The Monologue of a Shadow (Isaac Gomez) Prose
Relief Print on Paper (Ygor Noblott) Visual Help! I’ve Superglued My Fingers to the Keyboard (RJ Walker) Poetry
Chug, Chug, Chug, [or] Pass the Kool-aid (Andrew Carlson) Poetry
Tomorrow (Kylee Gault) Poetry
Mindful Minds (Isaac Gomez) Visual
No Choice No Control (Adrian Morales) Prose Two Buildings (Octavio Castillo) Poetry
Open Letter (Ygor Noblott) Prose (Shelley Latreille) Visual “Uncharted” (Shelley Latreille)
Other
The Secret Dance (Madison Noftell) Prose (Andrew Carlson) Poetry
Lips in Silence (Bethany Anderson) Prose
Barn of Solitude (Shelley Latreille) Visual Shut Up (Ashli-Renee Moore) Poetry
The Eye of the Earth is Forever (Maren Lundgren)Prose Not His Story (Rosie Phetphouthay) Poetry
Face of a Cat (Oscar Roche) Visual
The Candidates (Shandy Clark) Poetry
Shapeshifter (RJ Walker) Poetry
While in Our Little World (Everest Barrowes) Prose Birthday (Oscar Roche) Visual Vices (Illise Ellsworth) Prose
Contemplation of a Killer (Will Fluetsch) Poetry
Ferris Wheel in Hibernation Dreams of Summer Riders (Shelley Latreille) Visual
Fire and Guilt (Noah Lewis) Prose
Ashes of the Past (Vincent Rivera) Prose
Diva (Sarah Kennedy) Visual
Hopelessly Homeless Epiphany (Arielle App) Prose
Gato (Erin Robins)Visual
Creative Essay (Ygor Noblott) Prose
Born in the Wild (Casandra Toyama) Visual
If You Want It (H.E. Grahame) Prose
Escapada (Brenda Guadarrama) Visual
Untitled (aka Patriarchal Tension) (Dallin Crossley) Prose
Together Forever (Shelley Latreille) Poetry
Sun Red Mildew (Hans Hardle)Prose
Wormsloe (Savannah Frandsen)Visual
Through the Photographer’s Eyes (Megan Limb) Prose
End to the Holidays (Chantel Tonks) Prose
Taylor’s Wind (Larz Petersen) Poetry
My Mom is Not Invincible (Caroline Martin) Prose
A Lost Friend (Jaelyn Hansen) Poetry
Spring! Spring! Spring! (Kyndra Prietzel) Visual
Perfect (Bree Sorenson) Poetry
Last Saturday (McKenzie Johnson) Prose
Depression (Bree Sorensen) Poetry
Lonely Icicle (Makael Hiatt) Visual
Uncharted (Shelley Latreille) Poetry
The Damned Witch (Sierra Bellows) Prose
Dear Sister (Bree Sorensen) Prose
Wasted Wishes (Casandra Toyama) Visual
The Olympians (Will Fluetsch)Poetry
Open Mind for a New Year - Fly Towards the Unknown and Embrace It! (Shelley Latreille) Visual
Apocalyptic Lack of Reason (Hans Hardle) Poetry
Explosive Eye (Shelley Latreille) Visual
The Cult of Little Hatu (Stephen Hamblin) Prose
Monterey Bay (Oscar Roche) Visual
Shut Up and Row (Colin MacArtney) Prose
The Chuuk Lagoon Plane Crash (Kurt Bettfreund) Prose
Self Care, Ultra Running Style (Karli Davis) Prose
Home of Truth (RJ Walker) Prose
Lehrerin (Carlee Stewart) Prose
The Cycle (Kalea Acuna) Prose
Greetings from Mercur! (Shelley Latreille) Visual
Ashli-Renee Moore (Ashli-Renee Moore) Poetry
Tulsa Race Massacre: The Relevance of Dick Rowland’s Forgotten Story (Andrew Christiansen) Prose
Mixed Media Painting on Paper (Ygor Noblott) Visual
Door to Freedom (Sherrie Wall) Prose
Books, Boats and Mormon Rhetoric: Why Criticism Matters (Carly Gooch) Prose
Finding Therapy (Carol Chatwin)
Birds Flight During Eclipse (Trisha Sorensen) Visual
Bews (Erin Robins Prose)
My Name (Rosie Phetphouthay) Prose
Dear Hindsight (Gavin Houghton) Prose
Isaac Gomez
The Monologue of a Shadow
I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I am. Everything is dark and heavy. I can’t move and I barely can think. I am screaming with no sound, with no voice. What is life when you are made to follow? What is life when you are made to be silent? What is life when you are Nothing?
I hear a voice, a cry, a scream. I asked, who is this? Nobody heard me. I start moving, swinging side to side in the air. I met someone just like me. Who are we? Why can’t we move? I asked.
“You are just another damaged soul; you were born to follow and be ignored... learn from what you witness and wiser you will become.”
I couldn’t understand, I was nothing and something at the same time.
The time passed. I’ve been with this human (as they called themselves) for a long time. -
one yells, “Wake up! Time to go,” and with anger on his face, he jumps. I follow him, his face changes. His eyes are wide open and his mouth is curved cheek to cheek. He whistles while he pulls me to go downstairs. I can’t stop and I don’t try anymore.
More years pass, and I start to get tired. I have no choice but to do what he does, to go where he goes. He calls me a dog while putting a bright light behind
joke to him.
I cry at night when everything is dark, when I can move. I go outside and I see more like me. Why are we so unhappy? Why can’t I be like him? I see myself and I see nothing, just darkness and deep black. People are scared of me: I bring chaos, I bring fear, I bring loneliness, I bring myself to everyone’s lives.
He is tired, and so am I. I hear a gasp, and then a loud cry from my side.
“He has left us,” they say. I look around and I see him lying on a bed, his eyes are closed and his skin color is as white as the wall. There is no life in him, there are no more whistles in the morning.
They take him, and I’m going as well. They say, “He is going to a dark place.” How dark is that place? How happy can he be there? They put him down in a hole in the ground, inside a brown box with gold on the edges. The box looks something he would love to see, beautiful and bright.
RJ Walker
Help! I’ve Superglued My Fingers to the Keyboard!
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asssss ass ass sak sak sak saks sak;;
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ssssssssss dddsdsa dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad
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sad sad sad sad sad;;;;; sad sad sad sad;;;; sad;;;; sadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsad sad ;;; k;;;;;;;;; k fall;;;; fall k;;;; fall fall fall;;;; fall; all all all fall fall fall;;; k; fall fall ddjgbddn ht0/ dad sad fall
Andrew Carlson
Chug, Chug, Chug (Pass the Kool-aid)
Tragedies build to a head just like this
Souls are inspired and then crushed like this
A kindred spirit within this strange land
A breath of fresh air clears the dust like this
Oh anonymous, oh ye unknown; speak
The moment has passed to be hushed like this
It’s only the way it always has been
They lie when they say that you must like this
Rife favoritism, nepotism
A bit of gasoline, some kerosene
A match- and then nothing combusts like this
To passion, to fury, to lust like this
I wonder why I ever fussed like this
God is dead and morals are subjective
(Non-denominational thrusts like this)
To be or not to be? To dream a dream?
Old eyes and the jaded can’t trust like this
So, we are left, frozen and immobile
And I, bitter, coated in rust like this
if tomorrow my sky is no longer blue, Sun takes his warmth:
beckons the songbirds to follow in fear, follow in fear, follow in fear, in fear of the cold he leaves for me.
if my today leads me here and my tomorrow looks like this, I hope to gaze up, focus on that sky that no longer is blue. thank Him in darkness, who in darkness swallowed it all, leaving me here. alone. only stars to guide and silence to think.
if tomorrow the air becomes harder to keep; an inhale and exhale now a decision to make, no longer the thing that just happens.
Adrian Morales No Choice,
No Control
Did you wanna start or should I?
Hmm, you can start. You’re a better narrator than me, I can do descriptions.
Okay.
We look down to our protagonist, a hastily-dressed woman on the bus, checking her phone again and again for the time. She’s late for work and she knows it.
Well, she’s not right now, but she will be.
Do you mind?
Oh right, sorry. Continue.
Aubrey takes a seat near the driver. The bus trembles as it starts moving.
spend on food today and realizes that if she makes at least 100 dollars in tips today, she’ll still be 246 dollars and eighty cents short. Sam won’t like that. Aubrey knows she needs to get her shit together.
Can we swear in this?
I don’t see why not.
You can swear, I’ll keep my bits fairly clean.
Sure thing.
Aubrey leans and turns her head to see down the road, and luckily, the light’s green. A loud screech tears through the bus. Aubrey’s time slows to a near stop. She sees it. A red sports car crossing through the intersection, painting two crisp black lines on the road behind it. The front crumples into the side of a blue sedan.
tic even. Until she realizes that this is not some video she’s watching on her phone but that it’s actually just happened right in front of her.
Aubrey sprints to the door of the Lucky Star 07. An Asian-fusion restaurant in the heart of downtown. We haven’t been but the food looks good. That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say? The food looks good?
Well, we need to keep the story moving.
At least let me describe a dish.
Okay, one.
Inside, a server, dressed up in a tidier version of the all-black uniform Aubrey is wearing, carries a tray with two plates of chicken satay, charcoal-grilled chicken tenders marinated in a blend of Thai herbs, served with peanut sauce & cucumber relish.
from inside but Aubrey doesn’t notice. It won’t matter anyway. The manager confronts her the moment Aubrey enters the break room.
“Dude, what the hell? You’re an hour late!”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. There was a crash on 35th and it took forever for—”
been late this month, and I’m pretty sure you’ve used that excuse before. So... sorry, not sorry, I gotta let you go.”
“What? Lisa, come on. Don’t be like that.”
“Nah, I’m tired of picking the slack for you, Bree. Especially since you’re always missing the morning rush. You gotta go.”
“Wow, ok. Glad to know that’s how you feel.”
“Yea, that is how I feel. Just hurry up and go wait your tables.”
“Nah, I’m outta here. You a fake friend.”
“Whatever, I’m just about your only friend.”
I think I’m with Lisa on this one. Aubrey’s pretty irresponsible. At least, she has been since we’ve been watching her.
No way, I think Aubrey just been put into some bad situations.
Aubrey stands just outside her door, right in the middle of the quiet hall-
Sloshing, running water. The clanking of pots and pans. Clinking plates and glasses. The moment between one indie rock song ending and another one playing. Aubrey contemplates waiting somewhere so she can pretend she’s been at work, but it would only delay what’s about to happen. And she knows that. She grips her keys in a way to prevent them from jingling. The key goes into the handle click by click. Sam turns around and is shocked to see their partner when she should be at work.
“Why aren’t you at work?”
“Can I just chill out for a minute before talking about this? Today’s just been the worst.”
“I know, I know. You’ve told me every day for like... the past six, seven days.”
“Ok. I won’t then.”
had to cover for you!”
“It’s not my fault! There was a stupid car crash on 35th and it made me late!”
“Yes! Oh my god, don’t worry about it. I’ll look for one tonight.” Aubrey
“You better look for one right now! I can’t keep doing this, Bree!”
her makeup, putting on mascara, a little bit of lip liner, and some chapstick. Nothing too fancy.
Across the station is Aubrey’s favorite place to get a drink and forget about life. Club Venice. She’s been coming here since she was 19. Lisa’s brother used to work as a bouncer here on Thursdays and Saturdays.
friends come in while underage.
It’s not like they were buying drinks.
Oh yea, no. They’d just get sloshed beforehand and drive up as fast as they could before the alcohol hit.
God, you’re so uptight.
Aubrey orders two shots and asks the bartender to stash the second, saying she’ll be back for it. She orders a cocktail—
Hold on, let me describe it.
Aubrey catches the eye of the bartender, leans in over the music and orders a Jasmine, a refreshing, citrusy gin cocktail. The bartender grabs a shaker, scoops up a load of ice, and in goes one and a half-ounce of gin, quarter-ounce Campari, quarter-ounce orange liqueur, and three-quarters of an ounce of fresh lemon juice. Shake shake shake. Strain and garnish with lemon twist. Aubrey trades the bartender a tip for the cocktail.
Wow. So many words to describe a simple transaction.
Okay, action boy, you get the next scene.
bobs and sways as she starts to feel herself, really lock into the groove. Glistening synths and a funky bassline propel her hips from side to side. Her half-opened eyes catch the attention of some maple-brown eyes. A girl dances her way through the crowd, smiling and glancing at Aubrey every few seconds. Aubrey meets her halfway and soon, they’re dancing together, holding each other hands, and forgetting everything outside of these Moments.
“I’m Patience, but you call me Pay. What’s your name?”
“Aubrey, but everyone calls me Bree.”
“Let’s get a drink?”
“Yeaaa! You want a shot?”
“Yes! Oh my god!”
Why do I get the feeling that this is gonna end up badly?
Um, because this is Bree’s life we’re narrating? When does anything go right?
The two girls make their way up to the bar. Bree holds her hand and motions for her shot. The bartender bends down behind the bar and retrieves the stashed shot of vodka from earlier.
Bree orders two more cocktails.
While the bartender mixes the two drinks, Bree hands the shot to Pay, who throws it back with ease. No chaser. Not a hint of a grimace. Pay sets the glass
down on the counter.
“Huh? Oh this is my work uniform. Or was, anyway.”
“Oh damn, what happened?”
“Aw, I’m sorry, girl. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”
“It really wasn’t. This stupid asshole ran a red and crashed in front of my bus, and it took forever for the wreck to be cleared, and because of that, I was an hour late. And my so-called friend wouldn’t listen to me. She just told me that she
out’ and I left. And then, get this, when I went home, my partner was like ‘Why
a new job. Right now.’ Like, oh my god... it’s just been a really stressful day.”
“Damn girl, sounds like you need a smoke. What are you doing after this?”
“I don’t know, probably go home.”
“Wanna come to my place?”
Pause.
What?
What do you think she’s gonna do?
I mean if you let me continue, we’ll see.
I don’t think she’ll go. She loves Sam and they’ve been together for, like, years.
Come on, this is Bree we’re talking about.
I think she’s going to say ‘thanks, but no thanks’, drink her drink, and then go back to dancing.
Wanna put money on it?
Where would we spend it?
I’ll put down 2 mil.
Just keep narrating.
ing about Lisa and where she could apply. About the crash and the red car moving in slow motion.
How despite waking up late, she managed to get dressed and out the door, just in time to catch the bus. She thinks all this, picks up her drink, and says, “Let drink?”
Octavio Castillo
Two Buildings
Why do we pay more for less space?
Shouldn’t we be building fortresses for our safety?
Shouldn’t we try to build elsewhere where the air is not hurtful and toxic? Does our self-atrophy come from our inner darkness?
Can we stand to not know where the next light is? What if you turned this frame sideways?
Why do we overbuild our cities?
Is there a random junk drawer in every household?
What if we took it, and dispersed it? Don’t we deserve to breathe?
Ygor Noblott
A Thank You Letter to the Bike
Dear Bike,
Thank you for constantly surprising us. Since your predecessors – the velocipede
horses died, your seldom recognized deeds have improved all our lives. Of all things, you are more than you let out to be.
I never would’ve guessed that you literally paved the way for cars, and
engineers to create new parts, and helped the troops with reconnaissance during the war. Thank you by the way, for all of that, but especially for giving birth to the motorcycle, your coolest accomplishment no doubt.
We can’t forget also how you keep us healthy. Few other activities create as many neurons, blood vessels and produce as much serotonin and dopamine to keep us sharp, happy, and calm under stress. Hardly any other activities lower blood pressure, control adrenaline and cortisol, build lean muscle, burn calories, strengthen the lungs, develop motor skills, and protect the heart as much as going on a bike ride. You even help people with Crohn’s disease, weak joints, Parkinson’s, those recovering from injuries, and those with kidney, skin, and immune diseases. You do it all!
In every movement and undertaking, you have our backs. Eradicating air,
you deserve recognition. Funny enough, it seems like you’re the one saving the planet and we just hop on for the ride.
the little boy in that third world country, the old and the young, poor and wealthy, famous and common, the hipster, nerd, scholar, homeless, and LGBTQ; the spirited grandpa in incredible shape for his age, and even that really tan guy that rides -
iards, French, Japanese, and everyone else, they all thank you.
But perhaps more explicitly, I thank you.
I thank you for clearing my nose whenever I have a cold, for saving me a few bucks when I’m tight on cash, and for entertaining me despite the decade you spent in the shed encased in spider-webs. When I feel shackled by life’s turmoil, I know a ride can help me feel free and show me the world more intimately. You always help me feel cool when I know I’m not, but especially when I don’t feel like I am. I thank you for making me happy when my mind says I don’t deserve to be and refuses to let me be.
Above all, I thank you for teaching me some great life lessons like: “it’s
“to keep life’s balance you must keep moving.” I can’t help but become emotional as I realize that thank you doesn’t begin to cover it. I know you’re an inanimate object and all, but to me as well as all of humanity, you have been a true friend. So when you’re gathering dust and rust, wondering why we haven’t come to you for help yet, be patient with us; we tend to overlook the modest but exceptional things in life.
Sincerely,
Ygor Noblott
Madison Noftell
The Secret Dance
The familiar tap, tap, tapping dragged Eloette from a dreamless, black sleep. The sheets sighed against her bare legs as she turned towards the window to the alley.
edge of the bed, unable to tear her gaze from the rapturous movements. The noises coming from the man were incoherent - induced by whatever drug took hold of his jerking awake in an uneasy, panicked sweat. The foreign sound had her frantically untangling her trapped body from the mess of sheets. Barely catching herself on the window frame, to be greeted by the secret dance.
The nightly dancing intrigued her. What must be running through his blood, sending such euphoric energy into his limbs and having no choice but to be released? Could she, too, join in the dance of the alley? The scent of urine wafted from the conjoining bedroom in the small apartment, drawing Eloette out of her trance. Another nightly familiarity. Flipping on the light in the bedroom, she padded to her sister’s room.
The cold bite of the door handle cooled her rapidly heating skin, the beckoning of unseeing eyes ties the familiar knot over and over in her gut. Her sister’s limbs jutted out of the comforter like those of a discarded marionette, strings cut and left to wither away in lifelessness. Following the soft curves of the girl’s cheeks, Eloette made it a game of sorts for herself to imagine eyes, no longer unseeing, meeting hers. A small loving smile tugging at the corners of the drool stained mouth.
Tubes protruding from her throat and arm carried the drugs keeping her heart beating, a framed picture sat perched on the nightstand beside her. A beaming woman, hair tied in a neat ponytail and arms thrown around two equally
sweet creatures fur like feathers.
Memories froze Eloette in place; a barely visible Tennessee road in the side of the road. The collision leaving her breathless, glass scattered along the a pristine hospital room, pure white light glaring as she made out the form of her sister. The girl’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, her skin barely visible under the slew of bandages. The stench of death wafted from the bed, Eloette knew then she was gone.
Pulling the comforter back, Eloette set to changing the diaper that her sister now wore daily. A fresh set of towels and sheets sat waiting in the dryer from the previous afternoon - she hauled them to her sisters bed, swapping out the damp set. Their mother refused to allow the doctors to tell her that her baby was
not dead, but a close second. Her brain activity reduced to nothing, their mother purchased this apartment and dragged the corpse of her sister to this room. Spending everything they had on the sustaining equipment, to leave after 6 months of heroic fretting and tending to her sister.
Having turned 18 the previous month, Eloette had enough saved to keep the apartment and the age to legally put it in her name. Everything else went to keeping her sister breathing. Their mother graced them to a monthly phone call after her sudden disappearance, feeding them excuses of looking for work to support her girls, yet begging for the funds from Eloette to pay for her to live as well. The begging and pleading chipping away at any little will power she had left. She pulled the comforter to her sister’s chin, the girl’s breathing smooth. Eloette sliding for the father who never existed, praying for life, and praying to join the secret dance that would take her far away from the world.
A week passed, the night silent as Eloette jerked awake. The light of the alarm clock on the nightstand glared 3:45 a.m. - and the night was silent. She was up in
the dark alley shadows. There, half covered by a discarded trash bag, two legs stuck out from beside the dumpster, unmoving. Lifeless. Something hot and wet made a path down Eloette’s cheek; a small puddle of the salty liquid forming on
felt. Unable to look away, unable to move, she stood there. Mourning the secret dance of the alley.
Andrew Carlson
The hiss and gurgle mirror groggy thoughts; Reluctance to start, Silently I think. There’s an idea.
As though I might ask, “Would you sound so tired If you didn’t wake me?”
To no response... ‘til with a sudden
A click, -a ‘tsk’I sighed, and poured myself a cup.
Then I sat to contemplate this reprimand of sorts And took no notice as she crept Behind and by for their discourse; Another silent exchange.
“Remember,” she then said, and stopped (as if to do just that) Then shifted with a thought
Three simple drops their fate.
While two escaped, the third, it stayed; I remember Holding on as her eyes followed mine, drifting down (I remember so much more...)
Inhaling sharply on her part; (I prayed she may recall as well) But simple yawns betrayed my hope As she asked “...where I put my keys?”
“But stay awhile!” I pleaded, (She was having none of it) “You don’t even know
But not a moment from her lips, All that I had shared had shattered.
Some days I can manage When the remnants of those shards Find their way out from the corners Then embed themselves as slivers Though not deeply in my feet
That screams, “You never tried, And you’ll never know,” Or that stained glass, testifying, Once prophesying of her departure.
Bethany Anderson
Lips in Silence
A movie theater is a world with adventure lurking in every corner. Twinkling lights scattered around with a mystical glow. Heroes strewn across the building. soda made me want to have every last drop and crumb. All this felt like a dream. opening their mouth, only to let out a mumble.
Almost all words were put in a blender, impossible to comprehend. I understood the peaks and valleys of the story, but not the dialogue. Going home we looked back at the story, the jokes, the majestic land we had witnessed. I could not the DVD. Darting to the TV, I slid it in, desperate to watch it again. Before it began, I checked for the one thing that could help me. Subtitles.
At a friend’s birthday party, I boiled with excitement. We played the greatest games, and ate the most delicious cake. Once a movie turned on, I sat staring at the screen in shame. Not able to understand anything, but not brave enough to ask for help. Ashamed to ask for subtitles. Just staring at the dancing pictures. Awaiting the chance to go home. Living an endless loop of this, I wanted more. I wanted to break from this chain, to be free.
As years went by, I went to a theater, as I had done for nearly a decade. I -
derstand word for word what a new favorite character was going to say. As soon as it turned on, I felt like a child again. Desperate to know what happens next. Each visit, I would use this. Brimming with happiness. With that, there were pits of darkness. It sometimes would not work after half the movie went by. Other times the movie, being at a loss of what happened. All because of a malfunction. Being so reliant, I could not function with it being swept away.
Other
Hook
What are you?
Hispanic
What are you?
Black
What are you?
White
What are you?
Other
What I am is not synonymous with who I am
But that don’t matter when you looking through Instagram
Best be anonymous with your comments can’t take them back
Best stay inside after his suicide can’t bring them back
My bones can heal but these social words are everlasting
Last thing I remember asking is for my brother’s casket to be closed
You see he got his ass kicked cause he was last kid in a place after close
The cops didn’t care that he didn’t know
They wanted his ID but he wouldn’t show
Now my brother is the poster child for your post Hook
What are you?
Hispanic
What are you?
Black
What are you?
White
What are you?
Other
Verse
They ask me what I am instead of who I am
I tell em what they want but they’re not listening
Please listen when I’m speaking this is who I am
I am not a box on an application
I am who I am and to be honest that changes
Daily as I discover what makes me
And who made me
Society frames me with a black line
But don’t you think that it’s time
To explore the word other
As in something other than what’s there
Cause I don’t bout y’all but I am not pure I am a product of two boxes sure
But what I am is not other let’s make that clear
Ashli Renee-Moore
Shut Up
Who are you to tell me that I can’t be black?
Who are you to tell me I can’t act the way that I act?
Is this oreo too sweet
But if I talk like this
I’ll surprise you more when we meet
You use your big words with no understanding
You sound stupid
Shut up
You can’t reach the people when they don’t know what the hell you’re saying
Discombobulated
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
You mean a long disease ,you dick
You know what
I’ve got a word for you
Ignorance
Enough vowels to buy yourself a consonant
Enough knowledge to know that it starts with you
Maren Lundgren
The Eye of the Earth is Forever
Every moment we have is temporary. There is something wired in us to believe the departed) and that seeps into the minutes of our days and nights. But nothing determined. All that is certain is that it will.
desert sky on a rare clear day, the slow bloom of a child’s smile when they hand over their trust/their heart/you cannot separate the two, the soft weight of the sleeping cat on my chest.) In one of these temporary moments and there is not despair, but raw joy in the beauty of the temporary.
from every event in my life.
Not one of us leaves this life without having known loss and pain. Not one of us leaves this life without having known a moment of grace. I used to think if I had one, I could not have the other.
This bothness, this mix light and dark are not the Scales of Justice though - they are not always evenly balanced. Some days (weeks, months, years) have gone by where pain of the temporary outweighs the joy. There is no right or wrong way to feel. There is only where I am at in the moment. And I can give myself the gift of honoring myself, and where I am in the moment. And each (temporary) moment
when we are ready.
Rosie Phetphouthay
Not His Story
A story of skin is where it begins
Had to be us; colored, black.
The past is present, cruelty lingers
Facts with half truths are lies
To see with eyes closed is blind
Ears plugged or he dismissed it
Ignorance feigned is complicit
There’s another side to bring
Preaching lessons of a hero
Don’t change things for a Negro
He says we are equal
No lessons from the prequel
We are persecuted
We are prosecuted
He’s got dropped cases
Our moms pray for better spaces
We speak to deaf ears, to blank stares
To thoughts and prayers
Cop-out and cover ups told
We’re living in a chokehold
He has his head down
We put our hands up
Shoot because they’re afraid
We’re the monsters they made
It’s in their head
But we bleed red
White and blue want us dead
Living from the sale of a high
Riches hard to come by
We get up from stooping so low
We’re dealing to blow
Hoods with no good
We’re triggered
Given the wrong shot
Isn’t this wrong?
Or does color make them right?
We’re all shades of brown
There is no white
In the land of the free
Our lives come at a cost
And no way to pay
We are people with hopes and a dream
Kept under his story’s scheme
Never equated, A divide contemplated
How are we less
But they wear our hair
They paint their skin
Anything we do
They take it too
They steal our story,
Won’t tell its truth
It’s not his story to tell
But we should say our end,
To the one he began
How are we American
When a line was drawn
So there’s better
But we’re less than
Shandy Clark
The Candidates
Candidates of manipulation convince you that Your slice of legacy is here now
Handing one to you
They encourage the drink, the fun
As they dump theirs Quickly intoxicating
The start of your wild youth withering Continuing manipulation praises you, But the candidates don’t stay when you’re unconscious You’re no longer worthy as their entertainment
The Shapeshifter
I leave the ambulance with my partner and begin approaching the crash, the dead man in the desert
And then I shapeshifted.
I became the burning engine the death-rattle of a motorcycle When a motorcycle dies, it becomes the road and I am becoming the road And then I shapeshifted
I became the road but I feel like one long headstone bloody as a murder weapon and then I shapeshifted
I became the blood and bits of bone the pieces of god’s jigsaw puzzle doomed to never again be a picture and then I shapeshifted
for nobody would knowingly wear a dead man’s boots and then I shapeshifted
I became the ambulance bright lights and wailing like a dying thing and then I shapeshifted
I became the bits of brain matter and i don’t know anything oh god i don’t know anything and then I shapeshifted
I became the nevada desert and I will swallow all of this I’ve swallowed a lot more, you know and then I shapeshifted
I feel like I’m getting paid to watch death do all the work and then I shapeshifted
Everest Barrowes
While in Our Little World
Her room was dark and cool when we entered it, just how we liked having it. It was in the basement and the curtains were down. We climbed onto the bunk bed that was only hers, building our own little world underneath the top bed, like we always did. We grabbed the light blue sheets that covered her bed and we tucked them underneath the top one so we could almost feel like nothing else existed except for that small space. She brought in her books and when I looked up I could see the doodles and notes she always had taped to the wall. Turning my head just slightly, her little folded paper creations that I loved were right there, still hanging from the boards of the top bed like they always were. I had my sketch pad and tablet and together we were there, hidden away from the rest of the world. A safe place.
We found ourselves here every time we hung out. I didn’t ever really think about why, I guess we liked having our own place where we could talk freely about anything we wanted. Though, as I think about it now, I think it was more that we liked being alone. She liked being away from her family; I liked having less chance of confrontation.
made up, of interesting facts we learned, and she delved deep into ideas I never thought to think of. She did this every time. Her mind was a unique one that I have never found in anyone else. Intelligent, yet sad. Mostly I would just listen and be awed at the depth she seemed to have. We could talk for hours.
This day started out like every other day we spent together, huddled together in the small fort we made. I was ready to learn because she was someone who opened up much of my previously small world. She would do so again at this time, but not like she ever had before. The conversation we had went deeper and darker than any other time we were together. I don’t remember how it started, I don’t know why she chose this moment, but I remember how it made me feel when I saw her face.
Looking at me with a blank face, devoid of emotion as she often wore, she said, “I have thought about ending my life.”
Our little, quiet world seemed to go more silent than it ever had before. I stared at her.
She continued in that same tone. “I’ve thought about how I would do it. I have thought of a plan.”
Up until this point in my life, I lived life with glasses heavily tinted rose. I will say I had a privileged growing up, I have been blessed and I am grateful for it. But a life like that made me very inexperienced and I had never been exposed to the kind of thoughts my friend told me that day. I didn’t know other people had thoughts like this, much less someone I was close to. Needless to say, I was jarred, and I wasn’t sure what to do at all. So I just listened.
We were barely teenagers, still children. But she thought about not exist-
I am in no place to say why this had happened, or what led to it. What I know is that I was the only one she told at this point in her life and I don’t think she was planning on telling anyone else. She didn’t feel safe enough to tell anyone else. All I know is that her face and voice will forever hold an impression in my mind.
I will always remember her dark secret that she shared with me only when she felt safe, tucked away, under the sheets, there in our own little world.
Illise Ellsworth Vices
The feeling of relief as you suck the smoke in
After a long day you don’t care if your living in sin
It all sinks in and slowly you begin to care a little less
These are our vices.
You had a hard day and end it with a drink
And still further into depression you continue to sink
The alcohol may be able to burn the pain away
But the hurt, the loss, and the stress all still stay
These are our vices.
The comfort of a lover’s arms makes you feel secure
But the way they look at you makes you so unsure
All the same the closeness makes you feel so good
So you stay with them, just like anybody else would
These are our vices.
You want acceptance, so you look at your phone
Seeing your friend comments makes you feel less alone
Then you check again and again in search of validation
Responding the very second you feel the vibration
These are our vices.
Things that make us feel better just for a while
It’s not just a break when it becomes your lifestyle.
These are our vices
From drugs to devices
Despite good advice
You choose your vice.
Contemplations of a Killer
Is it rude to peak inside a casket?
Do the dead speak ill of those who see?
Does a rotting rolling writhing corpse
Really worry about such modesty?
Could the damned care less what others do?
Should a growing living thriving man Care for any promise made to you?
Is it cruel to hate these who are dead?
Do you expect much more from Adam’s son?
Does a toothless heartless godless sinner
Deserve any remorse for what’s been done?
Is it righteous then to deliver justice?
Should it take much more to make it right?
This pained ashamed deranged riddler
Shall not breathe through this crismon night.
Lewis Fire and Guilt
The modest warmth radiating from inside the crematorium lured the boy in from the snappy spring air. It began to rain, and the smell of his damp wool topcoat and the scent of lumber reminded him of the days spent gathering eggs and feeding horses on his uncle’s farm.
“Ready?” Asked the cremator, his tone empty of any grace.
The boy nodded.
Without ceremony, the cremator led him down a narrow concrete hallway lit by construction lights to a splintered wooden door, warped from heat and a lack of moisture. The boy, a few paces behind the cremator, could see, through the cracks in the door, two large metal incinerators. They reminded him of the kilns
print-laden saucers into as a little boy.
But he hadn’t seen kilns like this, with mouths large enough to slide a body into. One kiln lay dormant. In front of the other, a plain rectangular wooden within. The room smelled like heat.
“She’s in there,” the boy said to himself, a touch of disbelief in his voice. He rested his hand for a moment on the foot of the box. For whatever reason, he thought he’d feel something other than wood, feedback, warmth, a feeling that she was, indeed, in that box. But all he felt were smooth pine panels and their rough edges. Even so, the boy thought a few words of farewell to himself before nodding at the cremator, who then pushed the box carelessly into the kiln.
“Here,” the cremator said, gesturing for the boy to close the kiln door.
“Just pull it down?”
“You gotta pull it kinda hard,” he said, his thick Boston accent draining any sense of etiquette from the moment.
The boy reluctantly grabbed the lever. He couldn’t help but notice how worn with use it was, stripped bare of its black rubber grip where it had been tugged so many times before. Unsure, the boy pulled the lever, the heavy metal doors shutting with startling ease.
On the kiln was a panel with numbers on it. At the top of the panel, like a cell-tower against night sky, was a bright red button. button.
The boy hesitated for a moment, realizing time was up but wishing he’d had more.
What if she’s still alive? What if she wakes up after I press the button? he worried. No, I felt her forehead that morning.
People don’t come back when they’ve gone that cold.
He recalled feeling his mother’s cold, waxy skin against his lips as he kissed her goodbye. He couldn’t help but be ashamed at the slight repugnance he felt after kissing her, as if death itself was somehow contagious.
Then, he thought about the time when she called out to him for almost an hour, trapped under a full-length mirror. In her weakened state she couldn’t muster the strength to get out from under it. The boy had been with friends in his room, blasting music and railing oxys and they hadn’t heard her. Sickened with guilt, he heedlessly hit the red button with an open palm.
by a whirring sound.
If she’s still alive, it’s too late now, thought the boy.
He took a moment unsure of what to do next, then looked around, nodded at the cremator, and as if to say guess that’s it, said, “Okay.”
She was really gone now.
Vincent Rivera
covered all the roads, shops, and homes in this place. A place he once called home. Everything felt so eerie now. The city was empty as if a storm blow through and particularly stuck out to him was the fact that he didn’t see any bodies. No bodies anywhere.
Larkin could barely hold back his tears looking around the ruins. The bakery that always smelled of fresh bread and sweets now reduced to burned rubble and smoldering ashes. The local library where he and his friends would study magic and try to one up each other. He was gifted with strong abilities so sometimes he would just let the other kids win so they would not give up and keep working hard. All of that gone now, replaced with empty bookshelves and lost souls.
“This is where you lived?” a small wind spirit followed behind Larkin, in awe as she looked through ruins. Gale was very small, no bigger than a hummingin the road.
“Yes Gale...” he whispered as he choked back tears. “...Let’s keep moving.”
The pair continued to walk around the old city of Weserin. It was not a very large town; the population couldn’t have been more than 400 people in its prime. With every step they almost felt each lost life. The last breaths each townsperson took as their souls left them. However, still no physical bodies anywhere... seemed so alien.
As they made it to the edge of the city. Larkin saw a very familiar window a couple blocks down. His home was not far now.
“What’s up with that place?” Gale asked, pointing at a home that looked
“That is... or was... my home...” Larkin said weakly.
Larkin’s home was untouched. Pristine in fact. Everything around it Larkin knew something was wrong he could feel it, but he needed to know if his suspicions were correct. He pushed his way to the house. Chaos and destruction surrounding him. The ashes of his past threatening to pull him into a despair that he might never escape from again. But he had to know! He placed his hand on the door and with almost no resistance the door slowly creaked open.
10 Years Ago
Larkin was awoken by screams. He jumped from his bed and ran to the window
to look outside. Normally out the window he would see neighbors happily doing yard work or see the carts carrying goods to the nearby market. However, today -
mare that he could barely comprehend. Fire! ... The city was under attack. He turned away from the window. His fear overwhelmed him in the mo-forced his legs with wind and ran down the stairs into the living room to see his mother frantically looking through a desk she had in the corner of the room.
“Found it!” His mother released a sigh of relief as she pulled a box out. The front door swung open as a wounded man stumbled in from outside. It was Larkin’s father holding his side. It looked as if he took a painful hit from a sword.
“Mom! What’s happening!” Larkin sprinted toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“I am so sorry... We should have told you about this sooner. But I need you to do something very important. You have to take this away from here.” She handed him the box and pointed to the back door. “Run as fast as you can and don’t look back!”
Larkin’s father struggling to stay standing limped toward them falling to his knees. “Don’t stop! No more matter what you see, no matter what you hear, no matter how much it hurts... DO NOT STOP!”
He embraced his son in a warm hug, a hug that in that moment Larkin knew it would be the last one he would get from his father. Larkin took a moment to open the box and inside was a crystal. It was large and something was inside it. A spirit that almost looked frozen in time was there. Spirits are legendary magical creatures that bond with humans and increase their powers to extraordinary heights. He read about these in the library. He quickly closed the box and knew what he had to do. Using his magic once again he ran for the back door. Only one thing on his mind... RUN.
Larkin took a couple steps into the living room and immediately collapsed to the ground in tears. On the back wall were two bodies. A man and woman completely burned to ash and melted to the wall in a standing position. His parents... Above what seemed to be their heads, it was paint.
BRING HER TO ME!
“Why?... What did they want...” Gale whispered as the horror set in.
“I knew it... They wanted you...” A cold chill ran down Gale’s spine as she -
“Gale... I won’t let them take you... They have taken enough from me already.”
Hopelessly Homeless Epiphany
It was a sticky summer day, like the kind we often have in Salt Lake City where the exchange of hot air produces sweat on your skin. I was living in my car and had just scored some dope, but my plan on this particular day did not involve getting high.
My addiction had been progressing for many years by this point. I was not able to hold a job, I was not welcome at friends or family members homes any for drug dealers and prostitution as a way to earn money and drugs, neither of which were ideal choices.
Occasionally, I would have enough money for a hotel room, but otherwise I showered at truck stops. I had my dog, Farley with me. He was a big yellow Labrador who had been with me for 6 years, and was a characteristically sweet and loyal dog. He was my favorite thing in the world, and my number one priority. I would go hungry to make sure he was fed.
I had an SUV, which was pretty spacious, but I had everything I owned with me, so it seemed cramped. I made all the necessary stops and spent every last penny acquiring the supplies: an extra large syringe, a ball of heroin, a spoon, a tourniquet, cotton, lighter and water. My habit was about a gram a day of heroin at that point, which is relatively low for an IV user with a long history of substance
The guilt and shame of selling my body, of being a failure in every aspect of my life: as a daughter, student, friend, sister, and as a human being, and the general culmination of choices and events leading to this day left me feeling like I had no other options. The weight of isolation and hopelessness I felt seemed unbearable.
I found a spot near a park where I was alone and opened the hatchback so Farley could get out once I was gone. I cooked up the entire eight ball and pulled the liquid up into the syringe. I took a deep breath and plunged it into my arm and proceeded to push every last drop into my vein. It doesn’t take long to circulate,
12 hours later I awoke to Farley licking my arm. I slowly began coming to terms with the fact that I had not been successful in taking my life. My disappointment turned into a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. It must not be my time quite yet, I thought.
Ygor Noblott
The Death of a Caterpillar -
question time and time again, but it is the wrong question.
The caterpillar is Greg. He lives in Central Park, New York. He loves the
and family around, but he’s a little self-conscious so he keeps to himself for the most part.
changes with him. He moves to Canada — his new home — with a group of buddies he found on a group chat. He speaks to them in his new language about his life in New York and how he loved to hang out by his favorite tree. His life is
life in Central Park will always be part of who Greg is.
But Greg is unique: he’s not an inanimate object like a boat parked in a harbor for hundreds of years changing parts as the old ones decay. Boats don’t have an identity, they have a history and a use. We are the ones that like to anthropomorphize our possessions. But Greg... Greg had character and personality.
The distinction between living and non-living is simple: the living have a power, energy, or essence, that initiates their movement and directs their existence, growth, and life inside of them. Non-living things do not. For example, water can change and move but only when the external power of the Sun heats it up and turns it into vapor, then the wind collects it, and gravity pulls it down as precipitation. Water did not move, it was moved. Living things have outer movement which they cause themselves — choice — which is necessary for the natural process of living.
Greg’s favorite food led him to grow and eventually morph, and Greg’s agency led him to move to Canada and make a new life for himself. Thus all liv-
ing things are individual, but not sentient; and that is what makes their identity. No two are alike or behave equally, therefore, the power that moves them must be the thing that individualizes them (their likes and dislikes, fears, attachments, and everything else that makes them Identify individually from others. Greg thinks, therefore he is.
Like a machine that needs to run on electricity, so does the living body and all its parts (the heart, brain, and organs) require power to run also I.e. a soul. Machines must be operated from the outside, they must be turned on. The soul must then be what gives the essence and energy to the inanimate body, and similarly to the power of electricity, metaphysical powers don’t cease but rather move. The soul then, never ceases but moves eternally.
When Greg dies, his essence will continue to new and better things. Still give birth to his new “Self,” but not entirely. Greg’s past life — his memories and experiences, his humble beginnings — are part of and will always be part of new Greg, never really dying, for Greg’s “Self” is unique and eternal.
Heather Graham If You Want It
your face and clung to your dark hair. You rubbed your arms, wishing that you had worn more than a sweatshirt with your holey jeans and tattered sneakers. A bushy Christmas tree sat in the window, bright and well decorated, with heaps of presents hiding beneath its greenery and tinsel. The warm glow of the kitchen lights seemed to carry the scent of lasagna and the sound of laughter out to the porch where you stood.
It had been so long since you had been in the house, and longer still since you’d participated in an old-fashioned family dinner, full of talking and stories and the best food you felt you’d ever eaten. Another year was over and you barely recognized your own face in the mirror, let alone believed that anyone else would see someone familiar and welcome you into their arms again.
knock on the door, air catching in your throat as his laughter broke free from the hum of talking coming from inside. Its infectious melody made you smile. God,
hand and debated with yourself whether to just turn around and leave. The plan had been simple; devised after a long night of drinking in a little, seedy bar in Salt Lake City and several drunk-dialed phone conversations with old friends and lovers.
A girl you had known for years asked you outright. You’d made her repeat the questions, not understanding, not even sure if you’d been talking about the same thing.
you?”
You had felt confused by the question but blamed it on the loud music from the bar’s jukebox or the speakers at her work.
leaning on the counter at her store. It was the same look she had given you when you had punched your best friend in the face trying to win her over, years ago in a crowded club.
why they made super glue LooLoo,” she said, using her nickname for you. You could tell she was smiling.
You had hung up the phone a few minutes later, leaving her to her work and drowning your confusions in a third pitcher of beer. By the time you had drained the pitcher, you knew what you had to do. inside.
“What’s up buddy?” he had called from the kitchen. You had staggered into the kitchen, squinting from the bright light.
Gratefully you’d accepted it and took a large bite, quickly spitting it back
He chuckled, handing you a napkin. “Vegan cookies.”
You crinkled your nose and cursed at him under your breath, before taking get a plane ticket. Like, on Orbit.com or wherever.. that one that Shatner does the ads for.”
headed?”
“Chicago.”
You looked back in through the window, shivering again as the winter’s breeze tugged at the thin fabric of your jacket. It’s now or never, you thought, bending down and sliding the envelope under the door. As you straightened back up, you saw his face in the window, looking at you with confusion. You looked down at your snow-covered shoes, turned and began to walk down the steps toward the road.
You counted slowly, holding your breath, waiting for the door to open and time you reached ten you were still alone. Disappointed, you trudged on, mentally kicking yourself for thinking that your simple card could right so many wrongs. Then you heard it. The creak of the door’s hinges, the increase in the volume of the inside celebration, the sound of your name passing through familiar lips.
Seconds later you were falling forward into the snow as he tackled you. Your limbs tangled comfortably together, your hoodie, jeans, and sneakers mergyou held him tightly against your chest. He pulled away for a moment, face still inches from yours, and smiled, memorizing the face he’d missed for too long. Your heartbeat danced excitedly in your chest and you felt happier and more alive in this one moment than you ever could have felt in a lifetime of Christmases.
You rubbed your hands across his back as you reacquainted yourself with this feeling, silently thanking your drunken phones calls, vegan cookies, William Shatner, the inventor of super glue and most importantly the legendary words you had scrawled across the blank card, hoping to mend a broken relationship: Happy Christmas. War is Over (if you want it)
I’ve always liked the drive between San Diego and Salt Lake. Most people don’t. I get it. Where they see 10 hours of desert, I see a divine class in minimalism. God doesn’t put anything there unless it needs to be. No shrub, no tree, no animal is wasted. On one particular day, He put exactly one Chevy Malibu full of patriarchal tension on that road.
“When was the last time you were in Salt Lake, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Ten years ago, when we buried grandma,” he said softly. He sat hunched over in the passenger seat, staring at nothing. It was only Grandpa’s shadow that sat next to me. He had lost a lot of weight since I last saw him. Gone was the
“Oh, sorry.” We sat in silence. “I miss Grandma, too.”
I was driving. Grandpa was to my right. Dad was in the back.
“When do you want to go see mom’s grave?” Dad piped in from the back seat.
“We can go whenever you want.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be with her soon,” Grandpa said. More silence. I looked in the rear-view mirror and caught Dad’s attention. He shrugged his shoulders then focused on his phone. I looked at the GPS. Five hours to go.
“Hey! I made a playlist of music you’d like, Grandpa. Let’s listen.” I pushed play.
Ten seconds into the song, without looking from his phone, Dad said, “Day by Day. Frank Sinatra. 1945.”
I gave my dad a puzzled look. I turned to my phone; he was right. I had no idea Dad knew old music so well. Grandpa’s hand swayed to the music.
“Grandpa, can I meet your Navy buddies in Salt Lake?” It was the wrong question. His hand came back down.
“I’m the last one,” he whispered.
“Well, we owe a lot to you guys. I’ve always wanted to serve like that.”
“Why didn’t you join? You always talked about it.” A bit of that petty of-
one with diagnosed depression.“
“You can still join. Just try harder.”
“I don’t think depression works like that.” I forced a chuckle.
“You don’t think we felt depressed. Try harder,” he ordered.
“Leave him alone, he tried. It didn’t work out,” Dad interrupted.
“Whatever you do, don’t be like your dad. He didn’t even try to join. He went to college and got a fruity art degree. Be a man. Serve your country.” Grandpa said.
“Dammit!” Dad never swore. “Get over it! It’s been 40 years! My work supports my family. My work is about to support you.”
“No one asked you to. You should have just left me alone to die. Everybody else has,” Grandpa muttered.
“Guys! Let’s just listen to some music.” I interjected.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Grandpa said.
“What?”
“I have to pee.”
“How long can you hold it?”
“I have to pee.”
“I understand the words, Grandpa. There’s no bathroom for miles. Can you please hold it?” I pleaded
“If you don’t get me to a bathroom right now, I mean right now. I’m going to piss my pants. Don’t embarrass me like that.”
“Don’t put this on me! Dad? Dammit!” Dad was just staring out the window. He wouldn’t respond. He had completely shut down. I stepped on the gas.
“How long can you hold it?” I asked Grandpa,
“Nevermind.” Grandpa said.
“What do you mean, ‘nevermind’?” But the smell answered for him. This veteran of three wars, my childhood hero, had just wet himself. I opened the windows and drove as fast as I dared. It was 20 minutes before I
and pulled Dad out.
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“I’m... I’m sorry. It was just too much. I couldn’t take it.” Dad held his face in his hands. “I’m not ready for this,” he said. We both looked at Grandpa. He sat, hunched.
“Why did you agree to take him in? Did you only bring me along so you didn’t have to deal with him?” I demanded.
“Look at him. He doesn’t have much time left. He doesn’t deserve to spend his last days alone in some Navy hospice. Whatever our history he deserves family,” Dad explained.
Dad took a deep breath and handed me his wallet. He hugged me. “You’ve been great. I couldn’t have done this without you. Go buy some things we’ll need to deal with this. I’ll take him into the bathroom and start cleaning him up.” I nodded and walked inside as Dad helped Grandpa out of the car. I wandered around the store. I needed to clear my head. I walked through the groceries and the toys and stopped to look at movies. When I was ready, I started grabbing anything that might help. Pants. Wipes. Upholstery cleaner. Adult diapers. I walked into the bathroom. I saw two pairs of feet in the handicapped stall. I slid the items under the door and Dad began to clean and diaper the man who cleaned and diapered him. After a lifetime of both of these men failing to live up to the other’s expectations, Dad set aside his pride so Grandpa could keep a little bit of his. The bathroom was silent.
We helped Grandpa back to the car. While Dad put him in the back seat next to him, I cleaned up the passenger seat.
“I’m sorry I made a mess in your car,” Grandpa said to me.
“Don’t worry about it Grandpa. I love you, and besides, it’s a rental,” I said. Dad laughed and Grandpa smiled.
When we were ready to go again I turned the Grandpa’s music back on and pulled out of the parking lot. Ten seconds into the song, Dad said, “I’m beginning to see the light. Ella Fitzgerald. 1944.”
“Dad, How do you know so much about these old songs?” I asked him as we pulled back onto the freeway. Grandpa sat enjoying the music.
“Grandpa had a great record collection when I was growing up.”
Shelley Latreille Together Forever
All of your trigonometric functions fell radically into place. Our secret plastic relations were forbidden.
But, we swam naked through secrecy and deception anyway. Our bodies became one and you were my crustacean. We ate well each day in that swelled up bubble of yours.
I licked the dirt from your body as you ate mine.
But, we knew it would never last for they were bound to end it.
Our mating souls would be ripped apart and crushed with ease.
So, on the Wednesday before our bloated fate, I ripped apart and dismembered your body with anticipated vigor, throwing it comically into the river of life.
Your proteins were lifeless now, but never lost.
On that glorious day, the grieving mob came for me.
I laughed at their wickedness and sadness.
I lashed out at them as they shoved me into their cage.
Weeks went by as I sat waiting in anguish, huddling deep inside myself, screaming with vicious howls. And suddenly, they came for my limp and festering body. They shoved it roughly into their metal chair.
It was mine and I loved it, like the eggplant that I was. And then it was over and there you were, standing as you always had, your body whole again, welcoming me with open arms for all eternity.
Mindful Minds
By Isaac Gomez-Silva
*Editor’s Choice
