Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2020-2021

Harbinger A Journal of Art & Literature 2020-2021

Texas Tech University

© 2021 Harbinger Student Journal of Art & Literature All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

Published by: Texas Tech University Lubbock, TX 79409 Journal Design: Callie Watson Printed by Bookmobile

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,’ said Frodo. ‘So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’”

—J.R.R.

Tolkien

A Note from the Editor Dear Reader, Over the past few years, I put a decent amount of thought into what I imagined I would write here if I were ever in charge of Harbinger. But by the time Jayce McKinney and I agreed to take leadership of the journal in early 2020, everything I knew went out the window. School was being conducted solely online and masks had become an everyday uniform for those of us who ventured outside. Even in the following spring, when some classes had gone back to being in-person, the only real “break” we were given was an accident, brought on by a sudden, disastrous freeze.

So maybe now, instead, I should write about how we all persevered through “these unprecedented times.” But I don’t think “persevered” is really the right phrase... We merely survived.

But enough with that, let’s switch focus...

I sincerely hope you enjoy the works that ended up on the following pages. This collection is simply a small peek into the creativity that exists within the student body of Texas Tech. Each work represents a labor of love not only by the artist but also by the editors who volunteered their time to put this book together—no easy task during the chaos of the past few semesters.

To all the artists who submitted their work in 2020, I want to thank you for persevering through the vulnerabilities of the creative process. You allowed a piece of yourself be permanently etched onto paper, word docs, canvases, and at the very least, the minds of us who had the privilege of viewing your work. You birthed tiny universes that have taken on a life of their own, that will go on to influence the lives of those who cross their path. Art isn’t always easy, and it was my pleasure to witness the outcome of your efforts and imagination.

To wrap it all up, I’ll leave you with this: if there is one constant in life, it’s the unprecedented potential of each new bout of creativity.

In Solidarity, Callie Watson Co-Editor-in-Chief | Harbinger 2020-2021

Contents Fiction Black Waters | Shelby Sullivan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Caught | Persephonie Cole. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Empty | Cameron Carlson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 The Spire of Fire | Sam Bentley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 The Unknown Eyes | William Becker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Nonfiction 6151921 | Mackenzie Duke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Another Swimmer | Jon Skavlan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Living, Dying, and Breaking the Tibial Plateau | Claire Meyer. . . . . . .52 The Body of Christ | Gabriella Ebertowski. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

Drama Bathroom Pep Talk | Blanca Del Loco. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Lost in Russia | John Druzbik . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Problem Solving | Mackenzie Duke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

Poetry Lost Time | Gabriel Marina-Vargas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 A Woman Is a Creature of Divine Paradox | Pat Hardy. . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Body | Marley Gamble. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Bridegroom | Pat Hardy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Diaspora | Nicholas Gresham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Eternity’s Inevitability | Anna Lovering. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Grapeland, TX | Hannah J. Russell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Home | Marley Gamble. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 I Doubt the Fog Will Lift | Pat Hardy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 On That Day | Arthur Decima. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Painfully So | Shelby Sullivan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Same | Marley Gamble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Shirt on the Highway | Marley Gamble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92

Supernova | Shelby Sullivan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 USA | Gabriel Marina-Vargas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 Who Is Death? | Shelby Sullivan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 you are the yellow i don’t look good in | Calys Jiménez . . . . . . . . . . 102

Art Triumph Metals | Sophia Sanchez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Mutually Assured Destruction | Halle Cooley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Peep Show | Sandra Sierra. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Immortalized | Sandra Sierra. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Beautiful Disaster | Tori Stewart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Corona Apocalypse | Erin Buchanan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Caden | Halle Cooley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Good Luck Charm | Patrick Kamau . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Fruta Exterior | Anna Lovering. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Eyes of God | Marwan Humphrey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Pumpkins | Erin Buchanan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Isolation | Anna Lovering. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Just Being | Tori Stewart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Self Seated Portrait | Andy Carrasco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 Mutations | Lora Plaster. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Orange Man | Claudia Egido . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Lost Time Gabriel Marina-Vargas Counting seconds that expand into days, weeks, months.

Out of reach, abruptly the moments do slip through my fingers.

Violently our hands are ripped apart, the theater of memories, abandoned.

Ingrained is a piece of you, found in every single thing I do Dullness. How dull the world can quickly become.

Yet mine is vivid; I choose to remember you.

Triumph Metals Sophia Sanchez | copper & bronze

FICTION

Black Waters Shelby Sullivan “Pull down the sails and stow them,” Captain Byron barked at his crew as thunder shook the sky and lightning cracked across the horizon, “I’ll thank my lucky stars for making it to port before the storm brings its wrath to open waters.”

The Captain stood patiently, looking across the bay and watched the sky twist into something sinister and black, like a malevolent force awakening somewhere in the great beyond. For just a moment, he swore he saw a silhouette across the waters, something that resembled neither a ship nor a man nor a beast. A tinge of fear and wonder roused him.

The silhouette beckoned him to come closer and drew him to the rails of the ship. He felt its call deep within his bones, holding him in place as his mind swam past crashing tides. His body swayed, fingers slipping from the dirty rails as he leaned further towards the ocean; the smell of saltwater tasted on tired flesh.

“Sails stowed, sir,” William Beckett, the First Mate yelled, pulling the Captain’s thoughts from the sea.

“Very good! Alright, men, head into town, find some good food… and better drinks,” Byron cleared his throat, the ocean’s beckon call drifting away as the idea of rum, women and food lingered closer. His men clamored in agreement, stumbling off the swaying ship and onto solid land for what felt like the first time in decades. Byron cast a last pondering glance to the deep waters as he took his first step off his ship, the tug in his chest refusing to ease. He sighed, “Damn salt air is driving me mad…”

“Good thing we’re off the ship then, aye, Cap?” Will eyed him suspiciously.

Byron strode past his faithful First Mate pridefully, “Let’s find food and ale before my stomach eats itself.”

They had been at sea for the past four months without stopping at a port. This damn near drove Byron and his crew to insanity. All that time out on the open waters had gotten to a few such as a young Deckhand Byron had recruited in the port of Watuga. A promising young man with a vast knowledge of ships, the sea, the winds, and the monsters below.

If it involved saltwater, the lad knew all about it. Byron had hoped he would go far, but either the heat or the dehydration had touched him and made him lose all sense.

2

HARBINGER One night, the boy had wandered on deck, gazing through unfocused eyes out into the open sea. The Night crew had heard the soul-shattering splash, the eerie quiet as the waves stilled. They’d been unable to save the young Deckhand as he was swallowed by the sea in one merciless gulp. A death mourned by the whole crew, especially the Captain. With the death of the young man, fresh water and edible food became scarce on the ship, so docking for a few days of rest and recreation was much needed. The crew needed to clear their heads and restock the ship before heading back out to the open ocean.

The crew wandered behind their Captain, navigating the Port’s cobblestone streets, searching for a tavern where they could become belligerent and stuff their stomachs until they nearly burst. Thunder roared in the distance and wind began to howl, piercing through the thick salty air like a great monster making its presence known. Just before the sky opened and soaked them to the bone, the small crew shuffled inside the Green Light Tavern and Inn. “Welcome to Port Collyard, gentlemen,” a woman, disjointed and dirty with half her teeth missing, greeted them from behind the bar, “Sit wherever you’d like.”

Captain Byron nodded, “Thank you, miss. A round of ale for me and my crew! On me.”

“Of course, sir,” she smiled, her remaining teeth covered in blacktarry plaque, before returning to her patrons. She spit on a torn rag, running it inside an empty glass, smudging the dirt and lip stains before filling it with ale. Byron watched amused as she repeated the task, her eyes catching his briefly.

“I’d damn near forgotten what beautiful women looked like,” Will said, glancing around at the women throughout the tavern. Some broad and disheveled as the tavern maid, others grouped by matrons or several male companions, giggling at the drunkards who were too far gone to realize some young ladies love cost dearly.

“Oh, what? Are we not pretty enough for you?” Marshall, the Second Deckhand, scoffed as he jokingly shoved Will.

“Pretty enough? I’d say you lot are about as pretty as a horse’s ass,” Will jested back, and the crew chuckled in response before taking seats at a long table in the back.

As they settled down and began laughing to themselves, waiting for their ale to make its glorious appearance, Captain Byron couldn’t help but notice a strange man sitting in the musty corner towards the front of the tavern. His beady eyes fixed on the crew as he sat in solitude, smoke and rowdy drunks surrounding his stiff features. Normally, Byron would

3

FICTION say something; the man’s stares, cruel and disrespectful, but tonight, was about paying respects to the memory of their dead.

After a few loud and spirited conversations, the tavern maid made her way over, their drinks in hand. She placed the mugs down, ale tipping from the rim as her hands shook, her eyes meeting Byron’s blue ones once more. She smiled, “There you are, fellas.”

Many of the crew jumped forward, ripping the mugs from the table as they began to chug immediately. Byron rolled his eyes as he waited for the remaining mugs to be set down before nodding ‘thanks,’ and reaching for a filled mug. He swallowed, “Sorry if my men are acting like some wild animals, madam.”

Byron reached over, smacking Marshall upside the head, causing the boy to choke on his ale as he continued to converse with the tavern maiden, “We’ve been at sea for four months and as I’m sure you’re aware, beautiful women are hard to come by except for the sea, herself. My men haven’t seen a woman or had any fresh spirits during that time, I’m afraid.”

Captain Byron’s sharp eyes prompted an apology from his rowdy men.

The woman smiled, “Don’t worry about it, love. We get much worse, you and your boys aren’t anything I can’t handle.” She began walking back to the bar when she turned around and spoke again, “My name’s Leslie, and I own this establishment… so let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

Captain Byron nodded to her with gratitude before turning his attention back to his men, “Alright, sea-hounds, settle down,” Byron hoisted his mug in the air and looked towards his crew, “To our deckhand, Ethan. May the good Lord lay his soul to rest at sea, where he belongs… where we all belong.”

His men raised their mugs and gave a grave, “Aye,” in response.

“He was a good lad... lost his sense in the end though,” Will spoke absentmindedly.

Before Captain Byron could demand he watch his tongue about the fallen crewmate, a harsh and gruff voice wafted from across the bar.

All heads turned as Bryon’s eyes met the lonely man, staring back. His long white beard and unruly peppered mustache moved with every word uttered from his quiet dusty corner.

“The sea will do that to ya! She has the will to drive you mad, take your love and use it against you, like a siren in the distance, a woman you can never reach. So, what exactly was it? Lack of strength or the lonely nights without the warmth of a woman that drove the lad to the sea?” The ruggedness of the salty air rode with every syllable spoken by

4

HARBINGER the man. He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his hands over his stomach, as if to keep a well-worn secret hidden.

Captain Byron shot up, his stool clashing to the ground as he growled through clenched teeth, “Keep your words to yourself before I clip your tongue!”

“You don’t scare me, boy,” The older man stood from his corner, stumbling towards the Captain’s table as he limped slightly. His left leg shorter than his right, scars and bites littering his hands from timeworn and brutal work. He pressed his palms against the table, leaning in as he locked eyes with Byron, “I’ve spent more time on the open sea than you’ve been on Earth. I’ve lost many men to that cruel and unforgiving mistress. So, you mind your manners, boy. Because the sea will take what she wants and give you hell. She takes the weak just as easily as the strong. But how she takes depends on what ills your crew, Captain.”

Byron lunged for the older man and caught him by the throat, pulling his dagger from his belt, “You won’t speak of my crew again if you cherish breathing, old man.”

Leslie rushed out from behind the bar and towards the two men, “That’s enough, gentlemen! Captain, please, hostler your dagger!

Henry! Mind your own!”

Byron slowly pulled the knife away from the man’s neck, staring him down as he did so with a wild ferociousness. A deafening crack of thunder shook the tavern causing everyone to look up towards the roof as the wooden shutters slammed shut. Rain pounded above, drowning out the rowdy crowd in a horrendous howl.

“Good, God… don’t think I’ve ever heard a storm this violent,” Marshall’s voice trembled slightly as he glanced towards his half-empty ale. Henry, still in Byron’s grasp, looked up in a sort of insane amazement, “The beast has awakened.”

Byron brought his attention back to the old man, “What the hell are you on about? What beast?”

“The beast that dwells in the black waters. She’s been asleep for a long time, comforted by the warmth of the open sea… but now, she comes,” Henry spoke with a conviction fueled by insanity and liquor as his eyes transfixed on Byron. A twisted grin morphed over old features, brown and blackened teeth standing against white hair and stark eyes.

Silence momentarily evaded Byron and his crew, a chill running up the Captain’s spine before his crew broke out in uproars of laughter at the old man’s expense.

5

FICTION “Go on, old man! Go back to your table with your drunken tales of sea monsters...” Byron finally released his hold on Henry and shoved him harshly before taking his seat at the table.

“Captain,” Henry started up again, still smirking, “don’t you wish to know what really caused your deckhand to lose his mind? To jump ship?”

The crew’s laughter died down slowly. Byron peered up, a daring look in his eyes, “How do you know he jumped?”

The old man pulled up a chair besides Byron, “As said before, I’ve spent more time at sea than you have on Earth. The same thing happened to a few of my deckhands. They lost their bloody minds days before we made it to shore. Went on mumbling to themselves, talking nonsense, no rest could cure their ills. And later that night, they jumped, rocks tied to their feet as the sea swallowed them.”

“Oi,” Will spoke up with bewilderment, “that’s what Ethan did!

Fine one day and then babbling about black waters the next, and-” “Enough, Will,” Byron cut him short.

“Let the boy speak! Or are you too afraid, Captain…” Henry eyed Byron.

“Fishermen like you spread lies. Go back to your table before I flay you like the cod fish you are,” Byron threatened, sneering as he proceeded to stand. His crew snickered softly to their ales.

“Tell me, boy-” “Captain,” Byron interjected, his teeth clenched hard enough to strain the muscles in his jaw.

“Alright. Captain boy,” Henry corrected himself, a fresh smugness sitting on his words, “Tell me, have you heard of what dwells under the blackest waters in the sea?”

Byron arched his eyebrow, glanced towards his crew, and then shook his head as he turned his attention back towards the old man. Of course, he had heard countless stories in the shipyards as a boy, but he never paid those fancy tales any mind. They were all lies.

“Long ago, beyond the great sea, sailors claimed black waters were where the world ends. No man, no matter how brave, dared venture into the waters dark as coal. It’s believed, long before our time, Zeus had an affair with a woman who lived along the sea. When his wife, Hera, found out about their secret romance, she cast the woman into the sea and made her a siren… hoping the sea would kill their love. Soon after, however, Hera discovered Zeus was still in love with her. Filled with jealousy and rage, Hera condemned the woman as a monster so large, so hideous, that it would be impossible for Zeus to still love her. Hera banished her to the furthest reaches of the sea, turning the bottomless waters black,” Henry took a sip of Byron’s ale as the entire crew exchanged grim looks,

6

HARBINGER “She had hoped the beast would wander the pitch-black waters until the end of time so that she may never again steal her husband’s love, but she underestimated her. It’s said, that for her final touch, a punishment to the disloyalty of man… Hera damned all men that cast a glance of the beast, are drawn to their death. If that man be unfaithful, his crew will too be swallowed by the beast below.”

Byron quietly swallowed, “That’s- that’s just an old wives’ tale.”

“I swear on my life that it’s the truth.”

“Really,” Bryon cocked his head to the side, studying the old man. “If it’s true, then what was the name of Zeus’s lover? The beast below as you claim.”

Henry leaned in as a stern wave crossed his face, “Aye. The love of many men. Her name be Calypso…”

The old man rose to his feet, his eyes still locked with Byron, God pray your deckhand was as faithful as your crew, Captain. Otherwise, you too shall be swallowed by the beast below.”

Henry stretched, a smirk crossing his face once more as Byron and his crew chuckled slightly. The old man shook his head as he turned towards the door to the tavern as it slammed open and rain began to pour in like it was leaking from the sea. Wind screeched in, blowing out the candles dimly flickering on the tables, and bringing a haunting chill into the room.

“God help us all,” Byron muttered to himself fearfully as something roared above them. Lightning struck the ground as the members of the tavern flinched. Rain splattered windows as shutters were ripped off, and Byron’s blood ran cold as he glanced out past the harbor, towards the black waters rising in the distance. Lightning cracked again as Henry laughed manically and Marshall screamed, as Byron clutched his empty glass of ale and stared at the monstrous silhouette seen by the flash of light.

FICTION

Caught Persephonie Cole

The front door was ajar. That should have been the warning, the signal flare sent up by her home that something was not right. Rose Talbot remembered the autumn chill, how she hurried inside to get away from the cold fingers of winter that stretched out of season and caressed her skin. She had felt the too easy give of the door, but passed inside regardless, never stopping to consider the implications.

“I’m home!” she called.

The door clicked closed behind her. She threw the deadbolt and threaded the chain through its metal loop, locking winter outside for the night. The house was dark. It seemed deserted ; the nearest sign of life was the blue light of a television set signaling her father’s presence in the den. She slid the French doors open a crack. The top of his head stuck out over the couch . A baseball game was playing on the flickering screen.

“I’m home, Dad ; headed upstairs.” Rose called before sealing him back into the room.

He had not replied, but it was late. She did not check on him or go in to bug him about how bad the couch was for his back. She was distracted, thinking of term papers and the hot shower that would revive her stiff muscles.

The distant trickle of water could be heard from the kitchen sink; fluorescents dimly illuminated the table in the hallway and framed photos of the Talbot family.

There was mother, father, and their two daughters, Molly and Rose, on a hiking trip at Yellowstone. Rose had gotten a bad case of poison ivy. A child’s sullen and blotchy face glared at the camera. Next to this, her parents’ wedding photo captured the newlyweds smashing a slice of chocolate cake into the face of the other. There were also the senior portraits from high school, both daughters smiling bright at the future. The eldest girl, Molly, was not yet aware she would drop out of college to have a baby. But right next to her portrait sat the picture of baby Birdie, decked out in pink chiffon for her 12-month photo shoot.

Rose did not pause to look at these framed memories, objects she passed every day without a glance. If she had, she might have noticed that one was missing: the photo of her bikini clad and grinning on the

8

HARBINGER beach, double fisting snow cones. In its place was a bloody handprint , but she would not find out about this detail until after.

Now she strode up the stairs, fingers grazing the banister to feel the familiar wood rubbed smooth from countless hands and helped along by that childhood summer Rose and Molly practiced sliding down the rail like stars of their own action movie. Rose pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and began selecting the evening’s music playlist.

The top stair creaked.

Rose looked up but saw nothing at the landing ; the second floor was dark. She paused a moment, hesitating , but her parents were only a few feet away and she was cloaked in the surety of home and safety.

The unease passed and Rose continued her trek telling herself that watching The Grudge last night had been a mistake. The top stair creaked as her foot came down . Her hand shot out automatically seeking the light switch around the corner. A bit of the spook lingered in that dark moment of searching fingers.

Then orange light chased away shadows and Rose’s eyes flicked back down to her phone. Piano music would be perfect to get her into the studying mood. She needed a calm melody to help her unwind. She hit play and the soft notes of Debussy tinkled feebly from the phone’s small speakers.

The bathroom was guest ready –her mother must have cleaned today. The smell of bleach assaulted Rose’s nostrils as she ran the shower water experimentally, gauging the volume of her phone in comparison to the rushing of the water. Debussy was drowned out by the hard spray.

Frowning, she turned on Bluetooth and padded back down the hall.

Her bedroom was a mixture of girlhood and adult tastes. Stuffed animals hid in the closet among shoes and secrets while a desk crammed with college textbooks and a silver MacBook vied for dominance on her desk. An unmade bed, the soft comforter thrown aside as she got up that morning, sat still waiting for her to crawl back in. Rose unzipped her jacket and hung it on the bedpost while simultaneously using the toes of her feet to hold down the heel of each shoe as she stepped out of them. The portable speaker sat on her nightstand. She booted it up and stepped back into the hallway, the little blue connection light flashing as it tried to find its mate.

A large man stood at the end of the hall, peering into the bathroom.

He was dressed for the outdoors: camouflage pants and a black sweater, the hood pulled up over his head. It was absurd to see him, this phantom that did not belong. There were no deer in her red brick townhome, but this hunter was seeking a different kind of prey. She could smell his sweat, could see his body practically vibrating with the thrill of his invasion.

9

FICTION He thinks I’m in the bathroom. I can creep downstairs-Debussy blasted from the small blue speaker Rose still clutched in her hands. The man’s entire body turned in one motion and Rose’s pulse spiked. She would later tell the police that he wore a V for Vendetta mask. She was never able to see his face. They both stood regarding one another for three impossibly long seconds. The man’s heels lifted off the ground then he was sprinting down the hallway towards her. Rose screamed and lobbed the speaker at him, her shoulder almost coming free from its socket.

It struck him on the side of the head, dazing him for the moment she needed to run back down the stairs. The speaker cracked as it hit the floor, Debussy going silent.

“DAD!” she screamed.

She threw her body against the French doors of the den, her elbow splintering a section of glass. Pain exploded up her arm as she grabbed the top of the couch.

“DAD! There’s-” Rose choked.

Her father stared vacantly towards the television. His blue shirt was stained red from the great divide in his throat.

The top stair creaked.

Rose would not make it to the front door, he would cut her off. She turned and shot past the banister, running towards the kitchen. The man thrust his knife at her from over the railing. The blade whispered through her shirt and drew blood on her back. She cried out but did not stop. The sink was still running. The pattering of water echoed in her panic, reverberating off the walls of her mind. The light seemed impossibly far away. As she got closer the puddle of blood that was slowly seeping across the tiled floor came into view. Its source was hidden behind the kitchen island.

“Mom…” Rose paused, overcome by grief. She knew, without having to go further, she knew.

Feet thudded onto the carpet of the first floor ; a dark shadow running at her back. It was a reflex : get something between herself and her attacker. She spun to the left and darted into the downstairs bathroom. The door closed and the lock clicked. A terrible pounding began. There was no window and no way out. She was trapped. Her eyes ransacked the whitewashed room and alighted on her salvation. In the same moment that the man broke the weak doorknob, Rose swung the porcelain lid from the toilet tank and broke his face.

He went down screaming; the V for Vendetta mask crumpled in on itself. Blood poured out from behind it, a river breaking a weak dam.

Without hesitation, Rose brought the porcelain lid down again on the

10

HARBINGER back of his head. Then again. And again. She did not stop until her arms were unable to hold its weight.

Shaking hands released their burden. The ivory weapon--stained red--crashed to the floor. Blood soaked her thick wool socks leaving her toes squirming against the congealing ooze. The form beneath her lay lifeless, his head crushed to a mass of splintered bone and grey matter.

Later, at trial, a lawyer would ask Rose why she had not run through the kitchen to the back door. He stated that she could have gotten out of the house and into the yard , called for help. It was, to her, an idiotic line of reasoning.

“He would have caught me. I just caught him first.”

Mutually Assured Destruction Halle Cooley | acrylic & oil on canvas

FICTION

Empty Cameron Carlson It was a dark room. She specifically requested “ A warm, vintage-themed room. Think ‘hipster,’ but less obnoxious protesting and more vinyls and tapestries, dear.” As soon as someone walked in, they were greeted by the maroon-colored loveseat placed against the wall. Her vanity lay to the left of that, a small can of soda lying on top, and a mirror surrounded in lights occupied much of the space. Next to that, a small, quaint mini fridge murmured with a slight buzz. And that was it. She was a woman of refined taste, yet she did not need much. Well, all but one thing : a poster large enough to practically consume the entire space of the wall behind the couch which read Fatal Glory. A miasma of orange swirled in the background, blurring the faces of her co-stars. But front and center, posing with her best “model-face,” her hands mimicking that of a gun, was none other than Sarah-Lin Valdez: world-class actress. In times of distress, she would often look to the poster to bring her some amount of comfort, but on this afternoon, it was not helping.

She inhaled deeply, letting the oxygen fill her lungs. She set her hands out flat in front of her as if she were placing them onto a desk.

She closed her eyes and imagined happy thoughts; cupcakes, puppies, rainbows -- anything that might please a toddler with a singular brain cell --yet nothing worked. Her hands betrayed her, shaking terribly, and she began to rub them together as she paced around the room, her eyes desperately avoiding the mirror. Her legs caught one another, and she stumbled forward knocking the soda can off her vanity and onto the floor.

“Shit!”

The soda began to pool beneath her feet, slightly fizzing. She reached into the vanity drawer and pulled out a towel. As she bent down to wipe away the beverage, a small knock came upon her door.

“One moment, please!” She scrubbed the floor more vigorously than before then stood up and finally relented. Catching herself in the mirror, Sarah-Lin was startled. It was an odd feeling for Sarah-Lin, who had never been unable to recognize her own reflection. She reached forward to feel her cheeks, but another knock drew her away from her thoughts.

“Sarah-Lin?” “I said one moment.”

12

HARBINGER She inhaled again before patting down her dress and running her fingers through her hair. She reached for her lip gloss and reapplied it before casually sitting down on her love-seat, crossing her knees as she flipped through a magazine.

“Come in, please.”

A young man, broad in the shoulders, his hair neatly combed back, stepped into the room, shutting the door softly behind him as he entered.

He cleared his throat as he took in the sight of Sarah-Lin, whose eyes remained focused upon her magazine.

“So… do you want to talk about it?”

She glanced upwards, meeting his eyes. “Talk about what, Johnny?”

The man, Johnny, rolled his eyes in irritation. “Are we seriously doing this, Sarah-Lin? After we’ve known each other for so long?” He held his unrelenting gaze on the woman, focused and determined.

The actress simply smiled and flipped another page. “I forgot my lines is all.”

“Funny. I don’t act like that when I forget my lines.”

“Well, I do,” she snapped, hesitating before continuing, “and I’m sorry that my process doesn’t look like yours, but I forgot my lines and it was frustrating. Now leave so I can focus.”

Johnny scoffed, shaking his head as he turned away from SarahLin. Years ago the two were cast in a rom-com titled Mister Silver Fox, and ever since then the two were close friends. They had survived the movie’s production being canceled, renewed, canceled again, and renewed again. It was five years of production, but it was the job that changed their lives forever.

“You’re not having any trouble remembering the lines you’re feeding to me now,” he spat back. “Is it the scene? Sarah-Lin, you’ve done worse than this. This hardly compares-” “Could you do it?” Sarah-Lin’s voice quietly interrupted him. Johnny glanced back towards Sarah-Lin, but her eyes were intently focused on the floor. Johnny’s eyes followed hers to the spilled can of soda. He bent down to pick it up then turned it back and forth in his hands. The bright, vivid red had slightly chipped. He looked back at Sarah-Lin. “Do what?”

“The scene.”

“I’m not in that scene.”

“But if you were?”

Johnny sighed, a slight blush rising in his cheeks. He ruffled the back of his head nervously as he replied, “Well… you mean as the man? I

13

FICTION guess I’d give it a shot. We’re all actors here. Not sure I’d feel comfortable handling you that way, but-” “You’re not listening to me, Johnny.” Sarah-Lin stood up from her seat. “Could you do that scene as me? Could you play my character?”

“Your character? Janet?”

“Yes, as Janet.” Sarah-Lin pushed past the actor towards her vanity, studying the mirror.

“She’s just a janitor. She’s trying to make ends meet for her and her son. She works from dawn till dusk cleaning away at a business where no one talks to her, no one thanks her. She isn’t owed anything, right?”

The actress pulled out a drawer to left revealing a pack of cigarettes, a small teal lighter, and a dusty ashtray.

“And then here comes her boss who thinks she owes him something.

Tell me, Johnny, could you do that? Have you ever had to?”

“I don’t understand, Sarah-Lin.” “No, you don’t, do you?” She scoffed then pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it ablaze. She placed the end in her mouth and breathed in deeply. She closed her eyes and let the nicotine envelope her before releasing the smoke in a perfect circle.

“You’d never understand what it’s like to be… a woman …to be a fucking soda can.” A snort escaped her lips as Johnny’s eyes widened at the harsh language. Johnny looked down at the can in his hands as confusion bundled itself in his narrowed eyebrows.

“They’re pretty ; nice to look at. But from afar, you’d never see it was completely empty inside. You could go your whole life thinking it was still full.” Sarah-Lin planted her cigarette into the ashtray then bent down to her mini fridge to grab another can of soda.

“Well, that’s the wonderful thing about being an actress, isn’t it?

I can fake being full. No one will ever know the things I’ve done to get where I am.” She turned to Johnny, his feet frozen in place as he stared at Sarah-Lin, pity consuming his eyes.

“What do you want me to tell them,” Johnny quietly murmured.

She scoffed and reclined back onto the love-seat, pulling the magazine back to her. “You’re an actor, aren’t you? Do some improv for me.”

Johnny stepped toward the door, but before he could leave, he found himself turning back to the actress. She took another sip of her drink relaxed and calm as if nothing had happened.

“You’re not just an empty soda can to me, you know? You’re not… nothing. And I know that means shit coming from me and I know that I’m probably overstepping here, but… fuck, Sarah-Lin , you’re so wound up in your goddamn pride. I don’t think what happened to you makes you

14

HARBINGER weak. I think it makes you one of the strongest people I know.” Johnny smiled softly before reaching for the door handle. “You’re never alone, Sarah-Lin. That door is open. Just knock.”

As the door shut, Sarah-Lin shut her eyes. Her mind felt like a tangled coil of yarn. A tear fell from her cheek and she quickly wiped it away, desperate not to smudge her makeup. She stood up from her seat, moved to the vanity, and ever-so-cautiously peered into the mirror. She cleared her throat and looked herself in the eyes.

“I’m sorry. You must go through this alone and that must hurt an awful lot , but this happened to you, not me. I am Sarah-Lin Valdez.

I have been praised for my skills on the stage since I was a child. I am not a victim. If that’s what you are, then do that by yourself. I have too much to do and too much to be. I cannot be that for you as well, nor would I want to. Good luck, my dear , because God knows you’ll need it.” She picked up a small pan of loose powder, lightly dusted a brush with it, and swept it across the bridge of her nose and along her cheeks.

She stood up, patted her dress, and left her dressing room.

Peep Show Sandra Sierra | screenprint

FICTION

The Spire of Fire Sam Bentley Flint walked down the snow-covered street at a swift pace, with Helen close behind him, their hiking boots making crunching sounds as they did so. Both were keeping watch for any buildings of interest that could yield useful supplies, or a decent shelter for the night. However, most were uninviting, whether it was from their missing doors and furniture being strewn across the sidewalks, or graffiti left behind as a deterrent to homeless survivors like them. All the while, Flint kept a hand on the handgun that rested in the long, brown leather holster he had slung over his dark green coat, ready to fire if anyone tried to ambush them.

“Should we try that convenience store?” Helen asked, pointing to a large brick building on the street corner. Unlike the other buildings, it appeared to have avoided falling victim to any kind of defacing. Flint nodded, and the two scavengers approached its side. Taking a running start, Flint managed to get a hold onto the lip of one of the building’s walls and looked in through a window just below the ceiling. Many of the shelves were empty, but a few still had some bags of product left on them.

“Looks safe to me,” Flint said, jumping down from his perch.

Despite his search, he still drew his pistol, and took great care to not make any unnecessary noise when opening the front door.

“I don’t think we’re going to meet anyone here,” Helen whispered, “You don’t need to tense up every time we round a corner.”

“It never hurts to be prepared,” Flint replied, “I still can’t believe you talked those other people into splitting that food crate yesterday.”

“There was more than they could carry,” Helen explained, brushing aside a few strands of her red hair, “Not every encounter we have has to be a standoff.”

“That’s what everyone encourages, though,” Flint said firmly.

“Well, we’re not everyone,” Helen replied. Flint snickered for a moment and holstered his pistol as he continued scouring the shelves.

“Want some crackers?” he asked with a grin, hazel eyes more relaxed as he pulled a large box of saltines from the shelf.

Helen smiled a bit and joined Flint at the back of the store where they ate their fill of crackers and anything else Helen determined safe to eat. As night fell, Flint took first watch, preparing a tripwire by the door to ensure he would have the advantage over anyone who might

16

HARBINGER disturb them. After several long hours, Helen woke up and watched over the store in quiet contemplation. Daylight broke, and they both set off once again.

Both agreed the store would be a good base for at least the next few days, but they should scout their surroundings to ensure that it wouldn’t be a target for nearby bandits or gangs. They spent most of the day walking within a mile of the shopping center, and as evening began to set, the pair approached the closest beach. Several hundred feet away was a tall, imposing lighthouse, which seemed to have a makeshift woodshed, bonfire pit, and a few other ramshackle structures around its base with no real sense of order.

As they approached the lighthouse to investigate, a thunderous yell emerged from within the spire. Several gruff-looking men, all wearing flame-themed and colored accessories ranging from bandanas to jackets, spilled out from the door and from behind the lighthouse. Instinctively, Flint drew his pistol with stunning speed to ward off his assailants.

However, the gangsters drew their own guns and knives, ready to strike if he attempted to shoot. Helen stood silently just behind Flint but kept her hand at her side, ready to draw her own pistol if needed. A few tense seconds of the standoff passed before a more heavy-set, black-haired man in a dark crimson jacket and slate cargo pants, strode boldly to the front.

As he approached Flint and Helen, the other men lowered their weapons.

“You two want to tell me what you’re doing snooping around our beach?” the man asked, quite gruffly. Flint lowered his pistol, but kept a cold, stoic expression.

“Just passing by,” Flint explained, “We’ll be leaving now.”

“Not yet you’re not,” the man said as his cronies raised their weapons, “You came to us, you know where we’re at… so surely, you must know this’ll end one way. Either join our Spire of Fire or die.”

“We don’t mean any harm,” said Helen as she lowered the hood of her cream jacket, “Just let us be, and we won’t bother any of you again.”

“Inferno! Why don’t you fight the guy to settle this?” one of the gangsters asked. Several others concurred, prompting the leader to motion for them to be silent.

“Alright, alright, if you want some action, you’ll have it, guys,” Inferno replied. He looked directly at Flint, who had kept his stoic expression for the entire conversation.

“Tell you what we’re gonna do. You and I fight each other… No guns, no cheap shots, nothing but your knuckles,” he explained, “You win, you get to leave. I win, you both work for me, or… I shoot ya both.

Unless the lass wants her own fight, that is.”

17

FICTION “I’m not in the mood for a fight,” Flint replied, “We’ll be on our way now.” “You think you’re in a position to make demands?”

“I never said that. We’re just leaving.”

“Not without a fight you’re not. Whether that’s against all of us or just me, is up to you.”

Flint stared intently at Inferno for several moments as the gang behind the latter readied their weapons.

“Fine, I’ll take you on,” Flint muttered. The gang led Flint and Helen towards one of the nearby structures; a raised, circular wooden platform. Two of the cronies showed Flint to his starting position at one end of the arena, as a third one, clad in a grey and black windbreaker, orange bandana, and a battered newsboy cap, stood towards the center.

Opposite to Flint, Inferno strode boldly to his position, standing tall with pride. He threw off his jacket to reveal a black undershirt and took on a wide stance, clearly used to having fought on this stage before.

“Good luck, Flint,” Helen whispered as the designated referee raised his arm to start the fight.

“This is freaking stupid,” Flint grumbled as he rolled up his sleeves.

“Rules are simple. Whoever falls off the platform first, or is knocked down for ten seconds, loses. Ready...set...FIGHT!” the referee yelled, leaping off the platform as the fight began. Both fighters took a few moments to size each other up, circling the arena as they did so.

Finally, they charged at each other and collided in the middle.

Inferno was quick to take the early advantage, striking Flint hard across the chest multiple times as he grabbed him before shoving him back.

The gang members roaring with approval with each thudding blow. Flint quickly recovered, though, and swung several swift punches at Inferno, who proudly took several of them in stride before blocking the last few.

Flint’s barrage continued for a little longer until Inferno leapt back and countered with a savage haymaker to Flint’s head that sent him spinning.

The massive man pressed his attack and tried to force Flint to the ground with his sheer weight. However, Flint was able to escape his grapple, and quickly lead Inferno on a chase around the arena, giving him a light punch and kick every so often to knock him back. Inferno was quick to break this cycle and reverse direction, but Flint seized this chance to slide back towards the arena’s center. Now behind Inferno, he took hold of his right arm, and threw him towards the ground as hard as he could.

The Spire of Fire’s leader soon found himself disgracefully toppled onto the planks of the platform, and heard the referee begin to make his count. At the count of three, Inferno stood back up, stomped in rage with a loud, primal yell, and charged Flint again. The audience’s cheers,

18

HARBINGER interrupted by the shock of seeing their leader fall, turned to furious shouts to finish the match quickly. Both men exchanged several blows at the center of the stage. All the while, Helen stood almost completely still, her eyes focused on her friend’s struggle. Finally, as the power of Flint’s punches began to weaken, Inferno seized his chance to forcefully kick him towards the edge of the arena.

Flint teetered at the edge but managed to stay upright. He attempted to regain his position, but Inferno was already on him. The two locked arms and wrestled each other for control, refusing to disengage. Eventually, Inferno managed to lift Flint slightly off the stage, and in the next instant, Flint found himself being slammed to the ground.

The world blurred before his eyes as Flint looked around, dazed.

The countdown from the referee was just barely audible in his ringing ears as he caught sight of a concerned Helen, at which point a victorious roar erupted from the crowd. Inferno turned towards his posse and raised his arms in triumph as the crowd chanted his name.

After the fight had ended, the referee stepped back on to the arena and helped Flint, battered and bloody, stand. Helen stood frozen, replaying the fight silently in her mind before running onto the platform herself.

“Is he going to be okay?” Helen asked, shakily.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” the referee replied, turning towards her, “I’ve seen much worse come from a pit fight. I’m assuming you’re not going to take your chances?”

Helen hesitated for a moment before shaking her head, “No. So what happens now?”

The referee shrugged.

“Welcome to the Spire of Fire,” he said, extending his right arm towards Helen, who accepted his handshake, “Name’s Hayden, but everyone here just calls me Spade.”

“Why do they call you that?”

“Inferno’s got a thing for nicknames, and everyone here knows me for my love of gambling. Speaking of, you two will probably be getting new names of your own pretty soon.”

“What would they be?”

“That depends on what you get known for. We do take these things somewhat seriously though, so you won’t be stuck with something that’s obviously made to be an insult… Also, let me tell ya, that was a damn good fight,” Spade continued, “I’ve never seen anyone last that long against Inferno before. Hell, I don’t think anyone’s knocked him down before.”

“You serious?” Flint asked, beginning to stand at his full height again.

19

FICTION “Yeah, you’ve got some skills. Don’t know if you’ve ever been to the gambling pits, but I bet you’d do very well there. Although, you may want to lay low for a while. He doesn’t really like the idea of someone challenging his position as hard as you did.”

“Challenging? I was defending myself!”

“Not to the boss and his goons,” Spade folded his arms, “Don’t expect to get a royal treatment here, got me? Still, I’d say it’s probably better than scraping along through the Wastes.”

“Why are you telling us all this, exactly?” Helen asked.

“No one else here will,” Spade explained, “I learned most of what I told you guys when I got beat by Inferno. Luckily, my gambling stuff keeps me on the inside here. Whatever the case, I want to make sure you two have someone else to talk to. Anyway, you hungry?”

Several weeks later, Helen, now known to the other members of the Spire of Fire, as Red Herring for how often she ended up preparing fish, was cooking a large pot of fish soup in the makeshift kitchen of the lighthouse. For her, many days had passed after joining the Spire in a long miserable loop. Wake up, prepare meals for the day, try to ignore odd glances at her from the higher-ups, think about her situation, sleep, and repeat. Wake up, prepare meals for the day, try to ignore odd glances at her from the higher-ups, think about her situation, sleep, and repeat.

Wake up, prepare meals for the day, try to ignore…

Some days she’d see Flint, now called Holster for his speed in drawing his pistol, sent out to scavenge some supplies from the Wastes.

The area surrounding the lighthouse. Some of the leaders took bets on what Holster would come back with. Helen noticed most of the time, he would return with bottles of alcohol, half-empty, dusty and grimy; and hand them off to the leaders and other well-respected people, who usually played casino games at the old poker table.

The two of them still spoke to each other and had begun to naturally refer to each other by their designated nicknames; but as the days passed, Red Herring and Holster’s conversations became less frequent as Holster left the area more often. Furthermore, on the days he wasn’t out in the Wastes, he was usually talking to Spade or one of the less respected members.

The day had passed similarly to how several of those before had, though Holster came back from his errands noticeably later than usual.

By then, the dinner crowd had already left to sit around the fires outside or gamble. After what seemed like an eternity, Holster, now wearing an orange bandana of his own, came in through the door and swung his backpack down on the counter.

20

HARBINGER “Long day?” Red Herring asked, ladling two bowls of soup.

“I thought I’d take advantage of the leaders not ordering me fetch booze for once,” Holster explained, rummaging in the pack for a bit before pulling out a long, slim package of saltines, “I found these and figured maybe we could add some crackers to that soup for once… give it a bit more texture. Though, it looks like I was out a bit too long.”

“I’ll just bring them in for the next batch,” Red Herring set the bowls down gently, “You mind if we talk for a while?”

“Sure. What’s up?” Holster turned towards her. She looked around the lighthouse for a while before leaning down a bit.

“Are you...comfortable here?” she asked quietly.

“Uh...What- what do you mean by that?”

“Well, I’ve seen you talking to a lot of the others and... do you think you’re going to stay here? I mean, is this our home now?” Red Herring said, concerned. Her soft, troubled tone caused Holster to take a pause before meeting her gaze. His voice low and serious as hazel met green, “You mind if we take this conversation outside?”

They both got up from their seats, soup bowls and crackers in hand and climbed the rickety stairs to the top of the lighthouse. The night sky stretched out above them, dotted with the white twinkle of the first few stars coming into sight.

“I’ll admit that being in a group like this, as crass as they are… is better than wandering aimlessly in the Wastes like we used to,” Holster began. Red Herring nodded cautiously.

“And I know we haven’t talked much recently,” he continued, “But I’ve been thinking about how to get out of this situation ever since I lost to Inferno. My first step was talking to everyone I could, seeing how things work around here… finding any flaws this guy has, weaknesses, ya know? And… there’s a lot of ‘em. You remember Spade? Turns out he and quite a few others got here the same way that we did. And just like me, they ain’t so happy about it either.”

“Do you not like it here? Not saying I do, but I want to know how you feel,” Red Herring whispered, the sentence barely making it past her lips as Holster sighed.

“Inferno’s a pain to work with. Always sending me out to get stuff we don’t need so he and his buddies can drink and gamble. Not to mention, his rage,” Flint absentmindedly ran his sun-soaked fingers over a rough, jagged brown scar on his shoulder. The 4-inch abrasion from Inferno and his buddies throwing a few empty bottles at him a few weeks ago for refusing to search the Wastes.

21

FICTION Red Herring let out a soft breath, “Seems like I might have it a bit better, then. I mean, I do enjoy cooking, odd stares or not… What are you planning on doing, anyway?”

“Truth is,” Flint met her gaze again, “I’ve been resisting Inferno this whole time… but secretly. Any chance I get to do something he wouldn’t notice, I take it. Get actual supplies we need, bring back half-empty bottles of booze for weapons… chat with Spade. Anything. I’m taking Inferno down… It won’t be today and probably won’t be tomorrow. Hell, might not even be this week, but someday soon… I’ll take him down.

And get us out of here.”

“You’re really persistent, you know,” Red Herring chuckled softly, tilting her head a bit, “Even if you don’t think you are.”

“Well, I’ve barely said anything to anyone the past few days,” Holster shifted in his seat to face her, opening himself up a bit more.

A soft smile crossed his face as he bit into a stale cracker. His freckles evident under the glowing light from the barely lit candle between them.

His hazel eyes on her as he cleared his throat, “Answer me this… have you, in the last few days, or even weeks, lost all hope of us either getting out of here or making our complaints heard?”

Red Herring glanced down at her half-eaten bowl of soup, “No, of course not... but…”

“Then, you haven’t given up yet. They want you to feel boxed in.

Comfortable. Hopeless and desolate, like the Wastes. So, find enjoyment in something and hold onto it in spite of them. Don’t let them take every last piece of you.”

“Well, I guess I’ve been doing that with cooking,” Red Herring glanced back up, smiling as Holster held her gaze, nodding, “Good... but, if we’re going to make this plan work, I need you to help me… Whenever you get the chance, make some conversation with people. Try to bring out how they really feel about living here and pass it on to me. Then, we’ll know who’ll be willing to help.”

“And then what?”

“Then, we’ll rebel, make our voices heard from the Wastes, or fight.”

“I’m surprised you’re not just going straight to fighting.”

Holster chuckled, “Sometimes you’re better off at least trying to talk first… Took me a while to figure that one out.”

Red Herring smiled, laughing softly as she tucked a few strands of red hair behind her ear. Holster looked up, setting his empty bowl down as he studied her face before smiling back, the gap between his front teeth visible under the moonlight, “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile since we got here, Helen. It’s nice.”

22

HARBINGER Helen gasped softly at the sound of her name. It felt like years since she’d heard it, a comforting warmth riding through the air as it left Holster’s lips. She glanced down, embarrassment crossing her face as Holster’s fingers brushed over hers.

“I always smile around you, Flint,” She whispered, “Whether you notice or not.”

“I do. I always notice… I noticed even in the darkest parts of the Wastes. Under the blackest skies. The worst situations… I notice like I notice your faith in me. And I swear to you, even if it’s the last thing I do, I will get us out of here.”

FICTION

The Unknown Eyes William Becker My headlights swept across the dimly lit building as I pulled into the parking lot and took note of the dim lights in the windows of the building.

“Early morning,” I muttered to myself as I mindlessly steered into my parking spot. The squealing of the brakes snapped me back into reality and I looked up. Parked crooked, I went into reverse to re-park. A dull sense of embarrassment burned in my ears. Everyone else was still in their trucks ; they watched me as I sheepishly adjusted to my parking spot.

I put the truck into park, snapped my music off and sat in the dark cab.

It must have only been a moment, but I savored every bit of solitude and peace before I turned the truck off. Only five minutes until I would technically be late, so I quickly grabbed all my belongings and triple checked that I still had my keys and wallet as I stepped out of the truck and locked it behind me. I took a deep breath. The wind was cold and sour. Already the anxiety found its way to my heart. I straightened my back and held all my things close to my body then walked across the parking lot toward the back door of the building.

I knew they had cameras, but I was never sure how many. Could they see all the way out here? Did they mock the way I walk? My eyes darted along the building and looked for cameras while my head stayed straight forward to make it look like I was not looking for cameras at all. That would make me look guilty of something, wouldn’t it? I was not guilty of anything, but if they thought I was guilty of something and started questioning me my treacherous heart would surely make it seem like I was hiding something.

The thoughts passed as I walked into the light of the back porch.

Surely, they saw me now and how they must have laughed! I felt my gait faltering, fuzzy memories of teasing came back to haunt me. I shook my head, then I pulled at my keycard to scan myself in. It was a nice little gift, my keycard holder, it attached at the waist and had a little elastic spool of string that would extend and pull it back.

The string snapped as I pulled the keycard towards the door, the small device fell to the floor. I cursed under my breath. The weight of the camera’s observation weighed heavily on my back as I bent over to pick up the remains of my little keycard holder. I quickly stood up and

24

HARBINGER scanned myself in, then let out a sigh of relief as I stepped across the threshold into the yellow, fluorescent light.

I was in an airlock of sorts, now. From this room you could access several other rooms in the building, like the crew quarters or the dining hall , but there were no cameras in here, I knew that for sure. I had spent many seconds glancing around this room to check; I would not be surprised if I had logged several hours just checking this room alone.

I hastily stuffed the mechanical remains into the pocket of my BDU’s, straightened the front of my shirt, and walked through the dining hall door. My eyes stared straight ahead as I clenched my jaw.

After striding into the room, I quickly looked around. Most of my coworkers still slept in the recliners, but I knew they were faking it. The lights were on! Why would the lights be on if they were still asleep? Quietly, I sat my things down on the dining room table and walked towards the captain’s office. The captain was sitting in his chair, staring at his computer.

“Morning, Cap.” I said, but I only got a faint grunt in response. I checked the assignment board, nodded when I found where I would be today, and signed out a radio for myself before I left the room.

I sighed as I left. Was I too harsh in there? I mean, I would have loved to make conversation but surely, he must be tired. If he was up this early that must mean they had a busy night.

The other members of the shift shuffled into the room, yawning, and sat their belongings down. I quietly assembled what I would need for the day and offered a polite smile and nod to my peers as the dining hall slowly buzzed to life. After I picked up the paperwork I needed for my shift, I kept an attentive ear to the subdued and sleepy conversations that had started to pick up around me ; I hoped to jump in at some point.

As usual, that opportunity never came, and as the printer spat out my last few documents, I saw as my partner walked into the captain’s room. I scooped the pages up and walked in. He looked at the assignment board and I studied his face for any sign of displeasure or resentful acceptance of his fate. He let out a sigh, shook his head, and walked out of the room.

“Hey, Jensen.” He muttered to me as he passed. I just nodded, afraid of a voice crack if I tried to speak up. I thought we were friends, we talked on every drive, but that sigh cut straight to my bones. I walked into the captain’s room again to staple my forms together.

“Jensen.” He said. His tone was tired but stern, almost like a DMV clerk after a long shift.

“Yes, sir?” I said, as I sat my paperwork down.

25

FICTION “Jensen, you forgot to fill out the Request for Approval to Review Submitted Documents form,” he said, his apologetic tone mocked me. I knew he was not apologetic; he just pitied my stupidity and my forgetfulness.

“Sorry, sir, is there any way I could fill it out today?” I asked, my voice did not betray my spite and resent.

“Nope,” he said . He frowned and shook his head as he looked at something on his computer. My file? I would not be surprised . That form is very important to our department and we could get into serious legal trouble if any of our clients…

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he selfishly interrupted my thoughts as usual. “We’ll get it sorted out. You go on ahead to your station.” He briefly looked at me before he turned back to his computer monitor.

Get it sorted out? What did that mean? Would they just cut the source of the problem out? I smiled and nodded, before I turned and headed out. I stopped only paces away from the door before I sheepishly walked back and picked up my paperwork. I waved and left. This time I made it all the way out to my Gore Dozer.

I stepped up into the cab of the dozer. It rested several feet above the ground, and I let out an audible grunt as I hoisted myself up. As I stood in the open door of the dozer, I sat my paperwork down on the dash and leaned in, then opened the glove box to get out the inspection forms. This was easy and probably my favorite part of the job; solitude, quiet, and a nice chance to check every single detail of the main tool of my job. I quickly ran down the checklist, many years of expertise drew my eyes and hands to every single possible infraction of my Gore Dozer.

After I found it in surprisingly good shape, I ticked off the boxes on the checklist. The humid air had made the paper moist and, lacking a clipboard, I had to write on the soft cushion of the seat. The checks were lopsided and ugly, but they would do. For the first time in a very long time, I got to sit down and rest. I threw the inspection sheet on top of the other paperwork and caught my breath.

Just as my heart slowed, an alarm blared in my ears and rang around the concrete garage before it bounced off the other Gore Dozers within.

“Attention Sanitation, go in service…” said the female dispatch voice.

I squeezed my eyes shut during the brief pause, my heart started to race.

“Attention Sanitation, go in service for infraction in progress, 1900 East Pecan Street.” She said. The address rang in my ears and I let out a sigh. I leaned forward then twisted the keys into the ignition and kicked the Gore Dozer into life. I sat and waited for my partner for what felt like hours.

26

HARBINGER I bit my nails. I was ready to go and debated going inside to yell for my partner. What if he was on the toilet? They would probably tease me for that, Log Pincher Jensen, they would call me.

The door to the garage swung open and my partner strode out .

He went around the front of the Gore Dozer to the passenger side while he buttoned up his uniform. I hit the garage door as he crossed the front of the Gore Dozer’s cow catcher and as soon as he sat down the garage door locked in place.

“Dispatch, show Unit Five in route to 1900 East Pecan,” he said into the radio. His voice clear and concise and probably very easily understood by dispatch.

“Unit Five received; time out is 0530,” the female dispatcher responded. He jotted down the time on his paperwork and I read him the current mileage on the Gore Dozer.

With that, I pulled out of the bay. I stopped at the end of the driveway and looked both ways on the street before I turned left. I must have checked five times each direction before I finally pulled onto the road.

“Tired today?” he asked.

I cursed my caution, now he thought that I would not be capable of performing my duties adequately. He must think I am an idiot; an overly cautious, forgetful idiot.

“Nope, I feel fine” I repliedto save what little dignity I could.

He shrugged as we sped down the road.

“Okay” he said, finally.

His word burned in my ears as I drove for what felt like eternity.

Eventually I finally turned onto Pecan and nodded as the infraction came into view. It seemed pretty large considering how close we were to the city.

“Dispatch, show Unit Five on scene.” He said into the radio, his pen readied to jot down the time. I read him the mileage as we waited for dispatch.

“Received, 0534,” she finally said.

Damnable stupidity! Four minutes was entirely too long, most of the rest of the station would have made it here in three! I wished for the sweet release of death as I put the Gore Dozer into park, stepped out of the cab, and slipped on my gloves as we approached the scene. We gave a curt wave to the police already on scene talking to the person that reported it.

I took the retractable Taser Baton from my belt and looked over at my partner as he crouched next to it and looked at a small flap that had begun oozing onto the road.

“What do you think?” I asked.

27

FICTION “Looks dead but go ahead and check to be sure.” He said as he stood up and retreated to the Gore Dozer to retrieve his Infraction Dead Upon Revival paperwork.

I flicked the Taser Baton on and it hummed to life in my hands. I stared at it for a moment while it slowly clicked to life Lights came on along its shaft as it booted up. Finally, it spat out a Successful Activation of Taser Baton form from the handle and I ripped it free. Looked like the printer was running low on ink.

I looked at the infraction, sizing it up. Our procedure dictated a very specific location to check for signs of life, but things had changed so much in the past few months that we had begun to make our own, subtle, changes to the procedure.

This one was pretty fucking fat, I remarked to myself after I finally identified the pseudo quadriceps. I checked the Taser Baton’s pointy and zappy end, made sure it was still pointy and zappy before I quickly thrusted it into the infraction.

As I did, my partner came back from having talked to the on-scene witness and police officer. No response noted, but I still repeated the process in front of him in case my blatantly oblivious brain had missed a very obvious sign of life. I jabbed it again, and still nothing.

He nodded and looked at me.

“Well, I still have to get a few signatures,” he said as he jabbed a finger over his shoulder towards the Infraction Inspection Agency. I nodded with a polite smile. “No worries, I don’t mind!” I said.

It was a lie. I did mind, I hated this part of this stupid horrible job.

Oh, but it’s so heroic, Jensen! No, fuck off, it’s just busy work to delay the inevitable. I walked back to the Gore Dozer and made sure to print off both the Successful Use of Taser Baton and Successful Deactivation of Taser Baton forms before I hopped into the cab.

We had left it running, so I just put it into drive and slowly inched forward as I waved to the bystanders now gathered along the road. Looks like this one had avoided all the houses, thank God. Finally, the cow catcher of the Gore Dozer met the infraction. I heard the engine whir as it idled against it. I frowned and tried to ignore the watchful and prying eyes of the bystanders as I pressed the gas into it.

Ripping and crunching filled the air. It was always like this for the first few moments, but it usually quieted down after.

With a sudden jerk and a loud bang, the Gore Dozer was shot back out of the infraction. The outer skin of the infraction had been ripped open, the pseudo femurs snapped, and a solid two feet of muscle cut into. But what lay underneath all that red was a shock of pale skin. It was covered

28

HARBINGER in thick pink slime and blood, but there it was, nonetheless. It twitched and shook as it adjusted to the pain of its freshly snapped pseudo femur.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck.” I muttered to myself . I quickly put the Gore Dozer into park and looked over at my partner who now had his back turned to the IIA agents. With his arms outstretched he frustratingly mouthed “What the Fuck?” to me. I shrugged, hopped out of the vehicle, and walked around it towards him.

I could feel as the bystanders stared into my back. My fat, stupid, idiot back.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His tone mocked me. Of course, I am okay, obviously I am okay, so do not fucking ask it! I thought to myself.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I gestured to the now convulsing pink infraction.

The fatty rolls of the one that engulfed the smaller one jiggled slightly at the movement and it was clear that the smaller one ran the whole length of the street.

“Is it pregnant?” I furrowed my brow. He just shook his head and walked up to it.

“Whatever it is, it’s new . We should probably call the captain,” he said as he pulled out his phone.

I knew it. I knew this would be my last day. The captain would blame me, we would get sued for damaging private property, I would get sued for God knows what…

“Yeah it’s uh.. It’s got another one inside of it… Yeah… Yeah and it’s still alive,” he walked closer toward it. I walked with him. The police now ushered away bystanders as the IIA agents closed in behind us like vultures.

“Yeah, so just… Well, no, it’s all the way in the road…” He paused and looked at the houses on either side of the street which remained undamaged. “No… looks like it grew out of one of the sewer grates…

Mhm… Okay so just… Okay, thanks, Cap.” He hung up the phone just as the IIA agents walked past us.

We just stood there and watched silently. I figured the captain mentioned something about firing me on the spot, so I did not ask my partner about the phone call. The IIA agents knelt in the large fissure I had formed, just out of reach of the, now thrashing, “baby” infraction.

My partner went back to the Gore Dozer, retrieved who knows what. But before he could come back, an IIA ambulance rolled up behind us. The agents looked over their shoulders as it stopped and all of them stood up in unison as the ambulance crew got their patient out of the back. Before we could see their patient, the sounds of violent rattling and barking commands made it clear was happening.

29

FICTION They brought their patient around, struggled to keep him still as he thrashed against them. They weren’t doing such a great job, I thought to myself as they struggled to hold him down. I looked at the ragged and gnarly indentation on the infraction and made a note of the newly formed and massive bruises as blood pooled from the snapped pseudo femur.

My partner returned with a new form in his clip board, probably ready to ask for my resignation. But just as he approached, the patient gave one more violent thrust. The stretcher tumbled over and I got a perfect view of his left leg. It bore the same indentations of the snapped bones and bruises, even down to the pink and hairless skin. The IIA agents walked around me and surrounded the patient on the ground.

They reminded me of beetles swarming an unattended and weeksold piece of pizza. Their black suits almost seemed to meld together as they surrounded him. The ambulance crew backed away as they retrieved the appropriate forms from their clipboards.

The drizzle started to pick up, the rain created a layer of water on my face that made me blink and rub my eyes. I heard a loud and violent sloshing sound behind me and I saw the infraction meekly shake and tremble. As I watched it, it gave one last solid thrash, before it fell to a rest and slumped over onto the road.

I looked down at my boots, grimaced as the throngs of semicongealed blood and rainwater ran alongside them like long red leeches slithering down the road. I followed them along and looked up to see the IIA agents staring back at us before they gave a single thumbs up.

The ambulance crew hoisted the stretcher back upright, the now limp body offered much less resistance this time. It wore some sort of band shirt, I think, and sweatpants. Though I could not quite tell what the sweatpants were since they had to cut off half of them to reveal the leg underneath.

The agents unfolded their umbrellas, climbed into their cars and, with a curt wave to us, drove off. Barely audible over the rain, I heard their radio calls back to dispatch. I looked at my partner right as he looked to me.

“Damn, that was pretty fucked up, huh?” He asked as he held out the Non-Disclosure Agreement for me to sign.

I took a breath of relief; thank God I was not getting fired.

30

Immortalized Sandra Sierra | raku ceramic

A Woman Is a Creature of Divine Paradox Pat Hardy A woman is a creature of divine paradox; The way she walks, the whole room does shine.

I cleanse an alter as I remove her socks.

She is the sacrament for which I pine.

Her face – the gods made as their own Her mind – the devil dares not contend with it Her voice – melodic with its lilts and tones Her body – warm as a fire freshly lit She brims with youth and girlish charm, I rapture She knows what she wants from herself and life.

Melancholy am I, it is impossible to capture Her soul, her body, and all of her - my strife.

I thank my God for her beauty and drive She’s free, if owned she would be half alive.

32

Beautiful Disaster Tori Stewart | acrylic & ink on paper

Body Marley Gamble Your soul has taken its bow and departed from the stage, leaving me with only this body you once inhabited to remember you by, but does your body remember what beauty used to burn within its walls?

Does your body remember when it was alive?

Do your femurs remember the way they used to carry you?

Do your arms remember when you’d wrap them around me so tightly they feared they might dislodge?

Does your stiff flesh (which time has not yet weathered) remember our warmth?

Do your cold cheeks remember kisses?

Ask them if they have forgotten before they, too, disloyally dissolve into nothingness.

34

Does your brain, a lump of nothing now, remember when it was a bustling city, fluorescent nerves speeding on highways of your thought?

Can it remember the shoebox cinema of memory that death has fast incinerated?

The way each frame would fade courtesy of galloping time, and the oils of fond fingers?

Does the meat that once held the honor of being your mind, remember its little epiphanies?

Does it still remember the tedious and taxing climb to each conclusion, to the click of understanding when it came to the top, And scanned ‘cross the horizon covered in euphoric clarity?

Bridegroom Pat Hardy Late into the summer, when I cast back my mind on the rivers of the spring, there’s a crack in the air, a house in the pines with a body to find and a hole in the wall at which my heart does stare.

I was married to a child in the many joys of May “Frankly now mister, you’ve never been a young girl, I know you won’t get it, I know you’ll ask anyway.”

Maybe if I’d listened she’d be above the crepe myrtle.

The heart wants what it wants, it’s deceitful above all.

I longed for that house, for a bride, and for a reason the brave man kills with a sword, and with a word kills the small There’s a song in the air and this heart’s out of season.

You can call it whatever, call it mercy, call it evil but our lives were over when we crossed the threshold.

For there lay a green lawn and a sky filled with diesel; despair hits like rice, and your shoulder’s shivering cold.

It lasted a few years, while I was good to you, now chains linked in gold, they keep up inside.

I’m gonna break out tonight, I know what to do I’m a brave man, a man of my word, I’ll never lie.

As the lights flash with red and they flash with blue all around this house -- the one I built for you and in this corner where I know I’m the one who put you down with my cold, black gun.

36

Now I wait in the thicket and wait in the hollows with a belly of dread and a head full of voices, nothing to do but meet the god of my tomorrows; He’ll bring me to bare on all of my choices.

I’d say it to his face just like I’d say it to her mother, “I spared her a life of boredom and frustration.”

You know, we’re all born to die, one after the other, it’s a hard life of evil, and of constant stagnation.

There’s nothing I can do, we kill what we love, a coward in years, and a brave man in minutes.

As the air left her throat, she cooed like a dove call it mercy, call it evil, it’s all the same - isn’t it?

She called me good, that’s what it said in the Bible; her heart’s cool gaze forgot -- I’m a leper not a prophet.

When Lazarus died Christ found he may not be able to hold back tears for what’s in life and death’s pocket For God so loved the world that He left it completely.

The bride has hung herself in her wedding dress.

For I so loved you, baby, that I killed you sweetly, and saved you from a life of being a lepress.

Diaspora Nicholas Gresham Broken lives and broken treaties Forgotten soles, no greater tyranny.

Life is cruel on the reservation.

The white man took without hesitation.

Broken people, with withering hands, Unable to protect our sacred lands.

There’s no justice, no way to take a stand.

Demagogues and warmongers only seek to expand Their imperial empire for which we serve. “justice for all,” we don’t seem to deserve.

Though we live our culture dies Our names lost to distant skies.

For there is nothing more overtly lethal Than the bloody talons of the American eagle.

38

Corona Apocalypse Erin Buchanan | acrylic on canvas

Eternity’s Inevitability Anna Lovering There was nothing left, just wind blowing over us.

We were weeds, ruptured while a sun breathed slow fires.

To turn the dial up and torment lazy clouds with raindrops.

Wildlife stood over us as we once had trampled the ground.

One last red tethered scarf aloof, past the hour of waking up Circulating like tumbleweeds curtsying around me.

Isolated eyes, bright colored gloves helping fallen roots into petri dishes.

A numbered wait ‘til water washed us clean.

40

Caden Halle Cooley | acrylic on canvas

NONFICTION

6151921 Mackenzie Duke 6: I stand thigh high by my father, holding his hand. I feel the rough skin of his palm against mine. It’s uncomfortable, but I endure it. He’s blue today, and, though I cannot relate to the deep sadness that radiates from him, the least I can do is keep my little hand in his. He hugs and nods to people I don’t know, and every now and then, his gaze falls on the framed picture at front of the chapel. His eyes shine with the promise of tears as he looks at the glossy photo of a man who is a stranger to me.

I spin my black tulle skirt and watch as it waves back and forth.

The only other time I get to dress up like this is to attend the children’s service at my aunt’s church. I glance up to see if my dad finds my skirt as beautiful as I do, but he isn’t looking at me, he’s looking at the photo again. At the front of the red carpeted room, there is a cross made out of a light-colored wood. The sheer magnitude and size of it suggests that it should mean something to me, but it only makes me feel uneasy. There is no cross like this in the Sunday school classroom at my aunt’s church.

I feel left out, but, at the same time, I know that this isn’t something that I want to be included in.

Dad is dressed in a deep navy suit, with a white flower pinned to his lapel – the same suit worn by five other men. Each one looks hollow, but none of them are as empty as my father. He gives my hand to my mother and leaves us to take his place up at the front. He lets out a little whimper but instantly bits his lip to muffle the sound. The seats fill up.

The preacher leads a prayer. I look around to see everyone’s eyes closed as they beg God to protect the soul of the deceased. My eyes stay on my dad. I can see the back of his head from where I sit with my mother and my brother in the last pew. His bald head bowed. He’s never looked so small, so weathered.

And on that day, I erected my own church. A church and religion that I understood.

A place where I made the rules. In my first scripture, I determined, “I will never die.”

I would never let people feel the pain dad felt as he carried his friend on his shoulder in a glossed box and put him in the ground. I would stay on earth until I am tired.

An earth-shattering tired. A lost-for-words tired. The tiredness of a person who lived long enough to see and do everything.

42

HARBINGER And on a cold evening, when my eyelids are too heavy to open and my feet ache with the pains of a thousand yesterdays, I would float up into the sky and become a cloud.

There would be no confusing services or traditions designed to make people feel left out. And no one would have to cry once I’d left.

Because I hadn’t died. I just slept so hard that my body turned to vapor, and I’d live with other people who grew tired from living full lives. They could all look up and see me. And once they were lost-for-words tired too, they would float up to join me.

15: We’re sat in a semicircle on the small wooden stage in the theatre classroom. The entire varsity cohort has gathered. Sniffles and throat clearing fill the room. A performative grief orchestra with each attentioncraving musicians tune their instruments before the big show. My eyes focus in on the wood grain on the floor as the school district’s grief counselors file in. I half listen to the adults drone on about how there are resources at our disposal to help us process our grief. Half the people in this room don’t deserve to mourn; that right is reserved for his friends – for his mother.

I think about the time she gave us permission to use a family nickname to taunt him with when he was being particularly cheeky. I want to call out everyone else in the room, hold a mirror up to their bullshit, and let them see, first-hand, that they are liars – that they didn’t care about him until he was dead – but I can’t. Every part of my body stings, every muscle has fallen asleep, but I don’t have the energy or desire get the blood flowing again. It feels like it’s going to be like this forever. I want it to be like this forever. If it isn’t, then I’m no different than the phonies on the other side of the stage.

My best friend grabs my hand, and we weep together, giving ourselves permission to ignore everyone else and cry for the best of us.

But some part of me feels just as fake. In this moment, I know for the rest of my life, I will wonder if my grief was fake, if I had manufactured sadness in order to outdo my mourning peers. For the rest of my life, I will be ashamed of myself for not knowing which of my feelings were authentic. I fret over his soul, tearing mine apart as I dig for a concrete answer regarding his eternal life. I know at his funeral, in the ornate church with stained glass windows, everyone will take an uncomfortable, artificial solace in the fact that he was raised a nice Christian boy and now is granted access to heaven; but I know they won’t believe it. The way he died negates the promise of an eternity in peace. It makes me sick to think that people believe this, but I have nothing else to compare

43

NONFICTION it to. I hate that I have nothing to hold on to. But here I am, praying to the sky, hoping for answer that I know will never come.

In my church, God forbids children from dying before their parents.

In my bedroom cathedral, I kneeled and prayed that my death would be a long way off – long after my parents – saving them the trauma of seeing the blood stand still in my veins.

I wanted them to remember me and brother as full human beings, not as what would remain of us when we settle in the dirt.

I didn’t want them to feel the grief that comes with seeing me for the last time. That way, I can save them the earth-shattering heartbreak that must come with letting your child float up to live with the other clouds.

I decided I would take on the burden of watching them vaporize instead, because, in my religion, the idea that a someone must lay their own progeny to rest is blasphemous.

19: The service was odd and foreign to me. I felt as if I was attending a lecture on the eccentricities Jehovah’s Witnesses funerals instead of mourning a friend. A malingerer invaded the sacredness of what was going on around me. I fiddled with the hem of my dress, trying to avoid seeing anyone I may know. The congregation leader made sure we walked away knowing that no part of him was around. Nothing, not even his soul, remained after his death. This was the first funeral I had ever attended where there is no mention of the deceased living forever in the kingdom of the Lord. I, admittedly, relished in the idea that no one in the family had to wrestle with the possibly of eternal hellfire. I hoped that this meant they could grieve peacefully.

The service is short. From where I stand now, I avoid looking at his eyes. Even though they are closed, and there is nothing behind the thin barrier of his eyelids, I still can’t bring my gaze above his cheeks. I can see his skin, rich and clear and oddly smooth. A deep, consistent tone on his hands matches that of his chin, nearly perfect in an off-putting kind of way. He has a ‘baby skin’ kind of glow. I wonder if he looked this perfect when he was born. It is widely considered cathartic to view the dead one last time before they’re buried but seeing my old friend unnaturally shiny and stiff cripples my sense of reality.

I stand in the foyer of my former high school for the first time since I graduated, and it now acts as the funeral parlor for a former classmate.

A friend. A person who I hadn’t talked in probably a year; yet, here I am, completely fixated on his skin, looking at him moments before he is locked

44

HARBINGER in this casket forever. I’m trying to detach myself from how odd this all is. The slightest touch and my fingernail could pierce his outer most layer, and god knows what would come oozing out. I am ashamed at this thought. I feel as though the sadness of this tragic event should wreck me, but instead I just shuffle in line with the other mourners. I take one last glance at his shape, as he lays flat. This is all that remains of him, I think to myself. I’ve never seen him at this angle, standing above him as he lays on top of silky off-white cushions. Almost ethereal looking.

I used to recite this prayer to myself when I’d felt as if all hope was lost: “I denounce the lord as my Shepard. I shed this forced geographical Christianity I have been trapped in since birth.

I openly admit that when I die, I want people to carry on with their grief for days. I have no shame in proclaiming that I want everyone in my life to experience an earth-shattering grief that paralyses their senses and makes it impossible to think about ‘tomorrows’ without me – to beat their breast and denounce God too, because I am gone. I want people to wail at my funeral and cry until their throats close up and they’re reduced to a puddle on the floor. I want people to want to die when I die and feel guilty that they get to keep on living, and I don’t. I don’t want any prayers for my soul, for I believe I, my soul, will be left behind and will live forever in everything I’ve created. I want praises and testimonies that show that I was a good person who led a good life. I want people to relay stories of my life to their children, so I am never forgotten or truly lost. Anything less, and my life was meaningless. I am selfish, so it is only fitting that my egomania lives on after I’m dead.

Amen.”

21: My brain processes the smell. Body bloated and feathers frayed.

Its thin bones exposed. The smell of death permeates my body and completely overwhelms me. My dog wags her nub tail and demands I show the same excitement, as I look at her prize. I feel the sickness rise through my entire body. An anxiousness that coats the inside of my mouth and instantly dries it out. Something about these remains of a little life unnerve me.

A little bird with its little organs spilling out of its little body in front of my feet. Little and now lifeless. I feign the courage that is needed and wrap my clammy fingers around the cold stiff carcass. I feel its bones through the thin layer of plastic, my legs weak, my brow dripping with

45

NONFICTION disgust. I feel a sense of loss that I can’t articulate. I walk through the alley with my dog by my side, and I toss the bagged bird into the empty dumpster. A thud resonates and lingers in the air as I retrace my steps back to my house. Something about this method of disposal leaves me dissatisfied. It feels like an omen. It can’t be good luck to encounter death so early in morning, but I shake off this doom and move on with my day. It’s just a bird.

When my faith is low, I recall the days of thinking I would float up in a puff of vapor and exist against the background of a blue sky. I have to remind myself the reason why I became a devout follower.

I was yearning and desperate to answer why people die, despite not understanding what it meant. This was a time where death meant nothing more to me than people crying over a wooden box – an era before death’s grasp was inching closer to me and was merely an afterthought, before the earth-shattering reminders of my own mortality drained my thoughts of all color and left them grey. I long for the days of this feeling being a foreign concept to me, for the times where I could twirl in my black tulle dress and believed that avowing death was as simple as deciding against it. Now the thing I fear most in the world is sharing the same fate as a slain pigeon who’s forgotten the second it hits the bottom of a dumpster.

46

NONFICTION

Another Swimmer Jon Skavlan You move your computer’s mouse to the bottom of the screen and pull up the taskbar. Seven twenty-five. There is time for a swim. Your micro-managing project lead can wait until the status call to hear why the payroll interface test failed again last night. You close your laptop, leaving your report unfinished, go to the closet and change into your swimsuit. You pull a pair of shorts on over it. Outside, you pull the front door closed but do not lock it.

The sun has not yet broken the horizon, but it is light enough to see while you walk. The sky above the houses is ashen rather than blue.

There are no clouds. The hundred-degree days of summer have given way to cooler fall mornings, but the neighborhood yards still require weekly maintenance. On your way to the pool, you pass a man pushing a lawnmower. The lawnmower is kicking up dust.

You have never worked with this project lead. He is younger than you – has no technical experience. He believes in a regimented approach he calls his “Ten Commandments for Running Effective Projects”¬– probably has a poster of them hanging on the conference room wall.

Lately, he has been haranguing you for breaking the eighth: “Thou shalt communicate timely”. You are tired of his preaching at you.

This early, the gate is locked, and there are no lifeguards on duty.

The pool is available only for lap swimming, from six until ten, after you have signed the liability waiver. You pass your key fob over the electronic lock. It beeps. The red light changes to green. You push open the gate and enter.

Starting by eight leaves enough time to shower, shave and walk back home before the daily status call officially begins your workday. It also avoids the early swimmers. You swim alone now.

The water is cool – but not cold – as you slide in. The pool will be heated until it closes at the end of October, when you will have to go back to the indoor pool at the gym. You duck underwater until your shoulders are covered, then push off the wall with your feet and begin a slow, steady crawl down the pool.

When you first started implementing this software, you travelled to corporate headquarters and manufacturing sites, staying in corporate apartments, eating out every night. You were young and single and lived

48

HARBINGER like a king. Project budgets usually covered your laundry, sometimes your gym membership.

After two hundred meters, you rest thirty seconds, take a drink of water from the bottle you have brought. Your warm-up used to include a form drill and a kick set of a hundred meters each. These days, you transition directly to your main set, which has devolved into a free-style marathon. Three strokes, and a breath. Three more, and another. Eight repetitions to the wall. A turn in the water, sideways like a crab, then twenty-four strokes back to the start. One lap. Fifty meters. Another turn. Another twenty-five meters.

Strokes. Turns. Laps. Meters.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

You focus on the first routine to keep you from thinking too much about the second.

You used to be an early swimmer, used to have three regular workouts, each with its own purpose. On Mondays and Wednesdays, you built distance. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you worked on speed.

On Fridays, you focused on form. You had alternative workouts, too, written on index cards and stored in watertight Ziploc baggies. You used them whenever you found yourself lingering around the house another thirty minutes or skipping your swim altogether. You still bring the cards with the alternative workouts but don’t use them.

There is a time during every swim when it comes back, the image of him floating face-down in the water. Seeing him, you knew and did not panic. You did not jump in the water with your shirt and shorts on; instead, you just stood there, looking. You found yourself remembering a short story you read in college about a boy who accidentally shoots his brother on their way to pick peas in the field. You understood what Arnold, the story’s protagonist, was thinking: he’s dead, but the peas still have to be picked.

For you, thinking about whether to call an ambulance now or to swim was picking the peas instead of returning home and telling your parents your brother was dead. Calling wouldn’t change anything, but it would keep you from swimming.

You called the ambulance, of course. You are not that nine-year-old boy in a story you read when you were nineteen. A story you hated, by the way. The same instinct that made you criticize that story as unrealistic made you call the paramedics about a man they could do nothing for.

You always found comfort in the water, womb-like but not a womb, no cord connecting you to another. The viscosity of the water that impedes your movement also buoys you up, allowing you to glide

49

NONFICTION gracefully along. It is not the same now, even though nothing has really changed. Someone you only knew well enough to ask how the water is or how far he has swum is dead. Stopping swimming won’t change that.

Going back to the pool at the gym won’t, either; it will only add two fifteen-minute drives to your morning routine. How else should you behave? Until he died, you didn’t even know his last name.

You rest after five hundred meters, then decide to do sprints. After four, you are winded and must rest again. The music from the portable speaker connected to your iPhone is audible, even over your breathing, And whoever said, “there’s nothing new under the sun” You have been bringing music to the pool lately, despite not being able to hear it while you swim. Your playlist consists primarily of bands from high school: garbage, Līve, Goo Goo Dolls.

You rest for an entire verse. As the chorus repeats itself, you push off the wall in a backstroke. The music fades as you move away. Your mind fills in the words you cannot make out: Never thought much about individuals But he’s dead anyway The words hang in your mind; you repeat the last three. You watch a plane cross the sky from your left to your right. As it passes from sight, you realize you have lost count of your strokes. You slow and turn your head – too late. It strikes the smooth, concrete wall. You stand up in the chest-deep water and rub your head. There is already a knot. You check your hand; there is no blood. Shock becomes anger. If you had gone back to the gym, as your wife suggested, there would be a string of backstroke flags indicating the upcoming wall. There would also have been a witness to the collision. Anger becomes embarrassment.

You face the wall, curl, and push off again, counting individual strokes.

After five, you glide to a stop and roll to your stomach. You spread your arms until your fingertips touch the lane markers, close your eyes, think about work. You have implemented this interface at companies across America. You have never failed.

You can still hold your breath for nearly a minute. When you reach forty seconds, you begin to feel your pulse in your ears and at the crown of your head where it struck the wall. You turn your head and breath, open your eyes and start to free-style. One, two, three, breathe. One, two – you breathe prematurely. One, two – another breath. One, two – you swallow water. It is useless. You roll onto your right and sidestroke to the wall.

You shower, shave, and dress. To exit the pool, you must press a button to unlock the gate. The gate is made of hollow metal bars. It clangs shut behind you.

50

HARBINGER You walk home in contemplation of the day that awaits you. On the status call, your project lead will complain that he prefers to know in advance why the test of the payroll interface has failed. You could avoid this aggravation if you would just follow his commandment. The man who was mowing his lawn is using a leaf blower. The ashes from the cigarette he is smoking mix with the dusty cloud of grass clippings he pushes along the sidewalk in front of himself.

Good Luck Charm Patrick Kamau | acrylic on canvas

NONFICTION

Living, Dying, and Breaking the Tibial Plateau Claire Meyer The home had about five archaic timekeepers in the living room alone, two of which were massive grandfather clocks. Some of the clocks ran on time, others chimed at odd hours, and others never chimed at all. My Peepaw’s hobby was collecting and repairing old things, such as the glass stored in two large cabinets. Milk Glass, Fair Glass, Waterford Crystal, and China sets alike were cleaned and put on display. I examined them, checking for a spot, though I knew there wouldn’t be one. Like most things in my grandparent’s home, and the home itself, it was comfortingly unchanging. I loved this place, probably more than I loved my own home.

It was uniquely safe, a place I could truly be myself with no consequences.

Whether I was stuffing my cheeks with buttery dinner rolls or doing a strange two-step dance around the chestnut coffee table in the living room, my antics were only ever met with laughter and a gentle shake of the head. My grandparents simply understood me in a way no one else did.

My gran stood next to me, a plump woman with grey hair cropped at her neck, giving me a gentle hug before walking towards the kitchen.

“Game time?” I asked, following her. We had been gaming for many years now, our special tradition. As a child, I found the talking Clue board with the British accent mesmerizing, so we played it often.

Unfortunately, Clue was a three-person game, and Peepaw was a very ardent non-gamer. Eventually, we moved on to other things like trivia games and puzzles. In more recent years, we fed our gaming addiction with cards, specifically, gin rummy; it was a simple game, but it provided us with all the entertainment we could ever want for a lazy afternoon.

“Yes, it’s game time. Do you want anything to eat before we start?”

Gran asked.

She gestured towards the fridge, and for a moment, my stomach rumbled. There were no rules here – that was the ultimate beauty of my home away from home – and the vanilla ice cream I knew was stocked in the freezer was calling my name. In a different age, maybe as little as two or three years ago, I would have taken her up on the offer. However, now, I was halfway through my last summer before I started college. It felt wrong, childish even, to enjoy dessert without having a full meal first.

52

HARBINGER “No,” I smiled at her, “I’m okay. Thanks.”

She nodded and started towards the hall closet, which held stacks upon stacks of games. I noticed her slight limp, from the injury she received this Christmas, before she rounded the corner, out of my sight.

Gran was on holiday when it happened, walking along the beach with Peepaw when the tide rolled in, knocking her off her feet and into the water. Somehow, the wave managed to shatter her tibial plateau – or more simply, the bone connecting her shin to her knee – to pieces.

When she first told me the story, my grandmother said she screamed under the salty water of the ocean. Gran was a young soul at heart, so I couldn’t help but question if her scream was a cry of pain, or of shock in the realization her body was, indeed, an aging thing.

The injury had scared me, too, as a person who had only been to a funeral once in her life. It broke my heart to see Gran hurting and unable to walk. Losing her entirely would be incapacitating. Like the home they lived in, my grandparents meant safety, and the rapid progression of time continued to threaten that. However, just as the clocks ticked away in the living room, both my grandparents and I were aging quicker every day, and much to my dismay, there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Time seemed to be slipping out of my fingers like hot dirt, impossible to hold on to, but difficult to let go of.

When I was very young, the record player sat in the living room, against the wall separating the living room and the kitchen. When Peepaw renovated the house, he took out that wall and moved the antique music machine to the toy room. Then, when the grandchildren grew up, the LEGOs became dusty and the stuffed animals got more use as dog chews; the record player, along with its beautifully carved oak stand, took up residence in the master bedroom.

Though he owned a variety of records, Peepaw most often enjoyed old cowboy songs burned into black discs of history wrapped in yellowed paper covers. When played, the home was haunted by the wistful voices of lost cattleman and the plucking of old guitars. Late at night, when the house lights were dimmed and Gran and I sat at the breakfast table playing cards, Peepaw, something of a cowboy himself, would play a particularly melancholy tune: “The end of a hundred-year waltz.

The voices sound sad as they’re singin’ along.

Another piece of America’s lost.

The old Chisholm trail is covered in concrete now,

53

NONFICTION They truck it to market in fifty-foot rigs.

They roll by his markings and don’t even notice, Like living and dying was all he ever did.”

One evening in particular, as the record player moaned from the bedroom, Peepaw wandered to the table.

“Check this out, girlfriend,” he said. He leaned over me to set the object in his hands, a photo, on the kitchen table, smelling of wood dust and hard work. I breathed in, feeling comfort in the familiar scent.

The faded picture featured a much younger version of my grandfather, outfitted in a plaid shirt, Levi jeans, and a dusty high-crowned, widebrimmed cowboy hat. He was propped up by his arms, which were draped over an old wooden fence. In the picture, my Peepaw was smiling.

“Amarillo used to be one of the world’s busiest cattle-shipping points,” he said, settling into the seat between me and Gran. “At the peak of the Wild West, this was cowboy town. Gunslingers, bank robbers, and scoundrels alike lived and breathed Amarillo air. It was an era of no rules, no consequences, which is what made it so magical. Of course, by the time I was grown, being a cowboy was just a job, a means of moving cows from one place to another.”

Gran patted Peepaw’s arm, but I frowned. I couldn’t imagine the pain of being a cowboy in the last few years of their prime. For the men of the west, being replaced meant watching as a bright blue sky was filled with smog from the freight trains that now did the work horses were meant for. Being replaced meant well-trodden cattle paths becoming lined with railroad tracks and telephone poles. No matter how hard they fought, it was only a matter of time before the world left the cowboy behind. My Peepaw was just a tragic remnant of a time that no longer existed, much like his ever-growing collection of antique glassware.

Both were preserved, but each was also troublingly fragile without the decades they once belonged to.

“But,” Peepaw said, turning his watery gaze back down to the photograph in his leathery hands, “there’s a part of being a cowboy that never leaves you. There’s a bit of magic that still remains.”

The image of my dear Peepaw leaned over the picture of his past, longing for days gone by, gripped my heart with a painful intensity. Much like Gran and her shattered tibial plateau, Peepaw was forever changed, marked even, by his time as a cowboy. He fixed clocks to keep his hands busy.

He collected things and cluttered his house with them to ease his troubled mind, which was still out there somewhere, roaming the tumbleweed plains.

However, the antiquation of the cowboy plagued more than Gran’s home – it was branded into every part of Amarillo. Even more dangerously,

54

HARBINGER the peril of being the next relic of the past was seared into every citizen’s way of life, like living, dying, and breaking their tibial plateau was all they ever did.

My Gran returned from the hall with a black box, covered with plastic wrap.

“What’s this?” I ask, knowing our usual deck of cards was not in the unfamiliar container.

“A new game,” she said, setting it on the table and tearing off the packaging. “I picked it up at Barnes and Noble this week while I was looking around for a book. I thought we should give it a try.”

Though something about the device made my chest tight, like someone was in there pumping a balloon much too full, I watched closely as Gran unveiled our new source of entertainment. From the box, she pulled a silver metal disk with a black screen. After fiddling with the on switch, a glow emitted from the device. There was a hum, then a monotone voice: “Would you like to play?”

Hesitantly, I clicked the ‘yes’ button. The machine whirred violently, then, it spat out another reply.

“Question 1: When was the first Beatles album released?”

Gran wiggled in her chair and squinted her eyes as the machine quietly counted down. I couldn’t imagine being able to discern over sixty years from one another, yet the solution was on the tip of Gran’s tongue.

Before she could get it out, a buzz echoed throughout the kitchen, which was followed the unfriendly and automated voice: “The answer is 1963.”

I slumped. “Is that it? It didn’t give us a chance to guess or anything.

The thing just told us the answer.”

Gran, furrowing her eyebrows, checked the machine for a clue – a switch, button, or gadget – we somehow missed.

“I suppose we try it again,” she said, never one to give up on a game.

However, round after round, we were defeated by the machine, not for lack of an answer, but for lack of having a place to even submit one.

How does one win a race if there is no finish line? I suddenly felt like a cowboy myself, coming to terms with the fact the era I understood best was evaporating under a new sun.

Peepaw loved urban legends, ghost stories and tales of the past. Though in recent years he finds new myths on his computer, he had shelves of dusty books and journals he read to me when I was small.

There was one story in particular he enjoyed when in the late 1950s, the Interstate Highway Act deemed Texas eligible for highway upgrades,

55

NONFICTION and so, the construction of highway I-40 began. Naturally, the highway cut through several pieces of land, as that was all Amarillo was back then.

Though most of the construction went smoothly, there was one area in particular – a horse farm run by two sisters – that was troublesome.

The women, angry with the destruction of their land, brought their rifles down to the building site and took potshots at the workers. Peepaw found their obstinance amusing, but I was always disconcerted at the lengths people would go to preserve their state of being.

Rio Petroleum, a regional oil and gas operation office with a backyard, sits in place of the horse farm now. I have driven by the building a number of times on my way to Peepaw’s favorite local restaurant, Bubba’s. I always wondered, as I sped by the lonely building with the miniature blue and yellow pump jack in the lawn, if the sisters were resistant because they were becoming obsolete or if they were simply too blinded by anger to flow with the passage of time.

“I remember when I helped Peepaw build that fence,” I said, looking out at the wooden barrier lining the boundaries of the backyard. It was chipped and stained grey from years of rain, snow, and hot, plankwarping summer days.

The day the fence was put up, I was sitting in the grass, handing screws to my Peepaw with hands still chubby with baby fat. The memory seemed washed out now, frozen in a murky golden light. I felt a pang of bittersweet love for a time I could never get back.

“It feels like that was lifetimes ago.”

“I suppose that’s why you have to enjoy what you have at the moment. That’s all we can do.” My Gran smiled at me with bright eyes behind the modern glasses she had picked up from the store earlier that day. They were quite unlike the tortoiseshell pair she used to keep on a cord around her neck.

She was wearing my favorite outfit, a royal blue shirt paired with a skirt dotted in flowers. It felt young, festive even, celebrating the coming summer.

My head swirled with memories, with visions of bones, antiques, and cowboys. Somehow, in the midst of all I had experienced, I still felt troubled. The passing of time was tragic and bothered me to an extent I could never quite be rid of, in the same way bones will never perfectly mend after a tibial fracture; however, I felt a new balance in the way that life moved.

I glanced over at Gran, who was staring out at something I could not see and squeezed her hand. We sat in silence for a bit, breathing in the air of the changing seasons. It tasted like freshly picked fruit, salty

56

HARBINGER droplets from our foreheads, and the great, yet sour, understanding that my Gran was right: all I had was the now, the ephemeral moments of the present. And at the time, there was nowhere I’d rather be than on the porch with her, taking in the sunshine and listening to the blue birds call out to one another.

NONFICTION

The Body of Christ Gabriella Ebertowski Selena Quintanilla did not have to die. I’m not a fan, but I imagine being shot is not an exact joyride into the afterlife. A blood transfusion could have saved her life, but Jehovah practically pulled the trigger, and her parents accepted his will. I understand this, my family is a bit bonkers as well; my dad sat me down to watch Schindler’s List at six years old, and my mom makes it known that I crucify Jesus with my sins on a daily basis. No one is perfect. Hopefully they would grant me a blood transfusion if the time came. Selena’s martyrdom brought profit and unbelievable celebrity status to her family and this city. As a thank you to Jehovah, her family keeps a museum in her honor, located in the redlight district of Corpus Christi; you can at least see a clip of Selena’s hair and get a lap dance in the same hour. Selena’s dad will call you a devil if you are Catholic. I suggest not giving him this information or calling him a devil back. If you need to know anything else about this city that matters, we have been nationally recognized for an alarming amount of obesity issues, lack of libraries, and gerrymandering. Seriously, my district voting area is fifteen miles long; the diversity of which is amazing.

I could - and should - have left, but I am still here.

In high school, I successfully managed to derail my life for a few years. Like many other idiots, I believed that since Mark Zuckerberg was once a loser turned winner, I could be too. This is false, extremely false. Fuck Mark Zuckerberg. In hindsight, Corpus Christi is as similar to Cambridge as a priest is to an openly gay man. It would be easy to blame this derailment it on the city, the pressure of immigrant parents, or the E. Coli regularly found in the bay’s water, but I have a hunch that it could have been my fault. Who knows? What I know, for a fact, is that flunking high school Chemistry and Algebra is a real knocker for mental health. Or flunking while your brother goes missing, and internalizing your anxiety is a knocker. I recommend disassociating with reality and smoking weed. When your brother does emerge from living in a rammed and rusted Honda accord parked on the beach for a month, burnt from the sun and ganja, the Adderall won’t help. Your grades will be dancing in hell, and your shot of attending a good college will be riding off into the sunset. Chasing the grades and repenting won’t work, because the

58

HARBINGER sun eventually sleeps, and the darkness is a cloak you can’t take off. Plus, it’s very healthy to not accept responsibility for your mistakes.

While Sahar Al-Akash is accepted to UCLA or Steve Brehm shoves a Rice University scholarship up his ass, I sit and watch. I have done it for a few years now. That’s why I’m the good friend, the great friend, the sacrificial friend; now, the supportive stranger. I’ll stay back and attend a community college! I will become so small; you will feel my support as obedience. Let your successes drip like honey, and I will sit with a mouth agape, hoping to catch a drop. Go chase your amazing dreams that your parents will gladly fund! I will be here for the foreseeable and everlasting future!

I have lived in this home for twenty-one years. Imagine a modern take of a cloistered convent that has more pictures of Jesus than myself or my three brothers; Jesus did achieve more than the four of us combined – it makes sense. Cancel any idea of central air conditioning and heating, purgatory begins on Earth. This wind-battered, wooden home is like Pope Francis wearing a Walmart, cotton-blended t-shirt. Even so, dad refuses to fix anything because he swears he’s leaving this country. I ask him if he would go back to Poland, but I know he feels trapped in this city too.

My dad also enjoys Polish death metal, and my mom originally wanted to be a nun, but that convent did not accept Mexicans. It all works out.

I was fortunate to somehow be Hispanic and Catholic and Polish and Jewish. In a city like this, it matters. When the sexual abuse scandals involving Catholic priests broke out, and a list of names were derived, many of the men who were still alive on the list had come to my house.

I had sat in their laps, played tennis with some, and adored most of them. If you call someone father, things become hazy. When my second brother announced he was entering the seminary, I wanted to die. I still don’t understand the sacrifice and pain one must self-inflict to do this.

Looking back at my childhood, it was some type of divinity that I was never targeted, because they had the access and power; they still do.

When hurricane Harvey ravaged the coast, the bishop took donations for those affected and, instead, built himself a condo. And yes, I have been to the waterfront condo, and I smiled up at the man, because that is what we do in this city. I currently identify as Jewish, but I wish the whole Catholic thing could have worked out. I was never hurt by these men, but I have made far less mistakes in my life, and I never received the reconciliation that they did. God knows no one else in the body of Christ could get away with being shitty except Selena’s family.

Wherever the people in high school are now, I have no clue... this is a lie. I know enough to wish I was clueless. At the suggestion of a priest that functioned as a free therapist, I am off of social media,

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NONFICTION and back on, then off again. The cycle is as constant as the moon. He says the reason I failed in high school is because I compare myself and then give up. I should look at how God tested the lives of holy men and women, and I should persevere – to fight the good fight. Instead, I just rushed the process and gave up at the beginning. Maybe when a guy called me a ‘Kike’ after doing a presentation on a death camp, I should have just persevered. I thought he was flirting, anyway. Thank God he wasn’t a priest. It is very possible to be called a ‘Kike’ and ‘Wetback’ in one singular day in Corpus Christi.

College life is unique in my cloister. My roommates are in their early sixties, and I do whatever they say. I wake up before the light can reach my windows, and I walk. After about five miles, where my mom recites a rosary and I listen to her, I lay on the sofa and stare at the face of God that’s positioned next to a statue of Mary in the corner of the living room. School happens somewhere in the middle of the day, and the evening is for reading or a visit to the E. Coli beach. Similar to how a country has a rebuilding phase after a civil war, my time is spent attempting to move forward. If UT hadn’t rejected my film school application, I’d be in Austin and in debt in my senior year of college.

But here I am with Momma and Papa and the pity of old friends who don’t understand why I stay.

I had to see the priest therapist again at my mom’s forceful suggestion. His name is Scott, and he is aboundingly attractive. Scott turned down an art career for a monastery, and I secretly believe that he believes he fucked up. He thinks the rejection from UT stung because I desired acceptance from the material world above all else. No shit. Why do anything in life without some form of acceptance? The “everything happens in God’s plan” speech almost drove me to insanity when trying to find the underlying message from a ruler as to why sudden death is considered divine intervention. Father could be right, though.

So, I’m here, in my childhood home, lying in my childhood bedroom, attending my third year of college at an institution that is meant to be a two-year program, in addition to attending school online at Texas Tech University. One of my siblings smokes weed in Canada, wake and bake type, the second one is becoming a priest, depressing, and the last one hates his life, comedian. I want them all to succeed in whatever shitshow they find themselves in, but damn, this ‘body of Christ’ wants us all to experience the cross of Nazareth.

When I said I derailed my life, I don’t think that is completely accurate. If I was Sahar or Steve looking in at my life, then I would be fucked. According to Instagram, Sahar was accepted to medical school

60

HARBINGER and Steve is lounging in Idaho with his daddy’s money. Our friendships are over, but I can’t help lingering and scanning over images that portray a ‘perfect’ life. I know perfection doesn’t exist, but some people seem to get pretty close to it. In some format of a structured life, I am fucked.

My graduation date is not for another year, and of all the hopes my parents had for me, I chose to be an artist. My mom asks what I can do for God, and my dad asks of what I can do for him. Our perpetual state as roommates makes things a bit tense, but I am happy. If I lived in Austin, I would have avoided this city, my family, and the moments that brought me to who I am today. I haven’t visited with Scott in months, and I hope he understands how stupid he is. Leaving his art career to, instead, listen to young girls like myself, who can be easily manipulated by men in power is kind of fucking dumb, especially given the power from God. My mom will text him and thank him periodically for changing my life. The pharmacist and psychiatrist don’t receive this love. I’m working on not portraying my anger onto others, but men just can’t act right, even for God or Jesus or Jehovah.

Dating in Corpus Christi is not an option I consider. If he’s Catholic, he will know my family. If he’s ever looked at a drug in his life, he will have known my brother. If he is somewhat decent, I will question why he is even here; that’s not fair to any guy, because he could say the same thing to me. How would I respond if he asked me why I’m still here?

Well, for the very first time in my small existence, inside this ridiculously small city, life feels decent. I don’t think that would appease his mind, so I’ll go one step further. This city is more than the capable of producing people that will achieve some form of success. Look at Selena or Farrah Fawcett. Maybe it’s knowing that God hasn’t forsaken me to the deepest of the south of the country, buried in homophobic people for no other reason than heavenly giggles. Selena died tragically, and Farrah didn’t have much better luck. At least her death occurred later in life. When they ventured out of the city and stepped into the larger world, I am sure they got slapped by the speed and energy that life had to offer outside of a city that barely contains a single highway. Selena and Farrah had to push-pull-yank-and demand for their lives to unfold into success. Am I necessarily ready to do this yet?

Courage tells me, “of course not, but you must try.”

Fear says, “I won’t get too far before coming back covered in bruises.”

I haven’t decided who to listen to at the moment, but I don’t think staying a bit longer would hurt.

61

Grapeland, TX Hannah J. Russell East Texas moans in tune with cargo trains creaking through rolling meadows and sappy pines.

Here, valleys are trimmed in barbed wire fences and leaning telephone poles, while white crosses fill up spare ditches.

The population is stitched together by chew, sweat, and Carhart hoodies.

They glance from under torn hat bills and smirk at my clean jeans with kettle corn teeth.

The Yarrow and Thistle quake and quiver under the weight of October’s breeze, while barefoot boys work at cedar slices.

Wood splitters weigh ‘bout as much as them.

One boy, shirtless and gritty faced, sits on the nearest available tree stump, watching the older ones wind up and miss.

Cicadas start to chatter amongst themselves before their bedtime, sound rattling from tree to tree.

Crickets pick up their unfinished conversations.

I am a foreigner eavesdropping.

62

Milky stars now mark their path across the curved ether, like snail trails across moist ground.

The moths’ wings flit against flickering lights, to the beat of flapping flags hanging from crooked porches.

The barefoot boys are scrubbed clean and kissed goodnight by worn eyes and calloused hands.

The torn hat bills are removed and placed lovingly on bedside tables.

Distant packs of Coyotes howl in chaotic, melodic harmony, singing in tune with clattering trains, neither quite caring for the peace of sleeping residents.

The cool breeze, turned bitter, bites at my face and cuts through my still clean jeans.

I am too heavy for the soft pine needles and decaying leaves.

Home Marley Gamble I knew when the days marched in differently and you, at each end, were the same.

I knew when I found I could lay any burden at the threshold of your weathered frame.

When the dams of day started cracking and all tears they held fell from my face, I knew as they recklessly pooled on your floor, My home was a person, not a place.

I knew as we hung our disguises at the door and they swayed on coat rack, smiles frozen, watching the two souls that wore them each day clothed only in the warmth of being chosen.

Loving you brought with it several affairs: in love with each new day, eager to begin it, even loved myself, whom you so oft endorsed, holding tightly to a future with you in it.

I know it when our threads fray and loosen and when we stubbornly pull them together.

I hear it in our harmonious laughter, and how you never blink when you say forever.

I know that I’ll never lack happiness, no matter how our days better or worsen, I know because each day you make me realize, my home is not a place, but a person.

64

Fruta Exterior Anna Lovering | hybridity; color photograph

I Doubt the Fog Will Lift Pat Hardy I doubt the fog will lift in days to come: My being I lay into this current stream, I’ve never seen a prodigal as a son.

The light struggles to be but a gleam of Water that carries me on the wings of doves, Bearing with me the prodigals I’ve never quite known.

The stream, it pulls me through the weight of loves, The sirens and maids are left without distinction.

I bob, ascend, I bob, transcend, I’m lost With cool, this current stream pulls to forgive Without a home, I flow within, at last The blind of faith they fly like doves, I strive.

Lay back - with faith we fly in streams we cry This fog will lift, if in this stream we lie.

66

Eyes of God Marwan Humphrey | photograph; colored gel & pattern

On That Day Arthur Decima Let the sky clear with southern winds To not push the soil across my dusty home Please, please do not bury these Lungs that took these desert breaths Where old men scan the streets with smirks From porches, too wise to die, They rub their chins to solemn The working day, that blister Of sky, of memory Of summer Please, please do not bury These working hands, not yet finished building gardens begun by a need For lemons in iced tea, to chill the age-old fire from days when trucks were married to dirt roads.

Please, please do not take These roaming feet, which knew rust when gas was nearly free, Where those long nights were held In the arms of lovers who made birds sing so sweetly And she’d be waiting for those birds to sing Again for her own children And when they did She’d hear them, right by her in that heavenly sky Please, please do not bury the last lips That kissed my wife When I die.

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Pumpkins Erin Buchanan | colored pencils on gray pastel paper

Painfully So Shelby Sullivan

The truth is, I am so painfully average.

I am not a work of art, Created as the pinnacle of beauty To which beautiful people flock To admire, photograph, imitate, become.

I am not a formed constellation Of mesmerizing stars, Stringing together galaxies into stories.

I am not a goddess; No temple shall be built to my name, Nor offerings brought to my shrine.

I am not someone whose looks Will start a war.

No one will look at me And feel a tremble in their knees, A lump in their throat, A knot in their chest.

70

No one will see me And spend hundreds of sleepless nights Composing symphonies, Pouring their love into every note That they beg for me to hear.

No one will write a sonnet Detailing the way my eyes sparkle Or the shadow cast by my nose.

No one will look at me And know the beauty I long to feel.

I am not ethereal I am not godly I am not poetic I am not divine I am painfully Just so.

DRAMA

Bathroom Pep Talk Blanca Del Loco CAST OF CHARACTERS A . A beautiful BIPOC androgynous human, 20s.

B. A beautiful BIPOC androgynous human, 20s.

A cozy bathroom.

SETTING

SCENE 1 AT RISE: From the darkness, we hear the ghostly sound of a record player playing Moonlight Sonata, 2nd movement. A single spotlight appears. The stage is bare except for a large mirror up center with gold leaf trim, a vintage bathtub facing the audience directly in front of it. There are candles of all sizes around the tub, and plants of all types as well. Within the bath is a beautiful BIPOC androgynous human holding a glass of wine.

A: (to themself) This bath is just what I needed. Who cares about men anyway? Girl, I got myself a nice bubble bath going with my favorite wine, some good music, and all my plant children. Just don’t think about it, love, we’re gonna have a good night. It’s not like he was the first guy to stand you up and he won’t be the last. There will always be someone to look down at you, or not look at you at all. Why does it even matter? It happens to girls all the time.

(They down the glass of wine and begin to cry as they sink lower into the tub, trying to hide from the outside world. The lights change and the music fades. From behind the mirror, we see B, another beautiful BIPOC androgynous human.)

B: And just like that, everything starts to come crashing down. I know damn well you are not over here suicidal and drunk over a boy on Tinder.

(A looks up from their bath in horror. They turn to look at the mirror. B smiles and waves.)

Hey, girl, hey—

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HARBINGER (A screams for their life.)

Well, fuck my drag. That’s no way to treat a fellow sister.

A: Are you— B: Drunk? No, I wish.

A: Are you real? Am I drunk? Oh, God, am I dead?

B: I need you to shake back, baby. Yes, I’m real. Do this outfit look cheap to you? And yes, you’re as drunk as a gay man on spring break in 2016. And what you tryna say? That I look like the Grim Reaper?

Talking about, “Am I dead?”

A: I didn’t mean— B: You said what you said. Anyway… let’s talk about why I am here in your bathroom on this very fine Saturday night. Instead of going out and living things up—as much as you can in a global pandemic—you are sitting here in your bathtub crying over a boy, not a man, but a B-O-Y. A: I’m not crying over him! I’m just tired, okay? I’m tired of the same shit over and over and over.

B: Explain. Tickle me.

(B picks up the bottle of wine and takes a sip.)

A: I get so tired of men— B: Boys.

A: —Of boys swiping right on me just to ask me things like, “Do you have a pussy or a dick?” “So you’re a boy that wants to be a girl. Would that make me gay if I smash?”

B: Is that it?

A: No! I get so tired of putting my gender identity in my bio only for me to have to remind them about it later on because they were too busy looking at my profile pics and telling me I have a fat ass. I get so tired of great guys talking to me and then ghosting me for no reason. Tired of the first thing that comes out of someone’s mouth being, “Oh, you don’t look like one.” I get tired— B: —of men saying, “I accept you for who you are, but can we keep this on the DL?” Of never getting to go on normal dates like other people.

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DRAMA Tired of my date showing up to my house to watch a movie but I can’t even watch the movie because 2 minutes, in they start touching me.

A: Or how you never get to meet their friends, or when you do they only say that you two are just friends. Ooh, and let’s not forget how they make you feel less than human because of the way they look at you. The way they objectify you and your body for them to get a quick nut and then block you after kissing you and saying, “See you later.”

B: Ding ding ding! You win a prize! Honey, men are the worst thing on Earth. If I could like girls, oh, honey, you best believe I would. We all have our struggles, but damn, do I envy lesbians.

(They share a laugh and sit there for a moment.)

A: How do you know? About what they do?

B: Because it happens to me too, duh. Do you think I’m the ghost of dick appointments past? I deal with the same shit every day. I look at my cisgender friends and think that they just have things so easy. It seems like my other trans or nonbinary friends somehow have better luck than I do.

A: So wait... you’re— B: Nonbinary.

A: But, you’re gorgeous, though.

B: And? So are you.

A: Tell that to men.

B: Child, if you don’t think so, no one else will.

A: What do you mean?

B: Before anyone can love you, you have to love yourself. At the end of the day, we only have ourselves.

A: But I do love myself.

B: Do you?

A: Yes. B: Tell me five things you love about yourself that aren’t surface level.

A: Well, I’m talented and smart—

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HARBINGER B: Try again.

A: I love my... my... personality!

(B takes another sip from the bottle, unimpressed.)

Okay, you put me on the spot. It’s hard— B: Why is it hard to tell me what you love about yourself? Hmm? (A sinks back into the tub.)

A: I don’t know. I break my own heart by expecting people to be as attached to me as I am to them. I dated this one guy and I thought he was my soulmate. I still do. But the love was one—sided. I cared too much when he cared way too little and in the end, I never got closure.

It fucked with me because I wondered if I wasn’t pretty enough or smart enough... woman enough.

B: Closure isn’t real honey. Now, dying your hair and going on a toxic sex binge that leaves you feeling like a whore... that’s another story. You don’t need to feel guilty about anything. Removing someone from your life is hard, but in the end, we have to choose our fights. Look at me.

You are young, beautiful, and have so much life ahead of you. Don’t you ever let some little boy take away your joy. Do you hear me? Because one day you’ll look back and wonder, “Why the fuck was I over here crying my heart out over somebody that didn’t even get to know me?”

(A smiles and grabs B’s hand. A is overcome with emotion and begins to cry.)

A: Thank you.

B: We are magical, from the color of our skin to the way we talk, sing, walk, breathe. It’s hard... but you’ll get through it. Now I gotta get going, it’s Saturday night.

(B kisses A on the forehead and walks back through the mirror.

A looks back out into the audience and sits for a beat. They get out of the bath and put on a robe. One by one they blow out the candles until there is only one left. They pick it up and walk downstage with it. They blow the candle out.)

END OF PLAY

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DRAMA

Lost in Russia John Druzbik

1. MOUNTAINSIDE RIVER - DAY The wilderness of Russia. There are trees everywhere. It is peaceful and still.

A deer drinks water by the riverside.

Hidden from the deer, DOGE is stalking his prey. He has his crossbow extended and his eye focused on the deer. He waits for the right moment, patiently letting many seconds pass.

He zones in for the kill, but a twig snaps in the distance. He flinches, causing the deer to run off.

2. RIVER TRAIL - DAY Doge, in ragged clothing, zips up his backpack of materials. He tries to relax as he looks out to where the river becomes a lake, but he seems disturbed.

He looks deep into the river, but he sees nothing.

From the trail comes THE PRIEST. He is around 6ft tall, barefoot, wearing only a habit with a Rosary on his waist and a bag across his back.

The Priest walks past Doge but then stops. Doge feels someone behind him but does not turn around.

THE PRIEST: What are you looking for?

DOGE: What? Are you talking to me?

THE PRIEST: There isn’t anyone else on this trail.

DOGE: Well, I’m not looking for anything.

THE PRIEST: What are you doing out here?

DOGE: I don’t know, just trying to enjoy the lake. What about yourself?

THE PRIEST: I’m walking home.

Doge follows the priest’s gaze to the mountain; there appears to be a mountaintop monastery surrounded by snow and clouds.

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HARBINGER DOGE: You live up there?

Priest nods.

DOGE: You really spend all your time alone, on that cold mountain?

THE PRIEST: I’m never alone. I spend my days praying with my brothers. We hunt and grow our own food. We practice art. We work.

We pray. We live simple but fulfilling lives, because at the center of it all, is Christ.

DOGE: Huh. Well...safe travels...

THE PRIEST: God bless you.

The Priest walks away, leaving Doge by the riverside.

MONTAGE: 3. RIVERSHORE - SUNSET Over the course of the sunset, we see Doge pacing along the shore, deep in thought.

4. RIVERSHORE - NIGHT Doge lies beside the shore, staring into the dark night.

The stars are turning.

Doge begins to fall asleep.

END MONTAGE ENTER FLASHBACK: 5. IRAQI VILLAGE, 2003 - NOON Doge is armed in US military equipment and weaponry. He turns the corner of a building, and walks down an empty alleyway with confidence.

An armed villager aproaches, walking down a separate path.

Both men continue until they eventually run into each other. They stare at each other for several seconds. Doge closes his eyes as he shoots the man.

EXIT FLASHBACK

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DRAMA 6. RIVER TRAIL - DAY Doge wakes up suddenly. He is in the same position he was yesterday, just before the Priest approached him.

He pants and breaths hard as The Priest walks behind him, the same way he had the day before.

The Priest continues to walk past him until Doge turns to him.

DOGE: Wait!

The Priest stops to glance back at Doge.

DOGE: I’m lost.

MONTAGE: 7. MOUNTAIN TRAIL - AFTERNOON The two make their way up the mountain, slowly and silently.

It rains and snows, but they make it through.

8. MONESTARY - NIGHT They both arrive at the Monastery at the top of the mountain.

END MONTAGE The Priest opens the door to the Chapel.

9. CHAPEL - NIGHT Doge walks into the church and sees a monstrance, radiating a shining light. It is the brightest thing he has ever seen.

A choir of angels sing.

The light becomes overwhelming. He begins to cry as he stares into the eyes of God. END OF SCREENPLAY

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Isolation Anna Lovering | acrylic on canvas

DRAMA

Problem Solving Mackenzie Duke CAST OF CHARACTERS DEB. Woman, around 70 years old. Oldest teacher in the school. Hippie.

KEN. Man, late 30s to early 40s. Principal of the school. A real goofball.

DOUG MADISON. First grader. Riot starter.

SHERRY. Woman, late 20s. Teacher. Very opinionated.

GARY. Man, 40s. Teacher. Pushover.

LILLIAN. Woman. Late 20s. Teacher. Lazy.

MRS. TURNER. Woman. 40s. Teacher. At her wit’s end.

SEAN. Man. 30s. Teacher. Modest and wacky.

CHORUS OF KIDS. (NOTE: The kids in this show should not be played by real children, by utilizing costumes and vocal work, adults should play these roles. The actors playing the teachers can be used to fill the role of the kids. The roles in this play are open to all races. Doug Madison is the only kid that must be cast outside of the existing pool of teachers. The role of Doug can be played by a male or female actor.)

SETTING The conference room of Parkridge Elementary School.

SCENE 1 AT RISE: MRS. TURNER on stage in a single spotlight. She is talking to someone but we don’t see them yet. We also don’t see any of the set.

MRS. TURNER: It’s things like this. I can’t—there’s no consistency!

None! And that’s really hard for people like me. People who are all numbers. Us math people like order. Math is nice and precise and I can understand it. So I thought, “Hey, you know, I can do this job. Teach em’ math. Make them love math. Teach them logic and order and long division.” But you little dinguses don’t get it. You don’t get that in this world, you have to be—you’ve got to be consistent. But no, no, no, you

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HARBINGER all can’t even remember to bring your homework folders to class. What am I gonna do about that, huh? Anyone? I tell you what I’m going to do, Nothing! You know you’re supposed to bring it. It’s not that hard!

So instead of going over the addition problems you were supposed to have finished by today, I guess we can all stare at each other and twiddle our thumbs.

(The lights come up on an elementary school classroom filled with students, either first or second graders. There is one kid standing directly in front of MRS. TURNER. Beat. The kid standing in front of MRS. TURNER starts to cry. After a few seconds, the rest of the class starts to cry as well. MRS. TURNER looks around at the sobbing children and starts to cry louder than them. The lights go out on the classroom and go up on the conference room.)

SCENE 2 AT RISE: KEN, the principal, stands at the head of a large table with papers in his hands. Around the table we see all the teachers.

KEN: (Addressing the teachers) So, I hope it is now clear that it’s not okay to— (reading from paper) —oh, wow— use any yucky language in general around the kiddos. Mrs. Turner has been asked to take a leave of absence due to her… meltdown yesterday. Which brings us here.

The school board has asked me to lead a meeting to check in with our teachers to make sure that your grievances are being heard.

(The teachers nod and murmur in agreement.)

I think the next thing on the agenda should be an open… open floor?

Yes, I now open the floor to you all so you can express any problems you’ve encountered with the students this year or ask the others for advice on classroom management.

(KEN waits for someone to start. GARY raises his hand.)

Yes! Gary, whenever you’re ready, take it away.

GARY: At this point, you have heard about the first grade riot that happened in my classroom.

(All of the teachers nod in agreement.)

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DRAMA GARY: Well, um— that event has— (Growing more upset as he speaks.) —it has left me feeling… It has caused me a great deal of pain and trauma and, not to be hyperbolic, but it has stripped my life of all meaning. Teaching is—or, I thought, was—my calling, and now I just feel like I’ve failed the kids. And I was just wondering if… anyone has felt this way before?

KEN: I can tell you all, as a witness, that those little ones were out for blood. It was a doozy! But Gary, I think we need to focus on where this… what’s the word… OH. Loathing! Yes, silly me!

(Pause.)

Why do you hate yourself, Gary?

GARY: I don’t know—I really I wasn’t expecting Doug Madison to react the way he did when I said…

(The lights shift from the conference room to a classroom with kids in it. This is a flashback to the riot. GARY shifts from speaking to the adults in the conference room to speaking to DOUG MADISON.) …You’re not allowed to share your snacks with the other kids. We have to be aware that our friends in class might have allergies and we need to be careful.

DOUG: Sarah didn’t have a snack, so I was making sure she didn’t go hungry.

GARY: Well, that was very kind of you, Dougie, but— DOUG: It’s Doug.

GARY: I’m sorry… Doug. That was a very nice gesture, but the school has certain policies— DOUG: Please don’t use my nickname to distract me from the fact that you’re mad at me.

GARY: Doug, I’m not mad and you aren’t in trouble. Not at all. I’m just trying to explain to you and everyone else in class why sharing food isn’t allowed at school.

DOUG: I’m confused.

GARY: About the snack rule?

DOUG: Yes. My friend asked me if she could have some of my Gushers, and I was trying to be nice by giving her the blue ones because I always

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HARBINGER throw away the blue ones. So I saw it as a win-win; Sarah got to have something to eat during snack time and I was cutting down on my food waste.

GARY: And that was very thoughtful, but— DOUG: But what? You see, that’s why I am confused. Why are you bringing down the hammer on me for doing what is right? Are you saying Sarah doesn’t deserve the right to food? Are you saying that she deserves to go hungry?

GARY: Oh my— No that’s not— Everyone deserves— DOUG: Basic human rights! Everyone is entitled to proper nutrition, Gary!

(The class breaks out into cheers and all of the students begin to rally behind DOUG.) GARY: (To the class) Everyone, remember we are at voice level one inside the classroom! Dougie— I mean, Doug, I love that you were trying to share. It’s lovely that you have such a… strong understanding of this concept. But, like I said, the school doesn’t allow— DOUG: Doesn’t allow what? Compassion? Empathy? Understanding?

It sounds like we’re not allowed to share our snacks with each other because this school we’ve been forced to attend wants to hold a monopoly over what we put into our bodies. If they control our food, they control our minds!

GARY: Doug, please— (DOUG stands on a desk and addresses the rest of the class.)

DOUG: Their days of tyranny have come to an end! It’s our turn to control our own destiny, and it starts here, right now!

(DOUG and the rest of the class start yelling and destroying the classroom. They start passing around their snacks and sharing their juice boxes. GARY frantically tries to comfort each one of the students but they all resist. GARY manages to crawl over to his phone among all the chaos and dials a number.)

DOUG: Down with the oppressors!

GARY: (Into his phone while curled up in the fetal position) Hello? It’s Gary. Doug Madison has started an uprising. I don’t know what to do—

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DRAMA (A little girl, MARISSA NUNEZ, bites GARY on the leg.)

Oh, God! (KEN enters the room with two other teachers. They make their way over to DOUG who is still preaching his message to his classmates. The three adults pull him off the desk and start to escort him out of the classroom.)

DOUG: (Walking out the door) They don’t care about us, any of us!

REMEMBER THAT! (The lights come up on the conference room and GARY moves back into the present.)

GARY: After Doug was taken out of the room, the rest of the kids kept calling me a traitor and an “instrument to the bourgeoisie” and said that Doug’s blood was on my hands. I tried to explain to them that Doug wasn’t being put to death and he just needed time to simmer down, but they were convinced that I had sent him to be executed as a form of censorship.

(GARY is shaking and sits back down in his seat.)

KEN: Thank you for being so brave, Gary.

SHERRY: Jesus, Gary. Where did a bunch of first graders learn that kind of language? I mean, “bourgeoisie”? Isn’t that a little advanced for six-year-olds?

GARY: I didn’t teach them that! We’ve been focusing on the water cycle— SHERRY: Well, they learned it somewhere.

KEN: No need to point fingers. Let’s just focus on giving Gary some advice on managing his deep, deep pain.

DEB: Have you tried essential oils?

(DEB gets up and starts walking to GARY. This takes a ridiculous amount of time and her movements should reflect her age.)

(Whispering in GARY’s ear but very loudly) Great for stress.

(Beat.)

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HARBINGER Also, I really don’t see what the big deal is. You all want the kids to be the problem solvers and it sounds like Doug was just trying to solve a problem.

(She sits back down.)

LILLIAN: Oh my god. You taught them all that communist mumbo jumbo, didn’t you, Deb? DEB: They asked about my thoughts on the snack rule, I gave them my opinions, and that spawned a whole discussion on shared goods. You should hear what Marissa Nunez has to say about public transportation.

Truly inspired. She’s got a bright future ahead of her once she cools it with all the biting.

GARY: You’re not going to let this slide, are you, Ken? She is inciting riots! Life-ruining riots!

KEN: Well— I mean— DEB: Gary, I’m sorry you got attacked, but really it all could have been avoided if you took time to listen to what they were saying instead of just reciting the school district’s allergen policy and calling in administration to save the day.

SHERRY: Hold on. You want to blame Gary for all of this? He was doing his job. Just because you choose to ignore the rules doesn’t mean we have to.

KEN: Okay everyone, let’s remember that we’re all allies here.

DEB: You wanna talk about rules? Then let’s talk about how Lillian forges doctor’s notes saying she isn’t allowed to work breakfast duty in the morning.

LILLIAN: Seeing the kids that early in the morning gives me vertigo.

It’s a real condition.

DEB: And Sean refuses to teach evolution because he thinks the science textbook is spreading satanic propaganda.

KEN: Sean, we’ve discussed this. You cannot pick and choose what you teach. You must stick to the state-specific goals.

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DRAMA SEAN: Maybe you should read that God-forsaken book and see for yourself. I have sent McGraw-Hill four strongly worded emails regarding the material they include and how it’s unnatural and wrong in the eyes of God and I’ve gotten nothing back. At least I’m protecting the kids. All Deb does is fill their heads with fascism!

KEN: Well— DEB: First of all, you inbred moron, it’s socialism, and— KEN: Ohhhh, man, that was some harsh name calling there, Deb. I think maybe you should— DEB: And you, Sherry. It’s like you’re afraid that the kids will think for themselves and make them realize that you’re teaching them a bunch of pointless equations, so you silence them and keep pushing your own agenda.

SHERRY: That’s what you’re doing, Deb! Children don’t need to be exposed to socialism. They don’t even understand it! You’re just shoving your old school hippie nonsense on them. Now Gary’s leg is infected because that little Nunez girl practically tore a chunk out of his calf.

GARY: Her canines are like little razors.

DEB: No, the kids asked my opinion and I gave it to them.

LILLIAN: Deb, we may not all be as seasoned as you, but that doesn’t make us incompetent.

DEB: No, you’re exactly right, Lillian, your greenness doesn’t make you incompetent.

LILLIAN: Thank you, Deb. DEB: Your incompetence makes you incompetent!

SHERRY: God, Deb! Do you think maybe you could be the problem?

Maybe you’re outdated. (To KEN) If you don’t do something about this old bat, you’ll have a teacher’s riot on your hands next.

SEAN: And by the way, my parents are distant cousins by marriage so technically, by law, I am not a child of incest.

(An uncomfortable silence. ) KEN: Okay, team, I think this is a good place to stop today so let’s... put a pin in this discussion and circle back around to it later.

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HARBINGER (All of the teachers go to exit including DEB.) KEN (CONT.): Um, Deb, could I have a word?

DEB: Sure, Ken. (They both sit.)

KEN: Deb, you know I support you 100%. I think your techniques work wonders. You’ve gotten Marissa Nunez to bite in a much gentler way. She stopped drawing blood! It’s really incredible. It’s just your interactions with the other teachers— DEB: Ken, it’s okay. I’ve been here long enough to turn into the old-asdirt teacher who’s overstayed her welcome.

KEN: Please. Old? You’re a spring-time cow, Deb! DEB: It’s “spring chicken,” honey.

KEN: Oh yes! Spring chicken!

DEB: Ken, it’s time for me to move on. I’m going to finish out the school year, then… well, who knows. Maybe I’ll take up needle point.

(They both chuckle.)

KEN: If it means anything, you’ve been a detrimental part of this team and you will be missed.

(Beat.)

Sorry! Essential! I think it’s the “-al” at the end of the words that tripped me up that time. DetrimentAL, essentiAL. (Beat.)

I just hate to think that you feel like Sherry and the others are pushing you out.

DEB: They’re young teachers. They’ll realize that their books and methods mean nothing. The kids- they teach you how to teach, and that’s something the teachers will have to figure out in their own time.

And you’re a good principal, Ken. Just trust your instincts. And keep watching Sean, he’s freaking nuts.

(They laugh.)

Good meeting. At least no one broke a bone this time.

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DRAMA (DEB exits.)

KEN: You’re right, no broken bones! Attaboy, Kenny!

(The lights go down on KEN in the conference room. We see DOUG MADISON and the rest of the kids outside the school with protest signs.)

DOUG: WHAT DO WE WANT? KIDS: THE RISE OF THE PROLETARIAT! DOUG: WHEN DO WE WANT IT? KIDS: NOW! (DEB walks by carrying her bag and wearing funky shades.)

DOUG: Hey, Ms. Waterson, look! We made signs so “the man” has to confront our message face to face!

DEB: Heck yeah, kids!

(DEB puts down her bag, picks up a sign and starts protesting with the kids.)

END OF PLAY

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Just Being Tori Stewart | oil on glass

Same Marley Gamble He’s got a different skull that houses eyes of different hue and in her, there’s too much different to ever remind you of you He sings proudly and endorses All the things you know are wrong Perhaps there’s too much different for us to even get along.

But which of us lacks a beating heart to spazz and droop with blood?

When life tugs at their different skin don’t the same Bordeaux blisters bud?

Are we not all stumbling vessels pushed on by lungs, so taught with breath?

Starving souls and flickering brains marching toward the same dark death?

And while she shines a different copper where your porcelain color gleams, did she not curl up in a nest of arms when she was new with fresh-sewn seams?

Did you two not feel the same ache burn in your tiny, learning heads when you fell from those sure arms, enveloped by life’s more unsure depths?

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Far too different to talk to you being too young and him too old, but did he not defrost as you did when once, he rushed in from the cold? did his thin flesh not drink the warmth of vacuum-sealed indoors, and in between gulps of winter, did his breathing not quicken like yours?

Perhaps even, without you two knowing, across all those miles and depths your coupled lungs sputtered at just the same time how, then, is it not the same breath?

Shirt on the Highway Marley Gamble Long-sleeved shirt down on its luck, empty of warm body, lacking writing or identity clothed in asphalt’s dark film but its shoulders slumped like it remembered being blue.

Collapsed there, sleeves up in surrender, long-abandoned hope of ever being worn again.

Imagine if some car was lucky enough to be present for the origin story to witness the downfall: A blip of blue banner against a paler blue sky cast out like a martyr by some individual who I suppose is wealthy in shirts, or perhaps dropped! perhaps plucked away from clambering fingers, swallowed by gluttonous wind.

I wonder if they miss their shirt.

The hug of cotton, the warmth of the sleeves: I think the shirt wonders too.

Whatever the case of the shirt’s checkered past, its present is this purgatory: face down paralyzed and cold awaiting the arrival of whoever it is that removes shirts from highways.

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Wind will sometimes pity the abandoned garment and donate a gust that is just enough to raise the arms and torso, resembling a run-down individual half-heartedly tossing and turning in bed, and better still, cavalries of air will gallop behind each passing car breathe life into the shirt’s cavities let it sit up and dance.

Stretch vacant shoulders toward heaven and crane its neck toward hope.

I was one of the gusts of air.

One of the stampeding boxes of metal who got to resurrect the shirt, inadvertently connected to all the other fast-flying people, their stories that highways taste but never savor; the fed-up single mother the sleepy trucker the bickering old couple, every other pair of weary, watery eyes glazing lazily over the highway.

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The odds say we will never know one another, never know what pulled each other’s sunken eyes nor will we find ourselves on the beaten path that the heart in the next car walks The only way we may ever overlap is in contributing to the breathy ballet of this tired and bruised shirt on the highway.

This anthem for the fatigued, the cast out, this symbol for the worn-down, the run-over, another car passes to lift the downtrodden raiment and it assures yet another passerby that the hopeless may still fly.

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Self Seated Portrait Andy Carrasco | acrylic on canvas

Supernova Shelby Sullivan I just wish That someone As insignificant as I Could find my place in the heavens Laying down on a comet Sailing into the infinities Soaring through the glittering cosmos Watching universes being created And destroyed I long to dance past planets that Others will never discover I want to breathe in All the glimmering stardust I want to be filled to the brim With a peace so great That I commit my last great act On the back of a shooting star Screaming into the great beyond Not because I am afraid of the limitless But because I am no longer bound By insignificant limits And once I reach the edge Of my ethereal wanderings I will burn brighter and more brilliantly than ever before I will become the supernova Lightyears away That your great, great grandkids Will see with their hopeful eyes As they gaze into the night sky Searching for their place Far beyond the earth’s horizons

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Mutations Lora Plaster | bronze

USA Gabriel Marina-Vargas USA – United States of America United?

In Spanish, “usa” Means to use.

Use, use, use USAron a los africanos USAron a los chinos USAn a los latinos Se USAn a si mismos Su presidente USA su poder a su antojo Su gente USA las armas para matar a otros, abUSAn de todos ¿Qué vas a hacer tú para cambiar esto?

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Orange Man Claudia Egido | watercolor & acrylic on canvas

Who Is Death?

Shelby Sullivan What do you think happens When one is on the cusp of death?

Do you think they stare helplessly into Whatever advances upon them?

Do others fight like it is their last Epic and gallant crusade?

And do you think that others, The ones who have been waiting For far too long, Take their first peaceful breath?

Do you think that the stench of death Is one of rotting flesh and spilled oil Or one of serenity and all things sweet?

I know That when each of us reaches that brink For some it is a cliff With razor sharp spears below And that for others it is a simple release.

Do you think that people know When they have reached the verge Of this life and what lies beyond If they believe anything waits for them at all?

How does one Look upon the face of death anyhow?

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Do they study it Unsure of what it will mean, Out of the fear of what it has been made out to be, Or like it’s the face of a long-lost lover?

Do they take in every detail, Like someone examining the enemy, Like the slightest hint will save them, Or is it because they want to be familiar With the one keeping them company As they are escorted to the other side?

What do you see When you see death’s face?

Someone familiar Or something else entirely?

Is it a reaper dripping in pestilence Or an agent of peace, straight to serenity?

I know that no one Truly knows And perhaps it’s easier not to.

you are the yellow i don’t look good in Calys Jiménez (a play on Billy Collins’ Litany) “when you’re high, I’ll take the lows. you can ebb, and I can flow.”

- lyrics from “Grow As We Go” by Ben Platt you are the shattered glass and the bee sting, the broken promises and forgotten forevers. you are the hurricane on the coast the fire burning down the forest the grey of confusion. however, you’re not the silence i am comfortable with not the peace i feel listening to the birds’ songs not the calm car rides full of karaoke. and you are certainly not the cup of coffee that comforts me, there is just no way that you comfort me. sometimes, you are the inconsistent rain on a sunny day maybe even the clouds that hide the blaze but you are not even close to being the one who calls for hours just to check on me and a quick look at you will show that you are neither the crisp fall breeze nor the cocoa from the Corn Maze.

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it might interest you to know, speaking of the vast canyon between you and me, that i am the beautifully worn book from an evening’s quiet moment. i also happen to be the changing leaves, the best-selling blockbuster everyone loves the coffeecake people dream of. i am also the flowing waves in the moonlight and the broom sweeping up the mess. but don’t worry, i am not the shattered glass and the bee sting. still - you are, always - you will be, the broken promises and - somehow - the unforgotten forever.

Contributors William Becker Will is a sophomore Biology major, hoping to eventually either study zoology or medicine. He used to work in EMS, and he likes video games, fencing, great apes, and alone time.

Sam Bentley Sam is a junior Economics major with a minor in English. His hobbies include video games, tabletop games, and creative writing.

Erin Buchanan Erin is a freshman double-majoring in Art Education and Painting. She enjoys playing videos, experimenting with art, and petting cats.

Cameron Carlson Cameron is a sophomore English creative writing major with a minor in theatre. One part books, one part video games, one part pop culture, and one part enthusiasm (some say too much).

Andy Carrasco Andy is a senior Painting major with a minor in History. Their hobbies include reading LGBT fiction, finding new music, and watching horror films.

Persephonie Cole Persephonie is a junior English major who spends her time crafting spooky tales by candlelight. Her other hobbies include curling up to read or button mashing on a video game controller.

Halle Cooley Halle is a senior Studio Art major with a concentration in Painting and a minor in Business. Her hobbies include playing and refereeing basketball, making art, and spending time with her friends. She is originally from the small town of Tuscola, Texas, and dreams of one day traveling the world and becoming a famous artist.

Arthur Decima Arthur is a philosophy and law student at Texas Tech. He aims to become an author for novels, short stories, and philosophical arguments.

Blanca Del Loco Blanca (she/they) is a theatre major from Shreveport, Lousiana. She is an accomplished professional singer and actor, as well as an independent recording artist and model. In their spare time they enjoy making veganfriendly cookie recipes and selling cookies at local arts events.

John Druzbik John is a freshman majoring in Creative Media Industries. He has keen interest in Filmmaking including screenwriting, video editing, cinematography and directing. John also enjoys public speaking and hiking.

He spends most of his free time developing and creating short films.

Mackenzie Duke Mackenzie is a senior theatre major with a minor in dramatic writing.

She loves going to the movies and spending time with friends.

Gabriella Ebertowski Gabriella is an English major with a minor in Political Science completing her degree solely online from Corpus Christi, Texas. Her favorite hobbies include reading, bike riding, and swimming.

Claudia Egido Claudia is a recent graduate of Texas Tech with a BFA in Graphic Design.

Marley Gamble Marley is a junior majoring in political science. She plans to go to law school and practice somewhere in Texas. She is passionate about writing and takes every creative writing class that Tech offers. She loves to go out with friends in her spare time.

Nicholas Gresham Nicholas is a senior majoring in History and minoring in English. He enjoys studying history, writing poetry and art. He states that “the LHUCA reading by Joy Priest inspired me to create a poem about cultural history.”

Pat Hardy Patrick Merrick is a senior at Texas Tech working on his Philosophy degree with a minor in English. He records and performs music under the name Pat Hardy in Lubbock.

Marwan Humphrey Marwan is a Junior at Texas Tech who enjoys creating art with his wife.

Also spending time at home with their two fur babies and relaxing with tea and conversation.

Calys Jiménez Calys is a Secondary Education major with a minor in English. She is a Lubbock native and enjoys all things in October. She is passionate about social justice, kindness, writing, and music.

Patrick Kamau Patrick graduated from Texas Tech University with a degree in BFA Studio Painting in 2020. Other than painting, he enjoys drawing both digitally and physically. He currently resides in Lubbock, Texas.

Anna Lovering Anna is a senior Creative Writing and Studio Art major with a minor in Psychology. Her personal time includes spending time with her daughter, listening to music, and finding the time to relax in the morning with a Chai.

Gabriel Marina-Vargas Gabriel is a senior Cell and Molecular Biology major with minors in Spanish and Chemistry. His hobbies include hiking, fishing, cooking, sports (specifically basketball and badminton), and writing poetry.

Claire Meyer Claire is a first-year Digital Media and Professional Communications major pursuing additional interests in Plant Science and Creative Writing.

She enjoys watching ‘80s movies, drawing and writing for her graphic novel, as well as reading books that keep her up at night.

Lora Plaster Lora is a 2020 graduate of the Jewelry and Metalsmithing program in the School of Art. Her hobbies include photography, singing, and cooking.

Hannah J. Russell Hannah is a senior English creative writing major with a minor in political science. When she is not drinking copious amounts of cold brew coffee, she is listening to True Crime podcasts.

Sophia Sanchez Sophia is pursuing a BFA in Studio Art with an emphasis in Metalsmithing and Jewelry Design, as well as a minor in Japanese.

Sandra Sierra Sandra is a junior Studio Art major with a concentration in Printmaking.

She also dabbles in ceramics and hopes to one day get involved in public art work, specifically murals.

Jon Skavlan Jon is a non-degree transient student who graduated from Tech in 1982 with a BBA in Accounting. He is an avid golfer and had another story, “Two Summers, Two Nights,” published in the 1981-’82 edition of Harbinger.

Tori Stewart Tori is a senior​Visual Studies major with an emphasis in oil painting. She prides herself on her versatility as an artist and has recently established her own business in art, Curatori Compositions. The majority of her work is inspired by the inner workings of the human psyche and breaks down the different perceptions people hold over their identity and self image.

Shelby Sullivan Shelby is a senior Theatre BA major with a minor in English. Her hobbies include reading, writing, acting, and trying to cook new things even though they might turn out terrible.

Harbinger Staff Callie Watson

Co-Editor-in-Chief & Journal Designer Callie is a senior Interdisciplinary Arts Studies major with concentrations in Creative Media Industries, Dramatic Writing, Theatre Design/ Technology, and Music. This fall she will begin an MA program in Mass Communications at TTU with the goal of becoming a creative and strategic communicator who collaborates with community organizing projects.

Jayce McKinney Co-Editor-in-Chief

Jayce is a senior English major with a concentration in creative writing.

She is a co-founder of “The Quill,” the first undergraduate creative writing organization at Tech. In her free time, she can be found writing stories about the world around her, taking photos of her cat, Allie, and creating new D&D characters.

Kasey Hahn Fiction Editor

Kasey is a senior English (Creative Writing) and German double-major, with a minor in Creative Media Industries. She enjoys writing and hanging out with her pet guinea pigs.

Maranda Jenkins Assistant Fiction Editor

Maranda is a senior English major with a concentration in Creative Writing. She loves reading and read around 100 books in 2020 alone.

Katelyn Despres Nonfiction Editor

Katelyn is a senior Communication Studies major and writing tutor at the University Writing Center on campus. She has worked as an editorial intern for TTU Press and as a corporate communications intern in the healthcare field. She is a leader in the Cru College Ministry at TTU, and helps run their social media.

Payton Conlin

Assistant Nonfiction Editor Payton is a junior English major with a concentration in English Literature and a minor in Secondary Education. She has interned as a copy-editor and had her piece “When Skies are Grey” published in the 2020 edition of Harbinger. She has also studied Mandarin Chinese and can speak Mandarin conversationally.

Toluwani Osibamowo Drama Editor

Toluwani is a sophomore Journalism major with a minor in English and an interest in Dramatic Writing. She has won awards from the Texas Poetry Society and Scholastic Art & Writing for her literary work. Her extracurricular activities include interning for community organizations and being a leader in various professional and cultural student organizations at TTU. She is semi-fluent in Spanish and Yoruba, her parent’s native language.

Iridasy Rascon-Vizcarra Assistant Drama/Poetry Editor

Iridasy is a junior pursuing a dual degree in English (Creative Writing) and Psychology, with a minor in Journalism. She is originally from New Mexico and is bilingual in Spanish and English.

Jason Bootz Poetry Editor

Jason is a junior Journalism major with an English minor. He enjoys reading and writing poetry on rainy days with his dog, Lucky.

Madeline Windham Art Editor

Madeline is a senior Studio Art BFA major with a focus in Printmaking and interests in painting, life drawing, and portraiture. Locally, she is a Curation Assistant at LHUCA and a Studio Fellow of CASP. She has participated in over twelve group exhibitions locally and internationally, has curated two group shows, and has participated in three solo exhibitions —including the Robert Patterson art excellence award show.

Acknowledgements Special thanks to: College of Arts and Sciences Dr. Michael San Francisco, Interim Dean

Department of English Dr. Brian Still, Chairman

Faculty Advisor Dr. Katie Cortese, Associate Professor

J.T. & Margaret Talkington College of Visual and Performing Arts Genevieve Durham DeCesaro, Interim Dean

School of Art Dane Webster, Director

To learn more about Harbinger, visit

bit.ly/ttuharbinger