D ED LI N 2015-2016
50
patent leather Mary Janes, a gray woolen sweater and hair pulled into a severe bun finished the effect of a sour, matronly governess. She went around the circle, clasping hands with every woman, looking each squarely in the eye and saying, “God be with you.” After this ritual, she took her place in the last remaining chair and brought her bible from her worn satchel and thumbed towards the back of the bible. This was not my first bible study rodeo, so I thought I knew what to expect. Sunday schools of my youth were filled with pictures of the loving, generous Jesus, feeding the poor and washing people’s feet. I was fully prepared to nod my head in a semblance of engagement as the woman read verse after verse, biding my time until it was time for the semi-related game or video or craft project that would buy me some time to chitchat with Claudia. I did not get what I expected. The woman’s hoarse, harsh voice began intoning passage after passage regarding what she called “a woman’s purpose.” Passages about being subject to one’s husband, serving him faithfully and doing his bidding flooded one by one from the text. Then came the supplementary material. She told us that the most important thing a Christian woman could ever do was to find a suitable husband, either through the mutual relations between our parents or through assistance by the elders of the church. This sounded vaguely to me like an arranged marriage, which riffed violently against the concept of marriage I was brought up to believe by the multitudinous teen romance novels dripping from
my bookshelves. She taught us about the “domestic sphere” and how a woman’s place encompassed only four locations: the church, the kitchen, the bedroom and the nursery. Outside those locations there was only sin and misery. At fifteen, I knew perfectly well what a “feminist” was—we had been warned by our male peers nearly since infancy about the evils of “the angry feminist,” and most of us had taken the idea that feminists wanted to keep men underground in cages to heart and had forsworn all ideas of feminine power. However, at that moment, I felt my gendered identity begin to transform itself. For the first time in my young life I confronted the possibility that there are people in the world who intentionally try to reduce female authority by confining them to “the church, the kitchen, the bedroom and the nursery,” and my inner strength and pride spoke up violently against the notion that a woman is only as good as the food/babies/beds she makes. In that moment, I became a feminist—not the kind that wants to keep men underground in cages for breeding purposes only, but one that honestly and with a zeal and passion that emboldened me, fought for the true and honest equality of women in a male-dominated society. I trace my identity as a feminist back to that moment, and you know what? I was certainly angry. But I wasn’t ashamed of it. And although they tried to bribe me into their strange cult with little packets of the most glorious snack of all time (Goldfish, that is), I refused—accepting those snacks was akin to selling my soul.
D ED LI N 2015-2016
N
A LI
A D
A ED
A T S
FF
Nadiyah Suleiman Leah Moore Rhonda Ross
EDITOR DESIGNER ADVISOR
ADVISOR’S NOTE
I’m extremely proud of this year’s edition of the Daedalian. Everyone on the Daedalian team has spent countless hours working on the publication process led by our fearless Editor, Nadiyah Suleiman. My thanks go out to Nadiyah and to our designer extraordinaire Leah Moore for their tireless efforts to ensure the Daedalian showcases as many TWU students as possible with the limited space available. It comes as no surprise, with over 100 submissions, that our campus is home to extremely talented and creative students who will no doubt change the world.
EDITOR’S NOTE
It is my great pleasure to present the 2016 Daedalian filled with students’ artistic and literary pieces that showcase their individual passions and talents. The Daedalian team has worked very hard to provide a modern edge to this year’s publication while simultaneously preserving the rich history and tradition that is tied with the Daedalian. We would like to extend our gratitude to our panel of professor and student judges who gave us valuable insight throughout the reviewing process. Our deepest thanks to Rhonda Ross our advisor who has guided us through the entire publication procedure and to Leah Moore the designer and mastermind behind this year’s design without whom this publication would not have been possible. Finally, thank you to my fellow students for creating wonderfully unique artistic and literary works – my sincerest appreciation and congratulations to each and every one of you.
bicycles) and stalk our doorbell like some modern Hercules chasing the Nemean Lion (albeit clad less nobly). At the first sign of confrontation, my mother would turn off all of the lights and electronics in our house and shoo me to the bathroom— the only room in the house without a window that was clear enough to peer through. There we would perch on the edge of the bathtub together and wait out their assault as if behind a fortress. Sometimes, if the visitor was less than charitable, we’d be forced to remain in our fort for half an hour or more while the unwelcome visitor searched for alternative prey at the neighbors’. For occasions like this, we kept a deck of cards under the bathroom sink, and whiled away the time until we could return to normalcy. When we were finally released from the morning’s sermon, I made the naïve assumption that, like at every other church, being released from the sermon meant donuts and freedom. Not so with the Latter Day Saints. After the sermon we were released to go to our individual Sunday schools. I was fifteen years old, and at fifteen when Claudia’s dad sent us to Sunday school I almost protested despite my tendency to be saccharinely polite to all adults (barring my parents) and especially to friends’ parents. However, when he calmly explained to me that everyone went to Sunday school, from preschoolers all the way up to the wrinkled old men who’d been attending church there since before my great grandparents were born, I resigned myself to my fate. Besides, that’d just be another hour I could spend with Claudia before I had to go
home, so it couldn’t be that bad, I thought. I was marched off to what they called “Young Women’s,” which was next door to “Women’s,” which was next to “Children’s,” (obviously). It was on the opposite side of the church from “Young Men’s” and “Men’s,” because let’s face it, being across the hallway from a men’s bible study could elicit sexual feelings and we can’t risk letting Satan into the holy place. The Young Women’s classroom, much like the name itself, was mundane, all the while vainly attempting to look cheerful. It had hospital-sterile white walls pasted in vain with a calendar displaying overly happy cartoonish figures meant to represent the seasons of the year. Hung at random intervals throughout the room were “inspirational” photographs of rocks and trees, each outlining a different Fruit of the Spirit. It was your typical bland, but altogether innocuous, Sunday school room. The room was once again lit only by natural light, this time from a single- paned window, spanning floor-to-ceiling that was so clean it literally sparkled. I bet those women spent hours scrubbing that window. I was marched in, grabbing a bible off the bookshelf to the right of the door and took my place in the ring of rickety wooden chairs in the center of the room. One by one, young women shuffled in, from ten to eighteen, each selecting a worn bible from the bookshelf and taking their seat in the circle. Finally, the leader of Young Women’s, an older woman of about 50, bustled in. She was wearing a floor length parchment colored skirt and a white frilled blouse tucked into it. Black
49
48
seemed to be completely genuine. She was absolutely, one hundred percent brainwashed. “Money is evil. God hates evil and he hates money. Give your money to the church so the council elders can bless it and use it for good. Heal your sinful soul by divesting yourself of your worldly things for the glory of God.” And they did. By the thousands. So I’m absolutely certain the church could afford electricity, but maybe they were too busy “blessing the money” to pay the electricity bill. Or maybe it was an ethical platform and they took after their equally strange Luddite-Mennonite-Amish counterparts and shunned all things modern. I don’t really know anything about the Mormon theology, so I can’t say. But I’m absolutely sure that the only possible way to make taupe uglier is to cast it solitarily in the dim, dusty, almost funereal light of unwashed windows, with the lonely, feeble early morning sunshine struggling to find its way through. The giant room was broken up only by a solitary podium in the front and center. The rest of the enormous room was filled with an impossibly large number of orderly, non-descript and identical pews. The pews marched up and down like stoic, sordid soldiers futilely dressed in their sorry Sunday best. The pews had no cushions—church-going wasn’t supposed to be a pleasant experience for my Mormon friends. By the time you were dismissed from the congregation to go to Sunday school classes your backside was supposed to smart as much as your pride did. Perhaps this is why my Mormon friends also received significantly more corporeal punishment
than I was used to, because their parents tried to tie their punishing blows to the backside back to the sour, solemn memories of the church-sore behind. But that’s another matter entirely. The sermon was unnecessarily long, and was preceded by a welcome of several minutes done by one church elder, then another, then another, and then, when we thought it was over, a junior elder. The words of fire and brimstone from the preacher reverberated through the cavernous hall like the voices of angry poltergeists. At almost perfectly synchronized intervals, clouds would pass over the sun, momentarily throwing the already dim room into crepuscular obscurity, adding to the whole effect of madness and fervor. Just when the elder would pause for effect and Claudia and I would look at each other with a “finally, it’s over!” glance, he would take a deep breath and begin again, spewing more and more repetitious and superfluous (and even a little incensory) words, words, words. You see, at my house we were taught to fear two things: the Schwann’s man and Mormons. Both, for my mother, were symbols of the end of domestic felicity, both intentionally invaded her sacred space by repeatedly ringing our doorbell, donned in their starched uniforms, demanding her undivided attention. It didn’t matter that one was peddling overpriced frozen foods and the other was peddling salvation, they were equally as polemic to her. We would be at home on the couch, minding our business and watching “The Price is Right” when they would ride up in their lemon merengue-yellow chariot (or cheap
Art
Poetry
2 Mother Vannessa Kantaphone
3 About a Girl Dolan Aytch 5 Grace Alexis Sikorski
4 Desposition Lesly Garcia
6 Confession Katie Olson
7 A Guy and His Room & Submission 1 Emily Nickles 8 Shoes Vannessa Kantaphone
17 4 hours Dolan Aytch
33 Luck Chelsea Burton
18 Unnamed (1) Carrie Adamson-Riefler
25 Fools Dolan Aytch
38 Quiet Nightmares Katie Olson
20 Trinity 1 & Trinity 6 Joy Ellis
Around the world Emily Nielsen
15 Untitled 1 Emily Nickles
19 Blackout Battles Katie Olson
16 Unnamed Sierra Taylor
22 Photo_SF Irima Tongkhuya
14 The Mat Haley Mowdy
9 Come and Walk for Me Dennis Barbee
26 Gentrification Layne Russell
47 The Mormon Place Haley Mowdy
29 Unintentional Chiasmus Amber Robertson
Prose
31 Tides Katie Olson The War Comes Home Layne Russell
24 Goodbye Sleep Julia Macke
35 faithless Layne Russell
27 bird Nicola Brady
36 Slavery by a new name Jewel Poleon
28 Gnawing Julia Macke Fatique Michele Poindexter 30 Shattered Color Justin Landers 32 Rejoice Nicola Brady 42 My Side of the Moutain Sierra Taylor Still Peace Breanna Thomson 45 Good Job Chiara Mattolini
C
O
N
37 Neuschwanstein & Salzburg Alexis Sikorski
TE
N
41 Souvenirs Kyrie DelhoussyeKendrick
TS
43 Tree of Life Alexis Sikorski 44 For Jess & For Stefan Alexis Sikorski 46 Hands Katie Olson
1
The Mormon Place 47
Haley Mowdy
Mother Vannessa Kantaphone
Although I’ve been there many times, I can’t quite describe the place to you. It’s really just a brick building with a big, white spire reaching in competitive spirit towards the heavens as if to say to the other local churches, “Look how much closer to God I am!” It is only a building, brick and mortar and obnoxious asphalt parking lot, just like every other building around town. If you asked, I really couldn’t tell you what the inside looked like, either. All of my visual memories of the place are so entrenched in emotional sludge that I’m pretty sure that even when I think I’m getting it right I’m probably just conjuring up images with the leftover backlog. The big room where the congregation met was decorated (if that’s even the right word), in the same monotonous color of taupe as I imagine cloaks the Saharan desert. The walls were beige; the carpet was a faded, threadbare brown from the shuffling steps of too many believers. The pews were a dull, worn pine that melted into taupe in the lightless gloom. Even the hymnals and the bibles were covered in broadcloth that was once perhaps a nice forest green, but was now just a slight variation of the overall dirty olive taupe that was sinister and reminded me vaguely of vomit. We were the first ones in the church that fine Sunday morn-
ing—my friend Claudia’s father was what they call a “council elder” and was a member of the governing body of the church. As such, he, and by extension I, was required to be at the church two hours before the service to greet parishioners at the door. Looking back on it now, it’s so ridiculous to me that Claudia of all people was the one to drag me to church. Monday through Friday Claudia was a ragamuffin, a dress-burner, a black eyeliner wearing anime-loving punk who spouted anarchist nonsense to whoever would listen. She was the daredevil of us, the one who would invite us over to sip and sputter her dad’s long-forgotten store of Fireball and watch rated-R movies that were traditionally forbidden to us. She was as anti-authority as they came at fifteen, and I always expected that she would be the only one of us strong enough to retain that identity against all opponents. I was clearly very wrong. On that Sunday morning, Claudia arrived to the church wearing no makeup at all, and her dyed black and red hair was tucked neatly in a bun. She wore white buckled shoes with frilly lace socks and a pale pastel yellow dress that was modestly cut and made her look like a five year old on Easter Sunday. She sported a sunshiny countenance and an attitude of gratitude. I would have called her a hypocrite, except she
46
Hands
About a Girl
Katie Olson
Dolan Aytch
My hands have a penchant for mischief. You didn’t believe me though Until you felt my fingers Ghosting along your burning skin; Tracing your aching bones. The thrills I felt from the noises you made. ‘Enjoying the moment’ in my own way. I should know better than to tease. Good girls play coyMother always said. Funny, how the word slut rolls so easily off my tongue Yet you comfort me with me with trembling hands Uneasy memory that I can’t shake off as a lie Even weeks after the fact. Stop saying that, you deserve better. Those awkward, unfiltered moments between us like school girl at confession. But how can I not believe what I’ve been called? Impulsively my hands take what I can’t enjoy. I can always silence your protests with my lips. I know friendship is only temporary for the lonely. It leaves me empty, unsatisfied. At least as I lay in my lover’s bed. I can imagine you in my hazy, liquored-filled state Sweaty fingers clutching the steering wheel On the blurry drive home.
#1 she pains me with her hopes full of delusions perspective is key when expecting conclusions clouded her sight and her thoughts confusing cares not for the knight, his actions intruding Defeat is nigh, victory seems scarce he’ll never say, she’ll never tell,so no one cares #2 I ask for dreamless sleep receiving cruel lucid dreams unrest assured rather than peace a siren born from my greed an incubus plays me on strings I’m reduced to what it brings boat’s gone, broken after hearing her sing
3
Desposition Lesly Garcia
Good Job Chiara Mattolini
44
For Jess
Grace
Alexis Sikorski
Alexis Sikorski
You were a wanderer before you came to us and as a wanderer you will return with a couple more stamps in your passport and less money in the bank with more memories, pictures, and sunspots, but less time to be spent in a stable home— but do you really need a home when you’ve got all this? I bet you’d pitch a tent and call it a castle, because that’s what it’d be to you— a wall against wind and enemies in a land where you rule, and tents move so with a tent, you could rule anywhere and all the dirt you’d step on would be the soil of your motherland and anything could be a bed and you could make the bridges as sturdy as you needed to cross them safely, because wanderlust doesn’t mean danger— although wandering into a little danger may make for a great story down the road.
Grace and heavy breathing from a run not a man’s gaze Poise and steady speaking from confidence not your praise Power and glory rising from my talent not your hand Purpose and wholesome loving from my heart not your command
For Stefan Alexis Sikorski Every traveler needs a bowl and a token and a water bottle cluttered with stickers like a boomerang returning even when left behind but a goodbye is never a goodbye when so often paths cross and people stumble upon one another for five minute talks where more is shared with meaning than six hour explanations to lovers back wherever it was you started- where was it? and you collect things and you leave things and then you’ll find you only have seven things that serve the purpose of eighteen or twenty-five, maybe thirty-three, and once you’re scattered around the faces of the earth and you’ve read more books than stars at night without pollution from the lights of cities or flickering bulbs over children who stay to learn anyway you’ll find patterns you’ll see connections and you’ll notice wherever you travel you’ll always be home
6
Confession
Tree of Life
Katie Olson
Alexis Sikorski
No one wants to clean up after other people’s crumbling skeletons. Walk away, sweep my shame under the rug. What’s there to believe? That I carry secrets in a worn denim bag covered in buttons (cries for help) just to see if anyone notices. Tomorrow night, I’ll seize the whiskey. The burn, the smell, an opportunity to let the confession blur itself away. Scream fire if you want help so badly. The grains of the memories are starting to flake off like worn paint chipping from the walls.
“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God… ” Romans 3:23 I took off swinging, hanging from rope too thin. Stranded between landings, a low hiss, threads unraveling. Losing a grip on life— dangling. Help! Threads popping, snapping, I fall. I reach out for the landing. Tree tops beneath catch me. I clutch them, bring chilled lips to bumpy bark, whispering thank you, thank you, thank you.
43
My Side of the Moutain Sierra Taylor
Still Peace Breanna Thomson
A Guy and His Room & Submission 1 Emily Nickles
Souvenirs Kyrie Delahoussye-Kendrick Amarillo manure masks the earth to scrub scars from the cratered landscape. A cycle of life, nourishing new land near the New Mexico border. But I just want to go home Pellets of pocketed precipitation burst open on the windshield, spraying clear Colorado wine across my collarbones, leaving behind a scent of mountain top. But I just want to go home Flawless, steaming, midnight mazes roll along Utah-ian dessert labeled as highways attempting to make a city. But I just want to go home Unfamiliar bark billows fog: a makeshift campfire, a melody of biter tunes, relaying a sweet ballad to Blue Mesa. It harmonizes undertones of sour bites between the deep harmonious chorus of foreign foliage and wildlife. But I just want to go home Scrawny dogs yap on the corner of my neutral neighborhood. A standard blue sunset spews across the heat- stained North Texas horizon. A rickety house greets me
Shoes Vannessa Kantaphone
with a braced grin. And I just wanted to go home.
41
drowned out. The stars mocked me with their brilliant light.
40
I vaguely recall people calling my name before I blacked out. A cool hand touched my forehead, soothing the fire that burned through my skull. I couldn’t see the face the hand belonged to. Yet the touch felt familiar. The darkness closed in before I had the chance to place the source. I refused to open my eyelids while the nurses poked and prodded at my sore body. I heard the voices of my friends and family mingle together in a collective buzz before fading out. When the room quieted down I peeked around with one eye open. The hospital room was empty save for the lone middle-aged nurse changing out my IV. “Oh, you’re awake now!” the nurse said in a rather surprised tone. She plastered a smile on her face, and added “Visiting hours are over, but I’ll be sure to let your family and friends know that you’ll be able to receive them tomorrow. They’ve been very worried about you.” I wanted to retort with a typical “no shit” response, but for once I held my tongue. None of them would ever believe what had happened to me. In all fairness, I found it difficult to believe myself. I’ve always prided myself on being able to base all my beliefs on empirical scientific evidence. I suppose,
“Please just tell me who she was,” I snapped, ready to throw myself from the bed. I wasn’t sure why I felt so anxious, but I had a feeling that I couldn’t shrug off. “I’m not really sure to tell you the truth. When the paramedics came she was kneeling beside you with one of her hands on your forehead and the other hand holding yours. You grew quite belligerent when they put you on the stretcher and they told her she couldn’t accompany you. The paramedic on duty thought you would break her hand; you were squeezing it so hard. She managed to soothe you long enough to at least convince you to let go of her. You fell unconscious on the way to the ER.” I couldn’t process what I was hearing. Surely it was someone I knew? As I said before, I never put any merit into anything less than scientific. Maybe it was my mind simply playing cruel tricks on me. The nurse turned to leave, paused mid step and glanced at me. “The paramedic asked around. No one seemed to know who she was, but the paramedic said she was quite pretty. She had reddish hair and blue eyes. She seemed very worried about you. Is she maybe a friend of yours?”
I could brush it off to my typical drunk antics.
I nodded. I couldn’t bring myself to reply, “She was.”
Or admit the impossible. That I might have been hallucinating and grieving for a short lived presence in my life that I had, like everyone else, taken for granted.
I listened to the nurse’s footsteps fade down the hallway before I reached for my phone. I looked at my call log with weary eyes and half dreading what I’d find.
“The driver was speeding so your hospital bill is covered at least. They wanted to avoid you pressing charges,” the nurse continued in a monotone ramble. “That girl told the paramedic you always seemed to have a death wish-“
The last call was incoming, with the name misspelled as I had left it.
I cut the woman off in an instant. “What girl?!” The nurse blinked and then smiled again. “Oh, of course you probably won’t remember. You did suffer quite a concussion.”
I leaned my aching head back into the pillow. I counted my breaths to curve the anxiety and stared into the ceiling. I wanted more than anything to stare into that blanket of stars again. I wanted to feel that cool hand touch my forehead once more… We do often forget, nightmares are dreams too.
Come and Walk for Me 9
Dennis Barbee It was cold. Not a brutal face-slapping, bone-jarring cold, but still chilly and unnerving. The kind of cold that makes you shiver and bring a jacket. I could see my breath as I walked and my skin seemed to burn from the cold. Just a few short hours ago, it had been warm. I cursed myself for not checking the weather report before leaving. I had already been walking for a few miles on this lonely, godforsaken road, and had fallen into a trance of sorts. My mind had been wandering so I hadn’t noticed the day fade into dusk. The ground beneath my feet crunched and crackled as I walked, and my pants would make the same swooshing noise in response. Somehow between these two noises, as I moved one foot in front of the other in a steady cadence, my mind became mesmerized. The breeze picked up. It blew the grass back and forth on the side of the road in a slow, steady rhythm before abruptly ending at the tree line. It seemed to dance to the beat of my walk in a crazy conga line that further held my mind--. like I’d stepped into a crazy dance scene in a Disney jungle movie. No cars had passed in a long while but I was grateful for this. I needed the time to process. The day had been long, and filled with fights at home, followed by fights at the office. I had given up at some point and decided to go for a drive. I had pulled off onto a side road, parked my car and started to walk. It seemed like the thing to do. It seemed like it would give me peace... Now my feet hurt. As I walked, I noticed the moon had slowly drifted over to my left
and was in the process of disappearing behind the trees. I saw the branches and suddenly felt that they too had joined in with my own little jungle song. I’m not sure exactly when I noticed it, but I became aware that I was not alone. I increasingly felt watched. Sensed it somehow. It unnerved me and snapped my mind back to reality. This Disney song was over. How long had this been happening? Why didn’t I notice sooner? I missed a step. My heart beat a little harder – a little louder. My palms, despite the chilly temperature, started to sweat. I forgot to breathe and had to force my lungs to accept oxygen. I could feel my fight or flight impulses kicking in. I quickly fought off my childish impulses to run...and to scream. It was surely just a play of shadows-- A trick of a paranoid mind trying to fill the blanks. The wind continued its incessant beat, and I pushed my feet forward to match it again. I tried to refocus. What had I been thinking of last, the office or home? The gravel sent up its waves of sound, crunching and crackling in response to my footfalls. I couldn’t remember and I really didn’t want to relive the day anyway; instead, I focused on the calmness that this short walk had given me when I started. I had felt the peace of not thinking. It had been wonderful, but then this. Why the hell couldn’t I concentrate? I attempted to focus on the sound of the gravel giving way under my feet, but my mind only deceived me and gave orders to focus instead on a new sound – barely audible, but there – the soft swish of grass being pushed aside just
10
beyond the tree line. How long had this sound been here? How could I not have picked up on it before now? I started panicking. Thoughts raced through my head and I argued with myself to remain calm. My cadence faltered again. I stopped to scan the area around me. The noise abruptly halted. The wind, ever present still moved the grass in time – not even noticing I had stopped playing along. The grass and leaves, already brown, danced and shook in the night -- an applause for the wind. But something wasn’t right here. Something was very, very wrong. My brain suddenly sent panic signals through the entirety of my body. RUN. FAST. NOW. I realized a lump had formed in my throat. I couldn’t swallow. My heart had started to beat faster and the hair on the back of my neck stood up as if to say “The brain knows. You’d best run now.” Instead, I bent to tie my shoe. I performed this feat slowly, in an act to seem casual, and picked up some sharp rocks as I pretended to tie my shoe. I stood up, inspected my work, and casually placed the sharp rocks in my pocket. If anyone had been watching – I had played it really cool. I started to walk again, telling my brain to stop acting foolish and to focus on the task ahead. I had only a few more miles to go. Safety was just up ahead. The lies we tell ourselves. As soon as I started to walk, the sound returned. I walked a bit faster. The movement beyond the trees matched my speed. I was definitely not being childish. There was something walking parallel to my course and it was focused on me. I felt like I was being stalked. Sized up. Something was playing with me - the way a cat plays with a cricket. Right before it eats it. And when playtime was over… I hurriedly continued on my journey but decided in that moment I would strike out-- Confirm if there was indeed something there by pelting it with a rock. I decided to do this at the top of the next hill. I walked a little quicker and left the
beat of the grass and the dance of the leaves behind. I focused intently on getting to the next rise and proving that I was not scared or out of my mind. I put my hand in my pockets – I was desperate to ensure they had not fallen out of some mythical hole that had sprung up as I walked. Hell, I couldn’t even think now if I had actually put them in my pocket. And I needed to know they were there. They felt sharp, and this relieved me a little. Just what I needed. I suddenly thought I was being foolish. I had not felt scared like this since I was a child. Yes, it was dark and cold. And This was a lonely road. But of course, there were no monsters on the other side of the trees. It was a cow – a stupid cow – chewing cud. It had to be. This was a flight of fancy; my mind had just gone a little ape-shit after a shitty day. I could not help at this point but listen intensely. The sound of the grass moving for whatever was tracking me had not abated. Every step I took was followed by the same stupid swishing sound. My brain attempted to warn me again “RUN. NOW. FAST.” I half-heartedly did as I was told. I started to jog. As I jogged my intellectual side kicked in and I slowed to a fast walk. “You’re an idiot,” I said aloud. A challenge to myself and anything else that might hear me. A cry of the arrogant, the proud. I stopped walking. I weakly asked, “Is there anyone out there?” and the emptiness of nothing was maddening. The breeze began to slow yet I could now see my breath in the chilly air. The grass slowly stopped moving. The leaves no longer applauded. The breeze faded into nothing. Silence. Dead silence. I was almost to the top of the hill. I desperately searched for a window, a house, a barn - anything that resembled the presence of life beyond me and whatever might be in the field beyond the trees. I looked to my right and saw nothing. I looked left and saw them for the first time. At first, they were barely perceptible. They seemed at first to be
rette smoldering between my fingers. It’s almost Christmas, not a particularly cheerful time for me. The mood seems grimmer than ever this year for everyone involved. Ever since her roommates found her curled up body lying on a pile of tangled blankets with a note scrawled across a blank page of a leather bound journal. I wasn’t really surprised. I’ve lost people much closer to me before. Still, ever since I heard the news I couldn’t help but ponder “Were you afraid to walk into the good night or did you greet it like an old friend?” I suppose my vanity allows me to relish in poetic thoughts that I’ve ripped from some dead authors. I could be more original, but I have no words to describe what I’ve already experienced before. The phone buzzed, trying to disturb me from my disturbed reverie. I ignored it this time. Whoever’s drunk text could wait for once. It continued to ring incessantly. I took another drag of the cigarette and glanced at the phone. It was my turn to be incredulous. This had to be a sick joke. Her name flashed across the screen, even with the misspelled last name that I had typed in my phone and never bothered to change. I picked up, ready to scream at the son of a bitch that had gotten ahold of her phone. “Hi,” the quiet, timid voice chimed in. I almost choked on my insults. My whole body began to tremble with chills. Surely, I’m drunk- fucked up. How is this even possible? “I wanted to check in and see if you’re okay. It’s not so terrible here, it really isn’t. I do miss everyone though,” she continued in a soft melancholic voice. I wanted to say a lot of things. I wanted to tell her how selfish she was for what she had done. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t realize how many people truly cared and she never gave them a choice in whether they felt hurt by her actions. Most of all, I wanted to reach through that phone and shake her and hug her at the same time and let her cry into my chest the way she did often
in the short time I knew her. I felt that I had failed her in the way I had failed so many of my closest friends. In that moment I realized that she had simply become a casualty of a cold and uncaring world that had since lost its goddamn mind. She was always screaming for help and only wanted someone to hear her before the water closed in over her for good. “But why?” That was all I could manage to say. “You remember when I told you that old saying; that they promised dreams can come true?” I felt myself nod, but couldn’t respond. I was caught off guard by my sudden grief and horror in the gravity of a situation in which any human being could of taken action, but didn’t. “Nightmares are dreams true-“ I don’t remember hanging up. Or throwing my glass on the ground though it must have sounded beautiful as it crashed against the concrete with destructive satisfaction. I do remember running outside and greeting the cold night air. The stars covered the sky in a brilliant, twinkling blanket. I inhaled and felt my lungs burn from the sudden drop in temperature that had occurred seemingly within minutes though it was probably a few hours ago. I wanted to burn the bar down and take the entire street with it. I wanted to scream like a raving lunatic down the sidewalk and see the look of horror on people’s faces. I wanted her to see how sad and lonely the world had become without her. I stepped into the street carelessly, blinded by anger and grief that I couldn’t process yet. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice the headlights until they filled my line of vision. I felt my skull crack the windshield before I tumbled over the roof of the car like a rag doll. The pavement greeted me like an old friend as I rolled onto my back. I felt acutely aware of the pain, but I didn’t care. My ears were ringing so much the voices of passing bystanders were
39
Quiet Nightmares 38
Katie Olson I told her to go to sleep. I didn’t expect her to take all those pills. To tell the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea why she called. There’s nothing special about me, save for being a special kind of asshole. I almost laugh looking back on that memory. She sounded so incredulous by that statement, but maybe it was the whiskey. I’ll never know. I never asked. It’s always the quiet ones. They never speak up. They only watch and listen attentively. She never responded much in conversations. She acted so shy, even frightened, a deer in the headlights. Yet she could be playful when she dropped her guard. There were those times. I guess she felt safe around me. I can see why. I never gave her any reason not trust me. I certainly never hurt deliberately- save for the instance that she confessed her affection for me. It didn’t take an idiot to see how terrified she looked, though the trembling gave it away. I gave her merit for being able to gather the courage to admit what she was thinking to me face to face. Of course, I let her down easy. I’m one who gets bored easily and frankly I didn’t want to make her another notch in the bedpost. Despite the hurt she probably felt, she still called when she stumbled into her empty apartment. I didn’t mind staying on the phone with her. We both found it oddly comforting to take turns spilling our guts. However, after that we never opened up to each other the same way again. I wondered if she compartmentalized everything in the deep recesses of her mind for safekeeping. It wouldn’t surprise me. It appeared that she never minded listening. But she could never explain her own demons in their entirety. Of course, it’s always the introverts. They
always observe more than they let on. And they do their damnedest not to reveal the hurt they’re always carrying. I know that now. She always wanted to protect the people she cared deeply for, but she didn’t know how to save herself from the monsters lurking in her mind. As we would all find out, she drove herself over the edge and no one could have saw it coming. The worst part about the situation is I was the last person she reached out to and all I told her was go to sleep. “I’m sorry,” she began repetitively apologizing. “I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want any advice. I just want someone to talk to that’s all. I feel bad…” her voice trailed into nothing. I recalled replying, “I know you’re not asking for advice. However, I do think you need to sleep and get some rest.” Some would say I had the patience of a saint. She was the stubborn, self-deprecating type, but oddly enough she listened to me. I imagined I could read it on her face. She was tired. Not only worn down by college, but by life itself. Neither of us were exactly strangers to keeping an umbrella handy for fending off the impending rain cloud of misery that hung over our heads. We had that understanding. However, I realize now that I only understand so much. She was one of those types who think they always have to fight everything alone. Or until they finally break from the stress of the burden they’re carrying. I’ll never know what that burden was. She gave away bits and pieces that alluded to the truth, but never offered the entire story. Three weeks later I’m sitting alone with a half empty glass of beer and a ciga
mere spots in the leaves where the light was coming through. But then, whatever it was, blinked. Yellow like the sun. It took me a few moments to mark them and I couldn’t see them well enough to be sure, but after a few more moments, they blinked again. I was desperate. I reached for all the different reasons for why this could not be as it seemed. I was somehow imagining this a trick of the light. I took a step back but did not look away. I put my hand in my pocket and my sweaty hands grabbed onto the rocks. I pulled them out - slower than I wanted to, as they felt suddenly so very heavy. I stared at them – my little saviors. I began to move forward and the swishing sound of the other began to pace me again. My mind left me – I felt like I needed to piss. I backed up toward the opposite side of the road and drew my arm back to throw the rock. The rock seemed so much smaller in my hand now. Less of a weapon and more of a pebble. I tried to imagine the pebble was larger and suddenly felt an intense sense of embarrassment knowing that I was a grown man about to throw a fuckin’ rock at something I couldn’t t see. I faltered. Something told me not to throw it - but I could not listen. I raised my arm and drew it back. I had the pebble and it was going to be thrown. I had to know what was there. When my arm reached the apex of my pitch, and I was just at the moment of releasing the pebble, when a voice spoke out from beyond the tree line. “If you throw that rock our fun will end – and that will not be good for you. However, we will give you a chance to continue the fun if you put the rock down. You might even stand a better chance if you do!” The voice was low, sultry, and female-like, but I couldn’t be sure. It spoke slowly and simply, but in a way that filled me with dread and insecurity. I dropped the rocks. I stood for a second. I felt the warmth of my urine trailing down my leg. I looked down not in embarrassment, but in
a sense of detachment. “A better chance for what?” I croaked out at the tree line. “A better chance to live of course. We shall not play games. And we shall not have rocks thrown at us – but we might allow you to walk a bit further with us... and we might not. Truth be told we have not decided anything beyond letting you walk a bit further. Anything beyond that is still being decided.” I was a little angry now. Some semblance of sense had come back to me, and I aggressively engaged this person that seemed to be toying with me. “Listen, whoever you are, enough is enough. Stop screwing around. I am willing to be a gentleman and let this go but if you keep this up - I’m going to kick your ass.” The moment the words left my mouth I instantly regretted it. The response was sharp, intense and horrifying. The voice changed. It became shrill and loud, and it had weight. As it spoke my body trembled. I felt the answer in my bones and my stomach became queasy. “We will not warn you about this again. We will not tolerate this for a single moment. This is your last warning.” As the voice spoke the eyes flashed and narrowed. A faint, guttural growl came from where the voice was. “You should begin walking now.” I moved forward. At first it was automatic – my body just moved and I followed. The air was still cold but somehow the sensation of cold had left me. I walked and did not speak. The swish from the other side of the tree line matched my cadence again. All other sounds were gone and replaced with the loud beating of my heart. We walked for some distance. Down the other side of the rise and up over a few more hills. I almost had the sensation that the presence had left me. I looked to my left. A shape had moved closer to the tree-line. I felt as if it moved in a languid fashion. Slow, but fast- small, but large. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the contradiction that this shape presented. The thing spoke again, and the voice
11
12
had changed. The sound reminded me of a serpent mixed somehow with a lion. I felt sure I was going to die now. “At the top of this next rise, there is a road that goes to the right.” It hissed-growled more directions at me, “You will turn down this road. You will walk to an old wooden bridge that you will not cross. Do not attempt to cross the bridge.” I was scared. “What’s on the road?” “We will not answer any more questions. You will walk and do as you’re told - or you will die.” I started to move forward. The shape - still too obscured for me see in any meaningful way moved with me. The air, the grass, and the trees all seemed to have stopped living. They no longer moved and seemed to be suspended in shock along with me. I yearned for any sight of any other human existence and saw none. I wanted to yell, to run, or to do anything but continue to walk down this path that would lead me to certain death. I had to come up with a plan before it was too late. A blast of air suddenly pushed me closer to the side of the road. A shriek pierced the sky and stung my ears. My insides lurched. I froze solid. I let out a scream of terror when the voice whispered from my near side now. “You will turn here.” Somehow the creature had moved over the road and past me to the side closest to me. We were only yards apart now. I turned to see the creature and was presented with something my mind could not understand. The shape was not solid, not fluid either. It rose, not on legs but more like tree stumps. They were squat and solid and thick. There were arms - so many arms. They seemed to start from a central core and were of differing lengths and sizes. Some seemed to have fingers - all ending sharply. There were no other identifying features - only those eyes. They stared back at me and as I looked at them, I began to feel pain, real pain and torment and anguish. As I looked in the pupils of its eyes, I saw a black so vast and
empty that one could get trapped in time. I diverted my attention. When it spoke - it spoke in the worst whisper one could ever imagine hearing. “You need to move. Time is short.” There was nowhere for me to go-- Nothing I felt I could do to escape. I had resigned myself to die here, on this cold road, in the middle of nowhere. The single dirt lane headed off to the east, and I turned down it with nothing in my mind but death. The dirt road was a shallow path that looked like it had been scraped over recently to help with potholes. The excess dirt was lumped on either side to form some rudimentary curb. The grass gave way to scrub brush that was dense along the road - too dense to see through. The road moved forward with no other features that would even remotely help me. We progressed forward. I moved forward slowly - a dead man walking to his execution. The procession was painfully slow. I decided that if I was going to die - I wanted to know why - to see if I could talk my way out of it. To plead for my life. “I have a wife. A good wife, and I love her.” I received no response. “I am a good man. I’ve never harmed anyone. Please tell me why this is happening.” The silence stung at me and tears began to well up in the corner of my eyes. “Talk to me!” I blurted out. “I deserve to know what I have done!” Instead of silence - I heard something that sounded like a body being dragged toward me. It stopped very near me but I could not see it. My body snapped to attention. A long, dark, black finger reached out of the trees. It stretched across the road towards me. As it came closer to me, it shuddered. It stopped in front of my face. The finger brushed my chin. I began to see images in my mind of bodies piled one upon another as if on some distant battlefield where hundreds had died. My body was no longer cold - but dead. There was no sensation at all. The images in my mind flickered
Neuschwanstein Alexis Sikorski down the romantic route we go to a castle in the sky where fairy tales follow behind chasing, almost but it’s not as if we’re reluctant— we’ve already chained ourselves to the characters as the mad king loved Wagner we loved the stories told to us as children and on we walked up hills to origins we lifted our faces to declarations of love we saw the swans and the signs and the secrets in the caves and in the walls and in the lake where psychology failed to lift heads over water where water failed to kill psychology
Salzburg Alexis Sikorski with the possibility of falling we dove underground finding walls and water, trains and tools wicked, wouldn’t you say—? the taste of salt on the tongue from fingers once (or twice) dipped into an artificial sea with a man who didn’t say much but said enough standing on the underside of a mountain, every blink a waterfall— I can’t help but ask where are our canaries?
37
Slavery by a new name Jewel Poleon
36
Slavery by a new name Incarceration system playing the same game Our hands up but you’re suddenly blind? Mass murder of people my kind? You thought it was a gun? are you out of your mind? Petty things for which we’re being fined? But our life ends up paying the cost I can’t even count how many lives have been lost To this modern day holocaust How can I feel protected when our lives are being affected when our needs are neglected when our skin is objected? when we turn to you, we’re rejected worst yet, we’re shot, unexpected it’s hard to cry out when we feel so disconnected when as a people, we get disrespected inspected without cause who gives a fuck about laws? when you’re dealing with a nigger, all rules go on pause Instead of fighting for us, you’re fighting us Then you wonder why we make a fuss Hands up, don’t shoot But our yells are mute In a country built against us, it seems like we’ll never win So much injustice is bound to stir revolution within See, the trick is to divide us against ourselves That’s how they keep us in jail cells Because if we’re separated by red and blue, that’s less work for them to do If we’re separated by light and dark On their list that’s another check mark Black on black crime? We see it all the time We’re our own partner in crime But the system isn’t airtight We have the power to make things right Praise our thick lips Put down the clips Let’s stand together Fight back like Maywhether RIP Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, and Sandra Bland One day we’ll rise up again and take back our land
through. One obscener than the next, as the finger stroked my cheek and went up the side of my face. It cupped the right side of my face and I felt sick. The sultry voice spoke “You will do as you are told or we will take you here - now. You will walk.” As the finger receded from my face the visions vanished and I became aware of the tears streaming from my face. A deep hollow laugh came from the tree line. “Such sweet skin he has,” it whispered. I moved forward again and became aware of a clearing ahead. There seemed to be some items placed around a semi-circle, and at the center a tree. We were moving toward it. As we came closer, I could tell the items were simple enough. A table made of rough wood - it could have even been a large wooden box at one point. And one chair with its back to the tree. “Sit,” it hissed. I moved toward the chair and looked at the tree as I moved to sit down. There were gashes in the back of the chair and tree as if something had been thrust toward them sharply. As I looked at the tree I began to notice there was human hair embedded in it. I sat down and faced the table. “Please do this quickly,” I said. It screamed back “Silence!” The air shrieked past me and screamed in my ears. I knew whatever is what was, was standing behind me - behind the tree. The growling voice spoke. Slowly and with a sense of anticipation. “We shall now play a game.” I saw the long black fingers move past me on either side moving towards the table. As it reached the table, they spread out and I heard the clunk of something being put on the table and a scraping noise as it was moved towards me. As the hands retreated I saw that one six-sided dice had been left on the table and pushed right in front of me. I stared at the dice there were no numbers on it - only two images that seemed to be duplicated on the other sides. Two
images. It whispered to me and my hairs stood up again. I felt its breath on my neck. The smell that came to me was of death. Rotting flesh. “The game is simple. There are only two images on the die. You will roll the die now.” I slowly reached out for the die and grabbed it. I picked it up with my sweaty palm and rolled it around it in my hand. I let it go - and my life went with it. The die seemed to fall so fast towards the table. It hit the table and rolled around a few times and landed on one of the images. A scream surrounded me so loud and sharp that I was sure my ears were going to pop. I woke in my car. My body covered in sweat. I had no idea how long I had been out. I knew that I had been dreaming, but the images still disturbed me. I could still smell her rotting breath. I reached for my keys and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I turned the keys and noticed the bottom of my pants. The ends were in tatters. I turned on the dome light and then I screamed. My feet were black. The blackness slowly started to creep up my legs, right before I passed out.
13
14
The Mat
faithless
Haley Mowdy
Layne Russell
The surface of my mind is Sticky, pink, textured. Smells acrid, dank and sweet, A calm that cannot be recreated By any other surface on earth
I sold Li-Young Lee for a dollar and was glad to get so much; no one pays for poetry. (I heard Mary Oliver collects bottles to pay rent some months.)
A moment out of time. Behind the ticking of the clock The mat reaches into the ground Under my feet to connect me With the earth. My feet are rooted to this central surface. I now understand what unity means. This mat has taught me communication Between my body And my soul.
That and the gold from my wedding ring bought gas to Austin that night we drank Natural Light and smoked Camels (‘cause cheap cigarettes are harsher than cheap beer.) and threw knives at a tree and grappled in weed-choked yards until my head cleared. I sold Allen Ginsberg for groceries but couldn’t let Housekeeping go. The clerk commended my taste but if you were a poet I’d sell you too.
35
34
“There,” she said. She extended her other hand for help and he obliged, pulling her up by both arms. The forward momentum threw her off balance and he held onto her until she seemed steady. “Sorry,” she laughed. She glanced up and caught him staring at her with that funny look on his face, like she was some strange foreign artifact, some puzzle for him to solve. Embarrassed, she looked away and started walking again. “So what does that do?” he asked. “Hm?” “What does flipping the penny over do?” “Well, now the luck is there for the next person. It wasn’t my lucky penny, but I helped it along. Now it’ll be someone else’s.” He shook his head, smiled fondly, and kept on walking. Someday he might get irritated with her for stopping in the middle of the street in the middle of the night to flip a tails-up penny headsup for someone else to find, but not tonight. Neither of them was watching television the next day when the local news station interviewed a man who was crossing the street on foot and narrowly missed being sandwiched in the middle of a head-on collision between an SUV and a florist’s delivery van. “Now explain it to me one more time,” the interviewer
said, “you were crossing the street, but you stopped in the middle and bent down. If you had taken just a couple more steps, you wouldn’t be standing here with us now, is that right?” The man nodded. “And why did you stop? What made you stop walking?” He grinned, “Well, I saw a penny on the ground, heads-up lucky, and I was on my way to the gas station to buy my lottery tickets and need all the luck I can get, so I stopped to pick it up.” The interviewer perked up at the mention of a lottery ticket. “And did you buy the ticket?” “Not yet. I’m sure going to, though.”
Untitled 1 Emily Nickles The oars on the boat rowed as if fingers were patting water in a pond Child’s play it seems to be, when looking from above Hands gently guide the vessels along, like the wind they guide the way Moans and echoes are the motion of the sea from which a youth’s lips come Sailors are shuddering twigs, no one gets the short end of the stick All doomed to the whims of sea monsters, Like how the dandelion knows not where its seed is carried Cruel teeth biting down on splintering wood are the soft gums of a baby Blood flows from lips gaping like a fish drawn from its hiding place Into oxygen suffocating Poor child, poor thing you are now extinct Let not your memory be a fire spreading through a field, But the waves bring your footprints to the surface and the sand not be washed away
15
Luck 33
Chelsea Burton By the time he walked her home, it was late enough that Friday night had turned into Saturday morning. She was leaning on his arm, not drunk per se, but she’d always been a lightweight. Her one drink, a syrupy-sweet rum-and-something concoction that she’d nursed till it was watered down with melted ice past the point of being palatable, was still making her head spin. Plus, her heels were just a bit too high, and there were cobblestones. Cobblestones and stilettos are a match made in hell. Every fifth or sixth step an uneven stone would catch her heel and make her stumble into him, which made her look worse off than she was. He bit his lip to keep from laughing at her. They were crossing the street, a quiet side street but a street nonetheless, when she stopped, locking her knees. He took another step before he noticed, and was jerked backward. She was gazing intently at something on the asphalt in the middle of the street. He followed her line of sight and saw something little
and shiny, the light from the streetlamps bouncing off of it so brightly that he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it himself. “What is it?” he asked. “Hold still,” she answered. Hanging onto his hand to steady herself, she crouched down. She bent at the knees, wobbling with her weight on her haunches and the balls of her feet, and used her other hand to pull her dress down in the back. “What is it?” he said again. She murmured something under her breath, and if the street hadn’t been deserted and quiet, he might not have heard her. “Find a penny, pick it up; all day long, you’ll have good luck,” she said, singsong and childlike. “Ah,” he chuckled, “Lucky penny?” “Not for me,” she replied, a bit of a sour note in her voice, “Tails-up, it won’t do me any good, but…” she trailed off. She reached out, picked the penny up, and flipped it over in her hand. He heard the click of copper on concrete as she set it back down on the street.
4 hours Dolan Aytch It took me 4 hours to sleep same amount to get hungry after I eat 9 months you waited just so we could meet plans all ruined because they failed to treat the bleed, the need for hope was such a stretch half-ass prayers and wishes at best path seemed clear but fate took a left left me with less, left him with stress I guess you can call me blessed this is far from the opinion kept what’s next? hour 3 trying to come up with a script Blanked!! had really nothing to come up with so I figure I’ll just make up shit Hour 2, but no memories or thoughts for reminiscence you knew me before I was conscious I know you from picture frames and concepts to be honest, the love you had for me could never tarnish I’ll always love, that’s my promise You will too, that’s what I’ve learned from this you’ll always be missed wish you could receive the hug and kiss Seems you’ll never feel it Be in bliss, since you gave me my name burden’s on me to live up to the fame final house was on a hot summer day I had tears, called it sweat, but my voice gave away the fact I will felt the same approaching your grave seems like when we meet tears parade on my face I’ll try to be brave and take on this fate i’ll give your more than I ever mean to take we share this similar trait If I had anything to say “those 4 hours were great”
Rejoice Nicola Brady
Unnamed Sierra Taylor
17
Tides Katie Olson She held her life in her hands as if it were shifting sand. Fleeing from her fingers into the rush of foam. Leaving her drifting aimlessly, a crippled sailboat with no anchor. The tides ruled her emotions. A stormy restless night; an eerie silent day. No one could make sense of the ‘why?’ It was anyone’s guess. Her reasoning remained cryptic, like remnants of shipwrecks floating among the crags. So she took to her pen furiously Giving her drowning voice a chance to breath. Piercing shells of words together along the shoreline of the past.
The War Comes Home Layne Russell
Unnamed (1) Carrie Adamson-Riefler
The war comes home; it always overstays, could watch me do the dishes and tidy up for days. I clear my throat and turn, ‘you shouldn’t let me keep you.’ It leans back in his chair, ‘oh no, I’m glad to see you.’ It does not take a hint. It never seems to rest. I finally relent and let it in my bed. The redeployment done. I should get back to work. Its boots are on the floor. To trip me in the dark.
31
Blackout Battles 19
Katie Olson I woke up shivering and damp. I refused to open my eyes at first. It felt as if two heavy weights covered my lids. Eventually, I allowed the light to penetrate those slits and I allowed the world to focus into view. “What the hell happened?” I pushed myself up to a sitting position and realized I had been lying on the ground in the backyard. It wouldn’t have seemed as odd if I had a blanket or even a jacket. I observed mud caked on the knees of my jeans. My t-shirt stuck to my back. I rubbed my temple and attempted to recall the events of the last few hours. It wasn’t until I saw the dried blood under my fingernails that I felt the panic rise from deep within. “Did I finally lose it?” The thought crossed my mind. However, I couldn’t recall the events of the last few hours. Several scenarios flicked across my mind’s eye. Did I drive to your apartment? Did we run into one another at the bar? I don’t remember. I pulled myself to my feet. I felt dizzy from the nausea. I knew then I must have drunk too much. I shook the leaves from my hair and the motion sent me spinning. At least the sun was hiding behind a flurry of hovering grey.
Shattered Color Justin Landers
“One step at a time,” I chanted. The mantra carried me to the door. I struggled to turn the doorknob and stepped inside.
Fumbling through the empty house I found the bathroom empty. I kicked off my boots and turned on the water full blast. The steam filled the room. I almost tripped trying to climb into the shower. I allowed the water to wash over my filthy clothes and soak into my skin. I shivered. The worst-case scenarios tugged at the edges of my mind. Did I really hurt you? Was I really capable of causing this much destruction to another human being? I almost forgot about the letter. The ferocity drove its nails back into my chest full force. You wanted to make me hurt in all the worst things. You held over my head traumatic events of my past and intimate memories photographed as a way to make me feel like the scum of the earth. It almost worked. You forgot though. You twist words like pieces of wire until they’re unrecognizable. I felt a mix of emotions, hurt and sadness over this twisted person that you’ve become. Mainly though I felt anger. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hurl my half empty glass on the ground. I didn’t. Not in front of the innocent bystanders. Not in front of the girl who handed me the letter. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I only blame myself for not cutting you out of my life before I drove you to such wicked extremes. You took everything from me. My self-worth; my stability. How much more did you want from me? This was about twisting the knife deep-
Unintentional Chiasmus 20
Amber Robertson I’ve had a realization a manifestation I am on the edge I am on the brink of insanity because I am desperate for love for acceptance for security in my future Nothing is guaranteed nothing set in stone Everything I do is in my control So I will step back from the edge I will step back from the brink of insanity because I have had a realization a manifestation that I can be me whoever that may be
Trinity 1 & Trinity 6 Joy Ellis
29
er into my flesh. This was about convincing me to believe what I had thought for too long about myself. I finally climbed out of the shower once the temperature began to chill. I reached for a towel and draped it over my soaking shoulders.
28
I couldn’t hold back the panic anymore. I fell to my knees and began shaking violently. “What if- just what if?” I couldn’t chase the thought away. After all I couldn’t remember. Maybe I finally lost control of the devil lurking inside. I wanted to curl into a ball on the tile floor.
Gnawing Julia Macke
I laid my head on the rug and tried to not allow the sickness to escape my throat. I felt defeated. Alone. The police would probably be coming for me. I’d have to confess. And a pitiful excuse of being too black out to recall my actions would do no good. I deduced that I could show the police the emails, the text messages and ask my friends to vouch for me. I nearly choked with laughter. Who was actually my friend in this town? I couldn’t say. I must have fallen asleep. I heard a knocking at the door. I attempted to ignore it by pulling the damp towel over my head. The rapping continued and the door creaked open. “I know you’re in there,” that soft but determined voice called out. I shoved the towel a few inches away from my face and looked up. “You’re home early,” I croaked. She gave a grimace in return. “I heard about the letter. You nearly scared the bartender so the solution was to give you free drinks all night until you came back to your giggly self.”
Fatique Michele Poindexter
“Wait… what?” “You don’t remember do you?”
She cracked the door open far enough to squeeze her lithe body inside. I lifted myself up to lean against the bathroom cabinet. She sat down beside me and allowed me to lay her head on her shoulder. “I think I did something terrible,” I whispered, afraid anyone else might hear my confession. “If you mean by terrible you tried to drown yourself in whiskey and had to be driven home so you wouldn’t pass out in your car, yes you did something terrible.” She sighed and took my hand. A wave of comfort washed over me. Her fingertips felt soft on my aching fingers. She began tracing them over my skin. “Please don’t be so mean to yourself. You’ll ruin your pretty writing hands. You deserve better than that.” I looked down and discovered deep gashes half healed in the shape of my fingernails. They didn’t hurt, but they must of at the time. “You mean I didn’t hurt him?” I asked tentatively. She snorted. “Of course not. As soon as the bar closed one of the boys drove you home and then walked back to his place. He messaged me and told me to come back as soon as I could catch a plane. I just got back an hour ago.” I stared at the wall. The yellow paint combined with the fluorescent light bulbs made the room too cheery and bright. “I want to go to sleep,” I mumbled. She nodded and helped me to my feet. I leaned on her, extremely grateful to feel her presence. She knew how to calm the demons lurking inside me. I allowed her to peel off my damp clothes and put on my pajamas. I
21
22
photo_SF irima Tongkhuya
Around the world Emily Nielsen
bird Nicola Brady
26
Gentrification Layne Russell Tell me about the aesthetics of decay; I’ll introduce the children who cut feet on broken tile. The woodwork gave scant beauty to our days investor’s dream! original detail! and how the roof dropped shingles to the ground to swirl like rafts in puddles down the road. The house inhaled leaf dust through crooked panes. The porch steps sag. The possums nest below the floor that sloped and rolled like ocean waves, the constant threat of splinters underneath. The roofline slouching into disrepair. My husband’s shoulders sagged. We packed to leave. Does it call to mind a simpler time, for you, with your green lawn and clean drywall? Maybe long ago for someone else, but when it was condemned, where could we go?
couldn’t help but feel like a child as she tucked me into bed. “Thank you,” I told her. I had to hold back tears and the urge to apologize. I’ve always been terrible at showing gratitude without feeling like a burden.
him even if they tried. Let’s just say the pieces are scattered from here to Louisiana and Oklahoma,” he replied cockily.
“You’re welcome.” She leaned in and kissed my feverish forehead. “I’m here. I promise. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you before when you needed me.”
“It wasn’t easy by any means. I almost thought she lost her mind when I found her sitting on the floor staring at him. She kept mumbling about wanting to hurt him, she never wanted to break him. His face was almost unrecognizable…”
“It’s okay.” I turned over on my side facing the wall and pulled the covers closer to my body. I heard her shuffle silently out of the room and close the door. As soon as she was out of the room I threw off the comforter and stumbled across my bedroom. I heard voices on the other side. I pressed my ear to the door and strained to hear. “She doesn’t remember anything?” I heard a familiar voice drawl.
“You’ve certainly covered tracks,” I heard her remark.
your
“It’s only half of what he deserves,” I heard her say softly. “So I’ve heard.” He paused and then added, “This stays between us, right?” “Of course,” she answered. “If there is an upside to all this at least she doesn’t have to run anymore.”
My stomach dropped. It was one of the regulars who worked upstairs. He must have taken me home. The sarcastic charming asshole that always gave me the best hugs. The kinds that make you feel wrapped in a warm blanket. Of course he would witness me lose my careful composure that I had constructed over months of sleepless nights and too many drinks.
Silence. I guessed that they left.
“No she doesn’t. I want to tell her, but what difference would it make.”
I looked down at my cut hands and laughed weakly. Indeed, to compare what he had done to me his fate seemed almost a cop out.
“Don’t. Its better that she stays ignorant. I don’t know how long she could live with herself until she cracks and turns herself into the police.” I heard her sigh. I almost collapsed against the bedroom door. I used the dresser as support. “At least tell me where you put the corpse,” she said firmly. “Oh the police aren’t going to find
I slid to the floor. A tear slid down my cheek. I couldn’t describe what I felt right then. Relief? It seemed almost wrong. Then again he liked to tell me that I was disturbed. He liked to feed me distorted fables about myself and I would live with those painful scars for the rest of my life.
I still couldn’t remember what happened. I must have lost my mind momentarily and blocked it from my memory. I decided that I could live with that. I looked down at my bruised palms again. There will always be blood on my hands. However, they are right. At least I don’t have to run anymore.
23
24
Fools Dolan Aytch I’ve been left less in speech your logic… excess of kindness, makes me weak refrained to speak my temper i’ll keep why kill my cool, I’ll take a treat forget all fools, it’s my time to sleep
Goodbye Sleep Julia Macke