Sisyphus - Spring 2015

Sisyphus Winter ’12 3 Heart of My City, poetry by Shayn Jackson 3 drawing by Nick Bentz 4 photography by Giuseppe Vitellaro 5 Lapse, fiction by Jack Barbey 6 linoleum print by Giuseppe Vitellaro 9 photography by Linda Ruiyi 11 photography by Giuseppe Vitellaro 12 photography by Nick Bentz 13 Nova, poetry by Garret Fox 13 drawing by Nick Bentz 14 Girlfriend, fiction by Hap Burke 16 photography by Leo Heinz 19 photography by Jack Carroll 20 Backstage, poetry by Kevin Thomas 21 photography by Dan Mudd 21 A New Rhythm to the Night, fiction by Sam Frentress 23 photography by Dan Mudd 24 september stillness, poetry by Kevin Thomas 25 photography by Patrick Enderle 25 Fever, poetry by Giuseppe Vitellaro 26 Emily Dickinson’s Brush with Your iPad, poetry by Suzanne Renard 27 photography by Patrick Enderle 28 Zero-Stress Café, microfiction by Giuseppe Vitellaro 28 Instagram, microfiction by Giuseppe Vitellaro 29 block print by Giuseppe Vitellaro 30 Family Reunion, fiction by Matt Smith 32 photography by Patrick Enderle 33 Meyer’s Lemons, poetry by Shayn Jackson 34 The Flying Ace, microfiction by Will Heine 34 photography by Max Prosperi 35 Thoughts of You at 11:37, fiction by Michael Wiley 36 Ted’s, fiction by Giuseppe Vitellaro 37 photography by Patrick Rottman 37 Two Things, poetry by John Schwartz 38 My Life in Clover Ridge, prose by Finn Hunsaker

39 photography by Patrick Enderle 40 photography by Giuseppe Vitellaro 42 Streetlights, fiction by Shayn Jackson 43 photography by Patrick Enderle 44 The New World, fiction by Luke Twardowski 46 Fifth Grade, fiction by Evan Brende 46 photography by Will Kelly 47 photography by Giuseppe Vitellaro 48 The Price of Vanity, prose by Matt Smith 49 photography by Patrick Rottman 50 drawing by Syed Fakhryzada 51 photography by Max Prosperi 52 Miranda, fiction by Joe Slama 53 photography by Giuseppe Vitellaro 55 photography by Patrick Enderle 56 photography by Patrick Enderle 58 The Tone, poetry by Kevin Strader 58 ceramic tile by Jackson Mayfield 59 Ocean, fiction by Ian Odendahl 60 photography by Joseph Weber 61 Conjunction, poetry by Matt Bates 62 wood sculpture by Kellen Cushing 63 Feelings on Your Lip, fiction by Jordan Sosa 65 drawing by Kellen Cushing 66 Meat Sauce, microfiction by Kevin Thomas 66 photography by Joseph Weber 67 Frozen Groceries, prose by Marty Johnson 68 Holy of Holies, poetry by Suzanne Renard 69 The Break-Up Text, fiction by Luke Twardowski 70 photography by Patrick Enderle 71 Mural, fiction by John Bui 72 watercolor by Dan Mudd 74 watercolor by Kellen Cushing 77 Sunday in June, microfiction by Hap Burke 77 photography by Tom Hillmeyer 78 Thought for the Day, poetry by Suzanne Renard

Heart of My City Shayn Jackson Dedicated to 250 years of St. Louis SMACK in the middle of our star-spangled nation lies a city that wades in the deep end of the murky M. I. S. S. ippi.

A wild city, an imperfect city, and its heart beats.

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A city where the sizzle-pop-sss of Sweetie Pie’s plus the brackish, old Oyster Bar bark louder than the thousand goose-gaggle horn cries of the hypertense 6:00 Grands and 40s, such as the smooth-sauce-slather sounds singing from Gioia’s and Mom’s make syndicate Subways cower in fear and envy.

And its heart beats.

My city, where the thump-thump of thinning shoe souls on slick, worn and watery Forest Park mud-squelch paths peal just as cacophonously as the large, carbonclogged highways, and the summer seared blood boils and itches irritantly, furiously, through

drawing by Nick Bentz

the legs of runners rebels and policing peacemakers.

And as their hearts beat in boisterous discord, my city’s heart races and beats and beats and beats!

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Her heart screams! louder than the grease-grip-pops, louder than the feet stomps of the people, the vessels, that throb through her streets, alleys, fields and mobs, and as her veins strain and threaten to burst with the pressure it all stops and her heart, her strong old heart beats and beats and beats.

Can you hear it?

Can you hear the heart of my city?

photograph by Giuseppe Vitellaro

Lapse Jack Barbey

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alph put his hand on his back, just on top of his belt, and grimaced as he sank into the car seat. “This is the Northwest State Correctional Facility…” He heard the call again in his mind. He didn’t remember many things now, but he remembered every word of the call. Memory. That’s what makes us who we are, he thought. The drive wasn’t too long, about an hour and fifteen minutes up I-89, but it was long enough that Ralph would have a lot of time to think. He didn’t listen to the radio anymore. The car was one of the few places where everything was peaceful and quiet, and he liked to think about the past. Or, maybe he didn’t like to, but he needed to. “...I’m sorry to inform you that your brother passed away a few minutes ago....”

Harry had always been the one with the temper. He’d let you know if something bothered him. But that never reduced his love and admiration for his older brother.

He’d talk back to Mom and Dad, but never to Ralph.

One day, Mom had used Harry’s full first name: Edward.

“I hate that name! Don’t call me that,” he had yelled. Mom and Dad looked at each other, worried.

“Why do you hate your name? You’ve never hated it before,” Mom had said gently.

“Because it sounds stupid. I want to go by my middle name.”

Then Dad had gotten involved. “Your name is Edward and you’ll go by that.”

The next two days had been hell around the house. Harry didn’t yell at Ralph the way he yelled at Mom and Dad. Instead, he

begged him over and over to call him Harold.

So eventually he did, but he shortened it to Harry.

“I like that: ‘Harry.’ It makes me sound like a man,” Harry had said, his eyes glistening and a proud smile on his face. It had only taken a few more days for Mom to give in. Ralph suspected Mom had always been afraid of Harry, even when he was so young. Dad, though, had refused for weeks.

Come to think of it, Ralph couldn’t remember when Dad had started calling him Harry.

Edward had been Dad’s father’s name, and Ralph could tell Dad was hurt by Harry’s refusal of the name. But he too gave up after awhile. So then Edward had become Harry.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t settled down for Harry after that. He had always wanted to prove himself. He picked fights with the upperclassmen in high school; he pursued too many girls, not always one at a time. Still, he managed to get himself into college, but without Dad railing on him all the time or Ralph telling him to clean up his act, Harry had gotten worse. Soon that rebelliousness had made Harry turn to drugs. Every time Ralph saw Harry while he was in college, he seemed to be on acid. His eyes would look off into the distance and he would talk forever but never make any sense. Dad had called Ralph after Harry’s first few months in college and asked him to go down and check on his brother.

Except it hadn’t been as clear-cut as Dad thought. Ralph had been in college at the same time. He knew what the newfound independence was like. When he had gotten there, he didn’t have Harry around, and, he guessed, that made him relax. He no longer had to be the example. So, he had tried things like Harry. A lot of people smoked weed: it was kind of a rite, so Ralph had too.

The only difference between Harry and him for those first few months away was that Dad had never suspected Ralph. It had taken

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linoleum print by Giuseppe Vitellaro

Ralph’s first year and a half to settle down.

When he had almost failed one of his classes, Ralph had gotten so angry with himself that he had spent every night for a month just studying. But here was Dad, calling him up, asking him to check on Harry. What could he have said that wouldn’t have made Dad angry at him, too?

So Ralph had driven the three hours to Harry’s college, the whole way feeling his hypocrisy ticking inside his head like an incessant drip. But when he arrived, he found Harry in his room, alone, just sitting on his bed.

He had meant to say hello, but it hadn’t come out like he wanted. The first thing he said was, “What are you doing, Harry?” He had been looking at the floor, but he looked up when he heard Ralph’s voice, and a huge smile split across his face.

“Ralph! Wow, it’s so nice to see you.

What made you come down here and visit me?”

Ralph almost told him the real reason, but decided not to. “I wanted to see how college was going for you.”

“College is great. I really like everyone here, and the stress from the classes is no problem.” Something was wrong with him.

He was speaking fine and looked fine, but he was too happy. Harry was always scowling and had a furrowed brow. But that day, he could only smile. But he didn’t look like he was on acid.

“Harry, are you on something?” Ralph asked. Harry had looked at him for a while, deciding what to say.

“One of my friends gave me something new to try, and I liked it.”

“What was it, Harry?”

“It’s not so bad, Ralph. Everyone gives it a bad rap. It doesn’t have any after-effects, and it makes you happy. It helps me deal with all my classes and shit. It’s really not so bad.

And it’s not so expensive. I won’t go broke.”

“What was it, Harry?”

“It was some snow.”

Ralph’s stomach seemed to fall inside of him. There were a lot of people on acid, but heroin was different. It was serious. And dangerous. It meant you were a junkie. His own damn brother, a junkie.

“Harry. Why in God’s name would you start that?” Ralph had asked him, slowly.

“I’m telling you, it isn’t as bad as people say! It just makes me happy, and it’s not addictive.” He still had that smile on his face.

“Knock that shit off! You’re an idiot!”

Ralph wasn’t sure why he was so angry. Maybe it was because he felt some responsibility for his younger brother; maybe it was because everyone had expected Harry to do something like this, and he had. “Don’t you see anything? You are a goddamn disgrace!”

Ralph turned back toward the door but he didn’t leave. He wanted to, needed to, hear what Harry would say.

Harry swallowed and stared at his brother’s back. “ I’ll live as I damn well please,” he said slowly, quietly.

“You don’t know how to live.”

And for once, the only time in his entire life, Harry had yelled at his older brother.

“Get the fuck out of here!”

A

s his next of kin, please come to the Correctional Facility to collect his personal items.”

It wasn’t too long after that that Harry was sitting behind the small wooden table while the foreman read.

“For murder in the second degree, we find the defendant, Edward Mills, guilty.”

Ralph had winced when the foreman had called Harry “Edward,” as if he half expected Harry to stand up and give him shit about calling him by the right name. That was what made him wince. Not the verdict. Even today, the fact that he never believed Harry was innocent made Ralph sick. But everyone “

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knew. The way Harry had sat up on the stand, his eyes looking forward, but unfocused and receded, and how his hand twitched. Maybe it was the withdrawal, Ralph told himself.

But at the same time, he knew it wasn’t. He, just like everyone else in that courtroom, had been convinced of what had happened. Harry had been with some of his friends when he had wanted to try something new. Somebody they didn’t know so well had been with the group that night, and that guy had pulled out something called DMT, which Ralph had never heard of before Harry’s arrest. Harry had taken a few tokes, but it hadn’t been for him what it had for the others. He had gotten scared, angry. He had started screaming about the dark spirits around him, so his friends had brought him back to his room and left him there. Only, he hadn’t stayed there.

He had grabbed his knife and went outside, but he didn’t recognize his own campus. The world hadn’t looked the same. But the spirits, they had still been around him. He had peed himself. And he had stabbed that man, walking to his car, and left the body. Just as the prosecutor had said. Ralph saw it on his brother’s face. Every time Harry closed his eyes, he would grimace and snap them back open, as if he could only see that body, lying on the ground.

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t had been an hour and fifteen minutes.

Ralph could see, over the tops of the trees, the bright orange glow of the prison lights illuminating the atmosphere, like the sun was about to rise over the next hill, even though it had just set. Then his car was up and over the hill and the razor wire fence was visible with the gray buildings behind it. Ralph tried to imagine Harry escaping the prison. Just the thought made him smile a little bit. When Harry had been put in jail, he had lost that rebelliousness. The first time Ralph had walked into this prison was a year after Harry had arrived, and he almost

hadn’t recognized his own brother. In prison, Harry sat quietly and listened instead of always wanting to talk. He looked you in the eyes while you talked, but not confrontationally. If anything, eye contact seemed to diminish him. Like he wouldn’t dare to look away. It was that vulnerability that made Ralph keep coming to visit. Dad never did.

Mom did a couple times a year, but Ralph was there every couple weeks. He had had opportunities to move away from Vermont, and there were times he had wanted to, but he would never move away from Harry. He was afraid that, if he did, Harry would slip beneath his waves of shame and submissiveness—that Harry would give up.

As Ralph got out of the car now, he had to lean forward heavily onto his cane. That bad spot on his back had frozen into place.

He put more pressure on it until he was able to walk forward through the gates. The prison infirmary was close to the front of the complex, which helped.

Within a few minutes, Ralph had made it to his brother’s room. The staff member who had been cleaning out the room stopped when he saw Ralph come in.

“Hello, Mr. Mills. I’ll give you as much time as you need. Just let me know when you’re ready,” she had said.

“Thank you, I will.”

For the last time, he looked at Harry. His mouth was slightly open, but his eyes closed.

And though Ralph had seen that face his whole life, it somehow didn’t look the same.

He had lost the redness in his skin, the slow motion of his chest, the small jerks of his legs, the furrow in his brow. Next to the bed was a table on which the staff had put his personal possessions. Chief among the objects was Harry’s collection of journals. There were dozens of books, and Ralph recognized each of them because he had brought them to Harry, one by one. They never talked about the journals. All Harry would say is, “I need

another book,” and Ralph would oblige. Now, he picked up one of those books and leafed through it. They had once been empty, but now every page was filled with the scratchy handwriting of his brother. They were dated sporadically. At times there would be months before another entry. Sometimes there were a few in a day.

Ralph started to read a few entries. Most of them touched on the inconsequential things Harry had seen from day to day. One, dated February 29th, simply said: “The cell block was colder than last night, but by the time I realized it, it was already lights out, so I couldn’t get another sheet. So I didn’t sleep very well.” The last sentence was nearly carved into the page. Ralph wondered what had made Harry so mad while he wrote that sentence. What had gone on that day that Harry didn’t want to write about?

Ralph put down the book. His mind wandered as he looked out the tiny, barred window. He realized it was just like the windows of the cells that he could see while he walked into the prison. All those years, he could see into his brother’s life in prison

about as well as the inmates could see out of those windows. Harry had lived fifty-four years of his life in a single building, yet Ralph hardly knew about the inside of the prison or what life was like there. He only ever heard what Harry had wanted to tell him about, which was almost nothing.

Instead, he had spent all those hours telling Harry about his own life. He told him about his graduation from college on the first visit he had ever made to Harry. Then he had told him about the first job he had gotten and how the cubicle was so small it felt like a cell of his own. He had regretted saying that. He had told him about the women he had dated and how each relationship had ended until he found his would-be-wife. He had stayed for a long time, talking to Harry, on the day after his first date with her. The hardest day was showing him the pictures of their wedding. Ralph could see the tears in his brother’s eyes, his sadness that he hadn’t been able to come.

Ralph had spent every day for a week talking to Harry after he got back from Vietnam. He showed Harry the Purple Heart

photograph by Linda Ruiyi

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he’d gotten after being shot in the shoulder.

He had told his brother how happy he was to be out of there. If he’d have been hurt just a little less, he’d have been back on the front line. But he also told him how ashamed he was to feel like that, with all the other men still over there.

Ralph had told him about having his kids, his two daughters and son. He had even brought them to the prison to meet their uncle, but they had been afraid of him. That was a shame. He had told him about his kids going to college, and sometimes about the fights he got in with his kids, if he had been angry enough.

He had told him that Mom had died, and then Dad. He told him about his kids getting married and having their own kids. After Harry had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, he had told him that he was going to be okay and that he would still visit him. He had told him that his wife had passed away, and he had told him all about her funeral. He had recounted his whole life to Harry. And in return, Harry would tell Ralph that dinner had been good, and that he had slept well.

Ralph bit the inside of his cheek and looked at his brother again, lying on the hospice bed. Ralph remembered his whole life, but Harry had never had one to remember.

Another memory of Harry floated into Ralph’s mind.

“Hi there, Harry! How have you been doing since last week?”

“Oh, good, very good.” He was holding a piece of paper in front of him, one edge jagged and one edge painted thinly gold, from one of the journals Ralph had given him.

“What have you got there, Harry?” Harry looked confused for a moment and then looked at his hand and hummed in surprise to find the piece of paper there. He handed it over to Ralph.

July 17th. Something real bad happened to Rob today. During our lunch, he just upped

and fell over. I was sitting a few guys down, but when he fell over, I ran over to him first.

It’s hard for me to say, but his eyes, they looked at me but didn’t know me. But he was the guy who got to know me first when I got here. He showed me around the place. But today, it was like he didn’t know me.

July 18th. The doctors down at the infirm said Rob had a stroke. I guess I ain’t seen anyone have a stroke before. They say Rob might not be like Rob when he wakes up. But I don’t think that’ll be true. Rob is Rob, there ain’t no way Rob can be any different. Besides, I know he still has a few things left to tell me about his good old days, and he has to pay me those cigarettes back.

Naw, Rob’ll be right on back.

July 21st. Rob’s gone.

The page was blank after that.

“Harry?” While Ralph had been reading, Harry had looked away, mouthing words to himself.

“Huh?” “Do you remember someone named Rob?” For a moment, Ralph thought he saw his brother’s eyes narrow and his eyebrows start to droop while he looked at the table, but then he looked back up at Ralph and the look was gone.

“No, can’t say I do.”

“What made you tear out this page?

Harry? Are you listening to me?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“I asked you what made you tear this page out of your books. Do you rem-” “Do you have my keys?” Harry was suddenly staring at Ralph’s face, looking right into his eyes. “I need, I need to go.”

“You don’t have a car, Harry. Never did have one, remember?”

“No, I do have one. I drive it down to school and to the lake with my friends. But don’t tell Dad I drive it to the lake.”

“I guess you did, but that was a long time ago, Harry. You don’t anymore.”

“I need to leave.” Harry was gripping the bottom edge of the table, hunched over.

“You can’t leave. Do you remember where you are?”

“No.” “You’re at Northwest. Remember?

You’re in prison, Harry. Do you know why?”

Harry paused for a long time, looking down to his left. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember” “It’s okay, Harry. I know.”

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wo of the infirmary staff, young men eager to help Ralph, carefully put the books in his trunk. Each of them had to make two trips back into the prison to get the dozens of journals. Ralph looked at the books and realized he couldn’t carry all of them by himself when he got back home: there were too many pages, too many memories. He’d call his son later and ask him for help. One of the men shut the trunk, and he thanked them. Then Ralph looked at the grey buildings again. He wouldn’t have to enter those doors again. He wouldn’t have to drive so far from his home. He wouldn’t have to go through security. He wouldn’t get to see his brother anymore.

The I-89 looked different going down south than it did coming north. Coming north it started off twisting through the pines, but soon enough it started running straight. But coming south, it seemed to start twisty and only get twistier. Still, Ralph knew every turn, so even in the dark, he was okay with them. But the books in his trunk, the books that carried whatever remained of Harry, weren’t so used to the turns. The neat stacks quickly fell over and, through the rest of the trip, bumped around. With every knock from the back of the car, Ralph felt his back, that one bad spot, twinge. He guessed that it wouldn’t be long until all that was left of him too was whatever he wrote down or left behind, but he probably had a few more

years. And it was then, finally, when the grief shook him. Not because he was thinking about his own death, but because he was thinking about the life he had left. Ralph cried silently, still staring at the road, but with the light reflecting off the road signs blurred by the tears. Suddenly, he was alone.

All those years he had thought that he, and he alone, had been there for Harry, Harry had been there for Ralph. When Mom and Dad had died, Harry had talked him through his grief. Harry hadn’t mentioned that he hadn’t seen them in years. When Ralph’s wife died, Harry hadn’t mentioned that he never had a wife. But now that Harry had died, who was there? How many times had he cursed his brother as a nuisance? Now, it seemed, he could see now that all those visits had been the most important thing he’d ever done.

As he had driven up to the prison, just

photograph by Giuseppe Vitellaro

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a few hours ago, Ralph could only see how Harry’s life had been full of anger and unluckiness. But, seeing his brother on the bed, so untouched by everything going on around him, finally at peace, something else began to stir. Now, on the way home, he tried to picture what his life would’ve been like without his brother. Easier? Certainly. But bleaker.

He only hoped that his brother had felt the same way. One last memory came to mind.

When they had been little kids, playing hide and go seek down by the stream in the woods, Ralph had been climbing a old pine tree, sap covering his hands, when he had heard Harry crying his name. He had ran down to the stream and found Harry’s leg sucked in the deep mud, up to his knee.

Ralph had reached down and pulled his

brother out, but his shoe stayed buried in the mud. Harry had hugged his brother, or perhaps clung onto him is the better term.

He had looked at Ralph, tears in his eyes, and asked him what they were going to do about the shoe. Ralph had told him that the shoe was gone, that the best thing to do was forget. Just forget, then it doesn’t hurt so bad.

And Harry had forgotten. He had forgotten everything, and that forgetting was the greatest gift Harry had ever been given. He had forgotten everything: his shoe, his anger, the drugs, the murder, the prison, and eventually, he had forgotten Ralph himself. But Ralph knew he’d never forget his brother, and maybe those memories could, like the I-89, carry him home.

photograph by Nick Bentz

Nova Garret Fox

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A Chevy Nova slumps on jagged glass As semis pass and loosen hardened rust Beside the restless road and painted dashes.

There is no sign of damage from a crash.

The hood is smooth but for a spiny crust Where hail has smacked and crushed the paint like glass.

The leather seats inside are dried and cracked, and coffee stains reside beneath the dust.

The sun has drained the color from the dash.

Perhaps José could not afford the gas While heading north beyond the metal brush To gain endemic peace as pure as glass.

Or maybe Suzie ditched that piece of trash Where he explained that it was all for lust.

Her hopes for lasting love were all but dashed.

These images are conjured in a flash: A momentary dream as I now rush and pass the highway pain and shattered glass From that deserted Chevy ’82—

drawing by Nick Bentz

Girlfriend Hap Burke

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t first I didn’t have a girlfriend but I didn’t need one, then I didn’t have one but I wanted one. I thought about it at school during lectures in English and the humanities and stuff like that, because back then I really only paid attention in math, because I used to want to be an engineer, and I was good at math, and I didn’t care for English and the humanities and stuff like that. So in those periods I thought about a girlfriend. I had never had a girl before, and it’s like a car, because to buy a car you need to, one, save a good deal of money, two, compare the merchandise, three, test drive the merchandise, and four, make the purchase. So my list went like, one, find a girl, two, check her qualities, three, warm up to her, and four, ask her out. It was a simple list, and I had it memorized before long, and it ran through my head between classes when I didn’t mean to think of it, like onetwo-three-four and one-two-three-four.

After school, I talked to my friends.

“It’s like he can’t shoot from the key,” said Scott, “like he can’t make a shot in the paint to save his life, not a shot.”

Scott had a girlfriend. Theresa west of the highway.

“I used to,” play basketball but one day I dropped a shot and I left the ball bouncing updown slightly at the base of my driveway under the net that was two feet too tall and I didn’t pick it up and I went straight inside and I have decided that I don’t like basketball anymore, I nearly said.

“Used to what?” said O’Connor. His first name was Thomas.

“Aw, forget it, what I’m trying to say is

he can’t pop a single shot; he’s no use on the team,” Scott said.

They played basketball, but I didn’t. Not anymore.

“Hey,” I began unsteadily. “Hey, how can a guy get a girl?”

“What?”

“I mean, how can a guy get a girl? You know, a girlfriend?”

“You shopping around?” asked O’Connor.

Are you shopping around, I corrected in my head.

But what I said was, “Sure, I guess I am.”

“Man,” said Scott, “you don’t even know.”

Scott wasn’t wrong, because I didn’t know back then, and it really took me a while to figure it out. But I did figure it out.

The figuring out began at the Spring Dance.

Which is a terrible place to figure anything out, because the music is loud and bad and the dancers are sweaty and bad and the air is stiff and bad. But I was there, and I was with Grace Edmunds, or I had been, until I lost her in the tangled crowd. I had called her thirteen days before on a whim.

“Hey Grace,” I had said, “I’ve got a dance in two weeks or so, and I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

Grace didn’t say anything for a while, because it was a voicemail, so I hung up.

But later on, she called me back and told me that, yes, she’d love to go with me. So I was all set. And it wasn’t anything more than an awkward picture and an overpriced dinner and a sweaty dance until I got figuring in the middle of the dance floor.

Which was to say, if I wanted a girlfriend, I’d need to find a girl who’d say yes.

I’d need a girl. Step one. And standing right there was Grace Edmunds—or, she was, until she ran off with her friends about three songs ago. But there she was. And I got so excited by the idea that I almost told Scott straight away, because he was right next to me, shouting something in my ear about O’Connor’s house after the dance. But the music was too loud, and I hated to shout.

I’ll wait, I thought, and tell him once this music turns off.

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he music turned off around ten past eleven. I hadn’t seen Scott since my great idea, so I began to look for him. The crowd thinned. As I thought about it, I realized that it had been a while since I had seen Grace as well. I grabbed my coat from the rack and stepped outside. Something sweetsmelling drifted over my sweat-washed face as I sat down on the bench by the grove of mimosa trees near the back lots. The stars were out, and I could hear crickets. It was a nice improvement from the dance. On the senses, at least.

I hadn’t seen anyone yet, so I checked my phone. Seven new messages from Scott.

Dude lets get out of here Then, where are you And, lets go oconnors house Come onnnn ok im going grace is with us meet us there hurry dude It was funny. I hadn’t even felt my phone buzz. I glanced at the time.

Eleven-eleven, I thought. Make a wish.

Which was really a habit more than anything at the time because I think my mom used to say it to me when I was younger. I locked the screen. Two stars reflected in the upper corner. I’ve never wished upon a star.

If I…

Something rustled behind me and I caught my breath.

“Matthew?” she asked.

It was Emily Bradley in a pale blue dress, and I hadn’t seen her in a while—not a short while that blinks by twenty times a day like the while that had passed since I last saw Grace, but a while that slowly swirls and surges over sunrises and sunsets and catches you one day with a peculiar look on your face as you sit up in your bed and wonder where has the time gone since I last saw you? That kind of while.

But I was on a bench, so I smiled and said, “Hey, Emily. How’ve you been?”

“Great,” she replied with a smile. She stood with her arms folded in front. Maybe it was a little cooler than I thought it might be.

Spring does that. But she was talking again.

“So,” she continued, and made a start to sit, but didn’t, “how’s the basketball team been this year?”

“Um,” I scratched my head. She didn’t know. “Actually, I stopped playing. Basketball. I dropped…” the jersey that said JACKSON 17 in a white hamper and my shoes in the back of my closet and the ball bouncing slightly still on the cracking pavement at the foot of my driveway. But she didn’t know.

“Oh,” she said, and I remembered she was there. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“No, not at all,” I brushed it away. “Really, it’s no problem.”

“Okay,” she said, and smiled again, quick, to reassure me, maybe.

I looked around.

“You with anyone?” I began, because I didn’t see anyone, and most people had left the dance far behind and were at O’Connor’s house doing everything but remembering me.

“Yeah, he’s…” and she gestured vaguely behind her, “he’s inside. Getting his coat. I think.”

It was quiet for a half-moment. I caught

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photograph by Leo Heinz

the faint sounds of laughter from the parking lot about half-a-world away.

“Hey, do you know Grace Edmunds?” I asked at once.

Emily thought for a bit, and tilted her head to one side just a little.

“No,” she said, “no, I don’t think I do.

Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” I said quick, because her question caught me, and I wasn’t thinking about what I’d say, so I added, “She’s the date. I mean, she’s my date. To this dance. I took her to my dance.”

I wasn’t expecting it to be that hard to put into words.

“Oh,” she said, and looked down. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ve met her.”

And then this slight breeze with that faint sweet smell I noticed earlier rose off the grass fields far away. It smelled like honey, I realized. Emily’s hair caught the wind and tossed over, amber brown strands silvered with the soft evening light. She was looking up at the sky. Without dropping her head, she sat on the bench next to me. The bench was wood, crossed in the back with metal strips and bolted together with round-headed spikes. Someone had cut I.N. + Rachel Iglesias on the back of the top board with a marker—I’ve seen it before, in the daytime.

I don’t know anyone with a first name that begins with “I.” It must have been a pretty old carving.

“You know,” said Emily, “this smell al-

ways reminds me of when I went camping with my dad a long time ago.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, and smiled. “I was nine years old. We drove thirty minutes out to some park on a Thursday night. I guess it must’ve been a Thursday, because the park was empty, and we were the only ones around. And my dad,” and she laughed a little, “my dad couldn’t figure out to set up the tent.”

I laughed, too.

“Not even a little?”

“He couldn’t figure it out, with all the poles and the tarps,” she said with a grin. “It was a new tent, and he’d never set it up before.”

“Wow,” I said. We were both laughing pretty well by now. “So what did you do, then?”

“Well,” she started, and suddenly stopped laughing. She looked up into the sky.

“Well, then we just slept under the stars.”

And a cricket chirped.

“That sounds pretty nice,” I admitted.

“Was it cold?”

Emily thought for a moment.

“A little,” she said, “but it didn’t really bother me.”

She turned and looked at me.

“It was fun,” she continued, “even though my dad nearly went through the roof.”

I laughed, and then thought some.

“I’ve never been camping,” I said.

“Never?” Emily asked. “Why not?”

“I don’t really know,” I smiled, but it wasn’t funny. “Basketball. School. I, uh, never really got around to it.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’d want to, sometime,” I said without thinking. I didn’t mean to say that.

“You really should,” Emily said, and smiled. “My friends and I are thinking about maybe going this summer, just before we leave for college.”

“That sounds like fun,” I said, maybe with too much enthusiasm. If that’s the word for what I sounded like.

“If it happens,” Emily amended, and sighed. “And knowing my friends, we’ll probably never get it together.”

She looked to me with a sort of apologetic smile.

“My friends are hard to pin down,” she shrugged. “Enthusiastic, and creative, and funny, and weird, but hard to pin down. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Your friends sound wonderful,” I said. I really meant it.

“Yeah,” she said. She smiled. “Yeah, they’re really fun to be around.”

“My friends only talk about basketball.”

Maybe it wasn’t the right thing for me to say, because at once a wave of silence crashed over us. I noticed it right away, because something in a silence is just different—different than a pause or a breath or a blink or a moment. You can’t call a silence a moment any more than you can call a creek a river or a lake an ocean, because though they’re all made of the same stuff, a lake doesn’t live and breath and roll and run and grow and ebb with such dignity, such royalty, such divinity as an ocean. And that’s how I knew it was a silence.

But it was a funny silence, because it wasn’t at all silent. I didn’t realize it right away, but nothing was quiet. Frogs, I think, croaked distantly with their high voices strung out across the marshlands. A few lonely crickets chirped beats with a one and two and three and four. Some bird called once, and then again. I didn’t hear any cars. Which was unusual. You normally would. And my shoulder was touching something. Someone.

I was at my school in the dark after a dance sitting next to Emily. And there was Emily.

“Why did you quit basketball?” Emily asked softly.

She was looking right at me. Under the

17

18

stars. There wasn’t a moon. Maybe it hadn’t risen yet. I looked down.

“I…” She gently touched my arm, and I looked up at her. Her eyes were brown.

“I think,” I began to say, but then thought different, so I stopped.

“You can tell me.”

Maybe it was colder than I thought. She didn’t have sleeves, and spring nights are always colder than you’d expect them to be.

She said I could tell her.

“Well,” I said, “I… I guess I quit because of my coach. My coach and my friends.”

She was still looking at me.

“It’s like all they ever cared about was the win. Like all they ever wanted, all that ever mattered to them was the score. The “W” in the records book. And, yeah, that’s part of the sport. Maybe that’s why you play.

To win. I really used to believe in that.”

And now I was monologuing.

“But then I just stopped thinking that way. I thought, one day, that it should be more than that. More than a score. I didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t want it to matter.

I just wanted to play basketball, like I always had. But not to win. Because, one day, I figured, it wouldn’t matter what the score was in the quarter-final game versus Douglass Central, because in ten years, nobody would care. And, right then, they didn’t care. About me. Nobody did.”

I was talking about my friends and my coaches.

“So I quit.”

It was all coming out now. But it wasn’t bad, like when all your pent-up sorrows rush forth like a dam violently bursting in a flood of black water. It seemed more gentle, more subtle, more clear. It felt like a soft summer rain.

“My friends, they, uh, really let me have it after that. It just never was the same. Every time they’d talk about last week’s game,

or this week’s practices, or what coach had done the day before, or what they were going to do tomorrow, it just wasn’t right. It never was right, ever again, after I quit. And it wasn’t just basketball, either. It seemed like once I was off that team, I was out of their lives. In every way.”

I paused, though I didn’t mean to. The honey smell was back, I noticed.

“You’d really do just about anything to get your friends back,” I said, quieter now than before. I thought at first that Emily might not hear me, but she nodded softly.

“You do stuff just to get noticed, just to get them to look at you and smile and say your name and not hate you for that. You know?

But they won’t notice you, and one day you realize that everything you’ve ever done was to throw away your sport and your friends and everything that makes anything fun just because you wanted more than just a win.

And those friends never come back.”

I hadn’t even realized what I had been thinking until just then, when I said those things. Sometimes that happens—you don’t know what’s inside of you until you open your mouth and let the depths of your spirit stir, rise, and pour themselves forth and hope it sounds okay. I had plunged those depths. I was empty.

Emily didn’t say anything at first. She sat next to me on a Saturday night after a school dance in the late spring. The stars were out.

The trees above us were mimosas. The bench was wooden and old, and crossed in the back with metal strips. She was right beside me.

Our shoulders were touching. Her name was Emily.

She looked as though she was considering something, then, after a half-moment, looked straight at me and said, “You still have me.”

T

hat was all she said, for right when she said it, somebody called, “Emily?” from

fifteen feet away. It was a boy, and he had taken her to the Spring Dance that night.

He had gotten his coat and called her cell phone, but she hadn’t answered, so he came outside and walked down the sidewalk to find her, maybe. He had found her, though, and it was now time to go. I talked to him, because I knew him, and he was my acquaintance, but our talk was brief, and, anyways, he was running late. They both were running late. So I said goodbye, and they said goodbye back, and they walked away and I stayed on the bench. And as they walked away, Emily turned to look over her shoulder and smiled, at me, or maybe at the bench, or at the nighttime after a Spring Dance has ended and you have sat on a wooden bench with someone you know for enough time to make it count. It had counted, I think now, as I look back on it. I’m sure of it.

And later I opened my car door and sat inside. Mine was the only car in the entire lot. Everyone else had left. But that was all right. I didn’t mind. It was only a parking lot.

I rolled my windows down, and air drifted in.

Spring air smells so good.

Then I drove. I wasn’t going to O’Connor’s house. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t take the highway anywhere. I picked a direction—right—and headed that way. The road wound through trees and up and down hills, interspersed with only the occasional driveway. The road was only two lanes. It was empty. My radio was off. I could still see the stars. And as I reached the top of a hill, I noticed something bright, soft, wonderfully, brilliantly, beautifully yellow in the far distance.

It was the moonrise.

photograph by Jack Carroll

19

Backstage Kevin Thomas

20

for Cassie Delicath & Nate Cummings Decidedly dressed not for this decade, we waited in, essentially, an oversized closet cramped from the size of our number.

We ignored the anachronistic tech, the texting, the tweeting, the snapping & selfies sent from the seating & we drank deep, sipping the last dregs of our sloppy, laughable vernacular before readying our tongues to spout antiquated words, words not our own, but words prepared & planned far before, rehearsed & re-rehearsed until perfectly they could & would be performed.

Thus we waited: to take the stage.

Thus we waited: to enter that beautiful, burning light.

Thus we waited: to proclaim who we were proud to be [and] not to be.

21 photograph by Dan Mudd

A New Rhythm to the Night Sam Fentress

A

sensation of wetness shocked him out of bed, bleary and shivering from the wind seeping through the crack of the window. It had rained for three days, muddying cracks in the sidewalks and leaving a thick, cool must that cut through the summer air.

The rain was calm and driving. It blended the days into thick puddles. The rain was noisy, but it was easier to sleep; Peter fell into the quiet rhythm of cars surfing along the parkway. They faded in and out, at first a quiet shhhhrrroooaaaar and then a louder one, leaving the frame of his ears slowly, like a deep exhale.

He turned his head and looked out the window. It was still dark, difficult to make out anything except the line of a leafless oak.

Keeping the lower half of his body curled under the weight of the blanket, he turned over and with the tips of his outstretched fingers managed to catch the wooden frame of the window and push it shut.

The next morning Peter went into the backyard to see the effects. It was always interesting the day after rain. Small puddles

rested on each of the swingset’s green plastic seats, and there were large droplets covering the chain-link holding them to the upper bar.

He tried to wipe the seats off with his fingers, but they were still moist when he sat down.

Nearby, Peter noticed red paint flaking on the sides of the shed. The boards on the front doors were beginning to warp inwards, so that they formed a kind of circular design.

Holding the doors shut was a rusty combination lock. Peter pulled on the lock with his wet fingers; maybe this time it would break.

He heard the back door swing open.

“Peter!” She sounded like she was in a hurry.

“Yeah?”

“Get in the car. Sarah’s game is in ten minutes.”

I

t took six minutes to get to Morris park, which was teeming with sweaty third graders and parents wearing sunglasses. Peter slammed the Camry door and stepped off the curb and onto the moist grass.

The air was clearer today. He scanned the

22

grounds for a familiar face.

“Alex won’t be here today, honey. He has Boy Scouts.”

“On Saturday?”

“I’m taking Sarah to the bench. Don’t go too far.”

Peter walked along the boundaries off the field to the far side. He heard the first whistle blow as he trod the dirt path that led all the way around Morris park. The field was just out of sight. He heard a bobwhite sounding somewhere in the distance.The air was filled with calls, but it was the mourning dove that really struck him—there was something so sad and secretive about the way it rose and fell, about the way it left space between each cry.

It was very near him. The path led closely along the forest now, and the grass was longer and uneven. The call was right in his ear.

He turned and looked into the trees. Buried in a thick clump of branches he could make out a soft outline of the bird. He stepped into the woods, and made his way towards the dove, crunching sticks and pushing aside branches of stickling bushes that surrounded the perimeter of the woods. He looked up. He had come no closer to the bird. He pushed further through the thickets. It was gone.

He looked around, no longer able to tell where he had entered the forest. Something wet grazed his leg. That set him off. He flew through the bushes, hands out in front to deflect the onslaught of thorny offshoots.

The grass was thicker and taller now, up to his knees amidst the bushes. There was the sliminess again. He ran faster, pushing harder through the weeds, in a frenzy, eyes closed and ears open to the loud thwicks and shuffle of the shrubs. Suddenly there were no more bushes; he had tumbled into a grassy, open space.

The grass was shorter here, and thick, bulbous roots went in and out of the ground

like worms. Near the center of the clearing was a cluster of small frogs. They stood still, gently croaking, sunlight dazzling off beads of moisture on their backs.

At the far end of the clearing Peter saw a small creature, bent over a small pond thickly coated with algae and moss. An off-blue Tshirt draped the whole hunched figure.

Peter moved to the side, hoping for a better angle. He noticed that his clothes were damp. The frogs remained motionless.

He could see now the hands of the thing.

They were thick and babylike. It was clutching broken pieces of something, like a plate.

Peter bent down slowly and picked up a small wedge of rock. He nestled the rough edges of the stone into the grooves of his hand, gently pulling his right arm back. The croaking lulled softly in the background. Peter hurled the stone into the pond.

hen he couldn’t run any longer, he fell on the ground. It had become dark, but he could tell he was lying on the bank of some body of water. The grass was thick and supportive, and the cool night air wrapped around his body like a blanket. Peter began to fall asleep. He wondered if he had moved at all.

He thought back, momentarily, to the face. It had been so clear in the water, so sunlit and shadowed. It was his face, but no one else would have recognized it. He had only just begun to recognize it, in fact, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it yet. Either way, it was his.

As Peter’s breathing began to settle and he emptied himself, he heard the cicadas beginning to sound, breathing a song that gave a new rhythm to the night. A steady rain played along. Peter felt the grass, the rain, the song, and the cicadas. Lying, eyes closed with his hands folded over his chest, he tapped out the new rhythm in the cool summer night.

W

23

photograph by Dan Mudd

september stillness Kevin Thomas

24

Orange and brown leaves crunch under the soft steps of my dusty maroon converse, making one of only two sounds in the forest falling around me.

The other the slow pant of my warm breath in the chilly September air.

The birdsong doesn’t dwell here anymore.

It’s flown south for the winter.

The forest is desolate, and I, its sole inhabitant, fill the trees with old memories of young times: The gleeful shouts to Mom and Dad, saying “Look at me! Look at me!” as I climbed tree after tree; the playful pushing between my brother and me, each trying to be the first to the indifferent creek; and the unstinted, imaginary worlds, all the wars that raged for hours in my childish mind, the days of peace that passed every second, and the high castle walls I raised myself in mere minutes.

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photograph by Patrick Enderle

Fever Giuseppe Vitellaro Chill I lie in bed, my body curling, aching, shivering under cold, indifferent blankets.

My dry breath drawn through chattering teeth, I grip the sheets tighter and turn out the light.

Break The pillow bakes under the warmth of my cheek, heat radiating like asphalt blacktop.

Head dizzy and nose clogged, I sigh and close my eyes.

Relief The fire extinguished, sweat cools, muscles unbind, and I collapse into slumber, clammy, tired, and sick.

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Emily Dickinson’s Brush with Your iPad Suzanne Renard Don’t offer me a flattened view.

I want the contours, shifting shapes, the light and shadows ever new, the blink, fleet eclipse of your face.

Give hint of what you tasted last upon the words of your next breath.

I want you live, not under glass, a feast of senses ere we pass.

I want your phrases in my hand, not catalogued in silos, bound for any unspecific land— though meant for me, by strangers found.

Some think machines will make them free.

They have onscreen a million birds.

I gaze at one, who sings to me, delectable felicity.

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photograph by Patrick Enderle

Zero-Stress Café Giuseppe Vitellaro

28

I

rub my arms, hoping to smooth the goosebumps. The monolithic air conditioner is set too high, but I don’t know how to ask Yadi to turn it down. Across from me, Profe reads the newspaper. Jack reclines on a red leather couch and checks Instagram. A brown-skinned boy walks up and taps on the glass of the café. He stares up at Profe.

“No.” He turns back to the newspaper, but the boy remains. Profe turns towards me.

“Look at him and tell him ‘no.’”

I swallow, gaze into the boy’s eyes, and begin to mouth the word.

Instagram Giuseppe Vitellaro

M

y heart sinks as I notice her lying in her crib, propped up on a stack of clothes. The sputtering click of a nebulizer breaks the silence, and I reach over and rub her shoulder. She stares at me, her eyes wide open and mouth tensed into a grimace. The anti-pneumonia medicine spews as frothy vapor from the mask. I smile at her.

“Hi.” I knew she was sick. Holding her in my arms, I would hear her lungs rattle. I wiped yellow, sticky mucus from her nose.

Brian walks over and sticks his phone in her face. She squints as the flash goes off.

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block print by Giuseppe Vitellaro

Family Reunion Matt Smith

B 30

eneath the spider web of milk-white PVC piping that ran across the basement ceiling, I could just barely hear my mom weeping. Thinking little of it, I went back to lifting weights. Lying on my back on the dirty pink shag carpeting that covered the floor of my brother’s bedroom, I determinedly pushed up my father’s rustspotted steel barbell high into the air, making the weights clang against the bar with each fall. Five. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Done.

Jumping back up on my feet, I clapped my hands together. Almost immediately the deep salty smell of old pennies and sweat made me dizzy. I looked around at the landmarks of my stepbrother, Lindy’s, room: the green novelty street sign printed with Carter Ave., the unmade bed covered with an itchy brown quilt, and the Goodfellas poster hanging proudly on the green-tarp walls. I had never seen Goodfellas, but whenever my sister and I would go down into my brother’s room to root around for treasures, Robert DeNiro’s cold, unapologetic face would question us both.

Proudly wiping my forehead, I headed for the stairs, strolling past the constantly barking radiator and the long table covered with pencils, dried-out Crayola markers, unfinished coloring books, and ancient blue Shop ‘n Save grocery bags. As I mounted the creaky, powder-blue stairs, I heard my mom again. I cracked open the basement door and stumbled into the light amber glow of the afternoon.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

Hearing no response, I entered the kitchen. My dad and mom stood around the white island. Mom was crying, dad was grey-faced and silent. My dad wore his for-

mal fire chief ’s outfit: white dress shirt, black coat, black pants, and a black peaked cap emblazoned with the crossed axes of the St. Louis Fire Department. My mother wore green and pink polka-dotted pajama pants with an orange shirt. She turned to face me, tears beading from her eyes.

“Logan’s dead.”

L

ogan was Lindy’s son, my nephew. Born in April of that year, Logan’s life lasted only a couple of months. Before his death, I’d heard only passing mentions to “Lindy and his children” in my parents’ conversations. Now the house overflowed with talk of Lindy’s family. My mom thought that Logan had died from SIDS, but neither Lindy, nor his wife, Liz, would give a straight answer about what happened.

To be there for Lindy, my parents vowed to make the long trip out to his house in Ohio.

My mom and my sister, Maggie, traveled to the funeral in advance of my dad and me.

They felt more connected to Lindy and Logan, and the family had enough money for only two plane tickets. We took them to Lambert Airport about a week after hearing the news. The sky was overcast and the air heavy with post-rain moisture. I stared blankly at the huge white Spirit of St. Louis replica that hung from the ceiling, hoping to escape my extreme boredom as I waited in line with my family. When my mom and sister finally got the tickets and headed for the plane, my dad wished them both good luck, and I mumbled out a flat “see ya.” My dad and I left in the early morning two days later, the white sun piercing my sleepy eyes as I crawled into the passenger’s seat of our car.

The black car idled in the lot of the Bunny Bread warehouse, air conditioner whirring softly. I sat in the front seat as I waited for my dad to come back after asking for directions.

The warehouse loomed before me. Clothed

in various hues of slate and gypsum and windowless, it had the look of a prison complex.

My dad hustled over to the car, his hands running through his corn silk crew-cut.

“Hey, I know where we’re goin’ now,” he happily declared.

“Ah, cool,” I mumbled. I didn’t feel like talking. Pulling out of the driveway, we began the route. After a while, we cruised along the banks of a wide stream. Underneath its clear surface, I glimpsed hundreds of smoothlyrolled, irregular dollops of granite and basalt, some occasionally rising up and lazily tumbling downstream with the current, as if by will. Nothing disturbed the water’s smoothly-rolling, glassy skin. The stream caught my eye because for days, the only thing I could see from the car window were the empty plains and desolate, dark woods that surrounded the highway. When the road veered from the stream’s bank, a large green rectangular sign blared out in newly-painted white letters: “Welcome to Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio.”

Gliding silently through near-empty streets, we eventually came to Lindy’s house.

Like culinary diplomats, my father and I marched across the yellowed front lawn of Lindy’s house bearing aluminum-wrapped gifts of party potatoes, chicken wings, and sauerkraut. My dad, confident, knocked rapidly on the dirty white door of the house.

Almost immediately, Lindy opened the door.

“Little buddy! Dude, what’s up? You’re so tall now!” he boomed, his voice jokingly deep.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, hands in my pocket and eyes downcast.

“Here, come inside, I need to show you this video game I got. Dude, it’s so cool!”

Lanky and lean, Lindy stood a good head above me. His face, scarred by acne pits and understandably marked with the black stubble of a five o’clock shadow, still had the gentleness about it that my mom claimed the ladies always loved. Deeply inset into his nar-

row face, his eyes peeked out like stoplights, glimmering a light shade of emerald and accented by their pure eggshell whites. The skin below appeared purple and wrinkled.

His jet black hair spiked up like a nettle bush.

Around his long frame hung a thin black dress coat and black dress pants. As he led us in, the hard click-clack of his shoes on the white laminated floor cut through the quiet house.

In the center of the brown-painted living room wall, a long glass table squatted with a small TV on top of it. Under it lay a couple video games and the Playstation my brother brought out with him, its hard black shell gleaming. In the left half of the room a cigarette-pocked green recliner hung closely to the left edge of a grey couch. A brown rectangular coffee table sat between the TV and the couch, bare except for an issue of People magazine. To the right ran the whirling, shakily-guarded stairs to the second level, and the bathroom penned in its odd corner, stuffed with a toilet, sink, and some weird fold-up shower contraption.

The kitchen flowed from the living room. A couple yellow bags of Lays potato chips sat alone on the countertops—the room lacked a dinner table. A small refrigerator sat near the backdoor, clunking loudly as it made ice.

Setting the food on the stovetop, we hung a left and exited through the backdoor, entering the backyard under the cover of a cream-colored awning. Dusk had just begun, and the sky ran purple and pink with the last scraps of daylight. A couple of red plastic tables dotted the small yard, stocked by unrecognizable faces united in the inky blacks of their coats, skirts, and shoes, absorbed in their own hushed conversations. My father and I had dressed ourselves in flamboyant orange and red T-shirts and athletic shorts.

My mom and my sister wearily waved out to us. A deep, hoarse voice jeered at us from nowhere, “Well, it looks like the superstars have

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photograph by Patrick Enderle

arrived!” It was Lindy’s father, Lindy Sr.— my mom’s ex-husband. His black suit jacket splayed haphazardly across his shoulders, unbuttoned and swaying across his huge belly as he waddled towards us. In his hand, he clasped a red and grey can of Budweiser, covered in drops of condensation. At his side sashayed his new girlfriend, a woman whose name I never knew but who we simply referred to in our family as “Sledgehammer.” Her stringy blonde hair, dark at the roots, hung in a long curtain over her head, and light green mascara caked her eyes. Her lips shone with pink lip-gloss, and when she smiled, her uneven teeth, stained brown at the bottoms and arranged like broken fence posts, looked exactly like the victims of a hammer’s bashing.

“Guess you folks got here a little late?”

Lindy Sr. remarked, his pudgy arms crossing over his chest.

“Yeah, the traffic was pretty bad gettin’ up here,” my dad explained, rubbing his scalp with his right hand.

“Well, you missed the funeral.” Yeah, I guess we did, I thought, looking up.

Lindy Sr.’s face sagged down with a double chin that tried to hide beneath the thin veil of his black beard. His hair shone like oil and grew in a thick mat over his head, and his eyes appeared bloodshot and pebble-shaped.

My dad, with his close-cropped blond hair, always looked like a Marine to me. Yet in this moment, I could sense his extreme discomfort. He said nothing and walked off towards my mom and sister. Alone before this inkblot of a man, I prayed that he wouldn’t see me then silently slunk off behind my dad.

“Hey, girlies. What’s up?” my dad asked, trying to add some humor to the table.

“Nothin’ much,” my mom said in a distant voice, hands crossed over her purse.

“How’d the funeral go?”

“It was rough on Maggie.” I glanced at my sister. Her eyes seemed puffy, and her copper hair stood out sharply against her black dress.

I couldn’t breathe.

Meyer’s Lemons Shayn Jackson It started off so simple with those engorged and swollen Meyer Lemons in delicate infant hands.

With the thick yellow rinds blushing topaz and emerald in the California sun.

It was easy back then, Meyer’s lemons pick well in the spring.

It started off so simple, but then Meyer’s lemons retreating up the trees grew firmer and out of reach from outstretched arms.

The lemons grew richer and loftier, every speck and scar on the darkening rind.

Ice clinked in the blue bubble glasses on Don Felipe.

It started off so simple, now Meyer’s lemons have been replaced with tiny green rock-hard rind reifications of what was once sweet.

Meyer’s leaves once blew incontinently in the coastal breeze, now only a few are left in these trees.

Have all the chemicals drained away?

The lemons taste bitter now.

It was so easy back then when the leaves plucked off the branch and fit perfectly into my hands.

Don Felipe basked in the same sun that made my lemonade clear in its light.

We picked from these trees.

We knew every crack in the cement, every scar in the rind, every touch, every texture.

Meyer’s lemons pick well in the spring.

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The Flying Ace 34

Will Heine

H

is hand trembles, but the wood stays steady. Grandpa had a stroke just two months ago. We thought he was dead.

He sets the pieces slowly now with each placement unsure. He’s frail and everything shudders as he moves.

You can see the ribs on his body, draped in a shirt thin as a sheet of paper. It sags over the skeleton. I’m scared to watch, still seeing the stroke’s effects, but I know he’s a fighter.

“Here you go,” as he hands me “The Flying Ace.” I put it on the shelf right above my bed.

photograph by Max Prosperi

Thoughts of You at 11:37 Michael Wiley

Y

our image in my mind is the funnel cake in my stomach, five minutes after stumbling green-faced off of the Hot Shot at last year’s school picnic. It makes me sick—just queasy enough to clutch at my innards in a dire effort to keep you there.

It’s 11:34, and the stars, your eyes, and my phone screen are the only imaginable escape from the darkness that tiptoes around the room and trips over my bedpost. As long as the lights are off, I can pretend that I’m huddled close to you on the hood of my car, eyes closed and floating over the humid blacktop of Ted Drewes’ frenzied parking lot. That summer afternoon with you tasted like Cindermint, and so has every sunny day since.

It’s 11:35. I’m exhausted, but I can’t help but think about being with you in the same way I remember my driving test. Holding my trembling foot firmly at thirty miles per hour was the same as keeping my heart from exploding out of my chest at the first sight of your smile. The excitement in my gut wrestled the constant terror that I was about to mess something up and crash our relation-

ship into a fire hydrant; you left my world feeling damp. Maybe that was just because of my clammy palms, but maybe not. Maybe you’re the reason I can’t feel nervous anymore—these days, nothing but the thought of forgetting you seems worth the time spent worrying. Or maybe the butterflies in my stomach all choked on funnel cake and died.

Maybe not, though.

11:36. The clock keeps spinning, and these words like all others are destined to fade into yesterday. I can’t remember what I ate for dinner or where I left my shoes, and the fridge is just as empty as the sidewalk outside my window. The street lights turned off a while ago, probably tired of wasting their energy on nothingness. I haven’t seen you in a year, and I’m starting to feel like a light that never turned off. I should go to bed, but I can’t stop thinking about funnel cake for some reason. Maybe there’s one in the fridge. It’s 11:37, too early to eat breakfast and too late to say goodbye, coping restlessly with the hollowness you left for me that can’t be thought away.

35

Ted’s Giuseppe Vitellaro

36

I

worked at Ted’s over the summer. Four days a week, I would walk into a small, cold room filled with ever-working machines. It smelled of sugar and cream, exactly like you think it would. A large dromedary prowled the room constantly to make sure we were hard at work, nipping at our oft-bloodied backs if we slacked. No one knew how it could tell. Billy theorized that the beast bit out of hunger. We didn’t ever see Ted feed it, and its body was skeletal and mangy. All that mattered to me, though, was that it could take some pretty serious chomps.

My girlfriend Sarah worked there, too, until her hand got caught in an ice-cream extruder. That was pretty scary. One moment, I’m scooping cherries onto the umpteenth Cardinal Sin I was making that day, and the next, I’m helping a whimpering Sarah pull her mangled hand out of bloody concrete.

One day, a health inspector visited. Ted had us all gather around and greet him. He was a wiry man, with a thin, dark mustache and a full head of black hair. He carried a plastic clipboard and wore a nametag. Philip.

Ted told him the story of his humble frozen custard business, laughing heartily and wrapping his arms around our shoulders. The inspector never laughed, although he did smile a few times before explaining that he needed to see the place during normal operation.

With that, Ted set us off to work and returned to his office. It was otherwise an ordinary day spent blending custard on violent machines. The machines scared me ever since what happened to Sarah. Every piece of steel I used was sharp, powerful, and elec-

trically-powered. I was tempting death with a hot fudge sundae when Philip pulled me aside.

“Hello, son,” he said, eyes on clipboard.

“This place seems to check out just fine, but before I go, I’d like to hear it from you. Is there anything I should know about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know. Anything that could pose a threat to the customer or the employee.”

I froze. What should I tell him? I began to reach for my tender, bruised back. Surely that would qualify. Or maybe I should tell him about the accident with Sarah. Heck, having an animal in the joint was unsanitary enough.

“Actually, yeah,” I started to say. “Over the past few—” I stopped and looked up.

The dromedary was in the back, staring at me. Something was in his eyes. His lips peeled back to reveal wet, reddened teeth.

“Go on,” Philip urged me. My back throbbed.

“Over the past few months, I’ve noticed that some employees aren’t as good as they could be about wearing gloves.”

“Hmm.” Philip looked up from his clipboard. “I’ll talk to Ted about that. Is that all?”

“All I’ve noticed.” He eyed me again.

“Well, if that’s all, then I’ll be on my way.

Thanks for your help.”

“Certainly.” He shook my hand then scribbled a few things down and headed for Ted’s office. I looked towards the back again.

The dromedary had closed its mouth.

I quit the next day.

37

photograph by Patrick Rottman

Two Things John Schwartz In many ways, We are all expected To be good students Of the lives we endure.

But have I failed In my expedition If all I yet know Are two simple things?: Now I am here Someday I am not.

My Life in Clover Ridge Finn Hunsaker

38

W

hen I was in second grade, my family moved from Saint Louis to Rapid City, South Dakota and Clover Ridge, a small, all-military neighborhood full of kids my age. I soon made several friends, and, together, we explored the putrid marshes, dank sewers, and windswept plain behind the neighborhood. The marshes were thick and damp, and, in summer, smelled strongly of rotting wood and spoiled eggs. We occasionally saw turtles, their red-spotted shells pushing up through the muddy water and trundling through the man-high cattail fronds that enclosed the swampy land. If one was unwilling to brave the sticky and mud-filled trek through several trails in the marsh proper, there was one dry passage: a concrete bridge sandwiched between the two large posts on each end. This lengthy span often served as a checkpoint during dart or water-gun wars, which spilled over from the wooden playground and accompanying tower that commanded both the bridge and the marsh itself. This oozing pit of adventure and mystery became one of my favorite haunts and served as a gathering place for the neighborhood children. It was at one of these gatherings that my friends and I accomplished what we saw as a great feat of mankind.

In the summer of my arrival, my friends Jared, Drew, Evan, and I met at the playground by the bridge. After conferring for a short time and searching for the proper tools for our task, we ventured into the musty and wet marsh with long, heavy sticks and

a mission. We pushed into a small glade at the marsh’s center near the bridge, swatting away at huge, droning black flies and homicidally large and whining mosquitoes. We began to violently tear down cattails with our sticks, shouting as each creak and crack of a falling plant reverberated on the surrounding houses.

We worked for what seemed a choking eternity, dust rolling up like a vertical sandstorm into our weary faces at every crushing strike of our sticks. I rolled the few intact, barrel-like, oddly-sized logs I could unearth from the primordial soup into this clearing for seats. I arranged them into a loose circle, sliding cattails into a thatch pattern under the logs and across the whole clearing.

When this was complete, my friends and I had a makeshift clubhouse from which we birthed many a childhood plot. This rustic hideaway became our secure home base in what became a long series of “wars” with the Johnsons, three brothers who lived just down the street from me.

The next spring, these conflicts began in earnest with the hurling of brown, sausagelike cattail heads, pollen flying out behind them as they arced to their targets. The response to the heavy collision of cattails against flesh was the wild shouts of the Johnson brothers as they bore down on us, wildly firing foam dart guns from a pedal-powered go-cart. We replied with our own arsenal, and soon the entire neighborhood was embroiled in running feet, cattail pods crunching underfoot with a meaty pop and a spray of seeds, the shriek of near-misses from foam darts, and the occasional fluorescent orange of a water balloon. These grand campaigns always ended amiably, often with a joking “Same time tomorrow?” Our wars allowed us to travel all over our neighborhood, and led to my discovery of the only real terror of my time in Clover Ridge: the sewer.

Roaming the neighborhood was al-

ways a possibility when not in school, and a crowd unfailingly converged at the sewer.

This was not an actual sewer, but instead a drainage pipe that crossed the road between our neighborhood and the fields beyond it.

Some brave souls clambered inside its circular maw, but they often backed out upon reaching a dank crossroads in the pipes where garter snakes were often found. These harmless snakes were dark green and about two feet long. The thing that got people running most often was the distinctive yellow stripes down the snakes’ backs, which undulated with their movement in a sinister fashion and flashed in the low light of the sewer tunnel. Those intrepid enough to reach the other side returned with odd objects, including, after a heavy rainstorm that flooded the marsh, three snake eggs and the mother snake, two empty blackbird nests, and an entire family of box turtles, with the babies, through some force of nature, still clinging onto the adult’s shell. I never went inside the sewers. I was not the most daring type, and the thought of being stuck in those moldering passages petrified me. Instead, I provided logistical support for my friends with the use of walkie-talkies and a crude map, drawn with the input of Jared, who explored the sewer’s crossroads until they let out into a creek on the other side of the marsh, and the eldest Johnson brother, who had discovered a grated alcove through which light streamed. Here, we communicated with our spelunkers. The sewer connected directly to the fields across from it, which were also a fixture of my time in Clover Ridge—Clover Cape, as I called it.

Clover Cape was full of dust and cacti, but was wide open and perfect for model rocket flights—how it gained its name.

These gritty fields contained low, fern-like shrubs and tall, thin plants, but one had to be extremely careful. Pulling up just one plant for a closer look at its roots could unleash a

horde of vicious, bright red fire ants, whose overlapping hives dotted the field like land mines. I bought a basic model rocket, and my friends and I would watch our rockets as they streaked high into the sky. On one memorable occasion of my fourth grade year, one of the neighborhood kids brought a two-stage rocket to try out. My friends and I watched as its first stage lit. But the rocket began to nose over while its second stage remained unlit. As the rocket began to fall about 800 feet above us, the second stage kicked in. Terrifyingly, it was now pointing straight at us and zipping along at an extreme speed. The rocket crashed into the ground with a solid thunk, almost like an arrow. It took ten minutes with a hand trowel to dig the nose cone out of the dirt. Miraculously, the rocket was unharmed. This was one of the last times I spent time in those fields. We left South Dakota a few weeks later.

photograph by Patrick Enderle

39

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41

photograph by Giuseppe VItellaro

Streetlights Shayn Jackson

42

“

W

hat’s my name?” asked the man in the driver’s seat of the obsidian 2007 Mercedes c350. He was brown-skinned, balding, his muscles toned from ten years in the Oregon State Pen. He wore a white V-neck shirt with the $150 price tag still hanging from the sleeve and loose black Nike jogging pants (Not the kind that go “swish-swish.” He hated those.) that filled up the entire seat. As he turned the tan leather wheel left onto Malcolm Little Drive, his shirt just barely managed to conceal the names: Cleo and Jan tattooed over his heart.

“Mufasa,” answered Jan dryly, as he did every time his father got into one of these macho moods. He uncrossed his legs so that he could stare out the window and away from his father. He fidgeted until he was comfortable in the passenger seat.

“You already know, because I’m—” “Because you’re the king,” Jan interrupted, making Mufasa stutter. He grabbed the round knob on the stereo console and turned The Notorious B. I. G. louder than his father could speak.

“Time to get paid, blow up like the world trade.”

“Exactly, so I don’t care about what your mother says about it being too late out,” he yelled over the music. He wouldn’t be outvoiced. “You’re with me tonight.”

“You had a goal, but not that many. ’Cause you’re the only one.

I’ll give you good and plenty.”

The black coupe wound its way through the pot-holed streets.

The lights above buzzed and popped with electrical surges and incinerations of entranced moths, and the dull yellow glow reflected darkly and fluidly on the oily blackness of the car.

43

photograph by Patrick Enderle

The New World Luke Twardowski

I 44

slid into the creek on my stomach, my legs blindly searching for the giant rusted pipe to step on. My right foot hit something, and I cautiously rubbed my old Nike running shoes to ensure it was the pipe. It was. I put my weight onto the makeshift step and lowered myself to my butt. I faced the creek, my legs dangling over the edge. I placed my hands behind me on the pipe and jumped to the concrete floor below. There was never much water there. I brushed the dirt off my white “7th Grade CYC Soccer Champions” t-shirt and clapped my hands.

“All right, after you, Braveheart.”

I looked to Harry and smiled, nodding my head towards the tunnel to our right and daring him to lead. The round mouth of the monster lay behind the local swimming pool. No one knew where it ended. Light illuminated the first couple yards, enough to admire, without understanding, a handful of the colorful profane words and pictures that covered the walls, dried streaks of paint dripping towards the ground.

“Okay, chicken, I’ll lead,” Harry declared, proudly taking the first step into the darkness and awkwardly walking on the curved part of the walls to remain dry. He turned around and shrugged his shoulders with a smirk on his face, mocking me. He faced the tunnel and began walking, confident I would follow. As his uncombed red hair faded to black, I took one powerful breath and followed.

“Bawk. Bawk. Baaaawk!” Harry’s voice echoed down the tunnel.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming…” I scanned the area and placed my right hand on the mildew wall for guidance. I carefully took my first couple steps into the darkness, balancing on the curve, just as Harry had.

“Sam, come here!”

I hurried to where Harry’s voice came from, no more than one hundred yards into the tunnel. Finally, close enough to feel his breath, I could make out his silhouette.

Then, a light. A flame appeared in front of Harry’s freckled face. I approached him.

He was holding a plastic zippo lighter, which lit the tunnel and revealed a smaller tunnel in one of the walls, about the width of a basketball, level with my face. In that tunnel, there was an orange grocery bag filled with bottled beer, a pack of cigarettes, and the lighter Harry was now holding.

I looked over my shoulder, scared someone had heard or seen us, and rather than tell Harry, “No, put it back,” I cowardly commented, “Oh, sweet, man. These yours?”

“Found ‘em the other day with Andrew, but he was too much of a bitch to drink them with me.” Harry dragged the light over the goods and reached into the plastic bag.

The bottles rattled, and I looked towards the entrance. He had pulled out two beers. He set the lighter down and the darkness returned. Harry pushed one of the beers into my chest.

“Sam, take the beer,” he commanded, still pressing the glass bottle against my body.

I hesitantly grabbed it. I heard the spare change from our Big Macs shake in his pocket, then the familiar “Shhhhh” of opening a can. Harry had opened the beer. He placed a small piece of metal in my hand. “It’s a bottle opener. Place the cap inside the hole and pull up.”

“I know what it is, and I know how to use it. I’ve used one before,” I lied.

I fumbled around with it for a minute, the metal clacking against the bottle.

“Jesus, I’ll do it. Here, take mine.”

He yanked the opener and bottle from my hands and held out his opened beer. I grabbed the beer and froze.

“Harry, come on, man. Let’s just explore the tunnel like we planned to do. I want to see where this thing leads. Besides, it’s too early for us to be drinking beers.” For Harry, too early in the day. For me, too early in life.

I heard the familiar “Shhhh,” followed by the faint sound of the cap falling onto the concrete.

“Whatever, pussy. I knew you’d chicken out.”

I couldn’t see anything, but I could pick up on Harry’s movements pretty easily. I heard him gulp the beer, never breaking for air. Then I heard a bottle break maybe ten yards further into the darkness. He burped, then took the first bottle from my hand and repeated his crimes.

Then an unfamiliar voice, too deep to be another eighth grader, boomed from the entrance. “Hey! Hey! Who’s back there!”

We froze. We were too far into the abyss to be spotted, but at the mouth, I could make out a figure. Harry dropped the bottle opener into his pocket, and it clattered with the change. He thrust the half drunk beer into my hand. I was surprised and scared, so it fumbled through my fingers and crashed on the cement below. The bottle shattered into a mess of shards, the sharp crack echoing throughout the beast.

“Oh, you fucking punks.”

We ran. I couldn’t run well on the curved walls, so I took my chances in the creek bed, splashing through the thin sheet of water atop the slick cement floor. Behind us, I could hear a third pair of footsteps, frantically chasing after us, the splashes getting louder.

“You little brats!”

Then, behind us, there was a large splash and a yell.

“God dammit! Screw this!”

We kept running, but the third pair of footsteps ceased. After another five minutes of bounding through the labyrinth, we stopped. I felt around for the wall, then collapsed against it, violently coughing. As my heart rate slowed, thick, moist air filled my lungs. Harry leaned beside me, our shoulders touching. The entrance light was no longer visible, and the tunnel filled with the sound of trickling water and us still fighting for air.

I couldn’t control my heart rate. I was scared and pissed at Harry. Pissed he dragged me into the tunnel. Pissed he stole the beer.

Pissed we were friends.

I felt Harry start to shake. He was panting heavily—he still hadn’t caught his breath.

“Luke...Luke...I…” He breathed in, then out, very loudly, very slowly, trying to compose himself. “I don’t know...who...who...that was...but that beer wasn’t mine...and I don’t know where we are...” His voice cracked.

“Or where this leads…” Cue second dramatic breath. “I’m scared, man.”

I spat and slowly released my breath until my heart rate had slowed. I didn’t know who that was, where we were, or where this led, either, and I was scared too, but for the first time in my life, I had a chance to be Harry’s superior. Confidently, I joked, “Whoever that was, he’s gone. He fell and the beast devoured him. He’s property of the tunnel now.”

Harry laughed.

I cracked my knuckles and looked to where I thought Harry was propped.

“All right, whatever. Let’s finish this journey, man.” I felt around until I found his body and rubbed his shoulder. “What do you say? Let’s finish what we’ve started here and we’ll be legends. Let’s go.”

We continued traveling opposite the entrance, searching for the new world that lay beyond this tunnel.

45

Fifth Grade Evan Brende “

46

H

ey! Quit it!” Gordon whined. Sam Peterson had tried to shove him over the thick, black line in the gym that divided our capture-the-flag team from the fifteen hungry-eyed killers on the other side who were ready to take Gordon prisoner if he stumbled over those two linoleum tiles.

“That’s not funny,” Gordon muttered, skulking away from the line. Sam laughed and patted Gordon on the back. Watching carefully, a half smile spread across my face, and I stepped up my pace towards Sam. “You like sacrificing teammates, do you, Sam?” I let my hand fall on his white boy’s club tee shirt, and began to steer him towards the line. My mischievous smile gave way to a full-blown grin and I felt my eyes

narrow. “Seems like you’re about to sacrifice yourself, Sam. Why the heck would you do something like that?” I grabbed two handfuls of his tee shirt and began to pull him towards the snickering enemies. The gray, Nike sneakers that he wore squealed across the freshly waxed tiles.

He stared at me and swung a fist up at my face, his face tight and thin biceps clenched.

The blow landed on the edge of my lip. My eyes bulged and my hands dropped from his shoulders to massage my jaw. I opened my mouth to say something, but my mind was blank. Even the words “you’ll pay” seemed to stick in my throat and wouldn’t come up. I stumbled away from him, and turned back to see him talking with Gordon. I waited for people to rush over or yell out, but the gym was loud and nobody had noticed. I clutched my hand to my face. My lip was numb and I could taste blood in my mouth. I heard him say that he needed a drink, and watched him pass by all the smiling, oblivious faces and on

photograph by Will Kelly

to the gym doors. I gritted my teeth and followed. Sam was bending over the water fountain when I approached.

“Hey, Sam!” I exclaimed incredulously.

“What were you thinking? Are you crazy?”

Sam straightened up and stared at me, a few droplets of water scattered through the freckles across his nose. “What?”

“Don’t you know me at all?” I asked.

I could feel my lip swelling up. “Don’t you know what I have to do to you now?”

Sam began to back down the hallway. I followed.

“I just don’t understand how you think you can do that and get away with it,” I muttered, tripping him. He sprawled across the hallway floor with a grunt. I knelt on his stomach and pressed down with my knees, punching him in the chest over and over. The punches were light, but tears were soon leaking out of Sam’s eyes, and he sobbed.

Directly in front of us were the stairs leading up to the chapel, and a pair of loafers came into view between the partially open stairwell doors. I glanced up. Mr. Philips stared down at me. I sprang up from on top of Sam and pointed at my lip.

“He punched me!” I said defensively.

“Look at my lip!”

Mr. Philips narrowed his eyes and glanced down at Sam, who had stopped crying and was shakily getting up from the floor.

“What happened?” He demanded.

“Sam punched me in the face really hard,” I explained. I glanced quickly at Sam. He nodded grudgingly.

Mr. Philips looked at me again. “I never want to see either of you clowning around again. Understand?”

We both nodded. I exhaled slowly. Mr. Philips gave us one last look and then continued across the hallway to the big meeting room opposite. I jogged over to the bathroom without giving Sam a second glance. I saw in the mirror that the right side of my lip

sagged and looked a little purple. I left the bathroom. Sam was walking back to the gym.

He looked at my lip.

“I’m sorry,” he said. I nodded but remained silent.

T

he Petersons always gave me a ride to and from boy’s club meetings. When their black minivan rolled up to our twostory house late that night, Sam approached my dad and retold the story. I glowered at Sam, but he wouldn’t shut up.

“Well,” Dad said, “Fights like this happen. It seems like it’s all taken care of—are you trying to get someone in trouble?”

I nodded and grinned at Sam. “Yeah, it seems like it’s all taken care of, Sam.” Sam stared at me. It was the same expression he had right before punching me in the face, but this time he just walked back to his car. photograph by Giuseppe Vitellaro

47

The Price of Vanity Matt Smith “

48

D

on’t sneeze.”

“Don’t you fucking sneeze.”

Entombed within the white sepulcher of the MRI machine, I lie, desperately trying to keep every inch of my body straight and unmoving so that I don’t have to repeat the scan. It’s an odd sensation, lying still so long that it begins to seriously hurt, and as the machine creaks and clangs every couple of seconds while it scans, my fears of being crushed by this metal behemoth increase.

Save for the mechanical respiration of the device, the only other sound flooding into my ears is the music broadcast from the small purple headphones clinging to my ears. The Andrews Sisters’ hit song, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B,” whispers out weakly from the headphones, and for a moment I’m transformed. In the unnatural, whirring stillness of this cramped place, I imagine that I’m one of the apocalyptic bombs carried by the Enola Gay over Japan and that any disturbance in my position will activate my detonation. However, the machine soon stops its breathing, and the metal shell that covers me pulls back into the wall.

Still afraid of movement, I keep stock-still in the now-lit room. Two other unoccupied MRI machines stand beside me, and as far as I can tell from the MRI bed, I’m alone in the white-walled room. From my headphones, a woman’s voice calls out to me, “You can exit the machine now, Mr. Smith.” “…thank you,” I quietly broadcast around the empty room.

Snapping out of the machine, I stand up and begin to flex my back and lift my arms to stretch myself. Immediately, the sudden

blood rush makes my vision go hazy at the periphery, and I collapse back onto the MRI bed. Getting reacquainted with movement and hoping no doctors saw me nearly faint, I tiptoe over to the heavy wooden door situated at the left hand side of the room. Slowly pulling back the door, I rush into the fluorescent-lit, mostly empty waiting room, grab my black backpack situated near my parents’ feet, and make my way to the exit.

“Let’s get out of here.”

A

week later, I am walking home from school, the afternoon sky swollen and grey, portending an evening rainstorm.

Hopping up the chipped concrete stairs to the front porch, I grab the house keys from the back pocket of my khaki pants and open the front door with a satisfying click.

No lights are on in the front room, and as I make my way across the old brown carpeting that lead into the kitchen, I see my mother at the table. Drawing near, I notice her red eyes and smudged mascara.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” “What’s wrong? That thing on your back’s been worrying me for months and you ask what’s wrong? The MRI results came back.”

“Shit. What do they say?”

“Well, apparently, that thing on your back is a dermal cyst, so it’s not malignant.

The doctor was afraid this thing was growing on your spine, but the scan shows that you’re okay.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.”

Truth be told, I haven’t given the cyst much thought in the week since the MRI scan. Now, though, knowing the actual facts of the thing, I have an urge to get rid of this abnormal growth. It seems ugly, foreign, and according to the doctor’s statement of things, relatively easy to remove.

“Do you think we can get it cut out?”

“Let me call your dad.”

T

he orange leaves stand out like caution signs on the black asphalt, and the yellow glow of dusk gives a pleasant glow to the white-hued houses as my father drives towards my grandparents’ house. Save for the musical accompaniment of KSHE, the car ride is silent, and I stare down at the pajama-filled Shop ’n Save bag clutched between my knees.

“Pack a change of clothes in case you want to get more comfortable.”

Pulling into the cream-colored driveway of the house, my father cuts the engine and we both walk out towards the shuttered side door. The house is a one-story brick building, and a covered patio juts out into the backyard from the back of the house. My father carries some leftover pork chops and chicken soup to give to my grandparents, and entering the house, the family all lifts up a lazy, Sunday-afternoon welcome to us both.

Uncle Chris reclines on the white couch in

his plaid shirt and jeans, his black-bearded face lit up with the phosphorescent glow of the football game on the television. My grandpa sits in his gray loveseat, dressed in his usual outfit of a blue button-up shirt and white sweat pants. My grandma is eyeing a crossword on the granite-topped kitchen table, steam gently rising from her pink mug of tea. My father drops off the leftovers at the kitchen table and after greeting his mother and father walks off into the patio where the rest of the family is seated. I slink over to a chair at the back of the living room, and I watch my father talk to my cousin, Derek.

Derek is an orthopedic surgeon, and after talking it up with him over many Sunday night dinners at my grandparents’ house, my father enlisted him to get rid of the cyst on my back. After some small talk and jokes with my father, he finishes eating his steak and exits the patio from a side door. My father wanders back over to me, and read-

photograph by Patrick Rottman

49

50

ing the confused expression on my face, he quickly explains, “He’s just going out to his car to grab his stuff.”

“Oh. Alright then.”

“You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

My dad and I march side by side down the dark hallway that leads into the back office of the house. A nurse by trade, my Aunt Carla will supervise the whole procedure to make sure nothing goes wrong.

The office’s walls are eggshell-white, and a small painting of a sailboat hung on the left-hand wall. A handsome mahogany desk stands up in the corner, its corners carved with various reliefs of ivy and fruit. Taking off my light blue Bellarmine speech shirt, I grip the table’s lip with both of my hands and wait.

Derek returns to us a couple minutes later. I glance back to try to examine his instruments, but all I see is an orange Johnny Brock’s bag filled to the brim with disposable needles and brown jars. Uneasy, I question my father in a low voice, “Do you think this’ll hurt much?”

“Nah. He knows what he’s doin’. He’ll numb it up real well before he starts. I’m here for you.”

Clearing his voice, Derek alerts us that he is ready to begin. My father stops talking, and I concentrate my eyes on the grain of the mahogany.

“Alright. I’m gonna numb this up with some lidocaine, alright?”

The small of my back is rubbed over and over with a pad covered in lidocaine, and though the top layer of skin feels a bit cold, I can still feel the hard press of the pad deep in my tissue.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Before I have time to protest, a feel a sharp stab right into my lower back. With the lidocaine barely numbing the muscles,

my tissue tenses around the metal, and Derek can’t drain the cyst. In and out, left and right, Derek squirms the hypodermic needle around in my flesh to try and get at the cyst, but to no avail. The pain is nearly unbearable; the needle hooks into my muscle like a hot poker, and I fear that he’ll stab my spine.

His movements, erratic and rough, plunge his needle deeper into my back and into new areas, leaving me in overwhelming anguish.

Save for the unconscious, worm-like twitching of my back in an instinctual attempt to escape, my body is motionless. My teeth grit in agony, my knuckles are bone-white against the brown desk, and my eyes barely blink as the warm, salty tears splash down onto the table and run down my rouge cheeks. My father, concerned but also unaware of what’s going on, stands silent, save for the occasional “It’s alright, son.” and the steady, strong pulsing of his hand over mine.

“Damn. Shit’s too thick. It’s like soup.”

Recognizing the need for a change of tack, Derek draws out the needle, and I weakly stammer a brief, mindless “t-thanks” for relief from the pain.

“Let me numb it up again.”

Caught up in my joy of being released, I barely notice the sound of Derek rummaging around in his bag for another container of anesthetic. He stabs me again, and the renewed assault on my already fatigued and tender back takes my breath away. By now, my breathing has been reduced to short, shallow whimpers, and my vision goes dark around the sides.

“Jesus, I’ve never had one this tough.”

“Scott, why don’t you just cut it open?”

Aunt Carla’s suggestion pushes me to hysteria. I’m struck with the image of a thin, shiny blade cleaving into my quivering flesh, exposing my pale, bumpy spine and the deep red muscle that clings onto it like curtains.

Derek pulls the needle out and rushes over to his bag for the scalpel. I begin to bitterly

sob. My anguished groans and the stress and adrenaline caused by my suffering block out all of my senses, so when Derek runs the scalpel across the cyst, all I can feel is a dull finger trace along my back.

“Bingo.”

I slowly turn around, and a puddle of blood and water lies behind my feet on the hardwood floor. Blood has sprayed on Derek’s shirt and Carla’s sweatpants, and I can feel the warm trickle of blood on my back as it flows from my wound.

“Wait while I go clean up,” Derek hurriedly instructs us.

Aunt Carla follows after him. The two of us alone in the room, I look up at my dad.

“Is it over?”

“I think so. You alright?”

“Yeah. I’m…fine.”

Scott quickly comes back with some paper towels to sop up the darkening blood.

After he cleans up, he grabs a thin yellow tube of Neosporin from his bag and smears it on my wound, now so desensitized by the operation that I can barely feel his hand. He grabs a big pad of gauze and some medical tape and proceeds to patch up the hole in my back.

Walking out of the office, I feel like a malformed Lazarus. The bandage hugs my

waist too tightly, and the gentle shocks of my footfalls make my back shudder and ache.

I’m too drained to eat anything for dinner, and most of my family members stay away from me for the night, not wanting to associate with the fresh wounds and uncomfortable mystery of my backroom surgery. My father walks back to the crowded patio to grab something to eat, and I sink back down in my living room chair, disinterestedly fingering the hem of my shirt.

I stagger into the front door of the house, and in the front room, my mother sits on the couch, talking on the phone. Once she sees us, she laughingly says, “Here they are now!” and hangs up.

“Who was that?” I question.

“Aunt Carla. She told me you were a bit squeamish when it came to needles.”

Too tired to argue, I stumble up the stairs into the second floor bathroom. Lifting my shirt up, I peer at the bandage in the dusty bathroom mirror. Curious to see how it looks now, I peel away the bandage and gaze at the wound. A small, irregular line of red has been stitched into the small of my back, and, in place of the cyst, two smaller bumps raise themselves up from the skin on both sides of the line.

At least I’ll look good in swim trunks.

photograph by Max Prosperi

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Miranda Joe Slama

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S

out of his expensive sport coat whenever he asked. The question wasn’t hostile—more of a reminder, Sam guessed, and, besides, he kind of liked the daily reminders about his scholarship award.

Reluctant to get a job, Sam had called the city’s homeless shelter hotline on his first evening back at home and asked what locations might be in need of volunteers. The operator barely let him finish before recommending the Miranda Center, a small-scale shelter on the outskirts of downtown.

am’s tires skidded, making a slushy uproar as he accelerated away from the stop sign. He straightened his car as he turned out of his subdivision, just barely avoiding over-correcting and slamming into a mailbox. He pulled up a few feet to a red “ h yeah, I had some buddies in college light, panting and clutching his chest from who did work there,” his father had the close encounter. Thus far, his first time said when he told his parents after dinner driving in snow wasn’t going so well. on his first night back at home.

He continued on his route of wind“That’s one of the most popular sites for ing shortcuts through neighboring subdivi- my students,” his mother had chimed in. sions until he reached the highway, which “It’s in one of the old mansions on the plopped him in the thick of downtown. Sam west side,” his dad had recalled. “I think it’s enjoyed his now-daily ride through the city, been deemed a historic building.” seeing the soaring buildings of all different Surprised by his parents’ familiarity with styles and the people walking to and from such a small operation, but reassured that the them. An inch of snow covered the whole place was volunteer-friendly, he had called cityscape, the whiteness seeming to deafen them on his second day home and began the regular urban din until all that remained driving there the day after, a mid-December was a resonating peace.

Monday.

Sam pulled into the parking lot of the Sam got out of the car, stepping onto homeless shelter where he’d been working the parking lot. It was only a parking lot of for the last couple of weeks. With a whole sorts—more of an alley wedged between the month of winter break in his second year of shelter and a long-abandoned church next college, his parents had decided that it would door. In reality, “alley” didn’t do the place jusbe healthy for him to have a regular use for tice either—it was more of a cobblestoned his time out in the “real world” rather than slope between the two buildings, dotted with watch Netflix on his phone, which, he had a few patches of asphalt and potholes hapbeen embarrassed to admit, had comprised hazardly mended with gravel. the majority of his winter break as a freshAs he shut the car door, Sam almost man. fell prostrate onto his face—while the alley “What kind of Presidential Scholar had been shielded from snow by the buildspends his whole break in his parents’ base- ings on either side, it had entirely frozen in ment watching Scrubs?” a thick layer of ice that was glinting in the His dad had asked the question ritualis- sunrise. He cautiously raised himself up and tically almost every evening, and Sam could advanced from the car. As he made proghave sworn he had made a show of shrugging ress up the icy incline from the alley to the

O

front door, he avoided looking at the gutters along the side of the alley, cluttered as they were with broken Frisbees, bread as hard as rocks, and Pepsi cans with branding from the ’90s. Although he loved his time spent at the shelter, he wasn’t fond of reminders that the house he worked in was in constant disarray.

Sam rang the bell of the side door and waited for one of the sleepy volunteers to let him in. Danny answered, clad in a sock hat and clutching a mocha.

“Hey, Danny,” Sam said as he stepped in from the cold to the house, though it wasn’t much warmer.

“Hey,” Danny replied in a whisper, his eyes staring blankly past Sam as he sipped from his mug. Without another word, he shut the door and turned away, trudging his feet clad in Batman slippers. People didn’t usually talk much in the morning.

Sam walked to the office down the hall, checking his coat for keys, phone, and wallet before shoving it in the cubby he’d been assigned.

“Hey, Dora,” he said to the receptionist on duty without looking up from the gloves he was peeling off.

“How ya’ doin’?” Dora responded, mouth

open in an early morning as she lay her head cluttered with newspapers, house log entries, and a few stray orange peels.

Sam took a seat in his favorite squishy armchair by the door as Dora stretched her arms out, crinkling the morning paper’s crossword against the desk. She wrapped her turquoise Snuggie around herself more tightly and pored over the puzzle. A minute passed in silence as the two sat, sleepily waiting for the day to begin.

“Hey, Sam,” Dora suddenly spoke up, “what’s a five-letter word for ‘ship-related’?”

Sam thought for a moment, then shrugged. Dora turned her attention back to the puzzle, her blue-and-pink dyed hair bouncing in pigtails with the swing of her head. Sam made himself a coffee from the pot on the counter behind the desk (he had learned to enjoy the drink early in his first week), and the two sat in silence for a few minutes. Dora, fishing for a topic of conversation to puncture the quiet atmosphere (it wasn’t awkward, just boring), asked Sam about his studies, and he described his prelaw track to her.

“I’m trying to get into a top program,” he said before once more becoming intense-

photograph by Giuseppe Vitellaro

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ly interested in his coffee as the silence resumed.

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he doorbell rang. Dora, whose eyes were out of focus over the “Down” clues, didn’t seem to notice, so Sam stood up and walked from the office to the front door.

Standing outside was a black woman just over half Sam’s height. Like most visitors to the Center, she was clad in everything possible from head to toe: her sweatpants bulged from layers underneath, earmuffs and a stocking hat enveloped her head beneath a dark hoodie, and damp Ziploc bags packed around wool socks protruded from her boots. She held a cotton ball in her left ear.

Her eyes were wide and her breathing heavy, and she seemed focused only on the doorknob. Sam turned it and heaved the door ajar - no small task, considering that it barely fit over the threshold and dragged across the floor inside, scraping what little paint was left, the consequence of innumerable renovations and repairs.

“Hi! Come in!” Sam said, packing as much cheer into his voice as possible for the visitor. He had greeted many from the streets in his time at Miranda, but none had been as gaunt and as forgotten-looking as this woman, whose skin seemed stretched thin to its limit over her face. He smiled, but the countenance clashed with his inner fear: What could do this to a human being? What kind of person ended up like this?

The woman spoke in a whisper. “I need chicken.”

She stumbled over the threshold and caught herself on the wall, panting, standing on legs so stiff that she might as well have not had knee joints.

Sam had no response for this—the only food that might have been accessible at 8:30 in the morning would be cereal, if someone had remembered to put it out by then.

Unsure of what to do, he simply said, “Here, come in and get comfortable first.”

He wrapped his arm around her. He smelled something like old fish mixed with smoke in her clothes. He led her to a living room neighboring the reception office right by the front door, a room filled with orange light that filtered through plastic film covering the windows. Almost everything in the room was at least forty years old and extremely worn, giving the impression that the entire space was fading altogether. He held her right arm as she sank onto a faded sofa.

She laid her head on his arm, her wide eyes finally closing, her hand still pressed in her ear.

“Be right back,” Sam said hurriedly as he dashed back to the office to report the visitor to Dora.

“You know what to do,” Dora said, slightly more awake than she had been a few minutes ago as she chewed on the end of her pen, plumbing her thoughts for the Greek letter after delta.

“Right,” said Sam. Except he didn’t, not really. He didn’t know what to do in a crisis, and there was one sitting in the next room. Frustration poured over him. Couldn’t Dora, who was paid to do this kind of thing, quit thinking about alphabetic trivia for five seconds and solve a real problem?

Sam just paused, nodded, and turned back.

He poked his head in the living room and looked at the woman in the opposite corner.

He didn’t want to get near her: she emanated an atmosphere of complete despair mixed with the filth of whatever was out on the streets. It was that, thought Sam, but the dim orange light filtering through film covering the windows certainly wasn’t improving the atmosphere of the room. Her gaze was locked on the wall next to the couch, her chin resting on her fist.

“Excuse me, what’s your name?” asked

photograph by Patrick Enderle

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Sam, summoning his best smile again.

Her head jerked towards him, finally noticing him. Sam’s mostly-faked expression seemed to groan under her scrutiny.

“LaShawnda,” she whispered before turning her head back, readjusting the cotton ball in her ear. As she turned the swab, Sam saw that it was dotted with blood.

“I’ll be right back, LaShawnda. You said you need food?”

She nodded so slowly that Sam expected to her neck to creak. Sam turned towards the kitchen. Chipping paint on the closed door read “Keep door LOCKED!!!” in clashing blue and green. He pushed it open with ease and it banged on the fridge behind it.

He crossed the floor coated in a layer of dirt.

Botched moppings had only managed to cake the dirt further. He stopped at a shelf that towered to the ceiling, overstocked by bread bags stuffed with sandwiches. He snatched a bag up from the shelf quickly and turned to the door.

Sam slowed suddenly. Once he had left the living room, he had been eager to help this woman who sounded like she was in such desperate need. But now, the prospect

of being in the same room with her again was oddly surreal. His pace remained slow as he walked the hall back, unsure of how what it would be like to go back into that room. But the closer he got, the less possible it seemed to ignore his friend (why was he using that word?).

But he was glad he had come back, because he found LaShawnda with her face buried in her hands, cotton ball forgotten on the floor.

“Is there anything else you want?” asked Sam after placing the bag on the cushion next to her, sensing that the only sensible response to this unnerving situation was to act as though it were completely normal.

LaShawnda’s hands fell and she stared at the ceiling. She gave no response except a trembling in her lip.

“I can get you something to clean your ear, if you like,” offered Sam. He winced, but not noticeably—would she find this offer offensive? How could he ask such a prying, insensitive question?

But she only gave another slow nod, eyes dropping to the floor, and whisper. “Yes, that would be nice.”

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Sam spun on his heels and began to walk back out. He turned his wide gaze to the ceiling. Somehow, this has gone better than expected, he figured.

He returned to the office. Dora ignored him, her eyes once again out of focus over the puzzle. He unlocked the medicine closet and took out hydrogen peroxide, a few fresh cotton balls, all-purpose cleaner, and a towel. He locked up and returned to the living room.

Sam blotted a fresh cotton ball with the peroxide and handed it to LaShawnda, who wordlessly accepted it and pushed it into her ear. He laid the extra swabs beside her, wrapped his hand in the towel, and disposed of the first cotton ball in the trash can by the door, then sprayed and scrubbed where it had fallen. He placed the towel and spray bottle on an end table whose stain from the ‘40’s had long faded. It was strange—when he grabbed the sandwich bag, he had been desperate for any way not to be in that room. But now, he feared more direly about what would happen if he simply left. Without thinking about it, he sat right beside LaShawnda, shoving the sandwich bag to the other end.

“What else could you use?” he asked, wanting to be as gentle as possible.

LaShawnda slowly shook her head as her eyes remained locked on the opposite wall.

“Ain’t nobody can help me,” she said. “I been all over.”

Pause. Her lip began trembling again.

“What kind of world is it that can’t even get a mother some chicken for her kids?”

The response didn’t come instinctively to Sam this time, and he resorted to a logistical answer.

“Well, we serve lunch every day, and we don’t always have chicken, but if you wait a bit, we give leftovers to anyone who wants them.”

She shook her head no again.

“I can’t be out all day. I left the kids at home with no electricity. They shut it off yesterday.”

She buckled, and her face collapsed into her palms once more. “Sometimes, I feel like such a bad mother, I could just kill myself.”

One thought shot through Sam’s mind with that penultimate word, rocketing through his veins and shaking his hands: Hell no.

“Wait,” he said, in a gentle voice that, this time, masked a different sort of internal tumult. He patted her hands and gave her a quick hug before bolting back to the office.

“Dora,” he whispered, “That woman who was at the door… I think she may be suicidal and need medical help.”

“Okay,” she said, pushing her chair back.

Finally, he thought, before bolting back to the kitchen. He quickly filled three grocery bags with whatever he could find: salads, oranges, sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, apples, walnuts, cereal. The same hell no fu-

photograph by Patrick Enderle

eled him this whole time; the thought rang as an unbroken call in his mind. It didn’t matter that LaShawnda could have spoken out of exaggerated desperation, or invented the story to rip the shelter off. He had heard of— even met—people like that, but that didn’t matter to him. He hefted the bags up and hauled them back to the living room.

Dora talking with LaShawnda, looked up at him. Dora patted LaShawnda’s folded hands and swept away in her Snuggie, smiling at him. Sam beamed back with genuine happiness and, he unabashedly realized, pride as he opened the bags and gave LaShawnda a tour of their contents. When he finished, he felt a little affection couldn’t hurt, and wrapped her in a sudden hug and whispered, “You’re wonderful.”

He pulled away. Something far away in his mind whispered that what he said had been corny and sappy, but that was completely irrelevant as he beamed wider at her.

He had needed to do it for her, so he had done it.

Her eyes were still focused on the food.

Suddenly, she smiled, and any sense that she did not belong in the room, all atmosphere of foreign filth, evaporated from around her in Sam’s mind.

“Thank you,” she said, not looking away from the food. “You know, I was planning to just leave this place and take my own life ‘cuz I can’t help my kids. But now I’m not gonna do that, because I have this.”

She gestured to the food, as if it was obvious that food prevents suicide just as naturally as two and two make four. She scooped up the bags.

“Want any help?” asked Sam, eager to give her anything else.

“No, no. I got it,” she said from the door, and turned back to him. “Thank you.” She gave a short laugh.

She left and was out the door.

Sam stood just inside the doorway and

watched her until she was around the corner.

He stood leaned against the wall, eyes out of focus on the spot where she had disappeared.

He breathed slowly. He pushed off the wall and made for the office, but paused halfway and turned around to sit on a loveseat in the living room. He sat opposite LaShawnda’s couch—it was too sacred, in that moment.

He looked at the spot where she had sat. It was a moment before thoughts started to form.

I… I saved…

He pushed the thought aside. It felt strange, attributing what had happened with her to him. But still, he couldn’t deny the truth of the matter.

I think I just saved a life. I may have just helped save someone’s life.

A strange peace washed over him. He supposed he should have felt heroic or noble or some high-and-mighty crap like that, but he didn’t. In some corner of himself, it simply felt good, but nothing more profound than that.

Peace was suddenly broken by anxiety: What if she took her life anyway? Or the next day? Sam tried to push the thought aside—there was nothing he could do, after all. The peace seeped back with the thought of her kids crowding around the bags of fruit and cereal.

A dull thud sounded from above him.

The guests upstairs were just getting up. He went back to the office.

“Is she okay?” asked Dora, who seemed to have been waiting for him as she jerked her head to the door.

“Yeah.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t think she was in any real trouble. When she left, it sounded like she was just thinking of something to say that would get her food.”

“Well, you have to learn to live with that,” said Dora, picking up her ballpoint again and turning once more to the puzzle, though it was several moments before her

57

The Tone Kevin Strader

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It persistently penetrates Selfish phlegmatic action.

Atomic ticks and hums that force.

Demanding work with steely noise, No cane needed to subject.

Its subjects march Bearing translucent chains.

Grudgingly they continue till it bids them to leave Dismissing like a drill sergeant With the promise: bright and early to do it all again.

ceramic tile by Jackson Mayfield

Ocean Ian Odendahl

E

very year on Christmas break, we would make the long journey down to Florida, where we’d stay in a little rental house on the beach. It wasn’t as nice as a hotel might have been, but it felt much more comfortable, much more welcoming. The squat palmetto trees in the front yard hid the crumbling stucco siding and the sun reflected off of the clay tiled roof, surrounding the house with an aura of heat and light.

Every morning I was greeted by the cool touch of the large tiled floors and the smell of my mother making pancakes in the kitchen. I used to spend each day exploring the beach, searching for shells, sea glass, and lost trinkets. But as I grew older, I would venture out onto the choppy Atlantic for hours in a kayak, sometimes paddling away from the shore, sometimes along it, hoping to find a new inlet or salt marsh to explore. My family always seemed more superficial to me. They didn’t come to the beach because they loved the ocean; they just came to sit in the hot sand and get tan. Only I, would stay in the water all day. Even when the rest of my family had wandered inside to get a break from the harsh sea air, I embraced the faded blue waters of the ocean, and they engulfed me.

One year, we decided to rent a sailboat.

My father and I had sailed many times before on small dinghies, but this time we got something that the whole family could ride on. The man at the rental wore a polo t-shirt but smelled like fish. He warned us that we might have some trouble with such a big boat, but we assured him that we could handle ourselves. It turns out the two-sailed

daysailer we got was big. Really big. As the rest of my family was chattering excitedly to each other as we walked towards the boat, I listened to the waves lapping at the side of the dock.

After we got safely into the boat and untied the ropes, the wind happened to be perfectly aligned with our sail to push us slowly out to sea. The air was chillier than usual, and I crossed my arms to conserve heat. I listened carefully as my dad told a story about how he had sailed in a race with some friends in college, and he was the only one who knew what he was doing. “It was a disaster,” he said. “We sailed off course and the wind changed. We ended up tacking into the wind for a while but never even finished.”

We sailed on for a while, struggling to control the boat. I knew how to control the sails, but my movements were too aggressive and abrupt. I couldn’t maneuver as smoothly as I would usually have and I began to fight the waves and wind, pulling against them and forcing the sails into position against nature’s will. My sister shouted as she thought she caught a glimpse of a dolphin in the distance, but I didn’t see anything.

As the waves grew larger and went from rocking to churning our boat, I began to get the hang of the boat’s steering. I started to enjoy the challenge of fighting the wind and reveled in the strain required to hold the sail in place. I stood tall and scanned the horizon, in what I hoped was a brave pose. But my family was still talking and pointing at something over the waves.

A strong gust of wind moved along the

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photograph by Joseph Weber

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surface of the water, and I saw the telltale ripples on top of the large, furious waves. I braced for the wind, but as it hit the sail, the rope was torn from my hands and the boom swung precariously close to my mother’s head. I shouted and barely managed to regain my grip on the sea-slick rope. The sail jerked to a halt halfway into the wind so suddenly that drops of ocean spray were flung violently from the damp fabric. I struggled to pull the sail back into place, but I wasn’t strong enough. I saw my father yelling at me to let it go as the wind caught the sail. The boat jerked to the side, and the starboard edge started to sink slowly into the ocean.

I watched the water swirl in, its deep blue becoming miraculously clear as it invaded our boat. It was the same water I swam in so often, but there was something strange about it. It was as if it had intelligence, and it wanted to join us on the boat, or us to join it. Something silver reflected over the water moving quickly towards me, and there was a loud crack.

I opened my eyes and saw nothing.

There was light shimmering from above,

but it was distorted. My eyes burned, and I opened my mouth to shout, but it was immediately filled with water. Bubbles rushed past my face and I followed them. The water at the surface rose smoothly as I emerged and I rubbed my eyes. A wave passed over me pushing me down again. I struggled under its immense weight. Finally my instincts came back to me. I half coughed, half burped, and spat ocean water as I broke the surface between waves. Looking around, I spotted the boat about twenty feet away. My family waved and yelled to me and I saw my dad struggling with the ropes. It wasn’t a far swim, but it took forever. By the time I made it back to the boat, my stomach was full of water. My dad pulled me up by my shirt. I coughed and lay on the boat, enjoying the feeling of plastic against my cheek.

“Sorry, son,” my father said, “must’ve hit you with the boom. Maybe we weren’t ready for this.” He chuckled as my mom ran her fingers through my wet hair. I stayed silent but opened my eyes, trying to focus on a drop of water close to my face. The sound of waves surrounded me.

Conjunction Matt Bates Trudging out to the hell, walking past the sea of suits, living with one less. The faces passed as they tried not to wash away. I, myself, looking at my boots, trying to hide my own face. I imagine how they cried.

The one moment I look up, she strolled past. Her line of sight went with everyone’s but mine. All centered on the empty air leaving by hearse. My eyes only dine on the sight of sorrow around me. Could have bettered me if I had lived in that moment. Lived with the others who felt the grief, the pain, the disbelief. However, that wasn’t me. But at least I stood with my brothers and my sisters. I understood that wherever that great soul may be, he wasn’t here. He simply couldn’t be. That’s why I did not cry, as they.

As the hearse vanished, I went up to her; maybe she’d greet me with open arms. She just lay her head on my shoulder and wrapped her arms around me, before I said a word. I copied her embrace, but in my own different way. I knew I was bound to need her as much as she needed me. She became grace.

She told me to talk when I need to. She had heard what I had said, about that kind soul. I explained that she’d be the first I go to. I then had to reassure her. She needs me like I need her. How we pained, together. I couldn’t stop holding her; I began to feel what the air left. Maybe that’s the pain, ignorance of our loving soul’s place. I didn’t think I can feel the way I felt in her arms. I finally felt sane, knowing that this girl, someone whom I never thought had cared, brought me to understand something I had not.

Leaving is a funny thing. It could leave two things apart, or it could bind together two very different hearts.

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wood sculpture by Kellen Cushing

Feelings On Your Lip Jordan Sosa

I

ran back to the alley between the tattoo parlor and the Goodwill where we always met up after school. Tommy had told us at school he would bring a surprise. He always liked to be the guy with something cool we didn’t know about yet. I had already dropped off my backpack at home, and now I passed the candy store and the small white suburban houses. The white fences stood strong in the lawns that remained perfectly green despite the cooling weather. I felt a fuzz tickle my lip as I ran, and I wiped it away.

Eventually, I neared the alley. I rushed because Tommy was probably there already, since he lived in this area of the town. The roads were dull gray, and some of the stores had graffiti on the sides. The cool air felt rougher against my face.

Finally, I got to the alley. I slowed down turning inside and caught my breath. “What’s up, guys?” I excitedly kept my head up to see Larry and Peter leaning against the brick walls while Becky swayed in her skirt talking to them with a smile. Becky stood shortest, but her bright blonde hair made her easily visible. She wasn’t shy about being the most matured girl in our seventh grade class. Her shirt stuck out a little bit more in the front than everyone else’s. I had rarely held a conversation longer than two minutes with her, but we had these conversations almost daily, usually sarcastically talking about how cool those songs on the radio are. I was pretty sure she knew I wasn’t being sarcastic.Peter and Larry both stood at my height, awkward-

ly disproportionate in our legs, abdomen, and arms. Peter had brown hair; Larry and I had the same dark blond. We each wore basketball shorts. Peter actually played, and he did pretty well. You wouldn’t know unless you saw him play; he usually didn’t talk about much besides what was happening in the moment. Larry used to play basketball, but in fifth grade he took up skateboarding. I didn’t know if he was great, but he definitely talked like he knew everything there is to know.

Further down the alley, a beat-up black dumpster had its top propped against the walls like Larry and Peter. Weeds grew in the crevices between the buildings and the cement, as well as in the cracks in the ground. “‘Sup, Jim,” Peter nodded toward me.

“Hey, Jim!” Becky looked at me smiling and waving, then turned back to Peter. “‘Sup, Jim,” Larry echoed Peter.

Then Tommy walked into the alley from the opposite side. “Tommy, what’s the surprise!?” Becky hoisted herself higher off her heels.

Tommy walked closer to us with his shoulders up high and his eyes and chin low.

He wore jeans and a tight black shirt with a punk rock band’s album cover on it. It had a yellow, creepily happy smiley face with two x’s for eyes. I noticed something sticking out of his mouth. It’s lighting up. Oh my God. It was a cigarette. My eyes opened up, and my lips dropped with my eyebrows.

“Tommy, where’d you get that!?” Becky asked with a curious smile, walking towards him then leaning in.

“Stole ’em from my brother,” he smirked.

“Whoa, that’s awesome, dude!” Larry said, jumping forward with Peter. I felt my shoulders get heavier and my knees weaken.

“Let me try some.” She grabbed the freshly lit cigarette out of Tommy’s mouth.

She inhaled it slowly, the end lighting up, but her coughing cut her off. Tommy, Peter, and Larry chuckled at her inexperience with

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the cigarette. She giggled at herself. “Oh my God, how do you do it without coughing?”

“Takes practice,” Tommy explained as he strode towards Becky, grabbing the cigarette and putting it in his mouth in one motion. Then, as if teaching her, he took a big inhale while proudly looking away, held the cigarette, and exhaled the smoke rising in fashionable swirls. “You wanna try?” he held it out to Peter.

“Hell yeah.” Peter grabbed it, sucked in, then coughed lightly. His eyes squinted, probably trying to hide his deeper cough so he didn’t look inexperienced. Peter held out the cigarette to Larry without looking at him. Larry nodded and sucked in too. What were they doing? We’d never done anything like this before. Usually we just played basketball or watched TV at my house. Eventually Tommy would proclaim, “This is lame, gotta go,” and leave.

I looked over and saw Becky kissing Tommy. It started as a peck, then became louder, fuller kisses as she pushed into him.

What was happening? Larry and Peter pretended not to see them making out as they watched the cigarette burning in Larry’s hand level with his chin. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. They scattered everywhere, looking for somewhere to hide. For a second I got to focus on a middle-aged couple walking past the alley arguing about something. The man faced the woman, lowly grumbling to her about how she needed to take care of the house since she was the woman. The woman glared forward silently as if the man didn’t exist.

I felt Tommy’s stare on my back.

“Jim, you gonna smoke?” He put a slight laugh on “smoke,” but I still heard more of a demand than a question. Becky had her side against his chest, and his arm hung around her shoulder. She smiled and looked up at me like she was safe and guarded, and we had no worries. How does it feel to kiss a girl?

“Yeah.” My voice cracked a little.

“Ha.” I lightly held the cigarette as Larry let it go into my fingers. I awkwardly set it sitting angled up from my mouth. The burning end dropped ash on my lip. Hot and harsh.

I stopped breathing. I stopped any air from moving in my throat. Then I carefully lifted it out. “It’s good,” I nodded.

The three other guys laughed shortly.

“Jim, you didn’t smoke anything.” Peter prodded my shoulder.

“Yeah, I dunno. I don’t really like this stuff,” I explained as I handed the cigarette back to Larry. The smell rose into my nose and reminded me of my uncle who always gave me weird Christmas presents, such as his book on rare coins. Most of the coins looked dirty. “Ya know, I heard it’s really bad for you,” I offered, not as a lecture, but as an excuse for my own reluctance.

Tommy breathed a laugh, “What are you, a pussy?” Peter’s and Larry’s stares lost their fun gleam and looked at me with shadows in them questioning me. Becky just kept looking happily at Tommy. I wondered why she was so into him. Then I wondered why I never built up the guts to really make a move. I followed her eyes to Tommy’s smile like a hyena about to take its prey. Then I wondered why I was so interested in her. Or Tommy as a friend.

“Just ’cause I don’t like cigarettes?” I straightened my back.

“How do you know you don’t like ’em?

You never tried ‘em.” Tommy stood up straight now, sliding Becky slightly off him.

“I don’t want to like them in the first place. Are you gonna hate me just ’cause I won’t do what you tell me?” my eyebrows slanted. I peripherally saw Larry’s and Peter’s heads now moving between us when we talked.

Tommy’s shoulders dropped as he exhaled. “Alright. No, that’s cool, dude.” I held my breath in my chest, still holding up my

shoulders. My eyes searched everywhere.

Larry and Peter still stood as tense as me.

Finally, Tommy smiled back at Becky, then nodded.

She skipped towards me, smiling. I slowly lowered myself as she approached, but I kept looking around quickly,confused. She stomped down happily in front of me. Then pushed her chest out. Leaned in. Her smile slightly opened up as she closed her eyes.

Then she puckered them so I couldn’t see her teeth, and I closed my eyes, afraid she would open hers. I felt her soft, strawberry lips forcefully press against mine, then push her tongue in and then around mine as if trapping me. Weird. Not as fulfilling as I expected. My eyes forced open, quick enough to see her lightly push herself away and to the side with a smile on her face.

Almost like a one-two punch, Tommy’s fist rounded onto my lip immediately after Becky’s kiss. His knuckle and my teeth pinched my lip. My body swung to the ground like I was a door and my feet were the hinges. Luckily, a bag of tossed-out dirty clothes from Goodwill cushioned my head.

I rolled onto my side, yelling, “What the hell, Tommy!?”

He stood over me, not leaning down at all. “You kissed my girl.”

I put my finger on my lip. Ow. It stung. I examined my finger to see the blood. I held myself up with my left arm. Then I looked up at Tommy. He towered over me, smiling, making sure I understood she meant for me to get hit. Behind him, Becky walked past Peter and Larry. They peered down towards me with wide eyes then turned to look at Becky, still gasping in confusion. She turned her head at them to look them up and down and silently waved for them to follow.

I stared back at Tommy and lowered my tone. “Don’t think having an older brother gives you power over everyone else. If you had balls you wouldn’t have needed your

girlfriend to lower my guard. You guys are so on and off too, what kinda relationship are your?”

“Oh, does Jimmy have a badass side?” he leaned down to me and grabbed my shirt, twisting it around his fist.

I lifted myself up, closer to his face. “People aren’t stuck being nice, Tom. We choose to be. You don’t have to be a dick.” His eyes and mouth loosened for a split second along with his grip, acknowledging his defeat. But he quickly returned to his smirking face. I pushed his arm away so his hand let go. His body turned back from the force then moved back in front of me. He looked slightly down on me. The ash from the cigarette stained the side of his lip. “You gonna move so I can leave or you gonna keep being a jackass?” He crossed his arms and breathed a quick laugh.

I lunged with my weight to bump his shoulder out of my way as I left the alley.

“You’re still a pus—” His yell got cut off and drowned out as I turned out of the alley and a big garbage truck heaved past.

drawing by Kellen Cushing

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Meat Sauce Kevin Thomas

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swirled the spaghetti noodles around my plate, wrapping them up on my fork. I wasn’t planning on eating. I liked watching the chunks of meat sauce left after each swipe on the fine china.

“Mark, quit playing with your food and eat it,” Mom said impatiently.

“I don’t wanna.” I didn’t look up from the old wooden table.

“Do it!”

I closed my eyes. Tight.

“Stop being ungrateful. Don’t waste your food.”

“Let the kid play with his fucking spaghetti,” Dad snapped.

Nobody said anything else. The fluorescent lights glared at us.

He was always angry.

I wasn’t hungry.

photograph by Joseph Weber

Frozen Groceries Marty Johnson

A

few months after my grandmother’s death, my mother and I were driving through a uniquely St. Louis mix of snow and ice. I was semi-asleep when the car abruptly began to reverse.

“What’s going on?” I asked, confused.

“We’re going to help this man,” my mom replied casually, as if helping a complete stranger on the street was something that we did routinely. I looked around and saw an elderly Caucasian man plodding through the slush with several bulging grocery bags in his hands. When our car pulled even with the struggling man, my mom rolled down the window and asked him where he was headed. He named a place that I knew was just up the road, but he politely said that he was fine and declined our offer for a ride. But my mom rarely takes “no” for an answer. So he was soon seated in the back seat, where I noticed he was bundled in a forest green stocking cap, an even darker coat, and gray sweat pants. He smelled of urine, sweat, and a lack of bathing. While his face was worn with age, upon it sat a wide, somewhat gum-

my smile, for many of his teeth were missing.

He told us he was staying with his sister and had gone out to get groceries from the Dierberg’s down the road. While intrigued by his story, I didn’t pay much attention, still apprehensive.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t realize that our car had once again come to a halt, this time at the entrance to the building.

“What’s your name?” the man asked suddenly as he slowly climbed out of the car.

I hesitated.

“Marty,” I said.

“Mine too!” he replied, his gummy smile even larger. And with that he gathered the remainder of his groceries, thanked my mom for the ride, and walked into the building.

As we pulled back onto the main road, I found myself crying. It took me years to understand why.

Old, wrinkly, toothless. Venturing out alone into the elements. Having trouble with simply walking. One day, I would be Marty.

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Holy of Holies Suzanne Renard for my young friends in the new Civil Rights movement

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I have a friend with a powerful heart.

He can tell a brutal truth, molten and worthy of Dante himself, whose flames burn through masks and sear the soul.

His epistle dares the faithful to enter a shadowy place, peopled with villains fabricated to justify hatred, seething with malignant fears, poised to devour tomorrow.

His militant truth opens a space big enough for every willing heart ready to set down the jagged gift of its ancestry.

In this place God’s myriad faces light the labyrinth through centuries of torture, around blind turns, asking only that we see with different eyes.

Dark and light brown faces shine in the holy of holies, offering illumination undeserved.

Lay down your arms.

See the wretchedness, the awful legacy of our inheritance.

Set down your ragged gift, rapt in awe, wrapped in a promise to disarm your mind.

The Break-Up Text Luke Twardowski

A

s I lay in bed, scrolling through my news feed on Twitter, a banner flashed across my screen—a text from Matt. “Hey, how are you?”

“I’ve been good. School’s easier, so that’s great. Swimming sucks. How’s CCP?” I proofread the message and winced at the formality. Matt, my best friend for fifteen years, and I had to exchange these messages every few weeks to try to convince each other we were still best friends. The white brightness of the phone hurt my eyes as I stared at the screen. I pulled out my headphones and paused The Fray, my go-to music for relaxing and falling asleep. I deleted the text and stared at the empty message box. “Matt, this is weird,” I typed and rolled to my other side, facing my window. “I just feel like we aren’t that close anymore. I don’t know why I’m saying this, but it’s just that I don’t think we’re still best friends, and I don’t like forcing it.” I proofread it again and kicked off my plaid covers, resting my bare legs on top of them. I stared at the screen. “

H

ey, Colin,” Mrs. Barry called from the kitchen as I let myself in through the red wooden front door. “Matty is upstairs.

Just leave your bags by the door and help him pack, or else we’ll be here all day.”

I walked into the kitchen where she was packing a cooler with ground beef, sodas, buns, ketchup, mustard, ice cream, grapes, and milk.

“All right, will do, Mrs. B,” I assured her

as I treated myself to one of the Cokes in the cooler before skipping around the corner and up the stairs.

I quietly crept down the wooden hallway to Matt’s room. I paused outside for a moment then barged through the door with a war cry and tackled him onto his bed, sending the clothes he was holding into a scattered mess across the floor.

“Dumbo!” He rolled and flipped over and knelt on my chest, pinning my wrists to the bed. “Still too weak to beat the champ, even with the element of surprise.” He leaned over me and laughed as I squirmed and kicked in my helpless position.

“Get off me, tubby. You heard me come in. I didn’t have any surprise.”

He hopped off and bent down to throw his clothes into his worn red duffle bag, held together purely by duct tape at this point. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

We hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Boys, you wanna grab this cooler for me?” Mrs. Barry asked.

“Yeah, we got it,” Matt said, as he swung his bag over his right shoulder, leaving both hands free to carry the white cooler.

“Just throw it in the trunk and put your bags on top.”

We scooted outside, awkwardly carrying the bulky cooler. We set it down when we reached the car, and I shook my hands in relief.

“One. Two. Three,” I called out and we swung the cooler into the back of Mrs. Barry’s blue Honda Civic. We tossed our bags on top of the cooler, and I slammed the trunk closed. “All ready, Mrs. B!” She locked the door behind her, and we left for our three-day trip to Innsbrook Lakes for a sailing camp.

After a short forty-five minute drive, we slowly drove off the freeway and onto the main gravel road at the entrance of Inns-

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brook. Our car jumped on the gravel and a cloud of dust shadowed behind us. Mrs. Barry slowed down as we turned right off the main road and onto their long driveway, surrounded on both sides by heavy woods. She parked the car at the front door. Matt and I hopped out as soon as the doors unlocked.

We grabbed our bags and sprinted to the front door of the A-Frame house. I reached under the stone frog for the hide-a-key.

“I’ve got top. It’s my place, and you had it last time.” Matt sandwiched me between him and the door.

I boxed Matt out with my rear and unlocked the door. I busted in, leaving the key in the keyhole, and made a beeline for the stairs.

“Well, I’m the guest, which it doesn’t even matter, because I’m gonna get there first,” I shouted over my shoulder. Halfway up the stairs, something grabbed my foot.

“I’ve got you, Dumbo, now come on.

I’ve got top bunk.”

I slowly crawled up the stairs, with my extra weight trailing behind, as I pulled on the railing for extra support. I kicked backward and caught Matt on the forehead. He released his hold on me, probably in shock that I actually kicked him, and I sprinted for the bed. I threw my bag onto the bed and athletically swung my body over the railing, crashing onto the coveted top bunk.

“Whatever, I’m gonna kick you all night,” Matt warned me.

However, when night approached, he fell asleep as soon as he slid into bed, and I was saved.

flipped onto my back and stared at my phone. I yawned and rubbed my eyes. I deleted the new text I had typed, and replaced it with my previous draft, assuring him that all was good. I sent the text. Then, I locked my screen and set my phone in its charger on my bedside table. I closed my eyes to fall asleep.

I

photograph by Patrick Enderle

Mural John Bui “

W

here are we gonna find two more cans of Black?” Samantha folded her arms and began pacing back and forth behind Dylan as he jumped onto an overturned cement bucket.

“You think your dad has any more in his shed?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t do that again. Besides, you never got those ruby rose pins you promised me!” Samantha pouted as Dylan wiped off the sweat from under his forehead.

“Ah, I’ll get them. I promised you, didn’t I?” Dylan flashed a goofy grin.

“If you don’t, I’ll sell you out.” Samantha waved a finger at Dylan’s back.

Dylan didn’t respond as he rattled what was left of spray can. He shook the can rhythmically as the ball bearing bounced against the aluminum body. With a momentary pause, Dylan lifted his worn, red beanie cap, a birthday gift from Samantha, and began to lay down a thin layer of black on the jagged brick wall, moving his hand back and forth in a sweeping motion as each layer covered the dull crimson red that surrounded Jamestown High. He tossed the can in the air and caught it with his other hand.

She rolled her eyes and watched him work.

E

ach layer of paint made the piece darker, transforming the lifeless brick wall into a paradoxically beautiful mix of blacks, whites and greys. Dylan spun the can between his fingers, catching it before it rolled off his hand and shook it again.

“Come on, just a bit more juice, please.”

“Dylan, let’s just get out of here.” Sa-

mantha looked at the empty parking lot nervously.

“We’ll be fine. ‘Sides, I got the best lookout on duty, don’t I?” “Oh shut up.” Samantha smirked and stared at his back. His body was lean, constantly swaying, as if he could pass out any moment. His dark, brown eyes contrasted from his sickly pale skin. He wore a grey sweater, stained with paint and torn from thinner, under several shirts and a pair of slacks with suspenders hanging off to the side. At first glance, he looked like a child with a terminal illness, but Samantha saw he was ambitious and passionate.

L

ayers of stained, cut cardboard rested neatly on the cement sidewalk and against the worn brick wall while pieces of duct tape, spray adhesive, and cardstock paper lay strewn beneath his feet. Carefully removing the duct tape, Dylan lifted the cardboard stencils and tossed it to the ground. He jumped down from the upsidedown cement bucket and began walking backwards from the brick wall.

“A-ha, it’s done. Check it out, Samantha.” Dylan grinned widely as he closed his left eye and made two L’s with his index finger and thumb and pressed them together into a square. Samantha peered between his fingers and stared at the large mural of Bob Marley Dylan created from old cardboard stencils and three cans of spray paint.

“Wow.” Samantha stared at the mural as Dylan began picking up and stacking the paint-stained cardboard outlines.

“So? Whaddya think? Put quite a bit of work into this one, yeah?”

“Pfft—not as good as the one of the cityscape you did in downtown last week.”

Samantha rubbed a piece of black spray paint between her hands and ran her thumb down Dylan’s cheek.

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72 watercolor by Dan Mudd

“Hey! Quit it will you?” Dylan frowned and stepped back, touching where Samantha rubbed his face. “Takes ages for this stuff to come off skin y’know.”

“Right, right, and you use it like nobody’s business.” Samantha wiped off the rest of the paint.

Dylan looked over at his mural, then returned his gaze to her grey eyes.

“The world is dull, monotonous, and routine.” Dylan picked up a can and twirled it between his fingers. Samantha rolled her eyes.

“Here we go again.”

“I like to call myself a pioneer. In spirit, that is.” Dylan smiled gleefully.

“Okay now you’re just exaggerating.”

Samantha folded her arms, and her tied up brown hair fell to the side, swinging in a passing breeze.

“You guys see brick walls, chain-link fences, and old bridges; I see empty canvases.”

“It’s vandalism.” Samantha rubbed her bracelet between her right index finger and thumb.

“It’s art.” Dylan’s face grimaced at the word.

“Artists don’t get in trouble; vandals do.”

Samantha raised her eyebrow.

“It’s a matter of perspective.” Dylan shrugged and placed the can of paint gently beside him. “Now you gonna help me move this or what?”

Samantha sighed and walked over to Dylan. “You’re crazy.”

“That’s the spirit.” Dylan grinned widely; the black paint stretched across his cheek. He grabbed her hands and held them between his for a moment, running his fingers between the crevices of her knuckles, before letting go to pick up the rest of the cardboard.

Samantha stared at her hands. They were small in comparison to Dylan’s, but his seemed much more fragile. They sat by each other in Mrs. Hopkin’s chemistry room, but she never talked to him until she walked in on him last year, spray painting birds onto the back of the school building. Samantha shook her head wondering why she had agreed to become his lookout. Perhaps out of curiosity, or maybe the world really was dull and needed someone to change it.

T

he next day, students and teachers passed the newly painted wall. Classmates pointed at the mix of blacks and whites while teachers hushed them and tried to push them into their classrooms.

“It’s gotta be that Rothfield kid.” One teacher scratched his head.

“I knew he was up to no good.” Another commented.

“How did nobody notice him vandalizing the school property?”

“Did you see the giant picture? It was huuuge.” One classmate stretched his arms.

J

anitors tried to scrub the paint off, but it had dried well into the wall, as if it became the wall itself. They tried to cover up the wall with sheets, only to have them torn down by students who were proud of the art, angry at the adults attempt to cover up their individuality, or were simply curious about what was under the blue tarp.

Samantha listened intently; the flow of conversations and the stir of people began, breaking the daily routine and spurring life within the school. She listened intently to her classmates talking about the mural; she felt a faint pride for being an accomplice in this project, but she couldn’t find it in herself to celebrate with them.

D

ylan didn’t show up the next day.

Nor the next.

Samantha knew why, because after every project, Dylan would disappear for a time, and would come back looking more sickly.

Dylan’s stories were always different, ranging from a mild cold to a bad stomachache, but Samantha saw past his fibs. She tried to convince Dylan to give up, but his adamant nature spurred him to start on another project immediately.

“You can barely stand!” Samantha tossed her backpack to the floor and grabbed his shoulders. His parents were out for the day and there was nobody else in the house except for the stray cats that wander around Dylan’s house.

“It’s... just a matter of perspective.”

Dylan reached for Samantha’s hands, but slumped to his knees, coughing into his jacket arm. Samantha released her grip and stooped down to hold him up.

“See what I mean? C’mon Dylan, let’s just, give up. It’s been six months...” Samantha lowered her eyes, running her fingers across his frail back.

“What are you talking about?” Dylan struggled to breathe as he avoided Samantha’s concerned gaze.

“I dunno, maybe we could stop for a while? Just don’t do this to yourself.”

“I need to finish this next project. It’s what I have to do.”

“What you mean ‘you have to do’? Why do you always talk like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re some kind of arrogant prick!” Samantha tried her best to suppress her anger but couldn’t hold back anymore.

She had put up for too long and couldn’t bear to see Dylan suffering. She didn’t want to be there to watch him collapse or bullied when he sat alone during lunch. The anxiety she felt as she was ostracized when she sat with Dylan—it became too much, but even then, she couldn’t find it in herself to turn her anger on him.

“Just grow up, won’t you?” Samantha reached for Dylan’s arm and touched it.

Dylan drew away and covered his face.

“For what?” Dylan wiped his mouth, hiding the bloodstain across his sleeve. “Besides, I still have a promise to keep, yeah?”

S

everal minutes passed before Samantha stood up quietly, releasing her grip.

“Fine.” Samantha grabbed her navy blue backpack and began walking towards the door. She reached for the worn door handle and hesitated before opening it.

She turned to face Dylan, still sitting on the floor.

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watercolor by Kellen Cushing

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“You know what, you can keep the fuckin’ pins.” She slammed the door behind her.

Tears ebbed from her face as she sprinted down the street home. The taste of anger and embittered frustration lingered in her mouth as she imagined the look on Dylan’s face.

At home, Samantha dropped her school bag and fell to her knees, sobbing. She reached for her pillow and pressed it to her chest, staring blankly at the bare wall. The house was silent, save for an occasional whistling breeze. She knew that Dylan and his passion for art were inseparable, but she couldn’t handle seeing his passion slowly deteriorate his health. By the time Samantha had finished, she couldn’t hear her voice anymore and lifted her arm, gazing at the dangling charm bracelet Dylan made for her on her thirteenth birthday.

“You didn’t have to.” Samantha stared at the small black box in Dylan’s hand. It was

wrapped in a bright pink bow and was no larger than Dylan’s palm.

“It’s just... just take it will ya?”

“Are you sure?” Samantha fidgeted with her pleated skirt.

“Hey, gotta reward you for your services somehow.” Dylan grinned and shoved the box into her hands. “Why don’t you open it?”

Samantha looked down at the tiny box and began to undo the ribbon. She opened the lid and picked up the small charm bracelet. It had turquoise beads, her favorite color, and a small, silver fish charm dangling off the edge. The small beads shimmered, catching the sun’s golden rays.

“It’s not exactly the rose pins you asked for, but I promise I’ll get them for you.”

Samantha smiled and put on the bracelet, inspecting it on her arm. She strode over to Dylan and embraced him.

“Thanks. It’s the best gift ever.”

D

ylan continued to miss class while Samantha continued to occasionally glance back at his empty seat, as if the next moment Dylan would be sitting in his desk, drawing up sketches for the next project.

The seat remained empty.

fter school, Samantha decided to visit Dylan. She carried his assignments in a manila folder and clutched them against her chest. Dylan’s pained look was still burned in her mind as she tried to figure out what to say to him.

“It’s just a friend delivering his homework... that’s all.” Samantha whispered under her breath. She stopped outside his front door, hesitating to knock. Several seconds passed before Samantha finally breathed a sigh and reached for the doorbell.

Suddenly, the door swung open before she could knock. An older woman stood at the doorstep.

“E-excuse me, is Dylan home?” Samantha fidgeted with her uniform skirt.

“I’m sorry, did you know Dylan?” The woman had a blank expression on her face.

Dylan never spoke about his family, but Samantha knew that this was his mother. She had the same eyes he did, and a sort of aloofness to her.

“Did?” Samantha asked out loud accidently. She covered her mouth with the folder.

The woman stared at the manila folder with Dylan’s name on it, then returned her gaze to Samantha. A half smile formed on her face as she patted Samantha’s head.

“I’m sorry sweetie.” The woman leaned against the doorframe.

“What?”

“I would have thought you, of all people he would tell you first.” She swayed against the doorway, as if she was struggling to stay awake.

A

“I… I don’t understand.” Panic rose up in Samantha’s throat.

Samantha knew what was coming next, but didn’t want to hear it. Her ears blocked out the voice, but she could make out the words that formed on the woman’s faded color lips.

“Dylan passed away yesterday.”

Samantha gripped onto her skirt, running her fingers against the pleated edges. She touched her bracelet, rubbing the smoothed fish charm against her thumb and index finger.

“N-no, that can’t be right. D-Dylan lives here, 250 Sak Avenue?

“Yes, honey. You have the right address.”

Her eyes were puffy and red. The woman tried to approach Samantha and embrace her, as if out of courtesy, but Samantha hesitated and stepped back. “How... did Dylan uh, ‘pass away’?”

The woman hesitated for a moment, her eyes misted, as if she was trying to forget what recently happened. Her face was grey and monotonous, like a mask.

“His… medication couldn’t keep up.” She bit her lip and looked away from Samantha for a moment. Samantha saw her shoulders shake, as if she tried to hide her grief from others for too long and the wounds were beginning to creep back.

Samantha took a step back and turned around to leave before the woman called out to her.

Samantha took two steps before the woman called out to her again. “I think he left something for you in his room.” Samantha stopped and turned around to face the woman.

“I think you must be mistaken… I’m just a classmate.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s you. You should take a look for yourself.” The woman returned inside, and Samantha followed. The

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house felt unfamiliar, as if it was colder than next site, the overwhelming joy when they before without Dylan standing beside her. finished their first project, and the moment The woman had disappeared, leaving Saman- when she first realized that she had fallen in tha at the steps leading to Dylan’s room. She love with Dylan. took each step tentatively, the sound of the floorboards creaking at every step. ake it.” Dylan held out a folded piece Dylan’s door was open; light crept out of cardboard tied with a small ribbon. between the frame. Samantha reached for “What is it?” Samantha inquired at the the smooth door handle and hesitated. Sa- item in his hand. It was a late summer, the mantha didn’t want to believe that Dylan was “ sun was setting, and the two were leaning gone, that the last thing she ever said to him against a tree, perched on a hill overlooking was out of anger. She just wanted to say sorry, the city. to tell him that she was sorry for not sup“You won’t find out until you look at it.” porting him, that she’d give anything to be Dylan grinned as he waved the folded cardwith Dylan again. Samantha opened the door board. Samantha rolled her eyes and took the and stepped inside the light-filled room. paper in her hands.

The room had the faint, but familiar “You’re not gonna tell me?” scent of spray paint and iron. His bed was “Not until you take a look.” messy and unmade, crumpled clothes lay on Samantha carefully pulled on the ribbon the floor by his closet; his workbench was and set it on the tree trunk before unrolling littered with scraps of paper and mounds the paper. It was a small mural of Samantha’s of spray paint cans, and his desk lamp was face, about as big as her torso. Samantha still left on. Samantha sighed and tossed her held the mural in her hand and looked up at backpack against the door and rolled up her Dylan. sweater sleeve.

“It’s... beautiful.” Samantha whispered.

“It’s only a matter of perspective.” Dylan y the time Samantha had finished, the picked up the ribbon and approached Sasun was beginning to set. Dylan’s bed mantha. They stood beneath the tall oak tree sheets were folded at the foot of his bed, as the setting sun glowed on Dylan’s face as his clothes arranged neatly in his closet and he wrapped the ribbon around Samantha’s baskets, his workbench rearranged and ti- hand, and how they spent the entire afterdied up, with his prized spray paints lined noon, staring into each other’s eyes as their up neatly with their worn labels showing. fingers intertwined.

Samantha sat on Dylan’s bed, rubbing the “We’ll always be together.” Dylan defish charm. She didn’t notice the tears that clared, grinning happily. fell down her face while tidying up Dylan’s “You sure you won’t break that promroom, remembering the times she would ise?” Samantha whispered softly. scold Dylan for not keeping his room neat.

A breeze passed by before Dylan anShe shook her head, smiling slightly as swered. “I swear on my life.” she recalled the short memories she shared; Samantha leaned in to embrace him. the countless times they evaded capture, the “... Okay.” nights they spent in his room planning their

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B

Sunday in June Hap Burke

I

f Hagan closed his eyes tight enough, he could almost see vivid shards of blue red white-gold sunset and effervescent glade grass.

The trail was a bit steeper, and he might have to stop once or twice to catch his breath. That, or listen to the mid-summer frogs cry out across the still evening air. If he thought enough about it, he could see one boot-lace loose, tangled with pine-needles and sodden with wet sand. He’d tie it, in a moment, but there was something incredible in the beauty of a dirty shoelace.

But Hagan opened his eyes, because the homily was over, and it was time to stand up now.

photograph by Patrick Rottman

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Thought for the Day Suzanne Renard

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Yards and yards and yards make up this neighborhood.

Sheep can’t safely graze here in these cubicles of engineered grass.

Dandelions, with their gifts of free salad and wine, haven’t a prayer.

Flawless is the concrete expanse next door, where the only sign of spring is the sudden proliferation of plastic trays of chemical flowers, poor junkies calling out for a fix.

Once a cake marked a birthday; Now it’s cupcakes, to each his own.

Once we quaffed from wide pitchers; now we sip from tiny boxes and throw away the straw.

Once we shared a phone booth; now we each man our own.

We can’t see the old train tracks for the cars, whisking us within inches of where we want to be— though we may, like Woody Allen imagined, still walk to the curb from here.

One great loaf broken and passed has given way to the mini-bun, so much more hygienic.

Can we face it?

We’re all in the sites of the peddlers of solutions for what they tell us are Nature’s imperfections.

Not one of us is good enough for them.

Not the corn, not the farmer, not the seed.

Not the cotton, not the campesino, not the little child walking away from the boarded-up school.

What remains for us, Friends, is simply the illogical conclusion: ultimate joy.

The time is ripe for us to link arms and move ahead into a future searing as birth; to look steadfast past the eye of the cameras flying overhead; to knock down the chains between the yards so that we can all go in together on a flock of sheep.

photograph by Linda Ruiyi

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Poem for St. Louis Sam Fentress

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In short, searing winds, I stepped off the curb and around the corner, where I first touched you—tripped into you, I think I must have.

I caught only a glimpse of you, a whiff of cream soda and pub pretzels, a dream of somber jazz symphonies playing to win the heart of the waning August moon.

Since I’ve spotted you sipping scotch in dank wooden corners of Irish pubs, peddling cold lemonade and cranberry juice on cracked sidewalks in cramped neighborhoods, gazing out of the dusty window of an old schoolbus propped precariously off the roof of a metal museum.

And then, when I saw you not along ago huddled close to the fire outside the skating rink, I tried to say your name aloud, but it wouldn’t emerge; instead I blurted names of 20th-century playwrights and guitarists who chinked at Cicero’s; of third-basemen from Game 6; of long-dead beer brewers and caged birds buried in books; of high school English teachers and raccoon-loving filmmakers; of Union generals who scorched Atlanta; and of mumbling bebop trumpet gurus.

For a moment you did nothing, just sat, basking in the sweet heat of the roasting logs.

And then you turned your head, and, offering me a cup of hot chamomile, you brought it back all at once.

“Take a sip,” said St. Louis, my firm mother, sweet father.

For my sake, and yours, I have: Discovering you, discovered me.