CANVAS VOL 15 : No 1
There are no words, no paints to express all this, only a beautiful dumbness in the soul, life speaking to life.
~Emily Carr
Dear Reader, Fifteen years ago, the university newspaper included an insert bearing the poems and short stories of a handful of students. It is a wonderful testament to the Indiana University arts community that Canvas has grown into the magazine you hold today filled with as many mediums of art as we can translate to the page. Our artists (a word which I mean to include writers) constantly astonish me with their insight and innovation. Each semester, I sit down with an incredible body of creative work that builds upon and challenges established styles and genres. My favorite part of my job is reading and looking through the incredible number of pieces we receive. During those countless hours, your talent, execution, creativity, and insight impress and often move me. I am always less thrilled to then bring your work to our selection committees and whittle it down to the too few pages of this magazine. It simply would not happen without their dedicated and intelligent service.
More thanks go to the leadership of our director, A.J. O’Reilly, and the brilliance of our designer, Nathan Bilancio. They were integral in making this issue of Canvas a reality. I am also very appreciative of Union Board for helping us grow. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, thank you readers. You are why this magazine exists, and it is you who are in the minds of all the wonderful people listed above as we put together an issue. It is not that I don’t believe in art for art’s sake, but we put it together for you. Canvas is a celebration of the arts community, both the artists and those who appreciate their work. While I love the way art functions for me individually, at Canvas, we thrive on the role art plays as a communication between people. Amongst other things, art is a vehicle to examine our shared humanity, and I hope that this issue of Canvas serves as a vehicle to examine our shared art. I am honored to be a part of it, Dan
Visual
written
Drury Brennan + artist profile
38–41
Emily Richart
82–95
Sara Brown
20–21
Bre Robinson
60–77
Gabrielle Cheikh
26–27
Bethany Carlson
59
Vivian Cheung
12–13
Michelle Gotschlich
80–81
Lauren Duffy
46–47
Liza Milhander
78–79
Anne M. Fiala
10–11
Sarah C. Hatch
7
David Katz
30–31
Editor’s choice Canvas gives editor’s choice awards to the
Peter Kenar + artist profile 16–19
best written and visual work submitted
Sharon Lindenfeld
34–37
each semester. For this issue, we present
Liza Milhander
22–23
this honor to Payson McNett (left) for
Curt Miller
8–9
Sarah Griffen Oellerich
28–29
Koehler-Derrick (right) for his written
Kevin Steele
14–15
work. This award serves to recognize
Johanna Palmieri
42–45
the high level of craft and creativity with
Kelsey Pitts
24–25
which they represent their chosen fields
Cristina Vanko
48–49
and to thank them for sharing their
Christine White
32–33
exceptional work.
51-5 3
his sculpture work and to Raphael
54-57
Director AJ O’Reilly Editors Daniel Harting Dianne Osland Designer
Join Want to shape the next issue of the magazine? Have creative programming ideas to help strengthen IU’s art community? For more information on how you can get involved with Union Board’s Canvas Creative Arts Committee today, email our director at canvas@indiana.edu.
Nathan Bilancio Assistant Directors Brianne Eby Daniel Harting Anu Kumar Dianne Osland Emily Richart Jared Thomas Selections Committee Kristen Broyles
Blog The Canvas Creative Arts Committee has found a new outlet for spreading the joy of creativity. Visit the Canvas blog at www.ubcanvasblog.com for inspiring images, quotes, and information about art events in the community. If you’re interested in contributing to the blog, send us an email at canvas@indiana.edu.
Ben Combs Brianne Eby Victoria Eder Tricia Hussung Ashley Jenkins Anu Kumar Kara Rebholz Emily Richart Jared Thomas
Submit Canvas is now accepting submissions for its Spring 2012 issue. We accept all forms of art and written work and are always looking to expand upon the variety of our content. Please visit www.ubcanvas.com for more information and guidelines.
Visual Work
Sarah C. Hatch
Tea Time
7
8
Curt Miller
Beige Strip Mall left
Mexico, Indiana right
10
Anne M. Fiala
Carolina Syringa–Disappointment
Vivian Cheung
Autumn Delight left
Rebirth right
13
14
Kevin Steele
Val di Funes / Villnรถss
15
Graduate student Peter Kenar entered the field of fine arts searching for freedom in expression and the opportunity to create without restrictions. Initially, Kenar had dabbled with
Sculpture is a field of free expression
musicianship and for some time was
that allows Kenar to share a genuine
enrolled in the Chicago School of Violin
and honest voice.
Making, but he learned that he did not enjoy the level of restriction that was placed on him there.
“I asked myself questions about what I wanted to say, what I wanted to share,� Kenar said.
16
Peter Kenar
Malignant, Asleep Tonight
Artist Profile
Still Playing with Fire top
White Horse bottom
17
This authentic voice is the connection
“Malignant, asleep tonight,” explores cancer
he has to the content of all his pieces.
and how the loss of control in cell division kills millions every year.
Each piece for Kenar is separate to itself and tends to be completely contextual.
“I always associate it with the victim, chemotherapy, radiation,
“I’m completely interested in the content. When manipulating the
18
slow, and painful death. In my eyes, ‘Malignant, asleep tonight,’ is an
material, the material itself holds
inversion of those characteristics,”
no symbolism,” Kenar said.
Kenar said.
The material simply serves as the means
Kenar’s art tends toward a basis in
to an end for him; its purpose is to express
self-criticism and personal experiences
the content. More so, the idea for each
because of the certain level of honesty
separate piece also stands on its own.
it breeds. The analysis of human thought
Peter Kenar
The Uninvited-Guest
Artist Profile
during a given experience, whether it is tragic or extreme, produces his content.
“All of its components are intended to represent men’s animalistic sexual and violent nature, which we attempt
“It’s interesting to analyze what
to conceal and deny,” Kenar said.
goes through a person’s head or my own head during a specific, given
The track of self-destruction and making
experience,” Kenar said.
wrong decisions become exemplified in the piece “Playing with Fire.”
His piece “White Horse” aims to discuss the unaccountability and the childish
“Witnessing catastrophe and escaping
selfishness of those who wield great power
death temporarily makes me feel more
recklessly. In his work “Uninvited Guest,”
alive, yet each time a part of me
Kenar explores the natural instinct of
perishes,” Kenar said.
a male and fixation on conquest.
19
Sara Brown
Stacks
21
22
Liza Milhander
No Rain left
Faces right
Kelsey Pitts
Untitled (2) left
Get Her above
25
26
Gabrielle Cheikh
Cleanse above
Exploration right
28
Sarah Griffen Oellerich
Weightless 2
30
David Katz
Confinement Trio above
Structural Confinement right
32
Christine White
Farmer’s Son
34
Sharon Lindenfeld
Stars above
Reverie right
Sharon Lindenfeld
State IV left
Inverse above
37
The flaws are laid out in front of the
card station at their holiday event. It was
camera and you’re afraid to look too long,
a modest four frames a person and then a
because you? You’ve been taught staring’s
printer rapidly spitting out a 5x7 card in
impolite. But those sharp blue eyes and
half a minute. That may have been simple
that solemn expression catch you, unable
in concept, but the feeling behind the
to look away. They’re arresting, compelling.
process and result was anything but.
Beautiful, you might even say, though not in the usual way of magazine models and
38
“When the event started, the group
doctored-up celebrities. That’s a Christmas
of people were kind of skeptical
tree there, set up as a background. It’s the
because I’m a very hipster white boy
time of year synonymous with Santa Claus
and these people had nothing to do
and family gatherings, crackling fireplaces
with that,” Brennan said. “But once
and roasted ham, carols, cookies and
the first ten pictures came out and
brightly wrapped gifts. Not exactly the
everyone saw the kind of presence
things you think of when you find yourself
everyone was allowed to have on
in the homeless capital of the country.
stage, the whole dynamic changed.”
A line of 410 people faced post-graduate
That space in front of the camera grew to be
baccalaureate student Drury Brennan.
a place where people felt unencumbered and
The homeless center had invited Brennan
beautiful. That flash lit up a face that maybe
to take photos for a pop-up Christmas
hadn’t been seen on paper in years, perhaps
Drury Brennan
Christmas Presence
Artist Profile
even decades. In front of the camera’s eye,
Brennan calls them Others, but he doesn’t
each person became an individual, someone
want his work to just be an outside look
unique and no longer just one of hundreds
at this culture of people on the outskirts,
being taken care of by a system.
people not quite fitting into the mainstream. There’s a fine line in photography between
“That was one of the most positive
forming an agenda of exploiting someone
things to come out of this event:
for their perceived differences and trying
to pay these people homage in these
to celebrate their best actualized self.
cards and show them their beauty,”
For this reason, these portraits aren’t
Brennan said.
blown up into 40x60 prints to be stared at by chattering guests clutching glasses of champagne in a stark gallery.
39
Instead, to Brennan, there are ways
transaction that is photography,
of dialoging and interacting with
I wanted to see how prostrate or
theoretical Others in which one can
how humble I could make my position.”
consciously move toward making work accessible and making work that doesn’t
As the stranger behind the camera to the
just have to be about Others.
hundreds of people who came through the Christmas photo booth, Brennan
“To me [these photos] read with
worked to maintain unbiased shots and
a disarmed quality that I don’t
let the honesty shine through. Lines of
even find in pictures of my family
John Keats’ “Ode On a Grecian Urn”
or those in the public sphere,”
ran through his mind:
Brennan said. “Through the delicate
40
Drury Brennan
Christmas Presence
Artist Profile
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ “So many cultural theory people and artists try to unpack that paradigm and this is my feeble attempt with the idea of beauty of everybody and the truth of this interaction,” Brennan said. “It can never be that, but you can try.”
41
42
Johanna Palmieri
Untitled 1 top
Untitled 5 bottom
Untitled 4 right
44
Johanna Palmieri
Untitled 2 above
Untitled 3 right
46
Lauren Duffy
Spread Eagle above
At Rest right
48
Cristina Vanko
Fontsters
Editor’s Choice
Payson McNett + artist profile
P
ayson McNett, a graduate student at
his piece is strongly derived from nature but
Indiana University, finds that his work
the initial process utilizes machinery and
is a way to balance his love for both nature
programming on the computer.
and machinery. His process of creating a sculpture constantly utilizes both technology as well as intuition.
“But when it comes to creating the piece, the process tends to be organic and intuitive,” McNett said.
McNett begins the process with an idea and form in mind, and then by using a computer
The analytical and precise form of
program commonly known as Rhino, he is
machinery meets McNett’s natural feel
able to look at his piece from every angle.
about how the pieces fit together.
For this piece, after cutting out the sections of plywood, McNett laminated and clamped the 110 to 150 pieces together, finishing it
“Creating a piece is very process driven,” McNett said.
by sanding it down. The aesthetic form of
52
Payson McNett
Transition previous
Cavern above
Dune Detail right
However, the inspiration for new projects
While McNett’s expertise lies with sculpture
tends to be very natural, as new ideas seem to
he is not a stranger to other mediums. He has
come about while McNett works.
worked extensively with mediums such as clay, jewelry, and printmaking, as well.
“I get into a meditative state and tend to get other ideas. The creation of an object serves as a springboard for
“One of my strong suits is versatility,” McNett said.
other pieces,” McNett said.
His appreciation for the mechanical state and McNett also draws inspiration from those
the intuitive nature of the human process
who have challenged the conventional state,
tends to be the focus of his work, and this
like Martin Luther King Jr. and
co-existence between the industrial and
Maya Angelou.
natural world is balanced throughout his art.
53
Raphael Koehler-Derrick
Love experiences life through the arrival of a single citrus circus whose caravan of tigers has just crossed your teeth-tops in a brilliant parade of good-god-greatness. Ringling doors crash open to reveal uncaged grizzlies yawning. Their spring-loaded jaws then bloom and bud, chronicling the breathtaking fall one acidic acrobat happily takes, plunging to the depths of your safety-net tongue. Passion fueled applause from your lips shakes the big top down. And in this moment of perfectly syncopated impromptu collapse, one orange creates havoc worth having.
54
Get High, Eat Oranges
They really should have named it something else. Did they just forget that this was the entrance For every maternal breath, gulp, and swallow? Life’s fetal doorway demoted to ‘innie’ Or ‘outie.’ Or maybe, some English sci-fi nerd Desperately wanted a button on his belly— Rupert the cyborg from Yorkshire decides To be anatomically mechanical; And pressing his middle all day is his way of conducting Morse code he learned at the Navel Academy. But the truth is our buttons do nothing when pushed on or poked. In the summer time mine transforms into a sweaty suction cup. Others have caves carefully carved in their abdomens That look like they’re hungry for lint or a sandwich. While some insist on inserting a ring or a gem, Or getting some inky sun to surround their testament to birth. For what it’s worth I wonder which is most Like what mother nature intended When buttoning all of us up before lifetime.
Belly Button
55
the room was an orchard,
but the bed, was a boulder,
and his bed was a boulder,
and the lamp
and the lamp, was a tree.
left a damp dusting of light on the floor where a sock, was a frog, awe-struck implored;
bulbs for buds and light for leaves with a cord to the wall that cringed and curled through the world of a room like roots do sometimes. when the sunlight sifts through the neighborhood pines, and the futon shifts over extension-cord vines—this room, was an orchard.
“Of all the wee wonders I’ve slow come to see, Ne’er did I ‘Spect a light givin’ tree!” and with that he hopped on to the laundry pile pond where the fish, are all shirts, in the sea.
Raphael Koehler-Derrick
a home in a house
57
Written Work
In the City it might have been raining. The windows leaned in, heavy as strangers; I leaned away. I was fancying myself broken, keen: cups of flat beer, a blue dress I never loved. Often I dreamed of river silt, of speaking to the water’s slow-moving belly; I was in the deep end & could not drown. The god of slow distances mistook me for a mermaid, violet in my grief. I kept shouting, Sweatersthrow me sweaters, the water’s film of ice unspooling my answers in all the wrong places. From another room, the moon baby runs on and on.
Bethany Carlson
Winterizing the House
59
60
Bre Robinson
Pretending to Sacrifice for Others
As the coffee meets my mouth, with it comes half a dozen of grounds that weren’t filtered out from your cheap coffee pot. And I gag for a second, subtly because I have a thing with textures, deterring me from eating yogurt with fruit chunks and orange juice with pulp. You don’t notice though, because you’re so excited to be talking to someone who doesn’t require any explanation for your actions or your ideals. I sit in silence, nodding my head from time to time while filtering out the coffee grounds between my front teeth. I keep them in the pocket of my mouth, collecting them while counting how many times my eye catches yours and my nerves jump. Maybe it’s just the coffee and not an infatuation. You finish your story and wait for a response. I swallow the last sip from my cup. It’s cold and it feels like there are at least one hundred coffee grounds in my mouth. Each one, a marker for how many times I told myself infatuation does not exist but nerve imbalances from caffeine do. I look at you and manage a smile. But inside I’m wondering “Who’s really going to carry our ashes when we die?”
Max settled into the spinach green chair and the room seemed to expand.
to ever notice the lack of arm rests, Max. I’d say you’re a pretty observant little guy. Wouldn’t you agree?” Max ceased his arm motions, and awkwardly placed them on his lap. When he realized that didn’t feel okay, he hurriedly pressed them into his pockets. But his left pocket
Across a mahogany sea of carpet, equally
was crammed with a Space Camp pamphlet
grotesque in color, sat a man named
he printed off of their site before arriving
Dr. Taylor, who told Max to just call
to Dr. Taylor’s office, and his right pocket
him, “David.” As Max attempted to fix his
had too many crumbs from carrying his
palms onto the arm rests of the chair, they
Goldfish crackers in it, as a result of no
floated for a moment, transcending, before
longer carrying anything with a product
cutting through the tension the air held,
name due to his boycott from being a
and falling at his sides.
personal advertisement. Still not knowing what to do with his hands, he rose up and
He repeatedly raised his arms to arm rest
placed them beneath him, sitting on them.
level, staring down at them, perplexed.
The texture of the chair felt like the carpet
Dr. Taylor watched him repeat the action
in the living room of his house. Raising
several times before interrupting, as if
himself slightly from the chair, he created
to bring Max back to reality.
enough room to slide his fingers around along the surface of it. And he closed his
“Yeah, my mother gave me that chair when I moved into my first apartment after
the room with gaudy decorations and only
college. It obviously didn’t find any use
two chairs and a desk, into his living room,
in my current home, so it ended up in
with his brother.
my office. You’re actually the first person
62
eyes, and instantly, he disappeared from
Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
The bookshelf seemed to reach up to the
He didn’t like to be touched. And he
ceiling, towering above Max’s head, but
especially didn’t like to be called two
not high enough to prevent him from
different things in one sentence. But he
being within eyeshot of what he desired
wouldn’t say anything. Instead, he would
to obtain. A book titled All About Satellites
just think to himself how he could go to
and Spaceships lay rested on the penultimate
class and tell his teacher, Mrs. Carr, that
shelf. At eight, there were few things Max
his dad used contradictions. Which is
had the capacity to hunger for. Aside from
different from a contraction that smashes
his craving for dinosaur shaped chicken
two words together.
nuggets he sometimes had, which required him to incessantly ask his mom to pick
Besides, the last time Max asked his dad
them up from the grocery store until she
for the book had to be at least three weeks
finally remembered, this book was all he
ago, and according to the crayon lines on
ached for. And he had asked his dad to get
the frame of his door, he had grown at
the book down for him several times, but
least one centimeter since then. He knew
he always bellowed out a chuckle and told
that he hadn’t had a haircut in a couple of
Max something about how the book was
weeks and that could be the real reason for
from the 1950s and was a vintage piece
his growth spurt, but he disregarded that
of material which he wanted to keep in
anyway. Today was the day he would learn
good condition.
about satellites and spaceships.
“Maybe when you’re older, big guy,” he
Max had a plan in line for how to get the
would say while planting his dry, heavy
book for several of days, but it required
hands into the curly golden mane of
some research that he had to do without
Max’s hair until it was disheveled.
being suspicious. Which is why during dinner a few nights beforehand he asked
Each time, Max would retreat, staring
his mom approximately how much one
at the ground as he readjusted his hair.
book weighs.
63
Taken aback by the question she looked
I don’t think it could hold five hundred
at her husband who shrugged his shoulders,
pounds of books if it wanted to.” Smirking,
giving her permission to improvise an
he then scooped a spoonful of butternut
answer. “Well, I don’t know Max. Books
squash soup from his bowl and swallowed
vary in their weight because there are
it before continuing. “But, let’s just put
so many different lengths and sizes. A
it into perspective for you, Max. That
paperback book with the same amount of
bookshelf and those books weigh more
pages as a hardback book would obviously
than you. A lot more than you. What better
weigh less. There’s not a universal size and
way to understand something that you
weight for books, so I can’t really give you
can’t understand, than by putting it into
an answer besides that.”
a perspective especially for you?”
The word universal triggered Max’s desire
His dad was right. Which was why he was
to have that book even more, and as he
standing below the bookshelf, eyeing the
thought about holding it in his hands,
exact location of the All About Satellites and
a warm sensation converged in his pants
Spaceships book that was positioned next to
and he felt his crotch area get heavy.
a book that said something about killing
Crossing his legs underneath the table,
birds that mock. Once he had felt he had
he asked as coolly as he could, “How
the exact location of the book calculated in
about the books on the bookshelf ? Like,
his mind, he placed his red crew socks onto
how much do you think all those books
the bottom of the first shelf and began to
weigh? Seventy pounds? One hundred
climb his way up. All five shelves.
pounds? Five hundred pounds?” It was such an easy task that the entire
64
His father interjected, “Your mom and
time he questioned why he hadn’t done it
I got that bookshelf from IKEA when we
before. Because here he was, on the shelf
first got married. While, it was one of the
that held the All About Satellites and Spaceships
most expensive, it’s still from IKEA, so
book, and all he had to do was reach over
Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
and grab it. He reached, but wasn’t close
his brother came over and helped him
enough and could only brush the tips of
off of the ground. As Max stood up, he
his fingers against the “mocking bird” book.
attempted to collect himself by rubbing
Disappointed in himself for not calculating
his hands along his body, starting at his
the exact distance, he began to slide over to
red T-shirt with a wolf on it, before moving
the book, running his red socks along the
them down to the hips of corduroy his
ledge of the shelf. Inching closer, finally his
pants. He looked at his hands, covered in
fingers grazed along the spine the book.
dust, and thought to himself how his mom
It felt identical to how he imagined it—
had stopped cleaning as much ever since
soft and spongy from years of use before
she and dad started going to their room at
retiring to a shelf no one paid attention
night, locking the door behind them and
to anymore. He would treat it like it was
yelling, as if the bolt wedged between the
brand new. Which is why without thinking,
frame of the door and the knob would
he lifted it in the air as if it were a trophy
result in a sound proof room.
he had just been awarded. And as soon as his hands rose into the air, his weight
Oliver bent over and picked up the All
shifted out of equilibrium and his red
About Satellites and Spaceships book that was
socks slid off the edge of the shelf, taking
protruding from underneath the couch,
his feet along with the rest of his body.
halfway across the room. He looked at the book and let out a bit of a chuckle before
The last thing he remembers about those
saying, “Ya know, if you really wanted this
fifteen minutes was looking up at his older
book you could have just asked me to get
brother, Oliver, in the doorway, staring
it for you. You don’t always have to do
down at him, half out of breath frantically
everything by yourself. That’s what having
asking, “Jesus Christ Max, what did you do?”
an older brother is for, anyway. Do you think I ever listen to what Mom and Dad
As Max lay on the ground, rubbing the
say?” Oliver turned around to look at
back of his head while wincing in pain,
Max, who was still standing there, silently,
65
continuing to rub the back of his head.
manner his dad always had. Max didn’t
“Never mind, forget I said that last part.
care when Oliver did it. In fact, he liked
You’ll learn in a few years. But really,
it. His hands less heavy against Max’s head,
I would have gotten it for you.”
as if he had so much less to carry. “Do Spaceships even have co-pilots? Are they
Walking back over to Max, Oliver handed
even called pilots at all?”
the book to him and said, “Besides, what’s wrong with wanting to read? Mom and
Shrugging his shoulders, Max replied,
Dad should be thankful that’s what you
“I don’t know. But I will find out after I
want to do. There’s a hell of a lot worse you could be doing, even at eight.”
read this book. And even if they don’t… you can be the first. That’d be so awesome! We could even have our own book.”
Max took the book from Oliver, smiling, “I didn’t want to get you in trouble.” He
“Yeah Max, we will write our own book all
looked down at the book and rubbed his
about our adventures to Space. ‘Unstoppable
fingers along the black words that were
Adventures of Two Brothers: From Crescent
slightly raised from the faded green cover
City, California, to the Crescent Moon.’
of the book. Changing his tone to a much
Future eight year olds will find themselves
more excited one he continued, “But you’re
climbing their parent’s bookshelves to
totally the best brother ever! I know that
read it.”
being fifteen means you’re too cool to go to Space Camp with me, but once I become
Max had created his first goal in life.
an astronaut, you’ll be my co-pilot. We will go to the moon, and then to Mars. Will
Dr. Taylor joined his hands together,
you promise to come with me, Oliver?
allowing them to only touch at the fingertips, before pressing them against his lips
66
Oliver cracked a smile as he rubbed his
framed in a nicely maintained rectangle
hands through Max’s hair in the same
of facial hair. Max had seen this gesture
Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
so many times that he was convinced these
you, you run the risk of a fuse getting lit
doctors were taught during college to do
and exploding. No one wants to explode.
it at least once every half hour.
It’s a mess.”
“So I hear you had an older brother that you
Max cringed at the word explode, lowering
were close to, Max. How about you tell me
his head down to the floor. Why would anyone
about him?”
choose this color of carpet? He thought to himself.
Max felt his hands falling asleep beneath
Dr. Taylor wrote on his yellow notepad for
him. He took them out and moved around
a moment, and then made another attempt
in the chair, wishing he could find a hole
at getting Max to talk. “Your parents are
in the material that would transform into
paying a lot of money to send you here.
a traversable wormhole, leading him to
To help you get better. When you don’t
anywhere but where he was.
talk you’re wasting all of the money they work hard for.”
“I know you don’t want to be here, little guy. But your parents care about you and
Why would they spend all of this money for me to
they’re trying to help you get better. Talking
come and talk to these dumb doctors but won’t sent
about what happened is the only way you
me to Space Camp? Max decided nothing in
can get better. Did you know emotions
the world made sense and never would.
are like dynamite?”
Which is why he didn’t understand why
Max looked up at him, somewhat
In a voice that was almost a whisper, he
interested in the word dynamite.
replied, “I don’t like to talk about my
he began to speak aloud to Dr. Taylor.
brother in past tense.” Dr. Taylor, knowing he had Max’s attention continued, “That’s right. They’re like
Dr. Taylor leaned forward in his chair,
dynamite. When you keep them inside of
resting the weight of his upper body on
67
the area from his forearms to his hands that
Dr. Taylor seemed to lean forward in his
lay planted on the wooden desk. “I can
chair even more, like his physical distance
understand why talking about your brother
to Max could somehow build a bridge to
in past tense could be hard. You can talk
reach him—somewhere out there. “I’m
about him anyway you want. There aren’t
going to be perfectly honest with you. You
technically rules to that.”
say you’re a smart ten year old, and I have to say, I agree. But if you want to know
Sliding the soles of his shoes along the
the truth Max, I think you’re not as smart
carpet continuously, Max wondered if he
in some areas as you think. Talking about
could do it long enough and fast enough
what happened to your brother could make
to create a fire, like the videos he had
you feel so much better if you would just
watched of men in the forest rubbing two
give it a shot.”
sticks together because they were desperate and didn’t have a lighter. Max decided he
Max, growing agitated, replied, “There’s
was desperate.
nothing to talk about. My brother isn’t here anymore.”
“Can you tell my mom and dad to stop sending me here? For some reason they
“Where is he, Max?”
think that if they send me to one of you guys with a different name from the last
“Dead.”
one everything will change. I may only be ten, Dr. Taylor, or David, or whatever
“Very good, Max. And what does that
your name is,” Max stopped rubbing his
mean to you? Where is he to you?”
feet along the carpet and sat perfectly still,
68
as if to make a point, “but I feel like the
Max stood up. If Dr. Taylor’s statement
smartest one right now. Nothing is going
about dynamite was right, Max’s fuse had
to change.”
already lit and was exploding. “I SAID
Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
HE IS DEAD, OKAY? HE COULD
certain that when next week came around,
BE IN SPACE OR ANYWHERE FOR
he would officially be enrolled in the Space
ALL I KNOW. I JUST KNOW HE
Camp Program.
ISN’T HERE!” He walked into the dining room, towards Dr. Taylor leaned back in his chair and
the wooden chair that he had sat in for
glanced at the metallic watch on his wrist.
as long as he could remember, greeting
“Very good, Max. I think that’s all of the time we have today.”
everyone along the way. “Hey Mom. Hey Dad.” He stopped at Oliver and gave him a soft punch in the arm, “Hey Oliver.”
Max’s tenth birthday was in a week, which was why when he walked into the dining
No one responded to his greeting, so he
room that night for dinner he carried
looked up at his mom who looked as if
information on the Space Camp program
she was trying her hardest to force a smile,
along with his persuasion. He believed he
but behind her eyes lay something awful.
was in good shape since in his class last
Max’s first glimpse at misery.
week they practiced writing persuasive essays, and his 4th grade teacher, Miss
Something in the room didn’t feel right
Black, not only gave him an A, but told
to Max, and since it didn’t feel right, he
him he was very persuasive as she placed
refused to sit down in his chair and pretend
the essay back on his desk. He wrote his
that everything was normal. Instead, he slid
essay about how the sixty-four crayon pack
the Space Camp pamphlet into his back
shouldn’t be the only one to come with a
pocket and hoped no one had even seen it.
sharpener since all crayons eventually need
Hesitantly he asked, “What’s wrong guys?”
to be sharpened. It was something he cared about, but not nearly as much as he cared
As soon as his question reached the
about Space Camp. Which was why he was
end and his lips drew tight together, his
69
mom fell apart. Unable to hold it in, she
with his left hand still gripping the back
began sobbing as she reached her hand
of a wooden piece of his chair, wondering
up to her face. Consequently, Oliver felt
which would be harder: pretending he
no need to hold in whatever it was he was
had never witnessed this, or pretending he
feeling, as he pushed his still empty plate
didn’t care about Space Camp anymore.
forward in an aggressive motion before standing up and shouting, “This is why
Dr. Taylor opened the door of his office
I do drugs! Don’t ever give me shit about
and Max went out to into the lobby where
anything; you guys are a fucking mess.”
his mom and dad sat. As Max walked
He raised his hands above his head, leaning
towards them, his dad closed the New York
over the table. “What’s the real reason
Times and cleared his throat. “Did it go
you even got married? Huh?! Because Dad
okay little guy?” he asked.
fucked you one night and you accidently got pregnant and instead of letting me be
Max shrugged his shoulders and looked
a bastard, he left his wife that he really
out of the single window in the lobby
loved for you? To pretend to be perfect.
while Dr. Taylor appeared behind Max and
Well let me tell you Miss Mom and Mr.
motioned for his parents to come towards
Dad. I’m beyond sick of pretending. Go
him. “Can I speak with you both for a
fuck yourselves.”
moment?” he asked while slowly walking backwards towards the hallway that led
Oliver went upstairs to his room and
to his office.
slammed the door shut. His mom continued sobbing as his dad got up from the table
His mom was the first to reply, “Yes, of
and went upstairs, avoiding eye contact
course.” She looked at his dad, and they
with Max the entire time. He thought about
both stood up at the same time. She
how his dad wasn’t all that different from
brushed her hand against Max’s, “We
him. He looked at the ground just as often,
will be right back, darling.”
but made it less obvious. Max stood there
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Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
Max nodded his head and walked across
He identified his mom’s voice first.
the lobby, wedging himself between the two chairs that sat beneath the window before
“His last therapist gave up on him. She
resting his forearms on the windowsill to
didn’t really say that she was giving up, but
continue looking out the window. The view
I know that she had lost hope in getting
was quite plain. A parking lot lay in front
him to talk at all. She said he just sat there
of the building with only three cars in it.
and stared at the ground, refusing to talk
His parent’s black Volkswagon, and another
about anything at all.”
black car that Max didn’t know the brand of, along with a red car. He assumed that
Then Dr. Taylor’s.
one must be Dr. Taylor’s and the other his secretary’s. He guessed that the nicer red car was Dr. Taylor’s since he told Max that
“He began to open up a bit at the end. It’s my job to deal with these sorts of
his parents paid a lot of money for him
things. It’s what I got my degree for,
to come there and sit on a chair.
Mrs. Martin, and I assure you, I have no intentions of giving up. Max is suffering
Max spotted an airplane in the sky and
from a very intense form of Post Traumatic
tried to focus on it soar across the sky like
Stress Disorder, and you both are making
the little black circle that slid across the air
the right decision to not give up and
hokey table that he and his brother used to
continue trying to push him in therapy.”
play with in the basement of their house. Even though he tried as hard as he could
And then his dad’s.
to pay attention to the airplane—getting himself to guess where it came from and
“Listen Dr. Taylor, we know Max has Post
where it was going, and who the passengers
Traumatic Stress Disorder. We have all had
on the plane might be, his thoughts were
a hard past couple of months coping with
interrupted by the conversation he could
what has happened. And I understand that
hear down the hall.
giving something a title or a name makes it
71
sound like progress is being made.” There
his attempt to take his focus of mind into
was a pause. Max tried to turn his focus
his own hands, he spotted a fly buzzing
back onto the airplane, but then he realized
around in the upper right hand corner
he had lost it. It was gone and out of view.
of the window.
“I appreciate your promise to not give up on Max, but this needs to be pushed past
There was a fly buzzing so close to Max’s
settling for the fact he has Post Traumatic
ear that he understood what that big long
Stress Disorder. You along with three prior
word his teacher Miss Black had taught
therapists have diagnosed him with that.
them in class that started with an ‘A’ and
And I don’t think it really needs a degree in
meant a word that sounds like the sound
anything to figure out. What we really need,
it makes meant. It was buzzing so close to
is someone who can help Max recover
him he thought it had flown into his inner
from this. He was impressionable when
ear, rubbing its wings along his eardrum
it happened, and we need to make sure
as it continued to make a sound that was
that he doesn’t suffer for the rest of his
much more annoying when created by a fly.
life. He’s all we have. I need you to
He futilely swatted his hand against his ears
understand that.”
in order to keep it away, but it would fly away for a moment before returning to his
He heard his mom began to cry, and
ear, like a bee that cannot stay away from a
Dr. Taylor continue to talk. Max tried not
flower it has decided to pollenate.
to focus on what Dr. Taylor was saying, like the times when he was in bed falling asleep
His mom was talking to him over a song
and he heard the distinct sound of a train
on the radio that had a heavy emphasis
in the distance, but focused on a blank slate
on string instruments, but he couldn’t
in his mind in order to fall asleep. All he
make out what she was saying because of
made out from the conversation was some
the fly he was convinced was pollenating
sort of suggestion from Dr. Taylor to help
his eardrum.
him make friends his age. Continuing at
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Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
Swatting his hand against his ear once
Letting out an exasperated sigh she turned
more he raised his voice to speak over the
into the driveway. “As long as you learn
buzzing along with the background noise
one new thing every day I suppose you’re
emitting from the radio, “What?”
doing well.”
His mom spoke louder than she had
With the slimy brown guts of the fly still in
before. Flicking her hand in an upward
the palm of his right hand, Max ran inside,
motion to operate her left turn signal she
his blue backpack flaying side to side on his
repeated herself. “I said, how was school
back, until he reached his brothers room.
today? Did you learn anything interesting?”
Standing outside of the door, panting, he
Max had sensed a pattern in the fly’s
on his left hand in order to keep the fly
movements as the intensity of its buzzing
guts in his right. “Hey Oliver guess what I
leaned against it, resting his body weight
was consistently the same, signifying it
learned to do today. You won’t even believe
being closer and then further away. Timing
it!” Catching his breath he waited for his
the buzz at its peak, next to the ride side
brother to open the door and reply. After
of his face, he quickly smacked both hands
waiting a moment with no reply he urged
together in the air, smashing the fly between
his brother to come open the door. “Oliver,
his palms. It was the same sense of capacity
open up! I have to tell you.” After waiting
for hearing that came after turning off a
a few moments longer his brother still
fan. “We learned a lot of stuff but not
did not reply, so Max opened the door
really anything that cool today.”
letting himself in. “Fine! I will just tell you. I killed a fly! My reaction time is getting so
“Nothing?” his mom asked, prying.
fast that I should be able to pass those tests to be an astronaut.”
“Not really,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders, “but I just learned how to
Without consciously realizing it, he knew
kill a fly.”
why his brother hadn’t answered the door.
73
Against the wall adjacent to Oliver’s bed, he
computer than the one he had now.
laid; arms limp at his sides, lifeless. A gun
Leaning back in his chair, an action he’d
rested in his upturned palm and a bullet
seen mimicked by so many men that
nestled in the square of his jaw. The white
placed their heavy hands into his hair
wall splashed with a slime similar to that
and disheveled it in the same fashion his
in Max’s hand, he wondered if killing a fly
father had, in an attempt to treat him
was why his brother lay dead too.
like an innocent child he could no longer be, he waited. When he leaned back in
When his parents unlocked the door to
his chair, he caught sight of the right
let him inside he immediately went to his
side of his desk, cluttered with space ship
room to begin looking up information on
picture books underneath the two things
how to register for Space Camp by himself.
that meant the most to him: the All About
Dr. Taylor didn’t know what he was talking
Satellites and Spaceships book, and a picture
about, he would never be okay with what
of his brother. He kept the picture of
happened to his brother, and all of this talk
his brother piled on top of everything
about therapy and fixing him would never
even though it made his heart feel like it
actually come true.
was shriveling up into a raisin his mother forced him to eat before he could leave
74
Space Camp was his only escape.
the table and do something else.
He turned on his old Macintosh that’s
He stared for only a second, taking in the
surface color was altering yellow in the
voice of his brother echoing throughout
same way a person’s skin wrinkles up as
the house. The voice from when he laughed
they continue to increase their days passed
at Max for trying so hard to get the book,
and decrease their days left. It was old. As
and then promising to come to Space with
Max waited several minutes for it to start
him one day. The angry voice Max had
up, he thought about how when he got to
never heard before as he shouted at his
Space he would be sure to have a way nicer
mom and dad during dinner. The sad voice
Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
that resonated louder than them all, from
leave the room. “I will leave you two alone
the night he looked at Max teary eyed and
for now little guy. Dinner will be ready soon.”
told him everything would be okay. His heart would always be a raisin his In the same way lighting strikes the ground,
mom force-fed him at lunch.
a tap at the door created a fissure in his mind, interrupting his thoughts, bringing
His brother was dead. He wasn’t
him back to his room.
coming back.
On the other side he heard his dad begin
Maggie stood awkwardly in the middle of
to speak. “Hey Max, I know you’ve had a
the room, waiting for Max to get up and
long day but there’s someone here to see
greet her. “Hey,” Max said forcedly.
you. I think you might be excited about it.” “Hi,” Maggie replied shyly. Instantly, his heart swelled back up, full of hope, as he thought about who could be on
“My mom and dad think I need friends.”
the other side of the door. As he heard it crack open, he quickly turned around to see
“So do mine.”
a little girl with curly golden hair, almost like his, but longer as it brushed against the
“Why?”
tops of her shoulders. “Because I just moved here from Delaware.” “This is the little girl who just moved into the house next door. Her name is Maggie.
“Isn’t that far away?”
Do you want to tell her about all of the fun stuff to do around here? Build some
“Yes.”
space ships out of the boxes in the garage, eh?” Winking at Max he turned around to
“Do you like it here?”
75
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true, and besides, I already have a plan to get money for my own spaceship.”
“I don’t really. I just like the name.” “How?” “California?” Maggie asked, puzzled. He stood up and walked over to her in the “No. Crescent City. It’s like the moon.”
middle of the room, and excitedly told her his plan. “I’m going to take the candy bars
“Oh,” she said, blushing.
they give us at school for fundraisers and sell them for my own profit.”
“Do you like spaceships?” he asked, inquisitively. “Kind of, I guess.”
“Are you allowed to do that?” “Who cares?”
“I love spaceships. I’m going to Space
There was a silence, and Max felt his face
Camp, and then I am going to be an
begin to burn around his cheeks. He went
astronaut one day.”
over to his door, hoping to escape the awkward tension the room held. He didn’t
“I heard my dad say something about how that’s not going to exist anymore.”
know how to be friends with people, but he liked talking to Maggie.
Max raised his eyebrows, skeptical. “Do you want to go out to my garage? I can “What? Space?”
show you how to build a spaceship. I bet
“Astronauts.”
like them just as much as I do. And if I’m
that once I tell you about them you will right, maybe I will take you with me when I go to Space.”
76
Bre Robinson
Space To Escape
Maggie smiled and placed her right hand
“Oh,” Maggie replied, taking in Max’s
on the hip of her floral dress, just like
statement before continuing, “my Grandma
Max’s mom did all of the time when he
died a while ago. Do you think she’s on the
said something she found funny. “Maybe
moon too?”
you’re right. Where are we going to go when we get to Space?”
“Probably. We will find out soon. Do you want to stay for dinner? Afterwards we
“To the moon, maybe.” He said, shrugging.
can enroll you into Space Camp and then
“Why the moon, and not Mars
California to the moon.”
discuss our plan. Operation: Crescent City, or something?” Excitedly she answered, “Yes! My mom “We can go there too, but first we have to go to the moon.” “Fine, but why?”
and dad will be so happy to hear I made a friend.” “So will mine.” Max lightly pushed Maggie on the shoulder before opening the door of
“We have to go see my brother.”
his room and shouting, “Last person to get
“Your brother is on the moon?”
space pants!”
to the garage has to wear the ugliest pair of “I hope so.” And they ran down the stairs after each Scrunching up her face she asked,
other. Max’s heart rising against gravity, as
“Why would you hope your brother’s
hope swelled up in his chest like a rocket
on the moon?” “Because he’s dead and that’s the only
ship taking off to the moon.
*
place I can think of that he went.”
77
Pumping units, like horses, stick their slender necks beneath the earth continuously, drawing up glossy vats of oil—tar trickling slowly from my corpse-mouth in dreams (stop smoking stop smoking). “The plains are full of you,” I want to write—but the wind’s whipping up prairie fires like my mother with a wire whisk, thin and smirking in an avocado kitchen— I’ve got sand tearing at the corners of my eyes. Sunflower seeds have sprouted inside my aorta, and will soon enough burst through my bird breast and gasp towards the sky; I lie face down on a limestone bench. Taste the alkaline. Vultures circle as my soul steams out and irrigation systems rust red on their hinges— giant skeletal grasshoppers blighting fallow fields.
Liza Milhander
Vortex Outside Wilson, KS
79
80
Michelle Gotschlich
The Parlor
“—Kid” I might be confused. “—Kid,” you said, “I’ll be there soon” and showed me into the parlor where the piano stood. The kitchen smells dank from the other room and I wriggle my fingers to keep the tendons loose. These orchids weren’t crosses and the mothers croon “—Kid” My fingers digging a note from those ivory teeth “—Kid” I’m performing a secondhand tune. Father, I might be confused. They closed the lid, but I still play over you.
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
~Albert Camus
T
he cell phone rang as Miranda was fastening the final pearly button of her linen shirt. She felt the threads snatch the sweat from her skin as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. An unknown number flashed across the screen.
“This is Tate Security calling for Dan Lockman. There seems to be an alarm issuing from your apartment—” “I believe you have the wrong number,” she said, untying the stiff laces of her tennis shoes. “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. I’ll be sure to take you off the list right away.” “I appreciate it.” She hung up the phone, pulling the shoes onto her feet and carefully retying the laces. She exchanged her phone for a small spade that hung from a hook
82
Emily Richart
Through the Trees
like a set of keys, unaware of the slight tremor in her hand. She slammed the door on the way out, already running towards the metal staircase at the corner of the hall. She hated the crackling of her knees as she climbed, the metallic snaps that sounded with every step. Her fingers traced the cool brick wall, absorbing any moisture there. Dan Lockman. She wondered why an alarm was sounding in the empty apartment down the hall. Maybe someone had read the news and tried to break in or maybe a relative was searching for answers. She wondered how similar their phone numbers were. The cool brick gave way to radiating warmth as she reached the patch of sunlight ahead and emerged on the roof of her apartment building, conquering the final stair. Green fronds waved against each other, making the cool slithering sound of a
nightgown settling over the body. She breathed in an intricate infusion of potting soil and car exhaust. Her stomach growled. It was 6:00, but putting off dinner was well worth these moments of separateness. She had specifically created this routine in order to avoid the other tenants who gardened up here. Kneeling down in the center of the garden, she began to dig her fingers into the soil that surrounded the marigolds, feeling the dirt fill up the space between the skin and the nail. She pulled the weeds from the base of the stem, making sure she had a firm grasp in order to exterminate any trace of roots that might try to cling to their subterranean home. She worked without thinking, as slowly her stooped posture became more natural, the stress lines on her face shrinking away. For a week she had been unable to journey up the metal stairs and feel the dirt on her hands. For a week the rooftop garden had been full of the world below - belted police officers, bright yellow caution tape. She noticed that some of the flowers had been stamped into the mud, reduced to a two dimensional state. Amazed that so many weeds had grown in a week, she immersed herself in the work, feeling the slight chill of autumn creep into her freckled skin.
She remembered as a child feeling the wetness of the dirt soak through her legs, making her calves stick together as she sat in her backyard garden, listening to her dad tell stories about the days when he would wake up at sunrise to work on the family farm. She would dig for night crawlers with chubby fingers while he worked. He told her about riding his white horse through their cornfield, and she had imagined he was a knight, riding off to save a princess. He and his brothers used to jump from the hayloft into the straw beneath or have egg wars in the hen house. Naturally, Miranda would gallivant around the yard, jumping from the top of the slide or throwing the ripe fruit from the crabapple tree at her sister, Ally. Her dad’s deep voice would flood her ears as he taught her what leaves to pull and which plants coincided with which leaves. She remembered grabbing a white stem and feeling resistance, until with a ripping sound, a radish had emerged covered in dirt. She had been proud, her grubby fingers brushing off the dirt and polishing the red bulb on her shirt. Radishes had been her dad’s favorite, and she had been determined to like them too. She remembered the sharp, hot flavor of the juice, the crispness like an apple.
83
She imagined what it would be like to wake up at sunrise, her only purpose for the day to tend to this rooftop paradise with the sun on her back. To live always in the way that she had as a child, following in her father’s footsteps. The reflective windows surrounding her seemed to disapprove as they digested the offices within. The bass of a passing car shockwaved the stillness of the rooftop, and she turned to consider the slender fence that guarded the sky. For all she knew, it could be a piece of cardboard precisely cut with an Exact-o knife, a simply constructed illusion. She had never approached the fence, had always let other tenants garden the perimeter of the roof. The thought of being so close to the edge sent cold chills prickling over her skin. The fence meant nothing, just a symbol that the open sky was off limits to humans. Birds could never capture the meaning of that fence, the idea of it as a barrier. How could she blame anyone for wanting to challenge it? She wondered if Dan Lockman had ever gardened up here, or if, maybe, a week ago had been his first venture up the metal stairs. She imagined him stopping to consider the ferns, marigolds, the climbing morning glories
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Emily Richart
Through the Trees
that she had watered every day. Or maybe he had just relished the smell of sun-baked soil as he continued to walk straight through that fence. Whenever a tragedy occurred, large or small scale, Miranda always felt a sense of detachment—the basic intuitive motive of self-preservation reminding her that as long as she was alive, nothing else mattered. The sun was setting and a chill traveled through the air, the edges of the garden creeping further inwards. She turned and descended the stairs, each step pulling her back into the world of concrete and steel, further and further away from her father’s familiar footsteps. The screen of her phone was flashing from the counter as Miranda hung her spade back up on the wall. She flipped it open and saw that she had a missed call from her sister and a voicemail. She dialed her password and immediately heard the velvet twang of Ally’s voice fill her ears. Ally started with her usual warm greeting, and talked about her son Jason starting his sophomore year of high school. There was a small pause in the message, and then, “But Miranda? I was really calling to make sure everything was okay. I heard about your neighbor and that’s—well, that’s just
such a sad situation. Jason mentioned meeting Dan once and he sounds like he was a very nice man. So if you need anything, let me know okay? Jason always loves visiting you and seeing the city so maybe he can come soon.” She heard the awkwardness on the phone. “Maybe I’ll drive in tomorrow and stop by. Just call me back. Love you.” The phone clicked. Miranda wondered when Jason had ever met Dan Lockman. Her own interactions with him had only been slight encounters on the main stairwell or the elevator. He would always ask how she was doing or if she needed anything. She would always respond politely, feeling slightly uncomfortable near this man with longer graying hair, his face aged by the sun. He never looked like he belonged among the towering steel buildings in the city; the reflective windows shot his difference back at him. She turned on the stove and warmed up the skillet and a pot of water. Chopping pieces of chicken breast into neat strips, she threw them in and listened to them sizzle and pop on the iron. When the water began to boil, she threw in some
crisps noodles, keeping one to herself and biting it between her teeth. She ate at the counter without sitting down, burning her mouth on the buttery chicken and noodles, the grease coating her lips. She threw her bowl in the sink and curled up on the couch. Flipping on the TV, she immediately turned the volume entirely down, watching the faces of the newscasters switch from disturbed to elated in seconds, with pictures of destruction or joy following. She picked up a book on her side table that a friend had let her borrow and began reading, becoming absorbed in the story of a woman who leaves home with no plan except to drive until she runs out of gas, settling wherever she landed. A knock sounded on the door, faint and apologetic, causing Miranda’s hand to shake and ruffle the pages. She shuffled to the door on one numb foot and saw the distorted image of a gray-haired man, his face pointed towards his shoes. She hadn’t spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Boxley since the day she moved in, and she wondered why Mr. Boxley had come alone. She remembered that day, and how their faces had shown concern when she told them about her dad’s death, her unenthusiastic
85
description of her job in advertising, her childhood home in a small town. Even now, she wondered why she had spoken so freely to them. She opened the door and Mr. Boxley slowly looked up. “Hello dear,” he said quietly, the lines in his face compressed with concern. “Hey Mr. Boxley, how are you?” She wasn’t quite sure what to say and fidgeted in the door. “Do you want to come in?” “Oh no no, I just wanted to stop by.” He paused, looking behind her into her apartment and then looked sharply into her eyes. “You doin’ okay, hun?” “Yeah, why?” “Well with Dan and everything. Daisy told me how you two—well how you two were seeing each other and that.” “Seeing each other?” She straightened her shirt. Mr. Boxley shuffled the toe of his brown shoe against the hallways carpet. “Well it
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Emily Richart
Through the Trees
doesn’t matter anyway hun, Daisy mainly wanted me to check on you so I came here directly.” “Well we weren’t seeing each other. I mean, I am sad to hear what happened, but I’m fine.” “Well you know Daisy, she thought the man was in love with ya.” He chuckled quietly, still scrutinizing her face with his gray eyes, looking for a quivering chin or swollen eyes to report back to his wife. “Anyways, some of us are getting together tonight on the roof for a sort of ceremony if you want to come. Everyone’s pretty shook up about it and don’t really know what to think, so we all thought it would be a good idea to take some time and remember Dan, regardless of whether hewell you know- did it himself. We’ll be lighting candles and everything.” “Well thanks for inviting me Mr. Boxley.” She was surprised that Dan was such a popular figure among the tenants. Maybe she had missed out on something in the community. “Did you know him well?” Mr. Boxley pressed the toe of his shoe into the carpet more. “He was a fine young man,
but I only ever talked to him in the halls. It’s a tragedy really. Daisy cried the day we found out.” “Well tell her I’m thinking about her, but I don’t know about tonight. I don’t do well with those sorts of things.” Miranda imagined all the tenants up on the roof, their shoes interwoven among the flowers that she tended everyday. She felt the need to run up to the garden and put up a fence to guard the soil from stomping feet. Mr. Boxley seemed to approve of her response, probably gleaning some shift of the eye to report back as a broken heart. “All right hun, well you have a good night now.” “Thank you”, she said to his permanent shrug as he walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, she grabbed a jacket and climbed the metal stairs again, emerging in the moonlight that traced the outlines of the garden. This is what he would have seen, she thought. She knew Dan Lockman’s death was still under investigation, but how could anyone doubt that he had chosen his fate? He must have
thought it would be a beautiful death, falling from the serene garden to the filth and chaos below, only aware of the air around him filled with the sweet smells of lilies and roses. She wondered what he thought in that moment when he defied the fence and jumped. Mr. Boxley’s sad eyes seemed to stare at her from the ominous edge. She laughed at the idea of herself and Dan Lockman being in love, the idea of people desperately grasping at threads in the face of tragedy, attempting to make some kind of connection. She began taking slow sure steps towards the fence at the boundary of the garden. Her dad used to tell her how he had been forbidden to wander away from the house at nightfall, how he could always hear the howls of coyotes issuing from the veil of the pine branches. The pine forest that bordered his family’s farm could not be controlled like the rest of the land where he and his brothers worked. It was a separate place with its own rules, that often came in to destroy his own. The tops of the nearby buildings loomed around her space, a forest in their own right, their windows gazing silently. They had been the solemn witnesses of Dan’s final living moments.
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She thought about her Dad, a weak blood vessel in his brain stalking his every move, threatening to pounce. She wondered what he had thought when it happened, what had run through his blood-flooded brain as he dropped his coffee cup and landed in the glass, alone. She wondered if he had thought anything at all, or if he had just disappeared in the moment with no warning. She remembered the call from earlier in the day and wondered whether the alarm was still sounding from behind that closed door. Unsure of which apartment was Dan’s, she began a journey through the labyrinth of hallways, listening and watching. Finally she came to a door with several humble pots of flowers directly in front. Some were beautiful swirled clay; others simple clear vases, but all contained beautiful clippings that she recognized well from the rooftop. A few cards littered the floor, and a sticker clinging to the doorframe drew her eye. It read: Pray for his soul. A website about suicide and the Bible was scrolled across the bottom. She was astonished by the response to this man’s death. She wished that she felt the need to place flowers by his door, or to cry over this man. She began to
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think about his family and how they would grieve, willing her eyes to moisten, but they did not. She even thought about the day she learned her dad had died, how she had felt her every childhood memory lose its sheen of magic. Still, she did not cry. She walked back down the hallway of doors identified only by numbers and curled into bed, wondering what she was missing. The next morning, Ally called again to announce her imminent arrival. Miranda had fidgeted around her apartment for hours, noticing how her windows were covered only in blinds and not curtains, how her walls lacked any nails or pictures, how white the counters were. Every empty shelf seemed to scream of the transient lifestyle that she had lived ever since her hurried escape to the city. When their Dad had died following a stroke, Ally had seemed to suck any emotion or useful task right out of the air, leaving Miranda feeling limp and useless. She remembered the funeral, how busy Ally had been organizing pictures and calling relatives, the sound of her crying well into the night. Miranda had slept well and never seemed to find anything helpful to keep busy with. She felt her father’s absence as an absence of
warmth, an absence of that rich voice full of stories that now would never be told, leaving her cold and stoic. Tears couldn’t fill that absence, and so she didn’t cry. Instead, she took a job offer that she never would have normally considered and drove to the city. Still though, her chest always constricted a little when she saw Ally and heard about her happy life in the old farmhouse with her husband and her fifteen year old son, Jason. So that morning she went up to the garden and clipped some tulips, then placed them on the counter. She pulled some blankets out of the closet and threw them haphazardly around the living room. She placed the book that she had been reading on an empty shelf, but decided that it simply accentuated the emptiness. The door creaked and the chain rattled. Miranda caught a sliver of Ally’s round face, her blue grey eyes that always looked surprised, the dimple in her chin.
“Looks good! So you still like it here?“ “Yeah! I’m finally settling in and I really like it.” Miranda was surprised she could hold Ally’s bright gaze. “Great!” They sat in silence, but Miranda could see that Ally was bursting to say something. Miranda looked at her, brighteyed and attentive. “Well if you don’t have anything new, I’ve been wanting to ask you about this. The other night I had this dream where Rob and I were building a new house and it was by the ocean and I was holding a baby. We seemed so happy, and I felt happy just watching it in my dream. Now I don’t know if that baby was just supposed to be Jason when he was little or if it’s a sign you know? What do you think?” “Well do you want a baby, Ally?” Miranda already knew the answer. Ally just smiled meaningfully.
Miranda sighed and unlatched the door, muttering a quiet greeting as she felt her sister’s slender arms wrap around her. They sat down and Ally immediately launched in, looking around the apartment.
“Well then maybe it just showed up in your dream because that’s what you’ve been thinking about.”
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“Yeah, I thought of that.” Ally played with the fringe on the blanket. “But it felt different and when I told Rob he said that it was his childhood dream to live by the ocean. He has never told me that before, but it was still in my dream.” Miranda wanted to pull the stops on the sarcastic edge that was fighting to infuse her voice. “So you’re going to move and have a baby because of this dream?” “Well–” “What does Jason think of all this?” Miranda had always felt that she and Jason had a lot in common. She could see him staring off at the wall, nodding thoughtfully as his mom described her dream to him in great detail. He was beginning to look older every time she saw him, but his face still retained a little bit of roundness. “It was just a dream, Mom,” he would say, waiting for her to finally ask him about his life, his day at school, anything.
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“I haven’t told him yet. Rob and I are still talking about it. Wouldn’t that be so exciting!” Ally said. Miranda nodded, she was thinking about the flowers outside Dan’s apartment. “So what’s new with your life?” Ally’s question made Miranda’s chest feel tight and watery. Fifteen minutes into the conversation and she had finally asked. She’s improving, Miranda thought. She told Ally about the new project at the office, an ad for toothpaste, and how it was taking up most of her time. She told her about her recent night out for a friend’s birthday, not mentioning that the friend was also a co-worker and that she had left early. She didn’t tell Ally about the garden, even though it was constantly on her mind, the roots of the plants curling down the stairs, reminding her that they would expect her at six o’clock. “So did you know that Dan guy at all?” Miranda thought about the people gathering on the roof, wondering if any of those grievers had really known him. “Not very well, no.”
“I just remember Jason going on and on about him that one day when I dropped him off. You weren’t home or something and Dan saw him sitting by your door and talked to him until you got back. He offered to teach Jason guitar or something.” “I didn’t even realize that was him.” Miranda was surprised by how seven months could blur a memory so completely. “That was when I first moved here.” “Yeah. Do you really think he committed suicide?” Miranda thought of the sticker on the doorframe. What did it matter? “What else could it have been? No one around here would have dragged Dan Lockman up the stairs and pushed him off the-” “Remember Lauren Jameson? I still wonder sometimes what made her do it. It’s strange looking back, realizing how young she really was.” That had been in high school. Miranda remembered the unsettled rufflings of the
entire school. The normal ruts engraved by individual feet in the hallways had gone unused as students unexpectedly dashed to the bathroom, the guidance counselor, or a friend’s locker. When she had dared to look up from her daily rut in the floor, she had met only somber expressions from the other students. The classrooms had seemed brighter, the fluorescent lights more familiar, the teachers friendlier. Everyone found comfort in familiarity, in the common atmosphere of reassurance. Surely no one, student or teacher, was responsible for Lauren Jameson’s undoing, or were they? Miranda remembered her feelings towards it all. She and Lauren had been friends in elementary school, but middle school had torn them apart. Sure, she wondered why Lauren had done it, but she had not burst into tears in the middle of class or left candy and poems at Lauren’s locker. She had just followed her normal rut, accepting Lauren’s reasons, whatever they had been. “Who knows, I think sometimes people just see that as the only escape.” “I guess.” Ally paused, pulling threads out of the couch. “They could have just driven away to the city like you did.”
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“What are you trying to say?” Miranda knew this would happen. “You know what I’m saying Miranda. You just left. You left me to sort through everything with Dad’s death and did nothing to help me.”
sounding in your apartment and we were calling to che—” “I’m–“ Miranda’s voice shook and she paused to compose herself. “This is the second time your company has called me and I am not Dan Lockman. He’s d–. Just take me off of your list please.”
“You didn’t leave much for me to help with.” Miranda thought of all the picture displays, “Of course ma’am, I’m so sorry for that and of Ally’s incessant crying. mistake. I will change it in our computers right now.” “I needed your help!” Miranda hung up the phone. It was 6:15 “I don’t think you did.” Miranda sat quietly, and she still hadn’t been to the garden. She wishing her sister would leave. Her chest curled up on the couch and read some more, was loosening and expanding, the tension her eyes continually drawn, not to the clock expanding into burning energy. on the wall, but to the spade hanging on the nail. The thought of climbing those Ally stood up from the couch and walked stairs made her palms sticky. She took out, closing the door quietly behind her. some sleep medicine and went to bed at Miranda stayed on the couch, thinking seven o’clock, unable to focus on the story. about what her Dad would think of all this. For the next two days she lay in bed, unsure if she was sick or just trying to be. Every Her phone began to vibrate, moving night at six o’clock, she would glance at the across the counter towards her in its spade hanging on the wall, the roots of the urgency. She answered. garden above creeping deeper and deeper towards her. “Hello, this is Tate Security calling for Dan Lockman. Sir, it appears that an alarm is
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The ferns towered above her like a whole new city, waving their fronds in a lazy warning. Orbs quivered on dandelion stalks, the seeds drifting towards the moon or landing in the tulips that opened and closed in some soundless rhythm, their red mouths revealing yellow tongues. Miranda sensed something hunting her and could see the shadows shift behind the curtain of climbing vines that obscured the corner. She buried herself in a fern and watched the darkening edges of the garden, impulsively digging her nails into the soil. “Dad?” She heard her voice, but didn’t feel it sound in her throat. Instead, it seemed to float high above her. She thought she saw a figure move behind the vines, two yellow spheres watching her over the arch of a marble beak. The figure rose from the ground and Miranda felt the sweep of its tapered wings, the black feathers grasping on like survivors. Ducking, she escaped the grasp of its eager talons, and when she straightened, Dan Lockman was standing in front of her. His eyes were the large yellow eyes of the bird and seemed to consume his whole face.
“You knew more about me than anyone in this entire city.” “How?” “Because you’re like me. You don’t belong here.” “Why did you kill yourself ?” She faced him. Dan Lockman’s yellow eyes narrowed, and she could see that he would never answer her question. “I came up here every morning before sunrise to garden. It was the time I felt most alive because I could stop and think for once. You know that feeling, I can tell.” “Yes.” “But you stopped coming up here because what I did got through to you.” “I’ve been sick.” “No, you’re scared to think about it. You don’t want to experience what I did. You don’t want to admit that you’re just like me.”
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His shadows shifted and he advanced towards her. She backed up towards the edge, approaching the fence. She felt for the metal, grasped for it behind her, but her nails only scraped cardboard. It disintegrated, crumbling in her palm. “I am not you, Dan Lockman!” She fell backwards, and Dan Lockman’s face shifted into the familiar patterns of the face she had known since childhood. Something in the yellow eyes of her father overwhelmed her, and she felt a warmth flood her brain and her body. “Hello, this is Tate Security calling for Dan Lockman. There seems to be–“ She was clutching her phone against her sweaty cheek, in her room. She felt her body gasp for a breath, “I am not Dan Lockman!” She cried, waiting for the ensuing apology. “Miranda?” Ally’s voice flooded the phone.
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Miranda lay in silence. “Hey, well I was just calling about earlier.” “Yeah? Hey let me call you back.” “No, I really am sorry for bringing up Dad. I know it hit you harder than me, but I just never understood why you left.” “Yeah, I don’t really understand it either. I’m going to call you back.” Miranda hung up the phone and slid into a pair of slippers. She sneaked up the metal stairs and breathed a little sigh of relief when she saw the plants had returned to their normal size. Kneeling, she grabbed a handful of dirt, then watched it sift between her fingers as she walked steadily towards the fence that bordered the roof. Her muscles tensed as she clasped the metal rail in her hand, looking down to the street below, busy with people running to work. She was level with the tallest buildings, could see their roofs and ladders, the inner workings of the machine. The city crawled
forward, cars traveling the concrete vines that wove between the giant structures. Every time she breathed in, she could smell the dirt that lingered on her palm, could feel her body absorb every element that made up this place. She felt her own connection to the city. Her connection was not to the steel and exhaust, but to the dirt underneath, the underground network of roots and life that secretly drives all the life above. The city was the forest and she understood it, just as she had understood when she toppled backwards from the roof. The feeling overwhelmed her and she didn’t need to cry. Tomorrow she would leave the city and go home, move into the family house as her sister left it to follow her dream. Dan Lockman was wrong; she was not giving up or running away. She would work with the earth just as her Dad had, but unlike him—unlike Dan—she would not fear the forest that surrounded her patch of land. Instead she would embrace it with all the grace of falling backwards.
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