t sit down so I didn’t sit down and honestly I did pretty well and I was proud of myself for not sitting down until I got in my car and the second the door shut I screamed which was odd because I didn’t know I was going to do that, I don’t know if I even wanted to, it just happened and when I got home with a raw voice Ayla asked me what I took

so we fought about that and then we fought about other things and I told her that she’s going to have to

get the food next time, which felt unfair even while it also felt fair ///

When I was in school I took a lot of philosophy classes and the professor used to call on me and grin when I got so angry at how obtuse some of those boys in the class could be and I remember this one time we were discussing poetry and I said one thing about postmodernism and this random boy said another until the professor asked what he had to say in response to my argument and then the boy said: she’s smarter than me so / and the professor nodded and said yes she is

and when I was in school and I didn’t like to drink yet, I would spend nights in the library and sometimes the professor would be there on the fifth floor in the study room by Robert Penn Warren and Gabriel García Márquez and their words would hide us

///

I don’t want a drink I don’t want a drink I don’t want to take anything and I don’t want to write about using because then I’ll do it but I can’t think of anything else

and I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to do this anymore ///

Ayla heard me last night when I dropped the first aid kit and we fought

I don’t want to write about the fight because the important parts were the not-fighting, but I can’t figure out how to put those parts in here without making them smaller than they were

so I guess I’ll just write in here to remind myself to remember those parts because I think it’s probably hard for someone to find their partner covered in vomit and blood in the middle of the night

or actually, I know it’s hard and I don’t want to be this person anymore and I wish she would listen to me when I say to get out of here

///

When Ayla and I met at a house party back in school, we were both too wasted for it to count but we re-met in the morning on the floor of whoever’s house it was and we went out to get breakfast at the gas station across town

it was winter in northern pennsylvania and of course we hadn’t brought coats to the party so we tromped through the salted streets with blankets from the house wrapped around us and we complained about how cold our toes were and we sucked on handfuls of snow to combat our scratchy throats

at some point we passed an old lady who was out walking her dog and I remember the way Ayla scurried over to pet it and I just remember being shocked at how easy it seemed for her to love that animal she’d never seen before

///

She came to my appointment this morning and together they forced me to go to another of those meetings (at least it felt like I couldn’t say no – I’m still not convinced I could’ve)

I’ve told her and I’ve told her I don’t belong there and I can’t do it it hurts when we all sit there and listen to someone use cliches to cover up the smell of rotted brains and infected holes in our skin and I don’t want to compare my life to a toy slinky going down the stairs, I want to stop being a simile altogether but no

no, no, I have to go to the meetings and sit beside strangers who pretend everything is going to work out and I have to listen to the newest face recount the

DUI or whatever else forced them into the room and I have to sit there and drink burnt coffee and pretend that everything’s fine because Ayla’s sitting right there, looking at me with that face, and I have to pretend that listening to the people talk does something besides make me itch for a fucking drink

she made me stay after and tried to get me to talk to the other folks there but I couldn’t do it and after a few minutes of my crushing her dainty little hand in a desperate attempt to shut up and do what she wanted, I must have actually begun to hurt her because she gave up and we walked out of the yellow-tinted church basement and we sat in the car in silence for a few minutes before driving off

it’s almost winter and it was cold but those few minutes of nothing were nice and I want to put that here because not many nice things are going on right now

she doesn’t let me smoke in the car anymore since she quit, but I didn’t want a cigarette

we sat next to each other and I asked to see her hand

there were dark red-purple marks where my fingertips had dug in and I tried to say sorry but I don’t know how to do that

I started scratching myself in my sleep again and I don’t know what to do about that

Ayla got up to go to work and when she found blood on the sheets she got me up and instead of going to work we went to the ER because somehow my subconscious managed to rip open an old scar and I’m so sick of this I can’t do this I can’t sit here and think about all this when she’s in the kitchen pretending it’s okay when it’s not and it’s not and I would throw myself into an operational trash compactor for the xanax scrip they wrote me in that blank-white room before Ayla intervened and I just

I hate all of this and I hate that I hate it and I want to stop hating her for being a normal person and I want to stop being /

I don’t know what the hell this turned into I am so sick of being like this I am so sick of having to try I am

I am so sick of writing in this thing about nothing and I don’t understand why I have to

We haven’t been fighting. She hasn’t been home much.

i’m going to write this all out because i should want to remember it and i’m sure if i ever come back to this goddamn book i will not be able to remember any of this without rereading but i’m going to have to make do with just the words because if i even try to think about any kind of grammar or structure right now i will just collapse into myself like that one old building in downtown carlisle that they imploded a few years ago which isn’t the point but it is what happened and when i think about last tuesday i feel /

ayla came home after i fell asleep on the sofa late that night and she woke me up and she told me that i needed to go back to the home and i said i will not be going back because we did that before and it didn’t work and the cost is too much and she said that she had savings which i said i can’t take and that’s when she started crying which i hate because i started crying too and there was not really anything to say but there must have been something we missed /

later that night she said her father is dying and she has to go back down south to help her parents and she can’t go if i’m here alone but i can’t go with her because we can barely function even with the support

we have here and i told her i would but she said we can’t and

we sat next to each other on that ratty sofa from some random yard sale and we both stared at the blank tv screen and i wonder now if she was also wishing she had a drink in her hand

and i wish i was better at this but i couldn’t feel anything then even when the tears kept happening and i can’t feel it now but i know that i don’t want to feel it because my god it would kill me faster than any drug ever could

MargaretDeStephano

The Off Season

Have you ever seen a beach town in the off season? It’s like all life has been sucked out of it. The whole world turns grey.

I started at Dolphin’s Tale towards the end of August. The crowds in the boardwalk gift shop were already fading. Fewer people were buying seashell necklaces and those stupid license plate keychains with your name on it. I could always find my name easily. Kate. Only four letters. Blanchette also worked at Dolphin’s Tale and she could never find her name on those keychains. I got an hour’s worth of training on the sticky cash register and how to package trinkets and how to be nice and friendly. Despite this, I shattered a snowglobe on my first day. While Blanchette bandaged me up I thought about how odd it was that we sold snowglobes in a beachtown. We moved towards October, the store was empty more days than not. When I wandered onto the boardwalk at sunset in my flip flops and a limp ponytail, I no longer saw the clusters of older women in button-up shirts and pink capris with their squishy sunburned faces, no more hyper, sandy children with their crusty play pails and sunscreen sheens. I no longer saw the rowdy, shirtless little kids who shot at tourists with water guns from behind trashcans and corners while cackling. Instead, I saw lanky, skeevy boys from the arcade and the amusement park leaning against railings exhaling

smoke, those elusive surfers sliding up from the ocean like slippery seals and dripping down the street in their trunks.

It got colder, and people stopped coming.

I wasn’t working as many hours; things were tight. I went to the beach in the mornings, barefoot on the sand and wandering down to that rocky, sharp section of the ocean where the waves curl up and roll like there’s something big and alive and dark beneath them. When everybody leaves and there’s no more striped umbrellas on the shore and the sun dims, something different awakens. There’s an emptiness in the air, like the town’s soul left with the crowds. If you stick around in the off season, there’s gotta be something special about you. Either you’re like me and Blanchette, or you’re like the dark-eyed arcade boys, the surfers, the waterlogged old man who runs the peanut brittle stand. His whitish grey five o’ clock shadow is always there, peppering his face like a growth of mold on white bread.

Blachette told me, stayawayfromthesurferboys . She says they’re like sharks. Something is off about them too, with their perpetually wet, salt-crunchy curls and tanned faces, toothy white smiles popping out against sun-darkened skin. I was by the rocks when one of them came up to me, pushing back salt-thick blonde hair with one hand, a slick board tucked under his arm. He wanted me to swim into the water with him.

He was very charming. I touched his ocean-weathered arm so he could lead me in and recoiled at the slimy feeling. Like touching the top of a stingray. His eyes went dark and sharklike and he disappeared into the choppy water. You have to be cautious about everything in the off season. Anything strong enough to stay is worth being careful around.

It started to get darker earlier, and me and Blanchette would get cones or a pizza after work and watch fireworks on the pier or wander through the practically abandoned amusement park. We would sit in the dark, our feet buried where the sand meets the water and let smoke out from between our lips, each of us only distinguished by the little fiery pinprick that the cherry made in the dark blue air.

In November I started going around with this kid who worked in the arcade. He was thin and tall and his shorts and polo swallowed him up. He had mousy brown hair that stuck up no matter how you brushed it and flat grey eyes like pavement. He knew how to rig all the arcade games, and he would always come to meet me after my shift with his pockets full of stolen tokens and prizes and loose strawberry Starbust because those are my favorite. He would mess with the Skee-Ball machine so that over time I could get enough tickets to win the big stuffed dinosaur that hung above the counter. I thought his boss knew something was up because after I won the dinosaur I didn’t see him at the arcade anymore. Then I didn’t

see him anywhere. He disappeared and all I had to remember him by was that stolen, sawdust-stuffed triceratops. When I told Blanchette, she said she’d seen the arcade boy down on the beach, talking to a boy with curls and a surfboard and big sharp teeth. We agreed that he must’ve fallen for it and gotten eaten up.

The cicadas stopped singing, there were no more fireworks, seagulls were a rarity. The boardwalk was quiet except for the eternal rhythm of the ocean and the helicopters flying overhead. The bright houses up in the hills mocked us with cheerful color schemes, and that eerie feeling never seemed to leave me. Nobody looked tanned or sunburned anymore, everyone was sickly and spongy, like they soaked up the ghastliness that had already made its way into every alleyway and salty wave.

November into December, the surfer boys still didn’t leave. They congregated on the rocks at dawn, smoking and gobbling down funnel cake and seaweed and hard pretzels, waiting for girls to walk by. I saw one of them kissing some girl as the sun went down. He saw me, looked at me with empty eyes and flashed shell-white teeth before pulling her underwater. I think the surfer boys have learned to leave me alone.

It was mid-December before I got called home for Christmas. I went happily, hopped on a bus with a bag, glad to have a break from the misery. Blanchette

jokingly gifted me a license plate keychain with Kate on it and a souvenir T-shirt. She didn’t know if she’d be there when I got back. I’d hoped she meant she was finally going to get out of there and not that she was going to let one of those buildings or boys eat her until she was gone.I got on the bus and watched the town fly by the window. The surfer boys perched on jagged rocks, the lit-up arcade with sallow-faced boys engulfed by half-darkness, the roller coasters, ring toss, the dead-looking man who sold peanut brittle all disappeared behind me. There is still a scar on my palm from that snowglobe.

RubyTilder

The Worst Part

It's when I wring my hair out after my midnight showers that I contemplate just how fucked in the head you are.

There’s nothing I can do to change it now but when I hear your screams running through my brain

I can’t help but wonder what made you like this

Your fear? Your failures? Your father?

I know I’m out of it. I blend up smoothies with protein in them I go on runs

And there's a pile of clothes that sit on the chair where you used to toss insults at me and list

All my faults

I don’t watch movies about divorce Or really anything that features mean husbands Or men who scream

I see two therapists (three if things get bad again)

And most mornings I go to the gym (When I figure you won’t be there, of course.)

I think one day I’ll tell someone I don’t care what other people think about me And I’ll actually mean it

And I’m starting to think I might possibly be sort of a good person.

But sometimes I think about what is was like The war to fight for your love every day.

I think the worst part is that I can never forget what it was like.

The sky is darker than it is now I’m much more hungry

And I’m much more lonely

I’m not doing well in my classes, as I’m mainly focusing on my studies in “saving my engagement 101” And it is by far my toughest subject

As I tried to love you, I could feel myself aging The wrinkles on my forehead etch themselves deeper and deeper each time I ask you if I’m nice to be around

After I’ve promised you everything that used to be mine

When I wake, I prepare to spread myself thin

As I assume the roles of a caretaker a sorceress

A wife

Tasked with the feat of willing you to see me, if I can focus hard enough

I use all my might to summon attention that never arrives

When I fail, I crash It’s crying It’s pain and slicing in places I’m not quite ready to admit to my mom

All so that I can keep from your head from falling into your hands in disdain.

I’m not sure if I can love you anymore

Now that I know you so well

But I believe if I obey your rules and live with this false freedom

Maybe there is one place in this world for me

Even if it’s just on this corner of your mattress

Staring at the back of your head

Watching the genius tend to something great in a world in which I will never be granted access

Something shimmering and interesting and far more enticing than his nagging fiance

Paying close attention as I study what it is about me that is so repulsive

Is it how I sleep?

Is it what I wear?

Is it what I eat?

(You’ve stopped cooking me dinners like you used to, I get the message)

I use all my brainpower to silently configure what it is I can be

And thus far, I’ve concluded my best option is a lifeless slim limber physique with a mouth sewn shut

Except to smile through gritted teeth

There is so much I am willing to not say To not be

To not want Ifitmeansyouwillstillwantme.

I notice how you sneer at the way I turn in my sleep

And how my weight fluctuates

So in return

I knock back pills to sleep soundly And my diet turns into a plate of weakness (with a side of a lack of discipline)

I’d rather be painted the villain than not be painted at all

I’d rather be treated badly than not be treated at all

Laying on my side on your mattress, sharing solidarity with your upright bass in the corner That pays more attention to me than you do, And, come to think of it, you haven't played her in weeks, either

But I don’t dare complain. We’ve been at it long enough to know The nights I slip up are when things get bad.

I know silence is my best option

No matter how much I can remember I always fail your tests, lose your competitions If I make a sound, it will add fuel to your fire

You scream so loudly that when your voice reverberates off the walls

I can hear echoes of the voices of the best friends I had that don’t talk to me anymore

You refuse to stop until I am struggling to breathe as mucus, tears, saliva and makeup run down my face

Second-guessing reality as my eyes swell to the point when I can hardly see you staring at me, emotionless As though I have become some freak of nature And haven’t I?

By the time you’re finished, I am unable to speak let alone think of ways to defend myself

Which means it’s time for bed.

Before we fall asleep, we trade a couple sentences dressed as a conversation

And I am reminded that no one can ever love me more than you

To make it up to you, I pretend to be fast asleep while you feel me up

After all, I am probably most attractive to you when I am unconscious

And as you possess me in your palms

I close my eyes as I dream of sliding out of my body and morphing into something else

Maybe a starlet with a platinum voice performing for a stadium of thousands

Or a Pulitzer prize recipient with a big personality giving a commencement speech to a graduating class.

Something that’s stronger than this withering shell of a girl who is so afraid to leave.

Until then, a miracle has taken place overnight

A twenty-year-old teenage girl suddenly takes the shape of a wife, and eventually, a mother of two

Staring out of the window by the kitchen sink, imagining what could have been if she was brave enough not to settle before settling down

Just a mannequin going through the motions

Guided in whatever direction you care to lead me into My autonomy is a gift that is never appreciated, only tolerated, if not berated

Even now, I wonder if my face is permanently eroded from the nights I begged you to treat me like a person

My Face ID can’t recognize me anymore, and there’s a droopiness under my eyes that wasn’t there last January

I knew that you hated me

But I thought maybe it would make you smile When you noticed all the parts of myself I tried to destroy.

I knew that you hated me, But I thought maybe you could find it somewhat sweet If I reminded you of how I loved you so deeply That I have nowhere else to go now

Maybe I’m as fucked up as you say I am

I’d rather be painted the villain than not be painted at all

I’d rather be treated badly than not be treated at all

The nights you would rarely hold me

As I wore a diamond ring so that you could control me

It lost its luster long before the night my blue feet shivered into the bathroom tile

I wonder how I went from asking how many kids we want

To asking if you were going to hit me.

We can’t speak anymore

But I have always been curious: if it was fun for you to see me on the floor, frightened? Is it endearing to watch how I absorb the pain?

I tolerate as much as I can I know you don’t think I’m smart

But maybe if I fight, you’d think I was brave

But you scream at me so loudly

It’s almost as if you are trying to make me jump out of my skin

And into someone else’s

And when her name lights up on your phone

We both know exactly whose.

You get out of the shower and the switch is flipped

I can hear the fake remorse in your voice, even you think maybe you went too far this time

“It’s alright, we can talk about this in the morning”

But I know there are no mornings left for us

You offer me a shirt to sleep in and even hold me like you used to

You are an artist at making me believe I am safe After imbuing insurmountable fear in me (after all, how can you be the villain when you’re the one saving me from yourself?)

But the deed is done I am so afraid of you

And I can hardly recognize myself

I don’t know much

But I know you cannot be the hill that I die on.

Your arm is draped around me and you fall into a deep, adorable sleep

And you feel so heart wrenchingly, terrifyingly comfortable

It’s almost a new man walked in the door and saved me from the one who made me feel so afraid

I take in the texture of your hair and the contents of your room

Because I know this is the last time we can ever be like this

What I remember in my weakest moments is how peaceful you look in your sleep

Your eyelashes fluttering as you breathe in and out, engulfed in a dream

It reminds me of how you were made to be this way to me,

This cruelty was made to be part of you somehow.

But some untapped version of you is a boy in a twinsized bed with nothing but love in his heart

And the hardest thing to admit is that no force of love or devotion could bring him back I think about who you were before the world taught you to hide

I know time is running out before I hear the sirens So I say silent goodbyes to your sheets And your warmth

And the feeling of us intertwined And try to tell myself it was all fake even though it could not feel more real right now

I lit a match to a polaroid of you from the summer

A sick part of me felt good to watch you curl and char and melt in my hands

And know that you can’t hurt me anymore But before it reached your face, I blew out the flame

And I don’t know why.

I know I’m out of it, No matter how adamantly you hardened me up, there is a piece of me that is still tender I search for answers in the sky and the trees I believe there is still good to be found And despite my best efforts to break the habit

I still search for love in the month of November

I wake up and stretch, never before so happy to be alone in my bed

With the fresh, enticing possibility that today I may meet someone

Who never has to know you happened to me.

The only piece of you that stays with me–the real you–sits in a shallow crevice of my mind, keeping busy, eagerly egging on the voice that says I’m worthless.

I hear you in my worst mistakes

You only come alive when I misspeak or misstep

The remnants of you within me are what make me second-guess my accomplishments

My appearance

My kindness

All of it is fake and calculated and wrong

Because a piece of me still wants to ace your tests

And finally scream loud enough to make you hear me

Even if it means my vocal cords will never work again.

And although I finally worked up the courage to leave months ago

I know it will take a lifetime to undo you from my blood.

All the time spent scouring for the things we had in common were worthless

And now I realize I will never be anything like you

Because I feel shame for what I’ve done.

I knew that no matter how much I grew to heal You would spend your life clinging to the ghost of your old would-be wife If it meant digging your fingernails so deeply into my flesh until I bled You’ll never care about what scars you leave, anyway

I will never hear your voice again but I can still hear you Swearing up and down your resentment towards me to anyone who will listen over shitty old fashioned In your hometown’s basement bar

As if sinking your teeth into the skin of any woman within reach is not the one thing keeping you from plummeting into that abyss.

You know I never want to see you again Yet the insurmountable fear you’ve instilled in me causes me to look for you everywhere.

I hear a lot of couples call each other their “other half” But that implies that one is capable from breaking away from the other And I know I can never be absolved from you.

I can never forget that night

Collecting my belongings as fast as I could before running barefoot across the pavement

Hearing sirens as it sank in

That you could never love me

Because I can never escape myself, But that’s not even the worst of it.

The worst part is that I can never go back to who I was before I met you.

Something Small

Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I get out of my car and try not to choke on the dust that floats at my face. The parking lot is an asthmatic’s worst nightmare, with gravel and dirt flying up at every gust of wind. I look up at the building in front of me: a quaint little country-house, with a large sign hanging from the porch roof. Towne’s Antiques & Gifts.

I don’t know what I’m doing here, or what I should be doing. I barely remember the drive. I don’t even know what compelled me to leave the house – I just did. I’m just… here.

It’s cold out, for early September. That seems important, somehow. I hate when the sun blares and the air stays cold. It feels unnatural. I only threw on a lightweight cardigan when I left the house this morning. I mean, I didn’t know where I was going, or why I was going. How should I have known what to wear? I figured yesterday’s sweater would be fine, but the weather decided to flip on a dime overnight.

In some way it all feels absurdly appropriate. I can’t imagine feeling comfortable right now. I can’t stop rehearing the voice of Leslie’s father, garbled by the hospital’s shoddy cell service. Every few seconds, I re-

see my daughter’s face again as I have to tell her what happened to her best friend. I can’t remember how it felt, but I remember what happened, and I can’t stop. I can’t stop it. I’m ten miles away, and I can’t leave that room. The shock-filled space clings to my figure like static.

The stairs to the porch creak. They remind me of my husband’s groans when he tries to get out of our bed in the morning. I try to focus on that. I start to think of Olivia’s groans as she cried in my arms this morning.

As I push the door open, a bell clinks to announce my arrival.

Hi! How are you? a small voice asks. A short girl in an apron turns toward me, away from a stuffed animal display she was fiddling with. Her smile is dimpled. She has cropped auburn hair that’s pinned away from her face. She looks like she spends a lot of time outside. She keeps smiling at me with that customerservice smile. For a second, she reminds me of myself, back when I worked in a small shop to get by in college.

I guess I must reply with a nod or a smile or something, because she leaves me alone after a few more seconds of polite greeting.

I’m not entirely sure how I ended up in this dusty old gift shop with hand painted signs glaring down from every square inch of the walls. I end up in the back corner of the shop, by a sign labeling it as Outdoor Decor. I cry behind a curtain of shoddily crafted glass ornaments. I vaguely notice the salesclerk abandoning the sales floor to stand by the register. I wish I knew what to do. I wish there was anything I could do.

I wish I could stop hearing that raw voice:

I’m sorry to call you like this. You needed to know. I came home and… I just found her an hour ago and they couldn’t – God, Alison – they couldn’t even get her to wake up. My girl –

All I can do is think of Leslie. His girl. The crack in his voice as he tries to say it. Sweet little Leslie, the shy seventeen-year-old who always (always) remembered to say thank you.

Leslie, who’d been terrified to learn how to drive. She put off the permit test for nearly a year. As the rest of her friends were taking their license photos, she was just beginning to learn. She was so excited to schedule her own test, after spending so long avoiding it. I helped her find the site to register online. She came after her classes one day, toting her school-issued laptop with many thank you for your helps, telling me how she was so excited to give Olivia a ride for once

instead of having to be driven around. For the last few months, I’d been helping her dad teach her how to drive. With everything their family had been through these past few years, it was the least I could do. I offered to drive her to the exam, as we finalized the date together. She was scheduled to take the test in just a few weeks from today.

I think about my daughter – poor, precious Olivia –who hasn’t left the living room couch since I sat her there to tell her the news.

Olivia, huddled with Leslie over plans for her sweet sixteen, excitedly trying on outfits for Leslie to judge. Leslie laughing at Olivia’s colt-like wobbling in her new high-heels. Leslie spending every free moment at our house for weeks leading up to the party – opining on color schemes, arranging the favor bags. Leslie, whose own sweet sixteen was delayed by her mother’s illness. Pushed back and back and back until it was suddenly her seventeenth birthday, and there was no more sickness to cause a delay. We celebrated Leslie with a home-cooked meal at our house, while her father worked his night-gig.

I can’t stop crying.

I don’t belong here: I grew up in the city, Leslie and Olivia are both suburban kids. What the hell am I doing in this farm town? I don’t belong here, they

wouldn’t belong here, and I didn’t bring any tissues with me.

Rifling through my bag, I must look like a damn fool as I struggle to stem my tears behind a display of pastel-colored candles. The candles look homemade, the jars are beautifully ridged. They look heavy – like throwing one of them could cause serious damage of some sort.

And I just can’t stop myself from meshing last night with last week. Olivia from a few hours ago can’t be the same Olivia who leapt out of her chair to turn off the dining room light. She bounced over to help me carry the biggest platter we had, stacked high with our homemade (boxed mix) cupcakes. We, tone-deaf family that we have always been, tried to carry a tune along with the cakes: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday….

Leslie’s soft smile in the glow of the pink-and-mintblue candles. She was such a pretty girl. She would only wear makeup when Olivia pushed for it. Leslie was just one of those natural beauties, with light freckles across her face and bright hazel eyes.

…Happy birthday dear Leslie…

Careful! Olivia’s father and I squeaked together, as Leslie leaned forward to blow out the candles – her

long caramel waves were swinging dangerously near the flames. My breath caught as I imagined calling her father, who had already expressed his sadness at missing this dinner, to tell him that we’d also burnt off his daughter’s hair.

Olivia’s clapping and enthusiastic hugs. Leslie’s soft smile. Leslie mouthing a soft thank you to me, as Olivia careened around the table to begin serving the treats. I remember the way my heart softened. I remember coming over to kiss the top of that sweet girl’s head. We love you, I told her, my arms around her shoulders.

I flinch as I jostle a windchime, the edge of my purse catching the low hanging brass bars.

Shaken out of the memory, I look up to wave at the cashier. Excuse me, I call.

Yes? The cashier perks up, quickly coming from behind the rustic counter. She weaves between the precariously stacked inventory to meet me. How can I help ya? She has a vague swing to her voice: almost an accent. Not quite.

I’m, uh, I’m shopping for a seventeen-year-old girl. I don’t know what to get her. Is there anything small here that you think she might like? I just don’t know –

Of course!

I watch as she peruses the nearby area intently. She looks young to me. She has an air about her –experience or maturity or something – that makes me think she’s older than she looks. Otherwise, I would swear that this girl in front of me is the same age as my own daughter. My daughter, who’s so young. So young and sweet and innocent and who shouldn’t be faced with this. Leslie, who was so young.

Are you looking for something decorative, or more functional? the saleswoman asks, looking back to me when she realizes I haven’t followed her.

I, uh, don’t know. I’m sorry, I just don’t know. I’m still not quite sure how any of this happened, how I even ended up in this shop. I guess I’m just trying to find something small. Something to try to cheer her up, you know?

I wish I had words to explain the growing void between my stomach and chest. I wish I could make this stranger understand that I would do anything to prevent my daughter from feeling this kind of loss. And I can’t. But I can buy her something nice.

The saleswoman nods with a smile and moves away before I can start crying again. I swipe at my nose with the sleeve of my sweater.

We have these little butterflies, she tells me. They’re adorable and when they’re put by a window the sunlight bounces off ‘em very prettily. We only have these two left – the purple and the orange – but they’re super popular.

I wonder what popular means in a place like this.

The butterflies hang suspended from a hoop-like ceiling installment. On small hooks fastened by what looked like cream-colored satin ribbons, the two ornaments swing languidly. They look so fragile that I’m afraid to breathe too harshly. They are beautiful little trinkets, really. I can see why they’d be popular. Each one is about the size of the cashier’s hand, which moves to steady the orange one. They’re made out of faceted glass-like material, so that even the waxy fluorescent lighting of the shop reflects beautifully off of their wings.

I must stand there for ages, staring at these two ornaments.

Finally, I decide that the purple butterfly is the best I can do. The girl in front of me carefully unhooks it and carries it with her to the counter. I follow her. She’s a short young woman, a few inches shorter than my five-foot-five self. She moves through the shop, somehow managing to avoid every creaking floorboard and stray product that pokes into her path. I feel like a

graceless giant, clomping behind her. I don’t know what it is, but she reminds me of Leslie.

You take American Express? I ask. As we stand on opposites side of the counter, I don’t see a card reader.

Yes, we do! I have the processor right on the other side of the register, here, the saleswoman replies. Her left hand flutters over the pin pad and screen, before retreating to wrap the butterfly.

Oh, okay.

A stiff silence, interrupted only by the crinkling of gift paper around the ornament. The paper is a bright pink.

Pink is my daughter’s favorite color. I don’t know what prompts me to tell her this, but I can’t not.

The cashier looks up from taping the gift. She smiles but it seems a little less rehearsed than the previous expressions, Oh! Really? It’s mine, too. Is she the one you’re shopping for?

Yes. She’s, uh, she’s seven–

The cashier waits as I struggle to tell her my daughter’s age. I have to close my eyes as it gets harder to breathe. I take too damn long just to say: She’s seventeen. Her name is Olivia.

What a gorgeous name, the girl gushes. Mine is Maria… obviously. She points at her nametag and returns to wrapping the ornament. She’s very careful about folding the paper – I don’t think I’ve ever wrapped anything so crisply. As she bends down to pull out a gift bag, she continues to speak. I wonder if I’m making her nervous. She tells me, I love that sound for some reason. The AH sorta sound. I don’t know why, but I love names like Maya, Ella… Maria, obviously. She scoffs at herself quietly, and punches something into the keyboard in front of her. And now, Olivia.

Maria’s a very pretty name, too.

Thank you! Now, can I please have your name and number for the purchase?

Um, it’s not for me. Does that – does that matter?

That’s fine! This is just in case of returns or product issues, so if you want to put your daughter’s name, we can do that.

Oh, okay. For some reason I can’t get myself to understand what she’s saying. It feels simple and lost on me. The poor girl shuffles minutely behind her counter until I finally say, Then put the name as Olivia, please.

Alrighty! Her relief at the broken silence is palpable. Olivia…? Johnson.

And a phone number please?

Her best friend died last night. I don’t know why I say it. But I do, and once I start, I can’t stop. Sh-she killed herself and we heard early this morning. Her mom –Leslie’s – the other girl’s mom – she was… she was sick for a long time. I knew – I choke on the words – I knew Leslie was struggling but I just didn’t…. I didn’t…

It’s like I dissolve into the story before I can even tell it. The moment is ridiculous, I’m sure. Something straight out of an unpublished-Wilde: a middle-aged woman who slept half an hour the night before, sobbing to a young cashier that looks petrified by the unexpected emotion. It doesn’t even feel like I’m the one talking, as the words spill out. I just wanted to get her

something. Olivia. I mean, I don’t. I didn’t – I just don’t know what else to do. I can’t do anything. I-I couldn’t –

My voice cracks, as an echo of Leslie’s father. It seems wrong for me to compare my pain to his. Leslie wasn’t really my girl.

I try to collect myself as much as I can. I-I’m sorry, do you have any tissues? I just –

Maria hurries to the back room after she’s unable to find any tissues under the counter. She’s practically running, the poor girl. I would feel bad in any other situation. But I don’t think I have the capacity to do anything but cry for my girls, right now.

She comes back with a box of kleenex, and hands it to me. Here. She sounds apologetic. This is all we have in the break room. Can I get you anything else? Water, maybe?

No, I tell her, wiping my nose. It’s okay.

I’m… I’m sorry for your loss.

She’s sweet. I try to smile. I’m not sure I do. Thank you. You… You know, it’s funny, actually. You remind me of her. My daughter’s friend.

Behind the counter, Maria makes a sound like oh. Her shoulders quirk as if I hit her with the observation.

I can practically see her brain whirring, trying to figure out the appropriate reaction to the words I’m throwing at her. She offers me a few more polite smiles and a couple more I’m so sorry’s. She clicks a few more keys at the register. A receipt prints. I barely register it over the sound of my sniffling. I realize I never paid, after she deftly tucks the receipt into the gift bag and passes it over to me.

It’s on me, she explains. Please, I insist.

I can’t even say the words out loud. All I can do is mouth my thank you.

She tells me not to think anything of it.

After a few more minutes of my sloppy sniffing and her doe-eyed pity, I ask if she has a trashcan somewhere. She pulls out a small can. She’s pleasant and she’s obviously uncomfortable. I appreciate her poise as I unravel in front of her. As she puts the trashcan back, I try to smile again. My face can’t seem to hold any firm expression right now: my mouth trembles up and down and half-up again.

You don’t have children, do you? I ask her.

The cashier shakes her head. No ma’am.

I look at her for a second. I think about how it felt being her age, full of so much hope for the future, for the family. I almost tell her how lucky she is, to stay right here, in this shop for as long as she can. Instead, I duck my head and walk as quickly as I can to the door. When the bell announces my departure, I realize I forgot the ornament.

MargaretDeStephano

My Bathroom Mirror

I get it from my mother: My eyes, my smile, the lilt in my voice, how I hold myself.

Staring in the mirror though, I get it from my father: My high cheek bones, my hair, the ridges in my ears.

My face in the mirror–

Reflections of the winning generations: The Germans, The Irish.

Pale, freckled immigrants.

I am supposed to reflect heritage, bones, seeking.

But I can see an absence.

My face lacks their pain.

I can’t find all my ancestors in my face. The ones who walked from Georgia to California.

They have no space on my face.

Only 1/16, not enough– Lost in the blue eyes, in my blood majority.

Where do they lie in me?

They deserved better than being lost in my phylogenetic tree.

I have always searched my face for that connection, hint.

For a stronger nose, prominent structure. To be an echo of their resilience.

I guess I was not meant to show their struggles, battles, because, after all, my majority causes them.

But all the more reason I search.

I wish I could have stood the test of time, had a notion of their experience. More than 5th grade history class.

My children will surely dilute their existence more.

1/32nd - what even is that?A pin drop.

Not enough. No blood status. No heritage. No connection.

And isn’t that sad?

My hands are my grandmother’s: Iowan and small

My feet are my grandfather’s: Farmer’s, full of movement.

Sometimes I make believe the thickness of my blondebrown hair means something.

That the height of my cheeks or the crinkles of my eyes is the connection to my father’s line.

But I can never be sure, and I will never be able to claim, all my lineage aligns on my star freckled face.

ElizabethPeters

Winds of the Berserker

His spear was the wind. The invisible, unpredictable, sharp wind. The only evidence that made the weapon tangible was the blood that flowed from the tip. The warrior fought with an elegance that rivaled even the greatest of ballroom dancers. His steps floated on a sea of mud and crimson. One man after another fell at his feet. Their chainmail was nothing more than origami paper as his spear folded their skin inward to the shape of its blade.

The battle had waged for hours by this point, but the warrior couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t find the meaning of stop, couldn’t even if he wanted to. He was in his element. The void was the only thing that greeted his mind as he waded through the bodies. He was Moses and this was his Red Sea and only God could tell him when to let the water lapse.

One came up to challenge the warrior, but fear shot through the man’s spine. What was once man had turned into a monster in human form. The warrior’s helmet was gone, replaced with a mop of hair that stuck to his face. The warrior’s eyes were black saucers and wild as they scanned the battlefield before finding their target in the man who challenged it. His face split with a smile. A smile that held nothing but blood, spit, and madness.

The warrior was feeling nothing but pure bliss as he pierced the man’s shoddy chainmail. Blood trickling down the corners of the man’s mouth, life fleeing from his eyes. The warrior let go of the spear, its usefulness expunged just like the man’s life. Replacing the soaked wooden splinter that was once a spear, were two beautiful obsidian hatchets. The hatchets smiled the same euphoric grin as the man. They could tell it was finally their turn to join the carnage.

The warrior became even more delirious than before. Deadlier, even, as his strikes continued to dance on the winds they created. Instead of points of blood that exploded from a wound, it was a fan of crimson. It hides the warrior’s delirium from his adversaries, like noble lady would use a fan to hide her smile.

The ecstasy of battle, of life becoming death, of light succumbing to dark was palpable. The warrior had waged battle for nearly a quarter century, but none of those bouts compared to the madness and euphoria that stretch across the plain. This was a berserker’s domain, and heavens help those who tread on his fields.

LukeRosenberger

Living Like Tardigrades

InspiredbyAnnieDillard’s“LivingLikeWeasels”

Back in 2014, National Geographic debuted a series called Cosmos:ASpacetimeOdyssey.At the time, I was 12, and we had just gotten a Netflix account for our family, so I was excited to watch all of the new shows I had access to for the first time. Originally, I just wanted to watch things like DoctorWhoand Sherlock , but my dad pointed out Cosmos , and so we watched the series of hour-long documentaries about the universe together.

Most of the episodes were a mixture of information about life on Earth, contrasted against the vastness of space and the incredible phenomenon that happen all over the universe, no matter how big or small. My favorite episode, however, was probably the 6th episode titled “Deeper, Deeper, Deeper Still.” This episode explored some of the smallest organisms in the universe, in large part focusing on what life is like inside a single dew drop, on a single blade of grass. Among many microscopic organisms living in the water droplet was the tardigrade, or the water bear, as they are more commonly called by those of us lucky enough to know them. Up close, these tiny little creatures look sort of like gummy bears with a lot of extra legs and weird noses. They are often depicted in a peach or brown color, though they have a certain level of translucency to their bodies. They are so small that you need a microscope to see them.

For a short period of time, these were my favorite animal. I Googled everything I could about them, trying to understand more about how they worked, and how they had survived on Earth for so long. But, as most things go when you’re 12, I quickly forgot about them and moved on. Every once in a while, I would see an image or video of the odd gummy bear creature and recall them fondly. That was about it. Tardigrades, however, never seem to forget anything. These microorganisms have survived on Earth for hundreds of millions of years, living in some of the most extreme climates possible. They float aimlessly in little dew drops, on lichen and moss, their eight chubby legs propelling them through the water. Their microscopic toes each have microscopic claws on them, giving them that bear-like appearance. They have funny-looking mouths, sort of like little elephant trunks. They suck up the nutrients from plants and algae as if they were drinking from the tiniest straw imaginable.

Not only can you find them in your typical suburban patches of grass or moss growing in between sidewalk cracks, but you can also find them in some of the most extreme and diverse environments around the Earth. They have survived tundras, deep-sea ocean vents, tropical rainforests, and even erupting volcanoes. They are the definition of adaptable.

A quick Google search will tell you that these little guys have been around for 500 million years, outliving, well…pretty much everything. As they paddled on through their teeny tiny ecosystems, everything around

them died, disappeared, and was reborn anew. They survived—and continue to survive—extreme pressure changes, lack of oxygen, lack of water, radiation, and starvation. When humans went to space, we even took some with us (not purposefully it just kind of happened, as all things do when you’re a microorganism minding your own business), and they survived bare exposure to the cold, desolate vacuum of space. Their ability to adapt to new environments is so well developed, so powerful, that they survived for a short time in an environment where no other living organism ever had.

They are one of the most resilient species humans have ever identified, yet most people have no idea that they even exist.

I get the feeling that the tardigrades don’t mind being hidden or unknown. They seem happy, floating around wherever they please, finding mates or reproducing on their own, eating algae and other plants. Sure, some of them might eat other tardigrades sometimes…but that’s neither here nor there, I suppose.

I’m someone who hates change. I can’t handle being put into new environments without time to prepare and a familiar person to cling on to. If you put me into a deepsea ocean vent or the vacuum of space, I would probably still perform better than when my schedule changes the day of an event, or I have to navigate a new social situation entirely on my own. Who am I to criticize the methods that tardigrades have used to survive against all odds?

While I battle my way through daily life, here these little, microscopic gummy bears are, living 500 million years, surviving every change that has ever occurred to this planet, to every single ecosystem they have made a home. All of the creatures that were alive when they were first created are likely just fossils now, if they were even so lucky as to be recovered. And still, they just keep on sucking up nutrients with their mouth straws and propelling themselves through the water of a dew drop.

Every once and a while, I keep being reminded of these water bears. At a time in my life where everything is changing and I am being forced to adapt (some may call it growing up, but adapt sounds cooler), I am stuck thinking about tardigrades living in a volcano or surviving without oxygen. I wonder if I could ever be more like them, and I think that, while floating around in their mossy dew drops, they might speak on the possibility of it.

And then they would go on floating some more.

B.R.

Do I Look Like a Boy?

The bus jostles my slight frame as it trundles down the road back to my elementary school. I’m seated in the very front with a fast-made friend, the kind you can only make as a child with no poor prior experiences with people. The bus is mostly vacant, aside from the handful of students returning from the weekly gifted seminar. The afternoon air circulates throughout the vehicle in a rush of warm spring smells by the open windows in the back. As the school creeps closer, I pull my hair back from my forehead and bunch the extra strands in my hand so that they’re blocked by the back of my head. After looking at my reflection in the bus driver’s mirror, I turn to my acquired acquaintance and ask, “Do I look like a boy?”

My gender identity is an aspect of myself I have questioned for many years. There have been several instances in my life where I have wanted to be a girl, a boy, or anything in between. I have faced deep frustration and even despair trying to find a fitting label, often bouncing between several before reaching where I am today. Back in elementary school, though, those sensations were a lot simpler. All I felt was a certain warm satisfaction filling my chest when my fast friend agreed that I did, in fact, pass as a boy—even if her exact words were, “sort of.”

“Sort of” a boy, “sort of” a girl. A problem which arose and left me annoyed when teachers “sorted” the classroom into boys and girls for class activities, gym class, and games: a feeling which extended into the locker rooms of high school, where I felt compelled to change in the showers rather than out among the girls. My body became one that I felt disconnected from, a vessel that was mine to control, and yet wasn’t mine. The theme of overall disconnect in

gender and in other aspects of my life—carried throughout years of high school and even into today.

The catalyst to evaluate my own experience occurred during my freshman year of high school. It was in the late-night Pinterest chat logs where a close friend of mine came out to me as gay a friend that I happened to be developing feelings for over the span of a few years, and who I had ironically been planning on sharing my feelings with that summer. At the time, I still predominantly identified as female, although I had already been exploring my own sexual orientation. His coming out was exciting in that he was accepting his own identity—particularly as we both grew up in a church environment, him more so than I. Yet, selfishly disappointed, I found myself thinking, “If I were a boy, he would still like me.”

For that reason, I find myself familiar with the concept of Imposter Syndrome. I question if any of the

experiences I’ve had really match up to a different gender, or if all of it was brought on because I wanted to fit his perception of being male—if all of this is fake, if I am being dramatic, if I blew everything out of proportion. However, the point remains that I was experiencing that disconnect from my identity long before he confided in me. I see our interaction that day as an event which allowed introspection and allowed me to start on my own journey of selfevaluation, even if I remained in denial for a good while afterward.

In the following months, I scoured baby name websites to see if any name sounded right, if any fit my questioning identity--like searching for the missing piece of a puzzle that got lost long before I bought the board. I pored over similar experiences of those who identified as transgender, nonbinary, or gender-fluid and compared some of my own experiences to theirs. I found catharsis akin to the warm, fuzzy sort of feeling I received that fateful day on the bus in reading those stories and while discussing the concept of the gender binary with patient friends of mine who helped me make sense of it all.

For many who identify as transgender or non-binary, the changing of their name is important, serving as another transition into who they really are. It’s another reason I question if I really belong to this group, because I don’t want to change my name at least, not

now. That decision may eventually change, as things often must; however, my birth name is one that I intend to keep for the time being.

When I was younger, somewhere around the experimental kindergarten age, I briefly wanted to change my name to match one I found in a TV show. The character was suave, aloof, and full of sass in a way my little brain decided to fixate on. Although the character was female, I initially found the prospect exciting-- there are many people with my name, and I thought I might stand out more and be closer to the character on television if I had the same name. I eagerly brought up the idea of changing my name to my mom as soon as I got home from school that day. She immediately agreed—although, it was the sort of testing agreement moms do to appease demanding children with ridiculous requests, to make them question if that is what they really want.

In that moment, I realized just how wrong it felt. Panic rose up from my stomach. I remember breaking down crying, my face hot and wet with sudden tears. I didn't really want to change my name. I wouldn’t be me anymore. A similar sensation was wrought when looking through those baby name websites: initial excitement, followed by a sinking, heavy dissatisfaction. Any name I chose to practice felt fitting at first, but soon became overused and distant from myself. I realized that although common, my name is

assigned to me. It is an integral piece of my identity that doesn't need to be replaced to fit the expectations of others.

There was another moment which I considered alongside the pieced-together aspects of myself after my friend’s coming out, occurring during my years of attending various theater camps. It was a short-lived phase of my life the sort where I was convinced I could make it as

an actor, following lofty thoughts birthed from observing the actors I admired on the big screen. While auditioning, I found myself preferring to audition for masculine roles. I still enjoyed acting as girls really, I was grateful for any opportunity to be something other than the background cast. The prospect of playing a boy was exciting in those moments beneath the heat of the stage lights, where I could be anything and anyone. I could be a boy there, without any strange looks, under the excuse of “it’s just a play; it’s just another role.” What is life, if not putting on a show? We follow the script of an unknown director, playing roles for each other to ease our minds, developing the characters that we present to the world.

In any case, I was grateful and even a bit giddy when the opportunity arose to play a somewhat major speaking role. I was to be one of the Mayor’s children

in the local children’s theater production of The Pied Piper alongside two younger girls, debuting just a few months before the conversation that changed my outlook. In the meeting room above the main theater, the directors distributed packets of dialogue to eager kids seated on the scuffed tile floors, eventually coming to me. Looking over the packet labeled “Mayor’s Son,” then back to me, the director assured me that they would be changing the role and the script to fit “Mayor’s Daughter” instead, since I was a girl. I did not feel assured; rather, a silent frustration took hold, which I later lamented to my theater friends. Why did they feel the need to change a whole role simply for how I presented? It would have been easier to follow the original script; not to mention the other Daughters wore outfits with different alterations compared to mine. I used these excuses to cover the fact that I was disappointed in the switch of gender for my character, a switch which I felt they were therefore assigning to me. Ultimately, the audience wasn’t made aware of the change, and thus they were none the wiser—after all, the daughters of the Mayor were supporting characters. In hindsight, it was more of an overreaction than it appeared to be in the moment. Nevertheless, it was a moment that clicked later on when I realized the true source of my frustration at the time.

Despite the confusion and frustration regarding who I am, I like to believe that I have grown as a person in terms of my mindset and approach through which I cope with the unknown. During middle school, I was still uneducated and ignorant of the LGBTQ+ community, and in turn acted as such. When friends told me they identified as another gender, or tried to have conversations regarding sexual orientation, I recited the religious “love the sinner, hate the sin” mentality. Essentially, I had told them, “I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but don’t worry, I’m still gracious enough to be friends with you.” More specifically, while in my 7th grade English class, a friend of mine asked that I draw him. We had a free period since most of the class was caught up on work, so I agreed. He happened to be transgender, which I knew. I passed the drawing to him upon finishing it. I told him directly that I had accidentally drawn him in a more masculine light. He told me that was what he was more comfortable with, which I again shot down with, “Well, I didn’t mean to draw you that way.” He didn’t seem very upset at the time, but I realize now how hurtful it must have been. He told me in the years following that he didn’t remember the interaction and thus didn’t hold it against me, but it is still something that I am guilty of and have since tried to learn from.

Letting go of the stigma, conducting my own research, and keeping an open mind helped me realize that I had much more in common with the LGBTQ+

community than I previously thought. It helped me practice not just following what I was told because I was told to believe it, but to have my own thoughts and explore my identity outside the one I was expected to have. I have since apologized profusely to those who I had hurt during that time, and still feel shame for acting that way. I am immensely grateful for the grace I have been offered since. I am proud of where I am now, even if I am still uncertain in some respects.

The closest thing I feel a connection to at this stage in my life would be identifying as genderqueer. In general, though, labels don't mean so much to me anymore. I don't have to fit into a specific category to connect with anyone or to feel accomplished in what I do. They should feel satisfied just getting to know me, and if they intend on taking that time to do so, they shouldn't get as hung up on my identity as I do. I’m relatively satisfied with how I present myself to others, and I believe I have reached a sort of peace—or at the very least, a certain apathy regarding their perception of me. Even still, I throw occasional glances at the glass surface of mirrors, windows, and other reflective surfaces I pass by daily, seeing my hair shorn short and my clothes generally to my liking. Despite everything, I continue to find myself silently asking,

“Do I look like a boy?”

EmilyCantrell

Acknowledgements

The Prose Committee would like to extend a massive thank you to everyone who helped to make this chapbook possible:

ToourExecutiveBoard;EmilyDziennik,

OliviaChovannes,andMeganWilliamson:

You guys are the heart of this journal and this club as a whole. Your dedication and passion for TheReflector , and constant drive to mentor and encourage all the editors and members of the club is contagious, and I love you for it constantly. You will all be so very missed next year, but I’m also so proud of all of you and your constant achievements!

To our committee members:

Thank you, genuinely, for your involvement, support, and enthusiasm for the prose committee. Without your dedication over both winter break and the spring semester, none of this would have been possible.

To our writers:

Another big shout out to all the wonderful Shippensburg students who submitted their stories to be recognized in the 2024 edition of the Prose Spawning Pool. Your creative talents and willingness to share your stories are a huge reason why this journal exists. We will be forever grateful that we are able to publish your work, and to help you find an audience where your creative voices are heard. Never stop writing.

Kim Hess:

Thank you for working with us to see our vision for this book be realized. We appreciate your patience and dedication to help us figure out all the logistical elements of this project, whether it was choosing the binding or the color of the paper. You have been such a willing force for us throughout it all, and for that we are truly grateful.

Dr.NicoleSantalucia,advisorofThe ReflectorandSpawningPool:

We are grateful for your fearless support and guidance, which has contributed greatly to the success of this organization. We simply would not be able to do what we do without you.

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