Folio Spring 2022

REVERIE

Folio Spring '22

/’rev (e) re/

1 - A state of being pleasantly lost in one’s thoughts; a daydream

2 - The condition of being lost in thought

French: rêverie, from Middle French, delirium, from resver, rever to wander, be delirious—first known use: 1654

To be lost in reverie is to humor the mind, a mind that only wants what’s best for you. To be lost in reverie is to escape our fears and fuel our ambitions. We daydream to forget but also to inspire.

To be lost in reverie is a beautiful thing. Though the mind can be a scary place, it can also conceive an angelic safe haven.

So don’t be afraid to daydream, to indulge in your deepest desires, to envision your greatest ambitions Don’t be afraid to get lost

Don’t forget to explore more amazing works published online at SLCCfolio.org

© 2022 Folio Literary Magazine, Volume 23 #1. Folio is an award-winning literary and arts magazine compiling artistic pieces from students, staff, and faculty at Salt Lake Community College. The works included in this spring semester 2022 edition, “Reverie,” are published with permission from their respective creators. All rights are reserved by this publication and the creators whose works are published in “Reverie.”

Folio is curated, edited, formatted, designed, and published by SLCC students and Folio editorial staff each fall and spring semester. This edition is intended for free public distribution and is not for sale.

Cover created by Samuel Wilson; photograph by Emma Muiller, The Fickle Chameleon.

Fonts used are Athelas, Bely Display, Lineal, and Vanity.

Contact folioslcc@gmail.com for information on enrolling in ENGL 1830: Literary Magazine Studies—the class that produces Folio.

Special Thanks To:

➻ Folio Advisory Board: Brandon Alva, Ron Christiansen, Jeshua Enriquez, Kati Lewis, Cris Longhurst, Carol Sieverts, and Benjamin Solomon

➻ Professor Jerri Harwell, Chair of Department of English, Linguistics, and Writing Studies

➻ Dr. Roderic Land, Dean of School of Humanities and Social Sciences

➻ Theresa Adair and staff at SLCC Printing Services

➻ All of the SLCC students, faculty, and staff who shared their voices and creations with Folio!

ENGL 1830 Students/Folio Staff:

KaylieAnn Brown

Melissa Johnson

Ascari Lucero

Isabella Prada

Design Editor: Samuel Wilson

Literary Editor: Miriam Nicholson

Web Editor: Allison Hutto

Folio Facuty Advisor: Daniel Baird

Dad’s Four-Decade Apple Pie

Ethan Eldred

Dear Dad’s four decade apple pie:

You have been at the center of many long term memories that have stuck with me since I was barely able to understand how a rabbit helps you tie your shoes. You’re constantly creating new and brilliant memories like a bud ready to bloom when we finally get to take that first bite. Of course, there have been times when the salt in your crust rung the moisture from my mouth, leaving it as dry as the inside of stone. However, today I want to focus on the moments of jubilation and ecstasy that you’ve brought when the storms wont let up.

The first forkful starts with the biting cold of a vibrant and sleek vanilla ice cream contrasted by the steaming pockets of liquid gold spilling from the slice. The cinnamon and brown sugar follow the steam as a sweet clove scent permeates from the apple chunks as they greet your taste buds. The scent boils the depth, drawing a picture of back when Dad had first made you. The clearest memory like it was made of quartz even though I couldn’t help, sitting in the basement with the footsteps and chatter above as your scent seeped from the ceiling. I always found myself waiting with the fervor of a kid at four AM on Christmas for the moment I could get my hands on you.

The experiences you dredge up can be counted in the thousands, it’s an endless supply with you. The late frigid fall weather with bitter frost filled mornings dredges itself from the depths when I take that first bite. The cool breezes, Wii boxing matches, long nights sitting around the fire pit, and the harmonic laughter of friends and family. Family is always there when you’re around, the hardest of shells crack with your gentle touch.

The family swarmed the kitchen as peelers began to scrape the skin from the apples with gritty metallic twangs. Dad had his methodical slicing sounds of the knife breezing through the white flesh of the apples. I watched this moment in a starstruck awe with my head barely cresting over the counter. Everyone together in the kitchen, brothers and sister not bickering or slinging insults like David and Goliath. We just were together and you brought us there. These moments are essential for you, it’s what binds us together.

You healed the broken hearts and eased the pain of a broken collar bone. You allowed me to let go of things I wished I could have a little sooner. You helped when the body needed to forget, if not just for a moment the realities of being human and drown it out with your vanilla and cinnamon euphoric sensations.

You helped where it counted. You brought the family together when tensions were beginning to take their toll. The joy in each eye as I look around the room when you are there is more palpable than the scents or flavors you bring to the table. So it is with great pleasure I extend a hand of gratitude and present you with the Nobel Pie award.

Thank you from all my heart and from those you’ve touched. May we continue to dream of being as sweet as you.

Lost In the Plot

CJ Lawson

NARRATOR 1: Imagine if you will an advanced society. One with flying cars, utopian cities, and near-limitless battery life. There’s little reason to be upset in a society like this. Unless of course, it’s all just a front. Where the government spies on people, eliminates individuals it deems as a threat, and commits unspeakable atrocities. But that was not the case in this society.

NARRATOR 2: Why not?

NARRATOR 1: Because I said so. That’s not the point of this story. The big brother society has been done to death. We’re creating a unique and captivating story.

NARRATOR 2: But if people like it why not do it?

NARRATOR 1: I’ll tell the people what they want; you just do whatever it is you’re supposed to do. Our character steps off the plane symbolically showing the audience that they are about to start a new journey. He checks his phone and it’s incredibly advanced looking. The words “I’m here” Flash across the screen. Obviously letting the audience know it’s a utopian society and that they are expecting to meet someone. The words, “I’m almost there.” Pop up. Our character’s friend is running late. How typical.

NARRATOR 2: Seeing that he has to wait, he finds the nearest available bench. He sees someone alone on it. A girl. He walks—

NARRATOR 1: No no—

NARRATOR 2: What’d I do wrong?

NARRATOR 1: Romance has also been done to death.

NARRATOR 2: How’d you know it was gonna go that way?

NARRATOR 1: Because I have a brain. Everyone can tell from your one line that it’s going to be a romance story. Romance stories are so generic. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. It doesn’t look like they’re going to be together. They both cry a bit. But then through magic or some crap, they get together. The only good romance was

Romeo and Juliet because they died in the end.

NARRATOR 2: What about a romantic subplot?

NARRATOR 1: Same premise. It’s been done too much and it takes away from the main plot. Now if you’d please. Seeing no bench around (Glares right at the other narrator). He leans up against a nearby wall. He watches planes come and go until a security man approaches him. “Can I help you, sir?” He asks. The man looks him over before answering, “Doubt it.” The security guard stiffens up a bit. You see what we’ve done here is let the audience know that our main character is a bit rebellious. Quite good you see?

NARRATOR 2: I guess . . .

NARRATOR 1: No one asked for your opinion. The security guard then explains that all passengers are supposed to move to the main lobby to await their pickup or their next plane. Our main character sighs to himself before beginning to move. Then something happens something inexplicable.

NARRATOR 2: An explosion, up in the sky above them. Not even the sky in space. Everyone looks up seeing a massive cloud of smoke. Then another explosion on the horizon. “The satellites!” someone yelled as there was another explosion. Our character looks down to their phone. It dies right in front of them. The lights in the airport turn to a dim red. How am I doing so far?

NARRATOR 1: Not bad actually. This could work. Tell me what’s your long-term plan with this.

NARRATOR 2: Well, you see. With no internet what happens?

NARRATOR 1: Let’s see here . . . worldwide communication is cut off. You could have people spreading misinformation. A rumor starts in one area, then pretty soon it becomes—

NARRATOR 2: Nah, you’re thinking too complicated. You see dem millennials can’t live without wifi. They suddenly kick into their primal instincts. They become brainless. Attacking everyone and everything they see. We’d have to make our character a bit older. I’m thinking in his mid-70s. He meets up with the other old people at the airport and they band together to survive the new dangerous world.

Throughout their adventure, they get killed off one by one by the ravenous hordes of the Millennials.

NARRATOR 1: You’ve just recreated the zombie horror genre.

NARRATOR 2: Yeah it’s a modern take on it.

NARRATOR 1: No it’s stupid. Firstly the reaction of ‘me’lenials as you call them is unrealistic. Secondly, if all the characters are old what do you expect them to do.

NARRATOR 2: You insulting old people?

NARRATOR 1: No but they wouldn’t be able to perform any action sequences. Or if they did they’d be crippled or die in the process.

NARRATOR 2: What if we made it a comedic satire?

NARRATOR 1: No I can’t believe you’re even entertaining this idea.

NARRATOR 2: No come on it’d work. You know, “Come on Earnest we gotta make it to the escalators.” “Go on without me Burt.” “NOOO Earnest!”

NARRATOR 1 sighs

NARRATOR 2: You know it has potential.

NARRATOR 1: Let’s take a step back. The explosion and the satellites. Airport security attempts to herd everyone up. Our main character slips away. He sees his friend pull up in a flying car. Security guards spot our main character. Before they apprehend him he leaps into the flying car and they speed away. The main character asks what’s going on, looking to the sky. It’s littered with the satellites exploding in space. The friend says that supposedly all the world’s satellites have been targeted and destroyed except one. China’s.

NARRATOR 2: Why China?

NARRATOR 1: Russia is too obvious.

NARRATOR 2: So, what’s your long-term plan with this.

NARRATOR 1: Well it’s all about misinformation. You see the characters go to a city and it’s in a similar predicament to the airport. Later

we’ll learn that different cities and areas are receiving different stories as to what is happening. But we won’t know that till much later. The city is then attacked by cyborgs or something threatening.

NARRATOR 2: Land sharks.

NARRATOR 1: Land sharks? Why?

NARRATOR 2: If you can make land sharks, why not?

NARRATOR 1: You know what it doesn’t matter right now. The friend turns out to be a government agent posing as a Chinese agent trying to weaken the country for a Chinese invasion. In reality, the government has blown up all the satellites and is attempting to cull the population before launching a rocket with the social elite on it to a life sustainable planet to escape global warming. You see by cutting down on the population and the worldwide means of communication people wouldn’t know about the rocket and even if they did they wouldn’t be able to tell what’s going on.

NARRATOR 2: What in tarnation? What are you even going on about?

NARRATOR 1: It’s a unique and captivating story. You might even get your land sharks if we do this.

NARRATOR 2: You lost me completely. How do you expect people to follow the plot of this? Besides if they’re trying to get rid of people they have nukes right?

NARRATOR 1: But that would . . . oh yeah.

NARRATOR 2: Some way to solve global warming with nukes though.

NARRATOR 1: Back to the drawing board then.

NARRATOR 2: Let’s dumb it down a bit. I like your Chinese satellite idea. That also happened to be where you lost me. Let’s change it a bit though. How do you feel about aliens? They destroy the satellites and prepare for an invasion of earth.

NARRATOR 1: It still seems a bit generic though.

NARRATOR 2: I knew you’d say that. So, the main character is one of the aliens. They can shapeshift but he never knew about it so he remained as a human the whole time.

NARRATOR 1: That’s also been done but not that much. We are getting somewhere. Oh, I know. He was a reject of the alien society. So they wiped his memory leaving him turned into a human was sent as a sort of scout for the aliens. The friend could also be an alien spy possibly portraying multiple characters throughout the story. Obviously, they’re the main friend, and they could also shapeshift into a romantic interest for the main character.

NARRATOR 2: You’re going a little too fast again. Also, I thought romances were done too much.

NARRATOR 1: Not if you make it a tragic romance. The alien friend would betray him and at his lowest point, they would reveal his true identity.

NARRATOR 2: Would it end on a happy note? Or at least a decent one?

NARRATOR 1: No, of course not. What kind of writer are you? I thought I’d end it with the character going to fight the aliens on the mothership. He gets so close when he sees his friend/romantic interest. He tries desperately to convince them to join him but he fails and it’s the friend who kills him in the end. Poetic isn’t it?

NARRATOR 2: No it sounds awful.

NARRATOR 1: Well I think I’ve just hit my big breakthrough. I’ll create my art and you can make whatever story you want.

NARRATOR 2: You sure? I mean after everything we’ve created together this far it seems like a waste to throw it away now.

NARRATOR 1: Well I quite like my idea. You haven’t suggested anything helpful this entire time.

NARRATOR 2: Now wait just a blasted second! I’m the one who came up with the aliens and the satellite explosions. You’ve just gotten a character in and out of an airport.

NARRATOR 1: No, I’ve conceptualized a literary epic.

NARRATOR 2: Literary? I thought this was gonna be a movie, maybe a play.

NARRATOR 1: Plays and movies are for children. I’m at least glad you didn’t suggest a musical.

NARRATOR 2: Yeah that’d be even worse. But the point is I think we need to iron out some more details. We can still work together—

NARRATOR 1: I don’t think so. You create your movie and have a few seconds of fame and I’ll create a literary epic that will last for a millennium.

NARRATOR 2: Alright. Fine I will. Ladies and gentlemen I present to you “The wheelchair accessible not quite dead yet” featuring “Land sharks.”

Frosty and Reflective Harley McCall

A Perfect Winter’s Day

Denise Heninger

Our eyes locked across the clear patch of ice. I nodded almost imperceptibly, and we started to count, “Three, Two, One, Go!” Lina and I simultaneously dug our toe picks into the ice and pushed off with tremendous thrusts.

We skated straight at each other, gaining speed with every stroke. The gap was ever narrowing until we’d nearly passed. At the last moment, we threw out our arms and linked elbows. This immediately pulled us into a crazy spin that threatened to topple off its axis at any second. Around and around, we went, pulling in against the forces trying to tear us apart. At last, it was too much, and our link was broken. We flew apart and landed, sprawling about ten feet away on the unyielding ice. I’d banged my elbow when I landed, but I was laughing too hard to care.

It was a perfect winter’s days in Wisconsin. The sky was a clear blue overhead. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. The sun was pale, but glowing, shedding warmth on all beneath its gaze. The temperature was hovering around 20 degrees Fahrenheit, brisk, but not bitter. It was a rare Saturday that was free from homework, coming as it was on the heels of the Christmas Holidays, free from work at the warehouse, and free from chores around the house. We decided to go skating on the lake.

We bustled around the house, looking in forgotten corners for the requisite equipment. There were four pairs of skates to be located, so we hunted through boxes in the garage and under the stairs. We found hats, mittens, scarves and heavy winter coats to go over our clothes and long underwear. The skates were the last thing to go on. As we sat on the front concrete steps lacing them up, my brother Doug was yelling, “Hurry up, girls, we gotta get going!”

The lake was a block and a half from our house. Swaying and giggling we made our unsteady way across frozen lawns looking to all the world like we were drunk. At the edge of the lake we carefully stepped over the round, smooth pebbles, and had to find just the right spot to hop on to avoid breaking through the thin crust to the freezing water below. Then came the freedom of gliding across the smooth surface

and feeling the sun and wind on our faces. The laughter continued as we made up games and pushed ever farther from shore.

In January the ice was hard. Months of icy Canadian winds had cured it to an even thickness

of about a foot. Towards the center of the lake, there were ice fishing shanties—colorful and faded. Reds, blues, yellows, and the occasional green made up a small village of wooden huts. People would spend entire days within, huddled over a borehole trying for that elusive catch.

The day was quiet except for the rasp of our skate blades on the ice and the laughter that burst from us in steaming exhalations. We heard the odd snowmobile in the distance race across the frozen lake to the shanty town. The birds were silent in the trees, and the omnipresent hum of the highway was far beyond the sheltering hills. The sounds of summer were a distant memory for another time and another season.

We had only the gift of that day in which there was no work to do but to have fun. We decided to have an adventure. Doug was, of course, the hero, and Debbie, the heroine. Lina and I, as the youngest, were reduced to the role of minions, but we didn’t care much because the day was so fine.

The friendly sun beamed down upon us as we skated near the shoreline. We hit a rough spot where the ripples on the lake were frozen in time. We had fun bumping and clattering our way across these ripples. We did it again and again weaving the ripples into our adventure. We had been skating for hours, and we were starting to tire. Still, the perfect freedom of the day held us there.

Then farther along the shoreline, Debbie noticed something. She said, “Hey do you see that?” calling our attention to a large hole in the ice about a foot across.

She skated over, and we all followed her. It was about eight inches deep and the bottom had iced over. Debbie tested her weight on it gingerly. We all froze in place as the ice held under her cautious foot.

I said to her, “I don’t think you should do that.”

She tried again, this time with more force. Her foot went through, and she fell to the ice in an awkward heap. We were all screaming and yelling. Doug grasped her under the arms and pulled her out. Debbie was wet, but unhurt. However, the perfect winter’s day was spoiled, and we all began to make our wobbly way back home.

As I looked back over the ice, I saw the crisscrossing and swirling scars from our skate blades. The setting winter sun sent a weak glow over the cloudy mirror of the lake with bits of burnt orange fire shining off a line here and some frost there. I knew then as I know now that things would never be the same. Never again would we four be so free as we were on that perfect day. We hobbled home on wobbly graceless skate clad feet, our blades alternately clunking and ringing on the icy pavement of the darkened street. My sister was shivering in earnest, and it was necessary to hurry. Ahead of us lay the glowing lights of our home beckoning, and behind us the icy freedom of the lake. We forged ahead as it was our only choice.

FEMININITY

Ashlyn Mae Stratton

For many, the butterfly is a symbol of benign, thoughtless beauty. Emerging from the chrysalis, it is a new creature, unique in shape and form. Many seek to collect them, to observe them, as mere decoration or points of intrigue. Entirely harmless, it would seem, a delicate creature alight on the breeze. Nonetheless, there exists a dual nature often overlooked. It fights to survive in a world much bigger than itself. Not without defenses, many employ distraction or poison to escape predators. Insidious, it seems, to sweetly hide their fury. The butterfly is known to drink blood. You should never underestimate something, just because it is beautiful.

Antidepressants

by Samuel Wilson

Ramadan, the Month of Fasting

Laila Ali

Food has many different definitions for many people, some may think of food as a tool of survival and some have never even thought deeply of food. But for me food is not just culinary, it is science, art, and emotion. Even the food your mom and dad make is presented in a way that makes you want to eat more, whether it is basil on your pesto pasta or the chilies near your butter chicken. Food is a form of art that evokes emotion, unlike any other thing.

I started developing an interest in food during the Ramadan of 2020, the month of fasting. I realized how much I neglected it or wasted it. Although I had fasted two other times before that, one thing had pushed me to the limit: fasting with no friends. Everything at that time was online and everyone who fasts knows the only thing that helps get through the day is a distraction, the sound of your friends asking you to come outside and play, the high praise of your neighbors for doing something like fasting the entire day. But in 2020 nothing happened. I just sat in my room after being bombarded with bunches of online homework that I was going to complete after I lay on my bed and found a book I had already read five times. But at one point my exasperation got the best of me. I stomped downstairs, grabbed loaves of bread, a slice of cheese, a squashy avocado, and a knife. These supplies would be the end of my unrest. I was going to make food to keep my mind off of food.

I thought it was crazy at first, but I had tried everything to keep my mind off of food. Reading, writing, jumping, doing basement theater plays. But everything involved food. But what I was about to do in the kitchen would change my view on food for my entire life. I was in so much restlessness that I didn’t realize how high I turned on the stove I left my bread to toast on. My parents didn’t have the foggiest idea I was in the kitchen. So they probably didn’t know I had put their favorite bowl in the microwave even though it wasn’t made to be in the microwave.

For some reason I don’t remember what happened to make my attention draw away from the stove. All I remember is hearing a sizzling sound and then a boom. The bread had erupted in flames. I began screaming, even though my throat was as dry as the Sahara desert. I

still remember this moment: I had lunged for the sink and grabbed our mint plant. For some reason I thought since I had just watered the plant it would have enough moisture to make the fire let out. I threw the plant from far away. The plant had only made the situation worse because it landed on the fridge.

You know what’s more annoying than a stove on fire and fertilizer dripping off your dad’s favorite fridge? The sound of a microwave beeping. My melted cheese was cooked and so was my mother’s favorite china bowl. But before I could see what had happened to the cheese and the china bowl I have to include one small detail, our microwave is right above our stove. Which meant if I wanted to get that annoying beeping to stop I would have to go near the stove and turn it off. Cautiously I lowered my hand beneath the stove and another waft of smoke erupted as the toast burned further. You have to do this Laila otherwise your entire house could light on fire!

I turned the little knob making the stove turn off, the flames started to lower. In a swift movement I opened the microwave only to find the china bowl having a crack down its side. I picked it up carefully and set it in the trash can. I started laughing, my cheeks turning red and I felt lighthearted. It wasn’t that big of a mess after cleaning the mint plant and the dirt of the fridge. I still had fifteen minutes till I could break my fast. So I took my burnt toast and my mushy avocado and made my own masterpiece. Realizing that whatever happened, pandemics, and bad grades, I would always have my own true love, my food. Because everyone in this world needs this one source of happiness. Whatever happens, however different things may be, we will all connect over our need and love of food.

LIPSTICK

Samuel Wilson

The lipstick on his face is smudged. Again.

Stevie stares at himself in the mirror. At his lips mostly, but also scrutinizing his eyeliner, the piercings on ears, the teasing of his hair. Really, it’s all he can do not to think about how they’re scheduled to play in fifteen minutes, and still no one’s seen Joey.

Okay, yeah, usually she’s a little late—she likes to stick to some fortunate soul in the broom closet somewhere, calls it “warming up,” but even then, she usually sends some text to reassure the rest of the band that she hasn’t gotten stabbed in an alleyway or something. But that’s usually at least twenty minutes before they go on, and Stevie’s been doing and redoing his lips three times now waiting for her to storm through the door with mussed hair and a smug smile. But nothing. Sid stares at his phone in the corner, tapping his foot to the rhythm of a song they plan on opening with. Mara inspects one manicured hand before lifting her head up to sigh. They’re all impatient.

“Quit messing with your makeup. It looks fine.”

Stevie looks up from the small closeup mirror his eyes have been glued to. Mara’s scrutinizing him. Lifting one eyebrow.

“Just . . . trying to pass the time somehow,” he replies.

“You wanna pass the time?” Sid pipes up, tilting his head toward Stevie’s bass. “Try tuning that piece before we go on stage this time. I nearly fell asleep last night staring at the crowd.”

Stevie scowls. “Like you’re not prepping your next line right now, dick,” then, under his breath, “Jesus Christ. . . .”

“‘Sid’s’ fine.”

“Would you two shut up for two minutes?” Mara’s voice cuts through the tension between the two men, but they don’t stop glaring at each other. “Can someone text Jo again?”

“I did a couple minutes ago,” Stevie mutters, turning back to the mirror to focus on his cheeks.

“Well shoot her another one! Sometimes I feel like she cares more about freaking us out than actually playing . . .”

“You know what they say about drummers.”

What’s that Sid?

“Something, I’m sure.”

Stevie mutters a curse under his breath again, daring to look at the clock after messing up the corners of his lip again. They’ve got ten minutes. Sid stares at the door. Mara sighs,paces a bit, cracks her knuckles, and finally sits down next to Stevie.

“Move over,” she mumbles, leaning into the mirror to check her own face.

A minute passes. Still no Joey. Mara is pacing again.

Sid leans against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. “How hard can drumming be anyway? Do you think you could cover for her if she doesn’t show, Steve? You have the rhythm part down.”

“Rhythm isn’t all of it,” is all Stevie says as he stares at his eyeshadow. The more he looks at his face, the less symmetrical his work is.

“What if we called her?” Mara muses.

Sid scoffs, adopts a cocky grin. “Remember the last time we called her during her ‘warmups?’”

All three of them grimace and fall back into silence.

The venue manager checks in on them five minutes before they’re scheduled to go on. “Where’s your drummer?” he asks.

The whole band look at each other. No one responds.

Two minutes till showtime and the manager asks again. They’re going to have to make a choice, and they know it. Gamble on an AWOL Joey to show up at the last minute, ready to play, or find some mediocre substitute to play in her stead and smooth out all the rough edges the group has worked so hard to perfect. Sure, she’s unreliable as the existence of God himself, but no one plays like Joey. Three quarters of tonight’s main event share glances with each other and exchange an

entire conversation through their eyes.

“She’ll show up,” Mara says, “Let’s go.”

At the double door on the way to the stage. The three members look at each other once more. Stevie feels his hands tremble with the adrenaline. Sid kisses both of their cheeks, and they step on stage. The light shining on the black vinyl is as bright as the crowd is deafening. Hundreds of devoted fans that Stevie can’t see the faces of through the glare. Invigorating. Risky. What if drumming really isn’t as hard as people think, like Sid says? Just rhythm and. . . .

He’s handed his bass by a roadie. Tries to shake his nerves off. Looks at the other two who share the same nervous glance. Trust me, they all say. He tries to trust them, even if he’s still not happy with his lips.

The crowd is screaming, bodies and mouths harmonizing in a chorus of chaos and worship. Stevie’s palms are wet. He worries if his fingers will be able to work.

As soon as Mara raises her lips to the mic before her, she doesn’t get one word out before the loud slamming of open doors catches the whole band’s attention. It’s impossible to make out the face of whoever bounds through the entrance of the stage, but the hair is all they need to see who it is. Her confident walk, and the way she practically shoves her tongue inside Stevie’s mouth on her way to the drum kit, mixing lipstick colors and smearing his across his cheeks. The way she sits down at the stool, spinning the sticks in a little flourish of her hand, and a cocky, self-assured grin.

“What took you so long?”

Joey grins wider, showing her lipstick-stained teeth. “Patience is a virtue, Sidney.”

Stevie’s still blushing when he turns to make eye contact with their front woman, and nods, feeling his anxiety ebb away. Mara looks at all of them, mouth set in a thin line, and nods.

She raises her face to the mic once more:

“How’s everyone doing tonight?”

Euphoric madness in the form of hundreds erupting in unison. It takes the breath out of him every time. He catches himself in the reflection of Joey’s kit, at his makeup and the smudged red line rubbing across his cheek.

He looks perfect.

The Quarantined Woman

Emma Muller

Orange

Alex Bills

Quiet Nights and Misty Streets

Alexander Crowe

I realised these streets were dark at night, But I firmly believed they were all bark with no bite. So I walked along, the air so cold, The light posts around me waiting till I fold.

The mist around me is a blanket, a toxic fog. Wrecking my lungs, driving me mad like a dog. Around every corner, every tree, Another set of eyes dissecting me.

The eyes tear into my flesh and into my bone, Leaving me exposed, hollow and alone. Walking through a quiet night, The flames of my passions, my mind, flicker alight.

The threat of danger and peril, Alive and writhe through a stillness so sterile. And though it is wrong, sick and perverse, I thrill at the feeling of horror and risk, yet remaining my curse.

So here I wander of my own volition, Through these misty, dark and dangerous streets on a simple mission, To feel these things I’ll walk a mile. And through these dark veils you might hear a whistle in the night, but is it docile?

It is this condition that leaves me stricken with the vision in my eyes. When I wander at night with my flame alight where is it that the danger lies?

Is it with the jaded? With predation, drugs or dementation, around every faded corner, Or is it with us? The twisted and bemused, as we stalk through the night, alive, for the threat of the former?

From the Dust of Stars

Allison Hutto

The Price of Flight

Ben Masters

I was always nervous on the starting line. Surrounded by highly tuned engines lazily idling, cylinders firing in perfect time. The low rumble is dulled from inside a helmet, but it can still be felt in the chest. Exhaust pipes growl and bark like dogs behind a gate, aching to be set loose. Electricity hangs in the air. 26 pairs of eyes watch the flag go up. Left hands grip the clutch. Left feet click up into first gear. Chests drop onto gas tanks as the low rumbling quickly rises into a deafening, high-pitched scream. The flag drops, and the dogs break free. I used to race motorcycles, but not anymore.

Motorcycles have been a part of my father’s identity for as long as I can remember, and longer. They are pictures of me in a dusty album somewhere, sitting on his workbench in my diaper, transfixed by that shiny metal thing he was building. The shiny metal thing in question was an engine. A big V-twin that would, years later, go inside a purple Harley Davidson. The Harley went under a tarp after throwing a series of mechanical temper tantrums. It’s still sleeping under that tarp in my dad’s garage, but it has had many lively siblings. The first being a Buell XB, a sport bike that my dad drove to work on sunny days. A few weekends every summer, my dad would take the XB, my brother and myself out to Larry H. Miller Motorsports Park in Tooele, Utah. A winding ribbon of asphalt carefully laid out in the West Desert; the track quickly became a second home for the newly single man. At this point in my life, I received less attention from my dad than the motorcycles in question. So, I was happy to tag along. For the sake of being included.

My dad bought his first race bike when I was 10. A Buell 1125R. So named because the motor had an internal volume of 1125 cubic centimeters (which is a lot). The “R” stands for “Race.” My dad rode this new bike to work on the next sunny day, and then never again. He immediately declared that it was “Too fast for the street,” and that it “made his butthole pucker.” Thus, the 1125R was relieved of its head and taillight. Its turn signals and license plate were thrown in the garbage, no longer needed. Anything that made the motorcycle comfortable or aesthetically pleasing was removed. The only thing that remained was a skeleton of parts essential for running. This faster,

lighter motorcycle was given a new set jet of fuel injectors to squeeze the most out of every combustion cycle. The brakes were upgraded, and so the suspension was too. The skeleton was covered in a lightweight, fiberglass shell to improve aerodynamics. Finally, it was given a number: 296.

My first motorcycle was supposed to be my older brother’s. My dad bought two Kawasaki Ninja 250s, a cheap bike with a very small motor. One of the Ninjas had a totaled frame, but a perfectly operational engine. The other had a perfect frame, but the motor had seized long ago. My brother was expecting a running motorcycle, but my dad gave him a challenge instead. “If you do the work,” He said, “the bike is yours.”

My brother verbally accepted the challenge, but never followed through. A year later the Ninjas sat in the garage under a blanket of dust, completely untouched. The challenge was extended to me, and I fell over myself to accept it. My dad and I performed the heart transplant together, and over the next year we put together a race bike of my own.

I was 13 when I rode onto the track for the first time. I was terrified. My dad signed me up for a beginner racing course. My instructor took me and one other rider onto the track. The instructor lead for the first few laps, showing us the race line, the brake markers, and the pit procedures. My confidence grew with every lap. We came into the pit and the instructor told us that we would be taking turns leading laps. One lap behind the instructor, then two laps a piece as the leader. The other student was up first. We followed him closely. The instructor was looking for things the student could improve on. I criticized him for his cautious pace. I can go way faster than this! my 13-year-old brain told me, on the first day I had ever been on the track. Just wait until it’s my turn.

My fellow student finished his second lap, and the instructor started to wave me past. I was already zooming by him. Hurdling into the first corner like I knew what I was doing. I braked sharply and leaned over recklessly. Perfectly executed. I thought to myself, We can go faster. This wasn’t a race, it was practice. Still, I felt an undeniable urge to be in front.

I barreled through the next two gradual, sweeping corners that may

as well have been straight. The fourth corner started to come up fast. I panicked, and my wide eyes locked onto the outside edge of the corner. The end of the asphalt, and the beginning of a crash. I stopped turning altogether and braked as hard as I could. I went shooting off the track and started bouncing violently on the uneven ground beyond. Stop! My head screamed at me. Stop now! Please! I blindly obeyed and grabbed the front brake with all my might. The front wheeled locked up immediately, and the handlebars slammed against the gas tank. The bike toppled over, and I fell to the ground. I walked away physically unharmed, but entirely humbled. I was back to being terrified, and I would stay that way until after high school.

One year after I graduated, my dad offered me a chance to ride again. He had been riding consistently in the years between and had since sold the Ninja. He bought a Yamaha R3 for himself the year before, another small and inexpensive motorcycle. He offered to let me use the bike, once again, if I worked on it myself. I agreed and started to dream about speed and glory. I had the confidence of a 19-year-old behind me this time. I wasn’t afraid. I gave my bike a number of its own, 939, and leaned headfirst into my premiere racing season.

Most people assume that riding a motorcycle as fast as you can is chaotic, uncontrolled. It’s very much the opposite. The faster you go, the slower the world seems to move. When moving at over 100 mph through the open air, your focus narrows. All you can see is the road in front of you, and that’s all you need to see. Your eyes are permanently locked onto the next corner. As soon as you enter the corner, you look for the exit. As soon as you reach the exit, you look for the next entrance. Over and over. Entrance, exit. Entrance, exit. A sense of rhythm washes over you. Hands and feet click from gear to gear without thought. Down two on the entrance. Up one on the exit. Up one more. Next turn, down one. Exit, up shift. Long straight. Up one. Up one. Hold throttle until the brake marker. Roll off throttle. Down three. Look for the entrance.

You stop feeling the motorcycle beneath you. You flow effortlessly from corner to corner, dropping your inside knee to scrape the ground on every turn. The ground is only a few feet below, less than a foot in a tight corner. It feels like 30,000 feet. It feels like you’re flying.

I broke the track record for most crashes in a single season that year.

Six. By the end of the season, my once beautiful motorcycle was held together with duct tape, zip ties, and crossed fingers. I didn’t care. I walked away from every crash without a scratch. Other racers told me this was miraculous, but I didn’t believe them. I was 19 and invincible. I donned the bike the “Duke of Duct Tape” and laughed it off. They might be worried about injuries, but I just wanted to go faster. I wanted to win.

The next season I upgraded to Yamaha R6. Essentially the same motorcycle, but with an engine twice the size. An R3 is a plaything, too small and slow to get hurt on. An R6 is a monster that demands respect. Having all that horsepower sitting between my legs petrified me. At the same time, it thrilled me. I wondered how much faster I could fly.

I crashed once in the early season. A maintenance crew left a chunk of concrete on the track, and I found it with my front tire halfway through a corner. I slid to the side of the track without any drama. I didn’t go down again until the second to last round.

I was in 5th place on the last lap, closely following the riders in front of me. Looking for an opportunity to pass. In a field of 20-30 riders, I usually found myself in the middle of the pack. I assumed I was still in the middle. On the last lap I realized, all at once, I was at the front. Among the fastest on the track, the veterans who had been racing for a decade or more. Pride washed over me, followed immediately by false confidence. “Push for 3rd.” I told myself. “Get on the podium for once.” I smiled to myself, put my head down, and pushed harder than I ever had before. I pushed beyond what I knew I could do and hoped I could do more. I started losing control of the bike in every corner. Braking too late and rolling on the throttle too soon. The beast below me protested my violent inputs and started bucking and shaking on the way around the track. The feeling of flight vanished, and it was replaced with fear. I wasn’t in control of the bike anymore; I was barely hanging on. I didn’t think it mattered. I thought fear was the price of victory.

I made a reckless pass on the third to last corner, and immediately looked for the entrance of the second to last. I held my position through the turn. The rider in front of me was within striking distance, if I pushed hard enough. “Come on!” I hissed through clenched

teeth. “One more!” I rolled on the throttle hard as I exited the corner, ready to launch past the man in front of me.

Too soon.

I hit the throttle too soon, and too hard.

My lean angle was still too severe to maintain grip with an open throttle. The rear tire lost traction and started to spin out. The whole bike began to rotate.

“Fuck.”

The rear tire regained traction all at once, and the motorcycle flipped at 60 mph. I did a massive cartwheel through the air. My left leg hit the ground, and then the rest of me did. I tumbled and rolled, trying to keep my limbs close. I came to rest face down in the dirt, directly next to the track. I rolled over and looked for my motorcycle. Standard crashes procedure is as follows: If you are not injured, pick up your motorcycle and move it as far away from the track as you can. I located the bike and started to stand up. I lifted my left leg, but my foot never left the ground. I looked down and saw a ghastly bend directly in the middle of my shin. I yelled in horror and seized the bend with both hands. It felt like hamburger meat, with a few Jenga pieces mixed in for flavor.

I remembered, through the panic and horror, that I was still inches away from the asphalt. Most of the racers still had to go through this corner, and I shuttered at the thought of a second motorcycle crashing in the same spot and sliding into me at full speed. I put one hand on either side of my hips, lifted my butt, and scooted back six inches. I shuffled back five feet or so, six inches at a time. Every move I made caused my left leg to lifelessly flop back and forth. I couldn’t feel a thing, but I could hear the shards of bones grinding together.

The track has an ambulance on standby, and it was parked next to me in less than 60 seconds. A crew of volunteer workers picked up my bike and loaded it onto a trailer, a paramedic ran over to me.

“Are you okay!?” he yelled over the other motorcycles, which were still passing me a few feet away.

“No.” I calmly said back. My body was pumping with adrenaline, and

I still couldn’t feel anything. “My leg is broken.”

“You think your leg is broken?” he asked, now kneeling beside me.

“No,” I said. “It’s broken.”

I broke my left leg into seven pieces, and I haven’t ridden a motorcycle since. It took a long time for the lesson to sink in. I felt like I deserved to be at the front of the pack, among the best and fastest on the track. Even though they had put in the time and effort, and I had not.

Phantasmic

Emma Muller

Agent of Horror

CJ Lawson

Horace Bates was something of a recruiter. Like a baseball scouter who looked for young talent all around the world or a literary agent who scoured worlds without number for the next big hit. Only Horace Bates wasn’t interested in the next Babe Ruth or Harry Potter. He was looking for something sinister, something terrifying, the next big scare that would make kids from one to ninety-nine peak under their beds at night petrified by something so horrendous that just the thought of it would make them shrink. Horace Bates was an agent of horror.

The operative word being “was,” however. In his early career, his mentor helped get the Headless Horseman off and running. Following a lead, Horace’s first big success was Frankenstein (Frankenstein’s monster actually but no one cared much for the details). Horror agents idolized him and he reveled in his success. Some said he was a descendant of Edgar Allan Poe.

Perhaps his most significant accomplishment was something so simple it wasn’t even that scary. The tablecloth ghost costume. He was so proud of it at the time. It made for a mildly amusing costume on Halloween and it was a good last-minute idea if you didn’t have a costume. To this day, Horace Bates gets a check with fifty cents every time someone wears it.

The good times didn’t last though. It coincided but no correlation was ever proven. When the Berlin Wall fell and the Soviet Union dissolved, Horace lost his touch. He still remembers the day Slenderman walked into his office. He laughed, “What next a sentient whiteboard?” He just couldn’t find his touch with the younger generation. He didn’t understand what scared them, but like Vladimir Putin, he always dreamed of a comeback.

Until that day came he would have to abide in a lavish sixteen-room mansion with an Olympic-sized swimming pool in the backyard. Throughout the many hallways were numerous displays. There were autographs from famous, fearful fanatics and memorabilia from the monsters and ghouls he helped find their way. For some reason, only known to Horace, there was a constant scent of garlic brought in

through the vents.

The opportunity for his grand return knocked on the door three times. They were deep authoritative knocks, the kind that always preluded bad news. Horace was in his spa room (not to be confused with one of his four bathrooms) when the knocks came.

When Horace heard the knocks, he let out a sigh. I really should hire a butler or a maid . . . he thought to himself. It was time he got out anyway. He climbed out of the tub and got dressed. It was a rule in the horror business that you couldn’t own any clothing above a certain shade of brightness, unless you were a clown.

Horace donned an all-black ensemble exposing as little skin as possible. Once he got to the front door he grabbed a dark trench coat as there was yet another knock at the door. Whoever this is they must think they’re important.

His coat went a step above and beyond on the darkness scale. A scientist in Germany gave it to him as a thank you gift. It actually emitted a small amount of black light. He then grabbed an ordinary black top hat with a long brim. Before he could open the door he pulled two white gloves from his jacket’s pockets sliding them onto his hand (white was allowed as an accenting color in the code of horror).

Finally, after at least five minutes since the initial knock, he opened the door. Horace almost laughed. The man before him was a frail blonde man. He looked like the kind of man who survived on offbrand ramen. His suit was slightly more intact than him. A button was missing near the bottom. His shirt probably started out as white but had been bleached by the sun into a light beige.

“Hello,” he said. He sounded sick, but despite his poor appearance, he did not appear to be ill. “My name is Jason Shelley. Are you Mr. Bates?”

Horace nodded. “What do you want?”

“Well actually I’m here with the IRS. There’s been a small discrepancy in your taxes since nineteen-eighty-four. I’m here to resolve the matter, sir.”

“Nineteen-eighty-four?”

“Yes, it would appear you owe the United States government two hundred thousand dollars in unpaid taxes.”

“TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND! I thought you said it was a small error!”

“It’s not at the top of my priority for today. I already dealt with several illegal lemonade stands on the seedier side of this town. If you can write out a check,” Jason lowered a bag around his shoulder and rummaged around inside until he found a clipboard. Several crumbled-up blank checks hung from the top and he pulled one out, handing it to Horace.

“If you’ll write this check up I can be on my way.”

“Uh-huh, and what hypothetically happens if the check bounces?”

“Oh well in that case we arrest you for the same thing we got Capone on.”

“Why are my taxes off in the first place. Shouldn’t that be your fault?”

“The government is never at fault. It appears you were listed as having dual citizenship in Romania until recently.”

“I’ve never even been there!”

“Yeah anyway. The check,” he pushed it forward into Horace’s hands.

Horace felt a cold sweat and it wasn’t because of the all-black outfit he was wearing. He knew there was only one way out of this. He had to find the next big scary monster or tradition. He had the need to find it because if he didn’t . . . he was going to spend the rest of his time in a place so scary that even the great Horace Bates wouldn’t approve of it.

“I can get you the money but I need a little time,” Horace explained, already going through ideas of goblins and ghosts. Maybe the Headless Horseman would be interested in a modern adaptation . . . he schemed.

“No can do,” Jason shook his head. “I’m not allowed to leave until I have that check.”

“Then it sounds like,” he trailed off realizing what he was about to say. “I guess you’ll have to stay with me for a little while then.”

Jason let out a sigh. “Fine. . . .”

“Wait a moment. Jason wasn’t it? How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

A grin swept across Horace’s face. He had to find something scary and he had someone from the younger generation to bounce ideas off of. “Tell me Jason, what scares you?”

“Student loans, the housing market, global warming-”

“No I asked what scares you, not what depresses you.”

“Depression is scary dude.”

“Never call me ‘dude’ again,” Horace said waving his arm. “Well, you might make a decent beta victim at least,” he scratched his head lifting his top hat slightly.

Horace and Jason went to that seedier side of town, the side where sidewalks were a slightly darker shade of gray and an illegal smell usually floated through the air. Horace knew inspiration came like lightning. He wouldn’t know what he was looking for until he found it.

They walked for a while, stopping only to get Jason a large, caffeinated soda at the cheapest available destination. Try as he might, Horace couldn’t come up with anything that would work and Jason finished his meal. His best idea was a restaurant that fed its customers to a ravenous pug in the basement and or custodial closet. Even Horace knew the idea was no good. He could feel the inspiration out there like a strike of lightning on a stormy day. He could even feel the static in the air but until the lightning struck he was still just standing out in a field, awkwardly.

“What’s with you and fear anyway,” Jason asked once his soda was depleted.

“People love to be afraid and I sell that fear to them. It’s quite simple actually.”

“I dunno,” Jason shook his head. “People don’t like to be afraid.”

“Oh really?” Horace rolled his eyes. “Do you know how much horror

movies make each year? Do you know how long people stand in lines just to go into haunted houses? People love to be afraid. It’s the fictional fear which is all the better. Overcoming their fears makes people even more excited. That’s what I strive to do. Create a fear but one that people can overcome with enough time.”

“Oh that’s actually kind of wholesome—”

“Shut up,” Horace said stopping them in their tracks. They were at an intersection. Across the street through a chainlink fence with barbed wire on top was a playground. Children in their early school years ran through sandpits and woodchips. “There,” Horace pointed.

“The kids?”

“Children are terrifying creatures.”

The bell rang and all the students scurried back to a large brick structure. “Can you get me inside that school?”

“I don’t know—”

“I know I’ll find something terrifying if I’m in there. Something to clear my debt.”

“It’s not a debt but . . . okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

Moonview elementary was the oldest school in the district. There were eighteen proposals to demolish it and build a new elementary school, but none of them were successful.

Getting past the main office was easy. They simply waited for a student to come down and ask the office workers for a pack of ice. “It works every time,” Horace said as they slipped past unnoticed. They found the first classroom they could and paused just outside the door.

“So what’s the plan?” Jason asked.

“Follow my lead,” he said already with his plan fully concocted. Horace’s plan might have worked on a high school level, maybe a middle school level, but he’d really have to stretch it to work for a first-grade class. Unfortunately, he didn’t know he was going into a first-grade class.

When he stepped into the classroom his eyes bulged realizing that

they were much too young but he had to go forward with his plan. He didn’t have a better one. “Hello, hello,” he greeted interrupting the teacher in the middle of a math problem on the board. “I need to speak to . . .” Horace scanned the classroom for an indication of a name. He found a small nameplate on a large desk that read Mrs. Carrie. “Mrs. Carrie for a moment. Mr. Shelley, can you take the class over for a moment?”

“Yes of course,” Jason said stepping up to the whiteboard.

Mrs. Carrie stared at the two intruders with bewilderment. Her eyes danced between the two as Horace guided her outside the classroom.

“Oh two plus two that’s a favorite of mine,” Jason said gaining the attention of the class. He scooped up and marker from the whiteboard and threw it in the air catching it with his other hand. Now he had the respect of the class. At least for the time being.

“Just what are you two doing!?” Mrs. Carrie asked once she and Horace were outside.

This was the part of the plan where Horace knew it would all fall apart. “You see . . .” he started to explain hoping a better answer would come to him but when it didn’t he continued with his original plan.

“We’re with the government and we think one of your students is involved in international drug trafficking.”

Mrs. Carrie didn’t move. “I don’t believe it. . . .” she said.

Horace winced knowing it’d come to this.

“I know exactly who it is!”

“You do?” he said, “you do!?” he repeated with more confidence.

“Yes, are you here to arrest him?”

“No no, we uh, don’t have any proof. We’re here to observe for the time being . . . gathering evidence. . . .”

“I understand,” Mrs. Carrie said nodding. The two reentered the classroom where Jason had drawn several fish on the whiteboard.

“I still don’t get it,” one girl in the front row said.

“If you draw the first two sideways like this,” he drew a two facing the floor. “And the second one—”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelley,” Mrs. Carrie took the marker from his hand. “I’ll take it from here,” she leaned close to him and whispered. “I hope you catch him in the act.”

Jason nodded pretending to know what was going on and took a seat in the corner with Horace. They sat around a horseshoe table that was almost on ground level in chairs that were much too small for them. They could almost put their feet up on the table, but they didn’t.

“Okay have your idea now,” Jason whispered to Horace once Mrs. Carrie had continued with their lesson.

“It doesn’t just happen like that. I have to observe them.”

And so they observed. They watched kids work through arithmetic and read a story about an obese panda who thought he was a duck but learned to accept his obesity in time to rejoin the other pandas. It was an odd story.

At snack time Horace still didn’t have anything. He was starting to grow irritated. Maybe he had gone past his prime. Maybe there was nothing scary left for him to find . . . maybe he really was going to jail.

The kids pulled out all sorts of candies which Horace thought of as odd.

“This is the last of my Halloween candy,” he heard one kid say. Halloween candy. . . .

“Whatcha got there Alex?” Mrs. Carrie asked one student.

“Skittles.”

It’s a tradition older than me. Older than the tablecloth ghost older than—

“Oh just skittles, huh?” Mrs. Carrie flexed her eyebrows at the two men.

Jason nodded pretending to take some notes on a piece of paper and pencil he grabbed in front of him.

“Jason,” Horace said turning to look at him. Only Jason wasn’t there. He’d gotten up and walked over to the boy’s desk.

“Could I have one of these?” He asked picking up a skittle.

“That’s my skittle!”

“THIEF!” Another kid shouted. It was like a hockey match with excons: anarchy in a second.

“You know what we do to thieves around here!?” One kid bellowed with a Hershey bar in one hand which he used like brass knuckles to punch Jason in the gut.

“Lauren!” Mrs. Carrie shouted useless to stop the ensuing brawl.

“Hey, that’s the guy that shut down our lemonade stand!” Another kid said joining with his friend to start stabbing Jason with sharpened candy canes.

Another kid for seemingly no reason at all leaped up on his desk and began yelling as loud as he could. He had glittery sugar stained all around his mouth.

Horace stood smiling because he knew there was a reason that kid acted out. “I did it! I know what it is!”

Jason began to scream as more and more kids attacked him. Mrs. Carrie chased down Alex who continued to pop skittles in his mouth.

“Disposing of the evidence aren’t you!?”

The yells and chanting of the children grew as did the smile on Horace’s face as his theory was confirmed.

Jason let out a blood-curdling scream as peanut butter was smeared over his face.

“I hope you have an allergy!” One kid taunted.

Jason crawled out as the chaos grew followed behind by Horace. He followed Jason out a set of double doors into the school playground now abandoned.

“Jason I did it!”

Jason caught his breath wiping the peanut butter from his cheeks. “Now that!” he pointed at the building stepping away from it as if touching it would make him go through the whole ordeal again. “That was traumatizing.”

“No Jason! It was terrifying!” Horace said.

“Huh?”

“It finally hit me. We give out candy on Halloween, right? Halloween is supposed to be a scary holiday, isn’t it? So why do we give out candy to children!?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wrong!” Horace grabbed Jason’s collar. “That’s what they want you to think! What’s more terrifying than children experiencing a sugar high!?”

Jason could practically hear lightning strike.

“Well? Do you think it’ll work? I’ll call the copyright offices. Technically no one’s taken credit for giving out candy so if I take credit for it under this new reason every time someone gives out candy on Halloween I’ll make a fortune. That will more than cover the discrepancy in taxes won’t it?”

“I need to call my boss though. To see if he’ll approve it.” Jason took out his phone and it began to dial. “Sir I’m with Mr. Bates and. . . .”

Horace was so proud of his discovery he imagined the glory that followed. There could be an annualized movie franchise called ‘sugar high’ which would have three good installments before stalling out but each movie would still make at least a million dollars at the box office. This could even topple his tablecloth ghost costume.

“What!?” Horace heard an angry voice coming from Jason’s phone after he explained his idea.

“Y- yes sir—Yes sir,” Jason repeated over and over until he grew completely silent. His skin turned white and he looked at Horace.

“Y-yes,” Jason said handing the phone to Horace. What was going on?

“Hello?”

“Well well well,” a raspy voice answered. “I always did want to meet you, Horace Bates. But I never expected it’d be like this.”

“Who is this?”

“The President of the United States.”

Just what was happening?

“You see Horace . . . I’m afraid you’ve come across a very sensitive state secret. I can’t let you copyright it.”

“A state secret?”

“Yes . . . Are you familiar with President Harding?”

“N-no.”

“Public education . . . you throw a million dollars a year their way and people don’t even know the presidents . . . it was during his administration that the tradition of giving out candy really took off.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Fear keeps people in line. I imagine you know this. Once a year children of all ages get doped up on sugar and drive their parents crazy. It keeps things . . . in control and it has for a century. Now Horace . . . your country needs you to keep this a secret. In exchange, I’ll personally absolve your tax debt.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now . . . how’d you like a job working for Uncle Sam? We could use more scare tactics to keep the people in line and a man of your talents might enjoy scaring the entire nation—no . . . the entire world.”

“Thank you Mr. President but . . . I believe people should overcome their fears. I’ve never tried to control people through fear.”

There was a heavy sigh. “I understand. Good luck Mr. Bates. You’re free to go. Oh, and give the phone back to Jason.”

Horace handed the phone over. Jason held it up to his mouth and Horace took one long look at the school building. The shock of the

revelation was still making its way through Horace. Sometimes people look for lightning but they never expect to get struck by it.

“Jason?” The president said. “When you get back to headquarters, put a hit on Horace . . . he knows too much.”

Jason and Horace parted that day without much of a goodbye. A few weeks later there was an assassination attempt on Horace. He was gravely injured but survived. A few days later he disappeared from the hospital. No one really knows what happened. Some suspected the government had a reason to silence him but others believed a theory presented by the government that the mafia wanted revenge for not being assimilated into the “horror culture.” There was enough speculation that an investigation was launched into the FBI, CIA, and even the BSA (it came out that Horace once looked into the boy scouts for potential scary material but came away empty-handed). No one ever suspected the IRS. In all the madness though the records of Horace having dual citizenship in Romania never went away. They knew it was bogus but the Romanian government didn’t.

It was around this time that a small community in Romania began to have rumors and folklore develop about a nifty little cottage in the countryside. Anyone who got close to the building swore they heard laughter and a man saying “this will be the next big scare!” None of these rumors got very far and most people dismissed them right away. One day Horace knew he’d return. After all, he was an agent of horror. And being an agent of horror meant you had to play with lighting no matter where you went or what you did. Horace knew he’d be on the verge of finding something sooner or later. Lightning may only strike once in a certain location but that didn’t mean lightning couldn’t strike the same person twice so long as they were moving and that’s what Horace intended to do.

Begin/End

Heather Graham

Beginnings Into gloomy endings

New breath to

Graying old lungs, choking for air

Metronome bleeting of machines keep hearts beating Beep

IV lines and broken promises Beep

Oxygen tubes and lost time

Beep

Antiseptic dressings of hope keep hearts pounding

Fresh view to

Aging old eyes, blinking for sight

Out of luminous beginnings

Endings

Aspen Garner

Astronaut

Thoughts on the Color PINK

Ashlyn Mae Stratton Color

Why such stigma

Attached to a spectrum

Of light, a piece of universe

Made seen?

Aspen Garner

The Octopus

Pain Living with the Dead

Emily Kathryn Burke

May you please rate your pain on a scale of 1-10?

In this survey please rate your pain to the best of your ability on a scale from 1-10 regarding the level of pain you’ve experienced since your recent loss of a loved one. A brief descriptor will indicate the experiences specified.

1. Buying flowers at the supermarket (for bereaving families, partners, or loved ones)

6-

I only say this because I can’t stand the smell of flowers anymore. Really, they’re quite the morbid thing to introduce to a grieving household. A dying, decaying plant sitting on the coffee table of a family that already feels like it sucks at keeping things alive.

2. Attending church or prayer services or any kind, should this not apply, please indicate so.

7-

Nothing liberates and empowers strangers to cross boundaries more than being in God’s presence.

3. Attending school or work, carrying on with your typical obligations

8-

I feel like half a person with twice the responsibility to seem put together. I stare in the mirror and no longer see a girl but a play directed by expectations. An expectation to fall, something I refuse to do.

4. Attending birthdays, holidays, or family gatherings

3 some days, 10 the next—

I realized that one day, I would be older than him; older than my older brother. The juxtaposition of a fickle god has made itself known to me and this cynical way of thinking follows me everywhere now. My brain still takes attendance of those that are missing.

5. Being in rooms, spaces, and households that they often inhabited.

7-

I find that I’m a ghost haunting my house, only wandering in the evening when everyone else is asleep. I tip-toe up the stairs and remember him in secret so that my memorial may not meet the eyes of others that are struggling. I talk to the air and sometimes it whispers back.

Cinnamon Girl

Quinn Hoggan (Trigger Warning: Self Harm)

I don’t quite remember all the way back. I don’t remember my mother. I remember warmth, fur, milk, and scuffles with the others. I remember the smell of my siblings. There were a bunch of us, all fighting to get some milk. But I don’t remember mother.

I remember where I used to be. I used to live in a house, it smelled bad, like rotten milk and burnt grass, with some people who were mean to me. They yelled a lot. They hit me. I don’t know why. I loved them. They fed me, they gave me a home, and I loved them. But they yelled. They were scary. I don’t know why. They would hide me in a dark room. They left me there for hours in a cage with just stale pellets that smelled like dust and dirt, and a bowl of water that smelled like bad eggs. I didn’t like it when they left me in the cage. But I tried to play with them, and then they would yell and hit, then they put me in the cage.

I was there for a while. Then they led me out to the loud moving thing that smelled like metal and burning. They took me out to a road above a river, then they led me below it, by the river. They put down a box, then they put me in it, then they left. I never saw them again. I don’t know why.

It got cold a lot by the river, especially when it got dark. There would be men there sometimes, and they pet me. But they never stayed long. There were also other dogs. They were dirty and smelled like fish and river water. There were other things there, like cats and dogs, they didn’t move, they just lay there, stinking like rotting meat. One time, one of the men hit one of the other dogs really hard and the dog fell down. I freaked out and ran away from the man. I wandered around for a while. I found dark places with stone walls next to the roads. There were big trash boxes and people would come through and leave stuff in the boxes. I found food in there sometimes. But I didn’t like it there. It was loud, cold, and smelled like bad meat, dead vegetables, and wet boxes.

But then, one day, a girl found me. She was pretty, with hair that hung above her shoulders. She smelled like cinnamon, sweet, warm, and

sharp, her eyes were blue. She smiled. She made small, soft noises, not like the yelling in the house. I liked her. She led me to her shiny moving thing. It smelled like other moving things, but also like cinnamon. When we got out, we were outside a tall building with hard rectangles that smelled like clay and lots of those see-through walls. We walked in, and it was cleaner than the first house. We climbed up some stairs and walked past all these closed doors. There were so many smells that I couldn’t tell which one was coming from which door.

We finally came to a door that smelled like the girl. We walked inside. The house smelled like cinnamon with whiffs of fresh fruit, all tangy and sweet with a hint of acidity. The walls were yellow. The girl led me to a clean, tiled room that smelled nicer than the one in the first house. It smelled like the girl, a lot like the girl, there was cinnamon everywhere. The girl then led me to the low-walled wet place that smelled the most like her. Then she turned a handle and water came from above. She poured some goop on me, and it smelled like her too. I felt clean, cleaner than I had felt in a long time.

I loved it there. She fed me meat and pellets that weren’t stale. She gave me water that didn’t smell like bad eggs. Sometimes I would try to play, then I remembered the hitting, then I tried to hide. But she always found me and put her arms around me and made me warm. She never hit me. She let me sleep in her soft, warm bed. She got me some sort of strap to wear on my neck that she would attach a rope to and lead me out of the building with it. We would go walking and playing. It was wonderful! She would only run if I started to run. I had to pull pretty hard sometimes to get her going. I got to smell everything. There were too many smells to describe. I never got to do this with those mean people.

I would sit by the girl at night and watch shapes in the light box. There were shapes of people and other weird animals. They were usually the same shapes every night. There were loud noises and flashes of yellow and blue. They scared me sometimes, but then the girl would put her arms around me. The light box didn’t smell much like anything though, just warm dust. She watched the lightbox every night, but it didn’t seem like she enjoyed it very much. She didn’t laugh or smile often. Some of the only things that would make her laugh were when I would run to the bowl that she puts my food into

and skid past it, and when I would tilt my head at her when I was confused. They would make her double over in laughter sometimes. I started doing them on purpose just to make her laugh.

She would leave for a while during the day. She would walk out into the room with all the doors and knock on the one next to her door. A woman that smelled like vanilla would come out. She would get excited to see me. She came to the cinnamon girl’s room and stayed while the cinnamon girl was gone. She was nice. She would take me outside sometimes too. The vanilla woman would leave when the cinnamon girl came back. I liked the vanilla woman, but I was always happier when the cinnamon girl came back every day. It was like this for a long time. I was happy, but the girl was more sad than she was happy.

After a few months of the cinnamon girl leaving every day and the vanilla woman coming over, the cinnamon girl came back and was sad. She had these wet streaks on her cheeks that smelled salty and bitter. I sat by her all night as she made this sharp sound until she fell asleep. The next day, she didn’t leave. I was so happy. She could be here all day. We can go outside and play. I could sit by her all day. But all she did was sit in front of the lightbox and stare. She hardly did anything. I liked her being here more, but she seemed sad.

She wouldn’t get out of bed by herself sometimes. I would have to push her hard to get her out of the bed. I don’t blame her, the bed was soft, but I was hungry. She would spend a lot of time in front of the lightbox. She seemed to brighten up when I ran to her. But it wouldn’t last that long. It started to get harder and harder to get her to take me outside. The smell of cinnamon started to fade. The vanilla lady didn’t come over anymore. I think it was because the cinnamon girl didn’t leave.

One day, she gave me some food and I ran to the bowl and skid past it. I wanted her to laugh, but she didn’t laugh. Why didn’t she laugh? Was something wrong? I sniffed her. She smelled wrong. The cinnamon smell was gone. That wasn’t right. Where was the cinnamon? The girl was holding the sharp cutting thing she used to cut meat, then she took it toward the cleaning room. She made some small, sobbing noises as she walked with the cutting thing.

Before she got to the cleaning room, I ran up to her and stood up on my hind legs and placed my paws on her chest. I tried to push her

back to the food room. I barked at her. She didn’t smell like cinnamon. Why didn’t she smell like cinnamon?

She started to make sharp sobbing noises and pushed me away. She started to walk faster to the cleaning room. I got back in front of her and shoved her legs with my head. I kept trying to push her back to the food room and the lightbox room. I barked. I didn’t know what she was doing with the cutting thing, but she had this angry look on her face. She shoved me again and again. She yelled at me. I could see streaks on her face. I reeled back. Why did she yell? Memories of the first house came back and I started to whimper. Why would she yell? Doesn’t she know that I love her? I tried to plant myself between her and the cleaning room, but she just walked over me.

She didn’t normally move this much. Then I remembered the leash. Maybe she wouldn’t go to the cleaning room if we went out for a walk! I barked and ran to find the leash. It smelled like me, and like her, and a little bit like dust. I grabbed it and dragged it to the cleaning room.

But it was closed! Why was it closed? Was she hiding? I pounded on the door with my paws and scratched it as much as I could. I ran in circles. Memories of dark rooms, cages, rotten milk, and burnt grass all came flooding back to me. I ran around faster. I barked and scratched the door more. Why wouldn’t she open the door? The wait was agonizing. I could hear her crying. Let me in and let me put my head on your lap like I do when you stare at the lightbox! Was she going to leave me? Was she going to stink like rotting meat like those animals by the river? But I love her! Let me in!

After a couple of minutes that were as slow as months, she opened the door a crack. She made a loud noise and then some small noises interrupted by sobs. She smelled sweaty, like she had been running. But I haven’t heard her running. Was she scared? It didn’t matter. As soon as the door was open enough, I ran in and sat down hard on the tiles in the cleaning room. The cutting thing was next to the water place.

She knelt down next to me. She took the leash from my jaws. Then she makes some more small noises. She starts to smile a little bit. I barked at her happily. Then I nuzzled her. I pressed my cheek to hers. I licked her ears and sniffed her hair. The wet streaks on her face were hot and smelled salty and bitter. I could hear her heart beating fast. She wrapped her arms around my neck. I felt her begin to shake as I

heard sobbing behind my ears. Her head was buried in my shoulder. She made some more noises. I tilted my head at her. I wanted her to smile, and she did. She grabbed my face and stroked my head. There was the love. There was the love. I barked happily and kissed her cheeks and licked the wet streaks away. She laughed and pushed me back a little. Her blue eyes were shiny and new wet streaks were appearing. She attached the leash to the strap around my neck. Then we got up and went for a walk for the first time in a while.

The next day, the girl took me in her moving thing and we went to this new building. We went inside some room with couches and then into another room where a woman that smelled like fruits, like she had just eaten, and the tanginess was still on her breath, sat down and the girl sat down, and they talked. The girl cried, but it wasn’t like the other day. She talked and talked, and the other woman listened. Then we left and the girl was happier. She smelled like cinnamon again. The End.

Bruiser in Reverie

Melissa Johnson

Nowhere Today

Katherine Cavazos

Picked you up from your house

Asked how was your day?

You said it was alright It was ok

That look on your face told me otherwise

So, to make you feel better I said let’s go for a drive I ask where to go

And you smile and say, As long as I’m with you, nowhere’s ok

And with you I forget Forget about it all, forget about the pain

And with you I forget

Just your hand in mine as we drive

Nowhere today

Drive through the streets where we used to play

Pass by the parks where we would stargaze

Around those rich houses that we’d stare at and say, We’ll grow old there, together, one day

And I drive

Until the sun rises, black turns to grey

And I drive

Remembering our times together, our best days

And with you I forget

Forget about it all, forget about the pain

And with you I forget I go nowhere, nowhere, nowhere

Without you

Today

Daniel Vielstich (Editors’ Choice: Art)

Grief Once Held

Shadows

Meg

(Trigger Warning: Sexual assault)

It’s been three days and the shadows keep creeping closer.

It’s been three days since I’ve been banished to my room by these disgusting monsters.

The doctors say they aren’t real, that I imagine them. But I know they are alive. I know because they feed off me. The creep up my spine, pull my eyelids down, scratch my skin.

Who ever said to keep your enemies close never had any real enemies.

My eyes hurt. They felt swollen. My chest felt like a hollowed tree, with its sap drenched on the bed sheets. Dripping, and dripping, and dripping. . . .

“No, no, no! Not again. . . . Please!” I begged the hideous shadow to leave.

But it ignored me, and like a hot breath down my neck it flew into my mouth, down my throat, sending white-hot chills through my entire body. Gasping for breath, tears rolled down my face. The shadow liquefied inside me. I could feel my mind develop a haze as the shadow shifted my vision. My body went limp, darkness consuming me.

I opened my eyes. They felt dry.

I could see the dried yellow stains stuck on the crevices of the ceiling. Smoke filtered through the room in big spirals, folding in on each other.

“I told you, go find it and stay out of my damn sight” she said. A rock fell in my stomach. I steadied my gaze towards her.

“But . . . I told you momma . . . we don’t have—”

“What did I just say?” she interrupted. Her eyes burned into mine, I swear they turned red. I could feel my

head get hot and my eyes swell.

“Oh, don’t even start.”

She stood up, crumbs falling onto the floor. I took deep gulps, trying hard not to burst into tears. I cowered as she lifted her hand, far behind her.

“Since you don’t know how to listen, I’ll have to do it for you.”

I squeezed my eyes tight, covering my head. . . .

With a jolt my body jerked upright.

I shrieked and gurgled so loud it echoed through the room as the shadow pushed its way out of my throat. It felt like sandpaper. I tried to close my eyes, to distance myself from these thirsty shadows, but it felt like my head would explode. My body was hot, and my breaths short. The shadow stayed near, hovering around me with the rest of them.

I felt that hot breath again.

I clamped my mouth shut, silently trying to coax them away. Pleading with my eyes, but not daring to speak. It didn’t work.

The shadow formed into a thin dust and slipped down my throat clouding my vision with darkness again.

“What the hell are you doing . . . what is wrong with you!”

I thought it was a different dream, but then the voices became real. It was my brother. What time was it? I looked at my nightstand, the green light from my alarm clock casting over my face. Squinting I saw it was 3:36 AM.

Why was he yelling? What is going on?

“STOP!”

I sat up.

Okay, something was wrong.

I jumped out of bed, following the voices down the dim hallway. My brother was behind the couch, covering his head. In front of me, my grandfather stood, gun pointed in his direction.

I could feel my body go stiff. I slowly backed into the hallway letting it get darker and darker. . . .

I coughed so hard that the shadow and the acid in my stomach spilled all over me.

I started to wail.

This was it; this was the end. They’re too strong, I can’t handle it. The shadows came closer. I screamed in agony. Their presence was unbearable.

I tried to look around, past the shadows. I could see the pile of clothes I told myself I’d wash, but never did. A sliver of light came through the blinds capturing the dust in the air. An empty cup that had water, spilled on the ground surrounded by the leftover dinner I ordered three days ago.

Three days ago.

The shadows were closing in again.

The hot breath was back, but all over my body. I had no more life in me to fight. I was now completely numb. I barely felt the shadow slip into my mouth. I was already lifeless when the darkness took over. I found it comforting.

Almost. *** Panting, my heartbeat throbbed in my head. I looked around me. SLAM!

The front door shut, and my chest pounded.

Quickly, I shoved whatever clothing was in reach into my bag. I had to hurry. I needed to leave. Gasping, I hurried into the bathroom. Toothpaste, toothbrush, brush, lotion, okay forget it. I can pick up whatever else I need. Shoes. I need shoes.

“Don’t think you can just leave!” His shouting sounded so close to me I almost ran. But he was still downstairs.

Shoes, shoes, shoes . . . okay got them. I could hear his steps getting closer. I gotta go! I went to my window, took a deep breath, and leaped out just as he opened the door. . . .

I lifted my eyes open.

The shadow’s presence melted over me. I was a bed of molten rock. The shadow didn’t leave this time, adding a weight to my body that prevented me from moving. The rest of the shadows began to cover my body, eating away.

The only thing I heard was static.

Slowly, things descended into an even darker black.

Ding, ding, ding.

Ding, ding, ding.

Ding, ding, ding.

Ding, ding, ding.

I fluttered my eyes open, but flashing light blurred my vision. A shadow tried to cover my sight, but it retreated at the sound.

Ding, ding, ding.

My chest lifted as I pushed out a shallow breath.

Ding, ding, ding.

With each sound, I felt the shadows fall back. My body tingled as they stopped feeding on me.

Ding, ding, ding.

I looked towards the sound and saw my phone flashing. I could barely reach it with my fingers but was able to tilt it towards me. It was Lettie, my best friend. I felt my chest tingle as I let out another dry breath.

Ding, ding, ding.

I noticed I missed seven calls; she’s been trying to call me for hours.

I should answer . . . she was my friend after all. We’ve been friends since we were kids.

She’s always been there for me, babbling about nothing, but that’s why I liked her. It was nice being around someone who wanted to share stuff with me.

Ding, ding, ding

Maybe just a quick chat. It might help me feel better. My chest tingled again.

The shadow in my stomach lurched forward and practically ran out of my mouth. My throat felt raw, snot fell down my face as I gagged.

All of them were now shrunken in the corners of my bedroom.

Ding, ding, ding.

Wearily, I answered my phone.

“Hey.”

“Jeez! Take forever to answer! I’ve been calling all night! Anyway, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve been out to this restaurant and had the BEST pasta. I know you like anything with noodles, so I ordered it to-go. I’m gonna come over so you can try it! It’s SO good, seriously. I was thinking we could watch a movie too, there’s this one just released and—”

A very small smile lifted on my face.

“Hey, that sounds fun,” I interrupted.

The tingling sensation in my chest pulsed through my skin. I felt movement in my hands again.

The shadows were gone.

When Moonlight Meets Sunshine

Marisela Perez

(Content Warning: Gore)

1

It’s a small apartment: one bedroom, one bathroom, a small living room that opens to a compact kitchen. He knew it was an unfurnished apartment, but the emptiness is terrifying now that he’s alone. There is no warmth to be found in the apartment; the moonlight filters in and casts shadows that set him on edge. The apartment is pushing him out, begging to be left in its solitude. The weight of his grief for a life left behind and despondency of his new one washes over him as he sobs. He falls asleep on the cold floor and dreams of nothing.

2

Sunlight trickles into the apartment and sets the room ablaze; it doesn’t look as vast and never ending as it had before. Felix moves towards the window, letting the sunshine refresh him. A major reason he chose this apartment was the big window in the living room that faces the sun just right. The view outside is rather bland, facing the sidewalk that leads to a small playground, but that doesn’t matter, he just wants the sun.

He’s stretching his limbs when a flicker of movement flashes in his peripheral vision. He scrambles off the floor and reaches for his pocketknife instinctively. He listens closely for any sounds of footsteps. He walks through the house slowly, looking for anything that could’ve moved, but the apartment’s still as empty as ever.

After a few minutes of finding nothing, Felix starts to feel foolish. Of course, there’s nothing—no one—but him in the apartment. It was probably an illusion or his paranoia.

“Idiot,” he murmurs, heading into the bathroom to clean himself up. He takes a mental note of the things he needs to buy as he brushes his teeth and wipes his face clean from the previous day. He’s mumbling his list as he opens the door to leave the apartment when he comes face to face with a stranger about to knock. They both falter in their steps, staring at each other in confusion.

“Uhm—can I help you?” Felix says.

The stranger stares at Felix a second longer than necessary. “Oh, uh. Sorry, I’m Cain Lopez. From across the hall,” the stranger waves sheepishly. His eyes drift around the apartment with concern, “Hey, why’s it so empty in there?”

Felix shifts his weight, closing the door a little bit. Felix gives the stranger a once over: he’s dressed in all black, the only color on him is the bright red in his hair and the blush rushing up his ears with the realization he’s made Felix uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude. It’s just—well I’m pretty sure Lucian left the place furnished and made it clear in his . . . contract that if he left early, it would all remain. Most of the apartments here are supposed to be furnished regardless,” he speaks carefully.

“Yeah, well it’s not,” Felix states matter-of-fact.

“Oh. Well, I know some great places in the area where you can get furniture and stuff for cheap. I can show you around,” the redhead gives Felix the brightest smile he’s ever seen directed at him; for that reason alone, he found it hard to turn the stranger down.

3

He dreams of walking around the apartment in the middle of the night, the moonlight shining into the living room, illuminating a figure near the window. Felix squints, unsure of who it is and unable to make out their face or any distinguishing features. Dread permeates the room, mingling with the vast loneliness of it.

“Who are you?” Felix asks, trying to keep his voice level, hiding the fear that thrums in his bones. He takes another step and stumbles back when he feels liquid beneath his feet. Pain radiates through his tailbone and his wrists from catching his weight when he slips, and it strikes him as weird that he can feel pain in a dream.

Dark liquid gushes out from the floor, oozing its way towards him. He gasps, crawling backwards away from it until he hits the wall. The liquid reaches him, thick and disturbingly warm, a stark contrast to the cold air biting at his skin. He touches it wearily, bringing his hand up to the moonlight. His heart stops, thinking the liquid looks an

awful lot like blood. It rises, wanting to devour him. It sloshes against his skin, coating his limbs, providing warmth from the chill. Felix can only lift his head with panic in his eyes and look at the figure with desperation.

The figure moves straight towards him. There’s stiffness in their movement, like they don’t know how to use their limbs to move. They move in silence, but silence speaks louder than words, and this silence instills Felix with utter despair. He forces his eyes closed but it doesn’t make a difference; he can feel the figure move towards him, trudging through the thick, warm blood. He’s acutely aware of how close they’re getting, their essence penetrating his skin. They lean over him, face coming closer to his own.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

He holds his breath; the blood is warm at his neck, climbing higher; the morbid thought of tasting it makes Felix want to recoil but his body remains frozen.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

The room is so cold now, making his face numb; the blood is so warm in comparison; a part of him is tempted to succumb to it and let himself be consumed by it.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Their hands reach up towards his face.

Please, wake up. Please. Wake. Up.

He feels Death. He’ll die here, stuck in a dream of blood while his body rests in the conscious world for weeks, maybe months, decomposing and disintegrating before anyone finds him. Would it be Cain who finds him? Would he find him when he’s bloated and unrecognizable, flies and maggots consuming what was once a breathing person?

Please, please, please, please.

Sharp nails ghost over his cheek.

Felix forces his eyes open, acceptance shining through his tears. The figure is blurry through his tears, but he can see them tilt their head.

They throw their head back, dark sludge marking their neck, a melodic laugh leaving their throat. They laugh loudly, laughing too prettily for something Felix assumes is the devil themself; for a brief second, it makes Felix feel safe.

His tears fall and he can see clearer: a strong jawline, a glimmer of sharp pointed teeth, and as the figure brings their head down and makes eye contact with Felix, he can see the shadow of a handsome man. They grin and lean towards Felix’s face: a sting of pain from his cheek, and a drip, drip, dripping of sludge from their neck, and a deep raspy voice, raw from disuse: “Wake up.”

4

Felix wakes up in a cold sweat, scrambling up against the wall, his eyes adjusting to the darkness in the room. Rubbing his face, he’s vaguely aware of his wet cheeks and how one side stings. He can’t help but feel like he’s being watched, but he attributes it to his dream and pushes it aside.

He lifts his head, and it occurs to him then that the light was on when he fell asleep, heeding Cain’s warning “It pays to sleep with the light on”; and yet now that he was awake, the light was off, and he was surrounding in the soft light of the moon shining through the small window instead.

5

Afraid of getting more bloody nightmares, he hardly sleeps. After a few weeks of having the same dream, it becomes clear he’s not doing well just by looking at him. Cain has been a ray of hope, bringing life and laughter to the apartment, but he has an active life that keeps him busy. As hesitant as Felix was to have him around, he’s come to rely on the redhead in keeping some of his sanity.

He closes his eyes, letting his warm shower soothe his aching muscles. The steam fogs up the glass and mirrors. There’s an abrupt chill that envelops the room. Once he shuts the water off, the chill hits him hard, goosebumps rushing over his body. He grasps blindly for his towel but finds the towel bar empty.

He curses—he swears he grabbed the towel. It’s the first thing he grabs before showering, how could he forget something so simple

and important? Getting out of the tub, he grabs his t-shirt to dry off as much as he can. Grumbling, he unlocks the door and pulls but the door won’t budge.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling on the door harder. The temperature keeps dropping by the second; his limbs are growing numb, fingers red and growing stiff, the cold seeping through his skin and settling in his muscles. His breath comes out in short bursts, unable to get enough air in his lungs, throat tight. He’s shivering so violently he can’t even grasp the doorknob anymore; the panic starts to cloud his judgment. He tries calling out, someone must be able to hear him, but nothing comes out. He looks around the bathroom for something— anything— that he can use to pry the door open but sees nothing. Nothing except a handprint he doesn’t remember instilling on his mirror, smudged right next to where his head was when he was leaning on the door and jiggling the doorknob. Thinking that somehow someone got into his apartment and was messing with him sends him into a frenzy. He pounds on the door, giving one more pull and it finally comes open. If his head was less muddled with fear, maybe he would’ve noticed another smudged handprint appearing on the mirror.

He crawls into his room, a slow and painful process with how raw his muscles feel. He burrows into his bed, not caring that he’s still damp, and wraps the covers tightly around himself, cocooning his shivering naked body.

He’s hyper aware of his own body and his surroundings despite how exhausted he felt. He picks up on the light scratches on the walls, the dents on the floor, and suspicious spots on the ceiling, all things he never noticed before. Things he’s surprised he didn’t notice before, but he shouldn’t be—no one would notice these things unless they were looking for them. A strange hysterical laughter builds up within him as he thinks of the possibility of his apartment having been a place of murder or disaster and that perhaps, just perhaps, now he’s being haunted. But there’s no way, right? No, he’s just letting his mind jump to weird places, he must still be on edge from his nightmares. Plus, if this apartment had been a place of death, it would have been disclosed to him before buying the apartment.

Still, his body’s urging him to leave the apartment, so he gets dressed

and rushes out of the apartment as quickly as possible, not even bothering to lock the door behind him.

6

The next week goes by in a blur, and so does the week after that, and the week after, and soon he’s nearing six months in his new apartment. Six months without anything weird happening and the monotony and normalcy of his new life comforts him. The tension in his muscles and alertness in his body that he carried even before moving into the new apartment began to recede. Felix almost looked forward to waking up in the morning, the promise of another regular day appeasing him. If only he and Cain weren’t always too busy to be together.

The last time they were together, they were so exhausted that they just laid on the couch, Cain draped over Felix, face nestled into the blonde’s neck. His red hair has faded to a soft pink, complimenting his tanned skin. He strokes the small scar on Felix’s cheek. Did Cain plant a tired, sloppy kiss on his neck and call him his sweet sunshine, or was that just a dream? Felix couldn’t tell; working all those extra hours was wearing him down. He would come home so tired, he didn’t even have time to think about how he missed his neighbor before he drifted off, sometimes not even making it to his bed. He’d make sure his night light was on and the blinds were shut tightly. He felt it important to heed Cain’s advice, it seemed to keep his nightmares away, but on one particularly tiring day, he hadn’t even managed to strip off his work uniform before passing out, enveloped in the light of the moon shining through his window. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, and perhaps that’s what made this dream feel so real.

Stifled voices drift from the living room. Felix yawns, dragging his feet towards the source. The dim light shining from the small flatscreen’s the only source of light. He wonders if he forgot to turn it off, but he doesn’t remember ever having it on. His hand automatically reaches for the light switch, trying to flick it on. But the darkness persists, and Felix groans at the thought of having to get a new lightbulb. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, taking a small step towards the television when he finally notices the figure sitting in front of it, their back towards him.

The television is filled with static, distorted voices still streaming from

it; Felix doesn’t pay attention to that, ignoring how the voices sound awfully close to cries of anguish. The stranger is mumbling now, slowly rocking back and forth. The mumbling gets louder with each breath, and soon Felix can make out the words “I’m sorry,” being repeated. “It’s not me. I don’t want to hurt you,” he’s tugging at his hair, then he leans his head back and meets Felix’s gaze, mania in his eyes before he starts laughing and Felix recognizes that laugh; the melodic laugh from his nightmares, and it sets his body on edge. He’s frozen again, but the dread from the previous times isn’t there. He’s weary, wondering why he doesn’t feel like Death itself is in the room with him again.

The laughing morphs into a cry, and the stranger starts scratching at his eyes, all along his cheeks, down to his neck, and once again at his eyes. His hands look dirty, nails black and long, drawing blood as they run down his cheek, Felix has the urge to rush over to stop him from scratching further.

“Stop that,” Felix doesn’t even realize he spoke until the stranger stops his movements and turns towards him, dirty hands dropping to his side. He laughs again, but his eyes go blank.

The voices in the television stop, the stranger’s laughter halting with it; they stare at each other in silence, Felix taking in the disheveled appearance. It’s hard to make out anything distinctive from the boy with only the dim lighting from the television shining on him. He looks frail, with dark, sunken eyes and messy hair that sticks out at weird angles; it makes him look young, innocent almost. His oversized shirt looks wet on the torso, and the pants he’s wearing are ripped at the knees.

“I can’t protect you,” he lowers his head, hands clenched into fists on his lap.

Felix cocks his head, kneeling in front of him. “From what?”

“Me.”

“Who—Who are you?”

“Who am I?” he whispers, face morphing into one of confusion. “Who am I? I think I’m Lucian?” He says the name a couple of times, letting it roll off his tongue like he needs to get used to it. “Lucian. You can

call me Luci,” he looks at Felix in the eyes, a small smile forming on his lips.

Felix can’t wrap his head around this situation, but as he looks around the room and sees the softness in the angles of everything surrounding him, it becomes clearer to him that he’s dreaming. “This is just a dream,” he mutters, rubbing his temples, “Just a stupid dream. I don’t even remember falling asleep,” he groans.

Lucian lolls his head side to side. “Just a dream huh,” his chuckle’s laced with bitterness. “Don’t underestimate me ‘Sunshine,’ your reality is shattering, and you can’t stop it.” The nickname rolls off his tongue with contempt. “Cain has been working hard at keeping me away, I’ll give him that. You can’t rely on him. Control is hard, and I can’t protect you too.”

“What are you talking about?” Felix groans with exasperation.

Lucian sighs, shoulders sagging, head dropping down and to the side. “I can hardly explain if you believe this is just a dream. You’ll forget most of this when you wake up anyway,” he starts tugging at his hair again.

“Who are you?” Felix asks again.

“I am You.”

Lucian stands up, the same stiffness in his body from before, limbs moving like foreign objects. He doesn’t seem as tall and looming this time, but he isn’t as frail as Felix initially thought. The voices on the television are back, startling them both, their pitch ringing and resonating in his ears.

Lucian winces, “They’re back. I’m sorry—” Lucian’s mouth keeps moving, but Felix can’t hear him. The voices get louder, the mixture of crying and screaming and whispering drowning out Lucian’s voice and Felix’s thoughts, creeping under his skin, making him want to rip his ears off to make it silent again.

Felix is covering his ears, but it doesn’t help. The voices sound like they’re in his head, loud and intrusive, invading every crevice of his brain. He can’t make out any coherent sentences, everything sounds jumbled and overlapped. He shuts his eyes as if that’ll help the voices

go away, not seeing Lucian mirroring hum, hunched over in pain.

When he opens his eyes, Lucian is looming over him, face decayed, flesh stripped away. His eye sockets hold nothing except the maggots and slugs that crawl out, making their way down his face, some falling onto Felix’s forehead. Paralyzed with fear, he finally notices the warmth enveloping his lower body. Blood rises, once again, until it covers his chest.

The slugs squirm across his cheek, across his nose, over his mouth; one pushes past his lips, thick and long, forcing its way down his throat making him gag; constricting it, squashing it, he chokes; unable to breath as he feels maggots crawl across his eyes, sinking into them, obscuring his vision and pushing towards his brain.

Just as he thinks he’ll suffocate, his head is submerged into the thick blood bath. It silences the voices, comforting him, dissipating his fear. He wants to stay there, wrapped in the embrace of warmth and death. When he’s pulled back up, he meets Lucian’s eyes, panic embedded in them, no longer decayed and infested with insects. The top part of his face is normal, long eyelashes fluttering against smooth skin, eyes lively and afraid. His left cheek and jaw still decayed, showing the rotten muscles there. Lucian’s wet, ripped lips press a kiss onto Felix’s mouth before he wakes up, panting and screaming, with someone pounding on his door.

Chimerical

Emma Muller

the moon, you, and I

isabella p. prada a.

I have a collection of what ifs and I chose to cling to the one with your name in it

Even-if all my fears feel infinite I would still choose to try to feel your lips against mine one more time, every time, because my darling, you are—oh, so divine, so divine

My love, all the dust collected on my carpet from long-lost what if’s, mixed with tears of blue relief, was all swept away by your fleet feet and sweet desire

I feel I lay bare before you, like an open book you can almost see through, but it’s more like I am rare find and you are carefully trying to define all about me that you like

Or maybe that’s all me, and you are the rare rare find I so try to hide from all the ghosts lurking in the back

I don’t want to let you go before I try to make you feel the way you make me feel, like all is good in this world and the Moon, You, and I, are the only ones witnessing it all

Dear Lonely Imposter

Shawny Bate

(Trigger Warning: Suicide)

Dear Lonely Imposter,

I watch your loved ones fall beside your coffin and weep unrestrained at the sight of your clean-shaven face and impeccable hair; even in death, you attempt to convince the world that you have it all together. Yet, your cold skin and gray fingertips betray the façade you meticulously perfected. I naively want to ask how this happened. How could you abandon this life when you were doing so well? But then, I glance at your picture standing beside you where your undeniable misery and melancholy soul bleeds through every pixel.

And I’m so angry.

I’m angry as strangers now approach your still body, shamelessly smiling and taking selfies with you. Even in your final moments above ground, people are more interested in fulfilling their own needs: broadcasting online that they were best friends with you through their blatant disrespect and perverse display of mourning.

I’m angry at your parents, who demanded compulsory conformity at the expense of your mental health. Parents who cringed at the sight of your femineity and dismissed your obvious pain even after many failed suicide attempts. Who instead swept it under the rug of shame created by centuries of indoctrination, saying that gay is synonymous with sin.

What a world it would be if you could express yourself freely and not fear rejection, hate, anger . . . violence.

I’m sorry you were born into a calamitous culture that invalidated your identity and made you feel like an imposter in your own body. A culture that claimed you could be yourself but failed to protect you when you did. So, you adorned your body with your opulent clothes and smeared on eyeliner in private, with only hidden photos to prove you fleetingly existed in your authenticity.

Indeed, it’s too late to tell you, but you are safe with me. There is no need to suffer in silence, for you have my undivided attention and un-

conditional love. You have the ability to cultivate resilience in the face of adversity; give yourself time to surpass the unbearable companionship of agony and trauma. Please stay, dear brother. The world will be a darker place without you.

I’m sorry you felt utterly alone, surrounded by people who disregarded your quiet pleas for help by saying, just be happy—no, not that way. Be happy while adhering to my lofty expectations. Be happy because your sadness makes me feel uncomfortable. Be happy; it’s a choice.

You deserved better.

With Love, Your Grieving Sister

Another Day

Lalo Lemus

Gabriel awoke to the faint rustling of the guava tree just outside his window. He sat up and looked across at his reflection in the bureau. He was coated in a light layer of splatted blood. His shirt, torn at the collar, hung along the back of the chair beside his bed. He stepped into the bathroom and took the small bowl that sat on the bathroom sink to pour water on his head and washed the rest of himself as it trickled down. It was impossible to tell if the brown color of the water was dust or blood.

He walked out of his home and closed the metal gate behind him. It clanged against the metal frame like a cathedral’s belfry tower. The houses that lined the city were of once vibrant magentas and cerulean blues, but they had long since faded to be a bland muted hue that slowly approached the color of volcanic ash.

The butcher shop was tucked away at the corner of a quiet street. He entered the back room. The smell of flesh and blood hung in the air, and the buzzing of the broken air-cooling unit hummed above. On the table there was the body of a lamb that had been slaughtered that morning. Lying beside it was the body of Francisco, a butcher from a nearby town who had been killed the night before. Azreal was chopping the body. His butcher coat was much too big for him. Gabriel often thought that it resembled robes when he sat.

“Another day, chavo?” Azreal said as he wiped his brow. “You look different. No era tan pendejo el guey” He laughed to himself as he pointed out the bruises on Gabriel’s face. He turned to continue hacking away at the detached leg. “Oye, there was some guy looking for you out front.”

He saw him parked in a white muscle car with a silver horse on the grill. He was wearing a black button-down shirt and smoking a cigarette. The man exited the vehicle. Gabriel held onto the revolver tucked in his back waistline.

“Gabriel? I’m Hector. Boss sent me to pick you up,” he said. Gabriel did not move. “All he said was that you had to go. Didn’t give me a reason.” He watched Hector as he climbed back into the car. Gabriel

approached the passenger door and climbed into it. He pulled his gun out from behind him, and held it in his right hand, careful not to let Hector see it.

They rode out of town on the main road. The valleys outside of the city were made of cracked red soil. Scattered throughout, were dried up brush and mesquite trees. Crumbling brick structures could be seen on the sides of the road and up on the hillsides. Surely, they must have been home to somebody at some point, Gabriel thought to himself, though they looked to be in the same state now as when he was a child. They seemed at once to be succumbing to the degradation and decay of the passing years, and to somehow retain an eternal fortitude that would outlast the blazing sun.

“What is it you do amigo?” Hector asked.

“I think you know already,” Gabriel said, his eyes on the road.

“Si, I just want to hear how you would describe it. Si te pregunta una chica, what do you say?”

“Carnicero.”

“Ah pues si. Classico!” he laughed. They take a turn off the main road. The car shook as it drove over the rocky path. “All these funny names for what people do huh. You are a killer amigo. You get told to kill a person and then you kill them. That’s it. Dancing around the truth too much will just make you dizzy. Just spin and spin and spin. Te pierdes.”

They continued along the dirt road. There was no clear destination. This man who called himself Hector seemed to know where he was going, but to Gabriel it all looked like an infinite plain of orange sand. Seething heat turned the horizon into a distorted liquid of earth and air. He held his gun. “¿Y tú?”

Hector looked at Gabriel. “Pues . . . ¿Tú también ya lo sabes, no?”

Gabriel swiped the gun at Hector. The blast reverberated through the car’s interior like thunder. Hector took a knife he had been hiding in his palm. Thrust it into Gabriel’s chest. The car swerved to the right and slammed into roadside rocks.

Broken glass lay strewn across the hot desert soil. The ring of the gunshot muted all other noise. Gabriel lay against the car to support

himself, taking shallow laborious breathes. As the ringing died down, he looked inside the car to get a look at Hector. He was gone. A sharp pain cut into his left rib. He turned to take another shot. A black boot kicked the gun out of his hands. As Hector bent to stab him again, Gabriel gripped his shirt collar and punched him. The collar tore, and Gabriel fell one last time to the red earth.

“Ya te tocaba. ¿Por qué peleas?” Hector said. Gabriel let out a grunt as the blade was pulled away from his flesh. He could taste the blood that began to pool in his mouth. He stared up at Hector, at his dark silhouette against the blinding white sky.

Hector threw the body into the trunk of his car. The engine let out a long arduous whine like a neighing horse as it started back up. He drove into town and dropped Gabriel’s body off at the butcher’s shop.

Hector sat on his bed. He hung his shirt cross the back of the chair and removed his boots. In the bureau his reflection. His face, battered and bruised, looked back at him. He lay down in the darkness and fell asleep to blissful silence save the wind rustling the leaves of the guava tree just outside his window.

Inter Emma Muller (Editors’ Choice: Photography)

One Sense

Samuel Wilson

I have gone exploring places I do not belong, and now I am covered in unimaginable knowledge. Even though my eyes are covered in moss and barely able to open, I still see you.

Hidden Sphynx

Brittany Nadauld

Gone Fishin’

Daniel Baird

It is raining, drearily raining inside the tent. Drip, drip becomes a steady patter then, well, I guess there really isn’t a need for the tent anymore.

“Get up son, we will go get a hotel.” Dad throws the stuff in the back of our Wagoneer Jeep while I sit sleepily in my sloshy clothes in the front seat. We had a jeep, of course we had a jeep, everyone in Wyoming had a jeep—well at least some type of 4-wheel drive—but ours was the Jeep’s version of the family car.

It had been sunny. I was excited. I was maybe 8? 10? I can’t remember now. But I was excited. I loved to go camping with my dad. We had a big canvas tent, not like the fancy ones that you can get today but it was awesome in my 8? 10? year old mind.

We usually camped up near or in the Bighorn National Forest. This time was probably no exception. I call Dad, “Do you remember that camping trip when it rained?”

“We just got drenched,” and he chuckles. Then he starts to tell me about it. He often would go to check on the homes being built (my dad owned a construction company). It was a three-hour drive straight up from Casper to Sheridan. He would meet with the contractor that worked for him, tour the homes under construction in the morning, then go fishing in the afternoon. Sometimes I would go with him.

Put the slimy worm on, cast out the hook, reel it in slowly over the deep pools in the corners of the crick. (Yeah, I know it is spelled creek but we call it crick in Wyomin’.) It was Dad who taught me to fish.

“I got one!”

Dad comes over with the net to land the fish. I am not sure what is more fun, fishing with a rod or landing with the net. I constantly check each of our fish bags to see who is winning the impromptu competition. Biggest fish. Most fish. Whatever works so that I can win. Then comes the cleaning: slit it up the gut and rinse it out in the crick. Then fresh rainbow trout for dinner—we add butter, salt, and pepper, wrap in foil and toss it in the fire—don’t forget hot chocolate! My

mouth is watering. Mm-mm.

Dad sniffles on the phone, guess he has a head cold. He tells me something I didn’t know, about that contractor who didn’t show up to work, ran over on the housing build by tens of thousands of dollars. Dad told him he was fired and that he had to pay back the money that was wasted. He said didn’t have any money. Dad sued him. That guy got the biggest lawyer in town. Dad got a brand-new lawyer with very few clients. That new lawyer went to work and in a couple-three weeks Dad says he had his money.

Wyomin’ is dry. I remember playing in the dirt and weeds and around the lodgepole pine trees. Sagebrush and tumbling tumble weeds just like that Roy Rogers and Sons of the Pioneers’ song that Grandpa used to listen to all the time when he was still alive. I can still hear their slow singing and picture the dry tumbleweeds stuck to the grill of our Wagoneer. Dad remembers that cloudburst. And he chuckles some more. What a mess. Water pooled up in our tent. Water making my toes inside the sleeping bag cold.

I thought we camped in the mountains and there were pine trees. Dad remembers it was in the foothills with just bushes. Maybe we are remembering the same trip, maybe it was a different one. But there was only one trip where we had to pack up the tent and go back to Sheridan for a hotel. Just listen to it rain inside the tent.

Mama: The Girl Who Danced With the Moon

Quinn Hoggan (Editors' Choice: Fiction)

Once upon a time there was a girl born on the island of Tabiteuea in Tungaru. When she was born, a lady of the Moon came down and blessed her dancing, saying it would be so beautiful even the Moon would stop to watch it. That is only if the girl let herself dance without caring about what everyone else thought. None but the girl’s mother saw the moon lady’s visit. She named the child Mama, which meant “moonlight” in their tongue. Mama’s hair, when it grew, shone a delightful silver color, even though everyone else around her had black hair. Mama grew up and learned to play and laugh as every other child did. Her family was wonderful. Her father was one of the best fishermen in the island. Her mother was a gifted singer. Her older brothers could climb coconut trees all day long. At home, Mama was happy, and everyone treated her well. So, she could never figure out why the other children would mock her. They laughed at her silver hair and called her “Nei Onauti” which meant “Miss Flying Fish.” They never tried to get to know her, and they never let her play with them.

The only thing that brought her comfort was dancing for her family. They would dress her up and anoint her in perfumes as she danced, as was the custom of her people, and she loved it. She never could get past how much she wanted them to think that she was good at dancing though. She did not have to worry though. She practiced often and her skill was evident. The only thing that caused her to fumble was her own doubt.

Sometimes Mama would go off and play in the forest until the Sun began to set. She did this often, especially when the village children were particularly mean and they were mean to her often. Her mother encouraged her to show them her dancing, but anytime she started, the other children would usually yell something like “here comes Nei Onauti to flop around like a fish.” Then Mama would get flustered and run away. “Run away, Nei Mama!” They would yell at her. It was unfortunate that “mama” also meant shy in their language.

“They’re so mean!” Mama cried when she came home from playing one day.

“Who’s so mean, sweet Mama?” her mother asked as she was cooking dinner.

“They call me Nei Onauti and they don’t let me play with them!” Mama said despairingly as she threw herself on her sleeping mat. “The other children laugh at my hair.”

“Oh, don’t pay them any mind darling,” the mother cooed as she came to comfort Mama. “They just haven’t gotten to know you yet. Have you tried showing them your dance?”

“Why should I?” said Mama, quietly. “They would just laugh at me. They don’t want me around. All they would do is tell me I look like a jellyfish or something like that.” Mama got up and threw her mother’s arm from off her shoulder. “I’m going to go be by myself.”

“Alright,” the mother sighed. “Just be back before dark. Dinner will be at sundown.”

As Mama was leaving, her two brothers were coming back with a load of coconuts between them.

“Hey, why the long face, sis?” The older one called out but Mama ignored them and ran off into the forest.

“Careful out there! Don’t be out after dark! There are monsters in the forest!” The younger brother yelled as Mama ran.

While Mama was in the forest playing by herself, the Sun began to set. But Mama was so deep in the forest that she couldn’t find her way home before darkness fell. It was a cloudy night and the trees seemed thicker than usual. The darkness soon became oppressive. There was no moon to guide her way as she walked alone. “Is anyone out there?” she cried out when she heard a branch break in the distance. “Please, is anyone there?” she pleaded.

She wandered in the darkness until she saw a little fire burning in the darkness. She followed the light as it danced in itself. She soon found a campsite and some strange sounding folk, half hidden by the darkness and half illuminated by the bouncing flame. She couldn’t quite tell what kind of people they were. They were not I-Tungaru, that was for certain. She was too scared to approach right away, but one of them spotted her. He leaned over and whispered something to his neighbor. “Come over,” the neighbor rasped. “I’m sure the night is cold, and this fire is certainly quire warm.” Mama hesitantly emerged from the shadows to sit by the glowing fire. As she entered the circle, she saw that these people weren’t people at all, but men with shark heads! She

couldn’t help but shriek a little bit. “Hahaha!” they all laughed in their raspy coughs. “I hope we didn’t frighten you, little one.”

“I’ve lost my way, and there is no light to see the path,” Mama explained to the shark-men. “It’s scary out here in the darkness.”

“Oh, so you want to go home?” one of them asked. “Why should you want that? We could show you a whole lot and you could show us a whole lot,” he said in that gravelly voice.

“Why don’t you show us a little dance?” Another requested as his cold eyes glinted in the firelight.

“I could do a dance, I guess.” Mama replied as she stood up. “But only for a little bit. I still want to go home.” The shark-men clapped and started to sing a song for Mama to dance to. Mama moved her arms up and down, moved her feet in tight little steps, and swung her hips awkwardly. She grew frustrated at her fumbles. It took her a minute to notice that the sharks had begun to draw closer as they clapped and sang. “O little Onauti fly to my net and onto my boat,” the sharks sang. She saw blood on their teeth, and bones around their necks. Human bones! She ducked and ran as the sharks started to pounce on where she just was. She screamed and ran into the darkness until she thought her lungs were going to explode.

“Ah forget about her. We’ll find another one!” They cried as they gave up the search.

Mama leaned against a tree in the darkness to catch her breath. “What awful things!” she thought.

She started to walk around again. Soon, the clouds started to part a little bit. The Moon peaked out. The moonlight illuminated a small clearing. Mama stepped into the light. All she wanted was to feel happy and safe and be at home. She didn’t want to dance for children, or sharks. She just wanted to dance for herself and for no one else. So, there in the moonlight, with no other soul in sight, she began to sing softly to herself. A slow song, one that her mother often sang for her when she cried.

She moved her hands from side to side and slid her feet along the ground. Her head moved in little movements, and she began to smile. She danced, and she danced. There was no clapping. There were no special clothes or perfumes. No fumbling. Not that she would have noticed anyway. She didn’t care. The dancing made her feel better in the darkness and the moonlight. The moonlight that somehow seemed to

pierce through her closed eyes. It became so bright. Mama opened her eyes and standing before her was the Moon Lady.

“Nei Mama, thank you for dancing for yourself. It’s so much more beautiful when you dance just because you want to.” The Lady spoke in a voice as soft as the moonlight emanating from her. “Let me guide you home, but don’t stop your singing as you walk.”

Mama started to sing again. She sang of laughter on the beach, warm fires, hot meals, sleeping next to her family in their home, and dancing together. As she sang, she kept her eyes on the moonlit path in front of her. She barely noticed as the Moon Lady drifted back to the sky.

“Where have you been, young lady!?” Mama’s mother cried as Mama walked out of the forest towards the warm light of the fire cooking their food. “I was worried sick about you!” But then suddenly Mama was wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist.

“Mother, I won’t do it again. But let me dance for you now. I don’t need the clothes or the perfume.” Her mother was surprised but delighted.

“Of course!” She called everyone together to watch as Mama danced and sang all by herself. She didn’t fumble once. But she wouldn’t have noticed anyway. She was dancing for herself, after all. As she danced, the Moon shone down and illuminated her steps with light as soft and silver as her hair.

In the days and weeks that followed, Mama would often be seen dancing around the village in spite of her fear of the other children. Those children would gather round to mock her as before but would soon shut their mouths in awe at Mama’s wonderful dancing. They stopped calling her Nei Onauti, and called her Mama, the girl who danced with the moon.

E a toki.

The Nation Weeps

Ireland Young

The Last Box

Miriam Nicholson

(Originally published in Short Fiction Break at shortfictionbreak.com)

The keys to my apartment felt unnatural in my hands. I wasn’t used to having my own place. Walking in I let out a deep sigh, setting the keys down like a big weight off my shoulders. Some things are never easy. My new room was four times bigger than the one my parents had stuffed me into, finally giving me room to breathe, away from that box in the basement.

Dumping my bag felt like I was offloading the entire day, but one final task remained: the last box. The cardboard box was a sore thumb, sticking out like the chest at the end of some video game. It reminded me of the boxes I had packed after senior year when I moved in with my aunt, after I found out the truth, that my parents were passive aggressive and emotionally abusive.

Opening the box, I smiled. A few of my oldest pieces of writing almost seemed to glow as I picked them up and held them. The real me showed through here, unfiltered no matter how much my parents said writing wasn’t a viable career, always asking what I would do in the meantime. I’d written and grown more than they ever did. I still loved it. It still sets me free. Free from their constrictive bindings, and narrow path.

Next was a family picture, front and center. There we all were, my parents and their seven children, all smiling, all hiding behind a mask. I was near the back, as if they were trying to hide the shame, I had supposedly brought upon them. I was stuck between two extremes. My oldest sister was married, perfect, just as expected of her, a model Mormon. My brother was on the streets, in and out of jail, shunned and exiled from the family. I was their third child, with the expectation that I’d wash away my brother’s disgrace, yet somehow, I was worse because I couldn’t keep the mask on. Because I left the church. Shaking my head, I set it to the side to reveal the stuff from my past life. My LDS quad, which contained the bible and three books written by a fraud. I shuddered as the memories cut me with their passing.

There I was, the perfect little Mormon to be, with a medal of conformity and ribbons to boot. I ticked all the boxes. I was the golden child. Everyone expected me to do great things within that cult. For my parents, good was never good enough. With every accomplishment there was a failure. Every aspiration I had, there was one of theirs not being fulfilled.

It was expected of all girls to get married. If I wasn’t recruiting new members to the church, I was expected to be producing them, bearing tithe payers for the elders to retire on. Going on a mission would have given me bonus points, and I had every intention of doing that. Everything changed when I realized the truth. My parents weren’t healthy people; in fact, they were emotionally and verbally abusive.

All of this was normal growing up in the LDS church, but after senior year, I woke up. I found out the truth—that the church wasn’t what I believed but had been created by a con-man named Joseph Smith. This new knowledge tore me up and brought me to a breaking point I didn’t think I would survive.

I tried to save my parents, but they refused to see the truth, saying Satan had led me astray. The rift between us had started from a crack, when they wouldn’t believe that I had depression. Now, with the attack on their religion, it has grown into a chasm. It broke my heart, knowing they were in a cult and not being able to save them. My breath caught in my throat as the tears pushed at my eyes. I failed them.

But doubt lingered in my mind, making my heart ache from the divide. What if I was wrong, what if they weren’t abusive? I thought back through my life, trying to find a redeeming thing about them. They kept a roof over my head, fed me, and didn’t hit me. My heart hurt, an infected wound again leaking puss. No, it was true, they were abusive; I wouldn’t hurt like this otherwise.

But how can you love someone who’s hurt you so deeply? My train of thought caused me to curl into the fetal position. I couldn’t hate them. They’d rejected me and wounded me, but I couldn’t hate them.

All the emotions poured through me as I cried silently. They never wanted me to cry, and I thought they’d made it impossible—that I couldn’t cry. I shouldn’t cry.

My therapist’s words started to take over. “I’m going to teach you how to ground yourself when the emotions get too much. List Five things you can see, name them and take a moment for them; four things you can feel; three things you can hear; two things you can smell; one thing you can taste. I suggest creating a panic attack bag. it’ll help you through this healing process.”

I worked on grounding myself to slow down my thoughts. I wouldn’t need to do this if my parents weren’t abusive. I got hurt, but I wouldn’t let them hold me down anymore. I uncurled to finish unpacking; my eyes still stung but I had to get this finished. I needed closure.

I put the book to the side along with the religious jargon. They didn’t help me anyway. When I left the church, all that glory, all that goodness turned to shame, and disgust. I was no longer the golden child and was turned to fool’s gold by my decision. But it would no longer bind me down.

The last item in the box was my old school bag. It had survived throughout school. Through all the bullying, and books and hurt. It showed me that though it’s been beaten like me, I can rise from it. This bag would go with me to college once I had the money, proving my parents wrong. I wasn’t a baby factory. I wouldn’t be using the money they set aside for marriage or an LDS mission. I’d use it to make a new life for myself.

This new place is my new start. Away from the faith, from the family who shunned me, from everyone who told me I can’t make it. I will go forth from my past, unbound by expectations. I’m an adult now, and it’s my time to write my own story. Unlimited by anyone but myself.

And well, my parents were wrong about one thing; I wasn’t the single troll that had lived in their basement, shrouded from God’s eyes, never seeing how far I had risen above them. They weren’t worthy of knowing anything about my life, not my online friends, nor the family I met on the way.

“That you, honey?” to my parents he was my roommate, but to me, he was my boyfriend. He had saved my life.

“Yup just got home,” I smiled. We embraced and all the love I had missed in my childhood rushed

through me. Yes, this was a new start, with the family I had met along my journey. The people who loved me as I was, and not as they wanted me to be.

The past can’t be changed, nor would I want it to. It’s made me who I am, and I will continue to live my life, unlimited.

One Night in L.A.

Caleb England

That was when my life began to fade into the LA night. It started with a touch, her movements subtle, liquid. She rocked forward; I happily forgot every plan I’d ever made. The air was thick with sheesha, all jazmin and vanilla. I came in to pass a lonely hour before my flight.

I slipped into the fog of The Blue Moon hookah lounge and headed for the bar. I stopped, petrified. She was wearing a black dress, with blood red lips, hair darker than her dress, looking lonely as a funeral. Legs that spanned for miles, over continents, finally meeting the supple softness of her hips.

I came in for a drink before my flight, before heading home, to the smooth, colorless repetition of my perfectly calculated life. She was dancing to Nat King Cole, the last thing I’d expected. I stood and stared a while and then woke, made my way to the bar.

“Gin and tonic!” I shouted to the tender.

“Got Hendricks or Tanqueray!” He shouted back.

“Surprise me!”

Square pine tables surrounded the stage, sweaty men shooting craps and slapping bicycle cards. The faint smell of aftershave and French fry grease. She was in the center, dancing better than Anna Pavlova. I watched her closely and my mouth went dry. I could feel the blood throbbing in my veins. I called the bartender over for another, sipped with my head down. Half afraid if I looked up, she would vanish, half hoping she would.

I took another drink, felt the bite of gin and lemon on my gums, sat up straight and there she was, looking right at me, swaying to the saxophone like chocolate over velvet, melting in perfect time with the heavy beat. I looked a while longer.

It was hot, my eyes found the clock, and it was time to go, Back to Boulder Colorado. Afterall I had an internship at a law firm waiting for me, two generations of lawyers waiting too. I fumbled for my wallet, the band had stopped, I gestured to the bartender, paid my tab,

and turned to leave. She was right there, so close now I could taste the music she had danced to.

“You gonna buy me a drink?” A smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her hair was cropped short, just covering her ears and falling smoothly over her neck, eyelashes thick and dark, moving gently when she blinked. Her face was slenderer up close, more sharpness to her jaw. She wore a top hat and her dress was cut low. I smiled wide.

“What’ll it be?”

“Malbec,” she said, smoothing out her dress as she sunk into the seat next to me.

“Two glasses of Malbec!”

“Comin right up!”

“I’m Katherine,” she said, presenting me with a hand, all smooth and polished like marble.

“Kit,” I replied, taking her hand and holding it still a moment. She pulled a pack of Newport 100s from her purse and lit. We drank and she dragged, slowly pulling from her cigarette, blue smoke filling the air around me. We talked, she told me everything. We didn’t talk about the weather, we got right to it, Every victory, every lonely defeat.

She wasn’t from here either, at least not originally. She was trained in ballet in her hometown Ghent, she was Belgian, had a degree in fine arts. I had a J.D. from the University of Colorado. She grew up without a mother, I grew up without a father. We talked and she laughed.

She moved in close. And then we danced, moving slowly to the pulsing beat.

I wouldn’t be making my flight, wouldn’t make it to the first day at the Hendlor Firm. I thought about everything waiting at home, the future I’d been working towards, the proud mother, the pressure. Why had I gone to law school? I wondered, I never wanted to be a lawyer, I was too much of an artist.

I was the culmination of two generations of lawyers and a dead father’s legacy, and I grew up with the implicit fact that I would be a lawyer, I already was a lawyer practically. It was something in the

richness of the California air, something in her face, like limitless potential. My future melted in the heat of that L.A. night, and it was freedom.

The band had stopped, my hand was on her bare stomach, her fingers tracing patterns across my face. We kissed, her mouth tasted like menthol and god. She leaned so close her tongue nearly touched my ear and whispered. We left together when the music stopped, I’ll never forget what she whispered that night. She fell asleep in my arms and I sat for hours just thinking.

I awoke the next morning and she was gone. Not a word, not a single sign to prove she ever existed, apart from the lingering smell of perfume. I was penniless not long after, in an unforgiving town. That was years ago. Waves crash against the dock and I’m much older now. I sit a while by the sea, forgetting my thoughts for hours, carried away across the horizon, to the destination of the dreamer.

What a strange mystery is time, everything has changed but the ocean sounds the same, the past comes rushing back, blown on a pacific breeze. It’s a hell of a thing to become a different person, but that lingering sense of rebirth, and revolution, gave me strength, and it was strength that I had needed for everything that came. I somehow survived the chaos of the west coast. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it, to be dancing with the dragon of chaos. L.A. is one of the final frontiers, a seething mass of creative expression, and it takes an artist to tame it. I never did return, to Boulder Colorado, and I don’t regret a thing.

Black and White

Alice Lopez

My Love, Letter

Kamillah Cosey

Only when the sky’s part and the stars align and our river speaks a steady stream of infinity into the ocean of my heart, will I be ready….

Only ONEce the limitless lights of the skies divinely encode their love of our souls upon us and our Father whispers into my ear “daughter you are ready . . .”

Only then will my heart activate into the eternal wisdom of the stars of us, forever.

Gleaming through the intelligence that of my soul belonging to HIM, I am inspired.

Luminous as my heart sings only for you, I am comforted.

Blossoming as this body trembles at the resonance of you and my eyes awaken just for you, I am never shaken.

I AM of the moon and the stars in a sky of a galaxy that does not exist in space nor time and yet my feet anchor onto this holy land only for the creation of our love.

Our love guides me where feet cannot stand but rather my wings may soar.

My love, you are the melody to my essence . . . you are my guiding light in the darkest of days . . . you are the fire that ignites life into this being. And yet only when my Father tells me so . . . will I be ready.

Kamillah Cosey

THE OBSERVER FLOWS THROUGH THE VISION SEEING MIRRORS FOR FACES

EVOLVING FROM VEIL TO AWAKENING

REMEMBERING THE MANY GALAXIES AND HEAVENS THAT ILLUMINATE WITHIN THE DIVINE VESSEL THAT ROOTS ITSELF ONTO HOLY LAND

HOLDING FATHER IN MIND AND MOTHER IN HEART, THE OBSERVER HOLDS THE BALANCE FOR THE COSMIC LINEAGE THAT UNFOLDS ETERNITY AS A CRYSTALIZED TRANSFORMATIONAL BUTTERFLY

SOARING THROUGHOUT YOUR VERY ESSENCE TRANSMUTING

OM

Heart and Brain Drain from Italy

Asia Rondoni

After just a few days I already have to pack my bags, juggle painful farewells and forgotten objects everywhere. It seems two weeks have passed since I arrived in Italy, my home country but instead my stay lasted not even a blink of an eye. A lot of thoughts, worries, and fears go through my head. I never liked goodbyes because they are bittersweet.

I go to sleep hoping to ease the sense of guilt that I feel inside of me; my mind wanders in the memories I have of my childhood, I remember happy and loving moments. Melancholy takes over. I see the figures of the people I love slowly fade away on the horizon, I have never felt so small and lonely.

On the morning of my departure, I head to my grandparents’ house not knowing if this is the last time, I see them. Not having the certainty of being able to hug my family and see my dog again is the worst feeling I have ever experienced growing up.

Shortly after I put my bags in the car and I get in with my dad. While driving we say a few words but nothing more, there is a melancholy atmosphere in the air. We drive to the airport and park. After checking in, my dad and I hug each other tightly, and as always, every time I leave, he has tears in his eyes. My father quickly turns away and starts walking towards the exit, so as not to let me see the meaning of those sweet tears.

I arrive at the gate without problems. Now taking the plane and walking through airports for me is like a routine; I started traveling when I was just a few months old and now I consider myself a citizen of the world, a bit divided in half, with many places in my heart and places that I can call home.

I sit in my assigned seat on the plane near the window and my eyes get wet as the plane leaves the Italian soil. The wings tilt on the side where I am sitting as if to show me the beautiful landscape of my country for one last time. I have tears in my eyes, I think about how difficult it is to leave my land, my culture, and the people I love.

I imagine how my life would have been if a few years earlier instead

of leaving for the United States as an exchange student I had stayed at home, how many doors would not have opened to me; surely, I would not be here now to leave my home for the second time. However, I did not think that those ten months would change my life. As soon as the doors to foreign countries opened to me, I had already decided that I would not stay in Italy for too long.

I look out the window. Now we are above the clouds that look like cotton; I wish I could get out of this narrow space and throw myself into that white expanse. I start thinking about my future, where I am going to Salt Lake City. Suddenly my melancholy turns into hopeful happiness that smells of the future and love.

Being young in Italy is not easy, which is why many of us leave and no longer look back for several reasons: some are looking for new opportunities, some looking for work, others to study at a university abroad, to learn a foreign language and finally, for love. In my case, I decide to leave my home country for love and to have a chance to dream and grow. I run away with the conscious sadness of having no value for my beautiful Italy today but also with the faint hope that one day my country will make the effort to bring me, and all the other young Italians who have emigrated, back home.

Arriving at the airport, my boyfriend holds me in a strong and warm embrace; I at once feel at home. Aware of the luck I have with all these possibilities and a family that supports me, I fall asleep loved and giddy to create my tomorrow the next morning because my future cannot wait; I want to try to change my life for the better, and not just for myself.

“Queen’s Blasphemy”

Alexander Crowe

The break in the conversation ran several minutes too long. Dr. Lawrence, the older man beneath his receding shock white hair and thick spectacles, was too focused on dealing to realize that Scaletta had asked him a question. Licking his fingers with each card passed, he paid no mind to the three other men at all. Scaletta ran his own fingers through his hair, they came back slick with moisture and wet pomade. As heavy drops of slush dripped down his neck an involuntary shiver embraced him, so he shifted his chair closer to the fire. “Mr. Vitori, you know who you kind of look like?” Scaletta blurted to the severe man across the table. The words were spilling out of his mouth, anything to break the silence. He tossed in his fifteen dollars to the pot and tried to make it look casual.

Scaletta had meant the cash to take his family out to eat in celebration after this, if he lost he wouldn’t have enough, but he couldn’t just duck out on his first impression. “What?” replied Mr. Vitori, the man with the almost gaunt features and the slicked back salt and pepper hair who had, to Scaletta’s knowledge, organized the whole affair. Vitori’s gaze had no effect on the Doctor, but it made his friend Valente shrink away. Valente currently sat staring down at his thumbs through his heavy brow, he was trying to look bored but he had his jaw clenched in a way which made Scaletta believe otherwise. “Respectfully, I said, do you know who you remind me of?”

Whatever presence Mr. Vitori had, it was amplified in the flickering light of the lantern sitting between them, then punctuated by the howling sheets of ice assaulting the exterior of the little cabin, as well as the cabin’s low, groaning replies. He had been unabashedly staring at Scaletta since he hesitated to ante up. Mr. Vitori let out a long, low sigh, breaking his gaze for just an instant to glance at his cards before returning it. The trees outside croaked their unrest as the wind pulled them to the earth and snow. Scaletta paused to let him reply but he didn’t, and was now uncomfortably aware of the hazel hue and signature creases to his eye, he had never seen such a lifeless face upon such a dower man. Valente said he was paying the bills however, “Mr. Vitori is the man you want to impress.” and Valente hardly said anything at all.

All at once the words fell out, a cacophony of chatter Scaletta had politely pinned to the roof of his mouth. “Well, you know my sister, a younger girl just turning 15 you see, she’s been teaching me what bits of history I missed as a kid working the streets dig?” The flitting of the cards stopped and Dr. Lawrence melted into his chair, lazily staring at the shadows dancing on the wall. Scaletta paused for a moment to glance at his cards before letting out a nervous chuckle.

The fire accompanied the shuffling of cards, the flames occasionally winding through the grate and across the floorboards to lick at Scaletta’s legs. “Anyway, she’s been teaching me about history, right?” Valente gave Scaletta a sidelong glance for a long second before returning to his cards. Scaletta noted that the big man looked at his cards as if the edges somehow held the secret to winning. “And she was telling me about this king, Henry, something, I think he was the eighth.” Mr. Vitori let his cards rest on the table and steepled his fingers together, Scaletta couldn’t tell if it was a gesture of interest or annoyance but continued anyway. “Now King Henry was a real loser and he wasn’t kind to his women, he’s even famous for executing a bunch of ‘em because they couldn’t give him a child and such.” Dr. Lawrence coughed into his hand and looked away. Mr. Vitori’s gaze didn’t waver and silence filled the room for another moment, leaving only the screaming of the wind.

“Look now I didn’t mean to say you’re unkind to women or nothin’ it’s just that—’’ Mr. Vitori gave him a placating hand and silently bid him continue, before those hollow eyes crossed their arms, negligently over their cards and he leaned into the table. “What I’m trying to say is Me and Valente come in here, shovel the snow for you to walk in the cabin, and we’re dressed in work clothes and a coat, but your double-breasted piece over there might as well be mink.” Scaletta gave a mild gesture to the coat slung over Mr. Vitori’s chair. “I meant no offense but it feels like I came in and began to play poker with royalty, you’ve just got that type of presence.” Valente switched his gaze between them and Scaletta shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Mr. Vitori had given no reaction at all, not a twitch.

Scaletta’s heart pounded in his throat and he could feel himself sweating. He had to salvage this somehow he knew, maybe some flattery and a dumb play might make him less hostile. A tree somewhere outside repeatedly slammed against a window and dragged a branch

across the frame in a long, repeated screech. “You know maybe I’m lucky you’re not a king; I’m all in by the way.” Scaletta let his nerves creep up his neck into a wavering smirk he always got when he felt threatened and pushed his dusty chips to the center. “After all, insinuating something like that thing about dames before would likely get my tongue pulled.” Valente tapped the table in a silent bet and set down his cards, while Mr. Vitori allowed his face a frown and pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket. Scaletta’s smirk gained some mirth and he continued, “I’ve done a few jobs for Valente, who said he was doing them for you and paid me all the same.” Mr. Vitori struck a match around a cupped hand and began to light his cigarette. “That would make me sworn to you, now if you were this King Henry fellow and I said something so insulting, you could legally pull my tongue for blasphemy, after all it would be god, what put you to royalty in the first place.”

Mr. Vitori breathed life into the burning cigarette beneath his cupped hands. The flames drew a harsh light upon his face, outlining the shadows of his eyes and gleaming in his pupils. The light of the match and the cigarette showed the slow curling of his lips, the wrinkled smirk beneath his dead eyes which now bore some semblance of a smile to them. “Mr. Rossi, are you saying I should cut out your tongue, and call it a justice, for blasphemy?” Scaletta’s back stiffened. Mr. Vitori’s voice was heavily accented with Italian, as well as rough from years of drinking and smoking. Every word was precise, however, and sounded like it was recited from a page. “Relax, I can see you sweating, count yourself lucky if you wish, but I am not a king and you have nothing to fear from me.” Mr. Vitori pushed all of his chips forward with one hand, dusting it off shortly after, and plucking the cigarette from his lips and reaching it across the table, offering it to Scaletta

Scaletta took it in his hands, the blood had drained from his face and he felt nauseous. He managed to stop his hands from shaking long enough to give a nod before taking a long drag. “I am familiar with Henry VIII and I should say I am lucky I do not look like him, he was a fat oafish man and his practices confirmed this, though I don’t recall if he had ever punished any blasphemers as such.” The cabin groaned again, shaking the windows as well as the door in their frames.

Scaletta shot his head towards it, then let out another nervous chuckle and slumped a bit into his chair. Another slam against the window, another screech of the branch. Mr. Vitori’s smile then dropped leav-

ing only the corpse’s face again, “Mazza, we were playing a game or had you forgotten?” Mr. Vitori’s voice cracked like a whip and Valente flinched in his seat. The sound of the cards fluttering from Valente’s sleeve to the floor mingled with the fire before the wind had overtaken all of the noise in the cabin once again, save for the rhythmic scraping of the branches against the window.

Mr. Vitori was the first to move, he stared at Valente a long moment before beginning to light another cigarette, as Valente frantically flicked his gaze around the room. “Look at Queens over here, two of them up his sleeve like he’s gonna cheat my family out of a good meal, you think I’m a gunsel or something?” Scaletta kicked Valente’s shins hard but the big man gave no reply. Dr. Lawrence had apparently fallen asleep before repositioning himself and visibly piecing together what he had missed from the scene. “Doctor, do me a favor and reshuffle so we can play a real game, I had crap anyway.” As Scaletta began to flip his cards, Mr. Vitori’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist before he could lift them from the table. Scaletta froze, his heart retreating to his throat. Mr. Vitori squeezed tight around Scaletta’s wrist before letting go.

“Play your hand.”

Dr. Lawrence flipped the remaining cards on the table; a two of hearts, an eight of spades, an eight of clubs, an ace of spades, and an ace of clubs. Each man flipped his own cards. Valente had a four of diamonds and seven of clubs, his hands were sweaty. Mr. Vitori had a Jack of diamonds, and a nine of spades. Scaletta, flipping his cards, won the game with an ace and 8 of diamonds. For a long moment only the fire crackled for his victory, Mr. Vitori smiled without his eyes and gestured for Scaletta to claim his prize. He faltered a moment, but grabbed the money, the forty-five dollars he had made. “Tell me, Mr. Rossi, what would a king do, when one sworn to him, tried to cheat him, would this be considered blasphemy, to forsake his own good sense and do this thing?” Scaletta’s gaze shifted between Valente and Mr. Vitori, he pocketed the cash and resumed his seat.

“Well, I would suppose that would depend on the king and the other guy.” Scaletta searched his friend’s face to see any signs of communication, but Valente didn’t meet his eyes. Could he have been in debt? This was a bad move in a way Scaletta didn’t think possible from him.

“But, uh, I don’t think they had poker back then.” Scaletta propped his arm against his chair and took another drag, trying to muster some bravado.

“Mr. Mazza I’m disappointed in you, I thought you might enjoy one last friendly game.” Mr. Vitori took a long drag of his own cigarette, taking a moment to study Valente before the exhale, and dropping the ash to the floor. Scaletta took a moment to see his friend for the first time that night, Valente’s military cut was mussed, and his brow was heavy. Valente’s eyes were tired and circled in purple, he was the visage of a lame racehorse. Dr. Lawrence rose, the old man paced behind Scaletta to the standing fireplace and opened its grate. The agonized hinges gave way and an uncomfortable heat enveloped Scaletta. Scaletta turned his head to see the doctor place the fire iron in the flames, before returning to Vitori’s side, each step heavy on the creaking wood floor.

Mr. Vitori rose and let Dr. Lawrence take his vest and suit coat, now only in a shirt, supported by suspenders and his slacks, he looked willowy and thin.

“Scaletta, when you see your family in a few hours, remember to tell them that I wish them well.” Mr. Vitori began to take off his watch and wedding ring, placing them tidily on the table by the lantern. His shadow conquered the walls of the cabin, a long, dark portrait. With just a glance as command, Valente undressed to just a white undershirt stained with sweat. Scaletta rose, examining the scene and Mr. Vitori gave him a long stern look before it faded back to neutrality, betraying nothing.

“Mr. Rossi, I left my suitcase in my car.” The trees croaked with the storm outside and the cabin settled to a groan. Mr. Vitori reached under the table and in a quick motion, ripped a gun taped to the bottom from it. He dusted it off and polished it with his shirt, before pacing the table.

Scaletta took an instinctual step back when he approached but Mr. Vitori closed the gap and took his head in both hands. The metal of the old 38’ was warm against his temple and Mr. Vitori’s hands were rough. He placed a quick, firm kiss on Scaletta’s forehead and forced the gun into his hand, making him drop what remained of his cigarette. Scaletta stared at the gun a long minute, noting all of its worn

quirks. His eyes met Valente’s then Mr. Vitori’s.

“Go ahead and grab it for me, shovel the walk again while you’re at it.” Mr. Vitori took the fire iron, now glowing red, and tossed Scaletta his winter coat. Scaletta pocketed the gun on reflex, stunned, it was all he could do to put on his own coat and walk to the door. Leaning over Valente’s chair Mr. Vitori spared one last glance for Scaletta, “Welcome to the family Mr. Rossi, I trust you’ll make a good replacement.” Mr. Vitori smiled at Scaletta while Dr. Lawrence undid a medical bag.

The rest of the night was burned into Scaletta’s memory, etched in charcoal and sinew upon his skull. He tries not to think about it too often when he looks at Queens, his new old friend. But every time he writes down his words or takes a bite of food, Scaletta is reminded of the snow cutting into his cheek like a knife and the cold which had seeped through his skin and touched his marrow. Scaletta remembers the ash upon the floor, the blood on the table, and Valente’s screams over the wind that had drummed in his ears. It hadn’t even sounded human anymore, just some agonized thing which would die to escape the pain. The cabin held no more warmth to him when Scaletta returned, nor did Mr. Vitori’s hand when he shook it and opened his car door.

You Unwittingly Made Me!

by anonymous

(Trigger Warning: Child Abuse)

I am from big dreamers searching for their youthful idealism ignoring the pitter-patter of small feet with a growling in their stomachs that can be heard radiating through the walls of an empty home like a lion’s roar.

I am from the nomadic lifestyle of young souls, never staying in one place long enough to know the neighbor’s names or remember the features of their faces.

I am from a moving bed on four wheels where I lay on a space no bigger than the door Rose and Jack tried to survive on in the bone chilling water but similar in ways . . .

always cold, trying to hold myself up so my sister can fit, and we are not smelling each other uncleaned feet all night.

Staring up at the big bright balls of light in the sky moving at what seems to be 60 miles per hour acting like our roadmap because in our mind we are adventurers on the way to finding that greener grass we always seem to be looking for but can never find.

I am from words of reassurance and encouragement hoping to let her know, “I won’t let you starve; I know you’re hungry, shhhhh please stop crying sissy, I will get mommy and daddy to listen to me I promise I’ll try.”

I am from the sound of Heart and Pat Benatar bouncing through my insides while I smile and laugh for her so she doesn’t know how badly our insides are screaming for her to NOTICE WE JUST NEED THEM TO BE OUR PROTECTORS, one day they will see we yearn for “normalcy” and food.

I am from no mementos, no family heirlooms, how can there be . . . it won’t fit in the trunk of the car?

They created me . . .

A strong-willed daughter with never quit repeating in her mind, do they know they selfishly made me without words of encouragement or compassion ever spoken from her ruby red lips and his dry cracked smile.

I am crying and screaming for help, the smell of their daily alcohol makes me so sick I don’t dare bring it to my lips to this day, but the wanderlust of this hopeful child they created is determined to change her narrative one day.

I WAS from a childhood you only read about in books and a transformation in myself you would cheer for at the end of movies.

Where I am from is not where I am going and I will continue to show you that behind the pitter-patter of small feet can be smiles, laughter, love, abundance of hugs, words of encouragement and stomachs so full they could burst with contentment.

Don’t be envious, I give them what you could not give to us, you made me, you are where I am from!

delusions isabella p. prada a.

Happiness

Abygail Lee Miller

We spend too much time listening to lies

Wondering why we aren’t living the ideal

Focusing on what we don’t have

Rather than what we do

The American dream is to be successful

But what is success if there is no joy

We learn to make and have the most

To look the part but we’re missing something

We are taught to strive for greatness

But we witness greatness lies within followers

The likes we get

The body type we have

We witness a world of chaos

Yet we contribute to the chaos by conforming

To avoid the fear of abandonment

All because we believe we are not enough

When does this mockery end?

When does happiness begin?

When will our insecurities become secure?

All without the pressure of society swaying our self-concept

We see a habit form by inevitable failure

Causing us to quickly swallow in self pity

Literally depressing ourselves of joy

We tear ourselves down from a mistake

But the simple truth is truth itself

Honesty of who we are

Being the person, we truly are

And realizing mistakes are inevitable

Society is nothing compared to the individual mind

Ideals are nothing compared to joy

Confidence is the beginning

Joy is the result

So where did the courage go

To push ourselves again

To take a chance and jump Where did the courage go?

We must believe in ourselves once again

Free ourselves from the bondage of insecurity

Realize our capabilities

And achieve our own dream

This is happiness.

Rezo el Padre Nuestro

Marisela Perez

Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu Nombre; Dicen que el amor fue creado para el hombre y la mujer en matrimonio.

Dicen que Dios nos creó con amor y ternura, pero el amor homosexual no es bíblico.

But what is biblical if not two souls coming together to say your name like a mantra?

Venga a nosotros tu reino; hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo; Dios nos creó con amor, pero su toque es pecado y duelo pensar que la tempestad de su amor nos condena a un infierno sin tu ternura, Dios.

She calls to me and what is God if not the illusion of acceptance? She feels like home and tastes like divinity, and what is religion if not the devotion to a bigger being?

this is devotion, this is worship, y en su compañía, entre sus muslos siento un paraíso incomparable.

Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada dia;

Body and blood, pan y vino, es mi alegría.

In Her eyes, you see the devil, but what is the devil if not a fallen angel? In Her eyes, you see the end of the world, but what is this world if not a microscopic accident?

Somos átomos recicladas, I am you and you are me and She is me, just as I am Her: enamoradas y condenadas.

And when the sun settles over the horizon, the city goes quiet and all that’s left is our breathing and the stars in Her eyes and our atoms buzzing and calling to each other, because She is me and I am Hers and we are all recycled atoms from the stars in this universe.

And what is God if not you and me and Her and me and Her and God? And God,

llamo tu nombre mientras ella suspira el mio en la noche; And God, si me creaste con amor y ternura pero el amor es entre la mujer y el hombre,

Por qué veo mi futuro y mi paraíso con ella?

Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden; I wonder, God, if you’ll forgive their violence, their sexualization, and their hatred. I wonder, God, if our Virgencita would echo your sentiments, if the love of the mother of all mothers is truly unconditional.

Rezo a ti, Virgencita, I have you near my heart. My culture, my identity is you; no te puedo renunciar pero te rezo y no respondes. Ya no te siento.

Me dejaste cuando la besé and how do I tell my own mother when you, Virgencita, madre de madres, rejected me? And God, if you created us in your image, con amor y ternura, no será que eres todas

las sexualidades e identidades que me dicen son pecados?

No nos dejes caer en la tentación, y líbranos del mal; pero ya caí y no necesito liberación. Es amor, es inolvidable, el mar de mi corazón, es mi pecado. Ya la acepté, nomás faltas tú.

Biography

Allison Hutto

Weeping Magdalena

Luz Maria Carreno

In the window of the cozy café, her face can be seen through the front, crossed window. Solemn and stoic, she sits at the wooden table, on a wooden chair, alone, and looking down at her warm matcha tea as the lively chat of other customers and cafe jazz music become soft background noises in her mind. It’s over. After eight tortuous years of ups and downs, lefts and rights, it all came to an end—and he is gone. This time for real.

Magdalena, without having finished her cup of tea, gets up from the wooden chair and leaves the café. She does not know where she is heading to, she just knows she has to try and leave the current thoughts that invade her mind. She wants to run, run away from herself and from what William left in her. She puts on her helmet and hops on her moped and off she rides towards the south, away from the city center and away from other people who might remind her of William. Magdalena drives fast, allowing no time for the thoughts she left at the café to jump on the moped with her. She is lost in the moment as she zooms pass other motorbikes, city busses, vehicles, and even bulky industrial trucks. Soon the pollution of the city is no longer felt and Magdalena’s surroundings became more scenic. More trees appear, lush green mountains on either side rest peacefully, and the rice patties are in full bloom with bright green tips sticking out from the ground. Less and less are the houses Magdalena passes and soon everything is green and peaceful.

When Magdalena arrives to her destination, it is barely midday with the sun at its highest peak. She parks her moped and heads towards the trail. The tall green and brown trees envelop her as she enters the forest. All is quiet inside Magdalena’s mind as she follows the trail. She no longer hears the cacophony of scolding voices reminding her of everything she did wrong while with William. The silence she has so much yearned for these past several hours allows her to be present and mindful of her surroundings. Down below near her feet, she notices a dark burgundy millipede about five inches long and one-inchwide, crossing the trail. Magdalena’s eyes remain on the critter until it burrows itself on a small lump of soil. An owl hoots above Magdalena and lunges off its branch into flight. It is also time for Magdalena to go

and on she goes, focused on the path ahead of her until she reaches a tiny dip to the left of the trail. Following the dip, Magdalena strays from the main trail and disappears into the thick emerald green. She arrives to the grandiose waterfall about a half hour later and blankly stares at its tremendous height. After a couple minutes of nothingness, Magdalena goes to her preferred rock and lies down.

Listening to the rush of the tall waterfall and feeling its mist dance around her face, she feels safe in her special spot. She is alone and with no one else to share the nature that surrounds her. It is only her and the wisp of a dragon fly or the chirp of a bird on a branch. She spreads her arms and legs out to form the shape of a star. It is as if she were a child again. She wishes she was a child again, to be innocent and oblivious to the emotion we call “love.” At that moment, with no autonomy over her thoughts, she thinks back to William.

The last time Magdalena had spoken to William was via text about a year ago. Since Magdalena was working on her master’s degree in China and William was a police officer in the states, text messaging was the most convenient form of communication for both. When it was daytime for Magdalena- it was nighttime for William. The day of the breakup is all a blur for Magdalena, and she prefers not to remember, but the feeling of regret and remorse from her last words she texted to William, remain inside her. She does not remember why she had been so angry at William, but it seemed like she was never satisfied with their relationship. Finally, on that quiet November afternoon, Magdalena killed their relationship with all the venom in her words aimed at William. Of course, William, being the more practical and emotionally intelligent of them both, knew it was time to move on.

The first few weeks following the breakup were arduous for Magdalena. She was basically a zombie, unable to adapt to the mortal life of humans. She lost her appetite, only went outside for school, and secluded herself in her city apartment. Sue, Peggy and Tika, Magdalena’s best friends, even had to deliver groceries to her apartment. As time passed, things slowly progressed for Magdalena and somehow, she managed to get in a “fuck it” mindset. With a few travel trips to the beaches, mixed with partying, alcohol, and some tripping, Magdalena was soon on the road to forgetting William.

Magdalena’s thoughts now drift to the first time she and William met.

They met in summer 2012, July 5th to be exact, in a university geology class. Magdalena had just returned from a study abroad trip in Amman, Jordan and she needed to satisfy some last-minute graduation requirements for her to graduate in fall. Magdalena’s summer had started off on a great note. Apart from visiting a country on the other side of the world, Magdalena had a job working at a local pre-school and in fall, she would take part in a prestigious internship in D.C. All was well for Magdalena, and she was in her own world just feeling proud at how much she had accomplished. Never in that moment did Magdalena think about romance or dating. However, she certainly caught William’s attention unknowingly. Maybe it was the excitement from her adventures in Jordan that caused Magdalena to radiate such blissfulness, or maybe it was her big brown eyes, dark olive skin and beautiful long frizzy curly hair that caught William’s attention, but something about Magdalena reined William in when he first saw her in class. Each day she would arrive about five minutes before class began, sipping on an iced chai tea and made her way up the stairs to the middle row of seats. On July 5, 2012, Magdalena arrived early to class and William noticed. Right away he claimed a seat on the front row of where Magdalena was sitting, waited a couple minutes, turned to Magdalena and asked “So how are you liking this class?” Not expecting him to be talking to her, Magdalena slightly turned her head to the left to see if from the corner of her eye she could see if William was talking to someone behind her. Nope, William was speaking to Magdalena. That was the beginning of their flirtatious, playful, and romantic relationship. A relationship that started with excuses to meet up, giggles, innocent truths and dares, late night texts, and later flourished into a more serious, yet not so serious relationship.

Magdalena lets out a small laugh, because she remembers how William admitted to her that before he summoned up the courage to speak to her in class, he would stand outside the building from where their class was held and watch her walk away after class each day. He thought how strange it was that she did not walk in a straight path. It was as if she were following a zig zag line and later realized that she was just trying to walk in the shade and avoid the strong summer sun. This memory leads Magdalena to think about her and William’s first night together. It was June 12, 2015, and Magdalena being two years older than William and a bit more experienced, guided him over her body and let him love her as he pleased. Magdalena’s legs trembled

by the end of it all and they lay in each other’s arms looking up at the vibrant moon. When William had to leave at 3 a.m., Magdalena tugged at his white t-shirt for him to stay. He stayed until Magdalena fell asleep and before leaving, whispered in her ear, “I love you.” That was the first time William had said he loved her in person.

Magdalena is back to the waterfall in her star shape looking up at the sky. She is tired, but does not want to leave her special place. She wants to continue lost in this part of the world and this part of the forest, where no one knows of her location. The sun has moved a bit to the west and in a few hours it will set. Magdalena’s got time though. When you are trying to escape emotions you are tired of feeling, you have all the time in the world.

Unfortunately, one cannot outrun those emotions- and sooner or later, they will catch up to you. The partying and extravagant trips may have temporarily eased these emotions for Magdalena, but last night they awoke from their dormant stage. She was scrolling through Facebook when unintentionally she came upon a “friend recommendation” that stood out. Of course, it stood out it was William’s profile. When they broke up, William wanted to remain friends, but Magdalena knew she would not be able to handle being only friends and asked that they unfriend themselves on all social media. On her bed, as Magdalena studied William’s profile picture, she felt as if her bed were swallowing her whole while sucking the air out of her. The last time Magdalena saw William’s Facebook, his profile picture was of him on the edge of a cliff wearing a dark blue hat and sunglasses with his white Labrador. In his new profile picture, she viewed last night, William stood on that same cliff with that same sweet wide smile and even the same hat and sunglasses. The only difference was that in place of the dog, was a woman, with long wavy black hair, pale flawless skin and bright crimson lipstick. She had a beautiful smile and was hugging William. Magdalena burst into tears and right away called up her childhood friend Jessica.

When Jessica answered, the only words Magdalena was able to speak into the phone were “He’s not coming back. He’s not coming back. He’s not coming back.” And then erupted into sobs.

Jessica knew that nothing she said would comfort Magdalena, so she very calmly repeated to Magdalena “Everything is going to be okay

dear. Everything is going to be okay.” Jessica sat patiently on the other side of the line as Magdalena cried herself to sleep

This memory makes Magdalena feel all alone, not in the physical way, but the type of alone where no one loves you and you matter to no one. It is the feeling of worthlessness because you cannot do anything right so you tell yourself, “You brought this on yourself. Of course he does not love you. Who would?” Tears glide down Magdalena’s cheeks and she turns to her side. Soft sobs are heard until the crying depletes her energy, and the roaring waterfall sends her into a deep sleep.

A Second Chance for Life

Elaf Hussein

“Get out! Get out! If you don’t leave, we will kill you!” the terrorist shouted. After this threat, my whole life changed. It turned upside down. I couldn’t stay in my home anymore or even live in my city safely. Even to this day, I haven’t forgotten the terrorists and their scary faces and how they were pointing their weapons at us. Their dreadful voices when they said leave your home or we will shoot you. The sounds of children crying and the women screaming. I didn’t know what to do. I was frightened and terrified. They will kill us, we will die, I said in my mind. The hardest thing in the world is when you feel you aren’t safe in your country, and you will be killed inside your own home. We had to make the most difficult decision of our lives. We left! A new beginning! A second chance for life.

The day the terrorists came to our house was like any other normal day. My husband woke up and got ready for work. My husband woke me up early that day to prepare breakfast for him. My mother-in-law and father-in-law were also awake and wanted to go shopping. My brother-in-law’s kids were getting ready to go to school. Suddenly, we heard a massive noise coming from outside, but we just ignored it. A week earlier we had received an envelope with a bullet and a piece of paper that said, “Leave, or we will kill you.” My family didn’t take the death threat seriously and disregarded it and they said, “We won’t leave our home and abandon our city.”

We were targeted because my husband was a contractor for an American oil company and the terrorists didn’t like America because they considered America their enemy. Also, they had religious and political reasons. That day, the terrorists rammed the outside door with their car. We saw them from the window as they entered our house aggressively.

“Get away from the window,” my husband shouted.

When they entered the house, they took the men, blindfolded them, and tied their hands.

“Women and children stand by the wall and put your hands on your heads,” the terrorist ordered.

We were scared and the children started crying. They were pointing their weapons at us. Also, they put their guns to the men’s heads. One of those terrorists said that they had received information about one of us working with an American company and they didn’t want anyone working with their enemy.

“I will quit my job and leave; please don’t kill us,” my husband said. “We’ll give you just two days to go or we will come back and kill all of you,” the terrorist replied.

After that, they started to search our home for valuables. They found some money and jewelry. They took it and left. “Remember you must go before Wednesday.”

We left everything. We left our home, our city, and our friends. All these things were left behind us. We took just a few suitcases for our clothes. We moved to Erbil because my husband had a friend living there. Also, Erbil was under self-government (Kurdistan).

Erbil is one of the safest cities located in northern Iraq. It’s known for a lot of mountains and waterfalls. The weather is mild in summer and cold in winter. Half of its population speak Kurdish, and the rest speak Arabic. The people who live there are very helpful. They helped us with everything; for example, our landlord was very kind, and he didn’t even charge us for the first month’s rent. Also, they helped us by donating furniture and food. We spent several months living safely. So, I didn’t notice many differences between living in Baghdad and Erbil because I was still in my country. The important difference is that we felt safe.

After a few months, my husband and I decided to apply for a visa to the USA and move to live there. This decision came about for two reasons. First, we wanted a better life, and second, we were trying to have a baby and we knew that the USA is developed in the fertility medical field. After one year, we got the visa to the USA.

“Finally, we got it, wow, “ my husband said. We were so excited to move to the USA.

After a twenty-eight hour journey with layovers in Qatar and Philadelphia, we finally arrived in Portland, Maine. I had a lot of mixed emotions. I was blissful because we had arrived in the USA and at the

same time I was grieved because I had left my family and my country.

“Finally, we are here in the USA,” my husband said.

From here our new life began. With the new beginning of life, I faced a lot of struggles. One of the most notable problems I faced was the English language. I remember the first few months and how hard it was because I couldn’t speak English or read and write. Every day I felt I was weak because I couldn’t speak or read any mail sent to me or read food ingredients when I went shopping. Also, I couldn’t write, for example, when I went to the doctor’s appointment, and they asked me to write information about myself. I couldn’t do anything and always had to ask someone for help.

I always felt alone because I didn’t have any friends or family, just my husband. Unlike when I was in my country, my family was close to me, and I had lived with my husband’s family. I spent the first three months in Maine just staying at home. I didn’t go outside alone because I felt afraid and always thought how would I communicate with others—I couldn’t speak their language!

I felt frustrated and desperate until one day my husband asked me, “How long will you stay like this? You must do something like learn English or try to apply for a job. Just try and I’m with you.”

I said, “Yes, I will try.”

After this conversation, I decided to go to school and register for English classes. Life improved a little bit for me. We lived in Maine for one year. After that, we heard from our old Iraqi friend, who lived in Utah, about a good fertility clinic. One of our great hopes in coming to America was that we might be able to have a baby. We decided to move to Utah.

On July 14, 2017, we came to Utah. I was so excited, and I immediately liked Utah because it looked like Erbil, a lot of mountains and wonderful weather. We met with our Iraqi friends that lived there. I felt like I was with my family when I was with them. They helped us find an apartment and helped my husband to get a job. Also, I registered for English classes at SLCC. After I finished my ESL classes and could speak English well, we decided it was a good time to try for a baby.

We went to the fertility clinic, and they diagnosed us. They told us,

“You have to do IVF to get a baby.”

This was a very expensive process that took several weeks with medications, many shots, and lots of visits to the clinic. After one month we were ready for the surgery. We knew this surgery might not be successful. There was a lot of anticipation. We were excited and nervous. Finally, we got the news we had waited for—I was pregnant! Nine months later our little boy arrived, Alhassan. Our new life began with our new baby.

When I reflect on this story and these years, we had a horrific and terrifying experience where our lives were threatened. We spent many difficult times alone. We left everything behind us, our families, our friends, and our country. However, we escaped the danger and made a new life in America. Not just a new life for me and my husband, but we were blessed with a baby. A new life in our family. Life is precious. I’m so grateful for our second chance for life.

Second Chance At Eternity

Sierra Mitchell

“Promise you’ll find me again.” were the last words he had ever spoken to me as I knelt beside his wounded body. My shaking, and blood-ridden hands carefully held the side of his paled and pained face. My tears would not stop as I watched my lover go all too soon. I hate to think of that day any more than I have to.

For years to come, I would cherish the simple gift he bestowed upon me in those final moments—a ring of old brass and intricate details spiraling around an opal center. I never took it off because although it was a reminder of that horrid day—a forbidden love ending in a crushing tragedy, it was a reminder of us, of what once was.

What I didn’t know was the power such a ring had held. I hadn’t realized until I noticed there were no significant changes to my appearance as I had grown older; stuck with the same youth for centuries reaching ages I didn’t understand to be possible and yet still keeping my young glow.

I grew accustomed to the changes of each year, decade, and century— I had to, or I might have been hanged for possible witchcraft.

After a while it became dreary. I felt I was being punished. The torture of living for so long after his murder closed in on me and as out of my control it is, I often wonder why I exist to live a thousand lives while his ended far too soon. It was a constant feeling and questions arose to never be answered.

Was I here to seek out the man who killed him and avenge his death?

Or was I simply here to relive the agony over and over and over?

I had all the time in the world and yet time healed nothing.

I wrote letters to him every night and there wouldn’t be a day that I would miss, though I knew he couldn’t respond it still helped me cope with the loss of him and the added time.

March 20th, 1875

Dearest Alistair,

The word has spread recently that the buildings of the old historical town of Vierlet would soon be torn down due to a lack of funding to preserve them. In short, this would mean your family’s castle would be demolished.

I actively avoided visiting and I hope that you have forgiven me for not coming back, I could not even imagine walking the same floors you’ve stained red to which we were meant to grow old in.

Is it selfish of me to be almost happy that destruction would befall it soon?

I want those memories gone.

I want to move on and I try but I can’t and perhaps the reason I can’t is that I have no closure or even the reassurance that the castle is just a structure — an empty ruin. The agony still ties to it and lingers with it. I thought that maybe if I left it completely behind, everything would shatter all at once creating serenity in my life but hidden beneath those tainted memories is something that only we shared. Our first meeting, our first kiss, every night when the moon was at its brightest sneaking away to the gardens. I can’t help but to think had it not been played out as it had, some other horrific doom would eventually come rushing through. It just happened to be the worst way possible.

So, my dear, after days of overthinking and restless nights, I’ve made the decision on going one last time to give that terribly haunting place a proper goodbye. I believe it to be necessary to come to terms with your death.

Love, Lenora.

The carriage dropped me off at the foot of the ghost town. It looked neglected, as though a single soul hadn’t touched it in well . . . decades. The lack of greenery, the total exclusion of blossoming floral, placed with darkened skies, and completed with the machinery it would take to knock down the heavy material created a sense of desolation.

I walked right up and rested my hand against the stone walls of the withering and decaying castle and took a deep breath to face what I had steered clear of all this time.

My footsteps against the dusty floors echoed all around me as I allowed my gaze to roam but it was not the same sight I had seen about 200 years ago. The elaborate decor that lined the place from ceiling to walls to floor was ultimately kept to a minimum of small mahogany tables, mirrors that had been splayed in cobwebs, and rugs that lost their color from accumulating dirt and grime over the years.

I wandered the entirety of the building and just when I thought the anxious feeling subsided, it came back and it only hit harder when my gaze landed on the pitch-black pathing of the spiral staircase leading from the second-floor balcony, reaching the main level, and finally descending to the undercroft.

My heart began to race and my breathing picked up.

You can do this.

You can do this.

I walked down the steps. It was dark and frigid; had there been an absence of the recent installation of the 4 oil lamps mounted into the walls it would prove difficult to navigate without a lantern on your person.

I stopped before reaching the end.

It’s not too late to turn back.

Just leave.

You don’t have to subject yourself to these memories again, haven’t you lived through enough?

I took one more step desperately trying to ignore my anxiety-driven thoughts. I could hear the screams, recall the cloaked figure running away, feel the heaviness of the air weigh me down, and could paint a perfect picture of Alistair’s final moments.

My lips trembled and I had begun to feel faint but I needed to be strong, I needed to say goodbye, I needed to know that this room was just that—a room, and the events that took place are in the far past. He’s not here anymore, the cloaked figure who was a walking personification of death isn’t here anymore, the tears are gone, and I so desperately needed to see that for myself.

More oil lamps were placed about every 60 feet or so, dimly illuminating the long corridors just as they did the stairway, the farther down, however, the darker the abyss.

I took everything in as I stood in place yet after looking upon the emptiness I was relieved. It was fine—everything seemed to be all right. I am forever indebted to my mind that it had not yet displayed the violent images that scarred me and kept me up at late hours of the night.

Finally, I mustered up the courage to walk and reassured myself that the entirety of this space was most certainly empty for good and would soon crumble but the sudden feeling of being watched interrupted my few seconds of calm and bravery.

“I knew you’d come back to me, it’s been lifetimes but I knew you’d come back.” A voice broke through the air; a voice I recognized from so long ago returned to me but I had to have been going mad. I’ve truly lost my mind that can’t be—

An outline appeared from the shadows, I felt like running in fear of what potential danger I’d walked into. Though I stayed frozen. My feet cemented to my spot, with no choice but to watch it move closer and closer and in the time I was able to shut my eyes tight, a hand was placed gently upon my cheek. It felt like the breeze attempting to take a physical form.

“How are you supposed to know who it is if you don’t open your eyes, my love?” The voice coaxed a whisper that tickled my ear.

“Alistair? I’m going insane. . . . ” I muttered more-so for myself. It was him but . . . not. He looked to be here . . . but not; on the cusp of an-

other dimension. The color of his skin drained creating a pale, translucent white. The long dark hair I remember cascading down past his shoulders oh-so beautifully looked disheveled and tangled. His bright eyes that once reminded me of an enchanted forest after a wash of rain had inevitably lost their light.

“Insane should be long gone out of your vocabulary as you have not aged a bit.” He chuckled just as I remembered from when we were young, happy, and madly in love.

“You’re dead . . . you’re supposed to be dead. I laid with you as you took your final breath. . . . ” His overall joyous feelings upon my arrival dropped as the truth spoke and denial etched into my face.

“I’m trapped here, Lenora. I have been ever since that day, I haven’t been able to leave. A lost soul in an endless loop of the memories hidden in these walls. I’ve waited for you. We both have watched the world pass us by yet on completely different circumstances.”

“I don’t understand, how did you know that I would come? Let alone that I’d be still alive?!” He didn’t bother to speak a single word only simply taking my hand and staring at the obvious gemstone that adorned my finger.

“It’s clear to me you’ve never taken it off or you would’ve shown the signs of a natural aging process, by now having kissed death.” I had so many answers, so many feelings, it was all too overwhelming.

“But why? Why did you give this to me?”

“Because it was the only guarantee of a proper goodbye.” Tears welled in my eyes. “It kept us both here for a second chance, the blossoming of a new life together, where the only goodbye we’d have is at the end of a life fulfilled. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you, not like that, Lenora.”

A rush of varying emotions washed over me. Sorrow, anger, perhaps the excitement of seeing him once more mixed in but the pain overshadowed it all.

“These were never the ways our souls were supposed to exist. You’ve been through enough, practically repeating your fate. I can’t allow you to stay here like this, it’s not right. I must set you free Alistair.” As

selfish as I wanted to be, I knew he didn’t deserve this, he deserved to finally be at peace. He and I both knew what would have to be done in order for the suffering to end.

“But you’ll go too. . . . ” A tear ran down his cheek, my hand gently resting upon it.

No blood, no unfairness. This was how it was meant to be—how it should have been.

Alistair was right but not in the way he’d originally planned. The ring was not meant to give a second chance at life but a second chance at a better farewell.

“I know you’ll find me again.” I smiled as tears raced down dropping at our feet. I placed a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips before stepping back and slowly sliding the ring till it got to the tip of my nail. The mutual feeling of coming to terms with the way things were supposed to be changed the atmosphere drastically and within the millisecond of taking it off and throwing it to the ground, shattering the gem into a thousand pieces, I saw solace in his eyes. Mouthing the three words we never got to say in time as darkness pooled silently over me.

I meant those words.

We would never truly succumb to the darkness of death forever.

I’d see him again in another lifetime.

Just as we had before—whenever and wherever that may be.

Desperately Seeking Silhouette

Jamison Banae’ Watson (Editors’ Choice: Poetry)

She pulled me from the dark consciousness

She took away my heavy thoughts and replaced them with light bliss

She placed her hand on my heart and filled me with soothing colors

I felt as if I was floating on my unknown feelings as they held me tightly

I felt a tranquility and peace that surrounded me like calming warm water

I felt my emotions swirling around, silencing my mind and healing my heart

Her silhouette was leaning over me in the moonlight

Her energy felt like little arcs of electric blue tingling through my skin

Her hand felt as if it was slowly melting a print into my heart.

My sight was hazed by the sedation that her touch created

My voice was frozen with contentment

My hearing was submerged in the mysterious echo of her presence

Our energy became connected and created a soft lavender glow

Our emotions melted and caused our colors to flow

Our essence combined and there was nothing more to know

She is the place where I want to be

She is the presence that allows me to see

She is the touch that allows me to feel

She is the guide that urges me to seek what is real

She is the silhouette in my dream.

I can only see her when I close my eyes.

Her feel can only be felt when I open my mind.

The energy of that moment only moves through me if I am still.

I let my mind go distant so I can experience her illumination

I am seeking her, the silhouette that lives within my heart’s creation.

June Bug

Miriam Nicholson

incidents and observations

j. r. warnberg

the closet is nice. it always is it’s always nice when you tear a leaf along its veins there is wine spilled on the carpet and on my shirt and on the curtain it is bloody red but smells more mysterious it seeps into the bedsheets at least you felt regret it leaves me feeling old and dead

my corpse absorbs the dying stars people are screaming along the sidewalks, clamoring like dogs don’t close your eyes to it, prop them open with sharp sticks

try to join the conversation strutting around, clucking like chickens don’t be repulsed by the normality the red sky will boil away the dread

their ears are arms, they wave at you with tassel-hands secrets clutched beneath sticky petals stroke the scar, pick it apart needle in until you pierce the skin strip their husks of pretty lace your brutal beak shreds skin like paper

i made sounds, they were real you still get the golden seed

the flies sing in your empty head put the cup to your ear and hear their dying echo there is no difference between the smoke and your frozen breath your words hang empty and fall like poisoned snow

you see a junebug with one wing, flipped onto his back its legs try to walk on upside-down air you’re good, you’re amused

its fragile shell is beneath your shoe crunch spilling on the concrete how does blood so cold boil out?

the roots curl over my face like gentle claws the stars are sweating, falling in orange streaks the child’s eyes don’t know what to believe he grows into a robot

what a strange sensation, to feel nothing i wish i was real maybe then you would love me the lovers were medicine they fancy anything that will i pretend anyway and hold my breath the pillows stick to me like burrs i forgot i wanted something else if any of this were true they’d all be dead

they are

The Golden Hour

Lesa Wilkinson

It is September 4, 2009, the afternoon of my 19th wedding anniversary. At 4:30 pm, I went out to my garage where I had seven mountain bikes hoisted on a rack in the ceiling and a basket of soccer balls. I went out to look for a soccer shin guard when I heard my son, Nate, whimpering with a muffled cry. I walked out of the garage when he walked into the garage. Nate is my fourth child. He was small for his age, in fact he wasn’t even on the growth chart, but he’s athletically gifted.

“Are you okay?” I leaned down.

He told me he fell off his ripstick. He proceeded to show me a minor scratch on his finger and told me he hit his head. I gave him a look over, and he had a little red mark about the size of a quarter above his right temple. I didn’t see any other bruises or bumps. I gave him a hug! I noticed he wasn’t wearing his helmet, his hair was still spikey, and his clothes weren’t dirty or ripped. I walked him into the house. Upstairs, I called for my 16-year-old daughter to watch him while I ran my other son to a soccer game. It was now 4:40 pm. I would be home in about 20 minutes.

I dropped my son off at 5:55pm. I had an uneasy, anxious feeling— call it my mother’s intuition—because I felt an urgency to call and check on Nate. I could feel my heartbeat quicken. I promptly called my daughter, Ashley. She told me he was in his bed asleep. My heavy heart sank!

“Oh no, wake him up!” I exclaimed.

Staying on the phone, I refused to hang up until Nate was awake. My body felt so heavy. I knew his sleeping wasn’t good.

I flew home. Now, it was 6:08pm. I ran into the house and jumped upstairs in only a few leaps. In my master bedroom, I found him lying on a pillow with his favorite dinosaur blanket watching cartoons.

I sat down next to him and frantically started asking him questions. “Who’s your teacher? Who am I? What’s your name? How old are you? What month is Christmas?”

Groggily, he answered the questions correctly.

It was 6:20pm. I began to put some towels away in my bathroom; Nate walked in and stopped about a foot away from me. His eyes were dark and distant. I knelt down and got face to face with him. I looked into his hazel eyes with a gold fleck, and they were glassy and blank—a look I had never seen before. He still talked to me, but things . . . changed. I looked down at my watch. It had been 50 minutes since his accident, and we were still within his “golden hour.” I don’t know if watching all the medical dramas worked, but I knew getting him medical attention in the first hour is crucial following trauma. He needed medical treatment immediately.

I needed to get him to the ER. I could get to Primary Children’s Hospital faster than waiting for an ambulance. I walked Nate out of my bathroom and through my room about eight more steps to my landing. I took a step, looked back, and he stayed standing. I asked him if he could take a step.

He didn’t respond. He had no idea what I was saying.

I grabbed him and carefully downstairs to my main floor and set him on the bottom stair. I set his shoes next to him.

“Put them on,” I demanded. I grabbed my purse and keys. When I turned around, his shoes never moved. He didn’t understand this simple task.

I put his shoes on in a matter of seconds. I continued to put Nate in the car. The only thing you could hear was the seat belt fasten. We’re off speeding to the hospital!

Nate’s had a traumatic head injury. He spent 6 days in the hospital, and months to heal his injury. Always wear your helmet!

sweet like honey

isabella p. prada a.

A willow whispered words of dreams in my ear, words of phantom lands far from the sun’s blade

A world or two hills away is place in which to disappear

Oh—to savor the delicate taste of being unmade

Ever crystalline waters and stars that never fade

Cascades ever flowing into a river the color of jade

Every pain there alleviates, even if it’s just a charade, Fools would do anything for a bit of that sweet escapade

Insincere words of blind esteem were all I could hear, in between teeth, poured words of honey-mead

Lovely fairies danced away within my aching head, all they could do was spin with them, twirl until death

I walked and walked in the land of reality adrift, until faced with a sheet of past mistakes

My blurry eyes looked the other way, thinking it a gift, I welcomed the growing, ethereal, fancy mist

A bittersweet breeze slowly lifted the vision away

A sorrowful scream broke through that doomsday

My aching feet could finally feel, unplanned, the path I wandered by was nothing but a wasteland

sickly like honey

isabella p. prada a.

Battered and unbothered, with my inhibitions spewing all over, I heard the whispers of my lover reverberating as if it was hollered

“Where do you go, my dear?” they sung “Home,” I think stuttered “Don’t you like it here?” they hummed “This is but a dream,” I yelled “Everything here is real, I am afraid”

Awake, awake, awake!

I pinched and prayed I let out a wail, and it all flipped— I was aware, but I saw nothing but my looming fate

“I could change it,” I think I said

But I felt a weight I couldn’t bare and so, a willow whispered words of dreams in my ear, once again I was tempted to follow their lullaby to their lair, I dreamt of rivers the color of jade, all night, and all day, until finally, I caved

Great Basin

j. r. warnberg

The edge of thunder rolling in

The kiss of snow upon my skin

A rocky ridge pierces the shroud

The mountain river hums aloud

A stinging coolness settles low

Inhale the evergreen in slow

Crunching pinecones underfoot

Skipping over gnarled root

The creak of dead wood in the wind

Percussive in the deepening din

A flash of lightning sounds the gong

I trod and listen to the song

Desert Time Rot

Contessa Mitchell

Roadrunners and monsoons

Dusty dream tombs and flower moons

In the daytime, i find only sweltering misery

But at night, i am safe in a dome of stars

They dartle, swim; they miss me

As i age, things become serious

my heart becomes skittish as prey

Apathy cradles me, constrains me

So i stargaze, but it leaves with a pit of yearning that i will never know how to quell

Ghost towns and their toothless neighbors

Ask me if have a cigarette

Ask me if i’m alone

After extensive study i am found to be nothing, i float to the surface

The Endless baptism of desert time rot

Succumb

To the sacred delirium of a tyrannical sun

i come back to rot and rules

Do i ever leave my room?

A womb shrivels without the vibrance of love

So my mind purges memories without consent

Spinning my shackles into something intrinsic my cat purrs and purrs and purrs

Promising a revolution

When my cat dies, i will mourn for the first time

Family is blind allegiance, the conspiracy

But my cat has always been there, purring i made it this far, Balancing trauma and karma i trust the night now, i trust the moon

And i’ll learn to trust myself soon.

Bonnenfant

Earthen Nicole

Gunslinger Will Stamp

I hit “send” and regard the sweaty palm print left on my mouse with a kind of grossed-out surprise. Why the hell am I so nervous?

I’ve just emailed Rick, an independent firearms instructor from Bountiful, a few minutes north of Salt Lake City. I’d like to take some sort of basic course, a Guns-for-Dummies-type thing, and Rick’s site came up first on Google. Well, technically second, but the company in the top spot never returned my voicemail, the fuckers. And I like Rick’s website. He goes into great detail about what he covers in his classes, and he clearly puts a strong emphasis on safety.

This is important to me. I’m extremely ignorant when it comes to safely handling firearms—heck, why wouldn’t I be? At 30, I’ve never shot one.

I’ve had opportunities to, I suppose. I know some gun owners, though my social circle doesn’t overlap much with firearm enthusiasts. My grandfather has a .22 rifle he uses to blast away the groundhogs that steal from his garden, but I’ve never thought to ask him to give me a go at it. Not shooting groundhogs—I’m pretty put-off by killing animals—but knocking down a few beer cans could be fun.

The truth is, I don’t like guns. Hate them, even. They’re meant to kill, and kill they do. I feel sick to my stomach with each mass shooting, especially those in schools, and the stories of children shooting their siblings by accident with their parents’ guns are too awful for me to read. But, some argue, these happenings are overblown by a news media with a liberal, anti-gun bias, and anyway, these stories are merely anecdotal.

Only, the data appears to confirm my suspicions: one is far more likely to accidentally shoot themselves, a loved one, or an undeserving bystander than they are a bad guy. Is the false feeling of power and security that comes with gun ownership worth the potential cost?

I don’t write this to make the case against guns, but to explain my reluctance to shoot. All that being said, of course I’m curious. America’s enthusiasm for guns is unique, with guns outnumbering people, and firing one almost seems like a patriotic rite of passage. Growing up

here, witnessing the ubiquity of firearms in movies and TV, how could I not be intrigued? I find roller coasters pretty damn scary, too, but I’ll still strap in and endure the whiplash for the sake of being able to say I did it. Maybe that’s a stupid conviction. But I’m sort of a stupid guy, so. . . .

Rick calls me the next morning.

“This Will?”

He’s older, maybe 60s, and he speaks in a slow, Texan drawl. I explain that I’m a newbie looking to learn the basics of firearm safety, that I’ve never shot a gun before, and I’m hopeful he can help me.

“That’s no problem,” he assures me, “Beginners can make for the best students. They wanna learn.” And I do. Who knows whether I’ll ever find myself in a position where I need to know my way around a gun? Odds are that won’t happen, but one never knows. If I’ve learned anything from the news, it’s that interactions with firearms can’t always be predicted. The club-goers in Orlando certainly weren’t expecting to be fired upon. Nor was the audience in Aurora. Or the kids in Newtown.

And no, I don’t fantasize about being a hero, the one soul in the crowd brave enough to rush the shooter and grapple away his gun. Many courageous folks have tried to take down the gunman, by the way, and they’re often killed. I don’t suffer any delusions that I’m some bulletproof exception. (Okay, I’m being dishonest here. I have imagined that scenario. But at least I’m acknowledging its absurdity, right?)

Rick’s very slowly reiterating everything I’ve already read on his website. I stand there, toes rapidly clenching and unclenching inside my shoes (this makes phone calls go faster), wanting him to get on with it, but also slightly relieved to learn he’s an extremely thorough, intentional man—just the qualities I’d want in someone showing me the ropes of gun safety.

“Gun nut” is a pretty nasty, dismissive phrase. I’ll cop to having a rigid idea of the typical gun owner, but I know this isn’t fair. All kinds of folks have firearms, not just Confederate flag-waving, Pit Viper-wearing, backwoods Neanderthals or ex-military drill sergeants with bulging neck veins and t-shirts tucked deep into their slacks.

Over the phone, Rick certainly doesn’t come across as either of these stereotypes. I don’t detect a giddiness when he talks about the guns we’ll be shooting, or a performative strictness when he mentions the components of safety training he’ll cover. He just seems like, well, a nice-enough old-timer, a regular guy, probably retired, happy to share his lifetime of experience with innocent, little me.

My apprehension isn’t gone, but my jitters have eased a little. Maybe this won’t be such a nerve-racking experience, after all? I suppose I’ll see on range day.

It’s a clear morning and I can see for miles; railyards and factories, subdivisions and strip malls, and finally, the lakebed of the rapidly-disappearing Great Salt Lake. I pull into the dirt parking lot of the Bountiful Lions Range, my dinky Chevy Sonic dwarfed by all the pickups.

I’m a few minutes late and Rick’s already waiting for me. He pretty much looks how I imagined—pushing 70 with a bit of a belly weighing down a frame that, at one point, must have stood at 6-foot something. He reminds me of Hesh from The Sopranos, only with some white scruff and a baseball cap.

We shake hands and I try not to flinch with each reverberating explosion of rifle fire. I’m very self-conscious about just how much I’m not a shooting-range-type of guy, which is why I made sure to wear my roomier jeans and an XL hoodie. This is my camouflage, meant to convince any onlookers I’m just another 2nd-amendment-loving, red-blooded American male, not some effete hipster millennial. Am I being irrational? Absolutely—Rick couldn’t possibly give a shit how tight my pants are—but on a day I’m already suppressing significant levels of anxiety, I’d rather not feel preoccupied with fashion-related insecurities.

Rick sure isn’t. In fact, we’re pretty much wearing the same thing, only his clothes appear to have 30 years or so on mine. His shooting gear, too, is well-worn, and when he hands me protective glasses, I have to position them at just the right angle so as to see past the scratches. As I don the noise-cancelling earmuffs, I force myself to block out any thoughts of previous wearers’ sweat/ear-wax contamination, and we

head to the rifle range to sign in.

Rick chats with the range attendant while I regard the shooters. Some loners, some couples, but they all appear very earnest. Every movement is slow and deliberate, every shot really fucking loud.

It’s a curious hobby, shooting. In movies, entire magazines are fired off at once as characters chase one another, firing blindly, the audio mix ensuring our home speakers won’t explode. Standing here, though, in real life, these riflemen-and-women are nothing if not methodical, and each shot is nothing if not deafening. So I’m grateful to hear we’ll be walking up the hill to the pistol range, which is deserted.

Or I’ll be walking, anyway.

“My knees are shot,” Rick explains, “since I got ‘em both replaced a couple years back. I’ll meet you up there and you can help me unload the truck.”

I start to joke that I was actually hoping he’d give me a piggyback ride, but he’s already turned away and doesn’t seem to be listening, and it’s not very funny anyway. I suspect guys like Rick don’t joke about piggyback rides.

We get set up with fresh target papers and his briefcases of guns and ammo sit propped open on the bench in front of us. Rick once more runs me through the broad strokes of the course’s concepts and his background, the same info I read on his website and heard over the phone.

I half listen. I’m more interested in checking out the gun case, simultaneously fighting the urge to grab and aim a pistol down-range and worrying one will spontaneously misfire and shoot me in the stomach, even though I’m pretty sure they’re all unloaded and have chamber safety flags inserted.

Rick tells a story about how he and his son once competed against a bunch of military snipers in a competition.

“Placed seventh. Not bad, ‘specially since they were all pros, you know?” He’s very matter-of-fact about it all, like he doesn’t want to brag, but I can tell he’s proud. And why shouldn’t he be? I’d feel like

hot shit too if I spanked a bunch of military dudes at their own game. He follows this up with another story about a friend who taught some actor how to shoot, and another about ricocheting shrapnel and the importance of safety glasses. I determined early on that my typical impulse to politely engage with an occasional “oh yeah?” or “no kidding!” only dragged the stories out longer, but after 25 minutes or so, I’m relieved to realize my impatience has come to outweigh my anxiety.

We start basic. Real basic. Rick hands me a bright orange rubber pistol. I’m to aim it at a target—he’s placed them only, like, 5 meters away—and look down the sights, which are very bent, and practice squeezing the trigger. Of course, nothing happens, but he directs me on how to grip the gun, where to put my fingers, where not to, etc. And when he’s satisfied I’ve got the basics down, he whips out the laser pistol.

I love the laser pistol. It looks more real than the rubber one, but when Rick pulls the trigger, a red dot appears on the target. An extremely shaky red dot. I notice for the first time Rick’s hands tremble pretty badly, though I figure that doesn’t matter much, I can still learn from him. I’m more concerned that he’s embarrassed I might notice, and I want to put a hand on his forearm and reassure him, “It’s okay that you’re old, Rick. I still like you.”

Turns out I’m absolutely aces with this laser gun. We haven’t gotten to the live ammo part of the lesson, so I’m free to blast away with my little red beam of light and I’m nailing the target every time. I don’t want Rick thinking I’m feeling cocky, so I make sure to take breaks now and again, furrowing my brow and pretending to inspect both the target and the pistol itself, as if I’m examining everything to make sure it’s in working order. Rick’s begun imparting another story as he lays out the bullets for the next gun—a real gun—so I’m probably putting this show on for no one, but something about treating a gun like a toy (even a toy one) feels inappropriate to me, so I continue fake-inspecting. All seems to be in working order. Zap-zap-zap.

I don’t know whether the sluggish pace of Rick’s class is intentional, but I’ve since come to believe it’s brilliant, at least for a first-timer like me. By the time he finally invites me to step up to the bench and grab hold of his .22 single action revolver, I’m so eager I’ve almost com-

pletely shed my nerves. He reminds me how to stand, how to hold my arms, how to grip my gun, and how to aim down the sights. With only my shootin’ eye open, I take my time, and he doesn’t rush me. This is my first ever shot, and I want it to be a good one. It’s harder to keep the barrel still than I thought it would be, but I slowly let out my breath like I’ve seen in the movies and cautiously pull back on the trigger.

There’s a sharp CRACK. Then silence. I’m still for a moment, waiting for the gun to kick back or jump out of my hands from the recoil, but no, I’m still gripping it, aiming down range, only now there’s a tiny hole in the target paper just outside the bullseye. Not. Bad. I break into a grin and Rick urges me to fire off the remaining rounds. Twice more I take my time, aiming carefully and firing. Two more good shots. Jesus, this is fun.

But wait, I remind myself. I don’t like guns! They kill! They represent American individualism gone awry, the Rambo-ification of our country’s most paranoid! It’s this very feeling of adrenaline pumping through my veins, the high of making thing go BANG, that so many prioritize over the safety of their fellow countrymen. But those wet-towel thoughts grow quieter and quieter, and soon all I can think is how much I want to keep shooting.

So I shoot. Rick runs me through a handful of semi-automatic pistols of increasingly large calibers. I take my time with each gun, no longer anxious, but extremely aware of the safety protocols Rick’s so thoroughly laid out, and my aim gets better and better until I’m pretty reliably hitting bullseyes.

At some point, a little piece of shrapnel must have blasted back and struck Rick in the face, because I glance over at him and see a trickle of blood running down his cheek. He’s oblivious of his injury, filling me in on the syllabus of a rifle-shooting class he once taught, until I mention I think he may be bleeding.

“Well shit,” Rick says, “guess that’s why my cheek’s been hurting.” He wipes the blood off nonchalantly and takes advantage of this teachable moment. “That’s why we wear the safety glasses!”

We finish up with a .357 Magnum revolver, and I’m feeling like a bigtime stud. I’ve had a helluva time. I get the sense Rick is willing to continue hanging out for as long as I want, but I’m almost guilty about

how much fun I’ve had. By now I’ve been out here for, oh, four hours, and it feels a tad perverse to keep blasting away, as if it’s morally compromising to enjoy oneself for too long.

I help Rick pack up and thank him—partly by saying “thank you” and partly by courteously listening to a couple more of his stories. And when I finally climb back into my car, I feel as though I’ve just come down off a mountain. I replay the entire morning in my head: the way each gun felt in my hand, the satisfaction of ripping through the bullseye, the action-star feeling of slapping in a loaded magazine.

My politics haven’t changed. I still think guns do more harm than good. I don’t want to own one, but at least I understand the appeal: They’re fun. We can talk about the Second Amendment and protecting our families, but I’m not sure I believe those are honest arguments for gun rights. The Second Amendment is almost 250 years old and was written in a very different context, and families simply aren’t safer with a gun in the house. But one argument I can’t rebut is that shooting a gun is a great time.

This partisan fight about gun control isn’t a matter of values to the gun rights crowd, it’s about the fear of a hobby—a passion—being ruined by federal regulation. Of course, this could be all the more irritating to the gun control side, as we’ll have to endure more violence and fear for the sake of a subpopulation’s infatuation with deadly collectors items, but I’m not convinced that will ever change. Shooting’s just too much fun.

Is it worth the danger? For me, no. But many, many others would disagree, and they’ve made it extremely clear through misspelled memes and bumper stickers that the only way they’ll give up their guns is if we pry ‘em from their “cold, dead hand’s [sic].”

Fine. Guns are here to stay, no matter how crabby leftie snowflakes like me are about it.

But if someone asks me if I wanna go shooting? Shit. I’ll probably say yes.

Writing is my Life Denise Heninger

I write because I want to remember where I came from and how to make sense of it.

I write because I want my children to know my mother, and my father, and my grandparents.

I write because I feel compelled to imprint my thoughts on the page.

I write because I need to communicate with others.

I write because I love the poetry of everyday life.

I write because I want you to see the golden edges of the clouds as the sun tries to peek past.

I write because I want you to hear the leaves rustling in the trees as wind pushes by.

I write because I want you to smell the lavender lilacs outside my bedroom window in the spring.

I write because I want you to taste my banana bread warm from the toaster and slathered in butter.

I write because I want you to feel the wet sand beneath your feet on a beach in the Bahamas.

I write because I love to see the words flow out of the tip of my pen and dance across the paper.

I write because there’s always a story in my head.

I write because my characters want to live and love and learn.

I write because I want to feel better about the stress in my life.

I write because it organizes my thoughts and tasks into a hundred lists.

I write because I want to share myself with others.

I write because I want to let go of the fear of judgement.

I write because I have a thought so immense and profound that I must commit it to paper.

I write because I want to find peace.

I write because I want to be remembered.

The Family

Richard S. Morgan

“Will you be long?” Marley asked.

“No,” He replied. “I’m just having dinner with my Brother.”

“Okay,” Marley nodded her head with her eyes cast down to the table. He picked up his coat and turned for the door.

His hand was on the handle when Marley asked, “You promise you won’t be long?”

He looked back at Marley and softly replied, “I promise.”

His daughter’s brown eyes were filled with doubt as he opened the door and left her alone in the apartment.

He took the elevator down to the lobby and nodded at the doorman as he stepped onto the city’s streets. A cold coastal wind ripped through the corridors of the building, pushing grey clouds across the late afternoon sky. He zipped his coat all the way up and walked through the crowds down to the corner store.

A ring of a bell welcomed him as he entered the store. He nodded to the shopkeeper and strode towards the wine section. After examining several labels, he picked up a four-year vintage cabernet and smirked. He contemplated the irony of arriving with the bottle and approached the shop owner, bought the wine with cash, and left the change.

Back out on the street, he turned north and walked several blocks before turning down a quiet street and patiently waited on the corner. He looked down at his watch, and the moment the big hand touched the twelve, reading five o’clock, a black sedan with tinted windows turned down the street.

The sedan stopped in front of him, and the back door opened. He lowered himself into the back seat and closed the door. A shadow-covered man sat to his left, and the car’s driver wore dark sunglasses and a black suit. Neither of the two men said a word to him as they drove out of the city.

They were soon on a traffic-less street that began winding up the face

of the mountain. From the car window, the city below shrank, and the further they climbed, the more he thought about his daughter, alone, somewhere down in the mess of civilization.

The mountain road crested onto a dirt lot, with several black SUVs, with more men in suits and sunglasses guarding the perimeter. A dining table was set in the middle, with his Brother Andrew sitting at one end. The car tires crunched as it pulled into the dirt, and when it stopped, the door was opened for him, and he slipped out, being met with fresh mountain air. He inhaled deeply and looked out over the city below, towards the ocean in the east.

He shook his head, thinking, of course Andrew picked this spot.

He was guided to the table and was shown to his seat. He removed his coat, and one of the men quickly took it as he sat down.

“Welcome,” said Andrew on the other side of the table. “How was your drive, Brother?”

“It was good, thank you,” he replied. “I should have known you would pick this spot.”

Andrew chuckled. “It seems only fitting.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “I brought wine.” He held the bottle up.

“Oh, how gracious.” Andrew snapped at a waiter who stood off to the side.

The waiter took the bottle from him and showed Andrew the label.

A smirk grew on Andrew’s face. “Four-year cabernet? It should be perfect.”

“I thought so,” he replied.

The waiter left with the bottle and returned with two glasses filled with red wine. The waiter set a glass down in front of them and left the bottle in the middle of the table.

Andrew picked up his glass and began examining the color of the wine; then, after smelling the fermented drink, said, “Good pick.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

Andrew set the wine down to let it breathe before the food came.

“So, Peter,” Andrew asked, “How have you been?”

“Good.”

“Well, you look good. Other than the few grey hairs I see in your beard, I’d say you haven’t aged a day.”

“Is that so? Well, if it wasn’t for your growing stomach, I’d say you still look like your twenty.”

Andrew laughed and put a hand to his belly. “I used to think I’d be skinny forever but look at me now! I’m a fat bastard!” Andrew laughed some more, then quietly said, “I guess a family will do this to you. . . .”

The waiter returned with a plate in each hand and set the steaming hot pasta tossed in marinara sauce down in front of them.

“Thank you,” he said as the waiter did so, while Andrew said nothing and immediately began to dig in.

He didn’t touch the food and asked, “How is the family?”

“They’re good,” Andrew replied.

“The wife and kids, okay?”

“Oh yeah!” Andrew took a big gulp of wine before replying, “You won’t believe how big Sammys gotten. I mean, good god, it felt like the girl was only a baby yesterday, but now she’s almost ten! Can you believe that? Ten years old! Next thing you know, she’ll be all grown up and out of the house, while Kim and I will be old, and fat, and grey! I can’t believe it . . . can you?”

“I can.” He nodded his head. “Marley’s about the same age.”

“My god, you’re right! How could I forget?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, by god, we should get together sometime and introduce the two! I bet they would get along! Imagine them being friends and getting into trouble like the two of us! I can see it! Can you?”

He nodded his head.

“My god, it would really be something. . . .” Andrew slurped a fork full of pasta into his mouth before asking, “You haven’t touched your food, Peter. Why the disrespect?”

He adjusted his suit jacket and answered, “I don’t plan on this being my last meal.”

Andrew stopped mid-bite, lowered his fork, and raised his eyes. “So that is why you’ve come?”

He nodded his head.

Andrew dropped his fork and leaned back in his chair. “I was hoping you had moved on.”

He fought back the anger that was rising inside of him and replied, “I don’t believe this is something that can be moved on from.”

Andrew reached out and rested his hand on the stem of his wine glass and replied, “It was only business, Peter. It wasn’t my fault she had to be killed.”

“Then why did you kill her?

“Because I was ordered to.”

“By who?”

“You know who.”

“Don’t blame this on The Father.”

“Who else could I blame, Peter? Do you think I wanted to kill her?”

“You pulled the trigger.”

“If I didn’t, he would have killed my family!”

“So you decided killing my wife would save them?”

“Jesus, Peter! He had my child tied to a chair! He had Sammy in ropes with a god damn knife to her throat! What did you want me to do? Just let her die for your traitor of a wife!”

“Don’t you dare.”

“She was Peter! She sold us out to the damn Devils! Look at what

happened to the whole god damn Family! Uncle John in prison, Cousin Matthew was found in a ditch! Everything collapsed because of your bitch of a wife that couldn’t keep her mouth shut! None of this would have happened if you hadn’t fallen in love and lost sight of what mattered!”

“We could have protected you.”

“FOOL!” Andrew slammed his fist down onto the table. “The Father would have gotten you too if it wasn’t for me!”

“What do you mean?”

“He wanted your entire family killed! If it wasn’t for me, you and your daughter would be at the bottom of the same pool of blood your wife is in! I was the one who protected you!”

“You’re lying.”

“Lying?” Andrew raised his left hand and showed that his ring finger was missing. “This is what I gave up in return for your life. I made an oath that if I killed your wife, you and your daughter would be sparred. God damn it! I did this for you!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It is only fair.”

“What? That you kill me? Don’t be stupid, Peter. I’m the Son. Think of what would happen. With you being prodigal, no one would be left to keep The Family together. It’ll all collapse overnight. It would be chaos, and no one would be here to protect you or your daughter!”

He looked away, feeling the anger turn into a consuming hatred.

“Besides! Would you really want to leave my daughter fatherless?

Huh? Do you think that’s fair? Think of Kim when the news reaches her? Think of that, Peter!”

“Did you think of me when you pulled the trigger?” He turned his eyes to Andrew. “Did you think of my newly born daughter as you stared into Victoria’s eyes?”

“I did, Peter . . . I did . . . but I thought you would understand that it had to be done . . . that it was only business.”

“Business?” He shook his head. “No, this is business.”

He pulled the handgun out from his suit jacket and fired three quick rounds into Andrew’s chest, filling the air with the metallic smell of gunpowder. When the smoke cleared and the ringing in his ear stopped, he watched Andrew look down at his body to see the blood beginning to stain his white shirt. Andrew limply fell to the side, off the chair.

He stood and walked to Andrew’s side and saw the panic in his Brother’s face as death set in. He knelt down as Andrew opened his mouth to speak but only could gargle on the dark blood flooding his throat.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Your family will be protected.” He raised his left hand and showed his missing ring finger.

Andrew’s eyes widened at the realization of the deceit.

He stood to his feet, saying, “Occhio per occhio.”

He walked away from his dying Brother and took a white cloth from one of the men’s hands. He wiped the gun down clean, handed it off, and walked towards the car he arrived in. The back door opened, and sitting inside was the shadow-covered man.

“So it is done?” asked The shadow-covered man.

“Yes, Father,” he replied.

He heard the sound of a match being struck, then saw the aged face of The Father be revealed by the flicker of the flame. The Father lit a cigarette and puffed a few times before letting out a cloud of smoke.

On his exhale, The Father said, “Good. Now let’s get you home, Son. You’ve got a promise to keep.”

Over and Out

Heather Graham

For You

Heather Graham Ray

I reached FOR YOU with trembling hands

Our bodies touching Fingertips waltzing across glistening skin

C o l l i d i n g in smooth kisses of regard Caressing.

I longed for you with trembling heart

Our moment lingering Insides fluttering with swift infatuation

I g n i t i n g in unexpected affection. Loving.

I called for you with trembling tongue

Our eyes meeting Footsteps whispering goodbyes across aquarium floors

D i s a p p e a r i n g in crowds among the other fish. Forgetting.

(Source: “Ray.” Originally published in Folio Fall 2018 edition of Folio: “Mo(u)rning.”

My Whole Heart

Zoe Blankenship

Perhaps, one day, you will decide to say, “All my life, I’ve been taught to walk in one particular way.”

And then maybe you will say to me, “That has to be the most boring way that I have ever seen.” So then, by chance, you might walk on your hands, But you might not just walk, you may choose to dance. Though by this, you could possibly feel quite ashamed, You’ll ask me, “Mom, do you still love me the same?”

I’ll smile fondly at you, and reply quickly, “I do— “You have my whole heart, whatever you choose.”

While dancing, though, you may soon come to know The music the world plays is a little too slow. So you’ll run (on your hands), to find your own drum And your freedom will bring more hand-walkers to come. You’ll watch them change, too, inspired by you, Your rhythm gave them a new different view. Feeling shy, you may want to turn quickly and hide, But ask me still, “Mom, are you on my side?”

I’ll smile dearly, again I’ll respond back to you: “You have my whole heart, whatever you do.”

Phoenix Transition

Daniel Vielstich

Balance

Kirk Graham

Samiel stood as firm and still as a stalagmite in the empty, square chamber. This was one of many chambers that made up the maze-like complex carved into a mountain, jutting from the plains. After reuniting with his father here, these hidden tunnels had become his home for the past few months. He stood with eyes closed and feet apart. In his mind’s eye, Samiel pictured another chamber a few rooms away. Like this one, it was smooth carved stone but a long rectangle with a stool in the middle that he placed there as a focus. Samiel pictured the two narrow, door-less tunnel exits. He focused on the stool and drew upon the magic coursing through him, hoping that he would be the first person to teleport in over five hundred years. With such an ability, Samiel could escape any priest.

The Holy Order of the Light wielded light magic and revered it. Anyone who possessed dark magic, like Samiel and his father, were considered heretics. They would be banished by the priests, despite not having a choice of what magic they are born with, if any.

Tiny storm clouds swirled up from around his feet to engulf him, small flashes bursting in them like lightning. When the clouds faded, Samiel stood before the stool.

“Sam!” squealed a voice directly behind him before he could even smile at his success.

Samiel screamed in return and whirled around. He raised his hands, palms facing forward, electricity visibly crackling over them. His frantic gaze met with the mismatched, wild eyes of Sira; one brown and the other a piercing whiteish blue, giving her an enchanting yet unsettling stare. She was another student about his age. The gaunt girl raised a hand within an inch of Samiel’s own and giggled as her long silver-white hair stood on end.

“Ooh getting stronger; almost strong enough,” she said.

“For what—never mind,” Samiel cut himself off. Sira often said things that wouldn’t make sense until later. And he knew better than to ask.

Samiel dropped his hands, the energy fading, while he tried to regain

control of his breathing. “You knew I would make it here didn’t you?” his tone was slightly accusing.

Samiel believed Sira’s magic was what made her half insane. She could do things that no other student of his father could. She could see the future and create the torches that lit and warmed the caverns without smoke or fuel. Nobody with dark magic could do such a thing. But before he had been exiled for unknowingly possessing such magic, Sam had seen priests of The Light create similar illumination. His father even suspected that Sira possessed light magic like the Holy Order wielded but couldn’t be sure. Sira never used her magic in front of others, even when she made the torches. With her unique powers, Sira would have been adopted into the clergy of the church since they take everyone with light magic. If she even had light magic, and had she been sane of course.

Sira nodded in response to Samiel’s question. She then stepped uncomfortably close to the young man and spoke, “Now both of us.”

Samiel caught her meaning quickly. “Sira, I’m just barely learning how to teleport. I don’t think I can take you with me.”

Her smile vanished. She grabbed his hand and held it in front of his face.

“Strong,” she reiterated as her finger traced his hand with a few inches of space around it. Another one of her unique abilities, Sira could see magical auras. Samiel always smiled at the silly motion, but she was trying to be serious.

“Alright,” Samiel said trusting her. He hoped she was seeing the future again and knew it would work. “Where do you want to go? We could be in and out of the market before anyone recognizes us.”

“I’ll see, then you will,” she said smiling again.

This took a moment for him to decipher. “You want me to teleport blind?” he almost asked her if she was insane, but thought better of it. “I don’t even know how to do it without a specific place to imagine.”

Sira made a spiral motion with her finger going up. When Samiel looked confused, she sighed and made the gesture again saying “poof” with it.

He ran a hand through his dark hair while he thought. The clouds of his magic swirled in a spiral when they surrounded him.

“You want me to just make the smoke?” he guessed.

“And I’ll see,” Sira smiled, her excitement returning.

His faith quickly fading, Samiel shrugged and shook his head. “Let’s get this over with.”

He closed his eyes and began summoning the thunderclouds, the signature of his magic. As he did, Sira grabbed his elbow and pressed against him to stay within the growing column. Sam could feel her cold fingers through his sleeve, and in contrast, the warmth of her cheek on his shoulder.

He couldn’t let that or the faint smell of fruit coming from her distract him now. He focused on the energy that surrounded him and tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong.

Samiel let go of the clouds when he felt Sira step away. He looked around at his new surroundings just as exhaustion set in. Teleporting was difficult enough, bringing another person drained him. The first thing he noticed was the air. It was thin and cold despite the fact that summer was in full strength. Next, he realized they were standing in fog. Samiel could only see Sira a little ways away and snow dusted stone at their feet.

“Look,” Sira said, pointing into the whiteness. As Samiel peered into the mist, she waved her hand as though pushing open a door. Quite abruptly, the fog parted then vanished.

Samiel found himself staring directly into the setting sun. He recoiled, covering his eyes against the sudden overwhelming light.

“Ow, Sira that’s too bright.”

“Yes it is.”

The tone and direct answer made Samiel pause and turn to her. Sira’s face was emotionless, with her silvery hair blown out to the side by the cold wind. Her pale dress billowed around her ankles. The girl’s lighthearted attitude was gone. She looked like a ghost.

With the clouds gone, Samiel could see that they stood on the peak of a mountain. He didn’t recognize it or any of the surrounding mountains.

“Where are we?”

“Where you will see,” she said. Samiel, knowing that almost everything Sira says has a deeper meaning, did not ask anything more. He waited for everything to become clear on its own.

The sun finished dipping behind the horizon before Sira moved. Again, she pointed and said “Look.” This time further up, toward clouds that dotted the sky.

Samiel looked up and his jaw dropped at how those clouds had changed. Moments ago, they were white and stretched long and thin. Now in twilight, the sun gone but the sky still light, they were black. Like holes torn in the sky.

He smiled at the sight. It was beautiful and unusual to see the world inversed like this. Samiel continued to stare up as he contemplated what Sira wanted him to know.

“When the sun is up, the clouds aren’t anything special,” he reasoned and Sira nodded solemnly.

“But when it gets too dark, they can’t be seen at all.”

She nodded again, a ghost of a smile appearing on her lips. She stepped within reach and held up her hand, a tiny light like a star floated over her palm. Samiel smiled his appreciation of her gesture. He was the first person she had ever shown her magic to.

“Light and dark, without the other, will blind you,” he finished. “Is the Holy Order blinding us all?”

Now the smile filled her face. Sira let the light wink out and gestured to Samiel. He lifted his hand, electricity bouncing between his fingers. It jumped faster and faster as he drew his fingertips together until they touched forming a solid light like Sira’s. He no longer had to sustain it. Opening his hand; it floated there on its own, a permanent light. He had just cast a spell that no other dark magic user, aside from Sira, could.

“Now you see.”

Samiel stayed quiet for a long time. The excitement of his achievement was blunted by the revelation about the Light. “Why does the Holy Order think we are all evil? Are they lying to stay in control?”

“No. Just can’t see,” Sira’s smile faded. Her usual energy seemed subdued.

“They’re blinded by their own light,” Samiel said. Sira nodded.

“So why are they so scared of us?”

Sira held both her hands in front of her with palms up. Another light appeared over the left and made a slow arc to the right as she spoke, like the sun’s path. “Light heals, and grows.”

“And the dark destroys,” he reasoned. “That’s all they think we do.” But Sira shook her head hard enough to send silver hair swirling around.

“Dark is when light rests.”

“But the priests think it’s just a weapon.”

Sira stepped so close that when she pointed at Samiel, she tapped his chest. “What do you use a weapon for?”

To kill was the first thing that Samiel thought of, but he knew that was not what Sira meant. He realized that when she said “you,” she meant him in specific. Sira was not even trying to answer his question but reveal the true purpose of dark magic.

“I would use it to defend myself,” he answered hesitantly.

“You protect,” she reaffirmed and smiled her approval.

“So we are supposed to be guardians?” he asked. She nodded rapidly.

“If we can show that to the Holy Order then . . . we can go home. But how do we get them to believe it?”

Sira took his hands in hers and her mismatched eyes searched his.

“Almost strong enough,” she said then stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

Slivers Henry K

The Tree

It’s towering before me, a challenge. I don’t know the “name,” or breed, (race? do trees have races?) but I do know it’s branches. The way one hangs lower than the rest. It sticks directly out, an outstretched handshake towards the swing I’m diligently pumping back and forth on. I know the rush of air as I let go of the swing’s chains and lift off, weightless, suspended before it. The tickle of the leaves as I reach out, just my fingertips brushing against bark, but maybe, just a little bit higher, and I can grab hold.

It was a big deal, trying to climb that tree. I tried dragging our plastic toy set, a little plastic house with a slide, over to the lowest branch (very carefully, that thing was more spider web than plastic) and use it to gain some height. After very careful balancing turned into very broken playset, I ended up on my back amid its wreckage. Staring up at the branches. They swayed and danced and caught shimmers of light while choirs of song-birds sung morning chorus hidden in the leaves.

Honestly, it was just gloating.

I picked myself up and winced, pinching at my hand. A collection of slivers streaking my palm for my efforts. I could hear my siblings playing tag across the yard, but I was obsessed. I knew there was a way, I just needed to find it.

Gardening

My grandmother had a small garden outside her apartment-connection-thing to our house. In the end years, she couldn’t go out and work on it anymore, but when I was a kid? We’d spend hours pulling weeds, planting roses (her favorite), and sinking our hands in the dirt, only to come back up with half a dozen sticker burrs pinned to my hands. These activities carried a fair amount of complaining under our breaths that she pretended not to hear, but in the end she’d give me some of her special cookies (store bought chips ahoy, I found out years later), and it would all be worth it.

There was, however, a plant I never understood. In the center, raised

above the beautiful tulips and daisies, exalted more than the rose bushes or crawling vines, a cactus. Not a beautiful, regal, saguaro, (the most respectable of cactus kind) but the flat padded prickle pears that were more weed than plant.

“They’re the heart of the desert,” she’d say, trembling hands padding dirt around a freshly planted daisy. “It wouldn’t be home without them.”

I shrugged it off and got back to watering the new plants, thumbing the hose and jetting shimmering blue over the eager sea of upturned faces. I’d think of it a lot, later. But for now, I was impatient to finish my chores.

Cactuses

There was a camping trip, every year, with our church. A beautiful time where the “community gathered in wholesome communion and deepened their relationship with God and each other.”

I dropped my bag to the ground and looked over my weekend imprisonment. The “camp site” was a patch of cleared sagebrush just out on the side of a backroad, next to a (well, it was really too sad to call it a forest, so) a small herd of dead trees. There was a group of people sitting around a too-small campfire actually reading the bible out-loud. For fun. It was thirty degrees out. Their breath fogged in front of them as they chattered out psalms.

Obviously, that wouldn’t do for an eight-year-old trying to have a good time, so me and my friends ventured out past the camp site and into the trees. We moodily poked at the ground with sticks as we wandered, occasionally finding a smoother than average rock and showing it off to each other pretending that it was cool and we were having a good time, until I hopped off a rock shelf, glanced behind me, and saw the prickle pear cacti.

In a brilliant moment of association, I realized that cactus and stick could come together and make something . . . glorious. I poked my stick through one of the thin, flat pads of the cactus, turned, and saw my dear friend Mario. He was laughing, wrestling with Damien, each trying to knock the other to the ground. He looked so innocent, smile a mile wide. He turned just in time to see me launch a cactus directly at his face.

I have never seen someone move so fast. The sound he made as he frantically dove out of the way was just . . . mwah. There are no words. He skidded through the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust, and a quiet overcame the group. We glanced at each other, my friends and I. Just once.

I was no stranger to fate, I knew of destiny. Some things just had to be done. We each poked our sticks through the cactus pads and began our deadly dance.

The Climb

I wanted to read up there, in that lowest branch. I could see a small cradle where it split into two, and then rejoined. I’d imagine laying there, book in hand, and letting the world fall away.

“Can you help me up?” I’d ask Leona, teetering back and forth on the balls of my feet, pleading silently with my best have mercy on me I’m very small face.

But she was an older sister, and older sisters had to be hard. She shook her head sternly, arms crossed, a serious expression on her face. “You don’t get up until you can do it yourself.” She lectured, wagging a finger like an adult might.

Well, fine then. I hit the grindstone, pumping back and forth on the swing like an Olympic athlete, reaching ever increasing new heights. I’d jump, hand reaching out, trying to land a grip on the lowest branch. After a few days, and a lot of scraped palms, I could get one hand around it with a little luck. The momentum usually threw me off and onto my back, but, with more practice, I could swing my other hand around for a grip too. Then, I could wrap my legs around its width.

Then, an awkward shimmy and a few new “fashionable” holes in my pants later, I was up.

I hung there, clinging to the branch, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I could hardly believe it. I turned my head, cheek resting on the coarse bark, and stared up into the tree.

It was another world, a fairy tale. The branches spread out around me like a labyrinth, emerald green leaves rustling and catching summers light. The birds no longer gloated, but glorified this sanctuary. The cradle was there. I fit just like I thought I would. A small knot in the tree

turned out to be the perfect head rest.

Now, to figure out how to get up here with a book.

Potatoes

The dirt is hard, and my hands hurt.

It’s bullshit, honestly, that I’m here at all. “Your aunt needs help,” well then let her get her own help. A sickly-sweet smile when she handed me my spade, “don’t cut the potatoes in half, now, be mindful.”

“Be mindful!” I mutter, stabbing irritably at the ground.

Sh-thnk! Shockwaves shoot up the handle, and my hand slips down the pommel, dragging a long sliver out of the splintering wood. I yelp and drop the shovel, dancing a pain dance in place as I hold my hand.

“Shit!”

Smack.

“Henry! Don’t let your mouth run like a toilet!”

Mistakes

The air was alive, cactus’s singing through the sky as they journeyed farther and faster than they ever expected to in their small cactus lives. At one point, three of my friends, Mario, Ty, and Damien, sprinted after me, screaming and hooting, brandishing their cactus sticks like clubs. As I ducked under tree branches and stumbled over rocks, a quiet calm creeped over me. I might die today. It would be a fine way to go.

I turned back around to see my friends and everything seemed to slow down. Damien’s arm was coming down off a swing, his stick bare. Flying through the air was his cactus, spinning end over end, the golden sky silhouetting its form in terrifying light.

It was . . . beautiful. A direct hit, I could tell from its arc. I had time, I figured. To duck, jump to the side. But I didn’t. I watched it get closer and closer, fill my vision, and as it approached its landing zone, I reached my hand up . . . and smacked it out of the air.

Let me tell you a little-known fact about cacti: when you smack them, it hurts. Ugly hurts, scream of pain and grinding halt to the game hurts.

My hand felt . . . full, pinned together like a dress being tailored, and I spent the rest of that trip flinching by the fire, working at my hand with tweezers. Later, Damien laid strips of duct tape on my palm and pulled, pulling fiberglass needles out on every run.

For every one plucked, I’d toss it in the fire. Watch it warm a molten red, then flare a desperate gold, before burning out in a trail of smoke that rose to the swath of stars like an audience watching a play, looking down on our single point of light in miles of sagebrush.

Sunset

It takes me a moment to cool down from that one, and my ear still stings from the blow. The rest of the kids have gone inside, and I get to work in the dark, because I got “distracted” (stabbed, from your faulty shovel, you witch). I can hear them laughing and dashing on the other side of the yard, flashlight beams sweeping as they play Ghosts in the Graveyard. I need to finish my chores before I get to join.

I stab moodily into the ground. Raise up, tilt, crash back down. Small red treasures uncovered with each pull. I pick them up and toss them in my bucket, coarse caked dirt scratching at my palms. Everything is red in the desert, the sand, the mountains, even the runty potatoes grown in your backyard. The sun is just beginning to turn in for the day and it’s all runny egg yolk, slowly sliding below the horizon, bleeding it’s golden red across the valley.

I’ve lived in Salt Lake for a few years now, and I don’t know how you guys live without those red cliffs. Everyone says their mountains glow, but mine do, truly, in that sunset. The red is more than just red down there. It’s the soil, it’s the cliffs. It’s the scarlet sky that meets you in the morning, the prelude for another day under the uncaring sun. It’s the bruised brown-red of a single worm-infested apple lying under your apple tree that you really thought had died last winter.

Next year, it could be two.

The Desert

It never leaves you. The sand gritting between your teeth, scraping between your toes while you walk. The sub-zero nights and murderously hot days. The gentle rattle of a snake letting you know to step off, or pay the price. It’s not a kind place. It’s roses and thorns with an extra dose of

thorns, and you’ve forgotten the roses back at the flower shop.

But there is something about the fire in the sky at the end of the day, and sinking your hands into red clay, digging your fingers around and relishing the dirt under your fingernails. Something about cracking the hard surface of water starved earth and pulling out runty little potatoes, invisible from the surface. It’s a dead place. It’s alive.

The memories are cactuses, sailing through the sky, and they’re splinters found in your palms when you peel away your work gloves, sitting at the fireplace watching the setting sun. I move to take them out, but every time, I leave them in. I’m never sure why.

I guess it just doesn’t feel like home without them.

Succulent Mackenzie Barrett

The Last, Best Kiss

Denise Heninger

You pulled your ancient car into the space and parked. We each waited for the other to make the first move. Outside, the light from the streetlamp filtered through bare black branches.

I looked at your profile, wishing that I could love you. The cold started creeping into the car, yet we couldn’t leave. You spoke, but I can’t quite remember the words.

But I remember the sullen pewter snowbanks and glistening wet pavement.

You spoke of regret, of a life without an us, of moving on.

You wished me luck, and you turned away.

I felt a hitch in my heart, the loss of my happily ever after, I wanted to believe you were sorry.

You turned towards me and leaned across the seat. You pulled me into your arms, and I went willingly. We kissed, warm lips together in the frosty night. A tide of passion, pain, and longing, intense but fleeting, passed between us.

If you had kissed me like that when we were together, maybe we would still be so.

It ended, and we pulled apart, back to the safety of our individual seats.

I opened the door and got out of the car, the cold enveloping me completely, body and soul.

I watched as you drove away, not looking back, your brakes lights blinking red.

Yoshi

KaylieAnn Brown

I remember that day many years ago, it was Thursday, March 4, 2015. That was the day I was taken home and given a new purpose in my life.

I was wishing that this day would be different. Instead of sitting in the glass box wondering when my life would become more eventful than just another day staring at the blank wall. I had hopes, but I also had them high before, just to be trampled on by the little kids that didn’t understand why they were at the police station.

I had a feeling today would be different.

Many kids came and left, some grasping my friends that sat next to me in the glass box. They all left, and they were cheering for joy as they went. All I could do was sit on my pedestal, staring at the tear-stained parents leading their kids down the gloomy hallways.

It was later that day when I saw her. She was an angel I knew was sent from God to relieve me of my loneliness. She was taller than most of the kids, and her eyes were showing nothing but shock and fear. I haven’t seen a girl as old as she was here, but it didn’t matter to me.

She was told to choose one of us, and she seemed hesitant at first. After a few seconds, she looked at me, and slightly smiled.

“I will take this teddy bear,” she explained to the lady, who opened the case and pulled me out. She handed me over to the girl, who grabbed me and hugged me tightly. I had never felt so loved in my life, and I finally got to see what it was like outside the glass container. She became my angel, taking me away from the sad place.

I didn’t leave her side once that day. I even joined her in a game of Magic the Gathering. She was more cheerful than she was earlier, and even laughed at her dad’s terrible jokes.

“I still haven’t come up with a name for him yet,” she said to her mother, who sat on the couch not far away from us.

“I don’t know what you should name it,” her mother replied.

“Why not name it after a Magic card?” Her dad laughed, making my angel glare back at him.

The whole exchange was fun to watch, and I couldn’t help but feel loved. No one ever wanted to give me a name; she was the first. I didn’t care what name she gave me, because it was enough that she wanted to give me one.

“I play Yosei, the Morning Star . . .” my angel exclaimed as she stared at the card for a short time. “I know what I should name him. I should name him Yoshi, after this card. It matches him perfectly.”

If I could cry, I would’ve filled the house with my tears of joy. Yoshi, that would be my new name, and it would follow me forever. No one ever showed me such kindness, and no one cared about me as much as she did.

The following day was filled with shell-shocked emotions. My perfect angel didn’t talk much to other people. I could only watch her, wanting to do anything I could to help her out, but even her stupid and highly talkative cat couldn’t help her smile.

The day went by with her sorting out Magic the Gathering cards. I sat by her, watching all of the cards fly out of the box onto the floor. She also grabbed these cards and meticulously placed them back inside the box.

None of this made sense to me, so I continued to stare at her blankly.

The next week repeated in a similar manner, with one addition: tears. The mental stress and anxieties swallowed her whole, and all I could do was cling onto her arm as she carried me around the house. I watched over her, making sure the cereal she was eating wouldn’t choke her and that people that came over didn’t mention that person’s name.

I noticed something had changed with all the people in this house. They all refused to mention a specific person’s name. I heard it a few times, but I didn’t have time to process it before my angel picked me up and squeezed me close to her chest. I knew this person did something to hurt my angel, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Therapy was hard for her, and I accompanied her and her mother

every time. I heard the nice lady explain some techniques to help feel at ease, but I could see that none of it got through to my angel. She curled up on the red couch, hugging me in between her knees and chest. I hugged her back, as I always did, but I don’t think it made any difference. She still cried every day, and she still didn’t smile.

When my angel decided to go back to another house called “school,” she placed me inside a sack where she held all of her books. It was too cramped and smelled of dirty socks. I almost had a panic attack. It didn’t last more than a few hours though, because my angel couldn’t handle this hell, and all the demons that surrounded her were asking about that person.

Tears, tons of them flowed down her face as we sat in the passenger seat of the car. I tried to wipe them away with the top of my head, but despite my efforts, they continued to flow out. I had gotten really tired of her tears the past week. It took away from her angelic beauty, leaving frosted blue eyes behind.

She tried the next day, but this time I had convinced her to let me out of the bag. We got so many looks from the other people that sat around her. I wanted to smack the group of girls that mocked how stupid my angel looked carrying a teddy bear around high school with her, but my angel wasn’t bothered by the other people around her. She just sat and stared blankly at the papers that began to pile her desk.

My angel decided to help put some posters on the walls. I didn’t understand what they were for, but it didn’t matter to me, no one could judge us in the vacant hallways. I spoke too soon when one of her socalled friends asked her where that person was.

“He is mending relationships with his family,” she explained, and when the guy tried to pry for more information, she became a broken record. She repeated herself, not bothering to elaborate on what happened. He called her a liar and stormed off. I would’ve killed him, if my angel didn’t cling onto me with everything she had in her. She called her mother and we left school shortly after. In the car, her tears escaped again, and this time, her face burrowed into the top of my head. I felt every warm tear that leaked from her eyes onto my fur.

It took a week before my angel survived her first full day of hell, I

mean school. Her mom took her to a place called Arctic Circle to get a cone full of frozen cream. She finally smiled for the first time in weeks, and I felt relieved. I had only seen that smile on occasion, and it was always temporary. I wanted to see it on her face for more than a few seconds. Sadly, my wish wasn’t granted that day, but it was enough to give me hope that she would recover.

She slowly got better over time, and a year and a half later, she got a friend that I discovered had similar goals to mine. It was a furry moving monster named Valo. He began to take my place in my angel’s life, and I was retired to the confines of our room. I was sad to be left behind as my angel began to take Valo places instead of me, but I noticed that something changed with my angel, she began to smile and laugh, and this time they weren’t forced or faked.

I was happy, even if I never went with her any more. She smiled every day, and she talked to Valo in a high-pitched voice as she laughs about the stupid things the monster did. I got to sit inside her cabinet, hearing her life play out like an audiobook, and I was fine with that, as long as she laughed.

Years passed before I got to see my angel again. She had put up some displays around her room, and was trying to decide what to put on them. She had scavenged around her room, finding different figurines and toys to place on the shelves. She opened the cabinet underneath her nightstand, and I saw her face to face.

She picked me up tenderly, my rough fur matted from all the times her tears fell on me. She hugged me, tears forming on her face once again, but they were different tears this time.

They were tears of relief.

“Thank you for helping me in my darkest times, Yoshi.” She pulled me away and placed me on a special shelf above the entry of her room. She smiled at me, and I did nothing but smile back at her.

The Puppy’s Diary

KaylieAnn Brown

Febtember 11

Dear Diary,

My human went off to school again. She left me alone in my room, I thought I was going to die. I was so bored, with nothing but my Darth Vader, and he said nothing. Thankfully, she came home and took me outside to play, but she kept the stupid leash on again. When we went inside, I noticed something up on the table. It was a colorful box, but it had something moving inside it. I had to know what it was!

I stared at it forever! I couldn’t figure out what it was though. I finally decided to rely on my human to tell me what the box was.

“Valo, what’s wrong?” my human asked.

I didn’t dare say anything, fearing that she would tell me “no bark” again, whatever that means. . . . So I walked back to the edge of the table and looked between the box and my clueless human.

“Are you confused by the hamster?” she says, laughing at my frustrated confusion.

Hamster . . . what is a hamster? I am still not sure, but she pulled it out and held it while I sniffed it. I tried to taste it, but my human pulled it away before I could.

She is so frustrating sometimes. I didn’t get to investigate this “hamster.” I hope I get a chance to.

I will tell you next time, Diary.

Febtember 12

Dear Diary,

Once again I was left alone, but that’s okay because I had time to plot my investigation of the hamster.

There are many times the other humans that live here bring friends

over to watch movies. Almost every time they move the couch so it is next to the table. Late last night, they watched a scary movie that my human was not interested in. I knew if they had moved the couch, now would be the only chance I get to get close to the hamster.

I was so excited to see my human when she came home. She took me outside but when I came in, the hamster was being held by a different human. I wanted so bad to see it, but my human was holding me hostage with a leash. What a joke!

I tried my plan when the hamster was back in his box of shame. I jumped on the couch, looking straight into the soul of the hamster. It didn’t pay any attention to me though, so I now wonder if maybe it is broken.

We shall see tomorrow, Diary.

Febtember 13

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe it! I got to meet the hamster, and it was not evil like I thought.

I was allowed to watch the hamster as my human held it again. This time the hamster ran around on her lap, making her laugh occasionally. I watched it, making sure it wasn’t trying to kill or possess my human.

After some time, I decided that the hamster will be my new friend. I could tell it wanted to play with me so bad, but we never had the chance to. It was put back into the box before I could stop my human.

Tomorrow I will free my new friend from its prison box.

Until tomorrow, Diary.

Febtember 14

Dear Diary,

I had to part from my friend today. My human said it was because her roommate’s brother had to take it home. I never got to save him, I shall forever feel guilty for not doing something when I could.

My day went normally after that, but I couldn’t forget about my friend. I checked the table often to see if it was still there. Nothing.

I hope the hamster comes back, and next time I will save it from its captivity.

I will talk later, Diary.

Discovering Reflection

Melissa Johnson

Color Me In Marie Kynd

I wonder if a blank canvas awaits paint Or writes love letters to Picasso, in hopes he’ll respond. Paintings unaware of time,

no set beginning, no true middle, No chosen end.

I wonder where the beauty from falling leaves lands on my hand, creating a world of its own to love. Perhaps the deep hues of green,

Painting ornate stems, From the ankles, Flowers form free.

Perhaps the tears that fall from my eyes add blue creating scenery, hoping I’ll swim in its creation. Unmoving through oceans flow,

Just pulsating waves, Ships in the night, And moonlit skies.

Each emotion staining me with color true Writing love letters to me, as their artist I respond. I am unaware of time,

No true beginning, No set middle, No foreseen end.

Trapped in the Well Denise Heninger

I was clinging precariously to the rickety old ladder. The rung was slick with the spraying water. I could feel my fingers slipping, but I tightened my grip. I pushed against the metal hatch with the other hand, but I couldn’t budge it. There was a faint rim of light around the edge of the hatch, but all beneath me was darkness. I yelled, but no one could hear me over the sound of the rushing water.

On my childhood farm in Wisconsin, besides the barns, sheds, and chicken coop, there was an underground well house. In the summertime, my sisters and I would play down inside of it with our dishes and dolls. The floor was always wet, and so my father had built a rough scaffolding of wood planks to walk upon, and there were shelves on the wall to hold our toys. The top of the well was a concrete pad about 5 feet wide by 8 feet deep with a round, rusted metal cover at one end. To get inside, we had to open the cover and climb down a rickety wooden ladder. There was a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling with a white string cord attached, illuminating the concrete box.

We spent many happy hours down there, but sometimes things would take a darker turn. My older sister would send my younger sister out first and then, she would quickly go up the ladder and close the lid locking me inside since I wasn’t strong enough to lift it on my own. Then she’d turn on the water faucet outside, effectively drowning out my screams. I could hear her laughter drift back as she ran away. Another time, she contrived a way to extinguish the light as she left, and then I was truly in the dark—a prisoner until she came back to free me. She always came back—eventually.

The Boy in Silver

J.A. Peña

He drew his sword and plunged it through the messenger’s abdomen, taking the time to collect his thoughts before swiftly sheathing it again. The messenger’s comatose body dropped at his feet seconds after.

“Remarkable. All these years and my thorn of a brother still has the gall to stick his grimy little hands where they don’t belong. Still, what’s more curious is how he managed to get into the archives. Wouldn’t you agree, guard master?”

The guard master stood rigid, his heart racing and thoughts dissipating. After some time, he managed an unsteady response. “Well, erm . . . you see, my lord . . . I thought I heard a disturbance coming from the great hall, so I —ahem— left the archive entrance to um . . . well, to in-investigate.”

Silence shrouded the castle, the only sounds that anyone could register were the guard master’s quick, sporadic breaths.

“I see. Well, nothing you can do about that, right guard master? After all, who else would have acted so valiantly and so swiftly to investigate possible intruders if not for you, hm?” His Malice’s darkened face turned to a group of guards, amongst them a few apprentices. “Hm. That’s peculiar. You all seem to be wearing guard’s armor, yet, here we are in this most irksome situation.” He drew his sword once more, this time slowly and with wicked intent. The guards all looked past him, their eyes glued to the castle’s cracked brick walls. His Wickedness’s mouth formed a most chilling smile as he let out an uncontrollable laughter. “Do you all think of me so ill that you’re prepared for your demise?”

He stopped, his smile fading and his left hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that those in the vicinity could hear his leather glove stretching. He turned back to the guard master and without hesitation plunged the cursed blade into his chest, the armor cracking into crimson fragments. “If you couldn’t handle the burden of commanding a puny squadron of common guards, master, perhaps you should have had the courage to say so.” He withdrew the blade unhurried, the

guard master dropping onto one knee, then both, and then letting his lifeless body plummet onto the cold, stone floor. The Lord sheathed his blade and let out a tremendous sigh. “Well, it seems that for the time being, you lot will report to me.” Raw power emanated from his Malice’s stare as he studied the young guards in front of him. “You. Boy with the scarred cheek. What’s your name?”

The young man looked past the Evil Incarnate standing now inches in front of him and kept his gaze on the castle walls. His eye dropped down and met with the now lifeless guard master’s. He quickly shifted his eyes back to the wall, tears filling his soul but not his eyes. He did not want to meet the same fate.

“M-my name’s Maguire, S-Sir.”

“By god, are you all as useless with your tongues as you are your swords?” The Lord looked around at the other guards, still statuesque. Not a word to drown out the scampering in the walls. He looked back at Maguire. “My boy, surely someone of your stature can handle a simple task such as guarding an archive, yes?” His ancient hand reached out and rested on Maguire’s shoulder. The young knight could feel the scorching evil leaking through his pauldron and into his joints. He wanted so badly to scream, the tears beginning to flow from his eyes and onto the cold stone floor. He imagined this is just a fraction of what the guard master felt.

“S-s-sir, it would be an honor.” The pain muted his words. Nonetheless, His Malice seemed content. He pulled his hand slowly off Maguire’s pauldron, his talon-like nails scraping the silver and leaving what seemed to be a warning. Don’t fail me as he did.

Shaving Peach Fuzz

Calvin Dittmore

Excitement is a cloak

Adorned by a boy to appear bigger

Encouragement makes one shrink

The pack assaults with their attention

“FIGHT HIM!”

Buzzing in the breast

Sweat on the wrong side of the knees

A dance of the primitives

Lawn clippings and gasoline waft

A perfectly cut field for an arena

Boys to pretend to be their idea of men

A dry crack and a slipping mask

“HIT HIM BACK”

I abide.

Another dry crack.

The swarm is more teeth than eyes

My stomach becomes a cavern

Faces all stuck in the same position

We broke all the branches off that tree

The spectators are satiated

All eyes consume

Gladiators don’t weep on summer days

A conjuring on a sweaty day

Unsupervised boys in cloaks

I wept.

Pink

Heather Graham

If beginnings were a color

They’d be pink.

Like the familiar stone-walled frame

I dragged boxes and bags into.

We cluttered the corners with Inside jokes and vivid tales

And postered the blank walls with Memories and forget-me-nots

Within the blushing pink

We became a “home.”

If endings were a color

They would be gray

Like our common rose-colored frame

They bathed in a sticky dark paint

They emptied littered corners

Blooming with black mold and dust

And undressed the flowered walls

Exposing all our cracks and breaks

Outside the sullen gray

We became “unknown”

A Brown Girl Farm Girl

Luz Maria Carreno

I was born and raised in rural Utah, and farming and agriculture run in my family. At the age of 10, I began helping my dad milk cows on the farm we used to live on. We fed the calves their milk bottles each Saturday and Sunday morning. During my free time I would jump into the piles of different grains, climb the golden haystacks that were the height of a two-story house, play cops and robbers with my older brother and cousin on our bikes, make pretend food with leaves and berries from trees with my younger sister, and end my days singing the ABCs or Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to my audience of about 50 Red Angus cows. Currently my dad raises about 10 calves each year which are sold for beef. My dad also raises a herd of goats. Plus, we have three chickens and one rooster. Last, but definitely not least, there is a group of six cats who have made our garage their home. I’m a natural country girl.

Looking through the window of my past with me surely gave you some preconceptions of who I am. Are you visualizing a white country kid? Blonde hair, blue eyes? Ima be honest, if it were me, I would’ve thought the author was a white girl; however, I’m a proud Mexican American country girl, and a Mexican feminist. That’s how proud I am of my Mexicanism. I ask this race a question because when people say cowboy or cowgirl or anything related to country/farm life, a white person typically is what comes to mind. Maybe even conservative and old-fashioned people as well. This is not my case.

My story does not begin in rural Utah—it begins in two different remote mountain villages, or ranchitos, in Mexico. One is La Almanza, Guanajuato—my father’s birthplace, and the other is Los Huesos, Guanajuato—my mother’s birthplace. At the age of seven, my dad dropped out of second grade and began helping his family with agricultural duties to earn money.

My dad is one son of 14 children. There were eight boys and six girls in his family. Mi Mama Luz, my dad’s mom, is a chingona. Apart from being a mom and housekeeper of her home, she also helped with milking cows, feeding goats, killing chickens for meat, and sowing and growing crops for food. Mi Mama Vito, my mom’s mom, passed away in April 2018. However, she was also a chingona. Mama Vito had

11 children: four boys and seven girls. Mama Vito and Mexican candy are very synonymous to me. As a girl, my family would visit Mexico once a year in the last two weeks of December. Mama Vito sold Mexican candy in our ranchito. I don’t remember the type of candy; I just remember the bright soft colors and the delicate sweet aroma of Mama Vito’s candy. Both of my grandmothers completed the household chores and agricultural duties, even while being pregnant. There is no rest for mujeres chingonas like my grandmothers.

As for my mom, her name is Bernardina, but she goes by Lina. Yeah, she’s the only Bernardina I’ve ever met. You, however, have probably never even heard the name “Bernardina”. My mom is a current dairy farmer, and as a brown woman, she is kicking ass in a male dominated profession. Us Mexican women are cabronas. One would never think that because Mexican culture is so enshrouded in machismo, right? How can women from a patriarchal culture be such cabronas? Maybe it’s the machismo itself that made us this way.

I was born in Payson, Utah and my family and I moved between Utah and Idaho before finally settling in Utah. In the summer of 1998, my dad got a job at a dairy farm in Riverside, Utah. I was about eight years old and would begin third grade in the fall. My dad’s boss had an old three bedroom/one bathroom trailer ready for us. It was my mom, dad, my older brother Hobie, myself, and my baby sister Cristina. For those of you who don’t know, migrant farm workers are usually provided free housing on the farm they work. As a current case manager who works with refugee, immigrant, and asylum-seeking women in Salt Lake City, I now realize just how lucky my family was to live in free housing. Of course, this free housing did not come without its caveats. The trailer was old, full of pests, and we relied on my dad’s boss to fix it when a plumbing or other issue arose.

My family was only one of two families of color living in Riverside, the other was my uncle’s. At a young age, I learned what it meant to be a brown girl in a predominately white town. I carry with me multiple stories of overt and covert racist and sexist experiences. I belong to a community that is not always accepting of people who look like me; however, when I think back to my childhood on the dairy farm and the rural small town I grew up in, I’d rather linger on the sweet, sometimes mischievous, and happy memories with those closest to me.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time with my best friend Jessica. Both of our mom’s thought we were bad influences for the other. I was a bad influence on Jessica because from the age of 9, I was an expert shoplifter who stole stickers and lip-glosses from Shopko. I only shoplifted like five times and never got caught. Jessica’s mother though, was not very happy with my skill and she was especially displeased with my trying to persuade her daughter in picking up my bad habit. Jessica was a bad influence on me because of her behavior. When we were about 13 our moms left us at the movie theater while they went shopping. It was only Jessica, me, and three other girls who sat a couple rows in front of us. Jessica thought it would be funny to throw popcorn at them. I didn’t think so because it would be obvious it was us and it would be three against two. Jessica won me over with her peer pressure and so we began launching popcorn in the direction of the girls every so often. The most the girls did were turn back and give us very rude glares. As soon as the credits popped up, Jessica and I dashed out of the movie theater to find our moms in the lobby—and of course, I blabbed to my mom what Jessica had made me do. Jessica and I are still friends, and our friendship is at year 22.

I also remember how my younger cousin Tony, Cristina, and myself spent various summer afternoons cleaning up falling branches after a hailstorm when I was 12. Cristina was 5 and Tony was 6. As we piled up the fallen branches and leaves into neat piles, we eagerly talked about how our dads’ boss (Neil) was going to thank us and that we’d probably even be on Fox 13 News because Neil would be so grateful. Neil passed us multiple times in his truck or on his four-wheeler and saw how we were such hard working children. So, when we had completed the arduous cleanup task and never received even a “thank you,” we were utterly disappointed and decided this was our first and last free clean up service we provided.

Regarding my mom, she didn’t always work on a dairy farm. For some time, she worked picking cherries from cherry trees. When I was 9 years old, my mom took me with her to pick cherries on occasions. I don’t remember why she only took me, but she did. I hated going to the cherry fields. It was boring and hot. My only form of entertainment were the fallen cherries at my feet while I sat on the bottom rung of the latter. As I sat, I eyed the cherries near me and looked for the plumpest and most blood red cherries I could find nearest to me. Frequently, I imagined I was a doctor. I would stab my patients,

pretending I was operating them and taking out their heart. I loved seeing the thin bright liquid seep out of the opened cherry.

One very hot and boring midday I decided I too wanted to climb up to the cherry treetop to where my mom was. While my mom was hidden away behind the leaves on top of the ladder and focused on her cherry picking, I started to make my climb. I guess I was a clumsy child because my foot slipped on the third rung and down I went! My small fall caused the ladder to shake a bit and as I lay frozen in shock on the ground, I saw a lump fall out of the tree with a soft thump in front of me. My mom had fallen out of the tree. My first thought when I saw her was, “La mate!” Don’t have a heart attack. I obviously didn’t kill my mom or else I wouldn’t be writing this because I’d be in jail. My mom got up and dusted herself and went to see if I was okay. I told her I was, and we then had lunch as if nothing happened.

Although I am at a point in life where I am comfortable in my skin, I have not always been proud of my Latina identity and my Mexican background. Growing up, I was embarrassed to be living in a trailer. I hated getting on the school bus every morning and the other kids knowing I lived in that old blue grey trailer. I also hated the older white cowboy kids on the bus who made fun of my frizzy curly hair. I especially hated the white kid on the bus who one day yelled “Those fucking wet-becks should go back to where they came from!” The comment was not directly said to me, but I knew he was talking about me.

I hated my name “Luz Maria,” so I went by “Maria” to make it easier for white people to pronounce my name. I hated how when my parents signed school papers, teachers sometimes called me up to make sure I hadn’t plagiarized my dad’s signature because it looked like a kindergartner wrote it. I hated my red haired and freckled faced friend in third grade who said my eyes are the color of poop because they’re brown and hers are the color of water because they’re blue. I really hated her for that comment, but I was not able to say anything—I mean, she had a point. I haven’t thought about these experiences for a while now and it hurts to even write about them. But this is my story and these experiences, just like the happier/proud experiences have shaped who I am today.

I can finally say I am a proud Mexicana. I am a proud Mexican fem-

inist who just so happens to also be a country girl. I don’t walk and talk like a typical country girl. I’m just this petite soft spoken brown girl with a head full of wild curly and frizzy hair, who grew up in the country. Some might call me weak or a “pussy” (I was called that in 2020 at my former job in my hometown). But I’m not. Being soft spoken and feminine does not equate to weakness. I was a lil tomboy growing up. Now that I’m a grown ass brown woman, I sometimes like getting all glammed up and being vain just because I can. Sometimes I can give a shit about how I look and will go to the store with only SPF moisturizer on my face (gotta protect our skin from wrinkles and sun) and my uncombed hair in a bun. I still help my dad at 4:00 am in morning to help with our goats and calves, and I don’t mind getting dirty. Attending Utah State University (USU) and seeing more representation of black and brown women in media have helped me embrace my non-white beauty. I say attending USU has helped with my confidence because I am an educated Latina who, growing up, was told she would drop out of high school and get pregnant. I’m not stopping at a bachelors either. In September 2022, I will begin my master’s degree in Tokyo, Japan via a full ride scholarship. I know I will kick ass in my master’s program—just like the women in my family who have come before me and kicked ass!

Michael Peay

Reach for the Sky

Well Worn Bond chad plante

“Quick!” Penelope knew the surging storm would arrive before they could grab their belongings if they weren’t careful. Not far off in the distance, a ghastly green hue was forming in the clouds, blistering and crackling as it hurdled toward them. “Zippy, I’m serious! I know you always feel ill prepared, but we’ll only be an hour, tops!” Zippy uploaded the latest details from the ship’s most recent voyage, let out a grunt, and sped out of the ship’s doorway into the night. Up ahead, Penelope sprinted for the pub. Zippy fixed his sights on the building, “Galaxies Last Call.” The only stop between here and Jezai, which happened to be their final destination. Home.

Penelope reached the large metal doors, took one last look at the encroaching storm, and bustled inside. “Phew! That was a close one, Zip!” She stammered, out of breath. Zippy dizzyingly spun through the door behind Penelope and exclaimed, “Jesus, Penny! If you rush me one more time this trip, I . . .” Penelope shrugged Zippy’s next remarks off with a frustrated and falling wave. She’d had enough complaining from the last eight hours in deep space.

A loud and thunderous boom echoed throughout the bar. “Second one in two weeks!” The man behind the bar screamed and slammed down a beverage for the customer next in line. “God damn good for nothing . . .” the man trailed off as he walked into the back for some more dark wine. “That’s him” Penelope gestured toward the man as he walked out of sight. “Him? Are you sure he’s capable of possessing Sraye?” Zippy hovered closer over Penelope’s shoulder to get a better look before he disappeared. “Zip42” was the last of his generation. A modified version of what once was a household cleaning robot designed to make human lives easier. A piece of machinery containing an invaluable piece of hardware.

She scoffed, “That’s Marcus. without a doubt. That snake withholding the Sraye. My sister needs this to survive, Zip, you know this.” She looked around the bar, gathering some semblance of self. “If he doesn’t have it, my sister may as well be dead . . . and, why wouldn’t this be all my fault, huh?!” Penelope caught herself as her whispers grew just above a roar. A few heads turned their way, but under the storm’s trembling, no one seemed too bothered. “Penny, I

can sense your anguish, and you’re longing to be back with your family. We are so close, this may just well be the last chance we have to do so, and to acquire the Sraye.” Zippy silently hovered closer to her ear. “I trust you, now go.”

As the man re-entered through the battered double-wide swinging doors, his gaze was met with Penelope’s. For a second, he was thrown off his usual motions, almost dropping the dark wine. The man snapped himself to his senses just before reaching the table. Uncorking the wine, he began to feel his palms start to sweat, and the rotten egg stench permeating through the walls from the storm didn’t help. “Storm’s bad enough, why the hell’s it always gotta bring the sulfur with it? Shit,” he mumbled. He could tell Penelope was making a b-line for him. You don’t see anyone like that in here very often, especially during a storm like this. The man contemplated.

“Marcus,” Penelope declared as she firmly planted her calloused hands down on the bar.

The man stopped mid-pour, the dark wine slowly swirling to a halt inside the emerald glass. He caught her glare on the surface of the liquid.

“Dark wine?” He smiled and slid the glass in her direction. Penelope stopped the glass without breaking her gaze.

“The Sraye.” Her voice almost cracked. She was exhausted. Exhausted from the last 6 months, the searching, the disappointment, the utter lack of sleep. The anger, the sadness, the guilt.

“It was only a matter of time. I was told you would pass through. That aura you have, clearly the one.” Penny’s heart sank. She knew what was coming next. She knew that Zip42 contained the last Z4200K neurolink chipset known to Jezai. A piece of technology only spoke of in legend. “And, you’ve clearly come prepared. . . .” Marcus fixed his sight onto the machine floating just behind Penelope’s dry and frizzled hair.

A second shattering boom shook the building with force. The putrid smell intensified. A tear began to roll down Penny’s cheek. She had never known a life without Zippy. Although just an artificial intelligence, it seemed the intelligence of the smooth metallic creature transcended artificial. It was a protector. A protector of the Grattez family

since Penelope was conceived. A friend in the truest sense of the word. And one that she now knew she would have to give up. But, she never intended to.

Marcus peered into Penny’s eyes. He could sense a wave of trust and love fleeting from her aura. It seemed as if Penelope began to dim, almost literally. Penny let her head fall loose on her shoulders, drooping down, sullen. One single tear splashed onto the worn oak wood, bursting into what seemed like a thousand stars. “My sister is dying.” She mumbled. “My other heart is dying.” Penelope seemed to dim a little more. She pressed two fingers hard onto the tear splashed wood in a nervous-tick sort of motion. “Penny? Are . . . are you alright?” Zippy leaned closer.

Penny whispered shakily. “Zip, I am sorry for this.”

Penelope swiftly turned to face Zip42, she gripped either side of his cold metal plating, she smiled. Oh, that smile, so beautiful, elegant. Never forcing an emotion or faking the energy. Pure, and happy. In this moment Zippy felt charmed. “Penny, your sister . . . you can do this. Marcus . . . we’ve found Mar. . . .” With her sharp fingernails in the blink of an eye, snatched the smallest fiberoptic cable behind Zippy’s head, rendering him powerless, stunned. Zip42 hummed and froze, silent before falling out of the air, lifeless and twirling downward. Penelope broke the fall with her two palms in perfect sync, catching and cradling Zip42.

“Ahem”. Marcus grumbled. “This is precious, really it is, but um. . . .” He gestured toward a dark area of the bar, empty. Penelope looked at him, then looked at the vacant spot. She paused for a second, then nodded. As she walked Penelope felt the cold steel floors between her thin membraned slippers with each step. The patrons slammed their shots and drank their steins. She looked around thoughtfully as she walked closer to the dark area. Eyeing each person, wondering what their life must be like at this very moment. Were they enjoying themselves? Were they escaping their own mortal sadness and dread here in the eye of this storm? As she entered the dark area, things seemed to grow eerily silent. Marcus was a beat behind her, he stopped, outstretched his arm, and pressed a small tile on the wall. A tiny square surrounded by a thin layer of tempered glass appeared on the now ejected tray, shimmering.

“Ahh . . .” he exhaled, delighted at himself. “Sraye . . . A simple, yet brilliant bio-component of our time.”

“PLEASE.” Penny said. “Just get on with it, this is the deal. Let it be over. Please.”

“You know, if I hadn’t had been in Jezai for my father’s second wedding, I would have never come across this stuff. Truly a miracle in the field of medicine and hyper-genetic restructuring. Wildly uncommon and extremely expensive. . . .”

“Here.” Reluctantly, Penny reached both of her hands out, exposing a lifeless Zip42.

“Oh, but this . . . The Z4200K Neurolink . . .” he trailed off and offered his hands, clasping Zippy’s cold metal from Penelope. He was mesmerized by the metal subject. “Far more uncommon than anything else in the galaxy. . . .”

Penelope reached for the thin glass on the tray, she felt a sting as Marcus swatted at her hand “Ah, ah, ah . . . I wanted to officially thank you for accommodating in this transaction.” He smiled and held out one hand. Penelope paused for a very brief moment, not breaking eye-contact with the shimmering glass square. She ignored Marcus entirely and retrieved the Sraye, placing it safely in her reinforced leg pocket. She then took one quick glance at Marcus. He was still smiling. All in one second, she imagined disgusting black oozing puss falling out of the shit-eating grin, thinking about what lowly scum of a life he had been leading up until now. She snapped back to reality. Marcus smiling and offering his hand even still. Penelope spun around and headed for the main doors. “Splendid travels, sweetheart! Come back anytime, next round is on me!” He called over the chatter of the room.

Penny stopped just before the exit. Over her shoulders she took one look at Marcus, then dropped to her knees and formed a tight cocoon with her body. She pressed the same two fingers as she had on the bar, to a spot on her arm. The room became completely devoid of sound, and in an instant, a piercing white flash followed by a micro explosion from the oak bar. Marcus gasped and dropped Zippy, falling to his knees in excruciating pain. His eardrums had burst and his corneas were badly seared. Wasting no time, Penelope sprinted toward Zippy,

scooping him up from the ground and heading back toward the double doors, she burst through them. Outside, the storm rampant and stinging her bare skin. She only had minutes with the lack of oxygen the storm offers, and the deadly electricity buzzing in the sky.

Penelope reached the ship’s door and placed her hand on the scanner. “Ahh!” She screamed as a chunk of debris sliced her thigh. The doors seal depressurized and hissed open. She barreled inside, closing the door behind her. Falling to the floor, breathless and gasping for air.

Zippy rolling to a stop beside her. Silent.

The excruciating pain of her injured thigh came rushing back in this moment. She let out another cry. Penny rolled over and pressed the ships power button. As it buzzed and hummed to life, she pulled out the glass square from her reinforced thigh-pocket.

A hair-line crack could be seen on the surface of the tiny glass square. Another tear fell from her cheek and onto her suit as she uttered the only thing that had truly been on her mind this entire journey.

“Estelle. . . .”

Bison

Mackenzie Barett

A Little While Longer

Tiffany Blair

(Trigger Warning: Domestic Abuse)

How much longer?

I have been sitting here for hours shivering on this cold concrete step, contemplating my next move. The smell of smoke is saturating the air around me, carelessly seeping from the chimneys around the neighborhood and taunting me with its warmth. Better figure out my next move fast. Dawn is steadily creeping up behind the mountains, framing them with a silhouette of fire. Soon, this very spot will resume its weekly activity of innocent churchgoers decked out in their Sunday best, entering with their families to worship.

A little more time, Lord. I cannot still be sitting here contaminating the church steps with my crazy thoughts. Please, give me a little more time to sit here with you to figure out how much longer I will destroy my life.

Which way should I go, I wonder?

I looked to the south of me, the direction from which I came, and sweat immediately forms on my brow. A frightened voice between my ears is shouting off the evidence of what that direction has to offer me. My hair is matted, clothes stained from blood seeping out of open wounds, so torn that if it were not for my bra, a breast would be showing, and I only have one shoe on. That is so telling, it is freezing out here, and I am breaking out in a sweat. There is familiar desperation thudding inside my chest, begging me not to go back to him again.

Where in the heck is my other shoe?

I have been trying to recall where it could be because I need it to finish this pursuit of happiness. There is so much about the violence I just experienced that I do not want to remember. So I kick the remaining shoe off my foot, conceding to its insignificance.

Sadly, returning south is most likely my only option. By this time, Shane is undoubtedly too tired to fight. Now, instead of feeling confident with my decision to stay away from him, I am excusing his actions. I should not have made him angry. I should have done what he asked without questioning his motives. No one else is going to want me. He has branded me as too damaged. A Little While Longer Stop it! Stop rationalizing, believing it will get better. Are you still with me, Lord? Can you hear me? I feel so scared, cold, and hungry. So hungry. At the thought of being hungry, my stomach growls loudly and cramps up.

When was the last time I ate?

How is this turning into nostalgia, where I only remember the good times when we were fun and happy? Where I know there is food. I will do anything to eat right now. I am on the verge of compromising everything I have left just for some food. I wonder if the church’s dumpster has a lock on it? The tears streaming down my face clearly remind me how detrimental it will be to my life if I go back to him. I cannot continue living like this!

Where else am I going to go?

If I choose to go east, I can reach warmth. Not the accommodating kind of warmth a beautiful fireplace offers lovers or families to snuggle up and drink hot cocoa to. The cost is much higher for the warmth I am talking about, with or without money. With money, I am one more addicted applicant soliciting their thriving business. Without having money, a wonton fiend, proffering my body as an ATM for

their withdrawal.

Damn, I just remembered where my other shoe is!

During the fight, my shoe fell off, and he saw my money and dope stash, so he took it! With no money, it looks like I will be adding this to the rest of the moments I am not proud to admit. Still, thinking about it already has me negotiating whatever trace of values and morals I may have left. This warmth is disguised as happiness and necessity, slowly controlling me and working hard to depreciate my value. Omgsh, but to feel such alleviation from the pain in my heart and the ranting contradictions in my head would be so worth it. No. There has to be somewhere else that will save me from me.

To the north of me, too many bridges have burned. My children have been left with broken hearts, to believe that there was something wrong with them—that my choosing the needle, sex, and chaos over them was their fault. Oh man, I just got super hot. The sky is becoming lighter, but no sign of a peeking sun yet. I am sweating up a storm again. Yup, guilt is what I am feeling. Guilt from thinking about my kids. Honestly, it is not fair that I call them that; they are not my kids, not really. I only gave birth to them. I am not raising them. Not tucking them in. Not waking up with them. Not drinking hot cocoa with them in front of a warm fireplace. Things got hard, and I left without a backward glance. There is no going back this way, not yet. At this point, not ever.

I suppose I will be going west from here to turn myself into the Utah County Jail. Lifting my head upwards to stare at the sky, I focus on the snowflakes softly landing on my face. It feels so comforting, cooling my heated cheeks. It is like all of my questions were answered. I know what I will be facing as I move forward—withdrawals and responsibility. I detest all the judgment, consequence, confinement, and consistency. Consistency does sound attractive, though.

Three meals a day, a warm bed to curl up in, enough time away from Shane, and the streets, so I can find a different route in life to become a better woman. Is this the right direction to go? Or the safest, at least? What a beautiful morning it is right now, unlike the frigid night that just passed. Happy little birds are singing, and the wind quietly whispers in my ear, overwhelming me with a sense of serenity. The only pain I feel comes from my wounds, knots, and hunger. A sensation I can only convey as relief is telling me that going west is the right decision. Thank you for lending me an ear Lord. It will not be much longer now. After a quick detour east one more time to numb the pain, I am sure to get arrested.

Shades of Love

contessa mitchell

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice Once again, I find myself lost.

Without a sense of how to rediscover my destination, I set out for home. The solitude of this run feels like silk. Sweat has lacquered my limbs and senses. The same old turn into my neighborhood gives me the same old escalation in stride, granting enough steam to sustain a comfortable trot up my driveway. I stop, though, midway. Once again, my curious mind asks for a second glance at the gray house across the street.

I’m not sure why the gray house grips my imagination and demands a hypothesis. It’s awfully nondescript. The side yard stretches on and on, blank as the rest of it. In a circular, warm neighborhood, this house seems to be giving up the cold shoulder. Long, mute walls serve as perfect canvases for me to splash on all sorts of narratives: I am sure, from vague inclination, that a single mom lived there . . . she’d grant me a warm beverage and allow me to watch the sunset decay in silence. This was a wonderful marination of warmth and escape, I reckon. But I shouldn’t have accepted a warm beverage from a stranger, because I left feeling emptier than before I’d drank it.

I’m not sure why I did any of it, or if I truly did. My memory is foggy and overlapped with vivid dreams. When I expressed concern for my brain’s limited retention rate for memories to my Grandmere, she reminded me, “Vagueness can be kind. Your body loves you.”

Well, I think, snapping out of that mental detour, I’m still feeling awfully spry! Back down the driveway I glide, turning the corner to venture into the mystery of the side yard invisible from my house. The opposite side. I find a very curious thing here: A makeshift staircase leading into an attic. The wood remains unadulterated by gloss or carpeting. The little door up top beckons, sampling noises of life happening inside.

Before I was old enough to dress myself or collect memories, I have been meandering into stranger’s homes for my own amusement. Old

habits do die hard. Gripping the splintery stairwell, I make my way up.

The noises become increasingly uncomfortable, like the gawkings of an angry bird meddled with the musical ambiance of a void. By the time I turn the doorknob, my casual sense of adventure has run cold.

Slowly, gently, I poke my head into the room. As to allow some modesty to my intrusion, of course. Immediately, I enter a vacuum. This place possesses a current, pulling me deeper within. Operating this current is a woman, who had seemed to be waiting wistfully for an arrival. Her eyes brighten at the sight of me, greedily absorbing my image as one does with a field of stars. I felt her line being cast, and I felt her hook nestle into my heart. This was not a consensual act.

“Welcome in, come in,” she ushers me, springing up from the couch. I remain silent. There is too much to process. . . .

An awful man is here, too. There is a baby. The baby wails inconsolably, narrating everything about this place. This relentless soundtrack of misery did not seem to register for the woman.

“Yes, well, hello, I—” I stammer, feeling far too frozen to flee. We collapse onto the couch. She takes both of my hands in hers. As she admires me, the man starts harmonizing with the baby with his own yowls of misery.

The man’s misery is different. It is boiling, vindictive, and violent. This has a distressing resonance with the helpless cries of a baby. The woman’s eyes continue gorging into mine, as though we are the only two cognizant beings in the world. I am starting to feel as though there is a fire alarm going off and I am the only one who can hear it.

“It’s been years. Years. I hope you’ll stay for a while.” She waits for a reply. I attempt to speak, but I don’t want to yell over the alarm.

“There’s this new game I’ve been wanting to play.” I gulp, succumbed.

“Drink this tea, and I’ll fill you in on everything.” It’s too late to run. Her touch had transmitted an inky sedation, coating my will in it’s blackness. My mistake of frozen engagement is irreversible. My escape would now require layers of intentional method.

The woman proceeds to describe a game to me: a game of moss, vom-

it, clandestine promises, petals clustered, and the most blindly loyal of loves. This rotten romp of a game barely hits my ears. I cannot tune out the man berating the helpless baby behind her head. The hideous howls fluctuate and ebb with her forceful gaze. It seems to me, by sheer force of will, these counterparts of the woman were invisible to her sight and impenetrable to her ears. I can now locate a pulse: dissonance. That is what alarmed my entire body upon entering. The sticky kindness, and the complete disregard for the monstrosities being committed right over her head, that hungry affection. . . .

In between the babbling and howling, she presents my tea. She places it in my hands with motherly purpose. I look down and see a warm cup of black drool.

When confronted with wild, wounded animals, there is a special criterian for survival. You do not outwardly challenge a maimed beast, because their teeth are still very sharp. They are also crazed by their own powerlessness. I pity her greatly, I really do. My heart wrings itself to tatters with unchecked empathy.

“I know I shouldn’t have!” My brain tunes back into what she is saying because her tone adopted a distressed inflection.

“Shouldn’t have what? Sorry.” I shake my head to clear out the clutter of thoughts.

She shifts in her seat and tightens her grip on my hand. With resolute reluctance, she repeats “Well, I shouldn’t have stolen a piece of your soul. It’s not lost, you know. It’s a sample, and it’s still yours. It just resides here. . . .” Her eyes glitch, alternating between realms unbeknownst to me. “But it worked. You’re back, and I planted your little soul like a seed and grew something beautiful—”

“Have you ever played hide and go seek in the dark?” I ask, abruptly interrupting her parade of black love. I need her to stop talking.

This earns me a curious look. “I don’t believe so,” she says warmly. “Tell me about it!”

“Oh,” I chuckle breathily, grasping the opportunity to reclaim my hands as though from shyness. “It’s this old game me and my siblings would play at my Grandmere’s house. In her basement. It was so cold, dark, and damp down there. Just mountains of old blankets . . .

a couch, a bunk bed, endless shelves of boring books. The only thing there is to watch is the version of The Little Mermaid on VHS where Ariel turns into seafoam in the end. So, as kids, how do you make that fun?”

I dare turn to her as I pose the question, hoping to seem engaged and not on the verge of shitting my actual pants.

She smiles, shrugs, and says, “Turning off the lights, I guess.”

“Yes!” I say. “Yes. You might as well. There’s no windows in that basement, so you can achieve perfect darkness. I know it sounds kind of lame, but it’s so fun to play hide and seek in perfect darkness. Now, you’ve turned a simple game into a scary little adventure. When you’re it, you roam about blindly. It’s dead quiet . . . you do not know what your hand will fall on next.”

My performance takes on new heights as I dare to return my hands to her. This action was mirrored by the man picking up the baby by its feet. The lights could not go off soon enough.

“Well . . .” the woman shifts about, flushed by my gesture. She loves me so deeply, I can tell. Her gaze is evidently the whole reason that I too can regard that monstrous man and the helpless baby as suspicious hypotheses of my peripheral vision. The faulty gift of censorship.

“What happens to the loser?” she asks.

Here’s a survival tactic, from me to you, humbly: if you possess enough creativity, make your predator believe that tangling with you can have sinister outcomes.

“Easy!” I motion her to come closer. In her ear, in my boldest experiment yet, I breathe, “We eat them.”

She processes this quietly for a moment. Before I can meet her eyes again, stark blackness conquers the room. “You’re it, then.”

The game has begun.

Before I can flee, I know that I have to find my soul again. I can’t leave even a piece of it with this desperate woman. Now alone on the couch, my hands grow a cold sweat. Helium erupts in my chest and

bubbles up my throat. Think! Where can a soul hide? Souls . . . are immortal! They are more pure essences of who we are. This is because it is our will unrestrained by the human brain’s limitations of understanding deeper truths. A pitiful woman like that couldn’t hope to detain it. So . . .

So . . . I feel around the couch, checking under the cushions to busy myself.

So . . . Of course. The baby.

“Well, this is going to be easy,” I say, hoarsely chipper. My cold sweat marks every surface I touch, breadcrumbing my journey to the cradle. Never before have my legs felt so elastic.

“Hello? Hello?” I call softly, hoping to pique the baby’s attention.

With the vague outline of the room in my memory, I find the cradle after a few strides. Due to another glitch, I live within these unbearable strides for years before making contact with the baby. I hear the awful sniffle and gurgle of the helpless thing. I felt it’s skin, hot from abuse. “Hello,” I say again, more intimately. I can feel the woman’s presence wax and wane. I need to hurry.

There is suspicious shuffling about the room. No time to imagine what it could be. . . .

I gently prod, trying to imagine how my soul is being concealed within this being. The baby then grips my palm and happily exclaims, “Ma!”

SLAM. SCATTER. SCREAM.

My heart shoots like a bullet through my chest, and the baby starts wailing like it’s in a woven basket out at sea. I can’t, my Heart can’t take this final blow. Before I know what I’m doing, I scoop up the baby and sprint for the door. Forgetting all method and sense, I slam into a wall, causing a whiplash that conquers every pulse. The earthquake worsens. The woman is advancing:

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t—”

With a final SLAM of the door, I fly down the stairs from which I came. Clutching the baby, I sprint across the street and up my drive-

way. Safe.

I lean against my mother’s car, wrought with intensity. I suck in air mechanically and hold it in. I might rip all of my seams if I exhale too soon. The sweet baby pats my head, signaling me to unfold my body. So I do, and Her eyes shine upon meeting mine. Reverting into the glowing mass of a soul fragment, She slides into my mouth. I can’t explain it. As my eyes fix on the decayed sun, there is a faint attempt to process the increasing extension of my jaw and esophagus. She crawls down, down, eventually causing a jagged sensation in my belly. Now I stare at my empty hands, in total awe of Her intuitive wisdom.

“What the fuck,” I exhale.

Again, my mind prompts me to take a second glance at the gray house. Curiosity has the tax of morbidity. Gazing upon that long gray wall that is no longer blank, I perceive the woman’s final message:

THERE IS NOTHING GOOD TO COME, COME THE SORRY MORNING.

I woke up.

Christmas Lights Through the Backseat Window

Denise Heninger

Bottled Stars

Ashlyn Mae Stratton

I used to think that moments Good or bad Were limited

Like stars in a bottle

You pick one out You hold it

Treasure it

But you can’t get another one I suppose there are lots of stars

We all have them

Some are bright They sparkle and dance

Other stars burn They scorch reaching fingers

Some are even cold

Those we want to forget

But I think I was wrong

You can’t store all the stars

No bottle could

Moments are limitless

No one person or thing

Job or place or time Can give them all to you

You can always find more stars

You can gather moments up And the sky will never run dry

You’ll find them all someday Hot or cold or bright

If you don’t like your stars

When the cold ones cause you pain

It’s okay to look and remember

But find new moments too Those special shining stars

Go look for ones like that You can feel it again Rediscover and create I treasure each star I may not love them all But I can learn from every one My endless stars in a bottle

The Reach

Jaime Blasongame

When I’m lying down

Trying to sleep at night

That’s the time of the day

Clinging

Larissa Zerbini

The memories come to my mind

I can think of us

In such a special way

That I don’t even remember

The pain that you caused on me

I roll back and forth

I take a deep breath

And the smell that comes Is your cologne in the air

It smells like spice and wood

That is different from my smell

That are sweet and floral

But the mix of us, I can remember very well . . .

You’re wearing my sweatshirt

So I could have your smell during the day

And I did have that for a long time Till I decided to wash away

I wish I could wash away this daydream

That comes to my head every night

That one day you and me

Will be finally reunited

My tears can try to help

To fade your face away

But when I close my eyes again

It always stays the same

Maybe it’s because in this daydream

I’m holding you tight

And I’m not sure of what will happen

If I say the real goodbye

So I’ll keep you here

Just for one more day

And in the morning maybe I’ll let you go

Or I’ll ask you again to stay.

Run

Grace Vesely

They often prescribe the mentally ill a healthy diet and exercise. It’s so simple, it’s infuriating. Just 10,000 steps and an avocado, maybe some talk therapy and SSRIs. All the major ingredients to a regulated nervous system and coherent thought patterns. It feels so condescending and I know very few who venture to give exercise a shot.

My journey to working out was a slow, meandering 4-year walk around Sugarhouse. My pace quickened when I found myself trapped inside during the summer forest fires, looking for a way to move my body in the safety of the indoors.

First, it was dance exercise videos. I grew up dancing, so this was an easy place for me to start. My body remembered. My lungs burned, my heart pounded and caught fire. My thoughts, usually rapid, indecipherable, and incessant, burst into flames. Relief rained over me like ash. The endorphins made everything feel safe again. Finally. Like it did when I was a kid, and I left dance class in my dad’s Astro van with the windows rolled down. Nothing to fear, nothing to fear.

I’d talked a lot about how I “didn’t want to treat my body like a machine.” I was against the gym and had a superiority complex about exercising in organic ways like dance or hikes. Consequently, it took a while for me to start running. I did my little dance videos in my parents’ basement for a couple months, and I started to leave the house more. I got a friend. Her name was Laura. She invited me over to hot tub. We talked about our lives, and I realized how lonely I’d been. I almost threw myself in front of the Trax just days before. I was not okay. But exercising was changed that in so many unexpected ways.

Shortly after, my brother announced he was coming back to town. He was to move back in with my parents. I’d spent all my teens trying to get away from him, and I still refused to live with him. Instead, I started running.

I ran to Laura’s house, and I stayed with her for a month before taking a train to Portland. She had a gym at her apartment building, and we ran during her job’s daily “exercise break.” On the treadmill, I found clarity of thought and feeling. Raw questions left my mouth. I could

see the world outside of myself.

“What’s it like to be a mother?”

“I . . .” she hesitated, “I wish I wasn’t a mom sometimes. I mean, I love my kids. But I never wanted children,” she said frankly. Connection was brand new for me.

I also ran outside. I’d get onto North Temple and head east for as long as I could. The Trax rumbled by, and I didn’t think about harming myself. I thought about my future and the train I’d take to Portland. I passed the fairgrounds, where the vines grew vivid green in the summer, but turned to skeleton orange creepers during that fall. The bridge on the Jordan River Parkway formed perfect lines over the spontaneous cloud cover. I found order in my life’s chaos. Everything was upside down, but I knew it would be okay when my worn red Sketchers gripped the asphalt.

A man drove by me on North Temple, and his car slowed. His neck craned. My stomach turned. He pulled into a parking lot just ahead of me. His derelict car matched his grimy demeanor.

“Hey, baby girl.”

I expected to freeze. My body always did.

But I didn’t. I screamed “no!” and it was animalistic. It was not a plain no. It was a no painted with fresh power. It exploded out of me.

“NO.” I said it again. I hadn’t been able to do this in years. Just the year before, I was watering my brother’s yard in the summer, and the neighbor came out to chit-chat. His eye contact lasted a little too long.

“My wife is really glad you’re not moving in across the street,” he said to me.

I giggled. But in the car ride home, I felt ashamed. I looked in the rearview mirror and wondered where I’d gone. When I learned that no can be ignored, stepped over, and muzzled, I hid.

But the man in the car could not do that to me. I wouldn’t allow it. I was completely embodied, and we both knew it. His confident leering turned to sheepishness. He couldn’t even look at me. He turned his car around and drove off quickly. And I just wept as I ran.

End noun

the halt in progress

The finale of an event

End

KaylieAnn Brown

Death or parting of people

practically the same thing but End is often the time to start you end something and begin anew what about death? does death begin a new life? is it simply an End or does it open the next chapter?

theories surround it but none are ever confirmed. what if people died and were born in a new place? would they be happier than a simple End? is it better to face a grave and never endure another End?

FICTION

Mama: The Girl Who Danced With the Moon by Quinn Hoggan

Winner 1st Place Best Short Story CCHA

Southwest Division Individual Awards

I was born in California and was raised in West Jordan. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I served a mission for the church in the Pacific Country of the Republic of Kiribati. I was homeschooled in my youth. I didn’t have a lot of friends. Video games were and are my main hobby and have strongly informed my literature sensibilities, alongside movies like Star Wars and the Nightmare before Christmas, and books like Harry Potter and Watership Down. My goal is to enter video game development in some way and writing seems to me the most attractive way to do that. I want to write stories filled with warmth and vulnerability, the kinds of things that people can relate to and connect with immediately.

PHOTOGRAPHY

As evidenced by her Halloween sunrise elopement, Salt Lake based graphic designer and photographer Emma Houtz finds inspiration in the strange and unusual. Currently pursuing an AS in Graphic Design at Salt Lake Community College, Emma is influenced by her favorite artist David Byrne as they share a love for all things weird and cool. Her portraiture photography reflects how beauty can bind a broken brain.

Emma's day job is a library circulation specialist, where she is able to combine her interests of design, technology, and learning. In her spare time she can be found experimenting with hair colors, playing tabletop games, and collecting obscure VHS tapes.

VISUAL ART

Winner 1st Place Artwork, CCHA Southwest Division

Individual Awards

I find useful the ability stories, and fictional characters in them, have in helping us process real events in our lives. Grief, being such a powerful thing, can mold us in ways we would not expect. Letting go of grief, once we are ready, is the most powerful part of the process. Azrien, illustrated here, is a character who lost everything and everyone whom he loved, and made many decisions out of anger and hatred before he took his grief and gave it to the universe to do with it what it would. Here he lays the ashes of his dearest friend to rest and let’s go of the pain that held him for so long.

Grief Once Held by Daniel Vielstich

POETRY

Desperately Seeking Silhouette by Jamison Banae’ Watson

I have recently discovered the power of expressing myself through writing. Putting thoughts, ideas, and dreams on paper and seeing the art within the words has inspired me to become a writer. Writing poetry is one of my favorite ways to explore my feelings through creativity. I find that it helps me communicate with myself. Poetry has the power to place us inside our dreams.

NONFICTION

Dad’s Four-Decade Apple Pie by Ethan Eldred

My name is Ethan Eldred, I am 24 years old and have been at SLCC for a few years now but getting close to wrapping up. I wrote this story last semester inside of a creative writing class for a non-fiction assignment. I was going through a lot of my struggles during that time and for myself cooking and my dad is what got me through it. This started a series of memories to trigger and it lead me to reliving these nostalgia filled moments that I was able to connect to my own father In writing this.

Work in the SWRC!

Writing something? As a student, you can work with consultants in the Student Writing & Reading Center for any writing (or reading) assignment for any class here at SLCC. Stop by any of our locations (RWD: AAB129; SCC: 1-137; JRD: JSTC206) or visit our website at www.slccswc.org to find out more.

Need a job? We also have employment opportunities for SLCC students to work as SWRC Consultants.

Contact Clint.Gardner@slcc.edu for more information.

Thank you to all past and current Folio artists, writers, musicians, dancers, photographers, activists, and more for trusting Folio with your creations!

1. A state of being pleasantly lost in one’s thoughts; a daydream.

2. The condition of being lost in thought. French: rêverie, from Middle French, delirium, from resver, rever to wander, be delirious

Don’t be afraid to get lost in Reverie.

Folio Spring '22

Reverie