Sisyphus by SLUH

Sisyphus Spring ’17

Alternate outside covers: photograph by Will Kelly or stamp design by Alex Zhao (see page 80 for fuller description) Front inside cover, clockwise from top: glitch art by Matthew Loranger, photograph by Brendan Voigt, glitch art by Matthew Loranger, painting by Anna Shi (Junran) Masthead: photograph by Will Kelly Back inside cover, clockwise from top left: oil pastel by Keegan Schnell, photograph by Salvatore Vitellaro, glitch art by Matthew Loranger, oil pastel by Syed Fakhryzada 3 Rumi Rearranges the Library, poem by Suzanne Renard 4 photograph by Joe Hillmeyer 5 The Trouble with the Youth, prose by Drew Bazell 7 photograph by Anna Shi (Junran) 10 photograph by Anna Shi (Junran) 14 photograph by Joe Hillmeyer 15 Between Us, poem by Nick Sonderman 15 photograph by Brendan Voight 16 photograph by Liam Connolly 17 A Light During a Dark Time, fiction by Chris Augsburger 21 ceramic installation by Liam Connolly and Sam Grasso 22 The Fence of the Walls, fiction by Syed Fakhryzada 22 pastel drawing by Paul Burka 26 photograph by Brendan Voigt 27 The Driving Prayer, poem by Edward Gartner 28 I’ll Kick Your Ass, fiction by Adam Kleffner 29 photograph by Brendan Voigt 31 drawing by Lancer Li 33 Two Words, fiction by Henry Herzberg

36 photograph by Salvatore Vitellaro 40 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 41 Leap, prose by Will Slama 42 digital rendering by Jackson DuCharme 43 May Fourth, prose by Anna Shi (Junran) 44 photograph by Anna Shi (Junran) 46 photograph by Kyle Sullivan 47 The Foil, prose by Alex Zhao 48 drawing by Lancer Li 49 photograph by Jack Billeaud 50 Rodentia, poem by Matthew Loranger 51 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 52 Friends, fiction by David Borgmeyer 53 photograph by Liam Conolly 54 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 58 In the Accusative, poem by Nick Sondermann 58 digital rendering by Liam John 59 digital rendering by Liam John 60 Regrets, My Jeep, and You, prose by Sam Grasso 64 pastel drawing by Matthew Thomas 65 Flood, poem by Robert Coleman-Grayson 66 Stonewall’s Lament, poetry by Matthew Quinlivan 67 photograph by Kyle Sullivan 68 Warmth, prose by Anna Shi (Junran) 70 King of Crime, poetry by Joseph Mantych 70 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 71 Welcome to the Murderers’ Club, satire by Gabe Lepak 72 Dawn, poem by Joey Daugherty 72 photograph by Anna Shi (Junran) 73 Katzenjammer, poem by Miles Matyiko 73 photograph by Brendan Voigt 74 The Door Open, prose by Ariel Lu 74 ink drawing by Anna Shi (Junran) 76 photograph by Liam John 77 The Owl, prose by Leo Moore 77 photograph by Kyle Sullivan 78 Sacrament, poem by Matthew Loranger 79 photograph by Joe Hillmeyer 80 Moderators’ Note

Rumi Rearranges the Library Suzanne Renard Any reason we have science in this building here and music over there, with a long, wide line of walkways and bushes between them, though a tender air from a reed-flute heals more surely than the compound from a vial? When the shy boy with the small voice at the check-out desk said he “would like a book, please,” I asked, “Any in particular?” Then he declared: “A blue one,” and I longed to whirl and point to the blue books just past the credenza— and beyond belief— whose singing none of the patrons could hear, due to the things stuck in their ears. But, in the nick of time, I recalled the need for decorum: decimals, order, categories. So I quietly took his hand and led him past the chairs where the Cowboys of the new New World were thrusting their hands toward their hips— would they shoot?— luckily, they didn’t. They were merely drawing inferences from information in their pockets. They tilted at tidbits

to best their rivals. I told the tiny boy that we keep music down the hall and, God knows why, engineering in its own grand room way up high. He could hear the singing, and he leapt, my little protĂŠgĂŠ, in delight, when the book jumped into his pudgy paws. My job, I remind myself, is not to expose the foolishness of the hierarchies of man. It is to tell you, Friend, that the barmaid knows her philosophy, and blue belongs wherever you can find it.

photograph by Joe Hillmeyer

The Trouble with the Youth Drew Bazzell “

hat’s wrong with you? Just throw it. You know they deserve it.” Jack’s lips curled as he preached. Jacob’s face reddened while he clenched the stone in his hand. It felt foreign. They stood beneath the gaze of one of the prestigious marble houses in Victory Village, the place where Jack said all the rich pricks go to hide from the real world and die. Jack continued staring expectantly at Jacob while Jacob’s eyes remained locked on the window that dominated the front of the house. Jack lit a cigarette. “The revolution isn’t going to start itself you know,” Jack toyed as he dragged his cigarette. Jacob’s face grew redder, and he looked down, counting the bricks in the driveway. The wind displaced the warm spring air, leaving the night cold and dry. Jacob looked at his watch. 1:00 A.M. glowed on the screen. He wondered if his mother had noticed he was gone. He was certain she was going to find out. But as he looked up at Jack looking up at the house in passionate hatred, he didn’t care. Jacob wanted to grow his hair long, to scar his face, to be filled with passion, and to smoke cigarettes. “Come on, man. We don’t have all night.” The bright line of scar tissue gleamed in the street light. Jacob took a deep breath. The air chilled his lungs. He heaved his arm back and flung the rock at the house. They both froze as the rock sailed through the window. Glass shattered and floated through the air, the icy shards glinting under the moon’s spotlight. The house began flashing red and

beeping before the rock even hit the foyer. Jacob was mesmerized by the falling glass. His heart pounded and his ears rushed like a river. He was electric. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack sprint down the road, tossing his cigarette behind him as he disappeared into the darkness of the woods at the end of the street. Jacob hauled after him, grinning, no longer chilly in the cool night. He was half running and half leaping as he entered the woods. The brush split as he ravaged through the trees, high on adrenaline. As he descended deeper into the woods, the moonlight grew sparse, and eventually he found himself running with no sense of direction. He halted. “Hello!” Jacob called. “Anyone there?” His voice squeaked. His lip quivered as he stood alone in the darkness. The trees seemed to close in, and all he was aware of was his deep, syncopated breathing. His chest began to lock, and he sat on the carpet of dead leaves and mud. He felt bugs crawling up his ankles, but he couldn’t move. Paralysis attacked his mind as he began panicking. His eyes began to wet. “Dude, that was badass.” Jack beamed as he emerged from behind a tree, scanning his flashlight over to Jacob, who shot off the ground, flung his hands across his eyes, and put on a face-splitting grin.

“ acob, you’re fifteen years old, living un-

der my roof; ergo you have to listen to me!” Jacob’s mother screamed as he refused

for the fifth time to turn down the Slipknot screaming from the radio. He grimaced and buried his face into his shirt. He reached over and edged the volume knob, bringing the sound from an incoherent wail to a melodic ruckus. He heard his mother rambling up the stairs, and he could hear her cursing already. “Jacob, I told you to turn that nonsense down. Also, get that ratty shirt off and change into something presentable. We’re leaving for church in fifteen minutes.” He pouted as she poked the power button of the stereo and walked briskly out of the room. He lay on his bed for a few moments, enjoying the comforting darkness of his pillow. “I don’t hear any getting ready in there!” his mother nagged from behind the door. He sighed and peeled himself out of bed, tossing his Pantera shirt into a crumpled heap. He stood in the mirror and stared. He ran a comb through his clean cut hair and examined his hairless armpits. He tried flexing his bicep, but frowned. His eyes wandered over to the window. Across the street, he saw Jack sitting on his porch, cigarette hanging from lower lip, scraping the dirt from his combat boots with a pocketknife. His long black hair hung down over his eyes, dancing close to the cigarette’s bright cherry. They hadn’t talked since the night in Victory Village. Jacob again touched his clean-cut blond hair, this time trying to make it look a little messy. He played with it until he was satisfied by its rebelliousness, then he slipped a pink polo shirt over his head and trudged down the stairs to meet his family in their Toyota Sienna.

roves of Sunday Catholics approached the building, all chatting about the latest parish gossip. Jacob brooded, Nirvana blaring in his headphones, as his sister stood with some of the girls from her class. He couldn’t believe how old she was becoming.

She seemed distant from the days where Jacob would read to her. Always the books that she requested. Now her hair was long and bright blonde, and she chatted with the boys in her class like a bumblebee. And now she always came home with some new boy troubles. The sixth grade is a ripe time for those. Jacob felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and he spun around to see his mother’s impatient face waiting and mouthing something. He pressed pause. “Jacob, we need to get a good seat in Mass. Will you hurry?” his mom pleaded. Deeply concerned about the moral weight of standing in the back of the church, Jacob scoffed in his head. He crumbled his headphones and shoved them in his pocket. The crowd was dispersing and Jacob scowled as he joined the procession to the pews. He woke as the church stood for the Gospel, and he yawned and rubbed his eyes, yet his legs straightened robotically as the priest’s drawl echoed through the silent crowd. “A reading from the Gospel of Matthew,” the pastor’s droopy eyes scanned the crowd. “While Jesus was still speaking, Judas, one of the Twelve, arrived, accompanied by a large crowd armed with swords and clubs, sent from the chief priests and elders of the people.” “Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them. ‘The one I kiss is the man; arrest Him.’ Going directly to Jesus, he said, ‘Greetings, Rabbi,’ and kissed Him.” “‘Friend,’ Jesus replied, ‘do what you came for.’” Somewhere from the back of the church a baby began to wail, and everyone turned their heads as the mother cradled the bundle of blankets in her arms. She rocked him feverishly, but his wails persisted, and she rushed out of the chapel. The door slammed and everyone faced forward again. Jacob, however, continued to watch as the woman

photograph by Anna Shi (Junran)

slowed her strides to small steps, eventually halting next to a pot of roses in the corner of the foyer. She swayed back and forth as she touched her fingers to her lips and rocked the baby. Jacob believed she was singing to him. She soon stopped rocking, and the bundle of blankets sat at rest in her arms. She kissed the baby on the forehead and walked out of the church “The Gospel of the Lord.” “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” Jacob slumped back into his seat and returned to shutting out the congregation.

he sun was setting and Jack leaned against the porch railing. The splinters in the wood pricked at his forearm, but he enjoyed testing his skin against the rotting wood. He looked down the street at the rows of uniform properties. The white

picket homes gleamed in the tangerine twilight. Many of the blindingly green lawns were dotted with children playing. Jack’s face softened as he watched the Pritchards kick the soccer ball back and forth. Layla, the older one, kept sailing the ball across the river of lawns. Conor, happy to be her pet, would skip across the lawns, laughing as he chased the bright yellow runaway ball. After one particularly smooth punt, Layla turned around and saw Jack watching. Her face erupted into a grin, her rows of wild teeth jutted in every direction, and she began flailing her arm in the air. She seemed to be sporting a new blue and pink grill of braces. Jack smiled back at her and waved. Jack thought Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard were pricks, but he liked the kids, especially Layla. They’d struck up an interesting friendship after Jack patched a tire of Layla’s bike.

After a few seconds, Layla stopped waving and went back to her game of fetch. Jack took a last look at the sunset, and his heart leapt as he followed the purple and orange valleys through the sky. He looked down. The grass in his own yard was beginning to look like a nest of rotting hair. Jack began boiling a pot of water on the stove. The pot was stained a dark copper on the underside. He watched the water bubble. He reached into the cupboard and grabbed his grandmother’s lemon ginger tea. He poured some of the water into a mug, then sank the tea bag into the scalding water. The water began to turn gold. He placed the pot back on the stove and began grinding the top off a can of Progresso Chicken Soup. As Jack ripped the serrated lid from the can, it sliced into the skin of his palm. “Shit,” Jack said, as he watched blood drip onto the countertop. The cut was not too big, but it was deep, and Jack couldn’t help but watch and wait for the next stream of blood to pulse out. The countertop was painted maroon. “Shit,” he said again as he rushed over to the paper towels and began to mop up the mess of himself that was now covering the kitchen. He sighed as he looked down at his ruined shirt. Blood was splattered across the eggshell canvas, from the neck buttons to the tail. He held a rag to his bleeding palm as he finished making the soup. “Grandma?” he whispered as he pushed open the creaking door. She looked up at him wistfully from her mass of covers, in the same dormant position she’d been lying in for the past two years. She seemed confused. Her eyes darted between Jack and the door as he sauntered in with her dinner. “Grandma, here’s some dinner.” Jack smiled. “It’s chicken noodle soup and lemon ginger tea, your favorite.” Her face broke into a grin, her rotting teeth peeking out between her dry lips. She never really talked anymore,

and Jack was okay with that. He liked to see her smile when he brought her meals. Her face broke into a grimace when her eye caught the towel shining red in Jack’s hand. She began to grab for it, but Jack winced under her brittle skin. He forced a grin. “It’s nothing, Grandma, just a little cut.” He held it up in the gray light of his grandmother’s room. It had stopped bleeding. A rusty film covered the grooves of his palm, and he quickly returned the drenched rag to his hand. She smiled, satisfied by his nonchalance. She began eating her soup, taking minuscule bites as she hunched over her wooden tray. She ate briskly, and after a few bites she set the bowl to the side and clasped the mug of tea with both hands. She sipped and stared blankly at her concealed legs. Jack never understood her constant chill. Blankets covered her entire figure when she wasn’t eating, and the thermostat in the room was constantly set at 78. But every time Jack checked on her, she was shivering. A strand of light peeked through the curtains, illuminating the army of dust atoms that battled in the air. Jack opened his mouth to speak to his grandmother, but he realized she was already drifting back to sleep. Or at least what she considers sleep, Jack thought. He smiled, but his eyes remained in a frown.

acob sat tense in his wicker chair, hunched over his keyboard. He was playing a song he had written. It was a melodic, melancholy progression in A minor. He began to flow with the stream of music, and he closed his eyes as his fingers swayed across the keys. His face contorted when he reached a bridge of the song, and his fingers spasmed as he lost the rhythm. The music stopped. Jacob’s eyes narrowed as he poked the power button on the keyboard. He snatched his bomber jacket from his closet and rushed down the stairs. Jacob thought his mom would be wary of

his going out on a Wednesday, but to Jacob’s surprise she shrugged as he told her he was going to Burger King with Jack. She never seemed to mind his going out with Jack. She called him a “sweet boy who lost his way” and “just needed a friend.” Jacob didn’t really agree. Jack had a way, it just wasn’t a way she liked. And Jack had friends. The lights of Jack’s faded black pickup truck were already shining as Jacob slipped out his front door. Jack’s engine roared as he swung the truck in front of Jacob’s house. Jacob ran and hopped into the truck. “Wilt” by Blind Melon blared over the speakers. “See, I got Indian Ken and his fleabag friends with their buckets full of elephant eaarrs! And he’s breathing on me,” Jack belted as he swayed to the music. He played air guitar and twisted his face with the grunge. Jacob began bobbing his head back and forth. As the song finished, Jack wrenched the volume knob to zero. “Long time no see, brothel,” Jack grinned. Jack had started calling Jacob brothel instead of brother awhile back because he said Jacob would only ever get with girls he paid for. “It’s been awhile since you convinced me to do something idiotic.” Jacob’s face softened. “But was it stupid?” Jack’s eyebrow arched into a question mark. “Maybe you changed that family’s lives with that one pebble.” “We could have gotten arrested.” “But did we?” Jack toyed with something in his pocket. “No,” Jacob digressed. “But we could have.” “Well, just because you can get in trouble for something doesn’t mean it’s wrong.” Jack sat back in his seat. They sat in silence for a few minutes until they passed the turn for Burger King. “Isn’t Burger King back that way?” Jacob

looked in the rearview mirror and saw the neon burger glowing in the corner. “Change of plans.” Jack’s eyes lit up. Jacob’s body tensed. “We’re going to this place that I gotta show you, and we’re gonna watch the stars. Also, we’re gonna smoke a little of this.” Jack’s smile grew as he opened the middle console. The shiny wrapping of a pack of Swisher Sweets glinted in the glow of the red light overhead. Underneath there was a dime bag of weed, and Jacob picked it up. It was orange and purple, and its crystals shined in Jacob’s flashlight. “Sounds like a good plan.” Jacob leaned back in his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cop car sitting next to them. He tensed and moved his hand to the console. “Chill!” Jack laughed as he saw Jacob staring at the cop out the corner of his eye. “We’re not doing anything wrong. Not yet at least.” Jack sped in the far left lane of I-70 East. His engine sputtered every once in awhile, but his speedometer was locked at eighty. They both had their seats leaned back, and they basked in the various music coming from the car stereo. Jacob’s head lay buried in the leather seat, and he dozed off during “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You.”

ack padded across wet grass. His watch read 3:30 A.M., and the morning dew was shining. Jack realized he needed to cut the grass as the wild blades lapped across his shoe and left damp streaks. He was fairly certain his grandmother would be sleeping, but he crept across the deck like a cat. As he reached the front door, he eased his key into the lock and nudged the door open. His head was still racing. He and Floyd had just smoked for about two hours after their band practice, and Jack’s vision jutted as he stepped into the foyer. His grandmother’s door was shut at the top of the stairs. He pried off his shoes and held them between

his fingers as he tiptoed up the stairs. He went into the bathroom by his room. As he flipped on the light and looked in the mirror, he was amazed by how red his eyes were. Not really surprised, but amazed. He washed his face off in the sink and pressed his face with a towel, breathing in. He liked the scent of linen. He turned off the water and crept into his bedroom, peeling off his shirt and sinking into his covers, clicking off the lamp on his bedside table. He fell asleep almost immediately. Jack heard his door slam, and the harsh fan light flipped on overhead. His grandmother stood in the doorway, her eyes bugged and her face traced with bulging veins. “You took it,” she stared at him. His hair was tangled and ratty in front of his eyes, and he squinted his eyes in the bright lights. “Where is it Jack? I know you took the bottle.” She paced back and forth in his room and began rifling through his clothes drawers. “Grandma, stop.” His voice cracked as

he pushed the hair from his eyes. She walked over to the bed and grasped his arm. “Jack,” she pleaded. “Give them back. I know I didn’t lose them, and you’re the only other person in the house.” She squeezed his arm hard and he tore it away. “Alright, here, take your damn softcore heroin back!” he yelled. He reached under his bed and from a Vans shoebox pulled a small pill bottle. Xanax Alprazolam was printed on the front. His grandmother snatched it out of his hands and pried the top off the bottle. She tossed her head back and swallowed a couple of the little square pills. She kept her head tilted back and opened her eyes, staring at the fan rotating above her head that had been turned on with the light. “Why are your eyes so red?” She looked down, and her face contorted as she stared at her grandson’s confused, rosy eyes.

acob woke up as Jack was pulling the truck off the outer road, and delving down a secluded path through the woods. Branches cracked under the tires, and trees whipped

photograph by Anna Shi (Junran)

past the windows as Jack tore through the overgrown path. He idled his engine and parked the car when they reached a small grove in the woods. He parked in the middle of the clearing, and the trees surrounding them looked like a net of spiderwebs. “Voila!” Jack said as he hopped out of the truck. Jacob rubbed his eyes and jumped down onto the grass. The night was still in the clearing, the wind blocked by the huge mass of trees around them. “This is cool,” Jacob said, amazed by the city of stars that spanned the navy sky. “This isn’t even the full thing, buddy.” Jack turned and walked through an almost invisible hole in the tree wall. Jacob jogged after him, turning on his flashlight as he crawled under the dark blanket of trees. He saw Jack’s flashlight a few steps ahead. Jacob stopped focusing on Jack when he realized there was a branch slapping him in the face every other step. He felt that they were walking up a hill, but he was oblivious to the path they were following. All he could do was avoid the branches and every once in awhile check to make sure he was still following Jack’s flashlight. The trees began to thin, and the branches became scarce. The sky became visible again. It seemed the trees were becoming shorter. They trekked for another couple minutes until they reached another clearing. This one, however, was cut in half, and over a small rocky plateau the highway sat underneath them. Jacob stood near the edge and looked down. The passing cars looked distant, like nothing more than random pairs of headlights. Jack sat on one of the bigger rocks and unfolded the bag of weed. He split the cigarillo in half and replaced the tobacco with the weed, rolling the brittle cigar wraps between his fingers. He licked the edges of the wraps and sealed them with a bronze Zippo lighter. Jacob had smoked only a few times, but he guessed he liked it. He really

liked doing it with Jack. Jack torched the end of the blunt until he was satisfied with its cherry, and then he pulled it to his lips and gently inhaled. He lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against the rock as he exhaled and passed it to Jacob. Jacob clenched the burning stick between his fingers and pursed his lips as he sucked in the smoke. He began to retch as the smoke hit his lungs. Jack guffawed and said, “You look like a pufferfish when you hit it.” Jacob held down his coughs and forced a smile. His eyes were watery, and as he released a small burp a stream of smoke came out. This made Jack laugh again, and he smiled as he dragged in the smoke. They both sat, lounged against rocks, and watched the traffic pass below. They passed the blunt back and forth, Jacob coughing every time he hit it and Jack giggling. When it became a roach, Jack tossed the blunt off the edge of the cliff. Jacob leaned over and watched the burning ember shatter against the rocky side of the cliff, tiny flecks of red spraying out and disappearing with the breeze. The air was quiet, and neither boy said a word. They both just sat and switched between staring at the brilliant sky and the surprisingly busy highway. Jack looked at the highway with disdain, his eyes only brightening when he looked up at the constellations. Jacob felt like he was a king. His brain was buzzing and his vision vivid, the colors of the night enhanced by his euphoric high. He felt like a cloud floating above the world, just watching and moving in slow motion as the world below him rushed through the mundane. Jacob walked to the edge of the cliff and spread his arms in the breeze. He was an eagle, perched, waiting to fly wherever he wanted. “Jack, this place is amazing,” Jacob gushed, but Jack was looking down into the dirt. He looked up and forced a smile, but

his brown eyes were soft and lonely. Jacob’s face slackened. “What’s wrong?” Jacob’s face brightened again, but this time with hesitation. “Nothing,” Jack spoke quietly. “Sitting up here just makes me feel like I’m not a part of the world, and it troubles me how much I like the way it feels.” He looked at Jacob, waiting for him to be speak, but Jacob found no words. Neither boy said anything after that. They both just watched the hills roll through the countryside across the highway. Jacob checked his watch. 9:30 P.M shone on the face. Shit, Jacob thought, sure his mother was going to flay him for going on a threehour Burger King trip. However, when he checked his phone, there was nothing. “Alright, I have to be home soon.” Jacob’s voice cracked as he broke the silence. The still air seemed to shatter as Jacob said this, and Jack looked up as if he had finally had the whole damn world figured out. He smiled at Jacob, his smile looking less sarcastic than usual. It was full of hope. I’ve never seen him look so genuinely pleased, Jacob thought sardonically. “Get the truck started and I’ll meet you down there. I got something I gotta do,” Jack sat on the rock as he tossed Jacob the keys and continued staring out at the hills. Jacob was puzzled, but he obeyed Jack, and trekked back down the hill. As he entered the clearing, Jacob saw that Jack’s car was no longer alone. A white police cruiser was parked next to the old truck, and two officers were examining the car. Jacob’s heart leapt and he turned to reenter the woods, but a light shined on his back. “Hey!” a gruff voice called from behind him. “Get your ass over here.” Jacob froze and put his hands in the air as he turned around. He was blinded by the police’s spotlight, and he shielded his eyes from its menacing glare. He approached like a deer,

taking cautious steps and walking quietly. As he reached the two men, one of the officers shined his personal flashlight in Jacob’s eyes. “Pinker than shit, just as I expected,” the other officer sneered. “So where’s the other one? We got a report of two boys trespassing. This is private property, you know.” “Sorry, sir. We didn’t know it was private. Me and my friend were just taking a hike. He should be down any minute.” Jacob’s chest pounded like a bass drum. He stared at the cops’ gleaming black shoes “Oh yeah, a ‘hike’?” The officer made air quotes with his fingers. “Seems like we just caught a couple of dopeheads, not a couple of hikers. How old are you buddy? Let’s see if we can get you in any actual trouble.” The cops laughed. One scratched his caterpillar mustache as he reached for his note pad. Their radios began to buzz with static. “We have reports of a body off the outer road of I-70 eastbound near Blue Springs. Teenage male, long dark hair, unsure of condition. The reporters of the incident believe he jumped from the cliffs above.” The radio cut. One of the cops responded into the mic, probably saying they were on it, but Jacob didn’t hear them. He frowned and began to look around, cracking his fingers. “Shit,” one of the cops muttered, as he met Jacob’s lost eyes looking up at him.

acob sat in the back of the police cruiser as they pulled onto the outer road and drove to the scene. He couldn’t see much from the back of the car. The cops got out and walked over to somewhere in the grass off the road. They stood with their hands on their hips and stared. They began to speak to each other. Soon an ambulance pulled to the scene, and Jacob watched as Jack’s crumpled body was heaved onto a stretcher. He was a rock. One of the paramedics shook her head as they lifted the stretcher into the car. The police jotted some notes

on their pads and strutted back to the cruiser, indifferent to the tragedy. “That’s why you don’t smoke pot, son,” the officer condescended. “It’ll drive you fucking crazy.” “That’s the trouble with you damn kids today: all you’re ever trying to do is get high.” The other cop leaned back in the passenger seat as they peeled off onto the outer road.

acob skipped school the next day. The night before when the police had walked him to his door, he said nothing as he walked through the quiet house, past his irate mother, and when he got into his room he buried his face in his pillow. He didn’t cry. He didn’t really do anything. He just sat and sucked in the darkness. His eyes never closed that night. He switched between staring into his blank pillow and scanning his unlit, gray room. He waited for an ambulance or something to come drop Jack off at his house, with nothing more than a few broken bones and more scratches to add to his collection of scars. But no one came, and Jacob felt alone in the dark silence. He eventually just stared out the window and watched as the black sky began to fill with color and the sun peeked over the horizon. The overgrown grass in Jack’s yard shined with a heavy dew. The house looked vacant without Jack’s pickup out front. Someone knocked on Jacob’s door. The clock on his bedside table said 7:00 A.M. “Jacob,” his mother spoke softly. “Honey, are you awake?” His eyes grew watery, and he tossed his head into his pillow, pretending to sleep, as his mother came in. He felt her weight ease onto the bed. “It’s okay baby,” she said as she stroked his hair. “This too shall pass.” She kissed him on the forehead and walked out of the room. He almost laughed through his snot and tears at her cheesiness. Jacob finally slept after his mother came in, and he didn’t wake up until he again heard

a knock on his door. His mother padded across the carpet and sat down next to him again. She had an envelope in her hands. “The police went by Jack’s this morning.” She paused. “His grandmother’s getting taken care of. Apparently he had it set up so that the movers from the retirement home would come by today to pick her up. Luckily the police were there to help them out. They told her about what happened, and they said she was pretty shaken, but they think she’ll be alright. At least she’ll be well taken care of now.” Jacob said nothing. She had been well taken care of before, Jacob thought. But he sat quietly and stared at his hands in his lap. “He left some notes too. The police said it looked like they were written a while ago. One for his grandmother, one for his band, and one for you.” She held up the envelope. Jacob was scrawled across the envelope in Jack’s signature chicken scratch. Jacob gingerly reached for the envelope, and he enclosed it in his palm. It felt heavy, and the envelope was rough. His mother stood awkwardly and pressed him against her side. “I love you, Jacob.” “I love you, too,” he managed to push through the pressure in his eyes. He stared at the envelope in his lap. He sniffled, but a tear escaped his eye and rolled off his nose onto the envelope. It left a dark blot on the eggshell envelope. In a rage Jacob slammed the envelope into the trash bin and stormed to the opposite wall. He stood in the corner, pressing his tears back, every once in awhile choking when the tears became too heavy. He pouted in the corner, but he felt the envelope watching him from the trash. Eventually, Jacob succumbed and fished for the envelope. He gulped a mass of air as he stared at it. He peeled the paper open like a scab. To My Dearest Friend Jacob, First of all, I’m sorry… Second, you need to grow the hell up and realize that I’m no goddamn hero...

J 14

ack peeked out from behind a thin blanket. His father held him loosely in one of his arms, and he ashed a cigarette out the window with the other. His mother floored the accelerator as they raced through the suburbs of Kansas City. “We’re almost free, baby,” Jack’s father said as he sucked in smoke. Jack peeked up at him from his swaddle, his eyes filled with wonder. The clock on the car radio read 5:00 A.M. Jack’s mother reached over for his father’s cigarette playfully, grabbing it out of his hand then taking a few faux drags. “Peter, are you sure your mother will take him?” “Yes, Cynthia. I know she’s not going to leave him to freeze,” Jack’s father assured her. He looked down at the marble brown eyes staring up at him from the blankets innocently. Guilt began to gnaw at his spine. But as his wife cut the lights and they pulled into his mother’s driveway, he swaddled the infant into an extra blanket and strapped him into his carrier. Jack reached for his father, and his eyes widened as his mother lifted his

chair from the back seat. He began to babble and soon started wailing. “Shhh,” his mother scolded, but when he continued to wail she slapped his fragile wrist and shoved a pacifier into his mouth. He closed his eyes, comforted by the smooth rubber nipple. Once Jack was quiet, his mother continued creeping up to the house and hesitated on the porch. She looked up at the pristine house and looked down the street at the other matching homes. She looked at them in disdain. But she knew they were safe. In a swift motion she set the carrier on the deck and jogged back out to their black truck. “We’re free baby,” Jack’s mother said as she leapt into the truck, and as they tore away, Jack’s father looked back, troubled, to see the baby, awoken by the obnoxious engine, flailing his arms and grasping for someone to hold. As the truck disappeared from the neighborhood, and the sun began to rise, the neighborhood was awoken by the cries of a whimpering, lonely child.

photograph by Joe Hillmeyer

Between Us Nick Sondermann Nothing can stop My inexorable decline Because when you fall from the top There is plenty of hang time For me to meet you. But, when I finish my fall, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll die. So this is what you should do, Look at me and see all the reasons you should fly.

photograph by Brendan Voigt

photograph by Liam Connolly

A Light During a Dark Time Chris Augsburger

was standing behind the computer staring at lines of Java code. Our robot was fully built and wired, and almost all of it was working. I had been staring at the same code for two hours, trying to get auto targeting to align properly before shooting, and my depression had made the whole time much more painful and harder than it should’ve been. I sighed as I entered the last line of code. “Alright, the robot should now align itself before shooting,” I said. I uploaded the modified code to the robot. The pain from my depression had grown to the point that I wanted to scream or punch something if the auto targeting didn’t work. I enabled the robot and purposely misaligned it, pushed the button to auto align, and watched as the robot turned towards the goal. The robot moved itself into alignment with the goal but then continued to turn past the goal. The robot then shot the balls, which all missed. I threw the controller in my hands down on the computer cart, put my hands into my face, and ran them back through my hair. “I need a break,” I said. After letting my moderator know that I was heading outside for a break, I walked out of the room towards the exit at the end of the hallway. I clenched my fists, trying my hardest not to scream or punch myself as the pain in my chest grew. I went outside and found the nearest bench to sit on. It was dark outside, and the school campus felt isolated. I stared into the distance and just let the pain and emptiness sink in. I heard footsteps from behind, but I

didn’t turn around to see who it was. I waited as the footsteps grew louder and closer. Eventually there was somebody sitting on the opposite side of the bench.

ack in grade school, I would sit at a table in the back left corner of the cafeteria during lunch. There would be five of us gathered around the dimly lit table hunched over eating our lunches. The cafeteria would be full of screaming grade schoolers, but an overpowering aura of quietness would fill the corner our table was in. I had the same lunch everyday: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a fruit cup, and some chips. My mom always made my lunch because I was too busy getting ready for school in the morning. One day, after I took out my lunch, one of the kids in my class was walking by our table when he stopped and looked over at me. I wasn’t looking back up at him, but I could tell that he probably had a sarcastic, sad face on. He slightly leaned over the table and said, “Aww. Did you need your mommy to pack your lunch for you again?” “Please just leave me alone,” I said. “Or else what? Are you going to go cry to your mommy and have her defend you?” I took a deep breath and clenched my fists under the table. I knew that he was looking to get a reaction out of me. I sat in silence for a little while, trying to think of what to say back to him. I really just wanted him to leave me alone, so I took another deep breath before finally saying, “You know what? You’re right. I’ll go cry to my ‘mommy.’”

He let out a quick chuckle. “That’s what I thought. You’re nothing more than a coward and a crybaby.” He finally walked away from our table triumphantly. I sat there in silence. My fists started to shake under the table and tears formed in my eyes. I wanted to get out of my seat and walk over to him and start beating him up, but I couldn’t. I was underweight, and he was much bulkier than I was. One of my friends leaned towards me and softly started to say, “Owen, it’s—” I raised my left hand from under the table and held it up to cut him off. He understood that I wanted to be left alone and went back to paying attention to his lunch. I looked at my now blurry lunch. I was no longer angry, but rather only sad and alone. I blinked a few times and took a few deep breaths before my vision finally cleared up. I picked up my sandwich, but I was no longer hungry. I ate my sandwich really slowly, feeling each bite being forced down my throat. I didn’t want my mom to suspect anything from me eating so little, so I gave away my fruit cup and chips to one of my friends who didn’t have a lunch that day.

ow in my junior year in high school, I still sat by myself during lunch. I had spent the last two years being reserved and only talking to others when I was forced to. I spent most of my days observing how everyone in my class interacted with one another, hoping to find a way to interact with them so that they would like me. I mainly watched a boy in my class whom I’d fallen in love with last year. His name was Jeff. Jeff was one of the tallest kids in our class and also a bit on the chubby side, but I really liked how gentle he seemed despite his size. I hadn’t talked to him at all. I was afraid that it would seem odd for me to randomly start talking to him, so I waited for him to notice me.

Finally, it happened one of the first few days of my junior year. I was sitting at a table by the edge of the cafeteria all by myself, looking out at all the other kids enjoying lunch with their usual groups of friends. I was in the middle of eating my sandwich when I noticed Jeff looking around for his friends after getting out of the lunch line. Jeff ’s blue eyes met mine, and he started to walk over to my table. My heart sped up a bit, and I quickly darted my focus to something else in the cafeteria. As much as I wanted to keep looking at him, I didn’t want it to seem like I was gawking. “Do you mind if I sit with you?” he asked. I didn’t want Jeff to sit with me. I already had a hard time talking to people, and having to talk to someone I was in love seemed even harder, but I also really wanted to talk with him so I simply said, “No, not really.” Jeff put his tray of food down on the table and took the seat directly across from mine. I looked down at my food as I ate it, but I could feel Jeff staring at me from the other side of the table. We both ate in silence for a few minutes before Jeff finally said, “I’ve seen you sit here by yourself every day. Do you not have any friends to sit with?” My heart skipped a beat. Did Jeff really just say that he has seen me every day? I knew Jeff probably didn’t have feelings for me like I did for him, but I still took little moments like this one and savored them, moments when somebody says something that could be taken as “I love you.” I wasn’t sure why Jeff had seen me every day, but I needed to convince myself that it wasn’t because he liked me, so I asked him, “You noticed me every day?” “It’s not hard to miss someone sitting by themselves in a sea of empty tables.” “Fair enough. But that still doesn’t explain why you came over and sat with me.” He hesitated for a second. “I thought you could use a friend.”

I sat in silence for a while. I knew this was the answer that I was going to hear, but it still hurt to hear it. I finally decided to ask Jeff if there was anything he wanted to talk about. He said that we could talk about our high school experiences so far or any teachers that we really didn’t like. And so we did. Jeff did most of the talking because I was still nervous about talking to others. Jeff came to my table during lunch to sit with me everyday for the next couple of weeks. We would talk mainly about how our days at school were going, but sometimes we would talk about extracurricular activities or sports. Although I was nervous about talking to him at first, I had started talking to him more and more during lunch to the point where some lunches I would talk more than he did. One day close to the end of the first quarter, Jeff asked me, “Would you like to join the robotics team?” “I’m sorry. What?” I said. “Well, you’re really good at math, you really like computers, and seem to have a good understanding of programming. We’re also kinda low on programmers right now and I thought that you might be a good addition to the team.” “But I don’t know anything about programming robots.” “That’s fine. We’re having new guys build smaller robots to teach them the basics of robotics. You’ll just work with one of those groups until the main season starts.” “Umm… Could I have a little time to think about this?” “Yeah. Sure. I didn’t mean to pressure you. Don’t feel like you need to rush to give me an answer.” “Thanks.” My “little time” ended up being three days. I just couldn’t make up my mind. I hadn’t done any extracurricular activities because I didn’t like having to interact with

other people when it wasn’t necessary. But I also wanted to join the Robotics team because it would give me more time with Jeff. But after thinking about it for three days, I accepted his request during lunch. I had decided that the extra time with Jeff was worth it and I could always quit at any point if I didn’t like it. “Cool,” he said. “Would you come down to robotics after school today then?” “Uhh, no. That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just have to let my parents know. What time are you guys usually finished?” “Most people leave around 4:15, but we make everyone leave at 5:00 since we’re only working on the smaller robots right now. You know where the robotics room is, right?” “Yeah. I’ve walked past it a few times.” The lunch bell rang. “I’ll see you down there.” “See ya.” My first day there, Jeff introduced me to everyone on the team. Robotics met everyday after school, but I showed up once or twice every week for only a few minutes. I was still nervous about meeting other people, and I lacked confidence in my ability to program. Jeff spent every day with me to get me more comfortable being around the other people on the team, however, and I started showing up more often. I really liked being able to finally do something I loved and still not having to interact much with others. I would spend most of my time sitting at a computer by myself, programming the small robot that the others on my team were building, and only having to talk every now and then. Finally, when first semester exams were coming up, our club held its own little competition between the small robots that the different teams in the club had built. The robot that our team had built worked perfectly, and we ended up beating all the other teams by more than fifty points each. Finally, something that I did had gone right for once,

and my teammates actually complimented me for my work instead of hating me for the smallest mistake. After Christmas break, the main season started. Jeff spent most of his time with a few other people on the team in the room with all the power tools working on getting the robot built. Since I was in another room working with others to get all of the code written, I didn’t see Jeff that much while at Robotics. My depression worsened during this time because I liked being around Jeff while at Robotics, but I had to leave him alone so that we could both finish our work.

was waiting,” I said without turning towards him. “I know,” Jeff said. He scooted a bit closer to me. “What’s the matter? And don’t tell me it has to do with the robot. I know it’s “ more than that.” I sighed. “It’s just that… I would really like to tell you. Trust me, I really do. It’s just that I can’t.” “What do you mean? Why can’t you?” “I can’t tell you because—because I’m too scared to tell you the truth.” “The truth,” he said and then turned towards me. “Owen, you know that I would never tell anyone anything that you tell me or ever use it against you, right?” “I know. It’s just that what I want to tell you, I have never told anyone else.” We sat in silence for a little bit. I was staring off into the distance, but I could tell that Jeff wanted to hear what I was hiding. After about a minute, I finally spoke. “No matter what I tell you, you won’t change your opinion of me, right?” “I promise,” he said. “Cross my heart.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “Alright. Well, if I don’t say this now, I don’t think I’ll be able to convince myself to later. I’m gay.”

I stared at Jeff looking for his reaction. I had finally overcome my own fears, and I felt like I could tell Jeff everything now. But I was still scared that I might have just lost him. He was staring off into the distance and seemed to be looking for the right words to say to me. He took a deep breath and said, “Alright. Anything else?” I stared at Jeff for a little while. I wasn’t expecting him to accept this so well and just continue on the conversation. “Well, I … Umm, I don’t really know what to say. I wasn’t expecting this to go this way.” “It’s okay,” he said as he put his hand on my back. “We got time.” I stared out into the highway by our school, watching the pairs of headlights fly past. I was trying to figure out what to say to him. I didn’t want to tell him too much and make him leave me, but I also wanted to let him know everything. After what felt like half an hour, I finally spoke. “This probably isn’t going to come out right, and I’m probably going to say too much, but, it’s hard,” I said with tears starting to form in my eyes. “It’s hard to go everyday knowing that the beliefs I’ve been taught and the feelings I have go against each other. To go through each day and have to restrain myself from expressing my true feelings.” At this point, I was crying and punching myself in the leg. Jeff scooted closer to me and put his arm around me while using his other arm to keep me from hitting myself. I could smell the deodorant that Jeff had put on earlier that day, and it only made me want him more. It took me a while to realize that Jeff had been saying my name to try and get my attention. “What?” I said. “Owen, there’s no need to hit yourself like that,” he said. “It’s going to be alright.” “No, it’s not,” I said forcefully while looking at a blurry Jeff. “I have this giant

moral dilemma I have to contemplate everyday. And worst of all, anyone that I fall in love with always turns out to be some goddamn Catholic that… Nevermind… You wouldn’t understand.” “Look Owen, I might not understand what you’re going through, but I’m willing to listen to whatever you want to say if you just want to get something off your chest.” I looked over at Jeff again and stared into his blue eyes. I wanted so badly to reach over and pull him in for a kiss. I wanted to hug him and feel his body up against mine. I felt myself unconsciously begin to reach towards Jeff, but I had to stop myself before I got close enough for him to see. I didn’t want to lose the only person whom I felt comfortable telling everything to. I had stopped crying and now just had a dull look in my eyes. “Do you know how hard it is to love a guy?” I said. Jeff looked at me confused. “Jeff, it hurts so much. It hurts to know that I can’t tell anyone that I love them because I would lose them if I told them. It hurts to have them as the center of my attention when they don’t even notice me. And I have all of these emotions and there’s nobody that I can talk to that would understand me. And I’m stuck in this world that I have to find my way through and there’s nobody that can help me.” “Owen, I’m so—” “I know you feel bad about this, but it’s not your fault. The relationships I want are stupid fantasies that I keep chasing around. I trap myself in these fantasies so I don’t have to deal with the pain of not having them.” “I… Owen, I might not be able to understand what you are going through or be able to tell you how to deal with everything. But I’ll always be here for you if there’s ever something that is bothering you that you would like to talk about.” “Jeff, I…” I reached towards Jeff and em-

braced him in a hug. “Thanks.” I don’t know what made me hug Jeff. It just felt like the right moment, but something was off. The hug didn’t feel like I had imagined it. It was real enough, but it felt stiff and awkward. Then it occurred to me that Jeff wasn’t hugging me back. “Owen, what the hell are you doing?” Jeff said. “You tell me you’re gay and then you do this?” I pulled back quickly. I had screwed up. I had let myself slip for one second, and that had cost me Jeff. I stared at Jeff with my mouth open as I tried to find something to say. Jeff grinned and let out a little chuckle. “Relax, Owen. I’m just playing with you.” He stood up. “C’mon, the robot isn’t going to program itself.”

ceramic installation by Liam Conolly and Sam Grasso

The Fence of the Walls Syed Fakhryzada

stood staring at the wall of potato chips. My mind pondered what seemed to be the hardest decision of my fourteen-yearold life. My wide eyes stared up at the bags, a vast array of different crunchy snacks, waiting to be bought. I crushed the five dollar bill in my hand in anticipation. My free hand inched towards a bag when suddenly I was interrupted. “Yo, Al,” I heard from across the aisle. My head darted towards the voice. I was surprised to see my neighbor, Dominic Williams. We grew up together on 38th Street. “What’s good, Dom?”

“Not shit. I got somethin to tell you, though.” “For sure, you alright?” I replied as I grabbed the bag of Doritos from the shelf. “I’m good. I just gotta talk to you outside.” We headed over to the counter and paid for the bag of chips. Dom stepped out of the convenience store slowly, cautiously. Under the sun we seemed exposed. The bright light bouncing off the sidewalk forced my eyes shut. “So what you need to talk about?” Dom walked for a bit. He didn’t say anything. Suddenly Dom started crying. The tears rolled down his face and landed on his white T-shirt, creating small gray blobs as they landed. I didn’t know what to say. “They took it, man. They took my goddamn bike.” “Who? Who took your bike? What happened?” “I don’t know, Al. I was riding on—” He

pastel drawing by Paul Burka

choked. “I was riding on 38th, and they got me. I got my ass kicked, and they stole my bike. They were a couple kids, older than us.” Dominic had a brand new 6-speed mountain bike he had bought earlier that summer. It was a dark neon blue that stood out in the bright sun. Dominic mowed lawns during the school year to afford the bike. It meant a lot to him. “Damn. I’m sorry, Dom.” “Don’t be. I swear to God, I’ma find ’em. They gonna be sorry, Al. I paid for that bike, man. I worked hard for it. You can’t just take it from me… You gotta help me find it, man.” We walked a little. I took long strides and stared at the concrete, my eyes now adapted to the brightness. “I’m down to help, but how we gonna do it? We don’t know those kids, and they older than us. We could be putting ourselves into a whole lotta trouble.” Dom reached into his pocket and pulled out a polished piece of wood. With the press of a button on the side, the wood released a sharp piece of metal. It was a pocket knife. It was bright under the beaming sun. Dom stared at the sharp tip. His eyes looked as if he had acquired a sort of power, something that made him stronger. Dom’s red eyes shot at me, and he smiled. I forced a half smile and shook my head.

couldn’t sleep that night. I thought about what Dom had planned. I thought about the Dom’s switchblade and about what he could do with it if something went wrong. Growing up, Dom never had any problems with anyone. He didn’t like to go out of his way to talk to people either. We rode the bus to school and back every day, and he’d often sit alone. In my sixth grade year Dom had an altercation with one of the kids on the bus, Devon. Devon Wall was an eighth grader who rode on the same bus as us. Devon was bitter and bullied the other kids on

the bus. Dom was reading in his seat when he was struck with a paper ball. Dom shook it off and went back to reading. He knew who it was and tried his best to ignore him. Devon stood up and walked towards Dom. “Yo, bitch,” he said holding his chin up high. “Look at me.” Dom didn’t budge. Devon grabbed Dom by the hair and pushed his head up. At that moment something snapped inside of Dom. He gave Devon a look that would have scared anyone. Devon let go of his hair, and Dom stood up. Reaching his arm back, Dom punched Devon square in the jaw. It happened so fast all you could hear was the click of Devon’s jaw. Devon fell down, his tall stature reduced to an unconscious body. The bus fell quiet. Devon lay on the ground and didn’t move. Dom stood and looked down at him. He looked powerful. Dom was suspended for two weeks after that. Devon left the school with a broken jaw. I had grown up with Dom, but that was the first time I had seen Dom that angry. It was this anger that scared me. I knew Dom was capable of something dangerous.

woke up the next morning to my mother screaming my name. “Ali, Dom’s here to see you! Wake up!” “What you talking about, Ma?” I mumbled. It suddenly hit me that Dom was here to talk about the incident, about his bike. I shot up out of bed and became lightheaded. I headed towards my closet and slipped on some shorts and a tank top. I sprinted towards the door. “Did you brush your teeth?” my mom shouted as I headed towards the door. “Yeah, Ma,” I lied. I opened the door and saw Dom looking at the ground with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Waddup, Dom?”

“Yo, Al. I got some good news,” he said as he walked away from my porch, indicating for me to follow him. “Yeah?” “My bike. I know who got it.” “How? Did you ask door to door?” I laughed. “Nah, I saw the dude on my bike. He one of Devon Wall’s brothers. They got my bike and I know where they live.” I stopped in my tracks. “Come on, Dom. That shit isn’t worth your life. If them boys find out who you really are and what you did to Devon, you might end up worse than just having your shit stolen. Forget about it, Dom. I’m not gonna help you get killed.” “Al, if you were my homie you’d help me get this bike back. Brothers got each others back no matter what.” “Brothers also prevent each other from getting they asses killed.” “If you not gonna help me, go home. I see how it is.” I took a deep breath and contemplated for a second. Dom wanted this bike back. It was gonna be hard to obtain, but Dom had helped me through thick and thin. “Aight, Dom. If you so confident, what’s the plan?” “We just gonna go to his yard and grab it. Simple as that, man.” “That shit don’t sound that simple when you hoppin in the Wall Brothers’ yard. That family just a bunch of trouble. Hoppin in they yard just gonna give em a reason to kill yo’ ass.” “You with me or what, Al?” We walked a little. “Yeah.” I sighed.

y parents weren’t around much when I was growing up and I was an only child, so Dom became kind of like an older brother to me. Dom liked doing stuff that

could potentially put him in danger. He said it gave him a kind of thrill he couldn’t find anywhere else. I never put myself in danger for something, not to mention doing it for the “thrill.” I was more of a stay-out-oftrouble-and-do-my-homework type of kid. One time Dom found a can of spray paint in his garage and decided to tag some buildings. Dom decided it would be a good idea to drag me along. We snuck out at night and went straight to an abandoned house near 38th Street. The front door was locked, so we broke a window in the back and jumped inside. Dom shook up the can, and it rattled. Before he could spray, he looked around the house. “If we spray here no one’s gonna see it.” “That’s the point, ain’t it?” I asked. Dom ignored my question and hopped out of the window we came in from. I followed him reluctantly. I knew Dom was up to something. We walked through backyards out of the neighborhood and ended up at a train track crossing. On the other side of the train tracks was an enormous building with its name written in bold letters on the fence: “RANTER STEEL CO.” A sign near the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY.” Dom ran towards the chain link fence and lifted the bottom, creating a gap. “Get in,” he whispered. I gave Dom a worried look but proceeded. When I got to the other side, I did the same for Dom. We snuck around buildings towards the main factory and were met by a wall on the side of the main building. The wall was light gray and looked freshly painted. I heard the rattling of a paint can, and my attention darted over towards Dom. I saw Dom with a look of excitement as he stood shaking the can of paint. The can started shooting chunks of blue paint unevenly before it started to spray a stream of blue mist, creating thick lines of paint. Dom started to spray on the wall. He sprayed his initials deli-

cately. His eyes followed the stream of blue mist as he sprayed. The paint was heavy and dark. Large blobs of paint rolled off Dom’s initials, giving it a distinctive look. “Hey!” I suddenly heard from my left side. I looked over and saw a factory worker with a yellow hardhat. Dom dashed, and I followed. An alarm started to go off. I could feel my heart pounding hard. I could see the flashes of the red alarm light behind me in my peripheral as I ran. We finally reached the gate. Dom pulled up the fence viciously, and I slid through. When on the other side of the fence, we started to walk. I didn’t say anything for a bit because of the lump in my throat. Dom faced me, walking backwards, and gave me a smile. “That was awesome,” he whispered, widening his smile.

hat night we walked through the Wall Brothers’ neighborhood. We didn’t talk. The night was silent besides the sound of our footsteps clapping against the concrete. The summer night air smelled of fresh dew, and the cool air blew against us. I stared down at the cracked blocks of sidewalk rolling by as we walked. I thought about what we were about to do, what could go wrong, and how this could be the last night we were alive. I felt a lump in my throat. I was terrified. “This house right here,” Dom whispered, pointing at a dilapidated house. It was red brick, two-stories. One of the windows on the second floor was cracked but still intact. Some of the bricks were missing on the support for the porch cover. It looked as if it could fall over at any moment. The paint on the stairs leading up to the house was chipped, revealing the raw concrete that lay beneath. It looked abandoned. “You sure this is it?” “Yeah, look over here,” he said, looking through the crack of the house’s wooden

fence. I looked through the crack and saw it. There was a bike leaning on the garage. It was the same model as Dom’s bike. But it was dark green, unlike Dom’s bike. “Yo, you sure that’s your bike? It’s green.” “Yeah, they spray painted it. That’s what they do with stolen stuff. They gotta make sure it doesn’t look the same so the people they stole it from dont try’n take it back. You feel?” “Good point.” “Okay, Al. What we gonna do is hop this fence and take the bike. In and out, aight?” “I guess.” We hopped the tall brown fence, and our feet smacked against the hard concrete in the backyard. We both stared at the house to see if we had alerted anyone. After a couple of seconds the coast was clear. Dom ran towards the bike and put it over his shoulder. “I’ma hop over, and you throw it over the fence.” “If you say so,” I said reluctantly. Dom swiftly hopped over the fence. “You rea—” Dom was interrupted by the sounds of a chain. I looked over and saw something moving beneath the shadow of a tree. My heart started to pound rapidly. We froze. An animal jumped out of the shadows into the fluorescent neighborhood light. A white pit bull charged towards me. Its muscles and slobbering mouth were sharpened by the bright light as it rushed towards me. Its charge towards me was stopped by the chain tied to its neck. The dog was viciously pulled back to a tree by the chain, and it let out a squeal. Suddenly a light in the house turned on. I quickly grabbed Dom’s bike and threw it over the fence with all my strength. I heard a crash on the other side of the fence. I jumped on top of the fence and slid to the other side. The sharp tip of the wooden fence scraped my knee, but I brushed it off. I saw Dom on the bike and immediately hopped behind him.

“Go!” I shouted. Dom pushed his foot down and aggressively started pedaling. I felt the cool wind blow against my face as we zoomed down the street. We finally got back to Dom’s house and rode into his backyard. “I told you we was gonna do it, Al,” said Dom with a smile, that same thrilling smile from when we spray-painted the the steel factory. “I almost got chewed up by a pit, but that’s cool,” I said as I started to feel warm blood dripping from the cut on my knee. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. At least we got the bike back.” We both looked down at the neon green bike and immediately noticed

something. Something about the bike wasn’t right. All of the original stickers were still on the bike and the handlebars, like the bike itself, were also neon green. Dom and I both looked up at each other slowly. Our eyes widened. “This ain’t spray-painted Dom. We just stole someone’s else’s bike.” “No way, man.” “Yeah, we went to get your bike back and ended up stealing someone else’s bike. How the hell we gonna explain this?” Dom paused for a while, staring at the neon green bike in contemplation. “We not. We gonna sneak it back,” Dom said.

photograph by Brendan Voigt

The Driving Prayer Ed Gartner My mom once asked what I think about as I drive. Here you go, Mom. I turn on an album that I like. It’s an overly pensive poem about death. There are clouds in front of me. I look up at the clear sky. A cup rolls anxiously on the passenger’s floor. Every time I drive, I say, “If, while I am driving today Happen to die, it would be okay.” Every drive, every day. I marvel that going 70 on the highway isn’t fast enough. Where are all these people going in such a rush? Morbidly, I think of the final destination. A cup rolls anxiously on the passenger’s floor. The prayer does not comment on how I drive. It’s just to acknowledge, since I’m alive That my life has been all but grey On every drive, every day. I roll past a row of blinking lights: A funeral. I say a quick prayer. There aren’t many cars. A cup rolls anxiously on the passenger’s floor. The stake in my life is not my own So I sing the prayer that I have sown, The prayer that will I choose to say Every drive, every day. A rebellious, rock-rolling song comes on. It courses through me as I pull in: I’ve reached my own chosen end. The cup stops.

I’ll Kick Your Ass Adam Kleffner

fter opening the door to the school cafeteria, I was immediately hit by the smell of General Tso’s chicken and fried rice always sold on Tuesdays. This was Alex’s favorite lunch to buy, so I knew I could find him coming out of the lunch line. I brought my lunch everyday because I didn’t like waiting in lines or having those stupid little conversations with my peers like, “Hey, the fries look fresh today!” or “Wow, $2.65 for a shitty chicken sandwich. This school’s a joke.” I didn’t enjoy these fake conversations with fake people. I usually sat with Alex and some of his other friends at lunch. I tried my best to sit next to him so we could talk about the chemistry lab we did in the morning. I liked talking about school a lot more than the plans for the weekend. This was probably because I didn’t hang out with Alex and his friends on the weekend. I didn’t like the other guys. Jacob talked about himself too much, Craig only talked about his girlfriend, Mason was always pissed off, and Brent thought he and Alex were best friends when they really weren’t. I got excited when I saw Alex make his way from the servery. His tray was piled with his usual boat of rice and chicken and a Mountain Dew Code Red. Brent wasn’t tailing him, which was a surprise to me. Our table was in the back left corner among all the other sophomores’ tables. As Alex walked diagonally from the servery to the table, I walked straight towards the back wall so that we would cross paths before we sat down. “What’s up?” I asked Alex.

“For Christ’s sake! Will you please stop following me around? I’m sick of your shit. I’m not your fucking mother,” Alex said. I was stunned at first. I stood there frozen. Blood rushed to my face. The eyes of the people around us fixed on me. I could feel them staring. What was his problem? Why was he in such a bad mood today? What did I do to deserve that? My fists clenched easily, which was weird because I’d never punched anyone before. I didn’t really know how. Do I swing down on him and hit just below the eye of his baby face? Do I swing up and send my knuckles crashing into the left side of his jaw? Or do I come across the side and thrust my clenched right fist through his cheek and watch his head snap to the side like you see in all those stupid boxing movies? That one sounded right. I swung. I think all the force behind the only punch I have ever thrown in my life was from that bottled up anger and sadness that I’d experienced since he moved away. I guess it wasn’t really his fault.

lex grew up three houses east of mine on Poplar Street. I didn’t know him until our moms decided for us that we were going to be friends. A few weeks into the summer I turned four, mom convinced me to knock on Alex’s door. I don’t remember exactly how our first interaction with each other went, but my mom insists that I walked into his house without even knocking on the door first. After we met, we were never apart for more than the two weeks his family went to Europe at the end of July.

However, during the summer of sixth grade, Alex told me he was moving to a different part of the city because his family needed to live closer to his dad’s new office. They were moving before school started in the fall. We saw each other every day that summer, making the last day of July even harder for the both of us to say goodbye to each other. We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner together, Alex slept at my house the night before his family moved, and I cried when he left in the morning. I wonder if he cried, too.

I didn’t really have many friends for the rest of middle school after Alex moved. I was shy and stuck to myself most days. My smile, which my mom said everyone loved, rarely appeared on my face. Mom and I thought it was my new braces, but now I realize that wasn’t the reason. I missed my friend. Alex and I hung out a couple times after his move. This was mostly set up by our parents, who knew we were going to eventually attend the same private high school and they still wanted us to be friends. However, some-

photograph by Brendan Voigt

thing was different between Alex and me after he moved. Instead of talking for hours as we did when we hung out every day, we struggled to find things to talk about, which was weird because we saw each other only a handful of times throughout the year. We usually agreed to go to a movie or a sporting event, where we could talk about the movie or the game if we couldn’t find anything else to talk about.

he summer before freshman year, Alex and I hung out four or five times. I thought that if we could hang out every day again, things could go back to how they used to be when we were neighbors, straying away from the awkward conversations about whether or not we liked the new Fast and Furious movie. Most of my parents’ best friends were people that they met in high school, so I couldn’t wait for Alex and me to go to school together again. The first day of school was a Thursday. I don’t know if I was excited or not. I guess I was indifferent, but at least Alex and I had science class together first, a good way to start the day, and the same lunch period. Alex and I had compared schedules when we got them in July, and biology was the only class we had together. After doing the stupid introductions that everyone does on the first day, our teacher, Mrs. Hamilton, assigned lab partners. I was hoping we’d get to choose each other as partners, but Mrs. Hamilton assigned me to this random kid, Damon. Alex was paired with Brent. All Damon talked about was sports, which I didn’t mind. It made our labs go by without that awkward silence where neither person knows what to talk about. This guy was obsessed with all things sports, especially the video games. “Madden is my favorite, but I play FIFA and 2K a lot, too,” Damon said while we were dissecting a frog during the second quarter.

“I’ve never played FIFA, but I have Madden and it’s okay, I guess,” I said. “Just okay? You’re crazy.” “I like GTA better.” “Yeah, true. I would definitely rather steal a car than win the Super Bowl,” he said sarcastically.

efore Alex could get up and punch back or, worse, say something, I walked quickly away from the scene we had just created. I felt eyes follow me as I pushed through the square tables on the edge of the cafeteria to the door to exit the cafeteria. When I walked through the door, I was immediately greeted by the cool February breeze, but I didn’t mind. I was numb. I sat at a table by myself, scarfed down my peanut butter sandwich and Rice Krispie Treat, and rushed through the first Act of Hamlet that I had a quiz on next period. After lunch, Mrs. Fiske was trying to teach my English 2 class something about the Shakespeare reading we had, but I could think only about how much pain I was in. The knuckle of my middle finger had swollen to about twice its normal size, and I was starting to wish I had slapped Alex instead punching him in the jaw as I had. I was opening my backpack to grab my bottle of Advil when I heard the classroom door open. When I looked over at the door and made eye contact with our principal, Dr. Firmand, I knew he had come for me. Dr. Firmand nodded his head towards the hallway. My stomach dropped. I hadn’t meant to hit Alex, but things happened so quickly that my instincts took over, which scares me. I had never done that before. I stood up, grabbed my backpack, and walked out of the room. I made a pretty big scene despite my and Dr. Firmand’s best effort not to. I didn’t really care at this point because I didn’t enjoy anyone else in my class. Dr. Firmand walked me to his office

without saying a word. I started to get nervous when I thought about what my mom would think when she found out what I did, about what Alex’s mom would think of me, and, most importantly, about what Alex now thought of me. When we finally got to his office after walking in silence for what seemed like a half an hour, Dr. Firmand said, “Have a seat, Charlie. I’ll be right back,” and left. I was sitting in the chair that faced his desk when I finally started to feel it and think about what Alex said to me. Tears swelled in my eyes but I held them back because I don’t cry. Do I spend too much time with Alex? Does he even like me? What am I supposed to do now? Alex is my only friend. Who do I talk to about this? Would anyone even care? Dr. Firmand walked back into the office, but I didn’t move. I stared at the blue light on his monitor that flashed on and off every other second or so, tuning myself out from what he was saying. “So, you punched Alex, huh?” I nodded. The light flashed. “Isn’t he your friend?” I nodded. I continued to nod as you do when you want your teacher or your mom to think you’re listening but you really don’t care about what they have to say and would rather think about what’s going on in your own head. The light flashed. “So, what do you think your punishment should be?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I’m thinking a two-day suspension.” “Okay.” The light flashed. “Do you have anything you want to say?” “Uh, I’m sorry, I guess.” “Are you really?” “Not sure.” “The counselor’s office is always open. I can get you out of class if you want to talk to Mr. Goddard. He’s your counselor, isn’t he?” “Yeah.” The light flashed longer this time.

drawing by Lancer Li

“Do you talk to him ever?” “Not really.” I hated talking to counselors. They always try to create a problem when there isn’t one, kind of like what Dr. Firmand was doing at this moment. He paused for a couple minutes. Finally, he spoke. “You can pack your stuff up and go home. Do you have a ride?” “Yeah, I can drive.” I stood up and left.

walked through the school doors on Friday morning with my headphones in my ears, but no music was playing. I didn’t want anyone to bother me, but I wanted to hear if others were talking to me when I walked past them. My locker was at the far end of the sophomore hallway, so I had to walk past everyone on the way there. I could see everyone staring at me and could hear everyone whispering about me. I pretended to ignore them, making it seem as if the music from my headphones were more important to me than their gossip. I wish I could say I didn’t care what they were saying about me, but I would be lying if I did. When I finally arrived at my locker, I unpacked my backpack and got my books ready for chemistry

class. I planned on keeping my headphones in all day, except when I was attempting to pay attention in my classes. After world history class, I walked outside to eat my lunch where I had after I punched Alex. I wasn’t ready to deal with Alex or any of his friends and their life-sucking qualities that were all but impossible to avoid. When I opened the door, I saw Alex sitting at the table that I was heading towards. Shit. I really didn’t want to see him today and I had done a pretty good job of avoiding him so far. I tried to walk away but Alex looked up from his half-eaten basket of fries. We locked eyes. We couldn’t just avoid each other forever, so I walked over to him and sat in the chair across from him. “Hey,” I said, as I unpacked my lunch. Peanut butter, Rice Krispie Treat—the usual. “What’s up?” Alex mumbled. He wouldn’t make eye contact with me, which was probably for the best because I don’t know if I could have returned it. “Listen, man, I’m—” “Don’t apologize. It was my fault. I said some really douchey things.” There was a long pause. A pause long enough for me to eat half of my sandwich. “Do you really think I’m following you around all the time? I don’t mean to. I just thought we were friends.” Another long pause. I shouldn’t have sat here. Now things are just going to be awkward while we sit here and finish our lunches. I thought I was right until Alex spoke up. “Charlie, I know we’ve been friends for awhile now, so I think it’s best for both of us if I’m honest with you. I don’t think we’re as good of friends as you think we are.”

“What is that supposed to mean? “Whenever we hang out we never actually talk about anything. We just watch a movie or play video games or something.” I stood up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Alex laughed and stood up, but I was confused. We aren’t as good of friends as we think we are? What does that even mean? Alex walked away before I could ask. Does he still want to hang out with me? The new Marvel movie is coming out next weekend, and I need someone to go see it with.

was lying in my bed and staring at my phone. It was 7:12, and I still didn’t have plans for the night. I wanted to text Alex or call him and ask him if he wanted to hang out or something. Maybe we could talk about what he said earlier. We didn’t have to watch a movie. I opened the messaging app on my phone and clicked on my conversation with Alex. The most recent message was the one I sent to Alex last Friday. Want to hang out? No response. I was sorry for what I had done, but I could still hear his words in that same violent tone that first came out of his mouth and the almost mocking tone he had earlier that day when he told me that we weren’t actually friends. I closed out of the conversation and drafted a new message to Damon. What tosay? I started typing. Hey. You doing anything? Want to play some Xbox?. I hovered my thumb over the send button. After a minute or so, I finally clicked it. Five minutes later my phone buzzed. I’ll kick your ass in Madden.

Two Words Henry Herzberg

e was at the top. Then his heart sank. The shiny doors opened to reveal the ICU. It was quiet. White walls, white floors, white lighting, and windows allowing in the darkness of the storm outside. Hugh stepped off of the elevator, thinking of how cliche the storm seemed. To his left he saw a girl tightly holding another with tears pouring down their faces. He thought she might be here for the same reason. Hugh’s eyes continued to scan the room: chairs filled with all his aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents crying, hugging, and whispering. He found John in the commotion, weaving his way through the hordes of people littering the ground because seating was so scarce. Hugh noticed John walking in his direction. All Hugh could think of was how sick the sterile smell of the hospital made him feel. Their eyes connected. John’s eyes were red: he had been crying, a lot. As soon as they embraced, Hugh broke into tears, soon followed by John. They stood there for a while, crying and hugging. “Do you want to see him?” John asked. Hugh nodded and they walked down the hall to the locked white doors, which required a call from the red phone to the ICU desk to unlock. Through the locked white doors, down the hall, on the left. Who the hell? Hugh thought as he rounded the corner into the room. No, that’s not Jake—the figure in the bed a mere science experiment. Tubes running into his nose, mouth, arms, and everywhere else there seemed to be a tube. His breathing wasn’t his own, his heartbeat was a machine’s, and

his blood pressure was stabilized by a series of circuits and wires like something in a science fiction book programmed to exterminate humans. But that was all that was keeping Jake alive now. His eyes weren’t closed. They could not close because of the swelling in his brain. They sat a quarter of the way open, leaving dead white orbs to stare into the world. His head had been shaved for the emergency operation, John told Hugh. That made Hugh uncomfortable. It didn’t look like Jake, who was always so proud of his hair. A small line of stitches traced Jake’s hairline over his left brow, the hole maybe a little larger than a 9mm bullet. His head rested on a gauze pad soaked in blood. Hugh didn’t want to imagine the exit wound. Every artificial breath caused Jake’s body to jolt unnaturally. It seemed to hurt him. It hurt Hugh, too.

he Black River Lodge was a Samson family tradition. Hugh’s grandfather had gone there since he was five, or so he told his grandchildren. When they were little, every day at the lodge lasted a week. The air was always fresh, the water cold, and the sky blue, except on Saturday morning. It always rained on Saturday mornings but never failed to clear by breakfast, opening the sky back up to crystal blue. Jake, John, and Hugh would go down to the river, fake guns in hand, patrolling the beach for hours. Hugh remembered standing on the beach next to Jake and John, searching for flat rocks. He thought he’d never find a rock worthy of skipping through the multi-

colored, camouflage mess the rocky beach provided for it. Jake seemed to pull them out of nowhere, skipping them across the river with ease as John and Hugh struggled to find them. Jake stopped and told them what to look for and how to skip the rock. A concrete bridge that reminded Hugh of an overpass stood a few feet from them, about fifty feet up, and allowed cars to cross the river. They had contests to see who could hit the bridge with a rock, until Jake launched one over the bridge and won. He had a good arm. Hugh and John considered themselves twins. They basically grew up in the same house, always staying at each other’s homes, and always thought on the same wavelength, as if they sent radio messages to each other’s brains. Jake, John’s older brother, adopted Hugh as his own little brother because he was around so often. Hugh’s biological brother, having left for the military when Hugh was five, seldom came around. Hugh knew it wasn’t from choice, but his duty. Jake taught Hugh and John everything. Everything they did was modeled off of what Jake did. The stories Jake told them of his own life inspired events in theirs. Fighting, cussing, causing trouble, everything and older brother should teach, while still keeping a sense of respect and order. Jake didn’t stand for much back talk from anyone, especially Hugh and John. He would as soon knock them out as he would hug them and ask if they were okay. He abused them as an older brother should and cared about them as older brothers do. Both John and Hugh received their fair share of older brother torture, though— John more than Hugh only because he lived with Jake 24/7. Both boys would hang out in Jake’s room, talking to him, playing video games, or watching pirated movies. Out of nowhere, Jake would come up with a game,

a test of strength, between the two boys, trading punches or elbows until one quit, usually Hugh. The loser faced off against Jake. Hugh always got punished for being the weakest, but he was the youngest and held his own for his age. Hugh looked back on these memories with immense nostalgia, wishing he could go back to them, because that’s all there was then, goofy contests and tests of strength. He saw these moments as moments that chiseled his own life, making him the strong, tough, no nonsense-taking person he had become; but he also still retained a wild, energetic side that could bolster a group to do something fun and earned him many friends, like Jake. Of course, Hugh had plenty of memories belonging to just him and Jake. Normally Hugh would be playing with John in the backyard at John and Jake’s old house, but on this sunny August day when Hugh was in second grade and Jake was in seventh, John was busy. When Hugh arrived at John and Jake’s house that day, his feet carried him immediately toward the back yard. The yard was legendary, at least to them, for being so big. The aluminum toy shed sat in the left of the yard near the house. Across the lawn stood a towering oak tree with their two-story tree house perched in it. A ladder led from the grass to the first platform that sat about twenty feet off of the ground. A smaller ladder took you from that platform to another about three feet on top. A cracked, sun-faded, mounted toy gun sat in the corner to fight off the invading enemy force. At the other corner of the tree house hung an orange Home Depot bucket attached to a rope and pulley, connecting the second platform to the ground, facilitating a quick transfer of supplies in a time of battle. Crawling behind the shorter ladder led to a natural little platform made by the tree itself, big enough for only one person, a secret

escape. With careful steps they could find their way back down to the ground behind the tree, using wooden planks that had been nailed directly to the tree. Near the back of the yard was the foxhole they had dug next to the shed holding the lawn equipment. Many times they had dived over the pile of dirt into the hole, pretending to take cover from the imaginary enemy fire. This shed in the back was known as the garage for the “tank,”actually just the John Deere mower they drove around the yard. Hugh took in the beautiful day, devoting a good thirty seconds to just looking at each individual area of the yard he loved so much. The day was perfect. Blue skies, a light breeze, and the right amount of heat from the sun dominated the environment. He noticed a lean-to made of some fresh cut branches next to the base of the oak tree that was new to the yard. “Saddle up!” Jake ordered, throwing Hugh a gun. They were John Wayne enthusiasts. Hugh ran after Jake through the grass into the lean-to. He’d been been dying to try out the new addition to the yard as soon as he’d noticed it. They sat silently in the leanto, using it as cover from the invisible enemy that stalked the back of the yard. Both aimed their guns in the direction of the foxhole, which looked like only a pile of dirt from where they sat. “How many?” Hugh asked. “Four platoons,” Jake said, not knowing how much that really was. “Where’s John? We’re going to need him.” “Wounded, unfortunately. But no worries; he’ll be back soon.” John was really at a baseball camp all day. Hugh opened up his weapon, firing madly into the yard, making the noise with his mouth. “Cover me!” he yelled to Jake. He

charged out of the lean-to toward the base of the ladder and climbed as fast as he could, one hand still gripping his weapon tightly. He turned upon reaching the first platform to sling a few more shots in the enemy’s direction, fake reloading before he continued to the next platform. He threw his weapon to the floor and grasped the mounted gun with both hands, forcing the rusty screw to turn it toward the enemy. He rained bullets down on the imaginary Nazis until his body couldn’t make itself shake anymore from the fake recoil. Hugh met Jake back on the ground. “Is that all of them?” he asked. “Think so. Good job, buddy. You did some good shootin’ there.” “Let’s head back to base to load up,” Hugh said. Jake nodded in agreement. As they were walking in the direction of the toy shed, Hugh dropped to the ground yelling in pain. Jake grabbed him yelling, “I got ya, buddy. Don’t worry! You’re not dying on me!” He dragged Hugh in the direction of the toy shed, simultaneously shooting the enemies, eventually getting them all. Hugh and Jake sat on the edge of the shed next to one another both covered in grass and sweat. Jake turned, squinted into the sun and said, “Good thing it was just a leg wound. I couldn’t do it without you, buddy.” They played until lunch that day. After lunch they resumed play until John came home, and they kept playing into the night, pausing only for dinner.

ugh sat back in the chair in the waiting room of the ICU, thinking of all of this. He knew even if Jake were to survive, memories like these would never be made again, and the existing ones would never have the same feel to them, shadowed by the trauma of this day. What Hugh didn’t know was in the week following, after all of this had concluded,

John would turn to him at the party thrown by Jake’s fraternity brothers and ask, “Do you want to know?” John would proceed to tell him of the night that everything happened. He would tell Hugh of the way they sat in the red Chevy, waiting for Jake to summon up the courage to try to get in a nightclub at only nineteen years old. Jake’s girlfriend sat in the back of the car, waiting for him to make up his mind so they could go in together. As Jake sat in the passenger seat going through his worst-case scenario plan, John was on the driver’s side, running his fingers over the textured steering wheel, thinking of what he could possibly do, who he could hang out with until Jake needed to be picked up at 3:30 AM. John sighed, thinking of the long night he was going to have. Jake summed up his plan and fell silent for a few seconds, ready to try to use his fake I.D. But just as his hand touched the door handle, a dark car pulled up, parking next to them. From the passen-

ger side came a dark figure, walking around to the passenger side of the red Chevy. He was armed. Jake’s window was already down; the man aimed the gun into the car yelling, “Get out of the fucking car!” Jake’s instinct kicked in: the instinct of taking nothing from anyone, the instinct that he was the only one allowed to bring harm to John. He looked at John confused, with a look that suggested he was silently asking, “Is this guy serious?” He turned back, looking the man in the eyes, staring down the barrel of a 9mm and said, “No.” John, ducking before the shot, looked up to see Jake, slumped forward, blood pouring from a small opening above his forehead. The shooter was gone, as was the ominous car he had arrived in. He took nothing. Just left carnage. John held his brother’s bleeding head in his lap until the ambulance arrived. Hugh didn’t know all of this yet, but when he learned it a week later it made him

photograph by Salvatore Vitellaro

hat do you want?” Jake asked Hugh. feel even worse, for John, for their family, for “ “What do you normally get?” the world. It was a pointless crime. The man “Six double cheeseburgers.” He gave a hadn’t even taken the car. Hugh sat sideways in the lobby chair with little laugh. “I’ll get that,” Hugh said as Jake pulled one leg on the ground and the other hanging over the right arm. He stared off into the city around to the microphone. “Hi, welcome to Burger King! What can from the top floor of the hospital, through the rain, through the darkness, through the I get for you today?” a woman’s voice rang reflection of the plain white room he sat in, out cheerfully. “Umm...” Jake laughed again. “Can we through his own face which he wished was lying in the bed down the hall in Jake’s place. get twelve double cheeseburgers, please?” He glanced left for a second to see who was Another laugh. They pulled around, paid a ridiculous by the elevator behind him. As he turned his head back to look out the window again, his amount for the cheeseburgers, and ate them eye caught the clear bag sitting a few chairs on the way back to the job they worked together the summer previous. It was the sumto his left with a bloody jacket in it. Hugh got up from his chair and walked mer between freshman and sophomore year a few paces to the chair where the jacket sat. for both of them—one in high school, the He opened the top of the bag and looked in, other in college. Hugh only finished five, so shifting the jacket around, realizing the true Jake ate Hugh’s sixth. Their job that summer was off of Gravois amount Jake had bled, the amount John had seen his brother bleed. Road, at a house in the middle of the woods. He stood there staring into the bag Their job was to clear the weeds, a big job thinking of Jake. John came out of nowhere, in the woods. It was a landscaping company explaining how the nurses gave him a bag Jake had started to earn money over the sumright as the family started to arrive. They mer. John worked together with them most thought it’d be best John wasn’t covered in days, along with more of Jake’s friends and blood for everyone to see. fraternity brothers from college. But that “They’re going to wait a few hours, then day was just Hugh and Jake, at least for the take him off life support to see if he can sus- morning. Everyone else was either working tain himself,” John explained, startling Hugh, a different job or too hung over to show up. who’d zoned out again. “Sorry. You okay?” The two of them worked together some“Okay, yeah, I’m fine,” Hugh said. That times silently, sometimes joking, or just made him hopeful. It would sustain him talking. They shared a lip of Grizzly Winthroughout the next few hours. tergreen. Hugh remembered when he first The lobby of the ICU was a square room asked Jake to buy him some in eighth grade. with three of the walls made up of windows It came with a warning from Jake, telling him that looked out at the city. Hugh stood there how bad it was for him, how he should avoid for what to him seemed a few minutes but it. Jake would never give Hugh his first lip for actually turned into an hour, staring straight that very reason. But after Hugh had tried it, out. Jake never minded buying it for him as long Hundreds of people cycled in and out as he got to take a can. It always came with behind him to see Jake. Hugh’s brain regis- the warning, though. But Hugh never gave it a second thought. He just wanted to be like tered them but gave them no real thought. Jake.

H 38

ugh began to pray. First in sorrow, then in anger, and finally in pure desperation. His head collapsed into his praying hands and he began to cry. It was a helpless, pitiful cry. He wished things had been different. He did a good job of hiding his tears, thinking how Jake would’ve never let anyone see him cry. Hugh wiped his eyes but continued to talk to God silently in his head. He asked what God could possibly want with Jake already. Somebody must really need him up there, Hugh thought. Jake had dodged death many times. He survived flipping his car onto a train track at forty miles per hour unscathed. He lived through his throat closing up in the middle of the night because of swollen tonsils. After that, he nearly bled out when the wounds from his tonsil surgery opened back up while he was asleep.

ugh’s father’s words crushed him. He wanted to hit his father for even mentioning something so absurd. Jake’s Superman, Hugh thought, He’s going to wake up and beat the shit out of the guy who shot him. He wanted to cry, but held it back. He looked to his brother, who had showed up to see Jake as well, for some sort of lifeline, but only received a slow, somber head nod in agreement with their father’s statement that Jake’s survival was extremely unlikely. He left the table, pushing in his chair. Using the change in his pocket, he purchased a small coffee from the hospital cafeteria. It was too hot, which made him angry for some reason. He carried it back up to the ICU on the elevator, switching hands as he rode up because of the cup’s heat. All Hugh thought about were arguments to counter his father’s absurd statement. Getting off the elevator he was greeted by some of Jake’s fraternity brothers he knew. John had already been talking with them.

They were sharing some of the best Jake stories they could think of. Hugh joined in, telling some goofy stories, making the group laugh. But, after every laugh faded there was an awkward silence when they all undoubtedly remembered Jake’s current situation. Before Hugh even realized, it was time for Jake’s test. All of the family and friends were gathered in the lobby hugging, crying, praying. John, John’s sister, and John’s parents were in the room with Jake for the test. Hugh stood down the hall from the lobby, outside of the doors to the ICU, next to Jake’s grandma and his own friend who came for support. Hugh stood next to the door, clutching his coffee, waiting painfully for the word to come from inside. The waiting was the worst part. The suspense felt like a crank spinning his stomach in circles. His uncle opened the door just wide enough to let himself through. Hugh got to his feet from his position on the floor, against the wall. His uncle looked him in the eyes, dropped his head for a second, then muttered, “He’s gone.” The blood rushed from Hugh’s head. He felt light-headed, like he was going to pass out. His muscles got weak, and his friend grabbed the coffee before it could tumble out of Hugh’s hand. Hugh stood there in a daze for a few seconds. He had gone numb; he almost didn’t understand the words that had just been poured into his ear. He didn’t cry; he only stood there, feeling as if he would pass out at any second. Within the next seconds he was wrapped around his friend tightly, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder, mumbling nonsense to himself. Two words, Hugh thought, Two words just crushed my hope completely. Hugh didn’t stay like that for long. He broke away from his friend, running through the ICU door as a stranger was leaving it and went down to the end of the hall, turning

into the last door on the left, Jake’s room. John was standing over Jake with his head in his hands crying, kissing his brother’s head, saying goodbye. John’s sister grasped one of his hands while simultaneously clutching her mother. Both were crying. Hugh stood in the doorway looking in at Jake’s artificially alive body, knowing there was no soul inside, no consciousness at any level. His life was purely physical, purely artificial. He just cried in the doorway looking at him. He walked in and grabbed one of Jake’s hands. Every memory he had shared with Jake seemed to race across his mind. Every meal, every punch, every day spent playing, football, with matchbox cars, pretending they were in the army, all raced through his mind. He remembered Jake dragging him to safety after taking a fake bullet to the leg, that day in his backyard. Hugh cried harder, wishing it was that easy, wishing all he had to do was drag Jake to safety. Everyone in the family had the chance to come in and say goodbye, before they let his body die the same way his brain had. As all the mourners were making their way through, John walked over to Hugh, hugged him tightly, and whispered, “We still have each other.”

“

ood god, if I’m ever like that, pull the plug.” Hugh wasn’t sure how the topic had come up, but he listened to Jake. “Yeah. Same.” John laughed. “That’d be horrible; you’d just be a burden.” “Me too,” Hugh agreed. “I could never live my life messed-up like that.” As usual, John and Hugh were agreeing with Jake. None of them thought it would ever be a real scenario, though. But later, Hugh thought that Jake may have known. He was always saying things that hinted at his death—like he would never have kids or was never getting married, or would never be old, or hand-

icapped. It seemed like he had known. Hugh didn’t like that. Later, sitting in the ICU lobby, Hugh learned that Jake had probably been brain dead since about 5:30 that morning. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to Jake while he was somewhat there. If only he had slept with his ringer on. He wouldn’t have missed John’s calls. He’d have been able to get to the hospital in time to at least say goodbye while Jake was still semiconscious. But he had missed his opportunity, and all he got to say goodbye to was a corpse infiltrated with tubes. He didn’t leave the hospital until late that night. He wanted to be there the whole time John was. They walked down to the ground floor lobby to go to the cafeteria together. “Ah! Dammit!” John exclaimed. “That bastard owed me like five hundred bucks!” He looked at Hugh and kind of smiled, trying to bring a more lighthearted feel to the moment. Then they both laughed a little bit. Jake was notorious for borrowing money and never paying it back. Eventually John started making Jake sign pieces of paper saying he would eventually pay him back. “Mini-contracts,” John called them. Hugh always joined John in nagging for payment from Jake. “Of course he did!” Hugh laughed a little again. They found the cafeteria closed. But vending machines stood right across the hall from it. John shoved a dollar in the machine. He punched in the number “D2”. The machine vended him a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, Jake’s favorite snack. As John bent to grab the snack from the bottom of the machine, four metallic clinks came from the change slot. John reached in and pulled out four quarters, the dollar he had just put in. “There ya go,” Hugh said. “He’s payin’ you back already.”

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

Leap Will Slama

arren took a deep breath, feeling his body tense as he gripped the frayed rope tightly with both fists. He stepped nervously up to the ledge before him and gulped as he looked down into the quarry water below—a drop that seemed to stretch several hundred feet down as he eyed the rocks at the bottom. You’ll kill yourself. Shut up, you’ll miss the rocks. After that it’s just open water. Warren shifted his footing, dislodging a few chunks of gravel that clattered lightly down the outcrop before plopping lightly into the water. One or two bounced off the rocks down by the wall of the flooded quarry and spun out into the pool. That’ll be you. Hitting those rocks. Everyone else has gone and cleared the rocks by a mile. You’ll be fine. That wasn’t entirely true. Lucas had calmly but forcefully refused to go and instead stood back and watched them disapprovingly. Meanwhile, Howard was just climbing ashore down by the lake, after executing a perfect swing on the rope and landing beautifully in the water. He very deliberately turned to look up at his friends on the ledge and gave a quick dab, eliciting a sort of half-groan, half-laugh from Simon, then started on his way back towards them. “Alright, Warren, go!” Simon called behind him. Warren, glad for the excuse to put off jumping, dropped the rope and turned to Simon, holding up his hands and saying “I’m going, I’m going—” “Then go already!” A lump slid down his throat as Warren swallowed whatever he had been about to say and turned around to grip the rope again.

He eyed the old tree limb where it was tied above his head. That’ll snap, and then you’ll be gone. It’s not worth it. Shut up and just go already. They’re waiting. “Do it or no balls!” Simon jeered. Howard came trudging up the slope, still dripping wet. “You haven’t gone yet?!” Ignore them. Don’t go. Hurry up and GO already! Warren stepped back and wiped the beaded sweat from his forehead. He tugged the rope to make sure it was secure on the branch. He took one more deep breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips— “Yeeahhh Warren!” —then took a dash to the edge of the quarry wall and jumped over. The length of rope carried him down to the bottom of his arc. You idiot. It’s fine. See? You’re already clear of— SNAP. Oh, shit.

imon’s eyes went wide as the tree limb snapped off and went sailing into the quarry after Warren. He heard the sound of his friend’s body, unprotected save for a swimsuit, slap against a rock and splash down into the quarry’s murky brown water. He turned wide-eyed and met Howard’s and Lucas’s horrified stares. The three of them rushed to edge of the drop-off and saw a red blotch on the side of one of the dusty rocks below, and no sign of Warren save a diminishing ripple in the water. Simon simultaneously felt dizzy and like someone had punched him in the gut. “Oh no. Oh shit. Oh fuck, is that blood?!” Howard shrieked, his voice cracking in panic. Lucas shuffled his feet, looking down at the water, then took off running down the slope to the quarry’s shoreline, heedless of the rocks and twigs tearing into the soles of his bare feet, cursing all the way until he got to the water and went under.

Howard stared at the pool, unsure of what to do in his panicked state. Simon broke out of his own trance and sprang over to the drawstring bag he had dropped on the ground nearby when they arrived. He dumped the contents onto the ground and grabbed his phone out of the heap. His shaking fingers couldn’t operate the buttons fast enough. “He’s got him! Oh thank Christ, he’s— oh, man, look at his side…” Howard’s relief at seeing Lucas resurface with an unconscious Warren was quickly replaced by dread at the cloud of red in the water and the sight of the gash across Warren’s ribs. His hands grabbed his hair in terror. Simon finally finished punching in the number. The screen of his phone had rainbow-tinted streaks across it from his sweating hands.

“Mom? MOM! No, everything’s NOT— look, we’re at the quarry. YEAH, I KNOW, BUT WE ARE, OKAY?! And Warren jumped in and the rope snapped and he hit the rocks and he’s knocked out and bleeding and— THE ROPE ON THE TREE, DOES IT MATTER? He hit his side or head or something—yeah, Lucas got him out- I don’t know! Call an ambulance! Or have Dad call an ambulance! No, they’re by the water. Yeah, okay!” Holding the phone to his ear, Simon jumped past Howard, who was still staring horrified at Lucas and Warren, and ran down the hill towards his two friends, tears starting to sting his eyes. He wouldn’t have jumped if you hadn’t made him.

digital rendering by Jackson DuCharme

May Fourth Anna Shi (Junran)

verything was white: the ceiling, the machines, the liquid in the tubes going into her body. Grandma was lying in a white metal bed with her eyes closed, listening to the audio-book channel that Uncle tuned the radio to. Tubes were attached all over her, peeking out from under the blanket, pushing oxygen and nutrition into her body. Mom was working by Grandma’s bed, preparing her lunch. And by lunch, I mean a creamy mushy batter made from yesterday’s fish stock, rice, eggs and whatever Auntie could find left on the dinner table. Hearing Mom’s call for me to go help, I reluctantly paused my movie, slid down the bed and found my way to where Grandma was lying. “You’re here! Auntie is working right now, so I need some help feeding Grandma lunch.” Mom pretended to be cheerful when she saw me. I took the plunger that she offered from her hand. “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this…” She took my hands in hers and showed me how to work the plunger. Her hands were the same size as mine, but a decade of chores had left her fingers chubby with skin as coarse as sandpaper. “I know how to do this, Mom,” I said impatiently, my thoughts already drifting back to my movie. She opened the little box of lunch for Grandma, and I couldn’t help but gag at the smell that immediately drifted out. It was like the smell that finds its way out of overflowing garbage trucks—except it was

Grandma’s lunch. I held the plunger in place as Mom scooped the batter into it. I tried to pretend not to notice the smell as bits of food fell onto my fingers. When the plunger was filled, I attached it to a tube and pushed the contents in. My eyes followed the mush as it went right into Grandma’s stomach. I wondered if she even felt anything, but judging from her total stillness, I’m guessing she didn’t. Maybe she was asleep, oblivious that her daughter and granddaughter were pushing food into her through a tube. I secretly wished never to face the day when I’d be in her position. We kept going again and again, until the batter had dropped all over my hands and Grandma had enough in her to keep her going. As Mom scooped up the last bits of Grandma’s lunch, I was so ready to run to the bathroom and clean off that nauseating smell.

ast January was cold and dull. Half of my winter break was spent at the hospital as my family took care of Grandma, whose health had been deteriorating for months. Life couldn’t be more boring. I sat in a bed, stuck in an overheated hospital. I scrolled through my social media feed, seeing all my friends’ posts about hiking in snow-capped mountains or having ice cream in Italy. Our family had always been a little distant from the older generation, visiting only during longer vacations. But still I enjoyed spending time with Grandma. She was the

photograph by Anna Shi (Junran)

old lady that would sneak you snacks and remind you not to tell. She was my mentor in the art of dumpling making, and she always chuckled when I made extra-large dumplings that were doomed to break apart in the water. I remember the photos of my brother Edward and me that she carefully printed out and pasted on the wall of her apartment, claiming excitedly, “Now I can see you whenever I want!” Everyone in the family was saying that it was no big deal when she first arrived in the hospital. “It was just a really bad cold that left little problems in her body.” My parents were convinced she would be back in her apartment in no time. Around her hospital bed, it was all smiling faces and uplifting voices. I believed them. I thought about how, after Grandpa passed away, Grandma picked up the pieces and got her life together, despite her grief. She arranged the funeral, sorted out the apartment, spent time with family, and weeks later she was buying groceries, walking her granddaughter to school, and living her old life with all her sadness buried deep down. She’s stronger than she looks, I told myself. She was one of the strongest people I knew. I told myself that Grandma would get better and leave the hospital. I told myself that when they attached more tubes. I told myself that when they moved her to the ICU. And oh how stupid all the self-convincing seemed on the morning of the fourth of May as rain lazily drizzled outside. There was a gloomy air in the room and something inside me already knew, before Dad opened his mouth to stutter the words: “Grandma passed away at midnight.”

t was steaming hot on the day of the funeral, and the place looked sketchy and

unpleasant. I’ve always hated to see people cry, and of course, tears were flowing everywhere in no time once people crowded into the room where Grandma’s body lay. She was surrounded by flowers. Her skin looked yellow and her lips so red. I couldn’t believe they had put makeup on her. It was only when I looked at her closely that I realized how much the illness had taken from her. Her cheeks were sunken and the thin skin was like a piece of fragile paper wrapped on the bones. Her hair, once black as ink, was now dotted with gray and white. It was so strange to see her just lying still. I felt as if any second her chest would start moving up and down and she would sit up and stare at us in disbelief. After some speeches, it was time for Grandma’s body to be pulled into the cremation room. People moved to make a path. I silently cried into the sleeves of my flannel, not daring to take a last look at the body. The sound of people weeping surrounded me and drowned me, and their tears drew out more tears from me. The metal cart with Grandma’s body on it was being dragged to the exit now. A cry suddenly broke the silence of weeping. “Let me hug her one last time! Let me just hold her!” My head jerked up as I recognized Mom’s voice Tears were rushing down her cheeks and dripping from her chin. She ran forward for the body, but strong hands grabbed her arms. Relatives that I didn’t know were holding her back as she screamed for her mother. “I’m her daughter! I’m her goddamn daughter, AND I NEED TO HOLD HER ONE LAST TIME!” She was screaming through tears and thrusting her body forward with all her strength, hoping to break free from the hands holding her back. Her hair was messy and stuck to her face. She choked on her tears as she screamed and

screamed and screamed for somebody who was already gone. The cart was moving, and Mom’s cries grew louder and even more desperate. She was rushing forward with such force that it took four adults to hold her back. Her tears soaked her blouse, and her voice was hoarse. The cart went through the door. “I’m her daughter…,” Mom yelped for one last time and slumped to the ground. I stood there. My face was wet. My thoughts were blank. I saw Dad holding Edward to his chest as they both cried, one loudly and one silently. I had never felt such despair. It felt like a black hole that could drag me in and devour me. Suddenly I was drowning in an ocean of darkness. The noises were being muffled out. All I could hear were Mom’s last, desperate screams. All I could see was her fighting for that one last touch. The sleeves of my flannel were soaked by now. My teeth had sunk into my lips so hard that I felt like blood could flow out any second. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…” I whispered between sobs. I stuck my fingernails into my palms and I asked myself: where were you during her last moments

in life? How much love did you show her? Do you even have the right to cry? My mind seemed like a jumbled maze in which I was running in circles, trying to find something. And then I was lost. I was lost trying to find the last words I said to my dear grandma, and I realized they might be forever lost.

eeks later, Mom showed me an old picture she found of Grandma and Grandpa being all lovey-dovey when they were young. “Look how in love they were,” she whispered. “I miss them….” There were tears sparkling in her eyes, but she managed to smile. I tried to smile back, but at that moment, my heart knew only guilt and regret. If I could go back, I’d have sat by her bed one last time and held her bony fingers in my hands. I’d have looked at her for so long, just to remember the path of every wrinkle and the colors of her pupils. Gosh, I’d have fed her that smelly lunch every day if it meant being with her for one more second. If I could go back, everything would be white. A blank canvas. A new beginning to an end. If only I could.

photograph by Kyle Sullivan

The Foil Alex Zhao

was almost six when I had my first cupcake. It looked like those long john donuts—long instead of round. It didn’t taste creamy but had a texture somehow between brown bread and muffins and carrot cakes—puffy, dry with unrecognizable pellets, which turned out to be chocolate chips. Grandpa watched me eating it up. Maybe it failed to meet the American standard for cupcakes, but it did say “cupcake” on the clear plastic package. Yes, this cupcake had a plastic package, which made it even less cupcakey. I could always see these cupcakes in the supermarket, but I never asked to buy one. My parents or grandparents had indeed never bought me one of them. As a kid, I didn’t crave sweet food. It was summer holiday and Grandma, my mother’s mother, was in hospital. Grandma lived with Grandpa in the countryside until they found out she had lung cancer. My mother took Grandma to Nanjing, where we live, to send Grandma into one of the country’s best hospitals not far from our apartment. Mom took Grandpa, too. We owned a tiny apartment—so tiny that my parents, my brother, and I couldn’t fit inside comfortably at the same time. In fact, we seldom attempted to stay together. The narrowness didn’t bother us in this case. Grandma stayed in hospital; Mom cooked in the morning before I got up and came back only at night, and she spent the rest of her day in the hospital with Grandma. My brother’s absence remains an unsolved mystery:

his boarding school would also have been on summer holiday. I only got to see Dad every few weeks so I didn’t know where he was either; I stayed at home having neither much homework nor great fun. Grandpa was always home though. He never went to see Grandma. A small apartment on a sixteenth floor never gets enough sunlight. We suffered more in the center of the city surrounded by buildings at least as high as ours. But Grandpa never turned on the lights, even when he used the bathroom. Maybe Grandpa liked to save electricity or simply enjoyed the long, gaunt shadow that everything had at its feet. With the lights off, dark corners got really dark, but along the path of beams of light I could see dust particles sparkling while wriggling and struggling in the air as if they would drown. On the couch, or more precisely, the bench under the only window in the living room, I found a spot where I could get my face divided in half—one half dark and the other dazzling—along the ridge of my nose. I didn’t mind this shadowy existence because during the day I only watched TV and, very occasionally, read fairy tales. One of the channels played my favorite comedy, My Own Swordsman, but Grandpa never laughed. Born and raised tough, I never got too sensitive—about Grandma’s cancer or Grandpa’s not talking to me or Mom’s not talking to Grandpa. I stuck to the bench, watching TV or reading, and felt fairly content. One day before mom left for the hospi-

drawing by Lancer Li

tal, she gave me a bag full of snacks. I hadn’t gotten to eat fancy lunches and dinners for quite a long time, so she thought maybe the snacks could make up for that. I held the bag when I watched My Own Swordsman, and opened it only to check it during TV commercials. There were breads in it. By “breads” I mean small, inflated, pillow-like plastic bags with bread in them, like those one sometimes gets on a long flight between meals—some real food rather than snacks to make up for disappointing meals. I always liked these breads, so I saved them for later. The next time I checked the bag, however, I spotted a different “bread.” It was the “cupcake.” It was edible, which fit my criteria for most food, so I ate it. I asked grandpa if he’d like to have some and he said no. He said he’d rather watch me eating it up. When you eat muffins or cupcakes, you tend to gradually get rid of the paper cup, and I did exactly so even the first time I encounter something in this shape. It was supposed to be chocolate flavor, so the edible part was brown, with unidentifiable chocolate chips. To match with the bread, the paper cup was

also dark brown, the color of chocolate. I finished the cake in several bites and rose to throw away the wrapper. Grandpa stopped me and pointed to the thing in my hand. “Eat it.” I froze for a second, trying to detect whether he was joking. “But it’s paper. You can’t eat paper!” “It’s just chocolate foil.” When I heard this, I examined the “chocolate foil” and drew a conclusion: “It’s paper!” “Smell it,” he said. “I tell you it’s chocolate.” I sniffed it. It smelled indeed like chocolate. It had been saturated with oil and sugar and additives and flavoring essence for too long. “It’s not chocolate,” I declared, “and I’m not eating it.” I held the cup an arm’s length away from my body. My confidence sneaked away as I smelled it. After all, I had never had cupcakes before. Another three or four rounds of arguments followed, with my insisting it was paper and his rejecting that assertion calmly. The shadow climbed from his feet to his face. As I looked in his direction, the light got too bright on the dazzling half of my face, so I moved several inches away from the window. He wasn’t angry. He just had more shadow. It was just past noon and the boundary of the shadow fell right on the diagonals of the tiles. I stepped across it to approach the table where he sat. The dark part of the tiles chilled my feet for one second or two. “Eat it.” He looked at the “foil” and commanded me calmly, implying potential punishment for disobedience. I didn’t know Grandpa very well, but one thing I knew: he never told jokes. So I ate the cup. It wasn’t too bad. It smelled like chocolate and tasted like something raw but greasy, and it was soft and easy to chew. I had acci-

dentally swallowed chewing gum before, and I knew this cup would do hardly as much harm. But my throat remained reluctant to push it down. I felt Grandpa’s eyes. The eyes fell on me, but I didn’t burn. Instead, the eyes were just there, watching. Just like me watching My Own Swordsman through a static screen with dust, he watched me through a cold, distant foil that took away all the heat in his eyes. I’d be happy if I could detect a hidden smile. I hoped he would start chuckling, that eventually he would take out a camera to record this awkward moment and have the pictures printed and and inserted into the photo album he hid in his wardrobe. I wished he’d already been preparing for my eighteenth birthday—grandparents and parents on TV would always mark a kid’s eighteenth birthday by digging up old embarrassing pictures of kids. Eventually the wet paper inched all the way down my throat. Grandpa had watched me eating it up, and when I ate it up, his eyes lost focus again. I ate another piece of normal bread afterwards and continued watching My Own Swordsman. Luckily this little drama took place during a long spate of commercials.

superficially happy meal. Mom was not brave enough while I was not old enough to accept the truth that sick people rally as they approach their deaths. Cancer let go of Grandma the next morning, but no formal or informal notifications ever reached me. Some days after school started in September, I was grabbed out of school and wrapped in a black coat by Mom. We headed to Grandma’s funeral by bus.

here was, as I later discovered, a new picture inserted in an antique album in his wardrobe. I felt his eyes through the yellow, fragile film of plastic. He’d married a new wife two months after Grandma’s funeral.

ventually, the darker tiles took hold of the whole room soon after noon because of the strange angle that our apartment faced. Mom came home early and turned on the lights. For some thirty seconds I couldn’t see anything but my eyelashes, which hardly kept the light out. “Grandma feels much better. She has started eating,” Mom said with delight. Grandpa did not say a thing and retired to his bedroom. Mom cooked that night: a tense,

photograph by Jack Billeaud

Rodentia Matthew Loranger

50 Nesting in my walls scratching the floors and robbing me of my sustenance. Your scurrying always echoing into a deep tinnitus amid hollow corridors. We set out the traps. Chemicals created to kill you, but I wonder sometimes if it was as deadly to me as it was to you and your disease and my home. But kill you we did. I think. Maybe. Now it’s dark and I’m alone and nobody’s here and I think about those skrit, skrit, skrits and empty bags filled with nourishment and what happens when I’m sleeping and I take another one everything is in its place.

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

Friends David Borgmeyer

he sun is streaming on my face. I can feel its warmth soaking in. I pull the covers over my aching head, embracing the darkness. What day is it? Not that it matters. Unfortunately, the pounding headache behind my eyes means I’m not falling back asleep. I pull the covers back down,and open my eyes ever so slightly. The sunlight is blasting through a window on the right that my bedroom doesn’t have. Okay, stranger’s house. Great. I look at where my nightstand should be. A beam of sunlight filters through sheer navy drapes, illuminating dust particles in a blue light and landing on a mahogany table with one of those funny clocks that flips plastic cards over. It reads 8:12. I slowly blink as it flicks to 8:13. Does that table look familiar? I feel someone else stir next to me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to look over or believe I am where I think I am. “Oog…my head hurts like hell.” A voice says. Her voice. I’m at Caitlyn’s. I sigh quietly. Caitlyn groans loudly, and I grimace. Jesus, how much did I have to drink? Way too much, if I hooked up with Caitlyn. I sit up and look over, willing it to be some total stranger. Caitlyn looks up at me, lying on her back. She takes my face in, her hazel eyes flitting around a little before locking with mine. I look away, staring instead at her wavy brown hair. “Gus?” It feels like I’ve been stabbed in the gut. How the hell could I do this? I couldn’t understand how she was okay with this. I

wanted to believe she was just drinking to forget and made a mistake like me, but the look she gave me when I glanced over…I knew that wasn’t the case. I’d pined after her for years, but I didn’t want it like this. “Gus?” she said again, concern seeping into her tone upon seeing my crestfallen expression. “Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry,” I said, snapping out of my trance. “I’m just tired and hungover,” I lie. I need to get out of this bed, now. “Look, I gotta get home. I have a job interview later,” I say, leaping out of bed. I snatch my jeans off the floor and avoid eye contact. I’m not sure if the part about the interview is true, but I do have to leave. “Wait, what time is it?” she asks. “Uh, about quarter after eight,” I say, pausing from buttoning my shirt to check the clock. “Crap. I gotta get to work!” She also starts scanning for clothes, grabbing a white button-down shirt and a pencil skirt off a chair as she heads for the bathroom. “Look, can you let yourself out?” “Yeah, no problem.” I practically run out the door. Thank God, at least my car is here... I must have driven. I could have killed someone. So this is rock bottom. That settles it. I’m sobering up somehow. Maybe even turning myself in for rehab if it comes to that. The drive home is brief, and there’s a piece of paper on my front door. It says “FORECLOSURE WARNING” in big, bold letters. I’m glad Matt isn’t around to see me like this. Matt had been my best friend since sophomore year of high school, up until his death by a drunk driver a few months ago. He should have been leaving for a semester abroad in his junior year of college. He’d met Caitlyn first, and while I’d heard bits here and there about this amazing new girl and even helped him plan a few dates, I’d never met her in person. Nothing could have prepared me for it. She knocked me off my

feet at our first meeting, and I was smitten from “Hi.” But best friends don’t crush on each other’s girlfriends, so I kept my falling for her a secret. I dated a couple other girls, but they never seemed even half as fun to be around. It felt like our personalities just meshed: the way the same things got both of us excited, our shared love of terrible puns, the knack we had for listening and knowing what the other needed to do. I’d been hung up on her for years. Sometimes I thought for sure she could tell how I felt, but if she knew, she didn’t show it. She was happy with Matt, and rightly so. Matt had always been the smarter and better-looking of the two of us. He was going to a top twenty university, and I was going to a big state school. I was always playing catchup. Never completely in the dust, and not

too far behind, but undeniably lagging. At least I had been. Then he died. I took a leave of absence and never had the determination or sobriety to go back. I just couldn’t believe he’d die while I lived. He may have scored well on tests, but he had also been the kindest person I’d known, and he understood psychology in a way that blew everyone else away. Talking to him, you just knew he was going to change the world. He was already presenting research at international conferences. And here I was, sleeping with his girlfriend, only four months after he was laid in the grave. I’d talked to Matt; he had seriously been considering marrying Caitlyn. He had asked me to make him talk about it with her before he left. And now I’ve slept with her. What kind of terrible best friend am I? That evening, I walk in my door, taking my tie off and sliding out of my suit jacket.

photograph by Liam Connolly

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

The interview in the morning was something of a blur, but I think I did well. I take a closer look at the foreclosure warning I saw earlier, scanning the details. I’m behind on payments—big shock there—but I have a couple months before I’m really screwed. I can thank those coding classes I took last year for the job interview I’m just getting home from. I’ve done what I can on that for now, and I have more pressing matters to attend to. I’ve spent all morning sorting through what happened and thinking about what I’m going to say. She’ll be home by now too, so I’ve got no excuses left. I force myself to pick up the phone after dinner. This would be much easier with a beer, but I threw them all out and promised myself that I wouldn’t buy more.

I tap the first few digits, and Caitlyn’s contact pops right up, bright and cheery on my screen. I pause for a moment, take a deep breath, and tap it. As I put the phone to my ear, I close my eyes, part of me hoping to just get sent to voicemail. No such luck. She picks up on the second ring. “Hey Caitlin, it’s Gus. Can we talk?”

he late afternoon sun warms my exposed forearms and slightly rumpled oxford. I’m staring at the ducks on the lake, but my mind is delving deep into old memories. Last fall, Matt had signed up for an art history class, deciding he was going to be cultured if it killed him. He quickly lost interest, so when it came time for him to spend

a day at an art museum, he immediately turned to Caitlyn and me to make it somewhat bearable. I remember walking in the front entrance, the welcome transition from the crisp fall to the warm, heated, slightly musty museum. I had pulled off my gloves, looking around for Cait and Matt. Only a few people were there on a weekday morning, so it didn’t take long to spot them curled up together on a couch in the atrium. They were so engrossed in each other, I could easily sneak up behind them. I held my hands out, framing the two of them like a director getting a shot. “Yes…..such raw emotion, the angle of the right arm….quite avant garde,” I said loudly. They both looked up, clearly startled and blushing. “Come on, you two masterpieces, Matt’s project isn’t gonna do itself,” I had said, chuckling slightly. They stood up embarrassedly, walking briskly towards the Greco-Roman statues. Normally, I’d be able to talk for hours on the idealized human body and the craftsmanship that went into a piece like the one Matt and Caitlyn were looking at, but something about the expression and lack of limbs just struck me as funny. A thought pops into my brain, and I snort quietly, trying to suppress my immature giggle. Caitlyn heard it, and I’m pretty sure Matt did too, but he was looking at the placard and intently ignoring me. Caitlyn looked back, and rolled her eyes. “I swear, you act like you’re twelve sometimes,” she said, but she was grinning in spite of herself. “Hey, Caitlyn. What happens if you get struck by one of Zeus’ lightning bolts? They have to amp-utate.” I grinned, pointing at the limbless torso. Caitlyn started snickering, and pulled her hand out of Matt’s to lightly punch my arm. “That’s shockingly awful, and yet absolutely marble-ous,” she said. I guffawed, finally getting Matt to turn around. “Jesus, I can’t take you two anywhere. It’s art, are you both seriously giggling at

marble breasts? Sometimes I wanna stab you two.” He was looking at us with incredulity, but Caitlyn and I saw the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Et tu, Mattus?” I quietly yelled, as Caitlyn made stabbing motions at my gut. I doubled over, half from my “stab wounds” and half from laughing. Caitlyn wasn’t holding her composure much better, and she looked over at Matt, who was trying to suppress his own giggles. “Matthew, I can’t apollo-gize. You’re taking all the hard work that goes into these puns for granite.” He finally cracked up, but our little comedy club was interrupted when a guard walked in and glared at all of us. Matt turned as red as a fire truck, and Caitlyn and I held our hands over our mouths, desperately trying to suppress our laughter. Matt led our group as he ran off, and Cait and I tagged along behind him like giggling little ducklings. I am so engrossed in my own thoughts, I don’t even notice Caitlyn walk up. She taps me on the shoulder. “Earth to Gus, Earth to Gus, come in Gus.” She flashes a teasing grin that makes my stomach flip. I start and nearly lose my balance, then try to mirror the same smile back. “Hey there, didn’t notice you,” I say, sliding off the hood and onto my feet. “Shall we go?” I ask, motioning towards the lake. “Sure,” she says, smiling back, looking a mere fraction as nervous as I feel. We start walking along the path around the lake, past a large metal butterfly, the patterns on its wings created from different metals and finishes. The dimpled aluminum and shining copper are particularly eye-catching, throwing the sun directly at my eyes. Caitlyn’s hand brushes against mine, knuckles lightly grazing my fingertips. Was that an accident? I look over, and catch her staring at me from the corner of her eyes. She quickly looks the other way. Her emerald green shirt

perfectly complements her chocolate brown hair, and as the wind kicks up, I can’t help but notice it gently hug against her figure. As we pass the far end of the lake, the trail splits off into a grove of trees and up a hill. Without a word, we both silently turn up the hill, the smooth tarmac giving way to crunching gravel. As we reach the top of the hill, sunbeams filter through the leaves of the trees, peppering a bench with specks of light. “So…we’re here to talk about Monday. Shouldn’t we actually do that? Here looks to be as good a place as any,” she says, sitting down on the bench and looking back over at me expectantly. I walk over and sit down slowly, staring out at the lake, unsure where to start. She sits for a moment, waiting for me to do or say something. Her eyes skip around as she examines my face to try and discern my expression. “Okay, so, Monday morning. Was that an accident? I mean, I don’t know, I guess what I’m trying to say is….” She takes a breath, staring at her hands in her lap. “I wouldn’t necessarily mind if it happened again and I know there’s been some sort of tension for a while but I just ignored it because I was happy with things how they were but a couple weeks ago something shifted and I guess it showed on Sunday night,” she says, her cheeks flushing as the words tumble out. She covers her mouth with her hand, then slowly lowers it and nervously turns to look at me. I just set my jaw and lean forward, mind racing. Caitlyn looks at me bewilderedly. “Gus, what the heck is going on? Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine.” A lie. “Oh come on, you’re not even acting remotely like yourself! You’ve been sullen and worried since we started walking. You barely looked up past your feet. This isn’t you. I know there’s something, but what is it?”

Her voice is shaky, and she furrows her brow, struggling to maintain her composure. “I….I don’t know! Yes, there’s...there’s definitely something. I’ve suppressed it for years.” I speak in clipped sentences, blinking fast. “You were with Matt, so I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to screw it all up. You were both so happy, my saying anything would have just hurt both of you. It was better that way. ” “Yeah, I was,” she says quietly. “It may seem a little harsh or careless, but that was four months ago, and I haven’t forgotten, or thrown it all away.” She pauses and takes a deep breath, preparing for the next sentence. “But I’ve made my peace with it, with him. It wasn’t easy, and sometimes it still hurts. But you can’t live your life for someone who is dead. I know Matthew wouldn’t want either of us to be unhappy.” “I should have done something. Anything. I don’t know what. But I should have.” “Is that what this is? Gus, it isn’t your fault, you can’t—” “Yes, it is,” I say, cutting her off. “The night before it happened, I was grabbing a drink with Matt, and he told me he was thinking about maybe marrying you. I encouraged him, but it stung. When I got home, I wondered what would happen if Matt just wasn’t there, and...for a couple minutes I really wished he wasn’t, and the next night, the night it happened, I...I said I was busy. I didn’t mean for him to die.” A tear rolls down my cheek. Caitlyn takes a moment, clearly shocked by what I’d said. When she does speak, she does so slowly, carefully picking her words. “Gus…have you been holding yourself responsible for Matthew’s death for all this time? And was he...really thinking about marrying me?” I don’t say anything for a moment, then

nod very slightly. “No, I don’t hold myself completely responsible, but I haven’t forgiven myself either. And yeah, he was serious. He said he was gonna talk with you about it before he left for Italy.” Caitlyn slides her hand onto my back, and gently rubs across my spine and shoulder blades. “Look, Gus, I know you never would have sincerely wished for anything bad to happen to Matthew. And you can’t blame yourself for his death.” She moved her hand to my shoulder. “And in all honesty, that’s just absurd. You’re a biology major, a man of science. You know that’s not how it works. Okay?” She squeezes my shoulder and lightly shakes it for emphasis. I shake my head. “Still.” She slides her hand down my arm, taking my hand in hers. She rubs her thumb gently along my knuckles, tracing circles around them. “Gus, look at me.” I look up into her enchanting eyes, the early evening light sparkling in them. “This is not. Your. Fault.” I shrug. “Gus, it isn’t your fault.” She squeezes my hand again. “Gus?” I finally break the eye contact I’ve been fighting to maintain. I bury my face in Caitlyn’s shoulder as ragged sobs escape me. She wraps her arms around me, holding me tight, and I lean in, eyes squeezed shut. After several minutes and deep breaths to try and regain control of myself, I sigh and finally manage a quiet “Thanks, Cait.” “You’re welcome, Gus,” she says, squeezing me tightly again. A few more minutes pass before I speak. I clear my throat. “Anyway,” I say, “Monday. I’m not sure exactly what I want yet. I’ll need to think.” “Alright, just take your time. Don’t want to rush something you’d regret.” “Yeah, for sure.” I nod and stand up, wiping away tears with the back of my hand.

I offer my hand to help her back up, not letting go as we begin walking. We walk all the way back in silence, the only sound we make the crunch of the gravel under our shoes. As we pass the butterfly, it looks almost alien, the sculptures now casting long shadows in the low light. We get back to the parking lot and sit down on a bench to watch the sunset over the lake. The fade of the orange and pink in the sky reflects off the dark water, the cattails and lily pads at the edge of the water breaking into the wavy reflection. I wrap an arm around Caitlyn’s side and pull her next to me. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I see a sleepy little smile on her face. The sun is just disappearing when Caitlyn speaks up. “I’ve got to get home. I don’t wanna leave, but unfortunately, I need to,” she mumbles. “Right,” I murmur. I run my fingers through her hair a couple more times then take her hand in mine again. She stands up, and I do the same. She starts to walk away, but right as she gets to the edge of my reach, I squeeze her hand, pull her back towards me, wrap my arms around her, and engulf her in another tight hug. Before letting go I start to lean in but stop myself. She leans forward too, her lips stopping just short of mine. I can feel her breath as she exhales, warm on my lips and nose. We both pause, realizing what is about to happen, then part, looking away. “Good night, Cait.” “Night, Gus.” A brief moment of eye contact, then she turns and walks back to her car. I get into mine as well, and watch as the first stars replace the sunset. I should have kissed her.

In the Accusative 58

Nick Sondermann Everyone wants to talk But words are the issue Because when you speak of something “You” are the subject And “they” become the object, directly. By talking you objectify What it is you wish to rectify Whether you like it or not.

digital rendering by Liam John

Regrets, My Jeep, and You Sam Grasso

ith the top and doors both taken off my Jeep, I felt as if the summer breeze were flowing all around me like a giant blanket. I turned the volume up when my favorite song came on as I pulled off the main road, my speakers contesting with the distant sound of a party somewhere ahead of me. Pulling up to the address my best friend Mark had sent me, I parked outside of the house, ready to assume my role for the night: designated driver. Red Solo cups littered the front lawn and toilet paper decorated the trees. I started to send Mark a text saying that I just pulled up, but Mark drunkenly stumbled out of the front door before I finished typing, releasing the sound of music playing inside the house. He strolled through the trashed yard and slid ungracefully into the front seat. “Well good morning, princess!” “Charlie, can you stop being a little smart ass and drive?” Mark snapped back. “Where is Abby? I thought I was driving her home too,” I said. “She left early tonight I think with one of her friends, she was being a real pain tonight,” Mark said. This meant that they were fighting again about one of two things: either she had gotten mad at Mark for drinking too much, or he was cheating on her again. Judging by the the fact he reeked of beer and his eyes were glazed over, I assumed it was the alcohol this time. “Mark, what did you do?” “I didn’t do jack shit! All I did was go to a party, which I invited her to come to.

I talked to some girls I knew from a while back, then she freaked out over it,” he said. “Over what, Mark? Why did she freak out?” I said, concerned he actually had done something this time, as the two had been arguing more often recently. “So maybe that chick wanted me tonight; does that make me a bad guy?” “Damn it, Mark, what the hell is wrong with you? Abby was right there and you’re pulling shit like this like she won’t find out?! The number of times I have to watch this happen between you two is getting on my nerves—I’m done having to console Abby each time you cheat. I’m out. I am so tired of you treating her this way,” I said. “Stop acting all high and mighty with your moral peacekeeping. Who asked for you to intervene in my relationship with my girlfriend? I surely didn’t, and hey—why are you even talking to Abby about this stuff behind my back?” he shouted, sliding back out of the car. I didn’t know if it was the alcohol talking or just him speaking honestly, so I got out too to try to get him back in my car. He looked right into my eyes and snarled, “Stay the hell away from me right now. I never thought my friend would be such a dick to me.” “Mark, you’re drunk. Just get in my car,” I pleaded, moving closer to him. Just as I reached for his arm, I felt a sharp sting to my left jaw and the next thing I knew, my body toppled to the cold concrete road. I stood up and glared at him. “Good luck finding a ride home,” I spat, stepping back into my Jeep. I didn’t know

what to do or where to go. All I could think about was Abby.

ince my high school mixer freshman year, I had nursed a huge crush on Abby. Ironically, I was the one who had introduced her to Mark after I met her. After getting to know her better at football games and parties, Abby and I both made a deal: I would set her up with one of my friends for my high school’s homecoming, and she would set me up with one of her friends. I didn’t have enough confidence to ask her myself to go with me. I remember that night vividly as the moment when I royally screwed myself out of having a chance with the girl I loved and the moment I lost my best friend to alcoholism. As we trudged down the steep stairs into the basement, the smell of alcohol and the sounds from the party grew increasingly stronger. When we reached the basement, Mark took Abby by the hand and ran off to see what was going on in each corner of the room. In one area, some of our friends were all sitting in a circle talking about the dance and what was happening at other parties. At another, some guys played ping pong while their dates sat bored on the couches, glued to their phones. Mark ended up pulling Abby in the back left corner of the basement, hidden from direct sight at the bottom of the staircase, where some of the guys had begun crowding around a backpack. I looked over at my date, the girl Abby had set me up with, and said, “Hey, I am going to go over with Mark, I’ll catch up with you later.” She rolled her eyes and walked over to the other abandoned girls on the couch, while I tried to see what Mark was getting himself into. As I approached the dimly lit corner to see what was so enticing about that backpack, Mark pulled me into the huddle as if I was late to an important team meeting. I

looked down at the navy Jansport pack and realized what had drawn in the crowd. The necks of four or five glass bottles of different heights and widths were jutting out. I wasn’t interested. This was my first party, and my parents had already scared the crap out of me with their “no alcohol” speech they had given before I had left that night. Mark pulled me aside and said, “Dude, I’m going to have some, will you?” “I don’t know man, Claire’s dad is coming to pick us up and I don’t want him to tell my parents or anything,” I said. “Well, suit yourself!” he said with a wild grin plastered to his face. He snatched one of the bottles with clear liquid in it and sucked down three big gulps. He turned around puckered like he had just bit a lemon but quickly shook it off. He gave some to Abby, who hesitantly poured some into her halfempty Gatorade bottle then walked back over to the couch to share it with her friend. I wanted to try to make a move on her, but I didn’t know how. So I awkwardly slid over into the spot open on the sofa next to her and attempted a conversation. “How did you like the dance?” I asked, unable to conjure up a more clever conversation starter. “It was fun. I mean, it was my first high school dance, so I don’t know what else to compare it to, but I liked it a lot,” she said. “Same here, I can’t wait for the next one! Hopefully we can all go together again to it too,” I said. “Yeah, yeah, that would be cool...” Abby said, trailing off and looking around the room as if she had lost something. I could smell the alcohol on her breath. Judging by her empty bottle, I figured she was searching for a refill. “Hey, I have to find Mark. I’ll be right back,” she said and walked away. Right as she got up, my dad texted me that he was there to pick me and my date

up. I found Claire and told her it was time to go. As we were leaving, I looked back at where I saw Abby last, but she wasn’t there. I quickly scanned the whole room while walking towards the stairs, but just as I reached the first step, I saw Mark pulling her into one of the back rooms of the basement with the same crazy grin he had when he had gulped down the vodka. I shouldn’t have let her go.

he light was on in her room as I pulled up to Abby’s house. My face still stung from Mark’s fist, and I could feel the swelling around my cheekbone. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and gazed through the missing door into her room. Her window was on the main level of the house, just high enough off the ground so that I only had to jump up a little to climb into her room, as I had done numerous times in the past. I silently crept to the window and tapped softly, not wanting to wake up her parents. Abby peeked out hesitantly from inside her closet, and despite the obvious tear marks running down her face, she smiled at me the same way she had when I first saw her. As she opened the window, I performed a faux bow with one arm behind my back. “Miss, your carriage awaits you.” “Why thank you, kind sir,” she said, playing along in an awful British accent. I noticed she was in her pajamas—a red Alabama T-Shirt with a pair of gray Georgetown sweatpants and a pair of bright pink flip flops. Pretending to open the non-existent door for her and closing it behind her, I asked “Where to?” as I plugged the key in the ignition and felt the engine begin to hum. “Ummm, how about London…or maybe Paris!” she responded sarcastically. “Downtown it is!” I said with a smile, pulling away from the curb and driving towards the city. As we drove through downtown Omaha,

the summer breeze brushed over us while we navigated through the streets glowing with neon lights, breathing the fresh Nebraska air. We had my music up loud and just listened. Nobody talked, just wore huge smiles. I looked over at her sitting on the seat Indianstyle, knees tucked up against her chest with her hair blowing around her face. It was two o’clock in the morning, but it felt like the night had only begun. We had barely talked, and I started to get anxious when our favorite song, “Your Love,” by the Outfield, came on. I was a huge ’80s nerd and loved all the music produced then. Over the past couple of years I had been educating Abby and Mark in that musical genre, but Abby was the only one who actually took my music recommendations to heart. We were listening to U2 when I pulled the car back in front of her house and turned the engine off. It was so silent. Occasionally, you could hear the branches rustling in the breeze or a car driving down a neighborhood road somewhere in the distance, but all I focused on was her breathing. She sat there, her feet on the dashboard, slumped in the chair looking up at the stars through the open roof. “What are you thinking about right now? I don’t care how ridiculous it is. Just say what’s going through your mind,” I said, eyes glued to the stars as well. “Well, I guess I am thinking about how much I really want ice cream right now... and to be watching Game of Thrones, but my mom took away my Netflix account,” she said. “No, seriously. Abby, what is on your mind. Why have you been so closed off tonight?” I probed. “I don’t know…. I just feel like my life right now is a big, mysterious, obnoxious mess. I don’t know. I mean, May 1st is on Monday, and I still have no clue where I am

going to college. Mark is going to Alabama and wants me to go with him, but my parents want me to go to Georgetown because they have a great law school. My friends are all splitting up because of college, and I have no idea who to trust anymore. Mark is who knows where doing who knows what, or who knows who. I kill myself everyday over why I am still in love with him because all he cares about is booze, his Instagram followers, and baseball. I just don’t know anymore. My world seems to be crumbling to shit and I am all alone,” she said, sniffling. There were tears running down her face. She turned away from me, out her door. I felt so helpless. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. Her hand was resting on her lap, her class ring on one of her fingers and the small flower tattoo she had gotten junior year on her wrist. I picked up her hand and squeezed it. “Hey, you know I am always here for you,” I said as she turned and looked me in the eyes. She smiled and wiped the tears off her face, even though they were still pouring from her eyes. I kept thinking to myself that I couldn’t let this chance slide away like I had for the last four years. I wasn’t going to let her go again. We held each other’s gaze. I leaned in, repeated to myself, “Five seconds of bravery, five seconds of bravery, five seconds of bravery,” but right as I was about to kiss her, she turned her head and looked away. She cried even harder. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled. “Charlie, don’t be. I just... can’t,” she sputtered through tears. “Why? Is it because of Mark?” “No, I just can’t do this right now, OK? I can’t. I just can’t.” “Abby... I love you,” I blurted out impulsively, praying I didn’t screw this up. “Charlie,” she said, grabbing my hand again and looking into my eyes. “I know you think you do, but you don’t. I have noticed it

since freshman year, but trust me, you don’t love me.” “But I do, honestly,” I said. How could she know I didn’t love her? “Charlie, if you truly loved me, it wouldn’t have taken you four years to finally say so. I probably know you better than you do, and I know I am not the one for you. You deserve someone better, someone stable. Charlie, your girl is out there, but she is not sitting in your Jeep right now.” We sat there for a couple minutes, both taking in what had just happened. I couldn’t believe it. I had tried so hard and wanted to be with her so bad, but was she right? Was I truly hanging onto nothing while the girl I should be with was somewhere else waiting for me? I didn’t know what to think, so I figured I would leave, but just as I was about to say goodbye, she grabbed my keys and turned them to the second notch so the radio would turn on. “Let’s just sit and listen for this one song. I don’t want to think anymore. Just listen; you never know what you might hear,” she said, plugging in her phone to the AUX cable. A tear ran down my cheek as the song “Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House came on. When it ended, I walked her back to the window. “Hey, Charlie,” she said, “I appreciate what you did for me tonight. I needed a friend to be with me and I am truly grateful.” She smiled that soft smile and hopped through the window back into her room, but before closing her window, she leaned down and handed me a letter. “I was planning on giving you this at graduation, but I figured tonight might be better.” I took the letter and smiled. The lights in her room went out, and I walked back to the open Jeep, hopping into the driver’s seat. I started the car but stayed in park, opening the envelope to find a letter and a flash drive.

“Dear Charlie, I wanted to thank you for all the fun times. You have been my rock when I couldn’t find stability in my life and was on the brink of disaster. On the flashdrive is a playlist I have made of all my favorite ’80s songs you have shown me. I hope you find what you are looking for in college. Just re-

member, the best adventures in life come when you’re not expecting them to. Love, Abby” I had no idea what I was going to do now that Abby had completely shut me down, but I drove home with a smile on my face. I was beginning a new adventure, alone.

pastel drawing by Matthew Thomas

Flood Robert Coleman-Grayson The Fog rolls in thundering like a gentle mountain, Silvery like the fountain that springs from its dark igneous face. Young and stupid, stupid with young, Waiting to spend their lives which had ended. Chairs upturned; here, there others turned, Alien to their native spaces, Like the worshipping of the table, the others like those far too hopeful of the chaos of the material. Its stripes and veins like the corpse of the unpreyed zebra, Illuminate in the touch of artificial sky Like the excited pulse of flesh-eating beetles As they dance within their food. Fibers woven in acrylic petals, A rose sits planted in the cubic bounds of its Styrofoam vase. Lively and flaring pink like the cheeks and voice of Geppetto in Pinocchioâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ear. And the observer waits in his dream of extravagant poise, The world sprouting from the boulder fog, Triumphant in the world at least below. Touch, smell, scent scale the paralyzed mind As the observer sinks away from its pollen.

Stonewall’s Lament 66

Matthew Quinlivan My fortress and my aegis, Penetrated by a stray bullet, gone forevermore And lost to Abysmal Eternity’s seas. There is a river at Chancellorsville That he follows. I shall continue after him. Lost in thought and introspection, I blindly follow the Stygian river Hoping to find its delta. Hoping to find him, wading forevermore In the seas of Eternity. It’s hopeless to pursue him, For he is gone now. I’ll never know him again. While tethered to this mortal coil, Reunion with him is but a distant dream. I shall continue after him into Eternity. Eternity, the only way he is preserved, Hereafter confined to the past’s perpetuity. How foolish of mankind to love Such a thing as one another. It can only end In heartbreak, shattered by a single bullet. Alas, ’twas but my only blunder, For to ever have loved my Stonewall was futile, And I, being but a naive young fool Enraptured by his charm and cunning, Was doomed to sorrow: it could not last.

And he did not last, my Stonewall. You have abandoned mortality and now, I should presume, dine at heroes’ table, Seated on Achilles’ flank forevermore. And I shall continue after you. How fragile you were as I cradled you, As you exhaled for the last time, Whispering, “Illis quos amo deserviam,” And the blood poured from your wound Like the waters of Eternity flow from this Stygian river. All I ever wanted was to love you, my Stonewall, And as I traverse these waters, I finally Gaze into the very chasm you saw. Our reunion draws near, brother. And I shall continue after you.

photograph by Kyle Sullivan

Warmth Anna Shi (Junran)

inda was the “weird kid” in my class— the one who was always left out of group activities and sat alone, staring out the window at lunch. Her hair was always messy and dirty, almost like a chicken’s nest. Every once in a while, she would try a new hairstyle that made everyone cringe. Her face reminded me of donuts—round and oily, with red acne spots that could pass for sprinkles. In summertime, the classroom would smell of cooling oil (a Chinese oil with a strong minty scent) because she moisturized her desk with it to help herself stay awake. Nevertheless, she fell asleep in class all the time. The class would all decide to leave the classroom silently and wait to see her show up in the lab or computer room in the middle of the period, still half asleep with drool around her lips, and we would break out in laughter in perfect unison. That was the best class joke in our boring school life. If you asked boys which girl they “talked about” most, the answer would be Linda. If you asked which girl has the most “gossip”, the answer would still be her. Pairing her up with your best buddy and spreading gossip about them dating seemed the biggest enjoyment for those teenage boys. Every day a boy’s name was chanted along with hers, prompting sneers, cheers and disgust from the boy who had been thus mocked. How did Linda feel about her many “boyfriends”? She didn’t know enough to care, everyone said. That was how they excused themselves for

their bullying. I thought I could see misery in her eyes—or was it just my imagination? I was no better than these bullies. I tried not to care, for my vulgar inner voice convinced me that helping her would mean throwing my popularity onto the altar of sacrifice. She was the last person I expected to see on the evening of the school talent competition. In fact, I didn’t expect to see anyone from class who wasn’t in our band. It was a freezing December night that was supposed to be packed with homework. Who would want to go to school in the biting wind and sacrifice precious homework time just to see our band play? The small band was busily practicing in a big music room. Cold air drifted in through the small gaps in the old window frames. It travelled down my neck and up my back, making me feel as if cold water were relentlessly poured into my flannel. The cold air stiffened our hands—there would have been blood on the strings already if the guitarist didn’t have all those protective calluses on his fingers. There was nothing for me to do except repeat the drum beat over and over again, though my skin felt like cracking and my fingers had gone senseless. The sky was blue and the sports field filled with chatter when we first started practicing. When it was dark and quiet, our music was still flowing in the room. Then came a knock on the door. “Come in!” I yelled. We stood up and grabbed our instruments, expecting the call

for us to go on stage. “Ready in a second!” “Oh no.” The voice was soft, almost weak. “It’s just me.” The door opened, and there she stood. “Linda?” we exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?” Her face broke into a smile, hiding her small eyes. Her hand reached out from behind, holding a gigantic cup of bubble tea. “Gotcha something to drink!” Her eyes were radiating happiness and warmth. She pulled out four straws from the plastic bag and handed them over, showing her hands, which were pink from the cold. I looked at my band members in disbelief and received the same look in return. I took the bubble tea and straws in my hands and welcomed the long-wanted warmth in my palms. We were utterly speechless. “Drink it before it cools! I bet y’all are almost frozen over here.” She shivered slightly and wrapped her hands around her chest, lightly skipping her feet to stay warm. “Oh… right.” I don’t know who managed to speak. “That’s so sweet of you!” I tried the bubble tea. It was silky and smooth, sliding down my throat and warming my stomach. I saw the satisfied looks in everyone’s eyes as we each tried it. “Ahhhh… This is so good.” I closed my eyes to savor the taste. “Thank you thank you thank you!” I don’t think anyone could wipe that smile off her face when she heard our thanks. She seemed so excited that she didn’t even know where to put her hands. She fiddled with her fingers, crossing and uncrossing them, and rubbed her hands together. Even-

tually, she awkwardly stuck them in her pockets. While enjoying the bubble tea, I finally had a chance to examine her closely. Her cheeks were red—from blushing or the cold? I couldn’t help but notice the thin layer of sweat on her forehead. How did she manage to sweat when we were shivering in the cold? She answered my thoughts by saying, “I biked here all the way from home. Thought you might like some company and support before going on stage!” “You biked here?” I knew she lived some twenty miles away from school. “Yep.” She said it like it was nothing, yet I found it hard to imagine the distance and the temperature. “I know the owner of a bubble tea shop, so I stopped by and got ya the largest size.” We couldn’t say anything, except to thank her again and again, seeing her smile blossom every time. She stood by the door, skipping a bit whenever it got too cold. She still had messy and dirty hair and a donut-shaped oily face. She was still the sleepy girl smelling of cooling oil. But when I looked at her, I saw someone different. Was it the pinkness in her cheeks? The sweat on her forehead? Or was it the smile in her eyes? I couldn’t quite tell. But maybe it wasn’t she who had changed. Looking back on that long night, I remember nothing about the singing and drumming. What I do remember is the cold stage lights and Linda sitting in the front row, cheering for us with the stage light reflecting off her eyes, making them shine with warmth that fought off the December cold.

King of Crime Joseph Mantych

The king strides arm-in-arm with heavy men Armed with barrels, bullets, triggers, and hands; His chains are clinking with each step taken, He makes beats like a one-man marching band. His bruises, purple, bleeding from within, Darkened tattoos too painful to remove; No heirs for him, no family and no kin, No legacy and nothing worth to prove. He stutters in his steps once at his throne, Rough leather straps ready for his thin wrists; Resistance met with punches, kicks, and blows, And in his regal seat he writhes and twists. Â His crown lowered, eyes darting back and forth, The cord is long, but life for him is short.

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

Welcome to the Murderers’ Club Gabe Lepak

ello!

You, my friend, are cordially invited to be a member of the Murderers’ Club. Together, with the likes of everyone from Jefferey Dahmer to that crazy mailman who lives down the street, you can help promote murder in its various forms. Now, admittedly, this isn’t really an “invitation” so much as a formal declaration of your automatic membership, but corporate is weird, and they insist on “cordially inviting” all new members. You’re probably thinking something along the lines of “Wait, when did I fill out this application?” The answer is, you didn’t. One of the several beauties of the Murderer’s Club is that we find you, not like those lame farts at the Cannibal Club. You may also we wondering “How am I a member of the Murderer’s Club? I haven’t murdered anyone?” To which I say, it’s okay to not know your victims. Jack “the Ripper” Johnson certainly doesn’t remember all the women he viciously murdered in the back alleys of London. In review of your case, you are no ordinary murderer. In fact, you have been inducted into our exclusive MNF directory. You, my friend, are a murderer who will never be tried for your crimes. Admittedly, this isn’t a terrifically elite group, as several murderers have joined the MNF by accident, fleeing a country, or dying themselves before their actions came to light. You however, are not only a member of the MNF, but a member of an elite circle of the MNF, the MPS. You, my friend, are a Murderer in Plain Sight. In

fact, you’ve done such a good job, when you tell people you murdered someone, they’ll say, “Oh don’t say that, you could’ve never known,” or something along those lines: I’m a murderer, not a telepath. I’m sure you have some questions, so I compiled some of the most common into a small FAQ for you. If you have further, do not hesitate to contact us. Whom did I murder? Unfortunately, the Murderer’s Club only has access to murderers, not their victims. How did you find me? Crime records, especially murders, are not terribly difficult to come by. Can I opt out of membership? I can’t imagine why anyone would want to leave the Murderer’s Club. Now, theoretically speaking, death could revoke your membership. How did I murder them? Unfortunately, the weapon you used to murder your victim has been destroyed due to natural decomposition of materials. As such, we here at the Murderer’s Club do not know explicitly what was used to kill. Our forensics department, however, is phenomenal at their job, and in your case, considering you are a MNF and a MPS, they have arrived as several possibilities. The most likely of them is the breezy suggestion “Go kill yourself.” Be wary that this is a hypothesis, and while likely, should be taken with a grain of salt. Thus concludes the FAQ and your acceptance into the murderer’s club. Welcome, and get clubbing, James “Snake Hands Jimmy” Westly

Dawn Joey Dougherty

Hungry sunlight devours the naked horizon Dawn has come, advent of new morn Dew dots the shrubs, dregs of mortal night Songbirds chirp, prelude to the orchestra of midmorn hawk-songs Hares scramble through the underbrush, Evading the quick fox, crimson pelt of soft auburn, dying ember, and pale amber Rambling wren and calling cockerel Calling Calling Calling

photograph by Anna Shi (Junran)

Katzenjammer Miles Matyiko Only rarely would one glance to see The deer trotting through thick brambles of green, Along untrodden paths, around quiet trees, Mountains far off, above a wide ravine. A sound from yonder now perks his head high, But naïve and undaunted he treks on. Afar on the hilltop, below the bright sky A barrel stares, eye set on the young fawn. Yearning for a sip from the nearby stream, The deer lightly springs out from the brush; But the barrel screams, and with dark eyes agleam This deer falls too soon in life, now but a hush. The barrel, sated, comes ’round the creek’s bend. This katzenjammer the deer could not forfend. ________ Katzenjammer: noun; uneasiness, anguish, or distress

photograph by Brendan Voigt

The Door Open Ariel Liu

was lying on my soft and big round bed at my sweet home in the city, with nightmares that hit me again and again, reminding me of that helpless night at my grandparents’ house in the countryside. That was a summer night with no stars, no wind and no clouds, and the only sound that I could hear was the droning symphony played by the crickets and cicadas. I stretched out my arms and legs like a spider and took up the whole bed while my Dad and Mum were playing poker with my aunt and grandpa next door. I rolled from this side of the bed to the other and rolled back, raising my legs high up and imagining my left foot murmuring to the other one in the faint yellow light

of the bulb, and I felt unable to fall asleep. I climbed off the bed and tiptoed to the door without wearing my slippers. The ground of the house was coarse, and within a few footsteps little stones and sands were clung to the bottom of my feet. I pushed the door ajar, enabling a slight bunch of candle light coming into the room. “Pair nine… Fangren, you should really consider it now… Pass… You are thirty-six and you have been pretty successful in your business: you’ve got to have a son.” I heard my aunt talking as she was handing out the cards. “Bomb … She’s right. You are the only son of mine and your son will inherit our family wealth. Better get ready for it now. Both of you.” Grandpa was staring at Mum and Dad, with four eights thrown heavily onto the table. Dad was trying to avoid eye contact with Grandpa and Aunt by pretending to count

ink drawing by Anna Shi (Junran)

the cards and think about which to play next. Mum was obviously feeling embarrassed and tired. Her hand covered her eyes and supported her drowsy head from falling over. Various questions flew through my mind. I repeatedly asked myself: Am I going to have a sibling? How could they be so sure that it would be a boy? Why did Papa and Auntie say that it has to be boy? What family wealth do they have? Is it a hidden treasure? The strong curiosity of a little girl drove me to get nearer and figure out what they were really talking about. My grandparents have five daughters and only one son, so my dad is the pride of the whole family. Also, he is the only one in his family to escape the fate of a being farmer in the countryside. However, he gained his success as a businessman mainly because of his own efforts: his parents couldn’t afford to support him to go to the college. Since I was little, my dad had been telling me stories of his hard life as a salesperson. Without any college degrees, he started his career by selling for five yuan apiece newspapers worth only one. As I opened the door slightly more and pushed my head out of the crack of the door, I could hear them talking more clearly. This time my dad was forced to say something: “We’ve already had Jingjing. Kanghong and I don’t plan to have a baby now.” “Girls are just girls. Girls can’t inherit our family wealth.” Grandpa banged the table and shouted at dad. “When she gets married, she will follow her husband and have a different last name.” My aunt stood up, placed her hand on Dad’s shoulder, and said, “Girls are useless. They are never as good as boys!” I remained shocked, my fingernails scratching into the wooden door. All of a sudden, my mind was blank. Naughty bees buzzed around in my head. Sweat drops the size of soybeans were streaming down my

cheeks, into my pajamas. For a moment, I didn’t know what to do next and was unable to move. Mum stood up and was about to leave. “Kanghong, you’d better go to the hospital and check yourself. You’d better bear a son for us Lius. I don’t want a girl any more,” Grandpa ordered, pointing to Mum. “Well, it’s not my problem…” Mum wanted to defend herself, but ceased as she looked at them. I went backwards a few steps and bumped into the wardrobe. With the loud “bang” sound in the silent night, all of them looked in the direction of my bedroom. I quickly crawled under the cover and buried my face into the pillow. I heard mum walking into the room and checking whether I was asleep. As she turned off the light and quietly closed the door, I turned over my face, only to find that traces of tears remained there. I looked into the dark ceiling, tears running down my cheeks nonstop. I remembered that when other kids bullied me because of my dark skin, my aunt always called me “black beauty.” I always laughed, arguing that I was not, while she would laugh with me until I was not sad any more. The stars were blinking at me, as if they were laughing my situation now. Cracked words like “girls are just girls” and “they are never as good as boys” were punching me fiercely. I even dreamed of being abandoned by my family. The next day I woke up with traces of tears on my cheeks, which made me feel dry and uncomfortable. Mom noticed my bloodshot eyes and asked what was wrong. I lied to her, telling her that there were sands in my eyes. She embraced me and encouraged me to go play with my cousins. “Here is a coin.” She handed me a oneyuan coin from her purse. “I remember you told me that you wanted to make a shuttlecock. I gathered some feathers from the

photograph by Liam John

chicken we ate yesterday. You can use the coin as the base, wrap it with tape, and leave a small hole. Then just insert the feathers into the hole. Have fun with your cousins!” “OK, Mom.” I looked at her, swallowing the questions I intended to ask her about their conversation last night. I knocked on my two cousins’ door, asking them out to play with me. I put my coin on the table, went to look for the feathers in the kitchen. When I came back, the coin was gone. I asked my cousins whether they saw the coin I had put on the table, but they both said no. So for the whole morning, I stayed in my bedroom and lay on my bed paralyzed with disappointment. When mom asked me out for lunch, I noticed that one of my cousins, Qing, was having a packet of spicy glutens in her hand.

I was astonished because I knew that Aunt never gave Qing any pocket money, and she had already spent all of her red packet. Where did she get the money to buy snacks? The only explanation was that she stole that coin. Fury suddenly inflamed my whole body, leaving me shocked. I became furious not only because she stole my money and lied to me but also because she didn’t try to fight for her own rights. As a typical country girl in a typical rural area in China, she was not treated as well as boys. However, she should have at least worked hard and depended on her own efforts for her better future, not steal from others. This was only a small instance of stealing, only worth one yuan, but if she kept on that course, she would probably become a criminal, stealing something more valuable. As I was thinking about that, another hypothesis popped out. Maybe she had no choice but to steal. When Qing helped with housework, her mom never praised her. When Qing received good grade, her mom never awarded her, which made her tired of going to school. When Qing had her birthday, her mom never gave her presents or wished her happy birthday. Probably it was her mom’s aloof attitude that made her give up her own future. But when I thought of the conversation last night, I came to conclude that it was the reality of the society that made her mother aloof from Qing. I have heard people criticize patriarchal people who favor boys not girls, but I never thought that this would ever happen to those around me. I know that it is a common practice for the farmers and uneducated in rural areas in China, and few girls ever fight for their rights, but I will not give up.

The Owl Leo Moore

he owl perched on the gently swaying tree branch, surveying the ground with massive amber eyes. Its feathers puffed up to maintain some warmth in the barren treetop, and its head swiveled methodically, like a lighthouse searching for a final distant ship. After hours of this repeated scanning, the owl spotted something, rustling through the dying underbrush several dozen meters down and away. Shifting its head sideways, it faintly picked up the scratching sound of something hopping rapidly in the withering grass below. Jumping off of the branch, the owl outstretched its comparatively massive wings, beginning the silent glide towards what would moments later be dinner. The field mouse slunk through the sodden meadow, pausing every now and again

to listen intently for approaching predators. Its moist nose twitched, trying to grab trails of food and foes from the crisp night air. Suddenly, the mouseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sensitive ears picked up a small disturbance in the surrounding air. Something was approaching the mouse, but the minuteness of the vibrations set it at ease; whatever was approaching was at most the same size, if not smaller. It continued hopping along for a few meters before the owl swooped down, pinning the unfortunate mouse to the wet soil. Using its nimble talons, the owl picked up the dying mouse, tossed it up carelessly, and snatched it out of the air with its sharp beak. The owl gulped the mouse down whole, shook itself vigorously to remove attached detritus, and leapt back into flight as silently as a soft breeze.

photograph by Kyle Sullivan

Sacrament 78

Matthew Loranger

Shadows dance to the tune of our laughter, changing and warping their bodies as we fall into each other like raindrops into a pistil. These little velvet cruelties, small symphonies conducted with the tips of your fingers and transcribed into folds of sheets and flesh, burn blood and twist my mind into something unknown. Upon this altar, we make a strange sacrifice of small deaths in the name of Cyprian queens. The fires are burning around rings and foreign markings upon burnt cloth. But, as knives are sharpened and fear takes hold, a question remains unanswered between us: who is the real offering, the priest or the victim?

photograph by Joe Hillmeyer

Moderators’ Notes

For this Spring 2017 issue of Sisyphus, we feature two distinct outside covers. The editors so loved both proposed covers that they saw no reason to choose. One cover features Will Kelly’s “Utopia,” a transcendently beautiful picture of a streetscape in Honduras. The other cover delivers a series of stamped Chinese characters—carved by the artist, Alex Zhao (Yunya), from stone blocks (an “eyesight-devastating hobby,” she reports). The sequence of images is timely and meaningful as well as stunning. Flip back to the cover in order to trace, from left to right, the natural and cultural progression of spring: God of Joy, Orchid, Plum Blossom, Bamboo, the End of Frost, the First Touch of Spring when Voles Turn into Quails, Pass Every Test, Charming and Cool, Educating People, Golden Rooster… Blesses You. With this issue of Sisyphus we offer a valedictory handshake to four senior literary editors, regretting the loss to the staff of their distinctive gifts: the careful empathy of Ed Gartner, on display in his fine poems as well as his work with other contributors; the clarifying insight of Brian Price, along with his attention to detail; the good-humored thoughtfulness of Mitchell Shorey; and the polymathic delight of Matt Smith strumming arpeggios of wit up to the sublime and down, down, down to the absurd. At first sight, our senior art editors seem most notable for their differences: Salvatore Vitellaro so restrained and precise, Liam Connolly abubble with benign mischief and lifeaffirming mirth, Brendan Voigt stolidly clear-eyed, Blaise Lanter puckishly opinionated, and Joe Fentress whose hang-dog manner belies his gift for elegant design and bemused satisfaction. But different as they are, these five editors never clashed: they kept their eyes on making the magazine beautiful. And because we needed a triad to step up to lay out the magazine, three of these art editors—Connolly, Fentress, and Vitellaro—learned out on the fly to lay and delivered the magazine with patient and tasteful efficiency. Several departing seniors not on our current editorial staff have made their marks on the magazine with repeated, excellent contributions over several years. This magazine would have been less striking, less itself, if we had lacked Lancer Li’s magnificent drawings, Matt Thomas’s pastels and prints, Will Kelly’s cornucopia of remarkable photographs, Nick Sondermann’s witty, sometimes savage verse, and Matt Loranger’s piercing poems. Many others have published fine work in the pages of Sisyphus, but these five seniors have made themselves our regulars. One other regular, long-time voice bids farewell to Sisyphus and SLUH at this time. Not many people have been reading Sisyphus long enough to recognize how many brilliantly provocative poems Madame Suzanne Renard has published here (including “Rumi Rearranges the Library,” with which we launch this issue of the magazine). An anthology constituted only of Suzzy’s Sisyphus poems would keep a mind and heart palpitating for delightful hours.