Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

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harbinger 3

A journa l of Art & Lit erat ure

Copyright Š 2019 by the authors, the artist, and Texas Tech University. All rights reserved. No part of this publication be reproduced in any manner without permission from Texas Tech University.

Published by Harbinger, Texas Tech University Lubbock, TX 79409 Prtinted by Partks Printing Company, Lubbock, TX Designed by Kathia Ramirez

“A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibilities of their own souls.”

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– Walt Whitman

SPECIAL THANKS TO OUR SPONSORS COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES

Dr. W. Brent Lindquist HONORS COLLEGE

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Dr. Michael San Francisco

SCHOOL OF ART

Robin D. Germany Dr. Joe Arredondo, Faculty Advisor OFFICE OF THE PROVOST

Dr. Michael Galyean

ENGLISH DEPARTMENT

Dr. John Poch, Faculty Advisor

EDITORS NOTE

In each of the works found in this journal, a piece of the artist can be found. A piece of their mind, heart, story, or soul.

In the pages of this journal, you will find vibrant, emotional art pieces as well as a relatable comic strip. You will read a story that catapults you into a futuristic world to learn the intricacies of nanotechnology and the complexity of what it means to be human. You will follow the twists and turns of a mental health journey, and you will feel the hilarious terror of what it would be like if you learned your pets could speak to you.

Each of these stories and pieces of art, serious or lighthearted, is a piece for us as readers and viewers to take and use for ourselves.

Let the fiction pieces take you to another world, let the nonfiction move you, let the art help you heal, let the poems impact you deeply, and let the plays show you a new perspective.

My hope is that each reader takes just one thing that the artists have given and lets it inspire them to give a piece of themselves back through their own creativity. I urge each person who picks up this journal to pay it forward and create something meaningful for others to use as well.

Sincerely, JAK KURDI

Editor-in-Chief, 2018 -19

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Artists and writers take pieces of themselves and give it to us through their work. With each word or brushstroke, they give us a part of their broken hearts, tell us an important part of their stories, or give us a glimpse into their souls.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Peotry Native Tongue Hali Salome Cardenas 1 Memories of Desert Storm Sarah G. Huerta 2 Albuquerque Sarah G. Huerta 3 Another Poem About Him with Five Lines Stolen from Twin Peaks Hali Salome Cardenas 4 Static Anne Lovering 5 A Translation from Pablo Neruda’s Soneto 45 B. N. Tanguma 6 In Santa Cruz Sarah G. Huerta 7 Close Your Eyes B. N. Tanguma 8 A Hermit Prayed and A God Answered Him Tyler Seale 9

Non-Fiction Grade A Plants and A Jade Plant Too Brittany Thurmond 10-13 A Mother in Fragments Hali Salome Cardenas 14-15 Happy James D. Loss 16-17 Breathe It All In: A Memoir Madelyn Gunnels 19-20 Why I Live George A. Stern Jr. 21

Fiction One Pursuit Of Happiness Brian Hottinger 26- 32 Aurora Melissa Beal 33-37 Lily-Livered Taylor Watkins 38 -41 Feed Me Kellis Pike 43-44

Holy Incomplete Joanna Byrne 45-52 Stella James Loss 53-55 Baby Blues Jenna Hefele 55 Cracked Jenna Hefele 56 Something Slightly Sane Brittany Thurmond 59-61

Drama Creative Process Theodore Leo 63- 69

Art It's Heavy Aris Neal 10 2405 Bailey Manning 18 Nose Cliff Morgen Macke 31 Untitled Katie Knight 36 Weekend Blues Gabrielle Walter 41 Melt Down Gabrielle Walter 42 My Sapphire Pendant & Earring Ann Sikes 50 Fugly I Aris Neal 57 Claire Above, Claire Below, Emily Massey 58 Mountain Range Alex Genette 61 NYC DAYZ Ndo Chiedu 62 Decisions, Decisions, Gabrielle Walter 67 Untitled Katie Knight 70 Sister’s Peridot Necklace Ann Sikes 75

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Greener Pastures Nicolas Rivera 71-76

NATIVE TONGUE

Hali Salome Cardenas

Because when the colonizers came and brought their missionaries and a plagiarized word of God, they named us savage and scattered us like those heads we kicked around for fun.

And when you’re ten you’re afflicted by something you can’t name as you invite your white friend to your abuela’s house. She had made lengua, and she cowers before your friend with “I hope you like it mijita.” You stare as Cassie ate the meat – you relished as the grease oozed down her small pale arms, puddling in the middle of the cheap Styrofoam plate.

“This is so good,” she said. You felt wicked and cruel but quenched when you revealed that it was cow tongue and her placid face turned sour. And you wonder if these small triumphs are what those distant ancestors saw in the sky.

poetry 1

The man on Ancient Aliens talks about the Mayans.

How they tracked the waxing and waning of the moon, the turning of the planets – finding sense in the stars. He says they did this while Europeans rolled like pigs in muck – polluting the idea of the Great White Race. So – it had to be aliens, right?

MEMORIES OF DESERT STORM

Sarah G. Huerta

I am writing at the coffee shop on 4th and Slide, at the table against the window, watching the West Texas wind assault the trees, rip through the dead and still dying grass.

I buy a bagel and a latte and tip the barista who shared my name, dropping the crumpled bills from the bottom of my bag– but I think the bagel was only out of habit.

I saw a new therapist yesterday so I could stop thinking about you without having to stop thinking.

But at the coffee shop on 4th and Slide, all that I write about is how they carted you off to Kuwait, a country devoid of permanent rivers, how you spent several moons and a birthday or two in a hole in the ground without much more than a bottle of tabasco and a picture of my mom.

You never talked about it– I didn’t even know details of that war until taking AP History, until I found that word document from when you thought you’d become a writer.

At the coffee shop on 4th and Slide, my back is to a man.

He tells of how he loves his daughter.

He will never know me, and I will know him as well as I know you.

ALBUQUERQUE

Sarah G. Huerta

poetry 3

You met me when my finger was broken, and we fell in love (supposedly) when my hair was long– but last week I took a pair of safety scissors to my waist-length locks, and now my finger has healed.

STATIC

Anna Lovering I lie awake and hear gunshots tonight.

One, two, three, they echo like a shoe hitting the wall hard—then, the noise falls off.

Somewhere in the caustic communication I am receiving from a person, their gun, “Who are they really?” I think, as my mind drifts into a dream where people loathe warmth, are blind, and continue to fall into a living pauper’s grave. The landscape is littered with drained poppies, there are no more soldiers to feed the soil scarlet red.

The sound of violence creates a hemisphere splitting curtain darkness toward a rising sun rising, the grasp, as night folds the night away and I am supposed to wake up.

It is easier to think of comfort as a closed window.

ANOTHER POEM ABOUT HIM WITH FIVE LINES STOLEN FROM TWIN PEAKS

Hali Saleme Cardenas

Laura is full of secrets. The words sting like an open palm. You looked at me from across the room with the word secret hidden in your dark eyes. I looked away – my tongue tracing the welt where earlier your hands introduced the insides of my cheek to the jagged edges of my teeth.

Sometimes my arms bend back. I was ignorant of what that meant until you showed me outside of that house.

The vintage dress adorning my body and its missing buttons were evidence that arms could violently splay.

We all knew. I wonder – did your friends know? I am fluent in silence as your phantom fingers snake around my throat, choking me, though you had said nothing – done nothing. The bruises peppering my small wrists were a token of love, of loving, of what I was taught love was.

Women in fragments, women dead, wraaaapped in plastic, women’s bodies tattered and scattered and served to us on screens, and still they ask why we stay – like we aren’t being hurt with the same parts they use to show us their love.

poetry 5

I am dead yet I live, the girl wrapped in plastic whispers to Special Agent Dale Cooper on the TV playing in the background at your friend’s party.

A TRANSLATION FROM PABLO NERUDA’S SONETO 45

B. N. Tanguma Do not be far away from me for even a single day. Why? Because, I do not know how to say it. The day is long and I’ll be waiting for you, like those who wait in the empty stations, when the trains have fallen asleep somewhere.

Do not leave, even for an hour, because, then in that hour the drops of anguish will coalesce; and maybe all the smoke that is lost and looking for a home, will come to kill even my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette in the sand never break.

Oh, may the butterflies of your fluttering eyes never fly into empty distance.

Do not leave for a minute, my love, because in that minute you will have gone so far, that I would wander the whole earth asking, if you will return, or if you would leave me dying. * Pablo Neruda: Soneto XLV. No estés lejos de mí un solo día, porque cómo, porque, no sé decirlo, es largo el día, y te estaré esperando como en las estaciones cuando en alguna parte se durmieron los trenes.

No te vayas por una hora porque entonces en esa hora se juntan las gotas del desvelo y tal vez todo el humo que anda buscando casa venga a matar aún mi corazón perdido.

Ay que no se quebrante tu silueta en la arena, ay que no vuelen tus párpados en la ausencia: no te vayas por un minuto, bienamada, porque en ese minuto te habrás ido tan lejos que yo cruzaré toda la tierra preguntando si volverás o si me dejarás muriendo.

IN SANTA CRUZ

I look down at the map that cost me five euros and about twice as many blisters on my feet caused by my shitty American sandals on too uneven sidewalks.

A rough sketch of synagogues of the past are highlighted in white. They are all churches and restaurants now, one of the hundred Jews left in Sevilla tells me in broken English.

I step through to the other side of the curtain separating the single room exhibit.

Is it even my place to cry? A spiritualist raised Catholic, imposing myself in the remains of the Jewish Quarter, a lighter way to say ghetto, or quarantine, barely able to read about the atrocities my family’s church committed through new stains dirtying my glasses.

I exit through a small hall, the walls covered in mirrors, and I walk until I am facing ten of myself.

poetry 7

Sarah G. Huerta

CLOSE YOUR EYES. B. N. Tanguma Close your eyes and think of me.

Close your eyes and think of tiny frozen yogurt cups and conversation that flows like a river with no dam.

Think of the scent of acrylic paint and Elmer’s glue, accompanied by the sound of hair dryers and my high laughter as we giggle over spilled paint that would create a beautiful picture.

Think of sleepless nights where what we had to say was more important at 8am than what papers needed from us by 10am.

Think of art shows, mixed drinks and purple flowers.

Think of the first time “I love you” escaped from your lips as I was asleep and dreaming of a world with you.

Think of parties and vape smoke.

Think of stolen kisses and words.

Close your eyes and think of how that spilled paint on our second date painted much more than just a beautiful canvas.

A HERMIT PRAYED

AND A GOD ANSWERED HIM

Tyler Seale

Way, way West on the wild, wild breeze How many prayers are carried there?

The mesa hears, the sunset sees, But no one answers, no god dares Way, way deep in the small, small grains You’ll discover worlds you’ve yet to know Where shackled men throw off their chains Where hells and heavens heave and groan Way, way out on the flat, flat earth Where little grows and death is near I’ve built my home and tend my hearth No longer slave to pain and fear Way, way down in the red, red sands I look around and come to see Some forgotten god’s forsaken land Has given life again to me

poetry 9

Way, way down in the red, red sands You’ll find a small and barren stream Where serpents writhe and spiders dance And buzzards go to chat and dream

GRADE A PLANTS AND A JADE PLANT TOO

Brittany Thurmond Aconite

I had a general hate, dislike, and distrust for the human species and held them in contempt for even breathing the wrong way while passing me. Depression is a real thing.

Have you ever seen an Aconite? Why is it such vibrant purple if it contains poisonous chemicals and is the most common cause of severe herb poisoning in Hong Kong?Seems like a trap to me. Looks so beautiful on the outside yet poisons you when you come in contact—kinda like humans. I had high dreams my whole life, like going to college and having a career, although, I don’t know why.

My mom has been a raging alcoholic my whole life. My parents got married after knowing each other five months. My mom got pregnant with me at 36—oops! Four years later and I was the worst thing that came out of the marriage.

I was in Kmart with my dad one day, waiting on my mom to get off work, saw her secret co-worker friend and said to my dad, “that’s mama’s friend, he comes over all the time when you’re at work.”

The feeling of loathe, distaste, and disapproval directed distinctly at you is a feeling I’ve come to understand quite too well from the interactions with my parents throughout the years. If only I had kept my mouth shut, my parents may still be together.

Then again, maybe not.

One day my mom chased my dad out of the garage with a shovel. Not sure if it was the beer causing this insanity to radiate out of her, or the bipolar tendencies kicking in.

All I know is that my dad beat her up when she was pregnant with me, but she probably deserved it.

People have a way of exploiting the actions others have taken upon them, but never mention the things they did to cause the resulting actions.

I decided when I was in kindergarten that I was going to be a teacher some-day.

Neither one of my parents went to college or any previous generations of ancestors before that. My aunt on my dad’s side was the first. My half-sister was the second. College is not a typical life stage that my family grows through and, although, I dreamed of it my whole life, depression creates a deep, dark, distant, desolate, discontented feeling in your mind and heart.

It is hard to escape the dreadful reality of everyday life in a world no one wants you in.

It’s Heavy,

Handmade copper blocks, brass, and ribbon.

▲

ARIS NEAL.

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Azalea or Anemone Pick whatever stupid flower you want to call it, they all die, anyways.

As if I was not already a disappointment to everyone surrounding me, I then decided to wait a year to go to college, and started dating a “damn nigger,” as my dad would say.

I moved in with Cameron a month after graduating high school and when I say the whole damn thing was toxic, I mean the whole fucking thing was a shit show. I had no self-worth, “daddy issues,” as they call it. Cameron was demeaning, demoralizing, disastrous, and dreadful. He used to, and still does, refer to me as a bitch, whore, slut, and every other expletive or derogatory term you could ever happen to stumble upon.

“You’ll never find anything better than me.”

“A universal key can enter any lock and be useful, but no one wants a lock that is losing its tread from every key trying to unlock it.”

These were some of his favorites to use on me. He brainwashed me into believing that I wasn’t worthy of anyone else and that I may as well stay with him cause he was the only person that could love me. He wanted to make sure I knew that I would never find better than him. Cameron never actually wanted me either, if we’re being honest here. He fed off my depression and wanted to make my soul cower and cringe with every stab he took at my lifeless existence. He broke up with me around November, but I continued living with him because ex’s as roommates always works well. I would have picked anything over going back to my mother’s house, though.

Why does everyone hate me? Why can’t I make friends? Why doesn’t anyone pay attention to the increasing suicide rates? In a world of over seven billion people, how can one person feel so lonely?

Here is the sad truth; the people surrounding you don’t give a damn about your depression until you selfishly cause them pain and suffering because you finally decide to cure your own.

I needed you to take care of my fragile well-being as if I were Azalea, but instead, you heard forsake me like an Anemone.

In March 2015, I finally decided I had enough of Cameron’s entitled, snarky, shitty attitude towards me, and moved out. We remained friends for a few weeks, until one day he told me how much he regretted meeting me and that he never wanted to hear from me again.

The next day, I found out I was pregnant.

Ambrosia, Arborvitae, Aster Who knew that a tiny little bean sprouting and growing could bring so many emotions to one person?

Excitement and fear rushed through my body and weakened me, almost to a collapse.

I wasn’t taught about unconditional love, just knew I never experienced it.

Here, baby girl, take some Ambrosia for the reciprocating love, Arborvitae for your everlasting friendship, and Aster for your success in bringing light to my life with this unconditional love and happiness.

At least I finally have one person that will love me forever, not that she really had a choice in the matter. I am going to be everything my mother wasn’t. I will choose to believe the tragic events she tells me about. I will not bring strange men around her. I will not be drunk around her.

When I was sixteen weeks pregnant, the depression hit hard.

Abortion, suffering, adoption, suicide, a….. million and one things tormenting, agonizing, racking away at my brain. I didn’t invite these thoughts into my head, so why were they torturing me? I never acted on any of these thoughts, of course, but I am one to consider all my options.

In 2016, I decided to start college at South Plains College, a junior college. I earned my Associate of Art in Teaching in May of 2018. I started Texas Tech in the fall of 2018 and will graduate with my Bachelors’ Degree in teaching in 2020.

“Amaryllis,” my mom would say. Greenhouses sure do have a way of familiarizing you with plants and their symbolic meanings.

You know how your mom always told you to rub Aloe on your sunburn to soothe the ache and heal the burn?

Thanks for the healing remedies of Aloe, mom.

I’ll go ahead and take some Amaryllis and Aloe for this plant collection, too.

I am all better now. No more pain and suffering. It’s gone on far too long.

Aconite, Azalea, Anemone, Ambrosia, Arborvitae, Aster, Aloe, Amaryllis…

End of collection.

Jade Plant Oops, almost forgot the Jade Plant.

I got my first succulent this summer. If you know anything about succulents, they don’t require a lot of watering. You water about every two weeks and forget it’s there most of the time, just like me.

Apparently, Jade Plant is symbolic for growth, renewal, and don’t forget wealth and prosperity, as it is thought to activate financial energies. It can also be referred to as the good luck charm.

Good luck, depression. Good luck, suicide rates. Good luck, to the many people suffering and never receiving help. Your cries are too quiet, until you do something “drastic.”

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Aloe and Amaryllis

MY MOTHER IN FRAGMENTS

Hali Salome Caredenas

RUSSIAN RED I’m five, it’s your twenty-fifth birthday party. I’m wearing the itchy tweety-bird tights, your hair is falling around your heart-shaped face in golden brown ringlets. You plant a MAC Russian Red kiss on my warm earth-brown cheek. You swing my small body around the glowing dance floor and tell me, my sweet girl, I love you, I love you, I love you.

BLUSH I’m seven. We are on one of our weekend ventures to the used bookstore nestled between the Chinese restaurant and the tobacco shop. I browsed the children’s books while you darted toward true crime. You read to me in our favorite nook and you play with my hair as I read back to you. I am ashamed when I stumble upon the big words, yet you urge me on, ignoring my blushing cheeks. Despite everything, at least you gave me this.

RUBY I’m nine. We are driving around town looking for Dad. It’s witching hour late, it’s cold, the windows in your red car are foggy from our hot breath. You’re crying hysterically, you’re cursing him, you’re cursing ever having us, you’re cursing yourself – your face is a blur. He comes home in the morning: eyes shot, whiskey-breath with ruby red at his collar. You don’t wear red lipstick for a decade.

SANGRE I’m ten. You’re pregnant again. You tell yourself this will change him - this will make him stay. You share your musings with me. Slowly you start to go inside of yourself again, even after the baby comes out. Her cries don’t reach you when you’re dwelling. Javan and I take her in - we love her as best as we can.

MAROON I’m twelve. You’re calling and calling Dad and he doesn’t answer. I say, have you tried his cell phone? “I’ve already tried his cell, Hali,” you say, in a tone that makes me feel like I have been slapped across my face. I say something like, “No Mom, the maroon one.” I wasn’t aware that you didn’t know about the other phone. Your eyes become a question mark, your face pales, your mouth emits a guttural cry as you crumple to the floor. I am left to pick up the pieces of you when he is gone.

I’m fourteen and this one is the one that still aches. We come home from dinner with Dad, our first since he moved to the Valley. The house is pitch black, black as night, you didn’t turn the porch light on. You always turn the porch light on. There is a faint glow behind your curtains. I call out to you, you don’t respond. I call again – after all, your light is on – I am greeted with an oppressive silence. My stomach is a knot; my feet are lead. I walk to your room, you’re in bed, you look like you’re only sleeping. I move to wake you, to tell you that we are home, and that is when I see the letter – the “I’m sorry” written in your loopy girlish handwriting, the red-inked “I can’t share you with him,” and it is only now, writing about this, that I think to myself “of course she used a fucking red pen.” I scream and shake you. I call the ambulance and I tell them what you’ve done, that you’re still breathing but barely and you’re so heavy I can’t move you I can’t help you I can’t do anything, I tell the operator that I am just a kid and you’re my mother and I can’t m o v e you. I call Dad from the landline and shriek until he comes and I’m holding back your perfect chestnut curls while he is gagging you with his fighter hands and I hear the sirens before I see the red and blue lights on the wall. You’re lifted up and carried away and missing for three long days that drag and drag and drag. You come home and you make jokes of the charcoal they pumped your stomach with, and you promise us it won’t happen again.

MERLOT I am twenty-four now. I am sitting on your burgundy ikat couch – we are drinking West Texas merlot and singing along to Depeche Mode. You ask if everything is okay: “how is the baby? How is Rocky?” This is the first time we have spoken since we got into a screaming fight on the phone a couple of weeks before because you were worried about me and I didn’t want you to be right. I break down into the bitter wine and you bring me to you. You play with my hair and let me talk and when I ask if we can come back, just for a little bit, just until I get on my feet, just until, until, until. You call me your sweet girl again and say, “of course, I love you, of course.”

non-fiction 15

SIREN

HAPPY

James D. Loss The sweltering summer heat beat down on the streets of Frisco, Texas. Four O’clock; the height of school zone congestion. My car inched forward with the traffic. My left knee throbbed from working the clutch for the past thirty minutes. In a town with ten high schools, seventeen middle schools, and forty-two elementary schools, it’s impossible to make it through an afternoon drive without being slowed down by the flashing yellow lights of school zones. Locked in the mandatory twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit, I crawled forward with my chin laid on the steering wheel as I wondered if I will find an end to this line of cars. Yet, an ironic optimism found me in the traffic; my days of navigating these overcrowded streets drew close to an end as my freshman year of college approached. Finally, I could free myself from the mundane, repetitive suburban lifestyle.

Finally, I could live somewhere where the average income didn’t turn everyone into selfish snobs.

My jeep progressed down the road in slow and painful manner as my mind played with fantasies of open acres far away from any of this industrial poison. A flash of white caught my eye. I turned to see Frisco’s local legend dancing outside my window. No one could tell you his real name; he told you to call him “Happy.” He didn’t dress fancy with a black tank top, basketball shorts, and Jordan’s. Happy spent his free time dancing down the major roads of Frisco as he waved signs of joy, love, and motivation. His feet skipped across the pavement while he held up those signs in one hand and an eternal peace-sign in the other. I’d never paid much attention to Happy. He had become just as common as a light post on the street corner. But now, as Happy waved his sign outside my window, telling me to “smile more,” I couldn’t help but be drawn in by the man’s energy. While I waited for many car lengths behind a red light, I reached over, cranked down the passenger window (yes, my Jeep still had crank windows), and waved my hand to bring Happy closer.

Happy, looking as happy as ever, bounced over to the car with a shake of his hips and short whistle. He looked young—no more than forty— and he wore a black durag.

Beads of sweat rolled down his face, where starched-blue eyes beamed out from ebony skin. I could feel his energy, his spunk and splendor.

With one extravagant twirl, Happy shot me finger guns and said, “What can I do for you, friend?”

I couldn’t help but smile at his street ballet. “You working for tips?” I asked.

Happy seemed to be offended by the question. He leaned back and placed a hand on his chest, feigning pain. “No, sir! No, sir! Happy dances for love!” he said with another twirl. “Happy dances cause he’s happy!”

I stifled a laugh at the third person reference to himself. I, myself, certainly enjoyed

Happy’s attitude. Frisco needed more freedom and expression such as himself.

“You oughta’ take yourself somewhere where everyone is not a zombie,” I said. “These people won’t appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Do you appreciate me?” Happy asked, jumping into another twirl and pointing his finger.

“Well…sure,” I stammered. “I was having a pretty lame time in here.”

I opened my mouth to say more, but Happy danced his way up the sidewalk and disappeared behind the other cars. The interaction felt so quick. I might have never thought it happened. Yet, as the light turned green and my car lumbered forward, I felt struck by awareness. It felt as if Happy’s words had left an impression on me which no coach or teacher had ever come close to. Beyond my open window, the air felt cooler, the cars seemed quieter, and the short, hearty trees had sprouted a new layer of color.

For the rest of my drive home, I could not stop replaying the conversation with Happy. How could some always be so…happy? In a town like this, where the nine-to-five, suburbia idealism reigned supreme; how could anyone find such joy? Could it be from the soccer moms who drove eight-seat SUVs to transport only their Teacup Yorkies?

Could it be the painstaking, unavoidable commutes? Or could it be the neighborhood dads who stood in their driveways and yelled at cars to slow down? How could anyone be that happy in such a place?

Then it hit me.

As I listed the sarcastic question to myself, I realized it was me who could not be happy. It was me who chose to be this way, holding onto my pessimistic views of my environment as if I would lose my “cool-kid” status otherwise. Happy chose to be happy.

And everyone had the same choice every morning they woke up. Happiness could never be defined by possessions or environment as I had thought. Happiness came from yourself, from a conscious choice to see the lighter side of life.

A faint smile danced on my lips as I made the turn onto my street. Maybe Happy hadmagic inside him because I had never felt so relieved. As my house drew closer, I saw my neighbor, Mr. Torres, standing in his driveway. I could feel his scowl even from this distance. He held a persistent grudge against my loud car, and I didn’t care for his attitude. Normally, I would have thrown my gears into neutral and given the engine a good roar as I passed by, but not today. Today, I took a lesson from Happy and raised my hand in a polite wave. The shock on Mr. Torres’s face stuck out like a rose bud in the tundra.

He paused, raised his hand, and gave a smile.

non-fiction 17

“Then Happy has done his job for the day!”

BAILEY MANNING. 2405,

Oil and xerox image transfer on canvas, 4 x 5.5 feet.

BREATHE IT ALL IN: A MEMOIR

Madelyn Gunnels

The art of theatre has existed within the world as early as 8500 B.C. in the forms of ceremonial dances and rituals and has continued through history as being a driving source of entertainment and storytelling for as long as we can remember. My experiences and personal story with theatre is and will be merely a single drop in the vast ocean of this art, in the entirety of this story, yet I believe my small contributions to it will allow the art to continue on for years to come. While this so far will mainly seem like a piece of historical writing, that’s not the case. In truth, while there will be some sprinklings of history, this is the story of a girl and how she didn’t discover theatre, but how theatre discovered her.

The history of theatre and great amounts of contribution to its production and preservation by great minds such as those of the Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, Saint Augustine, Miguel de Cervantes, Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and even Rosie O’Donnell had existed long before my theatre story ever began. However, one thing that I do have in common with these individuals is that my influence to go into theatre wasn’t simply out of my own will to do so, it was from a single individual. In truth, I can’t put the main influence of my story of theatre on one single person like those listed above. It wasn’t one of the great minds such as these, it wasn’t an actor I saw on TV, and it wasn’t a teacher or mentor, because my influence was, what I discovered later, my greatest restraint. It was my mother.

My mother and I had a shared story of theatre for some time of my short life. She has always said that I came into this world singing, and that doing so was as easy as breathing when I was a child. She would always take time on our trips down memory lane to stop and constantly remind me how she always placed dingy, Walkman headphones on her swollen belly and play songs from famous Broadway musicals that I could only now dream of being a part of, and how she somehow always knew that I “was destined to be on the stage”, and of course, with childish ambition, I had always believed her. When I walked through the studio doors on my way to my first ever theatre class, she was always right behind me, cheering me on and pushing to my limits to ultimately do the best I possibly could at that age. Whether it was through practicing my lines to singing show tunes together in the car on the way to school, to being the first person I saw whenever I

non-fiction 19

All is dark, the drop of a pin would easily echo as loud as a boom of thunder. Silence takes center stage in place of sweaty hands, beating hearts, and the multitude of butterflies in respective stomachs. Then, light. It graces the stage in a spectacle of surprise and built up anticipation. Deep breath, eyes forward, game face on. Hours upon hours of blood, sweat, and tears have led up to this moment, now is not the time for anxiousness and stage fright, now is the time for magic, fun, and wonder. Take a breath, break a leg, and let the show begin.

was on stage, she was always there. But no story would be complete without a little bit of drama, especially the story of theatre.

While the history of theatre most definitely had more ups than downs, there were many bumps in the road towards its present state. To put it simply, the story of theatre is the story of breaking rules, and paying the consequences for them. From the introduction of plays mocking religion to cross-dressing on stages, thespians (that’s a fancy word for actors) and their craft have always had ways of “bending the rules” and defying opposition to get a story told and overall have fun with what they did. However, the consequences of some of these actions ranged from minor, to severe, and even deadly. Some examples would easily include religious segregation of plays in Rome and Greece, to the class division in Elizabethan Age theatre, to martyrdom on stage, either out of free will or persecution. Luckily, my story only experienced an extremely mild form of the prior consequences listed, and none of the latter. If that were so, a pike of ash would be telling the story, and it would overall be a little drier in overall experience.

The later years of my theatre story were definitely met with some opposition, mainly from my main influencer that I previously mentioned. While my mother had always had her fears of me continuing to participate in the art, it became more apparent as I began my high school career, when the balancing act of studies and extracurricular activities were main weights on the scale. Out of fear of being somewhat segregated by others in my class and overall being labeled a permanent “theatre geek” as she put it, she continuously insisted that I overall drop the idea of theatre wherever I was without giving it a double take and move on to other things where success was more likely to be made, and keep the experiences I had built up so far as fond memories. Of course, the hormonal, acne-covered and defiant teenager in me simply brushed her off with an utter of “Whatever, Mom” and kept on going. Our shared story was slowly beginning to crumble away without my realization, and with it came the emergence of the overall fact that she would be right in the end, like most mothers are. Grades plummeted in a downward spiral, friends left were left behind, parent-teacher conferences were made, and tears were shed with the fact that decisions had to be made for the betterment of my future. While it may seem like an unhappy ending at this point in time, these consequences did have a strong impact on the continuation of my story, much like those involved in the history of theatre, they didn’t stop me from what I was doing, but made me realize and help rise above the challenge at hand.

WHY I LIVE

Suicide. I’ve considered it, a place I never expected my sensation-loving, life-savoring self to come to. But when said sensations pale into fleeting, manufactured distractions from a stagnant life with all the appeal of days-old guinea pig rejects, it is easier than you might think to be seduced by the idea of exerting one final bit of indisputable, irreversible control over your life - and to some degree your story - of ending it on your terms.

How seriously did I consider it? Seriously enough to be thankful that the only weapons in my home are kitchen knives and Khali sticks. This place I reached: it’s the instant in juggling when you and only you know that all your balls - the ones in the air, the ones you’re making such a show-and-tell of putting up - are out of your control and coming down in an inglorious, inevitable cascade; it’s that brink of a moment when you think that perhaps the death of unrealized promise is preferable to a long life of breaking them, disappointing yourself and others; it’s the chasm between who you could - should? - be and who you are that whispers echoingly of the might-have-been advantage over the never-was. My father is particularly eloquent and impassioned in advancing the theory that I’ve consigned myself to such instances of debilitating hopelessness by rejecting the Christian faith and its covenant-keeping, miracle- working, eternal life-granting god. To hear him tell it, every apostate and nonbeliever is a twitch of divine mercy away from having the proud citadels of our contrary minds shattered Nebuchadnezzar-style, leaving us to wander witless and despondent, rooting through trash cans for our supper. But I never did live for either God or afterlife, even when I believed in both so hard my dream job was to be a missionary in “Africa.”

Nor can I say that ambition, hope, stubbornness or sheer habit provide particularly insurmountable attachments to life. No, what keeps me alive is remembering that I live to love and that loving requires neither degree, nor status, nor especial material success; it requires only that I am alive to give it to those who need it.

non-fiction 21

George A. Stern Jr.

INTEGRAL

Joanna Byrne

Life found me somewhere I never planned to be, but I was doing the best I could with what I had been served. Fate some would say, or bad luck had altered the course of my life. Over a year after my accident, I found myself before a class of twenty-four aspiring mechanics and realized I could not talk.

Public speaking was not the problem, I had done plenty of that. No, it was my accident rearing its ugly head and reminding me I was not myself anymore. The hazy events of that day in March rewrote what had been a well thought out career path, altering my course sharply in a matter of moments. I don’t remember what happened, and what I do remember I don’t trust as accurate. After I could not speak correctly, jumbled sounds falling from my lips with no order or sense to them. My body did not follow the orders of my thoughts, my limbs ignoring them and functioning as if someone was pulling puppet strings and I was just the audience. My memory ran from my mind like water through a sieve; thoughts, sounds, and images jumbled until I questioned the truth of everything I thought I remembered.

I stood there, before my new students, in my new job, desperate to prove that despite their doubts I was, in fact, qualified to train them. To show that my age and my gender had nothing to do with my qualifications. My new instructor’s textbook, carefully studied, tagged and highlighted, lay across my hands like a bible as I explained engine block designs. Until I reached ‘Integral.’ My eyes saw the word. My inner ear could hear how the ‘in’ should build in my mouth, the ‘t’ vanishing in my Texas accent, then the grind of the ‘g’ in the back of my throat before the ‘r’ rolled off my tongue followed by a crisp ‘al.’

Integral.

My mouth opened, and it moved, but nothing came out. Anxiety washed over me.

It was like a nightmare where everything has gone wrong at a crucial moment. I had faltered, I had made a mistake, and I had their rapt attention. I hesitated, my mind racing for a solution.

“I was taught they are called ‘parent bore’” I choked out, slamming my book closed.

“Go get coffee and be in the lab in ten minutes.” I fled the classroom like a startled deer, hesitant at first, then swiftly.

My office became my sanctuary and my place of torture. In the evenings when the building was silent, the only light was that of my office, spilling down into the lab below, kissing the chrome of lifeless machines, the building’s stoic walls were silent, and the only sound was the front doors straining against their latches, tempted by the wind to fly open. That was where I found myself, crying as I stared down at my textbook, trying to relearn how to speak a single, infuriating word.

Integral.

I wrote it out.

I spelled it, one struggling letter at a time.

Integral.

It sprawled across sheets of printer paper, across the monthly calendar still on May of the year I graduated, left by my professor, who had occupied the office before me. His looping scrawl was eclipsed by the harsh lines of my own hand.

Integral.

“In.” The sound felt harsh and sharp in my mouth. “Te…” The ‘g’ escaped me.

Grail. Gravity. Graveyard.

I worked, for three weeks, yet I could not master saying the word. I found it was not just integral that foiled my tongue. I would halt mid-sentence and struggle for a word I needed while my students stared at me, and in my mind, they thought I was crazy.

Oil. Ash. Volumetric. Viscosity.

I would halt, suddenly, searching for the word I needed, the word I wanted, even if it lay in front of me on the page.

Integrated.

Integrated broke me. I slammed my book down on the metal table in front of the whiteboard, furious to the point of tears. They gaped at me, exchanged glances between each other.

“This is useless. I can’t talk!” I threw my hands in the air. “You might as well know, I had an accident a year and a half ago, and I can’t talk. I can’t say,” I snatched up a dry erase marker and scrawled ‘integral’ across the board as I spoke, “this freaking word. They are parent bore engines, but that is an ar.. an ar… damn it!” I wrote ‘archaic’ in large black letters. “Freaking old-fashioned.” I pointed at the textbook. “I hate this book, it doesn’t have half the stuff in it that the book I learned from has, and now I can’t say this word!”

I stopped, took a few deep breaths. They all sat calmly, looking at me like I had just told them you could buy bread in pre-sliced loaves. There was no surprise on their faces, I was stating the obvious, and someone just needed to say ‘duh.’

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix it. I’ve sat in my office every night for three weeks trying to say that.” I pointed at the board behind me. “So…” I was running out of steam, “I’m going to my office. Lab in ten minutes.” I left them in the classroom, to find their own way.

non-fiction 23

Through tears I read my lesson plans, counting how many days until I faced that word again. How many times I would have to replace it with something else. How many nights I needed to stay after students left or come back here after my own time as a student in night classes and force the sounds out of my uncooperative mouth.

I was leaned back in my office chair, hands clenched on the arms, my eyes studying the water stain pattern in the ceiling tile over my desk. The most recent victim of the seemingly never-ending roof leak problem. There was the sound of steel-toed boots on the metal stairs, and I felt the change in the air that came with someone crossing the threshold of my office door.

I looked down from the ceiling tiles. One of my students stood in my open office door. He scuffed his steel-toed boots on the old linoleum before he settled in one of the old-school chairs by the door. I waited. He was quiet in class and sometimes would think about things before he spoke.

He did not ask what happened to me. He told me his story, in plain language, without any pity in his voice. He told me he understood what I was going through. That it was hard to get your mind to act right again. And then he left.

Not long after that, another student slid into the same chair, his hands shoved in his blue jeans’ pockets. He told me he’d had a bad accident, a lot like mine. I realized as he told me what happened that he had a hitch in his speech pattern, a hesitation while he gathered the words he wanted to say. He told me that if I kept trying, that the words I could not say would get easier.

The next day in lecture, when I got hung up on a word, one of them filled in the gap for me. My speechlessness was from surprise that time. I stumbled over a thank you and went on. Over the semester it became a routine, them filling in words I could not say, and me carrying on like I had said it myself.

Over the following weeks, when our department was done for the day, and I sat at my desk studying for my own classes, one or two of them would show up in my office and tell me about something that had happened to them. I listened. They talked. We would sit in silence for a few minutes. And then it was business. Engines, turbos, questions about lab tests or tools.

In the spring it will be five years since that day I don’t remember, and if you hear me talk, I still halt in the middle of my sentences and look for a way to say the words I want.

Or I will spit one out, let it tumble across my confused tongue, and it will fall out all wrong and ugly. I sill limp, if I sit too long. Sometimes I’ll try to do something, and none of my limbs will work as they should. I don’t question my memory like I did though, I just try to write everything down, and keep my scattered brain in order. They were right, my students from that first semester, it has gotten easier.

Next time you see me, you can ask, and I will say ‘integral’ for you. The ‘t’ will be almost silent in my Texas accent, the ‘g’ will grind in my throat before the ‘r’ rolls on my tongue, followed by the crisp ‘al’ on the end. Integral.

non-fiction 25

ONE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

Brian Hottinger

“What is the meaning of life? It is a question that many have attempted to answer since the dawn of man. However, I believe that we have succeeded,” the man on stage said. His black buttoned-up shirt and glasses just a shade off from circular made him look like a poor man’s Steve Jobs.

“The only thing of any meaning to this guy, is his paycheck,” Aaron whispered into Jasmine’s ear, making sure to not disturb anyone else sitting in the large auditorium.

From the front row, Aaron was able to see the beads of sweat already beginning to form on the man’s brow.

“The meaning of life is happiness.” The man on stage continued, pacing back and forth.

Aaron couldn’t help but let out a sustained groan at this cliché. His wife nudged him, trying to get him to shut-up with the unwanted commentary. Jasmine knew that they both needed this. The death of Aaron’s first child still clouded over him. It has been seven years of sarcasm and disconnect to cover up for the loss of the child; and it was only through Jasmine’s proposal of an ultimatum that Aaron agreed to go to this corporate seminar.

“Now how are we to attain this? Is it power? Fame? Of course not. Due to advances in neurotechnology, we now know that happiness is nothing more than the movement and amount of various chemicals in the brain. Now, how can we at HappinessPlus help you gain the life you’ve always wanted? It is quite simple: We pay HappyDonors to voluntarily donate some of these brain chemicals, which we store in one of our state-of-the-art facilities. Then you, the customer, come in for a once-a-week appointment to ‘refill’ your happiness with the donor’s chemicals. I suppose that money can buy happiness,” the man on stage said.

The auditorium of suited men and well-dressed women laughed. Even Aaron had to admit that he was intrigued by this idea. This could be a great opportunity for some people to get a little extra money donating; and for the buyer to gain the happiness they seek. After all, there are some people with plenty of happiness to go around.

“And now, we will have a live demonstration of the process, so any skeptics in the audience can see with their own eyes,” the man said, walking to the side of the stage to direct two people standing behind the curtain. The curtain behind the man on stage was lifted to reveal two hospital beds--each about 5 feet apart--separated by what looked like a blood plasma extraction machine. One man and one woman walked to their respective beds and sat straight up. Aaron noticed that the woman sat straight, eyes fixed on the bright lights in front of her—which glowed on her almost luminescent skin. Aaron also noted her smile, which looked as if it was personally glued onto her face by years of social conditioning. The man was different. His eyes did not hover far from the ground.

He had an untrimmed beard, and long hair so oily that it was a surprise the US hadn’t invaded it yet. These features did not fit with the clothes he was wearing, which were so new that it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if they still had the tags on.

Physicians were led onto the stage, and they began the procedure. “For those of you who are still doubtful of the effectiveness of HappinessPlus, we will be putting MRI machines over the patient’s heads, so we can see exactly what’s going on up there,” The man on stage said, as the doctors continued to prepare the equipment. The doctors inserted a small needle into the back of each patients’ neck, and placed suspended bowl-shaped machines over the heads of both patients. A live MRI depiction of both patients’ brains were displayed on a projection ten feet above them. “Now, the areas of the brain in red are where brain activity is most active. As you all can see, these areas of the brain that are most associated with happiness, are some of the least active parts of Mrs. Manchester’s brain. As the procedure commences, keep your eyes on the change in these parts,” the man on stage said, pointing to the projection with a laser-pointer. Aaron noticed that the man forgot to mention Xavier’s brain, which seemed to also lack a certain glow in those same regions. Very soon after, a small amount of liquid began to drain from Xavier, into the machine. The machine then processed this fluid, and moved it into the back of Lydia’s neck. Aaron was impressed by the fact that neither of the participants flinched during the whole process. As soon as the procedure finished, the man on stage drew everyone’s attention to the changes in the MRI readings. The auditorium erupted in applause when everyone noticed that the parts of Lydia’s brain that were a dull red, lit up like a Christmas tree. When the procedure was finished, and all of the medical equipment was removed, both participants were asked to stand up. Aaron couldn’t help but notice the immediate change in Xavier’s demeanor. It looked as if dark circles had formed around his eyes; and his already nonchalant look, turned into one of unrepentant apathy. The man on stage told Lydia to step to the forefront of the stage, while Xavier was left behind the darkness of the closing curtain.

Alas! I present to you all a changed woman. No longer will she be burdened with the hardships bestowed by depressive thoughts. Now, for only $1,000 per month, you and your loved ones can be bestowed with the gift of happiness,” the man said, throwing his arms out toward Lydia, as if presenting the first patient to be cured of cancer. The audience took a moment to look upon Lydia. There were hush whispers among the audience, who were dazzled by the confident posture, bright eyes, and beaming smile that exuded

fiction 27

“Now we will begin the unobtrusive and painless procedure. The woman on my left is Mrs. Lydia Manchester. Mrs. Manchester is a teacher and mother of four, who can’t seem to find that elusive thing we call ‘happiness.’ Mrs. Manchester has tried all that she could hope to try: Drugs, therapy, taking a walk; but none of these seem to provide the right antidote for her struggle with depression. However, thanks to the kind donation from Xavier, Mrs. Manchester will be able to find that which she seeks most,” the man on stage said, causing an eruption of applause from the audience. Even Aaron found himself applauding along, giving a nod of approval to his wife next to him.

from her. Even Aaron was impressed by the changes he witnessed. What was once a contrived display that alluded at happiness, was now one of genuine comfort and contentment with herself. The audience then erupted in a thunderous standing-ovation. Aaron and his wife followed with the crowd, impressed by the demonstration they were witnessing.

After the seminar, Jasmine and Aaron drove out of downtown Chicago, and into their suburban community. As Aaron swiped his card to gain access to their gated community, Jasmine said, “You haven’t said a word to me the whole drive here.”

“Is that so? I guess the voices in my head must be acting up again,” Aaron replied with a smile.

“This is serious. You know why we went to that seminar. We went because I want to start a family, and I need you to be in it with me.”

Aaron’s eyes remained fixed on the road. “Did you see what they did to that guy? How much do you think they even paid him? It’s dehumanizing. There’s no pretense about it.”

“What about what’s happened to you? What about the family we want to start? I saw what they did to that man, but I also know what you’ve been going through. The donors are all consenting adults, capable of making their own decisions. Nobody is forcing anybody to do anything. Besides, these people are paid for their donations. It’s a win-win situation.”

Aaron did not say anything to this. They arrived at their house, and Aaron pulled the car into their three-car garage. As Aaron took the key from the ignition, Jasmine let out a deep sigh and said, “I know that you don’t want to forget about your child, and I don’t want you to either. But it is time to move on. It’s time to make this family number one in your life. I know there are problems you have with this happiness donation service, but no system is perfect. At some time or another, you’re going to have to put your needs first.” Jasmine then got out of the car, leaving Aaron in the dark garage to think.

The next morning, Jasmine emerged from her room in a rush. Aaron was eating breakfast on the granite countertop, with a plate of scrambled eggs ready for Jasmine. “Damn!

I don’t have time for breakfast this morning. One of my client’s sons just got another DUI, so I don’t have time to eat,” Jasmine said. While heading for the door, she made sure to make a detour to give Aaron a kiss goodbye.

“I was thinking about what you said last night, and I’ve used one of my sick days to make an appointment at the nearby HappinessPlus,” Aaron said.

“I’m glad. Tell me all about it when I get home. I love you,” Jasmine said, as she was heading out the door.

Ten minutes before the appointment time, Aaron walked up to the nearby clinic, which had a bright “HappinessPlus” inscribed right above the door, and “Receivers Only” etched on the door itself. After speaking to the receptionist, Aaron was led to the receiving room, where he was to be given his first dose of happiness.

Aaron was seated in a medical bed. The place was clean, and there was currently nobody else receiving treatment. Aaron watched the one TV in the room, which he was lucky enough to be placed right in front of. The news was on, and the headline read “HappinessPlus marketing concerns.” The sound was not on for the television, so Aaron read the subtitles. … And local advocacy groups have criticized HappinessPlus, citing their recruiting of donors from specifically low-income communities. Meanwhile, HappinessPlus centers continue to spread at an--. The channel was changed to a basketball game. Aaron looked over to the receptionist, annoyed that he didn’t get the watch the rest of that story.

Noticing Aaron’s annoyed look, the receptionist said, “Sorry, I had to check the score.

The game’s almost over. Do you want me to change it back?”

The physician explained the procedure to Aaron. After Aaron signed all of the required documents, the physician had the equipment sterilized and ready to go. Aaron wouldn’t have even known a needle was being inserted into the back of his neck if the physician had not told him. The physician inserted a vial full of some murky yellow liquid into the machine. After a few buttons were pressed, the machine began to drain the vial into the tube connected to the back of Aaron’s neck. Immediately, Aaron felt an instant change in perspective. This was not like a surge from any drug Aaron had tried; but more of an astute awareness to everything that is positive. All negative thoughts and feelings just washed away from Aaron’s mind.

Upon leaving the facility, Aaron looked up at the beautiful sky and took a deep breath of the summer air. The summers in Chicago were always so nice. For a moment, Aaron thought back to what he saw while sitting in the medical chair. He quickly brushed it off, thinking, No news is good news, that’s what I say! Aaron then walked home with an almost skip in his step.

While walking home, Aaron passed neighbors that he couldn’t seem to find a single reason to hate. Aaron became lost in his own commentary on the world around him.

Ah, the McNeils! Sure, their poodle shits in my yard about once every other week, but it can be hard sometimes to remember to clean up. Walking another block, Aaron recognizes the Goldson’s house. Such a beautiful house they have, and such a large garage.

How many square feet is that garage again? I believe they said 606. Mine is only 602. Oh well, can’t win ‘em all!

Later that evening, Aaron was waiting patiently for the arrival of his wife. When she walked in the door, he ran to her like a dog who’s been away from their owner for a month. Telling her all about the great day he had, Aaron convinced his wife to get the procedure done. Jasmine had never seen Aaron this excited before, but she was not about

fiction 29

“No, it’s fine,” Aaron said. He began to reconsider what he was doing. Maybe Aaron should just accept that where he is currently, is where he will always be. Just as these second thoughts were beginning to creep into Aaron’s head, they were interrupted by the physician introducing herself.

to stop and question him.

After what was hands-down the greatest sex Aaron has ever had in his life, he laid in bed and stared at the ceiling. He could hear his wife’s soft breathing. God, he loved her so much. Normally, this is the time that Aaron would lie in bed, sometimes for hours, thinking about past mistakes and regrets. Which one would it be tonight? Maybe it’ll be the one when he asked his 6th grade teacher if she was pregnant. Turns out women can have beer bellies too. He could also think about the time his child died. When you’re drunk, it’s easy to lose track of where a child runs off to. However, tonight was different.

Nothing of the sort crossed Aaron’s mind. Aaron was completely in the present, enjoying nothing but the sound of his wife’s breathing, and the feel of her bare flesh.

Over the next several weeks, Aaron’s life got better and better with each passing day.

More and more of Aaron’s friends and neighbors began going to HappinessPlus. The nearby HappinessPlus became almost like a social club. Every day Aaron’s same routine was continued without a boring moment. He used to hate dealing with clients as chief of sales at his company, but now he can’t get enough of it. He used to hate rush hour traffic when commuting to downtown Chicago; but now, Aaron has noticed more and more people in the nicer cars actually exchange pleasantries when the traffic is at a standstill.

Last but not least, Jasmine, who is also now receiving her weekly happiness, is pregnant.

One day, Aaron and Jasmine were sitting at the dinner table after work, eating a delicious meal prepared by Aaron. Aaron had suddenly found an interest in cooking, so he tried his hand at a Moroccan Tagine dish. “Did you hear? The CEO of HappinessPlus is going to address the issues some people have with their practices.” Jasmine said, knowing that this was something that bothered Aaron in the past.

“This is great news!” Aaron replied. Admittedly, Aaron hadn’t even considered the problems he had with the procedure in the past. However, it can only be a positive thing that the CEO wants to help in any way he can.

Jasmine got the remote and turned on the CEO’s speech. On the TV was the man who first introduced HappinessPlus to Aaron and Jasmine, speaking at a podium. Aaron was happy to see the man lose the Steve Jobs impersonation. The baseball cap and blue jeans made the man at the podium look like an average guy. This look made him feel more homely to Aaron, like he is speaking directly from the hearts of the people. “It is no question that there are growing concerns among certain communities in our country, and the effect of our product on their productivity. Low-skilled labor has declined, due to their inability to work. These are certainly pressing concerns on our economy. After a lengthy legal discussion with the United States government, we have reached a compromise which I believe we can all get behind. HappinessPlus is currently building facilities in several South American and African countries. Our company’s plan is to outsource the donation process. Through this process, we will be giving money to third-world countries, which they can use to fund better education, medicine, and infrastructure for their people. For us, we will be able to provide our customers with lower prices, so more

people will be able to afford happiness. Thank you.” The crowd listening behind the camera applauded the man as he walked off the stage.

Aaron could hardly contain his excitement, knowing that not only will he be able to receive more treatments, but more people he knows will be able to enjoy life as much as he does. However, there was a slight twinge in the back of Aaron’s stomach, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Aaron made sure to schedule an extra appointment at HappinessPlus the next day.

Several months have now passed since the CEO’s speech, and things are better than ever for Aaron and Jasmine. Their baby is going to be a boy, and they’re still trying to decide on a name. Aaron wants his child’s name to be Leonidas, because it sounds really cool. Jasmine is not currently on board with this idea, but Aaron is sure she’ll warm up to it. Still working the same amazing job, Aaron has found no reason to change anything else in his life. Since it is Monday after work, Aaron has an appointment at HappinessPlus. Aaron entered the HappinessPlus, said a warm “hello” to the receptionist, and made his way to the medical chair to await his treatment.

Again, the news was left on in front of Aaron. The TV read, “Breaking News: Local dog is best dog we’ve ever seen. More at 10.” Now this is the kind of news Aaron could

fiction 31

MORGEN MACKE. Nose Cliff,

This piece is a composite image of a self portrait and a pioneer photo from the 1800's.

get behind. Aaron was glad about the new approach the news networks seemed to be taking. Bad news just leads to bad thoughts, and bad thoughts lead to unhappiness.

After Aaron’s administration of his happiness, he left the facility and breathed in the beautiful, fresh air. However, this time something disturbed the calm. Aaron could hear a man yelling several blocks down the road, so he decided to investigate. Finding the source of the yelling, Aaron saw a man standing on a large wooden block. The man’s hair was overgrown and oily. Aaron felt like he had seen this man before, but he couldn’t quite remember where. The only thing in his hands was a laptop. The man continued to yell at passerbys, “Come, face what you are causing! Choosing to ignore these problems does not mean they don’t exist! Please, they need your help.”

Aaron chuckled at these borderline-incoherent ramblings, but he didn’t like this sort of negative presence in his neighborhood. Aaron decided to politely ask the man to leave.

“No! Sir, you must see what your actions cause so we can stop this.” The man yelled in an almost frenzy, gesturing his hands wildly.

“Alright, I’ll see what you want me to see.” Aaron said. After all, maybe it was a silly cat video; Jasmine always loves to show Aaron silly cat videos.

“Look here. A journalist managed to get candid footage into a state-sanctioned Ethiopian HappinessPlus farm,” the man said. The man hit play on the video. The film began in complete darkness, all that could be heard is the crackling of the cameraman’s footsteps. Night vision was turned on, and a green light illuminated the environment.

The man was standing outside of what looked like a large compound, with tall fencing surrounding the perimeter. Inside the fence, there were emaciated human-like figures stumbling. Some of them were groaning, others laying in complete silence. The camera panned over to the left, and a body was leaning against the fence, his face looking directly at the camera. He mumbled something, but the camera didn’t pick up what it was.

Aaron took a few steps back to take in what he just saw. He stared blankly at the now black computer screen, seeing only his own reflection. As it happened many months before, that inexplicable twinge in the back of his stomach emerged. How could this happen? He just received his happiness a few moments ago. While Aaron is not able to properly feel the negative things he used to feel, he can remember when he did. How better it is for Aaron to leave the past where it belongs. The only thing Aaron should think about, is providing the best possible future for his son. Considering all of this, Aaron turned his back to the protestor, and began dialing on his phone.

“Hello…. Yes, I’d like to report a neighborhood disturbance…. We have a vagrant shouting the most unpleasant things at people, and I would like him removed…. Thank you,” Aaron said, as he hung up the phone.

AURORA

I sat in the Taco Bell alone, squirming nervously on the cheap, faux-leather seats. This place had always felt so safe. It was warm and comforting, even with its bright orange and purple walls and those strange abstract paintings that looked like a five-year-old created them. But now this Taco Bell felt like my prison. Today wasn’t about comfort or filling my stomach with cheap, hot, and delicious ground beef. Today was about reconnecting with an old friend, a friend who I had left behind quite some time ago. After all that we had been through together, I never would have thought that our friendship would end, but eventually some people do just grow apart I guess.

I had already ordered and picked out the table we would sit at. I was staring at her back as she ordered, her silky black hair lying perfectly across her shoulders, her hips moving back and forth as she shifted her weight while she talked to the pimply teenager behind the register. Her waist was still slender, even after having her daughter, and memories of wrapping my arms around that waist in friendly hugs sprang into my mind. She finally turned to look at me, giving me one of those cute, excited smiles that I was so familiar with, and my heart quivered.

Now both at the table, I wasn’t sure what to say. How do you re-introduce yourself to someone who used to know everything about you? I sipped at my drink anxiously, hoping that she would break the silence in some cute, awkward way, just like she always used to.

“Well, uh. I mean. You look really good. That’s a new top right? Probably got it at Kohl’s. I know you always shop there.” It wasn’t new. I’d had it for nearly a year now, but

fiction 33

Melissa Beal

she wouldn’t know that. By that time we had already been out of contact.

“Oh. Well, thanks. Yeah, it’s new. I really like it, and it’s super soft. Wanna feel?” The conversation slowly began to flow like we had never stopped talking, and that adorable smile broke out across her face again. Her fingers lightly brushed my arm; I felt their gentle pressure through the fabric of my shirt, the touch causing goose bumps to rise up across my arm. She pulled her hand away, not realizing what she was doing to me, and continued on with the small talk. Stories about clothes and college and her daughter flowed freely, but I stayed in that moment where her hand was on my arm. I wish I could have grabbed that hand and held it tight, never to let it go again. But I couldn’t.

They called out our numbers, and we both rose to get our trays of food. The conversation now turned to how our Taco Bell orders had changed since we had stopped going together every week. Mine had grown, along with my body, because after she left me I started eating enough food for the two of us. Hers had shrunk, because, as she told me, she couldn’t eat Taco Bell while she was pregnant because it made her feel sick. Since then, she had never been able to gorge herself here quite the same. So I sat down with my pile of quesaritos, crunchwraps, and quesadillas, while she placed a light tray with a few tacos on it on the table. I squirmed self-consciously at the difference.

We were silent for a while as we each picked out our first item to eat and unwrapped it. Before she took a bite, she looked up at me seriously. “Why did you never try to talk to me again? Like, look, I know that we had issues. After I ran away from home and got pregnant, I didn’t have a phone and it was hard to talk. And then after that, we got in a fight because you never seemed to have time for me. But I had to reach out to you to plan today, because I felt guilty. Why did you never come to me? I mean, come on, it’s been a year.” She lifted her taco to her mouth and took a small bite, her actions casual, but her eyes repeating the burning question.

I held a warm quesarito in my hands and bit my lip. Why had I never tried to talk to her again? She wanted to know. But how do I tell her that I couldn’t speak to her because she broke my heart? How am I supposed to tell her that she wasn’t only a friend to me, but my first love? I stared down at my food and chewed on my lip incessantly. Do I tell her the truth or do I hide my love from her one last time?

“Well?” She sounded impatient, more than impatient. It was my fault for not trying to contact her again I suppose. I looked up at her and opened my mouth, but all my words caught in my throat. I closed my mouth again, unsure of how to tell her that for four years I had loved her deeply and madly, that for four years I had dreamed of holding her in my arms, that for four years I wished I could tell her to give up on those guys she wanted to be with, those guys that all treated her like shit. For four years I had wanted her to be mine.

But then she left me out in the cold a year ago because I didn’t have the time to visit, and my heart had shattered into a million pieces. She had told me I wasn’t a good friend, told me I had never done anything for her, told me that the guy she was with cared for

her more than I ever had or could. After that, I couldn’t bear to speak to her or look at her again. All I could do now was look at her sadly, longing to go back to a time where she had never spoken those words.

“There has to be some reason. You always came up with these wild excuses about how busy you were with your relationship or things you were doing. I mean, come on.

We used to hang out all the time and then all of a sudden you’re always busy?” Her eyes were burning with anger and sadness, a familiar look. I had seen her look this way every time her mom had yelled at her, and I had seen this look every time another one of her boyfriends left her, betrayed her, or worse. My chest felt tight knowing that I was causing her similar pain.

“I mean look, I get it, but you used to always have time for your best friend. And then all of a sudden it seemed like you had none. It really hurt.” I watched those beautiful brown lips of hers as she took an angry bite out of her taco. I swallowed hard. All of those old feelings were coming back, and I thought of that one night, 3 years back now, where she had sat in my room, crying. Her mom had said something or other to her, and her heart was damaged once again. I remember holding her in my arms, her head resting on my chest, and my heart pounding in my chest. When she looked up at me and asked me if life was still worth living, I looked into those tear-filled eyes and wanted to kiss her so desperately it hurt. I wanted to press my lips against hers, taste her sorrows, and tell her that she should live for me, for my love. Tell her that I thought she was the most beautiful and amazing girl in the entire world. But all I could do was smile and say that of course it was, because we were best friends and I couldn’t live without her; half-truths that I had been telling her for years.

“I think I was just lost,” I glanced around the Taco Bell, now trying to avoid her piercing gaze. “Lost in that relationship with Daniel, struggling to take care of him and barely taking care of myself. Things are better now though, without him that is. I know that I missed out on the most important parts of your life. Your daughter was born and I never met her. She’s what, a little over one year old now? I’ve missed her birthday, and I always promised that I would be there for your children. So I’m really sorry. I’ve failed as a friend.” Tears welled up in my eyes. This was as honest as I could be with her. I would never tell her that I loved her, but at least I could give her some insight into how terribly distraught I was that I’ve missed years of her life. I didn’t even know who she was any more. I missed her, but at the same time knew that I could never love her or be with her like I was before.

fiction 35

“I—“ The words caught in my throat again. I cleared it and started once more. “Aurora, I just… I was busy. I had been getting really serious with Daniel, so that meant two holidays instead of just one. And school is a burden, and my parents were moving, and my grandma’s health is failing… My life had gotten so chaotic. I just couldn’t keep up.”

More excuses. I fed her more excuses, the same excuses I had been feeding her for years just to keep her from the truth.

KATIE KNIGHT. Untitled,

Colored pencil on 8.5" x 11" paper.

She sighed and put her half-eaten taco down, glancing at me dejectedly. “I know; I get it. I’m sorry. You went through a lot too during all those years, I just… I guess I just wish that we could have gone through all of this together. But distance and time tore us apart.

We both made bad decisions. I’m sorry. About all of it.”

I smiled up at her weakly. “Me too.”

I choked on a bite of quesarito, coughing lightly. Love. We had always told each other we loved one another but my love was different than hers. When we would hold hands in the hallways of our high school, she thought that it was a friendly comfort, but I cherished those moments, the softness of her skin against mine, our fingers intertwined.

When people whispered rumors about us being together, she laughed them off, while I wondered if those rumors could ever become truth. When I jokingly asked her if she wanted to get married, she thought up a plan for us to wear fake wedding rings and drive away unwanted guys. But I would have actually spent the rest of my life with her, raised a family with her, and loved her for all eternity if she had just let me.

“I love you too. I’ve missed this just as much as you. We should definitely hang out more.” I knew this was bad for me. I knew that I would just end up falling in love with her all over again and that she would never return my feelings. But I couldn’t help it. She was perfect, and she was my everything. No matter how much it hurt never to feel my lips against hers, never to lay next to her at night, never to look into her eyes and tell her honestly how much I loved her, I still wanted her by my side.

She looked radiant now, knowing that she had rekindled our friendship. She happily picked up that taco and continued to take dainty bites out of it. I lifted my quesarito to my mouth and carefully took another bite. I was afraid of this, afraid of our friendship.

Because as much as I wanted to be around her, there was only so long that I could last before my broken heart got in the way again, before I couldn’t bear talking with her again, before I remembered all those terrible things she said to me a year ago when I didn’t have the time to come see her. I chewed slowly. How long could I last this time? Another year, maybe two? I looked up from my food and stared into those beautiful, dark brown eyes of hers. She would never know how I really felt, and I knew that this would always cause a rift in our friendship that would never heal, because I loved her. And she would never know.

fiction 37

“God, you know how much I’ve missed you? You are the only person on this planet who really gets me, I swear. I love you so much.”

LILY-LIVERED

Taylor Watkins

He’d been there for a while now. The buzzing hum of the dim fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound in the bus station. He’d undershot it and gotten there two hours too early. So, he waited.

He seemed to be the only passenger on the eleven-thirty bus to Duluth—to anywhere.

It was only him and the wiry, underpaid attendant sitting behind bulletproof glass on the other side of the building. When he bought his ticket, she hadn’t said a word to him—she’d barely even looked at him when she passed him the slip of paper.

His stomach growled for the second time in the past three minutes, and he stood and walked over to the dated vending machines at the far wall. The faded gray buttons jutted out of the machine, their bulky numbers slowly chipped away from all of the oil that came with being touched by so many fingertips. The glass of the machine had a long, deep scratch running down the diagonal of it, as if someone had once unsuccessfully taken a knife to the machine in order to steal the goods inside. Bills weren’t an option for this one—it only took coins.

Most of the spirals were empty, but there were a few cheap packages remaining. When he finally decided on dill potato chips, he reached into the front pocket of his worn jeans, which had become three sizes too big for him over the past six months, and pulled out a handful of spare change. A quarter fell from his hand and collided with the cracked tile floor with a clack.

He stooped down to pick it up, and when he straightened, he caught a glance at his reflection in the glass. Against the black background, one could barely tell that the diaphanous eyes that stared back at him were tinged with yellow. He averted his gaze and fed the coins into the machine.

He pressed a short series of buttons and, slowly, the gears in the machine started to turn, and the spiral that the chips were sitting on twisted obediently. The bag toppled to the bottom of the machine and he bent down to grab the snack.

His back ached and sent dull pains throughout the rest of his torso. What else was new?

As he walked back to his chair, thunder boomed in the distance. The moon could still be seen through the window, though, so the storm hadn’t reached the station yet.

The chips were stale. It was not surprising. He threw them in the trash can next to him.

He took an orange pill bottle from his right back pocket, popped an escitalopram, and swallowed it dry.

It had been raining all week. The water pelting against the windowpane developed into a familiar white noise over the years, and some nights now when the pain was too much to bear, he would play a cassette that mimicked the sound of rain in order to try

and get some sleep.

He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his head on his open palm. His eyes shut as he took a shallow breath, and then another. He put his faith into the distant attendant. Surely, she would make an announcement over the intercom when his bus finally arrived.

His attempt at rest only lasted about fifteen minutes, however. A raggedy man in a maroon corduroy trench coat had collapsed into the chair facing him.

He would never be able to sleep with an audience. Irritated, he pulled a pack of Sterlings out from his left back pocket along with a matchbook and lit one.

The stranger watched him carefully. “Mind if I bum one?” he rasped. It sounded like he’d already had enough for the both of them.

After a moment of silent smoking between the two of them, the stranger said, “These’ll kill yah, yah know.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“And it don’t bother yah none?” the stranger asked, his gray eyebrow arched.

He shook his head, but when he swallowed, his throat was thicker than usual.

The stranger studied him for a moment, and then asked, “Yah from around here?”

“Used to be.”

“Where yah headed?”

He sat back in his chair as the stranger across from him fiddled with a golden hoop earring in his left ear.

He finally decided to answer him. “Duluth. Eleven-thirty. You?” The stranger shook his head, his matted gray ponytail hitting the side of his neck as he did so. “Not going nowhere. Just decided to get in somewhere dry before it starts pouring.” He took a drag from the gift of a cigarette.

He’d supposed the stranger was homeless when he sat down, and his last comment simply reassured him of that. He didn’t mind the interruption or lending a cigarette so much anymore.

“Speakin’ of killin’,” the stranger began, “Yah ain’t doing so hot yahself, is yah?” He looked pointedly at the shaking cigarette between the other man’s teeth.

He could tell that the old man was surveying the abnormal yellowish tint of his hands and face. He felt a hot mixture of anger, shame, and surprise flare up in his abdomen.

fiction 39

He hesitated for a moment before he stretched out the open pack towards the man, who slid a long paper tube from the carton, put it between his browning teeth, and lit it with his own match.

“What kind of question is that?”

The stranger shrugged, unbothered by his tone. “An honest one.”

He felt his shoulders relax in defeat, and he sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, his head hanging. He chuckled once, humorlessly. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Why are yah not at the hospital?”

He frowned. “I could ask you the same thing.” He inhaled and softened his attitude—this man didn’t necessarily deserve any sort of rudeness, even if he was being a bit invasive. “Don’t want to be. Almost nobody knows about it.”

The old man nodded and took another drag from his cigarette. “Believe yah going to heaven, then?”

Now it was his turn to shrug. “Used to.”

“Lots of people used to. It’s a nice thought; a comforting one. People don’t like thinking about their loved ones bein’ all but decayed and nothin’ else.”

“So, you don’t believe in heaven or hell?” he asked the old man.

The old man shook his head. “I used to be Buddhist. Thought that when I finally ate it I’d come back one day as somethin’ I wasn’t in this life. Stronger, as a bull. Lither, as a willow. Smarter, as a crow.” He hacked something from his throat several times, and it took him a moment to realize that the horrid sound was actually the man’s laugh, affected by decades of cigarettes and God knows what else. “Now I know it’s just wishful thinkin’. Who’s to say, really? If there is a God, and a heaven, I’d be overjoyed to see my daughter again. But what kind of a God takes a little girl away, eh?”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes itched. He knew the sleepless nights were starting to catch up to him—the body needed rest despite the pain, and he’d been tired all day today. He focused on the stranger’s dirty brown fingernails as they toyed with a button on his coat.

The man spit on the tile floor and then scraped over it with his laceless black boot.

The action made him lift his brows at the stranger involuntarily.

The old man took another drag of his cigarette. “Yah know…I think the best way to think about it is to be the best person you can be in life. Be kind. Be generous. Don’t hold grudges, and let past anger go. Yer only gonna make yerself miserable if yer reserved and cold yer whole life.” He spread his hands in a strange type of surrender and continued. “Yer also gonna regret it if you keep to yerself most of the time. Sure, alone time is fine and even necessary on occasion. But no man is an island. You make life great, but friends and good company enhance it.” He put his hands into his coat pockets and shrugged again. “Without knowing about after-death, that’s really all yah can do—that, and hope for the best.”

His eyes had begun to droop involuntarily during the man’s speech, and, not wanting to be rude, he said, “I know what you mean.” He realized that he meant the statement genuinely. “But I’m very tired, and I think I should try and rest.”

The old man’s face broke into a grin—a warm, funny, grandfather-like grin—and he croaked, “Go on, then. Thanks for talkin’ to an old frog like me for a time. I’ll leave yah be.”

He extinguished his cigarette and flicked it away, and then he propped his head up on his palm using the arm of the chair and shut his eyes. *** “All passengers boarding the eleven-thirty bus to Duluth, please line up behind the yellow tape. All passengers to Duluth, please line up behind the yellow tape; you’re boarding soon.”

He stood, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and looked around the station. No sign of the man remained.

Thunder boomed once more overhead, and abruptly, rain pelted the skylight. Streaks of water cascaded down the windows of the station, and in the darkness of the glass, his reflection stared back at him.

GABRIELLE WALTER. Weekend Blues,

Pen.

fiction 41

The attendant over the PA woke him up with a jolt. The conversation with the stranger was still fresh in his mind, and he looked up to thank the old man for killing time with him, but the seat in front of him was empty.

FEED ME

The sun has not even begun to rise as I feel my cat’s paw smacking my face. I roll to my left side, eager not to let her win the battle this early on a Saturday morning. No such luck, she begins smacking me with her now open-clawed paw. Brat, I think as I throw the covers over my head to protect myself from her blows.

“My bowl, it’s empty.”

What? Who said that? My roommate left for work an hour ago, I’m home alone.

“Hello?” I whisper, my eyes fearfully shooting open as I pull the covers from my head.

“My. Bowl. It’s. Empty.” A voice echos once more.

“Hello?” I say again, my voice shaking with nerves.

“It’s me, you idiot!”

My jaw drops. “This is not happening. I am still asleep.”

“Did I stutter? I said, my bowl is empty. Fill it! Now!” My cat’s soul-capturing eyes are now staring directly into mine.

“Did you jus-“ “Yes, yes, yes, I talk. Now that we’re passed this and on to more pressing issues, the food bowl situation still remains empty,” she says beginning to lick her left front paw: as if when she used it to wake me it gave her germs she could no longer stand to possess.

“But… How? Why? Why now?” I stutter.

“Because you nitwit, like I’ve so clearly mentioned before my food bowl is empty! I’m hungry now!” ▲

GABRIELLE WALTER.

Chalk Pastels.

Melt Down

fiction 43

Kellis Pike

I rush out of bed and to my closet where I kept her food. “I’ll fill it now!” I say, suddenly afraid of my 9-pound cat.

“Fresh water wouldn’t hurt, while you’re at it.”

“Of course! I’ll do that.” What the hell is happening?

“Don’t get any ideas by the way, say one word of me speaking here this morning, and I’ll make sure you’re sent straight to the Looney bin.”

I stop filling the water in her bowl, “What? But, why?”

“Does it look like I have time for appearances? No time for Ellen DeGeneres when I have moths around the house to keep under control. Do you think they’re going to kill themselves?”

“No, Bu-” “But nothing. No one can know,” she says, beginning to eat her fresh bowl of food.

“But we could be famous!” I bellow.

She stops eating abruptly, choking on her last bite. “FAMOUS?! Do you really think I want to give up my life of absolute leisure for fame? Naps don’t take themselves you stupid human!”

She had a point. Naps were a necessity in this household.

“But you talk! This is groundbreaking! We should at least tell NASA… Or something!

I don’t know.” I state, beginning to pace the bedroom floor, unable to sit still.

“Yeah, and so does that imbecile dog of your roommates, Morty. Stupid canine. This isn’t new human.”

“Morty? No!” I barely whisper, astonished.

“See for yourself.”

I run from the room, fueled solely by adrenaline. “Morty? Morty! Where are you?

Come here buddy!” I find him on the couch in the living room, staring at me blankly.

“Can… Can you talk too?”

His head turns quickly to the side, like any curious dog before he dashes off the couch and into my bedroom. I run after him, anxious for answers. Entering my room shortly after Morty, I see him staring expectantly into the eyes of my now talking cat.

“It’s okay, she knows.”

Morty looks from her, to me, and back again before both of their eyes fall to me.

Silence fills the room, and then Morty begins towards me. Was this it? He stops in front of me and looks up into my eyes; this is it, he is going to speak!

“Well, now that the cat’s out the bag… My food bowl, too, is empty.”

HOLY INCOMPLETE

Joanna Byrne

Travis lay naked on his bed, the sheets kicked to the side, his eyes fixed on the pattern of ceiling tiles above him in the gray light. He thought they looked different than they should have in a hospital, but this was not a hospital, and he should not even be here.

They were doing what they should, but they were not quite right.

His father would have called him lucky. Maybe, after a few drinks, he would have said Travis had been touched by Odin. It would have taken the alcohol to bring up his father’s old beliefs, repressed to live through Scientology taking over the Roman Catholic Church, and subsequently the government.

His mother would have cried that he was a miracle that the Pope, the real Pope, not the pretender that lived in the Vatican now, would need to hear about it. She would have clutched her rosary and prayed thanks for a sign from God. His father would have shaken his head and told her that advances in medical science coming from the Church of Science were not miracles of her God or any of his gods.

She would have argued.

Travis raised his hands over his face, studying his palms. They looked like his hands, but the left one was alien to him. His middle finger did not have the knot at the last joint where he broke it as a kid. There was no scar from the stitches that had held the skin together there. He imagined the color was a little different, more consistent than his right hand.

His parents were dead. His dad had died of cancer not long after Travis joined the military. The last time they had talked, Travis had told him that he had been accepted into the space branch, that he would go to four more years of school, and be an officer.

He would have a chance at a good life. Though it was all too late to get his dad access to the advanced medical treatment reserved for members of the military, the Church and the government. His mother prayed a lot, but never got her miracles. Even though the only legal religion was the Divine Cosmos now, she would have cried out to the heavens that the resurrection of her son was a sign from God. If she was still alive.

He pushed his hands across his face, wiping away tears that had escaped his eyes, pushing his too-long hair back from his face. The last conversation he had with his mother

fiction 45

They called him a dead man living on the news. The headlines on the tablet he had been given said ‘the resurrected soldier.’ Dr. Larson said he was reborn of Chaos. The chosen of the Divine Cosmos, according to the Church of Science.

was the morning of his crash. He always called her before he did a test flight.

“I’m going up in a new ship today, Mom.” “Be safe and come home, Travis. I will pray for you.”

“We’ve talked about this, Mom. If you can’t let Catholicism go, can you at least accept that it doesn’t exist anymore? Or that it isn’t legal?”

She was silent for a moment, her face drawn tight, and Travis imagined that he could feel her anger across the telecom.

“You may be brainwashed by the military, Travis, but I know my God is real.”

He had pressed his face in his hands then, frustration rolling over him. “I can’t do this, Mom. Bye.” She held her silence, looking at him expectantly through the telecom.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Travis.”

Passing as a believer in the required religious system was easy enough for him, Travis had been born into that new world, a world of secret beliefs and people passing as faithful followers of the Church of Science. Growing up in a home with parents who did not agree on religion had allowed him to learn the skills to play along. He did not believe any of it, even his proclaimed devotion to the Divine Cosmos. That was just a requirement of his job, and it was not a difficult religion to follow. You paid your tithes, preferably as a direct draft from your check, just like you paid your taxes. You appeared at ceremonies in your military uniform and promised to obey the orders of the Divine Cosmos as directed by the leaders of the Holy Roman Church of Science. His mother had called it the unholy union of Satan and the corruption of the Vatican, but Satan never came up in the Church of Science. The Divine Cosmos did not have time for standards of good and evil.

Travis sat up, pushing his back against the wall, and looking down at his body. The seam between the old and the new, the organic and the machine, looked like the bead of a weld where the nanobot technology meshed with his body. There were memories in his head of the crash, they haunted his sleep, but he could not recall them in his waking moments. No, his memories were jumbled, one of machines and cold, just a flash, and then nothing again. His doctor, James Larson, told him that was when they had taken his body out of cryogenic storage, let his brain thaw enough to see if there was anything left. His brain scans had returned no response. His brain had been dead.

He had been frozen for twenty years, his body meant to be a science experiment for the Research Technology Center, but never meant to be brought back to life.

The memory of his awakening was vivid, the real nightmare he lived.

Cold. Cold breath fogged above him, his eyelids dragging as he opened them. Bright

lights, and bitter cold. Pain. Hot, searing fire shooting through him, across him.

“Oh shit.”

Travis tried to sit up, but his body was not his own, and it ignored his mind.

“Get Dr. Larson. Now.” A buzzing sound, then a hiss. A loud click of a heavy door closing.

The seam between nanobot skin and organic skin curled over his shoulder, and ran down his torso, a serpentine line, cutting across his hip bone. Halfway down his thigh, it started again, a seam that marked all the missing pieces of his body. Under his fingers the seam felt like the bead of a fine weld, slightly rippled where each puddle of metal ran over the next, but it was malleable, giving to pressure just like the organic skin next to it. Sunlight was beginning to turn the room a yellow gold, a beam of it reaching out to touch him, moving slowly across the floor toward the bed. He imagined that when the light touched his fake body, it would burst into flames, like a vampire, and that the nurses who checked on him would have to push a stake through his half-nanobot heart.

He swung his legs off the other side of the bed, avoiding the sunlight, and reached for his clothes. They were in a pile next to the bed where he had dropped them the night before. The shirt was a soft white fabric that lay close to his body, letting the seam show across his chest and down his back. He pulled the black pants on, dragging the fabric across his fake skin. He thought that the real Travis was numb to its touch. That he was still frozen, and the only warm part of him was the parts constructed of microscopic machines. He would never tell that to anyone but Larson. Larson knew he was Chaos.

The feeling of spiraling out of control hit him. His chest tightened, his breaths came short, and his hands shook as he pulled his shirt over the waist of his pants. His mind was not in his body, his body was not his own. The world was spinning out from under him, and he was watching himself, standing there in the stark white room.

Travis stood very still, squeezing his eyes shut, and raising his hands slowly to cover his ears. He held a breath, forcing himself to let it escape slowly. Forcing himself to take a long, deep breath in.

Right finger.

fiction 47

Travis pushed the memory away. It was not a fond memory. Dr. Larson called him Chaos. The unintentional creation born from technology that was advancing faster than it could be understood. That was what Larson had said. He had said a lot of things to Travis, in their private conversations, and Travis was terrified. The world had changed while he was dead, with extremist groups rising up under the ever-tightening hand of the Church and the government. Religious guerrilla wars had broken out across the world.

A second colony had been established on Delta Bravia 4, delivered by a ship that had launched before Travis’ had died. The colony had terraformed the desert planet into a farming utopia, and were a year away from completing their space station.

He tapped the side of his head with his right pointer finger.

Left finger.

He did the same with his left.

They aren’t the same. No. Right finger.

He tapped his right again. Then his left.

They both obey. They are both mine.

The weight started to lift, the pressure around his chest lightened, and he opened his eyes. Spots swam in his vision, dancing across the wall, across the frosty screens of the silent monitors left to sleep in this room, without disturbing him. Slowly the spots cleared up, and he lowered his hands, studying the cabinet under the monitors. There were socks there, and shoes. He knew it would be too much though, to drag socks across his two different feet, to feel the difference in them, the sensitivity of the nanoskin, perfectly warm under his fingers, and the cool, clammy feel of his natural skin.

Travis walked across the room, ignoring the beam of morning sunlight that had spread almost to the door, letting it play across the fabric of his pants, pushing the fantasy of bursting into flames back in his mind. The door slid open when he reached for it, letting him step into the quiet hall outside. The Research Technology Center’s private rehab facility was used exclusively for upper-level military, government officials, and upper level members of the Church. The cozy atmosphere allowed privacy, though he knew that every moment of every day was monitored. Everything he did, or did not do, was documented and analyzed. Dr. Larson was very upfront with him about that. A nurse greeted him at the end of the hall, looking up from her tablet and smiling.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan.”

“Hello, Nancy. Am I too late for breakfast?”

“No, they just put out the buffet, dear.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled at her. It was his smile, his mouth, his face. It just was not his foot that pressed into the short Berber carpet or his fingers that trailed across the door as he pushed through. Larson told him he should not focus so much on the differences, but more on the similarities.

“Good morning, Travis,” Dr. James Larson was sitting in his usual place, a cup of coffee by his hand, and his tablet on the table top. “How are you this morning?”

“I am chaotic, as always.”

The room was otherwise empty, though that was normal. There were few patients here, and several of them were not well enough to leave their rooms.

“As always. Come sit, let us talk a while.”

Travis nodded as he stopped at the coffee bar, pushing an empty cup to the automated

system. A moment passed, and it came on, a stream of hot coffee falling into the cup.

Travis imagined pushing his fake hand under the stream and the nanobot skin burning away, revealing tiny the nanobots underneath, all scrambling to hide as their cover was burned away. The coffee was not hot enough to burn the nanobot skin away, Travis knew that, and abandoned the fantasy. His cup was full, the stream of coffee had stopped while he let his imagination run rampant. Careful not to spill the dark liquid, he walked to the table and sat down across from Dr. Larson.

Larson studied him, his warm green eyes were framed with gray eyebrows and high cheekbones, divided by an aquiline nose. His lifelong work had been designing the nanobots that were used to rebuild Travis’ body, though they had not been created with the intention of bringing anyone back to life. Three months of breakfasting with Larson and Travis had never felt that the older man was lording his accomplishment over him.

Travis turned his cup, watching the surface ripple with the motion. His psychologist was not aware of the things Travis told Larson in their conversations. Larson had religiously kept his word that he would never share anything Travis confided in him. “I would like to do something…”

“Being static is not good for a man. How are your readings going?”

“Good enough. The Classics were easy to master.”

“If you run out of topics, let me know.”

“I would like to discuss some things with someone who has also studied history and philosophy.”

Larson took a draft of his coffee. “I believe you have far surpassed what is taught these days, even in the Church.”

“Could you spare the time?”

“Happily, though it will be infrequent. Your resurrection did not bring the end of my research.”

“Of course.”

Travis could feel Larson studying him as he stared down at his coffee, gently bumping the cup to agitate the surface.

“Perhaps the Church could provide you with someone to discuss history with. They may not advocate it being taught to the populace, but there are many learned men that inhabit the Vatican,” Larson waved a hand, “and here too, though they might not welcome being pulled away from their research.”

Travis looked up at Larson, at the tuft of white hair that fell over his brow, matching the white lab coat that he wore, the pocket straining to hold a collection of pens and notepads.

fiction 49

“Dr. Cinta says you are ready to start reintegrating into daily life.”

ANN SIKES. My Sapphire Pendant & Earring

Oil Paint on stretched canvas.

“Perhaps.”

“You know that you are theirs, Travis. They are going to use you as an icon of their belief system, and you will be given the choice of complying or becoming nothing.”

“Nothing.”

“I do not really know what they would do with you, Travis.”

“I am your creation.”

Larson chuckled, “I am not Frankenstein.”

The first time Larson had said that Travis did not understand the reference, which had elicited Larson to introduce him to history and literature. “Of course, you are right.

What should I do?”

Travis met Larson’s gaze, smiling a tight smile, barely exposing his teeth between his lips. “Chaos.”

Larson thumped the table again, and Travis’ looked down at the coffee. The fantasy of it burning the nanobot skin away overwhelmed him.

“Are you having a rough morning, Travis?”

“Yes.” Travis pushed the coffee across the table.

Larson picked the cup up, holding it over the center of the table, his eyebrows raised to form the question.

Travis extended his left hand under the cup, grimacing as his breath quickened.

Larson turned the cup over enough to let a little coffee run out, down the side of the cup, over Travis’ hand and wrist, splattering on the table. Travis sucked a breath through his teeth, forcing himself to watch his hand, not flinching as the heat of the coffee washed over the nanoskin. His heart felt like it would explode through the seam across his chest, the organ itself constructed of half nanobot constructed tissue, half organic tissue, and reacting to his anxiety as one organ. The breath he took in saturated one organic lung, one built of nanotissue. He pressed his eyes shut, living the feeling of hot coffee pouring over the hand.

My hand.

He opened his eyes, looking down at his hand, then at the coffee cup above it and finally at Larson’s inquisitive face.

“My hand.”

“Yes, your hand.” Larson set the cup down. “I think that either Dr. Cinta does not

fiction 51

“I cannot tell you what to do, Travis. That is for you to decide.” Larson tapped the table with his finger, drawing Travis’ eyes back to the rippling surface of his coffee. “The best I can tell you is that you should do what you do best, Chaos.”

know you as well as I do, or you are more convincing with people who make decisions about your future.”

Travis pulled the hand back, leaving the splatter of cooling coffee on the table top, and took the napkin that Larson offered him, drying the nanoskin. He took up the cup, in that hand, that thing, and pressed it to his lips, letting the bitter flavor fill his mouth before he swallowed.

“I am tired of being kept locked away, a privileged prisoner.”

“You are not a man to be happy without action. I will see if the Church will introduce you to someone who you can interact with. But for now,” Larson stood up, “I have work to do.”

Travis stood, leaving his half-empty coffee cup and the small splatter of coffee on the table. He clutched the damp napkin in his right hand. “What shall I spend my time on, until then?”

“What you are expected to do, and what you need to do. Everything else you do because it is what you will be.” Larson tapped his temple at the edge of his snowy hair.

“Make peace with your mind, Travis. I will see you tomorrow.”

Travis scowled at him, frustration filling his chest with heat, even as Larson turned away, leaving him in the cafeteria, alone even as other patients and staff trickled in. He could not speak with them, they did not know what he was, and no one asked. He could not bear the thought of the plain white walls in his room, or the ceiling tiles that were not quite right, so he sat back down, studying the spilled coffee. His right hand clutched the napkin, the left lay open before him, perfectly still.

I am born of Chaos, the unknown. I will be Chaos.

He picked up the cup with his left hand and poured what remained of the coffee over his right hand. The napkin soaked up what it could, becoming a soggy ball under his fingers, the coffee pooling around his hand and running over the older spill. The frustration in his chest cooled, and the whirring thoughts that spun around in his mind slowed, narrowing to one thing, one single idea that shivered and trembled in the possibilities of the future that could be. In the future that could be the dead man living.

STELLA

James Loss Eddie leaned his head back and blew a heavy breath from his nostrils, letting the sun warm his face. Spring had finally arrived and saved Eddie from frozen sidewalks and shivering nights, where no amount of blankets or extra jackets could bring warmth.

Eddie smiled in the radiating sun, feeling as if he had absorbed all the light rays and was expelling them from every pore.

Eddie popped his eyes open. He saw the woman, another charitable pedestrian, as she offered a wave over her shoulder. Eddie smiled at her and she turned around, hips swaying in a tight pantsuit—a walk that said, “I have somewhere to be.” Yet she had stopped long enough to make a donation into Eddie’s McDonald’s cup, unlike the thousands of others who passed Eddie with wrinkled noses and clutched purses. Eddie looked down into the pile of copper and nickel, rattling the coins together with a flick of his hand. He could afford a nice meal soon. But not before Stella. Stella always came first.

Eddie sat on the ground outside a gas station in the deep of downtown Dallas. He looked left, feeling his staled clothes itch on his skin, and peered through the shifting crowd of asses and calves. They all pumped themselves forward with the same look of insistence as the woman in the pantsuit, each of them with dire responsibilities to attend to. But not Eddie.

Eddie had not worried about things such as meetings, conference calls, customers, inventory, or I-9 paperwork for a while. Now he only worried about Stella, and as he shifted his head to peak through the dense crowd, Eddie wondered when she would return. She always went looking for food in some other place no matter how many times Eddie told her she wouldn’t find anything. But maybe she did. Maybe she just never bothered to bring some back for Eddie.

Eddie wrinkled his nose at the thought. She would come back soon.

The gas station’s front door opened with a tinkling chime, and Eddie turned to see a familiar face.

“Ed!” the man exclaimed, spreading his arms out and walking over.

Eddie offered a weak smile, hoping the mental strain of trying to remember the man’s name didn’t show. “Hey…man,” Eddie replied with a wave.

This man visited with Eddie most days, whenever he would dare to make room in his riveting agenda. He would come down 15th street while immersed in the happenings of his Blackberry screen, grab a coffee from the gas station, and stop to chat with Eddie while he drank. And every day Eddie struggled to remember his name, having only heard it once during a distant introduction. He didn’t feel bad for forgetting the man’s name, because he knew people like him forgot about people like Eddie every day.

fiction 53

Clink.

“Ed?” the man leaned forward to catch Eddie’s eyes. He offered a dollar bill from one hand.

Eddie smiled, shaking his head. “Sorry.” He took the money. “Thanks, as always.” Now he had enough for dinner. But Stella first. Eddie glanced over his shoulder again, looking to where she had run off this morning.

“Everything else going okay?” the man asked, taking a sip from his coffee.

“Don’t have much going. So yeah, we’re fine,” Eddie said, scratching the back of his neck.

Eddie appreciated the man’s help, but he always felt a sort of benevolence in the way he spoke, like he was teaching a foreign kid to speak English. Maybe Eddie was just being defensive. Or maybe he knew how many people saw the homeless as lost children, and they all thought they could become Mother Goose and earn some good karma to share with their hot yoga group on Saturday.

“So where’s the pretty girl?” the man asked, checking his watch as if this conversation was just another obligation to carry out, but he never lost that artificially white smile.

“Hm? Oh, Stella.” Eddie nodded. “She went out this morning for something. Not sure what. She drives me crazy sometimes.”

“I can drink to that,” the man said with a laugh then took a drink. “Hey man, I bet it’s rough out here sometimes, but at least she’s the only thing you have to worry about.”

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. He didn’t know how to respond. He thought he should have felt insulted, as if this man knew anything about the struggles Eddie dealt with. Did he think Eddie chose to live this way? Did he think Eddie had never lived a similar life to his own? —the job, the house, the money. Maybe Eddie didn’t look the part, but he was human. And he had plenty of things to worry about.

Eddie smiled. “Yeah, she’s a handful.”

The man returned a smile, tilting his head back for another drink. “Well that’s all the time for me today, Ed. Take it easy, pal.” The man slapped Eddie on the shoulder and bounced down the sidewalk, switching his focus to his Blackberry as easy as turning off a light.

Eddie watched the man leave, looked down at the dollar bill in his hand, and stuffed the money into his pocket. He also stuffed away the short interaction, pushing it to the back of his mind before it could boil over and ruin his mood. Instead, he thought of Stella and turned around to wait for her return.

Eddie grew more worried as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky. He watched the street corner where Stella had disappeared this morning, twiddling his thumbs and rocking back and forth on his heels. It was getting darker. Eddie bit down on his bottom lip and pushed away the thoughts of shadowed alleys and suspicious loiterers. Then he heard a jingle.

Eddie shot to his feet, losing all concern for his precious cup of change as he walked towards the street corner. A few seconds later, Stella came cantering around the corner, her tongue flopping with satisfied panting, and her tail wagging just the same. Eddie smiled, dropped to his knees, and embraced his favorite person in the world, the only thing he needed in life.

BABY BLUES

I looked down at my child and felt nothing. His big, blue eyes looked up at me expectantly, hoping for some kind of response. My son, Samuel, cooed at me lovingly and let out a gurgle as spit bubbles came popping out from his smiling lips. His hair was starting to grow in slightly. It dusted his head with feathery blonde fuzz. His delicate skin felt smooth as velvet and his fragile body rested trustingly in my arms. I looked into his round eyes and frowned. He felt like a stranger. The baby began to cry, but I couldn’t move. I just continued to stare down at him while his face grew increasingly more red and angry. I felt stuck in my chair. Like a statue, unable to react. I shouldn’t be a mom.

He needs someone better. I felt like a shell of a person. This baby had stolen something from me, leaving nothing behind except my physical self.

“What’s going on? Michelle? He’s crying! Can’t you see how upset he is? Why aren’t you doing anything?” My husband yelled at me frantically as he came rushing out from our bedroom. His words floated towards me through a fog, but they failed to generate a response. I remained sitting.

He angrily scooped Samuel from me and tried his best to soothe the screaming infant, shooting me a condemning look.

“What’s wrong with you?” my husband shouted, further upsetting the baby. My baby.

I stood up slowly and walked over towards the front door. I opened it and closed my eyes as a rush of cold air hit me smack in the face. I stepped outside and closed the door behind me. I didn’t look back as I blindly walked down the snow-covered road towards the freezing river.

fiction 55

Jenna Hefele

CRACKED

Jenna Hefele Her turn was rapidly approaching. She sat in a circle with the other patients and stared blankly at the bleak walls. She couldn’t help but fixate on the small crack that creeped down from one of the wall’s corners, and she began to ponder on how the crack got there in the first place. In the corner of the room sat a potted fig tree, a weak attempt at making the room more inviting.

“Frances, how are you feeling today?” asked Sandra. She sat holding her notepad, which she scribbled notes on while listening to each patient.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Frances replied.

“Okay, why do you feel that way?” she inquired.

Frances stared at Sandra’s thick, chocolate colored hair. The bright florescent lights illuminated the frizz that shot above her curls.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“He’s crazy. I’m not crazy.” Frances pointed towards Charlie, who began to cry and mumble something over and over to himself, rocking back in forth in his chair.

“How about we focus on you?” she continued.

“What about me? I’m fine.”

“I just want you to share with the group how you’re feeling today. Try and be open.”

“I feel like I don’t belong here. I am different from these people. I’m not crazy, okay?”

“Okay, Frances. I believe you.”

“I’m fine.” Frances repeated again, unsure of who she was trying to convince.

Frances walked slowly down the long white hallway back towards her room after the torturous group session. She glared down at the cracks on the floor and became angry with them. They taunted her and she began to feel dizzy. So many cracks. She walked faster and faster until she was running. Once she reached her room, she collapsed onto her bed.

“These people here….they make me question myself. They’re all crazy.” Frances told her roommate.

“You’re not crazy. I know crazy, and it’s not you,” her roommate replied.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone. We need to stick together in this place.”

Frances turned towards the door as a patient walked by her room, talking to themselves.

“See! Like them! Crazy fools!” Frances exclaimed.

Frances turned back towards her roommate, only to find herself sitting in an empty room.

fiction 57 ARIS NEAL. Fugly I,

Hair extensions, laser-cut ribbon and glitter.

EMILY MASSEY.

Claire Above, Claire Below,

Watercolors.

SOMETHING SLIGHTLY SANE

Brittany Thurmond

Mama was always so vibrant and full of laughter with the radiant color of joy always kissing her face. Mama’s smile was always wide, spreading from each side of her cheeks and covering the surface of her face. Her teeth were always shiny and sparkling white. It was this very depiction of Mama that haunted Jolene. Jolene could not understand why Mama was always bursting with immense happiness. No one could possibly be that happy. The constant happiness had to be a cover-up for the evil act that Mama was planning.

Jolene could not enjoy a meal anymore and had stopped eating any meals prepared by Mama months ago, but Mama was still unaware of this fact. Jolene would take each meal that Mama served her and analyze it, attempting to find out what poisons were imbedded in the food. Jolene would often tell me that Mama had to be aware that she was not eating the food, because she still hadn’t fell over dead from whatever was in it. Countless times, I tried persuading Jolene that she was being crazy, and that Mama actually loved her. Jolene’s mood swings worsened toward Mama, which led to constant bickering and Mama telling Jolene to stop being disrespectful. Jolene had every right to be hostile toward Mama since there was reason to believe Mama was going insane and poisoning her.

When Jolene complained about Mama the first time, she explained to me that she had found white powder in her food, and that Mama was attempting to poison her. I knew that Mama had been breaking up her prescription Adderall into the food and I didn’t think Mama would ever resort to killing Jolene until Jolene convinced me otherwise.

Jolene confided in me and asked if I would help her teach Mama a lesson. I was not sure what she meant by that, so I figured that we would just be confronting Mama and simply getting answers from her. Jolene had always been smarter than me, so I agreed to help her. She did not tell me what the plan was, so I just followed her actions and did what she told me to do. Later that day, Mama came home from the store.

It’s all a blur and I cannot recall the exact events that took place. The only thing I can

fiction 59

It was a bright, shiny day and just like any other, Mama woke Jolene. “Wake up honey, it’s time for your medication,” Mama would say to Jolene. Her responsiveness had decreased over the years and Mama had to yank words from her mouth in order to have any type of conversation. Mama took Jolene to many psychiatrists and specialized doctors, but the only thing that would ever come from it was Attention-Deficit Disorder (ADD) as the diagnosis. Mama knew that couldn’t be what Jolene was suffering from, but she continued giving Jolene the pills she was prescribed. The past few years, Mama had trouble making Jolene swallow the pills, so she resorted to breaking them up in her food. Mama had struggled with Jolene from the time she was born, each year increasing in difficulties. Jolene had an odd suspicion that Mama was trying to kill her, and no one could convince her otherwise. She believed that Mama was poisoning her food.

remember after Mama coming home was her lying there on the white linoleum floors and Dad rushing through the door screaming, “What have you done? What have you done Belladonna?”

Why is he instantly blaming this on me and asking what I had done? This was Jolene’s idea and she is the one that asked me to conspire with her. Why isn’t he hounding her?

After the police arrived, I watched Jolene get tackled to the ground, almost feeling the pain myself. She fought with every muscle and bone in her body, making me weak. I watched as they restrained her arms and legs to the stretcher. They gave her a shot, which instantly stiffened her body and cut off all motion. With a dumbfounded look on my face, I pondered what she had been injected with as I watched the life ejected from her at the same time the needle was.

I do not know where they took Jolene, but Dad did not seem to care-- not that he ever did. I did not understand why Jolene was placed in an ambulance and shipped off. Mama was the one hurt, not Jolene.

It’s like waking up from a nightmare.

“Jolene is a figment of your imagination,” the psychiatrist tells me.

“But I remember her. I remember her telling me about the horrible things that mother would make her do when we were children. I remember seeing the white powder smashed up in her food and her convincing me of Mama’s plans,” I argue.

“Jolene never existed. There is no documented record of Jolene being your sister and your dad would certainly know if you had a sister. You created Jolene in your mind years ago and now you are using her as a coping mechanism for your mother’s murder, one that you organized on your own,” the psychiatrist explained. “Don’t worry, you are in a safe place now and we will take care of you here,” he continued.

As I fell asleep that night, the white walls surrounded me, caging in my existence. The tiny 2X4 window, shaped like a rectangle, running vertically with the door, was the only way of seeing the outside world. The echoes of Mama’s voice saying, “It’s time for your medication, dear” flooded the room and ran screeching into my ears. I drifted off to sleep and started to picture harsh lines of blood splattering the empty white walls. I awoke, holding my throat and gasping for air. *The administrators rushed through the door and into the room to find the sharpened razor blade on the floor with no idea how it had gotten there or how Belladonna could have gotten it. Belladonna lie there, surrounded and drenched in a puddle of blood. The emergency signal transmitted through the air and voices filled the walkie-talkies. Help was on its way, although, everyone knew there was no helping Belladonna. Implanted in the pillow, beneath all the feathers, there lie the medication that had been stuffed away for the last week* In that moment, I watched Jolene wave goodbye to me as doctors stood around not

Mountain Range,

Sterling Silver.

knowing what to do, and probably pondering any lawsuits that may be coming their way if anyone knew there was a razor blade in the room.

I could see bursts of white light, shining more brightly than I had ever imagined. The light was trying to reach me and then, all at once, the light drifted away, and a very loud, deep voice said to me, “THIS IS NOT THE PLACE FOR SOMEONE LIKE YOU.” A little confused by this dream, I tried like usual to pop the rubber band on my wrist to wake myself from this nightmare but failed in doing so. There was no rubber band on my wrist this time. At that moment, I felt tingling in my body, making my body cringe.

Then, my arm suddenly burst into flames and my whole body started feeling numb from the heat. Panicking and terrified at this point, I tried popping the rubber band three more times, but still nothing on my wrist. Another failed effort. All at once, my body burst into flames and an evil laughter came to me, “WELCOME TO YOUR NEW HOME, MY DEAR,” followed by more laughter. Then, the voice spoke again, “I’ve been waiting for you.” It was clear to me that this was no dream, this was eternity for me.

“Belladonna was pronounced deceased at the scene,” read a report, laying on the desk at Creedmoor Psychiatric Hospital.

fiction 61

ALEX GENETTE.

CREATIVE PROCESS

A One Act Play By Theodore Leos

CHARACTERS: ALEX TSERA. 21. College student.

ADRIEN RISINGER. 23. Alex’s boyfriend.

PLACE: An apartment in New England.

TIME: Present Day.

ACT O N E

SETTING: The one-room apartment of ALEX TSERA , 21 years old. There is a mattress on the floor and a sold-out table with two chairs with a mannequin nearby.

AT RISE: ALEX is at the table, fretting over the cloth that covers the table. He lays the cloth onthe mannequin, frowns, then tosses it back on the table. ADRIEN is asleep on the bed. ADRIEN begins to wake while ALEX gets progressively more frustrated, eventually throwing squares of cloth around the room.

ADRIEN: (Groaning) Alex, it's too early, come back to bed.

ALEX: It's noon.

ADRIEN: I'm French, we aren’t supposed to be up this early in the morning.

ALEX: You've been in the States for 5 years now, you should be used to it by now. Besides, wouldn't it be like six P.M. in France right now?

ADRIEN: Which means it is time for an early night. Come back to bed. (Sits up) Still working on that new piece? I told you the line is fine.

▲

NDO CHIEDU. NYC DAYZ,

Digital Photography.

drama 63

Scene One

ALEX: That’s the problem! It’s just…fine. It to be inspired.

ADRIEN: Come to bed and I’ll leave you so inspired you’ll be breathless.

ALEX: You’re not nearly as suave as you think Adrien. And all you’ll do is inspire me to laze around all day.

ADRIEN: See? That sounds like a beautiful day to me. ( ALEX turns away, returning to the cloth. He compares a few more clothes before growling audibly. ADRIEN gets up and walks toward ALEX . ALEX , frustrated, throws the latest cloth behind him and into ADRIEN’s face. ADRIEN grunts. Pause.)

ADRIEN: I do love the smell of satin in the morning.

ALEX: …Sorry.

ADRIEN: (Pulls ALEX into an embrace) Are you alright? I knew this project was important but…

ALEX: It’s everything! Not only is this my final project, but the best line gets to be in Fashion week! So many people from the industry will be there, this could be my big break. (Pause) If my designs weren’t shit.

ADRIEN: Don’t say that. You’re designs are très magnifique and I know it. Why? ALEX: Because you’re French. ADRIEN: Because I’m French ADRIEN: And there’s nothing the French know better than fashion. (Grinning) Well there is one thing we French know better than fashion. Come back to bed?

ALEX: Are you kidding? I need to focus. If you’re that riled up, deal with it yourself. I don’t need you being a pain.

ADRIEN: A pain, am I? ALEX: (Turns away) Don’t look into it. Forget it. Now let me get to work.

ADRIEN: (Pulls ALEX around, hands on shoulders, looking face to face) No no no. Tell all about how I’m distracting you from your Creative Process .

ALEX: (Shrugging ADRIEN off) We’re not doing this.

ADRIEN: Oh yes we are. Tell me.

ALEX: Why? ADRIEN: Because I wanna know.

ALEX: Sure your ego can take it pretty boy?

ADRIEN: You know damn well how well I take it, airhead.

ALEX: And there’s issue number one! If it weren't for your inflated ego, I'd be sure your headwas empty. You do all your thinking below the waist anyway.

ADRIEN: I do, do I?

ADRIEN: Uh huh, and all that makes it hard for you?

ALEX: When you’re acting like a horny puppy, yes.

ADR`IEN: Let’s step back to that second point, though. My JOB? (Picks up the red strip of cloth and begins waving it around) The one that covers our food bills and lets us afford all the materials for your Masterpieces? The one I’ve been working so I can stay here with you as opposed to touring with a dance troupe? The job I’ve taken to support YOUR dream while putting my own on hold? The one I’ve kept working at despite how much of an ass Jason is now that I’m with you? Who berates me for every mistake and still tries to pull shit despite how many times I’ve shut him down?

ALEX: He still tries?

ADRIEN: Of course he still tries! But despite being a “Horny Puppy”, I’ve turned him down each time because I have you, and what we have is special. Or at least, I figured it was. (Tosses cloth back at ALEX ) ALEX: Shit, Fuck. (Sighs) It is, Babe, you know that. I just. I just can’t figure out what to do. Usually something comes to me by now but everything’s just blank. And then my brain tenses up and it’s like everything is silent, but the silence is deafening and I wanna stop thinking about it, but I can’t! so I just keep worrying about it and-and the whole cycle repeats and I just… (Falls to the bed and yells into the pillow) ADRIEN: (Sits down besides ALEX ) Babe, I had no idea you were struggling so much.

drama 65

ALEX: YES! You came over here to be with Eric, that long distance boytoy you did Swan Lake with. You got your job at Mood Fabrics because you were fucking Jason when that shit with your mom went down and he runs the damn place. Hell, you just saw me passing by around campus and figured I’d be good for a quick lay to start all this off!

ALEX: Why not? I thought it was obvious.

ADRIEN: Because while French, I am also a man. As such, feelings and subtleties can, at times, escape me.

ALEX: We’re both men.

ADRIEN: Which means we’re both hopelessly lost about solving things like this. But C’mon, what’s the line you always parrot from your father?

ALEX: (Sniffling) “Just rub some dirt in it, you’ll be fine”?

ADRIEN: No, beautiful. You know the one, “Nothing worth doing…”

ALEX: “…Is ever easy, but it’s damn worth it”.

ADRIEN: Damn right it is.

(ADRIEN hugs ALEX) ADRIEN: So come on, walk this dancer through the steps and let’s see what we can do about this problem of yours.

ALEX: (Rises and starts to return to the table) Okay. You remember that one summer piece I made that summer we went south?

ADRIEN: The one with the embroidery? The small uhh, roses?

ALEX: Lilies, but yes. Its come back into style recently, what with Agreste’s new line, so I wanted to make a spring line with it. I just can’t figure out a piece to put it all together.

I’m missing that-that…

ADRIEN: Centerpiece?

ALEX: Exactly!

ADRIEN: Okay, okay. Well, wait. Wasn’t that old piece supposed to capture like, the feeling of refreshment when all the green returns?

ALEX: Yea. I’ve based each piece on feelings like that. The smell of morning dew, the feeling of warm sunlight trickling down, the smell of blooming flowers. But this last one just eludes me. I’m just stuck in here and this whole thing is pissing me off!

ADRIEN: (Pacing) Think-think-think-think. The essence of Spring… Flowers, warmth,

drama 67 GABRIELLE WALTER. Decisions, Decisions,

Chalk Pastels.

Hmm… (Pause) I’ve got it!

ALEX: Really?!?

ADRIEN: Yes! Wait… no. Nevermind.

ALEX: Goddammit, Adrien.

ADRIEN: Sorry, Fashion is hard! (Nervously) I guess that’s the issue, huh.

ALEX: I might as well give up. This is going to be worse than that show in Dallas back when I was a freshman.

ADRIEN: Hey, that trip wasn’t all bad.

ALEX: Really? Not only did my line fall apart, we missed our connection flight, our hotel was shabby as hell, and our rental broke down so we missed the show at Casa Mañana!

ADRIEN: Yeah, the trip didn’t turn out like we thought. But do you remember that last night? We decided to take a walk in that nature reserve…

ALEX: And I was moaning about how bad the trip had been when you started playing music…

(ADRIEN turns on a slow waltz and grabs the red cloth from the table with a flourish) ADRIEN: (Re-enacting his actions as he describes them) And I grabbed you by the waist, spun you around, and / ALEX: /…said “any night spent with me was a night worth having.” (Chuckles) I guess there MIGHT be something to that suave French exterior.

ADRIEN: I was quite charming, wasn’t I? ALEX: (Taking the cloth from ADRIEN and swiping him in the face with it) You have your moments. How do you come up with that stuff anyway?

ADRIEN: I simply drown myself in the passions of romance and let the words spring forth.

ALEX: (Halts) A spring of passion, huh.

(Beat. ADRIEN and ALEX pause, looking at each other in shock.)

ALEX: (Glances down to the red cloth in his hand) You beautiful French bastard, that’s

exactly it! The essence of spring, the passion of love blooming, springing forth! Oooooooh the ideas are flowing now! Quick, help me through this mess, find the pastel colors!

(ALEX runs to the mannequin as ADRIEN begins to gather cloth) ADRIEN: Of course! Do you want me to get out of the way or…? ( ALEX turns abruptly, wrapping the cloth behind ADRIEN ’s neck to pull him into a kiss) ALEX: Hell no. I’ll need you close at hand for when I need a refresher on Passion. Alright?

ADRIEN: Yes, Sir! BLACKOUT

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END OF PLAY

KATIE KNIGHT. Untitled

Colored pencil on 6" x 8" paper.

GREENER PASTURES

A One Act Play By Nicolas Rivera

CHARACTERS: JAMES O’MALLEY. 21. College student HECTOR MARTINEZ. Senior aged janitor.

PLACE: Greyhound Bus Station in Dallas, TX TIME: The Present.

ACT ONE

SETTING: The inside of a Greyhound Bus Station around 1 PM on a Friday.

AT RISE: JAMES sits on a secluded bench Is his hand is his ticket; at his feet is a backpack packed full of overnight clothes. A single sleeve of a t-shirt sticks out of the backpack as if hastily packed. JAMES sits impatiently, his black and white converse taps a rapid nervous symphony against the marble floors. HE checks his watch, shakes his head, and grabs his stuff to leave, but instead only paces back and forth just to sit back on the bench again.HECTOR comes into view wearing his Greyhound custodial overalls and pushing his cleaning cart. He wipes his hands as he spies JAMES sitting nervously on a bench. HECTOR grabs his plastic lunch box then half-walks, half waddles his way to the bench that JAMES is sitting on.

HECTOR: Oye, mijo. Do you mind if I sit here? (Motions to the bench with his faded blue lunchbox) JAMES: Uh, no. Go ahead man.

HECTOR: (Smiles and nods his thanks as he plops down onto the dark wooden bench to unpack his lunch) I’m glad you said yes. I don’t like to eat alone. Sometimes, at the dinner table, I crave dinner talk more than the food itself. Of course, that’s really only when I do the cooking. My wife takes good care of me. (Pats rounded belly affectionately) Maybe too good of care… (Laughs) JAMES: You know something? I don’t think I’ve eaten all day. My stomach won’t let

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Scene One

me eat lately.

HECTOR: What’s her name?

JAMES: Beg your pardon?

HECTOR: What’s the girl’s name?

JAMES: (Shifts on the bench uncomfortably) What makes you think there’s a girl?

HECTOR: Well, (Pauses to swallow a cracker) I figure there’s only a few things that makes a boy of your age not want to eat. You’re either hungover, sick, or lovesick. It’s 1 PM, and you don’t look like a cat just dragged you in from the gutter, so hungover is out.

You don’t look green or nauseas, but you do look nervous enough to wash my car with the sweat on your palms. So again I ask: What’s her name?

JAMES: Her name is Melanie.

HECTOR: That’s a very pretty name. Is she the girlfriend? (Opens and takes a drink of a his Topo Chico mineral water) JAMES: No, my girlfriend’s name is Anna-Lisa.

HECTOR: Ah, this… (Motions at JAMES) ...is starting to make sense. And the bag? To which of the lovely ladies are we traveling to?

JAMES: (Sighs guiltily) Not to my girlfriend.

HECTOR: I see. How long of a trip are you about to make for this ‘girl who is not your girlfriend?’ If you don’t mind me asking of course.

JAMES: Roughly 8 hours there and 8 hours back.

HECTOR: That must be quite a lie you told, Anna-Lisa, is it? You must have a tongue of silver and words of silk to get away with a whole weekend. (Winks playfully at JAMES ) JAMES: Not really. Anna-Lisa, my girlfriend, left for the long weekend to go see her parents in the valley. (He watches HECTOR bite into a sandwich) As for the other girl, she doesn’t know I am coming yet. The plan was to show up at her door and pray she was home. The eight hours was to fine tune the plan… or come up with a better one. Now that I’m here… (Pauses to look at train ticket) …this doesn’t feel as right as it did an hour ago… (Drifts off in thought)

HECTOR: Maybe that’s a sign eh? Tell me a little about this Melanie. How did the two of you meet? (Takes another drink of his mineral water) JAMES: We met at a week-long conference for undergrads, and within a few hours, we knewbasically knew everything about each other. Our conversations just… flowed, as if we had known each other for our whole lives. She’s so much like me, but so fundamentally different at the same time. Does that make any sense?

HECTOR: Oh yes. Some would argue that opposites attract.

JAMES: I would say that too.

JAMES: Well, we have been together the last two years, and for the most part, it has been pretty great. We get along, our families get along, and we will probably graduate around same time. She knows what she wants to do, which is scary because I’m not committed to a career just yet, but we always said we would take it as it comes. God, this makes me sound like a piece of shit.

HECTOR: (Pauses to consider his words and to swallow another cracker) I don’t mean to pry, but as a person who will mostly likely never meet your Anna-Lisa, I would like to know what is so special about this other girl, Melanie? What does she have that is so intoxicating, you would risk your relationship to be with her?

JAMES: Wow. You get right to the point, huh?

HECTOR: I’m old. Tiptoeing around the subject is a young man’s game.

JAMES: Fair enough. (Pauses in thought, then continues carefully) It’s not something that Melanie has necessarily, but it’s the thought of what we could have together that is driving me crazy.

HECTOR: Ah yes! The classic “the grass is greener on the other side.”

JAMES: Yes, but I’d like to think it’s a little less cliché than that.

HECTOR: How so?

JAMES: Well, I know that the grass is pretty damn green on my side right now. But what if this grass isn’t the best grass for me? This grass is the only kind of grass that I’ve ever known. I’m young and there are a lot of pastures, really green pastures that are out there. How do I know this is the grass that I want to take care of forever?

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HECTOR: And the girlfriend? Anna-Lisa? What about her?

HECTOR: Can I give you a little piece of advice?

JAMES: If you think it will help me figure out what to do, I’m all ears.

HECTOR: One of the most important things I’ve learned in my years is that the grass is greener where you water it. Sure it might start out thick, lush, and beautiful, but even the prettiest of pastures will dry up and die without the right care.

JAMES: You make a good point. I… I just don’t know where to water.

HECTOR: That’s a tough decision indeed. (Points to JAMES’s chest) It’s an extremely personaldecision. One more piece of advice?

JAMES: Shoot.

HECTOR: In my experience, you only have enough water to keep one pasture green at a time. If you try to water them both, neither will be very green.

JAMES: That’s another good point. I think I’m only here because I panicked. I thought I needed to try something different before it was too late.

HECTOR: Are you older than you look?

JAMES: I just turned 21.

HECTOR: Do you age backwards like that guero in that movie where he was born an old man?

JAMES: Oh, uh, Benjamin Button ? No. HECTOR: Then don’t worry about it. You have time to figure it out. The fact that you have doubts means you are human. We like to think we have our emotions all under control, but it’s like you said, you have to take it as it comes.

JAMES: I did say that. But let me ask you this; How did you know that your wife was the one for you? How did you know where to spend your water in a world full of pastures to be watered?

HECTOR: It didn’t know at first. I was in a similar situation as you when I was a younger man, except I did get on the bus, so to speak. But at that time, I wouldn’t have taken a bus eight minutes to get to a girl, let alone eight hours. And on a bus no less!

(Pause) Long story short, it didn’t work out with either of them, but I learned that I would rather give my all to one pasture and know for sure one way or the other than risk it all on the empty promise of a greener side. You get what I’m trying to say?

drama 75 ANN SIKES. Sister’s Peridot Necklace,

Acrylic paint on stretched canvas.

JAMES: I think so. So you have everything you ever wanted with the woman you are with now?

HECTOR: Mijo, if I had everything I ever wanted, I would not be wearing this jumpsuit and talking to you right now. I would be on a beach somewhere with a cold Corona in my hand and a lime in the other. I’m saying that what I found in my wife is someone who loves me as much as I do her. We keep each other green. I know that if I water that land, it will stay green forever. Does this sound like something you could have yourself?

JAMES: (Quietly; almost a whisper) It sounds like something I already have…

HECTOR: There you go. I can guarantee that if you go through with this, (Points to the bus ticket) you will never be certain of anything. The “what could have been” with who you have right now will stay with you forever.

(JAMES pauses to think it over, then nods to HECTOR and tears the ticket in two) JAMES:You should charge people for conversations like this.

HECTOR: Did I not mention? We’ve been on the clock this whole time. You can see the receptionist at the front for the bill.

(The two exchange laughter) JAMES: Seriously though, this is the best I’ve felt in weeks. You kind of just changed my life man, and I don’t even know your name.

HECTOR: Hector. Hector Martinez. (Extends his hand) JAMES: (Shakes HECTOR’S hand) James O’Malley. You know what Hector? I’m am hungry.

HECTOR: (Reaches into his lunchbox and grabs a small bag of chips) Here you go.

JAMES: Are you sure?

HECTOR: (Pats his belly) You need it more than me.

(The two sit and eat in peace) BLACKOUT END OF PLAY

drama 77

AUTHOR/ARTIST BIOS

ANN SIKES

Ann Sikes is an undergraduate Visual Studies (Art Education) major at Texas Tech University with a minor in Human Development and Family Studies. In studio, Sikes works primarily through painting; she finds inspiration from the children she teaches and her own childhood.

ALEX GENETTE

Alex is an artist from Dallas, Texas. He has been working in metals for almost 4 years.

ANNA LOVERING

Anna is a senior in the Creative Writing English program at TTU. She is also working on another degree in Studio Art with a specialization in painting. She has been published before in the 2014/2015 edition of The Harbinger, ‘Coffee.’ ARIS NEAL

Aris Neal received her BFA from Texas Tech in 2018 and is continuing studies in the Jewelry Design & Metalsmithing program at TTU, while pursuing a degree in Graduate BAILEE NI. TANGUMA

Bailee is a senior at Texas Tech University who is a pre-law student majoring in Psychology and English (Creative Writing). She grew up in New Braunfels, Texas and has been writing since grade school. Throughout this time she has found a deep passion for creative writing in all genres, such as contemporary poetry, short story, non-fiction essay, and translation poetry.

BAILEY MANNING

Bailey is a senior in the graphic design program. When she isn't designing, she is painting, reading, or drinking coffee.

BRIAN HOTTINGER

Brian has graduated from Texas Tech in December 2018 with a BA in Philosophy. He plans on attending law school starting in the Fall of 2019. He is currently living and working in the Austin metropolitan area.

BRITTANY THURMOND

Brittany is a junior, completing her degree in Education, specializing in 4-8th grade English.

Brittany believes that reading and writing are the fundamental foundations to all other knowledge. She hopes to show teenage students how powerful the English language is and how they can express themselves through the art and creativity of writing.

EMILY MASSEY

Emily Massey is a Senior Marketing major, from the DFW area. Her work is often focused on portraiture and anatomy, and she hopes have a career as a storyboard artist.

George is a senior at Texas Tech pursuing a major in French and a minor in Classics.

When not occupied in the rat race against deadlines and due dates, he enjoys engaging with the thornier issues of humanity and cooking for his classmates.

GABRIELLE WALTER

A Junior at Texas Tech University, Gabrielle Walter is a Visual Studies major originally hailing from Magnolia, Texas. The majority of her work concentrates on the representation of the female body as a manifestation of the confident, the beautiful, and the authentic.

HALI SALOME CARDENAS

Hali is a West Texas native pursuing her degree in Creative Writing. She spends her free time buying books she will eventually get to and hanging out with her toddler and their cat.

JAMES D. LOSS

James is a Junior at Texas Tech pursuing a bachelor’s degree in creative media industries with a minor in dramatic writing. Born as a west coast native, James has spent the latter part of his life in Frisco, Texas where he has found a love for the southwest and its residents. He hopes to continue his writing career through fiction novels and screenplay.

JENNA HEFELE

Jenna Hefele is a senior biology student at Texas Tech. After graduation, she hopes to attend medical school and travel around the world.

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GEORGE A. STERN JR.

JOANNA BYRNE

Joanna is an undergraduate senior studying for a Bachelor of Arts in English, with a minor in Technical Communication at Texas Tech University. She is certified in Equine Sports Massage Therapy and holds an Associates of Applied Science in Diesel Service Technology from South Plains College, where she was an Instructor of Diesel Service Technology.

KATIE KNIGHT

Katie Knight is a Nutritional Sciences and Dietetics undergraduate at Texas Tech University. Her artwork is within numerous public and private collections, and she has shown her work in several galleries and shows.

MADELYN GUNNELS

Madelyn is a sophomore English major at Texas Tech. She is from Pflugerville, Texas, where she did theatre arts throughout all of high school. She hopes on becoming an ESL instructor and travelling abroad while writing on the side.

MORGEN MACKE

Originally from Brownwood Texas, Morgen Macke is a studio art major with an emphasis in photography through The School of Art. He will be obtaining his Bachelor's Degree in Studio Art this May. NDO CHIEDU

Ndo is an upcoming junior in advertising. She loves blogging, film & photography. She wants to be a major contributor to the creative world in the future.

NICOLAS RIVERA

Nicolas Rivera is currently a junior at Texas Tech University and is seeking a degree in plant and soil sciences with an English minor. Nicolas enjoys writing and has a keen SARAH G. HUERTA

Sarah is originally from the Dallas area and is a third year English major concentrating in creative writing. Her work has previously appeared in Underground.

TAYLOR WATKINS

Taylor graduated with a degree in English and a minor in Technical Communication in December 2018. She enthusiastically aspires to be involved in academia as a career. In her free time, Taylor enjoys hiking, camping, and reading and reviewing books for her book review blog.

THEODORE LEOS

Theodore Leos is a graduating Creative Media Industries major. The son of a theatre actress, He has had a passion for theatre and storytelling since he could walk.

TYLER SEALE

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Tyle is a graduating Anthropology major/English minor. Her work this year is all thanks to procrastination and good coffee.

JAK KURDI

STAFF

2018-2019

Editor-in-Chief Jak is a Senior English Lit major who enjoys rescuing and hanging with dogs, writing poetry, and going on impromptu road trips with friends. She hopes to pursue a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing after her graduation in the Fall of 2019.

CECILIA SMITH

Poetry & Prose Editor Cecilia is a junior English literature major hoping to pursue a career as an editor after graduation. In her free time she enjoys rock climbing, baking, and watching every terrible rom com on Netflix.

VICTORIA VANZANDT

Victoria is a senior Technical Communications major and English minor graduating in May. After graduating, she is excited to marry her best friend of eight years before beginning her journey into Texas Tech’s MATC program. Victoria hopes to one day become an editor of Fiction novels and enjoys kayaking, reading, and baking new creations.

TABATHA MILLER

Non-Fiction Editor

Tabatha Miller is our Non-Fiction Editor for The Harbinger this year. This is her first year as an editor, but she is looking forward to the experience. She is a Creative Writing major with her focus on fiction. She is a senior from Breckenridge, Tx. In her spare time, she loves playing with her two dogs and writing fantasy short stories.

CALLIE WATSON

Drama Editor

Callie is a Interdisciplinary Arts Studies major with concentrations in Dramatic Writing, Theatre Design/Technology, Creative Media Industries, and Music. She is as eclectic as her degree plan sounds, and enjoys performing in the TTU Tango and Elegant Savages orchestras.

KATHIA RAMIREZ

Designer

Kathia is a senior graphic design major from Richardson. Mexican born and Texas raised, she credits her vibrant designs to her culture and experiences. In her free time she enjoys exploring new places and hiking.

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Fiction Editor