The Wire Harp - 2018 by the Wire Harp

SFCC

The Wire Harp

2018

TH E WIR E HAR P SPOK ANE FALLS COMMUNITY COLLEGE

CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE

2018 Wire Harp Staff GR APHIC ARTS EDITOR Missy McGillicuddy LITERARY EDITOR Allyson Gwiazda

LITERARY STAFF Steven Gregory Anderson Thomas Hilverda-DePaolo

Samantha Kam Adrianna Scott

GRAPHIC ARTS ADVISOR Doug Crabtree LITERARY ADVISORS Laura Read and Connie Wasem Scott

SPECIAL THANKS Richard Baldasty Shelli Cockle Tim Greenup Carl Richardson Becky Turner

Cover and layout design by Missy McGillicuddy

Heather McKenzie Leyna Krow Linda Beane-Boose Erik Sohner Anna Gonzales

Dedication This issue is dedicated to Doug Crabtree on the occasion of his retirement from SFCC and from The Wire Harp. Doug has served as the Graphic Arts Advisor from 1998 to 2018. His creative vision and leadership have contributed to the aesthetic appeal of the publication and its overall quality, and he will be greatly missed.

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Table of Contents

Poet r y “My Sister Thinks About the Empty Spaces in the Sky” * . . . . . . . . . . . .2

Souvenir . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Megan Leone

Veda Bradley

That Single-Serving Bottle of Tabasco . 76

The Dent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5

Rebekah Price

Allyson Gwiazda

The Narcissist’s Daughter . . . . . . . . 81

Fuck Eternity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Kalli Herpin

Laura Thomas

What Blooms from the Gaping Wound . 84

305 W. Carlisle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

JJ Abbot

Sierra Earsley

Blueberries at Manito . . . . . . . . . . 18

The Lines Are Soft and This Room is Crowded but You Are Warm . . . . . . . 90

The King . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Polaris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94

epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Pink . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Freeman Strong . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

My Father's Kitchen . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Sierra Earsley

Allyson Gwiazda

Jill Poland

Laura Thomas

Hannah Ortiz

Jessica Raugust

Tyler Waite

Steven Gregory Anderson

Radium Girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Brandi Maas

Fire Over Ice in a Glass . . . . . . . . . 40 Joel Cline

You Can Rise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 D. E. Lybbert

Hands of a Fly Fisherman . . . . . . . . 66 Tyler Waite

Table of Contents

Fict ion Bitter Spirits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Evelyn Higgins

“Wandy” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Jay Gunter

Non f ict ion 20th Century Girl * . . . . . . . . . . . .6 Samantha Kam

Oozing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Rebekah Price

Howie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Calven S Eldred

Phoebe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Calven S Eldred

10 Minutes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Justin Jakeway

* Baldasty Award Winner

Table of Contents

Fine A r t Dancer in the Desert * . . . . . . . . . . .1

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4

Foil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Old Friends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Natural Architect . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Elephants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

All Along the Watchtower . . . . . . . . 59

Pain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Thought in Process . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

Jar of Windmills . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Palais d'Avignon . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Tea Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Star Fish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

Crystal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Best Friends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68

Pirouette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

Cursed Form . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Sunflower 70s Still Life . . . . . . . . . . 75

Beast of Burden . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Decay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

City Two . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Abearican Gothic . . . . . . . . . . . . .78

Daily News . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Roots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

Golden Mean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Fear Samael . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

Allen Rogers

Rachel Clark

Allen Rogers

Anyeh Bolen

Chad Kuntz

Jayden Avena

Ashley Hiatt

Nicholas DeCaro

Elizabeth Honrud

Rebekah Price

Rachel Clark

Virginia Krehmke

Jill Poland

Kiara Lime

Aylish Morehouse

Beth Smith

Zoe Davis

Debra Sullivan

Bray Raab

Anyeh Bolen

Nalalni Czegledi

Deanna Strang

Rebekah Price

Deanna Strang

Liz Taylor

Teresa Mendoza

Aylish Morehouse

Keely Brennan

Liz Taylor

Rebekah Price

Table of Contents

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

Balloon on Neptune's Rings . . . . . . . 95

Vertebrae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97

This is Not . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92

Pysche and Its Bust . . . . . . . . . . . 100

James Olsen

Anyeh Bolen

Rochelle Zepeda

Nicholas DeCaro

Madeline Robb

Allen Rogers

Trails . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Liz Taylor

Photog raphy Clocktower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .3

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

Untitled * . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8

Over the Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

I Am the One Who Knocks . . . . . . . 13

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82

Dark Chocolate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98

Amanda Roy

Elizabeth Honrud

Josiah Smith

Charlayna Adams

Kayla Marr

Sydney Wallace

Kayla Marr

Sarah Burnts

That NW Bus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Corey Henderson

Walk On . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Amanda Roy

Fun Fall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Sarah Burnts

PNW Buster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Amanda Roy

The Passageway . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Charlayna Adams

* Baldasty Award Winner

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Wire Harp Awards Richard Baldasty taught philosophy and history at SFCC from 1984-2007, and during his tenure, he was regularly published in this journal and contributed significantly to the arts on our campus. Upon his retirement, The Wire Harp honored the spotlight he shone on art by naming our poetry award for him. Each year, The Wire Harp staff selects what we consider the most artistic poem and piece of prose as the recipients of these awards. We also give an award to a photograph and a work of fine art. Each of these four student artists receives a $100 prize, as a result of a generous gift from Richard. We appreciate Richard for supporting students in their creative arts.

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Allen Rogers FINE ARTS AWARD WINNER

Dancer in the Desert

Veda Bradley BALDASTY POETRY AWARD WINNER

“My Sister Thinks About the Empty Spaces in the Sky” * i dug my tunnel from here to the sun with chipped teeth and filthy rivers pouring from my eyes my entire head of hair up in flames and my skin crying stinging salt tears dribbling down to my knees scraped and bleeding like her broken nose. i came back eventually. i came back to collect the sort of pain that blooms at night and is shrivelled and lifeless by morning, wilting into unwelcoming soil. an opportunity. i think you think of me how i’d have you think of me. have you dug your tunnel from here to the sun? i hope for you it will be easy, over the bridge is over the ocean, for me. into mine i’ve discarded every bloodless blossom and adorned the swollen entrance with a blushing post-it note: you’ve been amazing to her.

*This title is also a title of a poem by Robert Gregory

Amanda Roy

Clocktower

Allen Rogers

Untitled

Allyson Gwiazda

The Dent The seatbelt locks after my head hits the radio. My dad pulls over, finds the knife below his seat, gets out of the truck, and tells the two of us “don’t look.” The warmth of my brother’s tears pools on my knee. Then I shove him off, and the chill they leave. Always the girl peeking between fingers: I peep above the dash, dust from the cassette player dizzy in my nostrils. My dad’s knees are trickling blood in the rough gravel. And a doe, dying as we watch her wheeze. but it sounds like a soft whisper to me. Blade to her throat, what is more beautiful: the tears in his eyes or the trust in hers?

Samantha Kam BALDASTY PROSE AWARD WINNER

20th Century Girl with respect to Jamaica Kincaid Shush! Don’t use your elbows and knees to climb on your grandfather when he’s on the daveno. Don’t pound your feet around the house in circles like a herd of elephants. Hold still in your powder-blue flower girl pinafore. I will court disaster until it marries me in this dress. Thread the hook to the line this way and add the bobber just here and the weight midway. Here is the song to sing to make the fish bite, ‘Oh, Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey….’ In the tall reeds is where to find the frogs, there is no need to kiss them. But kiss them I will, every single one. Tuck your chin in, bring your arms up, and spring with your knees to dive. Don’t make a big splash and flood the dock. NEVER touch the coffee can in the back of the boat, because your Grandfather can’t hold in his coffee for long. I will liberate the coffee can and fill it to the brim with frogs. Fold the towels this way or they won’t all fit in the cupboard. Rinse the dishes fully before arranging them in the dishwasher. Clean your plate or you will sit there until you do. Eat your vegetables especially and particularly the beets. I will vomit up these beets in spite. Walk don’t run or you’ll split open your knees, or worse your pants will need mending. Stay away from the back patio when the red-stepped-vinyl stool has been brought out and Father is sitting stoically on it, under the old sheets waiting for Mother’s trimming shears and the indignity of revealing his thinning scalp. Wait here quietly, always quietly. Sit up, keep your feet down. Sit up. SIT UP! Don’t make crumbs when eating cookies. I didn’t make crumbs, but since you’ve mentioned it I will shake to the shag rug every morsel I can coax from this half-moon bite.

Brush your teeth like this or you’ll get a cavity, and one should never have cavities at your age. Here is how to trim the ivy. Keep it away from the chimney or it will burrow through the brittle bricks up and into the sitting room wall. Vacuum before guests arrive, not only the rug, but the oak floorboards and the corners and up the walls and under the sofa where the dog hides her cleanly licked tins. Keep yourself away from the dog when she’s eating, especially your face. You can’t bring every stray home and feeding them will only encourage them to linger longer. But find them and feed strays I will, every single one. Smile sweetly and ignore it when your cousin shoulders the rifle and says, ‘Us men are going to do what us men are going to do,’ and hooks his arm around your Grandpa. I’m the favorite, anyway. Always acquiesce to Father’s Friday night choice of restaurant to avoid The Inevitable. Obviously hold your keys like spiked claws when you walk through a parking lot to deter The Inevitable. Be sure to say ‘Sir’, Ma’am, Please, Thank you, smile, smile, smile. I will silently seethe behind this smile. Always place the needle on the record gently like so; keep the liner notes from crumpling so your father won’t know you’ve been messing with ‘Highway 61 Revisited’ again. Girls do not call boys on the phone. Like hell they don’t. Never wear patchouli. Only pot smoking druggies and hippies wear that one. You will not pierce your ears until you’re AT LEAST sixteen. Tattoos are dirty and disgusting, don’t you dare. Honey, get over it, you just weren’t built that way. This will smooth out that and these will wrangle those into some sort of submission. You look best in pastels. I will wear black as often as I humanly can! Ignore the wolf whistles from old Mr. Anderson. Isn’t he silly? Just jump in the pool. Refrain from writing reminder notes in ink on your forearm skin around Andrea’s mother. Diamonds are a Girl’s best friend and someday your mother’s diamonds will all be yours. I can’t think of anything I want less! Forks, sometimes two, go to the left of the plate, and knives and spoons to the right. This is a leaded glass water goblet and here is how to make it sing. This is a tumbler and this is the depth of three fingers of bourbon. Be home by 10pm, nothing ‘good’ happens after 10 pm. Exactly!

Josiah Smith PHOTOGRAPHY AWARD WINNER

Untitled

Chad Kuntz

Old Friends

Laura Thomas

Fuck Eternity When I was six, I believed God lived in my neighbor’s attic, hidden beneath their green shingles. He was a mechanical spider with eight legs held together with nuts and bolts. He had a few loose screws, and you’d better be careful to follow his commands – Thou shalt not lie with a woman as with a man: it is an abomination lest your unrepentant soul burn in the crimson cave of hell, hand in hand with Lucifer himself. And his owls, beaks dripping with your black blood, pecking, tearing at your flesh. When I was six, I believed Heaven existed deep in outer space, surrounded by inky blackness. Heaven was a library filled with books, all knowledge that was, is, ever could be, lined on dark mahogany shelves that stretched into the reaches of infinity, pages among the stars. Centered in the middle of a clear glass floor was a vast television screen, from which you could view any piece of the infinite universe at any time, so you could spy on your loved ones, hear the most intimate details of their lives.

Everything I ever wanted, except someone was always watching, listening. And the brain-fairy, adorned with a magenta frock and armed with a broom, try as she might, could never seem to sweep out the thoughts of Her.

Nameless and faceless Her. Her lips on my lips. Her hands on my breasts. Her tongue on my clit.

Heaven would not be heaven without Her. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Whatever the sky people do is okay with me,â&#x20AC;? but I will never experience their eternity, or meet the Spider God and His children. Her lips are Heaven enough for me.

Ashley Hiatt

Natural Architect

Kayla Marr

I Am the One Who Knocks

Rebekah Price

Oozing I have written stories about her before, and sent them to her with this scorching sense of anticipation making my lungs tight and when she sent those two texts, one after another (“Wow”), I burn (“These are so good”) so brightly. We exist lately between these texts because she’s so far away, but these short stories, these horribly angsty poems, show my side of our interactions and it spills out sometimes, these feelings, and I jokingly say, “sorry I oozed feelings all over you” and she replies, perfectly and in character, I can hear her voice through the message, “it’s okay, we all have to ooze sometimes.” The next time I messenger her, I’m inebriated, and I tell her “I love you. I love you. I want you to grow tall and strong and I want to see you when you’re famous,” and she replies with heart emojis and laughing faces, saying “I love you too, but I’m only five feet tall.”

Elizabeth Honrud

Untitled

Kayla Marr

Dark Chocolate

Sierra Earsley

305 W. Carlisle Home to crickets and beer pong Where each room is alone A purple closet door that pops open in the night “Window in front of the toilet?!” Cupboards buried beneath layers of paint I caught the Top Ramen on fire Creaky floors -A dead giveaway Walls guiding me through the dark “Found you!”

Sierra Earsley

Blueberries at Manito Summer of 2016, three months into this “thing,” I wore a new romper and you told me I looked pretty. We took food and a blanket to Manito, this time not to play Pokémon GO. At a high point, the blanket was draped over the bumpiest piece of ground. We ate the sandwiches you threw together and the pasta salad I made. Ants were biting your legs, but you insisted we stay. You brought blueberries. “I’ve never had a blueberry before.” I ate one because you said to. I tell you I like it before I’d even made up my mind.

Rachel Clark

Pain

Jill Poland

Jar of Windmills

Jill Poland

The King As if the thorns, as if the thorns were not enough, the crusty thistle rears up to protect the King. The King, swollen with sweetwater. swollen, no longer shiny, but dull with age and too much sun. Bulbous, obscene in his security centered between the more common beauties who lie shiny and almost ripe just beyond my fingerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reach. Ignoring the thorns, despite the thorns, I dare to strain beyond my armâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true length. I risk my own blood to reach the perfect blackberry.

Evelyn Higgins

Bitter Spirits It was always difficult to get her to talk about death. Or loss, even. It never really made a difference for her. Friends leaving. Family dying. Entire villages on the other side of the globe that were destroyed in a single moment. I remember there were times when I would want to scream at her and slap her across the face to see if she would react to anything. Whenever a friend of ours would move away, she would treat it as if their entire existence had been wiped from the record. She had this beautiful way of becoming indifferent to any changes and just jumping into the here and now as if there was no other way to live. It always made me think of a Fury. Calm. Collected. So very controlled, and even when it was no longer in her control, it didn’t phase her. She was the Ice Queen. But there was one night, in the beginning of summer, when it was so humid we decided that we could not stay in, and there was a bottle of honey whiskey between us. We joked about going down to the viewing platform under the Monroe Street Bridge and sharing the bottle with the kids that were living under there at the time. I thought it was a great idea, and she laughed at it, deep and loud. We kept walking around downtown, passing that bottle in the brown bag between us as we snapped pictures by Luigi’s Italian Eatery, debating how long we could lie in the middle of Main Street before a car would come by. She always lived in the moment. I remember just watching her make friends as we walked that night, both of us getting whistled at by the mischievous boys that were prowling, and this green serpent started coiling in my belly. I tried to attribute it to the whiskey, but it would not release. It looked so easy for her, and in that moment I hated her for it. She pressed that bottle to her lips, then turned and smiled at me, and for a brief moment I saw this flash of absolute regret in her eyes. It stopped me in my steps. I didn’t know what to do with the vision that she had just shown me. The only thing I wanted to do, I did. And I can’t say whether it was the liquor or my friend, but as soon as my arms were around her, she started crying. Nails dug into my back, and tears sprung up into my eyes

as I tried to fully engulf her in my energy. “It all hurts so much.” It was barely a whisper, and it cut to the quick. I thought I had imagined her saying it, but then she started screaming. She tore away from my embrace, and ran. It took all my strength to keep up with her. And with every stride, she became less of the controlled woman that I knew and more of a soul plagued by the Furies. She ran until she fell, panting, out of breath. When I caught up, my legs collapsed so we were both lying on a field of green, staring up at the full moon. “Do you think it makes me a bad mom that I couldn’t carry him?” Her voice was so full of bitterness, of regret. For a moment I had no idea how to answer this question. She was the one who never reflected on the past, at least not out loud. I assured her, as best I could, that there was no point in dwelling on past mistakes that may have brought her to this point. She nodded, the moonlight illuminating the smile on her face. We lay there, two souls bound by the hauntings of our own imaginings, intertwined by the spirits in our belly, the longings of our hearts that only best friends can share. It’s been years since that night, which was the last time she let me see that part of her soul. Now, whenever I offer her a bottle enclosed in a discreet brown bag, she will wink at me and ask if it has a honeyed bitterness to it. We smile at the memory, but a part of me longs for my friend to show me that bitter part of her soul that’s still mending.

Aylish Morehouse

Tea Time

Corey Henderson

That NW Bus

Zoe Davis

Crystal

Hannah Ortiz

epilogue I fell in love with the boy who brought me books in math class he laid his heart in my hands in the form of his favorite novel it sat on my nightstand dusty yellow pages and a deeply creased spine his name scrawled on the cover page he had a quiet laugh only I could hear from the back of the class and I would show up with nothing to say besides thank yous and eyes that revealed too much my heart beat in my throat with every unspoken word it’s been two years going on three his younger brother turned sixteen last month older than he’d ever be his smile strikes me the way his brother’s had hard into utter speechlessness and tears that burn to be let free

regret bleeds into every single word I never said to that boy every used bookstore has seen me tucked in the nook of sci-fi with his favorite novel in my hands the spine only slightly creased and never with his name scrawled into the cover page I keep looking keep going back in case one day I find his copy discarded between the sagging shelves its pages soft from years of turning but I keep turning up empty handed without a single word to say I wrote him a letter I could never send with every broken word of who he was to me I gave him a book that broke my heart he gave it back before he knew why I lived the pages of that novel twice once when I read it and once when he died

Bray Raab

Pirouette

Amanda Roy

Walk On

Tyler Waite

Freeman Strong for Sam Strahan, 2002-2017 “Life is like soup, and I’m a fork” -Sam My heart pumped excitement through my bloodstream. The voyage to Miami had nearly begun. We boarded the airplane, and my brother called, “I’m okay, but there was a shooting.” My imagination took off with the plane. My community is in shreds and I’m supposed to be on vacation. We reached our first layover and binged on news reports. “One dead, and three others hurt.” The feeling of helplessness flooded me. I’m okay. The names were still a mystery, but without a doubt I knew them. We were boarding our next flight when I heard. My friend had been killed. My heart pounds in my rib cage, slowly clawing its way out. I’m okay. after a long, ignorant four days, I’m coming home.

My repressed emotions surfaced, I wasn’t on vacation anymore. Reality fell upon me when I embraced my family. I am not okay. I went to school, and was given a rubber bracelet, that read “Freeman Strong.” Since that day, it has held my left wrist, reminding me of the support we have, and the bravery that I will always live up to. The paint is worn, and the letters grow more shallow each day, revealing more of the glow in the dark silicone, offering more and more light in the darkness. I feel empty without it. but with it, I am Freeman Strong.

Nalalni Czegledi

Cursed Form

Rebekah Price

Beast of Burden

Brandi Maas

Radium Girls Painted onto the hands and faces of clocks not so long ago, it made the timepiece readable in even the blackest night. Pale blue-green numbers ticking away moment by moment in the dark. A glowing clock face: measure of time, source of death. Death and Time have always been lovers but their trysts are rarely more obvious than within that deceptive beauty of elemental radium.

*****

I first heard of the Radium Girls sitting at a glowing computer in the dark, looking up fem-punk bands like X-Ray Spex and Bikini Kill. Radium Girls, I thought, such an edgy name. Maybe a feminist knockoff of Fall Out Boy? They were not a band. “Radium was widely used in self-luminous clock and watch hands, until too many factory workers died of it,” the tiny square fact card recounts, briefly, a tragedy of the historical oppression of working women—

without mentioning women. I read, and read, and read, the glow of the computer screen much like the glow of that lethal radium, this story of suffering pressing on my mind as Poly Styrene’s harsh-yet-brilliant voice pressed against my ears, X-Ray Spex still blaring through my headphones.

*****

The large red letters, the two letters that denote this ethereal murderer:

Ra like that ancient Egyptian sun-god, glowing and beautiful with his seemingly infinite power. Ra’s daughter Sekhmet became a warrior goddess, with the head of a lioness and clothed all in red; much as radium’s daughters became cloaked in red, as greed spilled their blood.

Much later, years later, my sister and I lounged on the couch, indulging in our shared guilty pleasure, 1,000 Ways to Die. Gratuitously violent and darkly humorous, death after death flicked across the screen. This one, though, a little different. A girl, young, maybe twenty, many decades ago. She wanted to impress her boyfriend, stole some paint from the factory where she worked, painted her lips, nails, teeth with that mysteriously glowing paint she worked with every day, painting the numbers onto watches. Of course she died; it was radium paint, which eventually killed most of her coworkers, albeit more slowly… but that wasn’t mentioned on the show. My sister snorted, rolled her eyes: “How could she be that stupid?” So I explained. The Radium Girls, weren’t stupid. They were the ones whose deaths proved that radium was deadly. They got sick, suffered, died, casualties of history for the sake of a pretty timepiece.

“The U.S. Radium Corporation hired approximately 70 women to perform various tasks including the handling of radium, while the owners and the scientists familiar with the effects of radium carefully avoided any exposure to it themselves.”

*****

The “Radium Girls” weren’t a band; they were victims of ignorance and corporate avarice, told to lick their paint brushes to a fine point as they traced the tiny numbers onto the faces of clocks so that they could read the time in the dark, as the Radium Girls’ time slowly ticked away. Now, they sleep in lead caskets, mostly forgotten, except when I hear Poly Styrene shout, squeakily counting out the beat “One, two, three, four!” like the numbers on all those ticking clocks.

*****

No, the "Radium Girls" weren’t a band, but that’s what I named my playlist. .

Sarah Burnts

Fun Fall

Liz Taylor

City Two

Joel Cline

Fire Over Ice in a Glass One drink can change an entire night. Anger burning, our words strike low in fire light. Her expression pained, “How could you do this?” In the past I’ve said many hurtful things. Alcohol is the darker side of me. I tried tonight to make my good side sing, but she doesn’t trust my demons. No matter how nice I play it my tone caring, affectionate, and kind, my decision made her cold as ice. So, she lashes out this time. Harsh words soak below our skin and now, our fight tonight begins.

Aylish Morehouse

Daily News

Liz Taylor

Golden Mean

Amanda Roy

PNW Buster

Jay Gunter

“Wandy” From an email sent to John Vera, Account Data Manager of Corridor Water and Power of Browning City, Washington by former Assistant Meter Reader Joshua Blake (some names and details have been changed in the interest of privacy; no email addresses have been included here)

So with that, as much as I’m afraid to, I am writing this as my final resignation as Assistant Meter Reader. The company has been good to work for, and the pay has been alright, but I feel that I must make this move. As you have guessed, my resigning has to do with what happened on Friday, April the 11th up in the Hangman Fields area. You have asked me several times about what happened that day, and I know that I have been reluctant to talk about it. Because you have been a pretty decent guy, and give [sic] me a shot at this job two years ago, I feel that I should tell you, even though you’ll pretty much think I’m crazy. I so far haven’t told anyone, except for my wife, and I’m pretty much sure she thinks I’m crazy and that breaks my heart. I didn’t even tell Wade after it happened, but he could tell I was shoken [sic] up pretty bad as I am sure you know from you and Jack and Brenda questioning him. So here it is. Wade and I were out taking care of Can’t Reads out at Hangman Fields. We were nearly done with that part of Route 14, and we were heading to do the last read of the area, the vault in the trees in back of 11221 S. Aimslee. We parked the truck in front of the residence. Because the vault the meter was in was clear off in the woods in back of the house, we both decided to knock on the customer’s door and get an all’s good for traipsing on their property. I knocked on the door a couple times while Wade got the manhole tool from the truck cab. Iwernt [sic] and then rang the doorbell after I got no answer from knocking. Wade was already heading around to the side of the house, and I started to get off the porch to join him, when the door opened. An older lady answered. She smelled really bad, and there were sores all over her face. I figured she

was a meth head scratching at bugs under her skin. Anyway, I started to explain that we were going to read her water meter, and we needed to go out in back of her property to get to the vault where her meter was at, when she said something like, “Have you seen my Wandy?” I told her that, no, I had not. And she said, “Keep an eye out. He digs.” And then she went back in and closed the door. So I shrugged and went off to join Wade in back of the house. I figured the lady was talking about a pet, named Randy not Wendy, since she said “He digs.” So I got ready to look for a dog or a cat, probably a dog. I hate running into dogs as you know, so I grabbed my can of dog spray in my jacket and kept an eye out like the lady said. As I went around the side of the house, I heard a window open and the lady inside start yelling, “Randy! Randy!” Only she didn’t say the R right, so it sounded like “Wandy! Wandy!” The property behind the house was open and there was no fence. The meter was far past the house, way into the trees, according to the route map. I couldn’t see Wade, but he had the work tablet, so I figured once I ran into him, he’d be by the vault. When I reached Wade, he was waiting for me at the top of the vault. He had the manhole tool and was waiting for me to help him get the cover off. He asked about the customer and I told him about the lady with the sores on her face and about her pet Wandy. We could here [sic] her calling from the house every once in a while. We got the manhole cover off and placed aside. Wade said there was a light switch down in the vault, on the north side, and he said where the meter was. I told him he should go down, since he knew the inside of the vault, but he said I should do it since I’d need to go there on my own now I was a Corridor employee and no longer a temp. I agreed, and I took the tablet and started climbing down the rungs to the inside of the vault. The first thing I noticed was that the inside of the vault stank. It was bad. It was a little like the lady at the house, only ten times worse. The smell was like a sewer pipe that was clogged with a dead cat, at least that was what I thought of when I went down. I yelled something to Wade up top and he said probably something had got in and died in there. I made a joke and started to look for the light switch. I found it and tried it, but it didn’t work. Then I searched for the meter and found it next to

some irrigation controls. The meter was in the dark, in a corner of the vault that light from the open cover didn’t reach. I forgot to bring my flashlight, so I called to Wade to see if he’d brought his. He didn’t answer, so I called to him again and got no answer. I waited for a bit, then I decided to use the flashlight on my phone, even though it was low on it’s [sic] battery. I started to here [sic] whispering then. The vault was a small one, but it had an L shape at one end, with a corner going around a bend. The bend was dark, and I heard somebody whispering over in there. I automatically thought that Wade was messing around. I raised my voice and told him to not bother with trying to scare me. The way my wife gets every month at a certain time, I’ve been scared by the best—something like that. The whispering stopped. I recorded the meter read on the tablet. Then I went to the corner of the vault where I thought I heard Wade. I quietly went to the corner. I had killed the flashlight on my phone to save on the battery. I went to the edge. I jumped and yelled Boo! The space around the corner was totally black. And there was someone back in the corner in the dark. I could feel it, and I could also feel that it was not Wade in there. Soten [sic] I said something I don’t know what, but something was screaming in me, screaming that I shouldn’t be standing there like that close to what was there in the dark standing . I said, “Wade” and then what was in the dark moved forward, and I backed up. What was in the dark was whispering again, though I couldn’t haer [sic] what. I started going fast toward the steps. The smell was worst [sic] now like a gas. What was in the dark stepped into the light from the opening. [Some portions of the email following this sentence are withheld from public scrutiny by request of Mr. Blake and his legal advisors] I got to the top of the rungs and I was outside. I don’t remember much past then. I remember picking up the manhole cover with my bare hands and getting it back onto the hole. I scraped both hands bad and tore two fingernails off because I didn’t use the tool. I remember rushing past Wade, who was standing a ways away from the vault looking at something. I remember hearing the lady off somewhere

calling “WANDY! WANDY!” The [sic] I remember being driven back to the Corridor offices by Wade. You know the rest. I was bad off for a long time. I know Fran was pissed, and was upset that we’d be sued or something. Wade knows that the whole thing was weird from the beginning, that whole place. He went back to get the tablet I dropped when I put the manhole cover back on and he said he could smell that smell from the vault coming up from the holes in the cover. And once, when we were alone after our meeting with Jack and Brenda, he said that when he went to get the tablet (he told me he was away from the vault because he thought he saw the old lady wandering around in the trees at one point, still calling Wandy), he was sure he saw the cover move on the opening—just a quick movement up and down, and he rushed back to the truck after that, and I know he didn’t tell any of you guys that, and I don’t blame him. He wants to keep his job, and he didn’t see what I saw down in the vault. What did I see? I can’t describe it. I tried, but I can’t do it. But I think I can come close. When I was a boy, I used to live over near Colville. My folks had this little place. And we had an outbuilding that was off at the edge of the property, like a barn. And in the summertime, we’d get these spiders in there. Big, fat corn spiders. Orange and fleshy and covered with this [sic] bristly spines all over them. Sometimes my mom would make me take a broom and sweep their webs and them out from the corners. So they wouldn’t land in her hair when she went to get her gardening tools. After many summers of spider hunting, I started to hate those things. They weren’t poisonous, but they were gross, and if I got a bad patch of them, I was sure to get one or two crawling all over me, inside my shirt, up my pants legs. What stepped out of the dark in the control vault on the lady’s property was like a man. But it was also like those corn spiders. It was fleshy and nobby [sic] and covered with those bristly spines instead of hair. And I think I remember two eyes in the head that were like a dead fish [no closing punctuation] So you and everyone else at Corridor will now think I’m crazy. I hope you won’t, but I know at least some of you will. I dream about that vault a lot. It’s hard to sleep. I tried to come back to work as you know. But when I get into tight, dark places, I think I hear that whispering, and think I can smell

that smell. It’s just my imagination, l’m sure, but I don’t think I can do what I have to do for Corridor anymore. If I had to go down into another vault again, I think I’d die. You have been a good guy, John. Thank you and everyone else for taking a chance on me. I feel like I’m crapping out on you and Brenda and all the rest. But I just can’t do that kind of work anymore.

Rachel Clark

Untitled

Anyeh Bolen

Foil

D. E. Lybbert

You Can Rise Watch through the eyes held open by matchsticks. See as everything kills you in kind ways. Decent people are saying the nicest best wishes. Hear the white noise whisper and eddy into omens, read the shadows like thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s you pursuing your dreams, having nightmares instead. Unfortunately, your home caught fire and burned to the ground. You were inside and breathed empty breaths. Every path before you led to a kind of death. For reasons unknown, you were rescued this time. You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to stay. Poised within the charred remains, you can rise.

Jayden Avena

Untitled

Nicholas DeCaro

Elephants

Calven S Eldred

Howie I wake up, and open my eye. The other eye is sealed shut, maybe with sleep detritus. I lift my hand to wipe it clear, but I don’t. My arm won’t rise. I push into the pillow, and the eye will not open. It is so heavy. I have sunk into this bed, I am so heavy I cannot move. This is not my bed. I realize that the good eye has closed again, so I let it be. My head hurts a little, so I decide to get a little more sleep before I get up to find a mirror. “Calven.” No. “Calven, are you awake?” You know I’m awake, that’s why you’re talking. I open my eye again. He looks like Howie Long, only dressed in scrubs. Howie Long is either an actor from the nineties, a football player, or possibly someone from my high school. I am thinking about this while he is still talking, so I miss his name. That’s all right, though. He’s wearing a name tag. My eye flickers to it. That’s odd. I can’t read. “You still with me, Calven?” I am noncommittal. I stop trying to read his nametag, because I’ve noticed that my wrists are in restraints. I still can’t open that eye. I am less heavy overall, but my head is still so very heavy. I try to speak, but there’s something in my mouth. It’s really in there, I should be choking. What is all this? Howie puts a hand near my shoulder, but doesn’t touch me. “You’re okay. Do you know where you are?” The I.V and the beeping monitor clue me in to the word ‘hospital,’ but I have little else. I shake my head, which is an agonizing mistake. “You’re in the hospital. In the I.C.U at Sacred Heart.” Sacred Heart? Try again, that’s in Spokane. “You’ve had brain surgery, Calven,” he holds up his hand. “It went very well. Okay?’ No. What I’m going to do is fake going back to sleep, and wait for Howie to go away. “I called your doctor, he’s on his way right now. Your family, too. They’ll be here soon.” After he goes away, I’ll slip the restraints. Get this thing out of my mouth, pull out that I.V. If I’m at Sacred Heart, I’m not far away from Third Avenue. I’m hungry. I’ll get out of the bed and find

my wallet. Somebody screwed up somewhere, and I don’t know what they are trying to pull. Howie will get tired of talking, and go away. I’ll sneak out of here, the security can’t be all that observant. I’ll get myself down to Carl’s Junior, and get a Guacamole Burger. Take a minute to figure this out, and how to elude these people and get home. Maybe a nap first. I still don’t know how I got here. I apparently listened to my doctor a little while ago, but would swear I’ve been asleep until now. My left eye won’t open because that side of my face has collapsed. I can see the swollen flesh when I swivel my eye. It makes a little hill visible past my nose. There is a dressing over my head. They said the thing in my mouth is a ventilator. Where is she? My mom is still with me. I want to ask her what happened. Where is she? Was it a car accident? It was, wasn’t it? She died, that’s why she isn’t here. No one wants to be the one to tell me. I start to cry. I close my eye so I don’t have to see her face as I cry. My hands work overtime like John Lennon said. I want to ask. The tears itch. My hands reach. I pantomime a writing motion. She snatches a post it pad and a pen for me. She holds the pad. I scratch at it. I still can’t put the letters together. What I write looks like Woodstock’s speech balloons from old Peanuts comic strips. I drop the pen, and push buttons with my thumb. The tears itch with a vicious fire. She sets her phone to text, and puts the phone in my hand. Tears itch. I know she’ll wipe them; she always has. Tears. T. That’s a T! The eight button. T. I push it again. No. What is the next? I push the T. My mother is as helpless as I am. TTTTTTTTTTTTTTT There are two of them, and they are here to remove the hated ventilator. He speaks far too quickly for me to understand what he is saying clearly, but I get keywords. My oxygen is much better. That’s probably because I’m lying down on a bed. Air gets thinner as it rises, so the oxygen is better down here. You guys should try it. “All right, Calven. We’re going to get this out, then a nurse will be by to clean your incision and staples, and change that dressing.” Okay. A nurse? Do you mean Howie? Did you guys know that she threw me out of the house? I don’t have a life to go back to if I live through all this shit. Did I live? Is this all some kind of stupid Beetlejuice afterlife? Bad news, coach. I don’t think we made it. “You alright there, boss?” “Btljzz. Btljzz. Btljzz.”

“Don’t try to talk yet. Soon, okay? Just nod.” I shake my head a little. That hurts a little less than it did. He’s still trying to figure out what I mean when a third man in scrubs enters the room. The talker of the two already present nods at him. The new guy checks some kind of machine on the other side of the room. He comes over to us. “Ventilator?” “Right.” The new guy gestures at me. “Do you mind if I...first?” “Of course.” I am drastically mistaking the hierarchy of these two men. The new guy is not asking the respiratory tech’s permission in any way. I don’t know this. He is looking into my eyes. He nods, and smiles. “Hey.” I give him the ‘sup’ nod. “I gotta do something here. This might seem a little weird.” He reaches behind my ear, and gives a quick little grin. His fingers are moving around, under the dressing. He is about to pull a quarter from behind my ear. Then he’ll turn and pull one from the other man’s ear, and drop it in a bedpan. Then he’ll pick up the bedpan to catch all the coins coming from the silent man, pouring a cascade of glittering silver dollars and quarters and gold doubloons. When Howie comes in to investigate all the noise, the purple scrubbed Magician will yank the curtain from over my bed, and toss it in the air. It will settle over Howie. When he pulls it away, Howie will be a tiger. The Magician will spin and dissolve into a mist, and disappear. My ear tickles a little when he draws a glass tube of blood from somewhere back there. Somewhere. He pulled that out of my head. I am awakened from the magic show. He holds it up to the light. He looks down at me with that grin again. “This is really good.” How do you know? You didn’t even taste it. He is quick. He reaches back there again. I close my eyes, it is cold, whatever he is doing. Holy shit, he pulls another tube out of my head. This one I can see better as he holds it to the light. There is a golden streak of something in there with the blood. He puts his hand back behind my ear again. This is amazing. The glass tubes must be originating somewhere deep inside my body. They

gather at my tailbone, and enter my spine. My spine acts as a conveyor belt, pushing them through one by one to the aperture in my head, and they are full of gold and blood. He is so pleased with these tubes, I feel I’ve accomplished something. “Fantastic.” he says under his breath. He touches my arm, then the arm of the man I still think is in charge, and he leaves. “All right. We’re ready to rock here, buddy. Just stay relaxed, okay? We’ll have that thing out of there in a second. Just keep it opened.” It is moving. “Okay, we’re getting-” “Urgh.” “No, don’t! Don’t try to-” It fills my throat. I can’t breathe. My head and spine are full of glass. I have to sit up. I have to get out of these restraints. She doesn’t love me and I have to get up. They are holding me down and shouting. The lights are turning gray. My eyes are hot, and hurt. Air. I suck it in. Spools of drool are stringing from my mouth. One of them invites itself back into my mouth with the inhalation. My stomach has had enough of all of this. I vomit with force. I pant. The taste is uncannily bitter. It’s like taking a shot of aquavit in a room with a burning tire. Before I fall back asleep, I hear the other man speak for the first and last time. “Fuck.”

Charlayna Adams

The Passageway

Rebekah Price

All Along the Watchtower

Calven S Eldred

Phoebe I am now on the eighth floor of the hospital. I to this day don’t exactly know where the I.C.U. is. This is the neuroscience wing. The nurse who tends me now is Phoebe. It says so right there on her nametag. She looks like a naughty nurse costume model even though she wears regular scrubs. She opens the blinds and I can see all the way to the north side of the city under the glorious sun. “Good morning, Calven. How we feeling?” “Hi. Good.” She is writing her name on the whiteboard, as well as the name of the nursing assistant. “You know where you are, right?” “Eighth floor. Sacred Heart. Spokane. Washington. United States of America…” “Okay, okay. Shut up. Any idea what the date is?” “June.” “June.” she nods. “June…” “Sixth.” “Meh. Twenty seventh. That’s okay, though.” She writes the date on the whiteboard. She hands me a sheet of paper. “What do you make of this?” I want to quote a joke from Airplane. “A hat, a brooch, or a pterodactyl!” But this is probably not the time. I look at it. It has a line drawing in black and white. It looks like a page from a coloring book. An inattentive June Cleaver housewife in an apron is feather dusting a refrigerator. The kitchen sink is overflowing with water. There is a pot on the stove with flames coming from it. Two children have assembled a makeshift rickety ladder to reach a cookie jar. I point out the discrepancies. “Okay, good.” She has a jar of something and what looks like an eight inch long Q tip. “I’m not sure I like the look of this. Do we need a safeword?” She laughs. “Oh my God. No. It’s an ointment for your staples. It might sting, but it will stop the itching.” She leans forward to apply it, and chuckles. “You. Safeword, holy shit.” After she leaves, I take out my phone. I have posted some photos of myself to Facebook, and let people know what’s happening. It is gratifying to read messages of support from my scattered friends. I do not tell them that I feel like a ghost.

I have downloaded a Chuck Wendig novel on the Kindle app. His prose is fast paced, and plot heavy. It seems like a good approach rather than a writer with denser prose, like Neal Stephenson or Alastair Reynolds. I make three paragraphs before a headache and exhaustion make me drop the phone. It takes me a little while to realize I am crying and dozing at the same time. I sleep until the next thing happens. That turns out to be a blood draw. I sleep again. My family arrives. I visit, then I sleep. Phoebe comes and goes. Every morning she asks me the date, and shows me the picture. One night, I look at my Kindle library for a while. I then open Netflix, and start watching Parks and Rec. I have never seen a single episode. I will watch all seven seasons over the course of the next couple of days. Television narratives will no longer do, so I descend into a cocoon of music at night. I cry. I rage. I converse with the music. VNV Nation asks me who I am and who I will become. Tom Waits howls. New Order and Oingo Boingo tell me stories of better times. Depeche Mode comforts and stings me. I, like everyone else on this planet, have to decide what to live for. Not deciding is itself a decision. I can see that in the past several years of my life. A shrill cry from the hallway interrupts my self-absorption, and I remove my headphones. Bowie is tinnily singing “Lady Stardust” on my chest. The door to my room opens, and I glimpse her. I’m not sure if she’s a teenager or slightly older. I’ve heard her before. I suspect she is not here voluntarily. I have no idea what brought her here, but can tell she needs help. Arms seize her from behind and drag her back into the shadows of the hallway. She screams. “You know you can’t go in there!” “I can go for walks! They told me! I have rights! They told me!” The security people are dragging her way. I can hear her bare feet slapping the floor as she kicks. They are doing what they have to do, but I wonder if she just wants to say hello. She must be lonely. She must be alone. Her screams are profane as they wrestle her back into her room. I’m sure the restraints are in her future. Phoebe and her team run past. I watch the doorway, and listen as she quiets down. It happens so quickly I’m sure sedation is

involved. Minutes later, I hear Phoebe and a security guard approaching my room. They are arguing. Her voice is a furious whisper. She stands outside my room with her arms folded. She is glaring at him. “We have to schedule two extra people every shift because of her! Now the E.R has to be short someone for two days. How do you like that?” “I don’t. But that is not. Her. Fault. Come back with a better attitude.” “I’ll come back with a fucking cage.” She looks at the floor as he leaves. Eventually, she turns, and enters my room. She still has her arms folded. She looks up at me. “You didn’t hear that.” “I didn’t hear a thing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She nods, looking down again. “I know you can’t talk about that girl. Like whatever problems she has, or what brought her here. Patient privacy. I used to work at a hospital in the kitchen, and we had to shred the little cards that said if a patient had a no sugar diet or no salt or whatever.” “Right.” she’s looking at me now. “You could talk about you, though. If it would help. You could tell me how someone could make you feel better.” Her eyes are wet. She stares at me for a little while. “I.” She will not let herself cry. “It’s just hard sometimes to even figure out how to start to help someone, even when they desperately need help. I don’t know how to-” she shakes her head. “I just need to go home.” “Watch a boring movie so you fall asleep. Sleep is awesome.” “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning, Calven. We’ll do the thing with the picture again.” “Cool.” She pauses in the doorway and looks over her shoulder. “By the way. I totally saw you sneak a peek at your phone this morning when I asked you the date. Cheater.” She smiles, and goes. “What do you make of this?” “Well, I’m not sure about it.” “No?” Phoebe frowns. “Well, the whole thing kind of depends on some stereotypical norms, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m supposed to think she’s a bad mother, right? There’s a fire, water all over the place, all that. Her kids are up to some shenanigans, and she’s too wrapped up in a minor domestic task to notice what’s up.

The whole framework is that my cognition is judged by my recognition that it’s normal for-” “Okay, okay.” Phoebe snatches the picture from my hand. “Shut up. You’re meant to tell me what’s going on, not deconstruct it. I think we’re all done with this thing.” She drops the picture in the slot where my chart is held. “I got you that razor we talked about. They’re not very good. Single blade disposable. Do you want to shave now?” “Mm. After breakfast.” “Okay. I saw your physical therapist earlier. She’s bringing stairs.” “Oh. Like portable ones? I thought it would be a little field trip to the real stairs.” “No. If you fall on the real stairs, you’re effed. This thing has four steps. Up and down, up and down. She’s going to kick your ass today.” “Do the stairs have wheels? That sounds like standing on an office chair.” “They have brakes, you goof. Go ahead and push, but don’t push too hard, okay?” “Okay.” “The nutritionist told me yesterday that you don’t ever really put in an order for a meal.” “I guess not. They just bring me whatever.” “You have a menu right there, you could get other stuff.” Her gaze is unnerving me. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t care.” I suppress a flinch. She is dangerously close to sensing that I am a ghost, and I go through many motions to please her, and others. When I make her laugh, when I flirt, she doesn’t know how empty I am, how numb and terrified I am that I have no life to return to. “Well, okay. It’s right there, though.” She points at me with the razor. “I swear to God, Calven, if you get up again by yourself, I will- No. You know what? I’m not even leaving the razor here. You call when you’re ready to shave, okay?” “Okay.” She is right to be concerned. Two days ago, I got out of bed and crossed the room to the bathroom and peed without supervision. It was stupid, and stubborn. I hold onto my desire to move like a buoy. I want to get out of the bed. I work very hard with the physical therapist, I walk down the hall. We do laps around the wing. I go up four stairs, and stand to survey the nurse’s station. I rest up there, and let the sweat run down my back. I grip the rail when I come back down. I go until she makes me stop. It is a speck of light, but I do want something. I want to move.

Virginia Krehmke

Thought in Process

Kiara Lime

Palais d'Avignon

Tyler Waite

Hands of a Fly Fisherman Chapped, scar-riddled fingers, nails stained translucent olive framed by delicate, folded flesh, tendered motionless by the fire between each brittle phalange.

A left finger, which bears a band of gold, reminds him of her. The same hands that held hers and embraced the silky trout caught by her careful wrists. The hands that united them until her last moments; the hands that will hold her again soon.

Precision is but a memory of wielding ink, to capture affection with each stroke or to flatten the barb on a size 16 before helping the young subimago emerge. Thumbs callused and abrasive, that once bled by the hands of countless â&#x20AC;&#x153;Brookies,â&#x20AC;? Cutthroats and Rainbows. A right palm where blisters never cease to dwell, beckoned by constant chafing against the polished, aged cork handle, as the rod springs in and out of eyesight launching the handmade attraction to float alongside its reflection.

Beth Smith

Star Fish

Debra Sullivan

Best Friends

Megan Leone

Souvenir There we stand in a glossy photo with purple orchids pinned to our chests surrounded by lights, kept safe in a cheap cloth frame. It has the backdrop of Bangkok, and before us is a flashy river cruiser. The golden glow of brilliant temple lights reflect off of the Yellow River and our vessel carries us toward a mouth that cannot smile. It reeks of a city, of exhaust, of heat on pavement, and a new idea of impoverishment. I can feel the pain in his eyes from the alley food that should not have ever been eaten. This picture in paradise does not dress our mantle. It is not displayed proudly for all to see. What it reminds me of each time is my despondent self. So I tuck it away, like I do all the things I wish not to feel. I hate this picture because I hate the girl in it. But I love the man standing next to her. When our bodies are old and our hair is grey, maybe then can I recover that photo from a dusty place.

Justin Jakeway

10 Minutes We approached the den with confidence and caution, aware of everything around us: birds chirping a warning, the whisper of distant voices, adrenalin- fueled beats of our hearts and the thump of approaching soft footsteps. The afternoon sun radiated down on the keepers and me, stabbing with knives of fire, ordering us to retreat to the refreshing cool of the office. That is when we saw her. Eyes of gold, powerful paws the size of dinner plates, stripes tangled and thick as a jungle. Her presence should be feared by all and yet with a gentle tone, we said hello to the ferocious feline. Softly she touched her nose to my hand and lifted a look of love and appreciation as only a mother could do. I was briefed on many safety instructions but none were impressed upon me more than to stay calm and breathe. One last deep breath and I was ready. I opened the door and stepped in with the tiger. Instantly the fear hit me with the force of a hurricane, washing over me and I began to tremble. My senses peaked into high definition. I could feel every hair follicle tighten and become erect. I saw beads of sweat clinging to my Director’s neck in the distance, and twigs snapping on the far side of the compound captured my ears. “Be calm and breathe,” I reminded myself. It wasn’t the fear of death that consumed me but fear of the tiger. Frame by frame she evolved from cat to predator, doubling in size and looming over us like a roaring volcano. I shrunk back slowly, shivering in the scorching heat. Eyes wide, heart hammering, chest burning, legs weak. Inhale; I fixated on the tiger and she on me, nothing else existed but the space we shared. Her gaze dropped as she blinked in acceptance of my presence. She turned and positioned herself comfortably on her bed; exhale. I drew another breath. And another. And another, but still my lungs felt as trapped in my chest as I did in this cage. I waited for my Director’s signal to meet this creature face to face with no barriers, a dream I’ve had since before my first words. Now instead of enthusiasm and pure pleasure, there was only terror.

When she lay down, that was my cue to kneel next to her. The few feet between us seemed to be a chasm I felt compelled to cross. However, my body betrayed me and became as rooted as a tree. The need to move and the need to stay battled in my brain. Taking control, I moved my legs, like how a puppeteer moves his puppets. I finally reached the beast and bowed down beside her. They told me, “Pet her.” The words echoed in my head over and over like they were in another language and I couldn’t comprehend them. Finally, I reached out and, with a hand that resembled a leaf in the autumn wind, I touched the tiger, my knee barely brushing her hip. The sensation of her fur was soothing and gave me a sense of enlightenment. Peace and calm had finally come and I remembered to breathe. I scratched her back with my fingertips confidently following her stripes. She turned with the grace and fluidity of a dancer to look at me and her eyes said, “You can do better than that.” Now that I had her permission, I took a deeper breath and vigorously ran my fingers through the velvety vines that wrapped her in a blanket of orange and black. My hand was a bird, gliding effortlessly through the course jungle between the tiger’s neck to her hips. Beyond the canopy of her course guard hair, I stopped occasionally to immerse my hand in the downy layer that lie beneath. Under that, I found the gentle roll of her ribs, revealing her old age. Her head forcefully shook in approval saying, “Ah yes! That feels amazing.” A connection formed between me and my feline friend that forced my mind to focus solely on the understanding, respect and friendship we shared. Had this moment prolonged any more, I would have been lost forever in the world of the tiger. The realization of what I was doing overjoyed me to the point of forgetting the reason we were here. As I surfaced back to reality, I looked up and saw the camera poised and ready to capture this beautiful moment. I gave my usual smirking smile at first, but the emotions pulsating in me evolved the smirk into a smile that a child gives on Christmas morning while opening his presents. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of all the hardships I had endured to survive to this moment. The pain, rejection, depression, anger and criticism all made it worthwhile. This was what I’ve wanted since I was a child. This kind of magic gave me a new mission to carry on. It gave me a purpose, a sense of pride.

All I had been feeling since walking through the door penetrated me all at once. The panic, the excitement, a longing to never leave and the fear to move all rushed inside me, drowning me in a whirlpool emotions. “Remember to breathe,” I told myself again. As I gazed at the big cat, details of her that seemed so small now consumed my vision. The stripes on her face and body framed her beauty in an angelic way that made her glow; her muscles gracefully sheathed her wild power, intimidating all those who bask in her majesty, her tail as long as the Nile and flowing just as smoothly while her low rolling throaty trill comforted us with unconditional love. The sheer magnificence of this creature puts all those who watch her under a hypnotic spell. It was time to go. I shared one last glance into her gentle loving eyes and in that flicker of time we both said, “Thank you.” As I reluctantly slid my hand from her fur and stood up, the feelings I had of bliss vanished like a pebble dropped into the ocean. I felt nothing but fear dragging me down deeper and deeper into the dark abyss, and I wanted to feel peace again. Begrudgingly, I forced my feet to move back towards the door. As I stepped out I felt the burning in my chest again and swallowed another breath. I stared back at her one last time, longing for her comfort. I wondered how much time had passed while I was in there. Surely it had to be at least half an hour or more. I puzzled over the clock and found it had only been ten minutes.

Anyeh Bolen

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Elizabeth Honrud

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Deanna Strang

Sunflower 70s Still Life

Rebekah Price

That Single-Serving Bottle of Tabasco In the hospital lies much of my childhood. No, not me, for my mother was the one whose head rested, haloed by sterile white. Drugs flowed freely as surgeries lined up, each eager to take another piece. Each eager to take another year, and render it incapable. She remembers almost nothing, periods of black where her hospital visits lie, birthday presents given in the distance of an IV line. Stories read over the phone with her voice sounding healthy, but knowing her finger was on that button, making her eyes droop, drip by drip.

She comes home only sometimes, with hands bearing gifts. She opens her fingers and drops the tiny bottle into mine, remnant of a meal full of tasteless eggs served for breakfast, small and glassy, with only one use. I know I will never use it. It sits on my shelf, framed by dust motes next to the other ones, from my friends, from the military. It sits, a reminder of bland food falling to ash in my mouth. Of dead leaves in the cold frost and sterile white which seems to run through my veins.

Deanna Strang

Decay

Teresa Mendoza

Abearican Gothic

Charlayna Adams

Over the Bridge

Keely Brennan

Roots

Kalli Herpin

The Narcissist’s Daughter Your demons have taken refuge in the darkest part of my belly, but no more. Freedom’s fingertips push at the back of my throat. I’ll lift the woolly veil from my eyes one last time; inhale and exhale. My reality is not what you say it is and the pungent stench of your lies has lingered long enough. With clear eyes, I now know that your devilish grin is only a curtain, I now see a mask hiding the fangs envenomed with the sharpest words responsible for tearing me apart. My bones may be picked clean, flesh scattered and tendons dangling. But father – my heart still beats.

Sydney Wallace

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Rebekah Price

Fear Samael

JJ Abbot

What Blooms from the Gaping Wound I gently poke at my wound with a submerged finger. My parents are the best, or so they say, with words that bloom from their mouths like roses that listeners pick with delight and take home. The water’s so cold, but I can’t reach forward to turn the spout and fill it up again. I was the child who ate the weeds little girls made into crowns, and the catnip from Mom’s garden, too. But in secret, I would taste the flowers that Mom and Dad spoke I crushed the petals between my teeth— I’ve been in the bathtub for three hours now— and had to spit them out. It took me an hour to get in. Years ago, when my brother was one head taller, two years older, three times stronger, his face would contort into something angry. It took him a few seconds to catch me or to hold me in place, and then he would leave a scarlet handprint on my back or melt my skin by dragging me across the carpet. Nothing grew that day. Mom and Dad didn’t open their mouths to stop him.

Gingerly, I stick my finger inside. I remember the night when the sun disappeared from the sky and drowned in the lake it set into. Mom opened my bedroom door and towered over my crumpled form on the floor. I was crying. She said something along the lines of Stop crying or Why are you crying so much? or What is it? I described to her how I’d seen the last of the sun, how the world had turned to winter. I don’t want to be here, I said. I can feel the flesh. I go deeper… I don’t want to be anywhere, I said. I’m up to my second knuckle. I want to die, Mom, I want to die. It hurts--IT HURTS! She opened her mouth, and lodged inside her throat was a bundle of green leaves and little white flowers with four petals bearing berries such a deep violet you’d think they were black. She plucked those berries from her tongue, those atropa belladonna, and shoved them into my mouth and stepped on my head to make my jaw close and turned right around and slammed the door shut. I take my finger out, tears running down my cheeks.

My parents visited the zoo almost every day. It only had one exhibit and one creature stored inside that was so afraid to show its face in fear that it would see Mom’s disgust, that Dad would grab it and kiss it when it begged him to let go, let go, let go, let go of me! That its brother would shake his head and turn away not even bothering to play with it anymore. They would just stare into the exhibit. Deep breath. I have to see how damaged I am. I would just stare back. Finger goes back in. Two knuckles again… it doesn’t hurt as bad this time. Maybe because I’m doing this more slowly. My parents are the best because they gave me a roof over my worthless head, my ungrateful ass got to eat every day, I was never beaten, not even spanked. Your parents are the best, or so the counselors said. Why haven’t Mom and Dad taken me to a hospital yet? Why don’t they do anything, even when I’m screaming every time I move…? How could I blame them for believing that the roses that bloomed from my parents’ mouths were as beautiful and real as Mom and Dad made them out to be? It feels smooth. I don’t dare put any pressure on it. I would look deep into the counselors’ eyes and hope that they would look back and see a child’s--a creature’s--last resort, a helpless plea

for them to take it away from its mom and dad. Maybe find someone who could love it even in the moments when it wasn’t happy and perfect. Oh my God. It’s my bone. Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God. Maybe I should’ve called CPS for child neglect but I would never open my mouth, not when there was even the slightest chance that they would hear me and abuse me for real. I felt the infection everywhere; in my bloodstream like I’d been stung by a venomous insect. My body felt heavy. It hurt to wake up. It hurt to shift my hips, to eat, to swallow, to simply exist. Every morning, when I tried to get out of my bed, the pain would rip me in half. I didn’t know I could scream so loud. A few times, Dad would give me a rag to stuff into my mouth. but he and Mom would do nothing more, no condolences, no pain pills, just a begrudgingly cold, “You don’t have to go to school today.” After my surgery, I couldn’t walk without assistance for six months. I found my grandmother’s cane and hobbled down the halls in shame. I didn’t dare use it inside the house. When someone speaks and flowers bloom from their mouths, I can’t tell if they’re false, so I accept them politely and take them home and put them in an exhibit where I can admire them from afar and think of how much easier it was to suffer my wound than to hear my parents speak.

James Olsen

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Rochelle Zepeda

Vertebrae

Allyson Gwiazda

The Lines Are Soft and This Room is Crowded but You Are Warm I’m trying to look into you but the music’s too loud and the air is gray so I smile to the direction I last remember you in. I can’t tell if it’s space between us or my lazy eye that’s making everything blurry either way I can’t distinguish you from any other animal in this basement. You are drunk and the stench of it 1. sits on top of your clothes 2. warms your breath 3. cools your touch 4. unwinds you like a shoelace with the top cut off Through the bass, the smoke, the buzz you still see my hair you reach out to smooth the frizz and I drag your delicate hand to my cheek.

I think my tongue is glued to my teeth as if I chewed a spoonful of flour Which means I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell you that your skin is so soft I want to be swallowed by it or how much your voice reminds me of the first woman I needed to hurt me.

Madeline Robb

This is Not

Liz Taylor

Trails

Laura Thomas

Polaris They say the North Star gave direction to sailors lost at sea, so she plucked a star from the midnight sky and laid it in my open palm. A compass, for I’d be lost without you. Her gentle hands anchored Polaris ‘round my neck, bound to Earth with only a dainty golden chain, burning bright, glinting crystalline in the dim candlelight. Cold metal heated with the fire of our passion as she traced constellations into my skin.

He never learned that you can’t beat the golden beams from a sun that You can’t stifle the ocean. She plucked a star from the midnight sky, and when it threatened to flicker out and die, She gave me Polaris to light my way home.

Her star never left the neck he crushed with his vicious hands. and as I fought him, Polaris guided me through his murky, turbulent waters.

Anyeh Bolen

Balloon on Neptune's Rings

Jessica Raugust

Pink I hold her quivering head in my hands, the fur so soft, like Grandma's kiss on my cheek. I give one last farewell, massaging her ears and nod to the bringer of Death. She pushes gently, a pink fluid moves up the tube. My puppy folds into herself, white muzzle falling heavy to the floor, her back nestled against me. A packet of wildflowers sits unplanted on the shelf, beside the paw print stamped in ink. Moments etched in time, a recurring deja-vu: I uncurl Grandpa's hands, tightly clutching the air. I rub his cold feet, compression pumps moving his blood, the medical stink of the hospital around me. I pull a pink sponge out of its wrapping, and swipe it through his shriveled mouth, the strawberry flavor moistening his tongue. I leave him there, nestled in the sheets. A pair of chocolate eyes gaze into my own, her eyebrows are creamy polka dots. I scratch her belly, and, looking up, see my wildflowers, bursting through, pink.

Nicholas DeCaro

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Sarah Burnts

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Steven Gregory Anderson

My Father's Kitchen Those hated mornings: your radio playing popular tunes as if this were a good old time. When you put the bacon and greasy eggs in front of me, both of us knew I must eat it all. Every day you sent me away not once did I feel the warmth of your hand on my shoulder. You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cook my last breakfast with you. I had coffee and cigarettes. Soapsuds covered your forearms, the dishtowel hung from your elbow. Your hands had become claws. You had to hook the cups and lever the plates with your gnarled fingers. After you left for work, I broiled a steak and found your cognac. No one could have known that you slipped on the ice and lay hidden for hours while the heat from your bones slowly melted your silhouette in the deep snow. You never knew how easily I could have carried you, how strong my arms had become.

Allen Rogers

Pysche and Its Bust

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