Underground Pool 2017

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Underground Pool Issue Seven — Spring 2017

Underground Pool Issue Seven — Spring 2017

Fiction Editor Poetry Editor Designer Cover Artist

Katie Murphy Leyna Bohning James Kwak Gina Capasso

Readers

Victoria Bonelli Grayson Butler Zoe Darazsdi Maris Garden Lauren Grossman Maggie Fenning Nastasja Haughton Késha Hollins Tyra Jamison Amy Jannotti Erin Leso Greg Manley Shyanne Marquette Lauralee Martin Glorious Piner Marguerite Rucupero Joseph Sabol

Faculty Advisor Illustration Coordinator

Elise Juska Matt Curtius

uarts.edu/undergroundpool undergroundpool@uarts.edu The University of the Arts Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Whole by Rachael Longo

Letter from the Editors Right now, in 2017, we’re living in a time of instability. It is understandable, expected even, to begin feeling trapped in circumstances that are out of our control. It is easy to become discouraged by the overwhelming amount of hate and violence in our society, but because of the state of our country—of our world today—we must fight to pull ourselves out of these feelings of fear and paralysis and force our oppressors to take responsibility for their actions. We are living in a time when art becomes most important. We must not sit back and let the villains of our society, of our lives, divide us. We, as artists, must become the voice of the oppressed and challenge others to acknowledge the suffering that affects us all. In the seventh issue of Underground Pool, you will encounter voices that will do just that.

The feeling evoked in the seven short stories featured in this issue can be summarized in one word: trapped. Their characters long for a way out of their traumatic circumstances and memories. They search for answers. They search for their escape.

Whether that escape be the company of a friend in Lauren Grossman’s “Kindergarten Blues” or the death of an abuser in Carter Horton’s “Rats,” these narratives explore the human’s desire to have control over their lives and the actions they’ll take to get there.

While the poetry in this issue represents a wide spectrum of subject and emotion, there is still a connection among these pieces: they elicit a sense of entrapment.

This theme is reflected in the feelings of guilt in Emily Famularo’s “Rachel,” or the metaphorical confinement of someone’s grasp in Alyssa Langenhop’s “Rose.” Shyanne Marquette’s “Palace of the Beeping Ill” explores the physical entrapment of mortality through the sickness of a loved one.

The work featured in this issue of Underground Pool reminds us that the dark corner life pushes us into is not our last stop. It is merely an opportunity for us to develop conversations through our art form in our constantly developing world. We will not allow the power of others to dictate or divide us. We are artists. We are in control.

Katie Murphy

Leyna Bohning

Fiction Editor Poetry Editor

Fiction 06 /

Rats by Carter Horton Illustrated by Harry Lowe

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If You’re Still Breathing by Amy Jannotti Illustrated by Veronica Verratti

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Green Suede Shoes by Liz Waldie Illustrated by Martha Maynard & Dakota Herman

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Speaking of Easton by Greg Manley Illustrated by Rose Muller

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House of Quiet by Emily Famularo Illustrated by Zach Manbeck

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Kindergarten Blues by Lauren Grossman Illustrated by Lizzy O’Donnell & Heather Dixon

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An Deireadh by Nathan Trenda Illustrated by Amanda Corrigan & Raphael Foer

Poetry 09 /

Playground Slugs by Maggie Lily

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ten o’clock news by Victoria Rose Bonelli

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username by Shane Bowman

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Thoughts on October 12 by Victoria Rose Bonelli

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Rachel by Emily Famularo

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Guilt by Emily Famularo

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Changeling by Maggie Lily

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Blue by Alyssa Langenhop

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Rose by Alyssa Langenhop

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Meet Me in Hell by Anonymous

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Palace of the Beeping III by Shyanne Marquette

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Harmony by Aleasha Watson-Mitchell

Artwork 02 /

Whole by Rachael Longo

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Playground Slugs by Maggie Lily

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Untitled by Joseph Cucciniello

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The Guilt by Olive Froman

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United We Stand by Rachael Longo

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Ghost of a Woman by Ornella Plialis

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Pathways by Maggie Lily

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Liquid Blue Velvet by Olive Froman

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Reach by Bret Searles

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Suburban Suffocation by Rachael Longo

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The Case of the Specter in the Living Room, January 14, 1962 by Maggie Lily

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Old House by Joseph Sabol

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Distance by Joseph Sabol

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Untitled No. 4 by Bret Searles

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Opacity by Rachael Longo

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Lingering Dose by Rachael Longo

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Harry Lowe

Rats Carter Horton My breath is hot as it exits my mouth and passes through the burlap to form an impossible cloud about my hood. I never thought I’d die on a cold day. I opted for the hood; I don’t need to see nobody when I die, I’m right with God. The void doesn’t scare me. I’ve seen it twice now, only fitting that the third’s my last.

The preacher reading my last rites sounds like my father, whom I hated.

You shouldn’t hate what’s dead, so that’s why I said hated.

I’m tempted to say I hate myself, but the Holy Spirit’s in me and it ain’t right to hate God. That’s the devil’s work, is what it is and I won’t be troubled by him now. I’ll finally leave his influence. His whispers cannot berate my corpse.

The noose feels like a rat’s tail coiling around my neck. Since I can’t see, I can’t tell if it’s scales or twine poking at me. I never noticed how much a rough rope felt like a rat’s tail. I guess you notice too many things when you know you’re going and they’re all useless. I’m useless now too; served my purpose, so I’m right to die.

They’re gonna call me a murderer in my obituary, which is agitating. Not that it’s wrong.

I just wish there was a specific word for a murderer who murdered a murderer. Avenger? People’ll say that my father wasn’t a murderer cause the life he took wasn’t Christian. Wasn’t even human. But he took life with zeal and relish in his eyes, I’ve seen it. I see it almost every night, the tail swinging wild in the wet reflection of his cornea.

He woke me up by shaking me. When I came to, all I heard was that tail beating on the wood floor like Hell’s metronome. I followed the patter in the dark, with my hand on the soft back of my father’s cotton shirt. He switched on the light, and there was a half-dead rat. Its neck was bent like a tire iron, gnawing at the air. Its eyes were blacker than any I’d seen before; the tail spun like a rotor.

He told me to kill it.

He told me that it ought to be dead by the time he came back, or I’d regret it.

He came back, and it was still whipping its tail around, so he cut off its head with a spade.

I saw the look in his eye when it happened. He liked it. Looked the same way when he would wake me up on nights when there was no rat to kill.

I tried to put that from my mind for a while, tried to lock it away somehow. Every time I’d look him in the eye, though, I just kept seeing that tail gyrating and it made me damn near an impossible anger.

So I set the biggest rat trap in the shed. My father opened the door, which opened inward toward the back, and a pickax swung down through his neck and about an inch through the wall. I heard him whimper and scutter when it happened, so I came in acting surprised. He saw through that, though, so I looked into him. I couldn’t see the tail flailing anymore. There was just fear, like his eyes found something terrible in mine now.

I told him to die.

I told him that he ought to be dead by the time I got back, or he’d regret it.

He didn’t have a tail to spin, but his hand kept sorta jerking around. And he wheezed too much. I took the spade and treated him just how father had taught me.

Standing on a trap door, I realize that it was good manners. The state won’t chop off your head if your neck don’t snap. You just wheeze and spin till all of you is out.

I guess I should have tried to be a better man, move beyond the likes of my father in some vague moral sense. That rat could’ve been kind and gentle, though, and something bigger killed it just for being a pest. I wonder if God’s just something bigger, laying traps for all the pests in his creation. Doesn’t matter how sweet or mean they are, they’ll get caught.

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Playground Slugs by Maggie Lily

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Playground Slugs Maggie Lily Why did the boys want to kill my slugs?

A recompense?

For being born pot-bellied

The bees grinded with fever in the honeysuckle that tried to breach our fences.

and sold to war?

Their lives already claimed by television and politicians to die for what I would become.

Here the boys scrambled but never struck.

Horseplay is not permitted within playground limits.

A woman who would know the sexual reproduction of gastropods.

That they intertwine inverted penises for an external sperm exchange.

Instead they drag their sharpened sticks along the gravel courtyard.

The clinking rocks shout against the bees.

Each species arrogant in their purpose

Their bodies seething in an opal foam, slow and tender against these bleating and bucking,

and loud.

I wanted to trace my children’s slugslime with my tongue, so I drooled on the bark.

in a chain-linked playground of the co-op elementary.

The rot hollow of a fallen tree, removed for a basketball court,

Wiped my sweat away with a stained, secondhand T-shirt.

Look! I secrete!

The boys looked too,

was more teeming more inviting, than the rainbow, plastic equipment, as alien and twisted

gathered closer.

They with their sticks, taunted us, threatened death, still at a safe distance

as DNA. I picked away at the bark, which splintered beneath my nails, fingered the tangy mosses.

because they knew not to anger a mother.

I glared and called them bullies, and that seemed to be enough

I coveted a trio of slugs.

All daughters and sons.

A yellow, a brown, and one

to send them chasing after something else small and spineless.

The slugs still flinched at my touch.

with a lonely eye stalk that couldn’t have been plucked by me, but may have been, no wait, it was definitely

The yellow one, wary, puckered, and belched.

Maybe my slugs knew then or always knew

Jonah.

The tree was my slugs’ home and sustenance, like eating away at a womb.

that I always kept a packet of salt in my pocket.

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10 /

Veronica Verratti

If You’re Still Breathing Amy Jannotti I have two rules for living with company. I don’t watch people sleep, and I don’t watch people naked. But a couple of weeks have gone by, and I’m thinking of breaking both.

I feel them the moment they cross the threshold. One directional change in the wind on my skin marks the opening door; three knots in my stomach mark the bodies filing in.

Their muffled voices travel two flights of stairs to reach my ears: Bettina the realtor, and a man and woman I don’t recognize. They call me back from my aimless drift through time and space. My weight returns, gravity dragging all my tips toward the floorboards. I peel apart my eyelids and immediately regret facing the window. The sun’s hanging opposite, uneclipsed by the smattering of trees in the yard. I’d rank the sun’s position at late morning, soon to be afternoon. Eleven, maybe. Right about the time Bette usually schedules her house tours. I suppose I should be thankful. If it weren’t for Bette’s strict routine, time would cease to exist. I sequester myself up here and ignore them. Bette always shows the attic last—opens the door, lets people peek up the stairs and decide whether or not it’s worth their time to explore. So far, no one has. That’s what makes the attic such a great hiding spot.

Not that I need to hide. No one ever sees me. I mostly like it here `cause I can’t see them.

There’ve been at least a dozen of them already. Young couples, some with baby bumps, looking for a quaint, affordable place to start a family. They see the asking price on Bette’s signs outside and rejoice at such an inconsequential number of zeroes. They love the house as much as they love that price until the second Bette tells them the story. The story’s where she loses them.

These two feel different. They tug at my gut like fish on a line and trace circles around the lower levels. The house reacts to them, walls inhaling and sighing as they come and go. The line pulls tauter and tauter as they ascend one flight, then the next, until they reach the base of the attic stairs and I must actively strain against them. The attic door opens, and the house and I hold our breath.

Bette lands first, talking the advantages of such a large attic over her shoulder. I wish I could snap at her to move, but I haven’t been able to use my voice in a very long time.

I could slam some doors and rattle some floorboards, but if I do, Bette might try and evict me like the de Martinos did.

The de Martinos lived here last fall, for about a month. They’re a family of five: a mother, a father, a preteen son, and two elementary-aged daughters. They didn’t appreciate my late night TV or my shower singing. Or maybe they didn’t appreciate my showering, period. They didn’t like it when I left notes on the windows and mirrors asking them to please pick up after themselves. The son didn’t like it when I tried to challenge him to two-player on his Xbox, and the girls didn’t like it when I played with their dolls. They called in a priest. He came with his crucifix and rosary beads, lit some candles, read some scriptures in the original Greek, and called it a day. The scriptures didn’t do much else

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besides tickle. It took the de Martinos less than a day to realize I was still here.

They found some hacks on the Internet who called themselves “experts.” These “experts” burned sage, the stench of which was enough to drive me out of whatever room they were burning it in, and chanted in Creole and Latin. They ran cameras and tape recorders all night. And, of course, they set up shop in the attic. I got so annoyed with them, I short-circuited every fuse in the house. Once the experts replaced all the lightbulbs and flipped the breaker, they declared the case solved, collected payment, and left.

Rather than get scammed again, the de Martinos just moved.

“Would you like to come up?” Bette extends a hand to the invisible couple at the bottom of the stairwell. “It’s perfectly safe.”

A head of spiky black hair bobs above the stair wall. The man’s dark-eyed gaze passes over me. His aura feels thick and murky, like wading through mud. He looks back over his shoulder. “C’mere, babe. You gotta see this.”

“I’m coming,” a patient voice tinkles like wind chimes. A potent quiet falls over the room, every particle in motion growing suddenly, completely still. There’s a scuffle of feet, and they ascend together.

When she comes into view, the dark-haired man and his tattoos and alternative `90s wardrobe fade into the shadows behind her. She is tall and lean and radiant, the cream of her tank top catching the sunlight and making her glow. Her hair’s gathered in a wild mess of auburn curls at the top of her head. Static buzzes in my ears—static that dims the second her green eyes sweep the room. She feels like broken waves lapping tidal kisses at my toes. Her gaze intercepts mine on its way past. The static builds to a scream.

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Bette gathers them around the island in the kitchen to dot “I”s and cross “T”s. As she removes the manila folder full of lease paperwork from her briefcase, she warns, “One more thing, before you sign.”

Kyler looks at Bette. Charlie looks at Kyler. That’s my cue to drift out of the doorway and into the actual room. I like to watch people’s faces when Bette tells them. I get this weird rush of pride, knowing I’ve become the stuff of myth and legend in this house.

Bette looks at Charlie first, then at Kyler, and finally lands on Charlie, like she’s decided Charlie will take it worse.

“There was a murder in the second-floor bedroom.”

She’s careful not to flinch when she speaks. The corners of her face are a still, smooth mask of professionalism. But, when she sizes up the couple, gauging their reactions, she takes a fraction of a second too long to blink. Kyler’s eyes bug; Charlie’s eyes immediately drop to her cuticles.

“Murder?” Kyler echoes.

“Involuntary manslaughter, technically,” Bette corrects herself. The word “involuntary” crawls like spiders up my arms. “It’s been over two years since it happened, but anytime someone’s been killed on a property, our office is legally obligated to inform prospective buyers.”

“Was there any property damage?” Kyler asks.

Bette shakes her head. “We had the room deep cleaned, anyway, and if you’d feel more comfortable hiring some kind of religious specialist to appraise the house, our company can help with the bill. We’ve done it before.” Charlie’s eyes flick up.

“We don’t need a ‘religious specialist.’” The way Kyler says it, the quotes are audible around the phrase. “As long as the house is in good shape—” “Done what before?” Charlie interrupts.

Kyler scolds her with a “babe,” and reaches to grab her elbow. There’s a burst of sound—a loud shriek like microphone feedback jackhammering through my skull. I slam backward into the wall, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the pain. Against the dark of my eyelids, I see my father clamp his hands down on my shoulders and move me away from the sink, back when I was just tall enough to look over the edge of the counter and question my mother incessantly about the process of washing dishes. I’d already asked

why she wore gloves, what happens if you don’t wash the dishes, and why the water had to run so hot, it steamed. By the time I got around to asking why she washed the dishes with “special soap” instead of “regular soap,” my father decided he’d suffered enough.

There’s a squelch of leather as Kyler pivots. “What was that?”

“This is an old house.” Bette doesn’t falter. “The shutters don’t always latch. I’ll have someone check on them before you move in.”

The pressure lets up in my head. By the time I open my eyes, Kyler’s managed to snake his arm around his wife’s waist and ask her opinion. Charlie’s not looking at him—she’s still up and out, scanning for the source of the noise. She blinks herself back into her body, chews her tongue, and looks under her lashes at Kyler. “I like it if you do.” Kyler removes his arm.

They move in a week later, accompanied by a U-Haul trailer and a couple members of Kyler’s punk gang. The rocker boys have the same wet, sticky aura. They reek of cannabis and stale cigarettes. The house groans under their feet. I press my back to the wall of whichever room they occupy at the time and grit my teeth through the crawling skin.

I keep an eye on them, for the house and for Charlie. Her light seizes when she weaves between them, like a candle struggling against a whirlwind.

She’s every bit as beautiful as she was the first time I saw her, but not as well made.

Her hair’s coming loose from the braid over her shoulder. Her eyes have sunken a little further, the veins underneath them swollen from lack of sleep. There’re holes in her clothes, and there’s dirt on her arms. The static’s back, buzzing just loud enough to be a nuisance. She works through it, piling boxes high enough in her arms to shield her face.

I could lift everything myself. I could lift it and carry it anywhere. Then, Kyler’s boys wouldn’t need to be here, and Charlie could rest. But if Charlie knows I’m here, she’ll only want me gone. So I hang back, and I watch.

The Grables don’t come with a lot, so the move barely bites into the afternoon. No parents arrive to congratulate their offspring on purchasing their first home. None of Charlie’s friends grace her with an appearance, either. Kyler thanks his friends by treating them to beers in the backyard, newly furnished with cheap plastic lawn chairs. I watch from the kitchen window.

Charlie hovers over the cooler, gaze ping-ponging back and forth between the beer and the boys. The boys’ve spread themselves in an attempt at a circle to discuss the mechanics of the upstairs shower. Apparently, there’s a loose pipe somewhere, so the cold water randomly shuts off. Charlie carefully, slowly bends over and retrieves a beer. She cracks it as she makes her way to the circle, gulps a mouthful, and slides onto Kyler’s lap.

Kyler pushes her off. He makes some excuse about not having seen The Guys™ in a while and bids her go inside. Charlie stares at him a long time, jaw working. The static pitches up. Then, she breathes so deeply, I see the air expand inside her. The swell breaks, and she’s back to gentle waves.

I follow as she wanders through a house empty of everything but boxes. She takes her time in each room, taking in every pucker in the paint, every crack in the molding.

Every so often, she’ll mutter something to herself—“A rundown shithole! Mom’ll be so proud”—and drowns the sentiment in another swallow of booze. Images come back to me: quick flashes of flaking wallpaper, holey drywall, and exposed pipes. All the places I squatted when I ran.

When she’s investigated the whole first floor, she turns to the stairs. My innards tie themselves in knots, but I follow anyway. I draw the line at the threshold of the empty bedroom. Charlie, guzzling from the beer can, parades into the center of the room and twirls around once, twice, her free hand flopping like a beached fish. She swallows, and smacks her lips. “So this is where it happened, huh?”

I shrink away from the door before I realize she isn’t addressing me. She directs her line of questioning to the cobwebs in the crease of the ceiling. “This is where you died?”

The words barrel into me like shotgun shells. I clasp at my chest, searching for entry

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wounds, only to find that every inch of my body’s a gaping hole.

Charlie throws her head back and necks the rest of the can. She wipes her mouth with the back of one hand, turning the can around in the other. Her gaze travels across the nutrition label. “If you are still here, we should compare notes on being the family disappointment.”

I see the light go out in my mother’s eyes when she finds me on the doorstep, dressed in the ruins of clothing she’d bought for me to wear my senior year of high school. I chart the exact moment she realized I hadn’t been able to afford new clothes since.

Charlie looks out into the room, searching for me in the empty space. I feel that tug in my gut again: the current of her reaching to sweep me out to her sea. I start toward her, ready to nudge the beer can, or maybe open and close the door in Morse code, or maybe even muster the strength to speak – and then I see it. Over her shoulder. The water damage in the wall, where the paint’s peeling in the shape of a jagged cross. The same jagged cross I stared at while I died. The air I don’t breathe catches in my throat. The wind lifts me from between my shoulder blades and whisks me through the ceiling, through the pipes and electrical wiring and the support beams and the floorboards, and into the attic.

I collapse on the floor, coughing and gasping, not sure which direction is up. I lean my forehead against the wood and feel its coolness descend over me. And subsequently smack my head three times in rapid succession for my behaving like such an idiot.

A cute girl calls out to me, and I have a fucking panic attack.

Closing my eyes, I meld my psyche with the house. Melding feels a lot like dissociating—like stepping out of my body (or what’s left of it) and spreading my particles everywhere at once. Suddenly, I can see everything—everything that the walls and ceilings and floors of the house can see.

Charlie stands alone in the middle of my room. She crushes the beer can in her fist and tosses it to the floor.

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Like true Millennials, they unpack their computers first. I recognize Charlie’s laptop: it’s the same crap $300 model I logged onto to check my bank statements during the few years I spent on sabbatical from my parents. Charlie pulls up the web browser, and she and Kyler briefly debate what to search to test the WiFi. Charlie claps her hands, declares she’s got it, and keys in “Murder at 1404 Miller’s Creek Road, Blackwater PA, 2014.” Kyler scoffs.

“Why are you Googling that shit, babe. It’s depressing.”

“You’re telling me you aren’t the least bit curious?” she retorts without looking.

“At least change your search to ‘involuntary manslaughter.’” He plops onto the cushion next to her, jostling her, the laptop, and the small IKEA couch. The ambient buzz clouds my senses. Beyond them on the wall, I see the phantom of our old TV playing Who Framed Roger Rabbit like it did the first night my father sat an inch too close for comfort.

He kept his hand on the couch seat the whole time so that every time I would shift positions my bare thigh would brush against it. Kyler snaps a pretzel in half between his teeth.

“Apparently, there’s a difference.”

“First result,” Charlie announces while the page loads. Scanning the text, she reads aloud, “‘The normal quiet of Blackwater, Pennsylvania has shifted to reverent silence today as the town mourns the death of 20-year-old Valerie Kimmel. Mother Althea Kimmel tells us that Valerie, whom Althea and her husband had reported missing three years ago, returned to them late last night. A few hours later, neighbors overheard an altercation between Valerie and her father and alerted the authorities.’”

“There’s a lot of alliteration in this article,” Kyler interjects. Charlie doesn’t dignify him with a response. “‘Unfortunately, first responders did not arrive in time to save Valerie. The coroner ruled the cause of death as strangulation. Harvey Kimmel is currently in police custody, facing up to five years in prison.’”

“Only five years?”

Untitled by Joseph Cucciniello

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Charlie glares at Kyler, as though he’s somehow responsible. “This guy murdered his daughter!” A blush creeps up the sides of my neck.

“Such a shame,” Kyler muses, ignoring Charlie to scroll farther down the page. “She was a hottie, too.”

“That’s so not the point, Ky.” Charlie picks up the laptop and moves with it to the opposite end of the couch. Her aura crackles. Kyler heaves a sigh.

“Whatever. I’m gonna set up the bed.” I dodge out of his way when he jogs down the hall. Charlie doesn’t watch him leave. She keeps staring at the photo: the one of me with the National Honors Art Society in my junior year. I guess they used that picture because they wanted to pass me off as “part of the community”—never mind the fact that I wasn’t friends with the kids on either side. She traces my jawline with the mouse.

Charlie’s a painter. She sets up her easel in my bedroom and converts the space into her studio. Litters the floor with newspapers. Replaces the blinds with clear plastic curtains. I spend hours in the attic, tapping into the house to watch her. She paints fantasy scapes: dark forests and glass castles full of fairies and elves and knights and dragons and monsters. She locks herself into the study, plays movie soundtracks on an old-school Lloyd Dobbler boombox, and paints. Her newest project looks like it’ll one day be a portrait of a girl. Right now, she’s just a sketch—I can’t make out of any of her features.

Kyler’s out most of the time. He works at a chop shop and comes home covered in grease. On days when he’s especially dirty, Charlie’ll strip him down and roll around with him on some banner paper. On those days, I watch squirrels chase each other around the backyard. I’ll be watching squirrels, and the static buzz will rise to shrieking again. When the shrieking stops, I’ll know they’re finished.

Every now and again, when Charlie leaves her paints out, I’ll cap them and put them away for her. She pauses for a second each time she notices, shakes herself, and moves on.

16 /

One day while she showers, I root through the fridge downstairs. I don’t get to taste my favorite foods anymore, but I do get to savor the scent of them and imagine what they’d feel like in my mouth. I’m holding a jar of black olives to my nose when I hear her sing for the first time. Her voice is muffled, faraway, and longing to be heard. I drop the olives and phase through the ceiling.

The phase feels even more like surfacing from a pool when I land in a bathroom full of steam. Charlie shimmies past the gap between the shower curtain and the wall, her face scrunched up in a parody of a rock star’s singing face and shampoo foaming like whipped cream on top of her hair. In the glimpse I catch, her torso and upper thighs appear black. A stone sinks in my gut. Without thinking, I jump through the curtain and into the tub behind her.

Her back is splattered with bruises.

She turns before I can move out of the way and steps through me. Being stepped through feels a lot like I’d imagine being stabbed feels, except all over and without the agonizing pain. I know she feels it, too. Warmth radiates from her unmoving body behind me. For a second, the static cuts out completely. I turn toward her one inch at a time.

We land facing each other—my eyes on her eyes, her eyes on the ground. The static starts up again, crescendoing louder and louder as she raises her head. I scramble for the right words, straining against my dead vocal chords, trying to vibrate them through sheer force of will. I want to tell her it was an accident. I didn’t mean to see her like this. I just wanted to hear her sing, and then I saw the bruises, and I worried— Then, her eyes lock with mine. The hot water starts screaming.

She seizes under the heat. Turning to adjust the temperature, she starts shouting expletives in alphabetical order. By the time she straightens and leans her head back to bask in the warm water, she’s forgotten about me.

Three members of the high school’s satanic club return tonight for the first time in months. Every so often, they break into the house with new recruits and set up a Ouija board in the kitchen. I recognize one of them: the girl with the septum piercing and half-purple, half-black hair. She’s the younger sister of one of my former National Art Society cohorts. The last time I saw her, she was going through her obligatory middle school scene phase.

Good to know she hasn’t grown out of it.

Under normal circumstances, since they were my only source of company for the better part of two years, I’d juggle some silverware and blow out their candles so they’d come back with more people. But I’m not the only soul to contend with anymore. When Kyler hears them rummaging in the kitchen at 2:30 in the morning, he storms out of the master bedroom wielding a baseball bat.

“The fuck are you doing in my house, eh?” He aims for one goth boy’s skull. He swings wide.

“Kyler, stop!” Charlie sprints out of the bedroom, tying her robe as she goes, and grabs him from behind, clutching him to her. Her hair’s wild with sleep, and she’s buzzing again.

“We didn’t know there were people here.” My friend’s little sister slams her Latin textbook shut and drops it next to the printed invocation she was translating on the table.

“This place has been for sale for, like, ever.”

Kyler’s knuckles squeeze white against the bat handle. “Yeah, well, I live here now.” He motions his head toward the door. “So get the fuck out.”

The goth boy Kyler nearly brained still hasn’t put his arms down. He shifts them from blocking his face to splaying his fingers in the air. “We’re out, man. No harm done.” He beckons the purple-haired girl and short, skinny boy with snakebites. They file out of the kitchen in that order, the boy with snakebites muttering about “the fuck’s his problem.”

Kyler jerks forward, struggling against Charlie’s hold to chase the snakebite boy, but Charlie weaves her hands together and holds fast. Kyler’s faster. He wedges his foot between her legs and pivots with enough force to break Charlie’s hold and throw Charlie in front of him.

“The hell was that, Charlie.”

Kyler’s not shouting anymore. His voice wavers dangerously low.

Charlie looks up from the injured wrist she’s massaging. Her chest heaves. “Relax, Ky.” His nostrils flare.

“They’re gone.” She watches him from under her lashes. “It’s fine.”

Kyler’s answering sigh shudders his whole body. “It’s not fine.” He throws the bat down. “You disrespected me in front of them.”

The static pitches up.

Charlie’s gaze falters. “I—” Kyler’s knuckle cracks against Charlie’s temple. Charlie spins to the floor, barely throwing her arms out in time to catch herself. Kyler grips the bat with both hands.

“You disRESPECTED ME, CHARLIE!” The white noise inside of her roars.

I fling myself through two floors and crash land in the attic, shutting my eyes and clamping my hands against my scalp to try and squeeze out the screams. They’re not just Charlie’s pleas anymore, or Kyler’s threats. My own voice has joined the mix, begging, begging for it to stop. My throat starts to swell shut. The jagged cross flashes across the backs of my eyelids.

For the first time in two years, I hear him. “I knew you’d come home to me, one day.”

I feel him rip me open over, and over. “I knew you couldn’t stay away. You’re nothing without Daddy.”

My voice grows fainter and fainter as my phantom lungs begin to burn. A door slams downstairs, and the world falls silent. The pressure on my neck abates. I gulp a greedy mouthful of air. Then, I pass out.

\ 17

The house is quiet when I wake. Moonlight beams through the attic window, anointing the room with ghost-like incandescence. I roll away from the window and blink a few times to reorient myself.

The fight.

Kyler left.

Charlie.

Oh, God. Charlie.

I prop myself up on my hands, reaching into the floorboards, calling on the house to find her. I listen for the sound of her static, but her static isn’t there. All I hear are lapping waves. The house guides me to the bathroom, and there I find her.

She’s floating in the tub. Her skin is pruned and translucent. Her eyes are closed.

There’s a washcloth tied over her mouth. Charlie.

I dive headfirst into the room, landing in the tub and splashing water across the floor.

I flick my wrist in the direction of the plug, and it jiggles loose. I don’t wait for the bath to drain. I focus on being solid and drag her above the surface. I yank off the washcloth and fling it across the room. I pinch her nose and breathe into her mouth one, two, three times before I realize I’m not respiring any air. I drive my knuckles into her chest again, again, again.

I want to scream.

Again, again, again.

“CHARLIE! PLEASE!” Her eyes spring open. She bolts upright and immediately doubles over, crashing into my chest and coughing up lungfuls of water. Her body shudders as she gasps for breath.

I wrap her in my arms and caress every inch I can touch. I nuzzle into her hair. “Oh, God.” Now that I’ve found my voice, I can’t think of anything else to say. “Oh god, oh god, thank God.” “Valerie?” Every part of her—her voice, her breath, her body—trembles. Her eyelids flutter open, but she holds her head up long enough to drink me in. “You look just like your picture.” My picture. It isn’t until then I glimpse my reflection in her pupils. My skin, my hair, my eyes—all have color again. The same colors filling in the girl in Charlie’s portrait. She cups my face in her hands, and her fingers don’t pass through me. I lay one hand over hers and stroke her cheek with the other. Her face is warm.

My smile bubbles up from somewhere deep. “You can see me.”

18 /

\ 19

The Guilt by Olive Froman

ten o’clock news Victoria Rose Bonelli 1 I saw your body scattered across the news on a Monday night, and I let out a hoot

because you hated Monday nights, or did you hate the news?

Your body had held fists in its mouth and knives in its skin, they played it as if it were a violin. you spit old apologies mixed with blood cocktails on the garbage filled sidewalk. prophetic What had you wanted me to do with them

and their lackluster word count?

2 I heard Linda, from down the block, bawl at her daughter, Cindy, how she was the biggest mistake of her life and then she left;

it reminded me of you and me.

I couldn’t tell if I was Linda or Cindy, but you were always Linda.

3

and my arms

I smelled your brand of stale cigarettes, still burned into my mind

4 I viewed the most expensive coffins that the funeral home had to offer, patting the stuffed wallet in my pants pocket. and when I found the perfect one for you I asked for the cheapest.

5 I remember now.

You didn’t hate Monday nights or the news you hated me.

20 /

United We Stand by Rachael Longo

\ 21

22 /

Martha Maynard

Green Suede Shoes Liz Waldie Norman was helplessly addicted to spying through the windows of St. Agnes’ Mortuary and Crematorium, and rightfully so. He’d found the perfect spot for performing such an unheard of act—a nicely secured, little abandoned bench, nestled away in a thick patch of pricker bushes at the rear of the complex. The bench stood decaying just below a row of frosted windows. Luckily for him, the one square of glass above the bench was always open, probably to let in some fresh air, which inevitably allowed for Norman’s uncanny hobby to commence each day after school.

He would slip into the olive suede shoes his father had given him and shuffle towards the kitchen door. Aunt Mona would eye him skeptically but continue with the persistent motion of whisking whatever batter she’d been conjuring up.

“I’m going out to dig a hole,” Norman would say, or something to that effect. His tone always prompt, yet thoughtful. These were practical ideas, after all.

“Oh really?” was Aunt Mona’s standard reply, her eyebrows always rising just the slightest bit. “And where will you be digging this hole?” She treated the boy with respect, for he was different than most children, but behind each question she asked him was a bit of worry.

The boy would then shrug into his green corduroy jacket. “I’m not sure just yet, but someplace that’ll be good for a large hole.”

“Will you be taking William with you?”

He’d almost always stop, stare at his aunt for a moment or two, then say something along the lines of, “You know, that’s not an awful idea,” or “Oh, I can’t believe I almost forgot!” Then he’d quickly take off his shoes and dart away, only to poke his head around the corner mere seconds later. “Do you think he’ll run away?” he’d ask, every time.

Aunt Mona would shake her head, and the boy would quickly venture back into the depths of his home to retrieve William the salamander from his spot on the rock in the aquarium. And so the routine went.

It was possible that Aunt Mona knew of Norman’s hobbies, knew the boy only dug holes on Sundays when the mortuary was closed, but as far as Norman was concerned, she was oblivious, and he was getting away with much more than a boy of eight years should. But Aunt Mona had her suspicions. For the two years she’d been his guardian, she’d noticed something about Norman. It was in the way he asked questions about his parents, the way he talked about death. He knew of the accident in which both his parents passed away, and he always brought it up. There was some sort of fixation there, and Aunt Mona wasn’t sure whether she should make him stop or not. Especially when he went to the mortuary. But he’d had an unusual life, and he was an unusual boy, and from these evolved his unusual hobbies. And who was Aunt Mona to judge the poor child?

It was a dreary Wednesday in mid-October when Norman decided to start mapping out the mortuary. After slipping his shoes on and off twice, deciding to leave William at

\ 23

24 /

home this time, and doing so quietly, he went back into the house once again and gathered up a roll of paper, some assorted pencils, and a wooden ruler.

“What’s on the agenda for today, Mr. Norman?” Aunt Mona glanced toward the boy and continued to fold assorted vegetables into a sticky dough-like substance.

He wrinkled his nose at his prospective dinner and turned his gaze upwards to his aunt’s. “I’m going to make maps today.” Not technically a lie.

“What sort of maps?”

“It’s a secret,” he said and slipped out the door.

The walk to the mortuary was one of his favorites. He had to walk through a cemetery, but it didn’t matter much, because it was small, and Norman wasn’t bothered by the notion of walking over graves. His mother used to say that whenever Norman got a chill, it was somebody walking over his grave, many years in the future. He liked the idea of giving chills to people years in the past. It was as close to time travel as he could get.

Sometimes he’d walk over his parents’ graves and wonder if they were getting chills years before while tucking Norman into bed or cooking dinner. After walking through the cemetery, he would come upon an even smaller patch of forest, easily navigated by a roughly paved path, and after the forest came the mortuary.

It’s hard to say where Norman’s obsession with the place came from. It had just intrigued him from the first day he happened upon the property. He’d been walking home from school and decided to take a detour through some parks and woods, and suddenly he was standing before the large stone steps. It was a familiar place. Snow littered the muddy ground, and the building cast a large shadow over the front yard and horseshoe driveway. A tall man in a long black overcoat stood at the foot of the steps, staring up at the two enormous open doors.

“What does that say?” Norman had asked the man, pointing to a large sign beside the doors.

“It says ‘St. Agnes’ Mortuary and Crematorium,’” the man responded in a flat tone.

“Oh,” Norman said, puzzling over the peculiar sound of the name. “What’s that, exactly?”

“It’s where they take dead people, clean them up before burying them or burning them into ashes.”

Norman liked this man. He wasn’t afraid to tell the truth, and he didn’t fluff it up with cute words. He didn’t beat around the bush or lie to the child. He simply stated what was, and didn’t seem to care about whether Norman’s presumably-still-alive parents would be upset that he was learning about dead people.

“That’s very interesting,” Norman responded, remembering flashes of flowers and black. “So there are dead bodies in there?” He gestured toward the doors. A current of cold air flowed out of the building.

The man nodded. “Many.” He had a young face, but a scraggly beard. His eyes were hollow, cheekbones prominent. His hat matched his coat, and his shoes matched even more.

“I’m Norman.” He paused. “Do you live here?”

The man shook his head. “I’m just waiting for my wife.”

A few moments of silence later, two men emerged from the building, carrying a large black rectangular box. A coffin, Norman suspected, based on what he could remember from his parents’ funeral. The men were odd. One tall and lanky, the other short and stout. Their faces unnervingly similar.

The man in the overcoat extended a hand. “Pleasure meeting you, Norman.”

Norman shook the man’s gloved hand and watched as he helped the other two men put the coffin into the back of a long car. Then, the two men who presumably worked at the mortuary slid into the front seat, hardly taking the time to glance at Norman. The man whom he had spoken to drove off with them. Norman paused for a moment, puzzled over why the man hadn’t waited for his wife, but shortly realized that he had.

Something about the peculiarities of this situation intrigued Norman, which, as one might guess, drew him back to the place many times after. Sometimes he wondered if the

two men who worked there, likely brothers, ever caught a glimpse of him standing outside on that bench, or if they heard him rustling in the thorn bushes. Maybe they liked his company. Maybe they didn’t care. But mostly Norman just enjoyed the idea of being incredibly sneaky and getting away with most things. It made everything more exhilarating, and it also gave him more of an excuse to be quiet. He wasn’t a loud child; he hardly enjoyed speaking up in class. His most articulate words and phrases were best kept in his thoughts.

Nearly a year later on the damp October day of Norman’s mapmaking, he once again found the mortuary doors wide open, a whole family waiting at the bottom of the steps.

The older woman of the group was talking a lot—too much—while the others stood in silence. Norman didn’t like that very much—when people talked more than they should.

He crouched low and decided to walk through the woods to get to the back of the building, where he stashed away his mapmaking tools and returned ever so silently to the tree line just beside the mortuary. The boy couldn’t quite place his finger on why this family intrigued (and also slightly disturbed) him, but at any rate, he decided to sneak back around to the front of the building and spy on the collection of neatly clad brown-haired figures.

The talkative woman was still talking, and the two morticians emerged from behind the little white car parked out front, carrying vases of assorted flowers, then disappeared into the mortuary. The family turned without a sound—with the exception of the unusually loud woman. That’s when he saw her, small against the others. Norman felt his breath catch in his throat. He quickly grasped his lucky dime, which had found its permanent home in a crevice of his coat pocket many moons before.

Norman hadn’t seen her since maybe six months prior when she’d scrambled off into the woods to run home for supper. Blood had stained her mustard turtleneck and overalls. Her lips had been cracked and red, and her hair, which had gotten caught in the pricker bushes by the bench, had been a knotted brown mess. It was the first time he’d seen a girl in such a beautifully obscure state, and it was also the last. But today, her overalls and sweater were gone and replaced with everything black. She matched her family. Her hair was pulled neatly into a braid down the center of her back, and he could barely see her lips, but they didn’t look well-worn from a day of playfully screaming into the chilly spring air. They just looked pale. Her name was Julianne.

A gust of wind blew a few strands of hair out of her braid, but she didn’t lift a finger.

Norman looked on as the quieter of the two older women reached out and tucked the loose hair behind Julianne’s ear, then decided to undo the whole braid and recreate the masterpiece. It was at this precise moment that Julianne’s eyes met his.

The muddy orbs of her eyes widened, and she lifted a frail hand, just slightly, gesturing for him to stay put. He could just make out the sliver of her hand where the skin was slightly darker, discolored. Her family started toward the car, and as she walked, he saw her shoot the same gesture. “Wait there,” it seemed to say. Norman hesitated. Aunt Mona wouldn’t be expecting him for a while, anyway. But he had big plans for his maps.

Still, when it came down to it, he couldn’t go home. He had to wait for Julianne to come back. He glanced downward to the scar on his own hand. A long lovely line, similar to that of Julianne’s, creased the center of his palm.

Six months earlier, Norman and Julianne had been friends for almost one whole day.

They’d met behind the mortuary, where Norman had caught her sitting in his spot. She’d looked up at him when he stepped on a twig. The two children had stared at each other for a few moments, taking in the fact that someone else existed, someone else who enjoyed the company of the mortuary. But then she spoke.

“Your shoes are kind of funny, don’t you think?”

“My dad gave them to me.”

“They’re going to get muddy.”

\ 25

“I don’t care.”

More silence, more staring.

“How old are you?”

“Eight. You’re in my spot,” Norman stated.

“I’m eight, too. And I’m not sorry.”

Julianne swung her legs back and forth. Norman had never spoken to another person his age for so long, and he’d especially never heard a girl talk so mean.

“Why are you even here, anyway?”

“I just wanted to see what sort of place could make my dad look like he used to.”

Norman considered this. “Your dad is dead?”

“No!” Julianne frowned. “Why would you say that?”

“I mean—” “My mom and dad visited here a while ago, and when they got home, I heard my dad say ‘They’ll make me look the way I used to, with hair and everything.’ He’s bald now. I wanted to see what kind of place could do that—give him hair again. Sounds like magic.”

Norman didn’t know why, but somehow this girl didn’t understand the concept of a mortuary. Which was fine by him, but he almost yearned for a connection with her over both of their dead parents. “I think you went to the wrong place,” he said. “That sounds like a barber.”

“Maybe,” Julianne said, her face reflecting deep thought. “Why are you here?”

“I always come here. It’s my spot. I like looking in there.” He pointed to the window.

“It’s interesting.”

“What’s in there?”

26 /

Dakota Herman

“You didn’t look?”

“Not yet.”

There was a slight pause. The wind rustled in the pricker bushes, and Julianne’s hair flew about, framing her face in an abstract way.

“Dead people.”

“What?”

“That’s what’s in there. Dead people. They come here and get all clean and stuff, and then they go out with the families to get buried.”

“Wow.” Julianne gazed at the window. Why would her father come to a place like this?

“That’s so . . . ” “Scary?”

“Cool,” she responded. “It’s so cool.” She stood up on top of the bench and stared through the little window.

“What do you see?” Norman asked.

She inched to the side, just enough for Norman to join her on the bench. It was the same view he’d seen every other time. A long, long hallway, lined with candelabras, flowers, and stained glass. The carpet was ugly, but Norman didn’t care. He sometimes imagined seeing the actual dead bodies, but he knew they must’ve been kept elsewhere.

All he got were coffins. And the occasional sobbing woman. One time he even saw a man pass out right in the center of the foyer.

“I like your lizard,” Julianne said, pointing at William, who had been perched on Norman’s shoulder the whole time.

“His name is William, and he is a salamander, not a lizard.” He hopped up and peered through the window alongside her.

The rest of the day was filled with more spying, ducking out of sight when assorted families made their way to the mortuary, and running through the woods. At some point, Norman ran home to drop off William, leaving Aunt Mona more curious than ever, as she watched her nephew run off happier and more excited than she had ever seen him before. And for Norman several more hours of short conversations and long bouts of running followed. When the sky grew darker, and the sun finally began to fade, Julianne said she had to go.

“Supper’s soon. My ma will want me home.”

Norman considered this, the thought of having a mother who would want him home for supper. Aunt Mona always waited for him, never pressed time. “Where do you live?”

She pointed straight back past the rear of the mortuary. “It’s not far, but it’s through there.”

“Wait, I have an idea.” Norman scuttled off to where the bench sat, and feverishly dug through the dirt.

“What’s that?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“Pocket knife. I keep it there, in case my enemies find me.”

“You have enemies?”

Norman nodded. Red ants and policemen, he thought. Two of the worst. He didn’t necessarily consider police his enemies, but if they caught him at the mortuary, they’d probably bring him home. Red ants he hated. They bit.

“What do you need it now for?”

“Let’s make a blood bond.”

“What’s that for?” Julianne licked her lips. They were chapped and cracked, and a little droplet of blood dripped from her bottom lip onto her chin. She wiped it away, leaving a small smudge.

Norman shrugged. “To be in a secret pact. Like a club. So I know you’re not my enemy.”

Julianne nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“I’ll do you first,” Norman said, flicking the knife out of its wooden casing, and extending a hand for Julianne. She put her hand in his, and he flipped it palm-up, then

\ 27

brought the knife to the skin. “Ready?”

Julianne sucked in a breath and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Bite on your sleeve. Ready? One, two . . . three!” Norman quickly yet carefully drew a line with the knife down the center of his friend’s palm. The girl winced, but she stayed calm, tough. A thin stream of blood began to flow down her hand, over her wrist.

The cut was deep, but not deep enough to be serious. She could’ve just as easily gotten it from the thorn bushes.

“Now I do you, right?” she asked.

Norman nodded. He hesitated to give her his knife at first, but he then realized he’d spent a whole day with her, and nothing had gone wrong. She hadn’t thrown him in the prickers. She hadn’t let him fall out of the tree in the woods. She hadn’t even pushed him into the stream at the base of the hill. He handed over the knife and held out his hand.

Julianne didn’t hesitate before slicing an almost-perfect replica of her own cut into Norman’s palm.

“What now?” Julianne asked.

“We shake hands.”

The two reached out and matched their bleeding hands together. The blood spattered against their clothes a bit, but it was already beginning to dry.

“I’m Norman,” the boy said.

“I’m Julianne.”

“You are not my enemy,” Norman informed her.

“Good.” And then she ran off.

28 /

October was a muddy season filled with slippery dead leaves and ugly grubs and centipedes, and Norman didn’t want to wait in the mud under the trees until Julianne came back. He decided it would be perfectly reasonable to sit on his bench and begin his maps. After all, she lived behind the mortuary, so she’d probably find him faster there.

The first map came out well. It was relatively easy for him to mimic the outer design of the massive building, but he was having trouble envisioning the inside layout correctly.

After a long period of frustrated window-peering, and then another of imagining with his eyes closed, she finally tapped him on the shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making maps.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t wearing black anymore. She was wearing a green sweater that matched Norman’s jacket and shoes, and the same bloodstained overalls she’d worn the day they met.

“Did somebody die?” Norman asked.

“My dad,” Julianne replied. She undid the braid from her hair and allowed the tangled strands to fall about her shoulders. She then pulled a piece of chocolate from her pocket and snapped it in half.

“The one with the hair?” Norman took the other half of the chocolate and nibbled on a corner.

“The one with no hair. The only dad I had.” She paused, her eyes visibly watering, but no tears falling. “He was right. He looked just like he used to, at the funeral. With hair and everything.”

Norman pondered the concept, and also the idea of Julianne’s father knowing that he was going to die. He felt a pang of sadness for the girl. He knew what it was like. But at the same time, he wondered if she would share in his fascination with death and if they could stay friends and explore things together.

“Your dad must’ve been able to predict the future, like a psychic,” he spoke. “He was probably really special.”

Julianne nodded. “What kinds of maps are you making?” she asked and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Maps of the mortuary. Look at this one.” He pulled out the first map he’d drawn.

“Looks good.”

“Yeah, except I can’t draw the inside of the building.”

“How come?”

“Because I can only see what’s through the window. I don’t know what else is in there.”

He hesitated. “Actually, I guess I know what the hallway looks like.” He’d been in there before and knew he’d seen other rooms. But they were all foggy after two years of focusing on the outside of the place.

Just then, Julianne’s face lit up. Her eyes glowed, and the corners of her mouth inched upwards. “I know what it looks like!”

Norman raised an eyebrow.

“I do! I had to go in there with my family, to pick out flowers. I could help you make your map!” A recent encounter with the other side! It enthralled the boy, but he shook his head.

“I don’t know. I have my own way of doing them, and—” “Well then let’s explore the place!”

“What?” Norman blurted.

“Yeah, because my family just walked in last time, and I bet if the weird guys who work there find us, they’ll remember me.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very good idea.” In fact, this idea went against everything Norman believed in. He had rules, standards. Never trust another person, keep ideas and thoughts to yourself, and always be as sneaky as possible—in other words, don’t jeopardize your perfectly set-up spying place by waltzing into the place you’re spying on.

But Norman had already broken two of those rules by spending a whole day, and maybe a half, with Julianne and by sharing his maps with her. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to try out the third.

“Come on.” Julianne held out her scarred hand. “I am not your enemy, remember?”

Norman took her hand, and the two walked around the side of the enormous stone building, climbed the slabs of steps out front, and stood before the large, wooden doors.

The handles were bigger than both their heads, and the children glanced toward each other. They could practically hear each other’s hearts racing. Norman tucked his rolls of paper and colored pencils under his free arm and took a deep breath.

“Ready?” he asked.

Julianne nodded and placed her hand on the doorknob. “One, two . . . three.” As the two friends braced themselves to enter the building, scarred hands interlocked, minds ready for any sort of adventure or discovery they could possibly encounter, Norman looked down at his green suede shoes and smiled. His parents would be happy for him, he thought. Because in helping Julianne, he was finding his own bit of happiness.

\ 29

username Shane Bowman Nothing this evil ever stalked my mother she slept tight in blankets covered in cartoon characters she dreamt of space travel and pretty white dresses she would wear when she would come across someone real someone who actually exists You are cursed to stay up drenched in sleepy artificial glow while faces you do not know tell you all the things you have always feared are happening to you and no-one else raised by artificial unintelligence it’s not your problem if it can’t be touched it’s not relevant they tattooed similar phrases on your eyes so whenever you found your head safe to go inside you would see these cave paintings and remind yourself of how you are all alone stoic made of bone and not ones and zeroes not cryptic data mind uploaded to a server mind uploaded undeserving of the attention span you still have left your worldwide parent has taken it all from you lazy days become lazy lives and lazy generations

30 /

Nothing this blunt ever pained my father he lost sleep over needle marks and burning veins he dreamt of white rooms and Jesus freaks who would patch him up when he became real and started existing I am bound to be the only living survivor of the mind fry served up on silver monitors so we don’t get distracted from being the stupid demographic no time for logic knowledge if you don’t have, quick pause and type it in that film came out in 1923 and it was written by Google and produced by you and me no other information can be swallowed quite like that raised by the Internet and I sure as hell have spite for that lazy days become lazy lives and kill all generations

\ 31

Ghost of a Woman by Ornella Plialis

Thoughts on October 12 Victoria Rose Bonelli “Ravage the truth until it becomes something presentable. Until the Pope authorizes it; until it is table talk; until it makes everyone you have ever been acquainted with think you are more than you are less.

Look like sentience Deluges you in all that you do; look like it is not procuring your breath, but fabricating you through lesson.

Stanzas are my veracity.

They are unlovely, in which we come to be kindred spirits.�

32 /

Pathways by Maggie Lily

\ 33

Rose Muller 34 /

Speaking of Easton Greg Manley Dear Sutton “Family,” This is a sign from Your Father Himself, or rather Me as Him Himself, for He and I Know Well of Everything. We know of who you are, what you do, and what you did, and We know of the Sicknesses each of you carry inside your heads. Still, there are differences of Me and Your God, as I do not forgive. I also did not offer a son into Life just to take him from it, but that is something you will never understand.

Easton was a good man who passed all The Doctor’s psych exams with bright colors, and he spoke with a confidence that made girls stare with such passion. After class, he would say goodbye to friends and walk to the library as the rest of us walked to the bus stop. His bag straps tore more and more each week from the added textbooks and folders, but he did not whine of studies, presentations, or papers that could not have less than five-thousands words—it was pleasure watching such dedication pour from an honest young man.

Easton would bring food to The Doctor’s class as he wanted everyone’s Friday nights to start well. We all saw forward to his snicker cookies and celeries with peanut butter, once even a lemon cake with cream cheese icing. He would stack trays of sprinkled treats for different occasions, such as red cupcakes for Jeanette’s birthday or chocolate cookies for Carlos when his grandmother died from breast cancer. And when The Doctor would offer a ten-minute break, Easton and His Friend With No Hair would come back with carriers of frappucinos twenty minutes later, but The Doctor was never angry, as Easton brought him a strawberried one with more whipped cream than anyone else!

Easton did not bake for me, as I did not tell him how My Wife’s Brother had hung from rope before school began. I did not desire giving him My troubles as others had.

I first spoke to Easton as we were researching brain diseases for class discussion. I could not remember My password to unlock the school’s Internet, and everyone was typing away as hundreds of crabs pinching their claws. I could not stop my sweating, My glasses slid off My nose, and My mind grew black with heat. I even missed the next instructions as The Doctor had already started by time I reached WiFi—I could not think to ask and distract anyone for help, so I sat still and grabbed my pen hard enough to mark My palm; I picked My beard (a habit I learned from My Father) so that hair after hair fell to the keyboard.

Easton then leaned forward and told me of which tabs to follow, and it was like being pulled from fire by an angel. He was yelled at for speaking as The Doctor spoke, but he did not talk back.

Do you know of how rare that is?

I cannot go to Applebee’s without a chunky woman yapping of how little cheese is in her basket of cheese sticks. I cannot walk the street without hearing drivers honking their horns. I cannot order a cappuccino without a man stopping the line to ask for a manager—I cannot go out into this world and expect peace, and I Am a man needing peace.

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36 /

I have run the deli at Vince and Valeria’s Marketplace for thirty years, and it had started to make My Wife unhappy. I did not think badly of the light pay, but My Wife grew stress, too, as she had decided to teach more classes once Wife’s Brother left us. She shouted that she had no time for herself while grading or writing papers, going to conferences, coming home to a house messier than she had left it. She stressed of never having vacations, of retirement savings, so I told her fine, as I could not handle any more of her bitching.

My Wife is a professor who studies primates. She is a smart woman, much smarter than I, but she is still human. I value how she pays much of the bills (her Brother, a funny son of a bitch, used to say I was the cocksucker of the house), but I have decided that she does not need to bear such a responsibility. It is not healthy as her hair has turned from string to wire, and her eyes have become tiring to look at.

I told Wife I was ready to make us new opportunities.

When I had started at Godwin Community College, I thought I could speak to The Woman Two Rows Below, but the students spoke to her first, as she said she would buy them alcohol. I tried speaking to The Girl With Orange Skin beside me, but she only laughed and said, “I’m not your type,” before turning to The Slut With Tits Like Melons to mock My voice.

I Am jealous of these children that are just starting their lives because, when they leave their desks, they dance in clubhouses and press their tongues into each others’ mouths. Their Lives are powered by mocha lattes and cheap beer (one boy comes to class smelling as both), and I cannot understand how they move so fast with the sex, drinking, and essays, all while thrown through the blender of Life. I had once wanted My Life to move as theirs, but that time has gone, though I wish I had known when it was here.

My last night seeing Easton was after watching Mean Girls, a film The Doctor chose so he could speak of The Nice Girl conforming to bullying; I thought it was an exciting look into the mind of teenagers, but many students did not take this lesson sincerely.

They chewed popcorn and shot paper balls, and as the movie spoke, everyone spoke along and laughed loud enough that I could not hear and take notes!

Easton did not distract others and rested his head on the table, as We knew better.

After The Doctor’s closing lecture, we were dismissed. As it was the last class before Thanksgiving break, I felt relief, but I was also hungry enough for my belly to gulp itself (Easton had spoken that he did not feel up to making snacks that day).

It was almost ten o’clock, the food trucks had gone, and I could not think to eat another microwave pasta as My Wife quietly graded papers. I thought of eating at a vegetable restaurant The Girl With Hair Under Her Pits spoke of so often, or buying a burger from The Pink Diner With Cockroaches, but My Wife has made Me into a man that does not eat alone, as she is a believer in company over food. She says it is a success of nature that we sit and fill ourselves with hot meals, as we could be hunting for bears and berries. As of such belief, there are never guests that visit our home and leave empty. We do not see family or friends without trays of vada and panipuri, and we would not think to invite Wife’s Brother over without a large dish of kheer and Nilgiri tea for dessert.

I knew it was the perfect opportunity to invite Easton out as the class had not eaten any of his special treats (I also remember what it was like being a young man, starving ten minutes after leaving a buffet!). He even looked hungry with a sunken face, wiry red hair, and fingernails with blisters and dried strips of blood—it was clear the cafeteria meals were hurting his health.

When I asked Easton if he would want to go to Ali Baba’s, a hookah bar not far from Godwin, My hands shook and soaked. Before answering, Easton watched the others at the bus stop, looked to the library, and checked his watch. He smiled and scratched his head before asking if I could sneak him drinks; when I refused, he remembered a Spanish paper that was due at midnight, but I told him of how I was only kidding, and we laughed!

I knew then that I had befriended a fellow man who understood the importance of hard work and respected the anchors of a hard Life.

The Server Who Stared Down Easton’s Shirt did not ask for ID and kept the beers coming. I ate a chicken-pita wrap, and Easton ate hummus and lentil soup as we smoked Lemon Peach-Tea and Afternoon Delight shishas. We spoke of joy having finished The Doctor’s project, which was making our own Stanford Prison Experiment—I had thought of dogs keeping humans in crates, and Easton thought of children spanking and grounding parents.

After twelve drinks between us, Easton joked of how The Server’s teeth were yellow from meth, and The Server heard him! We left and walked to a corner store for cigarettes, which I knew My Wife would be angry for, as Wife’s Mother smoked herself to dust, but We did not give a damn!

I do not remember much of walking to Godwin’s front steps afterward.

As we sat and smoked, I asked Easton if he was happy to return home for the holidays, but he shook his head and nibbled his fingernails. He burped a warm stink of beer and tipped over before I grabbed his scarf. I caught him, but the scarf had torn, and I could not speak. My cigarette fell from my fingers, burned my pants, and smeared gray as I slapped it away.

Easton laughed and said he could make another scarf while lighting me another.

When I asked why he knit (the chore of a woman), he asked if I wanted to share secrets— what better way to get to know a man than being invited into his darkest corners?

I spoke first and could only think to speak of Wife’s Brother. I enjoyed time with him, drinking beers and joking as young men. I would tell him to watch how much he worked, or else his head would be so full of contracts and screaming couples that he would not be able to remember his own name. He would tell me that, after working six hours at the market, I was lazy for letting Wife cook and rinse the dishes.

Wife’s Brother always made beer fall from my nose: “You should help her before she finds another man who will,” and “If our mother was alive to see (My Wife) do chores instead of a cheap husband, she would throw herself to the grave anyway.”

My Wife did not find these chats funny, but I knew Wife’s Brother better than that.

After fucking a massage girl from the house of psychics, Wife’s Brother started missing our weekly dinners, even when My Wife cooked his favorite (biryani with more chicken than lamb and less rice than eggs). As his wife took the kids and left, he no longer returned our calls and stopped putting his stir-fry and korma recipes to Facebook. His assistant would answer his office phone and say he was in a meeting, at a hearing, or was asleep on his desk—his job always meant long hours, but they seemed to grow longer.

When My Wife visited his office, his assistant had admitted that Wife’s Brother had not worked from the office in weeks and had told him to lie.

My Wife found Wife’s Brother in his bedroom closet.

She said it had smelled worse than Godwin’s sidewalks after football weekends.

After his funeral, Wife slept through days and worked late nights. I called out of work to make sure I would not come home to find her in our closet. She wore black for two months, and I wore black until my first week at Godwin, as everyone besides Easton made jokes of how I was an “Angsty Brownie.” Easton’s Friend With No Hair even shouted, “It looks like Dracula found out curry can out-stink garlic!”

Before Easton spoke of his secrets, he apologized for not defending me at the time, but I told him he was not to blame.

Easton sounded as My Father, a wise and patient man who did not weaken as Life grew strong. My Father immigrated us from Ahmedabad to the States after finishing school with his accounting degree (He had been working in a denim factory as he took night classes). He worked hard as an accounts receivable clerk, but he never slept more than four hours, drank too much coffee, and ate Wendy’s everyday.

When The Young Doctor With Gray Hair said that My Father had died from choking on blood, My Mother fell to the lobby’s floor. My Pretty Sister held her husband. My

\ 37

Bitchy Sister held the arms of her chair. I left to buy a snack.

My Wife followed and would not stop asking if I was O.K. She touched her hands to my cheeks as I looked over her shoulder to find kettle popcorn in the snack machines.

When she would not accept, “I am fine,” I told her that I did not need to grieve as I knew My Father had not died from Sickness, but from a tired heart—for that, I could not be angry with Life.

I think much of how My Father died at eighty-five and as, through history, without doctors and their large pills and larger machines, twenty years old was once a longenough Life for work, love, children, a home, and a proud death. Twenty-years and one day is a blessing we often forget; when I wake full of emptiness, I remind Myself those gone are not as lucky as I. Still, Easton could have lived to be twenty and one-second, to be twenty and two, even twenty-three, but you three could not stop your Sicknesses from spreading.

How good did the priest’s incense cover Easton’s smell of dirty sidewalks?

Amelia Sutton, Sister of Easton, If I was having a daughter, and thought she would grow up to be as you, I would carry My Wife and throw her to the Clinic. Yes, I would love My daughter, but if she behaved as you, I would hang my head in shame and spend nights awake, wondering what I have done to have such a sad, spoiled whore in My own family—how would you feel if your father had no rest because of you?

I understand the job of a high-school substitute is not a noble one, but maybe that is why your esteem is needing much work. Maybe you are too close to your parents who are not well role models. Maybe you are just a bad person, and I am giving too much credit.

Easton spoke of his senior year of high school, how his friends fed your whorish ways inside the chemistry lab closet, how you told them to not use condoms so you could feel full—these students should come to you with the trust that only a child could offer a teacher, but you took advantage of their difficult ways, or they took advantage of yours.

If they truly did not know better, how come you did not teach them different?

Easton spoke of the parties you held in high school as he was twelve—the drinking and drugs, that stray dog and your laundry machine, how you flipped and scrubbed many couch cushions and hired workers to replace the kitchen window. He spoke of how you knew what your friend, Claire, was doing to him and how you did nothing to stop it.

I do not know what made you leave your sibling, young enough to have little idea of what his Life could be, to suffer—it is impossible to be a perfect person, but it is not impossible to be a decent one.

38 /

Rosemary Sutton, Mother of Easton and Amelia, Easton spoke to you of Claire, but you did nothing besides take him to The Talking Doctor twice a week and teach him useless lessons; you cannot teach a man to stitch gloves or throw pans of eggs and flour into an oven and expect his tired soul to feel at peace. You cannot tell your son to stay silent of your husband’s Sickness and expect him to think healthy thoughts. You cannot give a brain medicine and expect Life to not find Its way in.

You are a woman, meant to give love the second a baby can drink from your tits! You are not meant to fill your child with fish casseroles and expect his soul to be nourished as a baby with the cord of a womb. You cannot feed a heart false love and expect it to grow strong. You cannot raise a happy child if you cannot offer the last crumb of yourself to see that your child will live a happy Life.

Did you waste what little crumbs you had on Amelia?

Prescott Sutton, Father of Easton and Amelia, I know how you would take Easton to a thrift store after mass, how you would make him try on dresses as you stood in the dressing room. I know you slapped more than punched whenever he wore skirts with flowers. I know when he wore gowns, you locked

yourselves in the garage and made him drink vodka before kicking in his stomach and spitting in his mouth. I know you liked the curly yellow wigs better than the straight ones. I know you liked calling him your mother’s name and a drunken whore. I know you made him cry as a dog beneath a heel to release your Sickness on anything besides yourself and your own weak women.

I could not let Easton continue as he could no longer breathe.

He threw up on our shoes, and I helped him to his dorm. Once at his door, Easton told me to stay out, but as he let himself in (after missing the handle five times) I saw knitted dolls swinging from yarn stuck into their necks.

At home, I could not sleep. As I told Wife everything, she told me she wished I paid as much attention to her as I did Easton, but I said this was not about her, that everything cannot be made a foundation for our own battles.

After returning from Thanksgiving break, when I got off the bus, I peeked through the library windows; before I got on the bus, I did the same—I repeated this for days and found no sight of him.

The Dean sent an email to the student body. She gave phone numbers for anyone that needed help and wrote about free doctors available in the Student Life offices who were ready for walk-ins. She wrote of signs of someone in danger (not eating, substance abuse, large workload), and how, with winter and finals approaching, it was important to take care of ourselves (exercising, eating salads, breaks from schoolwork). She also said it was important to know we are not alone, but what does she know of how alone others are?

Sutton “Family,” I know you three believed everyone was fooled. You believed you could hide and repeat after God every Sunday, and that no one would find of your Sick means of living, but I Am Here Now. I will see that Your Sicknesses cannot rest, that you each carry a heart heavier than God’s, and that you search for forgiveness elsewhere, as there is none left for people as you in this Life.

Will Write Soon, I Am

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40 /

Liquid Blue Velvet by Olive Froman

Rachel Emily Famularo I had her blood on me, but I didn’t notice until later.

She knew it was Tuesday, knew that her back and legs hurt, knew that I was holding her hand but she wasn’t holding mine back.

An accident is an accident, but no one said anything.

Guilt Emily Famularo I’ve been living the past few weeks in a collection of loneliness.

If I stay in every moment then I don’t have to experience the next. But here I am, experiencing each moment, each painful exchange of person to person where I can’t say, “I’m so sorry, I can’t do this right now,” and they wouldn’t ask why, and I wouldn’t have to tell them, “I hit someone with my car in August, and they’re taking me to court, but it’s not my fault,” because no one believes you when you say she ran out into the street, she was wearing all black, I swear to God I didn’t see her.

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Reach by Bret Searles

42 /

Changeling Maggie Lily

Occasionally a changeling will grow up with a mortal family and his or her odd characteristics will diminish, until even the faerie forgets that it is not human.

– Holly Black

I can’t remember the names I knew from nurse

only your best friend would die, or turning into strawberries to hide

before they left me on a mossy knoll or I was

on the most deep night, or begging sister Daphne for a lulla lulla lullaby of

born in a Pennsylvania hospital.

laurel branches and fig juice dye, or never knowing mustn’t or must,

I can’t remember garden garters, toadstool crumpets

or a primrose from the porcupine who eyes-up to slurp down

slathered in kumquat, thyme and sage, or lady hollyhock.

honeysuckle meant for murmured moss babes or when a christening was

I can’t remember my tiny dames on tiny boughs, or odd clingers

a dew drop and a marriage a bluebell scream.

No nidding nor nodding, nor niddling about

on stalactite skin, or green mamas that shiver when they sing,

with rabbit pups in creek bed clay or napping amongst the fat

or dovelike moans from doves themselves, or the laughter of the

of hawkmoth fur, only to wake to the nightingale’s squawk.

shade; the fairy bread is not for me nor naturally dusty feet. No wooded

I can’t remember the sound we made running along wet pine,

fiends of wooden friends, or clamped mandibles `round thighs.

or if I’ve constantly dreamed or constantly died, or if they left me

Over hill, dale, freckles and frogs, I can’t remember cowslip’s tongues

because I was too much alive.

rough on my bum, or if the black beetle cross your foot,

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Blue Alyssa Langenhop he’s mostly denim a blue cloud still round from last night’s dinner there’re a few eyelashes sprinkled on his cheeks he doesn’t have many wishes but he desires a few days to himself like the time he bought his first car and the last time it was whole before the tree and before he was covered in trees but he’s mostly blue his skin shines in the headlights his face fat and constructed with glass hidden underneath a blanket on his day off work called to say he left his jacket on the receptionist counter he’s cold

44 /

Rose Alyssa Langenhop Her name was Rose, not because it was but because it could have been Hair red and tight she was always tangled around someone’s finger petals open, petals pulled She breaks her knees daily Everyone is sorry and in love She’s nothing but a coffee table kiss, little vase human, and a cold goodnight She’s held too tightly, she can’t breathe under his dry fingers, cracking her limbs as he smiles and breathes into her hair She can’t scream, She can only wilt when there’s no more water left

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46 /

Zach Manbeck

House of Quiet Emily Famularo Our mouths were burning from sugar, and our pockets felt heavy with the handguns.

The sun was high in the sky. Noon according to my watch—and as we walked our foreheads were wrinkled, sweaty and red. We had spent most of our money on the revolvers, found them in a pawnshop on 13th, one of the sketchy ones that never asked questions.

After that, we had walked the 15 blocks from downtown to the boardwalk. That’s where we spent the last of our money on fat, blue cotton candy tufts at Tiller’s Candy Stand—not part of our original plan, but Dominic seemed nervous.

The original plan was also in our pockets, though. Dominic was carrying the map, and I had the list. We had been working on this for months, a bunch of ideas from Dom’s sixteenth birthday in December. When you decide to kill someone, everything becomes clearer, black and white. We made lists and maps, worked on weekends selling candy and soda at the stand by the baseball fields. Everything was in place.

We acted normal. We went to school during the week, church on Sundays, Grandma’s house on Friday nights, and tennis on Wednesdays. Our free time was spent holed up in my room, writing out scenarios, keeping our music loud enough for Mom and Pops to ignore us. I kept all of our plans in a metal tin—something Dominic used to use to keep his baseball cards in, but we sold those a few days ago.

On the boardwalk people surrounded us, and it was hot. Everyone was sweating.

June wasn’t even the hottest month, but Dominic and I were both sticky sharing the cotton candy. Dominic paused, leaning over the banister of the boards, which looked out over the beach. Rainbow umbrellas littered the shoreline; during the summer, the beach reminded me of a lung. A group of boys crawled up from under the boardwalk, a dollar in their hands, laughing. I slid up next to Dominic, rubbing my elbows, holding out the cotton candy in question.

He shook it off. “I don’t know if we should do this, Jules.” Dominic rubbed his chin; pockmarks from failed shaving attempts lined the cleft of his jaw. I sighed. The boardwalk was loud, but the ocean drowned out everything except the sweat beading on my neck.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” He grabbed the last of the cotton candy. He let it melt in his mouth. “We can still change our minds.”

I felt annoyed by this. It had always been Dominic’s idea, and I loved my brother, but here he was, changing his mind.

“You’re the one who wanted to do this.”

“Jules, I know, but maybe now, ya know, I don’t want to do this.”

I laughed, not meaning to, before walking away. My knees felt the weight of the gun in my pocket. I felt vulnerable and claustrophobic. Mothers and Fathers with their children, and everyone else walking around me laughing and talking and fighting—I wanted to scream. Dominic grabbed my sunburnt shoulder, but I didn’t wince.

\ 47

“Listen to me.” As he spoke, I pulled away.

“I’m just mad.”

“I know, but it’s okay.”

“How is it okay? You’re being a real jerk about this, Dom. I’m just mad.” I pulled tufts of wispy hair into a bun on the top of my head.

“I’m not a jerk. I’m not chickening out. I’m just nervous, okay.”

“You don’t think I’m nervous?”

“I know we’re both nervous. It’s fine. I was just kidding.”

“It’s fine?”

“Yes, we’re doing this. Shut up and stop being a brat.” But he laughed, held out his hand, and we slapped five.

48 /

We had to go to the boardwalk to get the keys to the car—our getaway. Dominic’s closest friend, Jack Ryan, was letting us borrow his Grandpa’s old Buick. His Grandpa was dead, and Dominic had gotten Jack in bed with Sue, so the dumb pizza face owed us. It wasn’t his fault he was a pizza face. He just sweat a lot so he couldn’t help it—but his face did look like a pizza.

At least, it had just started to look more like pizza. The girls at school giggled at him behind his back—and Jack Ryan didn’t notice because he was always smoothing out his pants. Always smoothing out the gross little hairs on his chin, too. He and Dom did everything together, ever since they were in grade school, and I tagged along because Dominic didn’t like to leave me at home. We played stickball in the day, and manhunt when it got dark, caught frogs along the dam on the crick. On real hot days, we rode our bikes to Johnson’s pit to swim in the crystal lakes. I liked Jack because we all did everything together. Just not this.

The pier was a mile down the boards, poking out into the break, the tide collapsed onto the wooden legs and boards—kids would make out underneath it. On top of it, rides would shift suspiciously in cool breezes, while vendors and prize games stood in between.

Jack worked as the operator for the haunted mansion. We had to meet him at 12:30 to grab the keys.

Jack was sitting, sipping from a straw under a picnic table umbrella. Dom called his name, and Jack looked up, waving and slicking his greasy hair back.

“What’s up, Kenzey siblings?” He sounded like one of those surfer guys on the television, always saying “what’s up, dude,” and taking his shirt off around girls.

“The pier is packed today, huh?” Dominic sat next to Jack, and I was opposite of them, my thighs sticking to the wood bench, cool and wet.

“Busy enough, Dom. It’s only June. It’s not even the worst of it.”

“Right, right.”

“What’s up with you, Jules? Ready for high school next year?” Jack’s pursed lips collected the straw.

“I guess so. I don’t really care.” Which wasn’t true, because I did care, a lot. Jack and Dom were still some of the most popular guys in high school. Dom and I had always been close, so most of his friends knew me, but it still made me nervous—even though it wouldn’t really matter, not after tonight.

“Enough small talk, Jack.” Dom didn’t look at him.

“A little prickly today, aren’t we, Dominic? What’s the rush, I still have fifteen minutes.” Jack dug the keys out of his pocket, a white rabbit’s foot dangling from the chain.

“Don’t you want to spend time with your best pal?” He tossed them into Dom’s lap, laughing in his weird snorting way. Dom was quick to grab them.

“We just don’t have too much time today, you know.” Dominic smiled at him, but he was friendly enough. I rubbed my collarbones, wiped my fingertips on the stomach of my T-shirt.

“What do you need the car for, anyway? You and Beth?” Jack’s elbow pressed into Dom’s side, and he laughed, shrugging while he stood up—motioning to me. Dominic

had been hooking up with Beth, but I hadn’t seen her around much since Pops caught them skipping class.

“Nah, Jules and I have to run an errand. I’ll get you the keys back.” Another lie. Jack and Dominic shook hands before we left.

After leaving, we were quick to head home. Mom and Pops would be back by four.

Dominic paused right before our street. He motioned into a thicket of pine trees and underbrush, someplace we used to play hide and seek, or sneak cigarettes when we thought it was cool.

I ducked under a fallen log, the air damp. Crickets mimicked one another while Dominic pulled a backpack from a chest we had dragged back there years ago. He stuck the keys inside before tossing it to me.

“Put your gun in there.”

“Why? Don’t I need it?”

“Jules, I just want you to keep it in there.”

“But if I have to use it, then I gotta have it on me.” I felt confused, my hand clutching the revolver handle. It was warm and sweaty as I opened up the bag and slipped it inside.

“I don’t want you to use it if you don’t have to, okay?”

“Won’t I have to?”

Dominic sighed, grabbing the black backpack from me and zipping it closed. He wrapped the straps over his shoulders, rubbed the inside corners of his eyes before answering, “This isn’t about you.”

From the thicket, Dom seemed even more tense than before. I watched him take his hands in and out of his pockets; his skin was red. I wished, briefly, that I could take this from him—that this was a different day. Idly I said, “What do you think Connecticut is going to be like?”

Dom seemed woken by this, his thoughts interrupted, and it reminded me of this time when we were younger—in elementary school, when Dom had broken this kid’s nose for pushing me off the monkey bars. He stood over the other kid, his fists clenched and bloody, and I was scared. I said his name because my knees were bleeding, too; but, when Dominic finally looked at me, it was like he had come out of blindness.

“Connecticut is going to be cold, and I don’t think there will be a boardwalk.” He rolled his tongue over his teeth. Dominic used to have braces. “We always loved going to see Aunt Meg.” His eyes went quiet again, and I sighed. Dominic always felt as though he had the burden of fixing all the wrong in the world.

Aunt Meg’s house was the fun house, and we planned to stay with her after this whole thing happened. As we walked, we kicked rocks down the paved gravel. I wondered what that would feel like, living in another state. It seemed scary, and yet I was so excited by the idea of never having to come home. Aunt Meg was Mom’s sister—but they had stopped talking after our Nana died, so Aunt Meg wouldn’t be asking any questions. She was cool.

She liked pottery and little cacti in pink planters—succulents, she called them. I remembered once she told me we could make wind chimes together.

A rock landed with a thud against the curb, straight into the gutter with a clink. Dominic smiled for the first time in a while, shoving the backpack onto the ground before he pressed his hands on my shoulder for a light push—laughter. We goofed around, tripping over one another. I noticed how tired Dom looked under his sunburn. The creases in his eyes seemed longer than before, older. He picked the bag and I up in one swoop, carrying me a few paces before our house appeared, quiet. Birds were chirping.

Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a middle-class beach suburb where they paved the roads with ground-up glass, cement, and seashells. It hurt our feet when we played barefoot. Our yard was neat and trim. On the inside, everything was clean because that was how Mom liked it. Dominic and I cleaned twice a week as part of our chores.

On the weekend, we worked with Pops to mow the lawn, or pull weeds. Our house was

\ 49

50 /

always quiet and bright—which hadn’t changed even today. The beds were always made, the dishes always washed, our shoes off at the door.

Dominic hid the backpack in his room. He asked me to make him a sandwich and then got into the shower. I made us both lunch. Pulling peanut butter and jelly from the cabinet, wheat bread from the breadbox. The pipes rattled from Dom’s shower upstairs, and I washed my hands under cold water. The kitchen window was a frame for the backyard where birds bathed in the cast-iron birdbath.

It felt weird to want to kill someone, or maybe it felt weird to know that you wanted to kill someone—to kill two people. That had been the hardest day, when Dom came up to me and pulled me into his room. It had been his birthday. The same day report cards had come out. I’d heard them from my room where I was sitting against the closet door. I remembered kissing my knees over and over.

Our parents expected a lot from us. They expected good grades, a clean house, to play sports, to know how to do long division without paper, to know when to flip an omelet.

Our parents wanted us to be able to make money, to do better than they had. Mom taught at a middle school a few towns over, and Pops owned his own plumbing company. It had always been for the best. That’s what they called it. Their love wasn’t much different.

From Mom, it was stern and earned. From Pops, it was silent and disapproving. When we couldn’t comply, when things were not achieved, that was when we met the backs of their palms, their knuckles, Pops’ belt—Mom’s wooden spoon.

Dominic was older, so he got it more than I did. Permanent scars from cigar burns hid underneath T-shirts against his ribcage. On that day, he shut the door to my room and told me to stay quiet; his face was swollen and bruised—his ego shattered like glass all around me. His knuckles were bleeding and raw as he shoved crumpled papers and drawings into my lap. My entire room felt nervous and cold. I remember wanting to leave and agreeing to help.

Mom and Pops didn’t love us. We knew that they’d had kids because that’s what you did—they had to; a girl and a boy, and a quiet, yellow, clean house. They went to 9-5 jobs.

They took one vacation a year. They both liked to drink, but that wasn’t what made them angry. It was just Dom and me who made them angry. We had spent equal amounts of time at the other end of their open palms and closed fists. Dominic and I made sure we made good grades, worked summer jobs, and kept the house clean. Nothing was ever enough.

When Dominic told me, my stomach hurt, but I agreed right away because he was almost crying. He had never cried, not once, but the whites of his eyes were so tired I told him I would do whatever we needed to do.

Dominic came downstairs, his hair still damp. He smiled at me, carrying the sandwich and chips to the linoleum kitchen table. I finished washing up before joining him.

“Remember when we went to Cedar Park, Dom?” I looked up, pulling the crust from my sandwich. He nodded, smirking.

“When Mom and Pops told us to stand still for a picture, then we saw the Cedar Beaver, and you ran off, and I followed you?” Dominic took a huge swallow of milk, coming out of it laughing.

“Jules, you really remember that? Mom was so mad.”

“She pulled us by our ears into the bathroom!” We laughed as we took a collective bite, not talking about how she pulled us into the stall, slapping our faces until they were hot and throbbing. We were so small she turned us into minced meat when we got home, pulpy and red. We sat in silence pretending like we couldn’t remember. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth.

We packed our bags in preparation and placed them by the front door. Dominic said he was going to park the car around the corner. I decided to shower in the meantime. In the mirror afterward, I brushed wet strands of hair while thinking about how strange it was to be doing this. How it felt to look in the mirror I had examined bruises in. I had brushed my teeth in. The house felt more quiet than usual—just birds in the late afternoon.

After putting on a clean outfit, I heard the door closing. Dominic must’ve parked awful quickly. I walked out of my room and partially down the stairs before I saw Mom rummaging through her purse. My heart stopped, and Mom called out into the house to see if anyone was home, but I didn’t answer.

Dominic would be back, and Mom would be in the living room. This was not the plan. I felt like throwing up. I walked into Dom’s room to find the bag. I heard the door open and close a second time. Pops’ voice was loud and nasally as he announced his presence.

I found the backpack while listening to Pops and Mom talking about their days. They never talked about anything, really. I listened to them from Dominic’s door.

“Your day, John?” Mom said, maybe examining the paint on her nails.

“Fine, nothing unusual. The Steins had another burst—lucky it wasn’t dead of winter.”

“Shame, such a shame.” They never looked at each other when they talked.

“Where are the kids?” my Father asked while I heard my Mother preparing coffee. I heard her pass his mug. The front said I’d Rather Be Fishing—but I don’t think he had ever fished in my life. Mom murmured that she had no idea before sipping from her own.

I sucked in air, finding my revolver in the bag, now cool and shiny. I walked myself downstairs, the gun in my pocket and a plastered smile. I greeted my parents, who acknowledged me with glares over the tops of newspapers and lukewarm coffee. I asked how their day was. I asked about the paper. When I asked about dinner, the front door opened.

“Jules.” Dominic panicked his right hand in his own pocket.

“Hey, Dom.” “Where have you been?” Pops said, without looking up. Mom was stirring sugar into her coffee. If either of them had noticed, they would have seen me pull the gun from my pocket, my hands shaking so tremendously that I could barely stay focused. It felt so hot.

Dominic said my name again. His clarity frightened me—I shot twice at Pops, and his chest and neck peppered with blood because my shaky aim skimmed the first shot, and hit his chest the second. Mom screamed, and Dom grabbed the gun. All of the blood in my body felt like it was rushing toward my head.

Dominic shot the gun once at Mom when she lunged for him. I fell to the floor, saw the hole right between her eyes. Pops’ slumped body was oozing blood like a lava pool.

Dominic turned to me; his face looked like the boy I used to play with, who held my hand after I fell off my bike, who stepped in between Mom and me when her nails were sharp.

He looked scared and unreal, putting the guns back in the bag, tossing it around his shoulder, and urging me off the floor.

“We have to go now.” I couldn’t feel my legs, but Dominic’s hands were steady. “Jules, it’s okay.” He yanked open the door gripping my arm, supporting me. His hands were clammy. The street was still quiet—just the same, besides the birds had stopped. It was hot, and we got into the car without saying anything else.

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Suburban Suffocation by Rachael Longo 52 /

\ 53

And this stone in my hand, Hot meteorite, ready to pummel your empire.

Will you have the rage to strike me? Remember My plain, greased face, dotted by acne Ruled by kaleidoscope eyes.

Oh the audacity!

I am average! I am ugly!

Don’t you just hate girls with good personalities Who ruin it by being born the wrong way?

Your frog eyes reflect the shots of flame around us The light glinting off my barren teeth.

I am ready to sling pain between us.

Meet me in Hell with a stone in your hand.

We’ll stand by the gates So you can leave quickly if You deserve to. However, I think this place is meant For people like you, People who give and snatch away randomly, People who see my face and care What it looks like.

In Hell, I will just be a lively muscle corpse, Skin peeled off and tied around My waist like a sweater, Tendons humming a Bob Dylan song.

Anonymous

Meet Me in Hell

The problem is not in you, sir, The problem has always been me.

Oh hellfire! I cannot oppose you!

I was forewarned.

The fault is in my fate.

I mash the rock into my face.

The iron heat melts bones Like popsicles, eats muscle Like a warm Drano bath.

I untie my skin and blanket it over a random Hell flame, Watch it bacon-fry and turn to Nothing.

With all this vanquished, I am free.

I soar out of Hell, leaving you to gasp up my Astral dust, your worn sleeve catching flame.

This, I predict, will become my pastime.

But before any rocks can be thrown, I hear my mother’s pig grunt sobs Harkening back through funnels of time and reality.

Remember the sweat-soaked sheets of my parents’ bed, My mother, choking on tears, rancid with acceptance, Her Walmart nightgown growing friendly and stretched.

She sings “At Seventeen” by Janis Ian, But she can only remember a verse or two.

“Are we ugly, Mommy?”

“Yes, baby. I’m sorry I gave that to you.”

54 /

Lizzy O’Donnell

Kindergarten Blues Lauren Grossman Daddy knelt behind me as I stood. He took a silver brush and combed all of the knots out of my hair. After he had pulled through all of them, he gathered my hair into a ponytail a few times until his hand found the right fit. He took a hair elastic off the dresser, one that had a few strands of strawberry blonde hair in it. He sealed my ponytail with the elastic and pulled it tight.

“Beautiful,” Daddy said, as we both looked into the mirror. He dropped the brush to the dresser and kissed my forehead. I stared at a framed picture of Daddy and me from the photo booth at Chuck E. Cheese that summer. He’d put bunny ears behind my head, and it reminded me of the stuffed bunny that was sitting on my bed, leaning on my pillow. Daddy had told me that bunny was a gift for my Mommy when I was born.

The bunny hadn’t had a name, since Mommy died a little after she had me. I called him Wrinkles because I knew that bunnies wrinkled their noses. Daddy said that was a perfect name because one of the things he loved about Mommy was how she always wrinkled her nose.

I walked over to my bed and picked up Wrinkles. “Daddy, can I bring Wrinkles to school with me?” He finished pulling up my comforter and smoothed it out. He took Wrinkles and placed him on the center of the bed.

“No, honey. I don’t want you to lose him. He’s in better hands here.” Daddy headed for the staircase. “Grab your things and meet me downstairs in a few minutes.”

I nodded and watched Daddy go out the door. I went into my closet and pulled out the new Inside Out school bag Daddy bought for me at Target. I unzipped it and saw the new school supplies he’d packed yesterday. Before I zipped it back up, I grabbed Wrinkles and placed him inside my bag, burying his head under the supplies. “You’re just going to have to stay in there for a little bit, Wrinkles.”

“Gabby!” Daddy called. I jumped. I put my school bag on my back and grabbed my sneakers from the closet. I looked over my shoulder and softly said, “Shhh, don’t tell Daddy,” and walked out of the room.

I met Daddy downstairs, and he gave me my packed lunch. We went out the door and walked to the car. He helped me into the big-girl car seat and he got in the driver’s seat.

As we started pulling out of the driveway, I looked out the window and saw the wilted red tulips I’d given Daddy from my preschool’s Mother’s Day flower show. He tried so hard to garden and keep those flowers alive. Daddy said gardening was Mommy’s talent, not his.

“You’re gonna do great in kindergarten,” Daddy said, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m gonna miss you, but I can’t wait to see what amazing things you’ll do. Like make a masterpiece or make new friends who will love you! Show off your awesome art skills or your amazing reading! You’ve really improved over the summer, Gabby.” Daddy and I had spent a good part of the summer practicing my reading and spelling. I’d also drawn a lot in a sketchpad with markers that smelled like fruit when Daddy would be busy with grown-up things.

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We pulled up to a building called Glimmering Star Academy. Other kids were walking in with schoolbags on their backs and lunchboxes in their hands. I leaned my hands and nose against the window and watched all the kids I was going to spend the school year with. Daddy turned to me in his seat.

“You ready?” I turned to him and nodded, taking off my seatbelt. We got out of the car and walked into the huge building. It made Barbie’s dream house look small.

We were guided to a classroom where we met my teacher, Mrs. Rosen, a short woman with black frizzy hair and glasses that overtook her small, shell-shaped eyes. She smelled like rain. Other kids crowded the classroom, clinging to their mommies’ hands. I looked up at Dad and he gave me a big smile. He kissed my head and pulled me into a big hug, lifting me off the ground. As he put me down, my sneakers lit up.

There were fourteen other kids in the class. We got assigned seats and cubbies. We were asked to make nametags for our cubbies, using the markers that had been on our school supply list. I took my markers out of my desk. Daddy had gotten me the ten-pack just so I could get the pink one.

After Mrs. Rosen passed out construction paper, she went to the chalkboard. “Please write your name on the paper and decorate your nametags. As you’re working on them, I will call each of you over to read a few pages of a book to me. We will start with Cara’s table. Who wants to go first?”

“I do, I do!” Cara shouted, running up to Mrs. Rosen.

On my paper, I wrote my name with the pink marker and drew a bunny next to it. I couldn’t wait to show Wrinkles.

“Gabrielle, you’re next,” Mrs. Rosen called.

After I had finished reading, Mrs. Rosen said, “Gabrielle, you have a high reading level!” She took me to a place in the classroom that had colored bins full of books. “When we’re scheduled for reading time, you will choose two books from this blue bin, okay?

You can pick two for now.” I nodded and picked out Frog and Toad Are Friends and Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day and went back to my seat to practice my A’s, even though I’d spent a lot of time with Daddy doing that. I decided I was going to add more color to the bunny on my nametag and then start practicing my B’s.

When I took out my pink marker, Cara, who sat across from me, came over.

“Where did you get those books?” Cara was wearing a blue barrette in her long, brown hair that went down her purple dress.

“The blue bin,” I said. I finished coloring in my bunny.

“Blue bin?” Kyle said, putting the cap on his marker. He only had one tooth at the top of his mouth. “Those are the harder books!”

“It’s not fair!” Cara said. “I’m such a good reader and I only got the yellow bin. The sucky books.”

“Those aren’t sucky,” I said, looking at her books, Where the Wild Things Are and If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

“Ooooh, you both said a bad word!” Kyle called out. “Mrs. Rosen! Cara and Gabrielle said a bad word!” Cara nudged Kyle with her elbow. My heart was beating fast. I felt warm. Mrs. Rosen shushed us as a girl with braided pigtails was reading to her. Kyle crossed his arms and looked sad as he opened his composition notebook.

“He is such a tattletale,” Cara said to me, looking down at my nametag. “What kind of bunny is that?”

“It looks like Wrinkles.”

“What kind of name is Wrinkles?” Cara bit her bottom lip.

“He’s my stuffed animal. I’ll show him to you.” I got up and Cara followed me to my cubby. I unzipped my bag and pulled Wrinkles out. I petted his fur and pulled down his ears from being floppy. “Wrinkles, meet Cara. Cara, meet Wrinkles.”

“Oooh, let me see him!” Cara said, about to grab Wrinkles.

“No, he only likes it when I hold him,” I said, pulling him away.

“Let me see!” Cara started to pull Wrinkles’ arm and I pulled him back.

“No!” I screamed and then I heard a tear. “Look what you did!”

Cara pulled back her hands and raised them like I’d seen a bad guy do on one of Daddy’s television shows, the ones he leaves on when he’s asleep.

“I didn’t do it!” Cara said.

“What is going on here?” Mrs. Rosen asked as she walked over. She had her arms crossed and hip pushed out. “Gabrielle, Cara, who told you both to get out of your seats?”

“It was Gabrielle’s idea!” Cara said, pointing at me. My face started to feel wet and I rubbed my eyes. I put my wet hand on Wrinkles’ broken arm.

“She broke Wrinkles,” I said.

“Neither of you are supposed to leave your seats without my permission. You raise your hand and ask. Also, you’re not allowed to have toys out at this time. Gabrielle, please put him away. I want you to get your things and sit over in the corner in the time-out chair. Cara, apologize to Gabrielle for tearing her rabbit and get your things and sit on the other side of the classroom by the computer area.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Cara shouted. I could feel the whole class watching us. All I could look at was Wrinkles’ glass eyes.

“Gabrielle would not rip her own rabbit. Now please, do what I asked.”

“Sorry,” Cara mumbled. She stomped her way to the other side of the classroom.

“Gabrielle, please go to the corner.” Mrs. Rosen said, pointing to a lonely desk. I looked up at her and showed her Wrinkles. “I’m sure your mother can fix your rabbit. It’s just a little tear. Please put it away and go to the corner.” I kissed Wrinkles’ head and zipped him back up. I picked up my notebook, markers, and almost-finished nametag and went to the time-out seat. I didn’t finish coloring Wrinkles because he was broken now.

I’m sure your mother can fix your rabbit went through my head over and over as I was sitting alone in the chair. I didn’t usually get in trouble at home. One time I took an extra cookie from the Chips Ahoy pack when I wasn’t allowed to. I remembered pushing a chair to the cabinet and climbing on it to reach the cookies when Daddy was in another room. I ended up leaving a bunch of crumbs on the table and Daddy asked me about them. I couldn’t help but tell him they were from me. He was going to send me to my room, but when I started to cry, he gave me a big hug and wiped the tears off my face.

After we had labeled our cubbies with our nametags, we went around the room and introduced ourselves. Cara’s favorite animal was a dog and she liked getting her nails done with her mom. Billy liked to play with trucks and go to baseball games with his mom and dad. Diana liked the color green, playing outside, and painting her nails. When it was my turn, I swallowed hard and stood up, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. “My name is Gabrielle. But my daddy calls me Gabby. My favorite animal is a bunny. I like the color pink and I like to go camping and to play games and read with my daddy.” I sat back down.

“That’s wonderful, Gabby!” Mrs. Rosen said. I didn’t remember telling her to call me Gabby, but I kept quiet.

At lunch time, I felt better. The lunch Daddy had made was pretty good. I sat at one of the wooden benches by myself and pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, apple juice box, bag of red grapes, Tastykake, and a few napkins. On one of the napkins, there was a note in black writing. Dear Gabby, have a great first day of kindergarten! Love you!

Daddy. I was excited to find a note from Daddy, but I didn’t want him to feel bad that I wasn’t having a great first day. I tucked the napkin back in my lunchbox and bit into my sandwich.

When we went back to the classroom, it still smelled like glue, dirt, and chalk. Mrs. Rosen said that it was free time and we would each get put in a station. We were allowed to trade with someone if we wanted to and tomorrow, we’d be put in a different station.

She gave us directions on what to do at each one. There were so many options, like sitting on the alphabet rug to play with Legos or toy cars, playing on the computers, painting, or

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playing in the kitchen area, where Cara, Billy, and I were put.

I didn’t want to be grouped with Cara. She broke Wrinkles and wasn’t nice to me. At lunch time, Cara had acted like she was better than everyone by telling people they couldn’t sit with her. Billy, on the other hand, was okay. His group table was a few tables down from mine, and I could hear his loud laughter and his so-called talent of making fart noises under his armpit. I found it gross while others found it funny.

When we got to the kitchen, Cara went straight to a small cabinet that was attached to the toy pantry and opened it. She took out an apron that was a faded red. Billy took the fake plastic food out of the toy stove. I decided to look through the drawers and found the plastic forks, plates, and cups, colored different shades of blue. I set them on the table.

“Okay!” said Cara, handing the apron to me. It was made out of cloth. Some of the stitches were coming out. Grandma always sewed my clothes if I had a hole in them. “I wanna be the child. Billy, you can be the dad, and Gabby, you can be the mom.”

I slowly took the apron and looked at it. “Can you be the mom and I’ll be your child?”

I asked. My voice was soft and I hoped my eyes didn’t look as nervous as I felt.

“No, Cara called it first,” Billy said. He quickly went to his desk, grabbed a piece of paper, and came back to sit at the white wooden table. It had four red curvy chairs around it. He leaned back on his chair and looked at the paper. “So, what is the weather like today? I wonder how the sports are doing.”

“I never get to play the child when I’m playing house, so I’m being the kid!” Cara said with a bit of an attitude. I knew if I talked like that to Daddy, he wouldn’t like it. “Now let’s play.” Cara sat down next to Billy and looked up at me. “Can I have ice cream, Mommy?”

“I don’t want to be the mom,” I said. Cara stood up and didn’t look happy with me. I had never really been scared of a person until Cara looked me in the eyes. She must have been a few inches taller than me because I noticed I had to raise my eyes to meet hers.

“We need to have a mother,” Cara said, twiddling a plastic fork. “Next time, you can play the baby.” Even if Cara was telling the truth, it didn’t matter because never again would I play with her.

“We don’t need a mom,” I said.

“Yes we do,” Cara snapped.

“No, we don’t,” I said, placing the apron on one of the chairs. “There can be two children and a dad. So let’s do that.”

“But that’s not real,” Billy said, putting down the piece of paper.

“Yes it is!” I said, raising my voice. I had never been this upset at something, except for when Daddy made me eat vegetables that looked like trees and for never getting to meet Mommy. Daddy had told me great things about her. She was beautiful. She worked as a nurse. She was great at taking care of people. I never understood why Mommy died if she was so great at making people feel better. Couldn’t she have just made herself better?

At this moment, in the kitchen area on my first day of kindergarten, I had so many butterflies fluttering in my stomach. A few classmates looked at me. Mrs. Rosen turned from her desk and shushed me. I began to feel so small, wished that I could be as small as the Lego piece I saw laying on the alphabet rug.

“If you’re not gonna play by our rules, then don’t play,” Cara said.

“But we need a mom,” said Billy, standing up.

“I was put in this station!” I said. Part of me was wondering if I should just do what Cara told me, but I was scared to play the mommy.

“Well, you can switch stations then. Hey, Diana,” Cara shouted. “Want to play house with me and Billy? You can play the mom. Switch with Gabby!”

“Sure!” Diana said, taking off her smock and putting it on a stool. Diana ran over, her two pigtail braids swaying back and forth. They were braided so tightly and neatly. I doubted Daddy could ever do that great a job with my hair. I ignored Billy saying goodbye as I walked over to the art station.

Soon, Mrs. Rosen announced free time was almost over and we’d have to clean up before math time. I looked over at the kitchen station and saw Cara, Billy, and Diana laughing and having fun. I looked back over at my painting, a drawing of two blue people, one tall and short, with smiles on their faces.

I placed my paintbrush in a cup of water the color of the morning sky. I looked over to the boy sitting a few stools down. He sat at my group table—I think his name was Stanley, but he didn’t talk very much. He had drawn two people, outlining them in black, one taller than the other. On the right side of the painting, in shaky-looking letters, it read: me n mommy.

“I like your painting,” I said and gave him a smile. Stanley looked at me and leaned over to see my painting. I picked up the brush again, dipped it in the rest of the blue paint, and wrote with squiggly handwriting: me n daddy.

“I like yours, too,” he said, giving me a smile in return. He had a fruit punch mustache. It reminded me of Daddy’s mustache, which scratched my face when he kissed me goodnight. He’d leave the room, and I’d look through the blinds at the moon, bright as could be. It was by itself, but all the stars were around it, making it feel less alone.

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Heather Dixon

The Case of the Specter in the Living Room, January 14, 1962 by Maggie Lily 60 /

Palace of the Beeping Ill Shyanne Marquette The sounds never stop They get into your brain and vibrate your skull in crashing sensations that cause you to moan.

Everything beeps in a sickening lurching line that determines if there really is someone in there.

There is a zombie on the bed.

He tosses and turns and yearns for the blood dripping into him through a plastic vein.

Fingers twitching and eyes moving in sunken sockets.

Is there anyone in there?

Nothing ever sleeps except him and his look-alike, asleep on the pull out bed.

His world is illuminated even at night pulsing lights of every pressure and twitch of a body.

I wonder if he’ll be a full man after this or just a sanitized term and a few pieces of grafted skin over a skeleton.

(Aren’t we all?)

He always used to say he was big boned.

The blue people call him “morbidly obese.”

They’ve called him everything but his name.

CAT, TEE, ECHO, MRI, 50% mortality rate.

I wonder what the percent of life is.

If it can measure up to anything at all.

If you can take it away this easily then what is the point of still going?

What is the other 50%?

I hope it’s better than here.

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Old House by Joseph Sabol

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Distance by Joseph Sabol

Untitled No. 4 by Bret Searles

64 /

Harmony Aleasha Watson-Mitchell

“Just think of it as poetry.” He sits down on the once greened cement studio floor.

She strokes marooned acrylic paint into untouched canvas then holds her wrist to the side of the canvas waiting for her joints to tell her the next move. She layers circular strokes of a lightened green into the fresh paint.

“Would you spend that long on a line?” he asks the back of her head.

She tries to remember when she first heard the world as a poem. Why she chose Poetry over Physics. Her mouth is still getting used to acknowledging herself as a “Poet.”

Without answering, she settles the paintbrush into water and walks adjacent to the direction of his question. She exhales despair and sits cross-legged in the least cluttered corner of the studio.

The reflection of summer creaks into the unair-conditioned studio. The sun is so bright, the paintings on the walls look like they’re squinting.

She squints back, looking to the finished art for the answer. With an idea in her eyes, her hands search the front zipper of her bookbag. Out comes a chocolate leather journal kept shut with elastic around its well-loved extremities. In between the spine and cover nests a purple pen kissed with teeth marks. She introduces ink to canvas-colored pages. Minimal movement for breath is taken.

He bites his fingernails in sync with the concentration of her breath. He retrieves her paintbrush amongst the others. Maroon and green are revived from her palette onto canvas. He contours colors with a scoop on his wrist. Accidental drips are turned into dawn stretched for a thousand miles. He holds the beginnings and endings of eternities atop his paintbrush.

Their abdomens reach for air in the same moment. They silence their worlds and plant themselves in the margin of journal and painting.

He picks up the journal open-faced with poems revealed and reads. He paints the air with words. She paints him like poetry. He recites every syllable until his taste buds speak it before he does. She memorizes the palette until her wrist know the canvas better than she.

They are breathing in sync with the sun fading behind midnight.

Her wrist has painted every star. His voice knows the pen strokes of poem.

“How do you know it’s done?” she asks, looking to her paint for an answer.

“It’s a feeling.” He pauses, fingering the pages of her journal.

“It’s like a flavor,” he continues.

“You can’t see it.” He retwists the caps tightly onto paint tubes. “But you know it’s there.”

She slows down her brush, examining how her finger curls timidly around its spine, barely enough to hold it up.

She forgets the dried paint cutting into her palms. She is reminded of the callus that lay in the same place when she first started writing.

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66 /

Amanda Corrigan

An Deireadh Nathan Trenda

The first thing Gordon was able to comprehend was the taste. There were grainy, rough particles coating his dry tongue and they scraped coarsely over his teeth. Sand was stuck to the soft inside of his cheek and plastered his face to the coast, indented from his resting head. His lips were withered and cracked from the salt of the ocean. The surf still sifted around his boots.

As he gained fuller consciousness, he attempted to open his eyes, only to find the sand had crusted against his eyelashes like discharge from a long, deep sleep. Unable to see, the man brought himself up onto his forearms, coughing violently and spitting out onto the shore. He wiped his face with a ripped, damp sleeve, the tide crashing up around him once more. He welcomed the water, as it helped rinse away the sand.

Once he was able to see, Gordon blinked, bewildered and squinting at the sun reflecting vibrantly against the white beach and frothing sea. He stood shakily, broad, tightly-wound muscles sore and aching from what must have been hours against the waves. His boots were miraculously still upon his feet; the tough leather was soaked down to the threads.

It was warm. Upon first glance, the coast was something like a tropical island far off the coast of Cuba or South America, quite unlike his last port on the Isle of Skye, whose beaches were dark and rocky, with fields of reddish-green nestled between high, jagged mountains. The sea between the Inner Hebrides and Ireland had been cold. Heavy, charcoal clouds had hung low over the crew, their sails distending in boisterous winds.

Here the skies were a flat blue, almost blinding in its simplicity, with the sun free to beat down unobstructed. Just beyond the beach lay the edge of a thick forest, green with luscious foliage and foreign trees unfamiliar to the Irishman. Beyond them was darkness, the possibilities endless and undetectable. The beach seemed uninhabited. There was no dock for fishing boats nor a church steeple peeking from above the leaves. Gordon remained still, perplexed by his new surroundings. No isle in the North Channel looked as this one did. His ship must have gone far off course to land in such a place. Only a storm as strong as a hurricane could have been powerful enough to thrust him so far from his homeland. He must have spent days or weeks at sea, but no such storm was evident in his memory; his mind was void of the passage of time.

Without an answer to his questions, Gordon had nothing else to do but go forward.

He stepped out of the tide and walked along the beach, keeping close to the water in case he needed to retreat, a fear of natives and cannibals taking seed in his mind.

He eyed the expansive coast before him, keeping watch for any signs of the wreckage of An Ghoath Ón Ghrian, often just referred to as The Solar Wind by her crew, the ship in which Gordon’s last memories resided. However, no soaked plank of her deck, broken mast, or mangled sail emerged from the cascading sea. There was no sign of her sailors

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either. The sands were free of any bloated, pale bodies washed ashore in a final rest.

Gordon was seemingly alone.

His mind was heavy with the thoughts of his fellow seamen, who possibly now resided at the bottom of the murky depths. It filled him with a sense of aching sorrow and solitude to conjure such a scenario. If he had followed the religions of his grandparents, he would pray in hopes that only he had fallen overboard in some unfortunate accident, the ordeal lost from his memory by some blow to the head. That way, he could find his way back to Ireland with The Solar Wind and her crew safely locked in port. Such an outcome was what he hoped for.

The man was so preoccupied with the thoughts of his friends and the welfare of his ship that he did not notice the fine white sands below his boots becoming uneven. The beach had morphed into smooth stones and grey rocks. It wasn’t until he nearly tripped that his musings were broken. Glancing up, he found himself in what appeared to be a completely different part of the island. The beach now was a sore but familiar monotone, ashen clouds having rolled in from beyond the horizon to cover the vibrant and unyielding sun. It was as if the island itself had altered. Surely he hadn’t walked so far?

The aching in his thighs, however, told him he had. Perhaps the tropical shore upon which he had woken only moments before had been some hallucination, the dreamy vision of a weakened, dazed man. Or maybe he truly had hit his head upon something during his skirmish with the sea. He reached up to inspect the back of his skull, coarse fingers pushing away dark strands to feel at his scalp. There was no presence of any bump or wound. Still, Gordon became suspicious of his own mind—truly the worst kind of dilemma. Weary, he began the trek up the beach and away from the surf to find some place to rest and gather his bearings.

On his way, however, something came into view. At first it was merely a mass of different colors that stood out from the dreary tone of the stony shore, but as he came closer, proximity revealed the familiar sight of two people sitting around a small table.

Gordon nearly tripped once more as he scrambled to get closer, picking up the pace. “‘Ey!” he called out, bringing an arm up to wave and direct more attention to himself. The figures did not move. He called out once more, walking slower but still in the direction of the pair and their table. Even after yelling a third time they did not look his way. They were entirely enraptured by the contents of the table and each other. Although unnerved, Gordon continued to make his way towards them, intending to inspect whatever was going on. Surely these people knew something if he could ever get their attention. “‘Ey, excuse me?” he said, not bothering to raise his voice as he was certain the two could hear him. His eyebrows furrowed as he got closer, making out the pair more clearly. The figure on the left was a man in a dark, unassuming robe. His thumb rested against pale lips in deep concentration; eyes were directed firmly at his comrade. The man sitting across from him was wearing some type of aged Celtic armor. His hands rested upon his knees, elbows jutted out as he squinted low at the table. The surface of the table itself was checkered black and white, small objects resting upon the many squares in particular placements. They were playing chess.

Bewildered and a little irritated, Gordon spoke again, “Hello? I’m just tryin’ to figure out where I am, can you tell me? I washed up on shore over there. I think I must’ve fallen from my ship . . . I mean, we got hit by some storm or somethin’. I’m from Dublin.” It wasn’t until he spoke out loud that he realized how lost he sounded. Even his voice seemed to betray any sense of direction or certainty. It didn’t seem to matter, however, since the two men didn’t react in the slightest. Was he speaking to statues? The robed man’s thumb twitched over his lip, the other man blinked. Gordon sighed heavily.

From the second man’s armor, Gordon was able to gather he was at least still in the north Atlantic. Perhaps he hadn’t ventured far from the Hebrides at all. He could be somewhere in the southern Celtic sea where the waters churned slightly warmer—which would explain the tropical coastline upon which he woke. Still, conjecture could only get him so far. “Will you at least tell me where I am?” he asked again in a louder, less

impatient tone. He took a step forward. The robed figure didn’t look away. The worn soldier remained still.

Gordon was starting to think he was truly going mad. Otherwise, these gentlemen were either deaf or the most impolite of humans. Unable to take the lack of acknowledgement, he bound forward with the full intention of flipping their damned table to the ground.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Gordon jerked, halting against the rocks and whipping around. The voice, young and light, had not come from the two men. They had not even flinched. “What?” he asked, mystified at the presence of disembodied words.

“I said, I wouldn’t do that.” He turned around once more, looking past the pair of men at their chess table and beyond the rocks of the shore. There, sitting upon a grassy mound, was a young lady in a white dress. “What?” he sputtered once more.

The girl looked annoyed. “That.” She stood and pointed at Gordon, only a few feet away from the men’s chess table. “Don’t do that. They’ve been going at that thing for ages.”

Gordon looked down at the chess table, confused. “Oh,” he mumbled, as if suddenly realizing the nature of his behavior. His own actions perplexed him. He took a step back before looking up at the girl, still standing there in her white garment, fluttering lightly against her legs. “Sorry . . . can you tell me where I am?” he asked, incredibly relieved to finally have another responding human to talk to.

The girl brushed her hands on her hips before making her way down to him; her steps were placed lightly upon each rock, as if predetermined. “It doesn’t have a name,” she said in a matter-of-fact manner.

“It doesn’t have a name?” he repeated incredulously. “How does it—well . . . are we in the Irish Sea? Are we near Ireland?” He had just found someone to speak to. He wouldn’t accept such lack of information.

“Something like that,” she answered vaguely and looked out to the sea, seemingly bored by his inquiries.

The sheer lack of compliance from the inhabitants of this nameless island was really starting to test Gordon’s temper. Turning over the peculiar pair’s chess table was beginning to look tempting. “What about you? Do you even have a name?” he nearly scoffed.

“It’s Darcy,” she replied, turning to look up at him. Gordon found it peculiar that the girl would have a name typically given to males, but didn’t question it.

“My name is Gordon,” he responded respectfully.

“Well, Gordon, it took you long enough to get here.” She sighed as if she’d been expecting his arrival for hours. She gazed back out to sea.

“What?” he asked, following her line of vision. The ocean was still, the horizon a flat grey line. “You were waitin’ for me?”

“Mmhm.” She turned around and started to walk back to her grassy hill.

“How did you know I was comin’?” he interrogated. “Did you see me wash ashore?

Did you see my ship?” He started to follow the girl.

“Yeah, I saw it,” she replied passively, arms extending as she balanced upon every stone.

“What happened?” Gordon insisted, stopping short when the girl turned around. “‘What happened?’” She paused and squinted off into the water once more as if re-conjuring the events in her mind. “The whole thing went down, y’know . . . bit of a mess, really.” She didn’t look at him, instead turned and started walking back to the knoll.

“It ‘went down’?” Gordon repeated, offended by the apathetic way she recounted such an incident—as if a ship sinking beneath the sea were a phenomenon she witnessed daily.

She turned around again, hands propped on slender hips. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?” she asked, her voice suddenly curious.

He shook his head with a sigh, exasperated. “The last thing I remember, I was safe aboard my ship headin’ back to Dublin. Then I woke up here.”

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Darcy turned to face the sea once more, her gaze ponderous, reaching far beyond anything tangible. Gordon stared at her, eyebrows furrowed in expectation. Instead, she shrugged. “It happens.” She turned around and stepped onto the grass, continuing to walk ahead. “C’mon,” she called back to him.

“Wait,” Gordon said, but the girl didn’t stop or slow down. With no other options available to him, he followed her, stepping quicker to catch up, and leaving the chess-playing pair behind. “Where are we goin’?”

“You want to go back to Dublin, right?” She continued to walk forward. Past the beach and past the grassy knoll upon which Gordon found her.

“I do.” He followed, now a step behind her.

“Well, then, follow me. I know someone who can get you there.”

Gordon half-expected the nameless island to be completely wild, barren of any settlements or civilized life other than the strange inhabitants he had already come across.

Half of him doubted Darcy would be leading him anywhere significant—he didn’t believe that she could lead him anywhere or to anyone with a ship or sufficient means to get him back to Dublin. But with no other choice other than wandering aimlessly on the beach until he found some other type of help, he put his trust in the unusual girl.

The more distance they placed between them and the beach, the more nervous Gordon became. Humans often found solace in the sturdiness of land. To most, the ocean was an endless scroll constantly unfurling, horizon after horizon of blue waves so abundant and ever-present that it became overwhelming. But Gordon sailed. He found comfort in the lap of water upon the shore and the steady stir of the sea upon a ship’s hull.

To sail was to be outside the earthy boundaries of rock, wood, and dirt.

The nameless island unnerved him. Just as the beach had changed before, the land morphed as they walked. It seemed like they had covered miles in only a few moments.

They now trudged through an open valley of expansive grassy plains. Huge rocks reminiscent of ruins unearthed themselves when Gordon looked up from his feet. A creek bubbled lightly nearby.

They began to pass others, random and unexpected characters that seemed just as lost as Gordon, except with no one to guide them. First was an old hermit, wandering around in the same patch of dirt over and over. A shaky hand held his chin now and then as if he were trying to remember something. Darcy walked past without a word, so Gordon did the same, only giving the hermit a passing glance that was not reciprocated. They walked by a regal-looking pair sitting docilely by the creek that Darcy seemed to be following.

Their medieval garments were vibrant and unaffected by age. Gordon watched them as he walked past, startled when they seemed to stare back at him. Their eyes bore into him with an eerie leer, so heavy and uncanny that it took him a moment to realize they were looking into the distance behind him; it was the same far-off gaze he had noticed earlier upon Darcy’s face. Once he passed, they continued to peer into the space where he once was.

Similar encounters continued as they trekked on, and each one inflicted a greater sense of fear within Gordon. “What’s going on here?” he finally asked the girl walking ahead of him, who had not looked back once since they began.

“Hmm?” she hummed, uninterested.

Gordon was starting to feel an ache in his feet and legs, baffled as to how the small girl could continue on so tirelessly. “The people here. They’re so . . . ” Ghostly, he tried to explain, focusing instead on catching his breath. It was as if they were in some other dimension, their bodies tangible but their minds elsewhere. He recalled Rathlin Island off the coast of Ireland, which had been plagued by massacres over the years. Rumors had begun to circulate that it was haunted—with the spirits of those senselessly killed wandering the jagged cliffs and grassy glens. He grew afraid that Rathlin was where he had washed ashore, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Are they ghosts?” he asked.

Darcy turned around, impatient. “What are you talking about?”

“They don’t respond to me, and they don’t see me. They must be spirits. Lost souls, right?” he insisted, growing paranoid.

Darcy sighed heavily. “They’re not ghosts.” She walked over to Gordon and grabbed his hand, raising it before letting it drop back down, proving that she was tangible. “See?” “I didn’t say you,” Gordon muttered, taking a small step back. “Then what’s wrong with them?”

The girl shook her head and began walking once more. “They may be odd, but they’re not ghosts,” she called back to him. Gordon still didn’t move.

“Then why aren’t you helpin’ them?” he asked. “You’re helpin’ me, why not them?

They’re obviously in some type of peril.”

Darcy stopped once more, halfway turning back to him. “Because they can’t be helped,” she said. The hint of sadness in her tone startled Gordon. “Look, you can think of them as ghosts if it makes you feel better, but they’re not. They’re just here. Now are you coming or not?”

Gordon hesitated, feeling even more uncertain than before. The island was increasingly odd and frightening—a place in which the man didn’t want to be left alone. It seemed his only choice was continuing to follow Darcy, even if he had an inclination that she wasn’t telling him the truth. Or, at least, she wasn’t revealing everything quite yet.

Arguing about it or trying to get more information out of her wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He had to accept his situation.

He nodded, falling into step behind her once more.

Their journey grew longer as they travelled across the plains. Trees began to sprout, growing lush and dark around them. Darcy wove a path between the trunks, the woods seemingly expanding and contracting depending on their location. Gordon kept his gaze on his weary feet and that of the girl’s, ignoring any odd figures they might pass. It only depressed him to look at them.

His legs grew weary, his muscles tired from the long trek. He was relieved when they came upon a clearing, breaking from the thick forest onto a grey, secluded beach. The soft lap of the gentle, steel blue waves against the smooth shore comforted Gordon, and he inhaled deeply the familiar scent of salt water. He paused there, watching the girl advance toward a small, wooden dinghy resting on the rocks. Beyond them was a wide channel, and in the distance, a small island rose hazily from the horizon. Their destination.

Though fatigued, Gordon helped Darcy push the boat into the waves, wading knee-deep into the cold water. He hauled himself into the dinghy, glad to rid himself of the haunted isle despite not knowing what his next destination entailed. The girl used a long rod to push them further, and the waves dragged their tiny vessel onto the open sea.

Gordon settled, glad to sit for a moment amongst the tranquil rhythms of the ocean.

The sky was heavy and grey, reminiscent of the clouds that hung above his last memory aboard The Solar Wind, and that of his birthplace in Goath Dobhair. His gaze fell upon the horizon, transfixed by the welcoming, endless beauty of the ocean. He remembered his youth in Maragallan. He had frequented the white-sanded beach as a child, often staring dreamlike out into the sea. Tory Isle was a spec against the sky, his juvenile heart yearning to travel there just to prove he could. Just to set foot on another land than that he’d already known. He’d finally sailed there when he was just thirteen, commandeering a small boat on his own and crossing the perilous bay. By the time he’d reached Tory’s shore he was soaked to the skin, but unable to remove the grin from his lips.

“You love it, don’t you?”

Gordon turned to the voice, dazed from his memory. Darcy had been staring at him curiously. “I do,” he confirmed, almost reflexively.

The girl sat back comfortably, grey eyes glancing over him. “You sailors like to sing, right? Got something for me?” she asked.

Gordon smiled, chuckling shortly before glancing out into the sea then turning completely to look behind them. The nameless island was growing smaller, the coastline reminding him of home. He nodded. “I do.”

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His voice broke when he began, hoarse and shaky from disuse, but his tone soon leveled smoothly. He picked a simple lament for the green pastures of Goath Dobhair that drifted, melancholy, over the gentle breeze. He watched the waves, expecting to hear Ailín’s flute after every verse, the cabin boy’s little harp in accompaniment, and the harmonizing voices of Cathair, Allan, Ewan, Keir, and Liam. He hoped to see them safely aboard The Solar Wind when he finally returned.

He did not question it when the girl began to sing with him, nor did he question how she knew the words. Their voices melded together somberly and pristinely, carrying over the steady sloshing of the waves against the side of the boat.

Their lament withered as they came closer to their destination, Gordon’s attention directed toward the small but dramatic isle coming into view. The isle stood solitary and imposing against the stillness of the ocean. Tall, white cliffs rose high around the isle, nearly surrounding it entirely. An opening at the front showcased smoothly carved ivory steps, no doubt from the same stone that made up the bluffs circling the island. In the middle were tall, dark cypress trees, casting anything inside in deep, unbreakable shadow.

By the time they’d beached upon the stone shore, Gordon’s mind had become contentedly numb. He hadn’t even thought to question how their small dinghy made it through the channel without oars or sails. He stepped onto one of the marble steps, following the girl without question now. Her inclusion in his ballad had comforted him, somewhat, accepting her companionship on this journey.

Their small frames disappeared into the thick, coniferous forest, the ground sloping lower and lower as they trekked onward. Unlike the steps he’d taken on the nameless island beforehand, those he took now felt unweighted and easy. He felt a strange sense of unsettling calmness resting against his shoulders, unwarranted but needed in his weary state. The darkness soon became cold like the dark, water-soaked walls of a cave. Their steps did not make a single sound as they descended, Gordon’s gaze falling only on the small bare feet of the girl he doubtlessly followed.

He only stopped when she did, raising his gaze to focus on a dimly illuminated, cavernous room. He stepped forward to find Darcy no longer in front of him. He looked back, seeing her white-clad frame already yards away, slowly ascending from the cave and back to the grassy knoll on which he found her. Gordon felt a small, fleeting sense of worry before turning back, further descending into the room—nowhere else to go.

The chamber was expansive, walls broadly arching up to the center of the ceiling like an old Gothic church. Instead of some dark wood or stone, the walls were made up of ridges resembling ribcages that pressed against the thinning skin of emaciated corpses— the color a sickly pale blue. The entire room seemed to breathe while remaining ominously still. A thin mist permeated the floor, thickening as it flowed deeper into the chamber and amassing into a giant archway toward the left of the room. At the center of it all was a figure taller than any man on earth, sitting like a statue upon a massive throne. Atop his head was a bony, crest-like crown that grew from his skull and melded into the spine-like ridges of the cavernous walls—carved into the room itself. His skin was the same as the chamber, pallid and bloodless like that of a drowned body. His frame was covered only in a decayed shroud, stitched tightly against his own body. The figure’s colossal hands gripped the arms of his throne, still and undisturbed. He was the power that held the chamber intact, perhaps the ruler of the isle itself.

Transfixed, Gordon stood still, staring up at the imposing creature before him. It seemed like moments had passed before the figure opened deep grey eyes and peered down upon Gordon—finally and truly looking at him. It was a gaze so entirely knowing and understanding that it made Gordon feel like a child, bare and uncomplicated. The figure moved his hand, slow as the earth turned, and indicated the archway.

“You may pass when you are ready.” The figure’s voice was heavy and low, muffled like a grave boom from the depths of the ocean. His face was somber yet patient. “Time does not exist down here.”

Gordon looked over to the archway, its contents swimming with fog. Beyond it was

incomprehensible; what lay behind the haze a complete mystery. Perhaps nothing lay past it, and Gordon would simply become one with the mist—dissipating into thick air populated by souls just like him.

A deeper understanding so universal and natural fell over Gordon, knowing that he must continue. He walked toward it, fear still clinging inside his chest.

At first, it was cold, barren and void of any substance. There was nothing tangible, nothing solid to hold onto. He could not see. Therefore he closed his eyes, simply walking forward without concrete direction—no one to follow, no one to lead him. An absence of emotion washed over him, stilling his frame and burrowing deep inside of him, overcoming any consciousness.

Suddenly, he realized the cold was just shallow water, a steady tide washing up against his calves. He opened his eyes to find himself along an unfamiliar shore cast in dark shadow from a setting sun, the details of his surroundings opaque and abstruse. Upon instinct, he waded deeper into the water, finding a string of rope floating on the glassy surface. Following the line of the rope, he gazed up at the horizon and found a tall, glorious silhouette of a ship. Tiny figures amassed upon her deck, shouting familiar and distant things. The sails were hoisted, billowing out and swelling in the breeze. Gordon swore someone was waving at him from the stern—then another, and then another. He recognized the ship’s distinct hull and the voices calling out to him. He smiled knowingly, trekking further into the water and grabbing onto the rope, letting it guide him forward.

The ship began to turn into the horizon, the winds ready to take him into the sun.

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Raphael Foer

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Opacity by Rachael Longo

Bios LEYNA BOHNING / Creative Writing `18 Leyna loves writing, antiquing, hockey, and chicken nuggets. When she’s not stressing over school, she’s expanding her mind to other forms of art such as baking, drawing, dressmaking, knitting, and playing different instruments. She can’t wait to move out of the city and live a rural life full of writing, cats, and backyards.

VICTORIA ROSE BONELLI / Creative Writing `20 Victoria is a writer from New Jersey with too much on her mind. Presently, her poetry focuses on her relationship with mental illness. She tells her truth through poetry in hopes that it may one day reach an audience that needs it.

SHANE BOWMAN / Film `20 If not found sulking in the streets of Reading, PA, Shane is most likely sulking indoors.

They are a film student who wishes to explore every art form possible.

GINA CAPASSO / Illustration ‘18 Gina is a junior Illustration major specializing in watercolor and graphite. She creates surreal narratives and patterns with influence taken from folk culture, mythology, biology, religion, and textiles. With her work Gina often explores themes of magic, mystery, and melancholia.

AMANDA CORRIGAN / Illustration `17 Amanda is a senior Illustration major and Art Therapy minor, who is also a proud voice actress for Germantown’s radio dramas and a barista at Starbucks! Her favorite things are drawing, coffee, sushi, cats, running, and talking in strange voices.

JOSEPH CUCCINIELLO / Photography ‘18 Joe likes making photographs, and he hopes to get paid one day for doing so.

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HEATHER DIXON / Illustration `18 Heather is from a smallish town in Maryland where she didn’t quite fit in so she moved to Philadelphia. Now she enjoys wearing lots of black, drinking an excess amount of coffee causing her heart palpitations, and scribbling lots of doodles and notes.

EMILY FAMULARO / Creative Writing `17 After six years of undergraduate work, Emily is just excited to be done, and is thankful for every opportunity that the Creative Writing program has ever given her.

RAPHAEL FOER / Illustration `18 Raphael is an illustration mage who wants to design skateboards. If he had less schoolwork he would be exploring the streets of Philly and trails of Wissahickon on four wheels, but for now he’s limited to touch grind.

OLIVE FROMAN / Photography `19 In her photography, Olive focuses mainly on the inner subjective state, what is felt inside. She portrays people and objects in a very sensitive and vulnerable way.

LAUREN GROSSMAN / Creative Writing `17 Lauren is pursuing a career in writing books for middle schoolers. Her favorite things are colored pens, cardigans, snow globes, floral patterns, owls, and puns.

DAKOTA HERMAN / Illustration `18 Dakota is from Long Island, New York. She makes vector-based work and paintings influenced by traditional tattoos and vintage posters. She loves puppies, sunflowers, lame pop punk bands, and road trips. She’s an intern for tattooer Kate Collins.

CARTER HORTON / Acting `16 Carter graduated from the Acting program in December and is happy to be published again by Underground Pool.

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AMY JANNOTTI / Creative Writing `19 Amy is a Creative Writing sophomore who claims the identities of poet, storyteller, and Dr. Pepper fiend. This is her second haunting of Underground Pool.

JAMES KWAK / Graphic Design `17 James, also known as, @kwakamoli on Instagram, is a graphic designer who loves to groove to motown, funk, and hip hop, all while eating his favorite donuts.

ALYSSA LANGENHOP / Creative Writing `17 Alyssa is from Scranton, Pennsylvania. She enjoys little things, like grilled cheese, and big things, like life.

MAGGIE LILY / Creative Writing `17 Mushroom Mom. Creative Writing. Cutty Black Sow. Illustration. 2017. Moth.

RACHAEL LONGO / Illustration `17 Rachael is a human who loves flowers, plants, and animals a little too much. She wears too many granny sweaters and often daydreams about petting cats. She is very concerned about the environment and incorporates her concerns into her art to raise awareness.

HARRY LOWE / Illustration `17 Harry is from South Philadelphia. He loves `80s pop culture, including the horror movies of the decade, which show up in his work. He loves to incorporate montage-style compositions and portraiture in his illustrations.

ZACH MANBECK / Illustration `18 Zach is an illustrator who paints with gouache and a touch of magic. He loves painting whimsical characters in enchanting environments, sweets as colorful as some of his palettes, and being taken on dates to the children’s book section of Barnes and Noble.

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GREG MANLEY / Creative Writing `19 Greg is a sophomore Creative Writing major with a focus in fiction. He’s bald, oversensitive, and a firm advocate of baggy sweaters.

SHYANNE MARQUETTE / Creative Writing `18 Shyanne has a minor in philosophy, loves long walks on the beach and anything strange and macabre. In her poems, she likes to delve into difficult subjects by hiding them in everyday occurrences. “Palace of the Beeping Ill,” about when her boyfriend’s father was in the hospital, contemplates questions of morality and the short time we have on earth.

MARTHA MAYNARD / Illustration `17 Martha is a senior illustration major who appreciates small things, like babies, rabbits, and baby rabbits.

KATIE MURPHY / Creative Writing `18 Katie is concentrating in short fiction and minoring in screenwriting. Her work is inspired by the right song playing on a long car ride with the windows rolled down. She is currently the fiction editor of Underground Pool and Vice President of the Literary Society.

ROSE MULLER / Illustration `18 Rose is eternally in need of a nap. She is inspired by graphic novels and the unique people she meets. She works mainly in ink and digital color.

LIZZY O’DONNELL / Illustration `17 Lizzy is a senior Illustration major. She works and lives in Philly with her dog, Bobo.

ORNELLA PLIALIS / Illustration `19 Ornella is half Greek and half British. She moved here from Europe three years ago. Her work mainly focuses on tracing the memories of her life and finding a constant in her bilingual identity.

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JOSEPH SABOL / Photography `20 Through his photos, Joseph prefers to create settings for stories as opposed to telling them, often blending nature and the manmade, peace and chaos. He also keeps this in mind through writing, music, and painting.

BRET SEARLES / Illustration `17 Bret has been drawing as far back as his memory goes and does his best to exemplify the sublime marvel of life. Nature is the original art, and he aims to give all of its beauty back to it through interesting depictions. Over the years, his greatest struggle was to learn, to listen. Once he followed the true wisdom offered at UArts, he was led to skills that affected his art permanently.

NATHAN TRENDA / Film + Video `17 Nathan is originally from a small town in Minnesota and moved to Philadelphia in 2012.

His focuses lie in art direction and production design, but he hopes to pursue a career in writing fiction as well.

VERONICA VERRATTI / Illustration `18 Veronica is an illustrator/writer/investigative assistant from Delco, Pennsylvania. She often works with ink, textures, and digital manipulation when she’s not busy. If you don’t have a sense of humor, don’t talk to her.

LIZ WALDIE / Photo + Film Media `18 Liz has a wandering soul that lives off of long hikes in the natural world, climbing aimlessly through decaying buildings, and grasping shadows and light. Her work is primarily inspired by emotion, words unsaid, and the uncanny.

ALEASHA WATSON-MITCHELL / Creative Writing `18 Aleasha is a published poet, motivational speaker, and award-winning Spoken Word artist from Philadelphia. She works in UArts’ President’s office, serves on President Yager’s Student Advisory Board and as Motivos Magazine’s Poetry Ambassador, coaches slampoetry teams, facilitates writing workshops, and volunteers in inner-city Philadelphia.

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Lingering Dose by Rachael Longo

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