Stories Everywhere Anthology Fall 2016 by Stories Everywhere F2016

Table of Contents “Building 2” by Matthew K. Bernstein (science fiction, dystopian)

“Bring Me Home Empty” by Claire Breger-Belsky (trauma, Judaism, family, fantasty)

“our realities” by Tate Burwell (coming-of-age, romance)

“More than a game” by Ellie Chen (personal narrative, overcoming adversity)

“Growing Pains” by Gianna Chien (coming-of-age, realistic fiction, family)

“Koi” by Ethan Cruikshank (coming-of-age)

“A Change of Shades” by Avoy Datta (family, love, tragedy)

“Raindrops” by Minh-Anh Day (choice, future)

“Homecoming” by Catherine Gao (home, inequality, realistic fiction)

“Life at the Office” by Jack Golub (relationships)

“No Name” by HB Groenendal (fantasy, paranormal, teenage angst)

“Wherein My Shadow Fails to Mimic Me” by Christopher Healy (tragedy, comedy)

“The Sketchbook” by Natalie Johnson (family history, coming-of-age, memories)

102

“Margo (a co-worker)’s Funeral” by Kimo Karp (death, personal relationships)

111

“Maybe” by Veronica Kim (fiction, realistic, introspective)

121

“Charles” by Lance Lamore (coming-of-age, narrative)

130

“The Body Electric” by Nathan Lee (science fiction, Silicon Valley, coming-of-age)

139

“Soledad” by Maya Mahony (immigration, sisters, realistic fiction)

149

“A Journey” by Saptarshi Majundar (coming-of-age, hero’s quest, nonfiction)

159

“Remi” by Sesha McMinn (coming-of-age, fantasy)

167

“Floaties” by Emily Schmidt (teen pregnancy, swimming, autism)

171

“On Impact” by Marika Tron (trauma, friends, realistic fiction)

177

“We, the Sinners” by Aparna Verma (fantasy, science fiction, finding identity)

185

“Audible” by Tristan Wagner (family, relationship, fiction)

193

“Flight” by Chloe Wintersteen (historical fiction, drama)

201

“It and I” by Victoria Yuan (trauma, romance, fiction)

210

“Traveling Alone” by Maya Ziv (trauma, realistic fiction)

215

Author Biographies

222

Edited by Matthew K. Bernstein, Joy Hsu, and Victoria Yuan

Matthew K. Bernstein Building 2 Marrox and Martha were the only ones awake on the one thousand three hundred and fifty fifth floor of a building that housed the entire population of a single continent. The building itself stood tall and indifferent to the lush green around it, a wide expanse of forest — nothing but forest — that had once been tamed by the inhabitants of the world. It was the second Building of its kind to have ever been erected. Each of the seven sister buildings on every continent contained five thousand floors. They had their own Floor gyms, cafeterias, innumerable hallways, and uncountable residents. The Buildings themselves were constantly changing; new floors, elevators or rooms were added whenever necessary. It was 12:58 am. “Marrox, please,” Martha hissed. “It’s way past curfew. Can’t we do this another—” “—day?” Marrox finished her sentence, rolling his eyes. “Look, if you don’t want to go with me, fine. I’ll go alone.” He moved towards the door of the apartment and raised his palm. Martha caught him by his wrist. Her grip was iron-tight, her fingers sending a piercing cold chill up her friend’s arm. “You know that’s not possible. Remember when the last two Cohabitants were separate for too long? I don’t want that to happen to us.” Marrox tried to keep his voice level. Gritting his teeth, he said, “So just come with me. It’s not—,” “That hard?” Martha sputtered as she anticipated Marrox’s next few words, her voice shrill. “You’re talking about abandoning your entire life!” Martha said. “You can’t just—we

can’t just—” She paused and took a deep breath, mulling over her next few words. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll come. But if we get caught—” “You’ll kill me. Got it.” A lopsided grin spread across Marrox’s face. “Sounds like a plan!” He rubbed his hands together and pressed a palm to the cold white door. It whirred at his touch, momentarily flashing blue before sliding silently aside. “Come on, then,” Marrox said, lowering his voice. “Follow me.” Adrenaline made his voice catch as he stepped out into the hallway. Martha, eyes wide with mischief and fright, tiptoed out after him. The door to Apartment 889123 slid silently shut. “This way,” Marrox whispered. The pair practically galloped to the large elevator doors that adorned the end of every hall on every floor of Building 2. Ding! “Shit,” muttered the two Cohabitants simultaneously as the whirring behind the ornate doors grew louder. They’d forgotten how loud the elevators sounded at night. The doors slid open soundlessly and the pair hopped in. The elevator was, Marrox thought, far too luxurious for its own good. Fashioned entirely of glass, gold, and stainless steel, it felt more like a living room than anything else. An extravagant, twinkling chandelier hung from the lofted ceiling. Tables, couches, and bean bag chairs adorned the sides of the room. Two large flat-screens hung on the east and west walls. In spite of its obnoxious grandeur, Marrox couldn’t help but exhale wistfully, sinking just a little further into the soft red carpet beneath him. A holographic list of numbers materialized next to the doors. “Welcome to the Building 2 Elevator,” chirped a disembodied female voice. Martha looked for the lobby button, which was difficult to find amidst the five thousand options. At last she found it, but noticed a split second later that it was already pressed. She froze. “Marrox—?“ “Trying to leave, too?” croaked a voice from behind them. Marrox and Martha jumped and spun around. From behind

the couch to their left rose two people — Cohabitants from the looks of them, as their features were strikingly similar — who had been crouched down before, hiding. Their uniforms were a rich, deep blue-purple, far warmer and more comfortablelooking than Martha and Marrox’s thin, papery grey uniforms. These two were from a different floor. Marrox and Martha stayed silent. “I’m Aaron and this is Ava,” the boy, Aaron, gestured to the girl next to him. “We’re from floor 4530—“ Marrox blanched. “—and we’re getting out tonight, also.” “You’re Upper Levels and you want to get out?” Martha said incredulously. “That makes no sense!” The elevator began its descent with a jerk. A holographic screen to the side of the floor level buttons that displayed the room’s velocity did nothing to help Martha’s stomach, which had begun to churn. 100 mph South, 120 mph South, 150 mph South, 200... she had to look away. “If you guys had windows down here, you’d understand,” said Ava matter-of-factly. Something that sounded vaguely bitter had crept into her voice. “We’re sick of being cooped up in here,” Aaron translated. “Same as you guys, I’m guessing. We may get the perks of the upper floors but we’re not enjoying it any more than you Midlevels are.” He nodded at their Floor pins, small buttons that had to be fastened somewhere on a resident at all times — Marrox and Martha had tried to make them as inconspicuous as possible. Yeah, right, thought Martha and Marrox. “It’s going to seem awfully suspicious if all four of us get out at the lobby at once,” Marrox said suddenly. “I’m sure your reasons for wanting to leave are valid, but it won’t be possible—” “If we get caught,” Martha finished. “We have a plan,” Aaron said. “It’ll be easy to include you two in on it.” None of the four residents had never been down this far. All of them had been taught to avoid the lower levels. These days, social classes were just a single number, a single question: “What floor do you live on?” For Midlevels, anyone below five

hundred was considered too poor to associate with. Anyone above floor four thousand was considered too rich to associate with. Marrox and Martha felt a strange tension talking to Aaron and Ava, almost like they were in the room with celebrities. None of them had never once thought of going down. Up, sure, and occasionally sideways, but never down. In their minds, down always equaled poor. Dirty. Dusty. The Building 2 maintenance team lived on the lower levels. Ironically enough, they spent so much time cleaning the upper floors that, according to rumor at least, the lower levels on which they lived were in constant filth. Ding! “Building 2 Lobby,” said the elevator lady. “Out we go,” Marrox said. Excitement had crept into his voice. “Come on, come on, quickly.” The lobby was deserted except for the concierge manning the front desk, who was tall and skinny and in uniform: a plain, dull black jumpsuit. The uniform of a Lower Level. Martha could just make out the number “84” on the pin placed strategically on the man’s collar, in sight but only if one was looking for it. I’d want to hide my Floor number if I was him, too, Martha thought instinctively. She immediately felt a pang of guilt hit her square in the chest. It soon passed. Marrox looked around the lobby. The room was triple the size of the enormous elevators but unfurnished. Chandeliers similar to the ones in the elevator hung from the ceiling and the carpeting was an identical red, but other than that and the front desk, the lobby was pretty much empty. Of course, Marrox thought. There’s no point in beautifying the place for new residents. Buildings don’t get new residents. Not anymore. Everyone is already in one. The concierge stared at the four trespassing residents and coughed into his arm. “Excuse me,” he started, clearing his throat. “Can I help you? It’s after curfew, and no residents are allowed out right now. May I see your floor numbers?” “We’re here for Outside maintenance,” Aaron said automatically, putting his hands in his pockets. “Part of our detention.” Ava, Marrox, and Martha nodded along silently.

They tried to look upset with their current circumstances — detentions were no joke. The concierge looked uncertain. “I didn’t know the administration held outside maintenance hours anymore...” he said slowly. “Can I see your detention forms?” “Look, sir,” Ava said quickly before anyone could respond. “We’re running a bit late and we really just need to get to where we’re going.” “I-I don’t think I can let you out unless I see some form of authentication,” said the man, who had begun to fiddle with the Floor pin on his collar. He clearly didn’t know the protocol for this. He had probably accepted the job under the assumption that no one would be coming down to the lobby ever, let alone after curfew, and was probably also unsure of the consequences should he screw up. “We don’t have time for this!” Marrox chimed in, raising his voice. “We’re going to be late, and then we’re going to—” “Get in even more trouble,” said Martha. Aaron spoke up again. “Have you ever been down—“ “To the Basement?” said Ava. The concierge stared. “N-no, but—“ “Then you can’t possibly understand why we cannot be late for this. Please—“ “Just let us go. Just this once. I promise this won’t happen again,” Martha pleaded. “I-uh,” said the man from the 84th floor. He paused and seemed to be thinking this through. How much trouble would he get in if he let them out? Marrox made eye contact with Martha and nodded almost imperceptibly to the entrance. Martha blinked in agreement. “Fine,” said the concierge at last. “Go. Just please— please don’t tell anyone I saw you,” he added, his eyes flitting between the two pairs of Cohabitants. “I don’t want to end up like my Cohabitant.” They nodded, suddenly somber, then turned away from him. But at the sight of the door, closer than ever, their excitement returned, buzzing through the air. Barely concealing

their smiles, they held back the urge to break into a run. Marrox reached the doors first and waved his hand in front of them. At this motion, the glass doors swung open. They stepped outside. The first thing they felt was an unsettling fuzziness. The buzz that had propelled them across the lobby and out of the doors was gone. Though she was physically right beside him, Marrox could no longer feel Martha in his head. Ava and Aaron looked at each other in alarm, experiencing the same disconnect. Discomfort settled upon them all, fogging their minds and eyes; their skin felt clammy. Their vision blurred momentarily. Each of them stumbled as they took their first few steps outside. What next hit them was the cold. The Building temperature had always been fairly moderate, and rarely (if ever) changed. But out here, without any temperature regulating system, it was freezing. The cold and the wind bit at their faces and tugged and pulled at their hair like angry children vying for their mother’s attention. Their fingers felt numb. And, finally, the silence. There was no hum of electricity, no whirring doors or elevators, no pulsing blue lights. No apartments, no floors, no penthouses, no concierges. They were all on level ground. In front of them was a radius of about fifty feet of nothing but pavement. After that, though, there were only trees — the closest ones dead, their naked branches raised up as though in prayer. Above them towered Building 2. Just like its sisters on the other six continents, it rose up to an unimaginable height, disinterested in the abandoned civilization below it. From the outside it looked menacing, almost ominous, towering into the sky. It stuck out in blatant disregard of all the greenery below. After around the eightieth floor, the building seemed to vanish into thin air. “Look,” Marrox said suddenly, his eyes lifted up towards the sky. Something, or many things, had started falling out of the sky. Angry dark clouds churned above, and from them descended puffy white flakes. They landed on the ground, on the trees, on Marrox and Martha and Ava and Aaron.

“Snow?” Martha asked stupidly. A flake landed on her nose. “Snow,” Marrox affirmed. “Heard... about it from one of the... upper level residents in the elevator the other day. I think. Guess they get Outside... weather information.” As he finished talking, Marrox felt out of breath. “I’d totally forgotten!” Ava cried. “We were told—um, just a few days ago that it was supposed to snow.” She paused, her brows furrowing, her mouth still cocked slightly open. “Wow. It’s beautiful,” she said after a pause that felt entirely too long. Aaron stared at her, confusion painted on his face. He could not tell what his Cohabitant was thinking. “It’s pretty,” Martha offered, but she looked uncomfortable. Aaron was shifting on his feet, eyes on the ground. Marrox sighed, his eyes on his breath. “Not what you were expecting?” “It’s just snow, right?” asked Martha. “We can get that anywhere. Floor three thousand just had a snow storm two weeks ago.” “No,” Marrox said. “What’s in there is not real snow. Nothing in there is real.” Marrox feared he was beginning to sound childish. Ava made eye contact and smiled reassuringly. Upper Level or not, she understood. Martha and Aaron said nothing. They stood silent, staring at the forest in front of them. “I don’t know why you’re so skeptical,” Martha said quietly. She sounded exasperated. They’d had this discussion before, but in the Building they got each other. Out here, something had snapped. “That building holds your entire life. There’s not much you can change about that.” “That’s the point,” said Marrox. “Why should Building 2 hold my whole life when there’s so much out here that we haven’t even discovered yet? Like, look at this!” He gestured to a nearby tree. “I’ve never seen this! What is it?” “I’ve never seen one, either. The upper levels are too high off of the surface to see anything. We just see clouds, mostly,” said Ava.

“Look, I’m freezing, and I really think this is a bad idea,” said Martha, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “Um, you know, me too,” said Aaron. “What? Wasn’t it your idea to come down here?” snapped Ava. “You can’t seriously be considering going back in?” Aaron regarded Ava and Marrox coolly. “The Buildings were built for a reason, and people have been living in them for centuries for a reason. There’s a reason we’re not supposed to leave.” “Just like there’s a reason to meaninglessly categorize the residents? Rich and poor, floor 5000 and floor 2?” said Marrox. “Both of you are so blind.” “Can’t you tell already what being out here is doing to us?” shot back Aaron. “What about everything you were telling me before about wanting to experience what was outside our window?” said Ava. “I didn’t think it’d be cold,” her Cohabitant responded. Aaron was now securing his own Floor pin onto his clothes more conspicuously. Marrox thought that he was the one who sounded childish now, but he was having trouble piecing together his own argument. Martha turned on the spot. Facing away from her Cohabitant, she said, “I’m going back inside. Maybe another time.” Her words were empty and mechanical. “I agree,” Aaron said. The fallen snow underneath them crunched and cracked with each step as they walked back towards the Building. Back to their whole lives. The moment the two stepped inside, Marrox felt dizzy. He held back the urge to vomit and collapse in a heap. Marrox put his hands into his pockets, letting the warmth envelope his fingers, hoping to get his mind going again. Ava stared at him. “What should we do?” she said. “I’ve heard what happens if we’re separated from our Cohabitants. Being away from them for too long... that messes us up. And there’s no way to fix it. You can... feel it now, right?” Ava’s voice sounded strained and tired, as though she had just raced down all 5000 floors.

Marrox barely heard Ava, but nodded sluggishly. Everything was getting fuzzier. Still, he dimly understood: he could not survive without Martha, just as she could not survive without the Building, without the categorization of residents, without floor levels. The wind picked up and howled. The trees before Marrox and Ava creaked and groaned. The thin white blanket that had fallen onto the ground swirled around and danced in the air. The building behind them did nothing but stand there, unconcerned with the snow and with the four residents who had managed to escape its confines â&#x20AC;&#x201D; and to the two residents who still wanted to leave, but could not. Without saying anything, Marrox and Ava turned on their heels and walked back into Building 2. Immediately, upon feeling the warmth on their faces and the connection to their Cohabitants renewed, their heads cleared. Forgetting the snow and the trees and the outside and their previous bitterness, which now seemed far away, Marrox and Ava felt their hearts lift and their eyes brighten. The snow on their hair melted and their cheeks and ears and noses flushed from the Building heat. The same thought ran through their heads, as it had a hundred times over: maybe another time.

Claire Breger-Belsky K’reina Li Mara Bring Me Home Empty She’ol They come on summer evenings when the heat settles to become night, on winter mornings when the sky pales to bitter day, on fall afternoons just as the leaves crisp and fall, on spring nights when the darkness isn’t quite enough to hide the buds on trees. They come on grey days when rain skirts around them and on sunny days when the sky seems full of smoke around her door. They come when the windows are open or the doors are locked. They come when smokes curls from her fireplace, and when there is only sky. Her house is always full of ghosts. Some come from beneath the earth, some from the clouds. But most, most come walking down the street with slow, heavy steps. Weary steps. They are left alone; they are unnoticed, invisible. She is the only one who sees the tears or the jubilation on their faces. She is the only one who watches them drift down her walk to her front door. They do not knock. There is not enough left in them to pull the handle.

Shomer They watch her, and as they watch her they begin to speak. Sometimes one alone, other times hundreds all at once like the tower of Babel has been rebuilt in her parlour. They speak in every language. Perhaps more speak Yiddish, at least the older ones do, the ones with wrinkles and creases around their eyes, the kind that might be from smiling or crying. She becomes their witness.

They watch her and they tell their stories and as they do she watches the map. It is a map that shows everywhere—far away and up close—a map that changes with the ghosts, that marks their paths through the world, a map that maybe one day will be hers. She has never retraced her own steps. Maybe because her path doesn’t matter. Maybe because it always will, too much. She has never been very good at telling the difference.

Eretz The map shows worlds. It hangs over the fire, and, after so many years, it should be warped by heat and smoke and trauma. Somehow it is not. It shows its age in ancient colors unknown today. It shows its age in landscapes sometimes visible when a very old soul comes through, in ancient citadels and long lost empires. It shows its age in the way a smile does: by deepening. It has not ripped or faded or lost its form. On her good days, it reminds her of the ghosts. Of that vitality they have, even the faintest ones, the ones most lost in shadow, the ones who have so little hope that they can hardly hold even this tenuous form together. Other times, she thinks about tearing the map down from the wall, leaving whatever ghastly scar, to keep it from reminding her of loss.

R’fa’im The ghosts whose pasts are marked on her map are not limited to good and evil. Every story there ever was from a terrible diaspora comes at least once to her home. A people passes through her door, a people that has been lost and scorned and hunted. All become spirits in the end, just souls passing through, remembering. Or perhaps trying to forget. Not all are old or dead or dying. Some have merely faded and been lost.

On the shores of HaSheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ol, on the doorstep of her house, under her mezuzah, they gather. They do not resemble each other, save for a look in their eyes. They are recognizable, indiscernible. They come from different ages, different corners of the world, different homes. They come from the same book, with different appendices. They will never be the same. They will always be the same. They tell their stories, painful or mundane, and there is always a red thread that stretches between, a thread and a danger. They are always the same.

Yizkor Across from the fireplace, level with the map, is a mirror. It is covered by cloth, black and opaque. The cover is too old to be mourning. Somehow it still is. Perhaps itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s more a promise and a memory. She remembers some stories more than others. Now and then, when one is told, she does not listen. It is too true to her own. When those tellers arrive, their stories are spoken, but they are rarely heard. Or sometimes, they are heard too well, too painfully. The recognition in the tale becomes its downfall. But she has heard so many stories over the years. In her own way, she remembers all of them. Snatches, sometimes, of conversations, of songs, of scenes. 1516. A woman moves to an island off the corner of the city. Walls are built around her, and when the shofar is heard they do not fall as Jerichoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s did. She is not used to gates locking her in, but rather casting her out. 2008. A girl arrives at her small New England synagogue. The electric chanukiah on the portico is dark, its cord cut. On the doors to the shul there is a red liquid, ketchup, or paint, maybe, swirled into a swastika that burns into her mind. She tries to forget, succeeds. Years later when she is writing her college application she remembers.

1492. A man is dragged into the square and burned after his books are. He still wears t’fillin. His brother and his brother’s family convert at sword point. On Friday nights they throw wide the blinds and do not pray, but before sundown, before a light would be noticed, high in their bedroom, mother and father, daughter and son pray and light the candles for Shabbat. They are never found. 1880. She wakes to glass shattering, to stones being thrown, to shouts in the street. She wakes in the dark to screams, to children dragged out of bed, to men and women beaten. When the sun rises the streets are full of glass and fire and blood, and there is nothing left but people wandering in shock and people lying in the dust. 2016. Something old stirs within her, some instinct passed down from generation to generation. It tastes unpleasantly like fear. 1901. He leaves home and boards a ship to America. He will be a stranger in a strange land where he does not speak the tongue. The streets, he learns, are not paved with gold. He cuts his hair, hides the fringes of his tallis, does not wear a kippah upon his head. Slowly, he begins to forget his grandmother’s speech. One day he is walking down the street and hears the Sh’ma. He does not close his eyes. He does not sing. To the synagogue on the corner, he is invisible, part of the masses rushing by. He does not face Jerusalem. 1948. The boy has never had a home before. Now he does. He fights for it. He does brave things and good things and terrible things. But he had been outcast and despised, and he has found a home. 1944. Children march to death camps and burn. She stands as the door opens. A new ghost comes, old and tired and hollowing. His, she thinks, will be the kind of story she would normally avoid. For some reason she can’t seem to walk

away. Maybe because despite his fading, his eyes still spark with that same laugh her brother had always had—their mother’s laugh. It is Shemini Atzeret, or she thinks it is, when he arrives. There is a familiarity to his face, as if his hauntings and his childhood mirror hers in some way. When as he crosses the threshold, he asks her name. No one has wondered in a long time. “Naomi,” she answers. “My name was Naomi.”

Siypur HaShoah “My name is Jacob. I was born in 1925, in a small town in Germany. My older sister, Chana, was six years older than me, and I thought she was the most wonderful person in the world. I followed her everywhere for the first years of my life. When it was time for me to begin school, my parents wanted me to attend a Yeshiva, but Chana was having none of it. She demanded I go to school with her, and I vehemently agreed. I don’t think either of us realized that we wouldn’t be in the same class. She would always walk me to my classroom and wait by the door at the end of the day, so we could walk home together. I only experienced small acts of anti-Semitism growing up; most people were very accepting of us. Sometimes other boys would spit at me and call me names, but there was never much harm done beside the psychological harm a young child experiences when he is bullied. For the most part, our relationship with the gentiles was quite comfortable. The Jewish community thrived. Our parents took us to services every Saturday, and we would all go and dance and celebrate the holidays together. My sister was a member of a new Zionist group. I remember she was always talking about finding a home and going to Palestine. At that point, I didn’t understand why she didn’t think we had a home in Germany. “I must have been around seven or eight when things started getting bad for us. The first sign of danger I remember was the day Chana and I were kicked out of school.”

She digs her fingernails into her palms, flashes of a grey and bitter past dry in her mouth. “She was walking me to my class, as usual, and when we got there the teacher told me I had to leave. ‘You’re a Jew. We already have too many of you in class,’ he said. ‘You have to leave.’ Chana took my hand, dragged me out of the classroom, and stormed down the hall. She had always had a fiery temper. Where I was still young enough to mostly be confused by what was happening, Chana had a fierce sense of right and wrong. She didn’t even try to go to her class; I think she knew the same thing would happen. We started home, walking faster than usual. I remember she stormed to her room and slammed the door behind her when we got home, leaving me to explain to our parents what had happened. “Even then, I was too young to fully understand the scope of the ways in which we were being restricted, persecuted, and delegitimized. I didn’t see my father lose his job, my mother banned from the stores she frequented. “When fires and glass raged through the streets, I thought it would be the worst night of my life. Kristallnacht came when I was 13. I should have been Bar Mitzvah later that month. As it was, we were too terrified to hold any sort of celebration, and our synagogue had been completely destroyed. I hadn't known what a pogrom felt like. Now I did, and I couldn't imagine something worse. I couldn't imagine what the future held for us.” Her fingers go numb from clenching into fists. She tastes blood in her mouth, and it’s a familiar taste. There are scars on the inside of her lip from biting it, soft in the way old scars are when they're worn down by time. She had not understood how vicious human cruelty could be either. It had been a long time before she had accepted it. “But Chana was scared. She was 19 then, and she had always had an active imagination. One night she came into my room and lay down beside me and just held me tight. When I woke up the next morning, she still lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. I didn't know what to say.

“'It's okay, Chana-leh, I'll protect you. Everything's going to be okay.’ "But it wasn't. Life kept getting worse. We had to wear yellow stars, our papers were stamped J, for Jew. Chana, to her name, was forced to add Sarah, and I, Israel. That night, when I cried for loss of my name, my father told me the story of Jacob. “‘In the Torah,’ he said, smiling, ‘there was a man named Jacob, one of Isaac’s two sons. One night, after he had been forced from his home, Jacob met an angel in his sleep. He wrestled with him until dawn, and never gave up. And that was when Jacob’s name was changed. He became Israel, he who wrestles with God.’ “'You know,’ my father added, his voice lightening, ‘Sarah's name wasn't always Sarah, either. When she was younger, her name was Sarai, difficult. So let's hope this makes your sister calmer too, eh?’ "That was one of the last times we laughed together. I still remember how my father's eyes crinkled when he smiled, my mother's calm serene amusement, the way Chana pretended to be annoyed, but turned to me for an instant and flashed me a secret grin. That smile haunts me. It was the same one she gave me right before she died.” She bites down hard on her lip, her fingernails digging into her thighs. He does not pause in the telling. If he stops, he would be unable to resume. She sees the loss of Chana in his face, in his bearing. She sees her own loss in the lines of his grief. “After that, everything deteriorated quickly. As we lost privilege after privilege, possession after possession, Chana drew deeper and deeper into herself. My mother stopped humming, my father stopped joking. For my part, I always felt that, as the youngest, it was my job to pretend normalcy. So I tried to play and laugh and talk as I always had. I wasn’t fooling anyone. I started staying in Chana’s room because I would have nightmares if I was alone.” Naomi had always had nightmares of darkness, of burning, and of screams.

“A few years later, with nothing left and, we thought, nothing more to lose, we were deported. We were ordered to take nothing more than we could carry. We went to the train station confused and scared. There was a sense of foreboding on the platform. We waited together, my mother holding tight to Chana and me, my father standing in front of us. He tried to smile, then paled as the Nazis began barking orders at us, harsh and cruel. They began to push us into cars, far too many in each box. We could barely move or breathe. In the chaos of the platform, he vanished. I would never see him again. My last image of my father would be that smile, tinged with inevitable endings. “My mother screamed when we lost him. Though she was relatively young, her hair had gone entirely grey by this point. Tears whispered down her cheeks as the door slammed and locked behind us. The three of us had found a space by the window, and I lifted Chana up to watch the grey wasteland of our nation that had betrayed us pass us by. I was shaking, and I saw Chana’s hands trembling on the edges of the tiny window. I can still see her fingers tracing the steel as if looking for a way out. “We were stuck in the cattle car for days, no food, no water, no respite from the claustrophobia or the smell of humanity beginning to fall. My mother died on the second day. I came down with a fever, too sick even to weep for her. Chana didn’t sleep. I think she was afraid to take her eyes off me, afraid I would leave her too. My sister was always so strong, but family meant everything to her. I think she might have died if she’d lost all of us. As it was, we were breaking. And still, I couldn’t imagine what was yet to come.” When the cattle car reaches Aushwitz, he stops. His voice quavers, breaks. Naomi, who is bitterness and pain, is kneeling before him and there is fire and death and rage and hopelessness shining through her eyes. Desperation is written on his face. Around them the ghosts are waiting, as they always are, to tell their stories. The house is still. Silent. She feels herself cracking. Around her, in the corners and

the opens spaces of the house, the ghosts calm to a whisper, to the hum of a mind just beginning to splinter. She tastes salt and nothingness. Among the storytellers there have been those who, like her, have quenched the fires of their tales for so long that, in the telling, they become steam and smoke and fly up the chimney, and when they come back she is waiting for them and listening. They are the ones whose journeys all end in the same spaces on the map, or the ones who pass through those little hells and come out stumbling on the other side, the color and instability of the trail different, almost unrecognizable. They are the ones who, when dead, are closest to living and, when alive, seem almost dead. They are the ghosts who did not become ghosts soon enough. They bear the scars of that. These ghosts do not breathe for the ashes in their mouths, but they come to her now, as she remembers, as she begins to break, and they hold her. She comes together through the hands of ghosts whose stories are like hers and through the hands of ghosts whose stories bear the echoes, the foreshadowing of hers. And they begin to sing. When they sing she begins to cry. Cry like she hasn't cried since they cut the barbed wire off the walls and unlocked her and she couldn't walk out the gates because her brother, he was the dust she breathed here and she was frozen and burning all at the same time. She remembers. He begins again. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We reached Auschwitz. They began to separate us out. Men and women, old and young, healthy and sick. Chana seemed to know, somehow, that something terrible and irreversible and incomprehensible was about to happen. She always did. The very young and the old and the sick were sent to the left. The healthy were sent to the right. We had already been separated by gender, but Chana had refused to leave me. Her hair was short, and after days of starvation, of our stomachs clenching and sharpening, you couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell she was a woman. They stripped us of even that. She held my hand tight, holding me up. My feet dug into my worn shoes, pounding into the hard, packed dirt that is covered in stains. I would have fallen without her. We drew closer and closer to the gates. The barbed wire

loomed dark and striking against the grey of the sky. She saw them watching me, assessing me. I could feel myself weakening. I wasn’t sure they would pass me by. Chana was watching me too, and I think she knew. She smiled at me, that bright, beautiful smile that seemed mine alone, the one I’d thought she had lost. Chana smiled, and said “live, little brother, you need to live. Remember I love you. And I need you to live.” We reached the gates and she made herself fall, stumbling forward, collapsing onto the stained dirt. The SS tore their eyes from me to look down on her. They yelled and yelled, but she would not stand. An officer raised his gun. She met my eyes. “When they shot her, her blood spilled onto the dirt at my feet. They waved me forward.” Naomi shatters. She is sobbing now, sobbing harder than she had when Max died, because then, then she couldn’t even weep, because she was hiding, because she had to pretend she was dead. Because she was dead, and nothing would ever change that. She melted into a shadow on the floor. She was alive again, suddenly, and all the pain that came with living flooded out of her. She remembered the hunger and the sickness and the death. She remembered being alone. She remembered finding him again, her little brother, and that moment of pure joy in the face of pure horror. She remembered, all in a rush, the day he died. They were lined up in the camps, standing and dying and silent. They could no longer sing. They could no longer believe a messiah waited, anywhere, because they no longer believed there was anything left to be saved. When she fell, they tried to make her stand. She did not react. She heard her brother crying, but through some deep fear and exhaustion in her, she could not stand. She could not even breathe. She could not reach him, and she hated herself. He dropped to his knees over her body, felt her heartbeat, fell with a shock against her. She felt a wetness on her side where his weight pressed down. He had not moved fast enough. She lay under his cooling body until night fell, and they heaved him away, until the weight of smoke hung suddenly in the air and pounded through the earth and throbbed like loss in her heart. Until the stutter that was blood passing through her was made of fire and grief and what little bit of fear could still

endure so much. The next day, the camp was liberated. But she only stood, pale face in pale light, and seemed a ghost waiting only to die. “I didn’t look back. Her fingers had reached toward me, just a little. Her scarf tangled in her hair. A trampled dusty hat lay on the ground next to her, from some other soul. A coat was crumpled on the ground and left like someone forgotten. Her blood pooled under her. I couldn’t look back. “I lived, because she told me to. I was in Auschwitz until it was liberated. I said kaddish for her every day, and I hated myself. I remember how I hated giving up my shoes, because her blood was on them, because when they joined the pile of worn soles and tired shoes, they would become just another death among thousands. Because she had died for me, even though I’d always known she would have. Since the war ended, I have tried to recover, to truly come back to life. But I have faded. Faded as the world forgot me, as the world thought that my pain was centuries old. Faded as I hid my heritage and my past and feared to enter a synagogue without seeing it burning. Faded because I could never get her back.”

Sof She looks at him through salt and drowning and in his eyes she sees another's. In the shadowy pockets beneath his lashes is the exhaustion of her youth; in the guilt crackling along his cheekbones is her own. Naomi looks up at him, and there is something stark and distant in her gaze, like the echoes of screams through time, years and years and years sharpening them and sending them forward to land the way birds do when they are shot down. They take her with them when they fall. Someone once wrote “no one survived the Holocaust, even if he remained alive.” She thinks that is true. She thinks that maybe the reason she jolts awake drenched in sweat and

paralyzed on the nights she manages to sleep all is because she realizes that she has been dead a long time. That she’s just as much a ghost as those who visit her. That maybe she gave up, and if she’d just tried to breathe, she could have made it. She thinks it’s only because of the stories that she’s lasted this long. She remembers, also, what he could not say. She feels the pain and the despair and the hope that somehow never fully deserted her coiling in her stomach like it was yesterday. She had forgotten, as others have, as others always have, what she has lived through. And she has been forgotten, and the ghosts have been told to become walls and houses and faces in the crowd. Subtly, they must become indiscernible. They are erased, made faint brush strokes, become plain black ink like the ink of every story, plain simple serif fonts. She remembers her brother’s look on the day she let him die, even though she could not have saved him. She always wishes she had died with him, for him, before him. There is a sadness that settles heavy on her shoulders like a shroud. She walks to the armchair by the fire and sits. There is blood on her palms where her nails dug in. It turns to ice, and she feels her heart stuttering, feels lighting in her stomach where she used to feel fear. But she is flesh and blood again. She has not survived, not really. Rather, she is the remnants of a life broken beyond repair. And the stories are almost holding her together, like hot glass picked up from the ashes and almost joined, a little bit crooked, a little bit flawed, but somehow carrying on. She takes the black cloth off her mirror and looks at the hollowness in her cheeks. She turns to the ghosts and she smiles. It’s Jacob’s sister’s smile the moment before she died. It’s her smile when she was reunited with her brother, even knowing she might lose him again. It’s a smile like a star on a cloudy night that knows it may be hidden by a storm and shines all the brighter for it. The ghosts are coming. Her people, battered and bruised and afraid. She will bear their stories and their scars, and she will not turn away.

Tate Burwell our realities Her He broke me. He didn’t break my heart in the cliché manner of a teenage breakup. He didn’t publicly humiliate me or dump me for another girl. He didn’t follow the plot of any teen movie I’ve ever seen. It felt sudden but not entirely surprising. I didn’t plan for him, or us, or what came after. Broken. That sounds dramatic. I’m still a whole person, I still get by, eat meals, hang out with my friends and family. I’m not Bella from Twilight. But I feel a little emptier than I did before. I don’t know if there’s less of me than when we started or if I was overflowing during our time together, and now I’m back to full. The worst part is that he’s the same. The light in his eyes is still there. How? He’s playing just as well as ever, still going to parties. How? How can he go on, unfazed, like I was a minor interruption in an otherwise perfect life, our parting a slight inconvenience as he was temporarily left without arm candy. But only temporarily. I remember one of the parties we went to, maybe at Scott’s place, we were leaning against the wall, sipping our drinks, observing the mating habits of an American Teenager in the wild. “I don’t know how I got through so many of these without you” he said quietly, casually. “What?”

“I used to come to parties because that was what we did. Now I come because I like spending time with you. Even if that means drinking whatever the hell this is and permanently damaging my eardrums.” I gave him a look. “It’s called listening to music” He gestured towards the source of the earthquake we had been subjected to for the past few hours. “You call that music?” I wrinkled my nose at him, crossed my arms, and pretended to look away—my go-to move when he was being stupid. “What I meant was that this scene is completely depressing if you look at it the right way” I stopped pretending I wasn’t paying attention, but kept my arms tightly folded. “A bunch of kids, who keep falling down and throwing up. Who can’t even sit upright and will be sick all day tomorrow. Girls dancing wildly to misogynistic songs for the attention of sexist boys who are only waiting for the alcohol to kick in so they can claim their prize. And they’re all just doing it because it’s all they know to do. It’s what they’ve been told is fun, so they perpetuate it, even if they make mistakes and it makes them feel bad and people die.” He does that. Just drops the darkest shit on you when you aren’t expecting it, and then immediately acts like he didn’t. Just moves on to the next topic after analyzing some part of our lives that is completely normal, but also totally fucked up. He never talked like that with his friends, just me. They were smart and all, but I don’t think philosophy was their thing. It’s definitely not Amber’s. I wonder who he talks to about that stuff now. Maybe he just keeps it inside. “If you wanna leave, you can just say so” “What, and miss all the fun?” He put just the right emphasis on that last word.

“You are a fucked up kid” “True. But not as fucked up as you. Cue eyeroll” he said right as I rolled my eyes at him. I laughed despite myself. Placing his hands on my hips, he leaned down to give me a kiss. Him We technically met in 5th grade, though we didn’t pay attention to each other then. She was the new girl with the crazy pigtails and I was the bespectacled kid reading books about dinosaurs. It was sophomore year before we ever really spoke, when we had 2nd period English together with Mr. Bronner. It all started when she, late to class on the first day, snagged the only empty seat— right next to me in the fourth row, middle. Over the weeks we began to have small exchanges— she’d roll her eyes at me whenever Mr. Bronner began speaking in his “dramatic voice” (a booming fake English accent) and I would lend her a pencil if she forgot one. At lunch I normally sat with my teammates, or my friends from band. She normally sat with her group of friends- a mix of theater kids, mathletes, and cross-country girls. But on October 2nd Mr. Bronner’s class ran over by 30 minutes, which meant that lunch was still being served, but our friends had already come and gone. I grabbed a table by myself and began shoveling forkfuls of lasagna into my mouth, trying to fuel up for practice. I looked up and saw her approaching my table, sure she would breeze on by me to sit with the other girls from our class. Instead, she just sat down next to me and said “Even for a football player, you eat a TON. Where does it all go?” Just like that. Like we had known each other for years. And I suppose we had, but not well enough for her to casually be calling me a fatass. I choked a little on a noodle in my surprise. I tried to drink my chocolate milk to buy some time to collect my thoughts. Luckily I didn’t have to say anything because she quickly interjected: “I didn’t mean to imply you were small or anything, because you’re certainly not. Wait… not like that. Ugh, you know what I mean” she finished as she speared a broccoli with her fork. I allowed myself 5 seconds of

bewilderment before responding. “Yeah, uh my mom always says that the way I eat I should be fat. But my caloric intake is balanced by the physical exertion of, um, practice.” She studied me bemusedly “He speaks.” “Pardon?” “The first time we talk, and it’s about your ‘caloric intake’” she said, shaking her head. “We’ve talked...” “Mhm, about what?” “Uh… well… maybe not in so many words, but I believe we have the same feelings about Mr.Bronner’s teaching style. And I think I’ve lost about 20 pens to your poor preparedness, so that’s got to count for something, right?” She laughed “It does. My bad, boyscout.” “Boyscout?” “The boyscout motto? Always be prepared?” “Oh. I never joined.” “That’s probably for the best.” And that was the beginning of everything. Of us finding excuses to not go straight to lunch after class, even if it meant hiding out in the bathroom for 15 minutes or asking Mr. Bronner to elaborate on his thoughts about Lady Macbeth. Though that last one took up at least 45 minutes, so it was reserved for emergencies only, like when Josh and Andrew were adamant about having a chili dog eating contest in the cafeteria on hot dog day. Once the time was sufficiently wasted, we’d ‘miraculously’

bump into each other in the almost empty cafeteria and decide to sit together because why not? Her We had a lot of fun. We’d watch Disney movies together and sing along to all of the songs. He’d force me to watch Lion King and I’d make him watch Beauty & the Beast. We’d go on walks around the neighborhood. We’d talk for hours, and laugh about everything and nothing. We’d go get burgers and fries way too often. He indulged that craving of mine. The first time we went to Five Guys together you made a mess. You dropped the fries like the clumsy idiot you are. You tripped over your own feet, those feet that are known for their quick, light movements on the field. The same feet that carried us to state junior year. The feet I would nudge with mine to wake you on those beautiful, bright Sunday mornings we shared. You stumbled once, then kept tripping over yourself. I felt bad for you, but didn’t want to bruise your ego by offering my help. I just tried to cover my laugh behind my hand as you sheepishly asked the cashier for another order of fries. Seeing you nervous made me so much less nervous. I was worried at lunch that I was coming on too strong by suggesting that you take me out, even if it was just for burgers. I was worried that you didn’t like me in the same way and were just sitting with me at lunch because you pitied me or because I hadn’t really given you a choice. But here you were, a strong, confident young man reduced to a bumbling fool by a strong confident young woman. Him One day she mentioned going to the school play. The director, Anne, was one of her best friends. It was supposed to be good. I can’t quite remember what it was called, but there was definitely music in it. I remember sitting next to her on a Saturday night in a half-full school auditorium and watching her bop to the music out of my peripheral vision, mouthing the songs. There was a dazzling energy about the show, about her connection and reaction to it. The feeling of the place is what I

remember. I remember slipping away as she congratulated Anne and chatted with the rest of the cast, because I didn’t fit into that part of her life, and because I didn’t want to be spotted. I had told my boys I was sick, and that I couldn’t go out. Which was partially true, because I was sick of the taste of beer and the smell of vomit. I remember the Monday after that, at lunch, her confronting me about leaving without saying bye. She startled me. I didn’t realize she noticed my absence, let alone was bothered by it. I was flattered, but of course didn’t let her know that. I tried to protest my innocence but she wouldn’t hear of it. She was practically scolding me, moving her head and arms in a thousand different directions. I love you. I thought. And I scared myself. What the fuck? How can I be in love? I can’t have meant that. We haven’t even been on a date yet! What the fuck is wrong with me? All she’s done is roll her eyes at me and now I’m falling for her? She must have noticed my panicked expression because she looked at me intently. With a bit of mischief in her eyes she leaned forward a little: “There is a way you can make it up to me…” My heart beat faster. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions but I had the urge to ask her out. I bit my tongue because I didn’t want to blurt out something embarrassing like ‘I love you’ or ‘I really enjoy spending time with you and would like to see you more often’ so I just waited in expectant silence for her to ask me to ask her out. I needed some sort of sign. Some indication that I could broach the topic of a date without immediate rejection or humiliation. Something. Anything. “…Your Fries.” “What?” “Your Fries,” “My what?” “Your french fries. Hand ‘em over.” “Oh, uh, sure. If that’s all it takes”

“Hmmm… on second thought, your fries are kinda cold. I want fresh ones.” “Ok. I guess I can go get s—“ “That won’t be necessary. I’ve decided that I deserve better than soggy cafeteria fries. You can take me to Shake Shack after school” She said that casually. As if the prospect of hanging out outside of school didn’t have the capacity to change my whole world. Her You used to admire my confidence. You loved me because I was funny and free. But you couldn’t bend in the same way I did. You wouldn’t grow with me. Eventually, you broke. That night on the train was the beginning of the end. The memory is cold and distant now. It was an unremarkable moment at the time, and now that context has given it significance I can’t recall all of the details. You held my hand on the return journey that felt ages longer than the initial. When we got to the platform, there were musicians wearing colorful clothes, smiling and playing the drums. I wanted to stop and dance, to interact, to live - the situation was practically begging us to. You said you were worried about missing the train. But you were just afraid of looking stupid. You didn’t like it when I pushed you too far outside of your box. That irked me but the reason I was disappointed with you was because you prioritized the weight room over the opening of a play I directed. I know that its more than just a sport to you and your family. But I just needed you to myself for one night. And you couldn’t give me that. The next night you wouldn’t join me in a dance, pawned me off on one of your cousins. I became paranoid that you were ashamed of me, that you would drop me to date a girl that was in your social circle and didn’t call you an idiot 50 times a day. In light of recent events it appears that those fears were valid.

Him She changed my world. For the most part, that was positive. But we were different, and it showed sometimes. We went to my cousin Angela’s wedding together on a Friday night one month before we ended it. I looked to her during the ceremony as a few tears escaped down her cheeks. Later, on the train ride home, she wanted to reflect on the purity of true love, the dignity it afforded the loved. She had only had one glass of champagne during the reception, but here she was, talking about how loving truly and deeply was an ennobling process, and a rare one at that. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was speaking in a code she expected me to decipher at some point. But I was cold. It was a rainy night and we had a long ride back. She wanted to dance on the platform before we boarded the train. She’s always needed the attention of the general public. Mine was never enough. That’s why she danced with Angie’s husband’s 2nd cousin Michael. Michael was about 3 inches taller than me and a senior, but of course she just bounced up to him and introduced herself, her gilded eyes shining. Her excuse to strike up a conversation was that we were the only teenagers there, and “we might as well say hi, right?” But hi turned into a 30 minute conversation about Vampire Diaries that I could barely keep up with, despite the hours of my life I wasted watching the show with her. Apparently Michael’s ex was super into it, but he, being a perfect boyfriend, actually put in the effort to learn the character’s names, probably with the hope of using it to pick up other girls later. It was a good plan. An hour after their introduction, he was spinning her around on the dance floor while I talked to Aunt Miriam. She predictably asked if I had a girlfriend and I hesitated, but only for a second. I tried to distract myself from you but it gnawed at me, the way you effortlessly twirled and laughed with him. Like you didn’t have me. Like you didn’t need me. Like you didn’t want me. I know that I said it was OK, but it wasn’t. Were you trying to punish me for all the extra practices coach demanded? You knew I didn’t have a choice. But I missed opening night the night before and now you were making me watch a different

kind of show. So no, I didn't want to dance later on a train platform in some shit town an hour away from ours. I want to be your first choice, even if I am a bad dancer. You know I’ve never been second string. I declined to dance with you to spite you for spiting me, but when we sat down, I felt that I had done something much more profoundly damaging to us than I intended. I wanted to make you happy, and I was doing the opposite of that. That night, on the train, you demonstrated your absolute rejection of ordinary, your failure to acknowledge the commonplace as such. The pregnant lady in the bright pink dress. The elderly gentleman with the bad cough. The stubbled, sandy-blonde middle aged man with the cherry-red suitcase. You noticed it all. Appreciated it. Them. I wish I could have looked at our teenage romance, unremarkable when looked at in the context of our universe, and seen the wonder in it. I wish I could have done that for you. I lacked the imagination to build us up into something we weren’t yet. I didn’t see us as soulmates. You were my girlfriend, and I loved you. Why wasn’t that enough? Why did you always need more and more of me? You hated that you couldn’t be my only priority. Hated that I went out with my friends without telling you. Hated seeing me talk to other girls because it made you jealous. What was I supposed to do? Her We had some good days after train night, though. I think things went best when we didn’t try. When we just were. We’d sit on the grass in the quad, listening to music and pretending to do homework. I’m thinking of one day in particular where the sun and breeze hit the perfect balance and we put down the pens in our hands and just enjoyed each other. You put your arm around me and I leaned in to you. Every public display of affection felt monumental to me. In the very beginning we weren’t sure we wanted to claim each other. We tiptoed around our friends and our feelings, trying to decide how much of our public and private selves we wanted to put on the line. Deciding to go public was liberating. You could play with my hair and hold my hand whenever you wanted. And every single time it felt so sweet.

Rejection was bitter. When you asked me not to refer to you as ‘boyscout’ in front of your friends you made me feel stupid, like a child. Maybe your friends were okay with the idea of me but were unprepared to be faced with the evidence— affection and pet names. Or if I saw you in the hallway when you were on your way to practice you’d hurriedly wave and then rush away. You made me feel like I had to work to deserve your affection. Him For someone that was so good at reading people and situations, I think she had a blind spot for us. She was always trying to get me to acknowledge and come to terms with my feelings, but liked to give me the silent treatment for the slightest infractions. She liked to hold grudges about things I didn't even know were problems, like not texting back right away because I was doing something else, or texting my other friends, some of whom happened to be girls, when we were hanging out. Her I’ve decided that I need someone who is willing to chase me. Someone who won’t squirm when I try to push them away. Someone who won’t make me feel crazy enough to freak out on them for every little thing. Who won’t flirt with cheerleaders in low-cut tops when I’m not around. Him In the end you were freaking out on me because I was talking to Amber at lunch. She just sat down and I didn’t feel the need to say “Hey Amber! Sorry but you can’t sit there because I normally sit with my girlfriend at lunch and she doesn’t take too kindly to strangers”. Even though right now I can practically hear you saying “Yes! That’s exactly what you should have said.” But we both know that’s not me. So I was making conversation while I waited for you to arrive. Now that she’s forcing me to take her to homecoming I fully understand how pushy Amber can be. But I didn’t then. I talked with her on occasion and it wasn’t a big deal for me to have lunch with her. I could see it in your face when you first entered the lunchroom: you were startled, confused, annoyed, sad, angry, jealous.

Doubting. After the first .5 seconds you quickly donned your poker face, and constructed a smile which you quickly aimed at me. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think you know that I registered all of your emotions. You had no idea how much time I spent studying your face, learning your moods. 0.2 seconds was enough for me to recognize all that you were feeling. But you played along. Made small talk in the form of thinly veiled threats, forced pleasantries through gritted teeth, asking Amber about the time commitment associated with cheerleading and whether or not she had to dry clean the uniform. Her Sometimes, a match must be struck on the side of the box several times before igniting. Other times, the flame has to be introduced to the wick and held there for a few seconds before it will catch and keep fire. Then it burns for as long as it can until it is extinguished, either by a gust of wind (intentional or unintentional) or until the wax has melted to the point that it can no longer support the wick, and collapses in around itself. I remember focusing on the cinnamon apple spice candle on your dresser, my vision blurred by tears but my intent on it unwavering. I had gotten it for you weeks ago but you finally lit it that day. Cinnamon apple spice. The room smelled sweet and smoky and spicy. I gazed into the flickering flame blinking as fast as humanly possible but it was no use. I was crying and we were ending. You were crying. I was searching my mind for a way to prevent the conversation from ending inevitably. We both knew what had to happen, though. We had hurt each other too much when we fought in the car and were still smarting from the wounds inflicted. Them She was upset about Amber. Smiled through lunch. That night they went for a drive, to listen to music, and spend time together. She makes a snide comment about him liking cheerleaders and he snaps under the pressure of school, sports, and a relationship. To be honest, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not really at a time in his life where he can give the necessary attention to his girlfriend,

but he loves her so he’s trying. However, he’s used to being criticized and pushed by his father, and doesn’t want that in another relationship. He calls her jealous, needy. She knows this to be true and is of course hurt that he would say it—this is what she was waiting for, this is what she pushed him into saying. She forced him to confirm her insecurities, and he obliged because of his own frustrations. She called him an asshole, a bastard, every name in the book until he braked hard in front of her house and told her to go, to get out. She looked shocked that he didn’t want to spar, grabbed her stuff, slammed the door, and ran inside, threw herself on the bed, and sobbed. He sat there in the car for a minute, staring straight ahead. He felt like shit. He wasn’t getting enough sleep—not with AP classes and practice and weightlifting and hanging out with his friends and spending time with his girlfriend, not to mention family obligations like dinners and going to his little sister’s soccer games. His romantic relationship is the one that suffers most—it’s the newest one, the most difficult to maintain. He thought she might want him to chase after her, but wasn’t sure and didn’t want to cause a scene. He saw her mother’s silver sports car parked out front, and didn’t want to do this in front of her family. She cried hard, but held onto the hope that he might run in and apologize, hold her, and then everything would be okay. She thought she was crying as hard as possible. Until she heard his car start up again and drive away. The floodgates didn’t just open, they broke from their hinges under the force of a long-awaited deluge. The next day they avoided each other at school—averted their eyes as they tried to process, figure out where they were. They tried to pretend like everything was fine to their friends, because they didn’t want to be told to do the sensible thing— break up. She got to lunch a little early so that she wouldn’t have to be the one to choose if they sat together—she was waiting on him to make a gesture. Maybe that was one of their problemsshe never felt secure enough to be real about her desires and expectations, and therefore expected him to divine them. He walked into the cafeteria and saw her and smiled because for a split second he forgot. When he remembered he promptly turned around and left the cafeteria. She saw this and for the first time

doubted they would be okay. While she was upset, she just assumed they would find a way to come back together. This was the first time she considered the possibility that they would stay broken. She felt like she had been punched in the stomach. She reminded herself that they weren’t over yet. She considered texting him, brought out her phone. In the hallway, he had his phone out as well, and was typing and erasing messages to her, trying to decide what to say, what could explain his avoidance and allow opportunity for reunion. As she opened their texts, she saw the three gray dots that indicated he was typing. A game of cat and mouse ensued, with each beginning to type and then deleting, each waiting for the other to be brave enough to send their message. She deleted her message waited impatiently for the dots to transform into letters. He finally crafted a message: Can we meet later? My place. Right after school. It wouldn’t seem like a lot to an outsider, but she could appreciate the gravity of the words. Right after school meant skipping practice. That could mean the bench for the next game, and would certainly mean a fight with his father. It meant that he was trying. She made him wait for a couple minutes before responding Yes. They both held hope for the rest of the day. 3:30 pm The final bell rung, he ran to his car and drove quickly home. He felt the urge to clean up even though she had been there a thousand times. He made the bed. Then unmade it because he didn’t want to seem like he was trying too hard. He picked up the few clothes strewn across the floor and felt that that was just the right amount of effort. In moving his team jacket into the hamper, he found the candle she had given him overturned on the floor. He set it on the dresser and lit it. 3:45pm She arrived. She didn’t know if she should just walk in since she knew the door was unlocked, but decided she would look stupid knocking. She walked inside the house, noting the faded eggshell color of the hallway, the creak of the floorboards. The black shoe scuff on the cream baseboard from their first night together when she pushed him back into the wall a little too enthusiastically. She ascended the carpeted stairs, breathing in the familiar, damp scent of his home: dried flowers,

baked bread, and Febreze almost masking the smell of sweaty practice gear. At the top of the stairs she caught a scent that was familiar to her but alien to the house. She realized it was the candle she got him. She smiled. Him She entered the room gracefully. Hopeful. I felt awkward. I didn’t know what to say- things had been strained for the past month. It felt like we were a rope being pulled from both ends until the final tether snapped. That’s not fixable. I did what I could. Apologized for calling her jealous. Told her Amber meant nothing to me which was as true then as it is now. You were nodding your head but didn’t seem convinced. I couldn’t understand why you didn’t trust me, and how we had gotten to this place. I still don’t know how it happened. Her He was giving me excuses. Valid excuses, but they still felt like cover-ups. Like he was just telling me what I wanted to hear rather than how he really felt. I don’t know that it would have mattered. When I first started dating, my mother advised me not to pursue a relationship where I didn’t feel safe and appreciated. As he spoke, I realized that we weren’t compatible. That falling in love with someone doesn’t mean that that relationship is right for either of you. When asked if I could forgive you, if we could move on from this, I really wanted to just say yes. You held your hand out to me and I hesitated. One second was enough to get your emotional defenses up. That was the end. Him Today the candle went out. I had taken to lighting it whenever I missed you—so much so that everyone was asking if I got a new cologne. Today, months after the initial lighting, the candle was no more than a mangled pile of wax, and eventually

the wick just got extinguished, and wouldn’t re-light, no matter how many times I tried. I tried for so long that I ended up being 30 minutes late picking Amber up for the dance. Her Homecoming is tonight. I’m going alone. You’re taking Amber—the girl you claimed you barely know. I put extra effort into my appearance tonight and I don’t know what for. As I pin up my hair I can’t help but think of homecoming last year. It was our first big public outing as a couple, and I wasn’t sure how to feel. You took care of that for me, leading us to the absolute middle of the dance floor and twirling me until I was dizzy. In that moment I felt transformed—I didn’t feel like a teenage girl slow-dancing in the school gym with the lights dimmed and some streamers taped to the wall. I felt like we were special. Like you were capable of offering me an infinite amount of equally magical moments.

Ellie Chen More than a Game All four feet two inches of her being dreamed of being in the WNBA. Her faded blue, red, and yellow Fisher Price hoop had seen her first dunk, her first layup, her first swish (and her first airball). The frayed orange net had watched her laugh as she bounced the mini ball on a pebble that propelled the ball back to her chin. That Fisher Price hoop ($21 at Walmart) ignited a priceless love between a three-year-old girl and a beautiful game that would last forever. But fifteen years later, she didn’t know she had swished her last three pointer. Oh, how she longed to feel the elusive chill that ran through her right hand as she flicked her wrist and held it up as the spinning ball blurred through the air. She used to know the feeling so well. Now, with every day, the visceral joy became ever so slightly more out of reach. She feared forgetting it more than anything. She didn’t know she would never again flash up three fingers as she ran back on defense with a sly grin rushing across her face. She didn’t relish in her last through-the-legs crossover because how was she to know that it would be the last time she left a defender befuddled. She cherished her last moments on the court, as she cherished every moment her feet planted into the patterned wood panels, but (for better or worse) she never let herself believe that there would be a last moment to cherish. Because when a four feet two inch girl with cutely curled hair, soft big brown eyes, and an ever bigger no-toothed smile tells you she’s going to be a point guard in the WNBA, who would dare tell her any differently? “What if I fall? Oh, but Darling, what if you Fly?” Girls grew taller and dreams tended to fade as reality seeped in. The only difference between these girls and her was

that she didn’t grow taller, and her bright yellow “dream catcher” kept her dreams alive. Every day, she drifted to sleep under the glow of her Nightbright mini-hoop and woke-up to a poster of her idol, Stanford point guard Candice Wiggins. In between, she lived. She laughed. She rarely cried. She climbed monkey bars, bombarded through the house in Heely’s, dribbled basketballs, giggled at her brother’s oddly shaped earlobe, helped her Mom make banana bread, lived life as if the sky had no limit. On the first day of Kindergarten, her mom, promising Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food for an after school treat, dressed her in a floral pink Lilly Pulitzer dress. All she wanted to wear was basketball shorts and a sideways Oakland Athletics baseball hat. On the first day of college, it was she who chose to wear the floral sundress. She felt the sky on her shoulders as she wondered whether she would ever get to wear a basketball jersey again. “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” (They didn’t mention that sometimes you miss the biggest shot of your life, even when you give it your best shot). Sunday morning. “Touuuccchdoowwnn Raiders” echoed through the kitchen as Dad danced a victory dance for his fantasy football team. He simultaneously whipped up pancakes (what a guy) while her Mom sizzled some (organic, lean) bacon. Her brother Andy said she needed some eggs for extra protein. “A, c’mon! It’s juussttt a YMCA game!” She pointed and told him. And maybe in that moment, pigtails swinging, chocolate milk flowing, YMCA jersey falling down to her knees, basketball was merely a game (her family would tell you, that even then, they knew it wasn’t just a game). Because when a four feet two inch six-year-old girl smiles as she steals the ball from a girl twice her size and scores the game winning layup in the last ten seconds of the game, even you for a moment, believe she can play in the WNBA. Granted, she would have been the first five foot six halfAsian point guard to play in the WNBA. But hey, love of the game goes a long way. Doesn’t it? And love the game she did. Her first email address (she still has it) was

fastbreakgirl44@aol.com, coined by her coach for her natural fastbreak ability. 44 was her first NJB jersey number. Her favorite shirt (about three sizes too large) was her New Orleans Jazz, Chris Paul jersey. She went as far to beg to name her golden retriever puppy CP3 after him. Her family chose Jem from To Kill a Mockingbird (this was one of the few times she cried). While most girls meandered around on the play-structure or drew rainbows with chalk, her favorite recess activity was the basketball skill contest, “knock-out,” with the boys. Her sideways baseball hat didn’t intimidate the boys away. They made fun of her inability to say “r’s”. The mean ones looked at each other and giggled when she asked to join in. After she beat them, again and again (and again), they stopped teasing her about her r’s. They tried to laugh with her instead of at her. The first time she was asked out was not under the stars, but under the hoop. In 4th grade, after a game of Horse, he said, “nice backwards shots! Want to get ice cream?” “Why not?” she replied. He had never teased her, and their two week relationship, full of mint chip, chocolate syrup, and one-on-one basketball was blissful. Every family holiday, she rallied her two older siblings and her parents to play a scrimmage on the outside court (she and her dad had painted the three point and free throw line in themselves). She loved beating her family. But she loved even more that basketball could bring her favorite people together. “Love the game and the game will love you back.” Love of the game (plus talent and thousands of hours in the gym) did go a long way. All-Net Championship trophies overflowed from her shelves onto every bare surface of her bedroom, and middle school championship medals weighed down her closet doorknobs. She’d never tell you about her high school accolades: all league selections, MVP awards, scholar athlete awards, and eventually California all-state honors. She played basketball to see her teammates smile after she set them up for a basket with a crisp bounce pass or draw and dish pass. For the pure joy, adrenaline, power, and freedom she felt as she sprinted down the open court, dribbling through lines of

defenders. For the laughter that permeated the air when she attempted a half court shot in practice and tripped over her own shoe and fell over. For her personal goal of transforming timid teammates into confident young women by dancing to Kanye West before every game to get pumped up. For the countless times she found solace in an empty gym swishing three pointers because they went in when nothing else did. For the anger that pulsed through her veins as she swore to herself after missing all twelve free throws in one game, and for the satisfaction at her fingertips as she swished all twelve free throws in the next game, leading her team to the next round of playoffs. For the thousands of hours that culminated in the opportunity to try out for the Stanford women’s basketball team in Maples Pavilion. What a place. Awe burst through every one of her thirty-two trillion cells. She thought of her Candice Wiggins poster, and for a fleeting five month period (while she was scrimmaging with the Stanford team and leading up to the tryout), she had entertained the possibility that (maybe one day) she could be like Candice. Her dream was so close she could taste it. She was ready. She loved her shot, and her shot loved her back. That day was no exception; her jumpers and three points swished through the net, barely hitting the metal rim. The ball became an extension of her hand as she bounced the ball between her legs, behind her back, spinning up and down, up and down the court. She gave the same 200% effort she had during that YMCA game when she stole the ball from the girl two times her size. She had given it her best shot. At the end of the try-out, the coach told her that she had “a great skill set, an awesome shot, and a very good handle.” He “respected all her hard work and could tell she loved the game.” He shook her hand and smiled. “Never fully dressed without a smile.” You know when someone is so genuinely happy they can’t stop smiling? Basketball had that uplifting effect on her. However, she had not been smiling a few months earlier at her high school home finale when she thought, “12-0 in the first quarter?!! How could we not score a point in 8 minutes of basketball!! I will eat dirt mixed with soggy cous cous and kiss a

black widow before I lose this game.” She rallied her teammates between quarters, “Here we go guys! Play together, keep shooting and d-up!” Start of the second quarter, and Emma made the reverse layup we had practiced yesterday. Danielle stole the ball and passed it up the court for a layup. Kate for three! Even Josie, who always had a deathly stare in her eye, couldn’t help but smile. They all high fived and the energy of the gym and of her friends in the bleachers was palpable. Her team was already up by 5, and she was shooting her last ever free throw in her home gym. She smiled. She missed the shot (whether or not she did that on purpose is something only she knows), got her own rebound, dribbled to her favorite left wing three point shot, and released the ball as she fell over with the 4th quarter buzzer ringing. Swoosh. Because in life, why win small, when you can win big? The swoosh echoed throughout the gym. Her right wrist was flicked high in the air. She was flying. “El, you look like you’re flying!” her friend Halle told her as she performed a Harlem Globetrotters level dunk on the trampoline. They were in 2nd grade at Duveneck Elementary School. “It’s because I am!” she squealed back, choco taco in one hand, inflatable basketball in the other. “All good things must come to an end.” (?) And then I fell. Not the kind of fall where I giggled after and the only remnant was a fray piece of skin dangling unattractively off my knee. The kind of fall where no ground caught me. “Being a player on the Stanford women’s team is not going to work out,” he said. My heart. The more I tried to hold back the more aggressively the tears came. “I can imagine this is disappointing to hear. I know how much you love the game. Is there anything I can do for you?” My tears and quivering lips spoke for me when I couldn’t gather enough air to piece together a sentence. I’m scared and hesitant to touch the orange-brown leather that for the past fifteen years, made me who I am today. I stuck it in a corner underneath my bed. And when I muster the strength to touch it, or God forbid to shoot it, my throat gets that burny feeling as I choke back the single tear that tends to drip

down my cheekbone. Andy, no number of eggs could have changed the outcome of that day spent in Maples Pavilion because I had given the game my heart, and my best was not enough. And family, I know now more than ever before, that basketball never was “juustt” a game. If it were just a game, I wouldn’t have sat alone pondering its loss long enough to see the sunrise and sunset. I wouldn’t have cried more in one day than I had in my entire life, wouldn’t have felt as if someone was continuously punching me in the stomach, breathing death into my breath. Because when a four feet two inch girl with cutely curled hair, soft big brown eyes, and an ever bigger no toothed smile said that she could be a point guard in the WNBA, no one wanted to picture the moment (thousands of shots, a foot and half in height, fifteen years later) that she’d fall.

Gianna Chien Growing Pains September 9, 2004 Light filters through the open door and onto the pastelpurple walls as their mother peers into the bedroom. She glances to her right. An analog clock, yellow and Winnie-the-Pooh themed, reads 11:30. “Go to sleep. It’s late. You have school tomorrow.” The way she speaks says, I know you will not go to sleep, I know you know it is late, I know you don’t care you have school tomorrow. There is no response. She pauses for a moment longer, her long shadow covering the girl’s face: crinkled eyes, downturned corners of the mouth, slightly puffed up cheeks. Someone trying hard not to laugh. As soon as the door closes, the yellow sheets rustle and a head moves to peek out from underneath the covers. It turns left, then right, nose twitching like an animal checking for a scent. The boy finally sits up. “Clear!” Immediately the covers of the bed are cast off, landing with a heavy thump on the floor, the blinds jingling as a stray pillow hits the window. The girl slides off the bed and onto the ground. With a roll of his eyes, the boy joins her, arms full of stuffed animals that he dumps in her lap. One - a stuffed dog that looks like Lassie - he throws at her face, the artificial fur muffling her cry of surprise. The girl opens her mouth as if to scold him, but decides against it. She picks up Bark, the Lassie-dog, and her brother picks up his dog Buttercup. With no forewarning she says, “And then Bark approaches the enemy leader. ‘Get out of my territory! You let it go in the treaty of the last war.’”

Her brother moves Buttercup so Buttercup and Bark are face to face. “ ‘My ancestors made a mistake. The land is mine!’” Hands clash as the battle ensues. The only sounds are the ticking of the clock, the rustle of sheets, and the giggleinterspersed growls of the siblings. The girl knows it is late. She knows she should sleep. She knows she has school tomorrow. But in her moonlit bedroom with her brother, playing with Bark and Buttercup, she forgets everything except that Buttercup’s father signed his land away to Bark, and now Buttercup wants it back, and that cannot happen. Just outside of the bedroom door, their mother sighs. *** August 24, 2009 She peers through the foliage, her eyes tracing the wide trunk up to the leafy canopy above. “This should be our new camp.” “No, the other one was better. This one is too undefended.” “Maybe it can be the legendary tree then.” The boy glances up at her, a question in his eyes. “You know, the heart of the forest, where we can talk to the spirits and stuff.” “Oh of course, silly me. How could I forget that the dogs will need to talk to the spirits? I’m a terrible pack leader.” The girl huffs. “Fine then. Lead on, oh wise alpha Xavier.” The pair continue their trek, periodically stopping to pick out burrs from their socks. Trees seem to bend away from the trodden paths, the yellow grass flattened from years of walking the same routes. “Autumn, stop!” Autumn whirls around, a pocketknife-sharpened branch held at the ready like a dagger. Xavier drops into a crouch,

amber eyes fixed on the spike-bush in front of him. When she sees him, Autumn, too, slips effortlessly into character. “They’re coming,” Xavier murmurs under his breath. He draws his sword. “Stay behind me.” At the twitch of his finger, they leap forward, slashing and jabbing, dancing and spinning around invisible foes, the bush’s thorns cutting gashes into their carved weapons. Together, they drive back the enemy, dodging its cat-like claws that are slick with the blood of their packmates. As Autumn pins down the enemy’s leader, Xavier raises his battered sword to administer the final blow, and “Autumn! Xavier! Dinner is ready!” Immediately, the opposers disappear. The sword and dagger turn back into branches. Autumn and Xavier are Autumn and Xavier again. Autumn turns to her brother. “Tomorrow?” He rolls his eyes. “Duh.” She tries to give him a high five, but at the last minute he pulls his hand away and whips around, flinging the gate to the backyard open and sprinting back toward the house. Autumn chases after him. When the forest-field is bulldozed and replaced by houses the next month, Autumn and Xavier both cry. *** March 21, 2010 Autumn and Xavier search their closets for their dragons. Xavier’s are stuffed in a bag, bent and tangled. Autumn’s are laid out in an old purple box, sitting in straight rows organized by rank, the names of the dragons scrawled across the box’s rim in pencil. They start by making more dragons. They pick the colors of their pipe cleaners: plain for average dragons, shiny for legendary. Autumn’s are simple: earthy colors, twisted and

braided, with ends left free for the tails. Xavier’s are the opposite: bright, braids and twists woven into more complex patterns, tails bent into jagged lines ready for use as weapons. “The enemy leader stole the precious dragon egg. We must organize an attack to get it back.” Xavier holds his dragon up, the five-headed beast prepared to command an army. He nods at Autumn’s green-brown-white dragon. “Messenger, go rally the troops.” Autumn glances at her dragons, their necks bent at odd angles after clashes with each other, wiring showing beneath the patchy fuzz. “Can we do something besides war this time?” “Sorry, what?” He looks at her, and she knows that if she tries to change the game, he will be sad. She doesn’t want him to be sad. And she really doesn’t mind war games that much anyway, even though Xavier always gets to be leader and war games are the only ones they ever play because they can’t agree on anything else. “Nevermind.” She picks up the messenger dragon. Sometimes it feels like everything is about fighting. *** May 30, 2011 After finishing their homework, they decide to play with their stuffed animals. As Xavier grabs Bark and Buttercup, Autumn strips the blankets off her bed, laying them on the rug to form a topographical landscape, the largest mountain at her feet. Xavier returns and sits down in front of her. “Okay, you start this time.” Autumn picks up Bark, but she can’t think of anything to say. She looks down, and Bark’s beady black eyes, blank and lifeless, stare back at her. She feels like she has no more stories left to tell. “Actually, I think you should go first.”

Xavier grins, and Autumn can tell that he wanted to start all along. He leaps up and sprints to the closet, grabbing a piece of brown fabric that he ties around Buttercup’s waist. He tosses some blue fabric to Autumn for Bark. “They can be ninjas with special powers! They can use their belts to control the elements: earth and water.” He points first at Buttercup, then at Bark. The idea seems somewhat ridiculous to her, but Autumn plays along. “And then what?” “And then they can fight, and we’ll finally know what the superior element is.” A pause. “Or...how about they start a training academy for ninjas?” Xavier rummages through the closet, searching for more fabric belts, and his voice comes back muffled. “Yeah, after the war.” “No, not after. Instead.” Xavier peers around the doorway, brows furrowed in annoyance. “You literally just said I could pick. You can’t change your mind like that.” “That’s because I couldn’t think of anything earlier. Now I can.” “You’re idea is just a rip-off of my idea. But more boring.” Autumn smirks. “God, Xavier, it’s not a competition.” She is amused, but Xavier isn’t. “It’s not fair.” He turns to leave, and Autumn’s smile drops. “Wait!” Within seconds, Xavier turns back, expression smug, and plops down on the rug. “So...war?” Autumn sighs in defeat. If she was Xavier, she’d be mad at herself for changing her mind, too. “As long as they can have an academy afterwards.” “You got it.” “By the way, your ideas suck. They’re all fighting.” She is joking, but she isn’t. “Whatever.” Xavier focuses on tying Bark’s belt on. Autumn knows that Xavier hears her, but isn’t listening.

As she watches him work, Autumn cannot help but feel strange. Her friends always tell her about the things they do together: watch movies, ice skate, bike, visit the beach...explore the real world. And here she is, inside, exploring worlds that don’t actually exist. Worlds made of things that can’t actually happen. Bark and Buttercup aren’t real. Superpowers aren’t real. None of this is. But then Xavier starts weaving the tale of the ninja element belts, and the most important world to Autumn is the one she and Xavier create together, sitting on the rug in her bedroom, surrounded by the yellow sheets from her bed. And the awkwardness vanishes, if only for a little while. *** December 12, 2012 Autumn clicks the microwave door open milliseconds before it beeps, grabbing the plate of bagel bites before fleeing upstairs. The microwave door slams shut behind her, the sound echoing through the empty house. Their parents are out, so she is in charge. She welcomes the freedom. Not so much the responsibility. The door to her room is open when she enters, even though she remembers closing it when she left. She sighs. “Xavier.” He looks up from the scene before him: two pairs of stuffed dogs on a yellow blanket, the puppies placed a couple feet away from their mothers. There is an empty dog bowl between them. “I just wanted to see what you were playing.” She lies. “Nothing.” “Can I play?” “No, they’re just talking. There’s no action. You wouldn’t like it anyways.” She doesn’t know exactly why she says no; she just really feels like playing by herself. Maybe it’s because the dogs are talking, not fighting like Xavier would

want. Maybe it’s because she wants the dogs to be friends and family, not allies and enemies. Maybe it’s because there aren’t good guys and bad guys. Maybe it’s because things aren’t that easy anymore. Tomorrow will be different, she thinks. They will play together again. Just not today. Autumn sits down in front of Xavier, deliberately blocking his view of the blanket. She picks up Acorn and Bark and makes them play with each other, ears flopping as they jump in and out of the bowl. After a brief romp, the stuffed animals are still, only moving their heads in subtle bobs as they converse. “What are they saying?” Autumn turns around again. Lies again. “Nothing.” He doesn’t believe her. “Can you talk out loud, please? So I can hear?” “I told you, they aren’t saying anything.” She tries to ignore him, but Xavier’s gaze bores holes into her back. Bark’s and Acorn’s heads continue to bob, but they are no longer saying anything. Autumn’s fingers twitch with annoyance. She spins around, and Xavier falls back in surprise. “Do you want something?” He stutters, mouth hanging open as his eyes scan the room for an answer. They settle on the plate near her feet. “Can I have a bagel bite?” He is afraid that she is going to say no, but her gaze softens. “Fine.” *** November 2, 2015 Kate reaches for her iPhone, sipping her banana smoothie as she scrolls through her playlists. Justin Bieber’s “What Do You Mean?” comes on, the soft beats filling the car. Autumn peers through the windshield and watches the freshmen walk through the parking lot with their oversized backpacks, filing into the cars that pull up like they are part of an

assembly line. “I can’t believe you guys have known each other for so long. That’s crazy.” Kate nods. “I know, right? Fourteen years. We played together all the time when we were little. It’s hard to imagine something like that ending so soon.” Autumn’s face remains blank, but she feels the acidtouch of envy. Kate is best friends with her neighbors, has known them since her preschool years. But Autumn has never had such a long-lasting friendship. “The two of us have only been friends for three years, though. Do you really think we’ll stay in touch when we go off to college?” Kate faces Autumn as she responds, but her eyes look past her. “I think so. Time doesn’t always equal closeness.” Autumn thinks of Xavier, and she understands. Dinner is quiet that evening, just like it always is. Her parents take time to unwind; her dad reads the New York Times on his phone as her mom hunches over a book, the flipping of pages the only indication she is awake. Xavier is on his computer, brows pulled together in a deep V, pencil skating across the paper as he takes notes without looking at what he is writing. He is working. Autumn is eating. She tries to spear a potato but misses, and her arm jolts the table as her fork slips across the plate and swan-dives off the table, clattering to the ground. With that, the spell is broken: her father puts down his phone, her mother closes her book. But Xavier doesn’t move. “So, how was everyone’s day?” Their mother folds her hands on the table, the perfect picture of the engaged listener. Autumn’s response is prompt. “Good.” “And you, Xavier?” Xavier pauses; the air feels empty without the constant scratching of his pencil. “Alright. We had to do swing dance in P.E. though, so that was kinda boring.” He grins. “Not quite as fun as the Turkish dance.” Their parents both chuckle at the memory, but Autumn is confused. “Turkish dance?”

“Yeah.” Xavier glances down at his watch - every second away from his work is a second wasted - and when he speaks again, his words are rushed. “In class last week we learned about a traditional Turkish dance where you kinda shrug your shoulders and bend down to try to pick up wool with your mouth. I showed it to Mommy and Daddy earlier.” Autumn feels like a stranger at the dinner table with this family, laughing together about an inside joke she does not understand. She tries to sound upbeat. “Oh cool, will you show me?” Xavier’s pencil is scratching again. He doesn’t look up. “Sorry, I don’t have time. Later.” “Please?” He doesn’t respond. When half an hour later Xavier dismisses himself from the table to go upstairs, Autumn knows that she won’t see him again until the car ride to school the next morning, when she will be driving and he will be on his phone with his headphones in, leaning back in the seat with his eyes closed. Even though they live in the same house, they live in different worlds. *** September 14, 2016 The vacuum threatens to pull off the stuffed tiger’s tail as Autumn plops it on the floor in the give-away pile. She picks up the next stuffed animal and sneezes as dust creeps up her nose and lands on her eyelids. Cleaning sucks; cleaning plus packing is even worse. College is already making her do a lot of work, and she isn’t even there yet. When she comes across Bark, the Lassie-dog from her past, she picks him up gently and strokes his scruffy fur, matted from years of love. He goes on the bed, away from the keep and

give-away piles. She’ll pack him in her luggage later today, right before she leaves. She wants to bring him to college with her. A thump and exclamation startle her from her reverie, and Autumn turns to find her mother stepping down from a stool in her closet, clutching the door frame for support. There is a box in her left hand, the outside covered with illegible writing, the words smeared and blurred. “Autumn, do you still want this?” Autumn switches off the vacuum and sidles over until she can peer in the box. It is filled with pipe cleaners. The dragons. She stares at it blankly. When Autumn raises her eyes to meet her mother’s, her mother looks at her expression with understanding and simply replies, “Okay.” The car is finally loaded and she is ready to leave. Her parents are already outside waiting, excited for her and her journey. Autumn is excited, too, but also nervous. She doesn’t feel like an adult. Xavier is on his computer again, but this time he is playing an online game and skyping his friends with his headphones in, the only break in the silence his guffaws at jokes that Autumn cannot hear. As Autumn passes by on the way to the garage, she feels like she should hug him, but she doesn’t. “Bye, Xavier.” He takes out one earbud to hear her, but his eyes never leave the screen and his right hand stays on the mouse, furiously clicking, as he raises his left hand in farewell. It is no different from what he would do if she was going to a friend’s house for just a couple of hours. Halfway into the drive, as she sits in the cramped backseat of the car on the way to her new home, Autumn realizes that she left Bark on the bed in her used-to-be room and it’s too late to go back. Oh well; maybe that’s just fate telling her she needs to grow up and move on. But she still feels a little bit empty inside. As the sun sets and Autumn stares out the window contemplating beginnings and endings and leaving behind everything she has ever known - the field-turned-neighborhood,

the shelf of stuffed animals, the yellow blanket sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s had since she was a toddler - she receives a text from Xavier. It is a video of him doing the Turkish dance.

Ethan Cruikshank Koi “Though I don’t know where I go Light’s never done much for me” An Android on a pale brown nightstand plays an alarm as the rest of the room begins to stir. Gentle beams of sun cast through the ruffled taupe curtains that are drawn towards the sides of the frosted glass windows. One window is propped open with a makeshift latch, and a breeze blows through it and rustles the covers on the bed and blows a stack of papers laid on the hardwood floor adjacent to the bed. “But lead me down a lonely road Hit the lights so I can see” As one of the pages soars upwards and brushes the relaxed hand dangling off the edge of the bed, the hand’s owner decides to begin the day. “That I’m a little sun shy I’m a –” He hits the snooze button on his phone, and then wearily swings his feet off the bed and winces as the cold, unyielding hardwood makes contact with the soles of his feet. Once accustomed to the ice underneath him, he leverages his weight up to a standing position. By haphazardly pushing around his mass like a ragdoll, he manages to get about halfway across the room while mostly still asleep. Suddenly, he freezes in place and his eyes fling wide open in recognition, like someone who has spotted a close friend in an airport on another continent. Now the difficulty he had falling asleep last night strikes him like a bolt from the blue. Today is the day. He thinks it, then says it out loud, so he can be certain it’s real. “Today is the day!” Sprinting to the shower, he forgets to duck and violently catches his head on the top of the doorframe. Cursing, he stops

for a moment and smells the scents of the city that come in on the breeze. He breaks it down: hints of gasoline and coal, but mostly grass and other earthy scents. As he returns to his bedroom to shut the window, he can hear the clinking chain of the pie food truck setting up and the barking dogs of the earliest wakers. After gently bringing the windows to a close and drawing the curtains, he breathes deeply, closes his eyes, and then salutes the world outside his room. Outside, he bounds down his steps, taking them two by two. Today, he has elected to wear his favorite outfit, which, if he is being honest with himself, is his favorite because a stranger complimented him on it last week. He carries a red cooler about the size of a microwave oven, which swings lightly in his hand. Around his wrist is a small bracelet woven of blue threads, an accessory he has worn almost every day for the last fou r years. Today would be the last day he wears it. As he heads towards his car, he unlocks it and hears the characteristic “beep, beep.” He sets the cooler down on the roof of the car, opens the door, and then notices the pie vendor struggling to raise the steel awning of his truck. He begins walking over to help and calls out, “Hey Paul! Good to see you this morning.” “Nice to see you too, Jason. Are you gonna be in the park today? Paul motions for Jason to grab other side of the awning. Jason grabs it, and they pull up in unison. It begrudgingly yields to their combined efforts and slides upwards with a series of metallic clinks. Jason explains, “Nah, I’m heading into the city. I have other plans for today.” “You’re leaving Church Hill? That’s rare. What sort of plans do you have?” Paul pauses, and his face lights up. “Don’t tell me you’re going on a date…?” Jason laughs. “No, that’s not what I’m up early for. I actually have a promise to keep – I’m meeting up with some friends I haven’t seen in a long time.” Paul nods in understanding. “Sounds. Well, have fun, and you’ll have to make it up to me and eat here sometime soon, but don’t be afraid to bring someone with you.” “Will do!”

Jason heads back to his car. Although he doesn’t know what he would do without it, he concedes it’s pretty much a junker. He sits, clenches his eyelids and prays for his car to start without trouble. Twice this week, it took more than ten minutes for it to start. Blindly, he jabs his key into the initiation, and pushes it forward. Outside, the car’s engine clamors to life. Jason thanks whatever cosmic deity heard him, and then opens his eyes. Relaxing into his faux leather seat, he pulls away from the curb. He hears a thump, and remembers that he left the cooler on the roof of the car. As the sun climbs close to center of the sky, a slightly rusty blue beater drives into a concrete parking garage and putters to a crooked stop in a parking space near the back. The car bounces under the weight of the driver as he climbs out. There are three other cars in the garage. This is perfect; he doesn’t want many other people here now. This morning is private. The sound of footsteps echoes around the stone structure as Jason makes his way to the exit. This reverberation lends a sense of magnitude to this small journey, which he appreciates. As he steps outside, his hand moves up reflexively to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. He looks around, and doesn’t notice many changes since the last time he stepped through the same doorway. Before him stood the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, its white marble façade rising graciously from pools of water. Four years ago, he and his closest friends stood in front of those pools and posed in front of the sculptures in the water. That night was senior prom. He remembers how the koi came out from around the sculptures to the edge of the pool. A few months later, his friends gathered at the museum again. It was in the early afternoon. There was an indistinguishable sadness in the air between them that day; this was the first time since they had met that they didn’t have plans already established to meet again. There would be no classes, no lunches, no dances, no parties where they knew they would see each other. Julia had suggested that they meet up in the place where they stood right then in four years, and the other four of them quickly promised to do so. It was reassuring to know

exactly when they would see their friends again. That night, Jason made himself a bracelet to remember his vow. Today is that day. Jason wears his promise on his wrist, and he enters the museum alone. He moves quickly on the first floor of the museum. Moving from exhibit to exhibit, he only takes a few moments to consider the artwork in each room. Every once in a while, he stops to more thoroughly examine and reflect on a piece for a minute or two. Then, he continues on his way. As he climbs an opulent staircase, he mindfully begins to slow down. He lingers in every room, and his eyes run carefully over each bronze sculpture and ancient suit of armor. Pulling away from looking at pottery and weathered household goods seems impossible. He thinks it is beautiful that the museum remembers such ordinary pieces of history. The few other present patrons begin to leave the room. Jason realizes he is giving them a story to tell the other members of their Red Hat Societies and retirement communities. Maybe he gives them hope for future generations. After all, is it not unusual and inspiring to encounter a young man so in love with art that he would be moved to tears by urns and clay pots? Jason returns to his car to retrieve a white box from the cooler that was now located in shotgun. He leaves the parking deck once again, and walks away from the museum’s main entrance. As he goes around the corner to the sculpture garden, he sees someone resting serenely by a fountain. His heart immediately jumps into his throat. His hands and cheeks are suddenly warm. The sun glaring from above no longer bothers him. Completely at a loss for how to act appropriately, he resolves to try to appear natural. He moves forward and says, “Hey, Omri! “Good to see you Jason. It’s uh… been a while.” Jason nods in agreement and takes a seat on the stone next to Omri. The fountain bubbles close to his ear, and he notices a pair of cardinals flitting about. He thinks there shouldn’t be any stiffness between him and someone he was close to for so many years. That doesn’t make sense. He continues, “Do you think anyone else is gonna show?”

“I doubt it. I haven’t even heard from Camille since when? Her first semester at USC? The last time I spoke to Kaylynn was almost two years ago, I think.” “I messaged Julia last week. She told me she’s still in Annecy with her fiancé, and I don’t think we can blame her for that.” “Mmm,” Omri agrees. “Anyway, I brought something along. I know it’s really sentimental and maybe kinda dumb...” Jason opens his box, and shows the contents to Omri. Inside are five bouquets of flowers. Each is a different color. He asks, “Would you like to place your own?” “Don’t be embarrassed. That’s actually really cute.” “Thanks…” Jason realizes Omri hasn’t changed much since they said goodbye. He’s glad Omri came today, rather than any of the others. There is so much about him that Jason admired through their friendship, and still admires today. When he looks in his eyes, he is reassured to see that warm, genuine kindness is still there. The pair stands and walks over to the pool where red reeds rise from the barely moving liquid. They methodically place the six bundles of flowers on the surface of the water, and watch them drift from the edge. As they turn to begin walking away, Jason slyly pulls something off of his wrist and tosses it into the water. He doesn’t see if it floats off to join the flowers or sinks to the bottom. “Hey Omri, if you wanna go get dinner, I know of a really good place. It’s a pie shop. A friend of mine owns it.” “Oh, I’m so sorry! I have other plans for tonight. Actually, I’m going on a date with someone I’m seeing. I’ll tell you more about it later. Do you want to maybe get dinner some other time?” “Uh, sure. Call me sometime and we’ll figure it out.” The one trait Omri has that Jason has never been able to understand is how he lives without any regrets and never dwells on what has already happened. Of this, Jason is envious. Omri states his farewell. “Sounds good! See you later, then.”

â&#x20AC;&#x153;See you later.â&#x20AC;? The two men head away from one another, both in a slight rush. As the sun descends from its perch in the sky, the visitors respectfully file out of the galleries, and the many eras in the museum are cast into darkness. Outside, the only sounds remaining are of cars passing on the street and the gurgling of the fountains. The air is cool. Moonlight drips into the pools of water. In one, the light reveals koi swimming about, hesitantly tasting the petals strewn over their home.

Avoy Datta A Change of Shades She had always loved to paint. Entrenched deep in the heart of Barisal, Jaya’s family home didn’t strike out of the ordinary amid the mosaic of tin-houses and ponds that dominated suburban Bhola. Further north lay the ‘Western Neighborhood’, a series of colonial-style homes built by the British, and owned by the affluent and the influential of the city. She didn’t envy the sprawling, white terraces or elegantly sculpted fountains of these bungalows, though, for the immaculately maintained interiors of these homes lacked the colors that brought life to those of her own. Much to the dismay of her mother, Jaya would often boast of the cartoon charactersall her creations- that ornamented the walls around her, flanked by the blankets of red, magenta and yellow she had so meticulously applied to every nook and corner of the otherwise unembellished domicile. She remembered watching on, in horror, as they painted her walls red. Red with blood- the blood of her father, her grandfather, and her uncles. They had arrived earlier that night. The screech of the military Jeep tires starkly contrasted the tranquility of the night of the Purnima, or full moon. The orchestra of the nightingales immediately came to a halt. It was as if they could comprehend what other mortals couldn’t. How selfish were they, then, to not give off any warning of the imminent, apocalyptic chain of events that would havoc, annihilate, but before all, pervert the pristine, serene Purnima with blood and fire?

Sharp at 1:16 a.m., she knew for her dadu grunted aloud the odd time- he loathed being disturbed in his sleep-came the series of sharp knocks on the door. “Who is the shoytan who has ascended from hell in the middle of the night?” he ejaculated. He couldn’t possible have anticipated what stood on the other side when he lifted the door-latch. Five cold gun-barrels, all pointed at him- portals to an unchartered abyss -surrounded by the heads and bodies of men in military attire. “You are Hindus, aren’t you? We need to search your house. Step aside”, the lieutenant barked. The animosity in their intent betrayed by their leader’s tone, the soldiers marched in with unfettered aggression. They had no fear, no moral restrictions weighing down their conscience. A generation’s accumulation of religious and political hatred would be unleashed tonight. Humanity would play second fiddle to nationalistic dogma. Operation ‘Searchlight’ was in full effect. They had come with their armored vehicles and their assault rifles and their bayonets. Standing on the upper-floor terrace, next to the woods where she had always been forbidden from playing in, she could hear the perpetual, deafening sounds of what appeared to be fireworks coming from the direction of the ‘Western neighborhood’. The flashes of light that tore through the sky reminded her of Diwali, one of the grandest religious festivals in the Hindu calendar. Diwali, to her, meant scintillating fried Hilsha and delectable shemai, nightlong conversations with friends and cousins, and of course, a trove of fireworks. She was thus confused- had Diwali arrived earlier than usual this year? Her excitement grew in anticipation of the acrylic paint Baba had promised earlier. Perhaps this is why Baba had brought Ma and her to the rooftop in the middle of the night. “Jaya, you are not to leave your mother’s side, do you understand?” The sense of alarm and emergency in Baba’s tone crashed her rambling train of thoughts. The night sky surrounding her had brightened with a hue of orange and yellow,

she noticed in surprise. A thought suddenly hit her hard- were the men on the floor below not her father’s typical late-night patients? Her eyes darted to the sight of the raging, plasmatic red and orange behemoth engulfing the surrounding neighborhood. A 12 year-old, she couldn’t properly comprehend the feeling that now surged in her gut- one of upheaval, of impending shock. Her father was the last to join the men downstairs. One by one, the male members of the family were lined against the aged walls of the room in which they had had their last meal just a couple of hours ago. She looked on, almost as if looking through a portal into another dimension. The colors had faded on the cartoons dominating the wall against which their shadows lay. The miniscule gap in the ceiling was not large enough for Jaya to see the faces of her family members when it happened. All she could hear was a cavalcade of bangs in unison, followed by a discordant series of thuds. The splatter of red matched Mickey’s trousers, she thought for a second. Jaya fought against the constraints of the wind on her as she ran. Like shackles, they tried to stop her from running away, the same way her dadu- her grandfather- would whenever she headed out to play in the fields. The soldiers had heard her mother’s shriek upon sight of the blood. The duo sprinted across woods and paddy fields, the looming threat of gunfire at their heels. Ma’s sobs were drowned out by the artillery raining fire on the city. The artillery of the West Pakistani army continued its barrage. It fired at national monuments, at government buildings that previously stood tall in pomp, at student dormitories whose residents were buried alive in their sleep, at groups of innocent civilians trying to flee the suburbs. Underneath the salvo, men were fished out of their underwater hiding spots with bayonets. Some of the less fortunate wives and daughters were taken to rooms from which emanated howls begging for mercy and sobs foreboding a lifetime of shame. Thousands of human lives were brought to an end within a few hours. The sword had proven itself to be mightier than both the pen and the human conscience.

Eventually, one mortar unit turned its attention to a pair of figures bisecting a rice field. The Earth trembled when the shells fell a few meters behind Jaya. Panting desperately for air, she collapsed beside a haystack. “What are you doing? Can’t you see they are coming for us?” her mother snapped. Her tears had dried up by now. Her eyes reflected her own internal conflict, one of hope against desolation, of survival against certain death. She knew she needed to survive for her daughter. Jaya was all she had left now. The air was static, warm, humid. Flocks of crows, flecks of black against slate gray, periodically flew out and above the tree-line, hovering effortlessly overhead, leaving a sea of mortals to their own fates. They didn’t have any country, any race, or any creed. Perhaps that is what saved them that night, and on the nights that followed. The invisible leviathan erupted from the ground with a earsplitting boom. It happened in an instant, and then there was silence. Ma noticed it before Jaya did. Perhaps that is why she bent over to shield her daughter from the blast. The haystack absorbed most of the shrapnel; it was the handful that escaped that sent an excruciating pain up her left hip to the base of her spine. The mother fell down beside her daughter. Jaya was now covered in warm red. It was now her turn to shriek. Her eyes focused on the droplets of blood on the grass underneath, on what would become, after 9 months of boundless bloodshed and brutal perseverance, the emblem of the national flag of this hallowed land. But not tonight.

Blood drop on Green: National Flag of independent Bangladesh “Jaya, run!” Her mother’s whimper sounded alien to Jaya. Over the horizon, she could see distinct silhouettes emerge from the treeline. She did not immediately tell her mother that she wouldn’t leave her alone, for the very thought of doing so was inconceivable to her. “Ma, please get up”. She remembered the wintry mornings when her mother had to force her out from underneath her covers. She tried to pull the drape of her mother’s sari with all her might, but to no avail. “Jaya, listen. You listen to me carefully. I will be alright. I promise. You need to go.” “I am not leaving you with them. Not in this state. They are evil. They took Baba away to that room and he never came back. They will take you away too.” “No they won’t. I promise, my child”, she lied. It was her cry the gunmen had heard earlier. Her daughter could still live. “Where will I go, Ma?” “As far as this land goes. You will live, my golden girl. You will live for all of us.”

“When will I see you again, Ma? And when will I meet Baba again?” “We will meet again, on the other side. I promise” Both mother and daughter were united for eternity by blood and a thousand memories of love, sacrifice and struggle. Yet they had vastly different interpretations of this last statement. “Promise me you won’t stop. Promise me you will be safe”. “I promise, Ma”. Jaya could both emotionally and physically feel the vehemence in her mother’s push. The figures near the horizon kept getting bigger and bigger. “I’ll see you on the other side, Ma” And Jaya ran. She remembered rushing home to her mother every time she did well on a test. She remembered the spring mornings when she would run across similar fields to the row of mango trees on the other side, how she would always save a couple for her mother, for she knew her best friend was fond of mangoes. Even the unremitting sting in her leg muscles couldn’t conceal the one she felt in her heart at this fleeting thought, in spite of her mother’s promise. She remembered her own, and so didn’t look back. The sun had just started its ascent up the skyline. The monotony in its travel was excruciating. The loyal robins would soon initiate their ritualistic chorus. The sky now glowed with a different shade of red and orange, narrowly trailing in intensity to the shocking red that had replaced the water in the streams permeating the terrain. On any other night, Jaya would have escaped the shackles of her four walls and captured the marvel above the horizon in one of her landscapes. A steady breeze pervaded the atmosphere, and Jaya soon felt those familiar restraints on her, as if begging her to go back, as if the skies and the trees and the sun and the robins all shared a secret that she had not been made privy to, yet. This grand conspiracy cast a shadow of doubt in her mind, but only for a second. For she had made a promise, and she kept running.

Minh-Anh Day Raindrops To Jeremy, the Cooper Memorial Hospital had always been an endless collection of hopeless cases, hypochondriacs, and the occasional marathon surgery that left his hands shaking like an alcoholic two days from the bottle. And God, did he love it. Every mad minute of it. With one exception. Every week, he’d have to guide a couple of idiot parents (or worse, a smart one) through the results of their child’s OAT. Never mind that he hated it. Never mind that there were a dozen nurses on his floor that could have done a better job of it. Never mind that his obsessive adoration for his craft meant nothing about his ability to talk to parents. Jeremy was a neurosurgeon. Therefore Jeremy did his duty with the OAT. And that, in the eyes of the law, was that. He passed by Carla on this way into his office. “Morning,” he mumbled, his fingers already flicking though the test results. Just one today. Thank God. “Is it?” Jeremy paused to look at Carla as she responded wearily. “Yeah. I just got in. It’s…6:13.” He glanced at his watch, his eyes straying longingly towards his office door. “God.” Carla shook her head. “Jamson coded at 3…4? We were there for hours.” “Did he…” Is he going to need a bypass? I love a good bypass. Carla sighed. “No. Yes. He…” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. It’s fine.” He made a gesture, and the door to his office slid open immediately. He was inside by the time Carla finished her sentence. Everything was as he had left it, the little aloe on his

desk still straining against the edges of the pot. He checked his calendar. 7 o’clock. He checked it again. “What kind of person makes a 7 am appointment?” he muttered. Slumped in his chair, he spread the test results out on his desk. The OAT. Jeremy imagined that when the test was first introduced, people must have joked about the name. Making oatmeal, giving them their oats. Weak joke, but better than nothing, when you see people die every day. But not anymore. It was just a part of life now, just a part of the vocabulary. And ever since the law was passed that made the Occupational Aptitude Test mandatory, even the most stubborn doctors had to admit that it was here to stay. He pushed the results away. The analysis was remarkably clearcut: strong mathematical aptitude, critical thinking skills; weaker on expression and creativity, even accounting for parental influence. There was a clear path for someone like that, and it would be a good one. You could never tell, though. It seemed like the children with the clearest fates got the parents that resisted the hardest. Jeremy checked his watch. 6:24. Enough time for him to read the New England Journal of Medicine, if he kept his 7 o’clock waiting a little. She wouldn’t mind. It would probably reassure her, that he was busy. “Lock door.” He enunciated clearly, but still, a voice piped up from his desk. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you repeat—” “Lock door.” “Sorry, I—” Jeremy waved a hand, and the voice cut out. Stupid thing. He shook his head and returned to his reading. *** A beep from the door. Jeremy had barely looked up from his reading when the door opened, and a woman strode in. Though she held herself tall, Jeremy noticed that her left shoulder was perhaps an inch lower than her right. Mild scoliosis. Probably genetic. So her parents hadn’t wanted to fix her genome. It seemed cruel to Jeremy that such things used to be allowed.

“I’m sorry to barge in here, but I need to stick to my schedule, which doesn’t involve waiting around in hospitals.” She removed her coat smoothly and folded it over one arm. Jeremy checked his watch. 7:04. “Mrs. Tran? Is that—“ “Dr. Tran. But yes. That’s me.” She extended her hand as he rose to greet her. She was almost his height but seemed to think she was taller. “I’m Dr. Hathaway. Pleasure to meet you. Sit down, and we can get started.” He shuffled the test results back together from where he had scattered over the table. It was important, getting the little details; people took you seriously when you handed them a neat stack of papers. “I’ll just give you a moment to look these over.” She took the stack with just her thumb and index finger, spreading out the pages carefully on the desk. “Take your time,” he added. They always took longer than they needed, flipping back and rereading as if they expected the results to change. She was no exception. “So, she…” She trailed off. Jeremy glanced over at the New England Journal, still lying open on the desk, then thought better of it. He watched Dr. Tran’s face instead. She kept blinking at the pages. Blink. Blink. He could see her contacts shift slightly each time. “Well, then.” She shuffled the page back into a stack. “What happens now?” His fingers laced together as he leaned back in his chair. “Do you have any questions I could help answer?” “I think I just asked one.” Jeremy started to smile, but stopped when he saw her eyes. They were steady and hard and unblinking. “What happens now?” she repeated. He paused, staring back at her, and found himself glancing back at the test results on the desk, as if his next line was written on page two. “If you accept the recommendation, then you’ll sign off on this, and you can schedule the operation on your way out.” He drew a pen from his pocket and offered it to her. She took it and rolled it between her fingers. “And if I don’t? If I don’t accept the recommendation?” “Well—”

“What if I want my daughter to keep her whole brain?” Jeremy suppressed a tiny smile. “Well, if you had wanted your daughter to keep her umbilical cord, we’d still have to cut it. That’s the law.” She looked at him sharply. “Are you joking? Are you trying to make a joke?” He shook his head hurriedly. “No, Dr. Tran, I was just—” “This is her life we’re talking about. My daughter’s life.” She bit off the last word and waited, still leaning forward. Jeremy unconsciously leaned away a fraction of an inch. “The operation is very safe. She’ll be more likely to get injured on the drive here than on the operating table. Our surgical robots are state-of-the-art, and I’ll be supervising her operation personally—” “That is not what I mean.” Jeremy frowned. “Oh.” He paused. “Then—” “The decision I make will… it’s the whole course of her life, what I’m deciding. I’m making the choice for her. The choice to cut out all the other choices.” Jeremy sighed inwardly. A traditionalist. There were always a few of them, usually not more than one a month. At first, they annoyed him; now, all he felt was a little pity for them. They didn’t really understand that this wasn’t much of a choice either. “What if—what if it’s wrong? What if she wanted to be something else?” Good lord, she’s still talking. “Dr. Tran.” He used his best doctor voice for that, low and resonant and filled with authority. Nobody kept talking through that voice. “Your daughter has a remarkable aptitude for logic and quantitative thinking. She could be a great physicist. Or a mathematician. Or even, God forbid, a doctor.” He smiled at her, and she returned a faint echo. “This operation can help her. She’ll be focused on the things that matter, then things she can really do. She won’t be distracted by the thousands of other things that she can’t do anyways.” He leaned forward and looked Dr. Tran directly in the eyes. “This is the best thing for her.”

“What if it’s not? What if it’s wrong, and she…” Dr. Tran trailed off, then gave a little, despairing laugh. “What if she hates me for it?” Jeremy nodded solemnly. “I understand that feeling. A lot of parents have that fear.” Most of them have the sense to keep it to themselves, though. He took a breath and looked out his window. There was a mag-lev train going by, the tracks just a couple of buildings over. When they’d been building it, he’d complained about how it would be loud, distracting, how no one would be able to get any work done. He’d remembered growing up beside the train tracks in Chicago, how a train would thunder past and the whole world seemed to shake. But things were different now. The train floated by, almost silent, poised between two magnetic fields. Hard to adjust that mental model. Trains aren’t loud anymore. “Where do you work, Dr. Tran?” He looked back at her, and saw her looking out the window as well. Her focus snapped back to him. “I work for CERN. Remotely.” Of course. It was always the physicists, the engineers, who resisted the most. It was like that impulse to create something outside the rules leaked into their parental feelings. “Would you be where you are today without this operation?” “I don’t…know. I don’t think so.” “No. You wouldn’t. I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t. You’d be…I don’t know where you’d be.” She had shrunk a little in her chair. The pen clicked out, and back in. Gripping it tightly, she looked back at him. “You have to make the decision. If you don’t…well, then yes.” He gave her a sad smile. “She will hate you for it. For failing to make this decision for her. When her classmates breeze past her, she’ll hate you for it. When she can’t figure out what she wants to do, she’ll hate you for it. When she’s working somewhere she shouldn’t even be glancing at, she’ll hate you for that too.” He waited. She looked away, the morning sun glinting off her eyes. “I wish…God, I sound stupid,” she muttered. “I wish, I wish. Where’s the point in that.” She drew the test results closer

and turned to the last page. A box glared out at her. Signature here. She looked up at him, and her gaze was steady and hard and unblinking again. “I won’t waste any more of your time, then.” The pen skittered over the page, slipping wildly outside the confines of the small rectangle. She laughed a little, a wry smile on her lips. “I guess you can see why I wasn’t an artist.” She dropped the pen onto his desk and pushed the papers back to him. “Thank you, doctor.” “Thank you.” He gathered the papers up and tapped them on his desk, once, twice. “Is there anything else?” She was already rising and throwing on her coat. “No. I should get going.” She extended her hand. “Thank you.” They shook hands briefly. “And you’ll schedule it with—” “Yes!” she said sharply. “Yes.” And then she was gone, out the door. He watched her go for a moment, then turned away. Slowly, he returned to his desk and bent towards his reading. Outside the window, a little rain was falling. The light of the morning touched the droplets as they fell, sending colors that bounced around and refracted and disappeared again. They pattered down, colorless, on the windshield of a woman with mild scoliosis, who gripped the steering wheel like she was traveling too fast towards something unknown. The woman’s daughter sat beside her, watching in awe as the raindrops sprayed against the glass, painting patterns in water that melted into each other too fast to resolve into anything, dancing on the fringes of vision and breaking apart at the edges. Inside, Jeremy closed the New England Journal and stared at nothing.

Catherine Gao Homecoming 9 a.m. and we are driving through China, MaMa and BaBa and I, speeding through a screen of rain into the mountains. The world smears past our windows. This is Zhuang Jia Jie, MaMa tells me, shaking a brochure in my face. I tell her we are drowning. She laughs and tells me no, we are in the Shui Lian Dong, the cave of the Monkey King. The Monkey King lives in a garden, in a cave behind a waterfall, she says. I don’t like rain, I tell her. This is how we got to China: last New Year’s Eve, BaBa was making dumplings. He stood over a pot at the stove, stirring, and sighed into the steam. I want to go home, he said. Then we boarded a plane in San Francisco and ended up in Beijing. My grandmother stood at the airport gate with a sign. Gao Yun, the sign read, BaBa’s name, and she held it high among a sea of signs. Yesterday we took a train out of Beijing. We are heading to Zhuang Jia Jie, MaMa told me. It sounded like a dream. Sometimes it’s hard to tell apart the living China from the things you see in dreams. We boarded the train and I fell asleep zooming past the flatlands. I woke up in a leather seat in a car, then again in a hotel bed. Zhuang Jia Jie, MaMa said. She can go on forever about the floating mountains, the towering heights they aspire to. I’m looking outside right now and all I see is water. In the car the heating is droning, the radio is murmuring, and I drift off to sleep. *** 10 a.m. and raining still. No sign of a break. Just water tumbling from the mountain peaks and shrouding the highway in

a mist, breaking at the base of the mountain, pooling beneath our tires--more water than you could drink in a lifetime. *** When we pull over a woman is watching us. I can see her through the grocery store window, two beady eyes peering at us through the glass. BaBa parks the Buick and pulls out umbrellas from the trunk. He takes my hand and we sprint through the rain. What do you want? the woman asks as we tumble into her store. She leans against the checkout stand, twirling a pen. Water, BaBa says. The woman’s eyes trace quickly over BaBa and I. She nods and looks away, her face hardening. MaMa stumbles breathless through the door. The rain is crazy this morning, MaMa laughs to the woman. Has it been raining like this all week? Huh, the woman says. BaBa is huffing as he pulls off his raincoat. He’s dressed as if for work, in a wrinkled Cisco T-shirt and khaki pants. He shakes the rain off the umbrellas and stows them in his backpack. MaMa dresses better, in a cotton sweater and jeans she bought in California. The nameplate glints off her back pocket: Calvin Klein. I can feel the woman’s eyes following us discreetly, hesitating on the Nike logo on my sneakers. In China there is a proverb about a frog who spends his entire life at the bottom of a well. One day a bird flies into the well and spins a thousand stories about the world. The frog only half-listens. *** Americans don’t know poverty, MaMa tells me constantly. In the mountains, she says, poverty takes on a different meaning. Here are people who have never seen beyond the fishbowl of a valley, people for whom the sun rises out of the rice fields and sets behind the jagged spine of mountain ridges to the west. MaMa stands a little taller when she talks about these things. I can tell she is proud, the way a preacher is proud to spread the gospel or a murderer is proud to testify.

In a Beijing museum last week I found a sculpture of a Chinese man, half-starved, ribs clawing at his chest, standing with skinny arms outstretched and face thrown skyward. On the train here I saw people wedged between the hills, their clothes hanging, half-hidden in fields. Some are bent at the waist and kneeling into the earth. Others standing as if the dirt were gold and they an emperor. *** The woman looks at the ceiling, at her fingernails, at the Buick parked outside, at the paint peeling off the walls, at the broken ceiling fan, at the packaged food aging on the shelves, at the missing floor tiles, at the seams of her shirt, at her reflection in the window, at the rain beyond. She looks at everything but us. *** China is too green. At home there’s been a drought for a couple years, and by the summertime everything is dead. You’ll find yourself driving through foothills and the white grass twists at you and the sun is blinding. California is beautiful that way. The whole thing feels like running. From the airport you’ll drive through cities, down a back road past the hills, and then into the neighborhood. You’ll pull into your driveway and sometimes the neighbors will wave, but most likely not. Last night in my dreams I found myself wading through a jungle. The lighting is strange and the air so rich with water I could drown in it. My heart is pounding and I can taste a little blood in my breath. Here beneath the leaves, I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt. *** The store is quiet but its shelves are loud. They clamor like a Beijing crowd, each shelf overstuffed, packages elbowing one another and leaning into the aisles for air. I can hear them shouting. I’m not used to crowds. I look around in a daze. MaMa and BaBa have already found the water bottles, and they are rushing for the shelf. They drop their backpacks and begin to grab bottles off the shelf in handfuls. A pile builds by their feet. I head slowly toward them. The aisles feel as though they’re narrowing.

The woman shifts her weight at the checkout counter. She watches us like we are the white women in cafes at the strip mall back home. She faces the opposite wall, her face a mask, angling her head so she can just catch us in the corner of her eye. Behind her a security camera rolls, its red light blinking furiously. MaMa and BaBa are struggling to transport all the water in their hands. They load the bottles into a box and try to carry it. It drops. BaBaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands are chafing from the cardboard. MaMa throws a pointed look at the checkout stand. Do you have a bag? she asks the woman, irritated. Fifty cents, the woman says. *** Yesterday night in a stupor I remember seeing men outside the hotel. BaBa was shaking me awake and I saw them through the car window. There was a courtyard and a group of men sat on stools by the door, smoking. In the countryside especially, MaMa says, the Chinese take their doors seriously. Doors are the face of a home. In the mud villages that fringe every city the doors blossom out of earth-colored shacks. The poorer the village, the more beautiful its doors. This hotel door was breathtaking, outlined in gold and painted in exotic colors. There was a fountain in the heart of the courtyard. The walls were crumbling and dust covered everything else and the men sat wallowing in it. I held BaBaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand and stumbled towards the door. The hotel owner was there to greet us. He extended a hand to take our suitcases. His smile was polite. I was close enough to see all the men up close, their wrinkled button-up shirts and grey faded socks, mismatched. One of the men coughed, and he was missing teeth. As we passed the men fell silent. I could feel their eyes on us. Hua qiao, I heard the hotel owner whisper to them. They nodded and kept their eyes on us. *** I asked MaMa later what hua qiao meant. She looked at me, surprised.

Chinese Bridge, she said. It’s a name for the people who left China. She’s struggling now to lift a corner of the cardboard box. BaBa is holding the other end, his fingers reddening. I pace up and down the aisles. They puzzle me. MaMa, I say. Yes, honey. Do you remember the museum in Beijing? Gao yun, could you grab that water bottle? MaMa, someone made a statue of a man. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. No, the one on the shelf. He was starving. I could see his ribs. Ai ya! I said the shelf. Do you have eyes? Why was he starving, MaMa? The box of water bottles comes crashing out of BaBa’s arms. Silence for a beat, and then they begin to shout. Chun dan! Ni mei lian le ma? Ni lai na! Ni lai shi zhe na! MaMa, why would people make statues of a starving man? Jian zhi mei mian zi. MaMa, it’s raining hard outside. Ni cai mei mian zi. Do we need this much water, MaMa? *** I once asked MaMa about China. I had lived there as a child. I was a year old and MaMa was finishing her PhD in San Diego. She flew me to Beijing where I stayed with my grandmother for a year. Mandarin is my first language, but I barely speak it now. She tells me about the humidity. Summer is the wet season, and thunderstorms split across the sky. Water hits your skin like pellets. It drags on your feet and you breathe it in the air. It beats down and you spread your arms wide underneath it, laughing. Water is like silk, MaMa says, the way it folds onto you. MaMa left China first. She tested into the PhD physics program at UCSD and flew to Southern California. A year later

BaBa came too. He studied computer science and worked as a busboy on the side. I was born in a hospital in San Diego, a few weeks premature. A couple days ago my aunt thought I was asleep in the car. She leaned over towards MaMa in the front seat. Her Chinese is so slow, she whispered. *** Two of the water bottles end up in MaMa’s hands. The rest are stacked haphazardly against BaBa’s arms. They careen to the checkout stand, where the bottles tumble into a pile. The woman stares past us at the wall. MaMa clears her throat. Hello, we are ready to order. Sixty dollars. The woman does not move. MaMa snorts. Sixty dollars? Sixty dollars. You are crazy. Sixty for water? Sixty dollars. I’ll pay half of that. Thirty dollars. Sixty dollars. Come on, we are from here. The woman’s eyes gloss over MaMa’s clothes. You have more than sixty on you. MaMa rolls her eyes. We will take our business elsewhere, woman. No one is open. MaMa leans back and crosses her arms. The woman looks over her head, out the door at the rain. I can hear the low drone of the ceiling fan, a warm sound, battling with the noise of rain on the rooftop. I’ll pay you forty dollars, MaMa says. *** MaMa once got mad at a white man. We were at a dinner event for BaBa’s company. The lights blinked, white tablecloths swelled with food, and laminated Cisco banners wound across the room. MaMa had put on makeup. What do you do for a living? the man asked her. He was sitting with his wife across the table. MaMa said she was a physicist.

Wow. The man leaned back in his chair. It’s what I love. He picked up his glass of wine and took a long sip. So when did you come to the U.S.? Graduate school, MaMa said. I went to Qing Hua in the 90s. In Beijing? Isn’t that around the time of Tiananmen? That’s how I met Yun, she said, pointing at BaBa. Did you protest? No. Some of my friends did. Should have. A damn fine movement. I was in the Berkeley protests that year. Wrote a piece about the Chinese government after the headlines broke. MaMa speared a piece of salad with her fork. Those students never really got their movement off the ground, the man said. It’s a shame they never kept it running. So much to protest nowadays. You could demonstrate about pollution. You could march about the South China Sea. Although I hear the Chinese are pretty nationalistic about that one. He looked at MaMa. It’s a shame, the state of that country. Did you know that you can’t even find pictures of the Tiananmen protests online? They have a firewall that blocks it all. MaMa kept quiet. *** MaMa hands over the sixty dollars in silence. When she is deeply upset a network of lines branch out from her eyes. Today there are many. They run like streams, carving deep ruts, a series of rivers feeding into an ocean. I know the look and keep quiet. As the woman counts out the change, MaMa reaches into her purse, pulls out an iPhone, and snaps a few photos of the store. You have the nerve? the woman snaps at her. You are in my store, and you have the nerve? Is this how you treat customers? Go home. Nobody will kiss your feet here. I was born here. MaMa jabs a finger at the floor. You think you can cheat us like tourists?

Look at yourself. The woman smirks. Look at yourself. Who do you think you are? MaMa demands. Yang gui zi, the woman spits at her. MaMa’s face goes rigid. Her breathing pauses, her hands tense. A muscle pulses in her neck. Ni shuo sha? she asks. Yang gui zi, the woman repeats. MaMa is quiet. Her hands are shaking. We’re leaving, she tells me. Her voice is almost indistinguishable from the rain. What about the water? I said we’re leaving. She takes her purse and sweeps out of the store. I am still for a second, then BaBa takes my hand and walks with me to the door. He looks straight ahead, unblinking. As we leave I glance backwards. The woman is staring out the window at the rain, her face hard. I feel a burning sensation bubbling through my stomach. Are we going home soon? I ask BaBa. Yes, he says. Yes, we’re going home tomorrow. *** 11 a.m. and raining still, no sign of a break. Just water tumbling from the mountain peaks and shrouding the highway in a mist. MaMa and BaBa watch the mountains pass them by in silence. At home it rains, MaMa told me once. Rains so hard that roofs come sliding off, fields drown, streets turn into rivers. China has more water than you could drink in a lifetime.

Jack Golub

Life at the Office

“Do you want us to like you?” The words hang in the air, neither rising nor falling, waiting to be joined by a response. He can’t gloss over this question. His typical long, pretend-thoughtful pauses won’t work this time. Working up the courage to ask had taken Alejandra a few days. Getting the initial question out cleanly required more gumption than she had anticipated. The words clung to the inside of her throat. They didn’t want to leave their cozy home, filled with unspoken thoughts and buried ideas. Now that she had spat them out however, she was ready for a response. “We appreciate you. We acknowledge that you want us to be successful. We know that you care about us. But do you want us to like you?” Silence. “Because we don’t.” Her steady eyes bely her quivering nerves. Alejandra worried those final words might sting too much. Yet it had gotten to the point where she couldn’t afford to sugarcoat things. Not for her sake and certainly, not for his. As long as she had known him, Alan always did things his way. He determined what was right. And then he did whatever it took to realize his determination. As he sits there now, pulling his right leg up into a fold over his left, it seems like he is waiting for this storm to blow over. Like it is just any other disagreement. Alejandra clashed with him the most. Maybe it had something to do with sharing initials. They couldn’t spend two minutes together without arguing. Especially now, the room was simmering, and Alejandra could feel a warm bead of sweat build at her forehead. Finally, it grew big enough to fall. Unwilling to

release her poker face, she clenched her jaw as the drop slipped down and slid off the tip of her nose. But it wasn’t these arguments that pissed the others off. They all knew Alejandra was prone to freaking out. What did them in was Alan’s mundane cruelty. The kind of rudeness that you don’t always notice when it takes place nearby, but as soon as it’s done to you it ruins your day and etches permanently your opinion of the perpetrator. Like when Alejandra starts speaking and Alan interrupts her as soon as he has something to say. He frequently has something to say. Or the way he critiques Scott’s latest research, refusing to acknowledge any initiative but eagerly highlighting the numerous ways in which it could have been better. Which is too bad, really, because Scott only wanted to impress Alan. Or even how he tells Daisy, hardworking, birthday-celebrating, ADHD Daisy, that he likes her better when she is on her meds. Alan is a master at these crimes. Although he would probably call them leadership skills. *** Out in the hall, a closing door quiets a cackle of laughter. Because she had prepared too thoroughly for this encounter, Alejandra resists her nature and waits patiently. She had imagined this moment so many times it feels like a dream. The cold metal chair presses into her spine as she leans back, pulling her into focus. For a fleeting second, Alan matches her gaze. His eyes shine weakly like a dimly lit fish tank; if you inspect close enough you can just make out a ripple of movement, shielded by the dull bluish-brown reflection. Lines sprout from the edges of his eyes, as if they can invigorate the lifeless ocean of his face with the glimmer of action emanating faintly from his pupils. But then he glances aside and runs a hand through his hair, bending it backward to expose a few gray voyagers marking their territory in the name of old age. Judging by his reticence, those strands will have multiplied by the time he finally decides to speak.

*** For years the four of them: Alejandra, Daisy, Scott, and Alan, lived together, sharing their 24-hour-days at the office. Alan cared about the group. He gave them as many resources as they needed to complete their work. If any of them ever found themselves in a bind he was there, saddling next to them in their cubicle, willing to labor late into the night to make things right. His eagerness to help and ignorance of mental health sometimes caused him to overdo things. Like offering, and then encouraging, his underlings to take Adderall. But when it came time, he gave them some space to enjoy themselves, taking the group on retreats. Still, events over the past few months had staked deep wedges between Alan and the rest. Alan had buckled down for a stressful quarter. Building a company from the ground up is never easy. The time had come to take his investment firm public, and Alan was at the limit of his patience. Alejandra, Daisy, and Scott were pets to Alan. To be cared for. To be owned. His decision to treat his employees like dogs wasn’t as conducive to a good working environment as he would have liked. The moment anyone’s performance dropped he attacked, threatening big changes if they didn’t step up. Risks were rewarded with scolding. Fun was met with “Get back to work.” Investing was about risk-aversion and data devotion. There was no room for originality. Alan needed order and he needed it his way. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out the way he planned. Alan did something that forever changed their perception of him. He didn’t yell. He wasn’t actively mean. He even didn’t stop anyone from having fun. You see, it was quite easy, seeing as he was gone. *** Alejandra’s stomach growls. It is a low, ominous rumble, as if forewarning an impending storm. Or maybe it is her stomach’s way of telling Alejandra that not eating all day is bad, no matter how wildly those butterflies scramble in her belly.

Alan doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice. He sits there, physically present, mind wandering off God-knows where. *** It happened on a Monday morning. Alejandra, Daisy, and Scott had managed to drag themselves into the conference room, no small achievement for the start of the week. They plopped habitually into their chairs around the table, as though they were about to tackle a monotonous breakfast. Scott was rubbing his eyes, still tired from a long night of reading. Next to him, Daisy flashed her indefatigable smile and began chatting about the weather, to no-one in particular. They were ready to start the meeting as soon as Alan arrived. But, as you may have guessed, Alan didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t show. That day, or the next. A week later they received a message: he had left. Gone searching for work elsewhere. Maybe the pressure of perfection had broken him. In a day, this man who had caused so much pain, who had beaten a dent into the collective psyche of the group, had disappeared. Unfortunately, Alejandra and the others had no idea what do with their time. Despite all the harassment they had put up with, Alan gave them structure. Through his constant evaluations he was there, in an uncomfortably critical but reliable way. His leaving felt like a dying tree had been uprooted. No-one liked looking at it and they consistently tripped on its bitter roots, but the missing thick of earth it had held together left a gaping hole. Hard as it was to imagine, part of them missed him. That thought did not sit well with Alejandra. *** She thinks back now to that moment and squirms in her chair. Recalling that episode makes her want to disappear. Afraid of making eye contact, Alejandra stares at her feet. If she were to look up, she would see that Alan is doing the same. Perhaps he too is replaying that situation, imagining himself at

his more attractive home. How free he must have felt, relieved of his responsibilities. The patriarch of his pack a lone wolf once more. *** By the time they had fully grasped the reality of the situation, one month, two weeks, and four days later, Alan was back. Just as abruptly as he had gone. Dragging his sorry ass to the Tuesday afternoon meeting he, to audible gasps, apologized. He said he had made a mistake. He said he was going to change. He said words that did not sound true but perhaps felt true. Alejandra and the others had trouble understanding. It was this apology, however sincere, that prompted Alejandra’s initial inquiry. Never having considered it before, the question lurked in the recesses of her mind, bouncing around until she relented and activated her curiosity. All along, she had never considered whether or not he wanted them to like him. A person of his position generally would want to be liked by those around him. Nonetheless, so disagreeable he was that to entertain the notion of his wanting to be liked was insane. But then he apologized. Speaking in a worn, exposed tone he opened himself. Submitting to vulnerability, he revealed something more human in him than Alejandra had ever witnessed before. Yet, the clock was ticking—Alejandra’s and Scott’s contracts each expired at the end of the summer, and both were moving to different states— and the friction was climbing towards a full-fledged flame. With all the turmoil the last few months had brought, everyone stayed vigilant. Their precarious web could snap at any moment. Now was the time she had to ask. “Well?” Alejandra prods, “are you going to answer?” A window is open, welcoming a soft breeze that dances through wisps of hair on Alejandra’s face. Its coolness comforts her. She leans in, applying pressure by reducing space. He slouches in his chair. A desperate move, trying to preserve the distance and delay his response. His eyes touch the floor. He adjusts his watch to push the face away. Five seconds later he

tugs it back. The air in the room grows heavier and heavier, driving Alejandra’s fingers onto the table and manipulating them like a marionette. He sighs. Good, Alejandra says to herself, he’s alive. Her drumming ceases. She needs to know the answer. Alan has always demanded their best, no matter the cost. Does that mean he doesn’t care how they feel? Not too hard to imagine for a boss. “Dad?” But for a father?

HB Groenendal

No Name

Cars roar past like they’re in the top three of the World Grand Prix or some shit. A stray piece of rubble kicks up and barely misses hitting my forehead, dead center. School would be a little less of a torture kingdom if my brother didn’t make me walk all the way to it. Prick. Walking means heading to the front of the school, because they never have any other gate open in the mornings because they’re lazy assholes with no consideration whatsoever. And heading to the front of the school means seeing that lady. She stands in the middle of the intersection, looking every bit like a lost tourist without a map and searching for someone to give her directions. Except for the fact that her collar is ripped and sloping off one shoulder, her jeans are scuffed and have holes in them, her hair is the equivalent of a singed rat’s nest, and there is a gnarly-looking gash across her cheek, the blood crusted where it dripped down her face. Every time, she catches me staring at her, because, honestly, who wouldn’t stare at a train wreck like that? Every time, she rushes over, and rambles on and on about not knowing where she is, and how all she wants is to find her boy, and if I can help her, and if the other person is okayEvery time, I pull up my hood, put my head down, and walk across the street like I can’t hear her. She gives up after I slip through the school’s gate, and goes back to standing in the middle of the intersection. She doesn’t notice that her feet aren’t touching the ground, or that cars are passing through her, or that no one else can see her. She’s the worst kind, because she doesn’t know she’s dead.

It’s sad, really, because she’s stuck at that intersection for eternity, questioning about a child that probably long since grew up and forgot all about their dead mother. After school, I pass my brother as he heads to the locker rooms. He shoves at my shoulder jarringly and glares at me like I just told him his one-shower-a-month policy isn’t cutting it. Fuck him. I leave out the back gate so I don’t run into that undead lady at the intersection. I didn’t feel like getting blabbered at with twice the intensity, since she would remember me from this morning. The undead have unreliable memories, at best, but I’m not about to test it. I keep my head down and my hood up as I walk. The undead are everywhere, their outlines blurred like old, unfocused photographs and their stares like bullets through tissue paper. All I want to do is go home, steal my brother’s Doritos that he hid in the pantry when he thought no one was looking, and watch TV until mom comes home. Being harassed by the undead is not a part of my plan, and I want to keep it that way. I’m halfway home when I notice the footsteps following me. I slip my keys out of my back pocket, and slot them in between my fingers like the Wolverine. The steps don’t hesitate. Looking back isn’t smart, because that would mean acknowledging that they’re there, and that would make them think that I’m up for conversation. Which I’m not. I get home, unlock the door, and look behind me as I step inside. There’s no one there. I could’ve sworn the steps followed me until I reached the porch. I roll my eyes at myself for being stupid, because, really, who would follow me? They’d have to be out of their fucking mind. Locking the door behind me, I head for the kitchen, making a beeline for those Doritos. This is what my brother gets for thinking that he would last till his cheat day and for not driving me. I freeze, though, when I see someone sitting in the living room.

At first, I think he’s one of my sister’s friends, but he looks way too old and her friends don’t come around because of me anymore, anyways. He turns around and his eyes land on me almost immediately. A wide smile stretches across his face like a homeless man being told that he won the lottery; the pure joy is unnerving at best. “So you can see me!” I blink, not knowing what he’s talking about, but then I notice that his outline is slightly soft around the edges, like he was sitting in front of a very brightly lit window. I turn around, Doritos forgotten, and take the stairs two at a time. I dart into my room and lock the door behind me for good measure. One of undead followed me home. He’s in my house and knows I can see him. How? I made sure that I didn’t say anything- I don’t know if I can say anything, how the hell did he find me? “Well, that’s rude, running away from someone you just met,” a voice sounds, indignantly, and when I look up, the undead is sitting on my bed like he owns the damn thing. There’s a fake pout on his face as he surveys me, and I glare at him back, wanting for all the goddamn world for him to disappear in less than a second. But, of course, it doesn’t happen. “Who do you think you are? Okay, sure, maybe you’re not supposed to see me at all, and I followed you home like a stalker, but that’s only because that lady told me you stared at her this morning!” He knows he’s dead? That’s a first. I’m about to ask him how he knows, my lips parting slightly, before I stop and swallow the words that never had a chance in the first place. “You know, I thought she was crazy because, you know, all the blood and the wacko look in her eyes but,” he says, looking around my room quickly before his gaze falls on me again. “You really can see us.” He sounds fond, and for the first time in a long time, I want to scream. I want to yell at him to get out of my house, to leave me alone, to find someone else to do his bidding or whatever shit, because how dare he sound like that while talking

to me, making it sound like I matter and can make a difference. Fuck him for even thinking that. But I couldn’t. I’ve never had to stop myself from saying something before, and honestly? I hate it. “Oh, I guess I should…” he trails off as he stands. His feet are more firm on the ground than mine are as he takes a couple steps forward, crowding in closer without the concept of personal space. A kind smile creeps on his face as he juts his hand out towards me. “The name’s Nikolai. Nice to meet you…?” he trails off, the question undeniable in the way his head tilts to the side. I’m trapped, since he’s close enough that I can’t get around him. So, instead, I give an unimpressed look at his hand before flicking my eyes up at his face. I hope that he can feel how done I am with his niceties bullshit. In less than a second, his eyes pop wide, his jaw drops slightly, and he stumbles a half step back. “Shit! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-!” he yells as he starts to pace around my room. His hands fly up to his hair, tugging at it as he stresses. “I didn’t mean to do that, honestly! I just forgot, and it was so natural, and I just… I’m sorry.” I don’t get what he’s talking about, really, but he sounds sincere, like he honestly feels horrible for… something, whatever the hell he’s rambling about, but I couldn’t care less. All I know is that I can move now, so I walk around him, flop onto my bed, and tuck myself as close to the wall as I can. “What are you-?” I wrap myself up in the blanket at the foot of my bed. “Wait, wait! Don’t-!” I close my eyes and ignore him. He has to go away eventually, just like they always do. “C’mon, man! I said I was sorry! Don’t be like this!” I feel my mattress dip as he sits on the corner, but I do nothing to move him away. It’s not long before his annoying-ass voice is gone and I am dead asleep. I wake up with mom yelling at me from downstairs, my alarm blaring, and no sight of that undead. I walk out of my room, still groggy, and make my way down the hall to the bathroom.

My sister practically flounces past me as she heads downstairs for breakfast, poking my arm gently and saying good morning as she goes. My brother sneers at me and grunts something that’s definitely a threat as he stomps out of the bathroom, putting a ham-like hand on my head and pressing downwards like the brute he is. I duck out from under his hand before firing him a glare, slipping into the bathroom, and locking the door. I piss, wash my hands, and then my face while I’m at it. It doesn’t help much. I still look as shitty as I always do. I leave and head for my room, only to see the undead leaning against my doorframe like he owns it. I hesitate, and he notices. “There you are! The Sleeper!” he says. A wide, patronizing smile cracks across his face. I roll my eyes and weave my way around him to get into my room. He follows me inside even after I slam the door. “You know, I should just call you the Sand Man from now on, because you’d rather sleep for fourteen hours than answer a simple question.” He sounds irritated for a second, but when I look over my shoulder at him, he has a gentle smile pulling at his lips. I look away quickly and rifle through my drawers for something to wear. “Why didn’t you tell me, anyways?” he asks, suddenly serious in a way I haven’t heard him be before. I can practically feel him hover over me as I root around for a shirt that doesn’t fit me like a trash bag. “Is your name embarrassing? It can’t be worse than Nikolai, honestly. I’m not gonna judge.” He’s trying to joke, but the sincerity is still there. I don’t know what to do with it, so I ignore him and look for some socks. “Now that I think about it, I haven’t heard you talk since I followed you here,” he says, troubled, “not even when you sleep. Are you a mute? I’m okay if you are, more power to you, but… I don’t think you are. It’s not… well, you don’t feel like a mute.” I bite the inside of my lip. I taste blood. He doesn’t know that I did this to myself. He doesn’t know that I am my only problem, and he never will. Fuck him for trying to understand. I flick my eyes to the clothes I threw on

my bed and then back to him, hoping that my pointed glare gets the message across. “Oh, I get it,” he says, stomping over to my dresser before climbing on top of it. “Ignore me once again, that’s fine.” He mutters this as he turns around, faces the wall, and crosses his arms over his chest. I roll my eyes once again at him, because he switches from genius to bratty child in seconds, and it’s annoying as hell. I don’t know why the hell he’s here, but he needs to go because I don’t know how long I can take this. I change, grab my backpack, and leave the house before he even knows that I’m gone. Computers is probably one of the easiest classes in the world, and I would wonder why they even have it as a class if I didn’t like having an A. The assignment the teacher gives out for the week is done in five minutes, so it gives me time to dick around and do whatever I want on the school’s dime. I’m in the middle of trying to figure out how to hack the school’s system when I come across my record. It’s nothing extraordinary, with mediocre grades and an even less impressive ID picture, but there’s a little red asterisk in the corner with a note that’s only viewable by teachers, one that says that I won’t speak and to not bother to try and make me. Well, that’s what it basically says, and it pisses me off. Everyone focuses on the fact that I don’t talk, but no one wants to know about why I don’t talk. They’ve never even tried to understand, and it’s the reason why I stopped talking in the first place. I used to talk about the undead all the time and, for a while, everything was okay. But then I got older, and my brother started making fun of me. Dad told me none of it was real, and mom told him to stop being harsh on me. They fought about it a lot. I didn’t understand why, though, because they were real. I didn’t know why they couldn’t see them, too. One day, there was an old lady at the fence of my elementary school. I walked over to her and started talking to her, and soon there were more of them, crowding around and yelling at me, almost like my voice was bait on a fishing line. I

didn’t get why they were yelling at me to save them, help them, free them. Now, I realize their outlines were blurry and the other side of the street could be seen through their eyes. But I didn’t know the difference between the living and the undead back then, so I kept talking and they kept coming. And it all went downhill from there. No one at school knew that I could see the undead, but, then, they all saw firsthand how much of a freak I am. They jeered at me, taunted me for talking to no one, for having imaginary friends when I told them there was a crowd on the other side. They laughed and I ran into the bathroom and huddled in a stall until school was over and a janitor had to fish me out. When I got home that day, mom was on the phone. She was talking about me and how I was unsettling. She agreed with dad, called me abnormal, and wondered if I needed to be checked out. I didn’t get why they thought I was lying, but I finally understood. They couldn’t see the undead and thought I was broken. Something inside me needed to be fixed because I was seeing things that weren’t there and it was weird. I finally understood that they wouldn’t listen to me and they wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain. So I stopped. I stopped talking about the undead, about school, about everything. Soon, the jeers stopped and the pointing began, marveling at the kid who didn’t speak. My parents fought about my quietness, and my brother blamed me for tearing our parents apart. The undead were still there, an unfortunate constant, but they ignored me like everyone else. Without my voice as a beacon, there was no way to tell if I could see them unless I stared. I haven’t talked since. I don’t even know if I have a voice anymore. “Whoa, are you some kind of genius or something?” someone says, and when I look up, Nikolai is sitting on my desk. He’s grinning down at me like he won a prize, and I hate it. “I wouldn’t really be surprised, you know,” he continues, “you have that sort of… book-smart air around you.”

I snap. I open a new tab and type in the search box. look e.coli i dont care wut you want frm me just leave me the fuk alone I nudged the monitor towards him more so that he could see what I wrote. He huffed out a little laugh before pretending to wipe his eyes free of stray tears. “I knew you were a genius. Man, and I thought I would try being friends with you first before asking,” he said, almost like he told a good joke and he was expecting me to laugh any second. But I wasn’t buying it. So he had something he wanted from me. I thought so. It was only a matter of time. No one talks to me unless they need something, and I expect nothing less from the undead, too. I gave him a deadpanned look and raised my eyebrows, almost daring him to tell me what he wanted. “Well, if you insist,” he says reluctantly, smacking his lips as he stands. Dramatically, Nikolai looks up from the floor and stares at me. “I was murdered,” he confesses, lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal a bloody, gaping, raw hole at the spot where his ribs flare apart, “and I need you to help me get something back to a friend.” I don’t know if it’s the way he’s looking at me, the way he says he needs me like I’m his last hope, or the blood that seems to still ooze from the gunshot wound, but my head spins and I’m suddenly lunging towards the nearest trashcan as I catch my vomit in my hands as it spills from my mouth.

Christopher Healy Wherein My Shadow Fails to Mimic Me There was someone else around who was still alive. The old woman, kneeling by her former husband, became abruptly self-conscious as she noticed a relatively young man sitting on a bench around thirty yards away, facing her. He looked maybe thirty years old, and had no remarkable features, at least as far as she could see from her distance. The graveyard was, of course, a public place, but that did not quell the sensation that she had been intruded upon in some way. She had been granted the good fortune of solitude during her previous visits after all. She became uncomfortable as he noticed her staring and gathered herself to depart. Upon rising, however, a resentful impulse took hold of her. Who was this man to scare her away? Instead of heading in the direction of her car, she turned and strode purposefully towards the bench, with no idea what she would do when she got there. As she approached, her state of mind calmed. Of course this man had every right to be here; her husband was not the only soul that inhabited the meadow. Still, she had committed to her course of action. She looked around as she walked. There were no other benches around. This was good. As she arrived, she smiled courteously in his direction and sat on the opposite end of the bench. He responded with only a half smile and slight nod. Still, he looked like a nice enough, if entirely unremarkable young man. Sunglasses lay on the bench beside him. The woman did not know why he would need sunglasses at

dusk, but she appreciated that he had the decency to remove them. They sat without talking for some time, but eventually she could no longer bear it. “Who are you here for?” Her voice cracked as she immediately regretted her question. As a matter of fact, had he asked that of her she probably would have sternly informed him that it was none of his business, as of course it wasn’t. She could only hope that the silence was as disturbing to him as it was to her. He turned and frowned and tilted his head, and she panicked. “I’m here for my husband. He’s the one over there.” She pointed out his grave and immediately felt foolish, as undoubtedly the man had seen her kneeling there just a few minutes ago. The man barely reacted, and an intense pressure for her to keep talking emerged, as if a sharp blow awaited when she stopped. “His name was Frederick. He passed about two years ago.” “I’m sorry.” “Thank you.” The silence crept back onto the bench. “He was a good man. I first met him in Grad School. He was studying law, and I was studying to be a nurse. He was an idealist, though. A real bleeding heart. He could make me see the world as something I could actually change, as if what I spent my time doing actually mattered, as if I was denying everybody else when I wasted it. I do think he was wrong about that, but I miss the optimism. There are fewer sunny days now.” The man did not respond. “He worked for a huge law firm. He rose through the ranks quickly because he was smart and friendly. Lots of lawyers come across as those sneaky types you see on TV. He stuck out like a sore thumb, in a good way. People trusted his principle, and their trust, well, it wasn’t misplaced.”

“There were weeks where he wouldn’t sleep at all, either because he knew a client needed more time or because he couldn’t tell if what he was doing was right. Hindsight always said he did the right thing, so I guess it was worth the time.” “I think I like to think I helped him through it, but I’m not sure. I think I might have been redundant in his life, if I’m being completely frank.” The man gave only a slight nod. “He had a couple weeks of vacation a year. At least once a year he flew out to some poor country and helped build a school. I went with him once. To Ghana. It was a nightmare living there. I know that sounds selfish, but we all have our limits. He never ragged on me about my not wanting to go with him though. And I gave a lot of my money to charity, so I felt ok about it.” “That’s not to say he was perfect. He was really nice, but he wasn’t terribly romantic, and he didn’t have a great sense of humor. He drank, and he punched walls when he got angry. Never people, just walls. There are still holes all over the walls in our house. My house, I guess. “It’s gonna be a real drag fixing that when I kick the bucket.” She offered a fake laugh. He gave a halfhearted smile but continued to look forward. “He was excited about retiring because he was going to do more ‘good things,’ is what he called them. I told him that what he did for a living was a good thing, but he said it didn’t count because he got paid. I thought that was silly. He got cancer pretty soon after, though. Pancreatic cancer. Not many people survive that. Chemo was a nightmare. He lost his nice hair, and he got grossly sick. He said he felt terribly guilty that I had to deal with him, but I just said that I felt terribly guilty that such a terrible thing had happened to such a wonderful man. I liked to make him smile, even if the smile didn’t seem real. His eyes, after a while, got wide and intense, almost manic. He acted the same, but you could tell that he wasn’t the same. He kept doing

his charity in far away places, though obviously not as much as he would have liked. Each time, I tried to convince him not to go, and that he needed rest, but he always said he couldn’t waste his days trying to prolong them, or something poetic like that. I think he must have read it in a poem or something.” “I always wondered when he left if I was ever going to see him again. It was hard, but thankfully we worked out how to Skype, and we talked almost every day.” “Then, one night, about a week and a half before he was off to some African country, he called me from his checkup with his doctor. I was expecting the worst.” “He was ecstatic. The doctors said that it could be considered a miracle. Somehow he was in remission, somehow the Chemo had worked. After fifteen years of fighting this thing he had won. Almost no one beats it. Few live longer than five years with it. He told me to get out his favorite wine and that he was going to be right home.” She paused for effect. “He never made it home. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit him.” “They told me he died before he even realized something was wrong, but maybe they just said that to make me feel better. I guess I was acting a little crazy. People do that sometimes.” “But anyway, just like that, it was over. He was dead. After all that.” She had finished, and she wasn’t anxious anymore. There was instead a cathartic satisfaction and a sudden, cold indifference to the stranger next to her. She turned to him and asked again: “So who are you here for?” It sounded like calmly worded demand. She felt as if she was doing him a favor, granting him her time so he could tell his story as well. There was also an implicit challenge. Not much could top her story, unless of course he stretched the truth more than she did. Without turning his head, he responded in a remarkably unbothered manner.

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“No one in particular.” She nodded and turned to face the graves. The scene was static for around twenty seconds. Then the old woman abruptly turned back to the man and frowned. He did not react. She quickly looked straight again, hoping that he had not noticed. She became conscious of her own breath. The shadows covered more and more ground. Ten seconds passed, during which the old lady slowly and intentionally put together her best smile. She turned back to the man and said “Nice to Meet You!” a little too loudly, then got up quickly and walked hurriedly away. She turned around once and made brief eye contact, and nearly tripped.

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Natalie Johnson The Sketchbook “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “I have to check the exact time again.” Miranda’s voice raises slightly with agitation. Her own tone catches her off guard. She pauses before continuing: “But I think my flight leaves around 10:30. So I wanna be out of here by 8:30.” “Alright,” her mom yawns. “I’m going to bed.” Miranda checks her phone. The screen reads 8:37. She smiles. “Already?” she asks, even though she is well aware her mom always goes to bed and wakes up early. She just wants to keep the conversation going a little longer – not be alone with her luggage and packing checklists and all the other trinkets and books she wants to bring but can’t fit anywhere just yet. “I’m tired!” Her mom laughs weakly. “And all that food we ate…” “Yeah. Feel free to eat my leftovers,” Miranda adds, aware her dad’s monthly social security check is still another week away and the fridge had been looking bare for a while already. “I’m not gonna bring a take-out box of pad Thai with me on the plane.” “Well, thanks, Miranda. Good night.” “Good night.” She watches her mom leave, closing the door behind her. Miranda feels like she should recheck everything but honestly doesn’t know where to start. Usually pretty high-strung and on-her-shit, she’d oddly put the task of packing for college off to the night before. She was so overwhelmed by the amount of clothes she wanted to bring and where her comforter would even fit and what toiletries she should pack and what she should buy when she got out to California that she just went to sleep

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instead. The fact that it only took two and a half hours from start to finish surprised her. There was no need to even get up so early. She’d spent the afternoon just laying around. She’d already finished a book she’d gotten from the library and didn’t want to start a new one she wouldn’t be able to complete. She didn’t want to scroll through Facebook or Tumblr, and didn’t even feel up to watching Netflix. All she could think about was the foreclosure. When you know this is your last day in the house you grow up in, everything feels like a waste of time. Her phone goes off. A text from her sister, Alyssa: All packed? I guess, Miranda messages back. I feel like im forgetting something but I dont feel like going thru everything again. Just think about what youd be most upset about forgetting. Thats what I always do. Thats a really good idea actually. Dont stress, Alyssa finally texts back after a pause. Ill try. Miranda sets her phone down on the floor and gets to work. Okay, let’s think. Laptop. That was big. Miranda sits down behind her backpack and unzips the main compartment. Tucked away at the very back is her brand new MacBook Air in its sleeve. She bought it just two days ago after she was sure her summer savings could cover it and the move with a $100 cushion leftover. What else, what else, what else? Her closet was cleaned out. Even if she was forgetting shampoo or contact solution, she could just buy a new bottle when she arrived. What else? She checks her phone. 9:08. Maybe I should just go to sleep early. Her nerves are growing heavy. Her bed is calling to her and telling her to let everything go until the morning. She lifts her arm up and stretches. She yawns, rubs her eyes. Then it hits her. The sketchbook.

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If nothing else, she has to bring that. But she hadn’t actually seen it since the beginning of summer. Miranda drops down, lifts the blanket, and looks under the bed. There’s an old t-shirt that reads Jacobs High School Black Student Union and a couple pencils but no, she didn’t leave it there. Shit. Miranda stands in the center of her room and takes a deep breath. She can envision it perfectly. Olive green cover, no writing on it. Sturdy cardboard back. 150 blank, off-white pages in between. She turns toward her book case and traces each shelf, looking for the black, metal spiral of the sketchbook. Miranda’s bookshelf has five levels and is almost wallto-wall. When she was packing earlier that day however she realized she only had room for about three or four books. She felt great pressure to choose the ones that best encapsulated her childhood and adolescence, and could serve as conversationstarters with her dorm mates. She considered trying to make all seven Harry Potter books somehow fit in honor of how the series dominated her middle school life, but decided against it seeing as she had not touched the books in years. Then, Miranda thought, how about Watchmen, Lolita, and The Virgin Suicides? They were classics and together would make an eclectic and interesting enough collection. Miranda almost followed through with this before she realized she couldn’t pass up It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini and her Shel Silverstein books of poetry. Last year when Miranda’s mother had gotten home from the hospital for treatment for her depression, she’d often ask Miranda for book recommendations to fill the long hours she spent at home. Laughing almost, she’d told Miranda how scarily accurate the depictions of the hospital in It’s Kind of a Funny Story were to the real thing. As for the latter, Miranda had been obsessed with Shel Silverstein as a kid and had rediscovered her love for his writing this past summer. A poem she flipped to often when she wanted to kill time was “Wall Marks”, wherein a naïve child describes the markings for height their father kept for them through the years and their confusion as to why their mother would cry

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whenever she saw them. Poised to leave for a new life herself, she felt “Wall Marks” gave her last months at home a sort of poetic underpinning. Miranda loved the piece and used to get chills every time she read it. Now it just makes her stomach turn. Where the hell is my sketchbook? Miranda’s room is on the first floor of her house, all the way in the back. The only way to it is through the kitchen. She expands her search there, after ransacking what was left of her desk drawers and pulling out and double-checking all the contents of her suitcases. She flips the light switch and the four bulbs in the ceiling fan flash on. The blades on the fan start slowly. Miranda watches them gradually speed up until they are whirring so fast the entire installation shakes slightly. She sits down at the table. Miranda knows she’ll see her parents again in a few months for winter break. It’s being here in one of their wooden chairs one last time that makes her stomach heavy. She reaches for the curled up bag of potato chips but a wave of nausea rolls over her and she recoils her hand. She thinks about the first half of her junior year when her mother was severely depressed. To ensure she ate, Miranda would squeeze making sandwiches for her into her tight morning routine before school. Eating breakfast at the kitchen table was the only time Miranda really saw her mother out of bed on a regular basis back then. Miranda looks down at the table and notices there is some brown sugar her and her mother had forgotten to clean up from this morning. It was funny almost; she’d grown up loving the sweets her mother baked, but hadn’t got around to learning how to make a simple apple pie until the day before she moved out. Miranda hears the cord rattle against the light bulbs. She looks up at the ceiling fan, which hangs directly above the table. The way it shakes always made her nervous. This past summer she and her mother would eat lunch together here almost every day while watching Netflix on Miranda’s laptop. Despite her

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mom’s protests, Miranda would always insist on keeping the fan off for that stretch of time even when the lack of central air caused temperatures to rise above 90 degrees in the house. As she sifts through the old magazines and newspapers that cluttered the kitchen table, Miranda wonders why she had waited until her mother recovered to spend time with her. There are magazines, expired coupons, and old bills in the kitchen. But no sketchbook. Miranda imagines herself pushing everything off the kitchen table in a dramatic rage. This thought makes her smile. Her dad would also have found it funny. This reminds her: she should check his room, too. From the kitchen Miranda walks down the hallway, passing the bathroom on her right and her mother’s room on her left. Further down on the right side stood the door to the basement and the door to the upstairs. They are both open. Miranda looks down at the ping pong table her family owned. Nobody had used it in years, and the tabletop has been overtaken by boxes of old clothes, cobwebs, and piles and piles of her and her sister’s old school work. She heads upstairs. For as long as she could remember, at some point every day Miranda would wander to her dad’s room with some random question or anecdote; this would always spiral into deep conversations that could easily last an hour or more. When she first got the sketchbook, she went upstairs to show her dad and they talked all about their art and writing goals for the summer. She’d probably left it there. The second floor of Miranda’s home only has two large rooms and a closet. It’s really more of a spacious attic. Her dad had converted the floor into a study of sorts. When he wasn’t revising his novels and writing letters to publishers, he’d practice music (he’d spent years accumulating his impressive collection of violins, guitars, and various wind instruments), read, or binge watch his new favorite TV show. Atop the amplifier for his electric guitar and bookcases and door frames rests Miranda’s artwork, spanning from elementary school projects to the watercolor still life she made for her tenth grade painting class.

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Miranda had spent hours out of class on the piece and still ended up with an 85% overall, the only B Miranda got in high school. But Miranda knows though the reason why her father displays the piece proudly in his room isn’t to make her feel better about the grade. She knows he genuinely loves the painting. The lights are off when Miranda reaches the top of the stairs but her dad is still awake, re-watching Breaking Bad. The brightness of the TV screen illuminates the room. “Daaaad,” Miranda fake-whines, turning on the lights, “have you seen my sketchbook?” “What sketchbook?” he asks, sitting up in his bed. “You know,” Miranda says, sinking into the rocking chair, “the one James got me. I showed it to you at the beginning of the summer. It was green, kinda big.” “Shit, I don’t know.” “Help me find it.” “No.” “I think I might’ve left it up here, help me look.” “No, Miranda. I’m watching something.” Miranda laughs and starts perusing her father’s room. “You should go to sleep.” “So should you, you gotta drive me to the airport.” Miranda accidentally causes a stack of papers to scatter on to the floor near one of the bookcases. “God—you gotta calm down,” her father tells her. “I’m fine. You shouldn’t have your manuscripts so precariously perched like this.” “What’s botherin’ you?” Miranda stops looking for her sketchbook and meets his eyes. “What do you think?” He waits for her to respond. She goes back to her search. “I’m not ready to start college—” “Of course you are,” her father laughs. “Weren’t you just racking up college acceptances a couple months ago? If you’re not ready, no one is—” “I can’t find my damn sketchbook—” “Well, it’ll turn up. We can ship it to you if you don’t find it tonight—” “We’re losing the house.”

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After a beat, Miranda’s father tells her, “Don’t worry about that.” “When do you have to be out of the house?” “I don’t know,” he says. “I want to be out of here by November. The furnace is still broken. Don’t wanna go through another winter in Wisconsin without heat.” Miranda nods solemnly. “Where are you guys gonna live?” Her father grins. “Somewhere. We’ll be fine. You find your shit?” “No.” “You should go ask your mom. She was moving around a lot of stuff last week. She might’ve put it somewhere.” “Okay. Good night.” “Good night, sweetie. Get some sleep.” Miranda has to pee first. As she washes her hands using the bathtub faucet, she realizes how used she had gotten to living like this. What she’s doing in that moment had long stopped striking her as odd – it’s just what you do when the sink is broken and your parents don’t have the money to fix it. The peeling wallpaper, the rusting radiator, the black plastic covering up the hole in the side of the shower – she resents all of it. Why am I sad? Why don’t I want to leave this? But at the same time, it’s all a part of her, too. Miranda crosses the hall to her mother’s room. She suppresses the urge to be annoying and turn the lights on. Instead, she just speaks. “Mom. Mom. Mommmm!” “Miranda…?” “Mom, have you seen my sketchbook?” She pauses, rubbing her eyes. “That…green one? The one James gave you?” “Yes.” “It’s on the coffee table in the living room.” “Really?!” “Yeah,” she yawns, “underneath some of your old mail.” Miranda beams. “Thanks! Good night, dear.” “Good night, Miranda.”

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Miranda begins closing the door to leave, then stops for a moment. “I love you, mom.” “I love you, too.” The Sunday following her high school graduation, Miranda went with her aunt Ella to spread her great uncle James’s remains. The rush was because Ella was moving to live with her daughter and her family the following Tuesday. Not to mention, everyone knew Miranda’s dad wouldn’t be the one to do it. His and James’s relationship had actually improved after James stepped in to pay off the mortgage and stopped the house from being foreclosed the first time. But Miranda’s dad had already made his peace. Besides, there was a football game on that afternoon. They decided to spread his ashes around Mayfair Mall. Not along the actual building, of course – there was a wooded trail out on the periphery of the parking lot, and they traced that. “Fitting, right?” Ella chuckled. Miranda had always found her sing-songy voice so calming. “All those times I would drive all the way out to Elmer Street to pick him up and take him all the way out to Mayfair to get his shopping done. He’d ask about you and your sister a lot.” Miranda flinched. The two were back in Ella’s car, chatting about the family tree. Miranda realized some of the ashes had gotten into her sandals while they had been outside, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m glad you’ll have more time to yourself after you move,” she told her aunt. “No man’s errands to run anymore.” They both laughed softly. “He used to call our house almost every day,” Miranda continued, jumping subjects. “When the phone rang and I was the only one around to get it, I used to cross my fingers that it wasn’t James. Now—” “I know, I know. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Alyssa told me she’s also dealing with some guilt about not seeing James enough when he was alive.” Miranda looked straight, nodded, chin locked. “Oh! That reminds me. James did buy you a graduation gift right before he passed.” Ella reached behind the passenger

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seat and lifted up a brown paper bag. She pulled out the sketchbook and handed it over to Miranda. “Why are you smiling?” “Oh.” Miranda hadn’t realized she was. “It’s just—I think I mentioned wanting to start drawing once to James a month ago, and he goes out and gets me this. It’s so nice.” Miranda turned it around and ran her fingers along the pages. “I hope it wasn’t too expensive.” “Don’t worry about that too much. You’re worth it.” Miranda opened the front cover and discovered James had left a note. Congratulations, Miss Valedictorian. Now go and get that Stanford degree. Make something new for yourself. And draw me something nice. –James “Hey, you found it!” Miranda looks up from the sketchbook. It’s the morning of her flight to California. She sits in an armchair in the living room, her luggage laid out a few feet away from her near the front door. Her father had just walked in, combing his hair. “Yeah, I found it last night,” she tells him. “I was just reading something again.” “’Bout ready to go?” Miranda’s mother asks them, strolling into the room swinging her purse over her shoulder. “Mm, that’s a loaded question.” Miranda’s father laughs. Miranda closes the sketchbook and slips it into her bookbag in front of her computer. Before she can hoist the bag onto her back, her parents are already opening the front door and dragging her luggage through it and down the porch steps. Miranda lingers behind them in the doorframe watching. It’s the moment that seemed both like it would never come and like it came too fast. The moment where present ceases to exist, and past and future vie for Miranda’s heart. It’s painfully bittersweet. A culmination of the past eighteen years of her life, and a blank slate.

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Kimo Karp Margot (a co-worker)’s Funeral Dan stepped up onto the curb. The tents were set up in the middle of the cemetery, maybe a hundred feet away -- a few lonely, black pyramids -- the only protrusions in a heavy fog that blanketed the graves. The scene was a transparent cliché, slate skyline atop a bleak and isolated rolling grass hill. As he walked toward the assembly Dan could hear the drab melody of a single cellist, and even a faint clatter of silverware against ceramic plates. But he heard no sound of talking. For some reason at funerals people use only their “inside voices,” the voices you hear in a library or in golf match commentary. Dan remembered this from his father’s funeral too; it had bothered him then. Why was everyone whispering, as if talking loudly was going to disturb Dad’s rest? But for Margot, he didn’t mind it; he actually preferred it that way. The withdrawn and trance-like state that he had maintained throughout the service was exactly how he wanted to get through this reception. He had almost made it to the tents, and began to make out a few familiar faces. Kev. Angel. Terry. Joe. Anthony. The entire sales team was there. As Dan surveyed the crowd he realized that he didn’t recognize anyone else, except Margot’s husband Grant from the photos in her office. And the kids too, of course, he recognized the kids. Zoe and Liam, or the two goobers as she had called them. She came to work every day with last night’s Tale of the Two Goobers, which she’d recount to Dan with an incredible amount of weekday morning energy. “Last night,” she would say in her endearing British accent, “they watched a TV advertisement for a Panda Express, and Zoe convinced Liam that Po, you know the panda from Kung Fu Panda, was slaughtered and then served there and that’s why it’s called a Panda Express. I swear Liam wouldn’t stop

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crying for like an hour or something. Honestly I don’t know if that girl is an evil genius or just turning out to be a real bitch.” “Dan, hey.” It was Terry. He walked over to Dan who still lingered at the edge of the tents. “I didn’t see you pull up.” “Hey, Terry.” Dan looked up to make eye contact with him. Terry forced a smile, which made Dan look away. “You doin’ alright?” Terry asked. Terry was the head salesman and branch overseer, the ‘boss’ of the office although he never seemed like one. He was very calm and understanding, and one of the few people who knew that Dan and Margot were close. “Yeah, I’m alright.” Dan replied, though he really didn’t even hear the question. He was, for the moment, content with Terry’s company. It was far preferable to someone he didn’t know coming up and trying to talk to him. Terry nodded but remained silent. The two stood together without speaking for a little while, and Dan’s mind began to race. He felt a familiar pit rising in his stomach, and knew that he had to stop thinking so much or he’d start to cry. Without a word to Terry, he began walking toward the center of the tents, unconsciously maneuvering around chairs and groups of people standing and muttering to each other. There was something wrong about walking on the grass in dress shoes. Grass was meant to be run on, or sauntered through, in sandals, not walked on with leather work-shoes like it was the office floor. It didn’t feel right. The grass was tall and awkwardly cushioned Dan’s every step. He made it to a black clothed table that was barely visible under all the plates of food on it. There was a large bowl of Caesar Salad, a fruit platter with orange and green melon squares, some pasta with red sauce, a mountain of dark, over-basted chicken legs, twenty different plates with assorted desserts, a pitcher full of — “Excuse me young man,” an old woman appeared in front of Dan, she wore a black, beaded dress and gripped a silver walker with shaking, wrinkled hands. Dan must not have been paying attention to where he was walking because he was

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practically standing on top of her, and she had the look of a woman stuck under a falling tree, “Oh yes, hi. Sorry. Sorry about that,” Dan said. “That’s alright,” the woman said, and smiled at him. She spoke loudly, probably because she couldn’t hear well, and it seemed as though she didn’t know that a funeral was meant to be sad. “And how did you know dear Margot?” she questioned. Before Dan could think about his answer the lady blurted, “I was her granny’s best friend. We used to watch over her together down the park when she was little.” The woman beamed, “Always had a lot of friends Margot did, even when she was a baby. They would come ’round the house in bunches like it was Halloween or Christmas. Always asking, ‘Where’s Margot?’” She squinted at Dan, “You’re not from Paddington dear are you?” Now she spoke in a hopeful tone, which seemed to Dan even more misplaced than the happy one she’d used earlier. “I’m from here in New Jersey,” Dan said. The woman’s grin faded for a moment, then she faked a smile and said, “Oh, well that’s nice.” She looked down at the food table and hobbled a few centimeters closer to it, struggling with the walker on the uneven grass surface. “And so how did you meet her then?” “I met her at work,” Dan lied. He had really met her a few hours before work, on his first day as a salesman for ‘Novartis Pharmaceuticals,’ the Manhattan branch. They were coincidentally seated in the same New Jersey subway car, right across from each other in one of the booths. She had noticed him reviewing some files with the company name on it, and without hesitation asked, “Wait, are you coming to work at Novartis today?” Dan looked up from his paper, guessing that she must’ve seen the name printed on his file. “Yes, I uhh, I am.” She had long, wavy brown hair, and distinctive dark eyes. Dan immediately thought she was very beautiful, but her honest face made it an effortless beauty. She sat cross-legged, grasping a coffee with both hands, smiling at

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him. It was a smile that seemed to be directed, like a channel of emotion. Dan noticed himself beginning to smile too. “No way. You’re joking! I’m Margot Jopling; I’m on the sales team for Novartis. And I’m actually the one who’ll be showing you around today.” She took off a glove and extended her hand toward his for a proper greeting. Her hand was soft and warm from the coffee. “I can’t believe it, this is too funny, your office is about three feet from mine. It’s Dan, right? Dan Carp?” Dan nodded. Margot threw her head back with laughter, “Our first day as co-workers and of all the carriages going into the city we’re sitting—” she slapped the seats beside her, “right next to each other! Hah, it’s really meant to be.” She talked a lot for the rest of the train ride, telling Dan all about the job he was about to enter into. It excited Dan. He asked questions whenever he could, trying to be a part of the conversation, like he would be forgotten or left behind if he didn’t. She also told him about her life. She had grown up in London and travelled the world before she went off to college. Dan didn’t say much about his because there wasn’t much to say. He was just a thirty-one year old guy from New Jersey, and had never left the country. That first day was seven and a half years ago. Dan could remember the day so clearly, but he remembered it like it was from a different life. When he thought about that train ride he’d recall the story as a third person, fly-on-the wall spectator, observing two strangers meeting for the first time. He wasn’t either of the people sitting in the train. The old lady responded, “Oh, well that’s nice,” with a fake smile just as before, like she was a toy programmed to repeat one saying at the push of a button, “office friendships are quite lovely to have.” Dan squinted and nodded, and tried to ignore the words office friendship. The woman appeared to become distracted by something, Dan didn’t notice what. She happily said, “Goodbye then dearie,” and began moving away. Dan was jealous of her good spirits. He watched her as she staggered toward the front of the tent. Now she looked like a wind-up toy, one of the ones that awkwardly bounces without

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rhythm, meandering slowly in no real direction. Dan wondered if maybe this old woman actually was just a giant, plastic, phraserepeating toy, sent posthumously by Margot as a practical joke. She had often pranked him in the office, filling his drawers with coffee cream and sugar packets, or getting the rest of the sales team to act like Dan wasn’t there. Once he even had a client meeting and didn’t notice that his nameplate read “Dan Crap” instead of “Dan Carp.” Luckily the client was amused and he secured the sale. Dan decided to make himself a plate of food. Eating had really been the only thing that brought him any kind of normalcy since the accident. He tonged a couple of chicken thighs onto his plate and scooped some rice on as well. People are lying when they say that food loses its taste in grief. He wandered to an empty table and sat down. The chair was low to the ground and light, and it felt as though it might break or topple over. Dan convinced himself that he wanted it to, so that he would hit the ground and feel physical pain in his bottom. If it broke then, he would just lie there on the grass, out of sight, and no one would bother him. The chicken was bland but the rice was sweet. He looked up for a moment and saw that Kev was walking toward his table. He had always had mixed feelings about Kev, he was such a nice and honest and loyal guy, but he always seemed to materialize at the wrong moment, and say a terrible joke that everyone had to fake laugh at. He approached the table rather quickly, and wore a look of over-accentuated sorrow and empathy. Dan knew Kev’s intentions were pure, but couldn’t help looking upon his face with contempt. “Hey,” Kev said with his hands dug into his pockets. “Hey,” Dan said back. Kev began slowly shaking his head and started to sit down, and Dan felt more disdain towards him. He turned away and looked at the crowd of people. There hadn’t been any change in what they were doing, still murmuring to each other in small groups bunched around the tent setup, standing, sitting. He noticed that a microphone had been set up on the stage, and dreaded the idea that people might go up and talk about Margot. He wondered if he might have to do that, and then

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felt stupid for even considering it a possibility. Margot had a family, she had life-long friends, she had a mother, a husband, kids. Dan could think of forty people who would be asked to talk about her before him. Not that he wanted to go up there, or would even be able to, but he hated that he was so far down the list. He really felt like he should’ve been the first to talk about her, or maybe the fourth. Sitting next to Kev reminded Dan of sales team meetings. They were usually held in Terry’s office, or Margot’s. Everyone always wanted them to be in Margot’s; hers had candy, cute pictures, and a sweet aroma. On her wall hung a great painting of a ballerina. It measured almost half of the length of the room, and Margot had it up right behind her desk. The background of the painting was dark, hazy-pastel grey, and the ballerina was faded pink. She was leaping in the air with her legs split, toes pointed, and she held her arms outstretched like the wings of a bird in flight. The ballerina’s grace made the pose look seamless, as if she had found herself in that position without even trying to or meaning to. Dan used to stare at the painting and wonder why the figure didn’t have a face. He had asked Margot once and she told him, “When I was a girl I used to dream about being a ballerina. I always thought they were so beautiful and dignified, like princesses. I danced ballet until ‘Uni’ actually…” her voice trailed off, then snapped back full volume —“look doesn’t she look like a princess? She’s spectacular.” Margot motioned to the painting, “This one not having a face, that’s so that I can imagine my face there instead, so it’s me who’s the ballerina,” she grinned at him, “and the princess.” Dan quietly wondered if she had somehow erased the face for this purpose, or if it was the artist’s original design. Her radiant smile was there again; and he was smiling too. Kev was looking at him; he’d removed his hands from his pockets and began tapping his index and middle fingers on the black tablecloth. Dan’s eyes became fixed on Kev’s twitching hand. Kev said, “Looks like they’re gonna start talking here soon.” Dan’s eyebrows flexed, he whipped his head around to the stage and saw a woman fiddling with the microphone stand. His face

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and stomach dropped simultaneously, they were kidding right? They weren’t actually going to turn this into speech hour, or open mic, or poetry slam, or karaoke, or whatever they were planning. He looked down at his feet to escape the thought of it, but was immediately roped back in as the words, “testing...testing...1, 2, 3” were broadcasted through speakers to the entire tent. It made Dan feel like giving up. He lifted his head and saw the woman on stage removing a crinkled piece of paper from her handbag, and preparing herself to read it. She began, “Hi everyone, I’m Carly, Margot’s friend from back home…” As she spoke Dan’s head sank backwards until it fell into a limp hang, as if his neck were a piece of rope, suspended over a fence. He thought about someone chopping his head off, like they did in Game of Thrones; his neck was perfectly stretched out for the executioner. He started bobbing his head up and down, but became embarrassed for acting so juvenile. He somehow willed his head back upright, and looked at the woman speaking. Dan tried his best not to listen, but it wasn’t easy. The woman presented some story about Margot and her in college. She recalled that “...Margot was always the one to push us to have an adventure!” Dan questioned whether now was the appropriate time for such stories. He prayed that this woman would be the only person to talk, but after she thanked Margot’s mother and, like a peasant before a lord, pledged herself to Liam and Zoe and Grant, another woman stood up to talk. And after her speech, a man decided to speak too, and then another man, and then a woman. Their gender was the only thing that Dan tried to observe about the speakers — he didn’t listen for their names, or for why they were ‘special’ to Margot, or for a funny story that they had shared with her. He wanted to notice that they were male or female, and then applaud when they had finished talking. After six people had spoken, Terry went up, and Dan listened. “Eh-hum. Hi everyone, my name is Terry Adkins Jr. I’ve…had worked with Margot for over nine years.” He spoke slowly and unsteadily. His hand clutched a small sheet of yellow paper, and was shaking

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violently. He was a tall man, and was awkwardly crooked forward to situate his mouth close to the microphone. “Margot was always everyone’s favorite around the office,” hearing him say everyone’s favorite made Dan cringe, “she was the kind of person who you would always want to be around, always want to have to work with. I remember all of our salesmen, Dan, Angel, Kev, Anthony, they’re all here somewhere, they would always come up to me and beg to have our meetings in Margot’s office.” Dan was amused that he had just been thinking about those same meetings, and now Terry was talking about them too. He thought about them again. He actually used to hate having those meetings in Margot’s office. Dan walked by Margot’s office more than twenty times a day; they were the only parts of work that he actually looked forward to. Each time he’d give a silent prayer that her door was open, that she wasn’t on the phone, and most of all, that there were no other co-workers already inside talking to her. He didn’t like being with Margot in a group, he’d feel jealous of the attention she gave the others, and would long to be alone with her. When Dan and Margot were alone they could really talk. She’d spend time telling him the things she was passionate about, she found beauty in everything. He loved hearing her explain how compelled she was by classic writings, or rock and roll, or romantic comedies. The way she marveled at the artistry of Hemingway, the genius of Bob Dylan, the elegance of Roman Holiday, it manifested an unfamiliar ardor within Dan, giving him hope and appreciation for the world. Dan used to tell her about his thoughts too, he was reserved at first, but eventually shared them with her to no end. He told her about his insecurities, that he felt like his life was trivial, and would be over soon, and that no one would ever care about it. He told her that he was bored, and afraid, and filled with uncertainty, and that he always put pressure on himself to do something different in his life, but never ended up doing it. She was the only person he ever told this to, and she always responded the same way,

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“You’re in your head too much Daniel, you need to relax and live in the moment. You’ve got great things ahead of you, I can feel it.” Terry neared the end of his talk. He recounted Margot’s work ethic, her charisma, and her enthusiasm. Dan actually liked hearing Terry talk about her because he had witnessed everything that Terry was describing. But Terry was leaving out that which really should have been known about Margot. He didn’t mention her ability to inspire, which was the quality Dan had most liked about her, that and her ability to understand him. Dan had two worries as he sat there listening. He worried that he would never again be moved to feel good about the world, like he had felt with Margot. But even more daunting was his worry that all of the good that Margot had brought him in his life was lost, the time he had spent with her, wasted. With Margot gone, their friendship was known by only one person, Dan himself. And no one else would ever understand it. If only one person can know about something is it even worth knowing? He wondered if he should go up on stage and explain it all right there, rattling off everything that he could remember about their interactions and what she had meant to him, and what he imagined he had meant to her. At least then people could start to understand. But instead he just sat there; quietly resenting his feelings and watching Terry finish his speech. The final speaker was Margot’s mother, she appeared young to be a grandma, maybe sixty years old, and she looked like Margot. She didn’t try to hide the pain on her face, and Dan felt terrible for her. He watched her intently. She coughed into the microphone and said, “Sorry,” in a wavering, raspy voice. She held a black iPhone in her hand, which she brought up to her eyes to examine. She cleared her throat and said, “Margot, after the accident...She was in the hospital and she typed this out, or had the doctor type it, or I don’t know. She asked that I read this at her funeral though...so here it is: Zoe and Liam I love you…” Margot’s mother began to cry, and so did most of the audience. Dan started crying too. As much as he wanted to remain numb, and

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withdrawn into his own feelings, he couldn’t help but sympathize for a grieving mother. He imagined that it was Margot up there crying instead, that it was her mother who had died, not her, and that he was listening to Margot speak at her mom’s funeral. That would have been okay, but this was cruel. Margot’s mother slowly read the note, and exhausted a packet of tissues that someone had handed up to her. Dan let the tears run down his face. After a little while she began to compose herself, probably because she was nearing the end of the letter. Then she said, “...and I also have a message to Daniel, my most important friend. Go and do something different, but don’t think about it too much. Just feel it and you’ll be great. Thank you for being you.” Dan sat there in silence. Many people in the crowd turned their heads to look at him. He was confused as to how they all knew who he was, having recognized so few of them himself. He swallowed some saliva, most of the other people were still crying. In that moment he was too surprised to cry. Margot’s mother finished reading, and people began to get up and comfort one another. Dan sat there and thought about the note. He thought about the train ride, the faceless ballerina, the misspelled nameplate. The minutes passed and people began to leave. Dan remained still, sitting in his chair. Kev stood up to walk away and said, “Well I guess I’ll see you on Monday.” Dan looked up and nodded. He noticed that Kev was smiling at him. Dan smiled back.

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Veronica Kim Maybe The bus is mostly empty when James boards, shivering despite his jacket and gloves. Picking a row, he slides in and places his duffel on the aisle seat. The chill radiates through the closed window; Georgia isn’t normally this cold in December, and he’s regretting not packing warmer clothes. He hopes a week in North Carolina won’t freeze him to death—then again, his mom will probably force a new sweater or two on him for Christmas, all the while reprimanding his lack of foresight—so he figures he’ll survive. The cold, at least, if not the nagging. It’s seven-forty, and they leave at eight. In anticipation of the long ride ahead—Atlanta to Durham is seven hours—he’s brought a book, which he opens in his lap, idly skimming. It’s too early to really be reading, so instead he focuses on the shape of the font, the texture of the pages, the way words don’t look real when you stare at them long enough. People begin to arrive, but slowly, and few enough that there’s never more than one to a row. He hopes the trip will be quiet, restful. Family reunions— How’s school? Plans after graduation? Found a job?—comprise enough interaction to satisfy him until their next get-together, and he’s especially not looking forward to this year, which will involve a new twist: Where’s Helena? He doesn’t quite want to get into that yet. It is in his nineteenth minute of mental preparation that the engine jerks wholly to life. At almost exactly the same time, he hears the footsteps outside: a person nearing, running. The bus, having started forward, stops; the door opens; a girl gets on. He doesn’t take much note of her as they lurch forward again, just that she’s about his age, and that, flushed and disheveled, she whispers a “thank you” to the driver before turning to search

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for an open seat. In fact, he only really looks up when she stops beside him and asks, “Can I sit here?” Her eyes are maple syrup: dark, full, sweet. James says, “Yes.” He deposits his duffel on the ground and she replaces it, bringing with her the smell of winter air, sharp. She swings her own backpack to rest at her feet and offers her hand. “I’m Peyton. So nice to meet you.” He takes it. “James.” “That’s a nice name,” she says, unwinding her scarf and dropping it into her bag. “So, James, what brings you to North Carolina this lovely holiday season?” “Family reunion,” he deadpans, and she laughs. She laughs with her shoulders, and he blinks upon noticing this. “Um, what about you?” “I’m visiting a friend,” she says. “That’s fun.” Peyton smiles. Between them settles a half-comfortable silence; James considers returning to his book, but it seems almost rude. The bus pulls onto the highway, shuddering under the damp sky. Just as he’s losing interest, she asks, “So where do you think these other people are headed?” “What?” “On the bus.” She gestures. “Where do you think they’re going?” “I—honestly, I’ve never thought about it.” “You’ve never done this before?” She turns fully to face him, suddenly aglow. He’s dazzled. “Done what?” “Come up with stories about people. You’ve never done that?” “No.” “I can’t believe it,” she says. “Now we have to.” She touches his arm; the unexpected contact jolts him, and before he can respond, she looks around, leans closer. Under her breath: “See that woman, across the aisle, one row back?” “Carrying the shopping bag?” “I’ll do her.” Peyton brings the tips of her fingers together contemplatively, purses her lips. James realizes he’s

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staring and looks away. “Okay. Her name is Henrietta, and she’s fifty-five years old. She owns three cats.” “What are their names?” James asks, mostly as a joke, but her returning smile is genuine, as is her response. “Mittens, Prosciutto, and Frank.” “Prosciutto? Frank?” “I have a cat named Frank,” she counters, laughing; a smile slips free before he can help it. “Um, and she’s on her way to visit her daughter. Her neighbor is taking care of Mittens and Prosciutto and Frank, but she’s terrified. She’s never left them home alone before.” “How long is she going to be gone?” “Not very long, just a week—but James, I don’t think you understand. She adores these cats. They’re her entire life. She takes better care of them than she does herself. She can never wait to come home and see them. They’re the sweetest and they just love her.” Despite everything, he’s sort of getting into this. “You’re good.” Peyton shrugs. “I can’t believe you’ve never done this before.” Then, with a sidelong glance, she adds, “Also, Frank’s home alone for the first time. I’m kind of terrified.” “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” When she doesn’t look reassured, James nudges her. “Didn’t you say your neighbor’s taking care of him? I’m sure they’ll do a great job.” “Yeah, I know.” She pauses, distant. Then she runs a hand through her hair and focuses on him again, rekindling like a campfire fed new wood. “Okay, your turn.” *** The woman is bunched in layers, scarves poking out from the jacket collars that sit like accordions around her neck. Hair like a cotton ball, shocking against her dark skin. “Uh, her name is… Alison?” Peyton says nothing. Their elbows are touching. “She’s… seventy. She has three children and seven grandchildren.” “What are their names?” James falters. “Well, her favorite is a boy named… Isaac. They live in the same town. He’s—eight? He comes over

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every day after school because his parents are working.” Struck by inspiration: “He loves snickerdoodles. She always has a plate of them waiting for him at the kitchen table.” His mother, Joanne, never looked back after she left Korea. She married a white man, called her only son James—an all-American name for an all-American boy. Then his grandfather died, and Hwa-Young Park, his halmoni, moved to Chapel Hill so his mother could take care of her. Joanne was working all day at the real estate agency, and his father was teaching at the university, so James went to his halmoni’s house. His first afternoon with her, she asked about his favorite snack; although she didn’t know what snickerdoodles were, she had learned to make a perfect batch by the next day. “While he does his homework—even though he doesn’t have much of it—they talk. Alison is always cooking. Isaac doesn’t have any siblings, and he’s the only one of her grandchildren who lives around there, so she’s constantly feeding him.” “What kind of food?” She would sit at the table and pinch dumplings into perfection, and he’d be mesmerized by the rhythm of her hands as they scooped, folded, smoothed water around the edges to hold the filling in place. She lined tray after tray, covering each with plastic wrap before sliding it into the fridge; after they had chilled for an hour, she’d steam them in bamboo pots on the stove, the smell rising around her and James like they too were dumplings, their insides unraveling and opening up in the heat. Other days, she made kimchi in tubs large enough to bathe a child. With practiced grace and knives longer than James’ forearm, she sliced cabbage leaves and radishes, letting them swim and soften in salt water before adding gochugaru and ginger and garlic and sugar, packing handfuls into jars that she left to ripen on the counter. The scent was so strong that the taste welled on James’ tongue every time he inhaled. “She’s from the South, way deep. Fried chicken, collard greens, cornbread—that’s Alison’s shit. Every Sunday night, she invites her daughter and son-in-law and Isaac over to her house for dinner. It’s all she looks forward to. She preps food the entire week.”

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And she told him stories. About rural Korea, and living during the war, and the clay pots, taller than she was, that her family used to keep outside, brimming with kimchi. About her mother, James’ great-grandmother, who would sit cross-legged on the floor of the kitchen and cut huge sheets of salted octopus into bite-size strips, or dry out anchovies to flavor broths and soups. About walking to school every day, and having to line up by height—shortest to tallest—in the courtyard, hands on the shoulders in front of her, black-haired heads bobbing like buoys. When James turned fourteen, his mother decided he was old enough to stay home alone. A little later, they stopped going to Sunday dinner. He didn’t see his halmoni much, after that. As if Peyton’s reading his mind: “How long do you think they’ll keep going?” James looks at the woman, who has her head propped against the bus window, watching the road blur past. She blinks slowly, as if each time she’s debating whether or not to reopen her eyes. “I’d like to think forever.” *** The bus pulls into a rest stop, but they stay while everyone else disembarks. From the window, they watch their fellow travelers. “That one. Go.” Peyton points to an overweight man carrying three bags of cool ranch Doritos, one wedged under each arm and one in his hands, open. Orangey powder stains his fingertips and the corners of his mouth. “He loves roller coasters.” “Doesn’t everyone?” “Not when he was little. If his parents had a day off from work, they’d take him to the amusement park, but he used to refuse to ride anything that went upside down.” “So how’d they get him onto a roller coaster?” “His dad forced him to ride one—a legit one, with two loop-de-loops. He was terrified, almost backed out, almost started crying when they buckled him in. But he loved it. And if he ever has kids, he’s going to take them to parks and fairs all the time. Because he wants them to love it, too.” “What does he love most?”

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“The feeling of his stomach dropping, of course.” Peyton snorts, starts giggling. The shoulders again, her entire body shaking. “That might be a safety hazard.” “Jesus Christ, you can’t say that.” But James is laughing too. And outside, the man starts on his second bag of chips. *** In the fifth hour, Peyton falls asleep. Somewhere in the middle of his story, James turns to find her entire arm pressed against his, her head slumping to rest gently on his shoulder. He’s so used to her warmth now that he didn’t even notice. In the thirty minutes that she sleeps, he is still. Only when her head begins to slip does he move, gently dipping his body to catch her. Before she falls, he nudges her back upright. *** She jolts awake in a motion that leaves him cold. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” “Don’t worry about it.” “No, I can’t believe I fell asleep, that’s so incredibly rude of me.” “Seriously, it’s fine.” When she opens her mouth to say more, James looks at her. “Peyton, it’s really completely one hundred percent okay.” “Still, I’m sorry.” She leans again, slightly, into him. “Will you tell it again?” “The story?” She nods, and he gestures, in case she’s forgotten, to the man sitting across the aisle, two rows ahead. He’s wearing wraparound sunglasses and a plaid vest, and he hasn’t moved since they got on the bus. “I named him Kevin. He’s twenty-seven and just started his first job at a tech company.” “I remember that,” Peyton says. “Skip to the part about his heartbreak. I want the interesting stuff.” “Right.” James says. “His heartbreak.” The interesting stuff. There was a girl, Helena, in his computer science lecture sophomore year. She had the kind of eyes that filled when she laughed and the bluest smile you could imagine—like the sky on a perfect day. She wanted to be an architect; she was taking the

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class for fun. The first time she looked at him, he knew he was in trouble. “When Kevin was twenty, he met a girl he thought he was going to marry.” He kissed her on a Tuesday evening as they walked home from the library. Objectively speaking, it wasn’t great. But it stirred something lovely in his chest, brought to life the feelings you get when you’re curled in blankets by a bonfire on a cold clear night with the entire universe unfolding above you, and when you look up, your insignificance slaps you across the face so hard your vision goes blurry for a second—but it’s the beautiful type of insignificance, the type that makes you want to be small, meaningless, wrapped up in the stars. Or maybe he was just punch-drunk, giddy from the sensation of a pretty girl’s lips on his. Either way, he didn’t sleep much that night. “They would go on walks and hold hands and talk about everything, literally everything. She would tell him about her mom, her best friend. He would tell her about his mom, whom he never saw much—she was working all the time. Once they had a two-hour long argument about which was better: bread or pasta.” “Definitely bread.” James pauses. “No, pasta.” “Bread.” “Do not start this with me right now,” James says, and Peyton laughs, and he watches how it envelops every part of her, watches her bring up a hand to stifle her giggles. He waits. “May I continue?” “By all means.” Helena and James, James and Helena. They’d sit on his dorm room floor and do homework, and he’d be distracted by the way she sketched, her hands breathing life into the pencil lines. She’d lean into him and read his problem sets over his shoulder and comment, amused: “How the hell do you even understand what those symbols mean?” Or they’d go to the campus coffee shop, spread their books over a table, and she’d order a vanilla latte with skim milk. He’d sneak sips of it when he knew she was looking, just to make her nose crinkle as she laughed.

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“They dated for three and a half years. After college, he went to work at the tech company, as a programmer. She moved to New York for grad school.” While she was in the big city, he was working in Raleigh, North Carolina. They tried to see each other every five or six weeks. Between visits, they’d plan: what to do, what to eat, what to see. And they’d talk so hopefully about the future. I can’t wait to finish school so we can move in together. I think I found the perfect house for us! I want to be with you forever. I love you. James doesn’t notice the silence until Peyton breaks it. “So what happened?” Helena stopped calling him three days before their last visit. He figured she was just busy. He was going to see her soon anyway, and they were independent and driven people; they didn’t have to talk all the time. When she showed up, everything was fine. But then she got really quiet at dinner, which he had made for her in his apartment—her favorite: tossed greens, mushroom risotto, warm apple pie for dessert. She put her fork down halfway through the salad. James, she said. He realizes he’s talking only when he says his own name out loud; embarrassed, he trips over a sentence, stops. Peyton doesn’t interrupt him. Instead, she takes his hand, gently, squeezes. And he keeps going. “She was falling in love with someone else. A guy in her design class. They had been spending a lot of time together—just hanging out, nothing had happened—but she knew, and she needed to tell me. She cared about me, of course. She still loved me. But it wasn’t enough anymore.” It is the image of Helena in his mind, of her blue blue blue smile and overflowing eyes, that nips his voice at the bud, makes it finally impossible to speak. The bus seems to slow, to still—holds its breath, almost—until Peyton exhales, her fingers relaxing between his, but not unlacing. Tangled loosely, like headphone wires. “Three and a half years,” she says, quietly.

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Where’s Helena? his family will ask. What happened to her? “Three and a half years,” he agrees. *** Durham is brick and rustic and chocolate-colored. The warehouses, if they could speak, would drawl like Southern ladies. The bus shudders into the station, brakes with a heavy sigh. Around them, people begin to bustle, wrapping scarves and slipping into jackets and gathering bags, but Peyton and James don’t move. “I guess—,” James starts, at the same instant that Peyton says, “So—.” They both stutter to a halt. Halfway smiling, Peyton stands, and by obligation so does James. She hesitates, swings on her backpack, steps into the aisle. He picks up his duffel and follows her off the bus. Outside, the cold burrows into their sleeves, and Peyton crosses her arms, shivering. James considers kissing her. Considers pulling her close, to bring back any semblance of warmth, a seven-hour supply. But he doesn’t; he just stands, hands in pockets, waiting. “I guess—,” he says again, but this time she stays silent. “I guess I’ll see you around. Maybe.” The left side of her mouth quirks upward. “Maybe.” He wants to say more, but her phone buzzes and she glances at it, lets out a sigh. “My friend is here. I better go.” “Yeah.” Peyton gives him a small wave, smile touching the edges of her eyes. She turns and walks off, toward the end of the station, past the glass-paneled awning, into the parking lot. At one point, he thinks she looks back. But she keeps going, and he watches as she begins to fade, her silhouette flickering against the sunlight. Eventually, she turns a corner. Eventually, she is gone.

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Lance Lamore Charles “Scoundrel!” A belligerent old man frothed at the teeth, insipid anger in the form of words. Words meant to destroy, cripple, maim. “Detestable!” Phrases poured out with furious rage, antipathy in its deepest form. A billion years of hate and evil culminated into one speech, unintelligible but clearly understood. “I’ll personally make him experience the atrocity he lives. I’ll use force…I’ll use battery…I’ll change that poor miserable child. There is no place for love in world for him until he can fix himself. Disgusting!...Dammit!...how can he defile the purest emotion with vile, vile disgrace.” The man took a necessary break in his speech. Veins exploded in the corners of his forehead and neck, but he talked softly now, remembering briefly there is nothing wrong with being a victim. He sat down on the sofa in their living room. He smiled, knowing exactly the action to take, “Don’t worry son,” The dad let out a harmless chuckle, “one day you’ll be very embarrassed. That will be the end of this. Boys fall in love with girls. Girls fall in love with boys. Just think about it, how could two guys have children together. It simply doesn't happen that way.” But he was interrupted in his eugenic cure. “Dad” his eleven-year-old son spoke, “I’m okay, all he did was kiss me.” The placating statement did anything but reassure his father. Convulsions reappeared, his eyes throbbed, the darkest of his soul manifested itself into another violent rage. He stood up, towering over his son. He was held back by the merest sensations of compassion, the weakest restraint in an angry

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world, easily broken, long forgotten. His body swayed with uncontrolled spasms as he spoke. “That boy, that atrocity, he hurt you, he defamed you! Integrating love in the form of evil, he acted on animalistic impulse!” The son, thinking his dad seemed more like an animal than the boy who kissed him, responded regretfully, whimpering in fear because his father holds contempt for the most exciting moment of his life. “But I liked it...” A fist struck his head, and he was knocked unconscious, damaging his head, but more so, damaging his unyielding belief that love has no bounds. That was the last time he saw his father, afterwards finding himself institutionalized in a faraway boarding school. Over here, his parents would not be reminded of disappointment. He forgot what family means. Reminiscent of what the word might suggest but unsure. His Biology professors lectured, with each lesson a ponderous look into the nature of life. “Evolution brought about the human race. Each person is a vessel of genes, passing information in the form of DNA to offspring. Humans are no exception to the laws of nature and the process of evolution.” To Christian, it sounded like the ultimate goal was to pass on DNA. “One of the lasting legacies humans offer,” his teacher would assert to her students, “is the legacy of information. You see, there is an unending historical chain of the same DNA. Chains of DNA that connect generations, each time altered slightly but essentially the same. Over the years the information is edited and twisted and constantly changing until it becomes you. Humans have ancestry. You are a current vessel for a billion years of heritage.” She droned on for hours, as all teachers do, pushing the ideas of great men on the simple minds of people who believe everything they are told. Christian loved to learn, a blessing and curse, but that was life. He was the ideal child in an unideal world. His fiasco that landed him in this distant school was well repressed from his memory. He only had minor mental breakdowns. He talked to girls now, with style and character. Indeed, soon he had found himself in a passing relationship with a girl,

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never understanding what merits the connection people talk about in relationships. He would kiss her the way he eats oatmeal. It was just another thing to do, not sure why he ate or why he kissed. He just believed in the power of love, waiting for the inevitable click that never came. Unfaltering in the way life should work, he didn’t question why she soon broke up with him, he simply learned from it. What exactly he learned, he was unsure; all he knew, he was learning. His professor would keep talking. “Natural selection is the mechanism by which evolution works. Too many animals compete for limited resources. The fittest survive. An animal’s fitness is measured by the number of offspring it can bear. The natural world favors whoever can bear the most viable offspring.” Christian felt inspired. He dreamed of being a successful Darwinian animal, something Darwin could be proud of. He set out to learn the female culture. It was a scientific endeavor. Large words disguised his lack of emotion. With a pragmatic approach, he never had to feel anything. He asked, “What are the characteristics that make the most fit Female?” He presumed large breasts can give potent milk to babies. A round butt reflects healthy fat, signaling the woman has enough nutrients for childbirth. A caring face would mean the baby would receive proper care. Every beauty standard is derived from an evolutionary purpose. He admired all of the characteristics. The breasts, the butt, the caring face, not for the aesthetic but rather the logic behind them. Certainly the aesthetic of other boys evoked an unusual emotional response, but he assumed this was a different emotion. Convinced that attractive guys are revolting, he figured this revulsion held evolutionary purpose. It scared him away from competition. But he enjoyed it, pulling him to interact with smooth muscles of men rather than the large breasts of women. Maybe, he figured, attraction to ideal males would be purposeful in finding ideal females. “Yes,” he presumed, “liking men was the solution towards having children with girls.” “Blah, blah, blah” His teacher would keep saying, “Genes are the specific characteristics that DNA code. Each person fundamentally determined by their genes. Any aspect, from physical to mental, guided by the genes. Animals are born

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with a set of genes and the genes that promote the most fitness are passed onto the offspring.” Christian learned his genes made him who he is. There was an element of nurture, he knew this much, but some aspects of him were deterministic. It's the nightmare towards anyone who believes in freedom of choice, the inability to choose fate. He would never be able to change his genes. He became edgy from his encroaching doubt, his genes determined him with zero fitness. He could never pass on his legacy of DNA if he liked guys. Fatalistic determinism challenged his single evolutionary purpose. He searched tirelessly for the large breasts and round butts that could save his life’s legacy. He fretted over the fantastically exceptional child each woman could bear, unable to feel any other type of emotion towards them. He endeavored for the women that would let him fulfill Darwin’s purpose, guided by reason rather than love. He found attractive females; although he was unsure whether they were actually attractive. He made love without ever feeling it. His body responded with apathy towards the large breasts he was told to aspire for. He completed his life purpose while living a miserable life, but he yearned for a greater purpose that he knew never existed. He fell into depression, wondering why life was so lifeless. He needed inspiration that was not found in the bounds of his dull existence. He questioned for the first time, “Could he be...Homosexual?” The thought disgusted him, immediately evoking the deepest shame for hypothetically thinking. “Scoundrel” he called himself. “Detestable” he thought. But he was quirk some. A careful observer could notice the idiosyncrasies that define his strange trouble. Another boy, Jacob, with blue eyes and an honest smile, crippled under the same dilemma that plagues Christian, stumbled into his life. He talked, as friends do, about the day's events. Chatter turned to conversations, incited stories, fostered laughter, sponsored emotions. After a short time, such emotions lifted them out of depression. He was sitting at a bench with him one day, feeling bubbly and warm. He had rested his arm against his shoulder, as guys do sometimes. But he felt more than friendship. He wanted to hold him, to lean on him, and just rest there, forever. He

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looked into his eyes, he could tell Jacob felt the same way. Alone, without social pressure pinning him down, he leaned in, decided he had courage, and acted the way he felt once more. He had just kissed a boy. “I just needed to know what that feels like.” Christian spoke like he confessed to a crime. “I...I...umm...I...think” Jacob stammered over his words. It was hard to move his tongue and cheek correctly. He could feel the blood rush through his face, his mind blown apart by the explosion of some foreign sensation he had long forsaken. He felt strange fuzziness in the insides of his abdomen. “I think….I think I enjoyed it.” And they kept enjoying it. Christian spent 4 more months kissing that boy, searching for answers. Kissing him repeatedly under different circumstances. At day, at dawn, at night. Jacob lacked large breasts. Evolutionarily speaking, he was a worthless. “Why? How? What was going on?” he thought. “How will I make children with this...guy? What's the purpose of this love?” Christian could not understand why he was so attracted to something so irrelevant. It was hard to rationalize how loving a guy for the rest of his life would benefit his fitness. What would Darwin think. But unaware of onlooking classmates, he kissed Jacob again. Once more he found he enjoyed it, until of course, he realized he did not enjoy it when other kids shouted. “Scoundrel” “Detestable!” And it only took a couple hours before the words “scoundrel” and “detestable” reverberated through the halls wherever he walked. Constantly reminding Christian that in the search for his life purpose, he failed. His fitness zero, his genes worthless, his life meaningless. Everywhere he turned he saw miserable failure in his own abomination. The continuous string of DNA copied and replicated over the past billion years will end with him. Friends isolated Christian. He wondered how one fatal mistake could merit the distrust of so many people. His fitness was low, against the plan of how humans should work. He felt

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his heart rate, unaware his heart still moved. It beat and thump how hearts should, but he found himself checking regardless. He lost the things that gave him meaning. His favorite meal accosted his taste buds, burning holes into his tongue. The melody of music pierced through his ears, ringing with reminders that if he were straight, that noise would sound pleasant. Walls enclosed his claustrophobic mind. Each silence filled his mind with the pain of his own identity. He could not think freely without being reminded he felt attraction to boys. Wherever there was moment of emptiness, he remembered his own disgrace. When he read books, each space between words screamed at him, between the letters it scalded him, until finally the last place to look was the individual letters. He looked at an “O”. It was hidden within the reams of his textbooks. He stared at it with sympathy, seeing how every part of the letter was curved, wondering whether the “O” also dreamed it could be straight. That’s when he found peace, while he slept, inside his dreams. But when he was awake, he could not escape. Scoundrel he called himself, suffocating his mind each time he tried to breath. In a last meager attempt, he strove for purpose again. He approached Charles. Charles was the classmate he respected and revered. Before the incident, Charles was a friend, always talking and making jokes, but the blasphemy of homosexuality was stronger than any force of friendship. Never could society tolerate the disgrace of the incapable man, the homosexual man. Christian stood before Charles one final time, hopeful some people will see past his single great fault. “How’s your day” Christian asked. “Uh man” There was a look of disgust. “You were such a perfect friend. Too bad you're gay” Charles burst out, hurt that a detestable scoundrel was trying to talk to him. “Why do you want to know?” “Uhh...I thought maybe...” Christian stammered, he thought things were the same. “It’s a dumb question.” Charles wanted the conversation over as quickly as possible. “But it’s something”

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“It’s mere small talk. You don’t need to know how my day went.” Charles pointed at himself and then back at Christian. “My life. Your life. They don't cross paths.” “I get that,” Christian began holding back the tears “I get all of that.” “Then why’d you ask.” “I wanted to talk to someone.” “Well, be more careful. It'd be embarrassing if people see me talking to you.” Christian felt rejection carve away his soul. On the inside, he could feel that his heart needed to beat harder. The blood through his veins felt heavy. His thoughts muddled together into something grey and dark. He just wanted to feel normal. “Alright, My life’s worthless.” He spoke with solemnity. “But what about the little things. Something with the purpose of having nothing more than lack of purpose.” He began to fall apart in a trance, now visibly distressed. His face contorted from isolation. There was silence for a moment, then he spoke with candid defeat. “What about living for nothing more than ‘How’s your day?’” “It’s Okay” Charles responded, using his best efforts to comfort Christian. “Evolution requires some tragedy to function.” His words came out with honesty. Like a beacon of light – except the light was carnivorous. “Look, some people are born great, others are born to walk a different road. You may amount to nothing, but that’s okay. Look, I want to emphasize this. Don't feel bad. It's not you that I don't like, it's just the fact you're gay.” Charles walked away, unaware the most dangerous force on the planet is the ability to change someone's mind. To Christian, the words festered in his soul, like an uncontrollable cancer. Words from his dad, his classmates, his teachers, and his friend Charles. He was top of his class, but quickly, he missed points on tests, plummeting his scores into clear, obvious failures. His English paper faulted a comma, he got an F. Australia was a Continent, not a Country. His geography grade fell apart. Speeches he gave confidently faced

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derision for shyness. But he never lost hope, he presumed, perfection cannot be mocked. “Math” he figured, “that's where I'll demonstrate my ability.” With math, things were black and white, right or wrong, no bias could plunder him. But when he got back his math score, it was marked up with red pen. With politeness, he approached his teacher, asked for a regrade. “No” she snapped, “I graded it how I should” “I got the right answer, didn't I?” Christian retorted, offended by her sour tone. He knew he had the right answer. The question asked to find the equation of line. He asked, “y = x, that's the answer, right?” “Well if you're wondering what's on the answer key, then yes, that’s the solution” “So can you regrade.” “No” She began to gently explain the concept to him. She used the same tone someone would use teaching basic addition to an infant, filled with condescension and superiority. “You see, if you think about it carefully, your answer isn't actually y = x. You put down the wrong answer. “But my answer is exactly that, y = x” “There are infinite solutions to the equation. Indeed, there is only one requirement. y = x. Boys go with girls. Girls go with boys.” The teacher let out a sigh. “Even if it feels right, just know you’re still wrong.” He wanted to tell her that this was math class, that liking guys was completely irrelevant. But this was linear algebra, abstract math about how one existence builds upon the other. Dimensions are connected. No matter how separated they feel, there was always a matrix that connects two different realities. So when he tried to stand up, words didn't come out. His voice was lost in the matrix. What his dad, teachers, classmates told him, He believed it. There are infinitely many solutions. He was not one of them. Christian found some pills and he disappeared. His biology teacher continued lectures. “Genes guide the body that will prepare you for fate. Some genes are selfish; they work against the best interest of the individual who holds them. How does this help evolution? Genes work for the best interest

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of themselves, not for the species, not for the individual. We are at the mercy of a cruel deterministic system.” “A key aspect that evolution overlooks humans – the ability to carry information by ideas and thoughts. Books exist, names remembered, history accounted for. Genes aren’t the single mechanism of passing on information. Information travels by mind and soul. Legacies are more than genes.” Ten Years later, Charles grew up. Charles thought he might have been the reason Christian killed himself, never asking about people’s day, but now he had a wife with large breasts, perfect for childbirth. He walked down to a park one day, noticing a young boy reminiscent of a kid who once who wanted meaning in his life. He carried the same troubled face, struggling for a purpose. Charles approached the boy, the type of person he respected and revered. “How’s your day?” Charles asked the kid, with genuine sincerity. He asked without reasoning or rationale, purely for the purpose of having lack of purpose, carrying the philosophy of an old friend who once killed himself. The boy talked. His words carried weight on them. There was suffering built in their message. The boy felt his short life to amounted to failure, with no friends, happiness, or legacy. He had some pills stashed away. But Charles spoke to him, unaware the most miraculous force on the planet is the ability to change someone’s mind. Charles invited the boy to join him for the evening. “Where are we going?” the boy asked “My son’s birthday party” “Oh, what's his name?” “Christian.”

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Nathan Lee The Body Electric /* The drones whirred into formation in the square of sky above him. Although engineered to be silent, the blades murmured and spawned cyclones of dust that always gave Jamie the feeling that he too, could float away. Out of habit, his eyes rolled upwards. With ten times the precision of a Russian ballet, the swarm swiftly spelled out “UPGRADE YOUR LIFE, SWITCH TO CYBERFLESH”. A wisp of steam rolled from Jamie’s mouth, a sigh escaping as he continued on his way. The hive continued its dance, but he already knew what the rest would say. “FOUR EASY ANNUAL PAYMENTS, MECHANICAL INSURANCE REQUIRED”. He raised his hands to his mouth, warming them against winter’s first assault. Days as cold as this had been more common in Minnesota. “Dragon-Breath, dragon breath” they had chanted. His fourth grade class stood in awe on the first cold day of fall. They hadn’t seen breath before. Isn’t it impossible to make clouds with your mouth? Is something wrong with your vocal box? Does he look like he can afford a vocal box? Then Jamie began to cry, and that prompted another fit of laughter. His flesh felt foreign, like one of the models from overseas with operators that could only process Slavic. But even Iven754 had begun laughing, thick chortles coughed out of his

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heavyset iron face. Glad for once to be immune from insults, he sputtered out “Leaky-Boy, look at him leak!” 4 months later, Jamie left. Moving was familiar to Jamie. His parents would be laid off; they would move on. There wasn’t much they could do nowadays that the cyborgs couldn’t do. Yet they always seemed to find work. “Bitch work, that’s what I’m doing” his father had exclaimed. His hairy hands curled. “Work they don’t want to get their parts dirty with.” He slammed the flimsy aluminum that coated the trains interior, smudges left on the surgically pristine sheeting. “What’s the point of stainless steel bodies if they don’t even pick up their own trash?” Jamie’s face seared red with shame. His father’s hands, made soft with grease, hadn’t even dented the metal. No one would know of his anger. As Jamie walked away from the drones six years later, his father was still doing bitch work. He stuck his hands back into his pockets. It was late, and home was near. He was grateful for the cold. */

/* In his home, the morning hours demand grace. Most nights, his dad came back from night shift at 0300. His light snoring harmonized with Jamie’s alarm. Jamie padded to the window as if some surprise waited outside if only he could sneak up on it. He woke up to the world slower than most. With battery charging times cut in half about every 5 years, the cyberflesh students needed less and less time between school days. So 4 hours would have to do for Jamie. He stretched, enjoying the rolling of the sinews, the cracking of his joints. He smelled

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breakfast. Jamie’s mother had been up for an hour, always careful to wake up just before her alarm so she didn’t wake dad up. Jamie walked into the living room and yawned a hello. His mother was staring at two different colors. It seemed she had been doing so for a while. Recently, as new cities had been erected, there had been increased demand for human designers. As part of the supply, his mother had been able to find work more easily. She said the trick was in imperfection. She would smile at cyborg-designed buildings, cookie-cutter structures of glass and steel, because she knew there was opportunity. Looking up from her work, she smiled at Jamie and nodded towards the counter. Because of his mom’s new work, they had been able to rent a mealBot to prepare food 14 meals a week. Jamie scooped a serving from the platter, careful to leave enough for when his dad woke up. His mother began to whistle. La Vie en Rose was her go-to, the one his father had sung to her when he proposed. “Hey, I’m trying to actually get some sleep. Stop that” The groggy voice sliced through his parent’s bedroom and stopped his mom’s lips mid-note. A glint flashed over her eyes. In a tone, too sweet, she called out, “Hey babe, how about you make some fucking money before you talk to me like that?”. The fighting had been going on almost as long as the moving. The earliest memory Jamie recalled had been their yelling. They moved to Orange County, California while Jamie was three, and left when he turned four. There was sun and grass and plenty of other families who hadn’t been genetically enhanced yet. Sun, smiles, sand. They burst into his room, each pulling one of his arms. “Jamie, you’re coming with me” “You think you can take care of him?” He thought of the rope his friends would play tug-of-war with. He thought about whether the rope ever wanted to just be on both teams. Then he thought that maybe the pulling of the rope was the only thing keeping the two teams together.

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Jamie remembered asking his friends if their parents argued. It had felt like a betrayal, admitting that his parents didn’t get along. He was surprised to hear that even cyberflesh families weren’t optimal. Sometimes he forgot that they were modeled off of fleshers like him. The sinews, the joints, the optical lenses as thin and crisp as butterfly wings. Someone with a body like his had been the blueprint. Anger and ambition had transitioned well from neural networks to silicon wiring. The difference was that most of the newer family models had moderators built into their system. When the moderators first came out, they had been sold at cost. The government paid for up to 50% of market price, part of its mental health insurance program. The moderator module weighed the merit of every argument, processed individual mental states, and told both parties who was right. And that was that. His dad stormed out of the room. The smell of breakfast still lingered in the air. He turned to Jamie, then walked out the house. Jamie followed. Dad was his ride to school. */

/* Jamie had exactly 23 minutes to get to school. He would make it. Now that all the cars had been outfitted with self-driving systems, traffic wasn’t a problem. His dad had delayed against getting an AI for the truck, but the insurance company threatened to drop his coverage if he didn’t upgrade. In the car, he was restless. Jamie watched him fiddle with the AC and drum his fingers on the steering wheel. Jamie looked out the window. Cars flowed beside them, a river of metal hurtling at unnatural speed. Most of the passengers didn’t even wear seatbelts. Ever since the FLOW self-driving system had been universalized, safety wasn’t an issue. Or at least there wasn’t much you could do about it. Jamie pictured FLOW guiding them through traffic, fitting everyone together like Tetris blocks. He wondered how it decided what to do when a block didn’t fit. What happened when

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a tree fell onto the road? He wondered if FLOW was good at playing Frogger. */

/* Jamie got to school on time, seated in his learning pod a few minutes before the teacher appeared on screen. The pods were unassigned in class, so he was glad that today he had gotten one near his friends. Ge.54 and Josi had saved him a seat, one towards the back. Ge hadn’t gotten his oil checkup for the season yet, so his joints creaked slightly as he moved his leg off of Jamie’s reserved pod. Jamie punched Ge’s shoulder lightly, the cheap metal ringing slightly off of Jamie’s fist. Ge stiffened and, in a British accent that his voice box wasn’t designed to produce, humphed, “don’t dare touch me, you defective flesher”. His eyes brightened to an extra degree of blue, and he laughed at his own imitation. Ge wasn’t really like the other cyberflesh students. When he called himself a gear and Jamie a flesher, he didn’t seem to mean it. The real Gears sat at the front of the class. They were massive, built of plastic and metal from the top down. Not many parents could afford “the works”, lessons on how to use one’s vocal box correctly, private training on which algorithms generate the fastest sprints, vocabulary inputs to help with testing. Really, the Gears didn’t have to work that much. They had been well trained early on to optimally process knowledge and produce effective outputs in class and the workforce. Their eyes rarely flickered from a frigid blue when talking to Jamie. It was hard enough for most of Jamie’s friends to afford parts. Josi waved quietly to Jamie. He was more quiet, his eyes a natural brown. The only genetic enhancement Josi’s family could afford were the cyborg arms he had on now. Still, that was better than Jamie. At least Josi could keep up with lectures, typing down notes at the same speed as everyone else.

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Jamie felt a tap on his shoulder. The soft flesh of the finger told Jamie that it was Albert. He sighed. “Hey, what’s up man?” Albert was one of the only other fully flesh students in the school. He thought this gave them some shared kinship, some sacred and unspeakable bond. Jamie was careful to avoid being seen with him too often. When high school had started, they had been close. Other students would mix them up, and he overheard them say that he was “just one of those fleshers”. Jamie distanced himself, surrounding himself with cyborgs like Ge and half-models like Josi. “I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime this week, there’s a Parent-Student Meetup for fleshers happening Thursday”. Jamie wondered who had heard Albert’s question, feeling himself sink a little lower in his pod. “Nah, I think I’m good. See you around”. */

/* Jamie figured he wasn’t less intelligent than his peers, just slower. He glanced around at the other students buried in their learning pods. They typed down every word down furiously, although they had been studying this material on their own for the past year. Most of them could afford to go to study halls, where they learned material weeks in advance, electric synapses crackling into being as correct answers were fed into them. But still they typed. Jamie tried to keep up, but the roar of metal digits on plastic keypads tempted to lull his eyes shut. He glanced at the clock. */

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/* The learning pods all beeped red as the school day ended. A Gear pushed past Jamie on the way out, the sharp metal elbow sending him out the door. Jamie turned to the Gear, who glanced at him with the plastic corners of his mouth turned upwards. Then the corners turned downwards in fear, and the rotors in his eyes switched up. Jamie spun around, following the Gear’s eyes. A fleet of police drones were hovering above. Detecting Jamie’s eyes, they began to spell out, EMERGENCY: JAMIE K: REPORT TO STATION 79: FATHER. The officer’s voice was clipped and prescriptive. The reflective black lenses that covered his eyes and the flashing blue badge etched into his right arm distracted Jamie. “your father took manual control of the truck….” Jamie wondered if becoming a cop was just a matter of installing the proper programming. “…a girl ran onto the road. Evaluating the damage that would be done to the surrounding cars and highway, the FLOW intelligence decided it was optimal for your father to proceed without evasive action…” it probably was just a program, OPERATIONS_POLICE or something “…. your father swerved away from the girl, there was a collision”. Jamie’s throat clenched, so hard that it hurt to breathe. Jamie’s nails sliced into his palms, his hands becoming clammy. He ventured a question, “Ok, so is he ok?” “Negative” The officer escorted him out of the room, saying someone from the department would be in touch about the funeral. He sat in the lobby, trying to contact his mother. He had five missed calls from her. His phone died. He figured the police had already contacted her, he figured she had wept. On the screen above, newscasters talked about the new OS upgrades would allow cyberflesh beings to upload themselves to the cloud. CloudCare, they called it. They gushed about the expanded memory capacities, the possibility of downloading oneself into a new body if the old one was worn down. Jamie glanced down at his hands, soft and puffy like his father’s. He looked at each finger, little sacks of flesh that could change shape, that could be

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broken by a baseball or a smack or another truck doing 190 on the freeway. He headed for the door. Outside of the station, the sky had been painted with a palette of pinks and blues. It was something his mother could’ve dreamed up. She used to draw for his father, little sketches for him to tape to the dashboard and look at on the way to work. Before the fighting got bad, his father had kept them all. His favorite had been a sketch of Jamie and him standing on the side of a riverbank, making faces at mom while she drew them in shades of black. This last memory was too much for Jamie. His eyes leaked, the riverbanks overflowed, he let the painted sky turn to watercolor. */

/* He let one bus pass, then another. The dust kicked up from the exhaust cloaked his face, made it hard to breathe. There was an echo in his ears, something he heard his father mumble at night between clasped hands. “dust to dust to dust” He focused on the stones beneath him. They were solid and strong, and each one different. He wondered which one would roll beneath him, send him falling into the traffic below.

Jamie remembered stopping off the 405 as the family left Orange County. There was a place on top of a hill his father had visited when he was a boy. It was surrounded by stacks of stones, rising up to Jamie’s midriff. The stacks were delicate and precise, and Jamie wondered how they hadn’t yet been knocked over. Each one rose up miraculously, with the uneven grooves in one rock matching with the uneven grooves in another, perfection in imperfection. They were the colors his mother picked for a new building, they were his parents fighting some nights and the muffled sound of their lovemaking on others. Jamie wished he were four again, that he could kick one of the rocks over, prove

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to the hawks above and the ants below that the concept was bullshit. Jamie thought of his father. Hadn’t he known that FLOW was always right? The little girl’s parents should’ve programmed her better, taught her not to play in the street. A string of cars streaked past. He remembered the grease in his hands, the quiet mornings watching him sleep, the shiny metal train his father had punched. */

/* Jamie hadn’t gone to school in three weeks. The insurance company had wanted to fine the family. Jamie’s father had, after all, violated the highway protocol. His mother was on the phone for days. On the phone she snarled, she growled. She spoke prettily to managers and barked orders to interns. While on hold, she would draw Jamie’s father. One night, Jamie was startled to see her kneeling in prayer. In the end, the company said they would send the money, though they didn’t say when. The flesher papers all praised his father. The full-human-worker unions would ask his mother to speak at meetings, about why only a human could make such a brave choice. “Your father saved that little girl” “He’s a hero” Jamie would nod a thank you, never showing his teeth when he smiled. He didn’t think a hero would leave his son.

Jamie’s mother went back to work, Jamie stayed home. He was waiting for the check.

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He had strange dreams of crashes and fires. He dreamt of robots that could weep. In his sleep, he froze an icy blue. In his nightmares, he was so cold that he could tell a widow that her husband’s life was worth negative dollars.

Ge.54 and Josi stopped by often. Josi had hugged him hard the first time, and said he was there to listen. Jamie didn’t have anything to say. Sometimes, they would play chess. Josi had always been good at chess, but the only person he could play was Jamie. Everyone else would have all the possible moves already mapped out in their central processors. Once Jamie realized that Josi was letting him win, he asked him not to visit again.

The idea of all his parts stopping at once terrified Ge. He made Jamie talk about the accident over and over again. Every time, his eyes would pale and his sensors would blink in fear. Ge convinced his family to upgrade to CloudCare. Now, he never visited Jamie in person. He uploaded himself onto Jamie’s computer, so they could talk whenever. Ge was supposed to be the same on the cloud as he was in his body, since the manufacturers updated your cloud id every millisecond. Jamie missed seeing Ge’s eyes change color. But it didn’t matter, friends didn’t help much. The check came. One night, Jamie walked out of the house, unsure if he was awake or in a nightmare. He woke up in the clinic. His hands no longer felt soft like his fathers. He heard a soft hum ringing throughout the room. He heard a deep voice clicking out instructions. “Activate audio-visual systems in 5” Jamie counted down silently, each number a silent prayer. His eyes flipped open. They burned electric blue.

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Maya Mahony Soledad When La Migra’s boat thrummed out of sight, Soledad swam across the Rio Bravo. The water swirled brown and low from the drought. The currents tried to pull her apart. When she got to the shore and turned around, it was as if everything had disappeared. Even the river was gone. They called it Rio Grande from this side. *** When Soledad was a little girl in San Cristobal de las Casas, her abuelo sculpted small bowls out of clay. Soledad’s little sister Reina liked watching T.V. shows. Soledad sat for hours and watched Abuelo work. Everywhere else Abuelo was wrinkled, but on his hands the skin stretched tight. His fingertips were broad and worn, the prints almost pressed away. Sometimes Abuelo let Soledad draw pictures on the sides of the bowls. The clay could become anything. When the bowls had fired, they were finished, unchangeable. Soledad and Reina played in the plaza. Clouds stumbled over each other in the darkness. The birds and the boom-boxes and the mango-sellers scattered. Soledad and Reina stayed put. Rain streamed through their hair and grazed their goosebumps. They laughed open-mouthed at each other. Mamá would spank them. Mamá would be so worried. Lightning flared over the façade of the church. My sister, my sister––they clasped each other’s cold hands and twirled. The family sat with candles around Abuelo’s body, wails curling up with the smoke. This was not Abuelo. Its hands did not move. It was hard and fixed like fired clay. *** Soledad means loneliness. Reina means queen. Mamá knew everything. When she had chosen their names, she must have seen their destiny. Reina always had admirers, boys who

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smoked cigarettes and whistled at her on the street. Reina smiled at them. Soledad pulled Reina’s hand. “They’ll hurt you,” she whispered. Soledad had wide hips. She was chubby. She did not like dancing; she preferred to draw. The boys whistled at her too, but it was a mean sort of whistle. Except for Pépe. Pépe was eighteen when Soledad was sixteen. He liked Soledad’s drawings; he asked her to draw him. Pépe was tall and skinny. He had a thin mustache. His eyelashes curled like a girl’s. They walked by the river outside San Cristobal. Women were washing clothes, laughter and sunlight sparkling off the water. Dogs slept in the shade. Pépe took Soledad’s hand. His hand was firm and cool. The fingernails were all chewed down. Soledad walked quietly, on her tiptoes, scared to breathe. Another time, walking in the plaza, Pépe bought Soledad a mango. The outside was all the colors of the rainbow, swirled together. Soledad peeled the mango slowly. She was afraid to eat in front of him, but she did it anyway. The mango was soft and sweet and perfect. One warm spring morning, Mamá was hanging the laundry on the balcony. “A man here to see you,” Mamá called, her voice, pinched, disapproving. Soledad ran out. It was the leader of Pépe’s gang. The laundry flapped in the breeze, bright and colorful, like papel picado on Día de los Muertos. “There was a fight,” said the leader. The air crystallized inside of Soledad. “Dead?” she whispered. But she already knew. Soledad. It was her destiny. *** Reina got pregnant when she was fifteen, and again when she was seventeen. “Who will marry our Reina with two babies?” said Mamá. “You worry too much,” said Soledad. Reina was slender, pretty. Quick to smile, quick to dance. By twenty-one Reina had married Jorge Rivera, by all accounts the best dancer in San Cristobal de las Casas. Jorge bribed a train conductor to let him,

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Reina, and the two children climb on the roof of a freight train before it started moving. They were headed for San Francisco. El Norte. It seemed too far away to be real. “They’ll never make it,” said Mamá, and Soledad stroked her hair as she cried. But they did. Reina called once a week. “Jorge’s washing dishes at a taqueria,” she reported. “Everyone in the world is here. Black people, white people, Chinese people.” “And do they like tacos?” said Soledad. “They love them.” The next week: “I don’t know if I should let the children play outside. What if La Migra get them?” “Children can’t live without sunlight, m’ija,” said Mamá. “There’s no sun anyway. It’s always foggy.” “You know what I mean.” *** After dinner, Soledad sat up with Mamá. Soledad drew as they talked. Mamá used to tower. Her arms had been thick, her lungs deep. Now she looked small. They talked like old friends. More and more, Mamá’s laughs ended in coughs. Soledad tried to memorize the edges Mamá’s face in the lamplight. “Why are you staring? Do I have food on my cheek?” “No. My mind just wandered.” Soledad worked for a store that sold embroidered blouses and amber jewelry. She was friends with the other women who worked there. On Sundays, they went to the big church on the plaza. Her friends sat next to their husbands and children. Soledad sat next to Mamá. Thirty years old, and still sitting with her mother in church. How would she would draw the scene? The vaulted ceiling. The way the light glinted off the gold panels on the walls. She held the drawing inside of her like a superpower as the priest droned on.

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Everywhere Soledad went, she collected things to draw. A flock of rainclouds. Mamá’s hands making tamales. Children dancing to a boom-box in the middle of the street. Pink flowers on a balcony. An old woman, barefoot, carrying a burden with a strap around her forehead. A dog with one ear that limped in a cobblestone alley and turned to look at her, eyes bright and lucid. There were so many old women. So many dogs. The old women had rotten teeth and no shoes. The dogs had no names and their ribs jutted out of their bodies. There were so many it made you want to turn away. But if you just drew one, you could look at it. One dog in an alleyway. She shaded his fur meticulously. She worked on his eyes for hours. “There are no dogs in San Francisco,” reported Reina. “Or hardly any. And the ones they have here, they keep on leashes. They wash them and cut their fur and they all have enough to eat.” *** Mamá died one winter morning, just as the sun was rising. Soledad called Reina. Reina cried. Her children, Teresa and Miguel, cried. Soledad stood, listening to them cry, through the cell phone. Behind her, neighbors filled the apartment with candles and weeping. The melting wax smelled bitter. Ahead of her stretched San Cristobal de las Casas under pink and silver clouds. Here Mamá had stood to hang the laundry. Soledad could hear the city breathing. All the dogs and old women and orphans and soldiers. She had no more love for them. There was nothing holding her here. Her heart was covered in clay. “Come,” said Reina. And so she did. *** It took many weeks. Soledad could not bring any of her drawings with her. Two weeks on train roofs, the wind whistling. Her fingers bled from holding on so tightly. Gangs collected bribes every few minutes. They prowled the train roofs for young women. Soledad avoided eye contact. She strived, for once, to look dumpy and old. She was not raped.

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Soledad camped with other migrants in the bushes by the river. She looked straight up. A bird soared overhead, wheeling from bank to bank, like it thought this was just any river, like the world was wide open. Soldiers came by in a boat, scanning their surroundings, fingers poised on guns. Was there war here? The engine chopped and spat water. The guns gleamed. “La Migra,” someone whispered. *** Reina opened the door. She was older and chubbier and more beautiful than ever. It was evening in the Mission District of San Francisco. All around the air was full of cooking smells: tacos and flautas and tamales. “My sister,” Reina said. Her arms were around Soledad. The inside of Soledad expanded like a blue universe. Reina pulled her inside. Plastic toys and children’s shoes littered the floor. “Jorge!” Reina called. “She’s here! She made it!” Jorge emerged from the bedroom. “Soledad,” he said, and kissed her on each cheek. “You haven’t aged a day!” “You haven’t either,” she told him. He was fatter, grayer, balder. “Still dancing?” He laughed. “With the brooms and mops, sister.” Teresa and Miguel hung back, wide-eyed. Teresa was ten. She had a plastic purse. Miguel was eight. He had gelled the front of his hair. Soledad reached out to hug Miguel. Miguel stepped backward. “You’re dirty,” he whispered. “That’s horrible,” said Teresa and swatted him with the plastic purse. “Do you want to eat?” said Reina. “Do you want to shower?” “Shower,” said Soledad. The water rushed out, an endless torrent, clear and hot and loud. It coursed through her hair, down her neck, her arms, over her breasts, her stomach, her legs. Soledad sang. She was the queen of El Norte. She was the cleanest queen there ever was.

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When she got out, the mirror was covered in fog. Steam wisped off her bare arms. She dressed and went to the kitchen. “California’s in a drought,” said Miguel. Teresa swatted him with the plastic purse. *** That night, Jorge left for his shift as a janitor in an office building downtown. Soledad and Reina sat on Reina and Jorge’s bed. “How was the funeral?” said Reina. “It was terrible. I wished you were there.” “I wished I was too… Remember how she used to pluck chickens on the balcony, and the feathers drifted down? I just remembered that, yesterday, when I was buying this stupid boneless chicken they sell here.” “I remember. She loved you, Reina.” “I know.” “How have you been? How’s America?” “I’m glad Teresa and Miguel are growing up here. They can be anything.” “And you?” “I’m always afraid of La Migra. I never see Jorge. He’s sleeping when I’m awake.” “I’m sorry.” “Remember that storm in the plaza?” “Of course. We were soaking wet.” “That was the best.” They had been talking to strangers for so long. Years and years it seemed. So this is how it felt to talk to someone who understood. It felt like eating. They talked voraciously. Hours and hours and hours. And then they were quiet. They lay with their legs curled up against each other, like when they were little girls. The clock said three in the morning. Soledad’s eyelids were closing. “I missed you so much,” whispered Reina. “I’ve been so lonely.” ***

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Everywhere in the Mission there were murals. Teresa and Miguel’s elementary school had a mural of Cesár Chavez and Dolores Huerta. A few blocks away La Llorona wept, surrounded by women, all barefoot and seething in a sea of blue. Soledad wandered like a drunkard. “Why didn’t you tell me, Reina? I would have come years ago.” She was joking. Maybe. There was an entire alley, Balmy Alley, they called it, covered in murals. The paintings of this size on the walls of the church in San Cristobal had been stiff, still. These murals whirled. They sang. They belted like the queen of El Norte in the shower. Look at me! I am telling you a story. I am telling you of cornfields hot and regal and a green so deep your stomach plunges to see it. I am telling you of war. I am telling you of rebellion, of outcasts, of families. They tell us we are small and dirty and forsaken. They tell us we are illegal and undeserving and afraid. They are wrong. Look at our Virgen of Guadalupe, look at our feather head-dressed Jesus, look at our suffering and our love and our resilience–– Soledad looked. *** Reina got Soledad jobs cleaning for three old white ladies whose hair she dyed at the salon. They all had white carpets to vacuum, and porcelain shepherdesses to dust, and potted plants to water. Each one had a particular way that fitted sheets were meant to be folded; if Soledad accidentally used the wrong old lady’s technique, she had to refold the sheets. Soledad stopped working at different times each day, depending on how many chores the old ladies assigned. This time it was late afternoon. Soledad took the bus back to the Mission, and got off a few stops earlier than she needed to. The fog was like walking in clouds. Maybe this is how Mamá and Abuelo and Pépe felt, up in heaven. Soledad walked by her favorite murals. She ran her fingers over the walls as she passed. “Wait! Hello!”

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Soledad turned around. A black man stood on the sidewalk behind her. He had short dreadlocks and wore an apron. His hands were full of tomatoes. “I see you stop here every day. Most people don’t stop to look at it.” Soledad had never met a black person who spoke Spanish. “I’m an artist,” she said, and blushed. “I thought so,” he said. “I’m Jordan. I work in that grocery store right there. I like the murals too. I was here when they painted this one. The artist let anybody help. I painted that flower.” “Which one?” He pointed somewhere in the field of flowers. Pointing was too much; the tomatoes fell on the sidewalk and rolled all over the place, gleaming and red. Soledad helped Jordan pick them up. They were both laughing. “So you’re an artist?” said Jordan. “Are you gonna paint a mural?” “Maybe. I don’t know.” “You should.” His fingers were short and broad. He had no wedding ring. He cradled the bruised tomatoes as gently as he had when they were whole. They stood there. Somebody called from inside the grocery store. “That’s my boss.” He didn’t move. “I’ll buy them,” said Soledad. “I’ll make them into soup. Nobody will ever know.” “I’ll owe you then. You’ll have to let me make it up to you. You’ll have to let me paint a flower in your mural.” “Big help that’ll be,” said Soledad. Jordan laughed. His laugh was warm and rumbling. She paid him for the tomatoes. She started walking. “Wait!” he called. “What’s your name?” *** The sign read, “The Precita Eyes Mural Arts and Visitor Center.” Soledad went in.

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She had practiced. She spoke in English. “I want to paint a mural. Can you help me?” “Of course,” said the woman behind the counter. She had long white hair in a ponytail, and the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “That’s what we’re here for.” *** The building that eventually offered a commission was a photocopy shop directly across from the grocery store where Jordan worked. Every day, after work, Soledad took the bus to the photocopy shop. She measured the building. She sketched for hours. She drew a grid over the sketch. Once inch by one inch. Then she chalked a grid onto the building. One foot by one foot. People from Precita Eyes helped her build scaffolding. Jordan brought fruit. An orange. An apple. A ripe avocado, creamy and perfect, which smeared all over the place. “Is the artist hungry?” he called from across the street. She didn’t need to turn around to tell that it was him. “I have two big brothers, back in the D.R,” he told her. “Manny owns a hotel. Saulo’s a teacher. They used to beat the crap out of me when I was a kid. But they’re great guys. Funny. You would like them.” “Were you ever in love?” “Yes. She married another man. And you?” “He died.” *** On the weekends, Teresa and Miguel brought their friends. Soledad let them help, all these wriggling little kids spilling paint on their clothes. Jordan set up speakers and played music. Reina and Jorge danced on the sidewalk. A woman came by with an ice cream cart, and then a taco truck stopped, and soon there were many people dancing, and eating, and painting. “That’s my sister,” Reina told people. “That’s my––” said Jordan. He stopped. He looked at Soledad.

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*** Soledad was wide and solid. No slender waist for a man to curve his hands around. But Jordan put his hands on her waist. Right above her hip bones and below her rib cage. Where he touched her, she turned soft. Jordan loved watching the Giants games on T.V. and talking about them to anybody who would listen. Soledad would not. Jordan loved playing music so loud you could feel it pounding inside of you. “You’ll go deaf, old man,” said Soledad. Jordan loved watching Soledad paint. “You have the world inside of you,” he told her once. “And it comes pouring through your paintbrush.” “Poet,” she teased him. “Maybe I am.” Jordan smiled wide enough to crack the clay around her heart. *** Soledad painted San Cristobal de las Casas. She painted a dog with one ear, turning around, looking at you with clear eyes. She painted a mango, and a clay bowl, and an old man, and two little girls playing in the plaza, and a train with everyone clinging to the roof, and a brown and rushing river. She painted Mamá with her strong arms hanging the laundry on the balcony. The laundry floated away like feathers, and the feathers turned into birds, and the birds soared over the river, like the world was wide open.

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Saptarshi Majumdar A Journey What started out as a light drizzle as we entered Santa Cruz had turned into a torrential downpour by the time the Greyhound driver got my wheelchair off to the pavement. Hiding underneath the roof of a bus stop, I thought to myself, “Wow, you really did not think this through”. I looked up “Cafes open right now” in Google Maps. There was one, Saturn Cafe, three blocks from where I was and so I punched my wheelchair into fourth gear and rushed there in order to not get any more wet than I already was. This outer-space themed restaurant located right in the middle of night life was open till 3 AM on weekends. It served as the post-drinking hang-out place. I went up to the register and asked for a cup of hot tea. I took a seat and thought about cancelling the trip because I had such a poor start. The rain stopped about half an hour later. Neon lights from bars lit the street and there were people everywhere. I went to check it out. I was on the lookout for bars that didn’t seem too strict on checking IDs and right across from Saturn Cafe, I spotted one called the Blue Lagoon which didn’t seem to have a bouncer. I walked in to check out what was going on. On the TV screen, male bodies writhed against each other, their faces contorted in ecstasy. I hadn’t seen that coming. Looking around, I saw a lot of quirkily dressed men making out on the dance floor. It then hit me that I had walked into a gay bar. As someone from a superconservative part of rural India, it was initially overwhelming, but I thought it would be cool to stick around as this trip was about new (and potentially uncomfortable) experiences. I went to the bar and asked for a Redbull in order to power through the night when I heard a sing-song voice behind me saying, “Why

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are you so wet?” I turned around towards the voice and in front of me was a very attractive blonde girl and her friend. She was wearing a leather jacket, had a tattoo on her neck and leg and seemed artsy. Exactly my type. I responded, “Well, I am doing a very ill-conceived road trip across the California coast and Santa Cruz is my first stop. I genuinely did not expect it to rain as much as it was a while ago but here I am.” She thought it was the coolest thing she had ever heard someone do. She told me that she and her friend were straight and they just didn’t want to be hit upon so they were at Blue Lagoon and they were going to go over to Red Room, a different lounge and I was welcome to join them. She knew the owner there and could therefore get me in. Sensing an opportunity, I immediately took her up on her offer. As we made our way to the Red Room, I asked her for her name. “Nancy” she answered, “Yours?” “Sam” I replied. It was a lie. After an hour of revelry at the Red Room, she asked me about where I was staying that night. I honestly answered, “I don’t have the slightest idea but I will figure something out.” She asked me to come home with her but her home was ten miles away and she was Ubering back and my wheelchair wouldn’t fit in the Uber. I went back to Saturn Cafe and started looking at motels nearby on Google Maps. I saw one that seemed to have an extended roof and I decided to spend the night below that roof. IAMSU was playing at The Catalyst that night and some people staying at the hotel saw me half-asleep outside below the roof. They came out to check on me. Hearing that I planned on staying the night there, they went back to their room to check if they had any space to fit me in. They didn’t. But they came back to talk to me for a while. It turned out they were a bunch of dudes from San Jose State. They grew their own weed. We talked about our lives and my journey. I said, “You probably think I am a fool”. They said, “You are a fool but you are the good sort of fool”. We laughed. They rolled me three joints and said, “Smoke this. You will be warm”. We said our goodbyes and they wished me luck. That conversation was the true start of my trip. I sat there getting stoned, reflecting on the events of the night. I set aside all thoughts I had of canceling the trip and thought about how this absurdity began.

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My name is Saptarshi Majumdar or as most people call me, Sap. I was born on 5th March, 1998 in Malda, a small town in the state of West Bengal. There was a weird scab on my back which was operated on when I was five days old. The operation was botched and I ended up being worse than I should have been. After a series of misdiagnoses, at the age of three, I was diagnosed with myelomeningocele, a severe form of spina bifida. The doctors pronounced my fate: â&#x20AC;&#x153;This boy will remain bedridden throughout his lifeâ&#x20AC;?. Having lost his first child due to unforeseen complications, my father refused to accept that his second child would be confined to a bed for the rest of his life. He only saw it as a test that God had decided to put him through again and his duty would be to make sure that I grew up to live an independent and fulfilling life so that I could be happy. And so, even when I was three, he would carry me on his shoulders while taking me to zoos, parks and cricket games at the stadium so that I got a chance to live a normal life in spite of all the medical complications that young age brings. He learned physiotherapy and would hold me as I walked small distances from the strength I gained in my legs little by little. Nothing made him more happy than when I declared that I wanted to learn how to swim when I was four. Most schools in India refused to be accommodating enough to allow me to come to school as they felt that I would inconvenience the rest of the children. Having honed his teaching skills by offering private tuitions to put himself through college, he set about teaching me. He also set about contacting school and threatening them with lawsuits in order to find me a school. He argued with the principals and ultimately, one school agreed to take me in. I turned out to be a bright student who excelled at all things academic and even co-curricular activities. Fast forward to when I was fourteen. I was doing well in school and I was walking with the help of a walker. But, it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meant to be. Doctors discovered a massive tumor in my spine which needed to be operated upon immediately. And so on May 26th, 2011, I went through my third surgery. Following that surgery, I lost all the strength in my legs and therefore, was confined to a

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wheelchair. In addition to that, I was not to grow in any height anymore and was therefore stuck at a small height of 5 feet 2 inches. Rage took over me for I wondered how life could be so unfair. I was in bed rest for three months and therefore missed school for three months. I stopped living and became a shell of who I was before. Every year, starting 2008, I would go to the New Year’s Eve party at the local recreational club and have fun. I longed to dance but I couldn’t. Instead, I’d look on wistfully as people around me danced as if they were possessed. Come New Year’s Eve 2011, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go because I was afraid of facing my own fallibilities. I still went. The DJ was playing bangers. Earlier when I could walk, I couldn’t dance because a rod-like contraption was connected to my legs which allowed me to walk. I realized that being in a wheelchair would allow me to dance. I told my three close friends about it. So, they took me to the floor. I felt self-conscious about myself. As NeYo crooned, “Tonight, I want all of you tonight, Give me everything tonight, For all we know, we might not get tomorrow, Let's do it tonight”, I felt a surge of adrenaline and let myself go. My heart racing, I cocked my head up as if possessed and threw my hands up. At midnight, I was thrown up in the air by my friends. I felt pure bliss; it was a moment I never thought would happen six months ago. I asked my friends to do it a couple more times. And they did it thrice more. I couldn’t sleep that night. I decided then that I had to stop pitying myself and start living life again. I became a dreamer. I dreamt of traveling the world. I dreamt of meeting people from all over the world. I dreamt that one day, I’d have an exoskeleton that would allow me to climb mountains, go rock-climbing and I had to be at the center of innovation. It was that dream that led to me to apply to Stanford. I wasn’t sure if I’d get in but all I had was a dream and there was no way I could let go of that dream. Stanford decided that I was worthy enough to come here and come September 2015, I was being dropped off at Stanford by my Dad. Everything changed. It was so different. Every sidewalk had a ramp and no place was really inaccessible, and I could go almost wherever I wanted independently. For the first time in my life, I had freedom. Everyone here was so smart and had such interesting stories. I

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was making friends who I really really cared about. I fucking loved it But, I had lived a sheltered existence as rural India was a conservative black hole. I had a loud and extroverted personality. Enter Mr. Alcohol. The first night, I was allowed to drink, I blacked out. The first weekend, I got sent to the hospital for being too drunk. Strike one. Like any virginal seventeen-year old, I wanted to get laid. I thought Mr. Alcohol would provide me the confidence that I needed to talk to girls. But, I was inexperienced and didn’t know my tolerance. I ended up abusing Mr. Alcohol. Most nights, I would go out and wake up in my bed having no idea how I got there. The night before Halloween, I got kicked out of a dining hall for making out with someone at a table and being loud and obnoxious to other people. Strike two, even though I remember nothing from that night. After two strikes, Stanford bans you from drinking. There were also rumors that I had inappropriately touched multiple girls while I was blackout drunk. With that came the reputation of “blackout wheelchair kid/BWK”. I hated it. Over the next couple of days, I kept thinking that I had to turn my life around and get my life together. Stanford had banned me from drinking. They hadn’t banned me from drugs. So, I thought the answer for insight into how I can get my life together might lie in Mr. LSD. It might seem strange that someone recovering from his borderlinealcoholic misfortunes and trying to discover himself would attempt to do more drugs, but hey, Jobs said it was one of his life’s most meaningful experiences and so for me, acid was fair game. I decided to do it for the first time on November 13. Mr. Acid helped me come to the realization that I had to internalize everything that had happened and be cognizant of them in order to move on. But that turned out to be easier said than done. I struggled. How could I internalize the fact that I had probably sexually misbehaved with multiple girls? How could I internalize the fact that I had been abusing alcohol as a way to get laid? Who the fuck comes to school thinking they are gonna do either of these? And yet, here I was. I was at a loss. I didn’t know who to talk to about it. All my adolescence, I had solved my own problems but here was one that flummoxed me. Over thanksgiving break, I read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and

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decided that I had to go on a road trip of my own, meet people and interact with them so that I could decide what kind of life I wanted to live. I made a decision to call myself Sam over the course of that trip because I wanted to disassociate myself from Sap and all his failures and interact with people with a clean slate. On December 18, I boarded the Greyhound and began the trip that was going to change my life. As I sat below the roof at Santa Cruz reminiscing all of this, I got stoned and went to sleep on my wheelchair without a care in the world. I woke up at first light. I hadn’t been able to charge my wheelchair so it was low on battery. I looked up places that were going to open early. The Dolphin cafe on the wharf was going to be open at 8 AM and so, I went there to grab food and charge my wheelchair. I was famished and asked the waitress if I could get some fish and chips. She laughed and said, “Well, we don’t serve fish and chips for breakfast”. I said, “I have spent the last couple of hours sleeping below an extended roof outside in the cold and there is nothing I’d like more than some fish and chips please.” Business was slow that morning and I was one of three people at the restaurant. She was intrigued and asked me about the night. I told her my story. She was equal parts surprised and amazed. She said, “Wait right here. I will make sure you get some fish and chips.” She spoke to the chef inside and came out to tell me that I was getting fish and chips. Sitting there, I ate the fish and chips for breakfast at 8:15 AM as if it was the best meal ever. I loved it so much that for the rest of my trip, I would eat one meal a day and it would always be fish and chips. She was also kind enough to not kick me out after I finished breakfast because I told her I was trying to charge my wheelchair as it hadn’t been charged all night. This trip had begun to teach me about the kindness of strangers. Around noon, after my wheelchair was fully charged, I went to Bonny Doon beach. It was about a half-hour bus ride and I wanted to explore the Santa Cruz scenery and go up the PCH for a bit. I saw a couple of nude people on the beach and realized that it was a nude beach. The trail was steep and overgrown shrubs covered it but, I was intrigued and wanted to get to the beach. My wheelchair is a big bad monster and it made the climb down. I sat at the beach admiring the view for five minutes. And then, I

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took off my clothes and stowed it in my bag and accelerated my wheelchair to 5 mph. I yelled “Let’s fucking go” at the top of my voice while the wind blew in the opposite direction and chilled my body to the core. As a disabled individual, I always had body image issues. But, here I was, naked, literally and figuratively doing something that I never thought I would do. Seeing me, the other nudists at the beach ran alongside me. We didn’t exchange a word but there was only laughter and love in our eyes. I felt elated and tears of happiness streamed down my face. I was initially uncomfortable but after doing it five more times, I felt liberated. The climb up was again kinda scary but my wheelchair again made it. That night, when I was hanging out at a different bar, someone told me about a $20/night Hostelling International Hostel at Santa Cruz. I went there but it turned out to be completely booked for the night. However, the manager recommended me a homeless shelter nearby where I could go told me they would probably let me in for the night as I was disabled. And that’s what I did. It turned out to be one of the more interesting nights I ever had as I had a really long conversation about love, loss and death with a man who became an alcoholic after he lost his wife and kids in a tragic accident 20 years prior. Again, there was something that he said that I don’t think I will ever forget, “Do not let go of the people that really hurt you because the only people that can really hurt you are the ones that are close enough to do it”. My next stop was Monterey/Carmel/Big Sur but, I planned this one out a bit better while I was in Santa Cruz and figured out that I was going to stay at a 15 bucks a night hostel. Coincidentally, every city I was planning to visit had hostels except Santa Barbara so I had to drop Santa Barbara off my list as it was too expensive. I checked-in to my hostel in Monterey at about 10 AM on a Sunday and asked the receptionist as to how I could get to Big Sur. The only public transportation to Big Sur was offered on weekends and was leaving in an hour. I made it to the transit center as the bus that was going to Big Sur parked. And thus began the greatest bus ride I have ever taken. The PCH is an incredible highway that offers some of the best views I have ever seen. And that stretch from Monterey to Nepenthe Point (which is as far as the bus went) featuring the iconic Bixby

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Bridge is one of its most beautiful stretches. Before I began this trip, I had packed a fair amount of psychedelic mushrooms because I hoped that I could gain some valuable insight. Before I began that bus trip, I ate a decent amount of them because I wanted to experience the road in its full beauty. I started tripping balls while on the way. As I looked out the window at the ocean, I saw a whirlpool form. In that whirlpool, I saw flashes and pictures of my life from the day I was born until that moment going in circles and getting sucked into the depths of that whirlpool. I wondered for a while as to what it meant and it hit me: I was being told subconsciously that my past didn’t matter anymore. It’s gone. What mattered was what was left of my life and I could genuinely have a fresh start. Nepenthe Point was the end of the line for that bus. I went up to the restaurant and decided to treat myself to an overpriced chocolate cake. I was so happy that I did the trip twice. That night, I went to Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. on Cannery Row and had Fish & Chips. After eating there, I wandered along Cannery Row feeling the wind push up my hair. I felt at peace. I wasn’t Sam anymore.

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Sesha McMinn Remi Remi snapped to consciousness. Abruptly, someone pounced on her and she found herself face to face with bright olive green eyes. She rubbed her own blue-grey eyes and yawned. Those bright olive green eyes belonged to Leo, a little boy with a head full of raggedy brown hair and a wide smile strewn across a round face. Leo hugged her tightly, squeezing out the air. This tight, suffocating embrace was welcoming and routine after their frequent sleepovers. Leo and Remi were joined at the hip. They were like brother and sister, like salt and pepper, like cowboy and cowgirl running around on horses made out of brooms. She went with him everywhere he went, and he with her. They faced the first day of kindergarten with their hands clasped tight. At recess, while the other kids chased each other in circles around the jungle gym and slides, kicking up clouds of dirt in their wake, Leo and Remi would sit atop the monkey bars, quietly observing the other children. Leo was one of those reclusive children with only a couple close friends. The other kids poked fun at him, whispering “he’s such an oddball,” or murmuring “what a weirdo” as they sprinted around the playground, shooting strange glances up to him on the monkey bars. Remi was more social, but was happy to sit quietly with Leo. During class, she made faces when their teacher’s back was turned. Leo preferred to follow the rules, only cracking up when Remi pulled one of her goofy stunts. But no one else ever seemed to laugh at Remi’s antics. The other kids would shoot Leo strange glances with furrowed brows, wondering why he would burst out laughing when there was nothing funny to them.

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Leo and Remi lived close enough to school that they could run home in two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. They would race every day. Leo would take off, dashing down the cracked sidewalks, glancing back every few seconds to throw Remi a sly smile. Sometimes Leo would slow down just long enough to let Remi take the lead, letting her think she was going to win, but right before they crossed his neighbor’s yard he would bound ahead, sticking his tongue out at Remi as he zipped by her. They always raced to Leo’s house, envisioning his mom’s delicious snacks. Even from down the street, tantalizing whiffs of warm, melted butter drizzled on homemade popcorn or gooey cheese and fresh, crispy chips reached their noses. Both of Leo’s parents had flexible schedules, so they were usually home by the time Leo and Remi burst in the front door. As delectable as the snacks were, Remi often pushed her food back and forth across her plate, making funny food faces to crack Leo up. Though Leo always seemed oblivious to the slamming doors and the booming shouts back and forth between his parents, Remi sensed the constant tension tingling throughout his house. She noticed that whenever his parents were fighting, Leo seemed to need her the most. She was his comfort and he could always trust her to be there. One of Remi’s fondest memories was standing right next to Leo as he blew out seven, then eight, then nine candles, each year trying to take a bigger breath to blow out all the candles in one go. Leo’s face always lit up, his boyish smile stretching from ear to ear. It was one of the only times his parents appeared to get along. After the candles were extinguished, a raging party would ensue. Leo would run around for hours, Remi always at his side. They played capture the flag, freeze tag, statues in the park, and even invented a few of their own games. As close as they were, Leo’s mother complained about Remi. She wanted him to branch out, grow up, make real friends, whatever that meant. His mother became so worried, she picked him up after school one day and drove him to a psychiatrist, Dr. Peters. Tentatively, Leo walked into the office with Remi by his side. He stared up at the marble counter towering above him as his mother checked him in. A tall man with a graying beard and a balding head called his name. His eyes widened and he

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clenched his hands as he walked timidly into the office, beckoning Remi to follow close behind. At first, Leo didn’t say anything. He climbed into the oversized chair that seemed to consume him. He stared intently at Dr. Peters with his bright olive green eyes, trying to decide whether he was friend or foe. He kept glancing over at Remi. She was walking around the room, also staring at Dr. Peters, trying to size him up. Dr. Peters noticed Leo’s darting eyes and asked him what he was looking at. Quickly, Remi ran back to Leo and told him not to tell Dr. Peters she was there. Leo thought it was an odd request but complied nonetheless. He told Dr. Peters he was just looking at the photographs on the wall behind him. Dr. Peters seemed to believe him, so he moved on. He told Leo to reach out and make some new friends. Remi was outraged, as was Leo. However, she tried calming him down, coaching him through what to say. She helped Leo reason with Dr. Peters, telling him he only needed one friend, Remi. But after all their pleading, Dr. Peters still told Leo to try his best to make new friends, explaining that Remi was like a security blanket. She would be there for him as long as he needed her to be, but maybe it was time to say goodbye to her. Afterwards, Leo and Remi laughed for an hour about the meeting with Dr. Peters, at the illogicality of adults and the wisdom that all adults thought they possessed. However, his mother was right. As all children do, Leo and Remi grew. The last time Remi saw him, he was five feet four inches, or so she guessed. Maybe he’s taller now, maybe as tall as one of those gorgeous trees that stood overlooking his backyard before their parents sold the house after their divorce. Remi knew the divorce was especially hard on Leo, even if he appeared unaware. But luckily for Leo, around the same time as his parents’ divorce, he made a new friend. Leo told Remi all about this new friend, and she smiled. Remi thought everyone should have at least a couple close friends. Over the years, Remi sensed Leo distancing himself from her. Was it because he was a boy and she was a girl? Was he embarrassed of her? Did he like his new friend more? She always wanted to ask him, but held her tongue. He no longer walked with her to school. He no longer wanted to take part in

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their famous sleepovers. As Leo’s sense of family fell apart, Remi became more and more a cruel reminder of the once fond memories from his childhood. But one day, after what seemed like ages of radio silence between the two, Leo called out her name in that warm—though deeper than she expected—voice. Remi snapped to consciousness. Leo was standing in his doorway. He didn’t have the round face she was accustomed to and he was more lanky than she recalled. She had to stretch her neck back to look him in the eyes, but it was Leo just the same. He walked down his driveway and beckoned to her with a waving motion. As she walked toward him, she noticed a glimmering golden band around one of his fingers. She thought it was rather plain but stunning nonetheless. She didn’t mind, figuring one of his other friends had given it to him as a friendship present, much like the flower crowns and woven grass coasters they used to spend countless hours making for each other. She jumped into his red pickup truck and sat down on the firm leather passenger seat. They drove for a while, maybe 30 minutes, to a clearing with a tire swing hanging from a colossal oak tree. Remi jumped out of the truck. She ran over to the swing and grabbed on, lifting herself off the ground. She looked back and saw Leo walking, slowly, toward her. She groaned, wishing he would hurry up and swing with her, just like old times. Leo spun the tire as hard as he could, sending Remi spinning with glee. As the tire swing slowed, Leo turned around to leave. Remi looked up, searching for Leo. Through a dizzy haze, she saw him heading back to the truck. She tried to chase after him, but something stopped her. Some sort of invisible wall, a barrier between her and him, froze her where she sat in the tire swing. Leo heard her calling out to him but he ignored her, pretending he couldn’t hear her. He kept walking away, his back to her as he took ten, twenty, thirty steps away from her. He looked back, and just for a split second he caught a reflection of his own olive green eyes in hers before she seemed to fade away into the landscape. He turned back around, got into the car, and drove away.

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Emily Schmidt Floaties For the third time that night, I lose my temper and blow. The shrill call of a lifeguard’s whistle is something most kids don’t want to hear at 7 o’clock in the evening, but I’ve learned it’s necessary to keep them from killing each other. Usually the kids are pretty well-behaved if their parents are watching from afar. I scan the Glenside Community Swim Club and can’t spot a single person over the age of eighteen. I am now the legal guardian of a dozen children. Wonderful. God knows I’ve always wanted to be a teenage mother after what happened. “Hey, buddy! Kid in the Power Rangers rash guard!” I yell, pointing simultaneously. This is the same chubby twelveyear-old I warned earlier for running around the pool deck chasing a duck with a plastic wiffle ball bat. He looks at me, his eyes all wide and innocent, and scratches the mangled mop of hair with his middle finger. “Stop hitting your sister with the pool toys or I’ll have to take them away,” I say in my sternest parental voice. The kid swims over to the side of pool right in front of the lifeguard stand. Although he struggles to pull himself out of the water, the prepubescent boy is a lot larger than I realized. He probably doubles my weight but will never reach my below average height. I can see it. He’ll have that used car salesman body, twirl a half-smoked cigar in one hand, and fix his taupe with the other. “She’s not my sister. She’s my girlfriend.” I wince, realizing that my prediction for his future may be all too realistic. From my own experience, talking down to children is the least effective way to get them to listen. I climb

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down from my throne and stand on same ground as the devil’s minion. I try a different approach, eye-to-eye. “Do you know what happens to boys that hit their girlfriends when they’re all grown up?” I say with my hands on my knees. He gives me an I’m-not-fucking-stupid expression and retorts, “They go to jail. Don’t worry sweetie, I’m not going to jail when I’m older because my dad’s a cop. He’ll get me off hook every time.” I give him a smug smile, the same kind he offered me earlier. “Do you want to know what also happens to those boys?” The boy shrugs his boneless shoulders. “Their balls shrivel up like raisins because they lose all their masculinity.” The open mouth and downcast eyes somehow inform me that he’ll never touch another girl that way. I climb back onto the stand and scan the pool area for any other potential culprits. There are still no adults to be seen. They must be at the bar inside the recreation center building behind the pool. Ever since Mike, my boss, decided to add alcohol to the snack bar menu, I’ve had to keep an extra eye on the older crowd. Adult beverages aren’t allowed within 50 feet of the pool, but somehow people have managed to sneak them in coolers and coffee cups. Rash guard kid’s parents are probably downing Coors Lights while watching a Yankees game inside. “Julia!” I hear my name from across the pool. “Are you ready to come down and get something to eat?” “Yeah, I’ll be over in a minute. Let me get my stuff,” I shout back while gathering my towel and phone. I wait to leave until another one of my nameless coworkers takes the stand for me. “Let’s go, Julia. Break started three minutes ago,” Mike yells from the guard table, his words muffled behind a mouthful of meatballs. “Geez, Mike. I’m coming. The new girl is fricking late again. I’m watching the rugrats so you don’t get sued when they drown in the deep end. You’re welcome.” Mike can be such a hardass sometimes. He doesn’t care about the kids or the family

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bonding time advertised in the paper every Sunday. It’s all about the money. Money buys beer. Money buys meatball sandwiches. Money buys cigarettes. Money buys happiness apparently. I turn my head to the sound of the gate whining behind me. It’s the new girl. I can tell she won’t last long. “Julia, I’m so sorry I’m late. I left my headlights on last night and my battery was dead when I went to turn my engine on and--” I put my hand up to stop the useless apology flowing from her mouth. It’s all an excuse. It’s always an excuse. I’m almost positive she lives less than a mile away. She could’ve walked for Christ’s sake. “Just get up on the stand, so I can take my break. Please and thank you,” I say pronouncing each syllable for added effect. While throwing my blond waves into a topknot, I walk to the guard table. Sitting down across from Mike, I pull out the ham sandwich I made two minutes before leaving for work. Wearing half of his meatball sub, Mike looks at my sad excuse for a sandwich and hands me half of his second footlong. In times like this, I’m grateful to have a boss who values food more than anything else. “I got a call from Joe a few minutes ago. He can’t make his 7:30 lesson tonight. Mom’s sick or something. I wasn’t really listening. That boy’s always making up excuses. Never owns up to his carelessness. All I need is for you to finish your break up early and teach the lesson. It’s only a half hour. Goddamn easy I tell you.” “You’re kidding me, right?” I say, raising my brows. I haven’t even touched my dinner yet and he expects me to end my break early. “Nope. You’ve got ten minutes to scarf down that sandwich,” Mike says, giving me a thumbs up. I nod without comment. “The 7:30 lesson is supposed to be a tough one. Real tough. The girl’s name is Dara and I’m pretty sure she’s got issues. Not sure what they are, but her mom has a doctor’s note. You’ve got to be careful not to lose your goddamn temper again or I’ll have to deal with an angry mother. I’m not having it.”

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Mike’s eyes are solid grey stones, unblinking and serious. He’s not kidding. “Fine. I’ll be good,” I say with a plastered smile. *** “Honey, you have to put your head under the water to blow bubbles,” I say, my voice straining behind gritted teeth. “Floaties!” Dara screams, slamming her arms down on the water’s surface. Her green eyes dart in all directions. I’ve never had an eight-year-old behave like a toddler before. This girl brings brattiness to a whole new level, and neither one of her parents had enough guts to warn me beforehand. I wasn’t surprised when Mike brought the tiny redhead wearing water wings to the table five minutes before the lesson was scheduled to begin. Gently guiding the girl forward with one massive hand, Mike said, “This is Dara. Her mom dropped her off in the front of the building, but she’ll be back to pick her up at eight. Remember what I said earlier.” He turned around, grabbed the half-empty cigarette pack on the guard table, and walked back to the main building. Almost half hour later, I’ve honestly given up trying to teach this girl how to swim. I don’t know how Joe puts up with her every time. She refuses to be touched, won’t put her head under water, and will only say the word “floaties.” I glide to the side of the shallow end and unwrap my towel to check my phone. 7:55. Five more minutes. I can’t wait to see how the mother reacts when I tell her how much we accomplished today. “Floaties!” Dara whimpers, her tone much softer than before. I turn around and find her clawing at her right arm, a deflated water wing hanging limply. Using my hands to push through the water, I take large strides toward her. “Dara, did you pop one of your floaties?” I ask incredulously, my bottom lip protruding like her own. “She probably did. That’s the fifth one she’s bitten this month,” a tired voice says behind me. I know that voice. I’ve known that voice for ten years but haven’t heard it in six. It makes sense now. Dara’s Bozo-red hair and algae green eyes were so familiar.

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I don’t turn to face her. “Why didn’t you call me?” I’m hard inside and out. I keep my eyes on Dara, making sure she doesn’t drown, making sure Mike isn’t sued, making sure I don’t kill the child of my once best friend. “I was young. Remember how young we were? We both still had braces. Freshman year seems so long ago,” she says wistfully. She’s probably closing her eyes, remembering the fun we shared before she got knocked up, before she blamed me for letting her get drunk, before she left school and never spoke to me until now. “Yeah I fucking remember,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I mostly remember the goddamn days I spent wondering why my best friend left me. How could you blame me for what happened that night?” “You left me--” she begins, “No, you abandoned me halfway through the night for another guy. I was alone in the corner, afraid and awkward. You gave me a reason to drink. I got so drunk that night that I let some senior on the football team fuck me when I was passed out. You let him do that and--” I can’t take the excuses any more. No one I know ever takes even partial responsibility. Not rash guard kid, not new girl, not my forgotten best friend, not even myself. “Enough! I’m not listening to this right now. I accomplished absolutely nothing today with Dara. I don’t know how Joe handles her, but she won’t do anything. She won’t let me touch her. She won’t look me in the damn eye. All she can say is one word,” I shoot back venomously. After a moment, she says, “Have you ever heard of a father trying to drown his own daughter? When Dara was three, I left her sitting in a baby pool in the backyard of my mom’s house. I went inside to get some fruit and came back out to find her face down in the pool, her floaties three feet away. A neighbor’s security camera caught Dara’s father trying to drown her. He’s in prison now for attempted murder, but she’s not the same. I knew she had issues a few months after she was born, but the drowning made her worse. She wouldn’t get into a pool until last year.” I’m still looking at Dara. She’s still now, her eyes staring right into mine for the first time. “I didn’t leave you alone. I was

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sober that night, and you were destroyed by ten. You couldn’t walk or speak clearly, so I went with another guy to get some help. I remember telling you to stay put, but by the time I got back, you were gone. I tried calling you over and over. I asked around. I even went upstairs and peeked in every unlocked room. You weren’t anywhere.” “You should’ve waited--” “Yes, I should’ve waited longer. Every day I thought about how I could’ve done something more, but I can’t be a goddamn lifeguard all the time. It’s fucking exhausting. I’m there to help you, pull you up when you fall on your face. I was supposed to be your best friend. I screwed up and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop the dumbass who raped you,” I say, scrunching my face, “All these years, the guilt I’ve felt from that night has made me so bitter. I’m not a good person. I’m such a bitch to everyone because I’m constantly saving their asses, even if they don’t need saving. And sometimes I don’t make it, like that night. I’m sorry.” I can’t hold it in any longer. All the memories and emotions from six years ago break the dam I’ve spent the last six years building. I blink and tears fall down my face, dripping into the pool. Dara puts her head in the water and swims to me. She takes off the inflated water wing and puts it in my right hand. I slip it on up to my elbow, and realize that I don’t have to tread water all the time. Just like Mike told me a person can’t give himself CPR, I can’t save myself all the time. I can’t take the blame for things I can’t control completely. I can’t take other people’s excuses. I can’t make my goddamn own. I can’t let memories pull me down to the bottom of the pool and drown me. I can’t pull people down with me. I can only put on some floaties, spread my arms out, and reach toward the others treading around me.

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Marika Tron On Impact Left, right, left, right. The empty sidewalk rolls in front of me. Left, right, left, right. A quiet hum has settled over the streets. A streetlight above flickers once, twice, then falls dark. Left, right, left, right. My breath billows into the biting night air like smoke. My lips move of their own accord, mumbling a song I don’t quite remember the words to. Left, right, left, right. There’s a rock in my shoe, stuck in the back, stinging my heel with each step. I should stop. I should get it out. But I’m afraid. Afraid if I stop, I won’t be able to start again. And I have to start again. I have to keep moving. Left, right, left, right. I’ve already been gone too long. I told her I’d be out for ten minutes, fifteen tops. A shameful glance at my watch reveals it’s been twenty. But I’m not worried. She’s old enough to be on her own in the house, just for a little while. Left, right, left, ri—.

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In a second, the silence is torn apart. Tires screech. Brakes squeal. Car horns blare. Stop. My body jerks so quickly I reach out for a parking meter to stay upright. My fingers curl into the chilled pewter and my body onto itself. I inhale sharply, stomach tightening so sharply I almost gag. There’s a moment of silence that stretches for hours. Later, I’ll crave that silence. I’ll miss this instant where I can hear my own heartbeat, the rush of blood in my veins, my own thoughts. Later, I’ll forget what it’s like to hear them. Later, I’ll forget I ever even knew what they sounded like. Now, it begins. A crescendo of shouts rises from the next block. A baby cries out from the apartments across the street. A light flickers on, somewhere in the same building. I crowd closer to the parking meter to balance my shaking knees, feeling a dull ache in my chest where the top presses into my bone. I wonder if I stay still enough, the noise will go away. If I hug this metal hard enough, I’ll be able to forget that thunderous smash, the piercing screech. If I screw my eyes shut tight enough, I’ll stop myself from imagining what caused the noises. My breath shakes in and out of me like it keeps getting lost on its way out. Minutes pass, and I remain still, knees locked. Sirens begin to wail. First quietly and distantly, then sharp and near. On instinct, I dive into the closest alleyway and shrink back against the wall. My chest stills. Goosebumps erupt over my skin; shivers, throughout my bones. My heartbeat jackhammers, incessant and spectacular. Bright blue and red lights shine on the brick buildings around me. The sirens rise to deafening levels. Two ambulances and a fire truck fly by. Two police cars follow closely behind. They turn on the cross street ahead of me. Without thinking, I lunge out of the alley and sprint to follow their lights. The empty sidewalk flies in front of me.

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Adrenaline surges; blood roars. Air soars above and around me. A laugh slips from my lips. For the first time in too long, I feel together. I know I’m tired, too tired to be out this late, too tired to be running, too tired to be feeling this wild. My legs ache; my lungs burn; I follow the howling. Later, I’ll punish myself for not realizing. I’ll wish I had thought harder. I’ll wish I had looked around and realized I was nearing that street, that neighborhood, that apartment. The one I should have stayed at. I’ll wish I hadn’t followed. Another thrill runs through me, new and chilling. I’m chasing a disaster. For a second, I don’t think I’m actually going to find it. I’m not going to find anything. I’m sure the sirens are an elaborate hallucination; the lights are a twisted manifestation of my exhaustion. Until I round the street corner. It’s a fantastic delusion. If it’s a delusion at all. Police tape has been hastily strung around telephone poles on opposite sides of the street and is now surrounded by anxious onlookers. Ambulances are parked crookedly on either side of the crowd, blocking traffic in both directions. A gray haze has settled over all of it, a foggy mix of smoke from the crash and bystanders’ exhales. A delusion, I think. I hope. Firefighters pour out of the truck by the far end of the circle, shouting and thrashing like dogs that have been tied up for too long. They dash to the opposite side of the street where a car has smashed into a telephone pole, leaving its hood crumpled and the pole bent. Smoke spills from the hood, curling greedy fingers around the crisp night air. Paramedics spill from the ambulances, their eyes locked on the car like it’s prey. A limp body is dragged from the driver’s seat. I will myself to move closer to the crowd. People bump into me from all sides, wielding camera phones like shields. I quickly squeeze my way through, nauseous with a need to see. Shards of glass litter the asphalt, twinkling in the light from the sirens and the street lamps. Bits of tire and other scrap metal are scattered around, as if someone tossed them like

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confetti. Blood rushes to my cheeks when I spot a small body splayed out on the street. Her hair, copper-colored and spread around her head like a halo. My little angel, I think. I wanted to smile. I meant to smile. An hour ago, she was smiling. We were practicing softball in the “front yard,” a ratty patch of grass outside the complex that she insisted she loved. I bit back the urge to recommend we go to the park down the block, the one where all the other babysitters took the children they were watching. I reminded myself I’m not like other babysitters, but that I’m like family, that I’m not an authority figure. So I let her have this. I let her have this, the lumpy ground, the dented bat, the weathered glove. She had already run into the street once, chasing a stray ball. She had nodded solemnly when I told her to never cross without looking both ways, but she quickly recovered her spunk and reminded me she is now eleven years old and therefore knows better. An EMT is suddenly at her side, kneeling as if he’s about to pray. He slowly rolls her onto her back. My throat clenches and I swallow thickly, all serene feelings gone. He’s not moving quickly enough for her to be alive. Blood speckles the expanse of her porcelain skin. Her head lolls to the side, and thick red streams run from her mouth, nose, and the deep gash on one side of her face. She had been crumpled and tossed aside like a piece of scrap paper: arms folded beneath her, legs bent at unnatural angles, sleeves of her jacket thrashed like they had been through a shredder. The skin has been torn from her hands, exposing the scarlet weave of muscle and leaving red streaks on the street behind her. My gaze flickers from her body to the car lodged in the telephone pole across the street. I bite my tongue. Hard. The sharp, metallic taste of blood floods my mouth. Everything moves too quickly around me, the crowd pressing,

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the rescue workers yelling, the blood roaring through my ears. I want to stop and scream, so I do. An animalistic cry erupts from my throat before I can stop it, pulling surprised gasps from the crowd. “Savannah!” I scream, something between a wail and a roar. I feel a sharp sting in my throat, but I ignore it. A police officer is next to me in a second. “Savannah! Look at me! Savannah! Please! Wake up!” Arms encircle me, and I let out a startled cry. I thrash wildly against his grip. Two others join him and herd me towards a bench on the sidewalk. I refuse to sit down, choosing to lock my knees, fling my arms. “Savannah!” I move to rush back into the crowd but run into a wall of blue uniform. “Miss, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to—” The officer keeps speaking, but nothing is registering for me. His words are lost amongst the shouting and the sirens and the crying, a melody I know I’ll be hearing for days. I’m gulping air, but each inhale is constricting, not relaxing. “No!” I shout, eyes locked on her body. There’s a stain on the cop’s uniform, and I’m thinking about it being chocolate, coffee, something other than blood, to distract from the questions tumbling through my mind. I fail. Who hit her? Why was she out? How could she not wait for me? “No,” I whimper, head tilted to the sky. Black clouds cover the sky, and for a second, I want to thank them for sparing the moon and the stars from seeing this. I tell myself when I look back at the street, this is all going to be gone. I’m going to keep walking, head up the stairs, and Savannah will be in the kitchen, right where I left her. She’ll be sitting, probably eating peanut butter and jelly with Jimm—. Suddenly, my throat tightens. My pulse thrums wildly in my ears. “Jimmy…” I breathe. Not a delusion. I turn away from the cop, thankful the crowd is growing and capturing the attention of the police. “Jimmy,” I whisper to myself, to him, to no one. If he’s not here, I’m going to have to tell him. I’m going to have to tell him that his little sister is dead in a street. I’m

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going to have to tell him that she was surrounded by strangers. Her life ended, and she was alone. Her life ended and Jimmy didn’t even know. I shake my head furiously, struggling to see straight. The air is thick and heavy, pressing down on me on all sides. Too many lights, too many sounds. I stumble down the sidewalk, the only solid thing around me at the moment. I’ve seen enough, enough to tell Jimmy at least. There’s a raw pull in my chest, screaming at me to leave, run away, save yourself. I tell myself that I’ll find him somewhere, safe and far from here, and then I’ll break the news the only way I know how: followed by lots of alcohol. But then I spot him, and the world under my feet cracks a little bit more. He’s on the ground, knees pulled to his chest, elbows wrapped around his legs. His head rests on top of his arms, his usually poor posture looking especially crumpled and hunched. I approach him slowly, as if he were a wild animal. He clutches his beanie, running the edge of the fabric through his fingers over and over again. I open my mouth to say something, then shut it, afraid if I try to speak I’ll just start blubbering again. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, teeth worrying his bottom lip, like he’s waiting for something or someone to walk out of the chaos in front of him and save the day. I want to reach out, to rub his back, to slip my hand into his, to do something. But my brain isn’t connected to my body. My senses have been shot. I can’t feel my fingertips or my toes, my muscles too fatigued to carry out any action. The crowd pays him no attention. I watch as one woman actually steps on the tip of his sneaker, then walks on without apologizing. I watch as the police don’t approach, don’t assure him that they’ll figure out who’s responsible for this. I watch as his whole world is ripped out from under him. Through blurry eyes, I see a body bag being laid down. Savannah is swallowed by it. Jimmy doesn’t even flinch. The air smells like exhaust and smoke and death. The stench will hang on my clothes, no matter how much I wash

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them. My body is so stiff I’m afraid if I try to move my bones will crumble. So I stay. And Jimmy stays. We stay for all of it: the fire-truck and ambulances finally pulling away, the tow-truck dragging the destroyed car away like an abandoned dog, and the patrol cars securing the area. Soon, the only sounds are my still slightly labored breathing and the dull buzzing of the street lamps above. Then, Jimmy finally groans. I slowly crouch next to him. His cheeks are mottled, his jaw, clenched. I want to say I can’t recognize him, but I swore to Jimmy I’d never lie to him. There have been countless times, shitty situations, where I haven’t known what to say to him. Those times, I haven’t really had to. Jimmy’s been strong enough for the both of us. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” My voice is rough from disuse. “Talk to the police?” I reach out to touch his arm. He flinches away. “Don’t,” he grinds out. His voice is dangerously low, so low it spikes fear in the pit of my stomach. “There’s nothing to say. She was gone when I got here.” “Come on, Jimmy. You should talk to the—” “No!” he roars, eyes like fire. He wheels on me. Every vein in his neck is bulging. “No! Do not!” He screams so loud, two dogs in the apartment across the street start barking. I stand firm, despite the fists I see curled at his side. “Just shut up! She’s gone!” I wait, chewing the inside of my cheek. It’s never easy to see Jimmy have no control over his body or mind. Each time is like the first, and each time feels like it’s the worst. He once told me that during a panic attack, he could only see white. He told me he couldn’t breathe on his own. He told me the only thing he could do was wait it out and hope he made it through. Now, he trembles terribly, clutching his face. “I can’t do this. She was gone before I got here!” Sobs wrack his body. “She was gone! I can’t do this!” He screams again, most of the sound muffled by his hands. “She doesn’t deserve this!” He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes viciously. “Why me?!”

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His despair switches to anger in a second. He launches himself up onto his knees, curling his body over the pavement. “This. Is. So. Unfair!” With each word, he pounds his fists on the pavement, followed by him rapidly scraping his knuckles on the sidewalk. He paints the ground red. I glance to the street. “I can’t—” he groans, rocking back and forth. Lifting his eyes, he turns to me. “I can’t.” He stares through thick tears at his grimy, blood-streaked hands with a terrified fascination. “I can’t feel it.” My stomach jumps; I drop down next to him. “Jimmy,” I say pathetically, resting a hand on his forearm, right where he can see it. “Breathe,” I command, and he does. His eyes are wide and locked on mine. The pavement is freezing and my legs are cramping and rain is starting to fall. Soon, he’ll be able to breathe. Soon, the rain will wash the street and the sidewalk. Soon, his knuckles will heal. The empty sidewalk sits below us.

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Aparna Verma We, the Sinners The sky, a spotless blue, stretched out into the quiet horizon and lay curled against the dark side of the Agnon Sea. Twisting spires and ornate domes rose elegantly to greet the sun, their stony and iron facades blushing in the warm light. He sat alone by the giant bay windows, studying the sight before him. Sometime ago, the intern had remembered to restock tea in the pantry, and Yassen took the liberty to enjoy exotic versooth with dashes of lavender and lemon. Holograms hovered in the air beside him, headlines scrolling by. Out of the corner of his eye, he read that the king of Jynthu had cut off the head of his former wife so that he could marry a supermodel. Typical. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out his toes, wiggling them in the sunlight. The heat of the cup spread across his chest and shoulders, all the way down to his bones. There were still a few more holograms to sort through before submitting his report to the king, a small bent man with a wrinkled face, but the quiet lulled him. He was awoken by a sharp rap on the door. For a moment, he debated answering, but the knocking persisted, growing more intense. Sighing, Yassen slipped on his shoes, and was still trying to fit in his heel when he opened the door. The woman before him was tiny, with small eyes and a small face, but the gravity of her features made her seem older, bigger for some reason. “Sir, there’s been an incident,” she said. He raised an eyebrow. “Samson Richard had an accident.” He said nothing. All of a sudden, the warmth in his chest fled and a cold numbness began to creep in, worming its way through his bones. “I can’t say anything more here, sir. You’ll have to come with me.”

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Cautiously, Yassen closed the door and followed her through the twisting turns of the castle. Sunlight slanted through the towering windows and onto the marble floors, lighting the hallways with a golden hue, yet as Yassen passed between light and shadow, he only felt a chill. They stopped in front of an inconspicuous door tucked away in the corner of the castle. Not many passed this way, but the woman still threw a glance behind them before taking out a small circular device. She waved it before a panel by the door, and it slid open. A waft of air rose to meet him, and he could smell the wet rats in its touch. Slowly, it pulled him forward, and Yassen found himself descending into a dark tunnel, the woman following closely behind him. “This way, sir.” In the tunnel, the walls hunkered over him, and the darkness seemed to choke the air. He could feel it press around him, almost as if it was watching him. The woman, whoever she was, once again led the way, but Yassen knew the turns of this chamber. He had come here before with locked cases and stolen secrets, lowered eyes and soft whispers that would remain enclosed within these stone walls. Another swipe, and they were inside a small, rectangular room. Four people sat at a table, all men, all wearing glasses, holograms reflected in their lenses. One by one, they introduced themselves, but as Yassen sat across from them, he couldn’t recall their names or their faces. They were like ghosts that lingered at the traces of your memory, unknown and quickly forgotten. “Samson Richard had an accident.” The words kept replaying in his mind, a constant, eerie voice that sounded strange, as if it spoke a language that required you to split your tongue into bloody red strings. The woman nodded at the men and stepped out, the door latching shut behind her. Someone coughed, and Yassen turned his head. “We just received intel that Samson Richard had an encounter with rebellion forces,” the man named Joe (probably not his real name, Yassen thought) said.

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“We don’t know exactly which group it is,” another said (Fred maybe). “We do know that the cause of the, um, attack, was due to a bomb planted in the inner works of a newly installed statue,” the one on Yassen’s right, Bob, said. “It detonated around noon today.” Just a few minutes ago, when he was relaxing and sipping tea. “His body was recovered amongst the rubble,” the fourth man said. His was the only face Yassen could remember: high forehead with deep set wrinkles and eyes that crinkled around the edges. “We have a team out there already but I’m afraid Samson Richard didn’t make it.” Yassen looked down at his hands. He could feel them watching him, gauging his reaction. A wave of tiredness suddenly swept over him, and dragged him down into murky depths. He closed his eyes and recalled Samson’s face, so full of the blush of life. They had sneaked out from the palace and taken a stroll along the coastline. Samson was drinking elvish wine straight from the bottle, humming a tune. The moonlight was pure and bright and fell on his face, making his features soft, as if from a dream. Yassen never drank, so having the bottle to himself, Samson was slightly tipsy when they stopped to sit at an overhanging. “If you drink the rest of it, I swear I’m not going to be the one taking you home,” Yassen said. Samson burped loudly and laughed. His laughter rang out amongst the rocks and then was lost in the sea. “I wouldn’t want to go home with you either,” he said and took another swig. Yassen shook his head and gazed out at the inky darkness before him. He could hear the crashing of the waves, made soft in the distance. Behind him, Ravans was getting ready for the night, its merchants crying out their last wares before finally heading for their slums or modest huts. Young students would be heading to the bar, celebrating the beginning of the weekend with shots of tynth, made smoky from the mines of mountain dwarves. Lovers would swoon together, the blessed ones kissing openly, the cursed stealing furtive glances and swift pecks on the lips. Workers at the castle would be wrapping up

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whatever task they were working on, wishing each other a good night. The night shift would roll in, and the king would probably be in his study, examining holograms, unaware of Yassen’s absence. Samson burped again, but this time he didn’t take another swig. He sighed loudly and kicked off his shoes, and they heard a splash. Samson peered down, frowning. “Did you hear only one splash?” Yassen shrugged. Crouching, Samson stuck his neck out and leaned forward. Automatically, Yassen gripped the end of his coat. “I don’t see it!” he shouted. He leaned further, tottering precariously. “Wait, wait, I think I see it!” His voice rose in excitement and like a foolish child, he leaned down, stretching his arm. It all happened within a breath. There was a loose patch of dirt, and Samson’s hand slipped. He vaulted forward with a surprised giggle, and Yassen gasped as he felt as if his arm was ripped from the socket. He hit the ground, pebbles and loose soil filling his mouth, and Samson flew over the edge, only to stop with a jolt. A wind swept up the coastline with a low howl, and waves beat against the cliff. Yassen felt a chill begin to creep down his neck and into the marrow of his bones, but Samson, dangling above the tumultuous sea, only laughed hysterically, eyes shining in the moonlight. “Fuck me! Yassen, look at this! Look how pretty this looks!” He swept his hand out to the sea below him, coat sleeves flapping in the wind. “Stop…moving!” Yassen grunted through the dirt. Samson continued to chatter excitedly as he inched his other arm forward, and clutched the other end of Samson’s coat. Slowly, grimacing, Yassen pulled back. The muscles in his body screamed in silent protest. His arms and legs shook, his chest tightened, and pain lanced up his back as he pulled up and up and up, until finally, he saw Samson’s face bob up. “You look as red as a dragon’s ass,” Samson said. Perhaps it was the tiredness sticking to his skin like sweat, or the moonlight outlining the craggy face of the cliff or seeing Samson’s head floating in the darkness like a mutilated

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mummy, but for some reason, Yassen laughed. He laughed and laughed to the point that his body shook and tears came to his eyes. Samson stared at him in disbelief, for he had never heard Yassen laugh before, but then a smile broke across his face, and he joined Yassen, dangling as he was on that cliff. Their laughter, full and vivacious, carried along the coast and then danced above the sea, twirling among the spray of the waves, and then rising up and up until it reached the man on the moon, who bowed and asked if he could have this dance. That was the last time Yassen had seen him. The next day, Samson had taken a hovercraft to a neighboring kingdom on an assignment. “Gotta be a double for the Cheka,” he quipped, and when Yassen began to ask him what he meant, he simply gave that broad, amazing smile and slipped out the door. Yassen still had the unfinished wine bottle somewhere in his room. He knew Samson hated to waste delicious elven brew. “We would like you to identify the body, as you are the closest acquaintance of Samson Richard, and to inform His Majesty that a noble servant has fallen while serving our kingdom,” the man with kind face said. Gently, he pushed forward a holographic photograph. Yassen stared down at a charred, blackened face. He could tell the familiar shape of the nose that tickled his neck, the broad span of the forehead that pressed against his shoulder, the curve of the lips that felt so soft and sweet against his own. He had assumed that even in death, somehow, Samson would still be smiling, and his laughter would be etched in the eyes staring blankly up at him. He also knew that he should feel something, sorrow perhaps, but Yassen felt nothing. “Yes, that’s him,” he said, and pushed back the photograph. The man with the kind face slid the hologram back into his coat pocket, and gently patted Yassen’s hand, still outstretched on the table. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Yassen pulled back his arm as if stung, and looked away, mumbling gratitude. ***

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Back in his room, Yassen kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. For a long time, he stared up at the ceiling. He knew he should go and tell the king, but then the old man would see the pain in his eyes, and he would know. Yassen could already imagine the cold touch of steel on his neck, and he could hear the high whistle as the blade came rearing down. He needed to rest and calm his nerves, but a claw of fear gripped his stomach, and Yassen couldn’t sleep. He sat up and wondered if he should ask a servant for tea when he spotted the wine bottle at his bedside table. It was a clear bottle with silver writing and a silver cork. Yassen had found it in Ürin, an elven country, when he was there on business. They had to wrap up a few negotiations, but the elves weren’t the most receptive creatures. The king wasn’t one either, especially since the old man despised that two empresses ruled the land. “A crime against the ways of the heavens,” the king had mumbled to him when they were alone. Yassen said nothing and continued writing out the litigation of the deal, his long fingers gliding over the green holograms. He later handed the hologram to one of the empresses, a tall limbed creature with a diamond shaped face and violet eyes he strangely found beautiful. Her partner watched with her head bent, the perfect curve of her neck and collarbone outlined by blue candle lights. Their hips, he saw, touched lightly, and he imagined how perfectly they would fit in the curves of each other’s bodies, long arms entangled. He found himself staring, and the king frowned, the wrinkles in his face deepening. Yassen looked away, and tried hard to hide the flush in his face. After a few long hours, the negotiations were finally done and a trade deal was set in place. The king watched wordlessly as Yassen locked holograms into a metal box. Outside, the city was teeming with the boom of life, but the air in the room was thick, the silence heavy and oppressive. Yassen could feel the old man’s eyes burning through his skull and searching the crooks of his thoughts. He made sure to keep his eyes down as he worked, and bowed low when he placed the case before the king. The tyrant looked down at him with hooded eyes, and Yassen could hear the faint whistling of a blade. “They were sinners, weren’t they, Yassen?”

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He nodded. “And you know what happens to sinners, yes?” “Yes, sire,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. The king peered down at him for a moment longer, and then waved his hand. Wordlessly, Yassen got up and left. He escaped into the city, moving quickly, placing as much distance between him and that dark room. It was evening and the elves were out in the spiraling alleyways and noisy markets. Here, the sky was a dusty pink and free of floating holograms and neon lights. The scent of exotic spices mixed with the sweet summer breeze, and Yassen drank it hungrily, the claw that squeezed his chest gradually loosening. At a nearby stall, he had bought packets of loose tea leaves (from the valleys of Timbukstur! the owner claimed) when he spotted the wine bottle at a store window. Something about how the setting sun struck the silver and glass had caught his eye, and he bought it for Samson, who somehow managed to sneak past the guards and into his room, something he did quite often. They had made love, quickly, quietly, and were now huddled beneath the sheets, arms intertwined and bodies fitting as perfectly as the elves would have, so close that Yassen could hear Samson’s heartbeat and smell the sharp, musky scent of his sweat. “This is for you,” he said, and disentangled himself to pull the silver bottle from where it was hidden underneath the bed. “No way.” With a laugh, Samson sat up and cradled the bottle, reading out the scribbled description. “Luminous wine from the grapes of Dio, brewed in the Era of the Wet Rains, approved by Her Majesty, Empress Léna.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke the last words, and Yassen shifted uneasily. “What, you don’t like it?” Eyes cloudy with thought, Samson said nothing for a moment. “This,” he said softly, “is probably the first and only thing you’ll be able to give me.”

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The words struck Yassen, and he looked away, guilt welling inside of him. They had never exchanged gifts or tokens, even after all they’d been through, after everything Samson had done for him. The clandestine meetings, the secret glances, the stolen kisses. “I,” he began, but then he recalled the king’s deep hooded eyes, and he stopped. He looked at Samson, at his furrowed brow, the wrinkles gently lining his forehead, the lines beginning to creep underneath his eyes. They were growing old. Once, they had been just two young strangers, two young fools who sometimes had a little too much to drink, and now they were accomplices of an ageless deed. He had forgotten how long they’ve kept it a secret. He wondered how much longer they could. “Will this be enough?” For a long time, Samson stared at the silver writing, and stroked the smooth bottle. Slowly, he grabbed the bottle opener and raised it in the air. “Sinners don’t play by the rules, now do we?” He grinned, and upon seeing that, even Yassen broke his vow of no alcohol for a drink on that starry night. Yassen drew the bottle to him now. His reflection stared back at him, pale as a ghost. He was surprised to see a few tears in its eyes. There were only a few swigs left, the wine clear and sparkling as a winter sky. He raised the bottle to his lips, and drank. He could still taste Samson’s lips on the bottleneck and breathed in the strong scent of his cologne still somehow entrapped in the bottle. The wine, sweet and tart, ran down his chest and into his stomach, filling him with warmth. Drinking the last drop, Yassen closed his eyes. He saw Samson and himself, sitting at the cliff, shadows in the moonlight. The sea sang below them. The man on the moon was still dancing. Samson squeezed his hand and smiled. He could hear the blade whistling down, could hear the concussion of a bomb, could feel eyes boring into his skull – but he laid down in his bed now, and cupped the bottle to his chest, stroking it gently as he drifted into the dark chasm of sleep.

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Tristan Wagner Audible January 1 is a gray day, and eventful in all the wrong ways. Scattered rays of sunlight peek through high cloud cover and fall to the snow below, soft and dry. The drive to the doctor’s office is aggravating; Jules fusses over Sara, who looks disinterestedly out the window. Her breath betrays her, as a quiet sigh sends a ripple of nervous glances through the back of the car. Everyone knows better than to ask, so Ted keeps his eyes on the road. The attention, the quiet hyper-analysis, is irritating. Not because today shouldn’t be important; Sara had the day she’d gain her hearing back marked in her calendar for months. But why does today have to be a more dramatic occasion for Sara’s parents, and Ted, than for her? It’s selfish in a way. Jules didn’t even act like this at Sara’s wedding. Their effort to appear relaxed about the situation extends barely far enough to hide the brightly colored array of hospital pamphlets, the outdated video camera and the Cling Wrapped sandwiches in the center console of the car. But some egg salad escapes from Ted’s last minute packaging and smears on the seat, betraying their covertness. Sara glares and the Buick rolls on in silence. The tacky floor feels the same way under Bill’s feet as it did the first several times he says it’s “too clean to be a good hospital”, but him and Jules excitedly examine the pamphlets by the door like they’re new all over again, and greet the attendant like they’ve never met her before. Then again, there’s a good chance Bill doesn’t remember her. But they definitely remember the pamphlets. Getting a cochlear implant isn’t thrilling; after the CT’s and MRI’s, and the surgery, you have to wait another month before you can gain your hearing back. What you do get is a shaved patch of hair that makes Sara look like a punk rocker st

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when combined with the long strands that run to her shoulders on the other side of her head. The process is tiresome, but Jules and Bill made it their own project of sorts and sustained their excitement since November — a shitty thing to do, in Sara’s book. She had known about FDA approval of cochlear implants for years, but like with everything, wanted to be sure about what she was doing. She had also been deaf for a few decades, so what was another month in the grand scheme of things? “Are you all excited?” The question of the hour. Maybe anxious was more accurate. A cheery-faced receptionist asks it to Sara’s family, looking directly at Sara and using sign language for her benefit but addressing the group, while another wheels around in her swivel chair and gathers sign-in paperwork. Sara’s entourage responds with glowing smiles. Bill nods vigorously, but too quickly, so that a wave of blood rushes to his head and he has to sit down. Sara hadn’t noticed how old her parents were getting until now, but that’s sort of how that happens. Besides, they both had been through a lot. Bill’s fading memory didn’t just affect him; Jules had to keep track of the medicine and a slew of other nagging tasks that manifested themselves as a pile of gray curls that had begun mixing with the brown. The first receptionist is wearing a knitted wool sweater that looks like a child ate a confetti birthday cake and then vomited it onto a brown canvas. The fuzzy ball of yarn rests on behind the counter, assuming the authority of paperweight. When the second wheels her chair to face the front, she smiles and greets Sara and Co. with another, more crudely made confetti-vomit sweater. Sara tries to suppress her giggle, but a small snort escapes. She scrambles to resume her grumpy demeanor, but it’s too late. Ted sneaks up behind her and blows softly on her neck — a quirk that started before her graduation speech a few years back, infallibly tickling her out of her mood. All of a sudden her façade melts like the snow on the cracked windshield of the Buick parked outside. He wraps his arms around her from behind, and she looks up at his face, unshaven and perfect. Gently, he turns her shoulders to face him. I’m excited, she signs, preempting his question. But I’m just over all this. She flings an arm towards her parents, who are studying the archaic video camera to see whether the red light

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means the film is rolling or paused. After entertaining their attention briefly, the first secretary turns and dutifully picks up her knitting. I know, Ted signs back. I won’t tell anyone. She nudges low him in the ribs with her elbow, right where her arm falls against his tall figure. He flashes the mischievous smile she loves and now, Jules, Bill, Ted, and Sara are all following the doctor down the hall, and Sara even smiles briefly into the blinking red light of the camera. The programming of the implant goes pretty much as expected. Sara had been too focusing on fending off her family’s incessant excitement that she hadn’t found much of a chance recently to entertain the idea to herself. Still, she had read through the pamphlets her parents had gathered, and gone over her faint memories of hearing from her youth over and over again in her head. The doctor is confident and explains how to operate the hearing aid and replace the batteries while the implant is turning on. The way they do it avoids any obvious climax; the doctor flicks a switch, but the implant takes some time to activate. One of the pamphlets said that when the first modern implant turned on in 1982, nothing happened for a whole fifteen minutes, and everyone thought the invention was a wash. Sara’s takes long enough so that Bill stows the video camera (they never managed to turn it on), and small talk about the doctor’s Christmas vacation and weather bubbles quietly around the beige office. Then suddenly, Sara freezes. No one notices that she stops mid-breath, that her eyes widen considerably at the new dimension that had been missing from her life for so long. She hears a magical, wonderful silence, different from the one before, one that anticipates life and color. Sara’s emotions swell to her chest and her eyes — and then drop quickly in confusion. The room is silent, save for a sound that moves somewhere between a soft crackle and a light object being plunged quickly into water. Dizzy, her eyes scan the room, her family still unaware, until finally she sees it: Bill is halfway through an egg salad sandwich, chewing loudly as he eats it. Suddenly, it slips to the floor with a loud smack.

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“Shit, Bill,” Jules scolds as she dives into her purse for napkins. “Shit,” Bill mutters. “Sorry.” But Ted notices Sara react when the sandwich falls, and sees her emotions begin to flood back into her when she hears her parents’ voices and the ethereal smack of an old man dropping an egg salad sandwich onto a linoleum hospital floor. “Sa – Sara?” he asks, his eyes wide. She looks at him when he says it, and all of a sudden the world is incomprehensible. Laughter, crying, clapping, the incessant beeping of the low battery light on the video camera and the small noises of the world, the fan, the light switch, the floor, the TV two rooms away, coalesce into a foreign pulse that feels so familiar, so intimate, and so strange. *** The next few weeks don’t go as expected. Leaving the hospital is a blur; Sara falls asleep in the Buick on the way home, over stimulated and exhausted. Ted drives slowly, climbing and descending hills in the snow dusted forest they live in. He’s tapping his finger nervously on the steering wheel while he quietly flips through his favorite radio channels and glances back to see if Sara is listening, something he hasn’t worried about before. She listens to recordings of his band for the first time in the kitchen, wooden chairs scraping against the floor and the speaker crackling with jumbled noise. She knew Ted so well, so she thought she at least wouldn’t mind the music he wrote — but she hates it. In the car, she makes sure the radio stays off, just in case she hates his taste in other music too, even though she’s curious. Spring brings change too. Snow is melting and it’s warm enough to go out onto the porch in the morning in one of Ted’s old concert t-shirts that he and his band could never sell. But the porch creaks now, so Sara doesn’t go outside, and she doesn’t wear the t-shirt. Only Bill’s voice sounds like she thought it would — gravelly and warm. But she never knew how harsh his coughing was. Both Ted’s and her mother’s are sharper than she expected, not in line with how she imagined them. When her parents finally leave that afternoon, they promise they’ll be back to visit soon, no later than March 1st, and Sara embraces them

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both. But she can’t help but relax when their small car disappears into the woods. It signifies a real break from the noise — not one dictated by a flip of the switch by her ear. The worst part is the snoring. The first day Sara sleeps at home, she decides to keep her hearing aid on all night — if regular people couldn’t turn off their hearing, why should she be able to? It would be like picking the M&Ms out of the trail mix, the way her mother does, and that just seemed inauthentic. But that notion doesn’t last long. Every time the love of her life inhales, a screeching noise violates her thoughts and her rest. He moans slightly on the way out. She keeps her hearing aids on at night for a whole week, trying to learn to embrace it, like she does Ted’s dismissal of really finding a career, or her mother’s trail mix defilement, but just can’t. Now, she can only hear half the time — a guilty thought that’s there while she sleeps too. That Saturday night, Ted and Sara are supposed to go out with three other girls Sara met at Cornell. Even though they graduated before her, they were close enough to a warrant a reunion and celebration for her — whatever that means. She dresses slowly in her room, lingering on purpose. They weren’t great friends anyways, just during college. So what’s the harm if she doesn’t like them the way she did when she couldn’t hear? “What’s the harm, huh Rayna?” A clumsy, goldenbrown Labrador looks up from the closet floor and smiles. She says it out loud with the confidence that the dog won’t know whether her speech sounds strange or not. Ted always says it doesn’t, but that’s just who he is. Now that Sara can hear, she still only speaks rarely, and would probably stick to sign language tonight. Sara hears the muffled grumbling of the Buick as it sputters to life in the drive way, so she plants a kiss on Rayna’s cheek and heads outside with a sneaking emotion that can’t decide if it’s excitement or dread. The club is loud. Despite Ted’s best instinctive efforts to stand between Sara and the speakers across the room, it’s hard to hear much of anything. It’s probably worse when your hearing is perfect, anyways. Sara laughs to herself. For a second, she almost considers her shoddy hearing lucky. “Has your whole world just blossomed?” “CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

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“Does this sound weird?” The third friend, Molly, starts gently tapping the hearing aid, and oddly enough, that’s the only question that doesn’t piss Sara off, probably because it’s genuine and she doesn’t hate her voice. That’s how most of the night goes — an ignorant interrogation of deafness and hearing, with Sara’s snippy answers translated diplomatically by Ted to kinder words. More than anything, Ted is the one bugging Sara. He laughs too hard at everyone’s jokes, including hers. He isn’t a quiet confident. He’s loud, in the way he sounds; he’s projecting an overbearing masculinity that Sara never associated with him. He’s brash, and irritatingly juvenile. Even the way he is caring towards her leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Sara grows hotter and hotter until she turns without words and heads outside for air. On the way out, a young boy in the waiting room points at her implant excitedly, and a mother scolds him for pointing. The parking lot is cool and empty. Sara leans against a trashcan and wonders how much time she has to herself before Ted pushes his way into her solitude. To her surprise, Molly appears from the restaurant and looks around before making her way to the far corner. While Molly doesn’t know everything, Sara has told her enough. Ted was at a job interview when she stopped by the house, so her and Molly talked freely for quite some time. She doesn’t know about a lot — how Sara doesn’t want her family to come back into town, how she wants to go back to work but doesn’t know if she can, at least not like this, how hearing is changing everyone she loves and how she is scared of talking to her because of that. What Molly does know is that it’s changing Ted for her. “He loves you, you know.” That’s all she says, and she phrases it in a way that almost sounds like a question. Sara is too confused to go back inside, so she stares into the reflective window by the door, distressed, pretending to fix her makeup, anything just to avoid responding to Molly and asking herself if she still loved him too out loud. Molly quietly retreats, and like clockwork, Ted replaces her. “You okay?” he asks, his voice still slightly foreign.

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“Yeah,” she says out loud, shakily. “I know this must be a lot for you,” he says, slowly turning her to hug her from behind. He blows gently on the back of her neck, but stops quickly. Sara jerks away from him; the noise of the air sounds like static up close to the damned implant, like amplified gunfire. Ted stands there, puzzled and at a loss for words, and Sara softly cries. *** March 1st is a cold day, but bright. Sara leaves hurried, scattered footsteps in the snow. She can’t quiet the chaos in her head. Why don’t you love him? a voice asks, and she pushes it away. She starts running. Sara! Her mother’s shrill voice rings through her mind like a gunshot, a sound so jarring and real that she trips and falls to the wet ground. Her father’s coughing slowly gains volume in her mind and there’s no getting rid of it, no escaping the sounds because she’s already heard them once. Running frantically towards home, Ted’s voice, his deep, vibrating voice, hurts her head and she screams, not caring who hears. She can’t go home to him, to her family who arrives today, to a world she loves to see and feel and smell and taste but hates to hear. Panicked, she leaps to her feet and turns off the hearing aid, breaks open the battery compartment and throws its contents to the snow. Then she collapses, her body silently shaking. March 1st is a cold day, and the world is quiet again. There’s no wind, and the only noise anyone could hear is the crunch of thin, sun-hardened snow under Sara’s feet as she slowly and deliberately rises from the ground. But she can’t hear it. She walks calmly through the park near her and Ted’s house, wiping her tears as she gets closer and ascends the wooden steps. Rayna leaps up in a gust of yellow fur from where she was laying and thrusts herself on Sara in blind affection. Her warm tongue immediately finds the dried salty streaks on Sara’s face and laps at them, gently warming her numb expression. “Hi,” Sara whispers. She walks in through the screen door and the bright eyes of her parents are quickly muted when they see hers, swollen and red. Ted gently squeezes past them into the doorway and Sara falls into his arms. He sees the broken hearing aid dangling from the side of her head, and he just

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strokes her hair while she cries once more. She can’t handle anything right now besides what’s supposed to be normal, the Ted she loves and the parents whose mannerisms and quirks are quiet and subtle. Bill and Jules slowly approach now too, enveloping Sara from all sides. She doesn’t need to explain much; her eyes and the hearing aid say everything. As the sun fades into the evening, Sara crawls into bed early with Ted. She feels the rising of his chest. She could love him like this. She does love him like this. But she can’t sleep. Every hour, she wakes up in a cold sweat and swears she can hear him snoring.

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Chloe Wintersteen

Flight

August 2, 1935. 6:00 a.m. Erin Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Clare squats by the bay shore and sips a Guinness. She is wearing denim overalls, scuffed work boots, and a tool belt. Her trusty work-issued hard hat rests at her side. She glances up, takes a deep breath, and grins at the view. She knows it well. This particular morning, a mystic fog seeps in from the west. As Erin breathes it in, she hears distant bagpipes and the echo of raucous pubs. She smells the aroma of corned beef sizzling in the kitchenette and feels her legs sprinting through the rolling hills of Ireland. Though she emigrated from County Cork just four years ago, she is constantly surprised by how much of San Francisco can jog her memory. The screech of a wheel. Hammering a nail. Scooping potato soup. A chill. With so many people unemployed, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grateful to have a job. But today, it feels like more than just a job, for the true purpose of the project is beginning to take shape. Today, it will become clear that the accident did not occur in vain. Erin grabs her hard hat with a grease-stained hand, carefully tucks her hair in its upper cavity, and secures it on her head. She stands and looks at the immense construction project in front of her. It will take her a half an hour to climb to her post, so she really should be on her way. After taking a final sip of her Guinness, she throws the bottle in the bay, and begins walking north towards her place of work, a partially constructed Golden Gate Bridge. ***

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Erin stands at the base of a 745-foot tower and looks up. She sees hundreds of workers from all walks of life swarming the structure, weaving in and out of vertical metal cubbies to reach their posts. Engineers offer her free sauerkraut juice, the workers’ cure-all for hangovers. Avoiding eye contact, she gladly accepts, chugs it, and throws this bottle in the bay as well. As she begins climbing up the tower, she tries to expand her ribcage and inhale a satisfying amount of air, but to no avail. All she can do is take brief, unfulfilling breaths. Perhaps she bound her chest too tight this morning. Squinting up towards her post, she sees numerous fourmen rivet gangs working together, readying the soon-to-be landmark for the next stage of its metamorphosis: the connection. For what felt like an eternity, the two towers were wholly separate. Because Erin only worked on the southern tower, she felt as though she were building a man-made marvel rather than a purposeful bridge. But starting today, the perceived goal is shifting. Erin will no longer focus on building up. Rather, she and her crew will build out, and connect the towers to unite not only land, but people and ideas as well. For the first time since the accident, the enthusiasm surrounding the project is reviving. When Erin reaches her post, the buzz is palpable. “Men! Gather round” Charles Krumm is the southern tower’s cable manager. A stuffy yet relatable figurehead, his mere presence demands attention. Upon hearing his voice, all of the workers from Erin’s post scurry near. “As you all are surely aware, schedule changes will be initiated today.” Charles announces. “I know many of you participated in a certain clambake last night.” The men cross their arms, look at each other, and try to suppress grins, but they chuckle regardless. A few nudge each other and whisper, “ring-a-ding-ding,” followed by suggestive winks. “So please approach each task with extreme caution,” Charles continues. “I have new crew assignments. Listen carefully.” Erin’s ears perk up. She has worked with the same three men since she started working on the bridge, and none of them

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doubt her disguise. Her comfort level will surely plunge should she be placed with a group of entirely new men. Her breath flutters. “Crew one; Moore, White, Harris, and Price. You will prepare the southern anchorage. Crew two; Washington, Grant, Peterson, and Foster. You boys will run the sheave. Crew three; Patterson, Anderson, Baker, and O’Clare. You boys will manage and maintain the cable saddles up top.” Crew three. Erin lets out a lackluster sigh of relief. She recognizes the names of her new co-workers. They have a reputation of keeping to themselves, which in Erin’s case is optimal. “Any questions?” “You didn’t call my name.” A stout and stocky man raises his hand from the back, and climbs a bit closer to the group. His dark brown locks are receding. His nose eerily resembles that of a pelican. “Sorry, what’s your name?” Charles replies. “Vincent, sir. Vincent Gray.” Erin’s heart drops. Though she has never seen his face, his name is dreadfully familiar. “Oh hello, nice to meet you Vincent. You’ve been transferred here from the northern tower, correct?” Vincent nods. “Ok. My supervisor told me about you this morning, but I didn’t know you’d begin so soon. How about you join crew three for now?” “That sounds just fine, sir,” Vincent replies. “If you need help, I’m sure Aaron would be happy to show you the ropes. He’s swell.” Charles glances towards Erin for verification. “Right, Aaron?” Erin nods. “Any more questions?” Charles asks. Silence. “Neat.” Following a clap of his hands, Charles quickly descends the tower. Erin’s eyes slowly pan over to meet Vincent’s. He smirks and waves. Erin points toward the nearest catwalk, which

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rests approximately 6 feet above them. The rest of crew three notices this, and obediently climb toward the presumed meeting spot. “Ladies first,” Erin yells over to Vincent, prompting him to ascend first. He does. Once the workers reach the platform, they squat and stare at each other. None are the type to initiate conversation. Finally, Patterson takes the lead. “So. Hi folks.” Silence. “We built the goddamn tower for christ sake. Running a cable machine is child’s play. Am I right?” Patterson laughs and snorts, hoping to receive a few pity chuckles in return, but he receives none. “Well then. I’ll assume we all know what to do. Let’s get up there.” Anderson and Baker nod in approval, and the three men crawl to the nearest ladder and start to climb. Vincent doesn’t budge. “We’d best follow them.” Erin begins to crawl toward the ladder, but Vincent stops her. “Wait. Do you have any helpful tips?” “No,” Erin spitefully replies. “You seem like an old-timer here. I just want to make sure I’m caught up.” Erin ignores him. Vincent continues, “Oh come on, you’ve got to have some advice for me.” “You worked on the other tower. I have a hard time believing you don’t know anything.” “I want specific advice for this post. Who do I avoid? How do I get a raise? When can I meet the boss’s daughter, you know what I mean?” He winks. Erin’s eyes roll to the back of her head in disgust. “Don’t fall off,” she replies. “What?” “Don’t fall off. That’s my piece of advice. You satisfied?” “Honestly, no.”

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“Oh come on, of all people you should understand that.” He shudders. ““I do, but...” “I know you do.” Pause. “You don’t like me do you?” “No, I don’t. Now we better get up there and start working. I am not going to jeopardize my job because of you.” Vincent nods, and the two begin climbing. In an effort to make peace, he calls up to Erin, “So have you got a wife, or kids, or somethin’?” “I have a daughter.” “Swell.” “It is.” When Vincent and Erin arrive at the top of the southern tower, Peterson, Anderson, and Baker have already begun work on the cable saddles. Erin immediately jumps into action and assesses the crossover. Vincent follows suit. All too soon, Peterson calls to the rest of the crew, “The saddle isn’t grasping the dead wire properly, we’ve got to let Charles and the others know before they start their preconstruction sequences.” Anderson and Baker nod in agreement. “Anderson, you’d best go tell Charles. Baker, inform the other crews. I’ll go get replacement parts. Make it jiffy.” Erin watches each crew member descend over the side of the tower. The men remove one hand at a time to grasp lower ladder rods. First their feet disappear, then their torsos, then their heads. Only Erin and Vincent remain. *** The fog below is so thick that Erin feels like she is floating above the clouds. She has never worked this high up with the fog rolling in, so she takes a closer look at her surroundings. For a second, she is at peace. The sky above is a radiant blue, while the blanket below is starch white. Erin is stuck in the middle of two vastly separate yet undeniably connected worlds. She notices birds flying below her, floating in perfect unison. They perform a synchronized dance, seemingly just for her. Suddenly, one breaks formation and nose dives

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through a small opening in the fog. Erin glances down, and can faintly see the rippling water below. The bird plummets at a frightening rate and does not pull away, even though it clearly has the ability to. Before Erin can see whether the bird meets the water or not, she averts her eyes, unfortunately in the direction of Vincent. She begins to hyperventilate. Her throat closes up, and black dots cloud her vision. She’s never experienced vertigo, but this must be what it feels like. Was the fog this thick the day of the accident? Did Finn fall through an opening in the fog, or was he swallowed by it? Did birds plummet next to him or did they scatter away in terror? Was Vincent standing where he is, or did he squirm as far away as possible? Did he watch the impact? Erin collapses to her knees. Vincent hears the thump and turns around. “Are you ok?” “I’m fine,” Erin whimpers back “Are you sure?” Vincent walks toward her to see what’s wrong. “You’re much smaller than the other boys here. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” “Are you insulting my manhood?” “No.” Vincent replies. The two hold eye contact for a second too long. As Erin turns away from him, a few strands of curled hair sneak out of the back of her hard hat. “Is it an Irish trait?” Vincent interrogates. “Is what an Irish trait?” “Being small.” “How do you know I’m Irish?” Erin stands. “The accent gave you away.” “Oh.” Erin replies. They both take a breath. “You said you have a daughter,” Vincent interrogates. “What’s her last name?” “Well it’s the same as mine, of course.” “What’s your last name?” “Why should I tell you?”

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“Everyone calls each other by their last names here. It’s not an unusual question.” “Fine. It’s O’Clare,” Erin mumbles. Vincent’s head starts to ache. “I saw you toss a bottle in the bay earlier.” “What?” “I’ve only ever seen one other person purposefully throw a bottle in the bay. It was this young gent I worked with for a few weeks on the other tower. He was Irish too. He told me that he and his fiancé threw empty bottles in the ocean and made wishes on them. You didn’t happen to make any wishes when you threw those bottles in, did you?” Erin’s pulse hastens. “Are you Erin? Finn’s wife?” Erin stands, her fingers rolled into fists. She hasn’t heard those two words spoken together for a year. “Geez, Erin. It’s really you isn’t it? I’ve been trying to contact you. Have you received my telegrams?” “I moved to a new house.” “Oh.” Erin stares at Vincent with cold, sad eyes. There is an awkward silence, which Vincent abruptly interrupts. “Listen. I am so sorry about what happened to you.” “Well that was awfully sincere, now wasn’t it.” Erin bites back. “No one should go through what you’ve gone through. But I need you to understand that it wasn’t entirely my fault.” “You’re a coward.” “It was foggy and we couldn’t see very well. We were finishing up the top of the northern tower, and we had to dolly up some supplies. Finn offered to go out on the hanger and drag the cargo over, and a rope slipped!” “A rope that you were holding.” “Yes, but just let me explai-” “No, I will not let you explain. Finn died because of you, and nothing you say will change that.” “That is not true. It was a mistake-” “No it wasn’t.” Vincent takes this in.

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“Do you think I wanted Finn to die?” “It has crossed my mind.” “We worked together for months. He saved my life twice. I swore to myself that if it ever came to it, I’d save his too. But in the moment I just couldn’t. I need you to believe that.” “You don’t understand do you? My daughter and I sneak food out of soup kitchens. She lives under the care of my elderly neighbor most of the time. We save every penny I make, yet it doesn’t seem to be enough, and it’s all because of you.” Erin pokes Vincent in the chest and he stumbles backwards. “There’s always somebody waiting at the base of the tower for one of us to fall off. Did you know that? There’s always someone praying they can steal our jobs away from us.” She breaks eye contact and walks towards the edge of the tower. “Erin, I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do-” She sees him move toward her with outstretched arms. The fog seems to cloud her senses. She feels his grubby hands touch her shoulders. His exhale prickles the skin on her face. “Get off!” Erin curls her arms close to her chest, and whips her forearms out and around, shoving Vincent’s hands off her shoulders. This gesture rebounds, and Erin’s body begins to cantilever off the tower. Vincent grabs her waist and pulls her in. He stumbles back, and their bodies slam on a nearby catwalk. Erin instinctually shoves him away. She rolls over and stands, ready to confront Vincent once more, but he is no longer on the platform. She hears a yell, and a splash. Erin looks over the edge, and notices a hole has been punctured in the fog. The birds have scattered. *** August 2, 1935. 9:00 p.m. Erin O’Clare squats by the bay shore and sips a Guinness. She is wearing denim overalls, scuffed work boots, and a tool belt. Her work-issued hard hat rests at her side. She glances up, takes a deep breath, and scoffs at the view. She knows it well.

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This particular evening, the sky is completely clear. The heavy fog from earlier today has dissipated. As Erin watches the moonlight reflect off the rippling bay waves, she feels herself giving one final push. She hears Vincentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s holler. She tastes vomit. Erin longs to explain herself, and craves to be told that it was not her fault, but she has no one to talk to. She longs to apologize and say that it was a mistake, that it was an accident. But even she canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be sure thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the truth. Erin rips off her boots, jumps to her feet, and chugs the rest of her Guinness. She bolts along the barren shoreline with the empty bottle in her right hand. Dew drops from the grass poke her toes, and the sea-salty breeze slaps the curls out of her hair. Her grease-ridden pants stick to her legs. She pauses and shivers as her goosebumps awaken from their short lived state of hibernation. She bends down to a nearby rock and smashes the bottle. Glass shards fly in every direction. She wishes to never throw a bottle in the bay again.

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Victoria Yuan It and I Inside your mirror, there is an infinity. Inside your mirror – the reflective facets of your crystal cross dangling from a silver chain – there is an infinity of kaleidoscopic images, with an infinity of me’s. And within me, an infinity of fissures all furrowed by one ghost, but for now that haunting doesn’t exist, for now all I can focus on is – You sauntering towards me past the dirty blue lockers. You, looking different now. Just last week I saw your shadow sprinting with you across the turf, a red captain band stretched across your bicep. The stadium lights lounged on your high cheekbones and glanced off the beads of sweat embellishing your temples as you called out to your teammates. But now there’s no grass-stained “14” emblazoned on your uniform, no shin guards anchored beneath long red socks, no more fiercely narrowed eyes — in their place lay a grey t-shirt, crew socks, dark wash jeans, and glittering amused eyes. You lean with one arm against the lockers while I hold a math textbook to my chest. What an innocent, stereotypical high school scene. Is that how they all start out –seemingly innocent? Like my old babysitter? How quickly his games mutated into my terror, into his coercion. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said. Eight years later I still haven’t. At the time, he was just four years older than I. But you’re only three years older, so it’s different. You’re different, I think Hopefully and hopelessly.

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You ask me about the pink carnation whorled between my nervous fingers, “Who sent you that Valentine?” “My friend. She’s the varsity goalkeeper.” “Oh, I know of her.” You reply with relief that it’s a straight girl – not a lesbian, not a guy – who sent me the flower. And of course you know her – we’re all part of the same sports program at school. This – you leaning against a locker, me guarding myself with a textbook – continues. But what changes during these two weeks – our conversations lingering longer, our faces filling with laughter, the textbook drawing farther away from my chest like a wall collapsing – draws us closer. Closer You leaning lustily, looming larger Closer Desire and greed emanating from your fingertips Closed. As you satiate your craving, your rough hands grasping my shirt, your chapped lips punching mine. There’s no more “closer.” But our comfortingly hypnotic times distract from these flickers of your voracity – our time that is punctuated by space, or rather our lack of it. Your fingers tracing my shoulder, hands embracing as we float through the fragile February sun, our faces so close that your laughter echoes off the slope of my nose and mine bounces off the cliffs of your cheekbones. But as our eyes wander over each other’s bodies, so do we delve into each other’s souls. From you I learn – Your parents divorced when you were six. Your mom still faithfully watched you sprint and kick for hours. But your favorite part was after the game. Years ago she would pinch your sweaty, red cheeks. Years ago she’d hug you tightly and laugh. Years ago she clapped your back in pride. Years ago she stopped coming. Then your older sister left for college. And that left you and your father. You talked about him little enough so that he stayed a blank figure in the story of your life.

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And I – Pour out what radiance I have to you – a four-year plan of classes, student council, debate, and maybe – one day, if everything worked out – law school. I wasn’t sure if you were glowing with my ambition or squinting from it. I wasn’t sure of how much you were hearing – your eyes trace my lips voraciously, shaded from the spark in my eyes. I wasn’t sure of the meaning of your response, your interruptions – were you tenderly kindling the embers, or were you smothering my lips shut? I wasn’t sure. Then the next two weeks we share less of our souls but more of our bodies, holding each other, sharing the impassioned warmth we radiate. As we grab our lunches and walk outside the cafeteria at noon, shielding each other from the gusts of wind that try to blow us apart, your friends come up and tease us. They alternate between singing Bruno Mars's “Locked Out of Heaven” and breaking into bouts of laughter. I scrunch my face, “I actually don’t like this song.” “Neither do I!” you protest with me and together we laugh, oblivious to the friends, the cafeteria crowd, the March breeze. In that moment I didn’t know – couldn’t have known – that days later I would hear the same song, think of you but never laugh. Because then things suddenly fall apart. You tell me you’re taking another girl to prom because, “this isn’t anything serious. I just like the way you look.” I just like the way you look. The way I look – do you know what that means? To demean a person to only physicality? A few limbs, a patch of skin, tossed together to be a pleasing sight. The way I look – you are the second time, you awaken the memories of the first time that once slumbered in the darkest

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crevices of my heart, you shake my psyche until the schism ruptures open again. The way I look – is that what that babysitter so many years ago liked too? The way a chubby seven year old girl looked? What is a child supposed to do? How was I supposed to know then, how was I supposed to know now? Am I still a child, still too innocent? But not yet innocent enough to discover that my body is not I, but it, nothing more than soft lips, soft skin easy manipulation an object for your pleasure. The same way you clawed me and kissed me, the same way that babysitter crushed my body underneath his suffocating weight and violating pelvis – it was all for that same end of your own selfish pleasures. So perhaps that’s all there is. There is me – my ambitions, my ideas, my compassion – and there is the beautifully useless husk it resides in. The beauty. Like if that crystal cross of your necklace shattered, its rainbow punctured by the unforgiving glass daggers, slashed by the barbed edges. Still a superficial, kaleidoscopic splendor, but every color warped, every graceful arc perverted, every pigment ripped apart by those mirrored splinters. The uselessness. Like a dilapidated, ancient, ruined house. Paint peeling, shingles cracking, columns sagging, overflowing with history and meaning but half-covered by festering wood, windows sobbing with dust, imprisoned in a derelict skeleton. Because it turns out my body is not human is not the medium of my mind the extension of my thoughts the physical manifestation of my soul it is not even mine. It is theirs. The babysitter’s, the captain’s. It is a playground for others to romp on, to have their fun, to blissfully abandon their mess that is me.

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Inside my mirror, there are fragments. Perhaps one day I will heal, will piece together the remnants, will reclaim what should be mine. But for now I see as a dissonance, void of the harmony of body and mind. An it that I am trapped in.

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Maya Ziv Traveling Alone Flat characters are an affliction of every story, or so I’m told. People are round - not defined by one goal, but by aspects of their personality. They’re complex. They’re interesting. This, of course, is not true in the stories we tell ourselves, our friends, our family. There was a woman who cut in front of me at Vons, maneuvering her cart into a gap in the checkout line like a chess piece while deftly avoiding the outraged gazes of the queens and kings around her. It was 7:30 on a Thursday and everyone just wanted to escape the oppression of the fluorescent lights; she had the gall to delay us all, destroying the sanctity and trust in the foundational queue system for her own selfish gain. In my casual retelling, I paint her as an inconsiderate asshole - I reduce this person to a shadow, defined by the fact that she wronged me (and by the justice I felt in watching her spill her groceries on the way out). Pleasant conversation rejects the notion that people don’t deserve what happens to them, that the universe isn’t fair; conversation doesn’t have room for complexity. So as I retell this story to my friends and myself, confident in my indignance, eventually I believe it - I forget the tired circles under her eyes, the stains on her shirt that look like baby spit-up, her strong arms and her ragged flip-flops. The incident fades into memory, leaving us all content in our belief in karma and universal justice. This is why writers are masochists. It hurts to remember that woman as a person, and it hurts to try to fit the vastness of everything she is and could be into such a small box of memory; one has to be uniquely well adjusted to accept other people’s

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suffering. It is so much easier, so much simpler, to reduce people to the sum of their impact on you. So much easier not to understand. I am not uniquely well adjusted. No matter how many times I tell myself my story, I cannot understand the villain, cannot generate the motives and complexity that a human being deserves. Believe me, I’ve tried - I do not want to fathom a universe in which a real person, someone who probably doesn’t deserve the things that happen to them, can hurt people so much. I’ve tried telling different stories, less true versions of a very real sequence of events. Tens, hundreds of parallel narratives I’ve constructed to try to inject some empathy into my understanding, to try to make sense of it all. It hasn’t been working. *** The streets are noisy with color, a cacophony of reds and blues and yellows and greens shouting for my attention on the outsides of stalls, fabrics spilling over each other above assortments of copper cups and chess sets. People of all shapes and kinds hurry their way through dirt streets packed hard with thousands of footsteps. Sweat and spices linger in an air thick with the warmth of a hundred bodies and the stale heat of summer. My breaths are shallow as I fight my way through the roiling, dancing crowd, eventually taking refuge on the raised step of a shop entrance - a rock just above the storming ocean. Watching the movement is dizzying. I pause for a breath; the cool beer in my hand offers a brief - but quickly dwindling escape. “Hey, you! Miss!” It takes me a moment to realize I am the target of this exclamation. I spin around, uncertain of where the voice originated from in the crowded scene, and end up facing into the shop. My eyes lock on a young man with his arm poised in welcome, clearly a practiced motion, his mouth upturned in a wolfish grin. My cheeks flush. “Ahh, she graces me with a glance! What’s a beautiful woman like yourself doing all alone in such a crowd, mm?” His

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voice is baklava, layered with honey, and he speaks just softly enough that I have to step closer to hear him properly. “Oh, I like traveling alone.” My drink is almost empty. It’s no cooler inside the shop, and a bead of sweat rolls down my back. “Ah, so no boyfriend then?” His eyes scratch over me, leaving an unexpected chill where they touch. He takes my hand, kissing it gently. His lips are sweaty. “So strange for a woman so lovely as you to be alone. We shall have to fix that. Come, take a look around!” I cannot think of a polite way to say no. I allow myself to be pulled farther into the stall; the swirl of dust and the smell of cotton greet me. The wares - cheaply made purses, thin daggers, fool’s gold jewelry - wink around me, as if they know something I do not. His eyes are sharp, and notice when mine linger on the dresses hanging from the ceiling. “Ahh, you have good taste!” he says, swinging the rack down from the ceiling and guiding me towards it with a hand on my back. The exit channels a soundtrack of commerce from behind us; tides of people still crash by, swept along, paying no mind to the rocky cliff I am pressed against. An ocean does not care that it is contained by shores - it moves, and they move, regardless. “These dresses are beautiful, one of a kind. You won’t see anything like them in a hundred miles,” he reassures me. And it’s true; they are beautiful. With stitching of gold and silver, they hang crisply from their perches, sequins winking and whispering of glamour, of attention. I neglect to mention their similarity to the dresses on display in the stall across from us, or the stall next to them, or the stall next to them - carbon copies of a lifestyle only ever seen hanging on ceilings and dancing behind glass screens. “They’re quite lovely,” I offer instead. There’s hunger in his eyes, the salivating desire of one very near to a meal - a sense of foolishness prickles the back of my neck, as though I am an animal in a trap. “Yes, and even lovelier on one as dazzling as you.” The words fall from his lips like a tap of oil, dripping with ease as he makes a show of shuffling through the rack. He pulls out a dress,

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holding it up against me and maneuvering it into my arms. “It even matches your eyes.” I look up from the dress to find a full-length mirror pulled in front of me, startled by the closeness of my own reflection. Wide and tired eyes, a pair of jeans regretted on a day too hot for denim, sweaty strands of hair stuck to a high brow and forehead, well-worn shoes - and between us the dress, a snapshot of mascara, of a reverberating baseline, of flashing lights and toned limbs and laughter. “How much?” I ask, my sweaty palms leaving small damp rings on the dress. “Just $100,” he responds, as though this is a mere pittance - seeing the look of disbelief on my face, he immediately follows with, “—but for you, only $75.” Still holding the dress, I feel the stiffness of the fabric, imagine the itchiness of the lace. The image of myself in it, dancing, laughing, is far away - through a tunnel, or a warped lens. Still, in this likeness, I can tell there is weight on my shoulders, blisters on my feet. I offer it back. “That’s too much,” I reply, shaking my head. “Far too much.” His crestfallen look is perfectly tragic, as if he had seen paintings of disappointment and spent many long nights practicing in the mirror to capture their essence. “Beautiful, things like you do not come cheap.” There’s a slight scratching sound as I maneuver the dress back onto the rack and begin to walk out, trying to re-enter the nearby tides, missing the breeze and the freedom of movement, wanting to be away from the stagnant cotton air. “Thank you, but I don’t want it. I think I’ll be going.” “Wait!” He maneuvers in front of me, catching me by the shoulders, and cupping my face in one hand. My stomach turns slightly. His hand is cold and vaguely soft, like there’s a very fine layer of silt covering it. “Lovely, this dress is perfect for you. How about $65?” His smile is unmarred, but I can hear annoyance in his clipped words.

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“No, really, I don’t think I want it.” I try again to walk away, shuffling around him. His hand is still cool when it catches my wrist. “You are a tease, you know! Coming into my shop, offering me smiles and the music of your voice, then turning away from me so easily?” I pull slightly, but his grip is strong. “Come now, you want it, it is such a beautiful thing. You can’t just lead me on like this. $50.” I’m indignant as I turn to wrench away, but my indignance is quickly extinguished. His expression is calm, stern, like a parent scolding a spoiled child - but there’s an edge, a hardness, and something I can’t parse. His fingers press painfully into the tendons of my wrist, and nervousness settles in the pit of my stomach like sediment at the bottom of a glass, the bottom of an ocean. The ocean outside passes by without notice. I’m being eroded against this cliff face. There’s salt in my lungs; his grip is like ice. I stop pulling. “I… I guess $50 is reasonable.” His hand melts away, a smile brimming onto his face as he kisses me on each cheek. “You are an angel, beautiful, perfect.” Just like that, the encounter is over. I am back on a busy street with a bag in my hands, strangely dizzy. There’s a pit in my stomach, a sense of guilt that I can’t seem to shake - guilt at such an expensive purchase, guilt at the way he looked at me, guilt for regretting something I claim to have wanted. When I arrive back at my hotel, I bury the dress in my suitcase, trying not to notice the fraying edges or the loose threads in the stitching, trying not to imagine the scratchiness on my skin, trying to ignore the lack of weight in my wallet. I try not to feel shame. When that fails, I try to forget. *** A shopkeeper has rent to pay, a family to feed and care for, rivalries and friendships and preferences and a story. None of that is here, in these fabricated memories. I can’t will myself to add in any of it.

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I’ve tried everything - retail, school, shipyard, market, workplace, theater, ghost story - a hundred frames, a hundred lenses for this one seemingly simple story. So far, he’s as flat as paper, and it seems no number of rewrites and retellings will be able to change that. I know he remembers it too. I wonder if he thinks about it. Maybe he feels pain, regret, shame. Maybe he’s grown - had some revelation and come out the other side a better person, having learned something, as round characters in round stories tend to do. Somehow, I don’t think he has. I’m not a writer. My stories are dulled down, their sharp edges removed. My characters are flat - the villains are villains, the victims are victims, and everyone in between is a guilty bystander. I cannot make myself re-live this pain long enough to get any truth, any honesty, down onto the page. I’m not masochistic enough to make myself believe that somebody complex, somebody fundamentally the same as me, could do what he did. And I’m not going to try anymore.

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Author Biographies

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Matthew K. Bernstein is a freshman at Stanford University. He likes to use his middle initial for things because otherwise his name is far too common. He has a fondness for all things science fiction and fantasy, and loves writing. He hopes to continue doing that for a very long time. Claire Breger-Belsky is a freshman at Stanford University. Her passions include creative writing, languages, literature, and theatre. Usually a poet, this is one of Claireâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first attempts at a short story. Tate Burwell is a first-year student at Stanford University. Her interests include reading and mixology. She could never pick a favorite author. Ellie Chen is a first-year student at Stanford University. Her interests include sports, cooking, design, the outdoors, and travel. She loves spending time with family and friends. Her favorite food is cheese and her favorite book is the God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. Ellie loves life. Gianna Chien is a first-year student at Stanford University looking to synthesize her interests by majoring in Computer Science + English. In her free time, she enjoys reading and playing with her dogs. She has a younger brother and is an avid stuffed animal collector. Ethan Cruikshank is a freshman at Stanford who is enthralled with storytelling. He was raised in Hanover, Virginia. Avoy Datta is a science enthusiast, chess-lover and freshman at Stanford. A lonely traveler through space-time with a quirky skill set, he aspires to create and innovate. Stories fascinate him, captivate him just as much as does physics. And good rock music.

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Minh-Anh has never before written a short story that didn’t fill him with a deep, instinctive revulsion. But there’s a first time for everything. Catherine Gao is a freshman at Stanford University. She has been writing since she can remember. Along with dreaming up stories, in her free time she loves to listen to music, eat, and explore her hometown. Jack Golub likes listening to A Tribe Called Quest, playing basketball, and occasionally writing stuff. He’ll hopefully graduate from Stanford University by 2020. HB Groenendal is a writer from San Diego, California. They found solace in writing at the age of fourteen, and hasn’t stopped writing since. They also enjoy acting, singing, and archery. Christopher Healy is a first-year student at Stanford University. He has no idea what he’s doing. Natalie Johnson is a first-year student at Stanford University. She was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin the sixth of six daughters. She spent her gap year in China and wrote her first novel in elementary school. Johnson’s other interests include ethnic studies, activism, mental health, and art of all kinds. natmajo.wordpress.com Kimo Karp is a first-year student at Stanford University. He likes spending time with his friends and listening to all different types of music. His favorite authors include J.R.R. Tolkien, Ernest Hemingway, and Woody Allen. Veronica Kim loves words. Her personal favorite is “nonchalant,” or maybe “jejune.” Other interests include running, bread, dogs, music, vanilla lattes, and the fourth dimension. She misses Southern food and fall trees, but remains overwhelmed by Stanford’s loveliness, and expects to feel this way for a long time.

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Lance Lamore is a freshman at Stanford University. He spent his childhood summers in Peru while growing up mainly in Southern California. His interests lie in chemistry and psychology. Nathan Lee is a freshman at Stanford. The only thing he got out of six years of Latin was “dabit deus his quoque finem.”-Vergil. (translated: God will give us an end to even these things). Maya Mahony is a freshman at Stanford. She loves writing novels and songs. Her hobbies include hiking, running, dancing, rock climbing, and watching good movies with friends. Saptarshi Majumdar is a second-year student at Stanford University. His interests include film analysis, traveling in particular road-tripping and photography. For Winter Break 2016, he is doing a road trip to New Orleans and making a film about it using a GoPro. Sesha McMinn is currently a freshman at Stanford University. Her interests include education, ultimate frisbee, and music. Her favorite book is Accordion Crimes by Annie Proulx. Emily Schmidt is a freshman at Stanford University. Originally from Philadelphia, she spends her time in between classes absorbing the Californian sunshine, crocheting blankets for her East Coast friends, and reorganizing her room multiple times a day. Her favorite color is periwinkle and her spirit animal is a quokka. Marika Tron is from Camarillo, California, and she is a freshman at Stanford University. She aspires to be an English major, and she hopes to change the world with her stories. Her favorite book is I’ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson. Aparna Verma is a freshman at Stanford University. An avid storyteller, she hopes to craft narratives, in all various forms, to inspire others to pick up their pen and tell their own.

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Tristan Wagner is a freshman at Stanford University from Jackson, WY. He is academically undecided but optimistic about his next four years in college. Chloe Wintersteen is a freshman at Stanford University. She is an active musical theater and opera performer, and is a proud member of Ramâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Head Theatrical Society. A Bay Area native, she grew up looking at the Golden Gate Bridge, and would often fantasize about the numerous stories it must catalyze. Victoria Yuan is a first-year student at Stanford University. She plans on majoring in Biomedical Computation, and hopes to go to medical school. Her other interests include visual art, robotics, and Greek and Roman history. Victoria has a (literally) unhealthy addiction to In-N-Out. Maya Ziv is a first-year student at Stanford University. She loves experimental fiction genres and is fascinated by the merging of technology and narrative. Her favorite book is House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski.

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