The Trident Literary Magazine, Spring 2022 by trident.fredonia

the

trident

the literary magazine of SUNY Fredonia Spring 2022

Marketing Team Corin Derby Nick Dohre Travis Joyce Anika Patterson Fiction Editors Noah Gibb Mara Marsh Megan Munro Poetry Editors Thalia Magistro Dylan Murawski Jocelyn Paredes Nonfiction Editor Ian Cody Art Editor Sydney Godzik Designers Ethan Dybowksi Jacob King Rowan Potzler Faculty Advisor Michael Sheehan

Table of Contents Fiction The Siren Song of the Frozen Woman Syd Strong 9 Violet Head Jay Byron 12 Your Beloved Eleanor Liv Frazer 6 Little Secrets Alivia Roehrig 49 Faded Laura Manikowski 58 The Aftermath Leora Eisenberger 78 Like Clockwork Eleanor Wilson 84 First Meeting Corinne Grainger 92 It Will Come Back Ashley Halm 96 Purgatory of Time Brett Kissell 102

Nonfiction

My Personal Burden: Anxiety Pills Andrew Kayel 40 Ode to Vinyl McKenzie Lohmer 46 A Proposal Joseph Marciniak 60 What it is to Feel Sophie Wojciechowski 68

Poetry Words Syd Strong 8

Conversation Among the Depressed Cheyenne Clardy 11 Feline Perception Kai Guilds 18 4 a.m. Jules Hoepting 30 Among the Cards, I Accept my Fate Emerson Stein 36 Two Poems Jackson DiCarlo 38 Two Poems Alexa Kartschoke 39 Pass Me By Nick Pattilio 42 Glassblower Lydia Turcios 57 Two Poems Terra Zook 63-5 Nothing by the Script Milo Arnone 70 Two Poems Saul Cali 76-7 Desiderium Caeley Harsch 80 Ozymandias Bryttany Ewers 81 Two Poems Emilie Pitts 82-3 Time Lapse Video of Trans Man Collapsing Inward Like a Dying Star Nathan Parmeter 94 Someone Will Remember Us: An Erasure Ashley Halm 95 A Distant Memory Sarah Lopes 90 Untethered Laura Manikowski 91 Ghostwriter Corrine Grainger 110 Evolution Jeffrey Gardner 111

Art

Saul Cali Smog 1 Sneer 6-7 Autumn 20 Crushed Velvet 21 Jules Hoepting Twisted Remains 31 Morning on the Mohawk 32-3 Tunnel Vision 34-5 Emily Neiswonger 41, 66-7, 69, 93, 101 Nick Fuller Peek at Paradise 71 Niagara 72-3 Startrail Over Lake George 74-5 Prince Aziz Hunt 44-5, 89

Web Open Wide Cameron Bunch 112 Facility Horizon Georgia Speller 112 Swim Shady Kai Guilds 112 My New Testament Abigail Giel 112 Smiling But Dying Caitlin Tokar 112 Lolita, Erased Caitlin Tokar 112 With Love, Grandma Jeffrey Gardner 112 Coughkaesque Matthew Slazik 112

Words

Syd Strong

Words on a page can tell a story a complex combination of letters to take the reader away fill them with worlds and imagination Words on a page can be nothing a simple combination of letters stamped out in ink created to tell a nothing paper about a nothing topic Words can bring people together gliding softly Words can tear people apart cutting sharply Words can hang like dew on grass on a cool morning leaving you breathless, wanting more like an attentive lover Words can fall like changing leaves in the autumn air beauty in their deaths like love from a broken lover Words are paint waiting to be spread

across the body of a broken lover

The Siren Song of the Frozen Woman

Syd Strong

It was dark, it was quiet. The only sound was the crunching snow under her feet and her breathing. She shuddered as the cool wind of that clear winter night blew past her, reminding her of her forgetfulness of the weather as she flew from the house. But she couldn’t go back, she wouldn’t go back. She had to get out, she had to go somewhere where there were no expectations, no pressures, no...him. “Foolish men lead foolish lives,” she whispers to the trees, watching the leaves flutter as she continued down the path. The small plastic flashlight in her hand provided a small amount of light as she walked, but she didn’t need it, as she had walked this path hundreds of times before. As her eyes drifted back down to the path and continued to drift, both zoned out and on alert, knowing he was out there, somewhere. Or maybe he wasn’t, maybe he had finally given up on her, on trying to cage her in a life she never wanted, never asked for. He never asked her opinion on anything, not what she wanted for dinner, not the lakehouse in Michigan, not if she wanted a second kid, not even if she wanted the first fucking kid. “Fuck!” she whispered, a sharp pain in her foot snapping her back to reality. In her haste, she had left without shoes, her bare feet imprinting the fresh snow as she walked, and had now caught a stick that had fallen onto the path. She lifted her foot to inspect it. It was only a small cut, but now as she walked, she left behind a small crimson dot in the snow. The pain was only temporary, as the numbness quickly filled her body once more. It was then she arrived at her destination. Whenever life had become too much, she would sneak away to her getaway. It was a small, secluded beach among the tree line, just big enough for a picnic bench that had clearly been abandoned here a long time ago. She wiped away some of the snow before taking a seat on the damp wood, staring out at the frozen lake before her. She loved to watch the lake come alive during the warmer months, watching the current moving back and forth as if breathing, seeing the occasional 11

fish swim by or hear people out on the water, just out of eyesight, but during the winter it was a lifeless sight, the ice and the cold suffocating it. She had no idea how long she was out there, sitting on that bench, staring out at the frozen water. She had no idea what compelled her to stand up, and walk to the edge of the lake. To stare out into the dark, flashlight abandoned. She stared out into that icy darkness, searching for an answer to a question she never asked. Then, she saw a small light, someone had also awoken, in the cabin across the lake. She watched silently, watching as more lights turned on, then off, the one shadowed figure becoming two, moving, hugging, kissing, becoming one again until all the lights were off, swallowing her in darkness. It was then she realized she was floating, sinking, staring up at the ice that had once been staring up at her. She felt the cool water surrounding her, seeping into her bones as the fading light from shore glimmered off of the bubbled air that escaped from her mouth. She could fight it, attempt to swim up, to escape this watery prison, but she was tired. She was so tired. Tired of the lying husband, tired of the lying children, tired of the lying job, tired of lying to herself. She reached out towards the ever-shrinking sliver of light, her hand reaching for something long out of reach, as everything faded to black. Her body was found two days later, a few miles down the lake where the ice had begun to melt on an unseasonably warm day that winter. She had been reported missing by her oldest daughter, 15 at the time, who took notice that her mother didn’t come home after fleeing the house late one night, which she was wont to do, but usually remembered to bundle up. They followed the path that lead to the beach, discovering blood along the way, a single dot in the middle of her right footprints. Many questioned the husband, who was believed to have been gone on a business trip but had actually returned early, and was visiting his mistress who lived across the lake. But no clear evidence was ever really found, and so in a small town in Michigan, her case and life were slowly forgotten about. However, they say you can sometimes hear the woman in the lake, on a quiet, snowy night, you might hear what some describe as singing, others would describe as screaming.

Conversation Among the Depressed Cheyenne Clardy My mask shattered again Though in the moments that Followed was as if I sat back and watched a play. Beginning scene As I dive into the playwright “Am I only destined for insanity?” End scene Have you scared your Loved ones yet? Or have they abandoned you And thrown you away Like trash? We are our loved ones dirty secret. Casted aside and locked away Or imprisoned within our homes. Gazing at the four walls It’s closing around me again! Make it stop! Tears streaming effortlessly Down our face again. Why am I reliving this day Over and over again? The touch of dystrophy always Greets me with kisses and caresses While wiping away the days without Incident back to zero.

Violet Head

Jay Byron

Mar woke up in their dorm, shooting up into a sitting position, scrambling their hands around the bed to find their phone. As soon as they felt its solid outline, they gripped and fumbled with it under the covers ungracefully, finally reading its screen. 11:00 AM. It was the weekend, and they thanked the universe that that was the case. They sighed, releasing the leftover tension they had, nervous they were missing out on something. Jackson. They checked their messages; they had told him they were home safe. Good. Plus, with how Jackson and Riley live together, they assumed Riley knew, too. Good. It was more than a little surreal that their night consisted of going to an actual party. It even happened to be mildly successful. Mar brushed their unruly curly hair out of their face, processing the emotions of the entirety of the event. It wasn’t that bad. They met Jax, who was kind and a bit outgoing. It was overwhelming, of course, because they were so different from other queer people they talk to. Other queer people they met were quiet, like them, or awkward. Jax was so in their element, like they knew exactly what they were doing all the time. That wasn’t — couldn’t be — true. No one ever knew what they were really doing, and that was proven by what Riley had going on with Alissa, where Alissa was transphobic because of personal problems. What stupid drama, they thought. But it wasn’t stupid, at the same time — it was real life. Even if it wasn’t what Mar would consider serious, clearly Alissa cared a lot about it. Maybe Riley did, too. Nothing about the situation made sense. Alissa got jealous because Riley came out, and then everything shifted. No one ever knew what was going on, and Mar had to learn how to accept that. Weirdly enough, they felt the corners of their mouth rise. That was the beauty of life. Mar hopped out of bed, fixed the covers lightly, and picked out clothes. Each article of clothing was put on with a certain amount of care, as if they had something to do today. They didn’t. It was just a work day, which they never got dressed for, but it was 14

almost like they had to. Maybe something was going to happen. Their arms were hugged tight by the fabric of their tee. Their loose shorts gave their legs comfortable breathability. They looked in the mirror. The first thing they noticed was their own face. Mar’s freckles were darkened by the sun. Their brown eyes were nothing like Olivia’s, their sister, whose hazel eyes were detailed and precise. Mar’s brown eyes almost meshed with the black of their pupils. They also noted their round face was framed by their tight, curly hair. They also always forgot that their ears were pierced, so they could easily plop in some cute earrings whenever they wanted, but they neglected it. Maybe they would at some point, they thought. They lifted a hand to part their hair better, making sure it wasn’t completely out of place. They looked semi-normal. So, they sighed out of normalcy and traversed to their desk where their laptop resided. In the end, maybe this whole thing could be a potential home. Mar opened it, turned it on, and waited as it loaded everything. Their heels tapped on the ground impatiently. They looked at their phone again and thought for a minute. Mar remembered a little conversation they had with Jackson while they were getting ready for the party, and it wasn’t anything huge, it was just his curiosity. They bit their lip at the thought. “Why don’t you come out to Olivia?” “It’s a little different.” It was a lot different. It was actually a completely different realm than just saying ‘hey, I’m not heterosexual.’ This wasn’t a matter of what gender someone is attracted to; this was a matter of what someone identified as, which would actually cause changes to be made. It was something to ask for, like a favor that should be intuitive. “You said she was bisexual, so it’s really possible that she doesn’t care at all. Maybe she even did research on it already because she explored her own sexuality,” Jackson reasoned. Mar rolled their eyes. “I can’t get my hopes up so quickly.” “Why not?” It was a good question. There was no specific reason why Mar couldn’t have gotten their hopes up. At worst, Olivia might just 15

not know what to do. She wouldn’t be hateful like others. So, maybe Mar should just be ready for anything and do it to get it out. But what would their parents think? They didn’t think about their parents much. They were an after-after-after thought, because before then, it was Olivia, then it was themself. They normally didn’t care what they thought because Mar was always the good kid. Olivia was always the one to be questioned. Mar was passive. Sometimes, it was a matter of emotion. Their emotional safety net was falling back onto being the numb sibling who was moderately okay with their schoolwork. They got it done, turned it in, and boom: it was fine. Olivia always did what she wanted. She always said exactly what she was thinking at any given time. Sometimes, Mar wondered if they wanted another kid just so they could have a retry. It didn’t feel good. Coming out to them wasn’t an option. Well, it could be. Because, why would it matter anymore? They were at college, literally states away from their parents. A phone call was all it would take for the nerves to be over. It might go something like this: “Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.” “What’s up?” Because Mar never really calls to begin with. Obviously, it was never quite a greeting, but more of a ‘okay, this must be something serious.’ “I wanted to tell you something important.” Their throat would be impossibly tight. As soon as they would say it, it would hurt. “Alright. What is it?” Even in their fantasies, they couldn’t decipher their parents’ tones. It could be that they already knew and were pre-disappointed. It could also be sheer ignorance. It could also be that they don’t care and won’t try. “I’m nonbinary.” Silence would be held for a minute before they responded. “What’s nonbinary?” If they asked that question, even. 16

“I don’t really identify as a girl or a boy, so I just say nonbinary and I use they/them pronouns.” “Um, okay.” Then, it would be silent for five minutes, and they would hang up like it was Mar’s fault that they said it to begin with. Whatever. They looked back at their laptop and checked for homework. They had some, but peered back at their phone in interest. No, it wouldn’t be their parents. But, they thought back to Alissa. You’re an alien. You’re a predator. Yet, they still felt human. They sat in the desk chair, laptop in front of them, open, ready to be worked on. In their hand was the phone, where they kept scrolling through messages upon messages of Olivia and Mar’s conversation. Most of it was memes or little tidbits of asking if the other was doing well. Some of it was Olivia taking random pictures of stuff around their house or in the yard. Mar felt a quiver of homesickness in their stomach. Olivia was the one person Mar wanted to tell more than anyone. They didn’t want to openly admit it. Olivia was their best friend. They grew up doing everything together, because that’s just how it worked. Their relationship flowed like water, even on disagreements. Whenever there was a rock in the stream, they found a way around it. Why was this problem such a boulder? The thoughts they’ve been trying to control sprung forward slightly with the question, would Olivia hate that they’re nonbinary? The possibilities are endless. So many outcomes with this problem, and Mar couldn’t pinpoint it. Maybe if Olivia had stayed in the uncomfortability of Mar being asexual, they could have determined how she would react to Mar being nonbinary. But, because of her discovery, it’s like everything’s starting from a blank. Mar would never know how Olivia would react to them coming out until they did it themself. Mar quickly got out Riley’s messages and texted them. 17

how’d you come out to your siblings? or parents? or are you out? No time had passed when they got a response. Why? Are you about to do it? They rolled their eyes. It was a very Riley response, they learned. They were way more interested in the outcome rather than the process, like it was a movie to be watched, and they skip to the end. no. well, i don’t know yet The response was fast: I came out to everyone at once when I was home for Thanksgiving. It was okay! Some were really confused, but it was mostly fine, because I had always been the one that wasn’t cis/het for sure. They huffed in amusement. Clearly, they thought. But, they didn’t know if it was the exact same in their situation, so maybe this wouldn’t help at all. did it change anything? They didn’t know exactly what it was, so I had to explain what it was. Then, I made a powerpoint, of all things, to explain how to use the pronouns. It was pretty funny actually ok that sounds doable They chuckled at their own light joke. It wasn’t completely doable, actually, because this isn’t the same situation at all. Riley didn’t need to know that, though, and they decided to face this problem on their own. Mar shook their head and went back to the laptop situation, focusing on the homework for a minute. They quickly organized what homework they had left to do before each class and felt a little more prepared than before. They had to read from an online textbook. So, they opened it up in a new tab, and began the reading. All the words looked like signs to stop what they were doing and change their goal, because it was finally time. Their eyebrows creased in gentle concern. Maybe this was a problem all along. The support they needed was never there until Jackson, and it felt completely foreign. Having acceptance be a foreign feeling shouldn’t have been any sort of normal, but at the time, it was just what had happened, because it had never happened before. This should be a good feeling, they thought. 18

They shut their laptop gently and walked over to the mirror again. They smoothed out any creases in the material on their body, just in case it would somehow impact whatever they were about to do. Their face was more tense and scrunched than before, so they sighed to put it back into its place, like it needed manual adjusting. They looked at their phone once more, opening Olivia’s contact. They pressed “Call.” Briefly, they freaked out. Like maybe they didn’t mean to hit that button, like maybe the button was in the wrong place and they meant to hit something else, like maybe this was a mistake since the beginning, like maybe they shouldn’t have gone to a college in Arizona, like maybe they should have never met Jackson, or Riley, or Alissa, or even Jax. Like maybe all of this wasn’t anything they should have ever tried, because it’s not something they will ever complete or be satisfied with, and. But, the contact lit up, and suddenly, Olivia’s side of the call was active. “Hey, what’s up?” “Hey,” Mar responded breathlessly. “You good?” Olivia said, a smile in her voice. Mar nodded like she could see. “Yes. I have to tell you something.” “What is it?” No more. They were going to find home. “I’m nonbinary.”

Feline Perception

Kai Guilds

I sit here and stare, the wall has not moved. But will it? * They take me, strap me up, and put me in a four-sided mesh bag. It is fun. * I hold my gaze with love, they are confused and ask me unknown questions. * Cylinders with liquid crinkle and are thrown, I must get them. It will be mine. * I step into the room and everyone screams my name. Praise me. * When I talk to them, they only mock me. They don’t seem to understand. * Bug. * They touch my nose to wake me up. In return, while they sleep, I shove my nose in their mouth. * Today when I woke up, my nails were gone. Their remains are not to be seen. * I bathed and they touched me with their greasy hands, I must now start over. * Demanding their attention does not work. Ignore them and they’ll come. * Scream at doors, sometimes they will open. * This. Is. My. Corner. * Bang! Bang! Bang! My hair stands on end. * They stare at a box with light, when birds are through the clear wall. * I am not allowed to eat this, they pry it from my mouth. * I am the greatest hunter and the fly escapes.

* If I scream at this corner, they will react. * They move the couch so the monster can consume the dirt. My hoard has been uncovered. * Most of them get into this smaller box where wet falls from the sky and… enjoy it? * I get my hands wet to leave prints across the mirror, they’ll never know it was me. * How dare they not invite me to the toilet! *

Your Beloved Eleanor

Liv Frazer

“Do I repine, is it all murmuring, or am I sad and lone, and cannot, cannot help it? Sometimes when I do feel so, I think it may be wrong, and that God will punish me by taking you away; for he is very kind to let me write to you, and to give me your sweet letters, but my heart wants more” - Emily Dickinson

My mother and I have always had a fraught relationship. I possess a special gift that allows me in any circumstance to disappoint her: whether it be constantly having my nails chipped or keeping my hair short or you know, being a lesbian. For years, my dad has sworn that our “distance” as to which he refers, emerges from similarities rather than differences. However, I am pretty certain it’s mostly the gay thing. It was a Tuesday morning in the lull of autumn. Right at that point in the season when the leaves begin to decompose and the foreboding whisper of winter nips at the nose. I had just come back inside from my daily jog when the phone rang from the front room. “Jo, your mother, she- she isn’t doing so well.” he states emotionless, nearly rehearsed. “What’s going on?” She had been sick for a period of time, cancer. The type doesn’t really matter, sickness is sickness- it all kills you the same. I read somewhere that it tends to be hereditary so I have that to inevitably look forward to. He sighs “She’s taken a turn for the worst in the past few weeks. It’s unexpected I know, I’m sorry. But Jo, I don’t know if I can keep doing this on my own anymore.” “I thought she was improving? The last time I visited she even got up with me for a walk. That was only a month or so ago.” I hear my voice say, floating above me. “I know. I know sweetheart. And I hate to ask you this. But would you- could you possibly come stay with us? The hospice nurse says...” He trails off and we sit for a moment listening to the monotonous buzz of the landline. “Dad, I don’t–” He pleads, voice wavering. “Honey, you don’t want to leave 24

things like this. Please at least think about it, I don’t know how much time she has left.” I’ve never heard him sound so tired before. There are certain things in life that one can never fully prepare for like a button popping off a blouse or a grocery bag collapsing in on itself in the middle of the street. And yet these are all minor inconveniences that can easily be forgotten once the initial rage has subsided. But the death of a parent? Your parent- who as a child you viewed as indestructible- is entirely and undeniably, agonizingly mortal. I sigh, taking off my glasses to massage my temples “Yeah. I’ll get the next flight out. Just hold on till I get there okay? See you soon dad.” Fueled solely by my own adrenaline, I threw together a bag of essentials and called a friend to water my plants, leaving a spare key under the mat. On a second sweep of the apartment, I noticed my pressed dress shirt hanging ominously from the closet rack. Fabric bathed in black. I grabbed it with a disgusting lack of hesitation. Then soon found myself sitting in economy, lodged between a perky teenage girl intent on talking every moment of the flight and a large, sweaty man whose snoring sounded like a broken garbage disposal. I attempted to do my recommended breathing exercises but was continuously interrupted by a walking ad for birth control kicking the back of my seat. His pitchy little voice repeated the question “Mommy is that a boy or a girl?” to which I felt like responding “What do you think?” to watch the life drain out of his mother’s face The woman laying in that bed was not my mother. She was like a rotten piece of wood on the forest floor with fuzzy moss and ivy slowly growing across it. Her collarbones were the genesis of the vines with these purple and green veins protruding against the surface of her flesh out to the tips of her fingers. Her translucent skin was pulled tightly over her skull, furtherly harrowing her face. It hurt to hear her breathe, inhaling and exhaling with such strain that it sounded like she had started smoking in Nana’s womb. The remainder of her greying hair was wrapped neatly atop her head and covered with a polka dotted head scarf. Ever the primper however- even in the face of death her nails were still perfectly manicured and adorned with her signature shade, An Affair 25

in Red Square. The windows were open just as they always had been in their bedroom and the white willowy drapes danced playfully over her head. Everpresent, the sweet smell of the magnolia tree planted long before I was born wafted through the room. I spent many a summer evening sitting between my mother’s thighs as she attempted to drag a brush through my unruly hair. She would pick out the occasional twig or two, even a leaf one time and despite her frustration would be so greatly amused that she would roll off the bed with laughter. My memories of her are filled with these types of conflicting vignettes. An unavoidable, conflicting image of a woman who I wanted to equally run to and run from. The same person that would come into my room to say goodnight and plant a kiss on my forehead also told me not to bother coming home my freshman year of college when I had my first girlfriend. We spent our thanksgiving in the dorms, eating pizza lunchables and watching Golden Girls on the common room television set. I knew that woman. But this one? She looked like a stranger wearing my mother’s skin as an ill fitting coat. And despite being well into my 30’s, I found myself weary to approach the bed. “One shouldn’t hover in doorways Josephine, it’s unbecoming. A lady announces herself whenever she walks into the room.” she chides me, somehow sensing my presence without even needing to open her eyes. “Ah, it’s nice to see you’re still as sharp as ever mom” I sigh, kissing her cheek. Her body had gotten so thin at this point it was like she was dissolving into my hands. “Marjorie, that is no way to greet our wayward child!” my dad says, sticking his head in the door, “Hey there kiddo, long time no see.” Despite his age, he still picked me up with little effort and swung me around the room. The sound of his thunderous laughter and joyous demeanor put me a bit more at ease even in the present circumstance. “Robert! Put her down, you are going to pull your back you goof.” my mom laughs half-heartedly, tossing a quilted throw pillow at him. A sharp breeze cuts through the room like an undercurrent, sending her wastening body into a seizure-like shiver. My dad rushes to her side, “Love, let me close the windows 26

please. You’re shaking” He gently brushes the back of his hand against her forehead, his silver engagement ring gleaming in the sun. “No! I keep the window open at this time of year, Robbie. I don’t want to suddenly start changing things simply because it is a bit chillier than before.” She says defiantly, laying back down again underneath the duvet, still quivering. My dad pulls me aside, wrapping his large hand around my forearm “Jo, sweetheart, could you grab your mom’s pink sweater out of her chest? I’m going to stay here with her till the next nurse comes, okay?” And at this third party prompting to enter her forbidden keepsake- I am utterly beguiled. My mother’s chest stood as hardy and pristine as I remember her being. A maple handcrafted heirloom gifted to her by her father as a teenager that once belonged to a set with a matching dresser and bed frame. It sat my entire childhood in her sewing room at the edge of her plush reading couch with a stack of Better Homes and Gardens magazines atop it. Entirely mundane and unassuming in appearance; yet, for some unknown reason it was prohibited to ever be touched. Crouched over it, I felt like a child again waiting until my mother was outside in the garden to sneak a peek of her chest. It was always the same contents stacked thoughtfully in never changing positions: a few sweaters, her address book, a nearly empty bottle of old magnolia scented perfume, a photo album from her late teenage years, some silk hair scarves, and a retro pair of sunglasses. I assumed it to be some sort of memory box dedicated to her lost youth that she would melodramatically open to yearn. She rarely talked about her young adult life and we weren’t exactly on speaking terms during the period in which I was experiencing mine. Ever a creature of habit, resting on top of her dusty pink sweater was her cherry red address book with the closing metal clasp. I turned it over in my hands, watching as the glossy sheen reflected the sunlight streaming through the bay window. A distant voice-like a muted whisper in my subconscious- told me to open it. Instantly, various piles of letters, photos, and notes fell out onto the hardwood floor that were tucked away in the back pages. Atop was a sepia toned photo of my mother laying naked 27

with another woman reflected in a mirror, her body outstretched towards the camera. A beaming smile of pure, unbridled joy unlike any I had ever seen before graced her face. I flipped over to the back where I saw Missing you already, Your Beloved Eleanor in a scrawly, undeniably feminine script. I rummaged through the collection of photos, all of my mother with this woman. Eleanor was undeniably lovely, with fluffy brown hair and dimpled cheeks. A class picture of her from my mother’s high school yearbook illuminated her playful gaze and ever present, red lipped smirk. Her hand was always placed on my mother’s shoulder in their group photos, sandwiched between a younger version of my father and another man. Her browning letters, still kept in their aging envelopes were penned in a neat, scrawly cursive with a signature sign off-Your Beloved Eleanor. Thus I sat cross legged on the floor until dusk, taking in every salacious detail of my mother’s decade long romance with a woman. A bitter taste in my mouth began to form, like a penny sitting hard on my tongue. With each loving word, I felt its harsh metallicness grow stronger and begin to unsettle my stomach. But I was far too shocked to be angry. “Where’s dad?” I ask standing over her with the stack of envelopes, gingerly tied with a fraying piece of twine. “He went out to--” “Okay then mom- what are these?” I throw them down on her dinner tray accidentally dipping a corner of the letters into her steaming tea “Josephine, those weren’t yours to read. You had absolutely no right. Why were you rifling through my things?” she rushingly taking the papers and fanning them violently in the air “What the fuck are these?” “I frankly have yet to see how this applies to you. I am your mother. Watch how you speak to me.” she bites back, defensively hugging her keepsakes to her chest. “I think it is actually rather pertinent though. You see, I have spent my entire life reviled as this hideous goddamn creature which you kept shamefully tucked away- only ever loving under your own conditions-” “You know that isn’t--” she says, speaking over me, reaching 28

out to touch my face. “No. I am speaking. You have isolated and ostracized me from the moment you smelled queer on me. I have not been invited to family dinners. I have had my girlfriends purposefully left out of family pictures. You told me that you would rather have a dead daughter than a gay one! I was a child. An absolutely terrified child and I needed my mother.” I spit out, jerking away from her hand. “Why have you been so intent on punishing me when you are clearly just as much of a dyke as I am?” “What the hell was I supposed to do!” She shouts, voice hoarse and scratchy as she throws the tray onto the ground, utensils crashing onto the cream carpet. Her plate smashing into little fragments. She repeats back in a whisper, tugging anxiously on her earlobe “What was I supposed to do with you Jo? There was this time after I graduated high school, just a brief summer before your father and I were engaged in which I was.. ‘close’ with my childhood friend Eleanor. It was completely innocent. We-- I was just confused.” “If it was just a fling, if you were only experimenting. Why did you keep it all?” I ask, half heartedly leaning on the headboard. All she does is look up at me with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. Letting out a pathetic sigh, she stroked her thumb over a faded picture of Eleanor. “ I love your father Jo, I really do, but I could just never seem to let go of it. I wanted it to be different for you. I thought.. if I pushed you hard enough it could be.” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. And for the first time, I feel an odd sort of kinship with my mother as she weeps. I cradle her cheek in my hand, “I can’t be mad at you because you’re dying, and that’s not fair.” “I’m sorry,” she responds “You can be mad when I’m dead.” At midnight, I came to sit beside her in my nana’s cream chair with the green patterned cushion that she used to read to me on. She still slept on the left side just as she did when I was a child. During thunderstorms, I would climb into bed between her and Dad. He had to sleep in the guest room at this point as she is in too much pain to share with another person. Thumbing through the collection of letters I had grazed over, I settled on one with oil stains from her 29

fingertips aging the crinkled pages. “My dearest Marjorie” I begin, my mother’s body rousing out of her doze at the sound of her own name. “I would love nothing more than to come see you and be wrapped in your arms once more, but I understand why that is not allowable. Afterall, you do not wish me near. I am writing to tell you that despite how it hurts, I respect your decision and understand why you are choosing to marry Robert.” I continue, watching the outline of her body beneath the blankets as she faces the wall. “I dreamt about you last night. We were back at our family’s shared lake house rolling together like the waves lapping over the shore. The moonlight illuminating your silhouette as you climbed like an absolute daredevil over the rocks. That night we looked up to see the entirety of the Milky Way lighting up the sky for us, an endless collection of stars with our love written amongst them. I always picture us that way as young teenagers clumsily dancing on the shifting sand. Bodies intertangled with our laughter echoing across the water. Stripping down and diving beneath the surface of the lake, my fingers grazing your alabaster skin as I wrap my legs around you. The smell of Magnolia floating through the air as I taste you. You don’t realize it now because you are young- young and so very afraid. But there will be a day in the future in which you’ll mourn the loss of this. The remnants of us will continue to exist in the tiniest ridges of your hardwood floors and beneath your fingernail beds. No amount of scrubbing can remove my existence, despite how much you wish it would. I do not blame you for being cowardly, but I do wish that you would not have denied yourself. As she will only resurface, embittered that you shoved her down. We have been irrevocably damaged- far beyond repair -but I have loved you as purely and deeply as I have loved another. As I leave the states, I allow myself to reminisce on the moments that we shared in their fullest complexities: now both tender and cruel. I hope you understand that I have no choice but to move forward, content with my own company as you are sworn to another. I hope he brings you the utmost happiness. I truly do. I am grateful for what I have received from you despite how it presently hurts. If you ever become lonesome for me, picture the 30

lake and me waiting there for you with outstretched arms.” I feel tears begin to well up in the corners of my eyes and roll off onto the worn paper. “Eternally yours, your beloved Eleanor” I finished and looked to my mother who had turned over with delicate teardrops rolling down her cheeks. And for the first time, I see my mother as Marjorie. Young and lively, a spitfire with flaming red hair and spellbinding green eyes. Face adorned with freckles, like stars across her nose. Marjorie in absolute adoration of a woman that she was not able to be with fully. Then I see them, both of them- tangled in sheets, pressed together, two halves forming something intangible together. Existing in the illusive space between sentences. In the suggestible outlines of non-conclusive shapes. Loving in the ephemeral silhouette of queerness, intentionally evading a definitive reach. Yet I find myself in their yearning figures again and again. The Vitas and Virginias. The Emilys and Sues. I feel the pressure from my mom’s hand lessen as she breathes out. “I love you Jo.” The sweet smell of magnolia lingers. Her pulse stops. And I let go.

4 a.m.

Jules Hoepting

Oh, it’s only the morning birds and night owls at this hour Sipping on coffee or swallowing melatonin Too dark for sunrise, the coldest part of day You walk the streets by yourself Absorb the stillness, lack of vibration of human voices Hear yourself in your head, your voice bouncing around Trying to get out of your own head, but it makes more sense there Things are better when they make sense, but you know nothing What is the meaning of it all? Life, misery, happiness, emotions Ask the sun, but the planet is blocking its light Ask the other stars but they’re years away Dig deep for answers, but if you dig deep enough you’ll end up on the surface And burn yourself in Earth’s core You’re a particle of a person on a smidge of a planet Spinning around and around in control and in entropy Hoping it must mean something, hoping you mean something Stirring the milk and sugar in coffee, watching the particles disappear But only from your vision, not from existence You can’t trust your eyes, but you trust the lines parallel to the edge of the road Will guide you from going off the straight-edged asphalt And returning to the woods where humans once lived The ecosystem dipping in entropy until it gains control Just to lean in entropy again Thinking of balance, trying not to trip, you look to your feet On the ground, but you’re hardly grounded to this life You stop, and look at the sky with images of stars from year’s past And you can do nothing, and you can do something And you won’t change the galaxy But you can tell yourself your intentions, you can convince yourself you mean something And your voice, ricoheting against your skull, creating reverb in your mind Is the loudest thing on the streets at 4 a.m.

Among the Cards, I Accept my Fate

Emerson Stein

Past: The Devil It’s scary how well the cards know you. How they can feel that fear has controlled you for years. The blank stare of a ram skull sees through you more than you’d ever admit. “You have been too destructive,” it whispers. “You have had no control in the past. Have spent too much time leaning on tragedy. Nothing changes until you do.” It’s easier to ignore what they know. Simpler to forget your past. To wipe the blood from your hands and live in false peace. The cards won’t let you, but you both know putting up a fight is useless. Present: The Tower Everything is falling apart. You reach a hand out, begging them for help. The tears that roll down your face burn. The actions you’ve committed against your friends makes your ribs hurt. You’re pleading them, hoping for them to tell you it will be okay. They refuse, their eyes are blank as they tumble to the ground around you. “Something’s coming,” they yell as you cover your ears. “You have to prepare,” their shrill warning

flashes through your mind like lightning. You need to listen, to let them guide you. But you hold grudges and anger in your bones. You can’t follow them when they can’t even promise to comfort you. The ignorance will hurt you further than the wrongs you have carved into your soul. Yet you both stand on a ground full of debris. Their warning means nothing. Future: Death When the cards present their skeleton to you you know you should have tried harder. The blood on your hands belongs to your own veins now. The pain and suffering is everyone else’s. “Expect the end of a phase,” they announce as you watch their wings slowly fade out of existence. You wish they had specified that the end was you. If only you had stopped brushing them off, stopped closing your eyes and ears to their decrees. Now you stand together, watching over what you’ve left behind. You’ll leave a void that won’t be filled, but it’s not your problem now. It’s scary how well the cards know you.

Writer’s Block

Jackson DiCarlo

The blinking cursor taunts me It sits at the top of the page, alone, and completely content Just being infuriatingly irritating Blink, blink, blink, blink I shoot up in my chair, confident in my ability to prove it wrong But my inspiration dissipates as quickly as it formed Leaving me face to face with that stupid flashing line of pixels This must be what that Chinese water torture is like As the minutes fly by the flashing quickens BlinkBlinkBlinkBlink It matches my heartbeat Just one black line in the sea of white I struggle to sort my thoughts I rack my brain for something, anything, to put on this god forsaken page Then it hits me like a truck “Writer’s Block. By Jackson DiCarlo” Baby steps

Good Morning He tried to get out of bed. He tried. He couldn’t bring himself to move. He wants to go to class. Not really. He has 10 minutes to get up, and dress, and go. ...Nothing. 5 minutes now. The clock flashing, orange, warnings. One more go at it. Just moveOver. No dice. He closed his eyes again. Fuck it. Fail me. It’s not worth it. Sorry Mom. He thought. I tried.

Jackson DiCarlo

sunday morning

Alexa Kartschoke

let the record spin out slowly, leftover dances are waiting for us in the kitchen. the gentle music of spoons on coffee cups in perfect time by the spring wind shutters– memorizing the glassy eyes of your lovers next to lips turned up at the corners. perch the sun on the windowsill and unfurl the memories of last night, you turn off the clock and sit in the silence of our hands softly crossing the table to meet.

road trip

Alexa Kartschoke

she traced her hand out the car window painting the horizon line off the tips of her fingernails. inviting beauty like wildflowers, creating as simply and quickly as our sweet raspberry wine touched her lips. I see the remnants flushing her cheeks, daring to catch a glimpse at the passenger side—

My Personal Burden: Anxiety Pills

Andrew Kayel

Pass Me By

Nick Pattilio

There’s voices around me, voices that laugh and surprise and they don’t say anything. But they move quickly, from one thing to another as if time is fleeting like this is their last day on earth. The sun shines down, in between the clouds reaching out from a million miles away. She wants to be known, she wants to be seen she wants to be felt, like she can’t go on without someone. Schubert’s words on the page, of love and loss and the agony people feel from not being loved, from searching in vain lose their meaning when they are anxiously hurled in the hot classroom. I thought I was going home on Thursday but my dad says it’s easier to go on Friday. I don’t know why, they are both just days but I skip questioning and just accept that this is what is. I will be home someday The ice clears and the wind stops, the trees get their leaves back and the red tulips spring up and the days get longer and warmer and love you more but the snow falls next week, and again next winter, and again There’s nowhere to stop, nowhere to recover from the brutality that knocks you down, and you get back up again—but you get back up again without something, there’s something missing that you dropped off down there

and there’s no time to miss it, or to replace it or to gather it up no matter how hastily Until you are windowside in a hospital bed. Then you can miss it. Then you can look back on what you dropped off, on what you went on missing into your next phase of life— when there’s nothing left to be said or done.

Ode to Vinyl Records

McKenzie Lohmer

Taking a vinyl record out of the package for the first time is such an amazing but stressful experience. You finally get to see the beautiful stark black or colorful piece of art for the first time. You get to feel the music in a way that only vinyl can make you feel music. After the initial shock and excitement, you have to think about the condition of this piece. Is the cover in good condition, is the vinyl warped in any way, is it what I expected? Some ask why we spend so much money when there is a free music streaming service at every corner of the internet. I say that no music streaming service can take the place of the crisp sounds and overall experience of playing vinyl. The need to flip the disk and the lack of real ability to play the specific portions you want is an experience you can’t get when you shuffle a playlist on Spotify. This experience is slowly coming back into the norm, but was not always a universal experience. When music started being available in formats like CDs, MP3s, iPods, and then eventually cell phones and streaming services, vinyl records started to lose their popularity. Music lovers no longer worry about how they experience music, just that they can listen whenever they want wherever they want. People no longer needed to worry about being next to a record player or having the vinyl of the artist they want to listen to. *** My grandmother talks about how her and my grandfather, a man I never remember meeting, would go dancing all the time. She recalls how much fun those times were everytime I talk about a school event like prom or homecoming. She also became really excited when she learned about my love for vinyl records. She talks about “33s” and “45s,” which I have never heard them called. She wanted to see my record player and how they have advanced. She is shocked that vinyls can be played through something so small compared to the large record players she was exposed to. She would be amazed whenever I would pull out a colored variant and would want to just look at how pretty it was. My grandmother and I bond over a lot of things. My parents have always worked a lot, so I was always with my grandmother. I would ride the bus to her house after school and spend every afternoon with her. She would be the one to help me with homework and projects and feed me snacks until my father would get home from work. I loved doing things with her so I grew up in the church because of her. Although I have grown

away from that part of me, going to church is still something we love to do together. We also love baking, although I am nowhere near the skill level that she is. She is one of those grandmas who could cook anything and fill it with so much love that it would never taste bad. One of the biggest parts of my life has been my love for music. I started singing in front of crowds at 4 years old. My grandmother has always been one of my biggest supporters and singing in church growing up is one of the reasons why I never lost my love for it. Now I know how to play guitar, at a novice level at best but I am still learning. I still sing at the same church I have for years, and I decided to audition for and am currently a part of an acapella group on campus. Without the continued support and encouragement from my grandmother, I would never have been able to keep enough confidence in my abilities to keep singing. My grandmother also instilled the love for family and working with children in me from a very young age. I have a very large family so I have been surrounded by children my whole life and became an aunt before I became a teenager. My grandmother has always been the hub for family events and gatherings and some of my best memories come from these family parties. Along with the good times, however, there are always bad ones and my family unfortunately experiences a lot of bad. My grandmother never lets her opinions or the struggles the parents in the family are having affect her and she always makes sure that the children are successful and given everything that they need. Now that I am in college to be a special education teacher I think about all of the lessons my grandmother has and will continue to teach me. No matter what is going on at a child’s home, I will always be a person they can confide in and I will always push them to follow their dreams because my grandmother did that for me. Without her I would not be where I am today and for that I will be forever grateful. *** Life goes by faster than you think it does. One day you start pre-k, then the next thing you know a pandemic hits, you finish high school from your bed, and somehow you’re about to be a junior in college. I look around at how my life has changed and I have grown and I am both excited for what is yet to come but also mourning what I will never get back. Family Christmas with my siblings, birthday parties with elementary/middle/ high school friends that I will probably never talk to again, those evenings with my grandmother after school, the prom and senior trip I never got, the freshman orientation I was never offered and the “normal” college experience that I will never see. Through those sad thoughts I can see my future classroom, my husband at the end of the aisle, my own children

making those same memories as I did, and growing old with the ones I love. I also see everyone changing around me. My friends leaving and others taking their place, my siblings having children, my parents aging, and my sweet sweet grandmother starting to struggle. Her hands shake more than they used to, a small fall could mean a broken bone and any little sickness could mean the end. The woman who I owe everything to and who helped raise me gets to see everything that I accomplish while she changes. Life can give you so much, but will inevitably also take more than it can give. One day that beautiful soul of a woman will no longer be here to see me grow and change. All of her lessons will be pressed into me like a vinyl record. I will continue to share those lessons with my future students and children until the needle lifts up and there is not another side of my disk to flip to.

Little Secrets

Alivia Roehrig

Gramma lived out in the countryside, where the stars were bright enough that I never needed my nightlight out there. During the summer, Mom and Dad would pack me and my sisters into the old van that vaguely smelled of cigarettes from the previous owner, and they’d drive us the short twenty minutes to Gramma’s. I’d always be stuck in the back, since my youngest and oldest sister always claimed the two middle seats. But it didn’t really matter to me. I didn’t like confrontation. Besides, going to my grandmother’s house was my favorite thing as a kid. A day at Gramma’s meant that we would spend the day outside in the warm sun. Gramma was one of those old women who never actually grew old, she just grew gray. She gardened and hiked every day. Gramma also had a small house on a big plot of land, where us grandkids could all run around until we fell asleep under the oak tree that she had planted when she was a little girl. We’d be a pile of limbs, unable to find any cousin or sibling worth bickering with when the summer heat was as heavy as our eyelids were. Sometimes I’d stay awake in the pile and I’d count the stars while the adults had their very important adult conversations. Lynn always stayed awake with me. She was seven years older than me. I adored my sister, and I looked up to Lynn as if she were the prime example of who to be when I grew up. Lynn would point out the constellations to me. “Look there. See that star?” “No.” “Yes you do. That one is his head, then you have the three that make his belt right? Then there’s his bow and his legs.” “Why is he wearing a belt?” “Cause Orion is a great hunter and also amazing at accessorizing.” Conversations with Lynn were preferred to conversations with my five year old sister, Becca. Becca was obsessed with Blues Clues and also thought it was funny to pull my hair. At ten, I was far too mature for Becca, and far too young for Lynn really. So I was always kind of alone. That was fine. I liked alone. But being alone 51

was hard when I shared my room with Becca. “JuJu get up! Daddy says so!” Becca only did things because “Daddy” said so. She would listen to Mom just fine, but if Dad said it, she was ready to jump into action. Or in this case jump on my bed. Dad probably did want me to get up. I always slept the latest. Mom joked that even at ten years old, I was sleeping like a teenager. I had stayed up late into the night with a book and a flashlight under my covers. So pulling myself out of bed, even for our annual bonfire at Gramma’s, was a struggle. Becca was already dressed by Mom and I could hear Lynn in the bathroom with the hair dryer. I grabbed my shorts and t-shirt, and told Becca to bother Lynn while I dress. There wasn’t enough space in that little house for privacy. When I was little it didn’t bother me, but I was growing older. And sometimes the walls were too thin and I could hear Mom and Dad talking about the house and moving. But we couldn’t move. Something about houses crashing and not enough jobs and maybe if she picks up another shift they could. To my kid ears, it was nonsense. The only way to get privacy in the house was to kick people out of the room for a five minute span since that was all that wasn’t considered rude. That or the bathroom. Which Lynn was already occupying. With Becca gone, I was able to change in peace. And with the three remaining minutes of my five, I shove the necessities for the day into my red backpack. Flashlight. Book. Disposable camera that had five shots left. Hoodie. When we were all ready and the bickering had already started, Mom called for us and we all came down the stairs in a line like ants. One after the other. Mom had her bag ready to, which probably had more practical things like sunscreen and gum. “Lynn, wanna help Dad grab the food?” Mom said. “June and Becca can help me get the bags.” Lynn went to help Dad carry the assigned dishes that we had made last night. Mom made the best potato salad in the world according to Lynn, and she also made my favorite summer pasta with the little grape tomatoes. Becca and I both took a grocery bag from her, filled with whatever we might need that night. Once piled in the car, we began our drive. I got to sit in the 52

front today, with Lynn in the far back instead. Our first stop was Mariah’s house. Mariah was Lynn’s best friend. She had long back hair and big brown eyes, and sometimes she spoke French. I liked to hear when she spoke French. She had studied it in high school, and she was going to go to college to learn it more. Lynn didn’t know if she wanted to go to college. I’d hear Mom talk to her about scholarships. Maybe she could get one and then she could go to the community college nearby. Mariah breezed into the car. She had been coming along all summer: to the beach, to Gramma’s, to the little ice cream stand on the corner. Everywhere Lynn went, Mariah followed. At least I got to move to a middle seat now to make space for Mariah, who sat in the very back with Lynn. When we arrived, Becca ran off to meet up with our cousins, who were closer to her age. Ryan and Amelia were both 4, and Jesse was 6. Aunt Tina’s kids. Gramma was in the garden, lifting rocks for Amelia as she crouched down. I instantly ran over. “June Bug!” Gramma called. “We’re looking for snakes,” Meena explained to me. She always spoke seriously for someone who was only four. I knew they were looking for snakes . The rocks that surrounded the garden were perfect for them to hide under, wet and cool and away from the scorching sun. “Find any yet?” “Nah. Seems they might have moved out,” Gramma said. She replaced the stone, wiped the dirt on her stained jeans, then wrapped me in a hug. “How’s my little bug doing?” “I’m good! I brought a book so I can go read in the hammock!” Gramma smiled and told me to go inside and grab my breakfast, since Aunt Tina and her kids had already eaten. So inside I went. Mom and Dad were still inside from putting away our food. They were talking and I knew they were alone. So I stayed quiet as I slowly climbed the stairs out of the mud room. I hid behind the washer as I listened. “She said she was going to move with Mariah to Rochester. They’re going to find an apartment and she’ll find work up there. Maybe she’ll apply for next semester.” 53

“Jenna, do you really think she’s ready to move out?” “She’s eighteen, Sam. She’s graduated and she wants a gap year before going to college. I can’t blame her. We can’t afford it anyway. They’re cutting back your hours too much for us to send her.” “I just don’t like the idea of her being so far away. And Mariah… I just don’t like that idea. Two girls in a big city alone? Even if they find jobs to pay rent and pay tuition. I’m worried for them.” I heard Mom sigh, and then there were footsteps as they retreated deeper into the house. I waited until I heard the backdoor open and close again before going into the kitchen. There were rainbows everywhere from the suncatchers hanging in the window above that big old sink. I didn’t know what to say or do. Lynn wanted to move away. And she hadn’t told me. She told me everything usually. We didn’t keep secrets from one another. I grab a muffin from the stove top and I leave through the mudroom and laundry again, just in case Mom and Dad think I was eavesdropping. I didn’t mean to, but the information was swarming in my head like a gnat. A gnat that was very quickly quieted by my spotting of Aunt Tina. I raced over, my muffin already half gone. Aunt Tina looked just like Mom, but her eyes were a little sadder and her hair was already starting to go silver like Gramma’s. I hugged Aunt Tina, but her hug wasn’t as warm and sweet as normal. She encouraged me to play along with my cousins. Normally she’d ask me about school or my friends. The past few weeks she had been far more distant than normal. It upset me. I frowned but moved along as she asked me to. My muffin was sticking to my fingers, the sugar crystals melting in my mouth with every bit. When nothing was left I climbed into my favorite hammock, strung between two big maple trees, and I stared at the canopy. Ten was confusing. I was too old to play with my younger cousins. And my big sister was moving away and was probably gonna go with Mariah all day long anyway. I heard her say to Mom that she wanted to show Mariah the hiking trail that was in the woods behind Gramma’s house. That hiking trail had once been our special spot, where she would take me and give me sisterly advice. Stuff like how when a boy is mean to you, 54

it doesn’t actually mean he likes you, it means he’s a jerk. Or how I should save up my allowance from my chores. Sometimes it was just stories about what highschool was like. But now it was going to be Mariah’s special place with her, not mine. I heard Aunt Tina approaching with Gramma, and their voices were hushed but not whispers. They didn’t know I was in the hammock, and they didn’t think to quiet down for me. The other kids were farther back in the playground. I listened, pretending I was a spy or some undercover detective. No, I was Nancy Drew. I had to figure out the secret to the riddle. “Brandon is just… ignoring me.” Aunt Tina. Talking about Uncle Brandon? I hadn’t heard about him in over two years. I knew that he’d moved out and that Aunt Tina wasn’t married to him anymore. “Honeypie, there’s nothing you can do about that.” “They’re his kids! Ma, they are his kids and he doesn’t want to see them? He’s with that slut all the time now and guess what? She’s pregnant. He said that she’s uncomfortable having the kids over, and doesn’t want her child to be confused. How can he do that? He didn’t even show up to the court three weeks ago. I’m pissed.” I winced. Aunt Tina never swore. Dad did. Dad was an expert in swearing and we knew not to do it ourselves. But Aunt Tina? She’d sooner say “fiddlesticks” like a cartoon character before any actual cussing. She cussed now. That slut. So Uncle Brandon had a new girlfriend? Maybe not a new one. I vaguely remembered hearing her say something about him cheating when the entire divorce was happening. But I was eight and cheating was something you did at cards. Mom told me that cheating could happen with husbands and wives. Uncle Brandon had cheated and that made Aunt Tina sad and not her anymore. She was a new woman. A sad woman at that. Lynn was moving away. Uncle Brandon had a new family. Nothing was going right today. I didn’t want to keep eavesdropping. I never had before. I was the good girl who did as she was told and sat in the corner to read. Mom always said I was her easiest kid since I 55

never put up a fight for anything. Now I was being bad and listening to adults when I shouldn’t. I poked my head from my hammock and watched Gramma and Aunt Tina walk toward the pile of wood on top of the hill. It was only ten thirty. The bonfire would have to wait longer. I tried to pretend everything was okay. Dad asked if I wanted to hit some softballs and I agreed. I was good at softball. Dad coached the middle school team and he wanted me to sign up for it. With each swing, one of the new secrets rang through me. THWACK! Aunt Tina’s ex-husband is a cheater. THWACK! Lynn is going to move away. THWACK! Slut. Eventually Dad said his arm was tired from pitching, and mine was tired from swinging, and it was time for lunch anyway. My peanut butter and jelly sandwich was bruised. Lynn and Mariah ate on the little bench in the garden, laughing together and sharing a plate of summer pasta. I was too far away to hear them, and they spoke too quietly anyway. I sat alone at the table on the shaded back porch, observing everyone. Everyone else sat at the picnic tables in the sun. Ryan was throwing a tantrum over his shirt, which had a big red jelly stain now. Lynn’s laugh echoed through the summer air, cutting over the cicadas that had begun to buzz louder and louder. Lynn always had the loudest laugh. “Lynn! Can we go on a walk with you?!” Jesse was calling from the picnic table, standing on the bench as Aunt Tina tried to pull him down. I watched Lynn giggle and she nodded. “Sure!” Her eyes flicked to me. “You coming, Bug?” I remember smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. And I nodded. I did want to go on that walk. Going on that walk felt normal, it felt right. Maybe some things would still stay the same. Maybe Lynn would tell me her secret and everything would be perfectly fine! Jesse spoke the entire walk through the woods. I carried my camera, snapping a few shots of anything I found of note. Birds 56

called above our heads and grass and stones sang beneath our feet. It worked for a moment. Everything was back to normal and there would be no more changes. Lynn found a berry bush. The sun hadn’t yet withered the strawberries to nothing like they had in the fields. Wild strawberry stained my fingers, the taste so different from the homemade jam Aunt Tina made. The wild berries were a little sour and tart. Wild strawberries were also small. I tossed one into the air to Lynn, and she managed to catch it in her mouth. I was never able to do a trick like that. As our walk continued, so did Jesse’s one sided conversation with it. Lynn would smile, but she never told me her secret. We returned to Gramma’s house much later. Our mouths were red from the strawberries. Jesse immediately went to Dad. Dad was looking at the shed, which had a dangerous lean to the left, towards the rose bushes that Gramma could never fully contain. Dad swore he’d just tear the shed down and restart. Gramma said no. Papa had built that shed a long time ago, and it would not come down unless it posed a very real threat to her rose bush. “I like that hiding spot,” Lynn said to me. I nodded my agreement. The way the shed leaned provided a perfect spot to hide behind the rose bushes, the view from the front being blocked by the shed. You’d only be found if someone came around the back. “Lynn! Look what Amelia and I found!” Mariah came up to us, her and Amelia both holding fat ugly toads in their hands. I frowned. Lynn was excited and followed them to find more. And I was once again alone. This time I didn’t try to find anyone else. I found my hammock instead. Mom found me reading an hour later, the sun just beginning to set. She had a plate of supper for me. “Everyone is wondering where you are,” she said. “I’m here.” Mom just shrugged, pressed a kiss to my hair, and left. I ate. Soon it was almost dark. No, it was dusk. Dad was on top of the hill, trying to start the bonfire. Five minutes ago, the sky had been painted pink, orange,yellow, and now everything was a shade of purple that made you a little sleepy. I could see everyone watching Dad. Except 57

Mariah and Lynn. So I began the important task of finding the best sticks for roasting smores, while I still had light. My backpack thumped against my back like a second heart. I suddenly spotted Mariah and Lynn. I’d walked close to the back of the shed, where the hiding spot was easily in view. They were between the shed and the rosebush, closer than I’d ever seen them before. And they were kissing. I don’t know why I did it. I just did. My camera was in my hands, and I miraculously made no sound. I’d saved that final shot and there was just enough light that I could position my thumb to block the flash so they wouldn’t know. Then I returned to Mom, the bonfire now going. I’d forgotten my marshmallow sticks. When we returned home that night, I went immediately to my room, saying I was really tired. My hoodie smelled of smoke. I thought Lynn trusted me before, but I was a kid. I hid that roll of film between my mattress and the box under it. It’s been a year, and I haven’t developed that film roll. My own secret to keep.

The Glassblower

Lydia Turcios

Glassblowers! I haven’t thought about them in ages. Glassblowers are a particular and finicky bunch. To be clear, because I insist we are always clear. We aren’t talking about the sorts that make your run of the mill drinking glasses. Right? Those are just glassblowers. To be perfectly honest, I prefer that sort. Glassblowers—mind the proper noun—are just so damn hard to please. Never satisfied. Not a bit! No, real Glassblowers make souls. Yes, yes, just like the one you have sitting in your chest. The lethes turn, The pontil leaves its scars, The frit puts the stars to shame, And— Pardon? You’re looking for one? Why, Young lady— Oh. Oh, I see. Well, then. …Miss, I’m afraid I cannot make you another.

Faded

Laura Manikowski

She felt like a sack of potatoes being lifted from her seat onto the rocky ground. What was his name...Melvin, grasping onto her thinning arm to steady her as she swayed back and forth with the wind. She damned the small piece of gravel that already found its way into her sandal before kicking it out, and looking up to finally take in her surroundings. The early dew was still resting on the foliage around the tree line, undisturbed. The start of Autumn left the trees an ugly mix of browns, yellows, and greens. The dust from the dirt road leading up to this hideaway was still settling on the ground among the few fallen leaves; misting over all the inhabitants. As the older woman paused, the engines and horns of the nearby highway came into focus. Marline had mentioned a highway when they talked on the phone. The dozen abandoned semi-trailer truck beds lay in disarray around the small unkempt lot. Melvin’s footsteps startled her back into the moment. Her son? Yes, her son had gone up to one of the beds, using his weight like a wrecking ball to open the rusted old door. She was in gear, speed walking to catch up and froze at the entrance. They had to cough to get the smell of dust and mold from their nostrils. Sandra lapped her tongue out of her mouth to try and rid the iron taste. A stout laugh was heard. The pictures; the scribbles, the tic tac toe boards, the gossip, the scratched in names with hearts drawn around them, a love once forgotten. They covered almost every inch of the walls, even a few were on the ceiling. Were all the beds this way? A ghost of a memory floated through her mind, so vivid she could almost hear it. Yet it was fleeting; gone before it arrived. Sandra spun around the small space, her mind spinning faster. She brushed her fingertips along the cold metal wall. A thick coat of dust was left on her fingers. She had waited years to come here! Even though it was only a few days. She needed to call Marline and tell her about the place. It was so beautiful! Or did Marline already tell her that? She couldn’t remember. Marline said they had been to this place before, yet Sandra didn’t recognize a thing. But it would be lovely to come back sometime. “Have you seen enough Ma?” Melvin called from the open window of the driver’s seat. It had 60

almost been an hour and a half since the two first pulled in, the hot sun beating down on them. Sandra poked her head out from the bed, her blouse and skirt covered with patches of dust. “I suppose so, but can we come back tomorrow?” “Perhaps next time I have off work.” Melvin replied. He had taken her here last month after Marline informed them that the lot they used to play on as children and hang out as teenagers, was being sold off like a piece of property. It was a sadness unrealized by one. When the phone rang through the quiet house a few weeks after, Sandra just had to see this place for herself after Marline asked her what she thought of it. As the lot faded away, so did her mind. Melvin would continue to bring her to this new wonderland until there was nothing left.

A Proposal

Joseph Marciniak

The idea of a school having a valedictorian was first established in the early 1800s. Back then, it was mostly meant as a way to show off to the public the outcomes of public funding of schools. Graduation ceremonies were actually considered an entertainment, and parents to small children would watch a brilliant young adult who had achieved the top of their class give a rousing speech that would inspire them to rally for public education. It actually was extremely successful, which is one of many reasons our public system is much larger than it was in the early 1800s. But what exactly is a valedictorian? Well, quite simply, it comes from the latin term “vale dicere”, translated to “say farewell”. It’s the person who gets the pleasure of sending off their fellow peers to lead successful futures. How it’s determined can vary, but for the most part schools tend to choose them according to who has the highest GPA. There is of course a second speech, given by the runner up known as the salutatorian which oppositely means to “say hello”. These two speeches are presented to the entire group of graduates and their families, representing the best of the best within the class. I am nowhere near being the valedictorian or salutatorian. In fact, I’m probably below average in my class. Growing up, I was the only graduate at my tiny middle school, so while technically I was the valedictorian, there was no competition. In high school, I was an ordinary student who graduated with a GPA of around 3.1. I don’t actually know what my GPA was, I’m just guessing because I don’t want to look. I remember the speeches the valedictorian and salutatorian gave on the night of my high school graduation. One talked about the great experiences he had with his AP Bio teacher, the other talked about the many nights of cramming and pulling all nighters. As their words flew right over my head, I began to think of what I would say. Would I talk about my experiences in theater? Probably not, I don’t think the other students would understand. I was one of maybe twenty students who performed, no use in talking about it and boring 62

the other students. But then, why do I have to listen to this 4.0 GPA student talk about his Advanced Placement Biology class, something I have never nor will ever do? I tried to think of a solution to this problem. In highschool, I used to joke that I was the “Shitatorian”, the student with the most average grade who had the pleasure of giving a somewhat more relatable speech to average students. In academia, I’d imagine this term wouldn’t get far, so I’ve decided to coin a new term. Using the same latin background, I am proposing there be a third speech by a student known as the “Quidnovian”. Roughly translated to “What’s new?” It would be placed between the salutatorian’s speech and the valedictorian’s speech, as a way to see how everyone is doing as the ceremony goes on. It would be a speech by an average student, one with a 3.0-3.2 GPA, who had likely failed a class or two. There are many benefits this could have. For one, the average student will now have the chance to relay their own experiences, which really are just as important as the valedictorian’s. Secondly, this is a chance for higher education to show off the average student’s unmarked capabilities. While GPA can show the brilliance of a student, I’d like to think that there are many just as brilliant students with a 2.0 GPA. Giving an ordinary student the chance to speak shows off that even the most average students are gaining knowledge that they would not have had they not gone to college. It’s a new type of ad for funding public education. Thirdly, the competition to attain the status of valedictorian is steeped in controversy. It is rare that we go a year in the United States without hearing of a high school student suing a school for not giving them the status they desire. Introducing a quidnovian will hopefully quell some of this discontent, and hopefully give some students much more breathing room. Finally, I’d like more average students to be recognized for their brilliance. Jessica may have skipped “Craft of Writing” one too many times, but that doesn’t mean she’s not the best poet on campus. Jim may have failed “Intro to Psychology”, but he’s a fantastic orator, and that should be recognised. Ryan may have missed two weeks of classes due to mental health issues, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t 63

a pointed and sincere artist. All students deserve to be recognized, regardless of GPA. The quidnovian would discuss the struggle of the average student. The gen eds they skipped multiple times, the times they should’ve put an all nighter to study for their classes, but chose to relax and binge watch Wanda Vision instead. Yes, they made these mistakes, but that essay that was a week late was a killer essay. Sure, they skipped their voice lesson right before an important performance, but their voice rang through Mason Hall like never before. This student’s experiences matter just as much as the most honored student. So, I ask of you, my fellow Fredonia peers to push for a new speaker, a quidnovian, the most average student we can find. Because at the end of the day, they can truly understand what EVERY student has gone through over these past four years.

Darius

Terra Zook

Deep Deep Deep Deep purple Let me tell you about slick skin in the moonlight Shuddering forest A breeze that lifts your clothes up off your body For a second weightless Weightless Can I sit with you in the black grass Shale heart Let me chip off a layer for you Add this to some sort of collection Let’s sink into the sediment Unlimited Definite Lets be one being Under the trees Look at the trees Way up above Neon yellow owl snatches a sparrow It cries Don’t hurt me my love my love my love my love

Terra Zook

What it is to Feel

Sophie Wojciechowski

Sometimes, I don’t feel real. When I’m listening to music and I get lost; or when I’m reading a book and I get sucked in. I lose all sense of me, until the song ends, or I close the book, and I find myself back in unfamiliar skin, in an unfamiliar world. When I’m watching a show and I put my everything into the main character; or when I’m sitting in class and find myself daydreaming. I lose it all over again, until the screen goes dark, or the class ends, and I find myself, again, back in unfamiliar skin, in an unfamiliar world. Why do I leave myself so much — to enter somewhere else — and why do I forget what it is to be me? Why can’t I stay in my own bones, with my own flesh and blood, why do I forget my name and my face — so when I’m staring in the mirror later, telling myself My name is Sophie. My name is Sophie. My name is Sophie. over and over and over until none of those words exist anymore, I finally just sit on my floor and try to remember what it was like listening to that song, or reading that book, or watching that show, or sitting in that class. I want to exist within myself, by myself, but being in myself hurts. I can escape in that song or that book or that show or that class, forget all that I am, until there’s nothing left of me, and I can breathe easy, smile wider, think harder. Maybe one day I can do that while feeling real inside my head.

nothing by the script but her boxes are full the night before. I hear the song through her blush: the intrinsic melody of “we are here in this passing moment” disguised as a no-eye-contact hug. I have to tune out the noise because her lips dance along. I want nothing more than to dance too. I tune out the music because I can’t forget I can’t let myself forget the way your smile sings. I tune out the noise because I cannot linger on those beautiful lips what I haven’t said. the song ends. the silence is deafening. how badly I wanted words but all I heard was nothing.

Milo Arnone

The Lovers Card, but Singed and with a Dirty Fork Through the Center Saul Cali Nude polished nails, newly grown, reach outward towards a framed face. Wooden or antiqued brass, the material does not matter, and so it will do. The innards of stationary and flushed flesh meld into the ideal mold, but will never be tangible and instead remain as transparent as a membrane of cellophane. Gangling limbs entangled with my own cherub cheeked, stubby sweat dripped digits. Flaxen wefts weave with charred bark curls in an intoxicated meeting of hide. Melting into each other, leaving only a solitary figure behind, eye meeting eye only when a mirror is latched to the wall, that rusty nail never falters keeping reality in check.

Maybe one day you could have another again or even for the first time. How could one grasp onto and keep such an alliance without coming close to embodying who you are now. Faltering more so in the dark rather than atop the surface. Conditioned to withstand. Fully awake and realized. To inhale the soot smothered smog of transmission errors prior. Instead, gaze inward upon technicolor fantasies, wrapped in the luxury of another, warmth emanating from their imaginary limbs. A furnace of a mere figment. For the moment, these visions give the sense of hope, even if it is bathed in illusion. Oh, so pitiful, so sublimely somber. Still, who could manage to be alone with just their own ego in matrimony. In eternity. The mind must suffice, so escape for but a minute to experience a lifetime, wide-eyed childe.

Study of a Certain Specific Shade of Brown Titled Hex #735240 Saul Cali

The Aftermath

Leora Eisenberger

My dad knocked on my door, and opened it a crack. He poked his head in, taking in my dark room. “Sahar, your friend is here,” he said. “I’ll send her up, okay?” I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to see her, or anyone, for that matter. I wanted to stay curled in my bed, on sheets that hadn’t been changed in weeks, under blankets that it was getting too warm for. I sighed, and turned over, facing the wall. The stairs creaked and a few seconds later, my doorknob squeaked and Evan stepped in. I heard her slowly make her way through my room, avoiding the clothes piles and half empty glasses strewn about. She didn’t say anything, and instead lifted my covers and slipped into bed next to me. She buried her head in my neck, pressing her warm body against mine. I felt her sweatpants against my legs; I hadn’t bothered to put pants on. We laid there for a while, I’m not sure how long. Finally, I broke the silence. “How did you deal with this, Evan? When your dad died, I mean. It hurts, I miss them so much. I miss my brother.” My voice broke on the last word. “It’s not the same, I had time to prepare. He had cancer, I knew he was dying. I got to say goodbye, you know? It didn’t hurt any less when he died, but it’s different. I still miss him. Nothing makes the pain fade but time. But I promise you, Sahar, it will fade. One day, you’ll wake up, and they won’t be the first thing on your mind, breakfast will,” Evan said, tracing circles on my shoulder. “Your mom and siblings died so suddenly, one day they were here, and the next they weren’t. You lost all three of them. You can’t compare my situation to yours, love. They aren’t the same.” “I just can’t stop thinking about the plane crash. Everytime I close my eyes, I see it falling out of the sky, engines smoking and pieces falling off. They must have been so scared.” Tears flowed freely over the bridge of my nose, dampening the pillow beneath me. Sobs racked my body, and Evan held me tighter. “I want them back, Evan, this isn’t fair, it’s not fucking fair.” “I know, love, I know.” I cried for a while, my whole body shivering in grief-induced 80

pain. I felt their loss in the pit of my stomach. Eventually I calmed down, and a hollow feeling replaced the sharp pain. Evan was still next to me. I appreciated her presence more than I thought I would. It was nice to not feel so completely alone. I loved her more than anything. “Can you pass me my phone?” I asked, breaking the silence. She shifted, reaching behind her to grab my phone from the nightstand. I heard the rustle of the balled up tissues on my nightstand move as she uncovered my phone. I opened my news app, checking for more information about the crash, like I had been obsessively doing since it happened. Each time I checked, part of me hoped there would be some new piece of information that I had missed. “Sahar, maybe you shouldn’t check the news right now. I don’t know if you’ll find anything you haven’t before. It’s been a few weeks. I think that if there was more information, you would have known about it,” Evan said. I pulled away, sitting up for the first time that day. “What’s wrong?” Evan asked. I looked at her wordlessly, eyes wide. I passed her the phone. She sat up as well. “Survivor found alive after plane crash in Canada,” she read aloud. “Keep reading.” Her eyes skimmed the rest of the article until she reached the sentence that stopped my heart and started it simultaneously. “The survivor was identified as 21 year old Elijah Cohen. He is the sole survivor of the deadly catastrophe. His condition is stable, although he is still in a medically induced coma, and unable to give any more information at this time. His family members are currently unidentified.” “Evan, my brother is alive. He’s alive, he’s fucking alive.”

Desiderium

Caeley Harsch

(A poem to be read first top to bottom and then bottom to top) What truly is Art? It makes us ponder; Maybe it’s us ourselves, but nevertheless Maybe the world’s our critic, or Maybe no one is. The world needs the brilliant but Language founders in such seas. What truly is art? It’s enigmatic and ethereal, Lovely and lost all at once; that’s why That makes me feel so Inanimate and yet seen, Alone yet alive, What is it about being Inspired by the world... That it makes me feel So free Art is A menagerie of ghosts, and When they whisper like The leaves in the wind, It sounds like Your voice and I love how Art is Always changing. Sometimes I wish we weren’t Too busy to appreciate it. I used to love it as a kid, before we were older, The world told us to know better. I want to believe that it can save us, but What truly is art? 82

Ozymandias

Bryttany Ewers

King of Kings My love, my love for you can be compared to a high court. Enter you there, a king still standing. Ozymandias, whose fair likeness was swallowed. Sat next to a queen, and no mention of her. No thought of me. Grand halls, fine wine poured. Congratulations offered to the jester for surviving, on being a fool to the king of kings. But while you conquered I wasted away. Entered oblivion, separated from you, on your journeys. Your effigy erect. Your visage outlasting our love. My love. Our history nonexistent. Your pride outlasting what we could have built. Queen of Kings My love? Have you compared my love to yours of your high court? announced: “A Queen still stands!” Your fair likeness shrouded by sands forget – lacks memory – (enter me here!), your queen. My comparable statuette unassigned. The fine wine and halls, showered and displayed, congratulations were offered to you, The King of Kings. The great “Ozymandias!” I stood wasting away while you conquered. Enter a separate oblivion from your journey and me. Your effigy erect. Your visage stands as my love does. though your love has forever been displaced. Your pride outlasted what we should have built. 83

Unnamed Woman Lost to Lineage

Emilie Pitts

The new wave of feminism Says to not take your husband’s name. So keep your father’s. Wait. Take on your mother’s. Wait. That’s her father’s name. So take on your grandmother’s name. But wait. That’s your great-grandfather’s name. And that has continued on for generations. I guess we don’t have last names.

Mosaic of My Family My last name is my father’s My middle name is my aunt’s. My first name is my great-grandmother’s. That was my mother’s idea. I am a mosaic of my family.

I have my mother’s curves and her unapologetic spunk. I have my Aunt Cathy’s chatty manner and love for bangle bracelets. I have my father’s eye-hand coordination and his competitive spirit. I have my Uncle Bill’s strong shoulders and his spirituality, just in a different way.

Emilie Pitts

I have my grandmother’s skills with her hands and need for a houseplant in every room. I have my grandfather’s red hair, crooked ears, and his over-the-top gift-giving- even though we never met. I have my great-grandmother’s name (spell it right, please) as well as her theory that ice cream can be any meal. A piece of them lives within me, Carries me through life. I am guided by their love for one another, Their love for me. I am an art piece of a family, A creation from Romantic Brotherly Sisterly Motherly And fatherly love.

Like Clockwork

Eleanor Wilson

I have so much to do. I always have so much to do, it’s always overwhelming and it never feels like it will be done. My to-do lists grow and my notebooks get filled. I buy more. I’ll fill more; I’ll write more lists and do my tasks without feeling like I completed them. They’re not done. I don’t get that relief after I check the boxes; they don’t feel completed. I don’t feel complete. Monday: 1. wake up 2. take a deep breath 3. make coffee 4. clean room Tuesday: 1. repeat Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. My routine became murderous. Killing every hope and dream I’ve ever had, I pushed on. No longer living for myself, I live to complete my to-do lists. When will I come back from this? It feels like my screams make no sound, mouth wide open, veins still popping, but no sound escapes. I want to break the cycle but I will fail in doing so. Once the lists stop, nothing is completed. The boxes unchecked, I will finally breathe, stagerly. I can only cling onto moments, remember them, when I write them down. Why is that? Why has my memory failed me?

Don’t ask me to get naked. To shed my society-made skin to expose my bones and muscle (structure and strength). That’s not nice. I have a DIY kit for my personality and I’d let you see it for 33 dollars if you really wanted it. Be just like me!! The influence of an influencer influences the influenced to be influenced influencers. And I’ll use my comedic timing to hear you cough with laughter at my own expense. Expensive parenting styles are sold on paperback books and in the commercials between my cartoons; you won’t watch, you hate my shows.

Mom? Mom? Mom are you there? I’m in the basement. And it’s dark down here, I don’t like it please come and get me, I want you to hold me again. I need to be held. No one speaks my love language and I’m talking to myself. A stomach growling, inappropriately loud, during a funeral Telling a woman she’s glowing when she’s not pregnant Mouthing the words to a song in public Cracking your fingers The water bottle crashing Jaywalking Things that feel wrong but aren’t (that bad) I love when boys are a background decoration for their girlfriends; the kind of guy that holds an umbrella over the girlfriends head instead of both of their heads. People need to be selfish at times. Oh how negative of me, I’m sorry—SEE AT LEAST I APOLOGIZE! You are so full of shit. Your negative outlook on life is going to kill you, it’s going to ruin everything you have in your life and when it does, I won’t say I told you so, because I will have already moved on. I can’t see straight, I want to pass out, I’m so tired. I get 38 emails a day at this rate. I can’t stand emails. I want to be so famous that, when I die, people try to find meaning in my words, which they will, but it will be bullshit they made up because my words mean absolutely nothing. I have not one grand thought in my mind- I’m sorry you can’t decipher me this time, she’s been sold out. You’re so miserable and I’m so miserable, you think it would work but you make me more miserable and I make you more miserable. I can’t fathom not wanting to explore everything you’ve been given. Touch your fucking body and see what you like, life’s supposed to be pleasureful and you chose pain. Mom I’m depressed again!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’ll repress my feelings until they disappear completely. I hate being here, I hate listening to her talk when I wish she would shut up forever. I never again will pay her in pity, rather. I’ll pay her in my silence. Fuck you forever bitch. I give myself away too much in a desperate need to satisfy my loneliness. And in the process, I lose the only person who refuses to leave me alone. “C’mon folks, pity parties over” I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Mouth watering denial I’m so tired of the negativity. It will be gone soon, she’ll move out soon and then I will finally get this foot off my chest. A narcissist, asshole has taken away my spirit for too long, hoping for her to change has become dreary and I feel I’ve lost myself in the process of helping others again. Why can’t I help myself when it comes to how much time, energy, and love I put into another person? I will give anyone all of me, especially those who don’t deserve it. I need a change in narration: Ellie is the type of person who gives herself up so willingly that it comes off as needy and clingy and desperate. She has struggled with this since she was young. Always letting someone else win or be right or hurt her just because she knew how it would make the other person feel. With a mind focused on others, she doesn’t know her own person at all. Lost in the mix of the traits she’s taken from others; Ellie’s personality is as bare as her skeleton. She’ll gain one as she goes, but for now, she’ll try to pull herself out of the pit. I’m tired of being too weak but I don’t feel strong enough to stand up for myself. I just never feel like it’s worth it. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the balls. Screwing me over until—

You put me in these shackles Force the food down my throat, Then when I rip off my hands And vomit, You turn your head like a dog. My stomach always in knots, Where is this brilliance in femininity? The plump breasts And an aphrodite smile? Where’s the prize you Told me I’d win if I shut up During the suffering? I was quiet enough. Mind Carwash: It shouldn’t be this hard to live in my mind. Cutting off thoughts Like gasping for air through Sobs. Hoping the drinking water Will let the meds go Down smoothly; Sandpaper my thoughts. Bite my nails and take the walk, Rubbing my thighs, “Am I still alive?” Shake, shake, shake. Shiver, shiver, shiver. Teeth chattering, My sign of unrest. Don’t give me gloves, Give me— Sisters of Sappho

Entropy

Emma Kocialski

The wooden floor was worn and warped from battered rain It creaked and moaned as feet were placed upon it The furniture was stained Paired with the smell of damp rot that clung to it The glass in the window was dirty and broken Shards dappled the floor and glittered the earth outside As the fading sun danced across its murky surface Plant life dripped from the ceiling and hung from the walls Wallpaper peeled away to make room for encroaching lichen Mushrooms found homes in damp corners While mold competed in the unwashed sink And grass sprouted from the gaps in the floorboards The rug now fused to the wooden floor beneath The turned-over table pressed permanent creases into its unmoving surface The thick air weighed in the lungs No breeze alleviated the stagnant space Dust hung frozen like the forgotten picture frames Still desperately clinging to the walls The welcome mat now kicked to the corner of the doorway Sank into a mound from the weight of water and mud The wooden fence had collapsed from age and wind Now it was nothing more than rot and fungus Grass grew wild as small trees invaded the space The gravel path that led to the sunken and warped home Was now hidden underneath a carpet of vegetation The car lay upside down Like a leaf tossed by wind and forgotten, Roots and vines covered the broken shape Smothering it in vibrant life The orange glow of the disappearing sun Highlighted the shapes being buried by the world Sun-bleached and worn Made fragile and brittle A hand of bone reaches for salvation A skull crowned in dirt before the doorway Empty sockets fixed on what could have been A man’s failures finally forgotten

A Distant Memory In the corner of the abyss that is my mind, I find you there. In my usually absent dreams, you take over. I see you-I see us-cuddled up under the comforter and the twinkling Christmas lights. You pull me into you; I’m snuggled up under your chin. I listen for your breathing as my eyes get heavier and heavier; the lights get dimmer and dimmer. In my usually absent dreams, I find you taking over, writing the outline of our future. In my first waking moments, My alarm is screaming in my ear. beep, beep, beep, beep– smack. I wish you were here.

Sarah Lopes

Untethered

Laura Manikowski

He flew to the moon, He flew to mars, The planets spun in majesty as he watched their colors blur With the floating rocks and stars. He flew to the mountaintops, He flew through space and sky, Breathing in the untouched air that only certain creatures Get the privilege of tasting. He flew to places only he could imagine, And he dwelled there. The nights and days dwindled together To form something universal. The voices called him back down, Urged him to ground himself On the gray and lonely rock that Some called home. But he did not wish to. Why limit himself to a life as such? Floating through space and time, The voices warned he may drift too far, To the point where he wouldn’t find his way back, Even when he got sense enough to do so. Fascinating him further, he danced off to the unknown That others could never grasp discovering. He flew and he flew and he flew. And as he flew, he grew, Until he was too big for the world some called home. Until he made a new place for himself, where he knew He was wholly home.

First Meeting

Corinne Grainger

The coffee was steaming that morning and my hands were insulated by the warmth that my lack of sleep had taken away. I tapped my ring on the glossy table in what seemed to be a soothing pattern for me, yet an annoyance to everyone around me. The heart encrusted jewel reminded me of an ex-lover, which is why the banging brought on such a feeling of satisfaction. A former muse who caused the burning of many drawings after a messy breakup. Inspiration was hard to come by those days. Before long I snapped out of my trance of thought, and slammed my head into my sketch pad. “C’mon, Anna. Think. Draw. Do something.” I mumbled to myself and as per usual, people were staring at me.Their gazes didn’t phase me. I was used to the judgment. I let out a small groan and reverted back to my usual “boredom drawing” of the pretty, tan girl who haunted both my dreams and my pencil. Her dark, shimmering, purple-tinted hair and bronzed skin intrigued me, forcing me to test every new style I came up with on her face. She was never smiling when I drew her. Only straight-faced or lost, because I couldn’t bring myself to force such a fake emotion on her face. I knew, no matter the situation, she wasn’t content. I couldn’t help but bite the inner center of my bottom lip as I drew her lip ring. I attempted a Mona Lisa smile on her, but erased it immediately. Contentment didn’t fit; she’s too much of a perfectionist. I flung my sketchpad back onto the table. The area might as well have been a ghost town, with only a few customers at this shack-sized coffee shop, and an empty parking lot for the nearby hotel. The coffee was still too hot to drink. The cup sat on the table until it was freezing cold. Every morning it’d sit, staring at me, screaming, “Drink me, Annalee! I’m getting chilly!” I never heard it. Or maybe I just ignored it. Wasting money on a coffee I wouldn’t end up drinking had become a part of my morning routine. I thought my routine would remain the same until I found the burning coffee in my lap, ruining my favorite pair of sweatpants. I slammed my fist into the transparent table and swiftly got up, contemplating just jumping into the cold Erie. “Just my fucking luck.” I paid no mind to how loud I had screamed. I began to make my way home, which was a good five minute walk from the rundown cafe.

As if the day couldn’t get any worse, I dropped my pad on the sidewalk to be picked up by a random woman. I could tell that she was having just as rough of a morning as I had. Of course, I never closed the book. The unfinished drawing of my little mystery woman had remained out in the open. When she picked it up for me, I noticed an uncanny resemblance to the half of the face I had managed to outline. I tilted my head like an excited dog with one eyebrow cocked so high it might as well have flown off my face entirely. I flipped through my book to find a side profile picture of the girl I couldn’t get out of my mind. The same silky braid, the same dead eyes, the same facial expression. No smile. It was her. “Ma’am, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve been drawing you nonstop for the past four years and I have no idea why. But I see your face in my dreams and I can never stop.” Fuck, Anna. Way to come on strong.

Time-Lapse Video of Trans Man Collapsing Inward Like a Dying Star Nathan Parmerter Inspired by ‘Time-Lapse Video of Trans Woman Collapsing Inward Like a Dying Star’ by Joshua Jennifer Espinoza.

Some years look like days; a time-lapse of waning crescents & fingernail indents. A bare-chested boy with scars like the moon. Some days look like years; a slow-motion picture of tearing my body open where it starts. Carve ladder rungs from snapped ribs; I climb out of my skin. Let someone else take care of this body; give me an autopsy. Tell me where I went wrong. Cut me open: examine the arms like peeling paint; peer at the drywall underneath. Take a scalpel to the chest. Break the bone of my sternum & unfold my skin—open the stomach & find nothing. Sew the body up with wire. Let my stitches rust, I’ll gather dust while you light a match & release me into the Atlantic, burning burning burning. Fill my mouth with fire; 96

You cannot hurt me more than I can hurt myself.

Someone Will Remember Us: An Erasure Ashley Halm

It Will Come Back

Ashley Halm

The toad sat expectantly on the crest of my knee, as if waiting for me to say something. The warts studding his back glistened with dew like tiny jewels, and he perched so still and silent there that, if not for his little throat puffing in and out, he could have been made of glass. The only sound was the gurgling of the creek in front of me, but my new friend seemed unaware even of that. We sat unmoving like that, the two of us, for an infinity inside of a minute, the tiny green eyes peering out at me curiously. A hand shot out from over my shoulder and grabbed the toad, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Behind me a chorus of yells and bellows struck up as the boys swarmed around the hand belonging to Derek, who now stood towering over me, fist clasped tight around the toad. “What, we’re out here a week and you start communing with the fucking frogs?” he sneered. He opened his fist and the boys stood there for a while, taking turns flicking the poor scared thing, and pulling at the springy curls that hung down my back. When they got tired of playing with us, Derek grasped the toad between his thumb and index finger, and stuck it in my face. Its little jeweled eyes now bulged in terror, knowing that neither of us could save him. “C’mon, Vee, why don’t you give him a little kiss?” Derek taunted. When I didn’t respond, his sneer hardened, and he squeezed his fist with a sharp pop. He tossed the little carcass away with a final grin, and stomped off toward the fire pit, the other boys trailing behind. Through my tears I could see a figure at the rear of the pack hesitate. “Ivy, you know he doesn’t mean anything by it,” Sam said. “They’re all just blowing off steam.” I didn’t answer, and after a while I heard his footsteps leaving to join the group. Out of the corner of my eye I watched my little glass toad flip himself over, as if merely inconvenienced by Derek’s petty murder, and hop into the creek, pumping his tiny legs with the current. It had only been a month since the National Guard trucks had rolled onto the grass outside our dorm building, led by a man holding a megaphone telling us to stay calm and stay inside, and just a week since we had fled the campus to hide in the woods, and already the boys thought they were living in Lord of the Flies. It was my roommate Anya, not me, who had convinced everyone to leave; as always, I had just been following her lead. Now that she was gone, Derek and his friends had no reason to be nice to me, and each night once they were all adequately drunk, they loved

to remind me how shitty of a replacement I was for her, glaring me down through the flames of the campfire all the while. Only Sam was decent. Our first night in the woods he had shared his beer with me, and he always offered me a hand when we made the climb up the ravine to look for food and firewood. I knew it was only because he had had a crush on me since last semester, but it was still nice to have someone there, if not a proper friend. His coal black hair and big puppy eyes reminded me of my brother, and the comfort his presence brought me was small, but almost enough to stop me from flinching at the sound of twigs breaking underfoot. // “They can’t seriously make us stay here, can they? This has to be against the law or something,” Anya whispered. All seven of us huddled criss-cross in a cramped circle on the floor of Anya’s and my dorm room, passing the blunt around between us. A few weeks ago we had dyed some extra bed sheets purple and magenta, and hung them on the walls and ceiling with strings of Christmas lights to make the room feel cozier, but now it felt as if it was trying to swallow us whole, like the constricting throat of some giant serpentine beast. Derek offered, “I mean, if they say there’s a war and they’re trying to protect us, we should probably trust them. I mean, they’re like, from the government.” Of course he would never be the one to criticize the soldiers blocking the exits of the building. With his ROTC training he was always bragging about, he’d probably be the first one to pick up a gun and join them if they asked. “How come they won’t tell us what’s going on, then?” Anya spit back. “If it’s so dangerous, why can’t we know what’s happening, who they’re fighting, anything?” “How the fuck am I supposed to know? Maybe it’s top secret information, and they’re not telling us to try and keep us safe!” “Oh, so quarantining us in a single building and not letting us leave or call our parents is supposed to make me feel safe?” Most nights passed like this, drinking and smoking to try and ignore what was happening around us. Anya and Derek usually got riled up by some comment or another, and they’d have it out while the rest of us watched, until one of them gave up or fell asleep. Tonight, though, Anya was seething. “There’s no way you can convince me there’s not something really weird going on. Even before they locked down the dorms, that guy with the megaphone was always following people around, whispering in his radio.” She scrambled to her feet and stood in the middle of the circle. “That’s it,

we’re voting. If the majority votes yes, we find as much food and water as we can, and we all go tonight. No one gets left behind. If the majority votes no—” she stole a glance at Derek. “We all stay and we figure out what’s going on. All in favor?” She reached her long, pale arm over her head, the blunt balancing between her delicate fingers. We looked around at each other. All of us had already gone through this same debate in our heads, but no one dared to say it out loud. Not just in case the soldiers were listening, but also for fear that talking about it would make it real, unavoidable. After a moment, Sam and Logan hesitantly raised their hands, while Derek, Brad and Ben stayed still. One at a time, their gazes drifted to me. “Ivy,” growled Derek, “You’re the tiebreaker. What’s it gonna be?” Frantically I signed for Anya, please don’t make me choose, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand and replied, you have to. We’re not safe here, she signed, mouthing the words as she went. Please, she pleaded, just say yes. I raised my hand half-heartedly. The boys erupted into arguing, but Anya ignored them, putting out the blunt on the rolling tray on her desk and dishing out orders to find food, blankets, flashlights. The room was suddenly swirling with action, but I remained on the carpet, reeling. I trusted Anya more than anyone, but everything about leaving felt horribly wrong. She was smart, but once she got her mind stuck on an idea, there would be no changing it. Besides, even if I could tell them what I had seen in the basement—the man with the megaphone kneeling in front of the gaping dirt hole in the corner of the laundry room, his mouth bloodied and chanting as thick, black smoke swirled around him—I don’t know that I would. If they knew, that would mean that the threat was real, that we actually had something to be afraid of. But if I kept it to myself, I could pretend it didn’t happen, that I had just had a little too much weed and I made it all up, just a stupid ghost story. Stories can’t hurt you. // As the sun disappeared over the tops of the trees, Sam and I sat trying to get a fire going, a task made nearly impossible by the morning’s thunderstorm. Hours ago the rest of the boys had clambered drunkenly up the ravine in search of squirrels to cook for dinner, but they still had not returned. Sam and I worked in silence, both of us trying to avoid the other’s eyes. Every now and then, though, I swore I could feel his gaze sliding over me, over my body, when he thought I was looking away. I stole a glance over my shoulder at the shelter Derek had claimed for himself, made mostly of the thick, outstretched roots of a tree that had toppled over the edge

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of the ravine. How safe it would feel, I thought, to crawl into the soft dirt under the shelter and bury myself like a mole, until there were no more soldiers, no more boys, chasing me endlessly through the woods. After what seemed like forever Sam finally said, “You know, Ivy, I know it’s hard with the whole mute thing, but if you ever need—” And suddenly Derek and two of the other boys were half-running, half-tumbling down the ravine. “Something took Brad,” Derek sputtered breathlessly. “We were just walking back, and he screamed, and we thought it was the soldiers from school, but it was this, this...this fucking thing, man. It grabbed him and now he’s—” No sooner did the words leave his mouth that Derek disappeared back up into the thickets growing out of the rocky slope of the ravine, pulled by something made not of flesh, but of tentacles of massive, thick tentacles of black smoke, faster than a blink. Ben and Logan shrieked and screamed, and then they began to make this awful gurgling sound, but I could not see what was happening because Sam dragged me to the shelter, threw me down into the dirt with his body over mine like a shield. The side of my head landed on something sharp, and my mouth tasted bloody. Just before everything was plunged into darkness, I heard a crack of deafening thunder break overhead. // I tripped down the stairs three at a time, almost crashing into Sam in front of me, as alarms wailed in my ears. My backpack slapped hard against my back, filled with cans of beer and granola bars and little Bic lighters. Behind me I could barely hear Anya saying, “Go, Vee, go, go, go faster, go go go—” And then we were free, out in the chilled early morning air and sprinting for the woods as fast as our feet would carry us. The man with the megaphone sounded like he was right behind us, screaming at us to get back inside, as bullets whizzed past our ears and lodged in trees, but we kept going, running and running, until I heard Anya cry out. I spun around, and there she was standing stock still at the edge of the asphalt, blonde hair and white t-shirt glowing in the fading moonlight. Her mouth formed around the shape of my name, or maybe she was just screaming, but the howling of sirens and gunshots still rang in my ears so I couldn’t hear her voice. I thought I saw something dark crawl and spread across her shirt, like a stain, but I couldn’t tell because there was Sam, pulling me by the wrist toward the thick darkness of the woods. // “Ivy, get up,” Sam whispered as he shook me from the nightmare. Bright

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noon sunlight broke through the roots overhead, speckling his tanned cheeks and raven hair. Above us, birds chirped and wailed, and I could hear something else, soft, like a wet thwack-ing, over and over again. Sam pulled me to my feet, and we stumbled hand in hand out of the shelter. Scattered across the creek bank were hundreds of toads, hopping contentedly over and under the mangled limbs of trees and bodies. I tried to take a step forward, but my foot was met by something soft. And when I looked down, there was my perfect little glass toad, sitting patiently in the severed hand previously belonging to Derek, as if waiting for me to say something. “We’ve gotta get out of the woods,” Sam muttered. As if he was hardly concerned with the fact that his friends’ corpses were currently staring at him, stinking of stomach-wrenching death, he gingerly walked about the campsite, picking up intact supplies and beer cans as he found them. I staggered to the edge of the creek and gave up what little food was still in my stomach. When I finally stood back up, Sam was still picking up things from the wreckage. I stomped over and shoved him by the shoulder. Are you fucking kidding me? I signed. You’re just gonna pick up camp and leave like all our friends didn’t just get murdered? What sort of psychopath— Sam grabbed both my wrists with one hand and wrapped the other one around my throat. “I said,” he growled, “We have. To get out. Of the woods.” A grin too wide to be sane smeared itself over his face, and he cocked his head to the side. “Or do you want to stay here and get slaughtered like the rest of them?” Slowly he lifted me by my neck until only the tips of my boots touched the ground. Black spots were starting to crowd my vision, until all I could see was Sam’s face. “Oh yeah, that’s what it is, isn’t it? You feel so guilty that they’re dead, that Anya’s dead, that you just want someone to come and finish the job.” Still holding my wrists, he dragged me over to the shelter and threw me down in the mud. “I’d be happy to do the job for you. But first you’ve gotta do something for me.” And then he was on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head. I dug my heels into the slick mud, panicking, trying to pull away, but his weight trapped me against the ground. He fumbled with his belt, and just as he was about to unzip his pants, the black spots cleared from my vision, and I stopped struggling, and I brought my knee up hard between his legs. Sam reeled backward with a howl and fell on his side, right next to an arm. I scrambled out of the shelter and to my feet. Sam rolled over to his knees and tried to stand, still clutching his groin. “You fucking—” All the sudden he was surrounded in black smoke, like he was

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standing in the middle of a bonfire, and I watched as his hands flew up to his throat, squeezing until his cheeks turned blue and purple, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. I couldn’t move, couldn’t run, as if the soles of my boots were being sucked into the muddy bank. After an agonizing minute, he let go and fell limply to the ground with a plop. As quick as it appeared, the black smoke dissipated. I was alone. A toad hopped under my legs and onto the toe of my boot, unaware that anything was out of the ordinary.

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Purgatory of Time

Brett Kissell

It had been a normal Tuesday for Virgil. Wake up, go to work, deal with annoying software problems and overworked and underpaid office workers, then go home, watch TV, and sleep. “Why me…” Virgil’s day did not account for an attempt on his meager life while he walked home. He had decided to take the longer route, one that passed by the shopping center, to get some fresh air and to change up his static routine. It was a small deviation, one that shouldn’t have led to anything drastic. But, as they say, the butterfly effect’s a bitch. Step on a butterfly, hurricanes on the other side of the world. Take a different route home, and end up pursued through the streets by a living mannequin that had broken out of a fashion store’s window display. The sound of plastic hitting concrete accompanied by faint mechanical whirring alerted him to his continued pursuit, and he groaned in frustration. “I don’t need this!” He ducked into an alley, dipping behind a trash can as he tried to make himself as small as possible. The plastic footsteps got louder, then stopped. Whirring picked up, and it was the only sound he could hear over the screams of horrified pedestrians. A beep sounded as the whirring stopped, and he hoped that meant it had lost him. “Eliminating, interference.” The robotic voice sounded out at the same time a “pew” did and Virgil suddenly found his cover 7 feet in the air and smoking. The spot it had been was smoking too, a small crater blown into the ground. “Eliminating, target.” The robotic mannequin had a large, bulky, otherworldly gun in hand that he assumed shot lasers. The tip of the barrel was still red from the last shot, but on it Virgil could see a glow begin to form. “Please let it be painless…” He whispered to no one and closed his eyes. “Please let me die quick and open my eyes to a happy afterlife.” A beat, and then nothing. Virgil opened his eyes, and the impossible weapon was no longer trained on him. It was instead pointed towards a small ball of light that was slowly growing bigger. A faint rainbow, slowly losing its color, could be seen inside before a human shape blocked it. And as sudden as it appeared, it vanished; leaving a young woman in a blue tracksuit. A gun similar to the 104

mannequin’s but more streamlined, was attached to a belt around her stomach. From his position, Virgil could also see a tablet. “Ugh…” She groaned, eyes closed and holding her head. “Rough riding there for a second. The time stream almost collapsed with me in it.” She shook her head and opened her eyes, annoyance being quickly replaced with shock as she took in the plastic robot with a gun. “Uhhh, hello there!” Her voice was surprisingly cheery as she stared down the barrel of the laser gun. “Interference, detected. Eliminating.” She ducked, a laser flying right above her head, and drew her own gun. “Ha! You can try.” She fired back, hitting the robotic doll between its uncanny eyes. Multiple distressed beeps and whirs sounded from it as it fired wildly, the shots all missing and impacting the walls. The sounds coming from it ceased once it hit the ground, and Virgil let loose the sob he had been holding. “Eep!” “Ah!” Both screamed for different reasons. The woman, startled by Virgil’s sob, shot in his general direction on instinct. Virgil, consequently, ducked and screamed. He shot up, brushing black hair out of his eyes, and watched as the lady realized he was human. “Oh I’m so sorry! Thought you were another Automa.” She quickly put her gun away, her arms up, he assumed to appear nonthreatening. “A what?” To his question, she gestured to the mannequin. “That thing. It’s called an Automa. Simple AI that follows any order given. And,” she approached the robot, taking its gun and shooting the thing with it, “way out of its time.” “...What?” “Alright, first off, what year is it?” Virgil and the girl were sitting in a quaint little cafe he liked to frequent on off days. The girl had very loudly voiced concerns about the privacy available in a public business on the way there, leading to some moderately disturbed and confused passerbys, and one very embarrassed Virgil. But he had said the business would help cover up their conversation, if they were quiet about it. “I was planning on jumping straight to 2021, but the timewarp I traveled through nearly collapsed in on itself, so I’m not sure I landed properly.” She took a sip of tea after 105

this statement, acting as if it was a completely normal thing to say. “Uh, date right. It’s February… uhh… third? 2021.” Virgil rubbed his eyes, the stress and confusion getting to him. “That’s not important, who are you?” The girl tilted her head curiously. “You just sort of popped up out of nowhere, shot that weird thing attacking me, then started talking about time and other nonsense.” It was a struggle for him to keep his voice down, but fortunately his job was great practice for controlling your volume. You can’t mutter insults if you can’t manage your temper, after all. “Right! Yes, introductions. Those are important.” There was a beat as the two just stared at each other. “Sorry, I don’t talk with people a lot.” She cleared her throat, standing up and giving a dramatic bow. “My name is Saph Helis,” she sat back down, taking another sip of tea before continuing, “and I am a time traveler. I came from the year 2050 to 2021 after seeing the future was a wasteland. You are?” The innocent question snapped Virgil out of the shocked daze the previous statement put him into. “Virgil Purg.” Saph’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry, did you just imply there’s going to be an apocalypse?” “Yes, unfortunately.” The tablet was placed on the table from its spot on her belt. “This tablet right here should contain most big historical events and people from around 2045 and back. However,” she stopped, waiting for a young couple to pass her by, “when I arrived in the waste of a future, everything from February 2022 onwards was blank.” “And that means the world is going to end?” “Yes and no. What it actually means is that for some reason, either through cosmic chance or the interference of a time traveler, that chunk of time has become extremely variable. A preventable apocalypse just so happens to fall under that vague concept.” Virgil finally drank from his own tea cup, downing half of it in one go. “So what comes next?” Saph grinned at the question, and Virgil could feel a chill run down his back. The sort of chill he got whenever his louse of a manager needed a job pawned off. “Well, I need to find the cause. At some point this year, some event will occur, or some invention will be revealed, and it will lead to the end of humanity in February 2022. And you’re gonna help me.” 106

Virgil sputtered, choking on his drink and dropping his cup. Multiple sets of eyes fell on the strange duo as Virgil recovered. And after a few minutes of hacking and coughing, he could finally sputter out the single thought running through his head. “Why me?” “Because that Automa was after you for a reason. They aren’t advanced enough to simply ‘go rogue’ and kill random people. Nor are they even supposed to exist in 2021, that tech becomes feasible ten-ish years from now.” She paused, a realization dawning. “Well, considering the stone-cold dead one I left on a street corner, probably sooner. Eh, whatever. Anyways, that Automa being there means…” she trailed off as she saw him connect the dots. “Somebody wanted me dead?” Virgil’s voice cracked as he spoke it, and Saph gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, but yes. It’s an unfortunate truth that someone with access to time travel seems to want you dead. Which means you’re important. What I don’t know is how you’re important.” If Virgil wasn’t grappling with the mortal realization of someone having a death wish for him, he would have seen Saph seemingly retreat into her own little world. “After all, you’re nobody special. Not with a name like that, I’d have recognized it considering how much I love this era. So how do you fit into this puzzle?” “Okay, listen!” His voice rose an octave, cracking from stress. “In any other situation, I’d have already had you on the way to a hospital. Everything you’re saying sounds crazy. But,” he gulped, “it is very hard to explain away a mannequin coming to life to kill me. So, I’ll believe you for now.” “So you’ll help me?” Her voice and face reminded Virgil of an excited puppy. “I said I believe you, not that I’m going to help you.” She visibly deflated, going from an excited puppy to a puppy that just had its favorite toy taken away. Virgil winced at the emotional whiplash. “I… look… listen. This has been a lot to take in. And I mean, a lot. So give me until tomorrow to process this all. Then you’ll have an answer.” The time traveler gave a solemn nod, and stood up. “That’s fair. Alright then, tomorrow at 3pm! It’s a Saturday, so you shouldn’t have work. Meaning we can begin our hunt as soon 107

as I get an answer.” She left some bills on the table, and walked away. “But please try to have an answer by then. After all,” she turned around with a cheeky grin, “clock’s tickin’.” And with that, Saph dashed through the doors as a man in business attire walked through them. Virgil looked down at the money left, and sighed, pulling his wallet out. “Those are bills from 1920 Japan, why did she leave them here?” ** When Virgil awoke that morning, he had honestly thought the events of the previous day had been a dream. After all, only in a movie or a book would someone as unimportant as him be attacked by a killer robot from the future and saved by the split second appearance of a time traveler. “...Why do I have bills from Japan on my nightstand?” And then the money from both a completely different country and time period brought down the crushing realization that, yes, yesterday had happened. He had come within an inch of dying, and the time traveler that saved him apparently had a very strict one year time limit to save the world and the future. And it wasn’t until Virgil’s tea had finished brewing that he realized the insanity that had become his life, which was now apparently in mortal danger as someone from the future had it out for him. That thought alone made the IT worker shudder, and wish that the tea had some stronger stuff in it. Alas, Virgil had learned by proxy the effects of coping via alcohol, so he settled for the fantasy of it. “3pm. At 3pm I have to give that crazy girl an answer. God, why me? What did I do to anger you?” His prayer went unanswered, and Virgil continued his morning routine, thinking out loud to hopefully come up with a plan that could save him. “Alright, V, you have 2 options. Option 1: ignore the crazy, continue your normal everyday life. Pros? You don’t have to deal with the Time Shenanigans that girl will inevitably draw to her like a magnet, and you can keep living your ordinary life. Cons? …” He paused. “You will probably die via plastic death robot, with no time traveler to conveniently appear and save you. Alrighty, nixing that. Option 2: 108

Work with the crazy to save the future. Pros, you essentially have a bodyguard, and said bodyguard has a sci-fi laser pistol.” Routine finished, Virgil flipped the TV on. “Come with me if you want to-” And was immediately shut down. “Ugh… cons: I will have to deal with the seven degrees of insanity and probably multiple time paradoxes Saph will attract to her, potentially upping my chance of death to a very uncomfortable ‘highly likely.’” He fiddled with a small Rubix cube he kept on the coffee table, stickers worn from constant use. “Option 3: fake my death and run to a… no not enough money to even think about that. Great.” A cupboard was opened and a Rubix cube left abandoned. “Now, how much tea do I have, and which would be best to calm her down enough to be coherent... “ “Well, if you’re looking for calming, Mint, Chamomile, and Lavender are pretty good. I prefer a rose tea myself, though.” Virgil nodded, and checked a couple boxes while the familiar sound of the Rubix cube clicked on in the background. “Alright, I don’t have any rose teas, would…” He trailed off, frozen in a crouch. “Would what?” He slowly stood up, the clicking stopped, and Virgil turned around to see the brunette devil who wore a tracksuit and flipped his worldview. “Saph Helis, why are you in my house? It’s only,” he paused, turning to his stove clock while said time traveler poked around the island of his kitchen for more stuff to play with,” noon. It’s only noon. You said 3pm.” In his head, Virgil gave himself a pat on the back for not snapping like he so desperately wanted to. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask how.” She grinned, and a set of keys were found. “Because that would cause me a bigger headache.” She started flipping the keys around in her hand. “Now stop dodging the question, why are you this early?” “Because I got bored.” Virgil shut the cabinet, and walked over to Saph. “You’re a time traveler, why didn’t you just travel to today, 3pm, on my porch instead of teleporting into my house uninvited 3 109

hours early?” “Because, wiseguy, I can’t travel far right now. Remember, time’s all wonky and variable right now? I can go maybe one second into the future, two at most. I also can’t go too far spatially either. Like, the space from your porch to your island was pushing it.” The keys were stolen back, and the girl gave a small pout. “Well, if that teleport was dangerous, why not do the normal person thing and, oh, I don’t know… knock on the door.” “Listen… ignore that. Anyways, what’s your answer.” Virgil rubbed the bridge of his nose, and led Saph to the dining table. Sitting across from each other, the computer tech gave the time traveler a neutral look. “Alright, so… I ran through all my options. And, honestly, I really don’t want to help you. But!” The shout interrupted the begging look Saph gave, her head still mid-tilt. “I can’t fake my death, I don’t make nearly enough for that. And saying no and living my normal life until I get assassinated by a time traveling robot doesn’t really sound all too appealing. So, if you promise to protect me… I will help you save the future.” In an instant, Virgil was enveloped in a hug from Saph. “Oh thankyouthankyouthankyou thank you! God you have no idea how much I was hoping you would say yes. I barely got a wink of sleep on the park bench last night. It was waaaaay too uncomfortable and I feared getting mugged every second! Plus, this is a big city, and exploring it alone would be a nightmare!” She pulled him up. “C’mon, let’s go and see what clues we can find!” And despite his protests, Virgil was dragged out the door. “At least let me put my shoes on!” Virgil and Saph stood in the middle of a park, three hours later. Saph looked perplexed, while Virgil just looked tired. “Hey Saph.” “Yes?” “Do you have any idea what we’re even looking for?” The impish smile was his only response. “Answer, damn it!” “Okay, so I miiiight have jumped the gun a little.” “Figured.” 110

“Hey!” She was indignant. “I know we should be looking for weird things happening!” As if to emphasize her point, a faint boom echoed into the park. The duo turned westward, and saw a building rapidly aging, vines appearing from nowhere and slowly growing up it by the second. “You mean like a building aging a decade a second?” Saph gave a proud nod. “Yepo! See, I knew we’d find something.” And like a dropped pin hitting the floor, her mood shifted to something a little more serious. “We should probably hurry towards that.” “Yeah, yeah we should.” They stood there awkwardly for a second, before taking off at a sprinter’s pace, towards the now mossy skyscraper.

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Ghostwriter

Corrine Grainger

The baby kept weeping and I couldn’t calm her down. Her cradle rattled to the ear-piercing screams that I couldn’t seem to pacify. Her screams became more agonizing whenever I’d appear. Every time I came to comfort, another woman appeared to hold the baby. I tried so desperately to tear her from the witch’s arms, but I was not seen nor felt. Why was I so invisible? I visited every night at 3:33AM. She wailed at the sight of me. Every night. The woman addressed me by name. I thought I was finally heard. “This isn’t your baby,” she said. “She’s mine and she’s safe. Let her sleep. Please.” Ah, my babies had already passed. And so had I. I struck fear into the child’s eyes because she had truly seen a ghost. I was asked to depart. My work was finished.

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I step into the distant light, as everything fades to white. My children’s voices send me into complete euphoria. My babies don’t cry, but cheer. I, along with my worry, vanish into bliss.

Evolution

Jeffrey Gardner

I saw a silhouette pass in the park Through the groves of trees and the park benches Fruits and a passing prism of color Piercing a dark, insufferable soul My mind grew decrepit and mystical As I watched the fish with pink lizard arms The foul, sandy, groping salamander Such life existing in a burning globe Final boarding call doves and nightingales There are no children on the jungle gym There are no red berries on the bushes I’ve only drawn the clouds on the plywood I’ve only plucked algae for our dinner Cosmic rockets never land by eight

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Looking for something?

Come find it.