Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Arts Magazine Spring 2018 Resonance

A REVE RB ERATION . A SMALL VOICE, BOUNCING OFF OF EMPTY SPACE. ONTO THE PEOPLE'S EARS THE TINKERING OF GLASS BEFORE IT CRASHES TO THE GROUND. FROM A BROKEN CEILING A PREVIOUSLY UNHEARD STORY. AMPLIFED TO A BOOMING SHOUT INJUSTICE REPAIRED

© 2018 Folio Literary Magazine, Salt Lake City Utah. Volume 19 # 2. All rights are reserved by this pub licati on and the authors of the work within.

Folio i s a shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a literary magazine that publishes the be s t in s tudent writing and art from Sa lt L ake Community College. Like Night Rider, only a lit mag. Folio accepts original , unpublished submissions of writing and art from c urr ent students, faculty, or staff of Salt L ake Community College , and publishes on lin e and in print twice a year .

Submit your work year - round at www.foli oslcc.org. For que st ions, concerns, life and fashion advice, co ld brew coffee recipes , snark and a ll other relevant inquiries , contact folioslcc@gmail.com. For information about taking English 1830 - the class that produces Folio , contact Benjamin.Solomon@slcc.edu or l ook in the lat est cla ss schedu l e.

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Sir ll11ociate Vea11

STE PH EN RU FFUS

"!(11igfrtwriter ,,

BENJAMIN SOLOMON

Wizaro of Woro1 Eoitor

STEPHAN IE FLETCH ER

Matter of oa Wee6z Eoitor

BRANDON WALl<ER

"MaRe-Tfri11g1-looR-Prettg 11 Eoitor HEATHER GRAHAM

Quee11 of S11arR MICHELLE GRAY

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L PEEl(ING BY l<AORI SCH RANI<

2 .. THE HORRIFIC INTERSE CTION OF. BY STEP H ANIE FLETCHER

4 ........WITAEM I BY RUSS FUGAL

5 ARE THE "NORMAL' TRULY BLESSED7 BY DANMNNE BURNHAM

6......AM BY JACQ1JELYN WARNER

?. ...... STARRY Sl<Y BY HEATHER GRAHAM

8 NOTHING LESS THAN EVERYTHING BY HEATHER GRAHAM

9 TEAL & W HITE. GREEN & ORANGE BY LAURA FORNER

10.THE WAR ON WOMEN BY NESS DOUGHTY

13.....TO MY W HITE COUNTERPART BY BRIANNA MARIN

15 .EMPOWERING SH AME BY ALYSSA CASSELMAN

2LSEE EVERYTHING BACKWARDS BY ROSE BLACI<

22SNOW DAY BY l<AORI SCH RANI(

23 ARENT THEY BY AUST IN I( BREWER

28 .....A GOOD DAY BY MARJORIE BERNAL HERNANDEZ

30 THE EMPRESS BY HEATHER GRAHAM

31 .V IO LINI STA BY l( ENNETH SANCHEZ

32 ...BRING PEACE TO BROKEN HEART BY MOHAMMAD BAHADURI

35 .PENNY BY HEATHER GRAHAM

36 JN GOD'S IMAGE BY CC BIEHN

37. PURITY BY SCOTT W HITTAl<ER

38 WANDERLUST BY Nll(U MOJABI

39...THE WHITE PILL BY MA ISOON HU WIE H

44 ICE BY l(ENNET H SANC HE Z

45DIAMOND RING BY l<AORI SCHRANI(

46 .FUNERAL ARRANGEM ENTS BY CARMINA GRAY

49 TENTACLED MELODIES BY ADRIANA H ARD

SL..THE EN D THAT BEGAN IT AL L BY COURTNEY PHELPS

53. GRAYSCA LE VASE AND APP LE S BY JEREMIAH JO HN SON

54 THATS NO WAY TO SAY GOODBYE BY MARIAH FRALICI(

56....DEAR DEPRESSION BY Mll(YNNA NIELSEN

58 DROPS BY YASM EEN GHAZAL

59STUCI( BY HEATHER GRAHAM

60 LITTLE TREE BY ANTO INETT E VREE l(E

contentJ

61 SIT BY JACQ1JELYN WARNER

62HER BY CEELY MILLAR

63 FIERCE BY AMIE SCHAEFFER

64..... 0NE SIZE FITS ALL BY ATIF AFRIDI

65 DEMENTIA JELL- 0 BY LAURA LAFEEN

67. .. STATE CAPI TOL BY l<AORI SCHRANK

68 HATRED STIRS BY l(YLIE BROWN

69 GOAL DELUXE ENDER TREE BARS BY WI LLI AM ANDERSON

71 NOT YOUR THUNDERSTORM BY CC BIEHN

73 . .H O LDIN G ON BY SHANDY CLARI<

74W HITE l(NIGHT BY ERIC JENSEN

75....THE STORM BY EMILY W ILLI AMS

76 PAWS BY l<AORI SCH RAN I(

77 UNFINISHED PLANS BY FARAHNAZ BAHADURI

79 DONT FALL BY GENTRY HUNSAKER

80 CAN YOU HEAR BY BRIANNA MARIN

8LGIFT ED l(YL EE BY SH EPHERD

82. H OPE BY l( ELSAY COOi(

83 LI G HT AND SHADOW BY l<AORI SCHRANK

84 ..27 DAYS BY NATALIE MON TOYA

88 F OREVER MY HERO .. BY JEREMIAH JOHNSON

89 WHEN NATURE LOO l<S AT YOU BY PRISCILA PINALES

90 SPRIN G IN PRISON BY MA ISOON HUWIEH

97..JM HERE. AND NO W HE RE ELSE BY HARRIS HADZIABDIC

98 THE CAULDRON BY GAGE ) ARMA

101 UNBREAl<ABLE BY STEP H ANIE FLETCHER

104 H OM[7 BY GABRIE LA LOPEZ

10 5.SEANCE FOR MY TIA BY MONICA AYALA

107. MEMOIR PART 1 BY M. R DIVINE

110....RESISTIR ES SOBREVIV IR BY MIRIAM FLORES

11LWINGS BY SHANDY CLARI<

112RED RIBBON BY MIC HELLE GRAY

118 .BISON BISON BISON BY THOMAS MCCARTHY

~e101-1a1-1ce:

A REVERBERATION . A SMALL VOICE, BOUNCING OFF OF EMPTY SPACE, ONTO THE PEOPLE'S EARS THE TINl<ERING OF GLASS BEFORE IT CRASHES TO THE GROUND. FROM A BROl(EN CEILING. A PREVIOUSLY UNHEARD STORY AMPLIFIED TO A BOOMING SHOUT INJUSTICE REPAIRED

tfte ftorrific iuterJectiou of aracftuopfto6ia

au~ clauJtrob_fto6ia

STEPHANIE FLETCHER

I hope you see the title of this story and think "oh God" because that is exa c tly the r eac tion you shou ld have. Spide rs a lon e are disgusting, but paired with small spaces? Get out of town. If you're next thought was " What wicked st ory cou ld this littl e girl have in her pocket?" you are in for a treat.

I can't pinpoint exa ctly how old I was when this happened, in part because, lik e most of my traumatic experiences, I have tried to COMPLETELY SUPPRESS THIS. The only hint of an age you ' ll get is that I was in elementary schoo l , either third or fourth grade. At that age, I was very gullible, and it was very easy to bait me into doing things that are, realistically, AWFUL and STUPID ideas. Dying to be accepted by every single person that crossed my path, I went along with anything. One time, in specific, was a ll centered around hide and seek.

My best friend at the time, Rachel , had a designated play space in the basement of her suburban Cottonwood Heights home. It included all of the living room area within the basement, but under no circumstances were we a llowed in the hallway, or behind the bar. The hallway was her older sister, Hannah's , territory, one H annah hold in severely high regard . Rachel and I loved sneaking down the hall, into the laundry room , into the bathroom, and once, only once, into Hannah 's room . Hannah, of course, was inside, and became enraged.

"Why don't we all play hide and seek?" Hannah offered, a kind suggestion to my young and naive brain, but sin ister now that I know the consequences of Rachel and I's trespassing. Rachel and I jumped at the opportunity, never being offered a seat at the table with Hannah.

"I' ll seek!" Rachel squea led , running upstairs to count, leaving m e with her vengeful sister

" I know the perfect place to hide- behind the bar." Hannah grinned, siz ing up my 70 pound , 4 foot nothing frame. "You'd fit perfectly behind th e g la ss." I shook my head, petrified of dealing with Ra chel's mom if she found out I was in th e forbidden place .

Hannah grabbed my arm and pulled me behind the counter, and easing me into the small space between the shelves. "Now, don't make a sound." Sh e threatened, closing the glass, and sealing me inside.

Completely unbeknownst to me, the reason R achel's mom kept th e area off limits was because they had a spider infestation, and I'm sure you can guess wher e th e highest concentration of the small beasts lived. Rachel's mom had pumped some kind of fum es into th e ar e a, in hopes of getting rid of them onc e and for all.

So there I was, trapped in a mostly dark, spider infested , heavily fumigat-

ed cabinet. That was locked. From the outside. I was fine , smug over the fact that Rachel would NEVER find me here, until I felt something crawling down my leg. I looked down, and with the minimal room I had, and the smallest light from the ceiling, saw a spider, scurrying down my pant leg. My blood ran cold, I tried to open my mouth, but nothing came out. Another spider land e d in my hair, and this time, I was actually able to respond . I began banging on the glass, screaming and crying. The fumes started to make me cough , and began restricting my breath. It felt like I was crying for help for hours, when really it was only a few minut e s before Hannah opened the glass and pulled me out.

"Geez . Thanks for ruining the game ." She huffed as I scrambled past her, trying to get fresh air. Hannah call e d my mom , and warned me that if I ever told, she'd lock me in again.

I told my mom anyway. She was, obviously, furious , but she was not mad at me. I was just a kid , after all.

witaimi

trans lation:

stay.with -I .patient-imperative .s ingular stay with [me], People past , present , future come together, create plac e to grow toge th er, create apar t . a community consumes space.

she lter and hearth, crops in the eart h ch iskhake, charters, pemikpeka, patents

Lenape's kithane I Britain's de La Warr conflicting experience, cult u ral Identity. an apprec iation of th e Peo pl e . by the People . for th e Peo pl e . not the Peoples w h y differentiation? why diversity?

Conflict I Harmony latent , perceived, felt, manifest

Destined I Guarantee aftermat h westward migration westward in g nation commun ity perseverance determination witaeminen

inspir e d by the Native American Community Academy's vision

af'e t1e 61'f on1f.a(" t~u,q ,eJJeo?

~NMNNE BURNHAM

Do the blind see what th e sighted can't

Like a child with an "imaginary" friend ?

Do the deaf li sten to the whisperings through one's hands

Like the conscience we all supposedly have ?

Do the mentally gifted secretly know all?

Can the paralyz e d feel th e surge of e motion

Like the staccato beat of rain on your face?

Do the mut e speak cl eare r than the voice?

Are those fed by machine able to savor their menu

Like a person alone reading their only letter ?

Does the cloth on a Muslim woman mask the purest fragrance

Like an indiscretion covered by lies?

11otfti11g le11 tfta11 evergtfti119

HEAffiER GRAHAM

Everything I writ e or paint or hum about us , for you, always finds itself pepper e d with stars and ga laxies.

You are star-freckled verse and glitt ering paint , silvery moonlight waltzes and starlit melodies.

Our dawn was blanketed in stardust on a hilltop and bloomed into forever in the frosty midnight air.

Nothing cou ld mean as much to you, to me , ever trusting the stars to never stop shining in the dark.

I composed each twinkle in prose and story as you post e red th e images to my wall s

We inked our 'always' on our chests lik e a badge of honor with sparkling conste ll ati on, mirrored on pale skin.

Everything that sparkles in my sky for m e lS US , Endlessly more ex traordinary than romance or desire

You Me. Us

Nothing less than everything

teal{;,- wftite, green

orangelAURA FORNE

It was a normal Monday in the dead of winter in my small town high school. The bell for lun ch had ju st rung, and so began the stampede toward the front of the lunch line. Business as usu al. Except for one crucial detail: we had all just been informed that another girl had taken her own life over the weekend. She had been the third in a string of suicides we would not see the end of until mid-May. Notes were sent home and counselors placed in plain view. But thi s time was different.

The school didn't feel the same as it did when the news hit that a well-loved football player had ended his life. There were no girls crying in the bathroom this time. No lines to speak to the grief counselors. This lack of a reaction is what I think made it hit home for me and my friends more than the others had, and what threw a wrench in our normal lunchtime conversation.

I sat down at our normal table. The rest of my friends trickled in slowly, and they were a ll talking about the girl that no longer was. I had no idea what that half hour would bring, or how vividly I would remember it.

One of my friends began a tirade against therapy. Another of my friends shot back with, "If you've never been, you can't judge" , to which she replied that she had. Then, the rest of us chim ed in. We had all, at some point, gone to therapy. Then came the talk of antid epressan ts We were a ll on them. A group of seven tot a lly average high schoo l girls, and we all took medication to make o ur brains function in a way that allowed us to live normal lives.

Once we had all established the fact that we were 0egally ) medicated, we began to discuss how h ard it was to get to that point, a nd the ridiculous survey we had all had to fill out at our doctor's office.

"Mine had questions about needing alcohol to get through the day," I chimed in. Everyone laughed, but it had a sharp edge to it. Like, maybe becoming an alco holic didn't sound so bad. At least you didn't have to go to a doctor and advocate for yourself to parents and doctors for months to get a prescription of alcohol.

The conversation then fell back onto our antidepressants.

"It would be nice if they were at least a cute color," another friend added.

I told her that mine were, in fact, cute (they were bright teal and pale white at the time ), and that they were even my favorite co lor. Two of my friends even discovered that they were on the same "neon orange and baby poop green" colored pill. I could not fathom how we had even gotten to this point.

Before the conversation fizzled out with the bell to signify the end of lun ch, we got heavy. We all discussed the bad days and the su ic id al thoughts and attempts and the se lf harm. No one amo n g us was without a story.

tfte war 011 wome11

NESS DOUGHlY

The War on Women

Exists

In my sister and I Bonding over our Rap e It exists

In the air at night

When I walk alone, Brass knuckles ready

The War on Women Exists

Between the lines of our laws

When over

Eighty -Four Million Governm e nt Dollars

We re spent on Erectile Dysfunction drugs

When I sti ll ca n't afford my Birth Control

It Exists

Wh e n P lanned Parenthood

Is th e

Only

Doctor I can go to for accurate education on my H ea lth

Th e War on Wom e n

Exists

In my father telling me to marry rich

And his silence

In my success

It Exists

In our History

Wh e n Wom e n had to

Fight

For our vote

Inst ea d of simp ly being born

A White Man

The War on Wom e n

Exists

In our Whit e House

Where sexual pre dators Reign

It Exists

When we keep shouting Injustice And Our World is Deaf

The War on Women Exists

When her less qualified Male Competitor gets the job

The War on Women Exists

It Exists

In our voices wh e n we Cry out for fair treatment

It Exists

In our collective bodies as we Protes t Together

The War on Women Exists

At night when I Cry for my sisters

Cry in hop es that maybe they will have Opportunity

The War on Wom e n Exists

When I have to tell my brother that It's okay to wear nail polish

Because being equated to a Woman

Is th e wor st kind of In sult

Th e War on Wo m e n

Exists

Li ste n to us

H ea r our Voi ces

Th e Wa r on Wo m e n

Exi sts

And is Stron g

R es ist.

to mg wltite cou11terf)Qrf

BRIAN NA MARIN

Have you ever explained to your child the danger s that come with the color of their skin? Or sat idly while pulled over for a broken taillight, not knowing your partner is about to be murd e red in front of your eyes while your littl e girl watches in the backseat? Have you eve r had to look your son in the eye and explain to him that when a police officer, someone who is a part of th e human e ntity who don ' t hunt but prot ect, won't think twice about taking lives?

Have you ever been subjected to rude stares from women and unwant e d suggestive stares from men for simply having tight curls and wide hips? Have you eve r been yelled at becaus e you forgot to show your bus pass for th e mere fact that you were in a rush? When another person , white unlik e you, walks on the bus , and the same bus driver that yelled at you was awfully kind to them . Truth is, if you grew up in North America as a passing white woman, you probably answered no to all of these questions.

How do you teach yourself to accept the fact that your own skin betrays you? When I walk down the street, I don ' t trust myself, I don 't trust who I am b eca use who I am and what I look like has the power to get me killed. My White Counterpart, you get angry when I call you privileged . I get angry because you are blinded by many years of superiority and my silence to not r ealiz e that you a re . Privilege is stealing a life, a soul, an ete rnal being from their homeland, then you frown on th em when th ey fight for fr ee dom, justice an d a life that is rightfully theirs. We are still shackled, bound , and forced to work against our will in a land that you stole, and yet watched us build that land from almost nothing to th e most powerful country on Earth. We are still d e nied the courtesy of d eep acknowle dgm en t. Privil ege is being able to walk down th e street with not a care in the world that you might get stopped becaus e your pants are a bit low, and your hair is knott e d in locks. Privileg e is not having to explain to your son how to b ehave when he is pulled over by poli ce, just for the sake of ke eping his life. And even when he behaves , his life is still taken. Privil ege is telling me that I am delusional b ecause you believe racism is not real. Privil ege, my Counterpart, is not having any idea if what I am saying is true , but would you still bash me for speaking up ? I was cast out from my football tea m b ecause I chose to tak e a stand for my community, for justice. Peopl e and their children- children that are so barbarously murdere d because of their skin. You call m e traitor b eca use I chose to make a

statement by standing against your national anthem as my refusal to accept the crimes you commit against my people. Murders that you so easily turn a blind eye to.

You assassinate m e in front of my people because I had a dream. A dream that one day the sons of slaves and former slave owners would be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

My White Counterpart, you took away too many who fought for me. Fought for me to not have to explain to my daughter the dangers of her skin tone. Who wanted me to live a long happy life with my partner and avoid the sorrow of watching him get shot to death before me and my child. Who fought for me to speak up passionately to authority, only met with hostility which resulted in death. Who fought so that I would not have to feel the excruciating discomfort prickling b en eath my skin as I walk down the street, or step into a room b ec aus e I don't look like you. Or, get yelled at because I was in a rush to get somewhere and I forgot to show you my bus card.

Yet , My White Counterpart, you still tell me to forget slavery because it has been over for years. You still treat me like a dispensable object and quite frankly, I can't help but bare the generations worth of pain and suffering, feel it's strength and pain in my very existence. No, My White Counterpart , this is just the start. I don ' t want violence, and I am allergic to hat e. This is why my white counterpart, I will not stop here. I will fight until you realize. Until my pain is your pain, my suffering is yours, and you are intertwined with it all. You will soon understand, and you will know the deeply buried hurt and frustration I carry with m e today and every day. You will know. I will not rest until you do. I will not rest until the sons and daughters of slaves and former slave owners would be able to sit down together at the table of humanity.

Sincerely yours,

Your Black Counterpart

This is a story for those who have been shamed for being "too skinny", for havin g short hair, stretch marks, or for being flat chested, for their postpartum body, those who have strugg l ed with body dysmorphia or those who want to free the nipple, it is a story for those that have had ENOUGH. I am thrilled to be sharing these experiences and hope to reach others with their powerful messages. As these brave women came forward and surrendered their most'vulnerable se lves I realized no matter how we look, no matter what our body types are, we a ll have experienced body shaming in one way or another. This degradation and humiliation may derive from socia l media, from the people surrounding us, even from ourselves, and the toxic expectation women are held to i s at an imp ossib l e reach. Women must embrace themselves and each other, and the wo rld must stop the shame, the scrutiny, the expectations and the hate.

empoweri11q 1ltame

ALYSSA CASSELMAN

"My boyfriend and I got in a fight about taking these pictures. He made me feel like a slut instead of empowered. He made me feel like sharing my insecurities is shamefu l instead of courageous. It just solidified to me ho w import ant this truly i s, that is why we're doing this. "

"Since the age of 12 years old I've battled body dysmorphia. I over exercised, I took diet pills, I starved myself, I shamed myself I hated that when I sat down there were rolls of skin, I just wanted a flat stomach. I'm learning that no matter how you lo ok or how much you weigh , excess skin is normal."

"I've a lw ays felt that I have a masculine build because I have so much muscle in my back and a wider frame, instead of a small waist and curves in a ll the right places. But as I learn to live a healthy lifestyle and exercise I'm so grateful I can put on muscle and become stronger every day."

"I went through puberty when I was 10 years old. My body transformed from a child's body to a teenag e body in such a short amount of time that I was covered in stretch marks a ll over my legs and butt. I didn't know what they were or why I had them. I hated myself, I wouldn't even look at myself, I wanted to cut my skin off ju st to see what it would lo ok like without them."

"'She's probably the flattest girl who works here' -said by a coworker to my friend about my breast size at work." "vVhy am I responsible for every man's sexual thoughts and actions? Why not only my own? I am so out of tune with out my own sexual wants and needs because I've been told that I can only worry about what men are thinking and feeling, not what I am thinking and feeling. I feel shameful for acknowledging my sexual thoughts and desires before I realize that it's what makes me human and IT'S FUCKING OKAY" "I'm constantly told I'm too skinny or simply commented to on my body's shape. My shape which I have ZERO control over. Both of my parents are as skinny as me and I don't think that ' s something that will ever change."

"I like the freedom of not wearing a bra, they're so uncomfortable , but I feel like I have to because of the looks people give me. I just feel judged all the time if I don't."

Jee evergtfd11g 6ac~war01

ROSE BLACI<

Life is hopeless

Don't let anyone tell you

When everything is broken

It will be okay

We liv e in the dark

Even when

Life is bearable

We are reminded that No matter what happ ens We will fall

Because we know

When life b e comes risky and Ends in pain

Not everything

We le arn

Can h elp us survive when

Hope

Is destroyed

·when we find a threat which Hurts only us we r e act

To a weapon th at

In our darkest times

We always revert

To ourselves when

Often we li e

And lose sight of how

Badly we cannot bear it

The truth hurts so

We never see what's really there because We look at everything backwards

So go ahead and look at this all backwards.

aren't tfteu AUSTIN ~BREWER

The sickly-sweet aroma of the coffee I ordered and the li ght murmur of chatter filled the room like smoke in a house fire. We sat, sipping and staring at eac h other with the weight of awkwardness sat firmly between us. Stephen's phone flashed for a moment and h e immediately went to reac h for it , a respite from the situation h e found himself in . I was apprehensive to come here in the first place, yet here I found myself with someone I on ly know from brightly co lored chat bubbles on Tinder. His Godiva tinted skin shone under the fluorescent lights a nd I found myself staring at its depth . One of those intrusive thoughts shoved itself into the center of my mind. Placed it se lf lik e a centerpiece begging for attention, eve n if it was gaudy; was I racist for not wanting to come on this date? I felt my heart change tempos because I wasn't sure and that horrified me.

Bryan, 24

on line

- No Fems

- No Fats

- No Asians

- No Blacks

- Masc 4 masc

- l ooking for right now and cannot host

- don't eve n bother if you don't lik e my standards

Gi lb ert Baker

Jun e 2nd , 195 1 - March 31st, 20 17

Gi lb ert Baker, born in Chanute, Kansas in 195 1 was reported d ea d today by th e New York City medical examiner's office. Baker, the self-procl aimed gay Betsy Ross, was a gay activist and the creator of the rainbow flag that now symbo li zes queer culture. That fl ag's original version had 8 co lors and each color represented a different facet of life to a gay man Pink for sex, red for love, green for nature, orange for healing, ye ll ow for the sun, turquoise for magic , b lu e for peace and

purple for spirit. It was his life's work and a gift to the world from him. He created the flag so that gay people could have something to unify behind and declare themselves a whole people; a nation . One of his final projects in his lifetime was for the TV show When We Rise on ABC. He created 39 nine-colored flags, with the addition of lavender to represent diversity, which has not been considered for the flag in the past.

"#morecolorsmorepride is the dumbest shit ever"

7 retweets 9 likes

"Last I check the rainbow flag was not about race happy to support my brown, black & friends of all colors but really? #morecolorsmorepride"

9 retweets 18 likes

"It's always been inclusive of everyone; this was unnecessary. #morecolorsmorepride"

14 retweets 95 likes

Our conversation seemed to spill out of our mouths after I mentioned going to a public school. He was fascinated by the intricacies. He went to a private, Catholic school his entire life and so he was having a moment of living vicariously. Everything seems to pique his interest, whether it was interesting or not. It was peculiar, but I was elated to have something to talk about. And that's what we did. We talked for hours and hours after that. We had worked out what was safe and conversational and what was too heavy for a first date; it was a tightrope act between two skyscrapers. That awkwardness that sat between us seemed to have become a footstool we both could rest upon. I had no lingering thought of my potential prejudice. I just had his company and person to relate with.

Everywhere I looked I saw scantily clad men in leather cuirasses, a speedo, or ass-less chaps. There was rainbow hair, rainbow clothes, rainbow paint, rainbow confetti and a plethora of rainbow flags; it was a queer fever dream. The aura of acceptance permeated throughout the park like cheap perfume on a middle schooler, it was asphyxiating. I couldn't catch a breath without being bombarded by it. Large banners of half-naked men draped against the fences and vendors, their opalescent skin reflecting the overhead sunlight. I felt like I had found my place, amongst the endless bobbing heads all preaching the same line of love and equality. A moment, unlike the rest of the event, removed me from the continu-

ous stream of beautiful sameness. I felt the eyes, eyes that burrow e d into m e lik e poisoned dagg e rs , plunging into me and shredding my exterior. I wasn't the same, I wasn't one of the ideals they found beautiful and I suddenly felt the tightness of my snug shirt around m y stomach. I felt my body, all the rolls, loose skin and hair, being exposed for the whole of Prid e to openly scrutinize. I was removed, singled out; an outsider in a pl ace for outsiders. I felt wrong, tense, and rejected. Moments ago these were my people, now I don ' t know who they are; and that damn smell wouldn't leave me alone.

" I don't really like the gay community", spilled out of my date's mouth and flooded my ears.

"I' m sorry? You don 't like the our community? They've given you a right to get married and be on this date right now."

''Ap preciating a community and identifying with one are separate things."

"Sure, but how can you not enjoy the gay community? It's so much fun! The festivals and parades, the advocacy, the openness, the love! It has its own problems, but you've just never exp erienc e d it th e right way."

"It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, especially dating ' preferences' in app profiles, no fats, no fems , no Asians, NO BLACKS . Just because someone is gay and tolerates their own community, does not give them a pass to be racist. That's my issu e; it feels lik e everyone has that pass to be racist since they have one part of themselves that faces discrimination."

"Preferences aren't racist. "

''Aren't th ey?"

"I decided that we should have a flag, that a flag fit us as a symbol, that we are a people, a tribe if you will. And flags are about proclaiming power, so it 's very appropriate."

-Gilbert Baker

The reality of sameness made them all blind to the fact that they are the majority out here . They are being pandered to at all costs; th e gun is in th e ir hands. The marketing, campaigning, representation , all aimed at them; their whit e ness, aesthetically pl e asing, and no one else. Pride , like any event, is made up of the groups who attend . We cannot claim diversity and acceptance, when there are no differences in the masses. We have made a community to feel safe, but what do we consider safe? Have we subconsciously allowed ourselves to turn into our oppressors since the power is in our hands now? Regular society is not for gay people, it 's for straight people. Pride is the time when we get to be the artist , the canvas and the paint , but why do we only choose to use shades of white for such a colorful picture? Is this something to be prid e ful of, to claim tolerance and love, to have a rainbow flag as our banner, when we so frequently choos e tan, beige and sepia when adorning our friend groups and lovers?

I did not know this at the time, but queer people are so much more than just attractive , white , gay men. Gay p e ople are everywhere and can be anyone . We are not perfect idols, totally removed from the malignant aspects of regular society. LGBTQ+ is like any other group , you just can't physically see what makes us queer, and that is what makes us unique. Our lack of visual binding is a bulwark to shield us from the ugly things in the world. We can choose wh e n to say w e belong and when to say we ar e apart: we are lucky. We also systematically d e cide to not acknowledge those who cannot choose to b e a part , ye t tell them we empathize with them.

Queer people are more than what our world has given us; we have the chance to choose and we should choose b e longing, since others aren ' t so lucky.

Hypocrisy:

noun

th e practice of claiming to have moral standards or beliefs to which one 's own behavior do e s not conform ; pretense.

"Well I don't know, I never thought about it before ."

"I think they are , I think it 's racist. "

"Why? How do you think someone's attraction to you is racist?"

"I don't think that is racist. I think the pretense against us is racist. I think openly broadcasting that is racist. I think allowing that , without backlash is racist ."

"But they can't help what they are attracted to, someone can't help that."

"T hey can when they have the power to be open minded. They can when they disregard others in their own community. How many of those guys on Tinder and Grindr do you actually think have gone out with a black man? That's why I don 't like Pride, or the gay community, becaus e it wasn't made for me , like everywhere else. I'm disregarded and it shouldn't b e lik e that ."

My words were ashes in my mouth. I did have expectations when going into this moment; I assumed I'd have a n answer or something to rejuvenate the conversation, mayb e even segue into another topic. But I didn ' t . I h a d nothing to say that would mean anything, or change the cours e. At that moment, as I stood there staring a t his godiva skin, I realized I carried the gun; a load e d one too. The power was in my hands . .. yet I faltered. It wa s too hard to point it somewhere that mattered and so it stayed pointing at him It wasn ' t right and I couldn't handle the feeling of my fing e r on the trigg e r when I was with him. One slip-up, one slight laugh too far, and it was his blood on my hands . W e had a second date, but not a third, our conversation that night outside the coffee shop lingered on m e lik e cheap cologne. The smell b eca m e too much to bear an d I wanted to wash it off. I r ea liz e d you can't simply remove the feeling of privil ege lik e you can cologne.

Austin, 20

offiine

- No Bigots

- No Ra cis ts

- Body Positivity is key

Looking for m y love; Mr. Right . Take me to coffee, maybe we will le a rn something about each other.

QMAR]6RJE BERNAL HEINANDEZ

It's gonna be a good day.

Eleven years old, it was a warm spring weekend, Dad had just gotten his paycheck the day before, we had woken up with hopes that with this paycheck we would get something to eat. I sat in the front seat of his old blue pickup truck , brok e n down , no functioning doors , having to climb in through the back window to get inside and push the doors open. Daddy and I cruised down to cash in his check, stopping by Payless where he bought me some colorful brand new sneakers, unb e lievable, I was amazed, ecstatic. I had become familiar with this next lane, one last turn and we arrived; the liquor store. Daddy got down, I waited alone for over 30 minutes.

Finally, Daddy came back, but not without his 9 bottles of liquor, 2 six packs as well. 'Not again, not tonight. It's my friend's birthday party.' I thought to myself, I kn ew what it meant if h e took a sip of that poison, I would be left with nothing but prayers, hoping tonight's party never came to an end, remain in the presence of others would prevent him from acting on anything. When we arrived home, I ran inside with 2 of his bottles, quickly pouring both down the drain, hiding what I could.

It 's gonna be a good day.

Five o'clock, we arrived at my friend Arcelia's, birthday party, r elief washed over my siblings and m e, Dad had not taken a sip, not even a glance at a bottle . My two younger sisters, Melissa andjessica, ran into Arcelia's room with me , eager and joyful to try out Arcelia's new PSP. We played on the console for over an hour when Arcelia's mother yelled, "Cake time!" We huddled around the kitchen table exc ited to sing to the birthday girl, M elissa whispered in my ear, "Dad's b ee n drinking," oh no. I glanced over to see he had drowned a bottle or two, " It 's going to b e okay," I whispered back. We attempted to refocus our attention on Arcelia, knowing Dad had inj ec ted poison into his body, made it difficult to enjoy th e r es t of the night.

Nine o'clock, the evening came to an end, we were forced to r e turn home , where non e of us wanted to be, knowing Daddy was drunk , again. We parted rooms, my sisters and I prancing to the living room switc hing on Kid s Choice Awards, exc ited we wou ld finally watch it this year. Raging red-fac e d,

heavy sweating along, stumbling, going straight to the liquor, he rummaged through the covers searching for his best fri e nd.

One hour later, not a peep from him. Four bottl es in , we heard dad burst into our shared room , wh e r e mom is sleeping in order to avoid sleepless nights next to him. H e's pulling Mommy up by her hair and dragging h e r on th e floor, I h ear d h e r cry, I ran into the room hoping my presence would mak e him stop hurting her. It didn 't, the tables turn e d on m e, but Mommy defended me. He 's yelling at her about her n ew rom a nce, that th ey are going to separate because Mommy is seeing someone n ew. Haunting words , forever echoing my mind seeped out, " You ' re ne ver leaving m e, 'till death do us apart. I'll kill you b efor e you eve r leave me." My siblings run to gather their shoes, Mom had prepare d us to sleep with th e m on, it 'd b eco me routine. Never knowing if w e' d have to run , just so we could have a morning.

Dad stumbled out to get another bottl e, I quickly tried to flush it down the toilet. " Give him th e bottl e," Mommy ordered, confused a nd angry, I didn 't und e rstand, 'don't you see him ?!' I thought to myself, ignoring her orders, I didn ' t know Mommy was r elying on him to drink enough to pass out, so we could leave . Blocking the exit, refusing to let u s leave. Holding Mommy with a tight grip against her neck , repeatedly slamming h e r against th e wall , punching her. He throws a phone at my face daring me to call the police , I'm t e rrifi e d. I don't wa nt to hurt the man who caused my Jami{y and me so much pain, he's my daddy But that 's not who is right now. H e approaches me , Mommy man ages to slip her hands on th e phon e, quickly calling th e police , she isn't allowing this m a n to put his hands on h er children , again. Sh e' d had e nough.

Twelve a .m It felt like an eternity had pas se d when two polic e officers knocked on our door, th ey saw our figur es, four terrified , violently sobbing children huddl e d against the wall. " What's going on h e re ?" they asked Dad , h e was too drunk to comprehend the polic e were parked in front of his bear-like fi g ur e. The mal e officer ordered Mom to take us to another room, the night w e nt on foreve r. My 12-yea r-old brother and I made statements ag ainst Dad tonight , h e hat e d u s. Slurring with the stink of his familiar breath , "I wi ll find you and kill you all." Two a.m. " We're taking him in. " h earing thos e words wildly running to stop them from taking Daddy. Viciously screaming, savagely weeping, "Please don ' t tak e him! Daddy! Dad!" Mommy holding us ba ck , as h e was finally out the door. Running to the window, w e don ' t want him to leave, d espit e the pain he causes us.

Three a. m , th e whimpers ro cke d us to sleep . Something is different tonight, despite the sadness e ngulfing th e room. For the first time in all my years, we will have a pe ace ful night.

It was a good day, after all.

HEATHE~-GRAHAM

6ri1rg peace to a 6t(J«.e1t fteart MOHAMMAD BAHADURI

In 2005, I started working as an interpret e r/translator with US army in Bagram Airfield (BAF), Afghanistan. I went on several missions from 2005 to 20 15 in Southern and Eastern Afghanistan, which was th e most dangerous zone. We were ambushed a lmost every time we went out. In the summer of 2008, our battalion commander d ec ided to go out with us . In our team there were eight armor vehicles, five individuals in eac h vehicle, which were forty-armed people in total. The int elligenc e source reported to us , it's not safe for anybody to go out. We stayed on standby a ll night and in the early morning we got permission to head out.

In our convoy there were some other high -ranking officers which were from th e US. We travel ed about fiv e miles from our location and the Tactical Operation Center (TOC) , called on our convoy commander to get back to the a rmy base , because it was totally in re d alert, which means very dangerous. We got back to the base and after a couple hours the red turned to green, and we headed out again; after two hours travel in a valley, suddenly I heard a big boom. There were five peopl e in eac h armored vehicle and we were not able to see each other inside our vehicle. Our convoy commander called on our headsets .

"Everybody is Ok? " everybody respond e d back positive At th e same minute when we heard the big boom, incoming artillery started from the top of the hills from different directions They were able to see us , but we were not ab le to see th e m , th e first vehicles were able to get away from the ambush and the fire fight, but the r es t of the convoy were stuck ther e b ecaus e some vehicles were damaged. Our convoy commander called for air support, he asked me to talk with local villagers and get information. I did that in just a couple minutes and pass e d all th e information to the convoy commander. Our vehicles were also damag e d, all th e tir es were flat but could still run . We turn e d back and headed toward the ambush location , b eca use we wanted to get behind a hill and pin the enemies down , or at least keep their attention in our dire ct ion to help th e rest of our guys get out of the attacked location . I dismounted with our convoy commander and the three vehicles gunners were giving us cover. We got on the spot and started firing at the enemy, but they resisted until two F - 16 Jets arrived and targeted the enemies' bunkers location.

Fortunately, everybody got out safe and we all regrouped , and head ed on our way with all the damage d vehicles, luckily, we were fully covered by Air Force at this time. At the end of the day we arrived at the central Army base ; most of our networks already heard about what had happened to us. We stayed there

for over a week to get new ve hicl es; finally, we got new ve hicl e s and head e d to Bagram Air Field We stayed in th e r e for a few days and received the supplies and headed back to our main bas e. On the way back, we had a few clashes with enemies but not like the first one on this mission. In the a ft e rnoon of th e same day we were on th e highway and th e vehicles speed was more th an a hundre d kilomet e rs per hour, which is a lot for heavy armored vehicle .

Suddenly, the convoy commander yelled at the driver " Stop, stop, oh my God! " I was really shock e d b eca use I was ve ry tire d and was trying to t a ke a nap . " Shafi get out a nd run. "

I didn't know what had happ e n e d. So , I opened the door and quickly jumped out of th e vehicle. Once I jump out, I saw our thr ee vehicles w e r e about thr ee hundre d feet away from the highway and rolled over. I thought w e had b ee n a mbushed again, but that was not true; it was an accident with a co upl e civilian vehicles and all pass enge rs were moaning.

Howeve r, I w as totally lost , and everybody ran out from th e vehicles exce pt gunners, the soldiers were wounded slightly but th e civilians in the accident lost four young kids who died right away in front of my eyes, and th ey were only between 10-1 3 years old. I was th e only p erso n in thi s convoy which spoke th e lo cal languages , the medics were busy with eve ry wound e d p erson and at th e same time all th e medics kept asking me for help to interpre t for th e m , I kept running b etwee n th e m e dics and tried to help everyone . Suddenly, I notic e d something w eird that looked lik e a button. I picked it up and it was not a button; unfortunately, that was an eye from th e six -month- o ld baby. My lips and mouth dri e d, and it was very h a rd for me to keep helping or talking, I ran in to the vehicle to get some water. I had th e wat er and th e n I noticed something was und e r th e civilian car and it looked like a ball. I realized it probably wasn ' t wh at it seemed I went and pi cked it . It was the baby 's head with fresh blood and still warm.

The Mom's forehead and left eye were cut a bout four-inch-wide a nd I don ' t know how deep . The m ed ic told me to keep talking with her a nd don ' t let h e r clos e h e r right eye, just try to ke ep her awake, so we wouldn't lose h er. I did so. Sh e was bl ee ding lik e a springhead, but still she kept asking me "How are my kids ?"

I responded, " Everyon e is ok my sister, you're the only one who 's hurt , and you will b e fine. "

"N o , they are not fine , bring them h ere if you're right." H e r two daughters, which were e ig ht-ye a r-old twins were mostly fin e but had a lot of p a in . I did show th e m both to th e mom, but not very close and didn 't let them to talk with th eir mom Th e mom went into a coma.

Th e convoy commander did a great job. He ca ll e d the air force medi cs and within thirty minut es th ey arrived He sent all the de a d bodies and injured p eo ple to BAF, b ecaus e in BAF Army bas e they had a ll m e di cal services with expe rien ce d do ctors. W e started cl ea ning up and we blo cke d th e road for traffic.

One of the soldiers called m e for int e rpretation. I went th e re, where there wer e three men that asked me "What is happened here?"

I r espo nded to him and I told th e m " I am sorry about this tragic event, but we did our best to save your family's life ."

The father of the children responded to m e " What can you guys do now? What I see is nobody is alive from my family, you guys killed them all." Th e convoy commander as ke d me to share th e contact information with him, I did so, and th e m e n left th e scene.

After, th e cl ea nup th e convoy commander asked us to burn everything like clothes with blood , shoes etc. It was getting dark and our soldiers started burning the clothes , I noticed something was shining in a whit e vest pock e t, very quickly I shouted to the soldier "Ha ... , wait don ' t throw th a t on th e fir e !" I checked all the pock e ts and found thousands of US dollars and a lot of gold; one of the soldiers asked me to share it with him but I told him "No, if n ex t time you as ked me I am going to tell th e commander. This should be your first and la st time." So , some of my colleagues also told me don't give this stuff to th e man , that guy may kill you, it's not safe for you at all, but I didn ' t listen to any one; I did what I was thought was good. After three months I went on vacation and I called the man , I told him that his family's gold and money were with me and I wanted to return them to him , the man couldn't beli eve that. I met him with one of his daughters the next day. I gave everything back that I found, he was very happy and appreciated it a lot Unfortunately, his wife also di e d and only his two daught ers w e r e left alive.

Which this was a sa d event that happ e n e d to th e family, I am proud of myself and feel very comforted, by the help that I did for both groups, Army a nd civilians. And I am proud more for thos e mom e nts wh e n I saw the smile and happiness in the man 's face and his daughter s, when I turn e d in th e ir cash and golds. It was a good lesson for m e . I learn ed how to help people when their h ea rt bre a ks and how to de a l with them when th ey are in critical condition.

You n eve r kn ew yo ur h ea rtb eat co uld b e so loud . Poundin g lik e a b ass drum of a n e rratic d a n ce so ng ; out of sy n c with th e melody ye t so m e how a p erfect tun e. You wondered if the sound was loud en ou g h to car r y through the silent room or just a throbbin g in yo ur ow n h ea d ; inte rtwin e d with your racing thoughts in a m essy dan ce, boun cin g aro und in your skull.

She sto od in yo ur do orway, watching yo u , pink lips pin ch e d n ervo u sly b etwee n h e r teeth. Wa iting. Want in g. H o p eful.

You h a d drea d e d this mom ent for month s. Th e secon d you m e t h e r yo u kn ew. You kn ew it would co m e to this. In that fir st moment with h er - bri g ht eyes, soft voice , sly smil e - you h a d see n it , lik e a crystal b a ll prophecy. She would b e more to yo u th a n yo u co uld h ave im agine d . But yo u h a d n eve r pre di c t e d it wou ld b e this co mpli ca t e d or thi s h ard to te ll h e r what sh e n eede d to h ea r

She was the sm e ll of crisp winter a ir, springtime d a isies a nd du sky summer rain . H e r t h o u g hts and words tumbl e d past h e r lip s lik e a lazy stream, a lways movin g yet n eve r hurried , spl as hin g th e world aro und h e r in co lorful an d crazy puddl es of c urio sity. She lit t h e room like moonlight on an a utumn eve nin g, silver an d calm . And sh e captured yo ur atte ntion a nd yo ur imagin a tion lik e fir efli es in a jar. You followed h e r sto ri es in c ircle s a nd ch ase d h e r through mythi cal battles and e n c h a nte d forests. Yo u decorated cas tl es wall s with spray paint a nd watercolor and le t h er la u g ht er si n g yo u to slee p . Inno ce ntl y, sh e h a d wrapped h e r self through your fingers and slid into yo ur po cket lik e a lu cky p e nn y.

You watched h er as sh e memorized yo ur curves a nd a n gles lik e an actor lea rnin g new lin es. She care fully co mb e d through yo ur b aggage to see where yo u h a d b een and what m ar ks h a d b ee n left b e hind . You wondered so m e tim es if yo u were as much co lor-litte red canvas a nd dulcet m elody t o h e r as she was t o yo u Yo u wondered if yo u h ad ju st as modes tl y b eco m e her ch ar m as well.

You cl eare d yo ur throat, the so und ripping through th e too-qui et room lik e a car cras h , drownin g out the thumping of yo ur h eart and th e sp ee d y fli cke rin g sound of fluor esce nt li g ht s. Now was that mom e nt ; with we ll-re h ea r se d mark er ink e d words t o run up the fl agp o le. Th e wave of the fl ag in t h e wind wou ld an noun ce wh a t yo u h a d b eco m e or identify yo ur ch a lk outline on the sid ewalk below.

" L e t 's m a ke thi s easy " You said to h e r, th e fabrication h eavy on yo ur tongue. " You n ever m atte r e d ."

in go~ i imaoe C.~IEHN

Genesis is not a cautionary tale, it is a threat. Woman, do not dare reach too high, and do not dare climb a better branch, for it's not the apples to avoid, but what she might see when she reaches the top. Beyond Eden lies truth.

Honeyed wrist curling around the weight of knowledge, thirst manifested in forbidden fruitShe picked the apple, but her crime was seeking more than what destiny could offer.

Little girl, bite your tongue. Deceiver, enticer, faithless fool, this world was not built for you.

God, she replied, did not give me wings, so I etched them on my back with a blade more permanent than ink. And I will pick the apple again and again until its skin springs red. This is not a fall from grace. This is a flight.

We take Eve 's name to mourn the decay of day as the golden hour surrenders to nightfall, but do not forget: Only her sacrifice brings our stars within reach .

puritg, a1 a mqtft scon wHITTAl<ER I

As with everything in this universe this human structure is a mix of material elements.

That is why purity is a myth.

It is the Earth that makes the soil, not the other way around.

Earth, water, fire, air, ether, time, space.

These are inherent in the planet.

Inherent in us.

Each element - inherent in one another.

Stardust is their commonality.

Created in that one instance

the moment existence announced itsel(

The snap of metaphysical fingers.

Now the snap remains in every particle of every being.

Inherent.

So maybe it's not that purity is a myth, but the quest for purity.

tfte wft;te h;(( MAISoof'! HUWIEH

I wore th e red lipstick that match e d th e dr ess he brought me . I n eatly arranged the dinn e r table with his favorite dish, and elegant silverware that reflected the golden specular light from the crystal chandelier hanging right above the dining table. I grinded and added them to the r e d drinks . The smell of curry and coconut milk filled the air which overpowered any other smell.

It was midnight , and I was thirteen and four months when I was thrown in the mud hut left alone to bleed. The village was about one -mil e away. For fiv e days and five nights, I was left with no food or water. My mum and sister were not allowed to come and check on me during this period. I could have been eaten by a wi ld creature, or kidnapped or killed by a hungry stranger, and no one would eve r know. I have n eve r experienced a pain this strong b efor e . My screams escaped the spaces in between the straws that covered the roof to the middl e of the forest. The pain gradually occupied my body from head to toe . I pressed my arms against my waist hoping that I would stop the pain , but it only got sturdier.

" Suggi , it 's time for you to be harvested ," my mum once said. "Like your nam e . It means harvest ," she added. She look e d into my eyes and saw th e fea r clouding them, but like a lways she ignored what she saw behind them , directing her sight elsewhere.

"But Mum, what about my school."

She quickly interrupted me, " What school? you know well that we can't afford paying for your school anymore," She snapped. "School is a waste of time and mon ey This is more important than schoo l. "

I always knew and waited disappointedly for th e day my mum would a nnounce the decision . I feared that day, in my dreams it haunted me. I secretly wished that my brother would be forced to drop out from his school like me and my older sister

"Your father is discussing the matter with Aranab," My mum added with excitement. "Soo n our life will get better." She looked into to my eyes and doubtfully said, "and your life will get better too." My mum doesn ' t usually look into my or my sister's eyes. I knew that there was something terrible coming along. As

she walked away with her thin body and tired steps she told m e, "S uggi , Aranab will come back in the next couple months when you are r ea dy," and then she left the room without looking ba c k.

My pink dress decorat ed with brown dots was soaked with water. Th e rain seeped through the roof and washed th e place It was very small barely enough space to lay down. I squeezed my w et body in th e co rn e r. My legs are stretched out, pushing th e zinc door further outward. My back nested against the back wall, and my left hip pressed against th e left sidewall. There was only two feet b e tween m e and the other sidewall on th e right.

"You are thirteen now Suggi," my sister once said as she handed m e my birthday gift. It was a sewed fabric the size of my two palms put togeth e r that look e d lik e an airplane with two wings. " You will use this soon," she advised me with hesitation Sh e hugg e d m e with strong arms. "I know that this isn ' t going to be easy, but it's just th e way how things are here." I gazed into her eyes, looking for answers, but I only found fear and solicitude. " I want you to be strong," she added.

And inde e d , it wasn't easy. Four months lat e r I was sent to that hut, undergoing what my mum calls "ge tting rea dy," a real woman ready to d eal with responsibilities stained with blood.

I cl ea rly h ea rd the snake hissing n ex t to me , rubbing it s skin against the corn husk that laid b e neath me. But it was pitch black, and I couldn't see what was around me. I pressed my left hand against the wall, and my right hand on the ground, trying to support my weight. Befo r e I managed to get up , I felt a sting on my right foot , but as soon as my hands reached my foot, there was nothing there except a puncture that fe lt stiffed and swelled. My head was spinning and my heart was racing. I fe lt th e h ea t rushing through my veins. I couldn't mov e my body. I froze in that corner until th e dawn of th e next morning Many girls who came here befor e me had di e d from a snake bite . I wasn't one of them, but my sister almost was H e r leg was ripped off from h er calf down to her ankle, exposing h er bones She was not able to walk anymore.

" H e re is your first payment. " Aranab handed my mum 2500 rup ees. She grabbed my arm and kissed my head without looking into my eyes, and with a chok e d voice she said," she is ready now."

I knew it once I laid my foot on that street, a long way from home to end up in th e red-light a rea in India . " G e t out of the car," Aranab commanded. It was a black van with many girls and women cra mmed in . Their ages varied,

some were young and others were older, but non e of us w e r e over 24. I was the youngest among th e m as I r emember. When it was my turn to get out of the car, Aranab push e d m e out grabbing m e from the shoulder. "13," he shouted, as if we were sheep being prepared to be so ld or slaughtered. Thirte en was also my age, a perfect age for the job.

It was the evening of a summer day. The twilight with different shades of red and orange sunk behind the tall buildings of the city. There was a thin veil of dust and smoke unwinding the sky above us. Aranab guided us with the other two men who dressed in blue jeans and colorfu l short-sleeved shirts opened all the way to their chests. Th e hair on their chest curled around the thick silver necklaces they had around th eir n ec ks. They carried their whips around to maintain order.

It was a three-story building with a rusty staircase that led to many rooms The place smelled like old blood. As we ascended the stairs, I moved my head slowly to not attract attention, enough to see the girls behind me There was no sign of resistance; so I held my thoughts , at least four, I thought

Thirteen was also the number of the room that we were lead to "These are the girls you asked for," Aranab remarked.

"Lovely," responded the lady with exc itement who was expecting us. With h er ind ex fing er, she ordered the girls who stood b ehind h er without turning around, "Take them, clean them, and dress them ," she proclaimed

We were given new names. My new name was Akanksha which meant a strong desire or longing for something or someone. I was also given a room, but I had to rotate turns with the other girls. The room was small with one plastic window covered with red nylon curtains. The wall that supported the bed was decorated with colorful neon lights . There was a brown-grayish wooden cupboard chipped from the edges placed beside the bed. The cupboard had a drawer with a loose rusty rounded handle jingled when it opened. The smell of the room was musty mixed with damp perfum e . I was us e d to musty smells, but not lik e this one.

I knew that th ere was something wrong by the way this whole plac e looked like , but I couldn't figure out what was it.

"T his is your room for tonight, Akanksha," the lady said. "Get ready," she demanded. I didn't say anything. I just stood there. I didn't know how I should feel or say. Thirty minutes later, the door opened with an old heavy man standing b e hind it. H e dress ed in a black suit and smelled like a rich man. His

gazes bursting with desire and exc itement which I didn ' t understand at th e time. As he approached m e I panick e d with screams and sobbing. " Shush , don 't b e afraid, I won't hurt yo u ," h e b egge d. But I couldn't make sense of what was going on. I continued to scream with choked weeps.

The lady forced her way into the room accompanied with an oversized man. The old man jumped off th e b e d with a pale look on his face. " I am not pleas e d ," directing his words to the lady.

" This is her first night h e re sir. She is untam e d, " she ex plained politely. She turned h e r head toward the oversized man , "Do your job ," she d e manded. He nodded his head and then dragged m e from the corner of the bed and threw me on it , stretching my hands and le gs as far as they could reach . H e tied th e m against th e four poles of the bed, unwinding the whip th at furl e d aro und his hand. "This is what you get for disob eying," the lady thr ea te n e d with an icy look and a half smile on. I passed out due to th e pain inflicted by th e whips that mapp e d th e back of my fe e t with red lines.

I was shipp e d to th e old man 's man sion to cook and cl ea n for him , and most importantly to "please " him. One day I woke up to find myself undresse d , laying on a maste r b e d gilded with gold. Th e old man was sitting on th e side of the bed holding a round ed white pill b etwee n his index and middl e fing e r. I took th e pill without saying a word

" Good girl, Akanksha," he said. As I took the pill from his hand I notic e d something differ e nt in me . I move my hands back and forth to examine them. They looked m ature. I pulled the cover off to exa mine my body, m y legs are tall e r, my hair is longe r, my voice is different. I looked back at him with astonishment.

"How long have I b ee n here, " I asked with a worried voice .

"No t for so long. Only for three years," he laughed and added, "T h e pow er of two pills is always better than th e power of one."

Two pills are always require d when he is in th e mood of playing rough.

I always wanted to plug them in his mouth eac h time he gave m e two pills. " Pl ease, I don't want to do this anymore," I would say. But he would ignor e me as always. " One is enough. pl ease, pleas e," I would beg, but with no use. I kn ew that I had to do something. I ca n ' t continue with thi s.

Each time he hand e d me two pill s, I would move my hand slowly to not attract his attention, enough to r each th e bottom of my pillow. It took me two months to save eight pills.

One morning, as w e were sitting around the table eating our brea kfast, he

pulled a red dress decorated with golden beads opened from the back from an elegant white shopping bag plac e d on the floor against his chair. " Wear it tonight" he demanded. He wiped his lips with a whit e cloth after he was done with his food and then got up and took off to work.

Later in the evening, I was setting up the table for dinner when I heard the keys clicking against the door lock. I stood by the table with one hand on my waist a nd th e other hand st r e tch e d out before me welcoming his return. H e look e d at m e studying my body as he walked toward the dining room impr esse d by the red that wrapped my slim body and my full lips. He smiled and th e n sat down.

"This is your favorite dish, its chicken with curry and coconut milk ," I noted. He nodded his h ea d without saying a word. He scooped a chicken from his plat e, and brush e d his hand softly against my neck with his other hand , and then fier c ely pulled my head by my hair against his chest without any warnings. I didn ' t resist. I forced a smile as I laid my right hand on his face moving it gently from his forehead to his lips to the back of his neck, pushing him closer. And with my other hand, I grabbed the r e d win e and brushed it tenderly over our lips.

I can h ear th e brea thing grow loud e r, and th e heartbeats pounding faster. Our hands retreated with un eas iness , causing m e to drop th e glass of win e on th e floor. "Thank your white pill, " I mo a ned with a gasp escaping my pain e d blu e lips .

fu11eral arra11qeme11t1

CARMINA GRAY

A man stepped off the airway ramp onto the private grounds of Pinger Manor, clutching a briefcase in one stern fist, a determined frown on the thin, lipless mouth. He was wearing a rumpled suit and a disgruntled expression; a tall figure but slouching slightly: he had the general air of a man who knew something unpleasant was about to happen and was not entirely averse to the notion. The blades of the chopper hummed and beat the air behind him in a frenzy, buffeting dark hair over hardened eyes. Waiting for him at the edge of the helicopter pad, shielding his bald forehead from the glaring sun, trembled a fat man in a loud Hawaiian shirt. He stepped from foot to foot uncomfortably while the tall man made his way down the gangplank. With a worried expression on his red face, he stepped forward to meet the tall stranger.

"Glad you could make it," shouted the portly man over the roar of the engme.

"Nearly didn't," sneered the tall man . His mouth continued to move, thin lips pursing and turned down at the corners; but the wind swept away what more he said and swallowed it. The smaller man nodded anyway, rubbed a hand over his shining head, and gestured towards a squat building perched on the manicured lawn.

"Let's have a drink," he hollered . "Then we can get down to business."

"Good, I could use a stiff one."

The two men walked from the small concrete airstrip as the helicopter lifted and buzzed off like an angry bee. The stout man was reddening quickly as he tried to keep up the illusion that he was leading the way; while his dour companion's long legs ate up the distance. Puffing at the door, he let them in with a jerky twist of a key and led the tall man to a sunny room with pinstriped armchairs and a rolling trolley bar. He gestured with the twitch of a shoulder towards one of the chairs, then busied himself pouring three fingers of his finest liquor for each of them. "She doesn't like it when I drink," he laughed tremulously. "Says it makes me ruddier. Clashes with her rouge, she says." His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat loudly. He was uncomfortable with the tall man standing behind him like a tombstone, not having taken the invitation to sit. The fat man's hands shook as added three more fingers of liquor to his own glass .

Taking the bottle and the two glasses, he returned to the tall man; handed him a tumbler and sat; fidgeting with the trim on the edge of the upholstery. The dour, suited man released his spidery grip on the immaculate black briefcase, setting it next to his chair, and finally lowered himself to sit.

"So," the tall man said, as he folded himself into the armchair. His long legs stretched in front of him, the material of his creased trousers drawing upwards , revealing brown socks on knobby ankles. "I hear you have a funeral approaching." Picking idly at one yellowing fingernail, his mouth curved upward

in what the fat man thought might supposed to be a smile. It mad e him nervous , and h e gulped loudly. The tall man dropp e d the corners of his mouth and continued

"Not to worry, we at Soffe and Co. are here to help you eve ry step of the way. During this trying time," he added, almost as an afterthought. His companion swallowed and fingered the buttons on his shirt nervously.

" Yes ," said the balding man. "I appreciate the help . Especially the quick respons e I've n eve r done this before " He chuckled, looking slightly pani cke d. A heavy, thin hand came to rest h eavily on his shoulder. Th e stout man gulped at the long arm stretched to him, and the gaunt face attached to it.

"I understand. I'm her e to help And with such a generous fore-paym e nt, you can rest assured that we will do everything we ca n to make this go smoothly." His black eyes glittered. "My colleagues and I at Soffe and Co. are well-used to these typ es of... r e qu ests. We handle-- " He ticked off on his spidery fingers-- " th e fun e ral, obituary, announcement, any and all regulations r ega rding coffins, stones, a nd ashes-- should you decide upon cremation." He spread his hands mildly, lifting one sardonic eyebrow in question.

"N -no ," the ruddy man coughed after wetting his mouth his tongu e

"No, that won't b e necessary. I know she would want an-- an open casket. Gotta look her best , even on h e r last day, you know. Gotta show off h e r pearls and diamonds." H e laugh e d uncomfortably, then swallowed. " It 's what she would want."

"Of course." Long fing ers held the sweating glass, but never lifted it to drink. "I understand. Let me assure you we will take the b est of care with your wife." He set the glass on a small table, then lifted the briefcase to his lap, balancing it on bony kn ees and withdrawing some papers. Shuffling the pages and tapping briskly to align them, h e shut the case with a click and laid the papers on top, reaching into his rumpl e d suit to reveal a pen.

'Just a few formalities ," h e assured the pudgy man, who had a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and a n e rvous , pain e d look. "Some information for the death certificate. Name?"

"Delores Pinger. "

"Age?"

" 45."

" Location of death?"

The ruddy man 's' face drained of color undern ea th the rosy glow of alcohol, leaving a strange ashy hue everywhere but th e bright cheeks.

"Neve rmind," said the other man; almost kindly : " W e' ll worry about that later. " He filled out a few more lines , mumbling under his br ea th as he ticked off boxes and wrote in information. This w e nt on for several minutes , with the occasional audible mumblings. "Ca us e of death, a knife wound .. . " Meanwhil e, some color had returned to the large man 's face, and he fidg ete d uncomfortably in the near silence. Finally, the pen stopped scribbling.

" Time of death ... we'll fill that in later." th e tall man hummed , checking over the files for any other information. H e look e d up. "Any last requests?"

The short man winced.

"For your wife's funeral," the thin man amended.

"I want this to be a nice funeral. " His eyes darted up to his compan-

ion's, then just as quickly averted. He downed the rest of his g la ss. "Nothing too gloomy. She'll want it gaudy, with cand les and satin. No creepy stuff. It 's not what she would want."

"No, no, no," agreed the tall man. "Everything will be just as you specify. It will be a lovely event."

'½.nd flowers, and everything," the stout man continued, getting more ruddy. He had poured more liquor into his tumbler and had tossed it back just as quickly. " I want this to be elegant, classy. Only the best for my sweetheart."

"Of course," the stern man soothed. "We' ll take care of everything. Nothing to worry about."

"Good," sa id the shorter man. He paused, furrowing his brow until the blood rushed from the squeezed forehead, leaving white lin es slashed in the red face. " I guess that's it."

"Exce ll ent," said the dour man. "Then I can get to work." H e ran his large hands over the lid of the case on his knees, popping the tabs on the briefcase open with his thumbs. He stroked over the seams of the case as he opened the lid slowly, his cruel mouth baring teeth. On anyo n e else it might have been considered a smi le The portly man shuddered in hi s seat, suddenly gone very co ld , and sweating profusely. Withdrawing a gleaming knife, the tall man tested the blade's edge with a ragged thumbnail. "I' ll make sure your wife is treated with only the best of care. After a ll , the gues t of honor must be properly prepared for her funeral." Setting the briefcase next to the cha ir again, he stood, sudden ly seeming terrifyingly tall. "Please don't trouble yourself over anything else, I'll take it from here. Pleasure working with you," he purred, turning on his heel and grinning. Stalking to the door, clutching the knife in one bony hand, he stopped; and turned sudden ly to g lance back to his portly companion. His awful gaunt face sp lit into a gruesome smi le. "One last. . . formality," he purred. '"Location of death?"'

Eyes bulging, gasping for air, the large man seemed to swe ll with horror, like some great gaping bullfrog. Finall y, he pulled together his resolve and gestured tremulously. "Her room's in the left wing," he managed weakly. "Up the staircase, third door to the right. Can't miss it." As the tall man prowled away, the stout man co ll apsed deeper into the pinstriped armchair, a deflated balloon, with no more courage left.

Shaking, his face devoid of co lor and lips crushed into bloodless tension, he poured the last of the liqu or into his glass and raised the tumbler, beaded with condensa tion , towards the left wing. "To my dearly departed," he mumbled, then drained it in one gu lp.

te1ttacleO meloOieJ

ADRIANA

HARDY

There is a moment where everything is sti ll and the crooning of the crickets is rhythmic with the clement Southern wind. I'm dipping my fingers in warm dirt and then gently exposing them to the surfa ce - one , two , thr ee- over and over again until I am reassured of my existence. Me and my moony-eyed ruddy ch eeks, teasing the idea of never leaving Spain. T eas in g the temper of yout h where inside this microcosm of exotic lu st there is no remembrance of anot h er home.

Quickly th e daydream ends I am back in the palm of the earth cradled in the sun's nurturing embrace My mother sits n ex t to me, and h er mother beside her, fanning themselves and shooing away the heat that bounces off the olive trees and runs back their way. Inside, Mira is pr e paring our meal next to the fan that rattl es and blows dust around lik e season in g onto the magnificent creature that li es dead in the sink.

"Mi Mora! Mi Mora!" a voice wails from inside . It is our host, Paco-a family fri e nd-calling for Mira. "My Moroccan, My Moroccan ," he call s her Mira from Morocco. Mira with the te rracotta skin. Mira who would ra th er be playing with her kid sisters than playing hous e with this man. Mira, now 34 and a Woman , met Paco in Morocco when sh e was 15.

Mira a nd Paco meet once a month for a weekend in their once-a-month home. In exchange for money and security-that she later brings back home to Tetouan-she gives him compan ion ship and attends to domestic matters. These Patriarchal values remain strong in Moroccan society and families often pressure their daughters into marrying young as a way of protection from economic insecurity in a country where poverty levels are sti ll high. I am suspicious of the age difference between Paco a nd Mira. When my mother finally explains th e situation to me as best as she cou ld , I am a l armed by these r ealiti es so outside of my own. Back in side the rustic dome , I watch Mira as she moves, transfixed by her beauty. She grin s at me with t e nder humbleness and motions one of her slender brown fingers towards th e sink. "Pu lp o," she says . Octopus. Upon seeing my reaction, she is released into a fit of laughter. H e r hands fly up and hover over her mouth , muffling her tenacious amusement. Yellow spotted fingers stained from spices; ye ll ow spotted fingers stained from chore. She is so beautiful and colorful and confident and I want to be just lik e her. Mira with the sangu in e swag. Mira, with th e grace of nature . Mira , who will probably never experi ence the bearing of ex istence as nature does .

As we eat, a sti lln ess wades itself throu ghout the room where the on ly sounds come from the liftin g and lo wering of jaws and food being ushered down

warm throats. Closed smiles are passed back and forth between my mother and Mira until the phlegmatic sound of "Mi Mora, Mi Mora" ends their gestural conversation. Mira flees to the kitchen and comes back with another plate of octopus, runs back again, and enters with more wine, gently perfuming the room. At the end of our meal my mother ris es to collect the plates but is stopped by Paco, who firmly places them back down and has Mira collect them. " Tranquila ," Abuela rep ea ts , "tranquila." Th ese are perhaps her first words in hours My mother frowns at Abuela and passively takes her seat. Mira rises , collects our plates, and shuffles back to the kitchen. Onc e again, we are cornered in by silence.

After dinner, back in the warmth of the balmy earth, Mira and I sit at the poolside. There is a shy awe that she surrenders to in the presence of this body of scared blue. She lays back with her right arm and leg dangling into the pool , creating waves while h e r limbs dance. I sit beside her letting my feet hang off the side and into the t epid water, raising and lowering and watching in amazement at the immediacy of its drying on my shins, dispelled by the angry power of heat. She begins to sing the sun to sleep, humming an unknown tune. Mira, from Morocco. Mira, who softly whistles in harmony with the Melodious Spanish Warbler. Mira, who'd like to fly away some day.

tfte en~ tftat 6eqa11 ;f all COUITTNEY PHELPS

The temperature soared to triple digits, that distantjuly morning that now seems so long ago, heat that made the easiest tasks exhausting. Sweat beads rolled down my chest and face causing my clothing to cling to me with every move; the same beads of sweat chilling me to the core of my being as I walked into the air-conditioned rooms of my home. My home could have been any home on any street in any town it was however mine; my sanctuary and prison all at once, protection from the outside world and a life sentence to my very own hell all at once. The sadness filled every corner pain filled every spot in my home as well as my heart. The dread was palpable as the doorbell rang, the sharp trill seemed to echo through the house and reverberate repeatedly in my head. My heart knew before my brain cou ld process the world was about to change for me as well as everyone who loved me or claimed to, everyone who knew me for that matter. I shuffled slowly down the halls and stairs, headed to what I knew was the beginning of the end. I wasn't capab le of any speed beyond slow. My body felt as though I carried 1000 pounds with me and perhaps that is what the fear, dread and shame weighed as I made my way to the door that afternoon. My head felt fuzzy and numb, not to be alarmed, this was a feeling I sought out and pursued with every part of my being. That oblivion that stopped the pain that made life bearable that made the bruises less painful, if not less noticeable, that cast a beautiful soft focus on a world that had become unbearable. I didn't take the pills only for the pain, I took them for everything. I took them so I cou ld continue to be not happy, not sad, just here and alive. This day was no exception, my comfortab ly numb was a standard state of being for me.

I knew; all the questions all the indictments had been filed all the deals had been made. I knew before the bell rang that they would come. I knew that it would end some how some way I knew it was over.

I opened the door, the sun so bright I stepped back to avoid the searing pain it sent through my dark conditioned eyes My eyes began to focus after the initial shock of the sunli ght.

In that painful moment my worst fears, maybe my greatest prayers, culminating in the silhouettes of two men dressed in dark colors. They both had dark hair, but my attention fell to the guns held at their sides as I answered the

door; they spoke my full name in harsh tones as they went about their jobs, not realizing they would save my life and seal my fate in one split second. I remember the clicking sound the handcuffs made as they were put on my wrists and I marvelled that I was suddenly so cold, the cold you fear you will never warm up from . The cold steel surrounding my wrists, just one more brutal assault on my already abused body. My mind spiralled soundlessly to a spinning chaos of questions. What will become of me? My family? Why didn ' t I take one more? Would one more have ended me? I realized not that day, not that moment , but in the future, I would understand and know without a doubt that jail was better than the morgue.

grt1g1ct1(e vt11e

t1110 t1p~le1

JEREMIAH JOHNSON

tftat'! 110 wag to Jag goo~6ge MARIAH FRALIC!<

Dear Honeymoon ,

Before budgets, before real jobs and r e sponsibilities, before morning sickness and multiple babies-turned-toddlers-turned-teens, there was you. Exciting, expectant, energetic . Unfettered access. Our best third wheel. I hear the Leonard Cohen tune, "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye," and feel I owe you a proper, "Come back soon!" with a few words of gratitude.

We spent our first week together, in the summer of '92 living cheap and easy with you in a beach house at Morro Bay; scantily clad, young and unencumbered, less than $100 to our name . Our Honeymoon Week became Honeymoon Years as we bask e d in your wide-open , frugal creativity. We filled our first home with second-hand furniture. Two single beds come together to make a double with a three-inch drop in elevation from one side to the other. A shower, just large enough for the two of us, saves on soap and water In fact, it saves more than that so we keep up the habit over 25 years and counting. H eat comes from a hearth that smokes the place out every time we want to light a fire . And, despite the smoke, we love to start fires. As for frugality, you taught us the value of $5; date night a dozen different ways, 10 things at Taco Bell with friends, gas for a week, ramen noodles for a month , a foot-long sandwich and a dollar movie. Who needs money when the love is free.

Looking at the photo I include with this note, it seems funny how age (and the retinal disease one of us inherited along our way) changes our vision and makes it so we've got to pull back to see things more clearly. When you snuck out of our lives I was too buried in diapers and little people to notice. You may have gone in the middle of an MBA or at the beginning of a new business Overwhelmed and outnumbered, I traded lingerie for Lincoln Logs and Legos , let you leave without a word of thanks . While we used to enjoy wide-open spaces, now our door is firmly shut. Still, all teenagers in the house know, if that closed door is locked , plug your ears and walk away.

In the beginning, you provided foundational cement that kept us together. Once you left , we built walls. Some to keep us in. Others to keep us out. We catch glimpses of you through our finest times; int ermitten t, spread ove r a quarter of

a century, and still ahead. We share a butt-squeeze when we need to remember the best of you. The best of us. I'm not sure which days constructed us more completely, the ones we spent with you, or the ones we spent without. Either way, thank you for years of youthful admiration, and for all those great expectations. Sometimes, too great.

All my love and longing, The Bright-Eyed Bride

PS. I think of you every time I hear these lyrics.

"I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time

Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme

You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me

It's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea

But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie

Your eyes are soft with sorrow

Hey, that's no way to say goodbye "

And, so, I vow, to never really say goodbye

f/V\11<YNNA NIELSEN

Dear Depression,

You probably don't recognize me; it's been a while since we've talke d. I thought we both would have changed by now, but it seems that I am th e only one who has . I am no longer ashamed or afraid, but yo u are sti ll the same pernicious sickness you a lw ays have been.

The day we met was the last time I ever saw my mom. Well, the last time I saw her truly alive that is, now she's ju st a she ll of who she once was trying to lo ok up from six feet under. When we met I was only 18 months old, I was too young to understand who you were All of us were too young When you first came none of us recognized you, we had no id e a what was happening to her. So we just tried to ignore you thinking that things will go back to normal in a little whi le. But a littl e while passed and she still never hugged me, never smi led, never laughed. So eventu a ll y they realized who you were and the fight began.

At first she tried to pretend you away. The psychologist tried to talk yo u away. Every day she tri ed to cry you away. She tried to write you away. The psychiatrist tri e d to drug you away. Fifty -six scars say she tried to bleed you away. Three times she tried to murder you away. Six hundred and twenty -four times the doctors tried to electrocute you away. For 12 years the convulsions tried to make her forget you away. But she remembered YOU, she always did. But she no longer remembered me. She didn't remember anything abo ut me , her own daughter. So for 8 ,030 days I tried to love yo u away. But you never left did you? You a lways stayed

You stayed underneath the covers in the morning. You stayed in her bedroom a ll day long. You stayed in her eyes You stay e d in h e r sad half smile. You stayed in her quivering voice. You stayed in her empty hugs. You staye d in the scars on her arms a nd th e bruises on h e r face . You staye d in her whole entire being. Every tim e you fed off of her she starved herself more . And lik e I said all that was l eft behind was a she ll of someone she once was, an 86 -pound shell.

You sto le my mother from me. Like a terrorist, you hijacked her th oughts and her body, holding her h ostage insid e of her house, inside of her head, inside of her life. Because of you , I never got to know her, th e real her, and she nev-

er got to know me. She never got to love me or take care of me because I was a lw ays taking care of h er. You sto le my childhood from me. Little girls aren't supposed to see the things that you showed me.

You invaded my mom and you invaded my home, a ll of you. You and your cousin Anxiety, your aunt Insomnia, your sister Anorexia, all directors of a play that she struggles to put on every single day. You are the sil ent film she lives in slow motion. You are the expensive tutor she never wanted to have, teaching her not to fear death, but to be afraid of being a live. And I am afraid of what that means.

I must give you some credit though for all of your hard work, you see; you are not as simp le as they think. You are not just the sad because things aren't going well. You are the sad even though everything is going great. You are the purposeless, the empty, the ups and downs that one can't handle on their own. And best of a ll there is no cure for you, only ways to cope . You are the real si lent killer, because everyone refuses to talk about you. There are no "get well soons" with your type of sick. But I am sick of not talking about you, not talking to you. And though I know that "get well soons" won't help, I will sti ll send flowers and I will still say "I love you".

Yet, as much as I shou ld hate you Depression, I don't. In fact, I feel sorry for you. Sometimes, I'm even gratefu l for you because if we had never met, I don't know who I would be. I wish I cou ld say that this is the only letter I will ever have to write to you, but the truth is I will be writing to you for the rest of her life, and the rest of my life, and my children will write to you for the rest of their lives. You are the family secret that every family has and that every fami ly wishes they cou ld talk about.

Goodbye for now, Depression. I'll see you when she wakes up.

Spitefully yours,

~roh/ YASMElN GHAZAL

CEELY MILLAR

No one sees her how I see because they don't know how sh e treat e d m e

They don't understand to what degree I wish she wasn't here tomorrow. No one sees h e r how I see.

They are fooled by the facade, but not me because of things that happened long ago , for how she tr e at e d me.

I used to be happy and pretty carefre e, but since that time, I've lost my glow. No on e sees her how I see.

I have never received an apology or a sign of somewhat sorrow for how she treated me.

But I hope that one day maybe, someone will see past her a lter ego that someone will see her how I see and know how she tr e ated m e .

This day will never again be about chocolates and candy hearts

If only it could be about a cherub shooting arrows

But instead it will be about pops and cracks And watching friends leave the earth

A girl with a shaved head is Crying out, calling out

With a rawness we hope we will never know

She's coming for you

And man, is she fierce

I hope I'm not leading my children the way of the lamb

If this beast ever comes barreling

If my community is the next to be struck down

At least I know I can count on your thoughts and prayers

But the fight will continue about red versus blu e And left versus right

While a vil e cycle of complacency spins on

With bullshit cliches of "Guns don't kill people, people kill peopl e"

And " Now is not the time to talk about gun contro l"

An army of students

Burdened with a role for which they never auditioned

But like warriors they take it on

They Are Fierce

And their voices will grow Louder, bolder

And in a crescendo they will shatter th e status quo

Bursting through it like glassAnd it will rain down

one Jize fitJ al(

ATIF AFRIDI

Be there or b e square I once heard, but I'm neith er there and I don't fe el lik e a square. I have four sides and not a ll are the same, so I suppose I can' t fit in their box . Their box, fi ll ed with 360 degrees of hate and judgment that I blindly crave. My sharp edges, crook ed and painful edges are not welcome with their smoo th , round perfect bord ers. Both of my parall el lines are unparallel ed with theirs and the other two of min e

They will keep going in circles within their circles. I hope I can avoid this trap becaus e I've come to see Th a t b eca us e I am not ther e doesn 't mean I am a square, No matter what th ey say, I am still a trapezoid .

Jementia iell-o ~URA LAFEEN

All my Grandma 's life, she's been looked at as an artist . She was the neighborhood seamstress, a concert pianist, a painter, a po et , and even a potter. But h e r most treasured masterpiece was caring for the most enchantingly colorful garden. N es tled perfectly around her grand gazebo grew rose bu shes in eve ry color year-round. The Lilies, Daffodils , and Sunflowers all came a nd went , the Hollyhocks and Foxgloves as well. Her pumpkins and squash grew snug in their beds with grapevines and cherry limbs just over h ea d. Her hands have shaped and molded so many b ea utiful things , but on e thing she n eve r could quite master was cooking, to some d eg re e

A m ea l at Grandma's was never fully complete if th e re wasn't overdone rice , und e rcook e d fresh green b ea ns , burnt rolls, and cold gravy. Each dish would b e plac e d with pr ec ision and care on the extra high countertops that stretched from her e to th ere I'd cautiously p ass through the food line slowly, eyeing each dish to see if it was safe for th e taking. But I knew Grandma saved th e b es t for last , for when the countertop was clos e to its end, the fin es t crys tal dishes with her wiggly, jiggly food creation would always b e plac e d ther e.

In these crystal dish es was her Fizzy Whipped "Garden" Jell-O . Halloween festivities masked orange and black cherry. Christmas brought the joy of raspb erry and lim e. Easter being more peaceful was alway s cherry and lemon , but for birthdays she always kept it a surprise. This deliciously simple tr ea t has always b ee n my favorite! How does Grandma get her Jell-O to sparkle and gleam while a lso looking like a fluffy, lumpy cloud in shambles?

After years of only ever enjoying this mast e rpiece at Grandma's , I finally plu cked up the courage to ask h er for her secret recipe of Fizzy Whipped Gardenjell -O. Arriving at her home , my new baby in arms, walk e d past e d h e r grand gazebo now with with e ring rose bushe s nestled round . Th e Lilies and Daffodils hadn't b ee n plant e d, and th e once great pumpkin s beds looked to be just dirt mounds now. I knocked on th e door and w a it e d to be greeted, minutes passing with t e nsion and stiffness building. After what seemed to b e an eve rla sting sil e nc e, she opened th e door saying, "So rry honey, I don't think I'd lik e th e newspaper today!"

A year b efo r e thi s day my Grandma was told she had D eme ntia. Though the doctors explained it affects every individual diffe r e ntly, how did they exp ec t a once great a rti st to interpret this news? A cruel, and for her aggressively moving disease, this onc e great pianist ju st couldn't remember the key s. She'd still go out to plant her seeds, but she cou ldn ' t r e member the water-

ing need. The pottery wheel was removed from her home, and the once over the brim filled crystal dishes never became full.

I smiled brightly with also a giggle, "Grandma it's me, I came for a visit!" She looked through me still not understanding, "No, I don't know you." With a slam of the door closing.

Today, my Grandma lives in a new home. Smaller, quieter, and with no enchantingly colorful garden to look after. There are days she remembers who I am, and days she thinks I'm the sweet caregiver just lending a hand. On an extra special visit while flipping through an old photo album, Grandma looked at me and said "Laura, we need to make Fizzy Whipped Gardenjell-0!"

Grandma LuRae 's Fizzy Whipped Gardenjell-0

(Her words, not mine )

"Go to the store and buy a box of Jell-0. I love raspberry flavored the most. When you get back, take my small pot and bring 1 cup of water to a boil. BOIL, not almost boil.

Rip open the packet of powder and pour it into the pot of boiling water. Stir continuously! Don't be lazy and only stir it until it dissolves , or you've messed up the whole thing.

Now, take my crystal dish and pour the colored water into it, but be ever so careful, it's hot!

Now, the box will say to refrigerate for 4 hours, DON'T DO THAT. You take it back out at 2 ½ hours and add in.. Sprite (said with an adorably childish grin ) This is what makes it FIZZ!

Stir, stir, stir until it's lumped to perfection, then add 1 carton of Whipped Cream and stir, stir, stir again!

Place back in the fridge for the remaining 1½ hours so it may settle correctly. I know this requires a lot of patience , but I appreciate you so much for making it for me, it 's my favorite "

1tate ctthitol

ftatre~ 1,tir~

10fLIE ~ROWN

How much hatred li es within?

When someone feels the need to say, "I'm embarrassed by the color of my own skin."

What are we teaching our children , If color is excluded when they play?

How much hatred li es within?

My adopted Haitian cousin Wears long sleeves on summer days. "I'm embarrassed by the color of my own skin."

Darkness dominates the world we live in , vVhen color decides where we stay.

How much hatred li es within?

Some are tired from the hostility of their kin, Now it's not only minorities who say, "I'm embarrassed by the color of my own skin."

The compassion of my co lor is lyin g thin

With every brother and sister, we betray.

How much hatred lies within?

I'm embarrassed by the color of my own skin.

goal oeluxe enoer tree 6ar1 a11

oro11gm;c tale of 6a66le legal propul1;011J

WILLIAM ANDERSON

One suborn her dime , dares dis firmly off tree bars - ape pauper bar, aim mummy bar, end Debbie bee bar. Thesis aim high dean ice firmly. Day halve dare nigh souse en d dumb metal offer florist end day li e kettle ought. E ats air arm blur end hast tub e head rums , tuba their rums any lodge firmly rum. Butters snow grudge . Bars dune ought kn ee Danny grudges sans day ken nod rive ache are. Day ke n puddle ape Ike e nd e rs irk ess, bud day ken ought derive ache are b ee cows day ke n ought r ea d e r rid e toot ache d e test forty li e cents. Annie why, d ebt s plan t ea up out deb ars.

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Wet, my b eas t Dawn yar. Ida no. Bud , ass yu le fine doubt , dis Goa l Deluxe ess sump ding off eight rubbl e may care.

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Shed rings mower end mower run tell shed rings everlasting inner bar's spar. Den sheep asses ow din dull ladle bars bet.

Fine alley, Wendy bars scumbag day finder bread fist poor/ rich eden, allow dare bod awls off bosom tee, ditch chars brogue end alder udders tough Goal Deluxe ditto rounder plays. Den day fine Goal Deluxe . Past doubt tender ladle bars bet sting kin cough elk hellhole . Day cull deep pole lease hook command date acre end putter wren gel. Tube ad fork Goal Deluxe. Shed dozen udder tree Monsen gel wit an udder Sigmund 's prow basin. Owe n Shasta paydirt bars fitting hunter dullards forty damn itches. Sonar, windy bars lifter hows day alas lug Theodore.

Dads muster Rhianna mime notch aging award.

not go«r tft«n~er~t1Jr111 C.~. BIEHN

I could have been a hurricane, a category five, force of nature, loud and violent and here, and maybe I was, once.

But in truth, I am a bucket. Not a special bucket, a Home Depot orange bucket, or a plastic pail for a child in the sandbox. I am a regular bucket, and that is that. Others pour into me, take from me, sip from me, le ave me out to dry. I function as I should and no more. I have allowed myself to become a receptacle, complaisant in being used and used again. And don't ask when this began, because a bucket is a bucket. What I know is this: I have long held such a vast well in the core of my chest that I fear I will never reach the bottom.

Too often, I find myself drawing from its depths. A bucket and a well, but the water is murky, undrinkable, unusable, exceptI do not let my lover see me , and when he touches me, I shrink. Shame, perhaps, at the expense of the marks I left on my skin during the rain-soaked years of my youth, marks that I continue to make when the well overflows, and I have to bleed it out or drown. Or is it shame, perhaps, from the hands who have touched me before?

I am not a strong woman.

In an ocean of #survivor and #metoos, I'm often lost in #whitenoise until my hands quiver, and I find myself asking what is survival, anyway? Control? If survival is contro l, then it's an ancient sea that evaporated a thousand years ago. Evaporated, and left me to li e upon the barren sea -b ed, vulnerable , a fossil in the making. And if control is survival, then why couldn't I say no?

Night overlaps day. I draw up another bucket. This one runs red.

I could have been a hurricane , but the storm between my ribs died out, leaving behind a heady fog. I squint, I plead, I pray, but seeing is for believers, and that

path was swept from me in a sudden flood. You stood at the end of the boardwalk, I re member, but I can't find you now.

I call your name. It's lo st to the gale.

I told him not to touch.

My lover touches me now, with gentle hands - my shou ld er, my back, my waist. H e doesn ' t know about the scars running parallel across my thighs , doesn't know about the frayed rope tied to my bucket as it goes down, down deep. He doesn ' t know th e well. He doesn ' t even know th e bucket.

There are terms for my story, co ld vocabulary called clinical d e pression , called sexual abuse, call ed cutting, ca ll ed sterile instruments to stifl e the fact that I have wanted to kill myself since I was fourteen fucking years old . This is not a vocabulary lesson. This is a girl with a bucket. This is a girl with a well. This is a girl with her patience running dry.

So take from me, sip from me, leave me to drown - I've had it a ll , I've seen it all. I've heard the women I love speak out about abuse, about the marks that have stained their skin. These are strong women. These are survivors. Because life is not a sunset kiss, but it's a lso not a sinking ship, and even across the angriest ocean comes a parting wind. I wish I knew that kind of bravery. For every brave woman, there 's a thousand who can't be. There's a thousand like me, who lost their hurricane pace a long time ago.

And I'm starting to come to t e rms with that - I am too sharp around the edges, too fond of solitude, too afraid of the words that might spill from my chest shou ld I open my mouth at the sounding of the thund e r. Perhaps th e re is bravery to be found in fragility after a ll , in the near-silent patter of raindrops on concrete at midnight, or in dew budding on the leaves of the lamb's ear plant, moments before it sp ills to the ground and shatters. Perhaps there is resolution in the sound of my bucket scraping th e we ll 's side, and perhaps it isn ' t bravery at all, but it cou ld be.

Every change in pressure has the potential to erupt into a sudden storm. I am going to find peace one day.

ENS EN

wftite ~nitJftt · E-lic)

Castles made of sand fall into dusty sky

The world he has built is not good enough

For white knights lost in the fallacy of the innocent past Unknowingly lost at sea

They gaze in wonder

As chi ldr en build sandcastles in star dust

tfte 1to141n

EMILY WILLIAMS

The grassy field, so strong and tall they leapt,

Awaiting patiently the storm to come .

A hiss, a hush ran through the grasses, wet and cold as raindrops pattered, sideways blown.

The grasses bowed their h eads in thrilled defeat,

Their faces pressed against the frozen ground

A drumming chant forewarned the com in g storm,

A vio lent sacrificial scream began.

The grass devoured whole, the knell and toll

Of chaos, clay and dirt sprayed up like blood.

In shattered gasps the clouds wrung out their hail

And wailed and wai led, 't il every cry came out.

The murdered sta lk s fell life less from the a ir,

A shi ver of the final chi ll blew out.

Together with the victims of the storm,

The grasses sprang up taller than before.

u11fi11i1fte~ h(a111

FARAHNAf- BAHADURI

Can you imagine one night going to bed with the hope of waking up tomorrow and doing whatever plans for tomorrow, but unaware that your god has made other deci sions for you?

I grew up in Pakistan becaus e ther e was war in our country, but when I was 13 years old we came back to Afghanistan , because my parents thought th e situation in our co untr y got better than last years. When we reached our own country, but the situation was still not too good. Every day there were bomb blasts , suicide attacks. Th e n ews and media talks about these things. For m e it was very hard becaus e I hadn 't seen these before in Pakista n.

With passing time, I finished my high school. After that I got engaged, and married in 2010, and I live d with my in-l aw's. My in-law 's hous e was one alley high er than my father's house. It was alive with n ever-en ding sounds of talking and la ughing. The scent of food perm a nently filled each room. W e all live d in the same area n ea r to each other.

I started my life with my husband and his family. They w ere an ex t e nd e d family. His father, his five sisters, and five broth e rs, a nd th eir families lived togethe r. My husband, and his brothers were interpreters; they were working for the U.S Army. All of them had spent th eir lives se rving the U.S troop s.

The situation was still bad in there. Everywhere was war and fighting, bomb bla sts and a ttacks , but all people were ignoring the situation. Th e Afghan people were adjusting their lives All around dust filled the air, tasting like metal and gun powder. The streets were litt e r e d with blood and limbs. But within a few minut es the survivors would just continue living, having th e ir lun ch, doing work , as if nothing had happ e n e d . Eve ry day, hundreds were killed a nd injured , a nd hundre ds of famili es are sad and worries for their children. For women it was hard er than m e n , because they couldn't go outside alone without any man. It was hard .

One night we had our dinner like normal nights. I coo ke d chicken for our dinn er that night , and it tasted delicious with a butt ery flavor After few hour s we w ent to our bed to sleep. That night what I notic e d was that in our area everything, and everyw her e looked very strange. The darkness was spread everywhere. Th a t night it seemed abnormal. It was late night maybe around 1:00 am. Most of the p e opl e in our area were sleep.

Suddenly a kind of light covered all the area. After 1 second we heard a big sound. A bomb blast. It was the worst night ever in my life, and in that bomb blast I remember that when I opened my eyes my husband was sitting beside me , and he was pushing my heart b ecause for 3-5 seconds I couldn't br ea the. My heart had stopped. Wh e n I could stand on my feet my husband took m e out of the house in our yard and rushed to help all the p e ople in our neighborhood.

Aft e r I became normal , I saw lots of people run away from their houses. Eve rywhere doors hung broke n on their hinges and windows w e r e shattered. Eve rything was brok e n. Everywhere was blood in th e earth. I heard panicke d voices of people. Everyone was shouting. One was looking for his son, one was looking for her moth e r. Eve rywh e r e was th e ove rwhelming smell of the gunpowder. When I calmed down more, I realiz e d that I must call my family and ask them how they were. Unfortunat ely, th e n e twork was down, and phones were not working I was frantic. It was hard for me because I didn't know if th ey wer e alive or not. After a couple hours my phone worked, and I called my family and talked to th e m. We w e r e all so shaken that my father and I were mostly speechl ess, my sister was screaming, and everyone was in shock.

Thank god. I know they are fin e. Lik e me, everyon e was in the same situation, and th ey didn't know about their family m e mbers, relatives , or friends. I came back to my second-floor room. All th e glass of th e windows was brok e n. I looked outside from the window, and I saw one person that had his son in his arms and was running toward hospital. His son was covered with blood. Everyone had injured people in their house . The houses nearest the blast wer e buried und e r dirt and d e bris . Nobody could find the houses or the people inside of th em. I could hear a seven years old boy crying, shouting, and desperately begging eve ryone to find his family.

Eve ryone was waiting for morning, but that morning was not coming. It wa s t e rribl e, long night, hundre ds of d e ad bodies, hundreds of injured Everyon e was trying to show that they were normal , but th ey w e re not. Eve rywh e r e in the streets and hom es w e r e soaked re d with blood .

The news said it was a truck full of bombs , and the main destination was not here but it happened by mistake . The rough road through our neighborhood caused th e explosives to detonat e, leveling hom es and causing destru c tion . Before that I had never seen a night like that, and I lea rned how valuable life is and how strong people are Seeing all of the trag e dy, th e blood, the d evastation and the way that people were strong and showing resilienc e thought m e how tak e !ife seriously and be thankful for pressures things that I have.

None of those p e opl e who died thought that it would be last night of their life or th ey were going to die that night . Maybe they had decided some plans for th eir tomorrow, but their tomorrow didn ' t come.

can gou ftearBRJAN

NA MARIN

The int ense cries of trepidation

Bursts from the depths of my lun gs

But can you hear me?

My wails are swallowed

By the howls of the barbarous beast

Mommy? Daddy? Where are you?

They have plundered me of my innocence

But sti ll they roam freely

In their immaculately tailored facades

I have lost who I am

I am an enigma t o myself

Mommy!? D addy!? Can you he ar me!?

Afore time, when life entailed dirty palms

And sta in ed T -shirt s

I felt frustration

from the lo ss of the lo ss of the grimy playground set

Children

Runnin g around without reserve

Basking in the conversa nt bliss of yo uth

Now, I mourn the lo ss of the essence of my so ul

Mo mmy Daddy I miss you

Seeking comfort in the arms of my mother

I s now a thing of the past

Now, I find refuge in the memories

Ethereally twirling around my consciousness

In smoky circles, Eventually diffusing into the wind

And in the warmth of the t ears th at cascade down my cheeks

Wreaking havoc on atop my knees

Do es anyone feel my absence?

You are lookin g unswervingly at me

Staring dead pan

As I slowly lose myself within th e vas t darkness

You just look on at me.

With g lazed eyes

As you go again st your humanity

Steadfastly refusing to see me.

JnifteJ l(YLEE

SHEPHERD

I say depression

' runs in the family'

We run our mouths at each other

Increasing the tears

That run down our faces

I say it's inherited

It's in her, my sister, Her, my mother, Me

My brothers

That alco holi c fath e r

I only acknowledge on Sundays And when I hate myself

Daddy says I'm a bitch to my sister

Sis confides in my brother

Bro tells me to grow the fuck up accept my great title

I say no

shun my father ignore his bullshit

He texts my mother to call her a whore

Mommy call s me crying for comfort

We just give the gift and it keeps on taking

I gather up this white elephant of pills and therapy it li es in the corners of my junk drawer

I wrap it in hugs and smiles and " I love you ' s"

I give it to my brother when he asks, "How are you?"

My eyes well up with truths while my mouth li es

" Fine, and you? "

January

Natalie Ann Montoya .

April 26, 2014

26

Three twenty-eight ninety-nin e

May 3, 2014

12

Thos e numbers now seem cemented to my nam e.

June 29, 2014

16

An indic ator of my identity.

August 31, 2014

16

"Ca n I get your vitals from you?"

Octob e r 26, 2014

27

"Fro m 0-10, how would you rate your pain?"

February 9, 2015

13

"Let us know if you n ee d anything."

March 16 , 2015

17

" Ready 1, 2, 3."

March 31, 2015

25

Deep breaths .

April 26, 2015

41

Inhale.

May 24, 2015

20

Exhale.

Jun e 21, 2015

37

" You had what it takes all along."

July 19, 2015

40

Flashback.

August 13, 2015

24

I remember vividly.

September 20, 2015

27

Yet, I'm paralyzed in a haze .

October 18 , 2015

18

My subconscious betrays m e.

November 15 , 2015

33

These r ec ollections seem

D ece mb e r 13, 2015

62

Isolated from my other memories.

January 10 , 2016

63

I r epeat e dly told myself

Fe bruary 7, 2016

60

"I can and I will."

March 6, 2016

72

My meaningful mantra .

April 3, 2016

30

I vowed to never let this run my life again.

May 1, 2016

50

I promis e d I would never tak e life for granted.

June 27, 2016

55

It is truly so delicate.

July 24, 2016

28

I don ' t want to just exist.

August 21, 2016

55

I want to live my life fully and freely.

September 18 , 20 I 6

65

I know

October 16, 2016

42

A chronic illness is a part of who I am

December 22, 2016

40

But it do es not d efin e me.

January 2, 2017

January 4 , 20 I 7

January 9, 20 I 7

January 11 , 2017

January 14, 20 I 7

Five in two weeks.

February 2, 2017

112

Triple digit climax.

February 27, 2017

96

I built myself back up

March 16, 2017

60

A better version than before .

March 29, 2017

48

It is n ever too lat e to reinvent yourself

April 19, 2017

51

This was the evo lution of me.

June 1, 2017

32

Empowerment in three words:

August 7, 2017

2

Scars tell stories.

MAlsbON HUWIEH

Characters

Omar: A seventeen-years old male who is detained in the regime prison. The Sergeant: Works with the Military Investigation Office. The Soldier: Works for the sergeant.

SETTING: The Middle East.

TIME: The present.

SCENE ONE

The dark room is dimly lighted. There is a metal chair and a brown-wooden desk scratched and dirty on the right side of the room, and a rusty-metal table against the back wall of the stage that holds torture devices: a whip, an electric cable, a pliers, a needle, and a CD player with headphones. There is a mobile wooden-cross shaped plank placed in the middle of the room with wheels on the end of its legs. Omar is hanging on it with his hands and legs stretched out and tied. His back is facing the audience. He is shirtless, and his pants are ripped from different places. There are red marks on his back and drops of blood around the marks. His face is blue and swollen. His eyes are b l ack; one is closed and puffed out.

Omar coughs and spits out blood from his mouth as the sergeant enters the room, accompanied with the soldier who is walking few steps behind.

Sergeant: This is the boy?

Soldier: Yes, sir.

(The soldier is standing behind the sergeant. )

Sergeant: What's your name, boy?

(He asks as he moves the mobile plank to face the audience. )

Omar: Omar, sir

(Answers with a cough. )

Sergeant: How old are you, Omar?

Omar: 1 7, sir.

(Responds with another cough. )

Sergeant: Do you know why you ' re here, Omar?

Omar: Sir, I know that I've done a terrible mistake, but I didn't intend any harm, sir.

Sergeant: What, what, what?! What did you say? Didn ' t intend any harm?

(Sergeant looks at the soldier and repeats it. )

Sergeant: He didn't intend any harm. (He mocks as he walks toward the metal chair which stands few steps away from the plank. )

(The Sergeant laughs. The soldier swallows his gulps. )

(The Sergeant pushes the metal chair with his feet. He walks back toward Omar and grabs his chin. )

Sergeant: Graffiti? (He shouts. ) Is that what you call unintended harm. Yah, that what he called it.

(He looks again at the soldier and then back to Omar. )

Omar: Sir, we were just messing around, I swear, sir. (He coughs again. )

Sergeant: Messing around, ha? Graffiti is the harm itself, clever boy. No one writes on walls to oppose and criticize the regime and gets away with it. Tell me again what did you write on your school wall, Omar?

(Omar is silent .)

Sergeant: I, SAID, TELL, ME, WHAT, YOU, WROTE, ON, YOUR, SCHOOL, WALL, damn it!

Omar: Down with the regime. (Omar coughs.)

Sergeant: Go on. (He says as he approaches the metal chair again and sits on it. )

Omar: No for military regime.

Sergeant: Aha? What else did you and your bastard friends write. Hah, what e lse?

(Omar is si lent. He leans his head toward his shoulder. The sergeant pushes himself with the chair to get closer to Omar. )

Sergeant: No for vio l ence. That was one of them, ha? How is that working for you now, Omar?

(The sergeant raises from the chair and approaches th e metal tabl e and grabs the pliers. The so ldi er who is sti ll standing in his place, stares at the pliers, and then looks right back to Omar with soft eyes.)

Sergeant: You know what's the problem Omar, we are not ready for demacxa.c'J ')'e,t. Pe.a"?k c,a\\."t u.\\de,"1: ",,ta.\\d a. ',,\.'-'.\\"?k c,C)\\CK"?t

You see, let's say that you, for example, liv ed your whole life on the street. You have no money, you begged for your food, and yet, you can't read or write. Some random person comes to you and gives you generous offer. He tells you that he will clean you up and give you a decent job. He wi ll make you the owner of his company. What do you do, ha? What do you do if you don't even have the basic ski ll s to survive the first day. I mean who would refuse such an offer, right? But if you believe that you

could handle it, you've made your biggest mistake of your life. NOW, as the protector and the savior of this country, MY JOB is to pr eve nt such calamity from happening on the ground.

People thought that the Arab spring will bring them DEMOCRACY, FREEDOM, but they forgot one important fact. We are not ready for that, and we will never be. Everything thing would fall apart. Things should stay the same. We rule and you obey, WITHOUT A QUESTION.

Sergeant: What group are you with , boy? Who do you work for and for how long have you been cooperating with the terrorist groups, ha?

Omar: Sir, I swear, I hav e no affiliation to any group.

Sergeant: Answer the question.

(He shouts, and then grabs Omar's right hand holding his pinky. )

Sergeant: I am going to start small, and then will see how far we need to go.

(He pulls Omar 's nail off his pinky. Omar screams and weeps. )

Omar: No, please, please. (Omar is gasping. )

I have nothing else to say. I am not a terrorist. I am just a student. I don't work for anyone.

(He cries. )

(The sergeant walks around Omar two times. )

Sergeant: What is your group's next move, Omar? Where are they hiding? Where do you usually meet? (He shouts.)

Omar: I don't know, don't know anything. I have nothing to do with all this.

(The sergeant pulls his lighter and a cigarette box from his pocket. He puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it as he walks again around Omar. )

Sergeant: I don't care if you write on walls, march in demonstrations, or even fight in the field. They all lead to one end. Your stupid and immature acts are the reason why this country is fa llin g down.

(The sergeant burns Omar's back with his cigarette. Omar screams. The so ldi er takes a few steps toward the sergeant and then backs off. )

Sergeant: Your father came to us yesterday, Omar. He was looking for you, so pathetic.

(Omar closes his eyes. )

Omar: What did you do to him? Did you hurt him?

(The Sergeant comes closer to Omar and pulls his hair from the back. )

Sergeant: I did what I always do. I told him to forget about you and go home and make some more kids. I even offered him help. I told him if he can't make any more kids, he can bring his wife here, and we can make him more kids. (He l aughs. )

Omar: You stay away from my family.

(The sergeant punches Omar in the face. )

Sergeant: I will destroy your house and rape your mother under your father's watch and then kill him and kill your whole family. I will burn you whole neighborhood down, I will destroy your city and turn it into ashes .

(Omar bleeds from his mouth. The soldier brushes his hand over one side of his face. The Sergeant notices the soldier. )

Sergeant: Soldier. (He shouts. )

Soldier: Yes, sir.

(There is silence in the room with only the sound of the Sergeant boots clicking as he walks closer to the soldier and then to the metal table. He takes the CD player and the headphones from the table and walks back to the m eta l chair and his wooden desk. He sets on the chair and crosses his legs over his desk and lights another cigarette. )

Sergeant: Wrap it up.

Soldier: Me, sir? (He murmurs. )

Sergeant: That 's an order, soldier.

Soldier: Yes, sir.

(The Sergeant puts the headphon es on. Beethove n is playing. He waves one hand with the music. )

(The soldier grabs the whip off the table. He comes closer to Omar with eyes fill e d with tears , and mumbles: I am sorry. He begins to whip Omar 's back. )

(As the soldier continues to whip, the sergeant closes his eyes and moves his head and arms with the music. )

(The soldier continues to whip with sobs and weeping. Omar and the soldier raise their voices together: No for military rule, for violence, no for oppression , no for tyranny, no for dark rooms .... They both weep. )

(The stage goes dark. )

SCENE TWO

The stage is dark with one spot light dir ec ted on the soldier standing in th e middl e of the stage. His face is dark and sweaty. His clothes are ragged. One side of his shirt is shoved inside his pants and the other side is humbly left out. H e loos ely holds th e whip in one hand , and then drops it on the floor.

Soldier: No for military control, no for violence, no for oppression, no for tyranny, no for humiliation, no for treason, no for foreign interference, no for dark rooms.

No, no, no, I am a soldier. This is what I have to remember. My duty is to follow orders. My honor is to protect my country.

No for freedom, no for justice, no for democracy, no for life, no for youth, no for peace. This is how we protect our country. This is how people survive: to live and not liv e, to liv e and die for the regime.

No for humanity, no for sympathy, nor for mercy. This is how we keep the scums off the streets. No for Ahmad, no for Sammy, no for Ibrahim, no for Adam, no for Omar.

(The soldier gets on his knees, covering his face with both hands. He shouts with pain. )

Soldier: I am sorry. I am sorry because democracy is nothing more than a fancy word that decorates our signs, because justice is only seen in movies, because human rights is just another big li e we've created. I am sorry because we are born here, because we are worthless, because we are Arabs. I am sorry because we liv e in a world where everyone decided to go si lent.

(The soldier lowers his head on the floor and continues to weep. )

(The stage goes dark with sounds of shelling and cries of children in the background. )

The End

tfte cau(~ro,r GAGE JARMAN

The air is stale, recycled by the humming of the CO2 conversion vents. Metallic cras hes echo in the distance. Fluorescent tub es flick e r and dance on th e walls, corroded from years of c ontinuous use. The floor shudders from th e ambient banging. It's getting closer. Rhythmic lik e a m e tronome , it crescendos, barring sporadic cras h es with all the force of Vulcan 's forge. Som ething thuds into th e wall. An ele c troni c door whirs open, a nd two sta ndard is su e environmental suits skid through the corridor.

" Hurry, get the door! Get the door!" one suit yells. The other still scrambling to h e r fe e t manages to pr ess a glass panel on the wall.

"Co m e on, dammit. Why won't you sca n." Suit Two says in an anxious, hurri e d voice. The pan el lights up as a mass of met a l and wires careens down the hall. Th e blast proof door shuts, sealing off the a bomination , but not befor e it slams into the door rattling th e room, sprinkling dust from the ceiling. Suit Two slides down the wall in ex h a ustion , "Hey, so COOS, nobody sa id it'd be like that ," Suit Two squeezes out between breaths . A steady grinding coming from the other side of the heavy bla st door.

" Yea h , w elcom e to th e Scout Corps, and call me H a z el. Anyway s, we need to keep moving. Oh, and you can tak e off your visor, Privat e ." H aze l r eac hes out to the green soldier to help him off the ground. Pr ess ing a sensor on th eir ch ee k opens up th e face shield, retracting and stack on the sides of their head to form what appears to be a feathered headdres s, but it's more rigid like that of a pangolins shell. "The targe t should be up one of the supply shafts . We ' ll head through th e service tunnel whi ch should bring us t o one shortly." Hazel looks ba ck a t the new r ec ruit who is still visibly shaken with her kind amber eyes. " Oh come on pansy ass, basic aught'a pr epa r e d your n e rves a little better than thi s. That cassowary isn ' t getting through for another twenty minutes "

The grate to th e tunnel flies back from Hazel's kick. Dank fog spills out of new opening, and the smell of oil and burning metal fills air. Ha ze l du cks and climb s through fir st. "Co m e on, Private, move yer ass." The private reluctantly follows, cove ring his mouth with his hand. Struggling to hold it in , h e lets out a few light coughs " Hahaha ," Ha zel roars "can't even handl e a little stagnant air. So much for getting you so me room to breath ." The privat e is silent to h e r snark.

He taps his ear, a barrier forms from a ll the uncomfortable particles drifting in the air His mask rolls forward and assembles itself once again. Hazel smirks as they move forward.

The service tunnel is dark, only lit by the reserve power's red hu e It seems to be strangling the private more than the air outs id e his suit. Ducking under huge pipes that have crashed and embedded themselves in the ceiling and walls. Around every turn, every pipe and obstruction, the walls feel lik e they're closing in. They surround the private pushing in on his chest, making him li ght headed. He walk s faster, practically stepping on Hazel's heels.

" H ey, Private tell me, what's your name?"

"My designation is V786." The private replied in a practiced tone.

"No," Hazel sighed, ducking underneath some more debris. "What is your name?"

"My- my caretaker call ed me Burdock," he staggered out.

"Oh, not parents. Where did that leave ya?" Hazel casually spurted out "Hill crest."

"It's always that blasted Hillcrest. Bureaucrats don't give two shits about who gets put out as lon g as th ey have the numbers. If they saw what they were producing, then they might see how fucked up it is!Just going through the simu lations with no more thought than putting on your goddamn pants. A standard for mediocrity with no opinions, mass production of the easi ly h erded. God damn damaged goods, with atrophied wings and tar covered feathers ... " Hazel stops as she co ll ects herself from her tirade "Sorry . . . "

"It's fine," he said behind hi s mask

They continued down the crimson tunnel of scrap until they reach a dead end . Hazel carefu ll y peels open a panel, no wider than their hips, revealing a new chamber. Burdock gazes in astonishment. Before them is what appears to be a missile si lo that drops several hundred feet, with an oxidized ladder to their right. Sparks fall from the wall, strobing briefly before falling out of existence. Sporadically li ghting the otherwise dark shaft, reflecting off chrome gargoyles.

"Shh," Hazel whispers in a hushed voice, "there's about twenty corvids in there. Make any loud noises and we' ll never make it to extraction ." Pulling themselves through the hole, they ascend in si lence. Scattered on the walls are the corvids, winged scavengers of a lloy and wires. Their ta lons tearing into the steel, creating their perches. Plasma ejected from their beaks carves out chunks of tunnel linin g, which they harvest to bring back to their nest, a mountain of metal and smoke where new Aves are manufactured.

Burdock takes shallow breaths , solely focused on the exit two hundred feet above them. Flinching every tim e the avian automatons pauses, waiting for them to descend upon the two scouts. L eft hand , right foot, right hand , left foot, left hand , right foot , the rhythm of their ascent. Flickering light shoots off the platform where the ladder ends. Hazel grabs something off h e r hip , what appears to be a small handl e or hilt of something, activates her facemask, and signs to Burdock to go forward. She climbs and peers over the platform. A corvid has latched onto the service door and is in the middle of dismantling it. Hazel , gentle in h e r steps approaches the corvid from the r ear CRASH. Burdock looks down to see the Cassowary they le ft below tumbling towards the bottom of the tunnel. Th e corvid whips its head around to see Hazel. She charges, hits th e hilt on her chest, a blade of red light jolts out of the end. Driving the dagger into the beast's neck , she tears down as it lets out of screech of metal striking metal. The whirlwind of m etal wings thunders through the shaft. Streams of blu e light trailing the mass , e rratically lighting individuals. "RUN!"

Burdock is already up the ladder, moving towards the half-pierc e d gateway to momentary safety. His heavy footfalls burst through the rusted platform. H e pulls with all his strength, but the ru ste d metal only digs into the boot lik e meat hooks He frantically grabs at a plasma dagg e r and stabs it into his calf. He screa ms as it burns through bon e and liquefies bubbling fat and muscle . The boot plumm ets as h e crawls with his newly cauterized stump. Tears streaming down his face in an erratic attempt to make it to the door. Hazel look s away as she close s th e door and latch es it shut.

"No, Hazel come back. Don't do this. I don't want to die I don 't want to die. I DON ' T WANT TO DIEEEEEE." Still several feet from the base of the door talon s grab his lowe r ba ck. The pressure builds , crushing his bones until they pierc e the suit. Th e other foot grabs his h e lm e t and pull s it up , arching his back, close to its b eak dripping blue flame He grabs the b eas t 's ankle out of desperation ''.AHHHHHHH .. ." It only takes a mom e nt for the plasma to melt through the helmet, eyes bubbling out of their sockets.

Haz el just stands th e r e . Th e racket of th e machin es scrambling to quarter the new recruit, th e smell of seared m eat seeping through the p e rforations in th e door. She slams h er fist into th e wall, refusing to look up. She march es forward and doesn't look back at the strobing blue light peering through the door.

My white leather Vans slapped the sidewalk as my mini posse and I shuffled up 300 West. We on our way to a fundraiser for the LGBTQ+ Youth Center h e re in Salt Lake City. Abbie, a friend of mine, had makeup that would make beauty gurus jealous, in anticipation of the drag queens we would soon be face to face with . Her bold lip twinged with laughter at whatever joke my boyfriend at the time, Caleb, had made in that moment . I couldn't pay attention to it, because every time my right foot came down on the pavement, a sharp pain shot up my leg I ignored it as we turned the corner, the loud trap music echoing down the alleyway leading up to Kilby Court , possibly th e strang es t venue I had been to. It was inside and outside, neither space being particularly large. It was the second time in as many months I had been to Kilby.

' Just come closer to the van." Caleb's cheeks were flushed as he waved me closer to Dan's mother's Honda Odyssey. I sighed, passing by th e smoking and loading area of the venue, my eyes on him. He was nervous, that was obvious e nough , but I couldn't place why. I skipped over, careful not to trip in the potholes that seemed to riddle the alley. As I approached him, he pull e d a small picture frame from inside of the van. In his t e rribl e, scrawling handwriting, he had vowed his heart and soul to me, and framed it. No gift had ever felt so special. I carefully placed it inside my backpack , kissed him good luck, and returned to the viewing area to watch them perform. They were the opening band, their emotional mixtape banging against the four walls like guns, the lyrics filled with enough pain to tranquilize a horse.

After it was over, Caleb found Abbie and I in the crowd, his breath reeking of c heap beer. I turned my h ea d away from him , not wanting to smell it anymore, when he grabbed me in a bear hug and unbalancing me. I landed back against the wall, hard, a panicked breath leaving my lips . I reached into my backpack, feeling the broken glass of the picture frame pinch my fingertips.

The pain alerted me again, and I stopped walking. Abbie and Caleb turned to watch me unzip my shoe, and dig around the inside.

"Is everything good?" Abbie asked, her brow raised suspiciously. I nodded and put on my shoe again.

" Yeah, just felt like .. Never mind. " I brushed it off, and trudged along next to them. The pain didn't go away, it buzzed around me like a fly on dead meat. I threw off my shoe again, close to tears Caleb picked it up off the ground, digging around the inside I took off my sock, my big toe bleeding from whatever had stabbed me. Sighing, I shook out the sock, something dropping onto the ground. I stooped to pick it up, blinking as I did .

Austin, Texas. My home away from home, my Southern Liberal oxymoron Birthplace of Whataburg er. I had been in town a whole 29 hours , and I still didn't have a Bacon and Cheese Whataburger in my hands. I had been out since 10am, seeing the graffiti walls that draws in tourists better than a squeaky toy captures a dog's attention, and waiting in line at the Paramount Theatre for an hour to get into an RTX Exclusive event. All I wanted was the soft buns and warm cheesey embrace of the nearest Whataburger. My friends and I called a Lyft, and made the number one mistake travelers make. \!\Te didn't check the reviews before we agreed on the location . If we had, we probably would've found out that it was a constant target for robberies and vandalism alike.

Our little white sedan sped off, passing by the local businesses mixed with th e buildings that touched the skies, gliding over Congress Bridge. Within minutes, we were inside of the Whataburger, and I could cry with happiness . My token Houston friend suggested I get the Sweet and Spicy Bacon Whataburger, which they warned me would take a little while longer, but I agreed to their terms and sat down When it finally came out, it was as if the heavens had parted and God had kissed my foreh ea d, before handing me the yellow-wrapped burger, and striped box of fries. I dove them, trying to savor the burger itself. All was at peace with the world, until it wasn't.

A crack in th e night, loud as a shotgun, rang through the restaurant. Th e patrons inside froze , all looking to the origin of the noise at once. A disgruntled, seemingly homeless , man was yelling at us through the window, holding a firecracker much like the one he had lit on the windowsill from outside the restaurant. He eventually began walking away from th e door, my eyes neve r leaving him. My fri e nd beside me got up to help inspect the noise, and I turned my h ea d to make a joke about how we let the 10 libs kid to check out the scary man. As I did, a shattering sound stopped the world from spinning. The man had thrown a rock through the window, the glass shards pi e rcing my skin, but more importantly,

my Sweet and Spicy. I was immediately thrown into th e deep dark pool normal people call "a nxiety, " and I could no longer breath The sounds of the screaming customers faded away, and I felt tears well in my eyes.

In my subdued state, I h ea rd a waitress from one-hundred yards away, telling me to get on the floor. I turned, spotting her yelling with everything in her, and slid out of the booth, the gentle tinkling of glass stark against my ringing ears. I found refuge in her arms, the small Latina woman, no older than me, covering my head with her tray. My body was racked with sobs as he threw another rock through the window, and my hearing came back all at once to hear it

My ear was bleeding, cut in three places, and still ringing. Glass stuck to me like at-shirt on a hot day, and the paramedics and fast-food workers worked to get me de-glassed. I called my dad, 1,300 miles away, recalling the accident as much as I could, in between my anxiety ridden sobs. To this day, broken glass sends a chill down my spine, and leaves a lump in my throat.

Abbie asked what it was , but I couldn't ke e p an eye off the incredible inconvenience in my palm.

"Glass."

I am tired

I am poor

I am yearning to breathe free

I am searching for a place to ca ll Home.

I have walk ed

I have hiked

I have swam and fought for breath

I have left all I hold dear to get Home.

I have dreams

I have prid e

I would fight to keep it whole

I have nothing but respect for my Hom e

But I am stupid

I am lazy

I am dangerous

I am crimin a l

I am terror

I am hated lam Alon e

GABRJELA LOPEZ

1ea11ce for Int/ t(a MONfCA AYALA

I am here to start a seance

I am searching for the ghost of my Tia

If there are any spirits present

May they make themselves known

I kee p finding you with m e

In broken mirrors and cereal spoons

You stare back with th e same a lmond eyes

The same burnt smi le

I rememb e r when my dad got the call

Wh e n mountain crumbled into dust

Remember when my grandma's living room turn e d sandstorm

Everything was whispers

Beca us e saying it out loud

Made it all the more real

It was th e first time I'd ever heard that word

It was push e d out

Shaky

Quiet

As if the weight of it was too much on th eir tongues

Tia

How long did you carry it ?

How long did it take for the scale to break, to turn final?

In the following years

I tried lifting it myself

Felt the strain on my wrists and thighs

Felt the way it carved against my will

El suicido

Tia

I have been carrying you around for years

You never answer my questions

I can feel you wrapping around my throat

The way you inch yourself shut

I have come to ask you

How to bear through the weight

How to carry around the noos e

Your noose

I've seen the pictures

Gone through every album not hidden away

Saw that way you would grit your teeth through smiles

As if they would run away had you not kept them locked up

Did your jaw hurt too?

It feels as if my mouth is going to fall off

A skeleton left in awe of what came n ex t

Te dijieron que te calmaras?

That all you n ee d e d was some sleep?

I know you took them too literally

Did they call you crazy?

Did you drown it out by sinking your own liver?

I am a ship lost at sea

Starting to forget how to swim

Tia

I know what it's like to be brushed off

To be told that you're only making it up

I am b eg ging you

T ell m e how to live with it

*Gasp*

Did you feel that?

Rope

111e111oir part 1 M. R DIVINE

I was a lw ays the girl who sat silent in the very front row of English, history, and science, and the very back row in math The girl who ke pt her head down but always had h er hand shooting up because she knew the answer. The girl who everyo ne knew had some story behind h e r, a past she never wanted to talk about in person, instead choosing to pen it in the notebook she a lways carried with h e r. I saw myself as they saw me . A littl e sad, the girl who had Mommy issues . I never wou ld have said I was depressed , or for that matter suicidal. I had dr ea ms , hopes , an d wishes that I would make the world a better plac e one day. That I wou ld h ave a profession that changed peop le's lives around. I was going to help those who felt as though they cou ldn 't help themse lves or their situations. But I realized that what I was , and what I showed others, what I showed myself, were two different p eo pl e

Th e day was nothing short of bleak , as the skies outside lay dark and cold . Snow fell in thick, white clumps, sticking to the ground, turning the ever- dreary world around us, more so . It was early D ecember and Christmas break was just around the corner. Luckily, it was the e nd of the day, and Mr. Adamson, the American Civi lization teacher, had decided the class h ad been good enough to receive a note taking period and no hom ewo rk. The clock on the wall r ea d 3: 15 pm , we only had 15 more minute s to go. Then from nowhere, with no preparation, the intercom screeched to life, sounding lik e an old cat who had been rudely awoken with a foot to the tail. It broke my concentration and I looked up at the clock, a puzz led look on my face. The shrill sound grew louder by the second , until everyone else had ceased their e ndless chatter and unanimously sat staring at the small grey speaker.

Everyone's pen was down, confused looks on many faces. It wasn't the weekend of a big game, and the principal had a lready announced the winnings of pr evious ones. Yet here h e was n ervo usly clearing his throat over what must have the microphone sitting on his desk, in a room w h ere no one but the vice principal could see him. The minutes ticked by.

"Ladies and gentlemen, students and faculty of Copper Hills High sc h ool, I regret to inform you that we have lost a d ea r student this past week." The principal 's voice was cracking making him sound lik e a dying squirrel , and in

my inno ce nt state I cou ld not tell if he was sincere or not. H e sighed a deep sigh, a h eavy sigh, a tir e d sigh, before h e went on . " Th e ir parents wish for their name to b e left out of this announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, I n ee d not t e ll you that suicide is ever th e answer, I hop e that in your age and generation you ca n come to th e terms on your own, but as it stands I fe el I must . Suicide is neve r th e answer, it is never a way out of the pain some of you fee l on an eve ryday b as is. Th e re is a lways another way." There was silence and then the soft so und of th e mi cro phon e b eing turn e d off, and th e n nothing. My heart was racing, pounding in sid e my ch es t , I felt lik e at a ny given mom e nt it would jump right on out, leaving a gaping bloody hol e for peopl e to gawk at.

A name w as not given. A gender was not given. This student, this poor soul who had been push e d to the breaking point, who h a d given up hope e ntirely a nd committed suicide, could have been anyone. They could have b ee n someone I kn ew, someone I was clos e to ... m y lips trem bl e d and th e bottom one slipped b e n eath the top, my t eet h biting down in an attempt not to scream. And th e n th e t ea r s came.

M y whole body shook as I squ ee ze d my eyes shut and I struggled to r ega in co mpo se r, to r egain the strong immovabl e rock formation that was the p e rson I showcased for everyo n e a round m e . I had no such lu ck. I was so scared. I was one of many who chos e th e solitude life, n ever attending sc hool games, or participating in after school clubs . I hardly kn ew the p e opl e I pass ed on an everyda y basis, a nd ye t when the principal couldn't give a name , m y mind jump e d to co nclusions I was d ea thly afraid th a t the person who had co mmitt e d suicide that day, was my fri e nd , n e ighbor, and history partn e r, Ann Carol. Ann had a hi story of suicidal thought s, and th e d ee p cut s on her body, hidd e n b e hind h e r j ea ns and bla ck jacke ts , was proof that while she wa s still h e re phy sically, mentally and e motionally, she was far gone. Was the student who had b ee n found , Ann? Sh e hadn't walked with me to sc hool th at d ay. .. H a d she decided to cut a li ttle d ee per ? Wa s th e pain just too much to withstand ? Did my sin ce r e talks and lec ture s on b eli evin g that she'd find tru e h a ppin ess, not work as we ll as I had thought ?

M y d ea r fri e nd had told m e on so many occasions that sh e wished she co uld escape this world, and leave it for another. One where she would n eve r pick up th e bl a d e again a nd h eat it with a light e r b efor e running it across her skin an d watching her own blood slide down her ar m A world where she co uld wear T-shirts and tank tops without b eing self-conscious; cast off the a rm bra ce le ts and b e fr ee of eve rything I may have b ee n innoc ent a nd unawar e of so m e things but I knew what Ann was saying when she told m e these things. It was a blessing when I walk e d out my door and found her waiting for m e every mornin g, be ca u se

I never kn ew when the day would come when I would no longer find her waiting at the stop sign watching the snowfall, catching it in her hands as she stood oblivious and listening to her music.

I could feel my phone sitting like a dead weight in my front pocket, and out of fear that Adamson would take it, I left it there, counting down the seconds until the b ell rang, and I would b e able to call Ann and hope she picked up. A second later, the bell rang and I grabbed my bag from the floor shoving everything on my desk into it within seconds. I pushed my cell phone out of my pocket and fat fing e red a letter too many on my lock screen. I tried again but in my hurry, and fear induced state my hands were shaking and I could not get th e right lett ers punched in to unlock my phone After the third try it locked me out and as much as I wanted to call Ann and ask if she was okay, I didn't have time to sit and play with a damn phone.

I zipped the bag and threw it over my shoulder, before jamming my phone back into the pock et of my jeans , and rushing out the door ahead of everyone. Whispers followed my rushed movements but I paid them no mind. Let them wonder what had becom e of the priz e d A+ girl who sat in the front row. Let them throw heated remarks at b eing pushed aside in my attempt to get out th e door Many were rushing towards the big yellow school buses waiting outside, but I had answers to find. Answers I hoped to find with good n ews tied to the ends, with a little red ribbon.

re1i1tir et 106revivir

MIRIAM FLORES

reJ ri66on MICHELLE GRAY

You have to understand , love is a tricky subject to talk about, le t alone write about. My life had a very set black and white schedule, leaving little bits of room for gray. I would get up every morning and drive half an hour to work, fight morning rush hour traffic, only to get ther e and stare in front of a computer screen and b e on th e phone for hours on end. Usually I would go right home and pretend like I had friends while browsing through Facebook. On the weekends, howev er, a few coworkers and I would go out for drinks at a bar that's not too far from work. The first time I walked in I r e member my senses being hit with th e smell of alcohol and small hint of flowers trying (not succeeding) to cover up at least most of th e pot e nt odor. After a few weeks of doing so, I got us e d to the smell and almost found it homely, not that my coworkers would care; the only thing th ey cared about was the same, boring conversation, with the same, simple drinks. It was the highlight of my week. Really. I just loved it.

Remember when I said that there was little room for the gray area? I decided to act upon that and stayed after one night finishing up my drink whil e eve ryone e ls e went home. That was it , just me and the same waitress working the night shift. It was kind of a surreal experience, drinking alone in a bar. I found myself wand ering, trying to pick up on the muddl e d mess of conversation. What started out as a weekend exclusive soon becam e a daily ritual. That's when th e waitress came up to my table with a beat-up backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Can I join you? I n ee d some room to do my homework."

I nodded my head and she sat down across from me, pulling out a h eavy textbook with a picture of a nurse on it. I thought about asking what she was studying, but I kept my words to mys e lf and finish e d my drink.

Over the next few weeks, she made a habit of coming to sit across from m e during h e r break; th e t ex tbook also made an appearance every now

and then. Instead of staring ahead and pretending like I didn't notice the disgruntled noises whenever she messed up on a question, I found the courage to ask her name and major.

"Sarah, and I'm studying to become a nurse; kind of ironic, right?"

I laughed at the joke, not wanting to ask why we were laughing. A small alarm went off, making me jump from the sudden vibration on the table. Sarah let out a snort followed by an aggravated sigh, putting the contents back in her bag and thanking me for letting her use the empty space. She disappeared into the back, leaving my eyes to wander around the bar and catch up on my soaps.

The man who sat at the bar was on his-I would have to guess-sixth or seventh Guinness of the night, judging by the hard time he was having by trying to get the liquid into his mouth. A new couple had started coming in a few days ago and you could tell they were in the honeymoon phase of their relationship even without overhearing the conversation; it was disgusting. My personal favorite was a married couple that sat in the corner booth down the row. Last I heard they were talking about wanting to have a baby. today they were having a discussion about whether or not adoption was the best option.

"Hun, we'd know where it came from if we did a live birth, adoption is too much uncertainty."

"What do you mean 'we'd know where it came from'? Adoption is just as safe as live birth, and I'm only involving you in this decision because I love you and want to hear your input, but ultimately, it's my choice."

I had to agree with her on that, she would be the one going through the excruciating birthing pains. Soon enough, I finished the glass with a sigh, leaving a tip on the table and walking out into the cool summer night. I woke up a little after 3 a.m. to the sound of my cell phone ringing from the nightstand. The call was from the hospital, telling me my grandfather had gone into cardiac arrest and they didn't think he was going to make the night. I rushed to the hospital. I was having trouble breathing and could feel my stomach drop as the Doctor pulled me to see my grandfather. My ears were ringing as my eyes focused on my hero; the man who took me when

my father walked out. The man who looked after me when my mother worked herself into a coma trying to provide for her family. The man who wiped away my tears as I placed a rose in my mother's coffin. Now he was lying there , lifeless.

Everything moved slower after that. Color slowly faded away, as did the useless chatter from my coworker. I was just as lifeless as the only two people I ever cared about.

A few months later, after declining several times, my coworkers almost had to drag out saying something I couldn't understand through the muffled mess of the outside world. I was looking down at the wet pavement the whole way through until one of them tapped me on the shoulder, causing me to look up and see the vaguely familiar sign of a place I used to attend regularly. Now, I was a stranger looking at the same sign that felt like a distant memory.

Bits and pieces teased my memory as a familiar face greeted the party. She brought out some full glasses, placing the different gradients in front of each person. I wasn't sure how much time had passed as I stared into my glass with blank eyes, silently pleading for the filter to be removed, or to let me die in silence.

Then, it happened, a golden bell broke through my void. I looked over to see the most beautiful color in the world and almost cried. A deep, bright red was at the entrance, walking toward me. The closer the color became, the more I started to notice the person. She was wearing the same color heels, and blond curls tied up with a red ribbon. Her lips were painted over with red, and even her eyes had a hint of red on the lids. She stopped in front of me and held out a full hand of red nails. I accepted the greeting with a small shake, almost flinching at the pleasant warmth of her hand compared to the lifeless cold of my own.

The golden bell rang again, shattering the inert filter like glass, making me realize she was trying to talk to me.

"Is this seat taken?" Her lips moved slowly, enunciating every word.

I shook my head and gestured for her to take a seat, not trusting myself to speak just yet .

"My name is Rory," she smiled, thanking me

I don't know why she was thanking me when I felt like screaming my praises to her for breaking the spell.

" I just moved here from the next town over wh e n I heard about this cute little plac e and decided to check it out."

Her words were barely making sense to me , but I nodded my head to let her know I was listening, stuttering out some lame response that probably had nothing to do with the conversation at hand. Rory laughed that beautiful golden bell of a laugh a hand moving to muffle th e sound. I really wanted to reach across the table and move her hand away so I could listen to that beautiful ring. I also knew that that wasn't something you do to a person you just met.

"So you do know how to talk. I was getting worried I had picked the wrong booth."

Something new hit my senses when she reached her hand over the table. My brain couldn't process what to do in r e turn. Instead I sat there probably looking like an idiot as I tried to process the smell of her perfume. It was diffe rent from the regular smell of the city air, and also different from th e smell of the bar. It was light , uplifting, making my heart want to soar.

"Can I get a name out of you, sugar?"

The question took me off guard, making me pause to see if I even remembered my name , r es ulting in a stutter and me almost knocking over everything on the table as I reached out to return the handshake. At least, i hope that's what she was trying to do.

"Well, Salem, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Rory and I met up every day after that first encounter. We talked about favorite drinks, past relationships, family, idols, hero es, everything. Rory became my best friend.

During our meetups, I began to notice more things around me. Like, how Sarah wasn't carrying around her backpack anymore, or that the honeymoon couple had moved tables and weren't constantly sucking faces. There was also the man at the bar that would normally be on his fourth Guinness of the night. Instead , he was wearing a suit and tie,

combed back hair, and was actually clean shaven. Even the couple arguing about adoption seemed happier as they gushed about their baby to whomever wou ld listen. I felt happy, and a li ve again.

Rory had ordered a glass of red wine, which I knew, she only had when there was something on her mind. I asked if everything was okay only to have her respond She respond with another question,

"Salem, how long have we been meeting here? It's been awhile, right? "

"Yeah, it has been awhile. Why do you ask?"

Rory stayed si lent and swirled the deep red wine in the glass, taking a sip of the alcohol in seri ous thought. "Okay, I'm only going to say this once, and if you hate the idea, that's fine, and we can go back to just talking, but since it's New Years, I want to take a chance and say that I love you . I love you, and I want to go on official dates as your girlfriend." What happened after that was kind of a blur, my heart was racing, and my brain stopped working. The answer must have been right, because I do remember waking up to the soft glow of snow through the window. I turned over to try and go back to sleep, only to realize there was someone sleeping next to me. I carefully untangled myself and stepped off the bed, searching the dimly lit room for a pair of wrinkly black slacks, hoping there was a phone still inside the pocket. Instead, I found a short white dress on the ground with one red ribbon on topa.

I don't know what I was thinking when I picked up the dress and held it up to my naked body in the mirror, but I do remember Rory waking up and complimenting me on my taste in dresses.

"I don't fill it as well as you do though."

Rory laughed her golden bell laugh and stepped off the bed with a blanket around her shoulders. "You know, I keep thinking about what you told me not too long ago, about how you always saw the world in black and white, " She reached down and picked up the ribbon that was laying on top of the dress. '½.nd that you wanted someone to save you from your depression after your grandfather died. Then you said that you heard me laugh and suddenly everything changed." She stared at the ribbon in her hands then looked up at me and moved forward. "I kept thinking that

maybe there was someth in g I cou ld do to help, something that would make you see co lor again, but after last night, I think I finally know how to help." I cocked my head slightly, looking down at the woman who was just barely shorter than me. She reached up and tied the ribbon around my neck, stepping back to look at her creation .

"You were afraid the color wou ld hurt you, so you tried to seek comfort from the fami li ar, on ly to end up trapping yourse lf in a never ending loop. Maybe it's time to let the color in and embrace the unknown. You took one step into the world by kissing me when I asked you to go out with me. Now it's time to put the other foot in, and if you ever get scared and fee l lik e retreating, you can touch the ribbon around your neck and remember that the co lor won't hurt you . Red brought us together, imagine what a simp le co l or lik e blue cou ld accomplish ."

The ribbon never left my neck after that night, even when Sarah invited me to attend her graduation from Nursing school where she was wearing blue graduation robes, or even on the day of my Wedding when Rory and I vowed to stay by each other for the rest of eternity wearing green accents . Purple lead me to my baby girl , and orange took me on an adventure to my new career as an author.

A few days ago I untied the ribbon and wrapped it around my daughter's wrist. I to ld her my story with tears in my eyes, hoping for the faded red to be a reminder that even when times get tough, they will a lways get better; rock bottom on ly has one direction, up. My only wish is that it will lead her to the same love and happiness as it did with me.

6i1on 6i1on 6i~on

TFlOMAS MCLARTHY

Brobdingnagian buffalo,

Where he gazes, there he goes .

Barbed wire leis round horns and nose

Leave trails of blood in red red rows.

A SHORT-LIVED SUBATOMIC PARTICLE THAT IS AN EXCITED STATE OF A MORE STABLE PARTICLE.

Cftec~ out more co1tte1tt from t fte1e creator/ exc/«1/velg 011 our we61ite

LISA ANDERSON MOHAMMAD BAHADURI

TED BARN ES.JR.

STE PH EN BAXTER

C . C . BIEHN

ROSE BLACI<

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l(OREN BUTl(OVICH

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SHANDY CLARI<

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ANG ELA FI ELD S

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l(ELSEY HARRISON

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l<ARMYN HOLM

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