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Dear Readers, Being president of The Crucible has been enlightening, educational, and fun, and I’m sad to be stepping down. Every semester presents its own unique challenges and triumphs, and the product becomes better and better with time. My dream is that someday the Crucible will become a “household name.” The Crucible is more than a simple college literary magazine. It’s a place for our students to present and showcase their achievements. It’s a creative outlet, an avenue for blossoming recognition. The Crucible provides our editors with experience in publishing ventures and our submitters with an introduction to the publishing process. I want The Crucible to continue to flourish in the future, as it has for over sixty years. So, enjoy this edition and share it. This is your moment to shine—to show what you, and our community, are capable of. We would like to extend our thanks to Lisa Zimmerman, our advisor and supporter, Student Council, Buffalo Wild Wings, TCBY and The English Department. Thank you stereo-type and northerndawn for providing the fonts and textures used in creating graphics. We would also like to thank Sigma Tau Delta and Write for Market for helping with advertising. And, of course, our sincerest thanks to the featured writers and artists, without whom this edition would not exist. Good Reading, Jessamyn Hutchins President & Editor-in-Chief & The Crucible staff
Staff PRESIDENT & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
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Jessamyn Hutchins
VICE PRESIDENT & CO-EDITOR-IN-CHIEF FACULTY ADVISOR
Lisa Zimmerman
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SECRETARY CREATIVE DIRECTOR
Lexy Alemao
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Danielle Rich
Lashanah Tillar
TREASURER l Jeremiah Strong MEDIA MANAGER EDITOR EDITOR
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Drew Meile
Maddie Siegle
Hannah-Jayne Duran
EDITOR
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EDITOR EDITOR
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Elliot Lawful l
Jordan Baca
Tamara Faour
T ab l e
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Con t en t s
P o e t r y Hannah-Jayne Duran
Fairy Tale Morning
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December - 2 a.m.
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Illegal Fireworks
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Chase Owens
Finer Wines
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Danny P. Babare
Rocky the Raccoon
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Emryse Geye
An Archipelago of Intention
Lashanah Tillar Tayler Smith
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What I Didn’t Write in that Last Love Poem, Because the Metaphor Was Wrong
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Backwater Gospel
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Hyakuichi
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Spring Awakening
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She Saw Beauty in All Things
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Awaiting a Death Sentence
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p r o s e Lashanah Tillar
Lost Ending
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Jessamyn Hutchins
The Long Dark Road
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Dan Rink
Self Love
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Maddie Siegle
Models and Mudpies
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Jordan Baca
Bone Pipe
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r o s e n b e r r y Jason Keller
Nighthawks
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Kate Levin
When Mourning Comes
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Lashanah Tillar
Revelations
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Jeremiah Strong
Did You Ever Read The Old Man And The Sea? (After Dean Young)
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To The Girl Who Reads A Diagnosis Like Crispy Leaves
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a r t Lydia Carswell
Heartbeat
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Jordan Baca
Advance
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Untitled
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P oet r y
Carswell | CRUCIBLE
1
Hannah-Jayne Duran
FAIRY TALE MORNING 8 am classes are messy buns and sweatpants. Hands clutching to energy drinks and paper coffee cups with orders scribbled in sharpie. But in one corner, head resting on arms crossed on the desk: Sleeping Beauty. Her curls don’t move until the final bell and when she wakes she is fresh as a red, red rose. But look here, in another corner. Slumped to the side, face in the hood of his sweater, a notebook and pen on the desk in an illusion of attention: Rip van Winkle. His neck is at an awkward angle and when he wakes it feels as if years have passed.  
2 CRUCIBLE | Duran
Hannah-Jayne Duran
DECEMBER – 2 A.M. Is it late? Is it early? I must be the only soul awake. Snow is lit by the streetlamps and outside, nothing moves. I must be the only soul awake. My breath fogs the cold window and outside, nothing moves. The world is still, and hushed. My breath fogs the cold window and this must be contentment. The world is still, and hushed. I can do anything. This must be contentment. Snow is lit by the streetlamps and I can do anything. It is late. It is early.
Duran | CRUCIBLE 3
Hannah-Jayne Duran
ILLEGAL FIREWORKS It was summer. The sun had tanned you darker and freckled me like pointillism. My car was new, so I insisted, but it was hot even with the windows down as we drove to the middle of nowhere. It was June. The landscape rushed passed us and bugs speckled the windshield. The radio was fuzzy out here, but we didn’t care, so long as we could sing out of tune to the songs we recognized. It was evening. The sky was clear and the stars began to dot the sky. We set off the fireworks, hoping no one would catch us, and they lit the night with spectacular colors.
4 CRUCIBLE | Duran
Chase Owens
FINER WINES I wish, in the tavern of your heart, There was a spirit that might numb for me The ache of your indifference – A drink that might wash away the doubt And the hypocrisy and leave me Calling for another round. In this tavern, I would wish for a booth, Hidden in the corner behind clouds of pipe smoke And whispers of half-remembered secrets. I would sit and watch the door, Counting the liars and cheaters and drunks until, Finally, I saw your face among them. Then, there, in the tavern of your heart, I would lay down a coin or two And purchase your apologies. I would listen carefully and hopefully, Waiting for some truth to leak out of the Corner of your mouth. I wish, then, that in the tavern of your heart, There was a wine – aged and fermented Longer than I have known your name – A wine that we might sip upon Until the bottle is dry and our vision Is blurry. Then, I might find that when I taste your finer wines And, perhaps, taste them too much, You are clearer to me.
Owens | CRUCIBLE 5
And how very sad it is That I find I love you most When I’ve reached the bottom of the glass.
6 CRUCIBLE | Owens
Danny P. Barbare
ROCKY THE RACCOON On a cold winter night the raccoon eats pecans under the tree. It keeps its distance or rather I keep mine. I can hear its sharp teeth grinding on the paper shell. Wild! It stops. So I pick one up off the driveway and toss it its way to show the world can be kind even to a raccoon eating our delicious pecans. Eat up! Eat up! I say! You need a belly full before it snows.  
Barbare | CRUCIBLE 7
Emryse Geye
an archipelago of intention
as a child, I thought I would be better at praying, now. that, as an adult, each morning in my apartment: open eyes, put on slippers, make coffee, fall to knees-use my rosary like a tether, like it were something worth holding.
counting beads like steps from doorway to street
planting wishes like seeds, like waiting for bean stalks in the summer
lately: prayer feels like astronaut flying without wings, above a world that might have been mine, but feels safer nameless.
counting beads like stitches in favorite skirt, now more thread than there’re homes and worlds and galaxies out there, potentials waiting for exploration, for explanation. how could one possibly come back, knowing that in the very act of labeling landmark, they might be mistaken? planting baby teeth like sacrifice, like asking for more time
8 CRUCIBLE | Geye
sometimes, I think, that prayer might inherently be violent— if there are people that worry about bombs why would they ask for mercy? why call flies with honey, when we could use a hammer? counting beads like counting islands, like there’s a shore, just over the horizon
Geye | CRUCIBLE 9
Emryse Geye
WHAT I DIDN’T WRITE IN THAT LAST LOVE POEM, BECAUSE THE METAPHOR WAS WRONG a mother once told her only daughter: do not love the man who makes your hands shake; love the man who makes them still. my hands are still when i’m near you because you have become my hands, i think, and you never shake. when you hold my hands, (which are really your hands, maybe) i can see us holding hands until we are both very old, they are still my hands; we do not become one another, but i would give them to you, my still hands, if you asked. i would always hold out my hands to you.
10 CRUCIBLE | Geye
Lashanah Tillar
BACKWATER GOSPEL He chews on fake words like a child chews on the gospel of his parents, grubby fingers grasping half-truths and lost thoughts neither here nor there. Daddy strums a guitar made out of Mommy’s hair and the son pretends her screams are music. Daddy smiles, and each strum is another splatter of blood on cream-colored carpet. The son chews on fake scriptures, every taste another lie added to the dream. Shattered glass sleeps beneath his fingertips and Daddy doesn’t smile. Father, Son, and Ghost. How’s that for gospel?
Tillar | CRUCIBLE 11
Lashanah Tillar
窶ォYAKUICHI
12 CRUCIBLE | Tillar
Tayler Smith
SPRING AWAKENING She sleeps by an open window as cool, brisk breath blows gently over her. The curtains whisper how she’s beautiful, and I ask them not to wake her because I have stolen her from the moon and the stars.
Smith | CRUCIBLE 13
Tayler Smith
SHE SAW BEAUTY IN ALL THINGS Ra i n st r u g g l e s to love b e c a u se it falls and falls searching for someth ing to kiss.
14 CRUCIBLE | Smith
Tayler Smith
AWAITING A DEATH SENTENCE
Smith | CRUCIBLE 15
P r o s e
16 CRUCIBLE | Baca
Lashanah Tillar
LOST ENDINGS Consider the child wandering the bookstore, her light-up sneakers flashing with every step. She runs her hand over each book, feeling and thinking. When she finds one she might be interested in, she drags it off the shelf, the scent of dust and musty pages feeling her nose. She doesn’t read the beginning, or the back cover blurb. Instead she studies the cover for a moment, taking in everything it’s trying to express about the book. Her chubby fingers trace the bumps and contours of the front. Then, she flips to the last page and reads: And from this day on, Marnie never had to see a single witch again. The young girl crunches up her nose. What an awful ending, she thinks. She pops the book back on the shelf. She’s on the hunt for the perfect ending. The jittery bookstore clerk follows behind her. He recommends a great deal of pointless books the girl has no interest in, and a few she does. She hands him the books she likes and he dutifully carries them. A book on the bottom shelf catches her eye. It’s black and grey, with the grey spiraling into the silhouette of the crooked branches of a tree. She picks it up and flips to the last page: I AM DEATH. A smile graces her lips. Yes. She leaves the store clerk behind and goes in search of her mother. The woman stands in the romance section, covers filled with half-dressed men aggressively flexing their abs around semi-naked women. She looks bored when the young girl shows her the book. “Whatever,” she says, then takes the book and adds it to her stack. The girl runs back to the store clerk, who is still holding her potenTillar | CRUCIBLE 17
tial books. “I don’t want those anymore,” she says. “You can put them away.” In her excitement, she almost misses the unpleasant look the clerk sends her. Almost. She catches the downturned corners of his mouth as he shuffles out of sight. Her heart trembles in its cage as his frown follows her to the front of the store. But the bright smile of the cashier waves her troubles away. She places her book onto the smooth counter, then waits for her mother to do the same. The cashier peers down at her with glittering green eyes. “Did you find the book you were looking for?” He pushes his spectacles further up on his nose. The girl smiles. “Yes.”
18 CRUCIBLE | Tillar
Jessamyn Hutchins
THE LONG DARK ROAD Sunrise was an unwelcome visitor. Crystals of dew began to shake off coats of frost, and a chill breeze fluttered over the hills. One could almost watch life flush back into the sleepy world. Even the stones glowed with a new youth. It was ugly and vibrant in Jared’s eyes. Where once he might have become poetic and written an ode to Morning, he found himself wondering why the sun had gone and bled color over what had been perfectly good darkness. If it wasn’t for the warmth sunlight provided, he would have cursed it as bitterly as he did anything. As it was, Jared sat on his porch, wrapped in a bearskin, and sucked at an old pipe. Horns of smoke curled above his head. Bushy brows drooped over eyes that had lost none of their luster. Age hadn’t done quite as much to scar his skin as the frown he wore, but he wore it well. His countenance was what one might have expected to see if he had been a warlock. Imagination eagerly provided accessories to his figure—a black cat hidden behind his feet, a staff, or a tongue of silver. He looked like the type of man who would sit on his porch and curse passersby. That’s not to say he didn’t curse the occasional wanderer, but his tongue was perfectly ordinary, and he hated his own impotence. As the sun heaved her round body over the horizon, Jared found himself gazing down the road. The boy was late as usual. Tea didn’t brew itself, and livestock were incapable of solving their own problems. Those tasks belonged to the boy. Tired of gazing at the living world, Jared lifted himself from the chair and shambled into his house. Putting the kettle on was no large task. He simply disliked it. It required lifting, pushing, and patience. If he’d had company, he would have complained. Sitting alone in the single piece of furnishing inside, Hutchins | CRUCIBLE 19
however, he had no one to sympathize with him. But the fire was warm and the sound of boiling water lulled him. There was no better remedy for his frustrations. His chin was on his chest when the door opened. The boy strode into the house with confidence. He was master of a bravado strangers often assumed to be false. The skinny, little wisp-of-alad was many things, but fearful was not one of them. It was for that very reason he was the boy who came to milk Jared’s cow, feed Jared’s goats, and brush Jared’s horse. That boy, barely sixteen years old, was the only man in the world willing to look Jared in the eye. “I see you got the kettle on,” the boy said. Experience was an excellent tutor. The boy knew the old man wasn’t asleep, and he knew he was very late. For his part, Jared certainly hadn’t expected an apology to be the boy’s first consideration. “Don’t let it steep too long this time,” Jared said. Minutes later, he had a warm mug in his hands. He sipped at the tea as the boy flitted about. The fire was cleaned, the rug shaken. Laundry both vanished and reappeared on a ragged, make-shift line. Chill gusts of spring wind marked the boy’s comings and goings. All the warmth of the tea had leeched into Jared’s fingers before he thought to finish it. Again, he picked himself up and resumed his position on the porch. His feet set to rocking the chair, his eyes settled on the horizon, and his mind did all the wandering he was likely to do. Such adventures often led him nowhere. All he did was traverse weary old paths, always the same, even as the sun crossed the same road each day. Thinking only served to remind him of his guilt. A shadow fell over him. “Always the horizon, with you.” The boy was finished with his tasks for the day. He rested his elbows against the porch railing and grinned. “What’s so fascinating about staring out there anyway?” Jared looked at the boy, wondering if he was being teased. “What makes you think I’m looking at the horizon?” “What else is there to look at out there? Except the occasional sheep.” “The edge.” “You can’t see that from here.” “I just think about it, Boy.” “Well, you sure do think about it a lot, sir. Any reason in particular?” A bit of a thrill ran down Jared’s spine. He had been waiting some 20 CRUCIBLE | Hutchins
time for the boy to notice—to ask. He’d almost feared he would die before it happened. Eagerness and premeditation prompted his answer. If he seemed overly obliging, the boy didn’t notice. “My little brother,” Jared said, “always liked the edge. He said there was something beautiful in the idea of the place where sky and earth met space. I took him there, when I was just your age. He didn’t leave. I promised him that someday, I’d go and keep him company, but the years have passed so quickly, and I let myself get too old.” “Too old?” the boy asked. “I could never travel that far. Not now.” “Going there is something you wish you could do, then?” “In a heartbeat.” A solution didn’t present itself to the boy for some time. He frowned in a way that expressed his sorrow for the old man, excused himself and headed towards the dusty road. Ten paces down the path, he turned back suddenly and began to smile again. “You know, I can drive a cart,” the boy said. “I can cook, set up camp. Anything we’d need, really.” “We?” Jared sat forward in his chair. His eyes smoldered. “You can’t get to the edge of the world on your own, sir. But I can get you there. And I’m not going to take no for an answer. You need to see your brother. It won’t take us more than a week, and I can be back tomorrow with a cart and supplies.” Matters settled, the boy was soon gone, leading Jared’s animals behind him to be boarded at the village stables. Jared didn’t say a word. He drew out his pipe and packed it. Leaning back in his rocker, he silently congratulated himself. Praise quickly disintegrated into oaths. Some small, cowardly part of him had prayed matters would turn out differently. But he knew the boy too well, and the boy knew nothing about him. “Why couldn’t I just admit I’d done it when I had the chance?” There was no one to answer him. A long, cold night plagued Jared with concerns and a breathtaking sunrise was greeted by his complaints. The boy arrived with a small cart drawn by a sweet-tempered mule. Putting tired bones in motion, Jared vacated his rocking chair and left his home without so much as pausing to look back. The boy offered a strong hand as Jared clambered onto the seat. Hutchins | CRUCIBLE 21
Jared brought only himself and his bear-skin, everything else they needed was piled in the cart. The boy had made good preparations. Beneath them, the road was even and smooth as the cart lurched into motion. Hours slipped past their notice, and Jared sat while the boy talked. The boy spoke of many things, from his little sister to his sweetheart. It was the boy’s description of the sweet whir made by his father’s mill that caught Jared’s attention at last. He himself knew that hum well. It was a sound his brother had called sublime the day he’d learned the word. He himself had only ever heard the whir of mechanics and the battering of the sails—never any music. A familiar admiration tempered the boy’s voice as he spoke of the sound. Kindled memories only served to fortify Jared’s resolve. He huddled deeper in his bearskin and stared at the horizon until they stopped for the evening. Again, he slept uneasily when night fell. A woman met him in his dreams, pallid and gaunt. White rags fluttered around her figure as she regarded the old man. He said nothing to her, knowing his every thought was as clear as written text. She regarded him in equal silence until he stood on the cusp of waking: “I’ve met someone more selfish than I am,” she said, “and I’m Death.” Selfish. The accusation hung palpable about him that day, and he wore it among all his burdens. The boy perceived the extra weight. Jared’s shoulders sagged and the wrinkles on his face deepened. He dodged inquiries with the same panic of a man taking cover from a rain of arrows. Soon, he found himself speaking, and telling tales to the boy—if only just to make the questions stop. He spoke of his time as a mercenary soldier, and the day he chose to buy a plot of land and a cow. Mostly, he spoke of his brother, and the anticipation of a reunion grew in him daily. The wearied paths his mind traveled weren’t forgotten as the days passed. He simply began to feel those paths would finally lead him to an end. Only one road approached the edge, and even it couldn’t take them all the way. A steep stretch of hilly country with nothing more than narrow game trails barred their progress. Burdened with small packs, they left the cart and mule behind and forged ahead. The boy offered a strong 22 CRUCIBLE | Hutchins
shoulder for support. Jared doddered on, becoming oblivious to his physical discomfort as he became aware of his emotional distress. It manifested deep inside him and grew until it threatened to drag him in. He didn’t even notice the change in the sky until the boy made some remark. The stars near the edge were so bright, they could see them before the sun sank. Jagged spears of colored light snaked across the sky, faint and abstract. Though night fell, there was plenty of ethereal light to see by. It went unspoken between them that they should continue. Jared cursed his shaking legs. The boy made a muffled sound which expressed his wonder, as a grassy strip opened before them. The ground ended abruptly, and green blades stretched out over empty space. Star and stone seemed to blend seamlessly. For some time, the boy only wanted to stand and stare from a distance. Jared looked at him and shoved down a sharp reminder of guilt. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go closer.” The boy followed him. As they approached the end of the world, a golden halo of light grew beneath them. Somewhere under the earth, the sun still shone. Jared stepped forward until his toes brushed nothing. Beside him, the boy looked down, then took a step back with a shudder. “So, where do you suppose your brother is, exactly?” the boy said. Grass stretched as far as the eye could see on either side, and there was nothing else. Jared was still looking down into the hazy nebula of sunlight and stars. “I’ve been asking myself that for sixty years.” He’d made a promise. Sixty years he’d wondered what had happened to his brother, where he was among the vastness. He felt the boy lean over so that he could look down into space again. He knew the lad was about to ask more. An imperceptible shift toppled a cascade of dirt into the air. He muttered a question. “What?” the boy began. The earth gave way and crumbled beneath Jared. His organs shoved against his ribs and terror welled in his stomach as he came to a sharp stop. He knew the boy too well. The boy was fast, and stronger than he looked, and had a firm grip on Jared’s hand. His red face gazed down at the old man, afraid. “I’ve got you!” the boy said. Hutchins | CRUCIBLE 23
The boy began to pull, but shifting worsened the problem. Strange wind whipped Jared’s beard and stung his eyes. His old pipe slipped from his pocket and plummeted. He turned his gaze from it to the boy. Tears fell onto his face. “It’ll be fine,” Jared said. All he needed to do was get the boy to let go.
24 CRUCIBLE | Hutchins
Dan Rink
SELF LOVE 1 The sky above the marsh was stained with what Barnaby could only discern as the purest shade of red he’d ever seen. The sun was setting, plummeting behind stretches of shadowy-black bulrush. Redness fell on the stagnant gashes of water, over the knots of trees in the distance, and across Barnaby’s sunken-in chest. The scene weighed down on his lungs; he found himself consciously willing air inward, and so was promptly reminded that no amount of deep breathing could calm his ever trembling hands. Quietly they shook in his jacket pockets. All through the long, silent summer, Barnaby stumbled over many a dark, repetitive thought. But after losing all that he cherished, it was the image of the vaporous marsh which floated up in his mind and stood out, filling his head like mist, nagging like some stubborn, immovable splinter. Although Barnaby was an expert on excision, the marsh’s allure was a splinter of a more mysterious wood. It was prickly. It was at the same time glaring and elusive. So he climbed into his truck every evening and drove out of town and across the plains. For hours in the stuffy truck he drove, until the parched landscape, which reached out endlessly on either side of the road, transformed into a wet, lush, tangle. The marsh was the only place where he felt better. The marsh where as a child, Barnaby had captured a vast number of gentle creatures, dissecting them using nothing but the sharp fronds of the yucca plants residing there. So here Barnaby was at the marsh yet again, watching the sun vanish. “Suture, suture – future,” Barnaby mumbled. No matter how hard Rink | CRUCIBLE 25
he clenched his pocketed fists, the tremor-ridden hands would not cease their wobbling. With a heavy heart he turned and embraced the trail. Today was the first day Barnaby had no one to go home too. He planned to make this walk a long one. Better yet, it would be, to disappear into the foliage and not come back at all. When he stopped again to look around, it was night. Barnaby walked on. All the slithers of the marsh magnified. Barnaby tried to empty his head for at least a moment to listen. Waterfowl flapped and toads croaked. On a distant pool, a marsh deer silently slipped its feet into the water like black silk stockings. Barnaby eyed the deer, envying its vacant, care-free gaze, its thin head. Nothing bouncing around in there. Soon Barnaby came to a split in the path. His usual route veered left to follow the edge of the water where the earth was plush and warm from the day. Remembering the cavernous house that waited for him back in town, Barnaby went right. The longer, the better. The walking calmed him and even his hands would tremble less, or so he liked to think. As he traveled on, the puddles widened and he leaped more than he did walk. This warmed him in the slick light of the moon. He hoped in vain that the exercise would calm his shaking hands. They remained pocketed. When Barnaby regained balance after a rather wide leap, a small, pink sound pierced the night and Barnaby stood still. Having taken so many walks through the marsh and exploring so much of it in childhood, he doubted any bird or animal could have made the sound. He gazed over the land and the cool, metallic sheets of water. Somewhere, a frog splashed into a pool he couldn’t see. Barnaby looked down at a nearby puddle and, seeing his reflection, quickly moved himself. He did not want to see those gaunt eyes, that useless face. So he continued, slower now, until he came upon a dark furrow of earth amongst the reeds. The ditch curved out into the center of the marsh and sloped downward into blackness. As Barnaby approached, he noticed that the air had lost its sun-kissed warmth. Night’s chill welled up around him. The thought of returning to his chasmal house flooded his mind, but Barnaby opted for descent. Stalks climbed higher around him as he went. It was minutes before the pink sound erupted again. It groaned. Somewhere in the back of Barnaby’s mind, he knew that he should have been afraid. But what did he have to lose? Barnaby pushed his way 26 CRUCIBLE | Rink
through the dark. Soon there was no sound of bird or insect wings. The last scraps of starlight were muffled by a looming tree. In this pit he stood, listening. “More nothing . . .” he said, his voice crackling. Naked silence. And then the pink voice filled it like a popped balloon. Frigid blue soaked through his pant leg when he tripped and hit the ground. He sputtered as he crawled through the puddle and pressed his back against the trunk of the tree. Clutching his shirt he breathed. When the sound whimpered again, he found his light and shined it in front of him. The beam wavered on the face of a human body. After Barnaby’s shock faded, again he wondered where his fear had gone, for all he felt was pity for what he saw. It stretched out its arm. Raw muscle was visible through a deep wound below the elbow. It tautened as it strained towards Barnaby. The individual features of the face, the nose, the eyes, and the skin, had been disfigured, cut, and almost completely destroyed. The frown was a deep, violet gash where the mouth should have been. It made helpless grunts as Barnaby examined the rest of the body, which too, was beyond recognition. He searched for signs of life, the possibility of survival. Barnaby’s whole body ached at the sight of the bone shards piercing out of the arms and legs. He had not seen a fracture this bad in quite some time. In the languorous summer months, his days now vacant, Barnaby had grown unaccustomed to the sight of broken bodies. But now heat radiated off this mangled human, warming Barnaby’s shivering hands. Barnaby felt the eyes were looking at him, though he couldn’t be sure. The expression on its face was asking. Asking for – he wasn’t sure what. He knelt, his hands trembling as he continued to inspect the body. The voice was pained at his touch, but warmer than before. Barnaby was unsure that the body would survive the long trip home. Surely, it would not survive the drive all the way to the hospital in the center of the city. But maybe Barnaby could help. Maybe if he paced is trembling hands, he could keep this soul alive. By its better arm he dragged the body from the pit and up the ditch. He carried it over the many pools of water, his shoes sinking into the watery marsh bed. He lugged the body onto the back seat of his truck and sped away.
Rink | CRUCIBLE 27
2 Barnaby and his wife had designated a number of rooms in the house for private practice. In one of the rooms, Barnaby prepared a cot for the body. It lay limp and raw under bright, surgical lights. A mural of pinks and reds where the skin should have been was interrupted by jagged bone protruding from the forearm and thigh. Repairing the skeleton occurred to Barnaby first. “Who did this to you?” Barnaby said, leaning over the body. In response it only dragged its better hand from the cot and rested it on its chest, as if to say, me. “It’s a miracle you’re alive,” Barnaby said. It moaned with what Barnaby could only discern as a rare mixture of pain and relief. Barnaby probed the femur with one gloved, trembling hand. “I’m a quivering mess,” Barnaby said. It placed a ravaged hand on Barnaby’s arm in response. l
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Carefully Barnaby gathered the materials and laid them out in three rows. It was a meditation of focus, laying them out evenly. An attempt to calm his nerves and still his hands. The sleek scalpels felt cool in his grasp; his frock hung limply around his body, mint-green. After Barnaby sedated the patient and examined the x-ray thoroughly, he cut his way through to the radius and ulna. Next Barnaby set the bones in place as if he was pitching a stubborn tent. He fit the metal plates along the bone and drilled the screws in. For hours he worked over the body. The work took twice as long with his unsteady fingers. After two more hours of tight lips and shallow breath, Barnaby stapled the last stitch in the leg and stood back. Pools of sweat glistened around his collar bones. His body swayed with exhaustion. As Barnaby hooked the body up to a network of life-sustaining, pain-numbing tubes, a heavy, flooring sleepiness seeped into his own arms and legs. He crawled into bed that night, imprinting the white sheets with the rosy tones left over on his frock. When he awoke the next day, the sunlight shone through the horizontal slats of the blinds and made shapes on the wall. They looked like spines. Orange vertebra made of light. 28 CRUCIBLE | Rink
3 Barbara’s hair unloosed from a tight bun like twists of ocean sand settling in water. “I can’t pass this one up,” she said. Near the front door an aquamarine suitcase stood upright, handle extended. “I know it’s a little earlier than I planned.” “You’re going,” Barnaby said through tight lips, “Now?” His hand skittered across kitchen countertop and fell under the table. “I know this is a hard time for you,” she said, “But it’s all temporary. Just do what they told you. Take care of yourself for a while.” With a single fist she nudged the air between them. Her pearl bracelet slid down her forearm and stuck at the elbow. Her mouth smiled, while her eyes remained cold bergs. “C’mon, what do we always say?” she said. “Suture, suture – future. Things will always turn out–” “–alright,” he said flatly. He had finished her sentence, but made sure not to give her the gratification of the smile that threatened to split his face. After all, it was he who came up with the “suture” saying, anyway. “When will you be back?” Barnaby said. She was looking down at the marble surface of the countertop, tracing the dark places with a finger. “I don’t know,” she said. Barnaby watched her swirling fingertip. “I just have to see where this takes me,” she said. This was going to take her and swallow her whole. It seemed entirely convenient to Barnaby, that soon after he stopped operating at the hospital, his wife was offered this prestigious position on the coast. She said she was just going to test it out for a while. He couldn’t help but envision Barbara meeting some other, handsome surgeon. A New York surgeon. One that was younger, still in his thirties like Barbara, maybe, and all the more dexterous than Barnaby’s trembling self. They’d fall in love, Barbara and this New York surgeon, and study each other’s bodies with stealthy surgeon hands. She’s already in the business of forgetting me, Barnaby thought. The front door shut behind her. The cab hummed away.
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He sat at the kitchen island alone and heard a draft slam the shutters on the third floor of the house. 4 The body lay peacefully after the first operation. While the large fractures healed, Barnaby mended smaller cracks in the skeleton. Body function and vitals remained at healthy levels, which baffled Barnaby to no end. For the damage that this body had taken, death should have come quickly. But the state of the patient did not change, so Barnaby allowed for longer periods of recovery time. Barnaby was certainly grateful to have a guest in the house. He dripped water into its mouth, as well as a steady supply of apple sauce. He cleaned as much of the blood away as he could and the smell of iron in the air loosened. He cleared its daily messes. After each long day of caretaking, Barnaby slept deeply. Each night deeper than the last. One night, somewhere in the blurred lines between dream and reality, Barnaby heard a sputtering sound. He could not hear that the true source of the noise was the body in the operating room, suffocating loudly. Instead, he dreamed a fire hydrant had cracked and was leaking noisily into a gutter. And in a nearby house, a baby spat red carrot mash at its mother. Red carrots . . . But soon the windows of the house took on a dark, red tinge, and the babe was scared and shrieked. And the red carrots transformed into clotting blood on the kitchen tiles. The fire hydrant, again. Bright red. Its sputtering thickened. The gutter clogged. When the choking sounds finally yanked Barnaby into waking, he found both himself and his patient gasping for air. His lungs burned as he ran to the body’s side. Blood had spattered on its cot and dribbled down its chin. It panted and wheezed for air. It whined. Barnaby stood stunned and stared. The eyes of his patient bored into his. Desperately, the body grabbed Barnaby by the shirt and pulled him close. Barnaby’s lips hung at an intimate distance from the mouth-hole of its face. He understood. The kiss was salt. Out of breath, Barnaby huffed into the body as smoothly as he could. He took its air and gave it back. For a long minute they shared their lungs, and then the arm that held Barnaby close released him. The breathing of the body slowly returned to normal. Barn30 CRUCIBLE | Rink
aby wiped the blood off his mouth with his sleeve, and then resolved to set up a second operating table for himself. He would sleep here from now on. Barnaby listened to the breathing of the his patient that night, syncing the rhythm of his own breathing to his patient’s. They fell asleep side by side and Barnaby woke during the night only to give more air. 5 The incision bloomed wide in front of Barnaby and his team of scrub nurses, his anesthetist, and a pair of profusionists, who flanked the heartpumps at the edge of the operating room. They had all seen such a sight in countless surgeries, but still the twitching heart in the open air had made their faces moist and flushed. “Forceps,” Barnaby said, and a clean pair was handed to him. “More cold, please,” Barnaby said. It was when the nurse poured the cold water over the heart that Barnaby sensed he was beginning to shake. A flood of pressure mounted in his ears. His green mask flared as he breathed. He observed the cool stream of water flowing, the sheen of the metal clamp that flexed the ribcage open. “Steady,” he said, and realized that he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. The anesthetist looked up from the head of the patient, her eyes glistening. For a moment Barnaby noticed the smooth, calm wrinkles running along her masked face. The nurses’ eyes darted weirdly at Barnaby. “Sucker, please,” and the sucker slurped. Never had the tremors affected his work until this hateful moment. By the time Barnaby was well into the left atrium, he realized the operation might be out of his hands. The damage on the mitral valve was far worse than predicted. “I might need a little back up, here,” Barnaby said to the nurse beside him. She nodded and hurried away. As the seconds ran on, Barnaby worked slower and slower, carefully threading the needle through the heart tissues during the short moments in which the tremors abated. Just as slowly, full control of his steady handedness began to return. Nearly a minute later, the nurse and another surgeon rushed through the door. “I’ve got it, thank you,” Barnaby said shakily, “I’ve got it.” Rink | CRUCIBLE 31
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Three months later, Barnaby sat in a warm, moist office chair, trembling worse than ever before. “I’m afraid we’re stumped.” Barnaby could only discern his doctor’s face––or doctors’ faces, as he had seen a number of specialists––as an unsettling amalgamation of defeat and resignation. “We’ve ruled out Parkinson’s, MS, and just about everything. It’s not your thyroid. You say the meds aren’t working, and we’re running out of options.” Both Barnaby and his doctor shifted in their seats. The clock on the wall made a soft, wooden ticking. “Stress, perhaps,” the doctor said, and then proceeded to repeat what the hospital had told Barnaby on his last day of work: just take a “good, long break.” 6 When the heart of his patient began to fail, Barnaby remembered a pig that was due for slaughter on a small family farm owned by his good friend, Weathersby. Winter had begun, and as the snowflakes tumbled off the vast roof of the house, Barnaby was thinking of this pink pig with brown splotches. Her name was Winifred, and Barnaby could think of no better donor. It was a Sunday and Barnaby knew well that his friend, Weathersby, stayed in the city with his old mother on Sundays. Barnaby checked on the body before he left. Already the heart monitor had dropped by five. He stood in the doorway with a rifle under his shoulder and a set of leather-wrapped knives in his hand. In his other hand, he carried a chest full of ice. He threw the items in the passenger seat of his truck and drove off along the powdery street. The day was fading into night, the snow turning from white to yellow in the street lamps, and finally from yellow to black when he reached a dark, dirt road. Only the headlights illuminated a small triangle of white. Barnaby parked about half a mile out from the barn and walked the rest of the way. He did not want the neighbors to see his truck driving up in the middle of the night. When he walked through the door, the scent of animal feces slammed against his nostrils. His eyes watered. At the 32 CRUCIBLE | Rink
back of the barn, Winifred lay asleep on a pile of hay. Brown splotches speckled her belly. Barnaby kept the lights off so as not to disturb the pig’s slumber. Three horses and a dairy cow watched Barnaby over their stalls, shifting from the chill which wafted through the open door. For a moment Barnaby crouched and watched the pig breathing in the dark. As his eyes adjusted, the animal looked less like a swine, and more like a soft, curvy, human. The limp body reminded him of his wife. Barnaby missed her so, and hated himself for it. He imagined curling up next to Winifred and holding her as he once held Barbara. Instead, he aimed the gun at Winifred’s head. A thin sliver of mist rose up from the lid of the ice chest. Snowflakes drifted silently through the entrance of the barn. His grip on the gun tightened, but his tremors guaranteed that he would miss from his current position. He crept closer and nuzzled the tip of the gun against Winifred’s scalp. The blast echoed between the farm houses. Now the other animals were turning side to side in their stalls, knocking against the planks. Winifred’s body seized as Barnaby scrambled for the knife. He freed the river of blood from the neck. It gushed into the hay and onto the dirt floor. After the pig bled out, Barnaby got to work, transferring its heart to the chest of ice. He felt that his own heart belonged there too, since Barbara had plunged it into ice with her silence. In the last month, he heard not so much as a whisper from her and now, he no longer expected one. His calls went ignored. The heart excision was finished. Weathersby would return the next morning to find Winifred already slaughtered for him, perhaps a week too soon. Barnaby arrived home an hour later and within another hour, he was shakily weaving the pig’s aorta into the aorta of his patient. When the heart transplant was intact, Barnaby administered the shock and the heart regained its pace. 7 Barnaby’s hands were first to betray him. His wife would be the second. When the tremors first started, they were faint and few and far between, materializing in quiet moments when his usual, steel focus let up. On this particular afternoon, Barnaby was on the third floor of his home in one of the two parlors of the house. He sank into one of many fat Rink | CRUCIBLE 33
armchairs, drinking herbal tea for the nerves. Barbara sat on the opposite end of the room. The sun trickled through the window behind her and turned her into a dusky silhouette. She sat cross-legged, jabbing at the ice cubes in her half-empty glass of water. “None of these meds are working,” Barnaby said. He held the cup over the plate and the glass trembled. He held it over the table and the wood trembled. Steam rose up from the cup and caressed Barnaby’s embarrassed face. Through the window, a sprinkler glided its paw of water streams across the courtyard lawn. He muffled the cup down in his lap and watched the ceiling fan. It spun smooth strokes. “Maybe it’s just an age thing,” Barbara said. Her icy blue eyes rolled around in the murky light as she observed the room. Her eyes fell on the golden trimming of the coffee table, on the crystalline chandelier hanging off the high ceiling, and on the mauve satin curtains, which wandered lazily among the windows. But never did she look at Barnaby. In the evening, Barnaby stole away into the bathroom. As he ran the bathwater, he looked intently at his face in the mirror. Years of stressful work, odd work hours, and sleepless nights had carved his face with deep lines. Maybe it was just an age thing. He stepped out of the bathroom for a moment and met Barbara in the hall. Her face was slathered in a minty froth of night cream. “Care to join me, sweetest?” Barnaby said. Placing a single hand on his chest, Barbara replied, “I’m just so tired tonight.” Barnaby climbed into the warm bath alone. Underwater, everything was still. When he squeezed the blue swirl of goo into his palm, his face reddened at his hands’ incessant jiggling. He filled his lungs with air and submerged himself. Still. His chest unwound. When he emerged, there was still some blue goo left in his unclenched fist. White and red moons appeared where his fingers had pressed. Barnaby lathered his hair using only his wrists in large swooping motions. He didn’t want to feel his hands quavering across his scalp. Then he showered off, watching the droplets run down the sleek, pearl shower curtain. A small tear had formed in the fabric; stitches flailed loose in the currents of the shower. That night he listened to his heart’s rhythmic thumping and his wife’s lungs rising. He heard the silence of the outside air behind the window. 34 CRUCIBLE | Rink
Between his thumb and forefinger, he held a strand of his wife’s sandy hair. He watched it quake and slip out of his grasp. 8 Barnaby sheared at his own bare thighs with the dermatome as if he were peeling some gigantic vegetable. The numbing agent had set into Barnaby’s legs, but the sight was still dizzying. Barnaby ground his teeth hard which each stroke. Soon the meshy rectangles of breathable Barnaby-dermis lay ready for grafting. The areas that needed treatment most were two large burns on his patient’s chest and abdomen, as well as the disfigured face. Barnaby covered his freshly peeled wounds and then went to work on the body’s burns. Next, he snapped the nose back into place and mended the hundreds of scars on the face. He pieced the facial features back together one by one, and patched the deeper holes. At the end of it the head was a thick ball of gauze. “Soon,” Barnaby said, “We’ll sort you out.” But his patient offered no response through the bandages. Instead, Barnaby felt a warm glow erupt in his gut, as though he had spoken the words to himself.
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Maddie Siegel
MODELS AND MUDPIES
“Yay!” Izzy cheers. “Daddy’s the best!” The four-year-old runs off with the cookie Ben just gave her, the tail of her dragon costume dragging behind her. “Hear that?” Ben asks, smug. “I’m the best.” “That’s because you gave her sweets before dinner,” I reply, exasperated. “Didn’t I tell you not to do that a few weeks ago?” “Did you?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “I don’t remember that.” “It was while you were watching the soccer game,” I answer, sighing. “Obviously you didn’t hear me. You never do when you’re into a game, I should know that by now.” “I’m sorry,” he says, looking guilty. “I’ll remember in the future?” I sigh again, carrying the laundry to the bedroom. Ben follows me like a lonely puppy. “Don’t be upset,” he pleads, latching onto my waist while I start to fold. “I’m sorry, did you say something? I was too involved in this laundry.” I’m not actually mad at him, but gentle teasing is always fair game when it comes to each other’s flaws. He does it to me too. “You’re just jealous because Izzy likes me better,” he retorts, letting go of me. “That’s what this is really about.” “Excuse me?” “You heard me,” he replies, smirking. I take his shirt from the basket and throw it at his face. “She does not like you better.” 36 CRUCIBLE | Siegle
“She just said I’m the best.” “Again, the cookies,” I growl. “But if we’re doing this, yesterday she said she loves me more than candy.” “A week ago she said I was her favorite play mate,” he counters. He doesn’t shy away from my sharp gaze. “Yeah, well her first word was mommy, not daddy.” He gasps, then glares at me. “You promised you wouldn’t bring that up again!” he exclaims. “You know that’s a sensitive subject for me!” When I bask in the momentary glow of victory, Ben grows agitated. “If you’re willing to go there,” he starts, “then I’m going to bring up the time she was sick and only wanted me to take care of her.” I can feel the blood rush up to my face. He looks apologetic at my reaction. He knows that made me cry. “I’m sorry-” he begins. “Fine,” I interrupt, seething. “Let’s settle this once and for all.” He follows me as I speed through the living room, finding Izzy in front of the TV. She’s mimicking the dragon cartoon that’s playing, stomping around and breathing out fake streams of fire. “Izzy, sweetheart,” I coo, getting her attention. “What, mommy?” she asks. She’s clutching the small stuffed octopus known as Octie to her chest, as she always is. He’s her favorite. “You love mommy and daddy very much, right?” “Uh huh!” she chirps, looking at both of us. “And you know how you love Octie just a little bit more than you love the other stuffed animals?” “Yeah,” she replies, puzzled as to what’s going on. “Then let’s play a game. Why don’t you and Octie give a hug to the person in this room that you love in the same way.” I step back, a few feet away from Ben. He shoots me a glare, not liking that I made up the rules of the game without asking him. Izzy stands in the same spot, indecision and confusion on her face. “It’s okay, honey,” I say, smiling. “You know mommy will always love you no matter what.” “Cheater,” Ben mutters under his breath, then speaks up. “Hey, baby Siegle | CRUCIBLE 37
girl. Remember when we made mud pies? That was fun, huh?” She turns towards him, a smile lighting up her face. “But afterwards it got all sticky and gross, remember?” I call. “Then I helped you clean up and we played dress up. Remember how we were models, and took pictures?” “Don’t you love when I ride around with you on my shoulders?” Ben asks, but he’s looking at me. “Isn’t it the best when I brush your hair for you so you can relax?” I shoot back, returning the stare. When I turn to Izzy she’s still rooted in her spot, biting her lip. She seems so unsure of what to do, and I suddenly feel guilty. When I peer back at Ben, his expression matches mine. We glance at each other, deciding that we need to end this before Izzy starts to cry. We shouldn’t have let this get so far. “Nevermind, we’re just-“ I’m interrupted by a knock on the door, and my mother comes through it after a moment. “I’m here!” she announces. “And I have an adorable gift for an equally adorable girl.” “Grandma!” Izzy chimes, all inner turmoil forgotten. She rushes forward and clings onto my mom. When she’s picked up, she even takes the small octopus’ arms and puts them around my mom’s neck in a hug. Did she just . . .? “I can’t believe it,” Ben murmurs, turning away. “All those hours of playing, and tucking her in . . . How could this happen?” “I don’t know,” I say, joining him. “I bathe her, and feed her, and give her lots of hugs. Ben . . .” He wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my hair. “She doesn’t love either of us the most,” he groans, tightening his hold. “I feel like such a failure.” “Me too,” I agree, hiding in his sweater. “Me too.” “What’s wrong with you two?” my mom asks in between Izzy’s squeals of delight. We ignore her, intent on delivering reassurance to each other. “You’re the best dad I know,” I tell Ben, my hand on his cheek. “Those mud pies were perfectly sculpted.” 38 CRUCIBLE | Siegle
“And you’re the greatest mom I’ve ever met,” he responds, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You guys looked beautiful in all those model pictures.” “You asked her to pick her favorite and lost, didn’t you?” my mom asks, snickering as we sulk. “Don’t you know that grandparents always win?” As she leaves to help Izzy open the new toy she just got, I hear her scoff. “Amateurs.”
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Jordan Baca
BONE PIPE
In the dull gray light of dawn, all of the wood moldings in the house turned inky and sleek. Melinda poured hot water into a mug and placed a bag of black tea inside, wrapping the string around the handle. She inhaled and exhaled, releasing a warm breath into the steaming plumes over the darkening water. She pushed open the heavy mahogany door to the house and peered into the crisp morning air. Dark evergreens struggled to express themselves in the shadow of the mountain. Stepping outside, she closed the door behind her without making a sound; it was a reflexive morning habit. On the front porch she could see the silver pond, surrounded by patches of snow that were slowly being punctured by wet, sticky mud and long blades of grass. As the chill threaded through her sweater she took a drink of her tea. It burned her tongue, but she scarcely felt it; it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Around the corner of the porch – she wasn’t ready to call it hers just yet – there came the sound of birds chirping. They were meek at first, but when they weren’t met with the sound of gunshots, the chirping became magnified. Melinda stood examining the thin skin on the back of her right hand, and the protruding blue veins laced through the fanned bones beneath it. Once, those weathered hands used to dance over the black and white keyboard of the upright piano in the living room, before it became too loud and cumbersome to bear. Now she used them for the ancient art of housework and striking matches for a pipe held by hands that weren’t her own, but the calloused hands of a giant that seemed only to keep growing. Maybe they were cancerous too, Melinda thought. It wouldn’t have surprised her. 40 CRUCIBLE | Baca
Six or more times a day, like clockwork after every meal, she packed a bone pipe with cheap tobacco from the stockpile and struck match after match. Her hands learned not to snap them, fearing the painful consequence. Now, with the pipe stuck into the corner of her lips, and her yellowed teeth pressed a little too hard into the mouthpiece, she took a matchbox from her pocket and flicked the phosphorus head across the strike strip. Melinda puffed the pipe until the tobacco lit and the smoke froze in the brisk air around her face. She coughed until she caught her breath again, and the coughing turned to laughter, and the laughter was so violent that it pressed tears to the edges of her tired eyes. She threw the dwindling pipe into a patch of snow and giggled as uncontrollable saltwater flooded the canyons of her face. As some of the birds called out to one another, others joined in to the natural choir and Melinda’s attention returned to them. Around the corner of the house, she could catch glimpses of them fluttering through the branches of the trees, and the drizzly clouds inched across the sky just enough for some rays of light to peek through. She swore the trees were getting greener before her eyes, and she felt an overwhelming urge to vomit. She had a trembling sense of being lost, standing with her back to the house. She turned around and the window to the bedroom – which she would eventually call hers – confronted her. Through the glass, she could see the bed. The oak furniture looked ashy in the stiff morning shadows of the room, and a patchwork quilt lay over an unmoving mass in the bed. Over the fold of the covers, a heavy arm rested, its hand balled up in a fist. Melinda squinted at it. Its veins protruded sort of like hers did, but they slithered between a layer of dry hide and fat muscle. Even for the shadows, she could make out the sallowness of the skin. The sudden pang of the telephone drew her back inside. She paced in slowly and let the answering machine take the call. A deep silence fell over the house and Melinda sat for a long time, staring at her hands on her lap. She remembered how they used to look when she was young – how her skin used to be supple and full of life. Her eyes wandered from her hands to her shoes, to the carpet, and swept around the room. Everything seemed to take on a strange solitude. Baca | CRUCIBLE 41
Nothing was her own, nor had it ever been, except for one thing, standing in the corner: the dusty upright piano. Running her hand along the fallboard, Melinda took a seat at a mismatched bench with green upholstery. She revealed the neat row of keys and dithered before pressing into the first key she’d played in years. Her eyes snapped to the bedroom door in anticipation, but nothing appeared there. Sighing in relief, she began to play. With each note, the weight of the world seemed to fall from her shoulders until she found herself smiling, filled with the fervor she thought she would never feel again.  
42 CRUCIBLE | Baca
R o s en b er r y
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R O S E N B E R R Y F I C T I O N W I N N E R
Jason Keller
NIGHTHAWKS
He strolled into the diner with a cigarette burning out in his mouth. The daily rag was in his hands all beaten and crunched in suppressed anger. He threw the smoke out onto the ground and smashed the embers with his heel. By his name he was Peter, and Peter sat down again next to the only woman in the diner. “Got the time?” he said as he attempted to mend the newspaper across the counter. Someone placed a cup of coffee in front of him, whispering with heat. “No.” She drew a slack finger in the air, uninterested. He was easy to ignore. She was an actor, he was a nightwalker. “I haven’t got the time.” “Course you don’t have the time.” Peter repaired the newspaper at last. He flicked another smoke out of the pack and placed it in his mouth while his eyes ran across the small print, squinting, searching. “A light then, if you haven’t got the time?” “I don’t smoke.” Her fingers pulled at the air. Maybe he’d finally be able to quit smoking if this was ever over. When this started he tried finding a light, a match, but the whole damn city was cold and dark. So he nursed that lazy cigarette in his mouth. The one that sparkled in the dark with orange light and slowly disappeared into the sky above him. He used to take small gasps of the stuff, pulling it from his mouth with shaking fingers, like the last drops of water in a desert canteen. It was precious. He used to whisper prayers into it, and between each word take a small pull into his lungs. There she was, Linda-never-got-her-last-name, sitting next to him. A beautiful young actress on break just grabbing some coffee. 44 CRUCIBLE | Keller
Beautiful Linda who never had the time or a light, who would sometimes laugh in this adorable little snort when Peter said something really good. He knew this, but she didn’t. He also knew she never ordered a damn thing. Just drew circles and mouthed some lines out of her script. Acting types he figured. Peter lifted the coffee to his lips and began to sip down on it, still scrying the newspaper. It was cryptic. Whoever wrote it spoke in scratches and squiggles. There was even a picture box for a ‘story’ about these squiggles, but it was a drop of gray ink smeared around. Every page. The same. It made him laugh. “Anything on the news?” Linda asked. Words, inflection, tones, the same as before. Every time they were a soft and never-ending echo of themselves. Peter frowned. “Some crazy bastard is out on the loose.” Between coffee through his lips and the paper spread open like he was reading it, Peter stole a quick glance at Linda. “Oh, is that all?” She said, sounding uninterested in his answer. “That’s all.” Peter turned in his seat, facing her. “Linda,” is how he began his next question. She stiffened up at the sound of her name being spoken. Something didn’t take. Her fingers now tucked beneath the counter and laid to fidget on her thighs. “Linda, are we married?” Peter went on, “Are you my wife? Is this why I’m here?” “Am I your wife? What kind of question is that?” She gave a nervous giggle. Peter stared back at her, his eyebrows falling flat and mouth drooping to a scowl. Somehow he knew the answer. “An important one.” His excitement went dead. Staring ahead she made a small sound in her throat, a tiny thump, a small concussive explosion of nerves. Her eyes locked straight ahead and stared silent distress signals at the man behind the counter. “I’m unwed.” She put flatly. Peter snapped his fingers and jumped a bit. “Ah, so you’re my daughter, that’s why I’m here!” “Actually,” Linda said, quickly rising from her seat. “I think I must be going now. It was nice meeting you-” Peter’s hands exploded from Keller | CRUCIBLE 45
rest. They wrapped themselves around her starved arms and squeezed tightly. He rose to meet her, eyes calmly searching her own, seeing his reflection looking back at him. In his spare hand hot coffee spilled across his palm, Eyes splitting wide like an animal being shot, with the bullet still breaking through the first layer of skin until it struck gold. He forced his lips to seal back a scream. “Linda, why am I here?” He seethed. “Every goddamn time I’m here, and you’re here, and we’re all here, so why? Why?” Her lower lip trembled and she shook him off. “Get the hell away from me.” She bounced to the far end of diner and out the door with Peter in tow. He knew where this would end. “What’s your problem?” She turned on a heel, in the middle of the empty street where there should have been lights and sounds and people and life, but there wasn’t. There was a dead wind and dead shops and clean roads. Linda stared back at him, waiting for an answer that never came. With nothing between them to say, Peter turned his back to her and walked towards the diner. The newspaper was in his hand again, Linda was back at the far end of the counter, resting her cheeks on her palms and mouthing back lines to a script she’d auditioned for, and the world was born screaming anew. The Linda behind him was gone, and he could turn to see that for himself if he wanted. He didn’t want to. The cigarette came out of his mouth before he even hit the other side of the street. The last light on earth that was his own, he pressed it softly under his shoe. He walked easy and evenly, collecting his breath, taking into his chest everything from 30 seconds ago, and blowing it out through his nose. The same Peter, a new man, walked through the doors. “Got the time?” He asked. She didn’t have the time. “No,” She began. Coffee landed in front of him. Fresh. He picked up the mug and sipped. “Got a light?” “Don’t smoke.” She drew in the air. Peter stared at her. “Why am I here Linda?” 46 CRUCIBLE | Keller
“How did you know my name?” “Why am I here?” He repeated. “Why are you here?” She might have wanted to know this time. His coffee tasted like water. He sipped again. “I don’t know, because I’ve done something to God?” Linda’s eyes narrowed at him. “What are you on about? You feeling alright?” Peter rolled his eyes and turned his focus to the man behind the counter, working a cloth into clean ceramic mugs. “No, I’m not alright, I’m losing my goddamn mind and I think you’re the only one who can help me.” “I don’t think I’m the help you need.” She said, getting up from her seat. “Try a psychologist.” He followed her out the door and into the street. “Please, you’re always here. Every time I turn around, you’re gone and back again. God how many times have I had this conversation with you?” She clenched her fists. “Listen, I don’t know who you’re looking for but I’m not her, alright?” Sour tears were budding in the corner of his eyes. His fingers shot through the paper in frustration like a glove too small for him. “I’m here for a reason. You’re here for a reason. Please, why is this happening to me?” Something burned on her lips, causing them to tremble. In the middle of the street she was shrinking away from him, her face dark, her hair dark, her body submerging and lowering itself into a shadow. “Linda, you’re going to turn around, and walk into the theater, those doors will swing and shut quickly and I’ll never see you again. Please don’t…” He took a small step forward. She made a break for the door. “Don’t...” His mouth asked her to stop but the words wouldn’t come. His eyes chased the last flash of red hair as is it disappeared behind the theater doors. He couldn’t turn around again and have Linda in the diner, Linda who couldn’t remember his name or the past two minutes. The cigarette would be there, the paper too. He couldn’t face it all again, he’d rather breathe clean air instead of ash. Keller | CRUCIBLE 47
He stepped across the street and into the theater. The doors creaked open but no light slanted out. It was clean inside, like someone had picked the whole place apart with tweezers. There were chairs but they sat upright in front of a vacant stage, waiting for Linda to come out and read her lines. She was gone too. Across the street from the diner there were other shops. Peter belted a loose chunk of concrete at a storefront window. The rock struck through and forced a ring of glass to belch outwards. Small diamonds shot up into the air, but there was no light to catch them in. No passing car to shine them yellow. No moonlight to make them glow. Thousands of brilliant little intricacies of light and pattern and reflection were all dead and gone. Inside was the same as the theater. Empty. Shelves cleared off, counters wearing a fine jacket of dust but otherwise naked and cold. Every store he tried looked the same shade of empty. A jewelry shop with nothing behind glass cases. A toy store with bins, wanting for merchandise. A woman’s department store where there should have been hundreds of dresses hanging like captured ghosts but there was only skeleton clothing racks. The further he got from the diner, the darker the light got. The only humanity in all the world was a man who could not wake up, an actor, a waiter, and Peter himself. He started back towards the yellow light following it around corners, until he saw her again in the window. Linda with her cheek resting on her palm. There was a cigarette in his mouth like it had always been there, already smoking and curling up in his hair. He spit it out. He sucked in the night, gulped down the starless skies, let every carless street do burnouts in his lungs. Because his hands trembled, he set the papers free like crisp butterflies. This breath was pushed down, forced to the bottom of his lungs. It all burned like stomach acid breathed inwards. Holding back for so long, he let a scream tear from his lips. Before his mind caught up with his body, Peter was through the doors, finding the owner behind the counter polishing mugs. The first person he could reach. He launched himself into the man, knocking him onto his back. Astride the waiter’s chest Peter swung mercilessly into him, any inch of flesh he could touch was good. It felt so alive. It felt substantial. It writhed under him. The man quit his squirming and lay spilling into a pool of his own blood. Peter shut his eyes remembering the hundreds of time he tried to 48 CRUCIBLE | Keller
convince her to believe him. He felt himself moving towards her. She was there, at the end of the counter. She was always there. And he could count on her to be there again when he opened his eyes. The paper was in his hands, neat and folded again. Smoke was drifting upwards into his eyes from the cigarette. His body no longer in the pinch of some incredible rage. His blood ran smooth and hot. Heart thumped once, twice, three times, cruel with life. The smoke took a dive from his lips before Peter tugged on it with his lungs. He dropped the paper and let it fall into a pile. And he started forward because his body pulled him that way, aimed at the diner. Peter was imperially alone and unaccounted for. Peter wasn’t here on any special journey or by the hand of God. Mechanizations of the brain without his consent pulled the door open softly. A bell tinkled above him. He walked towards Linda and took a seat next to her. There he leaned forward over the counter, absent and deaf to her and her thoughts of nothing. He let himself be nothing, sharing a common blood with Linda, the sleeping man, the owner of the diner, and the whole damn world. l
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There’s a painter leaning over some sloppy canvas. A singular lightbulb above him hisses softly and throws an orange shadow across the workshop, paints everything in this ugly imitative fire. He lifts a wet brush to the canvas and makes small swirls here and there. It’s nearly complete, just some touching up to do. Some small finer details to have his way with. In the stretched canvas frame there’s a diner, pale yellow light inside. Someone is working on mugs behind the counter, a man and a woman sit side by side. One with red hair and a sharp dress. The man sits with his elbows across the table leaning forward. He thinks they might know each other, but they probably don’t. He puts a final dab here on the man’s hat before stepping back. “No more tonight…” he says. At the bottom his name is signed in black ink. Edward Hopper. He’ll call it Nighthawks.
Keller | CRUCIBLE 49
Kate Levin
WHEN MOURNING COMES R O S E N B E R R Y P O E T R Y W I N N E R
My mother reaches over branches to hand me something pure and small. A globe, some glitter, Christmas is a time for veiling. I see her: soft hands and big eyes the Earth still new to her despite the years. We hum and stride, the slowest dance, the tree our silent guest; we orbit. The television in the background stirs and blinks, awakened. We didn’t ask for this— we pass the shiny objects quietly between our hands, easy procession. The television clears its throat: Three dead, nine wounded. Guns and bullets, bombs and burning. Something deep within us bleeding. In the living room, the fireplace grows hot. My mother moves to quiet it, radiating enough warmth for two. She hands me something pure and small, 50 CRUCIBLE | Levin
a globe and glitter. My mother’s eyes are closed.
Levin | CRUCIBLE 51
R O S E N B E R R Y N O N F I C T I O N W I N N E R
Lashanah Tillar
REVELATIONS
1999: 4 D.L. (During Lashanah) I need help getting up, but I won’t admit it. Mom gives me a prod. Behind us, people wait to enter the row, patient despite the sweltering temperatures and the need to rest aching and old feet. Patient because being impatient in the Lord’s house would not win them any favors. I give the bench one last look. I scrunch down on stubby legs, preparing myself, before lifting off. One moment weightless, the next, I’m landing in an undignified lump on the wooden bench. The ruffles of my dress fly up, and everyone laughs. I push up into a sitting position and pout. I look up at the statue of a man nailed to a cross, his eyes closed in agony, and wonder if he saw that I conquered the bench. l
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2001: 6 D.L. They give us Jesus action figures, because kids are only interested when toys are involved. The teacher, who reminds me of my favorite movie teacher, Ms. Honey, but lacks any of her trademark sweetness, pushes horned-rimmed glasses higher on her nose. “Jesus died for us. Never forget that,” she says. We forget it anyway when the boys pull our hair and we yell words reserved for adults. I sit cross-legged next to a girl with blonde pigtails. We play house with the action-figures, though both of us have to be daddy since there’s no Jesusa. We play until the teacher comes over and chastises us. “Jesus wouldn’t want that,” she says, wagging her finger into our 52 CRUCIBLE | Tillar
face. The girl with the blonde pigtails scrunches up her face, her eyes becoming near slits. “How do you know?” she says. The teacher looks at her bemused. “Know what?” “What Jesus wants? Have you met him?” Then she takes my Jesus and makes the two of them kiss. l
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2001: 6 D.L. Jesus for Kids is definitely not for kids. Whoever decided it would be a great idea to make a kid-friendly version of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ had been sorely mistaken. I lie awake in bed for three weeks thinking of the movie. I’ve watched it at least five times, and each time, I become a little more terrified. I’m afraid of Jesus, of what happened to him. I replace his adult body with my child one. I imagine the crowd staring at me, their eyes alight with glee and savagery. I imagine the first nail going in, the pain. Would I pass out? Or would I wait for the second? Each night, I stare at the door in terror, as if people would burst through and cart me away before my mother could react. Each night, I cry. l
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2005-2011: 10 D.L.—16 D.L. I am not the oldest cousin, but, in that moment, I’m the oldest in the room, and what I say goes. We play hide and seek, lava monsters, slide down hills, and make my youngest cousin cry. Brandon, being three years younger than me, is the next on the hierarchy of cousins. We play Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, house, and draw flowers. Cindy, who is not related to us, has no choice but to go along, because she’s not only younger, but not even bound to us by blood. I twist the little hair Brandon has into haphazard braids. “Do I look pretty?” he asks. Cindy and I share secret smiles, the smiles you share when you’ve just done something devious and got away with it. In truth, he looks like the wrong end of a Raggedy Ann doll. But a much crueler word falls from my lips. Tillar | CRUCIBLE 53
“Gay.” Immediately, the atmosphere changes. It becomes one of taunting and fear. My cousin turns to me, eyes wide. I know he doesn’t know what it means. Neither do I, but I heard my older cousins use it. We both understand it’s bad. “No I’m not,” he says, his voice full of panic. “You are!” I shout with glee. I let go of his hair and shove him onto the bed. “Gay, gay, gay, gay!” I grab the nearest thing to me: a washed up blue jumper. “This is gay!” “No it’s not!” His eyes are full of tears now and a bit of snot drips out of his nose, onto light brown skin. Cindy grabs things too, because she’s six and wants to be included. She screams gay over everything. Cindy understands power shifts, and she knows that in that moment, she became better than Brandon. We don’t know what it means, but we say it loudly, cruelly. Six years later, in a van cruising down the middle of Chicago, Brandon turns to me and says, “That guy’s gay,” with absolute certainty. I follow his finger out the window. A man in red skinny jeans walks alone braving the harsh Chicago wind with only a thin hoodie and a Pikachu beanie. “How do you know?” “Only gays wear skinny jeans.” “That doesn’t mean he’s gay.” He gives me a droll look that only a thirteen year old can muster. “Only gays wear skinny jeans,” he repeats. It appears his logic is sound. I shake my head. “Lots of people wear skinny jeans. Besides, what’s wrong if he is gay?” He chews his bottom lip. “Isn’t it obvious?” I shrug my shoulders. It’s not. He say nothing in response, and past him, one of my older cousins watches me with a frown on her face. I decide not to bring up the pair of jeans hanging in my Colorado closet. l
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2007 — 12 D.L. I don’t pray to him normally, but Colorado thunder is scary, and when 54 CRUCIBLE | Tillar
another roll of thunder sounds off, I get on my knees and bow my head. Is this how it works? I clasp my hands together. Please, er, Heavenly Father, Jesus, God, anybody. If I live through tonight, I will pray every day. If lightning doesn’t strike, I will believe wholeheartedly. I’ll be at church every Sunday, and then some. A crack of lightning illuminates the room. Maybe I’m not bowing low enough. I bend over until my nose scrapes the rough carpet. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I’ll listen to my mom and clean up around the house. I’ll be better at math. I don’t want to die. Not now. Isn’t now too young? How am I supposed to do the things adults want me to do? I sneeze when the carpet tickles my nose. Sorry. Bless me? The storm gradually disappears. The only thing left is the soft patter of rain on the window. I sit back up and grin. Sike.
Tillar | CRUCIBLE 55
Jeremiah Strong
DID YOU EVER READ THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA? (After Dean Young) P O E T R Y H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Today I am writing you a poem with a stone in it Or else I am rolling you a snowball with a kiss in it I do not remember which is which But I have hope in little cities Where you will let yourself be happy When you should be happy And sad when you need to feel sad Cry everywhere and do not worry about the hundred pages Of filigree and fill-dirt between them Let those spaces be mucked and jumbled By willing galoshes and gas masks And you will look at them like they are angels And they will try never to lose sight Of your receding dimples When you smile a little too hard And I will still hate it when you bite your lip When you don’t know what else to do When I am climbing in your loam When it is past dark When we are spread out On the floor of a darkroom Like the afterbirths of photos When we should probably be in bed When I would definitely like to take you to bed When it is clear I have never been to a bed like yours When it is clear as day at night When it is like being undressed to your rain boots 56 CRUCIBLE | Strong
When it is hot on the darkroom floor When it is When it is When it is When it is time I will tell you about the time I wrestled a bear And forgot how to live without her
Strong | CRUCIBLE 57
Jeremiah Strong
TO THE GIRL WHO READS A DIAGNOSIS LIKE CRISPY LEAVES
“First day of spring-I keep thinking about the end of autumn.” -Matsuo Basho
There is so much more than beginnings and endings There are 100 days between cherry blossoms And oaks rattling in their nakedness There are the pages between where you set down the book But started at the top of the next paragraph There are the days when you’ve been crying And pushing fingers into salty dirt And there are days when I love you in sunlight And days you don’t remember There are days when Basho sits by your window And days you wake up surprised With your nose covered in pollen
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圀爀椀琀攀 䴀愀爀欀攀琀 昀漀爀
䄀 漀爀最愀渀椀稀愀琀椀漀渀 搀攀搀椀挀愀琀攀搀 琀漀 栀攀氀瀀椀渀最 眀爀椀琀攀爀猀 椀洀瀀爀漀瘀攀 琀栀攀椀爀 挀爀愀昀琀 愀渀搀 洀愀爀欀攀琀 琀栀攀椀爀 眀爀椀琀椀渀最⸀
吀 栀 甀 爀 猀 搀 愀礀猀 愀琀 㔀 倀 洀 椀 渀 刀 漀 猀 猀 㔀 㔀
䌀漀渀琀愀挀琀 眀爀椀琀攀琀漀洀愀爀欀攀琀甀渀挀䀀最洀愀椀氀⸀挀漀洀 昀漀爀 洀漀爀攀 椀渀昀漀爀洀愀琀椀漀渀
60 CRUCIBLE |
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