Sequel 2019-2020

Sequel 2019 – 2020 Editorial Staff Poetry Jessica Arnold Seth Larson Misty Robinson Michael Roets

Visual Arts Jessica Arnold Seth Larson Misty Robinson

Fiction Abigail Blader Evan Burley Karisa Labertew David Robinson Managing Editor: Michael Roets Designers: Abigail Blader, Seth Larson David Wolf: Faculty Advisor Special thanks to the English department as well as the Office of Marketing and Public Relations for their assistance with this publication.

The content in Sequel is not representative of the opinions of Simpson College. Content is the sole responsibility of each author/artist. Subject matter may be sensitive to some readers.

701 North C. Street Indianola, IA 50125 www.simpson.edu

Table of Contents Poetry

Earth Rachel Shapiro 1 History for Kids Rachel Shapiro 1 Lullaby Rachel Shapiro 2 Pretty Little Tragedy Ashley Merkley 4 Ode to Narcolepsy Ashley Merkley 5 Social Work / auto mechanic Brayden Biersner 7 Underwater Levi Lefebure 9 You and I Levi Lefebure 9 There’s a man in the woods Abigail Blader 10 lachesism Hadley Wagner 13 monachopsis Hadley Wagner 13 opia Hadley Wagner 13 Time to Stop Faithyna Leonard 14 Which Is Your Clown? Mariah Clark 17 Psychology of a Lover’s Apology Mariah Clark 19 Anecdoche Misty Robinson 24 Gnossienne Misty Robinson 24 The Watch Misty Robinson 25 Gothic Vignette Jessica Arnold 27 Broken Things Baillee Furst 28 Impression Baillee Furst 31 Lady Silver Tongue Karisa Labertew 32 Wet Velvet Erin Magoffie 34

Fiction

The Yellow Light Allie Smith 39 Someone Like You Misty Robinson 49 Blown Away Karisa Labertew 62 Is It My Turn Yet? Anonymous 64

Visual Art

Autumn Flowers Coby Berg 3 Something Gold Rachel Shapiro 6 Mason Hayden Flannery 8 Serenity Lydia Sinapova 12

Windy Days Coby Berg 16 Double Self-Portrait Hayden Flannery 18 Rip in Space and Time Hayden Flannery 23 Tear-Stained Memory Rachel Shapiro 26 Peta Misty Robinson 30 In Her Eyes Misty Robinson 33 Antique Library Misty Robinson 35 Visitor Hayden Flannery 48 Weathered Ride Coby Berg 61 Mother Hayden Flannery 63 Cover Photo: “Midwest Sunset” by Seth Larson

Poetry

Earth

Rachel Shapiro

seven billion people still a lonely place ‌ but every heart a candle,

burning bright, loving life passionate sparks

wishing on sparkling stars

and soft dandelion fluff hope floating freely, spinning,

and finding magic in the mundane even if we must make it ourselves History for Kids what is history but smudged graphite in fading spirals fragments of memory in sticky July told by paper men in pointed hats with the gall to believe that their minutes on this rock could possibly stop the spinning

1

Lullaby

Rachel Shapiro

Sing me a lullaby of the carefree past, Of dancing in the sweet scent of lilacs, Imaginations wider than the pink summer sky, Before we knew we would grow up or die.

Sing of lost finger-painted photographs, Faded memories and genuine laughs, Spinning magical stories with happy endings, Every month, every day, an occasion worth celebrating.

Sparkling, shimmering, nothing amiss, All problems solved with a forehead kiss.

When life sparkled and the world was new, When every “I love you” was always true.

Ignorance veiled the daily news, How many more do we have to lose?

Corpses and gunshots surround us all And the radiant angels slowly fall.

Before the world spun shattered shreds And I didn’t lie awake at night in bed, Hiding in the dark from the ghosts that creep.

Sing me a lullaby so that I finally sleep.

Sing me a lullaby of a carefree past.

Then sing a requiem for souls burned too fast.

2

Autumn Flowers

Coby Berg

3

Pretty Little Tragedy

Ashley Merkley

Growing up in suburbia is kinda funny

plastic smiles and cookie-cutter homes

Everything seems artificial and smiles are

carved onto faces like Halloween jack-o’-lanterns.

Playing dress-up all year round, costumed in fear

and hiding behind masks of regret, of lost promises,

of broken homes.

My friends and I wanted something real, something happy

only it’s hard to remember what real is…

So, we tried to manufacture our own happiness

and this shit is no joke—

All my friends are full of trauma, we get high off comparison

not recognizing in due time that we’re all valid

that we all share traumas, but one isn’t superior to the others—

just different.

Living in a material world all I crave is some soul

I’m trying to make my brain relax

but it’s making fun of me.

I guess what I’m saying is I don’t want to be another casualty of society,

I don’t want to be just another pretty little tragedy.

4

Ode to Narcolepsy

Ashley Merkley

I met you for the first time when I was nine.

You didn’t ask permission, just decided to envelop my body.

I didn’t know who you were at the time, just that this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Sucked into sleep so fast I didn’t have time to react.

We’ve gotten to know each other quite well since then… it’s been eleven years.

How crazy that I didn’t know you by name until year eighteen.

You’ve violated my desires, yet I just can’t get rid of you.

I was given a diagnosis signed “chronic illness”

with the tagline “frequently debilitating” … as if chronic just wasn’t Intense. Enough.

You show me many sides of your personality—

the brain fog, the hallucinations, the excessive daytime sleepiness,

the cataplexy, and for the big show… the most vivid of nightmares.

I try to tame you with little blue pills I’ve been prescribed—

but you’re so stubborn oftentimes you still don’t listen.

One or two a day then hide them away…

ashamed of you and the pills I take to try and soften your blows.

You like to come uninvited, you just show up

I mean, it’s not like I can kick you out… you’re a part of me,

even part of my identity.

I just wish you didn’t have a desire to be so dangerous

like when you forced me out of consciousness at the steering wheel

following senior after-prom at 4:00 AM…

I awoke when my tires kissed the curb, so relieved I was

the only one on the road… and that you couldn’t quite kill me.

Another time you wanted to play roulette with my ability to breathe in the water,

I awoke sputtering when you tried to suffocate me in the shower.

You’ve made good friends with my Depression,

you two like to brainstorm new ways

to get to me.

You both ponder new ways to create calamity,

your perfect masterpiece.

When I first met you by name, in that small room at age eighteen

I had wires all over my head, I was sleeping in an unfamiliar bed.

Although it’s not like unfamiliarity is a problem for you,

You control my body anywhere you please.

But even though you control my body, I won’t let you control the whole of me.

I’m not going to let you define me.

5

Something Gold

Rachel Shapiro

6

Social Work / auto mechanic

Brayden Biersner

O what’s to say; she’s the authority, the queen of the house—but, not of my heart. Raised on a pedestal—horribly sharp, where barbed dreams awoken insincerity—scared is I. I rustle the nest and leaves, a night so fumbled by years and lack of talking. Listen, honestly—hand and glove O we may be, but never quite—I plead, take my hand and say you love me for me and leave your absent hugs and messages behind. I needed it then, but learnéd (to) do without them. Now, a mom’s escapee lives on—who left room for somber presages? O what a gay life—what’s next, hitherto?

A car drumbles in the driveway, oil leaks— leaking, leaking, leaking! Cat litter slurps up the spill. No relation to sheiks! Rat on the table saw—blame Ole clippers!

Despite that, I chalk over the palimpsests with beautiful vision and watch Dad fix— fixing, fixing, fixing—what wasn’t broke; watching closely this silent bloke. Chips and dip—our secret recipe.

Midnight snacks after his night at the factory.

Ne’er had a “thanks” nor time for the limelight. The complement to mother’s monarchy, albeit always working, working, working, his love undoubtedly, somewhere, there lurking.

7

Mason

Hayden Flannery

8

Underwater

Levi Lefebure

You say I should look up to you, As you hold me underwater, I do.

You and I As a Fly sticks to a trap attempting futilely to flee its grasp until all hope is gone.

As a parasite penetrates its host indulging on its insides until all will power is gone.

As a virus fixes itself to its victim eluding antibiotics until all strength is gone.

As my relationship was to you.

9

There’s a man in the woods

Abigail Blader

There’s a man in the woods whose skin is flame and molten ash, whose brow scrapes against the heavens – or would, if heaven lay within these skies – a man who drips fire and ichor into the autumn-dark breeze, and okay, so he’s not a man exactly, but his eyes glint like damnation and cherry blossoms aflame on a starless night, and his words flow like sand swept over carpet, like vines around the remnants of a once-great maple, so I guess really he’s not that different from men but we swear he’s the good one – or at least, the best one there – but that’s not true either, not really.

The good one is the man – is it a man? – who stands formless shrouded in gold-black light, but he’s been gone for a while now, that dark-light gatekeeper, and so we focus in on the younger, newer man-not-man, and we swear he’s the good one, – not like his brother, – so we let him stay there, in the forest wine-dark with secrets sung in whispers of a long-forgotten tongue, – and we forget the third who lies dormant further in, – – whose cries we write off as branches singing in a long-past wind, – – as the prayers of ancient saints – – creeping through the roots of old oaks, calling hósanna, hósanna – – in a steady chant meant for deaf ears, joyful in their despair. – It is easier, then.

Days like this, we prefer the distant, tender mercies of flame and war-song to the violet-silver-blackness beyond.

And so we forget the eldest And it is easier, better, good,

– so deep within the trees does he lie sleeping –

to shut it out, that pounding frost-warm voice, that constant reminder that, yes, the man with fire on his skin and ichor in his palms is death, is change, 10

– deplorable –

– is damnation, –

but behind him lies the elder, whose exposed bones sing with the brine-sweet knowledge of eternity and the price of divinity.

11

Serenity

Lydia Sinapova

12

Three poems inspired by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

Hadley Wagner

lachesism i am just an ice cube to keep your little heart cold and when i have melted away i don’t expect you to stay monachopsis a bed of scorpions lie on specs of beige adorned with hints of onyx and amber scales of a fish out of water is this home? opia the first frost that freezes the once fresh blades of grass the crisping depths of the ocean that drowns the disconcerting concerns the melancholy moonlight that maps the maze of my mind

13

Time to Stop

Faithyna Leonard

Tick, Tock…

I listen to that clock, Waiting for the seconds to slow down.

This poem isn’t about suicide…

But about a person dying inside, Waiting for minutes to halt.

This poem isn’t about cancer…

But about a person looking for answers, Waiting for hours to mean nothing.

No this poem is about being lonely…

It’s about screaming every night in agony.

It’s about the pounding of a heart That seems to weigh more than the soul.

It’s about the ghostly soul That seems locked behind doors.

It’s about the doors That seem to be glued shut.

It’s about being shut That seems to grow dark.

It’s about the dark That seems to consume the light.

It’s about the light That seems to be lost hope.

It’s about the hope That seems to be gone.

It’s about being gone That seems too comforting.

It’s about the comfort That seems to be peace.

It’s about the peace That seems to be left.

14

Waiting for seconds to slow down.

Waiting for minutes to halt.

Waiting for hours to mean nothing.

Tick, Tock...  

15

Windy Days

Coby Berg

16

Which Is Your Clown?

The white face

the red nose

the colorful suit.

One person’s amusement

is another’s fear.

You always hear

about the clowns from the circus.

But what about the secret killers?

The ones who hide

and wait till the midnight hour

to come out of abandoned unlit shadows

and terrorize those who live

energetic and joy-filled lives.

Those people like to imagine

the only clowns that exist

are those with the bright clean features,

and pressed bouncy clothes.

Not the clowns, whose makeup

has started to peel,

holes in the leotard and one shoe missing.

People don’t like to think

about the bad and scary;

of those clowns who prowl about

upon screens in blackened rooms.

They only want to stereotype

the good and amusing;

you know, those laughing, smiling faces

that emerge one by one

from a too small car.

This is why

those other clowns

choose their prey wisely.

They don’t pick the ones

who do not believe, They pick the ones who truly see.

Into the shadows and darkened corners,

and not those distracted

by pretty water gun

flowers.

17

Mariah Clark

Double Self-Portrait

Hayden Flannery

18

Psychology of a Lover’s Apology

Mariah Clark

To my dearest beloved, I want to start by saying I’m glad you stayed so long.

I don’t think anyone else would have.

It has been five years Since you first hesitantly said I love you.

I believed you at first, But I’ve since wondered if You said it to just say it Then slowly grew to mean it.

It doesn’t matter now.

But you know That I think too much.

It’s a personal flaw, It keeps my head sane While also making me insane.

As a child, I never thought about psychology I had no reason.

But now, it’s a part of me.

As a result I’m learning about myself.

More than ever I’m realizing, I’m not who I thought I was.

I’m beginning to understand Why I treated you the way I did.

I never meant to be cruel…

I never meant to criticize your life choices I never meant to belittle you for not putting me first I never meant to overreact when you didn’t immediately return my “I love you” I never meant to make you revert inside yourself I never meant to snap when you said something I didn’t like

19

I’m sorry for continuing to talk after I said I’d stop I’m learning That I was not a secure child.

I was so very anxious.

I think that’s why, I overreact to small, meaningless things.

I swear I don’t mean to.

I only ever tried to love you as much as my heart would allow.

We both tried doing our own things But we could never make it work We went running back, every time Some might say it was fate—others called us stupid.

I still say To this day It’s because we had an attachment too strong.

I wanted to give you the rest of my life You said you wanted it—I believed you.

But you couldn’t handle me Not when I was overwhelmed by my own mind Not when I jumped at every minor incident Not when I was angry over nothing Not when I claimed to be loving you too much You couldn’t handle me Forever.

Forever is a long time to predict.

I wanted forever More than anything.

But I worried that someday You’d realize You didn’t want to be with someone like me.

You know I try to be strong Some days, are just harder than others.

Having that anxious childhood Where I was overly dependent Only makes me a paranoid lover.

20

I used to say it wasn’t fair to you But that’s not true.

Because you Acted the grounded, levelheaded individual.

Making me feel in the wrong But it was you who twisted-toxic those years.

I’ll never understand How you fell in love with my wildfire self.

I tested you at every turn I kept you on your toes I pissed you off Yet all those favors you returned.

I constantly expected you to leave, And never come back.

But… You did.

You were (almost) always there.

In the end It was I who left.

I apologized Over and over—over the years But I wasn’t to blame.

For the past, the present, And wholeheartedly for our no-longer future.

I don’t know enough To determine the psychology Behind this apology.

But I just want you to know, That I loved you.

I have for five years, And despite the pain and heartache I likely always will.

Please remember, As you look back And think of me Never hold my words against me,

21

And I’ll try not to do the same with yours.

Despite the outcome, From the first smile, laugh, and conversation I stand by my belief That I never knew love until I met you.

Love may be hard And it’s certainly never easy.

So here’s to the ending of toxic love.

Sincerely yours, Your crazy, overthoughtful, psychologist lover.

22

Rip in Space and Time

Hayden Flannery

23

Two poems inspired by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

Misty Robinson

Anecdoche Nothing more can be said.

The game is at an end.

Spoken yet not heard; Every disconnected word, Strewn across the floor, Like a flipped game board.

What was the final score?

Gnossienne In her element, one with the Earth.

If nature can be so perfect, everything having its own purpose, why is she flawed?

‘Maybe it was natural selection?’ she considers, smiling at the bird who interrupts nature’s symphony to ask for a cheeseburger.

Her feet are dangling, just over the edge.

Come back to us. You are not alone.

24

The Watch

Misty Robinson

The watch reflects the rose-gold glow of the lamp off of its hands and catches my eye. Weighted silver binds my left wrist, reminding me of the time. It is odd to wear a watch again. It is second nature to slip out a phone to check the time. Not even bothering to acknowledge the time so that I have to recheck it a few moments later. I decided to wear watches again, so I am forced to focus on its hands to decipher the time. The second hand ticks away monotonously like my heartbeat to remind me I am alive.

The watch keeps time with my anxiety and depression. They seem to come hand in hand, amplifying the weaknesses of the other. It reminds me that I am wasting time worrying about things I have no control over. I can only control myself and how I react. At what point, when my heart is pounding in my ears, is it my turn to wholeheartedly grieve? Talking helps, they say, but when does the healing begin? I have talked, cried, screamed, stuffed, and written to the point of numbness.

The watch tells me another hour has gone by, and I don’t feel a moment closer to recovery. I drone out into the blackness of sorrow for my past and the burning of fear for my future until it keeps me awake at night. I stand on the line of still being a kid and being an adult with a kid of my own. I am here. I am no longer a kid. I had to grow up so fast. I have someone who depends on me now when I don’t even feel like I can depend on myself. I have always had someone to lean on; friends, family, lovers.

Things change as you age. At what point do you become a nuisance or a freeloader?

When is it still innocent help, and when does it turn into dependence?

The watch anchors me by its constant rhythm while my thoughts spin. Family surrounds me, his hand on my inner thigh. Are their expressions an illusion of my mental state, or are they staring at me with concern and a hint of disgust? How do I prevent others from seeing a stereotypical girl with a haunted past that threatens her present and future, without hiding my true feelings? I refuse to believe that is who I am. How do I help them understand without them hearing rambling excuses?

The watch sends me back to the time I am in instead of the hell in my head. I feel the pain and confusion in the hearts of those I pass on the street. It consumes me until I swell up with tears. They don’t need my tears, but there is nothing wrong with me crying for them. Empathy is a rare gift. It holds the core of my soul in its grasp. I refuse to see empathy as a curse; it is as much a part of me as my smile. Someday my empathy won’t contribute to my anxiety and depression. Someday it won’t slowly destroy me; instead, I will use it to understand and help others.

I am me. Even when I feel that I am losing grip on who that is, that fact doesn’t change.

25

Tear-Stained Memory

Rachel Shapiro

26

Gothic Vignette

Jessica Arnold

Pure eyes of lustrous sage Transfixed by withered palms, Untarnished ivory grace Suffused with dusted rose, Cascading raven curls Spread wide on willow frame, Lush mouth of crimson bloom Ensnared in fatal awe.

Her spellbound hands outreach, As slender fingers curl On precious bloody skin— Ripe poison, born of hate.

Fate held in blind desire; Absent mercy of the vain; Last breath escapes in mist, Full lips brush violent fruit.

Bite sinks in tainted flesh, Dark wings seal em’rald sight, Life bleeds from vibrant form Collapsed in ashen snow.

Warmth transforms to marble Heart slows to ceasing beat, Abandon hope in ice, Death of purity complete.

27

Broken Things I could never keep myself From touching things I wasn’t supposed to The cactus on my Aunt’s front porch Whose needles made me curiously wonder ‘Will this actually hurt?’

The light pole outside my grandparents’ house Which called my tongue to it Covered in ice one January night The flame of a gas stove So effortless transitioning From crisp orange to deep blue Crystal figurines lining the shelves of the antique stores my parents took us to nearly every weekend growing up I had no detection for danger My innocent world Still filtered through rose-colored glasses Even when I was poked Stuck Burned Or broken I didn’t let it stop me From continuing my quest To discover what the world was about There was a beauty to it The consequences of my actions The immediate feedback that screamed “You shouldn’t have done that!”

In my head If only that feedback had stuck I wish it had tattooed a caution sign across my vision Decked it out in bright neon lights 28

Baillee Furst

Perhaps if it had I would have known you would hurt me The moment I saw you Because you grew up Thinking you had a right To touch everything The icy covered pole The stove’s pilot light Everything in the antique store My heart My body Any woman’s body So long as you only wanted The consequences?

They’re not your fault The pole shouldn’t have been icy The stove shouldn’t be so hot The glass figure fell off the shelf itself and shattered I shouldn’t have been there alone I shouldn’t have worn that I shouldn’t have drank that All I could say When you were finished And I was lying Broken On the floor was “You shouldn’t have done that.”

29

Peta

Misty Robinson

30

Impression

Baillee Furst

I wish I could say that I was heartbroken But I can’t say it because I don’t know what love feels like I write about it, I create it, Between two characters And their love is beautiful I craft it as gentle, tender, and slow I create these characters with wit With brains and with courage But I do not know what it truly feels like To know if it is what I am feeling Or if it is simply longing Longing for this foreign concept Or maybe it’s a wanting to love myself

31

Lady Silver Tongue

Karisa Labertew

Glassy eyed, silver of tongue This way forth she always comes.

She cares not when I am down, Spinning tales round and round, Until I am buried under ground.

When I sleep, I see her still Singing of desperation and swill.

I plead and beg to end her sway, But she just smiles and continues to play A song of all that can bring me pain.

Many have fought against her reign, Some succeed, yet many fade.

One day I hope to break that tongue, And send her back from whence she came.

She may go by many names, But to me she’s known as Lady Silver Tongue.

32

In Her Eyes

Misty Robinson

33

Wet Velvet

Erin Magoffie

soft and warm and durable— we were velvet i had only heard stories about the ruining of rich cloth the fabric stands wrecked. permanently. after time in the sun, it dries, but the cloth isn’t the same. it’s harder now, coarse, crusted, its face no longer smooth. such a shame your secret spilled on our velvet.

34

Antique Library

Misty Robinson

35

Fiction

The Yellow Light

Allie Smith

Part 1

He was tossing the coin in the air, watching it flip and land back in his hand. Up, flip, down, land, and he would check to see if it was heads or tails. It didn’t really matter which it was, he just wondered, took note, then repeated his mundane ritual as he made his way home from work. The silver dollar was all he would make that day, so the round piece of metal had particular value that most of the people of his town didn’t understand. Flipping the coin would get a scolding from his father, as it was one step away from losing it, but he had been long dead for four years now. So, James tossed the day’s coin above his head every afternoon, transfixed by something so small having so much value.

Although he was 22, James’s earnings went straight to supporting his family.

After losing his father, his mother had gone into hysterics, cooping herself up in her bedroom for hours on end. His twin brothers worked as well, making about the same amount on a farm 20 minutes outside of town. His youngest brother, Paddy, was in school. They had the highest hopes for him and set aside one silver dollar from the three that they made in an attempt to keep him at school. When he was done with the small schoolhouse, they wanted to get him into a boarding school, and then college.

It was a high aspiration, but three determined minds were willing to make anything happen.

As he continued to walk, he felt an impact on his left shoulder, followed by a, “Hey, beggar, watch it!” and the sinking of his heart into his stomach.

His family didn’t used to be beggars. In fact, they didn’t need to be beggars. It started a month after the tragedy, when he came home to find his mother wailing at the market. Long, screams, begging for money and food, insisting that they were in desperate need. While they were poor, possibly the poorest of their town, they were still managing. The begging was only a result of the illusion his mother had come up with in her head. They had thought that taking her home and explaining this to her would suffice, but it never did. Each brother took turns every day bringing her home and putting her back to bed. It had made them outcasts, but they had started to learn not to care. All that mattered to them now was going to work, getting their coin, and bringing it home to take care of each other, most importantly their youngest.

Today it was Harry’s turn to find their mother.

James was almost halfway home, passing through the industrial part of town.

The smiths and inventors took up the central part of town, making the most money out of the commoners. Their houses had solid foundations and looked brand new. The nicest homes had front porches for lounging when the weather was sunny.

The breeze didn’t feel too strong, but his coin begged to differ. He flicked it up again, it spun ten times, before drifting slightly in front of his hand and bouncing off of his middle fingernail. He pulled his hand away in shock, shaking out the pain before the realization hit that he had dropped his payment. His heart unable to fall any further, raced, the fear of losing the money an overwhelming anxiety. Eyes locked on the ground, he found it a few feet ahead of him, rolling towards a quaint house with an extravagant looking wrap-around porch. It was a house he would never consider 39

going near on any normal day, but today was an exception. That coin was life for the Harrison brothers.

The sparkling silver teetered past the house into the back and fell flat underneath the porch disappearing from sight. James stopped at the gate, unsure if he should knock for permission or attempt to sneak in and back out. The house belonged to the town’s prized inventor, his wife, and his two children. Whatever option he chose would be a gamble; the inventor was an angry man who only interacted with higher-up types. The son was brutish and constantly red-faced due to his short temper, his hot head often getting in the way of reason. The women, however, were hardly seen. He didn’t know much about either one of them.

James couldn’t take too much time to decide. If he put too much thought into the matter, a passerby would be suspicious as to why he was standing in front of the house in the first place, or he would be noticed by one of the house’s residents. He squeezed his eyes closed, let the blood zipping through his body calm, and hopped over the short fence, his feet pounding on the ground beneath him. He saw the sun reflect off what could be his goal, but there was no way of knowing. He skidded to his knees to begin his search, but it was nowhere to be seen. James was looking into a pool of complete darkness, the silver dollar likely never to be found again.

He stood, ready to give up until he came face to face with the most beautiful set of eyes he had ever seen.

She had appeared out of her house without giving James any notice, and his heart melted at the sight of her. After four years of working tirelessly, he hadn’t paid attention to anyone in his town; there hadn’t been any need. It wasn’t a mystery to him as to why he had never seen her before, but now that he had, he knew that he would never forget her.

He didn’t know what to say. His heartbeat was spiraling in directions he didn’t know was possible, and his brain was filled to the brim with thoughts and completely empty at the same time. His tongue was paralyzed and numb, forbidding him to say anything stupid, but also forbidding him from speaking anything charming.

Her hand was closed, holding onto something. The sun’s yellow light was the only thing dividing the space between himself and her, the rays appearing to bounce off of her fingernails. He watched, intensely, as she opened her delicate fingers and allowed the sunbeams to bounce off the prize instead, his hard work wrapped into metal. She placed it in his hand, using both of her hands to cradle his, which were dirty and calloused. The moment lingered, their skin sharing the light.

“I’m…James.” His voice was soft, as if speaking too loudly would blow her away.

“And I’m Marigold. Your shoe is untied.”

He looked down and pulled his hands away from hers to see. She was right. The laces to his left boot were undone and sprawled on the dirt. He laughed nervously and went to tie them, twisting the laces around his fingers and pulling them into a knot.

Standing, he was greeted with white pain spread throughout his face, temporarily leaving his vision unusable. A fist had come in direct contact with James’s lip, followed by a second in the space between his eye and his nose. Any farther to the left could have resulted in it breaking.

Instead, James was left sprawled on the ground, dazed, the taste of blood filling 40

his mouth. Pushing himself onto his elbows, he opened his eyes halfway, a headache starting to set in and the light of the setting sun only making it worse. Marigold’s face was filled with horror, while her brother’s looked maliciously satisfied. The young man, only a year older than James, was proud of what he had done for her. He spat on the ground to drive his point home and spread his coat around her shoulders to lead her inside. Her blurry eyes and his met once more, a small tear rolling down her cheek as she disappeared into the gorgeous home that he could only dream of owning.

The hit to the face was intended to discourage him, but it only made him more determined. He fell for the inventor’s daughter. …

At home, the small shack on the edge of town, James came home to the smell of stew simmering in the kitchen. It was the same meal every night. Vegetables from the garden, and when they were lucky, meat from the market. When food was short, they would fill their stew with mint leaves and pretend it was enough sustenance for all four of them.

He slumped into a wooden chair, watching as Sam stirred and listened to his mother snoring in the next room. It was a pleasant sound to him, especially when put next to the sound of her crying.

“James, what in the bloody hell?” Harry had appeared in the doorway, a broom in his hand. His mouth had dropped open, and before James could respond, his brother had run off in what felt like in search of something to fix James’s throbbing face.

Sam turned around, eyes widening at what they saw. “Now isn’t that a sight to see.”

Something cold pressed against James’s face, relieving some of the pain that he had forgotten was there. He relaxed backward, letting his head dangle back, his line of sight on the ceiling.

“What happened?” Harry sat across from him on the other side of their wobbly dining room table.

“Some bloke tried to pick a fight. You should see him,” he joked, but he winced after trying to smile.

“That’s your only work shirt and now there’s blood all over it.” Harry was a worrier, and he didn’t laugh at his brother’s effort to make light of things. James looked down to find that his lip had bled onto the collar of his white, canvas shirt.

“I do the laundry, anyway. I’ll get it out. Go back to sweeping.” He appreciated the help, but he didn’t appreciate the frustration that came with it. Harry stood without another word and left, grabbing the broom he had dropped on his way out.

There was a brief silence, before Sam filled it. “Why’d it happen?”

James sighed, “I dropped my coin.” He set it on the table to reaffirm that it was still there. “And ran into the inventor’s daughter. You know, the one who lives in the big house with all the porches that is on the way home from where I work?”

Sam stopped stirring, “What?”

“Her brother…”

“Beat the shit out of you?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

41

Sam chuckled knowingly and re-shifted his focus back to the stew. “Forget it.

Forget about her. It’s in your best interest.”

While his brother was more than correct, James knew that forgetting about the interaction was never going to happen. The remainder of the walk home, all he could think about was the way how the small flecks of gold in her eyes emulated the way the light shone on her hands. He couldn’t escape his feelings for Marigold, to a point where he was frustrated with himself. He had never been one to feel things so recklessly.

“I don’t think I want to,” he said cautiously. If Harry had overheard him, there was a high chance his other eye would be at risk. Luckily, all he heard was a hefty sigh from Sam.

“Listen, James.” He hoisted the pot onto a counter, taking four bowls from the shelf. “I know we don’t talk about falling in love because…it never really fit into the picture, and even though you’re going for an apple that’s pretty high on the tree, you should listen to what your heart is telling you.”

A smile snuck onto James’s face. Getting beaten to a pulp was a good reason to be ashamed, but somehow he had a sense of pride in his heart.

His head was raised a little taller than before he took the swing from the inventor’s son. …

It was another month before he saw her again, and it took everything in him not to worry too much about it. While he was smitten, it was mildly dangerous to go chasing after her hand. He was trying to be careful and calculated about how he pursued her.

He walked home again, tossing the coin to a perfect rhythm as he did every day.

Some days, he secretly hoped that he would drop the coin, just to have an excuse to wander towards her house, but he didn’t want to build a foundation on a lie. The only time he would be dropping the coin was when it was genuine.

When her house came into sight, the sun was just starting to set, the same golden hue that had descended on her the previous fateful afternoon. His eyes lingered for a moment, maybe more than a moment, the perfect distraction for the coin to escape from his fingers and right under the front porch. Lips parted in shock, trying to suppress the unnatural excitement, James leapt over the fence hoping that a new opportunity to see her would arise.

The funny thing was, Marigold had bounded out as well, almost as if she had been sitting, waiting, and anticipating James’s coin to fly from his hand. Neither of them noticed each other until their hands knocked against each other, each going for the silver dollar to bring them back together. Nervous laughs followed locked eyes, and their hands remained touching for just a little too long.

The yellow light was shining on her face, but her smile was somehow brighter.

She looked at her feet and laughed again, something catching her eye.

“Um…your shoe is untied again.”

James didn’t bend down to tie it like last time. He had already learned his les42

son. Taking his eyes off her was—and always would be—the biggest mistake.

The light begged him to come closer, to allow it to shine onto his face as well.

He was nervous. Everything he had known felt as if it was being put on the line. There was so much at risk, most importantly his family. Despite all of this, only one thought occupied his head. He said it aloud for good measure.

“I was made to love you.”

He stepped into the yellow light, and let his own life begin.

Part 2

As Marigold’s brother yanked her by the arm after James had fallen to the ground, his eye starting to swell and turn a shade of purple, a subtle tear slid down her cheek. She met Jamison’s eyes one last time before being thrown into the house. She almost tripped over her feet and fell on her face, but neither her brother nor anyone else in her house would care much about that. It wasn’t like there were a lot of people paying any attention to her on a daily basis.

“What’s all that ruckus?” her father called from his study, probably asking out of curiosity rather than genuine concern.

“The beggar’s son was harassing Marigold!” Her brother, John, answered for her, giving a devilish smile as he escaped farther into the house. She couldn’t tell if he had actually attempted to defend her honor, or was preventing her from speaking to who she wanted to speak to. Either way, her brother had a short temper and reacted on it without much thought. The punch to the young man’s face was hardly the least that her brother could do. He had gotten away with so much worse.

Marigold didn’t say anything as she smoothed out the bottom of her pale pink dress. There wasn’t much she could say that either John or her father would believe.

As she gravitated towards the room her mother was residing in, she wiped the new tear that had started to form and inhaled, attempting to ignore the feelings that were swirling inside her stomach. Her mother sat in the parlor, a glass of what was probably alcohol in her hand, her eyes unfocused and glossed over. It was the state she remained in almost every day: forlorn and inebriated.

“What do you want, child,” she asked. Her deep voice was unsettled and anxious.

“The beggar’s son was not harassing me.” Even if she didn’t listen, she wanted to tell someone.

“And?”

“He dropped his coin. It fell under the porch. I went outside because I wanted to make sure he got it back.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

I think I want to see him again.

She couldn’t say that thought out loud no matter how much she wished she could.

There was something captivating about him. The careful way that he had taken the coin from her hands, the shy quiver to his voice when speaking, the fact that he had lifted his head to check on her before she was whisked away. No one had ever 43

treated her with such respect. Marigold lived in a house where she was tossed around and discarded. When he had looked at her, it felt as if she meant something.

Patiently, she waited daily to see him walking down the cobbled street. She wished that she could run up and walk alongside him, but her family would question why she had gone outside, where she had gone, and it would most likely result in a lash across her knuckles. When he had dropped his coin, it had been lucky that no additional questions had been asked of her. John’s short explanation had been enough to keep her father from prying. That being said, she needed a reason to go and see him again. Hopefully, he would drop his coin.

A month went by and she didn’t give up hope. In a way, it had started to become like a game for her. Since there wasn’t much that she did on a daily basis, she sat on the porch in the rocking chair, sometimes napping in the warm sun, sometimes listening to the sounds of the people walking by. She liked to sit and make up stories based on the little information she heard, wondering what it was like to be free like they were.

Hopefully her future husband, whoever that might be, didn’t keep her locked inside her own home.

Whenever Jamison walked by, she kept a steady eye on the coin that he flung into the air as he walked home from work, praying that he would finally drop it, and let it roll into the space underneath her back porch.

One day, it did.

She jumped out of the rocking chair and into the dirt where both of their hands met, followed by their eyes. His were a dark chocolate brown that glinted in the sunlight, looking as if they had seen so much pain and suffering, but still managed to find a glimmer of hope somewhere in between.

The bright, yellow sun shone between them, the unspoken barrier that kept them from ever speaking to each other until now. It took a lot for her not to beg for him to step into that yellow light, to break down the wall, but she was speechless staring into his eyes. She couldn’t speak even if she tried.

“I was made to love you,” he whispered, and entered that light, letting his soft lips briefly touch hers, a hint of a kiss, the fear of anything and everything almost too much to bear.

He let his face stay close to hers for barely a second more and murmured, “Meet me at the well about a half mile outside of town. Midnight.”

Squeezing her hand as he took his coin, she watched as he continued down his path, something lighter about his step than she had noticed before.

Midnight.

Tonight.

The well.

She would be there. …

Marigold was deathly quiet as she shut the front door of her house. Her father, fortunately, was away on a business trip, and would be for a great length of time. It was only her hot-headed brother she had to be fearful of.

44

She had been to the well once before. When she was little, her father had yet to become the successful inventor that he was currently, and he let her play amongst other children. She remembered a sunny afternoon when she went with them to visit the wishing well, and spent two silver dollars wishing that she would fall in love with a prince. Secretly, she wished James to be that prince.

The outline of his figure was sitting on the stone edge of the well, nervously bouncing his leg up and down. Marigold started to run, wanting to know the feeling of being in his arms, and the bliss that it would finally bring.

His work made him strong, and she felt that as he brought her close to him, wrapping his arms around her. He smelled of homemade soap and freshly watered plants, probably from the fields he worked in. It was fresh and clean and heaven.

Looking up at him, his eyes twinkled, disbelief seeming to dance in his gaze

On the back of her neck rested his calloused hand, and it slowly guided her up to his lips, where they were finally able to interlock, taking in his taste, feeling the sound of his breath as he pressed towards her soft face. The only eyes on them were the darkness. There was no pressure from the outside world to act a certain way or to follow certain rules. Jamison had given her a certain freedom that she had never experienced before.

It became a ritual. Every single night she found her way outside of the house and walked to the water well. In her head she saw it as a wishing well, seeing all of her potential inside of the reflection of water it protected, but she knew it was a soaked fantasy that could never come true.

Still, they met.

He told her to call him James. Sometimes she sat, holding hands and discussing their lives and the meaning behind them. She discovered that he was devoted to his family in a way that she wished she could relate to. He loved the people he was related to, while she was left with a mixed combination of feelings she couldn’t identify. She watched the careful way he spoke about his brothers, and the way his voice lowered when he talked about his mother.

“She wasn’t always like this you know,” he said one evening.

“Like what?”

“A beggar. We don’t actually need to beg. Harry, Sam, and I all bring in money.

After my father died…she sort of went ballistic.” She heard him sniff back some congestion, probably forming from the suppressed tears. Her hand was already resting softly on his, but she moved it to his shoulder, letting her chin rest atop of it. The sound of crickets filled the uncertain silence, until he stood, holding out his hand, and invited her to a dance.

There was no music, no romantic set of strings to propel them into happily ever after, but Marigold felt as if she was at the fanciest ball in the kingdom as she swayed with him back and forth, her head resting right where his heart was. She felt her eyes droop, sitting halfway between open and closed, realizing the pulse of his heart matched the pulse of the crickets.

“James,” she said, taking his face in your hands and letting his eyes fall into hers, “Let’s go. Let’s leave.”

His hand found its place on her wrist, a gentle gesture. “Marigold...what?”

45

“There has to be more to life than this. There has to be.” She looked past his eyes, onto the road that led to an abyss. “Let’s get married and find somewhere else to be.”

His eyebrows knitted together and he pulled her hands off of him. “I thought you understood.”

She attempted to approach him, but he had shut her out. “What?”

“Love, I…” While her eyes were fixed on the future, his were locked on the small cottage where his brothers and mother were sleeping. “I can’t leave them.”

She tried to ignore the excitement that arose when he called her love, and refocused on the situation. “Why don’t we…bring them with us?” It was a pipe dream.

A shot in the dark. She didn’t know how they could inconspicuously move an entire family out of the tightly knit town that all of them had only known, but it was the only future where they ended up together, and she ended up free from chains she hadn’t asked for.

He still held the concerned look, fixed on his home, his thoughts fixed on the people he cared about most.

He was correct. She didn’t understand. She wished she could, in fact, she had always dreamed that she could understand what it was like to care so deeply for the members of her family. She had grown up in an environment where money was life and where she had to maintain the image that was laid out for her. An image of perfection. Her parents didn’t love their children, nor each other. She was unsure if her parents even wanted her, and while she didn’t understand James, James also didn’t understand her.

“Love…,” he called her the name again; this time it brought a tear to her eye.

“I don’t understand. I want to understand. You can help me understand. I’ve never known family, James. You can…” she inhaled, using all of your strength to keep her composure. “You can save me.”

His eyes finally moved, returning to her, where tears had started to fall like wishes had from her lips. His thumbs moved them away, and his lips found their way to her forehead.

“We’ll find a way.” …

She had never known life outside of her town. She had never known an identity other than being the inventor’s daughter, and while James was afraid to pack up his entire family and move, it wasn’t until they reached a new town that they both realized how much of an impact a clean start could have.

By settling down in the town about twenty miles away from where she was born, she discovered how much more there was to her life than the money her parents had insisted it had been. Staring at her two-month-old daughter, she saw everything that she was made to be. She was a wife to James, a sister to his brothers, a caretaker to his mother, and a mother to his child. These were roles that she was happy to fill, and she was still able to experience the freedom that she had never known. She was able to take long walks through the new town, make friends with her neighbors, and 46

become someone she wanted to be rather than someone she was told to be. Somehow, she had reached perfection in her world that had been filled with darkness and anger. Somehow she had discovered that true love that she thought was so far from her reach.

The true love of family.

James worked for a fisherman, and it wasn’t long before he worked his way up to becoming an apprentice. He had reached a status that was respected rather than spat upon. Seeing him come home with a smile on his face and a bag of silver dollars was priceless.

She couldn’t remember when she started singing while she worked around the house, but she hummed her own made-up tunes while she hung laundry, and while she cooked James’s mother lunch, and while she swept the floors. Then Marigold sang to her little one when she was fussy, using lyrics that described how her life had changed for the better.

The beggar’s son was a curious man Who fell victim to my brother’s hand But when he stood he was taller than He had ever been before.

47

Visitor

Hayden Flannery

48

Someone Like You

Misty Robinison

“It’s like they were never there,” he says, smiling as he exposes my belly and kisses it. “Now, there’s just love marks.”

He’s trying to be romantic, but I’ll always see the scars. “Puh-leeeeze,” I laugh, lying back on the hospital bed in the delivery room. I groan from added weight, peering around my belly. “Tiger stripes or battle scars are more empowering.”

My short brunette hairs entangle with Link’s beard as he wiggles up the bed and settles in beside me with a grunt. We watch my skin roll from the pressure of our son’s foot as it jabs out at him.

I giggle and rub the protrusion until it settles back into place.

“That’s freaky,” he says, and we laugh again.

I’m enveloped in the scent of this man who loves me as I am, and whose shirts and sweaters fit best on me.

He caresses my cheek and presses his forehead against mine. “You’re not the kid I grew up with or teenager I fell in love with.”

“Oh, that’s romantic,” I tease.

“I mean it, Tabby.” Link tilts my chin up and holds my gaze, “We’ve both changed in our own ways.” Evening sun streams through the blinds bringing out the gold in his eyes I envy and pray our son will have.

“I’ll always choose to fall in love with every version of you,” I say as I close my eyes.

“I will too,” he promises and laces his fingers through mine, making the metals of our wedding rings kiss. ~*~

It was junior year, and we were bundled up with arms full of blankets and costume bags as we gathered in a hall to be greeted by a much-too-chipper show choir chaperone. I looked out the window at a freshly fallen blanket of death. I generalized all carpenters were unemployed in winter until I realized Daddy wasn’t a reputable carpenter. I hadn’t always loathed the chill of snowflakes. I used to beg for more snow just so Daddy would finally play with Emmy and me. He’d hide my hair under wool hats Mama knitted, but my dark brown curls found their way out. He’d carry Emmy on his shoulders, and the fun would end in cursing complaints. Our encounters usually ended in someone’s emotional baggage being ripped open, but maybe he would make time in his busy schedule with his new family to see me perform. A second later, my phone buzzed to reveal another predictable disappointment.

We dumped our things in our assigned homeroom and most headed for the cafeteria for a long-awaited meal.

“Let’s go, Tabby!” Kat clutched my arm excitedly.

“Not interested,” I retorted. “Pizza shouldn’t be rectangular, let alone slathered in enough oil to grease an engine, and the vegetables taste like they’ve been marinating in the Dead Sea.”

She tapped her foot impatiently.

“Seriously, the mystery meat’s a mystery to the lunch ladies who prepared it.”

Admittedly, I’d lost my appetite. Plus, I would run into Link if I went with her.

49

“But they have walking tacos!” she exclaimed and grabbed my arm, dragging me along with every peppy step.

Each classroom was open with kids from different schools flowing in and out, sporting their school’s name on t-shirts and jackets. Just before the cafeteria, we came to a closed-door, and Kat forcefully slowed to peek inside. Like the rest of the classrooms, it had a thick oak door with tall, clear glass opposite the knob.

“That’s not supposed to be closed, is it?” I asked as she investigated through the window. I was too short to see past her, so I checked the label by the classroom number. Usually, the name of the school it was assigned to was plastered there.

“Centennial Chamber Choir,” I read. “Aren’t Winry and Kenny in that?”

“Hush! They’ll hear you.” Kat dropped her voice and motioned for me.

Sure enough, Kenny and Winry stood inside. Alone. Kenny wore our Varsity Show Choir shirt with faded jeans tucked into ranch boots. He stood close to Winry, arms crossed and visibly agitated, but his face contorted with concern. Winry was just shorter than Kenny and also wore jeans tucked into boots, the cute kind not meant for hard work. She smiled through tears as fake as painted Barbie lips. Sugar-cookie hair was at odds with her arctic eyes that swirled with lies and deceit. It sickened me to look at her.

Kat elbowed her way in front of me for another look.

“We should go,” I warned.

Kat sighed. “I wish we could hear what they’re saying. You think they’re dating now?”

I shot her down. “Kenny’s a good guy. He wouldn’t do that to Link.”

“They broke up. She’s free game.”

“Is that what you think?”

Kat looked back at my reaction to judge her response. “No. I guess you’re right.”

My tolerance for Kat had always been minimal, but notably less so that morning.

I’d been awake before the sun and wouldn’t be home till long after it had disappeared.

No matter how hard I tried to sleep, bus seats weren’t suited for beauty rest, and it was frowned upon to nap in our homeroom. My hands held the weight of my head since my neck couldn’t possibly do all the work, and I scanned the cafeteria for Link.

Like all stereotypical chick flicks, this was the “it” spot packed with faces and names I couldn’t bring myself to care to know.

I struggled to see Kat as a close friend, and it made me miss my best friend, Lola. She’d been my celestial sister for eleven years and counting. We’d even promised that if we weren’t married at 40, we would take whatever kids we had and make our own family. Unfortunately, she and I weren’t involved in the same extracurriculars, so I was alone a lot. I often found myself resenting Kat, who used her friends like tissues. If one can even call her their friend since she only desired a new ear to bellyache to. Lord have mercy on the person who attempted to negotiate reciprocity. She’d demand their attention and affection for a few days, never appreciating the soul she’d suck the life from. Kat usually got her way at the cost of those around her. Whether she chose to acknowledge that or not.

Finally, I spotted Link. He turned to greet Kenny, who had just walked in, and they 50

hassled each other the way teenage boys did. Kenny said something that alarmed Link, and he briskly disappeared into the crowd.

I strained to see what called his attention, but he was long gone. I decided to compartmentalize my curiosity. Instead, I tried to engage in conversation with my peers but only found myself lost or ignored. How lonely I could feel surrounded by people.

As the walking definition of “middle child syndrome,” Kat had no problem calling attention to herself. In fact, if the focus wasn’t on her, she’d usually find a way to redirect it. Her slick blonde hair flung around her as her porcelain hands dramatized her point, and her tall, thin figure tilted in to captivate the surrounding audience. How anyone could stand to hear her high-pitched voice, I’d never understood. I imagined dogs wincing in pain every time she opened her mouth. Yet, I found myself mesmerized by the cobalt sea she had for eyes and the way her arms straightened at her sides when she tensed with laughter or excitement. She was such a happy fool, but it couldn’t possibly be real. I knew how terrible her home life was. Suddenly, Kat pulled me to my feet. Probably having achieved her quota from this audience.

“I’m bored, let’s go,” she stated.

We wandered the halls aimlessly, killing time between performances. My ears bled to the sound of her complaints. After only seconds, I tuned her out again and offered a head nod or murmur any time she’d pause for a response.

We wove through the corridors, stretching on like the pathways of a winding labyrinth snaking in all directions. I was always the first to get lost and the last to be found. No one would look for me anyhow. At every turn, I hoped I’d run into Link, although I had no idea what I’d say to him if I did. Especially with Kat at my heels, bitching continuously. If only I had the heart to tell her I just didn’t give a –

“– might be getting back together.”

I stopped abruptly, “Wait, what?”

Stumbling into me, she repeated, “Link and Winry? Didn’t you see them?” Whimpering, she continued, “Were you even listening to me?”

“No?”

“Wait – No to listening to me or seeing them?”

“Kat!” I stomped.

“Alright! They’re back this way.”

In the shadowed doorway of a closed classroom, they huddled, bickering. Link had a pretty mellow temperament, but when he got fired up, he went off like a Roman candle. Winry clutched her wrist as his hands sliced through the air. It was quite a scene. How was I so oblivious?

“It was your choice!” he spat, causing her to cringe.

They clammed up as we approached. Apparently, Link and Winry thought their conversation was private. His eyes burned into her skull (I swear I saw smoke), and she hung her head like an abused puppy. What I hadn’t seen was Winry’s minion on the other side of her.

Bianca stood in Winry’s shadow just as she did every day of her life, begging for someone to notice how desperate she was to be popular. She had a muscular 51

build from years of farm living, with curly cinnamon locks knotted atop her head, amplifying her angry appearance. Her style couldn’t be complete without the chocolate eyeshadow coating her mocha eyes. She folded her arms tight against her chest. Any observer could tell Winry was being scolded like a disobedient child.

Kat reached them before me, and Bianca muttered something and linked arms with Winry. “Watch him,” Kat ordered, trailing behind them until they all disappeared at the end of the hall.

Feeling out of place, my eyes traced the ground around Link’s feet. I didn’t need to see his onyx hair to know it was spiked in the front like he always had it. Nor did I need to see his eyes to recall the pine rings at the center dispersing into deep, golden brown. They’d seep into my heart, making me feel as warm as they’d appear. No one knew that about him. No one, that is, except me.

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” My voice echoed in the empty hallway.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and scoffed, “I can’t talk to anyone.” Pivoting, he used the force to hurl his foot into the wall, like the thunderous clap of a director’s hands indicating the end of a dramatic scene. Whether or not this scene needed a retake or had been spot on was to be determined.

I peeked up at him through the emotionless mask I felt forced to wear, and my heart melted seeing everything I already knew would be there. Was that a personal jab or directed at anyone in general? I hesitated, “What did she do?”

A disturbing scoff escaped his pursed smile, one that did not suit him, and he began slipping into his southern drawl. “She’s beggin’ me to take her back. She cut herself, Tabby. ‘Parently, she’s in ‘so much pain’ after our break up.” He pressed his palms to his temples. “It was her choice. She broke up with me!” His arms dropped, and he forced his hands into his denim pockets. “I just don’t understand why she went to Kenny.”

“Are you getting back together?”

Link stood quiet for a small eternity. I let my eyes wander to the wall behind him. An optical illusion poster hung surrounded by cheesy inspirational quotes. It was a reproduction of a famous illusion. Some people saw a vase while others saw two human faces about to kiss. Everyone sees the same situation from a slightly different perspective, like what happened with Link and Winry. There was Link’s side, Winry’s side, how everyone else perceived it, and somewhere in-between was the truth. I knew my perspective, but I also knew I didn’t know everything.

What about this moment? To anyone else, we were two friends talking. Link probably saw it that way too. From where I stood, sure, we were two friends talking, but one was oblivious that the other was in love. I’d had a crush on Link since sixth grade when he was a lanky geek with a bull haircut who handed out his parents’ cash to the less fortunate, like the Robin Hood of Centennial Middle School. Yet, I wasn’t his Maid Marian. I wasn’t even a lady-in-waiting. At best, I was a chambermaid who cleaned up after Marian. And, yes, Winry would have been Marian.

Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know anymore.”

Desire surged; could there still be hope?

“If she promises not to cut again, then I’d give her another chance.” He hesitated 52

for a moment, “I can’t have her cutting herself, Tabby.”

His words sunk in as I wrestled resentment beginning to roar. Winry believed that would win him back? Had I known it was that easy, I’d show him the scars that painted my own body and beg him to make the pain stop. I clutched my stomach, and a pinch of pain followed. I didn’t cut my wrists anymore. Instead, I’d scratch any area of skin raw. When my body tried to heal, I’d revel in the sensation of picking the scab.

I’d pick and rip until my body gave up, reducing each scratch to a permanent scar.

Despite my head spinning, I gave him advice. “If you want her to stop, you can’t yell at her. That’ll only make her feel worse, and it’s just a vicious circle.” Tears threatened my eyes, so I gazed at my shoes, searching them for the words I needed. “That’s probably why she told Kenny. He’d go directly to you, and she didn’t have to break it to you herself. Be gentle with her and support her, but make it clear she doesn’t need to hurt herself to show her pain.” My heart screamed, pleading with me to stop helping that witch. A snowstorm of emotions threatened to blow through my ever-growing pie hole. It swirled in my chest, but for a snowstorm, my heart sure burned. There can’t be a second of awkward silence. I reached into the vortex of whirling thoughts, scrambling for words like a child in a tornado simulator grabbing as much cash as I could before my time ran out.

I heard footsteps, and Winry stood behind him, looking pitiful.

He stroked the nape of his neck, consumed in thought, then reached out to Winry and kissed the cuts on her wrist.

Cold detachment morphed into boiling hate as I turned away from them. What was to come was certainly not meant for an audience. I wrestled with my conscience that told me not to judge the size and depth of Winry’s self-harm marks. They were kitten scratches, just something to get Link’s attention.

Kat and Bianca were already rounding the corner at the opposite end of the hall.

Clearly, Kat’s obsession with me had subsided. “Just forget it, Tabby. If they want to be miserable together, then let them.” Kat threw her comments over her shoulder, between her and Bianca, and directed them at my soul. She knew what I was thinking.

“Stay away from Link, he is happy with her. Besides, he could never like someone like you.”

They picked up their pace, gossiping, and left me alone to overanalyze. I had a sickening feeling Link and Winry would get back together over winter break. He was too sweet to send her away. I loved him for the reason he was breaking my heart.

Love is a strong word, but it felt right. I’d felt less for others and still called it love. Five years of silently desiring to hold his hand and tell him I’d never judge him the way they did had to mean something. My mother once told me, you can love someone, but you don’t have to like them. Did Kat think Link wouldn’t like the kind of person I am, or that he couldn’t love me for who I am? ~

After a long first day back, I made my way to my locker, bumping into someone every few steps, and receiving a glare each time. I’d rather be back in Lola’s basement, hibernating to distract myself from the fact that Daddy didn’t pick Emmy and me up for visitation again. We understood each other’s depression and just enjoyed not feeling alone in our vortex of teenage hormones. Lola’s presence was all that saved 53

me from subconsciously etching another scar while watching the drama unfold on social media. We were able to piece together that Winry and Link got back together for a short time, only to break up once more for questionable reasons. We also knew that Kenny, Link, and Kat had spent a lot of time at Link’s over winter break. Eventually, Kenny stopped being included, and we only saw pictures of Link and Kat. No relationship statuses had been updated since Link and Winry’s breakup, but Link and Kat were unusually friendly now.

A group of cheerleaders stood in front of my locker with their boyfriends. I crinkled my nose in disapproval, looking them up and down. Why did our school require underage girls to wear such skimpy outfits in the name of “school spirit”? It was a physics mystery how they managed to do the splits or front kicks in that uniform. I grasped the sleeves of my oversized sweater, suddenly feeling twenty pounds fatter.

“Excuse me,” I sighed, knowing I’d be ignored, then cleared my throat loudly, “I need to get in my locker.”

One girl glanced at me and scoffed as they slowly walked to the other side of the hall to make out with their boy toys or gossip or whatever preppy bitches do in their free time.

“Thank you,” I said sarcastically and began decoding. It jammed, per usual, and I gave the handle a hard tug. It unlatched, and I stumbled back, almost hitting Link.

“Woah there!” he exclaimed, “Who pissed you off?”

“Who hasn’t,” I joked as I swapped my laptop bag for my smaller purse.

“What’ve you got going on tonight?”

“Setup for All State auditions, then Level Up with Papa,” I paused to clarify, “erm, my stepdad. What about you?” I asked, shutting my locker as I walked around him.

He turned and followed, taking one step for every two of mine. “All State setup. Then Kat might come over tonight.” He ran his fingers through his hair, re-spiking the front and shrugged again. “If she feels like it.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “If she feels like it?”

“Yeah, you know how she is.”

I nodded with a sarcastic eye roll. Not that he knew how she actually was.

We trotted down the stairs two steps at a time then jumped over the last five together. I landed hard and played off a slight stumble by picking up the pace. “Are Kat and Winry speaking yet?”

“Of course not.” He rolled his eyes holding open the door to the music wing for me.

We slowed to a comfortable trot through the Band Hall, getting closer to the Mirror Room. We curved past five soundproof practice rooms the size of an average powder room on the right, and a continuous built-in bench along the left. At the end were two sets of double doors, the Band Room on the right and Mirror Room on the left. The last stretch of the hallway was lined with black cubbies and caged lockers for instruments.

“I just don’t get it. She doesn’t want to hold my hand or sit with me at lunch,” Link sighed as we made the final turn.

“Maybe it’ll take time to build your relationship. I mean, you aren’t actually dating yet.” Down the hall, I noticed Lola gathering her color guard flags from her band locker 54

and juggling an unopened container of microwavable mac and cheese.

“Looking good!” I whistled as she dropped her snack.

“That’s what good pussy sounds like,” Link joked.

She picked up the container of uncooked noodles and shook it. “If this is what your girl’s pussy sounds like, she should see a doctor. She probably lost her menstrual cup up there filled with beads like a fucking maraca!” She adjusted her black-rimmed hipster glasses and lowered her brows, giving me a sassy grin as she strutted over. I swear the sky was in her eyes.

He laughed as he paused and leaned down to open one of the largest lockers.

“You’re gonna kill your solo at halftime tonight,” I said encouragingly.

“You’re damn right, I am!” Lola nudged me suggestively as she hurried by.

I smiled and gave her my best eye roll. I’d be lost in this world without her.

Link propped up his tuba and placed his laptop bag next to it. Oblivious.

When Link finished, we entered the Mirror Room through its thick double doors.

It was half the size of a football field to accommodate large, rectangular, four-by-four risers we used for show choir. We circled around the back of them, revealing floor-toceiling mirrors built into the walls. We joined Kat and Kenny on an extended bench stretching under the mirrors on the right side of the room. The rest of our peers sat in chairs on the risers, already grouped by their assignments.

Link reached out in an attempt to lace fingers with Kat, but she wriggled from his grasp. “How about you hold your own hands?” she said, taking his other hand and lacing his fingers together.

Kenny and I exchanged apprehensive glances. We never knew when she’d choose to show her claws.

“You have your assignments, let’s break!” Miss Melody clapped and everyone hustled to set up for All State Choir Auditions. “Oh, Tabby, Link, you two set up this room.”

Kat narrowed her eyes at me.

“Move all chairs against that wall,” she continued, “and set up the piano there with four music stands surrounding it. Kat, Kenny, you’re with me.”

“Meet y’all back here when we’re done?” Link asked.

“Yeah, see you in a bit,” Kat stood and smiled at him. “Don’t even think about it,” she hissed at me. Kat’s cheerleading uniform seemed smaller than usual as she sashayed out of the Mirror Room after Kenny.

Link and I were left sitting on the bench as I stared after her in bewilderment.

Being alone together was becoming a natural occurrence. He slapped his legs and stood. “Welp, let’s get to it!”

It wasn’t a difficult job since all items required for setup were already in the room. We cleared the risers, stacked the chairs, and finished before the others. Papa wouldn’t be able to pick me up for another hour, and I didn’t know how much longer I could be alone with Link before I said something I’d likely regret. I sat on the bench against the right wall of mirrors, holding myself. My eyes welled with tears, and I stared off into space, coaxing them back.

“Jesus, Tabby, you look like you’re two blinks from tears. You okay?” Link asked, sitting on the bench next to me, facing the door.

55

I rubbed my eyes casually, staring at the ground, “Oh nothing, just allergies,” I laughed nervously. It was getting harder to maintain the façade.

Link leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Our eyes locked, and he grinned. “See what I did there?” He gestured between us. “That’s usually what you say to me.” He laughed.

I loved his smile. The way it hiked up on one side as the other struggled to tug it back down. Others barely noticed, yet I knew how much it embarrassed him. His laugh was warm. It enveloped you and made you realize what it meant to be happy. A small laugh escaped my lips as I smiled reluctantly.

“There it is!”

“There what is?”

“The smile you lost, I found it.” He credited himself with false pride and inched forward. “You can’t hide it from me. I will make you feel better.” He beamed, revealing what would likely become permanent laugh lines as an adult.

My subconscious took a photo; this would be his contact ID. Whenever I was reminded of him, I’d see this moment. Tears finally began to fall.

“Woah!” His jesting immediately subsided. “What is it?”

“You don’t understand. I can’t…” I trailed off, unable to breathe once the tears started. My throat burned from tension. Not again, why couldn’t I control these damn tears? I think I need help.

Link watched intently. “Can’t what? Why?”

I sobbed into my hands. Was this it? Was this my chance? Was I ready to spill every grievance I’d been holding about my parents, friends, and my out-of-control emotions? Was this my chance to show him my scars I’d been hiding, and my feelings for him that I’d felt forced to conceal? If I never try, I’ll never know.

He looked ready to hear it too. His eyes offered condolences to my misery. I anticipated his touch as he motioned to rub my leg.

“What’s going on?” said a cold voice from behind me.

I froze as his hand dropped, and he greeted her warmly, “Kat! Just talking.

Where’s Kenny?”

I turned away from the door, shielding my eyes, and stared past him. My reflection in the mirrors at the front of the room was puffy, pink, and pathetic. What was I thinking?

“He left already.” Kat was venomous, tapping her toe in disapproval. “Let’s go, Link.”

“Hold on.” Link asked me, “Do you need me to stay?”

I shook my head slowly, refusing to look at him. Need? No. Want? Yes.

Link tried to enter my sightline, “Are you sure, I can –”

“No. You can’t,” I said in a quiet, harsh tone watching Kat judge me in the reflection. “Don’t pretend like you have a choice. She’s summoning you.” I inhaled deeply, smiling through the tears. “I’ll see you Monday.”

He nodded with understanding and a hint of regret? “See you, Tabby,” he said solemnly and gathered his things. ~

My bedroom door opened a crack as Mama peeked in. “You up yet, Tabbers?”

56

I stretched, and I rolled to face her. “Just waking up.”

Mama was beautiful, even fresh out of bed with her wild ginger curls. Opening the door wider, she leaned against the frame and studied me with her emerald eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay,” I sighed.

“I’ve learned to live with a very flexible definition of ‘okay’,” she strolled in and sat on my bed.

I half shrugged, letting my neck sink into my shoulders like a turtle into its shell.

“I don’t want to go to school today.”

“Why? Isn’t the field trip today? You were so excited.”

“Until Kat complicated everything,” I added.

Mama nodded slowly and held my hand, “Tabby, you can’t let Kat keep zapping the joy out of everything you look forward to. She’s just a blitch.”

“A what?” I laughed.

“A blonde bitch. You know what I meant!” She hugged me. “You’re such a kind soul, but you worry too much.”

I nuzzled her hair and took a deep breath of her comfort. I wanted to tell her I needed help, but instead, it came out, “I’m just so nervous.”

“You’re not nervous, you’re excited. You’re excited about this lab and being on a college campus for the first time.” Mama slid off the bed and opened my closet. “Now, what are you wearing today?”

I motioned to my varsity show choir sweatshirt and a pair of shorts hanging on my desk chair.

“Uh, no.” Her nose crinkled. “Always dress better than you feel.” She rummaged through my clothes and pulled out a black and white blouse tied in the front. “This, with a black tank top and your skinny blue jeans. They make your butt look phenomenal!”

“Mom!” I fell back, sheltering my face with my blanket, “I want to be invisible today.”

Footsteps approached as she flung the blanket off my bed, “As my daughter?

Not a chance!” She tossed the clothes on my head and headed for the door where Papa had been holding Emmy and eavesdropping.

I smiled softly and waved. Emmy held her head regally and returned the favor.

“Remember,” Papa stated with a shit-eating grin. “You don’t win friends with salad,” he repeated over and over to the conga rhythm in a sing-song voice and danced as they slowly closed my door. He really was the father we should have had.

Link and I settled into our station, a cozy cubicle in the back of the room, and began setting up the polygraph lab. Kat and Kenny sat on the other side, stewing at being stuck as partners for the day. To all of our surprise, Link had asked me to be his partner.

Kenny popped his head over the wall dividing our groups. “Lunch?” he asked Link.

Link grasped the wall and pulled himself up to whisper, “If you make it that long.”

“What’s this?” Kat snatched a ring right off of Link’s finger.

“Give it back,” he warned.

57

Kat smirked and turned it over in her fingers. It was a thick, steel ring with an enormous onyx gem surrounding an encased diamond. There were engravings of show choir and his name on one side, instruments and our graduation year on the other, and “Centennial High School” curved around the gem, which was cracked from a time he’d punched a brick wall at school. Even I knew that no one was allowed to touch his class ring. No one.

“But why?” she asked rhetorically as she slid it on her finger.

“Listen here, Strawberry Short Bitch, give it back!” He flushed with rage.

I snickered at his comment. “Over here!” I said, coaxing her to give it to me instead.

She grinned and tossed it.

My smile turned to a scowl, and I immediately slid it to Link.

Kat protested. “Why –”

“Not cool, Kat,” Kenny interjected and sat.

Kat returned my glare and joined Kenny.

“Here,” Link slid it back, “keep it safe.”

My heart soared as I began to slide it in my pocket.

“No, not like that.” He took my hand and slid it onto my ring finger.

“But Kat –”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he affirmed and squeezed my hand. “Can I give you a ride to practice?”

I hesitated, “Yeah, sure.” Don’t wake up. ~

“From the top!” Ms. Vega shouted, and we rushed to reset the ending of the boys’ number. “Ladies to your respective sides, I want to try something. Is everyone near their male partners from the second number?”

“No,” shouted a girl from the other side of the risers.

“Who’s your partner?”

“Link,” answered someone else.

“Someone needs to pick up that slack,” Ms. Vega called from the band section behind the risers, busy addressing inconsistent chord progressions with the lead guitarist.

Link sat on the risers in front of me, his final position for the boys’ number.

“I’ll do it,” I declared, shaking with anticipation. Oh, what did I just agree to?

“Good, good. Ladies with male partners; when the music starts, strut onto the stage and flirt with your partner. Boys, greet them flirtatiously as well. One, two. One, two, three!”

Trumpets sounded as the music began again, and the ladies stormed the stage.

My face flushed as I circled Link, lightly touching across his shoulders where he sat.

His eyes followed my path as he smiled up at me. Slowly he stood, dipped to a bow, and spun me around before exiting stage left.

“Stop! I need more. Act like you like each other. Again!”

I shook as I touched his shoulders again. Link stood, bowed, spun me, but then pulled my hand to his lips, placing a delicate kiss. My head felt fuzzy as we both broke into wicked grins, and he winked before exiting.

58

“Yes, that’s it, Link and Tabby! Keep going into the vocals now,” she shouted over the band. We ran the rest of the show straight through. Everyone was panting and high-fiving by the end.

Link slid through the crowd of our teammates toward me. He grabbed and lifted me by my waist, spinning us around before hugging me tightly.

“Great job, partner,” he said.

“Likewise,” I panted.

“That’s a wrap, get to class,” Ms. Vega said, dismissing us.

Everything in our psychology classroom sounded muffled as if I sat underwater watching schools of my peers pass by with packets of results from the lab a few weeks prior.

“How are you today?” Link asked, passing me half of his sandwich.

I shook my head slowly. “I’m not hungry.”

“What have you eaten today?”

“Um… a bagel,” I replied, unsure if I ever finished it.

His eyebrow raised as he pushed the sandwich closer. “Eat.”

I sighed and nibbled the bread, turning the page as I tapped my highlighter on the table.

Link squeezed my leg. “I’m worried about you.”

I blinked slowly. “Why?” I couldn’t recall having acted any differently, except perhaps feeling a little happier now that Link and I were hanging out after school.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he said softly. “I’ve noticed a lot of similarities between you and what we’ve been studying.”

I’d noticed it too. It explained my random moments of numbness, uncontrollable crying, and lack of interest in socializing or even eating. Even when I’d told myself I needed to be happy, or fake it till I made it, everything still felt meaningless. I was sad and unhappy all the time, and if I thought something different, it was usually anger or frustration. A cold zap flowed from my spine. How could Link have noticed? Lola was the only one who understood what I described, she felt it too. My own mother didn’t realize what I was going through. Again, I felt like crying. I hated feeling this way.

“Tabby,” he said, cautiously taking my hand. “I don’t want you to think I’m judging you, I just felt like I needed to say something.”

I was a statue, unmoving as hot tears streamed from only one of my eyes.

Something odd that tended to happen when I shut down like this. “I don’t know what to do. I need help,” I whispered.

Link offered a supportive smile. “You do know what to do. We’ve been studying it for days now. Talk to someone. I can go with you after class if you need me to.”

I shook my head. I didn’t need him to.

Link nodded, realizing why I kept telling him no. “I can go with you if you want me to.”

Tilting my head up to the ceiling, I began to shake as the tears finally flowed with no tension, no hesitation, and no regrets. ~

I eagerly waited for Link to pick me up for practice like he had for the past few 59

weeks. I traced the engravings on Link’s class ring. It was at the top of my list for coping mechanisms. I’d been doing so instead of scratching since starting medication for my anxiety and depression. My therapist and I were still working on the dose, but I’d get there someday. I waited for his two hard knocks. Paused, per usual, to hide my excitement. Then answered.

I slowly turned the knob to reveal him holding out a bouquet of red roses and white snapdragons. I gasped, “What’s this?”

“Tabby, will you be my official girlfriend?”

I giggled, “Do you realize it’s Friday the thirteenth?”

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I just couldn’t wait another day.” ~*~

I know now, these scars that branded me don’t define me, and thank God that I eventually spoke up. That choice led to the weight of our son asleep in my arms.

I smooth his hair, and he responds with a sleepy smile, hiked to one side. He is the most perfect imperfections of Link and me in one, tiny human. Physically, he’s a carbon copy of his father, although he does have one of my “elf” ears. I often have to conceal laughter when he gives me his up-to-no-good smile that draws startling parallels to my own, and cannot help but fill with joy when he sneezes twice in a row, like his father.

We cuddle up to Link on our couch, and I rest my head on him. I’m comforted by the cushion of chest hair I’ve witnessed develop over these last six years together.

Link is smiling down to me and whispers tenderly, “For every second I doubt us, I have 10 seconds like this that remind me it will all work out.” Carefully, he kisses my free hand and squeezes our family tightly.

I will keep living for moments like these because if you never try, you’ll never know.

60

Weathered Ride

Coby Berg

61

Blown Away

Karisa Labertew

There she sits before me, love at first sight. I know I am destined to be with her.

Yes, she has long chocolate rivulets of hair down her shoulders and eyes just as dark, but these are not the qualities I hold most dear. No. The thing that made me sure of my love for her was the way her forefinger was diligently making sure there was not a speck of uncleanliness in her nose. Oh, to have a clean nose! There is nothing more blissful in the world. A tissue is not a suitable tool for this job, for it leaves one in doubt of completing its duty. A nose spray can only cause the nose to be more moist and push the secretions further into the body. Only a finger will do to confirm true freedom from any filth. Society is obsessed with cleanliness, so why should the act of becoming clean be something to be kept secret and separate? Everyone sees the act of picking a nose as disgusting and something to be ashamed of. But to me, there is nothing more attractive than seeing a woman viciously attack her nostrils while thinking no one observes her. Oh, to be that nose!

62

Mother

Hayden Flannery

63

Is It My Turn Yet?

Anonymous

Fucking frozen, and I’m watching her do shit that I’m going to have to try to patch together when I can move again.

No, don’t say that to him.

Yep, there he goes.

Bitch. Manipulative. Insane. Many other choice words that I’ve been called before.

It’s not easy suffering from depression, anxiety, PTSD, and especially borderline DID. DID is dissociative identity disorder—for those of you less versed in psychology terms—commonly known as multiple or split personality disorder. My PTSD has caused me to form this type of protection for me. But most of the time I’m not sure it’s protecting. Mine is diagnosed as borderline because I don’t black out and forget things I do, and I am in control most of the time. Now, if I get triggered, then I become frozen, shoved out of the way so one of the others can deal with it. Sometimes they handle the situation well, whereas other times…not so much. I also don’t have to change outfits, hairstyles, etc. to suit whomever is playing. See the move Split for the most extreme of this disorder.

No, instead I get frozen in place and watch as one of the others picks up the controller to the body system and plays the life game instead of me. And I must watch all the good and bad things they decide to do. The shit really goes everywhere when more than one of us is unfrozen and we must fight for that damn controller.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a whole person. It’s just that my whole has some fractures in it that lead to instability. Most people can’t stand me after a while, so I isolate myself. Plus, I like to be alone because I already must deal with these others in my head, let alone the rest of the world. I cannot fully explain this to others. They don’t understand, or think I’m faking. Shit like that makes me withdraw further. Hell, even my own mother doesn’t fully grasp it, or at least she doesn’t want to. But lucky you, you got a glimpse into the fucked-up body system that is me.

Well I hope you’ve enjoyed and please don’t bother coming back because I might not be the one in control next time, and you do not want to run into some of the others.

64