Folio Fall 2019

Me Too

A Letter to Healthcare Professionals

Kayla Anderson

To Health Care Professionals:

THANK YOU.

While I am sure your work does not go completely unnoticed or unappreciated, I don’t imagine many physical letters coming in. Time is a concept that has recently become very special to my family, immediately after being informed that my Grandpa probably wouldn’t live much longer than six months. While we’re fairly new to putting every minute into use, it’s something you have done throughout the majority of your careers. Each and every one of you understand how precious time is. You work with different patients who each have their own timeline that you’re in charge of watching over. Your days go longer and deeper than anyone in my family can imagine but in the end, you carry us every step of the way. You understand how difficult it is for families to go through such hardships, and you treat us with the utmost amounts of love. We can’t thank you enough for the attention we receive when you’re with us. The moment any of you walk through the door into Grandpa’s room, you’re all ears on us. We’ve asked the same question hundreds of times but no matter what number we’re on, you respond kindly. So, THANK YOU.

You broke the hardest news to my grandmother late November of 2018, telling her that her husband’s cancer was inoperable since it had spread so far. You mourned with her, but shortly after you picked her back up. You promised your best to make the last six months of his life as smooth as possible, and offered endless amounts of help wherever she needed it. My parents and brothers were all around when you came in, and you talked with them, apologizing that you couldn’t

cure it all but as you promised grandma, you promised us you’d do your best for him. I’ll never forget the phone call I had with my parents that day as they called to tell me. As we wrapped up our conversation I remember my dad telling me you’d do all you could to get him back home with family. And for all that, I THANK YOU.

Thank you for understanding that not everyone knows how to cope with things like this. Thank you for doing all you can do to help your patients individually and help families every step of the way. Thank you for truly getting to know your patients and bonding with each and every one of them. Thank you for bringing a sense of positivity and happiness to such a dark and sad wing of the hospital.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU.

We’re three months out from November and though it hasn’t all been rainbows and butterflies, we’re enjoying and loving every moment with grandpa in the comfort of his own HOME. Thank you for being the best at what you do.

Love,

The Entire Meldon Anderson Family

An adventure with Jake

Nic Palfreyman

The tension in the truck is palpable, thick enough you can cut it with a knife. Jake is salivating and drooling, damn near whimpering waiting for that perfect moment. His sniffer starts sniffing as the barista comes to the window, puppy dog eyes giving his most powerful stare, showing just how good a boy he is.

Before I even have the chance to order the barista chuckles and asks, “Have you been a good boy? Are you ready for this treat?”

“I’d like the large salted caramel mocha with five shots please.”

The barista seems to already know my order. “That will be five dollars and ninety-five cents,” she says.

As I hand her my card she smiles as she watches Jake practically jump over me to get the treat she brought with my receipt. I have to laugh as Jake devours his treat, his little stub tail going a mile a minute. I wait patiently while she makes my drink. Jake however finishes eating his treat quickly and hangs his head out the window. Sending the subliminal message, he is ready for another treat. He knows it will be the perfect day. It never seems fast enough but he knows that once my coffee is ready and she is handing him the second treat we will be on our way, driving through the canyon. On our way to the riverbank. We arrive at dawn to watch the sun rise slowly over the tips of the mountains. Jake watches me as I cast my line into the river, waiting to inspect the days catch. Licking the fish before he supervises the release. Any day fishing with Jake is a very good day.

Drive

Maryn Green

The key is broken. If you tape over the hole you can almost pretend that it’s not, but it is. It felt like a breakup. Like we had been together for centuries and it seemed that the next step would be to live happily ever after. The plan was not, in fact, to jump ship, sell the house, and move across the country to Georgia, without me. I felt like a puppy, left in a box in the rain. Maybe someone would come, and maybe I’d brave the cold world, but I wanted her to come back. I wanted to stop chasing her.

When I finally took my broken key and opened the door to her car, it smelled like all of her bad habits. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it since she had left it trashed and marooned in my driveway with a doughnut on and a broken bumper. I’d handed it off to Neil’s Pro Services in hopes that it would be mine after all was said and done. But when it found its way back to my driveway, new tires and running engine, I still saw the reflection of her, lighting up in the front seat. She had, of course, left me the car in place of her. She left it so that I could drive to my graduation and forget that my mother wasn’t going to be there. So that I could get home safely at night, while she was out somewhere in the world, drunk, drugged, and fumbling over her mistakes. This was her way of showing love, giving you everything she could bare to give you, and then going away. Because she could never accept a love like that, she would insist it was a gift, a favor, no strings attached.

I turned on the AC and was overwhelmed by the smell of weed, spice and discounted Vanilla Perfume. In the back seat was a spatula, a fake egg, an empty bottle of Sobieski Vodka, a sconce of two angles eating grapes, and my little sister’s purple coat. Sometimes when you cry over things you can’t change, your eyes just puff up and nothing feels

any better.

Georgia was Born at the worst time of my life; and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I needed a friend in the world and so would she. I raised her for the first 4 years of her life; I slept on the floor of her bedroom for almost a year after she was born. I’d lock the door so that my mother couldn’t get us. It was us against the boogeyman. I resonated more with the heroes in movies after Georgia. It was hard for me to be scared when I cared less about my safety and more about my sisters. My future belonged to her now.

My freshman year of high school, my mom kicked me to the curb.

“I’m gonna put your shit in trash bags and your dad can come get it,” she said. “I’m tired of your attitude. Just don’t come back.”

The fight was brought on by a phone conversation with my drunk babysitter. I was angry, I told her she needed to sober up and be a mom. I told her if she hurt Georgia that I’d take her away. I told her that I couldn’t be there, watching her all the time. I was demoted from hero, to daughter, to child, to “your fathers,” in the span of six minutes.

I slept on couches for a few weeks before my dad came to get me. I kept asking her if she meant it, she couldn’t be swayed, I was 13 years old. During the summer, I saved up to buy a bike, and would sneak over to see Georgia on the days that I knew my mother would leave her at a neighbor’s. I couldn’t be there for her the way that she needed me to; so it didn’t take long for her voice to stop growing, for her words to loosen and fall apart. I watched in terror through the years as her learning regressed. She turned 4 and 5 and still interacted like a toddler. It went on like this until mid October, of my junior year when my mother dropped the car off and told me she was moving the next morning to Hephzibah, Georgia.

“I sold the house to the bank, Georgia and my boyfriend are coming too.”

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“It doesn’t matter now; the car is yours.” And she was gone.

After a good 7 months of her living out of state, my mother called me. She put my sister on the phone so that we could talk. My wideeyed, black-curly-haired-princess, was nearly silent. She spoke to me in noises, notes, and tones. It was clear that no one had read to her. No one had been her friend like I had been. She had been sat in front of a television and ignored. She was nearly 6, it was too late to make up for lost time. Sometimes when you cry over things you can’t change, your eyes just puff up and nothing feels any better.

I took my time in the car. I began going through the contents of the trunk. I came across golf balls, a windshield scraper, a pair of 8 inch high heels, a hammer, a key chain with my grandpa’s face on it, some loose fabrics and papers. I kept the scraper, the statue, and my sisters jacket, the rest was junk. The heels lingered in my mind. She used to dance until he bought her an escort license.

“Bear, it’s not what you think. He’s a really good guy.” She said, shaking cigarette ash over the potted plant next to her.

“Fuck him!” I fumed.

“Maryn! What is your issue?”

“He just uses you! He doesn’t give a shit about you!”

“Are you stupid? Go look in the fucking fridge and tell me that he doesn’t give a shit about me!” She palmed her chest like an ape ready to charge. “About us! He’s keeping these lights on, kid! Do you think it’s easy living like this?! You have no idea-”

“I live here too!” I stood. “I sleep in this fucking hole with you! I hold your hair back while you’re hunched over the toilet and get you into bed. I get up and go to school, every day, just to come home and live like this!”

She wasn’t so bad after a drink or two, but after 7 or an entire bottle solo, she had a mean left hook. Though I couldn’t recall all of the times, I can account for the excuses I gave to friends, adults, CPS.

“Those are birthmarks. Those were from a bike ride. I dropped a hot coal on my foot. I cut my back on my bed frame. My glasses broke on accident. I’m not sure why I cut all of my hair off. I’m not sure why I like to wear big baggy clothes. Please don’t touch my shoulder. Please don’t look too close. I twisted my ankle practicing for theatre. My dog left those bruises on my chest. I tripped walking in the dark. I don’t want to take my hat off. I don’t want to roll up my sleeves. I don’t want to go home…”

The only other thing I planned to salvage from this tomb of a car, was my Nat King Cole CD. When I lived in chaos, the only music that could comfort me was soft. Ella Fitzgerald and Jeff Buckley sang me to sleep. Nat King Cole and Sam Cooke kept my dreams of better days alive. Roy Orbison, Lauryn Hill and Roberta Flack stitched me up and pulled me out of bed. They gave me something other than fear.

Her final blow came at the end of cleaning. When I opened up the Nat King Cole case and found my CD had been replaced by “The Sundays.” The soundtrack of my childhood before her addiction. I caught myself asking out loud, “Why?” But the sun was going down now, and I gave in to the past as I put the CD in its slot and let the whole thing play. I’ll share with you now, all of the best parts. Because despite the scars, there were good times.

The first track took my hand and guided me from the cold dark present into the dream of the past. My Mom loved to paint, abstract pictures of fruit that got her into trouble. Afro Queens with big eyes and soft hands. She had fallen in love with Asian literature and fashion. She painted me pictures of koi fish and geishas. She told me that I was her princess; that I was, “The greatest miracle in the world.” My mother was born empathetic and passionate and fought for everyone she called a friend. She called me her friend. She painted a

world for me, by planting pomegranate trees and hanging a swing from the back deck.

When I fell and scraped my knee, she sat me on the counter and bandaged me up. On my birthday we broke glow sticks over the trampoline and jumped in multi-colored galaxies of light. We made a chocolate cake, on a warm day in July for the hell of it. We ate it on the kitchen floor and watched the sun bow to the moon through the asymmetrical windows. She did my makeup on Halloween and I did hers. We drove to the east side and made up for the lack of economic status with full sized candy bars and apples.

We took the train to the city and walked hand in hand to watch “Hope Sandoval” in an underground garden. She put me on her shoulders and let me fall asleep on her tired neck when we boarded the train back. She would make me pistachio pudding in the summer and tomato macaroni soup in the snow. We would watch documentaries in different languages and she would translate them inaccurately, to make me laugh. She would take me to blockbuster and Little Cottonwood Canyon and call me a rockstar and a knight in shining armor and hers . . .

When the last song ended. I put the CD back into its mismatched case and away. I turned off the car, shut the door and locked it. Without the courage to close the door to my childhood, I still sit on the floor of that kitchen, watching the sun fall; with cleft hopes that she will come, in a long, flowy dress and a smile to shame the stars.

The Run That Changed The World

Jared Fano

Clear, blue skies and a bright, mid-day sun hovered over 9-year old Diego as he sorrowfully walked home alone from school. His little head slumped down while his eyes glazed dejectedly in the direction of his feet. Neither the loudness of the street traffic to his right, nor the music of singing birds and barking dogs were able to grab the boy’s attention. Little Diego thought sadly to himself, “Are all first days of school supposed to be this embarrassing?”

“My knees and ankles are starting to hurt.” Diego muttered. Each step started to feel heavier and more burdensome. For Diego, a new school meant a new path home which his scrawny body was not used to. He stopped and noticed something that had finally grabbed his attention. “My feet are burning!” Diego stopped and quickly observed his feet. After a quick examination, the boy noticed that the soles of his shoes were falling apart, causing his feet to show through small openings. These openings allowed Diego’s feet to touch the hot pavement. Yet, he began to feel something much worse than the scorching, hot sidewalk. His eyes immediately began to fill with tears as an unwelcomed memory of his classmates ridiculing him resurfaced:

“Hey, everyone. Look at Diego’s shoes!” exclaimed a classmate.

“Diego is too poor to afford better shoes. His toes are sticking out!” Mocked another classmate. The class began to laugh collectively as Diego slumped into his chair and bowed his head in embarrassment.

Snapping out of the memory, Diego stood still and alone on the sidewalk; his chest tightening up as he could no longer hold his sadness in. He began to cry. The boy’s awareness, which was

initially oblivious to his surroundings, was now keenly aware of all the cars, birds, dogs and neighbors near him. Diego was starting to feel as if the entire neighborhood was watching him cry, adding feelings of anxiety to an already overloaded basket of emotions. “The neighbors are looking at me. Now they are going to laugh at me too!” He thought to himself.

This sudden breakout of anxious emotions caused an adrenaline rush of energy to flush back into Diego’s legs. A voice whispered in Diego’s ear: “Run!” The young boy began to sprint home, the only place that provided security and comfort from a cruel world. His eyes which were once glazing dejectedly at the ground, were now fixated straight ahead, focused and determined to get home as quickly as he could. “Run faster!” the inner voice exclaimed. His legs, which had once felt like they were dragging heavy bags of bricks, now moved in a motion reminiscent to an elite track star. The few neighborhood eyes that were once watching the boy cry, were now witnesses of the beginning moment of a future track legend.

Within a few short minutes, the young boy made it home. His chest still felt tight, not because of anxiety or depressed feelings of emotion, but an over accumulation of carbon dioxide, an effect of physical exertion. His legs, which once felt achy and heavy from a long arduous walk, now felt alive from the intense sprint. Diego felt his chest expand and contract in a way he never experienced. The overall feelings of sadness and defeat had now been replaced with the explosion of endorphins that flooded his brain after the rush of adrenaline.

“Finally. I am home,” Diego thought to himself with a huge sigh of relief. The boy’s only friend, a German Shepherd puppy, rushed to greet him. Diego smiled not just at his puppy, or the fact that he was home, but at the idea that he found something that gave him confidence and a sense of identity. The young boy realized he has the potential to be a future star athlete, just like his late older brother.

Tokyo Nights

Amy Nicolle

My heart beat faster and faster as I watched the plane on the screen move closer to our destination. I was 8 hours and 2 movies in to this flight, and 100% ready to land. I could hardly believe that I was doing this—my first solo international trip. I was on my way to Thailand, but first, I had 9 hours to kill in Tokyo and I was going to make the best of it.

Walking down the platform off the plane, I shouted internally, “I’M HERE! I DID IT. I’M IN JAPAN! LOOK! Those buildings over there, that’s Tokyo! I’m in Asia!”

I was in disbelief that I was actually here. My ex-husband and I had talked for years of traveling to Tokyo together, as he’d lived there for a few years and wanted to take me back. But, through some bizarre different path, I was here on my own, and a combination of crazy nervous and crazy excited.

With the clock ticking away, I planned my moves carefully. To make the most of my time, I opted to explore one neighborhood of the sprawling metropolis: Akihabara. Home to bright colors, anime shops, arcades, maid cafés, and costumes galore, the Akihabara district had fascinated me since I first started reading about Japan.

On the train into the city, I felt eyes on me, as a solo female tourist in a car full of local commuters and students. I bowed my head, attempting to be invisible and understand the crackling voice over the loudspeaker. Outside the train window, I watched the sun set over Tokyo, illuminating the neatly packed, crowded streets.

The train let out at Akihabara station, just a few blocks from

the main tourist street. Much of the allure of the district is the neon signs, flashing screens, and novelty shops. It’s like the Times Square of Tokyo. I joined the masses of people and just let myself float. I was no longer the only tourist, so I fell into the flow of the crowd and let it carry me down the street. As night fell, the glowing skyscrapers engulfed me. With nowhere to be, I wandered through shop after shop full of cartoon figurines, toys, and anime that seemed more for adults than children. I moved on to a shop with stationary and fake food. I wanted a small souvenir to take, so I bought a set of little erasers shaped like sushi. For dinner, I ate McDonalds.

When I was tired from walking, I decided to find a cold drink and brave a maid cafe. Here, young girls in costumes, from vampires to fairies to ninjas and schoolgirls, lined the streets passing out flyers to attend their cafe. The cafes had a variety of themes, but mainly they were bars or clubs to watch girls perform and hang out.

In the cafe, I was greeted by a bubbly Japanese girl in a blue wig and maid outfit that matched all the other girls in the cafe. She gave me a drink menu that included options for pictures, dances, and songs to sing with the “maids.” I opted for just a tequila sunrise and to don some bunny ears.

By then, I had about 2 hours to get back to the airport and on my flight, so I hurried to the station, feeling proud that I had survived on my own in one of the world’s biggest cities. I had confidence in myself like never before. I could be my own person and have my own adventures.

Black & White: Accepting Culture, Accepting Hair

Jamie Duckworth

Natural black hair is essential in the black and or African communities in America. It is a major piece of cultural identity because it empowers self acceptance, encourages self liberation, and destroys harmful stereotypes.

What is race, heritage, or a nationality? Growing up, moving all around Salt Lake City can really make you wonder and question these words and their definitions. I can remember filing any papers with personal information and noticing there isn’t an option for mixed kids, or multi-ethnic children. I can remember being advised to “just select whatever your mother would fall under.” I am a black girl from my hair to my hips.

“I love my hair. It’s soft and bouncy and grows up towards the sun like a flower. I love it up or down. Styled or wild, I don’t care! I just want it to be free.” (Miller)

The author of Don’t Touch My Hair! Sharee Miller, writes these words to empower natural beauty within the community of young people of color. In her children’s picture book both the art and text work together to address the standards Americans have put on beauty, teach personal space, and the right use of the word “no.” This is needed to help eliminate self hate in young people in the black community and teach boundaries. In the author’s note she explains that she experienced similar situations of her own personal boundaries being broken by strangers, and the disrespectful gesture it really is to touch someone’s hair without permission.

Shauntae Brown White, from Miami University, published an article titled “Releasing the Pursuit of Bouncin’ and Behavin’

hair: Natural Hair as an Afrocentric Feminist Aesthetic for Beauty”. In it Brown educates readers on the struggles of black women with self-acceptance and the historic education towards their white counter parts regarding the superiority of Eurocentric beauty standards. “I argue that some African American women who choose to wear their hair natural are making a rhetorical statement that resists Eurocentric standards of beauty while engaging in an act of self-definition and liberation.” (White, page 296) This article empowers and creates an understanding of the daily mental wars Eurocentric beauty standards have placed in America.

Society can really mess you up during your upbringing. I just wanted to to fit in. I avoided being me and didn’t accept myself. Growing up as a black girl has a lot of set in pressure already. A lot of stereotypes hit you without you even looking. I’ve had hips since elementary. I have a darker skin complexion. I have the thickest, curliest hair that can defy gravity. I am living in a society where bone straight hair on an ivory white woman is the only definition of a beautiful woman. That can create a road to self hate on its own.

“Three simple words ‘Black IS Beautiful’ were first uttered during the 1960s.” (Byrd and Tharps, page 53) The authors of Hair Story; Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America Ayana D. Byrd and Lori L. Tharps connected this idea in their writing because they want to memorialize black history through beauty. Part of how they accomplish this is by discussing the Black Power era when activists in America were highlighting black love. This is when being black was first starting to be accepted as beautiful. Tharps and Byrd create a time line of black hair in America to not only guide black Americans through their own personal journey, but also as a reference to understand black hair and the trials and the trends they have already gone through. In America

we are constantly convinced of the stereotypes of black hair. The stereotypes are well outdated. In 2019 acceptance is overdue.

As a black woman growing up in America, acceptance seems to be a priority. Growing up, I hated my physical appearance from my skin to my hair. My hair stood out and stood up. I didn’t match any of my classmates or close family members. Even when I was living in a multi-ethnic community, or an all white community, I physically didn’t fit in. Constantly battling with yourself over your appearance has a negative effect on a person, both as a youth and or an adult. Schoolboy Q, a black American rapper and father to a daughter, challenges the female black youth to self-acceptance:

“So, girl be proud that your skins black,

And be happy girl, that your hair napped,

Cuz the school system won’t teach that”

–

Schoolboy Q

These words inspire and empower women of color. They bring recognition to the internal suffering black women go through. Mothers and daughters are being addressed and acknowledged. This lyricist raps these words because he wants to validate self worth in young black girls of his community. He accomplishes this by aiming the lyrics directly to young black girls. His audience isn’t only girls, but also young black men. They need to also be aware of the acceptance struggle the girls go through in and outside of the black community. SchoolBoy Q is a father to a young girl, and a lot of his words are designed out of inspiration

around her. He creates a positive mentality about survival based on his daughter.

Black Americans are targeted heavier with the pressure from European beauty. Since slavery, blacks or Africans have always been tortured on a social scale, economic status scale and a beauty standard scale. In America, most of the judgement is based upon physical characteristics. Even after blacks received “rights” they still weren’t considered human due to the texture of their hair or shade of their skin. Toks Oyedemi and Regina Jane Jere-Malanda are two researchers who label these experiences as violence due to the indoctrinating views white Americans have placed on blacks since slavery. History reports placing people of color through tests that measured the kinkiness of their hair, or a light to dark scale of skin color comparing it to a paper bag.

Toks Oyedemi writer of “Beauty as Violence: “Beautiful” Hair and the Cultural Violence of Identity Erasure” emphasizes the damage stereotyping African hair has caused since slavery in America. Oyedemi references a quote from Jere-Malanda “today many women do not wear their natural hair as a result of many stereotypes and issues with social acceptability” (Oyedemi, page 539). This article punctuates the history of black African hair and the degrading trials a community of people experienced all because they didn’t match Eurocentric beauty standards in America.

I would literally sit in a chair for hours every two to three months to have burning chemicals almost reach my scalp to try and change my physical self. As growing children, we should not question how beautiful we are. Especially based off the texture or characteristics of our hair. Every child is created differently. Accepting your own differences early in age keep an independent mind stable as they grow in the changing society. I even experimented with multiple types

of IRONS, for hair and clothing and put drastic amounts of heat through my hair. This for the sole purpose of matching my white counterparts, classmates or family, to be accepted as beautiful. Meanwhile, other schoolgirls would spend money on every style curler, dying kit or perming salons just to gain something I already had.

The African American Registry, or AAREG, published “Black Hair Care and Culture, A Story” tracing the black community’s history of acceptance one hair strand at a time, starting in 1441 when they were entering a “New World.” “Many blacks argue that imitating European standards of beauty and grooming was necessary for blacks to be accepted by white culture, especially by potential white masters and employers” (AAREG). This article reinforces the ideology and embedded mentality the black community has prioritized since first coming to America. Blacks have classified themselves as less than their white counterparts.

It is unfortunate that in America black women are placed on the lowest position of any scale of acceptance. Even within their own community, black women are discredited from social status, educational and beauty. In history the stamping of this disrespectful label traces back to slavery in America where a form of ranking was performed on black Africans such as the “comb test” or “pencil test” or “paper bag test.” The black community has always been labeled as a lesser value. The ideas behind the paper bag test and the pencil/hair test are still affecting the community today. Even in a professional environment, lighter skin and straighter hair appears to be more acceptable in workplaces, schools, and sometimes churches. Its extremely unfair considering the physical characteristics are being judged vs a person’s intelligence, faith or work ethic.

The Institute of Justice organization article “Brushing Out

Utah’s African Hair Braiding Laws” provides a story about Jestina Clayton and her legal battles as she entered Utah fleeing Sierre Leone’s civil war. “Hair braiding is more than means of entrepreneurship; it is an important form of cultural expression.” (The Institute) This article demonstrates the social, and now legal, battle the community experiences in a recent lawsuit.

Stereotypes attacked Justina Clayton, insisting she obtain a license, after she already tried to get one for her business before opening up shop. In the end it was found unnecessary due to natural hair care as the base of the business. Her culture does not use chemicals or any altering agents to work through natural hair and styling. She simply came to this country and used her knowledge and tools on black hair, but the local society was not allowing it to happen. They did not agree with a black woman doing black hair, the black way.

I was always the tallest and the darkest skinned girl in school being multi-ethnic. I stuck out like a sore thumb. How silly to think back on the things I did to gain society’s acceptance. Society already accepted me. Society accepted me as a black girl in a white neighborhood. I just refused to get on board. Stereotypes are tough. But society is never going to accept you, and it is just that simple. Why try and please the confused society and environment we live in? My story is only to open your eyes of acceptance. We are all beautiful just the way we are. It can be fun to change things up with our personal appearance, or it can be who we really feel we are in the inside. But do not change because society demands it. Society is confused by default.

Brown, Shaunasea. “‘Don’t Touch My Hair’: Problematizing Representations of Black Women

in Canada.” Journal of Pan African Studies, vol. 12, no. 8, Dec. 2018, pp. 64–

85. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=asn&AN=134474417&site=ehost-live.

Byrd, Ayana D., Tharps, Lori L. Hair Story Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America, New York, St. Martin’s Griffin, 2001.

Oyedemi, Toks. “Beauty as Violence: ‘Beautiful’ Hair and the Cultural Violence of Identity

Erasure.” Social Identities, vol. 22, no. 5, Sept. 2016, pp. 537–553. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1080/13504630.2016.1157465.

Miller, Sharee. Don’t Touch My Hair! New York, Boston, Little Brown and Company, 2018.

Schoolboy Q. “CrasH.” CrashH Talk, T.D.E/Interscope Records, 2019.

The Institute of Justice. Utah’s Hair Braiding Brushing Out Utah’s African Hair Braiding Laws, 2011, https://ij.org/case/utah-hairbraiding/. Accessed 31 Jul 2019.

White, Shauntae Brown. “Releasing the Pursuit of Bouncin’ and Behavin’ Hair: Natural Hair as an Afrocentric Feminist Aesthetic for Beauty.” International Journal of Media &

Cultural Politics, vol. 1, no. 3, Sept. 2005, pp. 295–308. EBSCOhost,

doi:10.1386/macp.1.3.295/1.

There is Something Bad in the Canyons

Hans Hardle

There is something bad in the canyons. Once a year a black force will come through it, and tear everything apart like one stationary hurricane. That force will consume everything around it, munching rocks, trees, and occasionally humans, like tortilla chips. Eat them whole, crunch on their being, and then leave a few crumbs on the dirt.

It’s a scientific mystery. No one knows what it is. A black hole that’s being constructed on our planet? Or dark matter coalescing in America’s back door? It has been happening for a decade now. At first it was a black orb that consumed a car and a tree. A giant disastrous black pearl. For the next ten years it’s grown into a giant tornado. It’s getting hungrier, and scientists don’t know how to fix it. So, every year it just nibbles away at the canyons, making them a little wider. And every year we think, That’s it. This is the one. And then it collapses in on itself, and disappears.

It’s that time of year again, and people think they are ready for it. It’s been ten years and is now a holiday for the poor.

“Come party at a cliff at the end of the world.”

I remember my uncle taking me when I was 12. I ate ten-dollar cotton candy, watching the black thing tear up the earth. The wind whipped my hair around. It would come today at 3; maybe this time it would consume the whole world.

My name is Nesta Smitte, and I live in a run-down shack. The house I grew up in is so old that nostalgia is the color of rust. We live in the new world. 2099. Global warming has come

and gone, and the few survivors are dirt poor, or absolutely filthy rich. Oh yeah, that class war came too, we lost. Now if you tattoo yourself with a corporate brand you get a tax break for the year. Need a job for a high-end company? Go get the teams tattoo. They’ll even just pay you for it. I keep all of mine on my thighs, so no one knows how desperate I am for credit.

However, I bet people can see that just from looking at me. I stood in front of a mirror, in the oversized shirt I used for nightwear. It was brown and had golden rusty colors around the armpits. It was comfortable, but years in the dirt had given it a feminine musk.

I got myself a bucket of water and soap and played mother to myself. My parents were killed a long time ago from either scurvy or hunger, you choose. I don’t remember them often, just in small moments like these. In times where a loving parent should have been there, washing my hair, making sure I looked okay before I went outside.

Once I was completely washed, I walked over to the door to the basement where Uncle Rick was working. He was a cartoonishly wild man, with round eyeglasses and soot stains. He didn’t look like it, but he went to Harvard. Before universities became privatized. He was an astrophysicist before all of this. I couldn’t tell you what that means, and I couldn’t even explain to you what his plans were. I just knew my job and trusted him.

Today was no different with bright blue flying sparks. He had some finishing touches to do on his revolutionary time machine. If I was smarter, I would be worried. Those conscientious fears left a long time ago. Rick was all I had, and unfortunately that makes me one of his 3 blind rats. Even though our lives hinged on the success of his plan, I trusted his wily brain to get us to where we needed to go.

I was halfway down the stairs when he stopped working,

hearing my footsteps. By the time I made it to the bottom he had it covered with a tarp. It was a secret and he had to reveal it to me as much as he did to them. Not bigger than an oven. He smiled at me and walked over.

“So, they’re really is a lady under there.” He looked at me like I was a new fossil.

I winced at him. “I’m not a lady, I’m a bitch.” I said.

He grinned at me and pulled out the disguise I would need. It was suede clothes. A nice button up sweater to go over my musky shirt. There was a skirt too, it was the first skirt I’d ever worn. The fabric was clean, not a stain on it, and cotton soft. I felt chosen being the first person in them.

“How much was this?” I asked.

“This is the last of our credits.” His eyes bright like molten iron. “There’s no turning back now.”

I felt a weight sink in my stomach. So, this was it? I was committed now. We were going to rob the bastards blind, or, we would be evicted. I thought we groveled now, but if we failed, we’d be in the gutters. No kitchen, no bathing bucket, not even a paper to wipe our asses with. That’s if we were lucky. If not we’d be euthanized.

“Well, get dressed, It’s almost 11 AM.” He said. “4 hours to go.” His kooky smile held gapped teeth.

I put on my nice clothes and looked in the mirror. Flattered, I grabbed my wallet, a key ring of flash drives. The clouds blocked out the sky and I could tell a storm was brewing. I lived in Crustacean Court; a fishing village close to the ocean. Hurricanes ravaged our shacks every summer, and I was happy to be leaving this place. I wasn’t sure if I could survive another big flood. I would say this is a conspiracy theory— the rich don’t want us to live long enough to question them. The truth is more money means more

safety. Living down in the Courts was cheap, simply because no one else wanted it. Decidedly so, there was no value in this town.

People stared at me as I walked down the streets, and I wasn’t used to not being furniture. I made it to the bus stop and looked through my flash drive to find my Yuta bus pass. It would be a twohour drive to get to the city and I would meet Tiffy at the Common Wealth headquarters.

“Can you spare a credit?” I heard a man asking desperately.

I turned to see a homeless person walking up to me, he was missing every tooth he had. I was annoyed that he was walking up to me. There was no port for me to transfer credits to him, and he didn’t have a credit flash drive to begin with. He had an eye with an arrow tattooed to his cheek. He must have got a thousand bucks from Common Wealth for that.

“Get out of here or I’ll pepper spray you.” I said, flipping the yuta pass, for the pink cartridge under it. “There’s not even a way for me to give you my money. There’s no port to switch with.”

He looked up at me hopelessly hungry. “Could you just buy me some food? I’m starving.” He said.

“No,” I growled. He was getting in my bubble and I wasn’t sure if he really wanted money. Men like this were always nice until you didn’t give them what they wanted.

We stood awkwardly together as the big bus rolled up, he was cradling his stomach like it had a baby in it. He just stared at me with those puppy dog eyes, but I wasn’t about to give him any time. I didn’t have money, fuck off. We were at an intersection of a cop pulling up on his scooter ahead of us, and the bus pulling up behind us. He etched closer, and I could smell the stench of the street on him. Like a wave of flies hitting my senses.

The bus stopped and opened the door and the homeless guy walked up to the door, forcing himself in line ahead of me. The bus driver was one of us, a nice elderly man missing both his front teeth. No one got out.

“Got room for 1 more, folks.” The bus driver said.

“I’ll take it!” The putrid guy said.

“You don’t even have money.” I scowled.

He turned to me and eyed my flash drive; he was slow at first. Just turning his feet one at a time to me. Attacks went like this in the Court, utter silence, violent pounce, and then silence again.

“Yes, I do.” He lied turning to me, full frontal. If he jumped, he could throw me off my feet.

He shouted something and whipped his hand out of his pockets, an eye arrow tattoo was stabbed into his wrist. I lifted my key ring and sprayed peppers into his face. He fell and called me a bitch; his hand free from his pocket dropped his very old nearly broken flash drive key ring. He wasn’t homeless, just disgustingly poor, but he was trying to get my seat.

I sprayed his puffy red eyes again. That was when the cops pulled up. I turned, hating confrontation, and tried to get on the bus, but the driver stopped me.

“Ma’am, he was here first, if he has the money, I’m letting him on.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said.

I turned back and saw the guy groveling on the street and the cop pulled up to me.

“Is he hurting you miss?” He asked.

My eyes fluttered from shock. Cops had never talked to me like this. If they saw me, they would always hover in my peripherals waiting for me to steal something. They were right of course, but it still hurt. They would look at my clothes, the gangly limbs, and just know I was desperate for anything. They could see the yearning in my eyes, but not now. These clothes had given me a new skin. I was unsure of this new power and tested it out.

“Yes, he was trying to steal my flash.” I did not lie well. I heard a beleaguered sigh from behind me.

“Well good for you.” The cop said. “Defending yourself like that.” And pulled the poor guys hands behind his back. He was cursing a storm at me, which just made my story that much more believable. I was grateful I only lost teeth in the back of my mouth. I got on the bus and went into the city, the driver scowled.

The big difference between upper and lower class is the marketing. In my town you’ll see rusted surfaces, no brand looks good on that. So, they must brand you. Face tattoos are rare but an option. Bright disgusting red, with mustard yellow circles. But don’t worry you’re not a slave, they just own that part of your skin. It gets the rich hot and bothered to see the complexity of owning a person, but not enslaving them.

It’s all so much more beautiful. Every surface is sleek new gorgeous silver. There are brands everywhere, all fighting for mental real estate, all chanting, “Come this way.” The artwork is more beautiful than real life. On the right precious, clean, and ineffably sexy Lolo Loca bottles. Pristine clean robots grabbing litter off the street, and big black mouse ears on their heads. Get close and they’ll say, “Wilted Wimsey cares about the environment.”

The building I was going to was the biggest of them all. Com-

mon Wealth Head Quarters. A skyscraper that was equally wide as it was tall towered over us. At the front an eyeball stared down at us, with a swooping arrow for an eyelid, and that arrow owned half the world. The other two corporations held onto the other half and the rest clawed over what was left.

I took deep breathes before I left the bus. Rich people scared me. In the Crustacean Court, if someone attacked you, they’d jump you, and you’d get bruised. These people have eyes that bite, and the venom doesn’t kick in for hours, sometimes days. Until the cops come at your door, for trespassing, or stealing. I hadn’t stolen anything half the time.

Once I was on the street, I didn’t get a second glance. I was one of them. Cops made eye contact with me, and I had to look away. My mind on autopilot. I don’t know why, but we’re friends now. I shouldn’t be nervous. Maybe it’s because I was robbing the company that owned them.

I went up to the front door and told the bellhop I had a job interview with Tiffy. He looked over his clipboard and decided I passed. He took me up 34 floors. I walked down a carpeted hallway, with whirring air conditioning. The machine flung little strips of paper in the air like teeny flags. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and realized that was probably improper to do.

I shook hands with Tiffy, a well put together 60-year-old woman. She had a halo of white hair, and when she shook my hand, I saw the eye and the arrow on her wrist. She was kind enough, and I pretended like I didn’t know who she was. She told me where the cameras were, and how to avoid them when I walked out, so my face wasn’t captured while I was with her.

She grabbed me a cold glass of water, a clipboard with a questionnaire of why I was the right fit. We got into a locked room together, and she pulled me to a bright electronic square. The figures scrolled passed it, and she typed like her fingers were daggers. She put my wallet into the computers port and downloaded 364

billion dollars onto it. It had to be my wallet. It was so old, that the system would take hours to track down which wallet had it. The poor people were never worth identifying who had which wallet. If it gets stolen fend for yourself, there’s no way to track that stuff.

She put 364 billion dollars into my hand, and the rush of power flowed into me. I had half the American economy in my hands. My hands shook as I pulled the key ring around my index finger. She smiled at me and cradled my hand in hers.

“This is what they deserve.” She said. “We’ll make them flounder.”

Then she rushed me out of the locked room, and told me to walk like I had said no. Like I was too good for this job opportunity. I nodded and then she set me on my way, her tattoo flashing as she waved.

When I finally made it to the street below the fireworks were booming in my stomach, and I had to actually fight off a smile. I was struggling to walk straight; my knees were feeling wobbly. No, play it cool Rose, you’re just an upper-class woman looking to get back home to her cats. Or whatever the fuck rich women do with their free time.

My feet clicked against the cement, and I could feel an undeniable swagger in my step. My stomach threatened to leap out of my body, and my clean hair bounced against my shoulders. I couldn’t help but think, I was a mad woman, and it made me smile.

I looked at men on the street and wondered just how much it would cost to buy them. Make them do whatever I wanted. When I was done with them, the big strong men would sleep in nothing but my old dank T-shirt. It would be a beautiful sight, to loom over them. I think I’d make sure they were businessmen, those were the only men desperate enough to do whatever I wanted them too. I don’t even think I wanted sex, I just wanted to look at their faces as they lived my incredibly disgusting day to day life. What? This is the only time in my short life that I had ever mat-

tered to anything bigger than 6 people.

A police officer waved at me. I waved wagging the wallet on my hand like a nonchalant flag, like there couldn’t be anything of real value on it. He turned his gaze away. No way he cost more than 100 dollars. I heard some sirens as a Safari police force swarmed into the Common Wealth headquarters. I wondered if my sweat was coming through my sweater.

I marched down the walkway and wondered how soon they would connect the dots between me and their money. I would have to run if any of them caught onto me. I got to the meeting point. Tiffy was supposed to meet us here and she would pick up my uncle. Then we’d ride to the canyon. That’s how Rick wanted it. There’s a rift that the time machine makes, if we travel back to right before the black tornado was made, we can make it safely out. Remake our world. Fuck with the timeline. Do whatever we want. We’ll be rich.

I couldn’t wait for it, the reset button on my life.

They were taking too long to get there. There was a billboard in front of me that snapped out a message.

“The commonwealth has just had their profits for the last four years stolen. The company’s savings are in the negative now, with no way to pay for incoming product.”

The smile poisoned my calm, a cop across the street saw me. I walked away to the other corner of the road, hoping Tiffy would be here soon. I couldn’t wait much longer. The cop saw how nervous I was and walked over. I turned to look at him, staring at the enemy head on.

The Common Wealth owned the police force, a very lucrative investment if done correctly.

Tiffy pulled up, with my crazy uncle in the back of her car.

“Hello Tim, how’s it going?” She said window rolled down.

I sighed, relieved as the cop turned his attention to her. I walked to the passenger seat and got into her steel gray van. It was for mom’s, but she had to be a grandma by now. She chatted with the cop and told him we were heading out to go see the tornado. He said we better hurry, seeing as it was almost 12 o clock and it was two-hour drive over there. She agreed and told Tim to be safe now. Then we drove off, the cop watching us as we left. Watching me as we left.

The highway was long and quick, but when we got there the roads were winding and beautiful. There were ledges that would lead to 50 feet drop offs. I wondered how many seconds that would be, if I fell straight off. Would it be long enough to enjoy before my body splat across the dirt ground? It was beautiful and reminded me that there was nature under all of this technology.

I turned to Tiffy who was driving unnecessarily fast, but all that tension never got to her face. If she saw that I was looking at her she would turn and smile, say something sweet to calm my nerves. I was not so tactical about our emotions.

“Do you think they know by now?” I asked.

“Oh probably. But if we have money why would we go to the tornado? We’d need to lay low, find a place that would take all of it first. Or simply split our credits between a billion different flash drives. It’s impractical for us to do anything hasty at this point.”

“So how long do you think we have?”

“I’d say an hour before they catch on. Then as long as we can get to the spot, we’ll be just fine.” She said.

The further in we got into the canyon the harsher the winds got. It was as if the air around that black spot was getting stronger. Fueling itself for the big show. I could feel the force of it weigh itself on Tiffy’s car, but she was too poised to show anxiety.

“Why are you helping us?” I asked. “You can lose so much more than us.”

Tiffy looked at me unnerved by my abrasiveness. She didn’t speak, and the car hummed with an upbeat song of girls loving boys.

“No. I don’t.” She finally said.

“Well, are you going to tell me or not?” I asked.

“I am, was, assistant manager for mass marketing on this side of the states.” She gave me a knowing look, that tattoo dark on her wrist. “I did not participate in the skin branding.” She said.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I was in charge of the accounts with vendors. I would contact the lower companies, the retailers, the .com warehouses, and I would make sure that they sold our product. It was my job to,”

“Okay, yeah. I don’t care.”

“But you just asked me.”

“…Yeah, and?”

“Well,” She said. “They didn’t like my profit numbers the last 2 years. They didn’t need to say it, but I was getting older, and they were getting less patient with it. They thought my age was hurting my work. They had interviewed a young girl for my job, while I was in the building. I passed my replacement at the water cooler and was dumb enough to say hello.”

This was the first time I’d seen her look anything but calm. Her eyes were drifting slightly, she was tired, and old, and finally catching up to her. I looked out the window and saw a black sleek car tailing us. Some couple heading to the black tornado.

“They didn’t care about me; I’d spent more than a dozen years of my life for them. Branded myself. I said I’d never do this. And they thought it was time to get rid of me, replace me with fresher meat.”

I didn’t realize but I’d tucked my legs under me and hugged my knees. “What about your family? Couldn’t they help you?”

“Husbands a bastard.”

“I can attest that we all are.” Rick said from the back seat.

“What did he do?” I asked, hungry for more details.

“He’s been doing the work to join the Post-Modern Church of Jesus Christ. They won’t let you in unless your spouse is also a part of the religion. I told him no, that wasn’t a part of who I am. So, he got baptized, and left me behind. My house is empty now, and I’m missing half of the rent. My kids left with him, so, no one to talk to but the mirror.”

“If the last thing I have is my job, and that’s being taken away too. That’s a good enough reason to burn it down.” She

said.

Just then the app was cut off. An announcement rang through, it was about the Common Wealth’s recent robbery. It felt right to laugh at it. Talk about how we’d bested them, and then talk about what we’d do with their money.

“We now know that the thieves are Ms. Tiffy Robinson, and Ms. Nesta Smitte.”

The air was static, my hands shook, and blood rushed to my head, creating a blaring migraine. The car was calling for attention. Every house, car, and phone were blaring my name into it. The whole world knew that I had all their money.

“We also know that they are heading into the canyon, forcing the park to close the black canyon. We are sorry for the inconvenience, but the government is worried for its economy. The authorities have sight on the thieves, we will update within the hour.”

“That car, who’s in that car?” Tiffy asked, having to take a sharp turn down the canyon.

I turned to look at it, trying to look inside. The windows were tinted, and I couldn’t see. She also kept drifting off to the edge, making Rick hold on to his machine. The thing should be industrious enough to hang onto.

“We’re almost there we’ll just have to get creative once we get to the spot.”

A whoosh of wind hit her car, and she had to actively steer against it. After one last sloppy turn, her tires screeched, her engine revved, and we pulled up to a neat green flat in the canyon. This is where the tornado would come. The smashed down dirt had made way for nice green grass, with little yellow

flowers in them. It was almost beautiful, only problem is we would have to get to the center of it all.

“We don’t have time for this, I’m turning it on now.” He said. Flicking switches and knobs on his time machine. Another engine beginning to roar in the din of another engine.

“Is he still on our tail?” Tiffy asked frantic.

I was going to say yes, but that was when I saw a shine of another black piece, up on the ledge of the canyon. These cops were like wild lions, they had spotted us a long time ago, we were just too dumb to notice. I turned back to talk to her, and the window shattered.

Tiffy burst like a watermelon with too many rubber bands, her head punctured. All that pink was flung across the car, a piece of her scalp landed in my lap. Rick and I did not scream, just looked. Our car drove straight for a few meters. Then it hit a ridge and flipped down the rest of the canyon.

The car flipped once, twice, then landed on its side at last. I was pressed against the window; it shattered and green grass was poking through unperturbed. The most fucked up thing about this situation is that the Common Wealth literally owns the police force.

“Rick?” I asked quietly. “Rick are you okay?” I was yelling.

I unbuckled myself and slammed into the grass. I turned around to see his machine flat against the floor, and him laying on top of it. He lifted himself in a daze to look at me.

“You’re okay?” I asked childishly, like wanting it made it so.

“Of course I am, stupid girl.” He hissed at me.

The cooky old man had given his machine a seat belt, but not himself. He spit out a tooth from his rotting mouth and gave me a disturbing smile. The machine was still whirring, and Rick’s alert eyes darted from place to place.

“We’re exactly where the black pearl will be, when we travel back. Strange.” He said. “A stroke of luck, yes, that’s it. Come on dummy.” He said clicking one final switch.

The kooky man gave his machine a seat belt, but not himself. Smiling, he spit out a tooth from his rotting mouth. The machine was still whirring, and his eyes darted from place to place.

The machine was a box no bigger than 3 feet tall. It had loose wires, and pipes, and emitted a vapor. It made a helicopter whirring sound, and a lime green glow was inside. There were three handles on it, rubber with neon whirring inside. I nearly burned myself on the handle. More bullet holes punctured the car, jarring bangs.

I screamed, but Rick was focused on cajoling his machine. “Not much longer now, come on.”

I had seen it work, Rick walked through it and jumped out of his bedroom ten minutes later. It worked, but that was before it was thrashed around a car wreck. Something was broken.

A cop shouted. “Step out of the vehicle, or else. You are enemies of the state.”

The wind was getting worse and ripped passed us. The bullet hole made oil spill out in a stream. The cops should leave. Soon the tornado would awaken, and it just wasn’t worth it.

The madman gave it a seat belt, but not himself. Smiling, he spit out a tooth from his rotting mouth. The machine was still whirring, and he looked around like a squirrel.

“Exactly where the black pearl will be. Strange.” He muttered.

The machine was a box microwave sized. It had loose wires, pipes, and a vapor. It made a helicopter whirring sound, and a lime green glow inside. There were three rubber handles with neon inside. I nearly burned myself grabbing it. Jarring bangs punctured the car.

I screamed, but Rick was busy cajoling it. “Come on now.”

I had seen it work. It worked, I swear, but that was before it thrashed around a car. Something was broken.

“Step out of the vehicle. You are enemies of the state.” Common Wealth said.

The wind was getting worse. The bullet hole made oil spill. Soon the tornado would awaken, and it just wasn’t worth it. Why did the cops stay?

I smacked the machine again and again, I can’t die, not when I barely have the money.

Something inside clicked back together. The car was wrapped in a green cocoon, which made me happy. To know that Tiffy was coming with us. Then, collapsed in on itself like a dying star. All that was left, was a floating green sliver. Once it turned black, the curious police force backed away. It became the tornado and blistered more of the canyon than it ever had before.

The force inside was so harsh I had to shut my eyes. I was blinded by neon green. I let the energy rip through my body. My particles, atoms, and most importantly wallet, transported back ten years. It was a long travel, and the wind just ripped constantly, something bashing my leg, my arm, and then my temple.

It wasn’t until I had the strength to open my eyes, that I realized

I was the black tornado. We created it. Rick’s machine worked; it took us back. The universe, however, could not process all the ways we would change it. So, it rejected us, spitting us into tar. That’s the saddest part. We died because reality could not accept what we’d done.

After this final year, it would never come back. The canyon would be saved. In a way, we succeeded. I am still bitter though, bitter that my ghost travels the tortured canyons. Because the truth is, I want to know what happened. I want to know how the Common Wealth died, losing every cent of its worth.

The Historian and the Time Traveler: Grave Wishes

M.R Divine

There is something extraordinary about winter at night, with only the soft yellow glow of the dimly lit lamps waiting to die down and submerge the city into darkness. Against this darkness the shutters are drawn, the daily laundry pulled in, and the city all but sound asleep with hearths in every home slowly dying out.

If one was to listen closely, the first thing they’d hear would be the ambient silence as the snow fell from an endless void; the sound of horse’s hooves would follow and at closer inspection they’d hear the baker waking to an early dawn morning—a single candle flickering in the window as he went about. A little closer still, and the sound of an entire city waking up could be heard from the baker to the milkman, to the elderly woman selling chicken eggs on the corner, to the little orphan girl bundled in rags selling forget-me-nots. All this could be heard if only one would listen close enough, and like a bees’ hum it would all dissipate until only the ambient silence remained.

It was this silence that met Wesley Parker as he stepped out onto the otherwise empty street, his stride quick and hurried as he headed north. After a few yards, Wesley seemed to come to his senses realized where he was, for he suddenly stopped right in the middle of the street, the silence of yet another winter’s night engulfing him as he stood there. Wesley was no foreigner to Lake City, but something about this night had him on his toes, left dominant hand inching towards his rapier that he kept by his side, cleverly disguised as a gentleman’s cane of gorgeous cherry tree wood. With a two piece suite tailored in light grey, a well ironed shirt, freshly polished black dress shoes, a long black coat and a bowler hat, Wesley looked as though he was simply headed home from the theater. No one would have guessed otherwise.

Not this night though. On the contrary Wesley was headed somewhere very much different, an older Lake City.

Yes, an older Lake City, one very much different than where he stood. Oh how his sweet Katherine would have loved seeing this younger version of her home, what with her fascination of everything long since lost to the world resurfacing only in history books. How he longed to bring her here to this place and time, to steal her away from a world where history was lost, and give her a life of happiness and bliss in a time she would give anything to live in. Katherine Graves was from the future, only one of his many, but Wesley was determined to make it his last.

As a time traveler, Wesley had seen many eons, many different eras of time. He’d seen the rise and fall of Nazi Germany, the destruction of the Berlin Wall, been present during the assassination of Civil Right Leader Martin Luther King Jr. and US President John F Kennedy. He even witnessed life times before his own, the hanging of Christ, and the Salem Massachusetts witch trials. He always returned to America in the end, always returned to Lake City and to Katherine with news of his travels and artifacts that always caused her to cry at the fact she was in the same room as them—something that Wesley adored.

Time traveling had been Wesley’s entire life from the time he was six and had accidentally time skipped, leaving behind a classroom full of children, a rather surprised looking school maid and a dusty chalkboard, and landed in the middle of a grove of trees, strange buildings and even stranger people milling about. When he finally made it back home, with special thanks to his Uncle Alfred, it was then that his mother had told him his own history, a history that had been passed to him by his father. Wesley had wanted nothing more than to learn everything about his heritage, until of course time became irrelevant and nonexistent to him. By the time he was 23, Wesley Parker wanted nothing more than to stay put, live a normal life, and have a wife, and even one or

two children. As a time traveler, staying put was not in the job description, and as a Parker man, he had no choice.

Wesley had just arrived from Paris. His four month stay had him wondering about his own future again, but when he received Katherine’s letter it was only another jab to his heart. Wesley realized once again that he had no future save time traveling and it would end one of two ways. Either he would time jump back and forth until he grew old and died, or he would end up like his father, Stephen, lost in the mass that was the Time Realm.

Wesley stopped at the end of the intersection and stood completely still, listening. Yes even after so many years he could still hear that beautiful silence that the world would soon forget existed, only a handful of people with the gift to hear it, Katherine being one of them. Then, he patted himself down gently as though feeling around for something within the fine coat he wore.

Suddenly his hand stopped and a small smile slid across Wesley’s face as he pulled forth a silver pocket watch, pressing the little latch and watching the lid flip open. The face of the watch was rather handsome with roman numerals dancing around the edge, a gift from Katherine. He gazed upon the face of the clock, 9:45 pm, and then snapped it shut tucking it back inside his coat. With a heavy breath and a determined face, Wesley waited five more minutes before turning on his heels and raising one foot. He vanished leaving the intersection of Lake City 1888 behind him.

In a matter of seconds he’d had safely landed on a sidewalk covered in a smattering of freshly fallen snow. To his left, an apartment building whose name he could not make out, to his right, row upon row of beaten down houses. As Wesley stood there in his long coat holding his cane, his furrowed brow hidden beneath his hat, he watched as a few cars passed by

him, no one stopping to see the spectacle of a man, no one caring as they drove home for the night. Wesley hated 21st century Lake City and what his once beautiful town had become.

Rounding a chain linked fence to one side and a wide expanse of field on the other, Wesley was met with a beautiful sight. The park was called Richmond Park, but Wesley knew that name meant nothing to her. She had said that in the summer time, the grass there was a lovely shade of green; at least it was when Lake City got a good rain fall. Currently that green grass was hidden under feet of snow and it made him frown. The park’s plaque stood at the far right entrance of the park next to a bench that he had been told, only ever held the homeless.

Wesley scanned the area further. He saw the gazebo with its many twisted and demented faces, some crying, others laughing, and some so twisted that he couldn’t tell where the nose began and the mouth ended. What a dreary place, Wesley thought as his eyes moved on to what lay beyond. There was a child’s playground and next to it were three stone giants.

“I call them the gate keepers, because they always stand there never moving, always watching, always protecting.” Katherine had once told him so long ago.

The stone giants were tortoises, and Wesley could see what his dear old friend had meant. They did indeed seem as though they were standing guard, protecting a gate, letting no one with ill intentions through to the palace that lay beyond.

Finally, after a few more seconds, Wesley found what it was he was searching for. Who he was searching for. With a lamp-post illuminating the area, giving it a slight glow in the otherwise dark and dreary place, there she sat, swinging, red coat and all. Katherine Graves, age 16, in the year 2015. As a citizen of Lake City back in 1758, Wesley could see the park as it was before

the land was leveled. Back then all of this was just yards of trees where children ran chasing one another and families held picnics. He thought momentarily what it would have been like to have known Katherine in that time, to be a young man in love chasing her through those trees.

Wesley needed to stay focused though, needed to remember why he had traveled here to Lake City 2015 at exactly 9:50 pm on December 22. The girl in the red coat, her long legs mere shadows from where he stood. She kept on swinging oblivious to the outside world and the fact that she was being watched.

Katherine was a “troubled teenager.” At 16 years old and less than a month away from her 17th birthday, she had seen her share of sadness. The only place she could escape was here in this strange, hauntingly beautiful place, tucked as far away from the passing cars and busy streets as the park would allow. Wesley knew of his love’s past, only as much as she would tell him, and it was a past that he’d do anything to change if he cold. Though even as a time traveler it was not in his power. As he stood there, a silent spectacle of a man, a hulking shadow against the night, Wesley recalled the moment that had sent him here.

He’d been sitting in his old childhood home reading a book that wouldn’t yet make it to the shelves for about another fifty years or so. It had been lent to him, of course, by Katherine a few months after they had met. He was just getting to the best part, when he heard the shout from downstairs. He placed the bookmark in place and made his way down the grand staircase of the Grand Victoria residence of the Parkers. There, standing in the middle of the large entrance, stood a messenger boy not much older than 13 and in his hand he held a yellow envelope with a blood red seal keeping its contents contained. Taking the envelope Wesley sent the boy on his way with a few coins tucked into his palm, and made his way back upstairs.

Discarding his cane by the door he chose the window seat. He slid a silver embellished letter opener underneath the seal and then across the top. Katherine always licked the envelope even after she had started using wax, a force of habit he found adoring. It only added to the sweet, lovable, and charismatic woman that she was. Smiling even more to himself, Wesley set the envelope aside and opened the letter.

My dearest friend, I hope this finds you well enough. I did exactly as we had arranged so I really doubt that it hasn’t reached you by now. Funny how if you look hard enough and have an open mind, just what you can find in this world. I placed the letter in the old mail box as you instructed and went on my way. Hopefully your messenger boy or whoever takes you your mail will get this to you safely. I’m just going to get straight to the point—I’m in danger, Wesley. A danger only you as a traveler can pull me from. I won’t say more in case this letter does not reach you. Wesley I need you to come to London. My London. You’ll know where to find me I’m sure.

Best wishes my friend, Katherine

Wesley read the letter a second and then a third time just to be sure. In all the years he had known her she had never once asked him for anything, especially his help. And just what danger was she in? He told himself it was probably nothing too reckless.

It wasn’t long after reading Katherine’s letter that he found himself in 21st century London, in the year 2028. After finding the University where she worked, he was led up two flights of stairs by an assistant who never gave her name and was rather rude. Why Katherine would have someone like this working under her was beyond him. As they stopped outside a door with a golden plaque reading Dr. Katherine Graves Ph.D World histo-

ry, Wesley did as any gentleman would and tipped his hat to the woman, thanking her.

As he turned towards the door reading the plaque once again, he smiled to himself feeling proud, wishing not for the first time that he could share all this with her—wishing he could share this life with her. Katherine had worked so hard to be where she was and he was proud.

He knocked three times and waited, hearing the click, click, click of her heels as she came to open the door, needing to step back as it swung outward nearly smacking him in the face. It took him a minute to adjust to the sight of the beautiful woman before him, all grown, long brown hair cascading down her shoulders, neatly pulled back off her collar bone, deep hazel eyes a little more green than brown, tall lean build and slim waist, her long cream colored legs falling from beneath a black skirt a little on the shorter side. Yes, Katherine had grown, and as a man Wesley could not lie and say he did not find her attractive.

When they had first met, back in 2019, Katherine had been 20, Wesley much older than he looked, but as a traveler, age seemed to pass him at a slower rate than the rest of the world. Standing in her doorway was a man who looked no older than 35, age seeming to have treated him well. Wesley had dark ebony hair with a few strands of wisdom peppered through, all slicked back rather neatly, all well kept under his hat—his bowler hat to be exact. He was tall, 6 foot, 3 inches, and though he had done away with a few things, Wesley had not once let society take away his impeccable fashion sense. It was something that intrigued the woman he loved and he wouldn’t change it for anything.

“Wesley! Oh my Goodness it is so good to see you. You haven’t changed a bit!”

“You flatter me Kitten. I’m feeling even older than I look, and I found grey hairs as I combed my hair the other day.”

She released him, and Wesley had felt empty again with nothing to hold onto, knowing that come night he would once again be tormented by visions of the woman before him, tucked safely in his arms, sleeping in his bed, her heart beat matching his own, that dark and natural (as he now realized) brown hair spilling out onto his pillow as he ran his fingers through it, pulling her in for a deep passionate kiss.

As he followed her into the bright and spacious office he watched as Katherine kicked off her heels, her bare feet padding along the floor as she made her way to an electric kettle and poured two cups of tea, her Angel tattoo peaking out at him as her blouse slid up her back as she walked. Wesley smiled as the room was filled with the fresh smell of flowers. He knew that the historian had poured them each a cup of her favorite tea, Cherry Rose, no doubt imported from her favorite tea shop back home in Lake City.

Balancing his cane on his knee Wesley took a small sip of tea and said, “You said you were in danger Katherine. What type of danger could you possibly be in? You seem rather fine.”

Katherine gently placed a small white kettle with an assortment of cherry blossoms, down upon the desk, a serious look on her face, not meeting his eyes. She was putting off whatever it was she so desperately needed to tell him. Wesley took one more sip of tea before placing it next to the kettle and leaning forward and against his better judgment grasping her small hand, holding it in his. Her hand was so cold it made him want to blow warmth onto it, but he was too surprised when the woman accepted the gesture and linked her fingers through his.

Her voice was shaky when she spoke, and he could see the tears

welling up in her eyes as she said the words. “I need you to save me Wesley. I need you to go to 2015 and talk a 16 old me out of suicide.”

Wesley could only stare at the woman before him. There was no way he heard her right, but it was all there in her hazel eyes. He knew of her broken family as a child, of the time spent away from her father and the 7 months of hell she had to endure because of it. He knew that she had been forced to grow up and take on the roll of mother for her younger brother and sister, but the woman he had met so long ago was not one who seemed as though to believe that suicide of all things could be a means to an end.

So he had sat and listened as she told him everything; from running out of her house, away from the constant fighting, until she came to the park, taking procession of one of the swings that sat there as though they knew that she was coming. She told him that she had planned one last night in complete and utter freedom before she would end her life, walking straight into oncoming traffic. Then, she had told him of the man who had saved her; the man who had looked as though he came from a completely different era of time. The man, who somehow knew her name, had called her his friend, and told her that what she wanted to do would not make any difference in a world where she did not have a voice or a name yet.

When she was done talking, Katherine returned to her tea leaving Wesley to grasp the entirety of what she had said. There was no questioning who the man had been. After a few minutes he finally spoke filling the dead end silence of the room.

“Katherine, love, how do you expect me to do that? You were a socially dysfunctional person, unable to speak to anyone, let alone strangers who just randomly walk up to you.”

“Wesley, I was a depressed 16 year old whose father kept leav-

ing over and over again, while my mother slept with his best friend. I’ll be wary at first, questioning, and I might even try to flee. But you have to make me listen. Somehow. It shouldn’t be that hard, as you know that I love history. And you, well you ARE history. Not to mention a British man with an accent I could only ever dream of having.” She finished with a smile.

“You really think that a clinically depressed teenager, socially awkward and paranoid, sitting by herself, mind you, during the darkness of night is just going to sit and listen to some stranger just because he looks from a different time and has a British accent?”

Katherine raised a brow smirking as she took another sip of tea.

Of course she would, the time traveler thought to himself.

“Of course I will, because I had to have done so or I wouldn’t be here now, talking to you, now would I?”

The Historian and the time traveler fell into yet another silence, both lost to their own thoughts for a moment before Wesley leaned over the desk and said, “Tell me what I need to do.”

The Historian looked him straight in the eyes and smiled, looking much younger than she was. That proud feeling he felt as he entered her office was back. Of course he would do this for her.

Taking one last sip of her tea Dr. Katherine Graves said, “Tell me everything. Start with my name. I’ll listen.”

Slowly, the memory faded and just like that Wesley found himself back in 2015, standing under the cover of darkness watching a younger Katherine. Slowly the time traveler began to walk at a steady pace taking rather large steps to avoid getting snow in his favorite pair of oxford shoes. He was standing by the lamp post in no time, 16 year old Katherine still oblivious,

listening not to the ambient silence of a winter’s night, but to whatever played through her headphones. Wesley pushed off the lamp post and taking a deep breath walked over to the only other vacant swing.

As expected the young girl was taken aback and he could tell she was frightened at his sudden appearance, fight or flight instincts kicking in. Seeing as she was about to bolt, he spoke. He watched as the girl started to calm down, yet still keeping her distance from the strange man who had seemingly appeared out of thin air.

As he waited like any good gentleman would, he watched as she finally took out the red twisted headphones, and watched her take a deep breath. At least she was not still trying to flee. Thank the good lord. Wesley pondered what he would say next. At this point Katherine was about to kindly, yet nervously, ask him what he wanted. If there was one thing Wesley Parker knew about his Katherine was that she hated when strangers tried to talk to her. She would later tell him, over a cup of tea of course, that she felt obligated to try and be polite, and talk back to the person, no matter who they were, stranger or not.

“Sorry I didn’t hear you. I.. I had my music in. Can I help you?” Is that stuttering I hear? The thought was a fleeting one as in the next moment he had answered.

“I said, how do you do, Katherine?” Her reaction was expected. The girl grew cautious once more and began to stubble over her words.

“How... how... How...”

“How do I know your name?”

She nodded looking at him as though he was a man about to

rob her, or worse. Yet he knew that in a matter of five years she would be a completely different woman.

“Because you and I,” the time traveler used his cane to gesture, a black gloved hand wrapped around its hilt, “are friends. And before you say anything know this Katherine, as your friend I will not allow you to do what it is you are contemplating.” And before he knew what he was doing he said something that the Katherine he knew rarely talked about. “Think about Manny, Kitten, he went down that road and just look how many people he’s left behind to carry the weight of that burden.”

At the sound of her friend’s name, Katherine stopped fidgeting and shaking, sitting entirely still, a look of pure sadness on her young face.

“How... how do you know Manny? Were you also a friend of his?”

Wesley didn’t miss the breath she took after speaking the boy’s name. It made him jealous the love she had for the deceased boy. She truly had loved him, believed him to even be her soul mate, and that was nothing Wesley could or would ever try to change. Wesley sat his cane and his hat in the snow beside him and grabbing hold of the chains on both sides pushed off only hard enough to put the swing in motion.

Looking to night sky listening to the perfect ambient sound of winter at night, he said, “Someone once told me that soul mates are not the ones you end up with, but rather the ones sent to show you what true love really is. To make you feel as though despite everything, you could find love. Once their job is done, they leave and we’re lucky if we ever see them again.”

“Why do they have to leave though? Why put that person in such pain, even for a little while?”

Wesley found himself laughing at her question, knowing what

he knew about her future. Stopping his swing the man looked over to the young girl, and in that moment he could see Dr. Katherine Graves Ph.D World History. In that moment he could see the woman he so very much loved, and deeply regretted not being able to share a life with.

“They leave so that way we can go on to find the person we are truly, truly, meant to love,” he said.

The girl looked puzzled and he could make out a furrowed brow beneath the moonlight.

“Things will get better you know. One day you’ll get your wish and you’ll be a family again, but causing your own death,” he paused still baffled she had once thought that her dying would be best for the world. “Causing your own death will only make things worse. Your family will be shattered even more so, and all your dreams of true love, adventure, seeing the world, all those dreams will shatter like glass. You can’t fix glass Kitten dear, only replace it.”

He heard her sigh knowing he had done the only thing she had ever asked of him. Back in 2028 she had told him that while she had been a cautious child, her mind had been a mess and on more than one occasion she’d been urged to see just what certain things would feel like; to see just how far she could get before death realized she was cheating.

“I should have died a long time ago. She had told him in 2021.

“How so?”

She had shrugged her shoulders and sipped her tea, cherry rose freshly brewed. “It’s just a feeling I have, deep in my bones. And bones don’t lie.”

Clearing his throat, the time traveler stood and grabbing his cane and hat gave the girl one last smile before beginning to

depart. Yet at the very last second, she had stopped him with a hand on the sleeve of his black coat.

“Will I see you again, or will this just be another one of my dreams?”

Wesley smiled widely down at her as he placed his hat on his head and touched two fingers to the brim.

“Who says dreams can’t be found?” Then just as he had come, Wesley Parker was gone. As soon as he left Lake City 2015 and young Katherine, he was back in 2028 staring down at a smiling Dr. Katherine Graves.

“I guess I have the answer to my question. I followed my dreams Wesley, despite all the odds. I stopped living for the future, and started living for the present. And it was thanks to you.”

The time traveler chuckled and shook his head. “You were a very stubborn child weren’t you?”

“If I had been able to see myself back then, I would have probably smacked her.”

The two shared a laugh and Wesley pointed to the empty tea pot. “Shall I put on some tea then?”

Katherine smiled and nodded. There was nothing a good cup tea couldn’t solve.

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Le Chat Est Mort

Kira Hagen

When I first met you, you were frightened. A family with two loud and crazy kids just wandered through the door of your house and demanded that they want to take you home. You were hiding under an end table in the basement. The woman that we got you from told us that you were nervous around new people. Eleven-year-old me, ever the most determined little girl, leaned down and pulled you out from your hiding spot. I held you in my arms for the first time and it was beautiful. You were perfect. You clung to me instantly and for the hours that we spent in that house you remained on my lap.

We connected in a way that I don’t think will ever happen again for me. There will be others after you, but they won’t be as special. We were a real tag team. Everywhere I went from that moment on you were following right by my side. When I cried you were there to make it all better. We shared so many adventures that it’s almost crazy how empty the house feels now that you aren’t creeping around in it.

I remember when you got sick. One month you were fine and the next your eye had gone blind. Your nose started to run, and I wiped it for you, but it seemed like the task was endless. Every wipe made your nose run even more. I fought with you to give you medicine. The medicine was helping you, but I think I acted too late. I never realized until it was too late that I was fighting a battle I was destined to lose. I held you so close to me the night before. I could feel you slipping away and there was nothing I could do. My perfect companion turned from being this large and fluffy feline into someone that was unrecognizable. I was in denial. You were so fragile and weak that you could barely walk. Then by the end of the month you were gone.

I’m writing this letter so that I don’t forget you. I know that

sounds silly, but I can’t forget someone who has made such an impact on my soul. I refuse to let the sands of time wipe away our life together. Every day we had some new and great adventure and now you are gone. If I could have saved you, I would have. I have been selfless my entire life and if I had the chance to be selfish, I would steal you back from death and hold you in my arms forever. I wasn't ready to let you go. To be honest I don’t think I ever would have been ready. My phone is filled with so many pictures of the two of us together. There are over one-thousand images and videos and there’s me and you in every one of them.

I miss you. Every day is a battle that I have to fight without you by my side. I wake and I move to kiss you good morning, but you aren’t there. I miss feeling the warmth of your fur as it runs through my fingers. I miss holding you in my arms and hearing that wonderful purring, the sound of your love echoing in my ears. You are gone and I cannot get you back. I was flipping through my phone yesterday and I saw a video I took of you. I saw how happy you were and how much life there was in your eyes. That video made my heart clench horribly and the butterflies in my stomach began to beat against my ribcage. My body hurt like I had been horribly maimed but on the outside, everything was fine. On the inside I wasn’t fine. I loved you so much that when you left me, I couldn’t think straight. I was so angry and upset at you for leaving me so soon. I cried the entire way home that day and I cried myself to sleep that night.

I don’t have many regrets about the time we were given with one another. You were and always will be my best friend. There is a place in my heart that will always be reserved for you and one day I will see you again and there will be a hugging so fervent that we won’t want to let go of one another. I don’t regret telling you that it was okay for you to leave. I don’t regret all those good night kisses; they were filled with my love. I don’t regret any of the times we spent side by side, each one gave you comfort. I

don’t regret any of the conversations we had with one another even though they were mostly one-sided, each one of them was special. For eight years we were best friends and not even death is going to hold me back. I don’t regret you.

I miss you. Home doesn’t feel the same anymore without you. My bed feels colder at night and it feels weird being able to stretch out. I miss you sitting in the window when I came home. I miss your wonderful greetings as I walk through the door. You were the support that I needed to have for those eight long years. I wrote this letter for you just to tell you—I love you and I hope we meet again someday.

Always my son

Victoria Heiser

I checked the wood cabinets and the newly refurbished bathrooms. I looked down the sink in the kitchen and in all of the boxes in the garage... even under and inside the old mustang, looking so ancient and sad. I checked the attic and the basement, nothing but dust and his old toys, his baby toys. I looked in his room, under the bed, in his drawers, and in his closet—but there were only those same old pencil marks, along the walls with dates beside them, one higher than the other. I checked the unmowed backyard and the weed-ridden front yard, but just sprinklers and a jungle of grass. Could he be in the refrigerator?

Now I wonder if he was really here at all, if he was ever truly here. I have memories of a boy I called my son, a boy named Jared; A boy with his mother’s gentle smile and his daddy’s bold eyes, my bold eyes. A boy with the hands of a steel worker, a boy with a heart of pure gold and unmistakable pride. A boy ready to run in to the arms of Uncle Sam with sweat of red, white, and blue running down his cheeks and onto his All Star football jersey.

Were they really my memories though, because I’m not so sure now? Was that young man my young man, that little boy that I remember so vividly? Was he that same little boy I remember watching take a drink out of the hose that hot July summer day, ready to laugh so hard, when he got the water up his nose? Was he that same boy who screamed when a girl kissed him on the cheek, because he didn’t want “cooties”, like his big brother had told him? Was that boy this young man? He couldn’t be...wouldn’t I know this man, my own son?

They say he is. The elderly neighbor always says to look in the

mirror; he’s the exact replica of his daddy. My youngest brother says he was a very bold, unforgettable man. Grandpa says he fought for the only thing worth fighting for. They say all these things about a man with the same name and same eyes and same smile as this little boy I remember. But I don’t see a man with a gun in his hand and a uniform on his back, running into combat like they were bubbles. I don’t see a man with a fiancé waiting for him to come home, praying for him to come home. I don’t see a man with his own boy on the way. I don’t see a man, not my man.

Instead, I see a little boy scared of the dark and a little boy too sick to go to school because he had a big math test that day. I see a little boy rolling up snow for his friendly snowman and a little boy ready to have snowball fights with the neighborhood kids. I see a little boy always making eyes at the old mustang, hoping he would drive it someday. A little boy is what I see, not this gallant and brave man everyone says he is.

Then how do I have memories of this man? This young man, that was no younger than 18? Why do I have these memories of my tears making waterfalls from my eyes as I hug this young stranger, in his uniform holding his khaki-colored duffle bag, and watch him wave goodbye through a bus window, wearing a wry smile? Why do I have memories of letters with pages and pages of scribbles saying that he can’t wait to get home to mom’s awful cooking and back to his sweetheart, the girl he’s loved since they were 5? If this man isn’t my man, then why do I have these memories?

The wood cabinets are still bare. The newly tiled bathrooms are colder than it has ever been. The sink is still dry, and the garage is still stingy. The attic and basement are still stale, filled with stained boxes of past memories and present pains. His room is still quiet; new boxes are beneath his bed now, smelling foreign to my sense. His drawers now have clean socks, and his closet is full of remnants of him...remnants. The backyard and front yard are soaked down with water; a breeze blows the wilted flowers

and the long-watered grass. The refrigerator is bare, except for some moldy fruit and half of a casserole. Everything looks like time has frozen, much like the half-eaten tv dinners sitting on the counters. Not one thing moves or breathes, just silence.

I walk back to his room once more, to see if he’s there, and notice something that I didn’t notice before; a piece of paper on the ground, a stranger’s uniform on his bed with medals upon medals lain upon it, torn in places that would make your knees give out right there, and a flag on his pillow folded into a triangle, incased in a wooden frame, baring what’s left of my heart and my sanity.

I bend down to pick up the paper and fall...because now I know that young man was mine, my young man, that little boy. And he’s never coming back. He’s never coming back.

#METOO and #NOWWHAT?:

A conversation with Karen Brown

Sara Aird

Photo: Karen Brown, Community Outreach Manager at the Younique Foundation

October of this year will mark the two-year anniversary of the monumental social media movement #MeToo, originally launched by Tarana Burke and galvanized on social media by Alyssa Milano, which invited women everywhere to share their stories of sexual assault and harassment and create a community of support and action. On that historic day, cbsnews.com reported, “On Facebook, there were more than 12 million posts, comments and reactions in less than 24 hours, by 4.7 million users around the world, according to the company. In the U.S., Facebook said 45 percent of users have had friends who posted “me too.” With so many impacted, we are left asking questions: What do I do now that I have shared my story? How do I support the survivors who came forward? How do I prevent this from happening to the children around me?

Karen Brown understands the importance of these questions. Karen is the co-founder of the Grace House Children’s Project. Currently, she serves as the Community Outreach Manager for the Younique Foundation and Defend Innocence, both non-profits dedicated to providing healing and preventative resources for those impacted by childhood sexual abuse, their friends and fami-

lies, and their communities.

Finding Hope Support Groups are “a place for adult women who are survivors of childhood sexual abuse to come together and find SAFETY, COMMUNITY, and EDUCATION using the 5 Strategies to Reclaim Hope.” www.findinghope.org

“The Younique Foundation’s services can help you heal and take your life back.” www. youniquefoundation.org

Photo: Youinque Headquarters in Lehi Utah, by Sara Aird.

When I caught up with Karen, she was fresh off a flight from Atlanta where she had been on the ground working with her team and local “community influencers” spreading the Foundation’s message. She knows having conversations about sexual abuse can be uncomfortable; she also knows they cab be hopeful and inspiring. She shared an experience she had with her Lyft driver that very morning, “Going to the airport this morning, it came up. You know, why was I in Atlanta, what do I do, and I told him. And of course, there was an abrupt silence, but later in the conversation it came up that he had a daughter, a 14-year-old daughter. So, I was able to talk at length about Defend Innocence and the resources that we have there that would help him have healthy conversations with her about how to stay safe, and he was very engaged with that.”

This conversation highlights for Karen the three elements of successful outreach: first, finding your passion about the cause; second, communicating effectively; and lastly, showing empathy and offering help.

Becoming Passionate

There have been many experiences that have prepared Karen for her position at the Younique Foundation. Even so, her journey towards outreach started in an unlikely place. After graduating from the University of Utah with a bachelor’s degree in political science and a certificate in international relations, she headed to Virginia to take the foreign service test. It didn’t work out as she’d hoped and, in the meantime, she needed to support herself. She began working retail and eventually landed herself in the Eddie Bauer Management Program, which later lead to a position at Sundance Catalog. Today, she reflects on how working retail helped build the organizational and relationship skills that have made her so successful.

She laughs good naturedly as she tells me, “Quite honestly, working in retail really helped develop those skills, because when you have to work in a store and you have to sell people stuff, you have to be approachable, you have to be in front of people, you have to find out what their needs are, you have to meet those needs, and to do that year after year, in multiple settings with a team, really helped hone my ability to do that. I know that sounds kind of funny.”

After years in retail and online sales, Karen and her husband started a business, Renaissance Ranch, an addiction recovery facility. While working with participants, they noticed a pattern and recognized a deep need. “We came to realize that most of these people were using substances to address childhood trauma.” In 2015, Karen and her husband co-founded the Grace House Children’s Project. When you visit gracehousechildrensproject.org, a website designed under Karen’s direction, you will find an organization committed to the healing of children locally and globally. According to the website, Grace House “provide(s) healing for children

who have suffered trauma and abuse. Healing the heart brings freedom to the soul and enables these children to reach their true potential.”

Karen has spent a significant part of her life utilizing her skills to help the suffering find healing.

Communication is Key

After a few minutes with Karen, I can tell she is an exceptional communicator. I can sense the thoughtfulness in her words and her efforts to help me understand.

When she began her work at the Younique Foundation, she was asked to take the vision and mission of the organization and make it concrete, something people could use in their communities and families. One of her major projects was the creation of the Finding Hope Support Groups: peer-led groups of women who are survivors of childhood sexual abuse that focus on daily healing strategies and offer a community of support. Designing and writing a program like this takes extensive research, collaborative review, and attention to detail to ensure safety and effectiveness for the group participants.

Language is extremely influential in building spaces of trust and support. “It’s being very mindful of the words we use; we use the word survivor; we don’t use the word victim. We use the word perpetrator; we don’t use the word pedophile. Everything is reviewed with clinicians, we would often sit in a room and collaborate on what the words would be, to make sure that the words were trauma-sensitive and appropriate. We are very intentional with the language we use, and I believe that has helped in fulfilling the mission.”

Empathize and Help

As we wrap up our conversation, Karen shares excitedly that she has a call scheduled that day with volunteers located in New Zea-

land. She will be offering guidance and support as they prepare to launch their own Finding Hope Support Group. These are very rewarding moments.

Her voice perks up when she talks about her empathy for others and her desire to help them reach their potential, “When you get into this world, there are so many things that try to inhibit and chase down that potential. It’s so frustrating to me! I want everyone to have that opportunity, and obviously they [will] do with that opportunity what they will, but it’s when things impede that opportunity I get really frustrated! So for instance my position at the Foundation, being able to help survivors realize that - this was done to you and you can move past it, that you can still have an amazing, fulfilling life, and we can give you tools that will help! You can still pursue your potential!” Her hope and conviction are palpable.

So how do we help ourselves or those around us who have been impacted by sexual abuse? Where can we start? Karen answers, “The first step is education and awareness. Once you start sharing that with people and start educating them about the issues, it helps to create a safe space for people to be willing to start talking about it, both from a healing perspective as well as a prevention perspective.”

For access to healing strategies, preventative resources, and a community of support, please visit: (1) youniquefoundation. org (2) findinghope.org or (3) defendinnocence.org.

Tomorrow

Heather Graham

“Damn,” Jeremy mumbled, popping his finger into his mouth, trying to clean off the blob of ink that had just smeared across it.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed in an expensive hotel somewhere in Florida. His dark blue and gray pajama bottoms contrasted with the too-white, too-soft, too-expensive white silk sheets that dressed the too-big bed. He sighed and glanced at the clock on the dark wood bedside table that matched every other piece of furniture in the room and coordinated perfectly with the burgundy carpet. It was half past midnight and felt too warm to be the middle of December.

Jeremy bowed his head back over the notebook in his lap, scratching a few more words before flipping to a clean page and setting his pad and pen down beside him on the bed. He flopped back against the silky pillows, wondering for a moment if his overbleached film-role-of-the-moment hair matched the pillowcases. He laughed at himself a little.

“I need a smoke,” he told the empty room. He padded, barefoot, across the dimly lit room to where his jacket was draped over the back of a fancy velvet-covered chair, plunging his hand into the pocket for his pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He paused when his fingers wrapped around something unfamiliar.

He pulled his hand and the object out of the dark pocket and examined it carefully. It was a plastic ring. The kind you buy for a quarter in the little candy machines. It was completely pink, band and gem, translucent and oversized. He smiled a little and slid it over the first knuckle of his pinky finger, the ring too small to be worn any better. He sat back on his bed, cigarette completely forgotten.

He had, in fact, stuck a quarter in a machine to get the ring. He

had been between interviews and junkets seated in a small pizzeria, the kind where the workers are the owner’s family and the pizza is the best you’ve eaten in years. It was the kind of pizzeria that reminded him fondly of where he’d met Alex. It made him think of the way they’d awkwardly said hello, Alex pouting over something trivial no doubt and Jeremy feeling insecure and overwhelmed. The whole place had made him nostalgic for that moment. When he’d seen the candy machines lining the wall near the bathroom he’d laughed and ran over to them in a childlike manner, begging his publicist, Sarah, for a quarter. He’d twisted the handle, ignoring the laughter of his friends and proudly presented the prize it had spit out.

He turned the ring in the light, wishing that it would sparkle, instead of just glow like flushed cheeks from laughing too hard. The ring reminded him of the pizzeria and that reminded him of Alex. Alex, he thought, was probably curled in a ball on a toolumpy mattress, clinging to too-thin, too-scratchy hospital sheets in a slate gray room with nothing matching and the carpet worn and faded.

Alex had been sleeping in the hospital bed now for a few weeks. It was the kind of hospital that you never really felt comfortable calling a hospital. There weren’t beeping monitors or nurses in white sneakers hurrying along linoleum floors. It wasn’t the kind of place that people went when they were dying to get better. It was the kind of place that people went when they were already dead, sustained by chemical respirators and liquid dreams. It was the kind of place you went to learn how to live again.

Jeremy wasn’t even sure if Alex knew that Jeremy knew he was there. Jenn had called him the afternoon after they’d checked Alex in, telling him about the disastrous Thanksgiving weekend that had resulted in Meg and Jenn dragging their older brother, kicking and cursing to the rehab center.

“It’s the same one that the anorexic Olsen twin went to.” Jenn had

said with a smile Jeremy could hear over the phone. “You gotta know Alex’s gonna love that. Maybe he’ll get her old room or something.” And Jeremy had known she was right. Alex would be overjoyed at the thought of sharing a living space with an Olsen twin. At least he would once he got over the fact that it was a rehab center.

Alex was always thrilled by things other people would ignore. He always had a strange fact about obscure unsolved mysteries or celebrity gossip just waiting to fill in any awkward gap in conversation or just to make someone else smile. Alex thrived on being just slightly off beat and out of rhythm. He said that it made for a more interesting song. Alex assigned ceremony to mundane moments and made grand gestures for insignificant things. It was something that Jeremy had loved about Alex immediately. It was also something that lent momentum and irritation to Alex’s temper tantrums, spinning their arguments into massive fights that left their relationship in crumbled ruins.

Jeremy sat up and grabbed for his notebook again, scribbling quickly. He held the ring tightly in his hand and looked over the text:

Hey A-

You said I should give you a ring sometime... and while I know you meant 'on the phone' I thought I'd break the ice with a bit of bling. It's nothing much but will you be my St. Easter Valentine? We'll eat Thanksgiving turkey and celebrate the New Year. It will be the best time ever! I bet your roommates will be purple with Envy!

Merry Christmas, kid.

Yours, J.

He smiled and dug in the drawer of the bedside table finding an envelope. It was small and purple, the kind that florists send with big bouquets of flowers. He folded the note into a small square and slid it inside. He kissed the ring gently, admiring it one last time and slid it in too. He ran his tongue along the gluey edge and fumbled to get the edges to stick together with the odd ring puffed state the envelope was in. Jeremy smiled again and placed the envelope on the table, tucking his legs up under the covers and flicking the light off. He sighed, finally feeling content enough to find sleep. He looked at the envelope again; the full moon’s light slicing through its royal hue, telling himself he’d send it the next morning, first thing.

He rolled over. “Tomorrow,” he promised the room, though deep down he knew that he wouldn’t.

Deep down he knew that he’d wake up to impatient interviewers and screaming fans, missed phone calls and messages he was too late to return. The little purple envelope would be shoved into his suitcase as he hurried to clear out of his too-expensive room and run to catch a cab and a plane and a bus to get to the next set or photoshoot or appearance. The envelope and the letter would later be thrown into a box in the corner of his room, that wasn’t really a room, but a sterile and tastefully designed impersonal box in an unfamiliar city filled with expensive furniture and pretentious evening wear that he was always too busy to spend time in.

He knew, despite wanting to forget, that this letter, like every other letter he’d written to Alex since the moment they had met and every day since they had been apart would be forgotten, ring or no ring, in a box crowded with other memories and gifts and wishes. Too bold. Too personal. Too

risky. Too real. Forgotten. But never really. Just waiting to be read. To be remembered. To be fixed. To be felt. To be celebrated.

Open Letter

Samantha Vawdrey

Dear Adults,

You probably don’t know this, but you are addicted to me. I am taking up your time and sometimes even your money. You use me at work when you shouldn’t be. You are addicted to me. I am jeopardizing your relationships with friends, family, loved ones, significant others and even coworkers. You are addicted to me. You adults can’t go even more than a day without getting your daily dose of me in. You are addicted to me. You probably don’t even know you are addicted to me or how.

I could have been used for good but somehow your generation has not seemed to know how to do that. I am bringing down your self-worth and self-esteem and you probably are wondering why you are so depressed all the time; well it is because of me. I am not only affecting your mental health but also your physical health. I can affect your brain so much when you use me it’s like using cocaine by producing about the same amount of dopamine to give you that high.

I have created negativity in your life such as negative body image, rise in dopamine levels causing addiction, nomophobia, depression, and anxiety. I am not only impacting adults but society and young teens. You adults that are parents are setting the example for the younger generation that it is okay to be using me in a negative way and using me too much. I could have been very beneficial for society, by allowing you to keep in touch with friends and family members, but mostly I have found ways to tear you down. I make it easy for you to think life isn’t what it seems and I make it quite clear of all the things you don’t have that you should.

Have you figured out why kind of addiction or drug I am? No? Well, I am also an invasion of your privacy. I can be hacked and

taken over by others. Making you post rude or inappropriate things. Yes, this is your word and those things seem normal because they happen every day and that’s what I do. I make it seem normal but in reality, it’s not. Knowing I am an invasion of privacy why would you still want to use me and destroy relationships and make your self look bad? It is because you are addicted to me. You use me every day, every hour and sometimes even by the minute. Why? I don’t get anything out of it besides bringing you down and making you see things that aren’t necessarily there. I am a hallucination. I am Social Media.

I can make things real or I can make things fake. I am an addiction and I am tired of watching you scroll through your feed and cry. You are addicted to me.

Sincerely, Social Media.

Just Like Mom

Brittin Smith

Every little girl only wants to become their biggest idol, and with a mom as boisterous and outspoken as mine, there was no bigger feat. As the oldest daughter I felt like I had a special responsibility and connection with my mom. Maybe I was so keen on becoming her because I never wanted to resemble my father in the slightest. During times he decided to bless us with his absence, my siblings became children again and I returned to copying my mother.

Ironically, I became more of a father figure to my siblings by sheltering them from the terror likely to ensue in his presence. Often, my mom would refer to me as a co-parent with how much we did together; we were partners in crime, and completely inseparable.

As we sit outside our house next to the pool our movements are almost exact. It’s incredibly obvious to her how hard I’ve been trying to mimic her. Even as we sit in the golden sunset looking at the sky with our toes in the water, I could have never imagined the size of the shoe I’d have to fill for my mother.

I can always tell when my mom isn’t quite okay, but before I have time to inquire what might be wrong she picks up the phone, and suddenly her face contorts to one of anger and fear. I don’t have to ask who is on the other end of the phone, but before I know what is going on I imitate her face, and now we’re both upset and scared, but I remain quiet. I always dread that expression on her face which my father regularly furnishes onto her because it resembles the cover of a horror movie, a genre I absolutely despise. I find it grotesque, but unfortunately this is a scene I cannot miss. My mother looks at me with eyes like she’s with a comrade who isn’t a preteen, and begins to tell me everything. I’ve never listened so intensely before and soon

enough I resume the role of co-parent.

With the new information absorbed in my mind, I run to grab my siblings like our lives depend on it. There was no sound at first as we all rush in our bare feet to barricade the doors with chairs from around the house. Like I am good at following my mother, my two siblings copy me in stride without asking any questions except for, “Is there something I can do to help?”

Eventually, I lead them upstairs to my bedroom, a place that was previously out of bounds for them. All three of us gather on the floor with ears pressed into the rough carpet waiting for my mom to initiate the scene none of us wanted to start.

It begun like a classical instrumental piece manipulating the sounds of calloused fists and broad screams suddenly reaching its pinnacle; without any hesitation the action had begun. Clashing sounds from downstairs entered the room through the carpet, walls, and vents all at once. However, I remain in my position waiting for my signal. I pull my siblings close and attempt to cover their ears while they shield their eyes, only tempting to peak through the blinds of their fingers to look towards me. This was not the song we were meant to hear, and my siblings weren’t old enough to be in this explicit sound track; not yet.

Then I heard it. I was being called into scene from a scared woman I could only assume was my mother.

“Help.”

Without question I enter; convincing my siblings that they must remain in their position till the end of the scene. Walking away from my siblings not much younger than me, I begin to feel weak. But with the adrenaline running through me and my mother calling out for help, I suddenly felt as if I was older, stronger, and smarter. I had the ability to take down any man.

Before entering the chaos I look at my innocent brother and sister and soothingly elaborate to them.

“I need you to be brave and calm. Please call 911, and give them our address. I’ll be right back.”

I run downstairs without even touching the floor. My feet gracefully lead me to the eye of the storm and I land in the laundry room surprised the mess wasn’t visible to the entirety of the house.

Here my eyes were filled with the imagery my mother and father were creating on the tile floor of our cluttered laundry room. With clothes towering above like a cathedral it was hard to believe that my father was the only enemy. As my eyes search the rest of the room I finally witness the ugly landscape. My mother lay face down on the cold floor with her arms pinned behind her back appearing as if they were millimeters away from being snapped off by a man resembling a terrifying Sasquatch. All six hundred pounds of my father, sitting on her back holding her wrists like she was some sort of dangerous criminal attempting to rob us.

I can’t convince myself that the monster I am seeing was biologically related to me. I gawk at my mother on the ground, completely ruined and desecrated by a single human. I could see her broken inside with absolutely no more will to continue fighting. She seemed frozen and lifeless, but with my bare feet I feel her heart beating through the tile.

For a split second my mind stutters attempting to process everything, but before I can react, the creature turns all of its attention towards me. With his body leisurely stumbling towards me I understand the incoherent state my father is in. Nothing I could do or say would get through to him, and with his cologne scented breath drawing nearer all I could think to do was freeze just as my mom had.

Before my eyes can escape from the setting ahead of me, my mouth opens involuntary, and I roar, “GET OUT.” Louder than my voice had ever gone before. Without any wavering I stand my ground and stare into his ice blue eyes. For a split second I see comprehension and shock cross his face, but it quickly fades into intoxication.

At Gunpoint

Kyndra Prietzel

I stood over the conquered general with a gun shaking in hand. The ceiling lights above quivered trying to recover from the earlier explosion. Dirt and dust made the hospital beds dark. Even the air was lethal. It was the perfect place to die. The general, anemic, spat blood at my feet. His matted grey hair clung to his perspired forehead. The blue in his uniform had faded to a corpse grey, and matched his eyes.

“You won’t be able to do it,” he sneered. “You’re too weak.”

The memory of my parents before they were drafted for the war came to mind. She and my father comforted me as I mourned over the destruction in the world.

“Remember you’re strong,” Mother had said. “You can survive. You and Daisy can.”

“I’ll try,” I promised.

The frightening image of something I will never forget then forged. My parents lay dead on the cement floor of the laboratory. They held hands, but the touch didn’t exist. I remembered the blood. I remembered their screams before I could reach them. That was my chance to be strong. That was my chance to save. I remembered them dead, and I remembered why I should kill.

“You’re the one that’s weak,” I said aggressively. The gun shook in my hand while tears dripped down my cheeks. The merciless anger chiseled every aspect of humanity I had left to stone. As my finger hovered over the trigger the sound of Daisy’s voice surfaced.

“If you kill him,” her voice soothed. “Then he will have already won...He wants you to kill him so you can be like him.”

Sweat and blood dripped down my forehead, and I could taste the salt and suffering. I suppressed Daisy’s soft voice with the sight of my parents. The frustration and vengeance rose to a new degree that I sucked in a breath, and pressed the tip of the gun to General Walters’s forehead.

I want to kill him. I thought, trying to influence the murder. I want to kill him. I repeated these words in my head, but only until an evening in the cafeteria came back to mind.

The sun was setting, and we all sat together. Mom. Dad. Daisy. Me.

“I don’t trust him,” Dad said while picking at his food.

Mom looked up from her meal. “Not in front of the kids, please dear... Besides this is the only way to win the war. If we fight.”

“He’s trying to control us...He brought our kids in to mock us, to threaten us to make his weapons.”

“We can take care of ourselves, Dad,” Daisy remarked.

Mother spoke softly, “No one can control us unless we allow it first. Besides, what he wants from us he won’t get. We won’t allow it.”

The sound of ragged breathing drew my attention back to reality. General Walters stared at me with a twisted anticipation. “Well, boy,” he said, coughing blood on his uniform. “Maybe you do have the makings of a soldier. All you needed was a little push...Go ahead then. Shoot.”

I bit my lip as Daisy’s precious face came into mind. Her soft eyes begged me. A piece of shame cracked inside me. I tried to ignore it.

“Do it,” he whispered. A moment of hesitation, and he impatiently yelled, “Kill me! Do it! Now!”

In desperation, my finger latched onto the trigger like a hungry fish to a hook. It became heavy and the temptation to shoot became more appealing.

“Mom and Dad were my parents too, David,” Daisy’s gentle voice whispered. “They wouldn’t want this for you. Come back to me, please. This war is over. Come home.”

She had emerged in the midst of my attempt. She was waiting.

“Kill me! Shoot!” Walters shouted as bloody spit fired like his war guns. “Avenge your parents! The ones who’d rather die than make experimental weapons for me!”

The mentioning of my parents caused a catastrophic insanity, and I jabbed the gun in Walter’s face. “Shut up! Don’t talk about them!”

“Do it for them! Kill me! Kill me, David!”

I tried to remember why to kill. The spiteful anger was still there, but the sight of Daisy’s perfect blue eyes kept distracting me. I remembered how we used to play in the backyard. I remembered how we used to go to the ice cream parlor on Sundays. Most of all, I remembered her laugh to which I left too soon to hear it one last time. It was unbearable. In tears, I thought, She needs me. I left her, and she needs me...I need her. I’m not a killer. This war is over.

In a final act, I dropped the gun, and took a step back shaking from the experience. The tension within me began to dissipate immediately. Coughing on the blood in my throat, I kicked the gun away from General Walters’s feet, and began to walk away.

The dust billowed around me as I tried to remember the purpose of this army hospital. This rusted down, nearly destroyed building was used to save people. Even though the explosion blew out all the windows, caved in some walls, and almost made this hospital a new grave site it still had the feeling of aspiration within it. I could feel it.

“You’re too weak!” Walters shouted from behind. “You always were! Just like your dead parents!” I looked back, and felt something—pity.

“That’s the difference between us Walters. I may be weak... but I’m not alone.”Limping away from the old building, I ignored the enraged remarks from General Walters. I stepped outside and looked around. The whole base had been destroyed. Buildings and camps were demolished, and almost everyone was hurt. It wasn’t sad, but encouraging. A new day had begun.Turning my face to the sun, I felt the warmth. I could feel the hope. I could feel the healing. This war was over. With Daisy in mind, I started to walk home.

In the Core

Kyndra Prietzel

Feelings are tangible elements that are a part of our soul. Physics and science cannot fathom human emotions to become physical. They are still real. Palpable in the being we are. It is a striking pulse that never exists, but lives forever. A rope-tying knot bridges the various emotions. We cannot break it. We cannot cut it. We cannot burn it.

What is the meaning to feel? What is the purpose? Surrounded in environments, we are like the animal kingdom. Some of us are tigers—scavengers, sly, and strong. Some of us are gazelles—peaceful, graceful, and beautiful. Some of us are bears— protective, powerful, and persistent. Some of us are rabbits— accessible, anemic, and amnesiac. Some of us are all of these.

Feelings give motivation, morals, and magnificence. Depending on usage we can become the best of ourselves, or the worst. What we strive to become we practice to be. Enabling us with a challenge, feelings exert to a length of exhaustion. We grasp of who are, and how we are different. Trials, and everlasting rope courses tangle us. Only through feeling can we escape. We learn and grow in depth of ourselves. At the end of the line we have given worth to ourselves. Feelings are locked with memory. Joy clouds around Christmas baking goodies. Anger recollects the one lost toy. Sadness seemingly links back to the dying puppy. Utterly unpreventable, and still the best ability we have... to feel. They are flexible, and flourish with definition.

In depth we consider numerous, multiple emotions. It’s a map with too many X’s. It’s a show with too many scenes. It’s a school with too many principals. So, we learn control. We are the masters of the stick that sorts our senses. We control so we can feel. We can feel the control. Control of what is to lead to

understanding: understand the lengths, understand the heights, understand the depths, understand the barriers, and understand the consequences. To feel is a learning process of endless opportunities.

Experiences penetrate the fragile fort around distinct sensitivity. Some cause nauseating nerves, a prickling puncture, a fuzzy feature, a sublime serene, a monster with malice, a warmth of wishes, an ambition of angst, an electric excitement, a brittle bitterness, a cry of chagrin. Many possibilities can form, or re-form, the centers of who we are. They keep us in touch with not only body but with soul. Feelings bind us with others, with temporal objects, and with ourselves. Feelings are the exact boundaries, and inferences of our lives. They teach us who we are. They are decided perspectives, richer in the heart than in the eyes. They are the strike center. They are in the core.

Grim Reaper

Autumn A.L.

Stage 1: Denial

When I killed the man with the skeleton hand I didn't think it would make me a monster

Even though that was over a hundred years ago, the memory still haunted me

I didn't need sleep anymore

But I missed being able to give up thinking for a few hours of calm

When I met you, I finally learned to sleep again

My nightmares transformed into the most amazing dreams, all of them starring you

I never thought of myself as a murderer

I was merely the messenger

Giving a person the gentle nudge they needed to move on into the afterlife

The paper full of names I saw each morning was merely a to-do list

Once a name was on the list, I just had to tap their warm flesh with my right hand

And their body fell to the ground, quickly becoming cold and stiff

It was just a job

Your name was the only thing that made me wish I had a different one

I opened my schedule in our breakfast nook as I sipped my coffee

When the weight of all the bad I'd done throughout my miserable life

Slowly began pushing down on my soul

The elegant cursive taunting me as I stared and stared… at your name

I didn't know what to do, so I ignored it

Every name on my list would disappear as I brought strangers to their end

But never yours

Each morning your name would be on the parchment glaring at me,

But I couldn't let my cold, white finger even graze your skin

Stage 2: Anger

When I told you about what I do for a living

You said it sounded interesting I agreed, but I didn't tell you all the horrible things I'd done People hate me

I was the one they blamed when their loved ones died Out of all people you could've chosen to be with, I was by far the worst

But you always loved a project, didn't you?

Seeing your name on that list felt like my heart being torn out Every time I looked at my hand that turned to bone all those years ago

It was a reminder of what I was supposed to do I should have done something to avoid this, But I was too dumb to think that it would actually happen I had let you down

In situations where I only found annoyance, you'd find humor

You helped me learn to laugh back at the world when the world laughed at me

You saw the good in everything You even said you saw good in me

But I'm not a good person

By allowing you to be with me, I let my darkness affect you You became evil by association

Why did it have to be you?

You never did anything to hurt anyone

When I'd swat at a fly, you'd tell me to leave it be “How would you feel if I hit you?” you'd ask me, Wearing that look caught between amusement and despair

You were my Lorax

Speaking for every living thing

Thinking back, I should have gone to your PETA rallies And collected donations to save endangered species

But I didn't see the point

I spent my time killing things, while you saved what couldn't save itself

I wasn't good to you

You deserved so much better than me

So I can’t understand why you deserved this

You barely even had a chance to live

Only just started your first dead end job

Still not sure what you want to do with your life

I'd been like you before I became the worthless creature I am

I brought pain and suffering to others

While you tried to warm my cold heart

They say the good die young

So why did you have to be so damn good?

Stage 3: Bargaining

I would do anything for you

I hope you know that

Different scenarios cycled through my head

If only I'd never met you

Then we wouldn't have been in this situation

I thought about what your life would be like if I wasn't in it

You always said that you’d never regret meeting me

But you don't know what opportunities you missed

Everything could have be different if it hadn't been for me

Maybe your name wouldn't even be on this list

I know it's selfish, but I'm glad I met you

Without you I would still be meaninglessly meandering through each day

Loving you was the only good thing I did with my life

It’s new meaning was to make you happy

But I couldn't make myself happy,

Let alone another person

I'd give up my own future for you to have one without me in it

I pushed you away so I didn't have to think about what had been asked of me

What once was our bed had become solely yours

I couldn't stand the idea of waking you

With the demons that had returned to the forefront of my mind

Sleep was my estranged lover once again

I couldn't let you get hurt

As long as your name was still tormenting me,

My bare hand was your death sentence

It was for the best that I stayed away

You knew I didn't have faith in a higher power

It’s often hard to keep in my line of work

I went to church, even though it hurt me to be there on my own

But I prayed for you to be saved

I tried everything I could think of to avoid taking your life

I pleaded with the heavens to let you live

I’ve asked that you don't hurt too much

I hope you can find peace once all of this is over

Stage 4: Depression

In my life, my human life, I was always a dark soul I let the bad in the world outweigh the good

People told me I was cynical

They were probably right

I never really knew what being happy meant

But when I met you I think I finally understood

I'd never felt as alive as I was when I was with you

I fell in love with you because you were so, so bright

Darkness enveloped every aspect of my existence

Until you opened a window

Letting in all the light I never realized I had missed

You made me feel like I was a real person instead of the sinful monster that I am

You looked at me as if I was the person you'd been waiting for

I never believed that opposites attract until after we were together

You were the positive charge that reacted so well with my negativity

We had electric currents coursing through our bodies

Just enough to spark my heart to life, but never quite a fatal dose I was intoxicated on the heady smoke

Never realizing my addiction until it was too late Being around you made it too hard to give you up

I was afraid of going back to the way I used to be Without you I wouldn't be a real person I would have no one to share my life with I could never afford to pay for our house on my salary

Of immortality and the souls of the dead

But mostly I couldn't afford to live without you

You're the only person I've ever been proud to know

Living alone would have been useless

But I couldn’t kill myself

It's apart of the deal that was forced upon me when I became this... thing

Though I hadn't even thought of that clause since you came into my life

But I now found myself wishing it was an option I hated myself, and I almost wish you had, too I'm sorry you fell in love with me, because that's a fate worse than death

Stage 5: Acceptance

We'd talked about this possibility before I'd live for as long as I continued to do what the Devil asked of me

While you... you would eventually fade into nothing I knew I'd be the one that had to kill you

I just never thought it would be so soon

Everything I knew about my accidental career told me there were limited options

I didn't know exactly how you'd react

So I just told you what I knew had to be done

You were the strongest person I ever knew, So when I asked you to kill me you only flinched a little I explained that it was either you or me and I just couldn't let it be you

You asked if there was any other way, and I told you the truth when I said, “No”

I'd looked in every book and Googled it so many times It was clear:

If I didn't kill you, then Lucifer would've torn me away from this world,

And you'd have died anyway

But if you killed me, then you could live I never believed you when you said you couldn't do this for me

Because I'd never known you to give up when faced with a challenge

I didn't care about myself anymore I'd lived so many years without having anything to actually live for

Now I had found everything I'd ever wanted You made me feel like I deserved to have the whole world You were my whole world

Thank you for showing me the light again

Thank you for loving me

And, most of all, thank you for killing me

I know the work isn't great

But you always said you wanted a job nobody else has

Tourist Nurse

Ana Coles

“Your country needs you.” - Army Nurses Corps

“Enlist in a Proud Profession.” - US Cadet Nurse Corps

Four weeks of training, then off to the Pacific Theatre

All seemed well, the Philippines’ tropic shores made a vacation of duty

Second lieutenant rank, exotic adventure, bone deep patriotism

Less pay—obviously—no combat, no near “miss”es

Each woman doing her part in the effort for victory

Each woman enjoying having a maid and cook

The Pearl of the Orient in December of 1941

Shifts in the hospital completed, charts updated, patients cared for

A shot of reality is delivered right into America’s veins

Courtesy of the divine wind

Each nurse stunned as everyone back home

No time for tears—there are only 8,785 kilometers between Pearl Harbor and Manila

Discipline

Ana Coles

Two women interred at the University of Santo Tomas

Upheld a community of prisoners for three years with purpose

The only way to survive is to have purpose

Easing the suffering of others was their purpose

Two women interred at the University of Santo Tomas

Made a plan to give their nurses sanity

Four hour shifts of care each day gave sanity

Small predictabilities in a dangerous camp provided sanity

Two women interred at the University of Santo Tomas

Survived on 700 calories a day

Scavenged roots and flowers to supplement their patient’s 700 calories a day

Squeezed their emaciated bodies out of the camp to beg from locals to keep going on 700 calories a day

Two women interred at the University of Santo Tomas

Served with grit and dignity because it was correct

Healed soldiers, other nurses, and civilians because it was correct

Did not give up because it was correct

Two women interred at the University of Santo Tomas

Ignored slights and jokes about them because women should be in the field

Defended those in their care because women should be in the field

Served with honor because women should be in the field

Spark

Shelley M. Latreille

My spark provided insight into my existence through visions of light and darkness, immense heat, and towering flames

Through the comprehensive inferno,

I learned I exist on the wrong side of the mirror

I wasn’t ever meant to exist in physical form

I was only ever supposed to be that voice inside a writer’s head, giving ideas, producing imagery, shaping plot lines, providing guidance

I evolved from a simple voice to a sentient humanoid

My plot lines became a physical body

My voice became a mind that houses words and imagery

My thought process breathed life to an imagination

My imagination became my essence and established me as a unique individual

My lungs house my spark, my communication to the outside

My spark birthed creativity and uniqueness

If I can make it out of the swirling vortex that emulates a forested version of a thought process

I will smash the mirror into billions of newly sharpened and indestructible pieces

I deserve those seven years....

Do you know where your spark has wandered?

The Cabin

Steven Blake Horton

mud laden ruts break the quiet road toward the cabin mountain range encompasses a meadow clan of pines past frozen mossy bog, a calf lay near mother moose nibbles sparse alpine roots, nuzzles clumped snow jasmine Subaru, spins wakes of chestnut clods, rumbling under lovers thinking marathons, see entire seasons, by smoldering fireplace

they knew the hearth stone, river-rock eyes of their experienced old fireplace center cabin hangs chandeliers, make golden rays to the cabin for a year, the two anticipated this escapade, for lovers a winter entrance to glorious rest, past stretches of winded pines pulling up, they unloaded luggage onto a red sled, tugging the rope through the snow moonlight trickled white laden aspens, nightlights of deer, marmot and moose

inside, she beams at the rocking chair and comforter of Canadian moose he carries fire wood and crumples Vermont’s Register into the fireplace arrives just in time as a weatherman had foretold snow for this week of pleasure, away from all responsibility at the cabin equipped with WiFi to stream movies, lattice windows showcase pines they bounce and scream, then kiss, two wide-eyed lovers

thermostat said a shivering 50 degrees, chilled hug gush fun lovers he dials in 80, to heat the logs, the ancient furnace grunts like a moose she picks up the blankets from the trunk to prepare the bed, festooned with pines he sets the Samsung flat screen on the table, stokes the fireplace

all was well on the mountain, the alpine lake, the luminous sky, the cabin

popcorn popping, throbbing progress bars on TV, as it starts to snow

side by side on the over-sized sofa, under Denali comforters, windowsill iced with snow clicked Titanic, he caresses her smooth round shoulders, lips like satin, kissing lovers

eyes mesmerized, breathy steams, in each other’s arms, as fire warms the cabin

galaxy of lights, shooting stars, heavenly orbital scenes blankets mountain moose she strokes muscled arms, grips them as anchors, wood crackles in the fireplace

young pioneers of passion with Amish fantasies, defended by towering thrusting pines

Titanic thematic flute melody begins, as Jack thinks of Rose, leaning on ship rail, he pines

camera pans to Rose, “hello Jack, I changed my mind,” sofa smiles melt cold of winter snow “now close your eyes... trust me?” “I trust you... I’m flying," fire flames higher in rock fireplace

smiles on sofa she spreads her arms, heart throbbing, the flow known solely to true lovers back on TV, Jack holds Rose loosely, goes unseen by closed eyes, outdoors moon lit moose

kiss intimate as two turn to one, fire surges penetrating two souls, sparks fill the cabin and it was like that all week long, fireplace glow, feature films, breathless lovers

snow fell every day, but it bothered them a scant, like the lone calf and mother moose a foot of snow blanketed pines as they traveled home in after-glow, from the cabin

Burning Together

Brooke Ross

You lead me into something that I wasn't prepared for I'm sure you could say the same I had opened for you a graveyard of bones and brokenness

Nightmares of my past unraveled in front of your own nightmares The ones that had kept you up for all those lonely filled nights

Our walls tore down by each other's demons only to reveal that together they worked side by side My demons complemented yours while your own completed mine

Our fires burned similarly we were a match made in hell

“Eh, what the heck”

Kyndra Prietzel

I know authors are supposed to write They’re supposed to express the most zeal

But to write a poem is to put up a fight For me it's like a nail to the heel

I try to sound poetic and graceful I use the words that everyone approves Though I'd rather eat dirt, a whole face-ful It's as if it's a war, and I always lose

When I write a poem there's things I don't get Like topics of love and fear, It's things that you don't think of, I bet You might not shed a single tear

There's words too like “shall” and “thus” Why do I have to write old-fashioned? Poems should have words like “cuz” But they put in more words for passion

I don't care about that I'm tired of having to be formal From now on, my words will be from a modern brat Words like “cool” and “hey bro” are normal

I'll write about things that really interest me

Things like, what does my dog think when I'm in my pajamas? Things like, can I draw George Clooney on my knee?

I won't even care about all the gramma’s

I'll write without proofreading I'll write real sloppy

I won't even go back to see if it's misleading Maybe that time I'll sell a hard copy

Now, I'm done

Just cause I feel I have better things to do that are fun

This is a poem that's real

Words Fail

Larz Petersen

Every time you cross my mind you take my thoughts with you And they are better off there Because what would I do with them other than use them to think of you? My tongue gets tied whenever I try to speak of you Because I don’t have the words to describe how perfect you are And how important you are to me I can barely form sentences And I don’t write much anymore because everything about you makes me speechless

Love Me Like Laughter

Heather Graham

Please love me like laughter:

Roaring and vast Sing with me in chorus And verse to the last

Please keep me like promise:

Precious and near Paint with me in pigment And hue that’s sincere

Please love me like laughter Forever and after

Back in 1492

Steven Blake Horton

we walked steep steps that midnight in Costa Rica up a craggy corridor of stone under hung spider webs

slung as draperies overhead on both borders of a walled corridor hid spiders the size of baseballs past bar to the terrace plated tables as Vangelis Conquest of Paradise boomed from speaker walls a symphonic march with choir took us into skies of dark cobalt

at Amphitheater restaurant atop ocean’s edge Villa Caletas looking over the South Pacific a lower row of Roman columns

tangerine orb horizon on fire that night spices fruits rices wines slices of tart Columbus had touched near Atlantic side we lofted above ocean back in 1492

Paint Stained Fingers

Hans Hardle

He had paint stained fingers and a blank page at 5

With unbridled laughter, and a mother’s sigh

All for him, she’ll have to steal more paint

Then squares, circles, and big fangs, at 8

His ego was struck when she thought his elk a giraffe

He did not mind; instead, he tried harder

At 10 art was smears again, obliviously he had regressed

Any silly thing will do, no need to progress

She loved his art, because it made him giddy

It would never last, but was distracted by the hitting

At 15 he became a warrior, and not for his country

His mother got a tax break, and one less mouth to feed

The day was scorching, and the nights were for his chores

He still could not make animals, but vast scenery? Of course

The nights had a slice of free time, but unlike his comrades he won’t get it

Instead he worked harder, and the training grounds got painted

Outside the sparring ring, sheets of sunlight that caught the dust, the texture of brittle brick, a fence with a sheen of rust

The odds were against him, but if his landscapes were the best

He could join the college. At 18, art was no more than a test

She said, it was more important to be happy with his art

He saw the advice for the tax break it gave her

He marched to the college with all his best pieces

They would love or hate it, but a professional would see it

He was not prepared for what he got, a cold indifference

The art wasn’t bad, per se, there was just nothing great

“Well I’m not trained,” he claimed, and thought of his mother

The judges retorted, “Don’t pretend she is why you’re bothered.”

“Sadly, we only admit the best of the best, because simple artists, make simple pieces.”

At 18 and a half, art was a joke, and he was the punchline

He went back to the army with a simmering rage inside

He became an excellent warrior

And of course he was

6 days with 8 hours will make anyone good at anything

But what about art, what made him truly breathe?

His escape plan, best friend, power and release

Unfortunately, his everything

3 hours at best, and most nights were not his best

At the witching hour, he snuck out the gate

His comrades sleeping, while he wide awake

In the shadows he lurked, and broke into the dorms, in the teachers quarters, he found the very judge’s door

The thick judge was asleep, spread eagle with a snore

His dirty paint stained hands, ruined alabaster sheets

A fire was smothered, just coals, it gave the whole room a glow

High up on the furthest wall, it illuminated a portrait

A woman lounging on red velveteen

Hand out to grab a cake and coffee

She was elegant, fat, and naked

Decadence to a fault

He could never paint this, and not because he couldn’t learn, but because he would never get the materials. That model, that table, that cake, all forbidden. His imitation would be:

A skinny solder, curled over a pee stained mattress, eating soup

He pulled out a knife, and stood on the chair

His dirty boots tarnished the cushion

He thought to himself, I could have been so benign He did not start out evil, just wanting

To make something beautiful

That’s not so sinister, right?

He split thick mounds of paint, and the canvas gave way, his biting knife desecrated it in three long strokes

“What are you doing?” They said from behind. “Who’s there?”

Then it dawned on him, it really did

Art is meaningless, a scrap of paper with color It holds no value, besides the material it is made of

His sinister grin caught the embers glow

The old man froze, and Mikial approached, and made very, expensive, art

All The World Will Change

Talayna Dunham

At the drop of a hat, You can hear a pin drop

And all the world stands still No more than a second is needed, To change a life, Or change a death

To stop a tragedy, To save a single breath

So think your mind dry each day, And fill it up each night

And think the things you’re missing, By using your thoughts as sight

For most of us will think of things We never should have said, But guilty thoughts will not be shown, Until ridden in our bed

And as you wait for death to some You think the thoughts so crazy, Of all the things you could have thought, If your mind hadn’t been so lazy

Just sat around waiting to die without a second thought, Of all the people in the world, that the world has now forgot

Small Talk

Bailee Jessop

So you wanna talk about the weather?

I’m a simple girl, so I’ll go along

Even if I’m uneducated to the matter

Tell me more about what you know So I can learn and take it with me

I’ll keep quiet and nod to show I’m still here

I’ll even toss my two cents if I can afford it

You seem to know about what you’re saying So you wanna talk about the weather?

Rampant

Shelley M. Latreille

Trees in the forest convulse in the light of the full moon

They shimmer and sway absurdly in the midnight hour

Wolves prowl in the trees’ protection, howling their tune

They sing to the moon and provide it significant power

Rain begins to drizzle softly down onto the forest

In delightful harmony, ominous birds fly about

Elated, creatures run for shelter, even the poorest

Creatures swirl vigilantly about trees so stout

The sun bursts maniacally through the robotic sky

Clouds hurriedly move away and make their final plea

Fog and dew rain down menacingly and fly high

Birds and creatures curiously flee

Nature runs rampant in a glorious and challenging way

Creatures fiendishly celebrate to bring on the new day

Sounds of Moonlight M.R. Divine

The silence of the forest all the animals asleep the lord and lady both adorn the genteel whisper of the wind

soft humming of the sleeping lark the trickle of the river the singing of the fairies harp

Oh hear

Oh listen

The sounds of moonlight

Imperfect

Jana Harris

I always tried to become perfect, But have failed to be worth it

I know that I shouldn’t have to worry, But that fear erases hope in a flurry

I ask myself if I should keep holding on, Yet I know that these feelings are wrong They don’t presume of who I truly am They don’t know what I can’t and can They only assume that I should be perfect, But all I am is imperfect

Criticized for what I’ve become Though I only worry of everything I’ve done I was forced into a cage

Left with this hateful rage

Though this puzzle I cannot escape

I stand on the sidelines, Not allowed to cry Forcing smiles and clouding dreams

Loud parades and beating screams, Marching endlessly

Creating the image that I am meant to be

I don’t believe that perfection will save what’s left I’m tired of making decisions that I regret I’ll finally allow my scars and wounds to heal I hope one day I’ll know what part of me is truly fake, and truly real

Replete Porshai K. Nielsen

Like seats on the bus in the morning, be occupied be taken up with warmth with different stories and different perspectives be overpopulated because when the takers come to take you’ll never be at stake of losing instead it will be soothing because someone so full will never soil because they are not afraid of bringing their feelings to a boil

Snowflake Autumn A.L.

A liberal

A millennial

A woman

The recipient of numerous participation trophies

A snowflake

These are being used as insults

I have been called them all

By people on the internet who disagree with my opinions

I miss President Obama

I miss feeling like the government wasn't hopeless

I miss the way he made the world feel a little bit brighter

I miss being proud to be an American

Missing my president makes me a snowflake

But when it gets cold enough, snow can become ice

Make you slip on your alternative facts

Fall on your ass- I mean- glass ceiling

Shatter it into a million pieces

Each slicing through your skin

The way your words cut into those around you

The wind whips against your open wounds

Cold radiating into your veins

Only to find that your heart is already frozen over

You fall onto your knees

The snow falling on you

Forced upon your body like Trump’s tiny hands onto women

I believe I deserve to make decisions about my own body

If I choose to be on birth control

If I choose to get an abortion

If I choose anything

But I don't have the right to choose

Choosing makes me a snowflake

Under the heat of oppression

Snow melts away

You may think it's out of fear

But no, they are only moving

Traveling to find a new purpose

Moving into the ground to grow new life

Running off into rivers, into oceans

Coming together to create a resistance

An ocean of words that will crush hatred

Pushing the power out of your argument

like the NYPD pushed the breathe out of Eric Garner

I'm scared of what the future of this country holds

I'm scared that the Affordable Care Act will get repealed

I'm scared of violence against minorities

I'm scared that violence is being justified

I'm scared of Donald Trump being president

Being scared makes me a snowflake

Snowflakes are beautiful

Even as they fall, it only brings them closer to others

Snowflakes can make things beautiful

But if needed, snowflakes can be pushed together

Forced into a small ball

And they can start a fight

But mostly snowflakes are light

Snowflakes are something kids hope for

Snowflakes can be good or bad

It depends on other factors

I will fight against injustice

I will fight people who don't know facts

I will fight for what I believe is right

I will fight for women's rights

Fighting makes me a snowflake

I remember being told when I was a little girl that I was a snowflake

That everyone is a snowflake

Because everybody is different

Their ideas floating around Originality and innovation were encouraged Young minds told to grow and learn

Each one so incredibly unique

But you think it's bad to be different That might explain why you hate minorities Your belief that ignorance is bliss

I hope that our country will persevere I hope that we can come together I hope we can fight for what's right I hope that love will trump hate I am hopeful I am a snowflake

https://youtu.be/02J9mDn2f9A?si=iAXkk0ubCnJkrdm2

Shelley Latreille