Aztec Literary Review Volume VI by The Aztec Literary Review

AZTEC LITERARY REVIEW

V O L . VI

~AZTEC LITERARY REVIEW SPRING 2015~ EDITOR IN CHIEF Richard Freeland

MANAGING EDITOR Tess Van Grootheest

LITERARY EDITOR Rafael Bar贸n

SOCIAL MEDIA EDITOR Allison Tester

WEB EDITOR Samantha Olivas

PUBLICATION EDITOR Barrett Stowers

ARTIST Matthew Bacher

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS J. D. Stewart ~ Becca Wallace ~ Stephanie Hanawalt

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABOUT V OICES

THE

AZTEC LITERARY REVIEW

AGAINST VIOLENCE

Introduction……………………………………………………………………………………7 “[Untitled]” by Sarah Bentley.................................................... …………….8 “Nightgown” by Haley Leverton................................................................10 “Socialization of the Nation” by Lauren Langston....................................13

P ROSE “Rose and Her Black Lines” by Paige Dillard............................................19 “It Takes A Village” by Mateo H. Statz.......................................................24 “Ipo-oku” by Mike Heral............................................................................38 “Miss Nowhere” by Shawn D. Lard...........................................................49 “Georgina” by April Navarro.....................................................................60 4

P OETRY “Echidna” by Katherine Guevara...............................................................65 “The Wind” by Amanda Abend..................................................................70 “Questions” by Nicholaus Roth..................................................................72 “The Defunct Dust” by Nicholaus Roth………………………………………………74 “My Greatest Advice” by Pablo J. Fonseca.................................................76 “The Rooster King//Coup Du Soleil” by Vibiana Tran…………………………78 “Triumph” by Vanessa Rodriguez..............................................................82 “Trusting” by Paige Dillard.........................................................................85 “Anger” by Tiyanna Dorsey.........................................................................87 “Rebuilding” by John Tobias......................................................................89

Disclaimer: Each piece of work in this literary journal remains the intellectual property of its author. Reproducing any portion of this publication without proper citation or explicit permission of the author is the crime of plagiarism.

-Aztec Literary Review Editorial Board

VOICES AGAINST VIOLENCE “Silence. Impossibly, amidst the thrums of speakers, the roars of drunkards and the sentient howl of the highway, a profound silence descended on our campus last year. During San Diego State’s Fall 2014 semester, nineteen cases of sexual assault towards students were reported to police. And still, some argued, necessary steps to prevent and punish assault on our campus were not taken- just as they were not prior to the Fall 2014 semester. Will the silence continue? The Aztec Literary Review wants to start talking. Speak outsilence assaults us in itself.”

– Aztec Literary Review, Spring 2015

With the Voices Against Violence writing contest, the Aztec Literary Review sought to provide students with a forum for retaliation against sexual assault, a creative response capable of impacting our campus and our conversations in a way facts and statistics could not. Voices Against Violence Prompt: In three pages or less, utilize poetry, fiction or spoken word to respond creatively to the recent epidemic of sexual assault on San Diego State University’s campus.

1ST PLACE [Untitled] Sarah Bentley

It is difficult to distinguish an enemy with a homemade target on your back. Every time I think I am safe, I hear of yet another attack.

I am told that it is incomprehensible to live in a state of constant fear, and then told to never walk alone at night in places where no one could hear. Though always looking over my shoulder makes me question my worth, I don’t want to end up the subject of a new crime alert.

I was told to bring pepper spray to college to protect myself from rape. My brother was never given the same warning to simply stay safe. “This isn’t important,” or so you may think.

Have you ever had to keep both eyes on your drink?

When we step in front of the mirror, we are supposed to think twice – for when we take to the streets, our hem line is our price. If they think we’re “asking for it,” truth is out of the question. The clothing that we wear is assumed to be a suggestion.

High heels become combat boots. Girls don’t walk alone, we walk in troops. So we join our hands and prepare for the battlefield, we wait together for our wounds to heal.

We are engaged in a losing game, and it is high time that we accept our collective blame. This place will remain synonymous with shame until we can address rape culture by its true name.

2nd PLACE Nightgown Haley Leverton

Why doesn’t he think  Of what it does to me  When I walk home alone From work on a Sunday  And a car trails beside me Drooling over a steak.  Why doesn’t he think  Of what it does to me  When I apologize because  I have a boyfriend  I’m not interested  10

No, lacks validity.  Why doesn’t he think  Of what it does to me  When I tell him that a man Crept into my bed when  I was drunkenly sleeping and Touched me without asking. Why doesn’t he think  Of what it does to me  When he responds politely Well what were you wearing? That blue nightgown  Oh I see.  Why doesn’t he think Of what it does to me  Living in a world where  11

I’ve been taught that  I can choose to feel  Blind submission or flattery.

3rd PLACE Socialization of the Nation Lauren Langston

She sits in front of her face mirror,  Facing the face she wishes she could cover up because she can’t stand the sight of herself.  “Here’s to another night,” she says, Masking the task that was finished on her, The night before last, fast,  It happened so fast,  Fast like the speed of lightning,  Shining through glass.  All the colors of the rainbow shattered, Turned white and black  13

Because that’s all that’s left in her eyes,  Her eyes are white around the edges,  And black in the middle  Because her tears washed away the green, The fields of green,  The trees that have lasted nineteen years, She’s only nineteen...  The flowers white and pink  That glisten even when it rains,  The pain,  The pain takes over like a wave engulfs the shore. Over and over and just when she thinks, “It’s okay.” There’s more. More and more it happens more.  Why?  “Because of whores!” says a man.  That man is taught to be tough and dominate.  14

He’s taught to lead, to impede.  Whatever he wants, he gets.  But get this:  A woman,  The woman has been taught to be weak and submissive. She’s taught to dress for men,  To listen to men,  To be less for men.  Her way is not right,  A man’s way is always in the light; he’s the one who’s right. He wants her he gets her.  He rapes her it’s her fault.  “It’s all my fault,” she thinks again.  The pain comes back stronger than ever,  This time it takes away the rocks of purity at her shoreline. Her insecurity is stapled to her face,  15

It’s on her palms.  Everyone can see she’s distraught, By the way she sits, walks and talks,  Silence.  Silence by thousands,  The silence is never fought.  Fight back against the norms!  The way men are taught to be water in a woman’s fire. “Liar! She’s a liar! She wanted it!”  No woman wants to be used,  To be abused,  To be accused of causing the actions of a man because of dress, Because she’s “less”.  The problem is not the clothes,  It’s not the thoughts,  It’s not the acts,  16

In fact,  It’s the Socialization of the Nation.

Rose and Her Black Lines by Paige Dillard

A girl sat down next to me. From what I could remember about the last few days of the college semester, I had never seen her before. She wore ripped jeans, black converse shoes, a tank top and an opened button-up blue and white plaid shirt with a matching knitted beanie covering short brown hair. A bright turquoise stone hung around her neck. Her neck was curved down to better see the book she was reading. She could be lesbian, though an attractive lesbian, I thought to myself as I continued to survey the curve of her neck and her brown hair poking out from the bottom of the hat. Or bi, or maybe even straight. Either way, as soon as she looked up and I saw her luminescent blue irises catch the light of the sun, I wanted to say something to her. She had glanced up for only a second, perhaps sensing me staring, so I of 19

course had looked away. But it was only for a second and then she was once again engrossed in her book. The second time I looked at her I noticed that she had drawn nine black lines on her hand in pen. They were all lined up in a row, each the length of a fingernail, next to the spot where the thumb becomes the hand. “What do the lines mean?” I heard myself ask, my voice louder than I had intended. As if slightly jolted she looked up at me in surprise. Her lips parted slowly and quietly she replied, “It’s every bad thought I’ve had today.” For a few seconds we were both quiet, just staring at each other, realizing we were both complete strangers who were both realizing one of us had divulged into something personal and the other had given something personal away. It was a moment of connection, and I would be a fool if I didn’t somehow try to hold that connection and make it last. “You’ve had nine bad thoughts today?” She nodded, her eyes seeming to survey every inch of my face, passing over

my eyes quickly and then resting delicately on my mouth. “So, when you have a bad thought, you draw a black line on your hand?” “Or arm,” she answered. “Or wrist. It doesn’t really matter as long as it’s where I can see it.” “Wouldn’t you want to forget about the thought? Instead of having to see a reminder of it?” She shook her head, her eyes closing for a split-second. When she reopened them she focused them back on me, as intently as they had been focused on her book a minute earlier. “It’s not a reminder. I’m going to have bad thoughts. They’re just going to pop up and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. But if I see those black lines I will consciously tell myself not to have a bad thought—to fight against it. Because who wants a whole bunch of black lines on their hands, wrists, and arms?” I know she meant it as a rhetorical question, but I answered anyway. “I wouldn’t.” We fell into silence again and now she was staring down at the nine lines

on her hand. “Do you keep them there all day?” “When I go to bed at night I scrub them all off with hot water and soap. Then I take a blue whiteboard marker and write on my mirror all of the bad thoughts I had from the day, if I can remember them all, except I write them as

positive thoughts...so basically they’re opposites. Then when I wake up in the morning and look in the mirror I have a list of positive thoughts looking back at me.” The explanation seemed so simple to her, yet inside I felt as if I had just experienced a new lesson on positive thinking, self-help, and meditation. How had she learned this practice? Had she read about it somewhere? “Does it help?” I ask. “It’s the first day I’m doing it,” she replied. “So we’ll see.” “What’s your name?” I asked, shyly. “It’s Rose,” she replied. I found myself staring at her tenderly pink lips, like petals. Before I could tell her my name the door to her right opened and a stream of students began to pour out, like a school of fish suddenly breaking free from a fishing net, and she and I were just two

pieces of coral watching them swim by as we stayed stationary. “That’s my next class,” she said quietly. And the beautiful piece of coral next to me folded her book and got to her feet. She turned to look at me, those blue eyes still glistening, and she gave a small smile. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll have less black lines.” I’m not sure why I didn’t reply. I’m not sure why I didn’t at least say good luck with your black lines and mirror. Instead I just sat there and watched as she turned and glided into the classroom the school of fish had just escaped from. As she disappeared into the classroom I found myself thinking, I hope her mirror tells her that she’s beautiful. Because she is, black lines and all.

It Takes a Village by Mateo Hurtado Statz

The boy seemed impossible enough. I nearly expected him to disappear between blinks, gone before his presence fully sunk in. Yet he still stood in my living room, more of his ivory skin shining through the Louisiana mud my wife was toweling off him. “How long do we have to hold him?” Myrna asked the sheriff, wrapping the towel around the boy’s naked form. “Just ‘til the shelter gets repaired, ma’am.” Sheriff Hanks replied, strutting over to the boy. His meaty finger slid across a neat, pink scar, twisting its way from the boy’s left cheek to his right ankle. The boy appeared unfazed, his green eyes peeping out from under a mess of light brown hair. “And you say you found him like this?” Sheriff asked.  “Sittin’ in the lake like nobody’s business, yes sir.”  Satisfied, he nodded his goodbye and rode back to the station. As good 24

friends as we were, I hadn’t fully relaxed when Hanks left; even over supper I had a pit in my stomach. “He’s six years old, Martin,” Myrna said, also eyeing the boy at our sofa. “Poor kid’s likely in shock, missing his parents and scared to death.” “He’s too quiet. Hasn’t said a word in two hours. Something’s off.” I drained my coffee mug, the sharp clack of ceramic signaling the end of the matter. “He’ll get over it, Marty.”

He’ll get over it, he’ll get over it. This boy had better offer us something better than an unearthly presence and quickly averted glares. *** “Myrna, I’m headed out for one last round. If I’m not back by sundown start a pot of coffee for me, would ya?” “Sure thing, suga’. You better be wearing those thermals from Winnie, she spent good money on ‘em.” “I told you, woman, your damn sister’s gifts don’t mean nothing to me;

‘sides, it ain’t cold outside.” “Don’t you swear under this roof, Martin Schmidt! And don’t you start about my sister; she’s a good woman with plenty of spirit, something you could use a bit of.” “Whatever you say, dear,” I replied, easing myself up from my chair with a grunt of effort. Why I’m still hunting at this age is beyond me. Leela, the retriever, is already at my side, tongue lolling out of the side of her head as if trudging through ice-cold water after nearly nonexistent waterfowl is the greatest experience of her life. I give her a frown before snatching my rifle and ammo. We step outside, Leela barking immediately. I almost yell at her before I see what she sees – the boy we’ve been watching, standing at the bottom of the steps. “Well?” I snap, harsher than needed. He continues to peer up at us, silent as ever. Ignoring him, I walk past the boy to the lake’s edge. The rich, navy blue rolls out for almost a mile, contained only by pebbled shores and a thicket of oaks just left the opposite bank. The gray

sky has muted the surface, free of glitters and bringing out the colder, more solemn side of the lake. A second set of feet sloshing in the water behind me caught my ear. I expect to see Neighbor Ernest trying to sneak up on me, but it’s that darn kid again. “Hey! Boy!” He’s still wading towards us, armed against the cold with faded shorts and a knitted sweater. What was he thinking? “Get your ass back inside! You’ll catch cold and then be even less of a help!” If he heard me, he gave no sign. By the time he came alongside me I had given up trying to deter him. “Listen sonny, we’re here on business. So don’t distract me, don’t ask questions, and if you’re doing to freeze yourself, just keep it down. The ducks don’t like thrashing.” I glare at Leela, who busied herself with intimidating a particularly threatening leaf. “Never stopped this idiot, of course.” Turning back to my work, I set about pushing the shells into the barrel of my gun. The first one I managed; the second slipped from my grasp, arthritis

striking once again. “Shi—” The boy caught the shell in his hands. He gave me a quick glance, reached up, and pushed it into the barrel. I stare a minute, unsure how to respond. “Thank you,” I said, pointing the shotgun at the sky. “I had a full pack, but alright.” *** “You’re headed out again?” “Myrna, the boy’s picked up a lot since he came here. Where the ducks go, when they’re active. We’ve shot more this month than in summertime.” I left out how much it relieved my joints to have Luca, as we’ve took to calling the boy, load the gun for a change, and carry the ducks back to the house. “He hasn’t been with you all morning, has he?” Myrna looks up from her knitting. “He wasn’t nosing around with you? I haven’t seen him since breakfast. I had thought you had him.” He isn’t by the door waiting for me, nor in his room. “Boy?” we call out. Still nothing. I head outside, hearing Myrna follow suit behind me. We make our way past our tobacco patch and just by the lakefront, slate gray fog bringing out the green of the dying

grass. “Time to go, kiddo, we’ve got—” “Martin.” Myrna grabs my arm, silencing me and pointing to the water’s edge. “Look.” He’s knee-deep in the murky lake. Reaching in a pale hand he withdrew it almost immediately, a medium-sized perch wriggling limply like a muscled diamond, dull silver against the water. Adding the fish to a pile nestled in the crook of his arm, he returned to work, pulling them up as if they were fallen apples in harvest. We’ve live here forty years, and never once have there been any fish. *** “That boy’s got a lot of people talkin’, Mart.” “Not as much as they’ll talk,” I said, laying down my straight flush, “when I’ve whooped your ass five games in a row.” Poker night with Ernest had turned into Ernest- watching-Luca night, with me trying to get my neighbor betting instead of yapping. “Something’s off about him, Martin. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t read or

write – he doesn’t do anything like a normal kid should.” I shuffled the deck, nodding outside. “He plays outside, just like your grandchildren.” Right now, the boy was out in the driving wind and rain, bounding through the yard. Leela was running after him with her tail wagging and barks resounding merrily. Myrna sat not too far by, huddled under a shawl as she watched them at their fun. Ernest narrowed his eyes. “Normal kids smile when they play, Martin; they don’t look like they just got out of a funeral. They laugh and scream, they show you stuff they dug in the mud, they go to school—” “School’s out for the winter, Ernest, and Myrna reads to him from time to time. ‘Sides, he’s only gonna be here a little bit, might as well have him help around the shack, right?” “I wouldn’t call that helping, Martin. The boy was in my yard yesterday, peeling the branding off my cows.” My eyes flash up at him, a few cards flutter out of the mid-shuffled deck. “Branding?” “I meant to tell you but I wasn’t sure you’d believe it.” He reaches into his

faded military coat (the same one we wore back in the day) and gently withdraws a white, drooping film. Splayed on the table I see its raised skin, much like a blister but long, wide, and shaped like a large “E” and “R” intersecting in the familiar sign on Ernest’s farm. I ran a hand over it, in awe. The brand is both parts beautiful and horrifying, like a wedding veil in a warzone. It’s so mesmerizing I hardly register Ernest telling me what happened, how he chased a boy from his yard and it bee lined towards my house, how the livid, spiraled scar stood out in the moonlight as he ran. “I’m going to have to rebrand ‘bout half the cows now. That boy set me back a whole week, I was gonna start—” The door bangs open, cutting conversation short when a frantic Myrna crashes in. “Cottonmouths! One got Leela, can’t find Luca!” I bolt from my seat, grabbing the shotgun as I sprint outside into pouring rain. I hadn’t bothered pulling my grey hair into its familiar ponytail and I already feel my flannel soaking in water, but I don’t care. “Luca!” A hiss at my left

makes me turn and blow the snake’s head off with a single shot. I see about ten of them by the lakefront, coils of black aggression fighting amongst each other with white maws flaring angrily. Ernest has already made himself useful and is helping Myrna pull Leela inside; the dog should live but the scare has stiffened her up, blood tickling from the pinpricks. I fire a shot into the tangle of vermin, keeping my ground as I use the stock of the gun to steer them towards the water. I haven’t seen Luca yet, but if I can get these snakes out there’s a better chance he won’t get bit. Most have heard or felt the shotgun’s fire and slither away; one bastard notices before I do my mistake in not throwing on boots. When the fangs pierce my foot, I can’t even scream. The sound lodges in my throat, liquid fire already swelling my skin with a painful burst. I stagger back as it strikes once more, sending another bought of poison into my calf. Finally, my lungs squeeze out a howl of pain. My leg throbs and quivers uncontrollable, the gun lying uselessly by my feet.

I ease myself up, the pain clouding my vision in already murky weather. The rain hasn’t let up, and I almost call out to Myrna when I see the boy walking towards me. “L-Luca?” The noise is feeble in my mouth and for once I feel my age. Luca, tawny hair matted to his forehead, comes to a stop by my feet. A sharp hiss makes its way through the rain. “Luca, d-don’t go near that, it’s d-d-ddangerou—" The word isn’t finished when the snake strikes, its iconic white mouth flared at the boy’s wrist. A sweater-clad arm beats it to its bite, however, and Luca tightens his hand around the cottonmouth’s neck. He throws the limp snake away, unfazed by his feat as he turns his attention to me. He bends down, taking my swollen foot and pulling up the pant leg. A needle of pain arches my spine, and my breaths come ragged. “L- Luca, I’m okay,” I choke out, half lying. “G-get Myrna. She’s got—” A torrent of blood rushes from Luca’s mouth, the deep scarlet burning my skin as he retches it onto my leg. I scream as the hot liquid burns its way into the

four punctures in my leg and calf, and I kick him as I convulse in acute agony. After a minute my breathing slows, and once my heart stops hammering I realize I no longer feel pain. I bolt upright in the driving rain and pull back my pant leg, soaked in salty water and blackening blood. I can’t find any bite marks. The coloration is normal, my veins aren’t standing out – it’s as if the whole ordeal never happened. I turn to look at Luca, sitting comfortably at my feet. He’s gazing neutrally at me with his brilliant green eyes; even through the rain surrounding us I absently notice the bags that have formed beneath them, and the soft grey color dusting his eyes’ whites. “What are you?” I ask, knowing full well there isn’t ever going to be an answer. *** Winnie shoves past me and out of my house, leading the town into the square. I had tried to reason with her, but Winnie was immovable, a mountain of religious fervor and skewed justice. Her golden-steel eyes burn as she leads her

mob into the streets, shouts rising into the thawed spring air. I lunge after her only for Ernest to hold me back, as well as other younger, stronger men who share the same moral fear of Luca being a curse to this town. My age and the gash on my forehead from the struggle are the only things holding me back; everything else I have is straining to find him, to protect him. “Our town needs this, Martin! That boy has done enough damage to us! It’s time we set things the way they were!” I snarl at her, rage welling in my throat. “He’s done nothing but good to us! All he wants is to help, if you’d just see it!” “We’ve all seen it!” New voices are rising up, the town showing their true colors. “He’s a devil! A witch! He has no place here!” I scan the crowd for help, but no one looks back. Ernest turns his back to me, the cottonmouth incident from a week ago still unsettling our friendship. Sheriff Hanks is near the front with Winnie, not saying anything but acting as a calm, biased judge in a chaotic court, waiting to give the inevitable sentence. And then I see Clarence.

He’s torn. He’s the catalyst of today’s riot, dead from scarlet fever three days ago. He looks frantic, still shaken up to have been brought back from death so soon. He looks at me before quickly averting his eyes; he wants justice as much as they do, but choking down Luca’s blood is what saved him from eternal sleep. And he knows it. The cries hush for a minute before swelling with intensity. Luca, solemn and stoic as ever, is led out of the house, a lamb walking willingly to the slaughter. He is naked save for the old short pants he sleeps in, his spiraled scar standing out against pale skin. His gaze looks like someone had taken an inkwell and broken it behind a set of brilliant green marbles, the whites long since shifting from gray to an intense black. He isn’t halfway down the door when the first stone hits. He takes each rock solemnly, welts rising up on his skin. His temple splits, the blood running free in rivulets down his face. Jeers ring out in the air, rage and fear roil like storm clouds. “Monster!” and “Demon!” are the clearest of them all. My eyes never leave the scene. I’m watching this partly out of duty, partly

because every crime needs a proper witness, and entirely out of respect. Some will have to tell Myrna what happens when she comes to. Someone will have to let her know her boy was brave until the very end. The stones rained on long after he hit the ground, their beat slowly replacing his heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s.

Ipo-oku by Mike Heral

I have been dead for a long time. There’s a story I’ll tell if you will listen. You will not. I know that. You will do nothing. You should not dismiss me. I am not one of your drama queens. I was not weaned on your shitty songs. I do not watch your shitty shows. That is for you. For me, there is my story.

“They are coming, Olu,” my step-father says. Sweat soaks through his brown robes. His large and blistered hands grasp my still-delicate shoulders and shove me out of the house. His strong fingers leave lasting impressions on my dehydrated skin. “Get in the shed. Hide like I taught you.” “No, father. It is too dark.”  “Don’t fight me,” he says as he pulls me by an ear towards the rickety wood hut.

“Abiku is in there!”  38

With his free arm, my old man opens the door and bends down until we are eye-to-eye. I smell tobacco and moonshine on his breath. It is always so strong that I get woozy whenever he is near. But I do not have time for delirium now, so he shakes me. His jaundiced eyes see what I cannot. “Better with him than what is coming. I will send your brother and sister as soon as it is safe. Go!” The tiny hut made of Apado wood and thin tin sighs as the rusty hinges close, trapping me inside. The deadbolt surrenders to my step-father’s will and sunlight disappears. It is now as black as my skin and as hot as the coming enemy’s blood. In the hut, I wait for a long time. Wails of protest from my village’s women, gunshots silencing strong men, and fire adding to the heat of the desert sun are my only companions. I scream for my brother to find me. When the door eventually shatters, he isn’t the one standing there, looking down at a seven-yearold boy. In Nigeria, seven is perfect for becoming a soldier.

What did you do when you were seven? Did you play games? Did you wish

you could speed up time and become a grown up? Did you get mad from all the homework? That was me too. Your game was tag. My game was finding kids who could not be soldiers. There was no “home base” for those boys. I beheaded them. Their deaths were my prize. But when I did my job poorly, when I required another soldier to step in, I was tied to an oil bean tree, doused with sugar and syrup, and made into a meal for ants. I was, thanks to the ant, a quick learner. My brotherhood of butchers taught me everything. Years ticked by with nothing but death to surround me. The way of my real family was lost. I was now a teenager, thirsting for more than just blood. And so on one October day we set down hard upon a particular group of people, just for the crime of starting a school for their children.

The smell of death makes me hungry. Burning a person smells just like burning a gazelle, if you don’t think about it too much. It’s amazing when you realize how closely the human anatomy resembles a boar. In the end, we are strips of bacon and ham. These are my thoughts as I push through heavy black

smoke into the hut of yet another village vanishing under gunpowder and steel. A man sweeps at me just as I enter. My scythe blocks his machete. There is determination behind his blows. He is fighting like the man who has something he does not want to lose. This puts him at a disadvantage. He is fighting for someone else’s life. I am fighting only for mine. I wait him out, knowing he will tire. It’s like my training sessions, full of blocks and parries. I throw obstacles in his way, knocking over a crate of chickens he foolishly brought inside when he heard us coming. The chickens distract him, but not me. He is unfocused and undisciplined. I am determined. He cannot resist the tiredness creeping in. When a man starts seeing his mortality—who tastes what he is losing—he grows desperate. He lunges, opening himself up to attack. He sweeps with his steel like a blind man instead of mastering it like a warrior. He uses it as a lance. It is not a lance. A roundhouse from him presents the chance to spring my trap. The scythe flies away, sliding across the floor, well out of my reach. Exaggerating the blow, my torso twists away from him, leaving me momentarily defenseless. My foe

roars in delight and steps in with what he thinks is a finishing blow. His eagerness blinds him to the point. He doesn’t see I’ve traded my cumbersome scythe for a sword. With blood gushing from his surprised mouth, the life from his impenetrable brown eyes fades away. His life is mine. But what is that saying about fate and women? In my elation, I forget that he was hiding something. Distracted, I hastily line my robes with his possessions. My supply run halts. I hear a person, as faint as a rabbit taking the long way through soft grass. Those without my training would pass by without even knowing it is there. “Who is there?” I say. Only the wind answers. This rabbit has tricks. “You better not make me come get you.” The sound of a muffled sob sputters like a tap that cannot be closed fully. So I walk around the hut, hoping to find the drip at its closest drop, but the environment is too crowded. I cannot find it. “Do you hear me? You are making me angry.” About a meter away, the floor lifts. Straw and dust fly. An underfed young woman climbs out. She’s wearing white pajamas, fabric loosely hanging off her

shoulders and riddled with soot. Even without adequate food, her rubbery black hair is braided tightly and interwoven with beads. A sea of zits pile up on cheeks, leaving her nose to look like an island rising out of the water. She’s probably 12 years old. I’ve killed scores just like her. She will be just another, but then, just as quickly as I draw up her sentence, something shifts. The stink of her anguish arouses a different beast. “Come here,” I say. She shakes her head, leaving her tear tracks to trace wobbly streaks of grey across her black skin. “Girl, I said ‘come here.’” She stays stuck to her spot on the floor. In fury, I spring upon her. I rip her gown off and marvel at her body. Her tits are just beginning to poke through. They remind me of my mother.

Are you drifting? Are you tired of my story already? Maybe Netflix is streaming something new? You should go check. I will wait. Nigeria always waits. When you return, I will tell you a little about my mother.

My mother, she is a Titan. She is always singing. Folding her clothes,

tucking us in, or cleaning our shit, it does not matter. “Baba wa yio pada lori iyẹ ti àdaba.” Some say that you sing when you are happy. That is not true. My mother is never happy. It is impossible to be happy when you are forgotten. “Mother, where is father?” Her long face grows longer as she bargains with herself how to answer me best. Finally, she sets her towel down and squats so low that I can feel her large, sorrow- filled eyes penetrating into mine. I do not know how, but all the worry in her face disappears. “I am not singing about your earthly father, Oluwaseyi. I am praising the one who never leaves you.”

Now I have your attention. You want to ask me about God. You want to know if there is more than this dirt on which we stumble. I do not know. I have never met any spirit. Maybe I’ve traveled to different worlds. There is a memory of a place I don’t want to think about, so I block it out. Perhaps I can’t answer because it’s a story that doesn’t belong to me. Perhaps I am not allowed to see beyond what I’ve done, and what I must make you see.

I am lying in prairie grass, watching the sun rising high in my sky. But something is wrong. I cannot feel the tiny rocks in the dirt poking at my skin. I cannot sense the heat from the sun that used to tell me when to rise. I am scared.

That isn’t right. I must think harder about where I left you. It was with my lover, wasn’t it? You know, she lived after I raped her. Perhaps I was not fully the killer I imagined myself to be. Either way, I hoped my gang would move on like it always did after a massacre. I told her she could pick up the pieces in peace. But then my gang stayed. So I stayed.

“You must be quiet, Aniema,” I say. “It hurts too much,” Aniema says. She is on our bed. Her legs are spread and bent at the knee. She scrunches her face and tries to stifle her scream. It partially works, only some of it escapes. Aniema is half-delirious from the contractions. They are coming quickly now.

I didn’t know about creating a life when I first saw her. I certainly don’t know what to do now. All I know is we must not be found. It was hard to keep her hidden. My brothers almost found her trapdoor so many times. But I’m too quick for them. If only my certainty didn’t dull my sense, but then who would be here to talk to you? Aniema bites through her arm, trying to use it to muffle misery. Her sweat creates a beautiful sheen on moonless skin. But the longer she labors, the more ashen it turns. Before long, her grunts turn into cries of anguish. My girl stradles three worlds and waits for the gods to decide where she belongs. For the first time, I pray. Then, a deep spasm shakes me. It shakes her too; so hard that the bed moves despite our weight pressing it down. Then her eyes close, and she draws still. “You will not die until I have my son.” I say. Her eyes flutter back open. Aniema looks past me. “... is here.” I thought she said “our son.” I wish she did. I will always wish she just said it. “Olu, what is this?”

I turn and see a pack of men crowding at the door. The pock-marked, dulleyed face of the Man in Charge extends his arms down to the bed. His hands ruffle through bloody sheets, until he scoops up my son. My boy struggles inside some kind of fluid- filled sack. He looks horrible. I’m not sure that he is even human inside all that liquid. My thoughts stray. I wonder if I chose poorly when I picked Aniema. The Man in Charge pulls out a pocket knife and slips it quietly into the sack. He jerks his hand down and fluid falls to the floor. My son’s lungs fill with air. His cries fill the room. I am stunned by the fury from such a little man. My leader looks at the life dangling from his hand. He smiles as he watches the blood pool in my baby’s down- turned head. “Thank you for your gift, Olu.”  “He is not yours.”  The Man in Charge smiles again. It is full of white teeth. It is never good when he smiles. “Warriors must be fed. You know this.”  I’m thrown back to my childhood home. My step-father must be

counseling me for I am woozy once again.  “We march tomorrow. It is a long way. This...” he says as he shakes my boy, “Is how we get there.”  A rage rises like I’ve never felt, and I attack. Like Aniema’s father just a year before, I don’t feel death sliding through me. I only see my child being carried out of the room like a hogtied piglet. I only hear the leader telling the others to patch up my girl so that she can deliver more food for them. Stumbling out of the house with my insides trailing behind like fishing line, I fall face first into the high grass.

What happened to me will not bother you today. But tyrants do not run out of lands to conquer. One day, a generation will fall to them. I will be here, watching.

Miss Nowhere by Shawn D. Lard

All you see is the hands. They're in a sink full of soapy water and dishes. The woman scrubs, but she lets the moment take her and soon the scrubbing slows before ceasing altogether. The waves she has made stop their crashing and instead turn to a peaceful reflection of herself. She looks down at the image that lies above all the glasses and plates with dinner stuff on them.  "Amanda."  The voice startles her. Her heart is beating in her ears.  "Oh, I'm sorry dear." "You scared the devil out of me," the woman says.  The lady at the door lets a sly smile creep into her face.  "Well, the day’s not a complete waste then," she says. "There's someone here to see you. Go ahead and get dried up and head into the chapel. I'll finish up with the dishes."  49

A look of confusion takes over the woman's features. She hasn't the faintest clue who would come calling for her, here of all places. Nonetheless she dries her hands and lets the sister scooch her from the sink and continue where she left off. As she walks out of the kitchen into the chapel she can hear the sister singing a hymn under her breath. Silent Night.  It's ten days after Christmas, but who is she kidding? Mary's always humming something here or there.  She doesn't quite see him at first when she's in the chapel. The door to the kitchen swings in then out. Once it finds its resting place, that's when she sees him, and that's when the moment of dread she knew would eventually find her, makes its way to her heart and explodes outside of every pore in her body.  The man smiles a yellow stained toothy grin.  But he does not say a word.  Slowly, shakily, her legs take her to the man. The closer she gets to him, the more she can smell the nicotine emanating from somewhere deep, somewhere dark in him.

"Have a seat." His words sound like they've come from a cellar that's been long shut for a hundred years. She continues to stand.  "Come on, I don't bite, you know I would never hurt you." She stands next to him, her body facing the front, facing the cross of the Heavenly Father.  "Sit." The word comes out so low and powerful that it feels as if she's propelled with the loud boom of a bass. Wearily, she descends. The man takes a cigarette out, lights, and crosses his legs.  "It's been too long," he says.  "Could've been longer," the woman answers in response. "We've missed you back at headquarters. When do you plan on leaving...what is it you have going on here?" He chokes back a laugh. "How ironic it is you become a pioneer for the Lord after what you've done."  "That's the beauty of God. You ask for repentance, he forgives. I've changed." "And what you're going to do." She turns on him then. She looks into his empty dark eyes that lead to his

soulless interior.  "I'm never going back, understand that", she whispers. "You'd have to kill me before I’d let you drag me back into that hell." The man's cigarette burns out. He drops it to the floor and tramples it under a Donald Piner covered foot. He pulls out his Marlboro pack and simply lights another one.  "As I said before, we would never dream of hurting you. You're our most valuable asset. There's nothing you could do that would cause us to give up on you." Everything about him seems to be made of yellow and grime. Besides his teeth a mustard stain lies two inches away from the right side of his collar. The tip of his fingernails look like they've clawed through an outbreak of jaundice. His eyes, dark as they are, look as if they're swimming through a pool of piss. The rest of his suit, the woman notices, seems as if it hasn't been cleaned or pressed since its purchase decades before. A plate crashing in the other room draws her out of her reflection. The man pulls out his cellular. On it the woman can see he has 5 unread text messages from a collection of unidentifiable numbers.

He scrolls right and places his thumb on the sensor.  "No, we would never harm you. Your friends on the other hand..." A series of pictures pop up on his screen. The man scrolls up and clicks the first. In it, Sister Anna lies bloodied in the grass of the little park owned by the church. An open bullet wound leads an entry way into the back of her scalp. The man scrolls sideways to the next picture. Sister June lies underneath splotched covers in her bed. Aside from the cherry color in the blanket, you can hardly tell the difference between slumber and death.  "No." The word is as soft as the wind. It barely escapes her mouth. "Stop." He scrolls to the next. Mother Grace lies in a pew with her hands crossed over a bullet wound leading to her heart.  The woman turns swiftly and indeed there is Grace four pews behind, lips apart, eyes grey and wide looking at the dome structured ceiling. She doesn't say a word. There's also a henchman by the far doors of the chapel that the woman had not noticed moments before. He waits patiently, clad in a black suit and rubber gloves with his hands encased in one another.

The woman hears another swipe and she already knows without looking. The crash from earlier. When she turns to the phone Sister Mary lies facedown in a sink of dark red. Water rushes over her head and gown from the pouring sink. The man closes down his phone and reinserts it back into his pocket. "How long's it been, two years? We've known where you were this whole time you know. We've just been waiting. Do you know what we've been waiting on?" The woman is speechless. "We've been waiting on you. We've been waiting for you to build relationships. Strong, tightly wound and knitted relationships, so we could show you that whenever we wanted, we could come in and cut them at the seams without batting an eye." The man leans back in the pew and let's his head fall back into the cold wooden lining of his chair. He looks over to her like that, hair suspended in midair, cigarette in mouth, with a slight smile. The woman is still on her knees raised above her seat clenching the back part of it so tight that the blood rushes to the palms of her hands. "I know, I know, you probably said you would never allow yourself to get close to anyone because you knew we would come and we would hurt them. But somewhere down the line you

fooled yourself into thinking maybe everything's alright. Maybe I've lost them. Maybe I've finally, lost them. But even while you were saying these words you knew you were just bullshitting yourself, didn't you? You knew we were out there, you knew we were waiting, and you knew we were coming for you." The woman is shaking now. This time it's in her whole body. The man stands up and buttons his light, grey blue sport coat. He takes his cigarette and crushes the end between his fingers and lets it drop next to her.â&#x20AC;¨ "You shouldn't have left. If you had just stayed where you belonged, all of your nun friends would still be alive. You are our tool. Tools do not think for themselves." He bends down to whisper to her ear. "They do not do anything, but work at the behest of their master and then they are put away until their use is further needed another day. We own you. The sooner you get that through your skull, the less people that weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll have to kill to make you understand." He stands upright once more. "Anyways, lesson learned right? No harm no foul." He flashes his yellow smile in her direction before leaving. On his way out the doors, he stops and turns.

"Oh, and don't forget you still have a job to do? We expect you'll see to it forthright and quickly. We'll be in touch. Ciao." He walks out. Under his breath the woman can hear him humming Silent Night. The door shuts behind him. The woman doesn't know if she's still breathing. It seems like someone has muted her senses. No feeling. No smell. The only thing she has is the sound of his humming reverberating in the base of her cerebral. It keeps playing as her vision clouds to red, slowly. Slowly. Like a rocket she shoots up. She runs through the chapel doors. Past Mary in the sink. Through the doors outside and into the cottage. The woman races past the room where June's body rests. Finally, she makes it to her room. She throws herself on the floor and reaches under the bed. She feels for it under the mattress. It's there. She pulls the duffel bag out of the lining she had stitched underneath. When she unzips it she sees it still contains the different parts that make up the M25. The woman throws the bag over her shoulder, and barefoot she runs back out of the cottage and climbs the ladder attached to the far right of the church. She can still hear his voice in her head, humming Mary's song. She'll make sure to

blast his voice box right out of his throat. It only takes her seconds to assemble the gun after removing it from the bag. There he is. One of his goons opens the door for him. The rest pile inside. She leaves the scope in the bag; she never had a use for it. The wind picks up then, enough to where it begs to uproot whole trees and fling them into the atmosphere. The car starts up. The woman licks her lips. She lifts the assembled weapon and closes one eye. “Steady your breathing. Just so. Just like they taught you, not too much but...yeah, right there. Your heart, get it to beat just right.” They're getting away. The car pulls in reverse, clicks and starts to advance forward.  They're not going anywhere. Control. It's all about control. “Control your breathing, control your heart. Control your gun. Take aim.”  The BMW begins to advance forward before something seems to descend on the hood from the sky. Everyone inside thinks it's just a twig from one of the many trees surrounding the church. But little twigs don't make dents on the front of your car like this one.

The vehicle bursts into flames. In seconds the passengers drown in a sea of unforgivable fire. One door is kicked open. The passenger. The man flies out of the car his legs and his arms swallowed by flame. He relinquishes himself of his blazer and dives into the dirt rolling and rolling. Rolling until finally all the flames have turned to massive black burn marks covering the whole of his body. The man breathes a sigh of relief and watches the fire consume the car and the rest of his henchmen inside. It hurts, like a bitch, it stings, but the man is able to crawl his way to his jacket. He tosses more dirt on top of it until the flames subside. Clumsily he reaches into the coat and takes out his Marlboro pack and his lighter. Minutes pass as he tries to take his burned fingers and insert a cigarette in his mouth. After five attempts with five different cigarettes he grips the pack and grasps one awkwardly with his lips. His breathing is still shallow, wearied.â&#x20AC;¨ He fumbles around in the dust until he finds his lighter once more. It's too painful. Too painful. He tosses the lighter and moves to the car still engulfed in the flame. He gets a couple licks in the face before he's able to draw the fire into

the stick. He crawls away from the vehicle and lands on his back. He takes a slow drag and lets it out while looking at the sun. Then he looks at an angle, back to the church, atop the building, where he sees her. He feels something land on his head. When he pulls his hand back from where the object has hit him it's covered in blood. "Oh," he says. His eyes roll into his head. The cigarette balances itself on the corner of his mouth burning, burning. The world goes black. She lowers the gun and stares for a while. They'll be here soon. Cops, the news, people. Now is the time to make a run for it. She begins to disable the weapon, but a clapping sound starts up behind her. When she turns there's a figure standing five feet in front of her bringing together his hands continuously in a congratulatory rhythm. Afterwards, he begins adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He is in a newly bought grey blue suit. He smiles his glossy smile and tilts his head to observe her.â&#x20AC;¨ "Now that we've got that out our system, let's say we get to work."

Georgina by April Navarro

Georgina is a peculiar little girl. She is very smart but acts unfurnished. When her mother smokes she pretends not to know that it’s bad for her. Her eyes are deep blue, colored like the ocean and big like the moon. Her hair is black and very straight, but she enjoys the moments when her mom curls her hair. Only in these moments does she feel that her mother loves her. Georgina woke up Friday morning to a funky smell, she had smelled it before but she didn’t know where it came from. She could hear the waves splashing onto the water and the sea eagles chirping away. Her mother walked in the room with a cigarette in her finger and asked her to get dressed then walked out. “GEORGINA, WAKE UP! Get dressed and hurry up.” Georgina looked in the mirror as she stood up and remembered that she was going to see father that day. She remembered because she was counting the 60

days with crayon marks on the wall. J.T. had told her that he would be there in five days and she already knew how to count to five. Every day was a different color; Monday was blue, Tuesday was yellow, Wednesday was orange, Thursday was purple and finally Friday was pink. Georgina only knew these five days because time with J.T. was so magical that she forgot to count the days with him. During breakfast she could still smell that awful scent. It smelled like something was burning and like the chemicals that her grandmother used to clean the house. She asked her mother if she could have some pancakes and milk but Zoe told her that there wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t any milk or pancake mix. This wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t unusual. Georgina walked to the refrigerator to grab one of the only two things that were in there: a soda can and a yogurt, so she grabbed the yogurt. She began to drink the yogurt while staring at her mother cook something that was emitting a lot of smoke. She realized that it was her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s food that smelled funny. She saw her mom grab a needle like the ones that doctors use to poke you and she put her food in there. It was like apple juice. Then she poked her arm and sat down at the table. Georgina asked her mother if she could have some of her food too, and Zoe

responded with a laugh. Georgina did not understand why she was laughing since she was hungry too. Zoe ordered Georgina to go look for her shoes and wait for her father in the front porch. As Georgina walked away she could see her mother poking herself again and laughing. Georgina came back to the kitchen and found her mother sleeping on the floor. She said, “I love you mom, I’ll be outside waiting for daddy. Have a nice nap.” Georgina walked to the couch and grabbed a blanket to cover her mother, then she walked to the porch and sat down. She loved smelling the salty ocean and looking at the waves hit the water. J.T. pulled over.  “Georgina, honey, what are you doing outside?”  “Mommy told me to wait here for you, daddy,” Georgina replied with a grind in her face.  “Where is mommy, darling?”  “She’s taking a nap in the kitchen after she had apple juice with her needle” “What?” asked J.T. as he ran into the house.

Georgina walked in after him and saw him shaking mommy in the floor. She said, “Daddy, you’re going to wake her up, stop.” J.T. looked over at Georgina and began to cry. “Daddy, why are you crying?’” “Honey, wait for me outside.” As he grabbed his phone Georgina was confused that J.T. was so upset.  A while later the police was there with the ambulance. Georgina saw them take her mommy with a blanket covering her whole body so that she wasn’t cold.

Echidna I by Katherine Guevara

I never think much of the sea, She says,

For the sea never thinks much of me But the sea is not a singular being  The sea cannot have a thought  I tell her as such—  She doesn't listen to me, she never does

She's like the wind in that way:  She whistles through and wraps around me and whispers her thoughts—  But when I go to tell her mine, she's off and gone again  She tells me she can't be tied down  I know it’s a lie  65

I've seen the marks on her wrists  She'll dance on the sea with the wind in her hair and I want so badly to believe her  But I've seen the marks on her chest where someone put a blade and shoved through and I can see the way bloated hands reach up to grasp at her ankles  She says she doesn't mind  She can't feel the rotted fingers on her flesh or the ropes around her wrists or the knife pushed through her chest when she's dancing on the waves

The sun is setting and the sky is red  She asks me to dance and there is fire in her voice—  I take one look at the writhing rot beneath the waves and decline She ignores me, and leaves me on the shore

The night is both dangerous and safe, but only if you let it  If you stay still, just a speck among the sand, just a mirror to the stars above you, you can hide inside yourself and pretend you don't exist  She's not hiding like I am  She's still dancing  The hands are up to her calves and the knife is up to the hilt and the ropes should be too Tight—  She says she's not yet tired  She says she's not afraid of moving in the night  She says  She says  She says  -she lies-  There's lightning in her eyes when she holds her hand to me  67

It's not an invitation  It's a plea for help  The moon is high on my face and the pier is hard under my feet and there's no way I can reach her in time  She's slipping under the waves but there's still wind in her hair and fire in her voice and lightning in her eyes  And when I reach for her she leaps from the water like a pike and clasps my arm and pulls me under

The moon and stars and sand are too far now  She says it's better down here  Down where no one can see you  Down where she can admit that it hurts in a way she will never be able to explain  Down where the wind has stopped and the fire has died and the lightning in her 68

eyes has been replaced with a hurt as deep as the ocean we are sinking through The rotten hands grasp at her Grasp at me  Grasp at us—

The moon is very full tonight  Her lips are soft like petals and her kisses tear like shark bites  The rot is attracted to blood in the water and drags us further down

This isn't so bad  She says with a smile

We’ll be fine She says  I know she lies  --she always lies— But I believe her anyways

The Wind by Amanda-Elizabeth Abend

May you kiss the wind Then turn [from it], Certain that it will love you back.â&#x20AC;¨ [And] As you turn from the wind, may you kiss,â&#x20AC;¨ certain that you will be loved [back] / kissed [back] [And] May you kiss the wind certain that it will love you (even) as you turn from it. (Never) turn from it -70

(Be) certain that  [when] you kiss,  (He) will love you back. May you kiss,  certain that [He] will love you [back].

Questions by Nicholaus Roth

Has my pocket ever fallen in love with the sound of jingling change? Do cell phones have addictions  to being held and caressed? Do they cry when we lose them?  How will my dog ever write the Great Canine Novel  with buttholes being such a distraction?  Do the erasers in my drawer hate everything written?  Is their hatred universal,  or is it just my writing they want obliterated?  What will happen to my garden when  the moon elopes with the rain clouds?  When will we recognize the suicidal tendencies of the water beetle? 72

When itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too late?

The Defunct Dust by Nicholaus Roth

The ever evolving dunes, grains  like ice evaporating, blow  across the Ambien faces, strewn  as yellow cactus flowers, torn by lizards teeth and poisoned by the rape of the wind. This place where bones live and twitch by firelight with  amber animation flickering a history of love without honor in a steaming  cast iron pan, brown by rust  red by flame. Too hot to cool by tongue. Do sands hear screams?  Do the dead hear granules  74

scratch across once wet irises? Hallowed temples do littleâ&#x20AC;¨ to stop the desperate desertâ&#x20AC;¨ from burying the shame of hasty murder. As a ground spider that strikes and returns its shaking prize toâ&#x20AC;¨ a grave of slumber and skulls.

My Greatest Advice by Pablo J. Fonseca

One of the healthiest things you can do for yourself Is die  Do it monthly  Do it weekly  Do it daily  Die 5 times before you get to work in the morning Die 3 times during  Die 8 times in the evening  Get into a habit  Keep dying  Some of us need it more  Some of us need it less

Depends on your lifestyle  But we all need it  Die  Die  Die  And don’t forget  To  Live

The Rooster King//Coup du Soleil after Galway Kinnell by Vibiana Tran

I. a comet hangs from its ion tail, the hypnotistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s swinging watch. dead wings creak open as it soars side to side in the vacuum, shedding dust and ice. sightless, it knows not who sleeps in its wake.

II. on the brittle pyrite earth,â&#x20AC;¨ the night lasts an hour too long. 78

it dawns like tarnished silver.

III. it is the empty morning.  the sun speaks in her slumber, body barely flushed.  the rooster hasn’t crowed the words to rouse her. she hangs lifeless in the clouds, a comatose glimmer.

IV. the rooster perches  at the peak of the farmhouse, his steeply angled throne. the kingdom of the sun is his

today. he covets her crown, ignores how dim his deceit has made it.

V. he glimpses by corpse-light  a globe of gold and glass  on the ground. constellations carved into its panels  mesmerize.

VI. comets aren’t the only charms. the stars, celestial sirens, tempt him into a trance in the witchgrass.

they draw the crow from his throat, a reluctant croak, a thundering call. he awakens the queen.

VII. she leaves him alive and dyingâ&#x20AC;¨ in the dirt. she has never been afraid to kill.

Triumph by Vanessa Rodriguez

And Darwin birthed our brainchild called Man As we sifted through our mud stones, As we put names to gods, As celestial bodies became our imaginations Brought to glorious life,

And we were called mad.

We sung about freedom And we called out to love In those sweet tones, those hearty inflections That came to our precocious doors In Muse and Memory, 82

And we were called juvenile.

We flew across stars, We tasted the skies and drunk our Stars in the most adorned champagne, Glorious and forthright As the Atlantic and the Pacific Joined their encrusted hands and held us close, Embraced us to their colorful sinews,

And we were called foolish.

We roamed the seas and stars, We breathed that purging fire And swallowed that embellished air,

And salted with our genius We laughed the loudest And spat on all their graves.

Trusting by Paige Dillard

Trusting someone  isn't like opening a door  with a golden handle,  or flipping every page of  your life's book for them to read...  it is performing self-surgery  with only their words as your tools  and letting them caress your heart  while you're helpless on the operating table gazing into the eyes of possible  destruction and death,  it is sharing your reflection

in a scarred mirror of imperfectionâ&#x20AC;¨ and praying that someoneâ&#x20AC;¨ still sees you, knows you, and believes you're beautiful.

Anger by Tiyana Dorsey

It gave me a knife and told me to stab.  A stab for every pain that I had ever had  A stab for the way they had made me feel.  I would relieve my hurt very simply, it was all so clear. I did so gladly  With fury and spite  I stabbed and I stabbed  With all my damn might.  I cut and I flayed and I sliced and I snipped.  When I was done  Blood had spilled everywhere:  It just drip drip 87

dripped  Running off the table and onto the floor  Out of the doorway; from there I knew nothing more.  It ran away and I wondered why  Only when I drew back the covers did I understand:  My own leg lay there bleeding and limp  Massacred by my own hand.  Hatred and spite made  Flesh wounds that cut deep into my soul.  I picked up a needle and attempted to make myself whole

Rebuilding by John Tobias

I found this love like playing tetris

Anxiety at the falling of pieces too fast

There are still holes in there

And I stand like a brick wall now full of peep-holesâ&#x20AC;¨ and glory holesâ&#x20AC;¨ all places to let the cold in

And maybe I held you like a blanket

And maybe we played each other like Jenga pulling out bricksâ&#x20AC;¨ to restack somewhere else

A smaller structureâ&#x20AC;¨ But stronger than we are

~SPECIAL THANKS to Professor Bailey, once again~ “O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep Hath been so friendly to industrious hours; And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; Two burning months let summer overleap, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, Into thy bosom we again shall creep.” -Wordsworth “Shine you your ribbons transcendently, the flags upon your wheel chair bold spires, roll on chariot of recycled iron, cloaked in ten- years sweat: Your helm declares the rampant visage of snapback consumer’s epileptic vomit. The red, for fingers clipped in public transport gates once missed, The yellow, for jaundiced eyes, in silent alleys seeking friesThe highway quakes, it shudders, parsons roll on portably imprisoned, peer down with gaze leech-like expectant of your staggering rise: Your single step frees the nations.” -Unknown 91