Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Arts Magazine Spring 2019 Precipice

Precipice

( C)2019 Folio Literary Magazine, Salt Lake City Utah Volume20 #2 All rights are reserved by this publication and the authors of the work within. Folio publishes the best in student writing, photography, and art from Salt Lake Community College, while providing premium quality candy, stickers, bookmarks, and free Folio copies at tables in hallways campus wide, but most often in the Redwood AAB building at the bottom of the stairs, or at South Campus where the old information booth used to be but isn’t any more because they moved it “to better serve you.” You’ve seen us around. We smile a lot. Next time stop by and say hi, have a Snickers and take a flyer to remind you to submit your creative work year-round at www.folioslcc.org. For questions, contact folioslcc@gmail.com. English 1830—the class that produces Folio— is always looking for new staff. Contact Folio@slcc.edu for questions about the class or look in the latest class schedule for more info.

FOLIO Spring 2019

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Associate Dean: Stephen Ruffus

Advisor: Benjamin Solomon

Design Editor: Heather Graham

Literary Editor: Stephanie Fletcher

Web Editor: Michelle Gray

Staff:

Carmina Gray

Erin Hunt

Joseph Moss

Salisha Allard-Blaisdell

Dana Winters

Carly Gooch

Cover Artwork: Moratorium by Emerald Perez

Special Thanks To: Michael Nelson, Clint Gardner, The Student Writing and Reading Center, The Publication Center, Peter Wiarda & Dr. Roderick R. Land.

Some artwork has been converted to black & white and/or cropped for print. Please visit www.folioslcc.org to view all of the content in its original form.

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Table of Contents

1 To the Little Black Girl_Salisha Allard-Blaisdell

3_A Toddlers Gaze_Jessica Shields

4_Too Young Too Drunk_Sydney Cambra

7_Land of My Home_Kaori Schrank

8_Sly & Co._Andrew Carlson

9_His Eyes_Casandra Toyama

10_Find Me_Alicia Sekuris

11_Two Swans_Julia Moncur

15_Rain_J.A. Moss

20_The Guys_Jace Guillory

21_We Need to Scream_Ness Doughty

23_The Search_Erwin McPherson

24_Crashing_Heather Graham

25_Pika-Jar_A. Perry

26_Shooters_Cristian Hernandez

29_A Slacker’s Lament_Erwin McPherson

30_Blind(ers/ed)_Hope Fae Thistlewood

32_Bittersweet Lullaby_Brooke Ross

33_How To Make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich_Kyndra Prietzel

35_Green Surrounding_Shandy Clark

36_Ruth_MeLissa Hebel

37_Tapping_Ashley Smouse

46_Spring Resolution_Krimzey

47_Late Summer Warmth_Jane Anne Woodhead

48_Freeze/Frame_Linn Luker

49_Not My Monster_Amie Schaeffer

50_Eye Doctor_Carmina Gray

53_Ode to the Cranes on My Roof_Nadia Yahyapourroshankouhi

54_Dx_Abby Bijold

57_Gazing Upwards_Ross Stoneman

58_Dog Peeking_Barbie Spencer

Table of Contents

59_What Do You Say_Winnie Jenkins

61_A New Beginning_Alexandrea Wayne

66_The End Is Joy_Victor Acosta R.

67_Forgotten Church_Ethan Larson

68_Rolling Pins and Retrospection_Sarah Goehring

71_Yazidi Boy_Dawood Saleh

73_Broken_Amie Schaeffer

74_Diagonals_Max Smith

75_Buddies_A. Perry

76_You Have 1 New Message_Carly Gooch

78_Princess in the Stars_Heather Graham

80_Dehiscence_Anna Martin

81_La Protectora y El Suplantador_Emerald Perez

83_Dance_Miriam Chavez

84_The Art of_Delia Hernandez

85_Nailed in the Wooden Box_Salisha Allard-Blaisdell

89_A Plate of Pasta_Mariah Fralick

92_When Life Gives You Glitches_Peter Wiarda

93_Technicolor_Jace Guillory

94_Letter to Rancheritos_Devin Rockwood

95_Lame Poetry_J. A. Moss

96_Mars_Cynthia Shaw

97_Poppies of Color_Kira Frischknecht

98_Winter and Springtime_Carmina Gray

99_Train of Thought_Trishana Faamatau

101_Amsterdam_Savannah Martinez

105_”Jules Vern II” Steampunk Airship Sculpture_Richard Prazen

106_Owl_Barbie Spencer

107_Fingerpainting_Annelie Furner

108_Muscle Memory_Olivia Ochoa

110_Untitled 4_Robin Murdock

Table of Contents

111_Deighrn_Brai Shanti

112_Lessons From My Hippie Mom_Margaret Shaw

113_Orange Blossoms_Dana G. Winters

114_Loud Noises_Xochilt Herrera

117_Falling_Faith Watts

118_Death of a Privileged Son_Keegan Waller

126_Sap_Danielle Dalton

127_Prisoner in Prauge_Steven Blake Horton

129_Sea Poem_Eric Jensen

130_Before That_Carmina Gray

132_Dear Anger_Melissa Cecala

134_Scheduled Visitation_Seth Cannon

137_The Highway Oak Tree_Eric Jensen

138_Nevermind_Max Deitz

139_Orange Dog_Jasmine Richards

140_Moon Dust_Sorcha Danik

142_Live Your Life in Circles_Hope Fae Thistlewood

146_The Hospital Starbucks_Caylee Caldwell

147_Portrait of an Artist_Olga Isupov

149_Erase Una Vez_Yesenia Beltran

152_Indigenous People’s History Repeats Itself_Mel Franco Perez

154_Korean Wind Drape_Heather marie

155_New Sprouts_A Messenger

156_A Sharp Hint of Hope_Heather Graham

157_Leafy Stairs_Lindaura Unzaga

158_Untitled_Carly Gooch

159_Postures_Hannah Montgomery

160_Welcome to My Ted Talk_Christopher Toney-El

163_Moratorium_Emerald Perez

Precipice - The brink. A dangerous situation that could lead to failure, or harm. The choice between the heavily beaten paths of self discovery and healing, or the loop of trauma and catastrophe. Resolution, or decimation. A decision. Up to interpretation.

To the L ittle B lack G irl

Salisha Allard-Blaisdell

Dear Girl standing on corridor looking

At the black silhouettes running, jumping, screaming, laughing

At your ragged gray skirt, stamped with the face of a rusty iron

The colored spots on your white shirt cause their eyes to bleed

Your messy hair reminds them of who you are –Motherless

Cared for by an old man, poverty-stricken, ill and one year to Live

Dear Girl hiding in the back seat of the school bus

They can see you crying, scared, lonely, wanting to disappear

They are going to come pull your hair and say…aye gurl, waht is yuh name

As if they don’t know and when you don’t answer, they will slap and beat you Down

But – you must get up and wipe your tears and go home. Daddy cannot know –Smile

Dear Girl sitting on your bed – a tattered yellow sponge hugged by holes and filth

The Boxcar Children are running, jumping, screaming, laughing

Excited to go on their new mystery adventure

You laugh with them and transcends into a remarkable detective

Your pupils widen with every turn of the page, curious, until they Lapse

And your eyelids hug them tight, soothing them with Love

Dear Girl fast asleep, soon you will be standing on the corridor of your childhood

Looking at where you once were, let go

Of the shame, fear, embarrassment, let go

Of the pain, tears, loneliness, hold on

To the laughter that soothed your nightmares; hold on

To who you are; a Survivor who’ve triumphed over Poverty

And embrace your past, it is your map to the Best Seller of Life.

A

Toddlers Gaze Jessica Shields

Too Y oung T oo D runk

Sydney Cambra

I was sixteen years old when I graduated high school and got accepted into the San Francisco Art Institute. Sixteen, with an already deeply rooted, not-so-loving relationship with alcohol. I can still remember the feel of my body sitting in the SFAI classrooms, filled with tense physical sensations of helplessness and frustration. I was unable to focus, unable to think, unable to make a single straight line with my small, shaky, desperate hands.

It was only the fourth week into the semester and I knew already that I wouldn’t be sticking around for the fifth. That single foggy morning, it rained, and as life often does, it also poured. I failed my English paper, and, as only fitting, my art history professor called out the highest and the lowest exam grades to the entire 150 student class, confirming mine as the lowest when she pulled me to the side on my way out.

I left campus and took the “14” bus line to Clarion Alley in the Mission District, a place I often found myself stumbling off to. Day after day I quickly became a permanent fixture in that piss-filled waste of space. Tourists walked through the district, taking pictures of graffiti on the walls around me, occasionally capturing my lonely, drunken figure in their shots. I wonder sometimes what my downfall looked like through their lenses and what stories were told as they showed those photos to their loved ones.

Oh, the many, many smells of grand ole San Francisco. Its cold, damp air encased my watery eyes, constantly provoking my poor, runny nose. Sounds of the BART trains rumbling along the tracks gently shook the ground beneath my feet. Two 40oz King Cobras in my bag dug painfully into the flesh on my shoulders. Sixteen-year-old me, stumbling along, flirting with the next old creep desperate enough to put his life on the line, securing the means of purchase for my next corner store round.

The clang from the large glass bottle against my chip-riddled teeth brought awareness to my current health status. I struggled immensely with an internal abusive relationship with myself, and somehow my story turned into a deeply rooted belief that I was not competent, good enough, or worthy.

Shame found its way in and quickly became a deeply ingrained part of me. Shame from choosing this life over my education, the shame of my parents not yet knowing, and the shame of being only sixteen and already intimately familiar with this kind of self-hatred. Although I don’t think I realized it existed, it presented itself in everything, affecting interactions and relationships I had in all areas of life. Ultimately the words “small” and “less than” became who I identified with.

A lot happened over the next several years, though it’s all sort of blurry and clumped together. I moved around from city to city for three years, all relatively close to home, with each move praying that the next one would bring a new beginning. Nothing ever changed.

By nineteen, I was so desperate to find a single thread of hope that I packed my bags and decided to move across the country. A friend in Cleveland, Ohio told me that I could stay on his couch for as long as I wanted, and I jumped at the opportunity to get away from the life I was living in California. It was a chance to start fresh with no familiarities or people from my past. Just a new place where no one knew my name.

If you have ever been to Cleveland, you probably already know that it is not what dreams are made of. It is rough, it is angry, and it is not where a normal person would think to go to find the light at the end of the tunnel. Yet, there I was searching for mine.

For a long time, nothing changed. In fact, it got much worse. My drinking progressed in the wrong direction and led me to deeper and darker places that held deeper and darker addictions. I began taking interest in the ideas of no longer existing, finding myself in and out of police cars and hospital rooms. I was robbed, jumped, and held at gunpoint more times than I care to admit. Any shred of self-respect I may have had left was long lost.

I know what you’re thinking, “When is this all going to end?”.

Trust me, I felt the same way.

I found a new low in my time there, but in finding that, I also found my

way out. The darkness that had entirely devoured my young, pathetic life was also the thing that saved me. There was no lower level to get to; I was already living in my own hell. In learning and coming to terms with that, I remember feeling peace for the first time in a very long time. There I found the thread of hope that I had long been searching for; my light.

For the first time in my life, I began walking the long, terrifying road to recovery. I met new, beautiful humans who regularly taught me that I am worthy, that I am capable, and that the inner demons I had been battling for so long do not determine my level of competency. Most importantly though, they taught me that I was not alone. I learned to forgive and love myself and my story, even the ugly parts. I learned that I am not stupid or incapable of learning, nor have I ever been. I was just too young and too drunk.

I imagine somewhere in a dusty corner of my temporal lobe, where my memories are carefully held, there’s a small landfill of all the bad ones; the trips to jail, the emergency rooms, the broken bones, and the damaged relationships; all the ones you don’t want to remember, but are impossible to forget. This is a place I visit often, where I find all of the reasons that have kept, and continue to keep me sober.

In June of 2018, I hit my two-year mark free from that which ran my life for so long. On that day I decided to go back to school and try again. Only this time I am neither too young, nor too drunk.

Kaori

Schrank

S ly & C

o. Andrew Carlson

His Eyes Casandra Toyama

Find M e Alicia Sekuris

If you broke open my skull with a steel hammer would you be able to recognize me under the shattered sharp pieces of bone?

Do you think my blood would be bright red like the silky petals of a rose?

Or would you would not be able to differentiate it from my dark-matted hair?

Do you think you would be able to find me in the complicated grey tissues of my brain?

Or would you be confused that It is not as simple and pink as the movies or the glasses I wear on a Sunday afternoon?

Do you think if you unraveled me you would be able to see me as bright as the white nerves below the surface?

Or would you just be scarred by what you found deep within?

Do you think you would know how to reassemble my broken pieces as if they were all as simple as the puzzle piece tattooed on my skin?

Or would you take this opportunity to shape me like a perfect lego creation of your own?

If you cracked open my skull with a steel hammer, would you still love me in my rawest, ugliest form?

Or would you try to picture me, clean and pretty, just the way I use to be?

TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm, suicide

Two S wans

Julia Moncur

My cheek presses into the cold hexagonal tile. With a few heavy blinks, my vision clears and the suitcase comes into focus. It sits open by the locked door, winter clothes spilling out of it in a frantic way. I stroke my gold wedding band with my thumb, pressing my stiff muscles into a sitting position. I lean against the porcelain tub, the rim falling just short of my neck, and my head droops backward, staring at the bubbling paint on the ceiling. The whole room begins to spin. I hurl forward and grasp the toilet seat, vomiting. Yellow bile and old blood dangling from my lips. I spit the remains into the water, staring at the ring of black mold that surrounds the waterline, the smell of stale urine filling my lungs. I use the toilet to hoist myself up, steadying myself, gazing at the painting that hangs above—two swans, their necks entwined in a lush spring pond. I flick the toilet seat down and flush, shuffling over to the sink.

Last night stares back at me. My underarms dampen, I lean over the sink, getting closer to the fragmented mirror to examine my lip and swollen nose. I see the suitcase again behind me. My skin flushes red and spreads down my neck, like a rash but something older. I close my eyes and exhale, hanging my head over the sink, my temples throbbing. Opening my eyes, I see the scissors next to my concealer on the sink’s ledge. I pick them up and turn years of history over in my hands, opening them, running the blade along my thumb. I watch myself in the mirror and run it over the faded scar on my neck. I run it across my tongue and taste the cool carbon steel—the same dull metallic taste of the barrel of that handgun.

It was the summer before I went to college. I held it in my mouth, my hands trembling, drenched in sweat. The cool barrel on the inside of my cheeks, drool seeping from my lips and running down my chin. I stared at my room from behind the slit wood doors of my closet, my clothes brushing the top of my head and falling around my shoulders. I kept readjusting my position, my arms growing tired. Aim it just right. My tentative fingers stroked the trigger. I could smell

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the sweat drenching my upper lip, snot seeped downward and joined the drool that rolled down my arms. My mouth grew sore. I fought the gagging. From between the wood slits, my messy bed looked normal. My shins pressed into the old carpet. I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. I readjusted the gun—abrupt longbows of cello notes. They cried in my ear. My heart switched from a rapid flutter to an all-knowing deep thump that vibrated my throat. The sorrowful song of the Swan by Saint-Saens greeted me in the closet from the radio. My mouth, still strained around the gun, began to quiver. I closed my eyes, an image of my father pushing me on a swing in our old backyard. The gun scraped against my teeth. I bent over in pain and hugged myself, shuddering, shaking, finally releasing the trigger from my grip. I was surprised at myself to have thought of him in that moment.

He spat his whiskey rotten breath and threw me into the bathroom. I could still feel his friend’s hands beneath my nightgown. He flung open the medicine cabinet, and orange bottles of pills fell into the sink. I cowered in the corner and watched him clobber around the cabinet, emerging with steel scissors. My heart dropped into my gut, my tongue withered in my dry mouth. I couldn’t swallow, I stammered. My father’s large farmer’s frame began to barrel toward me. I glared at my mother, who stood behind him in the doorway. Her image disappeared when his grip yanked my arm and he placed his rough palm to the top of my head, forcing my knees to the bathroom floor. I pleaded. With him, with anyone listening. I could smell the liquor seep from his pours. He steadied my head with his one hand and pulled a strand of my hair with the other. My blonde locks fell to the dirty grouted floor. I cried for my mother, a deep moan ripping from my gut. I listened to the scissors slice away. My father’s grip grew fiercer. I jerked away from him and yelped. The room went still and silent. The scissors had nicked my throat. I felt along my neck with my fingers, then looked down at my blood-stained hands, then looked up at my father. The scissors fell from his hands onto the floor. He looked down at his hands, the blonde hair falling through his fingers. His hands began to wobble. He clasped them together and stumbled backward out of the bathroom, drowning himself in his room for two days. My mother’s shadow trembled from the hallway, then disappeared like a ghost. I wanted her to hug me. I placed one foot in front of the other toward the sink, the strands of hair sticking to the sweat of my bare feet. I stood on the balls of my feet to stare at my new reflection. A reflection, much different than the one staring back at me now.

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I feel my grip return around the scissors like a hold on a trigger. I turn my swollen neck over my shoulder as far as it will go, straining to see the blurry outline of the suitcase. I release my neck forward and look at myself in the mirror and see the bag under my left eye budding into a deep purple. I release the scissors from my grip, and they clang into the sink. The blood flow returns to my white fingers. I grasp the bottom of my shirt and pull it up and over my head, my muscles aching. I walk to the shower and turn the water to hot, scolding, sterilizing. I step out of my underwear and toss it into the suitcase. I let the steam fog up the glass. I step into the shower and let the water drench my back and my hair. I roll my neck to massage the muscles with the beating water. I turn and wet my face, the dried blood moistens and turns into a burgundy watercolor. It washes off my face and blends into the shallow pond of a slow draining tub that wades around my ankles. My tender neck rests my head on the tile of the shower wall. I study the bubbling paint, the water damage that hides behind the walls, seeping through. I close my eyes and tap my bony fingers against the wall, padding the keys of an antique piano. The door rattles. “Eva?” His voice is muffled but clear in my mind. My adrenaline spikes. “Open the door.” I step out of the water’s stream and make myself flat against the tiled wall. He bangs on the door. I sink to my knees. His body thrusts into the door until it bursts open. A heavy silence flattens the air. I know he’s staring at the suitcase. The shower curtain whips open.

“Daniel.” He grabs my arm and hauls me out of the tub, his shirt soaked from the shower and my body. I trip and fall onto the floor, my shins ache.

“A suitcase?” he spits, kicking it with his boot. “Get up.”

I stand. There is a brief moment when he starts throwing the clothes out and I seize it. I run. Sprint. Into the living room. Heartbeat bobbing in my throat. My body dripping wet, leaving a trail of mushy footprints on the brown carpet. I can feel his body barreling toward me. He grasps my wet hair and yanks it toward him. He spins me toward him and wraps his hand around my throat, pinning me against the painting, swans caught between my back and the wall. Water drips from my face onto his hand. His green eyes break into me. I know they are broken too, I fell in love with them.

He showed me the letter his mother left him before he was too young to read the first time we made love. He smoked a joint while I read, the room searing with the smell of pot. Love, Mommy. I placed the letter down and sat beside him, stroking his hair. He nestled his head into my neck, and I pressed my lips

into his brown hair. He looked up at me. I admired his green eyes; they were longing, lost, bottomless. I wanted to fill them. He tucked the hair behind my ear and pulled my chin toward his lips.

We both feel his wedding ring press into my throat. Tears tremble behind his eyes, and his grip loosens. I fall to the ground, gasping, sucking down air. The painted canvas falls on top of me. I hunch over, the strands of my wet hair create a curtain between us. He crouches down, leaning in closer, his hot breath on the tip of my ear, waiting to say something, but no words come. I listen for the door to slam shut and the car to start before I curl into a ball and lay on the soggy carpet, the yarn itching against my skin. I close my eyes and run my fingers over the vast ridges of the oil painting, as if I were blind and the paint was braille.

I wake early the next morning to the dog barking. I turn over and see the side of Daniel’s bed still made. The dog’s bark curls into long slow howls. I get up and stand on the bed to look out the window. The dog barks at the pond, the top of our green car barely visible, the rest submerged in water. I crouch back down on the bed, my stomach rolling, my heartbeat quickening, my throat swollen. The stench of restless sweat musks his pillow. My thumb shakily presses 9, then 1, then 1. A new silence hugs the house, undisturbed. I tie my robe around my waist and put my sunglasses on, just covering the rims of my eyes, my feet tucked into slippers. I listen to my ring slide down the banister as I go down the stairs. I gaze at the empty square on the wall where the painting hung, then I turn out toward the yard. The screen door shuts behind me. The dog runs toward me, vapor rolling off the pond behind him. He nuzzles the top of his head into my palm. The tire tracks, entrenched in grassy mud, lead into the water. My retina fixates on the center of the pond, the water lapping around the shallow green island, thick bushes of cattails swaying with the wind. Deep in the trees, the dawn chorus of chirping birds joins the deep coo of an owl, their calls rippling across the hazy quiet pond. I tug my robe closer to my chest and step off the deck onto the grass, my breathing visible in the brisk air in fleeting gusts. The clouds cast a bleak blanket of grey over the blue hues of early morning. Soft rings blossom around the birds, drifting among the lily pads around the car, their necks tucked into their white wings, sleeping.

Rain

J.A. Moss

Rain, it’s another one of those things I feel is misjudged. Most people love it for the mood it brings, and for those that hate it, get that way from getting wet or flat out hate for weather that’s not bright, shiny and full of happiness. All of those aren’t correct. Rain always brings a sign. It’s like God when he tries to give people “signs” or his “works,” it’s there for some reason, you just haven’t figured out why yet.

“Frankie, where are we at with this job?” I said lightly.

“Everything is getting started, we’ll be good to go in about fifteen.” He looked back, with one of his many little looks he does, this one asking what’s on my mind.

“I don’t like this rain. Something is going to happen soon, I’m just not sure if it’ll be good or bad.” I peered at the glass window above us, watching small droplets collect.

“Why do you always get like that? For someone not superstitious, you do like to have your little things you’ll wig out about.”

I stared back with a scowl, “and for someone who doesn’t get bothered easy, you like to find your peeves with everyone.”

He smiled. Checking his phone, immediately looking up and nodding. We both got up, him following me, making our way out of an abandoned warehouse. I looked back to him giving a nod. Almost in sync, we both threw on our masks storming out. In minutes we jumped in the back of an old 1990 pickup truck, water starting to fill the back. We pulled out rifles hidden under an aged blue tarp, one for each. Sitting there soaking ourselves in the water, we started running through our gun checks.

“Good to go, how are you?” I said staring in Frankie’s direction. He gave a look back, silence was his strong suit, when he wasn’t being a smartass. I looked through the rear window, locking gazes with a pair of small eyes. The eyes moved to the driver seat, the truck suddenly jerked into movement. Knocking me and Frankie towards the end of the truck. Burning rubber mixed in with the starting

scent of rain, odd but satisfying. The grey hour of the storm barely began to set in. The gentle tapping of rain on rusted metal, a calm before the storm. We started sliding through each turn as we made our way. Dodging shipyard containers, many left to rust and age.

“Is everything in place?” I said, shouting to the opening of the rear window. The wind howled from the speed.

“Yes, it’ll be kickoff before we even get there.” Oscar stated focusing more on making sure the truck didn’t tip over.

“Good, what about the vehicle we’ll be taking?”

“It’s right where you wanted it, Boss.” Sly said groaning at me, his small eyes making him look more like a snake than usual. I shifted my gaze over towards him exchanging looks, mine telling him that I wasn’t in the mood.

“Is everything good on your end X?” I said into my earpiece. A pause followed, longer than I hoped for. “X are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. Everything is good on my end. Just, ummmm, let me know when.” A static cut back. A chill ran through me, not from the creeping cold of the rain or the breeze of the sea.

Something isn’t right, I thought about opening my mouth to say to Frankie.

“Hey Boss, we’re here,” Oscar said cutting off my thought. Guess there isn’t any time to worry.

“X, do it now. Everyone get down and be prepared.” I said commanding out. Me and Frankie laid down in the truck bed, letting the rain hit directly on our masks. Seconds later I could hear was sirens going off, I switched my earpiece to another frequency to hear how the guards reacted.

“What’s going on?” “Why is the siren on?”

“Is this a drill or the real deal.” “The fucking siren is on, what do you think?”

“Why the hell are y’all waking me up? This better not be a prank.”

“Shut up James. Go check things out.”

“We are in the clear, just wait for them to pass by.” I said smiling after.

“So what exactly are we getting from this?” Sly said agitated, looking down on me from the passenger seat.

“There is said to be a shipment of some gold bars that these guards are protecting here. I’m sure that since they are actually here that proves that there is something here. Either way, we are here for whatever shipment they are guard< 16 >

ing.”

“No matter what it is?”

“No matter what, gold, cash, cats, or trading cards. We’ll find a use for it or sell it to someone who can find a use for it.”

The rain started to pick up making everything darker and harder to see, although it was clear something was still wrong. We watched as trucks sped past us, lights beaming of the old metal maze one after another, praying none would see us. Maybe this was what was supposed to come out of the rain for today. Us to finally get caught, what a joke that would be. As the alarm slowly became background noise, the lights stopped appearing. I leaned up nodding at Sly, hoping we were clear, speeding off on our own.

“What you plan on doing with the money after this job?” Sly said as he shouted over the wind.

“You know I have people I’m trying to take care of.” I said back.

“Still worried about that girl and your kid friends.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I. They are all I have other than y’all.”

Sly laughed turned back forward, “You’re crazy man. Should look out for yourself. It’s easier that way.”

I leaned back in the truck. It wasn’t easier, I said to myself, not with everything we’ve been through.

“Oscar. We are looking for a blue cargo crate, with a white stripe across it. Is Cleo at the pickup location?” I said leaning back up towards the window.

“Yes,” Oscar said to me, swerving the truck around a corner, “Is that it right there?”

“Yeah,” I said squinting to make sure, “hurry and get to it so we don’t get into any action we don’t need.”

Me and Frankie looked at each other again, this time popping out handrails I had custom made for this truck. I held up three fingers as me and Frankie stood up, I counted down, then we both jumped over grabbing the handrails. The rain making them wet and hard to grab. Oscar whipped the truck into place. We hopped off, the screeching of metal starting to echo off other containers around the yard. As we opened it, Frankie rushed in lighting up to finally see our prize.

Gold bars presented themselves as we cracked open wood crates that filled the container. Looking at each other nothing had to be said, we started loading everything we could fit onto the truck.

“Hey,” Frankie shouted at me pointing at something in the corner, “do you < 17 >

think we could use those for something?”

“Mmmm,” I said walking over to the spot he was pointing towards, seeing a few power drills and saws lying around oddly placed with all the gold. “If they fit in the back with the gold, I don’t see why not.”

“You remember that bank job we were going to plan? We could actually pull it off with that.” A pause followed him as he loaded a few more bars in the truck. “Do you think Malcom could hack their servers and transfer money into accounts?”

“You mean X?” I laughed for a second, “Yeah, I’m sure he could. Let’s grab them.”

Without any more words, we unloaded the rest of the container, power tools and gold hidden under the tarp. We grabbed back onto the handrails. I pounded twice to let Oscar know we were ready to go. A thundering, high pitched, peel off sent us towards the pickup location. The rain started to pour, crashing down on everything under it. Covering us in darkness.

Maybe I am wrong. I thought to myself, hoping I was wrong. I locked eyes with Frankie seeming to try his best to hold on. He nodded his head forward signaling to encourage Cleo to go faster.

“Hey Green. Hurry. We need to get out of here before anything happens. Turn off your lights, it’s getting dark you’ll get spotted.” I said trying my best to try to yell over the wind. I thought that something was still wrong. Oscar gave me a thumbs up, rushing through turns, trying to retrace our steps out. Everything looked the same in the dark, that’s one of the gifts of it. Abruptly we came to a halt, almost getting knocked off and losing my gun. I was about to yell ahead when I saw the nearly blinding beams of light focus on us suddenly. Speechless, we waited until the darkness returned. The rain finally got to us I thought. Fear running through and taking control of every even my mind. Everything ran through my head, thinking this might be the last time I ever see light turn into darkness ever again, maybe the last time I ever see nighttime or anyone again. Maybe I’d never be able to keep my promise to them. Maybe the last time I’ll be able to think of her again. Talia.

Maybe you were right for once, my stubborn lover. This might be the end. Just don’t cry at the service okay? I know Nathanael will take care of you for me if I’m gone, just don’t give him a hard time alright?

Seconds passed which felt like hours, my mind racing back and forth. The fear ever building. The darkness finally crept around us, the first I’ve ever been

thankful for the low visibility. Sighing, I cursed the thought of being so weak to let my mind wander like that. Even the thought of her being right for once, an even bigger joke than us almost dying just now. I peered over at Frankie across from me. We may have almost died but we still had work to be done. Pounding twice we drove off again, twisting and turning, praying we don’t have the same experience twice.

“Something is still off,” I said to myself, praying I was wrong. Frankie shook his head, hearing my comment.

“You’re worrying too much. What’s got you so twisted right now.” Frankie said.

I shrugged at him, trying the best I could at relaxing after what just happened. “I couldn’t help but think about her and everyone else, that could’ve been the end of it all. And I don’t wan-”

“Stop. It didn’t happen, and she won’t have to see you like that so stop thinking for a bit. Besides, you know Nathanael’s got her back for you.”

“You’re right.” I said. I smiled at Frankie. He always did find ways to get me to loosen up, I guess its part of the reason I kept him around for so long. I tried to relax for a while as we made our way to the meeting spot, until a conveniently marked garage came up. As we drove in a van came into sight, signaling we made it. Slowing down, me and Frankie hopped down, meeting Cleo in the van smiling.

“You won’t believe what just happened,” I said to him through the glass, a grin covering my face under my mask.

We opened the back starting to shift everything into our getaway van we commandeered for the night. Finally, I found out what was bothering me, I felt my phone vibrating away in my pocket.

“Hello?” I said without looking at my phone.

“Ray? Ray you there?” Some voice said.

“Yes, who is this?”

“It’s Christen man, Na-”

“Oh hey, I’m kinda busy man. Can this wait?”

“No dude it can’t. This is an SOS right now.”

“Alright fine,” I said leaning against the truck. “What’s-?”

“Raymond, just listen for a sec. It’s Nathanael man. He’s been shot.”

Finally, the rain shows why it came.

Jace Guillory

TRIGGER WARNING: sexual assault, rape.

We N eed to S cream

Ness Doughty

we are taught to shout “fire” when someone takes our bodies as theirs we are shown that our stories will not matter we are taught that drinking means we were asking for it and we should’ve been wearing less sexual pajamas we are taught to shout “fire” we are told to stay quiet as to not damage their reputation we are questioned by police as if we are the criminals we are taught to shout “fire” when someone tries to rob you from yourself because we are taught that our voices do not matter well I want to scream “rape” when predators only get six months in prison and get to resume their lives as normal while the victim lives with the mark forever I want to scream “rape” when I see them crying on the stand when crying didn’t concern them before I want to scream “rape” when I can no longer have safe relationships and have to pay for my therapy weekly I want to scream “rape” when I finally get the courage to turn you in when you finally get to see what you’ve done I want to scream “rape” for all the people whose lives were set fire and for those who keep burning

< 21 >

I want to scream “rape” for the people who are not believed and for the ones overlooked I want to scream “rape” at all the spectators of Dr. Ford’s testimony questioning why she couldn’t remember I want to scream “rape” at our government our patriarchy and their accomplices

I want to scream “rape” every time I have a flashback of the time during my own personal war when my body was being attacked I want to scream “rape” at everyone who doesn’t believe at those who blame victims at our school system at those who tell us to shout “fire”

I want to scream “RAPE”

T he S earch

Erwin McPherson

Tiny Soul searches for Answer. As light as eiderdown floating along, unable to conceive what Answer might look like, knowing only that Tiny Soul is absolutely insignificant. Surely Answer is big, really big, colossal, how is that going to go?

Born to fly, Tiny Soul carries on, sometimes high as the stars, sometimes deep black low. Answer sees Tiny soul coming, Answer knows because Answer is all-knowing. But Tiny Soul is knowing, too. Tiny Soul arrives like mist blown into the sea, unexpected merging.

Tiny Soul knows. Answer always knew.

C

rashing

Heather Graham

Pika-Jar A. Perry

S hooters

Cristian Hernandez

In Acapulco, Mexico, it is Thursday soccer night. It is a beautiful night, around 8:20 p.m. Gustavo, is the oldest group and the only one who can take us to the fields. Everybody is talking and listening to reggaeton music in the car. We drive a black car with the lights on, so the cartel in the city can recognize our faces and won’t shoot at us. We have a curfew from the mafia, but soccer is our passion, and we are not scared to go away from home and play our favorite sport. We arrive at the field’s safety around 8:30 p.m. thirty minutes earlier before our soccer match. Gustavo started talking to us about the strategies for the game, Jose picking up the soccer ball and Luis carrying his backpack.

Other teams were playing, so we had to walk on the sides of the indoor field. I was carrying the soccer ball and I needed to pee. I said, “Jose carry the ball for one sec.”

He responded, “fine, but don’t take too long.”

“I know, someone can see me.” I started peeing with my eyes closed and then ten seconds later Jose was moving my shoulder back and forward. I started laughing and telling him

“Stop it, idiot.”

“Chino, come, come, come.”

“Don’t ask me anytime, just follow me”

“Wait, what is happening?” Luis responded

Luis and Gustavo confused looking at Jose. We didn’t know what was going on, so I stopped peeing and we started following Jose. He was walking on circles and touching his head saying, “Oh my god, oh my god.”

“Are you okay buddy?” Luis asked him

“Dude, dude, dude,” he continued.

We were behind the wall of the field, so we wanted to look at the field.

Jose couldn’t stop swearing. I’ve never seen him acting like that. Jose was a nice kid, he never swears. Jose was the typical nerd guy and an A student that always follow the rules.

“We don’t need to hide, if we don’t own anything, there is nothing we should be afraid of.”

When he said that, I figured it out what was going on, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. With our faces down, we started walking to the benches. We set down next to a family, and then when I looked up, I saw three guys in the middle of the field wearing black masks carrying AK-50. One guy was pointing with the gun to the benches and a huge group of stoners ran away. The guy screamed said, “If you run, you are dead.”

I saw everything in slow motion, my face and my entire body felt warm, my body couldn’t even move and my heart accelerating. Thinking to call the cops but it was going to be a waste of time, cops from Mexico work for the mafia, they are corrupt. I got sad because I was thinking that I was never going to see my mom again. I was thinking that maybe these were the last minutes of my life. I got really scared, thinking about strategies, where to run if I heard a gunshot. I told my friend so quiet, “let’s run, let’s run.”

“Calm down, everything is going to be fine,” Gustavo said. He held my hand and made me feel better. The guys that were playing the game before us, including the referee, they made a line at one of the goals, with their hands behind their neck. I was thinking, if I hear a gunshot I will run because they are going to kill all of us if we don’t go.

Two of the guys with the masks looked for an enemy. Again, one of shooter screamed to the people from the bench, “If you look up, you are dead.” They said it one more time. “We are going to find you, Tasmania.” One of the shooters said.

In my mind, I was assuming that Tasmania was the nickname of an enemy from the shooters. We had no idea who was this guy or how he looked like. Everybody was confused. I remember my brother looking at me, feeling like he wanted to cry.

“Everything is going to be okay.” I said. No response from him. Shaking his head telling me okay without speaking. The shooters were leaving, they left inside of a brand-new GMC pick-up truck.

“How do you guys feel?” Gustavo asked.

“I feel alright, I guess.” Jose responded.

“My hands are shaking.”

“We should go home, Luis is not looking good” I responded to them

“Do you guys know the guy they were looking for? Jose asked.

< 27 >

“What do you think? Of course not, stupid.” I answered him, really upset.

“Fine. I’m just asking, don’t be rude.”

“Should we talk to our parents about what happened?”

“Jose, I don’t think is a good idea.”

“I know, my mom is very protective.”

“Okay guys, let’s go home now, it’s been a rough night.”

“Gustavo, do you feel good to drive?” I asked him.

“I already told you guys, I don’t owe them anything.” Gustavo very confident responded.

“Okay, let’s go home, guys.”

We felt so lucky on our way back home because we didn’t get hurt, or the most important thing, no one died that night. The most impressive event was that no one heard or saw anything. It was Thursday soccer night as usual.

A S lacker’s L ament

Erwin McPherson

First day at class, missed the whole first week.

Not quite sure where my second class will meet.

Dang poor idea, startin way down in the hole.

Half panicked now, which room, it’s getting late.

English, new class, starting out a deadbeat.

First day at class, missed the whole first week.

Another lesson don’t procrastinate.

Feel like a lost sheep, in my head repeat.

Dang poor idea, startin way down in the hole.

Could be this room, need to check my class slate. Sit in the hall, long to hide in that seat.

First day at class, missed the whole first week.

Teacher spots me, comes to investigate, perceives my sad state, says go take a seat.

Dang poor idea, startin way down in the hole.

Fumbling some now, ashamed to contemplate, cannot find my books, still want to retreat.

First day at class, missed the whole first week.

Dang poor idea, startin way down in the hole.

B lind(ers/ed)

Hope Fae thistlewood

and i’d rather have no body at all than the one i was born with but that’s not an option and i feel trapped between making it clear to myself how broken i am and trying not to make myself a disappointment to (you)

can you see me dying in these bones, this skin? blood leaching from my lips, body tells me this morning didn’t happen and memory is unreliable - i have always been unreliable and i’m invisible anyway, muted and glass-like to everyone i pass, everyone i talk to—i exist once i’m run into, once i have nothing else to say, once i am going back to whatever i was doing that couldn’t be as important as someone else’s words

what difference does it make, listening, if i’m muted anyway? what difference does it make, moving, if i’m

invisible and in the way? if i’m a walking oxymoron and the only reliable thing about me is how unreliable i really am

i would apologize, but i don’t see it changing. I’d just rather be invisible on my own terms.

B ittersweet L ullaby

Brooke Ross

When the couch was no longer comfortable & the yelling became a lullaby

How did you keep on going?

Was it the two children sleeping downstairs?

Or was it the love that kept you going?

I didn’t know love was defined by how many bruises covered your skin.

Was the house more important over your life?

How important could it be with broken hinges and holes in every other wall?

The family you built was once stemmed from love but that is now only a memory.

When this all is soaked with spiced rum that has tainted millions.

Flammable to the throat even more so to the hearts of your loved ones.

This lullaby has turned bitter & you need a more comfortable couch.

How To Make

a Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich

Kyndra Prietzel

Step 1: The Bread

First, you must take out the bread. This includes making sure it’s not moldy, frozen, on fire, or has any infectious disease that might have been transferred by rats. Next, count the pieces. There should be two. Not one. Not three. Two. Place both pieces of bread face up or face down. It doesn’t matter.

Optional: you may toast the bread. If unsure of how to do this step go to my other manual titled, “How To Toast Something Without Setting It On Fire.”

Step 2: The Peanut Butter

You must take out the peanut butter. It is probably located somewhere within your kitchen. The type of peanut butter is optional; however, you must make sure it is still good to date (the label that states whether it’s safe to eat; not that you should take it to see a romantic comedy).

Next, take out a knife. This is the scariest step. The preferred knife is a butter knife, hence the name peanut butter.

Unscrew the top of the peanut butter jar. If somehow the news of peanut butter in a jar is alerting to you then you might want to ask for extra help. Dip the knife into the peanut butter jar until a sufficient amount is on the knife. Then spread gently across one of the two pieces of bread the peanut butter. Not both. Just one.

Repeat the process of spreading the peanut butter (remember to add more peanut butter to your knife each time you spread).

Step 3: The Jelly

Take out the jelly whether it’s in the refrigerator or pantry (cupboards and drawers are another place to look if it’s not found; if not then go to the grocery store, additional information found at, “How To Leave My House To Go Shopping Without Having A Heart Attack”).

Then it is a repetition process from “Step 2”. Attain a new, clean knife, unscrew the lid, and begin to gently spread the jelly onto the other piece of bread that has no peanut butter on it. Add and spread some more until satisfied with the amount.

Note: the jelly choice does not matter, but you must make sure it is not any of

these flavors given the possibility of failure: blueberry, raspberry, apple, boysenberry, huckleberry, grape, apricot, mango, peach, tropical fruit, lemon, pineapple, mixture of two or more berries, and lime. Exception: strawberry.

Step 4: Putting It Together

If you are a stickler on stickiness, prepare yourself mentally, physically, and emotionally for this final step.

Take the two pieces of bread. One piece in one hand. One piece in another hand. The pair does not matter. (For example: peanut butter bread in right hand is equally acceptable as peanut butter in left hand).

Bring the pieces of bread close together with sides touching. Then you must slap the two pieces of bread together, lifting them up from a horizontal stance into a vertical stance (If you do not know the difference between horizontal and vertical attend math class or ask someone whose specialty is knowing the difference between horizontal and vertical for help).

Then you begin to eat and enjoy by putting the sandwich in close proximity to your mouth so to reach it. If this is a struggle ask for additional help. Now you can enjoy!

Note: Remember to chew when sandwich is put into mouth, and swallow afterwards.

For additional data on how to become an expert peanut butter and jelly sandwich maker look at these recommended sources:

“How To Make A Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich By Adding Honey: A Step by Step Process”

“How To Make A Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich Without the Mess: An Advanced Edition”

“How To Make A Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich: The Rebel’s Way, Putting Jelly On First”

“How To Make A Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich Under Pressure aka With A Child”

G reen S urrounding

Shandy Clark

R

uth

MeLissa Hebel

Tapping

Marue Smouse

Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to be a psychiatrist. I always liked listening to other people’s problems and loved helping them the best I could. All of my friends would come to me for advice and help. Even older family members found me a valuable listening ear. It was in high school that I realized I wanted to be a child psychiatrist. My younger sister struggled with social anxiety and chronic depression. She had a wonderful doctor who taught her how to cope with her problems, and I wanted to help kids work through their issues, just like my sister’s psychiatrist helped her. I had never thought that working in mental health would compromise my own wellbeing, like it has the past month.

I had always wanted to make patients felt comfortable in my office. So, when I opened my practice, I tried to make it welcoming and cozy. I interviewed and examined my patients in a room that has two leather couches facing each other, with a coffee table stocked with candy bars between us. To the side of the room, there is a wood burning fireplace and two large windows that give a view to my flower garden outside. All around there are mirrors to lighten up the room and reflect the pastel yellow paint on the walls.

I remember the first day I met with Alyse. I was wearing an expressive dress with perfectly polished hair, while Alyse slouched in the couch across from me, drowning in a hoodie, with her long dark hair covering half of her face. According to the teenager’s mother, Alyse was always an artistic and agreeable child but had a dramatic behavioral change over the course of three weeks. Desperate and confused, Alyse’s parents had made an appointment for their sixteen-year-old daughter due to increased irritability, insomnia, and acting up in school. I knew they wanted me to give them a simple answer and quick fix to Alyse’s behavioral changes, but in my experience, the rule problem is always a little bit more complicated than they would have hoped.

“Okay Alyse, would you like to tell me what’s bothering you?” I smiled as I handed the girl a chocolate bar.

“I am here because my parents think I am crazy.” She mumbled as she slowly took the candy from me. I noticed she had chipped black nail polish on her fingernails and heavy dark eyeliner smudged around her large brown eyes.

“Your parents don’t think you’re crazy, they just care about your wellbeing.” I tried to reassure her, but Alyse snorted in response. This was not the first time I had a difficult patient, so I remained calm and professional. “They believe your lack of sleep is connected to your outbursts in school, but I want to hear your side of the story. Would you like to tell me the reason you are having trouble

sleeping at night?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Alyse fumbled with the candy bar wrapper.

“ That’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it right now.”

“We don’t?”

“No, of course not.” I attempted to smile warmly at the teen. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself first?”

“Okay…. I like to draw.”

“I have an idea, why don’t you draw while we talk? Would like to make you feel more comfortable?”

“Sure, but you still won’t believe me.” Alyse fidgeted in the leather couch.

“Maybe I will surprise you,” I said as I stood from my seat to grab a clipboard. I quickly attached several sheets of paper and a fetched a mechanical pencil.

“All right, I am excited to see what you can draw and hear what you have to say,” I said as I handed her the writing materials. “You can start drawing first and talk whenever you are ready.”

Over thirty minutes had gone by and Alyse had not uttered one word. She would just glance out the window and return to her sketches. The ticking of the pendulum clock on the wall seemed to grow louder as the silence grew longer. I was beginning to think the whole hour was going to go by without getting any information from the troubled girl. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. What if her parents disapprove of our use of time. I began to wonder if I gave Alyse to much freedom during the session. Then Alyse started to speak.

“I am hearing things at night.” Alyse said without looking up from the clipboard.

“What kind of things?” I tried not to sound too earnest as I moved to the edge of my seat.

“Tapping.” She stopped drawing for a second and took a deep breath. She still didn’t make eye contact with me.

“What kind on tapping?”

“It sounds like fingernails….. tapping on my bedpost. It keeps me up and I can’t sleep at night.” Alyse frowned and continued to draw.

“So, you have a problem sleeping then, because you hear tapping at night?” I carefully asked.

“Okay let me explain this to you plainly.” Alyse slammed the clipboard down and aggressively stared me in the eyes. I was shocked by the sudden change in behavior and couldn’t help but jump back when the clipboard smacked the cherry oak coffee table. “Every night when I lay in bed, just when I am about to fall asleep, I hear tapping on my bedpost near the foot of my bed. I try to ignore it and eventually it stops. Then when I about to fall asleep its starts up again. This goes on all night and doesn’t stop until the sun comes up. What do you think about that, Doctor Ivy?”

I sat for a few moments and didn’t know how to respond. I was surprised

that Alyse had snapped and scolded me, and I wondered if she had Bipolar Disorder. It was also possible that her temper was due to sleep deprivation. I contemplated prescribing a hypnotic drug to help her sleep, but I knew that could end badly. Sometimes sleep medication causes night terrors, sleepwalking, and hallucinations. If Alyse was already hearing things at night, sleep meds could make it worse. One thing I was sure of is that Alyse must have had severe anxiety, I contemplated prescribing her anti-anxiety medication. It would help her irritable behavior and calm down to sleep at night.

“Okay Alyse, I hear you. What if I could give you something to help you?”

“I doubt you could give me anything to make the tapping stop,” Alyse mumbled as she slumped back in the chair. She seemed mildly disinterested again.

“I can give you something so you don’t hear the tapping. It will help you relax and sleep better.”

“Oh, really now. So, what do you think is wrong with me?” Alyse raised her eyebrow.

“Alyse, there is nothing wrong with you and I would need to discuss a possible diagnosis and treatment options with your parents first-”

“I knew it.” Alyse shook her head.

“Give it a chance and let’s see if you get better,” I smiled.

“Okay, I will give it a chance. I will take the meds and see if the tapping stops.”

#

After discussing the medication options with Alyse’s parents, and writing a low dose prescription, they left fairly satisfied. I scheduled another appointment with Alyse in two weeks, to see how the medication was working. She was my last appointment for the day, so I organized my memos and started her formal chart notes. Just as I was about to lock up my office and excuse my receptionist, I noticed the note pad that Alyse had been drawing on. When I looked at the drawing I was shocked at what I saw. She drew the view of my garden from one of the windows and I couldn’t believe how insanely realistic the picture looked. The value scale in the sketch looked almost professional. I didn’t know someone could create so many different shades of grey, with one pencil, in such a short time. The flowers and bushes contained so much detail, I wondered how she was able to accomplish this in less than an hour. It was beautiful. I contemplated framing it for my office. Then I decided that I should ask her permission first and slipped the drawing into her chart notes.

#

Almost two weeks had gone by, and my second appointment with Alyse was almost due. The night before, I was skimming over the notes in her chart. I found it strange that a teenager that seemed to have perfect physical, and mental < 39 >

health, would develop such sudden behavioral problems. It wasn’t just the claim to hearing noises, but the rage was very disturbing as well. I told myself that it was her behavior, that was making me nervous for our appointment, and not the claim to hearing noises. I couldn’t think of any other reason I would be feeling so nervous. To help me relax, I helped myself to a couple of glasses of red wine. I read my favorite magazine and savored the rich taste of the merlot. I began to laugh at myself for my uneasiness. After all, I was the doctor and she was my patient.

That night, I experienced that most horrifying nightmare. In my dream, I was laying in my bed and I couldn’t move. In my paralyzed state, I started hearing a tapping sound. I can only describe it as, fingernails on wood. I tried to look around my room and locate the individual making the noise, but I was glued to my bed. Finally, when I was able to sit up, I saw something that I could never be creative enough to conjure. A hunched creature, with lanky front limbs, and longer hind legs, was slowly walking on all fours. The face somewhat resembled a human, but it was wrong. Like a human that was born in the dark and had never seen any light before. With wide yellow eyes that reminded me of fluorescent lightbulbs and a gaping mouth open like a jagged grotto. I could see the vertebra rising under the skin from its tailbone to the back of its neck. It paced back and forth whiles its long nails scratched the hardwood floor. My heart raced, and my breath quickly accelerated. Right, when I thought it would never stop pacing, it ran up to the foot of my bed and rapidly started tapping the edge of my bed frame. Its eyes fixed on me and viscous strands of drool fell from its teeth and pooled onto my covers. Then I woke up and realized that I was screaming, and I was drenched in sweat.

The night terror had woken me up at four in the morning and I could not go back to sleep. Before work, I consumed more coffee than I had throughout my college career. I had liberally applied concealer and foundation to my face, a pathetic effort to disguise the hideous dark circles beneath my eyes. My eyes were so weary and dry, every blink felt the lids were rubbing against sandpaper. Even though I was a complete disaster, I needed to look professional and composed for my patient.

When I finally saw her, she looked worse than before. The dark circles under her eyes made mine look nonexistent. Her eyes were also swollen and red, and she looked a little paler than I remembered. I wondered if she had been taking her meds or not?

“Good afternoon Alyse, how has the medication-”

“Hasn’t changed a damn thing, Doctor Ivey.” Alyse shot me an annoyed look. Even though her appearance looked more broken down, her spirit was certainly as strong as before. I took a deep breath before continuing.

“So, I take it the medication isn’t helping you relax and sleep?” She didn’t acknowledge my question and glanced down at her hands in her lap. So, I tried a different route. “Are you still hearing things?” She quickly snapped her head at me and gave me a defeated smile. < 40 >

“Oh, Doctor Ivey, It worse now.” Her smile quickly vanished. “I don’t think you will believe a fucking thing I say, but I might as well tell you right. That’s why I am here.” I wanted to scold her for using such disrespectful language in my office, but I decided it was better to ignore it and keep the conversation going.

“Alyse, I want you to feel free to tell me anything about your life. We don’t have to talk about the tapping. We can talk about school or your friends. Anything in your life…. I really liked the picture you drew of my garden, I would like permission to hang it up…”

“We all know that’s not the shit you want to hear about and that you’re not here to talk about my artwork. You want me to talk about that stuff that I hear and see at night,” Alyse snorted.

“You are seeing things as well?” I tried not to act too surprised. The last session she only mentioned hearing things, she didn’t mention seeing anything.

“Yup, a new development. Started about a week ago.”

“Tell me about what you’re seeing?” I tried to compose myself. I realized her mental health may be worse than I had previously anticipated.

“Why don’t I just draw it for you. Since you seem to be so interested in my artistic abilities.” She rolled her eyes.

“Of course, whatever you are comfortable with,” I said as I slowly stood up and handed her a pencil. I didn’t appreciate her attitude with me, and I didn’t want to be bullied by a teenager, but my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I ripped out a sheet of paper from my notebook and handed it over to her with a pencil. I also handed her a spare clipboard to draw on. She violently started scratching away at the paper. I was shocked, to say the least. Her drawing methods before were seamless and fluid. It looked like she used any effort at all when creating the sketch of my garden. This time, it seemed every pencil stroke had all her power into it. “When did you start seeing things at night?” I asked as I watched her eyes dart back and forth across her paper.

“Like I said, a week ago.”

“So, you don’t feel like the medication helped at all?”

“It helped me fall asleep quicker, but the tapping would always wake me up soon after. Like I told you before, the medication can’t make that thing go away.” She gritted her teeth as she scribbled away.

“What does this thing do when you see it?”

“I can see it there, at, the foot of my bed. It taps its long nails on my bed frame.” She stopped drawing and lifted her head, but she didn’t look at me. It seemed like she was staring off behind me, into an unseen world. “There is nothing you can do to help me. The only reason I can see it in person now is because it wants to be seen.” She then sighed as she completed the picture and turned it over.

“How do you know that it wants you to see it?” I struggled to keep a straight face. I was wondering if I was experienced enough to handle this patient. “Because when I see it, I can hear its thoughts in my head. It wants to <

be seen and it wants to hurt me. I know I’m not dreaming either. The first time I saw the creature in the flesh I pushed myself self so hard against the headboard, I felt like I had split my skull open. Even though the stinging pain and tears I could still see it at the foot of my bed. I knew that I was awake and that I was actually seeing it.” She turned the picture face down on the coffee table.

“Did you call for your parents?” My eyes darted towards the paper and back to her.

“God knows I did! I pulled the blankets over my face like and kindergartener and screamed my head off. When they came in, it was gone.” She stood up and started walking out of the room. I had half a mind to tell her that her session wasn’t over yet, but I could only think to say one thing to ask as I turned the picture over on the coffee table.

“Is this really what you saw?” I tried to conceal my panic as I stared in disbelief at the page.

“I have seen the same fugly face seven times now. So yes, I would say my sketch is pretty accurate.” She said as she walked out of the room. I didn’t want to believe her, because the monster in the drawing looked exactly like that creature I saw in my nightmare the night before. #

When I didn’t have any answers for Alyse’s parents, they were justifiably angry. I informed them that it would take more cross-referencing to diagnose her, and I might need to refer her to a psychiatrist that specializes in adolescents with schizophrenia. I set another appointment for her a week later and obtained permission from her parents to send her chart notes to another local psychiatrist who could give me some insight to her hallucinations.

I dreaded my next appointment with Alyse. Every night I continued to have the same recurring nightmare. I was losing sleep and even started to see the monster during the day. In my exhausted state, I could hear its fingernails scratching on the floor like a dog running on the hardwood and catch glimpse of its hunched back moving around corners and hiding in the shadows. I canceled several appointments leading up to Alyse’s that week. I was a nervous wreck as the day approached, then I got a call from my secretary the night before her upcoming session.

“Doctor Ivy, I’m sorry that I am calling you so late.”

“It’s, all right James, is everything okay?” I tried to keep a steady and strong voice on the phone, but I could feel that something was terribly wrong.

“Doctor, it’s your patient Alyse, she won’t be coming to your office tomorrow…. I am not sure if she will be coming back….”

“What happened? Is she all right?” I jumped up from my armchair.

“No, I don’t think she is. She is under medical supervision right now. Doctor, she tried to kill herself last night. The parents said that she will be transferred to a long-term facility if her mental condition does not stabilize.”

“When will we know?”

“She will be monitored at the hospital psychiatric unit for three days, and

< 42 >

then if she doesn’t improve….. they will transfer her to Rose Meadows,” he sadly replied. Rose Meadows was a long-term care facility for the mentally ill and contains a high-security area for patients who are a danger to themselves and others. When I sat in silence James spoke again, as if he was reading my mind.

“It’s not your fault, Doctor.”

“Follow up with the parents in a few days and let me know,” I said as I hung up the phone. My spirit was broken, and I felt as though I failed Alyse. I wanted nothing more than to drink half a bottle of jack and down myself in sleep, but I knew rest was unattainable. The nightmares would soon wake me.

A couple of weeks later I was able to reach Alyse’s parents. They informed me that she had been moved to Rose Meadows, without a time frame for a release date. I decided that I would visit her and see how she was doing. I felt like the farthest thing from a professional psychiatrist when I showed up to the high-security unit. The only way I could sleep at night was drowning my fears in whiskey. I know, not the smartest thing for a doctor to do, but it was the only thing keeping me semi-sane. The alcohol would buy me a couple more hours before the nightmares would invade my mind and wake me permanently for the night. Still, I tried my best to look professional, with my hair in a tight bun, my grey pantsuit, and copious amounts of concealer under my eyes.

The halls of the facility were perfectly clean and white. In the unit Alyse was kept in, no doors could be opened without a staff key card. There were locked double doors at the end of every hall and every patient door was locked. All patient doors had a single square window with thick glass so the staff could observe them from the outside. My heels loudly clicked as I walked down the hall with a sullen nurse who was explaining Alyse’s condition to me.

“When she first arrived at our facility, she was hysterical and could not be left alone. She would attempt self-harm with any utensil or instrument she could find. We had no choice but to restrain her to her bed for a few days…” The nurse sternly informed me.

“She was restrained?” Sadness filled my heart.

“We had no choice, she screamed and wailed for hours at a time, refused to eat, and wouldn’t acknowledge the staff. She would just stare at the door, muttering that something was coming for her.”

“How is she now?” I tried to ignore the crying, screaming, and scratching coming from the other patient’s rooms as we passed. I hate to say this, but it sounded like the seventh circle of hell in that facility.

“That’s what’s so shocking. On her fourth day of being here, she completely changed. She was kind to the staff and showed no intention of harming her self or others. She seems to be improving.” The nurse answered as she stopped one of the patient’s door. I saw Alyse’s name written in marker on a dry erase board. My heart started beating, as I realized my troubled patient was in the other room.

“Any chance of release in the foreseeable future?” I hopefully asked. I

< 43 >

wanted to look in the window, but I was afraid to see the condition the poor girl was in. When I had seen her in my office, she had looked slightly disheveled. I didn’t want to imagine what she looked like now.

“I am not qualified, or authorized answer that question.” The nurse said as she scanned her badge and the door opened.

I took a deep breath and walked into the room, and I was surprised to see Alyse’s demeanor. I had expected her to look dirty, tired, and grungy. With unkempt hair and a slumped posture, but I was mistaken. Alyse looked beautiful and refreshed. Her long brown hair brushed and kept out of her face with a headband, revealing her angelic face and big brown eyes. She was wearing a clean white nightgown and had a slight smile on her face. She looked like a porcelain doll. The smudged eyeliner and chipped nails were gone, revealing a young and natural beauty. She sat up tall and straight she gazed out the window and painted roses on a large canvas set on an easel. Alyse slowly turned to look at me and a large sweet smile spread across her face.

“It’s good to see you, Dr Ivy.” She said as she bounced up and ran to give me a hug. I was shocked by the sudden affection and quickly pulled back from the patient.

“Alyse, are you all right? You look so much better than when I last saw you.” I said I tried to compose my professional front. It almost seemed like I was in the wrong room, this was a completely different girl than the one I had met a month ago.

“Oh, I’m much better now, I am safe here.” She said as she sat down on her bed.

“Why do you say that?” I sat in a chair close to the bed.

“It can’t get me in here. I don’t know why, but I realized it can’t get into my room. I think the locked doors and halls keep it out.”

“Alyse, why didn’t you feel safe at home?”

“I knew I had to kill myself because it was hurting me. It would eventually kill me, but slowly and painfully. Look, Doctor, the thing did this to me,” She said as she pulled up her sleeves. There were long and inflamed gashes healing on her arms. “I thought the only way to escape it was death. So, I tried to hang myself in the shower, but my parents found me in the bathroom and cut me down.” As she spoke I noticed the healing bruises around her neck. I imagine they were once dark purple and black, but at the time I saw them, they had faded to a light green and yellow. “After coming here, I didn’t see it or hear it anymore. I don’t think it can get in. Doctor, I can sleep again, and I get to paint every day.” She smiled as she pointed to the easel.

“It looks beautiful Alyse,” I said as I examined the realistic roses on the canvas. It made me happy to see her art had returned to the beautiful hyperrealism style. “Do you think you could leave and go back home soon. If you don’t see the monster anymore, you could be getting better.” I also had hopes that now that Alyse was recovering, my nightmares would subside as well.

“Oh, no doctor. I can never leave.” She started violently shaking her head.

< 44 >

“I don’t see it anymore, because it can’t get in here. It will choose someone else now. If I leave, it can get in my room at night and hurt me again. No, I am staying here forever. If they send me home, I’ll have to kill myself.” She said as she stood up and started pacing around the room.

“Okay Alyse, I understand. I won’t make you leave.” I said as I placed a hand on her back. She shuddered at my touch and ran to her bed. She sat down on the bed, wrapped her arms around herself and started rocking back and forth.

“I am safer here, I am safer here….” She said as she rocked herself. At that moment her new doctor entered the room. He was tall with thick curly hair and a soft British accent

“No worries Alyse, you can stay here as long as you need.” He smiled as he set a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you finish your painting at the window.” He said in a kind voice. Immediately she stopped rocked and went back to her painting. Doctor Williams then turned to me.

“I will discuss Alyse’s diagnosis after you say goodbye. It’s almost time for lunch and she needs to rest, before eating and taking her medication.” He said to me in a sterner voice. I understood why I had upset his patient and it was time to leave. I walked over to Alyse’s and softly placed a hand on her shoulder. “Goodbye Alyse, I hope to see you soon.” I smiled as I said my goodbyes but quickly frowned with what she said to me. The last sentence that left her lips made me feel lightheaded and nauseated. I quickly left the room and tried to compose myself as I entered the hall. The doctor was waiting for me outside, I and could barely take in what he was saying over the fear growing in my chest like an aggressive cancer. #

Now I am at home, and I am no longer afraid for Alyse. Doctor Williams told me he believed Alyse to have severe paranoid schizophrenia, but I don’t believe him. I now understand that both myself and Doctor Williams were mistaken. And I know this because I what Alyse told me when I was trying to say goodbye, she had said, “It’s hard to believe the torture started with the nightmares, and then the nightmares became real. I hope you don’t start hearing the tapping, now that I am safe.”

I know Alyse was telling the truth the whole time because now I hear the tapping on the bedpost. I am awake, and I know I am because I am writing all this in my diary, and I won’t stop. Because of Alyse, I know how this ends. I can’t help but wonder if I should wait for it to destroy me or if I should finish the job right now with the Smith and Wesson revolver in my nightstand drawer.

armth

Jane Anne Woodhead

F reeze/ F rame

Linn Luker

the sun disappears behind a metal crane and below concrete is reborn like a phoenix we drag our fists on icy soil like insolent children until our knuckles bleed 12 feet of snow loom over us like an omen a symptom of excess infected with insecurity and apathy a fool’s confidence will surely drown us all.

N ot M y M onster

Amie Schaeffer

When I was told I had cancer

I imagined a creature

Crawling -

Black and spindly

Slowly devouring my cognition and motor skills

Willing it to save my memories for last

Slipping out of bed

I called you

Early, but you answered I steadied and readied myself for our good bye

You wouldn’t let me

You told me to fight

Asked my husband to be strong

For me

I still get stuck in an operating room of which I have no actual recollection

Hearing the hums and beeps of machines

Wondering what sound a skull must make

When samples are stolen from underneath

But-

I did not have cancer

MS would be my monster

Turns out

You were keeping a secret

That creature I had feared so desperately Was already growing in you

Eye D octor

Carmina Gray

“Nobody likes to start their day with somebody sticking their fingers in your eye,” he says, while sticking his blunt fingers into my eyes. He peels back the lids, as my eyes furiously blink outside of my control. I am old enough now not to scream when uncomfortable doctors procedures are happening, but I cannot stop the small grunt of pain when the dye from the eyedropper hits the surface of my eyeball.

He had greeted me at the start of my appointment by saying, “So, you decided to get up early!” It was 11am. It sounded so much like something a condescending uncle would say I was momentarily flat-footed, trying to remember if perhaps we were related. I determined we were not, and so said, “Say again?”

“So, you decided to get up early!” The same inflection and impersonal exuberance. I could glean no more from this reiteration than I could from the initial greeting. So I said, apologetically, “One more time?”

“So, you decided to get up early!” It occurred to me that this was a reference to the opening of the eyeglass shop’s doors, not two minutes prior. I was their first customer, his first optical client, and was therefore ‘up early.’ I thought it a poor how-do-you-do, and discarded him as a possible conversationalist. It warranted no reciprocating response, so I took his hand and said, “Good morning,” to discourage any further conversation. His skin crinkled a little in the pouches under his eyes in social discomfort, then gestured to the back room.

A front desk attendant, not the one who turned me away last Thursday when I showed up for my scheduled appointment (“We just don’t have all our equipment set up,” she had simpered. “Could you come back on Saturday? Would that be convenient?” No it would not, I wanted to say, but instead smiled and said that was no trouble at all), watched the two of us enter the room, in what I can only suppose was disappointment. Within the two minutes since I entered the eyeglass shop, I had been approached by three people with name tags. Each’s deep concern with my emotional well-being and disproportional interest in my style of glasses frame made me think that they were paid on commission. I had

never met such self-deprecating salespeople, their shoulders curved in like an apology as they asked: ‘Can I help you?’ Saying ‘no, thank you’ felt less like the truth and more like kicking a puppy. “I have an appointment for an eye exam,” I said three times, to three salespeople. It was almost a relief to get off the sales floor as I was led into the eye examining room.

The eye doctor made small talk as he flipped through several different lens options, while I stared through a periscope-looking mask at a screen with letters on it.

“So, do you go to school? Which is better, lens one,” a click and the furry edges of the letter chart ahead of me cleared marginally, “Or two?” Another click and the letters were lost entirely to a smudge.

“One,” I said. “The community college.”

“Okay. Lens three, or four?” Two clicks as I evaluated. “Have any favorite activities?”

“Writing,” I said. “Three.”

“Oh that’s nice,” he said. “Alright, one… or two? What do you like to write?”

“Creative nonfiction,” I replied. Then remembered: “Two.”

“Three? Or four? That’s cool. Are you taking any writing classes?”

“Four. Yes, I have.”

“So, your prescription is very light. Do you wear your glasses often?”

“No, just when I’m driving.”

“Really? Because your prescription is low enough that you shouldn’t have to wear them.”

“Yes, I’m required by law to wear them when I drive.”

“Hmm. You only have to be able to see this,” on the screen appeared a row of letters I could read with little difficulty. “To drive without glasses. Can you read that?”

I rattled off the letters.

“Well, then!” he said. “You shouldn’t have to wear them while driving.”

My license says otherwise, I thought. Acceptable vision or not, it was best to follow what was on my license in case I ever got pulled over. Instead, I said, “Wow, that’ll be nice.”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding pleased. “Now, I’ve just got these eye drops to give you,” he held a small bottle that sloshed as he rattled it. “It’s full of yellow dye, and it contains a mild anesthetic,” he told me while unscrewing the cap. “So

your eyes might feel a little numb.”

I had taken quick inventory of the sensitivity of my eyeballs. There was no sensation. Now, blinking rapidly after he withdraws his hands (and how large fingers suddenly become, when they are close to your eyes. At first handshake I had determined his hands to be of normal proportion. Now I know them to be tree trunks), my eyes feel the same. There is no numbness. I wonder if he lied about the anesthetic, to keep me calm. I do not ask.

“The dye will let me tell the pressure of your eyes,” he says, while rolling towards an unfamiliar contraption. For the next several minutes, he tries to keep up friendly conversation, while I try not to leap out of the examining chair as bright lights peer into my eyes.

Finally, that finished, he rolls back over to a clipboard he has been marking. With a perforated thwpp! he tears a sheet an hands it to me.

“Your prescription isn’t much changed,” he says. “You probably don’t have to wear your glasses at all, if you don’t want to. Though they might be useful if you were driving around at night, in an unfamiliar place, and had to see street signs,” he concedes. “Or, if you needed to see the chalkboard in your classroom. They don’t have chalkboards now, do they?” I do not answer, but it seems he didn’t need a response anyway. “Or you could wear them when you wanted to look at things better.”

Indeed, I think, those are the usual times I need to see. His thorough analysis of probable optical opportunities at least leaves no room for chances. Should I not need my glasses, it seems, I will have to be outside of the realm of possibility entirely. I will keep this in mind in case I find myself inside a fourth-dimension wormhole or something.

Ode to the Cranes on My Roof Nadia Yahyapourroshankouhi

Move too fast but you’re still stuck here.

Holding on but you’re flyin my dear. No sensation.

This is our station.

From the woods took a little journey into my room oh my, little birdie

With the touch of my hands, your journey will go to higher grounds.

Dust on your shoulders, feeling like boulders.

Whistles of the wind causing the excitement rushing within you.

Touch of the breeze letting you feel and feeding the movement through you.

D x Abby Bijold

She slowly opened her eyes to be greeted by a series of sharp fluorescent lights above her, which stung painfully, amplifying the throbbing she felt at the back of her skull. In the moment of stunned pain, she attempted to cover her eyes with hands, to which she quickly discovered an intrusive tube entering her nose. In a fog of confusion, she wrapped her weak fingers around the thin tubing and attempted to pull, but suddenly let go because of a pain deep in her throat that made her cough and sputter. Her eyes shot open in full realization of the foreign situation she was in. Looking around the room, everything still slightly hazy, she could see a TV ahead of her blaring white noise and a curtain drawn to one side, covering where she had to assume the door was.

“Oh, you’re awake, good afternoon Janet.”

Janet had not noticed this woman when scanning the room, but suddenly she was there. Her clothing matched the sterile and unwelcoming lights that hung above her. She stood beside Janet, looking over a clipboard.

“What…where did…where am I? Who are you?” sputtered Janet.

The woman glanced up with a slight frown on her face.

“Oh yes, I’m sorry Janet, I’m Laura. We’ve met before. Never mind that, you have been asleep all day and I need to take your blood press…”

“Where am I? I want to go home! Where is Jim? I want to go home!” Janet exclaimed so loudly that Laura nearly dropped her clip board.

Trying to maintain her composure, Laura’s frown deepened as she tried to assess Janet’s sudden outburst.

“Janet, don’t worry you are perfectly safe. Are you experiencing any pain currently?”

“Why and where….what are you…yes! My head is throbbing, and I’ve got this,” Janet gestured at the tube protruding from her nasal cavity, “and this hurts so badly! I need to call my husband! Jim can sort all of this out. I just need some pain pills so I can go home!”

Suddenly Janet let out a shriek as she felt the sudden pressure of a hand on her shoulder. As she stared with horror, she saw a man standing beside her, firmly holding on to her. He too, was wearing stark white clothing.

“Janet, Good afternoon! I hear you are experiencing some pain. I’m your Doctor and I’m here to help you. What can we do to help you get comf…”

“Wait, slow down. Comfortable? I’m terrified! Did something happen that

you’re not telling me about?” Janet’s hands began trembling and soft tears began to roll down her cheeks. Her eyes darted anxiously towards the curtain and the window, taking a mental note of her potential escape routes.

“Janet, don’t attempt to remove the feeding tube” explained the Doctor firmly. “You aren’t eating normal meals anymore so…”

“Wait wait, anymore? What are you talking about? Why can’t I eat?” Janet exclaimed

“Janet we placed a nasogastric tube to regulate your weight, so if you attempt to remove the tube, we will need to sedate you.”

Janet was completely unaware of her efforts to remove the tube and get out of bed. The one sure thing was that her head was spinning fiercely and that yesterday…yesterday she was helping the kids off to school. She was kissing her husband goodbye as he went to work. She had not been in a hospital. She had not been on a feeding tube.

“Janet…Janet, did you hear me” The doctor asked, sounding far away.

“Heart rate is rising,” Laura said with some alarm to her voice.

“Fine, then please bring husband to me. He would never leave my side. I don’t understand why I am here.”

The Doctor and Laura exchanged worried frowns. Janet witnessed the doctor give one quick nod to the women and she swiftly stepped out and around the curtain.

“Janet, we understand that you want to see your husband; however, it is our job to keep you calm and…”

“Calm!?” “You are keeping my husband from me, you aren’t letting me go home, and my head is throbbing!”

“Do you need some assistance in here Dr. Mann,” Said a deep new voice to the right of Janet’s head. She screeched again, only to open her eyes and find a huge man also dressed in white, which she hadn’t seen entering the room, looming over her bedside, frowning deeply.

“We may have a code gray, is the instrument ready,” Dr. Mann quickly whispered over Janet to the large man in white.

“Code what!? I DEMAND ANSWERS! You know what get out of my way, I am leaving this place. I want to go home! Let me go!!

Janet felt several hands press down on her and she attempted to leave the bed she was on. She couldn’t see where all the pressure was coming from, the room was so bright, the pain was getting more severe by the minute, she began kicking and screaming to be released, screaming for her husband, crying to go home.

“Hand me the midazolam, six hundred milligrams,” Dr. Mann ordered. A sudden plunge, a huge gasp. A fog began to roll in. A dizzying affect. The feeling of falling backwards. Janet allowed the tears to fall freely as her body began to grow heavy.

“You awful …I want to go home. Where is Jim..?”

The world faded to black.

Greeville Rehab and Nursing Facility

Patient Name: Janet K. Reid

D.O.B : 3/20/1948

Subjective: Patient name: Janet Reid. Age: 73-year-old. Has been a resident at G.R.N.F for 5 years. Dx: Huntington’s Alzheimer’s. DX Date: 10/12/2014. Janet is a combative patient, and resorts to physical violence during moments of disorientation. She is has become more disoriented in the past 3 months, resulting in termination of physical therapy, ambulating independently, and oral feeding. Family has decided to allow for sudation by Midazolam 600mg to combat violent outbursts due to loss of memory and bodily functions. Staff and rehab have tried all nonconfrontational approaches including: listening, distraction, acknowledging phantom pains etc. Discussed use of restraints and 24-hour watch, family denied. Brief change occurs every 3 hours. Officially labeled a Code Gray patient due to physical violence harming a staff member last week.

O

bjective: HR: 88-168 p Code Gray. BP: 108/64 a.c. – 144/89 p Code Gray. Ambulating: needs walker assistance – no ambulating due to feeding tube and Code Gray. Feeding: G-tube still needed, weight stabilizing at 128lbs. Urine analyses: no proteins found, no UTI at this time. Testing for UTI’s incase patient is unable to communicate discomfort. Weekly labs for UTI detection have been ordered.

Assessment: RN Laura was checking vitals of patient when patient became agitated and asked for deceased husband: Jim Reid. Alzheimer’s dx is worsening due to the fact she doesn’t remember the current state of Jim Reid, deceased – 2015. Tunnel vision is worsening due to panicked reaction to discover Doctors, Nurses, Orderly’s all entering her room, even with a loud introduction. Even with non-confrontational attempts to calm the patient, Janet exhibits selective hearing due to disintegration on the cerebellum and frontal lobe. Patient expresses confusion of the G-tube. G-tube was placed 7 days ago, waiting to see if weight would stabilize. PEG tube will be surgically inserted in 2 days if Abilify medication does not improve combative behavior. Discussed switching to Clozapine with family, family denies due to low BP risks. Patient recalled memory of her early 40’s, speaking aloud to no one about her children going to school and husband going to the office. Long term memory has not yet been infected by AZ. Patient also is complaining of a head pain, most likely a phantom pain caused by a car accident she was in 4 years ago. Accident caused her to lose her driver’s license. Patient has expressed this pain before, MRI was completed to confirm no swelling of the brain or neuro system. Phantom pain is forgotten by tomorrow and short-term memory is compromised. Also, patient cannot recall family and friends coming by every 3 days to check on her.

PLAN: Up Abilify to 400mg a day, start patient on anti-anxiety medication with family’s discretion. If patient can be non-combative throughout the day, we will begin therapy of ambulating once again and switch back to thickened liquids and soft foods. Nursing staff and orderly’s advice not to get close to the patient unless given permission. If sedations need to be continued, an IV will be placed to assist with Midazolam injection.

G azing U pwards

Ross Stoneman

Dear Moon, may I ask

Why is it that, on my loneliest nights

That I gaze up at your imperfect beauty

Is there something amongst your craters

That I crave to understand

Dear Moon, may I ponder

Upon the fact that you bring a comfort

Cherished in my minute life

Is the light you borrow so silky

That I can’t help but wear it

Dear Moon, may I raise

A hand to your darkened landscape

Struggling to feel your grasp

Is there a reason that you hold

As to why you no longer hug

Mother Moon, will you ever sing to me again

Like you did when I was a child

Whispering of a peaceful power

That holds nothing but loving respect

Where have you gone, my mother moon

Barbie Spencer

W hat D o Y ou S ay

Winnie Jenkins

What do you tell your new friends

When you talk about me

The so called self proclaimed love of your life

Your very own manic pixie dream girl

Who made you colorful

The girl who you left behind

Do you say

She was crazy

Without mentioning literally everything you did

She would not listen

Without mentioning how you would kick me out of a room, with your legs digging into my skin

IF YOU DONT LEAVE NOW WE ARE OVER

Pretty easy to have a conversation when you are yelling

She didn’t want me to leave

Not like leave her but the country

Without mentioning

I was living in your parents basement

Like hello, your son is in Japan but here I am

In your basement

Do you tell them that you loved me, until I became real Cuts on my legs

Unable to eat, or eating all the wrong things

Panic attacks for no reason

Do you say

If she was just color I would have stayed

But I’m not just color

I’m not just a Dream

I’m not something to make you feel alive

I’m three in the morning when you wake up, covered in sweat smelling like a teenage boy that just got out of gym class

Im the time you try to cook but you can’t force food didn’t your mouth

I’m the one time you went to your junior prom, but you just spent the whole time on the floor playing fire emblem

But no

You wanted your very own Dream girl

The girl who loves tea

The girl with blue hair

The girl who is mysterious but understands you perfectly well

Maybe I just needed you to understand me

Do you ever say how you wish you just understood me

Or do you just tell them

She was crazy

Because that’s what we get called right

When things don’t work out

When we yell at you for being dumb

Because god forbid you fuck up

But no

Don’t worry about it

Don’t worry about any of it

Don’t worry about all the nights I tried to call you so I wouldn’t kill myself

Because to you I’m just crazy

TRIGGER WARNING: sexual assault

A New Beginning

Alexandrea Wayne

Emily kept to herself most days. Horrid memories followed a stupid night with friends. “A form of PTSD,” is what her therapist had said at one point.

Haunted by the actions of men, she wore higher neckline shirts, longer skirts, a tighter belt, longer sleeves, longer dresses. Wearing more and more to give herself more time to get away, to yell for help.

Every time she felt a man’s eyes on her, she would feel the need to run. Every night she got home from her classes, she would lock the four locks she’d placed on her apartment door, because of the night she had let down her guard and let someone in her home, only for herself to be taken by force.

It was months after that night and yet she could still feel his hands over her skin, between her thighs, and in her hair. She spent most of her nights scrubbing her body until it was red, just to get his touch off her. She would pace in the living room until midnight, getting her mind off the force he used, and went to bed shortly after, once exhaustion took over her thoughts. Her bedroom was covered in clothes and towels and sheets.

Another trigger.

Clothes thrown off bodies and tossed to the floor, nothing more than a piece of fabric. To her, it was a second skin. A piece of comfort.

As if like a wave, she gripped the doorframe stepping into the mess of her room; calculating that made her eyes became distant. When she returned to herself, she jumped into action and cleaned until her room remained to its spotless content and nothing was out of place. By the time she looked at her clock, three in the morning displayed in green lights. She sank down on her low bed, putting her face in her hands and started to count, to ground herself. Her body shaking, her throat tightening; her emotions numb.

This was never new to her. It was clockwork. Day and night melded together. She woke up scared, shocked, and in pain for no reason other than her emotions caving in her body.

Her phone blared, an annoying alarm she’d placed. Dawn breaking through the blinds of her window. Getting up in the morning became the hardest part of the day. She counted the many ways that she could be grabbed or even talked to, by just simply walking to class. What people would say if she wore a V-neck shirt or even if she had holes in her jeans. The whispers she would hear. Feeling the pressure of the day ahead, she ran to her bathroom and threw up in the toilet, sinking down to her knees. When the sickness passed, she pulled off her clothes and stepped into the shower. She spent too much time looking in the

mirror, finding the bruises that still surfaced, but were at least fading into a golden color. Pushing aside her thoughts, she pulled open the medicine cabinet taking her medication with a simple swallow of water. She remembered taking it late last night, unable to relax her mind.

She let out a breath, getting dressed in something covering and grabbed her backpack and made her way to her classes. She kept her head down, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. She shrank to the back of the classroom staying hidden. Or at least that’s how it would be before he came in. His voice could be heard down the halls, laughing and talking with his friends. Before, Emily would have swooned at the sound of his voice, but now, his voice only brought back his forceful hand and his touch on her skin.

Emily closed her eyes and looked forward, as her body tensed and her leg bouncing under her desk. She had been waiting for the results from the hospital before she could file for a lawsuit, keeping to herself would make it a surprise to him at least. Though, any guy like him would think that she enjoyed it nonetheless. It was shocking for him to even think that the girl he was screwing wasn’t a blowup doll.

“Hey, dove.” He walked over with a smirk, his hand resting on the back of her chair. A nickname he’d given her by the delicateness of her body.

Emily kept her eyes in front of her, her fingers tapping her pen waiting for class to start. “So, I haven’t heard from you since the party and I was wondering if you wanted to go again.” He smirked, leaning down against her desk.

Emily gripped her pen as her hands started to shake. “No,” She said, her voice surprisingly even.

“Oh, come on. You enjoyed yourself, maybe I-” He said “James,” The professor stated, calling the class to attention. Looking back, he ran his tongue over his teeth before walking back to his desk.

Emily closed her eyes and let out a breath, letting go a fraction of the tension she held.

When class ended, she nearly ran from the room and into the bathroom, the world was spinning and her ears ringing to the point it was deafening.

She vaguely remembered as two girls walked over to her, hovering over her. “No,” She mumbled, shoving a girl’s hands away from her body. Thinking James stood over her.

The two girls ignored her and within a few moments Emily was carried to an ambulance. Police and EMTs walking around the halls, checking Emily’s bag. Police were talking to everyone in the class to see if anything had seemed off with her for the past few days. Which is when the truth was uncovered by the school.

When she woke, the nurse was checking on her vitals. A clipboard in hand and a pen in the other. The nurse had brown hair and matching eyes and wore pink scrubs. Emily blinked, looking up at the ceiling before she started to sit up until a gentle hand urged Emily to relax.

“Hold tight. The doctor will be here soon.” She said.

The TV had been turned on. The news softly playing. Emily leaned back < 62 >

and watched.

The headline that displayed said: Rape Epidemic at Universities within State.

Emily tightly closed her eyes shut turning off the TV. She couldn’t hold back anything anymore. Her hands cover her face as a breaking sob came from her chest.

A knock sounded as the doctor walked in holding a file. “Emily?” He asked, tenderly.

Emily brushed her cheeks with the back of her hand before her eyes met his for only a moment, before looking past him. He was different than every other male that had passed by her. She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t nervous, she didn’t feel the need to protect herself, and yet she still found herself shrinking and flinching from his touch and his eyes.

“It’s alright.” He muttered setting down the file. He pulled a chair forward to sit down across from her and kept his distance. “When I ran some tests, I found a good number of drugs in your system, Emily. Legally, I have to ask if you were attempting your life.”

Emily shook her head. “No, I took my medication late last night, and again in the morning.” She said.

The doctor nodded. “When you get home, I want you, when you take them, put the bottle upside down. And write down the time you took them and wait the allotted hours before taking it again. And I got your results back from the test a few months ago and the police are looking into the case. You will have an attorney to help with the legal process.”

It felt like the world was finally lifting off Emily’s chest. It had been the best news she could ever hope for in the hell she called her life. She could stop running, fighting. She could move on. “Thank you.” She said, throwing her arms over his shoulders before leaning back at the sudden spike of freedom.

He smiled softly before ushering in a tray of food. “You’re free to go tomorrow. I’ll check up on you soon.”

Emily nodded with a soft smile on her face that she hadn’t worn in months.

Walking into class the next day, she didn’t notice the voices or the eyes that daggered with her presence. Emily sank down into the chilled desk in the back of the room, absently taking out her homework and her laptop. Everything started normal, it was until his voice sounded down the hall. A letter clenched into his hand as he approached her. “You’re nothing but a whore with what you have between your legs! You wanted it! You wanted to have sex with me and I can prove it.” He yelled.

Emily’s hands stalled over her keyboard, her eyes still on the screen. She knew he was talking to her. It was stupid to think that he wasn’t.

Embarrassment crossed her face and heat came to her cheeks. She calmly placed her laptop back into her bag and rose to her feet to meet the fuming face of the man she stupidly trusted that night. “Your harassment has been noted.” < 63 >

She said calmly before rising to her feet and leaving the classroom. She could hear his yells from down the hall. She could feel her limbs getting heavy as she left the building. She wouldn’t allow him to bring her down. She wouldn’t let a man make her second guess her choices because of his sex and how it would better him.

#

A few months later, she arrived back at her apartment after going over somethings with her lawyer, she paced in her living room with her arms crossed over her chest. A nervous habit had started with her biting her thumbnail. It started when she was little, giving a class presentation. She was called, “Thumbsucker” for that reason. It was hard to even think that was the least of her worries at the time. She jumped as her phone went off on the kitchen table. Pressing a cold hand to her chest, she closed her eyes to calm down before answering the call. Her lawyer sounded on the other line. “Hey, Emily. I need you to come down to give a statement for the hearing. I already have a police officer waiting outside your building for you, there will be no worry with him being present.”

To even hear those words made her tight shoulders loosen and relax. She closed her eyes and thanked whoever was watching over her before she nodded to herself and headed downstairs where the police cruiser was waiting. The police officer stepped from his car before helping her inside. On the drive, Emily watched the scene pass before they came up to the creme building. Her attorney was waiting outside a small smile on her face.

Emily nodded slowly, as a silent conversation passed over them, as she tried to keep herself from going down the rabbit hole. Everything that had happened, started to act like a rollercoaster, and having to tell them what happened that night was going to be difficult, having buried everything since that moment. How could she do it? It was just something to be done. Something had to be done. Her voice and every other silent voice had to be heard.

When they got to the office, Emily sat down in front of a camera. She swallowed closing her eyes for a moment and told her story.

It was a Friday night, a few of her long-distance friends came down to celebrate her first year of college. There was a party in a frat house celebrating the same thing. The first year of being away from home, being free, starting a fresh, new, life. When they walked in, he spotted her the second she walked in. Walking over to her, he asked her to dance and for a drink. When she agreed, he ushered her over to the kitchen and grabbed a red cup pouring anything and everything. Someone distracted her, causing her to look away giving him enough time to slip something extra in her drink. Emily took the drink when it was finished and walked to the dance floor with him. To which she felt sick and needed to lay down. He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom upstairs, setting her down before he closed and locked the door. Everything had gone black after. She could remember waking up and her legs and arms were sore and had faint bruising. When she looked around the room, her clothes mixed with someone else’s littered the floor. As horror filled her head as to what had happened she panicked,

< 64 >

gathering her clothes, finding condom wrappers hidden. When she left, she went to the hospital and was given a test, even as voices told her nothing would happen. He’d get away with what he’d done. They always did.

Her attorney turned off the camera before pulling Emily to her feet and pulled her close. “This will all be over soon, Emily. I promise you that.” She said softly, rubbing her back.

It was a year and a half later. Emily had moved to a different city and college, almost everything transferred, given the circumstances. She smiled at a few new friends she had made as they had all sat down by the large oak tree. “You’re cheery this morning.” One of her friends observed.

“I am.” Emily smiled.

“Oh? Do you have a date with that amazing doctor of yours?” Another giggled.

Emily pulled her lower lip between her teeth before her cheeks were pink. “Maybe.” She giggled hiding her face.

“Emily!” As if on cue, the doctor from before walked over with a newspaper.

Emily stood meeting him. They pressed their lips together before pulling back. “You have to see this.” He said, handing her the newspaper which was turned and folded to page B3.

University Victim Receives Justice. Rather than it being herself, distraught and in tears, it was him in handcuffs. As Emily scanned the words, she lifted her eyes to him, tears falling down her cheeks. “He’s serving at least ten years?”

He nodded before Emily threw her arms around him like she had when he walked into her hospital room; and cried in joy.

It had been war for the last two years regarding the aftermath of the party. It was hard to think that she could have a life everything happened. But now, she had moved forward to the point of having a relationship; that she could trust and build. She now had friends that loved her; male and female.

With everything; she was finally free from her past.

Victor Acosta R.

F orgotten

C hurch

Larson

Ethan

Rolling Pins and Retrospection

Sarah Goehring

For years, I’ve been told that I’m becoming the spitting image of my late Grandma Emily, and I wish I could trust my own experiences with her to validate their claims. I can no longer differentiate between organic memories and imagined situations. Fifteen years after her death, my only clear recollection is of laying in her hospital bed, her sallow cheeks weighed down with wrinkles. The woman I knew was entirely different from the spitfire survivor from the Great Depression. In my years of extensive genealogy, of listening desperately to stories from anyone who knew her, I can only establish two concrete links between us: her classic sugar cookie recipe and her rolling pin.

From the time I was ten years old, I loved when my sister Rachel would pull out Grandma’s recipe book. I would watch, bouncing on our salvaged bar stools, as she rifled through the yellowing pages. Some wore murky brown stains obscuring the initial lettering; some were visited so frequently there was a permanent crease in the book’s binding. She’d skip past traditional stuffing for Thanksgiving dinners and instructions for canning stone fruits. The page she sought was ivory with oxygen exposure and mottled with splotches of almond extract. The handwritten title had rubbed off, but it didn’t actually matter, because we only ever called them Grandma Emily Sugar Cookies. Rachel would roll up her sleeves, don our mother’s worn canvas apron with rainbow-robed figures dancing across the torso, and retrieve cold sour cream and half-and-half from the fridge. Then she would reach deep into the utensil drawer for the most critical utensil in our house. Even with my limited cooking experience, I knew from childhood that it was impossible to make Grandma Emily Sugar Cookies without using Grandma Emily’s rolling pin, or at least immoral.

Last summer, a wave of grief compelled me to ask my mother about Emily Anna Saxton-Goehring, yearning for any new story. The request caught her off guard; when I wanted personal accounts I hadn’t heard, I usually sought out my father first, listening adoringly to the fondness in his voice when discussing his mother. But I knew that Grandma Emily had taught my mother how to make bread, how to soothe a crying newborn, and how to conduct her house with the warmth of my childhood. I wanted to know more about the connection between

these two matriarchs. I had failed to understand how deeply my mother mourned her mother-in-law’s death; hesitantly, curled around our dog for comfort, she accepted my invitation and started with the end. After her death, my mother recalled, Grandma Emily’s daughters quibbled over seemingly useless tokens to preserve her memory. Shannon fought for her worn undershirts, Alice feebly claiming rarely-worn necklaces, and Beth demanded the most valuable heirlooms exclusively for her children. When Grandpa Richard approached his daughter-in-law, my mother made one request: Emily’s rolling pin. She clarified that of all the heartache she’d endure in Emily’s wake, her greatest sorrow would be never again seeing Rachel, my earnest older sister, helping her grandmother bake. Grandpa acquiesced easily--Emily was the partner that engaged in conflict resolution, but Grandpa watched bullfighting in the background until the matter was settled--and Mom walked away with his wife’s maple rolling pin. My father’s sisters would eventually notice and disparage her for taking something so sentimental, but my mother never cared. Listening to her story, I couldn’t care either. I was suddenly that much closer to Emily than I ever had been: five feet away from something she had touched, that she’d handled gently for years, and I wanted to celebrate and cry all at once.

Mom made Grandma Emily Sugar Cookies with that pin for years until she passed the baton, a hefty wooden behemoth capable of braining an intruder, into my sister’s flour-covered hands. She perfected the thick almond frosting, whipped into thick ripples. Her cookies consistently emerged from the oven with perfectly airy centers and edges just shy of golden. Then Rachel departed for college and I hesitantly filled the vacant kitchen position. Initially, as a thirteen-year-old, I was terrified of somehow butchering the recipe and therefore Grandma’s legacy. I knew how to bake box-mix brownies, yes, but these were important, and the years of significance weighed heavily on my shoulders. I pulled out Grandma Emily’s recipe book with trembling fingers, dropped it too loudly on the countertop, and breathed slowly through my nose to calm my racing heart. My mother intervened and rummaged through the utensil drawer herself before brandishing the rolling pin like a medieval sword.

“Do you know why wood is always used to make wands?” she said easily, as though this was a totally average conversation starter. “Or why people say ‘knock on wood’ when trying to avoid karma for their own dumb decisions? Celtic witches believe that wood absorbs energy. So all of Rachel’s experience using this, all of mine, and all of Grandma Emily’s is stored in here, like a portable battery. You’re gonna be fine. They’re sugar cookies, not sourdough. Sourdough is a fussy bitch, so temperamental, but these are easy peasy.” < 69 >

I don’t remember exactly how my first batch of Grandma Emily Sugar Cookies resulted. Chances are good that I grossly underestimated their cook time, petrified of burning and wasting whatever dough I’d managed to mix. It’s my mother’s words that linger in my mind to this day. It’s soothing to consider that our rolling pin isn’t simply an object that my late grandmother’s hands have touched, but imbued with her patient approach to every baking endeavor. I’ve never asked, but I like to think it was Grandma Emily who planted and sowed the seed of wood magic in my mother’s cooking philosophy. Her theory of bread making, that kneading dough satisfies the instinct to garden once the soil has frozen in the winter, came from Grandma, after all. Rachel, too, learned life lessons at Emily’s side: listen to the warnings written in the margins of family recipes, don’t be afraid to experiment, food is more than a source of nutrients but a cherished experience with other people. Maybe, with all my effort to understand her, she could posthumously teach me too.

For Christmas, I asked my sister for her perfected edition of Grandma Emily’s Sugar Cookies. Initially, I intended to bake orange rolls, but that recipe called for a sourdough base, and I’d been made perfectly aware that sourdough was a fussy and temperamental bitch. Instead, Rachel sent me home to our parents’ house with her own handwritten recipe card. After a disastrous first attempt at activating the yeast and a passably competent second try, I was well underway. I sprinkled flour over the kitchen countertops, tipped the dough out of our biggest plastic bowl, and reached for Grandma’s rolling pin. Remembering how many years of magic it had experienced, imaginary or not, soothed my familiar kitchen anxiety. My faded memories would never satisfy my desire to know her but that was all right. I had years of baking the same recipe as my grandmother using the same pin. That was something I could hold onto, even if I’d never stand at her side and chat about personal philosophy like my family. That could be enough. Midway through rolling out the flour, my mother stepped into the kitchen to observe my progress. I didn’t notice her approach until she sniffled, a distinctly sorrowful sound. There were tears in her eyes, half-hidden by the hands pressed subconsciously over her mouth. When I paused my rolling, mindlessly running extra flour over the pin, and asked what was wrong, she gave me a watery smile. “Standing in the kitchen, holding that rolling pin,” she said. “I never thought I’d see it with you, but you look so much like Em.”

Y azidi B oy

Dawood Saleh

My life..

My page..

Is empty

A lot of burdens on my shoulder

I have none to be my holder

Does she suffer more than I do?

No answers for my misery

How would they tell the truth!

None can feel of my pain

I am left all by myself

Hundreds of words pushing me backward

I am a little Yazidi boy

They treated me like an assassin

But I was the victim

I never knew how to use the gun

I was in school, a hope for my Mom

I was climbing trees,

Chasing butterflies,

And here I am in the frontlines

They forced me to fight life

While I am dreaming to fight for it

They forced me to be someone bad

But my father taught me that heavens are only for good ones

This world is so hard

This world is so bad

But, I am not finished yet

I don’t want to be sad

I know the world wished to see me like this

So my life is only mine

I am going to be stronger

I will not let the bad world defeat me

I am good

I will be in heaven with my father I will have my friends again,

Our simple life, I will climb trees

Chase butterflies

I will be myself Life deserves a try

B roken

Amie Schaeffer

My proverbial string has snapped

The point of hanging on long since passed

No gentle fraying over time

But abrupt and violent

I am gone

Only twisted fragments remain

And I cannot pick up my own pieces

iagonals Max Smith

Buddies A. Perry

You Have 1 New Message Carly Gooch

Hey, sorry, I know it’s like one in the morning… I didn’t expect you to answer; I just… needed to hear your voice. Even if it’s only your answering machine. I um…just…

I—I’ve been thinking about us. I know you said I need to stop worrying but… I’ve been thinking how we fall into our same patterns like a patchwork quilt. How we keep warm off those patterns no matter how thinly stitched they are.

But I’m just… so cold right now.

And I don’t wanna crave you because I’m starved. I wanna crave you even when I’m full. I don’t wanna fuck you, thinking it might be my last chance too, I wanna fuck you because I love making love to you. I don’t wanna not talk, and lose our voices altogether. And one day have forgotten how to communicate. End up screaming and yelling and blaming each other. I just want the love that gives and takes, but not in a jolted way like ours does. From extreme to extreme.

Maybe what I’m trying to say is I don’t want to end up hating you.

Shit, I don’t know.

I just want that love where I can call at 3 in the morning if I need—sorry, that’s not—I’m not saying that because you didn’t—that’s not fair. You’re probably sleeping. And hell, if I cared so much I wouldn’t keep calling. Truth is I can’t imagine not being able to. So maybe what I’m trying to say is… my point is… endings don’t always close things. You know? I think maybe… as long as you love something, you can always take care of it. I don’t know, I just… Fuck…

Maybe I just want you to see what I see. Or maybe you do. Maybe you see the fragility of everything but you’re still betting I’ll keep coming back. Even after everything. Well, I guess you were right at least one more time.

But I should go. I’m pretty stoned and really tired and probably talking nonsense and… well…

Shit.

I just… found out my grandpa died last night. So I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. I guess he hit bad weather and slid off the road. Rolled his car a bunch. Maybe… maybe that’s why I’m calling.

I know I wasn’t super close with him but it just makes you think, makes you really scared that one day you’ll leave someone a voicemail and they might never get it. You know? So, yeah… um, just maybe… call me.

P rincess in the S tars

Heather Graham

Me and my princess in the stars two-stepped into our delicate, familiar waltz. Her hand wrapped around me holding me tightly, holding me close. She was happy, skipping along in the storm-soddened sidewalk beneath the glimmer of the antique marquee lights. Words tumbled gracefully from her lips, singing of princes in the stars and rose-colored allegories of life and loss. I listened to her croon on and on, dipping and pirouetting in the rain. She squealed whimsically, our embrace swelling as she pranced into the street in a playful race against the crosswalk countdown. Lights swirled across the wet pavement with glittering choreography, joining in our elegant routine. I spread my arms wide, the wind dancing against the tight drapes of art and color that dressed my wiry skeleton. Suddenly her step faltered and her melody collapsed into dread, resonating with surprise and confusion, shattering the quiet street. The twirling car headlights fell still. The stars and princes wilted into puddles. My princess tumbled from me as the sunny, steel face of a rumbling school bus collided into her. With an hollow thud, she flew. I flew. The twinkling universe held its breath as we crashed into the asphalt stage. When everything finally gasped for air, it came like a mighty gust of movement and sound. It was a cacophony of footsteps in puddles and hushed urgent voices. All I could see was the inky sky above me. Where was my princess in the stars? Was she still dancing? Continuing our waltz without me?

A girl’s been hit by a bus. No there’s no blood. Yes, she’s awake, came one hurried voice.

I didn’t see her. Oh god, I didn’t see her! another voice sobbed.

Stay calm. Stay with me. It will be okay.

Is anyone a doctor here?

Oh my god, I’m so sorry.

The rain is so cold.

The rain. The rain.

The rain.

A warm hand suddenly wrapped around me, an unfamiliar dance partner, lifting me from my damp isolation. I squinted, desperately looking for my princess in the fold of people clustered around her still body. Her chocolate hair splayed across the concrete like a dark halo framing her ashen face. She stared at the sky, counting the stars, with unblinking brown eyes as the raindrops kissed her cheeks and forehead. I moved above her, reaching as far as I could pulling the colorful vinyl dressing tight to shield her from the relentless downpour. Her eyes focused briefly on the Van-Gogh swirls of colors I’d stretched above her and a single tear slipped down her cheek. I stretched further, sleet continuing to drum against me as the rushed denouement of tonight’s dance came to a speedy end. The spin of paramedics and gurney wheels. The bleating of sirens and heart machines. The headlamps and emergency lights dancing across the wet, weary road. The rosy prince in the sky. The invitation for us to waltz again; her umbrella and the princess in the stars.

ehiscence Anna Martin

La Protectora y El Suplantador Emerald Perez

ance Miriam Chavez

The A rt o f

Delia Hernandez

The Art of Poems may be true to your nature, forward familiar footprints in taking me places I’ve once lived before.

fresh footsteps while they take me by the hand of ended trails to new beginnings while there are changes in the weather and the moon, forgotten footprints keep roaring so they don’t have to be. where there is day and night this crashing cranium could be mayhem.

Pseudo footsteps, ripple some more than others. where rain and shine come and to who we question love and loss.

N ailed in the W ooden B ox

Salisha

Allard-Blaisdell

Exactly one week after learning of my mother’s numerous falls on the cargo boat, my sister Rachael was told that our mother – weary of the pains and struggles – died. She died alone during the cold hours of Thursday morning at approximately 3 am. She died on the bed that was merely a few feet away from the red piece of rug I slept on. She died with no one at her side.

My mother died.

Upon receiving the news, Rachael immediately went to the Social Services Department in the city to inform them of our mother’s death and convey our desperate need for financial support. We had no money for a decent meal that day, much less the funeral expenses. Despite her pleas, Rachael was awarded only seven hundred dollars to offset my mother’s funeral expenses which were rapidly increasing an island away.

With such a small amount of money, Rachael had to make some rather harsh decisions and she needed to make them right away. Who amongst all of us was going to attend the funeral? Who was going to take care of her three small children and me? She could think of only one solution: government-run orphanage.

On Friday morning, Rachael packed up whatever little I had, and took me and her three young children to the Sapodilla Home: a shelter for abandoned, abused, neglected and orphan children. My first day in the Sapodilla Home was no different from my last. After putting away the contents of my small plastic bag, I was encouraged to meet and play with the other children in the Home. Hurrying outside to get away from the robotic adults who were mechanically onboarding me, I ran into the green field where some children were playing football (soccer).

Before long, Racheal left and headed to the pier to catch the cargo boat. Although there was a speedboat that took less than two hours to complete the trip from Grenada to Carriacou, the cargo boat took double the time, but it cost less than half the price of the Osprey speedboat.

Waves bashed against the red and white cargo boat as it made its way deeper into the black ocean. As they neared the underwater volcano (known as Kick ’em Jenny), Rachael felt a wave of fear of not seeing the people she loved come over her. Rachael knew that if the captain of the cargo boat made one wrong turn, the entire boat could be devoured by the volcano below. She thought about our mother being sucked away by the black hollow ghost of cancer. She wondered what our mother’s last moment was like. What was she thinking about? What was her final wish?

Around midday, Rachael, her boyfriend Francis, and my oldest brother Kelly arrived in Carriacou. They immediately went to the funeral home to confirm that it was our mother who had died. As soon as they arrived and introduced themselves, my sister and the other two members of my family were led to the back room where iced corpses were stored. Being forewarned of the inevitable, my sister proceeded to follow the burial home assistant as they arrived at the place where my once jovial and feisty mother, now lay mute and cold.

Large grey freezers filled the small, gloomy room. As the mortuary assistant pulled the middle shelf of one of the large refrigerators, my sister felt a sharp pain shoot through her heart. Was it a pang of fear or relief? Was it pain or acceptance? She could not tell.

This cold, black body with little-to-no flesh on its jawbones could not possibly be our mother. Long black hair covered the woman’s scalp, crawling down her neck. Distinct bald patches could be seen through the nest of dark hair. As my sister walked closer to the fridge and focused her view on the dead woman, she saw the tire-shaped in-grown skin around the sides of the dead woman’s neck, the sunken flesh in her left arm and the breast – the missing nipple on the left breast. At this point, my sister had no other choice but to accept that she was indeed staring into the lifeless face of our thirty-nine-year-old mother.

Gulping, Rachael battled to refocus her emotional disarray. A few minutes later, she forced herself to address the needs at hand. Rachael informed the mortuary assistant that she had less than seven hundred dollars to cover the expense. Strictly concerned with business values, the mortuary assistant said my mother must be buried that day.

My sister turned to my aunt who had recently arrived on the scene and asked her if she could return to her house and get one of her dresses for my

mother’s burial. My aunt, who had had no contact with our mother for many years, bluntly said “No!” Without hesitation, my aunt dismissed my sister’s request. She dismissed the final opportunity for my mother to be warmed in the cold world she lived in. With this empty, heartless “no”, my sister realized that the purpose of my aunt’s visit was to verify firsthand that the black sheep of the family – her outcast sister – was indeed dead.

Within a few hours, a small group my sister, her boyfriend Francis, my oldest brother Kelly, my aunt, and two men from the mortuary were standing over a freshly dug hole in the nearby cemetery. The sun was slithering down the horizon, just a sliver of it spotlighting my mother’s new sanctuary - a brown wooden box. Aside from the cars passing by, everything else was still. My brother and sister were mute as they tried to process what was going on in front of them. The brown wooden box partially sealed with four large silver nails sat on the bank of the black moist dirt. Small earthworms raced, wiggling their way further into the dirt as if the group’s silence was too loud for them to bear.

Gathering enough courage to shift her attention from the dirt to focus on what was inside the plywood box, my sister saw our mother lying there – defeated. My mother was wrapped up in a large piece of clear plastic that vaguely shield her nakedness from the world. The tears began to cascade down my sister’s cheek, as she cried for our mother who had not been the perfect mother, but who had done her perfect best of being a mother to her eight children.

My sister cried as she reckoned with the last moments of ever seeing our mother again. She cried for my baby sister Ronzel who was denied of ever having a chance to say Mama while staring into the eyes of the woman who brought her into the world. She cried for the abuse Nikita will endure under the arms of close relatives because mommy was not there to protect her. . .

Impatiently, the burial crew signaled that they were ready to proceed with the burial formalities. Nodding, my sister gave her approval. Promptly at the conclusion of the prayer, one member of the burial crew began to hammer the final nails into the wooden box.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Wrestling with her limbs, my sister fought to keep her composure. The loud thud of yet another stroke of the hammer rang deep into her ears, antagonizing the depth of her soul.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

The unforgiving hammer echoed throughout the lonely cemetery. As the final nail sank into the wood, Rachael’s knees gave away and she sank to the ground. WAILING.

She wailed for all the lost days with her mother. She wailed for the inevitable struggles that each of us will face.

She wailed for an imperfect soul who had been robbed in the most imperfect way.

She wailed for the seven poverty-stricken children left behind to tell the story of the woman who was nailed in the wooden box. My mother.

A P late of P asta

Mariah Fralick

As a daughter of immigrant forebearers, sister to ten siblings, wife to the best friend I ever had, friend to fewer people than I should be, mom to more teenagers than I can keep track of, and the prodigal student returned after so many years, life is like a plate of pasta. Okay, that’s not quite right. Life is like a plate of pasta plus the meatballs and mozzarella. Don’t forget the salads and sausage, the cheese and fruit and bread. Add a variety of desserts and wash it all down with cocoa or coffee topped it with whip cream, a side of cannoli, and you’re set. I contemplate the metaphor as I complicate my life.

Biting off more than I can chew is one of my special talents. It may even be an ethnic trait from my Sicilian heritage. Or, it may have come from my Welch grandfather who was raised in an Italian neighborhood in Pennsylvania. He’d didn’t have an ounce of Italian blood in him, but he sure knew how to make a mean marinara and could pack more life into a single meal than most people lived in a month. Memories of Grandpa swirl with recollections of other Italians - the real ones - my family of Sicilians eating dinner at my great Aunt Fran’s house.

The meal begins no later than 4 in the afternoon. Everyone gathers around a beautiful table spread with amazing food. The aroma of roasted garlic infuses the air, the tang of tomato and soothing scent of basil blend as undertones. I look around and feel I’ve died and gone to heaven; the food, the family, the chairs around the table, all signs of love in abundance. Take a seat, say a prayer and begin. With eyes wide open I’m sure I could eat something of everything on the table, and I do, eagerly.

I start with the marinated tomatoes coupled with onions and cucumbers and move to Caesar salad with too many home-made garlic and parmesan croutons..

Then, pasta primavera. Stuffed shells with ricotta and mozzarella. Plump ravioli - boiled and baked, heavy with cheese and marinara. The pastas are paired with meats and my plate is overflowing with spicy Italian sausage and

meatballs made last night and cooked all day in the sauce. Plenty for all. Enough and to spare. Mangia, mangia. As the first round finishes, I grow content and listen and laugh as the stories circle around me. This is the moment in a meal I love the most. I was born for this. I feel complete. Whole. Happy. Pretty near perfect. Out of nowhere appears a tray of cheese and bread accompanied by a bowl of green olives. My once empty plate is being filled again. Now I start to pace myself. I know I’m in this for the long haul. “Tell us about life in Brooklyn with the Latonas,” I say innocently. Nibble, nibble. Listen, laugh. I want to hear the story, but I also want to divert attention from my plate. In a heavy New Your accent, though she left that place more than 60 years ago, Aunt Fran tells a torrid tale of girls locked in upper apartment rooms, wicked stepmothers, kissing cousins and mafia men.

Then she spies my plate, “Do you like the tomato salad, dear? Have some cheese with it. How about some more pasta?” “Oh, I’m good. I mean, it’s good. It’s all delicious. I’m just getting full. I think I’ll slow down a bit, save room for dessert.” “Okay, if you don’t like it we’ll just pass it down. Does anyone else want more cheese. Bread and butter? Oh, look, there are still 2 stuffed shells left. And a ravioli. Who wants this ravioli? Mariah?” The ravioli is offered in my direction. Again I guiltily decline. “What’s a matta’, you don’t like it?” “No. I mean yes, I loved it all. I’m just so content I want to sit and enjoy the feeling for a moment.” I’m lying. I’m beyond content. Far into uncomfortable. I’ve become that overstuffed shell, that final, fat ravioli. My refusal earns suspicious glances from more than one set of Sicilian eyes. “Yes. You’re small. Maybe you should eat more.” “No, really, I’m just enjoying what I have in front of me now.” More lies. I’m not enjoying any of this anymore. My father’s cousin mercifully intervenes, “Mom, she’s fine. Just let her be with what’s on her plate.” “Well, okay, if you don’t like it, don’t eat it. But here, have a little sauce for your bread.” I don’t know how my dad gets away with less haranguing than I do. Maybe he’s used to it and knows the tricks to shutting it down. I don’t know the tricks, so saying no to a Sicilian woman with a wooden spoon full of pasta sauce is beyond my skill set. One thing I did learn, though, is to never completely empty my plate, because once it’s empty, there’s all kinds of room to just pile more stuff. The stories and banter go back and forth and around the table for another hour till all the food is gone and it’s time for the next round. It’s 8 o’clock and I can’t believe how time can fly and I can still feel so full.

With the mid-meal madness over, make room for dessert. Cannoli, cheesecake, chocolate cake, fruit cake, and cookies - all laid out, waiting to be shared. Take a little of everything, a lot of one thing, pass it down. Listen, laugh. Mangia, mangia. “There’s still a few cookies. Who would like one? Cannoli anyone?” The meal is slowing down. The diners are beyond comfortable. We sit and talk. Some walkabout. I lay my head on the table sleepily and slowly inhale the sweet scent of chocolate mixing with oregano and rosemary.

It’s getting late. The clock chimes 10. The evening winds down. New plates and cups are set down. Coffee and cocoa are passed and poured. So much has passed before me. I stopped counting the courses and never consider the calories. There is no sense of time now. No hurry. No need. Only surrender. No life but the plate before me.

echnicolor

Jace Guillory

L etter to R ancheritos

Devin Rockwood

Dear Rancheritos,

I am writing you this letter to tell you an area of concern I have for the Rancheritos franchise. As a die-hard Rancheritos fan, I do not mean to offend or hurt our relationship, my only intention is to move forward together and improve our relationship as restaurant and customer.

My personal favorite menu item is the bacon breakfast burrito, although I’ve noticed that my burritos are often about 80% potato and eggs and only 20% bacon. I am concerned because myself and others are expecting a large amount of bacon, but instead we get a mouthful of potatoes and eggs, something that’s not emphasized in the name. I’m having a hard time understanding because most of your employees in the kitchen are native Mexicans. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Mexico, but they don’t typically put potatoes in their tacos. Their main source of carbs is rice, and rarely do they put rice in their tacos, that’s way too many carbs. Most of what’s in their food is meat, beans, onions, cilantro, salsa, lettuce, corn and guac, and you don’t have to pay extra for guac. I’m sure your employees would know how to make it authentically if you just let them.

If the burrito didn’t have potatoes it would be a taquito, and we don’t want that, unless you sell them for 99 cents a piece. When you raised the prices a few years ago, I was expecting that meant more bacon, not more potatoes in each burrito. I’m not asking you to make the burrito smaller, but instead make the burrito 50% potato and eggs and 50% bacon, or even 60% potato and eggs and 40% bacon. And please, please do so without raising the prices again. Many of your customers are high school and college students. We can’t afford another raise in the prices. If you do raise the prices we’ll be forced to go to Taco Bell, and Taco Bell sucks.

People are begging for a truly authentic Mexican restaurant. We would see Rancheritos pass Café Rio for the #1 Mexican restaurant in Utah if you went more authentic and put more meat in, not just in the bacon breakfast burrito, but all your burritos. I’m grateful for all the years of delicious food provided for me and so many others. The world is evolving, I just don’t want to see Rancheritos get left behind.

Sincerely,

Concerned

L ame P oetry

J. A. Moss

I’d rather light the fire

Of my own demise. Then burn because Of some others choosing.

This fire isn’t one that gets To be snuffed out

When it’s best for you. It’s one that will burn Everything in its way If given the chance. So dictate all you want You just run the risk of getting burned.

ars Cynthia Shaw

Poppies of Color

Kira Frischknecht

Winter and S pringtime

Carmina Gray

The winter had draped its heavy, damp, arm over springtime’s frail shoulders, and led it back to bed, under a white blanket of winter’s own knitting. It had snowed eight inches and springtime had lain solemnly to rest with no tombstone to mark its giving up. Too soon, it agreed, and set its alarm clock to ‘later,’ when the seeds would tingle and the birds would ring a wake-up call. Winter sat watch, the evening of the seasons, until his time came to sleep, too.

T rain of T hought Trishana

Faamatau

Why was I born with very few tolerance?

With very few patience?

With a heart so anxious, To love those in need, In help, Indeed.

Why am I so mad all the time? Is it this world that I live in or is it this mind of mine?

I find myself holding onto hurtful memories, Hurtful people, Hurtful memories with people who hurt me.

Why can’t it all go away? But in fact it can.

With the inhalation of men, Inhalation of friends, inhalation of the plant that grows beyond the horizon.

The taste of the thrill, the rush flowing thru my veins..

Freedom never tasted so good, until I turned this age, until I found a change, until my life rearranged.

I take in all the anger and let it out with tears.

I’ve done this to myself for too many years. I’ve held myself back too many times. But if I let go who knows what crime, What destiny will catch up with time, What I’ll do with myself, what others will do with my mind?

I can hear the disappointment loudly like a whistle. Interrupting my train of thought.. I see their looks hitting me like I’m the dartboard, Like I am the wrong one, Like I am the enemy. But I am the enemy, to myself.

TRIGGER WARNING: stalking, assault

A msterdam

Savannah Martinez

After saving up enough money, I decided to spend my birthday in one of my favorite places: Amsterdam. This is my first time traveling by myself – something I’ve always dreamed of doing but always felt too young to do. I must have walked down every uneven street in the city center, taking in every crooked canal house and dodging hundreds of bikes all day. As the hot day in July came to a close, I took my place on one of the many green park benches placed along each canal, dreading my flight back home in the morning. I sat there eating a waffle watching the sun go down. The dark orange hue of the sky reflected off the water painting the street in a deep shade of honey, eventually being replaced by the soft glow of the streetlights. Riverboats full of tourists along with small boats full of locals drinking and singing pass by me. I’m listening to music, enjoying the last moments of my trip.

After the sun goes down, I pull out my phone and put in the address of where I’m staying and start following my GPS. I look down at my phone for directions when the screen goes black, and my phone dies. I have a backup charger with me, but I used up all the juice from listening to music all day.

Well, shit.

At this point, I felt both uncertainty and determination. I know this city very well, so I should have no problem finding my hostel on my own. I hadn’t been lost once throughout the whole day, this shouldn’t be any different. I zip my phone up in my purse and confidently walk in the wrong direction, away from my hostel.

After a good amount of time crossing bridges and zig-zagging through alleys, every building becomes less and less familiar. It’s different to walk around this city at night than during the day. Silently, I pray to stumble upon something I can recognize. Pushing through my uncertainty, I turn a corner and immediately recognize my favorite spot in the city; the docks outside of the Anne Frank house, where a houseboat covered in flowers sits.

A wave of relief rushes through me as I pause to smile at the sight. I only have to make a couple more turns from there to get to my hostel. I take a left at the next canal and make my way towards Oud-West, the area of the city I’m staying in.

I cross a larger canal and notice a windmill I had seen earlier that day

as I went into the city. On the bridge, I take off my shoes. By now, I had already walked well over 10 miles in shoes that were giving me blisters.

As I’m bending down to untie my shoe, I hear a motorcycle stop a few yards away from me. I look up and see a man looking at me with one foot on the ground and both hands on the handles.

“Are you lost? Do you need help?” The man asks. I clearly look like I’m lost. I probably do need help, but I know better than to get it from a strange man passing by on a motorcycle.

“No, thanks. I’m fine. My feet just hurt, but I’m almost home.” I say, cautiously.

“Are you sure?” He pushes.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, waving him off. He kicks his foot off the ground and takes off.

For any girl who has ever walked alone at night, this is enough to be put off by but not enough to feel a true sense of danger. At this point, I know that I need to be on guard, but it isn’t much longer until I’ll be safe in my hostel.

After finally taking off my shoes, I keep walking, crossing the bridge into the western area of the city.

I approach a small cafe that has three small blue tables and plastic chairs sitting outside. Overcrowding one of the tables, five men sat laughing and talking loudly in Dutch. The closer I got to them, the quieter they became, stealing glances in my direction. One man motioned his hand that held both a cigarette and a Heineken at me while speaking Dutch, making all of his friends erupt in laughter. I don’t think I want to know what he said. Pretending not to notice, I continued past them as he shouted more things in my direction.

I turn the corner, a bit more shaken than before. I roll my eyes, thinking about how disrespectful and ridiculous some people can be. Not even thirty seconds pass when I hear a motorcycle coming up behind me. I look to my left as I walk, and noticed my friend from earlier that night matched my pace on his bike.

“You’re lost. Let me help you.” He says.

“Fuck. No. Leave me alone.” I shout, keeping my eyes on him.

This is much worse than before. He didn’t just stumble across a lost girl on the road; he was looking for me. To my surprise, he left me alone and took off down the road.

I need to make sure he is really gone. I watch him until he reaches the end of the long, straight road, and he turns left and disappears from sight. Now that I’m not so wrapped up in trying to keep strange men away from me, I realize that I had made a wrong turn. I turn to go back to the main road. Back to my catcalling friends.

Lovely.

They see me before I see them, and this time I think they know that I

can’t speak Dutch. The same man as before looked at me, my shoes in my left hand and a bag in my right, and says, “If I was your man, you wouldn’t have your hands full with those.”

I knew I didn’t want to know what they said before.

I’m pissed now. I stop walking and look at the man laughing with his friends and say, “Thanks, but I don’t need a man to do things for me that I can do perfectly fine by myself.” I walk away, hoping I never have to see these men again.

I know where I am now, and I also know that I have to turn soon. I’m feeling so tired and just want to sleep. I turn down a residential road that looks very similar to the one that I’m staying on. I make my way down the street and recognize the windows on the buildings when I see a man on a motorcycle park and light a cigarette about 20 feet away from me.

Luckily, this is not the same man as before. However, he is the only other person on the street, so I feel especially nervous to walk past him. I keep walking because I’m almost certain that this is my street. He kept his eyes on me as I walked past him, but there isn’t a problem. I’m safe.

Unsurprisingly, I start feeling discouraged further down the road as my surroundings become unfamiliar. I am so done. I turn around to get back to what was familiar, keeping in mind that the man on the road will know I’m lost if he sees me coming back.

I am on high alert. I see him up ahead leaning against a small tree, bending it backward from his stocky build. I get closer to him when he notices me, putting out his cigarette and wiping his hands on his red shirt. He takes one last look at me before retreating into his apartment building.

I walk to the tree he had been at, and I realize that he never went inside. He is standing outside the front door behind a wall with his back facing me, discreetly creeping his head out from behind the wall to look at me.

I stop dead in my tracks. He’s waiting for me. He’s going to grab me when I walk by him. He’s going to do something terrible to me. Noticing that I stopped, he steps out from his hiding spot, facing me no more than 10 feet away. Even from this far away, I can see how big he really is. He is at least a foot and a half taller than me and probably weighs twice as much as I do. I wonder how I could possibly defend myself if he tries to hurt me. I don’t stand a chance. It feels like minutes as all these thoughts race through my mind, but it can’t be more than ten seconds.

It finally registers that I am in danger. I start laughing, shake my head and say, “Oh, fuck no.”

I turn around to walk away when the hair on my neck stands up and my palms start to sweat, and I realize that I need to run. Before I have time to think, my instincts take over and I go into a full-on sprint. I run faster than I ever thought possible, I know that he’s still behind me and slowing down isn’t an < 103 >

option. My bare feet are pounding against the brick sidewalk and it feels like I am flying. I run for a few minutes before I briefly pause to duck behind a wall to put my shoes in my bag.

I need to find help. Not too far away, there’s an intersection and I see a restaurant on the corner. It looks closed, but two blonde girls are sitting inside talking. I run up to the clear glass door and pound on it, getting the girls attention immediately.

The girls rush to me and ask what’s wrong. I beg to use their phone, but they tell me no, because it’s dangerous to let someone in after close. I ask them where I can go, and they direct me to a bar just around the corner. I thank them and run there as fast as I can, crossing the street still barefoot.

I see a glowing sign directing me to the bar on the fifth floor and I frantically rush my way up the stairwell and into the bar where groups of people are playing games of pool and joking around in languages I can’t understand. I feel envious of the fun they’re having as I rush past them, attracting looks of concern, directly to the bartender to ask for help. I don’t even sit down as I stumble over my words, explaining what had just happened to the bartender. To my relief, speaking perfect English, he calms me down and gives me a charger for my phone.

I sit down on a stool at the bar with my phone plugged in trying to catch my breath. The bartender is telling me that this is not the first report of something like this happening in the area tonight. Apparently, two other girls had reported something similar just a couple of hours earlier. After telling me this, he calls the police to tell them about my situation.

“I’m on the phone with the police, can you describe what the man looked like and where this happened?” He asked me, and to my surprise, I can recount everything in full detail.

Feeling bad for me, the bartender pours me a beer on the house. I sit staring at the beer, feeling lucky that I had seen the man hiding. I think about what could have happened if I hadn’t noticed him, but I don’t let my mind wander down that route for very long.

Once my phone was charged up and I had thanked the bartender for helping me, I took an uber back to my hostel.

It was two blocks away.

Richard Prazen

Owl Barbie Spencer

F ingerpainting

Annelie Furner

I dip my fingers into the fleshy yellow rot

The ruby stick that purples your lips and paint a messy sky of clumpy sunshine on that blank slate of scalp skin

I will strip you down to the brittle bone,

Paint your sick-stained skin with all my shades

Drip yolky sunshine into your lungs, melt the black tar and worship the dawn of this mourning.

Blow the ashes and dust like dandelion seeds, child. Make a wish to stick on the sweat of his Burnt eyelashes.

Shred this cloth and stitch a home beneath That bloody horizon

Silky black walls with tear-stained paper

Crooked, like clumsy cursive practice

Death lives here, I explain to those who ask, and loves her neighbors.

Tomorrow church members will bring eggs and buttered cardboard.

Before their gulps of crumb-filled air they say a prayer to her.

M uscle M emory

Olivia Ochoa

I forget to brush my teeth sometimes. It will be a day filled with nothing and so I stay in bed, hours spent recovering from a week of mindless, unfulfilling work. Eventually, I will drag myself up and try to make it out into the world to spend some of the money I have earned on scant moments of short-lived joy.

More than once I have forgotten my keys. I will run out the door and hop into the passenger seat of a friend or relative’s car. Later, I will have to knock on the door, huddled against the cold, my coat gripped in a vice around my neck until someone hears me over their earbuds, or gets out of the bathroom.

I forget birthdays, anniversaries, appointments and have broken more than one promise. My life is a rotation of well meaning plans tossed aside as days and brain become too full to contemplate another single responsibility. It is a busy life, an adult life.

I never forget my phone. The once shimmering glass now covered in greasy fingertip smears is a constant companion. Leaving it behind is like losing a toe, producing phantom pains. What is being missed? What if something happens? What should I do with my hands?

Once my daughter, still very young, became lost in a crowd. It took me twenty minutes to find her, an almost hysterical search that ended when she was discovered on the far side of the park, happy as can be on a slide. The whole time I was a walking cliche, my heart in my throat and yet pounding in my chest, my feet tingling, my ears ringing.

Every time I think I have lost my phone I feel those sensations, that swoop of dread. Momentary, yes. Less severe, of course. But similar in its own way, a constant reminder of the ridiculous trash center of the human brain and how it responds to minor events. How could the mind compare the two? Because losing either is like losing a part of oneself, with ever increasing ferocity. Losing a toe or losing a heart, both are a loss.

Once I discovered a message on my phone. The number was unfamiliar but I knew who it was right away. “I’m sorry. I thought I could be better than this.

I thought I had changed. I thought, I thought, I thought…” A figment of my imagination, it must be. Because they were nothing more than smoke, lingering but fading the longer I looked. Words on a screen holding so much gravity and yet none at all, unreal. So why the swoop? Why the loss? What limb did they take with them?

My eyes flicker to the screen almost constantly. My fingers leave more greasy marks. My inner voice repeats the message again and again, “My head hurts and I am absolutely exhausted. I have less than nothing left in me….”

Sometimes I forget to brush my teeth. I never forget my phone.

Untitled 4 Robin

Murdock

eighrn Brai Shanti

Lessons From my Hippie Mom

(No, really, she almost named me Moonbeam)

Margaret Shaw

Kick the boys when they push you during soccer. Hiss like a lioness at the catty girls when they laugh at your hand me downs. Don’t marry the first man who calls you pretty, trying to heal the hole left by your father. Spread your makeup and books across the floor. Take a nap instead of washing dishes. Avoid those who gawk at your messy home, they see organization as the value of women. Wake up around noon and cook the only thing you know how, coffee. Find a lover to feed you, a chef not a cook. This house was not built by women who settle. Don’t stay where you are unhappy, unless you’re staying in school. Get your degree and keep a good credit score. Have a multitude of lovers, kayak away on their tears when they do you wrong. Being loyal to men won’t heal the hole left by your father. Practice safe sex but have it often, that goes for drinking wine as well. Learn about cars and engines so mechanics can’t rip you off. Scream off your lipstick when men talk over you. This house was not built by boring women, but they never called the boring ones witches.

O range B lossoms

Dana G. Winters

Upon a lone, forest pathway

I wander through the whispering pines. In warmth, I’m wrapped and led astray.

Playing with the light of day

A wonderful scent on the breeze

Thousands of orange blossoms at play.

Petals flutter and break away

From branches hiding birds and vines

In warmth, I’m wrapped and led astray.

Teasing my temptation to stay,

A gentle purr between the leaves

Thousands of orange blossoms at play.

Branches and blossoms gently sway, Summer’s caress, slumber divine

In warmth, I’m wrapped and led astray.

At chill sunset I wake to see

The rotted ghost of life’s decay

No signs to show but one mercy:

I’m left with one orange blossom at play

L oud N oises

Xochilt Herrera

Mr. Diaz began to tell us about our assignment for the class in his monotone voice that sounded almost robotic. I heard a loud CLAP!

“Budgeting is . . .”

My best friend Adi leaned towards me and whispered, “There he goes again with his crazy clapping.”

Our laughter was followed by two loud claps.

Clap! Clap!

“Pay attention, ladies.”

We looked at each other and rolled our eyes before continuing our assignment. I began to feel drowsy, fighting to keep my eyes open. As I scribbled, I began to doze off and then woke myself up before my head hit the desk. I rubbed my eyes and continued with the assignment.

Once we got to my house, we made our way through the kitchen.

“Hola, buenas tardes Doña Sofia,” Adi said.

“Hola, como estas?” my mom replied.

“Bien gracias,” Adi said as we passed the kitchen and headed to my room.

“I can’t believe she always asks you how you are doing as if you don’t come over and see her every day. Like, she doesn’t even ask me how I’m doing,” I told Adi as we set our backpacks down and sat on my bed.

Adi laughed, “Well, she probably likes me more than you.”

I threw a pillow at her, which she easily dodged and we both laughed. We began to do our homework when we heard the front door open and a male voice say, “Ya llegue!”

“I love how your dad always announces when he gets home,” Adi said as we set our homework down.

“I know! That means it’s time for some food!” I replied.

We quickly headed to the kitchen. The second we opened the door the aroma of food seduced our noses. I saw the wonderful corn tortillas with pinched up sides filled with meat, beans, lettuce, onions, and cheese. I knew it, sopes!

My Mom, Dad, Adi and I sat around the table. It didn’t take long for my dad to have us laughing at his stories while we ate.

“Your mom turned me down several times; until I helped her get a job here in the U.S. That’s when she really considered me as a possible boyfriend.” My dad said before taking a bite of food.

“Estaba tan ugly!” my mom said. Adi and I were laughing so hard we had just barely finished eating one sope when we heard two loud knocks on the door.

Knock! Knock!

Knock! Knock!

“Huh, who’s that?” said my dad as he quickly took one last bite before heading to the door. We heard the door open and male voices filled the quiet room as we tried to figure out who came over.

I looked over at my mom as she headed towards the door. Adi and I followed her. The first thing I noticed once we got to the door was my father’s face. His face looked pale and panicked. My eyes traveled over to the two men standing at the door. They were stern-looking white men with police-like vests that had the word “ICE” front side. One of them held papers in his hand.

A deep “Hello,” from the man holding the papers broke the silence.

“Hi . . .” I said. Not moving from my spot next to my mom.

“I need you to sign these papers then come with me.” I felt my mom go rigid next to me. I looked up at her and saw silent tears streaming down her face.

‘Why is my mom crying? Did this man make her cry? What is going on?’ Was all I could think. Both my parents didn’t know much English but they could definitely understand some of it. I knew they understood what this man was saying. Both the men looked at each other, then at my dad and said, “Tienen que venir los dos.”

My mom covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “Can you let us both say goodbye?” she asked.

“You have 10 minutes.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going? Why is mom crying?” I asked as I turned to face my dad. His strong hug caught me off guard. He then let me go, grabbed my shoulders and looked at me.

“Mija, I need you to call your aunt Xitlalli and tell her that we got detained. She knows what to do.” Tears were streaming down my dad’s face. I had never seen my dad cry. My chest felt heavy. My heart rang in my ears and it was getting harder for me to breathe. Suddenly, I was turned around and was hugged tightly by my mother. She let me go and wiped tears off my face I hadn’t realized were there.

“Mija, I need you to be strong okay. You need to continue studying because school is very important. And no matter what happens just know that both your dad and I love you so, so much.”

“It’s time,” one of the men said.

She hugged me tightly again and headed toward the door. One of the men grabbed my dad’s arm.

“No! Don’t touch him!” I screamed. The other man came to my mom’s side, grabbed her arm and began to drag both my parents out of the house.

“NO! Let go of them now! You can’t take them!” I began to chase after them. I barely got to the door when I felt a tug at my arm. < 115

It was Adi, “You can’t go after them.”

I pulled against her. “I can’t let them take my parents away!” I screamed in her face. She grabbed my arm tighter as they put my parents in the back seat of their car. Tears blurred my vision. She forced me into a hug as I saw them drive away with my parents. When I could no longer see them Adi loosened her grip on me. The world tilted and next thing I knew I was on the ground. Adi was looking down at me, I could see her lips moving but I couldn’t hear a thing past the sound of my beating heart.

Boom boom…

Boom boom…

Boom… Clap

Clap… CLAP!

The clap woke me up. I sat up from my chair feeling confused. I looked up, Mr. Diaz was looming over me. “You’ll be losing participation points.” He said before walking away.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I looked over at Adi.

“Are you okay?”

I shook my head and smiled weakly at her.

“Did you have a dream?” she asked.

“It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.”

Falling Faith Watts

D eath of a P rivileged S on

Keegan Waller

The hand-painted metal sign Jeff passed as he turned onto the long dirt drive towards his work said “STEINMETZ TEXTILES. FAMILY OWNED AND RUN SINCE 1898.” As if nepotism was something to be proud of, he thought. Dust rooster-tailed behind his Chevy Tahoe and obscured the temporary license plate taped to the back window. When he pulled in it was 6:57 in the morning, and he was nervous.

Ice from yesterday’s Appalachian winter storm still blanketed the shady parking lot and he slipped as he stepped out of the lifted Chevy. He noticed that the car perfectly straddled a faint yellow line barely exposed under the snow. He didn’t care. He opened the back door to grab his backpack and knocked out an empty red gas can that was sitting underneath it. He cursed, put it back in the car, and made his way into the small wooden shack that housed the administrative office and walked towards the back to clock in for the day.

On his way in he passed Trevor Steinmetz walking out of the office toward the mill. Trevor stood over six and a half feet tall and had a massive beer gut that he was incredibly proud of. He considered himself an expert political scientist even though he had only been to one semester of college and not gone to many of his classes, and believed absolutely in America and her constitution, at least the document’s second amendment, which he celebrated by openly carrying a handgun everywhere he went. The founding fathers, most of whom he could not name, were prophets, sent by God to tell his word and bring the American Man to his rightful place at the head of the world. He had to duck as he exited the shack and saw Trevor. His eyes lit up.

“Hola el Jefe, how you doin?” He spoke with an awful Hispanic accent and slapped Jeff on the back as he passed him.

I’m not fucking Mexican, Jeff thought, but only smiled and said, “Mornin’ Trev” as he passed by and walked into the office.

The old woman sitting at the even older desk in front of the time clock was Mary Steinmetz. She had inherited the mill from her husband Jim after the cancer had finished with him and she ran the books while her son Trevor ran the day to day operations. She had been behind that desk every morning except Sundays for the past 38 years.

“Mornin’ Mary,” said Jeff.

She looked up from her spreadsheet, put down her pen, and peered over her thin gold rimmed reading glasses. There was no computer on her desk, just papers covering the desk like a strong wind had come in through the window and organized them for her.

“You were a no-call-no-show last weekend, Jeff. And then you called in the next two days in a row. I hope you’re feeling better.” Mary spoke with a thick southern accent, but her voice was quiet and weak from age. In spite of this, she still managed to intimidate everyone who worked for her, and Jeff was no exception.

“Yes ma’am, thank you I am feeling better,” Jeff said. Back is still a little stiff. But I-”

“Son, you outta know by now what our policy on no-call-no-shows is. Just because you have seniority over a lot of those other boys doesn’t mean the rules don’t apply to you.”

I guess the only people exempt from the rules are your son and your daughters husband the foreman, Jeff thought, but instead of expressing his thoughts he looked at the mole on the bridge of her nose to give the illusion of eye contact and said, “Of course they do ma’am, but you see-”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to work a double today at your normal wage instead of time and a half. And of course you’ll lose your benefits for the next two weeks,” Mary said.

Benefits, he thought. That’s funny.

“Ma’am I-”

Mary interrupted him again. “My husband might have said I was too lenient. You would think that after five years you would have learned the rules.”

Seven years, he thought, but who’s counting.

“Still though,” Mary said. “I suppose you probably have earned a mulligan.”

“Mary goddamnit listen to me for a second.”

If his language or his outburst offended her, her face didn’t give her away. Her expression didn’t change at all as she took off the gold rimmed glasses and set them down on her unfinished paperwork. Her frail voice deepened a bit. “OK, Jeff, go ahead.”

His shoulders slumped, and he looked down at the hole forming in the toe of his work boots. He was in trouble now, he could feel Mary’s famous “who raised you, boy” glare even without looking at her. He was in trouble alright, but there was no going back now. He looked up and said quietly “Mary, all I was trying to say is that I did call in on Friday, but no one answered. I even called Trevor’s cell phone, but no answer there either, so I emailed him and told him about my accident.”

“Well you should know by now that Trevor doesn’t have time to check his < 119 >

email in the morning,” Mary said.

“I know that, ma’am, but when he did get back to me in the afternoon he said everything was OK. And you have to understand that I called as soon as I could. First thing I did before I called the tow truck even. But no one answered.”

She shook her head. “Jeff, I have been at this desk every morning for 38 years and if someone had called that morning I’m sure I would have heard the phone ring.”

“Well, maybe you were in the bathroom? Or getting-”

“Impossible. I still would have heard the phone, and no one called.”

He was beginning to get angry. Seven years at this shit company and this was the level of respect he got? He hated confrontation, he was no good at it, but this didn’t sit right with him. Besides, why was he scared of this frail old woman in the first place? He was even more angry at himself for thinking that she was worthy of his fear. Fuck it.

“I’m sorry, Mary, are you calling me a liar?”

Something about his words or his body language had gotten her attention, because her posture shifted and for the first time in seven years he thought he saw emotion on her face. Fear he thought, he hoped, but it was more likely irritation.

“I have said no such thing, son. But I will say that it does call your whole story into question. I saw your Tahoe pull in and it sure doesn’t look like it was in an accident. I think I’ll need to see a doctor’s note to corroborate this car accident story of yours.”

He snorted a laugh. He really did find that funny. “First of all, Mary, it’s a new Tahoe. New to me, at least. And second, maybe if your cheap ass family would provide health insurance I’d have a doctor’s note for you, but its hard to afford an ER visit on $11.50 an hour, so instead I suffered on my couch all week.”

At this, she gave a snort, and put her reading glasses back on. She looked back down at her paperwork. She was done with him.

“You know what, fuck this. I quit.”

She didn’t look up. “Good. I was worried for a second I would have to fire you and pay your unemployment. You’ve just thrown five years down the drain son. I worry about your generation’s work ethic.” She looked up and continued, “and loyalty, or the lack of it. You know my husband…”

“Oh fuck off Mary.” He turned around and stormed out, but just as he was opening the door, he turned around to offer a final thought. “It was seven years. Seven! Not five. Mail me my last check or I’ll be back!”

He hadn’t noticed until just then, but four of his coworkers had entered the office and were watching his rant, not wanting to have to shuffle between the two of them to clock in. They may have shared his anger at their own situation, but they wouldn’t admit it. At least not right then. He may have felt like a hero in

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his own story, righteously storming out on the evil Steinmetz empire, no longer willing to subject himself to what his heroes in his books from high school would have called wage slavery, but no one would follow him. He was no great leader, and his struggle was unique to him. His coworkers shook their heads and got to work.

#

After two weeks he still had no paycheck. He hadn’t found a new job because he hadn’t looked for one. He lived alone in what he called a downtown studio apartment but was really an extended stay motel only technically within the city limits. He shared a wall with a woman who talked to her demons when she had no clients willing to pay for her company, and on his side of the wall was a green pull out couch decorated with pink rose patterns and unidentified stains. The couch always stayed pulled out unless he had company, which meant the couch always stayed pulled out. The motel provided him with a TV on top of a wooden dresser that could have been an antique if it had been taken better care of. There was an old red toolbox and a waste bin overflowing next to the TV. The few clothes he had were on the floor, too dirty for the dresser but not dirty enough to walk downstairs to the coin laundry room. He had no other furniture, only a kitchenette with a hot plate, a mini fridge, and a microwave that he wouldn’t use because of the radiation he was convinced leaked into his bones and boiled his veins until his blood sludged into his lungs and took his breath away. There was a coffee maker next to the microwave with stains that seemed to move as if they were alive every time he looked away. And next to the coffee maker, a letter from his landlord urging him to pay money that he did not have.

He needed his last check, but he was nervous to face Mary again. He opened his mini fridge that contained nothing but old condiments and fresh, cheap beer. The more he drank the more nervous he got, but the object of his fear shifted. It was no longer Mary, but his situation, Mary was nothing. Mary was everyone who had ever disrespected him. Mary was Joe Dylan, who had tripped him in the hallway in front of a girl whose name he did not remember, and then pushed him down again when he tried to get up. Mary was the policeman who could have seen him as just a young black kid in a nice car that he probably had borrowed from his parents but had to investigate further. Mary was his father, who had left him no place to go and set him on this path in the first place. Mary was all of those people, and she had never been confronted. His nervousness turned to anger, not at Mary, but at himself. “Man up” his father would always say when life threw an obstacle, big or small at him, and he felt that he never had. They had all tested him, and he had failed every test.

He grabbed another beer from the fridge and took it for the road. He thought he would need his liquid courage if he was to do anything but stare at his shoes and walk out empty handed, forgetting his sober state during his outburst <

two weeks before. He started the Tahoe and clicked the tab open on the beer, taking a long, gulping pull.

#

When he pulled into his former employer’s parking lot he downed the rest of his beer and threw it into the backseat of the Tahoe. He stifled a burp and walked with a purpose toward the office again. He was ready for Mary alright, but was she ready for him, he wondered. But when he walked into the office, he saw no old lady at the desk. He stopped in his tracks. Was it Sunday? Since he had been unemployed he hadn’t kept much of a schedule, days were mostly slept through or spent in his studio with the shades drawn, nights were spent drinking until sleep happened with or without his consent. He was pulling out his phone to check his calendar when the door behind him opened and Mary walked in holding a steaming paper cup of tea. She did not acknowledge him as she walked past him to her desk, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s your check,” she said and dropped it onto the front of her cluttered desk.

Well that wasn’t so hard. Why the hell didn’t you come down here weeks ago? He thought to himself and picked up the envelope with his name on the front. It was unsealed and light, and he removed his final check and paystub, just to make sure. What he saw didn’t seem right. “Uh, Mary” he said, suddenly nervous again. “This check seems a little low. I, uh” He surveyed the numbers on the paystub. “Yep you only paid me for 28 hours, and I, um-”

“You only worked 28 hours during the last pay period.” Mary did not look up from her paperwork or her tea.

“I know that can’t be right.” He continued to look over the paystub, and his hands began to tremble. This was not going to be enough. “Ah right here, you also didn’t add my sick pay to this check.”

At this, Mary laughed harder than Jeff, or anyone else who worked for her, had ever heard or even thought that the small, serious woman from the coast of South Carolina could. Her laugh slowly turned into a hard, wet cough, and taking a sip of her tea only seemed to make things worse. She grabbed a tissue from the box on the front corner of her desk and held it over her mouth until her coughing stopped, then allowed for one more small snicker, took her glasses off and wiped tears from her eyes. “Jeff, you won’t be getting any sick pay.”

“Excuse me?”

She was still fighting back a laugh, holding her glasses in one hand and wiping the lense with a cloth in the other. “You quit, Jeff. Why would I give you sick pay?”

This is what he had been afraid of. He leaned forward onto the desk. His mouth was dry, his voice was weak, nervous. “Mary, I earned that sick pay. I was here for years and I never once called in sick until the very end.”

“And after your string of call ins, you came in and quit. And used the ug< 122 >

liest language I have ever heard, even working in this mill. My son knows how to talk around women, he learned that from my husband.”

“Mary, I need that money. I earned it.”

She scoffed, “You cannot possibly think that you earned that money.” She sipped her tea and looked down at the cluttered paper on her desk.

“Of course I earned that money” Jeff said. Mary did not look up. Jeff raised his voice and said, “We’ll see what a court has to say about this.”

Mary looked up and gave another scoff. “That’s a great idea Jeff. Exercise your legal rights. I encourage you to do so. I look forward to seeing you in court. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do and I would prefer to avoid another outburst. And you are now trespassing.”

“Oh, fuck you, Mary. You’re damn right you’ll see me again. You’re gonna regret this.” He walked out of the office. #

Back to his shithole apartment. Back to his hopeless existence. Back to the smell of mold and alone. He had no money. Mary had called his bluff. There would be no lawsuit. He didn’t know the first thing about the law, had no money to hire an attorney, and he held no weight in this county. His father, the doctor, sure, maybe, but even still not nearly as much as the Steinmetz family. And he felt pretty far removed from his father and the small family practice at this point anyway. He hadn’t seen or heard from his old man in at least six months, or whenever that “Happy Birthday” call had been. His mother was long gone, and if she hadn’t been able to get any money from his father before the end, what chance did he have?

He could go find another job, but who would hire him? His criminal record wasn’t terrible, but it existed. And he wasn’t exactly in a place to get a reference from the only employer he had ever worked for. Besides, there wasn’t much else unless he wanted to move south closer to Atlanta, and he had no money to do so. He would just end up another homeless black man, swallowed up by a city that may have been too busy to hate when his father had been there 40 years before, studying at Emory and dissecting the city’s forgotten citizens, but it was certainly too busy to care about men like Jeff now.

He spent the next few hours drinking and staring at a computer screen. On the screen, a Suntrust checking account. He refreshed the screen every so often, hoping that the numbers would somehow go up.

He hated Mary. He hated the whole Steinmetz family. Hated his small town. He thought about buying a gun, going out in a blaze of glory at the mill. But he wasn’t a killer. As much as he hated the Steinmetz’s, he hated himself more. But something had to be done. He sat on the edge of the pullout and punched in the top with his thumb to make an ashtray. The sharp edge cut his thumb open and he watched his alcohol thinned blood slowly leak out. His could

feel his heart beat at the tips of his fingers as he remembered all of the diseases that his father had told him about when he was younger, and went over his imagined symptoms in his head. He put the cut to his mouth and swore he could taste cancer, or maybe lupus.

“Fuck it,” he said out loud. He pulled out a lighter and a pack of camels from his pocket with his bloody hand, and put fire to cigarette. He set down the hard pack and the lighter on the bed beside him. He thought he probably didn’t have much time anyway. He was dying, he was sure of it, and he would not die whimpering. Maybe he’d go to Mexico, robbing and gambling his way there like an old western hero, until his luck or money or life ran out. But would anyone he robbed really believe that he would use a gun? Did he believe it himself? A test first. If he could pass this test, people might take him seriously, if only because he would take himself more seriously. He grabbed the mostly empty case of beer and walked outside into the north Georgia night.

He pulled into the only 24-hour gas station in town and pulled out two red plastic gas cans from the backseat. He worried that it would look odd to see someone filling up gas tanks at 1:30 in the morning, but no one drove by, and the clerk inside didn’t seem to notice Jeff at all. He paid for gas with a credit card at the pump, and placed both cans on the ground, filling them and checking over his shoulder for passing traffic the whole time. He threw them in the backseat, the smell of low-test gasoline filled the SUV and he worried he would pass out from the fumes. He cranked down the drivers side window and then reached over to do the same to the passenger side, swerving into the opposite lane. Calm down Jeff, don’t get pulled over before you get a chance to do this.

The mill was still full of workers for the night shift, but the office building was empty and locked, with all the Steinmetz family at their homes sleeping before the day shift. Even the night foreman, who was not blood related but just an in-law, would be in the mill, probably hiding unless there was an accident, but not in the office. Jeff knew this as he grabbed the tire iron out of his trunk and put it in the nook of his armpit so he could carry the two gas cans from his car to Mary’s shack. The mill is too loud, no one is gonna notice a thing. It was cold and his breath was short and visible. He put the gas cans down next to a large Frenchpaned window and went to work with the tire iron, smashing out each pane and scraping out the glass. He kicked at the old wooden frames, and they gave even easier than he had expected. He easily climbed through the window and reached back out to grab the gas cans. His breathing was still short, he reached to touch his neck to feel his pulse. Quit it, Jeff, it’s just nerves. He struggled to open the EPA required lids on the tanks, cursing out loud his clumsiness. He tried to shake the liquid out but the slow stream frustrated him even more. He looked around the dark empty office, then remembered the pocket knife clipped to his back right pocket. Stabbing at the can, his eyes began to moisten, and he thought of

his father. He picked up the can and shook, the knife wounds in the red plastic allowed for just enough gasoline to spray out and thinly blanket the one room shack. He emptied most of the can, then went to work with the second, stabbing and shaking until he was satisfied with the smell of the fumes. He grabbed a paper off of Mary’s desk, and reached into his pocket for his lighter. And then to his other pocket. His mind went back to his room and he saw his Bic lighter next to the smokes that he would have given his right kidney for right then. “Fuck,” he mouthed. He started toward the desk, hoping maybe there would be a match or any way to make fire without rubbing two sticks together, but stopped and stared at the desk.

His mind still raced, but he had calmed down, his manic phase was over. This grand gesture now seemed empty, and his earlier manic state had subsided. Maybe all his ailments were in his head, he might be healthy as a horse. His tears came back. He could probably get a job at the waffle house, washing dishes or running food to tourists coming through town down Blue Ridge Parkway. Or maybe at the Wal-Mart stocking shelves or unloading trucks. He smiled. Mary would come in tomorrow morning and smell the gasoline and see the broken window but would never really know what happened. He turned around to leave, his mind beginning to quiet, when he heard keys jangling outside, and a lock turning.

The door swung open and Mary’s son stood there. He was tall and round, with a red goatee and a two-day neck beard spilling out of his long-sleeved collared shirt. He hadn’t looked up yet into the dark when the smell of the gasoline hit him, and he stopped with his keys still in hand stuck in the lock. His head snapped up and his eyes focused on the man standing in the dark. He didn’t see Jeff, just a young black man standing somewhere he shouldn’t be standing. Jeff was frozen in place, he closed his eyes and wished he would drop dead right then. The light turned on and the two sons of privileged backgrounds stood face to face. Trevor’s eyes saw the gas cans, and the man holding the crumpled paper.

“Trev, its not-”

Trevor pulled a small Walther PK380 from a holster inside his waistband and fired once into his chest before Jeff had a chance to finish. Once was all it took. After everything else, Jeff had gotten his wish. Blood filled his chest cavity and his world went dark, his mind finally quiet.

S

ap Danielle Dalton

P risoner in P rague

Steven Blake Horton

dear Nadeje,

its autumn cold, My soiled hands ache holding this pencil fingers quiver as my soul is reaching out from this ghetto the bunker overflows with little Kids now; they seem younger it’s my 15th birthday. I try not to, but I miss You, I’m very lonely

an ss guard handed me a note. treblinka scribbled next to my name tomorrow I get on the red rail car, with Others, one of several trains. We all got the notes yesterday. I’ve survived terezin by dreaming of You. I miss my Mum and Dad, their hugs, My stomach hungry and stabbed.

I send you this poem My love, remember Me

prisoner in prague

I’m a girl in terezin they try to stress Me beat Me down nazi flags fly bite the sky birds don’t stay and butterfly’s die, gestapo fait accompli

My bitter birthday gift from the ss third reich, ugly glaring teeth

it’s so sad here, starving little Ones with sharp rib cages they make Us stand in snow and wind, freezing outside

they try hard to make it look good for public opinion, a big lie the red cross inspection came here, it passed

where do the rail cars go, where is treblinka? burning my cheeks from fearful tears, aching words the blood red train arrives tomorrow I am frightened so frightened. You thinking of Me loving Me caring for Me is My hope.

love forever, Vezen

S ea P oem Eric Jensen

Let me write a sea poem

Let my mind unfurl and bring the lost crys

Of the dying vessel to my ears

I am lost in my sea poem

Splashed by its unfortunate ambiguity

Teased by its lifelessness

I cleanse my sea poem of its sins

I smile into the water

It no longer derives meaning from my breath I have lost

My sea poem

Before T hat

Carmina Gray

She lay on her bed in the dark, her head nestled deep into her pillow. There was a soft rap on the door, tentative, apologetic. Lifting her head, peering at the door in the dark, she whispered, “what?” A sliver of butter-yellow light sluiced into the room as he carefully opened the door, slid inside the room, and sat on his side of the bed.

“Sleep well,” came the reply. It wasn’t an “I’m sorry,” not in words: but it was enough. The girl, laying on her bed in the dark, took it for what it was meant to be. She smiled and said, “Goodnight.” And it was enough, for both of them.

Before that, she had run into their room and slammed the door. She had thrown herself on the bed and been angry at the injustice of it all. After a while she had cooled, steaming anger condensing into rivulets of remorse. He, still in the kitchen, held carefully his bruised hand and realized that it didn’t matter, not really.

Before that, she had stormed out of the kitchen, shouting ‘I don’t care! I don’t care!’ and he had been yelling, “Get back here! This is your fault!” And she had been crying and he had been red in the face, slamming his fist on the countertop to punctuate each accusation.

Before that, his face had ballooned unattractively at the jawline and up into his cheeks as the spittle flew. While she argued that he could make more of an effort, he yelled about she wasn’t who he thought she was, and if that’s the way she was going to be, he might as well leave. She had shouted, “fine! My Mom was right about you!” The two of them slinging mud and vitriol like they had never loved each other, not even for a minute.

Before that, he had come home late, his tie askew and his briefcase hanging open, and she had said, acerbically, “how was work?” Though they both knew she didn’t want to know. He had dropped his briefcase, right in the middle of the entryway, in front of the door like he knew she hated, and said: “it was better than being here,” and they both knew it for a gauntlet being thrown.

Before that, they had been having some trouble. Their conversations had

lost their sparkle, their previously harmless teasing gaining a sharper edge and a keener point. They still loved each other, sure, but they had their doubts.

Before that, she had been thrilled at his promotion and he wildly excited about her book being such a success. They had danced in the kitchen, conjecturing wildly about the great things they would make of themselves and their lives, and, around grins and spoonfuls of celebratory ice cream, they had a quick discussion about how much time his new work duties would take, and how her second book would need to be written quickly to keep up momentum. But between sloppy kisses flavored like ice cream, neither had really listened, nor cared.

Before that, every word had been the height of wit, every tiny inconvenience the sweetest quirk of the most loveable sort, and every look a sultry come-hither. Time apart was like a desert, joining again at the end of their work days an oasis.

Before that, they had spoken at length about the time commitments work demanded of both of them, and how they were going to make time for their small ‘us’ and ‘we.’ They had known that no matter what happened, they could weather any storm, and loved each other more than life.

Before that, they had married on a beautiful spring day.

D ear A nger

Melissa Cecala

Dear Anger,

Where do you belong?

Dad is yelling downstairs, again. I am in my room with the door locked. I have space here. I belong here. Has anyone ever asked you what you are, or why you’re here? I mean, we ask ourselves those questions all the time. Has anyone asked you?

The school counselor says that Anger is Depression grasping for a way out. Anger, are you in despair?

Pastor says you’re Evil. You need to be stopped, snuffed, stuffed. When you’re stuffed down, where do you go?

The Shaman says Anger is actually Fear. Anger, are you afraid?

Julie says Anger is simply Unfulfilled Expectations. So, what are we expecting?

Grandma says that Unexpressed Anger leads to Sickness. Anger, do you need to be free?

Jimmy’s parole officer says you need to be Managed. But, the Amygdala can’t be managed. It doesn’t Rationalize, Speak or Judge, it just Feels. Anger, what are you feeling?

My science teacher says you are a temporary Rush of Chemicals. I like that. A beautiful dance of Epinephrine (Adrenaline!), Noradrenaline, Acetylcholine....

Maybe you’re not so bad, Anger. Maybe you’re just misunderstood and multi-faceted, like me. Some of your chemicals slow logic and quicken instinct. Others slow reactions and enhance judgment. But your chemical effects last just two seconds. You basically release all these chemicals at once! You are like a mighty little push, to get us going. To give us courage when we’re Afraid. That’s what you are to me, Anger. Courage. You urge us to either Destroy, or Create. In essence, you make us make a choice.

So, what will we choose today, Anger? Will we Destroy or Create? Will our

crying inner child strike the child crying at our feet? Will our sarcasm mask our sadness? Will our triggers...pull the trigger?

Or, will we be a Voice for those unable to speak? Will we gather, unite, and construct solutions?

So. Many. Choices. Maybe next time, we’ll take a breath and give you space to just be, before we make a Choice.

One thing I know is that you DO belong. You are not Bad. You are not Wrong. You are The Catalyst. The Motivator. The Empower-er. Defender. Protector. Justice. The Gauge for Not Ok. The Thermometer of Enough. Like People or Love, there are a million versions of you; a million ways to experience and express you. There’s I-need-peace-and-quiet Anger, there’s I-need-to-defend-someone Anger, there’s I-don’t-like-what’s-happening-to-me Anger....you’re like a bowl of flavored jelly beans! You are a kaleidoscope of colors, not just red!

Anger...I think I know now where you belong. You belong right in the middle of everything, on the knife’s edge, in the space between, at the moment of Choice. Thank you for giving us courage to Act. To Fight, instead of cower. To Care, not fein complacency. Thank you, Anger, for keeping us alive.

Decidedly and Proactively Yours,

The Changemakers

S cheduled V isitation

Seth Cannon

John wasn’t the best example of a father; I can honestly count on one hand the times I saw him while we still shared a last name. When pondering fatherhood and the example I want to set for my own three boys, it would be simple to think about the choices that he made and simply do the opposite, but I think that perspective is far too narrow and really marginalizes the struggles of a man that I have come to know as kind and caring. My early memories of John are not kind. The shadow of fear and discomfort that loomed over my adolescent mind was a constant eerie melody before something deep and sinister emerged from the dark, as in any good thriller.

My mother was by no means an angel, but she was there, and I knew that she loved the two us with all of her being. My brother James is two years and three months older than I am. For the time between my parents’ divorce when I was three and my mother’s remarriage when I was seven, he served as a mentor, associate in crime, and at times, an arch enemy. Everyone called him Jamie until he was about twelve, and then he decided he was James, how masculine.

James was tough; I guess he had to be. He had been older and therefore more aware of the abuse that we had all see at the hands of my father as he dealt with his addictions and the stress of becoming a father and being married at 18. He was a selfish, immature, verbally and physically abusive boogie man, and was an easy target for me to blame my shortcomings on.

I, on the other hand, was not tough… I cried… a lot.

When I didn’t get my way…

“Cut! Cue waterworks… and Action!”

That was my go-to. I had, in my own mind perfected it. I played on my mother’s patience like Pete Townsend, wailing and arms spinning for the entire world to see. I never did get the nerve to smash her on the stage at the end of the show.

We went to visit John only once at the ranch at Round Valley, just outside of Adin, Ca. He was living in a little ranch house in the middle of the property,

< 134 >

surrounded by a couple hundred acres of alfalfa grass that was used as seasonal pasture for a few hundred beef cattle. It was a scene right out of a Louis L’amour western, some real High Plains Drifter beauty. That is, if you find sagebrush and juniper trees as striking as I do. John was a hand on the ranch. He did whatever the owner of the land needed to be done, and as a part of his wage, he was permitted to live there. It allowed him to be close if the animals or property were in need at any time, day or night. In other words, he was a cowboy. Some kids might have thought that was cool. I, on the other hand, didn’t hear any cool gunfighter music when I thought of him.

As my mother completed the thirty-minute drive to the ranch to drop us off with John for this scheduled visitation, I heard her grumble something under her breath about the nice looking house up the driveway.

“Oh, look how nice this place is,” she said, as we pulled up to the ranch house.

“I bet we get our own rooms,” chimed James.

My mother had been working two jobs since the divorce to afford a subsidized apartment in Alturas. It was a palatial two bedroom property complete with vintage brown shag that could take the skin off your knees through your jeans, and a musty odor that only the most discriminating cheese mongers could enjoy. As we pulled up to this pretty little ranch house with its red painted tin roof and white picket fence, I could feel the resentment from my mother like a physical wave crash down as she hit the brakes and threw the car into park.

“Ok, enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Mom and John weren’t talking, but I saw John approaching the gate and smiling from behind his pretty white pickets.

“I love you Mom,” I said.

James was excited about going to stay with our Dad. Why was I so nervous? Why would my legs not move? Why did I feel sick?

I started to cry…. of course. I think my Mom liked the fact that I was upset she was leaving, but I could tell she really wanted some time without us also, so I bumbled and blubbered and opened the door to step out onto the dusty driveway and spend the night with this man, my Dad, the guy I had seen twice in three years.

I didn’t turn around as my mom drove away; James was already on the porch when I made it to the gate. As I stepped beyond the fence and beheld the green grass, I was suddenly aware of something that hadn’t crossed my mind to < 135 >

that point. I’m sure James had seen them before I did, but my child mind failed to grasp exactly what the yard filled with trucks and well-used toys meant. Not only did I have to try to best my older brother for time with my Dad this weekend, but there was outside competition, as well.

This competition came in the form of two subhuman invertebrates from the genus girlfriendicus’ kidicus, and they were vicious. These kids stole the new clothes my mother had bought us especially for this trip and gave us their crappy jeans and t-shirts to wear home at the end of the weekend. They literally took the shirts off our backs. I don’t even remember their names-- they were not worthy of that type of individual attention-- but I was more jealous of them at that moment than I had ever been of anyone in my entire life. As I stood there in between those crisp white pickets looking at that pretty house and those two kids in their nice clothes, I was for the first time aware of the poverty that my mother, brother and I had endured as a result of missed child support payments, and overall neglect.

I realized I wasn’t crying anymore. I was upset, but this time I wasn’t crying.

We spent the evening watching TV. James and I did not get our own rooms; instead, we slept, as only kids can, on the floor of the boy’s room in sleeping bags that had to have been made of some amazing blend of fiberglass, shards of glass, and stinging nettles. We awoke in the morning to the cock’s crow and joined John in some labor around the ranch. We got to blow a stump out of the ground with dynamite. When my grandfather arrived to pick us up that evening and take us back to Alturas and my awaiting cheese cellar, we hugged John and hopped in the truck. I wasn’t happy to leave, honestly, I wasn’t anything. I was done feeling for a long time when it came to John.

T he H ighway O ak T ree Eric Jensen

Yesterday I laid on the grass

I miss your glassy eyes

Your lost smile

The oak tree above me

Mangled in the storms of past star crossed lusters

I think of only you

Of laughter that lights up caverns that hold a key

For my own eyes, ever searching

For a mind of someone who has not yet crossed the threshold

The roar of the freeway lulls me into lullaby state

Only to be awoken by the crash of oak branches and screams of a dying red dragon

Mangled in the oak tree sits the chrome beast of the highway

Carefully crumpled Chevy corvette

Carrying the only thing I ever craved

But never loved

Nevermind Max Deitz

Orange Dog Jasmine Richards

M oon D ust

Sorcha danik

You hold the needle to my skin Look into my bloodshot eyes And tell me to remember who I am.

I see mountains form a surrounding shield with trees that weep in the wind and collect moon dust from ancient spirits. The streams that pulse below my feet guide me to the depths of the earth where fear is no longer an enemy but a puzzle piece to the truth. I find roots that weave themselves into my skin trying to anchor me down to their cages made of thornbush. I use the light from past fires that once woke me from sleep to create a sword to swipe at the veil that’s covering up the fact that we are connected and a product of souls who once prayed besides sunflowers. And the pain from the roots make me bleed feathers and I fly to the top of the sunrises glow.

You feel my lips like petals that move with the breeze that becomes one with my breath like a heartbeat matching the beats from strangers that walk by. I am healing, I whisper. I feel my lungs undamn the hurricane in my forgetting.

The barricades my memory has built is crumbling Like dandelion fighting against wishes. .

You push the needle into my skin and fill my pours In with light, drawing patterns of my names and my used to be secrets. You, he tells me, are pure, there’s no need to pretend that you are holy when you can feel the darkness and make it bleed light. Perfection Is a curse placed on the dead and you my darling, You are alive. And when your light dances away from your eyes one day it will still survive in the moon dust that is in every night. You are the shadows that cling to the edges of sanity, That recognition of balance in your bones is holy in itself. Don’t forget the pain. Make it bleed light. Make the pain remember you are stronger than anything you’ve ever wept over. Dance with the trees, collect the Moon Dust as it rises from thorn bushes. Create a crown for the holiness inside your bleeding heart that you were always meant to honor. Remember who you are Moon Girl.

Live

Y our L ife in C ircles

Hope

Fae Thistlewood

i. (poet) write your lungs onto sheets of paper in blood, make your heart beat to the motion of your pen. write your wounds and stitch them back up. heal. it’ll only take an hour, a night. it’ll only take the rest of your goddamn life.

ii. [dictionary]

find new old words and make them sing, make them rewrite themselves in your image. you make everything new. relearn what it means to have your heart broken, to smell rain, to taste tea, to touch water. relearn how to breathethen teach everyone you know.

iii. {apartment}

buy yourself a typewriter you don’t need and have no room for. write cliches on it every day for weeks and then ignore it. buy yourself a camera you don’t need and have no room for. live your life in circles.

iv. (breaking) trip over your name. hate your name. forget you ever had a name. remind yourself that the only damn name you need is a reputation for [your life here] and nothing else matters. learn who you are. become yourself. breathe.

v. [learning]

make new friends and write about them. write about the person you became in the last five seconds. write about who you were ten seconds before that. write about places you’ve been, things you’ve touched, people you miss. write about healing and

< 143 >

breaking and healing again.

vi. {creating}

build an herb garden for the windowsill you still don’t have. start a bottle collection and take pictures of the dust on it. try to be vegan for a few days. buy yourself a shirt you don’t need and have no room for, but this time, get rid of some of the old ones.

vii. (lonely)

teach yourself how to be angry, how to say hell no, how to be proud of yourself. teach yourself how to cope without crutches. write.

write a book, write an anthology, write a poem about picking up the pieces of your camera lens - but mean your soul. cry a little. go home.

viii. [tired]

break something you thought you loved. love something you thought was broken. love

< 144 >

yourself. love your sun-deficient herbs. kill them by mistake. kill every plant you’ll ever own. keep yourself alive.

ix. {silent}

wear the same shirt six days in a row. wear it until someone notices. make it your new favorite shirt. only buy the things you need, and sell what you make. sell the bottle collection. sell your soul for less. keep the change.

x. (poet: rebirth)

forget everything you think you know and start over. write. move to a new city. write. dye your hair and buy a new shirt for once. write yourself a page of nonsense. write four. publish it. start over. <

T he H ospital S tarbucks

Caylee Caldwell

Hospitals aren’t actually static, white and sterile. They’re blue and grey. The walls, the gowns, the people. Sometimes, there’s an orange stripe on the hallway walls between the baby blue and navy blue, or the cushions of the waiting room chairs are yellow like mustard or lemon. That’s because people think those flashes of color will make the blue and grey people happier, but really it just reminds them that they need cheering up.

There’s a man in a mustard chair across the hall and to the left, dressed in old corduroys and a button-up. His skin wrinkles so much that I can’t see his eyes, but I know he’s crying. He looks like he’s melting. The yellow of his chair doesn’t cheer him up and neither does the sunset-colored poppy field painting behind his head. I feel like I’m watching him on tv, me sitting in the glow of Starbucks track lighting, and he in the grey and blue on a yellow couch. He looks so far away. I think it’s odd overall that there’s a Starbucks in the middle of the hospital. Maybe they could’ve put it in the corner, or by the entrance, but it’s right in the middle, by an information center desk and the lab lobby where people wait to get their blood drawn. I imagine them sipping on a green tea lemonade, grande, while their blood is being sucked from their bodies to be tested for this or that or the other thing. The Starbucks front is open like a garage to the hospital hallway, and I feel exposed being in here versus being out in the waiting room I’m surrounded by nurses in blue scrubs. They match the walls like they’re part of the hospital itself, one nurse’s hair ginger, another blonde, like the seats and poppy painting. They mumble on in grey tones as if the man across the hall isn’t crying, as if there’s not someone, somewhere in the building whose heart monitor can no longer detect the song we all dread the ending of.

Maybe the Starbucks is good for something though, because as out of place as it is, I am here. Maybe I’m not out with the melting man, lounging with poppies and just so far out of reach, but I’m shoving scones down my throat until I can’t breathe, because two floors up, in a room entirely too cold, she’s not breathing either.

Oranges, yellows, and track lighting will never help us forget the blues and the greys and the gone.

E rase U na V ez

Yesenia Beltran

A poor family once lived in a rancho of a pueblo in Mexico. The family lived on the outskirts of the pueblo and farmed for a living. There were two sisters in the family, Guadalupe and Michelle. The two sisters sang beautifully, but Michelle envied Guadalupe for her beauty that she did not possess.

The father worked out in the rancho from sunrise to sunset, while their mother sold tamales in the plaza of the pueblo every day. Michelle, being the oldest sister, took advantage of her parent’s absence and treated Guadalupe horribly. Although, despite the cruel treatment received from Michelle, Guadalupe never told her parents. Instead, she put in her best effort to help her parents with their work whenever she had the time.

The two sisters walked to the only school of the pueblo every day, where Michelle also treated Guadalupe with no kindness. As the end of their school days came to an end, a final baile was planned, with a special guest announced to attend the baile; Miguel Sanchez, a world-famous musician that would be visiting the pueblo, his home town, when the baile would be going on.

Every girl in the pueblo could hardly contain their excitement. Everyone wanted to impress and look their best for Miguel, including Michelle. However, her family did not have enough dinero to go and buy fancy clothing. Michelle begged her mother,

“No hija,” her mother told her, “we do not have enough dinero.”

So, Michelle attempted to beg her father,

“No hija,” her father told her, “we do not have enough dinero.”

Desperate and depressed, Michelle felt determined to look her best for the musician. So Michelle resorted to stealing from the local tienda’s in the plaza; she stole jewelry, shoes, and even a marvelous quinceanera dress.

Guadalupe, on the other hand, did not attempt to beg her parents or steal anything from the tiendas. Instead, she continued to help her parents and spent her time singing all of the musician’s songs that she knew

of.

The day of the baile came, and Michelle was clothed in all the items she had stolen. Guadalupe wore the same dress she usually wore to misa every Sunday: a simple, traditional white dress. When Michelle saw how Guadalupe was dressed, she laughed and gaped at her simplicity.

“You are not going to the baile with me looking like that.” Michelle told her as she pushed her down onto the muddy ground, “Stay here. You will only embarrass me.”

Michelle left to the baile as Guadalupe ran to the river near their rancho and cried, her only dress attire stained with mud. More than anything, she wished to attend the baile and hear the famous musician sing.

Suddenly, an angel appeared over the river. The angel was completely basked in white light, and her voice was soft yet alluring as she spoke, “Hija, no llores. Do not cry no more, for you deserve to go to the baile.”

The angel reached out a hand to Guadalupe. As Guadalupe took her hand, a flash of light surrounded the two. Guadalupe slowly opened her eyes, discovering a wondrous, red quinceanera dress on her with silver, sparkling high heels on her feet.

“Apurate, hija” the angel told her, “you do not have much time.”

Miguel Sanchez was in the middle of performing a duet with another musician as Guadalupe arrived to the baile. He noticed her instantly, filled with complete awe by her beauty. The musician began to walk down from the stage, leaving his companion behind. As the musician approached Guadalupe, he sang to her his song and played the guitar, “Tu me haces feliz, quédate siempre a mi lado.”

Guadalupe knew the song instantly and sang the next verse that was supposed to be sung by the female musician onstage, “Como te amo mi amor, nunca te voy a dejar.”

Guadalupe and Miguel ignored all the people around them and sang only to each other. Guadalupe sang and danced with Miguel for the rest of the night, until the baile started coming close to an end.

“What is your name?” Miguel asked her, “Won’t you come with me?”

Guadalupe thought of her parents, of all the help they needed each day. “Lo siento,” she told Miguel, “but I cannot go with you. Thank you for such an amazing night. I must get going.”

Guadalupe ran from Miguel out of the plaza. Miguel attempted to

< 150 >

run after her, but was instantly blocked by a swarm of fans as they noticed Guadalupe leaving his presence. She made it home before the rest of her family did, and threw all the exquisite attire into the river where she found the angel.

“Gracias” Guadalupe said as she got onto her knees.

When her sister came home, she talked of a mysterious girl who she did not recognize.

“Where did she even come from? I have never seen her around the pueblo in my entire life!” Michelle said, “She completely stole away the musician’s attention, all that getting ready for nothing!”

Miguel Sanchez would not forget about the mysterious dama with the beautiful voice. Therefore, he became determined to find that dama, and ask her to stay with him. The musician went all around the pueblo, playing his guitar for every eligible dama and asked her to sing. None of the damas matched the beautiful voice that the musician heard, and moved on until he reached the poor family’s rancho.

Michelle, already aware of the musician’s motives, waited outside the rancho for his arrival. When the musician began to play his guitar, Michelle sang beautifully. The musician felt off about Michelle, like something was not right. Yet her voice was beautiful, and he decided that she was the one. As the musician took Michelle’s hand and led her to his horse, the same white angel from the river appeared before him.

“Do not be deceived, dear musician,” the angel said, “You missed someone, escucha.”

Miguel listened, and a voice gradually started to get louder. He recognized the voice instantly and ran behind the rancho, where he found Guadalupe singing near the river. Even though she was not dressed in the same fancy attire, Miguel knew she was the one.

“Will you come with me?” Miguel asked her.

“I cannot.” Guadalupe told him, “You see, I cannot just leave my family behind. They need my help.”

“I understand. Let me help them.” Miguel said. The two bought a house for Guadalupe’s family, and provided them with enough money to live a better life. Nonetheless, Michelle stayed miserable forever, envying Guadalupe; while Miguel and Guadalupe married at the church in the pueblo, leaving Mexico shortly after and sang their love to the world.

Indigenous People’s History Repeats Itself

Mel Franco Perez

To the New York Times Editor,

I am writing to you on behalf of the Indigenous Peoples’ Movement, to inform you of our upcoming march that is taking place on January 18th 2019.

Our collective looks to bring awareness to current political problems regarding the welfare of our indigenous people. Problems including; political stances on various subjects including the Standing Rock pipeline, the detention of children and mothers at the border, and the American Indian Movement. Our goal is to deconstruct the various systems of oppression and allow the movement to expand with its values to decolonize. The fight is ongoing; changes are shallow and perpetual dehumanization of our people continue. But we grow stronger. Please, come support our cause.

Today, I would like to bring further awareness to the current border crisis and family separation policy, along with border detention centers where children and women are kept under tragic conditions. They go by the name; hieleras- or ICE (Immigration & Customs Enforcement) boxes. - a double entendre that is self explanatory.

Children are not only being taken from their mothers, but they are also being put in these “hieleras”, small boxes that are about ten degrees and only provided with an aluminum blanket.

The purpose of putting these children and mothers in such conditions is to intimidate them, and demoralize them. Furthermore, it was found that in addition to not being fed, the water provided was tested positive for arsenic.

Kids are dying; they are being taken without consent, and they are being raped. To what extent will these continue to be acceptable conditions?! A government report released Thursday said the Trump administration probably separated thousands more migrant children from their parents at the U.S. border than has previously been made public, but federal efforts to track those children have been so poor that the precise number is unknown.

< 152 >

This sounds and looks like a repeat of Native boarding schools, where indigenous children were forcibly removed from their homes, and indoctrinated English and Christianity; colonized ways of speaking, and thinking. As part of this federal push for assimilation, boarding schools forbid Native American children from using their own languages and names, as well as from practicing their religion and culture. They were given new Anglo-American names, clothes, and haircuts, and told they must abandon their way of life because it was inferior to white people’s.

History continues to repeat itself, with the irony that Trump is policing the border of stolen land- what is missing from this conversation is the recognition that American land was a place, inhabited by peoples with distinct governments, traditions, languages, and cultures, long before the creation of the U.S. as we know it today.

WE are here to decolonize, and to give a show of hands that we are and WILL continue to stand up for our people. WE deserve just treatment, regardless of our descent or immigration status. WE will march for Standing Rock, we will march for our ancestors that had to endure the multiple atrocities done to them by colonizers. WE will march for our stolen lands. And most importantly, we will march for the unjust conditions at the border, and all the sick , separated and deceased children that without fault, have had to endure our current political situation.

With urgency, Melissa Franco Perez, a daughter of Totonac ancestry.

Korean Wind Drape

Heather Marie

A S harp H int of H ope

Heather Graham

Pulled my beat up gray car to the curb

Wipers wheezing as they dragged across rainy glass.

The somber neighborhood was a nightmare

In the mid-February downpour.

Hiccuped woefully as sobbing tears fell

Cascading onto the peeling steering wheel

Confessional spilled from my tongue.

A haphazard flood, splashing unceremoniously

Across my dusty dashboard.

The fractured beat of my bruised heart filled the cracks and tears in the upholstery

It thumped in time with a tinny New Found Glory tune whining through my crackling speakers.

In an interrupting breath of movement

soft knuckles kissed my cheek

Wordlessly brushing at my tears

Sweater-worn fingers wiped the streams of sorrow from my flushing face.

Her touch quieted the sobbing.

The small motion of understanding halted my broken soliloquy.

Her careful affection filled the cracks inside the stuffy car

Showing with loving warmth.

Silently the slumbering neighborhood became less threatening. The collapsing dispair seemed less isolating. My dashboard affirmation was less tragic. She had mutely promised hope, Singingly softly to New Found Glory.

Leafy Stairs Lindaura Unzaga

Figures are rules

Facts are routine

Creation is truth

Expression is free

Numbers are cold

Math stays the same

Art is brave and Words make change

U

ntitled Carly Gooch

P ostures

Hannah Montgomery

I associate arrivals back home with my father slinking behind my chair, body turned part way away from me, my back, so the only things that could shift us further apart would be a quarter turn or if he’d not walk past where I’m sitting at all. He waits until he’s behind the counter, arms folded, shoulders slumping to cover his heart like heavy curtains, eyes shifting and fixing at angles, to ask me how I’ve been. I’m fine, I tell him.

He answers the same but I know he wishes he could tell me out loud, to my face, that he’s still mourning the man that he hoped I’d find someday, walk toward between church pews, be classically inseminated by. I want to tell him how futile it is to waste time wanting what’s not and what never was but the heart wants what the heart wants. He sets a cup down on the counter in a way that elucidates it’s at risk of breaking simply because it’s near me; this is a metaphor for the stability of his unconditional love. I want to demonstrate my heart for him by sawing one leg of a table too short. Because there’s only a granite counter and I’d like to keep seated, for now.

I wrap the cup in my fingers and palms, hold it safely, firmly, gently, take a sip.

I watch as my father does the same.

W elcome to M y T ed T alk

Christopher Toney-El

Apologies if I offend the but good vibes Is what I’m sending

I’m not spilling tea

But most of these incidents

Being filmed are true and not some movie filmed by spike lee

incidents like a white woman harassing a black man trying to get into his own building

Or cop opens fire

On a black man opening up

His own door to be welcomed

To a killing

Or how about

A Black man stopping a potential Mass shooting

And his reward was

Having his life taken away

Because of cops not listening and assuming

Non-people of color

telling me how I should feel

But if I speak my mind

I’ll be shown as the heel

They don’t wanna listen

To my point of view

But be quick to ask How I got my hair dew

They’re asking me for the N-word pass

Too busy treating Black culture like It’s a social class

They Think it’s cool

Wearing durags and box braids

If we wear them Society treats us Like we’re low class And never had good grades

They don’t understand the importance of dressing while black

Wearing certain clothes

So no one assumes You’re a thug

Or assumes you

Look like that rapper named Kodak

Bad enough you’re using my culture like It’s some type character off a video game

Only wanna include us when it benefits you and brings you fame

Making Black culture the trend

Like it’s a YouTube video

Check it out because It’s something they recommend

We just want our voices to be heard < 161 >

We get it

You wanna use the “we’re all human and all lives matter” excuse

But that don’t stop

The racists and bigots

And nor put a halt to their abuse

I’m still reeling over that brother

That was recently found dead in that noose

We got plenty of issues to speak on

But it starts when you stop looking at us as a menace

Because a lot of us have dreams

That are stupendous

And most of us have already achieved and uplifted our community but isn’t often noted

But to let you know they’re doing tremendous

My culture is only paid attention too

For entertainment and trends

Nobody wants to actually look through our lens

Unless we put in a song

With an 808 beat in the back

And that’s when everyone wants to

Realize what it’s like to

Actually be Black

Moratorium Emerald Perez

R esources

National Suicide Prevention hotline: Call 1-800-273-8255

Crisis Text Line

Text HOME to 741741

Rape/Sexual Assault Crisis Line 888-421-1100

Rape Recovery Center 801-467-7273 https://www.raperecoverycenter.org/

SLCC Center for Health and Counseling http://www.slcc.edu/chc/

Homeless Youth Services www.voaut.org/homeless-teen-services

Joshy's House of Hope www.joshyshouseofhope.org

Trevor Project www.thetrevorproject.org 1-866-488-7386

Text "START" to 678678

Encircle - LGBTQ+ Family and Youth Resource Center https://encircletogether.org/

Utah Pride Center https://utahpridecenter.org

U of U LGBT Resource Center https://lgbt.utah.edu/

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