One Giant Leap

the WRITER’S

BLOCK

LITERARY MAGAZINE

ONE GIANT LEAP UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA IN HUNTSVILLE SPRING 2017

the

WRITER’S BLOCK

LITERARY MAGAZINE

UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA IN HUNTSVILLE | SPRING 2017

THE WRITER’S BLOCK LITERARY MAGAZINE is published in Huntsville, Alabama, from The Univerisity of Alabama in Huntsville. Unsolicited manuscripts are welcome.

However, we only accept manuscripts from current students and alumni of The University of Alabama in Huntsville. If you feel that we have had your manuscript too long, please feel free to submit it elsewhere. The editorial board encourages simultaneous submissions.

All manuscripts should be submitted via email to writersblock@uah.edu, with the subject heading "Submission." Complete submission criteria can be found on our website, sites.google.com/a/uah.edu/writersblock.

All future rights belong to the respective authors.

Cover image courtesy of Hannah Thomas.

the WRITER’S BLOCK L I T E R A R Y

SPECIAL THANKS

to our generous sponsors

M A G A Z I N E LOVE&THANKS

to our advisor and mentor,

Dr. Susan Friedman

EDITING TEAM managing editor Alan Brown associate editors James Shelton Alex Williams creative director Rachel McNeill

CONTENT PHOTOGRAPHY

PROSE

8 hannah thomas 12 18 alan brown 44 26 james bateman 35 james shelton 52 garrett james hibbard

POETRY 10 50 16 23 30 32 39 48

m. e. alim garrett james hibbard allyson williams dalton reese trey cornelius alex williams l. m. darling

hannah thomas 15 35 43 ray gatsby 20 hemang jani 38

ART

kaley doster 24 lauren wright 31

DEAR READER We stand on the shoulders of giants. This magazine you hold in your hands is the third annual issue of the Writer's Block magazine, preceded by two incredible issues which have paved the way for this new collection of prose, poetry, and art that has been entirely supplied by students and alumni of the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Our club, founded in 2013, has gone from being a small, niche gathering of creative minds to a well-oiled machine dedicated to producing a quality magazine which is recognized by both the faculty and student body of this university.

Although it may seem as if we have taken one giant leap, our officers and members know that this leap was actually comprised of many small steps taken by creative students, both past and present. It is the product of late nights spent editing, stories assembled in the slivers of time between classes, and of the eagerness to share our craft with others.

The Writer's Block is immensely grateful to everyone that has assisted in the production of this magazine: all our authors, artists, editors, and volunteers have poured their heart and soul into this issue. Not only that, but our generous sponsors within the university have provided us with this opportunity because, like us, they believe that the artistic passions of our students are worth celebrating. I firmly believe that, by printing this third issue of our magazine, we have established a trend which will continue long after our current members have graduated.

Sincerely, Alan Brown President of the Writer's Block (2016-2017)

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L

A

DANZA

THE WRITER’S BLOCK | 9

I sat outside, in the cold, waiting for you again. The bench was cold, the wind was cold, and although the sun was bright, it too was cold. That doesn't really matter, though, since I was sitting in the shade, which was also cold.

Several people walked past and glanced at me, puzzled by the fact that there was someone sitting out in the cold, but no one stopped and said anything to me about it. I guess it's probably because the expression on my face was even more cold and more dead than the tree I was sitting beneath.

I sat outside, in the cold, waiting for you to come find me, which is really funny (read: pathetic) because I told you to leave me alone.

The last time I saw you, I saw you, and you saw me, and instead of meeting in the middle like we always did before, we moved like two cosmic bodies that pass each other and never meet again. You are a tangent that I wanted to follow, but I turned my face away because I told you I never wanted to see you again.

I sat outside, in the cold, waiting for you, like I always do. We are forever in a dance, two partners that are eternally twisting and turning around one another without touching. I am drawn to you, I gravitate to you, and I wonder how it is that I could be so fascinated by someone who is so normal. I've always ignored the average and the plain. Until I met you. Every time I see you, my eyes can never leave you. Every time I walk outside, I look for you, and I see the mundane as if it's a new opportunity, a grand adventure (you are my grand adventure).

I sat outside, in the cold, waiting for you to come find me, which is silly because you never look for me. I wore your shirt and your ball cap on purpose, because I thought you would see them and see me, and maybe because I wanted to smell like you and look like you and be with you, any way that I could. I snuggled inside of your things and I wished that I was snuggling inside of you. I hate being cold, and you were always so warm, and I'm sitting out here in the cold for you. I have taken this step towards you, and since we are locked in this dance, you take a step away from me, and the dance continues.

I sat outside, in the cold, waiting for you – frozen beneath a frozen sky – despite knowing that you weren't here anymore, and you hadn't been for a while. (I never wanted you to leave me here alone.)

hannah thomas

10 | THE WRITER’S BLOCK

m. e. alim

PROGRESS FOR A LOVE-SIKH SWAIN We're a Bollywood couple, she and I. Our hearts were mad; our parents disapproved.

We planned to get them to see eye to eye.

Yet, Fate struck us asunder and I moved.

We talked, she visited, and I got on.

But moments ago she called me tonight.

"They're missing," she cried. "They are simply gone!"

Among other matters, all was not right.

"What would you do here?" she began to weep.

Before, neither would bear a single tear; And here I thought we took one giant leap.

Then she's suddenly all what matters here--"I must say what I know is true, that is: For the mate who thinks herself too tiny, She's not worthless, no matter what she says.

Her twinkling starry eyes sparkle shiny.

She is not worthless. She is rather fair.

Reflections may show one's hair simply curled,

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But you're much more than the 'cur' you see there.

You are the Kaur, the Princess of my world.

You--I mean, she--is you; don't you see now?

Is she stuck in her selfless point of view?

You know, I know, and you must realize how I cherish and adore her and she's you.

What am I to you that you deny me?

I only hope that one day you will see."

-It's not the distance from the past that's great, But what makes one glad in his present state.

That is the progress I wish upon us.

And upon you too, my dear Sisyphus.

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UNBOUND

8

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When he sees her, her hair is down, unbound by the hairpins and the elaborate styles that she usually employs to maintain a semblance of professionalism. It is winter, and instead of trying to keep cool, she's wearing all seventeen inches down her back like a mantle. It is not the thick, gilded curtain of Rapunzel; no, it is a thin, untamed frizz that glints copper and gold in the weak sunshine, but under the industrial incandescents, it looks more akin to dirty water. She is constantly pushing the stray hairs out of her face, and tossing the chaos over her shoulder or pulling it into the briefest moment of a braid before it unwinds itself and falls forward to cover her face. He studies every minute detail of movement as she self-consciously runs her fingers through the wild waves as she works.

He can't stop his eyes from tracking every tendril as she shakes and tilts her head. He is entranced by this ungovernable mane, and the girl that it is attached to. He briefly considers calling out to her, just to see what her face might look like, but he hesitates, and the impulse passes. He continues striding down the hallway to his next class, and decides that the next time he spots that wild mane, he'll walk right up to her and introduce himself.

He searches for the imperfect Rapunzel daily, but he cannot find her, for her hair is never loose thereafter.

It's the first day of boot camp, and he is a prisoner here. One of the other boots has long, golden beach waves, but she shaves them off after getting picked on by the drill

instructor. There's a noncommissioned officer that has long, dark ringlets, but she pins them in a severe bun every day. He is briefly reminded of the unbound disorder of fleeting copper and gold before returning his awareness to the dull concrete barracks and the red face of the sergeant that chews him out.

He is not shackled here, in stiff customs and starched uniforms. Not as long as he has that single moment of sunlight to grasp.

When he's finally stateside and given a weekend of leave, he takes the opportunity to travel to a state he's never been to before to visit a church he has never even seen. When he takes a seat in the back of the sanctuary, his eye catches on the gleam of copper and gold in the congregation. The sunbeams refracted through the crystalline windows illuminate the carefully tossed curls that barely cover the nape of a pale neck. It cannot be the same girl, because the last time he saw hair that color, it was an unwieldy skein that concealed any other distinguishing body part that would confirm her identity. The clever bob in front of him is nowhere near the tangled mayhem that he has long obsessed over. He avidly studies the tamed coif that mimics the beacon he has associated with unbound freedom, and ponders his curse to always search for that elusive mane. Just as the preacher concludes his message, like a breeze, a cool drink of water, food in famine, he is rewarded by the hand that runs through the short coils and tousles the style into a familiar disorder. After the service ends, the preacher, an old family

hannah thomas

14 | THE WRITER’S BLOCK

friend, introduces him to the youth of the church. He decides that he was mistaken; the incandescence of her hair is no match for the radiance of her smile. He takes a seat next to her at lunch. He could use a little more sunshine in his life.

He jerks awake in the middle of the night, the smell of gunpowder burning his nostrils and the rust taste of blood in his mouth potent and overwhelming. He reaches out to grasp his sidearm, but instead, he grabs a fistful of wiry hair. He lets out a strangled moan, the fear that had seized him now left him weak in the aftermath. She carefully extricates her tresses from his powerful grip, and turns to wrap her arms around his shaky, sweaty torso. He sinks back into the fluffy pillows of their bed and apologizes repeatedly for his moment of instability. She shushes him, and leans over him to press soft kisses against his temples. Her unbound waves eagerly ensconce them in a private bower, and he takes a deep breath. She settles back onto the bed next to him, and he tenses at the loss of contact. She draws him to her, and his head is pillowed on her soft chest as he aligns

his ear with her heart. She strokes her fingers through his buzz cut, and he is soothed by the lullaby of her heartbeat and the rise and fall of her breathing. He winds a loop of her hair around his forefinger, and finds a moment of boundless peace. The moon shines through the sheer curtains, and the faint light brightens the lustrous tendril that twines around his fingers. He flexes his hand, and the movement causes his wedding band to twinkle in the midnight light, which reminds him that the sun will rise soon. He dozes off, unbound.

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G L I MMER | h annah tho ma s

16 | THE WRITER’S BLOCK

garrett james hibbard

VALIDATION You wear a look of consternation As you kneel camping in our garden If you survive her in the open Perhaps the past will yield the season If a lie breeds amid derision, In whom is buried the attrition?

Wide-eyed and weary with omission: It must mean something too There is no catharsis in the reaping And only bottom in the peeling Somehow a gesture less revealing:

Far outside

Curveball slide Cherish the thought of speaking for you As opposed to staring at the ceiling Can't you admit to bereave?

Debt you tie to a moth; to me Deny that you've upended all your long forgotten creeds

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Never mind the spite that reels across your teeth At last you've taught me something There's no aching like a swollen eye pressed against the peep-hole There's no reply to annex the ties 'tween the wounded and the able No gnawing fear of what lurks below to turn your mind to starboard 'Neath your armor, keep it harbored Can't afford to let it lie; Stack bodies for the pyre Show me how the insufferable are meant to suffer That we both might just mean something We will

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HANDS L I K E

HUMANS HANDS

H A VL EI K

E

HUMANS H A V E

THE WRITER’S BLOCK | 19

Rain tapped out a somber melody on the sidewalk as Erik walked down the street, umbrella in hand. The skyscrapers of New Chicago rose high above him, with pneumatic monorail tubes snaking between mammoth structures of polished glass and steel. He didn't much like the rain, but it was no matter since the walk home from his job at the automotive factory was a short stroll through the market district downtown. In the old days, androids like him wouldn't be able to walk through the rain, but as a newer model, he had a water-tight plastic casing covering his body. Not that he'd show it, of course; he wore khaki pants and a classy button-up shirt just like a human office worker would.

Since the Supreme Court ruled it unlawful to treat artificially intelligent machines as property, androids had become a subset of the population possessing their own homes, jobs, and all the rights of an American citizen. Erik--or ERK-424, going by the serial number on his inner thigh--was assembled roughly 20 years after the historic ruling. Even in such a short time, a burgeoning market of clothing and goods catering to synthetic individuals had formed. Shops lined the streets, advertising dresses made from a special static-proof fabric and suits with discreetly built-in recharge ports. We Insure Androids, a billboard for a local insurance firm read.

The shops that always drew Erik's eye were the ones selling cosmetic upgrades. Ever since manufacturers had to start paying their androids, the level of technology in each

android had regressed to the bare minimum needed to function. They got a body, arms, legs, and a cranial unit with optics and a voice box‌ but that's all. If you wanted more than that, if you wanted to pass as a "real boy," you had to pay up. The more lifelike the implants, the more expensive they became. He stopped walking and gazed through the glass window of a store specializing exclusively in cosmetics for androids. On display they had the newest facial models, both male and female, installed on sample animatronics to show off their functionality.

These talking heads in the shop window would speak, playing back prerecorded dialogue, moving their lips in such a lifelike fashion it almost looked like someone had yanked off the head of a supermodel and put it on display. The placard placed between them claimed that these models even came with haptic sensors, to feel the wind against your face or even the caress of a lover. The artificial skin was smooth and beautiful, and the faces would change expressions as gracefully and naturally as a gorgeous socialite.

Erik's face, reflected in the glass, wasn't necessarily a bad face but it definitely wouldn't pass for "real." He had a much cheaper model, so it resembled a rubber mask.

The skin tone, a rich caramel color, was one of the only things he liked about it. He wanted to look like one of those bronzed actors from action flicks made before the Second American Civil War. Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Dwayne "The Rock" John-

alan brown

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TH E KI SS | ray g atsby

THE WRITER’S BLOCK | 21

son… every now and then he would watch their movies and dream of being that handsome, that charismatic.

Unfortunately, he didn't have the kind of money to make that dream come true, at least not when it came to his face. Hands, however, he could afford. Now that he had been promoted to a management position he no longer needed the steel claws he once used to bend car chassis into shape. Oh! But even with new hands, it would be hard to hide his industrial roots. His bulky physique was something he was very self-conscious about… every now and then, humans would cross the street to avoid passing him on the sidewalk because his size intimidated them. But a sinking feeling in his digital heart told him that all the cosmetic adjustments in the world might not change that.

After contemplating for a moment, he decided to step inside and take a look. He didn't have to buy anything unless he wanted to, and this shop seemed to have lower prices than what he had seen in catalogs anyway. That's how he rationalized it, at least. The inside of the shop resembled a hardware store, but with faceplates on the shelves instead of hammers or wrenches. Young, old, male, female--dozens of varieties were on display. The more expensive pieces were held in a glass case, but even those were priced less than half of what they cost at other boutiques.

The shop had much more than just faces-they carried hands as well! He gravitated

towards a pair of large, manly hands based on a three-dimensional scan of a famous basketball player's. One of the display mannequins was outfitted with them, wearing multiple glittering rings. The jewelry was sold separately, but it still made Erik dream of having such handsome hands decorated with gems and gold. He saw the price tag, and it wasn't as nasty-looking as he thought it would be. Caving in to temptation, he had the cashier ring him up and place the box containing his new hands in a paper bag to carry home. He could have a licensed technician install them later.

On the way home he took a shortcut through a grimy alleyway between a parking garage and an old warehouse. It was a sketchy-looking place, but it had never done him any harm before… not until today. He didn't realize someone was behind him until it was too late. The attacker pressed an electrified rod against his back, scrambling all of Erik's systems. He fell to the ground, writhing with a pain that, though simulated, felt all too real. He couldn't move. All he could do was look up to see who had assaulted him.

The other android made no attempt to hide how mechanical he was. His chassis was sleek and painted purple with a glossy finish. An extra arm sprouted from his right shoulder, and his faceplate was asymmetrical. He was a bizarre concoction of half human, half mechanical endoskeleton. With his lower right arm he snatched up the bag containing Erik's new hands while brandishing the shock baton with his upper right appendage.

22 | THE WRITER’S BLOCK

The thief wasn't finished yet—using a scalpel he retrieved from a pouch at his waist, he pried apart the seam between Erik's rubber faceplate and the carbon fiber shell of his neck. Starting at the chin, he tugged until Erik's face was pulled clean off, connected only by the wires that controlled the movement of the facial muscles.

"Why?" Erik gasped. Beneath the mask, his visage was skeletal, with eyes that seemed too large for their sockets. "Why attack me?"

"These are worth a pretty penny," the thief said as he unplugged the wires and stashed the mask in the same bag that held the hands. "Besides, who are you to ask me questions? Why do you bother slaving away for the humans, only to piss away the money you get on superficial upgrades? You're giving your money back to the people who have you in chains."

"Well, I suppose that's no different than what humans do, when you really think about it. If you hate humans so much, why dirty your hands by robbing a fellow android?" Erik was trying to stall his attacker for time, until he could regain control of his servos.

The crook let out a short, metallic laugh.

"Why? Because that's no different from what humans do! You think humans care about other humans, just because they are the same species?"

Erik lashed out with his right arm, grabbing the crook by the ankle and jerking his feet out from under him. They tussled on the ground and the thief tried to hit him with the electric rod again but Erik was able to grab

his wrist. His strength as an industrial model android was no match for the thug. He bent the steel of his foe's forearm, and the weapon clattered to the ground.

He rolled on top of the thug and hammered him with his claw-like hands and hydraulic-powered arms. There was no intent to kill— he only wanted the thief to be incapacitated long enough to get away and call the police.

After beating him senseless, Erik scooped up his belongings and limped away.

Will things always be like this? Probably so, he thought. Humans are imperfect beings made in the image of their God, or so he had been told, and since androids were made in the image of humans, they were even less perfect. Maybe, by moving away from human ideals, androids could shrug off human vices and live in an ideal society governed by their own morals and values. Nah, not happening, he thought. Then he would have to give up his dream of looking like Dwayne Johnson. Erik felt no guilt about letting the world around him decay while he pursued his own selfish interests. After all, that's what humans do.

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allyson williams

THE IMPERFECTION & BEAUTY OF A WOMAN I am a woman trying to make it through life Trying to find the beauty on the inside As a young child, times were tough People say that I am not good enough They made every little decision for me Making me into things I don't want to be As I got older, I still held it in Until I saw the beauty within That would soon forever last And fade all of my fears and struggles from the past I finally realize that life is not about perfection But trying to get my heart in the right direction Sure you can put me in a beauty pageant But that doesn't mean when I win my life will never be tragic Sometimes we need to show our flaws In order to prove that we are beautiful for a cause We are not perfect when attempting to succeed But we are human individuals finding our way to be free From all the doubt that's been pushing us to fall down Because we still stand on solid ground As a woman I am brave enough to say

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C RO SSI NG PATH S I I | ka ley doster

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That life never puts me in an unfamiliar place That would never fit our expectations To find our true occupation No matter who we are whether man or woman We can choose on what our life could depend

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LUCKY

1 3

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“"Can I help you, sir?"” Captain Albert Boggs, USN looked up in surprise. He saw a young man wearing the brassard of the Officer of the Deck around one arm and the twin stripes of a full lieutenant on his shoulders.

He was purposefully striding across the deck towards Boggs with a serious step in his walk, and a look on his face that seemed to ask, And just what are you doing here? “"Just visiting, son,"” Boggs replied, using the best “"Salty Sailor" voice he could muster. “ "Sir, if you have business with the Captain,"” the Lieutenant continued,“"I'm afraid he’s not on board right now." “ "I heard the old girl was in port, and I thought I'd just come down for a quick look around," Boggs replied, waving his hand to indicate the ship around him. “"Sir, we're in the middle of offloading supplies…" the Lieutenant began to protest. “"Son," Boggs said, raising a hand to cut him off, "I've been around the Navy for a lot longer than you. Would you allow an old man to indulge in a request to revisit some old memories? This tub was my first posting after all."

The Lieutenant's face clouded in thought.

It was clear that he was having trouble deciding on the best course of action. Finally, he said, “"I don't see any problems with that, as long as the captain stays clear of the working parties."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Boggs replied, flashing the young man his best disarming smile. He turned to walk down the deck, intending to head up to the bridge. He was

having a hard time recognizing the ship that he had served on all those years ago. She had undergone a lot of changes since his day.

He had just about made it to the forward hatch when he heard, "Sir." Boggs turned to see that the Lieutenant was following him.

The young officer had obviously decided that following the crazy old captain around was in his best interests. "Sir, if I may, when exactly were you aboard the Fletcher?"

"Son," Boggs replied, his face splitting in a genuine smile, "I watched them put this ship together. Way back in ‘'41, and I was with her all the way through World War II." Those had been heady days indeed, Boggs remembered.

When everyone thought the war was going to end in a matter of weeks, with the Japanese as the victors.

This ship had been the first of a new breed.

Destroyers designed to sail from the West Coast to the other side of the Pacific without refueling. He had been proud indeed to be a part of her first crew. Prouder still to have been with her during her most challenging days.

"Sir, you saw combat in World War II?" the Lieutenant asked, his look of concern vanishing, replaced instead by one of open amazement.

"We fought all the way up the Slot," Boggs replied, closing his eyes as the memories began to resurface. Damn he could still remember those days like they had happened yesterday. Visions of those long nights of fire and destruction would probably be with him

james bateman

28 | THE WRITER’S BLOCK

until the day he died. "We fought the old girl from the first day she entered the theater, until the day the treaty was signed. You'd be hard pressed to find a ship around these days with a longer record."

"Sir, I knew she was in that war, but I never knew she saw that much action," the Lieutenant continued, awe evident in his tone.

Boggs stood in silence for several seconds, then said, "Enough rambling from this old war horse. What do you think about our mutual acquaintance, Lieutenant?"

"Alright, I guess, sir," the Lieutenant replied, shrugging his shoulders, "But she is rather old when you look at it." “"You'd like it better if you were on one of the fancy new destroyers?" Boggs asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Sir, Fletcher's a good ship, sure," the Lieutenant continued, "But she just really isn’t up to date."”

"Son, you ever hear how this ship earned her nickname?" Boggs asked, then turned to lean against the safety chain. He stared out over the sparkling waters of Pearl Harbor while he waited for the Lieutenant to reply. “"Lucky 13?" he answered, confused by the sudden change in subject, "Nobody ever told me how she got that, sir."

"It came from one of the first battles she ever fought. I think they call it the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal now, but back then it was simply Friday, 13, November," Boggs explained. “"That's why shes Lucky 13?"

“"Nope?" Boggs replied, a wide grin splitting his face, "On that night, the Fletcher was number 13 in column with 13 other ships. She was a member of task force 67, her hull number was 445, and the battle took place on 13 November."

"Wow, that has to be a coincidence," the Lieutenant said, amazement in his voice.

"We certainly thought so at the time. It did a great job to keep our eyes off approaching battle to think about how much bad luck our ship must have piled on her due to that."

Boggs paused for a few seconds, trying to frame his thoughts. The Lieutenant asked, “"So, what happened?"

Boggs rolled his eyes at the man's eagerness. Damn, how long ago had it been since he was just like this kid? “"We came through the fight, obviously, but the interesting thing was that we didn't take a scratch of damage that night. Not one shell hit the old Fletcher, and not a single of her sailors was injured."

"That is an achievement," the Lieutenant added, nodding his agreement.

"And that was a particularly bloody battle," Boggs continued, shaking his head, "We lost a lot of good men that night, including the task force commander and his deputy, but, I'm getting off topic. After we came through that night, we started to think about how much good luck the number 13 had brought us. So we started calling the old girl the Lucky 13."

"It's quite a story, but what does it have to do with the ship?" the Lieutenant asked, his face still full of confusion.

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"Think about it, Lieutenant. They wouldn't have put you in that uniform if you weren't smart. What defines a ship? It isn't her specifications I can tell you that much." “"This ship still has a place?" the Lieutenant guessed.

"Something like that," Boggs replied, "Think about this, Lieutenant. If you were to go to a brand new ship today, what stories would you be able to tell about her? Don't put a ship down just because it isn't shiny and new, or it's an out of date rust-bucket like our friend here. I've served on dozens of ships in my time, Lieutenant, but the Fletcher will always be my home"” The Lieutenant stood in silence for a long time, emotion clouding his face, "I think I understand why you came out here today, sir."

Boggs gave him a wan smile, then replied, "Now that's just because I'm an old romantic, and I thought I'd see her one last time. Plus, when you get to my age, they'll try to chain you to a desk. I haven't been aboard a ship in months." “"It's certainly a lot to think about, sir," the Lieutenant replied with a sigh. He stuck out a hand for Boggs, saying, "Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to meet you."

Boggs gladly took the proffered hand and shook it vigorously. "Anytime I get to meet one of the new breed is a good day. Hopefully I can bring your lot around to my way of thinking."

The Lieutenant turned his eyes to look across the harbor, then said, his voice sudden-

ly somber, "Have you heard what they're going to do with her at the end of this patrol?"” “"Yeah," Boggs replied in a heavy tone, "It's a damn shame. Part of the reason I came out today. The Navy won't let me take off enough time to see her decommission. Too busy running supplies out to this new war we've been embroiled in." “"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. I bet the skipper would love to have a word with you," the Lieutenant said, his face downcast. “"Plus, I'd rather not be within a hundred miles when they drag this girl off to the breakers. If you haven't realized by now, I hate goodbyes," Boggs said, his voice thick with emotion, then he chuckled, "Look at me, crying about an old hunk of steel."”

"She isn't just that. This ship is a lady in her own right," the Lieutenant replied, "If half of what you told me is true."

Boggs slapped the man on the back, saying, "Take care of yourself, Lieutenant," and then walked towards the bow. He had wasted enough time today. Leave the memories for the young, maybe they could figure out a better use for them.

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dalton reese

IT IS LATE It is late, The house seems silent.

But for the tic-toc of the clock, and the pitter-patter of the rain.

The steady sighs of peaceful sleep, with the whirling of the fans.

The creaking of the beds, and the settling of the house.

The humming of the fridge, with the shaking of the dryer.

The rattling of the blinds, and the whirring of the computer.

It is late, And maybe not as quiet as it first seems.

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SEAH O RSE | l auren wrig ht

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SATIRE FOR PIGS IN A BLANKET

trey cornelius

The kind of damsel who thinks things through and prays: So much for new beginnings.

Tonight I find it's a bold-faced lie.

The heavens placed an authentic miracle in you today.

Who knew pigs could fly?

In truth, I was in for a lost cause.

And I tried to be there for two people.

Halt! Hold on for the applause.

A sharp knife far from the steeple.

And you're three times as crazy in addition to menopause.

It's never that simple, but I finally got used to it.

I can handle dead silence, Thank God I'm not a Charlie Chaplin skit.

Don't come near me, just keep your distance.

I'm more than just cartoons and violence.

I used to believe in magic, But nothing was going to be the same.

You added fuel to the flame.

And suddenly it's all my fault your life is so tragic.

Woe to a winner at a losing game.

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Fireworks came on the Fourth of July, But then you cried me a bloody river.

What a way to bare you gently.

Next time get both sides to every story I can do more than make you quiver and shiver.

You misunderstood, blinded by your foolish pride.

Did you even know that was the sitch?

Being there for that little yoo-hoo was never a lie.

And suddenly it's my fault you're as cold as the Wicked Witch.

I had reasons. Too bad you'll never know or understand why.

Woe to the damsel who thinks things through and prays.

Yet you're as dangerous as an avalanche.

The fire has ignited and now YOU know why.

I hope your mom in Heaven sends down an olive branch.

Let it fall hard from the sky!

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THE MARGINAL DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE DYNAMIC VISCOSITIES OF BLOOD AND WATER AT THE AVERAGE INTERNAL TEMPERATURE OF THE HUMAN BODY

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With a sigh of exasperation, I closed my backpack and swung it across my right shoulder. I shut the bedroom door behind me and stepped into the hall, wincing as the sounds of my roommate and his almost certainly intoxicated girlfriend boarding the 6:15 to Poundtown emanated from the space beneath the door to his room. I heaved another, slightly more disappointed, sigh before making my departure.

I swung a right into the hallway outside my dorm room towards the stairs to the second floor, where my sister lived. She was technically a year below me, even though numerically we were the same age, having been born only nine months after me, which at this stage, meant two things; the first being that she was about 6 to 8 months older than 95 percent of her peers, and the second, more unsettling, conclusion was that our parents clearly didn't like wasting time. Looking back, it makes sense. We were the second and third oldest in a brood of seven. What possibly could have convinced them to conceive so many children still escapes me to this day.

They weren't even Catholic. I guess they just liked having sex.

It must have been their hormonally-infused sense of self-confidence that led to our parents deciding that every child would have a name starting with the letter “J.� They must have felt they were terribly clever up until the twins were born. At that point, name memorization became more of a chore than they had anticipated and I couldn't help but

feel that they regretted the decision from that day forward. After firing my sister Jessica and me out in such quick succession, our parents took a temporary hiatus before getting back into the development sector, topping off the Barnhardt family household with four new additions in the span of 48 months. Somewhere within that time, they must have heard the phrase "student loans" whispered sweetly from beneath the caps on their bottles of migraine pills, and just like that, the production line ground to a screeching halt.

Jessica and I led a pretty humble life. We weren't subject to the first-come, first-serve bias that plagued our older sister Janet, but we also weren't a constant pain in the ass like the Fearsome Foursome after us. We usually just minded our own business. And, with Jessica sticking out like a sore thumb amidst her classmates due to our parents' misguided decision to enroll her in kindergarten a year late so that she was almost always a good three or four inches taller than everyone else, we quickly became the best friends either of us could've asked for.

Most of our time at the house was spent playing video games and telling our younger siblings to fuck off. We were growing up in the early 2000s after all, and those countless hours of Super Smash Bros. Melee weren't going to play themselves. It's funny in retrospect.

She used to play as Pichu all the time because she thought he was cute. I never told her that Pichu always damaged himself with his own special moves, and to this day, I still don't

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think she knows that's why she always lost. I guess I was kind of a dick that way.

What was I talking about? It doesn't matter. Before I even had a chance to start remembering, I was already knocking on the door to her room, my inner monologue having encompassed my entire journey.

It seemed as if less than a second had passed before the door had been opened and Jessica was leaning up against the door frame with that same absurd raised-eyebrow look she always gave me when I visited her room.

"Well, well." She began her intro as if she had been rehearsing. "If it ain't the clown prince of crime himself. You here for more psychiatric help? Should I get my bat?"

I brushed her sarcasm aside and made my way towards the ragged couch that the school provided for each dorm, laying my backpack on the floor to my right.

"No thanks, Dr. Quinn. We both know why I'm here. My roommate is banging your roommate and I can't stand to listen to the two of them fuck," I said with an honesty as brutal as it was unnecessary.

"Why do they always choose your room?"

Jessica asked in a mockingly frustrated tone.

"Force you to come down here and bother me."

I extended an offer to counter her sass, "We could always go up there if you'd like. I'm sure the ambience would be delightful."

"I'll pass."

"You sure? You might even get to see his penis."

"Oh, well, in that case let me pack some paper towels," Jessica responded, cranking the sarcasm back up until it was thick enough to peel paint off the wall before lowering the levels so as to not stain the upholstery. "Real talk, though. Are they actually that loud?"

"Fuck yeah they are," I said, turning to face her with the expression of a man who could not believe he was just asked that question.

"I'd drown it out, but then Ryan would just end up complaining about how loud the music was."

"To be fair, I don't think breakbeat and industrial techno would make good backing music," she said, feigning sympathy for my roommate."

Unfazed by her insults, I continued my onslaught. "Oh yeah, because The Essential Billy Joel on repeat would be such an improvement."

Clearly evenly matched in our attempts to devalue each other's musical taste, we agreed to disagree and sat in silence for a few moments before a thought occurred to me.

"You know, mankind is biologically engineered to seek out sexual partners based on physical compatibility and pass on their genetic material through intercourse. But at the same time, we're socially obligated to allow these choices to occur independently, despite the requirement of a binary union. How can two such radically different views coexist with one another?"

Still entangled in my cognitive paradox, I turned to Jessica for a validated response, only

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to be greeted with the visage of bewilderment, eyes narrowed and mouth barely open in the portrait of someone who clearly was not buying my bullshit.

"I thought you said you weren't here to see a shrink," she said with both direction and magnitude.

"Right, I'm sorry. I was just‌ having some deep thoughts, I suppose. I became a little defensive."

Jessica parried with a verbal offense of her own. "You, a deep thinker. That's the real Divine Comedy here."

"OK." I didn't express it, but that one hurt a little.

"I've eaten bowls of cereal deeper than you," Jessica continued, showing no mercy.

"All right." I was getting somewhat irritated.

"I've hit my head on the bottom of swimming pools deeper than you."

"I heard you the first time." I was just bored at this point.

"I've seen Michael Bay movies deeper than you."

"Now hold up, that is just rude," I said, legitimately offended. "You take that back right now."

Jessica crossed her arms and cloaked herself in smugness. "Now John, you know damn well that's not gonna happen."

Jessica and I have always stood on even ground, in pretty much every way. We got our driver's licenses on the same day, we had the same ACT score, and for the most part, we were always about the same height. Ever since

we started college, she'd always joke that she was six foot, one and a half inches just to have something on me, and as the confrontation welled in our eyes in the silent chasm of her living room, I realized that she might actually be right.

I couldn't let this happen.

I broke our concentration by reaching down into my backpack. I felt around for a brief second before revealing my secret weapon. Both our gazes were drawn towards its rectangular presence. I issued a proposition.

"Wanna play Smash Brothers?"

Jessica's eyes went from the box to me, then back to the box, then back to me.

"So that's what this is about, huh?" she asked, seeking assurance.

"It is now," I assured her.

"All right." The challenge was accepted.

"Let me go get my controller."

She stood up from the couch and rounded the corner to her bedroom. I heard the sound of drawers opening and things being shuffled about as she chose her weapon. I decided I would make a precedent on our upcoming battle, and raised my voice to inform her.

"You know, Pichu damages himself every time he uses an attack."

There was silence. The noises fell flat and died quickly and humanely. Jessica's face appeared around the corner and looked at me with eyes that, had I not been prepared, might have burned my soul to ashes with the fire of sins I've committed in my past. She spoke.

"You motherfucker."

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UNTI TI L ED | hemang jani

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HAIKU-ING THROUGH HISTORY

alex williams

In the early age From the Crescent Valley then Unto the Earth’s end From Ur and Uruk Egypt, China, and Indus Civilization Build cities, kingdoms, Empires. Persia, Greece, And Qin make their mark From Pyramids and Gardens to Baths and Great Walls Rome and Han conquer From Galilei a Change. BC to AD, Christianity Huns and Goths bring the Eternal City to ruin Han split among three

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Medieval kings rise As Islam rises, forging Its own Empire As East Rome crumbles Holy war, Mongols and Turks turn Rome into legend Kublai Khan, ruler Of the East, except for the Samurai’s Japan Portugal begins The Age of Exploration Spain not long behind Protestants reform England and France now race For New World treasure Conquistadors and Settlers populate as the Natives are destroyed Ming, cut off from all To the Manchu fall. Japan Locks itself away Enlightenment to Revolution in Old World And New, however

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Napoleon and His wars redefine Europe Imperialism Africa, Asia Divided amongst Europe Allies and Powers Austro-Hungary's Heir dies and they call upon Germans and the Turks Russia, France, Britain On the other side. Great War Such as never seen America joins, Allies win, Communist rise Treaty in Versailles Depression hits hard Germany and Italy Under Fascist sway In the East, Japan Strike China down, in the west Poland is conquered Great Britain and France Declare war, Second World War Axis and Allies

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Soviets defend America attacked Final Solution Atomic Age Axis lose, world divided.

The Cold War begins Decades of unease Walls built, nukes distributed Doomsday close at hand As rockets fire, but Not at each other but to The Moon, man in space Tensions thaw, walls fall Focus now, on a new age Either step forward In small, careful steps Or leap backward, the future Verse lays before us

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REF L ECTED | h annah tho ma s

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NUMBER O N E F A N

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One time, I decided to check out a new comic store instead of shopping at the old comic place where people know me as a regular. I figured it wouldn't hurt just this once.

Maybe I would see some collectibles my regular place didn't have, or they might have some kind of sale going on. Oh, how wrong I was! If I had known the terror that awaited me there, I would not have even risen from my bed that morning. On that day, I met the mythical “"number one fan."

There were no red flags or warning signs as I entered the store. The cashier greeted me with a friendly hello, and some nerds were sitting at a table quietly playing Magic the Gathering. Many different action figures and collectibles were on display, and they had a wide range of comics. Plenty of indie series along with well-known franchises were stocked on the shelves. It seemed to be a totally ordinary store until I found a vintage issue of Iron Man. Picking it up, I inspected its green price tag and found it to be much cheaper than I expected.

That's when I heard him--no, when I heard it. "I bet you only like Iron Man because of the movies." I turned around and saw an overweight young man, around six feet tall. His hair was long and unkempt, and his multiple chins were covered in grungy-looking peach fuzz that did not even come close to resembling a proper beard.

I didn't think much about his comment, replying “"Actually I've liked Iron Man since I was a kid. I got into the comics from watching

the cartoon they used to show on Fox Kids in the nineties.”

A smirk crossed his acne-riddled face. “"So? You're still just some poser. I'm really the number one fan."

My patience was starting to wear thin.

"Look buddy, I didn't come here to have some kind of contest as to who has more geek cred.

I watch anime, I play video games, and you see this?" I held up the comic. "I love Iron Man. So back off, will you?"

In that moment, things seemed to change.

For a mere second, his beady eyes flickered and became pitch black before returning to normal. "It doesn't matter what you like. I like it more than you do. It doesn't matter if it's a comic book, TV show, movie, video game, anime, fantasy epic, cheap sci-fi pulp novel, musical, pinball machine, or even a cereal mascot. I know about it, I've seen it, and I like it more than you ever could, because I am the number one fan."

His voice grew cold and monotone. "That's not true, you might respond," he continued.

"You think you're such a hot shot because you've seen every episode, you've got all the merchandise, you're going to name a child after one of the characters… but still, your devotion to that thing you like is but a cinder compared to the roaring flame of my adoration. Because I am the number one fan."

I looked around the store to see if anybody else was cringing at this loon the way I was, but it was empty. The cashier, the other customers, the guys playing cards… they had all

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vanished. Not only that, but this guy seemed bigger than before. Yeah, I had noticed he was fat, but now he seemed inhumanly massive.

Totally speechless, I could do nothing but drink in the horror of the situation.

"You can't possibly know more about that thing you like than I do. I have watched more series than there are stars in the sky. I have read more books than there are grains of sand on the beach. My knowledge has grown, crystallized, in ways you cannot fathom. You think you know all about that one superhero comic, but you don't know whose name its artist mumbles in their sleep.

"As I slumber in the void between dimensions, my thoughts have wandered into your world to collect as much information about it as I can, because I am the number one fan.

I have beheld so many stories I cannot count them on my fingers, even though I have ten thousand hands and no arms." Thousands upon thousands of fingers encrusted with Cheetos dust emerged from behind him, spectral appendages floating in air behind the blob that was his main body.

My heart pounded. I felt like I was seeing some hideous being that no human was meant to gaze upon. A veil had been pulled aside, and my eyes beheld a darker world where no mortal dares to tread. It was maddening--I tried to recall how I had heard about this new store, but my mind was blank. It was as if I just somehow knew to come here.

His every word was like a rusty pitchfork scraping away at my brain. "Oh, you really

love that thing you like. I have seen that. You might have even liked it since you were a child and you have carried this fandom with you as you grew into an adult. But rest assured. I have liked that thing you like far longer than you have. When your world was dark and formless, a mere ether yet to hold meaning, I started reading comics. I played my first video game in the days when your savage ancestors sacrificed their children to dark gods whose names have been forgotten by time.

My myriad eyes widened with surprise as I experienced the big twist from your favorite movie back when your people had no written language. And I remember all of it, because I am literally the number one fan."

It was then that I realized we weren't standing in a comic store—he was the store. Miles upon miles of flab endlessly unfolding like a Mobius strip held this little shop and all its shelves, with this entity's fat face growing out of a wall. Each bump on his face was not a zit, but a beady little eye. Unable to hold it back any longer, I screamed.

"Don't get me wrong," it said, almost apologetically. "I don't mean to come across as rude.

I am not a selfish being. It is my custom to share the things that I enjoy, just as you share yours. My vision drifts in and out of countless worlds, and sometimes when I see something I really enjoy on the shores of some far-off ethereal plane, I can't help but share. My tentacles have reached into your world and caressed the minds of many writers, artists, and creative types throughout the brief sliver of

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time you call history. I plant these visions in their mind to foster their growth so that I may enjoy the works they produce, like a snake eating its own tail. I want them to succeed, not only because it sustains me, but because I am their number one fan.

"So any time you’re struck with a flash of inspiration when you're not expecting it, then you will know that I have visited you. It might be when you have your deepest thoughts while you're taking a shower, or when you get an idea right before you're about to fall asleep.

Perhaps it will be when you have a sudden realization as you open the refrigerator door for a midnight snack and the light bulb goes off in your head at the same time the chilled compartment lights up. This idea, this seed will grow and bloom into something beautiful if you cultivate it. You will need to work for it.

You will sweat and toil as you feed your blood to this story while it gestates within your mortal mind like a developing infant, but in the end it will be magnificent. I know, for I have already seen it.

"My name cannot be spoken by your vocal chords, nor can its sound be withstood by your ears without tearing your soul asunder. However, I can tell you that my name means ‘'imagination’' in your language. I look forward to experiencing what you produce.

After all, I am your number one fan.”"

I bolted upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Breathing heavily, I realized I was safe in my bedroom. With the curtains closed, the only light came from the red L.E.D.s of my

alarm clock reading “2:48 AM.” Alone in the dark, I took a moment to compose myself. The nightmare was over. Just to be sure, I flicked on the lamp on my night stand. I was the only person in the room. That's when I saw it. The vintage issue of Iron Man was sitting on my dresser, still in its clear plastic sleeve with its green price tag.

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ACHINGS OF THE HEART

l.m. darling

There are two fires fueled by hatred.

Lust scorches first, Envy burns last.

No one wants them here, but they have always been and always shall be.

He was consumed by the first, I was consumed the last.

He knew not what hit him, he knew only her.

He thought it was all in good fun.

He played with the fire, teased it, enjoyed it, Not seeing the burns.

His fire kindled mine, But he did not see, Nor did he care.

He only wanted to play.

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I tried to blow out the fire, but in the end I kept it burning.

His fire kindled mine, But he did not see, nor did he care.

He only wanted to play.

I tried to walk away, but in the end I was already burned.

His fire no longer kindled mine.

But I did not see. nor did I care.

He no longer wanted to play, So he looked for me.

But in the end I was not there.

For I decided it was better to suffocate in my sadness, than burn in my envy.

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m. e. alim

WHAT IF I WAS IN THE NAVY? "You'd die. And I'd mourn—hey, I said you'd die.

Kid, you must be kidding me. What is up?

Listen here, Jude, I know you. Dear, oh my!

Leaving to join them won't bring back Jessup."

That's what I said, you know, and she left me.

Not lovers were we, yet I held some thought…

That gorgeous friend of mine from Tennessee Died last week, as she valiantly fought.

We're all old when we die, even before Birth—we have no control, and we die old.

The young die transformed, with conscience gone more.

Done and we all go home relieved tenfold.

You'd die. And I'd mourn—hey, I said you'd die.

You died. And I've mourned—hey, I knew I'd cry.

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SUNBEAM | h anna h tho ma s

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IMMOLATION

OR, IN DEFENSE OF THE PALIMPSEST

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Numberless pines set an impenetrable shroud on the heartland. Glancing from the highway there's nothing living, and beams catch in a vacuum where they are wrung of light and swallowed. Snowbanks impede on the salted bitumen road cutting back toward town, but make no mistake: this is not an escape. The sloppy procession of tracks struggles to exist against the frost that gathers like mold in its cusps; a massive rake where something large has been dragged between the trunks and over the brambles and muck to kiss the calloused lake encapsulated therein.

The pack heave and bully their limping quarry to the center of the frosted lens, oblivious to the numbness running in currents 'neath their boots. Size means nothing without a will, which you’ve already robbed him of; his gangly limbs are drawn, fetal, and his flesh is snow-blasted pink. Shrapnel cuts his heels and cripples him crimson on the compact surface. His wheezing clots in the cold.

At your command, he's doused with blubber as you flick your father's lighter's lid open, and when you approach from behind, you are silent. The oil sublimates and adds to the ghostly choir of vapor trailing from the Earth.

You'll remember this as the scent of suffering.

He doesn't hear the flint snap, but when you touch the flickering tongue to his back, he erupts. Ceaseless howls escape his maw.

Even animals don't protest this much. Soon his skin sloughs off in blistered clumps that he tries frantically to reattach to his shoulders. He recognizes that his genitals are gone,

dribbling between his fingers, and he stops floundering. ‘ '_______,'’ he brays. You watch, and he meets your gaze. Don't look away, this is important. They hover behind and watch your shadow swell across this den where the unforgivable is forgotten. Here in your hollow, you show this sparrow no favor. When the flames have had their fill, the man will no longer resemble such.

But that's what dental records are for.

When they bring the car around, they'll whisper about their wives and children, far removed from here, but you, you'll stay quiet, because you know that nothing belies what's been consecrated here, and for a fleeting moment you fear that the body won't be found, and if not, what hope would your mother ever have of finding yours?

garrett james hibbard

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