Stillwater 2017-18 by Stillwater EIC

Stillwater 2017-2018

Wrapped in Culture by Ishie George

THE

E DIT O R S Emma Sheinbaum Brenna Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Donnell Courtney Ravelo Erika Walsh Sophia Hebert Alex Durham Justin Le Margaret McKinnis Noa Livernois Jackson Short Brianna Pulver Erin Shuster Ash Williams Emily Honen Lindsay Bilgram Anna Michnowicz Claire Bailey Kai Nealis Tyler Macri Suzanne Tang Francesca Hodge Jackson Smith Olivia Long Brenna Williams Jill Weisman Tara Eng Meg Tippett Jacob White

Editor in Chief & Website Manager Assistant Editor in Chief, Lead Fiction Editor Lead Nonfiction Editor Lead Poetry Editor Lead Copy Editor Nonfiction Editor Nonfiction Editor Nonfiction Editor Nonfiction Editor Poetry Editor Poetry Editor Poetry Editor Poetry Editor, Image-Text Editor Fiction Editor Fiction Editor, Co-Social Media Director Fiction Editor Fiction Editor Art & Photography Editor Art & Photography Editor Art & Photography Editor Image-Text Editor Copy Editor Copy Editor Layout Editor Layout Editor Assistant Layout Editor Co-Social Media Director Faculty Advisor

Stillwater Magazine

A N O T E F RO M T H E

E DITOR S

I was a high school student when I was first introduced to Stillwater—while studying at the Ithaca Writers Institute, a copy of the magazine was slipped into the complementary tote bag. What especially amazed me about Stillwater was that this was a product and artifact of student ideas, student work, student management. I overwhelmingly wanted to be a part of it. From when I started on the staff as a nonfiction reader my freshman year, my dream (because it felt like more of a dream than a goal at this point) was to become the Editor in Chief. My experience with this publication from freshman year through now has been invigorating, collaborative, and (in ways both personal and editorial) innovative. This year, our staff poured a substantial amount of our brain energy into ways and directions we could let Stillwater grow, not just up or forward as we would imagine trees to grow, but in reaching back and pulling from the inward. We expanded our image-text genre; we looked to past Stillwater archives from as early as the 1970s for layout inspiration; we talked about ways of breaking the patterns we have adopted or maintained. I am immensely proud of and excited for the work and passion our editors have shown. This publication is all the more striking and unique because of the particular, exacting, and inspired eyes these editors have for everything that goes into cultivating a literary magazine—the recognition of humanness, the appreciation for craft, the energized interest in storytelling and all the forms it can take. I appreciate each and every hand, eye, mind, and heart that invested their perspective, reactions, and ideas into this year’s Stillwater. Without them, these would quite literally be a book of blank pages. But more importantly, without them, this magazine would not feel as charged or come together as cohesively and evocatively as it has. For you— staff and published artists—I am, as the cliché goes, eternally grateful. Thank you to our unerringly supportive advisor, Jacob White, and the Department of Writing for all of the freedom and resources they provide. Special recognition and thanks go to our magic-making layout editors. Brenna and Jill have been doing our layout for most of their college careers; their professionalism, creativity, and commitment to Stillwater are invaluable to our publication. I’m looking forward to watching their legacy be passed to Tara, who sees the potential and areas of growth and change in our layout and design (whose idea to re-introduce the inter-textual sketches after exploring past magazine designs). A sincere thank you to everyone who submitted their work—your art and pursuit of publication is what keeps us functioning, yes, but also inspires us to keep functioning. Your creativity, your voice, your stories— whether they are fictional, personal, poetic, or visual—is the core of what we do and why we do it. We invite you to immerse yourself in this issue and to continue to read, write, create, and share. Enjoy, Emma Sheinbaum Editor in Chief

Stillwater Magazine

CONTENTS Father Sweats 06 Still Poetry

by Samuel Dickson

08 Bliss, Neon, and the Half-Remembered Ballrooms

Poetry

by Cole Newman

09A Dictionary for the Anxious

Nonfiction

by Matthew Radulski

the Walls Yellow 24 Paint Nonfiction

by S. Makai Andrews

by Justin Le

37 The Melting Season

Poetry

by Meredith S. Burke

45 Empty Glasses

Fiction

39 Sunoco, 1934

16 Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Okay to Weep, Willow

Fiction

by Thomas Pettitt

Dead Horses 40 Three Fiction

by Cameron Bain

Eating Jesus

Fiction

by E.B. Harris

It Hits 52 When

Nonfiction

by Emily Varga

Blue Worlds 54 Inside

Poetry

Nonfiction

by Bobby Pease

by Mirelle Tinker

Stillwater Magazine

Still Father Sweats Samuel Dickson Father sweat the world

onto my plate, fashioned silverware from his

hungry bones and fed me when I could not

His blood formed thankless into soup that boiled on the range and

poured into his skull I kicked fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes in play with shoes made from his feet and thought of nights when

he dripped my world from himself;

sweat the world onto my plate

Stillwater Magazine

By William Cohan

Stillwater Magazine

Bliss, Neon, and the Half-Remembered Ballrooms Cole Newman neon dance neon twirl baby twirl

stomp into the floor into the ether

into the Other

tattoo your marrow

with this rhythm, with this lunaticâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s waltz let the disco ball bathe you

swallow you

before the day breaks

scoop out your insides with a pewter spoon

portion them, or donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, into mason jars

squirrel them in the gray hole

in your chest

and when you are parched or you are burnt or

you draw your last breath

neon drink neon

Stillwater Magazine

A Dictionary for the Anxious Matthew Radulski

At the designated eating area. At the assisted living center. At the eye doctor. At home. At night, a car, a couch, but always in the head. Attacks. Every synapse is focused on the right hand. With thirty minutes to go before the next obligation, just the right hand won’t stop moving. Fingers bore into my palm, then extend. Knuckles turn rosy in minutes. Therapists have suggested long walks or music to sap the moment of its power, but it’s helpless. Once the tape has started playing, it will repeat, and repeat, and repeat. The only guaranteed way to beat a panic attack is through attrition.

Anger:

I have lied to my therapist to make myself feel better. The best possible therapy session, or so I’ve convinced myself, is not fruitful. It’s giving an old “I’m fine,” followed by the same old feelings of isolation that we both know so well. I lie to him, then lie to my parents who ask if it went well. Then I’ll set up another appointment, he’ll cash another check, and we do the whole damn thing again, for that’s the way the wind blows. I’ve never cut myself. I couldn’t handle the seeping. I’ve beat the edges of tables until I can’t feel the fists anymore. In order to get through an attack, energy must be expelled as quickly and efficiently as possible. Anger is the imprint left in a palm after the fingernails are done digging. Anger is getting up in the morning.

Attrition: At the battle of Alesia, Caesar defeated the Gaels by building a series of concentric walls around his camp. His enemies slowly suffered due to a lack of food, but even more than that, it was impossible for them to know if or when reinforcements were coming at all. Attrition comes from the Latin attritionem, meaning “a rubbing against.” The right eye now won’t stop winking, and soon both hands are going. Walking down a short cobblestone path toward a pond where the tiniest of bugs linger before appearing at once, the panic

Attack: Two t’s construct the lofty tower of attack. Another ever-present word. At is normal enough, but the singular extra t makes the whole thing look glitched out. As though this isn’t a word that is supposed to happen.

Stillwater Magazine

only increases. The little bugs are white, small, and will cover the bench not instantly, but fast enough that they can’t be brushed off quickly. This bench is home for about fifteen minutes before the class—and it could be any class—begins. Pen twirling, legs bouncing, short trips for water, and an agonizing hour as the panic just won’t end. Minutes turn to an hour, an hour into an afternoon. Nothing can be done to regain control. Nothing at all. Eventually class ends, and eventually, mercifully, sleep can take over.

I didn’t go to senior prom but I had to help set up for the post-prom party, which I wouldn’t be attending. That’s where this particular breakdown began, in the large yellow room with the ceiling fan that was not good enough in the summer and way too good in the winter. It was cold. Six of my closest friends are here to help set up the furniture, which only really involves moving everything to the wall and pulling out sleeping bags. Focusing on the task at hand means ignoring the topic of conversation: dates. They exchange stories of asking people out, the successes and the failures and the joys of being sixteen. If I put this wooden chair in front of the mini fridge then one more sleeping bag could be placed near the door. Then I sat in the old chair with the rickety back, six feet but miles away. The chair forces me to hunch, and I take out my phone and start to type, “I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.” Nobody notices my teetering back and forth, back then forth.

Awake: On the morning after days, though, something sacred does happen. If falling asleep was fraught with thoughts of regret, then waking up becomes the best part of the day. There’s a few minutes when the sun beats through my window and hits through the shade just right to lighten the room without touching my face. Thoughts center just on what happened in a dream soon to be forgotten. In that moment, whatever hell happened the day or week or month or year before doesn’t quite exist yet. I forget the past for a glorious minute. Then I awaken, and the memory fights back.

Bummer: “It’s a drag, innit?” Paul McCartney told reporters in the days following the death of John Lennon. He was criticized for not mourning properly, or for being too glib, or for not being poetic enough, or for not quite saying the right thing. Evidently the proper response to the tragedy was not to say bummer. Paul was not wrong. It is a drag. When George Harrison died my mother made a makeshift memorial out of her collectibles. A couple Yellow Submarine action figures still in

Breakdown: Breakdown’s first known use was in 1897, but break down dates to the 14th century. Breakdown means “a failure to function,” while break down means “to make ineffective.” In this way the older word is more active, or at least more productive. A breakdown is more akin to sheer collapse.

Stillwater Magazine

Control: Anti-lock brakes allow the car to sense when it is sliding so it can slow itself down. Antislip technology was thought up as early as 1908, but the computerized version didn’t start until the 1971 Chrysler Imperial under the name “sure break.” Now a little light blinks on the dashboard letting me know the control is gone so it won’t skid out. The loss of control saves my life in the downpour. I tried to switch lanes going about forty when I couldn’t see the ground. I cuss out the system and tense. If I get asked why I don’t drink at a pub, the short answer is control. The long, selfish answer is control. Con and troll swirl into a static lie.

the boxes, a handful of albums and one candle. By the end of his life George could no longer remember how to write his own name. Coffin:

I live on the top floor of a Victorian-style house. The windows don’t close properly, so it’s always a little cold. The ceiling is vaulted and forms a real ugly looking pentahedron shape right in the middle of the room. I could stare at that spot for seconds or minutes. Time is important, so I have to move on to feed or sleep or go outside. Those are the three options, and I choose to sit and stare at this one spot on the wall, in the dark of the night, and think about how I’ve been sitting on this bed for hours. Willfully, I turn three locks and collapse on the bed, day by day. Day by day I put the keys in the same spot, lie on the same bed and think the same rotten thoughts. Old coffins used to come equipped with a spike. That way they didn’t have to worry if someone was buried alive. An alternative was to have a little bell with the string running into the hand of the corpse. If you woke up buried alive, you could pull the string and wait. Older cemeteries used to exhume all the graves every six years or so and cremate the corpses so there would be room for new bodies. The remains of Benedict Arnold have been lost because of this. I dropped a sock behind my dresser. Pulling out the worn wood revealed the dust and lint, plus a Frisbee and a framed photograph of some former tenants. I have chosen to leave the walls of my apartment blank.

Danger: Danger is suspiciously flat. Some say danger lurks around every street corner, but that’s ludicrous. Danger is everywhere all the time. Decay:

When a body decomposes, in cases of extreme physical exertion, rigor mortis can set in instantly in the form of a cadaveric spasm. The corpse will freeze instantly, so the last moment of the person is persevered. The first bacteria in a baby’s stomach will stay inside for the duration of the person’s life. Putrefaction is the process where the same bacteria that used to break down food in the stomach begins to break the person down, devouring them from the inside out. There’s an urban legend that the body regenerates itself every seven years. This is false;

Stillwater Magazine

only most of the body actually gets regenerated. Skin and stomach lining get replaced in days, bone and muscle take much longer. Only a few parts of the body actually stick around from birth: bits of the heart, brain and eyes. Most of the heart will change, but not all will be regenerated. Some new neurons are created, but plenty of the brain is static. Then there’s the lens of the eyeball through which one takes it all in. This never regenerates. Eyes never change. If a body is left undiscovered for long enough, the skin can start to literally slip off. Decay is a breakdown through stasis. I didn’t go visit my aunt in the nursing home or my uncle in the hospital.

suggestible. Folks like Jefferson Davis had him in their pocket, as Pierce wasn’t really interested in leading much at all. What people knew, but could never really know, was that he was deep in mourning from the second he entered the office of the presidency. Pierce lost all three of his children before the age of fifty. The first was his son, Franklin Pierce Jr. Born in 1836, he lived to be three days old. Frank Robert Pierce died at the age of four of typhus. Jane, Franklin’s wife, was devastated by the loss. The love in the family went to their third son, Benjamin, or “Bennie.” Bennie, Jane and Franklin were traveling on a train passing through Andover, Massachusetts. Franklin had won the vote to become the President, and the inauguration was just two months away. The train was traveling at forty miles per hour when it came off the track and rolled down a hill. Franklin and Jane were fine, as was everyone else on the train. Except for Bennie. Benjamin Pierce died at the age of eleven, his head nearly sliced clean off his body. He was mangled. Franklin was unable to keep Jane from seeing it. So Franklin’s presidency began. Franklin is known for his dashing appearance, but fellow cabinet members noted that he always looked like he had something else on his mind. His face was ghastly. Jane Pierce was too deep in mourning to make a single public appearance in the first year of his presidency. No Bible was used to swear President

Emotion: “You know you hurt people with your lack of emotion, don’t you?” “I like it when you smile.” “There’s my son!” “I have never seen you that happy before.” “You have anger management issues.” “I feel like you’re being dismissive.” “You haven’t failed, but you want to be a failure.” “You never cared about me.” Grief:

Franklin Pierce was the fourteenth President of the United States of America. By all accounts, he did a lousy job. Today, if anyone actually remembers him at all, it would be for repealing the Compromise of 1850 to try and keep some power in the South. Pierce was terribly

Stillwater Magazine

Pierce into office. He believed that God hated him, and took Bennie from him for Franklin’s sins. He did not seek reelection. Jane was a teetotaler, yet Franklin’s last words before leaving office were: “There is nothing left to do but get drunk.” He died of cirrhosis of the liver in September of 1869. Grief is quite close to brief, a lie. It lacks the slice of greave, or the punch of “bereaved” or “widow.”

street from a Revolutionary War cemetery. People would use the cemetery as just a walking path, a shortcut, or a place for children to run in. Most of the stones had been overtaken with weeds and jagged branches. It reduced the headstone from a tool for legacy and mourning to a rock. Reduce: Fractions date as far back as ancient Egypt. Fractions were used to establish astronomical rules. Ratios and reduction would come in due time. Seventy-five out of one hundred turns into just three out of four; anything to save space and reduce. When I crumble down, I’m reduced to my lowest form. Again and again, reduced lower and lower from on high. Repeatedly diced to the lowest form of myself, face red and scrunched, but no tears left. Just mucus left to rebuild. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been reduced nor how close I’ve been to zero. However, I can count only two times when I’ve looked into a mirror, willingly, in my reduced state. My glasses don’t come off. The first part of my day is putting them on, and the day ends when they’re removed. When reduced, I lose them to a couch or the floor. My eyes puff, quiver, and just stare with no shield.

Help:

Yoko Ono featured the glasses John was wearing when killed on the cover of a solo album. The first set of glasses I got didn’t cover my entire eyeball, but the second ones I got specifically because they looked like John Lennon’s. Muscle Tension: I start to show at about three weeks of high anxiety, and it’s these night rashes that expose it. Doctors say it’s hives, yet hives medication never helps. The only aid is sleep, which is hard to come by at this point. I can cover this with clothing. What’s more difficult to cover is a pain in my foot that also happens around the same time, or the irrepressible need to shake my leg while I sit down. I’ve gotten pretty adept at hiding this kind of thing. I can also get severe heartburn that feels like my aorta has knotted into itself, but I can hide that by leaning forward. Nobody asks, so nobody notices. Quiet:

Solitude: Forty-eight hours is the longest I’ve gone without speaking to a single person. I didn’t plan it. Stasis:

Ted Williams is currently cryogenically frozen when he said he wanted his ashes spread across his old fishing pond. I’ve never been fishing,

My elementary school was right across the

Stillwater Magazine

but will voluntarily sit in my bed for just hours on end. Stasis is a real curvy word, and sounds like it should describe a problem from the future. It’s quite close to “secure” or “serious” but is quite far from either concept. Stasis is just standing still and letting life pass by, but lacks the edge to it. Stasis is okay, I think, for it’s more of an in-the-middle thing. It’s not quite a failure to move forward as it is temporary. It has to be temporary. Someday Ted Williams will be woken from cryo-freeze to a world he can neither adapt to nor fully understand, and maybe I’ll still be sitting inside, lamenting that there just isn’t anything to do outside.

wouldn’t be my own self. I’ve been given the hard sell on medication by siblings, best friends, “socalled” friends, celebrities in interviews, therapists, drug companies, and heroes of mine—my father and especially my mother. I still resist. Wonder: My mom says her medication makes the tape in her head stop. Zero:

“What would you do if you could do today over again?” I know I wouldn’t spend so much time on video games or wrestling or movies or anything else that makes me me. Maybe I would use the turn signal more, maybe I would go to the hospital, or maybe I would tell my dad not to let the cat out today. Or maybe I would have helped others, or helped myself. Maybe I wouldn’t spend over forty minutes every day decompressing. Maybe I wouldn’t need to decompress. Maybe I would develop a better strategy than running away. Maybe I wouldn’t have cried at It’s a Wonderful Life, or Toy Story 3, or at the main event to “WWE Presents: In Your House Canadian Stampede.” Maybe I could’ve been a better friend, or a better boyfriend, or the son who didn’t call everyday his freshman year of college. Maybe I would keep the mask off. For just a day in my life, keep the mask off. Maybe I can’t change this past. Maybe you can reduce to one, but not to zero.

Wasted: My straight-edge habit picked up in 2009. Professional wrestling taught me that not drinking was an option, but of course the man who didn’t drink then was the bad guy. CM Punk would preach that he didn’t drink; therefore, he was better than you. The crowds would boo vociferously, but I was enraptured. I really didn’t know that this was an option. I didn’t want to be a drinker like the kids in Ephraim Curtis Middle School were claiming to be. I wanted nothing to do with those kids. I wanted to be left alone, and not drinking meant I’d be left alone. It’s not really just CM Punk, is it? People drink to forget, I’m told. I don’t drink to remember. I can’t because the thought of forgetting something, of calming down and not being wound up, is unbearable. I need to be in control. I need to be alone and think about my mistakes, not forget them. I can’t afford to lose control. I won’t lose control. I won’t take medication because then I

Stillwater Magazine

Phasmophia: The Fear of Ghosts by Samantha Fuller

Stillwater Magazine

It’s Okay to Weep, Willow Justin Le

force himself to sleep early on Sunday. And out

chicken wrap cozied up in bed with him. Monday

before midnight he was, a half-eaten buffalo

The phone’s alarm went off for the sixth

time that Saturday morning. Not that Mike

morning, he called out sick from his job at the

needed to be anywhere. Generic, high-pitched

mattress warehouse. At eight in the morning Ron

rings synchronized with vibrations muffled on his

buzzed his cell. Hey, you alive, Mikito? I’m

Marlboro-stained bedspread. 11:47 a.m. Fifteen

coming over.

minutes passed since he stopped the previous

alarm and set a new one. Then, with feet on the

would have to do. Laundry, the procrastination

floor, right then left, his eyes adjusted to the

of which was causing Mike constant regret, gave

darkness, focused on the strip of light sneaking

him something to do on especially lonely days. A

past a bend in the blinds that lit up his unclipped

decade ago, his mother did his laundry for him. His

toenails. Up before noon. A milestone.

sole pair of polyester gym shorts hid beneath his

The gym downtown gave out a two-person,

thrift shop joggers and jeans in the bottom drawer.

six-month membership to the seventeenth caller

Too tight—a red waistline inevitable.

on the local radio station. Mike’s neighbor Ron,

a friend since high school, won and asked him to

shoved a plastic bottle full of a murky brown liquid

tobacco smoke—a second later, he let it out with a

into his chest.

quick laugh.

Mike, come on, gringo, cold turkey those

up early with me, help me fight off my prediabetes.

Ron, I don’t know.

Well, if it kills me, I won’t have to look at

protein shake and shut the door behind him. Sorry,

Let’s go, this Monday, pick things up, put

I’m optimistic. He shook the bottle in small circles, whirlpooling the slush round and round.

while checking out some chicas bonitas with the

curves, come on.

The gym’s ivory-painted brick walls looked

too bright despite the graying patches that revealed

Mike pulled an all-nighter so he could

Stillwater Magazine

Bro, try this Whey. Internet says you’ll go

myself in the mirror anymore. Mike grabbed the

them down, pretend to exercise on the elliptical

from flab to fab with this gross stuff.

dusk-to-dawn home shopping marathons and get

He draped a towel over his shoulder and

opened the front door to a waiting Ron, who

be his workout partner. Mike held in a breath of

The buffalo sauce stain on Mike’s collar

either its age or cheap primer. The automatic doors

Street. A tractor-trailer zoomed by on the

spandex. The man at the front desk stood up with a

road ahead.

opened to a lobby that smelled of ammonium and

tree. That thick, untrimmed weeping willow

small jump, strode toward them, and offered

wouldn’t stop growing, its serpentine green leaves

his hand.

stretching from far above the nearby

Hi there! I’m Pete. You two must be new.

houses, all the way down to the brown

Nice to meet you, Pete. Ron. This is my

grass it towered over. Another tractor-

good friend, Cletus.

trailer swooshed by, stirring the tree’s

Hi, Cletus!

Pete stepped back and looked Mike up and

long and narrow leaves. Henrietta drove

Mike, actually.

down the road toward the tree and the

intersection. She slowed to a stop to the

down. Well, Cletus, Mike actually, when you’re

right of the weeping willow.

here it doesn’t matter who you are. It matters who you want to become and where you want to go.

Great! I’d like to go home.

Meanwhile, one of Mike and Ron’s

Mila, anything coming?

A van zipped by from Mila’s side

***

Blue car!

and shook the car, clearly going over

the fifty miles-per-hour speed limit. The

neighbors, Henrietta, who lived a few streets over

palm-scented air freshener swung from

in the middle of the neighborhood, walked out

side to side. Henrietta leaned over the

of her single-story house and toward her two-

steering wheel and tried to look past the

hundred-thousand-mile Corolla. Her daughter,

tree—pointless. Long leaves, nothing but

Mila, stood by the car and pulled the handle of

long leaves. She tapped the gas, sneaking past the

the locked passenger door. With a turn of the key,

stop sign. Brake. Her seatbelt dug into her neck.

Henrietta unlocked the doors. She backed out of

A black Nissan coming from the tree side made a

the driveway.

On the corner, there it stood: that damn

right turn onto her road. False alarm.

Henrietta had been taking Mila grocery

shopping every Sunday for as long as she could

Black car, Ma!

The leaves were still. It was time. The

remember. It was her only day off from waitressing and one of the few times she got to spend an entire

Yes, I saw it turn.

Corolla’s engine hummed. Another tap on the gas.

day with her daughter. They took a right onto

Nothing. Firmer now, putting her foot down, she

Green Marsh Lane. Mila curled her hair around

turned the wheel counterclockwise and the car

her fingers and munched on it. A month ago it was

followed.

nail-biting, now this. A sharp left onto Shepherd

Stillwater Magazine

the dozen or so people in the group feel the same?

Another engine roared. Then a car horn,

A blonde woman in a pink tank top and black

nothing but car horn. And a scream—Mila’s

leggings jumped a second ahead of the rest of the

scream, higher pitched than the approaching car’s

group. She breathed through white teeth. No way

screech, its rubber scraping against asphalt.

she felt the same. Ron stood over a puddle of sweat.

Henrietta kicked the gas. The brake

He must have felt his own kind of thing.

would’ve stopped them dead. She didn’t even

see the other car head on, only a flash of orange

you’re all feeling now, you wanna keep feeling.

from her driver’s side window. She waited for a

Hand weights. Let’s go.

clack, a thud, something, the steering wheel cold

against the joints of her fingers. But there was only

physically caught him by the shoulder, and didn’t

The orange car’s tail lights flashed on and

say a word.

off in her rearview mirror. It had stopped past the intersection. Henrietta kept driving, her foot still eyes pointed in her direction. Orange car.

Mike’s white shirt was gray with sweat

This stuff hurts, man. How about I get

The instructor kept a large, hairy hand

on his shoulder. Ron went from all-dimples to a

pooch swatted in the nose for sniffing under the

***

pantry door. He returned to the box of weights and grabbed the five-pounders.

except for a few spots at his sides. His boxer

shorts rolled up too high, making his thighs rub

Mike held a ten-pounder in each hand. The

instructor began. Hammer curls. Half extension,

together. He followed the instructor’s lead. Down

full extension, repeat. If Mike could keep this

on stomach, prone. Push. Back on feet. Jump. Ron

movement going, surely he could lift himself out

stopped doing the full motion minutes ago, instead

of bed on the first try one day. He’d hear the alarm

alternating between doggy style and standing up

and sit up. Half extension. Turn it off and stand up.

with arms raised, gelatinous like a lone man doing

Full extension.

the wave at a sports game.

The stale scent of Mike’s buffalo

But at the moment, Mike’s forearms

pumped blood through thick veins. His body was

sauce stain pushed its way into the

jelly laced with tobacco. Tears dried to salt. The

room. Two more reps and maybe he

instructor and the woman in pink, everyone around

could eat the other half of his wrap

him, they must have been hurting the same way.

without wanting to smoke cigarettes

Yes, that’s how it worked. How fitness and health

in place of the following meal. Did

Stillwater Magazine

some water and I’ll be right back?

firm against the gas. Mila’s open mouth and open

Ron walked toward the weights, stopped,

then tried to sneak off. The instructor caught him,

screeching and screaming, then silence.

Okay, good job, team. No—don’t sit. What

and living worked. He had heard many times that

You gonna do something about the tree or not?

pain was actually weakness leaving the body. Or

The wrap from earlier was still only half-

his sticky clothes so that he could get them dirty

was it sanity?

eaten. He still had to do laundry and get out of

house. Not a moment after Mike had plopped

the next day doing squats or lunges or whatever

the door. He had forgotten to give Ron back his

woman who wanted him to cut down his tree.

hefty, brown man stood a white woman wearing

the city. Ask them to install a traffic light.

hung down to her shoulders and a shiny piercing

pointed to the tree in his front yard.

to complain.

She kept a finger pointed at the tree. Mike

you can’t see through it, around it, over it—it’s in

This morning my daughter and I almost

they even do that, someone will be dead.

Afterward, Ron dropped Mike off at his

himself down on the couch, someone knocked on

the instructor forced him to do. And here was this

water bottle. He opened the door, but instead of a

Listen, if it’s really that big of a deal, call

a baggy blouse and tight jeans. Her brown hair

A traffic light?

jutted out from either side of her left eyebrow. She

hasn’t hurt anyone. You’re the first person

That thing needs to go.

That tree’s been there for a long time and

Trim it. Maybe it was fine at one point, but

kept quiet.

the way. By the time they put up a traffic light, if

got hit by a car, all because of that tree. You can’t

Listen—

I’m sorry. Just got back from the gym. I’m

knowing that someone died and that you could’ve

Henrietta. My name’s Henrietta. My little

I don’t even know how I live with myself

You need to do something.

see past the dang thing! You—

not really following you. Who are you?

prevented that?

girl almost died today because of your tree. Cut it

now, to tell you the truth.

I’m sorry that happened to you—

—to you and your daughter, but at least you

down. Or trim the leaves. Do something, please.

To me and my daughter.

No. How could you live with yourself

I gotta go.

***

He closed the door. She stood in front of

two are okay. No scratches, no bruises, you look

the red door, its paint peeling. Mila slept in the

you could look like me.

head. A strand of hair rested between her lips.

by overhead.

the stove. Her daughter watched cartoons in the

fine. And hey, it could be worse, I mean, one of

passenger seat with the seat belt supporting her

Henrietta didn’t flinch. A plane flew

Back home, Henrietta boiled spaghetti on

living room. The noodles started getting soft when

Stillwater Magazine

a fly landed on the counter. It rubbed its front

***

legs together, as if smelling the spaghetti cook, an

with her hand. It flew in a circle around the kitchen

pushups, bicycles, and Russian twists. Mike felt the

their next exercise: sets of running in place, Hindu

uninvited guest. Henrietta shooed the bug away

weight slipping right out of his body. Or maybe it

and landed again a moment later.

was gas.

The flyswatter sat around somewhere. Ah,

by the microwave. She grabbed it and hid it behind

curtains drawn. With exercise, he could lie around

thousands of microscopic eyes. Then, she carefully

over the weekend and consume twice his typical

brought her weapon of choice up like a sword

amount of food and cigarettes. Later. He was at

and—wham!

the gym now. At the gym—with a dull ache in his

The fly still twitched.

lower back.

Mila called from the living room. Ma, what

are you doing?

Henrietta ripped off a paper towel. No—

Give up now and you’ll never make any

Mike sat back down and tried to keep up

refused to subside.

counter, shaking, seizing, barely moving its wings.

She crouched down, eyes level with the fly. To its

A few more sets, a few more twists and

pulls, and the ache in his lower back shot a stinging

left the blue fire blackened the bottom of the pot.

sensation through his spine. He collapsed on his

That would do nicely. She poked the fire with the

side. Ron leaned over and shook his friend. The

toothpick and let it catch. Tilted at a downward

instructor called out.

angle, the toothpick let the flame travel up its

length. Henrietta brought the flame to the fly and

You gotta push past the—

It took him a few minutes, but Ron got Mike

pressed against its defenseless body. Spaghetti?

Eat it, pendejo! He’s hurt.

up and sat him down in the lobby.

Henrietta jumped and shook the flame out

in the process. Her daughter stood on her tiptoes

and peered into the pot.

You better get that checked.

Ron went to the restroom. Mike sat alone.

He needed to see the doctor anyway, hadn’t been

Yes, Mila. Spaghetti. It’s almost there.

in a while. The last time he’d gone, the doctor

Spaghetti makes me happy!

Stillwater Magazine

with the rest of the group. His lower back pain

steam rising like smoke. The fly buzzed on the

He stood up and rubbed his back. Mid-

gains! Pain is good. Pain is purpose.

toothpick instead. The water popped and boiled,

Russian twists, the instructor called out to him.

Making dinner, love.

too easy. She set the towel down and retrieved a

The gym kicked his butt. But at least it

distracted him from the long days he’d lie in bed,

her back, imagining the fly watching her with its

Mike, Ron, and the rest of the group did

told him he was getting fat and that his teeth

Behind her, every house was dark, lightless. No

the doctor could help him get out of bed in the

raced down the highway. They could sneak up

cars drove down the street. A mile away, cars

were turning yellow. Dude was a prophet. Maybe

on her from around the tree at any moment. She

morning. Help him call his mother, cook a meal.

parted the leaves, diving through them and taking

Not that he didn’t know how to—he just didn’t

cover. Slivers of moonlight lit up the dry hump of

know the purpose of it all sometimes.

mulch and the trunk it surrounded. Weeds, nasty

Ron returned. Let’s go home, Mikito.

creatures, tangled around one another. They had to

Sure. Mike stood up. But first, let’s swing by

burn, but their time would come. The leaves were

the shops and buy some shears. That tree out front

her target.

needs grooming. I think I’ll prune it this weekend.

***

grass, Henrietta untwisted the cap of the gasoline

2:15 a.m. Henrietta gathered her supplies

and poured a small puddle. It smelled like Sunday:

in a backpack: a roll of paper towels, a lighter, and

twenty dollars at the cash register, a bag of

a bottle of ten percent ethanol gasoline. Only her

gummies for Mila, the rest for the car. Standing up,

underwear was white—her hoodie, shoes, jeans,

she zig-zagged the gasoline up the hanging leaves,

and gloves black as the starless night. She’d already

then over—splash! In a wide circle, splashing

put Mila to bed, read her a story about

the leaves and the ground on the other side, she

talking koalas.

drenched the tree until the bottle ran out.

The walk to the tree was cold but windless,

almost tolerable but not warm enough. Crickets

Next was the roll of paper towels and then,

at last, the lighter. A match could survive the fire,

chirped. She half-expected an owl to hoot, but

but Henrietta preferred to leave no survivors. She

nothing happened. Her footsteps clapped against the

rolled her left thumb down the metal spark wheel.

concrete. Cars rested in driveways and along curbs.

Crouched down where the leaves met the

The flame appeared on the first attempt, ready to

Minutes later she turned onto Shepard

do its job.

Street and approached the tree. Its leaves hung low against the grass. The tree stood still—shocked by

***

her presence, or perhaps sleeping. Mike’s house, its

only by the gibbous moon and a distant streetlight.

first time in years, he awoke before dawn.

blinds drawn, hid in the weeping willow’s shadow, lit

The leaves now hung before her. Her gloved

Mike slept through the branches crackling.

Couldn’t taste burning sap in the air. But for the

fingers stroked their smooth surface. She pulled

the bottle of gasoline from her hoodie pocket. She stood out in the open, standing on the sidewalk.

Stillwater Magazine

My Grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dreams by Jacob Schaffel-Scherrer

Stillwater Magazine

Paint the Walls Yellow S. Makai Andrews

“Too many guys think I’m a concept or I complete them

because I wanted to see what it would do to me.

or I’m gonna make them alive, but I’m just a fucked-up

Or maybe not. Maybe I just thought it would fit my

girl who’s looking for my own peace of mind.” —Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

image. My manic pixie dream girl life complete

with an unfamiliar name and brightly dyed hair.

At times I’m not sure if I’m doing these

What is a manic pixie dream girl, you might ask.

things because I want to or because I want the

She’s the batshit crazy character opposite the white

experience for a story to write about later on. I

male lead in every indie romance movie you saw in

don’t know why I’m in this man’s apartment other

the early 2010s. She’s the girl who helps the main

than it seemed like a good idea. This happens

character discover who he wants to be and how he

more than I’d care to admit. I make a lot of

wants to live. She’s the girl he dates before finding

decisions I don’t understand.

the love of his life. And in case you were curious,

he never picks the crazy girl. I hate this trope, and

I’m fifteen and I’ll do whatever the fuck

yet it’s so pitifully in line with my own existence

you want if you call me babe. I’ll be your babe

that I can’t help but push my undoing into such a

as quickly as I’ll take a shot, and the only thing

readily available form. It’s easier to do what

that’s going to slow me down is this goddamn New

people expect.

Testament homework that I can’t seem to wrap my

head around. My mom bought me The Bible for

me. I thrive in my sickness because people start to

It didn’t go well. During chapel I’d think

romanticize it so much that, if anything, it makes

about which boys I wanted to sleep with, about

me more desirable. The personality traits that come

how much I was going to smoke at the next party I

along with it give me something interesting to talk

went to, about who would be my next kiss.

Stillwater Magazine

Some days, I love my own undoing. I want

to be sick, want to be toxic. I love the edge it gives

Dummies when I started at the Christian school.

I’m almost twenty and I took that pill

about. It gives me quirks, tricks, little things that I think are mine and only mine.

When I’m scared, I watch TV—this is

one of those “quirks.” I watched Law and Order

someone told me they couldn’t

when I had an eating disorder. I watched Criminal

see my spine. I assumed it was

Minds when I was suicidal. I watch the disasters

because there was too much

happening around me and pray that they will make

back fat. I couldn’t think of

my own feel obsolete, or at least a little bit

anything else. Plus, I couldn’t see my spine for

more manageable.

myself, so I had to take their word for it. During

my freshman year of high school, a friend who was

Some days I look in the mirror and I’m

always skinnier than I was gave me a pair of jeans

surprised by my body, surprised by the way the

that were too small on her. They fit me, but I didn’t

curves have softened and the bones have peeked

see this as proof that all of a sudden my body was

out. My body is not my own. I’m so unfamiliar

smaller than hers. For my body could not shift,

with it that for the first fourteen years of my life,

could not grow out of a childhood of belly bongos

I didn’t even know I had a birthmark. Not much

and double-chinned photos.

bigger than a pea, the splotch rests just along my left shoulder blade. I had no idea.

I assume that at one point, my body felt

I’m sixteen, sitting on my dingy dorm room

floor, huddled around a laptop playing a bootleg

like my own. I assume when I was a child I was

copy of Brokeback Mountain. Most of my friends

attached to my belly, attached to fingernails and

are visiting family this weekend and the only one

veins and flesh. But I don’t have a memory that

still here is the blonde, doe-eyed southern girl.

spans far enough to remember any of this, so I’m

There’s a snowstorm all weekend in northern

really relying on assumption.

In eighth grade,

Michigan, and the thought of walking fifty feet

I can tell you that I knew my body wasn’t

in the snow scares us both. We’re used to the sun,

my own when I was eight. I was at the doctor when

used to sweat and sticky air. The cold is still

they told me I was overweight for my age. But I

too new.

ate vegetables every day, ate healthier than any

other kid I knew, so I decided that they were not in

To avoid going outside we live off of the

dorm building’s vending machine for the weekend.

fact talking about me. It was my body, not me. It

I have microwaved mac and cheese, and she has

was separate. Something I could finesse and shape

chicken-flavored ramen. This is also when I have

without doing any real damage to the self who I so

my first ever Snickers bar, the first time in two

often forgot I was.

years I’ve allowed myself to indulge in something

Stillwater Magazine

so calorically luxurious. This is a manic pixie

snacked on it with the boy who came to sleep with

regulated, and so intentionally safe that I couldn’t

had crackers in his mouth.

dream girl under rules—everything is contained,

me that night. The first time I kissed that boy, he

rebel if I tried.

“Good that you don’t usually keep snacks

in your room. It’ll keep you skinny,” he said. That

I’m nineteen years old, sitting on the edge

morning I woke up to stale popcorn and bruises on

of a power box at the bottom of the woods. I know

my collarbone, my neck, my thighs. The next night,

he’s watching me from his dorm window. I can feel

I smoked with a stranger on the street and gave him

his eyes following me faster as I let this cigarette

my phone number just in case. I ran up the tallest

burn a hole in my lungs.

hill because I could. I ate more of the popcorn on

on the phone or indulge in a bad habit. This is

like the logical thing to do. It squeaked when I bit

This is my safe spot, where I go to cry

my floor at 4 a.m. that night because it seemed

where I go to avoid his eyes, the eyes of this

down, so stale it turned into a pillow.

boy-who-cheated-on-me-even-though-we-were-

never-actually-together. My phone is buzzing in

my pocket, and I know it’s him telling me he can

see me, sending me pixels of myself zoomed in

Manic pixie dream girl says have you

heard this record? Manic pixie dream girl says let

so close it’s almost a paint chip. But he knows it’s

me save you with this record… Hear that? That’s

me—he can spot my black clothes and droopy eyes

the sound of you becoming a better person…

from far away. I’m mad he knows me this well.

Olivia Gatwood, 2015:

Manic pixie dream girl says I’m going to save you. Says don’t worry, you are still the lead role. This is

Someone told me I’m not happy enough

your love story about the way I teach you to live.

to be the manic pixie dream girl. That they’re

Everything they know about me they will learn

supposed to be bubbly, constantly elated and

when it’s projected onto you…

overjoyed by the smallest aspects of life. That I

display my sadness, my anger, too openly. I don’t

manic pixie dream girl can’t survive without it.

a.m. when we’ve started waking up to finish our

give way for enough mystery, enough allure. The

like water. A friend greets me every morning at 4 work. She sets up the table with a pill at my seat

I saw the It remake at the start of fall,

and a pot of tea brewing alongside it. Nineteen

brought my popcorn home from the theater and

Stillwater Magazine

Stimulants recycle in and out of my system

wasn’t as glamorous as I predicted. It was less

love, less joy—but more pills and glitter. I rely

lace, soft furs, and smeared makeup like Penny

a downer when I start to crash in the afternoon

when they can’t remember my name. You know, the

on these stimulants to get through the morning,

Lane. This jacket is the thing people will reference

and everything makes me angry. Smoke a little,

girl with that sick denim jacket? This jacket is my

pop the pills that are actually prescribed to me, go

way onto the tour bus, my way to pretend I’m not

to bed, and repeat. This is the month of October,

fifteen, my way to talk to boys on the side of

which turns into November, and when the frost

the road.

finally sets in that December, I’m still watching

the sunrise every morning, wondering how anyone

I see her that I leave the iron on a patch for too

could sleep through something so beautiful.

long. It starts to melt, adhering to the metal base as

Nineteen was fake euphoria and

it turns into little strings of blue. I scratch off that

drug-induced sleeps.

I’m so focused on Penny Lane the first time

patch and try again, burning my

I decide at this point that I don’t need to

fingertips on the hot parts.

sleep anymore. Sure, it’d be nice. I’d probably be in a better mood. But I’m doing just fine without

I’m talking to everyone in my classes and making

my body. But when I smoke, I’m

it. Exhaustion makes me more sociable. Suddenly

in my body. I take up space inside

friends with people on the streets. This is the pills,

not ruining my lungs. I’m just

this is not me, and I know that. But isn’t that just all

ruining a pair of lungs. I don’t have ownership.

the more reason to keep taking them?

There’s nothing to remind me that this backbone is the only backbone I will ever have.

In ninth grade I watch Almost Famous in

my room while I set up an ironing board to adhere

When I used to hurt myself—that is, when

I used to hide a razor in my sock drawer—it

the new patches I got to my denim thrift store

didn’t feel like I was hurting myself. My arm was

jacket. I’m covering up the I HATE EVERYTHING

detached from my being. It was an act of homicide,

quote that I scribbled on the back a year before

not suicide. It was just a convenient spot to carve

in Sharpie. Now I have patches of cartoonish

away. A stray limb. I could barely even feel

apartment buildings, bright colors popping off the

it happening.

light denim in a way that is just quirky enough for people to compliment me on it in public.

I am not my body. I reside

I’m going to wear this jacket with delicate

Fireball from the handle without a bendy

straw. Sex with boys who know how to gaslight,

Stillwater Magazine

sex with boys who care too much and still end up

seems to work against me though—it cuts into the

and too many pills. This is how, at nineteen, he

formed into Michelangelo’s sculpture of the pissed

ruining it all. Sex and makeup kisses, glass blunts

darkness. But I want to be hard, stone cracked and

reminds me that I’m far too broken for anyone but

off art student.

him. Hawaiian punch vomit that looks like I’m

coughing up ribbons of blood. A pillow with a spot

left edge. A friend down the hall throws up in her

side of me while kids toss sand at each other on

stained red, nearby a smear of eyeliner across the

stage under an oak tree. Soccer balls fly by one

laundry basket while my roommate comes home

the opposite end. It’s kindergarten, and I’ve already

to collapse, half-naked, on her chest full of winter

shut down. I hate school and I hate meeting new

clothes. I text him and tell him what’s happening,

people and I miss Mom so much I’m not sure how

and he responds while hooking up with a girl at a

I’m still breathing.

party that he wishes he was there to cuddle.

Bob Weir married his manic pixie dream

I rub my eyes, groggy. I forget where I am for a moment. I forget how to stand up, how to walk,

a groupie of the Grateful Dead who found her way

how to talk. All I know how to do is sleep. So I

onto their tour bus. Years later she would give him

stay still.

two daughters.

I’m seventeen, kicking at a foot-high pile

I’m afraid of falling too quickly into this

trope, afraid of becoming the TV dinner, ready-to-

of snow with my boot. I’m angry, too angry for

eat version of myself. A boy tells me he’s interested

seventeen. I’m pissed at my nonfiction writing

in me because I scare him, because I’m mysterious

teacher, pissed I didn’t get into my dream college,

and I don’t take shit from people, and he might

pissed I have to leave my friends, pissed at myself

as well have just said he wants me because I’m a

for being so goddamn pissed off all the time. I

manic pixie dream girl.

wear black clothes and dark lipstick to match

my new “pissed off

People take the hint.

Penny Lane. “You look in their eyes and you see

persona.” It does the job.

Kate Hudson researched groupies and rock

stars’ wives of the 1990s to prepare for her role as

My crayon yellow hair

Stillwater Magazine

A teacher comes to wake me up at the end

of recess, telling me I slept through all the fun.

girl. She was only a teenager when they first met,

I’m five years old, asleep on a big outdoor

a sadness. You can tell how much they lived, and

how jaded it gets in that world. But, at the same

time, they knew what they were getting themselves into.” She researched the dream girls. Olivia Gatwood, 2015:

Dream girl, your almost broken

accessory… Good girl, just bad enough. The convenient thing about being a magical woman is that I can be gone as quickly as I came. And when you are a whole person for the first time, the movie is over. Manic pixie dream girl doesn’t go on. There is no need for her anymore.

Sometimes I test things. Pull out one of the

lighters from my bag and see how long it’ll take

for something to catch. Cinder blocks, in case you were wondering, simply don’t. Shower curtains, on the other hand, burn fast. Unless they’re

plastic, then they flop together at the seams and

melt. Cedar wood roasts but doesn’t burn without constant heat. Sage is hard to stop once it begins.

I burned a circle on my thigh when I was

hiding a cigarette from a cop car at fourteen. Burnt a piece of my hair when it got caught on the blow-

dryer before school. I’m not a pyro—I’m not going to set the school on fire or burn down my house.

It’s nothing like that. I just like to see how quickly things can disappear.

Pull I regret it The Purple Street by Emily Delucia

Stillwater Magazine

Loss Memory by Carly Hough

Stillwater Magazine

Egg Sacks Hatched by Claire G. McClusky

Stillwater Magazine

Sleep and Reason by Sophia Feuer

Stillwater Magazine

by Samantha Fuller

Stillwater Magazine

A Bend in the Thread by Amy Ann Goelz

Stillwater Magazine

The Melting Season Thomas Pettitt

When I feel like my skin is about to melt

brilliant neon, making it all a greater version of

off my bones like that scene in Raiders of the Lost

itself. Rides are grand and frightening in the best

Ark, I know the fun has just begun. The intensity

way, prizes are big and eccentric, and the food is

of searing white light from the late summer sun

fatty and outlandish. I gag at the smell of Oreos

awakens distorting ripples in the air, making me

and Twinkies being deep fried in monstrous vats of

question if the gargantuan Ferris wheel in the

bubbling grease. So much activity unfolds around

distance is nothing more than a mirage.

me and prioritizing my focus is key to staving off a

Alternative pop music blasting from the

sensory overload.

ring toss booth collides with country music playing

from tall speakers in the stall selling cowboy hats.

cups. They wear the classic fair attire: booty shorts

too hot and his ice cream has turned into a puddle

that ride high and lacy tank tops that ride low,

on the scorching pavement. I catch fractured

cleavage exposed and glistening with sweat.

phrases from the horde of people around me: “…

and her baby never got the flu vaccination…” “…

A gaggle of boys lounges on the lawn close

to where Niamh and I have chosen to sit. One of

but his penis remained limp the whole…” “…any

them is leaning back on a huge teddy bear he must

Tylenol in your bag, Felicia?”

have won at a game booth. Two of his friends snack

My friend, Niamh, snacks on bacon

on fries drenched in cheese colored an unnatural

drizzled with milk chocolate. It’s new to the fair

shade of yellow. Both boys are shirtless and display

this year and vendors proclaim it to be the perfect

atrocious

union of sweet and savory. I beg to differ, however.

A pair of girls idles around a massive plastic

lemon where lemonade is sold in extra-extra-large

A little boy cries into his father’s arms because it’s

Everything is painted in a rainbow of

farmer tans

I am flanked on both sides by a menagerie

that boast of

of theme park attractions: swings that lift you an

long days on

unsettling distance from the blacktop group, roller

the beach.

coasters that have one too many loopty-loops, a

merry-go-round that goes ten miles an hour and

We are

farther away

requires a seat belt, and much, much more.

Stillwater Magazine

from the rides now and listen to bluegrass music being played by some offbeat band undoubtedly composed of washed-up musicians turned

elementary school teachers. Black smoke billows skyward from the grills of popular food vendors surrounding the stage the band performs on.

The bottoms of my feet ache and blister

from so much walking, and my hair sticks out at odd angles from running my hands through the damp locks one too many times. But this is all

to be expected when there’s so much to explore

and only so many hours in a summer’s day. I will

continue to revel in the larger-than-life insanity I’ve immersed myself in because the magic of it is a rarity that must be savored.

By the time I get home, my feet will be

bleeding, my clothes will be saturated with sweat, and it’ll take two showers to peel away the slimy layers of SPF 50. But that’s okay.

It is fair season, after all.

Stillwater Magazine

Sunoco, 1934 Meredith S. Burke

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve known quarters, their haggard

loneliness jammed into vending machines,

chocolate sitting in the grooves of my teeth. Spent pennies on the jukebox, skimmed songs, swayed at the neck.

Spun tribalism, rituals of the body into

something modern, birthed impossibilities. Swirled cream with my tongue, swallowed dimes, stood still when asked. Learned to stay quiet. Come on, you can move your hips faster than that.

Bite your lips red, let the crushed ice turn them blue, go sit in Grandpaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lap.

I tasted blood & dust, wondered if such a thing could be imprinted on the tongue, but itself into eyelids.

If the grime of the shelves could stay

on me like a shawl, like a sweater clung to my

wet body, like dust in the cracks of linoleum tile.

Stillwater Magazine

Three Dead Horses Cameron Bain

It’s night now. People converge on Broadway, filtering out until they reach Caroline Street. The crowds aren’t happy today. Three of the best horses died before finishing their races at the racetrack, causing people to lose hundreds of dollars. The people booed at the horses as the animals dropped from exhaustion. These people drove up from the city to watch the horses race and they just had to die. They’re angry now. They’re about to drink. On central Broadway, the main restaurants and shops are closing. The bars are opening. The bartender is home from school. Saratoga Springs has always been her home, and she just can’t get herself to leave. She’s in an Honors Program for her school’s English Department. Every night, she regrets not taking that internship in the city. She just didn’t want to leave her mother alone this summer. Her mother didn’t have very many summers left. A man twice her age is trying to get her phone number. Another one is trying to get her to run off with him to Barbados and he’ll pay for everything. At the end of the bar, her friend from high school’s father is sitting. He used to drive her and her friend to Yaddo after school to volunteer. He’s drunk and hitting on her now. They all keep telling her to smile. She hates them. They all remind her of her father. She has long since stopped trying to be nice to the

Stillwater Magazine

customers. The tips she receives for indulging them no longer seem worth it. Parking is nigh impossible to find at night, especially when the tourists come. She has to park hours before her actual shift. She hates the tourists, but everyone does. That’s why they’re the only ones who get mugged. Her English major seems more and more distant every night. She hasn’t written anything since she got home. She tells herself she’ll get to writing that novel eventually. She has all summer to write it. There’s still time. There’s always still time. In the alley between bars, a man is walking to his car. He doesn’t like to be out late on nights like this. He’s not a tourist, and despises them. He was only meeting a client for a drink and to sign some papers. He’s nervous. He wishes he had a cigarette, but his wife made him quit two years ago. That was before she died in childbirth. He still wears the watch she gave him for their last anniversary. It is a little shiny for him, but he keeps his promises. Instead of smoking, he chews two pieces of Nicorette gum, hoping to calm his nerves. It works, unlike his wife’s childbirth. He knows he probably won’t get mugged. Only the tourists get mugged. Everyone knows tha— He tries to scream when someone grabs him from behind and throws him against the graffiti-laced brick wall. Two young men stand

before him, stronger than he is. He tries to tell the muggers that he’s not a tourist, that he’s a local, that still has a mortgage to pay without his wife’s added income, that he was only out to meet a client. He tries to tell them all those things, but the nicotine gum has lodged itself in his windpipe, and is stuck there. He drops his briefcase, and it opens. Papers start to spill into the alley. Legal documents that were important enough for him to get signed that night now litter the alley. Some stick to the ground on old pieces of discarded gum. The muggers step away, one of them almost slipping on a document about seizing assets during a divorce. No one is supposed to die on nights like these. It’s too early in the season for that. One of them tries to leave but is grabbed by the other. They think about getting help, but decide not to. He’s probably a tourist. No one will miss him. While the man is still choking, they take his wallet and the watch his wife gave him. He hasn’t taken it off since he lost his wedding ring. His face is purple now and he tries to ask them for help. He’s not a tourist. Only tourists are sup— Two alleys over, two cops are talking to an intoxicated man. They are annoyed. They only like dealing with the drunk tourists who come out of the bars around 2 a.m. They don’t like dealing with the alcoholics, especially not this early in the night. The alcoholic is disoriented. He’s been drinking since 3 p.m. but doesn’t remember why he started. He never does. He had come downtown originally to see his daughter. He told himself he wasn’t going to drink until after that, but something must hav— The cops ask him to leave. He’s causing a ruckus and making the town look bad. The

children’s bookstore is still open and the parents don’t want their kids to see that. Not today. The cops are hoping he doesn’t get violent. Violence means more paperwork, and they’re hoping to get out of their shift on time tonight. The alcoholic is not cooperating. He helped build this town. He helped place the bricks in the walls around them, he helped pave the roads last spring. He did all of that, not the rich people, not the businesses that try to attract touri— The older cop grabs him and throws the alcoholic against the wall he helped create. The alcoholic has a moment of clarity, and remembers that he never got to talk to his father before he left to get cigarettes. He had been mad because his father hadn’t been around lately, so he tried the silent treatment. He tried too hard, as he never saw his father again. That makes him sad, want another drink. The drinks help. Where is his daugh— The cops roll their eyes and bring him over to their car. One of them texts his wife saying he’ll be even later tonight then he had planned. She doesn’t answer right away, as she’s sleeping with another man, in celebration of getting the divorce papers signed ten minutes earlier. They walk past a cabbie. She’s sitting in her cab, waiting for someone to call. She knows she won’t get busier until later. She could have stayed in Glens Falls for a couple more hours, but then she would have lost her spot. Her stomach hurts but she knows it’s not her stomach. The ovarian cyst has become cancerous, and it hurts more than childbirth most days. Her right eye has been hurting too. Perhaps a tumor has grown there as well. She knows she

Stillwater Magazine

should be home and in bed, but she needs the money. Her daughter needs it. Every time the door swings open she can see her daughter inside, serving drinks. She wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to be a bartender. The cabbie had known about the internship and had hoped her daughter would take it. She didn’t, though, and now she was here, just like her mother had been twenty years prior. A call on the radio gets her attention. It’s a wedding, getting out of the Canfield Casino. She glances one more time at the bar, hoping to be able to see her daughter. She can’t. She drives off. A sports car parks in her spot. The driver saw that it was only for cabs, but he doesn’t care. He’s happy. His girlfriend finally got the divorce papers signed. He would get bored soon and probably leave her like she’s leaving her husband, but for now he’s happy. He’s the closest thing this town has to royalty. His father owns most of the suburban housing developments in the surrounding counties. He never did pay much attention in school. It was his father’s rule to never listen to people who were poorer than you. He knew that wasn’t fair, but he wasn’t going to do anything to make it better. He didn’t choose to be born into a rich family. It wasn’t his fault. A couple of cabs drive by and honk at him. People tell him he’ll get towed, but he doesn’t care. He can just pay for it back. Life is good for him. He checks his roofie supply and walks into the bar. He likes the bar here. A bartender had once accused a guy of putting a roofie in

Stillwater Magazine

a girl’s drink, but when the drink was tested, there were no drugs. He had smiled at that, and came here often afterward. In the alley, a homeless man comes across an unconscious man surrounded by papers. He is well-dressed, might be a tourist. His wallet is gone along with anything noteworthy to steal. The homeless man wishes he still had a phone, though he hasn’t used one in over a decade. He looks around and sees that no one’s around. He wants to help but can’t risk being seen by the police. On most nights they are okay with begging, but today the tourists are angry, and that sets the cops on edge. He looks around. Seeing the unconscious man reminds him of a time in which he was in need of help and Private Lawson saved his life. It was a long time ago. The last time he talked to the Private was when he had his phone. It was the last time anyone ever talked to Private Lawson before he blew his brains out, blood staining his medals. There’s a clinic two blocks away. The homeless man could get to it without going through Broadway. He picks up the man and starts to walk. He still has his strength from the military, along with the nightmares. It isn’t too late yet. A few minutes later, the bartender comes out for a cigarette. She knows her mother wouldn’t approve, so she smokes at work, and only when her mom’s not around. That’s the only time she even needs to smoke. She walks over some dirty papers. Some drunk tourist must’ve left their briefcase here. Fucking tourists, she thinks, lighting a cigarette. She keeps thinking about whether or not she had seen that rich guy roofie that girl’s drink. She isn’t sure. She was sure once but had been wrong.

Her father was supposed to stop by, but probably forgot. She is used to that. Her father forgets a lot of things lately. A tow truck arrives at the front of the alley and starts to take a sports car away. She takes out her phone and goes to Snapchat. The stories are littered with people partying. She rolls her eyes at them and notices that twenty people have seen her story, but not the person it was meant for. Two of the people who did are at her house. She hasn’t talked to them in years, and ignores them. They didn’t ignore her story though. They saw her post about being sad to have to go to work and waited till she left. Then their father drove them downtown before his shift started. One of them was nervous, so they walked past the bar she worked at and even saw her mom’s cab. She waved at them and they waved back, before going into an alley. Later, they went to the bartender’s house, knowing it would be empty. They broke in and took her laptop and her mother’s credit cards. They’re still there, wondering what else they should take. One of them puts a watch on from the alley. It’s too large and the metal band pinches his arm hair. He takes it off. The bartender sighs and puts her phone away, enjoying her cigarette. She can hear the bar, the laughter. She rolls her eyes at that, but they all do. Everyone hates the tourists. They’re the worst and ruin the lives of the people who live here. She throws the butt onto the ground. She hears a loud bang, like a car crash. People on the street grow quiet and point. She rolls her eyes at them, thinking that some drunk probably crashed their car. She doesn’t even care if someone has died.

A couple streets over, an accident has happened. It’s between a cab and a tow truck towing a sports car. The cabbie had stopped suddenly when a homeless man had darted into the street holding a well-dressed unconscious man. The tow truck rear-ended them and the shock sent the cabbie’s head into the steering wheel hard enough to crack the top of her skull. Her right eye is dangling out of the socket it no longer fits in. There’s no tumor on the back of it. The police arrive. It’s a bad scene, but thankfully the alcoholic is asleep in the back of their car. The older cop takes a moment to call his kids and tells them to go home. They say they will, leaving the bartender’s house, making sure to grab all of the credit cards and bank books. One of them drops the watch they got from the man in the alley earlier. Its face shatters on the ground. He picks it up but leaves the glass. No reason to take it. The police find the homeless man as well, but the younger cop is on edge. He thinks his wife is cheating on him. He mistakes the homeless man’s movements and shoots him. The unconscious man falls from his hands and cracks his skull on the pavement. The bartender keeps serving drinks, thinking about what her first novel will be about. Three dead horses walk through the night, knowing they don’t have to run so fast anymore. The night flies by and the tourists harm no one.

Stillwater Magazine

Nude #24 by Noah Levin

Stillwater Magazine

Empty Glasses E.B. Harris

The stale air of the room is kissed with an incense of liquor. His eyes squint with the welcomed haze, the toxic wisp emanating from his ashtray. The soft hum of the hired jazz band drowns out with the familiar clink of glasses. He watches the gold liquid pour out in front of him, a bourbon nectar that promises each time to drown him, always failing to choke that last breath. The soft patter of raindrops brings a hush to the automobiles outside. He knows the types. Sturdy Fords house mothers and fathers, unwanted children and the occasional animal. Cadillacs carry Suits off to pick up their mistresses; motor carriages to sleazy nightclubs and twilight motels. The drummer tries to mimic the melancholy rhythm on the cymbals. The sound is artificial. All of the regulars are in tonight. Charles tousles the grease from his hair, letting the bone roots show from under his slicked bob. His pinstripe tie hangs loose around his neck, leaving a chafed ring around his throat. If not for the stiff drink glued to his hand, he would be trying to fix himself to the ceiling fan again. He was lucky to have his neighbor come across him during the last attempt. Or perhaps he wasn’t. He was surprised to see Charlie go to work every morning with that same imitation of a smile, perhaps one he had practiced in the mirror before he had lost Judith.

Across the bar is Nancy Friedman, her rump edging off of the stool, hugged in a sequined dress that would have held tight her frame from a past decade. Her approach to looking sexy involves harassing the bartender with requests and getting as close as possible to him so that the discomfort in his eyes is replaced with a reflection of catalog makeup embalming the face of a woman years since her prime. She had started coming in ever since her husband had left her—for another man at that. Now she’s desperate to prove that there are still some looks left after three kids and a divorce. Ray slumps in a booth across from his buddy Walt, the two going back and forth with the piss and exchanging hollow laughs every few jokes or so. Ray is complaining about his wife, nothing new there. For a moment his facade wavers, but he has enough pride to hold back from weeping in front of his friend. Ray suspects that his sweetheart is cheating on him, which of course she is, so he has every right to be distraught. Walt reaches over to place a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulder, telling him that he shouldn’t be so worried. What he fails to mention is that he’s the interloper whom Shirley has been seeing on those late Sunday outings, but what kind of friend would he be to admit to such a thing?

Stillwater Magazine

The chime of a bell cuts through the bitter scene. In steps Elizabeth Pritchett, her youthful shape concealed under an unflattering raincoat. She removes her cloak with an assertion of purpose, meaning to inspire with her human metamorphosis. She truly is beautiful. Stems stretch out from under her floral skirt, long and pearl. With each step the pattern dances and tickles her knees. Men gawk in a rosy stupor. Women sneer as they lose the attention of their playthings. Still, even they are remiss not to admire her. She is a radiant French papillon. One with breasts. He turns away from the door and stares down at his half-empty drink. Maybe he can distract himself by watching the ice melt. The sound of stiletto heels echoes on the wooden floor. Perhaps she doesn’t see me, he thinks. The sound grows nearer. Before long he can catch a glimpse of a perfect ankle beneath the counter. The heels stop moving. They turn on their points. Damn it. He looks up to face her, making eye contact with her tinted shades and taking a moment to peek at her cherry lipstick. Before speaking she makes sure to take off her sunglasses, letting her emerald stare bore into his. “Well?” she proposes. She’s not one for smalltalk. He was hoping that she hadn’t recognized him. “Nothing new to report yet,” he answers

Stillwater Magazine

back, knowing that this was hardly the end of their conversation. Ms. Pritchett had contacted him several weeks prior with the intention of having him report on a certain client from her office. Stalking was a more accurate term for his occupation, considering that his assignments came with the taking of secret photographs and a recommended following distance. Everyone in the city had something to hide, something that they were suspicious of. Infidelity, double-lives, shady dealings, bribery, stalking, paranoia, all of the contemporary sins. Not even someone with as much wealth and status as Elizabeth was exempt from the urban hysteria. She was obsessed with her new coworker Arthur. He was younger than her, and his ethic was devout. Driving between his home in the Lower East Side and the office was routine. He was disciplined, optimistic. Cute too, he supposed. Eventually the mind starts to wander once he’s been on assignment for some time. “Is he seeing anybody? Where does he go after dark? Is he thinking of me?” For a moment her breathing becomes erratic, and for a second her composure falters. A long lock of strawberryblonde hair falls to cover half of her face. She’s quick to control herself, clearing her throat with a small cough and brushing the loose lock back behind her ear. It’s not as if he could gather more information beyond closed curtains and locked doors. Breaking and entering was not a part of his mission statement. There was nothing new to report. There had not been anything new to

report since the last four times she had approached him. Is he thinking of me? Hell, maybe it would be easier to just lie to her face and be done with it. Yeah, in fact, just the other night I saw him masturbating in his study with a framed picture of you on his desk. This of course would then require a photograph as evidence. He decided to drop the potential lie. “Well you’d better keep looking,” she tells him, ending the conversation and putting on her shades, as if that would erase her presence. Without so much as another word she storms off, clopping her heels and quelling perverse smiles as she garbs herself in her damp raincoat. Resisting the urge to shatter the glass of the door behind her, she leaves with the same chime that greeted her and every other patron who frequented the street corner. With a tired sigh he turns back to face the countertop, letting the noise wash back in. Conversations resume. Glasses clink and spirits slosh in a performance of feigned revelry. Each actor plays their part. Men toss back ounces of tonic, women drain shots of gin, all in an effort to make themselves numb. Nobody knows of the stories around them, of the kindred sufferings that glow brightest under the drunken moonlight. Nobody else knows of the lives, the real lives, the despondent filth and shame and sorrow and guilt that brought them all there every evening. Nobody knows about him—yet everybody does—he who knows all of their woes, their lies and false smiles. He, who sits with them too, hoping for peace, hoping for silence. Hoping for something of his own. He, who stares down at the amber pool on

the counter, seeing a reflection of nothing. He leans back in his seat, letting it all drown out. The voices, the clamor, the cheap music. He sits alone. Alone with the shallow blues and the sour night, a familiar hollowness.

Stillwater Magazine

Series: My Grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dreams by Jacob Schaffel-Scherrer

Stillwater Magazine

Eating Jesus Emily Varga

rows of hardwood pews that just look like long

I’m Catholic.

benches, split by an aisle. Everything is old and

To me, it’s a technicality because I don’t

wooden, including the beams hanging overhead.

consider myself religious and I don’t practice the

The stained-glass windows look ancient but are

faith, but I was brought up in a home with Catholic

still painted the same rich blues, reds and greens

parents who thought it best that their daughters

that they were years ago. In front of me is Jesus

learn about the religion too.

hanging on a cross. The cross is far larger than

When you’re Catholic, you have to make

me. It’s daunting. There are candles everywhere

your First Holy Communion to take the host, and

and statues of biblical figures I once knew. Today

eat it, during a church service. (You have to have

has a much different feel. Standing in this church,

learned about Catholicism for close to two years of

everyone’s wearing black, everyone’s eyes are

your life.) The host is the little piece of bread that

glossy and their cheeks are stained with tears.

the priests bless. It’s “the body of Christ.”

Everyone’s staring at my family in the first pew.

You have to be old and wise enough to eat

Jesus’s body. Things like this never made sense to

priest stands at the altar, preaching. He’s saying my

me, but my parents were Catholic, so I was Catholic.

mother’s life was cut too short, that up in heaven

When I was six and a flower girl at my

they needed her. God needed her. She had a duty to

cousin’s wedding, I walked right up to the priest,

fulfill, her time on earth had expired, her work here

took the host from his hand, stuck it in my mouth,

was done.

and ate the cardboard-tasting wafer. The priest

smiled. I had walked up there so confidently, there

This isn’t true. Her work wasn’t done, not

Who was going to teach me how to make

even close.

was no way he could turn me down. My parents

reminisced on this every chance they got. It was

her meatballs, who was going to take my drunk

the funniest thing I’d ever done. I never

phone calls at 2 a.m. crying because I thought I

understood why.

Being in the church makes me angry. The

Fifteen years after grabbing that host,

making my parents laugh uncontrollably, I’m sitting in a church again, a different church. There are

was going to throw up, who was going to help me

pick out a wedding dress, who was going to watch

Dateline with me, who was going to be my best friend?

Stillwater Magazine

I know that these thoughts weren’t about

the soul. The soul gets to live on forever. But my

my mom. These thoughts were about me. But she is

mom’s soul doesn’t talk to me, calm me down or

my mom. My mom.

wipe my tears. If her soul is alive, where is it?

The priest keeps talking, spewing what

sounds like bullshit to me, but I listen. I can’t

my mind. This doesn’t happen to us. To families

blame him really; this is his life’s work. We stand,

like ours.

we kneel, we sing, we pray, we stand, we kneel, we

sing, we pray… I go through the motions. I want

my gaze forward. I realize where I am. I realize

I’m barely listening to the words coming

that this hour is finally ending. The priest says

from the priest’s mouth, but I stare forward at Jesus

it’s time for us to consume the body and blood of

on the cross and sob. I can’t breathe. Every time I

Christ, the bread and wine, the two things I

open my mouth I choke. Every time I try to relax

never understood.

I remember my reality: I will never speak to my

mom again.

I ask through the corner of my mouth.

trembling and distraught. Not because of the joy

that this woman brought to their lives,

about something so silly? I imagine she’s thinking.

short life is. Funerals don’t honor the

dead. Funerals make us reflect on our

“Don’t I have to place my hands a certain

way? Like one under the other?” I whisper. I

own lives. Funerals scare us into

haven’t been to church in years.

This September day, sitting in the church,

My sister smiles and for a few seconds we

debate how we should arrange our hands, putting

we bid our final farewells coming only three

one beneath the other, hoping the priest won’t

months after my mom’s cancer diagnosis. Her

see. We stare at each other, “He wouldn’t yell at

life was cut short, and I was supposed to believe

us if our mom just died, right?” We laugh. It feels

that this was her fate. A brain tumor was my

wrong, but it’s honest. And with that, we walk up to

mother’s fate. Losing feeling in half of her body,

eat Jesus.

laser surgery, chemo, radiation…That was her

fate. In Catholicism, we don’t question our fates.

I come back to my seat, praying that the dry

piece of bread won’t make me throw up all over the

In Catholicism, death isn’t the end. Death means

pew. What a sight that would be. My mouth so dry

saying goodbye to the human body, but not to

Stillwater Magazine

“What?” Her eyes are wet with tears but her

expression changes. She’s puzzled. Why are you worrying

but because they’re realizing just how

We stand up. I look at my fifteen-year-old

sister. “What am I supposed to do with my hands?”

Everyone is in the church behind me,

our reality.

Finally, my heart-wrenching circle of

thought comes to a halt. I wipe my eyes and bring

this to end.

These thoughts are continuously flooding

and sticky from crying, I finally push it down my

throat wishing I could ask for water.

farewell. Death is unknown, and religion makes it

front of the church. “The body of Christ,” the priest

over and over again. Everyone circles the pews,

never attended, crying over her now

glossed over.

would’ve preferred we all lie on the

devoted their lives to me the second they found out

and silly New Jersey accent, or the

the front of the church I become more and more

acrylic nail into a pie

they about to do? It happens in slow motion. All

hands awkwardly out in front of them as if they’re

without her. My mom wants us to

that’s laughing at my friends sinning at my

more bearable.

I watch as family and friends pace to the

My mom wouldn’t have

says. “Amen,” they respond. I hear this over and

wanted us standing in a church we

munching on their cardboard wafer. Their eyes are

that she was out of pain. My mom

couch and reminisce about her thick

Three of my friends are here; they had

my mom was sick. As I watch them walk toward

time she accidentally baked her

confused. My friends aren’t Catholic. What are

on Thanksgiving.

three apprehensively walk up to the priest, their

My mom wants us to survive

going to scoop water and wash their faces.

grieve in whatever way will ease the pain. Whether

reluctantly place it in their mouths. They wince. I

mother’s funeral, or sobbing as she’s lowered into

They take the host, and one by one,

My mom wants us to live.

realize I’m smiling. There are still tears in my eyes

the ground.

innocent. They walked up by mistake; they didn’t

but there was laughter building in my throat. It was

I understand.

realize their fate until they made it to the front

of the aisle. My friends are sinners at my mom’s

funeral. I laugh even more. My dad and sister look at me, perplexed. She’s laughing?

I later found out that a man in the pew next

to them forced them out and proceeded to shove

them up the line of people. “We didn’t know what to do,” they’d later tell me. They were forced into

eating the body of Christ and I laughed and laughed.

Funerals aren’t for the person who’s died.

Funerals are for everyone else. Catholic funerals give us a ceremonial goodbye and a place to say

Stillwater Magazine

When It Hits Bobby Pease

I unwillingly woke up to a morning where I peeled paint from steps

For hours in the sun burnt afternoon All for them to

Be scuffed up by a foot

That doesn’t belong to me. Now I can’t lay on my back without My skin burning. There is no use

Peeling what doesn’t come off with Fingers and

I wake up tomorrow with a red back,

Naked steps, knowing I have no choice But to paint them again.

Stillwater Magazine

Wrapped in Culture noun cul·ture \ ‘kəl-chər\

Wearing her Ankara African clothed dress with her head wrapped into the cloth; all her thoughts are filled with her way of life. AFRICA. The Mother Land. Her armpit hairs consolidate her mentality, which is set on the powerful strength of black women. She has choices and those she chooses to choose.

Wrapped in Culture by Ishie George

Stillwater Magazine

Inside Blue Worlds Mirelle Tinker

clownfish and skitters with the warted crabs.

Sharks are my favorite animal when I am

While I consider how the manta ray contains its

five because I think that if you look past all the

lungs and heart all within its flat form, the animal

sharp rows of teeth then you’ll find something

acknowledges my frizzy-haired, bespectacled head

adorable in the creature’s countenance. Berry-black

with the same sort of unfamiliarity. I wonder if the

eyes, smooth flippers, and an overall simplistic

sharks and the octopi see me like I see them. When

shape make the animal easy to take in, its nature

I am little, I hope they do.

easy to understand. Dangerous, perhaps, but when

my five-year-old self stares at the shark through

the lens of an aquarium, I stand comfortably

party, I hope the creatures laughing carelessly

themselves on the glass as I marvel at the

above see me too. Water flows easily into my mouth

underwater structures. Under a low-lit ceiling, the

as I attempt to cry out for attention. I don’t have

lights flicker from inside the blue exhibits, forming

time to wonder about how easily I became invisible.

a twisting, curving hall walled with blue worlds.

Being a child born into a small, rural

town of ancient trees and

Why am I drowning again?

Mom tells me it is time to go, but for some

reason, I don’t want to leave yet. I hardly know

grassy hills, I understand

the people here, the area consisting of tall, distant

these aquariums as magical

adults carrying wine glasses and cell phones,

places. In these mazes,

discussing topics I can’t even pronounce in their

these isolated water valleys,

own hidden language. Messy picnic tables speckled

fish dance across coral

with obscure pink hors d’oeuvres, swarms of

structures, swimming close

grown-ups all caving into their own worlds, and

to your fingertips—never

the absence of any other person my age combined

meeting but able to kiss the

with ninety-degree weather leave me silently alone

glass. My mother becomes a

under the shade of a maple tree.

background, ambient noise

as my mind swims with the

Stillwater Magazine

And when I am eight, bubbling and crying

for help in a pool at a family friend’s graduation

close, obliviously safe. My pudgy fingers imprint

“Don’t touch the glass,” the tour guide says.

But there is a crystal-blue pool, an open

exhibit where I can be a lingering creature

swimming lessons, I’m understandably cautious to

space. I dive into the pool. I submerge myself

me says, “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.”

observing its surroundings from that safe, intimate deeper and deeper into the water until my feet

lose grounding. The exhibit captures me, becomes a trap instead of a safe place, and my frantic,

waving arms are incapable of saving me. Between

gasps, I risk gulping down more water by shouting

names, screaming for help. My sputtering cries are drowned out, as if an invisible curtain covers me.

And because the adults cannot see me, I don’t exist. I leave to meet them in the only way my body can—floating on the waves, skin beginning to purple.

Waking to a white hospital bed, I remember

the stickiness of the melting orange popsicle in my hand. The cautious smiles of nurses. I’m sure my

parents are here. Stagnant sunlight singes through the windows. The thin blanket crinkles over my

bare legs. The walls, the crusted windowsill, and the door breathe a bleached white. All I have for

entertainment is the fizzling television at the end

of the bed, perched on the wall. Gumby smiles and dances across the TV screen, projecting the same

sort of emptiness I gather from the cement ceilings. I’m not in pain, but the doctor tells me I must wait here until the water drains out of my lungs.

“Nothing can remain in there,” the man

says. “The water needs to come out.”

So, when my nine-year-old self stands

on the diving board during my summer camp’s

jump in the pool—even while the instructor below

Mom tells me the only way to be safe in

the water is to learn how to swim, so I will never

be submerged again. The once crystal-blue of the mysterious waters dulls into an anemic grey, the

chlorine stinking the waves. Passing pool noodles and playing water-tag with the other students

erases any intimacy the area once had. All the

other children, fair-skinned and giggling on the

poolside benches, grin like a group of pale, wide-

eyed guppies. Being the only non-white child in the class, I marvel at how vibrant their veins are from beneath their arms, how deep their skin reddens when they feel heat, how the pinkness of their

gums meshes with the rest of their complexion.

When they smile at me, I feel no comfort. But the teacher keeps calling for me to dive, her coaxing echoing throughout the building. For a moment,

I believe her assurances, and I fall, limbs flailing in the water after impact. When I force my head above, the absence of the instructor’s arms is replaced with a toothy, wet grin.

“That was an exercise,” she says, water

dripping from the tip of her pointed nose. “To see if you could lift yourself on your own.”

My eyes glaze over as I silently shiver

toward the stands and cough until all the water

bleeds out. The huddle of children keeps giggling amongst itself. The next student dives in the pool just fine. Staring at the instructor from far away, I grab the nearest towel and make an effort to

Stillwater Magazine

dry myself as soon as possible. The water needs

shifting tentacles and golden flippers, I avert my

to come out. I rub all the droplets off my elbows,

gaze from the stingrays and belugas. Instead I keep

erasing the burning scent of chlorine. Nothing can

track of my brothers and run after them, stop them,

remain in there.

talk to them. I hold their hands and tell them to

Older, I stare into the blue exhibits of the

be careful. And then I hurry them toward the exit,

aquarium and I smile briefly, remembering how

wondering how many times the shark must slam its

I used to think they were so big. I wonder if the

body against the exhibit’s barricade before the

water is cold where the animals are. I take note of

glass breaks.

how their gills move when they breathe. Does the

flounder realize how strange it looks? How can the

dolphin so comfortably kiss the clear wall between us? Does that shark realize that it is trapped, that

even in the water it is an endangered animal? How can it be so sure of its safety? I question how self-

aware these creatures are of their own containment.

Can they see me walking away? Do I exist to them?

I already know the answers. They don’t

know anything. They can’t taste the water they’re surrounded by and my existence to them is just

as temporary as theirs is to me. We observe each other through the glass. We watch each other’s

movements, never allowed to tap for a response.

For any attempt to rupture this distance only results in solidifying it. I try to join the exhibit and I

drown. They try to join the land and they suffocate. So we do what keeps us alive. We observe and then pretend neither of us are connected and neither of us are capable of connecting.

Still, my brothers, both curly-haired and

wide-eyed, follow the octopi as they crawl across their sandy floor. They whisper to each other as

if they are afraid the animals will hear them. As

they dart through the halls, oo-ing and aa-ing at the

Stillwater Magazine

Page Drawings by Francesca Hodge

Stillwater Magazine