Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2019-2020

HARBINGER A Journal of Art & Literature 2019 - 2020

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A Journal of Art & Literature 2019 - 2020

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Copywright Š 2020 by the authors, artists, and Texas Tech University. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner withought permission from Texas Tech University.

Published by Harbinger, Texas Tech University Lubbock, TX 79409 Printed by Bookmobile Journal Design by Callie Watson Cover Photo by Codi Clark

“But how could you live and have no story to tell?”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Dear Reader, Creating art is about learning the rules and then breaking them anyway. We live in a world in which we try to organize and rationalize the chaos around us with rules, categories, labels, and boundaries. We draw lines on maps, we define good and bad with our laws, and we separate ourselves from each other based on our differences. These impositions of order, however, inevitably fail us. Actions can be good and bad at the same time, love and hate often come with the other, and defining who you are is not always as easy as pointing out a place on a map.

The works in this book explore what happens when these failures occur, when rules and categories don’t work.

As you read, you’ll find that marriages tear families apart and divorce sometimes brings them together. Those who we admire and look to for guidance are not without their own flaws. And being loyal to those who you love doesn’t always mean doing what is right.

We keep turning to songs, paintings, and stories such as these because they highlight and embrace the fact that the world cannot be simply black or white. Art gives us a more honest and real depiction of what it means to be human, to be alive.

As you make your way through this journal, I ask you to embrace the lawlessness of art. Ignore the rules, burn your maps, and I hope you’re left with a better understanding of yourself, your community, and your world.

Cecilia Smith Editor-in-Chief Harbinger 2019-2020

Table of Contents

Poetry New Mexico

5

Anna Lovering

tinta a papel

19

gloria m. sánchez

Sour Cherry Picking

20

Mackenzie Duke

Codes 261 & 187

25

Julián David Bañuelos

lengua materna

52

gloria m. sánchez

A Sonnet for Thirteen Fluttering Glass Wings

63

Bailee N. Tanguma

What Rupi Got Right

70

Pat Hardy

Long Breath

84

Anna Lovering

Wicked Creature’s Leap

108

Howard Park

Sonnet for a Lost Kitten

125

Pat Hardy

sobrevivencia de seis letras

130

gloria m. sánchez

Reflections Julián David Bañuelos

140

Nonfiction A Palo Duro Hike

1

Gabrielle Walter

Split

11

Chelsea Homen

When Skies Are Grey

26

Payton Conlin

Between Two Wakes

72

Kenyan Burnham

Let Your Heroes Die

86

Mackenzie Duke

A Letter to My Fourteen-year-old Self

126

Margo Watson

Fiction Six Feet Under

22

Katie Karadimas

The Golden Rule

38

Joshua Bray

Forgotten Man

54

Kasey Hahn

Last Meal

64

Nicolas Rivera

Lost Dog

93

James Loss

Lucky Charm Nicolas Rivera

111

Drama Brown Eyes

6

Marcus Thomas

The Rules

132

Darci Williams

Visual Art Smile 10 Brittany Muller

Blossoms Blooming

21

Gabrielle Walter

Melanie Study #1

24

Gabrielle Walter

Tangled 37 Gabrielle Walter

Pollinator Sticker

51

Marian Herring

Moon

53

Marian Herring

Directional Line Study Gabrielle Walter

62

The Impact of Emotional and Verbal Abuse

68

Brittany Muller

Fiordland Mountains

73

Andrew Adams

Self Portrait

85

Brittany Muller

Urlexo Hands

92

Marian Herring

Needle Felted Birds

107

Marian Herring

Piha Beach Sunset

110

Andrew Adams

Dress Me With Your Eyes

128

Gabrielle Walter

Just the Same but Brand New

139

Kenton Bradford

Dolan Falls Sunset Andrew Adams

141

1

A Palo Duro Hike Gabrielle Walter

A good time for a short time is better than no good time at all, and on this particular Saturday, Zach (or as I fondly refer to him, my Montana man) had driven us to Palo Duro Canyon for a day hike. Though I was happy to get out of our cramped Lubbock, Texas apartment, I did not share my boyfriend’s love for walking long dirt paths; it was a good time created mostly in his vision. But Zach was a fan of hikes and I was a fan of Zach, so we drove his car until the land opened up before us.

Described by the New York Times as “The Other Grand Canyon,” Palo Duro is one hundred and twenty miles long and eight hundred feet deep, carving a chasm into the red earth. It was described by the newspaper as “a geological anomaly so improbable that many Texans still think of the place as a rumor.” And I certainly did before I saw the canyon for the first time. The land is fixed, rigid, but with a whistling wind that makes it feel alive. Swirls of colors and precariously balanced formations make for an experience only real in person, and I imagine that’s why it has been popular with natives and cowboys and travelers alike.

“So what do we want to do?” Zach asked while tying up his hair.

“Anything but the Lighthouse,” I said. It was the only trail we’d walked on previous visits, and if I had made the two hour drive, I was going to make sure to have new adventures. Well, as much adventure as a housecat like me could handle.

We discussed our options and finally landed on something that the two of us would both enjoy, a path

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where the more difficult Lower Comanche trail would intersect with the easier Rylander Fortress Cliff trail. Then, one foot after another, we were walking the red rock path.

Sounds come out of the silence on a Palo Duro hike.

You can hear every brush of your sneakers against the layer of sand sitting atop the trail, creating a rhythm with which to keep time. Sometimes a bird will fly overhead, startling you with its whoosh. And the trees cry out for water, the wind blowing them in a back and forth motion. The voice in your head gets surprisingly loud as you start to narrate your way along the trail.

For as long as Palo Duro has existed, the canyon has outlasted the people. There were times when the Apache, Comanche, and Kiowa cultures each took a turn occupying the land, only to be stormed by the US Cavalry during the Red River Wars. In 1874 the plains people who lived on this land saw their homes and their winter stores burned in battle. Their life in the canyon was gone with the wind, but the canyon was still here.

We neared the mile marker, and the trail steepened.

The rock stood solid underfoot, and I wondered if the land would outlive us all, still here when the sun decided to give out. People began to appear as we made our way up the trail, and with each new face, I played a guessing game. Two brothers walked by, cowboys in active wear adventuring in the West. I imagined them as descendants of Charles Goodnight, the first commercial rancher to drive his cattle through the canyon and into the Panhandle.

I hoped they were looking for some cows to steer. One lone man stopped us for a photograph of himself all smiles in front the canyon’s edge, and I got the strangest feeling that he was canvassing for his next victim. My favorite was an athletic child with her two equally athletic parents. As I huffed and puffed with the incline of the trail she paused

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to give me a curious look before marching on. Then off the future Olympian-in-training went.

If the body was meant for adventure why did mine feel like it was always rejecting the outdoors? The funny thing is the canyon used to be the party spot of the Panhandle during the early twentieth century. Palo Duro Club members would dress to the nines with leather gloves, long skirts, and dapper hats before taking a stroll along the canyon and sipping on something strong. Famous painter Georgia O’Keeffe was a well known member and was pictured in several photographs from the time enjoying the backdrop of the canyon. And here I was, in this place that so many people had deemed worthy of something, whining about the walk.

“Look,” Zach said. “Fractured Rock.”

The sun was shining something bright off the sand when we finally stood at the highest point of the trail, overlooking the canyon below. On the plateau in front of us sat a hoodoo formation with a big rock balanced just so on a cluster of smaller ones. A deep crack in the earth separated us from the balancing act. I leaned over and peered below as the split in the rock traveled down, down, down.

“Seems as good a place as any for lunch,” Zach said.

I gave him a dubious look.

“It’s listed on the map as a scenic overview. Nothing is going to happen. Look,” he said. And then Zach took one step onto the floating rock and grinned back at me. “See,” he spoke, all mischievous.

Across the fracture, Zach stood, a lone figure against the blue sky. Wind whispered around him, tugging at his hair and playfully reaching for his hat. He looked mythic on that rock that God herself must have placed. In the moment, I could see why people found Palo Duro so special, and even with all my stubbornness, I wasn’t not too big to admit it.

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Zach held out his hand. I grabbed it with mine and took a step.

Palo Duro Hike Gabrielle Walter - Pen

5

New Mexico Anna Lovering

Eight mile stretch of bone.

A refuge to capture footprint laid out as a blueprint. A rib cage of uneven ground, strangers walk while highlighting the mountains, a backdrop. Curving around, rest stops of poles for Meadowlarks to perch, pose— wait for flash of a camera. Yellow painted under breast, speckled cream and burnt umber feathers gesture forward. Axis of head, tilted toward you; a messenger with whistles and warbles speaking as if to fly— not left to sit and loom. Wonder when the funeral will end, as species count the seasons with a polished, sleek eye.

6

Brown Eyes Marcus Thomas

SETTING A Subway Train in the 1970s.

CAST OF CHARACTERS BOY. 19. Shy and mute.

FERNANDO. 19. Fit and dreamy.

AT RISE :

(BOY walks with his head down, holding a notepad and marker. The Subway car takes off and he bumps into FERNANDO. BOY drops his notepad and falls to the floor.)

FERNANDO. Are you alright? Here let me help you up.

(He reaches out his hand and BOY grabs it. A beat goes by as they look at each other, as if time has stopped.)

BOY. Who is this boy in front of me? Can such beauty be on this earth? His eyes are so beautiful, so brown like cocoa.

(Time resumes. FERNANDO lifts him to his feet. They sit down.)

FERNANDO. Rule number one, always keep your head up down here. Lucky for you I’m nice. Most aren’t.

(FERNANDO smiles.) I’m Fernando by the way.

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(BOY is starstruck.)

FERNANDO. No need to thank me.

(Time freezes again.)

BOY. I’m sitting next to a hot guy named Fernando.

FERNANDO for God’s sake! I feel like I’m in one of those nasty movies on HBO.

(Tango music begins to play and FERNANDO stands up. He rips open his shirt and discards it on the seat next to him.)

Oh Fernando... how you tempt my sex with your...Brown Eyes... and sexy name. Rawr.

(They begin to tango dance as if they were in one of those late night TCM movies.)

(Time resumes.)

FERNANDO. Are you going to tell me your name? Or “Cat got your tongue?”

(BOY looks to the ground to find his notepad. He picks it up and begins to write. He shows it to FERNANDO.) Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean- I didn’t know you were-

(BOY holds up his hand and waves it to shush him. BOY smiles and writes on the notepad again. The train takes a sharp turn and they both lean.)

8

FERNANDO. You have a beautiful smile...Oh your name?

(BOY writes on the notepad and shows him. FERNANDO smiles. They sit in silence for a moment.)

I’m on my way to Studio 54, that hot new nightclub downtown. I hear some of the best people hang out there. I’ve tried to get in before but they didn’t let me in.

Tonight’s gonna be my night though! I feel it!

(Beat.)

Umm...Where are you headed?

(BOY writes on his notepad.)

Why are you going home? It’s Saturday night!

(BOY gives him an “ I don’t know” look and points to his mouth.)

So! You can’t let that get you down. You should come with me!

(BOY shakes his head no. FERNANDO shakes his head yes. They go back and forth for some time before time freezes again.)

BOY. Why is this hot guy trying to get me to go to a club with him? I mean I want to and he’s just- No, this is a God test. Nope, You’re funny big man but N.O. nope. (He looks at FERNANDO.) Why must you have such pretty eyes. Such deep eyes... so deep that I could fall in and not be able to climb out of.

(Time resumes.)

9

FERNANDO. Well I can’t force you, but I think you would have a great time. I would have a great time with you being there.

(BOY thinks about this for a second. He writes.)

This is my stop, it was nice to meet you.

(FERNANDO winks and walks off leaving BOY. BOY tries to write faster but the train door closes before he can give him the note.)

(Time freezes.)

BOY. I didn’t get to tell him... How can one fall head over heels with someone that you just met and only knew for a few seconds? The warmth of his skin on mine or the way he smiled. Oh I would rob a bank if he wanted me to! Is this what love is? It can’t be. No, no, no , no no no. Being confused and warm inside and not wanting anything else but just to be near that person? Why do people love “Love?” I will never see him again and it pains me. His haunting brown eyes and his body and that smile that was blinding. Oh God.

(He tosses his notepad away and sits back down. He sits there for a moment, depressed.)

(The door almost closes again when FERNANDO runs back on the train, out of breath.)

FERNANDO. I got off at the wrong stop.

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(They stare at each other.)

(BOY picks up the notepad and gives it to him. FERNANDO reads it. They both smile and sit down. FERNANDO slowly grabs BOY’s hand and holds it.)

THE END.

Smile Brittany Muller - Digital

11

Split Chelsea Homen

I was nine years old when my best friend’s parents got divorced. It was the first time I had heard of the term, as she was the first of our friends ever to have parents that split. As a fourth grader, I didn’t know the extent of what was truly going on behind closed doors. My parents knew, our other friends’ parents knew, but us kids were kept in the dark. I knew the basics: her parents were breaking up, and I needed to be there for her as a friend. But truthfully, all I could really comprehend at the time was how bummed I was that she had to move out of her house; it was the largest and most fun house to play in growing up.

Her house, or more like mansion, soon had a “for sale” sign in the front yard. She didn’t ever want to talk about her parents, so for the most part, my life went on as normal.

I was close with both of her parents, as she had been my friend for years prior. When she didn’t pick sides between her parents, as her sisters did, I followed her lead. As my childhood best friend, how she felt was how I felt, and if she wanted to ignore the situation, then so did I. Through the brewing divorce, we still rode our bikes through the neighborhood, carpooled to volleyball practice, and dingdong-ditched the cute guy down the street as usual. In this stage of adolescence, the divorce didn’t seem so bad.

I never fully understood what had happened until I was much older. Remaining one of my best friends today, we talk about it openly now, as if she was never so private about it when we were kids. But that was when she still had something to hide. The split and its details are basically common knowledge now; there would be no point in her

12

being secretive about it. It was a standard cheating scandal, except in this case, both of her parents are well-known, well-paid doctors in town, so word spread like wildfire.

That’s what happens when you live in a small town.

With nothing to see or do in my hometown of Amarillo, Texas, people love to talk. People gossip as if somehow others’ failures put them higher on the social ladder. But I don’t believe this to be true. Talking about one family’s problems does not fix any within your own. Yet, it seems as if everything in that city is a competition. While it is known that high school kids love to spread rumors and share the latest secrets, I didn’t realize that this remains true with so many parents as well. Whose kid will start in the game on Friday and whose will get caught drinking in the church parking lot after hours? Who has the biggest house in the nicest neighborhood? Who is still married and who is divorced?

Sure, divorce is hard for several reasons. It’s hard on the once happily married couple, the kids involved, the families losing in-laws. But I believe a significant reason divorce is so feared is the feeling of failure. No one wants to publicly proclaim that their marriage had to end, especially in a small town where everyone has an opinion. And for this reason, many stay married. I know several couples, miserable in their day to day affairs, that would never think twice about splitting with their partner. Which of course, there are millions of other factors people avoid divorce. There’s religion, splitting finances, legal documentation, child support, plus the obvious element of not wanting to lose the other person, but overall, I believe the fear of everybody in town knowing your shit is pretty high up on the list.

In middle school, after expanding our friend group, divorce had become a normality. More of our friends lived the separated life, switching between mom’s houses on the

13

weekdays and dad’s on the weekends. While this still wasn’t the majority, it was at least more people that could relate to one another. Every child seemed to handle it differently, which made sense as every child, family, and situation is different. Some kids rebelled, sneaking out of one parent’s house and claiming to be at the other’s. Divorce does seem to give kids a bit more freedom, as you only have two eyes on you instead of four. But other kids didn’t seem to act any different because of it. They still remained truthful, did as they were told, and remained respectful of the circumstances.

It was almost always a shit show, though, even for homes that had it all figured out. Kids would show up to practice with one cleat or leave their homework in the wrong folder at the wrong house. Which at this point, we were fourteen years old, old enough that we should be able to keep up with things on our own. But still, these kids always got a little bit of leniency when it came to missing items or homework, as they didn’t choose to live at two homes and have their belongings scattered across districts. * I am the oldest in my family, followed by my younger sister Meredith and brother Levi. Meredith is only 13 months younger than me, and while we are different in many ways, we are similar in more. I am thick; she is thin. I like to write; she’s good at math. I’m blonde; she’s brunette. However, being so close in age, we experienced basically the exact same life, she just lived mine a year later. We went to the same schools, had many of the same teachers, shared friends, and when it was time for her to pick a college and rush a sorority, she followed in my footsteps. She has created her own life in its entirety, though, but still, we share many undeniable similarities in our lifestyles as she is my best friend.

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Our brother, on the other hand, is significantly younger than us. I am 22 and a senior in college, Meredith is 21 and a junior, and Levi is a freshman in high school and soon to turn 16. He lives a much different life than we did all those years ago, it seems. And to be honest, it can be challenging to connect with a sibling that isn’t your gender and substantially younger than you, but we’re as close as we possibly could be. As the youngest in the family, Levi was always sheltered. We were to be on our best behavior around him as a kid, watching our language and cleaning up after parties before he would be home from a friend’s house. He’s a bright kid, though, very aware of his surroundings, regardless of what we tried to hide.

I can remember my parents arguing from a young age. They never seemed to get along and could never find common ground. When I was younger, I didn’t understand why. I love my mom, and I love my dad, and I didn’t understand why they couldn’t figure their shit out. But as I got older and saw, heard, and experienced more, I saw the issues at hand. My mom and dad are both very headstrong individuals and have always pulled at full force in opposite directions.

This was always confusing, though, because, in general, as people, my parents have many similarities.

They’re both hilarious and can tell a good story. People turn their heads to look at who’s laughing so loud in a restaurant or having a dance-off in the canned goods aisle of the grocery store. But at the end of the day, they had very different goals and plans for their lives.

My mom’s dream vacation would be a calm and remote beach somewhere, where she could relax in the silence of calm ocean waves. My dad’s would be to take the family to Vegas, or maybe also the beach, but to jet ski or swim with sharks. In theory, they worked well together, like peanut

15

butter and jelly. But in reality, peanut butter and jelly have nothing in common.

As the oldest, I was very aware of this from an early age. I tried to shield my younger siblings from the truth, but I believe they were always well aware also. Don’t get me wrong; my parents didn’t have outrageous arguments with items being thrown across the room or scream at each other at the top of their lungs, as you see in the movies.

Not with us home, anyways. No, this was more of an absolute lack of everything. It was the lack of passion, lack of companionship, lack of respect, lack of empathy, and an overall lack of love. Our home wasn’t toxic; there wasn’t cheating or abuse or anything of that nature. My parents just fell in love and married at a young age, only to find out that they were not in love for the long haul.

So, after 25 years of marriage, my parents called it quits.

And what’s sad, and maybe fucked up even, is that I was in full support of it. I almost even encouraged it. I was tired of the empty feeling in my household. I saw the light inside each of them individually. A light that was nowhere to be found when the two were together. They had given up, but my parents are young and attractive for grown adults, and I could see the potential they both had to live full and happy lives. The longing they shared for something that would make them whole again. Life is too short, too precious, too valuable to live anything but happy. And I supported that then, and I support it now. * It’s been a year since my parents’ divorce, and they are closer than ever. They talk daily, updating one another on their personal lives or, if I had to guess, talking about the newest dumbass thing one of us kids did. Sure, you could say they primarily have only kept in such good contact

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because my brother still lives at home, switching biweekly between them. But truthfully, they are each other’s best friend, just as they were all those years ago. Because even if they weren’t meant to marry in this lifetime, they were always meant to be connected. Maybe that purpose was to have three kids, or start a business together, or join two families that will be forever connected. Whatever the reason, my parents found each other, and for that, I am forever blessed.

My dad has a girlfriend now. She’s a real catch—sweet, shiny, and rather kept to herself. And get this, she and my mom are friends now, too. It sounds bizarre when we explain this to other people, but I think my mom talks to my dad’s girlfriend as much, if not more than my dad does.

She has two kids of her own that I have yet to meet, but this has become the norm for my brother, Levi. This life that Meredith and I never experienced—the two houses, parents dating, meeting potential step-siblings. It’s crazy to think that his life at 16 looks nothing like that of my sister‘s and mine. But I’ve come to realize that this is not necessarily a bad thing. Levi’s life is uniquely different than ours, and that is not a bad thing.

However, this was not always the case. The knowledge that Levi would be okay was not always known. For several reasons, he was the biggest factor in my parents staying together for as long as they did. Pre-teen years are incredibly vital, impactful, and delicate years, and my parents did not want anything to negatively affect him and his development into adulthood. The unknown of the divorce, whether or not it would affect his emotions, his schoolwork, his friends, his sports, or his spirit remained undetermined.

As Meredith and I don’t live at home anymore, and haven’t in years, my parents’ split wasn’t as life changing

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for us as it was for Levi, and everyone knew that. He was the one that would pack suitcases each week to switch between houses, brave the kids at school, have parents that sat separately at his sporting events; and he would face it alone. Meredith and I always had each other, through just about everything. But while we were away at college, Levi had to learn to navigate this new lifestyle alone. And he did just that, and he did it wonderfully.

Growing up, Meredith was always more sensitive than I was. I would go to bat with my parents, defending whatever action I did that was wrong, or foul statement that was disrespectful. In high school I was always the guinea pig; first child to have a boyfriend, first child to go to parties, first child to argue with my parents. But not Meredith. If she would get in trouble, it was always immediate tears.

She hated being in trouble, or the thought of someone being mad at her, and because of this, people were rarely mad at her, and rarely was she in trouble.

So, she took the divorce a little harder than I did. Not in a negative way. She still held her head high, knowing that this decision was for the best. But when tears did fall, they were almost always about someone other than herself. She worried about Levi entering high school at such a difficult time for my family, she worried about my parents, and whether or not they would be happy on their own or if they would ever find someone. But these worries were, again, simply the fear of the unknown. * I am happy with my life today. My parents have worked their asses off to make their friendship and relationships work for the benefit of us kids, and it has made all the difference. When I come home from college, we all meet to have drinks. I have friends who wonder how their parents

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will manage to sit in the same room as one another at their wedding someday. But not mine. Hell, my parents and their new partners will probably even carpool. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

My parents feared this unknown for years, keeping them together at the cost of their happiness. This fear of the unknown, fear of failure, and fear of what others would think cost them the joy that I see now for so long before.

Regardless, I believe everything happens for a reason, and I’m sure the timing was perfectly aligned for this to work as well as it did. The light that had burned out is lit once again within both of them. This happiness has spread to every part of their personal lives, and I am lucky to have parents that can grow and create something so beautiful out of something so broken.

Divorce is still a hard thing to go through. It is still hard on the once happily married couple, the kids involved, and the families losing in-laws. It is still difficult to walk through the grocery store in Amarillo, Texas, with your head held high, wondering if others are talking an aisle over. But every family must decide what is best for their family and their family alone. And in my case, I am blessed to have my family finally come together through separation.

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tinta a papel gloria m. sánchez

abuelito presses a pen into my inexperienced hands a sheet of printer paper on the floor of his marbled office that is soaked with numbers but still he says

escribe, mijita, escribe… an inquisition in his direction (un ¿que hago? sin tener que decirle nada). takes my small hand in his and

swirls and swirls of ink. nothingness begging to become a little less nothing, perhaps a little more something: a poem, essay, column, news article, love letter

¡ecolecuá! soft giggles emanate from myself, delight evident in the round cherub chubbiness. smiles at the premonition that my world would be filled with less numbers than his

but a lot more pens, certainly.

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Sour Cherry Picking Mackenzie Duke

Rolling the ripe clots against his palm before Squishing and squeezing each one between The index finger and thumb on his right hand, Licking the thick juice and indulging In the flavor of the sickly tempting fruit, His eyes scan each limb of the tree. All of the Burgundy globes hanging from their stems Look back at him. “Almost like they’re asking for it,” he thinks.

He swallows and reaches up again and again, Wanting to savor each bite but unable to.

His power rests in his fingers. They move with ease.

As the calloused tips graze each sweet drupe, He gives a strong, forceful pull. The resistance Of the branch is a small annoyance, no doubt, But nothing he can’t handle.

He’s insatiable, devouring each delicate orb.

He is a God.

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In control of the small planets, He crushes them against the roof of his mouth, No one around to challenge his power or his appetite.

His teeth tear through the thin, smooth skin Revelling in the soft meat. Tongue stained scarlet.

His stomach churns at the thought of another bite, But still, it accepts each offering.

He is reminded of something delicate and pure as the red Nectar drips down his chin, leaving its trace behind on his skin.

There’s a gulp in his chest. A violent pang that Gives him pause. Hesitant and wary of his own doubt, He looks up to see the tree branches barren. His own doing.

Regret deepens the ache he feels in his belly and pulls

his head down.

Silence. His eyes come up to see another tree full of Potential conquests. Weighed down and full, He moves clunkily over to it.

A chuckle escapes his lips as he whispers to himself “Ripe for the taking.”

Blossoms Blooming Gabrielle Walter - Colored Pencil on Card Stock

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Six Feet Under Katie Karadimas

Storms have always frightened me. Growing up in tornado alley, I watched eerie green hazes dance in the clouds and felt the earth shake beneath my feet on numerous occasions. Funny thing about childhood fears, you never really outgrow them. They transform into other horrors. Scarier things than lightning and thunder existed in the world.

He always said that being afraid of storms made it clear just how naïve I was. No matter what I did, I had a childish aura that he hated. He loved to use my insecurities against me. He knew my greatest fear revolved around storms.

At sixteen, my dad left. The storm that raged the night my father walked out on my mother created a dread that I never thought I could escape.

“I’ll never be whole without him,” my mother cried, locking herself in her room.

As I screamed for my father from the driveway, I heard a single shot from the house. I buried my mother and never heard from my father again. I vowed to never let a man define my existence as she had. When I met him, he promised to always protect me and never leave me alone like my parents had.

He kept one of those promises.

As I sat in the tiny cabin we rented for the weekend, the sky blackened, and the tall oak trees creaked in the wind.

The air around me felt sinister, like the smile of a madman before a rampage.

He decided that a long weekend in the woods would be the perfect apology for the worst beating he had ever dished

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out. Five hours from the city, the secluded cabin concealed the bumps and bruises from the prying eyes of my friends.

He promised a fun trip, free of alcohol and beatings. The empty bottle of Jack on the floor and the throbbing pain in my ribs were the evidence of a broken promise.

After an enjoyable day, the temptation for just one sip proved too much. He needed just one drink. One turned to two, two to four and four into the entire bottle. The alcohol turned his blue eyes black and his rage grew worse than any storm. The next morning, he apologized, as usual.

He kissed my forehead and promised, again, to change. I smiled and placed his breakfast on the table.

“Enjoy breakfast. I made the coffee a little different this morning. I hope you enjoy it! I’m going to go for a walk, I want to get some of those wildflowers we saw on the drive in.”

“It’s supposed to start storming later and you know how scared you get in storms,” he said, casually sipping his coffee. He grimaced, and my hands started shaking.

I stared intently as he sipped the tainted coffee. His taste buds, dulled by the years of continuous drinking, did not detect the additional ingredient I slipped in.

I left the cabin and strolled through a field painted with all the colors of the rainbow. As the sky began to darken and thunder rumbled in the distance, I walked back to the cabin. I stopped at the screen door. The unnatural silence within made it clear I could safely enter. I picked the shattered coffee cup up off the wooden floor and placed the freshly picked wildflowers in his empty bottle of Jack. I looked around the kitchen. The room remained still and silent, almost like it knew to keep the secrets of the cabin hidden.

The screen door slammed open and my heart skipped a beat. I glanced towards his half-eaten plate of bacon and eggs. The powerful winds slammed the door again and

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Melanie Study #1 Gabrielle Walter - Charcoal

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my fears of retaliation subsided. I sunk deep in the chaise lounge and smiled. The storm grew more dangerous with each passing minute. A calmness fell upon me. I grabbed a dusty book from the shelf near the smoldering fireplace and began reading. Reading normally provided escape from his wrath and abuse. Today it kept my mind occupied until I could safely leave the cabin. For the first time in a long time, I felt peaceful during the thunder and lightning.

The rain would make it easier to dig to six feet.

Codes 261 & 187 Julián David Bañuelos For Melisa Ann Garcia Beneath the weeds, a flower took cover, But the lacerations left from his tool Remained. Telescopic eyes discover Worlds within others. Hindsight can be cruel.

Forgiveness lends its hand to anyone, Remember that. While in purgatory, You have a name challenging death like Donne.

Her unbleached bones a memento mori:

Forgive, for we all must reap what we’ve sown.

When cherubs are taken— cherubs return To this world forsaken. She tried to phone Home, I imagine that. She felt the burn That his cold hands left and the taste of rye Forced down her throat. A whistling lullaby.

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When Skies Are Grey Payton Conlin

In October, when the wind sends cool whisps through the air, fingers curling around your cheeks and wading through your hair, we see an increase in solidarity. Whether this is an unconscious response to the seasonal change, a cooling of both air and passion, or one made from the fears of a timid individual, loneliness riddled in every step, every sigh, and moment. It’s hard to exist without the validity that comes with connecting with others; there’s a form of rightness that it bares. We humans seek out the embrace of another, in tears and in joy, to share our emotions, to have someone tell us that the way we feel is warranted.

The leaves begin to fade into colors, from green to yellow to orange to red, traveling through time to opposing ends of the spectrum. Isn’t that how life works?

One day we conceal ourselves within a conviction so grand and virtuous that we lend our very being to its essence, and the next, well, the next we’re cynical, cursing ourselves for believing such lies and vulgarities. Seasons change, as do people, and eventually those red leaves begin to wither and age. They disappear, the tree now bare to all who behold it.

In a particular household, trees of evergreen dotting the lawn, red brick visage straining against the concrete, a family of five… four… three lived quietly. This house, the perfect picture of suburbia, backyard pool and deck, two stories with four bedrooms and three baths, served as a testament. A testament to what exactly depends on one’s view.

An apple pie life, for the more fortunate maybe even à la mode, served as a constant reminder of what should be. We’re told to work hard, and that for all of that work,

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the reward will be great and fulfilling; we’d bake our cake and eat it too.

Now this house, the proud owner of classical American ideology and personality, reminded the family that lived within everyday of this idea, it shamed them. The house’s red brick exterior was a facade, for inside dwelled on the other side of the dream.

When one wakes from a dream it usually occurs gradually, waking all at once is saved for the few loitering within nightmarish landscapes. This awakening begins with a thought, a thought turns into an idea, an idea to an epiphany, then to action. It’s at the stage where realization and change intertwine that this house reveled in.

My home was once was a nice home, three children happily living their white suburban life, picket fence, and privilege. Our mother and father were happily in love, the years expanding to reach twenty six, and three girls, though differing in age from thirteen to eight to seven, got along well, teasing and yelling at each other as siblings do.

We would have dinners every night, say grace before pouncing on the homemade meal that steamed from our plates. Our hearts and stomachs would be full, and as the moon would crawl into the sky, my sisters and I were tucked into bed, parents humming a tune as the white noise machine droned on in the hallway.

‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.’

My family, as time went on, became very active in the neighborhood, hosting pool parties for the neighboring kids and their parents. The children ran around the backyard, grass and dirt wedging between their toes.

We’d take turns running up onto the wooden platform connected to the pool before jumping off, hoping to make the most impressive splash yet.

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The parents would watch from the patio, a tan cloth and metal gazebo sheltering them from the sunlight piercing down on them like a spotlight. My mother and father sat close to the door, encouraging guests to enter the home and grab a drink, or pull stragglers out to the back with them.

At the moment, my father was engaged in a conversation with one of our neighbors, Mr. Nadir as we knew him. The man was in his mid-forties, a similar age to my parents, skin rich in pigment, eyes kind with wisdom.

He was our father’s coworker, both working for Dell in the large building not too far from home.

They worked in the selling of processors for computers, my father earning a generous paycheck every month as he was promoted into a higher position. The men spoke about work idly, Mr. Nadir nodding his head along to whatever my father was saying. He was a quiet man, his stature much smaller than my father’s. He stood up straight, shoulders set evenly and arms swinging as he spoke, as though to portray his words through their movement.

My father had told me that Mr. Nadir had moved to Texas with his wife from India. He’d said that they left because they wanted a chance to become wealthy, a chance for a new life. Now that I’m older, I realise that was a terrible cliché, but at eight years old I felt proud of this fact.

Life went smoothly until the recession hit its hardest in 2009. My father, fighting to keep his job, spent more and more time at work. My parents fought constantly, voices reverberating throughout the house as my sisters and I attempted to drone it out with the noise coming from the television.

When the sun had fallen from the sky, and the yelling had finally stopped, we went to our rooms, quietly going through the routine, showers, teeth and face. Once we

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were finally ready, my sisters and me were tucked into bed, one parent or the other humming a tune as the white noise machine droned on in the hallway.

‘You make me happy when skies are grey.’

It was when I was ten years old that I learned what emptiness really meant. Emptiness isn’t just a hollowness inside you, it’s a tear that leaves you confused and yearning.

What makes it so painful is that you can’t fathom what you’re agonizing over because you don’t know that it exists.

You wander, hoping you’ll stumble upon that missing piece. Every passing day, as that hope remains cloaked in a childlike innocence, the pain becomes more excruciating.

One day you either become numb to it or allow yourself to be consumed; I was more partial to pretending it didn’t exist.

Once my mother had left, promising to come see my sisters and I on the weekends, a promise she never really intended to keep, things began to spiral out of control. My father was at work constantly, and when he’d get home he’d have a drink, some cheap beer he grabbed from the gas station that came in a 24 ounce can. Those days, the cans seemed to fill the garbage bin more than anything else did. Every time I opened the lid, the sun would catch upon the silver tin, blinding me with their luster just as they had my father.

When the day came that he did lose his job, he didn’t tell my siblings and I for a while. He’d be at home when we went to school, and still there when we’d come back. He’d be sat on that old pink couch, back against one of its arms and legs hanging over the other, with his laptop upon his stomach. He’d always have a can or two sitting next to him, whether they were empty or full, I was too timid to check.

My father was always very kind to us, he’d ask about our days and listen with vivid curiosity and would bid us sweet dreams every night without fail. I don’t remember at

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what age I began to wish he’d stop being so nice, it made it impossible to hate him. I really wanted to hate him.

He spent his days both degrading himself and becoming overconfident. As a payment on the house was due, I remember he fell into a flurry. He’d be gone all day long saying he had some interviews, and come back late in the evening with some kind of fast food for us to eat. I can’t tell you how long I went without a meal that didn’t come from a brown bag. I remember asking him once, “If he loved McDonald’s so much, why didn’t he just work there?”

He responded that he was worth more than that because of his education.

He didn’t bring home McDonald’s for a few weeks.

One night, as the wind was whipping through the trees and knocking at our windows, I was roused from an uneventful dream by my younger sister calling my name from the other side of our room. Confused, I got out of bed and joined her by the window, she had drawn the lavender curtains and peeled open the blinds. My older sister joined us as silently, having heard the commotion herself.

I winced as my eyes were assaulted by flashing orange lights contrasting with the dull glow of the street lights lining the road. Through the window, I heard voices, my father’s in particular. In the darkness, I could make out two silhouettes, one I now understand to have been my father and the other, a very tall and slender man. I remember my father’s voice clearly, pleading to the man and trying to convince him to leave as I’m sure every other person who encountered him did. I watched as the man wordlessly hooked up our car, a 2003 Ford Expedition we named the ‘Big Blue Whale,’ to the back of his tow truck. I remember noticing Mr. Nadir and his wife standing in their driveway watching, then turning back into their own house, I could feel the way their door closed and locked somewhere in my chest.

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My father, having been unsuccessful at begging and bartering, gave in, returning inside. I heard him close the front door softly, turning the lock with a click that echoes through my memory.

My siblings and I never breathed a word of this event, the stairs creaking under my father’s heavy steps as he climbed them. By the time he had gotten to the top, we were back in our beds, my eyes tracing his shadow as he entered my room and left, offering nothing but a soft hum as he turned on the sound machine in the hallway.

‘You’ll never know dear,’ The car was gone. The cable and Wi-Fi were next, then the air conditioning, then the hot water, and electricity.

My older sister was gone too, but that was of her own free will. All that remained was the house; at that point it wasn’t much of one anymore, carpet singed with feces from the dog we’d taken in off of the street out of boredom. That, along with whatever that month’s ration of Food Stamps allowed us to buy.

The house constantly smelled damp, as though there was a leak in one of the pipes or a spill from the old washing machine. It didn’t matter though, it’s not like we could’ve afforded fixing it. None of us dared to open the door to the back yard, grass having grown so tall it lined the bottom of the windows, we weren’t sure what was out there anymore.

Perhaps the worst part was how we slept, mattresses dragged downstairs and lined up in a row in front of the old television that hadn’t been turned on in who knows how long, all atop the carpet that I now suspect was molding.

We slept this way because it was too hot to be upstairs; the summer weather did not treat us kindly.

My father, still unemployed, but not for a lack of trying, slept on that old pink couch, back resting on one

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arm, legs hanging from the other. By then, he’d begun to hide his drinking, so we wouldn’t think it was a problem.

We all knew it was.

I’d never seen my father cry before. He was the stereotypical alpha male, domineering and strong. He’d never shown us any indication of weakness, aside from the occasional temper flare. One evening, while my younger sister was distracting herself with some kind of homework, I crept up the stairs, curious as to why my father was taking so long to use the toilet.

His door, ivory paint chipping away around the brass knob, sat idle, separating us from him. His door was never closed and I couldn’t understand why it would be then.

Curious, I silently turned the knob, holding my breath as to not alert my father of my presence.

The room was dark, the only light within it was coming through the window. It felt as though everything was moving in slow motion, the rays of the sun caught every minuscule movement in the air, every fleck of dust flowing down, changing direction, disappearing. I felt like I should disappear with them.

The room although brightened by the evening sun, felt dark, terribly so. I crawled into the room on my knees, hands brushing through the stained carpet that had once been a vibrant olive. I could see my father figure sitting on his old king size bed, back pressing against the wall. He sat on his side of the bed, the other had always belonged to my mother; that fact never changed for as long as we remained in that house.

I could see that he was holding his head in his hands, shoulders bobbing up and down. I could hear his breathing coming out in broken fragments and then coming in all at once. There were several cans by his side this time, a new addition being a mostly empty bottle of some clear liquid,

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I now know that was vodka, the cheap stuff made purely to pack a punch.

I didn’t understand what was going on until I heard the tell-tale sign of sniffling. Now, I didn’t want to let him know I was there, I didn’t want to have to deal with that, but I’ve never been able to listen to what I want. There’s some empathetic side of me, a good trait most of the time, that can never ignore someone in pain. As though it was some responsibility of mine, I crawled onto the bed, no words leaving my person.

I felt my father still, I refused to look at him. He let out a shuttered breath, sniffling once more. The smell of liquor cascaded off of him, burning my eyes; today, seven years later, that smell makes my stomach churn and my eyes water for a different reason.

“You deserve better,” his voice was small, emotion leaking through as as though someone had pierced a hole in his chest leading to his heart. I pondered this for a moment, what was better? After all, I’ve never experienced it so how could I know what ‘better’ felt like. I chose to stay silent, my legs hanging off the side of the bed, my back to my father.

“I’m trying so hard. I am,” he paused, seemingly to compose himself as best he could. He moved to face me. I did not look back.

“Nothing is working. I’m trying so hard for you, but I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I could hear the tears in his voice. He moved, as though to reach out and touch me, but stopped short, body returning to its previous spot.

I didn’t like to be touched.

I don’t really remember what happened after that. I remember telling my father that it was okay and leaving the room. My father and I never talked about that night, I don’t think he remembers. I do.

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I remember getting ready for bed after, my younger sister already sitting on her bed. We waited for my father for an hour or so, conversing lightly about school and arguing about who was better, her for being in band or me for being in choir. My father never came. I told my sister to lay down, walking into the hallway to turn on the sound machine, the state of its batteries reflected in the way the sound flickered in and out of solidity. I walked back to my bed, humming as I turned off the lights.

‘How much I love you.’

The house felt like a prison, I couldn’t leave. Every chance I got, I stayed at school late, as late as I could before the teachers began getting suspicious.

“Choir practice,” I’d tell them. That didn’t work on my choir instructor who saw me sitting outside as he was walking to his car.

Unable to wait any longer, my sister and I walked the mile and a half it took to get back to the house. I’m not sure when I stopped calling it home.

Our father was never at the house when we got back, he’d managed to get a job selling computer parts from a small start-up. It was better than nothing. When we’d get back, I’d practice my choir music, the emptiness of the house making for great acoustics.

Eventually though, he did come back to the house, carrying some kind of brown bag and his leather briefcase.

Sometimes I opened it to see what was inside, there was always a bottle tucked into the bottom under some papers and receipts, clear liquid swaying from side to side teasingly.

I would close it back up, choosing to remain silent.

I stayed that way until I couldn’t anymore. It was when my father’s skin became as yellow as the color pencils I used to draw with when I was so desperate for entertainment

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that I stopped holding my tongue. In those days, I don’t remember a single day where I didn’t get into a screaming match with my father. At first, I’d cry every time, anger so thick it would spill from my eyes, but as the days went on, turning into months, the anger and sadness faded away.

I wanted to hate my father, but I ended up with something far worse, indifference. At what point did I stop caring, stop concerning myself with him, stop feeling? It would have been better to have hated him because at least then I felt something. I woke up every morning expecting disappointment, it became a routine to wake up and count down the hours until I could go back to sleep.

In that way, I ceased to exist. I lived by going to school, laughing with friends, doing homework, but I didn’t exist.

I didn’t want to. It was the day after I had finished my final year of middle school that I was told we had a week to get out of the house. I wasn’t confused or scared, I knew my father hadn’t paid the mortgage in over two years and that it was a miracle we’d lasted as long as we had.

My grandmother came to pick us up when it was time, watching my sister and I through the rearview mirror. We had to leave everything but our clothing at the house, nothing else could fit. I’ll never forget driving from that house, turning to face it as we went. A police man stood outside on our lawn, random people going into the house and coming out with items, loading their own cars. I remember seeing a woman come out with a box filled with my snow globe collection, one that had taken me ten years to build.

Things that people didn’t want, went in a giant metal bin, the Supernatural poster that hung on my bedroom wall, my Halloween costume from elementary school where I dressed as a pumpkin, the hand-me-down Barbie backpack I’d used in Kindergarten, my baby blanket that’d been stained from use and thirteen years of life. I turned

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around in my seat, and didn’t look back until we’d gotten to my grandmother’s apartment. I pictured my father back there, fighting people off and trying to collect some of our belongings. When he got back, he was empty handed.

That night, my sister and I slept on my grandma’s pullout couch, the room silent. We stared at the ceiling fan as it spun around and around, neither of us capable of speaking in that moment.

Eventually, I wandered off to sleep, singing to myself softly, ‘Please don’t take my sunshine away.’

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Tangled Gabrielle Walter - Oil Painting

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The Golden Rule Joshua Bray

“What are they gonna do, arrest all of us?” Dylan asked everyone in the car.

“Yeah actually,” Dustin said from the passenger seat.

He rolled down the window to the old El Dorado to try to air out the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. The smell of cigarettes lingered in the old El Dorado. The radio was busted, replaced by the hum of a faulty exhaust that the boys had to talk over. “I feel like that’s exactly what they’re going to do. You say that as if there’s not just three of us.”

“You worry too much, Dustin,” Todd said as he foraged around in the backseat. “You can’t bring this kind of negative energy onto a job like this.”

“This isn’t a ‘job’, Todd, it’s holding up a grocery store,” Dustin said. “That’s small-time stuff, which by the way is still too big for us. A ‘job’ is like stealing the Declaration of Independence or robbing a bank, or something.”

“Fair enough,” Todd said, still looking around the backseat.

“It’s an honest living as any,” Dylan said as he parked the car at the tail end of the street. The hum of the exhaust settling away.

“It’s actually not that honest, Dylan,” Todd said from the back seat.

“Well what else are we going to do?” Dylan asked looking at the two of them. “Anyone got any bright ideas on how to make money? We can’t get reals jobs. We’re freaking runaways. So, unless you guys are gonna pull a couple grand out of your asses, this is the best we got.”

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“Okay, but like, did you really need to take all of your mom’s guns?” Todd asked.

“Yeah I feel like that’ll make things worse. Our parents are already gonna be pissed we took off,” Dustin said as he looked nervously towards the backseat where they were stored.

“Your parents, maybe,” Dylan said, looking at no one in particular.

Dustin never knew what to say to Dylan when he mentioned his parents. It was either try to cheer him up and get yelled at and have to deal with his bad attitude or ignore it and have to deal with his bad attitude. Dylan chose the easier approach.

“Well, why do I get stuck with the pellet gun? This thing has an orange tip. It doesn’t even look real.”

“How would that make things worse? Nobody’s going to try to take on three guys with guns,” Dylan said.

“What if we accidentally fire it off and hurt someone?”

Dustin asked.

“That won’t happen. Jesus Christ you two are so goddamn negative. What kind of idiot accidently fires off a gun? You guys are making this way more complicated than it has to be,” said Dylan.

“I’m sorry we aren’t nonchalant about armed robbery, Dylan, that’s our bad,” Dustin said.

“It’s not going to be armed robbery; we won’t even load the guns. It’ll all be for show, I promise. You know just to freak everyone out, get them to listen. Who’s going to play hero when they’re staring at three different guns?”

“That’s definitely still armed robbery, dude,” Todd said.

“Okay but what about our faces? We aren’t going to get very far if we’re recognized the next town over,” Dustin said, looking for any excuse to end the operation.

“Oh, I know,” Todd said as he rummaged through the back seat. “Your mom left these back here, Dylan.” Todd

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emerged from the back with pantyhose he had found in a suitcase in the back of the car.

“The fuck?” Dylan asked. “No, we aren’t doing that.

No way.”

“I don’t know man I’ve seen it in a movie before.

Cameras can’t make out your face or anything,” Todd said.

“Well that’s a stupid movie. No. No. I veto this,” Dylan said as he crossed his arms and stared out the window.

“You can’t veto this, what else are we going to wear?

We don’t have money to buy actual masks,” Dustin said.

“C’mon man,” Todd said as he slipped on one of the makeshift masks. “It fits perfect! Little harder to see than I thought though I’m not going to lie.”

“Alright, fine, have it your way,” Dylan said as he zipped up his jacket and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

“But before we do this, everyone remember, on the slim off chance that we get caught, or someone gets picked up by the cops, or lost, or anything like that, remember the golden rule.”

“Yeah, I got you man,” Todd said adjusting the pantyhose on his head.

“The golden rule,” Dustin asked. “What’s the golden rule?”

“The golden rule, Dustin,” Dylan answered. “Is to shut the fuck up.”

— — Dustin was getting uncomfortable. He couldn’t raise his hands any more than a few inches away from the table thanks to the handcuffs restraining him. The room was dark, and as plain as could be. Nothing lined the walls. The chair he sat in was as hard as bedrock. Dylan warned him about this though. This was a tactic cops would use to mess with you. Put you in the most uncomfortable place they

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could. Make you feel as agitated as possible. Anything so that you’d let your guard down.

But no matter how many times Dustin reminded himself of this, it never made the situation feel better: knowing something will make you uncomfortable, doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. He didn’t know how long he had been waiting at this point. It could have been an hour or three. Dustin wondered if this was another one of their tactics. Have you wait as long as possible, to let you get in your own head. Give you time to psych yourself out.

As much as Dustin didn’t want to admit it, it was working.

Eventually, the door creeped open. A tall man walked into the room. He reminded Dustin more of a schoolteacher than a cop. His glasses seemed almost comically big; his hair was parted down the middle in a goofy sort of way. His clothes seemed just a size too big. The only intimidating thing about him was his height, the dude was tall as hell.

The tall man didn’t speak at first. He merely sat down at the table across from Dustin and sipped on his coffee as he read the file he brought with him.

The silence made Dustin want to speak, but he remembered Dylan’s rule. Shut the fuck up. No matter what they say, no matter what they ask, you shut the fuck up.

They can’t get you with anything if you don’t say anything.

Dustin felt that had to have been an exaggeration, but so far keeping quiet has gotten them out of several sticky situations, though those situations never involved police interrogation.

“You a Dallas fan?” the man finally asked. Dustin was caught off guard. His face must have shown it, because the man went on to clarify. “Dallas Cowboys? You know, football?” the man said as he mimicked throwing a football.

Dustin remained silent.

“Ah, figured it was worth a shot. Your file says you lived just outside of Dallas as a kid, and even then, no one in

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Texas is really a Houston fan.” The man laughed at his own joke at the Houston Texan’s expense. “Alright then, how about basketball? You strike me as a Rockets fan.”

Dustin shook his head.

“Oh, that’s a shame. You must be a Spurs fan then. My old roommate was a Spurs fan. Wouldn’t shut up about Tim Duncan, my god, that was annoying,” the man said.

“Best power forward in history,” Dustin said under his breath. He knew he shouldn’t have given in and spoke, but what harm could come from arguing the merits of Tim Duncan’s excellent career?

“In history?” the man said with a laugh. “You think Tim Duncan is a better power forward than Charles Barkley?

Kevin Garnett?”

Dustin raised five fingers in the air. Each one for a championship that Tim Duncan won playing for the Spurs.

“The rings don’t lie.”

“No, no they don’t,” the man said with a smile. He took a sip of his coffee before speaking again. “So, why shoot the lady, Mr. Matthews?”

“W-what?” Dustin stammered.

“The woman you shot. Jessica Roberts. 34, two kids, boy and a girl. Worked at the grocery store. Shot dead by you.”

“I didn’t shoot anybody,” Dustin blurted out in a panic.

“Well somebody did. Unless you’re saying she gunned herself down,” the man said.

“We didn’t shoot anybody,” Dustin reiterated.

“So, there is a ‘we’? Exactly how many accomplices did you have?”

“What no-” Dustin’s protest was cut off.

“I’m assuming this was premeditated by you and your friends? What went wrong to turn the whole thing south?”

Dustin couldn’t find any words to say. The man had sidelined him. “Shut the fuck up,” Dylan’s voice cautioned.

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Dustin listened. Sitting up straight in his chair and pursing his lips closed, to not allow anymore words to escape.

“Mr. Matthews, I have three dead bodies, if you don’t help me figure out what actually happened, I’m going to be forced to pin them all on you,” the man said. “Your buddies aren’t exactly around to tell us their side of the story kid, so if you don’t give me yours we’re going to have to make up our own.”

Three dead? Dustin thought. What did he mean they weren’t around? He knew about the lady already. Who were the other two? Dylan and Todd? But how? Why? “You didn’t know, did you?” the man asked.

Dustin’s eyes began to burn red as the tears formed. The thought of him being the only survivor twisted his stomach to the point he felt sick. He attempted to remain composed in front of the officer who he could feel staring him down.

“I see. I’m sorry kid,” the man said, as he grabbed his coffee and walked out of the room.

Dustin was alone again. Alone to think about everything that had gone wrong. How he and his friends walked into the store, which was more crowded than expected. How they gathered the people along the walls, pointing their guns at them to keep them in line. How the scared girl at the register was shaking so hard she could barely open the drawer. How when they finally were able to get the register open, a woman walked out from the back of the store, startling Dylan.

He knew Dylan didn’t mean to do it. She had scared him. They had thought everyone was lined up on the floor.

How were they supposed to know? But Dylan said the gun wasn’t loaded. Why did he lie like that? Why would he be so stupid? Dustin fumed over the questions in his head.

Replaying the scenario over and over again.

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Eventually the man returned. It had to have taken him longer than the first time to return. By this time Dustin had already dried his eyes of tears. He was afraid to show this man anymore weakness. Dustin noticed the man came back with two donuts. Another trick, Dustin thought to himself. The man placed the donuts in front of Dustin before sitting down.

“Hungry?” the man asked.

Dustin refused to even nod.

“I’m sure you probably are. You’ve been here for what five, six hours,” the man asked.

Had it really been that long, Dustin asked himself.

“I want a lawyer,” Dustin finally said.

The word lawyer caused the man to jolt. A look of disappointment slid across his face before he stood up and exited the room without saying a word. The man returned quickly this time. “A lawyer is on his way, but I still have questions so I’m going to try a different approach this time okay, buddy? I’m going to go through the timeline of events as we see it, and if I’ve got anything wrong, you can correct me. That work?”

Silence again.

“Fine, don’t talk, that’s fine. Maybe give me a nod yes or no if I’ve gotten things wrong how about that?” The man waited for some kind of a response, but it was in vain. “Okay then, here we go. At 8:37am a black Cadillac El Dorado pulled into a hotel parking lot down the street from the Fresh Foods grocery store on 17th and Main. The Cadillac was reported missing two months ago by Lucinda Jacobs, mother of Dylan Jacobs, who we now know stole the car.” The man looked to Dustin for a response of any kind but found none.

“Dylan used the car to transport a Dustin Matthews, you obviously, and a Todd Henry. All three boys are fifteen

45

years of age. From what we gathered, the three suspects drifted from town to town, surviving off stolen credit cards and cash they took from their parents’ homes back in Keller, Texas. The predominant theory is that you three ran out of money, somehow found yourselves upon a shotgun, a handgun, and pellet gun. The pellet gun had its orange tip cut off, to be made to resemble a real gun, which by the way, is against the law here in Texas.”

The man’s summary was interrupted by Dustin’s stomach growling echoing throughout the small room.

The man motioned a hand towards the donuts on the table.

Dustin refused to give in keeping his hands still.

“Whatever kid, have it your way,” the man said as he grabbed a donut for himself and began to eat. “So, you three go in the store, pantyhose on your heads, which side note, is hilarious to look at on the surveillance footage,” the man said through a mouthful of donut. “You go in, line everyone up on the wall, somehow get the terrified little lady on the register to fork over some cash, and then boom, you gun a random woman down in cold blood. Well, we assume it was you anyways. You’re all wearing the same clothes, which was actually a good idea on y’all’s part. If you hadn’t ended up getting caught that is. And the pantyhose on your head make it hard to tell who is who.” The man stopped to take a sip of his coffee.

“So, Dustin, did you shoot the poor lady?”

Dustin sat motionless. Weighing his options in his head. To tell this man everything would mean selling out Dylan and Todd. But he didn’t kill the old woman. Yet here they are, pinning it on him.

Dustin shook his head no.

“Good boy,” The man said as he slid the plate of donuts closer to Dustin.

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Dustin hated himself for taking the donut. But by that point he hated being hungry more.

“So, by my estimates, Dylan is the one with the shotgun, your friend Todd is the one with the handgun, and you got stuck with the pellet gun. How am I doing?”

Dylan nodded as he ate his donut.

“Now from what we know Dylan was the only one to shoot his gun, and Todd’s weapon didn’t even have any bullets loaded.”

How does he know it was Dylan, Dustin thought to himself.

“He said none of us had any bullets,” Dustin said aloud.

Dammit, why did he do that?

“Who’s he? Dylan?” The man asked leaning forward closer to Dustin.

Dustin nodded.

“I see. So, Dylan was the mastermind of all of this?”

Dustin decided to not respond to this question.

“Kid, I admire the loyalty, I really do. But loyalty to dead men will only get you so far.” The man paused after what he said, as if to give his words time to linger in Dustin’s mind. “So, after he shoots the old woman, what happened Dustin? I need to hear it from you,” the man said, placing one hand in another.

Dustin finished his donut and wiped the crumbs away from his mouth, having to lean his head down to his hands due to the restraints. He had decided to tell the man what he did. What happened next didn’t involve Todd or Dylan, so it’s not like he would be snitching on them.

“The shotgun going off scared me. I didn’t realize who did it until later. I just bolted. I just ran right out the back.

By the time I had stopped running I didn’t know where I was or what to do.”

“So, what did you do?” the man asked.

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“Hid. Found a bridge and figured I’d wait there till I could think of a better plan. But I never could. By the time I thought about maybe returning to the store to try to figure out where Todd and Dylan were you guys had found me and brought me here.”

“Hm. I see,” the man said. He sat for a moment, then took a final big swig of his coffee. “Well here’s what you’re looking at; you weren’t there for the shootout,” A shootout, Dustin thought. Why would those idiots get into a shootout with the police?

“—and you never actually hurt anybody, just waived a pellet gun in their faces, which is stupid in its own right.

While you are an accomplice in the robbery, you didn’t do much beside point a bb-gun at a few bystanders and run away. It’s your first offence as far as I can tell, unlike your buddy Dylan, and you’re still technically a minor. A lot of juvie, plenty of public service, and plenty more counseling should be about all you get, depending on how the judge is feeling. Considering your age, I don’t see him locking you up for very long, if at all. For your sake I hope you get him after he’s eaten. He’s always crankier right before lunch.”

“Juvie? Community service?,” Dustin said to himself.

“What are you talking about, that lady is dead. My friends are dead, and I get community service?”

“Oh yeah, right, the woman’s going to be fine actually.

I sort of played with the details of the case to get you to cooperate, since you were being a bit stubborn. While your friend did shoot her, he’s got pretty bad aim. Got her in the leg, but she should be fine after a while. Probably in a cast or wheelchair for a bit. I don’t know. Nothing life threatening though, as far as we can tell.”

Dustin sat there and clenched his fists tight, squeezing his nails against his palms. The man had lied to him about the woman so casually.

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Shut the fuck up, Dylan’s voice echoed.

“What about my friends?” Dustin asked. The man got up and walked toward the door.

“Sorry kid,” the man said as he exited the room. Just before the door closed Dustin could have sworn, that through the crack of the door, he saw the man smile.

— — When they finally brought Dustin out of the room, the lights from the hallway singed his eyes. He squinted until he felt fully adjusted and was sat down at the end of the long hallway where a row of chairs hugged the wall. An officer hovered over Dustin as he sat and told Dustin that he would have to wait for processing to call him before he could be released. The man who interrogated Dustin went to speak to officers at the other end of the hall, before making his way back.

Eventually a door in the same direction as Dustin’s opened, and out walked Todd, with a donut in each hand.

“Todd!” Dustin shouted from down the hall, jumping up from his seat. The officer guarding Dustin pushed him back down into his chair with one hand, shushing him as he did. “Todd, I thought you were shot! They told me you died.”

“Oh, I was shot alright,” Todd said as he made his way towards Dustin, “just a grazed shoulder though. Unless these boys got poison bullets, I should live. Didn’t get it nearly as bad as Dylan though.”

“Dylan?” Dustin asked in confusion.

“Did y’all tell him we were dead or something?” Todd said to the cop leading him down the hall. “That’s a real dick move, man. Not cool. Very not cool.”

“Did you get that from the shootout?” Dustin asked pointing towards the visible patch on his shoulder.

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“Shootout? I wouldn’t call what happened a shootout,” Todd said before taking a bite of one of his donuts. “What was I gonna have a shootout with anyways, my imaginary bullets? Dylan just freaked once the cops came and started firing off random shots in the air like a jackass. To be honest I was freaking out too, I didn’t know Dylan had actual bullets. Don’t go telling people this but I actually hid with the customers, but they sold me out once the cops got Dylan. Bunch of bastards. But yeah, they fired a few shots at Dylan when they got there and one grazed my shoulder that’s all,” Todd said.

“You lied,” Dustin said as he looked towards the man who had interrogated him.

“Yeah, but only a little. And so did you, kid,” the man said, not even looking up from his phone. “Besides, if I didn’t get you to think they were dead you wouldn’t have ever told me anything. Don’t try to get high and mighty on me.”

As the man finished talking, an older man in a brown, ill-fitting suit came out from the end of the hallway, looking around. He made eye contact with the tall man who interrogated Dustin.

“Where’s Dustin Matthews?” he asked.

“Uh, that’d be me,” Dustin said raising a hand.

“Wait, is the interrogation done?” the man said looking back to the officer.

“Yeah we’re done,” the officer said. “I got all I needed.”

The lawyer looked at Dustin with a look of disappointment that annoyed Dustin. As if he had failed this man somehow.

“Alright son, well come with me, I need to know what you said,” the lawyer said as he turned around.

As Dustin began to walk out with the lawyer, six officers came out through the other end of the hallway. They all approached a door close to the one Todd had exited from.

They entered, and Dustin heard shouting before they finally

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returned to the hallways, Dylan in tow. Dylan was handcuffed to an officer by one hand, the other was in a sling.

“Dylan!” Dustin shouted.

The officers dragged Dylan down the same way Todd and Dustin were sitting.

“You god damn snitches!” Dylan yelled once he saw them both sitting. “You talked didn’t you! You’re a bunch of rats. Dirty fucking rats!”

Todd stared at the floor, still munching on his donuts.

“Wait, Dylan no, they told me you were dead,” Dustin said. “I didn’t know. I heard the gunshots when I ran, I assumed they were telling the truth.”

Dylan looked at Dustin with disgust in his eyes. His face scrunched together, every muscle in his face tensing in anger. As the cops walked Dylan by Dustin and Todd, Dylan spat on the ground in front of them.

“Dylan, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know,” Dustin pleaded.

Dustin didn’t know why he was apologizing. He was pissed too. Pissed at Dylan for getting them into this. Pissed at himself for going along with it. Pissed at Dylan again, for lying about the bullets. But the look of betrayal on Dylan’s face was like a punch to the gut.

“Dustin,” Dylan said before the cops took him out of the hallway. “Just shut up.”

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Pollinator Sticker Marian Herring - Gouache

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lengua materna gloria m. sánchez lengua materna tongues that too often forget the vernacular of their new patria collide, seeking refuge in

one another.

rolled r’s and first-language fever collision course of understanding miles de kilómetros de nuestros

hogares.

this mouth, between kisses, should taste like arroz, pernil, guineo frito y seguramente cosas aún más

boricuas.

isla del encanto, plenamente frente a mí, ¡conjelándose! el viento frío de lugares extraños y

desconocidos ya… quedémonos con los recuerdos de habernos amado, con los sabores de casa goteando de nuestras

lenguas.

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Moon Marian Herring - Linocut Print

54

Forgotten Man Kasey Hahn

“MEDIC!” The sound hits my ears as another shell explodes a few feet away, and I pull my knees closer to my chest as I hug the frozen ground. Snow explodes above me, blanketing the earth in fresh dirt, ice, and blood. I clench my eyes shut as I curse the God I was raised to love. My mouth tastes like blood, and my teeth feel numb as I bite the inside of my cheek in order to hang onto something. To anything.

Men are screaming, yelling, praying. D-Company is dying. A plane screeches above me as I choke, clenching my fists tighter together: dirty nails meet trembling flesh.

Broken tree branches land next to me as the men in the foxhole next to mine scream, and the ground shakes as it is blown to pieces.

I can’t move. I tell myself I’ll count to three, but I can’t move. My mind won’t let me. My body won’t cooperate.

I’m frozen in a small dirty hole that was dug by dead men. Shoved against the earth like a child clinging to his mother’s warmth as snow blankets me over and over again, eating through the holes in my coat and boots. Voices lost through explosions and gunfire; my mouth dry and my breathing heavy as my heart pounds to the machinegun firing a few holes over.

“MEDIC! WE NEED A MEDIC!” I swallow, clenching my eyes tighter as I count. One. Two. Three…

Something slides against me and I flinch, forcing an eye open as Kansas grabs at my clothes, pulling at my shirt

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as he shakes me, “Babe! Come on! Don’t you hear me yelling! Get up, let’s go!”

There’s dirt smeared across his face, mixed with a splatter of fresh blood running down his cheek and chin from his temple. His helmet’s gone and leftover shrapnel and dirt fling from his blonde hair as he grabs my arm, pulling roughly as my body resists. I can’t move, and he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand that I’m frozen against the ground, held down by memories and paralyzing fear, by unfamiliarity and impending death, and by an unrecognizable future.

“Babe!” He yells again, yanking once more.

My head slams against the solid dirt, and for a moment, the world spots away in thick black. The front lines are replaced by nothingness: a void of vast emptiness, silence, and—forgiveness. The memories are gone, the shelling is gone—and for that split second, I am too. For that split second, everything is right again. For that split second, I’m back in medical school, joking with my buddies because Betty Louis finally agreed to go out with me. I’m back to that first night we met: our first kiss, our first dance. I can smell her perfume and how it lingered on my clothes after I kissed her goodbye before shipping out. The smell of her perfume is on the letter pressed in my right breast pocket: a letter reminding me that nothing is ever beautiful in war.

Not even love. Not even Betty Louis. But for a split second, I’m free. I’m home. And I’m away from where I don’t want to be.

Something hard rams against my side and I curse, flinging my body away from the earth. I shove at him as I nod unconsciously, “Okay. Okay?”

Hands shove back at me, grabbing against my chest as I stumble. Kansas pulls me up again, “No! Not okay! Come on, let’s go!”

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He grabs my arm, pulling me out of the hole as my mind catches up to a questionable reality. The world outside my foxhole is bloody, dark, and wrong. Crimson mixed against white, screams against explosions, and Kansas shoves me towards another hole. My foot slides along dirty ice as shrapnel flies beside me. I fall against the earth, hugging the ground, letting her cold embrace protect me as I count to three, slowly. Kansas shouts towards me, and I push my body up, running towards the nearest foxhole, slipping in harshly.

Snow drops in as my knees hit the ground and panicked crying fills my ears, my eyes see red. I bite the inside of my cheek as I trace over the blood pooling from Lefty’s right thigh in spluttering waves. His voice pierces my ears as he bites back pain, gripping around the wound, and I exhale.

One… I shove Sarge from his leg, pressing my hands against the open wound as Lefty cries again. Kansas falls in next to me. I release pressure momentarily to see better and blood sprays across my face. I curse loudly, pulling a dirty piece of fabric from my back pocket, ripping it with my teeth before wrapping it tightly above the wound. My breathing catches momentarily; my fingers slip against his flesh as I search for the tiny pieces of shrapnel embedded in his thigh.

Lefty’s hand taps against my knee and I glance towards him as he grins painfully, “Just like Normandy, huh, Babe?”

“This ain’t like four months ago. I’m not getting shot again,” I tell him, snorting slightly as I pull my last packet of Sulfa from my coat.

I rip the side of it open with my teeth, my hand shaking as I pour the white powder over the wound. Lefty winces loudly, reaching for his leg before I shove his hands away, tightening the clothe above it.

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Sarge clears his throat, “We couldn’t stop the bleeding.

Dumbass was out grabbing some more branches when the shelling started… but we couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

“You give him morphine?” I yell, flinching as another plane soared overhead and something exploded in the distance. Someone in D-Company was shouting out orders and the machine gun ceased fire.

Sarge swallowed, “No. We didn’t have any syrettes.”

Blood spurts from the wound again as I force my fingers further, pressing my knee against Lefty’s to keep the officer from squirming. He cries loudly before letting out a strained laugh.

His hand grips loosely at Sarge’s jacket, “Think this’ll earn me a ticket home, Sarge?”

I hear Sarge chuckle as I move closer, pressing harder against the kid’s thigh as I try to stop him from bleeding.

There is too much. There is too much blood for some tiny pieces of shrapnel. My hand scrapes across something sharp and I wince. I inch closer, pressing against hot trembling flesh, blocking out the sounds of gunfire, shells exploding, and screams as my eyes connect with a small piece of metal cushioned against bone. It’d torn open the artery, blood littering the ground all from a tiny piece of German bombing.

Two… “Fuck!” I clench my jaw, gripping the leg together, tightening the clothe with a bloodied hand and teeth.

Lefty groans slightly, and I glance up to see Sarge slapping lightly at the kid’s face as the officer struggles to hold his head up. I turn back, wiping blood away from the spot, frantically trying to search my pockets for the scissors I’d stolen off of Glasses, the old thread from Smokey. Panic lacing my mind and I take a slow breath as I press harder.

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I can’t save it. I can’t save it. I can’t save him. I can’t save any of us…

My hands slip again against the open wound as blood covers them, and I freeze. My fingers shake as I struggle to breathe, struggle to command them to move, to think properly, to look at the blood pooling from the 22-yearold’s leg. Lefty screams again, and I glance towards his face.

His blue eyes terrified as he tries to crack jokes, grabbing again at Sarge’s jacket, pained fear filling his eyes.

“How bad, Doc? How bad is it, Babe?” Kansas yells, smacking my back, and I swallow.

I can’t tell him. I can’t force my mouth open. I can’t think. Lefty meets my eyes and the grin he plastered to his face for the others slips as he holds my gaze. He closes his eyes briefly and weakly grasps again at Sarge’s jacket. He knows. He knows I can’t save him. I can’t help him.

Kansas yells again. Sarge shoves my shoulder as he pulls the younger man closer. I blink as something explodes above us, and I push my body against the wound, pressing my hands against his thigh as I try to stop the blood pooling from the artery. Kansas and Sarge are arguing, yelling for blankets, jackets, anything they can find to keep the kid warm and comfy. They don’t understand. They don’t get it yet.

Lefty’s hand drops from my knee and I hold my breath, pressing a hand against hot skin as I grab the morphine syrette from inside my coat pocket, clenching it gently between my teeth, unwilling to use it. I glance towards his face. He’s pale now. Sarge yells again, pressing his palms against the kid’s neck, trying to warm him with the little body heat he has.

I shiver, moving forward as someone above us shouts again, and I force my hand against the wound. Most of the blood had soaked through his open pantleg, pressed against the ground now. It stains the earth in painful

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realization that all of us would die in an unmarked grave, rotting in fields, on the side of the roads or in foxholes that harbored worse memories than death. I grabbed the fabric once more from my pocket, tearing it in half before smearing it across the wound as I yell for transport.

“Babe…” A hand grasps my shoulder and I shove it away as I press my hands tightly against the leg, yelling again. The blood is endless, drowning my hands, painting the ground in reminders that this can only end one way.

For all of us.

Tears fill my eyes, and I choke, my fingers unable to grasp something solid. My eyes unable to find anything but red.

Warm hands grasp mine, “Eugene…”

I inhale slowly as time speeds up and quiet fills my ears.

The shelling has stopped, the gunfire, the shouting, even the crying. I peer towards Lefty’s chest to find him just as still as the world around us. Kansas’ hands grip mine, and I pull them away slowly, falling against the dirt wall behind me. Kansas relaxes slightly as a frozen calmness falls over us. A collective silence embedded in our bones, a jealous mourning swallowing our minds as Sarge pulls Lefty’s jacket over his face: shielding him from the rest of the world, and the world from him.

I exhale, smacking my head against the dirt as I glance down at the blood on my hands. My fingers trembling as I mash them together, trying to scrape the dirt, gore, and guilt from them: trying to rid them from the lives I’ve held, from the deaths I’ve caused, from the memories I’ve stopped. I wanted to scrape everything off: peel it, cut it, burn it, wash it. But I can’t. There isn’t enough water in the world to wash away the red staining my fingers, and there isn’t enough time to forget everything I’ve seen.

Three…

“Babe? You okay?” Sarge’s voice reaches my ears, rough and hoarse.

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The nickname “Babe” used to bring me warmth. It kept me grounded and let me know that I was alive. But now, it is a bitter nod towards one of the greatest baseball players, born in my hometown, and a constant reminder that I had made it and that others like Lefty hadn’t. I glance towards him, meeting the green eyes, dark circles, and pale features set in a hardened, sunken face.

I nod, counting slowly as I try to keep it together. But I wasn’t okay. Truth is, it was getting harder to tell the days apart. To tell the nights apart. Everything had begun to blend together. Every fight. Every tank. Every scream.

Every death. All of it had scrambled together into an unnatural here and now. The past and present bled into the impossible future. Nothing was recognizable anymore.

Not even the men.

Most of them were only in their twenties, some even younger, like Kansas, but none of us were young anymore. Youth and innocence had been stripped from our flesh, minds, and souls long ago. We’d been morphed, corrupted, and forced to make any rendition of ourselves unrecognizable and forgotten: schoolboys turned into soldiers. The war had taken us, full of hope and life, and twisted, crushed, and changed us into broken green army men. It made us afraid of ourselves and kept us tormented and haunted by the past and damaged by unlovable fear.

None of us knew who we were anymore, and by the time the war was finished, if we weren’t lucky enough to die, I suppose we’d no longer be men either.

Four…

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Directional Line Study Gabrielle Walter - Charcoal

63

A Sonnet for Thirteen Fluttering Glass Wings Bailee N. Tanguma

I grew up in Dallas, where the streets were painted with used needles and empty prescription bottles.

A place where broken bibles and fake smiles left us tainted.

“We are what we repeatedly do.” – Aristotle

The innocence of cough syrup turned to the impurity of heroin as we stopped blowing out birthday candles and began to celebrate everyday like Marilyn.

But the death of another junkie was not equally a scandal.

I feel like we were all Anemones planted in the wrong garden; lost, forsaken, misunderstood, and wilting farther and

farther from the sun.

I feel like we were always going to decay, exempt from a

societal pardon.

Now, thirteen Anemones have wilted away without saying goodbye, but when I dream, I like to close my eyes and think of you

all as glass wing butterflies, fluttering around, reenacting our summer days;

flying high.

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Last Meal Nicolas Rivera

“Wait. Let me explain,” howled Wolf.

“It’s, er, pretty cut and dry. Literally. You licked her bones dry,” shuddered Bear. “So gruesome. I can’t even tell what color her little robe-thingy was supposed to be.”

Wolf stared down at his paws. “It was red. I mean… I can’t really see red, but she’s been around here for years. I think she goes by the name Red, but you know me. I keep to myself, so I really wouldn’t know.” Wolf’s ears hung nearly eye level, burdened with the weight of shame.

By this time, a mass of forest animals had gathered to inspect the scene. Each of the community members crawled out of their holes to pay their respects. Pine, the porcupine, crept to the edge of the clearing, closely followed by birds and whitetails. A pile of pearl bones sat in a heap beside Bear’s massive, brown frame while flies made use of what little spoiled carrion covered the ground. Tattered shreds of the little girl’s blood-red overcoat lay scattered across the murder scene, and small pieces of her wicker basket wisped about playfully in the light forest breeze.

“You know the rules, Wolf. You have to abide by them.”

“I know. I know!” snarled Wolf. “Let me explain myself before I’m banished. Think about my children, Bear.”

Silence echoed the last word of his plea. A few of the animals shifted uncomfortably, but no one dared to interject.

“Fine. It won’t change anything. Speak.”

“Okay,” huffed Wolf. He circled the same spot a handful of times before planting his haunches on the organic forest floor. Somewhere in the distance, a mournful howl echoed through the trees. Wolf’s ears perked, then sank as the

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echo faded into the cool, morning air. Before Wolf could speak, several voices emerged from the crowd.

“Banish him already!”

“They’ll be hunting him soon!”

“Let him say his piece, so he can leave and give us peace,” Bear said holding up his paw.

“Hey buddy, last time I checked, the bear wasn’t king of the forest,” snapped Wolf, his yellow fangs flashing in the low forest light.

A deep rumble sounded low in Bear’s chest as he rose on his haunches to his full towering frame. Wolf pinned his ears back but did not move.

“I said speak.”

“Right. It’s like this… She had it coming!”

The audience groaned in defeat, and some shook their heads in disbelief. As if they could ever trust a wolf.

“No, I mean it! Hear me out!” cried Wolf, his tail twitching furiously. “That little monster trampled through here every day for years, and even though she littered and ruined our homes, I left her alone. Even when she crawled into my den, bumbling around like a drunken, hairless monkey and crooning over my puppies, for the sake of the forest, I let it slide. I swallowed my pride, moved my whole litter, and settled down far away from everyone. But it wasn’t far enough! They always find us, Bear. Why can’t my family just have peace?”

By this time, Bear began to lose interest. He licked his long, curved claws, cleaning them of any residue until his razor-sharp weapons gleamed menacingly in the dim light of the forest.

“Get on with it before I change my mind about banishment and eat you instead,” yawned the brown brute.

“Right. Lately, she’s been dumping stuff in the forest. I don’t know what it is, where it’s coming from, or why she’s

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doing it here, but it’s making my puppies sick.” Wolf’s ears sagged lower than his yellow eyes. “My mate and I lost our two youngest.”

“It’s true,” called out a voice from the audience.

“The smell wiped out half my family,” called out Rabbit, thumping about nervously. “Wolf is speaking the truth, she’s not the only one. More and more of their kind are trespassing on our lands, walking upright through our backyards with their face buried in their glow-boxes. I can’t lose my family, Bear. Maybe we should do something?”

“At least I had the guts to do something,” mumbled Wolf.

“It doesn’t take guts to murder an innocent little girl,” snapped Bear.

“Innocent? Her kind has killed thousands of innocent lives. Their innocence is buried beneath the pelts of our brothers. How can you be so big yet do nothing about these intruders?”

Bear sat in silence, patiently waiting for the murmur of the crowd to die to a whisper. His voice rumbled low and powerful, like water over the polished rocks of a waterfall. “I have seen the worst in humans. I watched as they murdered my mother with their sticks of thunder, not for survival, but for sport. We cannot beat them. They are inevitable. We can only survive amongst them, and that is impossible when they grow thirsty. And believe me, they will be bloodthirsty over the murder of a little girl.”

Bear rose but remained on all fours. His powerful shoulders shuddered beneath his mass as he paced around angrily before the crowd. “A dead human brings more.

They will come, and they will find this. They will kill you and anything else that stands in their way.” He glared menacingly at Wolf.

Bear moved in so close that Wolf could smell the sweet of Bear’s breath, from berries and honey. “Leave this

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forest. Take what’s left of your litter and run to the other side of the Hard-Top River. Fend for yourself amongst those savages, you animal.”

Wolf snarled. “You would send me and my own out there to die?”

“Better you than all of us.”

With a final twisted growl, Wolf rose to all fours, stretching each leg separately before turning to leave. The hard pads of his paws slumped quietly away, but before disappearing into the dark of the forest, Wolf paused, turning to face the crowd once more.

“By the way,” Wolf flashed his yellow eyes, “she tasted delicious.”

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The Impact of Emotional and Verbal Abuse Brittany Muller - Digital

70

What Rupi Got Right Pat Hardy

It’s an attempt.

There’s one of you and a few of them.

You know, one of them followed me the other day on the same media you blocked me on.

I’m raising an army to defend my solitude.

I started to write this, and was alarmed to find I can’t help but feel like I sound startlingly close to Rupi Kaur right now.

You did always like her poetry.

You liked my songs, too, you used to.

I think.

They haven’t gone off your playlist anyway. and there it is again, that voice I’m speaking in.

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I suppose what Rupi got right is we all feel like victims.

There is this army I feel dangerously close to fucking just because I want to want to make you jealous.

I am who she writes against.

I surgically removed your heart,

and I hide it in the solitude my army defends.

I am a lonely flower beaten by the sun.

I am milk that tries to be honey,

honey.

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Between Two Wakes Kenyan Burnham

I closed the red gate. I looped the chain on either side to secure the loose and actuator-driven sides together.

A pneumatic piston floundered uselessly beside the loose gate, an indicator that the installation had been a challenge yet to be solved. Without the chain, the gate would remain open and the livestock would roam free. I pulled out a cigarette and my astronaut-disc-jockeying-arecord lighter: I was promised a cigarette before we left her parents’ ranch. I stood behind the car and looked back over the gate. Only a pitch-dark tree-silhouetted gravel road was visible. No indication that anyone but the Dexter cows lived here. We had just had dinner with my girlfriend’s folks and her sister’s family; a two-hour car ride lay ahead of us. Dinner had been tense. This was the second-to-last stop on our tour-de-folks. Rae and I had left our college town to strike out a new life together in Dallas.

To avoid paying rent another month, we had packed all our belongings and had them put in storage in Dallas. We then took a month-long vacation, staying at our parent’s places until Rae could start work. She was expected to start her new career tomorrow, and I was slated to finish out my semester through distance online classes in another two months. A gust pulled me from my thoughts, and I turned my attention North. Small beams of white light danced in the distant clouds. I thought maybe I would check the radar when I got into the car. I paced in front of the car, while Rae patiently waited in the driver seat. I was eager to get a move on but refusing to end my cigarette break early. My head had been pounding while we were at her

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Fiordland Mountains Andrew Adams - Photography

parent’s table. Rae’s parents’ didn’t like smokers, and they had only met me a few times. Our dinner conversation had been centered around my lack of job prospects anytime soon, whether my family were Republicans or Democrats, and whether I was expected to do the chores in our new apartment, since I would be a live-in boyfriend for the next year until graduation. I finished my cigarette and casually placed the butt in the rolling garbage can at the edge of the road. I looked both ways up and down the paved road. Nothing, just darkness. Anxiety painted an image of a speeding truck barreling down the road, destined to collide with me around some sharp corner. But the paranoia subsided, and it didn’t happen, the call-to-thevoid lay unanswered. I shake it off, open the car door and plot a course to Allen, Texas.

As we passed Corsicana, the halfway mark, rain begins to hit the car. Nothing special, just a drizzle. Rae sighs at the rain, but we push on. Only an hour left. I asked if we knew

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her sister’s address. She replied that she didn’t. Her sister and her family had left the ranch a half-hour before us. We were slated to stay with her and her family tonight and for the rest of the week. I sent Maple a message, asking for her address. I went to Spotify and searched for complementary music for rain. After assembling the most appropriate playlist for any rain-driving road trip, I checked my phone; we still hadn’t received a reply. I called Maple’s number, but I only received her voicemail. I borrow Rae’s phone to message her mom, she would know the address: Do you know Maple’s address?

A minute passed; the rain thickened, Estelle’s “American Boy” blared. My phone begins to ring. Maybe she’s calling me. A grey alert shook my phone: Tornado warning in effect for the Dallas area.

The wind, as if responding to a queue, pushed the car.

Rae steadied the car as it threatened to lose traction. I turned off the music and I told her the news. She fixes her eyes on the road and straightened her arms.

“Where is it?” she asks calmly.

It always frightened me when she was trying to be calm about something, that’s what she does when she’s worried.

I navigate to the weather app to see the radar. A storm cluster had smeared itself in a long sliver from the Gulf to Canada. My heart began to beat heavier. The storm was moving east, just about to hit Dallas and hitting the path behind us. A text appears from Rae’s mom, simply stating: Yes. “Your mom said yes,” I told Rae. “Yes?” she asks.

“Yeah, maybe she’s just looking for the address. I’ll give her a second.”

I study the storm and our directions to get a sense of where we are. A slight break appears between where we

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were and our destination. This break created a pocket; leaving the storm ahead and behind.

“Where is the tornado?” Rae asks impatiently.

“I don’t know. It could be ahead of us or behind us.”

The cars on our right move slowly, with emergency lights flashing. We overtake many of them going fortymiles-an hour.

“How can it be either?” Rae finally asks. “I’m not a West-Texan, I don’t know tornados, explain.”

Although irritated at the connotation that I would know a lot about tornados, because my hometown had been hit once by a tornado in ‘71, I did have an explanation on hand that I had read in a book about chaos theory. I took a deep breath and tried my best to relay what I knew.

“Imagine a boat moving on a lake.” I said.

“Okay”.

“At certain speeds, the boat produces a wave behind it, forming tiny whirlpools.”

“Yeah?” she asks, continuing her locked gaze on the road.

“Well, we are behind and in front of two very large boats. We are between their wakes.” I said. “Shit.”

She yells as the wind threatens to push us into a truck flying past us.

“Asshole. Doesn’t he know he has less traction than us?”

I said nothing, my heart had threatened to jump out from under my collarbone and I was trying to keep it contained. Despite the thundering noise against the car, the air seemed heavy and still.

“Maybe she didn’t get it.” I said, cutting the palpable lack of silence. I messaged her mom again.

“What is the address?” she replied instantly.

“Call Maple. Gramma has my phone.”

I realized she must be responding on her smart watch.

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I replied: We can’t get ahold of her and we’re in the middle of a storm.

A sensation goes down the back of my spine, it didn’t seem real, but it was. From my neck down to my legs I felt a slow wave of goosebumps; a static-ridden blanket chasing the contours of my spine. A sudden flash and a cracking sound hit right behind our car. Rae and I exchange brief looks and then we both stare forward.

“Did you?” she asks.

“Yeah, I felt it.”

I distracted myself with the radar.

“It must have been…” Rae said slowly.

I glanced out of the window at the dark streetlights that now haunted the highway.

“Yeah, I think it was right behind us.”

A message appeared from her mother saying one word: Hallward.

“What’s Hallward?” I asked Rae. “I don’t know, maybe it’s the street?”

We pass a sheared billboard. It stood like a vertical slice of bread snapping beneath its own weight. I plug “Hallward” into the navigation app. It shows a small street in the middle of Allen.

“Oh good, we’ve got something.”

I plotted our course.

Maple called us as we pulled onto Hallward street.

We confirm that we are safe. We pull into her driveway a minute later. Maple came running down the driveway in the rain. As soon as Rae got out of the driver side door, Maple gives her a big hug.

“Are you alright?” Maple asks.

“We’re fine, we made it.”

“That was crazy, the tornado was right in front of us.”

Rae and I exchange glances.

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“I think there was one behind us,” I said as I closed the passenger-side door.

Through Maple’s water soaked glasses I could see her eyes dot up to the heavens behind me and then back to me.

“Let’s get y’all inside,” Maple said hurriedly.

We set our soaked belongings in the front bedroom, exchanged our wet hugs, and said our goodnights. Rae needed to go to bed soon, she started her first day on the job early the next morning. The wind howled and beat against the front-bedroom windows. Rae was asleep and I sat for a moment staring at the ceilings digesting how crazy the end of this move had been. Rae had spent the better part of a semester working to pass the last requirement needed to meet this job offer. We had placed all hopes on her passing the exam. We had put our belongings in storage and gone on the road unsure whether we would be able to support ourselves when we got to Dallas. It had been a huge risk. I had left my comfortable full-time staff position at a university to become a full-time student, Rae had spent her whole life’s savings on the move, we were placing our hopes and dreams on Rae passing the exam.

This exam was the gateway to her dream job and dream life. This move was our next big step together, for a month we traveled in limbo awaiting the results, waiting to see if our dreams and our life together would be realized.

Anxiety had plagued my thoughts, I had feared the worst, and it was while we were staying at her parents’ place that Rae finally got the results. She had passed, and now, sleeping quietly next to me, she lay eight hours away from her dreams and about an inch too close to my left elbow. I shifted right to give her more space, I tried to be as gentle as possible so that I didn’t wake her. The room was hot, despite the fan moving. The pillows were shallow, and I was uneasy about the torrential noise outside. But as I lay

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there thinking about all the hurdles and crazy events that had led us here, together. I started to relax because I knew we were safe, and that opportunity was just on the other side of the night. After a while, I crashed under the heavy maelstrom of sleep. It seemed like I had just closed my eyes when out of the darkness of sleep, I’m woken by a frantic push. I open my eyes and turn to see Rae is huddled against the headboard staring at me with her phone bouncing light from those wide reflective eyes.

“They’ve issued a tornado warning here.”

As I pulled myself up, my eyes catch a glimpse of the fan: it’s still.

“We’ve lost power,” Rae says.

I throw on clothes and head to the living room. Rae’s sister is descending from upstairs carrying both of her kids. Both enraptured in sleep, unaware of the precipice of events from which we all stood. Rae’s brother-in-law stood shirtless by the pantry door checking his phone. He saw me and told me about the closet under the stairs, that is where we will go if it hits.

I walk back to our room to find Rae still on her phone. She looks up and fills me in on what she has learned. The tornado has touched South-West of us and is swinging North towards us. The Home Depot where I had dropped off our rental truck, weeks prior, had been completely destroyed. We had moved all of our belongings into the storage unit behind this same Home Depot. We were expected to move into our new apartment, right next to the storage unit, this coming weekend. My mind raced with the possibilities. I walked to the living room and stared out of the window. I watched the trees, to see how they moved. If more than the tops were moving, we were in trouble.

The grey that shadowed the sky was itching with activity, the trees were at times darker than the night itself. Their forms giggling with anticipation, swaying with fervor.

As I watched the torrential dance I thought about

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every possibility. We could be hit by a tornado. Our stuff could be hit by a tornado. Our apartment could be hit by a tornado. After everything we had faced together, after everything we had risked, we were now at risk of being swept up in a supercell or being homeless. I knew in my heart, that everything in our storage unit was just material belongings. I knew, if the apartments were hit, we’d just move in with family until we could find somewhere else. I knew there was no controlling fate, whatever the tornado would hit, it would hit. But for a moment my heart raced as I lost myself in the storm. A hand on my shoulder brought me back to the living room, to solid ground. Rae wrapped her arms around me, and I placed my arm over her shoulders.

“I want you to know…” she said.

“That everything we need is right here.” She looked up at me, I could see the reflection of her eyes as they restrained their own storm. I take a breath and let out a long exhale. I kissed her forehead and said: “I know.”

We stood together, holding our ground. We would await our fate, as we had done before, we would risk everything as a team. We sat that night, staring out at our future.

“Huh, traffic isn’t normally this slow here.” My dad said as we crept along the access road. My sleep-deprived hands pull my coffee cup from my face.

“I don’t have great reception here; I think the power is still down in the area.” I said.

I enlisted my dad, who lived in a nearby suburb, to pick me up the next morning so we could evaluate whether we were indeed moving this weekend. Rae and I, and Maple’s family had been spared by the storm, but Rae hadn’t been spared her first day of work, and none of us were without bags under our eyes. Although we were spared, we did not

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know the fate of our apartments, nor our belongings. We passed inch-by-inch by broken branches and mulching trailers getting free stock.

“Dad?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

I let another sip of coffee coat my throat.

“Last night… we were driving between the tornado that hit here and the one that hit Midlothian.” My dad kept his face still. I knew he was processing what I was implying.

The only sound was the sudden screech of the worn brakepads as we crawled forward.

“I love you,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m glad y’all are safe.” We pass a large building with black glass.

“Shit,” my dad says. “Isn’t that where Rae just started?”

I look at the building. The roof was missing, and the front face was missing all evidence of black windows.

“Yeah,” I said as I pulled out my phone and attempted to message her.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing they have multiple campuses.”

My dad added: “Yeah, but what a way to start.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I said.

I stared at the power lines that hung loose across the lawn. A homeless man sat under the overpass that traced its path between our car and the black glass building. For a moment, our eyes made contact.

“Yeah, I hope she’s okay.”

My phone displayed no service at the top. As we inched past the black building, I could see the sides of our apartment. We had moved to the closest apartments to Rae’s work so that she wouldn’t have to brave traffic every day. Apart from the third story window screens, the apartments looked just as they had been when we had toured the place a year prior. It had taken up until a

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month to get the paperwork signed for our unit. Our case had been so badly mishandled for almost a year, leading the property manager to fire our leasing consultant and personally handle our account. It was a relief that all the work we’d put into getting this townhome had not been put to waste by the maelstrom.

“Hey, your apartment is still standing,” my dad chimed.

“Yeah, it is. Rae will be relieved, maybe she saw it on her way to work this morning.”

Slowly, we got to the intersection. Rows of cars took turns cutting each other off as they frantically tried to cross the intersection. An improvised wooden stand, holding a printed stop sign, sat between cars in the middle of the four lanes.

“I bet some poor bastard had to put all these out at 4:00 AM,” my dad said.

We both chuckled. We spot our opportunity and work across the intersection with our wolf-pack of its-my-turnto-goers. We turn onto the street the storage unit is on and pass the devastated Home Depot.

“Holy…” my dad says.

The building was razed, fire trucks and construction vehicles crowded the shell that remained. Off to the side, a row of Penske trucks sat unharmed. I thought how lucky and strange, that the Penske truck I had dropped off, stood exactly where I’d left it. Behind the trucks, a single semi-truck lay on its side. I lean forward in my seat to get a glimpse up the road. The road was two one-way roads with, what was, a tree-occupied median in the center. A car came towards us going the wrong way. We pulled farther to the right to let them pass. On the other side of the median, entire trees, couch cushions embedded in their branches, blocked the road. On our right, we pass an old man hefting sheet metal into his small white truck.

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“Now there’s an idea; free metal and a public service.

That’s smart,” my dad quipped.

Opportunists and volunteers equally speckled the lawn of the destroyed businesses farther off to our right. They seemed not to notice each other but yet existed in the same temporal aftermath. We pulled into the cul-de-sac the storage place sat on. Half the main office lay strewn across the pavement. We pulled over and assessed the scene. At what used to be left of the main gate, a single employee stood vanguard with his arms crossed. The gate, and most of the fence around the border was mangled, floundering haphazardly on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac. We got out of the 2000 Honda Odyssey. My dad intercepts me in front of the van.

“Hey, no matter what… y’all will be fine.” I look up at him.

“Yeah, I know.”

I didn’t feel like it would be fine, but I knew what he meant. We approach the lone employee and he placed a hand up as if to bar my entrance into Hell.

“We can’t allow you on the property,” he says.

“Fair enough,” I said.

I turned away from him and I start to circle the property, making my way past half-fallen trees littering the side of the road. Couch cushions and shingles dotted the path. I checked my phone to see that my message had finally sent. Rae had responded, saying that her side of the campus wasn’t hit and that her training was boring. I was relieved but still distressed by the scene around me. My dad tried to keep pace as I worked my way up the steep road adjacent to the unit. I looked down every row, eyeing the damage. Half of the units stood exposed to the sky; others vomited their contents through their mangled garage doors. Our unit was in the back, right against a concrete wall with enough space between to allow trucks and

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vehicles to be parked behind it. We had payed ten more dollars for a temperature-controlled unit. As I peered over the concrete road that rose above the back of the storage place, I could see the perfectly preserved roof of our unit.

The tornado hadn’t even touched it. A wave of relief hit me. Rae and I had survived driving between two tornados, her new place of work being destroyed, and we hadn’t lost all of our belongings. No one involved with that night had been as fortunate as we had. “Guess that boat sheltered the back wall of your unit,” my dad offered as he reached where I stood. I looked back to the side of the unit. A big white boat sat on a trailer against the red-bricked wall of our unit. The boat stood triumphantly against the scene, its tiny American flag lying loose, but proud. The ripped blue sunshade was the only record that the boat had ever been caught in the middle of two wakes.

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Long Breath Anna Lovering

I lie on top of purple flowers.

Petals curled, tips up toward a sky— Summer was here. The fields weren’t bare— my thoughts were. Since the Fall, I was left with reading how many people had died, young and old.

A gimmick for parents this year, ‘Bulletproof Backpacks.’

The incidence of gunman violence— doesn’t stop. I look to the clouds, cotton gestures hang forward, stretched thin while birds filter through a circle forming eyes.

Within a sky full of blue weighing heavy, I imagine an eagle-shaped head whose eyes are staring down. I am frozen as my gaze outlines empty pockets left. A broken up cloud gestural of a Kachina doll, a warrior wrapping around a tri-colored airplane.

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Self Portrait Brittany Muller - Oil Painting

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Let Your Heroes Die Mackenzie Duke

My second-grade pride was on the line. The vow I made to myself would not be broken. I had spent all weekend with a crumpled-up piece of computer paper in my hand mumbling the words to myself over and over again. The first few lines were ingrained in my mind. “Four score and seven years ago…” No problem. It was the middle section that tripped me up. “Now we are engaged in a great Civil War.” This sentence was slippery and kept falling out of my head. The Civil War. A black and white issue with a clear right and wrong. My hero, Abraham Lincoln, was at the helm of the ship that ushered in freedom for the slaves, and, as my teacher mentioned in front of the entire class, help make it possible for interracial couples, like my parents, to legally get married. I was made into an example, but I didn’t mind. Memorizing this speech was my way to show respect… And get into Mrs. Anderson’s Gettysburg Address party. After reciting the entire speech to my teacher, I would be granted access into an exclusive club filled with nothing but seven-year-old over achievers and plenty of cupcakes to go around. For days I paced around my house trying to be as close to word-perfect as I could get. The speech stayed in my tight grasp the entire car ride to Terrie and Nae’s. Going to my great aunts’ house typically meant apple turnovers, swimming in the bright blue plastic above ground pool, and playing board games well past my bedtime. But not for me. I had a mission and no fun could be had until I could get every word out from memory. Luckily, Nae promised to help me while my brother, my cousin from my dad’s side of the family, and

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I took up residence in the guestroom. After a full day of running up to her asking her to be “on book” for me while I tried my best to emulate ole’ Honest Abe, my aunt Nae decided we needed to get out of the house for a bit. She did her best to wrangle the mess of biracial curls on top of my head before going out. Staying with my white great aunt was always coupled with promise that my hair would be a frizzy, matted nightmare. The perfect mix of my parents: my hair when styled correctly was bouncy, free, and beautiful.

But, without my mother’s trained hands and careful mix of products, this wasn’t the case. “Textured and unruly” Nae said she tried to run the brush through, not realizing that those words filled my stomach like rocks that weighed it down so much it hit my feet. Even at seven I sensed those words didn’t carry a positive connotation. I loved my curls but Nae made me feel like a chore, and I didn’t voice my dismay. I just stared at my script and mouthed the words as she continued to spray my head with the same spray bottle used to discipline the cats.

When we arrived at the park, I reminded Nae that we couldn’t be out for too long because I had to get back to memorizing. She reassured me that we would be fine and I ran off to catch up to my cousin, Robert. My head bounced up and down as I ran to meet him on the slide. We agreed to go down at the same time. On the count of three. “One… Two… Three!” As soon as we started down the spiral I heard someone scream at the two of us. Another kid from the top of the slide. A white kid. The word he used brought us both to a stop. Between the “N” and the hard “R” was so much hate and ignorance that neither me, nor my cousin had been exposed to. We, a biracial girl and a black boy in the single digits exited that slide hurt, confused, and forever changed. I had now been inducted into a club that wasn’t exclusive. An organization that made my father,

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grandparents, aunts and uncles into reluctant members.

One rooted in intolerance. My family hid their badges from my brother and me. Badges that rewarded them for growing a thicker skin that covered the raw wounds that come from pointed and poisonous words. For some reason I felt like I had to hide my new membership card too. My skin, still raw and stinging from the poison that coated my body and mind. I ran back to the bench where my aunt was and began to practice Lincoln’s famous speech with tears in my eyes. * * * The beard and mustache that attached to my face with an elastic band around my head. The oversized suit jacket, pants, and shirt. Getting the top hat was a battle. My mousy brown locks stood so far from my scalp, the hat didn’t meet the top of my skull. After half a pack of bobby pins, my mom finally got it to stay on. With suspenders and a chunky tie that hung from my neck, the look was complete. I could feel tweed rubbing against my skin, but I could not let my discomfort show on my face. I had a job to do.

Standing in front of my third-grade class, note cards in hand, my confidence was soaring. Passionate and ready to show my peers that my intellect was unmatched through straight up facts and solid evidence (all of which were backed up with specific examples from the book). It was time. As soon as I began to speak, my speech was halted by the sound of screeching fire alarms and flashing lights. My teacher ushered us all out following fire drill protocol and assured me that I could finish my book report presentation when we returned to the class. As I stood in front of my school watching the other kids file out to join my class on the sidewalk, I remembered that I was in full Abraham Lincoln regalia. I felt the embarrassment warm my cheeks

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and make little waves in my stomach. The visual aid for my book report, the one element that I was so proud of, now made me look like an idiot in a sea of other elementary school students. My mind began to second guess the entire idea to dress up like an old white man. When we re-entered the building after getting the all clear signal from the principal, I ran to the bathroom, and changed into my safe street clothes. I pulled out each bobby pin and removed the hat from my head, freeing my curls. The pink t-shirt and cut off shorts now protected from isolation. I needed to feel normal; like I wasn’t sticking out. I now felt I was assimilated and comfortable.

All of my life I tried to move into a distinct box. Black or white. Being biracial, my entire existence was in the gray. My costume was the first time in the short nine years of life that I made the decision to go against the grain.

Screw dioramas and poster boards. I would represent my historical biography by committing to the character and by dressing up as the president who I admired the most. But I didn’t commit. I got scared and ran back to the box that I crafted for myself. I did my best to display my presidential garb on a chair so that all of the hard work my mother put into this costume didn’t go completely unnoticed and began to recite the words on the note cards, sans Honest Abe get up. * * * I don’t think I had I felt joy to that magnitude before.

A full day of tours, museums and the official Presidential Library. I was beaming. Springfield. The summer-time heat drew the beads of sweat out of my skin. My bare forearm attempted to remove the moisture from my face and my nimble fingers quickly gathered the tufts of thick tightly wounded curls into a ponytail. I had to be presentable

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before entering the home of Lincoln. The summer before fifth grade had lived up to my expectations. At 10 years old I would be able to die knowing my dreams were fulfilled. We walked up to the house in the summer heat. The first thing that drew me in were the green shutters that framed each of the windows. So many windows. The yellow paint seemed to call out to me as I inched closer and closer to the front door. I felt a wave of emotion rush over me. I was somehow becoming a part of history. For the first time in my life I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be. Goosebumps graced my arm as we crossed the threshold and followed our guide through the house. It was like stepping into a time capsule. Each room blocked off with wooden banisters that kept everything out of reach. Everything off limits except for the stair’s hand railing which was the one thing that we were allowed to touch. I felt my hand slowly grace the smooth, slightly oily wood. Connected to my hero physically and emotionally. I instantly began to cry. *

*

*

Tap. Tap. Tap. My pencil mindlessly makes a beat on my five-subject spiral. Fourth period History of the Americas promised funny quips from my favorite teacher, but for some reason Mr. Reynolds couldn’t hold my attention on that day. Maybe it was the dreary weather that was blown in by the West Texas wind or maybe it was just my sixteenyear-old angst, but my mind was wandering to dreams of winning an Oscar and living in California. My life felt like it was at a standstill. With college on the horizon, I longed for the day that I would move away and finally grow into the person I knew I was meant to be. My mind dropped from the clouds when I heard Reynolds pose a question to the class. “Was Abraham Lincoln a racist?” My back

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straightened and my ears perked up. I was instantly shot backwards in time. My obsession with the 16th president faded away once I got to middle school and discovered boy bands, but for some reason I felt this overwhelming sense of loyalty coat my body. Of course he wasn’t! He freed the slaves! I stayed silent for the discussion among my classmates and just listened. The majority of the class eventually came to the conclusion that while Lincoln was pretty progressive for the time, he did not actually “like” black people. Some even said that he used freeing the slaves as a bargaining chip to get elected. As Reynolds changed slides on the PowerPoint everyone moved on, but I was stuck. It wasn’t that I disagreed with what was said. We had had similar conversations in class before and Reynolds had done a great job of getting us to stop believing everything our elementary school teachers had indoctrinated into our brains. But on that day, I was thrown back into the grey. I realized that I clung so heavily to Abe in the past because I was so confused. Racially ambiguous. It felt good to know that a white man waged a war to free black people. Both of my halves. But that wasn’t true. The bell rang and I wandered to my next class feeling numb and exposed. No speech or costume to hide behind. My straightened hair hid my curls because I got compliments on how “white” it looked. White was good right? I let my friends call me “hood” and “Beyoncé” because it was better to be a token than have no friends. My world toppled over. I was a puppet and my strings had all been cut. Hanging limply with no direction or guidance. The image I had made for myself crumbled around me. I, like Lincoln was a fraud.

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Urlexo Hands Marian Herring - Charcoal

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Lost Dog James Loss

Dylan had never lived alone before. It was miserable.

Silence had become a presence, a tangible aura clinging to his skin. Sometimes, when he returned from a day of work, he would stand outside the door, simply staring, envisioning himself on the other side. And the silence would ooze through the rubber seal, somehow stifling the sounds of the world around him: the passing cars, the distant barks of dogs, the wind and its whispers among the leaves. It would reach for him with its own sound—a kind of hollowness, like the breaths of an elderly person turning slower and slower—and it would pull him forward and inside, wrapping him like a thick blanket on a summer day.

Dylan had never planned to live alone; he’d always had plenty of friends, enjoyed social company like everyone else. But it had just sort of…happened. Now, hindsight being what it was, he knew he’d set himself up for solitude.

He was a year out of college, and all those friends had accepted internships in their latter semesters, while others had left town after graduation with well-crafted plans.

Dylan never really had a plan, wasn’t much concerned with starting a career, either; he believed once you accepted that job behind that desk, you were stuck there, just waiting for your 401K to turn ripe and fat so you could get the hell out. He’d never wanted to find himself stuck anywhere or waiting for anything. Instead, he’d gone ahead and got himself stuck in the worst way possible: alone, waiting for anything to happen.

So, as Dylan combed his hair in the mirror, standing in the bathroom of his silent, one-bedroom apartment,

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he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. He knew the apartment wasn’t the problem. The silence wasn’t the problem. He was the problem, living without direction, the days passing by in a colorless stupor. Any doctor would have called it depression, probably, but what would a few pills change? They would only blind him to the issue, trapping him in a deluded psychosis, telling him everything was just fine. He just needed a change.

Dylan exited his apartment, stepping into another stiflingly hot morning. He worked at the Valero on Main Street — making Pops proud! — which was close enough to walk. And he preferred the walk, perhaps his favorite part of every day; it was like a buffer between the disparaging life inside his apartment, and inside the gas station. He loved the smell of open air, its constantly changing array of scents. He observed all the houses like the colorful relics they were, each one unaware the 70’s had ended, proudly sporting their unique designs which abandoned all hope for a uniform neighborhood. And, of course, he enjoyed the escape of silence, exchanging pleasantries with each passerby.

“How’s it goin?”

“Doin great, how bout yourself?”

“Just fine, just fine.”

Most of these interactions came from the old retirees who seemed to flock to the small town in droves. They would be out watering their lawns before the heat became unbearable, or enjoying their newspaper and coffee on the porch, or watching their dog as they allowed it to explore the world outside the backyard. They seemed just as happy to share a few words with Dylan as he was with them, and, sometimes, it only made him worry for himself again, that no matter what change he was waiting for, he would always end up on the porch somewhere, excited for some simple small-talk.

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At the end of his route through the neighborhood, Dylan pressed the button on the crosswalk and waited for the glowing man to appear on the other side. Behind the man, the Valero squatted on the corner, with its flaking paint and sun-worn decals.

Something wet and cool brushed against his ankle.

Dylan jumped to the side, hitting his shoulder on the light post. There on the ground, tentatively sniffing his shoelaces, was a tiny black dog. Dylan looked up and around, searching for the jogger or family the dog must have escaped from, but the sidewalks were empty, rebounding the heat into shimmering waves. Dylan squatted down and offered a hand for the dog to sniff.

“Hey there, little guy. What’re you doing out here?”

The dog licked his hand just once, as if it required too much energy. It had no collar on, and Dylan guessed it couldn’t have been more than a few months old. He moved his hand under the dog’s chin and lifted its face; it looked like a lab, but its head was more stout, blocky like a pit-bull.

“Are you lost, little man?” Dylan paused. He lifted the dog’s front legs off the ground, then sat it back down.

“Sorry. Little girl, I meant.”

He scratched the dog just above the tail. She craned her body into the scratch, her lips stretched backward in a strangely human smile. Dylan set his hands on his knees, thinking. The dog plopped to her butt, her little tongue flopping out from her mouth. He looked across the street and saw the flashing countdown; he’d almost missed a whole signal. He could make it if he ran right now, but the dog might follow him. And what if something distracted it while it was in the street? What if it stopped under the light and a car came roaring up the street, the driver on the phone? Dylan snatched the dog up and held her against his chest, like one of those cars had, in fact, almost hit her.

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He stroked her tiny head as he turned a full circle, again looking for anyone who seemed to be missing something—a very important something. There was no one.

Dylan turned and headed back the way he came. He stopped at each house with someone outside, asking if they knew this dog, if they might know who it belonged to. He received the same shoulder shrugs and head shakes until he hit the end of the street. His apartment complex was visible down the right side of the intersection. He looked at the short building, then looked down at the dog.

“You need a break from the heat?” he asked the dog.

She looked up at him with brown eyes, her ears popping up as if she had just discovered she could understand him.

Dylan smiled and scratched behind her ear.

“Yeah. Darrell won’t mind. Let’s go.”

The dog seemed content to lay in the cradle of Dylan’s arms, her muzzle propped in the crook of his elbow. He wondered how far she’d come, where exactly it was she came from. He knew people dumped puppies all the time — whole boxes full of them — but it didn’t matter where she came from; she had no collar, she was clearly worn and exhausted, and he had found her. He shifted the dog to one hand, took out his keys, and opened his apartment.

He set the dog down on the carpet, and she just stood there. Her tail stayed still as she stared forward, maybe observing this otherworldly place, but Dylan thought she was just plain fatigued. He went to the sink to give her some water. After he set the bowl down on the kitchen floor, he carried her over and put her in front of it. She sniffed, sniffed some more, then allowed herself two little licks: schlip, schlip. Back to standing still. Dylan frowned, worried there might be something wrong with her. He pulled out his phone and called Darrell at the station.

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“Hey. Yeah, it’s me. Hey, I’m gonna need to take the day off.” Dylan wandered away from the kitchen as he spoke, fiddling with random objects.

“You finally get a girl in that place of yours?”

“Something like that.”

“Ay, if this chick got a friend send her my way!”

“Get back to work, you sleaze.”

He hung up the phone, realizing he’d mindlessly made his way into the living room. He heard no claws on the kitchen tile, no schlip, schlips. Maybe she was sick with something— “Nooo!”

The dog was squatted down in the kitchen, focused.

Dylan didn’t see any mess yet, but he jumped forward and snatched her off the ground, holding her away from his body as he ran for the door. He put her down in the grass on the side of the building and gave her a quick scratch.

“Okay, do your thing.”

She stared up at him, somewhat offended, he thought.

“That’s my house, dude. You can’t be stinking it up like that. This is where you do your business. Go on.”

She kept staring.

“What? Do I need to turn around or something?” Dylan sighed and picked her up again. “I didn’t mean to scare you. We’ll get it figured out, right? Yeah, you’re a good girl.

Now let’s see if you’re a brave girl.”

Dylan took the dog back inside, holding her in his arm as he searched for the closest veterinarian’s office. Ten minutes later, after a couple of calls to find the shortest wait-time, he was driving with the dog in his passenger’s seat, her whole body swaying with the motion of the car.

The entire vet’s office came to a halt as Dylan came through the door, each technician and doctor seemingly obligated to come meet “the little baby,” “this sweet thing,”

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or “that wittle face.” Once the introductions ended, the receptionist handed Dylan a clipboard with paperwork.

The first question: Patient’s Name. Dylan frowned and looked down at the dog.

“You got a name?”

She didn’t look up at him – she was too busy exploring the many new scents with her nose.

“Didn’t think so.” He tapped his pen on the edge of the clipboard for nearly ten minutes, rejecting every name he thought of.

Josie.

The name flew from the depths of his mind, springing up with such force it scattered the other potential names he was hanging onto. Josie. He looked down at the dog—at Josie the dog.

“Josie?”

She looked up at him. His heart fluttered. He smiled down at her, giving her a gentle shake.

“Are you Josie?”

She tilted her head, as if she knew it was supposed to be her name. He smiled and filled out the rest of the paperwork, half his mind exploring a strange realm of hypothetical impossibilities. Maybe she had sought him out under her own power. A dog’s senses were tuned to a different frequency than a human’s, communicating with each other and the world around them in a secret language. And she had just appeared at his feet, without a clue of where she came from, like she had jumped through a tear in the fabric of space as she followed some urgent instinct. Crazy. You’re being crazy.

But really, was it that crazy to believe in destiny? He believed fate had brought him to a life of solitude and silence, that there was never a way he could have avoided it, even if he knew it was coming for him. How long had he been looking for a change? And here she was, out of nowhere.

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After the name and the paperwork, the vet looked over Josie and assured Dylan she was healthy, after some bloodwork and the proper vaccinations. Then, with a proof-of-vaccination and a reminder for the next round of shots in his hand, Dylan drove Josie to Petco, where he spent nearly an hour shopping—only because every other shopper who passed him had to stop and pet Josie and ask the same sets of questions. Even the other dogs in the store couldn’t help but drag their owners over for a sniff.

In between all these introductions, Dylan filled his cart with a circular bed, some blankets, a pack of tennis balls, a rope toy, a deer antler (strange, he thought, but Josie seemed particularly interested, nearly wriggling out of his arms as they passed), jerky treats, biscuit treats, a crate, food and water dishes, a pink collar and leash, and a bag of food (after much research on his phone). Then it was back home to get his new roommate moved in.

Before he went inside, Dylan set Josie down in the same spot as earlier, hoping she would go to the bathroom.

She took a squat there, with that oddly focused look on her face. Dylan picked her up when she had finished and scratched her all over, whispering to his good girl. He went about arranging Josie’s things in his apartment. When he scattered her toys over the living room, she went straight for the deer antler and carried it to her bed like she’d done it a thousand times already. Like it was routine. Dylan sat on the couch and watched her lick and chew the antler, captivated. She laid her head down, her eyes gradually shutting on themselves, and Dylan fell asleep too.

He awoke to find Josie tucked against his side, her warm breath on his shirt, and, after a quick inspection, not one accident anywhere in the apartment. Dylan praised Josie like the miracle she was, rubbing her head and scratching her butt. It had grown dark outside, so he

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filled the food dish and watched as Josie eagerly cleaned the whole thing. He picked her up and brought her to the spot outside, where she promptly took care of business.

Dylan praised her once more, taking her inside for some treats and playtime. He waggled the rope toy in her face, which caused her to topple on her side as she jumped for it.

Dylan laughed, feeling bad, and let her take it in her jaws.

He growled playfully and tugged at the toy, receiving some vigilant tugs in response. When his eyes grew heavy again, and Josie had settled onto her circular bed, Dylan picked her up and placed her in her crate, drawing a blanket over the top for a cozy feel.

She didn’t wake up once during the night. Dylan’s alarm went off in the morning, and he awoke wondering if the whole day had been a dream. He looked over the edge of his bed and saw the crate. He lifted the blanket up and there she was, curled into a compact ball, sleeping quietly.

Dylan was convinced the perfect dog had found him— and she had found him.

Dylan took Josie out to the grass, where she quickly did her business.

“Who’s a good girl? Is it you? Yes. Yes, it is.”

Then he contemplated another day off. At some point he would have to introduce her to his true schedule, that he couldn’t perpetually exist with her. The thought made him sad, but he had to keep paying the bills—for her. He wished he could explain this to her, verbally articulate what was happening and why, but she would learn in her own way.

Besides, he was a just a short walk away, and surely Darrell wouldn’t mind him taking a few trips back to check on her every now and then. And, eventually, if she proved herself to be a very, very good girl, she might even get to come with him to the station; it’s not like Darrell would have any protest over it. Hell, it might even bring them more business.

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“The Valero with the cute dog, have you ever been? Oh you have to see her!”

Dylan smiled and brought Josie inside. He filled her dish, watched her eat, then went back out for another bathroom break. Inside again, he stood in the middle of his living room with his hands on his hips, watching Josie sniff around. He should go to work — he knew he should — and she had to learn at some point. Dylan sighed heavily and picked her up, placing her in the crate. He squatted down in front of the door and tried his best to explain where he was going and why he had to go, not caring that she couldn’t understand a single word of it; he was doing it for himself more than anything. He dropped her antler into the crate, pulled the blanket down over the top, and went out the front door.

On the walk to work, he kept looking over his shoulder, as if Josie could find a way to open her crate and the front door and come chasing after him. He hoped she was comfortable, that the antler was keeping her busy. He would come back around lunchtime, he told himself, to let her go to the bathroom and have some treats. No big deal.

He came to the crosswalk and pressed the button, waiting for the glowing man on the other side. There was a paper taped to the light post, facing away from Dylan, but he could tell it was one of those “Lost Dog” postings.

It made him think of Josie, what he would ever do if he lost her—even though he’d only spent a day with her. He could at least take a picture of the paper, save it just in case he happened upon the lost dog. After all, he would tear apart this whole town if he ever lost— Josie!

There she was, her blocky head and brown eyes staring out at him from the paper. Dylan stared at the paper long enough for the glowing man to turn to blinking numbers,

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then into another red hand. He didn’t know why he’d never considered this possibility; he’d only had her for one day— almost exactly twenty-four hours, when she’d snuck her way up to his shoelaces in this exact spot, born from nothing to answer his troubles. He looked down at the ground, as if she might find him once again, then back up to the paper.

Lost Dog If found please call 863-9377 Dylan turned and ran down the street, back to his apartment. His lungs were tight and his hair lined with sweat as he burst through the front door, fearing these strangers had found a way into his apartment to take their “Lost Dog” back. But they’d lost her. They had made her a lost dog. And who had found her? Dylan. He’d saved her.

Why should these people deserve to have her back? They’d clearly proven their incompetence; they couldn’t even put a collar on her.

He went to his bedroom and let Josie from her crate.

She came bounding out, filled with a new energy. She spun in two tight circles, then dropped her feet and sped into the living room. Dylan followed, his mind a frenzied mess, as Josie did laps around the living room, stopping to pounce at a tennis ball or jump on her bed. She had found him, he thought. She had found him. She wasn’t lost; she had known exactly where she was going the whole time, to find someone who would give her the attention and care she needed. Better yet, that which she deserved. Dylan watched Josie entertaining herself, his thoughts spinning, long enough for Darrell to call him.

“Don’t tell me that one night stand turned into a two nighter.”

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“Darrell, for God’s sake. It’s not a good time, okay?”

“Damn. Relax, my guy. You coming in at all or what?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Cool, cool. Take it easy, ight?”

“Thanks, man. Sorry.”

He hung up the phone, leaning his forehead into the screen, grasping its edges with white knuckles. Because he knew what came next. He’d known as soon as he saw the poster on the light post; that’s why he ran back home so fast, as if he could escape the poster’s cry for help. But no distance could change what he had to do, what he owed Josie. She wasn’t even Josie, was she? And she had never found him; his sad state of desperation had only convinced himself of as much. There was no portal spitting out puppies to those who sat in their apartments and wallowed in silence. The universe didn’t owe him any such reprieve from himself.

And there was someone out there, just as desperate as him, but only because they wanted their dog back. The dog he had. He had wondered, in his first, unknowing glance at the poster, what he would do if Josie ever got away from him, if he ever had to post the “lost dog” signs. There was no end to the list, so he knew exactly what he had to do.

“Hello?” came the stranger’s voice on his phone: a woman with a Hispanic slight to her tone.

“Hi.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry…uh, hello. My name is Dylan, and I saw your posters on the street. About the dog.”

“Oh goodness did you see you her!”

Dylan pursed his lips, watching Josie carry her antler out of the bedroom and into the living room.

“Better,” he said. “I have her.”

He listened to the many thanks from the woman, feeling only slightly better at her immense amount of gratitude, then jotted down her address on a napkin. He

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hung up the phone, a giant, black crater sitting in his stomach. After what felt like an hour, Dylan picked up Josie and took her out the front door, if only because he didn’t want the woman to call him back, to ask him if he was on the way.

Yes, I’m coming. Isn’t it enough that I found your damn dog for you?!

But she didn’t call. Dylan was driving with Josie in his passenger’s seat. He followed his phone’s GPS to the house and parked on the curb. Then sat there.

He could drive off right now. Block the number. Take Josie to the place where she would never be lost again.

He opened his door and stepped out, spurred forward by some obligation to “do the right thing,” like everyone always preached. But who was this right for? Certainly not himself. Probably not even Josie, seeing as these people had lost her so easily. How long until she wriggled away from them again, down the street and into the intersection, where the car came roaring up the street with the driver on their phone? Nevertheless, he was taking Josie from her seat, shutting the door behind him, and walking up to the porch.

He barely finished knocking before the door swung inward.

“Oh, Poquita!” The woman reached for Josie—or “Poquita,” he guessed.

No: she would always be Josie to him. Dylan bit down on his own tongue, forcing himself to release his hold.

The woman brought Josie to her face, looking her over.

Satisfied, she looked up at Dylan with a glowing smile.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. She dug her way out of the backyard before I even knew what happened.”

Why would you leave her in the backyard by herself?

Dylan thought.

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He could still do it. Snatch her right back and jump in his car and disappear forever, just the two of them. In a proper environment. His hands twitched at his sides.

A disturbing bitterness trickled down, filling that black crater inside him.

A little girl came flying from the depths of the house, thick curls of brown hair bouncing, and almost knocked the woman over.

“Poquita!” she jumped with her hands outstretched, bouncing and bouncing for Josie.

“Gentle,” the woman said, bending to pass Josie over.

The little girl gathered Josie in her arms, without even a glance to Dylan, then disappeared into the house. Gone.

Dylan felt himself lean forward, as if he could run into the house and reclaim his dog.

“Please,” the woman said, “let us do something for you. Are you hungry? Or perhaps some cash?”

Dylan heard the way she held onto that last word — “cash” — like she knew it was the proper thing to offer but also knew she shouldn’t; it was a small town for a reason, after all. Dylan shook his head.

“No, it’s okay. Just…glad I could help.” As he heard the little girl squeal with delight from inside, he knew he meant it. No matter what else he felt.

“No, no, please,” the woman said. “You don’t know how much this means.”

Oh yes I do, he wanted to say. “It’s really okay. In fact, I need to get to work.”

The woman smiled sadly, as if disappointed in herself.

“God bless you, sir. I promise she’s in good hands.”

He turned to leave, then stopped, feeling the lump in his back pocket. “Here. She seems to really like this.” He handed the antler over to the woman.

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She gazed down at the antler like he’d just given her gold. “God bless you.”

Dylan smiled and nodded once, unable to say anything else for fear of crying right there on the porch. He flashed a wave as he went down the porch and into his car. As he started the car and turned his wheels to pull away, he took once last glance at the house, at what remained of his Josie.

And there she was, slumped in the little girl’s arms. The little girl waved to him, bouncing on her toes with all the happiness a kid should have. Dylan waved back and smiled softly, then pulled away — forced himself to pull away.

He drove back to his apartment, where Josie’s bed and crate and toys were waiting for him — maybe even waiting for another dog, if he could stomach it. He observed the apartment he’d hated so much and heard none of its silence, only the cars outside and the distant barking of dogs. Perhaps Josie had searched for him, he thought, if only to teach him some kind of lesson, a lesson he was sure he’d figure out later. Once the pain went away.

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Needle Felted Birds Marian Herring - Needle Felted with Wool

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Wicked Creature’s Leap Howard Park

When I have thought myself to be Adam, Companion was nonexistent, “in spite.”

Learning how to survive without invite.

Why, dear “Cursed, cursed creator,” why did you Conjure the elixir of life, uncaged?

Loose broken celestial spirit raged.

Wander not too far into the dark night.

“Concede thy sins,” for you have betrayed me.

Lamenting your creature—caged and unfree.

Was it not rage for little William?

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“Challenge me?” Punish yourself with Clerval.

Let us not place faults over Lavenza.

Were you upset with your cursed creation?

“Curses!” The injustice of man has no bounds— Leer, even Satan’s got companion hounds.

Watchful Malignant Devil. “What am I?” Creeping in desolation, bound towards Lonesome life, traveling north and onward.

Waves of the north shall tell my hymns through time.

Constantly stretched, eons and ages hence.

“Listen forsaken angel” the sixth sense.

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Piha Beach Sunset Andrew Adams - Photography

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Lucky Charm Nicolas Rivera

Orange rays of dying sunlight spilled through the evening sky as my rustic, single-cab pickup and I barrel down the county highway that leads directly to my house.

Grass clippings and fallen, spring buds swirl from the back of my trailer in a dancing array of pollen so dense that my ass appears to be on fire. Normally, I empty my mulch bags before leaving a job, but considering that the deadline for my college application is at ten o’clock tonight, and the digital, green numbers on my dashboard display reads 8:45 PM, grass clippings are the least of my worries. I don’t lack much to finish the application. In fact, I only need one short essay about what inspired me to apply for college.

I’ve been racking my brain for the right answer. So far, I’ve come up with squat, but if I don’t submit an essay tonight, I won’t be attending college in the fall.

I squeal into my driveway around 9:03 PM, nearly taking out my mailbox in the process. I leap out of my pickup and eat a mouthful of white dust. No one is home. I smile to myself because this means I get all the bandwidth I need. Although Amá and I pay top dollar for the internet out here in the boonies, I suspect even Homeless Dave, who borrows Wi-Fi from the McDonald’s on the edge of town, pulls more bandwidth than we do. I think he has a podcast, so he needs a beefy connection.

I bust through the front door, but I am careful not to track in any grass clippings. I head immediately for the laundry room where I throw my work clothes into the heaping pile that is my laundry basket. Something smells like shit. Could be me. Dirt shades my brown skin a tone

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darker. But there’s just no time for a shower. I plop down in the computer chair wearing only my boxer briefs and swivel around to face the archaic Dell monitor. A message pops up on the right-hand corner of the screen when I wiggle the mouse, probably to notify me that the computer needs an oil change. Immediately, I notice the internet–or lack thereof.

“Fuuuuuuckkkk…”

I clench the mouse in frustration while simultaneously tapping the faded center of the space bar as if this will bring back the internet. A little paper clip helper suggests a diagnostic that I already know won’t work, but I run it anyway. The process takes a few minutes, so I use this time to consider my options.

Option One: Fuck college. Fuck this essay. A piece of paper with my name on it doesn’t make me who I want to be. I have a job now, which is the point of going to college, so why go at all?

Option Two: I hate lawn mowers. Do I really want to mow lawns for the rest of life? Find some internet– maybe go share with Homeless Dave–and finish the damn application.

Option Three: You’re out of options. See above choices.

The cartoon paperclip reappears on the screen and pulls me out of my head. Just as I expected. No internet.

With a sigh, I push away from the monitor, the carpet tugging at the small, black wheels of the office chair. I pace around the room with my hands behind my head.

Suddenly, I remember the public library offers free use of its computers until 10 PM. I glance at my watch. The dusty screen reads 9:13. The drive into town takes about twenty minutes, but I can make it in fifteen. 9:30-ish. Thirty minutes to write this essay. Game on.

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In less than two minutes, I dress, unhook my trailer, and roar out of my driveway like a crackhead bat out of hell. The road back into town is usually quiet, so I push my right foot through the floorboard.

What inspired me to apply to college? Money. Next question. I grip the wheel nervously as my mind begins to wander. I tend to let my thoughts run away with me when I’m stressed out. It’s a little inconvenient sometimes; I’m not going to lie. Especially at places like restaurants, where nosey waiters sneak up on me, asking all kinds of questions like what I want to drink, or what appetizer sounds good.

Like dude, there’s a million options, and I’ve been staring blankly at this menu for fourteen minutes. I’ll just order what I usually get.

A few seconds and a million thoughts later, my eyes land on the little rubber man with a painted Miami Heat logo on his torso swinging absently from my rear-view mirror. He’s a removable flash drive that I found in a hotel years ago. I used to think he was a good luck charm, but I’ve since grown up and realized there’s only hard work in this world. Still, a little luck would be nice right now. My thoughts drift back to the summer I found the little rubber man, and for the rest of the drive–I shouldn’t call it a drive, it feels more like a death race–I reminisce on the summer that changed my life forever. *

*

*

The summer of my ninth year of life had just begun, and it was time to return to work. Since my family couldn’t afford to hire a baby-sitter in the summertime, my abuelita was forced to take me to work with her every day until school started back up in the fall. Abuelita worked for a hotel chain called Hacienda Heights where she changed, washed, and replaced dirty sheets and towels with linens

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smelling of crisp lavender. Abuelita worked at the Heights for such a long time that she basically had seniority over everyone, including the new owners. Everyone relied on her advice for everything – from reliable repairman to getting blood stains out of the hotel towels. (She claimed she only used baking soda, but I knew where she kept her secret stash of Oxyclean).

My abuelita was the hardest working person I’ve ever known, aside from my abuelo, who was just as tenacious as his spouse. Abuelo worked for an auto repair shop as a mechanic–the best mechanic–for many years. Just like my abuelita, he earned his seniority there, but he worked for salary, which meant he never made any serious money.

Both of my abuelos paved their way in this world by keeping their heads down, their backs straight, and their hands always busy. I respected that, even as a child.

My mamá worked a lot too, so even though we all lived under the same roof, I rarely spent any time with her.

Amá worked as a butcher at a large carniceria. She mostly worked the graveyard shift – I found out later in life that the graveyard shift just means the nightshift and not when the butchers bury the bodies–which only added to our dissonance. When I did get to see Amá, I remember feeling like she only brought up the things I was doing wrong, like, “you’re getting too fat,” or “don’t make your abuelos late to work,” or “you shit your pants.” One time. I crapped my pants one time while wrestling with my primos, but will I ever live it down? No. It wasn’t even a lot, but I pushed it a little too hard and just a little slipped out, okay? Anyways, I felt like I always had something to prove to her. The only people I didn’t feel obligated to prove anything to were my abuelos. I would have done anything for them.

So, June began, and I once again fell into the routine of waking up at 5 AM to ride in the back of mis abuelos’

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manila-shaded, extended cab pickup all the way into town.

For some unexplainable reason, this summer felt different to me. No longer did my abuelos have to drag me from my bed, to the breakfast table, and to the truck like years before. In fact, there were some mornings that I would beat my abuelos to the kitchen, which made them smile with approval. Not only that, I could now make up an entire hotel room on my own, no instructions necessary. That included linens, towels, dusting, trash duty, and windows, which no longer streaked when I cleaned them.

Of course, I wasn’t allowed to clean on my own, so Abuelita and I would work on opposite sides of the same room. As fast as I grew, the old lady was faster still. Her speed baffled me. She was like Yoda in that they were both small and slightly hunched-over, but they were masters of their trade. I tried day in and day out to finish before her, but I never managed to beat her to the punch. One day in the midst of June, Abuelita noticed my eagerness to finish before her. I was afraid she was going to tell me to slow down or do it all over, but rather than making me feel small, to my surprise, she made a bet with me instead.

“Mijo, I have been doing this for years. You’re never going to beat me, but if you do,” her eyes narrowed as mischief lined her face, “I’ll buy you a toy. No price limit, but nothing crazy like those video games you’re always asking for. A toy y nada más.”

Game on. I convinced myself that up until that moment, I’d been holding back, anxiously awaiting the opportunity to release my final form. With a Power Ranger on the line, I had to be fast. I had to be faster than fast; I had to be a master. I worked my hardest for the rest of the week, but not once did I outpace the old lady. Watching her work felt like watching her dance to a jive she’d done a million times before. The wrinkled fat beneath her triceps kept tempo

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while her muscled forearms twisted and twirled the sheets through the air like a trapeze acrobat. I couldn’t beat her, and she knew it.

“What’s wrong with Junior?” Abuelo asked as I climbed into the back seat of our small, extended cab pickup. It was Friday afternoon, and I didn’t even come close to beating her time all week.

“Oh, he’s just mad about his toy,” said Abuelita, rolling her eyes as she slammed the heavy door shut.

“Did he lose something? Junior, we told you not to bring anything with you that could get lost or stolen.”

I kept my eyes glued to the floor.

“No, no, no. We made a bet that if he could finish his half of the room before me, I would buy him a toy.”

Abuelita flipped down the vanity to inspect her makeup and simultaneously look my way. “The bet isn’t over, you know. It still applies next week, but I should have said no pouting, or you lose. Sore losers lose twice.”

Abuelo raised his eyebrows. “Did he even get close?”

“Close, but no cigar. I don’t smoke anyway.”

Abuelo turned the ignition and sat for a moment while the truck idled down. He always waited for a vehicle to idle down. It’s like stretching for the car, he’d say. Finally, Abue lo set the truck into gear, and we rumbled out of the park ing lot. Then, instead of turning left to go home, Abuelo turned right towards downtown. My heart began to race as my hopes lifted, but I kept my head down. We passed under green light after green light until finally, we came to a halt at the last turn before the happiest place on Earth. Walmart.

My legs trembled with anticipation, but I refused to get my hopes up too high. Every member of my little quartet family worked so hard, not because they wanted to, but because they had to. Money was always scarce, so when it came down to toilet paper for the family or a toy for Junior….

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Well. As Amá always said, “You can’t wipe your ass with toys.”

Even as I held the packaged blue ranger in my hands, I couldn’t believe it.

“You know,” my abuela started as she watched me mindfully in the vanity, “it was kind of nice to have such an eager helper. I hope you don’t lose that fire Monday morning.”

I shook my head violently. “I still have to beat you. A bet is a bet. I just got paid first. ” I settled back into my seat, clutching my new Blue Ranger tightly to my chest.

Once we got home, despite my hardest pleas, my abuelos made me eat, shower, and pray before I could even breathe on the package. Quickly, I blasted fideo from the night before in the microwave, chewed through its hot exterior to the frozen interior, scrubbed myself from head to toe, then ended my tribulation with thirty seconds on my knees before my lord.

It was time.

Instead of tearing through the seemingly indestructible packaging like I so desperately wanted to do, I carefully took a pair of scissors to the translucent tape that welded the package shut. I remember trembling, but I managed to undo the packaging without so much as chipping the ink of the Power Ranger’s logo, stamped smack-dab in the middle of the package. For the next few hours, our small home echoed with KEE-YAH’s and POW’s and WOOOAAAHHH’s as I ran my Blue Ranger up and down the smudged walls of our living room.

Admittedly, I was a little slower cleaning rooms the next day, but it was Saturday, a half day. Half days weren’t included in our bet. Plus, I had to tune into this week’s Rangers episode to get some ideas for my own Ranger adventures. An hour before noon was when she called.

The front desk summoned Abuelita to the lobby where my

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angry mamá could be heard shouting frantically through the receiver. I always thought she talked loud on the phone. Although I couldn’t actually make out her words, Amá only called here in the daytime when she was mad at me. Abuelita tried to calm her down with a few excuses, but I’d come to learn that sometimes, Amá just couldn’t be reasoned with.

“Mija, it’s just a toy. Don’t worry about it. It was on sale.” Abuelita held the phone away from her ear, cringing at the muffled shouts that radiated from the receiver. She looked at me, then offered the phone. “She wants to tell you something.”

Slowly, I grabbed the phone from her hands. “He...Hello?”

“Boy. You know better than that. What’s the matter with you?”

I wrapped the curly, white phone cord around my wrist several times as she spoke, nay, yelled at me through the phone.

“I’ve been really good here. I didn’t beg them for the toy… we made a bet.”

“Yeah, a bet you couldn’t even finish. You think shit just comes to you for trying? You have to work your ass off to earn something, and even then, life is unfair. It’ll rip things away regardless of how hard you worked. I’m taking back the toy. Your abuela said it was on sale. If I found out they paid a whole bunch of money for a toy you don’t need, you’re going to get it.”

Click. The line went dead. Maybe if my mamá had seen how hard I cried after she hung up, she wouldn’t have taken the toy back. Maybe if I had seen how hard she’d cried when she got home to find a toy that she couldn’t afford to buy me herself, I would have understood why I couldn’t keep it. But we were both blind that day. I stayed silent through the weekend, and I only spoke when spoken to. I couldn’t even look

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my mamá in the eyes without tears swelling to blur my vision away. She didn’t seem to notice.

The weekend passed, and my vow of silence fell away by midday on Monday. The week already felt slower, but this time, it wasn’t my fault. All morning long, Abuelita hobbled along, leaving maldiciónes and colorful words in every room we cleaned. Every now and again, her withered back muscles cramp up for a couple of days, leaving her slouched over and growling in unimaginable pain. Her back pains followed her home, and the next day, she and Abuelo argued about whether or not she should stay home.

“You’re just going to make it worse. Call Jerrod. You don’t owe that little snotnose anything, but he does owe you your personal days.”

“No, no, no,” protested the hunched-over form of Abuelita. “I’m saving those days para vacaciones. Besides, I have Junior to help me. He’s almost as good as me. Almost.”

They argued the whole way into town, but I’ve come to learn there is just no arguing with a woman who has made up her mind. I felt both relieved and anxious that Abuelita trusted me this much, so I decided before walking into the Hacienda that I would work harder that day than I’d ever worked in my life. We worked side by side for the morning hours, but the higher the sun rose, the more hunched over she became until eventually, Abuelita collapsed on a freshly made bed.

“Ayy, your abuelo was right. I should have stayed home,” she sighed, fanning her clammy forehead.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at her swollen ankles that peeked out over the tops of her weathered Sketchers. If only I could do more.

“Why don’t you let me do a couple of rooms alone while you rest?”

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She laughed aloud before wincing in pain. “I can’t do that. That’s against the law I think, and what if the manager comes up here and finds you working all alone?”

“Abuela, no one has come to check on you since the nineties. They don’t even care that you bring me to work, so it will be fine. Please. Just let me do a couple of rooms while you take some pastillas for the pain, then come catch up with me later.”

Abuela laid on the pillowtop mattress in silence for a few moments, like she was considering the offer. “If I agree, you would only do the rooms right next to this one, yes?”

“Yes.” “And you’ll come get me when you’re done so I can inspect the good work?”

“Yes.” She sighed. With a heaving groan, she sat up and leaned against the nightstand to grab the master keycard.

She looked me straight in the eyes as she handed me the key. “If you lose this, you walk home. Understand?”

“Yes.” Within minutes, I was next door, alone in the room with yellow rubber gloves up to my elbows and a grin the size of Tejas. I was actually helping. I cleaned every inch of that first room with utmost tenacity. No streaks. No wrinkles.

No mistakes. I cleaned like my life depended on it, like I had something to prove. I had half a mind to call Amá and stick my tongue out at her over the phone, but knowing her, she’d reach a hand through the telephone wire and pull my tongue until it stretched so far that it snapped back like an accordion, Tom and Jerry style.

The second room was a bit of a mess. Empty wine bottles, mixers, and spirits littered the floor along with dozens of spreadsheets thrown lazily around, but not in, the trash can. With my yellow, latex hands, I grabbed a few

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of the spreadsheets and tried to make heads or tails of the charts and figures printed on the crumpled pages. I had no idea what expenditure meant, or why these papers were covered in glitter, but I trashed them and continued with my work. Once again, I checked my list and cleaned it all twice. I even had to whip out the vacuum for the mess of crumbs this swine-of-a-hotel-guest left behind.

Suddenly, the vacuum began to choke and sputter like me the time I swallowed a moth. I quickly shut down the vacuum and began to inspect the rollers beneath the Bissel logo. I rolled the hair-covered rolling pin backwards a couple of times until I found the source of the problem.

A little rubber headless man with the Miami Heat logo pooped out of the Bissel head and onto the floor. After further inspection, I had no idea what this toy was and why it was there, so I shrugged and continued cleaning, placing the rubber man in my pocket as I did so. My abuela came to inspect a few minutes later and found me wiping away the last of the mirror streaks in an otherwise completely cleaned room. We finished the rest of the day working side by side, and I couldn’t help but noticing how much better my abuela felt. This, in turn, made me feel good. My smile lasted the rest of the day until I walked out of the Hacienda at the end of the day to find Amá’s station wagon parked next to my abuelos’ pickup.

My shoulders sagged, and I threw my hands in my pockets as I trudged grudgingly beside my abuela towards our vehicles. The little man’s rubber foot tickled my balled knuckles, and I gripped him tightly for assurance. As soon as my mamá saw me, her eyes softened.

“I heard you were quite the little trabajador today,” she said.

I shrugged my response; my eyes locked on the pavement.

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“Wanna go to a movie? My friend gave me two tickets, and I have some change for the arcade.”

Steady old boy. Don’t get your hopes up.

“Okay,” I muttered.

The next thing I knew, the yelps of the little moles in the Whackamole game were drowning out the sound of my sorrows. My mamá and I watched Lilo and Stitch together, and we had a blast. She even bought me my own popcorn, which I ate before the movie even started.

I think I remember my cheeks hurting the next day, but I didn’t quite know why. All the while, I never let go of the little man in my pocket. Everything had gone so well since finding him that I convinced myself this little rubber man was a good luck charm sent to me for being a good boy.

I was still clutching my good luck charm when the Hacienda managers called Abuelita in on Monday morning for a private meeting. Abuelita left me outside the manager’s office on a cracked wooden bench while she spoke to Jarrod, the general manager of Hacienda Heights.

Before they closed the door, I caught a glimpse of a saggy eyed, well-dressed businessman leaning nonchalantly against the back wall of Jerrod’s office.

The door remained closed for what felt like eternity.

When at last Abuelita emerged, her eyes looked misty, her nose was red and wet, and she held what looked like a paycheck envelope clutched angrily in her hands. I found out minutes later when she called Abuelo demanding for a ride home that she’d been fired from Hacienda Heights.

The snarky-looking businessman accused Abuelita of stealing important data on something called a removable disk. I had no clue what that was when Abuelita asked if I had taken it, but immediately I couldn’t shake the growing feeling that this was all my fault.

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Later that evening when no one else was around, I removed the little man’s torso to reveal a metal outlet that looked like it could be plugged into a computer. Engraved in the metal, the words Sandisk Removable Drive made my gut wrench as I realized what I had done. My good luck charm got Abuelita fired.

I got Abuelita fired.

I didn’t sleep for what felt like weeks. I remember being desperately afraid of what my secret would do to the family – or what Amá would do to me – so I never told anyone about my good luck charm. I knew no one would hurt me physically, but if I told my family that I was responsible for Abuelita losing her job, I feared I would never feel their love again. I feared Amá would never take me to the movies and have fun with me again. I feared I would lose Abuelita’s trust forever. I had let her down twice. Once when I took the little man, and again when I lied. Abuelita cried for the remainder of that day. Every tear that fell from her eyes dug the pit in my stomach deeper and deeper, but still I could not bring myself to confess that I had taken the flash drive.

Eventually, I forgot all about the well in my stomach.

Abuelita received some kind of settlement check for her years at Hacienda Heights, and she never looked back.

A couple of weeks after losing that job, she began her own business of cleaning houses where she made more money than she ever made at Hacienda Heights. I was her first and only employee. Summer flew by, money became slightly less scarce, and as I grew older, Amá and I grew closer and closer. I convinced myself that the little rubber man I found that day actually was a good luck charm.

After all, life gradually began to grow a little less rotten, but maybe that’s just what I told myself so I could sleep at night. Either way, the little rubber man would serve as a reminder for a lesson learned the hard way. There might

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also be some dirty pictures I secretly saved on the drive, but I can’t remember… *

*

*

The soft, yellow glow from the city grows before my eyes as I race toward it. On my way in, I catch a glimpse of my main man Homeless Dave marching down the highway, headed towards the beaming yellow arches in the distance.

I smile. It appears we are in the same boat tonight, scram bling for someone else’s internet. I squeal into the library parking lot at 9:31 PM. I already know what I’m going to write. In a matter of minutes, I find myself typing furiously on the library keyboards about what – or who, I should say – inspired me to go to college.

“My abuelita was the hardest working person I’ve ever known…

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Sonnet for a Lost Kitten Pat Hardy

Sitting somewhere, I think by a fountain, A cream colored stray brushed across me.

“How miserable a state you found me in.

My soul may go with you were you to flee.”

After having a long stare, she sat at my feet.

We stared again, now with the color in our eyes.

In my home, she’d always have plenty to eat.

It’s volatile, a reach, a caress turned to a “bye.”

Across the park she acknowledges I tried.

A swift run, I admit I should have foreseen.

She watches me to be sure I haven’t cried.

As she trots away; I’m lost as I’ve ever been.

I’ll keep on returning, with hope of her, to this park.

Yet, until she returns, this night my soul will be dark.

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A Letter to My Fourteen-year-old Self Margo Watson

Just tell your coach you’re hurting. That your back still doesn’t feel 100%. Tell her you only got three hours of sleep last night. Tell her you didn’t eat at school because you didn’t want to look fat in your leotard in front of Levi at practice.

Think about the career you could have had if you just would have said what you were feeling. You could be at a university like OU or LSU with a competitive gymnastics team. You wouldn’t have had to retire from your sport at the age of 14 with a broken back and shattered dreams. You would hear the vocal roars coming from your parents in the crowd. Hearing mom yell, “That’s my daughter! Let’s go Margo. Just a nice clean routine and stick it.” You wouldn’t feel like you disappointed your family because you are a successful student athlete at a big name university. You would have accomplished everything you and mom have been talking about since you were three.

But you didn’t…

You chose to sprint down that dust covered blue runway.

Your vision was swarmed with opaque spots and your legs felt like Jell-O. Your career ended in the two seconds it took you to begin that right leg hurdle, round-off onto the springboard, and into your yurchenko vault. Your hands slip on the thin blue mat making you lose your placement.

The springboard propels you into the square rounded leather table. Your spine contorts to the shape, and snaps at your L3 & L4 vertebrae. Your eyes pooled with tears as the doctors told you, “You can’t do this sport anymore. If

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you keep training you may never walk again.” You close your eyes visualizing your very first meet, drowning out the sound of your parents whimpering in each other’s arms. *

*

*

I remember back to the sweaty palms, arms and legs trembling. You close your eyes and visualize each move precisely down to the last hand flick. Your eyes open slowly as you hear, “And up next on the floor exercise is Margo Watson.” Both hands rise through the air and salute towards the judges. Deep breath and pretty walk into the corner. Right arm crosses over your left, gymnastics fingers frame the pose. Your legs mimic your muscular arms, toes pointed so hard your foot begins to cramp. The corky song that has been playing all meet long begins. You perform the basic skills that you have been learning since Mommy and Me classes. You shake your tiny butt and strike a photo worthy pose to finish the routine. The entire family springs out of their chairs hoisting posters in the air with your face plastered on them, shouting your name. The whole gym rang with their voices. You look into Momma’s cinnamon brown colored eyes and tears of joy roll down her face. You knew in that moment you made her a very proud mother.

That is the feeling you would strive for at every single meet. *

*

*

I promise to you little one that your life isn’t over. In fact, life has just begun. Other sports will find their way into your heart. You get to go to middle school dances like the normal kids. You get to eat whatever you want. You will find another sport that motivates you to stay healthy, make new friends, and will bring back your competitive spirit.

You can now think about your life beyond gymnastics and not being in the confines of the gym for 35 hours a

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Dress Me With Your Eyes Gabrielle Walter - Oil Painting

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week. You can let go of the idea of feeling like you have to keep your emotions in this tiny steel box. It’s okay to feel frustrated and angry, but you have to open that box and let everything escape. You rip in half that drawing you made in fourth-grade art class of you on top of the all-around podium at the NCAA Finals. You let the stale crayon markings become dotted with your tears as you feel your dream slipping through your fingers. From here on out you will keep moving forward. Emotions don’t make you weak. Emotions make you strong! It’s the way you show people your hard work, your joy for life, your compassion for others, and your obsessions. That is what will define you as a person. Not how many skills you could upgrade in one season. Although hardships do await you in the future, the fun memories you make will out-weigh them. Just keep your head up and know that a Sunday is always near.

Sincerely, your twenty-one-year-old self

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sobrevivencia de seis letras gloria m. sánchez

dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres. o mother, gentle creator, tell me; who was I then? ¿arroz con frijoles? ¡no! jif peanut butter, creamy. where are you from? o madre, ten misericordia: am I choking on the words? you gave me your name; your last breath was near do I do it justice when I let syllables clumsily slip off of lenguas that don’t know the heartbeat of the rainforest is God laughing,

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tamborito between his legs y que con salomar we worship? o mother, forgive me; I have sinned against you con vergĂźenza I have packed my pollera with the mothballs left to be adorned with fine layer glittering dust, just out of reach three times have I denied you before el gallo cried; rising from his slumber do I dare crawl into your skirts? my tembleques deserve queens; better than a fool who hides behind Lunchables

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The Rules Darci Williams

SETTING A world slightly different than our own.

CAST OF CHARACTERS MARIA. 27. A thin woman wearing loose clothing that used to fit her.

JONAH. 26. A man with boyish looks and unkempt hair.

AT RISE : (A man and a woman are alone in a dimly

lit room. The man, JONAH, stands leaned

against the wall with his arms tightly

crossed. The woman, MARIA, sits slumped

against the wall. A dark purple bruise is

already showing on her left eye, although

she is trying to keep it hidden under her hair.)

JONAH. (Softly) When did this happen, Maria?

MARIA. I already told you, it’s nothing.

JONAH. (Frustrated) A black eye is not nothing!

MARIA. I don’t want to talk about it, Jonah.

JONAH. Well if you don’t talk to me, who will you talk to?

MARIA. The priest. God. JONAH. You’re required to talk to them, that doesn’t count.

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MARIA. Look Jonah, it’s not that big of a deal. Peter had been drinking, and we got in a fight, he took it back right away— JONAH. (Interrupting) You can’t take back a punch.

MARIA. (Softly) You know what I meant.

JONAH. You have to stand up for yourself Mari, you can’t just take it. There’s no Rule saying you can’t just leave.

MARIA. (Standing suddenly) Yeah? Where would I go?

Find some nunnery to go be celibate for the rest of my life?

JONAH. Celibate’s better than being abused!

MARIA. You know I wouldn’t last a week in a convent.

All that holy crap 24/7— JONAH. (With a quiet, warning tone) Mari the Rules.

MARIA. (Turning away) Whatever.

JONAH. Mari, I’m serious. You need to pay better attention to them.

MARIA. I’m always paying attention to them.

JONAH. Well you don’t act like it.

(A stagnant pause. Both avoid eye contact.)

MARIA. (Staring at her feet) Hey Jonah?

JONAH. (Turning immediately towards MARIA) Yeah?

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MARIA. (Breathes in deeply) Do you ever wish you could just break the Rules?

JONAH. Maria, don’t talk like that.

MARIA. (Turning to face him) Why not? It’s not illegal.

JONAH. It’s dangerous.

MARIA. (With sudden fervor) Well maybe I want to do something dangerous!

JONAH. (Panicked) Mari, the Rules!

MARIA. I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE FUCKING RULES! JONAH. Mari— MARIA. These Rules have made my life a living hell.

JONAH. Please— MARIA. They’re the reason I sit around bored every Saturday.

JONAH. Stop— MARIA. They’re the reason I let my father torture me for years.

JONAH. MariMARIA. They’re the reason I let my husband hurt me now.

JONAH. Don’t— MARIA. (No longer shouting. Spoken gently and sadly) They’re the reason you and I can never...

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JONAH. (Pained) Please don’t talk like that.

MARIA. Why not? We’ve spent years ignoring it, even though we both know it’s true. (Pause) I love you Jonah.

JONAH. Don’t say that.

MARIA. It’s true.

JONAH. You’re married.

MARIA. I don’t love him.

JONAH. It doesn’t matter. The Rules— MARIA. Fuck the Rules.

JONAH. Maria you need some rest. You’ll think more clearly in the morning.

MARIA. No. My thinking is clear enough right now. For the first time in a while.

JONAH. Maria you’re going to get yourself hurt.

MARIA. I’m already hurt! I’ve been hurt for a long time!

And it’s all because of the these 10 fucking Rules! I mean who decided we have to live like this? Because I sure as hell didn’t get a say in it.

JONAH. It’s His will, we can’t question— MARIA. God didn’t do this to us. People did.

JONAH. God makes the Rules, humanity just enforces— MARIA. Stop quoting their bullshit propaganda!

JONAH. What else am I supposed to do Mari? This is how it is. There’s no fighting it.

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MARIA. We don’t have to live like this. We can run away.

You said it yourself!

JONAH. I meant you alone! Together, we’d be dead within a week.

MARIA. If we just live together it’s not Adultery. We wouldn’t be breaking any Rules.

JONAH. What about coveting?

MARIA. We’d be careful with our thoughts. We’ve been doing it for ages.

JONAH. Yeah, by ignoring the issue. But you just changed everything.

MARIA. It needed to be changed!

JONAH. Maria— MARIA. (Turning suddenly to look JONAH directly in the eye) Do you love me?

JONAH. (Taken aback) What?

MARIA. (Gently) Do you love me Jonah? I told you, but you never said it back.

JONAH. (Looking away and kicking aimlessly at the ground with the toe of his shoe) Yeah, well it’s pointless.

MARIA. No, it’s not! We can change things.

JONAH. (Growing angry) No we can’t— MARIA. (Louder) Do you love me!?

JONAH. (Shouting to the ceiling) IT DOESN’T MATTER!

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MARIA. (Voice breaking) IT DOES TO ME! DO YOU LOVE ME? JONAH. (Enraged) GOD DAMN IT MARI!

(The lights switch suddenly to red washing JONAH and MARIA in an eerie glow.

Both stand frozen staring at each other in shock. All is silent for several moments.)

MARIA. (Whispered) No. JONAH. (Murmuring, in shock) I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.

MARIA. (Growing slowly louder) No no no no no no.

JONAH. It was an accident. I would never...

MARIA. (Stepping to JONAH) Jonah...

JONAH. (Panicking) I didn’t mean it. I didn’t— MARIA. (Looking at him urgently) Do a Hail Mary.

JONAH. (Shaking his head) It’s too late.

MARIA. (Holding back tears) You have to try.

JONAH. (A pause, then a small nod) Hail Mary, full of grace...

MARIA. (Clasping her hands and looking to heaven) Please God please...

JONAH. …The Lord is with thee...

MARIA. …it was one mistake...

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JONAH. …Blessed Art thou among women...

MARIA. …don’t take him, please don’t take him...

JONAH. …and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...

MARIA. …I’m here Jonah...

JONAH. (Strained) …Holy M-Mary... (JONAH grunts and doubles over in pain) Mother of God...

MARIA. (Crying, and helping to ease him to the floor) …

Please don’t go...

JONAH. (Weakly)…Pray for us S-Sinners now...

MARIA. (Broken) I— I love you...

JONAH. (Barely a whisper)…a-and at the hour...

MARIA. Jonah?

(JONAH lays silent and still in her arms.

The red light extinguishes suddenly, only darkness remains.)

MARIA. (Unseen in the dark, crying out) JONAH! THE END.

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Just the Same but Brand New Kenton Bradford - Digital

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Reflections Julián David Bañuelos

I will put chaos into fourteen lines To prey on anger. Like any nightmare This life’s a game with its many designs.

The cadence of allusion floats the air While gripping the very throat filled with fear.

Pity the few times I held my own breath.

For I hope and pray my own path will veer In your direction leading to your death.

Serpent days will no longer define me.

For I know the truth, we share bodies, but Not minds. I thought you a reality, And now you reside hidden away, shut Off from the rest. No longer a weakness, Rather a key part in my uniqueness.

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Dolan Falls Sunset

Andrew Adams - Photography

2019 - 2020 Staff Cecilia Smith Editor-in-Chief Cecilia is a senior English literature major with minors in math and chemistry. Her hobbies include baking, rock climbing, and trying to find the best coffee in Lubbock.

Jayce McKinney Editorial Assitant Jayce is a junior English Major with a concentration in creative writing. During her first semester at Texas Tech, she helped found The Quill, the first undergraduate creative writing organization at Tech. In her free time, she can be found writing poetry about the world around her or studying Latin.

Callie Watson Drama Editor/Designer Callie is a junior Interdisciplinary Arts Studies major studying writing, production, and design for media, communications, and performing arts. She enjoys singing, playing violin, searching for the deeper meaning of everything, and escaping to fictional universes.

Sarah Huerta Poetry Editor Sarah is a senior English creative writing major with minors in Spanish and ethnic studies. They love poetry, listening to podcasts and vinyl, and hanging out with their cat Lorca.

Peyton Floyd Nonfiction Editor Peyton is a senior Technical Communication and English major. You can almost always find her at a coffee shop reading or working.

Anna Hedges Fiction Editor Anna Hedges is a senior Creative Media Industries major in the College of Media and Communications. When she’s not working on her degree she writes fantasy and horror, hangs out with her cats, and reads.

Sage Scrimshire Visual Art Editor Sage is a second year art history major with plans to minor in anthropology. She aspires to be a writer, illustrator, and art historian who studies tattoo and body modification.

Acknowledgements Harbinger would like to acknowledge the following Texas Tech University offices and individuals for their support of this publication:

College of Arts & Sciences W. Brent Lindquist PhD, Dean Office of the Provost Jessica Williams MBA, D.Mgt, Senior Director of Academic Finance School of Art Robin Germany MFA, Interim Director & Professor of Photography Honors College Michael San Francisco PhD, Dean Harbinger Faculty Advisor Katie Cortese PhD, Associate Professor of English

Harbinger is an annual journal published by Texas Tech University feauturing fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, photography, and art by undergraduate students.

ttuharbingerjournal.wixsite.com/harbinger

Contributors Andrew Adams Julián David Bañuelos Kenton Bradford Joshua Bray Kenyan Burnham Payton Conlin Mackenzie Duke Kasey Hahn Pat Hardy Marian Herring Chelsea Homen Katie Karadimas

James Loss Anna Lovering Brittany Muller Howard Park Nicolas Rivera Gloria M. Sánchez Bailee N. Tanguma Marcus Thomas Gabrielle Walter Margo Watson Darci Williams