the guide
CREATIVE WRITING ISSUE NOVEMBER 7, 2014
INSIDE
2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10
POEM
Climb Up With Me, American Love POEM
When I Am Old SHORT STORY
The Painter POEM
The Eighth Wonder of the World SHORT STORY
I See
SHORT STORY
Skin and Bones SHORT STORY
MICHELLE XU/THE HOYA
Trigger
SHORT STORY
Third Person Experiment
Climb Up With Me, American Love by Jasmine White
Emma Hinchliffe, Editor-in-Chief Jess Kelham-Hohler, Guide Editor Mallika Sen, Executive Editor Robert DePaolo, Managing Editor Ian Tice, Online Editor Michelle Xu, Photography Editor Ian Tice, Layout Editor Zack Saravay, Copy Chief Allison Hillsbery, Deputy Guide Editor Hannah Kaufman, Deputy Guide Editor Gabi Hasson, Deputy Copy Editor Katie Haynes, Deputy Copy Editor Sharanya Sriram, Deputy Copy Editor Julia Hennrikus, Cartoonist Emily Welch, Photographer Michelle Xu, Cartoonist and Photographer Janet Zhu, Cartoonist Contributors Taylor Bond Emma Lux Angela Hart Emma Rizk Hannah Kaufman Madison Stingray Jasmine White Front Cover: Michelle Xu Back Cover: Emily Welch
2 | THE GUIDE
The other day I found a flag burning. I stepped on it with old shoes and imagined a whole nation crying in pain. Red streaked against my eyes. Fire was in my eyelashes. I dreamed the whole world broke into war. Even the children were cruel, throwing grenades over lollipops, shooting rifles over monster trucks and G.I. Joe’s fallen boot. There were guts everywhere, and no one was safe. I saw a priest take his wooden cross and shove it down a nun’s throat. Salvation, he called it. I awoke to stars between my blinds. Their shadows glowed against my sheets. I thought of diving into space, and leaving gravity behind. I wanted to know what it was like to watch the Earth turn.
MICHELLE XU/THE HOYA
When I Am Old by Jasmine White
I want to speak words like Neruda — with my heart on my tongue, my hands digging in the soil of my birthland as I decipher the secrets of my forefathers. And in my chest, I’ll carve out their names and bleed out their virtue so that it appears as my own. And I will not tell you that it was the ghosts that gave me the light because you will not understand what it is like to have one foot nearing that rusted gate, while the other still lingers at the playground where the days were spent playing house and drawing hearts around the names of our lovers.
creative writing issue | 3
The Painter
by Emma Lux
S
he wasn’t much. He was many things. He was an artist. When he looked at her, he saw her colors. The timid peachiness that brushed her high cheekbones. The subtle blue half-moons under her brownish-greenish eyes that made her look older than she was. Watching him paint was her favorite thing to do. Every night, she would stand behind him as he quietly struggled with the canvas, danced with the brush, conversed with the image that he was creating. A person. Many people. A country landscape. When he painted them, he silently divulged all of his deepest secrets to them, all with the flick of his wrist and the twist of his fingers. And that was why she longed for him to paint her. She imagined him mixing the paint for hours and hours, trying to perfectly recreate the colors of her face. She dreamt of his skilled hand guiding the coarse bristles of the paintbrush, slowly transforming the blank white canvas into the soft line of her jaw, the gentle curve of her neck. She once asked if he would paint her. I can’t, he said. Because the feelings would get in the way, he said. The emotions would color the painting, not the colors of your face, he said. So she retreated back to her marked spot behind him, silently peering over his shoulder as he painted other beautiful things. But what he didn’t know was that his emotions were exactly what she wanted to see. She didn’t need a perfect recreation of her face — she knew what she looked like, she knew her little imperfections. She saw them every morning when she looked in the mirror. What she never could see was how he saw her. Was she beautiful in his eyes? Would the imperfections that she saw as flaws transform into something more under his careful hand? In his eyes, was her image worthy of his love? He said his emotions would color the painting. What color would they be? Red? Blue? Green? The soft orangey purple of a sunset? She tried to imagine, but she had no idea. He was many things. He was an artist. She wasn’t much. She was half of a heart. Only half because he held the other half. Thump, thump. And he didn’t realize, but while his right hand gracefully slid and scraped and pirouetted across the page, his left hand held something red, mushy, warm. And it pulsated. Thump, thump. And with each beat, it slipped further and further from the grasp of his careless left
4 | THE GUIDE
hand, which hung limply at his side. And he painted and painted and stared at the canvas and it stared back at him and she watched from behind him as that obscure object in his left hand dripped blood on the cold, white, perfect tile. Thump, thump. And there was a pool of red under his shoes. And he didn’t notice. Thump, thump. It slipped further from his fingers, from his thumb, with each passing moment. And he kept painting.
Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump thumpthumpthumpthump. Then silence. Because it wasn’t in his hand anymore. It was on the floor by his shoes. A pool of liquid red. I’m finished, he said. There was silence And then the sound of her sobbing. The loud, wet kind of tears that come all the way from the stomach up through the lungs and burn the throat on the way out. He cocked his head over his shoulder to
look at her. Why are you crying? he said. This is the most beautiful painting that I have ever created. This is my best work. You should be happy for me. I’m sorry, she heaved in between sobs. And she took two big breaths to quiet herself. And then it was silent again as she raised her swollen eyes with the blue halfmoons that made her look older than she was to his canvas. It’s lovely, she said. It was a bowl of fruit.
EMILY WELCH/THE HOYA
The Eighth Wonder of the World by Hannah Kaufman
There they sit, two small figures sailing Fingers through mud, and slowly trailing Brown earth, curved calligraphies Of ancient Tigris and Euphrates
The archeologists marvel over what they’ve found A treasure trove buried beneath the ground Of their own backyard — it was they who unfurled The eighth famed wonder of the world
Her sky-blue silk sundress is battered By the monsoon dirt they’ve thrown and scattered His glasses dimmed by the dusty fog Of a whirling, windswept Sahara mirage
With cracked nails, they dig up a menagerie Of twinkling topaz and jagged ruby Of amethyst, emerald and aquamarine Of diamond clusters with a kaleidoscope sheen
All around, the tree crowd whispers Its anticipation, like Midwest twisters And the two storm chasers carry on From day to night and dusk to dawn
There they sit, those treasure hunters Fingers through muddy, cosmic plunder An excavated earth in polychrome Where fleeting fancies dig and roam
They dream of their imagined castle Centuries past, and galaxies travelled Pasted over the present print Of reality and its rainbow tint
“Annie!” calls She, from far beyond “David!” She screams from across the lawn “Get your hands out of that filth!” says She to them Oblivious to their toils and their newfound gems
But he cries, and stands — his finger bleeding Playful glory all but receding He wipes his glasses, but just a droplet On the lenses blinds him shades of scarlet
With earthquake steps that shake their thoughts She marches into their everlost Palm-white hands on their dirt-streaked wrists Pulling them from their abode’s abyss
He takes them off, throws them to the ground With blurry vision, looks around Frantically for sky-blue silk To fix the scales of a world on tilt
“What on earth are you two doing!” She asks, or rather shouts “That’s shattered glass, get out, get out! You cut yourself David, why would you want to play here? This mess is just broken bottled beer!”
Her hand finds his, and slowly guides him To the canyon caverns they’ve pried open The mud-lined fjords of exploration Of this summer noon in consternation
There they sit, across the void Of broken glass, with dreams destroyed Their daring deeds, so misbegotten Buried with gems, and soon Forgotten.
Suddenly, he sees in the microlandscape Electric gems that shine and take shape Multifaceted and Technicolor Exposed in vibrant rain-soaked wonder
MICHELLE XU/THE HOYA
creative writing issue | 5
6 | THE GUIDE
I See by Angela Hart
T
EMILY WELCH/THE HOYA
aking another sip of his coffee, Jim could barely swallow it — it’s cold. Not the good kind of cold either. The kind when the entire flavor has evaporated and it tastes bitter. Swishing it around in his mouth for a moment, Jim could feel his face turning crimson with rage. It wasn’t just cold from the half and half, it was cold from being out too long. Picking up the pot of coffee his secretary made, he slowly tilted it to the side pouring out every last drop down the drain. Watching the last of the coffee drain in a circular motion, he grimaced at the sink. “Rita! We’re out of coffee,” Jim shouted. His deep, booming voice echoed in the empty examination rooms and lingered in the air as Rita’s discount store heels made noise down the hall. Jim knew he was a terrible boss. He just didn’t care. Jim didn’t hire Rita; his partner, Drew, did. If he had any say, Rita would have been gone a long time ago. Being the receptionist, she is the face of the company — the first thing people see when they walk in the door. People don’t want to see an overweight, middle-aged woman; they want a model and, frankly, so does he. Seeing her enter the employee lounge, Jim couldn’t help but wince at the orange polka-dot combination on her dress. Watching Rita bend over to pick up a new filter, Jim couldn’t help but turn away from her XL size. Jim, after all, was a perfectionist about his own looks, so other people should be as well. The whole reason he became an optometrist was because he needed contacts when he turned 16 and he hated the fact that his eyes weren’t perfect. Perfection, as far as he is concerned, is attainable — anyone who isn’t perfect isn’t trying hard enough. Rita turned to Jim with an empty mug in her hands and meekly made eye contact with him, “Your first client is in the waiting room.” Opening the refrigerator to take his expensive water bottle out, Jim saw Rita’s lunch pail. Oh, God. She could afford to skip a meal.
“What? Good … I’ll meet them in the examination room.” Turning the coffee machine on, Rita smiled at Jim. “All right then.” The bright red light turned on as she picked up another mug. It was the mug Jim hated. When he first opened his practice, he ordered a slew of free goods to give away — the mugs were his least favorite product, looking cheap and fragile. Placing the mug down on the counter, Rita walked out of the room. Jim loathed everything about her. As the clock ticked, the fresh coffee finally spat out into the pot. Jim couldn’t deal with people before his morning coffee. It was impossible. Entering exam room one, he paused see-
Rita walked out of the room. Jim loathed everything about her. ing a petite 12-year-old girl; Drew usually examined all the kids. Crap. When is his vacation over? When she realized Jim was just awkwardly standing there, she leaned back in her chair and tilted her head to the side. Lingering in the doorway, the girl just glared at him. Finally, Jim took a step into the room saying, “I’m Dr. Spencer.” The girl’s shoulders were hunched forward as if she were trying to make herself as small as possible. “Hi, I don’t really need to be here. My math teacher told my mom that I couldn’t see the board, but I can.” “You’re name is Kayla. Correct?” Sliding back into the chair, Kayla crossed her arms. “Correct.” Jim reached over to the adjacent table and grabbed his notepad. “Why does your teacher think that you can’t see the board?”
Kayla turned to Jim and through gritted teeth she said, “The problem will need a multiplication sign, but I’ll write a plus sign.” “Are you trying to solve an easier problem?” “No,” she forcefully replied. Jim smiled to himself. “Okay. So what’s the problem?” “I can’t see.” “I see.” Kayla narrowed her eyes at the doctor. “Well, good for you.” Jim couldn’t help but smirk at her. For a kid she was really feisty — most kids never would have spoken to him like that. Three minutes into an exam, they usually think he’s the bogeyman. Jim continued to conduct the exam and found that Kayla really did need glasses. Her eyesight truly was terrible; every M looked like an N and every C was an O to her. As Jim told Kayla that she needed glasses, her cold demeanor broke. She started to cry — not just a single glistening tear from each eye, but streams of salty tears, escaping from her brown oval eyes. None of his other patients had ever cried on him before. What was he supposed to do? Jim reached over and grabbed a nearby box of tissues. Extending them to her, he leaned backward, trying to distance himself from her. “Here you go.” Pushing the tissue box back toward him, “I don’t want those.” Kayla used the back of her hand to wipe tears off of her now pinkcolored cheeks. As gently as he could, Jim said, “Just take the tissue.” Kayla pushed the box away. “No.” “Please.” “No.” Kayla grabbed her jacket, opened the door, and left the exam room. Jim didn’t know what to do. He walked out to the receptionist and handed her the prescription for Kayla. She needs the glasses — she might not want them, but she needs them.
CREATIVE WRITING ISSUE | 7
Skin and Bones by Madison Stingray
‘I
wish there was a moon out,” I whisper, watching the words turn to snow in the air. I can feel Summer’s warm breath against my shoulder, her dark eyes watching me as I guide us through the night. There’s a shovel in my hand that feels heavier than this mountain. Looking down, I can see the underground caves like scales across the valley. We were a tribe of fishes and fences, hidden under the stars. There are 12 peaks around us, each covered in ice and falling asleep. I could have eaten, hunted and lived along the river forever, counting the holes and the arrows on the backside of the moon. There wasn’t a set of footprints that I didn’t recognize or a name I didn’t know. The Ice Age makes the world disappear into a bleakness that wipes out our history and forges its own. Our words and roads and blood mean nothing, crippled by the winter. Everything has become insignificant. Everything has become white. Trying to fight it was trying to push against the wind. I can still feel the splinters in my fingers trying to pull the wood from the icebergs. The chants and prayers I’ve shouted from the mountains to melt this ivory world still ring in my ears. And Summer. I’ve held onto Summer too long, that golden age of freedom where her body was warm against mine and we could feel the sun on our bare backs. I had tried to keep her going over the frozen boulders and river, and now she limps behind me on raw bones and twisted hooves. She had been my last reminder of how great our world used to be; she was full and sweet and blue-eyed, and long-legged like the days. Now we were both so tired and fading into the snow. How had that happened? How had that happened?
8 | the guide
I had tried so hard not to let it all go, to hold onto every breath and blade of grass I saw. Tonight I’m going to bury that horse in the ground. ∞ She met Frankenstein up north, and he called her the Bone Picker. They stood together on the last piece of the Bering Strait, just a few steps from the continent with her arms crossed and his eyes closed. The sun went down like a tree in a storm, silently and all at once. She hated that he didn’t see it. It was dark and the water was cold beneath the ice, and when he took her hand she let him take it. He thought they could sit and watch the sky, but she shook her head and said, “I wish all the stars would fall. I hate the way they look down on me.” “Lie on your back and look at them straight,” he said. “They’ll look straight back at you.” Her hair was black against the snow like oil in water. She sighed and said, “You look like a wolf without your teeth. Do something.” He stood with his back to the wind and shrugged his shoulders. “Haven’t I done enough?” She thought of the world beneath them, long patches of grass and desert, swells of water and baskets of mud, the ice creeping slowly south. It was so ugly to her eyes. She needed it all to melt and disappear, erasing her footprints through the snow. She kicked off her shoes and curled her toes in the air. It was a long time before she met his broken eyes. “Do you want to go swimming?” “Do you want to freeze?” She shivered in his shadow. “I already have.”
JULIA HENNRIKUS/THE HOYA
Trigger
by Emma Rizk
I
hid in an empty town pool. I sat there at the bottom of the deep end, under the diving board, green with mildew. Not bright green, an acidic and putrid green, the color I associate with decay. The moon that glared down from the sky struck the blue tiles. The light hit me, finding me in the darkness I tried to create. The moon mocked me, sneering at my pathetic attempts to burrow under the plant growth that stifled the hard concrete. When I had fallen to the bottom — fallen or jumped? — I had landed on top of something sharp. I tugged a Barbie doll out from under me. Her left arm was snapped off and she was naked and her feet had been chewed by small teeth. I couldn’t tell if the damage had been done by a toddler or a rodent. I had the urge to fling the gross plaything away, but my fingers tightened around her neck instead. I flinched when the wind blew chlorine into my nose. I held my breath for a moment, before continuing to allow the wind to blow in and out only through my mouth. Earlier today I had reigned from atop my white wooden throne, lounging in my red bathing suit, red like the burn carefully hidden low on my hip, where my mother had put out her morning cigarette. Bodies crowded the hot grimy water, like animals drawn to a waterhole. I had become good at tuning out the shrieks and splashes, my attention focused on the chain-link gate that swung to admit newcomers from the parking lot. With a practiced, subtle eye I would size up and select any potential hunks, eyeing them casually from behind my aviators as they stripped down. They were the only reason I showed up for my eight-hour shifts. Minimum wage certainly wasn’t tantalizing enough. A family was hosting a birthday party that afternoon. I had helped tie balloons to umbrellas, annoyed with the time it took away from sitting on my ass, my hip throbbing. A hot set of abs had just taken up residence near the steps when an annoying chorus of “Happy Birthday” cut through my enjoyment. Ice cream cake was being quickly slapped onto paper plates as several 9-year-old boys, most with their wet bathing suits hanging off their skinny waists, jostled each other. I tried hard to ignore the mom’s hassled smile and the boys’ awkward limbs. My mom’s smile had morphed over the years, from real to distant to deranged. I breathed through my mouth to avoid gagging over the strong, sickly sweet coconut suntan lotion. My eyes fixed onto an indistinct blob on the bottom of the deep end, under the div-
JANET ZHU/THE HOYA
ing board. I squinted in the reflection of the light off the glistening water, my nose wrinkled with disgust, about to turn and find the elderly janitor who had apparently “cleaned” the pool that morning. I was startled by my quick heartbeat, which knocked against the glass walls that held my surroundings at bay. Panic shattered those walls, and then water broke over me. I wrapped my arms around her body, small but heavy. “Waterlogged,” a cynical but honest voice whispered. Desperate hands, my hands, those French manicured lovely hands that held steering wheels and took notes in biology and rolled a joint, pumped her chest, over the pink bikini top. I could feel her watching me, but I wouldn’t look into her eyes, their staring stopping my
breathing. I hastily threw up new fragile walls but the screams of her mother found a chink in the glass and the walls broke down again. Hands pulled me back, parents grabbed children and hurried them to cars, but I kept on with compressions. A slap stung me. Her mom’s wedding ring split my cheek and the red watered the meager grass. No heart beat in her tiny chest. I stood and walked out the chain fence. No one stopped me. I went home and grabbed the gun from the drawer, glad now that I hadn’t convinced my mom to dump her ex-convict boyfriend. I didn’t stop in her room before I slammed the back door. No matter how bright and feverish her eyes were, she wouldn’t recognize me. I drove for a
few hours, stopping to buy a soft pretzel at a gas station. It was the first time I had eaten since a few chips two nights ago, as I crunched loudly to overpower the sound of my mom shooting up in the next room. Finally, I made my way to my old neighborhood and I retraced the path down to the old pool. My feet didn’t know the way; I had always ridden my dad’s shoulders down there. Now I scoff at how stupid I look with the Barbie doll straddling my chest. But what the hell? I hold the cold metal against my hip, until it stops throbbing, then lay it on my tongue. It tastes good in my mouth. I pull the trigger.
CREATIVE WRITING ISSUE | 9
Third Person Experiment by Taylor Bond
JANET ZHU/THE HOYA
10 | the guide
S
he savored the silence. Without the static chatter of voices, of thoughts, of half-formed opinions, Elise finally could hear the polite requests of her own desires. Her heart pumped in and out, whispering these truths about herself that she scarcely had the time to notice. She never realized the way in which music could consume her, so quickly, so quietly, pulling her emotions in like the tide. The gentle tug of the song lured her a moment where time hangs suspended in the air, and the soul blooms like a flower to reveal itself. It was these rare moments, like the crack of dawn on a foggy morning of the golden light splintering the dew, where the body hummed with connection. If Elise wiggled her toes she would feel every vibration snaking along her spine, through her skin, but she dared not disturb the peace. The calm lingered in the atmosphere, mingled with the music, forcing her to keep company with only her thoughts. The only thing interrupting her was the phone. It never buzzed, never rang. Its screen remained a dismissive black, and no light dared to shudder on. That was the problem. She kept waiting and waiting for the reply, for any reply, and nothing came. So methodically, religiously, she kept flicking the home screen on and off, in hopes that she had missed a message, that somehow something had snuck by. It never did. She would turn off the phone again, back to black, and wait in this pale tedium for something to happen. She was waiting to hear back from him. Between an era of indifference and now, somehow a text from him had turned into the blood that ran through her veins; it was visceral, and she needed it to know that her heart kept beating, and that was alive. In her thoughts, she felt this dependence, and it scared her. Elise tried to ignore it but her chest would flutter at the sheer mystery of imagining what he sent her. She would laugh lightly to herself, a smile crawling to her face that spoke of secrets and youth, and she knew she could not even attempt to deny it. He was her everything and she was his nothing and yet somehow she was okay with that. Sometimes she waited for a response from others, but it was never the same craving that she felt for his. She shuffled past her other friends, skimmed over other boys, things seeming numb when placed against him. She sighed. No response. “Who are you texting?” Elise’s mother peered at her phone inquisitively. The brown glasses that rimmed her eyes, tired and weary from the strain of life, mimicked the piercing gaze of an owl, its feathers ruffled. With startling rapacity her mother looked into the open face of Elise. “Is it a boy, Elise?” “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom.” Indignantly she huffed, but her mother’s words swept like sweet spring wind inside of her. It was a boy, and not just any boy. It was him. And at that moment her
screen illuminated. Elise clawed at the phone, fumbling with the buttons. “Hello?” she questioned breathlessly, her teeth clamped down nervously on her bottom lip. “Yeah I’m free right now. Do you want to do something? Yes? Text me when you’re ready to pick me up.” Elise could feel the questioning eyes of her mother boring into her skin, burning holes where her sight landed. “Who is this, Elise?” she inquired. “Just a friend,” Elise replied, and the words stung. Just a friend. ————— Elise heard the moan of his car before the headlights flooded the windows. She was a high school senior, a licensed driver, a cool comfort in a hot situation, a nail biter. Her muscles twitched with the ceaseless energy to do something, anything, alert like the gaze of a jaguar, and yet she relinquished her burning desire to do everything in order to do nothing with him. In her mind, it was worth it. “I’ll see you later, Mom!” she called The bubbling intoxication of nerves and excitement began to mix inside her as she started scrambling out the door. “Don’t stay out to late, you can’t forget about curfew!” “He’s 18, Mom, we’re allowed to be out later!” That was a lie. Like her, he was only 17. Like her, he was born in the sweet summer months of sea-warped skin and swollen strawberries. In her mouth the lie tasted sweeter than summer though. It meant she had an excuse to stay with him in the secret hours of the night; the forbidden minutes lapsed in the darkness where no others existed but themselves. Now she understood what it meant for her body to stretch with longing. Though the lights blared and drowned her in white, she could see the faint, dark outline of him, and a smile darted to her lips and the space between them seemed to snap together yet remain separated by worlds and a difference of perspectives. They did not belong together, not like that. Yet how she imagined, how she dreamed. “Open the door, open the door, let’s go!” she commanded, pawing clumsily at the handle. The pane of glass separated them, but she watched him struggling to keep a mischievous smile off his face as he clicked the lock up and down, up and down. Elise and Owen. Owen and Elise. She rolled the toxic words like marbles in her mouth, and it was a taunt how well they jumbled together. The lock clicked up, the door swung open, her heart pumped in, and she flung herself down next to him. “What took you so long?” He questioned gravely, his glance flat and void. Their eyes locked for a few beats, one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, long enough for her to admire the fine lines that crinkled around his face, before he grinned, and she beamed, and he barreled out of her driveway and into the night. She lost herself in the music in order
Now, her mind was only him. Her brain burst like fireworks in the rain, electric with colors, running like passion. Her mind was swirling, static, alive, breathing in his eyes and exhaling his name. to forget about the aching proximity between her hand and his. She stuck her head out the window not in order to feel the rush of life on her lips, but to cool the creeping blush that spun up her neck. She felt the thirst in herself to be young, for once. She had often thought she had old bones and a responsibility that mimicked the wavering apprehension and logicality of a time-withered woman, but she cast all reason and duty aside. The night and the low moon pulled on the desires buried beneath her layers of practicality and drew them forth. They were exposed to the stars. “Do you ever think about what your mind looks like?” With him, she was a child: curious, innocent, inquisitive. She could pry open the tender folds of her mind and spill out all her thoughts, and leave them bare and fragile to him and him alone. The darkness was a blanket that wrapped the two of them together, apart from the world. “What do you mean?” “If I was to enter your mind, what would it look like? What do you think describes the way you think?” What she loved most about them was the comfort of time. She could slip through the seconds like a worn sweater, frayed with age and care, and time was merely an illusion of a concept that simply did not apply to these moments. He paused, frigid with thought. Her questions were something he expected, and treated with the utmost care. He would wait, always, before answering, to cradle the thought in his mind until he produced a polished answer that would slip a smile onto her face. “Well what does your mind look like?” He deflected, knowing his refusal to respond would bring a petulant sneer to her face, a defiant grin. “I asked you first!” Elise retorted, stumbling into silence, thinking. Before, she might have answered it was like a room full of mirrors, with thoughts bouncing around and reflecting, fragments of reality piecing together to create one whole. Or she might have said it was like a field at sunset, the startling calm that fades with the sun, and resides in a numb happiness. Now, her mind was only him. Her brain burst like fireworks in the rain, electric with colors running like passion. Her mind was swirling, static, alive, breathing in his eyes and exhaling his name. That was the truth, but it could never be a spoken truth, not to him. “My mind is like, it’s like the moments
before a storm when you can feel things happening in your body but have no thoughts in your mind, when there’s silence and then all of a sudden the rain starts thundering down. Do you know what I mean?” “Yes,” she replied instantly. And she did. It was like moments like these, when the atmosphere felt dangerous and inviting, where nothing existed but you just knew there would be something coming, something stirring in the air, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. It set on her nerves like liquid ice, burning cold, unease and excitement crashing together. They could talk for hours, passing the time in a tomb of whispers and words, and she would never even notice the hours slipping by. Together they spanned past and present and future, reminiscing on their youth, dreaming illicit hopes for the paths they would walk on. They talked of pets and empty houses and quiet fears that spoke loudly in the middle of the night. They just talked. “I’ll bring you back home before your mom gets mad again,” Owen whispered. “You should,” Elise replied. No one made a motion to move. “You should bring me back before my mom gets mad again,” Elise said. “I should,” Owen replied. They didn’t move. Elise’s phone blossomed with light, vibrated, rang. Message from mom, come how now. Elise didn’t really care. The only messages that inspired any emotion inside of her came from him, and him only, and her phone was empty as long as he was by her side. He started the car, the engine thrumming to life, and Elise’s heart sunk. She clicked her phone off. The future didn’t matter as long as she was with him in the present. The car glided into her driveway, the lights turned off. “I’ll see you later,” he promised. She sheltered that promise in her heart, and wouldn’t forget it. With one last look of longing that she hoped was too masked by the dark for him to see, Elise turned and left. He was a boy, but he was not her boy. And that hurt. But what hurt more was thinking of spending days without talking to him, seeing his half-moon smile, and she knew things would never change. Her body filled with hidden desires, she grimaced, smiled, and then flicked on her phone again, the lights blinking. The only messages she cared to see were the ones sent from him. And so she would wait, patiently, waiting for him.
CREATIVE WRITING ISSUE | 11
the guide