Folio is curated, edited, formatted, designed, and published by SLCC students each fall and spring semester. This edition is intended for free public distribution and is not for sale.
The cover is one of four versions published for the Fall 2020 edition.
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Stay safe. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Take care of yourselves and your communities. Don’t
Interim Associate Dean
Lisa Bickmore
Folio Advisor
Kati Lewis
Folio Literary Editor
Carly Gooch
Folio Design Editor
Sarah Kennedy
Folio Web Editor
Oscar Roche
Folio Literary Staff
Jana Harris
Emily Spacek
Folio Design Staff
Gabriella Gourdin
Ann Fillmore
“Dehiscence” means the splitting or bursting open of a wound. Medically, dehiscence is caused when there is poor healing of a wound or when there is an untreated, underlying infection. Wound dehiscence involves the wound reopening partially or completely often along the seams of sutures.
Put another way, it’s when a stitched-up wound reopens to create a new wound. Intentional dehiscence becomes necessary when a sutured wound becomes infected. Thus, the wound must be surgically reopened to remove damaged tissue—allowing the new wound to become the catalyst for the healing of the old wound. Both wounds must be treated and cared for in
A Perfect Night in Love
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Hmong Children - Northern Thailand
Misconceptions of Writing
My Summer Spell
The Worth of a Broken Motorcycle
..Or Learn the Hard Way
The Kids up the Street
VHS
Bree in Charcoal
“Fear no son!”
Poetry Aisle
A Girl Who Writes
Two Paths
Carbon 6
Rock Climbing
Makayla Nielsen
Emily Spacek
Samual Kennard
Emily Spacek
Jenzyne Webb
Dane Alicandro
Shane Denherder
Oscar Roche
Lyra Peterson
Alma Hindic Kukolj
Oscar Roche
Sheila Turjouk
Harley McCall
Samual Kennard
Kura Farr
PV Nilda J Davila-Marcano
Answers to Puzzles 9.6.20
intelligent life
Go First
Emily Spacek
Emily Spacek
Carly Gooch
Feast Heather Graham
Formally Known As...
TiReD 2020
Lessons from the Pandemic (2020-?)
What Day Is It
As In Real Life
Lies
Dead Roses
Heather Graham
Loree Reece
Mia Bailey
Bailee Elaine
Emily Spacek
Heather Graham
Kiley Money
Beast Rudy
A Fate Uncertain
Reaching for a Cure
Tyler Bearss
Tyler Bearss
Everything You’ve Touched Belongs to You Brynn Bunker
Recreation of a study of a man shouting Nicky Jones
am i making sense?
In My Trash: A List
Familia
Paredes
viridiana alfonso
Heather Graham
Oscar Roche
Oscar Roche
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Melquiades Oscar Roche
7th Floor
Rosie Phetphouthay
Blue Cotton Emily Spacek
Quarantine Goodbyes
Clock on the Wall
Hans Hardle
Kevin Williams
A Country Hero Phillip Harmston
e Nun’s Story
Oscar Roche
A Haunting Molly Hedgepeth
Our Moon Jacob Newkirk when the needle hits
A Convenient Murder
The Things that Fueled the Flames: Gaslit
Carling Mars
Bree Parish
Kura Farr
Impressions Nicholas McCullagh
Gaslighting Lisy Estopinan
Broken Promises
Sadness and Violence
Crazy in the Eye of the Abuser
“Looking for Claudia”
The Man’s World
A Letter to the Girls
Ku Kia’i Poli’ahu
“black lives matter”
Alexandrea Wayne
Nick Bates
Bree Parish
Sam
Sam
Oliver Taylor
Sepa
Alliyah Nkrumah
Sojourn Emily Jeo
Kayenta Samuel Kennard
The Wilting Giant
The Gladly Sea
Pêche
Coaxing the Cat
Untitled Galaxy Painting
Survivor’s Guilt
Will Fluetsch
Hannah Lee
Joclynn Kelsey
Carly Gooch
Joclynn Kelsey
Anna Petty
Crumb Anna Petty
Day 1- Sleepless Night with No Second Chance
The Origin of the Siren Song
J.A. Harris
Molly Hedgepeth
Vision by Sarah Kennedy
Les Mers by Joclynn Kelsey
When the Sky Fell
Regrowth
Anosmia/Ageusia
Hans Hardle
Kura Farr
Folio
Makayla Nielsen
A Perfect Night in Love
Hmong ChildrenNorthern Thailand
Misconceptions of Writing Samual Kennard
I really got to experiment with my writing during my time on the Camino de Santiago — a pilgrimage to the city of Santiago de Compostela. Early in the fall of 2018, I landed in the tiny airport outside of Bilbao — a beautiful little city in the North of Spain, that proudly and accurately claims to be the true heart of Basque Country. From there, I would walk six hundred twenty seven miles to Santiago de Compostela. Of course, travelling on foot, my mother was worried sick about me.
Being the broken piece of hiker trash that I had saved up all summer to be, I was not in a position to be calling home on a regular basis just to tell my family that I was safe. Instead, I would write them emails every couple days, sending them whenever I stayed somewhere with internet access. I fell in love with writing while travelling and writing about my travels. And there was so much to write about.
Once at a beach in Camino de Santiago where a craggy in the ground. I was alone at the time, or so I thought, until an entire family climbed up out of the hole and left excitedly. Walking in the hills, you never know how far you are from civilization; I thought I was a dozen kilometers from the nearest town, and here is a family of tourists climbing out of a cave. So naturally, I as I wandered deeper and deeper. After what felt like forever, I saw a little light -- literally a light at the end of the tunnel. As I approached it I was surrounded by an echoing roar. The cavern opened up, glistening in the daylight. The gaping mouth of the cave opened up just a few feet over the crashing waves of the Bay of Biscay.
I spent the rest of my day walking to the port town of Llanes, where my travelling companion was waiting for me. All I could think about was how I could get my family to believe what I had seen. I got to the attic room we had saved, with a window looking down into an oblong cobblestone plaza of cideries and cafes, and all I could do was write. I felt like that picture perfect image of the inspired writer, but the truth is that everything I had
to say had already been composed.ent, but equally enchanting experience; sometimes, the little things in our days can be surprisingly powerful. I was in the kitchen of the most put-together church-run hostel I had been to so far. It did not have showers, internet, or gas heating, but the beds were clean and there was a lobby with actual couches. The kitchen was really just a sink — with water I probably wouldn’t drink — and a couple hot plate heating elements.
On the way there, I collected chestnuts to eat for dinner;
Seeing me struggle, an Austrian that was staying in the same room as me came to help. He taught me to cut a slit in the shell of the was working pretty well, and the starchy meat of the nuts was
that I had poisoned myself by cooking my chestnuts with the shells still on them; he told me I had eaten rat poison. So here we are: a Spaniard, an Austrian, and an American, trying to coalesce our own cultural understandings of this seemingly harmless food. relationships with chestnuts. Austrians prefer to boil the chestnuts chestnut shells alone to make rat poison and would never boil a nut still in its shell.
Using the language of our classroom, I would call that entire encounter ‘pre-writing’. And I would consider it a critical part of the writing process, maybe even the most important part. However, pre-writing goes beyond the immediately obvious. Sometimes writing draws from the entire lifetime preceding it.
Before I landed in Bilbao to start my camino, I had a layover in Paris. It should be said that Paris deserves more than a layover; but there I was, in Paris for just a day. I had not slept all night; I was exhausted. More than that, I missed my family. The thought that I might not hug my cat for months only then dawned on me.
After a long day of wandering through storybook alleys, I sat down in a park to watch some birds and rest my legs. The ‘park’ was in fact the courtyard of the Louvre, and it looked every bit the part. Birds I had never seen before were bathing in a pond, families laughed over their picnic basket, and a beautiful girl in
a red dress drank her espresso alone. The scene felt like it was stolen from a cheesy poem, and I might have written one myself if I hadn’t bought a postcard earlier.
My pen hit that postcard like a sneeze. I scratched out a handful of phrases that I didn’t even know I was feeling before I started. Two phrases establishing the setting, one sentence for each brother, and a wish for my mother. I remember every word:
Dear Mom, Paris is beautiful; it makes me think of you. century castle.
Tell Eli I miss him.
I hope you’re making the most of your time with the people you
The letter missed Shakespeare by a long shot, but it hit home. More importantly, it was the conglomerate product of a lifetime of experiences. It was a story of cookies with Andrew, tea with Scott, and travels with Eli. It was not the product of sitting down and forcing literature to appear out of thin air.
When I was younger, I hated writing, so what changed? I stopped treating writing like a weekend chore to be pounded out with ferocity, and started seeing it as a way of expressing the greater trends of my experience. I stayed very aware of what was happening around me, and how I might write about it. The result was interesting, informative, and more polished than it had any right to be. Instead of sitting down and desperately trying to hammer out something remotely meaningful, I spend more time doing things that might relate to what I want to write. For me, the bulk of the writing is formulated while actually experiencing something that I love; typing it up is just a matter of transcription.
My Summer Spell Emily Spacek
my summer spell a secret language stolen fruit and borrowed timber within one sound a tribute to the stories of love from every previous life and— you can hear them waking up like day/break, like day/break
The Worth of a Broken Motorcycle
Jenzyne Webb
It was in my parent’s hometown, a tropical city in Manila Philippines, on a summer evening on a weekend in July of 2005. The bright orange sky had only just turned to dusky midnight blue. I was 10, blithely and amicably conversing with my mom, my cousins, and my sisters while eating the barbecue we bought from our good friend. I remember feeling so happy just bantering and laughing, eating the best barbecue I’d tasted in a long time. Thising not to jinx the moment.
Spending time together in front of our house was probably our favorite thing to do in our youth. Living the simple life with not a lot to worry about. Our house was built in the 60s and located on a cul-de-sac on 19th Avenue. As a two-story Victorian, it had that white-railed terrace, horizontally divided into two naturally, we were tight knit.
There was a section of our house that functioned as my dad’s water business. We were hanging out in front of the business, where my dad’s motorcycle was parked. That night, I sat on it with two of my feet on one side. It was better to sit on it to converse than to stand up for hours talking. Brand new Lifan 150cle. He saved up for it so he could have a vehicle to travel to and almost always better to walk. Having the motorcycle meant less time traveling, and more time with family.
“Jen, you better not knock that over,” my cousin jokingly blurted.
“I’m too small for it, so I possibly can’t,” I innocently replied.
In the Philippines, people would still roam around the streets as late as 10 pm. We were still out at 7 pm so the street right in front of our house was teeming with people, including my crush named Jared. My cousins, sisters, and I made small talk to
whoever said hi. Everyone knows everybody.
This is my chance to get Jared to notice me. I adjusted my position on the motorcycle, then I looked back to make sure he was looking. As I re-positioned myself, I kicked my short legs against the curb that the motorcycle was parked against, in hopes to get more comfortable. Instead, physics, namely gravity, worked against me. The motorcycle fell over on its side with a loud, shattering noise that startled everyone. to grab the handlebar grip to salvage it from getting damaged. Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid the accident from happening and all I could do was watch. The two seconds it happened felt like an eternity. It was too late, and I couldn’t save the motorcycle my dad worked so hard for to invest in. It was on the ground and the proof, smelling like gasoline, spilled on the street. It wasn’t badly mirror.
Not only did Jared notice me but everyone else in the whole neighborhood did, too. My cheeks suddenly turned red, all the commotion had ceased, and all I could hear was my heartbeat faster than a competitive rowing team’s drum.
My dad and little brother had been napping on the couch in our living room after a long week of work, so my cousin quickly ran inside to wake them up. My dad was groggy enough to do something irrational. He ran out just as fast as my cousin ran in, saw the motorcycle and without hesitation, raised his hands as if to hit me. My mom stopped him before he could actually do something, and then something clicked inside him.
My dad is a sensible man. He usually thought before he acted or talked. When someone has done him wrong, he tries to see the good in that person and he forgives easily. Although in this instance, the motorcycle was an important part of his living — it’s what helped him provide for his family. Breaking it means more expenses, which also means more hours outside of family time to be at work.
He slowly dropped his hand to his side, his eyebrows were still furrowed, and he left a big sigh — mostly out of frustration — kept his composure, picked up the motorcycle, and called me inside the house. Anxiety hit. I had seen my dad angry before,
When he just went upstairs to their bedroom, I was surprised. But it was bedtime.
While my sister and my little brother slept, I replayed the accident over and over in my head. I wrote down everything I couldn’t say at the time, and everything I should’ve done. I want-
school notebook to write down what I wanted to say. I addressed the letter to my dad. After I wrote the letter, I made sure that nei-
letter unnoticed. I placed it on their dresser to make sure that my dad could clearly see there was an important letter from me waiting for him. The note’s message was simple: “Who do you love more: Me, or the motorcycle?”
Fifteen years later, I would occasionally bring up the story to my family. They would tease me about being too sensitive and for writing the letter. My dad, on the other hand, would simply give a humble smile and reply, “The motorcycle was important but you are more important, and I know that better now.”
Learn the Hard Way
..Or
Dane Alicandro
The Kids up the Street Shane Denherder
When I was seven years old, some new kids moved into my neighborhood. Though, when I say “neighborhood,” this was more like a loose municipality of country homesteads that aver-
I spotted these new kids while riding my bike home from a friend’s house. Seeing other kids on bikes was rare in this neighthem with my heart rate increasing, I noticed the prominent waivkids were also made to wear bike helmets, which were unheard of in those times. I knew these kids were strange, but I wanted to check them out. I introduced myself, in the awkward way that a seven-year-old does, to Aaron and Cody. Aaron was about a year older than me, and Cody was barely old enough to be riding a bike.
I remember their dad— always within earshot of us, prequestions about where I lived and what my family was like, the types of questions that make a seven-year-old shut down. These were the classic “helicopter parents” that we hear so much about nowadays, but with an authoritarian twist. They were incredibly strict about every aspect of the brothers’ lives. It seemed as though anytime we hung out, they got in trouble for something trivial and received harsh punishments. Though it wasn’t always trivial—
a good idea to sneak onto a neighbor’s property and play around in one of the old broken-down cars. He found a bunch of cigarette butts in the ashtray and pocketed them to go experiment with later. Keep in mind— he was eight.
always excited to be hanging out with us, seemed to be a happy kid despite being born to the strictest parents I’d ever encountered.
While playing around in their backyard one day, we heard a big “boom.” The brothers assured me that it was just a varmint trap that was in the yard. They led me over to the device on the side of their house, and I was both shocked and intrigued by what I saw. Their dad had fabricated a tall metal trap that sat over
a molehill and employed a shotgun shell. If a creature came up through the hole obstructed by a lever, the shotgun shell was discharged straight down into the hole. The boom we heard was the device destroying a mole.
It took me a minute to piece together what had just happened as I surveyed the contraption and the bloody mess beneath it. Their dad came running around the corner, irate that they had shown me his illegal masterpiece’s inner workings. He took them back inside and yelled at me to go home, presumably so that he
see me after that, no doubt, on their dad’s strict orders.
My parents divorced later that year, and I moved into the city shortly after. I didn’t return to live in that neighborhood until
district and away from the “bad seeds” with which I had assimilated. I soon made friends, had a girlfriend, and commuted to and from school in my own car.
While driving up the street one day with my girlfriend Erin, I asked her if she ever knew the kids who lived in that old house. She got quiet. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she began crying, telling me Cody’s fate. When he was 13 years old,
had accidentally hanged himself while trying to play the “passout-game.” In his bedroom, by himself. Everyone who knew him assumed it was suicide.
Suicide rates have almost doubled in kids aged 10-24 since 2007, and nearly tripled in kids 10-14. When Cody died in 1995, suicide statistics were not available for 13-year-olds.
Cody was an extreme extrovert with many friends, but Erin said that he was deeply depressed in his last months. Their eldest brother, who was severely disabled, had passed away a year prior. Aaron went to a juvenile detention facility when he was 15 years old. Cody was now the only one left in the house, and he would get the lion’s share of the attention from his parents.
it ’s sadly ironic that their parents emphasized protecting them from the dangers outside the home while ignoring the threat from within.
Bree in Charcoal Lyra Peterson
Fear no son Alma Hindic Kukolj
Bullets whizzed through the air. The sound of grenades in the distance, girls from boys, mothers from sons, and women from husbands. They angrily spilled their whims on the tortured people. The men were separated on a truck, while the women with children were placed on buses. Mothers with children in their arms stumbled, trying to climb the stairs to their chests. The children huddled next to their dresses, trying to hide in their folds. Sobs echoed through the air. The girls screamed as masked soldiers separated them and pushed them into buses. Some girls were
A soldier in a black uniform tied their hands with a rope, and pushed
Family of three, Mustafa, his mother and father were there too.
Little Mustafa stood next to his mother, silently watching with horror just stood and watched, in shock. His mother was a tall woman, tiny as a leaf. She was one of the Bosnian women who always stood proudly, without fear, defending her child. Yet, now, fear took her breath away at him to her chest, trying to infuse him with strength and protect him from the horrors that surrounded them. She was not afraid for herself. She was afraid for him.
Mustafa: “Mom, mommy, why are these people yelling? Why are people?”
Mother: “Don’t be afraid, son Mustafa, we will be OK! These are just some well-wishers helping us get on the buses! We are going to the sea Mustafa. It will be nice there! Uncle awaits us there, with a lot of cakes and toys, and they are waiting for you!
Honey darling, don’t look that way!” watched in shock the happenings around them, the wild howling of the soldiers towards his friends and neighbors.
Where are they taking him? Mother, I want to be with my father! [He shouted desperately. The man in the black sweater, with the blue jeans was walking in a column of people, who were climbing on a truck.
“No daaaad, come back to us! Baboooo!” Mustafa was trying to break free from his mother’s hand, to reach his father, who got into the back of the truck and disappeared from sight.
tiny hand, to reach his father.
Mustafa: “Daaad, I won’t give you to anyone. These are not good people! Evil shines from their eyes! They have no smiles, they have no hearts! Baboooo! Here I am for you! Please, wait for me!” soldiers, who were dressed in black uniforms, with black caps on their walk faster.
Mother: “No Mustafa, don’t do that my dear child. Mustafa!” The mother screamed fearfully as little Mustafa ran after his father, towards clutched the back of the truck. Mustafa climbed on the truck hoping to
Mustafa: “Father, father where are you? I don’t see you! Please say something! Say you’re here! Dad!” He pushed through a pile of “Why don’t you respond, father? I’m not giving you, not to anyone!”
Father [ : “What are you doing, my little fool! You see you have no more room on the truck, this is an adult
bus only….!” His father hid his sobs as he slowly steered Mustafa toward the exit. The truck rumbled, the father shrieked in surprise. Father: Nooooo Mustafa, come down Mustafa, dear son, what His father tried to throw
Mustafa: “Father, father, wake up! Please father I’m thirsty!” The truck hummed, racing down the dusty road, hiding little Mustafa’s sobs. He looked around, asking No response.
neighbor Meho not tell jokes like he always does? Why is Ahmet looking desperately at a picture from his wallet for hours? Why is Ahmed crying? Where do all these sad and unhappy people go? Isn’t travel meant to make people happy?” He asked, but no response again. Just silence.
Mustafa: “Babo, let’s just return! I don’t want to be with you! Wake up dad!”
“I want my ball, my bed, my mother and her voice to tell me that None responded back, no one comforted him.
To read the rest of this intriguing work,
A Girl Who Writes Sheila Turjouk
handwriting looked like squiggles, I hoped so desperately that with time and practice my writing would eventually be readable. I how to make it mean something in my head. I spoke Arabic every cherished the sound of my language but converting my passion for words into words on paper was a huge obstacle I faced. After much time and much practice, I did eventually learn to write. Not only could I write, but I could write legibly. The history of the Arabic language is so vast and deep, learning to read and write was such an important bridge connecting me to where I come from.ward.
In Libya, we ate our breakfasts at our house. Only lunch was eaten at school. The classrooms smelled like chalk as the teacher wrote and we, the students, sat on hard wooden chairs dressed in our school uniforms. Libyan students have to be on time and organize teacher. We would sing the national anthem. The schools were also strict about our writing as well.ferent styles of clothing or hair. Breakfast and lunch were served. The chairs were also hard as metal. It was hard to adapt to American culture, food, clothes, climate, and writing.
on the way to the United States. I did not know that the sounds such a contrast from what I knew compared to what I was hearing. I could not imagine speaking this language, let alone writing it.
Slowly, I began to talk. I struggled to speak these foreign sounds
and strange noises, but like breaking through a barricade, I learned the English language. The next trial I faced was reading English. I needed tutors to teach me to look at these jumbles of letters and make sense of them. I practiced vocabulary for hours. age of thirteen what most people learned at the age of eight. When The hardest challenge that learning English carried was undoubtedly learning how to write. In Arabic you write from right to left, this new language is the opposite. The letters looked weird, they’re not connected. The way they are written seemed strange.
There were so many rules. On occasion, the words and letters I an outsider and I had no idea what I was doing while other kids would get to work instantly. I didn’t want to ask questions. I didn’t want anyone to think I was incompetent. School was a tribulation every day because I had not learned English as young as everyone else.
When I was little, I would look at the English labels printed next to Arabic ones and think of them as pieces of another world. I am now fully submerged into this alien world, proud of myself for all the obstructions I’ve overcome. Not only did I learn a new language, but I learned that I can get past obstacles if I keep pushing. I can learn new things if I never give up. I crossed oceans into the territory of the English language. I learned to read. I learned to
Two Paths Harley McCall
Carbon 6
Samual Kennard
Rock Climbing Kura Farr
Grab here, step there
Don’t slip
One mistake and I’d fall
Back to rock bottom
Must keep climbing
Must keep going
Back up the rabbit hole
But it takes so long
And now I’m back
To square one
On the good days
Everything is light
Everything makes sense
I can breathe easy
And trust myself
My mind does not lie
And little things can bring
A smile to my face
Until one day
They don’t
Down, down, down
Down the rabbit hole
Tumbling, spinning, turning
Twisting thoughts
Whispered lies
Darkness descending
STOP stop
please stop
Crawl back out
One step at a time
Some days are good
Most days are bad
My consent
Life with depression
My brain tells lies
My heart listens
What is The Truth
What is A Lie
PV Nilda J Davila-Marcano
September 16, the beginning of Hurricane Maria
—Hello Mama, I am here, tell me the grocery list.
—Oh!! My daughter!
—What’s happening Mama?
—She is growing and getting stronger!!!
—Maria?
—Yes, Maria!! Maria!!
—Keep calm, Mama, keep calm!!
—Your brother called and told me that the Children’s Hospital has quartered his personnel, and he is already there.
—Perfect, he will be very near our apartment.
The repetition of never sounded to me like the song from West Side Story. will never sound to me like a memory of love.
was my wake-up call for the coming long, humid, hard weeks of 2017.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017 3:30 pm
—Nildy, Nildy, power is gone, no power…
—Keep calm, Mama, keep calm!
Darkest nights around Mama and my KanChildren (my two my minderine in the wind.
Wednesday, September 20, 2017 6:15 am
Powerful CAT 5 Hurricane Maria made its Hollywood Star entrance. “ ” caused widespread destruction and disorganization unparalleled by any other hurricane in the Caribbean or the Americas.
According to the statement released by the National Hurricane Center, and speaking from a meteorological standpoint, “Ma” was nearly the worst-case scenario for Puerto Rico.
“ ” made a direct hit on Puerto Rico, “Lashing the island for longer than 30 hours.” Yes, 30 hours. Meteorologists at the National Center for Atmosphere Research said: “It was as if a 50-60-mile-wide tornado raged across Puerto Rico like a buzz saw.”
This was a very stylish dinner. First course: The powerful winds and mudslides. The dimensions of my little island are 110 miles west to east and 35 miles north to south. Destruction all over. Third course, a tart dessert: Total destruction of the electrical grid of the island.
Yes, Magic was destroyed. Along with it, the communications systems went down. Another part of the Magic—no internet. The Perfect Storm. Not the movie; I would have preferred to die in Mr. Clooney’s arms!
All my neighbors at the condo were in the same “boat”—windows blown away, a lot of water inside the apartments and no electricity. We received news through the radio waves, but not good news. The radio was our new . Mama and I got information about the conditions of the hospitals, in particular, the Children’s Hospital where my brother works. Not good!
Thursday,
September 28, 2017: Just after Hurricane Maria
Seventy-two hours after Maria left the island totally desolated and destroyed, my beloved one, Jose Luis, my brother, my sister, and her husband reached my apartment. Jose Luis came by bicycle, no car—impossible to use it in the streets or avenues due to the debris. My brother walked, the hospital not far from my apartment. My sister and her husband took three hours to reach my apartment, they came in a pickup truck. It was more than a week and a
My brother told us that PV man deployed to Puerto Rico special PV systems for the Children’s Hospital.
Questions–onboard!
––Ezequiel, what you are talking about?
––Who…what…PV man, PV system?
––My dear sisters, Mr. Elon Musk.
––Oh! And PV systems?
––Photovoltaics—rooftop solar panel systems with batteries for warehousing energy.
––Excellent for the children and parents at the hospital!
––That is what we need here in this condo, please I need to meet the crew! Ja, ja, ja!
––I will be with the PV crew helping them with translation services and training.
––Great!
––More good news, Poblado Casa Pueblo’s power is back, and it is helping in the mountain area.
––Really great! Casa Pueblo, they have been a totally solar powered microgrid community since 1999.
Thursday, October 5, 2019: One week after Hurricane Maria
A week later, before the curfew call, my brother called and asked me to pick him up at the hospital. Borealis and Polaris were here in Puerto Rico—the tropics, all over the place! The Children’s Hospital turned on the Magic, glowing through the darkness. It is time to change the way we see magic: PVs.
Returning to my apartment, my thoughts were only for Casa Pueblo: how much this little community helped get independence from oil and gas using PVs. I thought about how PV man helped
lives could have been if we had PVs lighting our homes. At my home, the sight was the same—deep darkness, a profound shade of dusk, only interrupted with little sparkling and a dull noise from emergency power generators. Seeing my two KanChildren dying of pneumonia, my painful loss and moments of rage— seeing part of my life going away with my beloved pets.
Thursday, October 19, 2019: Two weeks
after Hurricane Maria
Two weeks later, I found an opportunity to work with the USPS and that was my turning point. After eight months without modern magic, “Maria! Maria!” had taken a good deal from me; it took a good chunk out of all of us.
Tuesday, March 30, 2020
New York Central Park is providing hospital beds for COVID-19 patients; their electricity is coming from PVs. Will they be used for aftermath? Your turn to answer.
intelligent life Emily Spacek
I go over old memories of life before. there’s a piano. there’s the teacher and the second law of thermodynamics. I play the piano and all the things trend toward disorder.
you think it was easier before? before what?
destruction is a pattern and i live in a pattern. words inside of me. words like entropy. hydrogen. gravity. time. einstein found out what fuels stars and with it made a bomb.
I feel forests on re, inside of me, bright like a planet. not earth, because my life is long. limited radiance, low luminosity i can tell will outlive even the sun.
learn, leave, close the fridge door. walking around thinking about earth, the piano, music, and patterns, not words now. earth, blue dye circling the bathtub drain.
I am lazy so I only absorb the knowledge that makes me feel the most sadness. I can’t even fuck before bed anymore, just cross my arms, close my mouth.
I think of the person I’m not fucking before bed, think, we are so special to each other. think, he is staying, and people are thinking he should not. as i think, i feel closer to the cosmos. imagine thinking and being and connecting with this person more than i’ve connected with any other intelligent life.
Now I am hoping this is leading me to a place beyond. where I can think independently of life before. where I hear echoes. echoes pass. the re ective sound waves urge “li up your foot, look underneath, there is music here too.”
Go First Carly Gooch
I remember my Grandma Margo more by her absences than her presence—her absence in my childhood, at family gatherings and celebrations, and even at family members’ funerals. In my mind, she was always more of a disembodied voice than a real human. Visits to my grandparents’ house were punctured with her shouts, which echoed from the bedroom she left only to use the toilet. When she wasn’t shouting, she was ringing a small, golden bell at her husband, my Grandpa Charles, who waited on her every need. It wasn’t that she couldn’t walk— we’d seen her up and moving with surprising vigor on a few rare occasions when Charles was sick or otherwise indisposed. No, Margo was just egotistical and lazy. She despised all children (including her grandchildren) and was a violent hypochondriac. In fact, I’d always found her to be distinctly unrelatable. Blood, it seemed, was the only thing we shared.
When my Grandpa Charles died in a vehicle accident and the news made its way to Margo, the rest of the family was disgusted (but unsurprised) to hear her stutter in response: “B—but who’s going to take care of me?”
Beside her, the bell on her nightstand glinted from the lamplight. How many times would she accidentally ring it before remembering he couldn’t answer her summons anymore? But rather than slow her down, Charles’ death seemed to inspire an incessant desire to ring it more. A hospital frequenter, she ignored us all when we told her she couldn’t ring it at the nurses, and we
children (who she’d rarely spoken with before Charles died) were left to rotate time out of their busy lives to care for her.
Though Charles was her husband, it was strange to see her at his funeral. Even I (who wasn’t particularly close to either of them) felt less out of place than she looked. Grandkids joked under their breath, having raised a bet on whether she would show up. It wasn’t without reason; she hadn’t bothered to come to Charles’ mother’s funeral the year prior. He didn’t mourn alone (grandkids were gathered beside him), but he still somehow spent over a decade responding to every ring of her bell.
And so it was, the last person who held a true desire to care for her now lay in his casket. Relatives grieved, reminiscing intance. I don’t remember her speaking at all during the procession, and certainly not crying.
The only words I heard her mutter (and the last words I would ever hear her speak—she died less than a year later) came as my aunt wheeled her from the viewing room—
And even as I tried to hold on to my anger towards her, I felt it soften and change. Against my will, I saw a part of me in a part of her. And I understood her. Death didn’t scare or even distress Margo. It loomed over her and Charles the moment they stepped into old age. She might not have cared about how long her life lasted, just that she was cared for and loved for every minute of it.
Feast
Heather Graham
I swallow the world around me wood. paper. drapes. I ingest the memories photographs. Diaries, letters. I dine. I digest. I devour. with gnashing glowing teeth and a silver smokey tongue I nibble and gorge until all that remains is ashy bones and empty plates.
Formally Known As.... Heather Graham
Loree Reece
Lessons from the Pandemic Mia Bailey
Always loved learning, but this year has been a harsh teacher. I feel bombarded and overwhelmed by one crisis after another. My skin tingles with fear, confusion, and anger. I spend my days keepme in my bed at night. You do not get to choose the lessons life throws at you, and with how many shifting crises you will have experienced. Not all the lessons I am living through make sense to me in the moment, but for better or worse, I am learning.
You can only expect the unexpected. That you can ride high in life one moment, and be destroyed the next. I have learned that you will need to adapt at any given time, and sometimes it is hard toibility is a requirement, not a luxury.
I learned to smile with my eyes because my face is covered by two and the inequity that makes it unavailable to others is unjust. That work from home can be done and done productively if you can choose to focus and make it your priority.
I learned to be a homeschool teacher and organize lesson plans, due dates, school web conferences and hands on activities. Baking is not only a math lesson but a chemistry project as well. Flying kites is a lesson on air pressure. Not to raise my voice when my kids don’t understand a concept or get a low score on a test. At the end of the day, it is best to just get some perspective and realize that pushing harder isn’t going to help anyone.
I learned to be a home health aid and log and track biostatistics. To use a stethoscope, an otoscope, a pulse oximeter, a touchless thermometer, and a blood pressure monitor. If I put on a blood presand I can get a more accurate reading. Keeping healthy is not just about tracking other people’s symptoms, but your own as well. Staying healthy means taking care of yourself as well as others.
I learned hobbies we want to ascertain most need the one thing we don’t want to give them, time away from the television. I’ve learned how to play songs on the piano, the guitar, and the computer keyboard. I have written more in the last two months than I have in 12 years.
One ounce of prevention is worth a pound of the cure. I know how to put on a face mask and wear it in all kinds of weather germs are not spread onto surfaces. How frequently to sanitize my hands and how to sterilize groceries before putting them away. Washing your hands 50 times a day causes them to dry and crack, and become red and sore. I learned which lotions are best.
I learned that when a human being steps out of the way of mother nature she can heal remarkably quickly. I have seen dolphins and sky in our own valley when there are no cars polluting it. Air pollution can drop by almost 90% in some areas if we want it too. The planet is begging for us to listen to her, and perhaps it’s time we did.
A healthy economy means we need to have a healthy society, and that a healthy society needs to have a healthy environment. We are all connected and that if we do not start to address how to make our country, our cities, our citizens healthier, then the economy won’t be healthy either.
stubborn and divisive all at the same time. Some people will do the right thing, but no matter how you ask, some won’t do the
Just because others choose not to do what’s right doesn’t mean that I have to.
Women for centuries have known before me, and that my generation forgot: You are not owed another day on this planet. We cannot control the accidents and illnesses that befall us. Just because you had someone you loved at the holiday table last year, doesn’t mean they will be at the table this year. I have learned that we are only here on this Earth for an instant.
Yes, I have always loved learning. I was not prepared for the onslaught of lessons awaiting me this year, and I am not capable of predicting the ones that are just down the line. I can only focus on
dancing as I type these words. An old Indian proverb once said, “When a warrior asks the great spirit for strength, the great spirit will send hardships. For that is the only way to become strong.”
I am learning what it means to become strong.
I am learning.
As In Real Life Emily Spacek
I awoke on a Monday morning and dressed anew with cracked hands gray and blue. Last week I was cutting my own hair, dyeing it alternates shades of gray and blue.
In May we rushed to the garden store and traded in our bookshelf for a planter box, only by then had waited too long before asking:
As in real life, I could hardly notice it the space around us holding open a mild lyric, a melancholy embrace, an undone clasp of regret.
The virus came as my grief—given life—
were wild then, cannonballing betwixt the late July breeze the center of some story occurring outside of me.
Lies Heather Graham
Found: Lies a lie is only a matter of Luxury, not a solution but deep in the throes of depression I o er him the time.
Source: Pike, Christopher. Last Vampire 4: Phantom. Pocket, 1996. pp.104
Dead Roses Kiley Money
I sit and stare blankly at the wall. A cigarette burns in my hand as quickly to my mind and leaves just the same.
“These will kill you know.”
“Yes, I know. Do I give a fuck? Not now,” I say to myself.
I am surrounded by nothing. There is no music playing in the background. There is no art being laid on a page. There are no pots and pans clinking in the kitchen. There are no headlights passing through the streets of the Aves. Just myself and this one
My silence is interrupted by a soft dinging noise. God how I wish it was the doorbell, but my hopes are silenced just like this empty room. I know what it is, and for a brief second I try to convince myself I’m only dreaming. I tell myself, “It’s not real, you are going to wake up soon.” But even I cannot say I am that good of a liar. To be quite honest, I have never been more awake. The soundgine.
“Stop being a coward.” My mind spits into my ears.
subconscious mind is bullying me. I stare further into the water stain on the god-awful tan paint in front of me and slowly shove
“Say it,” my mind says. At this point it’s relentless. “Fucking say it.”
I stand, without speaking a word. I stare at the now black rimmed waxy hole in the middle of this lazy boy chair we found on the street one day. Smoke smolders up from around the orange butt
lodged into the fabric and my eyes begin to well. My naked body
I swear I could have seen the grim reapers hand on my shoulder. Why, with me playing with death so much in the last 10 minutes you would think his scythe would be wrapped around my throat. The sound pings again and this time the room lights up from the blue light glowing from his phone.
“Fucking say it.” Again there she is, right on time.
I cross the living room knocking over the dead red roses on the dining room table. The already cracked thrifted vase falls lightly with a thud and sickening water spreads across the wood. I
“Fucking say it.” Again, she screams.
I look down at the phone lying still on the counter and I want so want to tell myself, “He would never do something like this to you.” But I know better.
I wonder if she’s beautiful. I wonder if she is more beautiful than me. I imagine her with thick black hair falling straight and sleek to the small of her back. I imagine she smells intoxicating. I imagine she gives him everything I cannot give him. I wonder if she knows that I absolutely hate her. I wonder if she is thinking about me. I wonder if she is imagining me sitting naked and cold in my apartment shoving cigarettes into the recliner he and I found on the if she thinks I am beautiful.
Lease Agreement Amie Schaeffer
Spring 2019
To whom it may concern, be it Sir or Madam or both,
Metcalf.” I feel that’s an important note.
I am writing to request, no, plead with you to extend the lease on his new, baby blue Subaru. I know, I know. This is a fairly new arrangement, but please, hear me out. Let me paint this picture, I already attest to. He is full of stories. Stories that are rich and may seem far-fetched, but once you know this guy, you know they ring with truth. Or you may think they are bullshit, but I promise you will be amused at any rate.
in his molecular structure. He is the kind of teacher that will tie in his lesson on “A River Runs Through It,” by taking a bunch of simultaneously ducking the many not so graceful casts. It was a wonder there were no crashes that day.drop-out and not see the end of a story but a beginning. A time to miles to read a poem about onions at your wedding. And the kind
to talk her through and guide her through a diagnosis of her own. I know this picture I am painting is a messy one, but you must
So, I am sure you are wondering what this has to do with some a self-proclaimed medical genius. His charming demeanor, which I am sure was on full display the day he picked out said Subaru, horrid, life-changing word… Cancer. He has been battling this monster for longer than I can believe.
But being the medical genius and very responsible man that he is, he has hatched a plan. This, dear Sir(s) and or Madam(s) is where 3-year lease it would buy him 3 more years of life. It would be irresponsible for him to kick it while owing a debt to your company. Some may call this bargaining, but let’s just call it sound reasoning. Today, I am asking you to please extend this agreement.
I am done saying goodbye. I have had to do it too many times. I has helped build my foundation. Not yet. Not in 3 years. So, I need the extension. I am sure you would agree that he deserves it. I am just one story. I am just one planet that is lucky enough to
often seem to cross at trying times in our lives. It just happens and I am not ready to make that orbit without him.
Sincerely,
Dear Metcalf, Spring 2020
It was a solid plan. For the 25 years of lessons, hijinks, conversations and unparalleled friendship, thank you. I hope that wherunmatched.
With love, Amie
Beast Rudy
The darkness crawling in, my mind disappears. Sadness building a nest, It is like a feast.
Patience wearing thin, sanity always jeering. The only thing to suggest, do not feed the beast.
The light will not win, there is no clearing. All that infests, in the least.
All that makes up sin, never hearing. Only others behest, to feed the beast.
Always interfering with a new request, staring with a grin.
A Fate Uncertain Tyler Bearss
My world is dark, dreary and feeble. I’m doing all that I am able.
Keeping my head above the surface, as I walk through this sterile palace wondering if this is just the preface.
To raging storms that lie before us and darkening clouds that seem enormous,
Or maybe I’m wrong…
Maybe I see the horizon yonder, where the sun shines brightly on the future, and maskless faces can come together.
Maybe sunny days are nigh when families tear-soaked faces dry, where winds don’t blow and people don’t die.
And maybe I hear the great excitement and can take a breath free from all judgement.
One day I’ll live again without a fate uncertain.
Everything You've Touched Belongs to You
Brynn Bunker
I think you killed me and I tried to sew the wound, but my hands were gone too. For you touched them once, and everything you’ve touched belongs to you.
Recreation of a study of a man shouting Nicky Jones
ERROR 404 Tina Gifford
The Quickonnect tech looked at the man hanging in front of him.
Janie poked her head around the corner, “Cam, did you order…holy shit!”
“Yeah,” Cam replied, massaging his temples. He really didn’t have time to deal with this today.
“Ugh,” Janie said, wrinkling her nose, “I’m glad this is your room to clean today. But, at least he didn’t make a mess of the pod.” She took a step closer and snorted, “Are those naked Santas on his tie?”
“Help me cut this guy down. I want the room ready to use in an hour.”
Jack looked into the vanity mirror. His worn face looked back at him, the creases in his skin even deeper after his restless
ed a soft kiss on the temple of his sleeping wife. Anora still looked like she had ten years ago since she hadn’t had an aging update
wanted her to age at a more steady pace, but he knew that could mess up the personality functions and he couldn’t do that to Anora. He glanced at the clock. Late again. He tapped his temple twice.
Jack felt the jolt of the awakening. He pulled the headset stabbed at his eyes painfully, but he didn’t have time for the walls and noted how terrible he looked. Not only that, but the tie he’d thrown around his neck was the one Tom had given him for Christmas as a joke. Feeling ridiculous, he opened the door to the
conference room; which seemed to be in chaos, and sat next to Tom.
“God,” Jack mumbled quietly. “I picked the worst day to be late with Mr. Caverly.”
Tom’s ashen face turned. “They’re shutting us down, Jack. Everything’s being disconnected in two weeks.”
“
cold as he tried to process what Tom had said. He looked desperately around the table, his gaze landing on Mr. Caverly. A pressure weeks?”
The room fell silent.
Mr. Caverly turned to face him, his expression cool and
“You can’t— I support three A.I.’s— my family—” the words tumbled out clumsily as they tried to move past the rising panic. Horror stories he’d heard of entire families being deleted ran through his mind.
“Two weeks is plenty of time to have your insurance se-
“I don’t have— I mean, insurance is so expensive and—”
“I would say that that’s a huge oversight on your part, and not my concern.” said Mr. Caverly dismissively. Jack rose from his seat. He crossed the room in a few strides and grasped Mr. Caverly’s arm.
“But, they’ll be wiped! You can’t— you can’t play god withniacal; he felt it.
Mr. Caverly rose from his chair slowly, his stare murderous. “God? Who chose to activate them and determined their parameters? You’re the one playing ‘God’. This isn’t a charitable organization. If your Inworld expires, that’s on you.” He shook
Jack’s rage consumed him. Lunging for Mr. Caverly’s throat, he thought of his son, Matty. He thought of his freckled nose and love of rocks. As his hands tightened, causing Mr. Caverly’s face to turn purple, he thought of Evie. Of her dimpled elbows and away, he thought of Anora, and how her eyes crinkled when she laughed. As he was thrown to the ground outside, the asphalt sharply greeting his palms, he thought of himself and how he was nothing without them.
Jack awoke slowly feeling groggy and disoriented, the previous week blurring in his mind. What day was it? How many days had he been wandering the streets? His muscles screamed at him as he shifted on the concrete and his scalp itched through his matted hair. An old woman poked him with a stick.
“You’re in my spot,” she said, her teeth yellow and rotted in her mouth, “those credits should be mine—” Confused, Jack slowly raised his head. There were a few credits in the dirt in front of him. He grabbed for them, silently thanking whomever had left them. He didn’t know how much time in a pod the credits would get him at the QuickKonnect around the corner, but he would take anything. It’d been too long since he’d been home. He’d tried pushed him away refusing to acknowledge his humanity.
The crone held out a gnarled hand, “Give them here!”
“I’m sorry— I can’t—” Jack said, jumping to his feet. He chest. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
“The coroner just left,” Janie said.
Cam nodded as he continued his meticulous work, the sharp scent of the disinfectant causing his nose to tingle, “I wonder why he did this.”
Janie shrugged her shoulders as she pointed at the headset dangling by the side of the pod, a red glow indicating that it was on. “If you really want to know, his Inworld’s still connected.” She turned and left the room.
Curiosity overtaking him, Cam reached out and pulled the headset over his eyes. The black letters against the red background felt harsh, but what the words said made him shudder; ERROR
am i making sense viridiana alfonso
i have been working up the courage to ask (for so long i forgot why): may I reach for your hand? i’m cold.
(i miss the warmth of human touch).
lost its embers long ago.
(it thumps so faintly, i wonder if i’m still alive). the second, my lungs. (they scream for something more than just air). while i may still have my sense of taste, i lost my sense of savor. (there is more to it than dryness in my mouth). my ears hear, but i no longer listen.
my eyes see, but I don’t process. (three seasons passed, and i can’t remember what they looked like).
please, may i hold your hand? i can touch, but more than that, i want to feel again. (anything anything anything).
Window of Consciousness Vonda Halaufia
“Are you worried about leaving us?” I whispered in my Dad’s ear as he squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, we will take care of Mom, I promise. Thank you for all the lessons you have taught me and being such a great example and the best Dad. I love you.”
My father is dying. I’m saying good-bye. My mom and sisters are with me, and we are taking turns holding his hand, sharing a memory, and expressing our last good-bye. It’s ironic since my Dad has Alzheimer’s. He has not recognized my siblings nor me for four years. We have shared our childhood stories and memorialized his role in our lives during the four years, hoping to of our identities he shaped.
It began as a small issue of forgetting where he put his dentures and spiraled slowly to forgetting each of my siblings. He kept a journal of his thoughts and notes from books he read. As the disease progressed, his penmanship and written thoughts deteriorated. Dad knew that he had Alzheimer’s, and as time went on, his struggle to remember who he was and where he came from became evident. He began writing on the walls in our house:
My Dad received a scholarship to the United States; he acceptance. Upon his graduation, our family had grown to eight. Finding a home was stressful for our family because of our color. My parents were repeatedly informed we were dirty people and, therefore, a liability. Fortunately, my father had a classmate that was moving out of his parent’s one-bedroom apartment and kitchen, and two in the garage. My parents were relieved, and we have the fondest memories in that small house.
Finding a teaching position in a majority white community, despite belonging to the majority religious ideology, became an
issue of survival with eight children. He became a carpenter. He wanted to teach, but he told me, “If one door closes, another will open, but there are usually more windows than doors in a house; There was never a hint of bitterness from him and this experience.
Our family didn’t have much money, but we never felt the window.” Surprises presented looking through the windowing our whole family. Two used lawnmowers to earn extra income and mowing our neighbors’ lawns who were widows for blessings.
“Eyes are the window to the soul” was the sage advice my father gave to me before leaving home to explore the world. He told me that you could understand people better if you look them in the eye while speaking, and I should be suspicious of anyone who didn’t look me in the eye. I found this helpful in my travels and, more importantly, in my relationship with friends and family. Since his memory loss, his eyes, still warm and loving, showed no recognition nor familiarity but welcomed and entertained me as a stranger.
He greeted me with his handsome smile on my previous visit and said, “Hi, how are you?” I paused with a moment of hope that he remembered me. But he added, “My wife is inside if you’re hungry, she has food, go inside and visit. I will come in soon.”
“Hey, I’m Vonda! Your favorite daughter. Don’t you remember?”
He laughed nervously and awkwardly said, “I don’t know….go see my wife, she will feed you some good food.”
Now, my Mom is sitting by my Dad’s side. She is whispering in his ear. My sisters and I are sharing the memories that we whispered in Dad’s ear. He gave us each a squeeze from his hand homage. My Mom kisses my father and holds him. He pointed to
our tall window and passed away in my Mom’s arms.
Looking through our tall window, we viewed the azure blue sky and majestic swaying pines moving with our sorrow, a prayer, and sang an old Tongan song to bring comfort to our
In My Trash: A List
Heather Graham
Vacant calendar pages
Grocery-store-brand ballpoint pen: draft-depleted
Empty bottle of Coke Zero
Crumpled notebook paper
Nondescript hospital masks: sanitizer-stained
Wilted wedding boutonniere
Scribbled love notes from ex-lovers: ignored
Belated holiday candy wrappers
Markered protest signs: confrontation-crippled
Discarded stories of life and love and death
Novel beginnings and endings: quarantined
7th Floor Rosie Phetphouthay
He was a tired old man
That loved others more than they loved him
He saw death through my eyes
He asked me to pray with him
Because God was carrying him
And I could feel Him carry me too Fighting for me;
I met Marcus after I told everyone why... I was trying not to die
By my own hands
He walked out after my confession
“This shit is too depressing.”
His girlfriend had overdosed
He was in jail when she passed
When he got the news
He relapsed into a tired routine
Until he tried to end the cycle
Jose fell in like with me--
He drew a picture of my name
An unspoken confession
I told him he was too old for me
He said, “Thank you.”
Because he would have always wondered He’s homeless and You can’t make homes out of people
Eric felt defeated,
He had a little boy waiting for him at home
The experimental meds kept him inconsistent
His eyes were always glazed over
Like a zombie, he was undead
Because he sure as hell wasn’t living I placed my hands on his To bring him back to Earth
I wanted him to know darkness
Meant there was light I saw a rebirth in his posture
I thought she was crazy
Only because I knew I was We were desensitized to trauma Yet we could feel each other
Levon couldn’t remember names; His brain was left in shocks
He focused on what he could And had us piece the puzzles together He told us we were the missing pieces
My friends visited me each day It felt like forgiveness For all the ugly things I felt and acted on the psyche ward.
Where we found comfort amongst the broken.
Blue Cotton Emily Spacek
Once in Quincy, Illinois, I sat with your father outside the Dairy Queen.
We hung tight in the car, CD player humming low, the tune barely recognizable. disposable face masks, and ketchup-stained napkins—crumpled, futile, a trail of defeated red and white. The CD player blinked blue and the last track played out.
Your father whacked key from ignition, then snapping my head back inside the two-door, rusty-white Ford Escort.
He began to speak: to Palo Alto, this could be the night.
I can’t seem to remember the name of the street I grew up on but I remember the boys—Two of them riding by on their street bikes laughing.
It’s late afternoon in California, where you lie in a hospital bed.
Your father wears plaid and tweed in all of its scratchy, clashing combinations. But you—lying still—in thin blue cotton. The fabric fastened around your waist by twill ties.
Your father addresses me directly now, asking about the last night we spent here.
And I close my eyes. And
I let the beads of sweat trickle down my temples. I remember Johnathon’s house. I remember music. Then you, running outside because the noise was too much. I follow you
Your eyes closed, your breath maybe scared and what utter loneliness comes from a mixture of the two. a most Sunday grin and holding for me three blood oranges you said.
By sunset, if you are to go and your mother calls, I will ask what they plan to do with your body.
Your eyes will be closed once more but I will see you breathing. Your chest rising and falling and inside of you, not your beating heart but our budding secrets, the most precious
Clock on the Wall Kevin Williams
its best to pierce through the closed blinds. On the ceiling, a light would soon join them; shadows danced across the wall. An old recliner loomed next to a window; in it, a man. His skin was leathery with age and his eyes sunken. Beside him, a small sturdy table stained from the passage of time. Across from him an old television, its dials worn down to a stub of their former selves. On the wall next to him is a clock. The time was 6:27. At least that’s what it displayed. The old man had begun to question its accuracy. At times it felt like the hands would stop for hours, while at others they seemed to skip ahead.
The man had been alone for many years. His wife was while he was taking a shower. She didn’t even say goodbye to their daughter. The young girl had always been cheerful, but the man’s anger reached her as well. As she grew older, she drew further away from him, until at eighteen, she left. That was years ago. Below the clock hung a telephone. Not much else cluttered the room. With possessions came memories. He still had a bottle of whisky from a few years ago. It wasn’t good. He poured himself feeling of something familiar.
The cold air in the apartment fought a bitter war with the thermostat. “Damn heater,” he said to the empty room. The thermostat hadn’t worked right in years, it needed to be repaired, but he hated the idea of paying for something he could do himself. another year.
A commotion came from the window. Opening the blinds, he looked upon a young girl and a boy wrestling over a purse. He watched for a moment. The girl must have been around eighteen with beautiful, long, blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders and across her face. The boy was larger, his face turned away. “It’s none of my business,” he grumbled shutting the blinds.
The clock read 8:13.
He went to the T.V. and turned it on. It was on the same local news station that he watched every night. Nothing of note had happened today--at least nothing worth noticing for the old man.
Someone in the next town over had made a 50-foot pantelevision. Returning to his chair he was asleep within moments... He awoke to the sound of his ringing telephone. No more light streamed in through the windows. The clock indicated 3:41. “Who the hell could that be at this hour?!” He debated limping to the
“Dad? I need to talk to you.” A distressed woman’s voice came through.
His daughter had married within a year of leaving home. She had a child, Jen, with a man who treated her much better than her father ever had. Her partner was an auto salesman, but not the sleazy kind. He’d met their kid once.
On the wall next to him hung a framed picture. The picture was of a young blonde girl, with a big grin on her face, wearing a soccer uniform. The old man gazed at it longingly and turned away.
The day he met Jen he’d tried his best not to ruin things. But he couldn’t help it. Their little girl had been so sweet. She was the kind of kid that had the whole world in front of her. She had reminded him so much of his daughter. This brought back memories of his wife, memories of her leaving. He’d lost his temper again that day. That was the last time he’d seen them. He’d tried to apologize, but the damage was already done. She didn’t want him in their life.
“Look dad, I know it’s been a while, but I don’t have time for that right now. It’s about Jen. She hasn’t stopped by, has she?
she had just gone to a friend’s house, but I called everyone I could think of, and no one has seen her. She mentioned you the other day and how she wanted to see you again. You’re the only one I haven’t checked with. You haven’t heard from her at all? Call me back.”
When he was younger, he’d stormed out from his own family to join the army. Well ... basic training. One night while walking through the base he tripped over some equipment, fracturing his leg in two places. He left shortly after. They didn’t have time for someone like him.
Before she could hang up, he picked up. “Denise, n-no,
sorry. Is there anything that I can do to help, sweetie?”
After his wife had walked out, he had tried to show a bigger interest in his daughter. He took her to soccer games regularly, but as she pushed away from the sport, she had pushed away from him as well.
“DON’T CALL ME SWEETIE, YOU LOST THE RIGHT TO CALL ME THAT! If you haven’t seen Jen then I have nothing more to say to you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, as he used the wall to keep from collapsing. He heard a suppressed sob coming through the line.
Click.
The old man felt a little older. Sinking back into his chair, he remembered the blonde teenager he had seen from his window earlier. He didn’t try to go back to sleep. It was still 3:41 and he was sure that the hands wouldn’t move again for a long time.
A Country Hero Phillip
Darkness not yet broken, the chill of the night,
He must part from her— he is weeping, she is sleeping.
He knows he must start the long haul ahead, push to Tallahassee before bed.
Harmston
The engine roars to life, smoke blows from the stack, a prayer to God to have his back.
World overtaken by pandemic, store shelves empty overnight,
The country needs him on its roads— he runs the highway, drives a truck, people don’t give a fuck.
God, his only company, he drives night and day, love of country never fades.
The silent trucker— his load hot, people in dismay, --tired, but not broken, keeps on his way.
A Haunting
Molly Hedgepeth
It was to the sound of time trickling down the window pane that I awoke. Well, I wasn’t really asleep to begin with, but more en-
oblivion. I feel as if I’m asleep in most of my day to day interactions, like one of those hellish living dead moving through the living world with a blind refusal to lie in its grave. But when night comes it’s as if God is playing a cruel joke and my eyes just won’t
So really, I wasn’t sleeping when the rainfall outside stirred me, but it did pluck the part of my consciousness that recognizes time and space back to the surface of this feeble human psyche. I sat up and took stock of the large, cold, empty bed --much too large for just one person-- and really felt the emptiness around me. With stretching limbs and bleary eyes, I blinked against the faint light emanating from the clock on my bedside
the only true source of illumination within the vast room, and it overshadowed the faint glow of moonlight slinking in through the crack in the drapes. It cast a reddish hue into the space that made the once dull furniture twist into something more menacing, their shadows dancing in and out of sight with each blink of the numbers. 3:00 am.
It was the third night in a row my eyes had fallen like a murderous axe upon the clock at this exact time. And suddenly, the emptiness of the room started to hum, to sing its loathsome depraved tune. I could hear it in the space between my shuddering breaths. Suddenly I felt I wasn’t alone anymore. I can only recall the next events in a removed sort of fashion, as if I’m telling a story that didn’t happen to me, but to a window and slowly seeped in through the cracks in the brick wall. A veil of haze formed around the outskirts of my bed, making it an island in a sea of fear, and I was a lonely lost seaward soul. But, in contrast, the obscurity of the haze elicited a reaction of quickness, of clarity within me. The sudden feeling of foreboding wid-
The scantily decorated walls leaned into me, pressing in on
all sides. I could practically feel the rough surface of damp brick sidling up beside me and it made the hairs on my arms stand on end. There was a rushing wind in my ears that, in retrospect, couldn’t have originated from within the room with its windows locked tight. No, the gales of such a turbulent storm had been born within my very head. Only a powerful force could’ve done such a thing.
White knuckles gripped the crisp white sheets tightly around me for protection. My eyes darted around the room, resting momentarily on the vague outlines of familiar shapes, until they came to a halting stop. With my neck turned slightly to the at the opposite end of the room beckoned me. There I saw it. A pallid face with hollow cheeks whose protruding bones were emphasized by the glistening of fresh fallen tears, tears bitter with regret, looked back at me.
It was the face of the demon that tormented me most, cast with the reddish hue of the alarm clock beside it. A piteous creature with wan features that had developed over the past few weeks of sleepless nights and lonely hours, bereft of the one that had once brought it so much joy.
With a trembling, voice, hoarse with neglect, I and the apunison, “You!”
Me. It was my own face. The face of the monster.
Distance Amie Schaeffer
In another time and place Space was Welcomed Sought after Now
These six feet feel like six miles And these four walls
A pillow forced over my face Dragging me
To a place I swore to never return And
when the needle hits Carling Mars
Sometimes I see a bee feeding on lavender and I think if only I got stung
I saw a raccoon in the street and it made me think of you There’s a limpness about death as though your muscles put their holster and gun in a drawer and said There’s no crime in this city anymore But still there’s violence in the streets
Tense up, protect your throat that home of blood and voice
Don’t loosen your hold and make an easy target of your soul
A Convenient Murder Bree Parish
In the car, He never paused.
Pulled my hair, Broke my lip.
Forced me down, Onto his cock.
Gagged me till My breath was lost.
He wants power, Twitching hands.
Fuck I’m lit, Twitch…
Twitch… Bite my lip,
Tense I sit Twitch…
Hope I’m swift Pull my switch…
Soft, Gasp, Warm, Gargle.
Car loses control, Warm liquid slips.
Crash!
Crash…
Brain fuzzy. Red, Black, Out.
Screams, shakes, cries, In the car. He never paused, I took my own control. Was it Monstrous?
The Things that Fueled the Flames: Gaslit Kura Farr
Waiting on the steps
The hours tick by I watch the sun sink down
You said you’d be here
I guess you didn’t want to be
A dad
My dad
I call your phone
You screen your calls
I show up at your house
You send me away
I cried myself to sleep
You didn’t know
Why wasn’t I enough?
Why didn’t you want me?
Screaming and slamming
My stepdad is screaming
My mom is slamming
I try to distract
My sister
Myself
The crying
Within minutes
He comes into my room
Now he’s screaming at me
And taking her away stays in this house”
“Don’t lie”
“Don’t talk back”
“You’re such a bitch”
I’m branded a liar for things I didn’t say
I’m scolded about talking back for speaking out I’m a bitch for opposing their opinions
They “walk on eggshells”
To “not upset me”
When really
They just want someone else
To blame
Nicholas McCullagh
Impressions
Gaslighting Lisy Estopinan
“Can governments manipulate people to remember events that never happened?” The professor reads the question aloud that is written on the board for the class to discuss.
While I lived in Venezuela, out of curiosity I decided to take a political science class; knowing in advance how controversial it is to talk about politics in my country after more than twenty years with the same non-democratic government. Mr. Nicolas Maduro, placed in power in a non-democratic way by Chavez before he passed away, has only further aggravated the country’s situation by perpetuating the “legacy” that Chavez left behind. Today, Maduro is not recognized internationally as the legitimate president of Venezuela. Politics loses all credibility when the rhetoric of political discourse becomes ideological discourse. It ends up turning into gaslighting.
“And what do you think?” The professor turns to face the students.
paraphrases from Eva Orduña in her publication “Human Rights and Political Credibility” written in 2006: “The credibility of a and the solidity of the State; however, this can only be achieved through a comprehensive policy of protection of human rights. If people are manipulated, the right to freedom is violated.”
I respond by agreeing that a government’s credibility can be achieved through the protection of human rights and freedom of speech. Furthermore, I state that today it’s evident there’s a credibility and economic crisis marked by the elimination of most of the private companies. People no longer trust their government.
According to the student, the wrongness of using manipulation (gaslighting) as a tactic to gain power with the intention of communist governments. But there’s no way it can happen in a democratic government like the United States, for example.
My ears start bleeding. I laugh ironically, looking at him and ask, “Are you serious? Do you really believe that gaslighting is not used as a tactic in democratic governments?”
“Well, yeah,” he says.
ence that exists between manipulative rhetoric and facts,” I add by emphasizing the latter.
“Rhetoric collects a whole catalog of social and universal feelings because it’s aware that if you know society, you persuade it. Hence, it insists that it’s necessary to know the behavior of men and their culture, their customs. Ultimately, their context, their cognitive framework, to be able to put the interlocutor in a certain mood in order to persuade them: We know their image, we know their soul and, therefore, we dominate them,” he quoted verbatim from “Rhetoric, Behavior and Power in Political Speech.”
“Ok, then it’s about the intention (dissembling) and how those who are in power decide to use rhetoric,” says the professor, adding, “It doesn’t matter what kind of government it is, they will use it anyway.”
“In a dictatorship as the one we have here in Venezuela for instance, it is more than obvious what Chavez did in his show called “Aló Presidente” (“Hello President”) that was broadcast live on national television every Sunday at 11am and lasted from four to eight hours, or even more. And it was like this for over a decade!” says a student who is sitting two chairs behind me.
“Yes, that show played an essential role in communicating with Venezuelans and mainly with the status of a social class that used to be ignored, vulnerable, and shared the same values and ideas of Chavez’s political project. People didn’t know whether the information was true or not, since most of them were uneducated who neither questioned themselves nor did they question the information,” says the professor.
“Moreover, Chavez also fed the idea well by making Venezuelans believe that we were in war against the United States, or should I say the American government was in a media war against us? Does anyone remember when he accused the United States government of inducing him with cancer or blocking the sale of military equipment to Venezuela by suggesting that Washington planned a military action against the country?” says the guy next to me.
“True. This tactic always was a distraction to divert attention from the problems that were happening in the country, making people believe that the enemy responsible for Venezuelans’ problems was outside and not in our own home. The other thing is that over time the narrative that lay in his populist discourses changed, establishing an ideology that ensured his position as
an authoritarian leader of Venezuelan’s ‘Bolivarian Revolution.’
Everyone here remembers that everything Chavez did, said, or decided in that program turned into our reality right away,” I say.
“And do you guys remember every time that he presented the ‘Bolivarian revolutionary process’ as the continuity of the with Bolivar,” says the girl in front of me.
Several of us roll our eyes and a student clears his voice and imitates Chavez by saying, “…the best tribute that we BoliPantheon, it’s not just talking of him and his glory, no! The best tribute that we’re paying to Bolívar and we’re going to pay Bolívar free and sovereign homeland come true, and that is what we are doing now in Venezuela… Guilty.”
Many of us burst out laughing.
“Hey, respect!” says the professor.
“What a brainwashing!” says the guy next to me.
“It’s a fact that the problem arises when we accept the information passively without questioning it at all. We can all be gaslighted one way or another,” I add.
discursive strategies to engage through dialogue during his show. Can anyone name one strategy?” the professor asks.
“Does it sound familiar, a lie repeated 1000 times, becomes a truth?” I say.
“The use of repetition. What else did he use in his discourses?” the professor asks again.
“Fragmentation or alteration of selected themes and stories he presented so eloquently, as well as hypothetical situations
“Very well. Now, a few minutes ago a full explanation was made on rhetoric, behavior and power in political speech. It was mentioned that using gaslighting as a tactic to gain power can not be used in democratic government like the United States. However, in this country the mainstream media have for years used gaslighting and dissembling in headlines as strategies to increase ratings and sell. Besides, the American government controls almost everything, if not everything…
Regarding politics, it can range from gaslighting members of the government and the public like racial gaslighting, to even more complex situations, with the exception of conventional
warfare, but when national security is a priority, as happened during the Cold War, the United States used and continues to use or those of its allies...
Political warfare, which is the term that describes this type of a state. Perhaps the Marshall Plan, white propaganda, or psychological warfare on black people are just some of the strategies used by the American government,” the professor adds.
After a short silence, the professor asks, “And what about the war veterans?
So I ask again, ``Can governments gaslight people to remember events that never happened?”
“Only through critical thinking will we have the ability to determine the credibility of governments,” says the boy who raised his hand at the beginning of class. And at that moment, the professor ends the discussion. ***
Now that I live in the United States, I closely watched the end of the Obama administration and the tenure of the Trump administration. The Trump administration has gaslighted in similar ways as Chavez once did. I feel like I come from the future.
Broken Promises Alexandrea Wayne
Doors were locked and sealed Away from friends and family; Creeping something
The earth shook with anger
Of the world ahead.
Screams for justice Carried around downtown Fear for families stayed home. Broken promises linked Shattered peace around us. Followed home with no one To turn to.
Broken promises lingered In the lives of many. Cancelled plans, cancelled celebrities Lack of trust between citizens
On both sides; protecting lives and their own. Finding escape in the trees and chilled Mountains against the summer heat. Heartaches for the fear ahead, Praying for loss of humanity, Not for unobtainable peace.
Sadness and Violence Nick Bates
I tried making it on my own when I stopped it. I was eleven years old, carrying an old city map (the ones that were so big, they were dubbed ‘bums blankets’), and wearing the complete Goodwill collection circa 1997. In reality, this meant that my hand-me-down rags were sold at the “real store” sometime during the Reagan administration, long before my brother, Teddy, or I were even a twinkle in my young mother’s eyes.
I made it exactly twenty-three hours on the streets before the cops found me. There I was, smeared with my mother’s blood, trying to get a moment of uninterrupted rest in the back corner of the St. Louis Public Library. In the foggy moments that blur reality from the temporary bliss of sleep, I faintly saw the librarian mouth the words “over there.” They pointed toward my general direction. I was caught.
“You’re in no trouble, m’boy, we just want to be askin you sing-song like. It struck me as equally annoying and amusing. This was the thickest Irish accent I’d ever heard.
of a man who had seen it all, but who hadn’t let the badge harden him.
“What’s your wee name?”
“Given that you found me, I have a damn good guess that you know who I am, but you can call me Andy.”
I surprised myself by how cold I was acting. My upbringing taught me that swift and harsh punishments came from sassing an adult. Equal feelings of guilt and fear washed over me. I was ashamed of myself.
“Sorry sir, I was rude to you.” I said all of this while my
“With what you’ve gone through wee Andy, I would’ve exwords to you.”
O’Malley said this with the saddest smile I’d ever seen. He cleared his throat again, “Your mama will make it, but
few days. Between you and me, you had her within an inch of her life.” The light was gone from his eyes. He looked at me and I knew that he knew.
The next three days were spent in a kind of foster home while authorities search for someone who would be brave enough to take in the demon child who allegedly stabbed his own mother, the police came to the correct assumption that the missing child; who had left a bloody footprint going out the door, was acting in desperation and self defense. The bruises on the young, lifeless
only the truth spread as fast as those rumors did, then maybe my reputation wouldn’t have been tarnished.
My grandpa on my dad’s side lived a few hours north and him ever since. Grandpa was still a young man when my parents had me, and immediately he loved being in the role of the funny, nurturing grandfather. He is the strongest man I know, and has saved my life.
It’s 2004 now, and for seven long years I have refused to believe that my mom had done anything wrong. Mom was a good person. I’ll always believe that. In my mind, she will always be the same woman who stayed up in the hospital with me for hours after I had my tonsils out. The woman who made me laugh hysterically when I was younger, reading to me before bed with all of her silly voices. She could make me feel like I was the only person on Earth by how she cared for me.
Mom was guilty of killing Teddy. We both knew it. Scars and nightmares overtake denial. She was seven months pregnant with an unplanned and unexpected (and possibly unwanted?) baby when Dad was t-boned by that semi truck. Dad had been this family’s glue. He kept us together and happy.
Hitting me became one of her outlets in the year since dad was killed but I always believed she knew her limits. She’d always said sorry.
Now, at 18 my life is in ruins. I drink a lot. I am a hollow, dark shell of myself who feels like it is my destiny and my fate to follow in my abuser’s footsteps. Mom is in prison and I hate visit-
ing her because it reminds me of who I might become.
My girlfriend, Alex, is the love of my life and she knows how I feel. I’m sure of it. I do hit her, though I’m not proud of it. I say it’s only because I love her so much and I worry about her. I don’t know how to stop myself...But I did.
It was during breakfast on a damp October morning when the phone rang. Grandpa nearly dropped the cordless phone just seconds after he picked it up. He coughed twice and whispered into the phone, “Are you sure it was her? Okay then. Yes, I’ll tell him.”
At this moment, with one trembling hand cupped around his mouth, he turned around and saw that I had been watching the conversation play out.
“Andrew, that was regarding your mother. She took her own life this morning.”
I had suspected this might happen for some time. State prison may not be designed to make a person crazy, but it can sure make even the strongest crack. Seven years was longer than I thought she’d last.thing to you.”
Grandpa looked solemnly at me with swollen eyes.
She had interrupted my life for the last time.
Grandpa saw right through my poker face. The tears welled up and I knew I couldn’t hold it in much longer.
Sound alright, Chief?” He actually smiled while he said this. I nodded hesitantly.
“Dear Andrew, It’s been a few months since your last visit here and I do not blame you. You had mentioned that your life is ruined because of me and had created. I did. But…If there is one thing I can tell you before I go, it is that you are not a product of your environment, son. I was raised by amazing parents who never hurt anyone, and your dad was too. Deep, grueling sadness is real, but the moment you let that sadness evolve into anger and blame is the moment you end up like me. Never be afraid to ask for help. I wish I had. I feel like going out like this is better for the world. Always remember, the line separating sadness and violence is always thinner than you
realize. Love, Mom”
I decided not to burn the letter. Instead, I kept it close by me for some time after. Over the following month of mourning and revelations, I started an anger management class, drained all my liquor bottles, and found a therapist. They see a future for me if I put in the work, if I stop allowing myself to cross the line between sadness and violence. I wonder where crossing into happiness will take me?
Crazy in the Eye of the Abuser Bree Parish
You’re perfect And can do no wrong But I’m the crazy one
You put me down And I don’t trust myself But I’m the crazy one
You take my keys And won’t let me leave But I’m the crazy one
You bang your head And bite yourself But I’m the crazy one
You kick down doors And break holes in walls But I’m the crazy one
You pin me down And bruise my wrists But I’m the crazy one
You rape my body And say I wasn’t scared But I’m the crazy one
You attack me
Then tell me you didn’t But I’m the crazy one
You bang me up And leave dark marks But I’m the crazy one
You jump on my car When I leave you But I’m the crazy one
Looking for Claudia Sam
When I entered the man’s house, I was looking for my friend, Claudia. Her uncle opened the door and I could already smell the booze.
I asked, “Is Claudia here?”
He nodded with a smile and said, “Yes, Claudia is inside.” He let me in, and I walked past him to her room. I entered Claudia’s bedroom and noticed makeup thrown on the bed and vanity. The windows were open. I’ve always felt cold in that room and it was empty now. There was no sign of Claudia.
I headed back to the living room where Claudia’s uncle was sitting on an old brown sofa watching a soccer game on TV. Suddenly, I felt like there was something strange about him. He stood up quickly when I entered the room and when I started to talk, he got really close to me. As this man stood up beside me, I felt like I was getting smaller.
He was not threatening; he was always kind to me, and I’d never had an issue with him being around me. But he was getting even closer. I felt uncomfortable. I was too timid back then to tell him to move so that I could head out the door. The more I wanted to get out of that place the closer and stranger he became.
didn’t say a thing but kept blocking my way out. I couldn’t say anything; the closer he got, the farther I felt the door was.
I asked him again if I can leave, but that’s when his pleasant voice came back on to ask me for a hug before I left. I felt safer, thinking of giving him his hug and then quickly getting out of this place. I gave him a hug, the type where my body parts would not touch his. But he noticed, pulled me even closer, hugged me even harder.
Then, I lost control over myself. I couldn’t take the force he was using, so I just stood there for a moment.
After a couple of tries I managed to push him away nicely, but then he placed his hands on my shoulders. Somehow with his force, we were back hugging, and that’s when he pulled me in pushing back to reveal a smile across his face that I will never forget.
The Man's world
Sam
The man’s house took my innocence
Took my innocence without permission or notice What should I tell my mother?
My innocence was taken because I was too naïve. Or because the man was manipulative Mother, you raised me right Mother, you taught me not to give the man what he wanted easily
But the man has known me well enough to control me however he wanted The man was an enemy to my mother and me from the beginning of time, My mother won’t like what the man did to me
This will be a surprise for her
She is unaware that the man is capable of such a thing
Mother Is it true, the man can do as he pleases with no judgments? the man is the one to do as he pleases with no judgments or questions What was done to me was done by the man And what was done to me will break my mother’s heart
A Letter to the Girls Oliver Taylor
Pink lace, soft, curls, girls. Small, blushing, never swearing, wearing a skirt, never a t-shirt, never pants.
Wanting to be a good mother, wanting to be a good wife, This is all society wants a girl to do with her life. Intelligence, ambition, imperfect vision, she stands without makeup on her face. When she was younger, her mother told her that one day she’d get contacts
No, I’m not just listing all of the inconsistencies in society’s sexist sense of piety, They’ve lied to me. To us, to her, about the true meaning of her femininity. It’s cornrows, it’s freckles, it’s strength, it’s a wide range of clothes.
Femininity is not a genie that you can trap inside a bottle. Femininity is not a Disney princess animated to look like a supermodel. Femininity is not what the media claims it to be.
They like a good girl, a bad girl, a skinny but curvy, a girl that can hang with the boys but is not like them. She knows how to contour and hates science because when pretty girls start to know things She must want to play the game but let him win, she must want to respond but waits for him.
She’s classy, elegant, not easy. She’s young, wild, and never a prude. They want her to be a sex symbol that isn’t too sleezy but tells her she’s no fun when she’s
“not in the mood.” People feel that an independent, intelligent woman is dangerous, they try to beat her down to being not heard, just seen. What do we have to do is wake up from this bad dream?
Ku Kia'i Poli'ahu Sepa
Ku Kia’i Poli’ahu means “Guardians of Poli’ahu,” who is the snow goddess of Mauna Kea. As a Native Hawaiian, the desecration of sacred lands with her protectors in front. The lack of a face on the Goddess and the protesters represents the telescope advocates overlooking indigenous peoples and their beliefs. They are so eager to see the stars that they are blind to the people in front of them.
black lives matter " Alliyah Nkrumah
"
say their names because their life being taken was no game. so say their names loud and clear say it so that maybe one day we won’t have to live in constant fear. breonna taylor is a name you shouldn’t forget, and how the police department loves to keep matters like this hushed. not to mention the father and son who murdered ahmaud abery so many have said they could not breathe: eric garner and freddie gray, martin lee anderson didn’t even see his graduation day. the untimely and unfortunate death of kalief browder. say their names louder. james byrd Jr. was dragged from a pickup truck, it sickens me to see how many people just don’t give a fuck. like many others, rekia boyd was unarmed when shot.
ezell ford had mental problems but still got shot multiple times, sometimes the murderers aren’t even charged for their horrendous crimes.
natsaha mckenna and renisha mcbride are two women who will never get to be wives. and emmett till who was still just a boy. tony mcdade, a transgender man. he was held down and shot: oscar grant. tamir rice was a twelve year old having fun, philando castile was with his family when he was shot seven times in the car aiyana jones at seven was one of the youngest by far, amadou diallo shot at forty-one times in the early hours of dawn. please recall kendrick johnson whose death was ‘accidental’ but found with organs gone. there’s so many more names we need to remember, forever and always; every year; all the way through, we remember.
Carbon 7
Samual Kennard
Sojourn Emily Jeo
I think myself a bird, given the choice.
A bird with no name to be remembered, and no one to recall it.
A bird with no nest, with none to hear me come,
To make my home on wandering winds
And to be named by them.
broken standing
anyways the tree watches in silence falling it gives life a sapling takes it’s place it grows then it changes repeating life sprouts
The Wilting Giant Will Fluetsch
Kayenta Samuel Kennard
The Gladly Sea Hannah Lee
She grabbed his hand. She held it close to her heart, the sea
hers, a gentle brush at a street fair, twinkling lights in the background, everything fuzzy suddenly becoming clear as she inhaled with surprise. Surprise that everything seemed to click, as the world came into focus all around her.
It was as if she had been a dead woman walking, and suddenly her heart was buzzing back to life, vibrations running rampant all around her, like the strings of a furious instrument desperate to convey the urgency of it’s melody. And now she felt more alive, even still, even as the water was gently stealing it from her. She wanted him to know she felt it. His eyes were closed, his lashes standing out against the paleness of his skin. She felt his thumb press into hers, and she knew he was thinking of it too. It was a feeling that could not be denied-- a feeling that overtook and replaced every other feeling ever felt. Making all other victories and brief happinesses irrelevant. They were together, at least, as it was all falling apart. They were in cohesive space, trapped in the depths of the unknown, seconds left of consciousness. But that was the thing that jolted her most-- she had never really felt conscious until she met him. She had been happy, the kind of happiness that bubbles on the surface and gurgles with a grin as it hits the side of a swimming pool before dispersing and returning back to the chlorine calm. Now, it was as consistent and powerful as an ocean wave. As forcefully gentle as the tide kissing the sand further and further, desiring to consume as much as possible before the dark settles in and steals the light. It was the bravest stirring she had ever known. It was stronger than gravity, yet as weightless as ever. It was reality. It was living.
Peche Joclynn Kelsey
Chubbs Oscar Roche
Coaxing the Cat Carly Gooch
Part 1: The Fourth Woman
orchestration, (“Want to have sex after dinner tonight?”) or too
good to fuck now right?”) I sigh and watch as my libido turns and darts away like a feral cat spooked by a loud noise. I shouldn’t have been surprised then that in the four years since coming out as bisexual, all three of my romantic encounters with women did not bring me an orgasm. But the voice of doubt never sleeps ( exploring your sexuality again, in the middle of a pandemic). I worried I would be cursed to wander forever what it was like to cum with a woman, but never get to truly experience it. And then I went out for a fourth time.
Part 2: The Conversation
She was sweet, the way she nestled into my chest, shyly pressing herself into me. Her long, curly brown hair always smelled like shampoo. She didn’t push for anything, didn’t seem too eager. I’d been accused of losing interest if someone became too interested, but I think it’s more complicated than that. Being over eager is unattractive to me because it has been synonymous at times with being inconsiderate. People can get so wrapped up in what they want, so fervent in their pursuit of it, that they ignore other people’s signals of discomfort.
talking. They are doubtless when they are shown patience; she seemed to understand this. She was slow as she kissed me, and gentle as she ran her hands along my arms and back. The momentum built like a series of questions being asked back and forth, each more intimate than the last. I worked my hands under the back of her t-shirt ( ) and she pressed harder into me ( ) and I pulled her closer ( )
Part 3: Crescendo
The cat was back. She peered out, crept forward, looked right, -
not be afraid to embrace her?
I understand now why it took so long. I just needed someone patient enough to coax the cat out. Way I see it, coaxing is half the fun, and that ability doesn’t belong to one gender. I came in quiet gasps, mouth pressed into her neck, her hand slid under panties we had been too unconcerned with to
Untitled Galaxy Painting
Joclynn Kelsey
Survivor's Guilt Anna Petty
sciousness. The truck bounced up and down as it went along a windy canyon road, making it hard to rest. Sage didn’t want to open her eyes. She knew that once she was fully awake, she wouldn’t like it. Sage furrowed her eyebrows with her eyes still tightly shut. Her insides roiled within while her head pounded. Sage covered her head with her hands and held still for nearly a minute.
Finally gathering the courage to open her eyes, Sage shifted in her seat. Her head was resting on the window, and she was hugging her legs to her chest.
It was dark outside. There was no moon in the sky. Just stars. Lots and lots of stars. The music Val was playing caught her attention. The lyrics registered slowly into her mind, and after a while she was aware of everything around her.
The scent of the old musty truck. The soreness in her back guilt looming over her.
Rubbing her eyes, Sage sat up fully and groaned.
“Hey,” Val said, barely above her breath. She was holding the steering wheel with one hand and glanced over at Sage, “Shit, you look like hell.”
“Well, I feel like hell.” Sage grumbled.
“I get it.”
Sage looked out of the windshield and sighed. The headlights illuminated the surrounding area. Tall pine trees were on else. Sage looked over at Val and studied her face.
She seemed contemplative. The dark circles under her eyes gave away how much sleep she had missed in the past 24 hours. Her lips were chapped and her face was drained of most of its color.
“Valerie…” Sage started, knowing what she was about together, staring resolutely on the road. Sage pressed on, “Valerie, please. We need to stop and rest.”
“We can’t. Not right now.” her tone was cold and matter-
of-fact. Usually there was no getting past Val when she made up her mind, but the circumstances called for it. Maybe a compromise would do.
“Okay,” Sage nodded, “How about you take a break and I drive?”
folded her arms and looked out the window. This girl. They had
A few moments passed. Her head still ached. A deer weaved through the woods alongside the truck before disappearturning to see tears slip down Val’s face. Val quickly wiped them away, trying to save her crumbled composure.
“I…” Val gasped, struggling to control her breaths, “I
Screams echoed in Sage’s mind. Her hands started to shake. “We just need time to process this, maybe get some sleep-”
Val shook her head, “I won’t be able to sleep without see-
“How can you say that? We could have stopped it! We could have saved them, but we didn’t. You didn’t.”
Sage couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think. She was going to throw up.
“Why, Sage? Why did you save me instead of them?”
“Pull over, Valerie, now.”
“Sage,”
“Now!”
The brakes screeched to a halt. Sage fumbled with her the road. She wiped her mouth, the taste of acidic bile left on her tongue. Her whole body shook.
“I’m sorry,” Sage sat back up, staring at her clenched hands.
Val let out a small laugh, “I didn’t think you threw up on purpose.”
“Right.” They sat there with the door open for what felt like ages. Val ears.
“You’re right.” Sage said, facing Val. Val’s eyes were red
rimmed. She looked exhausted. Defeated. “We made.. I made a huge, irreversible decision,” Sage reached out, grabbing Val’s hands, “but it wasn’t a mistake.” Sage brought her closer, pulling her into a hug. “I couldn’t stand losing you. You are the most important person to me.”
Sage honestly didn’t know how Val would react to that. She could push her away, yell at her some more, blame everything on her and leave. Alternatively, she could say that it was okay. without another thought. Sage didn’t know which outcome would be worse.
Instead, Val was frozen. She didn’t move or even take a breath. Sage separated them, holding her at arm’s length, “Valerie…?”
Her face was downcast but a blush bloomed on her cheeks. the right words.
Sage sighed, “Don’t worry. I know everything is messed up right now,”
“But?” Val mustered, a fragile hope stringing her along. “But… we have each other. We’ve survived. Things can only get better from here, right?”
looked back up at Sage.
“Okay.” Val said, slightly nodding as if she was trying to convince herself that things would get better. She reached for Sage’s hand and squeezed it once before climbing out the truck.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Sage called out, panic rising in her throat.
Val made her way around to Sage’s door, “Taking a nap as requested. Scooch.”
Sage’s tense shoulders dropped. She allowed herself to smile as she slid into the driver’s seat. They buckled in and turned the music back on. The lyrics melded into the background as Sage put the truck into drive. She gripped the wheel and asked, “Where to?”
Crumb Anna Petty
With No Second Chance
Night
Day 1: Sleepless
J.A. Harris
He stood in the corner of the edge of the stairway. A gray shadow slipping into the night. His vision was blurry, unsure of what approached him. It was voiceless, like a ghost creeping through the night. He grew pale.
A woman approached slowly, but it was very unnatural. She didn’t move like any woman he had ever seen move. In fact, she carried her weight as if she were possessed, but she ended up falling, as if she was carrying a heavy burden upon her shoulders.
*** He arrived too late, lost everything he loved. And it felt like his fault. Voiceless, faceless, pale, gray shadow, night, fall, woman, vision, edge, burden... Isolation and death.
The Origin of the Siren's Song
Molly Hedgepeth
Our story begins
When the sea exhales
A sleepy gust of misty air
Birthed from the yawning mouth
The sea breeze journeys
From coast to coast
Whistling an airy tune
And somewhere along the way,
From the wing of a great bird
And made an unwitting passenger
Of that impetuous sea breeze
With its brilliant white strands
Down upon the lustrous waters
And back up again,
The gossamer plume
Breaks apart the monotonous
Expanse of that grey morning sky
And from the shore
It appears as if A falling star is dancing on the horizon
It is a beautiful thing
To be buoyed up by the sunshine
Made light as air
Without worry
To exist in a state of lightness
Wrapped in nothingness
And free of weight
And for that blessing, The feather begins to fall for the wind
Indeed, love can be a heavy burden. And soon enough the feather Is fully consumed in admiration
For something incapable of loving it back
For the wind cannot love, It can only move And it moves the feather so, Touches it so very deeply, It begins to drip with admiration
An angel’s wing falls From its kingdom in the sky And as with many things, The feather is transformed By the wisdom gained From its descent.
By the time
The radiant white plume Touches upon the sandy shore
It is no longer a feather
But the ghostly visage of a woman Transparent as sea glass With skin as fair as her brethren’s wings.
The knowledge of her fall Has cursed her
The wind stings against fresh skin Still untouched by fear
And the feather is suddenly aware Of its grave mistake.
To hold so tightly
To relish so greedily
In the touch of the wind
To want it forever for itself,
To put hopes of eternity Into such a capricious force
Which no one can contain
Which has no form.
Above
Seagulls chuckle and chortle
Shattering the haunting silence
With their mocking laughter
As a foolish trespasser, Once so pure white
She blended with the clouds
Now beneath them in every way
And as their jeering snickers
Fill the ears of the feather woman
She sways upon unsteady feet
And sea salt tears run down her cheeks
A song of unrequited love
So mesmerizing So eternally piteous in nature
And is awakened from its slumber
It strains its neck
That injured creature
To cradle it in its arms
And give it comfort as a mother does
And so
The ocean sweeps the woman to her breast
And hold her close to her heart
Filling her lungs with care, With comfort
Smothering her with maternal sensibilities
And the feather sinks further still
Drowning slowly
And with that descent she is transformed yet again
It seems what was well intentioned
Is proven curse over blessing
And now the willowy birdlike frame
Of that fallen angel
Grows a tail and gills
In order to move and breathe the sea
The daughter of the sky
Fallen to earth
By way of heartbreak
Is taken captive below
Where she becomes
What was never intended to exist
To this day
You can still hear the haunting tune Of the Sirens song
If you lean into the sea breeze
With tears on your cheek
And heartbreak on your mind
The comfort of knowing
Will call you into the ocean’s
Open arms
To join the seafolk below
The beauty of their melancholy melody Pulls you in
So that you might never feel pain again
Or
Feel anything at all
It is all too human to feel, But if you are lucky
The twisting screech of the seagulls snickers May wake you from your reverie
And you will go about your life with gratitude
Where the sirens song still echoes.
Vision
Sarah Kennedy
Les Mers (excerpt) Joclynn Kelsey
When the Sky Fell Hans Hardle
All Annie Addison wanted was her bed. It was an innate need for comfort in those penultimate times. Her three best friends were with her, and that’s still what she wanted. She did not want to be away from them, but she longed for something more cozy for each of them.
She looked up at the sky and saw clusters of stars brighten and dampen like a cumulonimbus swelling with lightning. The sky was ill, she thought to herself. She did not know that the snow was the stars, and that bigger asteroids were to follow. Big pillars of white that collapsed and decimated any piece of land it could touch, disintegrating everything. All she had were her friends, and their hourglass had settled.
wrapped around the planet and ate everything it could. Ripping them apart to shreds. Entire towns were being plucked up, one by one, until not even detritus was left.
The four of them did not run however. Annie convinced them of their fate, and together they did it, they took on the black hole head on. They held hands and accepted their fate. They
their true feelings for each other, and an unconditional platonic love. They also had goodbyes for their family, a prayer of sorts for them, their scared pets, and the long lost crushes they would never speak to again. The world would no longer be, and neither would they. There was no time for processed acceptance either, which only made it more disassociative.
The rumbling of dark matter grew stronger as it tore apart houses and roads growing to a raucous roar, shaking in their lungs and bursting eardrums. They couldn’t hear each other’s shouts of laments or praise anymore, it was just ringing and booms. Until those grey whisps reached them and plucked them as a unit into the black hole.
Everything fell to serene silence then. Annie was dangerously alone, ripped away from her friends and falling through a true abyss. She waited with clenched teeth for the other shoe to drop, where she would collide and splatter to the bottom of whatever.
She awoke feeling more tired than before. She was body. She was dazed by the feel of it holding her body and when dissolved. The stars were dying now, and she was a giant harvestshe heard next to nothing.
To make this all the more confusing, Annie discovered that the end of the world was an Ihop parking lot. No cars, no streetlights, no electricity of any kind except that crayola blue neon sign beaming down at her as if to welcome her back with open arms. The isolated Ihop was surrounded by a thick, mysterious evergreen forest with a single road leading in and out. The trees were towers compared to the spiky desert trees she was used to back home. Those trees looked like angry spitballs of nature’s worst intentions; these were massive gentle beings so perfectly orchestrated that they could have had a soul. The cold crept up like a shadow, and she began to shiver. Like a snow-globe put to rest, everything was coated in the white corpses of stars. She had to
With the ding of the front door she was inside, pawing aimlessly for the light switch. Instead a light came to her. It
The pancake house was warmed with lights stuttering awake in and khaki pants. All the more bizarre, he had the head of a sun, which did not blind her but smoldered instead. He was decaying. one hand to her, old sores dotted his hairy hands. “I’m Sun of Man, and I’m here to help.”
To read the rest of this intriguing work,
Regrowth: Kura Farr
It’s taking longer than I imagined to undo what they did
It’s taking help from my therapist my husband my friends
It’s been seven years and still sometimes I feel Abandoned and Alone
Unable to tell what is real
But, the darkness isn’t all-consuming Not anymore
There is a light at the end of the tunnel
It calls to me like never before
I never believed that I could be anything more than what I was But now I see that I can be everything and more than I have ever dreamed
Where once there were scorch marks
Now there are benchmarks That shows just how far I’ve risen but eventually Everything regrows
“I need you to tell me what’s going on. You can’t call me at work three times and ask me to come home if it’s--” I snapped back at him, something I would regretting saying, before he cut me off.
“We’re in Utah Valley, your mom has cancer. We will be home soon, I was hoping you’d meet us at the house.”
Winded? Not winded like someone who had run for miles, but winded like I’d been kicked in the chest by a Clydesdale. That doesn’t even begin to explain the way I felt as I begged for more information. The way I felt as I ran to my desk to grab the keys to my car, tripping back across the sea of office chairs, scrambling to whisper to my boss about why I had been so inconsiderate and had to leave immediately.
The way I cried the entire drive home.
The Dream
Celia Teenage Juan ran eagerly towards the plaza. More excited than the year before, this would be the year he would enjoy the festival from the inside. Entering in the animal show event with his very own bull, Tor, meant Juan had his own place in the celebrations. He was on his way to clean Tor one last time before he would put his bull on display for the city.
The people of Junin, Peru were getting ready to celebrate the most awaited festival of the year. A soft and delicate aroma filled the streets as bright yellow, red, and blue festival flowers adorned homes and storefronts around the city. Smells of Peruvian food would lead all towards the center of the city and the enormous plaza. This was Juan’s city.
As he made his way inside the plaza, he saw the other contestants cleaning their bulls. He hurried towards Tor’s pen. For tomorrow’s event, Tor needed to be as clean and shiny as the dishes he washed at the restaurant.
On his way into the pen, he bumped into the soapy bucket of cleaning water, knocking it over. As he tried to pick up the bucket, he slipped on the pavement made soapy by his error. He put his hands on the floor to make his fall less painful, yet his hands slid.
Juan let out a scream of pain. Tor became nervous and unsteady from the commotion. Soaked in the watery foam, Juan tried to get back up again by holding onto the fence. He was in pain as his hands were both hurt and he tried to open the fence gate, but it was useless. As Tor grew restless, rearing up to charge, Juan’s only way out was to jump over the fence. He was panicking, but he had jumped over the fence multiple times before, he could do it again. Yet, he forgot that he was completely soaked in soap... “Ahh!!!” Juan screamed as he slipped and fell back into the bullpen, right back down in front of his charging bull.
“Grandma, grandma, grandma, help me please!” Juan’s screams filled his whole room. He woke up in fear and full of emotion; he had just witnessed his own death. All he could do was turn around in his bed to make sure he had no injuries. He checked his hands and there was no pain; he checked his clothes. He was still in pajamas. He touched his back and his chest expecting the scars of where he got stabbed by the horns of Tor, but there was nothing. Juan could not explain to himself how a dream that felt so real could have just been in his head.
“What is wrong?” yelled Grandma Rosa from the kitchen. “Juan, get up already, it is time for you to get ready for the big festival!”
Still in pajamas, barefooted Juan went running to the kitchen. His face was full of fear and horror as he, trembling, told his grandma about the dream. Grandma Rosa believes in many superstitions. One of them was about the meaning of dreams. “Stay home Juan, do not get close to the plaza, and do not get close to the animal show,” said Grandma Rosa in a worried tone.
Juan was sad and frustrated that now she would not allow him to attend the festival. The whole city was going to be gathered with the exception of him. Grandma Rosa got ready, she grabbed her bag and made her way to the door. Juan begged Grandma to let him go, he promised to stay away from the plaza, that he was just going to go play games at the fair.
“No!” Is all Juan heard before Grandma was long gone on the street.
His head was full of regrets for having told Grandma that silly dream. Everyone must be having fun, there must be a lot of good bulls in the show too, everything that I’m missing because of a dream.
What was Juan going to do? Enjoy his day even despite Grandma’s warning? Or, stay and listen to Grandma's beliefs? He loved his grandma, but he was a teenage boy who preferred to live life despite superstition and risk. Juan had decided. He would disobey Grandma Rosa and go to
the show. I will be careful. I know how to take care of myself, I am not a little kid.
As Juan started walking towards the plaza, he suddenly started hearing distant screams. What is going on? He started to run faster. As he crept closer, he could hear people yelling at others to run, to hide, to save their lives.
At the plaza, all he could see was a mess. Everything had been destroyed like a tornado had passed by. Not a single shack of food or decoration was left standing. Confused, and with tears in his eyes, Juan started running towards the mess screaming, “Grandma, grandma!”
As he ran, he encountered people that were hurt, some were hiding, and many were crying.
“What has happened?” Juan asked.
“The bulls escaped,” a man said.
“They are wild, we cannot control them!” another man said.
“Grandma might have gone home, she has to be home!” Juan said and decided to hurry back. He went a faster way home. All he could see was fear, fear he had never seen before. As he got closer to home, he noticed that it was suddenly silent. The bulls might have gone to destroy another part of the city. As he was nearly home, he heard someone yell near him, “The bulls are coming hide, hide!”
If he could make it, he could lock himself in and maybe find Grandma. He ran faster, he ran and ran, but the bulls ran faster.
Muuuuuuuuuuuu. Screams of despair and sounds of stampeding bulls were close behind. Juan made it to his door. Took out the house keys. All he had to do was get the door open and he was safe. He put the key in the lock but a bellow behind him was clear. Open, open!
He felt a windåfelt heat, felt his heart beating hard. Then, as if a car had hit him from behind, something crushed him into the ground.
“Grandma…” was all Juan managed to say.
The keys hanging in the doorknob and the path left by the bulls is all that was left.
Letters
J.A. Harris
Anthony waited in the driveway for a little while before gathering enough energy to start the car and head on home. He drove the white Honda that he and Jeanne bought before the dreadful news about the cancer which stuck to her body, ending her life too quickly for the two of them. The car was able to fit two in the front and about two to three people in the back. Plenty of room for the both of them.
When he turned the car on, there was a voice that called him from a distance. One that he dreaded to hear.
“Anthony! Buddy!”
Oh no...What does he want this time…? He can’t take a hint, can he?
“I need to tell you something! Can you get out of your car, please?” Damien begged, nearing Anthony’s car ever so quickly.
Anthony sighed, acting as if he couldn’t hear Damien. He was exhausted, and didn’t want to deal with anymore crap from his ex-friend. So many times Anthony had told him to leave him alone, but unfortunately, this wish never came true. As soon as he pulled the car out of park, Damien forced himself onto the window and pounded as hard as he could on the glass, as if they were living in some sort of horror movie.
He better not break these windows or I’ll make him pay for it from his own wallet.
“You can still come to the party. There’s part of the party where it’s more… appropriate for your religious standards. Though the offer still stands if you want to be with some women as well as many other fun
things,” he grinned. He was muffled, but Anthony knew what he was saying, even though he wished he didn’t.
Anthony chose to stay silent.
“C’mon, bud! What do you say? Will you come?” He was growing anxious.
Ugh. Anthony focused his eyes straight ahead, lifting his foot off the break. I’ve had enough of this crap. I’m done. The car pushed forward on its own, as if it became its own living and breathing creature, silently rumbling and stopping for no one unless forced to do so.
All of a sudden, one of the most stupidest moves Anthony had ever seen someone do was done right then and now in front of his own chocolate brown eyes. Damien managed to perfectly time his jump where the car would slam into his body, making him fly only a few feet. Yet, the impact was still damaging even though Anthony hadn’t moved the car over 20 miles per hour. Around to 10 to 15 really.
Anthony came to a sudden halt, petrified. As much as had grown to distrust and dislike Damien, he didn’t want to be the cause of someone’s death. He’d never wish that upon anyone, no matter how much they got on his nerves. He wasn’t the kind of person that wanted violence. It was against his nature, and he would never forgive himself if he was the reason why someone died.
He hopped out of the car to make sure that Damien was okay. All he needed to know was that he wasn’t dead, and that he was able to get up and walk again. He only hoped that Damien would learn his lesson after this accident. He was about to call the ambulance when all of a sudden, he felt a hand grab his ankle and he was whipped to the cement ground.
Pain slammed him in the face followed with a wave of shock. Worry followed after; he hoped he didn’t break anything. He refused to move
a muscle. As uncomfortable as he felt, he was cautious about his injuries and how bad they were. He was paralized from a mixture of emotions that were racing in his mind, making everything feel cloudy. He knew that he needed to focus on what was going on, or he could risk death. He never considered himself to be afraid of death, especially after Jeanne’s passing, but he didn’t want to go down without a fight.
Damien grunted, slowly getting up off his feet, “You’re lucky you didn’t break anything of mine,” he lashed out at him with unnecessarily name calling, proving to Anthony how childish he could be.
Anthony shut him out, mentally rolling his eyes. He was acting like one of those children that would call someone names because they didn’t do what they wanted, that to Anthony, was also pretty pointless in and of itself.
“You know, we used to be good friends, you and I. Do you remember those times we had?” Damien didn’t wait for Anthony to answer, “Those were fun times…” he paused to let his words sink in. “But you changed, and that change is what broke the friendship and bond we had.”
Anthony finally got up, “Everyone changes, dude. For good or for bad.”
“But your change ruined it, and I think that girl, Jeanne, was some of the cause of it. You were always different around her. Nothing else mattered. You never cared about anything, and it was all because of that stupid girl.”
She means the world to me…
“Instead of living your life, you dedicated it to that girl everyday, and still do even now that she’s gone. Why can’t you learn to let go? You don’t have to be bound by her anymore. Live your life to the fullest
and everything will feel better. Trust me. I’ve gone down this road and feel wonderful.”
I would break the promise to her, and I don’t want to disappoint her. She will always have my heart, and I will always have hers.
“It will only be for a few hours!” Damien pressured harder. “Let off some stress and have fun! School is almost over and we might as well celebrate, right? Maybe celebrate a little early before finals week arrives.”
“School hasn’t ended yet. I already told you this…”
“I know a few days ago you wanted to have some sort of party or celebration anyway, so what’s the difference?” He acted like he couldn’t hear Anthony. “They will always be toys to us in the end. When we need them most, we’ll take them out and use them again until we don’t need them anymore.”
Anthony took a few deep breaths before replying to his comment, “Women are not toys, Damien. They are living, breathing human beings like you and me. There are some that might not be the best, but there are many wonderful women out there too, and all they want is to be treated right. If we want to be treated well, we should do the same for the women too. It’s only fair.”
“But they’re super emotional,” Damien rolled his eyes, “and they don’t know when to stop begging you for something that they want. Everything has to be about them. They’re a burden when you’re in a relationship, or when you’re their friend. The way I see it, if you don’t get attached to them, then there’s no problem with what happens to them, and I’ll never have to turn into the mess that you are now.”
“At least it shows that I care about others and don’t take them for granted.”
“Since we can’t seem to agree, we should fight to finish this, because this is going nowhere.” Damien stood in a fighting stance.
Anthony raised a brow, “You know I don’t want to fight.”
“You will have to decide whether you like it or not.”
“Just because I believe something different than you?”
Damien was silent for a short while before answering, “Yes. That’s one of the reasons.”
“That’s not a good enough reason to fight.”
“There’s another reason. I want to get rid of you. That’s probably obvious at this point. Though what I didn’t tell you was that I have been planning to get rid of you and Jeanne for some time now. When Jeanne finally died, I only had one less person to worry about. Now that you’re finally here and no one can see us, might as well as take the opportunity to do what I’ve wanted to do for some time now.”
“You should have said you had a problem with us, but fighting me because you wanted to isn’t a good enough reason for a fight. You still haven’t explained why you are doing this, and if you won’t, then I’ll leave because you’re wasting my time,” Anthony started walking away, but Damien pulled him back. Anthony tried to move around him, but Damien only followed and caught up to his every step.
“Let me go, Damien. I’m not going to fight you because I need to go home and finish up homework that’s due, and study for the exams. Even if I had time, I still wouldn’t fight you. That’s not worth my time and energy. I have better things to do.”
“Like what? Sit in self pity and depression? Something that doesn’t exist?” He pushed Anthony again. “Be a man and fight!” He punched Anthony repeatedly, trying to get him to fight back.
Blood started pouring out of Anthony’s skin, but Anthony didn’t care. He wasn’t willing to fight. All he was willing to do was defend himself, and pass out hits when necessary.
“I said, fight!” He swung another punch at Anthony, but instead of taking more hits, Anthony finally decided to do something about it.
He was afraid that this was going to be his last option, but he wanted to defend himself for as long as he could before then.
Damien laughed, but stopped immediately after as he felt a hard blow to his face. His friend smoothed out his cheek, checking for blood. To his surprise, there was some blood dripping down his hand. He stared at it for a moment before turning to Anthony. “I thought we were friends!”
“Friends don’t willingly want to kill each other. What are we, animals?”
Punches were thrown back and forth, growing more aggressive as time went by. Blood started dripping off their faces, and Anthony knew that this was going to hurt worse the next day.
Anthony couldn’t wait until the fight ended. Then he could go home and do more important things that required his attention. All he had to do to end this was to defend himself until Damien wasn’t paying attention. Then he’d make his next punch count.
Damien noticed this, “Dude, what are you doing? Are you wimping out all of a sudden because you realize I win and that I was right?”
At this point it sounds like you’re trying to talk, yet I’m not sure if you know everything that you’re saying. Either that or you’re just too prideful.
When Anthony didn’t answer, Damien took that as a sign, “Ha! I knew it! You finally recognize the truth that I’m--”
Wham! A heavy blow to the face caught Damien off guard. This is my chance!
Anthony quickly got up, not caring how beat up he might have looked, and ran to where he had parked his car, but it wasn’t there. He looked father across the parking lot and saw a car crashed into a wall. He squinted as he was running. It was burning in flames. He paused for a second, realizing what was happening.
“Get out of the way!” He waved his arm at Damien, who had caught up to him now. “The car is about to explode!”
Backing up now slowly, Anthony tried again, hoping Damien wouldn’t be as stupid as to not move. “Unless you want to die, I would suggest getting away now!” Anthony yelled at him.
When he heard the word die, it brought him back to reality. A reality where he wasn’t willing to risk his life to save Anthony in a car explosion. Anthony learned the hard way to this fact, and wasn’t willing to test it again. He kept his guard up since then, and wasn’t willing to risk it a second time.
Time felt slow, yet, it was only seconds before the explosion beamed so bright, almost grabbing both of them in the process. Forced to the cement ground without warning, groaning, Anthony tried getting away before it got worse. It was too late. Consciousness left his body, he felt himself leaving there on the cement.
Read about Harris’ process of writing the novel from which the excerpt above came from in “Camp NaNo July.”
Camp NaNo July 2020
J. A. Harris
She was determined to finish a project she had put off since 2017. 2020 was a new year for her to finally finish something that she started. She wanted to make herself proud.
As July came around, she remembered an important event that she enjoyed participating in. This virtual event was called Camp National Novel Writer's Month (or Camp NaNoWriMo/Camp NaNo for short). She got out her laptop and the short story called “Letters,” and began working as soon as the first of the month came around the corner.
This story was about a young man in college named Anthony. Anthony was like any normal college student— he was determined to finish college and get a degree to be able to find a better paying job. But what made Anthony different was that even with these accomplishments in mind, he believed that he wouldn’t truly be happy. Not anymore. Not without Jeanne by his side.
Jeanne had died from cancer, but the book doesn’t start until after her death, focusing on how he was handling it and a few other trials that have been thrown his way such as betrayal. It made her wonder if Anthony would get the happy ending he deserves, or one that’s bittersweet.
Though, thankfully for Antony, he still had records to keep her alive in his heart. They were letters she had written to him. It was something that had started as a project many years ago before they had met, and little did she know then how much of a positive effect they would be in Anthony’s life now. To her, they were simple, but to Anthony, they meant the whole world.
As more of the story fleshed out, it all started coming together. It
felt as if Anthony himself was right next to her as she wrote his and Jeanne’s story, telling her what to put down. It was Anthony’s story after all. He deserved to tell what he had to share to the world.
Hours turned to days and nights, and sleep was lacking for her, but she didn’t care. Determination was written across her face, and she wasn’t willing to give up that easily. She was on a role with ideas swirling around her brain, making her go mad. Though she believed that the good thing about it was that she had plenty of ideas for the next time she looked at the document again.
One late night she was using writing sprints (writing as many words as possible in a certain amount of time) on a YouTube live stream. She finally saw the end in sight, and so she made the decision to finish the first draft of the story before heading off to sleep. She worked diligently as the timer counted down to the end, adrenaline pumping through her veins. The exhaustion that she had felt slowly evaporated into thin air. She was excited.
Before she knew it, she wrote the very last sentence of the story: “I’m finally going home…” Then ending it all with “The End.” This was one of the few times of her life that she finished the first draft of a story, and she felt proud for what she had accomplished. As a reward, she happily passed out on her bed.
To whom it may concern,
I am sure that stumbling upon a scene like this has left you with too many questions and not enough answers, and that is why I write this letter. I could not stay, and for that I am sorry. So I leave you this, with hope that my words might offer some sort of insight into what happened here tonight. Although I must admit that this is unlikely as I myself, having experienced the makings of this day firsthand, find no sort of understanding or acceptance in any of the details leading up to it. If I am, however, going to try to give any sort of explanation I will have to start at the beginning.
I first met Florence last May when I stumbled upon her in a clearing in the woods east of Brussex. I had recently traveled to the area with the intention of staying only as long as it took to restock provisions and not a moment longer. Having a great disdain for the chatter that accompanied the heart of such settlements, I readied my horse with enough supplies for a night or two in the woods, preferring the silence found in solitude for that is what my life had been thus far.
As the sun began to set, I left the trail in hopes of finding suitable ground to make camp for the evening. In traveling further east, my attention was caught by the cracking of wood and the subtle glow of a fire taking shape in the far distance. I remember being quite confused, who would possibly be this far away from town? This far away from the roads? How much greater was my surprise when I quietly led my horse towards the scene to find not a man like myself but a woman bent over that fire, back to me, rotating the fish that rested a few inches above the flame, skewered head to tail. I thought back then that Blue must have stepped on a branch or nickered because she turned quickly in our direction. I know now that he hadn’t.
The woman turned and demanded I come out and make myself
thought unavailable for a man such as myself. She sat atop me, curls cascading down her shoulders and eyes watching my face intensely for all my subtle reactions to her movements, smiling coyly whenever my demeanor conveyed the power she had over me at that moment. She moved slowly, but never before had I felt the pleasure of physical intimacy with such intensity as I did with Florence. And what started as a search for solitude ended with companionship. There in that tent, we slept the night in each other’s arms.
I awoke before her and used this moment to study more closely the features of her face. Her skin was cool, fair, and creamy. A galaxy of freckles dotted her cheeks and nose, and the tops of her shoulders. Her features were petite and the curls atop her head spilled wildly around her body. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed quietly and for some reason, this minute detail only furthered my affection. She woke shortly after and thus began a new chapter for me.
Florence requested that I show her new parts of the world, stating that I was “good company hard found in a world full of boring people.” I, having been smitten by this woman right from the start, agreed and we began our journey to the coast two days later.
She had never seen the ocean and I wanted to be the one to watch as she first experienced it. Thus followed the best and most challenging months of my life. Florence pulled from me pieces of myself that long lay dormant after a lifetime spent alone. We rode long stretches, talking about the wonders and horrors of this life until she spotted any sort of opportunity to pause and take adventure. We climbed trees and hiked peaks because she said that seeing things from above made her feel like God. We’d add days to our journey so she could spend some more time in places she felt deserved our attention and gratitude. When we passed through villages or cities she’d make good friends with everyone we
encountered, participating in long conversations, having the same influence on them as she did on me.
But times weren’t always as gay as they seemed to be, and I soon noticed a pattern in my companion’s behavior. Small things, menial things, would easily break her spirit for days on end. She once forgot to cover the firewood the night before and when we had awoken the next morning it was wet and would not burn. This small mistake on her part shut her down for three days. She wouldn’t talk and would barely eat.
When things were good, they were great and we’d have such fun. We’d go about our travels with Florence almost euphoric in attitude and then, just as quickly, she’d fall into the deepest lamentations or get caught in a great fit of anger over nothing at all. It seemed to me sometimes that her spirits were as easily changed as the direction of the wind. This pattern of behavior never showed itself more clearly to me than when we would encounter a body of water, any water. She’d get giddy over our encounter, requesting that I join her in activities such as swimming or skipping rocks. We’d spend the whole day in great fits of playfulness and when our fun drew to a close she’d get very quiet.
An afternoon we spent at a lake many months ago was particularly memorable. She had perched herself upon a large boulder looking out at the body of water as I went to catch dinner. A few hours later I had returned to find her exactly as I’d left her, arms curled up around her knees, silently staring out at the stillness of the lake. When I approached her, she didn’t acknowledge my being there. I sat down behind her and pulled her into my arms, asking why she’d spent the evening sitting in silence.
“The water offers me something, Arik, if only I am brave enough to take it.”
When I pressed for clarification, she responded by kissing me deeply and asking about dinner, and we spent that night in good conversation and passionate lovemaking.
Our travels continued on for a while much as they had before as we continued towards the coast. But after a while, I noticed that her good days became less frequent and her sorrows lasted much longer. Once, whilst sobbing in my arms she told me that everything was too loud and begged me to make things quiet again. The more she withdrew the more I tried to coax her closer to me. I loved my Florence deeply, and it ate away at my soul to see such a spirit as hers downtrodden by the woes of the world. But the tighter I held on, the more distant she became.
As we journeyed closer to the coastline, the weather improved. There had been a long stretch of overcast skies accompanied by chilly winds, and the emergence of the sun seemed to lighten her spirits. So we arrived at our destination happy. Florence was playful and in good spirits and I was relieved to see that the weather had brought her back to life. We rented a room here in town, planning to stay a season or two while both the horses and we, ourselves, rested from months of travel.
We ate the fresh food offered by the proximity of the sea and learned the town. I bought her a white dress she was admiring a week prior and requested she’d wear it while I took her to see the ocean.
When we arrived, she gasped, saying that it was more beautiful than she ever imagined it could have been, and she kissed me in gratitude. I spent the day watching her play in the waves and soak in the sun until it began to set. We walked the coastline for a while and then back to town, and I felt perfectly content in this life I never thought I’d be living.
Now, here we are, a short five months later and the world looks so vastly different than it did on that day. My sweet Florence did well for a while, taking to the town like she had lived here all her life. We rode the horses in the hills or hiked around the coastal cliffs on days where we felt like getting away from it all. We went back to the beach often, as it was now one of Florence’s favorite places on this good earth. I was even so foolish as to think that we could spend the rest of our days here happy. I procured a job in town and bought this small cottage on the outer border, thinking soon we could start a family. I never thought I’d settle in one place but this seemed as good as any and Florence was happy here.
But in spite of my delusional fantasies and my denial of the established patterns I had witnessed, Florence once again became ill. She’d shut herself up in our cottage for long bouts of time, and it took all I had to get her to come out and face the world once again. The sun no longer made her smile and the conversations and sex that so often held off our need for sleep had ceased for weeks at a time.
Just when I seemed to lose all hope in ever bringing a smile to my dear Florence’s face again, she surprised me by having dressed for the day, quietly asking If I’d take her to walk the beach. We emerged slowly and it took a long time for her to warm up but an hour or two by the water and she smiled softly at me and we once again engaged in meaningful conversation.
That weekend was good...up until the moment it wasn’t. I awoke early this morning to Florence’s side of the bed cold and empty, a small piece of paper perched on her pillow. I sat up frantically, knowing in my gut what I was about to find.
I’m not giving up, sweet love. I’m only giving in.
With all my love forever,
Florence
How great was my lamentation when I realized the meaning of those words. I jumped out of bed and looked frantically about our new home, calling her name over and over in a panic. I glanced out the window and her sweet appaloosa was gone. Throwing on my boots, I ran out the door. Not having the time to properly saddle Blue, I threw on his bit and took off. I kept telling myself that it wasn’t too late, that I had woken earlier than usual and that she’d be okay. She had left no clue as to where to find her, but some unknown instinct in my gut told me exactly where she’d be. I only prayed I’d make it in time.
I approached the coastal cliffs just outside of town at a dead sprint and I knew I had been right when I spotted her horse, but the horse was alone and I was too late. I pulled back on Blue until we halted to a stop. I bit my knuckle hard, and salty tears licked the wind-chafed skin of my face.
I knew what I was about to find and I wasn’t ready. I would never be ready for this fate that had befallen me. After a long moment of broken sobs and an attempt to reclaim the function of my lungs, I urged Blue reluctantly forward until we reached my dreaded destination. I dismounted and stroked the appaloosa’s head, partly in an attempt to calm us both but mostly as a way to postpone the horror I knew awaited. When there was nothing left to claim my attention, I closed my eyes, took one more deep breath, and then approached the cliff’s edge, peering down.
Florence, in her white dress and with her hair like fire, had been carried by the waves to the shore of the outer cove below. I swallowed hard, and nodded once while tears streamed silently down
my face. I tied her horse to mine, mounted, and began the journey below as slowly as I could. When we had made our way to that dreaded beach, I walked solemnly towards her body. The water rocked her back and forth on the shore and when I kneeled next to her, I cried out.
I sat there on the sand, turned her over, and scooped her into my arms. Weeping, I wiped the hair out of her face, I choked when I saw her eyes were open, staring vacantly past me at nothing.
“What did you do?” I sobbed quietly. “What did you do?”
Her arm was strewn out as if pointing at the water in answer to my question. Her dress clung to her form, and I just sat there and sobbed. Her skin was alabaster from being in the water too long and her extremities were all cut up from being pushed against the rocks and the sand. Those eyes that once swallowed the world whole now felt shallow, and the lips that I kissed so many times were cold and bruised. I sat there for a long time, expressing the pain that came from a hurt that no man should ever have to experience, until eventually I was all out of tears and my eyes felt as vacant as hers. I lugged her out of the water and placed her as reverently as I could with me atop of Blue, heading home, defeated.
I cannot say how it is that we came to be here, with a soul such as hers being taken from the face of this earth. Florence lived her life bravely in vulnerability and taught me each day what it was to be open to the world and all it had to offer, both good and bad.
No person has ever loved another so much as I loved my girl. I gave her all of me and everything that was left after that, but still, it wasn’t enough. The water offered her something I couldn’t, be it death or peace or quiet. And the only sliver of comfort I have right here at this moment is in the knowledge that she no longer suffers.
She was too much for this world, and I didn’t deserve her.
What should you say about what happened here tonight? Tell them a girl named Florence found solace in the water and that I, unable to endure her departure, had to leave too, hastily and without apology.
known to her, all the while wielding a 7-inch blade in her hand. I stepped out slowly, hands up above my head with Blue following close behind, assuring her I meant no harm.
Once I had fully emerged and my vision was no longer obstructed, I was taken aback by the beauty of this woman. She wore a simple sapphire dress that hugged her frame and fell to the damp forest floor. Her hair was like fire, falling in wild spirals down her waist, dancing around her frame like flames in the wind. And her eyes, oh her eyes! How do I even begin to describe those eyes? Emeralds that pierced through my deepest being even as the light had grown dim atop the peak. Even now her eyes haunt me, they held a vastness that the most eloquent of poets could not do justice. An endless capacity, absorbing and then reflecting back all the makings of the universe.
After I had once again found my voice, I explained my reasons for being, asking quietly if I could join her by the fire as it had grown late during my quest to satisfy my curiosity. She ignored the question altogether and walked quietly over to Blue and began speaking to him softly, stroking his face and asking teasingly about the character of his master, whose name she did not know.
“Arik,” I stated. “That there is Blue,” I said, pointing to the horse. “And you?”
“Florence,” she said, still enraptured by my travel companion. “Do you drink, Arik?” she asked bluntly.
I nodded.
“I guess that means you are staying,” she said, again turning her back to me. “Unpack Blue and come join me for dinner. You can tie him over there with the other,” she said, walking back to attend to dinner.
That night left me perplexed, for this woman was like no other person I had ever encountered, even among the vast amounts of people I had met within my lifetime of travels. She spoke freely about whatever she’d like, offering up depths in conversation that even those who had known each other a lifetime would struggle to share. And she did so unapologetically and with some mystical power of coaxing me to do the same. Somehow pulling from me an honesty and vulnerability I did not know I possessed. I said more to her in ten minutes than I was used to saying in a full week’s worth of encounters. We drank and spoke and laughed and ate, and I felt like I’d known her all my life. It became clear to me very quickly that this woman belonged deeply to herself. No man nor god nor country could claim her as their own, for she moved in a way that none could capture.
As the night grew on, she requested I dance with her there in the woods under a full moon. Be it the alcohol or the freedom I felt in her presence, or a combination of the two, I, a grown man who had never partaken in any activity so foolish or fun, obliged. We danced and sang until my foot caught a root and we both went down. Lying there in the leaves and dirt, we laughed until both largely out of breath. I finally found my lungs, then my footing and reached down to help her do the same. When we were both again upright, she refused to release the grip of my hands, and I didn’t want her to. She looked at me like no other woman had ever before, and strained upward towards my lips, and we kissed. That was that. Though I’d known her for a few hours, she had all of me and she knew it. A few moments later we broke for air and she grabbed my hand, smiled gently, and led me quietly into her tent.
The woman made love like it gave her life, and I fed off that passion. Never before had someone elicited from me such expressions of affection as she did right there in that tent. There was a connection in that union that I had seldom known existed and
Answer the Phone
Gunar Cottle
How strange, he never calls.
I watched my phone, cracked screen and all rumble across the table, stopping my boss in his tracks and derailing the entire meeting. “Sorry,” I mumbled quietly to my colleagues as I silenced the vibrating slab and made a mental note to return the call as soon as I could. I was young and fresh to the team, this was one of the first big meetings I had been asked to sit in on. Distracted, naïve, and oblivious, as one tends to be at 21, I shook my head in a desperate attempt to locate my train of thought.
Whatever composure and focus I had regained was shattered again when after an incredibly short few moments, I heard the familiar rattle again and glanced down to see “slide to answer” and “Dad” light up on the display for a second time. My stomach wanted to wretch as an overwhelming sense of dread consumed my body. Is something terrible bound to happen?
I sat, frozen and uncomfortable in my chair. What am I in trouble for now? What could he possibly need? Does he want to grab food? I’ll call back in literally 20 minutes. The screen went dim and then immediately lit back up with “Dad: Missed Call (2),” the number next to the notification making the entire scenario seem more ominous.
As discreetly as possible, I slunk the phone into my lap and unlocked it. Navigating my way to my messages for damage control, suddenly felt like I was back in high school, trying to organize lunch plans underneath my desk to avoid getting my phone or myself sent to the office. I would soon learn my father was not trying to figure out where to get a bite to eat. Attempting to remain engaged in the meeting so as not to spoil my new boss’ opinion of me, I tapped out a quick message, “??” and pushed send.
Blessed with the most beautiful gift of anxiety from birth, I was already nauseous, panicking and totally unsure how to navigate the situation when the third consecutive call rolled in. I decided excusing myself for a minute would be the best course of action. Better to step
out briefly and deal with “it” in its entirety than to keep getting calls or texting back and forth, right? Right! “Excuse me,” and “sorry, I’m just gonna squeeze past real quick,” I mouthed, trying to make as little additional commotion as possible as I awkwardly navigated the sea of rolling chairs towards the exit near the back of the vast conference room, still vibrating phone in hand.
The closer I got to the exit, the faster I started moving; it was instinctual. I had to get the hell out of that room. At this point, stomach in a square knot, I was desperate to know what was so crucial that my dad or whoever kept bothering me. After all, I was certain my family knew I had an important day! I was positive that I was running out of rings. I snuck out the heavy glass door and closed it silently while bringing the handset to my warm, red cheek.
“What?” I answered as though I was just interrupted by a telemarketer while in the middle of performing brain surgery.
“I’m sorry, can you come home?” my traditionally masculine and stoic father said meekly back to me. An apology from him? After I finally picked up the phone? If I didn’t know something was wrong before, I did after hearing the tone of my old man’s voice. I felt immediately ashamed.
Torn between worrying about what could possibly be going on with my family and my how my boss my scrutinize my professionalism, I probed for context, for details, for anything. “I’m kind of in the middle of a couple things…what’s going on?” I inquired in a more gentle tone. “I might be able to head out early if it’s an emergency,” I continued.
Unaware of the alarm he had already caused, he performed an about-face and sputtered out, “Never mind son, we’ll see you around your regular time.” Time has helped me realize his response was probably to protect me.
All of my emotions and thoughts moved at Mach 5. My dad had been a figure with the whole world on his shoulders but moved through life with seemingly next to no effort. Now, suddenly, three calls later, it’s just not a big deal, we can talk about it later?
Joker by Sarah Kennedy
nfodemic by Ann Fillmore
Blue Water Liquid Animation by Justin Miller
Stay Strong by Nichole Green
Sheltie by Nicky Jones
Sheltie by Nicky Jones
Pretty in Pink by Annika McCall
Movement by Nicholas McCullagh
Buzz Buzz by Nichole Green
Scan
Behind by Mary Ryan Kirsch
Scan to listen the soundtrack
Life Rhymes by BennyThe Jet
Life rhymes is all I know
Strive to always live and grow
Lord please continue to help me fight pain
I try and never jump to no conclusions and always know that life change
Yea my progress is a process that takes time for my options to refrain and open up
Yeah, I’m sure you know what I’m visualizing of and as I proceed to continue and show my love
For this music, I bleed for dawg
I just can never get enough, yeah, my true emotions are where they take flight and up
Forever on beyond bonds that fill up your thoughts with euphoria
Yeah, it's so glorious, from a higher power that’s big and notorious
Growing up we all heard stories of those ghostly warriors
Good and bad but think for a second, relive the past
Think twice on what you’ve been trying to be and decide that it's time for you and me to set ourselves
free again free again forever though forever though, seek to achieve this plan yeah
Wherever you are, look up to the stars and close your eyes for a moment
Visualize yourself, nearly up above the clouds and closely take notice to foresee it out
Attain your aim towards what you freshly gained and found and transform it all into something golden
Now you can really focus, listen to your inner visions of winning like you know why you’ve been chosen
For receiving feelings of pure ambitions and emotions
Yeah, I cope with those nights when it seems so low and hopeless
Listen why I wrote this, envision your lifestyles into meaningful white sounds that grow into a garden full of golden roses.
Believe me homie, I’m striving yeah, I know it's hard x2
Keep on pursuing what it is you really want, to release deep down inside your lion heart
Life rhymes is all I know
Strive to always live and grow
Lord please continue to help me fight pain
I try and never jump to no conclusions and always know that life change
Yea my progress is a process that takes time for my options to refrain and open up
Yeah, I’m sure you know what I’m visualizing of and as I proceed to continue and show my love
For this music, I bleed for dawg
Scan to listen the soundtrack
Always Try
by Amy Amelia
Editor’s note: The lyrics are based on a transcription of the song, so please excuse any errors.
